The Frog Prince (A Romantic Comedy) by Elle Lothlorien

It was his pheromones that did it. With one sniff, sex researcher Leigh Fromm recognizes that any offspring she might have with the mysterious stranger would have a better-than-average chance of surviving any number of impending pandemics. But when Leigh finds out that the handsome "someone" at her great aunt's wake is Prince Roman Habsburg von Lorraine of Austria, she suddenly doubts her instincts--not that she was intending to sleep with the guy. 

The royal house of Habsburg was once completely inbred, insanity and impotency among the highlights of their genetic pedigree. (The extreme "bulldog underbite" that plagued them wasn't called the Habsburg Jaw for nothing.) It doesn't matter that his family hasn't sat on a throne (other than the ones in their Toilette) since 1918, or that Austria is now a parliamentary democracy. 

Their lives couldn't be more different: Roman is routinely mobbed by paparazzi in Europe. Leigh is regularly mocked for having the social skills of a potted plant. Even if she suddenly developed grace, charm and a pedigree that would withstand the scrutiny of the press and his family, what exactly is she supposed to do with this would-have-been king of Austria who is in self-imposed exile in Denver, Colorado?

A handsome prince, gut-busting laughs, love, dirty ballroom dancing, pathetic commoners, sex factoids, Vienna palaces, cursing in German, random hilarity, little to no frogs. See why tens of thousands of readers have fallen in love with this Amazon bestseller! Because someday your prince will come...sort of.

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Genre - Romantic Comedy

Rating – PG

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Website http://www.ellelothlorien.com/

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – The Titan Drowns by Nhys Glover

Prologue

Karl

Summer 2336 New Atlantis, GAIAN CONFEDERACY

              ‘We are undertaking another major mission,’ Jac Ulster announced to the assembled group of Retrievers from the Child and Adult Programs. ‘Like our 1942 mission, we will require a large, well-orchestrated team working in strategic stages. Our main Target will be the forty-eight children our research has indicated were not seen during the chaos of the early hours of April 15, 1912, and whose bodies were never found.’

‘April 15, 1912. That is when…’ Pia Rogaland interrupted in stunned amazement.

‘The Titanic sank,’ Jac finished for her, nodding at the tall blonde. ‘Yes, you have correctly identified our objective. We are going to redress a little of the loss that occurred that day.’

Karl Ontario felt his heart flutter strangely in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced this odd sensation since he’d heard the news of the planned Titanic mission, but it still struck him as uncharacteristic. It almost felt like sick excitement; but that was absurd. The only time he’d ever been excited by anything was in his Original body when an experiment had yielded interesting results.

Since then, some 216 years, excitement had never been an emotion he’d experienced. Interest, determination, compassion, contentment and satisfaction were feelings he recognised in varying degrees of mild intensity, but never excitement.

It was commonly believed that the cloned bodies they inhabited were responsible for their race’s lack of passion, but there was no scientific evidence for that. Whatever the cause, it was certainly factual to say that post-apocalyptic man’s emotions were dimmed and marginalized.

Of course for him, even in his Original, the ‘desires of the flesh’ and the concomitant passions it aroused had only ever been mild. One lady-friend had once told him he had ice water in his veins and he’d believed her. He was, after all, the product of his upbringing.

Karl’s father had been an eminent Canadian surgeon in the middle years of the twenty-first century. A fierce and cutting man, he’d ridiculed all emotion out of his son by the time he was ten years old. All that was left in Karl from that time on was the determination to excel. This he’d done spectacularly, out-shining his father in his chosen field by the time he was twenty-five.

Once this goal was achieved, he’d begun looking for new fields to conquer. It was then that he’d encountered the early work on accelerated cellular development the government was funding. Once he saw the potential for their experiments, his course was set.

It gave him satisfaction to know that he was partly responsible for saving what was left of humanity after the Last Great Plague decimated their numbers. Humanity had been whittled down to little more than a few hundred thousand after that last catastrophe, which ended the Second Dark Age.

He firmly believed that he’d been spared by Divine Intervention so that their work, which had previously been directed into military areas, could be utilized to save mankind. Had he or one of his team not been one of the one in a thousand who survived that horrendous pandemic, no one would ever have known about their spectacular research and results. The sterile and sickly survivors of their race would have died out, and humanity would have gone the way of the dinosaurs.

