If the newspaper reported your death and no one questioned it, would you
correct the mistake… or take the lifeline?
Dan Driscoll is consumed by gambling debt, cornered by bookies and loan
sharks, forced to bet on one last scheme. When things turn violent and two
people are shot, his best friend, Stan Neumann, swallows what he suspects. He
can’t risk divulging a closely-held family secret.
Then a body washes up on the Lake Michigan shoreline, and the lake gives Dan
what the bookies never would: a way out. Authorities call it an accident and
list him as the drowning victim. For Dan, it’s an escape route delivered
in black ink.
He becomes a ghost, an imposter, a chameleon. But lies don’t stay
buried.
As America is pulled into World War II, Stan enlists, choosing duty on his
terms before the draft can rewrite his life. In Pearl Harbor, one chance
encounter dredges up a name he thought was long buried.
War changes everything, but it doesn’t erase unfinished business. And
when the truth demands to be heard, how long can a stolen life stay buried
before the past comes to collect?
While author Mark Bearss was setting the stage for his retirement, concerned
co-workers would ask, “What are you going to do when you’re not
working?” He found this question rather curious. It should have been
posed, “What are you going to do first?” Mark knew that if travel
was involved, he had had enough of commercial flights after 28 years of
teaching for the medical device industry. Mark yearned for road trips –
to visit those places he only saw from 38,000 feet. Little did he know that
wish journeyed down an unexpected fork in the road. He would become an author.
While conducting genealogy research, Mark discovered archived de-classified
military documents that revealed the name of a U.S. Navy destroyer his father
served aboard during WWII. The reason this was a poignant discovery was
because, while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, his father made no
mention of this. Apart from being a U.S. Naval Reserve flight instructor, he
knew his father served aboard the carrier USS ESSEX. But in what capacity?
That, too, was not revealed. More discoveries materialized the further he dug.
In fact, there was a lot more his father didn’t mention. This
wasn’t unusual. Many WWII veterans didn’t talk about what happened
back then.
Because of the pandemic, the National Archives in St. Louis was closed and
rendered Lt. Bearss’ military records unavailable. Thus began a project
that challenged Mark’s research endeavors for over two years and about
5,000 miles on the road. The biographical sketch was sorted from creative
Internet search strings, history books, navy publications, and networking with
journalists, librarians, archivists, bloggers, aviation enthusiasts, museum
and historical society curators, navy veterans, relatives, and more. One
online resource that was instrumental in tracking his father’s journey
was the weekly newspaper published in the county where his parents grew up:
The Oceana Herald. It included a Local News section where family members and
organizations could submit a short blurb about a relative’s visit, a
social gathering, or – where a son or husband was currently stationed.
This project culminated in 2022 with Mark’s first publication titled,
Undisclosed Stories Discovered: Honoring the World War II Military Journey of
Lt. Joseph Ward Bearss, USNR. When asked what was one of the highlights
surrounding this story, he described the road trips to seek out and discover
places where his father lived, trained and was stationed during the war. What
prompted him to write this as a biography took place during a meeting with the
curator of the World War II Home Front Museum on St. Simons Island, Georgia.
St. Simons Naval Air Station was the site for the U.S. Naval Radar Training
Station, where Lt. Bearss was trained in shipboard radar operations, enemy
interception, and Fighter Direction. While the museum had ample archived
materials about the facility, it had very little documented about the
servicemembers who trained there.
Only 250 copies were printed. Mark went back on the road in his Class-B
motorhome and personally donated those copies to family members, friends and
relatives, the librarians, archivists, researchers, museums, curators,
historical societies, newspapers, The American Heritage Center, VFW Posts,
airport FBOs, and other assorted WWII enthusiasts in 12 states who helped in
his endeavors. It was a two-fold reward. Not only did his father’s story
finally become told, Mark experienced the pleasure of meeting all these
wonderful people who were his resources, advisors, collaborators, and
consultants. Up until that point, they were only names in an email contact
list.
You’re probably asking, “How is all this relevant to Mark’s
new novel, Cain’s Chameleon?” It was the research from The Oceana
Herald that planted the seed for this story. While perusing its issues, Mark
stumbled on two articles that piqued his curiosity. The first reported an
attempted murder in a home close to his family’s summer cottage on Lake
Michigan. The second reported a drowning victim that washed up on the beach
right where Mark and his friends used to play. Just two more stories never
divulged while growing up. He wondered, Were these two events related? Then
Mark decided — he would make them related.
Fracture Basar Gorur (Shadow Sovereign Series, #1) Publication date: April 17th 2026 Genres: Adult, Techno Thriller
A murdered diplomat. A dying man’s cryptic message. A conspiracy that could shatter NATO.
When U.S. geopolitical strategist Roger ‘Simms’ Osbourne receives word that his colleague and friend Aslı Green has been killed, he inherits more than grief. He inherits her secret: evidence of a sophisticated Russian operation that sank a Ukrainian tanker and made it look like an accident.
Sent to London to sell a critical NATO surveillance system, Simms quickly discovers his official mission is compromised. A powerful British political faction, backed by shadowy money and royal connections, is determined to see him fail. The deeper he digs into Aslı’s murder, the more he realizes the two threats are connected.
Forced to abandon the rulebook, Simms assembles an unlikely alliance: his embattled team, a mysterious operative named Katya who knows too much, and assets on both sides of the law. Together, they uncover a sprawling network funneling Russian profits through international shell companies to fuel a political war against the West.
But Russian Admiral Sidorov isn’t waiting for the dust to settle. His devastating military demonstration exposes NATO’s vulnerabilities and humiliates the alliance on the world stage. And lurking beneath it all is an even darker secret: Chinese technology at the heart of Russia’s most advanced weapons.
Now Simms must wage war on three fronts: political, financial, and military. Because if he fails, his friend died for nothing. And the next strike won’t be disguised as an accident.
