Welcome Today Guest Blogger...Author Blaine Pardoe!

                           "Genre? We don't need no stinking genre?"

My most recent book, Virginia Creeper, is a book detailing a bizarre (paranormal) series of events related to a brutal series of murders in the Virginia Piedmont. Some people have said it’s a horror book, some say it’s paranormal, others classify it as a true crime, while others have labeled it as a thriller. I don't care what label is put on it but it is interesting that some readers seem to focus on this exclusively. Some books, and I think Virginia Creeper is one of them, crosses into a number of genres - and that should be okay. From the author's perspective I can tell you that all that matters to me is that it is entertaining for the reader.
I find it fascinating that authors have to fit our reading into defined taxonomies like the genre. While helpful for some readers, I'm not sure its fair for some of the books. For example my true crime book, Secret Witness. Is it a true crime, or a regional history (Michigan), or is it a legal (true life) thriller? Does putting a book into a category drive who will read it? What defines a genre is pretty vague. Let's face it, this problem has been around for a while. There were times in bookstores I had to look in two or more sections to find a book I wrote.
Some of this is my own fault - I admit it. In my writing career I have written bestselling business management books (Cubicle Warfare) a lot of science fiction novels (thirteen as of this summer) a traditional true crime book this year (Secret Witness) and a lot of military history non-fiction books. I write the things I like reading. As such, I write in a LOT of different genres.
There's a school of thought that writers should pick a genre and deep-dive into it. I know that's good if you want to build a solid following of fans devoted a particular kind of book. Me, I find that writing in different genres is much more healthy to me as a writer. And, because I write multiple things in these genres, I have been able to cultivate followings in each genre. Some follow me from one genre to the other - some don't. That's okay, as long as everyone has a good time reading my work.
Virginia Creeper doesn't dovetail well into any one genre - and for that I'm proud. It's more of a crossover book, one that either defines a new genre or fits into a number of others well. Suffice it to say that if you like horror, the paranormal, and true crimes - this book will play well into your sweet spot.
The old saying, "don't judge a book by its cover," should be changed. "Don't judge a book by its genre in Amazon.com."

Welcome Hydra Publication Author...Tony Acree!

Tony Acree was born in La Grange, Kentucky in January 1963. His short story fiction has appeared in Kentucky Monthly Magazine. He has written articles about his time as a stay at home dad for a women’s magazine as well as sports and information articles. His work has also appeared in The Cumberland, the Kentucky state wide newspaper outlet of the Sierra Club. He is a member of 　the Green River Writers as well as The Bluegrass Writers Edge, a creative writers group in Goshen, Kentucky, where he lives with his wife and twin daughters. Visit his website at Tonyacree.com. You can find him on Twitter　and Facebook. You can email him at Tonyacre@Gmail.com.

Excerpt:

The Hand of God

by

Tony Acree

It was 6 p.m. when the Devil walked into my office and had a seat.
Now when I say the Devil, I’m not talking figuratively. Lord knows that having spent the last five years as a bounty hunter, I’ve come face to face with every form of evil that walks on this scum-ridden planet: murderers, rapists, even a couple of freakin’ child molesters. So I have more than a passing acquaintance with evil, of both the male and female varieties.
But no, in this case, I’m talking in the literal sense. You know, as in Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the goddamned Father of all goddamned Lies. That Devil.
You’re probably wondering if he was all red, with horns, a pointed tail and pitchfork. Sorry to disappoint you, but he wasn’t. He looked like any other well-dressed bastard in a snazzy suit and shoes to match. OK, he did have a red tie but I couldn’t see any tail coming out his ass. He was around six feet tall, blond hair and icy blue eyes. Guess we know where Hitler got his ideas for all that superior race crap.
And I bet you’re also wondering just how the hell I knew it was the Fallen Angel himself. I guess it was the same way Moses knew that the burning bush was really God and not just a couple of his buddies lighting the damned thing on fire and then pretending to be God while hiding behind the closest rock laughing. Let’s put it this way, if the Devil walks through your door one day, you won't have any doubts either. Take my word for it.
Anyway, I’d had a good week and was just getting ready to leave and lock the place up, looking forward to taking the weekend off from chasing bad guys and heading down to Molly Malone’s, when the door opened and in waltzes Satan, just as pretty as you please. He pulled up a chair near my desk and sits down flashing a row of pearly whites the Kardashian family would be proud of.
"Victor, you know who I am?" he said, eyebrows all arched and superior, although it was more of a proclamation than a question.

I nodded back and calmly opened the top right drawer of my desk, grabbing my Glock 9 millimeter I keep there in case of emergencies. I figured if this didn't qualify for an emergency, then nothing would.

"You know that won’t do you any good," he said.

