Cover Reveal Tour + Giveaway: Rise of a Rector

It’s finally here, the cover reveal for Heather McCorkle’s Rise of a Rector, the final novel in her channeler series (due out this October). To celebrate Heather is giving away two copies of her historical fantasy novel, To Ride A Puca. Before we get to that though, here is the cover:

Quick Excerpt to Whet Your Appetite!

The card dropped from her hands as she covered her mouth and tried to stifle a cry. There was no doubt in her mind it came from him. It had the oily feel of his energy still clinging to it. In a heartbeat Aiden was beside her, his hands on her shoulders. The feel of both his hands and his power drove back the edge of her panic, but just barely. Aiden reached down amidst all the scraps of colorful wrapping paper and picked up the card. He made a sound that started as a gasp and ended up as an angry scream. Letting the card fall, he pulled Eren tight against his chest.

To add it to your Goodreads lists click here. If you’d like to check out the rest of the channeler series (her novella Born of Fire is now FREE on Amazon & B&N!). To win an eBook of To Ride A Puca, all you have to do is help Heather spread the word. There will be two winners! To enter fill out the form below.

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About the Author

I am an author of fantasy, in all it’s many sub-genres. Entertaining readers, helping other writers, protecting endangered species, and living as green a life as possible are my passions. When I’m not writing or surfing my favorite social networking sites I can be found on the slopes, the hiking trails, or on horseback. As a native Oregonian, I enjoy the outdoors nearly as much as the worlds I create on the pages. No need to travel to the Great Northwest though, you can find me here on my personal blog three days a week where I share my author’s journey. You can also find me every Monday night at 6:00pm PT on the #WritersRoad chat on Twitter. My lovely friend Tee (TS Tate) and I are the co-creators and moderators of the chat.

Trouble at the Hotel Baba Ghanoush Blog Tour + Giveaway

Title: Trouble at the Hotel Baba Ghanoush
Author: T. C. Archer
Genre: Science fiction, Erotica
Publisher: Loose Id
Ebook
Words:
35,000

“Enforcer Fontana Marks is on vacation undercover until she has to testify against the Track Cartel for crimes against the Galactic Coalition. But the cartel is hiding something, and Fontana intends to find out what–then make them pay for murdering Jenny, the young scientist Fontana failed to protect on a previous assignment.

The last thing Fontana intends to do while vacationing incognito on the fantasy resort Sagitariun is follow the advice of her superior. “Rest, recuperate, and find a man.”

But how can a woman resist a blond, blue-eyed, chisel-jawed, great-assed man streaking naked in public when he’s obviously running from someone? And why can’t she to get rid of the damned trench coat she stole to rescue him?”

Available at ARe || Amazon || Fictionwise || B&N (Nook)

Excerpt anyone?

The man shifted, and the loose-fitting white shirt went taut across his broad shoulders. Memory of his tanned skin and steel muscle hit like a thunderbolt, and Fontana’s stomach did a flip.

He grinned, a sure sign he knew he was being viewed through a one-way door. Desire rippled through her on a slow, sure wave that promised heart-stopping pleasure. She’d known good-looking men. Ray, her last serious relationship five years ago, had been gorgeous. She’d been mad for him, but the man standing outside her door had a quality about him that made her want to snuggle up against him and fall asleep.

Fontana snorted. Her body would disagree. Right now that part of her throbbed with an insistent desire to bed him—hard. Maybe then the flutter in her heart would have a say, and she’d fall asleep wrapped in his arms. That would be a welcome change to the sleepless nights she’d spent since Jenny’s death. It would be a temporary fix, but she could use at least one good night’s rest.

She sighed. First she’d better deal with the damned raincoat and find out how the naked man had escaped the shock troopers. Then there was the little matter of how he’d found out where she was staying.

Fontana rose and smoothed the form-fitting blouse and poly-cotton slacks she wore. “Open door,” she said, and the door dematerialized.

His stare slid down her body, and her nipples tightened to a delicious discomfort—and one he couldn’t miss under the millipore fabric of her top.

“Well, Mr. Long John.”

His blue eyes returned to her face. “Long John?”

She stepped aside and motioned him in. “Last time I saw you, your long johnson was standing at attention.”

He entered, and the door rematerialized behind him. “Give him a minute, and he’ll be at your command again.”

“What are you doing here?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist. “You said to look you up.”

She spun out of his grasp and backed up. “How did you find me?”

