It’s Been A Long Time Coming…

This week has been a proud moment for me. I have the privilege and the honor to release the first book of a new epic fantasy series by Sword and Soul creator and Sword and Sorcery Grandmaster Charles R. Saunders, Abengoni, First Calling. The path to this moment is a story of extraordinary circumstances and a rewarding journey to say the least.  I wrote a song about. Like to hear it? Here it go! (not really)

Most of you know how I ‘became’ a writer and publisher. After decades of toying around with the idea and a couple of stabs at it, I finally decided to jump into it as a self publishers nine years ago. I published my first book Meji Book one two years later. While I was putting the finishing touches on the Meji manuscript I came across a book that almost ended my plans of releasing Afrocentric sword and sorcery: Imaro. I was stunned; not only had I found the book I hoped someone would write but this masterpiece was written almost thirty years prior. The author’s name was familiar to me. I’d read Charles’ story ‘Gimmile’s Song in the wonderful Dark Matter anthology but my search for books by him came up short. I found his book at that time because they’d been re-released by Nightshade Books. I devoured both books then eagerly anticipated a third. Unfortunately that was not to be.

This is where the first bit of extraordinary surfaced. While lurking on a young man and internet friend of  mine going by the name Uraeus delivered bad new and good new simultaneously. He announced that Nightshade would no longer publish the Imaro series. Then he announced that he communicated with Charles and that he would continue to publish the books.  I immediately reached out to Uraeus then asked if he could get me in contact with Charles. He did. I was nervous when I first contacted him; writers can be fickle, and I knew plenty of people had probably done the same thing. I also intended to ask him to take a look at the Meji manuscript, which I was sure many people had done as well. Things turned out much better than I expected. Charles is a gracious and friendly man. We hit it off immediately. Both of us were inspired by the same sources and motivated to write sword and soul for the same reasons. After chatting for a while I built up the courage to ask Charles to take a look at the Meji manuscript. He agreed, and better yet, he liked it!

Since then Charles and I have collaborated on a number of projects, most noticeably the Griots anthology series. But a few years after we met Charles shared with me another gem. Back in the early ’90s he wrote a new epic, Abengoni. The manuscripts were never published. I immediately asked to read them and wasn’t disappointed. After reading them I asked Charles if I could have the honor of publishing them. He said yes!

It was after I got about the business of publishing Abegoni that the next extraordinary event occurred. I surf on a regular basis looking for artists to work with. It was during one of those searches that I came across the artwork of Julie Dillon. I was blown away by her style and her depiction of diverse people, most she had done for her own personal portfolio. I was finally convinced that I would seek her out when I saw her amazing cover for the Long Hidden Anthology. I contacted Julie; like Charles she’s a friendly and gracious person. A few months after our initial contact I was ready to publish Abengoni. My timing couldn’t have been better. Julie had just completed her successful Kickstarter for her Imagined Realms book series. And as icing on the cake, two weeks after I commissioned her for Abengoni she received the Hugo Award for Best Fantasy Artist! As you can see, she did an amazing job. Both Charles and I are very pleased.

And that’s my song. Abengoni is the multi-cultural epic fantasy everyone has been asking for. It’s a grand epic that includes diverse cultures from the very beginning, not as an afterthought. It’s a story centered on an African based source, not the typical and overdone European scenario. It’s a book that wouldn’t have been possible without print on demand, e-books and social media. Most of all it’s a great read. I know you’ll enjoy it as much as I did. This is a book that deserves to be in your fantasy collection. It’s been a long time coming, and now it’s finally here. Enjoy.

As always you can purchase Abengoni and my other titles at It’s also available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.


Why I still support Independent Publishing

A few years ago I found myself in a debate with a fellow writer who looked down upon independent/self publishing. Being a self publisher myself I took offense. During the exchange the writer contacted me through my personal e-mail, stating that he didn’t have a problem with my writing specifically, but independent publishing in general. He didn’t understand why I was taking this all personally, and then advised me to distance myself from other independent writers.

At the time I was angered by the writer’s comments and suggestions. At this point in writing career I’m amused.  Seven years ago when I began self publishing it was still considered abad thing. Nowadays most authors embrace it and even many publishers have backed off a bit in condemning the practice. The truth is independent publishing is here to stay.

Independent publishing has freed writers from the constraints of mainstream publishers and allowed us to truly express ourselves. It has given writers more options to share their work than ever before and allowed established mainstream published writers to share their older out of print works with new and old fans. But the reason I still support independent publishing is because that’s where my reading interest lies.  Before I began writing, I had given up on reading speculative fiction. The homogenization of the scifi/fantasy market Asimov warned us of when big publishers began to acquire the smaller publishers came to pass. Most of what I saw on the shelves seemed like variations on a theme. Most of all, I wanted to see stories that included black men and women as heroes and they were few and far between. So I reverted to my first love, reading history.

However, after I began self publishing I discovered a slew of writers with the same mindset. I read their books, and they were good. Many of them were very good. It’s like listening to a musician on a prominent record label then going to a local club and hearing a musician just as good. It doesn’t matter where the music, or in this case the writing, comes from as long as it’s good. And many readers are discovering this, too.

Another thing that I discovered was that independent writers had already answered the challenges mainstream publishers were still dealing with. At Dragoncon 2o14 I learned that many mainstream publishers are now seeking stories with multi-cultural characters. According to those in the know these books should begin to hit the market in approximately three years from now. The fact of the matter is that those novels already exists in independent publishing. I write them, as do most of my friends. Freed of the restrictions of appealing to a certain demographic, multi-cultural prose appeared naturally, and  in some cases deliberately among independent writers. There are a host of novels and anthologies that cover all spectrum of multi-cultural fiction.  I personally believe that independent publishing has had the biggest effect on black speculative fiction. Black writers are drawing in black readers, which is benefiting everyone

I still read books published by mainstream publishers, but I have to admit I have to make the effort to do so. I’ve always been the type of person that seeks creativity off the beaten path, and independent writers provide that for me. So just as I continue to write independently I’ll continue to read independently. I’m looking forward to what my fellow writers have in store for me and you. Whatever it is, I know it’s going to be good.

Here are a few of my black speculative fiction recommendations:

1). Charles R. Saunders:

2). Balogun Ojetade:

3). Valjeanne Jeffers:

4). Alicia McCalla:

5). Alan Jones:

6). L. M. Davis:

7). Keith Gaston:

8). Rasheedah Phillips:

9). Cerece Renee Murphy:

This is just a start. To find out more, visit the State of Black Science Fiction 2012. You’ll thank me later.


