Monthly Archives: May 2015

The Running Game on Audio

If you’re on the road, cleaning the house, or out in the garden you still need to read a book right? Well now you can download The Running Game as an Audio book. Check out the sample and listen to the wonderful Mil Nicholson as she narrates my paranormal thriller.

Love Cubed


What is my writing process?

I’ve been asked to talk about my writing process. Writing is different for everyone, there isn’t just one process; at least, that’s what I like to tell myself. Mine is organic. I think of an idea and I run it around in my head a little. I need a beginning and a fair idea where the characters are going, and then I start typing at the computer.

Sometimes, things go smoothly. The characters jump onto the page and interact with each other. Sometimes, they want to go to places that I find uncomfortable, such as having sex, for example… and every once in a while they get obstinate or confused and refuse to talk to me. I hate those times.

When they happen I try to type out different stories, or I play games on-line, or read. The characters of the original story usually talk to me then, in the back of my head, sometimes for days. Eventually, they do talk to me, and I start typing again. In those times, the plan I originally had to the story goes right out the window. I get surprised when something happens that I originally intended to avoid altogether.

I re-read a lot. I try to find mistakes where I can. It’s hard to edit or proofread your own work. One tends to see what one wants to see, not always what is actually there. It does help though. If I re-read it and am not totally satisfied, all save the file, create another one and start again from a specific place. It usually becomes a new story. I then get to choose. Sort of like creating my own alternate dimensions.

The hard part for me is ending something. I am never satisfied with what I right, but eventually I have to let go. I’ve managed to find some very good friends who will tell me if I’m off track in a story.

Well, that is my process, such as it is. It’s not very logical sometimes. But it is my process.


Three very different young men meet at St-Frederick’s University.

Francis, haunted by his past and seeking a new life.

Andrew, the introverted football jock.

And Sebastian, the charismatic and confident hockey star.


Francis, wary and troubled, didn’t count on meeting anyone he could care for.

Andrew, closeted and lonely, didn’t think anything would matter more than his football career.

And Sebastian, content to float from conquest to conquest, never believed he’d meet someone who could hold his interest.

An encounter with a journalist causes consequences for all three.

Will they be able to take what they need from one another in order to cope?

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Suddenly, Francis felt someone sit down beside him. He heard a very sexy-husky voice state matter-of-factly, “So, dude, we’d all like to know what your story is, especially Heather over there. You might as well spill.”

Francis lifted his head to see two very athletic-looking blondes staring back at him. They both had annoyed looks on their faces. The young woman, whom Francis supposed was Heather, nodded and smiled at him. The extremely good-looking young man grinned and said, “Hey, kid, I’m Andrew. Your nosy neighbor is Sebastian. Don’t mind him. He’s just a busy-body.”

Francis frowned. Why did he always have to go through this? He made sure his speaking voice was in his lower register before replying, “I’m eighteen. I’m as much of a kid as you are—my name is Francis.”

He turned to Sebastian, was about to say something snarky, but was taken aback by how handsome Sebastian was. Then, Sebastian gave a cocky, self-absorbed smile and it changed everything. Francis knew that kind of smile—he knew the kind of personality that produced that kind of smile—and he was afraid of it.


Just before Francis could do anything that anyone could construe as being antisocial, the group was interrupted by rustling near the door. The floor’s leader, a fourth-year geology student named Harold, garnered people’s attention and started his welcoming speech, which consisted mostly of enumerating the house and floor rules—respect of property and respect of other floor-mates being chief among them. Oh, and cleaning up after oneself was rather enthusiastically emphasized.

The next announcement came as a surprise to everyone, especially to Francis. “Okay, now some of you have already come to me complaining about the fact a first-year on this floor was appointed to a single room. I am here to tell you that it’s true. The university has granted first-year Francis Hollingsworth the right to a single room because of special circumstances. Those special circumstances will not be discussed. I can say that it isn’t because of financial privilege. I am asking all of you to let Francis have his privacy. No one is to hound him for an answer, and yes, Sebastian, I mean you. Let the kid, I mean guy—let the guy be. If he wants to talk about it, he will let you know.”

