Monday, December 26, 2016

"Life After War" by Angela White

Life After War
(Books 1-3)
by Angela White

Life After War (Books 1-3) is currently FREE. It consists of the first three books in the Life After War series: The Survivors, On the Road, and Safe Haven, also available separately. Author Angela White stops by today to share an excerpt.

"The end of the world has given us a harsh, merciless existence, where nature tries hard to push mankind to the very brink of extinction. Everything is against us, between us ... Untold miles of lawless, apocalyptic roads wait for our feet, and the future, cold and dark, offers little comfort. Without change, there can be no peace. Only survivors."
From dangerous trips into dark, apocalyptic cities, to patriotic rescues and furious revelations, Life After War is an action-packed fantasy series where those left alive must come to terms with their mistakes in the old world, while fighting for a place in the new one. Life After War. Magic and reality blended into a post-apocalyptic fantasy series that you won't ever forget.
What can you expect to discover in this apocalyptic fantasy series?
  • The end of the world, up close and full of apocalyptic horror.
  • A government conspiracy that caused the apocalypse.
  • An adventure into the wastelands to find family, supplies, and safety.
  • A supernatural romance strong enough to survive nuclear armageddon.
  • Invasions, ambushes, attacks from nature and humanity. Guns and magic!
  • A refugee camp with very different laws, gathering those who survived.
  • A hero you will either hate or love as you ponder the secrets that could cost him leadership.
  • A witch, a doctor, a government storm tracker, a star, and three Marines struggling to keep their people alive and together.
  • A constant battle for survival that includes deadly trips into decaying American cities, insanity, relics of the past and ghosts that stalk their every move.
Three full-length books, for one great price. Get your copy today!

Book Video

Like most days, the sound of the ocean is haunting. Not much scares me anymore, but the whispers I hear in those powerful swells are terrifying.
My name is Angela. I’m a mother, doctor, soldier, and now, in the year 2017, I am a leader. Thanks to the nuclear war that ended our world, I’ve become the guardian of an American refugee camp called Safe Haven.
Surrounded by carefully observing sentries, I sit by the immense Pacific Ocean as my people work and play nearby, confident my army will protect them while I tell you about the war, and about how we were forced to flee our beloved country in the awful aftermath. The apocalypse was a nightmare from which we couldn’t wake. Some of us still haven’t been able to forget, and soon, we’ll be at the water’s mercy again. In less than two months, we are going home. And I’m the only one who knows. The real America still waits for us to rebuild, but mostly, simply, for us to return. Before we undertake that perilous journey, I have to get the three hundred fifty-seven souls here ready for the trip, and I only know one way it can be done—Adrian has to come back and lead us home, as he promised.
That incredibly patriotic man has been exiled, even though he is the only reason we survived. His secrets were the excuse the camp needed to turn on him, but I won’t do that. I can’t. I swore myself to him the same as the rest of his Council, and like them, I still believe.
I’ve gotten way ahead of myself, far beyond the beginning, when our future didn’t look as good is it does now. Most people here in New America won’t talk about the war or the long, ugly journey we made together. They say the memories have faded, but I know a lie when I hear one. Some horrors you never forget.
Like our final battle with Cesar and his large band of ruthless Mexican guerillas. It’s been five years, but I still see the deep red streams of blood running down rain-soaked trees. I still smell men burning alive in their metal coffins. I dream of it sometimes, of the cold, wet night when I was the bait, and I’m sure Adrian does too. It was the moment we knew our people would live—because of one man’s dream and his terrible lies.
Adrian kept us alive, gave us everything he had, and he always did what was best for the camp, no matter what it cost him personally. He taught us to be stronger than we thought we could be, to defend each other and ourselves and through it all he lied by omission. He knew these scared, hurting survivors would never have trusted him, would never have given him a chance, if they’d known who he really was.
We came a long way together in the year after the war, thousands and thousands of miles of heartbreaking devastation, and it hurts those of us who remain loyal to witness him accept their unfair judgment without a fight. It makes everything we lived through feel less important than it was, weakens the magic somehow, and I can’t allow that.
I’ve been detecting open doors again, and that sly ocean cautions me, says the trip home will be as hard as the one we undertook to get here. If there’s a storm coming for the flock, than it’s our guardian, we’ll need to guide us through it.
So, for Adrian and for those of us standing by him, still ready to die for him, and for the dreams he made me believe in from almost the first minute I set foot in his refugee camp, I will tell our story and leave nothing out. Maybe then, these people will realize what he did for our country, accept how much we owe him, and allow him to reclaim what’s rightfully his—us.
Before I tell you about our harsh, ugly journey, let me show you what happened on that day, what they did to us and what we did to each other.
This is how our story of survival began…
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
"Seven very gifted survivors are destined to rebuild their country after the apocalypse ... If they can stay alive long enough to find each other. Impossible to put down." ~ The Review Blog
"Set along the lines of The Stand and The Postman, this is a chilling vision of the collapse of all society in the year 2012 and the rebirth of a nation by those who survived. It’s so much more than just another fantasy series." ~ The Review Shop
"These books are great! They're the kind you won't want to put down, even as your eyes are drooping and the clock is reading 1:00 a.m. The story moves right along, there's magic involved, a lot of love and guns. Perfect Christmas vacation reading. As a female, I really liked the strong female characters (even that ho-bag Tonya, as she is a great plot device)." ~ BlueRanger
I couldn't put it down. That is the hallmark of a good book, in my opinion. The ability to weave a engaging story is evident. I read the first 6 books in less than a week." ~ Lucy
"Angela White writes from the heart. The characters in her storys are interesting, complex, and she keeps you on the edge of your seat with each turn of the page. And when you are done with one book you are ready for the next one." ~ Harold

