 It’s been a few weeks since my publishing group DeadPixel Publications collapsed. It was really a writers’ “collective,” for lack of a better word. It started as a group of talented authors banding together to help create and market their work. My time there was a completely positive experience. I learned a great deal, made a few friends, and found a few readers. Looking back, I should have seen the end coming. Why did it die? A few of my fellow DPP’ers have written excellent blogs about what went wrong, so I’m not going to cover that ground again. I’ll just summarize by saying we didn’t really have a plan. Lots of talent and good intentions, but no real plan. With the clarity of hindsight, I tried to capture some generic lessons I learned, and come up with what I would do if I had to generate a publishing collective from scratch. I came up with these Seven Basic Steps to creating a writers’ publishing group. Of course, these are very basic and definitely not applicable to all groups, as goals vary widely. Maybe they are too elaborate, maybe I overthought this, but if you’re going to do something, go big. So let's go big. 1. Like any organization, someone has to be in charge. This is the guy or gal with the vision, the man with the plan, the cat herder, the carrot and the whip. This is what the group’s leader has to do as a minimum: a. Create the brand. b. Focus the group to support that brand. c. Sets the rules d. Let’s people in & kicks them out. e. Have a plan. 2. Creating a brand starts with genre. The smaller the group, the more focused the genre must be. This is the very reason really big publishing houses have imprints. Genre is a basic component of brand identity. It’s what draws in the loyal followers. You can’t be all over the place, or you won’t attract new readers or readers from other authors. 3. Set rules and enforce standards. Yes, writing is a creative endeavor. However, when writers start hitching their wagons to each other’s novels a set of expectations is naturally established. It could be anything from “I share your post, you share mine” to “you beta-read for me, I beta-read for you.” Instead of guessing, and randomly asking or receiving requests for help, a better idea might be to formalize the process. You know, a a handbook, or something like it. This also relates to publishing standards for editing, cover design and anything else that goes into a book. If you enter a writer’s collective, you live by the rules. Otherwise, thanks and there is the door. If a group is going to set rules and enforce them, they would naturally start sharing skills, talents and workload. 4. Division of labor. Authors often get overwhelmed by everything involved with publishing a book. That’s why they often join author groups. When an author joins, its best if they know where they fit and what’s expected of them. Writers are a strange lot. The only thing common among us is the urge to write. However, this also means we have diverse talents, too. Some writers are good at editing, others at cover creation, etc. When a writer petitions to join the collective, their talents need to be identified immediately. Once that is done, they are assigned to a sub-committee. These sub-groups could include, but are not limited to: a. Manuscript management b. Concept development c. Editing and style guide d. Beta-reading & Workshop e. Pitch f. Marketing, Blogging, Social Media, and Website g. Cover design and art h. Recruiting Since the writers group is genre-focused, everyone comes with credible, applicable skills that lend to the whole. Of course, workload should be managed fairly, and might even include an agreed compensation scale. Hey, anything is possible depending what the group wants to do. Whatever you do, you need a formal process. One important note here about money. If money for services gets bandied about within the group, arrangements should be formalized and approved by the group ahead of time. Make no assumptions. 5. Establish a Process: Your group has a leader, a solid brand, and suitable tasks for everyone. When a writer joins your group, they know they have a host of other writers to help them every step of the way, and they know exactly where they fit in the plan. Now you’ve got to create processes that takes care of your writers’ manuscripts from induction to post-publication. Whatever the process, the leader acts as a project manager of sorts, keeping the machine running, with concepts going in one end, and finished novels coming out the other. The degree to which an author hands over production of his or her manuscript to the group, is set by the rules, with no doubts of expectations. 6. Communicate! None of this works without communication. There are two forms of communication writers are good at – creative collaboration and bullshitting on Facebook. No, I’m talking about formal, disciplined communication regarding the status of writing projects as they wind their way through the pipeline toward publication. Groups and sub-committees need to meet on reoccurring basis, to get and give updates on status of projects. 7. Track results. This goes along with formal communication. It means setting metrics and tracking them. “How was that last debut?” “How are our reviews?” “How are sales on our books after one year?” Authors often suffer alone and in silence, unable to determine if what they are doing is any good. The group needs metrics to measure if what they are doing is even working. You can’t capture lessons learned and improve without metrics and communicating those to the group. There you are, seven steps for creating an effective author writing group. If it sounds very “businessy,” it’s because it is. Authors spend enormous amounts of time writing a book, but usually screw something up during the publication process. Writing groups, if run properly, help us avoid the big mistakes, improve our craft and, maybe along the way, make some money. If you’re going to form or join a writing group, remember the purpose is to help you write better, edit better, better covers, better sales, better everything. That just doesn’t magically happen, it takes a plan. If you liked what you just read, please tell your friends by a like, share and tweet! You can also check out my latest book, the illusion exotic for only .99 cents. Its a gateway drug to my other writing, like my epic fantasy novel BLACK SEA GODS.