Before the Last Great Plague, if anyone had asked him about his beliefs about Divinity he would have called himself an “unconvinced agnostic.” He’d wanted to believe there was a God, but his analytical mind had never found the proof needed to commit to such a belief.

He’d gotten all the proof he needed the day he woke up alone in a town filled with the dead and realised he had the knowledge of cloning that could save the lives of those few who remained.

Man had paid a huge price for his hubris and neglect, but a merciful Creator had given them a way to redeem themselves. The statistical chances of any top scientists surviving that pandemic were infinitesimally small. Yet, among the survivors, there were a surprisingly large number of eminent specialists from a wide cross section of the sciences, including those involved in cellular transpositioning. Their research had eventually led to the time travel they now employed to Retrieve suitable candidates from the past to replenish their depleted numbers.

“Noah’s Ark for humanity” he called the Last Great Plague of 2120; somehow, it had selected survivors who could preserve the best of mankind’s legacy.

His mind returned to the topic at hand. The Retrieval teams were going to Jump to 1912 and pluck children and other suitable adult candidates from the decks of the mortally wounded Titanic. And, for the first time in his life, he was intensely excited by the prospect and wanted to be involved.

Karl wasn’t a Jumper. Such work was left to the more adventurous of his kind. He held a support role – the Head of New Atlantis’ Medical and Research Facility. Not once in the last seventy years of time travel had he felt the urge to involve himself in that other side of life.

Until now. Until the word Titanic reminded him of the undulating rows of grey stone markers, many unnamed, he’d seen in Halifax, Nova Scotia, when he was a child.

His mother had taken him to the Fairview Cemetery to visit the grave of her father that long ago day. While she stood quietly grieving, he’d wandered off into another part of the cemetery. There he found the 121 graves, arranged in three neat rows of markers, all bearing the same date of death: April 15, 1912.

Those graves had affected him. Separated by time – nearly 200 years – he’d still felt a strange bond with those unnamed bodies who were robbed of all that made them human: their names, their history and their loved ones. All they had left were their corpses, which had been collected up by unknown hands and buried in graves of earth, instead of the water that had claimed the bulk of their comrades.

His mother told the story for many years after – well out of his father’s hearing, of course – of how she’d found him standing there among those stones. When asked what had possessed him to wander off like that, he’d simply replied, ‘I came to keep them company. It must have been terrible to die cold and friendless that way and then to be left here to lie forever among nameless strangers.’

He didn’t remember saying that, but it was certainly what he felt for a long time afterwards. All he did remember of his interaction with his mother in that spot was her taking his cold hand in her warm one and gently leading him away.

Now, more than 200 years further on again, those nameless dead were calling to him once more. And this time he could do more than provide short-term companionship. This time he could help to save some of those lost souls from their lonely fate.

Jac and Chen, the leaders of the Retrieval programs, would fight him over his decision to join the undertaking. They’d claim he was too valuable to their society to risk on such a dangerous mission. However, he’d be adamant, and he had enough pull in the higher echelons of government to get his way.

The prep for the mission would take many months. During that time, he planned to integrate with a new clone. Currently, he had been housed in his fourth clone for fifty-five years. Not the limit of the lifespan for a clone by any means, but he wanted to be fit and energetic in a twenty-year-old body if he was to take on tasks that might prove physically demanding and dangerous.

That thought roused the sick excitement once again. Could he be changing in the same way some of the Old Timers were beginning to change after they found their significant other? It felt like it might be the case.

After nearly 250 years within a chrysalis of emotionless rationality, he seemed to be feeling the first tremulous moves toward freedom and life. Within the death throes of that metal Titan, he sensed he would be reborn. The how and why of it he didn’t know, but the when and where was certain: April 15, 1912, Mid Atlantic, aboard the doomed Titanic.

He couldn’t wait!

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Genre – Romance

Rating – Between PG13 and R (sensual but not erotic)

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Website http://nhysglover.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Your Band Is A Virus - Expanded Edition by James Moore

As featured on Indie-music.com, Think Like A Label, I Am Entertainment Magazine, Antimusic.com, and recommended by countless music publications, "Your Band Is A Virus! Expanded Edition" is the bigger and better version of the best selling book "Your Band Is A Virus - Behind-the-Scenes & Viral Marketing for the Independent Musician". At double the size of it's predecessor, it is the ultimate music marketing guide for serious independent musicians and bands.