For fans of Tom Clancy, Mark Greaney, and Brad Thor.
Ankara. Surveillance van outside Mikhail’s apartment. Evening.
Jack adjusted the lens for the hundredth time. Jones was sorting sunflower seeds by some private system known only to God and possibly his therapist.
“Stilettos,” Jones said.
“We’re not doing this.”
“We’re absolutely doing this. We’ve been here four hours. I’ve counted the bricks on that building. There are 2,847. I’ve earned a conversation.”
“You counted wrong. There are 2,846.”
“You counted them too?”
“Shut up.” Jack refused to look at him. “What about stilettos?”
“Women wear them voluntarily. On purpose. They pay extra for the privilege of balancing on pencil erasers.”
“Groundbreaking analysis. Call the sociology department.”
“I’m serious. Men’s fashion evolution went: uncomfortable, less uncomfortable, sweatpants. Enlightenment achieved. Women’s fashion went: uncomfortable, more uncomfortable, here’s a torture device from the Spanish Inquisition, but we made it beige.”
Jack checked the window. Nothing.
“Maybe they like being tall.”
“Platform sneakers exist. Wedges exist. Sensible block heels exist. Those chunky things that look like orthopedic equipment for fashionable astronauts.” Jones cracked a seed with surgical precision. “The stiletto isn’t about height. It’s about violence.”
“Violence.”
“Think about it. Historically, women couldn’t carry weapons. Swords, daggers, frowned upon. Very unlady-like. But shoes?” Jones gestured broadly, scattering shells. “Nobody regulates footwear. So some genius says, what if we put a three-inch steel spike on a pump and call it couture?”
“That’s actually not terrible.”
“I’m occasionally not terrible. Mark the calendar.”
The radio crackled. Static. The universe’s way of saying nothing was happening, and nothing would happen.
“You know they were daggers first,” Jones said. “Fifteenth century. Little needle-point shivs for punching through armor gaps.”
Jack checked the monitor. Still dark. “We are not talking about fashion history.”
“It’s tactical history. ‘Stiletto’ comes from stilus. The little metal spike Romans used for writing.” Jones pointed a shell at Jack. “It literally means ‘angry pen.’ The shoe is just a knife you can walk in.”
“You made that up.”
“Look it up. CIA even tried to weaponize them in the fifties. Program called Stiletto Rose. Pop-out blades in the heel.”
“Bullshit.”
“Swear to God. Total failure. Mechanics didn’t work. But someone tried.” Jones grinned. “Boredom is the mother of weapons development.”
Jack massaged his temples.
“Your ex-wife had stilettos, didn’t she?”
“Louboutins. Red soles. Cost more than my first car.” Jones found a seed worthy of consumption. “She never wore them. Kept them in the box. I asked why. She said they weren’t for wearing, they were for knowing she could wear them.”
“That explains the divorce.”
“Many things explain the divorce. Most of them are my fault. Some of them footwear-adjacent.”
The window remained dark. Jack was developing a personal vendetta against it.
The radio crackled.
“All teams, target vehicle approaching.”
Jack grabbed the camera. Jones swept the sunflower seeds aside.
“Finally,” Jones said. “I had a whole bit about platform shoes being siege equipment.”
“Save it.”
“Battering rams for the fashion-forward.”
“I will leave you here.”
Author Bio:
Başar Görür;
Writes geopolitical techno-thrillers grounded in institutions, leverage, and the real mechanics behind modern power. He has a BA degree in International Relations.
During his military service, he served on the personal staff of the Commander of the War Academies, working directly for a four-star air force general as an aide and translator. That experience informs how he writes briefings, decision cycles, and pressure under uncertainty.
He later held senior executive roles at PwC and at 3M Corporation headquarters, operating in multinational environments where cross-border incentives and capital flows shape outcomes. He now leads a private asset-management business.
Outside of work, he is a licensed captain and avid scuba diver who spends several months each year at sea and has traveled extensively. These experiences shape the Shadow Sovereign series.
Nocturne Tricia D. Wagner Publication date: April 14th 2026 Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult
In NOCTURNE, sixteen-year-old Livi learns the truth of who she is—a Siren, her people known only to legends. She must learn to master her powers of influence, strength, and destruction to stop a warmongering Admiral from drafting her best friends, capturing and killing her people, and decimating her homeland of Nocturne.
Livi stood before the tavern’s bleak threshold, its heavy door cobbled of wrecked ships.
She peered through its ragged window, quieting the wiser part of her, an inner voice calling for her to turn back. And truly, she was stunned that she’d mustered the daring to try this.
There were dozens of men here—sailors all brooding over their flagons, many looking to be harboring grudges.
The tavern’s splintery walls were studded with trophies—toothy payaras, dry in their death throes, tacked beneath golden portraits of infamous Korps Mariner ships and their dread captains.
The men frequenting this sand-dusted, fish-pongy tavern—The Orphic, were the sun-beaten sailors and damaged soldiers of Merritaine, mercenaries and relieved fighters who’d reached the shore of old age still breathing.
No one dared step a toe in The Orphic unless he bore epic tales—bloody acts of acclaim on the baleful blue seas.
Many here had killed. Some for honorable causes in noble wars, yes. But they’d killed.
For all their savagery, though, they were brave.
Livi had heard enough stories to understand them as uniformly dauntless and skilled. If anyone could help her skip Merritaine’s coast and reach Nocturne, he’d be drinking here.
Through the brume of pipe smoke, she measured each face for hints of affability. Or at least for traces of good humor—signs that someone might consider her offer. If she could just single out one sailor more approachable than not, perhaps she could move to him unnoticed.
But that wouldn’t happen. Women scarcely set foot here, and sixteen-year-old girls certainly didn’t.
A few of the sailors came across as jovial—but even they harbored an undercurrent of trouble in their looks, their ease striking like a gusty southerly bathing the seaside, forecasting a typhoon’s assault.
