LE Fitzpatrick is today's guest on Self Published Sunday!

I am thrilled to welcome L E Fitzpatrick to Self Published Sunday.  I met the author a couple months ago when she hosted me on her blog Limelight.

  

L E Fitzpatrick was born in Hull, East Yorkshire, but now lives in West Wales, with her family plus lots of dogs and cats. She manages an office, volunteers as a room steward for the National Trust and also supports independent authors as a proofreader and beta reader. She obviously has no spare time because of this, but if she did it would probably be invested in walking in the countryside and enjoying the peace and quiet.

L E Fitzpatrick published her first series Dark Waters in 2011 and is currently working on her Reacher series.

Reachers

At six o'clock every night they post the same infomercial. That same blurred video of a teenage boy walking through Piccadilly Station more than a decade ago. He has a brand new bag on his back, bulging with menace. The people around him, regular commuters trying to get to work, stop as he passes them. They turn, transfixed and follow him as he leads them deeper onto the platform. The image pauses: one young boy and fifty innocent people, blown to pieces. He was a Reacher and that one act of terrorism condemned every man and woman like him to death.

The infomercial always finishes with the warning: Look out for suspicious, paranormal activity - report any irregularities to the authorities - it could be your neighbour, your colleagues - remain vigilant and we will win this war.

The Piccadilly bomber is the only known Reacher to have ever launched an attack on London. An average of eighteen attacks a year for over ten years and they still blame Reachers every single time. They hunt us. Capture us. Cart us off to the Institute to be experimented on. There are so few of us now. My name is Rachel Aaron and I'm a Reacher.

Suspicious, paranormal activity - what the hell does that even mean? Is there any paranormal activity that isn't suspicious? So what can I do? What separates me from you? Well I can read your Mind. In a single kiss I can uncover your darkest secrets and take over your thoughts. Imagine what I could to you. Imagine what I could do for you.

They'll tell you that I'm a threat to society. But I'm a doctor, I work twelve hour shifts, six days a week, keeping people alive. I live on the eleventh floor, of a twenty storey concrete building, in a one room apartment with no hot water. I've been under the radar now for seven years. Seven long, hard years. But now it's time to run.

The government wants me dead. And there are others who want to take me alive to use my powers for their own gain, just like they did with my sister. But I won't be anybody's slave and I won't be a lab rat for the Institute.

Dad used to call it The Running Game, he taught it to us before he was killed. Always be ready, that's what he said. And I have been. So I'm going to run, like I have before. But this time I won't be doing it alone.

They'll tell you I'm a threat to society and with the Smith brothers I am. Together we're unstoppable. Look out for suspicious, paranormal activity. My name is Rachel Aaron and I know your deepest, darkest secrets.

The Running Game by L E Fitzpatrick

Excerpt

She arrived in S’aven a month after her seventeenth birthday. As she shuffled off the train at Trinity Station her head had been an onslaught of naïve ambitions and excitement. The convent was gone and she was free. Soon she would be with her sister and the world would be theirs. But it never happened. Her sister was killed and instead of liberation S’aven became just another prison; bigger, noisier and more dangerous.

As she waited in that same station, seven years later, watching the rats duel with the pigeons, she realised it would be the same wherever she went. The prison was countrywide because she was a prisoner on the run and that would never change. They blamed Reachers for everything, she was guilty by nature and no jury would ever say otherwise.

Police marched up and down the boardwalk, shining lights on those huddled around their worn suitcases or battered sacks. They checked the faces of the men and women, even the children, looking for fugitives. People only left S'aven when they had to, it was the cops' job to work out what they were running from.

She could see them questioning a couple, checking their bags over and over while the husband insisted they were just going to see family. His wife was pretty and the cops were enjoying making her squirm. They made the couple turn, press their hands against the wall. They only bothered to search the wife, laughing as her husband protested their innocence. She was smart though, she told him to be quiet – a quick feel was better than getting shot in the head.

“Do you want to know why we're leaving, because of this!” The husband yelled.

With other cops this would have been a step too far, but these two were in good humour. They released the woman, squeezing her backside as she gathered her things. Then they wished them luck – a couple like that were going to need it.

Then it was time to move on. Their flash lights darted about as they headed towards the end of the platform. They passed two men in suits. There was no talk, the men held out a roll of notes, the cops took it and moved on. Rachel sat away from them all, she rested her head back and closed her eyes as they started to approach. They never even looked her way.

The train was running late. There were rumours about insurgents commandeering the northern lines and taking passengers hostage. The longer the delays, the more people remembered what was outside the city walls. S’aven had civilisation and work and food. It was right beside London where people still had money and the world still ran like it was supposed to. But outside the border, beyond the protection of the rational south there was so much unknown. Rachel stared at the arched exit out of the city; for her at least, it was the lesser of two evils.

She turned her head to the station entrance and that’s when she saw him hobbling around the platform. He balanced on the crutch and scanned the crowd just like the cops had done. His bloodshot eyes looked panicked, maybe even desperate. She knew he was looking for her, she just wasn't sure why.