 THE SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION has come to an end. For those who stopped by or bought the book, thank you very much. I published the illusion exotic because I wanted my short fiction to see the light of day. Short fiction traditionally doesn't do well in terms of sales, but I couldn't see any good in the stories just sitting on my hard drive, Its my hope readers will enjoy one or two, and perhaps leave a kind review on Amazon. Trust me, for indie authors, reviews are a big deal. Also a big deal is readers finding their way to my other books, BLACK SEA GODS and TEARS OF THE DEAD. If you liked what you read in the illusion exotic, I am sure you'll enjoy my epic fantasy novels. I promised a few surprises in this debut promo, and today is one of them. I'm not going to give you a sample of the last story in my new book . Instead, I'm going to let my readers see a sample of The Bastard Gods, the upcoming third volume of _The Chronicles of Fu Xi. For those who have patiently waited for the third installment, I promise I am writing as fast as I can. SAMPLE OF THE BASTARD GODS.“The road to power is paved with human suffering.” - Leviathan, Son of Poseidon - Chronicle of Fu Xi Before the Cataclysm As in ancient days that had come before, Leviathan would wait patiently, either serenaded by a chorus of gluttonous ecstasy, or enduring the cries of tortured flesh, depending on what bottomless lusts his father cared to indulge that particular moment. Leviathan viewed mortal flesh as fodder for worldly power. Mankind merely served as a necessary resource for advancing his greatness. Like the pebbles scattered about the mason’s block, mortal misery was a natural, and minor, consequence of empire. For Leviathan, human flesh paved the road to power, nothing more or less. Human suffering, however, served to feed his father’s diseased spirit. Today, pleasure, not terror, filled Poseidon’s Throne Room deep within the pyramid’s dark heart. Swollen moans and delirious cries floated between the columns, as the mad god swam in a decadent mound of handpicked slaves. Men, women and even children, plucked from freshly docked plunder ships from across the empire, were marched in chains up the steep pyramid to serve the insatiable needs of the mad god. Laughter and muted whimpers floated amongst a hundred granite pillars before finding Leviathan alone in a dark corner. The column at his back shielded the demigod from witnessing his father’s unfettered indulgences. Stone cracked and popped under Leviathan’s red blade. The orgy’s chorus assailed him, burrowing through unseen armor as he waited like an errant slave boy, as he had waited countless times before. Then, as now, he recited the First Lesson, wielding the chant like a protective ward. Millennia ago, here in the heart of the Alabaster Pyramid, Poseidon once delivered this lesson to his bastard son with a stinging backhand. “Gods are patient...gods are patient...,” he whispered and slowly ground the orichalcum sword tip into the marble tiles. Each cry of ecstasy drove the red blade’s tip deeper into the marble, chipping the stone and revealing bright white pits. The stone yielded without so much as tarnishing the blade. He slowly exhaled as marble chips clattered between his feet. No natural marble existed in the Kingdom’s home islands. These slabs were hewn centuries ago by his half-brothers in Olma Minor’s mountainous north. The precious marble once shown bright as glacial ice, polished every day by an army of temple freemen. Now, a thick layer of grime covered the once beautiful floor, and only slaves tread these dark halls. He raised his eyes to the domed ceiling, where four rays of sunlight poked meekly into the dingy air through narrow slits cut into the pyramid’s four sides. Once, centuries ago, four gilded mirrors surrounded Poseidon’s throne, each reflecting the sunlight up to the gilded dome. The light would dance across red-metal leaf, and bathe the hall in a warm hue, giving the impression of eternal sunrise. There was once a time when no shadows fell in Poseidon’s Temple. In the dawn of Leviathan’s eternity, Poseidon ordered the first mirror turned down in grief for the loss of his beloved mortal queen. Leviathan remembered his own mother’s death, and how Poseidon paid his mistress no such tribute. In subsequent fits of madness, Poseidon had decreed the remaining mirrors tilted down until only four feeble rays fell on the throne, condemning the rest of the Inner Temple to darkness. Where once cleansing sunlight danced through the Alabaster Pyramid’s heart, now only dull torchlight reigned. Today, the smoke mixed with the odor of fresh sex, but neither could suppress the rancid mold and filth corrupting Poseidon’s Inner Temple. An acolyte, and old man with a puckered face, scurried from behind a pillar and lay prostrate before Leviathan’s feet. “This lowly slave begs the privilege of serving the Mighty Prince with food and libations, while he awaits the Glorious