Book Blitz: Earth832 + Excerpt



The New Angels, Book 2

by L. Fergus
Speculative / Sci-fi Adventure, LGBT
Date Published: March 2021
Publisher: Article94


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Five women.

Four stories of courage, perseverance, resilience, and determination.

Karen and Zhi are pilots in the elite 154th Strike Fighter Squadron. On a mission to protect the Empire, they’re shot down over the Persian Mountains. Deep behind enemy lines, they discover a new threat to the Empire, SCUD missiles. Out of their element, the two pilots must find a way to destroy this threat before it can launch against the Empire.

Anna was trained by the Soviet Cardinal School to be an assassin. In the process, they took her humanity. Now, she has a new master, one that is putting her skills to the test. She must rise to the challenge and prove she is worthy.

Nicole is one of the greatest snipers in the world. On a humanitarian mission in Kashmir, her platoon is attacked, and she is captured. When she awakes, she finds herself sexually assaulted, and her world shattered. A new identity surfaces, the demon. As she is determined to overcome the trauma, she must learn to control the demon and forge a new identity.

Kimmy is the Empress of the Empire of the United States. She thought she’d been a good mother to her daughter, Chelsea. But when Kimmy’s partner, Kita, is kidnapped, she’s forced to bring Chelsea on the rescue mission. Kimmy learns Kita has done more to prepare Chelsea for life than she has. This realization leads Kimmy to a difficult choice, govern her empire or prove she can be the mother Chelsea needs.

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Other books in the The New Angels series:





The New Angels, Book 1

Publisher: Article94

Published: June 2020

Kita’s life is one big struggle growing up a lesbian in the conservative Mojave Desert. She’s barely getting by, fighting to hold on to her dad’s failing junkyard—all she has left of him. It’s hard enough being a girl running a salvage yard, if the town found out her sexuality, she could lose more than the yard, she could lose her life.

When three vehicles from a shipment go missing, Kita tracks them down in an abandoned factory where she’s attacked by the evil Neophormes and rescued by their mortal enemies, the valiant biomechanical Velixen. Normally shy and reserved, Kita is enraptured by the aliens’ warrior leader Velositi.

Velositi is on a mission to find the Axiom of Command, an artifact that will save her planet by anointing a powerful leader. And she believes Kita is the key to finding it. The Neophormes have chased Velositi and her team across the galaxy, seeking the Axiom for their own ends. Velositi is ready for danger. What she’s is not prepared for is falling in love with Kita.



Karen and Zhi

Any questions, ladies?” Karen said, addressing the briefing room of pilots. She stole a glance at the Angel Kita, standing in the back, having arrived partway through the briefing. She wasn’t dressed as the Vicereine, so she wasn’t here in an official capacity. Probably checking in on her favorite pet project.

A hand went up. “What if the rest of the Navy doesn’t show up after we bomb them?” said Harlequin. “I don’t remember run like hell being taught in Angel School.”

The other pilots laughed. They were all graduates of the elite Superior Air Tactics and Combat School Karen helped Kita establish a year ago. The punishing sixty-day course pushed pilot and machine beyond their limits. The school’s washout rate was ninety-nine percent and already claimed the lives of seven pilots. Graduates earned more than a tab for their jackets. They received the basic Angel package—a bionanite injection that increased their physical and mental stamina and gave them special abilities like regeneration, super strength, enhanced vision, and invisibility.

Karen didn’t think it was funny. “If you run, I’ll shoot you down myself. You only bail if we run out of missiles and bullets.”

Forget running,” said Anastasia, a pilot from Ukraine. “I crash plane into them. If they survive, I kill them with bare hands on ground.”

That’s why you have a pistol,” said Pepper.

Beat them with rock.”

Ok, ladies, we have ninety minutes until we cross phase line x-ray. Get to your fighters.”

The pilots gathered their tablets and helmets and climbed the steps out of the briefing room. Each gave Kita a nod as they went by. Karen went last with her wingwoman, Shen, a new pilot from China. Kita stepped in front of them as they reached the top.

Hi, Karen,” said Kita from under a large hood that hid her face.

Hey, Kita. No problems to report. Everything is a go.”

I prefer they not kamikaze the planes,” said Kita. “The technology in them is beyond classified.”

I will tell them to make sure, but I think she was joking.”

Kita looked at Shen. “How’s the new girl?”

Shen bowed. “I’m ready to serve, honorable Kita. Death will come fast and swift to our enemies.”