Betta Listen: A SOBSF Horror Blog Tour Story

Betta Listen. Artwork by Paul Davey

The house wasn’t much but it was all he could afford. Stephanie told him a hundred times they needed more life insurance but he didn’t listen. Life insurance was for old people; they were still in their thirties and in great shape. Nothing could, or would happen to them.
Randolph Chambers followed the moving truck up the steep driveway then thought better of it. They would need room to take out the furniture, what little there was. Steph’s chemo drained everything they had and then some. What little he was able to keep was augmented by donations from family and friends. They should have counted themselves lucky but they didn’t. Randolph would rather live in the streets with Steph and Gina than in a mansion alone.
“So this is home now?” Gina barely looked up from her iPod. It was their last luxury, a gift from a co-worker.
“Yeah, baby girl, this is home.”
“Ummm.” Randolph heard her shift in her seat but he didn’t look at her. It was hard for him to. He hated to see the disappointment in her face and the pain that lingered just beneath it. She looked too much like her mother, her gestures and expressions a reflection of Stephanie. He gathered himself and turned to her, forcing a smile on his face.
“Come on. Let’s go see what our little bit of money bought us.”
He parked the Explorer next to the curb and exited. He was halfway to the driveway when he noticed Gina was still in the SUV. He walked back and tapped on her window. She looked at him, raising her eyebrows in annoyance.
“Roll down the window,” he mouthed.
The window slid down.
“Aren’t you coming?”
Gina rolled her eyes and snatched her earphones off her head. “It just a house. It’s not home.”
Randolph ignored the insult, just as he’d done every day since Stephanie died. The psychiatrist said it was normal for children to act out after a parent’s death so he sucked it in and took the blow. Some days it was harder than others.
They trudged up the driveway and into the house. Randolph had hoped his opinion of the modest home would change after a few weeks but it didn’t. He should have been thankful to be in a house at all but he wasn’t. Everything was less now.
He forced a smile. “Why don’t you go pick out your room?”
Gina stared at the floor. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Well pick out mine then.”
Gina cut him a curious glance. “Sure, whatever.” She stomped up the stairs.
Randolph stepped aside as the movers brought in the great room furniture and sat it down in the room to his right. He went down the narrow hallway into the kitchen/dinette area and did a quick inspection. He’d have to replace the faucets when he got paid. The laundry room was a cramped space that barely accommodated the washer and dryer but it would do.
Randolph broke his musing and trotted upstairs. “What’s up, baby girl?”
“I’m in here.”
Randolph entered the first room. Gina sat on the floor in the corner, a serious look on her face.
“This is it. This is my room.”
Randolph looked about the empty space and frowned. It was the smallest room in the house; her furniture wouldn’t fit. He’d have to put her chest of drawers in another room or the basement.
“You sure you want this…”
“I’m sure. This is my room.”
Randolph shrugged and walked out. He knew it wasn’t the right response but he didn’t care. He was tired, physically and mentally. He’d be a better father tomorrow.
He spent the next three hours leading the movers around the house making sure everything was in its proper place. He wouldn’t have much help arranging furniture once the movers left. Most of his friends were really Stephanie’s friends. After the mandatory support period they all slowly disappeared. His friends lived in his hometown of Atlanta, too far away to drop by and lend a hand. Stacy Upchurch, his best friend, had promised to fly out to visit ‘as soon as he got settled,’ but Stacy was never settled.
The movers arranged Gina’s furniture around her. She sat in the corner of the room, eyes closed and head bobbing to whatever played on her iPod.
“Where do you want your bed?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” Gina replied.
“Set it by the window,” Randolph told the movers.
“No!” Gina jumped to her feet, her expression angry.
“Anywhere but there.”
Randolph had enough. “Take off those damn earphones!”
Gina glared at him then slowly removed her headphones.
Randolph folded his arms. “Now you’re going to tell these hard working men where you want your furniture and you’re going to do it politely. And if you snap at me one more time I’m going to snatch that iPod and throw it into the street. You understand?”
Gina nodded her head.
“Do you understand?”
Gina looked away. “Yes, sir.”
Randolph stormed out of the room. When the movers were done he paid them then went to his own room. He’d sold the king size bed and replaced it with a queen. It was too big, but that wasn’t the reason he sold it. Stephanie loved that bed with its tall rice posts, standing do high from the floor she needed a step stool to climb into it. She used to say it made her feel like a child to sit on it, her feet dangling over the edge. The bed even smelled like her, or at least her favorite perfume. When he slept in the old bed her memories awakened. So he sold the bed not because he wanted to, but because he had to. That was when things between him and Gina started going bad. She accused him of trying to forget Stephanie. He couldn’t get her to understand that he wasn’t trying to forget. He just couldn’t have her memories so near.
The good thing about the new/old house was that it was still in Gina’s school district. The bad thing was that Randolph had to drive her to school. It wouldn’t have been a problem before. He was a street salesman before Stephanie took ill and he could arrange his calls around his personal life. Once Stephanie was diagnosed he took an inside sales position. It was less money and he hated sitting at a desk all day but he needed to be close to make sure she made her treatments and to help around the house. Having to take Gina to school meant getting up earlier, and Randolph was not a morning person. But that didn’t matter.
Gina stomped down the hallway and dropped into her chair. Randolph did a finishing flourish with the scrambled eggs then slid a portion on her plate. He scooped a spoonful of girts beside the eggs the placed two pieces of bacon on the edge.
“Good morning,” he croaked.
“Yeah,” Gina replied. Randolph would have been shocked if she had said more.
She attacked the food like a starved child as he made his own plate and sat opposite her.
“So how was your first night in the new room?”
“Terrible,” she mumbled.
Randolph nodded. “The first night in a new house can be rough.”
“It was all that damn noise.”
Randolph mixed his eggs and grits. “What noise?”
“All that talking. I guess it was the neighbors. You didn’t hear it?”
“No.” Randolph glanced at the clock. “Shit…I mean Darn it. It’s almost time to go. Hurry up.”
“I just got here!” Gina whined.
“It’s either ride or walk,” Randolph retorted.
Gina scooped up her food. “You need to talk to the neighbors. They’re too loud.”
She sounded like Stephanie. “I will. Now let’s get you to school and me to work.”
Randolph sped to the school and joined the parent processional. He was two cars away from the drop off point when Tanisha Bridges came outside. The young pretty assistant principal came straight for their car.
“Not today,” Randolph whispered. “I don’t have time for this.”
She walked up to the passenger door, flashing her bright smile and waving as if they were a mile away. Gina opened the door and stepped onto the curb. She was immediately swallowed into Tanisha’s hug.
“Welcome back, Gina! We missed you!”
“Yeah,” Gina replied. She escaped Tanisha’s hug and trudged to the school building.
Tanisha turned her attention to Randolph.
“How is everything?” she asked with over exaggerated concern.
“As good as can be expected,” Randolph replied.
“These things take time, Randolph. Is it okay if I call you Randolph?”
Hell no!
“It’s fine, Ms. Bridges.”
“Please, call me Tanisha.”
“Her smile changed, its intention matching her words.
“I’d love to talk – why did he say that- but I’m late for work.” Randolph shifted the Jeep into drive.
“I understand Randolph We’ll talk soon.” She closed the door and waved, mouthing the words, Have a nice day.
Randolph crept to the stoplight at the entrance of the school then into traffic. Steph was right. Ms. Barnes-Tanisha-did have a crush on him. She would tease him during PTO meeting about how she would look at him up and down and giggle like a twelve year old whenever he said something witty. It was funny then, but not now. She seemed like a vulture, waiting to swoop down on the remains of their marriage. He debated whether to curse her out the next time he saw her.
He pulled into the parking lot ten minutes late. Walking into the side entrance Taylor Freemen, his boss, stood before the coffee dispenser filling his cup. He cut an eye at Randolph then at the break room clock.
“Morning, Randy,” he said coolly.
“Good morning,” Randolph hurried by him. He went directly to his cubicle and sat before his computer. He was logging in when Randy appeared over him.
“How is going?” he asked.
“How’s Gina doing?”
“Is there anything I can…?”
Taylor lingered and the moment became awkward. Randolph waited for him to say it. Taylor wasn’t a tactful man, so his hesitance was out of character. He’s seen his boss rake other employees over the coals for taking too much bereavement time. But Randolph was different. He’d been the company’s best salesman when he was on the road and now he was its best in-house sale rep. Firing him meant losing money and Taylor hated losing money. It wasn’t that Randy’s work was bad; he was still closing deals head over heels compared to the other reps, he just wasn’t producing Randy numbers.
Taylor scratched his balding head. “Well, if you need to talk or anything, let me know.  We’re…I mean I’m here to help. You’re a valuable employee and I know things are tough right now. We want to see you back to your old self.”
“So I can get back to making you money.”
“Sure, thanks Taylor. I really appreciate it.”
Randolph logged in and went through the motions of the day. On his worst day he was better than most, and the past few weeks were his worst days. Before Steph’s illness he was road warrior, a street salesman bouncing from city to city and sometimes state to state hawking TF’s electronic goods. But he requested an inside job when she was diagnosed. Upper management resisted until he threatened to quit.
He ate lunch at his desk. On his screen a string of memories scrolled by, images of his life during better times. Photos of Hilton Head spring vacations, summers in Canada and winters in Miami marched by in perfect time, triggering as much joy as pain. He watched the images flash by over and over again. He was still watching them when his phone rang. It was another wasted day.
“Hello?” His voice was almost angry when he answered.
