Okay… being a psychology major, I’m totally into classical conditioning. But is it me? Or has something gone horribly wrong with the dog in this experiment? My husband’s dog is starting to look like Kujo these days with all the facial hair falling out. Hubby says it’s allergies, but I’m starting to wonder…

Well, that’s another story. Today we have Thom Brannan with us as he shares a bit about his writing.

WEREWOLVES
Dr. Crispin has engineered the saviors of mankind: Pavlov’s Dogs, a team of soldiers capable of transforming into fearsome beasts. But when Crispin and his team welcome a new talented neurotechnician to the island, Dr. Crispin quickly realizes his masterwork has fallen into the hands of a man he does not trust.

ZOMBIES
Back on the mainland, Ken Bishop and his best friend Jorge get caught in a traffic jam on their way home from work. There’s a wreck up ahead. And something worse. The first sign of a major outbreak—and Ken and Jorge are stuck in the gridlock. They quickly realize they not only need to escape, but they also need to save as many people as possible on the way.

ARMAGEDDON
Now Dr. Crispin and his team must make a terrible decision. Should they send the Dogs out into the zombie apocalypse to rescue survivors? Or should they listen to the new neurotechnician, who would have them hoard their resources and post the Dogs as island guards?

Available at Barnes & Nobles || The Book Depository || Amazon

CAUTION: I TEND TO RAMBLE

Thom Brannan here. I’m one of the authors of Pavlov’s Dogs, with D.L. Snell, and would like to speak with the readers of this blog for a moment about my start in writing in general, Pavlov’s Dogs in particular, and why I should probably never do this.

I got my start with horror, even though I really want to be Robert B. Parker, he who created Spenser and Jessie Stone and Sunny Randall. Most of my early reading was icky boy stuff, like all the Robert E. Howard co-authored Conan stories, or Stephen King, or Isaac Asimov. Of the three, I didn’t think I could write a sword-and-sorcery thing, because while I had my fair share of being in fights (I was a minority in my school along the Texas/Mexico border) I didn’t have a lot of experience winning. And the science fiction was great, but I didn’t feel smart enough to make things work in a story. I was keenly aware of the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek, and I didn’t want to have to deal with people telling me I was wrong, physics doesn’t work that way.

But I knew what scared me, and other people. That, I had a solid hold on.

The time came to write something for English class, and my teacher (Mrs. Isela V. Gonzalez) had us working on something for The Canterbury Tales. Everyone was working on their character and the tale they were going to tell on the road with the other pilgrims, and I sat in class all week, wondering what the hell I was going to do. That Friday, I went home and looked at a 3-D poster on my wall of Dracula, flanked by a wolf and a bat, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

I would write a vampire story.

And so I did, pounding it out on my dad’s Commodore-64 all day Saturday. The stack of dot-matrix printed paper I brought into class was… hefty. And it was only marginally good, but I had been bitten by the bug. Unfortunately, the symptoms went into remission rather quickly, and I didn’t write again for a very long while. In the intervening years, I picked up a book called Double Deuce in the ship’s library of the USS Los Angeles (SSN-688) and devoured it cover to cover. I recognized the names on the cover, Spenser and Hawk, from the television show, Spenser: For Hire. I was hooked. When we pulled back into port, and I had time, I raided the book stores for the rest of the Spenser series.

This, this crime business. I loved it. And after finding that Parker had followed in the footsteps of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, I had to read them, too. I had loved the Spenser television show, as well as The Equalizer, and I will but only briefly mention The Green Hornet Greenway show, because I have been known to run off at the mouth about that quite a bit. I loved it.

So when I sat down to write again, it was with a character that would fit in with those other Private Eyes I had read so much about: the Continental Op, Spenser, Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade, the Hornet. Except…

Things kept happening to him in the stories that never happened in The Maltese Falcon, or The Big Sleep. There was always something in the story that went bump in the night, and finally I just stopped fighting it. Horror Noir it was.

Fast-forward a decade, and now I have a book on the (virtual) shelves with D.L. Snell called Pavlov’s Dogs. But even now, I’m dragging my past with me. The book’s main regular-joe is a guy named Ken, and he’s read the same stuff I have, and he likes to see himself as a kind of character like Spenser, or even Conan. He’s got his own sense of wrong and right, and he acts accordingly, regardless of the personal cost. His best friend and employee Jorge isn’t any of those things, but he’s good on the inside, where it counts. Even though it’s hard to see through his layers of bullshit.

I should say D.L. Snell had a very large hand where it comes to actually fleshing out these characters. Without his clear vision and constant reminders that we need these characters to be people on the page, not just in my head, who knows how this would have turned out?

Thanks for letting me spend some time on your blog, and I hope it was okay, that I didn’t bore you. I tend to ramble sometimes, and that’s why I should never be allowed to have a blog. You should see me as I type this, all wincing and rubbing my hands together, trying not to run over my allotted space and just talk, talk, talk. It’s very difficult. I’m mouthy.

I remain,
Thom Brannan

About the Authors

THOM BRANNAN (est. 1976) has been a submariner, a nuclear operator, an electrician and now works on an offshore drilling platform. He lives in or around Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, Kitty, a boy, a girl, a cat and a dog.

D.L. SNELL is an acclaimed novelist from the Pacific Northwest. Anthologies include Pocket Books’ Blood Lite series, edited by best-selling author Kevin J. Anderson. Snell’s first novel, Roses of Blood on Barbwire Vines, also attained critical acclaim from popular novelists such as New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Maberry. Visit his website at dlsnell.com.

Follow the rest of the tour!

I don’t do very many reviews these days, but when presented with the blurb of Someone Else, Somewhere Else by Jenelle Jack Pierre, my interest perked. I loved the cover art. It has a youthful freshness to it and makes me think of innocence in the world. Then when I found out Someone Else, Somewhere Else was a short story, I was totally in. Before the review, the blurb.

“Though we were four years younger than Ariya, we’d watched teenagers before at an older cousin’s house. They talked on the phone, they texted their boyfriends, they watched movies on DVDs. Sometimes, they tidied up the house by wiping the table with a damp sponge after feeding us, removing the crumbs and ring spots from the bottom of our glasses. But we’d never seen any of them work like Ariya did.”

Twin sisters. Stepdaughters. Neighbours. In this short fiction, the lives of the twins are forever changed when their mother remarries and they move next door to a family unlike their own. Could their lives have been different with a flip of a coin?

