Books

In this issue, interviews with:
Steve Altier, YA mystery, suspense author
Mike DeLucia, historical fantasy, time travel romance
Aaron Ryan, sci-fi author

Tammy Komoff’s story, The Midnight Commuter, begins a 3-part serialization in this issue.
Gina Rae Mitchell’s article helps us make a quick and accurate book review

Next month: Interviews with Rebecca Weber, Tammy Komoff, Stacy Moe-Keon, and an article by Joseph Mistretta. And Part II of the Midnight Commuter serialization.

Celwyn’s Cats

Interview with Steve Altier

Whether told around the campfire or with a storm raging outside, ghost stories aren’t always just stories.

1. Of all your characters (real or not), which is the most like your own personality? How many of the char’s traits are already part of you, versus what you want them to be?

In many ways, Johnny is a reflection of me. This coming-of-age series follows his journey as he grows into a brave young man, learning to face his fears head-on and discovering strength he never knew he had.

2. Work-life balance against your writing muse: How much does real life affect your writing sessions, good or bad?

Balancing work, writing, and most importantly, family time is never easy. It’s a constant juggling act. But chasing your dreams requires sacrifice, discipline, and a whole lot of determination. Start small. Set aside just one hour a day that fits your schedule. Protect that time. Your future self will thank you.

3. Do you have advice for an author tackling a new genre?

I’ve always believed that when the voices in your head urge you to explore new creative territory, you should listen. Sometimes, they lead you exactly where you’re meant to go.

4. Do you consult a friend/other authors for advice on sticky writing situations? 

That kind of creative circle is invaluable. Having a trusted group of writer friends to bounce ideas off of can make all the difference, not just for problem-solving, but for staying motivated. It’s funny how often the solution is something simple, something obvious, just hiding in plain sight until someone else points it out.

Writers may work alone, but good stories are rarely created in a vacuum. You should keep leaning on that group, it’s a sign you’re serious about your craft.

5. Have you ever been on a ghost hunting trip?

I’ve been on several ghost hunts over the years, never alone, always with a group. Some have been casual, with novice investigators just looking for a thrill, while others have been more serious, leaning toward the professional side. I’ve even joined the Tampa Bay Spirits team on a few occasions, and those experiences have left a mark.

6. If it could be anywhere in the world, where would you write from?

I’d sit on a balcony overlooking the ocean, letting the breeze wash over me as I listened to the soothing sounds of Mother Nature at her finest. There’s nothing quite like the rhythm of the waves to quiet the mind and stir the soul.

Steve’s Lizardville Ghost Story Trilogy is set in a quiet Pennsylvania town in the mid-1970s, where ghost stories are more than just spooky tales told around a campfire; they might be warnings.

Join Johnny and his group of teenage friends as they uncover a dark, long-buried secret hidden deep within the woods. What begins as innocent curiosity quickly unravels into something far more sinister, opening a door to a world they were never meant to find.

Website: https://www.stevealtier.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7129880.Steve_Altier
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authorstevealtier/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Steve-Altier/e/B00FFLIJ3Y
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorSteveAltier/

An Interview with Mike DeLucia

When Navy SEAL, Brodi, is hurled into ancient Troy, he must choose between a future that needs him… and a past he can’t let go.

1. Which of your books was the hardest to write, and why?

Time Passages: Echoes of Troy was by far the hardest. My first four novels were intimate and took about three months each to write. Time Passages: Echoes of Troy took ten months—writing 5 to 7 days a week, six hours a day—followed by another three months of revisions. It’s epic in scope, and required building an entire world from scratch. I had a loose framework with the Trojan setting, but I still had to invent names, research the Bronze Age, and make it all feel alive. Toward the end, I started losing it a little—too much pizza, ice cream, and the occasional glass of Prosecco just to survive it.

2. Talk about where you get an idea for a book. It sounds like some of your books come from personal experiences.

Several do. My book, Madness, is about Hank Luisetti, the greatest basketball player no one’s ever heard of. He transformed basketball into the fast-paced game we know today and helped pave the way for March Madness and the NBA. The book is historical fiction, so while I knew his stats and achievements, I had to imagine his personal life. I drew from my own family—Luisetti and I are both of Italian descent, which made that part natural. Being Brothers is loosely autobiographical; it follows a kid growing up in the Bronx in 1973, just like I did.

3. Will there be a sequel to Time Passages: Echoes of Troy? If so, what will it focus on—and will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more?

There’s a strong possibility this could be the first in a series. The ending definitely leaves the door open. I have ideas for Brodi, my protagonist, returning to Troy—or slipping into an entirely different time period.

3. Do you have your next book’s plot already in your head? Could we get a preview?

I actually have a Word doc titled “Future Works,” and it’s packed with possibilities. I want Brodi’s story to continue. But if not, I’m also drawn to something in the supernatural thriller space.

An Interview with Aaron Ryan

“They silently descended through our skies one day. We thought they were angelic messengers. We were wrong.”

1. How would you compare your books to other styles of sci fi books? 
I’m told people draw comparisons between mine and A Quiet Place, or perhaps Bird Box. Bird Box because the protagonists cannot look at the aliens. A Quiet Place because our planet is invaded by hostile beings. Both tropes have been explored before of course. Mine perhaps fuses both of those concepts. The aliens – we call them gorgons after the mythical Medusa because you cannot lock eyes with them as they have a telepathic paralytic which will freeze you where you stand and allow them to consume you at their leisure while you feel every agonizing bite – are destructive and terrifying. They kill off 85% of all organic life including humans. However, where my story differs is that, yet again, the real enemy is man. The series is called “Dissonance” because, even 16 years after an alien invasion, we’re STILL not getting along. We’re still jockeying for position, throwing each other under the bus, assuring our own survival at the cost of others, clinging to power, etc. It’s a referendum on the lack of unity in the face of annihilation. 

2. Of all your characters, which is the most like your personality? How many of the char’s traits (good or bad) are already part of you, verses what you want them to be?
I think Jet is very much my book twin. He’s snarky, cynical, and yet has a good side, a heroism if you will, and knows he needs to do the right thing. He’s also willing to receive the truth and digest it, and let that form his opinion – and his path – which many people are unwilling to do out of stubbornness. I would say he’s got a lot of qualities that are already part of me. The main trait where we differ is that he’s fit and healthy, and I need to get back on the recumbent bike ASAP. 

3. What do you think new authors should decide before they begin their first book? Should it be who they are writing for (themselves or their audience)? Do you have other criteria you would suggest?
“Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.” Oscar Wilde said that, and it’s so true. Be unique. Don’t try to copy Tolkien or Rowling or Asimov. Be you. Come up with your own signature style. Pay homage, certainly, if you must, but write from your own style. Additionally, steer clear of AI. It’s such a load of crap, and it’s taking away good jobs. I should know: I’m also a voiceover artist whose career is being eroded by AI. AI is a cheap substitute for humanity, and that’s why I have a fore note in each of my books urging fellow authors to avoid using it. Use your God-given talent to create! Don’t delegate that and offload it to a computer. It’s not right. And finally, develop thick skin. Learn to be rejected. And know that it’s not really rejection; it’s just selection. Your reader selected another book. That agent selected a different author. That publisher wasn’t ready for you. Keep moving forward and take those hits like Rocky; keep moving forward. You got this.

4. In your research for your series, did a particular historical/arcane fact stick with you, maybe becoming a standalone plot in the future?
Well, I don’t believe that I’m convinced that aliens exist, and if they do, I think I, like many, would prefer that they possess more traits like E.T. than like Predator. Not sure what will happen with that. Have aliens visited us? Not sure, because again, I’m not convinced that they exist. But I would be interested in perhaps exploring whether they’ve visited us in the past, and if so, perhaps that could be a spinoff book. I think we’ll cross that alien bridge when we get there. Or levitate across in a spiny, discy type thing with lots of lights.

5. Do you plan to write any nonfiction? (or another genre?)
I wrote my own biography and published it many years ago, but I’ve since unpublished it as I’m utterly uninteresting.

6. For your own reading, what genre (s) do you read?
Sci-fi, to be sure, although I will read The Lord of the Rings over and over again until the cows come home. That is the first creative work I remember ever influencing me, and there’s something utterly precious and sacred about it. It’s enormously complex and sculpted with such depth and breadth…for me, it’s the undisputed and quintessential work of fantasy ever created, never to be rivaled.

Visit Aaron’s website at www.authoraaronryan.com or the Dissonance trilogy website at www.dissonancetheseries.com

Playlist of Aaron’s podcast interviews:

Our podcast for 321 Author Chats: Brian D. Anderson and Lou Kemp

We talked about many things, from Tolkin’s poetry to Homer.  I still think Warhol was a genius–at marketing.

How to Write a Thoughtful, but Short, Book Review

2. Highlight One or Two Standout Aspects (2-3 sentences)
What made this book memorable? Focus on its strongest elements—characters, themes, writing style, or emotional impact.
Example: “The author’s prose is lyrical yet raw, making every emotion feel immediate and real. The themes of grief and resilience were handled with such depth that I found myself thinking about them days later.”

3. Include a Personal Connection (Optional, 1 sentence)
A brief mention of how the book resonated with you makes your review more authentic and relatable.
Example: “As someone who loves introspective character studies, this book felt like it was written just for me.”

4. End with a Simple Recommendation (1 sentence)
Suggest who might enjoy this book or summarize how it made you feel.
Example: “Perfect for readers who appreciate literary fiction with emotional depth and poetic writing.”

Putting It All Together (Example Review, 5 Sentences)
“A haunting and beautifully written novel that lingers in your mind long after the final page. The author’s prose is lyrical yet raw, making every emotion feel immediate and real. The themes of grief and resilience were handled with such depth that I found myself thinking about them days later. As someone who loves introspective character studies, I felt that this book was written just for me. Perfect for readers who appreciate literary fiction with emotional depth and poetic writing.”

By following this structure, you can write a short (under 100 words), impactful, and personal review—ideal for platforms like Goodreads, Amazon, or social media. Give it a try with your next book!

Serialization: The Midnight Commuter Part 1

Shadows passed over dark fields and pastures, through woods and across frozen dirt roads, slowly descending on the Oakfield train depot that lay on the outskirts of the village. The depot appeared a safe haven in the chill autumn night. Its carriage lamps cast a warm circle of light, promising fully stoked pot-bellied stoves and a place to rest within.

