*Sorry this is so late. Got a friend in to help with things I needed three hands for, and then we got delayed with… Talking. Sorry, sorry,sorry. -SAH*
Book Promo
If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. I ALSO WISH TO REMIND OUR READERS THAT IF THEY WANT TO TIP THE BLOGGER WITHOUT SPENDING EXTRA MONEY, CLICKING TO AMAZON THROUGH ONE OF THE BOOK LINKS ON THE RIGHT, WILL GIVE US SOME AMOUNT OF MONEY FOR PURCHASES MADE IN THE NEXT 24HOURS, OR UNTIL YOU CLICK ANOTHER ASSOCIATE’S LINK. PLEASE CONSIDER CLICKING THROUGH ONE OF THOSE LINKS BEFORE SEARCHING FOR THAT SHED, BIG SCREEN TV, GAMING COMPUTER OR CONSERVATORY YOU WISH TO BUY. That helps defray my time cost of about 2 hours a day on the blog, time probably better spent on fiction. ;)*
FROM LAURA MONTGOMERY: Transport and Deliver.
When flight on a boat jeopardizes all a family has worked for, can an errant son risk his life to save their future?
The Luwenthals—second generation settlers on the lost planet Not What We Were Looking For—confront the destruction of their past life, and are forced to flee. As the boat containing the family’s prized linotype crosses a river lit by the flames of the printshop they had to abandon, fifteen-year-old Tobias Luwenthal must face his father’s ire over what he sees as his son’s betrayal. Disaster strikes, but will Tobias seize the chance to redeem himself at the cost of his own life? Will his father learn from his son as Tobias has learned from him?
A short story that picks up right at the end of The Gear Engages.
If you’ve enjoyed the Martha’s Sons series, start reading now for a glimpse into what happens next in this dystopian lost world!
ALMA BOYKIN STRIKES AGAIN*: White Gold of Empire: Merchant and Empire Book Six.
Without salt, man and beast cannot live. Without fire and tools, man cannot prosper.
Tarno Halson and the other salt makers of Halfeld Fluss must have wood for the fires to boil spring water into salt. Farmers, builders, smiths, tool-makers, bakers, and all the other trades demand wood as well, and tensions have risen among the trades. Tarno, a widower, also seeks a wife. One of the woodworkers offers—insists on Tarno taking—his daughter’s hand. The arrangement might bring peace between two of the trades.
Danger unifies Halfeld Fluss, yet also divides it. When Korvaal’s Son dies, and winter grows harder, obsession and anger simmer like boiling brine—and prove equally deadly.
*I have no idea what she struck, but the email started that way, and it amused me.**
**It could be argued I’m easily amused.
FROM DAVID VINING: The Sharp Kid.
1880s Missouri is a time of gangs and civilization, finding a way towards modernity through the old scars of the Civil War. 16 year old Cal Braden joins his absent father on a journey of train robbing with the promise of a new life further West in San Francisco. But promises are cheap, as cheap as iron, and it’s a question of whether they’ll ever be able to get out of the life of criminality they’ve decided to take up.
FROM DALE COZORT: Nazi Treasure Hunt Book One: Marsh War
Marsh War is an alternate history novel set in the aftermath of an alternate World War II where Hitler went for Moscow rather than the Caucasus in spring 1942. As a result, World War II in the east stalemated deep inside Soviet prewar territory. The Soviets were too weak to push the Germans out, even when the western allies pushed into Germany. Diehard Nazis fled to the German-held Soviet Union and held out there for years until the western Allies crossed into Soviet territory and destroyed them.
With the Soviet Union battered and partially occupied, the United States emerges from World War II as the World’s only real Great Power. Great, right? Not really. In 1949, two years after they destroyed the last conventional Nazi resistance, the US still occupies large parts of the western Soviet Union and has been sucked into the treacherous politics of the Polish/Soviet border regions, with nominal allies close to war with each other over economically valuable and ethnically mixed areas.
Stalin pursues his intrigues in this dangerous region, while Nazi remnants scheme to regain power.
While the US settles in for a postwar boom, US occupation forces in the Soviet Union search for missing German scientists, Nazi advanced technology and looted Nazi treasures. They also search for missing loved ones and brace for a coming war they are woefully unprepared for.