The afternoon seemed all at once to grow late, a shaft of misted sunlight sluicing through the windows and casting the place in watery relief.
In fixing on that panorama of ocean, Livi could almost see Nocturne’s peaks in the deep west, its moonstone shores marbled with the shadowy ash given by its volcanic chain.
Those heights, she had to reach. For it was said that Nocturne’s high places were hived with sea caves—chambers shining with waters rumored to have healing properties.
Some believed those springs could stave off even death.
Livi eased from her jacket a small jar of pearls, each perfect, as plump as a blueberry—these a mere sampling of the trove she’d collected. They ought to be more than enough to buy passage to Nocturne from someone here bearing the skill, and the gall, and the ship, and the time to set sail for the Isles, along with some assurance that he could ferry her through storms, over waters where lurked sharks and killer whales and squids that tore up boats, and finally beyond the dread Maelstroms.
Livi had imagined this moment many times—making her bold approach in The Orphic, striking a deal. She’d imagined that arriving at this brink would feel like the onset of her escape.
But in finally standing here, readying to approach men alleged to be the most barbarous in Merritaine, the idea seemed beyond reckless.
Célian, her best friend—maybe more—would be sick at the thought of her here. And truly, in darkening this threshold, she felt she was skimming the rim of the Maelstroms, those great whirlpools unceasing in their churning, twisting what strayed near straight down in a tempest, claiming ships and seafarers alike as a part of themselves.
The bright Merrow Ocean glinting in, though, delivered some steadfastness. For at the sight of its rolling, Livi could gather a sense of what it might feel like, teaming with someone here, cruising on his scabrous ship to the treacherous west.
A man seated at the tavern’s back corner stood out a touch.
He looked a decade younger than the rest, and he had all his limbs, which was saying something. He seemed not resentful, or affable, or angry—just somber. His solemnity made it clear that he wanted to be left to himself.
But it also lent an impression of patience. Maybe he’d listen.
She edged open the tavern’s door and crept in. She eased behind a column in the entryway and held still.
She’d have to get to the somber man quick. If she drew too much attention, the barkeep—a tall man, his eyes sharp to check all the action, his manner busy and swift with his bottles—would cast her out before she could lay down one word of her offer.
Or worse—he’d let the men handle the disruption.
Livi stepped from the shade, into the amber light of the tavern.
Author Bio:
As a young reader, writers were like gods and goddesses to now author Tricia D. Wagner. She never could have imagined weaving tales like her favorite storytellers, until a fateful April dinner conversation with her husband about a lecture he attended got her mind whirling. By the end of that summer, she’d written 400,000 words: a speculative fiction trilogy. Wagner felt as if she’d emerged from a cocoon as some new sort of creature. She was hooked.
It was important to Tricia to sharpen her skills, and she immersed herself in workshops, guides, and writing communities, learning from editors how to hone her craft. She did this for years, and the result is her newly released novella The Strider and the Regulus, two independently published novelettes, four soon-to-be published novellas, and five as yet unpublished novels. She found writing to be a method for becoming the person she felt she was born to be. Wagner finds that writing inspires her to be a better person, truer to herself.
The ideas and substance of Tricia’s writing comes from a very deep place that is strongly stimulated by setting. Often, when she has completed a story, she feels as if she’s been to her story world, whether it’s on the map or not. She likes to believe all the places she writes about exist somewhere, somehow.
In writing her stories, Wagner was surprised and delighted to discover how real the characters become to an author; that for many writers, their characters end up as their most treasured friends. She loves to delve into them to mine their natures, secrets, and desires—to tell their stories with the legitimacy they deserve. In studying her characters, she finds she has the opportunity to shape herself, inching closer to the person she wants to become.
Wagner believes revision is magical in its power to make a good book great, and early drafts are only the beginning of a story’s journey. Any idea can wind up a good story, but with reflection and time and improvement, it can become art. Once Wagner completes a revision project, it feels miraculous how many fresh approaches have manifested and how much truer the story feels.
Wagner hopes her readers feel enchanted when they read her stories; that after completing one, it seems they’re drifting out from under a spell. This is exactly how she feels when she finishes writing a story. She hopes to that her writing might expand their minds, spirits, and worlds a bit, and she hope they fall in love with her characters and are moved by her artistry of language.
When she isn’t writing poignant works of literary fiction, Wagner is a Director of Adult Education – ESL Programs at a community college, a job and staff that she loves. In her spare time she enjoys refining her writing craft to discover new angles and landscapes that might enrich her writing palette. One such example is a recent course she took in learning to read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, something that’s sure to end up in a story at some point. Wagner lives in Rockford, Illinois, with her husband and three darling cats.
Coming out is hard, especially when you have two gay moms. At least it is for Simon Bugg. He doesn’t want the world to think that having gay parents has turned him gay. And he certainly doesn’t want anyone to know about the alien in his stomach that’s trying to kill him.
It’s Simon’s senior year and his world just turned upside down. When his mom scores a dream job, Simon lands at a new school away from the only friends he has ever known. Now, his mom is overworked and chronically stressed, and his deadbeat dad is back on the scene. Navigating a new school and new friends is a challenge for a neurotic overthinker, and Simon finds himself turning to his rescue cat and a local barista for support. But when Simon meets the handsome PJ in drama class, he gets talked into a date that he derails in spectacular fashion.
With a little help from his friends—new and old—Simon finds his way back to PJ. But how can he have a real relationship with the boy of his dreams when he’s convinced he’s going to die? No one knows about the nightly alien attacks at 11:22. Why then, and why do they keep getting worse? Simon must face a dark secret inside before he loses his chance with the boy he loves.