About the Author
I published my first book in elementary - Mystery of the Missing Tabby. The school library still has it, as far as I know. That was my first real work, and writing became priceless to me over the next years. In Jr. High, I had a teacher tell our class that none of us could match the classic authors that we would be studying. We weren’t good enough. I took that to heart and turned in an A-paper with a rookie mistake that prevented me from getting the respect I wanted from that lady. I hated it that she was right.
I still do. I also adore her for waking my brain to the possibility that someday I could be as good as one of the iconic writers that helped frame the world of literature. I’ll never know if she did it intentionally or if she was just stating a fact, but it worked for me. I’ve never wanted to do anything else. Thanks to that drive, the fire she finished waking, I now live off my writing and run my own publishing company. I have more than a dozen novels out and thousands of fans. I have a long way to go before future children study me in schools, but I’m still just as hot for it now as I was in that stuffy, musty classroom in 7th grade.
So, that’s who I am. I am building, and living, the American dream. Who are you and what have you done?
That’s a hard question to answer if you’re still trying to get there. I understand. Here’s some free advice: Follow your dreams, even when the world says it’s crazy. Sometimes, you’ll find a life that satisfies you more than you ever thought was possible and it has nothing to do with cash or fame. Chase that, starting right now, and the next time someone asks who you are, tell them you’re an immovable force, a wild dreamer, a hopeful comet shooting toward the goals that orbit your existence. And then lift your chin. There aren’t many of us left who want to be good at what we do. Everyone else just wants that green shit.


Sunday, December 25, 2016

Saturday, December 24, 2016

"Descriptions of Heaven" by Randal Eldon Greene

Descriptions of Heaven
by Randal Eldon Greene

Author Randal Eldon Greene stops by today for an interview and to share an excerpt from Descriptions of Heaven. Keep an eye out for my review coming in 2017.

A linguist, a lake monster, and the looming shadow of death - news of an unknown creature in the New Bedford Lake coincides with news that Natalia's cancer has returned.
On the shores of the lake in a strange house with many secret doors, Robert and his family must face the fact that Natalia is dying, and there is no hope this time. But they continue on; their son plays by the lakeside, Natalia paints, Robert writes, and all the while the air is thick with dust from a worldwide drought that threatens to come down and coat their little corner of green.
A lament for what is already lost and what is yet to be lost, Descriptions of Heaven leaves only one question to be asked: What's next?

