Happy Thursday! Happy to be joining R&R Book Tours today for their blog tour of Short Stories for the Long Haul by John T. Buckley. To find out more, read on down below!
Short Stories for the Long Haul Expected Publication Date: August 12th, 2022 Genre: Anthology/ Fantasy/ Sci-Fi/ Crime Fiction & More A collection of short stories that explore the human condition. Everything from a self-absorbed wannabe quarterback who gets his shot to a woman who marries her dog…
John T. Buckley is a 47-year-old writer from Maine who’s been writing most of his life. He also loves to paint and seeing the world. He studied at University of Southern Maine as well as at SMTC in Cape Elizabeth. Fun fact, John T. Buckley was once the lead singer in a band called Mammyth.
Joining with Bursting Bookshelf Blog today we are spotlighting The Fortunate Fall by Olivia Almagro.
Rachel Gibbs closes a major chapter in her life and embarks on a promising new career as Media Liaison and Spokesperson at the Empowerment Agency. Yet, a year after being on the job, Rachel discovers her power-hungry boss and CEO of the agency, Roger Williams, is a total nightmare.
Roger Williams stands tall at the top, destroying the livelihoods of anyone who dares to stand up to him, even sabotaging Rachel’s work at every turn. William’s cruel actions catch up to him, when his neglectful and thieving ways become the focus of an FBI investigation.
Jennifer, a disgraced ex-employee, and her former assistant, Michelle, become embroiled in Williams’ war against the Feds and his enemies.
Some will do anything to come out on top, while others become unwitting victims in a war they can’t avoid, and a seemingly inscrutable Williams will stop at nothing to ensure his own survival.
The whirlwind of love, friendship, and infidelity complicating each character’s personal life is nothing compared to the inevitable hurricane of danger that threatens to destroy them completely.
Available in paperback and on Kindle!
Here is what readers are saying.
“I loved this book! I felt a strong connection to all of the characters. – Kimberly B.
“SO INTENSE AND FULL OF DRAMA!!!” – Tiffany
“A must-have on your bookshelf!!!”- Ivette R.
“This is book is definitely a book you can finish in a day or two because you will not want to put it down.” – TCB
Check out this timeless music that brings scenes to life and captures the essence of the characters in the Fortunate Fall.
AUTHOR BIO
Olivia Almagro hails from Hartford, CT. She currently lives in Miami, Florida, where she is the founder and principal owner of O+ Media Group. She is a public relations consultant, writer, digital content producer, and adjunct professor. She has been recognized for several awards, including an Outstanding Women of America Award, Hartford Courant’s Best Letters to the Editor of the Year Award 2008, and an Unsung Hero Award. Olivia Almagro is co-producer for the award-winning 70 Years of Blackness: The Untangling of Race and Adoption. She holds a B.A. in Mass Media Arts from Morris Brown College in Georgia and an M.S. in Management from Albertus Magnus College in Connecticut.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS! Joining with R&RBookTours once again to bring you good tidings full of mystery and suspense in this gritty noir mystery Stranger’s Kingdomby Brandon Barrows. As a gift read on to find out how you can enter to win a $20.00 gift card from Amazon.
Stranger’s Kingdom
Publication Date: August 25th, 2021
Genre: Mystery/ Suspense
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Politically blacklisted detective Luke Campbell’s last chance in law-enforcement is a job with the police department of rural Granton, Vermont. It’s a beautiful town, home to a beautiful, intriguing girl who’s caught his eye, and it’s a chance at redemption. Even if his new boss seems strange, secretive, and vaguely sinister, Campbell is willing to give this opportunity a shot. And no sooner does he make that decision than the first in a series of murders is discovered, starting a chain of events that will change the lives of everyone in this once-quiet town…
The tall bag of bones swung a vicious right that seemed to whistle in the stillness of the thin night air, scraping through the empty space between my chin and throat, just barely avoiding contact with flesh. Seemingly in the same motion, as if using the momentum from his swinging fist, he turned and dashed off into the dim recesses of the alley he’d been hanging around the mouth of — for hours, if Rosalie Stompanato was to be believed. I had no reason to doubt her.
“Police! Get back here!” Shouting was pointless, but I had to try. I gave chase to the already- vanished figure, plunging after him into the deeper darkness between two aging apartment houses. My fist, which I only then realized I was making, unclenched and I reached for the holster under my left shoulder, muttering, “God damn it.”