Call me Kita. Save the pleasantries for when I’m Vicereine.”

Shen looked confused. “You plan to be Vicereine someday?”

Kita chuckled. “No. I am the Vicereine, but only when I wear the dress. I prefer my day job as an assassin. How are you adjusting to the fighter, Shen?”

The 154th Strike Fighter Squadron flew customized versions of the F-22 Raptor. It was faster, turned harder, out-climbed, and was more heavily armed than any other fighter in the world. The wings were fitted with gravity wells allowing for higher speeds and high-g turns that would kill a normal pilot.

It’s a superb aircraft. I will get many kills.”

Kita smiled. “The sky will be full today, but I’ll leave that to you girls.”

The door opened, and Empress Apocalypse entered. She pushed her hood back and stuck her face in Kita’s hood to get a kiss. “Hey, angel. Chelsea’s down for her nap.”

No fight this time?”

The swaying of the ship helps. We should find a bed that rocks. Hi, Karen.”

Hi, Kimmy.” Karen had spent the last eighteen months living with the Angels. She was at ease with them, even Apocalypse. When Shen moved to kneel, Karen pulled her elbow to stop her.

Who’s your friend?”

This is Lieutenant Zhi Shen. She joined the Fallen Angels three weeks ago.”

Hi, Zhi.”

Y—Your High—ness.”

Apocalypse laughed. “You’re one of Kita’s girls; call me Kimmy.”

How is Chelsea?” said Karen. “I haven’t seen her in months. She must be huge.”

Like a potato with wings,” grumbled Kita.

Apocalypse elbowed Kita in the middle. “What she means to say is she is adorable and is getting bigger all the time. After the mission, you’ll have to come see her.”

You have a child?” said Shen in surprise.

Closely guarded secret,” said Apocalypse. “I was only pregnant for seven weeks. No one noticed when I disappeared for a month.”

Last I saw her, she looked like a little cherub,” said Karen.

All she does is eat,” said Kita.

Apocalypse gave Kita a loving look. “The sociopath hasn’t warmed up to her yet. You should see her trying to hold Chelsea. The look on her face is utter terror.”

She could erupt at any moment. I don’t want to be covered in baby puke.”

Apocalypse rolled her eyes. “It wipes off.”

And smells.”

Anyway, is the mission ready, Karen?”

The only thing left to do is drop the bombs and pile up the bodies.”

Excellent. This will be a good warm-up for our forces. Europe is protesting my declaration of world nuclear proliferation.”

The networks had played the thirty-minute speech repeatedly for the last week. Apocalypse’s simple message was only the Empire of the United States would be allowed to have nuclear weapons. All others were to be handed over, taken, or destroyed by force.

Have they gone on alert?” said Kita.

Apocalypse shrugged. “So far, no. I told their ambassadors that we would be running military exercises around the Middle East. They protested, but that’s all.”

As an Angel, Karen knew some of Apocalypse’s plan. The first step to conquering the world was to eliminate the rest of the world’s nukes. France, the UK, Germany, Spain, Italy, Sweden, and the Arab Alliance were the only countries left. Europe was deemed a minor threat. The unpredictable religious dictator that led the Arab Alliance was the top priority and the target of today’s mission. Karen and the Fallen Angels, the 154th’s nickname after the Battle of Moscow, were to go in and bomb the facilities and silos, removing the threat.

Kita and I will be observing in the VIP Combat Information Center,” said Apocalypse. “If you have any problems, contact us.”

Nothing like having both your bosses looking over your shoulder. “I don’t see any problems. Everyone’s concern is getting back out, but I know the rest of the Navy will meet us in the middle.”

Don’t try and take the Alliance’s air force on by yourselves,” said Kita sternly. “Blast through to friendly lines. I know your pilots are itching to fight, but you’re no good to me dead.”

Karen bowed her head. “Yes, Kita. I will make sure they know.”

Kita touched Karen’s upper arm. “We can’t win the war today, so now is not the time for foolish risks. Planes can be replaced. You can’t.”

Karen never dared to ask Kita how old she was, but she always spoke with wisdom and experience. “I’ll make sure everyone comes home.”

There will be plenty of air battles in this campaign,” said Apocalypse.

It’s like they don’t want us to kick ass. We haven’t trained this hard not to. “The squadron will be ready.”

I know,” said Kita. “That’s why I put you in charge. Now, go lead your squadron to glory.”