It was late, and the only person still around was the station agent, John McKinsey, Mac for short. He was in the office, seated at his desk, surrounded by a bay window overlooking the platform and tracks. His back was to the telegraph station where a half-transcribed message from the Secretary of War lay abandoned on the scarred oak surface. The machine’s final dots and dashes echoed in Mac’s mind, sounding more like the gunfire and mortar rounds he had survived in his youth. Less like the familiar combination that signaled Hitler had stolen another of the village’s sons.

It was a lie, that abandoned message, or a mistake. It had to be, Mac thought. And how could he transcribe a lie when every stroke of the typewriter’s keys was like a nail in a coffin Mac was hammering shut. The typewriter sat silent, waiting. It hurt to look at it or where it sat, on the smallest desk, the one closest to the stove—Johnny’s desk. So, Mac sat staring unseeing as the first snowflakes of the season blew sideways, bright white against the dark forest that lay beyond the tracks. He was paralyzed, afraid to go home to the empty house, where the whispers of loved ones still lingered, afraid to stay and face the message it was his duty to deliver.

The jingle of the door’s bell pulled Mac’s mind from the telegraph and the trenches. He didn’t bother heading to the ticket window; it had been closed since that afternoon, but instead used the door that separated the two halves of the station. His eyes fixed on the floor as he walked, afraid he wouldn’t recover from a glimpse in the wrong direction. A young man, maybe 20, sat on a wooden bench in the waiting room, watching through the grill as the flames danced in the stove. He was familiar in a fleeting way.

“May I help you?” Mac asked.

“Just waiting on my train, sir.” He looked up, and Mac realized he wasn’t much of a man at all. Just a boy really, two, maybe three years younger than Johnny, with a fresh face, yet unmarked by the pain of this world.

“I’m sorry, but the last train came through here hours ago.” Mac gestured to the timetable framed on the wall beside the ticket window. The list of trains was smaller than it had been before the war. Really just a handful of lines, but then again, it seemed these days there were only a handful of people. “Next one doesn’t arrive until 6:57 tomorrow morning.”

“Oh no, sir, I got my ticket right here.” The boy said and held up a yellow ticket with dark embossed lettering. Mac pulled his reading glasses down from the top of his balding head and took the paper.

It was a good job, he thought. Better than he’d seen in years. Come to think about it, when was the last time he’d seen a forged ticket? Had to be a decade at least, and they’d never been this beautiful. ‘The Midnight Commuter,’ read the words encircling a detailed print of a speeding locomotive. The rest of the ticket was standard fare and could have been lifted right off the tickets he sold for the Grand Trunk Railway, except for the fact it didn’t have the railway line’s name or logo on it.

“Son, I’m sorry, but…” There was an eager smile on the boy’s face; no wonder he’d fallen for a scam. He looked like he’d believe anything you told him. Mac had the sudden urge to protect that innocence, it was so rare these days, and the war would see it stolen soon enough. A memory of Johnny in his khaki uniform, that nervous smile on his face, clouded Mac’s vision. Or were those tears? He blinked them away, focused on the boy instead. “There must be a typo on this ticket. Trains don’t run at midnight around here. You come on back in the morning, and we’ll get you sorted out then.”

“Well, sir,” said the boy. “No disrespect, but I was given this ticket and told to be here at midnight and that a train would be coming through. So, if it’s all right with you, and again I mean no disrespect, I think I’ll just sit here a while.” The boy paused a moment, and a pained look crossed his face as if it hurt him to contradict an adult. “I mean s-sir,” he stammered, “If that’s all right.”

Mac realized he was smiling, honest to goodness smiling, not that plastered on pleasantry everyone seemed to wear these days. That he could smile tonight, of all nights…

“Sure, son,” he replied, surprising himself. “We can wait a while.”

Mac handed the ticket back. For a moment, his fingers brushed the back of the boy’s hand. There was a burst of light, and Mac was standing in the French trenches of his youth, muddy water up to his ankles, the lingering stench of smoke and feces. A boy sat in the mud, his back against the earthen wall. He looked like he was staring at the blood on his palms, but when Mac reached out, he found the boy dead. He stumbled back, the mud sucking at his boots, lost his balance, felt himself start to fall. The dead boy looked up at him with clouded eyes, then stood, grabbing Mac just as he was about to tumble.

“You all right, sir?” The fresh-faced boy asked. They were in the waiting room. The boy had let go of Mac, his arms outstretched awkwardly, unsure if Mac would stay on his feet. Augustus. That was the dead boy’s name. Auggie for short. He’d been the first of Mac’s company to go. Too sweet to survive the war, at least that’s what the rest of his platoon said after Mac found him. This boy looked just like him.

“How’d you do…” Mac stopped. That fresh-faced boy didn’t do anything. It was just the late hour playing tricks on an old man’s mind that’d been stretched too far already. “We’ll give it to 12:15,” Mac said, straightening. “If the train’s coming, it’ll be here by then.”

Back in his office, Mac gazed at snowflakes twirling in the wind. Did some other boy now have a similar memory of Johnny? He hoped not, couldn’t stand his son being someone else’s nightmare. But the telegraph had been vague. Those types always were.

The bell jingled. The boy must have looked at the timetable himself, put two and two together, and left. Mac made his way back to the waiting room to smother the fire, thinking of the boy and hoping he wouldn’t spend the night in the cold. Maybe, if he ran into him outside, Mac would invite him home for the evening. It’d be nice to have someone else in the house for a…

The boy was right where he left him, still watching the flames, only now he wasn’t alone. An old woman sat against the far wall. Her hair done up in a tight bun, a carpetbag clutched in her lap, an umbrella slipped through the handles.

“Ma’am?” Mac said. “Is everything all right?” She glared at him, lips pursed.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, words polite, the tone not. Teacher, the word floated through Mac’s mind, and as it did, he knew he was right. At some point, this woman had been a teacher and not the type students remembered fondly. No, she was a woman familiar with the various uses of a ruler. Johnny had a teacher like her, though Mac only met her on one occasion. Anabelle had always handled Johnny’s schooling.

“The station’s closed, ma’am,” Mac said.

“It had better not be,” the woman replied. “I am not waiting outside.” Mac paused a moment, confused at where this night was taking him.

“Are you here for the Midnight Commuter?” he asked, looking hesitantly at the boy, but the boy was still transfixed by the flames. The woman said yes, flourishing her ticket for Mac’s benefit. How many people had this con artist scammed? The man must have been first-rate to convince a woman like this.

“Ma’am…” he turned to the boy sheepishly, “Son. I am sorry, but there is no Midnight Commuter. You all have been sold phony tickets.” The boy looked at Mac with that innocent smile as if he hadn’t heard a word. The woman scowled.“You all have been scammed,” Mac said. And when they didn’t respond, “Whoever sold you those fake tickets stole your money.” They stared at him uncomprehendingly. “There has never been a Midnight Commuter. It would be a miracle if a train showed up tonight.” Still, they didn’t respond. Finally, as bluntly as he could. “There is no train coming!” The boy looked back at his flames. The old woman opened her bag and pulled out a novel, the cover a marbleized pink. “I…” Mac tried again. The woman licked her finger, turned the page. “You…” He was flabbergasted.

Outside came a jumble of footsteps on the stairs and platform. There was a laugh, and someone crashed into the building, the loud thud disturbing the woman’s reading. The door flew open, banging against the wall and vibrating back slowly as a trio of soldiers stumbled into the room. They laughed and held onto each other for support, the smell of liquor enveloping them like a cloud. One spotted the old woman giving them her pursed-lip glare.

“Shhh,” he said, holding a finger to his mouth and giggling. And then, in a stage whisper, “I think we’re too loud.”

“You boys can’t spend the night here,” Mac said. “There’s a barn up the road you can…”

“We’re not sleeping here,” one interrupted. And another said, “Our train’ll be here soon.”

“About damn time, too,” said the third. “We’ve been waiting…” He held up his fingers as if to count. “Four months now?” He looked at his friends; they shrugged.

“The Midnight Commuter?” Mac asked, and when the soldiers said, ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ Mac sighed and headed back to the office.

He heard more footsteps on the platform outside, the thumps echoing in the empty space beneath the boards before the bell jingled. More travelers, a pair this time, judging by the sound of it. And was that another behind them? Mac hadn’t seen this many people awaiting a train since before Pearl Harbor.

Part II will appear in the August issue.

Bio:

A Horror and Dark Fantasy writer, Tammy Komoff’s work has appeared in Abyss & Apex, DreamForge Anvil, Bards & Sages and more. When not writing, Tammy can be found chasing her semi-feral daughters and their escape-artist mutt across Central Florida while her husband tries to keep up. For more information, visit tammykomoff.com or follow her on Bluesky. @tammykomoff.bsky.social

The first installment of this serialization can be found here: 

http://tammykomoff.com/

ENGIN A non-profit helping Ukrainians learn English

• Over 3,600 people have tried ENGin’s new video chat feature on the ENGin platform — with improved sound quality and more positive feedback! If you haven’t tried holding your sessions directly on the platform yet, give it a try and share your feedback with us!
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• There are fantastic ENGin Meet-and-Talks for Students & Volunteers, with nearly 140 participants joining these sessions focused on the topic of building connections and friendships at ENGin! This brand-new event format is designed to bring our community closer together. Attendees appreciated the unique opportunity to connect students and volunteers, the engaging themed breakout rooms, and the chance to hear ENGin updates and have their questions answered.

💙 ENGin encourages you to engage with these exciting new opportunities when you become a volunteer. Together, we are creating a more vibrant and connected community!

The Celwyn Series YouTube channel

What is New with the Celwyn Series?

In case you need some background:

Book 6 Swango Mini-blurb: The adventurers find Mrs. Nemo. Her twenty year- estranged husband, Captain Nemo, is a bit upset. The magician’s first encounter with Swango is also told as they plan for the Nautilus’ journey to the Castell de Ferro in Spain where Doctor Jurik Lazlo is hiding. Captain Nemo has been searching for him for a long time.

For book 7, Lucky and Mrs. Nemo, here is the unofficial blurb.

On Findbar, they’ve added another scientist. Dr. Martha Gluck (aka Lucky) who is a character, literally and figuratively. She enjoys a lively gunfight, doesn’t faint at the sight of magic, and accepts danger as a jolly good time. She finally draws the line when she meets up with the broadsword wielding ghost, Mrs. Spencer.

