Queer Sci Fi's newest LGBTQ+ speculative fiction anthology is here: Clarity. And there's a giveaway.

Clarity (noun)

Four definitions to inspire writers around the world and an unlimited number of possible stories to tell:

1) Coherent and intelligible

2) Transparent or pure

3) Attaining certainty about something

4) Easy to see or hear

Clarity features 300-word speculative flash fiction stories from across the rainbow spectrum, from the minds of the writers of Queer Sci Fi.

About the Series:

Every year, Queer Sci Fi runs a one-word theme contest for 300 word flash fiction stories, and then we choose 120 of the best for our annual anthology.

Publisher | Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords | Universal Buy Link

---

Giveaway

QSF is giving away a $25 Amazon Gift Card + Innovation / Ink eBooks with this tour:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47258/?

---

Excerpt

It's hard to tell a story in just 300 words, so it’s only fair that I limit this foreword to exactly 300 words, too. This year, 312 writers took the challenge, with stories across the queer spectrum. The contest rules are simple. Submit a complete, well-written Clarity-themed 300 word sci-fi, fantasy, paranormal or horror story with LGBTQ+ characters.

For our ninth year and eighth anthology, we chose the theme “Clarity.” The interpretations run from an “Aha!” moment to the bubbling laughter of water to a private, life-changing realization. There are little jokes, big surprises, and future prognostications that will make your head spin.

I'm proud that this collection includes many colors of the LGBTQ+ (or QUILTBAG, if you prefer) universe—lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, queer, and asexual characters populate these pages—our most diverse contest yet. There's a bit of romance, too—and a number of stories solidly on the "mainstream" side. Flash fiction is short, fun, and easy to read. You may not fall in love with every story—in fact, you probably won't. But if you don't like one, just move on to the next, and you're sure to find some bite-sized morsels of flash fiction goodness. There are so many good stories in here—choose your own favorites.

We chose three winning stories, fiver judges' choice picks, and one director’s pick, all marked in the text. Thanks to our judges—Angel Martinez, B.A. Brock, Ava Kelly, Lexi Ander, and J.M. Dabney—for selflessly giving their time, love, and energy to this project. And to Ryane Chatman too, for editing.

At Queer Sci Fi, we're building a community of writers and readers who want a little rainbow in their speculative fiction. Join us and submit a story of your own next time!

---

The Authors

• A Acosta - Stuck in the Space Elevator
• A. B. Encarnacion - Arene, 27F Invisible
• A.H. Lykke - Fresh
• A.J. Clarke - Shinigami
• Abbie Bernstein - Kids Know
• Alden Loveshade - Clouds
• Alex Blanc - Death by Siren
• Alex Liddell - Telegram From the Netherland
• Alex Silver - Smile
• Alison J. McKenzie - Happy to Help
• Allan Dyen-Shapiro - Oysters and Other Slimy Creatures
• Alma Nilsson - Meet Me at the South Gate
• Amanda Meuwissen - Willows
• Andrea Stanet - Bathtub Gin
• Anne Smith - A Glimpse
• Anton Kukal - Detonation
• Antonia Aquilante - Through the Glass
• Avery Vanderlyle - Taking the Plunge
• Barbara Krasnoff - Age Cannot Wither Her
• Beáta Fülöp - The Unicorn Handler
• Belinda McBride - The Choice
• Blaine D. Arden - No Crime Unseen
• C.T. Phipps - The Chase Was Enough
• Camryn Burke - Burden of the Blurred
• Caro Soles - The Truth Sayer
• Catherine Yeates - Outpouring
• Chloe Schaefer - Matthias
• Crysta Coburn - The Ghost Maid
• D.M. Rasch - Crystal Clear
• Daria Richter - Make Me Real
• Darrell Z. Grizzle - The Vampire and the Werewolf Priest
• David Viner - The Best Solution
• Derwin Mak - Software Update
• Devon Widmer - Post-Apocalyptic Goo
• Drew Baker - The Only Question I Could Ask
• E. W. Murks - Earth Day
• Elizabeth Hawxhurst - Inflection Point
• Emmy Eui - Sunset
• Gina Storm Grant - Clearing the Heir
• Ginger Streusel - Lovers' Letters
• Gordon Bonnet - Refraction
• Isa Reneman - The Furthest Horizon
• Isabel McKeough - The Art of Not Blowing Up
• Isobel Granby - Sea-Glass
• Izzy Tyack - Magically Induced Clarity
• J Sigel - Hindsight
• J.S. Gariety - Bloom
• Jaime Munn - Impulse
• James Dunham - Brain of Theseus
• Jamie Lackey - The Cursed Princess
• Jamie Sands - Remote Working Gothic
• Jana Denardo - Unexpected
• Jane Suen - Bowls of Steaming Noodles
• Jason Sárközi-Forfinski - ACAB
• Jaymie Wagner - Harmony
• Jendayi Brooks-Flemister - Heartsbeats
• Jennifer Haskin - Cold Conviction
• Jess Nevins - Stagecoach Mary Versus the Ghost of Cascade
• Joe DeRouen - The World Around Her
• Jordan Ulibarri - Franklin
• Josie Kirkwood - The Blue Capsule Experience
• Julie Bozza - Verity
• K.L. Noone - The Unicorn's Knight
• K.S. Murphy - Looped
• Kaje Harper - Beneath the Surface
• Kayleigh Skye - Blue
• Kim Fielding - Shared Language
• Kiya Nicoll - The Satyr and the Wishing Pond
• Kora Knight - Sunrise
• Kris Jacen - Visus
• Krystle Matar - My Poppy Fields Are Burning
• Lloyd A. Meeker - Ruti's Prayer
• Lori Alden Holuta - Magic Mirror
• M. X. Kelly - Muddy the Waters
• Marie Victoria Robertson - As Foretold
• Mary Kuna - Late Bloomer
• Megan Baffoe - Ribbon Thread
• Megan Diedericks - The Closet is Made of Mahogany
• Megan Hippler - The Gift
• Mere Rain - With Clear Eyes
• Minerva Cerridwen - Secundum Artem
• Monique Cuillerier - Through This Window
• Nathan Alling Long - The Shadow of Doubt
• Nathaniel Taff - The Gauntlet
• Nicole Dennis - Orange Dust
• Oskar Leonard - Murcorpio
• Patricia Loofbourrow - There's Something Weird About Joe
• Phoebe Ching - The Killer Cupid
• R.L. Merrill - The Sitter
• Rainie Zenith - Crystal Clear
• Raven Oak - Wrinkled
• Rdp - Alice!
• RE Andeen - Male Female Nonbinary Other
• RE Carr - A Woman's Reward
• Rie Sheridan Rose - The Night Witch
• Rin Sparrow - Never Alone
• RL Mosswood - A Trick of the Nerves
• RoAnna Sylver - The Face in the Mirror
• Rob Bliss - PSI Ecstasy
• Rory Ni Coileain - One Night in Troy
• Sacchi Green - The Star Beast
• Sage HN - Impact
• Scott Jenson - Cycles
• Sheryl Hayes - A Smoking Hot Proposal
• Shirley Meier - Upon Reflection
• SI CLARKE - If the Shoe Fits
• Siri Paulson - Blood and Water
• Stacy Noe - Demons Need Love Too
• Stephen B. Pearl - Sad Reality
• Stephen Dedman - Through a Glass Clearly
• Steve Fuson - Translucent
• Steve Rasnic Tem - The Man in the Mirror
• T.J. Reed - New Memories
• Terry Poole - A Grey Man
• Tori Thompson - A Visage of Home
• V. Astor Solomon - Blood Will Show Us Who We Are
• W. Dale Jordan - Ascension
• Warren Rochelle - Ghosts
• William R. Eakin - Overcoming Entropy
• Yoyoli - If Deliberate Avoidance Fulfills No Dream

About QSF:

Queer Sci Fi is the brainchild of J. Scott Coatsworth, a blog and website that’s all about LGBT characters in science fiction, fantasy, paranormal and horror fiction. We’re dedicated to promoting the inclusion of LGBT characters in these genres.