It was pushing midnight and in just over nine hours, both Rosalie Stompanato and I were due in court for the attempted murder trial of her mid-level racketeer husband, Thomas “Tommy Stomper” Stompanato. Stompanato, loosely connected to the much larger Castella crime organization, had been on a lot of people’s radars for years, for everything from small-time protection rackets to credit card scams and money laundering for bigger outfits. Major investigations by Albany city police, New York state police and even federal authorities produced charges and convictions against numerous Stompanato pawns, and even a couple of lieutenants, but Tommy Stomper himself somehow always remained clean enough to skate away. It took a domestic situation, a middle of the night, literal knock- down-drag-out in which he pulled Mrs. Stompanato out of their lavish home in suburban Malta and, according to witnesses and Rosalie herself, tried to remove her teeth with the aid of a conveniently placed curb. “Stomper” wasn’t just a clever play on his family name.
When I got the tip about a disturbance at the Stompanato residence from a state-trooper friend, I couldn’t help being just a bit grateful for this bit of rage-fueled stupidity. The man had been so clever for so long that it looked like he’d never fuck up, that we’d never find the crack that would pull open his operation and let us drag him out into the light. For Rosalie Stompanato, it was a nightmare, but a lot of us who were after her husband felt gratitude and guilt in equal measures. One woman’s nightmare was a godsend for multiple agencies.
After the incident, Rosalie Stompanato moved out of her stylish home in nearby Malta to a small apartment in the area where she grew up, inside the city proper. Family and friends she knew there were long gone, but the return to a familiar place apparently brought a measure of comfort. It was understandable and it made both the county prosecutor’s work in prepping her for the trial, and my department’s in protecting her, that much easier. Despite the charges against him, not to mention his associations, Stompanato made bail and his organization worked on. With a trial looming over his head, but no date set, the mobster seemed to keep his nose relatively clean, knowing the state’s attorney would be more than happy to tack additional charges onto the list he was already facing. That and time, as weeks became months, allowed Rosalie Stompanato to make a life for herself unmolested.
“At least the kids are already grown and out on their own,” Rosalie told me once, in a private moment. “If this happened ten years ago…” She broke down without finishing, but I knew what she was thinking.
I kept in regular touch with her after that, partially because I felt she needed the support, but also hoping to pick up something that would further widen the chink in Tommy Stomper’s armor. She seemed to be doing as well as could be expected. She was even starting to feel safe again, she told me — until the night before the trial finally began.
It was past eleven o’clock when I received the woman’s call; I’d given her my home number and told her to call any time, for any reason. She noticed a figure, she said —a tall, gangly man she didn’t remember ever seeing in the neighborhood before, who spent hours standing in the mouth of the alley directly across from her apartment.
“It’s probably nothing,” I told her, as much to convince myself. Tommy Stomper proved he wasn’t stupid, but with so much riding on the events of the next day, maybe he was becoming desperate. “But I’m happy to check it out.”
When I arrived on Rosalie’s street, fifteen minutes after her call, I saw exactly who she was worried about and exactly why. He stood just outside the circle of light cast by a streetlamp, hanging around the mouth of an alley. I watched for a few minutes and he did nothing at all — not so much as light a cigarette, shuffle his feet or cough. He wasn’t worried about seen.
I exited the vehicle and approached.
Closer up, I could see he was a sickly thin young man, skin so pale it almost seemed to glow in the dimness. He wore a faded blue hooded sweatshirt that hung from him like laundry on a line and his hair was short, mussed and unwashed, making it look like blond barbed wire. I’d have bet his diet consisted largely of amphetamines.
The guy’s eyes, watchful and wary, scanned me as I approached. I flashed my badge and said, “Evening.” That was all it took. Those animal-alert eyes went wide and his fist swung out in an arc and then he was gone, rabbiting towards the nearest hole.
My feet pounded the pavement, echoing sharply in the narrow, trash-strewn space, all senses searching for signs of the danger I was rushing headlong into. Light beckoned from a short distance and after a moment, I burst out into the next street. Even the soft yellow glow of sodium lamps seemed brilliant after the pitch-dark of the alley and, as my eyes adjusted, I turned left then right, spotting a figure disappearing around the corner. I followed, telling myself I was being stupid, telling myself I should go back to Rosalie Stompanato’s, make sure she was all right, call it in, ask for additional officers, all while my feet took me closer to where I saw that retreating form.
I turned the corner, saw a flash duck around yet another corner. At the mouth of the alley, I allowed myself an instant’s rest before entering. Even from the street, it was clear this was a dead-end. There was nothing but darkness down this brick corridor — the alley was blocked up midway down.
