Sunday, November 14, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Mo' Dirty by Darrell King Book Tour!

About Darrell King

Darrell King has been writing ever since the age of eight. His first published work of fiction was penned during the fall of 1976 as a student of Mary Field’s Elementary School on South Carolina’s Daufuskie Island. This effort, an adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit,” was both written and illustrated by Mr. King and was published in the school’s quarterly periodical, “The Daufuskie Kid’s Magazine.” Mr. King went on to write several unpublished stories and numerous poems, several of which were published in the 1995-1996 “Poetry Anthology” by the National Library of Poetry in Owings Mills, Maryland. During the 90s, Mr. King was attracted to and inspired by the lurid tales of inner city crime and drama that he read on the pages of novels by great writers such as Donald Goines and Iceberg Slim. This, coupled with an enduring appreciation for the hard-edged, yet enlightened lyric of the era’s gangsta rap icons like Tupac Shakur, The Notorious B.I.G., Easy E and others prompted Mr. King to begin writing his very own stories of urban crime and inner city drama. Mr. King resides in Washington, DC.

 To find out more about Darrell or to learn more about Mo' Dirty visit King of

About Mo' Dirty

Mo' Dirty

Peter Whiskey Battle is a 24-year-old enforcer for Peola, Georgia's Bad Boyz II Syndicate, a dangerous street gang controlling the lion's share of illicit narcotics coming into the bustling port of Savannah. After murdering two local snitches for David Ambrosia, the suave, smooth-talking leader of the syndicate and Whiskey's best friend, he is given an offer he can't refuse. The underworld bosses and thugs of the low country have joined forces with a handful of rogue cops to bring an end to the term of meddlesome police chief Mickey O'Mally, whose war on crime has angered many of the shot callers and big ballers of the dirty-dirty. With the headache of the top cop gone, they can depend on the crooked officers to eliminate their connections. Everything goes as planned, until Whiskey begins a torrid affair that ends in the death of his lover. Is he guilty of killing his famous lover, or is he simply a victim of circumstances, considering the powerful enemies she recently made? You be the judge!?

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents This Side of Crazy by Kimmie Thomas Book Tour!

About Kimmie Thomas

Kimmie Thomas

  Kimmie Thomas is native Detroiter living with her husband and children. Her experience as a psychiatric nurse has given her the ability to create characters that display common perosnality flaws. She writes when she not working as a teacher and a nurse.

 To find out more about Kimmie or to learn more about This Side of Crazy visit or

About This Side of Crazy

This Side of Crazy

Maxine Payne’s poor self-esteem led her to marry the first man that showed any interest in her. After five years of marriage and misery she has nothing to show for it. Her sham of a marriage is falling apart and her dream of having a child is fading away each day. To make matters worst, she discovers that the people in her life are not there to love and help her as she has always believed.

She struggles to come to terms with her failing marriage and her sick mother as she watches her chance at a happy home with children slip away. Her two childhood girlfriends offer help and support but they have their own personal struggles. The old saying, “what’s done in the dark will eventually comes to light” has never been more true. When tragedy strikes, Maxine will have to make the most important decision of her life. But will the lies and secrets her husband and friends harbor bring Maxine’s life crashing down around her?

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents A Pointed Death by Kath Russell Book Tour

kath russell
Kath Russell enjoyed over thirty-five years in marketing and communications management in the biotechnology industry. She was an executive with one of the first genetic engineering companies. Russell also was president of Russell-Welsh Strategic Life Science Communications, Inc., and founder and chief executive officer of an ecommerce company offering services for mature companion animals and veterinarians. Russell received her bachelor’s degree from Northwestern University, her master’s degree in journalism from Boston University, her master’s of business administration from the Kellogg School of Management, and earned her certificate in creative writing from the UCLA Extension Writers' Program. 

 To find out more about Kath or to learn more about A Pointed Death visit or

About A Pointed Death

a pointed death

Welcome to the world of Nola Billingsley, a 40-something biotechnology whiz with an adored shorthaired pointer, who finds herself embroiled in both a nefarious murder and a blazingly hot new romance in the thriller A Pointed Death, by Kath Russell. When techno genius Nola Billingsley finds her former employee, an amoral creep who stole secrets, murdered, she doesn’t exactly shed tears. Instead, she begins a flirtation with the inspector assigned to the case. With her shorthaired pointer Skootch watching her back, Nola and her group of techno pals try to help solve the murder, bringing into play Nola’s feisty feminism and idealism, and putting both her life and her love affair at risk. Finding a link between the Chinese government and American thieves, she bands with a group who believes that biotech people should protect their industry from any evil abusers. Could there be a government plot afoot, and can she save the world even as she tries to salvage her love life?

Smart, witty, and playful, A Pointed Death looks at the biotech industry with a decidedly feminine slant. The writing is edgy and full of humor, and the plot twists and turns with surprise after surprise. A breathtaking thriller with a unique background, A Pointed Death announces the debut of an enormously talented new writer to watch.

Book Excerpt

Prologue The beefy hand of the liquidator, lifeline clogged with grease, sliced the air like a rattlesnake’s head. I covered the hovering palm with twenties. Don London had auctioned the assets of my failed dot-com and was delivering the remaining equipment I could not sell, because it was leased, and I would have to pay it off, into the garage of my San Francisco home. New businesses are supposed to start in California garages, not end in them. Don’s crew rolled the last piece of equipment into the garage. The copy machine looked expensive and out of place sandwiched between my treadmill and the recycling bins. “Better luck next time, Nola.” Don hefted his corpulent frame into the driver’s seat of his truck. “Don’t wish me luck, wish me venture capital.” “You entrepreneurs are a persistent breed.” He slammed the driver’s side door. “Persistent or plain stupid!” My shout startled an umbrellatoting woman walking her poodle down the sidewalk of our peaceful, manicured block. Hell, there you go disrupting things, Nola Billingsley. You can never leave well enough alone. A rambunctious, independent woman who has to have the last word. As Don’s truck pulled away, I turned and surveyed the stacked equipment. Over the copy machine, suspended from a redwood rafter, an artificial Christmas wreath drooped. All it needed was a rest-in-peace sash to become a memorial tribute for my defunct start-up. I owed $13,500 more on this collating colossus. Our dot-com’s accountant had negotiated the lease in one of his last official acts before absconding with a sizable chunk of my capital. What a depressing end for an entrepreneur. I made my way along the narrow aisle that remained of my garage toward the kitchen and the scotch bottle. The next morning, as I sat down to yogurt and coffee, I realized I had no place to go. My former offices, the scene of much pain and frustration as the business lurched toward collapse, were at least a destination. I looked across the table at my mother. Crap, you’re a forty-eight-year-old woman with no visible means of support living with your mother. How low can you go? Turning from the blaring television, Janie Belle read my thoughts. “You should reopen your consulting business. Why don’t you call up some of your old biology contacts?” “That’s biotechnology, Mother. I plan to, but I have to tie up loose ends on the cyber-business.” My mother is a vibrant eighty years young. She has survived depressions, wars, hurricanes, miscarriages and cancer. She is a displaced Southern girl who wields her accent like a passport. Everywhere she goes, she brings a moving van chock full of eighteenth-century furniture, china, crystal, and family portraits. The gilt-framed, manor-born ancestors were all here on the Left Coast, hanging on the living room walls, mildewing genteelly in the California damp. She lifted her coffee cup, pinkie curled. “Is there anything I can do to help?” “Not unless you change your mind and learn the computer.” “Absolutely not! I am not going to start that at my age.” Janie Belle has mastered many things: needlework, stenciling, gourmet cooking, Girl Scout leading, duplicate bridge, gardening, even chicken farming. She also has conquered things technological. She handles the digital gadgets in the car with skill, channel-surfs with the cable remote, gabs on the cell phone, and nukes with the microwave, but she will NOT go near a computer. I got Janie Belle an e-mail address once. I would come home to a cheery drawl, “Have I got maaail?” I printed messages off for her, and she answered them with handwritten letters on monogrammed stationery. She is complete, resolute, and content in a way modern women, especially we boomer women, can never be. At this moment, the love of my life thundered into the room. Skootch E. Hurry is a pointer dog. I wish I could be more specific as to the exact breed of pointer he is, but we met at the SPCA and his lineage is a mystery. The “E.” does not stand for anything; it is just that the dog has such presence, he deserves a middle initial. At the pound, Skootch attracted my attention by wagging his tail against the cage so hard it bled. I took pity and brought him home. He is a spoiled, undisciplined, overweight slob, and the dearest creature on the planet. Janie Belle insists he dipped the tip in catsup. She says he is a con artist in dog’s clothing. They are tight as shrink-wrap. Skootch sauntered up to the kitchen table with a selfdeprecating sway. This is a prelude to the Lunge. Eighty-pound Skootch, who fancies himself a lap dog, drapes his upper torso across your lap to get a better view of your breakfast plate. He spied my yogurt and harrumphed in distaste. “Nola, why don’t you take that mangy dog for a walk. He’s so fat you can’t see any of his ribs, and his privates are disappearing in his tummy roll.” Skootch left my lap for the greener pastures of Janie Belle’s side of the table. Janie Belle continued, “It’s your fault the canine is corpulent, you spoil him nonstop.” The Lunge was repeated. Skootch’s head lowered into position over her half-eaten breakfast. His tongue made fast work of the left side of the plate. Janie Belle executed an ineffectual shove. “He must be twenty pounds overweight. How you can look the vet in the face?” The tongue swirled around the right side of the plate, a movement as elegant as Renoir’s brushwork. Skootch aimed a wistful gaze at the butter dish. His neck extended outward in its direction. The spunky eighty-year-old smacked him on the nose and pushed him off her lap. “That’s enough! Y’all should be ashamed of yourself.”

