Click on the thumbnail(s) above to learn more about the book(s) listed.

   

	Amy Tillman, a videographer, walks into the office of psychiatrist Dr. Simon Reynolds with a secret; a secret that she is only willing to share in exchange for the doctor’s promise of client-patient confidentiality. As Reynolds peels back the layers of her history, he discovers that Amy Tillman is more than just a troubled soul. She is a cold-blooded murderer. Although this discovery tears him apart professionally and emotionally, Reynolds becomes captivated by Amy’s personality as well as her sexuality. As he ventures farther down her dark psychological path, Dr. Reynolds discovers Amy Tillman has begun to exert a kind of control over his life that he never dreamed possible.
	Excerpt Word Count: 45,000 Pages to Print: 138 File Format: PDF                  Price: $4.99
	Devil Barnett, Ex CIA assassin turned Harlem detective thought he was going to Rio De Janeiro for two weeks filled with beautiful women and golden sunsets, but one phone call from a former colleague at the CIA turned what might have been a dream vacation into a hellish nightmare involving human organ traffickers, Brazilian voodoo and conspiracy.                                                                              Excerpt Word Count: 72,200 Pages to Print: 237 File Format: PDF Price: $4.99
	A mysterious prophecy is revealed to the Kayfas elves, who live in the Magic Forest; but the evil forces of Death and his demons are conspiring to destroy the elves and the Golden Light which keeps the forest healthy. The forest is full of amazing creatures, including: rapping rhinos, gliding tigers, singing kangaroos, intellectual bears, flying snakes, legally minded moles, magical foxes, wise old trees, warrior elves, and god-like extraterrestrial forces. Each will play a significant part in the tale; but it is ultimately up to our hero Danzul, a 14-year-old flying elf; and his friend Elenkik, a teenage recalcitrant witch, to solve the mystery and save the Magic Forest. Co-Authored by Joy Swanson—Learn More about Joy Swanson                                                                            Excerpt
	Word Count: 65000 Pages to Print: 226/216 File Format: PDF Price: $4.99
	ORDER THE Deep in the Forest: The Kayfas Prophecy PRINT BOOK! (ISBN #978-1-61950-036-5) $18.48 ($12.99 + $5.49 P&H—applies to US shipping ONLY. Outside US? Email us to get exact cost) Disclaimer: please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery. To order the print, please click on the red button below. PLEASE NOTE: The button on the left will take you to a secure checkout at PayPal (PayPal account NOT required).

 