Celwyn’s Cats             Mr. and Mrs. Distraction

Mystery romance author Jody Brettkelly writes twisty tales about women who won’t give up. Interview with Jody Brettkelly. Bio:  Jody Brettkelly, a former barrister and journalist from New Zealand, worked as a writer for national newspapers in London for fifteen years. She now lives in California with her family.  1. For your own reading, what genre do you read and why? If it isn’t the one you write in, would it be someday? I am a voracious reader of both mysteries and romance, often reading up to one book a night. (And yes, most days I do wake up with a major book hangover, lol 🤕) My Kiwi family tease me because I grew up on an idyllic surf beach 🏖️ 🏄 but instead of learning to surf I stayed indoors all day reading about murder most foul (!) Right now, I’m trying to learn as much as I can about showing emotion on the page and am nose-deep reading regency romances. I want to capture the way these clever writers know how to make us read, feel, and fall in love. 2. Will there be a sequel to Bay of Plenty, and if so, what will it focus on? And will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more? The sequel Martyrs’ Convent comes out mid-July 2025, though all books can be read as standalones. Back in London, journalist Isla Joyson races against time to find a connection between a drowned nun, a sinister convent, and a manipulative aristocrat. Sort of like, Saltburn gone even more off the rails if you know that movie… And yes, there will be a third. Poor old Isla goes through the wringer. 3. When you need a new villain, what criteria do you consider? Do you model him/her after a real person? My criteria for a villain: You don’t have to like them but you have to understand them. While I’m writing them, my villains look and act like a combination of about ten people I know, and then they become their own selves. I am currently editing my fourth book, a mystery set in London and Cornwall, where the bad guy, Dr Ecce, is almost totally colorless in his skin and eyes, punctuated by black hair, like a washed up sea creature. Yes, he almost sounds like a cartoon character! To make him more three dimensional, I gave him a home life and buried pain. He is doing a really bad thing, but it turns out for an understandable reason and for someone he loves. To learn more about Jody’s characters, upcoming books and various shenanigans, sign up for her newsletter at jodybrettkelly.com. Link to Bay of Plenty

An Interview with M. Daniel Smith Bio:  As a writer and poet of sixty-eight years of age, M. Daniel Smith has read novels throughout his life. He provides stories with third person, multi-view storyline in different genres. Also, he has written poetry from his early years onward, which lends a prose-like flavor to his novels. He enjoys producing poetry to meet others needs, often basing them on five disparate words the requestor has been asked to supply, which leads to a flow of creative energy, shared. The ideas for his novels are sent to him in the characters in the early morning hours, guiding him as he reveals what they have to say and what they bring in their stories for him. All of his writing brings emotions to the fore, often with tears or soft laughter between smiles. M. Daniel Smith’s latest novel is The Cedar Cross. Blurb: Paul, a resident of a small town in Down-East Maine, discovers a deceased child tied to a cedar cross on a remote island. Adrian, a former investigator with the FBI, enlists Paul in the search for the killer. Adrian has spent several years tracking down an unknown murderer; one she believes to be responsible for the deaths of dozens of youthful victims. Their bodies were found in remote sites, forming the center and four cardinal points of a cross-shaped killing field. A desperate search begins, with the two of them working together to identify where the next sacrifice will take place. The chase between good and evil leads to a violent confrontation. Follow Paul and Adrian as they search through remote areas in the Maine countryside, hunting an emotionless killer before he strikes again. Two short examples of M. Daniel Smith Poetry: In this age of imagination, Where life requires bravery of spirit, And clarity of mind, we cast our hopes and dreams, Into the future, where unknown opportunities lie in wait…. In the mellowness of morning light, Tinged with secrets that descend With night’s soft flight…. Revealing themselves with charm And careless flattery of day…. I wrap my arms around my Self, Joining in the capricious fray…. M. Daniel Smith can be reached at: @mdanielsmith.bsky.social One of the people M. Daniel Smith has written poetry for is Mira, a gifted photographer. His poetry for her and some of her posted images can be found at: @deepgreens.bsky.social link to The Cedar Cross

An Interview with S. J. Bennett Bio: SJ Bennett grew up reading mystery stories and travelling the world as an army child. She writes the Her Majesty the Queen Investigates series, which has been published in over twenty languages. Sophia lives in London, where you can find her in her city garden, on Instagram as sophiabennett_writer, and at www.sjbennettbooks.com. Blurb for A Death in Diamonds The story follows Queen Elizabeth II as she combines her royal duties in 1957 with trying to solve a double murder in Chelsea, where someone close to her is trying to use her as an alibi. She teams up with Joan McGraw, an ex-codebreaker from Bletchley Park, and together they use their unique, female insights to penetrate the mystery. 1. Do you have advice for an author tackling a new genre? Read it obsessively. Love it. Know it intimately. 2. How important is it for your books to have a British flavor, and what degree of English details do you think is essential? My books certainly need a very British flavor, but luckily, that comes naturally. I’m grateful that my US publishers are great at respecting the Englishness of my prose, and don’t insist on changing ‘pavement’ for ’sidewalk’ etc. In books set in the Queen’s world, that sort of vocab would stick out like a sore thumb. 3. Will there be a sequel to A Death in Diamonds, and if so, what will it focus on? and will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more? The next book in the series will be called THE QUEEN WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD. It’s set in 1961 and goes from the era of the steam train to the age of the space rocket and James Bond. Elizabeth’s reign covered both, but these events were concentrated into just a couple of months! The book starts on the royal train and ends on the royal yacht in Venice. The Queen’s long reign leaves room for the series to continue for a while. 4.  When you need a new villain, what criteria do you consider? Do you model him/her after a real person? I met somebody recently whose behaviour shocked me so profoundly that it’s definitely going into a future book. My villains often don’t want to be villainous, or consider themselves as such. They can be quite charming. This person craved my goodwill, and I now realize would do anything to get it. 5. If it could be anywhere in the world, where would you write from? I’m researching the island of Tobago, and it has a hotel made up of hillside cabins overlooking the Caribbean Sea. I definitely spent a long moment thinking how much I’d love to be there right now, working. But I have a son at home taking exams, so I’m where I need to be: which is near my kitchen, making tea and nourishing meals between chapters.

Editing!!! Jennie Rosenblum is an independent editor for small publishers and indie authors. Since 2014, she has been happily self-employed helping authors. Feel free to reach out to her at www.jenniereads.com.     What Do Librarians Really Want? Getting your book into libraries boosts visibility and credibility, but libraries have specific criteria. By following these steps, you’ll increase your chances of getting your book into libraries and into readers’ hands. Happy pitching! Must-Haves A Professional Look – Libraries prefer books that look polished and professionally produced, with a well-designed interior and exterior. A Cover That Fits Your Genre – Your cover should align with current genre trends. Check displays at major retailers like Barnes & Noble, Costco, and Target. A Complete Copyright Page – Include ISBN, publisher info, copyright details, legal disclaimers, author’s name, Library of Congress catalog info, printing history, and design/editorial credits. Strong Comparable Titles – Have at least three comp titles that align with your book’s style, theme, and audience. Be ready to discuss them. A Compelling Blurb – Keep your book description short, engaging, and hook-driven. Avoid blurbs made up of only questions. Trusted Reviews – Libraries rely on reviews from sources like Kirkus, School Library Journal, Publishers Weekly, and Horn Book. Customer & Website Reviews – Aim for at least 50 reviews from readers on platforms like Amazon and Goodreads. A White Page (Sell Sheet) – Prepare a professional sell sheet with: Book details (title, author, ISBN, genre, length). A brief, compelling summary, Praise or reviews, Author bio & contact info, Ordering details Making Connections & Pitching to Libraries: Leverage Your Network – If you know someone at a library, reach out. If not, start building relationships at library events and book fairs. Offer Value to Librarians – Librarians are busy—offer something in return: Host an event like a signing or panel. Children’s book? Provide a craft activity and a helper. Use Social Proof – Mention if another library has your book—peer recommendations matter. The Best-Kept Secret: Patron Requests – Many libraries buy books based on patron requests. Encourage friends, family, and readers to request your book through their local system.                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`Absence and hopefully only a temporary farewell from Jennie: I’ve loved sharing with you all through this newsletter, but I’ll be taking a break from my column. Around here, we believe in saying YES and figuring it out later—so when the hubby suggested we take over daycare for our brand-new grandson, I didn’t hesitate. The “figuring it out” part, though, has meant trimming my workload, and sadly, this column ended up on the chopping block. But honestly… have you seen that face? How could I say no? Keep writing, keep reading, and I hope our paths cross again soon!

One of my favorites:

At the end of the day, book blogging is a passion project, but you need food too. Gina’s blog, https://ginaraemitchell.com/, consists of book reviews, articles, food, and crafts.  Today, she is talking about food.        Thinking About Growing Your Own Food? With the price of groceries rising every day, many people are looking into growing their fruits and vegetables at home. Whether you have unlimited space for your garden or are confined to small areas, these five books will give you a strong foundation: “The Vegetable Gardener’s Bible” by Edward C. Smith – A fantastic beginner-friendly guide focusing on raised-bed gardening, crop rotation, and organic techniques. “The New Organic Grower” by Eliot Coleman – A classic that covers sustainable and organic gardening principles, even if you’re working on a small scale. “Rodale’s Basic Organic Gardening: A Beginner’s Guide to Starting a Healthy Garden” by Deborah L. Martin – A straightforward, step-by-step introduction to organic gardening. “The Gardener’s Journal and Record Book” by Peter McHoy – An excellent tool for tracking progress, learning from experience, and planning future gardens. “Square Foot Gardening” by Mel Bartholomew – A must-read for beginners who want to maximize space and simplify gardening with an easy-to-follow system.I wish you much joy and contentment in your new garden…no matter what the size.