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents The Active Creative Child - Parenting in Perpetual Motion by Stephanie Vlahov

About Stephanie Vlahov

stephanie vlahov 
 Stephanie Vlahov has her Masters Degree in Therapy/Counseling, in addition to a year of clinical internship in psychiatric settings. . However, her "day job" is that of corporate recruiter. She is married and has two sons-one of whom (Alex) was the impetus for the book "The Active Creative Child." Now 21, he attends the prestigious London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts (LAMDA ) after attending two years at UCLA in the theatre dept. Stephanie's passion is writing and painting. Through years in community theatre and school involvement, she has drawn upon her well of professional insight and "gut level" parental intuition to draw up one conclusion: We are over diagnosing and labeling some of our most creative minds. While not discounting the validity of a real disorder, ADHD has become a catch all "diagnosis" for children who march to the beat of a different drummer. One of her goals is to empower parents to question the oft heard need to diagnose their child-from educational systems that often hamper creativity at the expense of test scores." If Einstein were alive today, he would be put on Ritalin." 

 For more information on Stephanie and her book visit The Active Creative Child is her first book.

About The Active Creative Child

The Active Creative Child
The Active Creative Child was born out of the need to validate and celebrate the boundless energy oftentimes negated in a highly active child. In these current economic times of budget shortfalls within our educational institutions, there is more emphasis now than ever on "teaching to the test" to obtain high test scores. This translates to more funding. Children who are disruptive are considered a nuisance and distraction. Teachers "routinely" suggest to parents to have their child "evaluated" for ADHD. Oftentimes these comments stem from frustration with normal developmental activity (i.e. a wiggly 1st grade boy) or, a child who may wish to color the sky purple instead of blue. Yes. children need parameters and they need to conform in a group setting. This issue goes beyond that. We are stifling some of our most brilliant minds. "ADHD - like" behavior has been linked neurologically to "out of the box" and creative thought process(es.) While I am not a physician, I can see that this is the case in the children that I have known over the years through my activity in childrens theatre. Alex was a questioning whirling dervish of activity-obsessed with the world of imagination and theatre. I saw in him the incessant pulse of activity and the need to create. If channeled correctly while working within the educational system, an active creative child can and will enrich the lives of those around him.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents The Book of Eli by Sam Moffie

About Sam Moffie

sam moffie

The Book of Eli is Sam Moffie's fourth novel. The other three have won numerous awards and received glowing reviews. When not writing or marketing, he can be found observing human nature at his bars in Youngstown, Ohio. Forty-nine years of age, Sam resides with Juliette and a host of family members who enjoy a good fire, fine wine, backyard foosball, good movies and of course good books. When all else fails, there is always a walk with the dogs. To find out more visit Sam at

About The Book of Eli

the book of eli
Eli Canaan is a believer. And, like many, he believes himself to be a principled and moral man. Well, for the most part anyway. But, after a series of missteps, sins, some would say, Eli's life is suddenly and unexpectedly altered forever. A spurned wife, a gypsy, a hex and spiritual intervention may all be at the root of Eli's unexpected, deep and earnest introspection, which is like nothing he has experienced before -

in THIS world. An uplifting story of hope and meaning and belief in the goodness that can come by opening one's eyes to he Heavens... The Book of Eli is a well crafted, highly entertaining read. In his trademark acerbic, yet strangely engaging style, author Sam Moffie presents the reader with a compelling tale of the sense of adventure and

Here's what reviewers have to say!

“The Book of Eli is both hilarious and thought provoking. This Heaven isn't exactly what we all picture. There are long line ups and lots of wine but no food. Atheists are more than welcome but for some being sent to Heaven seems more like a jail sentence. Then, there is being psychoanalyzed by Freud himself.” —Tami Brady    

Dog Eared Publicity Presents The Turn of the Karmic Wheel by Monica Brinkman

About Monica Brinkman

Monica Brinkman

Monica M. Brinkman lived in the Philadelphia, PA area, relocated to the California Bay, where she resided for thirty years and now resides in the St. Louis, MO area, which was the inspiration of her newest book, The Turn of the Karmic Wheel. She views herself as a citizen of all the States, finding that people throughout the country are warm, caring and most want the same things in life, to enjoy their passions, make a living and be surrounded by those they love. In her own words, "Life is truly an adventure. I believe in giving everyone the opportunity to go after their passions in life. To not do so, creates hostility, depression and emptiness." A free-lance author and poet, she embraces stories that have meaning and purpose. Though a bit of a rebel, when some authors told her that no one would ever read a story set in the Missouri Ozarks, nor would they wish to read a mixed genre, that was all it took. "How dare they insult the intelligence of our readers by placing them in a box". Off she went, and wrote this exact type of story, set in the small rural college town of Raleigh, MO. It is a mixed genre of suspense, horror, spiritutality and a touch of the paranormal. Monica is working on the sequel, The Wheels Final Turn, set in the State of California.

You can find out more about Monica and her work at

About The Turn of the Karmic Wheel

The Turn of the Karmic Wheel

The Turn of the Karmic Wheel is a unique, fresh approach of how each individual’s actions in life affect the masses.

Set in the small college town of Raleigh, MO, the author delves into the psyche of several residents who live vastly different lifestyles. From the affluent to the poor, we follow each characters’ journey through life be it one of faith, self-indulgence, greed, kindness or diversity. Angela Frank, a young wife, mother, psychiatrist and reluctant psychic, holds the key to unleashing a force more powerful than humankind has ever experienced as universal law takes hold, ultimately revealing the characters inner self, their soul. Under such scrutiny, some will face horrific consequences of their life’s actions, while others will find absolute pleasure. From Joshua Allen, an egotistical, handsome, dashing young man to Euclid Hannigan, a simple country middle-aged retiree, you will be moved with emotion when the demons hidden deep within or the joy of gentleness and compassion surface as each characters story unfolds to a final climatic finish.

Book Excerpt

“You’ll be able to pick up the rifle tomorrow. Give me a call mid-morning. Should be cleared and ready to go by that time.” Euclid nodded and exited the store. Harry had owned his shop for many years, seen some come in and go out in a sea of police gunfire, but, hell, he couldn’t worry about every customer who purchased a weapon. Fact was, he had given up trying to figure out man’s nature years ago. Course, Euclid wasn’t one to carry arms of any sort. He didn’t remember him ever going hunting or even showing interest in the sport. Perhaps now that he was alone in life, with much time on his hands, he had decided to take it up and save some money by providing his own meat for the table. In any event, Harry knew Euclid to be a solid citizen of Raleigh, a man with a pure heart. Yes, he was a good man and a great friend. Harry went to the window and watched his friend walk down the street. He wondered if he should be concerned. For some reason, he felt a bit of uneasiness; just couldn’t put his finger on the why or wherefore. Aw, hell, he reasoned, it ain't none of my business. Yet there was something eating at his mind, a voice telling him to go no further with this transaction. It was a gut feeling he couldn’t shake, a feeling that his friend and neighbor of over 30 years was not ‘quite right’. There was definitely something ‘off the scale’ about Euclid today. A vivid image entered his mind. A vision so unfathomable he had to let it go. Harry shivered as he moved to slowly close the store’s door, continuing to watch the retreating figure kicking stones along the road, unable to shake his feelings of dread. .