We started the site in January of 2014, with the intent to create a community for writers and readers of LGBT-themed speculative fiction. We post regular discussion topics, news, book announcements and reviews. We have an AWESOME Facebook discussion group, and a great admin team - Angel Martinez, Ben Brock, Ryane Chatman, and J. Scott Coatsworth.

Once a year, we put out a call for flash fiction submissions based on a single word theme, and get anywhere between two hundred and four hundred entries. Clarity is our eight annual anthology.

QSF Website: https://www.queerscifi.com

QSF Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/groups/210192115794407

QSF Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/queerscifi/

QSF Twitter: https://twitter.com/queerscifi/

Release Blitz + Giveaway: Parasite by Ridley Harker

 

Title: Parasite

Author: Ridley Harker

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/28/2022

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: M/NB

Length: 82500

Genre: Horror, LGBTQIA+, Action/adventure, coming-of-age, dark, humorous

Add to Goodreads

Description

Seventeen-year-old Jack Ives is used to being unlucky. His only friend has just moved away to college, his parents are alcoholics, and he’s relentlessly bullied by the town psychopath. All that begins to change with the arrival of a handsome but quirky new student, Lucien, who wants to be more than friends.

Their newfound happiness doesn’t last, however, as a strange new illness strikes the island. Fishermen go missing, and the villagers left behind aren’t themselves anymore. When Lucien is suspected to be the cause of the outbreak, can Jack overcome his teenage hormones and save Eldrick Isle? Will he even want to?

Excerpt

Parasite
Ridley Harker © 2022
All Rights Reserved

0054 hours

September 2, 2015

Gulf of Maine

When some kooky mainlanders offered to pay extra for a midnight ferry, Bill Jamison had jumped at the chance to pay off his bar tab. Now he regretted it. The middle-aged fisherman leaned morosely against the starboard rail while beside him his business partner, Jim Kendrick, fought the uphill battle of smoking a pipe during a storm. The rain pounded against the deck in a dull roar and, judging from Kendrick’s cursing, the pipe had gone out once again.

Not for the first time, Jamison reluctantly noted that his partner was getting on in years. Kendrick’s coat hung from his wizened frame like a cloak. His mysterious weight loss had made them both nervous, not that either one said anything. For an Eldrick Islander, the prospect of cancer was like foul weather; something to be endured without complaint.

“Goddamned son-of-a—” Kendrick upended the pipe and a sodden wad of tobacco fell onto the deck. He kicked it away, smearing it across the boards.

“We shouldn’t have gone out tonight,” Jamison said.

“Horse shit,” Kendrick huffed. “We’ve sailed through worse than this.”

“That ain’t what I meant.” Jamison jerked his head toward the mainlander lurking near the bow of the ferry.

Tall and blond, his passenger’s washed-out appearance resembled a photograph, the kind found in a neglected attic of subjects long deceased. Judging by the young man’s pinched frown, Jamison assumed that Silas Spencer was either a lawyer or an undertaker. He shuddered; Jamison hated lawyers, having seen enough of their kind during his divorce. Blood-sucking monsters the lot of them, in his opinion, but he had never been afraid of them, not even when the wretches helped his ex-wife take half of everything he’d owned.

But he was afraid of this one.

It was the eyes. He had seen eyes like that once before, years ago. Back when he had spent much of his days drunk. Once, while Kendrick cleaned their catch, Jamison had gone too far and drunk too much. His legs had betrayed him, and he had tumbled over the side. He remembered tasting blood. A tangy mix of iron and salt that burned his lungs when he tried to inhale. His eyes had stung. He had floundered in the icy water. He, a man who had learned to swim before he could walk, was drowning.

Then the moment of panic was gone, and instinct had set in. Jamison’s powerful legs had propelled him upwards, his arms outstretched toward the boat. He had nearly reached it before the shadow was beneath him. It came at him like a torpedo, almost too fast for his gin-addled brain to comprehend. A massive, prehistoric monster armed with muscled jaws and sandpaper skin. The soulless black pits of its eyes rolled back in its head, and its gaping maw expanded to reveal rows upon row of serrated teeth.

In the split second before the attack, Jamison had stared into the darkness of oblivion—then he had been shaken like a terrier on a rat. The shark had separated the flesh from his leg and sentenced him to a month in a mainland hospital whose bill he was still struggling to pay off. The very existence of such a creature disproved the notion that humans sat at the top of the food chain.

Safely back in the present, Jamison shuddered and remembered to breathe. He rubbed at his forearms, warm beneath his thick woolen sweater. He had been lucky. If he had drunk a little more gin, perhaps he wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to sink his knife deep into the shark’s eye socket. Now only scars and nightmares remained, and he hadn’t touched the bottle since. He liked to say that his rock bottom was on the ocean floor.

Jamison recognized something of that great white shark in Spencer. The man’s flat, grey eyes made his skin crawl. He glowered at Spencer’s broad-shouldered back, but Spencer didn’t seem to notice or care. His attention lay on the swirling mists beyond the ferry’s bow. Typical yuppie mainlander. Pretentious bastard, Jamison thought.

“They’re up to something,” he said aloud, glancing toward the cabin where the other one had sequestered himself.

Kendrick only snorted. “They’re mainlanders. They’ll spend a few weeks on the Isle, get bored, and then go back to whatever hell hole they came from. You know the type. We get a few every other year or so.”

Jamison did know the type. Unlike Nantucket, or Martha’s Vineyard, Eldrick Isle never attracted the summer crowd. There was nothing to offer. The once booming fishing industry had been usurped by commercial trawlers decades ago, forcing the neighboring isles to turn to seaweed farming instead. Eldrick, however, chose to bow its head and soldier on, clinging to the memory of its glory days. Billboards advertised a hotel that had long since shuttered its doors. The lone diner had a Visitor’s Special that no one ever ordered. The pier greeting the newcomers reeked of dead fish, the ever-present stench emanating from the dozen or so rusted fishing boats docked in the harbor.

Then there was the island itself: Eldrick’s shores were steep, rocky cliffs, with edges sharp and jagged like broken teeth. The surf stirred up debris and rotting vegetation, littering the island’s few beaches with trash from the abandoned canning factory on the island’s east side. Even the hottest days of summer were damp and chilly. Mist obscured the frigid waters. It crept onto the island, soaking through the sturdiest of coats. The few vacationers that showed up in August inevitably took one look at the dying town and turned around to book their return ticket.