“Spacer Jack’s is brimming with information.”

He was right. She’d figured that out the first time she’d walked in. Even a benign resort like Club Sagitariun had a dark side. Proof stood right in front of her in all its masculine glory. No. All his masculine glory had been long, hard, and ready to go in the alley. Damn shock troopers. Ten more minutes and she would have had a quick hard ride on his steel rod.

He continued to advance.

She retreated. “Where’s my raincoat?”

He grasped her hand. “What do you need with a man’s raincoat?”

“The owner is looking for it.”

“Forget about him.” He stepped closer.

“Can’t.”

“I came to thank you for the coat. Let me buy you breakfast.”

Some offer—and not what she had in mind for jump-starting a morning that had begun four hours ago for her.

“It’s not my coat,” she said.

“We’ll find the owner and thank him—later. We have some unfinished business.”

Heat radiated from his body. Her pulse sped up. The smile at the corners of his mouth deepened. Her calves made contact with the bed. He stepped closer, grasped her hand, and pressed her palm over his heart.

Fontana ignored the warmth spreading through her and locked gazes with him. “What did those shock troopers want?”

He shrugged. “Never found out.”

“They never caught you.”

“I had to elude them so I could be here.”

That had a certain logic she liked.

His fingers gently tightened over the hand still pressed against his heart. “You’ve got my heart beating like crazy.”

She noted the hard muscle of his chest, under which only a regular heartbeat thumped, and pulled her hand away. “It’s not nice to lie.”

“I’m hurt.”

She wanted to laugh. He actually did look hurt.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all that we’ve shared,” he said.

Now she did laugh. Fontana was startled at the unexpected relief she felt. She hadn’t laughed since setting foot on Rigil IV. He cut off her thoughts by pulling her against him. His mouth crashed down onto hers. The hard ridge of his arousal dug into her stomach. She could almost believe she had a special effect on him. Almost. But that erection was just a little too ready—a little too eager—to belong to anyone but a working man.

About the Authors

T. C. Archer is comprised of award winning authors Evan Trevane and Shawn M. Casey. They live in the Northeast.

Evan puts his Ph.D. to good use by writing about alternate realities, and Shawn channels the mythology and philosophy she studied during her wasted youth into writing about exotic places and times.

 Find the Author Online!

Website | Blog | Twitter | Facebook

Giveaway Time!

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Follow the tour!

August 22nd

Amy’s Book World
Ramblings of an Amateur Writer
Simply Infatuated
A Dream Within A Dream
Reading on the Wild Side
Proserpine Craving Books
Black Hippie Chick’s Take on Books &The World
A Bibliophile’s Thoughts on Books
A Bit of Dash
The Steamy Side
August 23rd
A Diary Of A Book Addict
Natalie-Nicole Bates
Off the Page
Erotic Romance With a Bite…Leigh Savage
The Avid Reader
The Bunnys Review
Musings of a bookworm
Book Lover’s Hideaway
Blood, Lust and Erotica
Book Club Sisters

Chain Reaction Blog Tour + Giveaway

Just reading the blurb on this one makes me want to see it on the big screen. It gives me chills all over.


Title: Chain Reaction
Series: Phenom League, Book 1
Author: T. C. Archer
Genre: Romance
Publisher: Silver Publishing
Ebook
Words: 65,000

Book Description:

Former Chicago Detective Jordan Pierce put his life on hold in order to protect America’s secret weapon against the Nazis, The Manhattan Project. But he can’t protect himself as his humanity is eaten away by a mysterious disease that destroys him, while at the same time makes him more powerful than any man he’s ever known. Jordan finds out how much the disease has devoured his soul when he falls in love with the woman who might destroy America and tear apart his last shred of humanity.

Available at Amazon | ARe | Bookstrand | B&N |

Excerpt

A moment later, I halted in front of the closed door where Dr Nichols waited. The name painted on the glass read: Dr Enrico Roma, the alias of the great scientist and Nobel Prize laureate Enrico Fermi. The alias didn’t fool anybody but the ignorant. Light shone through the milky glass window. I blew out a breath. The last thing I wanted to do was interrogate a hysterical woman.

I opened the door and stopped dead at the sight of a shapely blonde leaning against Fermi’s mahogany desk. I stared as realization sunk in that the Veronica Lake look-alike standing there was the same egghead pictured in her personnel file. The glasses she’d worn were absent and, despite the red-rimmed eyes and drawn expression, the single overhead light warmed the creamy complexion that had looked bland and colorless in the photo.

