Johnny Ultra #GayBookPromotions

NEW RELEASE

Book Title: Johnny Ultra

Author and Publisher: Kristoffer Gair

Cover Artist: Ed Murphy

Release Date: June 26, 2026

Tense/POV:  Third person

Genres: Young Adult, Superhero, Comedy

Tropes: Reluctant Hero

Themes: Friendship

Heat Rating:  No sexual content

Length: 84 000 words/ Approx 270 pages

It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger. There is the promise of possibly continuing.

Goodreads 

Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited

Amazon US   |   Amazon UK 

Not all heroes are adults.

Blurb

Not all heroes are adults.

Tragedy struck Gabriel Fletcher at the age of eight. Losing his parents felt catastrophic enough, but to be sent to live with his aunt and uncle who didn’t want him? Life couldn’t get much worse.

Sho Tashiro only ever wanted a best friend—someone to share adventures and play video games with—and who wouldn’t make fun of his heritage or treat him like a sidekick.

Little did they know their meeting and years of friendship that followed might be more than fate. What if every world in every universe had a Gabriel and a Sho? And what would happen if Earth was invaded by a creature that threatened to annihilate everything they loved?

One trained in martial arts + one with self-proclaimed superior Asian genetics = a friendship and adventure that feels like they jumped right out of their favorite science fiction TV shows and movies they watched as children!

The fate of the world is in the hands of two fifteen-year-old boys. What could go wrong?

Excerpt 

“So”—Mike interrupted what might quickly turn into an even more awkward conversation—“are you and Sho—”

“No.” Gabriel realized why someone might think he and Sho were together. They certainly bickered like an old married couple.

“By Hachiman, the Shinto god of war, no.” Sho folded his arms. “The clueless Caucasian child here should be so lucky.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “If that’s what you call lucky.” They’d kill each other. Absolutely kill each other.

They continued toward B House at a leisurely pace.

“I am his type, though,” Sho continued.

Mike peered at Gabriel. “You have a type?”

“Don’t even think about it, Sho.”

“Myself?” Of course Sho would find a way to inject a bit of himself into his explanation. “I prefer blondes because gentlemen prefer blondes... or at least that’s a movie title I heard someone from the drama club mention. I like blonde girls, if you need me to be more specific. I like a little yin with my yang, a little light with my striking, dashing, and sophisticated dark.” The explanation was getting a bit thick, even for Sho. “Gabe here likes ‘ese’.”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “‘ese’?”

“Stop.” Gabriel knew what was coming, and that it was payback for mentioning Sho’s attempt at handling a sword.

“Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese—”

Gabriel cringed. “This is how rumors get started.”

“—Taiwanese, Burmese—”

“Please use your internal voice,” Gabriel pleaded and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“Shall I mention the Japanese actor on Kamen Rider Den-O who started you on your way through that minefield in a boy’s life known as puberty?” Sho asked matter-of-factly.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Or the Chinese assistant instructor in that class you take after school you don’t like anybody knowing about?”

“What about him?”

Sho grinned. “You said one look in his eyes and he restored your faith in an afterlife and the concept of reincarnation.”

Gabriel desperately tried to think of a reason that sounded remotely plausible. “He brought out the deeper thoughts in my life.”

“Then there was his Vietnamese friend—”

“Sho—”

“—who you said made you experience multiple sarcasms while trying to show off how amusing you think you are every time he spoke to you. I’d be remiss, of course, if I didn’t remind you about the Taiwanese exchange student we had last year.”

“Quit exaggerating!” Gabriel wiped his forehead again before sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Procter & Gamble actually sent you a personalized Christmas card for single-handedly keeping the demand for Puffs Super Soft Tissues alive during those months.”

“I hate you.” Gabriel’s face raged like an inferno. “Don’t let Sho talking about being a samurai fool you, Mike, or any of the other words that fly out of his mouth because he wasn’t born with a filter. Sho’s actually one of the most down-to-earth people I know, and the smartest. I have to struggle to get decent grades, and they come easy to him. Sho doesn’t brag about his grades, but he does frequently use his powers for evil, usually when he’s giving me a hard time, like now.”

