Monday, August 21, 2023

OUTCAST ARTIST in BRETAGNE (by Diane Scott Lewis)


Outcast Artist in Bretagne 
WWII Heartbreak and Forbidden Love
Diane Scott Lewis

Genre: Historical Romance 
Publisher: BWL publishing, inc.
Date of Publication: May 1, 2023
ISBN-10: ‎0228625505
ISBN-13: ‎978-0228625506
Number of pages: 370
Word Count: 98,000
Cover Artist: Michelle Lee

Tagline:  Can a damaged Englishwoman find love with her worst enemy, or will the brutality of war rip them apart? Is she a spy? Will he retaliate against Hitler? A dangerous love affair.

Book Description:  

Unwed and pregnant, Norah Cooper flees England to hide with her cousin in Brittany just before Germany’s 1940 invasion of France. After her baby is stillborn, she's trapped under the Occupation as war expands across Europe. Norah grieves and consoles herself by sketching wildlife. When she’s caught too near the coast, she comes under scrutiny of the German commandant, Major August von Gottlieb.

August loathes what Hitler is doing to his country and France but is duty-bound to control the people in his jurisdiction. The lively young Englishwoman piques his interest. Is she a spy? He questions her and asks her to sketch his portrait so he might uncover the truth.

Soon, their relationship evolves into a passion neither of them can deny. She endures taunts from the villagers. His superiors warn him of not being harsh enough—he could be transferred or worse. He plans to sabotage a major war machine of the Reich, while she secretly helps the Resistance. Both acts are fraught with danger while kept secret from one another. Will their love ruin her and end in heartbreak? Or will they overcome the odds and survive the surging threats on all sides?


August’s offer of marriage sent a tremor through her. Could that ever be possible? Did they have a future? Or would the war destroy them?

So many problems to consider. Norah traced a finger over the slight cleft in his chin and his lower lip. The lips that had given her so much delight. The gaze she once thought arrogant now adored her, assuring her as best he could.

She smiled at his confidence. The memory of their union sent warmth throughout her body. She brimmed with love, though the danger lurked beneath the surface.

He sat up and smoothed down his hair. “Let’s dress and get off this floor.”

Sitting, she pulled her clothes on. August finished dressing, stood, and offered his hand.

Once on her feet, she picked up a cushion and so did he. They fitted them back in the chairs.

She ran her fingers through her hair, then retied the bow on her blouse. Another concern surged up. “When can you contemplate retirement from the army?”

“The earliest would be next year. I want my son graduated from school, then sent off to college.” He brushed off his trousers. His gaze met hers. “A college in Switzerland being preferable.”

“You want him safe.” Had August been making plans all along to keep his son out of Hitler’s claws? Norah wanted August out of the madman’s clutches, too.

“Yes, safe. But I have important business to take care of here before any thoughts of retirement.” He tucked in his shirt. “Something I’ve recently realized needs to be done.”

“What is it?” She rubbed low on her back.

“I’ll tell you when the reason for it is closer.” He tugged on his tunic, fastening his high collar where the Iron Cross hung.

She glanced away from the reminder of what he represented. “You can’t tell me anything? I want you to confide in me.”

He pulled her close and kissed her, thoroughly. “I’ll confide when I can. Don’t worry, you will approve.”

“Is it dangerous for you?” She gasped after the kiss and now grew apprehensive about this new information. The idea of the guarded port stuck in her mind for some reason.

He opened the door and peered out. “I’ll give you the details later, I promise.”

“Not too much later, please.” She cocked her head and clasped his arm. “I hope it’s something to slow this war. We must all make that effort.”

He pressed on her fingers, his smile sweet, then gestured for her to exit. “Goodbye for now, meine liebe. We’ll meet again as soon as it can be arranged. I’ll discreetly leave notes for you in the terracotta pot of geraniums in front of your cottage.”

“Yes, very soon. But that reminds me.” She pulled a paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “The words for my telegram.”

“I will take care of this tomorrow morning.” August slipped the paper into his tunic pocket. His smile now looked sad. “Don’t forget, I have limited power out here. There are constraints.”

“I understand. I’ll check the pot daily. Be careful in whatever you plan.” Stepping out into the warm air, her mind swirled with fear for him, herself, and the need for more of what they’d just shared.

“I love you,” they both whispered, gazes intense.