FROM BEN MASON: The Headsman Detective.
Being a headsman is killing Raymond. Friendless, loveless, hopeless and everyone he meets on the job seems to hate him. Until he makes his first friend—who is imprisoned less than a day later.
It figures.
But if Raymond doesn’t want to lose his best (and only friend), or stop spending time with said friend’s cute sister he’ll have to go up against Duncia’s dark union underbelly, and—worse—its bloated bureaucratic nightmare of a government, if he is going to clear his friends name, save the day, and maybe get the girl.
For readers who like to limited government, lighthearted humor, and heroic heroes (and heroines)!
FROM AMIE GIBBONS: Psychic (Wild Wild) West: A Southern Psychic Mystery.
Besides her broken heart, psychic investigator Ariana Ryder hasn’t met a case she couldn’t solve with her powers, except for the damage wrought by the Fae. After their breach into our world four years ago, thousands of Fae have been spreading across the US, invisible to the psychic eye.
She’s out west to run a Fae tracking experiment with her friend Dr. AB Williamson, but first, they take a night to see AB’s famous Rodeo Queen sister’s debut with a big circus. When the night ends in murder, Ariana’s not going to let it rest.
One little trip back in time a few hours, and she can save an innocent woman’s life. But when you mess with time, it tends to mess back. Something’s after AB’s sister, and a little hop back in time isn’t going to stop it.
Until it discovers Ariana, and all the powers she has buried within. With her powers depleting, dormant sides coming online, and a strange sepia world that’s dug its claws into Ariana, she’s got more immediate problems than the Fae right now.
The sepia world wants all Ariana has. And it will take it from her, one piece of her soul at a time.
FROM KATE PAULK: ConSensual.
There are vampires in the lobby, succubi in the beds, and bodies in the bathroom.
It’s ConSensual, where the editors are demons, the writers are crazy and the vampires and werewolves might be the most stable people in the room.
If that isn’t enough, Dracula is staying at the hotel on a business trip for his wood-based hardware chain, and he brings with him the mother of all sirens, Leannan Sidhe.
Kit Marlowe is one of the authors, and there’s an out of control baby vampire to deal with. Once again, the “Save the World” department is caught with its pants down. It mostly consists of a vampire whose name isn’t Jim and definitely isn’t Hickey, a barely house broken werewolf, a very confused archangel and his succubus squeeze and other assorted misfits.
With heroes like this, who needs villains?
Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.
So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.
We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.
If you have questions, feel free to ask.
Your writing prompt this week is: EXTRA-LARGE
According To Hoyt 
I’ve always wanted to read a rare Monday book! 🙂
:Gasp:
SOCIALIZING!?!?
IN SKIN SPACE?!?!
Right? Feels so…. No, actually it felt really good. Weirdly human.
If you travel down that path, you may find that cutting out so much human contact was driving you a bit nuts.
Very dangerous, you can end up like Bob that way.
🙂
(Yeah, seriously, more human contact does me some good.)
I must postulate that there is an upper limit on the theoretical (yes, it has some evidence that it is true, but still needs more testing) benefits of meatspace social interaction. On a sliding scale from best friend(s) to crowd of people you don’t know, I would postulate that smaller numbers and greater trust equals more time before headache from social situations (MTBH). YMMV, of course.
For every hour of “human contact” … I need about 3 hours of solitude to recover. Then again, in another era I’d probably have been one of those hermits out in the woods.
Wait, I’ve been one of those in this era, too….
So many people wonder why I love being a truck driver. Lesee, no creative artistic skills, and a monastic lifestyle doesn’t appeal. What other job can I have better than 90% of my workday in solitude?
Inhuman contact also matters. Well, for some. ♉
Thank you for the mention, Sarah!
Fred wasn’t a short man and was surprised to see this woman would was taller than him.
In fact she was large in many many ways.
He said “So this is what is meant by an Extra-Large Woman”.
[Crazy Grin]
The woman looked down on Fred and asked “Are you saying that I’m Fat”?
Fred quickly replied, “Not at all, My Lady. I’m tough but I’m not going to get you mad at me”.
Wellllll……
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Attack_of_the_50_Foot_Woman
“Why are my portions extra-large?” she asked, waving around her fork. “Not complaining, I’m hungry as hell.”