Rain splattered against Jamison’s hood, echoing in his ears. Kendrick tried his pipe again to no avail. The storm lulled enough that the sound of retching was audible from within the depths of the cabin. Rasping coughs followed by the wet splatter of vomit. The downpour returned with a roar. It slipped past Jamison’s hood, soaking his neck. His shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

Kendrick abandoned his pipe and frowned, his rheumy eyes searching Jamison’s face. Jamison cleared his throat, striving to be heard over the rain and yet not loud enough for Spencer to hear. “Something’s wrong,” he shouted into Kendrick’s ear. “We were barely on the water before the kid got sick—”

“Billy, you been drinking again?” Kendrick asked, clasping Jamison’s shoulder with gnarled fingers. “When’d you get so goddamned superstitious?”

“No, I haven’t been fucking drinking! I’m only saying that this whole thing feels wrong; if one of my brothers were puking like that, I’d at least go check on him. I think the kid’s got something bad—what if it’s contagious?”

“What, like ee-bolah?” Kendrick asked, with a sharp look toward the ferry’s cabin. “Naw, it couldn’t be…”

“You checked on him?”

“No.”

“Well, someone ought to,” Jamison said.

“You do it,” Kendrick said dubiously. “Last time, I slipped in it and damn near broke my back.”

“Go check it out. If he’s only seasick then I’ll clean it up myself, but I’m telling you, something’s very wrong with that kid.”

“Christ, Billy! Nag anymore and you’re gonna sound like my wife.” Kendrick gave him a shove and then marched across the deck toward the cabin. Jamison caught movement in the corner of his eye and found Spencer watching them, his back against the railing. Their eyes met, and all of a sudden Jamison couldn’t hear the storm. There was nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. One corner of Spencer’s thin mouth twitched upward into a razor’s edge of a smirk. Jamison’s skin crawled. He wrenched his eyes away.

“Jim, wait!” Jamison shouted over the rain, but Kendrick had already knocked on the cabin door. The old sailor reached for the handle, his calloused fingers closing in on the doorknob. Jamison sucked in his breath.

Kendrick half turned around, his shoulders squared and his lips pursed, eyes narrowed beneath his bushy white brows. His hand was still on the cabin door. “Jesus Christ, Billy, what now?” he demanded. “What in the hell’s wrong with you, you crazy son of a bitch? You’re shaking like a virgin on—” He paused and glanced down. Jamison didn’t know why until Kendrick tried to take a step back. His boot remained glued to the floor.

Kendrick shoved at the door and yanked at his shoe. He stumbled as it came loose, trailing a viscous black gel behind it. More of the substance pooled out from underneath the cabin door. Lightning flashed, and a rainbow sheen coated the surface of the muck. The door creaked open.

Before Jamison shouted in warning, something darted out from the gloom. Thick and ropy, like a bundle of rotten vines, it hit Kendrick’s wrist with a wet slap, latching onto his bare skin. Kendrick sputtered, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in a perfect caricature of surprise—then another tentacled limb emerged and shoved itself down his gullet. Like a fish on a hook, he was yanked into the cabin.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Ridley Harker is an up-and-coming horror author who delights in all things gay and spooky. While past careers have included reptile keeping at a zoo and EMT work at a casino, writing is his true passion. His favorite books are those with enemies to lovers, small town settings, and great villains. He currently lives in the Middle of Nowhere with his two dogs, a grumpy old snake, and a host of pet tarantulas.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Patreon

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Blog Tour + Giveaway: Flotsam (The Periodot Shift #1) by RJ Theodore

Author RJ Theodore and Other Worlds Ink host a tour stop for Flotsam (The Periodot Shift #1)! Find out more about the new science-fantasy series and enter in the $20 Amazon gift card giveaway!

 

R J Theodore has a new Science Fantasy Steampunk book out: Flotsam. And there's a giveaway!

Captain Talis just wants to keep her airship crew from starving, and maybe scrape up enough cash for some badly needed repairs. When an anonymous client offers a small fortune to root through a pile of atmospheric wreckage, it seems like an easy payday. The job yields an ancient ring, a forbidden secret, and a host of deadly enemies.

Now on the run from cultists with powerful allies, Talis needs to unload the ring as quickly as possible. Her desperate search for a buyer and the fallout from her discovery leads to a planetary battle between a secret society, alien forces, and even the gods themselves.

Talis and her crew have just one desperate chance to make things right before their potential big score destroys them all.

Warnings: genocide plots, bigotry, racism, classism, obsessive ex-lover, violence, gore, grief and loss, religious dogma, law breaking, manipulation, hostage situations, claustrophobia, anxiety, frustration, guilt, lies and deception, betrayal

Publisher | Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iBooks| Author Site | Goodreads

About the Series:

On a planet cracked open by ancient magic, outlaws and pirates are the only ones with what it takes to save Peridot from its next apocalyptic threat.

---

Giveaway

R J is giving away a $20 gift card to Bookshop.org with this tour:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47223/?

---

Excerpt

Talis descended toward the sparkling layer of trash below her feet. Generations of detritus, coated in frost, shifted slowly and caught the light. She hung in open skies, a tiny dark figure on an impossibly thin thread. Her airship, Wind Sabre, lurked in the shadow of a small island above her like the hoarbeasts that lurked in the garbage below. Around her, the shrapnel of Peridot’s tectonic crust peppered the skies, tiny islands not big enough to park a chair on.

She might have said the chance to do something reckless like this was half the reason she was in her line of work. But there was no one to bluff except her crew on the other end of the comm—Dug, Tisker, and Sophie—and she owed them more than words. She owed them a job that didn’t end up costing more than it paid. She owed them a ship that wasn’t in constant want of repairs. She owed them a ship worthy of being called a home.

A soft click sounded in the comm of her helmet, and Dug’s voice cut through the quiet sounds of her rapid heartbeat and quick breaths. The voice tube transmission made him sound small and far away. “Progressing well, captain. How much farther do you need?”

Talis unclenched her jaw to answer. “I’d guess I’m just about halfway down. Can’t make out any details yet.”

“Understood. There is plenty of length on the winch.” Her first mate’s voice was low and even, though his syllables were tight as a guitar string. Dug was worried.

The bulky descent suit didn’t make it any easier to see the view below her. It was a one-size-fits-all antique, big enough to wear over her clothes. Big enough that Dug, who towered above her and was thick with muscle—could have worn it, if he was so worried. It was designed to keep her body heat in, and it was most definitely doing that. The musty wool lining felt moist after the short time she’d had it on. Her breath fogged the glass dome that protected her from the thin air, even though she wore a scarf over her mouth. Yet her fingers were still getting stiff with the cold. She could have worn thicker gloves if she was just going down to strap up a large object to tow out. But this time her quarry was smaller than that, and thinner gloves provided better dexterity.

From this distance, the garbage below her looked deceptively beautiful. A lazy flow of icy shapes caught the green light from Nexus, and their reflected light sparkled through the fogging on her helmet. It wasn’t hard to imagine why there were so many stories about treasure down below.

And there was treasure down there. Or, reckless or not, she wouldn’t be dropping into it. The flotsam layer was where the dead went to be forgotten. Dead people. Dead ships. Dead technologies. Gravity trapped it all there. Kept it from dropping out of Peridot’s atmosphere on the bottom side and drifting off into the stars. Silus Cutter created the hoarbeasts centuries ago to prowl the frozen wreckage and clean things up a bit with their vicious, crunching jaws and fang-lined throats. Did her god intend for those beasts to prefer the frozen flesh of bodies to the wrecks? She wouldn’t ask if she got the chance; she was here for the latter and glad to have the chance.