Fat drops of rain splatter across the windshield as I watch the speedometer creep ever higher. Curfew has come and gone. It’s no longer a question of will I get home late, but rather, how late will I be. Carole will be cool about it, but Mom will lose her shit. I push ahead faster. The cool air is exhilarating as it rushes through my window and works its way in and around each tight curl on my head. I feel practically airborne as I race against the clock. I haven’t forgotten Mom’s threat to take my car from me if I keep missing my curfew. I can do this. Just a little faster and I’ll be home. If I’m lucky, I might even sneak in unnoticed. Unlikely, but possible.
The sky opens and rain sheets across the windshield in torrents that the wipers try, but fail, to slice through. I fumble with the crank to roll the window up against the spray pelting my face. The dashboard clock advances to 11:22 and the air is sucked from my lungs. Time seems to slow, and I glance at the photo tucked into the visor. My throat is closing! Mags, Neel, and I had crammed into the photo booth for one last picture before I moved away. I can’t breathe! We’re making silly faces, but the raindrops splattering the photo make it look like we’re crying. I can’t breathe! Instinctively, I let go of the wheel and reach for my throat when I feel movement. In my stomach. Scratching. It feels like something wants out.
The car careens to the right. The abrupt shift in my trajectory snaps my attention back to the road. The headlights cast a glimmering runway on the wet asphalt. I slam on the brakes, and the car begins to spin out of control. A cold sweat trickles down my neck. Tires scream against the rough surface below as a panorama of cutting rain and passing lights spills across my field of vision. This is it. I’m going to die.
The car comes to an abrupt halt. I’m looking back toward the way I just came, but the angle is wrong. My eyes lock back on the clock. Still 11:22. My breath returns in shallow clips, but at least I’m breathing. Come on, Simon. Get it together. I gather my bearings and quickly realize that I’ve slid off the road and into the ditch. I take stock of the situation. I didn’t hit anything. Nothing hurts, and the car seems fine, but I am wrecked. I press on the accelerator, the tires spin, but the car doesn’t budge. Shit! I have to make it home, and fast. If Mom takes the car from me, I’ll never see Mags and Neel again. I press harder, the engine revs, and the tires grind deeper into the mud. I’m completely stuck. Now I’m really going to be in trouble. I lean my head against the steering wheel.
My shock gives way to self-pity and fear. Something warm drips down my face and onto my lips. It tastes metallic. Blood? No. Not metallic, salty. I lick the tears from my lips. Movement from beyond the now-fogged-up windows has my hair standing on end.
“Who’s there!” I cry out.
No one answers.
A shadow moves across the windshield, and I close my eyes in fear. When I reopen them, flashes of red and blue blur my vision. A bright light shines through my driver-side window, hurting my eyes. I put my hand up to shield from the glare.
“Kid, are you all right?” a voice says.
The light fades, and I put my hand down to see a police officer lowering her flashlight. I roll down my window.
“Looks like someone’s had quite the adventure. Are you hurt?”
My words stick in my throat like a thick spoonful of peanut butter.
“I’m going to ask you again. Are you hurt?”
Then the word vomit begins. “I’m okay now, but I was rushing home to beat curfew, and then the car was spinning, and I couldn’t breathe, and there was something…”
“Slow down.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me what happened. You said there was something?”
I can’t tell her the truth. My face flushes with embarrassment. “There was…a deer,” I lie.
“A deer?”
“Yes, that’s it. I swerved to avoid a deer and now I’m stuck.” I can’t possibly tell her that I thought something was scratching from the inside.
“I see.” She seems dubious. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I think I’m fine. Just shaken up.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, officer, I promise.”
“Well, I’m still going to need you to blow into this.”
She holds out a small metal box with a plastic tube on top. I do as she asks.
“Okay, good. Now I’ll need your license and registration.”
“Am I in trouble?” I hand her what she asks for.
“Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
She strides over to her cruiser. She’s gone so long; I can’t begin to imagine what she’s doing back there. I chew the corner of my thumbnail. She must be writing a ticket. Or worse, preparing to take me to jail! My brain won’t stop catastrophizing.
“You good?” Reappearing at my window, she hands me my license and registration but doesn’t wait for my answer. “I called for a tow truck to pull you back onto the road; it should be here soon. I would also like to call your parents. You seem shaken, and I don’t want you back on the road alone once we get you out of this ditch.”
Oh my God, why is this happening to me? I begin to cry, and she pats my shoulder.
“Hey, come on, stop that. Everything is fine. This could be a lot worse. You know that, right?”
I nod and rub the tears from my cheeks.
“Do you have a phone?”
I nod again.
“Please dial a parent or guardian and I’ll talk to them so you don’t have to.”
I pull my phone from my pocket, tap my contacts, and hand her the phone. “It’s my mom.”
She takes the phone and steps away out of earshot. I watch her pace back and forth talking on my phone in the rain that has slowed to a soft mist. I don’t even want to think about Mom’s reaction to getting a phone call from a police officer. I shiver as she walks back to me.
“Your mom is on her way. She’ll be here shortly. So, what do you kids like to talk about these days? Here, I have one for you. I have two dogs named Taylor and Swift. Funny story…”
Steven Gellman is an award-winning songwriter turned author whose stories hum with the same heart and honesty found in his music. Inspired by the books of Judy Blume that once kept him company through his own adolescence, Steven now writes coming-of-age fiction that gives voice to LGBTQ+ teens finding their way in an ever-changing world.
When not writing novels or performing music, Steven can be found in a comfy chair with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Steven lives in Maryland’s Piedmont region with his husband and a houseful of rescued companion animals.
Trial by Town Sharon Fernicola Publication date: March 31st 2026 Genres: Adult, Mystery
A gripping small town murder mystery
In the quiet coastal town of Keansbury, reputation is everything.
When eighteen-year-old Peter Keans—the heir to the town’s most powerful family—is found murdered, shock quickly turns to certainty. A young woman is arrested, and for all residents the case appears simple.
Justice, they believe, will be swift.
Attorney Katie Russo isn’t so sure.
