Friday, May 29, 2020

Release Day Blitz: A Barren Heart by Shilpa Suraj

~ Release Day Blitz

A Barren Heart by Shilpa Suraj


RELEASING TODAY!
Get Your Copy NOW!


When having it all isn’t enough…

Aman and Rhea seem to have the perfect marriage. They are madly in love - with each other, with their own careers and the home and life they are building in a quiet Mumbai suburb. 
Rhea is a successful interior designer with a thriving business while Aman is a commercial pilot who is at peace with his life, on the ground and in the skies! What could possibly be lacking in their picture-perfect marriage?

A baby. 

Like most women, thirty plus Rhea Chakraborty, wants to hold her own flesh and blood in her arms. And Aman too wants the same. 

Or does he? 

After another unexplained miscarriage that takes a severe emotional, physical, and psychological toll on them, Aman isn't sure if having a baby will complete them or destroy them. 
Suddenly, Rhea and Aman find the fabric of their stable marriage fraying beneath the strain of their failed conceptions. Where once they were a team with a common goal, they now find themselves on opposite sides with shifting goalposts. 

A Barren Heart is set in so-called modern India and is the story of the struggle of an affluent, educated couple who are still fighting the shackles of societal indoctrination and expectations and losing each other in the process.

RELEASING TODAY!
Get Your Copy NOW!


About Shilpa Suraj:


Shilpa Suraj wears many hats - corporate drone, homemaker, mother to a fabulous toddler and author.

An avid reader with an overactive imagination, Shilpa has weaved stories in her head since she was a child. Her previous stints at Google, in an ad agency and as an entrepreneur provide colour to her present day stories, both fiction and non-fiction.



Shilpa on the Web:



Tuesday, May 19, 2020

Spotlight: A Boy Called Preacher by Cheryl Schuermann


Middle-Grade Historical Fiction
Release Day: May 16, 2020
Publisher: INtense Publications LLC

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png


Johnny “Preacher” Wilcox never expected to be “man of the farm” at the age of twelve. Faced with a broken tractor, wheat land to plow, and the mysterious disappearance of the farm’s water supply, he must solve a truckload of problems. To top it off, he may lose his best friend, Earl Floyd. 






About the Author


Cheryl Schuermann loved her many years in the classroom as a Special Educator and Reading Specialist. Always a literacy advocate, she spent many more years consulting with teachers across the United States. Whether working with students or teachers, her desire is for students everywhere to be proficient readers who can hardly wait to open a new book.

Cheryl lives in Oklahoma with her illustrator husband, Stan. They raised four sons and have thirteen grandchildren. Recently, they built a 1920s style farmhouse in the country and can be found fishing, playing, and nature hiking with their family. The farmhouse is Cheryl’s favorite place to write and where she wishes she had a dog just like Deke.

Other published works: When the Water Runs: Growing Up With Alaska (2019), Jordan Tang: Think...Create...Discover (2015).


Contact Links

Facebook: @cherylschuermannauthor
Twitter: @cherylschuerma2
Instagram: cheryl_schuermann
LinkedIn: Cheryl Schuermann.
Goodreads: Cheryl Schuermann


Purchase Links


RABT Book Tours & PR

Monday, May 18, 2020

Showcase: The Pinebox Vendetta by Jeff Bond

The Pinebox Vendetta by Jeff Bond Banner

 

 

The Pinebox Vendetta

by Jeff Bond

on Tour May 1 - June 30, 2020

Synopsis:

The Pinebox Vendetta by Jeff Bond

From the author of The Winner Maker and Blackquest 40 comes The Pinebox Vendetta: a genre-bending thriller that combines a love story, cold-case murder mystery, and political blood feud — told over the course of a single breathless weekend.

The Gallaghers and Pruitts have dominated the American political landscape dating back to Revolutionary times. The Yale University class of 1996 had one of each, and as the twenty-year reunion approaches, the families are on a collision course.

Owen Gallagher is coasting to the Democratic nomination for president.

Rock Pruitt — the brash maverick whose career was derailed two decades ago by his association to a tragic death — is back, ready to reclaim the mantle of clan leader.

And fatefully in between lies Samantha Lessing. Sam arrives at reunion weekend lugging a rotten marriage, dumb hope, and a portable audio recorder she’ll use for a public radio-style documentary on the Pruitt-Gallagher rivalry — widely known as the pinebox vendetta.

What Sam uncovers will thrust her into the middle of the ancient feud, upending presidential politics and changing the trajectory of one clan forever.

The Pinebox Vendetta is the first entry in the Pruitt-Gallagher saga: a series that promises cutthroat plots, power grabs, and unforgettable characters stretched to their very limits by the same ideological forces that roil America today.

Book Details:


Genre: Thriller
Published by: Jeff Bond Books
Publication Date: February 19th 2020
Number of Pages: 264
ISBN: 1732255253 (ISBN13: 9781732255258)
Series: Pruitt-Gallagher Saga, #1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

