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. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion.– SAH
FROM ALMA BOYKIN: Harrier and Murder: Familiar Generations Book Five.
A murder lurks in Devon County—a murder of crows.
As winter slowly fades into spring, Jude Tainuit struggles to save money and to meet his new obligations to the Sheriff’s Department. An accident in the night brings an unwelcome reminder—Aunt Martha O’Neil is not young. Even less welcome, perhaps, is a falconer who takes offense at Jude’s Familiar, and who may not be quite what he seems.
When Aunt Martha returns, so does trouble. A second worker of twisted magic lurks in deeper shadow, perhaps. Combine growing danger with his hesitant courtship of Lucy Hoffman, and Jude may run out of strength, options, and time before March goes out with a murder—a murder of magic and malice.
https://amzn.to/3vXTZfQWITH ESSAYS BY LES JOHNSON AND ARLAN ANDREWS, AND SHORT STORIES BY MANY OTHER AUTHORS: Tomorrow’s Hope: A Journey of Exploration and Hope
Tomorrow’s Hope: A journey of exploration and hope builds on the themes reminiscent of classic Science Fiction written by the greats of the 1960’s. Inspired by the works of Ben Bova, Isaac Asimov, Kurt Vonnegut, Robert Heinlein, Robert Silverberg, and more, we dive into worlds that could be just around the corner.
With Essays by Arlan Andrews, Les Johnson, and stories by Bart Kemper, Benjamin Tyler Smith, Charli Cox, Gustavo Bondoni, Jetse de Vries,
Michael Anthony Dioguardi, Sarina Dorie, Malorie Cooper, and William Joseph Roberts, you are sure to enjoy this collection.
https://amzn.to/3w0YS82FROM LAURA MONTGOMERY: Long in the Land: A Science Fiction Lost Colony Adventure (Martha’s Sons Book 2.)
He’s a man on the run. But on this harsh alien world, freedom doesn’t mean he’s safe.
Peter Dawe can’t face his mother’s relentless grief. With her anguish deepening his guilt and the colony’s governor out for revenge, he’s desperate to escape a deadly situation ready to explode. So he jumps at the chance to journey north away from danger, chasing the rare sight of a long-lost aircraft.Buoyed by the glimpse of a machine he’s never seen before, Peter discovers the pilot desperately needs aid for his newborn son. But with sinister agents searching for them both, the remote planet may not be big enough to preserve the young fugitive from his enemy’s vengeance.
Can Peter find them refuge before they all fall to their doom?
Long in the Land is the thrilling second book in the Martha’s Sons science fiction series. If you like captivating world-building, edge-of-your-seat tension, and memorable characters, then you’ll love Laura Montgomery’s high-stakes tale.Buy Long in the Land to make a stark choice today!
https://amzn.to/3HOUcVvFROM HOLLY CHISM: Highway to Tartarus (Modern Gods Book 2)
Insanity seems to run rampant in the immortal population, and Hades seems to be the one the Fates tap to contain them all; however, this time, Hades, and Kyra, the former goddess of War from Atlantis, have to find and catch the one who’s gone dangerously insane: Deshayna, Kyra’s identical twin, and the former goddess of Death.
Along for the ride are a pregnant Persephone, Hel from the Norse pantheon (and Hades’ and Persephone’s lover), Tyr and Thor, and Kyra’s adopted daughter Rowan.
The seven of them follow rumors, leads, and death-god connections around the world in an RV that’s bigger on the inside than on the outside, while trying to maintain a bare semblance of normalcy despite the chaos of never knowing when or where their Fates-assigned mission will end…or if it will end them.
https://amzn.to/42su5x5FROM KAREN MYERS: On a Crooked Track: A Lost Wizard’s Tale (The Chained Adept Book 4)
Book 4 of The Chained Adept
SETTING A TRAP TO CATCH THE MAKERS OF CHAINED WIZARDS.
