INTERVIEW with DIANE MORRISON (A Few Good Elves)

Today we are welcoming author Diane Morrison into the fray for a little chat before we take a look at her new novel. Welcome, Diane!

SC: Tell me a little bit about your main character of this book.

DM: Shaundar Sunfall is a young Star-Pilot in the Avalonian Imperial Navy. In his universe, this is an interstellar navy with magically-powered Age of Sail ships. He is a mixed-race elf in a traditionally segregated society, and this, among other reasons, makes him an outcast and a troublemaker. He’s also quite intelligent and a bit of a nerd. He’s looking to prove himself, so he lies about his age to join the Navy when war is declared. He’s the type of protagonist who does more fighting with his brain than his fists – although one often can’t avoid such things entirely.

SC: Sort of an elfCIS. Like that. Do you believe in the paranormal and if so, do you have an experience you can share?

DM: I am a real-life practicing witch. Where would you like me to start? LOL

Okay, I’ll tell you about what inspired me to become a witch. I used to be a very scientifically-minded child, who didn’t believe in such things. I had a dream when I was ten that came true. In that case, it was about having a writing room in my closet. Having forgotten completely about the dream, I built one six months later, and then a friend reminded me of the dream.

One might naturally assume that I got the idea subconsciously from my dream, and that’s what I thought at first too. But this dream was followed by several others. Here was the most intense one that solidified my belief:

I dreamed that I was late for the school bus in the morning, which came to the bottom of the hill I lived on. I knew I had to catch the second of three busses. The first one came and went. I started running down the hill, and for some reason, my dad ran after me, trying to open a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. But I saw the second one pull up, and start to leave, and I said, “Too late; I’m never going to make it now.” The dream ended.

By this time, I’d had enough of these dreams that I was waiting for the morning school bus early. But there were no problems, so I dismissed this as an anxiety dream.

But it was Friday, and on Fridays, instead of taking the second of three busses home, I took the second one. And I got kicked off the bus because a bully tripped me getting on, so I whacked him with my lunch kit. My dad had to pick me up, and guess what we had for lunch?

As I’ve gotten older, these dreams have come less frequently, and always about more important matters where real pain or emotional significance is involved. But I always appreciate them when I get them, and more than once, they have saved my life.

SC: So, your kitchen is stocked with Campbells, right? LOL. What titles are you working on now that you can tell us about?

DM: I’m currently in the final edits for book 2 of the Toy Soldier Saga, To Know Your Enemy. And I’m rewriting book 3, Brothers in Arms. I also have several short stories on the go; I was recently accepted into SFWA through my pro short story sales, and my family wisely recommended I write more of them.

SC: Well, thanks so much for dropping by today. Let’s take a look at your book now. 

A Few Good Elves

Toy Soldier Saga 

Book One

Diane Morrison

Genre: Science fantasy, military science fiction, space opera, epic fantasy, dark fantasy, blackpowder fantasy

Publisher: Aradia Publishing

Date of Publication: September 7, 2021

ISBN Ebook 978-1-9995757-5-5

ISBN Hardcover 978-1-9995757-4-8

ISBN Paperback 978-1-9995757-3-1

ASIN: B09D79BJW1

Number of pages: 490

Word Count: 155k

Cover Artist: Cayotica

Tagline: A dark blackpowder fantasy military space opera

Book Description: 

Toy Soldier: A derogatory slang term for an elven marine.

Battles great and terrible, small and bitter, raged across Known Space as the wars of Elves and Orcs played out their legacy of hatred across the stars themselves. Epics would be written, songs would be sung; but wars are fought by real people with loves and families and homes.

All Shaundar Sunfall ever wanted to be was a Star-Pilot. Raised on his father's ship, he has found an affinity for the stars -- although as a mixed-race elf and a bit of troublemaker, he often runs afoul of his commanding officers.

Now the orcs have returned to once again wage war on their ancient enemies. The fate of his people is at stake. Although he is too young, Shaundar lies about his age to join up. But he is about to learn that no matter what the sagas say, war is no great adventure.

A bit like what would happen if Horatio Hornblower met the Honorverse, met Lord of the Rings, met Game of Thrones, A Few Good Elves is part naval adventure, part high fantasy, part space opera, and part war novel.

CW: graphic violence, sexual violence, torture, war, genocide

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/7LG4_Jp9yfw

Amazon      Books2Read

Excerpt
All about on the decks of the Queen’s Dirk, the crew were running and screaming. There were too many dead and wounded to count, and the Chiurgeons had elves spread out over the tables in the mess, the garden, even the Captain’s bed.

