Tuesday, July 15, 2025

In the Garden with Author GG Collins - Skinwalker Medium #Mystery #Thriller #UrbanFantasy


The Southwest is dry so the emphasis is on growing drought tolerate plants. A tip from the Ancient Puebloans is to build little walls around plants. They look like a short square fence made of soil. Inside, place lava pieces. They hold water and release it when the plants need a drink. 

The ancients grew what they referred to as the Three Sisters: corn, beans and squash. And they planted them together. The corn stalk acted as a pole the beans could climb and the squash spread out on the ground shading the roots of all of them.

In dry areas like New Mexico, xeriscaping is king. That’s why you’ll see what appear to be gravel yards with native plants lovingly placed. The effect is beautiful and natural to the area. Plants might include chamisa, cholla (but mind the thorns!), asters and cosmos. Add a little buffalo grass and you have a lovely yard that almost takes care of itself. 

For me, there has to be Talavera. My deck and patio are covered in Talavera pots, vessels and critters of the desert. If I have nothing to grow in one, I use the empty pot as another colorful piece. 

And then there are the garden lights. During the day the flowers provide the color. 

At night, the lights are far more than landscape enhancement. They bring a magical quality to my gardens in all shapes and colors. 

Even if you don’t live in the Southwest, lights and garden flags add a festive touch to your outdoor living space. 


Skinwalker Medium
A Rachel Blackstone Paranormal Mystery 
Book Five
GG Collins
 
Genre:  Indigenous Paranormal Thriller
Publisher: Chamisa Canyon Publishing
Date of Publication:  March 19, 2025
ISBN: 978-1735428246   
ASIN: B0F1ZGSYJK
Number of pages:  259
Word Count: 66,235
 Cover Artist:  Tatiana Vila, Vila Design
 
Tagline:  It’s the season of the witch. Are you ready?

Book Description: 

Rachel’s interview subjects are turning up dead, but only those linked to a certain story: the Santa Fe Penitentiary riot of 1980. 

It’s beginning to look like something malevolent is involved and it’s threatening everyone connected with the story. 

Rachel, the Reluctant Medium, must learn the Navajo ways to prevent another horrific skinwalker death – maybe even her own.

Amazon

 

Reviewed by Publisher's Weekly

Nominated for the New Mexico Book Award

The Strand Magazine Reading List.

Fellowship & Award-Winning Writer

SPJ (Society of Professional Journalists) Awards




Excerpt:

A stroll along the river usually calmed her. Still, Albuquerque’s crime rate had made national headlines so she tried to be alert to any threats.

After a few minutes, Olivia could tell her pulse had evened out and she was beginning to notice the birds and trees instead of her bothersome feelings. But something else concerned her. There was a fetid odor in this area. She dismissed it as a dead animal but it disturbed her enough that she dug in her coat pocket for her pollen and arrowhead. They weren’t there! Hadn’t she placed them in her pocket while talking with the reporter? When Blackstone cautioned about the others she had interviewed who had died or been scared, she remembered taking the bag out and showing her the contents. She checked the other pocket that held her fob and cell. Olivia could feel the panic rising in her throat, so she took out the phone. It made her more confident. Help was a phone call away.

She quickly turned. Behind her was nothing but an empty trail and the beginnings of another spectacular sunset. Ahead, a biker disappeared around a corner. The Rio Grande flowed to her left and there was no one exploring the banks or kayaking on the river. That left the treed area to her right. A few trees still held onto their autumn leaves, but most had turned brown and fallen to the ground. There was nothing apparent, but the feeling of trepidation would not go away. How could she have left her amulet and bag of pollen? And where did she leave them? It didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered: something was stalking her and she couldn’t yet see it. She held her phone tightly.

A hawk flew overhead as she looked upward. The hawk didn’t worry her. These birds of prey were only a threat to a small mammal, with the occasional insect or lizard for variety.

It circled languidly. This time, it swooped down at her as a bird parent might defend a fledgling against a passing cat. The intent was obvious: to bully her. It was working. Olivia wanted to go. She no longer wanted to be outside and felt vulnerable, was vulnerable. Retracing her steps to the parking lot, she heard a sound behind her.

She kept walking, hoping it would go away. But the fear in her chest was fierce. It was difficult to breathe. She tried to control the shivering and her pounding heart. Her options had run out. Olivia knew she was no longer in charge of the situation. She had to turn around and face whatever was there.

After casually glancing about to appear unafraid, she came face to face with an evil witch. Its eyes held her, and she couldn’t look away. The elders always cautioned against staring directly at the eyes so the witch could not control thoughts. But it was too late. The red and glowing eyes allowed her to see only the beast.