Independent musicians in 2012 find themselves more confused than ever before. "Your Band Is A Virus - Expanded Edition" presents a complete paradigm shift in both the way artists promote and why they do it.

Advocating breaking the rules, bringing truly original expressions to the world, encouraging controversy, timing a release for optimum impact, promoting to music publications with his behind-the-scenes method, taking advantage of the user-generated revolution with a freelancers army, properly marketing music videos, embracing the free music model, and thinking outside the box, "Your Band Is A Virus" presents an actionable and inspired approach to music marketing coming from James Moore, founder of Independent Music Promotions. James's words have been shared by the likes of CDBaby, Reverbnation, the Lefsetz Letter, the Indie Bible, Indie-Music.com, the DIY Daily and Buzzsonic.com..

"The intention of the book is to completely wipe out many of the misconceptions musicians have when it comes to music marketing. I'm a music promoter. This book wasn't written by an entertainment lawyer or a label CEO. I'm DIY and I write about what has worked for me, and many of the ideas I'm happy to say just don't get talked about anywhere else. It's all straight talk and actionable advice. Musicians have the most trouble and confusion about generating press, so that's what I focus on. There's a lot of misinformation out there, so I hope this book inspires and brings clarity to artists" says Moore.

This special expanded edition also includes an industry insiders interview series featuring legendary producer Stuart Epps (Led Zeppelin, Elton John), HIP Video Promo CEO Andy Gesner (HIP has worked with Johnny Cash, Bon Iver, Pearl Jam, Of Montreal), Justin Wayne of the Justin Wayne show, Katie O'Halloran of Ithinkiloveit.com and Crystal Lee of Vandala Concepts Magazine.

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Genre - Non-fiction, Music Business, Music Marketing

Rating – PG

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Website http://www.independentmusicpromotions.com

Orangeberry Book of the Day – The Woodpecker Menace by Ted Olinger

The Woodpecker Menace

It was one of those damp, warmish evenings so common to Puget Sound in spring. I was sitting on the deck of our still new-ish house, only now emerging from my little family’s first winter in her. I had been contemplating the mold on the railing over the far edge of a martini glass when I heard what sounded like rapid gunfire.

I sat up somewhat straighter and listened to the booming echo in the surrounding woods—or was it the ringing in my ears?The occasional gunshot on the rural peninsula where we live is not uncommon, especially at cocktail hour, but machine-gunning the gathering dusk seemed a bit much even for our sparsely populated neighborhood.

I heard it again: two or three quick, penetrating bursts. Seemed to be coming from the front of the house, near the road. That’s it, I thought. Roadwork. Must be a jackhammer. I forgot all about it.

Before sunrise the next morning, our three-year-old boy kicked open the bedroom door and announced, “I AM AWAKE.” I heard the jackhammer again. A rapid, relent-less pounding that seemed both to be in my head and wrapped around it. Of course, I thought, that’s what woke him. Damn early though. I’d speak to the work crew up on the road.

But there was no work crew.

I heard it again that evening. And again. I walked down our long gravel driveway to the road. The sound tore open the evening quiet: BDDDDDDTH! BDDDDDDTH! BDDDDDDTH!

My God, I thought. It’s coming from our house!

I crept back up the driveway, concealing myself in the rhododendrons. BDDDDDDDDTH! I slinked behind the house. BDDDDDDDTH! A bright flash rocketed down from the eaves and smashed into the suet basket hanging on our deck. There it was, a tan and speckled woodpecker, shining orange under the wings, talons sunk deep into the suet, twirling at the end of the basket’s chain. It sensed my gawking and turned its evil gaze on me. It took off in a blur and vanished into the tree line, violently beating the air with flashes of banded gold.

Dawn next morning. BDDDDTH! BDDDDTH! BDDDTH! The walls pulsated. The windows rattled. Our boy kicked open the door. “WOO’PECKER,” he said. We lay there, my wife and boy and I, innocents in the dark, listening to this twelve-inch tall bird produce a sound like all the jackhammers of hell destroying the Devil’s own driveway.