“Randolph, this is Tanisha. We need you to come to the school immediately. There’s an issue with Gina.”
“I’ll be right there,” Randolph hung up the phone before Tanisha could explain. He grabbed his things and rushed toward the door.
“Hey, hey hold up partner!” Taylor yelled. “Where are you running to? You just got here.”
“Trouble at my daughter’s school,” Randolph shouted back. “I’ll be in early tomorrow.”
He sped to the school. Tanisha waited outside.
“What’s going on, Tanisha?”
“Gina was in a fight.”
“Fight? Gina’s never been in a fight in her life! What happened? Was someone picking on her? You know she’s…”
“Calm down, Randolph.” Tanisha placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He flinched then cut his eyes at Tanisha. She took her hand away.
“Gina started the fight. She’s in the principal’s office right now. As much as I hate it we have to suspend her for two days.”
Randolph nodded absently. “I understand.”
“Will there be anyone at home with her?”
“I’ll take the days off,” he said immediately, knowing he’d catch hell from Taylor.
“I’ll figure out some way to work from home.”
“Follow me.”
Randolph followed Tanisha through the narrow halls to the principal’s office. Gina sat by the door. Her clothes were rumbled and a dark bruise formed around her left eye. He knelt immediately in front of her.
“You alright, baby girl?”
Gina nodded. “Don’t call me that.”
“Mr. Chambers?”
Randolph turned to see Principal Wiggins approaching him. He shook the principal’s hand, wincing as the tall ex-football player squeeze a bit too hard.
“I’m sorry we have to meet under such circumstances,” Wiggins said. “Gina’s usually a good young lady. This is obviously a surprise to you, as it is to me.”
“It is,” Randolph said. He was angry and embarrassed.
“I wish we could handle this situation differently due to Gina’s circumstances but rules are rules. We have to suspend her.”
Gina’s circumstances? So Stephanie’s death was just circumstances to them.
“As I told Ms. Bridges, I understand.”
He went back to Gina. “Come on, let’s go.”
Gina followed him to the car. They rode home in silence. Randolph didn’t know what to say. He was angry at her for fighting, but he knew it had something to do with Stephanie. She should be punished, but how would she take it? He couldn’t do it any longer. It was time to talk to a therapist. No matter how he tried he couldn’t make it right, he could work things out. The pain went deep like old roots.
He was still coming to a stop when Gina flung open the car door then jumped out. She was fumbling with her keys at the door by the time he exited the car.
She shoved open the door then went inside. Randolph followed her to her room. When he entered she was on the bed crying. He tried to speak to her, searching his mind for a string of comforting words to say but he came up empty. The truth was he wanted to do the same thing but he couldn’t. He was her father. He had to be strong for her. So he placed his hand on her until she sat up, hugging him until she fell asleep in his arms. He lay her down then slipped to his room. He took a long, hot shower, trying his best to wash the tension from his body and mind. But his mind wouldn’t give in. He sat before the television, flipping channels before giving up then listening to Al Jarreau until he became drowsy. He decided to check on Gina before calling it a night.
He heard the voices halfway down the hallway. At first he thought Gina might be on the phone with one of her friends, but as he listened closely he realized it wasn’t her voice. It was a collection of voices, children and adults, male and female. He went to the window at the end of the hallway then peered outside; the streets were empty. Walking back to Gina’s door he was sure the voices came from her room. He opened the door.
Gina sat on the floor beside the wall, a blank look on her face. Behind her the wall moved with dozens of faces, their mouths spewing a torrent of words. Randolph lunged toward Gina but something shoved him back.
“Betta listen!” the voices said in unison. “Bring him back. Bring him back. Bring him back!”
A bright light emerged from the wall surrounding Gina. She began to fade.’
“No!” Randolph tried to reach her again but was shoved back again. He watched as she slowly faded then disappeared.
“Bring him back. You get her back. Betta listen!”
The last he saw of Gina was her eyes. Then the light and the faces were gone. He was alone in her room.
“Gina! Gina!” Randolph snatched open her closest. He looked under her bed. He ran through the house, searching every room as his voice went raw screaming her name. Then went back to her room then collapsed on the floor before the wall where she disappeared.
“Betta listen,” the voices whispered. “Bring the man back.”
“What man?” Randolph croaked.
“The man that lived here. The man that killed us.”
He’d gone mad,he thought. The strain of Stephanie’s death had driven him insane. Gina was somewhere in the house hiding from him, probably terrified of him.
“Gina, stop hiding and come on out,” he said. “I’m okay.”
“I’m not hiding, daddy,” he heard her whisper. “I’m with them.”
“It’s going to be alright baby,” he said. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright.”
Randolph ran back to his room. He had no idea who owned this house before. He rummaged through his top dresser drawer until he found the Sunshine Realty card. He punched the numbers on his phone with trembling fingers.
“This Ann Coolidge,” the sweet southern voice said.
“Ann, this is Randolph, Randolph Chambers. You sold me the house in the Old Fourth Ward.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Chambers! How is everything?”
“It’s fine. Ann, I was wondering if you knew the person that owned this house previously.”
There was silence for a moment. “Yes I do. His name is Charles Wynn. He bought a house in Griffin.  A small thing with a lot of land.”
“He left a few things at the house. I’d like to ship them to him. Do you have the address?”
“Yes I do. That’s kind of you. Most people would just count it as a bonus. I’ll text you the information tomorrow.”
“I was wondering if you could send it tonight.” Randolph struggled to keep his desperation out of his voice.
“Well, okay. Give me a minute. Nice talking to you Randolph.”
“Same here, Ann.”
Randolph hung up then immediately gazed at his screen. It took Ann thirty minutes to text the address. He immediately pulled up his GPS app then plugged in the address. As the GPS did its job he went into his closet then opened the safe. Inside was a 9mm Glock and a Taser. The Taser was Stephanie’s; she refused to carry a gun. He grabbed a coat and hat then hurried downstairs to the garage. There he found a new roll of duct tape. Not once did he hesitate, not once did he have second thoughts. He had to find Gina.
By the time he got in the car the directions to Charles Wynn’s house were plotted. He sped out of the neighborhood headed for Griffin. It was farther than he thought. By the time he reached the exit he was low on gas. The GPS guided him down a dark lightless road bordered by pines and oaks, the dark wall of vegetation occasionally interrupted by farms or small homesteads.
“You have reached your destination,” the GPS announced.
Randolph stopped his car before the open area. The grass rose high against the ragged barb wire fence, a damaged light flickering over the driveway entrance. The house stood about fifty yards from the road, so faking a broken down car wouldn’t work. He cut off his lights then drove up to the house. There was no pretense to his actions; he had no time for such things and had no idea what he was doing.
He banged on the door. Hard footsteps advanced the stopped. The door jerked open.
Charles Wynn stood about Randolph’s height but was powerfully built. A ragged beard covered his face. He glared at Randolph with    bloodshot blue eyes.
“What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”
Randolph pulled out his gun with a shaky hand.
“I need you to come with me,” he said.
Charles knocked the gun from his hand. It struck the porch then went off, shattering the nearby window. He grabbed Randolph’s coat, jerked him inside then threw him across the room. He crashed against the wall, blacking out for a moment.
“How did you find out?” Charles barked. “How?”
Randolph’s sight cleared to Charles advancing on him with a knife. The blade was covered with blood. Randolph checked himself; it wasn’t his. He looked about desperately then saw someone lying on the couch. It was a man, his eyes staring blankly into the ceiling. Blood ran down his shirt then dripped onto the brown carpet. Randolph pushed back his fear, waiting for the murderer to come to him.
“Don’t matter how you found out,” he said. “Don’t matter at all.”’
Randolph waited until Charles reached for him. He slapped the man’s hand aside then drove the Taser into his chest then pressed the button. Charles shook, dropping the knife then collapsing to the floor. Randolph waited until he stopped convulsing then scrambled to his feet. He tased him again then ran outside to his car for the duct tape. Randolph fought to ignore the dead man on the couch, concentrating on his task. He taped Charles feet together then taped his hands behind his back. He taped his mouth last. The man was heavy; he dragged him outside, waiting until he was near the car before lifting him up then dropping him into the trunk. Then he sped away, driving back to the city. He waited until he was almost home before calling the Griffin police and reporting the dead man. He pulled into the garage then closed the door. When he opened the trunk Charles was conscious. There was no fear in his eyes, just anger.
Randolph reached for him and he struggled. He took out the Taser; Charles pleaded with his eyes just before Randolph tased him. He waited a moment then lifted him from the trunk. He carried the man to Gina’s room, dropping him on the floor.
“He’s here!” he shouted.
Faint mumbling danced about him.
“Where’s my daughter?” he shouted.
“He’s here!” the voices shouted.
The faces appeared in the walls, ecstatic smiles on the myriad faces. The light that consumed Gina materialized over Charles. He came to as it descended on him, his screams muffled by the tape. The faces laughed in delight at their light enveloped him, the laughter increasing with each tortured scream. Then the light exploded, blinding Randolph. When his sight cleared Gina lay on the floor before him. She seemed to be sleeping.
Randolph grabbed her, hugging her tight as tears streamed from his eyes.
“Daddy?” she said.
“Yes, baby, it’s Daddy.”
“They let me go like they said. You listened.”
“Yes baby, I listened.”
She hugged him back. “I saw momma.”
Randolph pulled away from her. “What?”
“I saw momma. She told me to tell you that she’s alright. She told me to tell you not to worry.”
She looked in Gina’s eyes. She was calm, her eyes peaceful.
Randolph hugged her again.
“Everything is going to be alright baby girl,” he said. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I know daddy,” Gina whispered. “I know. You listened.”

