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Phoenix Comic-con Fan Fest 2017

Phoenix Comic-con is in June and it is one of my favorite times of the year. For the last 3 years they have had a 2 day “Fan Fest” in November that I have wanted to check out. This was the first year I made it and even though I had fun and got to meet one of my favorite authors I probably shouldn’t have gone. I don’t know if any of you know what Pleurisy is, but its severe pain with every breath. (click the link to learn the whys and how’s)   But I had been suffering for about 6 days before the con and it was actually getting better. But after walking around for 3 hours on Saturday I was in so much pain I left and went to the ER.   After sitting in a hallway for 5 hours then getting an X-ray they wanted to do all this other stuff to see if I was having a Heart attack. That was stupid as I have had Pleurisy before and knew what it was plus I would have been dead if I had been having a heart attack for 5 hours but whatever, right? So 4 or 5 hours and a few IVs later they tell me its not a heart attack (No Shit?) and that the Pleurisy I have is viral so all I can do is rest. So what did I do, you ask? I went back to Fan-Fest on Sunday of course. I didn’t stay long but I still had a 2 hour drive home that was like stabbing myself in the lung with every breath. It is now Thursday morning and I have literally not gotten out of bed since I got home Sunday night except to go to the bathroom and can now breath shallow pain free breaths. Deep breaths still hurt but as my old granny used to say  “Life is nothing but pain” . She always was a bit odd.

Any way I did get to meet Drew Hayes the author of NPCs and The Utterly Uninteresting and Unadventurous Tales of Fred, the Vampire Accountant and many other great books. He is also the GM on the awesome Authors and Dragons Podcast. He has even done an interview on this very blog before! Check out the podcast its lots of fun and read the interview (not as fun but still good.) Drew had said something on his blog about  how he doesn’t dress up at cons but it is possible you might find him drunk and in half of a dragon costume. Well I couldn’t help but bring him a bit of something to wear that I made (and I will picture him wearing it during all future Authors and Dragons podcasts) He signed a few things for me and we had a nice talk. At least it was nice for me I may have been making no sense what so ever But that’s enough of my ramblings here are the photos.

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Drew Hayes wearing my gift
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Best thing ever!

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Comicare is a great cause!

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Pikachu was so happy to see squrtle
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I don’t know what they are from but I want to watch it

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Those wing are remote controlled
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That is one sexy Wall-e #astayoung

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I just missed the sweet group hug…
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Ghost busters everywhere but this was one of the best

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I almost screamed like a little girl I love Marvin!
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We had a nice talk about fur

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She even said By Grabthar’s Hammer… what a savings.

An Excerpt of Song By Jesse Teller

First I need to apologize to Jesse, I had all of this for so long and I said I would post it on release day. Well here we are 20 days later. So sorry again Jesse, and thanks for the Excerpt!

 

The Guard of Mending Keep

One Year After The Escape

 

The serving boy’s face was stained green with disgust and horror. He looked about to be sick, about to flee, about to weep. Rayph saw the trembling lip and the panic in the eyes, and he knew what the boy was carrying. It was small, maybe a little over a foot wide, spherical, and covered with a towel. The boy wove a path through the reclining bathhouse patrons and made his slow, methodical way around the main tub to the corner where Rayph sat with his good friend, playing crease and taking in the steam.

As the boy drew closer, the dread that rose up within Rayph prompted him to turn to Dova and grimace. Rayph moved his tile, tapping it lightly with his finger, and shook his head.

“I’m afraid we are about to be interrupted,” Rayph said.

The boy trembled beside the gaming table. His white, sweating face held the world’s shock, and Rayph nodded at him. “Set it down.” He waved his hand across the boy’s eye line and muttered his spell’s incantation. The serving child’s face smoothed clear of all trepidation, and he let out a long-held breath.

“Where did you get it?” Rayph asked.

The boy’s dark eyes looked troubled even through the effects of the spell. “He hurt me,” the boy said.

“Hurt you how?” Rayph asked.

The boy pointed to his temple. “He got in here. He burned me.”

Rayph clenched his fist and anger bubbled deep within him. “What did he look like?”

“He was trimerian, but his third eye,” the boy rubbed his forehead, “it seemed to be flaming. He stunk of sulfur.”

Rayph’s blood ran cold, and he stood. “Watch the boy. Lock down the house. If he returns, do not engage, just defend, Dova. He is beyond even you.”

He looked to his ethereal friend, naught but churning wind where his body sat. The towel draped over Dova’s shoulders and tied around his waist, the only indicator of his form.

Rayph grabbed the boy’s shoulders a little too rough, just a little too hard. “Where did he go?” Rayph tried not to let fear get the better of his voice, but it trembled. There are so many innocents here. If he unleashes, how much of the city can I save? The answer was very little.

Dova exploded with a slight puff of wind. The towels fell to the floor. Rayph could feel his friend fill the room, warm air, fluttering and vibrant with life, swelled, blowing curtains in a flurry. The doors to the bathhouse slammed shut.

“Where did he go, son?” Rayph asked the boy.

“Who said he’s gone?” The voice held a new lilt of arrogance to it, a soft tinkling, musical and filled with spite. The boy leapt back. His forehead ripped open, betraying an eye. His back split and out flapped two wings that bled greasy smoke.

“Clear the room,” Rayph commanded as he loosed his spell. The power of the spell’s thrall was so great that every reclined man leapt to his feet and rushed for the door. The doors flew open to slam closed again. Every lamp in the room surged, hissing flame before dying completely. The room was thrown into gloom, the only light issuing from the great opening in the roof centered over them.

With a flick of his wrist and the uttering of a command word, the air around Rayph’s right hand tore and his sword dropped from the wound. The air zipped closed again, and Rayph turned to the serving boy, who hovered before him.

“You harm that boy any further and I will hunt you, Meric. I will plunge into that darkness you surround yourself in and I will rip you from it.”

The boy tossed his head back and unfurled a hideous laugh that trembled the ceramic tiles of the wall. “I have not come to quarrel with you, old friend.”

“You and I were never friends,” Rayph said. The sky above the opening darkened, and Rayph stepped closer. “Why have you come here? Why show yourself now, after this many millennia?”

“The nation is wide open, dear friend. No one is watching over Lorinth in your absence. You have forsaken your post.”

“I still guard this nation. I serve not the throne, but this is still my home. I will return as court wizard one day.”

The boy’s head lobbed back, and he poured out another hideous laugh, so violent the corners of the mouth split, and the boy coughed blood. “Too late, Rayph, you will return too late.” The head shook. “You have not yet looked at the present I left for you. How rude you are, Ivoryfist.”

Rayph extended an arm toward the table and muttered a word. His eyes stayed locked to Meric as the object floated the room to hover before Rayph. With a jerk of the cloth, he unveiled the severed head. Rayph looked in horror at the face, so contorted in pain from its last moment he could not recognize it.

He stared at it. The left side of the face was badly burned, the neck severed with some keen, hot blade that cauterized the wound perfectly. Deep claw marks covered the right side of the face and neck. Blood stained the chin and mouth.

Rayph’s heart broke out in a rampaging rhythm, and his mind burst into flames as he recognized the face. “No.” He looked away, but his eye was drawn to the head again as the identity of the head locked in his mind. “It can’t be.”

A gurgling laugh filled the room, and Rayph summoned forth the power to smite Meric.

“No, Rayph, you mustn’t!” Dova screamed. He threw his whistling form before Rayph, and two thrumming hands landed on his shoulders. The air that comprised Dova’s body filled with the water of the tub they stood in, making a figure of rampaging moisture. “If you engage him here, you will destroy my city. You must not.”

“Listen to Dova, Rayph. He always was one for caution,” Meric said. “Caution and cowardice looking so much alike and all.”

“Rayph, who is it?” Dova motioned toward the head.

“Stoic,” Rayph breathed. “He has killed Stoic.” Saying it aloud let the words take on meaning. His friend was gone, his guard, dead. What would become of Mending Keep? Had they all fled? Had the world’s unkillable fiends made good an escape?

He knew the futility of the words before he spoke them but felt helpless to say anything else. “I will make you hurt for this, Meric. In this one act, you have killed yourself.” Rayph felt nauseous.

“Step aside, Dova,” he said.

“Oh, my dear Rayph, please do keep tight check on that temper of yours. I would hate to reduce this city to rubble because you threw a fit,” Meric said. The black smoke issuing from the flapping wings filled the room with unbreathable air. “Stoic is gone, as are his charges, but that does not mean we need come to blows. I was not the one that killed your boy.”

“This head was severed with your blade. Do not try to deny it.”

“Yes, for easier transportation, I assure you. He was dead long before I got there.”

Was Meric lying? Did he have any reason to? Why bring the head at all? Meric was not one to gloat. It was not his way. Why alert Rayph the prison had been broken in to? There was an element to this Rayph could not see, something big moving powerful pieces about the board.

“Who did this?” Rayph asked.

The boy laughed again, weaker this time. He doesn’t have much time. I have to get Meric out of that boy as soon as possible.

“I won’t do all of your work for you, Ivoryfist,” Meric said. Lightning flashed outside, the inky clouds that followed Meric everywhere boiling in the sky above them.

“Does this mean you’re coming off sabbatical?” Meric asked.

“I will find out who did this and why, and when I do, if your name comes up at all…”

The boy laughed again, a hissing wheeze that scared Rayph.

“Remember who helped you when it all comes out, Rayph. Remember who alerted you to the break. You owe me now,” Meric said.

“I owe you nothing. You did not do this for anyone’s reasons but your own.” It’s big. It’s really big, but I can’t see it.

Meric laughed again. The wings pumped, throwing blood through the air, and the boy’s body lifted.

“Leave the boy!” Rayph said.

“You don’t give me orders any more, Rayph. Those days are over.” The boy’s body lifted high above the bathhouse, and Rayph splashed into the center of the tub to stare up at darkened skies. With a deafening explosion, Meric broke loose of the boy’s body, and the child dropped. Rayph set his feet and watched as the body tumbled. The boy dropped through the opening in the ceiling, and Rayph caught him in his arms. The sky opened and rain hammered the city. Rayph looked up at his friend and grimaced.

“I must leave, Dova,” Rayph said. “But first I have to know what happened to Stoic. Can I use your lab and summoning room?”

“Everything I own is at your command, Ivoryfist, you know that.”

The boy woke up screaming.

 

 

Song
The Manhunters Book One
Release Date: October 5, 2017

Some of the darkest minds in Perilisc attacked Mending Keep, releasing all its prisoners. Despite his strained relationship with the crown, Rayph Ivoryfist calls old friends to his aid in a subversive attempt to protect King Nardoc and thwart terrorist plots to ruin the Festival of Blossoms. But someone else is targeting Rayph, and even his fellow Manhunters might not be enough to save him.

Order Song at Amazon, Kobo, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords.

 

About the Author

Jesse Teller fell in love with fantasy when he was five years old and played his first game of Dungeons & Dragons. The game gave him the ability to create stories and characters from a young age. He started consuming fantasy in every form and, by nine, was obsessed with the genre. As a young adult, he knew he wanted to make his life about fantasy. From exploring the relationship between man and woman, to studying the qualities of a leader or a tyrant, Jesse Teller uses his stories and settings to study real-world themes and issues.

He lives with his supportive wife, Rebekah, and his two inspiring children, Rayph and Tobin.

Recognition

SPFBO 2017 entrant
Literary Titan Gold Book Award Winner, April 2017
Drunken Druid Editor’s Choice, March 2017
Drunken Druid 2016 Book of the Year Short List
Hungry Monster Gold Book Award Winner, September 2016

 

“Jesse Teller is a talented author with the future in his hands.” —Peter Tr, booknest.eu

“A very strong author who boldly builds the world he has created with strong themes and no apologies.” —Dianne Bylo, Tome Tender Book Blog

 

“Jesse’s newest project, Song, is part of his Perilisc fantasy world: a richly detailed setting, ripe with legends, magic, and secrets whispered but not yet explored.” —Bookwraiths.com

 

 

Author Links:
Website
Facebook
Goodreads
Amazon
Twitter
Reddit
Smashwords

Excerpt from Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc by Jesse Teller

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This is my first time Posting an excerpt so I am just going to post it and then put all my amazingly witty and hilarious stuff down at the bottom……. Excerpt is a strange looking word, isn’t it?

OH I should say this is From Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc by Jesse Teller.

You know, if you didn’t get that from the title. Anyway here it is.

 

Festival of The Pale

 

The Pale, the goddess of death, fixed her rotting eyes squarely on the city of Mestlven where grew a darkness, patient and terrible. Her murder lifted from the battlefields of Corlene to swoop and brood on Mestlven’s roofs and scream at her citizens. Enormous crows, two feet tall with four-foot wingspans, terrorized the city and ate her trash, her vermin, her dead. When those sources of rotting meat and bloated flesh ran out, the crows began hunting her young. The coming of the crows marked the goddess’s intent for the city to host her annual festival. The clergy of The Pale arrived in force while her citizens cringed and waited with dread.

Mort arrived in Mestlven on the eve of the festival, her garrote stashed in the cuff of her robe, her dagger hanging from her hip. She murmured the prayers of The Pale and witnessed the spectacle of the massive city. Built by a long-dead race of giants, the scale of the buildings reached beyond her understanding.

Her wagon lurched ahead, rumbling along the cobblestones. The idols it carried trembled. Navigating the hills and winding alleys of the city proved difficult. Citizens pressed in tight to see The Pale’s cloth march through their streets like the slow and steady onset of some plague. Hunched over the reins of the wagon, Mort was used to the way they stared, fear branded on every face. Her brown wool cloak, befitting a priestess of her rank, gave no hint of the trim body she hid within its folds. They could not hope to guess her size. With the grinning skull she had painted on her face, and the scowl their pie-eyed looks teased up from her, she knew their fear nearly crippled them. No city wished to host the Festival of The Pale, but for some reason the goddess’s considerable murder had chosen this town. Mort found her anticipation growing.

For long years she had been a brown robed priestess of The Pale. She longed for advancement within her order, for a better understanding of her goddess and a closeness to The Pale that had been lacking these past months. She thought again of her bishop’s groping hands and the rage they had inspired in her, and she felt at odds with her church’s leadership and its goals. She had never been chosen to attend the Festival of The Pale before, but she knew something grand was about to happen.

The Grim stalked ahead, the personification of The Pale in the world of man. She rode the great albino horse that never died, and a black fog issued from the hem of her rotting robes to crawl the ground in all directions, seeking out the corners and recesses of the city. She carried the staff that claimed everything before it. Mort had never been so close to The Grim, and her excitement for the festival brought her near to panting.

The procession stopped at the center of town. The Grim dropped heavy to the street beside her mount, and with a clawed hand, stroked the beast’s muscled flank. She shuffled forward, dragging her feet and leaning heavily on the staff until she reached the very center of the courtyard. There, she slowly lifted the staff a few inches from the ground and held it aloft.

“Wretched mother of death, we come to this place at this time to make tribute and receive tribute in your honor.” The Grim’s prayer broke across the air, dry like the rattling of bones. “I claim this city for the duration of the festival for you and your enjoyment.”

She slammed the staff into the ground. The street trembled as a circle of power exploded in all directions and embraced the entire city. The crows lifted into the air, screaming as they stained the Mestlven sky as black as a cloud of noxious gas issuing from a ruptured corpse.

Mestlven: A Tale from Perilisc
Revenge, Insanity, and the Bloody Diamonds
Meredith Mestlven was abused and betrayed by her nobleman husband. After a desperate fit of retaliation, she fled for her life and lost her sanity. Now nearly 20 years later, she returns to her home at Sorrow Watch to destroy her enemies and reclaim her jewels. How far will she go to satisfy her revenge? Dark, cunning and beautiful, Mestlven will win your heart or devour your mind.

Book links:

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Jesse is giving books away!!

To enter, just follow jesseteller.com via email or WordPress by July 16th. On July 17, 2017,  he will randomly select winners from his blog followers.

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Five (5) winners will receive a digital version of the Perilisc Starter Set: Liefdom, Chaste, Mestlven, and Legends of Perilisc in the format of their choice (mobi, epub, or pdf available).

One (1) grand prize winner will receive signed paperbacks of the Perilisc Starter Set: Liefdom, Chaste, Mestlven, and Legends of Perilisc.

Author bio:

Jesse Teller fell in love with fantasy when he was five years old and played his first game of Dungeons & Dragons. The game gave him the ability to create stories and characters from a young age. He started consuming fantasy in every form and, by nine, was obsessed with the genre. As a young adult, he knew he wanted to make his life about fantasy. From exploring the relationship between man and woman, to studying the qualities of a leader or a tyrant, Jesse Teller uses his stories and settings to study real-world themes and issues.

He lives with his supportive wife, Rebekah, and his two inspiring children, Rayph and Tobin.

 

 

What? Why are you still here? Oh I was just kidding about the amazingly witty and hilarious stuff. You should know me better than that by now. I will be posting a really great interview with Jesse Teller that I will link here, but for now its 4:00am and I am all out of witty things to say. I guess I am witless.

Me and my son Cristian

A phone conversation between my son and I. He recommends to me a book series that I have already reviewed and had multiple giveaways from the author, even having a “C.T. Phipps day” last week.. Yes it hurts to know that my own child does not read my blog, but being there when he realized how awesome I really am is priceless. Thanks Charles for writing great books and bringing my family closer together.

Songs for the Dead A Short Story

This is a Short Story my Son wrote years ago and never really finished. I just found it and thought I would share it with you guys. I did clean it up and finished the “SONG” at the end but let me know what you think of  it.
Songs for the Dead
The small Island of Belloun was bustling with life in early afternoon, on what was their most sacred of days. The people ran about, from house to house, to the village center where the guardian statue stood, to the inn and too small wooden booths draped in orange or black woolen tarps where the scent of freshly baked pastries and sweet bread intoxicated the children in their oddly painted masks. Indeed, all the islands inhabitants wore the odd masks, that is, all except for the soldiers. The soldiers wore no masks, for they were new to the island. less than one day had passed since they had occupied the island, and taken up in The Fort, the large stone square that sat to the north of the island, on a tall pillar like column of land connected to the island only by a stone bridge that was just too small for two men to walk abreast. Tall walls right up to the edge compounded with the many arrow slots and murder holes should have allowed the fortress to easily defend against the soldiers, yet in the early dawn as the soldiers ships had approached, the fort had been empty. Commander Turner had been told that the fort would be empty on the holy days of Abscondere and Quaerere and how the Fort would be abandoned, but he had assumed that even the heathens on this god forsaken rock would quickly relinquish ceremony in the name of practicality. He recalled the mourning vividly, how at first light they had landed in their long boats, prepared for anything. Yet, even as the soldiers walked into the village, not a single man, woman or child so much as acknowledged the soldiers as they marched through the village to the Fort.
Turner had suspected solemnity in the people, yet they sang and told stories, ate sweets and made merry as if oblivious to the invaders who were there to occupy their home. This oddity was only heightened by their outfits. All wore robes of black, white, or shades of grey. This was, presumably, to give better contrast to the masks they all wore. Of every color, often of many different colors, the masks covered the hole of the face, most had what looked to be color rimed slits for eye holes, red and black being the favored colors, though a surprising number of masks bore no eye holes at all, those who wore them either being led about by friends or their mask hung by the fitting string around their necks. The masks bore no eyes, he realized, because they were not faces. Not a single mask he saw bore even the slightest resemblance to a face, or in fact to any living thing Turner had ever seen. what curious creatures these islanders were.
At the bridge, five men had stood, conical hats that gleamed and shone in the morning sun, their faces hidden. At first, the commander had thought these men to be soldiers, yet as they approached, he saw the hats he had assumed to be steel had been wicker painted with a grey reflective paint, their faces hidden not behind face guards, but wooden masks, not unlike the villagers except in the lack of the adoration of paints. They each wore grey robes, grey gloves, and the backs of their mask trailed grey fabric to obscure the back of their heads, leaving nothing exposed to the world around them. They seemed to be alone, though the entire village could have hid in that fort and Turner doubted they could have seen a hint of them. The men stood in a semicircle around the mouth of the bridge, eyeless masks smooth and inhuman, blinding them to the world.
“What are you doing here? Step aside, villager. We come to bring your island under Imperial control, and with that the protection of the empire’s soldiers.” Turner spoke the words as one who had spoken it a hundred times, with the full knowledge that the phrase was almost always followed with bloodshed. His body was tense, not in fear for his life, but in fear for theirs. The robed men did not so much as twitch. Just this once, perhaps there would be no blood on his hands. “Did you not hear me through those infernal masks? I said stand aside.” Again, no movement, but one spoke, it was impossible to tell which.
“You must leave this place.” The speaker was old, his voice calm and unafraid, almost fatherly. “leave this place now, if you value your life.” Was the man daft? He must have heard the sounds of the men marching, even if he couldn’t see them.
“I don’t think you understand your situation, old man. You are surrounded by no less than three hundred men of the Empire, you are in no position to make commands, yet alone threats.” No movement.
“If you value their lives as well as your own, you will leave this place.” A slight murmured laugh rose from the men behind him.
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Turner scoffed, “What exactly do you plan to do if we do not leave?” A long silence from the faceless old men, but then the center most man took a step forward.
“Not a threat, but a warning. If you do not leave, not a man among you will survive the night.” Raucous laughter burst from amongst the soldiers, but Turner cut it off with the raise of his hand. He waited for silence, and when it fell, spoke to the masked men.
“Are there any of you hiding in the fort?” Commander Turner had none of the levity of his company, he was a veteran of the islands, and nine times out of ten the savages fought to the last man to keep out the Empire, and never did they give up so nonchalantly. No, Turner fully expected an attack, tonight if the masked man’s threat was any indication. But, why then let them take the Fort? It was by far the most defensible place on the island. Perhaps to try and trap them? The man seemed hesitant. “An answer or your life, old man.” The words cut any vestiges of humor from the men. His where good men, and found no mirth in killing unarmed old men.
“No one else dares be this close to the Fort, son of the empire. You should be as them and be elsewhere.”
“I have heard enough. Someone watch these fools, i want them chained up under guard until the fort is secured. I don’t trust this, I want every inch of this place searched for traps and for anyone who thought to hide inside. Anyone you find is to join their friends here until we find a place to keep them. Anything seaming even the slightest bit out of the ordinary I want it reported directly to me, am I understood?” There was a solute from the men who could hear him, others waited for his orders to be passed down the line. It took only two men to guide the masked men out of the way, they put up no fight except their refusal to remove their masks. Though Turner found it odd, after he had each man show his face once to the soldiers who guarded them it didn’t seem to make any difference whether or not they wore their masks, so he had allowed it.
Turner itched between his shoulders, a sensation he connected to danger. He had not realized how long it had been since he had last felt danger till that moment, and now it made no sense. While fighting pirates, quelling rebellious tribes, forcing his way to shore threw air buzzing with arrows and the screams of the dying, sometimes as many his men as those they fought, always he felt in control. A man always had a chance to survive in battle, no matter how bad things appeared. You could always fight, there was always something a man could do to survive, given he saw the opportunity and took it. No, those things did not scare Commander Witt C. Turner of the Imperial navy. The last time he had felt fear, true fear, was when he had fallen to Yellow fever a year gone. Death had been inevitable then. No way to fight, no way out, and the overwhelming sense of impotence chilling him to the bone as the fever burned his body. But he had survived, and God willing he could survive anything after that. But why that feeling now? There wasn’t anything for him to do, no resistance, no opposition to quell. But perhaps that was just it, he felt as if he should be fighting. The faceless old mans “warnings” made Turner shiver slightly. This was far from over. This island was an iceberg, and he could feel its secrets hidden just beneath the surface. Something was very wrong, and Turner planned to face it head on. He was in control. He kept repeating that to himself as he walked off to see to his men.
 
 
The Fort was large, especially so considering it was on an island. It could fit his three hundred two and a half times again easily, and with its narrow mouth a handful of men could defend it against a determined army. The place was a labyrinth of hallways and rooms, some much larger than others, and a dungeon on the top floor where Turner had seen to the Masked men’s incarceration. Indeed, with enough supplies it could very well hold off a determined superior force with the entire village inside. That was the problem, Turner thought annoyedly as he sat in his new office, scratching gingerly into a vellum ledger. It all made no sense. Their search had been as thorough as possible, for the short time they had had at least, and there was no hidden army waiting to strike, no assassins in the shadows waiting to kill Turner and his officers, no boobytraps waiting to trap them all and starve them to death. In fact the larger part of the fort looked like it had not seen a occupation in quite some time, dust laying thick over each room as a blanket, cobwebs hanging in corners, the musty smell of the dust competing with the smell of wood gone to rot from years left exposed to the damp island air. Yet smell was the last thing on Turners mind. He had found a sizeable office with a small window, barred with iron work so rusted as if trying to mimic the heaps of molded wood on the floor in their decay.
Turner had had those heaps removed and replaced with a fresh desk, purchased in the village with Turner’s own money only an hour gone. Turner, a frugal man if there ever had been one, would have initially preferred his own desk, still aboard the ship where it was bolted to the floor like all his furniture to avoid shifting with the ceaseless rocking of a ship at sea, yet as turner sat at this new desk, he couldn’t help but admire the red-brown and white patterns of the wood, or its strong smell, which though he could barely smell over the still lingering smell of decay he knew had to be strong just to register to his senses, keen though they were. He bent over in the chair that he sat in and breathed deeply with his nose to the wood, and for a brief second he forgot his contemplation of the island troubles, lost in his admiring of the scented wood, but with that realization of him forgetting his troubles, he thought of them anew. His annoyance caused him to straighten, and with a start he realized there was a man standing in the doorway. A man in an eyeless wooden mask.
Turner stood up immediately, his hand reaching for his sword more out of instinct then conscious will, but the hilt caught on the arm of his chair and chair lifted with Turner and the seconds that it cost him where all too precious. The masked figure ran across the room, stumbling slightly as it hit the desk, but knowing where it was it easily moved around it and in one fluid movement it had one hand to Turner’s neck and one hand pining Turner’s sword in its sheath. Even as Turner struggled to free himself and wrestle his sword free the man, the thing in the mask began to lift Turner, choking him as his feet scraped vainly at the floor.
The masked figure was chanting something in a murmured, maddened voice Turner vaguely recognized as the fatherly old man from that mourning.
“Death was nimble, and death was quick, , there It was, and see you it did.” Turner gave up on grabbing the sword and tried to pry at the masked man’s iron grip at his throat with both hands, though the man’s gloved fingers didn’t budge at all.
“The Fort was strong, the Fort was fraught, thought it was safe, though it was not.” turner was beginning to black out, his hands numb as they pulled against the gloved fingers. Turner felt the reality of his situation sinking in, the inevitability of his death and the futility of his struggle against that death.
“The Guards stood proud, the Guards stood tall, then He came, and they did fall. The cry was raised the cry was heard-” The last words where lost to Turner as he slipped in to unconsciousness.
 
 
Death was nimble, and death was quick, there It was, and see you it did. The Fort was strong, the Fort was fraught, thought it was safe, though it was not. The Guards stood proud, the Guards stood tall, then He came, and they did fall. The cry was raised the cry was heard its raisers did hide but did not hide all. Hide your face when comes the night, cover your eyes and survive you just might. Enter the Fort and meet your end, show your face for yourself you must fend. So bring all your solders and line up the walls, have them patrol the long empty halls. Give them your orders with your last breath, then wish you had saved it to scream, when you too meet Death.

Handy Hobs How to make a Helpful Hat Holder

 

Hello This will be a Hip post using Homoeoptotonian H words. Sorry but my Hat Holder brought about a hwyl in me! If you don’t know the meaning of something in this post I Have definitions below so you don’t think I am full of Hooey.

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In an effort to get rid of some of the useless crap cluttering my shelves and Hindering my organization.

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I came up with this neat little Sword in the Stone Hat Holder. Its not just for Hats However, you could hang a Helmet  or even a Hauberk from the Hilt If your Hardware  is Heavy enough. But I Hate to tell you this little Hog-Goblin, but that is not a Hat

at

 

 

I don’t know the Horometry it will take you., but it took me just Half of a Half Hour (15 min) to complete this project, not including time for the  paint to dry. ( It doesn’t take an Horologist to know paint dries slower if you Hover over it)

What you will need to Have to  Hand.

  1. The Handle Half of a wooden sword
  2. A Heavy piece of Styrofoam
  3. Black or a dark Hyacinthine paint
  4. some “stone” spray paint (Hold your nose it stinks Horribly )
  5. One H bracket……
  6. Just kidding you need a L bracket or a Hinge
  7. Handful of screws Sorry Hobnails won’t work

 

The wooden sword I got free from a Spirit Halloween store. I was building a Haunted house for my kids school with Hardly any budget at all. I just went in and asked the manager if they Had any broken items that we could Have to use as props for the Haunted House. I got the sword and a Whole ( it sounds like it starts with H) lot more. It was a lot of Hard work but I think it turned out great and it made the kids Happy.

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I don’t Happen to remember where I got the Styrofoam  I Had painted 2 matching pieces of the Foam black for something else  But only used Half of what I Had.when I Had Hung one up with my real swords.  You can get the other things at Home depot or any Hardware store for a few bucks.

 

  1. Paint the Styrofoam with the black paint. Or you can use any dark color you Happen to Have Handy.
  2. If your sword Happens to be whole you will need to cut it in Half.
  3. Line up the L Bracket at the tip of the Half sword and mark the Holes. Then drill them out with a bit Half the size of your screws.
  4. Once the paint on the foam Has Hardened spray it with the stone spray paint. I use a Helpful spray paint can clip on Handle for better control of over-spray.
  5. I may have Habromania but this part makes me Happy. You get to Stab the foam …. in the Heart? Well anywhere you want as long as there is a Hole.
  6. Once you have committed a Styrofoam Homicide Slide the sword in until you see the Holes you drilled in step 3.
  7. We need to find a stud to Hang your Hobs Handy Hat Holder™ as it will be too Heavy to Hang from the drywall. Once we Have the Location, line up, mark. then drill the pilot Holes and use the screws to Hold the Bracket to the wall .
  8. Now we align the Holes in the sword with the other Half of the L bracket and put the screws in.

9.. Now test it to see if it will Hold up with a bit of weight on the Haft.

  1. We need to Handle the Styrofoam carefully as we slowly slide the “Heavy stone” down the sword away from the Hilt until it Hides the Hardware.

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There you Have it! You made your own Hobs Handy Hat Holder™, and you read my Hortatory writing practice using  my Horrisonant Homotaxic Hephaestic Help. I Hope I didn’t use any Heterophemy in the post, I also Hope you learned some Heretofore unknown words without becoming Hypnagogic. Or worse become so angry that you thought of committing hospiticide. But I am sure your honorificabilitudinity is to high to try that.

Did you Have as much fun reading this as I Had writing it? I Hope so!

 

habergeon sleeveless mail coat
habromania insanity featuring cheerful delusions
halecret light half-suit of plate armour
hallux big toe
haqueton stuffed jacket worn under mail
hauberk long chain mail coat
heaume massive helmet covering head and shoulders
hephaestic of, like or pertaining to iron-working and blacksmiths
heretofore until now
heterism variation
heteropathy excessive sensitivity
heterophemy accidental use of word different from that meant
heteroscian dweller of a temperate zone
heterosis use of one form of a noun or pronoun in place of another for rhetorical effect
homoeoptoton use of series of words sharing the same inflections
hwyl emotional state capable of arousing intense eloquence
 

homeomerous

composed of similar parts
homiletical of, like or pertaining to homilies
homotaxic arranged in a similar manner
homuncule little artificial person
honorificabilitudinity honourableness
hooey nonsense; humbug
horrisonant dreadful-sounding
hortatory giving exhortation or advice
hortensial of, like or pertaining to gardens
hospitate to greet; to welcome
hospiticide killer of one’s guest or host
 

horology

 

 

science of time measurement A Horologist

horometry time measurement
hyacinthine of a blue or purple color
hyphaeresis omission of sound or letter from a word
hypnagogic sleep-inducing; pertaining to drowsiness or sleep
hypnoetic of, like or pertaining to unconscious logical thought
hypophrenia weakness of mental facilities
hypostasis basis; foundation; essence
hypostrophe return to primary argument after digression
hypostyle pillar

I NEED YOUR HELP

Usually when I listen to an Audiobook, I have something else to do. Like working, Hiking, or cleaning. But Last night I was just kicking back in bed and my head hurt a bit, so I didn’t want to read. But …well you know that’s a lie, I wanted to read…. So I put on a AB and then started messing around in Photoshop. This is when we come to the crux of the problem I need your help with. I made a a few  new Blog graphics to switch out for this one.

hob

So let me know what one you like best of the Images bellow. Or I can just roll Some Dice and pick one

  1. cowboy-hob

  2. gholem

  3. gob-ross

  4. ho1b

  5. hob

  6. hob-blogger

  7. junky

  8. gholem1.jpg                           For Somnasanin

A confession an Infomercial and a Giveaway

I have a deep dark secret to tell you all. I am embarrassed to say this, but the first step to recovery is to admit you have a problem right?

****Trust me I am going somewhere with this*****

Well Here I am admitting I have a problem. I am addicted to books…..Sob….. There I said it! I feel so much better now.  I love my Kindle and all the hundreds of books I have on it. But it is so hard to get them Autographed.  I actually did find a way to do it and I think it looks good, but I am running out of wall space now.

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Since I am exposing all of my obvious yet dark secrets Today  The real pride and joy of my collection would be my Autographed first editions.  Pictured bellow. Now I prefer to not have the dust jackets on. It just looks so much better without them, I think. The red book in the center and the one to its right are the same book but the one on the right still has the dust jacket on.

2

 ****Almost there I can see my point ahead****

I just bought a Leather-bound and gold leaf special edition of Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson I paid $100

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That is really cool and I can’t wait to show it off to the 1’s of people that visit me. But I don’t think it will ever go far from my shelf. But what if you had something that looked as nice but you could use for any book. To protect on the shelf or as something you carried with you. Well now you can! With a custom hand burned wooden Book cover made just for you and your favorite book!

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Now how much would you expect to pay for a cover like this?

 “7,002.86”

That’s oddly specific but way  to high guess again!

“90.00?”

Try  aga…um…. hold on a sec  that’s actually correct and on the second try …Bravo….

That’s right get this Custom Book Cover for only $90.00

 But wait there’s more!! As part of this  preliminary initial introductory blog offer, the first 20 people to order will pay only $70 Call now!! Bob is standing by to take your order! Make sure to get your Great Aunt Miranda’s permission before you call

Actually you have to order online  here

Order Now

you have the right to share this post you have the right to order this book cover If you don’t have a great Aunt Miranda one will be appointed to you at no charge offer not available on mars or that small island off  the coast of New Zealand

I will be doing a Giveaway of one of these covers soon But need to Finalize the look myself It will not be a custom one since I need to have it to give it away. I am thinking something like Prince Jorg on the front and Emperor Jorg on the back cover both from books by Mark Lawrence

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Or this on the front.

capture

And this on the backbridge-4

Both are from Sanderson’s Stormlight series. But give me your Ideas

Odin grant me the serenity
to accept the Characters  I cannot change;
The courage to critique the books I read;
and wisdom to never chose a book by it’s cover.

The First Annual Goblin Awards

. The majority of you are probably here by accident or on a dare or something and have no clue whats going on. But a few of you already know that I just started this blog back in October. So I am new to all this writing stuff and sharing my thoughts with others. But I wanted to do a year end wrap up of the best of the books I have read. As of 12/9/16 the number of books  I have finished this year is 256.

And since I know my wrap up won’t be very entertaining but I want a lot of people to look at it, I am going to do it like an awards show. I mean who actually enjoys the Oscars anymore? But we still watch them.

SO with out further ado. I welcome you  to the first ever Gobie awards. I don’t know that sounds kinda stupid .What do you think? .I guess I lied and there will be further ado..Is that a thing? I know you can be with out it but can you have further ado?…    now I am just getting sidetracked…. And the Gobie goes to….hmm I guess it will work Lets start over

I welcome you to the first ever Gobie awards.

Our first Award will be the Gobie for Best Book in YA (young Adult)

comedyAnd the Gobie goes too

Calamity (Reckoners #3)  by Brandon Sanderson

My rating 4 stars

When Calamity lit up the sky, the Epics were born. David’s fate has been tied to their villainy ever since that historic night. Steelheart killed his father. Firefight stole his heart. And now Regalia has turned his closest ally into a dangerous enemy.

David knew Prof’s secret, and kept it even when the Reckoners’ leader struggled to control the effects of his Epic powers. But facing Obliteration in Babilar was too much. Prof has now embraced his Epic destiny. He’s disappeared into those murky shadows of menace Epics are infamous for the world over, and everyone knows there’s no turning back…

But everyone is wrong. Redemption is possible for Epics—Megan proved it. They’re not lost. Not completely. And David is just about crazy enough to face down the most powerful High Epic of all to get his friend back. Or die trying.

 

The Next award is for Best short story /Novella   And the Gobie goes too

vagrent

Danse Macabre
by Laura M Hughes

The dead beckon and the little girl obeys. Night after night she answers the graveyard’s call, though she dreads her encounters with the creature that dwells there.
But she’ll soon come to learn that memories are much more dangerous than monsters…

My review

As dark as Abercrombie ever was and as beautifully written as Rothfuss the Prose is almost like poetry except that I liked it. This is a short story and only took me about 30 min to read it but I will be thinking about it for days I am sure. I honestly think it was one of the best short stories I have ever read. I will be checking often for more from Laura M. Hughes. I give Danse Macabre 5 out of 5 stars. You owe it to yourself to read this haunting story.

 

OK seriously let me know if any of you think of a better name for the award

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 Play to Live by D. Rus

My Rating 4 stars

A new pandemic – the perma effect – has taken over Earth of the near future. Whenever you play your favorite online game, beware: your mind might merge with the virtual world and dump its comatose host. Woe be to those stuck forever in Tetris! And still they’re the lucky ones compared to those burning alive eternally within the scorched hulls of tank simulators.

But some unfortunates – the handicapped and the terminally ill, shell-shocked army vets, wronged crime victims and other society misfits – choose to flee real life willingly, escaping to the limitless world of online sword and sorcery MMORPGs.

Once a seasoned gamer and now a terminal cancer patient, Max grasps at this final chance to preserve his life and identity. So he goes for it – goes for the promise of immortality shared with a few trusty friends and the woman he loves. Together they roam the roads of AlterWorld and sample its agony and ecstasy born of absolute freedom.

grim

Cthulhu Armageddon by C.T. Phipps

My Rating 4.5 stars

CTHULHU ARMAGEDDON is the story of a world 100 years past the rise of the Old Ones which has been reduced to a giant monster-filled desert and pockets of human survivors (along with Deep Ones, ghouls, and other “talking” monsters).

John Henry Booth is a ranger of one of the largest remaining city-states when he’s exiled for his group’s massacre and suspicion he’s “tainted.” Escaping with a doctor who killed her husband, John travels across the Earth’s blasted alien ruins to seek the life of the man who killed his friends.

It’s the one thing he has left.

My review Cthulhu Armageddon  by C.T. Phipps

Should we break for intermission? oh Damn I Forgot to ask Laura M. Hughes Who she was wearing…. Oh well the world is probably better off with whoever it is as a dress anyway, OK back to the awards!!

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The Vagrant (The Vagrant #1) by  Peter Newman

My Rating 5 stars

The Vagrant is his name. He has no other. Friendless and alone he walks across a desolate, war-torn landscape, carrying nothing but a kit-bag, a legendary sword and a baby. His purpose is to reach the Shining City, last bastion of the human race, and deliver the sword, the only weapon that may make a difference in the ongoing war. But the Shining City is far away and the world is a very dangerous place.

Hob’s review of The Vagrant by Peter Newman

original

Best New Author to Me

When the Heavens Fall (The Chronicle of the Exile #1)  by Marc Turner

My Rating 5 stars

If you pick a fight with Shroud, Lord of the Dead, you had better ensure your victory, else death will mark only the beginning of your suffering.

A book giving its wielder power over the dead has been stolen from a fellowship of mages that has kept the powerful relic dormant for centuries. The thief, a crafty, power-hungry necromancer, intends to use the Book of Lost Souls to resurrect an ancient race and challenge Shroud for dominion of the underworld. Shroud counters by sending his most formidable servants to seize the artifact at all cost.

However, the god is not the only one interested in the Book, and a host of other forces converge, drawn by the powerful magic that has been unleashed. Among them is a reluctant Guardian who is commissioned by the Emperor to find the stolen Book, a troubled prince who battles enemies both personal and political, and a young girl of great power, whose past uniquely prepares her for an encounter with Shroud. The greatest threat to each of their quests lies not in the horror of an undead army but in the risk of betrayal from those closest to them. Each of their decisions comes at a personal cost and will not only affect them, but also determine the fate of their entire empire.
The first of an epic swords & sorcery fantasy trilogy for fans of Patrick Rothfuss, Marc Turner’s When the Heavens Fall features  gritty characters, deadly magic, and meddlesome gods

My review When the Heavens Fall (The Chronicle of the Exile, #1) By Marc Turner

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The Blood Mirror (Lightbringer, #4)

by Brent Weeks

My Rating 5 stars

Stripped of both magical and political power, the people he once ruled told he’s dead, and now imprisoned in his own magical dungeon, former Emperor Gavin Guile has no prospect of escape. But the world faces a calamity greater than the Seven Satrapies has ever seen… and only he can save it.
As the armies of the White King defeat the Chromeria and old gods are born anew, the fate of worlds will come down to one question: Who is the Lightbringer?

Hob’s review of The Blood Mirror by Brent Weeks

continuing

Age of Myth (The Legends of the First Empire #1)  by Michael J. Sullivan

My Rating 5 stars

Age of Myth inaugurates an original six-book series, and one of fantasy’s finest next-generation storytellers continues to break new ground.

Since time immemorial, humans have worshiped the gods they call Fhrey, truly a race apart: invincible in battle, masters of magic, and seemingly immortal. But when a god falls to a human blade, the balance of power between men and those they thought were gods changes forever. Now, only a few stand between humankind and annihilation: Raithe, reluctant to embrace his destiny as the God Killer; Suri, a young seer burdened by signs of impending doom; and Persephone, who must overcome personal tragedy to lead her people. The Age of Myth is over; the time of rebellion has begun. Age of Myth

Are we still having fun? Do I need to hire some homeless people to fill the empty seats? Don’t worry we are almost done.

serious

 

 Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher

My Rating 4 stars

In Wishful Drinking, Carrie Fisher tells the true and intoxicating story of her life with inimitable wit. Born to celebrity parents, she was picked to play a princess in a little movie called Star Wars when only 19 years old. “But it isn’t all sweetness and light sabres.” Alas, aside from a demanding career and her role as a single mother (not to mention the hyperspace hairdo), Carrie also spends her free time battling addiction, weathering the wild ride of manic depression and lounging around various mental institutions. It’s an incredible tale – from having Elizabeth Taylor as a stepmother, to marrying (and divorcing) Paul Simon, from having the father of her daughter leave her for a man, to ultimately waking up one morning and finding a friend dead beside her in bed.

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Secret History (Mistborn #3.5)  by Brandon Sanderson

My Rating 5 stars

Mistborn: Secret History is a companion story to the original Mistborn trilogy.
As such, it contains HUGE SPOILERS for the books Mistborn (The Final Empire), The Well of Ascension, and The Hero of Ages. It also contains very minor spoilers for the book The Bands of Mourning.
  Mistborn: Secret History builds upon the characterization, events, and worldbuilding of the original trilogy. Reading it without that background will be a confusing process at best.
In short, this isn’t the place to start your journey into Mistborn. (Though if you have read the trilogy—but it has been a while—you should be just fine, so long as you remember the characters and the general plot of the books.)
Saying anything more here risks revealing too much. Even knowledge of this story’s existence is, in a way, a spoiler.

There’s always another secret.

my review Secret History (Mistborn #3.5) by Brandon Sanderson

This next book gets 2 awards so I am just giving them together

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The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen’s War #3) by Mark Lawrence

My rating 5 stars

All the horrors of Hell stand between Snorri Ver Snagason and the rescue of his family, if indeed the dead can be rescued. For Jalan Kendeth, getting back out alive and with Loki’s key is all that matters. Loki’s creation can open any lock, any door, and it may also be the key to Jalan’s fortune back in the living world.

Jalan plans to return to the three w’s that have been the core of his idle and debauched life: wine, women, and wagering. Fate however has other plans, larger plans. The Wheel of Osheim is turning ever faster, and it will crack the world unless it’s stopped. When the end of all things looms, and there’s nowhere to run, even the worst coward must find new answers. Jalan and Snorri face many dangers, from the corpse hordes of the Dead King to the many mirrors of the Lady Blue, but in the end, fast or slow, the Wheel of Osheim always pulls you back. In the end it’s win or die.

OK that’s just about it just one more Gobie to give and this one is a killer. Emotionally anyway

gob

The Shepherd’s Crown (Discworld #41)

by Terry Pratchett
My Rating 5 stars

Deep in the Chalk, something is stirring. The owls and the foxes can sense it, and Tiffany Aching feels it in her boots. An old enemy is gathering strength.

This is a time of endings and beginnings, old friends and new, a blurring of edges and a shifting of power. Now Tiffany stands between the light and the dark, the good and the bad.

As the fairy horde prepares for invasion, Tiffany must summon all the witches to stand with her. To protect the land. Her land.

There will be a reckoning

 

The wonderful Terry Pratchett was visited by Death, the old grim reaper himself mounted upon his fearsome stead Binky before this book was completely finished. From the notes in the book by his friends and publisher nothing was added by anyone else. I personally didn’t notice anything missing, Although I was too busy crying my eyes out over the Death of Granny Weatherwax and by extension My Pratchett.. It really did feel as if he was saying goodbye to us, his fans as the other witches gathered to honor old Granny W.

And on that cheery note I will thank you all for coming …er watching.. reading whatever just thanks! AND PLEASE HELP WITH THE NAME for the awards. If it is still called the Gobies next year I will blame you ….no not you the one behind you yeah that one with the shirt yeah that’s the one!