I crept downstairs and silently opened the back door. BDDDDTH! The very air was rent. I looked up to the eaves. He was near the apex of the roof, below the chimney, attacking a piece of flashing. His evil little head snapped back and forth with military precision. He aimed his beak at some secret confluence of roof, flashing and gutter and BDDDTH! BDDDTH! BDDDDTH! The sound it produced was stunning, and it was directly above our three-year-old’s room. It seemed an honor, in a way, to be thus embraced by the natural world, as if the arrival of the woodpecker was a sublime gift offered with outstretched arm by the open hand of nature.

Four weeks later, neither my wife nor my son nor I had slept past dawn. Five in the morning. BDDTH! Five in the evening. BDDDDDDTH! Any time in between. BDDDDDDDDTH! The boy started to have bad dreams. My wife demanded action. I searched for an answer in vain until one evening, while sitting on our deck, a small piece of freshly gouged wooden siding floated down and came to rest near my martini glass. The siege of the woodpecker was no longer just mental torture.

Our nemesis had a name—Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus)—and we were not his first victims. The broad migration range of the flicker spills across North America like so much blood, seeping all the way into the deserts of the southwest down to Central America and even Cuba. The male will “drum,” as the rapid fire hammering of his beak is called, to proclaim his territory, but principally he drums to attract a mate. If decibels were any measure of desire, we had one lonely woodpecker on our hands. Once paired, however, flickers are monogamous. Ensconced in their choice locale, they may remain for a decade. They will defend their territory to the death.

Ordinarily, flickers seek out dead trees for nest excavation but ignore the well-seasoned wood of older homes. In the absence of appropriate dead wood, they will readily apply their skills to any structure for “drumming,” as the bird books modestly call this 20-beat-per-second head banging. Cedar shingles, metal gutters, roof flashing, an-tennae, chimney caps, highway signs—all are ripe targets for drumming. And the louder the better, for drumming is not a search for food, it is a declaration: “THIS LAND IS MINE. LOVE ME OR LEAVE IT.”

It must be said that the Northern Flicker is not only tough, adaptable and fearless—as anyone who has battled it will admit—it is a keystone species. The cavities it creates provide homes for numerous other animals. It is also, ironically, a mostly terrestrial feeder, scouring the ground for ants and termites and other insects potentially harmful to the very same houses it would happily chisel into oblivion by its hammering. “Ant bird” is one of the two hundred or so monikers that have been hung on this terrible creature since our colonial times. Other attractive handles include: Big Sapsucker, Carpintero, Cotton-back, Golden Winged Woodcock, High Holer, Little Wood Chuck, Pecker Wood, Shadspirit, Yellowhammer and, most fitting of all, the Blackhearted Woodpecker for the heart shaped mark emblazoned on its chest, Superman style.

The books urged us to cover up the damage with an array of anti-woodpecker paraphernalia. We took down our suet baskets and bird feeders, enraging the local jay population. We bought a battery-powered motion detecting plastic owl that turned its head and hooted whenever one of our dogs drew near. More extreme measures, such as attaching mirrors near the damage, applying foul tasting muck or stapling strips of Mylar along the roofline were impractical. Our roof, where the flicker chose to drum, is over thirty feet off the ground and too steep to stand on. The idea of renting an extension ladder long enough to reach it and risk plunging to my death while trying to scare away a bird was laughable. For a while.

By April, blood was in the air. None of our simple tricks had worked. The owl batteries had long since died. Friends who had laughed at our troubles now offered sympathy and firearms. I still resisted the idea of attaching anything to our roof, strictly out of concern for my own safety. I was not going to risk my life staple-gunning plastic ribbons to the gutter. Even if it worked, I’d have to go back up there and rip it all down. Or would I? Would we have to leave it there indefinitely? We needed a better answer.

One of the less helpful sympathy gifts we had received was a stuffed animal version of a Northern Flicker Woodpecker. We were encouraged to “try some voodoo on this guy and see what happens!”

Our son commandeered the toy and incorporated it into the menagerie of stuffed monkeys, bears and other exotics that accompanied him to bed each night. He carefully propped each one up among the pillows at the head of his bed, to watch over him as he slept. “We love you all the time, but now it’s time to go to sleep,” he intoned, which was exactly what we said to him each night.