Thick blond hair slid across her face in a broad wave and flowed down slim shoulders. Suddenly, I understood the reasoning behind the functional bun in the picture. Despite the legs that mesmerized a man all the way down to the high heel straps, the tweed skirt and blazer she wore emphatically stated the bombshell figure was off limits. But the moment a man laid eyes on her luxurious hair all bets were off. My breath caught with bloodlust as I drew in her scent from across the room.

Gray-blue eyes stared from behind the drape of blond hair. Her gaze flicked to my waistband and I realized she’d glimpsed the colt holstered beneath my suit jacket.

“You wear your gun like a gangster,” she said.

I startled. Her voice, low and sultry, held a shaky note, but I knew the remark was payment for my staring.

“This incident requires I carry a weapon.” My drill sergeant used to berate any reference to the word gun. “Your gun is between your legs, son. Your pistol or rifle is called a weapon.”

She continued to stare and guilt stabbed at me. She’d discovered a colleague who’d been brutally murdered, and I stood in the doorway gawking at her. I swallowed, feeling like a school kid.

“Dr Nichols, I’m Agent Pierce, head of nightshift security.” Her fingers tightened around a lace handkerchief gripped in her right palm. I didn’t want to step closer, but had to. Her pheromones were making my blood, or what was left of it, crave an infusion from her veins. “What happened?”

Her gaze dropped to the hankie and she began working the fabric with both hands. “I was working late and needed Leon to come to the lab. I couldn’t get the Geiger counter to calibrate. I knocked. When no one answered, I opened the door and…” Her eyes swung up to meet mine. “So much blood.” Her gaze remained locked with my eyes as if demanding a response.

“I’m sorry,” I offered. “I thought you were assigned to dayshift.”

She swiped at the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief. “I switched shifts yesterday so Leon and I could calibrate the new equipment.”
I nodded. The scientists worked a twelve hours on, twelve off schedule seven days a week. We were in a race against Nazi scientists while men died in Europe, North Africa, and the Pacific. “Did you notice anything unusual tonight?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Hear anything strange on the way to Dr Heinrick’s office, pass anyone in the hall?”

She shook her head. “Maybe he’s still here.” Something in the way she stared at—through—me, searching for answers and fearing what she might find, threatened to tip me off balance. “The murderer is gone,” I replied in a level voice.

“How do you know?”

“A hunch,” I said, and meant it.

“Why kill Heinrick?” she said. “Why not Compton or Fermi? But Heinrick…” Her voice trailed off.

“Are you saying Heinrick didn’t know anything worth killing for?”

“I suppose we all know something worth killing for. Each scientist on this project is top in his or her field. But the project will go on without Heinrick. If we lost Oppenheimer, or Fermi, the project would be delayed, if not brought to a standstill.”

“Did you enter Heinrick’s office?” “No, I took one look and ran.”

The response, given without hesitation, or guile, made me wonder if this woman ran from anything.

“This was the first office I came to,” she said.

Her story made sense, and my instincts said she was telling the truth. I had learned to trust my sixth sense, especially the last eight months. This ability was another one of those things I couldn’t explain, like being conscious of the way her pheromones where working on me double-time.
“Are you staying in the dorm?” I asked. She nodded.

“I’ll have someone escort you there.”

Desire to go with her shot to the surface with the heat of a volcano. I pictured white skin, full breasts, and blond hair between perfect thighs. I forced my breathing to remain even, and the swelling in my shorts abated. I’d never experienced such sudden, intense lust. If I escorted her back to her room I would drink her blood—and God only knew what I would do to her afterward. My pulse jumped with the thought of her warm blood flowing past my tongue down my throat… and her tight walls closing around me as I entered her.

“I have to complete my measurements before the day shift,” she said. I jarred from the erotic thought. “There’s not enough equipment to go around,” she added.

I nodded. “Of course.”

Clipped footsteps sounded almost noiselessly on the linoleum floor of the hallway and I recognized McHenry’s walk two seconds before Dr Nichols’s eyes shifted over my shoulder.

“Pierce.”

I glanced back to see him standing in the open doorway. “The general wants to talk to you.”

A measure of sanity reasserted itself. I had to get away from her, now. “Could you escort Dr Nichols back to the lab?”