Norah’s step quickened away from the summerhouse. She’d turned into the worst of wanton women, a fraternizer. The English called it a Jerry-bag. But her love for him gripped her, staggering her as she hurried around bushes and under trees. The green scents washed away the sweat of lovemaking.

She chewed the inside of her cheek. How much time would they have if Hitler clamped down harder here, in Brittany—and across the channel? She could lose August, lose her country. 

About the Author:

Diane Parkinson (Diane Scott Lewis) grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, joined the Navy at nineteen, married in Greece and raised two sons all over the world, including Puerto Rico and Guam. 

A member of the Historical Novel Society, she wrote book reviews for the Historical Novels Review. Diane worked from 2007 to 2010 as an on-line historical editor. Writing since the age of five, she had her debut novel published in 2010, a story that takes place during the French Revolution. She’s had several historical and historical-romance novels published between 2010 and 2021. 

Her newest novel, a WWII romantic suspense, released in May. A fan of graphic arts, she’s designed brochures and book covers. She also enjoys traveling and camping. Her extensive traveling inspired her love of history.
Diane lives with her husband and dachshund in western Pennsylvania.

For more on her books visit her blog:

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Monday, August 14, 2023

INTERVIEW WITH D.T. STUBBLEFIELD (The Siphoning-Redemption Series, Book 1)


Today we are welcoming author D.T. Stubbefield to the page, 

SC; Tell me a little bit about your main character in this book.

DTS: Drakon Deathmark

Drakon is the Royal Assassin to King Ewen. He is the only mixed-blood in the kingdom, which means his mother was a commoner and his father a noble. His mother died in childbirth and, because procreation between social classes is illegal, his father never claimed him. Drakon grew up as a slave in the palace, and through a friendship with the King’s General, Umgar, was able to rise to Royal Assassin.

Having learned not to trust at a young age, Drakon is aloof, cold, and brooding but has a soft spot for Umgar, who looked out for Drakon as a child. Drakon loathes nobles because of their discrimination against him and other commoners. He is a reluctant hero who would rather free himself from servitude than be entangled in an ancient prophecy. 

SC: Okay, let's dive right in...

The Siphoning 
The Redemption Series
Book One
D.T. Stubblefield

Genre: Fantasy 
Publisher: D.T. Stubblefield 
Date of Publication: September 4, 2023
ISBN: 8987848906 
Number of pages: 385
Word Count: approx. 106,000
Cover Artist: BeauteBook 

Tagline: Warring Worlds Align Against an Ancient Evil

Book Description: 

The Goddess is good. The Goddess is pure.

Assassin Drakon Deathmark has heard those mantras his entire life. It’s not until he comes face-to-face with her that he realizes she’s more demon than deity.

Drakon conceals his innate power while yearning for the magic derived from the goddess’s blessing, which is reserved for nobility.

When a treacherous mission goes awry, he uncovers a prophecy pitting him against an ancient evil intent on vengeance. Drakon and his allies must defeat a demon masquerading as a goddess, her growing Army, and unravel millennia of deceit before she lays waste to their world.

For Drakon, the path to survival means overcoming past trauma and possibly relinquishing the power he has worked so hard to acquire.

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Drakon heaved himself through the open third-story window. His black cloak flowed about him, concealing him in shadow. His muscles quivered from the rapid ascent. Below, the clamp of boots and a muttered conversation passed beneath the window and then receded.

Another close call.

This made the fourth such encounter of the night. He lived by a rule: two close calls and he would abort a mission. Each time he ignored this simple rule, something untoward happened. His survival instincts screamed for him to turn back and return another night but time was short, and he was dangerously close to missing his deadline. The manor grounds were an ant colony of activity, and it took him longer than expected to make it this far. Seconds dripped by, increasing his chances of being discovered.

Discovery meant death.

Silently, he settled into the wooden floorboards. No groan of protest announced his entry. Crouching, Drakon pulled the cowl of his cloak lower and drifted wraith-like into the chamber. A breeze swept inward. The cool, crisp air did nothing to purify the overwhelming stench of incense hanging in the bedchamber.

A light orb floated overhead, casting the chamber in a warm yellow glow, elongating the shadows in which Drakon hid. Art canvases of all sizes hung on the stone walls, ornate furniture adorned every square inch, and a massive four-poster bed overflowing with furs stood at the chamber’s center.