EXCERPTS

Her Name was Amy Tillman

Most cultures on the face of the earth subscribe to the belief that there is a place within all humankind where darkness dwells. A dark subterranean location resplendent with hidden evil dreams which lay dormant until the hand of Satan or destiny steps in to cast its long shadow, thus giving the sleeping malevolence within us the power to be born. From: Zachariah Black To: Scotland Yard To whom it may concern, This is the journal given to me by a Mrs. Newton who showed up out of the blue at my house about two months ago. My cousin, Dr. Simon Reynolds, employed Mrs. Newton as his cleaner. During the time Simon’s case appeared in the newspapers, she found his daily journal. She says she found it by accident as she was cleaning out his flat in preparation for the new tenants. It had been hidden away at the back of a closet at the bottom of a dusty cardboard box. After locating my address among Simon’s things, she decided as the only known relative I would be the person who could best hold his journal for safekeeping. She was insistent that it should not fall into the hands of someone who would seek to exploit Simon’s situation, as she felt it might somehow damage his future in some way. I do not know if Simon would have ever wanted the contents of these pages exposed to the world, as these are detailed accounts of private events and emotions. But owing to the fact that Simon is not as far as I can tell the same person that I knew—or thought I had known; the best thing may be to hand these pages over to someone who would perhaps put them to better use. Perhaps this will help the authorities to understand what really happened in Simon’s life. At any rate for the past two months I have felt burdened by this journal with its intimate writings, (some of which include his scathing assessment and comments about myself), nevertheless, I pass it on to you as an attempt to free myself of Simon’s secrets as well as to help shed light on the horrid incidents that appeared in the newspapers. Sincerely Mr. Zachariah Black. 290 Ealing Common The Daily Journal of Dr. Simon Reynolds (Psychiatrist) December 11th Only two weeks to Xmas and I’m feeling a bit weird, no, a lot weird. It seems like there are a thousand and one things I want to talk about but there’s nobody to talk to, well nobody except Zack. Maybe it’s because I’m 39 years old without a steady relationship and I fear I’m becoming impotent. Well at least there’s Viagra. I’m probably not really but it feels like it sometimes. It’s ironic that my profession is helping other people and I seem to have more problems than some of my patients. Maybe I should think of trying a dating service. I’ve often wanted to, but it would make me seem so pathetic. After all, aren’t I supposed to be the prime candidate for a beautiful wholesome relationship? I’m well-educated, well spoken and reasonably good looking with a decent wage and a future in my profession. A dating service? No, Never. I have too much pride. Anyway I must think about Xmas presents. I hope Carol likes what I plan to get the children as a present and I hope her stupid husband doesn’t take offence. December 14th I’m thinking about Sheila, I’m still not feeling very sexual about her, even though she is quite nice. Maybe it’s the way she dresses or just her “oh so proper” demeanour in general. It’s a bit too prim and proper. The kind of squeaky-clean girl next-door type that would faint if she ever saw a porno film. Which reminds me, last night I couldn’t even masturbate properly because I failed to get an erection. She looks Mediterranean, maybe Spanish or Italian. I started to approach her on some pretext but thought better of it. Anyway, she probably has somebody anyway. A woman so attractive naturally would . . . or is that really my excuse because I’m afraid of the possibility of rejection? Rejection, it haunts my soul. December 16th Didn’t get much sleep last night, bad dreams again. Frobisher, who is my friend from school and is at the Journal of Abnormal Psychology has been asking me to write a paper. He even offered to find the research for any case I’d like to present. But I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Dad’s right, my career is stuck but what can I do about it? I feel stuck in general. December 17th I think I had a panic attack last night in my sleep because I woke up with the thought of being impotent again, which frankly is scaring the hell out of me more and more. I have read about it but still nothing conclusive. After work I dropped by the vestry to see my cousin Zack in order to talk about it. Dr. Cutler came into my office today. He mentioned something about a community association mental health day he wanted me to participate in during January of next year. I agreed and he seemed pleased. Anything to get away from him and that horrible breath. It always smells as if he’s just eaten a three-course meal of gourmet garbage. I should send him a bottle of mouthwash, with an anonymous note that reads— Dear Dr. Dragon Breath, The demands of a twenty-first century doctor necessitates knowledge of the perils caused by acute halitosis; a condition more debilitating than untreated syphilis or even the black death. Signed, Proxy for everyone with whom you come into contact. December 18th Today was mostly boring. Patients: Went through my permanent patient list, Greta, Anthony, Gregory, Nadia, Beatrix, Nathaniel, Melanie, Gareth, Evelyn, Laurence, and Aubrey. I rang Sheila today and we talked for almost half an hour. Why am I even attracted to this woman—or am I? Is she just a port in a storm of my miserable loneliness, or is she something or someone I actually am attracted to? The second thought is scary and makes me feel even more pathetic and impotent. Though a bit too squeaky clean, I must admit there is something about her I do find quite sexy. I think it has something to do with her pouty mouth. Maybe when I start to date Christina, a real woman, then Sheila will become a thing of the past or even better I’ll have them both. In the same bed, no less. A perfect Ménage a Trois. Dream on. Dreams don’t cost anything. December 19th Saw my new patient today. Her name is Amy Tillman, she is 28 years old and works as a vending machine supplier. She seems interesting in a way that I can’t quite yet explain. EXTRACT FROM TRANSCRIPT: AMY TILLMAN SESSION NO. 1 DR: Hello I’m Dr. Reynolds, please sit down. AMY: Hi, I’m Amy Tillman. DR: Before we start I want to know if you have any objection to these sessions being videotaped? AMY: No. DR: Okay fine, December 19, 3:37 p. m. Hammersmith Mental Health Clinic London, Video documentation of Case number 603, Dr. Simon Reynolds. DR. So Amy tell me why are you here? AMY: My mother insisted that I come. DR: Why do you think she did that? AMY: That’s what mother’s do, don’t they, Would you like a cigarette? DR: No I don’t smoke thank you. Do you have a good relationship with your mother? AMY: Yes, I would say so. DR: What about your father, how do you get on with him? AMY: Oh I get on fine with him, now that he’s dead. DR: Why do you think your mother insisted that you come here? AMY: I don’t know. Actually I don’t need to come here. I’m not crazy, do I look crazy to you? (Amy makes a stupid face and laughs) DR: No you don’t look crazy, but I think all of us including myself have issues that we need help with from time to time. AMY: I’m perfectly fine. DR: Do you have any brothers and sisters? AMY: No, not anymore. DR: Explain please. AMY: I had a younger sister but she was killed in an accident. DR: What kind of accident? AMY: She drowned. DR: How old were you when that happened? AMY: I was nine and she was six. DR: How did you feel about that? AMY: How did I feel? DR: Yes when she died? AMY: I felt sad of course, but it was God’s will. DR: Are you religious or is your family religious? AMY: No are you? DR: No. AMY: Oh you wouldn’t be would you. You’re a scientist. They don’t believe in God usually. DR: Some do. Do you? AMY: Yes. I believe that each one of us is a God.                                                                          Back to Her Name Was Amy Tillman

