Friday, September 30, 2016

"Night Ringing" by Laura Foley

Night Ringing
by Laura Foley

Night Ringing by Laura Foley is currently on tour with Worldwind Virtual Book Tours. The tour stops here today for my review and an excerpt. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Sensual language and alliterative verses make this poetic celebration of traumas and triumphs a meaningful read. Poet Laura Foley’s strong fifth collection, Night Ringing, ruminates on romance and family via autobiographical free verse.
Midway through the collection, a poem poses an important question: "How shall we make sense of these images, lapping over us, day and night…" The answer seems to come in the transformation of autobiographical vignettes into a variety of alliterative poems. Gently erotic language and moments culled from everyday life are used in poems that commemorate family members and lovers, lost and found.

Ode to My Feet
For years I've thought them queer,
hiding them
in steamy boots and sneakers,
but recently, I've begun to like
their well-worked lines, blue veins,
tapered, skinny elegance.
Funny-looking, yes, oddly
protuberant, awkwardly angled,
unlike anyone else's,
models for a medieval statue's,
ancient granite feet
on a church facade,
thoroughly unmodern.
Yet, how well they climb steep cliffs,
work my slinky kayak's rudder,
how they tingle, tapping to music
across a wooden floor,
dangling below me
when I sit on high seats,
and turning pink as we wade
the cool mountain pond,
warming, as they carry me
faithfully home to rest.

Not Drowning
On my back like a corpse, enjoying buoyancy,
I drift downstream as Amtrak, hooting, passes over.
I wave at passengers from the city,
peering down at me with concern.
All my life I've waved at passersby,
now I wave so they know I'm not dead.
All my life I've been swimming, not drowning
despite any appearance to the contrary.

Praise for the Book
"'I revel in the genius of simplicity' Laura Foley writes as she gives us in plain-spoken but deeply lyrical moments, poems that explore a life filled with twists and turns and with many transformations. Through it all is a search for a fulfilling personal and sexual identity, a way to be most fully alive in the world. From multicultural love affairs through marriage with a much older man, through raising a family, through grief, to lesbian love affairs, Night Ringing is the portrait of a woman willing to take risks to find her own best way. And she does this with grace and wisdom. As she says: 'All my life I've been swimming, not drowning.'" ~ Patricia Fargnoli, author of Winter, Duties of the Spirit, and Then, Something
"I love the words and white space of poetry. I love stories even more. In this collection, Laura Foley evokes stories of crystallized moments, of quiet and overpowering emotion, of bathtubs and lemon chicken. The author grows up on the pages, comes of age, and reconciles past with present. Almost. Try to put the book down between poems to savor each experience. Try, but it won't be easy." ~ Joni B. Cole, author of Toxic Feedback, Helping Writers Survive and Thrive
"Plain-spoken and spare, Laura Foley's poems in Night Ringing trace a life story through a series of brief scenes: separate, intense moments of perception, in which the speaker's focus is arrested, when a moment opens to reveal a glimpse of the larger whole. Memories of a powerful, enigmatic father, a loving but elusive mother, a much older husband, thread Foley's stories of childhood, marriage and motherhood, finally yielding to the pressure of her attention, as she constructs a series of escapes from family expectations, and moves toward a new life. In these lucid, intense poems, Foley's quiet gaze, her concentration, and emotional accuracy of detail, render this collection real as rain." ~ Cynthia Huntington, author of Heavenly Bodies
"Foley's voice rings with quiet authority undercut by calamity, examining a life so extraordinary, she seems to have lived several people's lives, setting a high bar for poetic craft she meets, in great mystery perfectly expressed in the tiny, quotidian, 'spent matches pressed on wet pavement', to soulful beauty, 'as wind lifts/every shining wave'; in wisdom rooted in humor, from the deliciously funny 'Flunking Jung', to self-deprecating wit, misreading 'poetic' as 'pathetic', reminding us wisdom is love, grown from self-compassion." ~ April Ossmann, author of Anxious Music