Invited to review what seems like an open-and-shut prosecution, Katie begins to notice small inconsistencies buried beneath the surface of the investigation. As she looks deeper, she discovers a community bound by loyalty, economic dependence, and an unspoken understanding that some truths are better left alone.
With the trial approaching and tensions mounting, long-held assumptions begin to fracture. In a place where reputation defines identity and silence protects power, the search for truth threatens far more than a single verdict.
TRIAL BY TOWN is a character-driven small town murder mystery about justice, moral ambiguity, and the quiet pressure of a town determined to protect its own.
Perfect for readers who enjoy small town suspense, courtroom drama, and mysteries where the truth hides behind reputation and power.
For fans of Defending Jacob and Anatomy of a Scandal comes a gripping small town murder mystery where reputation, power, and truth collide.
“Mr. VanAnt, as you may know, the Professor asked me to speak with Miss O’Neill. I did so only to be of help.” She made certain her tone continued calm and reassuring, not wanting to give the misimpression that she was speaking as a defense attorney. “Miss O’Neill is unwavering in her claim of innocence.”
He was quick to respond, the red deepening in color. “I’m not surprised by anything she says. She’s always been a strange girl. Her uncle was strange. I guess it was just in the genes. However, that’s not an excuse. Mrs. Russo, as far as myself and this community are concerned, she killed him. Whether by accident or intentional, she killed him. The sooner she’s removed from here, the better. We have enough to deal with without her presence being a constant painful reminder.”
He tried to take another sip of coffee, but his shaking hand made him unsteady. A small amount poured onto the table. Katie grabbed a few napkins to blot up the puddle. She worried that she may have pushed him too far, but as concerned as she felt for him, she was compelled to continue the discussion.
“I can only imagine the pressure you’ve been under. The Professor mentioned that Mr. Keans Sr. has had virtually no involvement with the business since his son’s death.”
He paused a moment, then looked directly at Katie. “One does what one needs to do to survive. I have a responsibility to our customers, our workers, our community, and our families. A lot of people have been affected by this tragedy, and I’ll do everything and anything it takes to see that this business continues.”
Katie felt a chill up her spine. His words almost sounded like a threat. Perhaps he wasn’t quite the gentle giant she had thought. It was clear that the conversation had gone as far as it was going to go. “I’m certain you have everyone’s support and appreciation.”
Katie glanced at her watch and noted the lateness of the hour. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She rose and extended her hand. “This was an unexpected pleasure meeting you, and I very much enjoyed the tour.”
“Likewise.” He held the chair for her, the way a gentleman did in an old black-and-white film, and then escorted her to the elevator. “I hope you don’t mind if I say goodbye here. I have a few hours of paperwork ahead of me and I’d better get started.”
“Not at all. Again, thank you.”
He stood there looking at her until the doors closed. The chill she got earlier seemed to return. She tried to explain away her discomfort. After all, he had a right to feel such anger, and it wasn’t directed toward her. More chills as she walked briskly to the car, only this time, they were caused by the late afternoon breeze off the water. She slid into the seat and turned on the engine and the heater and waited until she was sufficiently warmed. As she drove out the gate, she thought about his words. Other than Jennifer, everyone she’d spoken to since arriving were aligned in their sentiment, although none expressed it so succinctly as Mr. VanAnt. “The sooner she’s removed from here, the better.” Katie rounded the bend, happy to be heading toward the comfort of the Professor’s home.
As he lost sight of her car, VanAnt drew the blinds and returned to his paperwork.
Author Bio:
Sharon Fernicola is a writer drawn to layered mysteries, emotional realism, and characters who challenge assumptions. Her fascination with crime and justice began early, watching Perry Mason with her father and falling in love with the genre’s blend of intellect and drama. Her debut novel, Trial by Town, explores the fragile line between perception and truth in a small town desperate to preserve its legacy.
In her 70s, Sharon completed three triathlons, obtained dual Italian–American citizenship, and wrote her first book—living proof that bold dreams don’t come with an expiration date. She brings a poetic sensibility to her storytelling, blending suspense with empathy and nuance. When she’s not writing, she’s mapping out her next adventure or putting in time at the gym, always chasing the next challenge with curiosity and grit.
The Guilt of Others opens with the sound of a gunshot in an overcrowded
office. But who was shot—and who pulled the trigger—remains a
mystery. Told through the intertwined perspectives of multiple characters,
each harboring secrets and scars from past and present, the story slowly
unravels the emotional and psychological web of trauma, secrets, and buried
motives binding them together. With nine suspects, three possible weapons, and
a detective whose instincts are starting to betray her, the search for the
truth unearths secrets no one was prepared to face.
About the Author
Sara Burrell grew up in Mableton, Georgia. She is a graduate of Young Harris
College and The University of Georgia. Sara is in her twentieth year of
teaching, and is currently a teacher at an elementary school in Georgia where
she is the gifted program coordinator for third, fourth, and fifth grade
students. Her husband of 18 years, 2 children, 2 hound dogs, and 2 cats
provide plenty of adventure and excitement to her already-busy days. Through
all that, she also writes books. The Guilt of Others is her second novel. Her
first, Newsworthy, released in 2023, was praised for its suspenseful plot and
surprising twists.
2. I am a woman who, one day, fell in love with the least likely person.
3. I am a woman who faced the worst aspects of herself—and vows to never
go back.
Briseis Cunningham—plain and ordinary!
After the 2024 Presidential Election, Briseis, a patriotic tour guide, felt
like she wanted to take a tour of her own city of Philadelphia, looking for
resolution in the past. While sitting on the tour bus, she has flashbacks of
the last three summers, and what was occurring in her country at the time.
Weighted down by the worries of the choice her nation just made, she undergoes
a great deal of soul searching.
Beginning with one summer, in 2022, she accepts a job, working at the
Philadelphia Chinese Lantern Festival. While there, she meets all the talented
performers, but one stands out the most: Jin Chang, a Face Changer.
From there, it all begins!