His expression lightened. “No problem.” He stepped aside and motioned toward the door with an open hand. “Dr Nichols.”

She cast me a farewell glance and headed toward the door. I tried tearing my eyes from the gentle sway of hips as she walked past, but couldn’t, and felt the heat swell to the surface again. I had to find one of the small rodents whose blood I drank to keep my thirst for human blood at bay, or go back to Heinrick and hope the congealed blood in his decaying body would make me forget the craving. Rising desire twisted my insides and I feared even Heinrick’s dead blood wouldn’t work against the warm, pulsing blood of Dr Nichols.

About the Author

T. C. Archer is comprised of award winning authors Evan Trevane and Shawn M. Casey. They live in the Northeast.

Evan puts his Ph.D. to good use by writing about alternate realities, and Shawn channels the mythology and philosophy she studied during her wasted youth into writing about exotic places and times.

Evan and Shawn write romantic sci-fi, paranormal romance and romantic suspense.

Find the Author Online

Website | Facebook | Twitter: T.C. Archer@TCArcher | Blog | Goodreads

Giveaway time!

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Follow the Tour

July 17th- The Jeep Diva (Book Review/Giveaway)
July 18th- The Bunnys Review (Book Review/Author Interview)
July 19th- Full Moon Bites (Giveaway/Promo Post)
July 20th- Heart Of A Wolf (Book Review/Author Interview)
July 21st- The Avid Reader (Author Interview/Giveaway)
July 22nd- A Dream Within A Dream (Giveaway/Promo Post)
July 23rd- Proserpine Craving Books (Author Interview/Giveaway)
July 24th- Redheads Review It Better (Author Interview/Book Review)
July 25th- A Diary Of A Book Addict (Book Review/Giveaway)
July 26th- Tricia Kristufek (Book Review/Giveaway)
July 27th- This Is From My Heart (Author Interview/Promo Post)
July 28th- Ramblings of an Amateur Writer (Giveaway/Promo Post)
July 29th- A Page Away (Giveaway/Promo Post)
July 30th- Off the Page (Author Interview/Promo Post)
July 31st- Simply Infatuated (Author Interview/Giveaway)

Tales of Lust, Hate and Despair Blog Tour

Ever read a blurb and a movie comes to mind? Tales of Lust, Hate, and Despair does it for me–Man on the Ledge. Let ’em out to play and they get involved in all sorts of mischief. 🙂


Samuel Lee has known three days of freedom in the last eighteen years. Three days to come out of prison, see his daughter, settle a score and go back in again, for good this time.

Told in the tradition of the best literary noir, Tales of Lust, Hate and Depair is a modern, lowdown and gritty take on the genre. Inspired by the cinema of Akira Kurosawa and Samuel Fuller as well as the music of Tom Waits, Sage Francis, Neurosis and Marilyn Manson, it is a novel that is sure to please anyone who has ever found themselves trapped and cast aside from the world.

Available at Amazon

Excerpt

Prologue
Donnaconna Institution
Maximum Security.
145 miles north-east of Montreal
267 inmates
27% serving life sentences
2012

Hey kid.

I know you requested to be here in person but your mother had enough sense not to allow it. You’re not eighteen yet, so her decision is final and I think she made the right call. Donnacona Federal prison ain’t no place for a girl like you.

Now, I know I’m not much of a father, probably because I never had the chance to be one but I am sorry I never got to be there for you. Your grandfather came to visit a few weeks ago. I’m glad to see that there’s at least one person from my side of the family who’s looking out for you. He told me you applied to circus school in Montreal. I never thought you could go to school for that, but he says your heart is set on it. So my heart is now set on it too. I just hope I get to see one of your shows one day. If you’ll have me, of course.

I guess what I want to say is, I ain’t got much, but I do have a little money set aside. Only seven thousand or so, but it’s something. It’s all legit money, so don’t worry about how I raised it. I don’t do drugs and I’ve quit drinking years ago. They don’t pay much here in prison, but I’m working the laundry service for 5.50 a day. I’ve been behaving well, and I got lucky enough to get on a Corcan program twice. It pays a little more and it gives me credits and experience to work when I get out. Now, the money is yours whether you want it or not. I don’t have much use for it in here.

Your mother said you wanted to know what happened that day, said you were pretty insistent about it. I don’t know if it is out of anger, which I wouldn’t hold against you, or if it is out of compassion, but if you think you are old enough to hear these things, I’m ready to tell you.

