Rich Marcello – The Big Wide Calm


Title: The Big Wide Calm

Author: Rich Marcello

ISBN or ASIN: ISBN-13: 978-1626527959

Page count: 254

Genre: Literary Fiction

Price (Print and Ebook): $14.23 Print and $5.99 ebook



Rich_MarcelloAuthor Bio:

If Rich Marcello could choose only one creative mentor, he’d give the role to Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. This is not only because he currently resides in New England, where Jonathan started, but because of his life as a contemporary fiction author, poet and songwriter, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs he’s written. Rich grew up in New Jersey surrounded by song and word.

For a while it seemed right to travel the musician’s path, especially during his stint in his college folk group, at The University of Notre Dame, where he wrote and recorded his first original songs. But, as is true for many musicians, graduation led him down a different road, one on which he found his love for high technology. There, he enjoyed a successful career as a technology executive, managing several multi-billion dollar businesses for Fortune 500 companies.

During his time in technology he never stopped creating art, and eventually his love for song and the written word grew to the point where he walked away from his first career to pursue poetry, song, and fiction with the same enthusiasm and discipline he demonstrated in business. In The Color Of Home, his literary voice melds all three together with honest generative dialogue, poetic sensory detail, and “unforgettable characters who seem to know the complete song catalog of Lennon or Cohen.”

He’s currently working on his third novel, The Beauty of the Fall.

Tell us about your book:

Paige is a rock star. The world just doesn’t know it yet. She’s got the charisma, the drive, and, of course, the mega-musical skills. All she needs is to make her debut album, one that will change the world, inspire revolutions—and make her galactically famous along the way.

When John Bustin, a former semi-famous singer/songwriter offers to record Paige’s album for free, it feels like destiny, like the next step on her way to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Guitar in hand, Paige sets off to John’s recording compound, ready to unfold her future.

But the ever-elusive John, with his mysterious history, and Paige, a big dreamer but naïve about her footing in life, clash as much as they coalesce. Before they can change the world through Paige’s music, the improbable duo must learn to work together.

A coming of age story and retrospective, The Big Wide Calm focuses on human nature and the complexities of love through the eyes of young and old on the journey of creating the perfect album.

Share any thoughts you’d like the readers to know about you and/or your book:

I’m currently writing three books about different kinds of love.  The first, The Color of Home, was published in 2013 by Langdon Street Press, and is about romantic love.  The third, The Beauty of the Fall, will be published in 2015/2106, and is about love in a broader community. The Big Wide Calm was just published, also by Langdon Street Press, and is about platonic love.

Where can we go to buy your book?

It’s available everywhere.

Here’s the link to my website which also points to Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Goodreads.

Any other links or info you’d like to share?

 Twitter: @marcellor

Excerpt from book:


My name is Paige Plant, and I’m a singer-songwriter. I have fourteen paintings to prove it—one for each song I’ve written. Thirteen Möbius strip watercolors where I painted the song’s story on the strip. What can I say? I was good at science back in the day. The fourteenth, done in oil and not on a Möbius strip, depicts the only love song I’ve ever written. Not that I’ve had only one lover or anything—I’m quite attractive in a B+ kind of way—but only one worth an oil painting. Plus, oil makes the other guys, and an occasional girl, work a little harder at pleasing me. Everybody wants a love song written about them; almost everyone wants to see their song in oil.

Today, I’m going to meet this guy named John Bustin. He’s older, like pensioned, and, well, from the whisper-whisper out there, he was a decent songwriter in his time. No one that most people would know, but he’s well respected in a few east coast music circles. A buddy of mine saw John’s ad online and set us up. I guess John has this million-dollar recording studio in the woods forty miles west of Boston, and he lets singer-songwriters use it for free if he vibes on their stuff. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a few paintings out of the place if things go well.

Watercolors. Not oils. I don’t do the daddy thing. Already have one of those, and he’s great. When I was five, he told me I would front the next Led Zeppelin. Even legally changed my last name to prove he was serious. “Paige Plant” he would sing over and over to a little nursery rhyme of a tune he’d written for me. I still play it every now and then as a reminder, as a future eulogy.

Main Street in Harton, the town where John lives, is a throwback to a different era. Boutique shops line both sides of the extra-wide street. A general store. A potter’s showcase. A cucina. A coffeehouse. An old marquee cinema. Too many churches and a small inn surround a large green. On any given weekend, I bet the sidewalks fill equally with townies and tourists, though there’s hardly anyone around today.

After coffee at The General, as the townies like to call it, I make my way out of the center and down country roads with sickeningly panoramic Mount Wachusett views toward John’s. Nature girl I am not. Almost miss my turn onto this long private gravel road that splits a field in two. Probably a cornfield, which is a common crop in this part of Massachusetts, though now all you can see are snowmobile tracks. After about a mile, I’m swallowed by a deep oak and evergreen forest. Inside, I wind through trees, which occasionally give way to fifty-foot-high rock formations that must be thousands, if not millions, of years old. I’m back in the time before humans—at any moment, a giant raptor might jump out from behind the rocks and keep me from my destiny. Finally, the road stops at a large clearing with a wooden building, the studio I’m guessing, which looks like a modern version of a barn. Big doors in the front. A high angled roof with solar panels. Lots of glass. A large silver-backed dog, or maybe a wolf, circles my car as if it’s searching for its next meal. A moment later, the barn doors open.