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Hoodoo Sea by Rolf Hitzer

About Rolf Hitzer

Rolf Hitzer was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada in 1959 and raised by his parents, Erna and Julius Hitzer. Rolf attended Princess Margaret Elementary School, John Pritchard Junior High and Graduated from Kildonan East Regional Secondary School where he had majored in Culinary Arts. Rolf is married to his wife Irma since 1997. Together they have a wonderful blended family with Rita and Clark Bodoano and Grand children, Alexandria, Patrick and Braeden. Jason and Leah Tutlies, and Grandson Easton. Mandel Hitzer, and the youngest Jessica Hitzer. Clearly the growth of his family is still a work in progress. Rolf Hitzer has several passions besides writing, they include being at the log cabin on weekends. Spending time on the water with a fishing pole in hand. Wildlife viewing and especially Moose calling during the fall rut. Playing a range of Poker card games and a variety of board games. Rolf is a Member of the Winnipeg Real Estate Board, The Manitoba Real Estate Association and the Canadian Real Estate Association. He is currently working on his second novel.

For more information on his book visit: Hoodoo Sea is his first novel.

About Hoodoo Sea

The government of the United States of America is on the verge of startling the world.
Billions of dollars had been invested in its space program. And now, the moment of truth has arrived…

Scott Reed is the man for the historic mission. He is the Wing Commander chosen by the elite brass at NASA. The assignment to test flight the first speed of light craft, held top secret, was about to shock the world. The risk? Utter and complete failure. The reward? Being a part of the greatest human accomplishment ever known to mankind. Major James Harrow, second in command of the four person crew, despised his Wing Commander. Harrow was a proud and patriotic American. What was NASA thinking when they selected a Canadian to pilot the voyage? There was no comparison as to who was the better skilled aviator. This was his time, his moment. Major James Harrow was about to prove to everybody they were wrong to bypass him as Commander. The weather conditions were perfect and lift-off for the test flight was text book. The triumphant cheers from Mission Control in Houston were echoed all the way to Cape Canaveral. The silent fear of the first hurdle of the flight had been succumbed. All systems were go! That is, until the crew and SOLT-X1 entered the Bermuda Triangle…

Book Excerpt

White. The room was a sterile, monotonous white. Had you been standing there blindfolded and then had the blind removed, you’d be convinced this was the cell of an asylum. But there was no padding on these walls. This was the briefing room at the Kennedy Space Center, Cape Canaveral, Florida. Even the uniforms were white – with the exception of the bright blue NASA crests just below the left shoulder. Wing Commander Scott Reed wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. His crew was at his side. Everyone stared at the white walls in complete silence as they awaited their final instructions. As a unit they had never been this quiet for so long. The hours, days and months of training drills were now over. They were ready for the adventure of a lifetime. The mission they’d prepared for would be historic. These astronauts were about to perform the first test flight ever at the speed of light. “Warp speed” was the language they used at NASA. At the time of the selection protocol, there had been thirty potential recruits. After each training module and testing round came the elimination stage. Scott and his crew were the final four left standing. Scott had absolute confidence in his team. They were disciplined and tough. Each member had a particular area of expertise that would contribute to the success of the mission. Scott was the only Canadian. Considering the recent political mood since the Iraq War, he’d been surprised when NASA had called upon him to lead the mission. Not bad for a kid from Winnipeg, Manitoba, where he still lived when he wasn’t on duty. The years he had dedicated himself in the Aeronautics and Astronautics program at MIT were now worth every minute.

Here's what reviewers have to say!

"When I started reading Hoodoo Sea, I couldn't stop. I read from cover to cover in a matter of hours. The book is very well written, keeps you in suspense until the very end, where you don't want to end. Growing up in Manitoba, I could see the places he was describing in the book which was awesome for me. The book was easy to read and had the reader in its grasp the whole book. If you like Stephen King novels or novels like it, you'll love Hoodoo Sea by Rolf Hitzer." —R. Bodoano, Amazon 

“Science fiction is not the type of book I usually read but when I finished this book I felt like I just had to read more. This book is captivating and unique and at times sent chills down my spine. I could not wait to see what was about to happen next to Scott Read and his crew. The ending is simply jaw dropping. Very unique and thought provoking. Excellent job for a first time novelist.” —T. Smith, Amazon Reviewer

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Making Light of Being Heavy by Kandy Siahaya

About Kandy Siahaya

kandy siahaya

Kandy Siahaya was raised in a small town in Maine where she graduated from high school in 1984.  She worked her way up from her first job as CSW to Manager of Kentucky Fried Chicken and ended up in Brunswick, Maine.  When she decided to leave the fried chicken business at age 22, she packed up her little Chevy Chevette and moved to Florida, where she worked as a waitress and had a great time as a single girl in her 20’s.  Reality hit when she was 25 years old and she went back to Maine and received her Associate’s Degree at Beal College and promptly moved back to Florida and started a career in medical transcription.  In 1995 at age 29, she moved to Miami, Florida, and continued with transcription starting her own business.  In 2002, Kandy left Florida and moved back to Maine with her 5-year-old son and continued medical transcription but had an unexpected decline in work which left her with a lot of time on her hands.  This is when she decided to write the book, something she had been thinking about for a few years but never had the time because she was always so busy with her business.  It was meant to be a quick and funny read, something to brighten the outlook of many that really do not see the light through their own tunnel vision.  It was also intended to be insightful for those that could never possibly relate to this specific subject. 

Kandy has succeeded in doing just that with Making Light of Being Heavy.

For more information on Kandy and her book visit

About Making Light of Being Heavy


These days everyone has a society-driven mindset and totally forget to laugh, especially at themselves. This may be cliche but the author truly believes that laughter is the best medicine and thinks everybody should laugh every day. Period. Over the years as a person blessed with the fat gene, Kandy has been in many situations where if she could not find humor she probably would end up on the couch in the psychiatrist s office. This book is about as politically incorrect as it gets for such a subject but it is also based on reality. This is a reality that many women have just like Kandy but do not think they can (or should) at times just laugh about it. Her intention when she started writing this book was to hopefully give insight to many who could never relate but at the same time perhaps provide a different perspective to women just like her. It is a point of view that has given her the strength to live her life happily and project these feelings onto everyone she comes in contact with. She has a great sense of humor and a quick wit and guarantees you will be laughing (and thinking) with each chapter of Making Light of Being Heavy.  

Book Excerpt

How about that Cabbage Soup diet? Yuck. That is the kind of diet you try to get all the people in your office to try at the same time so the residual side effects (make sure your desk is near the restroom) can never be blamed on one specific person. I personally liked the Richard Simmons diet because it seemed pretty easy and you could eat whatever but you had to account for everything you ate with these demonstrative food cards. I would start out the day with a certain amount of cards allowed for the day that represented fats, dairy, starch, protein, etc. and would just move them from one side of my Deal-a-Meal folder to the other side as they were used up in the course of the day. This was like a built in food diary and was quite handy. Unfortunately, I usually didn’t make it past 11:00 a.m. on most days without all the cards being used up which meant technically I couldn’t eat any more for the rest of the day. I wasn’t expecting a McDonald’s Sausage Biscuit with Egg and Cheese and large coffee with extra cream and sugar to use up so many cards…

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Beneath the Silver Lining by Amanda Wolfe

About Amanda Wolfe

Amanda Wolfe 1

Amanda Wolfe was born in Ottawa, Canada in the mid ‘60s. She matured at a very young age out of necessity growing up in unusual circumstances. She has always been a happy-go-lucky, carefree spirit and a very strong-willed person. She has done everything from waitressing to owning her own restaurant and selling things from Mary Kay cosmetics to real estate. She is married to a wonderful man. They currently reside in the great state of Texas with their horses. When she is not at home writing her latest novel, you will find her and her husband flying in their plane and traveling the world together.

 For more information on Amanda and her book visit Beneath the Silver Lining is her first book.

About Beneath the Silver Lining Trilogy

Beneath the silver lining
On the outside, her family appeared to be one big, happy family. Their house, with her parents, three sisters, and two brothers, was the epitome of a simple yet fulfilling life lived in a small town. But as the author would soon discover, her childhood was in fact a nightmarish phase of her life she would always be running from. Growing up as a carefree girl, Wolfe struggled to comprehend why she was reared in a family where children are deprived of their right to know the truth, adults are always right, and smoothing out a misunderstanding is never an option. At the young age of nine, she started experiencing cruelty at the hands of her father, who not only abused her emotionally, but physically and sexually as well. Her mother, whose love she sought, was a stern woman who refused to see her husband's mistakes. As if her deeply troubled relationship with her parents was not enough, Wolfe also had to deal with inner secrets involving creepy characters from the afterlife. Feeling tormented, confused, solitary, and even filthy, this naïve girl had yet to be transformed into a strong-willed woman who would become cynical about love and learn to depend on no one but herself while facing more of life's bitterness.