Mike laughed. “So, Sho isn’t one of those Asian stereotypes who plays the violin or piano, or takes karate lessons?”

They reached the stairs and headed up.

“No. Not at all. He has a phenomenal talent for drawing, though. You should see all the scrapbooks he keeps his sketches and ideas in. They’re amazing!”

“And don’t let Gabe here fool you either.” Sho added his two cents. “I may tease him from now until eternity, but he’s the one who took piano lessons—”

“Free lessons from a community center, thank you.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. The lessons hadn’t been anything fancy or above his means. Someone somewhere at the community center knew he was an orphan, the secretary there had called him with the offer, and he’d decided to give it a try. It got him out of an empty house.

“—and while he may let the bullies pick on him, he’s actually got a second degree—”

“Sho!” Gabriel snapped.

About the Author 

Kristoffer Gair grew up in Fraser, MI and is a graduate of Grand Valley State University. He currently lives in a suburb of Detroit.

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Facebook  |   Twitter  |  Instagram

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

The Bric-A-Brac of Mickey Mack Book Blitz #rabtbooktours

Poetry /Comedy Satire Gift Rhyme Millennial Humor Silverstein Memory

Date Published: 04-15-2026

Publisher: The Tink and Tank Press

A wry poetry collection that captures the jarring sink-or-swim leap into adulthood. This book honors the limbo of exiting youth, a unique period where responsibility suddenly smashes the youthful optimist, crushing it under the crippling weight of adulthood. Twenty-somethings scatter across life's spectrum with some jobless and couch-surfing, while others marry, become parents, and buy a house. Everyone eventually finds themselves old enough to fight in foreign wars but too young to rent a car. It's the fast, brutal shift to an unguarded world, to bowling without bumpers. You've entered a chaotic soup of competing ambitions and subterfuge, where one hand offers help while the other conceals a knife. You're expected to be an adult without ever having been one, like seeing the ocean from afar and suddenly wrestling its waves. This book highlights the inevitable sense of crushing defeat and loss, but reveals the importance of laughing anyway. After all, life is a game of avoiding the consequences of your own actions. The Bric-a-Brac of Mickey Mack will hand you a mirror and dare you to laugh at its reflection.

About the Author

Mickey Mack is a world-weary traveler and obsessive collector of life’s absurd talismans and trinkets. After years of eavesdropping on bar-stool confessions around the globe, he distills the Suffering Olympics of modern adulthood into witty, rhythmic heroic couplets.

Contact Links

Website

Instagram

Purchase Link

https://mybook.to/BricaBrackMickeyMack 

Amazon

The Bric-a-Brac of Mickey Mack Teaser #rabtbooktours

Poetry /Comedy Satire Gift Rhyme Millennial Humor Silverstein Memory

Date Published: 04-15-2026

Publisher: The Tink and Tank Press

A wry poetry collection that captures the jarring sink-or-swim leap into adulthood. This book honors the limbo of exiting youth, a unique period where responsibility suddenly smashes the youthful optimist, crushing it under the crippling weight of adulthood. Twenty-somethings scatter across life's spectrum with some jobless and couch-surfing, while others marry, become parents, and buy a house. Everyone eventually finds themselves old enough to fight in foreign wars but too young to rent a car. It's the fast, brutal shift to an unguarded world, to bowling without bumpers. You've entered a chaotic soup of competing ambitions and subterfuge, where one hand offers help while the other conceals a knife. You're expected to be an adult without ever having been one, like seeing the ocean from afar and suddenly wrestling its waves. This book highlights the inevitable sense of crushing defeat and loss, but reveals the importance of laughing anyway. After all, life is a game of avoiding the consequences of your own actions. The Bric-a-Brac of Mickey Mack will hand you a mirror and dare you to laugh at its reflection.