He tapped his ladle on the stump of her left arm. “Nano-machines need the material to regrow your legs and arm, and I’m step…fifteen in a twenty-two thousand step process to get from the survival kit in my escape pod to a proper healing tank. Give me a tank and you’d have everything back in a day or two. Without? Two months, and be thankful I could fab you a nanomachine kit.”
Magnus Solk thought he’d seen it all as a troubleshooter for Novatek. Gengineered political animals that named their Homeplugs and insisted that problem parts be replaced with the right fictionally gendered and imaginatively colored replacements. That, he could do. Crazy talk was easy enough to repeat back, and coloring the parts was childs play with nanites. Paranoid luddites that insisted that no intelligent machines be used in repairs or replacements, sure. None of them were tech savvy enough to tell the difference anyway. Even cultists of The All Devouring Xir were nice enough when you nodded in the right places and followed along with the current rage refrain. There were subscription services that could keep you up to date on the latest fad cults. Those were a necessity for any honest hardware mechanic in the neon jungle.
But if the pols, the luddites, and the crazies were a medium-to-large order of Tru-Veg non-fat soy based fries and a Sippy Soda, then this newest fresh hell had to be an extra large. Of everything.
Even slugform biosculpts had less sweaty menace. Even filth-kink deviants were less slimy in their happy place. Not even a sky hockey mom in High Karen form could top the amount of shrieking I-want-to-see-your-manager-NOW hectoring. The outrage porn industry as a whole could license this performance in perpetuity, and the executives retire in style. To the beaches of a private planet. Each.
That was the day Magnus began to seriously think about quitting. When he died a day later, a draft of his resignation was found, but no suicide note.
Waking up some time later- *after* feeling his body grow cold and his thoughts slowing to a stop- Magnus began to seriously question what he knew about the afterlife. The smell of ashes and smoke might suggest one possible outcome, along with the whole body ache and dry mouth. The sound of waves and slight tang of saltwater did not fit that same outcome. Something very odd was going on…
You have me curious about all this, you do.
Agreed.
Er. There might be more to him? Have to get back to the word forest and harvest a plot. Or two.
Ah. Hm. And huh.
Might be that there is something more to Magnus’ story, at that. Didn’t expect any interest in him to be honest, he just sort of sprang onto the page like Athena. Hrm.
Give it a day or two, and maybe there’ll be something more to him. We’ll see. *mumblety AI mumble mumble do they really have souls? mumble mumble Oo that sounds bad…grumble mumble*
One day during the ‘boiling the frog, rapidly, noisely, and stupidly’ boogaloo, things went a bit too far, and the Greater Podunk Metropolitian area finally lost its ever-loving mind and set about putting a stop to this mess.
“Welcome to Crazy Bob’s Drive In Civic Improvements, how can we help you?”
“Yeah, this is the city of Podunk, and we would like an alternative legal system with criminal justice, and a mass gallows.”
“Okay, let’s get started. Would you prefer Napoleanic Law, Roman Military Law, Vigilante Justice, Mega City Law, a lawless secret police, Tokugawa Shogunate Law, Common Law, an old Norse code like the old Icelandic, or the Legalist Qin dynasty code of criminal justice.”
“Can we get Common Law. I like that. Can we Super Size it?”
“Okay, Super-Size Common Law it is. Do you want Awesome Sauce with that?
“Yes.”
“What size Gallows would you like? We have Very Small, Small, Medium, Large, Extra-Large, Super, Carrera, Carrera Plus, and Lensmen ‘Planet of Zwilnicks’ Special.”
“I think Extra-Large will work.”
“Okay, we have a Super Size Common Law with Awesome Sauce, and an Extra-Large Gallows. Is this correct?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Do you want Electric Bleachers with that?”
I laughed out loud several times and spouse chuckled at the “Planet of Zwilniks Special.”
Now do I need to worry about my sanity?
Only if choosing the electric bleachers. Electric bleachers do not address bottle-necks, and are a poor choice of engineering trade-off.
Says someone who thinks they have personal experience supporting the ‘SAN loss’ model of human psychology. Who has somewhat seriously identified as Bolo, Dalek, Necron, or one of Saberhagen’s Berserkers. Who wanted to be voted ‘most likely to be indicted for crimes against humanity’. Who thinks this serious jest is worth fitting words as story.