As I tucked the boy in and observed the woodpecker in his burrow of pillows, I realized we were going about this whole thing the wrong way.

What if we welcomed this bird instead of fighting it? What if we installed a woodpecker house on our roof, right at his drumming spot? Perhaps he would move in and stop drumming there?

I went to a local tool store to rent the dreaded extension ladder. The aging owner behind the counter demanded to know what I was about. I found it difficult to say out loud, but admitted that I planned to nail a birdhouse to my roof to keep a woodpecker from hammering my home to pieces. He stared at me. “Is it a Flicker?” he whispered, as if one might be listening. “Had one on ah house ah mine once.”

My heart quickened. Here was a survivor of woodpecker battle, full of knowledge to share. “What did you do?”

“Moved."

Somehow I managed to climb the ladder, carrying a two-foot tall, six-by-six inch woodpecker house stuffed full of cedar sawdust (to give the flicker something to excavate), a cordless drill, and a bunch of screws. Cheating death, I installed this new totem, and waited for the silence to begin.

The hammering went on. The woodpecker house failed to attract, discourage, or even interest the woodpecker in any way. It occurred to me that this bird was obviously a veteran of many conflicts with humans. And there was that arresting phrase I’d read: “Will defend their territory to the death.” It began to hit home.

I am not ordinarily bloodthirsty and am a sincere believer that nature is best left to its own devices. But after more than two months this living hammer had still not attracted a mate despite its singular, incessant and spectacular hammering. After all, I too am part of the evolutionary circle of life. Sometime in May I decided that if he didn’t find a date soon, this woodpecker was going to be selected against.

Like all migratory birds, the Northern Flicker is a protected species. However, the federal government has kindly provided, in its familiar tortured fashion, a process by which one may obtain a permit to kill a woodpecker that is damaging property or driving a young family insane. My years in uniform had made me a competent rifleman—and I have been known to trim lofty tree branches with a shotgun—but I was not eager to start blasting holes in the side of my house to kill a bird. I took the decision seriously. With the grim and disciplined patience appropriate for such a measure, I began the tedious filing and phone calling necessary to obtain the two permits that would become my license to kill.

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Genre – Fiction / Short Stories

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.woodpeckermenace.com/

Orangeberry Free Alert - Blood Alley by David Wisehart

Blood Alley - David Wisehart

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Thriller

Rating - PG13

4.4 (14 reviews)

Free until 19 July 2013

Buckle up for a high-octane, pulse-pounding thrill ride...
Could you survive a haunted highway?
Blood Alley is the deadliest road in Amqerica.
Some call it a death trap. Others say it's haunted. Only the locals know the truth...
Blood Alley belongs to the Highwayman, a vengeful phantom who drives his ghost car at night to claim the souls of all who cross him.
Teenagers on their way to a funeral get delayed by engine trouble and ignore the warnings:
Don't drive Blood Alley at night!
Four teenagers hit the road at sunset.
Will any survive to see the dawn?

Orangeberry Book of the Day – SILVER: Acheron (A River of Pain) (The SILVER Series) by Keira Michelle Telford

CHAPTER ONE

The Steep & Savage Path

The Fringe District

Amaranthe, 2342 CE

– Present Day

Condemned, Silver is left on the bridge to the Fringe District, her wrist still gushing blood. Moments ago, the delicate skin of her inner left wrist was sliced open with a scalpel and a small, platinum colored microchip was expertly removed.

That tag was her life story, containing every detail of her life from the day of her birth to the last time she ordered a cup of coffee. Formerly a Commander in an elite military institution called the Hunter Division, she is now a prisoner.  Relegated to the Fringe District, she joins the ranks of the banished.

A criminal, or so she is accused of being, she’s cut off from her friends and family and left to fend for herself in this fetid, dank scrap of Old World land that was once called Staten Island.

Now, more than three hundred years after a global war changed the dynamic of our planet forever, humans are beginning to make their resurgence. This place, Amaranthe, is the first reclaimed human city—but Silver is not its first victim. Standards for occupation in the city are high, and many don’t make the cut. If you’re considered unworthy, any excuse will be used—any small indiscretion exposed—to place you before the Banishment and Enforcement Council.

In Silver’s case, she’s lucky to have been banished. In Amaranthe’s poorly constructed, two-tiered judicial system, her sentence could just as easily have been enforcement.