A clue has sent Penrys back to Ellech, the country where she first appeared four short years ago with her mind wiped, her body stripped, and her neck chained. It’s time to enlist the help of the Collegium of Wizards which sheltered her then.
Things don’t work out that way, and she finds herself retracing a dead scholar’s crooked track and setting herself up as a target to confirm her growing suspicions. But what happens to bait when the prey shows its teeth?
In this conclusion to the series, tracking old crimes brings new dangers, and a chance for redemption.
FROM LEIGH KIMMEL: A Gift of Koi
Ancient and wise, the grandfather Koi knows at first sight that this human bears a hidden wound. But how can a mere fish, even one as old as himself, be of any aid to a human?
Astronaut Tyler Lanham had come to Grissom City, first and oldest lunar settlement, in search of the medical expertise he couldn’t find on the far side of the Moon. When he sees the scar on the ancient koi’s side, he knows he’s found a kindred spirit.
But an enemy is stalking these lovely gardens. A danger that will change both man and fish.
A short story of the Grissom timeline.
https://amzn.to/3UnIettFROM LINDSAY PETERSEN: Avatars of the New Age (The Reluctant Chrononaut Adventures Book 4)
New widow Kate Cameron ends her period of mourning and contemplation at the foot of Mt. Ararat but she still has no destination. Her journey through the Caucasus, is beautiful and refreshing – until the saboteur’s bomb goes off and the train derails.
It’s 1905, Tsarist Russia is struggling to decide what it will be in the twentieth century, and Kate finds herself right in the middle of the argument. She feels safest joining an odd set of fellow travelers; a swami and a strongman escorting a traveler from Tibet who bears a long-hidden holy Christian relic which he will present to the Tsar in St. Petersburg. In the Russian capital they will represent the diverse peoples of the Russian Empire, avatars of the new age of technology and freedom.
Their luxurious travel on the Tsar’s personal hypersteam train is beset by news of revolution and breakdown, from distant military disaster to nearby mutiny and massacres. Meanwhile their group is pursued by a violent subversive and his mysterious master — who bound across Russia in the chicken-legged cottage of an evicted witch. With every verst the companions’ leisurely and luxurious trip becomes fantastic and frightening.
Will the train also be derailed? Will the holy relic bring the peace Russia desperately needs? Can anything? As her world spins off its axis there’s no telling whom Kate should trust, where she might find safety, what ‘facts’ and ‘truths’ can be relied on.
Notwithstanding the uncertainty, the show must go on. Russian nobility, the wealthy and the common people all gather in the capital for the grand spectacle meant to reassure all that everything is all right. Under the Tsar’s loving hand technology and brotherly affection will prevail and Russia will take her rightful place in the modern world at last. Surely these difficult struggles will bring all Russians together, living their faith in the future of Mother Russia — or will this exhibition be the ideal setting for the subversives’ most spectacular and deadly plot?
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: WICKED.
According To Hoyt 
“It’s a candle.”
“It’s a lump of wax. Candles are wicked.”
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Well, they say great minds work alike; but I fear yours works like mine…
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Sounds great to me!
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“You are a wicked, wicked woman,” Ravan smiled as she looked over at me.
“Me?” I asked, eyebrow raised. “You’re the one who smuggled in the easy-to-clean sheets and a jar of honey.”
“Any complaints?” she chuckled and started to rub my shoulder with her free hand.
“Only that we ran out of honey,” I smiled and kissed her.
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“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” June muttered to Lurie, who gave her a puzzled look; she clarified with “The PTA officers are here,” as the current president, treasurer and secretary filed in and took their seats at the front of the cafeteria.
“Could be worse,” Lurie muttered back. “They could be running for City Council.” June shuddered at the thought.
Poor Dr. Anderson, was her next mental observation before reminding herself that the principal could easily cope with any number of headstrong parents. June had admired his ability to handle the PTA officials before. She settled back on the bench, hoping against hope that the meeting would end on time.
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Lady MacBeth entered her office and immediately noticed the open safe door.