One.” “Go,” Leviathan commanded and twisted the blade again. Marble flakes struck the slave, who slithered backwards, head bowed. “As you command,” he mewed and scurried away, vanishing into the gloom. Poseidon’s summons demanded immediate compliance, and even a demigod could not refuse. As always, the summons’ purpose remained a mystery, but Poseidon only called upon his bastard son for dark tasks, those requiring orichalcum steel. Leviathan returned his attention to the dome, his mind drifting into antiquity, to when he first stood upon this spot, his sister beside him, when Father issued the bloody decree; the decree Leviathan obeyed, but his sister did not. “No more bastards,” Poseidon had commanded that fateful day, as he tilted the last mirror to the floor. “The world isn’t big enough for so many gods.” On that day, the god began his slide to madness, and never set foot beyond the Alabaster Pyramid again. On that day, an acolyte brought the unnamed babe, a child that could not die by mortal blade, and thrust it into Leviathan’s arms like a piece of garbage. Only red steel, orichalcum, could end a god’s life. In the years to follow, there would be others. Sometimes infants, but often toddlers, and the task always fell to Leviathan. As for his sister, she chose rebellion instead. From somewhere in the darkness, Leviathan heard a baby suddenly cry out. The sharp wail echoed among the pillars. Again, the time had come. Soon, orichalcum steel would end the life of another bastards. With a twist of his wrist, Leviathan flicked the sword tip. That’s all it will take, a flick, he thought, and I can return to more important matters. Once again, thank you. I will see you all in just a few short months for the debut of The Golden Princess!
the illusion exotic now available! Welcome to Day 5 of THE SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION and the official debut of the illusion exotic. My third book and first short story compilation, is now officially published. The book goes on sale today through the 22nd for only 99 cents. After that, it goes up to its regular price. Today, I feature the 5th story in the illusion exotic, the Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen. "INCIDENT AT WEST FLATTE DAIRY QUEEN" SYNOPSISOn a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen. Project BackgroundThis story was specifically written for the DeadPixel Publications (DPP) compendium Terrible Cherubs. That project had a lot of dark themes, written by a bunch of talented writers. This story is about as dark as I get. The idea came from a conversation I had with several of DPP authors. I was struggling for an original idea for the book, and then one of my fellow DPP'ers, Travis Morhman, offered a suggestion. It was too good to pass up. This was also one of those stories that developed quickly. After a few months of workshopping and editing with the group, it came to life. Sadly, DeadPixel Publications broke up recently. I learned a lot from that bunch, and I applied those lessons in this story. Many of the former DDP'ers have started a new writers group called Deviant Dolls. If edgy fiction is your thing, go check them out. Here's a sample of Incident at West Flatte Dairy Queen, my last effort with DeadPixel Publications. Enjoy. "INCIDENT AT WEST FLATTE DAIRY QUEEN" sampleThe football players rose from around the picnic table. They slowly drew away from their chicken strip baskets and cheeseburgers; a pride of young male lions, interrupted during feeding by an obnoxious hyena. Jimbo, their quarterback and alpha-male, led the way. Thick necked and steady eyed, the Homecoming King slowly advanced on Todd. A chorus of “whoop his ass, Jimbo!” rose from the kids now pouring out of the Dairy Queen to watch the impending fight. Impending slaughter, Mike thought. “Shit.” No one cheered for Todd, but no one ever cheered for Todd. Varsity jacket and clean button-up squared up against torn flannel and dirty Megadeth t-shirt. John Deere hat faced black beaner. Unlaced combat boots went toe-to-toe against cowboy boots. Testosterone-swollen brawn stood against pasty gangle. Kaylee blew a giant bubble, and let it pop. “Problem solved, hon, cause Todd’s gunna be dead in about two minutes.” Todd didn’t stand a chance against the West Arroyo offensive line, but Mike knew Todd didn’t care. Todd never cared. Watching Todd should have irritated him, but instead he felt pity. Mike began to walk across the parking lot, but Kaylee grasped his hand. “You can’t save him forever.” Mike walked the line between adolescent hope and grim calculation. Calculation - that terrible, nagging gift that opened doors, forever shut others, and left Mike no place to hide from himself. Before she died, Momma told him Almighty God gifted him with a brilliant mind to shine the light of knowledge on mankind’s darkness. Perhaps, but Mike would have traded a few rays of shining light for a chance to get laid. In Flatte County, his brilliant mind got him shunned by most