He was right. Somehow I knew that. After all, for more than a couple of millennium at a bare minimum, people have wanted to kick Satan’s backside with no success. I just knew it wouldn’t do me any good.

But I pulled the gun out and shot the son-of-a-bitch right between the eyes anyway. Blamo!

A perfect gun powdered entry wound appeared smack dab between his eyes. But I could see no blood and no head explosion out the back, just a big hole and an annoyed look on Satan’s formerly pristine mug.
Now you would think that a guy, after being shot in the head, would exhibit some sort of adverse effects, but not this time. And folks, that’s just wrong.

Rachael Rawlings' Dearly Departed

I am the proud mother of three wonderful children, ages 15, 13, 11, and work as a Speech Language Pathologist in the local school system. I have a love of reading, writing, and drawing, as well as my menagerie of animals including two dogs, two parrots, two crabs and several fish tanks. My lifelong dream has been writing, and I have completed five novels. As an author, I have had the opportunity to draw ideas from my real life and the world around me. I am a native of Louisville, Kentucky, and live in Crestwood. My little town was a great influence on my first published book, Dearly Departed , especially the lovely little local cemetery.

Dearly Departed

Grave Reminders Series

"You're out late."

His voice came, filtered through the heavy air, deep and hushed.

"So are you, I suppose." I tried to keep my voice as even as his.

"As always," he replied, finally reaching the soft light of the moon. He paused and leaned against the low stone wall, comfortably.

The moonshine was generous to his sharp features, softening them with the forgiveness of the night. He was all angles and long lines, from the sharp blade of his nose to the golden arch of his brows. His eyes were impossible to see, but his hands were beautiful where they rested on a moss lined stone. A heavy gold band circled his thumb, looking tarnished in the dim light.

"It's a quiet night." The words that came were not the ones that I would have reasonably spoken. This was not a conversation that had any of the norms of social interaction.

"Not so much. The birds are complaining. They don’t like the fog."

I looked at him, immersed in the unreality of the scene. "You know much about birds?"

"More about the night. I don't sleep much. I tend to travel most often at night."

That explained a little, but not nearly enough to satisfy me.

"Why here?"

"I have my own reasons." He returned softly, no sting to his words. "You watch. I walk. We all have our little ways of coping with the time."

The conversation had little substance, but I was reluctant to leave him, even more to turn my back on him.

"Are you staying nearby?" The questions seemed general enough.

"You assume that I'm passing through? Yes, I am staying nearby." He looked away, the sound of a car's motor seeming unusually loud.

"And you'll keep coming back?" My hushed voice was reverent for the people that lay there, silent in their soullessness.

"Until I find what I need."

"And that is?" I honestly felt that I could help him. After years of living here, the graveyard had become my walking park, my backyard, and my pondering place. I knew most of the names intimately, as well as the familiar faces of the mourners that came to visit them.

"I'll know it when I see it," he responded with a frustrating calm.

The insistent barking of a dog caused me to turn back toward the gate where I could see the sleek shape of my mixed breed hound pressed against the slats.

"Baxter, quiet," I said, my firm voice bouncing like a crazy ball off the stone and wood.

"He's missing you," the stranger said softly, "and he doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust anyone until he can smell them," I said, frowning at the pacing figure of the dog behind the gate.

"Let him free."

Obediently, I went back toward the gate and let it swing open. Baxter ran through with amazing speed, his muscular legs eating up the ground as his long beagle ears flapped with each stride. He stopped abruptly in front of the man, his paws digging in the moist earth, his nose to the ground. It took only seconds for his sensitive nose to complete the assessment; he ran his face close to scuffed black jeans, tattered leather jacket cuffs, and over the beautiful hands before he allowed them to rest on his head.

"He's a fine dog. A good friend. He wants to know if he can trust me."

"He's usually pretty quick to warm up. Not the best guard dog, especially if someone was carrying a treat."

"He would know if someone meant you any harm. He's more sensitive then you might think."

I looked at him, pondering his cryptic statement. There was very little about this man that seemed easy to discern. He was watching the dog as Baxter investigated the yard, his nose working furiously. I allowed the hound into the cemetery only on occasion, but he had always been a perfect gentleman. He never misbehaved, barked, dug, or wet in the area. It was as though there was something in his canine manners that realized the place for what is was and respected it.

"It will rain soon."

My eyes went back to his face, my hands burrowing into my jacket pockets as the light wind tugged my hair out of my collar.

"Why do you say that?"

"I know. He can tell too," he responded, looking toward Baxter. "You need to get back home. I don't want you out in the rain."

"And you? Where will you go? You won't stay?"

"I'll see you safely inside. Then I'll go."

"You'll be back?"

