Wayne Gerard Trotman – Veterans of the Psychic Wars

Title: Veterans of the Psychic Wars

Author: Wayne Gerard Trotman

ISBN: 978-0-9567872-0-0 (Paperback Edition)

Page count: 416

Genre: Science Fiction

Price: $5.73 (Kindle Edition)  $5.99 (Smashwords Edition)


Author Bio:

Wayne Gerard Trotman is a British writer, filmmaker, artist, photographer, composer and producer of electronic music. Born in the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago, Trotman immigrated to England in 1984, where he lives with his wife and two young sons.

A martial arts enthusiast, he wrote and directed ‘Ashes to Ashes’, Britain’s first martial arts feature-film. He has a cosmopolitan and multi-cultural approach to all his artistic work, which has received recognition internationally. His epic science-fiction novel, ‘Veterans of the Psychic Wars’, is the first of a proposed ‘Psychic Wars’ series.


Tell us about your book:

‘Veterans of the Psychic Wars’ is an epic science fiction story that takes the reader from London, England, to a distant galaxy known as the Cosmic Sea. There, Baron Seti Aljyk has instigated a Second Psychic War by seizing Najura, the last of the ancient swords of power, and usurping the imperial throne from Sakara Rey, the True Emperor.

Protagonist Roman Doyle emigrated from Trinidad to England. He is a happily married, twenty-five-year-old schoolteacher, anticipating becoming a father. What Roman does not know, is that he is really Armon Sakara, heir apparent of the True Emperor. That is, until he encounters Chi-Ro Jin, a Veteran of the Psychic Wars.

Chi-Ro’s mission is to return Roman to the True Emperor, but Roman believes that Chi-Ro is crazy. When Roman’s wife, Soraya, is abducted by the Baron’s assassins, Roman is forced to make the epic journey to the Cosmic Sea. However he does not go alone. He is joined by his shamira Chi-Ro, Nuri Nemsys a beautiful secret agent, Anah Sadaka the mysterious captain of the Starglider Sanura and Roman’s friend, Zachary Silverman, a quantum physicist.

With his dormant psychic and astral abilities awakened by an alien drug and pursued by the Baron’s assassins, Roman, his friend, and the Veterans of the Psychic Wars face evil and danger in uncharted space and on alien worlds. Roman must overcome his fears, master the martial art of Hatari Ikou, and learn the secrets of astral projection, in order to rescue his wife, retrieve the sword of power, and bring the Psychic Wars to an end.


How long did it take to write the book?

Approximately three years.


What inspired you to write the book?

A brief conversation I had with my mother, when I was a child, inspired this book. Throughout my life I’ve been told that I think too much. When I was nine or ten, I complained to my mother that I felt that I didn’t belong.

I said, “I think I’m an alien, from another planet.”

My mother replied, without hesitation, “Yes, you’re an alien.”

We laughed and the conversation quickly moved to other things, but I always thought about what she said. I didn’t actually believe I was an alien, but I never forgot the conversation or its possible implications.

I started thinking: what if a young man grew up believing he was a normal human being, only to find out one day that he was actually an alien from another galaxy? Wouldn’t that explain his feelings of alienation; and wouldn’t that make an interesting story? ‘Veterans of the Psychic Wars’ started its life as a film script. I had already written the script equivalent of the book’s first chapter, when a friend suggested I write a novel instead. So, I wrote the book with a film firmly in mind.


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

I wrote whenever I had the opportunity, usually between 10:00 PM and 7:00 AM – when it’s quiet. I did a lot of research for this book, which is one of the main reasons it took so long to write. The novel contains a ten-page glossary of terms, and there are many historical, cultural and linguistic references. I researched weaponry, propulsion systems, religion and myths, ancient astronaut theories, battle strategies, the meaning of names, human physiology and the way different injuries affect the mind and body. Writing ‘Veterans of the Psychic Wars’ involved a lot of reading, and a lot of learning.


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

I hope they will be thoroughly entertained.


Where can we go to buy your book?

‘Veterans of the Psychic Wars’ is currently available on Amazon’s Kindle both in the US and the UK. Other eBook formats are available from Smashwords. The paperback edition is due for a January 2011 release and will be available from most outlets.


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

My Official Website.

My Facebook page.

My Smashwords page.

Follow me on Twitter.


Excerpt from book:

Brakis Tarn felt exhilaration reminiscent of his first kill on the southern plains of Navora Karavak. He was the youngest cadet in a notorious guerrilla group known as Piros Kreegan. His grandfather, Havek Izom, a Shudyar smallholder from the Mevaal valley, had formed this rebellious group in opposition of the crippling taxation levied on Karellan agricultural trade by the Commonwealth’s Chancellery, which had no Karellan representatives. And now, Brakis Tarn’s father, Tarn Havek, an adept of the forbidden art of Kon Jou, led the fearsome Kreegan warriors against the invading tyranny of the so-called Democratic Talisian Commonwealth.

At an early age, Brakis Tarn had impressed his father with uncanny intuition and an enviable aptitude for psychic combat. Finally, the sixteen-year-old embarked on his first mission, elated that his father had reluctantly agreed to allow his participation in the dangerous raid of a Talisian weapons depot.