Shaundar sensed Lieutenant Sylria on the remains of the fo’c’sle, now mostly a debris field, commanding the mages to ready spells and the weapons crews to continue their attack. He could also see the gravity well of the Vengeance, just now coming about on their starboard side, though he was certain that it had been much longer than they needed.

“I have the helm!” Shaundar cried.

“Get us out of here, Shaundar!”

He turned his head and studied the rapidly oncoming Balorian ship through both the hole in the starboard wall, and Queenie’s senses. Even with Sylria’s magical boost, he knew this to be hopeless.

“I can’t do it, Sylria,” he said in a hollow voice. “They’re just too fast.”
Sylria looked down at her feet for a long moment. She squared her shoulders. “Then we shall die with honour.”

Shaundar nodded. Amazingly, there was no fear, just sadness, that he would not see his family or Narissa again. “Sails, evasive manoeuvres!” Shaundar commanded. “Hard down!”

As the insectoid ship neared, it closed those claw-like limbs to grapple them. But under Shaundar’s power and direction, they dodged the attempt. Shaundar saw a whole army of armoured Balorian warriors pour out onto the deck and stand to the rails.

Sylria shrieked, “Mages, fire!” and she let off a lightning bolt herself. There were only a couple of elves left alive topside to obey Sylria’s command, but they responded. Flames and electricity washed over the orcs, enough that it stopped them in their tracks and aborted their boarding attempt.

“Bring ‘er about,” Shaundar ordered. “Hard astarboard!”
Queenie answered sluggishly with all the shorn rigging and shorthanded crew, but she came back around. As they swooped back towards each other, Sylria’s command rang out. Defiantly, the Queen’s Dirk fired another volley.

The Balorians greeted it with a broadside of their own as they both swung starboard at the last moment. The larboard ballistae both missed, but two of the three others dented the hull. The third pierced it once more on their larboard side with a ringing tear of sheet metal.

Their catapult did not fire at all. Whether it was because it was damaged, or because there were too few crew left to man it, Shaundar would never know.

The decapitated Vengeance had only one gun it could bring to bear on the pass, but it fired that larboards bombard at point blank range. The fo’c’sle simply collapsed like a sandcastle. Sylria was swallowed into the sinkhole. Shaundar roared in horror and pain but could not hear his own voice in the overwhelming noise.

There was no sail crew left to command, but hoping against hope, Shaundar bellowed anyway,

“Hard aport!” The mizzenmast was shorn away, and he knew it, but knowing there was nothing else to be done, he yelled out, “Prepare to ram! All hands brace for impact!” just as Garan had attempted.

He didn’t flinch as the Queen’s Dirk collided head-on with her foe.

About the Author:

Diane Morrison lives with her partners in the Okanagan Valley, BC, where she was born and raised. She has been published in SFF markets such as Terra! Tara! Terror!, Air & Nothingness Press, and Cossmass Infinities. Under her pen name “Sable Aradia” she is a successful Pagan author, a musician, and a Twitch streamer and podcaster.  She likes pickles and bluegrass, and hates talking about herself.


https://dianemorrisonfiction.com/

http://sablearadia.tumblr.com/

https://www.twitch.tv/sablearadia

https://www.ko-fi.com/sablearadia

https://www.patreon.com/SableAradia

https://aradiapublishing.wordpress.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/sablearadia

https://www.youtube.com/user/sablearadia

https://www.worldanvil.com/w/toysoldiersaga

https://www.amazon.com/author/dianemorrison

https://www.worldanvil.com/author/SableAradia

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/diane-morrison

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SUPERNATURAL SUNDAY: MIDNIGHT IN THE DESERT WITH ART BELL: MISSING 411 with DAVID PAULIDES

 Flashing back today to a classic episode of Art Bell's MIDNIGHT IN THE DESERT. His guest on this show is David Paulides, who investigated several of the missing person's stories that lean towards the supernatural, i.e. people disappear without a trace, never to be found.  Have a watch. 

INTERVIEW WITH MATTEO SEDAZZARI (Tales from the Foxes of Foxham)

We had the craziest rain blast over the weekend here in Vancouver. Looks like we might be in for a blustery Autumn. Lots of time to curl up in a corner and read a good book. Luckily for us, we have author Matteo Sedazzari here to tell us about his new one. Go for it, Matteo!                    

SC:  Tell me a little bit about your main character of this book.