He nodded wordlessly and I watched, frozen, as he drew close to me. Closer, I could see that his eyes were a very light color, but could not see the shade. The scent of him, something like pine and soap, enveloped me momentarily as the wind caressed his figure. He was tall, and I had to tip my head back to follow his expression. One long fingered hand caught my elbow and followed my arm down to my wrist where he pulled my hand from my pocket. He enveloped my freed hand in his gentle grasp, his skin surprisingly warm and dry.

"Come on," his voice was soft, floating on the breeze, mixed with the waning fog.

I followed.

My thanks go to Missy for hosting me on this blog tour. I have really enjoyed learning more about the craft of writing, and have been genuinely heartened by the many wonderful writers at Hydra Publications. I hope everyone joins me in reading the other great books that Hydra is representing.

The second in this series from Grave Reminders, will continue the story of my characters from Dearly Departed. I hope to explore a little further the line between here and there, the life and the afterlife.



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Welcome Hydra Publications Author... Lyndi Alexander!

    BIO:
    Lyndi Alexander dreamed for many years of being a spaceship captain, but settled instead for inspired excursions into fictional places with fascinating companions from her imagination that she likes to share with others. She has been a published writer for over thirty years, including seven years as a reporter and editor at a newspaper in Homestead, Florida. Her list of publications is eclectic, from science fiction to romance to horror, from tech reporting to television reviews. Lyndi is married to an absent-minded computer geek. Together, they have a dozen computers, seven children and a full house in northwestern Pennsylvania.

EXCERPT:

          I peered out the windshield at the take-out bags of food Rick had left there. No sense in wasting it. Maybe I could persuade Dedra to take some home to her little bit of chaos. She was looking almost scrawny these days. That’s it, a good deed. I waited until my hands were steady, then climbed back out of the car to retrieve the brown paper bags.
            I’d just stashed them in my back seat when I heard a car pull up behind mine and saw the flash of red lights. Frowning, I straightened and eyed the police patrol car, its bubble gum machine in full radiance. I glanced at the sidewalk next to the car and saw no indication I’d parked in an illegal zone. I clearly wasn’t under the influence of anything, except perhaps a nice bit of feta cheese. So what was this about?
            I started back toward the vehicle, aware of faces popping into the windows of the buildings around, including the Greek restaurant, all gawking at the flashing lights. What kind of a criminal was on the street? they wondered. At first I couldn’t see through the shaded windshield, but the door opened  and Brendon Zale emerged, cocky grin on his face. As I approached him, he leaned on his open car door and looked down at me.
            “Do you have business in this neighborhood?” he asked. His tone was much too casual to be a serious inquiry. He was nearly teasing.
            “It’s a free country, last time I looked,” I retorted. “I was just leaving.” I stopped, then took a step back toward my car, since he hadn’t accused me of anything.
            “Wait a minute, now, don’t be that way!” He stepped away from the car and closed the      door, then leaned in the window to douse the red lights. The street went blissfully dark again, and the faces retreated.
            “Then don’t come on like a Nazi patrol.” Embarrassed, my voice reflected the sting to my pride.
            “Seriously,what are you doing down here? You live over on Thorn Road. You work on      First  Street.” He studied my face, his steely gaze looking for clues.
            A little chill ran up my spine at the thought that Brendon knew where I lived. “Just having dinner.” I gestured to the bags in my back seat.
            “Alone?” He shone his long black flashlight inside the car, taking in not only the bags but      the front seat as well.
            This was getting ridiculous. “What do you care, really?”
            “I hate to see a pretty girl spending her weekend nights by herself.” His expression relaxed into a wide smile.
            Idiot.“Right. Well, thanks for your concern.” I took another step toward my car door, genuinely ready to head home.
            He stepped between me and the door. “You need to be careful. Women shouldn’t be out      wandering alone after dark. After what happened to Lily Kimball…” He trailed  off, his voice thick with meaning.
            “What was that, exactly? What happened to her?” As my hackles rose, I went into defensive reporter mode, especially since I hadn't been able to get a straight answer from one cop yet on that case.
                “She ended up dead on the side of the road!”

Buy link: http://www.amazon.com/Love-Me-Kiss-Kill-ebook/dp/B008WCZIZK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1347150179&sr=1-1&keywords=lyndi+alexander

Not broken...Just a little bruised

I have been away from blogging for some time now. I would love to tell you that I was off completing my great American novel or making the next Oscar winning film But to quote Jules, "We both now that s*** ain't true." What I have been doing is surviving. It's that plain and simple.

In November 2010 my dad had a liver transplant. I still remember the morning he got the call. He wasn't sure he wanted to do it. As we drove to the hospital he even said half jokingly "We should turn the car around." I told him to do that if it was truly what he desired. In that moment though, I wanted him to get the transplant. I thought that this was the way I got to keep him for another twenty years.