except his teachers, nor found him a higher class of friend then Todd Toobin. The cold spotlight of calculation also said Kaylee was using him, just as she had done countless times before. Mike wanted to turn off the spotlight, and welcome the blissful darkness of self-delusion. “Does Jimbo know you didn’t invite him?” he asked without looking at her. “I didn’t invite him,” she said, voice rising toward the end, signaling another of her famous half truths. Across the parking lot, Jimbo lunged. Todd dodged. Jimbo missed. Todd laughed and danced away, middle fingers raised even higher as he taunted the beast again. “Is Jimbo gunna be there tonight?” Mike pressed. “You don’t worry yourself about Jimbo.” A tinge of poorly disguised irritation polluted her voice, but she quickly covered it with a tone as sweet as Texas iced tea. “Daddy’s making a bonfire and roasting a pig. He’s even going to buy us beer just as long as no one drives home. The boys are crashing in the ranch house. A sleepover.” He turned in time to see Kaylee flash a woman’s smolder. “It’ll be fun.” Mike tore his eyes away just as Jimbo swung again. Todd went down hard to the mob’s cheers. Jimbo’s raging snarl suddenly frightened Mike. “I’ll let you know about tonight.” Mike yanked away and jogged across the parking lot. Todd had just begun to pull himself on all fours when Jimbo buried his pointed boot into his stomach, sending Todd sprawling on his back. “Cut it out, you son of a bitch!” Mike dropped the bag, spilling onion rings onto the asphalt, and broke into a full run. The rest of Flatte County’s offensive line shuffled forward, forming a wall between Mike and the ongoing beating. If you liked what you read, you can click here to order the illusion exotic for only .99 cents.
For those who have already pre-ordered and ordered, THANK YOU! The book is off to a GREAT start. Remember, after 22 April the price goes up, so buy early and buy often. Please tell your friends by a like, share and tweet! It would be really appreciated. Check back to tomorrow for more from the illusion exotic, and Day 6 of SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION. Oh yeah, one more thing. The next three people who email me a receipt for the pre-order/order of the illusion exotic to brian_l_braden (at) yahoo dot com will receive a gift digital copy of BLACK SEA GODS. Offer expires 22 April 16 at midnight CST.  Welcome to Day 4 of the SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION, the debut event for my new book the illusion exotic. Its nice to be hammering out this blog closer to noon than midnight! The Boy in the Hole is the fourth story in the illusion exotic. "THE BOY IN THE HOLE" SYNOPSISAfter a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and The Boy in the Hole. PROJECT BACKGROUNDThe Boy in the Hole was a project born from wanting to write about the cost of war. So much is made of the effects of war on veterans, but so little is discussed about the impact on those left behind. I wanted to write about the families struggling with loss. Instead of using the current conflicts, I reached back to the Vietnam era. I think that era appealed to me more. It was a time when the old was being torn down and replaced by the new. It was a time of transition between eras. How does a person cope when everyone and everything they love has been taken, and yet the world around keeps moving and expects them to keep moving, too? The Boy In The Hole tells such a story. "THE BOY IN THE HOLE" SAMPLEShe couldn’t reconcile with the image of the ramrod straight soldier on her front porch with the stench of whiskey filtering through the screen door. He arrived on time, exactly as his letter stated he would. His black, shiny name tag announced to the world he was “Cole” though she had no idea what all the chevrons on his sleeve meant. Beyond the soldier the stiff, brown centipede lawn suffered under the July sun. The oaks and pecans sagged in the withering haze, the cool April rains long forgotten. Summer brought drought and death to her doorstep. “Mrs. Nichols?” he said with a kindred accent. Why is this man, this drunkard, on my front porch and not my son? “Yes. You must be William. Please, come in.” They sat in the den, the soldier with restless hands and dress green uniform, Margaret in her black dress and white gloves. Neither spoke. Neither touched the sweet tea soaking the lace doilies with beads of cold condensation. William’s glass sat next to her son’s official Army photo. Jonathan stood proud and in full color before the American flag with a lonely ribbon upon his chest. Jonathan didn’t smile, but Margret recognized the twinkle of pride in his beautiful eyes. Ribbons and decorations of all sorts crowded this man’s chest, a coded testimony to faraway deeds and places she couldn’t fathom. His face said he’s wasn’t a day over twenty one, but this stranger’s eyes were ancient, hard, and gaunt. He doesn’t act drunk. Under no condition did Margaret permit alcohol in her house. They were good Baptist and Robert didn’t drink a day in his life. When Jonathan was sixteen, he came home one night with alcohol on his breath. She never asked Robert what he said to their son, but it never happened again. The soldier stared at the floor. The clock ticked. Children’s screams and laughter wafted through the screen door from somewhere outside. In the corner, a box fan pushed the warm air from one end of the room to another. She knew the look on his face; she’d seen it many times before on the little boys she’d taught. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t have the courage. The silence became stifling and her words fell over each other trying to get out of her mouth. “You must be hungry after such a long bus ride. I can make you a sandwich if you like.” “No, ma’am. Thank you.” I guess it’s up to me to pull it out of him, she thought. “Jonathan wrote often about you. He said you were his best friend.” That statement brought life to William’s face, but he still lacked the courage to lift his gaze from his lap. “Yes’m. We’d been together since arriving in-country. We met at the processing center in Cam Rahn, that’s where the new meat gets their assignments before shipping into the bush. I’d been there a few hours, bored...talkin’ football. You know how it is.” No, I don’t know ‘how it is.’ “Someone in the crowd mentioned Alabama, then I mentioned Auburn and then we set ‘bout arguing and cussin’. I said something about coming halfway across the world to get away from those cussed Alabama fans and here I was in ‘Nam staring at one. He made some impolite remarks about Shug Jordan and I made some colorful comments about Bear Bryant and then, well ma’am, it got ugly.” A smile touched the corner of her mouth and then vanished. William finally looked up at the Alabama football memorabilia scattered around the living room amongst family photos. A picture of Bear Bryant sat next to a picture of Jesus. They exchanged tight, knowing smiles and he continued. “The sergeant, a damn Yankee, a Notre Dame man if there’d ever been one...he thought it’d be great fun to assign us both to second platoon. Well, Miss Nichols, I figure two boys from Alabama, even if one’s a Tide fan and the other is an Auburn fan...maybe its just natural they’ll get along eventually.” His eyes softened around the corners and, for that fleeting moment, he was far way with her son. This boy had a whole year with her son, a year God denied her. Is this how Jonathan would return to me if he were still alive? He would no longer be my tender, sweet child, but a stone-faced witness to God-awful events like Walter Cronkite shows on the television every night. If you liked what you read, you can click here to pre-order the illusion exotic for only .99 cents.
For those who have already pre-ordered, THANK YOU! The book is already creeping up the Amazon charts. Remember, after 22 April the price goes up, so buy early and buy often. Please tell your friends by a like, share and tweet! It would be really appreciated. Check back to tomorrow for debut of the illusion exotic, and Day 5 of SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION, where I bring you another story from the illusion exotic. Oh yeah, one more thing. The next three people who send me a screen shot/email of their receipt for the pre-order/order of the illusion exotic to brian_l_braden (at) yahoo dot com will receive a gift digital copy of BLACK SEA GODS. Offer expires 18 April 16 at midnight CST.  Its almost midnight, and I'm bustin' butt to get THE SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION, Day 3 finished and published. Its been a long week and a long day, but I'm going to make it just under the wire. The Cave, the third story in the illusion exotic, is a western set in territorial New Mexico. "the cave" SYNOPSISA former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in The Cave. PROJECT BACKGROUNDThis story was originally published in DeadPixel Publications Flying Toasters. If you're looking for some excellent short fiction from a diverse group of authors, you should really pick up the book. For those of you who are fans of The Chronicles of Fu Xi, this may come as a shock, but The Cave and Chronicles... are cousins of sorts. Both started as backstories to a novel I haven't published yet. The characters Fu Xi, and Silas Knight are secondary players in an unfinished manuscript that is my true love. Its sitting unfinished on my computer, waiting until my skills catch up to my ambition. Silas will make a appearance in an another upcoming novel that is well underway, but I don't want to give too muh away. Like most epic novel writers, I have entire universes swirling in my mind. Enjoy a sample of The Cave, one small sliver of the Bradenverse. "THE CAVE" SAMPLE“It’s there, in the cliff face on the east side of the river.” Townsend pointed down to a sharp bend in the river about half a mile north of their vantage point on the cliff. Knight lowered his hat against the