MS: There are many protagonists, from anthropomorphic foxes to humans. Being a fantasy adventure story, I wanted to move from character to character to push the book at a rapid pace, like a frantic piece of music. Yet this is an excellent opportunity to introduce some of the key players.  Charles Renard is the leader of all foxes across Europe, who resides with his family in Fox Hill Hall in Foxham. He loves to wear plus fours and a smoking jacket. Charles may look like aristocracy, but he started off working on a farm. Yet, at an early age, it transpires; he has a head for numbers. So Charles becomes an accountant before getting a job at the Bank of England. He makes a killing from stocks and shares, takes over Boxham, Norfolk, and renames the village, Foxham. Charles even advised the allied forces in defeating Hitler. His leadership and bravery are paramount throughout Tales from The Foxes of Foxham; Charles gives reason to the story.

Alberto Bandito is a young jolly Neapolitan fox born into a crime family. His father, Mario, is a Don of Naples. Yet Alberto prefers to draw and paint and eat pizza, rather than be a mobster. His carefree ways gain the attention of the Witches of Benevento. The coven decides Alberto is the one to be sacrificed, so they and their wicked friends can take over the world. Alberto is kidnapped but rescued; however, he is now cursed. The spell has to be broken, for Alberto will be saved and the world. He is the youthful and naïve aspect of Tales from The Foxes of Foxham.

Saving Alberto is an essential part of the book, and two good witches must ensure no harm comes to this young fox. Carlotta, an Italian female witch, is trendy, rides a scooter; she is beautiful, as she bears an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. Carlotta was once an evil witch in the making until she saw how the Witches of Benevento wanted to sacrifice Alberto for a dark world. Carlotta is a true hero, fearless and strong. The other good witch is Trudi Milanese.

A fox, with magic in her bloodline, as Trudi comes from a family of fox witches, who were allies with good human witches many centuries before. Originally from Milan, where Trudi excelled in sports at school, before realising that Italian cooking is her passion. Raised by her grandparents, as her father rejected Trudi at birth. Her grandparents owned a hip hotel and restaurant in Milan. However, as the years have passed, the magic in her family has laid dormant. When her grandfather dies, her grandmother, Anna, is swindled out of the hotel by Trudi’s father by a forged will. So, Trudi and Anna relocate to Foxham. Anna and Trudi open an Italian café and take over a care home for Foxes in the village. Life is good until destiny knocks on her door when she finds out she is a witch, and not only that but Trudi also has to save the world. Trudi is comical and heroic, bossy, yet kind-hearted; she is a good and truthful fox but will bend the rules. These four certainly give Tales from The Foxes of Foxham a great deal of entertainment.

SC: Wow! There’s a lot going on in Foxham. Nice play on “Renard”, n’est pas?  Do you believe in the paranormal and if so, do you have an experience you can share?

MS: Yes, I do believe in the paranormal; I have experienced a few things. As a child, I was on a play-swing that faced the garden shed's side window at the rear of the garden. This was a suburban town in south west London, nothing eerie or sinister. I wasn’t using the swing; I just used to sit there, as kids do on a summer’s evening. I told my parents that I was reading too many horror stories, and my brother just mocked me! Anyway, as I gazed up, in the shed’s window I saw a man, with a gruesome face looking down at me with a sinister smile. I screamed, turned around and he was gone. 

I had a recent experience on holiday in Norfolk, where much of Tales from The Foxes of Foxham is set. I was riding a bike on an old road from Horsham Saint Faith to Spixworth. It is an old road mainly for walkers, bike riders, and joggers, not many cars as there are barriers on some parts of the road.  Yet as there is farmland there, you will see the odd car or van. I was cycling along before I suddenly felt the presence of a car behind me. Even with headphones on and music blasting out, a cyclist develops a ‘sixth sense’ of a vehicle up their backside! I slowly looked over my shoulder and saw the front of an old white van. As the road is narrow, I decided to pull over and let the vehicle pass. I faced forward and steered the bike to the side. I waited for about 30 seconds, then I turned around, and the van wasn’t there. There wasn’t a turning off or anything like that. It didn’t freak me out, as nothing terrible happened.

There is a common one that I occasionally experience, which is probably more due to frequency than the paranormal. You think of someone you haven’t heard from in ages, an old friend, and then out of the blue, you get a call, a text, a message via social media. A few Christmases ago, on Boxing Day, I was staying with family at a hotel in London. I woke up thinking a lot about a particular individual, why, I don’t know, we aren’t close, and in the same breath, we aren’t foes. Our interaction is minimal; we haven’t laughed together or exchanged angry words. Later that day, I was sitting in a café in Soho, London, and he walked in with his girlfriend. I was spooked and excited at the same time. I know plenty of people have had similar experiences to the one above.

SC: It’s weird when that happens, for sure.  What titles are you working on now that you can tell us about?