1

Jamie Gallagher stood beside the pirate at the skiff’s rail, the African sea thick on his skin. Neither man could see the other in the moonless night, but Jamie smelled the khat the Somali never stopped chewing—sweetly sharp, a scent that made Jamie feel part cleansed and part crazed.
“The money is ready,” said the pirate named Abdi. “My men have packed the briefcase.”
Wanaagsan.” Jamie ducked his head in gratitude. “You believe the general will accept a briefcase?”
“This is the usual way, yes. It will be checked for explosives with X-ray and IMS swabs.”
“Of course.”
“Also, the general will insist on verifying the amount before the release occurs.”
“His men are going to count ten million dollars?” Jamie asked.
The Somali spat khat leaves into the sea. “He has machines. The machines check by weight.”
Jamie exhaled, pushing his own breath into the hot, still air. The money would weigh out.
The money wasn’t the trick.
Abdi continued, “Once the amount is verified, the general will call his people in the jungle by satphone, and they will free your journalist.”
“Immediately? I’ll need confirmation from HD before we leave the yacht.”
“That is the arrangement.”
Jamie mopped his brow. Acting wasn’t his strength, and he hoped his insistence on this procedural point was convincing. In fact, Humanitarian Dialogue (HD) knew nothing about tomorrow. There would be no representative at the hand-off spot, and the French journalist—whose reporting on minority suffrage truly had opened the world’s eyes—would not be freed.
This was a regret. But Jamie Gallagher had lived with worse.
He said, “I’ll be X-rayed, too?”
“Yes.”
“Strip-searched?”
“At a minimum. You should expect a body cavity search.”
“Fine.” In his years advocating for peace and public health around sub-Saharan Africa, Jamie had had his cheeks probed, his neck magnetically combed, and the arches of his feet flayed. “I suppose the general’s in no position to be trusting.”
The pirate took a while to respond. Was he eyeing Jamie in the dark? Signaling to his men back on the mothership? Jamie’s statement had been obvious and shouldn’t have invoked offense.
Since joining the pirates at Merca, a white beach paradise down the coast from Mogadishu, Jamie had detected hostility—even after paying their exorbitant convoy fee. Abdi himself had been civil enough, but his three young lieutenants, after pointedly using their left hands to shake Jamie’s, had glared at him with undisguised contempt.
He understood this. A westerner waltzes onto their ship with unimaginable stores of cash—cash that, in a matter of hours, will bring them into contact with the most wanted war criminal on the planet. Naturally, they resented him.
He was what, five years older than them? With his bandanna and dishwater-blond hair?
Abdi said, “This is a great risk for us. We have earned the general’s esteem. We do not wish to squander it.”
Jamie heard the clench in the man’s jaw. “I assure you, I will comply with every procedure he or you tell me to follow.”
General Mahad and these Somali pirates fought on the same side of many issues. Both wanted the ruling Muslims out of Puntland. They didn’t care that the Muslims had remade the conflict-ravaged region into a prosperous enclave, introducing compulsory education and a foodstuff-based living wage.
For the pirates, the problem was their strict, Islam-centric brand of law and order, which had made the coastal waters harder to pillage.
General Mahad’s beef was simple: the Muslims had replaced him in power.
He’d ruled Puntland for a decade, enriching himself and his cronies using any resource available—khat, guns, people. When word of his atrocities leaked, international pressure mounted for a free election. The general agreed after a period of stonewalling, believing he could manipulate the results. When Al Jama-ah won anyway, the general stole all he could in the weeks before yielding control.
According to a local guide Jamie trusted, the general toured polling stations his last day with a machete, taking three fingers from each precinct leader.
“If I lose next time,” he told them, “you lose the rest.”
Though he retained a few loyalist strongholds like the one holding the French journalist, General Mahad himself lived on a yacht, moving constantly to evade capture. The Hague had convicted him last year in absentia.
Now Jamie asked, “Who’ll be coming aboard with me?”
“Me and Josef,” Abdi said. “We are known to the general.”
“Will you be armed?”
“No. He will search us, too.”
Jamie shuffled in place, the skiff feeling suddenly unsteady beneath him. “I—er, I hope it’ll be okay that I bring a gift. Akpeteshie. I was told it is the general’s favorite liquor?”
The pirate groaned pleasurably. “Akpeteshie, yes.”
“I thought we might share a drink as a token of good faith.”
“The bottle is factory-sealed?”
“Yes.”
“The general will like this. The general believes in courtesy.”
Several retorts came to mind at the ludicrous idea this butcher had any claim on civility, but Jamie swallowed them. He removed a pair of night-vision goggles from his rucksack. Before looking himself, he offered them to Abdi. Abdi waved them off as though the technology were frivolous.
Jamie scanned the horizon, right to left, left to right. The skiff’s sway seemed to increase. The eye cups stuck to his sweaty forehead.
The smell of khat, which hadn’t bothered him before, grated now, like sugar grit needling into his nose and eardrums. He felt the pressure of this place keenly. Every actor—man, woman, or child—who entered this stretch of ocean would be girded to fight. They must be. Choice never came into it.
A shape appeared on the horizon. Jamie thumbed his focus wheel until red blurs resolved to running lights.
“The general,” Abdi said.
Adrenaline jolted through Jamie. Here was a ghost vessel—a vessel many militaries of the world would board on sight, and one the United States wouldn’t think twice about blasting to smithereens with a drone strike.
The yacht grew larger in the greenish display. Jamie screwed on a bulky magnifier lens and was able to make out guards on the gunwale, ambling, AK-47s on their shoulders. The yacht was perhaps twenty meters. Several figures were sprawled out on deck, sleeping in the open for the heat.
Jamie raised the goggles, thinking to find the general on the bridge. The cockpit windows were smoked—opaque from outside and surely bulletproof.
He panned back down. The craft made a leeward turn, and he glimpsed new figures at the base of the pilothouse. These were prone like the others but smaller—a dozen in a line, little pulled-apart commas. Most of them were still, but one squirmed restlessly.
Children.
Jamie’s stomach shrank to a cold fist.
#
He barely slept. Long after rowing back to the mothership and helping Abdi loosely tie up the skiff, and bedding down in the holds beside crates of ammunition and rocket-propelled grenades, Jamie lay awake thinking of those children.
He’d known the general had kids, twenty or thirty that he acknowledged. And it shouldn’t have been surprising such a monster would keep family members near, in the cross-hairs of danger. Still, the concrete knowledge of these innocents shook Jamie. His moral clarity waned, like a tower of blocks losing its crosspiece.