Follow the tale of an American woman who stumbles on love for a man from
another side of the world… and while also having to come to terms with
what has just happened in the United States, her fear of the loss of the
American Experiment, and her worries of where her country is headed.
About the Author
Hello, readers! My name is B. J. Quander, and I am an American Revolution
history enthusiast, who has always been compelled to learn about the origins
of the United States of America, as well as the countries that created it,
that have inspired it, and the native nations that this land belongs to.
I also have a great respect for the constitution, the law, and strictly
upholding it. After all, many of my fellow Americans, along with other nations
who have helped us, have died for the American Experiment to live. Being a
native Philadelphian, I have felt the tie that connects us back to the
foundations of a war that was fought on principles of a free government and
defiance against unchecked authoritarianism. Did we fail? Plenty of times. But
the dream still was there, and it felt real. Or it did once. This book I wrote
is about a heroine who worries about the sun setting on our nation, as opposed
to the sun rising on it, while also being willing to fall in love. Thank you
for stopping by.
Abducted J.S. Ash (The Beast’s Burden Chronicles, #1) Publication date: February 22nd 2026 Genres: New Adult, Science Fiction, Young Adult
Trapped aboard a living spacecraft hidden above her hometown, a teenage outcast must wage a one-girl war against ruthless alien mercenaries to save her best friend before the ship jumps into deep space.
A SHIP FULL OF ALIENS TOOK HER BEST FRIEND. THEY SHOULD’VE LEFT HER ON EARTH.
Abigail Ashby was raised to be a weapon by a dad convinced the world was on the brink of collapse. Then, inexplicably, he forced her into early retirement—aka high school.
These days, Abigail’s only battle is defending Harris, her outcast best friend who swears his parents were abducted by aliens. She’s secretly sure he’s delusional—right up until his bedroom explodes in amethyst light.
They wake up aboard the Beast’s Burden, an interstellar warship lurking above their town. Its leader, a sadistic warlord, seizes Harris as his prize, while Abigail slips away in the chaos—overlooked, underestimated.
Until she kills an alien to survive.
Now, hunted through the ship’s living corridors, Abigail must decide: retreat into the shadows, or unleash the lethal training she buried to wage a one-girl war and save everything she’s ever known… Because Harris isn’t just a hostage. He’s the trigger for humanity’s extinction.
“Wait—I’m sorry. Abigail, I didn’t mean that. Please don’t go.”
Abigail froze in her tracks, but it had nothing to do with Harris’s plea. An unearthly shriek had erupted, ricocheting endlessly around the room, and all the warmth had instantly drained from her body.
“What is that?” she asked, ice surging through her veins.
Harris looked like he had seen a ghost. “I have no idea, but it’s coming from—”
With a deafening crack, four dark spheres shot out from underneath the bed and slammed into the corners of the room. Abigail watched, petrified, as the spheres oozed apart, spreading to cover the walls in a thick layer of disgusting sludge.
“You’re seeing this, right?” she said, voice trembling.
Harris nodded slowly, and Miss Biscuits started howling.
The ghastly sound reached a new ear-piercing level as the sludge began crackling with unstable amethyst purple energy.
“We need to get out of here!” Abigail shouted. She dashed for the window, but the light glittering across its surface flared violently in response, and she recoiled, backing away slowly.
The shriek was becoming unbearable. Abigail could hardly hear herself think, let alone process what was happening.
“This way!” shouted Harris as he lunged for the bedroom door, but the pulsing glow surrounding the handle suddenly sparked, jumping eagerly to his outstretched hand.
Amethyst purple light rippled through Harris’s entire body, shining beneath his skin. Abigail watched in horror as an unnatural smile slowly twisted across his face.
“Harris?” she said cautiously.
Harris’s head swiveled toward Abigail and his morbid grin twisted into fear. The amethyst purple light erupted out of his skin, contorting him backwards into a jagged arch. His body was suddenly blasted onto the ceiling, held there for a moment by an invisible force before dropping sharply to the ground, the impact kicking up a cloud of dust from the hardwood.
“Harris!” Abigail screamed, rushing to his motionless body. This was a nightmare. Everywhere she looked the amethyst purple light was encroaching—over the ceiling, across the walls, and covering the floor, inching right for them. Abigail scrambled to grab Harris under his arms and used every ounce of her strength to drag him onto the bed, only just avoiding the energy as it engulfed the remainder of the room’s surfaces.
“Harris, wake up!” she shouted as she checked for a pulse.
“Abby!?” came a muffled cry.
She strained to see Taylor pounding outside the window, an uncharacteristically horrified expression on his face through the amethyst-colored glare. He took a step back and then charged, but the barrier flared the moment his shoulder made contact, and he was repelled away in a shower of shattered glass.
Abigail’s eyes darted around the room, her fear mounting as the shrieking hit yet another plateau. Blood pounded in her ears. “Harris, wake up. Please wake up!” she pleaded, her voice barely audible over the howling of Miss Biscuits and everything else.
The sludgy spheres had re-formed in the corners of the ceiling and they were pulsing erratically. They seemed to be the source of whatever was happening—what was happening?!—perhaps they could be shut down somehow… But how? Abigail grabbed Harris’s hand, hopelessly begging him to wake up, and her fingers made contact with a ripple of raised skin—the scar.
Abigail’s gaze snapped to the samurai sword hanging on the wall. Scrambling to her feet, she ripped it from its mount and unsheathed it. The gleaming blade appeared as sharp as it had all those years ago.
“Abby! Abby! What are you doing?!” Taylor’s voice cut through the chaos. He was back on his feet just outside the shattered window. He was holding up a small metallic object that Abigail couldn’t quite make out through the amethyst refraction. She didn’t have time for this. The high-pitched shriek was growing more and more deafening, the amethyst-colored light burning ever more severely. Instinctively, she knew it was now or never. She had to disrupt whatever was happening.