About the Author

L. Fergus is an Amazon Bestselling author with Birthright and Rebirth. Both titles were #1 new releases in LGBT Science Fiction. Before Amazon, L. was a Wattpad Featured Author and #1 writer of science fiction. The Fallen Angel Saga has more than four hundred thousand reads. The books Birthright, BykeChic, and Rebirth have won over twenty awards, including Best Overall.

L. lives with four dogs: Rust, Moxy, Stormy, and Valor, and four cats: Jupiter, Crater, Pluto, and Forest Fire.

If you want the most up to date stories consider becoming a patreon at

Join L. Fergus’ mailing list at for news about upcoming book releases. Follow L. on Facebook at, Twitter @FallenAngelKita

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Spotlight & Excerpt: Folk Songs For Trauma Surgeons + Giveaway


folksongs for trauma surgeons



GENRE: Collection / Speculative Fiction / Magical Realism / Literary

BOOK PAGE @Meerkat Press

With Folk Songs for Trauma Surgeons, award-winning author Keith Rosson delves into notions of family, grief, identity, indebtedness, loss, and hope, with the surefooted merging of literary fiction and magical realism he’s explored in previous novels. In “Dunsmuir,” a newly sober husband buys a hearse to help his wife spread her sister’s ashes, while “The Lesser Horsemen” illustrates what happens when God instructs the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to go on a team-building cruise as a way of boosting their frayed morale. In “Brad Benske and the Hand of Light,” an estranged husband seeks his wife’s whereabouts through a fortuneteller after she absconds with a cult, and in “High Tide,” a grieving man ruminates on his brother’s life as a monster terrorizes their coastal town. With grace, imagination, and a brazen gallows humor, Folk Songs for Trauma Surgeons merges the fantastic and the everyday, and includes a number of Rosson’s unpublished stories, as well as award-winning favorites.

BUY LINKS: Meerkat Press | Amazon | Barnes & Noble


Excerpt from “Brad Benske and the Hand of Light” by Keith Rosson

Splay-legged in my recliner, I’ve just returned from putting another note under Marcus’s door (In the next life your penis shall be multipronged, insectile, hot and bristling with pustules, gloriously prone to infection) when someone knocks on my door and I choke back a cry, startled. It’s midafternoon and my social life, never strident to begin with, has atrophied in recent months. Who could possibly be knocking? Reluctantly, I rise from my recliner and pull on my robe and, realizing at that moment that it might actually be Marcus, a Marcus angry about the insectile penis-note, and all the other notes, I open the door with a mad flourish, trying to be as intimidating as possible.

The day seems obscenely sunny, garishly so. I wince and blink. The man in the doorway is a stranger, and he takes a step back when he sees me. He’s wearing some kind of uniform—a blue shirt with a nametag and a pair of blue shorts. A little clipboard.

“Brad? Brad Benske?”

“Yes,” I say. It comes out tremulously; for a moment even I feel unsure. Is this who I am? And then, more confidently, “Yes.”

The man marks something off on his clipboard and flicks his thumb against one of his nostrils and says, “Brad, hey, what’s up. I’m with the water bureau.”

“The what?”

He says, “Water bureau. Your water?”


“You’re late with your payment.”

“Am I?”

“Really late,” he says, and consults his clipboard. “Couple months late. As in, if you can’t pay it by the end of day today, we have to shut it off.”

“The water?”

He seems to see me for the first time then—the robe, the dishevelment, the haphazard leaning mess of the inside of the house that he can spy through the open doorway. I have a zit on my cheek that has over recent days gotten woefully infected and is now nearly the size of a ping-pong ball. Fifty-one years old and getting zits, if you can believe it. I need to drink more water, I think, and then have a moment of shock as I realize the water guy is right here in front of me. It’s like some kind of weak serendipity, some petulant magic.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say.

The nametag above his pocket says Cameron, and he looks like a Cameron. A beefy young man with big calves and a certain dumb purity, someone who did keg stands in college and can differentiate between different types of vape oil. A man who wears a hemp bracelet and sleeps on a futon, I decide, a man who sniff-tests his socks. Cameron peers into the dank chamber of my little house and his nose wrinkles. I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me.

“Oh man, my grandma got shingles,” Cameron says, pointing a blunt finger at my face. “She was only sixty-two. It messed her up.”