How will the general’s children move on? What if they fall into the arms of the pirates or the next warlord up?
From here, it was no leap at all to obsess about the French journalist. When the exchange was revealed as phony, would the general’s men execute her on the spot? They would blame her, despite the fact that she had played no role whatsoever in the ruse.
Renée Auteuil had been raised by a jobless father in Roubaix, the post-industrial husk of a city. She’d worked sixty-hour weeks as a line cook to support them. She’d defied dictators on three continents to achieve the eminence and audience that had prompted General Mahad to snatch her last spring.
Now Jamie was putting her in jeopardy, and for what?
So that he could feel better about himself? So he could feel absolved?
Jamie had chosen Puntland precisely because it was neutral territory in the feud between his family, the Gallaghers, and their conservative arch-enemies, the Pruitts.
The two clans had been fighting for nearly three centuries—and while there was hardly a facet of American political, corporate, or philanthropic life their battles hadn’t touched, neither family had much connection to Puntland. As president, Jonathan Pruitt hadn’t carried out any significant dealings with the territory during his term. (His only term, thankfully.) The Gallaghers facilitated relief missions all over Africa, but nothing specially in Puntland.
Jamie’s action tomorrow wouldn’t be interpreted as having grown out of the feud, or impacted the feud, or given the Gallaghers some edge in the next midterm elections.
This was separate. This was good, a thing nobody could spin or debate.
That had been the plan, at least.
Now doubts roared in Jamie’s mind. He dug at the roots of his hair, flopping about the damp, creaking boards. The Somalis snored in the adjacent room. Their arsenal reeked of grease and sulfur. Jamie crunched his eyes and pulled his rucksack, which he’d been toting around since freshman year at Yale, down over his head.
The thoughts still came, and the guilt.
His emotions spiraled and sickened and fought, and finally came to a head. He growled, disgusted by himself, then tore through his rucksack for the shoe that contained, wedged up in the toes, a newsprint photo of a mass grave discovered in northeast Puntland.
By penlight, he stared at the image. He seared it into his brain. The open trench of dusted gray bodies. The overlapping femurs. The fleshless faces.
The photo was merely one of dozens. Jamie knew the general was well-positioned to continue the slaughter once the collective international eye moved along.
“That’s it,” he whispered aloud. “Not one more thought.”
#
The meeting was to take place twenty minutes after sunrise. Jamie woke, having finally fallen asleep around four a.m., to the Somalis chatting in their native tongue over pieces of flatbread. He dragged himself aboveboard, feeling at once languid and jittery.
“Bread?” Abdi offered, tearing a piece from a slab.
“Thanks, no.” Jamie reached into his rucksack instead for a piece of biltong, the wildebeest jerky he’d grown fond of. “Has the general been about?”
“Yes, Josef saw him. The hat.” Abdi made a sifting gesture above his head to indicate the general’s beret.
The day was already scorching, the sky’s blue brilliance broken only by the boiling disk of the sun. The general’s yacht rocked softly in the west, appearing quite large now, its bow sleek and spear-like.
“They’re within gun range,” Jamie observed.
“Oh yes. We are in their scopes.”
As if to prove the point, Abdi raised a hand in the yacht’s direction and laughed. Nobody joined him.
The pirate named Josef, taller and broader in the chest than Abdi, loaded the ten-million-dollar briefcase into the first of three skiffs. Jamie stepped in after, fitting his rucksack into the hull—careful of the Akpeteshie inside—and tying back his hair.
Abdi took a minute instructing the two men staying back on the mothership. Was he arranging a distress signal? Telling them what to do if shots were fired?
Coordinating a double-cross?
There was no use worrying. Jamie had placed himself between dangerous people, but dangerous people performed the same calculations benign ones did. The pirates would keep up their end so long as the benefits remained clear: not only cash, but stronger ties with the general and the establishment of a new back-channel to the powerful Gallaghers.
The skiff loaded, Adbi yanked the outboard motor’s cord. The engine sputtered alive and settled to a rumbling purr. Josef untied them, flashing a grim thumbs-up to the men staying behind.
They charted a course for the general’s yacht. The sea felt choppier on the smaller craft, which didn’t bother Jamie—a lifelong boater and varsity swimmer in college—but did compel him to pull the rucksack protectively into his lap. If the Akpeteshie somehow ruptured against the hull, the mission would be lost.
As they neared the general’s yacht, the faces of his guards became visible—wary, textured faces. The carry-straps of AK-47s sawed their necks.
Abdi cut the motor and drifted in.
A section of railing was unclipped, and a ramp extended from the yacht’s stern. After helping Josef tie up, Jamie slipped the rucksack onto his back and boarded. The Somalis trailed him with the briefcase.
Halkan, ku siin!” said one of the general’s men.
Abdi shook his head forcefully at the request—to hand over the briefcase. The guards backpedaled, their formation hemming Jamie and the pirates into a corner of the aft deck. Abdi and Josef walked with their bodies shielding the case as if it contained plutonium.
With these uneasy field positions established, the general’s men conferred briefly and parted to form an aisle to the pilothouse. General Mahad emerged.
The general wore his full dress uniform: navy blue, epaulets, ribboned medals. He lumbered forward with a mild limp, said to have originated during the Simba rebellion of 1964.
He raised his chin to Abdi, then spoke to Jamie. “Welcome to the one and true seat of Puntland, Mr. Gallagher.”
Jamie felt the man’s deep, scarred voice in his bowels. “That’s none of my concern. I’m here for Renée.”
The general smiled, his lips fat and sly. “How fortunate she is. You are the white knight, eh? Sir Jamie?”
The characterization stung, but Jamie pushed on. “I’ve been in touch with Humanitarian Dialogue—their helicopter is ready. Give me a latitude and longitude for the exchange and let’s get this over.”
“Your friends have the money?”
Every eye on the yacht turned to Abdi, whose knuckles tightened on the briefcase handle.
“Ten million,” Jamie said. “Count it if you like.”
The general crooked a finger at one of his men, who disappeared to the pilothouse. The man returned with a machine resembling a fax with bill-sized trays.
Abdi stepped forward with the briefcase. The man with the counting machine passed a handheld X-ray scanner around the case and swabbed a cloth along each edge.
He started for the pilothouse with the cloth, likely to perform a residue test for explosives, but the general stopped him. Then gestured for Abdi to go ahead.
When Abdi undid the clasp, the lip snapped open—ten million was a squeeze, even with an oversize case—and a few packets spilled out.