As a child, I shinnied the coarse trunks of trees, carrying a book in a backpack or clamped resolutely between my chin and chest. I’d sit in the boughs of shady retreat and dappled light up there where the wind blew through leaves, and the leaves were an instrument, accompanied by birdsong, and I’d read of dichotomous fairyland entities who struggled against one another. The hero’s armor always shone, and he’d raise his double-edged sword above his windblown hair in righteous victory. The villain was always diabolical, sometimes of misshapen form and other times human, but beastly in nature; always the villain was intent on domination, always intent on fulfilling evil desires through evil deeds.
I’d look up only after finishing a chapter and notice the tree being joggled by an evening wind, and I’d turn my face to the west and observe the reddened sky and would mark the time by this beauteous sight. I’d lean back on my branch and imagine a hero come into existence. There should be heroes, I would think, heroes to rejuvenate the world gone brown and smoggy under the iron-mawed machines of crooked dictators. I had the idea that degradation of any kind—be it Third World poverty or the ripping away of nature’s llanos and wildwoods—were setbacks. I had the notion that meliorism was the true nature of being. All it would take to return the world to its right and hale state was a hero who had risen from the trash-littered grasses along the highwayland or who had crawled from the labyrinthian world up through the sewers into ours.
I would listen to cricket song, frog song, the rattling of cicadas, and chew a last piece of bubble gum as the planet spun me, and everything I knew, toward evening.
I guessed that there were heroes out there yet unnamed—martyrs stretched saltirewise, tortured, unable to fight and, nevertheless, unwilling to renounce their noble causes. I fantasized about being a hero, about dying with joy in the glory of agony. I wished it upon no one else, I swear.
I grew up and realized there were no heroes as I had imagined, only varlets bumbling through life, trying to serve the vacant suits of armor that were bought at too high of a price and were made of inferior things—the hinges rusting after the first run through the dishwasher. I abandoned the books of my childhood, and I read the classics where the heroes do die, where sometimes there are no heroes. My palate grew to lose all taste for saccharine magic; I relished it only if it was real. The world got worse, and then the body, like an extension of this abuse, turned on itself. I dreaded the thought that Natalia would have to suffer, that the cancer would ravage her body in the end. A wasting disease it was called. A slow death sentence is what it was. Carrying her up a ladder and hanging her from a cross would be better than what she was to be given. If there were heroes, I would think they were the ones I love, but how is it possible for an antagonist to reside in the body of a beloved hero?
Life is villainy. Not the living of it, not the growing and the dying, the eating of life for sustenance, or how each step is a second closer to reaching final dysfunction. It is the experience of it. It is being conscious of it all. Life is life. And life must do what it must do. But why the knowledge of the act?
I looked up at a tree. I no longer climbed them. Traffic hummed by on the city street. There were children nearby, laughing and throwing a Frisbee. They had a dog with them. The dog would wait to see where the disc would land and then would take off and, by the time it got there, the Frisbee would be ready to throw again. It kept trying, the dog. It attempted, but it was not successful, and the children did not think to let the dog have the Frisbee just once. The dog did not pick up on the rhythm, did not adjust its pace and timing to the act of retrieval.
How many times must one try something before giving up on it?
The doctor had said it was too progressed. There was nothing to do. I kicked a rock. A car honked its horn in the empty street. I acquiesced in giving my consent of joinder to the audience simply awaiting her death. How did I view myself in light of this? How could I not question my character? So I shuffled along the sidewalk between the park and the street. Small, evenly spaced trees ran along the park side of the sidewalk. A few feet of empty grass bordered the street side. There was a soccer field in the park. I knew this because there were two blue-painted soccer goals facing each other with an expanse of brown grass in between. I stopped and stared at the soccer goals, though my mind was elsewhere.
Who was I? A man who had given up on companionship so easily so early. A man whose life was spent in study of dead words and whole dead languages, as if I was focused on abandonments larger than mine in an unconscious attempt to demonstrate that my own was nothing compared to this demitting of entire tongues. Yet I could not be so hard on myself, could I?
I turned around and retraced my steps. The trees there seemed identical and were spaced exactly apart. I imagined they were softwood trees. I could not envision my child-self in any of them. They were not the trees of my youth. They were saplings and, if not saplings, then cheap decoration for the park. I could not see them surviving another local drought or a real rush of wind.
No, it was not only I who had had enough—Natalia, too, understood the prognosis. She chose to cease any kind of treatment, to live her last days in advance rather than in retreat. She lived with the disease. She would die of the disease. All this was certain. And if there were a cure around the corner, to be found somewhere deep in the cabalistic archives, what of it? She would have to wrestle with mortality sometime. No more dirty tricks, chemicals or radiation. She would face the knowledge of her temporary existence clean and clear-headed, totally afraid.
I leaned against our car, willing the tears to recede. Then I opened the door, I got in, and I drove home.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
"Descriptions of Heaven is an admirable sort of quietly suspenseful literary novel; its prose flows without awkwardness, and heartrending gothic secrets are revealed in due course as the philosophical narrative unfolds." ~ Kevin Polman, author of The Extra Key
"From the very first pages, I saw the lives of these characters like a shattering mirror. All those details which make everyday life normal will be torn apart in front of the characters, leaving them unable to do anything but wait for that final dreaded moment and afterwards try to move on." ~ eLitere
"Randal Greene masterfully created a character who fights in silence, who faces life with her heart and her feelings out in the open. I loved meeting her, and her last journey seen through her husband’s eyes was beautiful to witness." ~ Chocolatenwaffles
"In My Opinion if you like to read books there is no reason you shouldn’t pick up this one ... It’s short and easy to read, it packs a punch for something so small, and it will touch each and every one of your emotional strings by the time you read the ending." ~ Victor G. Espinoza, author of Greyhart
"I loved the author’s prose and his style in general. Greene makes poetry of his prose and commands the page. For that reason alone, it was a joy to read." ~ The Underground
"Let yourself get involved, and you may be pulled in by the linguist’s efforts to use the tools of his craft - words - as aids in his search for answers to his son’s (and his own) questions about why Natalia is dying and where she is going." ~ IndieReader
"What’s surprised me is how such a short novella has left lasting thoughts. Greene’s use of words has evoked such vivid images and thoughts that I find I’m contemplating life and death myself. An interesting and thought-provoking read." ~ happymeerkatreviews
"This work of art is incredibly poetic from beginning to end. Randal Eldon Greene paints his words with every array of colors imaginable." ~ Paperback Darling
"With so many hauntingly beautiful lines, and characters that I cared about and became attached to, I felt as if I, too, took this journey, and I’ve been changed along with them. And for me, that’s the ultimate gift that a story could give." ~ Unbroken Journal