ENGIN A non-profit helping Ukrainians learn English Are you looking for an impactful and engaging volunteer opportunity?  ENGin volunteers provide plenty of communication on topics you’re passionate about while you meet new people. Volunteers like you are not necessarily professional tutors. A good grasp of English and a desire to help is all that is needed. The themed Telegram hubs are becoming popular, but are not required. ENGin online communities use Zoom to teach Ukrainians English. Most of the students wait up to a year for a volunteer. Per student per week, you would lead a one-hour class with your student. ENGin provides training, lessons and supporting information and materials. In just a few short weeks, their new initiatives have taken off in amazing ways: Over 3,600 people have tried ENGin’s new video chat feature on the ENGin platform, with improved sound quality and more positive feedback! If you haven’t tried holding your sessions directly on the platform yet, give it a try and share your feedback with us! Over 760 students and volunteers have joined ENGin’s themed Telegram hubs, sparking new conversations and connections across four online channels: the Language Learning Hub, Arts & Entertainment Hub, Career & Personal Development Hub, and Community Service & Global Issues Hub. If you’re looking to connect with more ENGin students without taking on a new buddy or contributing your skills to support Ukrainians in other ways, this is a great way to do so! There are fantastic ENGin Meet-and-Talks for Students & Volunteers, with nearly 140 participants joining these sessions focused on the topic of building connections and friendships at ENGin! This brand-new event format is designed to bring our community closer together. Attendees appreciated the unique opportunity to connect students and volunteers, the engaging themed breakout rooms, and the chance to hear ENGin updates and have their questions answered.💙 ENGin encourages you to engage with these exciting new opportunities when you become a volunteer. Together, we are creating a more vibrant and connected community!

The Celwyn Series YouTube channel Link to Celwyn’s YouTube channel

What is New with the Celwyn Series? What is new with the Celwyn Series? I’ll make this short and sweet, and blame it on the Celwyn cats.  A touch of writer’s block struck, again catis interruptis, and indecision. Yet, there was progress, just not enough or self-approved enough, to mention here. When I resolved all the initial issues with book 8 (I’m sure there will be many more), the tentative title will be. Arwen’s Time. Upcoming, in addition to book 7 later this year, is The Cyclopedia of Celwyn, an ebook companion to the series that contains all characters, their backgrounds, and everything Celwyn. There is no release date yet, and I’m about 80% complete, all without losing any of it. Amazing! In case you need some background: Book 6, Swango Mini-blurb: The adventurers find Mrs. Nemo. Her twenty year- estranged husband, Captain Nemo, is a bit upset. The magician’s first encounter with Swango is also told as they plan for the Nautilus’ journey to the Castell de Ferro in Spain where Doctor Jurik Lazlo is hiding. Captain Nemo has been searching for him for a long time. For book 7, Lucky and Mrs. Nemo, here is the unofficial blurb. On Findbar, they’ve added another scientist. Dr. Martha Gluck (aka Lucky) who is a character, literally and figuratively. She enjoys a lively gunfight, doesn’t faint at the sight of magic, and accepts danger as a jolly good time. She finally draws the line when she meets up with the broadsword wielding ghost, Mrs. Spencer. An educated guess is that it will be out by the end of 2025.

Serialization: In Memory of the Sibylline (the beginning of Jonas Celwyn and the Celwyn series) Read Part 1 first.

IN MEMORY OF THE SIBYLLINE By Lou Kemp

                          The many men so beautiful
                           And they all dead did lie!
                           And a million million slimy things
                           Liv’d on–and so did I.