The first thing I noticed about this work was the narrative. I don’t recall ever reading a work in first person plural. This story was told from the perspective of both the twins, which doubly interesting because the twin girls (main characters) in the story were nameless. The narrative was presented in such a way it gave the two girls a collective thought. For me, the over all effect made Someone Else, Somewhere Else a worthy read if only for analysis.

As for the story itself, Someone Else, Somewhere Else was thought provoking. Not only was it a reminder we don’t get to pick the families we’re born into, but that children have even less say in the hand they’re dealt. They get what they get and adjust the best they can. I finished this story wondering if I protected my children effectively from the harm always around the corner, and hoping their childhood memories will be filled with enough joy to outweigh the bad.

This read left me with a bittersweet sadness, and I hoped Ariya found happiness in her choices. I say if you have 20-30 minutes of spare time, check out this read.

Last I checked, this is a free read. Don’t miss your opportunity to try it out.

Available at Barnes & Nobles || Smashwords || Amazon

Also, be sure to return on Thursday. Jenelle Jack Pierre will be here for an interview!

Welcome to installment #4 of the Chasing Shadows – Making Amends series. For more information or to read the previous scene, head to this page.

Chapter 1

Scene 4

A trickle of light crept up Kecil’s legs and teased her awake. Slowly the events of the prior night washed over her like a fragmented nightmare. Her chest clenched tight as hollowness consumed her and blotted out any brightness the sun offered. She fought for every agonizing breath, wanting the Great Spirt to claim her and send her into the comforting arms of her mother.

Despite her wishes, life continued with Kecil in it, but eventually the aching grip in her chest eased. She rolled to her back and concentrated on the thick canopy of leaves, let the ambience of the forest quiet her tormented soul.

Before long, she noticed a peculiar smell, slightly sweet and familiar but with a hint of decay. Kecil rose to her feet and brushed away the dirt caked on her stinging shoulder—the least of her pain—and traced the scent to a Goliath of a tree. She circled the trunk and found a dead binturong laying in the dirt, its back twisted abnormally.

She stepped closer.

“Rwarrrr.”

Kecil jumped back and stumbled to the ground. Her heart thudded against her ribcage as she scrambled backward, but her heels found no traction and scraped ineffectively against the dirt.

From behind the corpse, a miniature whiskered face appeared and hissed—a baby binturong no larger than a newborn wehr-tiger cub.

Kecil sat frozen, waiting for her body to catch up with her mind and recognized the threat as minimal. She forced her heart and breathing to slow, then took a deep breath and returned with cautious steps, her hand outstretched and shaking.

The civet’s fur bristled. Hisses turned to growls as its thin black lips pulled back revealing tiny fanged teeth.

“It’s okay. I’m alone too.” Only inches away, she jerked back as the binturong snapped at her fingers. She tackled the cub, clamping its mouth shut with one hand while holding it tight to her body.

The baby raked and thrashed for freedom, scratching her stomach and arms, but in the end the small cub’s size was no match for her. Defeated, its struggles slowed though its body remained tense.

“That’s better,” Kecil cooed and released its muzzle, letting her hand slide over its head.

The little civet turned to sneak in a bite but missed. Eyes wide, teeth bared, the cub snarled as she petted. Eventually it quieted, turning its head into the caresses.

“I’ll take care of you now,” she said.

“Find him! He couldn’t have gone far.” Gemuk’s voice called out.

Kecil scanned the area and located the small handful of adult males in her clan combing the area—all were accounted for, except her father. If he’d been here keeping vigilance over his territory, her mother would be here today… alive and waiting in the hut. Kecil’s teeth ached as she clenched them. Why did he leave us unprotected?

“What are you doing out here?”

Kecil spun around to face the speaker—Kasut. She craned her neck to look at the giant of a wehr-tiger, tall like her father, like all of the males in the clan.

His eyes flicked to the binturong in her hands. “Go back to the village. It’s not safe.”

“Did you find him?” Gemuk approached, breathing heavily through his mouth. He focused on her, and his eyes shifted to the birthmark which encompassed her entire shoulder. “Get that runt out of here. She’s nothing but trouble… like her mother.”

Kecil’s eyes smarted, and she fought to swallow the lump welling in her throat.

“The killer escaped.” Kasut nodded toward the village. “Get out of here.”

Kecil edged by the two males and ran. Leaving behind the scrutiny of Gemuk, she sought the safety of the village, her prize in hand.

Surprise!

Yesterday, MaryLynn Bast had an early release. Please welcome One Bite to Passion into the world! I’m going to have to ask Ms. Bast about the Chinese symbols on the cover. What does it mean?!?!

On a business trip to Japan, Paige has just found happiness with Casey, an exciting, young man with a passionate interest in Paige. After a night of wild sex, feels like a new woman. Drawn to Casey, Page can’t refuse him even though he says he wants to possess her and she learns he is a vampire. Then Paige’s unfaithful husband, Dalton, shows up. He has supposedly broken off his affair, but Paige suspects he is still seeing his mistress. Soon, Paige begins to notice disturbing things happening around her and discovers she has become the center of a battle between covens who consider her The Chosen One. But when she faces the greatest peril of her life, and Casey shows up to help, Page realizes she is willing fight the covens side-by-side with him, if it means the chance of a future with this vampire she has come to love.

Available at Renaissance

Upcoming Blog Tour

Mark your calendar, because a blog tour for One Bite to Passion is in the making. From June 3 – June 9, there be interviews, giveaways, and book reviews. Don’t miss out. For more information head to MaryLynn Bast’s blog!

Happy Release day!

The blog tour is over, but the fun’s just begun. Today marks the release day for The Talisman of El by Alecia Stone. Woot!

WHAT IF YOUR WHOLE LIFE WAS A LIE?

One Planet.

Two Worlds.

Population: Human … 7 billion.
Others … unknown.

When 14-year-old Char­lie Blake wakes up sweat­ing and gasp­ing for air in the mid­dle of the night, he knows it is hap­pen­ing again. This time he wit­nesses a bru­tal mur­der. He’s afraid to tell any­one. No one would believe him … because it was a dream. Just like the one he had four years ago – the day before his dad died.

Char­lie doesn’t know why this is hap­pen­ing. He would give any­thing to have an ordi­nary life. The prob­lem: he doesn’t belong in the world he knows as home.

