Hi, D.A. and congratulations on your book. . .or is it two books?
Thank you. One book containing two novellas of approx 20,000 words each. Each word was hand picked by yours truly, polished to get most of the rust off and placed with haphazard--er, make that exquisite--care upon the page for your reading pleasure.
We'll call this my weekly bump--as it has been 15 days, some may believe that my math is somewhat deficient--to bring
Pilton's Moon/Vengeance is Mine
back into the bright light of day. As this book contains no vampires, I feel relatively safe in doing so.
Also, I can report an amazing review! No, not on Amazon. This one comes from . . . wait for it . . . my mother. Okay, you got me. My mother passed on 8 years ago. But she
would have had something nice to say--believe me. She had nice things to say (as detailed in another thread) of my poetry when I started composing it. [Recalling said poetry, and the cringe induced every time he sees it, D.A. wonders if this was such a bright idea after all.]
Okay. If you read the previous paragraph, pretend you didn't. If you skipped straight to this one, go back and read only the first sentence of the previous paragraph. [Damage control: I does it good.] Now, create in your mind the perfect review--the review you always wished you'd received for your work or the review you'd love to give to your favourite book. Got it? Good. I can't tell you it applies to
Pilton's Moon/Vengeance is Mine, but you might imagine that it does. [You'll probably be wrong, but you've been wrong before, so what's the big deal?]
Now, with a review like that, you have very little choice but to go out and buy it, right? And if you do, you may have the honour, the distinction, the glory of being the 4th person to do so. And that's something you just can't buy. No, wait a moment, yes you can, and I just finished telling you how. Hurry.
But, before you do, you might want to download the sample. I'd rather not make the sale than have you disappointed that you did. Unfortunately, the sample only shows a part of Pilton's Moon--a SF/Mystery story.
So, here's the first few paragraphs of "Vengeance in Mine":
"Bail, bail, bail!" The public address overrode the wailing siren.
Carlton Voss rolled from his bed, drugged by the trank and too little sleep. He automatically reached for the 'dote and swallowed it before stumbling from the small transient quarters room into the passageway. He fell against the bulkhead, unable to maintain his balance, as the bright lights of the passageway blinded him. Using the bulkhead for support, he fought his way down the passageway praying his head would soon clear.
Dauntless lay docked on the far side of the station. Which way to go? He stumbled again and stopped. He needed time; there was no time. The sirens screamed. Others ran past, ignoring him. Only the bulkhead allowed him to remain upright.
"Bail, bail, bail!"
Bail? Immediate evacuation, head for the nearest ship, if you can’t make your own? What had happened?
He clutched at a woman rushing past, squinting against the glare. "What's going on?" He noted she wore civilian clothes.
"You drunk?" She studied the stripes and badges on his sleeve. Her dark hair cascaded wildly in front of her face. He closed his eyes, hoping the place would stop spinning.
"No. Trank sleep. Can't get my balance."
"'Doted?" He nodded and she grabbed an arm, pulled it around her neck and pulled him with her down the passageway. Voss blinked in the flashing glare of red warning lights, equilibrium slowly returning.
"Better? Good. Up here. No, not the lift, the access shaft ladders."
Voss watched the lift doors close on a group of frightened faces, one man holding a bloody towel to his nose, then followed her up, rung after rung. Lights flickered and died as the station shuddered, then rose again. Gravity weakened momentarily, easing the strain on his arms, then came back with a vengeance.
"Where are we going?"
"
Candlelight. Scout. Docked Foxtrot 11."
"F-11?" Voss grunted. "Whose shitlist is she on?"
"Climb."
"Bail, bail, bail! Vocem dropping all quadrants."
The station shook again, as something punctured the shields and tore a hole through the hull. The quick rush of air escaping into vacuum died as pressure doors slammed shut. Voss redoubled his efforts. Another hit and the woman lost her grip and began to topple. Voss placed a hand directly on her bottom and shoved, hard. She regained her purchase and scrambled up, wasting no breath on thanks.
Voss's arms ached. "Christ, why couldn't we have taken the lift?"
"Can it."
Finally, they stumbled out onto Foxtrot's wide, abandoned, concourse. Red lights flashed everywhere. The deck bucked and the sirens ceased their banshee wail—a relief. Anyone not already wakened and alerted probably lay dead.
They ran past the bank of lifts, indicators warning of lifts stuck between decks. Voss recognized a face on the emergency comm, lips moving, blood running from the nose and eyes pleading for help that would not come. He swallowed hard.
Pilton's Moon/Vengeance is Mine still only $0.99.
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