H. Hamilton-Senter – Bound In Blue


Title: Bound In Blue: Book One of the Sword of Elements

Author: Heather Hamilton-Senter


Page count: 377

Genre: YA Fantasy/Contemporary Fantasy

Price (Print and Ebook): 13.99 and 2.99

Author Bio:

Heather Hamilton-Senter grew up in a family where books of myth and legend were used to teach the ABCs and Irish uncles still believed in fairies. Raised with tall tales, she has always told stories too- first as an actor and singer, then as a photographer, and now as a writer.

Heather lives in rural Ontario, Canada raising Summer, Holly, and little Stephen to tell their own stories, cheered on by her biggest fan, her husband Steve.

Tell us about your book:

Gods walk among us—all you have to do is See.

Rhiannon Lynne discovers that beings out of myth and legend are real and her ability to see emotion and thought as color is actually a mysterious magic. Finding herself at the center of a conflict between Celtic gods, humans, and the Lord of the lost world of Avalon, Rhi must somehow master her abilities and remake Excalibur—the Sword of Elements— but doing so may reveal that she is more dangerous than any god.

Share any thoughts you’d like the readers to know about you and/or your book:

A related novella called To Make A Witch will be released October 2014.

I also design book covers for other Indie authors.

Where can we go to buy your book?

Any other links or info you’d like to share?

Excerpt from book:

I was abandoned to the freak show.

Some of them touched Mom’s forehead gently. A few whispered soft words to Morgan. I just sat there as they ignored me—as good as invisible—while the numbness spread from my fingers up into my body and the white of my fear went black and dirty on the edges like snow on the side of the street.

“Hello, Morgana,” an amused voice drawled. A good-looking guy leaned in the doorway and smiled at Morgan. Unruly hair with a hint of ginger poked out from under a red baseball cap and he had the kind of five o’clock shadow that’s grown on purpose.

She didn’t smile back. “I prefer to be called Morgan now, as you well know, Thomas Redcap.” She made his name an insult.

The man’s smile widened. “Ah yes, you’re all modern and casual now. I’d heard. Love the outfit by the way. Did you join a band?” He sounded Irish or something. Miming a tip of his cap, he sauntered into the room and leaned forward as if to kiss her on the cheek.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

He gave her a mocking bow.  “Well you can’t blame a lad for trying, Morgana the Fair and Perilous.” As he approached the bed and didn’t even glance in my direction, orange irritation crackled along the edges of my vision. It faded to grey shame when he closed Mom’s eyelids with gentle fingers.

“Poor Viviane,” he murmured. When he looked back at Morgan, his face was serious. “Do I have your leave to continue?”

She grimaced. “Get on with it.”

Redcap nodded and then quickly—so quickly I almost couldn’t understand what I was seeing—his hand shot out and a sharp fingernail dragged down Mom’s arm, peeling flesh from it in one long curl like the skin off an apple.


Ed Teja – Nameless Mountain


Title: Nameless Mountain

Author: Ed Teja

ISBN or ASIN: ISBN-10: 1481168762, ISBN-13: 978-1481168762, ASIN: B008EF1DBS

Page count: 128 pages

Genre: General Fiction/Literary

Price (Print and Ebook):  Print $6.99 ebook $2.99

Author Bio:

Ed Teja is a boat bum, magazine editor, freelance writer, poet, musician and traveler. He writes about the places he knows, places that lie in the margins of the world. Boats, islands and remote (tropical) places are his natural habitat. Places without cold weather are nice. After a few years gathering material in Southeast Asia, where the living is gentle, the food good and the weather kind, he is in New Mexico, hard at work on new books.

Tell us about your book:

When the craziness that comes with the summer heat in LA gets into your bones, fraying friendships it makes even thought a chore. Three friends try to escape, taking a road trip to someplace—to the craziness of Lake Tahoe, or maybe to a mountain without the weight of a name.

Share any thoughts you’d like the readers to know about you and/or your book:

My view of the world comes from living an usual life, often in marginal places.

Where can we go to buy your book?


Amazon UK /dp/B008EF1DBS



Barnes & Noble

Any other links or info you’d like to share?

my blog:

Audiobook version:

 Excerpt from book:

So I left Lake Tahoe in style. The man I’d hitched a ride with was a middle-aged dentist, heading home to whatever blandness passed for normality in the Midwest. The Porsche should have been a nice car to own, but the dentist driving it didn’t seem to get much pleasure from it beyond the knowledge that his wife hated it.