The counting began.
Now Jamie reached into his rucksack for the Akpeteshie.
“I’ve heard tell around campfires,” he began, gathering himself, “that you enjoy a certain Ghanaian beverage.”
The general grinned when he saw the bottle, squat, the neck’s glass bowed in the distinctive shape of a baobab tree.
“This is true.”
“Shall we drink together?” Jamie said. “It’s early, but I find a day started well nearly always ends well.”
The general palmed his jaw. There was a risk he would set the gift aside, but Jamie was counting on this subtle challenge to his manhood—in front of his crew, in front of Abdi and Josef. People like the general didn’t back down from such dares.
Jamie thought of his old classmate Rock Pruitt who’d downed a fifth of whiskey disproving a frat brother’s claim that prep-schoolers only drank martinis and smoked reefer.
“I would quite enjoy that,” the general said. “After the bottle is checked.”
Jamie raised a shoulder, feigning indifference as two men seized the Akpeteshie and held it sideways up to the sun, testing its feel in their hands, poking fingernails along the dripped-wax seal.
They would find nothing. Jamie’s sister Charlotte Gallagher, founder of internet-of-things giant SmartWidget and the eighteenth-richest person in the world, owned 45 percent of the local distillery that produced Akpeteshie. She had allowed Jamie to follow this lone bottle through the factory. At the final step, just before corking, he’d poured out 150 milliliters of liquor and replaced it with an equal amount of king cobra venom.
For fifteen months, Jamie had been inoculating himself with increasingly larger doses of the venom. He had started, after discussing the strategy at length with a Sudanese shaman, with a pinprick diluted in a pint of water. Last week, he had managed eight milliliters of venom—the amount a shot from the spiked Akpeteshie would deliver, depending on the pour—and suffered only dizziness, blurred vision, and severe cottonmouth.
When his men were satisfied the bottle was unaltered, the general took a pair of tumblers from the yacht’s fiberglass sideboard.
Tumblers, not shot glasses. Eight ounces at least.
“To finding a middle, eh?” The general poured each tumbler to the brim. “Two parties can start from opposite ends and, with good sense, find a common understanding.”
Jamie’s teeth pulverized each other in the back of his mouth. He’d always found the rhetoric of compromise disingenuous, whether it came from television pundits or the North Carolina Gallaghers exhorting the clan to give ground at the fringes of the abortion debate.
To hear it from the mouth of a man like Mahad? Revolting.
To the middle,” he spat.
He raised the tumbler to his lips. Calculations whipped around his brain. Eight ounces divided by one point five…
Equaled six times the amount of venom his body had previously endured.
The liquid was amber, almost orange. As the glass tilted, Jamie imagined he saw currents of venom slithering among the palm wine. His fingers trembled. Some sloshed over the side, but not nearly enough.
In his periphery, Jamie became aware of Abdi and Josef arguing with the general’s men. Abdi slapped one empty well of the briefcase. The general’s men shouted. More rushed to the deck from below board.
The general balked at Jamie’s tone. “You do not like my toast. That is your right. You are the guest, so make your own.” He smirked about. “We are democratic here, aren’t we?”
Jamie ignored the low hoots. “To justice.” He regripped his tumbler. “To justice, and fair treatment for all living things.”
The general guffawed, big and toothy. “For ten million, yes. Why in hell not?”
Their eyes locked over the tumblers’ rims. Jamie perceived something in the man’s look, some hustler’s instinct, and knew if he faltered now—even for a moment—the trap would be blown.
Jamie stared into the lethal brew, waited for bright madness to rise, and drank. The Akpeteshie burned his throat. His jaw felt weak and daggers pressed into his eardrums from inside. Still, he kept his head tipped back and drank it all.
The general and several of his men goggled at the feat. When their eyes turned to him, the war criminal downed his, too.
“…no, the release! ” Jamie heard behind him. “No money before release!”
“We will keep it.”
“No, us! We will hold the money.”
A guard wearing ripped denim leveled his rifle at Abdi. Josef stepped forward to push aside the muzzle. Another guard drove the butt of his rifle into Josef’s back, crumpling the pirate.
Jamie didn’t know how long he and the general had. During his inoculation, the symptoms would begin in about a minute, but he’d never ingested this large a dose.
His heartrate zoomed and breath pumped through his chest like air from a bellows—still, this could be the effects of anticipation.
“So, um…the release,” he said, feeling a vague duty toward Abdi. “If you…so I’ll call HD and be sure Renée, er…s’all okay with the money…”
Words were deserting him. The scuffle on deck was intensifying. Josef had recovered to pounce on the man in denim. Abdi was buried in a furious tangle of fists and churning hips.
Jamie didn’t understand the fight. Let them have the money—who cared?
He began to feel disconnected from his body, Abdi and Josef blending into other people he’d known in life, Gallaghers and Pruitts, senators and reporters, grad students and business titans, all fighting without reason, finding joy and enemies, grinding their life into the larger sausage.
The general unleashed a thunderous whistle and raised his hand for calm. The struggle paused. Every eye turned his way. He began to lower his hand but suddenly couldn’t.
His arm convulsed and became some bucking stick-animal beyond his control. His fingers twitched unnaturally. He grasped his throat, staggering back. Froth bubbled in his nostrils.
The man who’d retrieved the money scale from the pilothouse pointed at Jamie.
“What is this?”
Jamie tried answering, but his tongue would not obey, dead and heavy in his mouth. Pain gored his brain. Sweat screamed from his pores, a thousand beads altogether.
This wasn’t the outcome Jamie had wanted, but neither was it wholly unexpected. He thought now of life’s best moments. In Burundi, feeling that boy’s skeletal hand squeeze as he sucked a tab of enriched peanut butter. On the vineyard, fourteen years old, swinging his cousins round and round in celebration after his mother—the senior senator from Connecticut and Democratic National Committee chairperson—had succeeded in her long-shot campaign to retake majority control of the Senate.
Above all, though, he remembered kissing Sam. Seniors on their last night at Yale, about to go conquer the world, standing together in an entryway. Emotions spiked to the heavens. Their mouths came together in the gentlest, deepest touch he’d known before or since.
Samantha Lessing. God, she was it. The life he missed.
Half the general’s men were swarming the Somali pirates while the other half moved on Jamie. There was a gap between the two, but it was closing.
Jamie willed his tongue back into service.
“This was right,” he croaked. “Here, today. This was not a waste.”
And he believed this—dashing across the deck through grasping hands, over the gunwale, into the black ocean.