I don’t know everything for sure, but it was pretty easy to figure out. The news covered the story plenty. I had court records and word of mouth from friends and friends of friends and so on. Anything I didn’t know for sure, I just added in the details that made the most sense. Now, there is still time for you to forget about this because I’m not going to make it pretty for you. I may be a murderer, but a liar is not something I am. I won’t try to get you on my side either. I will tell it like it was and let you decide for yourself.

You have to understand that I hadn’t seen you at that point except in pictures. And even then, it was Mikey who had shown it to me while I was inside. Alice…Well, I thought your mother probably had better places to be or better people to be with. She can say whatever she wants. She never supported me in any way and that is one thing she can’t deny.

But you should’ve seen yourself in that picture. You were beautiful. Oh yes! Those pure green eyes, brown hair, lovable little cheeks, chubby cheeks, and you wore a little princess outfit with a tiara and a wand. It was nothing too corny. All green with butterfly wings. A fairy princess or something. I’d spend days looking at that picture.

That picture was taken a year prior to that night in the bar. I didn’t know what to expect anymore. How much had you grown? Had you grown all of your baby teeth? Did you like music? Of course, everybody likes music, but what kind and just how much? And I remembered an oath I made to myself back in prison. I swore I’d find me a good guitar when I got out, and I would sing you all the songs I had written about you. And two years is plenty of time to work on songs, let me tell you that.

I imagined myself on a stool, playing the cords on an acoustic guitar and you’d be dancing and twirling and all of that. What can I say? You were my light. Kept me straight and out of trouble, and to this day you still do. It is strange how I’ve never been in trouble while I’ve been in prison, either in Cowansville or here in Donnaconna. I can assure you that there are plenty of ways to get into trouble in here, but I never did thanks to you. Those three days of freedom earned me a lifetime in prison, but I have been at peace ever since, knowing you were alright out there.

In so many ways, you saved me without you even knowing it so I swore I would make sure to tell you someday, what went down and why it happened and now you are asking me just that. I’m not even looking for salvation here, maybe just understanding and forgiveness.

Forgiveness is a long hard road. I just hope you can understand that.

Chapter 1
1996

It was early, early September. The sky was covered with thick gray clouds. There was rain forecast for the evening. The boss was coming down the road driving his best bike: a brand new, flat black, Fat Boy Harley. The exhaust noise echoed all around as he made his way on the deserted street. He pulled on the gas and the bike winded louder which drew a satisfied grin on the man’s face.

He took a left at the gate of an abandoned industrial building lot. It was well fenced-off with plywood and tarps all around so that no one could peek inside. The building was awaiting demolition but the gates were open because the man on the bike also ran the company that would tear the place down. If they had killed me, I might have ended up in the same containers as the demolished concrete. There would have been a pile of rocks, mesh wire, floorboards, busted lamps and a dead Samuel Lee. Nobody would go looking for me.

He parked the bike right next to an old battered Buick Skylark. There were four other cars in the parking lot. The first two were a Cavalier and a revamped Impala. The other two were cars you forgot quickly about: a Hyundai and a Corolla.

He took off his helmet, went inside and up four stories. There were two men at the door, ‚full patched‛ men wearing leather jackets and dark sunglasses inside. They were silent and still, which was contrasted by a hell of a ruckus coming from inside the room.

Now most people imagine a Russian mob to be silent and methodical, likewise a Chinese triad or a Japanese Yakama too, and they’re probably right, but these folks here were brawlers. Boxing was the fanciest martial art they were ever going to do. Their tactics were loud: they rarely got the job done right, let alone done clean.
I remember hearing the metallic door and the boss walking in. The room had been stripped of all features except for the large square frame windows that had seen too many decades. The lights were all shattered and the room was lit up by a series of double-headed industrial work lights. There wasn’t any ventilation on the floor and with twenty men or so surrounding me in a closed space, it quickly felt like we were in the tropics.

Each of them were granted a turn and I was hurting pretty badly. I was breathing heavily as thick, salty sweat was dripping from my forehead. The droplets ran down my cheeks and mixed with the blood pouring down from the cuts around my jaw. A pool of my own blood and sweat was starting to spread on the floor under the chair on which I was tied. I had at least a black eye and a busted lip, two teeth down and most likely a broken rib. But it seemed that would not be enough. I was in for the beating of a lifetime and I knew it was time to get tough when I heard someone say to the boss, ‚He’s ready.‛

But we’re not going to talk about that just yet.