She frantically scanned the spheres, her entire body shaking. Though she had no clue this would work, the one in the corner by the door seemed like her best shot. “You can do this,” she said to herself, but she didn’t remotely believe it. Gathering all her strength, she sprinted towards the edge of the bed, leaping into the air with the hilt held firmly in her grasp. With a loud clang, the sword sliced through the sphere, miraculously penetrating the energy barrier and lodging in the wall.
As gravity pulled Abigail toward the floor, time seemed to slow, and she watched the damaged sphere start to skitter in and out of reality, spewing sparks in all directions like it was about to explode. The blinding amethyst light and eardrum-bursting shriek reached their crescendos just before Abigail hit the ground.
She felt a surge of pure agony, and then, there was nothing.
Author Bio:
J.S. Ash has spent over a decade working in media at one of the largest tech companies in the world, though his true love remains storytelling. His creative DNA was forged in the 90s—a blend of blockbuster action cinema, console gaming, and the high-stakes melodrama of the era’s teen soaps. He lives with his wife and daughter, who serve as the primary inspiration for the resilient, protective heroines at the heart of his stories.
Lysandra has spent her life in a silk cage, dancing for a monster who sees her
hybrid blood as the key to tearing open the veil between worlds. She is
half-Fae, half-mortal, a living anomaly trained to suppress every flicker of
power that could expose what she truly is.
Then they send a Destroyer to end her.
Rylan is the Order’s most lethal weapon, forged without mercy, raised without
attachment, sworn to eliminate hybrid corruption wherever it breathes. His
mission is simple: observe, confirm, and execute.
But some targets refuse to be prey.
When the tether breaks and Lysandra’s power erupts beyond all control, she and
Rylan are thrown into a deadly alliance that will force them both to betray
everything they were made to be. He will break sacred oaths. She will shatter
the chains of her gilded prison. Together, they will ignite a love so
consuming it will literally rewrite the laws of death.
Midnight Ballerina is a dark romantasy of obsession, sacrifice, and a
bond forged in blood and shadow, where the monster you were raised to fear
becomes the only one who sees you as more than a weapon.
For readers who crave: Fae romantasy, mortal/immortal romance,
possessive heroes, powerful heroines, found family, he-falls-first, and love
that burns worlds.
About the Author
Jhani Mills is an award-winning, multi-genre author and founder of
publishing imprint, Cipher Veil Publishing. Her work explores power, grief,
devotion,
obsession, and survival across science fiction, thrillers, and speculative
fiction. Midnight Ballerina is her debut romantasy, merging dark fantasy and
romance into a story about breaking oaths, reclaiming power, and choosing love
in defiance of fate.
Ves’s life has always been a troubled one. An orphan growing up on the streets and imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit, Ves knows how bad things can be. When he’s chosen to go before the God of Judgment to be judged for his crimes, Ves knows the result of that will either be insanity or death. Except, Judgment doesn’t go as anyone expected when, instead, the God chooses Ves to be his head priest.
Settling into his new life as priest to a God is strange, but being around Rais, the God of Judgment, is no chore. Spending time together as Ves learns what it means to be a Priest of Judgment is wonderful, until people from Ves’s past realize where he is. Ves must decide whether he wants the past he didn’t realize he had lost, or the future he was just starting to build with Rais. Presuming the other powers at play allow him to live long enough to make that decision.
Ves’s side of the room was small with no windows and a single chair in the center of the stained wood floor. The walls had been white originally but were now a murky shade of brownish gray. The guard behind him grunted pointedly, so Ves made his slow way to the chair. He gratefully sat down and placed his crutch on the floor next to him before looking across his portion of the room to the other side. A high wall separated his dingy room from the court judge in his comfortably padded chair behind a carved wooden desk. The upper half of the wall was open like a long window and high enough anyone from Ves’s side would require a few extra seconds to climb, which was more than enough time for the guard standing behind Ves to stop them. Not that Ves could climb like that, of course, but Ves doubted the judge or the guard cared.
The judge had a steaming mug of tea at one hand, a folio in front of him, and a fancy quill in a stand to his right. The walls in his half of the room were painted a cheery yellow, which augmented the afternoon light streaming in from the glass-paned window.
“You have been recommended for early release,” the judge said. He didn’t look up from the folio, nor otherwise acknowledge Ves was in the room. “Based on your criminal history and your behavior while incarcerated, the court is willing to consider this sentence reduction.”
Ves swallowed down his growing hope, knowing better than to say anything or let any budding happiness show on his face in any way that could be seen by the guards or the judge. In this world of prison bars and shackles, hiding emotion was much safer. Besides, Ves had always been skilled at discerning the truth hidden behind the words. In this case, the truth was the prison was overcrowded and funding was limited. Thanks to his injury, Ves wasn’t likely to repeat the crimes for which he had been convicted, and providing medical care and accommodations for him was expensive. Tossing him out on the street and hoping for the best was far more economical for the courts than keeping him for the full term of his sentence.
“However, there are requirements that must be fulfilled prior to certifying your release,” the judge continued. “Per our laws enshrined in the annals of the divine accolades, first, you must go before the God of Judgment and beg for absolution of your crime. Should the God grant mercy, you will be released from prison. Second, should you be granted release, you will be provided housing for one week, after which you must obtain lawful employment. You must be gainfully employed for the remaining time left on your sentence. A gap of longer than a week is grounds for reincarceration. Third, you will be assigned a liaison officer with whom you must meet weekly. This officer will assess your activities and provide reports to the court regarding whether you should return to prison. Lastly, commission of any crime is grounds for immediate cancellation of your early release.”
The court judge picked up the fancy quill, dipped it in ink, and signed something at the bottom of one of the papers in the folio. He dusted the ink with sand before closing the folio and passing it to someone standing by the door, likely a secretary. Once that was done, he looked at the guard.