He belongs with the others.

Available at Barnes & Nobles || The Book Depository

Today we have Janice Seagraves, author of Windswept Shores, here to share with us. First, I want to introduce you to her latest novel, Windswept. I totally love the colors on the cover.

The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?

Windswept Shores available for $4.95 at Barnes & Nobles || Smashwords || Amazon || Pink Petal Books

Guest Post by Janice Seagraves

Hi, my name is Janice Seagraves.

Someone recently asked me why I decided to write. I gave the usual flippant answer that the characters in my head wouldn’t leave me alone. Which to be honest is more or less true.

But actually I blame my insomnia.

As far back as I can remember I’ve had trouble falling asleep. My own grandmother used to say that I sleep less than any baby she knew, and Grandma was a mother of eight.

At a very young age I started making up stories to pass the time. I’d close my eyes and imagine I was someone else having an adventure.

The “what happened next” had started innocently enough. My parents had taken my sister and me out to a movie. On the drive home, I asked my mom, “What happened next.” She told me to make up an ending.

So I did.

It became a habit with me to think of an alternative ending to a movie that I didn’t like, or one that had a wimpy ending. Or just what happened next.

Then I started to think up brand new stories. I never wrote any of these down, but I would draw pictures.

Hey, I was young and truthfully I didn’t have a lot of faith in my grammar or spelling.

I finally started to write when I was twenty years old. The stories in my head had started to grow and I had to write them down just to remember them all. I’ve written short stories to larger pieces over the years, all having to do with the question: what happened next.

Then about eleven years ago I tried to take a class in accounting, but my daughter started to have trouble in school. My hubby and I decided I was still needed at home. Giving up the class wasn’t a problem. Apparently I don’t have “the right stuff” to be an accountant. Go figure.

Then I got the bright idea to start to write seriously toward publication.

I started to study the craft of writing. It was hard at first, because I hadn’t so much as taken a writing course. So I bought several books and got a couple of subscriptions to writing magazines. Then I took a correspondence course.

Later I finally got online and the whole world opened up for me. I got a blog, joined writing groups, writer’s forums, took (yippee) workshops and made friends with other writers.

Someone suggest I join a new group called Avoid Writer’s Hell, started by Faith Bicknell-Brown. The owner had written four books with the same title as the group, to help writers. (Sadly, the group no longer exists, but the books with Faith’s invaluable advice are still available.)

I learned so much from this group and had so much encouragement that I finally entered a writing contest. It was for a cover that I thought would fit a manuscript that I had wrote the year before, called Windswept Shores. It’s about what happened next after a terrible plane crash.

To my surprise I not only won, but I was also offered a contract.

Excerpt from Windswept Shores

If she had to spend one more day on this godforsaken island, she’d go stark raving mad. The thought spurred Megan into rolling a large log with one foot then the other, until it was near the bonfire. “God, this thing is heavy.” With a grunt, she lifted one end until it teetered upright then gave it a shove. It landed in the fire, embers swirling in the air.

Breathing hard, she flicked a glance at the teal-colored sea. She’d thought a vacation to the Bahamas would be the perfect getaway, would be a solution to the problems she and Jonathan had faced. She’d been wrong—dead wrong. Tears of grief filled her eyes. The never-ending crash of the waves on the beach and the cries of the seagulls seemed to mock her with the reminder she was utterly alone.

She’d felt like a tiny speck of sand last night when a violent storm had swept across the island. It had made a mess of her meager campsite, which had taken all morning to fix, and had demolished her seaweed SOS sign. She’ll have to recreate her SOS. Sighing, Megan trudged toward a pile of kelp. As she got closer, she saw a figure wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. Her stomach lurched.

Oh, God, it’s another body washed up from the plane wreck. That would be number twelve. As always, she couldn’t help but wonder if the next one would be Jonathan. He hadn’t been wearing jeans on the plane, so she knew she’d been spared seeing his corpse this time. Thank God. She approached the body with dread. Tightening her resolve, she knelt. Suddenly the “dead body” coughed and rolled over. With a scream, Megan jumped back. She clutched her chest and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

He’s alive!

Biting her lip, she stared down at the still-breathing man. His drenched t-shirt molded against his broad shoulders and well developed upper body. Short, golden brown hair stuck out in all directions.

Megan, get control of yourself. Don’t wet your pants the first time you finally see a living person. She got on her knees, plucked the seaweed from him and wiped the sand from his face. His day-old whiskers scratched her palm. Reddened skin stretched across both cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Her thumb caressed his parched full bottom lip.

She patted the side of his face. “Hey, are you okay?” That’s a dumb question. He isn’t okay.

“Hmm?” Gray eyes fluttered open. He stared at her a long moment, frowning slightly. “G’day.”

“Hello there.” She hated the sound of her voice. It sounded rusty, unused.

Abruptly he rolled away from her to heave onto the sand, making a loud, ugly retching noise.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at her. “Sorry, mate, I swallowed too much sea.” His gaze went over her shoulder in the direction of the bonfire which crackled and popped not far from them. “Mite big for a barbie.”

Sitting back on her heels with her hands folded in her lap, Megan followed his gaze, then back to him. “My signal fire.”

“Signal for what?”

“Help.”

His accent intrigued her. Was he English or Australian?

“G’darn,” he looked around, “where the bloody hell am I?”

“Don’t know. There’s no one here to ask.” Megan shrugged helplessly, but couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Are you from England?”

“Naw,” he rubbed his eyes, “I hail from Sidney, but my port of call these days is Fort Lauderdale.” He blinked up at her. “You?”

Ah, he’s an Aussie. “I’m Megan Lorry, from Anaheim, California,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the surf and the roar from the fire. “Are you a survivor of Air Bahamas flight 227, too?”

“G’day, Megz,” he answered, struggling to sit-up. “Sorry, I’m not from your plane.”

Megan slipped an arm around him lifting his back off the sand. Turning his head to her hair, he took in a couple of short breaths. Megan pulled back staring at him. “What the—did you just sniff me?”

“Ya smell too good not to.” He grinned, causing his cheeks to dimple. “Name’s Seth Dawson.” Leaning back on one arm, he stretched out his hand to her. She clasped it as if it was just a friendly greeting between strangers back home.

