Ethan Holmes – Earth’s Blood

Title: Earth’s Blood

Author: Ethan Holmes

ISBN: 9780615396606

Page count: 255

Genre: Science Fiction/Adventure

Price: $9.99 USD

Author Bio:

Please see bio at author’s web site.

Tell us about your book:

One bright, warm July day a young California couple, Tim and Nancy Brock, decided to spend the weekend camping and hiking in Sequoia National. One of them would not return home; the other would never know what really happened. Mohai Kailani, ‘Big Mo’ to his friends, headed out on his new boat, the Blue Wave. He would catch a lot more than fish before the day was through. Doug Zombriskie fulfilled a long-time ambition by taking his family on a vacation to Bombay Beach which no one would live to tell about. Alan Barksdale, a Seattle engineer, watched all of his predictions come true as chaos descended on the city. He immediately adopted a lifestyle he was well-prepared for: kill or be killed, survival of the fittest. Niles Havoc, and Peter and Leslie Armistead play central and vital roles as gifted scientists throughout the story of Earth’s Blood. One of them would not survive; the other two realize they need each other to live.

Earth’s Blood immerses the reader into a richly detailed series of vignettes that reveal human nature, good and bad, along with diverse experiences of those trying to survive the precursors and the main event of the single most cataclysmic event to occur on the planet in recorded history.

How long did it take to write the book?

Seven Years

What inspired you to write the book?

My belief in myself and my love of writing.

Talk about the writing process. Did you have a writing routine? Did you do any research, and if so, what did that involve?

I have no “routine” when it comes to writing. I write when I can and for as long as I can. The only thing I dislike about writing is that you have to do it sitting down.

Earth’s Blood required researching multiple sciences such as seismology, volcanology, plate tectonics, oceanography, geology, and human sciences. It took years to do this in order to write a book which reflected accurate knowledge about those sciences.

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

The human race should know that Planet Earth is an active planet, always moving, ever-changing within geological time, not human time. Nothing stays the same and nothing should be taken for granted. Written and recorded history is a mere millisecond on the geo-clock.

Where can we go to buy your book?

www.ethanholmes.com

http://www.amazon.com/Earths-Blood-ebook/dp/B003ZK5RGO/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1282951600&sr=1-2

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/22360

Any other links or info you’d like to share?
www.ethanholmes.com

Excerpt from book:

Leslie struggled with the ropes. Her wrists were tied in front of her with a length of it running up and looping behind her neck. A second section of the green, three hundred pound test line ran down to her tightly bound ankles. The total affect was such that while her hands and feet were securely bound she could not raise or lower her head or feet. She was effectively tied into a permanent sitting position and was currently occupying said position on the stump of a tree courtesy of Alan Barksdale’s rope tying skills.

“Quit playing with those bitch! You’re just going to make them tighter and then you’ll do something stupid like choke yourself to death and then I’ll have to dig a damn hole to bury your pretty little ass. You need to stay alive a little while longer until your boyfriend gets back. I want him to see you die before I kill him.”

Leslie sat there on the tree stump glaring at Alan, wishing she had kept her tactical blade on her that morning. She was rarely without it thanks to Niles’ urging but this particular morning she and Delilah had been cleaning up, birdbath style, and she had taken everything off except her green flannel shirt and blue jeans.

Alan had literally appeared out of the bushes holding his Colt Desert Eagle in his right hand pointed directly at Leslie’s head. Krait had decided she too needed a birdbath and was sitting next to Leslie in a large gray blue muumuu and flip-flops. Delilah had left a few moments earlier to go back to the van about thirty yards off to the north.

“Don’t twitch a muscle, either of ya!” Alan stood there for a moment smiling and holding the gun at Leslie’s forehead. Almost instinctively Leslie’s hand went down the side of her left hip and she cursed silently to herself realizing the tactical knife was sitting by the smoldering campfire.

“Where’s the other dark haired little beauty?” Alan looked around. “I know there’s more of you, where are they?”