Drakon curled his lip in disdain. The warden’s blatant show of wealth was in contrast to the poverty of the people he lorded over. Another warden charged with the well-being of commoners lining his pockets from the people’s labor. He hadn’t expected much humility from a noble, and even less from a mage such as the Jenna City Warden.

Drakon’s orders from the king were clear. The warden was to appear to have died of natural causes. Drakon wasn’t privy to the transgression the man committed to garner himself a spot on the king’s kill list. The reason was inconsequential. He didn’t care, nor did he mete out judgments. The Royal Council dealt with such things. He was but the gnarled hand of death employed to dole out the punishment. Drakon recalled the death and poverty he witnessed while traversing the Commoner District of the city and grimaced. He would enjoy killing this warden.
The bedchamber was empty, as Drakon knew it would be. He committed his mark’s routine to memory. The warden was middle-aged, but his habit of nightly drinking and debauchery was legendary throughout the Kingdom of Somorrah.

Drakon’s gaze searched the chamber for the warden’s favorite vice. There. A pitcher and glass sat on a table next to the bed; remnants of red wine stained the bottom of the glass. Drakon removed a vial from his cloak. A colorless, odorless liquid sloshed within its clear container. He would add one drop into the glass, and the deed would be done. He would send word of the mission’s completion to the king. Afterward, he might take an overdue leave of absence.

He moved toward the table. Laughter and shuffling footsteps from outside the closed door froze him halfway across the chamber. The doorknob turned, and the door banged open. Drakon threw himself into the shadows of a wardrobe. Sounds of merriment drifted into the room and then were muted as the door snicked shut.

The warden was early. Drakon hadn’t expected him until nearer to dawn. He cursed inwardly. He couldn’t wait in the shadows until the man passed out. The king made his instructions all too clear. The warden was to die before sunrise. Drakon gritted his teeth. He would have to improvise. He hated improvising. It reduced his chances of an undetected escape, but what other choice was there?

He pocketed the vial and pressed against the wardrobe. The warden, red-faced and inebriated, stumbled on unsteady legs toward the bed, hauling a struggling woman behind him. He was small and slender, manual labor having never sculpted the muscles of his body. Like all wardens, he was also a magical mage. The man’s diminutive physique was no indication of his power.

Alabaster skin inked with tattoos peeked from the warden’s robes, testaments of his magical aptitude. Only his face was unmarred. Each tattoo was a rune etched to guard the warden against the harmful effects of drawing the goddess’s power. Such power came with a price, and the wardens protected themselves with the tattoos.

The warden’s hair was a dirty blond, and his skin was pale but not an unearthly translucent. A mage’s hair, eyes, and skin lightened with their growth in magic. This mage wasn’t as strong as the others Drakon killed. His tongue prodded a void a molar once occupied as a reminder of past battles against magical enemies. Thank the goddess for small mercies.

A sob drew his attention to the woman the warden dragged in tow. She was waif-like. Oily black hair concealed her face, and her chestnut skin identified her as a commoner. Her threadbare dress was torn at the neck and thin enough to see through. She was probably a slave. He resigned himself to the possibility of collateral. From the look of her, death would be preferable to her current lot in life. He could give her that escape, at least.

The warden yanked the woman forward. She struggled all the more, whimpering and pleading for release. The warden cursed and slapped her hard enough to snap her head back. The blow whipped her face toward Drakon and freed it from its curtain of dirty hair.

Drakon’s eyes flared. A face smooth with youth was decorated with black and blue bruises and a split lip. Terror-filled eyes glistened with tears and, more disturbing, resignation. This was no woman as he initially believed. It was a young girl.

The warden slapped the girl again. The crack ricocheted off the walls, and she slumped dazed into the warden’s arms. Having subdued her struggles, the man dragged her to the bed and flung her across it. She curled into a tight ball and whimpered. The warden grabbed her thin ankle and yanked her toward the edge of the bed.

“Quit your yammering!” He climbed atop her, clasping her wrists in one hand. “You should be honored that I would bring a smut like you to my bed!”

Blood pounded in Drakon’s ears. Unbidden, dark memories rushed to the surface of his mind.

A slave child. Powerless. Drakon blinked and shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory.

Nausea rolled through him. His blood heated in his veins.

Hay scratching tender skin.