“Me mate’s fishing boat hit a reef during the big squall last night. That’s when I took a tumble ‘T’ over ‘A’ overboard.” He took a deep breath, let it out slow, then glanced up and down the beach. “Somehow I made it here ‘out the back of Burke.’”

“Oh dear, that’s terrible,” she sympathized. Does he mean the middle of nowhere?

“Blimey, I’m weak as a babe.” Seth managed to get to his knees, before stopping to pant. He licked cracked lips. “Megz, do you have any water on ya?”

“Yes, back at my camp. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Meg hurried off down the beach.

He called after her, “Where the bloody hell would I be going, eh?”

About Janice Seagraves

I still reside in the same small California town, where I was born and grew up.

I live in a hundred year old haunted house (not kidding) with my husband of 30 years with our just grown daughter.

We are owned by one cat and two birds. Of the later, one is a handicapped dove and the other a pigeon that is in love with my husband (also not kidding).

I write romance of various genres. My first book, which is a contemporary romance, called Windswept shores, came out in June 2010.

My website: http://janiceseagraves.org/
My book trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_r2NXKT0Sg

Not too often we see historical novels here. When I was younger (high schooler), I didn’t have much interest in history. Now that I’m aged (in a good way), I’m fascinated with the past and wished I’d paid attention more. One of the things I do like about not focusing on high school history is the opportunity to explore areas not thoroughly covered in public schools like black history, women’s history, or culture as it pertains to immigration. I could go on and on about the wonders of American history not covered in schools, but that’s not why we’re here today. Today we’re here to celebrate the release of Covenant by CD Harper.

Author, CD Harper is pleased to announce his book, Covenant. This work is a historical fiction novel set during slavery and the Civil War and looks at the relationship of the slave master and his slave love. The story also delves into the impact of slavery, the war and the human impulse to love on lives of everyone on Covenant Plantation. Covenant is told from the perspective of a slave.

The Civil War provides a smoky background for this debut novel that delves into the uncomfortable friction that exists between the waning power of the Southern plantation culture and the emerging identities that lie beneath. The naive Seth Hunter Jr., whose existence has been mapped out for him by domineering patriarchs, finds himself forced to confront his life as pressures from the past and future force him from his pedestal. The divine nature of the American ideal of Manifest Destiny led earlier generations of Hunters from humble Northern beginnings to a precipice of Southern power embodied in Covenant Plantation, Seth Jr.’s inheritance. As the Civil War unseats the stability of the South, Seth’s own life unravels. The estate, the lifestyle and the woman he was given all become harder to hang on to as he struggles to fulfill his destiny.

Dr. Clifford D. Harper is a respected theatrical executive producer and playwright. His written works include Curse and Neva’s Tale. Neva’s Tale was produced by Theresa Larkin, directed by Ted Lange, and earned actor Larry Gammell Jr. an NAACP Award and another from L.A. Weekly in 1993 for his supporting role.

A retired Professor of Theatre Arts and Dance at California State University, Los Angeles, Clif served as the Chair of the Department of Theatre Arts where he established the “Theatre of the Twenty-First Century” and revived the Dance Kaleidoscope program in the LA community. During his tenure, he became the founding Executive Director of the Harriet and Charles Luckman Fine Arts Complex, where he developed the world-renowned Luckman Jazz Orchestra. Dr. Harper’s commitment to the arts was instrumental in facilitating the art retrospective: “African American Artists in Los Angeles, A Survey, Exhibition, 1945-2003.”

Prior to moving to Los Angeles, Clif taught for a year at Sangamon State University before moving on to Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, where he served as Chair of the Black Studies Program and Dean of General Academic Programs. Dr. Harper received an undergraduate degree from the University of Illinois, a Master’s in Theatre and Speech and became one of the first African Americans to earn a PhD. in English from St. Louis University

Born and raised in a segregated neighborhood of East St. Louis, Illinois, Dr. Harper graduated and later returned to teach at his high school alma mater, Lincoln High. Dr. Harper found this experience to be significant and rewarding. During this time, he discovered his passion for theater and found inspiration in his students, many of whom went on to have gratifying careers.

Dr. Harper’s many accomplishments have included: working with the renowned Katherine Dunham, receiving a Rockefeller Foundation Fellowship Award, earning one of the earliest Certificates in Black Studies from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and starting a “Forgivable Loan” program for female PhD’s at CSULA.

Clif and his lovely wife, Linda, have migrated north to the Oregon Coast, settling in the charming town of Gleneden Beach. Clif continues to write and is working on his next novel.

Website: http://cdharperbooks.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CovenantBook
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorCDHarper

I see you’ve made it.

Welcome to the next stop on the

Seven Habits of Highly Infective People Blog Tour!

Today, William Todd Rose is here to share a bit about himself and his book, Seven Habits of Highly Infective People. Woot.

Reena Jacobs: Congratulations on your latest release, The Seven Habits of Highly Infective People. I understand it’s a revised and expanded version. Please tell us a bit about it, and what led you to release it.

William Todd Rose: The first edition was independently published and was only on the market for around a month or so before Permuted Press asked if they could see the manuscript. I’ve always loved Permuted and had planned on submitting something to them in the future, but I always felt like I wasn’t quite ready. So, needless to say, I was thrilled when they said they wanted it. The only issue was the word count. The original version was about 25,000 words shorter than their minimum requirements, so they asked if I thought I could expand it a bit. This really wasn’t that much of a problem. When I wrote the original version, I thought it was a one shot tale. But after publication, I realized that The Seven Habits was actually the first book in a much longer story arc, so I took this opportunity to include some seemingly minor details which will play very important roles in the rest of the series. The hardest part was figuring out exactly where to insert the extra content, as I thought the storyline in the first edition was pretty tight. Each chapter basically picked up where the last left off. As I reread the original and made notes, I realized there was one point in the tale where a period of time had passed for both Bosley and Ocean and realized this was be the perfect spot to add the extra scenes.

RJ: That’s totally awesome. I love it when agents and traditional publishers find indie authors. Really makes me believe in the process again. Congratulations! By the way, I cruised your blog. A bit on the… disturbing side. Love it!

WTR: Thanks! I’m ashamed to say that I don’t update it as often as I should. I’ve tried blogging several times before, but never really knew what to put in it. So this time around I decided to mainly write about what I consider to be the most interesting things which have happened to me.

RJ: I’m totally with you on trying to figure out new content. I hear you have a “thing” for zombies. Will you please share with us your fascination with them?