TEN YEARS LATER

2

Sam slipped out of the WNYC studios at four thirty, waving off cheers of “Have fun!” and “Take me with you!”, hurrying through the lobby, jogging a short block to catch the uptown C. She needed to pick up a daughter and possibly husband in Brooklyn, then be back in Manhattan for the 5:41 p.m. train to New Haven. Reunion check-in closed at eight. If the train arrived on time, she’d make it easy.
If not? If any of the dizzying array of pitfalls inherent in teenagers and public transit popped up? Sam guessed they were sleeping on the street.
Half an hour later, she hiked three flights of stairs with key at the ready. The apartment was unlocked.
“Joss?” she called. “You are packed, yes?”
Her daughter’s door was closed, but guitar chords thwanged through. Sam stepped around French bread pizza and a stack of indie music magazines to pound twice.
“Not telling you what to wear,” she yelled, “but I suggest a dress or dress-like garment for Saturday night.”
The music inside dulled, indicating Sam had been heard. The warning bell had been sounded. She found an oversize duffel bag in the hall closet and tossed in her stuff: toiletries, three-odd outfits for the weekend, Zoom audio recorder.
About outfits: Sam both cared and didn’t care. She was forty-three. Her classmates were forty-three, give or take. Nobody should go rocking a prom dress, but they weren’t dead yet either. She brought dark-red sleeveless, plus yellow floral in case of glorious weather.
“Leaving twelve minutes!” she said through Joss’s door. “Zero wiggle situation.”
Tight timelines didn’t bother Sam—the studio commonly dropped post-production on her for shows that were airing in mere hours. Packing now, she thought pleasurably of the friends she’d see at the reunion. Laurel in from San Francisco. Jen Pereido. Naomi, even though she was still recovering from the birth of her fourth(!) child.
From her own daughter’s room came a squeal, streaked with joy. The noise pinched Sam’s heart. Her husband Abe was in there—they’d probably harmonized on some new melody. Which was awesome. Truly. Except that it was 4:48.
She opened the door. “I hate to be Yoko, but the time’s come to break up. Leaving in five minutes.”
Fourteen-year-old Joss looked up from fingering the neck of her guitar, still grinning. Abe sat cross-legged on the floor with the Yamaha across his knees, a kind of strung-out, hipster Dalai Lama. Both appeared stumped.
Sam said, “Yale? My alma mater, where you’ve been dying to go for months?”
Joss’s grin vanished. “Dad said you were leaving whenever! Isn’t it like an all-weekend thing? Today’s only Thursday.”
“Yes, but in order to check in Thursday night, as I hope to,” Sam said, patiently as she could, “we need to arrive on campus by eight o’clock.”
“That’s ridiculous, I’ve barely even looked at clothes.”
“Then look quickly. I’m winging it myself.”
Joss shot upright, dropping her guitar with a clang against the bed. “I’m not going to Yale on, like, zero notice. You can’t just spring this on me.”
“I sprung no thing on no body. We discussed timing last night, and this afternoon I sent your father four texts—every hour, on the hour—reminding him.”
“But those go to his phone,” Joss said. “Remember, I don’t have one? Because you won’t let me?”
Sam stretched one arm laboriously toward the ceiling, focusing on good breaths. Apparently, they were skimming right over Abe’s not passing along the messages. His long-running campaign to absolve himself of any and all responsibility—waged by a steady pattern of never giving a crap for anyone but himself—had succeeded at last.
“Look, we can argue about phones again or we can try to make this train. Otherwise, we basically miss half the reunion. We might as well skip.”
This genuinely spooked Joss. Her face hollowed even more deeply than usual. (She’d grown three inches this year, causing Sam to marvel at this moody, suddenly supermodel whose laundry she washed every week.) They’d been talking about the reunion forever, what architecture couldn’t be missed, whether student activists would be around for Joss to connect with.
Sam hated to use fear, that blunt-force instrument of the parenting arsenal, but she knew a reasoned argument would produce nothing but gridlock.
Joss started packing.
Abe, who’d disappeared to the bathroom, emerged now with drawstrings dangling from his sweats. He nodded to a pair of shiny heels in Sam’s duffel.
“Somebody’s dressing to impress.”
“I haven’t seen these people in twenty years,” she said. “I’m erring on the side of adequate.”
Her husband snorted, seeming to take the comment personally. Twelve years older than Sam, he’d been an already-aging rocker when she had met him in her late twenties. Between drugs and alcohol, and having nowhere in particular to be for the last twenty years—no office or classroom mores to adhere to—Abe had aged poorly. His leatherette skin belonged to a person decades older, and beige hair had fled the top of his head for his ears and nostrils.
“You’re more than welcome to join,” Sam said, stuffing in a toothbrush. “But we are leaving mucho rapido, so…”
He ambled a step away, picked up Joss’s guitar and set it in its case.
She heaved the duffel’s halves together to make the zipper zip. “You’re passing, correct? I just want to confirm with a verbal yes or no answer.”
Sam knew with four hundred percent certainty that some future argument would hinge on this point—whether or not Abe had been invited. They would be sniping back and forth about Yale, how phony or not phony her friends were, what first-world problems they were finding themselves crippled by, and he would break out his trump card.
You were embarrassed. You didn’t want me there, dragging you down.
And here it came, earlier than expected.
“You don’t have to faux-invite me,” Abe said. “You prefer to go alone. Oh, you’ll tolerate Joss. Joss is an acceptable accessory. Perfectly cool, I get it. I won’t ruin your triumphant return.”
Sam again focused on respiration.
In, out. In, out.
“This is a real invitation,” she said. “Just like the one I offered in April, and in May. You are absolutely welcome at my reunion. Come. Please. Joss would love having you there. Maybe you could jam with Thom—he’s supposed to be playing Toad’s.”
As convincingly as Sam delivered these words, her husband was right. The invitation wasn’t real. Abe thought Thom’s music was derivative and had zero interest in strumming out tired chords while Activist Boy preened at the mic for the ladies. If Abe went, he would grump and sulk and criticize, and ruin the whole thing.
“Pass,” Abe said. “Thom can play ‘Better Man’ solo. That is where he opens, isn’t it? Pearl Jam? Or is it the first encore?”
Sam chuckled with relief. Complicity with ragging on her own friends? Fine. Fine, she’d do it—so long as he stayed home.
Their daughter’s voice came through the wall, “What’s the formality situation for Saturday night dinner?”
“Less stuffy than a cotillion,” Sam called back, “but expect mosh-pitting to be frowned upon.”
As she waited on her daughter, Sam kept tabs on a few text conversations by phone. People were arriving into New Haven and wondering where Demery’s had gone, or at the airport dreaming of hugs on the quad, or annoyed because they had to work tomorrow which royally sucked!
Sam grinned at this last but didn’t tap back a response. Abe was watching her, surely guessing what the rapid-fire chimes were about. For Sam to actively join in would risk an argument or, worse, a change of heart.
She didn’t think her husband was capable of attending the reunion for spite, enduring a rotten weekend just to play the killjoy. But why push him?
Finally, Joss emerged. She had changed into a clingy ankle-length skirt and carried a backpack.
“Thank you for hurrying,” Sam said. “Excited?”
Joss rolled her eyes but couldn’t completely suppress a smile. Sam clutched her hand. After double-checking the cat dish had food, she slipped on her jacket and pulled her cell charger out of the wall, jamming it into the side of her bag.
Abe tilted his head. “Why’re you taking the Zoom?”
Shoot. Sam inwardly punched her brain for not packing last night.
“Ah…I’m kicking around this audio doc. Just ideas. Might record some clips.”
“Topic?”
She hated how he asked, all aggressive and pedantic.
“I doubt I’ll have time.” She considered lying outright. Joss was watching, though, and the idea of cowering in front of her daughter—who was learning how to relate to others and respond to adversity and be an assertive female—repulsed her. “It’s about pinebox. How it affected our class, et cetera. Of course the vendetta’s been done—this would try to get at it through the lens of our class at Yale. We had one Pruitt, one Gallagher, that death freshman year. Kind of the whole feud in miniature.”
She shrugged, pretending to be flip, and started for the door. It was 4:32.
Abe asked, “Is Rock Pruitt going to the reunion?”
“Dunno,” Sam said. “We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”
“Really? That seems disingenuous given you were bosom buddies there with the immortal Jamie Gallagher.”
Sam felt her chest constrict. Let it go, she told herself. Let it go like Elsa. Turn yourself to ice, and everything slides right off.
Except she couldn’t.
“Jamie despised Rock. You could walk the earth and never find two people with more diametrically-opposed worldviews than Rock and Jamie.”
Abe huffed. “Those beautiful people and their worldviews. What rarefied air you’ll be breathing again.”
Sam opened her mouth hotly to speak. At the last moment, she stopped and finished zipping her bag instead. She stood tall-shouldered, smiled, and invited Joss to lead the way out.
“The audio doc does sound right out of This American Life,” said Abe, evidently unsatisfied with the fight’s resolution. “Who produces that? Must be one of those Yale ninety-sixers working there you could pitch.”
She felt like asking how he could possibly believe in mythical Ivy League connections after this life of theirs: Sam’s twelve years bouncing around the periphery of pseudo-academic film, hustling after grants, performing peon tasks in job after job to bulk up a CV so it could sit on her Patreon page getting a half-dozen page views per month. She had finally risen to prominence at WNYC but almost in spite of Yale, which carried significant prima donna baggage in the field.
Again, though, Sam restrained herself in front of Joss.
“Hey, quick Zoom question,” she said. “You think forty-eight/twenty-four-bit, or forty-four/sixteen is better? It’ll be mostly outdoor clips.”
Abe tipped his balding head left, then right. “Forty-eight. File sizes won’t be that different, and at sixteen, the Zoom gets super noisy.”
Sam crinkled her nose. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s right. Thanks.”
Mother and daughter both pecked Abe goodbye and bounded off to catch a train.
Joss seemed to study Sam down the stairs, and she wondered momentarily if her ruse had failed—if Joss understood that Mom had forgotten more about sampling rates than Dad had ever known—and had only made this final query to escape the apartment on a positive note.
Other fictions existed between the couple. That Abe respected her managerial position at WNYC. That she believed his vow to start playing shows again—that those freelance audio-tech Fiverr gigs he’d parlayed fairly successfully into income were just temporary and not his professional endgame. That reuniting each night for dinner, they asked about the other’s day with anything like genuine interest.
Sometimes Joss would make comments indicating she knew. “Gee, Dad, bitter much?” or, “I’d rather not be involved in this,” swirling her hand as though over a cesspool. Other times, she seemed oblivious, just a regular kid consumed by regular kid stuff.
Either possibility broke Sam’s heart.
***
Excerpt from The Pinebox Vendetta by Jeff Bond. Copyright 2020 by Jeff Bond. Reproduced with permission from Jeff Bond. All rights reserved.