With effort, he forced the memories back, slamming the door on their mental prison. Yet, the rage left in their wake had Drakon darting silently from the shadows and toward the warden, who tore at the girl’s clothing, before he realized he was moving.

The warden stiffened with awareness, some part of his inebriated psyche realizing they were not alone.

Too late. Drakon’s blade slipped in the hollow at the base of the man’s skull. The body jerked. Drakon twisted, severing the spine, and yanked the dagger free. The body slumped forward.

Blood gushed from the wound, coating the bed and the startled girl beneath. He pushed the body aside and freed her.

Wide, oddly ancient eyes––much too knowing for a child—peered back at him from a tear-streaked face mottled with bruises. She sucked in a deep breath, a preamble to a scream. His hand clamped over her mouth.

“Do. Not. Scream. I won’t harm you, but you will remain silent.” He stared into her shining, unblinking eyes.

“Nod if you understand.”

She nodded slowly, and he peeled his hand away, ready to place it back. She didn’t scream but sat up and eyed him with caution. He grabbed an unsoiled coverlet from the bed and tossed it at her.

“Cover yourself and get out of here. Tell no one of what you’ve seen.”

Even as he uttered the command, he knew he was being a fool. The only way to ensure her silence was to kill her, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill an innocent. No doubt, her short life was filled with atrocities for which this night was but a culmination. Her petite frame trembled beneath the coverlet.

No. Drakon was not so far gone that he would kill a slave girl. His soul was black and withered, but he had not delivered it to the pits of Targarius. Not yet.

The girl’s throat worked. “Th–thank you.” Her voice was an unsteady whisper in the quiet chamber.

He cleared his throat. Her thanks unsettled him for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge. He turned, focusing on the warden, and grimaced at the mess he had made. Blood soaked the bed beneath the corpse and pooled on the floor. A frozen mask of surprise rested on the man’s face. His pale-blue eyes locked on the nothingness of death. Already pale skin drained of its color as blood leaked from the body.

Drakon took in the tattooed runes on the warden’s skin. All that power and useless against a simple dagger. In the mage’s assurance in his magical superiority, he never suspected or spelled against nonmagical attacks. It was the way of nobles—arrogance above intellect.

Drakon sighed. The man’s death would never pass for natural causes. His moment of untethered emotion destroyed weeks of planning. The outburst he exhibited was out of character. His lapse of control annoyed him, but he couldn’t dwell on it. He had to plan his next steps, or they would be his last.

There was only one recourse left to him. He would remove himself from the city before the warden’s body was discovered. But before he fled, he would retrieve the other reason he was eager for this mission. He bent over the body, rummaging through the folds of the robes.

“Where is it?”

He rolled the corpse on its stomach and patted it down. He cursed. Nothing.

The warden always carried an object of power when he visited Sura City. Indeed, this mission excited Drakon for this reason. Desire to own such an object clouded his logic. In hindsight, it went to reason the warden would travel to court with additional protection. Nobles and commoners alike distrusted the king and the royal mage. The Jenna Warden would’ve been a fool not to travel with safeguards. However, the man wouldn’t carry such items in his dwelling.

He should have understood this sooner.

Drakon stood with a grunt of frustration, wiped his blade on his leathers, and returned it to its sheath. If the mission went according to plan, he would’ve had time to search the chamber. As it were, he would be leaving without his prize.

He spared a glance at the girl. Shock had yet to release her from its grasp. If the warden’s guards found her, they would sacrifice her in Drakon’s stead. He hoped she didn’t waste his gift of mercy. She would live or die by her action or inaction alone.

He sprinted to the window and glanced out. No sentries stood guard or moved across the grounds. That was good, and no one would enter the warden’s chamber until the maid arrived for the morning cleaning. Drakon would be long gone by then. As if summoned by the thought, a creak sounded from the door.

“Rainore? What the devil is taking so long? Finish with the—”

A slender man, clad in nothing more than skin and his mage tattoos, stopped mid-stride into the room. His pale-blue eyes locked on Drakon’s cloaked figure, widened, and then flicked to the body cradled in a crimson stain on the bed.

He screamed.

About the Author: 

D.T. Stubblefield was born and raised in a rural town in South Carolina. After reading Skeleton Crew by Stephen King, she was certain she would grow up to be an amazing writer. Those plans were placed on hold when she decided to study mass communications and not creative writing in college. After graduating, much to the disappointment of her seven-year-old self, D.T. did not become a writer or journalist, instead, she entered the world of the federal government as an editor and eventually became a manager.