As she went to check on the continents a quiet voice said “The safe is empty Your Ladyship”.
She grabbed the hidden blaster and turned toward the speaker saying “You’re a foolish and wicked person to be here.”
“Wicked Your Ladyship? I’m an honor thief. You’re the person who threated the destruction of people’s lives for money and power via that blackmail info you had dug up. As for foolish, that blaster and the other weapons you stored here have been rendered harmless by me.
“Still, perhaps it is foolish of me to want to give you a chance to flee and escape justice. And justice is coming for you as the appropriate authorities have that information and in a few cases, vengeance may be coming as very dangerous people know who was blackmailing them.”
As the gray-clad figure faded away, it said “Goodby Your Ladyship. We’ll not meet again.”
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Good heavens! You’ve turned the lawn into a croquet court – what a wicket thing to do!
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Grabs lanyard with teeth Carp launch in three, two, one. Carp away!
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Of course this word would bring someone to mind, but this is what I ended up with:
Vincent looked at the solitary figure standing on the fortress’ ramparts. Carys, looking more vulnerable than he had ever seen her since Lionel died. It surprised him. Ever since that day she had never shown weakness to anyone, least of all him. That haunted look would undoubtedly go away the moment she saw him. For better and for worse she was the Chosen of the Amethyst, furious guardian angel to the Kingdom of Wenlock and an implacable force of destruction to the kingdom’s enemies. And, until recently, the enemies of King Philippe of Loire as well.
“What could be on her mind?” Vincent thought, stopping in his tracks. “Only one way to find out.” he concluded before shaking his head and starting forward.
“Who goes there?!” she snapped, whirling towards the sound of footsteps and raising her hand. “Oh. Vincent.”
“Sorry to intrude,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll head back if you need some time alone.”
“No,” she sighed, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall. “Truly, your presence is welcome this evening.”
“If you insist,” Vincent replied with a smile, looking out over the plains of Arev. “Hard to believe we were that close to accomplishing our mission today.”
“Yet we could not,” she stated flatly. “The wicked witch and her rabid cur still live.”
“Azahara and Alparslan did their part to ensure that of course.” the soldier responded, reminding her of the other challenges they faced that day.
“Were I as free with my power as the Mad Empress is with hers this war would already be over.” Carys hissed, her tone bitter.
Vincent pretended not to hear the pain in her voice or see the tears that threatened to form as he paused, considering what to say. Several memories came back to him, that fateful day with Lionel and the grimoire in particular. It always came back to that, didn’t it? The Undying soldier fell silent.
“You’re not as free with your power as her because you’re better than that,” Vincent said. “Lysandra doesn’t use power; she’s used by it.”
“You are not telling me anything I have not heard before, Vincent.” Carys retorted, biting back a sob.
“…Sorry.” Vincent sighed. He knew he’d come up with something trite no matter what inspired him.
“Don’t be,” Carys said, giving him a slight smile. “Don’t leave either.”
“Um, well, if you insist.” Vincent said with a shrug and sheepish smile.
It was Carys who broke the long silence between them. “Vincent? What do you think when you see Lord Protector Edmund?”
Now it was Vincent’s turn to look lost in thought. The plains or Arev became the fields outside Eisenstein Fortress as the memories came flooding back to him.
“So you stir from your slumber driven by another lost soul, vile Mother of Monsters.”
“I see your manners have not improved in the slightest, Alpheratz,” Ashleshia retorted dryly. “I suppose not even Stelios Hasapis could make a gentleman out of a boor like you.”
“Do not bring up the name of our late, unlamented emperor.” the pilot responded, an unfamiliar voice with a hint of a Wenlock accent. “Let him burn in Tartarus for all eternity and let today be the first of many triumphs for Her Majesty Lysandra, Empress of Arev and soon Empress of all Chaldenia!”
“You must be Edmund Baines,the Mad Empress’ Lord Protector,” Vincent responded, raising his gunblade. “Or would you prefer‘Kanlı Işık Yusuf’?”