Interview with the Author
Randal Eldon Greene joins me today to discuss his new book, Descriptions of Heaven.
For what age group do you recommend your book?
This is an adult book. One reviewer said Descriptions of Heaven "would be an excellent choice for a literary-minded book club or a college literature class tasked with analyzing the works of emerging novelists." This reviewer is spot on, though fans of contemporary and women’s fiction are also giving great reviews.
What sparked the idea for this book?
It was actually television show. This was one of those pseudoscience shows where they chase ghosts and monsters. In one particular episode, the investigators talked about how there are hundreds and hundreds of lakes around the globe that harbor supposed lake monsters. That’s what sparked the whole idea.
Which comes first? The character's story or the idea for the novel?
The idea for the novel. Or, really, a particular scene. Usually, I have an image of the final scene or just the final sentence, and I write toward that. Descriptions of Heaven was the same. The first thing I wrote was the final paragraph of the novel.
What was the hardest part to write in this book?
There’s a little conversational bit between Robert - the main character - and his father-in-law. That part took a few edits to get right. Emotionally, the pumpkin-patch scene is pretty moving.
How do you hope this book affects its readers?
I hope it moves them to tears and sweeps them away with its poetic lyricism.
How long did it take you to write this book?
It’s a short book, so not that long. I wrote the first draft between 2012 and 2013. It took probably 4 to 6 months to complete. I write by hand, so I don’t have the certainty about dates that a time-stamped computer file gives.
What is your writing routine?
After breakfast and seeing my fiancé off to teach her middles schoolers, I’ll take a cup of coffee upstairs and do one of two things; I either pick up a pen or stare at a blank piece of paper. I write (or stare) for 4 to 6 hours.
How did you get your book published?
I found it was far too long for any literary journal to accept and a little too short for an agent to take on, so I opted for an independent press. I received three acceptance letters and decided to go with the Harvard Alumni publishing house Harvard Square Editions.
What advice do you have for someone who would like to become a published writer?
Slow it down and write by hand. And, when it’s time to type, get a really nice computer, but take out the wireless card. You need a fast word processor with lots of memory, not a timesuck.
What do you like to do when you're not writing?
I enjoy cooking, reading, and long walks.
What does your family think of your writing?
My mother thinks my writing is great. My fiancé couldn’t be more proud. My future mother-in-law gave it an honest 4 stars.
Please tell us a bit about your childhood.
I grew up in Dakota City, Nebraska near a meat-packing plant and with a nice view of farm fields.
Did you like reading when you were a child?
Oh yes. Staples of reading included the Goosebumps series, Wayside School series, and later the Sword of Truth series, plus loads of other common kid’s books: The Chocolate Touch, How to Eat Fried Worms, Fudge-a-Mania, The Westing Game.
When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?
In first grade, after I won an award for a short story about a mailman penguin.
Did your childhood experiences influence your writing?
Certainly. As a child I managed to see a bit of magic in a lot of the mundane. Or maybe I saw the mundane through the lens of magic. This way of seeing and feeling through images laced with magic have found their way into my writing.
Which writers have influenced you the most?
Don DeLillo, László Krasznahorkai, and Virginia Woolf have all had a profound impact on my writing.
Have you heard from any readers yet? If so, what kinds of things have they said?
Well, though the book has been out just over a month, I haven’t heard from any but advance readers so far. I did have one fan email me a while back, saying he enjoyed the short stories of mine he could find published online. I’d love to hear from more readers. Especially readers who have bought my book.
What can we look forward to from you in the future?
I have another novel in the works (this time it’s a much longer book), plus more short stories. Also, look for a readers theater play I’ll be releasing on my own for use by educators and people who work with kids. It’s been performed twice with great success.
Thank you for taking the time to stop by today. Best of luck with your future projects.
Thank you, Lynda. It was a pleasure.