Capital punishment.

Death via bullet.

Fortunately, the man who raised her holds some sway in the government. Not enough to keep her from facing the gavel, but enough to keep her from facing the gun. Amaranthe’s governing body, the totalitarian Omega administration, is a harsh and cruel master, feared by all who dwell within its jurisdiction.

Left with nothing more than the clothes on her back and a few small weapons, Silver begins the lonesome walk toward her new Fringe District life. Her Hunter Division boots are the last identifiable remnants of her prior occupation. Stained with blood and dirt, the Omega emblems are hard to make out on the scuffed steel plates decorating the backs of the heels. Her well-worn jeans are made from a mixture of hemp, which flourishes rampantly in the New World, and para-aramid synthetic fiber—Kevlar. Designed to last for up to a decade of use, this pair has seen at least three rotations of the year already. They’ve survived countless days spent off-duty, romping in the playground of the unreclaimed world outside Amaranthe’s secure walls, often finding themselves covered in dirt and mud, and Chimeran blood.

Chimera.

The creatures generations of humans—including Silver—have been bred to kill. Born in the aftermath of a nuclear war, they were human once … until their humanity was lost over centuries of rapid genetic mutations. During this time, ninety-nine percent of all living things on Earth died, yet the Chimera proved to be an adaptive and resilient new species.

Outnumbering this small population of humans by 25:1, the Chimera lurk in the shadows, scavenging for food in the places where human feet no longer dare to tread. Ferocious meat-eaters, they will hunt alone or in packs, and human is their prey of choice.

Kill, or be killed.

A motto of the Hunter Division, whose job it is—among other things—to destroy Chimera so that Amaranthe can continue to expand. Not to mention, the whole city relies on the Hunter Division kills. Chimera is the only source of fresh meat, and no part of the animal is wasted. Their hide makes good leather, and many things can be made from bone. Some live specimens are even farmed for their milk.

Today, though, Silver’s jeans are clean. Held in the detainment corridor for almost a month prior to her sentencing, she’s had no time to play. Affixed to the belt loops, a utility belt contains holsters for a hunting knife, a handgun and two spare clips of 9mm ammunition. The knife, recently sharpened, bears a ferocious steel blade and a jet black handle custom inlayed with a sterling silver design—an Ella Cross .

This is Silver’s trademark; her territorial stamp. Not only is it an ancient Old World symbol, once known as a warrior shield, it’s a pictorial representation of her birth name. Ella Cross was born twenty-eight years ago. Silver was forged in battle, when she joined the Hunter Division.

Her handgun, an HK USP, also custom engraved, is silver-plated and bears her birth father’s initials. It never leaves her side, and his old Hunter Division dog tags never leave her wrist. They bear his name and rank, stamped ‘DECEASED’ over top. Her own set of dog tags still hang around her neck, despite her most recent fall into unemployment. Stamped ‘DISCHARGED’, she tucks them inside her shirt—both pairs: the ones bearing her name, and another set bearing the name of the lover she may never see again.

Alexander King has been hers since the day she first laid eyes on him, but now they’re separated by one impassable bridge. Only Omega employees can walk freely between the two polar opposite worlds on either side, and Alex was discharged from the Hunter Division, just like Silver. Though, with his spotless professional record, he was unable to be charged with anything more serious than engaging in a prohibited relationship with his unit Commander. Thus, he was spared banishment.

She wasn’t so lucky.

She had a secondary charge to contend with: treason.

Suddenly aware of the pain in her wrist, Silver pulls out a strip of gauze given to her by the surgeon and wraps it tightly around her oozing stitches. Better than nothing, she surmises. Her fingers wet with her own blood, she backhands some stray wisps of dark blonde hair away from her face. Always in a pony tail, her hair could go days without brushing and you’d barely even notice. She’s beautiful, of course, but not like the girls in Old World magazines. Raised for the Hunter Division, she’s tall and strong. Her shoulders carry a strength that could put some lesser men to shame, and her face hasn’t seen a lick of make-up since her sixteenth birthday.

Sharp, silver eyes look out upon the world with a new found cynicism, and her lips are fully prepared never to smile again.

Fuck ‘em, she thinks.