naked sun and followed Townsend’s finger to an overhang in the opposite cliff. There, the river had carved out a hollow in the soft yellow clay. In the stark midday shadows, he couldn’t be sure how far it penetrated the cliff. With monsoon season nearly over and the Brazos Mountains snow pack almost gone, the Chama shriveled to a trickle. The challenge would be finding a way down the cliff to the streambed. “I see it. How do we get down there?” “The cliff descends in another mile north.” “Something is moving down there, just south of the cave,” Knight pointed to a dark speck trotting out from the cave’s shadow. Townsend shielded his eyes from the sun and sat higher in the saddle, wiping sweat from his brow every few minutes. “That there’s a cay-yote-aye, maybe a mangy wolf. Hard to tell from here, I didn’t see any sign of a...” Townsend jumped in his saddle as Knight’s Colt thundered inches from his ear. “SON OF A BITCH! I’m gonna be deaf in that ear for a week, you...” Ignoring Townsend, Knight calmly replaced the revolver in his holster, and rode through the blue smoke. Townsend rubbed his ringing ear and looked where Knight shot. Far below, the animal lay motionless on the riverbank. “It had something in its mouth. I want to see it.” “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled and spurred his horse after Knight. As Townsend promised, the cliff soon descended to the sandy streambed. Knight stopped just short of the river and trotted back and forth, looking intently at the ground as Townsend caught up. “Hell of a shot back there. Musta been three hundred yards. Never saw a revolver shot like...” “What’s east of here?” Knight interrupted, pointing to a wisp of black smoke on the horizon. “That’s Foreman McGhee’s railhead camp, maybe four miles. The line stays north of the river until it enters the mountains.” Townsend took off his hat and wiped his head with a rag. “Looks like ole’ McGhee’s making good progress all things considered.” “Answer me this, and answer carefully.” Knight turned and directed his gaze squarely on Townsend. “Have you told anyone what Amado spoke of last night? Does anyone in town, other than you and Amado know of this place?” Townsend shook his head. “Only the kid from the pueblo and Father Garza.” “I ain’t worried about the boy. If what Amado told me is true, there isn’t a red skin alive who’ll come near this place.” Knight galloped about fifty yards downstream and halted, studying the sandy bank. Warily, Townsend trailed a few yards behind. Knight suddenly wheeled about, pulled his gun and pointed it squarely at Townsend. “The boy, did he accompany you and Amado back to the cave?” Townsend slowly raised his hands. “Hey, I ain’t done nothing to you or any of those poor souls!” Knight cocked the hammer. “Answer my question.” “No, he was too afraid. Stayed upstream ‘til we came back fer him.” “Father Garza...when did he leave you and Amado and head back to the Espanola?” Knight asked. Townsend looked confused. “I don’t understand.” “It’s important you answer my question, Mr. Townsend. Otherwise, it’s going to go bad for you. “Last night, neither of you told me what happened after you found the cave. Tell me what happened to Father Garza after you left the cave.” Sweat poured down Townsend’s face. “He took the boy north, to the pueblo. Don’t rightly know what became of them since. I suspect Garza made his way back to San Marcos.” “And Wellsby?” “He went back with us, I know Amado told you as much.” “We’ll see. Turn around and ride north ahead of me.” “Are you gunna tell me what the hell’s going on? I ain’t done wrong by you or anyone.” “Maybe,” Knight replied casually from behind. “There’s what you tell me and what the tracks tell me. I’ll find out soon enough who’s telling the truth.” They rode several hundred yards north toward the distant railhead, until the terrain flattened and sand gave way to scrub and thistle. He commanded Townsend to stop, but stay on the horse. “Keep your hands were I can see them.” Knight dismounted and walked through the scrub, once again studying the ground, Colt always pointed in Townsend’s general direction. He bent down and examined the dirt. “Wellsby vanished, just like that?” Knight inquired. “It ain’t no damn different than like we told you,” frustration rising in the sheriff’s tone. “We got back just before dark. Wellsby told us to keep quiet and he was gunna wire back to Colorado Springs what we found. He never met us the next morning, like he said he would. Ain’t seen him since. Amado said we should keep quiet until you showed up. That’s the truth, I swear. Hey, if we were lying, why would I bring you up here?” Knight remounted his horse. “Because this would be a good place to dump the body of an agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Now, turn your horse around and ride back to the river.” Townsend spit. “You planning on killing me?” “Should I?” If you liked what you read, you can click here to pre-order the illusion exotic for only .99 cents.