                                     The Rime of the Ancient Mariner – Coleridge

Part III of III

     As we dragged the trunks into the center of the salon, Felicity and Mrs. Perideaux observed us with the kind of fascination that indicated they’d seen and heard the pirates’ attempts to touch the trunks. Felicity’s eyes held the same wonder as when she couldn’t believe her milk glass had magically been refilled. This time, she included her father in the assessment, certain he’d also been responsible for the pirates’ reaction.
     Mrs. Perideaux’s gaze stayed on me, and she held her daughter close. She wet her lips.
     “What just happened?” she pulled Felicity closer.
     The wind howled around the ship like mythical demons chased each other, bouncing against the walls, crashing into the spars overhead.
     The rain slashed at the portholes, first on one side, then the other side of the salon.
     Our new quarters did not appear to be as much of a pigsty as I had expected. I deduced only the pirate captain used the salon, and he believed in displaying his treasures. Racks of wine, oil paintings, lace curtains, and a mahogany table surrounded us. Red velvet settees faced each other at the lee side of the room, and a polished oak bar took up the entire fore side.
     I explored the bar, and magically, the pirate captain happened to have a jug of ice-cold milk and a carafe of sparkling water awaiting his guests. By the time I’d placed them on the table between the settees and poured, Felicity had broken free of her mother’s embrace and joined me on the facing settee.
     “Felicity—” her mother exclaimed and pulled her back to the other side.
     Dr. Perideaux remained by the bar, deep in thought, regarding me with a furrowed brow. “Would you be so kind as to bring more glasses, sir?” I asked him. The sound of my voice startled him, but he seemed glad of an opportunity to do something and not ponder too seriously our predicament. Or perhaps what had caused the pirates to abandon their attempts to touch our luggage weighed on his mind. The pirate ship fell deeply into a trough. He waited for the ship to climb again before he retrieved the glasses and joined his wife on the sofa. Perideaux took his time pouring the water before looking up. “I believe we have sailed into a hurricane, Doctor,” I said. As if to confirm my observation, the wind shrilled, startling our little party. Felicity whimpered a response. The portholes rattled, and we held onto our refreshments as the pirate ship creaked loudly in protest.
     The Sibylline picked up speed. She shuddered from bow to stern, scattered the glasses on the bar, and then sailed faster yet.
Perideaux glanced left and then right, his anxious glance straight at me confirmed that something he deemed unexplainable had just happened. The speed of the ship could not be accounted for under the stormy circumstances. No longer did the vessel appear to be under the control of the pirates. Wind drove the ship, out of control, first one direction, and then much faster than man could change course, another direction. She raced ahead, bounded up the sides of the waves, and bottomed out again before climbing laboriously upward once more. It was then that Dr. Perideaux noticed his wife’s pallor, as I had a few moments earlier. She was heavy with child, abducted by pirates, and in the company of a man she feared. Perideaux put his arm around her and bowed his head.
     The doctor’s wife paled again, dangerously so in my opinion. She had not yet lost the fear in her eyes when she glanced at me.
Perideaux said, “My dear, this is Mr. Celwyn. Mr. Celwyn, this is my wife, Mrs. Helen Perideaux.” He nodded toward me like he wasn’t sure of what I’d done, but he knew it had helped. “We are in your debt, sir.”
     “Nonsense.” I winked at Felicity, and she did her best to wink back.
     “We will weather this storm.”
     Mrs. Perideaux gripped her husband’s hand and studied me. I
returned the regard. Her chin quivered, and her eyes were hard. In a moment, she said, “I still need to know what we’re going to do.” She left me to stare at her husband. “Our safety, Jonathan. Those men . .”
     Dr. Perideaux held her, and before things got out of hand, I said, “I promise you, madame, they will not harm you. Or your family.”
     She raised her head from her husband’s embrace and looked at him, then at me. “But what will we do?” she wailed. As she spoke, a spasm of pain crossed her face, and she paled. Instantly, Dr. Perideaux’s expression changed, and there was no one in the world more important than his wife.
     “Is it the baby?” he asked her.
     “No, no.” Mrs. Perideaux replied and patted his hand as she uttered the lie.
     Felicity left her mother’s side and approached the trunks.
Dr. Perideaux said, “Felicity—”
     “It is all right, I assure you, sir,” I said.
      Felicity peered at the myriad stickers that decorated my trunk like a garish Christmas present. “What is Mary Katch?” she asked.
     “Marrakech,” her father corrected.
     Night was falling. I arose, and lit a lamp, and then traveled the room, discovering candles to light. In the cupboards, I found some biscuits and then beckoned to the doctor. He made sure his wife was comfortable against a mound of pillows before joining me behind the bar.
     I kept my voice low. “If it becomes necessary, there are clean blankets here. And a quantity of water.” There hadn’t been, but I’m a helpful soul.
     “I sincerely hope we will not need them tonight,” he said with a glance at his wife. He looked at me, and his gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t you think it is time for a moment of candor? I mean, sir, we may be fighting for our lives at any moment.” He lowered his voice. “Or we may succumb to the storm. I’d like to know who is fighting with me. Or dying with us.” From outside the salon, the heavy steps of the pirates tromped by.
     “Well put,” I said. I placed both hands on the bar and then removed them. A plate of cheeses and savory meats sat before us. “Perhaps your wife or daughter is hungry.” I handed him the plate. It fell through his fingers and clattered to the bar surface. “Please take it to them.” I offered it to him again. “Eat. You will feel better.” After another look at me, he dutifully delivered the plate to the settee. Perideaux nibbled a bit of cheese before presenting the plate to his wife. His expression indicated he approved. I do have excellent taste. When his family was sufficiently distracted, he returned to stand behind the bar with me. “That was a most welcome and deliberate diversion, Mr. Celwyn.” He pointed to the plate as Felicity selected a sliver of ham. “Explain it.”
      I yawned. This would require something stronger than water. It appeared that although the pirate captain seemed fond of wine, he also had stored a single bottle of malt below the bar.
     “There’s so much to say and yet so little.” I poured two shots, and then poured one for the doctor. “What do you know of the black arts? Of magic?” As I spoke, the Sibylline lurched to starboard. She slid down a wave on her side in a most sickening manner before gradually righting herself.
      The wind howled and screamed, competing with the pirates shouting from the deck. By now, the sails would be shredded, and they’d try to steer by the rudder, if they tried at all.
      When the doctor could speak again, he said, “Parlor tricks; that is all magic is. There is no basis of fact.” His attention rested upon his wife, but I could see him thinking as he tried to find an explanation for what he’d seen with the trunks, and what his wife enjoyed nibbling only a few feet away from us. He probably did not consider the storm anything more than bad luck.
     “Not exactly,” I said.
     Perideaux seemed to have come to a deduction or perhaps a belated question he had wanted to ask. “Why did Captain Hume insist you be separated from his crew? Why were you locked up?” He licked his lips and glanced at his wife. “I’d prefer that Helen not know anything of this.”
     I shrugged. “As you wish.” I poured more malt for both of us.
“And my questions?”
I regarded him a moment longer before speaking softly so that his wife would not hear.
     “For hundreds of years, I’ve honed my skills to the point where I do not question the difficulty of what I attempt within the realm of magic. But I do consider what effect my magic may have on innocent persons. My personal sense of right and wrong has also evolved accordingly.”
     Dr. Perideaux watched me over the top of his glass as he downed the rest of his whiskey. He didn’t even blink when I mentioned that I haven’t just lived for this time, in this century. His assessment was mirrored in his eyes: scientific speculation, not the wide-eyed terror some men expressed on the rare occasions when I have told them tidbits of my history.
     “How I interpret my ideals, or morals if you will, are as personal as every man’s are.” I continued, “But for now, let us say that I had no compunction in killing my guard, but I will go to great lengths to save your family.”
     The doctor swallowed nothing several times but kept his gaze neutral. Thinking.  After a moment, he managed, “Exactly what did you do?”
     The rain beat on the roof of the salon so loudly we could hear nothing else. The wind howled, furious at the ship. I told him, “I’d been arguing with a priest at the cathedral in Madagascar. To make a point, I appeared during the church service and levitated myself onto the altar. Then I made myself comfortable to enjoy the services. When the ushers would have laid hands on me, I simply disintegrated within their fingers. Like ice that has melted or water that evaporates.” I elbowed the doctor. “A miracle, would you not say?”
If he’d had any morsel of humor left from his stern upbringing, he’d allow a small smile to escape. But no.
     “Later, when the authorities tried to arrest me, a few of the officers
were injured.” I had dispatched them with mercy and alacrity. “My temper can only be maintained so long when provoked.”
     The doctor slammed his glass down. “But what did you do to make them so afraid? There must be more.”
     For a moment, I contemplated him. When he finally met my gaze, I locked the contact and said, “I have the ability to climb inside another man’s mind, Doctor. Once there, I can wander anywhere and learn a man’s darkest secrets and enjoy his most pleasant memories.” I flipped a hand. “While there, I sometimes plant new thoughts. Of all sorts.” After pouring more whisky, I wrapped his limp fingers around his glass. “Thoughts are powerful, are they not, Doctor?” I asked him without speaking.
~~~~~~~~

THE storm intensified as the day bled into the night. It appeared so dark and turbulent outside it seemed hard to tell when the night actually became complete. As I looked out the porthole, a pirate fell against the rail near us. A hungry wave tried to pry his hands from the rail, but he held on tightly. The wave crested and receded, leaving behind another pirate rolled into a ball. The pirate that the wave delivered lay against the bulkhead. When he didn’t move, the first pirate kicked him. Another wave broke over the rail, sweeping them both to the stern.
     From behind me, the wails of childbirth filled the salon. For the last hour, Mrs. Perideaux’s cries had been growing more frequent and prolonged.
     The hurricane seemed to strengthen with each of her screams.
The doctor had given Felicity a weak sedative to calm her, and she slept on the other settee. After our talk, he hadn’t said much but appeared deep in thought, until his wife’s condition changed and he devoted his attention to her.
     As dawn broke, the baby’s first cry could be heard, stark and sweet against the ugliness of the world. The Sibylline rocked in an exaggerated motion with the aftermath of the hurricane, but the wind no longer howled, and the rain fell in a gentle veil. The wood across the salon door fell away as I walked outside, stepping over the pieces of debris, including dead pirates. A glassy sea of blue stretched to the horizon.
     The pirates addressed me as Captain, most courteously, as they went about their duties, unfurling new canvases and getting the ship under way. I swept a hand, and all of the debris disappeared. The broken main mast stood whole once again. Midships, I stopped and admired myself in a polished brass dial, adjusting the buccaneer’s hat that sat upon my head at a most jaunty angle. My waistcoat had given way to a silken shirt of crimson. The shoes I wore had become boots of the finest and softest leather.
     My crew was freshly bathed and shaven. The ship shone from top to bottom and appeared to be in pristine condition. It would be most appropriate to honor the late Captain Falkenburg in some manner. I tapped my fingers on the rail and thought. Perhaps I shall rechristen the ship the Flying Dutchman. I imagined that he did go flying out with the wind, whirling far away into the sea. Yes, a most excellent idea. I called back inside the salon.
     “Doctor, we shall arrive in Seville on schedule.”
     The newborn’s plaintive cries could be heard: life has been renewed. The game renewed also.
      Is it possible they’ll name the baby after me? I must wait and see.
Some gestures should be natural, gifts of gratitude.
     Or memory.

                                             ~~~~~~~~~The end~~~~~~~~

Read Part 1

The wagon wheels creaked as they traveled the desert floor. The sun was high and the heat had returned. Harrow saw another white puff of cloud in the distance, a collection of whatever moisture could be pulled out of the arid world around them. In other places, that cloud would likely grow into a storm. Here, it would eventually go away, replaced by yet more blue sky and more heat.

Wendel stirred. He stretched out on the brown wool blankets in the back of the wagon. Harrow heard him and turned to look.

“Where are we?” Wendel asked.

“Told you it had a kick.”

“You weren’t wrong about that, mister. How long have I been asleep?”

“A night and a morning. Any good dreams?”

Wendel took a drink of water out of a tin cup and poured the rest over his head. He mussed up his hair and wiped his face dry with his hands before taking the seat next to Harrow on the jockey bench.

“Think I went back in time,” Wendel said. He looked around before continuing. “Damn desert looks the same as it did yesterday.”

“That’s an illusion. The horizon is always just over there, but the mountains to the left and right have grown larger.”

“Plants ain’t much to look at.”

“No, they ain’t. So tell me. What was this dream you had? I’m always interested in what my customers experience. Makes for good advertising.”

“Just so…odd. There was a little boy, about four or five. Think he was me, but I don’t know. He was playing with some little toy soldiers.”

Harrow reached into a shirt pocket and held out the toy he had taken as payment for the pill. “Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s it. In fact, that’s the same toy the boy in the dream….” Wendel trailed off. Harrow glanced his direction and saw the man’s eyes drift backward into memory, fixed on a moment rather than any object in the present.

