#CoverReveal “The Devil You Know: Until You Don’t” by Monique Singleton

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“Lucifer meets Dexter meets Dan Brown.”

A rogue priest joins forces with the devil to bring down a terrifying religious conspiracy and free humanity from abject slavery after death.

When Heaven becomes the door to Hell, the only one you can turn to is the Devil. We were promised Heaven in the afterlife, as long as we believed in God and in the word of the Bible. We were good Christians. We took care of our fellow men. We deserved paradise. What we got was eternal slavery. Our souls reincarnated into another world where we are sold to the highest bidder and forced to work until we died yet again. And all of this was sanctioned by powers high up in the Church. Worse even, they are the conduit that makes this possible.

Who do we pray to now?

Releases November 18th!

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Monique Singleton is a USA Today and International Bestselling author of dark Urban Fantasy. She lives and works in a small village in the south of Holland. A Brit by birth, she has travelled extensively and finally settled down in Holland. In addition to her writing, Monique also holds a job as an IT business consultant. She lives with her two big dogs, two horses and two cats. The cats are the boss.







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#Excerpt “Zither (A Crazy Mars Candiotti Mystery)” by Jeffrey Hanlon




Date Published: April 20th, 2021

Publisher: Zither Studios


A nutty religious cult abducts a herd of prime gazebos (huh?) and it’s up to bumbling P.I. Mars Candiotti to rescue them. Mars, aspiring author, chronicles his quest in Jeffrey Hanlon’s comic mystery Zither

 Guided by his magically prescient IHOP waitress, Mars strives to mitigate the shocking global consequences of the gazebo heist, even though he has no idea what the word mitigate means. Mars has five Important clues with which to solve his confounding mystery: Butterscotch, John Travolta, Trombones Venetian Blinds, and Wind Chimes. 

 As Zither swallows its own tale, Mars finds it increasingly tricky to distinguish between real people and his rambunctious fictional characters. Zither becomes the romper room where his reality meets fantasy – and get frisky with each other. 

 Using his (odd) clues, Mars’ international odyssey leads to an explosive conclusion in Panama. TVs around the world tune in to watch live coverage of “Carnage in the Canal”. 

 Amid the lunatic havoc that is Zither there is (of course!) an epic love story as Mars meets Marian, the brainy librarian he had dreamed of. Marian says his books are “slapstick existentialism with subjective reality couched in parable”. (This is news to Mars). But is Marian real? 

 Is any of it real?




“Hanlon’s humor shines bright and will leave fans of such madness wanting more.” Publishers Weekly 

 “This zany, rollicking mystery adventure is as compelling as it is hilarious.” Independent Book Review 

 Nominated for the prestigious Audie Award, Best Fiction 2021



As nightfall approached, we prepared.

Pete disguised himself as management, putting on a nice Men’s Wearhouse suit with a bleeding turnip lapel pin.

I disguised myself as Britney Spears.

At the stroke of midnight, Pete and I left his house, which is and headed for the St. Francis Yacht Club.

As contrived luck would have it, Benny Tisdale had left the cabin on his dumb boat unlocked.

In stealthy fashion, Pete and I went below.

“I’ll shine the flashlight and listen for footprints. You find the varnish,” Pete said.

It took no time at all to find Benny’s Man O’ War. Actually, it took a bit of time, but you know what I mean.

As Pete held the light, I donned my surgical gloves and placed Benny’s Man O’ War in my black op bag.

“Easy as taking candy from a drowning man,” Pete whispered.

I nodded.

Pete said, “It’s dark in here, Mars. If you’re going to nod, warn me so I can shine the flashlight on your head.”

“Okay, Pete. We’ll make that a new rule.”

As we prepared to exit in stealthy fashion, Pete shined his flashlight around the cabin, then said, “Mars, look at this big wooden crate.”

I looked at the wooden crate. It was big enough to hold a Barcalounger.

“I’ll bet it’s filled with ill-gotten booties,” Pete said. “Or a Barcalounger.”

He handed me the flashlight and pried open the crate’s lid with a crowbar.