Excerpt

I sat across from him, he had a twisted distant gaze while he wracked his mind and grappled with a foolish phrase which was written on a note and shuffled in a mess of junk atop a desk ensconced in filth, no doubt the man was drunk. His name was Mickey Mack, both laser focused and aloof, fenced in by Bric-a-Brac unpacked and stacked up to the roof. A product of his times, so wise, yet dumber than a door. A man of vast experience and yet he’s such a bore. He’d traveled ’round the world and been to many foreign lands to simply say he had, to sit and sulk, his only plans. For “that’s what people do,” he’d say, “they travel to enjoy the petty world and what it offers every girl and boy.” Despite the fact that Mr. Mack had traveled far and wide he would do what’s done at home and find a bar to sit inside. And there, while many past him by, bemoaning life itself, it tortured Mickey for he couldn’t help but see himself. He realized now that time is gone, and that’s the way it is, and he, while living other people’s lives, had wasted his. And as a way, as best he could, expel the toxic bile, he has compiled every groan and gripe within a file. And written down, at last, now put together in a book the crying whines of all he heard from all the trips he took. A vapid, superficial twit, he sobered up somehow, and Mickey Mack looked up at me behind a furrowed brow, and as he squinted, leaning closer straining hard to see, He was looking in a mirror, for the hopeless fool was me.

 

 

About the Author

Mickey Mack is a world-weary traveler and obsessive collector of life’s absurd talismans and trinkets. After years of eavesdropping on bar-stool confessions around the globe, he distills the Suffering Olympics of modern adulthood into witty, rhythmic heroic couplets.

Contact Links

Website

Instagram

Happy Holidays Review #GayBookPromotions

BOOK BLAST

Book Title: Happy Holidays! The Charlie Barnes Experience, Volume 1

Author: C.R. Barnes

Publisher: Beach Book Press

Release Date: July 11, 2024

Genre: Humor/Satire with M/M romance

Tropes: Fake relationship, Lovers to enemies 

Themes: Irreverent Humor, Friendship, Loyalty, Moral Ambiguity, Writer’s Block

Heat Rating: 2 flames (the main characters do have sex a few times but there are no graphic descriptions)

Length: 54 000 words/167 pages

It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US  |    Amazon UK  |   Universal Link

Available anywhere books are sold, as well as digital library services.

How I Went from Failed Writer to Drug Mule, and Back, Without Really Trying

Blurb

After a shocking event on Halloween night, Charlie Barnes is back in the news for all the wrong reasons. On the bright side, he meets handsome cop Luke. Luke of the blue eyes, perfect nose, beautiful butt cheeks, and, unbeknownst to Charlie, ulterior motives.

Even bad publicity can be good for book sales, according to Charlie's publisher, who promptly moves up the deadline for his next book. A book he hasn't started due to a crushing case of writer's block. Or perhaps he's just lazy, it’s hard to tell with Charlie.

He's got a month to write his next book, decide if Luke is for real, and figure out what to do about the suitcase full of drugs he abandoned at the airport. The pressure is on and the ride is about to get bumpy.

Excerpt 

Lying on a beach, soaking in warm summer sun and cool ocean breezes. It’s heaven, until a wave rolls in and crashes on top of me. Next thing you know, I’m gasping for air and choking on my own bath water. Not dreaming anymore.

            Or am I? Is Detective-Too-Good-To-Be-True in my kitchen? Did he draw this bath, light these candles, and leave me in peace long enough for me to drown in my tub? A gentle knock on the door. He must have heard me doing the breaststroke. Before I say come in, he comes in. Not dreaming, not this part.

            “You doin’ okay in here?” He asks with such sweetness I feel guilty for thinking it’s too much. But it is. We’ll work on this later.

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Seeing how much water I can get on the floor before the tub falls through it.”

            “Might not sit well with the neighbor.”

            “He’s a bitch. Always complaining about how loud I walk. Fuck him.”

            I toss my hands in the air and give him my best ‘who gives damn’ face and end this part of the conversation with “If he wanted quiet, he should have bought the penthouse.”

            “Since when is the fifth floor of anything the penthouse?”

            Not sweet. This is better.

            “If it’s on the top, it’s the penthouse. Prove me wrong.”

            “I’d rather feed you.” He hands me a towel. He doesn’t leave. A dare.

            I take the dare. I stand up, hang the towel over a hook, and grab my shower handle thing, what is it called? Shower handle, maybe? Whatever it is, I spray myself down, sending water everywhere. He gets wet and starts laughing. As God is my witness, his buttons will be pushed. He can’t take everything in stride.