The first of a series of three, Beneath the Silver Lining Trilogy: Secrets of the Black Box chronicles the author's journey along a perplexing road of growing up. It was originally written as a therapeutic way to heal her inner wounds and to let go of the pain and anger. However, it is now shared to bring inspiration to readers -- especially women.

Amanda Wolfe's BENEATH THE SILVER LINING TRILOGY'S VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR ‘10 will officially begin on November 2nd and ends on January 28th. If you would like to participate in this tour, please contact Tracee Gleichner at tgleichner(at)live(dot)com. Thank you!

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents When Harry Met Molly by Kieran Kramer

About Kieran Kramer


 Kieran, a former CIA employee, journalist, and English teacher, lives in the Lowcountry of South Carolina with her family. Game show veteran, karaoke enthusiast, and general adventurer, her motto is, "Life rewards action." Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and at When Harry Met Molly is her first novel.

About When Harry Met Molly

Kieran Kramer transports you to London, and a time where a wager can be placed by royal decree—and romance is always in season…

HE’S ALWAYS BEEN A PLAYER. Dashing Lord Harry Traemore is perfectly content to live out his days in the pursuit of pleasure. But when he’s named by the Prince Regent as one of society’s “Impossible Bachelors,” Harry is drafted into a ribald romantic wager. The rules of engagement are scandalously simple: The bachelor whose mistress wins the title of “Most Delectable Companion” gets to remain unmarried. Harry is utterly unconcerned about his status…until his latest lightskirt abandons him.

 WHO WILL WIN THIS GAME OF LOVE? Enter Lady Molly Fairbanks. Harry’s childhood friend—actually, “foe” is more like it—is the most unlikely companion of all. She’s attractive but hot-headed, and in no mood for games. Besides, what could the self-indulgent Harry possibly know about what makes a woman delectable? It’s time for Molly to teach him a lesson once and for all…but will it lead to “happily ever after?”

Book Excerpt

Molly stood on the road beside Harry and watched the vehicle carrying Cedric and his Aphrodite disappear around a bend in the road. Her ears began to buzz. In the distance, the chickens, the oak tree, the woman and child climbing into a wagon in the stableyard—all became wavy, like ribbons of taffy. God, no. This couldn’t be happening to her. Everything, everything…was wrong, upside-down. She blinked slowly, several times, to make the waves go away. When they did, she found her feet again, one of which she promptly stomped at Harry. “Now see what you’ve done,” she said. “I’m stranded here because your fit of temper caused your lightskirt to throw herself into the arms of my intended!” Harry brought his face a mere few inches from her own. “And your intended obviously had had enough of your bossiness. So much so that he took off with my lightskirt!” “You shouldn’t have a lightskirt,” said Molly. “What would your mother say?” “And you shouldn’t be running off to Gretna Green with a spineless fop.” Molly refused to blink. “He wasn’t spineless. Simply…sensitive.” Although she had no idea why she was defending Cedric. It was Harry’s fault, of course. He always brought out the irrational in her. Harry scoffed. “Alliston sensitive? He was about as sensitive as a tree stump.” She crossed her arms. “And your lightskirt was about as intelligent as…as an insect.” Harry’s smile was wicked. “She doesn’t require intelligence for what I need her for.” If he intended to make her blush, Molly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She turned her back and put up her parasol. Never in a million years would she ask Harry’s help. But help was what she needed. She was stranded at a remote hostelry in the middle of England, unchaperoned and without even the excuse of going to Gretna Green with her intended to protect her reputation. If anyone back home found out what was happening to her, she was a fallen woman. ### Harry watched Molly march onto the dusty road, the silliest of striped parasols opened above her head. She stared down both ways with a wrinkle on her brow. He recalled that there were no farmhouses or places to stop for at least ten miles southward, but the north road led her even farther from home. “Here now!” he called to her. She turned around. “I’ve nothing to say to you.” She put her chin in the air and headed south. Harry trotted after her, grabbed her elbow, and swung her around. “You’re not going to disappear and leave me in an awkward situation.” Her cheeks were spotted pink. “Oh, and I’m not in one myself? Any gentleman would have noticed I am! But no, you’re no gentleman. The whole world knows that.” She hit him on the chest with her reticule. It felt empty, except for maybe a coin. He sighed. “That doesn’t help anything.” She inhaled through her nose and let her breath out in a gusty sigh. “I’m sorry. A lady doesn’t hit people. Even though you deserve it, cavorting with a woman who’s no lady at all, running off with any man she sees!” He scoffed. “Are you telling me you’re a lady? You put a thistle in my seat and a rock in my wine goblet last time I dined at Marble Hill.” “That was a long time ago.” “It was at Penelope and Roderick’s bon voyage celebration before they took the girls to Italy. Barely four months ago.” “Yes, but how is that worse than pulling someone’s chair out a little too far? You did it the very evening after your dear Aunt Cora expired! I almost fell on my bottom at supper, in front of all your grieving family, thanks to you.” “I did it for Aunt Cora,” he said. “She liked practical jokes.” “A poor excuse,” Molly replied. They glared at each other. Neither one spoke for a minute, and then she said, rather thickly, “We’re both in trouble.” He hoped she wouldn’t become a watering pot. It was the last thing he needed, to be in the presence of a stubborn shrew who was also crying. “Perhaps we should help each other out of it,” he said very reluctantly. Oh, how it cost him! “That’s what I was thinking,” she said, brightening a bit. Thank God. Although seeing her brighten was something he usually wouldn’t encourage. “Exactly what is your situation?” she asked him. “I’m travelling to a house party, a rather lively one. I can take you with me.” “Lively?” “Let’s just say it’s not the sort of house party you‘d typically attend. Or most members of the ton, for that matter. It’s…unique. This year I’ve been designated the host.” She waved him off and kept walking. “And I need a mistress to take with me!” he called after her, refusing to look or sound ashamed. She wheeled around. “I should have known you’d propose something scandalous.” And then marched off again in an even greater huff. “You’d be my false mistress, not a real one, you foolish chit!” As usual, she had his blood boiling. She turned again, stopped, stuck an index finger on her chest. “Me? Foolish?” “Yes, you. Walking into certain danger on that road.” He felt his nostrils flare like a bull’s. There was not a person in the world who could rile him the way Molly Fairbanks did. “Dangerous?” She put a fist on her hip. “How is walking on a road more dangerous than attending a gathering with you, where there’ll be sure to be drunken louts falling everywhere and lightskirts gadding about half-clothed? And why would anyone need a false mistress anyway? It’s a ludicrous concept.” Harry crossed his arms and prayed for patience. “First of all, we shan’t be drunk all the time.” Molly rolled her eyes. “There is some strategy involved.” “Such as?” “If I show up with no mistress at all,” he explained, “I’ll lose the wager immediately. So I must bring someone. Your presence will at least keep me in the game.” She opened her mouth to rip into him–he saw the flare of battle in her eyes –but he put his index finger in the air. “I’m willing to make you a mistress in name only to protect your virtue.” She should be pleased. “Although no one else shall know of our arrangement, of course.” He’d be the only man at the house party with a false mistress. Did she not appreciate his sacrifice? She lowered her brows. “I knew it was something like that. What exactly do you mean by ‘game?’” “We compete. Whoever brings the finest mistress wins.” “Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Do go on.” “Each woman shall be judged on her beauty–extra points for beauty, actually, especially if we can see much of it.” Molly’s brow wrinkled. “‘See much of it?’” “Yes. ” He bit his lip, not caring to explain. “And then, of course, she shall be judged on her conversation. And her wit.” He snapped his fingers. “ If she’s skilled at gambling with ha’pennies, laughs frequently at men’s jokes, and notices when their brandy snifters need replenishing, so much the better.” “You’re joking.” Harry shrugged. “Not at all. To sum up, she’ll be judged on almost all the things that make a female, shall we say, mesmerizing to a man.” Molly sighed and tapped her foot. “What do you win if you bring the, erm, finest of the mistresses?” “She gets the glory of winning the title–’The Most Delectable Companion, ’” he said as if he were announcing the tightrope walker at the travelling circus. “And a crown of paste,” he remembered to add. She twisted her face up. “That’s all? She receives no tangible reward beyond a worthless title and tiara?” He shifted, suddenly feeling doubtful. Molly had a way of making him feel like a…a dunderhead. He hadn’t felt that way since– Since he’d last seen her! “You should at least give the Most Delectable Companion loads of money,” she said, her chin back in the air. “God knows she’ll deserve it. Any lightskirt of yours would require the patience of a saint!” She paused only long enough to get her breath. “What does her consort win?” “Another year of freedom from parson’s noose,” he said with relish, because he knew she would hate to hear him say it. “And every matchmaking mama, all the dragon ladies who rule Almack’s, and every bettor at every club in London will know he’s off the market. Thanks to a royal decree put forth by Prinny himself.” “Prinny?” Her lip curled. “You mean, the Prince Regent will give you permission to enjoy shirking your duty by your family.” “What duty?” Harry said coolly. “Roderick shall be the next Duke of Mallan, and Penelope will be sure to produce a son soon. He’ll already have four big sisters to boss him about. The line is thriving, I assure you.” “But you must marry as well.” She sounded exactly like his mother. And his sister-in-law. And his father and brother. “I am the spare,” he ground out. “I can stay a bachelor as long as I’d like. They merely need me if Roderick sticks his spoon in the wall before his son is born, and my brother is a hale, hearty fellow who shall be around for another seventy years at least.” “But your mama will want more grandchildren,” Molly persisted, twirling her parasol as if they were conversing about the weather. She must quite enjoy bickering, Harry thought. Perhaps it was her favorite pastime. He felt his mouth become a grim line. “I’d rather not discuss it. It is, quite frankly, none of your business, Molly Fairbanks.” “Ohhhh,” she growled, and lowered her parasol to glare at him. As if he couldn’t see the intensity of that fierce look unless the sun were full upon her face. They were getting nowhere. Fast. And she was working herself up to hitting him again with that blasted reticule. “Let’s get back to business, shall we?” he said. “The men whose mistresses don’t win the contest must pull straws to see who must get legshackled to the woman handpicked for him by the board of their club. So we have an obvious winner and an obvious loser.” Molly brightened. “If you lose this year, you’d have to marry Anne Riordan.” “How did you know?” “Easy. Your papa’s on your club board. And he’s told everyone he believes she’ll have a calming influence on you.” She inclined her head and smiled. “I will quite enjoy that, seeing you and Anne married.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You always were cruel.” She laughed. “Tell me, Harry, what would I get out of being your–ahem– false mistress?” He crossed his arms. “Safe, anonymous travel back to Marble Hill. I assume your father is traipsing about Europe somewhere and that you somehow pulled the wool over his cousin Augusta’s eyes?” “How did you know?” “Easy. You’re extremely predictable.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like how you said that.” He shrugged. “Take it as you wish.” She bit her thumbnail. “But the gentlemen at the house party. What if they recognize me in Town? Now that I’m not marrying Cedric, I shall have to have a Season.” “You’ll wear loads of face powder and rouge.” “They’ll itch.” She knew from experimenting with Cousin Augusta’s. “And you must use a false name.” “I’ll forget it. I know it.” He sighed. “You can’t afford to forget it.” “Then it must be Delilah,” she said. “It’s the only name I’ll be able to remember.” “Why Delilah?” “I don’t know. But I already know I won’t forget it.” Harry shook his head. He would never quite understand women and the way their minds worked, especially Molly’s–thank God. “You needn’t be overly worried about being found out,” he said. “The gentlemen will be mildly pickled half the time–when we’re out shooting–and severely so the other half. Plus, they’ll be looking down almost always.” He cocked one brow. Her face grew red. “Do you mean–?” She glanced down at her own bodice. “Yes.” She shuddered. “This house party sounds awful.” “It will be.” He grinned. “Positively dreadful.” She narrowed her eyes, kicked a stone in the road, and then whirled back to face him. “Why me?” she demanded. “Why not ask that buxom barmaid back at the inn to be your real mistress? She’s a willing handful, isn’t she?” He resented having to venture into truth territory, where vague notions about saving damsels in distress claimed priority over his own more immediate needs and wants. “Believe me,” he said. “I thought about asking her, even if she is a bit rustic. But I can’t allow a gently bred lady to be thrust out into the world unprotected. Even if that so-called lady“–he put as much sarcasm in the word as possible–”is you.” “Oh.” She drew back. “Oh,” she said again, softer this time, and bit her lip. He’d gone too far. And yes, he felt guilty. Roderick would have his hide if he’d heard Harry address his sister-in-law so. But Molly was so…provoking. Always had been. From the time she’d discovered, at age four, a sack of acorns he’d spent two weeks gathering for a game of war with Roderick and redistributed them to the squirrels at Marble Hill. She shook her head. “I won’t go with you. But thank you for asking.” Her voice was small. She lowered her parasol and took off down the road again, this time looking not so much like Napoleon. Her arms were wrapped around her middle, not swinging boldly. Her stride had shortened as well. She stumbled over a rock. “Wait!” he called to her. She recovered and kept walking. He strode after her. “Will you stop?” She quickened her pace. He caught up to her, and she began to run. Dash it all, he would have to run, too! In one fell swoop, he lifted her over his shoulder and turned back to the inn. She screamed and kicked and beat him with her parasol, but he paid no heed to her pathetic attempts to make him submit to her shrill threats and simply kept walking. “Thrash and scream to your heart’s content,” he said, ignoring the ringing in his ears. “Perhaps it will tire you out.” A remark which his captive took to heart. Seemingly by the grace of God alone, Harry made it to the stableyard without too much bodily damage. “Ready?” he called to his coachman, who’d been ready this age, and was agog at the sight of his master toting a screaming virago who was, at the same time, obviously a well-bred young lady, over his shoulder. Harry opened the door to the carriage, stuffed Molly in, and jumped in himself, pulling the door quickly behind him and holding it shut. He put his hand on the other door as well to keep it sealed. The carriage rocked forward and began a brisk roll out of the stableyard. They were on the road north again. Molly clenched the seat cushion and drew in huge lungfuls of air. “I told you I hated you, Harry,” she said between breaths. “But the truth is I hate you with a capital H. That’s even more than I hated you before.” He would allow her that diatribe. As penance for his “you’re-no-lady” dig. “Nevertheless,” he replied coolly. “We’re stuck together. For one week.” Inwardly, he sighed. Then reassured himself–if he could handle Waterloo, he could most certainly deal with Molly Fairbanks.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents When Life Throws You Lemons Make Cranberry Juice by Shari Bookstaff

