Awesome series being promoted
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Awesome series being promoted
View original post 302 more words
Author name: Ann Stratton
Some of my other stories include:
A Note From Santiago
A Burning Rainbow Man
Ayesha and the Teaching Woman
A Soldier Travels
Monday is Winter
Close Encounters, a collection of short stories
Mistaken Identities, a collection of short stories
My Little I, a collection of short stories
Loose Marbles, a collection of short stories
Interested readers might check with Smashwords or Draft 2 Digital to see what else I’ve published. Ignore the craft and cookbooks. My namesakes are busy (and creative!) women.
Harvey Stanbrough, one of our semi-local professionals who was getting into e-publishing at the time, convinced me to give Smashwords a try, and later Draft2Digital.
The publishing end. I’d prefer to just write, but to get my work out where someone else can read it requires spending way too much time on the Internet.
Pantser, definitely. Any other method makes me over think to the point of paralysis.
Just write the story. Follow the characters and write down what they say and do, and otherwise stay out of it.
Since I’ve only gotten one review, good or bad, I can’t really say… But I’m gonna do my very best to stay away from them.
Pretty much my entire life has been research. I use my own learning and experience to base my stories on. Everything I see and hear and experience becomes reference material.
Other than that… I may do some side reading on whatever I’m writing about at the moment. I enjoy the sciences as a tourist – I window shop but don’t buy, especially the human-related ones.
Just write the next word. Just do it.
Anything the little voices in my head tell me. We won’t get into that.
It’s our front spare bedroom, used as an office. It’s a cluttered mess, as I also use it for keeping my craft stash, and the whole assembly just might fall on me someday, like Fibber McGee and Molly’s closet.
It appears to be a coming of age piece, as the heroine travels the world finding her destiny. I can see three options and I won’t know which one will apply until I get to the end of it.
At the immediate moment, her pants have split and her shoes have fallen apart, and some idiot keeps poking her with a stick.
Ann features in:
Here Be Ghosts Bundle
Myth, Monsters and Mayhem Volume 6
Who are they? What are they? The souls of the long departed, or wicked manifestations of sin?
Tales of ghosts and spectres have enthralled us since time began. From ghostly servants, spectral possession, a space-going ghostbuster, to Halloween horrors, wicked toads and missing children these tales bring chills and thrills.
Ancient horrors, long-dead rockers, family secrets and helpful murder victims join them in providing the shivers and the quivers.
Dare you venture with the dead-walking.
13 tales of spooks, lost souls, and weird adventures.
Communication Breakdown – Dayle A. Dermatis
Alfred Lets Loose – Linda Jordan
Seventh – Debbie Mumford
Crossing the Naiad – J.M. Ney-Grimm
Full Circle – Kate MacLeod
Roadside Ghosts: A Collection of Horror and Dark Fantasy – Steve Vernon
The Palace – Leah Cutter
A Burning Rainbow Man – Ann Straton
The Whole World for Each – Kate MacLeod
The Queen of Toads – Joe Bonadonna
Ghosts and Ghoulies – Deb Logan
The Secret of Blossom Rise: A Ghost Story
The Popcorn Thief – Leach Cutter
Check out the post for this very talented illustrator
Only fools fall in love, and hell is filled with fools. Our damned lovers include: Christopher Marlowe and Will Shakespeare, Napoleon and Wellington, Orpheus and Eurydice, Hatshepsut and Senenmut, Abelard and Heloise, Helen and Penelope, Saint Teresa and Satan’s Reaper, Madge Kendall and the Elephant Man, and more . . . — all of whom pay a hellish price for indulging their affections.
Shakespeare said “To be wise and love exceeds man’s might,” and in Lovers in Hell, the damned in hell exceed all bounds as they search for their true loves, punish the perfidious, and avoid getting caught up in Satan’s snares. In ten stories of misery and madness, hell’s most loveless seek to slake the thirst that can never be quenched, and find true love amid the lies of ages.
Featuring stories by:
Janet and Chris Morris
Michael E. Dellert
Michael H. Hanson
A. L. Butcher
Andrew P. Weston
HELL WEEK 2018…. Coming soon…. so get your pitchforks ready.
You have been warned.
Great article, and it’s always good to get feedback. Also knowing one’s strengths and weaknesses can really help.
Slow start with the new project, hopefully I’ll catch up in the weeks to come. But I also wrapped up Nightly Bites Volume 2 and it’s now available for pre-order (goes live on Friday) as e-book and available in paperback as well! I am very excited about this volume 2, I think it’s actually better than volume 1!