MS: The main project at the moment is marketing Tales from The Foxes of Foxham. I have a follow-up in mind or a story I wrote many years ago about a commedia dell'arte troupe, led by a clown, that try to bring down a totalitarian regime in renaissance Florence. It might be the latter. I will keep writing for my website www.zani.co.uk, the publisher of this book. We have published A.G.R‘s thriller trilogy, The 7PS, one and two are already out. Paolo Sedazzari’s Feltham Made Me is a witty coming of age story about three Feltham friends in the 1970s and 1980s. Dean Cavanagh’s humorous, brutal, poignant, and philosophical novel, The Secret Life of The Novel and Irvine Welsh and Dean Cavanagh’s Performers, staged at the Edinburgh Festival in 2017 about the cult film from the 1960s, Performance. Nice to have Irvine on board. I will message you when any books from ZANI are about to go to market with pleasure.

SC: We’d love that. Thanks for stopping by. Let’s take a look at your novel now. 

Tales from The Foxes of Foxham 

ZANI’s Tales Trilogy

Matteo Sedazzari

Genre: Light Fantasy, Humour, Young Adult. 

Publisher: ZANI 

ISBN: 13-978-1838462420

Number of pages:207 

Word Count: 60428 

Tagline: A magical adventure story, packed with colourful characters and exciting situations, in a battle of good versus evil. Set in 1950’s Naples and Norfolk.

Book Description:

It is the late fifties and the Witches of Benevento are determined to plunge the world into darkness by kidnapping and sacrificing the jolly and young Neapolitan fox, Alberto Bandito, in a sinister ritual.

Yet, fortunately for Alberto, he is rescued, then guarded, by his loving mother Silvia and mob boss father Mario with his troops, a good witch Carlotta with an uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe, the Bears of Campania, the boxing wolves’ brothers Francesco and Leonardo, and other good folks of Naples and beyond.

However, their protection is not enough, for Alberto has been cursed. So, the young fox, along with his family, has to travel to the village of Foxham in Norfolk, the spiritual home of foxes across the world, to rid himself of this spell. The ritual has to be performed by a good fox witch, Trudi Milanese, but there is a problem, Trudi doesn’t know she is a witch….

Tales from The Foxes of Foxham is a magical adventure story, packed with colourful characters and exciting situations, in a battle of good versus evil.

Amazon UK     Amazon     Blackwells    Hive

WHSmith      WorldOfBooks     BookDepository

Excerpt 1

Upon hearing the conceited tone of Andriana’s declaration, Carlotta glances at Francesco and Leonardo, and says, ‘Which one of you fancies your chances then?’

Leonardo, the elder of the brothers, slowly takes off his three-button tailor-made jacket, neatly folds it, places the item of clothing slowly on the ground, then valiantly declares, ‘I do.’

Then the fearless wolf runs towards the red-capped goblins, who quickly disperse upon seeing the oncoming, scary-looking animal. Andriana gazes at Leonardo with astonishment, which turns to shock as Leonardo leaps high into the air, grabbing the front handle of Andriana’s broomstick.

‘Get off me, you crazy filthy wolf,’ Andriana screams, yet the courageous and strong Leonardo shakes her broomstick so hard in mid-air, regardless of his own safety. Leonardo has one thing on his mind—for Andriana to drop her leather satchel of spells.

His bravery pays off, as he rattles the flying broomstick so hard that Andriana has no choice but to use both her arms to steady it, allowing the bag to slide all the way down her left arm and into the cypress trees sloping on the roadside.

‘No!’ screams Andriana, as she sees her weapons of mayhem drop with so much force that they break many branches before hitting the dusty and hard soil, which explodes upon impact.

About the Author:

Matteo Sedazzari developed the zest for writing when he produced a fanzine entitled Positive Energy of Madness during the height of Acid House in 1989.  

Positive Energy of Madness dissolved as a fanzine in 1994 and resurfaced as an ezine 2003 which became ZANI, the ezine for counter and pop culture in 2009,  promoting online optimism, along with articles, reviews and interviews with the likes of crime author Martina Cole, former pop star and actor Luke Goss, soul legend Bobby Womack, Clem Burke of Blondie, Chas Smash of Madness, Shaun Ryder of Black Grape/Happy Mondays and many more.

After producing and writing for his own publication, Matteo’s next step was to pen a novel, A Crafty Cigarette – Tales of a Teenage Mod.

Matteo is influenced by Hunter S Thompson, Harlan Ellison, Kenneth Grahame, Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Twain, Irvine Welsh, DH Lawrence, Alan Sillitoe, Frank Norman, Joyce Carol Oates, Mario Puzo, Iceberg Slim, Patricia Highsmith, Joe R. Lansdale, Daphne du Maurier, Robert Bloch, George Orwell, Harry Grey and many more.  American comics like Batman, Superman and Spiderman, along with Herge’s Tintin, also provide Matteo with inspiration.