“Vot de hell you tink you are doink? Who de hell are you?” Krait had struggled to her feet still dripping water from her hair she had been trying to wash in a warm pot of water. Neither Leslie nor Alan knew it yet but Krait was holding a small twenty two caliber Ladysmith in her right hand behind her massive butt.

“Shut up bitch. When I want something from you you’ll know it. I hate Germans and I especially hate German women. You think you run the world? Well right now you’re in my world.” As he said this he pulled the Colt from Leslie’s forehead, pointed it at Krait and pulled the hammer back making a distinctive click that seemed to echo off the surrounding trees.

For the briefest of moments Leslie considered using that instant to try taking this guy on but she quickly dismissed that thought remembering his behavior at the Safeway in Sedona. That combined with the fact that Alan had more weapons on him than an Army Ranger told Leslie if she made one mistake and didn’t take him out immediately with one move she would undoubtedly be dead.

“I’m going to ask just one more time; where is everyone else?” Alan brought the gun back to Leslie’s forehead.

“How the hell am I supposed to know? Leslie bit hard trying to contain her growing anger at having been caught like this after all Niles’ training. “We’re not babysitters here. There are only adults here and they’re all responsible for themselves.”

“How many adults?” Alan pushed the barrel of the Colt into Leslie’s left temple.

“Eight.”

Alan brought his left hand up and bashed Leslie backhanded across the face. “You lyin’ bitch. Do you think I’m stupid? I’ve been watching this camp for two weeks ever since your sweet little boyfriend left. I know there are four of you. There’s you, Sam Travers, this fat piece of shit over here and a black-haired beauty that I want to meet, if you know what I mean,”

Krait screamed when Alan smashed Leslie in the face. She brought her left hand to her mouth and stumbled backwards a few feet simultaneously bringing the chrome Ladysmith twenty two caliber pistol up from behind her.

“You leaf her alone you bastard! I vill keel you right here! I svear, I vill shoot you dead!”

Alan turned slowly grinning at the shaking Krait who was now shuffling side to side as though she was somehow trying, in her panic, to get a better angle at Alan. The little pistol was moving here and there, up and down and to Alan it appeared Krait was having trouble keeping it pointed in his general direction let alone at him.

Still grinning he took a step toward Krait. “You gonna shoot me, ya stupid bitch?”

POP!

To his surprise Krait managed to pull the trigger, more out of panic from his step forward than anything else.

Alan’s head snapped sideways as the small caliber bullet whizzed past his head and just caught the top of his right ear. “Dammit!” Alan switched his Colt into his left hand and brought the right up to his ear. Looking at his fingertips covered with his own blood he brought the .45 semi-automatic up and pointed it at Krait.

“Well come on then, is that all you got?”

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Rudolf Kerkhoven/Whatley Tupper: The Adventures of Whatley Tupper

Title: The Adventures of Whatley Tupper: A Choose Your Own…

Author: Rudolf Kerkhoven & Daniel Pitts

ISBN: none (yet)

Page count: 400+

Genre: Comedic choose your own adventure for adults.  You know the one.

Price: $2.99

Author Bio:

Rudolf Kerkhoven lives in Vancouver, B.C.  Daniel Pitts lives in Calgary, Alberta.  This is their first book together, and considering the time it took, this will surely be their last.

Tell us about your book:

Whatley Tupper is an A-grade janitor at a B-grade university about to become entwined in C-grade fiction.  It’s a choose your own adventure for adults who fondly remember the series from their childhood and have a sense of humour.

How long did it take to write the book?

With editing, 5 years.  We emailed back and forth while having full time jobs and writing other projects on our own.

What inspired you to write the book?

We thought: ‘Why doesn’t anyone write a choose your own adventure book for adults?’   And then we did just that.

Talk about the writing process. Did you have a writing routine? Did you do any research, and if so, what did that involve?