“Go on.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think I can. The boy was playing with the toys and there was a stove. I can’t recall what happened. It felt like a memory, though, but some piece of it is missing. What’s in that pill, anyway?”

“A few odds and ends. Magic. Whatever you want to call it.”

The wagon rolled forward for a quiet minute. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

Finally, Wendel spoke up. “You said dreams help heal whatever the past has thrown at you. What did you mean by that?”

“Dreams are many things. They can be memories, the brain working out problems, or just random thoughts laid out in random ways. Things in the past can seem lost sometimes, but they’re nothing but memories we haven’t processed, load-bearing walls in the construct of our house. I think sometimes dreams help us repair that wall if it’s causing us to behave certain ways later in life.”

“If this was a memory, you’d think I’d remember more.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Always thought dreams meant nothing.”

“No.” Harrow chuckled. “They’re something so much more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it this way. If I gave you a book with a thousand words, you could make up a thousand stories, right?”

“I suppose.”

“But you can’t make up stories that included words that were not in that book. In that way, you’re limited to what you have.”

“I’m not following.”

“Your memories are those words. Your brain won’t make up what it doesn’t know, so there are holes. Those random images are not random, are they? They are the words in that book being shuffled around until they make up a new story. What if we could put those words back in the order they first appeared? What if we could patch the holes by using the words of another man’s book? Another boy’s book?”

“Guess I don’t get it.” Wendel sighed as his leg rhythmically bounced. “Wish I could go back and figure it out.”

Harrow pocketed the little toy and smiled slyly. “You can. For a price, of course.”

                                                       ###                                         

“I’ll take a shoelace.” Harrow pointed to Wendel’s shoes as the two sat apart from each other around another nightly campfire. “You ain’t got nothing else I need.”

Wendel obliged, removing first a shoe, then pulling its lace through the holes. He passed the lace to Harrow in exchange for another pill.

“We’ll be at Avernus tomorrow, so make this one count.”

Wendel nodded and choked down the pill.                                                                                                                      

                                                               ###

There is the boy again and the wooden container with the toys inside on the stove in the living room. The old people are still talking and laughing at whatever it is old people talk and laugh about. They have their backs to the boy and do not see the first signs of pending trouble, do not see the first flame ignite a piece of wood on the side of the bowl, a piece that drops from the bowl onto the floor.

The boy’s eyes are wide as he tries to cover up what he’s done by throwing a nearby cloth over the flaming piece of wood. In his haste, the wooden bowl tips over, spills the contents of the melted toys onto the floor.

The fire spreads. The old people turn to see what the boy has done. Some of them are yelling. All of them are on their feet. One of them pulls the boy back from the stove while another tries to put the fire out by batting it down with a blanket. Rather than go out, the fire grows. A spark catches a curtain. Another catches a throw rug. In seconds, the living room explodes into a firestorm and the boy is pulled farther away by the old person, farther away from the fire, farther away from the experiment that was supposed to end in a rainbow crayon with which he could paint the world. It is gone, like the bowl, the stove, the curtains, replaced by flames, by screams, by shouts of direction and the words of unintelligible panic, by the heat and movement and a dozen different smells vying for attention in the boy’s nose.

The boy is sitting in the grass now. It is wet. He is scared and does not yet know what he has done, what he has wrought upon his mother, his brother, his father, the old people still in the house. He hears glass break and sees flames erupt from a window. The night sky, so often full of stars, is now fading, turning a reddish gray, covered by smoke rising from the house and lit from the fire. The boy fears he is not far enough away. He can feel the heat. He is not far enough from the fire in the house, from the angry old people, the glances in his direction, the people running from the trough in the barn with buckets. He wonders why they don’t use the water from the well, the well Daddy said to never go near, the well his brother said was home to a troll, the well in which he once saw Mommy toss a coin.

His brother. The boy looks around. He cannot see his brother, cannot hear his brother. He does not know if one of the old people grabbed him and pulled him out. He had left the living room to go into the kitchen. Is he still inside? Is he safe? Or did the fire reach him, wrap its devilish fingers of flame around his body, and drag him to the place Mommy said bad people go?

Wendel now recognizes himself. He is standing in the grass off to the side, his uncle’s house engulfed in fire to his right, the boy in front of him. He watches the boy, the boy who is backing up, the boy who does not see how close to the well he is.

The boy who was his brother.

As rapid as the fire had taken over the house, a surge of regret and guilt—pent-up emotion trapped behind bricks built of self-doubt and denial, of projection and displaced anger—bursts through and floods the tangles of Wendel’s mind. He feels his throat constrict even as his eyes grow wider with the realization that it was he who egged his brother on, he who pushed him to place a wooden bowl on a hot stove to make a New Thing, he who was responsible for the fire…he who forgot his brother had died in that well on that night so long ago.

Wendel takes a step toward the boy still backing toward the well. He wants to warn him, to say something to the boy who was his brother, who would still be his brother if things had turned out differently.

He wants to, but he does not.

There is something in the grass the boy left behind, something that blends in with the green but stands out because it wants to stand out, because it needs to be a beacon of light in the flood of emotion that threatens to drown Wendel, a buoy on which to cling.

He reaches down and picks up a toy soldier, the kind that is kneeling, the kind that is aiming a rifle. He tells himself he will hold on to it, that he will cherish it, that he will always remember what he did until the day he dies.

He will make the New Thing for his brother. Maybe then they can forgive him.

Wendel blinks. He is in another field, another time. He is no longer a boy, no longer welcome anywhere. In front of him, there is a house on fire, just like his uncle’s. A woman screams. People frantically try to douse the flames. A woman writhes on the ground. The scent of burning flesh stings his nose, waters his eyes. He grips the toy soldier in his hand, the rifle digging into his palm as he watches the fire create a New Thing in front of him.

Once more he closes his eyes. The screams fade, the smell dissipates. When he opens his eyes again he sees another house, another attempt at creation. But he is too close. The world fades in and out, black and then orange, black and yellow, black and red. He is dizzy. The smoke in his lungs robs him of consciousness.

When he comes to, heat from another fire rushes over him, and he opens his eyes to see.

A larger building in a city. Fire wagons surrounding an inferno, people throwing buckets of water on the flame. He stands across the street and watches, entranced by the flames, comforted by the heat, satisfied with the way the wood pops and crackles and steam trapped inside heats up and bursts. He knows this fire will deconstruct the building, just as it did those crayons, those toys, the other houses, the world. He knows he can finally make the New Thing for his brother. He knows he can paint the sky with magical rainbows, yellows and oranges and reds all rising among the black and brown of smoke.

In his hand, he grips the toy soldier tighter until the rifle snaps off..

                                                               ### 

Harrow backed the wagon up to a precipice. Far below, the rotting bodies of men and women and children clambered over each other, stretched out to find purchase on the vertical sides, to find a way to climb out of the pit. They moaned and cried and wailed and screamed. There was room for a million more and then some. No doubt, as Harrow completed his delivery of this man, he would return to the desert and find another and another. Perhaps they will recall why they were chasing the horizon in the first place, why they wandered in the desert with no destination in mind. Perhaps they won’t need a pill to remember.

It’s a nice thought, but they all need a pill. True sins can leave voids in the brain, empty spaces where memory should be. The pill helps fill in past transgressions with facts from someone else’s point of view.

As the horses pulled the wagon forward and the still sleeping body of Wendel tumbled out of the bed and into the pit, Harrow reached into his pocket and took out the little toy soldier. He regarded it for a moment, turned it in his fingers, then tossed it to land among the detritus of a million other payments made for a chance to learn the truth, a million other reminders of the wages of sin, the price of guilt.

                                                              The End 

In this issue, interviews with:

     John Yunker, thriller and mystery writer

     Marni Graff, mystery writer  

     Mark Atley, noir crime writer

     Ellie Lieberman, fantasy author

Also an article by Richard Koreto covering a different perspective of mystery sleuths, and a short story by Benjamin Wretlind!

Celwyn’s Cats

All About Podcasts goes national!

An Interview with John Yunker

How would you compare Devil’s Island to regular mysteries? 

I often refer to Devils Island as an eco-mystery because the environment and animal protection are overarching themes. But it more commonly described as a “locked-room mystery.” In this case, the locked room is a remote island off the coast of Tasmania. I think what might make it slightly unique is the structure – we leveraged the five-act structure of Hamlet for the novel.

Which of your books was the hardest to write, and why?

My most difficult book to complete was Where Oceans Hide Their Dead. Took about 7 years of writing and much more rewriting. This is the darkest novel I’ve written because it deals with some difficult and timely issues like drug addiction, and the horrors of the animal industrial complex.

Does your own reading stay within your writing genre, or do you read a different genre for yourself?

I read across genres and my writing most likely reflects that, as sometimes my novels are called “literary” other times called “thrillers.” While I appreciate that a genre label help readers find books they want to read, as a writer, I worry that these labels get in the way of publishers taking chances on work that don’t fit cleanly into any one category.

When researching your books, do you have a sample of what you discovered that is especially interesting?

For Devils Island one of the most interesting bits of research is learning that the Tasmanian Devil, an animal about the size of a small dog can devour a large animal like a kangaroo within hours—muscle, organs, fat, bones, even fur—leaving nothing left.

Will there be a sequel to Devils Island, and if so, what will it focus on? and will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more?

We’ve left the door open to a sequel, one that would take place in Ashland, Oregon. So we’ll see. I have a difficult time letting go of characters, which often leads to sequels. In fact, my novel Where Oceans Hide Their Dead is a sequel of sorts to The Tourist Trail.

What do you think new authors should decide first, before they begin their book? 

I always aim to write the book that I most want to read and I recommend writers do this as well. Because, in the end, regardless of whether you find an agent, a publisher or readers at the very least you will have pleased the most important reader of all: yourself. But, that said, during the editing stage it’s important to be able to see your work as other readers will see it. My partner Midge often quotes Stephen King: Write with the door closed; rewrite with the door open.

How important is site research for the location where your books take place, and why? What should a beginning writer consider about location in their novels?

Site research is the most exciting part of writing, particularly in the case of Devils Island, where we hiked the island off the coast of Tasmania where this novel takes place. While I don’t believe it’s essential to visit every place you write about, it certainly can’t hurt.

Can you see yourself using Ai in your books? On what part and why?

I’m amazed at how well AI engines produce cleanly written sentences. But humans are far messier, our voices more distinct, than any computer algorithm. I don’t really see AI as a threat to creative writing – though perhaps a threat to predicable and voiceless writing. That said, writers deserve to be compensated by any tech company that wants to scan their work to train their algorithms. The very reason AI appears “magical” is because it was trained our hard work.

An Interview with M K Graff

Is there something about your books/your point of view that you think readers should know?
The Trudy Genova series is based on my favorite real nursing position as a medical consultant for a NY movie studio. It’s the series my mentor and friend, PD James, asked me to write and the first book is dedicated to James. I like to say Trudy is a younger, prettier version of me! But really she’s her own person, with the ability to lie at the drop of a hat when she pokes her nose into murder investigations. At first annoying NYPD detective Ned O’Malley, he’s come to learn she’s a good judge of human nature. I’m enjoying having Trudy move in that circle behind the camera where directors ask for your expertise but are under no obligation to use it!

Are there other writers who influence you, either present or past?
I read all the Golden Agers and of course Agatha Christie is a big influence on most crime writers. But two of my favorites are: Daphne Du Maurier, with Rebecca my favorite novel for its complex plot and nuanced characters; and PD James, whose complex look into all of her characters made me understand them fully. She’s also believed, as I do, that setting is important to the plot, as it’s a character in itself. Your setting is the stage you move your characters around.