Francis was mortified. No one had warned him, and he certainly didn’t expect to be singled out like that. He glanced at Heather and Andrew. They seemed intrigued but genuinely concerned and interested about him. Sebastian looked like a cat that had just found a mouse. Francis knew Sebastian was bound to be trouble for him in more ways than one. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to endure him for too long. With his luck, Francis figured he and Sebastian would probably be teamed up in a get-to-know-you exercise; Francis shivered at the thought.

About the author

Eddie LeFey started reading m/m romance fanfiction a few years ago. At one point, during a crucial point in the soap opera storyline of his favorite gay couple, the story went on hiatus. He needed a fix and decided to write his own version of what he wished would happen. Friends wanted to read it, so he plucked up his courage. Pressing the submission button was nerve-wracking, but he did it. People liked it. He wrote a few more.

Up until that point Eddy had tried his hand at writing many times. The delete button was his friend, as was starting over, and over, and over, but he could no longer do that if he wanted people to read his works.

A few of his writing friends decided to create original stories, and feeling brave, Eddy did the same. The stories were shared among a select few. They encouraged him to submit one of them. Low and behold, it is now being published.

Eddy lives in Canada with his husband Ken and his cat Oscar Wild. He is busy writing many more stories.




Call for Submissions

Calling all horror authors – Verto Publishing are looking for short horror stories for a new anthology:

Gothic Tales of Terror is now open for submissions.
April 25, 2015 – extended to June 7, 2015
Poetry: Up to 500 words (Prose poetry is acceptable)
Flash Fiction: No
Short Stories: 3000-5000 words

Illustrations: preferably black and white, 6″ x 9″
Payment (monetary payment payable within 10 days of receipt of signed contract; printed copy within 60 days of publication):
Short Stories:
$0.005 a word
     Poetry: $0.10 a line
     Illustrations: $20
Reprints: Yes, but they will receive secondary consideration
Multiple submissions: Yes
Simultaneous submissions: Yes, but please notify me immediately if your story or poem is accepted elsewhere.
Target Publication Date: October 1, 2015

I am looking for gothic horror stories in the tradition of classic Victorian horror writers like Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker, and Mary Shelley. Creepy castles, tragic love, and madness are just some of the things that could be included in your story or poem. Think about the elements of classic Victorian gothic horror, and interpret them in your own unique way. Science gone wrong, the search for immortality or control over the destiny of ourselves or humanity as a whole are just a few possibilities. All of these are merely ideas to get your brain churning. Come up with your own version. Make it unmistakably Victorian gothic horror, but also make it uniquely yours. 

Your submission should also align with Verto Publishing’s goal to publish quality stories, poems, and artwork that help the reader relate to someone they previously considered completely different from themselves. We all feel loss and love, pain and passion, victory and defeat. Each of us is unique as well. The things that make us different from each other are countless. At Verto Publishing, we want stories that show us the human experience through new eyes. Show us how someone different from us has a life experience that is both the same as and different from our own.


Submit to: as a .doc attachment. Standard manuscript style. Georgia, 12, double spaced and no extra spaces between paragraphs. Use the following format for the subject line of your email:

Gothic Tales/[tell me if it’s a story or poem]/[word count]

In the body of your email please provide a bio.

Submissions reviewed by Krista Clark Grabowski

I will acknowledge receipt of your submission via email within two business days.

Acceptance policy: Reading of submissions will begin immediately. Within 14 calendar days, you will be notified whether or not your submission will be considered for final acceptance – Stage One of the Acceptance Process. Between May 10 and May 16, everyone who made it past Stage One will receive an email regarding my final decision. Final decisions on submissions received between May 10 and June 7 will be made by June 21 and will be communicated via email.

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Traveling the Two-Lane

Today it’s the turn of Marilyn Berman and her memoirs – really interesting stuff…


When I considered what to do with my evening, I stumbled upon a flyer for the Fort Peck Summer Theater, a short distance from the hotel. While government workers built the dam and lodging, others created this venue to entertain those who were constructing the dam.

Unemployed artisans designed the handcrafted appointments, blown-glass lighting, and massive hand-hewn beams. Though intended to be temporary, no one has ever been willing to tear it down. Instead, the Fort Peck Fine Arts Council was formed to care for and restore the building to its original splendor. It was reborn as a summer theater.