Graveyard Samba

It was almost three in the afternoon and the sun was blazing in Rio de Janeiro. Duncan Lamont left his hotel and walked out onto the street. He stood looking at the tourists and business people who made up the backdrop of the Copacabana district. He took a deep breath, wiped away the sweat from his upper lip and smiled to himself. He could feel the blood rushing to his head from the excitement of what he was thinking. After twenty-five years of ups and downs, ins and outs, arounds and throughs, he was finally about to hit it big. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. Today he would write the story that would catapult him from the obscurity of the back pages to the front pages of the world’s big city newspapers. Up until now he had just been a hard-working investigative reporter with a certain amount of respect garnered through long hours and dedication. Never before did he have a story like he had now. He checked his watch. It was 2:55. Just five minutes to go before embarking on the interview he knew would change his life. Now all the doubters who had always told him that he had wasted his life chasing the big one would have to eat shit. He had already called Chuck Rodgers, the International Editor at the Eastern Times. Ordinarily, Rodgers was a smug, jaded bastard; he’d held the job for almost thirty years. When Duncan had hinted what he was on to, Rodgers had nearly dropped the phone. Usually it was “Yeah Lamont, send me what you got and I’ll let someone have a look,” in his “I’m doing you so big a goddamn favor just speaking to you” tone of voice. This time it was different. This time it was “Duncan, my boy, if you can get me an exclusive on this, I’ll really make it worth your while. This is the kind of stuff careers are made with.” Duncan smiled to himself again, thinking of the expression on his ex-wife’s face when he accepted his Pulitzer Prize. 2:56 in the afternoon. Just four more minutes to go. Across the road a group of four street vendors sold coconuts, mineral water and caqui from cardboard boxes as they listened to the latest sounds of Rio being played through their portable radios. Duncan watched them blankly as he thought about the way he would start his story. He quickly checked his tape recorder and his digital camera for the third time since lunch, just to make sure everything was operational. Then he made sure he had extra batteries in the bottom of his shoulder bag. He suddenly felt like a refreshing drink and headed toward the vendor’s stand across the street. He bought a freshly cut coconut and drank the juice with a straw. 2:58. Two more minutes to go. “Blahhh,” the car horn sounded above the traffic as a small white van pulled up to the curb opposite where the fruit venders were doing business. Military Police was written on the side of the van. The vendors immediately began packing up as four armed men wearing bluish gray uniforms got out and walked over to the sellers. One of the policemen pulled his gun from his holster and held it along the side of his leg while two other policemen began loading the sellers’ goods into their van. No doubt, they would be arrested and fined for selling in a commercial district. Their arrest was courtesy of the local shopkeepers, no doubt, because the shopkeepers paid expensive rents to be on the Copacabana road. In addition, they paid money to some of the military police for protection from local thugs and street vendor competition. To the shopkeepers, the street vendors with their cheaper prices and fresher goods represented eventual financial ruin. Their presence was considered by the shopkeepers as grounds for war. Duncan had seen it all before. “Vamos,” one of the men said to Duncan, who was standing just a few yards from the sellers. “Pardon?” Duncan responded. “Vamos,” only louder this time. “I’m a tourist,” Duncan said. Another policeman joined the conversation. “Your identification, please,” he said. Duncan pulled out his passport. “From America, huh?” the Brazilian policeman said in English as he studied the document closely. The policeman then turned his attention to the vendors being rousted. He said something quickly in Portuguese and turned back to Duncan. “Your first time in Rio, sir?” “Yes,” Duncan said. “Sorry about the mistake, sir, have a good holiday. But I must say that you need to be careful around this area. There are many people around, especially prostitutes, looking to take advantage of tourists. If you happen to want a woman, just make sure your documents are locked in the hotel safe.” “Thank you sir, I will,” Duncan said. The policeman turned and joined his fellow police, who by this time had cleared the sidewalk of the vendors’ boxes. When the police van drove away it was three minutes after three. Shit. Mario was three minutes late. Duncan refused to panic. The stakes were too high. Instead, he lit a cigarette and turned his attention to watching the beautiful women who walked along the street. Even though he tried to concentrate on the women—they seemed to come in all shapes, sizes and colors—all he could think about was what Mario had told him. He had met Mario through Gui Perira, a Brazilian friend who worked as a musician. The conversation leading to this moment had taken place in New York six months before. Gui, who was working in New York jazz clubs at the time, promised to put him on to somebody in Brazil who could lead him to information that would blow open a can of worms—not only embarrassing the Brazilian government, but also making him an international hero journalist. He had lied to the policeman. Actually he had been to Brazil before. He had lived here for two months. The only difference was then he was using another name and a fake passport. Then he was Simon Bernard, a musician from New York. Duncan had gone to Peru to follow up a lead on the story, and later came back under his own name. Now he was ready. One more meeting and the final