Author Bio:

Jeff Bond
Jeff Bond is a Kansas native and graduate of Yale University. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Michigan, and belongs to the International Thriller Writers Association.

Catch Up With Jeff Bond On:
JeffBondBooks.com
BookBub
Goodreads
Instagram
Twitter
Facebook!




Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!






Enter To Win!:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jeff Bond. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on May 1, 2020 and runs through July 2, 2020. Void where prohibited.



Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

 


Sunday, May 17, 2020

Showcase: Miranda and the D-Day Caper by Shelly Frome

Miranda and the D-Day Caper

by Shelly Frome

on Tour May 1-31 2020

Synopsis:

Miranda and the D-Day Caper by Shelly Frome

A modern day mystery with WWII tactics, old-time heroes and values, and the efforts of two amateur cousin sleuths from the Heartland.

On a sparkling spring morning in the Blue Ridge, small-town realtor Miranda Davis approached the tailgate market, intent on dealing with her whimsical cousin Skip’s unexpected arrival from New York. It turns out that Skip was on the run and, in his panic, grabbed his beloved tabby Duffy, recalling that Miranda had a recent part in solving a case down in Carolina. His predicament stemmed from intercepting code messages like “Countdown to D-Day,” playfully broadcasting the messages on his radio show over the nation-wide network, and subsequently forced to flee.

At first, Miranda tried to limit her old childhood companion’s conundrum to the sudden abduction of Duffy the cat. But the forces that be were hell-bent on keeping Skip under wraps by any means after he now stumbled close to the site of their master plan. Miranda’s subsequent efforts to decipher the conspiracy and somehow intervene placed both herself and her old playmate on a collision course with a white-nationalist perpetrator and the continuing machinations of the right-wing enterprise, with the lives of all those gathered for a diversity celebration in nearby Asheville and a crucial senatorial vote on homeland security hanging in the balance.

Book Details:


Genre: Cozy Mystery
Published by: BQB Publishing
Publication Date: March 1st 2020
Number of Pages: 338
ISBN: 1945448571 (ISBN13: 9781945448577)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