I drew my weapon, fumbled in my coat pocket for my penlight, flicked it on, then aimed it and the weapon down the length of the alley, sweeping the narrow width of the space.
“C’mon out. There’s nowhere left to go.”
My heart pounded in my chest and there was a stitch in my side, but I felt good all the same.
Stompanato’s intimidation failed, and I caught his crony in the act. Witness tampering charges would be a bonus year or two on Stompanato’s sentence.
There was a rustle behind a pile of discarded cardboard boxes. “Let’s go,” I commanded. “Now.”
The figure rose like a scarecrow in a concrete field, arms lifted in a half-hearted pose of surrender. I flicked the flashlight’s beam upwards; he shied away, blinded by the brilliance, his head turning and one arm flying up to protect his eyes. I shifted the light so I could hold both it and my weapon in my right hand then started forward, plucking a pair of handcuffs from my pocket. With my left hand, I reached for the man’s wrist. Up close, I could see he was barely more than a kid.
“You’re under arrest for disobeying a lawful command, resisting an officer and—” I never got to finish.
The fist I’d narrowly avoided before thrust out again, catching me hard in the right shoulder, a wave of pain and shock jolting down the length of my arm. He was a lot stronger than his frailness suggested. He followed up with a two-handed push that sent me spinning off to one side, banging my other shoulder off of the rough stone wall of the alley, before rushing past, trying again to escape.
I threw out a hand, grabbing a fistful of his sweatshirt. It stopped him, but only long enough for him to half-turn and chop an open-handed blow down onto my elbow. Fresh pain skittered along my nerves, but I didn’t let go, instead raising my right hand, only to discover it was empty. Somewhere in those chaotic two or three seconds, I dropped my gun.
I cursed and struggled for a better grip on the kid’s clothing. He was thrashing wildly, yelling, “Let go! Let go!” his voice shrill and his mind going into panic mode. The decision between fight or flight was no longer his to make, but it seemed as if he was trying to choose both options simultaneously.
“Settle down! Cut it out, God damn it!” I snarled, freeing one hand to cuff him alongside the back of the neck, trying to startle him into a semblance of calm. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, but you’re digging yourself one hell of a hole!”
He ignored the words and continued to flail around. I tried to tackle him around the waist and ended up dragging both of us down to the filthy floor of the alley, where we rolled around for a few seconds, trading a punch a two. We were making enough noise that lights in the surrounding buildings came on. I hoped someone would have the sense to call 911, but even if they did, I knew nobody would arrive soon enough to help me get out of this. I was on my own.
Just as the thought flew through my head, the kid stopped moving. I allowed myself to hope he was coming to his senses at last. Then his hand shot out, straining to reach beyond my head, and when it came back into view, his fingers were wrapped around a chunk of brick the size of a small loaf of
bread. He reared up, holding the thing above his head, prepared to end things between us. In the scant light of the nearly forgotten flashlight, his eyes looked huge and empty.
My own eyes flew all around, frantic, searching for a way out. The other man was straddling my chest and his knees kept me effectively pinned to the ground, but my arms were free and my fingers scrabbled across the rough, cold ground, searching for something, anything, to break this deadlock. They closed around something even colder, something metallic and familiar.
As the brick came down, my fist came up, and the explosion of noise and light only inches from my face all but knocked me senseless.
Brandon Barrows is the author of the novels STRANGERS’ KINGDOM, BURN ME OUT, and THIS ROUGH OLD WORLD. He has published over seventy stories, selected of which are collected in the books THE ALTAR IN THE HILLS and THE CASTLE-TOWN TRAGEDY. He is an active member of Private Eye Writers of America and International Thriller Writers and was a 2021 Mustang Award finalist.
Now it’s THURSDAY! I am here joining The Bursting Bookshelf’s blog tour for a double whammy as I am spotlighting TWO books. Marisol: A Little Girl With A Big Dream and Adam Baum: The Autistic Engineer (Grow with STEM Series) by La Tanya Brooks.
Marisol: A Little Girl with a Big Dream
Marisol: A Little Girl with a Big Dream is written to help young children and their parents realize that great possibilities are limitless. LaTanyas goal is to design books that inspire children, especially at-risk children, to pursue careers in science, technology, engineering (STEM related careers). Traditionally male oriented, STEM careers are often viewed as careers that are not pursued by women, much less minority women. She also feels it is important to eliminate some of the handicapping implicit biases people unconsciously impose on themselves and others. LaTanya continues to promote STEM awareness to create a more diverse STEM community.