WTR: To be perfectly honest, it’s not so much the zombies themselves which intrigue me but the world that would be left in their wake. I’ve always been interested in the psychological and sociological effects of a single, shared event. Something that would, almost overnight, create entirely new paradigms of survival and morality. I suppose I could have picked nuclear war or a natural disaster, but zombies are great metaphors, you know? They are Death incarnate: unsympathetic and relentless, they’ll just keep coming and coming until they finally get you. More than that, however, I like the additional emotional strain the undead would place upon those who survived the initial onslaught. The walking dead defy all the laws that constitute our collective reality. A pandemic, for example, would be easier for survivors to rationalize. Disease conforms to our agreed upon reality. But seeing hordes of rotting corpses wandering around the landscape would be a constant reminder that the world as we knew it was over. At the same time, it would also topple mankind from our coveted position at the top of the food chain. We’d become prey again and be thrust into roles we haven’t had to fill for a very, very long time.

RJ: Yikes! You’re delving into an area where I start to have nightmares. What got you into speculative fiction?

WTR: In all honesty, it was reading. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always loved sci-fi, horror, and adventure tales. Books were the best gift I could receive on any given holiday and even as a young boy I had quite an extensive collection. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I could write these types of stories myself and eventually I realized that I was actually pretty good at it.

RJ: Where do you get inspirations for your stories?

WTR: It’s really hard to pinpoint. Most of them just evolve organically. My first novella, “Shadow of the Woodpile”, was all stream of consciousness type stuff. I watched the story unfold without really knowing where it was going until I reached the end. For my second book, “Cry Havoc”, all I knew was that I wanted to start with a scene showing a city embroiled in urban warfare. The only book I can really pinpoint a specific inspiration for is “Shut the Fuck Up and Die!”; my wife and I were watching House of 1,000 Corpses and I told her what I would love to see in one of those types of movies and she replied, “Well then, you should write it.” So I did. But that’s all I can say without releasing any spoilers.

RJ: I loved the trailers for your works. What was your role in the production of them?

I actually made and edited all of them myself. For The Seven Habits trailer, I used stock footage and a song from the German band Lacrimso. For the Cry Havoc trailer, I digitally composed the music using Fruity Loops Studio and edited various images which I felt conveyed the tone of the book. If you watch that trailer, you may notice some black and white images in which I’d added a bit of yellow to certain details with Photoshop. Though I never come right out and said it in the novel, yellow is a very important color in that book. You could probably read through it and never notice. But if you re-read it and pay specific attention to things that are yellow, you’ll begin to see patterns emerge based on that color. So I felt it was very important to have yellow in the trailer. For the Sex in the Time of Zombies trailer, I cannibalized some stills from Night of the Living Dead since its in public domain and colorized them in the same way I’d added yellow into Cry Havoc.

RJ: Very cool. What are you working on now?

WTR: Right now I’m finishing up the second book in the Tides of Time series. It picks up right where The Seven Habits left off and I’m exploring some of the minor characters from the first book in a little more detail while still maintaining the focus on Bosley and Ocean. I wanted this one to be different from the first while still maintaining the rules which govern this particular universe. There’s not as much time travel in it, however Bosley is transported and trapped in the future by a mixture of mysticism and quantum mechanics. It’s based on the theory that a single particle can exist simultaneously in two different locations. He psychically exists in his present and the future simultaneously. Since the particles which make up his body are entangled, anything which affects his body in one timeline also affects his body in the other.

In addition to this, I’m working on a collaborative novel called Black Rain with author Carl Hose. It has that sci-fi/apocalyptic-horror vibe that I really dig. We’re basically taking an alien invasion scenario and stripping away all the technological aspects of it. There are no ray guns, no shining saucers hovering over the nations of the world. Our invaders, for want of a better word, are primordial creatures who’ve come to earth by chance instead of design. Being natural predators, they do what they do best… hunt for game. In this case, the prey just happens to be human.

RJ: Alien Nation meets Predator comes to mind. I like it! Do you have any advice for other writers?

WTR: Be true to your voice and vision. It’s okay to be inspired by other writers, but make sure the story you’re telling is yours and yours alone. At the same time, realize that not everyone out there is going to dig what you’re doing. You’re going to get bad reviews sooner or later, but don’t let those discourage you. If you find the negative reviews weighing on you, remind yourself of this: on Amazon.com, the King James version of The Bible only has a four star rating… and that was supposedly written by God. So, as my wife says, there’s that….

RJ: Awesome point. Anything special you’d like to say to readers?

WTR: I want them to know how much their loyalty and purchases are appreciated. Because of them, I’m able to dedicate even more time to doing what I love; that they would devote their time and money to the stories I’ve created isn’t taken lightly and never will be. So thank you to each and every person who has ever read my work. The importance of my readers in the writing equation will never be taken for granted.

Thanks a bundle for stopping by, Mr. Rose.

Thanks for having me! It’s been a blast!

Seven Habits of Highly Infective People is available at
Barnes & Nobles || Smashwords || The Book Depository || Amazon

About the Author

Named by The Google+ Insider’s Guide as one of their top 32 authors to follow, William Todd Rose writes speculative fiction that lends itself to the dark, and often surreal, realm of the macabre. With short stories appearing in numerous magazines and anthologies, his longer works include The Seven Habits of Highly Infective People, The Dead and Dying, Cry Havoc, and more. For more information, including links to free fiction, please visit the author online at www.williamtoddrose.com

Don’t miss the rest of the blog tour!

I’ve been quite fortunate to have LOTS of authors visit my blog over the past few months. More authors means a larger selection for readers to choose from and more opportunities to win. A big thank you to all the authors for being generous with their time as well as the blog tour organizers who’ve allowed me to participate in the blog tours.

I’m not going to go into too many details. But basically the Mid-Month Commentator Giveaway is a feature I’m trying out this year. Each month I draw a winner from the blog post commentators. That winner is able to select any book (print or digital) by the author they left a comment for. More details on the giveaways here.

And the winner for this month is

Angela Brown!

Angela has a choice between any work by David Houchins, Scot Thomas, or Nadja Notariani.

The winner has been notified.

A recap of works by these three authors.

“We guarantee this is the only tool you need to survive the zombie.