About Shari Bookstaff

Shari bookstaff
Shari Bookstaff grew up in Milwaukee, WI, dreaming of becoming a marine biologist. She made it to California and is currently a biology professor, teaching at a community college near San Francisco. While her specialty is marine mammals, she recently expanded her course offerings to include a class on the human brain. Inspired by her own medical trials, Shari continues to merge her personal and professional interests.

Shari lives with her two children (and two dogs) in a small town just south of San Francisco, near the ocean. While her disabilities make life harder, she is determined to continue walking on the beach, attending concerts, and cheering at football games.

About When Life Throws You Lemons...Make Cranberry Juice

when life throws you lemons
When my kids were learning to walk, I remember walking behind them, ready to catch them if they stumbled backward. I never dreamed that thirteen years later my kids would be walking behind me, ready to catch me if I stumbled backward.

I was 42 years old when I was diagnosed with a benign, operable, brain tumor. Doctors predicted a short hospital stay followed by a speedy recovery. Complications arose, giving me unexpected life-long obstacles.

A divorced mother of two beautiful, talented, wonderful children, I had high hopes for a bright and happy future. I had a secure job that I loved, and I was beginning to date again when my brain tumor was diagnosed.

My life since that fateful day has been focused on regaining basic human functions: breathing, swallowing, walking, etc. I am working again, and trying to be a good mother to my two beautiful, talented, wonderful children.

Putting a positive spin on life’s disasters doesn’t always work, but looking for, and accepting, positive things in spite of life’s disasters works. Instead of making lemonade out of lemons, I add life’s sweet sugar and cranberries to my lemons. This makes life much more palatable.