It was sans clothing with fur covering its body and the neck heavy with jewelry. Its face and arms were grey. For a moment she thought it might be female, but never had she known of a female witch becoming malevolent. She knew this was imminent danger of the fatal kind. Without her arrowhead, she didn’t know how to defend herself. It could run faster, jump higher and climb better than she could. Her chances of harming it were slim. The body of a skinwalker was tough, maybe impenetrable. With only the useless cell in her hand she stood silently, because who could she call to intervene?

 

About the Author:

G.G. Collins loves the American Southwest where many of her stories are located. She can be found hiking through ruins of the ancient ones and enjoying New Mexican cuisine. When not traipsing about, she makes up stories with great friendships, quirky characters and, oh yeah, dead bodies. She has worked for a book publisher and as a journalist; publishing is in her blood. In real life she shares her time with a man, several neurotic – and psychic – cats and the ongoing struggle to grow a garden.
 
 







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Wednesday, July 2, 2025

Interview- Electric Titan by C.R. Reardon #YASciFi #SciFi #DisabilityLit


Welcome to Creatively Green. Tell us a little about your latest or upcoming release.

It's about Rosa Viviani, a seventeen-year-old girl living in the utopian colony of Civigem on Saturn’s moon Titan. In a society where disability has been eradicated through genetic engineering, she becomes one of the few individuals who navigates life in a hoverchair. A meteor emerges from the depths of space, hurtling toward Titan with the potential to destroy everything.

Amidst the chaos, her connection to Wicca awakens within her a mystical power that could save Civigem from the impending catastrophe. Guided by the wisdom of goddesses and unwavering support from her parents and girlfriend, she confronts her fears and insecurities while learning to harness her newfound abilities. Can she save the colony that patronizes her?

Have you ever based your book or characters on actual events or people from your own life?

Not entire characters, but elements of my life for sure. My first brain surgery was on December 20th—when Rosa had her procedure.

Is there a theme or message in your work that you would like readers to connect to?

We really have to reshape how we as humans think: disability is not something that you yearn for, but it is also not something to fear because it does not lessen a life at all.

What would your readers be surprised to learn about you?

I’m a poet, and I just released my fourth book of poetry, DisablĂ©.

When you’re not writing what do you do? Do you have any hobbies or guilty pleasures?

I’m a huge cinephile. I like any genre of movie/show as long as it is well–made. Sports have been in my life forever, so I follow them like my wheelchair’s tire against pavement. I love poker, too. 

What is next for you? Do you have any scheduled upcoming releases or works in progress?

I don’t know. I kinda already have a prequel of linked short stories. I have some plot elements for sequels, too.


 `
Electric Titan
C.R. Reardon

Genre: Science Fiction, Young Adult, Disability
Publisher: C.R.  Reardon
Date of Publication: 6/13/1986
ISBN: 979-8-9920346-0-8
ASIN: B0F44JVWL9
Number of pages: 225
Word Count: 64,117 
Cover Artist: Sofia Sanz

Tagline: 17-year-old Rosa Viviani grapples with her newfound disability, a meteor emerges from the depths of space, hurtling toward Titan with the potential to destroy everything.

Book Description:

Rosa Viviani, a seventeen-year-old girl living in the utopian colony of Civigem on Saturn’s moon Titan, faces a series of life-altering events. In a society where disability has been eradicated through genetic engineering, Rosa becomes one of the few individuals who must navigate life with a hoverchair. As she grapples with her newfound disability, a meteor emerges from the depths of space, hurtling toward Titan with the potential to destroy everything.

Amidst the chaos, Rosa's connection to an ancient Earth religion awakens within her a mystical power that could save Civigem from the impending catastrophe. Guided by the wisdom of goddesses and unwavering support from her parents and girlfriend, Rosa embarks on a journey of self-discovery, confronting her fears and insecurities while learning to harness her newfound abilities. As the meteor's impact looms closer, Rosa must confront the limitations of her powers, the fragility of life, and the complexities of love in a society that has long forgotten the meaning of community.

In a race against time, Rosa's journey becomes a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the power of love, and the importance of embracing life's uncertainties. As she confronts the impending apocalypse, Rosa's story challenges the utopian ideals of Civigem, exposing the deep-seated prejudices and the hidden costs of a society that has long suppressed the natural diversity of human existence.