My Review

By Lynda Dickson
Night Ringing is an autobiographical collection of 63 poems, both in verse and free-form. The book is divided into five sections, each one dedicated to different parts of the author's life.
Part I catalogs her childhood memories: her parents' divorce, a friend's suicide, eavesdropping on strangers, her mother's drinking, her father's abusive manner, life after her parents' divorce, a skiing holiday with her father, horse riding, her mother running over a dog, and her first sexual encounter.
Part II focuses on early womanhood: abortion, her elopement and wedding to a Muslim, their meeting and courtship, a friend being convicted of murder, falling in love all over again, her relationship with her father, pregnancy, family vacations, and the death of her sister and father.
Part III deals with marriage and parenthood: her marriage to an older man, life on the farm, divorce, starting anew, and online dating.
Part IV covers aging: her mother's stroke, the death of her mother, discovering a new love with a woman, seeing a therapist, health problems, and another breakup.
Part V is mostly about carrying on: her ambiguous feelings about her breakup, raising a teenage daughter, her son's wedding, and sharing custody.
The poems celebrate the themes of family, love, marriage, and parenthood - all the while accompanied by the ever-present dog. They cover such diverse topics as suicide, murder, getting left behind at a rest stop, starting a fire, lapping up maple syrup, observing turtles, grinding coffee beans, homosexuality, erections, shopping, dreams, flunking exams, crying in front of a waitress, feet, floating, and drinking coffee. The titles are a very important part of each poem, e.g., "Leaving Him", in which the title says it all. The author manages to evoke taste, smell, and the changing weather with just a few choice words. My favorite line: "All my life I've been swimming, not drowning, despite any appearance to the contrary."
A beautiful concept beautifully rendered.

About the Author
Laura Foley is the author of five poetry collections. The Glass Tree won the Foreword Book of the Year Award, Silver, and was a Finalist for the New Hampshire Writer’s Project, Outstanding Book of Poetry. Joy Street won the Bi-Writer’s Award. Her poems have appeared in journals and magazines including Valparaiso Poetry Review, Inquiring Mind, Pulse Magazine, Poetry Nook, Lavender Review, The Mom Egg Review, and in the British Aesthetica Magazine. She won Harpur Palate’s Milton Kessler Memorial Poetry Award and the Grand Prize for the Atlanta Review’s International Poetry Contest.


Thursday, September 29, 2016

"The Art of Rebellion" by Brenda Joyce Leahy

The Art of Rebellion
by Brenda Joyce Leahy

The Art of Rebellion by Brenda Joyce Leahy is currently on tour with Chapter by Chapter Blog Tours. The tour stops here today for an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Art is Gabrielle's passion, but her parents have other plans for her future - marriage to a man three times her age who holds nothing but disdain for art. Gabrielle is determined to escape life as the baron's trophy wife and the confinement of traditional roles. She flees her privileged home in the French countryside for Paris and the grandmother who understands her passion. When she cannot locate her grandmother, Gabrielle is left on her own in the City of Lights. The art world of Paris, 1900, brims with excitement, opportunity, and risk. Should Gabrielle trust her new friends, or will they take advantage of her hopes and dreams?