If things went wrong, Talis would be on the menu, too. But the contract for this salvage made it worth the risk. She could make a lot of overdue repairs on Wind Sabre with the payoff. Her crew had been enthusiastic about the operation when she proposed it, knowing what kind of money a salvage might bring in. Better than the transport jobs she’d scrounged up of late. Not one of the trio had volunteered to make the descent, though.

“You’re the reckless one, Cap,” Tisker told her at the time. The cheeky helmsman got away with the comment. He always did. His crooked, infectious grin and sparkling, deceptively innocent eyes transformed every gibe into a morale boost.

Details emerged, just a couple lengths below Talis. Large shapes at first. Broken hulls of ships tangled in their own lift canvasses. A roof, a wagon. An old tree trunk. Anything organic or burnable should have been composted or used for fuel, not pitched over island edge. But those hadn’t always been the rules. Seventy-something generations back to the Cataclysm that fractured Peridot and the Re-Creation that made it what it was now. Seventy-something generations of garbage and waste swirled in the gravity trap. And down here, nothing ever decayed.

Soon she got close enough to see movement: the hoarbeasts pulling themselves across the wrecks, their undersides a chaos of tentacles. Their bodies flashing gray and silver in an imitation of the flotsam. They moved above and below the gravity line, scanning the field of garbage with cavernous eyes and probing the jetsam with sensitive, bobbing whiskers. Always in search of fresh additions to the flotsam layer. In search of food. In search of the dead.

And they would find them.

Mostly Cutter folk. Some Vein. Even a Rakkar or two. The Bone fed their dead to the ravens and kept the bones, but still ended up in flotsam. Usually lost with their ships. No Breakers, of course. Their population was finite and, as far as the ages since Re-Creation had proven out, didn’t die of natural causes.

If they couldn’t find dead flesh, they’d be perfectly happy to accept the living.

Continuing to descend, Talis was far too aware of such things. Her brother had tormented her with stories of the hoarbeasts when she was a child, and she grew up convinced they clung to the bottom of her bed the way they latched onto the hulls of airships that flew too low, too close to flotsam. Convinced that their tentacles and their long, sharp teeth would find her in the dark.

In her forties now, and captain of a smuggling ship that had taken on many a perilous contract, she still didn’t sleep with her feet hanging off her mattress.

---

Author Bio

R J Theodore is an author, graphic designer, podcaster, and all-around collector of creative endeavors and hobbies. She enjoys writing about magic-infused technologies, first contact events, and bioluminescing landscapes.

Her love of SFF storytelling developed through grabbing for anything-and-everything “unicorn” as a child, but she was subverted by tales of distant solar systems when her brother introduced her to Star Trek: The Next Generation at age seven. A few years later, Sailor Moon taught her stories can have both.

She lives in New England, haunted by her childhood cat. Find more information at rjtheodore.com.

Author Website: https://rjtheodore.com/

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://facebook.com/RJTheodore

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/bittybittyzap

Author Instagram: https://instagram.com/bittybittyzap

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17166271.R_J_Theodore

Author Liminal Fiction (LimFic.com): https://www.limfic.com/mbm-book-author/r-j-theodore/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B073ZLVGMM

Release Blitz + Giveaway: Exodus 20:3 by Freydis Moon

Author Freydis Moon and IndiGo Marketing share new paranormal romantic suspense, Exodus 20:3! Read more and enter in the NineStar Press credit giveaway!

Title: Exodus 20:3

Author: Freydis Moon

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 02/01/2022

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 21800

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, PNR/fantasy, horror, romance, Latine, transgender, D/s power play, construction worker, angel, suspense

Add to Goodreads

Description

Religious eroticism and queer emancipation meet in a claustrophobic monster-romance about divinity, sexuality, and freedom.

When Diego López is guilted by his mother into taking a low-key construction job in New Mexico, he doesn’t expect to be the only helping hand at Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. But the church is abandoned, decrepit, and off the beaten path, and the only other person for miles is its handsome caretaker, Ariel Azevedo.

Together, Diego and Ariel refurbish the old church, sharing stories of their heritage, experiences, and desires. But as the long days turn into longer nights, Diego begins to see past Ariel’s human mirage and finds himself falling into lust—and maybe something else—with one of God’s first creations.

Excerpt

Exodus 20:3
Freydis Moon © 2022
All Rights Reserved

“You have the address. Go.”

Diego López gnawed his lip as he leaned against the rusted tailgate on his father’s busted Chevy.

He cradled his phone against his ear and tried to focus on his mother’s voice, exhausted and cold, rasping through the speaker. The gas station was quiet—nearly abandoned—but his attention darted to an oasis floating above the highway and a napkin tumbling across the empty lot. He pitched his shoulder upward to steady his phone and smacked a pack of Lucky Strikes against the heel of his palm.

“I can find a way to pay you back,” he said and pulled a cigarette free with his teeth. “I don’t need another handout, and I definitely don’t need to play carpenter at some bullshit church to—”

“Cállate,” his mother snapped. “You listen to me, mijo. You get in that truck, you drive to that church, and you make this right. No one put you behind the wheel of that car—my car—and no one put the… the drugs in your wallet, and no one—”

“I know.” He sucked smoke into his lungs and switched his phone from one ear to the other.

“This isn’t about the money. This is about honor—familia. You go, understand? Go, work, get paid, come home. Do your community service and fix your life. This man, this Ariel, he’s giving you a chance. Take it before he changes his mind and hires someone else.”

“Yeah, because every able-bodied worker in town is trippin’ over themselves to go rebuild a church in the middle of the desert, Mamá. Sure.”

“You made your choice. Go.”

He angled his mouth toward the sky. She wasn’t talking about his fourteen-hour stint in jail or the cash-bail she’d worked double shifts at the diner to pay for. She was talking about the sickle-shaped scars beneath his shirt, the choice he’d made three years ago—eighteen and able to say, Yes, do it. Same vague guilt trip, same acquiescence. You’re like a coyote, she’d said to him once. Halfway to a wolf but still something else. He thought about that as she breathed on the other end of the line and imagined her sitting in the recliner in his childhood home, rolling a slender joint, watching fútbol while a pork shoulder braised in the crockpot. Sometimes she tripped over his name, her tongue unused to making the sound, but when she’d met him at the door after he’d been released from El Paso Detention Center, she’d said Diego with her full voice. Cracked every syllable like a bone.

“Yeah, okay.” He sighed. “Do you want me to call?”

She huffed. “Eres mi sangre.”

He shook his head and finished his cigarette, then crushed it beneath his boot. “Sé.”

“Tomorrow, then. You’ll tell me about the church?”

“Sure, yeah. Tomorrow.”

“Drive safe,” she said.

Diego ended the call without saying goodbye. He stood with his thumbs tucked through his belt loops. Endured the heat. Watched the road. Pictured himself elsewhere, across the state, settling in Austin. He’d bartend to make ends meet. He’d never touch narcotics again. He’d rent a studio apartment, and fill it with houseplants, and learn how to cook. He’d send money to his abuela, and he’d visit her more, and he’d grow the fuck up. Becoming another disappointment on the López family tree wasn’t an option anymore.