Amazon      BN     Kobo     Apple     GooglePlay

Excerpt: Day 1

When I first used my hoverchair, nobody told me about the unexpectedness. I didn’t know I’d be the only young woman on Titan using one. When I’d run my last Convalor, climb my last staircase to a house. Traverse a ravine’s rocks. I wish I could have readied myself for things like my last walk with my dad along the lakeshore, but life doesn’t always give us time to prepare.

Dark brown clouds slit the dusky morning sky. I lay in bed reading Village Sisters on my tabicus, trying to learn what life would be like for me in a hoverchair. The Village Sisters was written on Earth about the bond between an African-Japanese beauty queen and her best friend, who broke her spine in a tsunami.

An empty frame hung in front of my bed next to the window. I didn’t want to see me standing with my friends at Lucky’s Tavern. The obligatory smiles and people I barely knew now felt like a past life. The picture was only a year old, but still.

I always kept sunflowers on the table beside my bed to brighten my mood. Next to the sunflowers, my elegant ballerina motivated me to strive for grace and good posture. The best thing I ever got from the Keller Aviary was a fluffy, stuffed butterfly that I named Ms. Monarch and rested on my bed. Like many times since the incident, I embraced her and squeezed tight.

Then, just before the announcement, a tingling shot down my right arm. Was I numb from squeezing Ms. Monarch too hard? Was it a side effect of the surgery? It felt like hot wax on my skin–but somehow empowering?

My body jerked upright. My arm swung like a directional arrow. I had no control of it.

My hand and arm lined up with a Faberge egg on my dresser. It was a family heirloom passed down to my dad’s disabled relative. This, in part, is why I believe our lives are echoes of our ancestors. We’re the same stars, just moving through different galaxies.

The heirloom navigated our solar system aboard the U.S.S. Freedom. The maroon and gold Faberge egg rattled out of its four pure white supports, fell to the floor, and shattered.

I thought someone might’ve bumped into my dresser the night before. Maybe they nudged it off its axis, and that’s why it toppled over this morning.

The pneumonia rains started, and I was content watching them splatter the bubble and cascade down, but we all know what happens now.

The Urgent News banner appeared on my tabicus. I turned the volume up. Remember that image? The mayor drooped like a geranium.

“Fellow citizens, I come to you today with the heaviest of hearts. I sincerely hope that every individual heed this news with the understanding that the best course of action for every life was attempted.” Her shoulders rose and fell like the Magic Islands. “Several weeks ago, a volcano on Jupiter’s moon Io dispelled lava that somehow escaped its gravitational pull and froze, hurtling it into space. This is the meteor I’m sure many of you have heard about on the news. The meteor is one point-six kilometers in diameter and travels at a speed of thirty-six kilometers per second. I regret to inform you that it is headed directly for Titan, and it’s too late to stop it.

“The meteor will make an impact with Titan in six days and destroy everything, including our beloved–” I felt so bad for her when her voice cracked, and she began to tear up. “Civigem.”

 

About the Author:

A brain tumor survivor since the age of 8, and handicapped since the age of 10, C.R. Reardon is now 39 years old. He fell in love with creative writing after writing a poem about these hardships in the 7th grade. Since then, he has self-published four books of poetry: DisablĂ©  (2025), Born on Friday the 13th (2018), Torghatten (2016), and Hard Polish (2013). After 2 years at The University of Arizona, C.R. graduated from Stonehill College in 2009 and earned his Master's degree in English from Salem State University in 2011.

His screenplay Lagom (the Swedish word for 'just the right amount') was a finalist for best screenplay at the 2017 Massachusetts Independent Film Festival, as well as the 2015 Catalina Film Festival.  In 2016 my screenplay Spawning Neon was a semi-finalist at the 16th annual Awareness Film Festival.









Wednesday, June 25, 2025

In the Kitchen with Christine Amsden #InTheKitchen #ChocolateChipsCookies #Toffee


Today, we’re going to make classic chocolate chip cookies with my own personal twist … toffee!

 This little trick will work with any cookie recipe you already love (after all, that perfect texture of cookie is an individual preference) … all you have to do is add a bag of Heath Bits ‘O Brickle English Toffee Bits at the end, usually instead of the nuts. I’m a big fan of nuts, but I leave them out if I put in the toffee because it’s just too much. Each bite becomes a competition of flavors instead of a celebration of flavors. And, as an added bonus, leaving out the nuts makes this little batch of cookies safe to send to school with your kids. 

Now, let’s get to cooking! Here are the ingredients I use

1 cup unsalted butter, softened

1 cup white sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

2 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

3 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups Ghirardelli milk (or semi-sweet) chocolate chips 

1 bag Heath Bits ‘o Brickle English Toffee Bits


First, you cream the butter and sugars. Actually, first you smack yourself in the forehead for forgetting to soften the butter on the counter for at least an hour, consider whether or not you want to wait that long and maybe do, or maybe put the butter in the microwave on low power for a few seconds. 