Matteo also finds stimulus from many films like Twelve Angry Men, A Kind of Loving, Blackboard Jungle, Z, Babylon, This Sporting Life, Kes, Midnight Cowboy, Scum, Wild Tales, The Boys, Midnight Express, La CommareSecca, Dr Terror’s House of Horrors, so on and so forth.

As for music, anything that is passionate, vibrant and with heart is always on Matteo’s playlist.

Matteo Sedazzari resides in Surrey, which he explores fanatically on his mountain bike. Matteo supports Juventus, travels to Italy and Spain, eats and dresses well, as he enjoys life in the process.

https://www.zani.co.uk/

https://www.facebook.com/zanionline  

https://www.instagram.com/zanionline/ 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Matteo-Sedazzari/e/B01DO6ZJ5M/   

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15092835.Matteo_Sedazzari

 

This Morbid Life

No Rest for the Morbid 

Book One

Loren Rhoads

Genre: Non-Fiction/Memoir/Horror

Publisher: Automatism Press

Date of Publication: August 22, 2021

ISBN:  978-1-7351876-2-4 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7351876-3-1 (ebook) 

ASIN: B09C11J43W

Number of pages: 200

Word Count: 58 K

Cover Artist: Lynne Hansen

Tagline: What others have called an obsession with death is really a desperate romance with life.

Book Description:

What others have called an obsession with death is really a desperate romance with life. Guided by curiosity, compassion, and a truly strange sense of humor, this particular morbid life is detailed through a death-positive collection of 45 confessional essays. Along the way, author Loren Rhoads takes prom pictures in a cemetery, spends a couple of days in a cadaver lab, eats bugs, survives the AIDS epidemic, chases ghosts, and publishes a little magazine called Morbid Curiosity.

Originally written for zines from Cyber-Psychos AOD to Zine World and online magazines from Gothic.Net to Scoutie Girl, these emotionally charged essays showcase the morbid curiosity and dark humor that transformed Rhoads into a leading voice of the curious and creepy.

Amazon

Excerpt from "Anatomy Lesson":

I had a lot of preconceptions when it came to handling corpses. I’d imagined myself standing before a wall of stainless-steel freezer drawers like at the Mortuary College in San Francisco. In my imagination, the cadavers were draped with crisp white sheets. The bodies would be antiseptic. I expected them to be frozen. I thought everything would be as clean and neat as a television morgue.

The cadavers would be male, of course. I thought I could depersonalize a dead man more easily; I might empathize too much with a woman as the scalpel in my hand sliced her flesh.

Tom quickly rearranged my expectations. “Three of the four cadavers here are female,” he said. “I usually start people out with the women, since they’re the most taken apart. That’s a little easier for people to deal with.”

The bodies weren’t kept in refrigeration units. Instead, they were already waiting in the front of the classroom, lying in long stainless-steel bins with wheeled legs and a hinged two-piece top. When Tom folded the top open, clear fluid spilled onto the floor.

“Condensation?” I hoped.

“And some preservative,” he answered. When the worst of the runoff had stopped, he let the top hang down and opened the other side.

I was amazed we’d been in the room with the bodies all along. One of my memories still clear from ninth grade dissection was the horrible, headache-inducing smell of formaldehyde. I was glad preservative technology had improved.

A length of muslin floated atop the brownish red liquid. Blood, I thought immediately, and recoiled. Too thin for blood, it looked more like beef broth. Pools of oil slicked the surface.

“See that handle there? You can help me by turning it.” Tom moved to the far end of the tank.

There should have been scary music playing as we cranked the cadavers out of the fluid. As the bodies slowly rose, the muslin took on their outlines. Through the shroud, I saw bared teeth and the flensed musculature of jaw. Two corpses lay head to feet. The skin had clearly been flayed from their muscles.

If Tom had made them twitch, I would have leapt out of my own skin.

He pulled on some heavy turquoise rubber gloves and folded the muslin so it shrouded both faces and one entire body. The other lay revealed. Her skin had been stripped away. She had no breasts. The muscle fibers of her chest were very directional and clear, the raw color of a New York strip steak. Some of the muscles on her arms had been removed to show the bones and tendons beneath. Her fingertips still had nails and skin. The skin was the color of dried blood.