Not especially. I’m writing a basic biology lesson into the middle of Barbarella. So if one of us is crazy, I’m probably it.
Alas, I fear that some desperately NEED that lesson, and if they get it thus, maybe it will be learned.
“Mom! I they gave me the regular Carrera, I ordered a Carrera Plus! There aren’t enough short stakes!”
Meanwhile in a town on a planet near you:
“Jorge, this really does taste great but why is the sandwich so big?”
“It’s a Cuban sandwich, I carefully followed the recipe, see it says so right here!”
“No, you read it wrong Jorge, look here, that says extra lard.”
The feminist tried to comport her body language into a manner projecting calm, but everyone looking at her her heavily peirced face could tell she was internally gloating. The lecturing gender-studies professors and howling mobs all pointed to one thing, soon the revolution would come, the old foolish past would soon be washed away. The sexist, racist, misogynistic, hetero-normative, cis-gendered patriachaical system would soon be overthrown and a new golden age of equality, freedom and gender-nuetrality would reign, all forms of media would echo the same message. Objectification of women and the commodification of the beauty myth would seem backwards and barbaric as slavery and human sacrfice. And on that glorious day when all were equal, capitalism and patriarchy were smashed and the new golden age came, then finally, finally, her extra-large size would be considered hot and desirable.
“You want an order of extra-large ego-boost? A horde of fangirls lusting after you and objectifying you?”
“I admit it’s a fantasy, but really, ONE fangirl simply appreciating would do, you know?”
“Lower expectations and settling, it sounds like.”
“Step up, still. Now… the real EXTRA LARGE part of the order: No brainwashing or other trickery.”
“That will make it difficult.”
“That makes it HONEST.”
I have just made an extra-large problem for myself.
Two authors I follow complained about POV issues, I thought of humorously useless terrible advice.
While writing it, I correlated contents of my mind and discovered a terrible truth irrevocably alienating me from human standards of sanity.
I have a plot bunny that is actually something that I could plausibly execute.
I know how to calculate seniority in the American military. I know how to write tedious explanations.
This could be relevant in a story about American military figures of varied background, together, in circumstances where they cannot just figure it out and be done with it. A Fate Grand Order AU where all of the Servants are mundane military figures would count.
The Nasuverse has a character that could be justified as a Master that would cause this. Mikiya Kokutou.
May God have mercy upon us all.
It was about to get very messy, Jeremy thought. The feces was about to come in contact with the rotating, multi-bladed. air movement device. Someone had got her panties in a bunch and no one would own up to who it was. It couldn’t be Laura. She wore small ones and these were extra-large.
“All right, Edwin,” said Anna. “I understand picking a random menu item rather than admitting you can’t read Polish – but was an extra-large portion really necessary?”
Edwin, busy suppressing dry heaves, didn’t reply, and Anna sighed and summoned a waitress. “Panienko, could we have a box for my friend’s head-cheese?”
The demon in all its hideous ugliness was finally revealed, and Simon faced it squarely. It roared curses which he deflected, threatened a dire fate, flayed him with contempt, and drover slivers of ice at his soul. It was an exceptionally large and powerful one. For a moment, Simon feared he was not strong enough. As he did so, he tasted bitterness and agony. In the demon’s eyes and gaping maw, he saw a glimpse of hell. But he summoned his courage, drew on his ultimate source of power, the one not touched lightly, and shouted “You have no real power. In the name of the Chosen, BEGONE!”. With a howl and a crack of thunder, it was gone. Banished.
The Magister trembled. That had been a harder fight and a closer call than he had faced in years..His own power would not have been enough. But his work was not done. He called on his sight, to find the lingering traces of the demon’s malignant influence from this lair, and cleanse them with offerings of gratitude and peace.
PS. This was a snippet from my NaNoWriMo WIP “Scion of the Magister”
Ava glided down the corridor. She looked pale, but did not seem to have trouble finding her way.
Then, Julian reminded herself as he walked forward, she did not have to think the castle uncommonly large. He had not seen her father’s castle, but it might be comparable in size.