Craving an outlet from the pressures of her job, D.T. did what she always did during stressful periods: she wrote. She wrote the beginnings of many novels (some of which were so bad they will never see the light of day!). She wrote during her lunch breaks, in the middle of the night, and on the weekends.

Until one day, D.T. wrote a story she fell in love with. A story that she couldn’t wait to share with the world. She wrote a story set in a kingdom trapped within a magical barrier, terrorized by monsters, and where an assassin was foretold to unite warring peoples and overthrow a demonic goddess. 

The premise of The Siphoning was born six years ago while D.T. sat in evening traffic on I-495, and now she is ready to share it with the world.

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August 15 through September 5

Friday, August 11, 2023



The Girl Who Knew Death
Spider Green Mystery Thriller Series  
Book Four
Norm Harris

Genre: Paranormal Suspense Thriller 
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Date of Publication: May 2022
ISBN: 1509242317
Cover Artist: Diana Carlile

Tagline: Fast-paced action, unpredictable twists, and extraordinary encounters.

Book Description:

Katrinka Lavrova, who was rescued by Spider Green and is her adopted daughter, must face her destiny and is just coming of age into her role as a princess when she is thrown into an Egyptian prison. Katrinka manages to escape with the help of young Latina American Embassy Guard, Marine Corporal Lopez, forcing Spider to navigate stormy international waters again to save her.

Katrinka finds herself in flight, she and Spider also attract the attention of the demon Mazikim, who introduces further confrontations and impossible dilemmas as the two women struggle towards freedom and an elusive truth that will change their lives and relationship yet again.

As Kat steps into her roles as an adopted daughter, a Russian military agent, a future Russian princess, and an uncommon friend of Azrael, the Angel of Death, readers receive a powerful story that weaves elements of paranormal encounters into the center of the international intrigue that powers the plot.

Like its predecessors, The Girl Who Knew Death excels in the fast-paced action, unpredictable twists, and injections of extraordinary encounters that are the trademark of author Norm Harris's special brand of female-driven thrillers.

About the Author: 

With writing and publishing in his veins, Norm created a fictional Spider Green Mystery Thriller Series of print and audio-books. Norm Harris' first novel debuted on an Amazon bestseller list in 2002. It was a one-and-done, but now he's back with a plan to publish the mystery/thriller of days gone by.

Except for time spent in military service, he is a second-generation Seattleite (that's what they call those who dwell in the shadow of Mt. Rainier), with his legal beagle son, K-K, and five giant tropical fish. Norm's stories spring from his memories of people who he has met and the places he has visited as he traveled the world. Diversity, inclusion, and equality are foremost in each story. "Fay is an admirable, tough, brilliant protagonist." said one reviewer. Said another, "Lt Commander Faydra Green from the JAG Corps is a “take no prisoners” protagonist..."

Thank you for reading and if you enjoyed the stories please consider leaving a review!

Monday, August 7, 2023

INTERVIEW WITH D.P. ROSEBERRY (Flash Paranormal Fiction)



We had the chance to sit down with author D.P. Roseberry and ask a few questions. Tell us about some of your characters, D.P....

  1. There are thirteen main characters of Flash Paranormal Fiction to go along with each of the thirteen stories. Here you will find:

  • an unsuspecting victim of a witch’s spell

  • a child stuck in this world hiding from a serial killer from beyond

  • a helpful dead neighbor and barking dog

  • a zombie or two

  • aliens (of course)

  • BigFoot

  • a man plagued by ringing bells

  • a bug with a mind of its own

  • bedside angels

  • a demon

  • and a widow’s plight

We're all about the supernatural over here. What's your take on it?

  1. I do believe in the paranormal—oh, boy do I! While investigating the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia, PA, I was part of a paranormal group who conducted an experiment about communications between prisoners back in the day. Those incarcerated would, late at night, tap on the pipes of the institution to talk back and forth. On the night we were there, we waited until after midnight—we had the whole place to ourselves for the investigation, and it was silent as a tomb (a prison tomb in this case). I repeat, no one was there but us. We were situated on the Death Row landing, and the lead investigator tapped with a pen knife on a pipe while we all remained deadly silent. Once the pipe was tapped, we waited. About three minutes later the same number of taps came back, echoing through the prison. It was shiver material. That whole investigation was uncomfortable because there was apparently so much pain there, and many of us had experience. Some were very unpleasant.  I would probably never go back again. It wasn’t worth the emotional upheaval that came back with us.