About the Author
Randal Eldon Greene is a novelist and short story writer residing in Sioux City, Iowa. Greene holds a degree in English and Anthropology from the University of South Dakota. He reads fiction for Heart & Mind Zine and works full time as a seeing eye human for his blind dog, Missy.


Friday, December 23, 2016

"The Perfect Tear" by Connie Lansberg

The Perfect Tear
(The Perfect Tear Trilogy Book 1)
by Connie Lansberg

Author Connie Lansberg stops by today to share an excerpt from The Perfect Tear. Grab your copy now before the movie is released!

Eleanor is a singer. Her songs keep nature in balance, but when they are stolen from her, a grey mist descends and her world fails to thrive. This timid orphan is thrust into a course of action she never asked for, nor envisioned. Set against a backdrop of abandonment, loss and betrayal, she must find her way through strange and dangerous landscapes in her desperate search for the Perfect Tear, a dark crystal which holds the future of her world. But, Eleanor is no savior. She is a simple girl with strong instincts and she must learn to trust them. Just like the notes of song must connect to create a melody, Eleanor must discover the connections needed to create the harmony required to truly save her world.

Book Video

The wind hit Eleanor with such force, she staggered back, bumping into the wall of the quarter gallery. She had always loved the elements—wind, rain, lightning, and thunder—but always with solid earth beneath her feet. Here, they were all at the mercy of the storm.
She kept her back against the gallery wall and watched the men struggle with the main mast. The rope had come loose and whipped about like a wild animal. Audrey’s mouth moved as she clutched the railing, but Eleanor could hear nothing above the shrieking of the wind. Audrey needed to get away from the railings. She was in danger. Eleanor’s heart pounded and she clenched her fist. She knew nothing of the sea but she could feel its power and knew Audrey was too brave for her own good.
Eleanor left the safety of the gallery wall, head down, struggling against the gale toward Audrey.
Edward frantically motioned for her to go back downstairs, and she looked over her shoulder to see Bella at the top of the stairs. Why wouldn’t everybody just go below deck where it was safe? She yelled for Audrey to come away from the railing but she soon realized Audrey couldn’t hear her. Eleanor had to get to her.
The wind roared past her ears and brought with it another sound. A resonance that made her blood freeze. Eleanor’s body went stiff and a sense of foreboding rose up within her.
Her gaze darted wildly about making the hairs on her arms stand up. What was happening? The very air felt different and the sound, low and ugly, grew louder until she could no longer hear the wind. Her fingers dug into the palms of her hands and a small moan escaped her lips. Something was happening. Something bad was happening and she needed to stop it.
In the space of one breath, the wind halted, the rain stopped falling and the sea grew still. Eleanor raised her head and reached out her hands as if preparing to ward off a blow.
A long necked creature rose silently from the sea and towered over the ship. Eleanor pressed her hand to her throat and her mouth dropped open. She tried to scream, but the sound stayed trapped within her.
The clouds had disappeared, and the serpent glittered in the full moonlight. It was magnificent and terrifying. It opened its mouth and roared.
The ship suddenly rose on a huge wave. It was being lifted from beneath its hull. The wave picked up the vessel and tilted it badly. Eleanor hit the deck hard as Bella skidded past, and she just managed to grab the frightened animal. With Bella under one arm, Eleanor slid forward until she was able to fling her arm around the mizzenmast. Audrey hung on to the railing with a terrified look on her face and Eleanor could see she was at risk. The men clung to the main mast, but Edward lost his grip and skidded towards the ship’s railing.
The serpent roared again and bent its huge head toward the deck, toward Edward.
The scream inside her finally escaped, and, though this monster was as tall as the barn from which she had jumped all those years ago, she dragged the comb from her hair and pointed it at the fiend. “STOP!”