Book Excerpt

I have learned that life’s lemons were raining down on me, whacking me in the face; whereas life’s cranberries were so small I could walk on them, squish them like a mosquito, and not notice them. Lemons included sickness, death, and dwindling finances; while cranberries were as simple as a smile, eye contact, or a pat on the back. Some of my cranberries snuck up on me and surprised me. I went to a Monday Night Football game, hosted by the Houston Texans, with my family just after Thanksgiving, 2008. As Matt’s guests, we parked and entered the stadium through areas designated for players’ families. Once inside, we had a long walk to our seats, so an employee brought me a wheelchair. When I finally got to my seat, I stayed put the entire game. After the game, the wheelchair guy came back and took me to the player’s post-game reception. We met up with Matt at the reception, but before he got comfortable, Abby asked him if we could go on the field. Abby and Andy had never been on a football field, and they had wanted to go on one for years. We walked out onto the field and it was awesome. We looked at the spot where Matt had tried to throw a touchdown pass, and the spot where the ball was kicked for field goals. Then, my sister Stephanie asked me if Steve Young was an announcer for Monday night games. I said, “He might be. Why?” She said, “I think he’s right over there.” He was. Steve Young was on the other side of the field, conducting post-game interviews. “Wow!” I thought. “Another chance to meet my biggest celebrity crush?” I hobbled across the field, towards the bright television lights, moving faster than I had moved in two and a half years. He was busy working, so I was not able to say hello to him again, but feeling that rush of adrenaline that made me nearly run across the football field worked more magic than a week’s worth of prozac! Part of me was still a woman. Part of me could still get goose bumps over a man. Part of me was still ambitious enough to chase down Steve Young. Part of me was still alive.

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Regression: Book One of the Infinion Series by Kathy Bell

About Kathy Bell

kathy bell

 Canadian author Kathy Bell has called the Georgian Bay and Lake Huron area home for her entire life but has found books a wonderful way to travel through time and around the world. She lives on 60 acres with an amazing view of the Owen Sound city skyline in one direction and the sheer cliffs of the Niagara Escarpment in the other. Writing only became possible after checking off most other things on the to-do list of her life: marry high school sweetheart (check); get an awesome career as a high school science teacher (check); have four wonderful kids (check); build her dream home (check); be a successful entrepreneur (check); breed Canada's top winning bulldog (check); get a herd of horses (check). With all of these activities providing fodder for her fertile imagination, she began writing with one hand cradling a fussy baby while the other pecked at the keyboard. Her first novel, Regression, peaked at number seventeen on the Amazon Science Fiction and Fantasy bestseller list as a new release, and remained on the charts for twenty-eight days. Find out more about Kathy and her Infinion Series at infinionseries.comor at

About Regression: Book One of the Infinion Series


 Fourteen-year-old Adya Jordan swears that before her head injury she was a forty-year-old mother of six. Is she going crazy, or did she really live through an entirely different life? 1985 is nothing like she remembers, although her first day of high school certainly is! A typical girl with atypical genes, Adya tries to recapture her old life, hiding her growing conviction that she has done this before. Memories of the man she loved and a family she adored haunt her, even though her future husband doesn't even know she exists. Accidentally discovering the secretive Three Eleven Corporation might know more about her situation than she does, she is convinced the twenty-eight men heading up the company are responsible for the changes in her world. Adya finds her way into their ranks, journeying to the tropical island headquarters to begin an orientation into their prestigious internship program. The Three Eleven Company controls the development and distribution of Twenty-first Century technology brought with them from the future. Charged with the task of preparing the world for an impending disaster, each member of the team uses his scientific background to create a solution for a problem the planet does not know it is facing. They don't have time to deal with a feisty young girl poking around. Banished to the frozen Canadian Shield for asking too many questions of CEO Abraham Fairfield, Adya finds the men in the underground city of Sanctum are interested in more than just her genes as they search for the answer to her presence in the timeline. In the end, Adya encounters a choice no mother should ever face: save her children...or everyone else.