Well, at least my story is. The one I wrote on the fly, inspired by the chosen cover. So the guy on the cover is Alain, Bran’s latest fledgling, and you’ll see more of him probably in the next novel that will come out in November as usual. Not the first time that I write inspired by an artwork (photo/painting/drawing/sculpture) whether I did it or someone else did it.
The other stories are also awesome and you should check it right now! It’s been already presented on Library of Erana and I…
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Here’s my latest author interview – enjoy:)
Please be aware some of Alex’s novels are 18+ rated.
Both! I have fibromyalgia so some days I don’t have the energy to do much of any use. I try and write everyday (and don’t always succeed), but some days, if I feel OK I get a total buzz from the writing. It’s satisfying to create something, and the feel-good is worth a lot. On the other hand the non-writing days make me feel a bit rubbish. It does depend on what else I have done that day. I work full time, so writing is usually limited to the evenings, weekends and holidays. I enjoy it though. When it becomes a burden I will stop.
Gaming and the internet. I am easily distracted. I’ll just go online for half an hour before I write… just 30 minutes…. Who am…
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Out Now! Buried Pleasures (Medusa’s Consortium series book 3) by K D Grace (@kd_grace) #newrelease #urbanfantasy #uf
When Samantha Black shares her sandwich with a dog, his owner, Jon—a homeless man living in the Las Vegas storm tunnels—gives her a poker chip worth a fortune from the exclusive casino, Buried Pleasures. All Sam has to do is cash it in. Sam is in Vegas for one reason only—to get her friend, Evie Holt, away from sinister magician, Darian Fox, who holds her prisoner in an effort to force Sam to perform at his club, Illusions. A neon circus tent of strange and mystical acts, Illusions is one of the biggest draws in Vegas, and he’s hell-bent on including Sam in his disturbing plans.
The shadowy Magda Gardener will do anything to keep Sam from cashing in that chip. She knows that Buried Pleasures is the gate to Hades and cashing in the chip is a one-way ticket across the River Styx, which runs beneath the storm tunnels of Vegas. Jon is really Jack Graves, owner of Buried Pleasures, and Graves is really the god of death, himself, and if things aren’t already confusing enough, he and Magda know what Sam doesn’t. Sam is the last siren. That her song can kill is only the beginning of her story. Jon wants her safe on his side of the River, protected from Fox’s hideous magic. But even Death fears Magda Gardener, who is none other than Medusa, and the gorgon has her own agenda. If Sam is to understand her heritage and win the battle against Darian Fox, not only will she have to trust her heart to Death, but they’ll both have to work for the gorgon, whose connection with Sam runs deeper than any of them could imagine.
Amazon (universal link): http://mybook.to/buriedpleasures
Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36401609-buried-pleasures
Excerpt: So much more than La Petit Mort
With a soft clink, Fox dropped the key in a small ceramic bowl on the dresser, not bothering to lock the door behind him. There was no need now.
He heard the rustle of bedding and a soft female moan before his eyes fully adjusted to the gloom. Then he saw the shape of her, duvet thrown back in spite of the chill, the pale silk of the negligee rising and falling with her anxious breathing. He always asked that they be clothed in white silk. Occasionally there was blood, and the red of blood against white silk made the experience more formal somehow, and it always felt like such an occasion should be formal.
As he became used to the gloom, he could see that she had been well-groomed for the occasion, fully made-up and hair freshly coifed, just as he had requested. It was a condition that wasn’t strictly necessary, but made the whole experience seem a little more ceremonial, a little more festive. After all, presentation was a key ingredient in every good restaurant, wasn’t it? Why should his situation be any different?
“Gabriella, you look exquisite tonight, my darling. I can’t tell you how much I’ve anticipated being with you, having you here in my bed.” He removed his jacket and hung it carefully over a cedar hanger on the back of the door. “Did I not promise you that the time would come when I would invite you into my own home, into my own bed?”
Of course it wasn’t his own bed. He never took them to his bed. He had several other rooms in several other places where he took from them what he needed, though this one was special. This one was for feasting. He carefully undressed by the side of the bed where she would be able to admire his every move. She moaned softly and writhed, not taking her eyes off him, needing him almost as much as he needed her. Almost.
At his leisure, he took in the curves that were still luscious enough to be tempting—the rise of nipples, the dilation of pupils, the rhythmic shifting of hips, all of which he could now make out. Ripe fruit, he thought. She was ripe fruit. The experience was always most ecstatic, always most satisfying, when his chosen had not yet passed her peak, when he had not used her so much that her looks had suffered, nor her hunger for him weakened. He needed her hunger as much as he needed her beauty. The two always went hand in hand. He needed her hunger to be her driving force, driving her to him over and over again, until all strength was gone. Most often he controlled his hunger, careful not to allow himself more than what was necessary to survive and thrive.