            When I step out of the tub the room spins. He grabs me by the shoulders and guides my butt onto the toilet, which, thankfully is closed and does not have a candle on it.

            “Sit still,” he commands.

            What? He takes the towel and starts drying me off. I know where this is going, at least for me. I have to stop this. I don’t want to stop this. But I have to. We can’t have sex, there’s lasagna to be eaten. Lasagna is better than sex. But if you’re going to have sex, having it before eating lasagna is better than after.

            We are not having sex. Not tonight. And when we do, I won’t talk about and I certainly won’t write about it. I might mention it, I might even brag, but there won’t be any details. This is neither porn nor erotica. Some things have to be private.

            “I can handle it from here.”

            Disappointment flashes across his face. It didn’t last long, but it was there. Good. He puts a hand on my cheek. His hand is warm, and soft, and big. He kisses me on my damp forehead and says “Then hurry up, I’m hungry.”

            Laughing hurts my ribs and makes me stop. Then he laughs at me, which makes me laugh again. It’s a hot mess of pain and happiness and arousal, and all sorts of other things running around inside my body and banging around my brain. Yes, yes, yes, a million times yes. This is the man for me.

            “Get out before you kill me.”

            He pulls the towel over my head and walks out, still laughing. Quick as I can, I get dry, get dressed, and meet him at the table. There’s a salad, the aforementioned lasagna, a bottle of wine, flowers, and candles. He must have gone shopping because none of this stuff came from my pantry. I’m not even sure I have a pantry. He pours the wine, lifts his glass, waits for me to lift mine and says, “Welcome home Charlie.”

            I pull my glass back “You said that already. Come up with something new.”

            “Geez, Charlie,” he pretends to be annoyed. He’s not annoyed. He’s challenged and he likes it.

            “Here’s to not dying in a Dorothy costume in the parking lot of a seasonally gay nightclub.”

            That’s more like it.

Free Use Image from Open Clipart Vectors

Ornery Owl's Rating:

Five out of Five Stars

This wonderfully irreverent story hits hard from the first line when the protagonist, Charlie Barnes, regains consciousness bruised and battered while dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Charlie pulls the reader along on his wild journey leading to the discovery of how and why he ended up in this state.

Charlie's tale is hilarious and outrageous, and Charlie is a self-serving, morally ambiguous protagonist. He doesn't mean any harm, he simply doesn't have a filter and he has a knack for finding trouble. He is by no means a model of appropriate, healthy, or admirable behavior, but the reader can't help but want to be part of Charlie's world.

While I normally knock a star off a story that engages in any kind of appearance shaming, there is an exception to every rule. Everyone is fair game for Charlie's razor wit, and he tends to judge character far more harshly than looks. While he does refer to drug dealer Harvey's muscle as Gerry the Pig Face, his dislike of Gerry stems from the goon's actions far more than his appearance. His thoughts about the full-figured Mizz Jamie are complimentary. 

If you're looking for a serious story about the ill effects of illicit drugs on society, this isn't it. This story is wacky, wild, and crass. Although it doesn't contain any graphic descriptions of sex or drug use, this book is only appropriate for readers 18+ because sex, drugs, and copious amounts of profanity are present throughout. However, if you want to vicariously live out a few crazy days alongside a protagonist who lives life on his own terms and has a knack for getting into sticky situations, strap in and join Charlie on the craziest, funniest literary ride you'll find anywhere. 

To sum things up, I loved it and hope to see more of Charlie's antics in the future.

About the Author 

C.R. "Charlie" Barnes studied literature and journalism in college and went to work for a global news organization immediately after graduation. During his time there, the team won a pile of awards and Charlie was on his way to a low-paying, high-stress career in a business he didn’t love. He now spends his time writing fiction because the news was never good, and one thing Charlie likes is a good time. Or at least not a bad time. 

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Giveaway 

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SWAT For Dummies Blurb Blitz #GoddessFish

 

SWAT for Dummies

by Gail Koger

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GENRE: action/adventure/comedy/romance

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BLURB:

Just call me Calamity Jane, wherever I go, trouble soon follows. Which makes my job as a Maricopa County Sheriff’s Deputy a bit hazardous. From chasing down a bank robber to dealing with a cat burglar, or handling Sun City’s seniors who are crazy as June bugs and horny as hell.