It was not until some time after dark that we took courage to get up and throw the body overboard. It was then loathsome beyond expression, and so far decayed that, as Peters attempted to lift it, an entire leg came off in his grasp . . .

“Peters?” Pete said. “Do you mean Pete? Me? What body? What leg?”

“Sorry. That’s Edgar Allen Poe, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.

“What’s Poe doing in this chapter?”

I shined the flashlight on my shoulder and shrugged.

He snatched the light back, looked in the crate, and said, aghast, “We’ve gotta get outta here quick, Mars! This boat could blow any minute!”

I looked inside the big wooden crate.

Here is what was in there: hundreds, probably thousands, of Steven Seagal movies.

We’d be lucky to get out of there alive.

Seagal movies have a tendency to bomb.


I walked up the stairs toward the third floor Venetian Blinds section.

I heard a woman’s voice as I approached.

She spoke in dulcimer tones as enchanting as a Siren’s song. She was reading Poe.

“. . . with the bells

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night.

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens seem to twinkle . . .”

Their melody foretells! Tinkle tinkle tinkle!

Mesmerized, I followed the sound of her voice.

She stood in front of the librarian’s desk, reading to a group of schoolchildren.

She wore a Butterscotch-colored tartan plaid skirt, a white cardigan sweater over a white blouse with lacy collar, and a smart looking glengarry bonnet. And fabulously quaint reading glasses.

And get a load of this: her long auburn hair was in a single braid!

. . . as she frolics in the sapphire sea . . .

The girl in my dream!

One of the schoolchildren sneezed, and she paused her reading to reach into her pocket and retrieve a tissue for him.

Then a library janitor came up to her and whispered. She extracted a small screwdriver from her pocket and handed it to him.

I edged closer.

A co-worker approached her and asked for keys to the Rare Books Section. She pulled the keys out of her pocket.

The whole world seemed to revolve around her!

She was so well prepared!

She finished reading Poe’s “The Bells,” folded the paper, placed the poem in her pocket, and pulled out another.

I saw she had accidentally pulled something else from her pocket, and it had fallen to the floor, so I rushed to her, elbowing aside the little kids, finishing with a flourish, a nice twenty-foot Gene Kelly knee slide, the children toppling like bowling pins.

I glided to a stop and knelt at her feet.

She wore tenny-runners with ankle socks, each with a small Butterscotch-colored pom-pom sewn on.

I saw what she had dropped on the floor.

It was a wooden nickel.

I picked it up and placed it in the palm of her lovely hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

She thanked me!

I was king of the world!

And I wanted to impress her. So I picked up the little kids who were strewn across the floor.

After I’d propped the last of them up, I turned to her, and she thanked me again.

She thanked me again!

I said, “You’re welcome.”

Then I ran away, bowling over more children as I beat a hasty retreat.

I’ve never been real good with girls.