“Insult My Lady and I like that again and you’ll join her brother in Tartarus,” the pilot hissed. “It will not be a quick or painless journey either. Not even for Baldraz’s famed Gunblade Emperor, a title that’s surely so much hot air from King Friedrich and his lapdogs.”
“Why don’t you try me and find out?” Vincent retorted as the Jade Tempest and Diamond Paladin began to square off.
“…That he’s every bit as insane and foolish as his mistress is.” the Gunblade Emperor finally answered. “Probably worse, even. No sane man dedicates himself so wholly to such a monster.”
“Indeed. Well said,” Carys concurred. “Lionel’s loss clearly was not wasted on you.”
“It’s the least I can do to honor him,” Vincent replied with a sigh. “There might be something else, but… No. I don’t have the right to even ask for it, much less do it.”
“Oh?” Carys asked, the steel mask of the High Sorceress completely back in place.
“Even when this war ends,” Vincent began, fidgeting with the snaps on his duster nervously. “Let me keep protecting you, Carys. I-I know, I have no – ”
“Silence, Vincent!” the sorceress commanded, cutting off her companion’s stammering. “Do not tell me you have no right to ask this.”
Carys reached for Vincent’s weapon without warning. He figured it was always going to come to this and he wasn’t going to stop her. Carys might not know the intricacies of a gunblade but she didn’t need to in order to simply relieve a fool of his head.
“King Friedrich and his damnable mad scientists entrusted the weapon to you in order to serve as Baldraz’s sword and shield against the world,” Carys observed, tracing her fingers over the elegant silver patterns in the weapon’s black blade. “Am I mistaken or did you refer to it as Aerondight once? Hardly a name a proper Baldrazian would give his weapon.”
“I did,” Vincent admitted. “One disgraced warrior inherits the mantle of another.”
“Then, as the one wronged by your past carelessness, I forgive you of them,” Carys said, her face lighting up with a smile as tears began to well up in her violet eyes. “Furthermore, I return this blade to you, Sir Vincent, to act as my sworn protector.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Carys held out his weapon, hilt first, and he took it from her, holding it vertically in front of him in a salute. “I will not fail you again Carys. I promise.”
“You had best not.” she responded, embracing him after he returned his weapon to its place. Her tears flowed freely now but she didn’t care. This moment was all that mattered for both of them.
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People’s Candle Making Collective 374 was under strain. They failed their quotas for the last six work periods. Consequently, their supplies had been cut back. Why waste valuable materials on sluggards who would not use them for the People?
There would be no more string. Candles would not be wicked.
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Arrrrrgh!!!!!!
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“The difference between evil and wicked depends on the context,” Professor Leveau began. “Evil implies an underlying character or choice. Wicked can mean an act of malice, or a descriptor of characer, such as the Wicked Witch of the East.”
She smiled. “Or something of excellent quality and comfort, if you are in New England. In which case, ‘wicked good’ is not an oxymoron.”
“No wonder everyone uses anything but English for spells,” Clark hissed to his seatmate.
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A wicked bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, momentarily turning Elaine’s vision light to dark. Moments later it was followed by a clap of thunder that sounded more like the sky itself being torn in half.
She hadn’t seen a thunderstorm like this since she’d left Iowa. But she knew one thing — she’d better get to shelter right now.
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“What is this? Some book by Bradbury about a haunted carousel, another paperback–oh, it’s The Scottish Play. Ladies’ red-sequined pumps, candy-striped socks, that entire trilogy of Bruce Campbell zombie movies, tickets to that Gregory Maguire musical…”
I stopped rummaging the late Mrs Gulch’s living-room for a few minutes to check the chime on my phone. Severe Weather alert, again. My hand smarted.
“Monkey feathers! I’ve pricked my thumb! And of course there’s a tornado warning!”
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Karl tried to peer over them, though they were deep in consultation. The hawk had a beak and claws wicked in their sharpness, but all three wizards were intent on the white mark where he had struck.
