Spotlight: The Moreva of Astoreth, by Roxanne Bland

Blurb

In the world-building tradition of Andre Norton, Anne McCaffrey and Ursula K. LeGuin, The Moreva of Astoreth is a blend of science fiction, romance, and adventure in a unique, richly imagined imperialistic society in which gods and science are indelibly intertwined. It is the story of the priestess, scientist, and healer Moreva Tehi, the spoiled, headstrong granddaughter of a powerful deity who is banished for a year to a volatile far corner of the planet for neglecting to perform her sacred duty, only to venture into dangerous realms of banned experimentation, spiritual rebirth, and fervent, forbidden love.

Link to Follow Tour:  http://worldwindtours.com/index.php/2016/08/04/tour-sign-up-the-moreva-of-astoreth/

Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29614594-the-moreva-of-astoreth

Buy Links:      Amazon | B&N | Kobo 

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Moreva-Astoreth-Roxanne-Bland-ebook/dp/B017JY331W/

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-moreva-of-astoreth-roxanne-bland/1122928113?ean=9780996731607

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/the-moreva-of-astoreth-3

I've been a fugitive from reality since forever. As a child, I constantly made up stories--some would call them lies--about my family, friends, neighbors and even strangers on the street. I had friends that only I could see. Oh, the adventures we had! 

Learning to read was a revelation. Words fascinated me. Whole new worlds opened up, and since my parents forbade nothing, I read everything. Some of it I didn't quite understand, but I didn't mind. I read it anyway. I even read the dictionary. When I was a little older, I was big on mysteries--English cozy mysteries, that is, Agatha Christie, were my favorites. Then I graduated to horror. Whenever a new book came out by Stephen King, Peter Straub or Dean Koontz, I was first in line. I was reading a little science fiction at this time--Robert Heinlein and authors like him--but I really didn't get into it until I was in college. The same with fantasy. I really got into high fantasy--Lord of the Rings style--in college. 

During this time I was still making up stories, but not writing them down. They were private. Besides, I thought my family and friends would laugh at me. In fact, the only story I recall writing was one that won a contest when I was in elementary school.

So anyway, life goes on. I went to law school. After I graduated and entered the workforce, I finally started writing down my stories. I wrote a bit here and there, short stories that never saw the light of day (which was probably a good thing). Then I fell ill. I had the flu for a month. Bored out of my skull, I started writing a piece of fan fiction, though I didn't know that's what it was at the time. I showed it to a friend of mine who suggested I finish the story. 

Well, that piece of fan fiction fell by the wayside, but in its place came a manuscript that would eventually become my first book, The Underground. I absolutely adored writing it. I absolutely adore writing, period. Slipping into that alternate reality for hours on end, there was a time in my life when it was called daydreaming and I got into trouble for it. Now it's legitimate. And that's the best part of all.

Author Links:  Website | Twitter | Facebook 

Website:  http://blackrosepress.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Roxanne-Bland-Author-289392377750996/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/RoxanneBland2

Guest post: "Because of Love," by Brian W. Matthews, author of 'The Conveyance'

I write about scary stuff. It’s what I do.

What I’ve never written about is the time I almost saw a ghost.

This ethereal manifestation happened in the basement of my parent’s home, where I was living with my middle brother. The basement was a surprisingly large space for a middle-class rambler with a detached garage. An orange metal, gas-fueled fireplace burned in one corner. A rather longish bar ran along the opposite wall. I don’t remember if my father made it or it came with the house. Didn’t matter. To teenagers nearing the legal drinking age, it was cool.

It was the late 70s, and our paternal grandfather (we called him Pipi) had passed away. His death hadn’t been entirely unexpected, but it still hurt. Illness is first a wound, and then a scab. You get accustomed to it. I think the word is habituated.

Eventually, though, death comes along like a bully and rips the scab off in great bloody hunks. The wound is once again exposed again, raw and throbbing. You wince. You cry. You shake your head in wonder. Then, gradually, you start to heal for good.

Time had passed since our grandfather’s passing. The hurt had faded. Instead of a sharp, agonizing pain, it had become a dull, warm ache. On the night of the sighting, my brother and I were in our beds. He slept across from the stairway that led to the upper level. I shared wall space with the fireplace. While I cannot remember exactly what time this happened, I believe it was still early in the night. Somewhere between eleven and midnight, perhaps? Pretty close to the witching hour, which kind of makes sense.

Sleep had yet to claim me when I heard my brother call my name.

I rolled over to face him. He appeared little more than a black lump in the dark. “What?”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“Believe what?”

“It’s Pipi.”

I closed my eyes. Really, you want to talk about him now? “Can’t this wait until tomorrow? I’m tired.”

“No, I mean it’s him,” he whispered. “Here’s here, sitting on the stairs.”

My brother is pretty much fearless. Nothing frightens him. Today, he’s a thirty-year police veteran who has worked as an undercover narcotics officer, did stints with S.W.A.T., and completed the FBI’s National Academy Training Program. He’s as bad as a badass can get. He’s been that way since we were young.

So when I heard the unease in his voice, I knew he had seen something. My heart started to race.

“Not funny,” I told him. Not the best comeback, but it was all I had.

“Get over here. You gotta see this.”

Nope. Not a good idea. Wasn’t going to do it. I pulled the covers over my head.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Go back to sleep. You’re seeing things.”

“He’s sitting on the stairs waving at me!”

Waving? That didn’t sound scary. I lowered the sheet and looked toward the dark stairwell. From the angle of my bed, I couldn’t see up the stairs. “You’re not messing with me, are you?”

“Hurry up!” he hissed. “I think he’s starting to fade.”

I hesitated. I had loved my Pipi. He’d been such a big part of my life that his passing had left me floundering. But as I said, time had passed. The healing had started. Did I want to rip open that wound again?

Could I be that brave?

My brother’s exasperation grew. “Dammit, Brian! What are you waiting for?”

I had missed my grandfather so much. Did I want to start missing him all over again?

That’s when I found out I could be brave.

I rolled over and faced the wall.

My brother didn’t say another word. Soon the ghost faded. That there was a ghost I’ve never doubted. And I don’t begrudge my brother for having his final goodbye to our grandfather.

It just wasn’t the right thing for me.

That was the time I almost saw a ghost.

And I didn’t, because of love.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Brian W. Matthews’s latest book is The Conveyance, a horror/science fiction novel about a child therapist who uncovers a secret long kept hidden form the world. Together with his friend, police detective Frank Swinicki, he doggedly follows a trail of murder and madness, eventually exposing a sinister conspiracy that threatens the existence of the human race. The Conveyance can be purchased directly from the publisher at www.journalstone.com or from Amazon.