“There. That tree. Why is it here? I specified a dozen tamaracks, not a baker’s dozen.”
“It is your order came to us: an extra larch.”
“That was extra-large. I want the trees as big as can be had by transplant, rather than wait ages to see them tall.”
“Oh, these are the largest we dare transplant, madam.”
Sad but true story. My last house had a nice row of trees along the back, planted by the previous owners father. She’d said they were Tamarac trees. One of my friends had to tell me they were properly identified as Larch.
She winced again, and those around them groaned at the cringe-worthy performance taking place on the club’s stage.
“Well, I did warn you,” said her boyfriend.
She grimaced. “When you said ‘extra-large ham’ I thought you were referring to the meal, not the entertainment.”
“Do not expect every dance to be like that,” said Walter, glowering. “To launch you at some tiny affair is to argue a lack of confidence. So we wisely picked the largest one we could.”
“You will have to shine when there is less light,” said Otto, like an owl.
Extra-large? Sorry, I need 2XL. Or 3XL in flight jackets.
From a game I can’t play because I can’t even afford a GTX 660:
She hesitated. “How large is your extra-large?”
The waitress gestured at a plate.
“I’ll have it then.”
She sat and unfolded her napkin as she waited. The smells were odd. Names came to her as she picked out each one, but she could still tell that she had never smelled them before.
Doing inventory was tedious, but here at Capital City Screenprinting it was an all-hands task, so Lily couldn’t complain about being dragged away from a design project that was already behind, thanks to the client wanting yet another revision cycle. But it was still frustrating to have to stand here counting an entire box full of blank t-shirts that had just arrived, when she really needed to be getting those proofs ready. The sooner they could get the design finalized and cut the stencil, the sooner they could get that job out the door.
But right now they had to be sure they knew how many blank t-shirts they had in stock, in what colors, from extra-small to 6-X. And she could tell she was not the only person annoyed to be roped in. Debbie from Bookkeeping was scowling at her box.
“I don’t get it. Large is supposed to be, y’know, large. You’d think that’d be our biggest size, but no, we’ve got extra large, double extra large, and then more and more x’s all the way up to six-x.”
One of the pressmen looked up from his box of t-shirts. “That’s because what we called a large used to be pretty much the biggest size people wore. But people have been getting bigger and bigger. Look at some pictures from your grandparents’ days, and then look around any mall. I took a shipment to a gaming store last week and I swear I saw a guy who would’ve needed an eight-x.”
They promptly launched into a discussion of why people were getting bigger and heavier with every passing year. It seemed to circle around the idea of industrialization leading to the increased availability of better food paired with a decrease in activity thanks to labor-saving devices.
But they were mundanes. They couldn’t see the potential for a science fiction story, sort of like the old classic “To Serve Man,” only sneakier, with the aliens secretly fattening everybody up.
Hadn’t there been a story like that already? Something about a farm in Victorian England, where a mysterious fog led to riotous growth of plants and animals — and then something came to consume all the little piggies, and the farm wife only barely saved her little babies from the menace that stalked unseen.
Glad the new place is working out well in that regard, too! None of us blame you for enjoying that part of the new location. Anyway…
—
“Maximilian! Please tell me that oaf isn’t coming!”
“Of course not, Kuroda-san,” the swordsman replied, shaking his head slightly before taking a sip of his sake. “He said he needs an extra large beer tonight and that the mugs you serve here are more like an extra small.”
“Extra small! Pfui!” Kuroda hissed, wiping the counter with the usual fury that seized him when he thought of Harry Stidolph’s visits to his bar. “And he won’t shut up about my security either!”
“He’s a shotgun fanatic. Nothing unexpected there.” Maximilian shrugged before glancing at the doorway. Unfortunately the person he was meeting hadn’t shown up yet.
“So who are you waiting on, anyway? A woman?” the bartender asked, his foul mood disappearing as quickly as it came when he realized the ex-mercenary wouldn’t be darkening his doorstep.
“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s a business meeting, though.” the knight stated, taking another sip of his drink.
“I keep telling you, you need to let me find you a fine Azuman woman!” Kuroda grumbled, looking to the door when the bell rang. The bartender’s face fell again when he saw who it was, though to his credit he didn’t erupt into a rage. “So it was you, Dame Prowse?”