A beam of liquid light flew from the comb. Within the beam, there were smaller, pulsating circles of silver light. The beam grew in size until it reached the serpent, where it split into many parts, forming a web that acted as a net. The net created a barrier between the ship and the demon, thwarting its plan to devour Edward, and its roar was terrifying.
The ship righted itself again, and the monster shrieked again and disappeared. John raced to Edward’s side and pulled him to safety. The silence was like a heavy cloak, and Eleanor stared in wonder at the sparkling net that hung in the sky.
She set Bella down and closed her eyes, breathing hard. Edward was safe. They were all safe now. She just needed her heart to stop racing and then she would go to him. She felt an arm slide around her and she leaned into the support. Audrey held her tightly. “Look.” She spoke softly. Eleanor slowly opened her eyes.
“What are those little silver balls of light?” Audrey asked.
They all stared at the sparkling lights, like tiny stars that hung in the sky, connected by the web of light. Eleanor peered up through heavy lids. Her heart finally slowed its frantic pace, but she felt strange, as if part of her hung there in the night sky. She found it hard to move her limbs. She knew what the little balls of light were.
She struggled to speak. “Songs, my songs. Those I have sung and those I have yet to sing, the songs that kept the garden awake.”
Audrey turned back to the wondrous sight and nodded. Eleanor lifted the comb and pointed it at the glistening net. She must call them back for she could not bear the emptiness inside, as though her heart had gone missing. She took a deep breath and readied herself to receive them.
“Not this time.” The voice hissed in her head and reverberated throughout her body.
Eleanor froze.
The giant serpent reared its head from the sea and, without a sound, opened its mouth wide and swallowed Eleanor’s net of light and all her songs with it.
Eleanor screamed and doubled over, clutching her stomach and she heard Audrey gasp.
Edward raced towards her. “Eleanor!”
Before his next breath, before he could reach her, the tail of the serpent slipped onto the deck, curled around Eleanor, and dragged her to the railing. Bella jumped on her skirts and bit down and Audrey flung herself at the tail. In an instant, Eleanor, Audrey, and Bella were swept overboard.
Edward ran. He pulled off his coat and threw himself at the railing, but John and the captain held him back.
He struggled and tried to fight them off. “Let me go! I must save her. Please, John! Help me. We must save them!”
Edward fell to his knees, still struggling. Why were they stopping him? Eleanor needed him. He had to find her. Edward pressed his fists to his eyes. He was dreaming. Surely, he was dreaming. He looked into John’s face. John’s face would tell him this was a dream. But John’s mouth quivered and his eyes filled with tears. Edward stared at the captain.
The captain shook his head. “The water is like ice and so deep. You cannot save them, and I will not lose more young lives on this cursed journey.”
Edward started to shake.
“They will feel nothing, my young friend,” the captain said. “They will simply fall asleep. They will wake in heaven and become angels, I have no doubt.”
Edward could not make himself form a coherent sentence. He just felt cold. Deeply cold, like Eleanor must be feeling. The thought of his perfect girl being so cold was more than he bear, and his heart seemed to burst apart inside his chest. He heard a terrible sound and wondered where it was coming from until he realized the awful wailing emanated from him. John lifted him up.
“Get them below,” the captain said to his first mate. “Fill them with brandy. I am turning this ship around.”
Lerion’s eyes had become accustomed to the darkness so when Tsera’s orb appeared before him, it blinded him. He knew it was Tsera because he recognized her tone, the sound of her unique vibrational fingerprint, as it were. As Tsera’s orb came into focus, a surge of rage filled Lerion. Why couldn’t she just leave him to get on with the game?
The orb slowly became clear, revealing his opponent. He knew how much pressure the vehicle was under and that she could not linger. He even hoped she was in a little pain. “What do you want?”
“Lovely to see you too.” Tsera sent the hologram of her form into the lair.
He glared at the construct but kept his voice pleasant. “I have the first two Vibrations. Why did you save the girl?”
“I did it for you.”