“This is just a zit.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The world beyond my yard writhes with life; a little boy wheels by on his bike, leaves on the trees tremble and sway, and I can hear the bass-heavy thump of music strobing through the window of a passing car. The air is rich with the smell of cut grass. And everything trills a memory. Emma has been gone for nine months now. Nine months! I spend a moment hoping Marcus’s penis becomes riddled with pustules in this life, and draft an internal note saying such.

Cameron clears his throat.

“My checkbook’s inside,” I say. “How much is it?”

He gives me a number. It seems a reasonable enough amount if I haven’t paid in months—Emma handled the bills, and it’s yet another instance where I have lagged, where I am lost without her—but he sounds unhappy about it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re just doing your job.”

“I mean, I’m in a band,” Cameron says. “I do community theater. You know? There’s more to me than just this.” He sweeps a hand along his outfit, his clipboard.

“Of course there is,” I say. I walk inside and eventually find my checkbook beside an old sandwich on the floor that’s furred in ants. I write the check and step outside and kind of shake the ants off and hand it to Cameron, and his blue eyes as he watches this are rife with something like pity. “I hope you feel better soon,” he says quietly, and it’s clear he’s not talking about my goiter.


  • •  •


Melinda says, “So you’re still leaving him notes.” She lights a menthol and blows the smoke up to the ceiling.

“No,” I say.

She laughs outright and flips me off. “Oh my God, you’re such a liar. Such a bad liar, too.”

“I left one today,” I confess. May maggots tumble from thy dong, it read, and then it had a little doodle of that, a little picture.

Melinda winces. “Honey, why his penis, though? Why talk about his penis?” She adjusts her headband.

“I don’t always.”

“Well, when you tell me about it, the notes are always penis-related.”

“I’m trying to keep it funny. Light. Less worrisome than actual threats.”

“Maggots from his dong, though? That sounds like an actual threat to me.”

“It’s medical,” I say.

It had seemed a simple message, one suffused with appropriate dread and then buoyed a little by the silly drawing. I wonder for a moment if I have in fact turned some corner, gone some further distance than I intended. One I won’t be able to come back from. Maybe I have crossed some line.

“You know it’s illegal, right?” says Melinda. “It’s gotta be harassment or something. Menacing. You better hope you don’t get caught.”

“I won’t get caught. Marcus is too enmeshed in his bullshit.”

“If he installs one of those cameras above his door. You’re done.”

“Look,” I say, “can you just give me a reading? Please?”

Melinda, when she’s working, goes by Madame Ouellette. She has a palm reading and tarot practice out on the jagged stretch of 82nd Avenue, in a weird mobile home kind of thing that rests in an otherwise empty parking lot. She’s decked the place out in tapestries and unicorn sculptures and salt candles and incense; the atmosphere goes a fair way toward canceling out the brazen drug deals out front, the endless traffic, the shirtless guy screaming about aliens in his teeth at the Wendy’s across the street. Melinda and I slept together once in college, badly, and have ever since been continually thankful of the friendship that has sprung from it. Our shared history buoys us. Emma, at best, had tolerated Melinda during our marriage. Felt threatened by her. Which always surprised me, as she seemed otherwise so sure of everything. “Why can’t you just scratch your balls and yell about football with some guy from work? Drink beer and talk about cars?” she’d say, a rare instance where I saw the underpinnings of her insecurity. Melinda gives me readings for free now, and I ask her where Emma is, where they’ve sent her. If she’s happy, if she’s safe where she is. This, and bothering Marcus are as close to penance and relief as I get. Madam Ouellette offers me her visions and I imagine that they’re true. Half the time it seems like Melinda’s just trying to come up with the most outlandish shit she can, and I’m grateful for it. It almost assuredly beats the true narrative.

She makes me a cup of tea as we chat some more. I drink the tea and tell Melinda the story about our wedding day and how Emma had spilled a cup of coffee down the front of her dress, the same dress her mother had worn to her wedding, and had had to wear a last minute back-up dress that showed way more cleavage then she intended. It is a well-worn story; Melinda has heard it a million times. Hell, she was at our wedding, watched the entire event take place. But it’s part of the process of the reading, Melinda says. And when I’m done with the tea, she has me upend the cup on a plastic slip mat and we talk for a moment about my hopes with this, what it is I want to get from this. I say something, some bland proclamation. I want to feel close to her, I think. I want to believe that what you’re saying is really her life. We’ve done this perhaps a dozen times since Emma left me to join the Hand of Light. This is one of the only things I do anymore.