It never had been, but stealing the car, crashing the car, getting caught… Yeah, that changed everything.

Early summer rippled through the dry air. He scanned his phone again, reading and rereading the address his mother had sent him—coordinates, actually—before he hoisted into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. According to Google, Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe was located in Luna County, New Mexico. He pulled his lip between his teeth again. Seven grand to help rebuild a decrepit church in the middle of the desert? Camming paid more. He’d found that out after getting hit with top-surgery bills. But now that his mother knew about the Vicodin, he certainly didn’t need her to know about the porn too. He manifested the future he’d imagined—bartending in Austin, visiting his grandmother, making pozole in his apartment—and drove toward a city called Sunshine.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Freydís Moon (they/them) is a biracial nonbinary writer and diviner. When they aren’t writing or divining, Freydís is usually trying their hand at a recommended recipe, practicing a new language, or browsing their local bookstore.

Website | Twitter

Giveaway

One lucky winner will receive a $50.00 NineStar Press Gift Code!  

a Rafflecopter giveaway 

 

Release Blitz: In Vineyard Veritas by Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

Authors Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid, along with Gay Book Promotions, share new release information for cozy mystery, In Vineyard Veritas! Read more today!

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: In Vineyard Veritas

Author: Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

Publisher: Eine Kleine Press

Cover Artist: Clancy Nacht

Release Date: January 21, 2022

Genres: LGBTQ Cozy mystery, trans man

Tropes: Amateur sleuth, favorite aunt dies, going back home again, mystery

Themes: Coming back home, finding where you belong

Heat Rating:  0 flames

Length:  206 pages

It is a standalone story. 

Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK  

In wine, truth. In vineyard… mystery.

Blurb

Local police summon retired CTO Geraldine Thorn from her Austin lake house to Kitsch, Texas, the small town where she grew up, when her beloved Aunt Tilda is found dead at her vineyard home, presumably from a slip in the bath. Upon arrival, Gerry discovers Tilda's eclectic group of friends—including a much, much younger lover—and rivals. When they realize Tilda's slip wasn't an accident, Gerry enlists the help of a handsome Texas Ranger with secrets of his own.

Excerpt 

“Howdy. Ms. Geraldine Thorn? This is Sgt. Hale Alexander with the Texas Ranger Division Company F.” Hale’s voice was a pleasantly raspy tenor with a thick East Texas drawl. “The Arguello County PD requested my assistance with a mysterious death. A Lt. Klaus gave me this number. He said, and I quote, ‘May you have the joy of her,’ and washed his hands of this affair. Don’t think you’ve got a fan, ma’am.”

“I’m friendlier when I’m not upset about my aunt dying.” Gerry felt a pang of frustration, but she appreciated that this guy sounded like he’d be reasonable. “I appreciate you looking into this. Things aren’t adding up.”

“Well, ma’am, this is highly irregular, involving the Rangers in this kind of thing, but I’m on my way to Kitsch now from Waco, and we’ll see what there is to see. The autopsy report had some discrepancies, so your gut may hold true. Don’t go quotin’ me on that, all right?” Hale cussed under his breath, and the sound of a car horn interrupted their conversation.

Sounding calmer, he resumed, “Anyhow, I’m gonna have to view the body before she’s laid to rest, if that’s all right with you, ma’am. I understand you’re gonna wanna get closure, put her in the ground soon’s you can, but this is important.”

“Of course. I just came from the funeral home, I can let them know to hold off picking her up.” She paused and looked up and down the street. “Is there any way I could join you? I just want to… I think if I saw her with my own eyes it would help me wrap my head around what happened.”

Discrepancies. That sounded… positive? Not exactly that, but it was nice to hear that she wasn’t totally losing it. “If she’d had too much wine and slipped in the tub— that would make sense, but opioids? I just… and there’s a young man, and… there are things that don’t add up. I want to do right by my aunt.”

“That’s admirable, ma’am. But are you sure you wanna see your aunt in that state? She’s been autopsied, and she’ll be nekkid as a jaybird on that slab. It’s gonna stay with you.” Hale didn’t shoot her down, which was something. If anything, he sounded supportive. There was a steadying warmth in his tone even over the phone.

“She wouldn’t like my delicate sensibilities getting in the way of finding out what happened if someone did this to her.” Seeing Tilda’s body wasn’t something she was looking forward to, but she needed to know. “I’ll be all right.”

“All right then, ma’am. Text me your address to this number, and I’ll swing ’round and nab you. You’re not gonna wanna drive after. I’m an hour out.” Hale’s drawl was comforting. While Gerry wasn’t really a small-town girl, she had a feeling Hale’s good ole boy persona would play well in Kitsch, and no one was going to turn away a Ranger’s inquiries.

“I’m already downtown. I can…” She looked around and then shrugged to head to her car. “I’ll just go home, and text you the address. It’s on a vineyard, so it’s a little out of town, but I imagine an investigator shouldn’t have too hard a time finding it. Thanks.”

About the Authors 

Together, Texans and platonic life partners Thursday Euclid and Clancy Nacht write queer novels that span genres, with intense romances and a seamless shared narrative voice.

They published their first co-written novel, the m/m rock star romance Black Gold, in 2010, and now have over a decade of award-winning collaborations under their exquisite belts. Recent titles include the twisted romance His Fake Prison Daddy and the Phisher King series, in which an uptight federal agent and a bratty hacker go from enemies to lovers while solving a hate crime.

Though Elder Millennial trans man Thursday and Gen X gender outlaw Clancy live three hours apart, they are inseparable. Their friendship is a perfect example of the Grumpy/Sunshine trope, which makes Thursday very happy. Clancy thinks it’s all right.

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Twitter  |   Twitter  |   Instagram  

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

Blog Tour + Giveaway: She's the One Who Can't Keep Quiet (The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Sisters #5) by S.R. Cronin

Welcome author S.R. Cronin and Other worlds Ink to the blog as they visit on the She's the One Who Can't Keep Quiet (The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Sisters #5) blog tour! Read more about the fantasy and enter in the giveaway for a chance to win a $20 Amazon gift card and a gift copy of book one in the series! Good luck! 

S. R. Cronin has a new queer fantasy out (lesbian, poly, demi/bi, ace), The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Susters book 5: She's the One Who Can't Keep Quiet. And there's a Giveaway!

Do you know what your problem is?

Celestine, the fifth of seven sisters, is tired of hearing about hers. Father thinks she’s frivolous because she likes pretty clothes and caters to the crowds in the taverns who adore her music. Mother thinks that because she’s the most social daughter in the family, she can’t keep quiet about anything.

They’re both wrong. Celestine has hidden a secret for most of her life.

As the family beauty and a talented musician with a lyrical voice, she is Mother’s best hope for a son-in-law prince. When a liaison with a prince never happens, everyone assumes Celestine is too picky. But even in somewhat tolerant Ilari, a daughter hates to disappoint her family. How can she tell them she’s in love with a princess instead?

Lucky for Celestine, all six sisters have become obsessed with an invading army headed to their realm. Celestine would rather ignore the threat, and enjoy the freedom their lack of attention gives her. But, her voice can unlock a power that may help save Ilari. And the woman she loves wants to fight these invaders. And her family, for all their talents, seems clueless about how to motivate the masses.