For those who have already pre-ordered, THANK YOU! The book is already creeping up the Amazon charts. Remember, after 22 April the price goes up, so buy early and buy often. Please tell your friends by a like, share and tweet! It would be really appreciated. Check back to tomorrow for Day 4 of SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION and another story from the illusion exotic.  Welcome to the SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION, Day 2. Between now and Sunday, April 17th I'm talking about my new book the illusion exotic. If you missed Day 1, click here to catch up. Today I'm showcasing Green, the second story in the illusion exotic. "GREEN" SYNOPSISIn Green, a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. project backgroundGreen is one of two stories in the illusion exotic that began as simple writing exercises. The object of this exercise was to write about something few people have experienced and make it both understandable and enjoyable to a reader with no background in the subject. I picked something I knew well, flying a helicopter. Not only did I pick flying a helicopter, but flying a combat helicopter at night, using night vision goggles, during a maneuver called "aerial refueling." Its when one aircraft flies closely behind another and, using a hose, receives fuel. During my time as a pilot, aerial refueling was one of the most challenge and exciting things I did. I thought this would be an easy writing assignments. It ended up being one of the hardest. Initial feedback during workshop sessions wasn't great. I must have rewritten it a dozen times. Finally, it morphed into the form you'll find today . But I had one final aspect to fix on this short story - the name. I couldn't find a satisfying title until fellow DeadPixel author Hanna Elizabeth tinkered with the project. When she came up with the title, I felt like slapping myself. The theme had been there the whole time, staring at me. One piece of advice to any author - find a talented group of writers you respect and trust. A good writing workshop group is priceless. Here is a sample of Green. Enjoy. "GREEN" SAMPLEA gauntlet of snow-capped granite slowly materialized to either side. Her brain feasted on the visual references, providing a jolting awareness of how high and fast she flew. As if on cue, turbulent eddies of air rolled off the peaks and jostled the helicopter. “A little chop, crew.” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying rising anxiety. The turbulence, while expected, made her job even more demanding. “Checklist completed,” the right gunner said. “We’re ready.” “Roger,” the pilot replied. “I’m visual with the tanker. He’s at our 10 O’clock, 2 miles, high, and closing.” The copilot glanced left in time to catch a dark blur zoom by in the opposite direction. Over a mile away, the giant tanker airplane appeared to scrape the canyon walls as it banked hard to swing in behind the helicopter. “Tanker is 8 O’clock, three miles, and in a tight turn,” the left gunner informed the crew. The copilot knew the gunner poked his head out the window by the sound of the wind roaring across his boom microphone. Okay, the pilot is going to take the controls anytime, she thought. There’s no way he’ll let me fly this. The pilot remained silent. “Tanker is at our six. Left gunner’s lost visual. Right gunner, you should see him now.” The roar momentarily stopped as the left gunner withdrew his head into the helicopter, but quickly resumed as the right gunner stuck his head out the helicopter’s opposite side. “Got’em. He’s at our five thirty, two miles and closing fast,” the right gunner called. She tried to breathe, struggling not to tense up. The long years of training were over, and now real consequences lay before her. This mission would last several hours, but its success pivoted on this one moment. The helicopter needed gas, and only this tanker could deliver it. “Tanker is half mile and bringing it in tight, almost on top of us.” The roar over the intercom ceased as the right gunner withdrew into the cabin and closed his window. The pilot remained quiet, and off the controls. He’s actually going to let me fly the refueling, she thought in amazement. “Tanker is abeam, damn tight. Start your climb now. Co, call visual,” the right gunner called. Her moment had arrived. The copilot pulled up on the collective, the power lever in her left hand. Her right hand nudged the cyclic, and the helicopter obeyed with a sluggish climb. She briefly scanned across the cockpit, expecting the tanker to emerge a few dozen meters outside the pilot’s side window. It didn’t. In the faint light, she saw the pilot grin around the tobacco bulging in his cheek. He pointed up. She followed his finger. In the overhead window, an enormous shadow swallowed the stars as it passed directly overhead. Deep bass concussions, sensed more than heard, pounded through the rotor blades. “Shit, he’s on top of us!” she blurted, but quickly regained her composure. If you liked what you read, you can click here to pre-order the illusion exotic for only .99 cents. After 22 April the price goes up, so buy early and buy often. Please tell your friends by a like, share and tweet!