One person had the manuscript, usually for a few months, wrote a several sections, then emailed across.  He had very few predetermined ideas about what was going to happen, do it takes some strange twists.

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

Laughter.

Where can we go to buy your book?

Amazon and Smashwords, for now.

Any other links or info you’d like to share? Rudolf Kerkhoven’s blog: http://kerkhoven.wordpress.com/

Excerpt from book:

Unsurprisingly, Whatley’s apartment was immaculate.  He lived on the third floor of a nondescript mid twentieth-century apartment building—one of those buildings with aqua blue tiles on the exterior like a swimming pool—overlooking the quiet residential street.  Verona took a seat on the sofa while Whatley put on some music.  “Do you like Phil Collins?”

“He’s that bald guy, right?”

Whatley quietly scoffed. “And Jesus was that bearded guy, right?”  It was hard for Whatley to feel at ease.  Verona just didn’t seem to belong in Whatley’s apartment.  It all felt mixed up and incorrect, like a urinal in a women’s washroom.  He knew he looked nervous, and he tried to soothe himself, attempting to enjoy this moment.

Whatley’s unease was very apparent as he hadn’t said a thing for a few minutes.  Finally, Verona picked up the television remote and turned it on.  The picture required almost an entire minute to brighten and focus.  “I haven’t watched TV in years.” She remarked.

“Yeah…” The drought had lasted about seven hours for Whatley and he chose not to share this.

She flicked from channel to channel, seemingly unimpressed with every show or commercial without hearing a single word.  “I never even watched television as a child.  It all seemed so… artificial.” She flicked past the news, past an infomercial for herbal penis enhancers, past some loud music videos, past some 80’s sitcom, past Higgins talking, past…

“Wait!” Whatley demanded. “Turn back!”

“What?”

He wanted to snatch the accursed remote from her hands.  “Turn back!  I saw Higgins.  I’m sure of it!”

Verona clicked back a couple of channels before being curtly instructed to leave it.  Whatley leaned forward, like a child watching cartoons, and surely enough, there was Higgins himself, apparently un-amused with Magnum’s actions, his dignified expression subtly admitting his displeasure.  Whatley glowed; Verona scowled.

“What’s this?” asked Verona.

Whatley scoffed as if this was the most infantile question he’d ever been asked.

“It’s Magnum P.I.”

“Whose that?”

“Thomas Magnum.”

“What kind of name is that?”

Whatley chose not to reply.

“What does he do?”

He clenched his eyelids shut before answering.   “He’s an ex-Navy Seal and Vietnam vet who gets his PI license and opens a practice in Hawaii who is hired as the head of security for Robin Masters, a jet-setting playboy who leaves his Hawaiian estate to be run by Jonathan Quayle Higgins III, a proper Englishman who seems to think of Magnum as a leech but actually has a deep respect for him.  Occasionally, Magnum’s adventures require the assistance of his friends TC, who is a helicopter pilot, and Rick, who is a club manager.”

There was a moment of silence, Whatley returned to investigating the episode, trying to figure out which one this was, and then Verona spoke.

“That has got to be the most inane thing I have ever heard.  I can’t imagine anything more contrived.  Are we really going to watch this?”   Drawn to the squeaking wheel of the hamster cage, Verona then realized. “And are you telling me that you named your hamster after a character on this show?”

What should Whatley do?

Should Whatley tell Verona she can leave if she’s not interested?

Should Whatley swallow his pride and turn off the television?

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Daniel Clausen – The Lexical Funk

Title: The Lexical Funk: A Triumph of Words

Author: Daniel Clausen

ISBN: 978-0-557-02230-4

Page count: 158

Genre: Short Story Collection/ Eclectic/ Word Bonanza

Price: The book is free to download at http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-lexical-funk/3781212

Or, 14.95 at Amazon.com

Author Bio:

Daniel Clausen has published stories and articles in such magazines as Slipstream, Black Petals, and Leading Edge Science Fiction. He has written two books, The Sage and the Scarecrow (a novel), and the Lexical Funk (a short story/word dance), and is currently working on a third: The Ghosts of Nagasaki (a novel). He is a graduate from the University of Miami (Cum Laude) with a degree in English and American Studies. To read more about Daniel, please visit: http://daniellclausen.wordpress.com or www.lulu.com/danielclausen

Tell us about your book:

An android that imitates humans; a French novelist who longs for a lover whose loins can match his revolutionary rhetoric; an alien diplomat whose sexy thighs threaten the universe with destruction; and ruminations on the success of Vanilla Ice’s hit independent record Hooked.