Lerion felt a surge of energy pulse through him and he flinched but he managed to hide it. “What do you mean? I have her frequency. She will die like the others.”
Tsera shrugged slightly. “Perhaps, perhaps not.”
“I ask you again, Tsera. Why did you save her?”

“You will have to figure that out.”
Lerion’s smile was tight. She must be in trouble, near to losing, if she needed the help of this girl. “No matter what you do, she is no match for me and you know it.”
Tsera bowed her head. “I have come to give you a clue.”

Lerion glared. This could be a trick.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
"The Perfect Tear by Connie Lansberg is a masterpiece of fantasy. It has a well thought out world with complex characters. [...] Connie Lansberg is a musician, a singer-songwriter, and it was very skillful indeed how she wove music and its importance into the science of her world building as well as into the hearts of her human characters. [...] This book might just move the bar a little higher for the fantasy genre. In her introduction, Connie Lansberg writes: 'We need a brand new story and this time we do not fall from grace, we are not banished from the garden naked and in disgrace. In our new story we are kings and queens and we finally know what being human means.' I think she has just written that story." ~ Ray Simmons for Readers' Favorite
"The Perfect Tear by Connie Lansberg is a young adult fantasy that incorporates a medieval dystopian society with alien adventure. [...] The Perfect Tear is a really sweet, well written story that will appeal to tween, teen, and adult readers. Any fan of music and singing will also be drawn to this book as Connie Lansberg has such a beautiful way of describing the musical scenes to make it seem as if the music was really being sung in the same room, just for them. I enjoyed the magical world that Eleanor lived in. Getting to know that landscape and the cool parts of a world different from ours was a fun adventure that I was happy to experience." ~ Janelle Fila for Readers' Favorite
"With a mixture of classic fairy tale and a dab of science fiction, this story takes a fantastic journey into music, DNA and discovering the treasure of life." ~ Tonja Drecker
"I loved this novel, it was set in a beautiful fairy tale like world and spoke to my inner child. Once upon a time there was a girl called Eleanor and she is a singer but when her gift was stolen from her she must venture out and face the harsh world around her. I don’t know how to explain it, but this book was so pure and delightful. I feel as though every young woman should read it because at the core of it, it is a story of empowerment, fighting for your dreams and being true to yourself because that is where you will find strength." ~ Kelsey White
"Author Connie Lansberg’s The Perfect Tear almost reads like a literary song. It’s a magical mind trip into a world where vibrations and tones exist only to appeal to the senses." ~ Laurenreads1

About the Author
Connie Lansberg is a singer/songwriter and now author based in Melbourne, Australia. She’s had her original songs placed in some of Australia’s best loved TV shows that play around the world and The Connie Lansberg Quartet is a fixture in the Melbourne jazz scene. Her most recent original musical project, Alone with Bees, performs her songs written especially for The Perfect Tear. This is Connie’s first novel and the movie is coming.
She also received several grants from the Victoria Council of the Arts for the development of mobile phone games that she created.
Connie joined the Melbourne Writers Group in 2010 to work on ideas and scripts and during this time the idea for The Perfect Tear began to develop and take shape. She continued her education by taking scriptwriting classes at the Australian Film and Television School in Melbourne and later, worked extensively with Marcy Kennedy on the book. She has two more stories to complete The Perfect Tear Trilogy.