About the Author

I was born in a Southern California beach town. 
My family moved to Northwest Oregon when I was 7. Or maybe when I was 8. 
Had we stayed in the Beach Boys town, and knowing myself as I do now, I suspect I would have grown long hair, started a rock band, and been heavily into drugs. The rock band would probably have been pretty good. The rest of it, not so much. I’d likely have joined the ranks of those like Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin. 
We moved to a mountaintop. The last five miles to get there were gravel. The final two miles were steep and to the end of the road. 
That’s where we lived: the end of the road, 22 miles to the nearest town. 
Our closest neighbor, about a mile down the road, was a hermit who lived in a shack. He had a goat. About once a month the goat would visit us. Then the hermit would show up to retrieve his goat. I think the goat liked us better than the hermit, which is why the goat kept showing up. Goats are funny animals. I think they aspire to be house pets. 
And speaking of animals, we had cats. Lots and lots of cats. Because we were remote and at the end of the road, unkind people – and ‘unkind’ is the kindest description I can use here – would dump their unwanted cats on or near our property. The cats would find our house. We gave them Fancy Feast and our love, and in turn they loved us. 
My childhood friends didn’t visit too often. That was at least partly because when they did show up my father would say something like this: “Great! We have a job that could use an extra hand. Won’t take more than five minutes.” Well, that five minutes usually turned into an hour or two – volunteer labor! – and that friend would seldom visit again. 
So my favorite childhood playmate was a 2000 pound Hereford bull, a big boy with horns spanning three feet. I’d go out in the pasture and the bull would strike a pose not unlike what you’ve seen in the movies where the bull was ready to charge, head down, eyeing me. But he wasn’t going to charge me. He just wanted his forehead scratched. And so I would scratch his forehead. He liked that, shaking his head every so often to show his approval. Then we’d elevate to a game that the bull might have called ‘Let’s see how far we can toss this little kid!’ and I’d place my right hip against his massive head and he’d toss me into the air like a sack of flour. Over and over, farther and farther, higher and higher. I could have done that for hours – I can fly! – but after a few tosses the bull would grow bored with the game and wander off. Probably to chase some cute heifers. 
The nearest library was 30 miles away, and we ventured there often. It was a majestic old building, and the Grand Room had books on all four walls with reading chairs in the center. But that was not where I wanted to be. I figured all those books were popular books or books I was supposed to read. I wanted something different, so I would enter the room with a small sign that said ‘Stacks’. It was row after narrow row after row of books, floor to ceiling, dimly lit, dusty. It was like entering a cave. Filled with treasures! 
It was in those Stacks that I discovered the likes of Kerouac and Heller and Huxley and Fowles and Steinbeck and Ellison and Bradbury and Hemingway and many many others. 
As Stephen King said, “Books are a uniquely portable magic.” 
And those, each in their own way, was the inspiration for the first book I wrote at the age of eight or nine: ‘Pond Scum’. 
It was illustrated.

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#ReleaseBlitz “Loving Paisley” by Laura Farr

Title: Loving Paisley. A Hope Creek novel

by Laura Farr

Genre: Small Town Contemporary Romance


BUY THE BOOK: https://bit.ly/LovingPaisley

£1.99 for release day only

Loving Paisley is book one in a brand new series. Come along for the ride while siblings, Nash, Cade, Seb, Wyatt and Ashlyn find their happy ever afters in the small town of Hope Creek.



Love almost got her killed. She’s not about to give it a second chance to finish the job.

Paisley Prescott had one thing on her mind when she escaped her abusive husband. Survival. Finding a new romance was not even a remote possibility. Then she met him, and his kindness changed everything for her. Now, against all odds, she’s wishing she could open her heart once again…and it’s utterly terrifying…

Nash Brookes knows domestic abuse when he sees it. After all, he lived through it with his mother. So, he’ll do whatever it takes to help Paisley, including bringing her home with him to the small town of Hope Creek. Falling for her was not part of the plan. But it doesn’t take long for him to do just that…

Earning her trust won’t be easy. He will make mistakes along the way. But when all is said and done, can Nash convince Paisley that love is worth the risk? Or will their shot at happily ever after stay buried beneath the pain of her past?


Meet The Author

Laura Farr lives in Shropshire with her husband and two children. When she isn’t working, or being a Mummy she is pursuing her dream of writing.

She is a romantic at heart and loves nothing more than writing stories with a happy ever after, even if there is the odd chapter of angst thrown in! Her desire to write came from her love of reading and when she isn’t writing you will find her attached to her kindle or spending time with her family.

Author links

Facebook Profile: https://www.facebook.com/laura.farr.547

Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/Laura-Farr-Author-191769224641474/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/laurafarr_author/

Twitter: @laurafarr4


#Excerpt “Our African Unconscious: The Black Origins of Mysticism and Psychology” by Edward Bruce Bynum, Ph.D, ABPP


The Black Origins of Mysticism and Psychology





Date Published: September 14, 2021

Publisher: Inner Traditions; 3rd Edition, Revised Edition of The African Unconscious

Reveals how spirituality and the collective unconscious of all of humanity originated in Africa

Examines the Oldawan, the Ancient Soul of Africa, and its correlation with what modern psychologists have defined as the collective unconscious

Draws on archaeology, DNA research, history, and depth psychology to reveal how the biological and spiritual roots of religion and science came out of Africa

Explores the reflections of our African unconscious in the present confrontation in the Americas, in the work of the Founding Fathers, and in modern psychospirituality

The fossil record confirms that humanity originated in Africa. Yet somehow we have overlooked that Africa is also at the root of all that makes us human–our spirituality, civilization, arts, sciences, philosophy, and our conscious and unconscious minds.