My Sword and Soul Reference Library

This week I’ll participate on two panels at DragonCon that involve developing alternate histories and stories based on non-European cultures. Inevitably I’m asked to provide a list of books I used for my research. So to make it easy, I’m posting the title and list of every book in my Sword and Soul reference library. This is by no means a comprehensive list. I’ve gathered information from books in various libraries as well as internet articles and conversations with friends and aquaintances from various African countries. I’m sure some will see books on my list they despise  and books that they feel should be included. Please feel free to send me recommendations; my library is constantly growing. So without further ado, here’s my list.

A History of West Africa J.D. Fage
A Treasury of African Folklore Harold Courlander
Africa Adorned Angela Fisher
Africa in History Basil Davidson
African Arms and Armor Christopher Spring
African Art Frank Willet
African Cites and Towns before the European Conquest Richad W. Hull
African Kings Daniel Laine
African Religions and Philosophy John S. Mbiti
Amazons of Black Sparta Stanley B. Alpern
An African Classical Age Christopher Ehret
Ancient African Civilizations – Kush and Axum Stanley Burstein
Ancient Nubia David O’Conner
Daily Life in Ancient and Modern Timbuktu Larry Brooks/Ray Webb
Gassire’s Lute Alta Jablow
Kingdoms of Kush Derek A. Welsby
Kingdoms of the Yoruba Robert S. Smith
Medieval West Africa Nehemia Levtzion/Jay Spaulding
Oya – In Praise of an African Goddess Judith Gleason
Peoples and Empires of West Africa G.T. Stride/C.Ifeka
Precolonial Black Africa Cheikh Anta Diop
Sundiata – An Epic of Old Mali D.T. Niane
Sunjata Bamba Suso/Banna Kanute
Tarikh al fattash Al Hajj Mahmud Kati
Tarikh al Sudan Abd Al Sadi
The African Genius Basil Davidson
The African Knights Conrad Cairns
The Anatomy of the Zulu Army Ian Knight
The Aquarian Guide to African Mythology Jan Knappert
The A-Z of African Proverbs Jan Knappert
The Bamana Empire by the Niger Sundiata A. Djata
The Book of African Names Molefi Kete Asante
The Daily Life of the Nubians Robert Steven Bianchi
The Diwan Revisited Augustin F.C. Holl
The Encyclopedia of African History and Culture Volume II Wille F. Page
The Epic of Askia Mohommed Nouhou Malio/Thomas Hale
The Heart of the Ngoni Harold Courlander
The History of African Cities South of the Sahara Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch
The Kanuri of Bornu Ronald Cohen
The Lost Cities of Africa Basil Davidson
The Sacred Ifa Oracle Afolabi A. Epega
The Washing of the Spears Donald R. Morris
The World of the Swahili John Middleton
Warfare and Diplomacy in Pre-Colonial West Africa Robert S. Smith
Warfare in Atlantic Africa 1500 – 1800 John K. Thornton
Warfare in the Sokoto Caliphate Joseph P. Smaldone
Warrior Chiefs of Southern Africa Ian Knight
Wonderul Ethiopians of the Ancient Cushite Empire Drusilla Dunjee Houston

Me and DragonCon 2014!

So this year will be my third year attending DragonCon, second as an attending pro. I have five panels this year, but one will not be the Current State of Black Science Fiction.  The powers that be chose not to do it this year despite our standing room only turnout.  I’ll leave it at that. Anyway, here’s my schedule. If you happen to attend drop by and say hi. Most of all, have fun!

Fiction & the Silk Road
Description: Open discussion about scifi & fantasy literature written about and inspired by the Silk Road.
Time: Fri 04:00 pm Location: Piedmont – Hyatt (Length: 1 Hour)

Pulp Fiction
Description: Pulp has made an extraordinary comeback in recent years. We discuss what and why.
Time: Sat 05:30 pm Location: Embassy A-B – Hyatt (Length: 1 Hour)

Race & Gender Issues in Alternate History
Description: Do we pick the best parts of the past and ignore the rest? How do we handle gender and race roles? This discussion panel explores this and more.
Time: Sat 07:00 pm Location: Augusta 3 – Westin (Length: 1 Hour)


Race within SF and Fantasy Media
Description: Is it easier to be an alien than it is to be minority in genre? Be open to ideas and concepts. Let’s keep it friendly though!
Time: Sat 08:30 pm Location: M301-M302 – Marriott (Length: 1 Hour)

Crossculture in History
Description: Non-English and non-American cultures in history focusing on Africa and India. Warning: may blow the mind.
Time: Sun 05:30 pm Location: Augusta 3 – Westin (Length: 1 Hour)


Meji Book III?…Meji Book III!

Eight years ago when I completed Meji, I had no intentions for a sequel. It was my first novel, a homage to African culture, spirituality and tradition. To me, the book was less about the characters as it was a book about fate. As some of you know, Meji was meant to be one book, but on the advice of friends more experienced with self publishing I divided it into two books, which explains the abrupt ending of Book One (sorry!).

As I neared the completion of publishing Book One in 2008 the thought of a book three crossed my mind again. And again I said no. By that time I was familiar with my characters but I still couldn’t imagine a story beyond Books One and Two. I did however develop a story that takes place on the same continent of Uhuru but 200 years after Obadoro has joined the pantheon of great ancestors. Titled ‘Soul of Obana,’ it’s a story that deals with the descendants of Obadoro and a crisis instigated by their long time enemies, the Kossi. In 2009 I released Meji Book Two still with no intentions of created a third book.  And so I left it.

Then in 2012 I began writing Woman of the Woods. It was my first book with a female main character, so I spend a lot of time making sure I got it right. As the story progressed I decided to place it in Uhuru, the land of Meji. I also decided to start the story with a brief mention of Obadoro. In order to do so I had to imagine Obadoro’s status in the world, which began the wheels turning about the reign of the Two that became One. The effort gained steam as other stories based in Uhuru came to me, each involving Obadoro in some form or another, either as active participant or a fond memory.

One more situation sealed the deal. Over the past few years I’ve read books about Sundiata Keita, Askia Muhammad, and Sonni Ali. These were all great leaders, but as with all men they had their flaws. It was after I completed the book on Askia Muhammad that I realized why I was avoiding a third Meji book. Yes, that’s right, avoiding. A third book would have to be about Obadoro. I felt I had created a character that would be considered perfect in the eyes of his subjects, and perfect doesn’t make a good story. But after reading these books I realized that Obadoro didn’t have to be perfect, that he could be chosen by the ancestors, flaws and all. And years after he transitioned, the stories told about him would gradually shed his less desirable qualities, at least those told by his admirers. The histories of his enemies would see him in quite a different light.