Melinda really gets into character, adjusting her jeweled headband, her hands taking on these exaggerated movements as she tries to withdraw the “intentionality” from the leaves. Tea has started to bead out from beneath the rim of the cup. Eventually she lifts it and frowns at the chiaroscuro of dark leaves on the plastic mat.

She talks, fully Madam Ouellette now. Her voice is clipped, more precise, colder.

She tells me that Emma is in a carwash in Biloxi, Mississippi.

“She’s working in a carwash? In Mississippi?”

“No, no. She’s in a carwash. In a car. Someone’s yelling about atonement. Maybe it’s the radio. There’s a baby in the backseat, but it’s not hers. The sudsy cleaning things slap against the window. It’s a kind of transformation for her.”

“You’re so full of shit,” I say, grinning. I can’t help myself. I’m almost happy.

“She got a haircut. She’s wearing sunglasses in the carwash. It’s dark.”

“Oh, yeah? Did they shave her head? Is she wearing a potato sack, Melinda? Are there snacks?” Part of me relishes these fantasies she makes up. I simultaneously wish they were true and only feel safe when I’m mocking them. I’ve had a private investigator on the payroll since she’s been gone, but he’s come up with nothing. He talks to me like I’m an aggrieved husband, speaks respectfully, and part of me hates the guy for it.

Of the two people in the world who know what an utter fuckup I am, one has absconded with the Hand of Light, and the other one’s looking at me right now, waving her palm over a bunch of wet tea leaves, offering at least some minute solace.


AUTHOR LINKS: Website | Twitter

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Audio Spotlight: Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes, by Evan J. Corbin

Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes


Book Title: Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes

Author:  Evan J. Corbin

Publisher: Atonement Book, LLC

Narrator: Christopher Solon

Release Date: January 5, 2021

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance, Speculative Fiction, Humour

Trope/s: Closeted, homophobic protagonist who comes out of the closet

Themes:  Coming out, atonement to one’s self, cultural assimilation 

Heat Rating:  1 – 2 flames

Length:  6 hours and 46 minutes

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Buy Links 

Audible US  |  Audible UK  

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK


A homophobic preacher has a secret. 

When Pastor Rick Harris is sent to a camp run by drag queens for society’s most irredeemable homophoboes, he confronts his identity and finds authenticity—both for himself and his community.



The oldest translation of a Gospel is returned to the world by a secret society long dedicated to its preservation. In it, Jesus explicitly condemns bigotry and homophobia. In a new world in which LGBTQ passengers receive preferential boarding for flights and the United States has elected its first lesbian President, Pastor Rick Harris is stalwart, closeted preacher who doggedly holds onto his increasingly unpopular convictions.

When an incendiary sermon goes too far and offends an influential family, Rick makes a painful choice to keep his job: He attends an atonement camp run by drag queens for society’s most unrepentant and terminally incurable homophobes.

Atonement Camp is immersion therapy for Pastor Harris, and it might be working. An open bar with pedicures, a devastatingly attractive roommate and an endless supply of glitter help him manage to make new friends. Soon, Rick and his cohorts learn the camp may hold its own secrets. Amid the smiling faces and scantily clad pool boys who staff the camp, a clandestine group plots to discredit the New Revelation and everything it stands for.

If Rick has the conviction to confront his own hypocrisy, he might be able to uncover the conspirators with help from his adopted flock—and find new truths within himself.

CONTENT WARNING: This novel addresses issues related to the infliction of emotional abuse by a homophobic parent who suspects his son to be a homosexual. Separately, while not the author’s intent, some readers may interpret the story’s attempt to confront issues of religious hypocrisy as an assault on religion itself. No such conclusion is intended. Lastly, the novel follows a protagonist who, at times, uses hateful slurs to refer to members of the LGBTQ community. Such language is intended to give authenticity to a self-hating, closed member of that same community. Readers may appreciate the protagonist’s growth as he embraces his sexuality and reconciles himself with his faith.


About the Author  

Evan is a member of the LGBTQ community who fancies himself as a playboy socialite, living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Between work and lucid moments of sobriety, he writes a little.  His debut novel is a light-hearted work that still manages to confront religious hypocrisy and contemporary LGBTQ struggles to balance their loss of culture with new-found civil rights.


Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Instagram: @atonementbook  |  Facebook  |  Twitter: @evanjcorbin 


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