I desperately wanted to prove myself as one of this group. How bad could it be? “All right.”
Eight shot glasses were quickly lined up on the bar. Henri slopped a murky greenish spirit into each glass and diluted it with a splash of water from a carafe. Absinthe. Papa carried it in his store. Only a foolish few bought the liquor called the Green Fairy for its hallucinogenic properties. Pablo and I were made to stand in front of the bar. Alphonse flipped a coin. “Gabbi first. Four shots for each of you ... if you can remain standing that long.”
As a woman, I could have refused. The men wouldn’t likely have minded. But that was exactly why I had to do it, to meet men’s standards regardless of how ridiculous they might be. My face already flushed from cheap wine, I shot back the first glass without hesitation. It burned with a raging sweetness that took my breath away.
Pablo didn’t wait for me to finish and downed all four of his shots in quick succession. Leaning against the bar, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded me through eyes now narrowed to slits. “Can’t keep up?” he taunted, his voice slurred.
“More water,” Julie insisted and tipped the carafe into the three remaining glasses.
I picked up another shot. “Santé!” I tipped it back. This time, the burning abated somewhat. Flavours of anise or fennel and other herbs and flowers bloomed inside my mouth quite pleasantly. A misty halo spread out from the oil lamps behind the bar, endowing everyone with a gentle aura. A grin spread across my face. I could hold my own amongst the men, just as I could hold my own at art.
As I reached for the third glass, the chanting around me swelled to a crescendo. “Gabbi, Gabbi, Gabbi!” Faces around me blurred, came into focus again and dissolved into the smoky haze ... vaguely familiar faces. We met ... yes, tonight. Artists. I grinned, downed the third glass, and slapped it upside down on the bar. There was Julie. And Alphonse. Who was the American, the one who loved to paint outdoors? And the dark burly Russian?
I looked past the bar to a sullen woman seated at a nearby table, glaring at me. Babette. This had been her idea. And I’d agreed. Why was she angry?
The man with the yellow scarf—Pablo?—was passed out, head on his arms. I won! My grin stretched wider.
The Russian ... Konstantin ... spoke into my ear, but laughter and chatter and the drum beat inside my head made it impossible to hear. “Pardon?”
“No more for you, Mademoiselle.” He put his hand over the remaining shot glass.
“You’re no fun!” I reached around him for the last glass, but I slipped on something slick and fell backward. “Whoops!”
He caught my elbow and righted me.
“I need to sit down.” My voice came from somewhere far away, not my own at all.
Konstantin guided me toward our table. The floor turned soft underneath me, and I sat down with a very unladylike thump.
Henri teased me from across the table. “Gabbi, Gabbi, you disappoint me. Only three?” He stroked his goatee, arm around Babette, who nuzzled his neck.
I blinked and tried to focus on him. There were two of him, then one. I leaned toward him before he could split into twins again, and I stroked my own chin. “Perhaps Monsieur would like to demonstrate how a man can hold his liquor?”
“Hah!” Alphonse slapped Henri on the back. “You have to defend our manhood.”
A full bottle of absinthe appeared on the table. But Henri didn’t just drink it with a splash of water, like Pablo and I. “Now, I show you how to drink absinthe properly!” Henri announced with a grand swing of his arm. “Messieurs and Mesdames—the Green Fairy Ritual!”
One part absinthe, a cube of sugar in a slotted silver spoon, three parts water poured over the sugar, and the emerald liquor turned murky white.
“One ... Two ... Three ... Four!”
“Well done, Henri!” someone shouted from across the table.
“You don’t have to prove anything, Gabbi.” Julie’s voice travelled toward me garbled and indistinct, as if underwater.
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
"For those who love the Victorian style of writing and a tiny bit of Steampunk thrown in the mix then this book is for you." ~ Erika Messer
"I came to love the central character [in the Art of Rebellion], a dedicated painter in a world not quite ready to accept women artists, a naïf at risk of being swept up by the demi-monde of fin-de-siècle Paris, but determined to make her way and leave her mark." ~ Tim Wynne-Jones, multi-award winning author of adult, young adult and children’s literature
"Brenda ... does a brilliant job of drawing readers into a textured, authentic world of art and culture during a time when women chafing under the dominance of men in society fought for change, fairness, and freedom. In The Art of Rebellion, sixteen-year-old Gabbi, artistic, passionate, and headstrong, refuses to have her life bartered away in an arranged marriage to an older man, and recklessly travels to Paris to stay with the family’s black sheep, her Grand’Mere. However, pursuing her dream of becoming an artist and finding her missing activist grandmother exposes Gabby to the ugly and dangerous side of a modern world. But in the midst of repression, sexism, and betrayal, she also discovers friendship, support, and something she never expected – the possibility of love." ~ Angela Ackerman, bestselling author of The Emotion Thesaurus
"One of the major themes in this book was feminism, or really just treating women like people ... And the part that terrified me the most about this book, is that when you get down to it, not a lot has changed from 1900 to 2016 ... There is just so much character development within Gabbi ... Overall, this is a historical fiction that reads as a modern day novel. There were points where I forgot it was a historical fiction because so many of the issues are still prevalent today." ~ Ryley Reads, YA blogger

About the Author
Brenda Joyce Leahy has travelled to France five times but finds there’s always more explorations awaiting her. She loves historical fiction and thinks she was born a century too late but can’t imagine her life without computers or cell phones. So, perhaps, she arrived in the world at just the right moment to tell this story.
She grew up on a farm near Taber, Alberta but now lives with her family near the Rocky Mountains in Calgary, Alberta. After over 20 years practising law, she has returned to her first love of writing fiction. She is a member of several writing organizations, including the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). The Art of Rebellion is also profiled on the Humber School of Writers’ website. Brenda is also a member of the Historical Novel Society, and leads a YA/MG writers’ critique group in Calgary.
The Art of Rebellion is her first Young Adult novel, published by Rebelight Publishing, spring 2016.