So there will be a Meji Book III, and it will be about Obadoro. As I contemplate more on his circumstances after the merging of the twins I can see all types of issues that he would have to overcome, as a leader of a diverse empire and as a man trying to merge two lives into one. I think it will make for good writing. I hope it will make for good reading. Stay tuned.


The Butler/Banks Blog Tour: Balogun Ojetade returns!

Today Balogun Ojetade returns to feature his latest book, Fists of Africa!

For those who know me, I am a writer.

For those who don’t know me, I am a writer.

I write speculative fiction – mainly Steamfunk, Dieselfunk, Rococoa and Sword & Soul.

Recently, I have expanded my writing into the  Fight Fiction – aka Action / Adventure, aka Pulp – genre, which was pretty much inevitable because my novels contain lots of exciting action and fight scenes.

What, exactly, is Fight Fiction. You ask?

Fight Fiction is comprised of tales in which the fighting – whether it happens in a temple in Thailand, a boxing ring in Las Vegas, a cage in Atlanta, or in a bar in New York City – is not merely in the story to make it more exciting; or to add a different spin to it. The fighting must be an integral part of both the story and its resolution. Take the fighting out and you no longer have a story. Think Fight ClubRockyBlood and BoneKung-Fu HustleMillion Dollar Baby; and Tai Chi Zero.

Writing fight scenes has always been something I enjoy and that I believe I do fairly well. This is probably due to the fact that I have been a student of indigenous African martial arts for over forty years and I have been an instructor of those same martial arts for nearly thirty years. I am also a lifelong fan of martial arts, boxing and Luchador films.

Recently, I joined a team of stellar authors, who all write under the pen name Jack Tunney (for e-book versions only; paperback versions are in the authors’ names), as part of the Fight Card Project.

The books in the Fight Card series are monthly 25,000 word novelettes, designed to be read in one or two sittings, and are inspired by the fight pulps of the 1930s and 1940s, such as Fight Stories Magazine and Robert E. Howard’s two-fisted boxing tales featuring Sailor Steve Costigan.

In 2013, the Fight Card series published twenty-four incredible tales of pugilistic pandemonium from some of the best New Pulp authors in the business. I am writing under the Fight Card MMA brand with my book, Fist of Africa.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

Nigeria 2004 … Nicholas ‘New Breed’ Steed, a tough teen from the mean streets of Chicago, is sent to his mother’s homeland – a tiny village in Nigeria – to avoid trouble with the law. Unknown to Nick, the tiny village is actually a compound where some of the best fighters in the world are trained.  Nick is teased, bullied and subjected to torturous training in a culture so very different from the world where he grew up.

Atlanta 2014 … After a decade of training in Nigeria, a tragedy brings Nick back to America. Believing the disaffected youth in his home town sorely need the same self-discipline and strength of character training in the African martial arts gave him, Nick opens an Academy. While the kids are disinterested in the fighting style of the cultural heritage Nick offers, they are enamored with mixed martial arts. Nick decides to enter the world of mixed martial arts to make the world aware of the effectiveness and efficiency of the martial arts of Africa.

Pursuing a professional career in MMA, Nick moves to Atlanta, Georgia, where he runs into his old nemesis – Rico Stokes, the organized crime boss who once employed Nick’s father, wants Nick to replace his father in the Stokes’ protection racket. Will New Breed Steed claim the Light Heavyweight title … Or will the streets of Atlanta claim him?

I really enjoyed writing this book because I have always wanted to share with the world the fierceness, efficiency and effectiveness of the indigenous African martial arts for self-defense, as well as their transformative powers in the building of men and women with self-discipline, courage and good character. Fist of Africa is a perfect outlet for my unique brand of Fight Fiction, which I am sure you will enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.

In Fist of Africa, readers will experience jaw-dropping action on the mean streets of Chicago, in the sand pits of Nigeria and in cages in the “Dirty South” (Atlanta), as well as a bit of romance.

Please, enjoy this excerpt, then hop on over to my website, or to Amazon and purchase the book. You’ll thank me later.


Vee-Vee’s was packed. The line of men and women spilled out of the Nigerian restaurant and onto the hot sidewalk as the lunch crowd eagerly awaited the mouth-watering, sweet fried plantains, egusi soup with pounded yam and coconut rice.

Standing in the line, Nick and Baba Yemi still had two customers ahead of them before they were in the door. Nick rubbed his hands in excitement.

Baba Yemi raised an eyebrow. “Is the food really that good, Nicholas? You look … eager.”

“You just don’t know, grandfather,” Nick replied. “I haven’t had Vee-Vee’s in over ten years.

“You’ve had Nigerian food in Nigeria,” Baba Yemi said. “What’s so special about Vee-Vee’s?”

“It’s Vee-Vee’s,” Nick responded with a shrug.

Baba Yemi shook his head.

“Excuse me, you just jumped ahead of me,” a woman’s voice said.

Nick peered over his shoulder. A rotund woman addressed three young men who stood in front of her in the line.

“Look, lady, we just want to get some plantains up out of here,” one of the young men – a lanky teen with jeans hanging halfway off his butt – said. “You look like you’re about to order the whole damned menu.”

The young men laughed heartily and exchanged high fives.

“Teens today have no respect,” the woman said. “If you are the future, we’re in big trouble.”

“Shut up, pendeja!” Another young man spat. “That’s moron, in case you don’t know … pendeja!”

More laughter from the young men.

“Hold my place in the queue,” Baba Yemi whispered.

“Grandfather, don’t …” Nick muttered.

Baba Yemi approached the young men, stopping a few inches behind them. “You are being very rude. This young woman deserves an apology.”

The teens turned to face Baba Yemi. The largest of the trio, a tall, athletically built young man, who had not yet spoken, looked Baba Yemi up and down.

“Push on, old man, before you get yourself hurt,” he said.

Baba Yemi smiled and tapped the young man on his muscular chest. “Hurt? How?”

The lanky young man with the sagging pants placed a firm hand on Baba Yemi’s shoulder. “Get gone, old dude, before we kick your …”

The young man hit the pavement with a dull thump.

“My hand!” He screamed, clutching at his wrist and writhing in agony.

The Spanish-speaking young man launched an awkward-looking kick toward Baba Yemi’s belly.

The old wrestler side-stepped to his left, bringing his right arm up to scoop the young man’s leg. Baba Yemi shifted toward the trapped leg, grabbing it with both arms in a tight grip. He ducked under the leg, lifting his arms over his head at the same time.

The young man’s knee twisted at a sickening angle. He landed next to his friend with the dislocated wrist, who joined him in a chorus of cries, whimpers and yelps.

Baba Yemi exploded toward the remaining member of the trio.

The young man stumbled backward, then whirled on his heels and sprinted off.

The teen with the sagging pants and damaged wrist helped the young man with the dislocated knee to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am,” they said in unison.

Baba Yemi laid a hand on the shoulder of the young man with the sagging pants. The young man jerked in fear.

“Relax,” Baba Yemi said. “Let me fix it.”

The young man cautiously gave Baba Yemi his damaged hand. The old man grabbed the teen’s fingers and yanked hard. The teen winced at the pain of his wrist sliding back into its correct position.

“Thank you,” the young man said. “And I … I’m sorry.”

“What about my knee, sir?” The Spanish-speaking young man inquired, still gasping in pain.

“That is going to require more treatment than I can do here,” Baba Yemi answered. “Do either of you have a car?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” the Spanish-speaking youth said.

“What’s your name, boy?” Baba Yemi asked.

“Hector, sir,” the young man said.

“And yours?” Baba Yemi asked the young man with the sagging trousers.

“Miles,” he answered.

“Miles, take Hector to the hospital,” Baba Yemi said. “They’ll put the joint back in proper position, then you bring him to me and I’ll really heal him. Talk to my grandson over there. He’ll give you the address.”

“Yes, sir,” Miles said, approaching Nick.

“Thank you, sir,” Hector said.

Vee-Vee’s waitress, who had come outside to see what the commotion was all about, handed Nick an ink pen and an order slip. Nick wrote the address to his parent’s house on the slip.