Second, cream the butter and sugars. I use my Kitchen Aid. 

Third, add the eggs and vanilla. 

Fourth … you either follow the recipe correctly and mix all the dry ingredients in a separate bowl which you then have to find room for in the dishwasher OR you do my little cheat. I just add the salt and baking soda to the wet ingredients and let them mix for a while longer. I do the same thing with cakes and muffins and really anything that says to dirty a bowl with a bunch of dry ingredients. And I’m sure there’s a pastry chef out their gnashing their teeth at me … that’s fair … but I’ve never been able to tell the difference. 

Fifth, you add the flour (or flour mixture) to the wet ingredients, s l o w l y and on low speed, with that plastic shield to keep the flour from getting everywhere. Mix until combined. You don’t want to see any bits of flour, but you don’t want to overmix, either. And this time, I can tell the difference. Overmixed cookies get tough. (it’s got to do with developing too much gluten and a chemist could explain it better, but take my word for it … or Google it.)

Sixth, add the chocolate and toffee chips and stir to combine. You might even remove the bowl from the Kitchen Aid and work them in by hand to keep from overmixing. 

Quick note on the chocolate: I’m a big sweetie, so I go for the milk chocolate, but semi-sweet is also fine. What isn’t fine is low-quality chocolate. Certain classic chocolate chips we all grew up with contain such subpar chocolate that the chips don’t melt properly in the oven! In fact, the quality of the chocolate chips is probably the single most important part of the recipe, bar none. Most other things are negotiable. 

Seventh, place rounded tablespoons of cookie dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and try not to lick your fingers too much. (Or you know, wash them after you do.) Don’t overcrowd.

Finally, bake the cookies for about ten minutes. If you want soft, chewy cookies, take them out when they’re starting to brown on bottom (I will check by lifting one with a spatula). They won’t be fully cooked yet, but they cook a bit more on the counter, so if they look done in the oven, they will be crispier cookies (which might be your preference). Either way, let them sit on the cookie sheet until they’re firm enough to transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. I used to use paper towels, but I got sick of eating tiny paper towel bits in my cookies, so finally invested in quality wire racks! 

Enjoy the cookies while you read Knot of Souls! 


Knot of Souls
Christine Amsden

Genre: Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Christine Amsden
Date of Publication: May 20, 2025
ISBN: 979-8283019284
ASIN: B0F7Y8YST6
Number of pages: 384
Word Count: 102,000
Cover Artist: BZN Studio Designs

Book Description:

Two souls, one body … 

When Joy wakes up in an alley, she knows three things: she was brutally murdered, she has somehow come back to life ... and she is not alone. She’s been possessed by an inhuman presence, a being that has taken over her dying body. That being is powerful, in pain, and on the run from entities more dangerous than he is.

Shade, a Fae prince on the run, didn’t mean to share the body he jumped into. Desperate and afraid, accused of a murder he didn’t commit, he only sought a place to hide—but if he leaves Joy now, he faces discovery and a fate worse than death.

Forced to work together to solve multiple murders, including her own, Joy and Shade discover hidden strengths and an unlikely friendship. Yet as their souls become increasingly intertwined, they realize their true danger might come from each other … and if they don't find a way to untangle the knot their souls have become, then even the truth won't set them free.

Knot of Souls is a stand-alone buddy love fantasy that forces two very different beings to work together … and come out stronger on the other side.

Free Through Kindle Unlimited

Amazon

Excerpt Chapter 1

Joy


The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.

Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”

She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.

Right?

My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.

Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.

Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.

Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.

But why?

I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …

There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.

Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.

Low is such a relative word.

My beautiful new, inexpensive (also relative) car jerked suddenly backwards out of its parking spot as the voice in my head grew angrier and more frustrated and … afraid. I saw flashes, images I didn’t understand of multi-colored ghosts who seemed to be singing. The more they sang, the more desperate I felt as fear, my own and somehow not my own, made it hard to breathe.

We streaked across the nearly empty parking lot in reverse, almost colliding with the only other vehicle in the place—a red SUV with scratched paint and a dented front bumper suggesting it regularly attracted unwanted attention from other cars. I tried to scream, but didn’t have control of my voice. I tried to hit the brakes, but instead the possessing spirit shifted from reverse to drive without stopping. The grinding of gears made me want to weep, but we came to a stop, breathing heavily, muscles tensed as if in expectation of attack.