“Okay, I get it,” said Miranda, assuming it was playtime as always. “We’re double agents. You keep reading the paper and light a cigarette. A minute later, you toss the cigarette and leave the book of matches on the table with the coded inscription Moscow rules. That’s when I take it and slip away awaiting further instructions.”
This was flippant Miranda. The one with the short bob, over thirty, just trying to set the tone on this glorious Saturday in the Blue Ridge and ease out of it. But at the moment, playful Skip seemed to have lost his way. His eyes were bloodshot, underscored by dark circles. And the signature mischievous smirk on that sliver of a face had been replaced by a worrisome twitch.
Folding the newspaper, with his cornflower blue eyes still gazing into the distance, Skip said, “I don’t know, kiddo. I tell you, I just don’t know.”
“Which makes two of us. So tell me why you couldn’t simply e-mail me?”
“Why? Am I holding you up or something?”
“No, you’re not holding me up. Look, what do you say we cut to the chase? Glancing around, taking his sweet time, making sure no one was within earshot, Skip said, “All right.”
“From the top.”
“Okay. Like I indicated, I was filling in, got a break on a prestige AM station.”
Getting more anxious by the second, his lanky body beginning to twitch, Skip said, “So, when opportunity knocks, you seize the day. Right?”
“Out with it. I am still waiting.”
Scrunching forward this time, Skip said, “One night I started to wing it. No more of this ‘Yup, it’s midnight, folks. Some of these homespun Indiana tales should ease you right off to sleep.’ I was antsy. I’d had it with Russ Mathews who’d signed off that night right before me, sounding more and more like some fear monger back in the day.”
“And what day was that?”
“World War Two.”
More glancing around on Skip’s part. More checking the flow of visitors coming and going.
Getting antsy as well, Miranda said, “Will you get on with it? Is there an upshot in our future? ”
“I’m coming to it,” Skip said, looking right at her this time. “Right after my kazoo rendition of I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash, I lean into the mic and say, ‘Guess what? Ole Russ Mathews must be on to something. I’m talking the plot against America. So I tell the insomniacs all over the Liberty Broadcasting system that, at first, I thought Duffy was pulling down on the blinds out of longing.”
“Duffy?”
“Just your average ginger house cat, left alone, separated from other felines on the prowl. But I come home to my sublet and notice he’s perched in the exact same spot, his green eyes staring across the street. So, over the airwaves, I said, ‘What if I told you night people something was up in a dilapidated rooming house in Hoboken? Right across the river from the Big Apple?’” “That does it,” Miranda said, getting to her feet. “How am I supposed to follow this? When you’re ready to get to the point, let me know.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t you see?” said Skip, getting to his feet as well. “I stumbled onto something. Before you know it, my ratings are starting to climb. But since the weather’s getting warmer, those guys across the street aren’t scurrying in and out of the cold. They’re loitering by the stoop, glancing across the shadows. Next thing I know, I’m getting negative call-ins. Listeners telling me to knock it off or else. Undaunted, I tell everyone in radio-land what’s going on out there may have far reaching consequences. Unless I intercept.”
“Oh, please,” said Miranda, walking away. “Listen to me.” Skip scurried over and held her arm. “I tell you, at the same time, those guys across the street were carting off concealed stuff.”
“I’m not listening anymore.”
“You’ve got to. You have obviously become a born tracker. Tracked down a poison pen perpetrator like the paper said.”
“Enough. Stop hyping everything up. Look at you. You’re coming down with full blown hysteria.”
“Exactly. Because it appears there’s no longer any line between entertainment and politics. While messing around, doing a take-off on Russ Mathews and boosting my ratings, I may have stumbled onto an actual plot utilizing WW II codes.”
***
Excerpt from Miranda and the D-Day Caper by Shelly Frome. Copyright 2020 by Shelly Frome. Reproduced with permission from Shelly Frome. All rights reserved.



Author Bio:

Shelly Frome
Shelly Frome is a member of Mystery Writers of America, a professor of dramatic arts emeritus at the University of Connecticut, a former professional actor, a writer of crime novels and books on theater and film. He is also a features writer for Gannett Media’s Black Mountain News. His fiction includes Sun Dance for Andy Horn, Lilac Moon, Twilight of the Drifter, Tinseltown Riff, Murder Run, Moon Games and The Secluded Village Murders. Among his works of non-fiction are The Actors Studio and texts on the art and craft of screenwriting and writing for the stage. Miranda and the D-Day Caper is his latest foray into the world of crime and the amateur sleuth. He lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina.




Catch Up With Shelly Frome:




Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!







Giveaway!!:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Shelly Frome. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on May 1, 2020 and runs through June 2, 2020. Void where prohibited.



Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

 


Friday, May 15, 2020

Cover Reveal: A Barren Heart by Shilpa Suraj

~ Cover Reveal

A Barren Heart by Shilpa Suraj



Coming to Your Kindle on 29th May
Pre-Order your copy NOW!



When having it all isn’t enough…

Aman and Rhea seem to have the perfect marriage. They are madly in love - with each other, with their own careers and the home and life they are building in a quiet Mumbai suburb. 
Rhea is a successful interior designer with a thriving business while Aman is a commercial pilot who is at peace with his life, on the ground and in the skies! What could possibly be lacking in their picture-perfect marriage?

A baby. 

Like most women, thirty plus Rhea Chakraborty, wants to hold her own flesh and blood in her arms. And Aman too wants the same. 

Or does he? 

After another unexplained miscarriage that takes a severe emotional, physical, and psychological toll on them, Aman isn't sure if having a baby will complete them or destroy them. 
Suddenly, Rhea and Aman find the fabric of their stable marriage fraying beneath the strain of their failed conceptions. Where once they were a team with a common goal, they now find themselves on opposite sides with shifting goalposts. 

A Barren Heart is set in so-called modern India and is the story of the struggle of an affluent, educated couple who are still fighting the shackles of societal indoctrination and expectations and losing each other in the process.


Coming to Your Kindle on 29th May
Pre-Order your copy NOW!


About Shilpa Suraj:


Shilpa Suraj wears many hats - corporate drone, homemaker, mother to a fabulous toddler and author.

An avid reader with an overactive imagination, Shilpa has weaved stories in her head since she was a child. Her previous stints at Google, in an ad agency and as an entrepreneur provide colour to her present day stories, both fiction and non-fiction.



Shilpa on the Web:





Monday, May 11, 2020

Spotlight: His Small-Town Girl by Lacy Williams


Sutter’s Hollow Book 1
Sweet Romance
Date Published: May 12, 2020

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

She’s sweet and wholesome. And hiding something.
He’s back home, resurrecting old ghosts.
One of them is going to get hurt.

Molly arrives in Sutter’s Hollow out of gas and out of options. The rundown ranch seems like a perfect place to hide. Except the man who owns it seems just as dangerous as what’s chasing her.

Cord’s mantra growing up? Get out of Sutter’s Hollow. Now he’s back in town, but only long enough to get rid of his grandma’s ball and chain—the ranch. He doesn’t need a complication like Molly, who reminds him of an injured baby bird. He’s no protector. So why can’t he tell her to get lost?