Intelligence reports had suggested that the Talisian Invasion Force, engaged in fierce battles, in the Northern Territories, left the weapons depot vulnerable to attack. But, Commonwealth stormbringers had telepathically suggested this misinformation to Piros Kreegan spies, and Tarn Havek led his men into a trap.

The scribes recorded that a battalion of one thousand Talisian assault troops led by Supreme Chancellor Rameses Gor surrounded the three hundred Kreegans.

The battle raged for three long hours, until the opposing wills of rival stormbringers created unmanageable psychic anomalies and widespread mental chaos. In the confusion that ensued, Brakis Tarn became separated from the protection of his father, and found himself alone, pinned down behind a rocky outcrop, amongst a sea of wild ryzagrass.

For two desperate hours, with precision blasts from his Koroba A2L Ultra assault phase rifle, Brakis Tarn managed to keep his pursuers from advancing on his position. He felt a heady rush of pride, finally managing to wound a fleeing soldier in the right buttock. Later, he would claim that he had shot an officer in the right shoulder.

Brakis Tarn managed to keep the Supreme Chancellor’s troops at bay for another hour, before depleting his assault rifle. For a moment, all seemed lost, but fortune favoured the boy. Retreating Piros Kreegan guerrillas, blasted the position of the soldiers who had hindered his escape, and Brakis Tarn used this opportunity to run.

He had sprinted just over one hundred metres before his intuition compelled him to dive for cover. As he dove, an energy bolt sliced through the atmosphere vaporising every particle in its wake.

Brakis Tarn rolled to his feet and hurled his dagger, aiming for his opponent’s throat but only succeeding in wounding him in the right shoulder. With the desperation that only a boy facing certain death knows, he leapt forward in a spin kick, bringing his right heel down on the Daxia H1-09 Compact pistol held by the Talisian veteran. The blow knocked the man to the ground and the plasma weapon out of his reach.

Recovering quickly, the assault trooper pulled the blade from his shoulder with his left hand and attempted to drive it into Brakis Tarn’s solar plexus.

The boy used his knee to shove the trooper’s knife hand upwards. Then, clasping the man’s wrist securely with both hands, he twisted him off balance, fluidly wrenching the knife from his grasp and throwing him to the ground with a right-heel sweep.

But, taking advantage of the youth’s distracting sense of achievement, the fallen Talisian locked Brakis Tarn’s ankles with his legs and brought the boy to the ground with a painful thud. The opponents rolled apart instantly and stood facing each other.

In desperation, the young Karellan hurled the dagger again, but this time the older Talisian caught it by its hilt and with a menacing smirk, casually threw the weapon away.

Brakis Tarn rolled to the ground and retrieved his Koroba A2L Ultra, but the trooper immediately probed the boy’s mind and learnt that the assault rifle was depleted.

“I will enjoy killing you,” were the sinister thoughts Brakis Tarn discerned from his opponent.

The Talisian pulled a standard-issue retractable sok-bou power rod from his belt and assuming the ready stance of an Arashi Paksa fighter, extended the sok-bou, relishing the idea of giving this peasant boy a first and last lesson in the way of the storm.

Brakis Tarn cleared his mind. He knew Arashi Paksa’s strength lay in its speed, but the art of Kon Jou his father had secretly taught him, employed psionic mastery as its ally. The sixteen-year-old doubted that this well-fed older man could match his youthful stamina. Nor would he expect a lowly Shudyar to employ the art of Kon Jou, reserved for the scholarly Brahmyars and regal Khatras by the strict kurai system of social ranking, imposed on Karellan society by the Talisian High Council.

“May the scribes record it,” said Brakis Tarn defiantly.

The Talisian launched a swift attack and Brakis Tarn used his depleted phase rifle to parry the deadly blows of the sok-bou, painfully aware that the angrily buzzing plasma elements on either end of the power rod could easily vaporise flesh and bone. Wilfully shielding his thoughts from the trooper’s probes, Brakis Tarn defended against relentlessly speedy attacks, waiting for the Talisian to make an error.


Thomas Rowe Drinkard – Piety and Murder

Title: Piety and Murder

Author: Thomas Rowe Drinkard



GENRE: Thriller

Price: $5.99


Author Bio:

Thomas Rowe Drinkard was born and reared in the Deep South—Alabama.

He graduated from the University of North Alabama with a degree in English.  At graduation, he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in the United States Army and went on active duty eight days later.

Within two years, he volunteered and was accepted into the Special Forces (Green Berets) after Airborne and Special Forces school, he’d found a home. With a few other assignments in between, he spent ten years with the fabled unit. He was unhappy with the Army’s plans for his future and left active duty, joining the reserves.  He is now a Major, retired reserve.

After the Army, he found his way into teaching and writing in the securities licensing preparation business.  His textbooks, articles and CE courses are in use today.

His poetry can be found in a number of literary magazines, including Negative Capability, Cotton Boll/Atlanta review and a several others.