Three days earlier, I was coming out of prison after my first punishable offense. I guess, I seem to be prison-bound, but what can I tell you? All I had was my GED, therefore employment prospects were looking grim. I had a little money set aside, a few hundred dollars, but there I was: unemployed at 26 and back in town.

Just getting on a bus from the Cowansville penitentiary had cost me close to 60 bucks. I took a greyhound and it came to a stop at a junction somewhere in the southwest of Montreal. The stop was little more than a sign on an electric pole in front of a dilapidated gas station on St-Antoine Street. The whole block near the highway bridge, surrounded by old brick duplex and concrete tenements, was dilapidated and in desperate need of a facelift or a wrecking ball.

They might had been fixing the neighborhood a bit further north, building up fancy towers and that hockey arena up the hill, but this block right there, that was the real deal. It was how it used to be. Places like St-Henri, Pointe-St-Charles and the better half of Verdun were standing a mere hundred yards from Westmount, the richest neighborhood in the country. Yet, on this side of the highway stood some of the poorest slums North America had to offer. You could see remnants of fences, with rusting barbwire still attached here and there. Dust, bricks and stolen cars formed most of the scenery around those streets.

In addition to the age old conflict between Francophones and Anglophones there were conflicts between the Irish and the Brits, tensions between the Whites and the Blacks in NDG. A neighborhood which at the time did not stand for Notre-Dame-de-Grace, but rather for ‚No Damn Good‛ and ‚Niggers Drugs and Guns.‛

There were open fights about which mob was to control the city port. Add to that the highest dropout rates in the city and an increasing amount of teenage prostitutes, the borough seemed ready to explode.

The city wasn’t all that worried thought. The rest of us were not going to barge in Westmount and burn it to the ground. We were too busy fighting one another and they had made it damn near impossible to make it to the top of the hill. There was a cliff, a highway and only one damn north-south tunnel. They could sleep easy.

The bus went its way and I stood there. I was waiting on the corner, busy smoking my second free cigarette in two years. One by the prison door and this one right there. I ain’t had much. I was wearing my grey prison pants and a blue boxing sweatshirt, the ones with the stripes on the shoulder.

It was the middle of the afternoon. The sun was high and strong, though it was clouding over slowly. I had my poor boy hat on. I pulled it down to cover my eyes. I like to think I must’ve looked good, or at least looked like something back then.

Moments later, a beaten up Skylark came by to pick me up. It was a ‘65 or ‘66, something around those years. The one with the round headlights. It was my friend Mikey’s car.

Mikey was a tall skinny black man. He measured 6’3 and weighed 165 pounds at most. His long arms and legs felt more like loose limbs but always had it good with the ladies because he had a wide smile, good hair, good taste and a naturally incredible six pack. The motherfucker didn’t even have to do any sit-ups. I swear.

Once one of the only African-Canadian members the local Anti-Racist-Action skinhead group, he had traded his bomber coats for a job and a career pretty much at the same time I went to prison. I didn’t know just how that had worked from him yet but I knew he was the only friend I could really count on.

The Skylark’s headlights turned off. The radio stopped shouting its profane music. Mikey got out with a large grin on his face, wearing a Fred Perry shirt and dark jeans.

‚Has it been two years already?‛ he asked.

Yes, it had been, I thought. ‚Two years, less one day,‛ I replied. I blew out the last of my smoke threw the stub away.

‚You sure?‛

Mikey always insisted on repeating things. That was his main flaw. That was his only flaw for that matter.
‚I was there, you know,‛ I said and then we shared a heartfelt hug.

‚It’s good to see you out,‛ he added. ‚But come on! We got places to go and drinks to drink!‛

He went around to his side of the car. I went to mine, threw my bag in the back and slid in the front seat as if he had just picked me up after a game or something. As if I had never been taken away for two years.

We both sat in the vast seats of the Buick. Onyx’s Bacdafucup was in the cassette player. Mikey was driving with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow resting outside the window. He barely made any stops, ran every yellow light that came our way. We were just a bit further out of the southwest and headed towards downtown.
You could see that the buildings there probably were built the exact same time as those in Saint-Henri’s or Little Burgundy boroughs. But at least the owners there seemed to put some effort into renovating their lot. The wood felt fresher, the brick and the stone felt cleaner.