They destroyed her. They tore her apart.

I had no time to wonder what any of that meant before the thing possessing my body channeled its anger and grief into a force I’d never experienced or even known existed. One second, the battered red SUV was parked inches from my back bumper, the next, it flew through the air, smashing against a far wall, its frame crumpling like an accordion.

I tried to make myself even smaller, a nearly impossible feat, but I couldn’t let it know I was in here. If it could do that to an SUV, I didn’t want to think about what it might be able to do to me.

Now what?

For one, panic-filled moment, I thought I’d asked the question. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one trying to figure things out.

My car rolled forward again, its speed uneven, first too fast and then—I slammed on the brakes. Well, maybe I didn’t do it, maybe the thing inside me had the same idea as me, but the car skidded to a halt so it just kissed a large concrete pillar. At least it’s just the paint, I tried to tell myself, but rage welled up within me and my fist slammed into the center of the steering wheel, eliciting an angry honk.

An ominous crack formed in the concrete pillar, more evidence, in case I needed it, that the thing invading my body had powers beyond belief. Then came more rattled thoughts that were definitely not my own:

Who thought it was a good idea to build obstacle courses in the sky? Is there not enough room on the ground? Too damn many humans …

Once again, I drew away from the voice in my head. If I hadn’t lost all connection to my body, I’d be trembling, but even so, I felt the sort of cold that seeps through to the soul.

The third thing I realized, after I died, was that the thing possessing me wasn’t a ghost. Or at least, not the ghost of a human.

My car backed away from the concrete column and maneuvered around it to continue the winding path down … down … down to the exit.

Where was my body going and why? More importantly, what would happen if I made myself known and asked?

I reeled at the thought, mentally slinking all the way back to the homeless shelter where I’d been volunteering in the hours before my death. I’d had a crappy day and needed to channel that into a sharp reminder that plenty of people had it much, much worse. Their circumstances, their personalities, their trials and tribulations didn’t fit neatly in the lock box some tried to label and forget, but all of them struggled in some way. They needed help, and sometimes I needed to be needed; it helped me feel less alone.

Tonight, though … tonight there’d been a problem. I remembered having a nice chat with one of the regulars, Roger, big-hearted and with a certain excited energy about him. He’d found a job and was working hard to get back on his feet, but he still couldn’t find a place to rent after being evicted from his old apartment. Now, he lived in his car except when the nights grew too cold, and he was always there to lend a helping hand or just to listen. He had a way of getting people to open up, even me.

He’s the one who jumped in when Thomas started getting belligerent, ranting and raving about false witnesses and evil spirits. The whole thing was so sudden and confusing, I’m not even sure how it happened. One second I’m chatting with Roger about the crappy end to a crappy day—accidentally seeing porn on a coworker’s computer—the next Thomas is in my face, grabbing a fistful of my shirt as he accused me of being a liar, of being in league with the demon spirits, demanding I admit that I could see them too. I was off balance;, I don’t know what I said, I only know what I felt. There was a moment when I looked into his eyes and saw fear and desperation reflected back at me. Then he was being dragged away, thrown out of the shelter …

But he hadn’t been the one to sneak up behind me and kill me. I thought he was, at first. When I heard the noise in the alley, I jumped and looked around, sure it would be Thomas. But it was someone else.

No, not someone else, something else. The thing possessing me wasn’t the first nonhuman I’d encountered tonight. That honor belonged to a blur, a shadow, a … the only way I could think to describe it was as if a small child had found a gray crayon and colored over an otherwise human shape.

I knew I’d died. The bright light I’d only heard about—never believed in—had beckoned and I’d known it was over. Dead in a cold alley; would anyone notice before morning? Who would even mourn me? I had few friends and fewer attachments. No husband or kids, not even a boyfriend. My cat would probably find someone else to feed her. Some might say that was a blessing, not to leave anyone behind, but all I saw was lost potential. If only … the words that would follow me into my lonely grave.

Where had the light gone? I’d seen it, I’d hesitated, I’d wondered if there really was a god after all, and then …

… my body was walking and talking and thinking and acting and I was along for the ride.

My beautiful blue car, none the worse for wear, exited the garage without running into anything else and turned onto the empty city street. Fewer cars might mean lower odds of getting into another accident, although it was clear the thing in my body had little experience driving. It swerved left and right, unable to center itself in the lane, and braked suddenly at a flashing yellow stoplight, which bent backwards in reaction.

That’s when I reached the final—and belated—realization of the most bizarre night of my life. (Afterlife?) If I didn’t take over the driving of this vehicle, I’d die. Again. 


