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An author with The Wild Rose Press, I strive to bring authors and readers together with a touch of Heart, Soul, and Happily Ever After. You can connect with me at www.facebook.com/imahayes , https://twitter.com/imahayes, and we can get pin happy at www.pinterest.com/imahayes.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Rick McQuiston- Fear the Sky



Happy Tuesday readers. 
Please join with me in welcoming Class Acts author, Rick McQuiston to the blog as he shares his new book and answers a few questions about himself.

Welcome, Rick. Please start by telling us three words that describe yourself starting with A, B, and C.  

A- Artistic; B- Bizarre; C- Creative

*What are your three favorite things? 

Reading, watching movies (horror movies, of course), and playing drums.

Are you self- published or with a publishing company (if so, which one?)? 

My first two novels were self-published; my third, fourth and fifth (pending) are published with Class Act Books.

What is the ultimate goal you have for your career? 

To reach the point where I can make a living with my writing.

When not writing, what can you be found doing?

Aside from my day job and spending time with my family I'm usually working on my music or researching history.


When writing, which do you prefer to write with, computer or paper and pen?

Definitely paper and pen. For me, it's easier to relate to my characters and the situations there are in if I write them down by hand. It allows me greater control to shape the outline of the story. In addition, I can work faster since I'm not the greatest typist in the world.





Blurb: Fear the Sky

A small town sheriff and three young boys fight to protect their town from an age-old evil.

Excerpt:

The lone sparrow soared through the air above the dense foliage surrounding the tourist town of Frankenmuth. Its glossy black body, streamlined to achieve maximum aerodynamics, moved with minimal effort; the natural advantage its species had achieved through evolution. The wing-to-body weight balance it possessed was geared specifically toward a relatively predator-free existence in the sparsely-populated heavens. God Himself, in conjunction with Mother Nature, Father Time, evolution, and a host of other variables both fictional and non-fictional, had bestowed upon it an efficient and successful combination of senses and attributes. It would live a long life using only common sense and a bit of luck. Of this much the sparrow's future was assured.
But this was no ordinary bird. This feathery creature soaring through pillow-white clouds and basking in the life-giving sunshine was not a natural product of God, or Mother Nature, or even evolution. No, this solitary sparrow cutting a graceful swath through the sky above Frankenmuth and its host of unsuspecting inhabitants, was anything but natural. Its roiling mind convulsed with strange and dangerous thoughts, complex frightening ideas, and a single-minded, tunnel-vision resolve that was unmatched by any other living thing on the planet.
Or anywhere else for that matter.
The sparrow lowered its gaze down to the thick forests covering the landscape like a heavy green rash. Virtually every single tree or bush grew wildly enough to touch its neighbors, forming an even coating of lush plant life, unmarred by the taint of fire or disease.
It had no pupils in its deep-set red eyes; the sparrow tilted its conical head to one side, and then to the other. The warm breeze that rushed past its leering face and up through its outstretched wings nurtured it to a degree. It didn't need oxygen, food of any type, or at least the kind normal birds would require, so it didn't particularly care to focus its attention on any movement far below or to breathe in the atmosphere.
But it did regardless. A certain level of enjoyment coursed through its lithe body, and although rather alien in nature to its senses, it found it liked it nonetheless. Much like a virus would attach itself to a human.
A virus. It was a fairly appropriate analogy to be sure.
What could only be construed as a crude, rudimentary smile creased the bird’s fluttering visage. A flake of hardened cartilage on either side of its beak snapped and obediently drifted downward, falling through the warm air in a chaotic dance of nothingness.
The sparrow circled in a tight formation. It moved with purpose, and yet slowly, patiently. All the time in the world rested beneath the greasy folds of its wings in the form of a small, somewhat isolated forest town bordered by huge expanses of green wastelands. It had chosen this location carefully, knowing full well its presence would be no more noticed than a passing cloud or gentle breeze through the congested streets of Frankenmuth. Unbeknownst to the shuffling crowds and their seemingly important agendas and desires far below, it would be able to further its plans substantially without interference.
The sparrow's eyes narrowed as it surveyed the landscape. There was little movement in the brush, but it mattered little because it hadn't yet reached its destination. It needed to fly a little ways further to get to Frankenmuth and all the plump new prey that would be there.
A fire lit in the sparrow's belly. An intense heat seared outward from its center and burned straight to the bird’s eyes. Already red as blood, the tiny misshapen orbs deepened to a shade unlike anything on Earth, a swollen hue tinged with disease and hatred and all things evil.
The sparrow blinked once, and then twice, feeling the liquid death welling up within its eyes. It needed to wait for the proper time to release the fresh batch of its judgment on the Earth. But once it did, nothing would be beyond its reach.
With a gentle but biting wind in its blackened face, the devil surged forward toward Frankenmuth.

Buy links for Fear the Sky:


About the Author:

Rick McQuiston is a forty-six year old father of two who loves anything horror-related.  By day, he works for a family-owned construction and management company. By night, he churns out horror fiction.

Rick has well over 300 publications so far. He’s written seven anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors. He’s also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and is currently working on his fifth novel, a Cthulhu-based anthology. Rick currently has two novels with Class Act Books:  Fear the Sky and When Only the Nightmare Remains, which was voted #2 in Horror for 2015 by the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewer’s Choice.

Find out more about Rick at:
Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com
Author's website: www.many-midnights.com

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Eleanor Webster- Married for His Convenience


Happy Saturday readers, Please join me in welcoming Harlequin Historical author, Eleanor Webster as she answers a few questions about herself and shares her new release, Married for His Convenience with us. 
Welcome Eleanor, tell us three words that describe yourself starting with A, B, and C.

Annoyingly positively
Basically unorganized
Chronically late

 What are your three favorite things?