Some of the old industrial buildings had been converted into what looked like an artist center or a university building. Tags one the walls were less gang oriented and more political. ‚Free Mumia,‛ one said. Another read ‚Smash Capitalism –Pcr(co)‛.

We drove on St-Jacques up to Peel, took a left, and then headed back west when we had crossed the 720.
‚So you guys taking me to a strip club?‛ I asked.

‚Pufff, you wish!‛ Mikey answered. ‚It’s just going to be you, me and some guys. If you want a lap dance my friend, you’ll have to pay for it yourself. Besides, I’m not taking a man in such a dire need of ass straight to a land full of pussy he can’t fuck. It wouldn’t be fair to you man!‛

‚You’re a good friend.‛

‚Yes,‛ he said as he nodded ‚I know I am.‛

We were around the Concordia University campus and there was no shortage of fine young women in fashionable clothes. It was the nineties. Kurt Cobain was dead but grunge was still alive. The fall had not kicked in yet and there was plenty of skin showing off. Strong thighs under short skirts, long torn shirts, dirty boots and black nail polish. I was young and out of prison, what’s a man to do?

He parked the car in the toll parking in front of the pub, Crescent Street, under Sainte-Catherine’s where three or four Irish pubs were lined up against the ‚American pub.‛ Mikey paid the minimum amount of 12$ evening fee that was to double if he forgot to get out before midnight.

Thank you, the teller said from inside his booth.

‚Fuck you,‛ Mickey answered, politely, and we went to the bar. Of course he had chosen the Irish pub and I was happy about it. Now, I wasn’t Irish, but if I was to salute a flag that wasn’t mine, I was better off in the hands of a people who knew that beer was supposed to have alcohol in it.

About the Author

I am from a working class family and I am proud of my origins. For the last seven years, I have been employed as an assembly line worker, a forklift driver, a park ranger, a warehouse clerk, a janitor, an industrial laundry operator, a warehouse clerk some more and still am to this day. I have never stopped working full time and I saw first hand how the theories of political science could hardly apply to the realities of the working masses. I have worked in the downtown area, in Laval, Rosemont, Montreal-East (Between the Petro-Canada oil storage facility and the Falconbridge foundry) and the south-west prior to gentrification. I have seen Montreal change and the people suffer from these changes.

I write not because I believe that some great social revolution is going to come out of any novel I can write. I have no illusions about the revolutionary potential of fiction writing. I truly believe that it is only by changing economic structures that a society can change fundamentally. This is basic Marxism. So why write at all? It is a good question. I mostly write to purge the hatred inside me, to purge the hours of factory work, poverty and strife of all sorts. I am majoring in Creative Writing, in a language that is not my native tongue because I felt it was a challenge. I am also graduating with a minor in political science, through which I discovered many philosophers that have influenced me deeply. I have studied the essays of Karl Marx, Immanuel Wallerstein, Ernesto Guevara, Max Stirner, Mikhail Bakunin, but also capitalist philosophers such as Thomas Hobbes or John Locke. I’ve looked into dichotomies such as Anarchism Vs Fascism, Communism Vs Capitalism. Nationalist Vs Internationalist etc… I believe that my existence is guided by philosophies such as Buddhism, Hinduism but also Nihilism.

Find Ian Truman Online

www.iantruman@hotmail.ca
www.iantruman.wordpress.com

Follow the Tour

REVIEW BLITZ 6/29

 My Cozie Corner 
 Books, Books, and More Books
Purple Penguin Reviews
Soliloquy
 Creative Writing Addict
  Wonderland Reviews

Redheads Review It Better  Spot Light
 Just Heard, Just Read, Just Seen
Jersey Girl Sizzling Book Reviews 
T B R     Spot Light

 
Tour

7/2 A Few Words /First Chapter
7/2 The Story of A Girl… /Review
7/3 Creative Writing Addict /First Chapter
7/4 Wonderland Reviews /Interview
7/5 All Things Writing /Review, Interview and Give Away
7/5 My Cozie Corner /First Chapter
7/6 The Book Hoard /First Chapter
7/9 Adventures of Frugal Mom /First Chapter
7/9 Book Lovin’ Mamas Review
7/10 Reading Naked   /First Chapter
7/10 Ramblings of an Amateur Writer /First Chapter
7/11 Cabin Goddess / Interview
7/11 Bunnys Review /First Chapter
7/13Reviewing Shelf /Review

7/13Purple Penguin Reviews First Chapter