About the Author:

Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series.

Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but Christine believes great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. She writes primarily about people, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.

In addition to writing, Christine is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.







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Thursday, June 19, 2025

Combustible by Hunter Shea



Combustible
Hunter Shea 

Genre: Horror/Post Apocalyptic/Dark Humor
Publisher: Dark Wolf Books
Date of Publication: 6/17/2025
ISBN: 979-8895678923
ASIN: B0F7Z8X3C5
Number of pages: 374
Word Count: 94,000

Tagline: POST-APOCALYPTIC HORROR MEETS THRILLER IN A DYSTOPIAN NIGHTMARE OF FIRE AND ASH.

Book Description:

The world didn't end with a bang or a whimper...it ended with people bursting into flames.

Across the globe, spontaneous human combustion (SHC) is turning ordinary citizens into living infernos. Governments collapse, cities fall silent, and the air itself tastes like ash. Society burns while the lucky few are left to wonder: When will it be me?

Sam and Aja were already falling apart before the fires came. Now, trapped in a crumbling apartment and suffocating under the weight of isolation, their love feels just as doomed as the rest of humanity. But when whispers spread of a small Canadian town called Consumption, untouched by the inferno, hope flickers.

Stealing an RV and refusing to leave Aja behind, Sam sets out on a desperate, ash-streaked journey through a burned-out North America. With his best friend in tow and a growing crew of strange, unforgettable survivors, they chase rumors through a landscape warped by horror, madness, and the heat of human combustion.

Perfect for fans of The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway and Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion, Combustible is a harrowing, darkly tender exploration of what survives when everything else burns. Will love endure in a world destined to ignite?

Excerpt:

There were shouts within and then banging, followed by the distinctive sound of splintering wood. I watched a man rush into the room and douse the flames with a handheld fire extinguisher. I got to walking before the smoke settled. I had a pretty good idea of what I’d see and my day was already shit enough.

I hurried around the corner and almost whooped out a hallelujah when I saw the gate to Singa’s was up.

My enthusiasm was tempered when I looked through the window. The place had been ransacked.

Singa, at least that’s what I assumed his name was since he was always there, sat behind the counter reading an old newspaper.

“What happened in here?” I said.

The shelves had all been knocked down, glass to the cold cases reduced to pebbles, boxes, bottles and cans strewn about as if the entire store had been invaded by a mosh pit.

Singa, who had been old to begin with, looked like he’d aged twenty years. The bags under his eyes were dark and had an almost crispy texture. Those umber eyes held back tears that threatened to fall any second. He looked around the remains of his store in a daze.

“Humanity happened,” he said, his voice, like his gaze, far, far away.

I put a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. “You mind if I see if there’s anything worth saving?

“Keep your money.” He either avoided my gaze or thought he was talking to a ghost. “Money burns. We all burn.”

I snatched a reusable bag from the floor and got on my hands and knees, looking for anything that had been left whole. I came up with a box of elbow macaroni, a can each of beets, sliced potatoes and artichoke hearts, three bottles of off-brand water, and a box of stuffing mix. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

I slung the bag over my shoulder. “Is…is there anything I can do for you?”

His eyes slowly found mine. “Yes.” He opened his palm. In the center, I saw a tiny pile of black specks. “Run.”

Singa dipped his head and inhaled the powder like a cokehead fresh from rehab.

The sneeze came instantly.

The flames seemed to burst from every pore of his body.

I jumped back and slipped on a pile of debris, sure that the heat had singed my eyebrows.

Poor Singa slumped into his chair and burned without a sound.

It took a few attempts to get to my feet and run out of the store. In my mad dash back home, my heavy breathing popped the tampons loose. I didn’t stop to look for them.

I noticed fires in other windows.

The one that had been put out earlier was back, blazing again. SHC was like that sometimes. Someone on the radio had called it ‘almost sentient.’ It didn’t like it when people put it out. So, it came back with a vengeance. This time, no one tried to extinguish it.

In fact, there were tendrils of smoke everywhere as far as I could see. And nowhere could you hear the sound of a single fire engine. What was the point?

Oddly, what disturbed me most was when one of the feral cats hiding under a car gave a loud sneeze. It burst into flame immediately. The fleeing blur of burning hair and flesh went headfirst into a wall, made a sharp turn and disappeared down an alley, leaving grayish smoke in its wake.