About the Author:

Loren Rhoads is the author of 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die, Wish You Were Here: Adventures in Cemetery Travel, a space opera trilogy, and a duet about a succubus and her angel. She is also the editor of Morbid Curiosity Cures the Blues: Tales of the Unsavory, Unwise, Unorthodox, and Unusual and Tales for the Camp Fire: An Anthology Benefiting Wildfire Relief. This Morbid Life, her 15th book, is the first in the No Rest for the Morbid Series. Book 2, Jet Lag and Other Blessings, will be out in 2022.

Home: https://lorenrhoads.com/

Blog:  https://lorenrhoads.com/blog/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/morbidloren

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/morbidloren/

Newsletter: https://mailchi.mp/aa9545b2ccf4/lorenrhoads

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LorenRhoadsAuthor/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Loren-Rhoads/e/B002P905PE/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/976431.Loren_Rhoads

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This Morbid Life

No Rest for the Morbid 

Book One

Loren Rhoads

Genre: Non-Fiction/Memoir/Horror

Publisher: Automatism Press

Date of Publication: August 22, 2021

ISBN:  978-1-7351876-2-4 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7351876-3-1 (ebook) 

ASIN: B09C11J43W

Number of pages: 200

Word Count: 58 K

Cover Artist: Lynne Hansen

Tagline: What others have called an obsession with death is really a desperate romance with life.

Book Description:

What others have called an obsession with death is really a desperate romance with life. Guided by curiosity, compassion, and a truly strange sense of humor, this particular morbid life is detailed through a death-positive collection of 45 confessional essays. Along the way, author Loren Rhoads takes prom pictures in a cemetery, spends a couple of days in a cadaver lab, eats bugs, survives the AIDS epidemic, chases ghosts, and publishes a little magazine called Morbid Curiosity.

Originally written for zines from Cyber-Psychos AOD to Zine World and online magazines from Gothic.Net to Scoutie Girl, these emotionally charged essays showcase the morbid curiosity and dark humor that transformed Rhoads into a leading voice of the curious and creepy.

Amazon

Excerpt from "The Ghost of Friends":

On Thanksgiving morning, I was making coffee when Jeff strolled out of his room. I debated what I should say. When my hands were busy filling the pot in the sink, I said, “I saw Blair’s ghost last night.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Jeff said, “but I’ve been pretty sure he was here.” I don’t know what I expected to hear, but that wasn’t it. Jeff is very down-to-earth, feet on the ground. If he could sense the ghost, then something must surely be there.

He told me, “One morning I was lying in bed in that half-awake state, thinking about the ghost. I felt a blast of wind blow straight up the length of my body into my face. When I opened my eyes, there was nothing to be seen—and nowhere for the wind to have come from.”

I shivered. Jeff slept in the bed where Blair suffered and died. It was all I could do to make myself sit on the bed when we watched a movie.

“Did he speak to you?” Jeff asked.

“No.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

Of course, it could all be shrugged off as the power of suggestion on susceptible minds. I was very high, then sleepy; Jeff was half-awake. But it makes sense to me that if you don’t have a corporeal body to affect real space, you have to work in those times and spaces when people will be most likely to sense you. Or maybe he’s there all the time and we’re only able to perceive him when we’ve lowered our resistance.

*

The last time I saw Blair’s ghost, he was full color. He wore a red flannel shirt over black jeans, just as in life. His hands were linked behind his head as he lounged on the bed, ankles crossed. His black hair had grown out to the velvet stage. He looked healthier than he had in the entire last year of his life. His dark eyes sparkled as he grinned at me: Gotcha.

Immediately, I turned back to the stereo. It was Monday. Blair had died on a Monday. He’d died in the afternoon, in this room, on that same side of the bed.

All that flashed through my mind, followed by a rush of fear. I did not want to have my back turned to Blair’s ghost.

I whirled around so fast that I stumbled against the bookshelf and had to reach out to steady myself. The bed was empty again. Blair was gone.

I reached the incense down from the bookshelf and lit a stick of Blair’s favorite sandalwood. I waved the smoke over the bed and myself before leaving it to burn on the bedside table.

“Be at peace,” I wished him, but I had the sense that he was.

About the Author:

Loren Rhoads is the author of 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die, Wish You Were Here: Adventures in Cemetery Travel, a space opera trilogy, and a duet about a succubus and her angel. She is also the editor of Morbid Curiosity Cures the Blues: Tales of the Unsavory, Unwise, Unorthodox, and Unusual and Tales for the Camp Fire: An Anthology Benefiting Wildfire Relief. This Morbid Life, her 15th book, is the first in the No Rest for the Morbid Series. Book 2, Jet Lag and Other Blessings, will be out in 2022.