Celestine knows she can inspire the citizens of Ilari to do what needs to be done. Is it time to put her inhibitions aside and use her voice to save those she cares about?

Warnings: There is lightly handled consenual sex bewteen two women (no details) and some violence in the final battle scene (nothing graphic). no other triggers

About the Series:

Can seven women stop the most powerful army the world has seen?

It’s the 1200’s in Ilari, a small mythical realm somewhere between Europe and Asia. Peace and prosperity have reigned for generations. That doesn’t mean every citizen is happy, however.

In the outer nichna of Vinx lives the seven troublesome daughters of an intellectual farmer and his ambitious wife. Ilari has no idea how lucky it is to have this family of misfits, for the Mongols are making their way further westward every winter and this prosperous realm is a tiny plum ripe for picking. Desperate, the seven sisters will devise a way to save their realm. Can their preposterous ideas possibly work?

The War Stories of the Seven Troublesome Sisters consists of seven short companion novels. Each tells the personal story and perspective of one of seven radically different sisters in the 1200s as they prepare for an invasion of their realm. While these historical fantasy/alternate history books can be enjoyed as stand-alone novels, together they tell the full story of how Ilari survived.

Which sister do you think saved the realm? That will depend on whose story you are reading.

How did they manage it? Each sister offers surprise information on why this didn’t go the way anyone planned.

Get It On Amazon | Smashwords

---

Giveaway

S. R. is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card and a gift copy of book one in the series:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47221/?

---

Excerpt

I knew music went down better when the audience was on your side. If they didn’t start that way, a good singer had to get them there.

“Hey!” I yelled after a few numbers. The last one had a been a popular jig, yet hardly a finger or toe had tapped while we performed. Most unusual.

“I’ve never seen soldiers so quiet. Did you all party so much last night that you’re still worn out?”

I got a few laughs, but not as many as I expected.

“Come on. Somebody tell us poor troubadours what’s going on. Is one of your commanding officers coming in to check on you?” I looked to my left, then to my right, then gave the crowd an exaggerated look of alarm. “Is he here now?”

Even fewer laughs. Maybe I’d lost my touch.

One young man spoke up. “You seem like a nice lady, so I’ll tell you. Stop trying to cheer us. We got horrible news today and nothing’s going to make us feel better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Did someone tell you we’d run out of ale in our realm? No more until Kolada?”

I got more chuckles this time.

“No, Miss. The commander of the Mozdols told us that our lands are in the path of a huge marauding horde of thieves. They’ve been burning and pillaging their way towards us for years and now travelers say we ought to expect them this year or next. We’re to begin training tomorrow for this onslaught.”

For several heartbeats, I stood speechless. I’d never done that on a stage before. But how does one respond to such news? I thought it couldn’t be so dire or so certain. Yet, I sensed arguing with the soldier would hardly win over my audience. What would?

“Then, sir, you should know that the musicians of the realm are at your service.”

I stood tall, as if I were a soldier myself, awaiting a command. This earned me a few derisive laughs.

“No offense meant, but musicians can’t do much in a war.”

“What? Of course we can.” I knew where I was going now. “We can inspire you as you assemble to fight.” I began to tap a slow beat against my leg with my hand. Zamarran figured it out. He added his own strong drumbeat and then I thanked the Goddess I hadn’t misjudged Mirva. Her flute began to sound out a war march to match and I added my voice, choosing random phrases about honor and patriotism and weaving in bits of melodies from well-known songs about the beauty of Ilari. It was a mess, but it conveyed the general idea.

“And as you fight, if some do fall, as some may, we will be there to mourn with you,” I said as the other two moved into the saddest of melodies. I knew enough to only do this for a few breaths. No soldier wanted to dwell on the need for funeral music.

“And, when you’re victorious, and you will be victorious, we’ll be there with you, with a rousing song to celebrate your bravery and our freedom.” At that all three of us found an appropriate joyful noise to make and the room broke into applause. We bowed, we collected some tips, and we got ourselves the Heli off the stage and out of there before anyone had time to think too much about my logic.

As we walked back to campus, Zamarran looked at me in wonder.

“That was one of the best varmin improvisations I have ever seen, and I’ve seen some good ones.”

I shrugged. I’d been doing this sort of thing since I was in basic school. Not with soldiers, of course, but with classmates, teachers, and the parents of my friends, who’d all found themselves standing up and applauding for me and one of my causes over the years.

Zamarran stopped walking and he looked directly at me. Hard.

“This isn’t easy for me to say, but it’s better said now. This will be your trio, not ours.”

“No, we both agreed ….”

“It doesn’t matter what we agreed. You’ve become our voice, and the whole realm will consider it yours no matter what we decide.” He smiled. “I might as well learn to live with it.”

---

Author Bio

Sherrie Cronin writes stories about people achieving the astonishing by developing abilities they barely knew they had. She’s made a lot of stops along the way to telling these tells -- living in seven cities, visiting forty-six countries, and working as a waitress, technical writer, and geophysicist. She’s lost too many beloved cats to mention, but has acquired a husband and three children who are all doing fine, despite how odd she is.

Today she lives in the mountains of Western North Carolina where she writes, answers a hot-line, and occasionally checks her phone for a message from Captain Picard. She still hopes to get the chance to pursue her remaining dream in life and become Chief Science Officer on the Starship Enterprise.

Book Series Blog: https://troublesome7sisters.xyz/

Author Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/46Ascending

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/cinnabar01

Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/s.r.cronin/

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5805814.Sherrie_Cronin

Author Liminal Fiction: https://www.limfic.com/mbm-book-author/s-r-cronin/

Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Sherrie-Cronin/e/B007FRMO9Q

Blog Tour + Giveaway: Triumph's Ashes (The Cassidy Chronicles Vol. 5) by Adam Gaffen

Author Adam Gaffen and Other Worlds Ink visit with a promo stop for Triumph's Ashes (The Cassidy Chronicles Vol. 5)! Read more on the QUILTBAG space opera and check out the massive giveaway! Enter for a chance to win $100!

Adam Gaffen has a new LGBTQ+ space opera out, The Cassidy Chronicles volume 5: Triumph's Ashes And there's a $100 giveaway!

Viva la revolucion!

The Primus, Vasilia Newling, is facing her worst nightmares:

• A revolution on Luna.
• Titan and the Asteroids abandoning the Solarian Union.
• Defections from within her own government.

All because of those damned Cassidys!

But she's still as ruthless as ever.

And if Aiyana and Kendra thought she was playing dirty before? They're going to see how filthy she really can get.

There isn't room for both the Terran Federation and the Union.

This time, one is going down.

For good.

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Liminal Fiction | Smashwords

---

Giveaway

Adam is giving away a $100 Restaurants.com gift card with this tour:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47213/?

---

Excerpt

Habitat Njord

“Commander? Aren’t you on your honeymoon?”

Commander Daniela Garcia-Kay stopped filling her coffee cup and to stare at the questioner.

“Ma’am,” she belatedly appended.

“Better, Rat,” Garcia-Kay said, finishing the pour. “And for your information, yes, I am, but I need to stay sharp.”

She added, in a much more conversational tone, “Boomer’s been after me as well. He says that he’s still trying to integrate with his new body and I should be flying him, so…”

Rat, Ensign (JG) Judith Bastin, grinned. The Epsilon-class AI’s installed in the Direwolf fighters could be nearly human in their personalities, if encouraged by their human counterparts. A good number of the pilots of Nymeria Squadron did so, reaping the benefits of the enhanced partnership, taking after the lead of their commander.