My personal life is complicated. Off-duty I’m a ballroom dancer. Detective Sergeant Dante Delgado is my new dance partner. My relationship with him puts me in the crosshairs of a dirty cop with homicidal tendencies. Can we stop him, or will we become his next victims?

Law enforcement isn’t for the fainthearted. Are you brave enough to enter my world?

Author’s note: I was a 9-1-1 dispatcher for way too many years and this novella contains some of the wilder incidents that occurred. Yes, sex on the sidewalk is based on a true incident.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Excerpt

I frowned. There were two naked people on the sidewalk having sex. The woman’s arms were flailing wildly. “Is he raping her?”

“Shit! I think so. Call it in.” Julie flipped on the overhead lights and made a kamikaze cut across four lanes of traffic. Tires squealed, horns honked, and people made rude hand gestures.

Hanging on for dear life, I keyed my mic. “Charlie-23 we’re out with a possible rape in progress at the corner of 59th avenue and Myrtle. I need you to notify Glendale Police Department.”

“Copy, Charlie-23,” the dispatcher replied.

Julie brought the patrol car to a skidding stop in a dry cleaner’s parking lot. We bailed out and sprinted over to the gyrating couple.

“Get off her!” I yelled.

“I’m not done yet,” the man growled and kept thrusting into the woman.

I Maced him. “Oh, yes, you are.”

“Fuck,” he bellowed, and frantically rubbed his eyes.

The woman wrapped her legs around his back and shrieked, “Go away. He’s my best customer.”

“Customer?” Julie shot me an astonished look.

I shook my head in disbelief and noticed the lookie-loos filming us. Great, just what we needed. “Mister, unless you want to get Maced again, you will get to your feet and pull your pants up. Now! No one wants to see that thing.”

Julie grabbed the loudly protesting prostitute under the arms and dragged her away from the john. “It’s against the law to have sex in public.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Author bio: I was a 9-1-1 dispatcher for the Glendale Police Department and to keep from going totally bonkers – I mean people have no idea what a real emergency is. Take this for example: I answered, “9-1-1 emergency, what’s your emergency?” And this hysterical woman yelled, “My bird is in a tree.” Sometimes I really couldn’t help myself, so I said, “Birds have a tendency to do that, ma’am.” The woman screeched, “No! You don’t understand. My pet parakeet is in the tree. I’ve just got to get him down.” Like I said, not a clue. “I’m sorry ma’am but we don’t get birds out of trees.” The woman then cried, “But… What about my husband? He’s up there, too.” See what I had to deal with? To keep from hitting myself repeatedly in the head with my phone I took up writing.

Author links:

http://www.gailkoger.com

https://www.facebook.com/Colettiwarlordbooks/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1598719.Gail_Koger

https://twitter.com/Askole

https://www.instagram.com/gkoger58/

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/gail-koger

http://www.amazon.com/Gail-Koger/e/B001K838BY

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GIVEAWAY INFORMATION and RAFFLECOPTER CODE

Gail Koger will award a randomly drawn winner a $20 Amazon/BN gift card.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Eggs for the Ageless Guest Post and Giveaway

 

Eggs For the Ageless

by Kyle A. Massa

Genre: Comedy, Fantasy 

Religion is a funny thing. Especially when you accidentally create your own.

Eccentric young writer Zeggara “Egg” East has done just that, much to the chagrin of her devout mother. Egg’s new religion is called “Penguinism” and it’s proving far more popular than anyone—even the immortal Ageless—could’ve imagined. And the thing about deities is, they don’t appreciate a rival dogma.

Now everyone’s choosing sides in the coming conflict, including a tea-slurping tyrant, a guy with 12 gifts, and the God of Waste Management. So when Egg and her mother pick opposing factions, Egg has to wonder…can they reconcile, or will religion keep them apart forever?

Perfect for fans of Terry Pratchett, Christopher Moore, and Douglas Adams, Eggs for the Ageless is a comic fantasy novel about family, faith, and waddling—not necessarily in that order.