Then he spotted her, seeing through her powers, seeing just her, alone. The connection was instantaneous, it was like staring at a long lost twin. And it had been so long since she had felt anything more than emptiness.

He made his way over. He looked tired, but relieved to see her.

“Mind if I join you?”

Stay Connected:

Website: http://l-e-fitzpatrick.blogspot.co.uk

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lefitzpatrickbooks

Twitter: https://twitter.com/L_E_Fitzpatrick

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/L_E_Fitzpatrick

Purchase Links:

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00G7VJ0GG/

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00G7VJ0GG/

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/370963

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-running-game-l-e-fitzpatrick/1117298998

Kobo: http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/The-Running-Game/book-dd4LOU4_lkWM0FLWucj6hw/page1.html

It's a Novel November with James M Larranaga

I'm excited to welcome Jim Larranga to Novel November.  He is the author of In the Company of Wolves. He will be sharing an excerpt of his novel.  Before we get to that, I wanted to take a moment and share a little about him.

 Larranaga writes about corporate crimes and conspiracies. Much of the author's inspiration takes a "truth is stranger than fiction" approach and his novels are based loosely on real crimes and events. In his latest novel, "In The Company of Wolves," Larranaga uses his 25 years of experience in the financial services industry to expose the hidden sub-culture of Death Brokers who choose greed over human lives.

Now for the excerpt:  

Minnesota has the highest concentration of wolves of the lower forty-eight states.

Quin had the jitters everyone feels on the first day of a new job. Nervous questions came to mind. Could he handle this job? Would they accept him into their group? He arrived early for his 9:00 a.m. starting time and remained seated in his 1988 Chevy Silverado pickup truck, the engine idling to keep him warm. He checked his look in the rear- view mirror again. He had his corporate game face on: he had shaved, combed his black hair back into a ponytail, and bleached his teeth to a dazzling white. He adjusted his Lorenzo Cana silk tie that he’d bought on eBay and debated whether to keep the earring.

He reached for his phone and sent a text message to his girlfriend Zoe.

Earring or no earring?

He waited for her reply as he looked at his GPS watch and heart rate monitor. It was 8:44 a.m., and his pulse was ham- mering at 105 beats per minute.

Wear the earring. Good luck! Zoe texted back.

Quin stepped out of his rusted truck onto hard-packed snow, slamming the door so hard that he startled two ravens

4 MONDAY JANuARY 2ND

IN THE COMPANY OF WOLVES 5

in the trees. The birds took flight above him, squawking as they landed on the branch of an oak.

He glanced up at the ravens. One squawked at him, flapping its wings in the cold wind. How long had they been watching him here?

Quin reached into his coat pocket and removed a sheet of paper with the office address. He’d heard about this place from his grandfather. This section of Lake Minnetonka had been spiritual ground for Native Americans like the Sioux. But now from the way it looked to Quin, it was a sanctuary for rich white folk.

The home office of Safe Haven LLC was more home than office. He saw no corporate buildings at the end of the cul-de- sac, just a few mansions and villas nestled along a dead-end lane near a frozen body of water. The home before him, the place that was supposed to be his new office, was an Italian villa with ornate bars over the windows and a red clay tile roof. The landscape had tall pine trees that were hunched over from the heavy snow on their branches. A Georgian colonial with white pillars stood across the road, and beyond it was a Cape Cod mansion with artificially weathered cedar shakes.

Quin walked the icy sidewalk, bits of rock salt crunching under his suede shoes. Tucking his ponytail under his collar, he watched both ravens float and land on the mansion’s tile roof, looking for a better view of the outsider. He stopped when he noticed a man rounding the corner of the mansion with a shotgun in his hand.

“Yes?” the man asked, loading the shells.

Quin waved the company letterhead, feeling confused and nervous. He did not like shotgun greetings. “Uh, is this 607 Lake Drive?”

The old man had a rosy, wind-burned complexion and thick dark hair that hardly moved in the wind. “It is. And you are...?”

“Quin Lighthorn. I’m the intern you hired,” he said, holding the sheet of paper higher, knowing the man could not read the acceptance letter from this distance across the knee-deep drifts of snow.

The man played with the safety on the gun, snapping it on and off.

“I thought we called that off, son.”

“Don’t think so,” Quin said, watching the man’s gloved trigger finger. “I spoke with Ben Moretti. He said to begin work here January second.”

The man squinted. “Oh, you’re the Indian?”

Quin wasn’t surprised by the question, and he’d expected some reaction to his ponytail and feathered earring. He offered a polite smile. “Yeah, Dakota Sioux.” He could see disdain on the man’s face.

The man sighed and stepped through the snow with his gun held high, as if he were wading through a deep river. “Follow me then,” he said, setting the gun on the front step of the house.