“Neither fire nor an arrow strikes like that,” said Master Stephanos. “Nor any other knightly blow.”
“That you know of,” said Master Walter.
“That I know of,” said Master Stephanos.
“It would be odd indeed if a knight could strike a lethal blow that leaves no more mark than that,” said Grace, “and it was not known. A wizard would brag of it.”
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But I don’t want to be wicked! It’s my turn to be good!
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She laid the paper towel at the edge of the spill, and watched the water crawl slowly up through the fibers.
“Why don’t you just wipe it up like they do in the commercials?” the child asked.
“This isn’t as absorbent as those. If the spill were wiped, it would push the water ahead of the paper faster than it could be wicked up.”
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I was going to say something about the “quicker picker-upper” but couldn’t think of anything absorbing…
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“That sure looks wicked sharp.”
Iain just kept on working, carving coin-sized pieces of tin-copper-silver pewter easily off the broomstick-shaped ingot in his hand, letting them fall here and there into the shiny puddle in his melting pot with evident care and attention. And, otherwise, kept his peace.
“Could I see that?” Sam’s voice was a bit eager, though not at all whiny.
“Obviously you can,” almost-drawled Iain. “But if you mean ‘can I hold it and look at it’ the answer is a hard no. You ought not and you may not do that, I like you a bit too much for it.” And he kept on carving till that metal ‘broomstick’ he held in his other hand was barely over an inch long and held quite firmly indeed — then dropped that, precisely, in too. And picked up another foot-long ingot from his wooden stock-box.
“Surely that gray blade there can’t be as sharp as all that,” said Samuel, and then hedged his bold bet a little after all. “Can it?”
“Surely and absolutely it can. This isn’t any old clever metal or ceramic knife, it’s something of an artifact. My grandfather traded for it from the Free Norse, but that’s a story for another and a more leisurely time.” Iain had finished whittling that newest ‘stick’ of pewter down to a nub; and now he turned to face Sam Aldiss. Still his eyes never left the naked neutral-gray knife blade in his right hand longer than a few moments.
“You need to sit still. You’ll likely be tempted to reach out for this, it seems most people are; but you must not. All I’m going to do is hold this up for you to look at it, then turn it slightly. And you’ll see. Okay?”
Sam smiled at the “okay” — Iain was learning, so fast, to speak natively to someone like him, from Old Earth (who was cluelessly always the last to know anything, of course, dead last behind all the many Daughter Worlds).
“Okay; I give you my word.” Two can learn, to cross the divide between.
“Then look.” And at first it looked, from a distance of maybe two feet, as it had before. Gray and flat, vaguely ogive-shaped and tapering faster and faster to a point. Iain slowly, slowly turned it, from nearly face-on to them both, to closer and closer to being edge-on… until it simply, well, vanished. Disappeared, with no glint of light or hint of shadow of dark to mark its position at all. As if Iain held only an empty hilt in his hand.
But if you moved your head to look at it a little broadside-on, there it was, again. And if you moved back, it… went away. Invisibly thin.
“They call this a flatblade because it is,” Iain said, with something like reverence in his voice. “Almost literally flat, I’m not sure I can even get across to you how thin it really is. The whole thing is thinner than a hair, thinner than a wave of light to see by; and far more so than that.”
And for a few moments, there was no sound in the smithy there except the soft breathy rush of the squirrel-cage fan blowing gently on the charcoal fire underneath the big iron pot. As shivers chased each other up and down Sam’s spine. As he found nothing at all he could say.
“It’s not even so thick as an atom, really; but it’s not made of what you might call normal matter. It’s eithnean, ach, you’d say nuclei of atoms, all lined up in a near-perfect plane defined by a, well, force field. The electrons that match their charge are all tumbled together on either side, it’s an odd but handy little sort of thing. Quite an artifact. The Free Norse claim Freyja told ’em how to make such things, once upon a time, as a gift to their people from the Ordered Powers.” And again there was a bit of quiet, as Iain slowly (so very slowly) turned his flatknife to and fro, over maybe a dozen degrees of arc; so that it came and went, vanished and returned, bafflingly to the watching eye. And he smiled, softly as the dawn.