OK, that’s not really true. But when the SHTF you’re going to want a survival guide that’s not just geared toward day-to-day survival. You’ll need one that addresses the essential skills for true nourishment of the human spirit. Living through the end of the world isn’t worth a damn unless you can enjoy yourself in any way you want. (Except, of course, for anything having to do with abuse. We could never condone such things. At least the publisher’s lawyers say we can’t”

Zombie Apocalypse Preparation: How to Survive in an Undead World and Have Fun Doing It! is the first zombie apocalypse survival manual with entertainment in mind.  What fun is living in a world of the undead if you can’t have a bit of fun?  The apocalypse is not just about survival it’s about enjoying your new found life.

Inside the covers of this book you will not only find the way to pick the right weapon, building, and survival methods but you’ll find entertaining ways to dispose of the undead, entertain yourself and your group, and dispatch your former friends and family members with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.

Available at Barnes & Nobles || Smashwords || The Book Depository || Amazon

~ ‘One Fate be granted mortal man, used for evil or good as the inner voice directs. Alas, the divine spark draws the eyes of the Fates, the Second Fate sparingly gifted by their hands. Be warned offspring of the gods; guard your gifting well. For if the Third Fate be unleashed, the soul lays bare before one so touched by the gods.’ ~

Cautious and quiet by nature, Paige Kinnell watches life unfold from the sidelines, maintaining her simple existence as a shield to hide behind. But underneath her shy, careful ways, Paige senses a disconnect with the world around her, indulging instead her ever curious interest in the legend and lore of time nearly forgotten.

One chance encounter with an ancient of the undead begins an unraveling of reality as Paige knows it, leaving her to sort through dreams and enchantments, discovering along the way that one’s Fate can be mere illusion, and that the consequences of opening her heart to another may cost dearly.

Cael Maccinnis, the handsome Highlander she’s met, seems the answer to every unspoken longing of her heart, even as he awakens dark, secret desires buried within her soul. As strange and unnerving changes begin occurring in her mind and body, Paige has no choice but to face her life’s unnatural turn and confront the frightening implications. For within Paige’s past a secret lay dormant, hidden even from her. This truth, guarded well and wielded by the Fates themselves, becomes the catalyst invoking the power of The Third Fate.

Available at Amazon

If you haven’t entered the Rotter World giveaway, don’t miss out!

 Welcome to the latest stop on the Rotter World Blog Tour!

Today Mr. Baker has a special treat for us. That’s right… an excerpt. But first! Let’s learn a little about Rotter World.

Eight months have passed since vampires released the Revenant Virus on mankind, nearly wiping out both species. For Mike Robson, the situation could be far worse. He has joined up with a small band of humans and the last coven of vampires who are riding out the zombie apocalypse in an old fort along the coast of southern Maine. But the uneasy alliance between humans and vampires is strained with the arrival of the creator of the Revenant Virus. He claims to have a vaccine that will make them immune and allow mankind to take civilization back from the living dead. However, the vaccine is located in a secure underground facility five hundred miles away.

To retrieve it, Robson leads a raiding party of humans and vampires down the East Coast, which has been devastated by the outbreak and overrun by zombies and rape gangs. Yet none of the horrors he deals with on the road can prepare him for what he will find in the underground facility. Robson will encounter the greatest threat his group has faced to date, not only from zombies but from betrayal within his own ranks.

Excerpt from Rotter World

By Scott M. Maker

Chapter One

The moan of the living dead shattered the stillness of the night. More than fifty zombies congregated around the warehouse’s front façade, stumbling along with slow, awkward moves.

A handful lumbered around the abandoned military-green shuttle bus parked to the left of the building. Those in front of the warehouse clawed and banged at the sliding metal door built into the wall, each swipe leaving a smear of rotten flesh and blood. Undeterred by the futility of their attempts, the zombies kept up their assault, desperate to get at the food inside. A quiet but steady droning underscored the scene, coming from the thousands of flies feeding off of the living dead.

From their position on a hillock a quarter of a mile distant, the small rescue party carefully studied the zombie horde.

Tibor snarled between clenched fangs. “There are many.”

“Too many,” said Mike Robson. In the green glow of the night vision goggles, the living dead resembled bees swarming over their hive. Robson removed his goggles and placed them on the ground. As the group leader, he was responsible for the lives of his team, and right now they were definitely about to go into harm’s way. He looked across the narrow sound toward the naval shipyard. He did not need night vision goggles to know it had been overrun. “This whole fucking place is swarming with rotters.”

“I don’t like this.” Dravko stared at the warehouse, the irises of his eyes fully dilated so as to see in the dim light. “We haven’t come this far into rotter territory in months. And for what? To save half a dozen survivors? It’s not worth the risk.”

“The boss thinks otherwise,” Robson protested half-heartedly.

“Then let the fucking boss get his ass out here and save them.” Lee O’Bannon spat out the words from underneath his night vision goggles.

“Knock it off,” Robson ordered. Though he would never admit it to the others, he did not like this mission one damn bit. It violated every rule of engagement they operated by, rules that had kept them alive until now. It was dumb ass shit like this that would get them killed one day.

But orders were orders.

“Come on.” Robson crawled backwards down the reverse side of the hillock, followed by the others. Even with the rotters out of their line of sight, the ungodly moaning still echoed through the dark.

The remainder of the rescue party stood a quarter of a mile away, milling around their vehicles and scanning the area for approaching rotters. Robson had brought the usual contingent for a rescue party: nine humans and three vampires; the two Mack trucks mounted with snow plough blades and twin gun mounts in the dump bed; the school bus reinforced with mesh steel gratings attached to the window frames and a cow catcher from an old steam engine welded to the front; and his command car, a Subaru Outback. It should have been more than enough to handle the situation. At least he thought so until he found a swarm of rotters between him and the survivors. He suddenly felt obscenely outnumbered.

Daytona, seated in the driver’s seat of one of the dump trucks, saw them approach. He reached out between the foot-long steel spikes welded around the bottoms and sides of the windows and quietly slapped his hand against the door to get the others’ attention. Everyone turned to Robson.

Daytona nodded toward the hillock. “What’s it look like?”

Robson waved over the others so he would not have to shout. “We got about fifty rotters hanging around the warehouse, mostly by the front doors. A few are wandering around the parking lot.”

“What about the survivors?” asked Jordan, who crouched in the open doorway at the rear of the school bus, nervously rolling the tip of a toothpick between his lips. “Did you see them?”