“Next case. I would like to have this chore completed in time to be home for afternoon tea.” The judge still hadn’t looked at Ves, more interested in the contents of his cooling teacup as Ves picked up his crutch and struggled to his feet.
Ves followed the guard out the door and back into the prison, trying not to let hope take root in his chest. He had no idea what obtaining a divine Judgment required, but felt safe assuming he didn’t have enough money to bribe the priests in the temple of the God of Judgment to agree to his release. Even if he did manage to get through Judgment, getting a job with his injury was going to be next to impossible. Ves didn’t remember the stabbing or know why he had been targeted by another inmate, just that when he woke in the prison’s medical wing, he had lost the use of his right leg as a result. The leg was still attached, but he could only bend his knee, feel his foot, or wiggle his toes about 10 percent of the time. The other 90 percent, his right foot hung like a deadweight. There was no way to know whether the stabbing had been the cause or whether the incompetent medical care Ves received afterward was the problem, but he was restricted to the speed of his crutch and only had one free hand to carry things while he was upright. Most ex-convicts found work at the docks unloading ships. Ves wouldn’t be able to do that, which limited his options severely. Regardless, even a few days of freedom would be a nice vacation from the hell that was prison.
“Do you know when I’ll be able to request absolution from the God of Judgment?” Ves asked the guard, who grunted in response.
“Today’s Moonsadai. Convict absolution is always the morning of Raisadai, so in two days. Don’t be in a rush to meet this God though.” The guard smirked at Ves. “If you’re lucky, you’ll come back here more injured than you left. If you’re not lucky, you’ll be dead.” Still smirking, the guard stopped at the first set of doors leading into Ves’s shared cell. He pulled a lever, and the first barred door slid aside. Ves stepped through the doorway and the first door slid closed, locking him into the two-by-two-foot space. The guard pulled the lever again, and the second door slid to the side, revealing the nine-by-nine-foot square cell he shared with three other inmates.
The man Ves only knew as Fang grinned at Ves as the second door closed behind him. Both of Fang’s pointed incisors, sharpened prior to his arrest for ripping out chunks of people with his teeth, were prominent in his mouth, so the grin was equally a threat and a welcome.
“Well, you getting out of here?” Fang asked, watching from where he was sitting on his bottom bunk as Ves slowly made his way to the other bunk bed. Ves got the bottom of his bed thanks to necessity, since he couldn’t climb. Fang liked Ves for some reason, so it was thanks to his influence over their other two cellmates that Ves hadn’t been challenged for the better bed.
“I get to have a hearing with the God of Judgment in two days. I’m not sure that means I’m getting out of here though.”
“If you only get to see one of the priests, you’ll be back here in an hour,” Omnit called from where he was flopped out on the bed above Ves.
Fang nodded and ran his hand over his mouth. “Maybe. If you actually get to go into the temple to get a Judgment directly from the God, though, I’ll bet you’ll be freed. You’re one of the noble mistakes, right? I’ve heard the God of Judgment doesn’t care about rank or money, just whether you actually committed the crime.”
“And I’ve heard people who go see the God come back missing limbs or go straight to the crazy house ’cause their heads got messed up instead,” Omnit added. “They spend the rest of their days laughing at blank walls or screaming at the air. Better to see a corrupt priest instead.”
Ves sighed and lay back on the thin mattress, staring up at the straps holding Omnit’s mattress in place. One of the noble mistakes. In the prison system they were so common they had a name, and people who fell into that category tended to receive a bit more leeway from the other inmates. They weren’t usually randomly stabbed like Ves. The guards didn’t care, but Fang had defended Ves on multiple occasions because of it. When nobles broke the law and got caught, that mistake was rectified with money put in the right hands and a scapegoat going to prison instead. Ves hadn’t even had a trial but was now seven years into a fifteen-year sentence, convicted of two attempted rapes, the last one resulting in manslaughter of the victim. He would be turning twenty-one years old in two days, Ves realized as his gloomy thoughts identified something else depressing to focus on. When people reached the age of majority, they visited the temple of the God of Life to pray for guidance as they stepped into adulthood. Hopefully visiting the God of Judgment, instead, wouldn’t be yet another black mark against him.
“It’s not like I have a choice,” Ves finally responded. “The court judge signed some paperwork, so I’ll be dragged to the temple whether I like it or not.”
Fang let out a barking laugh. “That’s the world of the Gods, I guess. All we can do is hope they don’t make us suffer too damned much.”
Before Ves could think of a response, the afternoon klaxon went off, echoing through the prison as it did twice every day—first thing in the morning and now. Ves’s ears continued to ring for a few seconds after the klaxon stopped. By the time he could hear again, he could also hear the squeaky wheel from the meal cart in the hallway. A moment later a slot opened above the small table in the corner, bolted to the wall so they couldn’t move it, and someone pushed four trays filled with their dinner onto it. Omnit scrambled down from his bed and returned holding two trays, one of which he passed to Ves. Fang grabbed a tray, and the fourth man in their cell climbed down from his bunk over Fang to get his as well. The man never spoke, ever, so Ves didn’t know his name, but he also never caused problems, so he wasn’t the worst roommate Ves had endured in his seven years here.
Dinner was boiled chicken, boiled potatoes, and boiled beans, each portioned exactly so every tray had the same amount of bland, lifeless grub. At first, Ves had been excited about the prospect of regular meals, since that wasn’t something he had enjoyed before his incarceration, but that minimal silver lining had faded away fast. He ate the food, tasting nothing the entire time, and let Omnit return the empty tray to the table next to the slot for the workers to remove later. With nothing else to anticipate before the morning klaxon announcing breakfast, Ves curled up on his bed and pulled his thin blanket over his shoulders. Sleeping wouldn’t end his misery or allay his worries about the impending temple visit, but at least he could turn off his brain for a few hours. After seven years of long practice, Ves forced himself to sleep, knowing everything would still be waiting for him to dwell on in the morning.
When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.