Book Excerpt

PROLOGUE Journal of Doctor Nicholas Weaver July 27, 98 Post Impact To perform the regression requires almost 70 exajoules. The amount of power consumed by humans during one year when we were at the peak of our civilization. Such incredible discharges of energy are virtually impossible to achieve. Meteor impacts, megathrust earthquakes, or a blast of 17 gigatons of TNT might approximate the power. Not simple to orchestrate. It is both to my horror and to my advantage such an instance occurs November 11, 2011, providing thirty times the force required. The phenomenon precipitates the need for the regression while also providing the means to complete it. What tragic irony. CHAPTER ONE “No, Daddy. Want Mommy.” Daniel Davies shook his head, grimacing at his wife as she reached for the struggling toddler. Adya smiled. “Poor Daddy.” She winked over top of the little blonde girl. “You just don’t measure up.” “Ouch.” He buckled the last of their children into the van before rounding to the driver’s side window. “I’ll see you in a bit; Jim wants me to help him put the equipment away.” Leaning in, he kissed her, and then strode toward the ivy-covered stone building still surrounded by people in uniforms. “Bye, honey.” Adya turned and smiled over the seatback at the young ones. “You were all very well behaved for the memorial service, thank you.” Singing in chorus to “One Tin Soldier” on the radio with a clear, sweet voice, she drove toward her mother’s house. Twelve year old Serina leaned forward from the middle passenger seat. “Why do we have to sit through that each year?” “Your great-grandfathers fought in both wars, we owe it to their memories, and to−” “Blah, blah, blah, you’ve said it all before.” “Serina, don’t interrupt me. It’s a sign of respect to attend the Remembrance Day activities at the cenotaph. People sacrificed their lives to allow us to be there today.” Suitably chastised, the child changed the subject. “So if grandma’s turning sixty today how old was she when she had you?” “I’m forty, you do the math.” Will, fifteen, spoke up, “She was nineteen, then. That’s really young, isn’t it?” “Not back then. People used to have kids a lot younger than they do now. I had your brother when I was twenty-four.” “Is that when you decided to stay home with us?” “Sort of. I did research part time on my Master’s Degree, so I was still in school.” Adya glanced at her oldest daughter and smiled. “You guys were too cute to leave.” “Do you miss it, working?” “I didn’t give up working, just chose a different way of doing it. I think I would have stayed in school anyway and the experience of having you kids actually inspired quite a bit of my research. My thesis about older siblings setting the precedent for younger ones−” Luke rolled his eyes as only a seven-year-old could, “Mom, you’re doing it again.” She pulled the minivan into a gas station flying flags at half mast. “What?” “Talking big…use language we understand, not your shrink words.” With an exasperated sigh she replied “Sorry, Luke. Anyway, you were my lab rats.” Serina snorted in laughter and Luke began to squeak like a rat. Two year old Jessica squealed in feigned terror. The gas attendant approached the vehicle as Adya lowered the window. “How’s the family today, Doctor Davies?” “They’re just wonderful, John. How are your little granddaughters?” “Couldn’t be better, and they’d love to come visit again any time you want to study them. They thought it was a real hoot.” He peeked into the van. “Sounds like you have a zoo in there. What’s with all the animals?” The children laughed even harder while making new, louder animal sounds. “I told the kids they were my lab rats, just like your girls were. Could you fill it up, please?” “Yes, ma’am.” John quickly topped up the tank. “You know, I hope you don’t close up this station, there aren’t many full serve places left.” She grinned as she passed him the payment. “I don’t know…my son doesn’t really want to take over the place. But, folks like you keep coming, I’ll keep pumping.” The old man limped back to his little booth. She drove on through a residential neighbourhood, to pull into the driveway of her mother’s house. The children piled out the sliding doors while their mother unbuckled the infant. Grandmother Samantha approached from the front porch where she had been waiting, grey hair in a long braid down her back. She stopped to toss a fallen branch from the driveway before reaching the van. “Happy birthday, Mom.” “Thanks, honey. I saw you at the service, but didn’t see Daniel. Is he joining us?” “Yes, he got caught up with something at the university so won’t be here till later. Where’s Dad?” “Out back in his shop, putting the finishing touches on Hope’s chest.” She peered into the van. “You don’t have room to take it with you today.” Adya shuffled bags inside the vehicle before looking helplessly at her mother. “Shoot. I forgot the diaper bag and your gifts. Do you mind if I drive back to pick them up? I’ll take Hope, is it okay if I leave the others here?” “These monkeys? I don’t know… but, I do have a new game for them to play inside. C’mon guys, come see grandma’s new video game.” The children rushed into the house as their mother slipped back into the driver’s seat. Adya reversed out of the laneway and turned the corner. The ring-shaped birthmark on her right hand began to throb, distracting her as she rubbed at it. Her head snapped up as tires screeched on her left. A large sport utility vehicle seemed to approach her minivan in slow motion – she watched in mute horror as the side panel folded beneath the onslaught of the larger vehicle. A rainbow glitter accompanied the groan of bending metal as the windows fractured and refracted the headlights of an oncoming car. The world spun to the right, her stomach lurched, and a piercing pain lanced through her hand as she screamed before all went black. * * * “Hope!” Adya struggled to rise in the hospital bed while fighting the restraints of the entangling linens. Tears rushed to her eyes as she again cried her daughter’s name. Frantically she pressed the call button. The cord pulled from the wall as she tumbled to the floor, sheets wrapped around her legs. Nurses rushed through the door. From her knees, she wailed, “My baby… how is my baby? Please God; let my baby be okay…please let me know where she is.” The nurses attempted to restrain and reassure, murmuring platitudes she did not quite hear. “You need to return to your bed. You should sit down. We’ll get things straightened out for you.” Her heart pounded and her breath came in short pants as she escaped the confining sheets, stumbling into the hall. An older nurse firmly held her arm to guide her back to her room. No patience for anything but answers, she screeched, “I need to see my baby, where is she?” She struck out, flailing with all her might until a needle in her arm finally subdued her with darkness. * * * Beeping roused her. A regular, low tone sounded every second, punctuated occasionally by a higher pitched double tone. The whirring of a ventilation system and the drone of fluorescent lights nagged at her, bringing her to the edge of consciousness. Muted voices were drowned by the wail of a very young child, the sound of which finally brought recognition. She was in a hospital room. Three people were conversing at the bedside as she cracked open her eyes. “She was hysterical, insisting she needed to see her child. We had to sedate her to get her back into the room. I don’t think she has a child, her mother never mentioned one.” The nurse’s voice sounded familiar, an echo in her head predating the panic. “She’s likely delusional from the head injury. We need to work through the delusion without allowing her to become too agitated.” This voice familiar too. She opened her eyes. “I’m not delusional; I just need to see my daughter.” One of the speakers approached the bed as she propped herself up on her elbows. Closing her eyes again against the dizziness, she regained equilibrium and reopened them. The man standing in front of her towered over the bed, she had to crane her neck to see him. He spoke softly, with gentle concern. “Hello there, I’m Doctor Redborne. Nurse Skinner tells me you gave them a bit of a scare. I need to ask you some questions, alright?” At her nod he continued. “What’s your name?” “Adya Davies. Where’s my daughter?” The doctor frowned. “When were you born?” “April 28, 1971. Why won’t anyone tell me if Hope’s okay?” “What’s the last date you remember?” “November 11, 2011…” His frown deepened and he wrote a quick note on the chart in his hand. “How old are you?” “Forty. I want to see my husband and children. Can you at least let me see them?” The physician rested his hand on her shoulder, his face still clouded. “I need to check your vitals, make sure you can tolerate visitors. Can you remain calm while I do that?” She inclined her head, closing her eyes against another wave of pain. The doctor raised the head of the bed and flashed a light directly into her pupils. As she began to get restless, he addressed her. “Adya, you were involved in a serious car accident and suffered a head injury. You’ve been in a coma for seven days. This is the first time you’ve been conscious during that time.” She looked toward the nurse for confirmation. The nurse nodded encouragement and agreement. Her gaze returned to the doctor, still confused. “What about Hope? Is she okay? Where’s my husband?” “The brain is a mysterious organ. We’re never quite sure how it will respond to trauma. During your coma you may have experienced a dream which seems like reality to you. The current year is 1985 and you are a single young lady of fourteen−” She interrupted him. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re telling me I’m only fourteen?” Seeing stars with a vigorous head shake, she persisted, “What is this, some kind of joke?” “I realize this might be very difficult for you, you need to−” “I can see it all so clearly, though, all the little details, everything about them. I have children, a husband, a home…and you say this was all my imagination? There’s just no way.” Standing up, she was ready to run from the room to find the truth. A flash of movement caught her eye, the mirror where her reflection moved in the glass. The familiar laugh lines around her eyes were missing although the clear blue colour was unchanged. No parenthesis lines at the corners of her mouth echoed decades of smiles. Not the face of a forty year old. She slumped down on the bed while the doctor continued. “Today is Saturday, July 27, 1985. You’re in Stamford General Hospital. Your mother’s in the cafeteria on the bottom floor having lunch and should return shortly.” The doctor gently laid a hand on her shoulder as he spoke. “You are indeed only fourteen and have your whole life ahead of you to have those children, the husband, the house, and everything else you could ever imagine.” Adya looked solemnly into his eyes. “I’m fourteen.” He nodded. “It’s 1985.” The doctor agreed again. “I guess I get to relive the eighties again. Perhaps this time the music will be better.” He laughed with her, his relief evident, and then jotted more notes on her chart. “Will I have to stay here much longer?” “We need to run some tests and keep you under observation for a little bit. You had a serious concussion. But, if things look normal you’ll be out within the week. I’ll look in on you again later in the evening. You should try to rest.” With a reassuring smile on his angular face, he left the room. The nurse added her own notes after lowering the bed, and departed as well. Adya closed her eyes and visualized the life she had been living. The faces of her husband and children were clear in her mind, especially the children. The slightly chubby cheeks of her eldest daughter. The wiry hair of Tyler as a toddler when he snuggled beside her in the morning. Hope’s blue, blue eyes. Stomach churning, she sat up again. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, dizziness returned, prevented her from standing. Panic slid up her spine and her panting breaths ruffled the front of the hospital gown as she tucked her chin to her knees to fight the rising vertigo. Bare feet stuck out from under the edge of her gown and she focused her concentration on her toes to fight down the queasiness. Looking more closely at her feet, her eyes widened. “The scar’s gone.” At seventeen a bicycle accident had left a large scar across the top of her foot. Riding on the handlebars of her boyfriend’s bike when he lost control speeding down the hill toward his house, she had spilled onto the pavement and abraded the top layer of skin off her left foot and forearm. Slowly elevating the arm, she inspected the intact skin. Twisting and turning foot and arm, she gazed at the smooth flesh, running her fingers where the scars should be. She shook her head again, “No. No…they can’t just make twenty-six years disappear.” Her feet were steady as she slid to the floor. Cautiously, she checked the hallway from the door. No nurses within view. The elevators were across the way and the nurses’ station out of sight around the corner. She slipped over to the elevator, pressing the down button before hurrying back to her room. At the ping of the indicator, she rushed through the open doors, holding the ‘close door’ button down with a white-knuckled finger. The portal whooshed shut, and Adya paced the confines of the car while it glided downward. With a quick glance through the doors, she darted toward the front entrance. “Hey.” An older lady yelled as she pushed past her. The front desk attendant rose, concern written across her face. “Wait, young lady. Hold on.” The authoritative voice did little to slow her flight. She made it through the entrance and stopped short, her gaze locked on the hospital sign. A rushing sound built in her ears and the corners of her vision blackened.

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Let's Eat by Denise Burroughs

Denise burroughs 

About Denise Burroughs

 She was raised in the sun, she came from a large Italian family with very strong ties to their heritage.  She was born in Rome, NY and moved to Miami, Florida in December of 1969 with her mother.  Raised in South Florida, she attended school until 1983.  Having two daughters from her first marriage, she remarried in 1995 and in 2004 moved to Tallahassee, Florida where she currently resides. She's the owner of a paint and body shop and a member of NAPEW (National Association of Professional & Executive Women 2007-2008). A love for cooking and a desire to share wonderful family traditions was put to paper to create Let's Eat.  There have been so many people who have inspired her in her life, but no one inspired her more than her mother.  Many of the recipes in this book have been served many times over and enjoyed by family and friends.  She is happy to share them all with you and hopes you enjoy every bite as they were all made with lots of love. You can visit Denise at

About Let's Eat

Let's eat

 Denise Burroughs combines her rich Italian heritage with years of southern tradition in Let's Eat!, her debut cookbook.  Her love for cooking shines through in this comprehensive book, suitable for all levels of cooking experience.  Let's Eat! provides readers with simple, inexpensive dishes.  Recipes range from "Potato Flake Chicken" to "Chocolate Italian Cookies." Her strong Italian background shines through in many recipes, combining her love of tradition and her passion for rich flavors. Burroughs' unique dishes have been cultivated through years of experience, filling the hearts and stomachs of her friends and family.  She writes: "Enjoy what you do! Your kitchen is your way of self expression and the heart of your home." In Let's Eat!, Burroughs goes on to share cherished childhood memories of her family cooking authentic Italian meals.  Burroughs recalls: " Back when my great grandmother used to make pizza they called it 'Tomato Pie'. It was not like pizza we get today.  It was square and had sauce, oregano, and grated cheese on top." Burroughs includes helpful cooking tips for first-timers and some useful veteran secrets.  She takes great pride in her recipes and is excited to share them for the very first time.  She is confident these recipes will satisfy your family and friends.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents The Traveler by Suthep Srikureja

About Suthep Srikureja

Suthep Srikureja lives in Bangkok with his wife and three children. An entrepreneur and a writer, he can often be found immersed in various bodies of water. The Traveler is his first book. You can find out about Suthep and his book at