Perhaps it was the memory of money lost on the tables of the casino churning up his gut that made him scowl whenever we had made a stop and then got into the car again and he had to point it east. Maybe he dreamed he could stay in the unreal world of casinos for all time and never have to face filling teeth and the smell of antiseptic again. Perhaps he hated that he was headed home to a loveless marriage, or rebellious teenagers, to state a redundancy.

He didn’t say, and when he talked to me, his face showed other, more bland emotions. Maybe it was a dental mask, perfected to prevent patients from inferring details of his personal life from his face while he drilled and filled their cavities. Whatever it was, when he talked to me his face told me that life was full and rich, and that he would rather be nowhere in the universe than exactly where he was. But after a stop, his scowl made turning the key, and getting the car in the direction he had chosen, a major chore.

Yet, this was a sweet ride and one that would take me as far as I wanted to go, which was a distance exactly equal to the distance he was going. As such, it was probably far too far for some things and not nearly far enough for others. Rides are like that.

I suppose that moment caught me fancying myself a modern Kerouac, dragging my dharma bum out on the road that way. I should have taken notes, capturing the essence of the road kills and how they varied from state to state, or how a caffeine buzz got the dentist to exceed the speed limits by a token amount.

Or maybe I didn’t think of Kerouac at all. Maybe it was just the confluence of moon and tides, or an urge for going, as the song says, that pushed me in this direction, had plopped me down in this car. It is hard to tell about the right working of things, even hard to tell the difference between when the universe is nudging you along in some direction and there is a cosmic reason for going, and when you are just fucking yourself over with fuzzy-headed wishful thinking again. I am driven by both in uncertain proportions.

In any case, you will never know, since someone forgot to give life an “undo” command and the alternatives remain “what didn’t happen” for eternity. Of course, an undo command would make the game far too easy to play, and then where would the fun of it be.

It was a good omen that I had started this phase of whatever was happening in a nice car. And the driver was nice, but boring. He needed company, he said, and he was right. He needed far more than I could deliver to alleviate his boredom. For it wasn’t the blah scenery or the blah food at roadside stops that bored him. He bored himself.

You don’t often meet people who bore themselves. Even fewer who acknowledge it. Even crushing bores often think of themselves as mesmerizing and captivating, so it was fascinating to see him at work. If I pretended to sleep, slumped against the window, feeling the soft vibration of the superhighway below us, I’d hear him start to say something to himself and then think better of it. He’d shake his head, dismissing the thought and then scowl as he hunted for a new one.

The dentist was judicious in what he did say to himself. I’ll give him that. He might have bored himself, but he never insulted himself, or told himself anything he didn’t mean. Cautious, is what he was.

Somewhere near Kansas, which for me means everything and anything between Colorado and New York, he stopped the car with unnerving finality. “This is where I live,” he said, pointing down a road. I looked down the road. It went straight as far as I could see and nothing was visible but one tree. Where we were was exactly the same.


“My home,” he said, figuring I needed more explanation.

“You live in that tree?” I couldn’t see anything else.

He laughed politely as if I had made a joke that he considered rather droll, rather than ha ha funny. “No, I live a bit further on down the road. In a sweet little house, with the missus.”

“You had me worried for a minute.”

“It ain’t much,” he said, glowing with pride.

I had little patience for Midwestern fake humility. “No it ain’t,” I agreed looking at more of less than I think I have ever seen outside of a desert, or almost anywhere in Texas. Oh yes, we had passed houses and fields that appeared to have been built by an anal retentive mathematician and turnoffs onto side roads that were miles of straight lines free of anything of visual interest. Not only was the terrain flat, but the roads were impeccably, marvelously, terrifyingly, and unerringly straight. It was unnerving. My eyes ached for a curve.

This, I decided was the secret to the early success of coca cola and Marilyn Monroe. The entire population of the Midwest was starved for curves, and they didn’t know it. But the marketing types took one look at Kansas and nailed it. The early cola bottles and Miss Monroe both offered irresistible curves. Twiggy wouldn’t have been a blip on their celebrity horizon. She was for another market.

I’ll admit my disappointment here. Even though I had been careful not to make any assumptions about where we were headed, and was proud that I managed to arrive with no expectations, my expectations were shattered. Now I’ll explain why that isn’t as contradictory as it might sound at first. It really isn’t possible to imagine a place without conjuring up some kind of image. So, without any direction to do so, the brain drags out things people have said, pictures from the tube, all sorts of trivia, much of which is quite incorrect fortunately and, in its spare time, throws together a composite that it uses in lieu of bona fide, thought out expectations. Clearly, as soon I learned I was going to the Midwest, my evil subconscious got busy at this heinous task, whereby it undermines good intentions. What it came up with, I have no idea; I only know that I became acutely aware that this was not it. And there wasn’t even the compensating smell of fresh baked apple pie on the warm breeze, which anyone who has ever been in a civic class in grade school knows is a mandatory factor in Midwest breezes. In a word, I was crushed.