If you have your next book’s plot already in your head, could we have a preview of what to expect?
I’m actually straying from my series and going to do a standalone historical, a first for me. Its title is Eleven Days and it’s set in 1926 at the Harrogate Hydro in Yorkshire. The main character is a young maid living there under a false identity. She becomes embroiled in a murder investigation when a fellow worker is killed, and a new guest helps her as she questions what happened. It becomes apparent to my character that the guest, Mrs. Teresa Neele, is really the missing Agatha Christie. Having a huge secret of her own, she keeps Christie’s identity quiet. There WILL be another Trudy Genova that will bring her back to New York City, but that setting is in the works and I can’t reveal it yet…but think bridal shops!

A Profile of Wren and Hadley: Reflections on a Lesbian Sleuth by R.J. Koreto

Writing about Wren and Hadley required an adjustment for me: When I wrote about straight couples, I found I had to work around a spirit of inequality. Even in modern times, there are still men’s roles and women’s roles: On my birth certificate, there is a place for my father’s occupation but not my mother’s. Wren and Hadley, however, could start their relationship without preconceived notions on gender-based behavior.

I’d like to think people have always found workarounds. In an Edwardian-era mystery I wrote, “Death Among Rubies,” I portrayed two unmarried women who elected to share a house for companionship. One attended to their social life, and the other managed the finances: a typical relationship for its time. But it was one they chose, not one imposed on them according to gender rules.

This same freedom works today, and I’ve enjoyed developing Wren and Hadley. Or, more accurately, watching them develop. Their third mystery, “The Cadieux Murders,” will be released later this year. Wren is logical and introverted, happiest when working on the historic homes she renovates as an architect. Hadley is intuitive and extroverted, a chef/event planner who fits right in with the lively dinners and parties she organizes. They complement each other wonderfully. Ironically, they may be the most conventional couple I’ve ever written about. But again, it’s a matter of choosing what is right for them as individuals and as a couple, rather than meeting society’s expectations.

Indeed, Wren and Hadley have encouraged me to think about all kinds of relationships, which is exciting for me as a writer. I now see multiple ways to be a couple: In The Turnbull Murders, Wren must contemplate the romantic life of her long-widowed father. He has made an effort to understand her romantic choices—but can she understand his? And in her first outing, The Greenleaf Murders, Wren struggles with her growing feelings for Hadley, while contemplating the murky Gilded Age couplings that once existed in a great New York City mansion she is renovating. More than a century ago, men and women worked to forge relationships and succeeded—or failed—just as Wren will.

“I don’t understand all this,” Wren complains to her new girlfriend about Gilded Age bed-hopping.

“What can I tell you?” says the more worldly Hadley. “Straight people are strange.”

Richard Koreto is the author of several historical mystery series. His current book is The Turnbull Murders, second in his Historic Homes series.

An Interview with Ellie Lieberman

Do you plan to change the personality of one of your characters to make them more interesting, less violent, more empathetic, etc.? Will they evolve as your series does? (do family/friends ever call you by one of the characters’ names?)

I do not plan my characters. I discover them as the story unfurls much like the plot itself. One thing I can always guarantee about the characters is there will always be some form of development, whether it’s for the best or a downward spiral. Even when the Be Series goes back on the timeline, like in the sort of prequels of An Impossible Dream, and my current WIP, Where the Heart Is, there is development in a better understanding of the characters for the reader.

Do you have your next book’s plot already in your head? Could we have a preview?

I’m currently working on book 3 of the Be Series and, because it is a prequel to book 1 & a sort of prequel/running parallel to book 2, An Impossible Dream, I know far more of the plot than I normally do when I write.

Preview: 

“A pen shoved into her hand redirected her attention back to the document before her. “Duty,” she reminded herself. “Responsibility.” This was for her kingdom, her people. “Give me strength.”

“True love is never stealing a selkie’s coat, forcing her to be where she doesn’t want to be, forcing her to be anyone but herself.” According to Clary’s mother, that was what her grandfather said.

“Even if you find someone who loves you like that, society does not and will not,” her mother told Clary once. “It is not just the individual who steals the coat.”

Her hand was suddenly in possession of a mind of its own. She hesitated. Had it been Molvinius’s name instead of the careless scribble she could not begin to make out, their seed might have been a pine tree. A nod to his Northern heritage. A symbol of longevity, forever green, withstanding snow and sun.”

Is there something about your books/your point of view that you think readers should know?

An Impossible Dream follows a character very important to the story but is only really mentioned in book 1. It’s her story, but readers also get to see younger versions of characters they loved from the first book, such as Henry and Fra. They get to meet a slew of new characters that will come to play a vital role in the books to come.

I discover the story as it naturally unfolds, I write by the seat of my pants (pantsing), rather than plotting. And what has been amazing with this series in particular is the threads across books, tracing them back to some of their roots, learning more about characters, and in doing so the way each book seems to naturally set up the next, especially given the shifts in the timeline between books.

Will there be a sequel to An Impossible Dream, and if so, what will it focus on? Will it have a solid ending or leave things open for more?

An Impossible Dream is already a sort of prequel for the first book in the Be Series, but the books can be read in any order. I’m currently working on a sort of prequel for An Impossible Dream, but book 4 is really the sequel to Be, where characters from the first 3 books come together and strive for peace, both personally as well as between kingdoms.

When you were writing this book, or previous books, did the plot flow just as you initially wanted it to look, or did you have to change anything major?

I do not plot my books. Instead writing a sort of prequel as both An Impossible Dream and my current WIP, Where the Heart Is. For book 3 of the series, I’m working off on the timeline that each previous book establishes, and adding to it. This makes more of an outline than I usually follow. That being said, having the chance to see moments from a different character’s perspectives or memory can sometimes change events, in terms of the level of understanding or depth.

And each character tends to have something I did not initially anticipate when they first came to me.

Let’s Talk About Book Genres! Are There 5 or 5,000 Different Genres?

Categorizing books into genres can be challenging, even for experienced book reviewers. Today, I’ll look at the basics of book genres to help readers find stories that suit their tastes.

Fiction is an overall general genre that includes literary fiction, historical fiction, science fiction, fantasy, mysteries, thrillers, and romance.

Nonfiction includes biographies, self-help books, and history, while the Young Adult (YA) and children’s genres cater to younger readers with age-appropriate themes and adventures.

Distinguishing sub-genres can be tricky, so relying on the author’s classification or trusted sources like Bookshop.org or Goodreads is always recommended and helpful.

Exploring different genres can enrich your reading experience and broaden your literary horizons.
To learn more about book genres and classifications, please read the full article at ginaraemitchell.com.

Here’s a quick peek at a few of the books I’ll be reviewing in the near future.
Fresh Grown: Essential Guide to Use, Store, and Make the Most of Your Vegetables by Andrea Kristin
Embracing Calm: Meditation Journeys for Inner Peace by Anne Beall
Jane Austen Lied to Me by Jeanette Watts and An Interview with Author L.J. Ambrosio.

The Celwyn Series YouTube channel

A Short Story: Terminal Conversations

Track One, Number Nine! All aboard!

The terminal was packed. So much for quick and easy travel. People crowded toward the entrance to Track One, their bodies pressed tightly against each other. Justin watched with detached disgust, hoping his train wasn’t so crowded.

In front of him, a fat man in a business suit was engaged in a heated argument with a ticket agent. His toupee flopped up and down in time to his mouth. The agent stoically looked past the customer, as if she wished he were either dead or she were someplace else entirely.

Justin couldn’t hear the exact words, but something was “not right” about “time” and the man wanted his “money back.”

Maybe that was “mother back.”

The line stretched past the counter and wrapped around stanchions and ropes. There were probably fifty people waiting to buy tickets and an equal number who waited for information. The air was stale; each individual exhaled breath added a distinct smell to the mix. It wasn’t right. Justin found himself secretly wishing they would all stop breathing.

A woman in her thirties, lithe and well-groomed, crossed the terminal commons. She seemed to hone in on the chair next to Justin and turned. He smelled sweet and alluring perfume before she ever sat down. Her dress shifted up past her knees as she crossed her legs and fumbled with her purse. She turned to Justin and weakly smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He thought he heard his voice crack.

The woman pulled a compact out of her purse and studied whatever it was women felt they needed to study in mirrors. With flare, she snapped it shut and put it back in her purse.

“So, where are you headed?” The woman sat back in the chair and folded her arms.

“1952.” He tried to shift his eyes from her. He did not want to stare. “And you?”

“I’m going to ’59.”

“Going to see family?” Justin wondered if that question sounded too obvious, almost childish.

“Yeah. My grandmother graduated high school back then. I think she would have liked to know I was there.” The woman smiled, her eyes twinkling under the harsh terminal lights.

“Ever traveled back before?”

“Once, when I was fifteen. I took a train to 1929 with my father. He said he wanted to see his dad before he hung himself after the market fell.” The woman’s smile faded. She leaned over and put a hand on Justin’s shoulder.

“I don’t think he told me the truth,” she whispered.

Justin felt his heartbeat escalate. “What does he do for a living?”

“Plays on Wall Street with all the other stuffed shirts. Haven’t seen him in a few years, though.” She took her hand off his shoulder.

Justin put his ticket inside his coat pocket and looked up at the line at the counter. “Looks like a busy day to travel.” He turned back and noticed again just how attractive she was. “Name’s Justin.”

“Allie.”

The noise in the terminal grew louder. Words collided against words while people mindlessly walked from place to place. The high ceiling and open spaces created echoes out of every sound. Justin sat back against the chair.

“And you?” Allie turned her head slightly, revealing delicate tanned skin on her neck. “Travel much?”

“On business, mainly.” Justin sighed. “I’m a temporal systems program manager, so this is pretty much my life.”

“How many trips have you been on?”

Justin shrugged. “More than one, less than fifty. I really hate taking the train, though.”

“That’s funny.”

“What?”

“You travel all the time, and you hate taking the train. It’s like someone in the Navy who hates boats.”

Justin smiled. “Maybe. I’m just not a fan of the jump. A little too much, if you ask me.”

Allie turned. “I remember that trip I took with my father. The train was older, not like these new, sleek models. I thought it wasn’t ever going to get up to speed, but right before hitting the wall, I passed out. Never felt the jump.”

Justin peeled his eyes away again and looked over at the counter. He felt redness in his cheeks and hoped Allie hadn’t noticed. The fat man with the toupee was gone and a few people in line had moved. Not many, though. “Most people pass out. Personally, I’ve never been able to do that before the jump.”

“Really? What’s it like?”

“The jump?”

“Yeah.” Allie leaned forward, her eyes lighting up again. This time Justin wasn’t sure if was the terminal lights or something else. He fumbled with his thoughts, trying to answer her question while watching images of the two of them dancing on clouds.

“Um… well.” Look back at the line. “It’s pretty much fire and heat. It rolls through the cabin until it gets to you. It’s like falling into a fireplace but never feeling the wood or the chimney.”

Justin paused for moment. His mind swirled with images. “You float in a liquid Hell.”

“Good thing I passed out, huh?”

“Yeah, it hurts.” Justin’s mind traveled quickly from his description to his memory. So many jumps, so much pain. He pried his attention away from the line and found himself lost in Allie’s eyes. “If you pass out, you never know what hit you.”

Track Two, Number Four! All aboard!

The intercom filled the cavernous terminal. People from all over looked up as if it helped them hear better. Words spoken seemed frozen in the stagnant air, waiting for the decision to continue or drop off altogether.

People stood up from chairs and grouped together in impossibly tight messes. They pushed to the right of the terminal, each step small and cumbersome but taken together.

Justin watched the group head for Track Two. The fat man with the toupee was tangled together with a skinny kid in his mid-twenties. They pushed against each other and jockeyed for the best position to get through the gate.

“Look at them,” Justin said, pointing toward the crowd. “Each one of them thinks the first person through security will get a better seat on the train. They push and shove and get mad at each other.”

“What’s the rush?” The old woman coughed. Justin shifted his weight away from her. Since she’d sat down, she’d been nothing but annoying. Her eyes were hidden behind the folds of her skin and Justin couldn’t help but watch the hairs inside her moles wave at him. He silently wished she would just disappear.