“Yep! Sorry I’m late Max and Soggy!” the newcomer replied, brushing a blood-red lock of hair out of her face as she walked over to the bar.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me Soggy?!” Kuroda snapped, grinding his teeth at the woman’s greeting.
“Maybe if you’d stop being such a wet blanket?” Scarlett replied, sticking her tongue out before taking a seat next to Maximilian.
“Enough, both of you,” Maximilian sighed, finishing his sake and ordering another. “Now, what is it that the Order wants from me now, Scarlett?”
The door of the inn crashed open. Through the doorway ducked a seven-foot tall knight in shining armor. He strode to the bar, demanded a tankard of ale, swigged it down without stopping, turned, and addressed those present.
“I’m here to kill a dragon,” he boomed. “Not a small one, or a medium-sized one, or even large — I’m going to get me an EXTRA-large dragon. You think I can’t?” He whipped out his sword, which glowed alternately blue, orange, and violet, and held it up, gouging a hole in the ceiling. “This is the enchanted sword Bloodsprayer the Dread!”
“Do you have a dragon-hunting permit?” asked the tapster from behind the bar.
“What?”
“You’ll need a dragon-hunting permit. Dragons are an endangered species, you know.”
“Oh. Where can I get one?”
“Go see Cedric the Notary. He’s just down the street, opposite Baldwin the Swill-merchant.”
The knight turned to go.
“He won’t be open before nine. It’s only 8:45 now.”
“Oh? Give me another tankard then.”
“Name?” asked Cedric the Notary.
“Sir Hieronymus.”
“Cognomen?”
“Eh?”
“You know, whatever distinguishes you from all the other Sir Hieronymuses. Like Sir Bruce Sans Pitie.”
“Oh. The Overbearing.”
“Address?”
“The Ebon Castle.”
“Sir Hieronymus the Overbearing of the Ebon Castle,” said Cedric, writing it down. He sniffed and went on, “Ever killed a dragon before?”
“No.”
“Good. Quota’s one per lifetime. Let’s see your sword. No flourishing.”
Sir Hieronymus drew Bloodsprayer the Dread from its scabbard and laid it on Cedric’s desk.
“That’s a no-no. Enchanted weapons are banned… That’ll be fifteen ducats and I’ll put you on the waiting list.”
“How long is the list?”
“Come back in five years and check with me. You should be near the top by then.”
When a subdued Sir Hieronymus had left the village, Cedric the Notary went to the edge of the forest beyond and whistled.
“Is it safe?” came a rumbling voice. A dragon’s head gingerly poked around the trunk of an oak.
“It is.”
“Gee, thanks a lot,” said the dragon, coming out from behind the tree. “Look, I’m a little short of gold and jewels right now. The Grand Duke of Kidneystone, on the other side of the forest, is staking out young and shapely virgins again. Would you like one?”
“Hmm… Got any redheads?”
“Sorry, no,” sighed the dragon. “Redheads are pretty scarce. Blonde, brunette, raven?”
“Doesn’t matter,” replied Cedric the Notary, “as long as she’s shapely.”
“OK,” said the dragon, and went back into the forest.
Thank you, Sarah, for the mention!
Thanks for putting me in your promo, Sarah! I’ve been a lurker on this blog for a while and I appreciate you giving me the chance. It’s nice to have a corner of the internet (and the book nerd area) that isn’t completely left wing.
Yanno, without a swooning submissive streak, I just have no time for Sexy Vampires.
I come here for scifi. Texas cozy ain’t too bad, but ya gots to dance with who brung ya!
I can appreciate that the same old same old can get boring to write AND I give thanks that Himself has given access to such a fine collection of othertimelines to all y’all who labor to let me visit same…thankee kindly!
Er…. I don’t write these books. I’m promoting the books of people who send them to be promoted. (See note about “I don’t READ THEM”. (Most of them. Some I do. But I can’t promise to read before promo.)
Don’t like it? Put tot he side of your plate. Laura Montgomery is hard sf, for instance. So, she’d be a good buy for you.
Met a Coyote once who was into blood play. Scared the crap outta me, but to me it.was.not.hot.
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Okay. You’re now on probation. You’ve been banned under another name before. You’re now warned under this one.