About The Traveler

The Traveler

Written by Suthep Srikureja while listening to the music of the waves and stunningly illustrated by Denys Blacker, The Traveler is about Dreams and's about Expressions and Wonder and about Hope and Trust. It is a Story of the Stars and it seeks to inspire awe in our everyday existence and optimism about the future.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Dog Eared Publicity Presents Buying Time by Pamela Samuels Young

About Pamela Samuels Young

Pamela Samuels Young
Corporate attorney Pamela Samuels Young has always abided by the philosophy that you create the change you want to see. Fed up with never seeing women or people of color depicted as savvy, hot shot attorneys in the legal thrillers she read, Pamela decided to create her own characters. Despite the demands of a busy legal career, Pamela accomplished her ambitious goal by rising at four in the morning to write before work, dedicating her weekends to writing and even spending her vacation time glued to her laptop for ten or more hours a day. The Essence magazine bestselling author now has four fast-paced legal thrillers to show for her efforts: Every Reasonable Doubt (BET Books, February 2006), In Firm Pursuit (Harlequin, January 2007), Murder on the Down Low (Goldman House Publishing, September 2008) and Buying Time (Goldman House Publishing, November 2009). New York Times bestselling author Sheldon Siegel described Buying Time, Pamela’s first stand-alone novel, as a “deftly plotted thriller that combines the best of Lisa Scottoline and Robert Crais.” Pamela has achieved a successful writing career while working as Managing Counsel for Labor and Employment Law for a large corporation in Southern California. Prior to that, she served as Employment Law Counsel for Raytheon Company and spent several years with the law firm of O’Melveny & Myers, LLP in Los Angeles. A former journalist, Pamela began her broadcasting career as a production assistant at WXYZ-TV in Detroit, where she was quickly promoted to news writer. To escape the chilly Detroit winters, she returned home to Los Angeles and worked at KCBS-TV as a news writer and associate producer. Pamela has a bachelor’s degree in journalism from USC, a master’s degree in broadcasting from Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism and received her law degree from UC Berkeley’s Boalt Hall School of Law. She currently serves on the Board of Directors of the Southern California Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and is the Fiction Expert for Pamela is a frequent speaker on the topics of discrimination law, diversity, writing and pursuing your passion. She is married and lives in the Los Angeles area. To contact Pamela or to read an excerpt of her books, visit

About Buying Time

Buying Time 2
Buying Time is a scandalous tale of blackmail, murder and betrayal, evoking John Grisham with a dash of Terry McMillan.

Waverly Sloan is a down-on-his-luck lawyer. But just when he's about to hit rock bottom, he stumbles upon a business with the potential to solve all of his problems. In Waverly’s new line of work, he comes to the aid of people in desperate need of cash. But there's a catch. His clients must be terminally ill and willing to sign over rights to their life insurance policies before they can collect a dime. Waverly then finds investors eager to advance them thousands of dollars—including a hefty broker's fee for himself—in exchange for a significant return on their investment once the clients take their last breath. The stakes get higher when Waverly brokers the policy of the cancer-stricken wife of Lawrence Erickson, a high-powered lawyer who’s bucking to become the next U.S. Attorney General. When Waverly's clients start dying sooner than they should, both Waverly and Erickson—who has some skeletons of his own to hide—are unwittingly drawn into a perilous web of greed, blackmail and murder. Soon, a determined federal prosecutor is hot on Waverly’s trail. But when the prosecutor’s own life begins to unravel, she finds herself on the run—with Waverly at her side.

Book Excerpt

PROLOGUE Veronika Myers tried to convince them, but no one would listen. Her suspicions, they said, were simply a byproduct of her grief. Each time she broached the subject with her brother, Jason, he walked out of the room. Darlene, her best friend, suggested a girls’ night out with some heavy drinking. Aunt Flo urged her to spend more time in prayer. Veronika knew she was wasting her time with this woman, too, but couldn’t help herself. “My mother was murdered,” Veronika told the funeral home attendant. “But nobody believes it.” The plump redhead with too much eye shadow glanced down at the papers on her desk, then looked up. “It says here that your mother died in the hospital. From brain cancer.” “That’s not true,” Veronika snapped, her response a little too sharp and a tad too loud. Yes, her mother had brain cancer, but she wasn’t on her deathbed. Not yet. They had just spent a long afternoon together, laughing and talking and watching All My Children. Veronika could not, and would not accept that the most important person in her life had suddenly died. She knew what everyone else refused to believe. Her mother had been murdered. “Did they conduct an autopsy?” the woman asked. Veronika sighed and looked away. There had been no autopsy because everyone dismissed her as a grief-stricken lunatic. When she reported the murder to the police, a disinterested cop dutifully took her statement, but she could tell that nothing would come of it. Without any solid evidence, she was wasting everyone’s time, including her own. “No,” Veronika said. “There wasn’t an autopsy.” The funeral home attendant smiled sympathetically. Veronika let out a long, exasperated breath, overwhelmed by the futility of what she was trying to prove. “Never mind,” she said. “What else do you need me to sign?” * * * Later that night, Veronika lay in bed, drained from another marathon crying session. She rummaged through the nightstand, retrieved a bottle of sleeping pills and popped two into her mouth. She tried to swallow them dry, but her throat was too sore from all the crying. Tears pooled in her eyes as she headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Don’t worry, Mama,” Veronika sniffed. “I won’t let them get away with it.” Just as she reached the end of the hallway, a heavy gloved hand clamped down hard across her mouth as her arms were pinned behind her back. Panic instantly hurled her into action. Veronika tried to scream, but the big hand reduced her shriek to a mere muffle. She frantically kicked and wrestled and twisted her body, but her attacker’s grip would not yield. When she felt her body being lifted off the ground and carried back down the hallway, she realized there were two of them and her terror level intensified. But so did her survival instinct. She continued to wildly swing her legs backward and forward, up and down, right and left, eventually striking what felt like a leg, then a stomach. As they crossed the threshold of her bedroom, she heard a loud, painful moan that told her she had likely connected with the groin of one of her assailants. “Cut it out!” said a husky, male voice. “Grab her legs!” he ordered his partner. “Hurry up!” The men dumped her face down onto the bed, her arms still restrained behind her back. The big hand slipped from her mouth and Veronika’s first cry escaped, but was quickly muted when a much heavier hand gripped the back of her neck and pressed her face into the comforter. Fearing her attackers were going to rape, then kill her, Veronika defiantly arched her back and tried to roll her body into a tight ball. At only 130 pounds, she was no physical match for her assailants. They easily overpowered her, forcing her back into a prone position. As one man sat on her upper legs, strapping her left arm to her side, the other man bent her right arm at the elbow and guided her hand up toward her forehead. During the deepest period of her grief, Veronika had longed to join her mother. But now that she was face-to-face with the possibility of death, she fought valiantly for life. That changed, however, the second Veronika felt something cold and hard connect with her right temple. She stiffened as one of the men grabbed her fingers and wrapped them around the butt of a gun. At that precise instant, Veronika knew with certainty that her suspicions were indeed fact. Her mother had been murdered and now the same killers had come to silence her before she could expose the truth. And just like her mother’s death, her own murder would go undetected, dismissed as the suicide of a grieving daughter. A conclusion no one would question. As the man placed his hand on top of hers and prepared to pull the trigger, a miraculous, power-infused sensation snuffed out what was left of Veronika’s fear, causing her body to go limp. The heavy pounding of her heart slowed and she felt light enough to float away. Completely relaxed now, Veronika closed her eyes, said a short prayer, and waited for a glorious reunion with her mother.

Here's what reviewers have to say!

"Pamela Samuels Young takes her place among the top tier of legal thriller writers with her latest, Buying Time. Waverly Sloan is a recently-disbarred lawyer who makes ends meet by buying life insurance policies from terminally ill patients for cut-rate prices—and then he collects when they die. Angela Evans is one of L.A.'s most tenacious prosecutors who has an unhappy personal life. Lawrence Erickson is a prominent attorney at a big L.A. law firm with a terminally-ill wife. When their stories converge, Samuels Young takes her readers on a roller coaster ride that involves murder, insurance fraud and drug dealing. From the towers of downtown L.A. to the corridors of power in Washington, Samuels Young writes a deftly-plotted, immensely readable thriller that combines the best of Lisa Scottoline and Robert Crais. Find a comfortable chair and plan to stay up late. Highly recommended."A shattering story told with dignity, compassion, and some wicked humor. Wench is a brave, honest, beautifully written book that will shock and move readers to much new awareness."
--Sheldon Siegel, New York Times Bestselling author of Judgment Day