Daniela, as the first Direwolf pilot, had led the way. She’d investigated the interests the Admiral had in 20^th/21^stcentury ‘television’ and ‘movies’, eventually arriving at ‘Boomer’ as a good name for her AI. As a result, his personality tended to be cool, calculating, and confident, with a special knack for engineering his way around problems. His level-headedness complemented Daniela’s more aggressive flying style.

“I heard they salvaged your chair,” Rat said.

“They did,” agreed Daniela. “That was about all, though.”

Her face clouded briefly at the memory. Her prior Direwolf had been ruined by a mid-space collision with another fighter during an exercise in which the other pilot had lost her life. It was the first non-action casualty the squadron had faced and it still stung.

Rat picked up on her discomfort and tried to change the subject. “How’s Boomer doing? Does he like the new ship?”

“He appreciates the new capabilities, but keeps sending me messages about how things just aren’t quite ‘right’ with it. Which is why I’m here at oh six hundred instead of in bed with my husband,” she finished, raising her mug.

“Aye, ma’am,” said Rat, raising her half-empty mug in mock salute. “Do you need a wing? I’m scheduled for the mid-watch CAP, but I have a couple hours.”

“Thanks, Rat, I’m covered. Locksmith is going out with me.”

Rat nodded. Locksmith was the XO of the second Direwolf squadron under Lt. Commander Ashlyn Bontrager. Red Squadron was officially assigned to the TFS Endeavour, but only half the fighters could fit aboard at any one time for away missions if there would be a couple of the older Wolves attached for the duration. The other half remained at Njord and did drills until the Endeavour returned.

“Catch you later, Double Dip,” Rat said and strolled out.

She had to smile. For all that Starfleet was a military organization, the formality and rigidity which plagued longer-established militaries simply didn’t exist. Given the preferences of the Admiral, it probably never would.

Daniela spent the next few minutes with her thoughts before Locksmith arrived.

Lieutenant Lexie Marsh, recently promoted, was nearly a mirror image of Double Dip. She was just as tall and built in a similar, athletic manner. Her hair, which she wore in a single long braid, was dyed a pale green which set off her emerald eyes and dark skin. Her most prominent feature, though, was her smile. It was said in her division that as long as Locksmith was smiling you were doing well. If it flickered, though, you were in trouble. Nobody knew what would happen if it disappeared. Yet.

Today, it was in full force.

“Morning, Danni,” Locksmith said, already carrying her own mug.

“Morning Lexie,” Daniela answered around another sip. “Ready for today?”

“As soon as I finish my cacao.”

“You and Commander Cassidy,” Daniela chuckled. “What is it about that stuff?”

“I could ask you the same,” countered Locksmith. “Coffee, yuck.”

“Just for that I’m going to dust you,” Daniela said.

“Hello? We’re both flying the same bird?”

“Nope. I have the first of the Mark II’s.”

Instantly Locksmith was all business.

“I didn’t think they were going to be in production until next year! That’s why my girlfriend told me, and she should know; she works at HLC, testing.”

“She’s not wrong. But someone has to break them in before they start rolling them out, and since I have the most hours in Direwolves of any pilot in Starfleet, well, the decision was simple. Mine’s one of the two-seaters, too, a training model.”

“Is the scuttlebutt true?”

Daniela laughed. “I hope so! We’ll find out today anyways.”

Locksmith put down her mug, sloshing the contents onto the table, and stood. “What are we waiting for?”

Daniela took a final swallow and led the way to the bay. After they’d done the mandatory walkarounds and pre-flight checks they each climbed into their cockpits.

“About time,” grumped her AI as she settled in.

“It’s my honeymoon,” she grumped right back. “I’m permitted.”

“It’s all well and good for you, you can get out of the ship just by standing up. Me, it takes major mechanical surgery.”

“Sorry, Boomer. Admiral’s orders. I tried to delay the wedding but she wouldn’t allow it.”

“Hmmph.”

She could tell he was somewhat mollified, though, as they ran through the power-up checklists. They’d developed enough of a rapport over the previous months that they could do the tasks almost on automatic while holding a conversation.

“How does she feel?” Daniela asked now.

“It’s different,” Boomer said. “The basic systems are all the same, except where they aren’t. It’s tough to explain.”

“Anything I need to be concerned about? Anything radically different?”

“No. Most of the changes they made are incremental, evolutionary. Like the aiming mechanism on the lasers.”

“We can aim?”

“A little. About two degrees, but it’s enough so we can do some pinpoint shooting at longer ranges.”

“Awesome!”

“If you ask me, though, I’m most impressed with the new reactor, if it works.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it works’?”

“It’s a new design. The old reactor was a laser-pumped design, while the new one is a z-pinch. If it works the way it should, we ought to achieve increased thrust as well as higher power for the other systems.”

“How much increased thrust?”

“Up to 650 g.”

Daniela allowed herself a low whistle. The Mark 1 already had the highest acceleration of any sublight craft in any fleet, 500 g, and a skilled pilot/AI combination could squeeze an extra 10 g or 20 g performance. 650 g, though, was unheard-of.

“What will I feel?” she asked. She knew she could tap her implant to get the information, but one of the reasons she and Boomer were such an effective team was she treated him as a partner. Currently, at max accel, she felt 6 g, which was eight times more than the Federation standard aboard vessels and habitats. Her nanobots prevented the lower gravity from weakening her bones and muscles, but she’d been in Starfleet since the beginning. Three-quarter g felt normal now, hence her concern.

“You’ll love this. Five g.”

---

Author Bio

I was born in Maine, didn't live there for long before my parents figured out that it was too bloody cold and moved south, all the way to Massachusetts. Grew up there and in Connecticut, lived in Maryland and Indiana for a while before moving back to Maine. Lived there for twenty years before I, too, decided the winters were too long. Of course, where do you to get away from long winters? COLORADO! Naturally. Married to a wonderful, inspirational, supportive woman; between us we have five kids, five dogs, and five cats.

As for my writing, well, I've thrown a bunch out onto Amazon. There's a couple Sherlock Holmes stories, a few horror-ish shorts, and then you get to my longer books: Refuge, a time-traveling take on vampire stories, and The Cassidy Chronicles. Triumph's Ashes is the fifth book in the series and completes the Artemis War story arc.

Like I said, thanks for dropping in! You can find me on Allauthor.com, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and on my website www.cassidychronicles.com.This month, I'll be appearing on the Meet the Author Podcast/Vidcast on November 24th, so tune in and check it out! It's an hour of Cassidyverse talk and it's at https://indiebooksource.com/podcast/ I love interacting with fans, but be warned: I often add my fans into my books!

Author Website: https://cassidychronicles.com

Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/adam.gaffen

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/AdamGaffenAuthor

Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/adamgaffen/

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6587896.Adam_Gaffen

Author Liminal Fiction (LimFic.com): https://www.limfic.com/mbm-book-author/adam-gaffen/

Author Amazon: https://smile.amazon.com/Adam-Gaffen/e/B009QMIW3K

Release Blitz + Giveaway: Far from Home by Vincent Traughber Meis

Far from Home is out from NineStar Press! Celebrate with author Vincent Traughber Meis and IndiGo Marketing! Read more about the short story collection and enter in the giveaway!