Robson shook his head.

“Maybe we’re too late,” Jordan said hopefully.

“Those rotters wouldn’t be trying to claw their way into that place if it were empty.

Someone’s still alive in there.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Clark, the driver of the second truck.

“We get them out.” Eleven sets of eyes focused on Robson, waiting for orders.

“Daytona, Clark. You go in first and plough the area, then set up a barricade on either side of the doors. Dravko, Tibor, and Sultanic are with me in the bus. Lee, you and Rashid take the Outback and hang back. Keep an eye out for swarmers.”

Jordan sighed. “Wish Mad Dog was with us. He could take out a dozen of those things without breaking a sweat.”

“Screw that,” said O’Bannon. “With that open cut on his arm, the smell of blood would only incite ’em into a frenzy.”

“Knock it off.” Robson said it louder than he wanted, and then lowered his voice. “We don’t have Mad Dog with us. If we do this right, we should be in and out in a few minutes. Any questions?”

None.

“All right. Let’s rock.”

Daytona pulled down over his brow the brim of the black baseball cap emblazoned with the NASCAR logo and started the truck’s engine. Clark did the same. In the bed of each truck, the gunners took up position in one of the mounts welded onto the front corners of each dump bed, strapped themselves in, and switched off the safety locks on their AK-47 assault rifles.

Caylee, the petite brunette who manned the forward gun position on Daytona’s truck, looked down at Jordan and blew him a kiss. He removed the toothpick, responded with a flirtatious smile, and then placed it between his lips.

The hiss of airbrakes and the grinding of gears accompanied the sound of revved up MP8

diesel engines as the two Macks set off, pulling away from the rest of the party and slowly gaining speed as they disappeared around the hillock.

As Whitehouse turned over the ignition on the school bus, Jordan, Dravko, Tibor, and Sultanic stepped inside and took up seats near the rear. Robson climbed in last, closing and securing the rear door behind him. The bus lurched forward and set off after the trucks.

O’Bannon followed close behind with the Outback.

The noise of the approaching vehicles attracted the zombies’ attention. The horde turned to watch the twin Macks cross in front of the hillock and race around the outer rim of the parking lot. The trucks swung left in front of the warehouse and increased speed, Daytona hugging the front wall with Clark directly behind and to his left. Oblivious to everything but the approaching food, the zombies lumbered en masse toward the trucks.

Daytona slammed into the mass of living dead, the truck shuddering with the impact.

Clark hit the outer edge of the horde a second later. Bones shattered and bodies ruptured. Some of the older, more decayed rotters exploded, venting noxious fumes from pent-up bodily gases and decay that filtered into the cabs. A gore-laden mist of human blood and dislodged flies formed around the ploughs, splattering the windshield of each vehicle. Other rotters not smashed outright were either dragged along the building’s façade and torn apart, or knocked down and crushed under the wheels. Within seconds, the two trucks had cleared the doorway, leaving behind a small lake of blood and body parts, as well as a few rotters that struggled to get back on their feet.

The trucks circled around and made another sweep in front of the warehouse door, taking out the few zombies that escaped the first pass. This time the trucks veered left into the parking lot and stopped a few yards from the warehouse. Several zombies lumbered toward the Macks, instinctively knowing food was inside. High-pitched beeping echoed across the lot as Daytona and Clark shifted into reverse. Clark’s truck slammed into one zombie as it climbed to its feet, knocking it over backwards onto the pavement. The rear wheels backed over it, bursting its torso and spraying its organs across the asphalt, leaving only its head and arms thrashing about. The trucks pulled up on either side of the doorway, leaving just enough room between them for the bus to back into. A pair of rotters roamed between the trucks, staring aimlessly at the vehicles.

No one noticed the single zombie in a naval officer’s uniform, its legs crushed to pulp, crawling on the ground along the wall as it disappeared under the rear of Daytona’s truck.

Whitehouse drove the school bus into the parking lot and swung it perpendicular to the warehouse, shifted into reverse, and backed the bus between the trucks, placing the rear quarter between the two vehicles. He looked over his shoulder at the men in back.

“Go!”

Robson opened the rear door. He paused, fighting back the urge to retch as the stench of rotting bodies wafted through the door, along with hundreds of flies. The sound of automatic rifle fire snapped him back to his senses. They needed to haul ass before the remaining rotters closed in on them.

Sensing food, the two rotters caught between the trucks lumbered toward the school bus.

“We’ve got this,” growled Dravko.

Dravko morphed into his vampiric form. The facial features transformed, his ears elongating, his forehead furrowing, his nose flaring, his teeth becoming a mouthful of fangs, until he looked more bat-like than human. His fingers lengthened, and the fingernails extended into three-inch long talons. He jumped to the ground in front of the closest rotter, which stood only a few feet away. It jerked toward Dravko and moaned, its arms outstretched to grab its prey. Dravko slapped the rotter’s arms away and grabbed its head by the jaw and skull, careful not to get his hand close to its teeth. The rotter bit frantically at thin air. Turning his hands in a circular motion, Dravko spun its head completely around. The rotter went limp. Dravko let it go, and the body dropped to the pavement.

Tibor lunged off the back of the bus, morphing into his vampiric form in mid-flight. He landed on the second rotter’s chest, clutching its head and knocking it backwards. As they toppled to the ground, Tibor used his strength and speed to slam the rotter’s head against the pavement with such force that the back of its skull collapsed beneath his hands, covering them in gore. Tibor wiped his hands on the thing’s soiled clothes and kicked the corpse under Clark’s truck.

Dravko morphed back into his human form and turned toward the school bus. “It’s clear!”

Robson jumped out and ran the twenty feet to the warehouse. Jordan followed, taking up a guard position by the left of the sliding door. Dravko and Tibor fell back and joined Sultanic by the open door to the bus.

Robson banged on the door with a closed fist. The clanging metal reverberated over the moaning of the zombies. “Open up!”

The rate of gunfire from the Macks’ dump beds increased, accompanied by an increase in moaning. A dozen rotters converged on the vehicles, those from the parking lot as well as some that stumbled around from the sides of the warehouse, each desperate to feed. Most crowded around the cabs, clawing at the metal and frantic to get at the drivers, but unable to get through the rows of foot-long spikes that surrounded each window. A few rotters attempted to push between the school bus and the trucks, only to be taken down by the gunners. Out in the parking lot, O’Bannon and Rashid stood by the open doors of the Outback, shooting through the head the few rotters that approached.