The two young men shambled off, Hector’s arm wrapped around Miles’ shoulder for support.

“Thank you!” The pudgy woman shouted. She wrapped her arms around Baba Yemi’s torso and held him in a warm hug.

The people in line applauded as Baba Yemi returned to his place in line.

“We’re running a compound for young thugs out of my parents’ house now?” Nick said, shaking his head.

“You weren’t so different when you first came to me, Nicholas,” Baba Yemi said.

“True,” Nick said.

“So, I ask again,” Baba Yemi said. “What now?”


The Butler/Banks Book Tour: Crystal Conner!

Our next Butler/Banks black speculative fiction author is Crystal Conners! Instead of my boring prose, Crystal is taking over my blog to describe her latest project in her own words. Take it away, Crystal!

An entire year ago, I swore an oath of secrecy when I agreed to co-write a book with paranormal-romance author Lori Titus under the penname of Connor Titus. The reason, in the beginning, for the vow of silence was simply for the sake of peace.

Now this is in no way meant to be a complaint, but my fans take their jobs seriously. It takes about a year for me to write a book, but just a month or two after announcing a new WIP that’s all my fans talk to me about, and writing is all they want me to do.

I know some of you remember me posting in ‘Walgreens incident.’ Two weeks after the release of Book II: Artificial Light I was standing in line in Walgreen and asked the woman in front of me where she got her drop dead gorgeous shoes. When she turned to tell me, I was recognized, and she demanded to know why I wasn’t at home writing. Sadly she didn’t tell me where she got her shoes.

If my fans had found out that I had teamed up with Lori their excitement would have been too much especially because at the time we where both working on our own books which of course held more priority than a joint project, so we didn’t even know when this book would be finished.

About a 3rd of the way into the project, the fact that mum was the word literally became a life saver, because we started to realize that we were going to be writing two books. And at that moment it stopped being about peace and immediately became a trade secret.

“One catastrophe. One Town. One story told two different ways.”

We co-wrote, two, stand alone books about the same thing.

We’d never heard of anyone doing that before and because it’s such an insanely original idea or had been done which such infrequency that the concept isn’t widely known we didn’t want anyone finding out what we were doing and beat us to the punch.

Once the decision was made that this story was going to be told from two different points of views, we also made the decision to not only stop working together, but to also not to talk to each other about what was written from that moment forth. I mean we went into complete radio silence, we didn’t even see each other’s cover until they were revealed earlier this month as part of our blog tour. We did this because we didn’t want to influence each and judging by the reviews that turned out to be a really good move.

After our books were shipped off to the editor Lori and I decided to interview each other for our own blogs. Those interviews turned out to be a blast and that’s what I am going to share with you today.

The Wordsmith: Ok, 1st off I need to get something off my chest. I heard through the grapevine that you prefer Pepsi over Coca~Cola. Is that true?

Lori: Yes, I’m a Pepsi drinker,

The Wordsmith: Oh hell no, this is a crime against the Crown. This interview is over, we’re not friends anymore. Lol I’m just kidding.

Lori: LOL! But I drink Coke if I’m at a place and that’s what they’re selling. I still get the specific craving for Coca Cola now and again.

The Wordsmith: Oh, okay …good save cuz I was about to send you straight to the gallows. I write straight up horror with a service of science fiction and dark fantasy on the side. As a rising star in paranormal romance what was it that made you want to be a part of the Mt. Empyreal project?

Lori: I think of dark fiction as being one genre, whether it includes romance or science fiction. I love anything that challenges the characters with something greater than themselves, and that was definitely the obstacle our characters faced in the Keep. Since I’m a huge romantic, something of that always comes through. I couldn’t write you a cookbook without some reference to romance in there.

The Wordsmith: OMG that’s so true! I knew from the beginning that the story would have elements of romance but you do it really well so I wasn’t worried. That’s one of the things that interested me in co-authoring with you is seeing how we would build off each other’s strength. You also co-authored the novel Harmony’s Prophecy, with Angel Brown Kemph, which is now out of print, was it the same kind of writing process or was it totally different and if so why/how?

Lori: The book with Angel was very different. She was the primary author. I worked on editing with her, and we had some sessions where we tossed around story building ideas, but it is  her book. I was really pleased and surprised that she felt my efforts earned a co-author credit.

The Wordsmith: Dude, how in the hell did we end up co-writing two books? Who does that?

Lori: I think only we do, ha! It was a great idea that you came up with. We both got to have complete creative free reign. Whenever I read about authors who co-wrote together, I always hear about the constrictions placed upon the authors, and how one person ends up being the leader with the other being the follower.  We were able to build our foundation for the stories together, and then throw the proverbial paint against the wall to see what would stick.

The Wordsmith: I like that concept, that we both had creative free reign. The constrictions was something I knew I wanted to overcome before either of us wrote word one. It didn’t take long to see that we had two very different ideas of how this story should be told but I didn’t want to sacrifice one idea for the other and that’s what made me start thinking about doing something completely different.

The funny thing is, I didn’t start researching ‘how to co-write a book’ until we we’re nearly done. Otherwise I don’t think I would have done it. LOL, speaking of horror stories about co-writing, what was the hardest part about working with me? (Tell the truth).

Lori: The hardest part was figuring out where we needed to split! I was enjoying watching the story unfold, and I was so curious as to where you were going to take it. Once we did split, it took a week for me to get back into the story properly, because I missed being able to see what you had written and talk about our ideas together.

The Wordsmith: OMG I was the exact same way. I was starting to think that splitting up wasn’t going to be a good idea. Thank God we didn’t chicken out of that decision lol. Was there anything that worried you about Mt. Empyreal?

Lori: Yes! I was really concerned about which characters were going to make it, and who wasn’t. With a story like this one, there is a balance between making things so hard that it’s impossible for your characters to triumph, and making it too easy.  You don’t want to make it so easy that the readers roll their eyes at how neatly things work out. That’s often a concern I have when I’m writing. Real life is messy, and I tend to like stories that reflect complexities in character and outcome.

The Wordsmith: I know one of the things I was worried about and brought up often was I felt like I had unfairly taken charge and all the ideas were mine. I didn’t mean for it to be that way, I was just having so much fun that my excitement got the best of me. This was my 1st co authored book, so I guess my question would be, is this just the way things work when co-writing a book or was it really not an issue for you?

Lori: It’s part of the beast – someone has to start, (The Wordsmith nods head) and you wrote a beginning that was so unique and chilling that I wanted to let you run with it. Once our start was firmly in place, I was able to see what I wanted to elaborate on and where I wanted things to go. That said, I don’t think that our writing partnership is like anyone else’s. While you were in the driver’s seat I was already planning.

The Wordsmith: LOL, that’s the Virgo in you, I was thinking ahead when you were the one with the pen too. Which of the characters that we created together do you think will totally blow my mind?

Lori: I always say Emerson; I love that character in ways that I could never have expected. We have talked about Khrystle before, and that she surprised you with some of the things she did in our shared copy of the book(s). Jerrod is also going to be a big surprise to you. Just you wait until you read it!

The Wordsmith: I can’t wait to read it either, you have no idea how hard it’s been not to open  the ARC copy you sent me to send to my reviewers.

Wait…I don’t think I mentioned this, ok so the reason Lori said she can’t wait until I read her book is because once we stopped working together we promised each other that we would not read each other’s books until our editor signed off on both books. And we didn’t even see each other’s covers until the 18th of April. Dudes, its been brutal.

So far our reviews have been really good but every time a review for yours comes in it just amplifies my excitement. That’s it, I’m changing the subject! You have another book coming out soon, can you tell us a little more about that?

Lori: lol. Bell House is a ghost story about a modern southern family with many skeletons in their past. At the forefront of the story are two half-sisters, Jenna and Diana, who share a  contentious relationship. They were raised by different mothers, and most of what they believe about each other comes from things that they have been told by others, some of which may not be entirely true. After a tragedy in the family, Diana moves into a house willed to her by her father, and all sorts of trouble ensues.