Check back to tomorrow for Day 3 of SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION and another story from the illusion exotic.  Welcome to SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION, the countdown to the release of the illusion exotic, my first short story collection. Let's kick things off with the first story in the collection. "SPACESHIP NAME" SYNOPSISThe end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in Spaceship Name, hope does not come without a price. PROJECT BACKGROUNDThe open road and coffee are excellent catalysts for a writer. Like lots of my ideas, Spaceship Name came to me while driving on a long trip. I don't know why, perhaps its the way the highway can put you in a trance. This was one of those projects that bloomed almost fully formed in my mind and developed quickly. I wrote Spaceship Name while hammering out Tears of the Dead, my second Chronicles of Fu Xi novel. I wanted to include it in the DeadPixel Publications collection Terrible Cherubs, but the themes didn't quite mesh. Instead, I shopped it to a few magazines, got some nicely written personal rejection letters, and ultimately decided to use it as my lead-off story in the illusion exotic. One of the themes of Spaceship Name is artificial intelligence (AI). Lately, lots of people like writing how AI will be mankind's undoing. I'd like to imagine a future where technology, especially AI, will not only save our species, but help salvage our humanity. Hey, call me an optimist. Here's a sample from Spaceship Name. Enjoy. "SPACESHIP NAME" SAMPLEA policeman stepped into view and peered into the back seat window. He looked a little like one of his Rescue Warriors Action Figures. Anant wondered if he had big boots. Rescue Action Figures always wore big boots, so Anant wanted big boots, too. But Mommy said they wouldn’t fit under his braces. Except this policeman also reminded him of a Star Wars storm trooper, the black ones who fly TIE fighters, not the white ones marching around with guns. He had something covering his face like Darth Vader. If the policeman didn’t make Mommy cry, and Daddy so quiet, Anant would ask to touch the big, shiny gun slung over his shoulder. But the policeman glared at Anant behind that scary mask, and that made his stomach knot up even more. I bet this policeman doesn’t have big boots. Only good guys have big boots. Then he pointed his big, black scary gun at Mommy. “Turn this vehicle around, now.” “Please, we must get my son to safety. They are expecting us at the Embarkation Point. Call them, they will tell you,” Daddy’s voice cracked. “Drive,” Mommy whispered urgently into Daddy’s ear. “He won’t shoot.” “Sit back and shut up,” Daddy hissed. He’d never heard Mommy and Daddy talk that way to each other, even when she got historical. The knot in Anant’s tummy turned to queasiness, queasiness to nausea. He wanted a drink of water, but fear kept him from asking. “Turn around now. Last warning.” With a metallic click, the policeman pulled something back on the big black gun. “Mommy?” he whispered, but she didn’t hear him. The bad feeling in his stomach started to creep into his throat. He’d had already peed himself. If he threw up, Mommy would be even more cross. A horrible smell wafted in from the open window, one Anant instantly recognized - The Look Away Smell, the most horrible smell in the whole wide world. He smelled it before, in the backyard during the height of last summer, not long after the Bad Moon first appeared in the sky and everyone started whispering and acting different. The hot, gagging reek drifted from beyond the chain link fence in the neighbor’s back yard. It invaded Anant’s mouth and nostrils, making it hard to breathe. Daddy repeatedly told him to “look away” and go back inside, but Anant couldn’t push his wheelchair fast enough over the soft grass. The smell made him throw up and chased him all the way in the house. Mommy cried and made him some Kool-Aid, while Daddy made a lot of phone calls. After that, Mommy and Daddy seldom took Anant outside. And now the Look Away Smell filled the car. Anant slid lower below the blanket, covering his nose and breathing through his mouth. If you liked what you read, you can click here to pre-order the illusion exotic for only .99 cents. After 22 April the price goes up, so buy early and buy often. Please tell your friends by a like, share and tweet!
Check back to tomorrow for day 2 of SIX DAYS OF ILLUSION and another story from the illusion exotic. I am pleased to announce I have moved up the release of my newest book, the illusion exotic, from 22 April to 17 April.
To celebrate, I will posting "Six Days of Illusion" on my blog. From Wednesday to Sunday, you'll find excerpts from each short story in the book posted here. I will end the six days with the debut, as well also be offering discounts on my epic novels BLACK SEA GODS and TEARS OF THE DEAD starting the 18th. Stick around and stay tuned, because you'll see random samples from two other upcoming novels as well! Right now, you can pre-order the illusion exotic for only 99 cents! After 22 April, the price goes up, so order early, order often and tell your friends!  I am releasing my short story compilation, THE ILLUSION EXOTIC on e-book on 22 April 2016.
DeadPixel Publications author Brian L. Braden presents six tales of souls turning life’s corners. From the Old West, to the edge of space, six people must learn to abandon the illusions that feed their fears, and trust in love, friendship, and their own courage. The end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in Spaceship Name, hope does not come without a price. In Green, a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in The Cave. After a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and The Boy in the Hole. On a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen. Carson’s Love takes the reader into the lives of the Campbells, a family falling apart. Megan and Rob have become so lost in their own lives, they’re about to lose each other. Then, while giving their baby a bath, Rob Campbell makes a startling discovery, and their world suddenly turns upside down. |
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