nail would be in the coffin. He could finish the story he’d been working on for the past five months. The story that was going to make Duncan Lamont into a somebody. Finally, at 3:10, a blue Mercedes pulled up, and Mario stepped out. “Sorry my friend, but the traffic was horrible today,” Mario said. “Everything set?” Duncan asked. “Yes, the person you need to meet is ready and waiting to meet you. Please understand that this took a lot of arranging, and not only would she lose her job if the authorities knew she was talking to you, but she would lose her life as well,” Mario said. “I’m aware of that.” Duncan stepped into the air-conditioned Mercedes, and Mario pulled off. “I just want you to understand that she may be reluctant to say certain things.” “If it’s a question of money, how much?” Duncan said with irritation. “Listen Duncan, we have known each other for what, four months now; and in that time, have you ever known me to try and hustle or take advantage of you?” “No.” “Then please don’t insult me. What I do, I do because I feel it’s the right thing to do; not for money,” Mario snapped. “I’m sorry, I just thought. . . .” “I know what you thought. You thought all Brazilians are on the hustle from Americans. You think all I want is your money because I see you as my ticket out of the poverty of Brazil, into the land of the rich United States of America.” “No I didn’t say that.” “No, not in those words,” Mario said. “Well, I didn’t mean that at all. I’m just very excited about the possibility of breaking this story?a story I wouldn’t have been able to get without your help. And by the way, the meeting you set up last night in the restaurant worked out great,” Duncan said. “Okay, let’s not talk about this anymore,” Mario said and turned the car into another street. Without warning a white van zoomed in front of the Mercedes and blocked the road. Three military policemen jumped out, holding submachine guns. “Step out of the car, now,” one of the men ordered Mario. Mario immediately complied. “You too,” a policeman with blond hair said, pointing the gun at Duncan’s head. “Let’s see your identity papers,” the other policeman ordered to Mario. Mario reached into his front pants pockets and retrieved a plastic wallet with a photo ID. “Your ID.” the blond one said to Duncan. “I’m an American citizen. Please take me to my Embassy, there’s obviously been a mistake of some kind,” Duncan said in the high-handed tone he sometimes used to get him out of sticky situations. Duncan was well aware that nobody wanted an international incident, especially the military police, who often worked protecting the interests of American companies. After a quick flurry of words in Portuguese among themselves, two of the policemen used their weapons as prods and moved Mario into their van. “Where are you taking him?” Duncan asked. No one answered him. The blond one spoke Portuguese into his radio and within seconds a green sedan pulled alongside the Mercedes. “Get in, Mr. Lamont,” the blond man said. Duncan wanted to resist, but what could he do? He just looked sadly as the van with Mario pulled away. “Listen, my Embassy will straighten this all out,” Duncan insisted as he was being pushed into the car. Suddenly someone was pressing a chloroformed rag to Duncan’s face. Foul darkness. “Ahhhgggg,” the sound of his voice screaming rang through Duncan’s head as the fiery pain seared his scrotum. He nearly passed out. In fact, he wished he could have. But every time he almost did, a giant splash of ice cold water against his naked body revived him. Somewhere inside all the pain, Duncan realized he was naked and tied to a metal chair that left him at the mercy of whoever was torturing him. His blurred vision swept the enormous room—bare of furnishings except for a small shaft of light that shone through a window in the high ceiling. “Have you ever smelled death, Mr. Lamont?” a voice asked from the darkness in heavily accented English. “Please, I’m just a tourist,” Duncan managed to say. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, Mr. Lamont. I know who you are, and why you are here. You are looking to buy information; information you can use to write newspaper stories.” Duncan reached for strength. He imagined himself billeted behind a large impregnable brick wall that protected him against what was happening, even though fear had a stranglehold on his mind. The man who owned the voice stepped into the light. He was medium height with flat features on a smooth face, with a pair of eyes spaced too far apart. He pulled a straight razor from his pocket and without another word, slashed Duncan three times in the face, opening gashes deep enough to see the bone. As the blood began to pour, the man stepped back and took out a clean white handkerchief. He slowly wiped the razor clean of blood. “Now that you know I’m a serious man, let’s have a decent conversation. Exactly who did you speak to last night in the restaurant, and what’s the name of the person they told you they would put you in contact with?” The fear rose inside of him and the imaginary brick wall inside his mind started to weaken, one brick at a time. “I spoke to someone, but they didn’t tell me the name only that . . .” “We know you met a man. I also know you have also been asking questions about a priest.” “Yes.” “Why?” “He was a well-known man, an American.” “Yes, but unfortunately he has disappeared. I’ll tell you a little secret. There are some who say this priest fell in love with an Indian woman and went to live with her in the forests of the Amazon. Ha hah hah,” he laughed. “I swear if you let me go, I’ll stop asking questions. I’ll leave the country tonight.” Duncan was more afraid than he ever imagined he could be. “What did this man tell you about the priest?” “He said that maybe he could help me meet someone who could tell me why he disappeared,” Duncan said. “Is that all?” the man with the razor asked. “I swear,” Duncan said.