Home: https://lorenrhoads.com/

Blog:  https://lorenrhoads.com/blog/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/morbidloren

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/morbidloren/

Newsletter: https://mailchi.mp/aa9545b2ccf4/lorenrhoads

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LorenRhoadsAuthor/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Loren-Rhoads/e/B002P905PE/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/976431.Loren_Rhoads

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INTERVIEW WITH LEE MATTHEW GOLDBERG (Grenade Bouquets)

 

Here we are, half way through October! As weird as this year has been, we're heading down the stretch now. Let's take a few minutes to breathe, and say hello to author Lee Matthew Goldberg.

SC: Tell me a little bit about your main character of this book.

LMG: Nico Sullivan is a teenager in the 1990s who dreams of being a grunge singer like her idols Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love. She gets a taste of fame, but it comes at a price, since she may not be capable of handling all the pitfalls.

SC: There were definitely some pitfalls for those two. We're all about the supernatural around here. Do you believe in the paranormal and if so, do you have an experience you can share?

LMG: I do. I was around seven and I went to a school with a huge Meeting House. I swear I saw this woman floating with a sheet over her and so I started a Ghost Club. I had a very active imagination, but I really believed what I saw.

SC: Excellent! That's what we like to hear What titles are you working on now that you can tell us about?

LMG: I’m working on the third book in the Runaway Train series. And my newest thriller Stalker Stalked comes out Sept 17th. It’s about a stalker of a reality TV star who starts to feel like she is being stalked as well. It’ll be out in paperback, audio, and e-versions.

SC: Thanks for dropping by today. Let's take a look at your novel now.

Grenade Bouquets

Runaway Train

Book Two 

Lee Matthew Goldberg

Genre: Young Adult

Publisher: Wise Wolf Books

Date of Publication: August 5, 2021

ISBN: 978-1953944078

ASIN: B093G4T9PL

Number of pages: 286

Word Count: 70,000

Tagline: “I’m a time bomb, a cannonball, I destroy everything around me.”

Book Description:

I had stars in my eyes and I couldn't see around them...

The year is 1995 and my parents have finally allowed me to take the summer to tour in a VW van across the country with my boyfriend Evan and our band. Yes, my dream to be a singer became reality. Even with Clarissa, Evan's jealous ex-girlfriend, as the lead singer, it's my presence on stage that led us to a major record deal. There are moments you'll always remember in life, but I can't imagine anything more cool than hearing your song on the radio for the first time.

But being a Rockstar isn't as easy as it sounds. Using alcohol and drugs as coping mechanisms, nothing but tension surrounded me, hurting my still blossoming relationship, and continued grieving over my sister's death.

A love letter to the nineties and a journey of a girl becoming a woman, Grenade Bouquets charts the rollercoaster ride of a band primed to explode on the scene, as long as they keep from actually exploding.

Amazon

Excerpt:

I’m barefoot on a roof deck, maybe it’s my own, I dunno. Life has been a series of tour buses and motels recently, but I think this is that place the band rented down on the Lower East Side. Everyone hates me and I’m left alone in a huge railroad apartment with a fire escape that twists up to a roof and barely any railing to keep me safe. I have a joint in one hand that’s surprisingly still lit in the rain and a trusty bottle of Absolut Citron in the other. I’m wearing a baby doll pale blue dress, the one I rocked during the Grenade Bouquets set when the A&R manager said he was gonna make us stars. I once heard that when you’re looking at stars in the sky, you’re already looking at the past and they’re already dead. I’m seventeen and I can completely relate.

I’m over myself and have been looking into the past so much, I might as well be dead.

I chug from the bottle, the excess liquid spilling down my cheeks like hot tears. What lands in my throat, burns and my eye twitches...I’m so bombed. My makeup has run all over my face and made me into a clown. I pity whoever will find my ghastly remains. I bring the joint to my lips and suck as the cherry flares, the smoke streaming through my nostrils. I’m a dragon in pursuit. Three stories down below, a sea of umbrellas await. I think of Kristen.

Her spirit no longer visits and I understand. She has better things to do than deal with the living. My sister has been gone now for over a year, and sometimes I forget the sound of her voice. I wake up in the middle of the night frantic that I’ve lost it, and then a glimmer reappears—a whisper in her high pitch calling me back to sleep, aware of how my insomnia can plague me. She would be so proud of my success as a singer and for me to live my dream, not realizing that it was killing me as well. I don’t remember the last time I went to bed sober. I feel distant from everyone I used to care about. Evan can’t even look at me anymore. I’m Nico the Beast, a whirlwind intent to destroy.