Piety and Murder is his first piece of long fiction to be published.  Thomas is currently working on a prequel.


Tell us about your book:

Mack Brinson has two major problems.  He is trying to recover from the long trauma of losing the love of his life—his wife Song.  Now, his only family, Song’s mother, Huong, is being systematically, and legally, bilked by a sleazy televangelist’s organization.

When Brinson goes to the smarmy preacher’s headquarters in an attempt to stop the thievery, he is physically threatened.

Brinson is a former Green Beret and isn’t intimidated. He goes after the preacher in an attempt to gather embarrassing information.  When he gets too close, someone tries to murder him in a running gunfight on the Lake Ponchartrain Bridge.

Along the way, Brinson meets a woman, Pattie, who finally begins to dissolve the emotional barriers he erected.  He begins to learn how to love again. There is an unseen hand behind the preacher’s organization.  The face of the antagonist is unclear, but when Huong is kidnapped, Brinson has to call on his old Special Operations contacts to find the kidnapper and rescue her.

The face of the man behind the televangelist finally becomes clear and shocking.

Nothing is ever as it seems.  Revelations about past deceptions and current fraud lead to violent revenge.


How long did it take to write your book?

More than three years.  I wrote only a bit at a time, because I was traveling and teaching as a day job.


What inspired you to write the book?

For years, I spent five to eight days in a suburb of New Orleans.  In the hotels, while channel surfing on TV, I saw many televangelists. I began to wonder if their organizations could be used as cover for more nefarious enterprises.


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

While writing Piety and Murder, I had no writing routine.  I found that, after a day of teaching, my creative juices didn’t flow. The research I did for this, my first book, was minimal. I knew the landscape, and the characters are composites of actual people.


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

I hope the readers are engrossed in the story, like the characters and feel immersed in their world.  I also hope the reader will want to know more about them. I’m now writing a prequel for that purpose.


Where can we go to buy the book?

The book is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Omnilit.com


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

Look for a trailer soon.   In 2011, I hope to publish the prequel.


Excerpt from book:

Chapter 1

August-Mobile Alabama

Wonderful, just wonderful…

Okay, so I didn’t say it out loud. I sat in a little, warmish puddle of water with my back jammed up against a damp concrete block wall and my knees drawn up against my chest, and didn’t say anything. I hardly breathed. My butt was beginning to wrinkle.

On my left, a concrete minnow pool, thankfully higher than my head, gurgled and whirred, keeping its tiny, brainless occupants alive. I was working on the same goal for myself—feeling as brainless as the minnows.

I hunkered; scrunched behind a big steel and plastic rack filled with nets, fishing rods and various fishy gear, and actually had one of the nets draped over my head. Between my aching knees, I held a .380 AMT Backup pistol—yes, a “mouse gun”—and when I had slipped it out of the ankle holster and flicked the safety off, I had, cursed the shiny sides.

Now, unless someone turns on the overhead lights in this dump, I probably won’t be noticed. Not exactly a prayer, but should have been.

The place stunk to the choking point, and since it was a seafood market, filled my nose and the back of my palate with its signature clinging, viscous odor of fish—both fresh and very old. The pool against my left shoulder burbled along giving off a chemical-edged scent that flew up my nostrils like an invisible swarm of tiny gnats.

In front of me, past the rack, the heavy wooden door crossed with three iron straps had been pushed back until it banged into my shelter of nets, rods and packaged lures. Right now, the little pistol was pointed outward through the nets at no special target.

Two Hispanic-looking men who kept wandering in and out of the place and, if I pulled the trigger, I might hit one of them—in a kneecap at best.

Then my problems would really begin.

One of them, a skinny stoop-shouldered specimen, with dark, pocked skin under several days of stubbly beard wore a maroon and silver striped tee shirt. He walked as if he was stalking helpless prey. Slung from a shoulder strap, he had what appeared to be a Tec-9—one of those 9mm street sweepers. The weapon had what appeared to be a silencer screwed on the end of the barrel. I was guessing that it fired on full auto—a homemade submachine gun.

Hey, if you’re gonna be illegal, go all the way.

The other one: lighter skinned and smooth-faced—except for the beginnings of what would one day be a Pancho Villa moustache. He walked with the rolling gait of a bear, and his eyes, even in the meager light: small holes in a large, round face, glowing with the merriment of anticipated cruelty. He wore ballooned white pants, bloused into black cowboy boots and a multi-colored sleeveless tee shirt, designed to show off all his considerable muscle. I had seen him somewhere before, but at the moment, I couldn’t relax my focus long enough to sort out the previous occasion.

In a shoulder holster, he carried a big, very recognizable, Glock pistol. I had only the puny little .380 with five shots.

Skinny guy had a shorter ponytail than “muscles,” and had a couple of gray streaks against the black, an indicator of how much longer he had lived in a dangerous world. I had no doubt that neither they, nor the redneck-voiced guy outside in the car that had brought them, would show much of a sense of humor if they discovered me.

The two of them sauntered in and out and through the market with the conscious arrogance of men carrying weapons among the unarmed. Latent violence rose from them like heat waves from a summer highway.