The show that night was The King and I. Waiting for it to begin, I looked around at the enthusiastic audience who filled the huge auditorium. My jeans and light sweater harmonized with the casual clothes worn by other spectators—an occasional sports jacket the dressiest. Couples spoke softly to each other, everyone well-mannered and at ease in a theater setting.

A cultured audience, talented performers, and creative costumes, lighting, and sets— a surprising and perfect evening in a town I  never knew existed.

As my evening ended, I returned to my historic hotel and reflected on what I’d done in the last few weeks. I’d left Atlanta for Alaska, but the thrill had been in the wandering—gorgeous scenery, quality entertainment, delicious food, and unexpected towns like tiny Rugby and Medora, with its irresistible pull into the past. Drawn by instinct, there was no reason to pass these villages and race down the road.

I stood looking at my room, so unlike a Holiday Inn, shocked to realize that this was what I left home for. Planning a trip around a destination was an ingrained habit—not what I wanted now. I had lived my life from one objective to the next: small tasks such as projects due, meetings to attend, and larger ones, like be in Boston on Tuesday defined my minutes, days and years.

Alaska was another destination, another responsibility, another deadline.

No. No more.


About the Author:

Marilyn Berman received her PhD in Communication Disorders from the University of Michigan. She was a faculty member at Indiana University before accepting a position as Supervisor of Speech Language Pathology at the VA Medical Center in Atlanta and, later, Chief, Audiology and Speech Language Pathology at the same hospital. She taught part time at Emory University and Georgia State.

Book Trailer Link:–TTTL_Booktrailer_Final_AvailableNow-Web_021615.mp4,

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A Game for Assassins

Here’s an extract from James Quinns’ A Game for Assassins – check it out.

A short scene from the new spy thriller – A Game For Assassins – that introduces the anti-hero/spy Jack “Gorilla” Grant.

Gioradze snorted. “Fuck you. Torture me all you want. You think this is the first time I’ve been tied to a chair and tortured.”

“Probably not,” said Gorilla. “But this isn’t the first time I’ve tied someone to a chair and interrogated them either, so on that score we are equal.” He was thinking of his time spent with the forger in Belgium. But the one thing that Gorilla was positive of was that, unlike the forger, this killer would not be walking away safely and with a suitcase full of cash.

In his role as faux KGB interrogator Gorilla had decided to use that oldest and most dangerous of tactics first; honesty. Honesty to the subject, honesty about his potential fate, honesty leaves the subject with no place to hide and no manoeuvring room. It spells it out for him in stark detail. You are here. I am here. These are the facts.

“I won’t tell you a thing you Russian pig,” said Gioradze, as the anger started to rise in him.

Gorilla frowned. “Oh, I believe that you believe that. But there is one thing that I can tell you from experience and that is everyone talks, everyone has a breaking point. You just have to find the correct leverage. For some its pain, some people can’t handle pain. However, in your case I think that you are such a tough man that you could withstand it, of that I have no doubt.”

The Georgian was breathing heavily now, gulping in a huge lungful of air, mentally bracing himself for what was about to come.

“Some people fear the danger that their loved ones might be targeted, but again not applicable in your case,” Gorilla continued.

Gioradze snorted with derision as if the thought of using another human being as leverage over him would have succeeded.

Gorilla knelt down so they were face to face. “What I think is that in your case it’s simple. It’s Biology. It’s your own body. You are wounded, tired, under stress, so you’re already weak, maybe even compliant, although you would never admit that. No, the one thing that is going to let you down here is your own body.”

Gioradze looked down at his mangled legs. For the first time the stunning realisation that he was in pain, in a foreign country, isolated and about to be interrogated by a Russian operative, hit him.

“And you really don’t remember me?” asked Gorilla, looking the man in the eye.

Gioradze shook his head violently. “I fucking told you – No!”

Gorilla brought his face closer so that they almost touched, nose to nose, and then whispered through gritted teeth. “Well, I’m the “hitter” from Marseilles. I’m back to haunt you, and you don’t look pleased to see me at all you miserable son-of-a-bitch!”

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