 

Title: Far from Home

Author: Vincent Traughber Meis

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/11/2021

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: No Romance, Male/Male, Female/Female

Length: 62800

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Age-gap, Athlete, Gender-bending, Illness/disease, In the closet, Interracial, Intercultural, Medical personnel, Political, Psychic ability, Pandemic, Teaching, Travel, UST

Add to Goodreads

Description

Far from Home is a collection of twelve short stories, taking the reader on a journey from the desert sands of the Middle East to a forbidden Caribbean island, and many points in between.

Though two of the stories are set in the U.S., others find gay people dealing with gayness in Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, Spain, Turkey, Cuba, Mexico, and the Netherlands, places where the characters are physically and psychologically far from the comfort of home. Most of the stories focus on Gay men suffering alienation, confusion, violence, and loss in the eternal search for love while they travel or live in other cultures.

The overall focus is on LGBTQ people as they venture out into the world.

Excerpt

Far From Home
Vincent Traughber Meis© 2021
All Rights Reserved

It’s a coffee-colored afternoon: thick, murky, unsweetened, bitter, poured in a long stream from a dallah, hot but cooling rapidly. The air is the color of cardamom seeds, their skin, their eyes. This time of day the same dull brown coats the inside of his head after a rising time of 4:30 a.m., fumbling in darkness to strangle the alarm. He sees the days, weeks, months stretched out in front of him, a path paved in riyals, leading him through the wan desert and, he hopes, toward an oasis. Or is it only a mirage? How much longer does he have to be in the Kingdom? He glances at his watch, calculating the amount of money he has made in the last hour, a pittance compared to the CEO of the international company he works for, though for him and his pre-Saudi life, a fortune.

A thunderstorm that morning flashed out of the murky sky, pummeling this flat wide expanse of beach with a long rain. Rainstorms in the desert are a new phenomenon for him. For days a ceiling has pressed down lower and lower, alternately dropping and holding back its holy water, instantly sullied by its touching of the land. A chain of dirty puddles formed upon a resistant ground, hurrying to stagnation, calling mosquitoes to come perform their pagan rituals of breeding. Garbage, carried by the wind, strewn across the sand, has summoned flies and maggot producers of all types. He steps gingerly toward the sea, avoiding broken bottles and rusting cans, happily less vulnerable in his sneakers than the Saudis in their sandals.

His eyes squint against the gritty air, and pluck from this soiled landscape a man of fine features, an apparition, his white shalwar kameez fluttering in the breeze, bushy dark hair uncovered, not Saudi, Urdu speaker most likely by his attire. But he is real. His beckoning smile cleans the air and calms the American’s rancor, transforming it to the far more dangerous trap of desire. What had he been angry about? He doesn’t remember. No doubt a minor annoyance due to an inexplicable part of his host country’s culture.

“Hello,” the man says, tugging lightly on his thick mustache. “Where you from?”

“American, and you?”

“Pakistani. I am Adil.”

They shake hands. “I’m Mark.”

Adil releases his hand and touches his heart. “Nice to meet you,” he says in a beguiling accent. The sun attempts to burn its way through the cloud cover, but the Pakistani’s black eyes are already shining, providing light. “What you do?”

“Just walking.”

“Me, too. Watch out.” He points out a piece of glass. He’s wearing dressy black boots. “My day off I come here to visit friends.”

“From where?”

“Jubail. I work there. And you?”

“I’m at the Navy base. I teach English.”

“Oh, maybe you help me with my English.” Eyebrows rise high above his smile, white teeth, suggesting an exchange of some sort. “We go have coffee?”

“Yes, but please, no Arabic coffee.”

“Ha ha. Maybe you like it sweet.”

They walk back to the corniche and cross to the shopping center on the other side. Just inside the entrance to the bustling center with a lofty roof of skylights is a café, tables between planters filled with lush plastic plants. They order cappuccinos and sit in the male section separated from the smaller family section where several women sit, black shadows of human form you can see through the latticework dividers if you are so inclined.

Adil glances toward the family section. “Are you married?”

It is always one of the first questions. Trick question. Mark wonders what the correct answer is. He can say he was, but he’s divorced now. Or never married. He decides on a simple no. “And you?”

“Not yet. I work here to finish my contract, then I go back and get married.” He shows his pearly white teeth again. He’s old enough to have crow’s feet, a few strands of gray in his hair. He wears the kameez open halfway down, his hairy chest peeking above his tank top.

A man in Western clothes, Mediterranean looks, passes by, looks up, and shouts an angry threat. The pigeon takes flight as do several others who have been cooing on the rafters. The man goes to the counter and asks for a napkin, brushes his shoulder. Adil laughs. “Maybe is good luck for him,” Adil says. “Let’s go for a drive. Prayer call is coming.”

“You have a car?”

“Yes. You surprised?”

“No. That’s cool.” Mark, despite being much higher in the hierarchy of foreign workers, relies on public transportation. As they exit, Adil puts his hand lightly on Mark’s lower back, entreating him to go first out of the cool into heat. The sun has made a brief appearance but is dropping behind the layer of haze, perpetually lounging on the horizon. They walk side by side. High in the minaret a speaker crackles and a voice begins. It is the Asr prayer call.

“You don’t go to the mosque?”

Adil turns to Mark with a smirk. “Not today.”

“Why not today?”

“Because I meet a new friend.”

Movement surrounds them as shops close. Screeching metal doors slide down tight tracks cutting through the damp air, sounding like screams until they are drowned by the sudden shot-like explosion of the fully extended doors striking the pavement. From across the street comes the clang of gates brought together and the eerie rattle of a chain joining them in a clumsy embrace. The sounds echo up and down the block as a car speeds by on the corniche, honking at each intersection sending shadowy figures scurrying, gripping more tightly the plastic shopping bags dangling from their wrists. Men duck into cars and alleys as the scarves on their heads flap with the sudden haste.

“Come on,” says Adil as he picks up the pace, and a short time later stops at a car. “Ta da!” It is not pretty. The white Nissan is several years old and suffering from the sea air. “This is my baby. Don’t laugh.”

They get on the road out into the desert. Mark has no idea where they’re going or if he’ll ever make it back, something he tries not to think about as he sits in the death seat with a mad Pakistani at the wheel. Adil reaches over and opens the glove compartment. “Look in there. Poems I wrote. Go ahead. Look.”

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Vincent Traughber Meis started writing plays as a child in the Midwest and cajoled his sisters to act in performing them for neighbors. In high school, one of his short stories won a local contest sponsored by the newspaper. After graduating from college, he worked on a number of short stories and began his first novel. In the 1980’s and 90’s he published a number of pieces, mostly travel articles in publications such as, The Advocate, LA Weekly, In Style, and Our World. His travels have inspired his five novels, all set at least partially in foreign countries: Eddie’s Desert Rose (2011), Tio Jorge (2012), and Down in Cuba (2013), Deluge (2016) and Four Calling Burds (2019). Tio Jorge received a Rainbow Award in the category of Bisexual Fiction in 2012. Down in Cuba received two Rainbow Awards in 2013. Recently stories have been published in three collections: WITH:New Gay Fiction, Best Gay Erotica Vol 1 and Best Gay Erotica Vol 4. He lives in San Leandro, CA with his husband.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway