"Snow White Sorrow" Excerpt and GIVEAWAY

Today I am excited tofor Cameron Jace's to stop by the blog to share an excerpt from his "Snow White Sorrow"- this book legitimately has one of the most gorgeously creepy book covers I have ever seen before! 

From Goodreads: "Sixteen year old Loki Blackstar is no Prince Charming. His mother is a ghost. His only friend is a red Cadillac that talks to him through the radio. He looks like an Angel but acts like jerk. No wonder he has been banned from Heaven, which is the least of his troubles. Loki needs a job to pay for school and support himself.
Still, Loki has a rare gift: He is a Dreamhunter. One of the few in the world who can hunt and kill immortal demons in their dreams so they never wake up again.

When Loki is sent to kill a sixteen-year-old vampire girl the locals call Snow White Sorrow, he is pulled into a magical but dangerous world. The locals believe the monster to be Snow White.

The real Snow White... living in the ruins of an ancient castle in a small town. She is described as horribly beautiful, terrifyingly enchanting, and wickedly lovely.

What he finds instead is a beautiful monster girl filled with rage and hurt, who has an epic untold story to tell of things such like why the Brothers Grimm altered the fairy tale, who the Evil Queen really is, where the mirror came from, and who possessed it.

Snow White has killed every person who has dared come near the castle where she once lived with the queen. Mysteriously, she lets Loki live, and whispers two words in his ears; two words that will change his life forever."

Excerpt from Snow White Blood Red 

Dear Wilhelm Carl Grimm,

She is not that giddy, naïve, and helpless princess she pretends to be. Please don’t let her fool you with her innocence if you see her sing to the birds in the forest. Resist her charm from bringing joyful tears to your eyes, and shield yourself from her devious beauty before she deceives you into wanting to kiss her awake. It'll be a kiss of death. Your death. That’s how she fooled the Huntsman, Prince Charming, and me, her birth mother.

I still remember the original script of the fairy tale, the one you wrote in 1812. It clearly stated that she was my own flesh and blood daughter. I don’t have the slightest idea why you altered it fifty years later.

What was the point of turning me into an evil, narcissistic, and heartless stepmother, blinded by jealousy and envy of the young princess?

For years, I have been looking forward to telling you the truth about her, but you were impossible to reach.

I am glad I found your brother, Jacob. He told me that you wanted to tone the stories down so children could sleep better at night, instead of having nightmares about the Queen who sought to eat her daughter’s heart and liver.

Shame on you, Wilhelm.

You, of all authors, knew why I wanted to kill her. My actions were justified. I was trying to save my kingdom from her wrath, before everything we loved was destined to an end. The same way you had to rewrite the true fairytales after cursing us, so the War of Sorrows would end forever after.

Night after night, and year after year, parents fed their children false bedtime stories, until your lies grew into inescapable memories. Your happily ever after lies, Wilhelm, shaped the so called fairy tale world.

I wondered why you didn’t burn the original scripts, instead of rewriting them. You must have figured out that sooner or later someone would dig up the truth and expose you. Altering it was the smarter solution. You let children believe that the bites were resurrecting kisses, and that torturing glass coffins were made for sleeping beauties, waiting for a prince to come and kiss them awake.

A wise man once said that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he was someone else. You did the same with us, Wilhelm. You turned us into pastiches of the immortals that we really are, and made it harder for us if wanted to persuade the world otherwise.

I know that you did it to save us from her. And I appreciate how you concealed our real names, or we would have ended up like Rumpelstiltskin, tortured by those who knew of his real name.

But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder why no one ever questioned why I was called the Evil Queen, and why I was never given a real name in the books.

Was I so superficial to the world, so stereotypical and mundane? Why was I treated as if I were the monster of the week?

You know what I think? I think that the world never got the time to hate me. It just wanted to hate me long before it met me.

If I tell those who detest me about the true nature of their little princess, would they ever care about me half as much as they care about her?

I know that deep inside, they adore me. They like the way I talk, walk, dress, and even the way I kill.

They are just afraid to admit how much they love me. I am the Snow White Queen, strong enough that I don’t need anyone’s pity or love, because I am loved by the greatest and most majestic heart in the world:

Mine.

About the author: Wonderlander, Neverlander, Unicorn-chaser, enchanter, musician, survived a coma, & totally awesome. Sometimes I tell stories. Always luv the little monsters I write young adult paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and science fiction mostly. The Grimm Diaries series is a seven book saga that deals with retellings of fairy tales from a young adult POV - it connects most of the fairy tales together and claims to be the truth about fairy tales. I live in San Fransisco and seriously think circles are way cooler than triangles.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Special Note: All "Likers" of Cameron's Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/camjace) will get to notified of the exact release date, which is also when you will be able to get Snow White Sorrow for only 0.99c for only that 1 day. Also, until December 13th, the prequel pack (all 6) for Kindle is only 0.99c (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AA4JIWC)!

Guest Post: Author Bryan Dull

My Cursed Mind

So a vampire, a zombie, a sociopath, a psychopathic wife, and an angel entered my mind; one after another.  This happened in a matter of weeks and I couldn’t sleep because of it.  I knew my path that I was probably going to take with my writing and I can’t write as fast as I can think.  It was also frustrating because it potentially became the reason for my insomnia.  Then something happened.

I couldn’t think of anything else.  Not in an obsessive kind of way where I was narcissistic, but the fact that my mind might run out of ideas for stories is what I feared.  I know that this will probably change after a while, but I had a fear enter my mind; if I don’t come up with more stories, am I not a writer or is that something that I will always be based on my writings that are already published?

From Goodreads: "In Gavin Moxley's world, there is not a thin line between right and wrong. In a personal crusade to help severe a line of disease carried by a clan of vampires that are purposely infecting the human population; Gavin has no choice but to be ruthless. Waiting for the infection to start within the person, Gavin executes them one by one. Gavin is not strong or powerful, so finding the persons before they turn into full vampires is ideal.

This is Gavin's life, and nothing has changed it until a young half breed vampire, Solstice, attaches herself to Gavin. Asking for help and protection, Gavin unwillingly takes Solstice and agrees to protection for information leading to whereabouts of others that are infected.

Solstice's existence leads to a dangerous game of cat and mouse. There is no where safe for either of them as they are consistently being hunted. Solstice is a rare breed and is wanted for her "ability".

For Gavin, the past is not always forgotten. During their outing, Gavin starts coming to terms about his past and his family. His faith and humanity is tested during the turmoil that ensues.

"Solstice" is a story about faith and love in a way that is completely unconventional. Torn between his hate and his love for Solstice he is thrown into a moral dilemma that only he can figure out." 

Excerpt:

The pain was as unbearable as she thought and the let out a soft cry, at least she thought she did.  She could not scream or even talk anymore and any chance of her getting help has died along with her.  The mother’s last breath was coming and with the last breath she heard a whimper next to her telling her that she was sorry and didn’t mean to hurt her mommy.

The mother’s eyes filled with tears and with her last breath she told her,” I know, and mommy loves you.”  Her mouth was moving but no sound came out.  Her own daughter could not hear her mother’s voice.  As she was dying she watched her daughter walk out of the wreckage with the policeman’s coat and hat, walking with bandages covering her feet to keep them protected.  ”My smart little girl,” she thought.  Her daughter turned around with the sunlight behind her head and cracked a small smile with the right side of her face. 

About the Author: 

Bryan W. Dull has told and written stories most of his life; "Solstice" is his first published work. Dull has a unique perspective on life that puts his writings in a class by themselves. Other works he has created have been praised but never published. He currently resides in Cincinnati, Ohio with his family. Dull has lived in Indiana, Florida, North Carolina, and South Carolina; which is where Solstice takes place.   

Excerpt of "Silent Tears" by Kay Bratt

From Goodreads: "An American volunteer in a Chinese orphanage learns to pull from the hidden strength within her to improve conditions for the children. If you have ever wondered what day to day life is like in a Chinese orphanage, this will tell it. If you have ever wondered what it is like to love a child so deeply, even though they aren't yours, this will tell it. If you have ever wondered what it would be like to move to a third-world country, this will tell it."

Yoli and I entered the baby room this morning at nine and the first thing I noticed was the lack of ayis. Usually at this time there are two or three of them sitting around the TV watching their soap operas while supposedly paying attention to the babies. Today there was only one. I gave her the supplies I had brought for today―baby soap, powder, and wipes―and entered the other half of the room to see my babies.

The room had a stifling, pervasive odor of urine and sweat, a combination I haven’t yet adjusted to. I told myself it didn’t matter and tried to put it out of my mind, but couldn’t shut it out. Some of the babies were mewling loudly; others were quiet and motionless. I walked through the middle rows and worked my way down one aisle, adjusting the babies while talking to them softly. Many had legs or feet caught up in the metal sides of their cribs, causing them distress.

Most had heat rashes from the soaring temperatures and lack of air flowing. When their shirts ride up, their already irritated skin rubs against the straw mats they are lying on, adding to their misery. I continued down the aisle, releasing feet and straightening shirts as I went.

A baby girl covered to the neck with a towel instead of the usual sheet caught my eye. Most of the babies were sick today, many with fever, runny noses, and coughs. This baby looked as though she had cried herself into exhaustion, but her eyes were open. Bending down to speak to her, I noticed her eyes were not following me. I looked closer and saw that her eyes had a white film over them, nearly opaque so I could hardly see her pupils. The towel was not moving up and down over her tiny chest and she wasn’t blinking. My mind reeled as the thought struck me, “Oh my God, she is dead.”

I could scarcely believe what I’d found. My heart plummeted and for a moment seemed to stop. I shuddered and involuntarily recoiled from the crib. By this time a few more workers had arrived; I called one over while pointing to the baby. She peered into the cot, and beckoned a few other staff workers to come look. Nonchalantly, they sauntered over and one of them shoved the crib roughly into the wall, trying to make the baby move. The child’s body rocked violently from the force of the shove.

As I watched in horror, the worker repeated her rough action, and then said something to another worker, obviously confirming that the baby was dead. They didn’t touch her in any way or listen for breathing. Making no attempts at resuscitation, they dismissed her and walked off to continue their interrupted conversation.

I backed away, struck forcefully by their indifference. I was in double shock because of the dead child herself, and then because of her unemotional treatment by the workers. I tried to compose myself, still feeling faint as I watched the workers chatting together, laughing, and acting quite plainly as if the little girl’s life meant nothing to them. I realized I wasn’t inhaling and took a sobbing breath, but it didn’t calm me. The tears broke free of my eyes as I contemplated what a brief and tragic life this baby had lived.

One of the ayis left the room, and a few minutes later, a nurse came to check the baby with a stethoscope. When she heard nothing, she covered the baby’s face with the towel and walked from the room. Alone with the little girl, I returned to her side and thought to myself, “Say a prayer, just for her,” but it took some time for me to gather the words. Finally, I asked God to take her in His arms and comfort her.

While standing there crying, I saw Yoli on the other side of the room―with the toddlers and unaware of what had happened. I drew her near and told her one of the babies had died; she didn’t handle the news well, becoming agitated and upset. She wouldn’t go near the baby; instead, from across the room she gaped at the cradle, wide-eyed.

An old Chinese man with a significant stoop entered the room. Although I’ve been working here for weeks, I’d never seen him before. He was small in stature and his face held lines of wisdom, or perhaps sadness. He approached the little girl’s body, slowly removed the towel, and asked a worker to provide a pair of pants for her. He gently dressed her and placed a sheet on the floor. Picking her out of the cradle, he ever so softly laid her on the sheet. Bundling her neatly, he lifted her small body close to him and took her from the room.

He didn’t make eye contact with me, but I know he was aware I was watching. For my own sanity, I forced myself not to think about what would happen to her next.

Eventually, one of the ayis who had been laughing and chatting minutes before came and brusquely removed the baby’s straw mat and towel―her scant comfort. Outwardly, the ayi showed no compassion whatsoever for this child who had been in the care of the orphanage for such a short time. I wanted to believe she would make time for that later, as I know that Chinese people carefully guard their feelings.

I wished to leave immediately so I could openly cry, but knew many of the babies were terribly sick and needed me. Somehow, I kept going; I took temperatures, fed rice, gave bottles, and dressed their little bodies after their baths. Mechanically I followed all instructions, washed up, and started down the stairs.

In my distracted state of mind, I had forgotten Yoli and had to return for her. I found her, helped her gather her things, and we both left.

I waited in the car while she went to the office to drop off papers. As soon as the car door closed, I dialed Ben’s mobile. When I heard his familiar, comforting voice, I lost all composure and the dam burst wide open. I’m sure my driver was wondering what could possibly be so wrong, but he chose to ignore my tears and histrionic ranting on the phone. Ben assured me that he was leaving work early and would be home as soon as possible.

When Yoli returned to the car, her amiable, easygoing nature had returned. She looked at my tears and said, “Cheer up.” Stunned at her ability to switch between emotions so quickly, I couldn’t answer her and turned the other way to stare out the window.

Arriving home, I went directly upstairs to shower. Surrounded by the heat and soothing rush of the water, I scrubbed until it ran cold.

Sitting here now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. I can’t stop thinking about her. Shouldn’t I be part of a grieving process or a funeral? There has to be something to mark this child’s passing.

I’m going to make Amanda some lunch and afterward I think I will sleep for a while, if I can. I keep seeing the look on that little girl’s face, with her milky, lifeless eyes wide open and her arms outstretched stiffly. She was only about five months old and so very tiny and helpless.

I can see now why previous volunteers stay with the orphanage for only a short time and never return, but I will continue to go until they say I can’t any longer. I know the ayis resent my presence. Even if I can’t understand their words, I can see the animosity and disapproval in their expressions and feel the friction crackling in the air. I don’t care. I will bear the feelings of not being wanted by the staff. I will not give up on these children.

About the author:

Kay Bratt grew up in the Midwest as the child of a broken home and later, a survivor of abuse. Facing these obstacles in her own life instilled in Kay a passionate drive to fight for those that had been dealt an unfair hand. Upon arriving in China on an expatriate assignment with her husband in 2003, she was immediately drawn to the cause of China’s forgotten orphans. Moved beyond tears by the stories of these children, she promised to give them the voice they did not have. In 2008, she self-published her memoir Silent Tears: A Journey of Hope in a Chinese Orphanage to do just that. With the help of her readers, Kay continues to raise awareness and advocate for at-risk children. In China, she was honored with the 2006 Pride of the City award for her humanitarian work. She is the found of the Mifan Mommy Club, an online organization which provides rice for children in China’s orphanages, and is also an active volunteer for Court Appointed Special Advocates (CASA) for abused and neglected children. Kay currently resides in Georgia with her husband and daughter.(Source: http://kaybratt.com/biography/).

Excerpt of "Khantara" by Michelle Franklin

I am super excited to share with you today an excerpt of one of my most favourite indie author's newest books, "Khantara"! You can check out my full review of this book HERE. 

 From Goodreads: "Khantara tells the story of the Den Asaan Rautu's mother and father.

Khantara is a Haanta conquerer, meant to wage war and rule over the enemy nation of Thellis, but after vanquishing Thellis and occupying a construction of a Haanta outpost, he meets Anelta, a woman enslaved by her own people bearing a brand of servitude on her neck. Khantara contrives to save her from a cruel home and bring her to the refuge his people can provide, but how can he do so successfully when the eyes of Thellis are upon him."

From Chapter 4 
The instant Khantara began to walk the short path to the barracks he was attacked by swarms of wrens and sparrows from the nearby willows, all of them in a flutter to have their turn to speak to the gentle mountain. The owls and nighthawks had taken his evening and now it was only fair that they should have his morning to themselves. He must hear of their new nests and warbling chicks and horrid neighbors, and they were going to claims their perches on his head and shoulders and tell him whether he wished to listen or to ignore them accordingly. He would listen, however; the quick and nervous conversation of the sparrows was often one-sided and he was therefore required to do nothing but allow them to nest in his hair and continue walking. The wrens, however, were lest content to permit him to be indifferent: they would have him hear of every rude caterpillar and impudent butterfly flitting around trees they knew to be theirs. Theirs was a talk of territory, and they would have Khantara understand their plight. It was wrong of the caterpillars to climb their trees and enter theirnests, and it was so devious of them not to be edible though their bright colours and squirming movements were so enticing. How horrendous it was that the bustle and brilliancy of the butterflies’ wings should be so fascinating. They could hardly capture the creatures to feed to their chicks with such a violent display of beauty. Would only Khantara tell the caterpillars to taste more agreeable, the obnoxious moths to make their cocoons somewhere else, and the owls to leave the worms alone when there was mice enough for them. Khantara, however, would say nothing to the purpose. He only smiled and shook his head at the wrens, and their loud and intricate trills conveyed their indefatigable displeasure toward the giant’s infuriating civilities. He would let nature go its own way, and the birds could do little to convince him otherwise. The wrens threatened to claim strands of the giant’s long molded locks for their nests if he did not comply, but he would not regard their threats as any so troublesome. He simpered at their attempts and silently declared that they could not break his draping tendrils no matter how hard they should try when the giant suddenly found himself at the barracks.  

From Chapter 8

"She hoped, and did not hope, that what he wished to show her were in a more precarious place, but she realized that in welcoming the giant to her home, she would have to brook watching him remove his cloak. She had a slender idea of what she should discover there; she had felt his form when she fell against him and hardly found what she felt to be disagreeable. He waswarrior, unlike the Thellisian guardsmen she had learned to fear and avoid, and with a companion so colossal and foreboding, she could only conjecture as to what her husband might say upon seeing such a creature in his household. She had some apprehensions on the side of inviting him in; though she lived in the home, it did not belong to her, nor was any possession within its walls hers, but he had been so obliging and forthcoming with her, she could not very well allow him to remain outside the boundaries of the small disheveled gate. As they came to the path that led to the house, she regarded the giant’s features- his scarred skin, his yellow and black eyes, his broad and rounded shoulders- and confessed that she found everything to admire in his aspect. He may not have been absolutely handsome to some, but to her, he was striking. His manner, too, was to handsome and his air so prepossessing and kind- she checked before she could step closer to him due to some unconscious conjuration, but before she had hindered her deliberation, there was a momentary notion of her being hismate. She knew it was little more than a most impossible aspiration, for she was already bound to one, but yet she was beginning to prefer another: one who had openly professed himself her keeper and one who had sworn to remain at her side until the mate more errant should return home. She chided herself for wanting the one she so feared to remain in town for a few days more that she and the giant might spend as much time as was possible under one another’s auspices before the dreaded husband should revisit and all her hopes of flight and salvation diminish with his arrival."