Adam Baum: The Autistic Engineer is cleverly written and inspires children of all abilities to pursue STEM careers. Adam realizes his differences makes it difficult for him to make friends, as other kids tease him by pointing, laughing and calling him Atom Bomb. Things began to change, one day…The story is captured by vivid illustrations that engage the reader from start to finish. The book also features reading comprehension questions to reinforce the lessons in the story.
“LaTanya is both an educator and author of excellence,with a heart full of compassion and concern for our students, she diligently works to connect with them and guide them to their dreams. Her book will inspire all of our students to strive toward their highest potential.”
–Dr. Parrish, School Counselor
Marisol is an excellent book that encourages kids to to follow their dreams. Children will certainly make self-to-text connections with this book. –Gracie Garcia, Deepark, TX Educator
Highly recommend her book for every single little girl in Houston and beyond!!! –Krystal Perkins, HISD Magnet School Coordinator
“Marisol is a wonderful book, and I am lucky enough to have an autographed copy. I encourage all of you to buy it. I am going to use it with my students, and I know they will love it.” –Barbara Wheat, HISD Reading Interventionist
“Marisol” is a quintessential book that will inspire students to strive for excellence. I strongly recommend this book for any child. –Laura Guevara, Parent
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brooks’ goal is to design books that inspire children, especially at-risk children, to pursue STEM-related careers. Traditionally male oriented, STEM careers are often viewed as careers that are not pursued by women, much less minority women. She also feels it is important to eliminate some of the handicapping implicit biases people unconsciously impose on themselves and others. Brooks continues to promote STEM awareness to create a more diverse STEM community. Brooks says, “I believe that this book will appeal to readers because it is relatable, motivational and encouraging. STEM is an exciting, hot topic that is essential to 21st century learning. For teachers and parents, there are follow-up questions that assess children’s comprehension and emphasize the importance of an open dialogue between parents or teachers and kids.”
In conjunction with R&R Book Tours I am happy to be a part of the last leg of this book tour. SpotlightingBlind Pony, a memoir by Samantha Hart! As a bonus find out at the end how you could wind a signed copy!
Blind Pony
Publication Date: March 15th, 2021
Genre: Memoir/ Biography
When your mother names you after your father’s affair, you might wish you were living someone else’s life.
For Samantha Hart, growing up on a farm in rural Pennsylvania had been no childhood idyll but rather a violent, surreal nightmare. A twisted vision of pastoral life part Faulkner part Dante. At fourteen years old, she ran away in search of her father, a character she only knew as Wild Bill. Discovering he wasn’t the hero she dreamt he’d be, she was on her own.
Arriving in Los Angeles at the peak of LA’s decadence where money, drugs, and good times flowed, she floated through a strange new world of champagne-soaked parties, high-stakes backgammon tournaments, and a whirlwind of international escapades flogging nude photographs. When a wealthy playboy mistakes her Pittsburgh accent for being British, it begins a spiral of white lies leading Sam to question everything she thought she knew about herself and who she could be.
Blind Pony is a story of healing and hope, a coming of age narrative intersecting themes of recovery, redemption, forgiveness, and the struggle it takes to define life on your terms.
Excerptfrom Blind Pony
”A FAREWELL TO THE FARM”
I opened the door to the barn with a bit of trepidation. The smells that once pervaded my senses—new-mown hay, leather, and living animals—had turned to a dank, musty odor. I held Vignette’s hand as we stepped carefully past the empty stalls, ready for something sinister to jump out at any moment. We ventured toward a stable in the back, and above us was the plaque I carved with a wood burner, the name “Misty.” Misty was born when I was eight years old and was the offspring of my beloved pony, Princess.
“Follow me.” I darted up the narrow wooden stairs. Vignette stayed close on my heels as we headed to my grandfather’s abandoned workshop to rummage around for something to pry off the sign. The remnants of a moonshine distillery sat cloaked in dust in an open cabinet, and as I breathed in the musky air, I could feel my grandfather’s presence and hear the nasty whistling sound he made when he was coming for me.
“Mommy, are you crying?”
“No, honey, got some dust in my eyes. Let’s get out of here.”
I grabbed the crowbar, intent on rescuing Misty’s sign. It was a relic from my childhood, and I was unwilling to leave it to the wrecking ball.
“So, Misty was your pony, Mommy?”