Tonight, however, he was drained and starving from effort and exhaustion, but from excitement as well, from the knowing that Samantha Black was capable of so much more than even he had anticipated. Tonight he would take deeply from the ripest fruit, take as though it were the first and the last fullness of summer, and Gabriella was just at that point of fullness.
“I’m going to make love to you, darling.” He didn’t even try to disguise his hunger. Anxious anticipation was as much a part of the ritual as savoring the moment, and he wanted her to know how much he hungered for her, how much he needed her. “I’m going to make you come as you have never come before, my sweetheart.” He slid onto the bed next to her, his left hand stroking her soft, dark hair, his right cupping himself, making himself ready. “Would you like that, Gabriella? I know you would, I know how impatient you’ve been.”
There was a soft whimper, and the woman shifted her hips and threw back her head with a little gasp as he slid a thumb across her heavy bottom lip. He was hard, always hard when he hungered. It was a part of the ritual, a part of the consuming, a part of fulfilling his need.
Carefully he slipped down the straps of the negligee so that he could admire the fullness of her breasts. Yes, presentation was so important — ripe cherry nipples against silken white fabric, so succulent, so ready. Her skin was the color of expensive mocha, and for a moment, he took in the feast for the eyes waiting for him. Then he cupped her sex, and she arched up, her eyelids fluttering beneath lush, dark lashes so perfectly made up, so perfectly prepared to meet her lover.
“La petite mort,” he said. “It’s what we all long for, isn’t it, my sweetheart, over and over and over again, we long for it. It’s what we dream about in the darkest hours of the night. It’s what we wake up longing for, goose fleshed, slick and heavy with need from those elusive dreams of perfect love, perfect union, perfect dissolving of the self into the other. Oh, my beauty,” he slid a hand between her thighs, and her tongue flicked over her lip in concentration, in anticipation, “I’ve kept you waiting too long. I do apologize. La petite mort is a small gift for a long wait. So tonight, my dearest girl, I shall give you something far grander than the little death. And our joining, our perfect dissolving into one another, will be beyond anything you could ever imagine.”
He positioned himself above her and she opened to him, rising up to meet him in gasps and groans and whimpers that neared desperation. Oh yes, he would give her so much more than la petite mort, and then, in the instant when her body dissolved in pleasure, he would take it all back, all of it and so much more.
There was breath and then there was blood, and there was the life force coursing through the beautiful Gabriella. That life force entered his body through sex, through making love. And truly he did make love, for the gift that the lovely creature writhing beneath him, no longer strong enough to keep her legs grasped around his waist, was giving him was worthy of lovemaking. The taking of the life force in such a way was sex raised above and beyond ecstasy. He seldom partook to the end. He usually made it last for months, sometimes even years, depending on how powerful the life force was.
But Gabriella had no particular power, nothing but her exquisite beauty to linger on. He saw such as her as fast food, really, a needed energy boost in desperate times, and this was one of those times. Her sacrifice would ensure that he was focused and ready for whatever obstacles Graves could throw in his way where Samantha Black was concerned, because he would have her. He had to have her.
The woman beneath him shuddered with release, and he took her mouth more fully, swallowing back the harshness of her breath to blend with his own, teasing him to join in her ecstasy. She would climax over and over, and that would be her final memory. She would come to her death in rapturous pleasure, and she would not even feel that moment when all of her breath, all of her life force, all of her power, passed to him, and the darkness took her.
Her eyelids fluttered again and again, for now she truly had not the energy left for more than the flutter of eyelids above huge, dark eyes. Even the quiver low in her loins had transferred itself to him, and he felt her orgasms as though they were his own, as though through the breath, through the coupling, he had become her and she him. He had taken her into himself as she had him into her, so open, so inviting, so willing.
“You see,” he whispered against the seashell hollow of her unhearing ear, “I have given you so much more than la petite mort, just as I promised, darling. So much more for both of us.”
Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, K D Grace believes Freud was right. It really IS all about sex—sex and love—and that is an absolute writer’s playground.
When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening or walking. Her creativity is directly proportional to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She loves mythology, which inspires many of her stories. She enjoys time in the gym, where she’s having a mad affair with a pair of kettle bells. Her first love is writing, but she loves reading and watching birds. She adores anything that gets her outdoors.
K D’s novels and other works are published by Totally Bound, SourceBooks, Accent Press, Harper Collins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, and others. She also writes romance under the name Grace Marshall.
Find K D Here:
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