 

About the Author:

Often called THE KING OF THE CRYPTIDS, Hunter Shea is a lifelong horror hound and NY Times bestselling author of over forty books of monstrous mayhem, ghostly frights, and newfound terrors. Some of his bestselling books include the critically acclaimed Creature, They Rise, and The Montauk Monster, the nostalgic Money Back Guaranteed and One Size Eats All series, and Jessica Backman’s Death in the Afterlife paranormal trilogy. His books have been found in the International Cryptozoology Museum and his face on the Discovery Channel where he talks about, well, monsters.

He can be heard and seen on his two long-running podcasts, Final Guys and Monster Men, both informed and humorous explorations of horror’s best – and worst – movies, books, and video games, as well as interviews with some of the hottest writers, directors and producers in the genre. You’ll also find exciting first-hand accounts of true-life hauntings, UFOs, cryptid encounters and more.

Website – www.huntershea.com








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Wednesday, June 11, 2025

Finding Time To Write: Guest Blog with Hunter Shea


In the early days of my writing journey, my biggest dilemma wasn’t writer’s block, searching for the perfect story idea or how to get published. It was how to find the time to actually sit down and write. In the 90s, I started dabbling in writing short stories when my wife was severely ill and in and out of the hospital for a couple of years. Writing became a means of escape, but it soon turned into a passion. I moved up to writing a novella, then a novel (a romantic comedy of all things), all while mostly being home alone with nothing else to do but worry. 

Thankfully, my wife got better and before we knew it, we had two babies enter our lives when every doctor but one told us it could never, would never happen. In the early years of having two beautiful babies that needed our full-time attention, not much writing got done. I wanted to write a horror novel, the horror genre being my true love, but I knew there was no way I could dedicate the necessary time. So, I cranked out short stories when I could. What I didn’t do was stop writing altogether because I knew I had a lot to learn, and I just enjoyed that time with my keyboard, even when there were crying babies in the next room. 

When my girls entered the toddler stage, I thought it was time to get to work on that novel. I read every Leisure Horror book that came out, and desperately wanted to be published by them (and work with dream editor Don D’Auria). I had what I felt was a great story. I just needed to dedicate my time. The issue was, with a handicapped wife, two children and a full-time job, how the heck was I going to find the time?

And here’s where the most important part comes in. What every writer in a similar situation needs is a partner who fully supports them. And man, did I hit the lottery. I knew I was going to have to give up slacker time, which usually consisted of vegging out in front of the TV when I was plain exhausted. My wife made sure to keep the kids occupied every night for at least an hour or two while I closed the bedroom door and wrote. I usually started around seven or eight pm, clamping on headphones and listening to movie soundtracks to drown out any noise at home. The only caveat was that the music couldn’t have any lyrics, so the words didn’t mess with my flow. 

I wrote every single night, and then would try to get in more writing on the weekends before the kids were up and running around. Now, even with that time, it still took almost two years to get that first book all the way to the end. There were necessary interruptions, and sometimes I was just plain exhausted, where even getting a paragraph down was a victory. That book became Forest of Shadows, and it was miraculously signed by Leisure books. Alas, they imploded before the ink was dry, and I was devastated. For the first time in a decade, I stopped writing altogether for about a year. I was so downright depressed that I had come so close and watched my dreams fall apart. 

But it was my wife who encouraged me to get back in the chair because she saw how much joy the process of writing gave me. To give this kind of support to a person who had very few writing credits under their belt is beyond incredible. I mean, here I was, locked in a room, missing time with my family, missing family events, missing trips to the movies or ballgame, for what? A dream? A wish? Sure, I could self-publish, but I wanted to do it the old-fashioned way and succeed or fail on my own merits. 

Well, Don D’Auria eventually came calling to me this time around when he found a new publisher, and I was off to the races. With an actual published book on my resume, I was fully dedicated to writing as much as I could. The girls were older now and had lived with a father who stayed in his room for some time each night. They understood the routine, and I have to say, very rarely came knocking when they heard key tapping on the other side of the door. By keeping to a schedule, my body and brain became accustomed to lock into create mode each and every day. I switched my hours at my job so I was home earlier and could knock out my writing and still play with the kids and put them to bed at night. With this routine in place, I was comfortably able to write a novel and two novellas each year. 

The key to it all is support, consistency, and as my friend likes to say, compulsion. I can never thank my wife enough for giving me that daily space to do what I love. And now that my girls are in their twenties, I think I’m prepared for the day when grandchildren are running around the house and I’m slipping off for a bit to write while I hear my wife say, “Grandpa’s writing, but he’ll be out soon and you can play.”