“No, but she was my pony Princess’ baby, just like you are my baby. That’s why I got to name her and made this sign for her. Look, I have a scar on my finger where I burned myself making that sign.”
“That must have hurt. I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too.” Equal measures of joy and sorrow overwhelmed me, conjured by a place I thought I would never see again. We traipsed outside so I could stow the plaque inside the car, and Vignette spotted an old tractor.
“Look at this cool tractor, Mommy! Can I climb on it?”
“Yes, but be careful,” I said. My mind drifted. I could almost hear the chatter between my sisters and me as we saddled up at the corral to take our horses out for trail rides.
Princess was blind in one eye, so she kept a slower pace than the other horses as we galloped up past the oil rig with its rhythmic chugging and stench of old black oil. The sound of thundering hoofs would ring in my ears, and by the time we reached the top of Gobbler’s Knob, the view would be invisible through the thick cloud of dust, and I’d be as blind as Princess.
The past was so vivid, I almost forgot I wanted to capture this moment with Vignette. As I went back to the car to retrieve my camera, the familiar sound of the gravel crunching beneath my feet unspooled memories of a story my mother had repeated to me throughout my childhood.
Late one night, Bill Butter pulled into the gravel driveway well past midnight. Dean Martin’s just-released record “Volare” blared over the car radio. Bill continued his drunken crooning after turning off the ignition,
though, in his stupor, he left the headlights on. My mother, Clara, peered out the upstairs window to see her husband silhouetted by the car’s lights, stumbling up the stone path, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. Annoyed and embarrassed by his returning from these late-night trysts with other women, which had become too frequent, she climbed back into bed, pretending to be asleep, and got tangled up in her oversized flannel nightgown.
A gust of frosty Pennsylvania wind followed Bill up the stairs to the bedroom. He pulled his pants down just far enough to expose his stiffened penis, then threw himself on top of his wife while endeavoring, with frustration, to unravel the nightgown.
Clara realized her best option for keeping their small children from waking was to make way for the inevitable drunken thrust between her naked thighs. When he found his way to an orgasm, he hollered out the name of his current mistress, Pammy Sue, and unceremoniously deposited the seed that would grow into a girl destined to be nothing but trouble. The first sign of said trouble began the very next morning with a dead car battery.
Nine months later, my mother gave birth to her fourth child on the first day of fall. Dad thought I would be a boy, and he named me Sam. Maybe he hoped I would be a boy so he could stop hearing about Pammy Sue. As luck would have it, he pulled four aces. I was his fourth daughter.
My mother’s frozen heart determined to immortalize her husband’s infidelity and spelled it out on the birth certificate. But for as long as I knew my dad, he never called me by any other name but Sam. I always thought the name suited me. My mother prodded me so often with the reason my name was Pammy that my official name repulsed me.
Vignette tugged on my sleeve and snapped me back to reality. “Mommy, mommy, can we go now? I’m hungry,” she moaned. “Me too,” I said, and we went back into the car. I threw my camera on the back seat along with the “Misty” sign, figuring I had enough memories of the place. Nothing could change what happened here.
As my daughter and I drove down Clever Road, I glanced back at the old farmhouse in the rearview mirror one last time. It would soon disappear forever, along with the lilac and forsythia bushes and delicate lilies of the valley that poked through the spring thaw each year. The springhouse and the old maple tree where I hugged my grandmother for the last time would be gone.
But they would live on in my memories, along with many things I wished I could forget
Samantha Hart’s career has spanned music, film, and advertising, earning her a reputation as an award-winning Creative Director. Her creative marketing campaigns brought prominence and Academy Awards to films such as Fargo, Dead Man Walking, and Boys Don’t Cry while earning cult status for independent features, Dazed and Confused, Four Weddings and A Funeral, and Priscilla Queen of the Desert.
With her partner, Sam built a successful company in the advertising industry, Foundation, with over forty employees and offices in Chicago and Los Angeles. Foundation earned distinction as an early disrupter of the traditional production and post-production models combining the two under one roof.
In 2017, Sam launched Wild Bill Creative which is a creative ideation company working with brand clients, non-profits, and start-ups.
Sam currently lives in Los Angeles with her husband, director James Lipetzky, and their sons, Davis and Denham.
Like what you read? (Also read the one of the awesome reviews at Kristin’s Novel Café ) Click on the Link below to enter for a chance to win a signed copy of BLIND PONY by Samantha Hart!
Freelance Writer Janny(Jan Marie)C 