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Tracey L. Pacelli

Tracey L. Pacelli, Author of Time Warped and The Ascender  Tracey is a sci-fi/fantasy writer who lives with her Merchant Marine husband in West Palm, FL. They share an uber talented writer/actress/director daughter, who works part-time as a Broadway theater critic in NY, but really dwells in the sweet spot of their galaxy!

Tracey’s first fantasy/sci-fi novel, TIME WARPED, was published by Gypsy Shadow Publishing. It won Predators and Editors Award for most popular young adult novel and received a glowing testimonial from Disney actress, Danielle Fishel, who wrote: “I could not put Time Warped down!”

Back with a new sci-fi novel, The Ascender, Tracey is targeting a similar teen audience. And it’s already garnering praise from a notable ACE & Eisner Comic Book award recipient, Bob Burden, who recently received a key to the city in Atlanta, GA. Mr. Burden had this to say: “The Ascender is a brilliant and lovingly crafted parable for the future-world of the singularity.”

Presently working as a script consultant at Happy Isles and as a content editor and writer for, Tracey’s writing skills are daily put to good to use in many diverse avenues.

In addition to writing, Tracey is also a certified Hellenistic Astrologer, employing ancient techniques on her high-profile clients in the entertainment industry. Currently, she’s in talks with a major brand to develop a celebrity horoscope video series (Tracey Starshine Celebrity Horoscopes). Stay tuned for more info on this exciting new venture!

Instagram: @traceystarsigns
Twitter: @littleredwriter
Public Email:
Facebook: Tracey L Pacelli (

Congratulations to Tracey for winning FIRST PLACE in the 2011 Preditors and Editors Poll, Young Adult Category!

2011 P&E Poll Winner, Tracey Pacelli

“I couldn’t put Time Warped down because there is something so relatable about Lanie Landry’s quest to find out the truth about herself and her family. The journey she takes is full of surprises!”
    ~ Danielle Fishel, Topanga from "Boy Meets World," and "The Dish"

New Title(s) from Tracey L. Pacelli

Time Warped by Tracey L. Pacelli The Ascender

Order the Time Warped Print Book!
Order The Ascender Print Book!

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Time Warped by Tracey L. Pacelli In her bible-thumping town, Lanie Landry is a teen misfit without a cause. After a tragic accident that kills her adopted mother, Lanie escapes from the hospital where she was admitted for psychological observation. At a service station she accepts shelter from a kindly old woman. The next morning she awakens to find herself in the violent ward of an insane asylum in 1969. How can she escape this horrible nightmare? Remarkably, in the most awful of all places, Lanie finds her biological mother and falls in love with a mysterious inmate.

Word Count: 60,000
Buy at: Smashwords (all formats) ~ Barnes and Noble ~ Amazon
Price: $4.99
Read the In-House Review

Time Warped by Tracey L. Pacelli To order this book in print, please contact Charlotte Holley at
The Ascender  Billy Magnusson, a twelve year-old boy, has been the target of The Mandela Effect, an energy wave that attacks him, erasing pieces of his past and adding new details to his life script. Billy would describe the attacks as like riding a surf board atop waves he can’t see coming, and he never knows when the next energy wave might hit him.

These waves isolate Billy, they’re growing stronger, changing bigger chunks of his past, and they’re driving a wedge between him and his father who seems to know more than he’s saying.

When Billy attends a new school in Florida, he’s forced to join The Ascension Club, where he meets an odd mix of kids he can finally trust with his secret. Together they discover a weapon that will soon threaten them all unless they can stop it. 
Word Count: 60,000
Buy at: Smashwords (all formats) ~ Barnes and Noble ~ Amazon
Price: $4.99
The Ascender by Tracey L. Pacelli  


Time Warped

Looking back, I can’t believe a small red box would be my ticket to the Twilight Zone. It was an old fire alarm with its cover half-off, hanging on the wall just beyond a row of lockers. An ancient relic in a worn-out high school, but there was still some magic left in it.

When someone screams Fire, everyone comes running. And when the fire alarm is pulled at school, all hell breaks loose.

For those few frenzied minutes, the flow of everyday life is disrupted. I guess that’s what I was ultimately going for when I pulled the alarm. I wanted shocking change, the kind that leaves permanent marks. And man, did I get it.

The instructions on the box were clear. Pull Down, the handle read. And it even had an arrow, pointing the way. Jolene would later say it was Satan guiding me. I don’t know; maybe she was right. There had definitely been a devil sitting on my shoulder for some time.

Now it was urging me to move forward. The lure of the box had been strong for months; almost an obsession, really. What would it feel like to release the siren? To hear the mad shrieks of chaos, the smattering of running feet in all directions, the pounding of my heart bursting through my chest?

I’d just come from Language Arts class. Nothing important happened. No earth-shaking events to cause the devil to win today. Maybe that’s when the worst happens, when you least expect it. When your guard is down.

I was on my way to my locker, walking slowly in heavy boots, dressed all in black. My Joan Jet raven locks swung loosely down my shoulders in spiral waves. It was a great hair day, and I felt pretty. You know: the kind of pretty that empowers you.