If you enjoyed the excerpt, In the Company of Wolves is available at Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Company-Wolves-Thinning-Herd-ebook/dp/B00FRM6FG4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1382612838&sr=1-1&keywords=james+michael+larranaga

Patti Davis - The Blue Hour

I'm excited to welcome Patti Davis to Novel November.  Patti is the author of nine books, including The Long Goodbye, a memoir about losing her father to Alzheimer's.  Her most recent novel, Till Human Voices Wake Us, is available exclusively on Amazon.  She is also a journalist and screenwriter. She runs a support group called Beyond Alzheimer's for family members and caregivers of people with Alzheimer's at UCLA/Santa Monica Medical Center.  

Patti has recently published a novel suitable for children as well as adults and has agreed to share an excerpt:

   

     The marbles in his pocket were really burning now - Joshua could feel the heat on his skin.  He reached in for them, intending to move them to the other pocket just to get some relief.  But as he withdrew one of the marbles, it leapt out of his hand, flew through the air like a missile and hit Chester McQueen in the center of his chest.  And then it stayed there...
     Chester clawed frantically at the marble that had landed on him like a magnet and when he finally pried it off, he backed up and glared at Joshua.
     "What the -"
     "Joshua!" Robert yelled, ready at first to blame his son, but confused by what he'd seen.  


If you enjoyed the excerpt, a purchase link has been attached below:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Blue-Hour-Patti-Davis/dp/1492144479/ref=pd_ybh_4

Check out Patti's website:

http://www.booksbypattidavis.com/

It's a Novel November with Sisco Molinas author of Quiet Dog Bites Hard

If you like your reads a little rough and tough, Quiet Dog Bites Hard might be right up your alley.  Sisco Molinas, the author stopped by to share and excerpt.  He advises that this novel is rated "R" for mature readers.  

                                              Excerpt: 

“Holy shit!” Victor said when Maynard stepped into the clearing. The sun was just starting to set and he knew he had an intimidating look about him. Maynard knew he looked like the type you did not want to meet in an alley at night, or even a swamp at dusk. Especially if you have just been caught stealing his fish. Victor startled, dropped the line, and almost fell into the canal.

Maynard looked as wild as anything else that might be found in the swamp. His long black hair was scraggly and, more often than not, littered with leaves and pine needles. He was two hundred and forty pounds distributed unevenly over his six feet and four inches in height. He was big and burly in the chest, arms, and shoulders; but lean everywhere else. He wore thrift store clothes. Currently that consisted of a pair of Dickie's coveralls and combat boots. The coveralls were dirty and wrinkled. Once they were blue, now they were faded, ripped, and a grayish black color. The thighs were a deep black from months of wiping his hands off on them.

            His face was strong jawed, tanned a dark brown, but too harsh to be considered handsome. The bones at his cheeks and brow were too pronounced, the skin too taught over them, his green eyes were too recessed, his hawk nose too big, the expression too stern. His smoothly shaved face clashed with his generally unkempt appearance, this was due to his knife. One of his few possessions; a nine inch blade he was borderline obsessed about keeping sharp. He sharpened it to pass the time then tested it by shaving his face and neck with it. Right now it was in his right hand as he frowned at Victor Vector, then at Fiona, who was under his lean-to and digging through the few possessions he kept at this spot. She was oblivious to his presence at the moment.

            “Get out of my stuff,” Maynard growled at her. He tried to remember the last time he heard his own voice. It was deep and gravelly and the words felt strange in his mouth. It was days since he came in contact with another human being and weeks since he spoke to one.

She proceeded like she didn't hear him and for all Maynard knew she didn’t. He envisioned neck grabbing her and squeezing until her eyes bulged out, tearing her arms off, then spending the rest of the evening leisurely beating Victor Vector to death. He grunted with the effort not to do it. These were not enemies, Fiona was not a threat, Victor was not a target. You big badass motherfucker! His body urged him to engage in the violence it craved but Maynard knew that to give into it was to lose. He could maybe kill these two and they wouldn't be missed but he would know, and he would know it was wrong. His hand started its goddamn tremble and he took another swig.

Meet the author:

Sisco Molinas is 44 and lives on the West Coast of Florida. He writes stories that entertain him first then presents them for public approval. He has over fifty novels in various stages of completion and five that are actually complete.

"The Wino" was his first effort at getting published and it showed a disappointing ROI and the publisher (Pandora)went out of business. The Wino has been re-written and re-published by the author as "Quiet Dog Bites Hard" with a new cover using a photo from Semmick Photo.

If he's not working his soul crushing day job, riding his motorcycle, or spending time with his friends and family he is writing. It is more than a passion ... it is a vice. He struggles with the mechanics of the craft, and finding the endings to his tales, but the rest of it is bliss.

Sisco welcomes reviews (good and bad) from anybody with an opinion. He also welcomes advice and ideas on how to better market his books.

... and cover artists. If you or somebody you know can put together creative book covers and rock a pricing structure that is friendly to the economically downtrodden please reach out.

Find the author and his novel at these links:

Author Page

Kindle Purchase Link

Create Space Purchase Link