“Unco little thing, id’n it? But useful, almighty useful. My wee-daughter Claire carves cast iron with this; I’m merely a workingman with a few nice old tricks up my charcoal-dusted sleeve, but she’s a true artist.” And that subtle, calm, ocean-surf-roaring smile again. “Care to guess what you’d keep such an extraordinary thing in, while you’re not usin’ it?”
“More of the same thing it’s made of? Whatever that is.” Sam Aldiss found he’d answered out of the back of his head before he’d even meant to do it.
And Iain laughed. “Sure ‘nough, that’s what you keep it in. It’d cut right through anything normal, but the scabbard’s lined with this same stuff. It cannot be worked, you know, by any of our ways — an, ah, atomic explosion as you’d call it, would scarcely touch it. Or so they say.”
“Collapsium. Just like in H. Beam Piper. I had to get kidnapped along with the entire city of Auckland to get out here and find this stuff; but there are, ah, compensations for all the press-ganging and shanghai’ing.” Sam found his old accent coming back, and tried to lock it down again. The people here were a kind of British, obviously; but not-quite his.
(He looked up at the wooden beams and boards of the smithy roof. As if it were the open sky, and night instead of day; and all the Milky Way’s whirl spread out wide like the hugest star-cloud-squid ever, before and above him here.)
Fine, as long as they were not (his mind swore) those crazy neo-Vikings!
And Iain suited action to words, pulling an ordinary-looking leather and wood (scarred and worn) knife-scabbard from his back pocket, and carefully (oh, so very nicely and precisely) sliding the flatknife home in it.
“Now, master Samuel the white and blacksmith’s apprentice, let’s see how you do pouring your first batch of pewter plates. The fine like of which, made right and taken care of only ordinarily, will outlast generations.”
(Based on some pre-existing background.)
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Kevin recalled the Family Services Advisor’s words: “Remember, nothing about our meeting should be seen as punitive. Nothing’s happened to your permanent record. We think of these interventions as therapeutic, to get you back on track.”
None of that explained the envelope in his mailbox, summoning him to the police
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Kevin had to wait. The police receptionist looked at his summons quizzically, as if she’d never seen a document like that before. “Just a moment,” she said, “I’ll find someone who can help.”
That was 45 minutes ago. Forty-five minutes of an empty receptionist’s desk, no noise, and no people.
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“Sorry we kept you waiting,” the deputy inspector said. He looked busy and tired, and Kevin wondered if he’d made things worse. “So why are you here again?”
“Well, I got this summons…” answered Kevin, pointing to the document.
“Oh, the FSA? Not them again!” The deputy inspector seemed exasperated.
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After another 30 minutes, the deputy inspector returned, handing Kevin a neat stack of papers and a pen. “Just fill this out real quick, will you? That should clear this up.” He left Kevin alone again.
Kevin examined the bundle. “Subject Intake Questionnaire” was the title. About 20 pages total.
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Nice set of promos, thanks!
Arabella cocked one eyebrow as she glanced at Aiden. “Wicked? Really?” The corners of her lips turned up a bit as he gulped and nodded at her.
Aiden licked his lips and said, “Yes, you’re wicked. I’ve seen what you do to people that cross you. They just… go away!”
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Dear Congress, I am going to be wickedly honest here.
You are useless, feckless, and a waste of time.
Why would I say that?
Because You Moronic Simpleton’s It Doesn’t Matter What Laws You Pass If You Allow The Mayorkaaa’s, And The Other Whores In Government To Ignore Enforcing Those Laws, Those Laws Are Thereby Meaningless.
Thereby Congress, The Senate And The House are Meaningless As Well.
Now stop wasting our time, close the borders, balance the budget and shut the hell up.
How’s that for Wicked?
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