The box called to me. As always, I stared at it, blocking out everyone and everything around me. My locker beckoned only a few feet away. I knew when I reached it, the trance would be broken. I’d open the lock and forget about the box, at least ‘til next period. But not today.

I never did reach my locker. I just kept moving forward, faster now, with an urgency that felt inspired. The handle grew larger in my vision, and the arrow became the hero’s journey for me. Pull it, and you’ll be set free, it seemed to say.

Without thinking, I let adrenaline be my guide. The rush fueled my decision, though it never felt like one was ever made. Today, on this most ordinary day, an extraordinary event happened. I pulled the fire alarm and in doing so, I blew the lid clean off of Pandora’s box. My life was about to change forever.


Unfortunately, change doesn’t always come as swiftly as we’d like it to. Punishment most definitely does. While I waited in the principal’s lobby for my mother to arrive, I caught the secretary staring at me. Her repeated sighs and head shakes reeked of judgment. I was withering under her gaze, and needed to compose myself. I asked to go to the bathroom with a “P-p-p-please, may I be e-e-e-excused?”

The embarrassment spread to flush my skin like poison ivy. I thought my stuttering had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Either my speech teacher lied, or the dinosaurs had not all been eradicated, either.

The secretary denied my bathroom request, and I was forced to stew in my own humiliation. Fortunately I hadn’t long to marinate. My mom, who I’d recently taken to calling Jolene, arrived like Atlas in polyester drag, with the weight of the world resting on her synthetic blend-covered shoulders.

We were unceremoniously ushered into the principal’s inner sanctum, but not before the secretary clucked and mimed her disapproval of me one final time. I could feel myself verbally combusting, but clamped my mouth shut. I was determined to grit my way through this year and next and, upon graduation, leave the Footloose, Bible thumpin’ devotees behind me forever.

Inside Principal Frost’s office, I plopped myself down on an unforgiving wooden seat, feeling trapped in its cushionless confines. Though my body was tethered, my mind roamed free. I was the Harry Houdini of mental escapism.

Jolene shot me dirty looks as Principal Frost belittled me. He was a grotesquely tall man who smelled like embalming fluid. A giant behind a tidy desk. On it, you couldn’t miss the stuffed vulture staring lifelessly. I assumed all taxidermists were closet psychos.

Frost was rifling off the list of my more recent offenses: inappropriate attire, sleeping in class, and smoking clove cigarettes in the boy’s bathroom.

I couldn’t help but goad him as I sat with my ankle crossed over my leg, slyly inching back my sock to reveal the eight-legged tat I secretly inked there last summer. At the sight of it, an unnerving fire burned in Frost’s eyes. I quickly covered up the offending ankle with a hand. As I did so, a terrifying image of Jack and the Beanstalk flashed in my mind’s fertile theatre. I knew another giant, more sly and sinister, sat before me now in the guise of my principal.

“Pulling fire alarms is a serious disciplinary violation requiring immediate suspension and possible expulsion,” he said. “If you want your daughter to continue attending Weaverville High, I’m recommending she be put on Ritalin. If you don’t already have a doctor to prescribe it, I can recommend a good one for you.”

I lived in a hick town, but this was positively surreal. Frost wanted to put me on lobotomy drugs. Why not just whip out a scalpel and slice off my frontal lobe right then and there?

From the depths I wailed, “Jolene... no... .”

Unfortunately, the plea stuck in my peanut butter-coated larynx, muffled beyond recognition. My favorite school lunch betrayed me.

Jolene’s lips quivered in holy indignation. “Aren’t those drugs for hyperactive children? Lanie has never had a problem learning. You even suggested she skip a grade, remember?”

As Jolene babbled on, seemingly unaware of the importance of this life-altering moment, I naively thought I’d been too hard on the woman who raised me. We’d never had anything in common before, and yet here she was fighting toe-to-toe on my side against the giant.

“Of course, I said no to the grade hopping,” she continued. “It’s my belief kids who are accelerated through the school system suffer socially in the end. You know the type, all brains and no boyfriends.”

Jolene was forty and still wired to think only about guys. When would her estrogen-soaked brain ever stop pumping? Come on Jolene, stay on track, I urged telepathically.

“Situations change, Mrs. Landry, and this morning’s shenanigans signify trouble,” the giant replied.

“Though I agree Lanie’s actions warrant punishment, what you’re recommending seems far too drastic,” Jolene countered.

Hope waned for me. I needed an offensive linebacker with a titanium backbone, not a jellyfish.

In answer to my call, Jonas, a make-believe ally with moonlit hair and a spiked attitude, popped in to lend support. He came from a place inside my head, where magic could create entire universes. My imaginary, hot rebel sat beside me now, so coolly above it all. He was sticking it to the giant with such a bemused smirk, I nearly burst out laughing.

“But no one in my family has ever been to a psychiatrist,” Jolene argued, as she wielded her axe at the giant.

“I feel I must point out,” he said, enunciating each syllable, “Lanie is your adopted child, and we have no way of knowing what runs in her family.”