Justin shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Allie. I never could understand it. The train isn’t leaving until all ticketed passengers are accounted for and all seats filled. I always go last.”

The noise in the terminal exploded again as people continued their previous conversations either with each other or in heated bursts aimed at helpless ticket agents.

“You said you were a temp… tempo… something.”

“Temporal systems project manager.” Justin drew his attention from Mrs. Allie’s moles and back to the line in front of him.

“What exactly do you do?”

Annoying question. “Basically, I make sure people don’t mess with what’s already happened. Let’s say your father didn’t go back to see his dad before he jumped. Let’s say he tried to stop him.”

“I thought that’s what Inhibitors were for.” Mrs. Allie put out her hand to show Justin the bracelet on her spotted wrist. “I thought these were supposed to stop interference.”

Justin smiled smugly. “These aren’t permanent. There are ways to take them off.”

“Hmmm. Okay, so my father stops his dad from jumping. Then what?”

“Whatever your grandfather couldn’t have done because he was dead is now a moot point. There’s a body in the mix that isn’t supposed to be there. Whatever he changes affects something else.”

“Like a butterfly effect.”

“In simple terms, yes. But this isn’t the same thing.”

“If history changed like that, though, you wouldn’t know it. You couldn’t go back and change what is now truth.”

Justin sighed. Old people never understand.

Number Eight arriving at Track Three!

“Do you have any gum?” Allen poked Justin in the side.

“Quit poking me, kid. Isn’t your mother somewhere around here?”

“Nope. She’s dead. Got any gum?”

The crowd shifted from right to left like a herd of animals following the blinking lights above Track Three. In seconds, a few people would come through the gate. There was always less who came back. It was inevitable. Justin watched the crowd form a semi-circle of greeters.

Some of them would go home alone.

“No, I don’t have any gum.” Justin pulled his jacket away from the armrest. The snotty kid might try to go through his pockets.

“If you try to stop things from happening, Mister, how do you find out what happened?” Allen swung his legs back and forth on the chair, his baseball cap askew.

“There are temporal researchers who travel more than I do. They run back and forth collecting books and newspapers and whatever else they can find. If something they collect is dramatically different than what they know, they put together a team of people to investigate.”

“Why?”

“To fix the problem.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what we do. We clean up messes.”

“Why?”

Justin stood up. He had enough. The crowd of people still stood around the gate to Track Three and waited. He pulled his ticket out. Track Two, Number Six. Above him, glowing green monitors listed arrivals and departures. It clicked once and changed Number Eight to “Arrived”.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “Ten more minutes.”

“Hey, Mister?” Allen stood next to him, pulling on a pant leg. “If you go back and change something that’s already been changed, would that mean you didn’t need to go back and change it? Huh?”

“Yes.” Justin gritted his teeth. “It would also mean that I wouldn’t be talking to kids like you.”

“Okay. So, if you changed something back, and it didn’t need to be changed, and you then didn’t need to go back and change it, you really didn’t go back and change it, and it’s still the same way it was. Is that right?”

Justin ignored the question and looked over at Track Three. A few people filed through the gates, their eyes filled with wonder or sadness, sometimes both. People greeted them with hugs and kisses, smiling or not, laughing or not.

The fat man with the toupee stepped through the gate next. He looked through the crowd in front of him then stomped off through the masses. Apparently he didn’t get what he wanted.

Track Two, Number Five! All aboard!

Justin watched the monitors above him. They clicked and the lines moved up one. His train was next.

“So what are you going back to change?” the ape asked. It looked at Justin with wide eyes, then picked a flea off its fur.

“Something’s not right.” Justin sighed and looked around at all the apes and humans bumping into each other. He wasn’t about to tell this ape that the temporal research unit found that simians couldn’t mingle properly like humans. Nor, for that matter, could they talk. Someone had gone back too far and changed something too drastic. “I really can’t tell you what that is, but I have to fix it.”

The ape picked another flea off and looked at it crushed between its fingers. “If you’re going to change it, what happens to you?”

“Hopefully nothing.”

The ape dropped the flea and walked back to the chair. Justin followed, suddenly afraid.

It wasn’t the first time.

“What happens to me?” The ape didn’t look at Justin. It stared ahead at the ticket counter where other apes and humans were engaged in conversation.

“What do you mean?” Justin knew what it meant, though. He’d been in this situation before.

“If what you change makes me not exist…”

Justin turned to the ape and smiled as much as he could. “If what I change makes you not exist, then you wouldn’t know it.”

“I’d… die?”

“No. You wouldn’t have existed in the first place.”

The ape sighed and looked at Justin. Justin felt attraction, disgust and annoyance well up inside of him all at once. In its eyes he saw someone he wanted, someone he wished would go away, and someone who needed to find some gum. For some reason, he felt only one of those people had the right to exist.

Justin blinked, not understanding, and turned away. “Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the ride.”

Read more Short Stories, Excerpts and Poems:

Short Stories, Excerpts and Other Things

Benjamin X. Wretlind is the author of sci fi series, speculative fiction series, and non-fiction books, more info can be found here.

An Interview with Mark Atley

Of all your characters, which resembles your personality most? How many of the character’s traits are already part of you versus what you want them to be?

The character most like me is one few have met—Paul-Wayne Collins. I included many autobiographical details in his construction, but his family life is not mine. He is obviously more tortured. Twisted and sensualized.

What happened when you killed off one of your favorite characters?  Do you think it is necessary to do this to keep a series fresh? Or does knowing their favorite character is safe endure readers to you?

If I cannot kill off a character, then I am not doing my job. If, at some point, I feel resistance to what the story is telling me to do versus my intention, I always go with what scares me and what the story is telling me to do. It knows better than I do. I don’t have a starting repeating character, but I do have some favorites that come and go in certain books. They’re safe until they are not.

When you did research for your books, do you have a sample of what you discovered that was especially interesting ?

Pat Garrett’s final confrontation with Billy the Kid is echoed at the end of A Bright Young Man but in a subversive way that I hope both acts as an homage to the historic moment in time but serves my novel.

Is there something about your books or your point of view that you think readers should know? 

I write in the present tense because it works for me. I am a detective. I write in past tense all day long because detectives investigate crimes that have already happened. I would love to be able to write in the past tense in my novels, and I believe it would earn me greater readership; however, it quickly becomes work and not fun. Present tense allows me to have fun, write creatively, and use jump cuts.

Do you plan to write any nonfiction?

Yes, a co-worker has a great idea for a non-fiction book about a rodeo star. I’ve helped him create a wonderful title for it and have even discussed how to present the information about the star and rodeo, but we have not seriously started on it. Additionally, another co-worker, the grandson of Sheriff George Wayman, has approached me about maybe doing something. I would be honored to work on either project.

Do you already have the plot of your next book in mind? If so, could we have a preview?

Yes, my next book is in the planning stages. I was originally going to do something different, which I have thought out but have shelved for now. I’ve been working on a quartet of novels to make up the middle portion of my Tulsa Underworld Series, building up a “big bad” Bill Ruth. The next novel will be the final in that quartet…if it stays a quartet… and will be about fathers and sons, involving the character, Joe Creek.

Talk about writers groups please.
Living where I live, I have not found a writing group. I wish there were one here. Maybe I should start it. 

X (Twitter) is where I found my group, and I frequently bounce ideas and edits against Craig Terlson and M.E. Proctor, to the point I feel guilty about using them. They are better writers than I am, and they are amazing people. I highly recommend any of their books and writings to readers.

What is New with the Celwyn Series?

What is new with the Celwyn Series?  

Book 6 is through editing with my publisher, and the cover will be ready soon. Swango, will be out late this year, and ….warning: it contains a new genre. One that fits totally, and gives the story more freedom.

A rough draft of the blurb of Swango:  

“The story opens in 1877 as Celwyn and his brother survive a vicious attack in Singapore. The atmosphere aboard the Nautilus is tense; not only has Pelaez returned (claiming his innocence for destroying the flying machine), but a third of Nemo’s crew is marooned in the city and under threat by Wolfgang, Celwyn’s father.

By the time the magician and the others leave Singapore, they are grieving; a member of their family has been murdered in Prague. 

The magician’s first encounter with Swango is told as they plan for the Nautilus’ journey to the Castell de Ferro in Spain where Doctor Jurik Lazlo is hiding. Captain Nemo has been searching for him for a long time.”

For book 7, Lucky and Mrs. Nemo, progress has been made since the last newsletter. The manuscript is all in my pc and the cussing at Dragon (voice activated software) for supreme illogic has stopped. Instead, I’m slogging through the 420 pages looking for my own version of illogic, no cussing involved, just a big sigh and then correcting it. I’d always wanted to write full time, and no complaining is allowed. 

There isn’t a blurb yet for Lucky and Mrs. Nemo, but Lucky is a character, literally and figuratively. The personality of a scientist is dry?  Not so in Lucky, who enjoys a good gunfight. It seems that there are only male scientists in the late 1800s? Not Lucky. And when there is more time, I’ll describe how she looks. This is a family newsletter, and I’ll have to clean up what she says, too.

Book 8?  130 pages of the handwritten first draft is still safely put away until the book 7 edits have been finished and it has been beta read. This cuts down on confusing my brain.  As a preview though, book 8 continues to address the dangling danger at the end of book 7; most satisfactorily for some of us. Then things get worse.

The near future holds another companion book for the series, untitled, and it will star Pelaez demonstrating his untrustworthy and devious ideas of fun. 

Shameless Buy Links to booksellers who carry the Celwyn series. The Violins Played before Junstan book 1 https://books2read.com/celwyn01 Music Shall Untune the Sky book 2 https://books2read.com/celwyn02 The Raven and the Pig book 3 https://books2read.com/celwyn03 The Pirate Danced and the Automat Died  Book 4    https://books2read.com/celwyn04 The Sea of the Vanities. Companion book. https://books2read.com/celwyncompanion01 The Wyvern, the Pirate, and the Madman  Book 5 https://books2read.com/celwyn005

Celwyn has avoided caring about anyone for hundreds of years, but he’s about to learn the advantage, and cost, of true friendship.

While on a mission to avenge the death of his lover, the immortal peyote-eating magician Celwyn is hired to deliver an automat, Professor Kang, to a priest. But Celwyn quickly learns that everything the priest told him was a lie. Now his ship, the Zelda, is stuck in a horrific storm and Celwyn knows he must reconsider his allegiance if he is to steer his vessel in the right direction and continue his quest.

Choosing Professor Kang, the pair journey west, hunting for revenge. To deflect the attention of the city’s police, they allow an American heiress to join their party as she escapes matrimony in search of adventure. When the trio encounters an intelligent but superstitious widower––their misfit group is complete. Through battles against malevolent forces and dangerous rescues, the companions start to feel like family to Celwyn, but he has lost someone he loves before and is in no hurry to watch it happen again.

On Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Goodreads

Check out the Companion series Jonas Celwyn

In 1865, the three protagonists set off from Prague on the train the Elizabeth to retrieve Professor Xiau Kang’s wife in Singapore.  The ‘family’ of protagonists encounter adversity and adventure, and Celwyn’s magic becomes the central focus.  Everything is based upon the question, “what if?”

The trip is fraught with unexplained occurrences, murders, magic, and more adventure.  Along the way, the author Jules Verne crashes his hot air balloon next to their train in order to join their entourage.  Once they arrive in Singapore they are attacked, and eventually end up on the Nautilus with Captain Nemo.  It seems that Professor Kang, automat and book lover, is also one of the few experts in the world on the basics of building a flying machine, something very much desired by Nemo.

Months later, after their return to Prague, Celwyn is wounded again and dies just Kang rendezvous with the Nautilus and Captain Nemo.

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And be sure to check out the Companion Series: Jonas Celwyn

A magician, a widower from the Sudan, and an automat travel the world…

It is 1876. Three close friends–Jonas Celwyn, the automat Professor Xiau Kang, and Bartholomew, a scientist and widower from Sudan–set out on another adventure. Celwyn has been wounded and all that keeps the immortal peyote-eating magician alive are the skills of an old enemy, his half-brother Pelaez.

After Celwyn is taken aboard the submarine Nautilus by his companions, they must journey to Thales, the healer of the immortals. Even for the intrepid Captain Nemo and his fearless crew, the adventure will prove deadly. Vampires, witches, and warlocks are gathering nearby. Friends or foes? Who is the target: Jonas or Professor Kang and his plans for a world-changing flying machine?

The Raven and the Pig is a steampunk fantasy filled with murder, magic, and adventure.

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