Robson banged much harder. “Damn it! Open up!”

He heard the door being unlatched from the inside and watched as it lifted off the ground and above his head. Two men faced him. One was about fifty, with a graying beard and disheveled hair. The other wore Air Force camouflage field dress with the nametag Thompson embroidered on his left chest. Thompson pointed a shotgun at Robson.

“Relax, man.” Robson tried not to focus on the steel grey barrel aimed at his face.

“We’re your rescue party.”

Thompson lowered the shotgun. “Can’t be too careful.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Six,” responded the man with the grey hair. “Including myself.”

“Well, haul ass if you want to get out of here.”

The grey-haired man turned back into the warehouse. “It’s safe. Come on.”

Four people emerged from the warehouse, one man in Air Force cammies, two in blue overalls, and a woman in her mid-twenties in a blood-stained lab coat. Robson ushered them toward Dravko and Tibor, who helped them into the school bus. He turned to the grey-haired man.

“Is that everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

Robson led the two men toward the bus when Jordan suddenly screamed with an intensity that made his blood run cold. He turned around to see a rotter in a naval uniform had emerged from under the rear of the truck and snuck up on Jordan without being seen. It had wrapped its arms around Jordan’s ankle and buried its teeth into his calf. Jordan pummeled his fist into its face, trying to push its head away, but the rotter had broken skin. Blood gushed from around its mouth. Yanking its head back, the rotter tore off a chunk of Jordan’s flesh and chewed it.

Jordan withdrew his .44 Magnum, placed the barrel against the rotter’s skull, and pulled the trigger. Its head disintegrated, showering Jordan and the wall with gore. Jordan fell back against the wall and slumped down, his face contorted in pain.

Robson ran up to his friend and examined the leg, already knowing the prognosis. The wound measured four inches in diameter and sunk through the skin deep into the muscle. Blood flowed from around the jagged edges and formed a puddle on the asphalt.

From above him in the dump bed of the truck, Caylee cried out. She unhooked herself from the gun mount and started to climb down. Robson yelled up to her. “Stay there!”

“But Jordan’s–”

“I’ve got this! Just keep the rotters off my back!” When he saw Caylee crawl back into her mount, Robson turned to Jordan. “Are you okay?”

“Damn.” Jordan averted his gaze from the wound and winced. “I’m infected.”

“Come on. Doc can fix you up.”

“It’s no use and you know it,” Jordan grunted through clenched teeth.

“At least he can give you some morphine for the pain.”

“I’ll turn before you get me back.” Jordan spit out the toothpick and placed the barrel of the Magnum against the base of his jaw. “I just hope it was worth it.”

Before Robson could stop him, Jordan pulled the trigger. His youthful features distorted grotesquely as the bullet ripped through his skull, fracturing the skull in a dozen places and splattering his brains across the wall.

From above him, Robson heard Caylee scream. She abandoned her gun mount and started crawling up the rear of the dump bed, tears streaming down her face. Robson knew if she made it to Jordan, he would never get her back onto the truck. He refused to lose two people on this rescue. Picking up the Magnum, he aimed it at Caylee. “Get back to your position.”

“I want to be with Jordan.”

“He’s dead. Get back to your position.”

“No!”

In a single move, Sultanic jumped onto the side of the Mack and vaulted over the rim of the rear bed. He scooped up Caylee in his right arm and dragged her to the front of the truck, holding her in place. She pounded her fists against his face, screaming to be released until her yelling became a pitiful sobbing. Sultanic hugged Caylee tight, as much as to comfort her as to restrain her.

“Hurry up!” yelled Dravko.

Robson sprang up and raced back to the bus. Dravko offered his hand, but Robson shoved it aside as he climbed in. Dravko closed and secured the door, and then yelled up to Whitehouse. “Let’s get out of here!”

Whitehouse shifted into gear and pulled away from the building, pushing aside the rotters gathered around his cow catcher. Daytona and Clark fell in behind him. O’Bannon and Rashid climbed back into the Outback and brought up the rear.

Once the vehicles were clear of the immediate threat, Dravko sat down in the seat across from Robson. “There was nothing you could do for him.”

“Easy for you to say. It wasn’t one of yours that we lost.”

Dravko glared furiously at Robson for a moment before storming up toward the front of the bus. Robson knew Dravko was only trying to be consoling, but at this moment he did not really care.

As the rescue party pulled away, Robson took one last look at Jordan. Several rotters had already descended on the corpse in anticipation of a warm meal.

Rotter World is available at Barnes & Nobles || Smashwords || The Book Depository || Amazon

About the Author

Born and raised in Everett, Massachusetts (just outside of Boston), Scott M. Baker has spent the last twenty-two years living in northern Virginia.  He has authored several short stories, including the e-chapbook “Dead Water” by D’Ink Well Publications; “Rednecks Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things,” which appeared in the autumn 2008 edition of the e-zine Necrotic Tissue; “Cruise of the Living Dead,” which appeared in Living Dead Press’ Dead Worlds: Volume 3 anthology (August 2009); “Deck the Malls with Bowels of Holly,” which appeared in Living Dead Press‘ Christmas Is Dead anthology (October 2009); and “Denizens,” which appeared in Living Dead Press’ The Book of Horror anthology (March 2010).

Scott’s first zombie novel, Rotter World, which details the struggle between humans and vampires during a zombie apocalypse, was released by Permuted Press in April 2012. He has also authored The Vampire Hunters trilogy, which has been published by Pill Hill Press and received excellent reviews from Famous Monsters of Filmland and Fangoria, among others. Scott has finished his fifth novel, Yeitso, a homage to the monster movies of the 1950s set in northern New Mexico, which is currently with a publisher, and has begun his next novel, Hell Gates, the first in a series of young adult novels set in a world in which the realms of Hell and earth have merged.

When he is not busy writing, Scott can either be found relaxing on his back deck with a good cigar and a cup of iced coffee, or doting on the four house rabbits that live with him.

Please visit the author’s website at http:\\scottmbakerauthor.blogspot.com.

Giveaway Time!

Scott Baker is giving an autographed copy of his book Rotter World to one Canadian or American reader. PLUS++++ an eCopy to one International reader. Simply leave a comment along with your email address and you’re in!

Follow the Rotter World Blog Tour