We Are Always Watching
Hunter Shea

Genre: Horror
Publisher: Dark Wolf Books
Date of Publication: 5/27/2025
ISBN: 979-8895679234
ASIN: B0F3QTH2WK
Number of pages: 353
Word Count: 94K

Tagline: They See Everything. They Know Everything. And They Never Stop Watching…

Book Description:

When West Ridley’s family is forced to abandon New York for a crumbling Pennsylvania farmhouse, he expects misery—but nothing could prepare him for the horrors lurking within its walls. His father’s worsening illness, his mother’s exhaustion, and his grandfather’s drunken ramblings paint a bleak picture of their new reality. But it’s the eerie warnings and shadowed figures that truly unnerve him.

The words “WE SEE YOU” scrawled on his ceiling are just the beginning. Something sinister roams the halls at night, whispering through the silence, watching from the darkness. Grandpa Abraham swears the house is haunted. But the truth is far worse than restless spirits—because in this house, secrets are buried deep, and the Guardians will do anything to keep them hidden.

As the Ridleys unravel the mysteries of their new home, one thing becomes chillingly clear: escape is impossible. No matter where they go, the watchers remain.

A pulse-pounding horror thriller packed with eerie suspense, We Are Always Watching is perfect for fans of Stephen King, Paul Tremblay, and haunted house stories that linger long after the last page. Dare to uncover the truth? Order your copy today—before they see you first.

Amazon    BN     Dark Wolf Books


Excerpt:

His foot crunched on a three-foot long stick. It was gnarled and thick, a perfect walking stick and weed slasher. Whisking it back and forth, he swatted at the wild vegeta tion, heading for the woodpile. It would make a great bonfire. He’d never been to one in person, but he’d seen plenty in movies, especially the flicks from the ’80s with teen campers in peril.

West loved those movies, especially the parts where girls took off their shirts and either went skinny dipping or had sex in the woods or an empty cabin. Actresses took their clothes off a lot back then. He’d never even seen a naked boob until Anthony showed him this strange astronaut/vampire flick called Lifeforce. The girl vampire was totally naked, front and back, for half the movie. West’s mind was blown. Horror, sci-fi, and his first naked woman. The constant flip-flopping between arousal and terror left him both exhausted and too tired to sleep that night.

Something crashed through the brush to his left. He stopped, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. There was a garbled growl. The sounds of two cats tussling gave his nerves sweet relief. Not wanting to get in the middle of their fight, he veered to the right.

Closing in on the haphazard mound of wood, he realized what it was. The farm would have had a barn at one time. It must have collapsed decades ago. The old walls and floorboards were blighted by the sun and elements. The stench of decay grew stronger with each step. Weeds grew through the gaps, some of them so thick, they hid whole sections of the former barn. “I wonder what took you down,” he said, lifting boards here and there with the tip of his sneaker. The ground beneath it was black as pitch and had an odd smell, like something scorched and long forgotten. Could have been a fire. Or maybe it was a storm, some hurricane that sent people to their cellars. That is, if hurricanes happened in this part of Pennsylvania.

Did Grandpa Abraham’s place have a storm cellar? And what about a fruit cellar? He heard about them all the time, especially when it came to places for crazed killers to hide bodies. What was the point of a fruit cellar? Why stick your fruit in some hole?

There was sudden movement in the brush behind him. He waited for one of the cats to slink into view. The sound didn’t repeat itself and no cats came out to play. West felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He had the very uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched.

Out here, surrounded by the tall grass, anyone could be lurking.

He closed his eyes and saw the words on the ceiling over his bed. WE SEE YOU West was suddenly very uncomfortable. All of this was so alien to him, he felt as if he’d stepped into a place where he didn’t belong. “Time to go back inside.”

He trudged away from the collapsed barn, unable to shake the feeling that there were eyes at his back

 

 

About the Author: 

Often called THE KING OF THE CRYPTIDS, Hunter Shea is a lifelong horror hound and NY Times bestselling author of over forty books of monstrous mayhem, ghostly frights, and newfound terrors. Some of his bestselling books include the critically acclaimed Creature, They Rise, and The Montauk Monster, the nostalgic Money Back Guaranteed and One Size Eats All series, and Jessica Backman’s Death in the Afterlife paranormal trilogy. His books have been found in the International Cryptozoology Museum and his face on the Discovery Channel where he talks about, well, monsters.

He can be heard and seen on his two long-running podcasts, Final Guys and Monster Men, both informed and humorous explorations of horror’s best – and worst – movies, books, and video games, as well as interviews with some of the hottest writers, directors and producers in the genre. You’ll also find exciting first-hand accounts of true-life hauntings, UFOs, cryptid encounters and more.

Website – www.huntershea.com








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