Excerpt

Molly strummed her guitar lightly, the squeak and pull of the strings familiar and comforting. 
But not enough to relax her to the point where she could close her eyes and sleep.
Nothing was these days.
She had her shoulder wedged against her driver's side door, her body turned sideways, and one booted foot up on the seat. Counting the minutes until they turned into hours.
It wasn't that late. Eight. Maybe eight-thirty. 
From where her truck had died in his drive, she'd seen the rancher's truck—its headlights, rather—drive up behind the ranch house and then shut off. Lights had gone on inside the ranch house in a sort of pattern. Her imagination told her he'd stopped in the kitchen to wash up. Maybe feed the dog. He'd moved into the living room next. Watched a sitcom. No, a cop drama. A sitcom might make him smile, and that wouldn't do.
The living room light had gone off, too, and then an upstairs light had gone on. 
Lots of nightlife for the rancher. Cord.
She let her head loll back against the seat, her fingers going lax on the frets so the next strum was a jangle of wrong notes.
It was going to be a long night.
Her thoughts began to unravel. Her breathing sped up as her anxiety spiked.
No.
She was safe here.
No one knew where she was. No one except the rancher.
She was parked plenty far back from the road. If anyone turned in the drive, she'd see them. She'd have time to react.
There were two empty fields on either side of her truck. Grass as far as the eye could see. No one could sneak up on her here.
She could worry about her future tomorrow. Figure out what to do about the dwindling loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter she'd been rationing for days.
She jumped when a flash of light came through the windshield. It glared right in her eyes, temporarily blinding her.
She scrambled to get the guitar out of the way. It echoed discordant notes as it hit the dash. She'd picked up a small canister of pepper spray at a gas station a hundred miles ago. Where had she put it—?
The light was gone, and she blinked against the hazy afterimages burned into her vision.
It was the rancher. His shoulders filled the driver's side window, and he tapped the butt of his flashlight on the glass.
She took her sweet time rolling it down—the hand crank helped with that—using the moments to try to slow her frantic breathing. 
"What're you doing out here?" 
His voice was harsh and demanding. And somehow comforting. He'd been gruff and dismissive earlier. She'd trusted him. Maybe that was stupid.
"You can't stay here," he said.
"I can't leave." She tapped the steering wheel. "This puppy is dead."
Skepticism was written all over his face.
"You want me to prove it?" She gave the key a twist. Nothing happened. Not even a click.
His expression didn't change from the frown he'd appeared with. “Call a tow truck."
He had to be kidding. A tow from the little town she'd passed would be expensive.
"Who's gonna come all the way out here tonight?" she asked. "Plus, I'm dead broke."
"Well, you can't stay out here." Was that her imagination, or was there a little bit of the same desperation she felt leaking out of the man. 
"It's fifteen miles to Sutter's Hollow," she said. "You want me to walk? In the dark?" 
"What about your family?"
"Don't have any." It wasn't a lie. She didn't have any family that would help her.
Even in the dim light from the flashlight, she could see a muscle jumping in his cheek. He ducked his head and mumbled something too low for her to make out.
"Get out of the truck." 
She bristled at this order. She wasn't walking down those winding dirt roads in the dark.
"You're not sleeping in your truck. You can stay the night. Tomorrow morning, I'll drive you to town. You're on your own from there. And you better figure out a way to get your truck off my land."
"Really?" She grabbed her backpack and guitar from the passenger floorboard and then juggled both on her lap as she rolled up the crank window. The door made an awful metal creak when she moved to hop out. She caught the cowboy's wince in the dim light from his flashlight.
"That truck is older than you are."
"I know. Ain't it great?" She tried to cover up her nerves by giving the hood an affectionate pat as she shifted her backpack onto her shoulder. Maybe he wouldn't see how white her knuckles were as she clutched her guitar. "She was my mom's. Back before I was born."
He mumbled something else. Maybe he had a mumbling problem. Or maybe he just didn't like her.
"Just because something is old or needs work doesn't mean you give up on it," she said.
He sent her a sideways glare but didn't say anything else. She followed him toward the sad old farmhouse, careful to keep a good yard between them.
From the porch, his farm dog wagged its tail.
Seeing it helped settle the nervous energy jangling through her. Animals were a true judge of character. The farm dog was lean but groomed. It's teeth were good. And it was friendly. 
Maybe she couldn't trust herself to judge a man's character, but she'd grown up on a ranch. She could trust the dog. It wasn't as if she was going to sleep a wink anyway. Might as well be warm inside instead of freezing in her truck.


Author Lacy Williams



Contact Links
Twitter: @lacy_williams

Purchase Links
Also Available on iBooks

RABT Book Tours & PR

Saturday, May 9, 2020

Book Blitz: The Songbirds by Alif

~ Book Blitz ~
The Songbirds 

by 

Alif  



About the Book:
The Songbirds is a literary tale that goes to the heart of what’s ailing today’s world and tries to find the answers to our most pressing questions.

Amidst poetry and the innocence of youth, the love story of Kasim and Sumera sprouts in the romantic settings of Bada Ghar, the mystical house of a long-gone but not forgotten poet, Bulbul Baba, their mutual ancestor. To carve a better future for Sumera and himself, Kasim migrates West. But, once there, an increasingly westernised Kasim begins to see his for love for Sumera as taboo. So, instead, he tries to find fulfilment in London, forcefully burying his love.

However, with time, Kasim realises that the West doesn’t have the answers he is looking for and his yearning for Sumera returns, becoming stronger than ever, but a huge barrier now stands between them. Not only that, but time could also be running out because, back home, Sumera has gone on to become a fiery blogger over controversial issues, earning herself many enemies, possibly one too many.

“A meditation on love’s complicated intimacies...A stunning literary tale!”

To the free bird in all of us...


Book Links:



Read some Snippets from The Songbirds



~ Snippet 1 ~


The study room at Bulbul Baba’s Bada Ghar. To me, it is the most magical room in the whole world, for it has the poetry of the heavens. There, year after year, I see many bulbuls sing, competing with each other to see who has the sweetest song. There is one, in particular, a young bulbul, whose chirps rise like the scented petals of jasmine caressed by the breeze and touch the heart.


~ Snippet 2 ~


Ironically, years ago, I had taken a big leap to reach where I now precariously stood. I hadn’t known then that the hand I had leapt for would turn out to be a mirage. Not only that but in making that leap, I had let go of the only hand which had truly ever anchored me; I had let go of her hand.

Now, as my hands flail in desperation, she is the only one who can save me. However, the distance that separates us is the distance which separates the Moon from the Earth. Still, impossible as it may seem, I have to reach for her hand.

Though, there is also a fear that she is no longer there, waiting for me. For all I know, it could be another mirage beckoning me, but I have to find out. I have to leap back to her; only this time it is a leap of faith. My faith in love.


Download a copy on 8th or 9th May!


About the Author:
I write because silence is not an option. At the same time, my novels brim with hope in addition to having a riveting plot. My debut novel, which was published by a boutique publisher in Europe some years ago, was seen to be refreshing.

My recent novel Guns and Saffron has received exceptionally good reviews on Amazon, NetGalley and Goodreads saying that it is addictive, fresh and enlightening. The Songbirds, a literary tale, is my latest novel.