In this African-revisioned look at the unfolding of human history and culture, Edward Bruce Bynum reveals how our collective unconscious is African. Drawing on archaeology, DNA research, history, depth psychology, and the biological and spiritual roots of religion and science, he demonstrates how all modern human beings, regardless of ethnic or racial categorizations, share a common deeper identity, both psychically and genetically, connected with a primordial African unconscious.

Exploring the beginning of early religions, spirituality, and mysticism in Africa, along with philosophy, art, and science, the author looks at the Egyptian Nubian role in the rise of civilization and the emergence of Kemetic Egypt, revealing how and why ancient Egypt was separated from the rest of Africa in the Western mind–despite it being the most sophisticated expression of the Mother Continent. He examines the Oldawan, the Ancient Soul, and its correlation with what modern psychologists have defined as the collective unconscious. Revealing the spiritual and psychological ramifications of our shared African ancestry, the author examines its reflections in the present confrontation in the Americas, in the work of the Founding Fathers, and in modern Black spirituality, which arose from African diaspora religion and philosophy.

By recognizing our shared African unconscious, the matrix that forms the deepest luminous core of human identity, we can learn to see and feel that the differences between one person and another are merely superficial and ultimately there is no real separation between the material and the spiritual.




The oldest human soul is an African soul. Rooted in anthropology, biology, history, and genetics, the mysterious ocean that is human consciousness is at bottom collective, luminous, and genotypically African in its genesis. We have mentioned in the previous chapter that the oldest known human race is an African race. This leads us to the intuition that the oldest, deepest, and most primordial level of human consciousness is that mode of consciousness the hominid species has been most preoccupied with in its 2.5 to 3 million years of existence. “Man,” in some variation of his present form, was in Africa from 2.5 to 3 million years ago and then, as Homo erectus, spread to the other areas of the world. Humankind carried out its first preliminary and earliest most sophisticated experiments within the African milieu. All the hominid variations, from the early and primitive lost pre-Australopithecines, to the Australopithecines we know of, to Homo habilis to Homo erectus and eventually to Homo sapiens, unfolded on the same continent shaped like a skull looking eastward on the planet like the mysterious sphinx. Their deep recurrent experiences, their racial memories are rooted in our own brains in a collective, primordial way. Indeed, from 2.5 million years ago hominid ancestors experimented in some conscious way with their own mental landscape and with branchings and diversifications unfolded progressively more subtle forms of intelligence. These branchings, approximately 150,000 to 200,000 years ago, criss-crossed in a single female human being, dark and Africoid, on a forgotten savanna. Perhaps 188,000 years ago an Africoid male wrote upon every Y chromosome his own unfailing signature. In a very real way, the roots of the collective hominid and the human unconscious are really a primordial African unconscious.


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#BookSale “Driftwood Springs: A Donatella fast-paced thriller” by Demetrius Jackson



They see her as a monster. But she’s their only hope for seeing their kids again.

Charlotte, North Carolina. Agent Donatella Dabria’s assumed identity preserves her secrets but paints a target on her back. So when a billionaire’s son is abducted from inside a gated community, her too-real undercover role quickly gets her fingered for the crime. And she’s forced to abandon all pretense when the young witness she was supposed to protect is the next victim pulled into the shadows.

Hampered by an ineffectual police department, Donatella relentlessly pursues the truth in a neighborhood with more lies than residents. But when she barely survives a vicious attack at her home, she’s terrified she’ll be too late to prevent the kidnapped children from meeting a gruesome fate.

Can she disarm a deadly scheme before everything blows up in her face?

Driftwood Springs is the first book in the fast-paced Donatella thriller series. If you like scandalous revelations, rollercoaster action, and unstoppably strong women, then you’ll love Demetrius Jackson’s pulse-pounding page-turner.

Buy Driftwood Springs to unlock the darkness behind closed doors today!

99c at all online digital retailers!