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win one of two print copies (US/Canada only) or one of five ebook copies (international) of The Art of Rebellion by Brenda Joyce Leahy.


Wednesday, September 28, 2016

"Pickled Pumpkin Pie" by Deb Troehler

Pickled Pumpkin Pie:
A Thanksgiving Treat
by Deb Troehler

Pickled Pumpkin Pie: A Thanksgiving Treat is a children's picture book recommended for children ages 3 to 7. Best of all, you can get it FREE today (28 September)! This book blast and giveaway is brought to you by BeachBoundBooks.

For another book by this author, please check out my blog post on When Violet Was Blue.

Thanksgiving is almost here and Dillon can’t wait to see his lovable Uncle Pete once again. Uncle Pete’s visits with his peculiar penchant for pickled pumpkin pie always bring an extra helping of laughter to the dining table.
Join Dad, Mom, Uncle Pete, Dillon, and their dog, Baxter, for togetherness, laughter, and a dill-icious meal.
Pickled Pumpkin Pie is a read-aloud book for children ages 3-7.

Book Video

[Want more? Click below to see another excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
"Pickled Pumpkin Pie is well written, engaging, and highly entertaining. The book also contains several activities and of course gives readers a chance to create their own pickled pumpkin pie. This is certain to become a fast holiday favorite among children and adults. I recommend picking up a copy." ~ Stacie, BeachBoundBooks
"The illustrations went along nicely with the story! I really liked the adorable dog watching uncle Pete so closely throughout the story. After the story, there are some fun and creative lesson plans." ~ Dana Lehman
"Great book to read in class and at home. Great illustrations. I will gift one to my son's classroom for the Thanksgiving season." ~ Amazon Customer

About the Author
Deb Troehler has worn many hats over the years - teacher, fabric artist, author, illustrator, gardener, mother, and grandmother. Although each hat is unique, they are all stitched with a common thread - Deb’s connections to her loved ones and the world around her.
Mrs. Troehler was a special education teacher for 15 years. After leaving the classroom due to a recurrence of cancer, her family moved to West Michigan to spend time with her husband’s family. To help make ends meet, Deb wrote instructional material and stories for several trade magazines such as Doll Crafter, Doll Reader, and Soft Dolls and Animals. Eventually, the magic of West Michigan motivated Deb to put pen to paper and record the stories inspired by her treks up and down the shores of Lake Michigan. Pickled Pumpkin Pie is Deb’s fourth book for children.

About the Illustrator
Jaime D. Buckley is an author, illustrator, father of 12 and the creator of, which has been entertaining youth and the young at heart for over a decade.

Enter the blast-wide giveaway for a chance to win a $25 Amazon gift card or PayPal cash.

Fun (and Educational) Activity
Check out Baxter's PAW-lor Trick with Uncle Pete on the author's blog.

Book Links

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

"Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter" by C. A. Verstraete

Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter
by C. A. Verstraete

Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter by C. A. Verstraete is currently on tour with Bewitching Book Tours. The tour stops here today for a guest post by the author, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Every family has its secrets ...
One hot August morning in 1892, Lizzie Borden picked up an axe and murdered her father and stepmother. Newspapers claim she did it for the oldest of reasons: family conflicts, jealousy and greed. But what if her parents were already dead? What if Lizzie slaughtered them because they’d become ... zombies?
Thrust into a horrific world where the walking dead are part of a shocking conspiracy to infect not only Fall River, Massachusetts, but also the world beyond, Lizzie battles to protect her sister, Emma, and her hometown from nightmarish ghouls and the evil forces controlling them.

