COVER REVEAL: Heliodor by Shannon Wendtland

Hi kids! It’s been a while since we talked, but 2016 has gotten off to a busy start. But have no fear, with the dawning of springtime, the Belle is back in town. And to bring in the season, I’ve got a lovely cover reveal for a new steampunk novella that’s going live on 3/22 from Mocha Memoirs Press! I present, Heliodor by newcomer Shannon Wendtland!

Malfric sees through the eyes of the dead – literally reliving their last moments as if they were his own. This ability is highly sought and highly priced, which is why the unscrupulous Captain Finch hires him to find the murderer of a nobleman and the whereabouts of a valuable artifact.

Quantex, the able-bodied first mate of Captain Finch, quickly becomes Malfric’s foil as he demonstrates uncommon intelligence during the investigation. Together the two uncover several clues that lead them to the killer, the artifact, and the frayed end of a mysterious plot that begins to unravel the moment Malfric takes it in hand and gives it a good yank.

Sounds pretty amazing huh? I love a good adventure story! So without further ado……



AVAILABLE MARCH 22, 2016 @ !!






Rise Up, Kittens! Or at least stop lying down . . . .

Words of wisdom from Lucy Blue. So wise that I thought I’d post them here so none of you would miss it!

Lucy Blue Writes

Without writers, publishing as an industry would not exist.  Well, duh, you may well say; how obvious; how trite; how could any sane person not know that?  And I would agree.  But I begin to suspect that this truth we declare self-evident is in fact the greatest of mysteries to the rest of the monstrous machine.

One of the great traditions of traditional publishing is treating the people who write the product they sell like galley slaves, a necessary inconvenience that whines too much and smells kind of funny.  Myself, I’ve spent immense slabs of my professional life waiting around on some agent or editor to give me an answer on something even when they called me first.  Hurry up and wait and don’t ask for anything has always been the order of the day, and writers have had the choice to either take it on the chin or head…

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Howloween Blog Hop: How Much is Too Much

CLICK ME to visit the other Blog Hop participants!

Welcome to Day 2 of the Howloween 2012 Blog Hop! I’ve had so much fun reading all your comments! Please know that I appreciate each and every one. I’m especially honored by all of the comments and messages saying “This sounds so good. I’m going to put this on my wish list.” I’m always amazed to know that there are people out there that like what I write. But… on to today’s topic…

So how much is too much? Anyone who knows me can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’ve never had too much of anything. I tend to indulge in most things to excess. Which brings me to why we’re here today. In your erotic horror/ paranormal romance—how much sex and blood is too much? Is there a point at which you say, “I can’t read this anymore,”? Of course there are varying degrees. My recent publications have been more on the sex and less on the blood. I haven’t delved into splatterpunk much in my relatively short career, but it’s a genre that is close to my heart. For those of you uneducated on the matter—splatterpunk is a genre that combines horror and erotica in violent and twisted ways. Splatterpunk isn’t really meant to titillate so much as to shock. The tales are generally graphically violent, explicitly sexual and shockingly detailed. Needless to say, I’m a big fan. However, it isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. For some, they’d rather have the violence happen behind closed doors. Or at the very least have it brief and painless.

So where is that line? It seems to me in the media that the line gets blurrier and blurrier every day. And it’s almost always bent toward the violent side. For some reason, it is more socially acceptable to depict someone being decapitated by a flying cannonball than to show full on nudity and sex between two people who are obviously in love. The way I see it, one celebrates life and the other celebrates death. Which would you rather see?

The closest I’ve come, at least in my published works, to splatterpunk was in my first novel, Hellsong. In the prologue, one of the main characters is telling the story of how he watched his best friend devoured by a succubus. I chose to use imagery that was both horrific and primal. I wanted it to be graphic and shocking, but also strangely sexual. I’ll let you judge for yourself…


The first thing I noticed was the smell. Something like dead flowers and decayed earth just under the coppery smell of the blood, which was everywhere. It dripped from the walls and ran in pools across the floor until I could see the canvas of my old sneakers soaking it up. I gasped, unable to find my voice, but when the glass of gin in my hand dropped to the floor, it made a loud noise. The woman’s head whipped around from where she crouched on the bed. Her eyes glowed this impossible yellow color as she glared at me, but she did not speak. Her skin looked leathery and taut under the thick veil of Jackson’s blood. I started to move toward her, wanting to throw her off of my friend even though I was more scared than a man staring at Death himself.

She made kind of a hissing noise at me, baring a mouthful of sharpened pearl teeth. I wanted to scream, to run out of there as fast as I could, but as I turned, my foot caught on something, nearly throwing me down. When I looked down, I saw a mass of red cord wrapped around my ankle. As my eyes started to focus, I realized that the bloody mess was Jackson’s insides, coiled like a snake at my feet. I did scream then and stumbled backward, slipping in the blood and falling hard on my ass. The woman-thing on the bed laughed—a sickening rasping sound that echoes in my nightmares.

I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t get to my feet. I was blinded with alcohol and tears. I began crawling toward the door on my knees. I was sure that she was going to come after me, but then I heard an earsplitting shriek pulled from her throat. She got up on her haunches at the bed, staring hatefully at me as she bellowed again. I looked over my shoulder, sure that someone would come in and see, but no one did—her screams were lost over the symphony of moans and laughter in the corridor. I watched with morbid fascination as she sat straight up on her knees. Her clawed hands held onto the broken down bedpost as she grunted and writhed on the ruined sheets. Before I was sure what was happening, I heard another cry—this one more human.


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