Fuck Omega, and the lies they’ve smeared her with. Fuck truth and justice, and all the things she’s ever fought for. Fuck love, and all the pain that’s brought her. Fuck dying, like they hope she will.

She’s armed, and ready. With steel boots, a steel blade, a stone cold heart and three full clips of hollow points, she’s got enough to take on the Fringe District … for today, at least—and she’s not prepared to go down without a fight. This place is rough, like the worst neighborhood you’ve ever been to, times a thousand. It wouldn’t be uncommon for an easier mark to be killed in the street for the hat on their head, or the loaf of bread in their hand.

Fortunately, though, Silver’s no fool. Combat trained from the age of five, she can take on a man twice her size, and her agility and stamina will out-maneuver him every time. She has that, and confidence—in the bucket loads.

Reaching the foot of the bridge, Silver receives her first welcome: a barrage of signs and graffiti intended to drive away those who have come to gloat, or to abuse. Since its inception, the Fringe District has been more than just a prison land, and within it the prisoners—the banished—run rampant.

Success of the banished population, on such a scale, was simply not anticipated; longevity was not considered. In a place crawling with disease, and with the complete lack of an established healthcare system, the predicted mortality rate was high. Breeding was not part of the plan, and by the time it became a noticeable problem, it was already too late. The Fringer population was thriving, despite their circumstances.

Stricter penalties in the Sentinel District ensure more banishments each successive year, but births in the prison District still outnumber new inmates at a growing ratio of 1000:1.

Hope of something better was abandoned long ago. Behind every depraved, grotesque, and often illegal action you may witness, there is one prime motivator: survival, at all costs.

An every-man-for-himself mentality exists here in the extreme, and this desperation is routinely exploited by the Hunters and Police Division Agents who frequent these parts for their own entertainment.

Prostitution.

Drugs.

Gambling.

Pit fights.

Everything prohibited in Omega’s superficial utopia, the Sentinel District, is available in the Fringe if you’re willing to pay for it, or if you have the strength to take it by force. Though, it should be said, this approach seldom has a happy ending for the aggressor, and the row of decapitated heads on spikes at the entrance to the Fringe is a testament to that. You cross these people—the Fringers—at your own risk, because they will retaliate.

For all their faults and the civil disorder that abounds here, violence perpetrated by outsiders is simply not tolerated. A crime against one is a crime against all, and from this simple understanding, a system of reciprocity has arisen.

Hunters routinely exchange meat for cannabis or liquor. Weapons are also traded across the border—for sexual favors, mostly. A Hunter will sneak a Striker 12 shotgun out of the Omega Armory and smuggle it into the Fringe where he’ll pay a whore’s Handler for an hour or two of her time. The Handler, in turn, will sell the shotgun to the highest bidder for money, or some other valuable commodity.

There are no philanthropists here. No charity, no compassion, only merchants and consumers, and Silver knows precisely what to expect. For a time, she and her fellow Hunters ran a pit fight ring in the back room of a seedy little Fringe District bar.

A butcher shop.

A place where Chimera are starved for days before being let loose in a ring and provoked to fight it out with others of their kind, in front of an audience. Bets are taken on the outcome, and the Hunters who bring in the animals are given a commission or free merchandise—whichever they prefer.

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Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – 18A

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Special Offers (The Coursodon Dimension) by ML Ryan

Meet Hailey - possessed by an otherworldly being who was trapped in her Kindle.

Hailey Parrish is quick-witted, irreverent, and hasn’t had a date in three years. She only wanted an eBook reader because her collection of paperbacks threatened to take over her small living space. Little did she know that the "special offers" that prompted the purchase included much more than a reduced price in exchange for a few ads. The device came pre-loaded with the essence of Sebastian Kess, an erudite womanizer with magical abilities from a parallel dimension. When she inadvertently releases him and he inhabits her body, she finally has a man inside her, just not in the way she imagined. And soon her predicament introduces her to yet another supernatural, the handsome could-be-the-man-of-her-dreams Alex Sunderland. Can Alex and Hailey find a way to return Sebastian to his own body, stay one step ahead of the criminals who want to keep him where he is, and not lose their sense of humor?

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Genre - Fantasy / Paranormal Romance 

Rating – R

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Connect with ML Ryan on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.coursodondimension.com/