Fabulous! If you're ever in Vancouver, you can come out with our team! What are you working on now?

  1. Currently, I am working on Book 2 of Flash Paranormal Fiction. It should have another 13 flash pieces and one feature short story called 13 Chickies where you will be introduced to some new kinds of super-heroes. Also, you will read about:

A Meal of Convenience

Real Estate Gone Awry

The Orb in the Garage

More campy fun coming!

Thanks for stopping by... let's take a look at your shorts stories! 

Flash Paranormal Fiction: 13 Stories
D. P. Roseberry

Genre: Horror/Paranormal flash
Date of Publication: July 2023 
Number of pages: 65
Word Count: approx. 12,000 words 
Cover Artist: D. P. Roseberry 

Tagline: Don’t worry. Sleep is over-rated …

Book Description:

This collection of flash fiction is strictly paranormal ... and creepy. 

Flash Paranormal Fiction will send your flesh crawling with ghosts, witches, aliens, cryptids, and creatures of  all kinds. 

These 13 Flash stories are for those readers (just like us) who love quick and fun ghostly gatherings! 

Still ... maybe you shouldn't read it at night...

But don't worry. Sleep is overrated... 

Book Trailer:

Excerpt - Zombie Love

It was a beautiful morning, just gorgeous. I was sitting back in my no-gravity lounge chair holding a cup of hot coffee and sipping away the sunrise. The temperature was just right and the plants along the front screen of the porch seemed to reach toward the warm glow of the sun. This was a day that made all the other days’ worth dealing with. It whispered relaxation and creativity.

The only thing I couldn’t get my mind around on this glorious day was the zombie that was trying to open the latch on the screen door. I’d been watching it for a good ten minutes or so, just as it was watching me drink my coffee. My question: Where the hell had this thing come from? And why was it ruining my perfectly quiet morning?

This one I was looking at was none too bright. It could easily punch through the screen, but instead, it fiddled with the sliding lock. I’d heard about these things. A bit short on brains. But then again, who knew? Maybe it thought I was stupid for drinking coffee. I’d thought that one or two times myself.

Just then I heard a voice. “Hey man, what’s that you got there trying to get into your house?”

It was my neighbor, Monroe. We were pretty close on most days. “Gots me a zombie, me thinks,” I replied after a nice long coffee swig.

Monroe, standing back from the door but still close enough to talk through the screen continued. “What’s ya gonna do when it figures out the door?” He yawned.

“Hmmm. Good point,” I said with a nod. “Guess I better go get the gun so I can take care of business if I need to.”

Monroe was nodding as well. “Terrible way to spend this beautiful morning, though. Still, zombies are nothin’ to mess with. So I heard.”

“Maybe wait a little while, though,” I said. “It’s too nice out to make things all blood and guts. We got time.”

“I hear ya,” answered Monroe.

Then suddenly, another voice erupted through the morning. “Outta the way, boys!”

At that point a woman and a teenage girl raised rifles and blew holes in the zombie’s head. The thing fell like a rock.

Both Monroe and I jumped back to keep from getting muck on our clothes. I’d had to roll out of my chair, and I spilled my coffee.

“Dam women!” I yelled out. “Know just how to ruin a morning!”

About the Author:

Dinah Roseberry, or D. P. Roseberry, has been writing about the imagined world for many years. She dabbles in paranormal romantic intrigue (her most recent paranormal romance is Three Months to Change), sci fi, fantasy, horror, and many kinds of speculative fiction. With a special interest in UFOs, she is the founder of the UFO Management Group. 

Dinah is also a practicing certified hypnotist with her practice centering on past-life regression, alien abductions, and other paranormal topics. She reads the Tarot and varied oracles as well and finds that divination brings sharp interpretation to daily living and uses it as a method in her writing. Her latest Tarot decks are First Light Tarot and A Christmas Tarot: Ghosts of Past, Present, and Future. 

Writing Paranormal Flash is a guilty pleasure and she finds herself in the middle of these quick and ghosty stories more often than she likes to admit. Flash Paranormal Fiction is her first attempt at putting them from mind to media for you to read. For more information about other works and ongoing projects, visit 

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