 Lizzie Borden

Chapter One
Q. You saw his face covered with blood?
A. Yes sir.
Q. Did you see his eyeball hanging out?
A. No sir.
Q. Did you see the gashes where his face was laid open?
A. No sir.
—Lizzie Borden at inquest, August 9-11, 1892, Fall River Courtroom

August 4, 1892
Lizzie Borden drained the rest of her tea, set down her cup, and listened to the sound of furniture moving upstairs. My, my, for only ten oclock in the morning my stepmother is certainly energetic. Housecleaning, already?
For a moment, Lizzie forgot her plans to go shopping downtown. THUMP. There it went again. It sounded like her stepmother was rearranging the whole room. She paused at the bottom stair, her concern growing, when she heard another thump and then, the oddest of sounds—a moan. Uh-oh. What was that? Did she hurt herself?
Mrs. Borden? Lizzie called. Are you all right?”
No answer.
She wondered if her stepmother had taken ill, yet the shuffling, moving, and other unusual noises continued. Lizzie hurried up the stairs and paused outside the partially opened door. The strange moans coming from the room sent a shiver up her back.
Lizzie pushed the door open wider and stared. Mrs. Abby Durfee Borden stood in front of the bureau mirror, clawing at her reflected image. And what a horrid image it was. The sixty-seven-year-old womans hair looked like it had never been combed and stuck out like porcupine quills. Her usually spotless housedress appeared wrinkled and torn. Yet, that wasnt the worst. Dark red spotsBlood, Lizzies mind whispered—dotted the floor and streaked the sides of the older womans dress and sleeves.
Lizzie gazed about the room in alarm. The tips of Fathers slippers peeking out from beneath the bed also glistened with the same viscous red liquid. All that blood! What happened here? What happened?
She gasped, which got the attention of Mrs. Borden, who jerked her head and growled. Lizzie choked back a cry of alarm. Abbys square, plain face now appeared twisted and ashen gray. Her eyes, once bright with interest, stared from under a milky covering as if she had cataracts. She resembled a female version of The Portrait of Dorian Gray. Another growl and a moan, and the older woman lunged, arms rigid, her stubby hands held out like claws.
Mrs. Borden, Abby! Lizzie yelled and stumbled backward as fast as she could. “Abby, do you hear me?”
Her stepmother shuffled forward, her steps slow but steady. She showed no emotion or sense of recognition. The only utterances she made were those strange low moans.
Lizzie moved back even further, trying to keep some distance between her and Mrs. Bordens grasping fingers. Then her foot hit something. Lizzie quickly glanced down at the silver hairbrush that had fallen to the floor. Too late, she realized her error.
“No! Lizzie cried out at the strange feeling of her stepmothers clammy, cold hand around her wrist. Abby, what happened? Whats wrong with you?”
Mrs. Borden said nothing and moved in closer. Her mouth opened and closed, revealing bloodstained teeth.
“No! Stay away! Lizzie yelled. “Stop!
She didnt. Instead, Mrs. Borden scratched and clawed at her. Lizzie leaned back, barely escaping the snap of the madwomans teeth at her neck.
Mrs. BorAbby! No, no! Stop!
Lizzies slight advantage of a few inches in height offered no protection against her shorter stepmothers almost demonic and inhuman strength. The older woman bit and snapped like a rabid dog. Lizzie struggled to fight her off, and shoved her away, yet Mrs. Borden attacked again and again, her hands grabbing, her teeth seeking the tender flesh covered by Lizzies long, full sleeves.
The two of them grappled and wrestled, bumping into the bedposts and banging into furniture. Lizzie yelped each time her soft flesh hit something hard. She felt her strength wane as the crazed womans gnarled hands clawed at her. Lizzie wondered how much more she could endure.
Lizzies cries for help came out hoarse and weak. “Em-Emma!” She tried again. “Help! Help me! She knew Emma had come in late last night from her trip out of town. But if Emma already woke and went downstairs, will she even hear me?
Lizzie reeled back, her panic growing as her spine pressed against the fireplace. She pushed and fought in an attempt to keep this monster away, yet Mrs. Bordens ugly face and snapping teeth edged closer and closer.
Then Lizzie spotted it: the worn hatchet Father had left behind after hed last brought in the newly chopped wood. No, no! Her mind filled with horror, but when her stepmother came at her again, Lizzie whispered a prayer for forgiveness and grabbed the handle. She lifted the hatchet high overhead and swung as hard as she could. It hit her stepmother’s skull with a sickening thud.
As impossible as it seemed, Mrs. Borden snarled and continued her attack.
Lizzie hit her again, and again, and again. The blows raked her stepmother’s face and scraped deep furrows into tender flesh. The metal hatchet head pounded her stepmothers shoulders and arms, the bones giving way with sickening crunches. Mrs. Bordens broken arms dangled, hanging limp and ugly at her sides and yet, dear God, yet she continued her attack.
With the last bit of her strength, Lizzie raised the hatchet again and brought it down on Mrs. Bordens head. Only then did her stepmother crumple and fall into a pile at Lizzies feet.
It took a few minutes for Lizzie to comprehend the horrible scene. It didnt seem real, but it was. With a cry, she threw the bloodied hatchet aside. She gagged as the weapon caught in the braided artificial hairpiece hanging from the back of Mrs. Bordens gore-encrusted scalp.
Retching, Lizzie ran to the other side of the bed, bent over, and vomited into the chamber pot. She crossed the room and leaned against the wall, her shoulders shaking with each heart-rending sob.
Her hands trembled so hard she could barely hold them still, but she managed to cover her eyes in a feeble attempt to block out the carnage. It didnt stop the horrific images that flashed in her mind, or the many questions. And it certainly did nothing for the soul-crushing guilt that filled her.
Why? she cried. Why? Dear God, what have I done? What have I done?
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
"... When you add the current zombie apocalypse craze to the ever-enduring interest in the Borden cold case murder mystery, you have something as fresh as a brand new laceration for horror devotees ..." ~ Deborah Allard, Fall River, Mass. Herald News
"In this fun, undead-filled and intriguing re-telling, Lizzie appears as not a murderess or a victim, but the hero. I really enjoyed this outlook on Lizzie's story with a fascinating blend of historical fiction and zombies!" ~ Stephanie's Book Reviews
"I loved this book! It was unlike any other zombie tale I've read and I thoroughly enjoyed it." ~ ClaireRees,
"I had so much fun reading this book! Lizzie is a strong willed heroine who must help solve the mystery of what is causing the zombie outbreak and how her father was involved, all while trying to stay out of prison. I loved her bad-assitude and take charge manner as she learns how to deal with the ever rising zombie threat." ~ Horror Maiden Reviews
"A nice combination of history and science fiction, with a healthy dose of zombies and gore." ~ S.J. Guynn,