What readers are saying:

“A fantasy comedy that swims in similarly madcap waters as works by Terry Pratchett and Christopher Moore, Massa’s novel coolly and deftly introduces a farcical setting that reflects the absurdity of today’s world, brimming with commentary on religion, capitalism, and writing.” – Kirkus Reviews

“A riot of a book where the characters amuse while offering cutting critiques of human nature (and god nature?). Light as well as insightful. A triumph.” – Kate Tailor, Benjamin Franklin Award Winning Author

“Hilarious, quirky, and sharply satirical. Kyle A. Massa has crafted a work of comedic genius that will make you laugh until you cry, while simultaneously exploring the hypocrisy of some of humanity’s deepest-held beliefs. A read for anyone who delights in absurdity.” – Laura Lauda, Author

“Eggs for the Ageless is a hoot. It’s fun and easy to read, but leaves you with lots to think about, and endless chuckles. It’s filled with delightful characters, both good and bad. Kyle A. Massa weaves together a bundle of hilarious plot threads so expertly that you never quite know where they’re going, but can’t wait to get there.” – Geoff Jones, Author of The Dinosaur Four

“Fun, funny, and wildly creative.” – Nathan Pieplow, Author

“Interesting character development and a fast-clip storyline tells a very funny tale. Highly recommend.” – AJM, Amazon Reviewer

Author's Site * Amazon * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo * Books2Read * Bookbub * Goodreads

Egg wrote.

Or rather, she scribbled words on paper, frowned, then crossed them out.

The Almighty Penguin waddled into the distance, Egg wrote, nearly tearing the page with the ink-wet tip of her quill. And like a pastry hurled from a platter, it vanished into the distance.

She eased back, swept her bushy brown hair from her eyes, admired the words for a moment, then shook her head and crossed them out.

A pastry hurled from a platter? That was a weird simile. Maybe she was just hungry. And waddling off into the distance? Too cliché. This was the summation of years of work, the final line of her first finished book. It needed to be memorable, moving, and above all, not crappy. So Egg tried a new closing sentence:

“We shall meet again,” said the Almighty Penguin. “Someday soon.”

No. No no no. She slashed that, too. Made it seem like she was setting up a sequel, and she hated when authors did that. So presumptuous. At least let readers ask for another book before you go forcing it on them.

“Subtle,” she whispered to the page. “We need to be more subtle. And maybe even a little profound, if we can swing it.”

“Who are you talking to?” someone asked.

Egg sat upright and donned her most genial smile. The someone who’d spoken was a man seated in the sand beside her, a round and jowly type who smelled of perfume or ale, depending on the moment. They’d met a few hours prior, but Egg had already forgotten his name. Boffer, maybe. Or Boofer?

“Were you talking to me?” the man asked.

“No, Mr., umm…Boogler…” She thought better of answering truthfully, so she finished with, “…I was just warming up my voice. For the call-and-answer bit.”

“My name is Bowler,” the man corrected. He took a practiced swig from a flask in his pocket. “Mayor Bowler. What are you writing about, there?”

You’re a tad nosy, Mayor Bowler, Egg thought, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she tried her smile again. “Just, umm, taking notes.” She waved toward the makeshift dais before them, where the Holy Devoted was busy reading some story of self-righteous dopes from a chunky book called The Everything (the only book Egg had ever disliked).

Bowler blinked at the stack of paper mounted atop Egg’s lap. “That’s a lot of notes.”

It’s been a long service, she thought. Two hours, according to the nearby timekeeper’s hourglass, and the Holy Devoted had only just gotten to the introduction of the Ageless. Bowler gave Egg a parting hiccup before returning his attention to the oration.

Around them dozed the Quaint Village of Quaint. It was a pleasant smattering of sun-baked sandstone houses encircling a fountain carved into the likeness of Florinioniorius, God of Creation. He held a quill aloft that, if you believed the Holy Devoteds, was the quill used to write the world and everyone in it. Long ago, water had spouted from the nib. Now, however, it was dry as the sands surrounding it.

On the dais between the fountain and the onlookers (actually a creaky wooden box, but “dais” sounded fancier), Holy Devoted Sarene graced the boiling morning air with her voice, enunciating every syllable with precision and clarity. Her reading was flawless, as ever. If only her material was less tedious.