I won't go into too many detail but my dad 5 surgeries in the next three or so weeks (including another transplant). I was still trying to work 45 hours a week and when I wasn't at work I was usually at the hospital. I slept maybe four or five hours a night. My life revolved around my dad and his health. My phone was never out of sight and usually on my person. It was my life line to the most important man in my life. Or as my best friend Amy said, the love of my life.

On the morning of December 23rd I was sleeping when I received the call from my mom. She told me that they were in with my dad. I needed to get to the hospital. It was 6AM. I stumbled around in the dark, called my sister, and was in the car in less than 5 minutes. I live right outside of Louisville, KY. The hospital was a 40 minute drive on most days. It felt like hours that morning. I was less than ten minutes away when the phone rang again. It was mom again. She told me he was gone. I screamed No into the phone repeatedly. I had always made fun of such moment in films (i.e. Stars Wars). What I realize now is when you are told something that catastrophic you brain goes into instant denial. It couldn't be true.

I don't remember hanging up with my mom but I did. I called my uncle (mom's brother) and told him. It would be the beginning of many dreadful phone calls I would make that day. I really think that one of the worst things a person can do is have to inform someone that their sibling has passed. My dad had eight living siblings, it felt neverending. With each call I would have to break the news and then explain what little details we had at that moment. It was horrible.

Since dad died I struggle daily with missing him. So right now I am surviving. I refuse to say I'm broken...I'm just a little bruised.

Last of the Mohicans

While I was at my parents house this evening I stumbled upon my Dad's movie collection. I say my dad's because while my mother loves movies, she rarely sits through one. My dad was different though. He loved movies. Mostly it was standard movie going public films, read: No artsy fartsy indie films for him. He always told me "While movies can educate, they need to entertain".

One of his favorites was Last of the Mohicans. For years he would tell me that I would love this movie. I don't really recall now why I didn't want to watch it but I refused. A movie about a war between the English and French in the colonies? I didn't get it. He told me that there was a love story and I shrugged my teenage shoulders at it. Sounded like a old person's movie.

It wasn't until years later that my best friend Amy told me pretty much the same things my dad did. Again I balked but best friends have a way of saying, you're doing something whether you want to or not. Damn peer pressure. :)

I have to say they we're both right. I watched the movie and immediately fell in love with both Daniel Day Lewis' Hawkeye and Eric Schweig's Uncas. They were different types of heroes cast from the tall, dark and handsome mode. Both were brave and trustworthy, deserving of the swoons of Cora and Alice (not to mention me). Yet Hawkeye had a world weariness that Uncas, at his young age, had not developed. Had the situation been reversed Hawkeye would have went up the mountside to save Cora but he he would have thought about it instead of relying on pure emotion. During those scenes this is demonstrated by the way Hawkeye attacks the enemy. It is clear he is two thoughts ahead at all times. Uncas' reacted the way our hearts want our hero. He went after Alice without thought. He went after her without care. He went after her because she needed him.

In such uncertain times and dubious real life "heroes" I wouldn't mind a Hawkeye or Uncas in my life...just saying...

Jemima J

Jemima wants to work for a glossy magazine instead of a local paper. She wants to be rid of her flat mates, she wants a mother who doesn't harp about her weight. Most of all though, she wants to be thin. Jemima links her happiness with being thin. She's drank the kool aid that thin people are happy. When she discover the internet and the hot Brad, Jemima sells herself as the woman she wants to be. She didn't plan on meeting Brad. It was harmless, right?

The relationship with Brad grows as Jemima begins her transformation. She starts working out and eating right and the weight begins to come off. Jemima is aware of her weight loss but like with many of us big girls who lose weight, once a fat girl always a fat girl. You have to change your mindset. If you don't change your thinking you will never change your life.

Jemima, with the help of Geraldine, makes a big splash when she visits Brad in L.A. He is everything he said he was. Tall, blond, handsome and owner of fitness gym. Jemima is willing to overlook the fact that he's not an intellectual because he looks like a god and is great in bed. It takes some time for her to realize that maybe the relationship is not working as she had hoped. Brad spends little time with her and his assistant hates Jemima. She's living with a man she barely knows in a strange country with no friends. She thinks of home and misses Ben.

Ben had been her crush. The two had been work friends until Ben went of in search of greener pastures and a career as a presenter. Ben is a great character and it's easy to see why Jemima fell so hard for him. I admit that I fell for him a bit myself. These two characters grow so much throughout the book that you are rooting for them to find each other.

I don't want to give too much away, but there is a BIG secret about Brad that Jemima accidentally uncovers and sets her on a path of self discovery and into Ben's arms. I highly suggest this enjoyable read to anyone who has ever doubted themselves and is a big romantic (pun intended).