Guest Post by the Author
Getting into Zombies
Thanks for letting me come visit your blog.
Let’s face it. Zombies can be pretty disgusting. All that gore and blood and stuff.
If you’re a horror buff, then the ghastly, horrible parts - the things that make you jump and scream and cover your eyes - are why you read or watch. It’s why some of us (yeah, me) like to ride in the front seat of roller coasters, I guess.
We like being scared.
Okay, not heart-pounding real life scared like in a disaster or a dangerous event, or being chased or confined by a real-life danger.
It’s the pretend danger. It gets the adrenaline pumping. It releases the endorphins. Maybe it’s that there are enough of those real life dangers and horrors in life that the pretend stuff is a relief. It’s a way to cope. Not that murders or crime aren’t terrible. They are. But sometimes you want a solution. Monsters and horror give you that.
Besides, zombies are kind of fun to write. When my non-zombie-loving friend goes "eww" after reading part of the book, I know I’ve succeeded:
"It made a disgusting rasping sound, its pocked and blackened tongue wriggling from between the decayed lips like a snake."
And if that isn’t enough, here are a few more "zombie" lines from Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter. Heh-heh. (Don’t read them alone. In the dark. Before you go to sleep. Or go ahead. I dare you!)
"The thing shuffled faster, dragging its boney feet across the paving stones with a sickening scrape."
"Several of the undead crouched over the remains of a few of the more unlucky students who hadn’t made it out in time." (I’ll let you discover the more gruesome end of this line for yourself.)
"It clawed at her with the two remaining fingers left on its rotted left hand."
Sweet Dreams!

About the Author
Christine (C. A.) Verstraete enjoys putting a bit of a "scare" in her writing. He stories have appeared in various anthologies and publications including Mystery Weekly, Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crime, Siren’s Call Magazine, and more. She also is the author of books on dollhouses and a YA novel, GIRL Z: My Life as a Teenage Zombie.
Her latest novel is Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter.

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win one or two Kindle copies or one of two ebook copies of Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter by C. A Verstraete.