“And so Lira, Goddess of Order, and Florinioniorius, God of Creation, had 10 children,” Sarene intoned. “And those 10 children, along with their mother and father, would be the foremost of the Ageless, the Greater Gods and Goddesses. They would be the Dozen.”

“The Dozen,” the villagers repeated.

“And many more Ageless would be born of Lira and Florinioniorius, and though they too would be divine, they would be known as the Lesser Gods and Goddesses.”

“The Lesser,” the villagers repeated.

“And so all the Ageless, the Dozen and the Lesser, guide the lives of mortals. They make our world whole.”

“They make our world whole,” the villagers repeated.

“Except for Hylus, God of the Sun,” Sarene clarified, “who has left the sun in the sky for these past 50 years, and shall not move it until we mortals prove our worth.”

“Until we prove our worth,” the villagers repeated.

By the way, Egg wasn’t listening to any of this. It was too nice a day. The sun was fat and bloated and unsinking as ever, but for now it hid behind a flock of puffy white clouds. The air was stifling, as usual, but a nearby fanbearer churned some breeze (Egg made a mental note to give the guy a tip). Plus, a sunbird had joined them, settling on the eave of a nearby house. It listened for a moment, trilled, then departed. Egg tried and failed to suppress her envy.

Anyhoo, back to writing. She twirled her quill around and around like a real, honest-to-goodness writer must do. Unfortunately, when she looked down, she realized she’d splattered ink across the topmost page.

Oh dear, she thought.

She fumbled the quill and dropped it, which stained the paper further, plus got ink on her robes.

Oh crap, she thought.

She scooted to retrieve the quill, which displaced the stack of paper upon her lap. The pages slipped and scattered everywhere, fluttering away like so many leaves, and in her haste to catch them, she kicked the ink pot beside her. It tumbled across the sand, leaving a black smear in its wake. Droplets of ink spattered over everyone seated too close—including Bowler, the village’s Mayor.

“Oh shitsticks.”

She thought she’d thought that. But when Egg felt eyes on her—several dozen pairs of them—she realized she hadn’t. Those words had slipped out.

The entire village of Quaint, all here for the oration. All staring at her.

She rose. She tried summoning her genial smile, but managed only a guilty grimace. The stares had turned to glares, from an ink-stained Mayor Bowler, from the other ink-stained villagers, even from the clean ones, and also…

Egg gulped. Also from Holy Devoted Sarene.

There was no Goddess of Disapproval, but if there was, Sarene would’ve been her. She was stern and severe with a heron’s build and differently colored eyes: one brown, one blue. Her head was shaven, revealing a smooth scalp with a halo of runic tattoos—12 of them, each representing one of the Dozen Gods and Goddesses.

“Child,” Sarene said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Egg tried to speak, but the sound came out as a sputter.

“She’s taking notes,” Mayor Bowler grumbled. “Allegedly.”

The Devoted did not react. She didn’t even blink. “You’ve made an unholy mess, Zeggara. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Yes. I have something to say for myself. I say I’d rather be writing than sitting here, because writing makes me happier than moping around every day for hours on end, listening to stories I don’t believe and joining rituals I don’t care for. I say maybe I believe something else, or would at least like the opportunity to do so. Also, I say you’re overstating the state of this mess—I’ve done worse. That’s what I say.”

…Well, that’s what Egg would’ve said, if she’d had the courage. But she didn’t. Instead, she squeaked three words:

“I don’t know.”

Holy Devoted Sarene was intimidating enough. It didn’t help that she also happened to be Egg’s mother.

###

Q: Do you read yourself and if so what is your favorite genre?

I think being a good reader is essential to being a good writer. As such, I read every day, either straight from a book or via audiobook (listening to an audiobook is still reading, no matter what some might say).

Though fantasy is my favorite genre, I’ll read pretty much anything so long as the author and/or subject matter intrigues me. A few recent favorites:

• The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

• Monstress, Vol. 1: Awakening by Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda

• Novelist as a Vocation by Haruki Murakami

• Happy-Go-Lucky by David Sedaris

• Hyperion by Dan Simmons

As you can see, my reading is eclectic. That bears out in my writing, too; my first book was a supernatural murder mystery, my second was a collection of short stories, my third was the comedic epic fantasy Eggs for the Ageless, and my next will be a collection of humorous nonfiction essays.