These are all the things you’ll find packaged together for your word enjoyment needs. This eclectic short story collection/ word bonanza promises to take you to another level of word funkadeliciousness.

How long did it take to write the book?

This book actually started off as another book I started my senior year of college: Rejection, Death, Taxes, and other things you worry about at 3 a.m. in the morning. That’s why the introduction is dated 2003. Eventually, better sense led me to lose the title.

I was on a role of sorts: The Sage and the Scarecrow had just come out, several of my stories and essays were coming out in literary magazines, and people I knew were enquiring if I had anything else available. There was a small press in Florida that was known for publishing up and coming Florida writers and they expressed interest in the project.

But then things fell apart…I stopped getting responses back from the press (I think they went out of business), things got even busier with school, I got bogged down with work, and eventually I ended up going overseas to teach. It was probably a good thing too. Some of the stories needed a lot of work, and I think the process of drafting and redrafting has made the stories better with time.

Some of the stories are very old. How old? One story, “Buddy`s Last Drink,” I began as a sophomore in high school, 1998 maybe. So that story took nearly ten years to get into the kind of condition it’s in right now. The story about Dictionary Salesman was also from high school–by far the most juvenile story of the lot. The only surviving part from my high school days is the monologue the character gives at the end about their lives being more valuable than dictionaries but not more valuable than beans. Something to the effect of “Our lives may not amount to a hill of beans, but by God, they’re better than dictionaries.” Awww, an eternal truth if ever there was one.

That being said, my story is that it took four years. Yes, let’s stick the idea that it took four years.

What inspired you to write the book?

Well, there is one theme the pulls the book together, and I guess that theme is also my inspiration. It’s the eternal question: Live to write? Or, Write to live? Could my writing actually contribute to a healthier lifestyle instead of just poisoning my relationships and ruining my prospective careers?

Here is what I write in the conclusion (though I doubt this will be the last word on the subject):

“Lexical Funk isn’t something you do alone in your bedroom with the lights off and the doors locked; it’s not something you do on a laptop instead of talking to people face to face–it’s how you use your words creatively to take on the everyday. It’s a way to prevent yourself from becoming the passively happening. And, well if this bit of Lexical Funk is a triumph of words, which are made by people like you and me, then maybe it’s also a triumph of people.”

Talk about the writing process. Did you have a writing routine? Did you do any research, and if so, what did that involve?

Writing and rewriting; pain and suffering; irrational exuberance, irrational depression. I suppose the best part about this book is that I adhered to the one principle that mattered most for this project: true creative expression.

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

A reading experience like no other. A challenge. A sense that creative justice has been done.

Where can we go to buy your book?

Amazon. Lulu. But I would rather you didn’t buy the book. I would rather that you email me at lexicalfunk@gmail.com and bargain for a free book in exchange for some word spreading.

Any other links or info you’d like to share?
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-lexical-funk/3781212

Also, check out “lexical funk” on Facebook; or Daniel Clausen on Goodreads.com.

Excerpt from book:

A Fetishist Theory of Love

She does not mind being called a fetishist; but what bores her stiff are theorists of love. Eroticism is the only word that excites her—the way rosemary or oils would excite others, she clings to simple French phrases like ménage à trios (in her more athletic moods), Où puis-je acheter la gelée de lubrifiant? (when the normal amount of lubrication just won’t do), and in her more vulnerable moments she likes Je bande pour toi (this one is better left to the imagination!).  Expository work on the part of a lover she equates with infidelity and impotence; silence she thinks better of.