The sea – I grew up on the west coast of Canada and I never get bored of its moods.
Tea – You can’t get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me. – C.S. Lewis
Chocolate – A balanced diet is chocolate in both hands

Are you self- published or with a publishing company (if so, which one?)?
Harlequin Historicals

What for you is the best part of writing?
The best part is entering another world, one in which one can lose one’s troubles within the whirl of regency romance. Oh yes, and I love finding that ‘right’ word or witty phrase.

What is the worst?
Writing that first draft is the worst aspect of the creative process. I also struggle with developing a plot that is not contrived.

Is there a process you stick to, or do you just write as it hits you?
I make myself write every single day. I set a goal, either a set amount of time or number of words, and am somewhat compulsive about doing it.

How much is your character like you?

The heroine in Married for His Convenience, Sarah, resembles me more closely than Rilla, the protagonist in my first Harlequin. Sarah writes, loves animals and has a quirky side hidden under a very conventional exterior.

Name a favorite item of clothing in your closet?
Shoes with heel…high heels.

Do you  have a favorite writer, book? 
I love Lucy Maud Montgomery. Anne of Green Gables with her fabulous imagination will always been my favorite character.

When writing, which do you prefer to write with, computer or paper and pen?
Computer…


Tainted by illegitimacy, plain Sarah Martin has no illusions of a grand marriage. So when the Earl of Langford makes her a proposal that will take her one step closer to finding her half sister, she can't refuse!

Sebastian's dreams of romance died with his late wife's affair, so now he needs a convenient wife to act as governess for his silent daughter. Yet Sarah continues to surprise and challenge him, and soon Sebastian can't deny the joy his new bride could bring to his life—and into his bed!

Excerpt

Dramatic events never happened to her. Ever.

‘If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?’ The voice was male. Warm breath touched her ear.

Sarah nodded. The man loosened his hold. She turned.

Her eyes widened as she took in his size, the breadth of his shoulders and the midnight-black of his clothes.

‘Good God, you’re a woman,’ he said.

‘You’re...you’re a gentleman.’ For the cloth he wore was fine and not the roughened garb of a common thief.

She grabbed on to these details as though, through their analysis, she would make sense of the situation.

‘What was your purpose for spying on me?’ His gaze narrowed, his voice calm and without emotion.

‘Spying? I don’t even know you.’ The rabbit squirmed and she clutched it more tightly.

‘Then why are you hiding?’

‘I’m not. Even if I were, you have no reason to accost me.’ Her cheeks flushed with indignation as her fear lessened.

He dropped his hand, stepping back. ‘I apologise. I thought you were a burglar.’

‘We tend not to get many burglars in these parts. Who are you anyway?’

‘Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, at your service.’

He made his bow. ‘And a guest at Eavensham.’

‘A guest? Then why are you in the kitchen garden?’

‘Taking the air,’ he said.

‘That usually doesn’t involve accosting one’s fellow man.

You are lucky I am not of a hysterical disposition.’

‘Indeed.’

Briefly, she wondered if wry humour laced his voice,

but his lips were straight and no twinkle softened his expression. In the fading light, the strong chin and cheekbones looked more akin to a statue than anything having the softness of flesh.

At this moment, the rabbit thrust its head free of the shawl.

‘Dinner is running late, I presume.’ Lord Langford’s eyes widened, but he spoke with an unnerving lack of any natural surprise.

‘The creature is hurt and I need to bandage him, except Mr. Hudson, the butler, is not fond of animals and I wanted to ensure his absence.’

‘The butler has my sympathies.’

Sarah opened her mouth to respond but the rabbit, suddenly spooked, kicked at her stomach as it clawed against the shawl. Sarah gasped, doubling over, instinctively whispering the reassurances offered by her mother after childhood nightmares.

‘You speak French?’

‘What?’

‘French? You are fluent?’

‘What? Yes, my mother spoke it—could we discuss my linguistic skills later?’ she gasped, so intent on holding the rabbit that she lost her footing and stumbled against the man. His hand shot out. She felt his touch and the strangely tingling pressure of his strong fingers splayed against her back.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes—um—I was momentarily thrown off balance.’

She straightened. They stood so close she heard the intake of his breath and felt its whisper.

‘Perhaps,’ she added, ‘you could see if the butler is in the kitchen? I do not know how long I can keep hold of this fellow.’

‘Of course.’ Lord Langford stepped towards the window as though spying on the servants were an everyday occurrence. ‘I can see the cook and several girls, scullery maids, I assume. I believe the butler is absent.’

‘Thank you. I am obliged.’

Tightening her hold on the rabbit, Sarah paused, briefly reluctant to curtail the surreal interlude. Then, with a nod of thanks, she stooped to pick up the valise.

‘Allow me,’ Lord Langford said, opening the door. ‘You seem to have your hands full.’

‘Er—thank you.’ She glanced up. The hallway’s flickering oil lamp cast interesting shadows across his face, emphasising the harsh line of his cheek and chin and the blackness of his hair.

She stepped inside and exhaled as the door swung shut, conscious of relief, regret and an unpleasant wobbliness in both her stomach and knees.

Available November 22, 2016




Google Play: http://bit.ly/2cNcokR


About Eleanor Webster

Eleanor Webster has a passion for many things, the most ardent likely being shoes.

But she’s also passionate about a story well told.  With the help of some debutantes and viscounts and a twist of the unknown, Eleanor’s stories weave a tale of enchantment, hope, and most importantly, love.

When not writing, you’ll find Eleanor dreaming of being a world traveler, reading, running, reading, hiking in the wilds of British Columbia, where she makes her home with her husband and two daughters, and – did we mention reading?

Connect with Eleanor