I wonder what I should write after that. A cookbook, maybe?

Q: Do you write one book at a time or do you have several going at a time?

I enjoy working on several projects simultaneously. This is for a few reasons.

First, I need to brainstorm my projects. A lot. I spend countless hours imagining who my characters are, where they are, and what they do while they’re there. This oftentimes sparks ideas for other stories, and pretty soon the brainstorm has become a brain-hurricane, whipping through several ideas all at once.

Second, I find this strategy helps prevent writer’s block. If I write myself into a corner on Project A, I can lateral to Project B. When I stall again, I can switch back to Project A with a fresh mindset. Or, I arrive at Project Q, with each of the previous projects only a quarter-finished. But hey, at least I’m writing.

Third, I find that most of my books require complete rewrites. My process is usually to write a first draft, forget about it for months, return to it, and hate it. Then I rewrite the whole thing from scratch, usually liking it a little better. However, I need something else to do while the first draft sits. That’s where my other projects come in.

I’m not sure I’d recommend my process to other writers, since it’s scattershot and clutters my hard drive with half-finished projects. Still, like any writing advice, I recommend trying it and seeing if it works for you.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

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Forever Askole Review

 

Forever Askole

Coletti Warlords Book 16

by Gail Koger

Genre: Humorous SciFi Romance Adventure 

My name is Ella McAllister, I’m a psychic witch and a healer. My life is kinda nuts. Not only do I have the Coletti hunters chasing me, but now I also have a very determined Askole High Commander after me. Why? I shot his ship down and it crash landed, and it blew up. Yep, itty-bitty pieces everywhere. My bad, but his ship was a dead ringer for a Rodan Marauder, and it was my civic duty to blow the enemy spacecraft out of the sky. Wasn’t it? Any hoo, I healed his owies and boogied.

I thought that was the end of it, but oh no. For some unknown reason, Sariel, the Askole High Commander, decided I would make him the perfect mate. As if. I think the blow to his head made him completely bonkers.

Sariel informed me the mating dance had begun and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The idiot had obviously never dealt with a witch before. I didn’t have the time to play games with him, so I did a little abracadabra alakazam and ran.

Sigh. The persistent Askole found me. Now I have a decision to make. Keep running or surrender to the High Commander. He is a damn good kisser.

Would the mating dance bring two lonely souls together? Who knew?

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Rating: Four out of Five Stars

This book is a humorous send-up of the sci-fi romance genre. Earth is a hotbed of activity for various alien races with unsavory motivations. Ella is an extremely powerful witch. While observing a dogfight between the Rodan and the Coletti, she opts to assist the Coletti pilot. During the conflict, Ella mistakes an incoming Askole ship for a Rodan Marauder and brings it down. Realizing her mistake, she rescues the pilot before his ship explodes.

Ella finds the Askole warrior both repulsive and compelling. He has snakelike features and scale-plated skin. Tentacles cover his body. However, he also has a ripped physique and is remarkably well-endowed. When Ella touches Sariel, she is stung by two of his tentacles. She is horrified to learn that he has marked her as his mate. However, as they battle enemies together, a bond grows between them.

Overall, I enjoyed this whimsical story. It addresses some problems with the genre it satirizes in an amusing fashion, such as the trope of a human woman being chosen as a mate by an alien male, regardless of her desire to become such. Ella's campy, over-the-top magical abilities are also entertaining.

Because the story contains strong profanity and explicit sex scenes, it is suitable only for adult readers. However, only readers aroused by tentacle porn are likely to be aroused by the erotic encounter between Ella and Sariel. If my lady bits could scream, they would have when I read that passage. 

To sum things up, this is a well-written takeoff on the sci-fi romance genre. I give it four out of five stars. 

Howdy. My name is Gail Koger and once upon a time I was a 9-1-1 dispatcher. Too many years of wild requests, screwy questions, bizarre behavior and outrageous demands have left me with a permanent twitch and an uncontrollable craving for chocolate. I took up writing science fiction romance to keep from killing people. So far, it has worked.

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