Back to Graveyard Samba

Deep in The Forest: The Kayfas Prophecy

Ga . . . ka . . . Kwack. The sound cut through the peaceful Forest like a flash of lightning in a thunderstorm. Every creature in the Forest recognized the sound immediately—the guardian Enuku bird was sounding the alarm, and no one doubted that something terrible had happened. Ga . . . ka . . . Kwack. The Enuku’s unmistakable voice traveled the whole of the Forest and all its inhabitants took notice. The bird’s call woke a Kayfas elf named Codcil, who was sleeping comfortably in his home in the trunk of a great Hezant tree named Tarella. The blue-black sky was streaked with thin, faded ribbons of amber light across the sky, signaling that dawn was nearing. Codcil’s response was more instinct than logic as he reached for his trusty Sword of Justice with one hand and his golden unicorn’s horn with the other. As Grand Protector of the Kayfas elves, his job, as well as his reason for existing, was the protection of all the inhabitants in the Magic Forest. With one flap of his wings, he launched his luminous body toward the opening in Tarella’s trunk that served as his front door. Once outside, he blew three short, powerful blasts on the golden unicorn’s horn, sounding a call to arms for all five hundred of the Kayfas elves serving under him. Within seconds of his last blast, the winged defenders emerged, awaiting their Leader’s command. They each carried a Sword of Justice; their iridescent orange eyes reflected the flashing blades as their yellow glowing skin shone on their trim muscular bodies. One long blast on the horn sent the majority of the elves to their positions all around the Forest. Their Leader, with an elite force of fifty, flew on toward the nest of the Enuku bird almost faster than the human eye could follow. As Codcil climbed higher and higher, he could see the entire area of the star-shaped Forest. He was flying from the bottom of Witch’s Point out to the tip of Alanamsa’s Point, the site of the alarm call. The other creatures in the Forest, aware something extraordinary was happening, sounded the alarm. The Kangaroos were first, spreading the news in their traditional way by singing in their beautiful voices. Something strange is happening over near the pond, The elves are in frantic flight and they are bearing arms. We don’t know the score for sure, But we’re willing to declare That the way the force is flyin’ It’s big trouble over there. Big trouble in the air.

Back to Deep in the Forest: The Kayfas Prophecy

Joy Swanson is co-author of Teddy Hayes of Deep in the Forest. She loves telling tales in and out of school. She works as a teacher by day and a writer in the small hours of the night. She has published short stories and poetry in various anthologies. She is currently living in Norway and enjoying the fresh air, fjords and the extra three letters in the alphabet.           Back to Deep in the Forest