If you heard me on the radio, you’d be jealous. I’m that girl you wish you could be. My song like a spit in the face, a baby Courtney Love with scabbed knees, dark red lipstick, hair

dyed so much it’s fried, a scowl for a smile. And then in the next song, I’m scrubbed clean, my dress full of flowers rather than ripped, my bruises bandaged, my makeup a light touch rather than an onslaught, singing about love and hope and everything that grunge is not. Because grunge is dying. Kurt Cobain solidified its end and the record companies can smell it. A future of sugary happy pop awaits. What will they do with me, with any of us? We’re already that dying star. Might as well help give them a push.

The rain has risen in tempo, a drumbeat on my skull. The joint has gone out and I toss it into the crowd. It disappears into the ether, like I will soon. I picture my obituary, the phrase ‘One Hit Wonder’ highlighted. All I’ll ever be. But I don’t have any more songs in me. My quill is broken, my heart has followed—I’m sick of myself.

I raise my arms like Brandon Lee in The Crow. Evan and I saw that at the Angelika, an artsy movie theater down on Houston St., which I mispronounced like it was the city Houston. We toured Manhattan that day, the first time either of us had been: hand in hand through The Met and wandering down paths in Central Park, sneaking through the Plaza and pretending I was Eloise, hot chocolates at a place called Serendipity, his blue eyes never letting me out of his sight. I never imagined I could be so in love. Only a short time ago but might as well be a lifetime, those blues will never look at me in the same way again. I’m tarnished, I’m filth. I heard a song called “Only Happy When It Rains,” and it couldn’t be truer. Miserable people feed off misery and that’s all I have to give.

I wonder what my mom and dad will say when they have to identify my body. They’ve both found new lives with new loves that will be a shoulder for them. Maybe they’ll be relieved.

Back home, my friend Winter has her own shit to deal with and brought Jeremy into her drama, so they’ll mourn but are preoccupied enough to only think of me in passing. I know that’s what they do now. They are still in high school and I’ve dropped out, promising my folks I’d get my GED, but I never did. And high school seems so pointless and far away. I’ve lived in the real world. I’ve skipped down New York City streets with crack vials crunching under my feet. Out of spite I’ve let a man inside of me whose name I didn’t even know. I’ve crowd surfed over a hundred bodies chanting my name. I thought I was in love and never want the pain of it ending ever again. I’d rather be numb. I’d rather be gone.

My feet are cold against the tar of the roof, the toenail polish chipped and starting to fade. I give another swig until the bottle is empty. I aim to launch it into the sky, not caring who I’d hit down below. I climb onto the edge, wobbling, teeth chattering, knees knocking, singing a Matthew Sweet song to the world, to this dark city where I never belonged, so far from a home. “But I’m sick of myself when I look at you, something is beautiful and true. World that’s ugly and a lie, it’s hard to even want to try.”

My vocal chords are raw from the vodka and pot, my tears make everything blurry. I go to pitch the bottle and my foot slips from a slick of water. I lose my heart as it leaps out of my throat and I think I’ve gone over the edge, plummeting headfirst to my death. But I fall backwards, smacking my head on the tar. The grey clouds above go in and out of focus until they disappear entirely. My eyes have shut but I can see the night sky, and one little star, so dead but so bright, guiding me not to slip into unconsciousness, praying for my survival. Like a diamond it glows brighter, and I think that maybe it’s Kristen’s eye, somewhere up in heaven, winking at me to stay on Earth for a little longer because I haven’t finished all I intended to do, as the rain washes me pure, its drumbeat now playing Letters to Cleo’s beautiful, simmering song, “Here and Now,” while I travel back to what led me to become these twisted remains once called a girl. 

About the Author: 

Lee Matthew Goldberg is the author of seven novels including THE ANCESTOR and THE MENTOR, currently in development as a film off his original script, and the YA series RUNAWAY TRAIN. He has been published in multiple languages and nominated for the Prix du Polar. After graduating with an MFA from the New School, his writing has also appeared in The Millions, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, LitReactor, Monkeybicycle, Fiction Writers Review, Cagibi, Necessary Fiction, Hypertext, the anthology Dirty Boulevard, The Montreal Review, The Adirondack Review, The New Plains Review, Underwood Press and others. His pilots and screenplays have been finalists in Script Pipeline, Book Pipeline, Stage 32, We Screenplay, the New York Screenplay, Screencraft, and the Hollywood Screenplay contests. He is the co-curator of The Guerrilla Lit Reading Series and lives in New York City. 

Follow him at: 

http://leematthewgoldberg.com/

https://www.facebook.com/leemgol

https://twitter.com/LeeMatthewG

https://www.instagram.com/leematthewgoldberg/

https://www.linkedin.com/in/lee-matthew-goldberg-558758178/

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56045373-grenade-bouquets

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