She likes when people tell her that she looks like Brigitte Bardot, because it means she and her potential mate have already had prior meetings through magazine covers and movies and that the man is already disposed to fantasize about her. She is the French equivalent of a Marilyn Monroe, or a female version of James Dean; the translation is not quite perfect however because Bardot stands for liberation and female self-assurance, as well as sexuality.

The man she talks to on her way back to her apartment gives her this compliment and she can’t help but think erotic thoughts and sleep with him, but also because he leaves the need to expound on the bedside next to his cloths and has come prepared with a godemichet (dildo!) a supplement to his already large bitte (penis!).

In the historical novels she writes, Paris is the capital of debauchery; love exists–pandemic–in every café, peasant’s flat, market place, noble estate, fairground. Love is the nineteen-century version of the black plague in her novels; young schoolboys find their first sexual encounters with prostitutes who have wonderfully exaggerated features; hearts of gold; they are bountiful from their bosoms to their sense of humor to their sensuality for the amorous (tautologically taut as the back side of Christopher Atkins); but she knows the romantic tradition is a literary one only.

The man she is with has a pension for revolutionary thought, which seems to complicate the more erotic moments with him; keen on Women’s Liberation, his lips talk with an upright élan that his loins cannot keep up with. And her frustration grows from one purely sexual to one that is slightly political. The French history of debauchery is rooted in this tendency to confuse love with politics—but she is not confused; what she wants is dictator who will emasculate those whose libidinal interest lay solely in the need for revolution.

When she writes her historical romances she refuses the need to make her characters share her frustration for political men. Instead, she writes her men as she thinks they ought to be, and not the way they really are, which is: oaf-like, incompetent, disposed to say phrases like “I want above all else a woman who is clean” in the company of others (even when man himself is not a clean animal). These so called men are so far from the ideal that she often questions how a woman can maintain one for more than a day or two.

Even the men who compare her to Brigitte Bardot have their shortcomings; but usually not, if they can restrain themselves to these kind of flattering analogies, clean themselves regularly, and if they can avoid the need for revolutionary speech.

This one does not; besides being a revolutionary, he smells bad.

On the other hand, the dilettante across the street is no better than the revolutionary, for he has no idea of French culture but instead breeds himself on the musings of western civilization’s cultural capital America. Although they both live in small flats located squarely in French territory, his imagination is routed in America; the American cinema is his Mass; and his missionary work is a crude imitation of Donald Duck. His charm was not so much of the erotic as it was of convenience. Still, he talked too much–on the nature of love or whatever else was floating in his head; he talked of an American cinema that, to her, had become imperialistic over the last half-century; above all he was missing the je me’en foutisme’ of the revolutionary on everyday matters. Buttering a slice of bread was this man’s revolution, watching the television or comparing his early struggles in life to the gritty urban reality of Black Americans when he was born from a relatively well-to-do Paris family. And where the bed was concerned no cannons roared for the greater good of sexual liberation.

After her second book in so many months, she begins to have an aching sensation in her fingers from the typing. She meets the doctor’s son by accident on her way out of her appointment. He is a seducer from the beginning: handsome and athletic, puerile and naïve about the ways of the world. Esoteric interests are of no concern for him, but in lovemaking he is an eccentric. So when he claims no great cause, and makes no fool-hearted attempts to woo with the sounds of Donald Duck, she finally accepts him as her own and makes a fetish out of his figure: hair, fingers, nails, curvatures, all. Brigitte Bardot does not enter his lips, nor does he speculate about things that are above him; instead, without knowing it, he is an Erotic. And thus she keeps his body close by because without it she fears she would write more books in the language of American cinema, suffer from dreams of the revolutionary speeches of conservative lovers; and, as she was apt to say, she always enjoyed being a fetishist, and above all she enjoys reticence from her lovers; that and a big godemichet.

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