She’s not my real mother. I rolled the phrase around over and over in my brain ‘til I felt dizzy. I’d known I was adopted from the start, but it felt different hearing it from the giant.

Jolene was thrown by it too, and her head cocked in a funny way as she said, “It’s strange, but I’d nearly forgotten the truth.” As an afterthought, she added, “Of course, she’s no less a Landry.”

The words were touching, but not convincing. Though she sat only inches from me, she seemed beyond my reach.

The giant, sensing weakness, leaned forward in a conspiratorial way, and a familiar chill shimmied up my spine. This was the closer, I was sure of it.

“Certainly she’s your child,” he said. “No one is disputing your guardianship. But as a mother, you must agree what Lanie needs most right now is the help of the Lord. On His behalf, I appeal to you to get this child the medicine she needs.”

Behind Principal Frost’s desk hung a painting of Jesus with a halo lighting the backdrop. I saw Jolene’s eyes fasten on it, and knew instantly hope kicked the bucket with one perfectly placed mention of the Lord.

The giant, as sly as a Fox newsman, reached in his drawer and wrapped his long fingers around a tiny business card. I could see a doctor’s name and phone number displayed in bold Arial font. The card dangled for only a moment before Jolene snatched it up.

“Excellent, I’ll let my sister know she’ll be receiving a call from you right away,” he said.

His sister? Too shrewd. What a stunning display of nepotism, I thought. Well, if Frost insisted on playing dirty, I’d fight fire with hellfire. My principal, the Lord’s spokesman? I think not. I’ll convince Jolene he worships the devil in secret. No way, in heaven or hell, will I ever go to a shrink’s office.
Back to Time Warped

The Ascender 

Chapter One

It was a sunny spring day in Raleigh, North Carolina. Billy Magnusson opened the kitchen window to let in a warm breeze. He turned to address the AI head on the counter. “How long do I have?”

“Your bus will arrive in approximately six minutes, Billy,” replied a robotic teen head in a Brit dialect, its face rubbery and pasty like a statue. The features shifted with exaggerated expression, every syllable broadly acted out on its face.

Billy nodded. “Plenty of time.”

“For you, six minutes is practically an eternity,” the head agreed.

Billy fixed himself a bowl of cheerios, leaned over the sink to save time, and shoveled the cereal into his mouth.

A loud commotion from outside froze Billy’s spoon on its way to his mouth.

“Sounds like Ron Lemon is having a bad day,” the AI responded, its sensors instantly recognizing the voice next door.

Lemon shouted again, his voice cracking like thunder. “What did you do?”

Billy listened intently, all senses trained on the drama next door. He heard a Whack! Then a Yelp! Followed by a long, plaintive howl that tore through his heart, overloading his emotions quicker than his mind could process what was going on. Dread, anger and fear began to snowball.

“Stay out of my room!” Lemon exploded, yet again.

Another terrible cry rang out from the poor creature. Then nothing… Just eerie quiet.

Billy dropped his spoon and tore from his home, blind rage propelling him forward. He hopped the white wooden fence that separated their nicely tended homes, with the speed and ease of an Olympic pole vaulter.

No one was in Ron Lemon’s yard anymore. Billy wrapped on his back door till his knuckles were raw. He just hoped he wasn’t too late to save the puppy, an adorable black lab runt from a litter down the block.

There was no answer, and Billy was about to return home and phone 911, when he suddenly heard the puppy bark. It sounded fine—at least physically, anyway.

Billy saw the school bus go by with Ron Lemon seated at the back window, his face grim.

Billy couldn’t afford another tardy. He hopped on his bike and pedaled the two miles to his middle school, all the while a fire blazing in his belly, as he thought about Ron Lemon abusing his dog.

By the time lunch rolled around, Billy’s anger was like molten lava. He was seated at a table with the usual group of four, kids he liked well enough to keep at arm’s length. Today that length grew even longer. Billy was staring Lemon down at the next table.

Lemon felt his unwavering gaze and the heat kept building until he finally reacted. Lemon left his table to stand beside Billy. “What’s your problem, Magnusson?”

Billy kept his head even and replied through clenched teeth. “I know what you did this morning!”

Lemon’s eyes momentarily flickered with surprise. He then placed a deceptively friendly hand on Billy’s shoulder, a hand that squeezed around his shoulder like a vice. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Lemon said, cool as a cucumber, then leisurely walked back to his table, rejoining his friends.

Billy’s shoulder stung, but he refused to acknowledge it. He wouldn’t give Lemon that satisfaction. From then on, his accusing eyes never veered from Lemon’s, as he continued to stare the bully down.

“Cool it, Billy,” a freckled boy at Billy’s table warned.

“Come on, Billy. He’s the class president,” said the high-pitched boy beside him. “And he’s got his squad with him. It’s like picking a fight with the Godfather.”

The cute pixie-haired girl beside Billy was frowning. “Ron’s a nice kid. He’s hardly the Godfather. What did he do to you, anyway, Billy?”

Billy didn’t answer. He was too busy glaring.

The skinny friend of the pixie girl gushed, “Ron Lemon is the poster boy for perfect. He’s like this blonde Adonis.”

Back to The Ascender