The Wordsmith: Just for fun. If you got the funding to take a year off to write where in the world would you live for that year and why?

Lori: It could be Hawaii or Bora Bora, but I want to live somewhere on the ocean. I think it would be great to wake up every day with the ocean right outside, and take my laptop out onto the patio and write while I enjoyed my coffee. And of course I’d want a great big house where I could invite my friends to come out and stay for as long as they want. That would be great.

The Wordsmith: Dude for as long as they want, by the beach, in Bora Bora? And you expect to actually get any work done? Yeah ok.

(With laughter in the background fade to black)

We were lucky enough to have our forward written for us by Jaime A. Geraldi from, wait for it…..RT Book Review Magazine! (screams, swoons, and faints) But 1st let’s set the mood with the book trailer!

“One catastrophe. One Town. One story told two different ways by two different authors…What started in the foothills of Mt. Empyreal could be the end of all of us.”

The dynamic duo known as Connor Titus have merged together to create a story that will chill you to the bone. Each adds a dark and distinctive quality to this compelling read and it’s almost impossible to favor one over the other as the ink bleeds upon the page for everyone to witness.

Connor’s interpretation is fierce and grabs readers by the throat as they gasp for breath once Old Man Winter strolls in and they’re left powerless. She allows you to visualize the characters movements and endure their emotions without flaw. The highly descriptive settings throughout will make one feel as if they’re part of the story which makes her rendition realistic and absolutely terrifying.

Titus’ version captivates one by taking hold of their mind first before they even know what hit them. Then the emotional setback follows. Her gifted storytelling ability will have you thinking you’re reading just a novel, but your brain may tell you something different as you actually may experience bouts of terror or feel perspiration at your brow.

Each author singularly has the ability to lure you into the book quickly, but as a pair it may feel as if they’ll never let you leave.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Mt. Empyreal.

-Jaime A. Geraldi, RT Book Review Magazine

Thank you so much for letting me take over your blog for today , if you would like to see the interview of Lori interviewing me here is the think.

And to follow us on our blog tour as we promote both books please click here. If you follow us be sure to enter for a chance to win a signed copy of both books, a promo T from each of us plus a signed copy of The Darkness along with a signed copy of Ryder


The Butler/Banks Blog Tour: Zig Zag Claybourne!

Today we continue the Butler/Banks Blog Tour with author Clarence Young, aka Zig Zag Claybourne. Zig Zag is a lifelong fan of speculative fiction and of writing. As Clarence Young, he writes humor and drama. As Zig Zag Claybourne he writes fiction and poetry, ranging from science fiction to street-lit satire to magic realism.

Zig  Zag says “I love fiction. Period. Worlds imagined, worlds altered, whether simply reshaped or irrevocably twisted. Anything that fires the imagination is a gift from the gods. I grew up on Star Trek, the Twilight ZoneSir Graves Ghastly’s Saturday Matinee Movies (for us Motown folks), and the other-realm lives of a bunch of kids ganged up against one named Charlie Brown. Peanuts was ‘Village of the Damned’ minus the world domination, mixed with a psychic dog trying its best to be human.”

His works have appeared in The Wayne ReviewFlashshotReverie Journal,Stupendous Stories, and numerous online attractions. The books Neon LightsBy All Our Violent Guides, and Historical Inaccuracies are all independently-published.

You can find him scribbling like a mad man at his author site, his Amazon author page Zig Zag Claybourne, tweeting or squawking at: @zzclaybourne, while having silly fun at

Be sure to look out for the Science Fiction adventure, The Brothers Jetstream: Leviathan, coming to save the world summer 2014!

Zig Zag Claybourne

Historical Inaccuracies contains several science/speculative fiction selections, including the pile-driver “Revolver,” praised by Lois Tilton of Locus Online as “harrowing” and one that delivers. These are stories meant to disturb the dust, call forth the spirits, and sit with you a while.

Zig Zag says: “All fiction is speculative fiction. That’s what the spirit of the Butler/Banks tour celebrates, because how else can you get away with writing things like this (from Historical Inaccuracies):”

“The only evidence I need of Intelligent Design,” said Senator Bloodaxe, unsheathing his crusted blade and laying it before the security dogs for evidence of illegal killing, “is what I have seen with my own eyes.”

“But, Senator,” someone said from the throng of pelt-clad reporters, “isn’t it true you were once a staunch supporter of the scientific prin—”

“Who said that!” Bloodaxe raged, grabbing up the sword that had sent scores of unbelievers to undeserved glory and swinging it round.

The news crews were used to his rages and smoothly raised shields. The senator calmed.

“Senator, it’s been rumored,” came a crisp, female voice from beneath the turtle’s back of shields, “that you yourself have killed angels and that this conversion is purely political.”

Bloodaxe grinned at their fear. “Face Bloodaxe, wench,” he said, eyes scanning. “Taste congressional steel.”

Movement issued from the rear. Reporters parted until she stood before Bloodaxe (R) from Indiana. The huge man’s eyes narrowed.

“I am Kurok, daughter’s daughter of Couric,” which sucked balls because politicians hated a reporter with something to prove.

“Bring it, wench.”

Kurok approached. “Today is a good day to cry…”


The Butler/Banks Authors Tour: DaVaun Sanders!

Davaun 1

Today I have the privilege to share the information of one of my favorite writers, DaVaun Sanders. His two novels are some of the best YA science fiction I’ve read in quite some time. Not best independent writer science fiction, or best mainstream science fiction; best, period.

If imagination was a mutant power, DaVaun could have enrolled at 1407 Graymalkin Lane. Instead, he went the safe route and earned a Bachelor’s degree from Washington University in St. Louis in 2002. After two fulfilling service terms with AmeriCorps in Phoenix, he eventually acquiesced to the student loan gods and returned to architecture. Yet his passion for the field faded as he spent more free time writing and performing spoken word poetry.

Davaun 3

The Seedbearing Prince began as a dream vivid enough to play like a movie trailer. Deciding to write his debut novel took some time, as it wasn’t part of “The Plan,” but the housing market collapse forced DaVaun’s small design firm under in 2008. He decided to plunge into writing full-time, and is loving every minute of it. When the keyboard cramps his fingers, DaVaun gets lost in the great outdoors of Arizona or attends open mic spots in the Valley. DaVaun is currently hard at work editing The Course of Blades, the third book in his World Breach series. Follow him on Twitter @davaunwrites and like on Facebook ( for updates and giveaways!

Check out the excerpt the first novel by DaVaun Sanders, The Seedbearing Prince: Part I posted below. You can download it for FREE on Amazon for a limited time! The Seedbearing Prince: Part II is also available — click here! You can thank me later.

Davaun 2

Dayn Ro’Halan’s adventures will continue in The Course of Blades, to be released this summer—the third of six total books in the World Breach series. I’m really excited about this novel, it’s going to be the best one yet.

That being said…let’s do a giveaway!

Rules are simple: send DaVaun a picture of yourself READING a novel by ANY AUTHOR on The Butler/Banks Book Tour. You use an e-reader? Great.  Reading in costume, or upside down? Even better! Go crazy – just keep it SFW please! Share with DaVaun on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

He’ll post your pictures to his Facebook and happily send you aFREE ebook of The Seedbearing Prince: Part II OR The Course of Blades when it is released this summer. We’ll all pretty much be famous together. It’s all so clear to me.

Let the photobomb commence, because this giveaway ends with the last day of the Butler/Banks Book Tour, April 30th!

The Seedbearing Prince Part I: Prologue

The torrent shifted again, and a thousand shards of onyx flashed to fire as Corian swept through a roiling field of ice and stone. The sheath on his worn black armor held, but would not last much longer. The stream of rock in the space between the worlds drifted slower here, and boasted several floating mountains large enough to hold a layer of air. Green ferns covered the surface of the nearest, providing plenty of cover. Corian was tempted to stop and rest, but crater wolves likely roamed in such thick foliage. The entire World Belt hung on the message he bore to the Ring, and he could rest after his task was done.

A field of red granite stretched in the space above him like the bizarre clouds of some nightmare, the individual boulders careening off each other by the hundreds. Only the hardest minerals and metals endured the endless pounding of the rock flow, and only the most foolish men would brave such a swath of torrent. They were moving the direction he needed to go, into the flow where the rock moved fastest. In the torrent, speed kills, he reminded himself. He was the best courser among the Ring’s Guardians, but the rock never cared.

Corian deftly attached a new talon to what remained of his silver wingline, then heaved it. The metal hook took hold, his wingline snapped taut, and the boulder yanked Corian into the flow. He repeated the process, each time roping a boulder moving faster, until his last guide rock pulled him along at hundreds of spans a second. A layer of white frost appeared on his armor and mask in a blink. He reeled himself in and clung to the red surface, like a flea riding a river bison in the middle of a stampeding herd. He watched every direction at once from his perch, digging his gauntlets into the crumbling surface. The boulder was actually some ancient rusted metal, not granite as he first thought. The torrent here was so thick he could barely see the stars, and it filled his ears with a distant roar.

He sped along this way for some time, until he spied a pockmarked mass of stone and iron, large as a dwarf moon. A cleft right down the middle threatened to split the entire thing in half. A tower in the northern axis had seen more than its fair share of rust, but the light strobing from it pulsed regularly, illuminating the smaller rocks orbiting around it. As a whole, the wayfinder was ugly and old, but the mass of rock was the most blessed sight Corian could imagine after a week of surviving the torrent’s attempts to grind him to powder.

His next wingline took him closer. If the wayfinder was powered as well as he suspected, he could use the array inside it to find out where he was in the torrent, and see how close the Ring lay. He might even find food and water, if peace favored him. A fellow Guardian must stop here often for such an old wayfinder to be this well preserved, he thought.

Smaller debris pelted the wayfinder’s old crust, disintegrating in flashes of light. The surface shone with hundreds of impacts, large and small. Corian chose a crater near the old tower, perhaps seventy spans deep with high walls that would offer good angles to slow himself as he approached.

As he prepared to throw out another talon, dark shapes poured from the wayfinder’s cleft. He stared for a moment, incredulous. There could be no crater wolves on a wayfinder, with no game to hunt, unless they were marooned after striking some other erratic in the torrent. No, those shapes moved with a military precision, more lethal than the deadliest pack. He could see them clearly now, massive men covered in black. “No. Not here!” Corian barely recognized his own weary voice.

The voidwalkers had seen him. A pinprick of light shone on the wayfinder’s surface, brighter than the tower’s regular strobe. He eyed it mistrustfully as he searched for a place to throw his next wingline and change his momentum. He spotted a tumbling boulder half covered with ice, moving away from the wayfinder too fast.

The light near the voidwalkers flashed. A beam of energy rushed into Corian’s path, hot as molten steel. A lifetime of coursing experience kicked in, and he curled his legs up until his knees touched his ears, rolling forward. The strange fire passed underneath him by less than a span. He could feel the heat of it through his protective layer of sheath. The beam burned past, and slammed into a rock fifty spans away. The tumbling boulder barely even slowed in its course, but the spot where the weapon struck—for there was no question that is what it was—glowed red hot at the edges. The glistening center had cooled quick as glass.

Another pinprick of light. He twisted around in the weightlessness of the void to point his feet back toward the wayfinder and make himself a smaller target. It did no good. The beam rushed straight at him, and his world turned red with pain.

An impact jarred him awake. Another. Corian opened his eyes. I’m much too cold. The voidwalker weapon had burned away his sheath. Layers of his black armor were peeling away from the metal plates like paper curled in a fire. He had been caught in a tangle of purple-rooted vines intertwined in a mile long cluster of the floating rock, what Jendini coursers called a knotted forest. The roots were nearly hard as stone in places. Dusty old bones from animals Corian did not even recognize littered the tangles. Debris from the torrent stretched around the forest in every direction, and errant stones pelted the mass of vines, which he immediately recognized. Courser’s nap, the whole forest is covered with it.

Corian reached into a compartment on his armored belt and removed his last flask of sheath. He applied the clear liquid to his ruined armor in quick, smooth motions, not leaving one inch exposed. The sheath locked together in small patches of light, and his body’s heat immediately began to warm the interior of the invisible, protective barrier. Once the sheath was gone, his armor would not prevent the smallest pebble from killing him, if one struck him moving fast enough. For the first time, Corian considered that he may not survive.

This was to be his last circuit as a Guardian for the Ring, and he held the hope that he would look into his grandchildren’s eyes back on Jendini now that his service was finished. Yet his duty hung over him, heavier than ever. In the distance he could see the world of Shard, verdant and green just beyond the torrent’s chaos. His resolve hardened.

He slipped a speechcaster into his mouth and began to speak as he worked himself free of the tangled vines. The small wafer could hold his words in secret for a few days, should things go badly here.

“I am Corian Nightsong, a Guardian of the Ring. There are Thar’Kuri warriors on the world of Nemoc. The voidwalkers have built a device that allows them to…teleport themselves at will through the Belt. They are gathering in numbers, preparing for an attack. There are captives from all over the worlds imprisoned on Nemoc. The voidwalkers have weapons unlike anything known from the Ring. They use energy and can attack over great distances. They must have been made in the age before the Breach.

If you knew where to look for this message, you must deliver it with all haste to Force Lord Adazia on the Ring. The worlds all depend on you, for I have failed them.” The admission filled Corian with bitterness, but he forced a strength he no longer felt into his words. “My sons and daughters live in Denkstone, on Jendini. Tell them…their father served well.”

One of the vines tangled around his torso began to quiver. Corian looked down, fearing a leaf, but instead he saw a voidwalker, climbing toward him. Corian was tall, but the hulking brute easily overtopped him by a head. His glistening black armor looked as if it were melted to his frame, and covered him from head to toe save two dark slits for his eyes. The vines broke like dried mud in the voidwalker’s grasp.

Corian began to climb, scrambling further into the vines. He did not bother to draw his sword, the voidwalker would overpower him in moments if they were to fight.

“So afraid of an old courser?” Corian shouted. He pulled at every vine in his path as he fled, but most of them were stiff and gray. Living vines of the courser’s nap were purple and sticky, but the true danger lay with the leaves.

The voidwalker’s gravelly voice called to Corian, cold as an orphan’s gravestone. “Come to me, degenerate.”

Corian drew his sword, and began slashing his way through the vines. They sparked as his blade struck, but gave way. He leapt through an open space nearly ten spans across. The voidwalker followed without hesitation. So strong. Corian knew the brute meant to take him alive. He could not allow that.

He landed on a solid gray swath, fleshy beneath his feet. He rolled and lunged just as the leaf stirred. A row of spikes slipped out of the edges, thick as Corian’s leg and sharp enough to cleave a horse in two. Corian barely cleared them. The voidwalker was not so lucky. His momentum carried him right into the center of the carnivorous plant, which enveloped him with a twist of blue-veined leaf. Steam issued from the folds near the plant’s edges as it fed.

More pods of the courser’s nap were coming to life, enlivened by the voidwalker’s screams. Corian avoided the leaves wherever they stirred. He climbed and lunged and dived through the vines, soon pulling himself to the edge of the knotted forest. Pure torrent lay before him, an endless landscape of chaotic rock. There was no clear flow in any direction, the individual boulders in the skyscape crashed into each other in a hundred shattering impacts. I’ll leap blind and pray that my sheath holds.

Another voidwalker tore himself out of the vines a few spans away. Peace, but look at the size of him! The voidwalker’s armor looked as chewed up as the oldest rocks of the torrent, endless dents and scratches plastered the black surface.

“I’ve enjoyed hunting you, degenerate.”

Another courser’s leaf reared up behind the voidwalker as he lumbered toward Corian. The leaf lunged and took the voidwalker up, curling round and round as the folds of leaf tightened. Corian allowed himself a moment of elation, but it was short lived. A pale hand appeared on the side of the courser’s nap, and bright green fluid poured out. The leaf whipped back and forth, emitting a piercing shriek as the voidwalker pulled it apart piece by piece from the inside. Corian needed to see no more. He leaped, and prayed the torrent would show him mercy.