Name the bear

From Elizabeth Burton –

Twenty-odd years ago, my mom bought me a little white wizard bear at an after-Christmas sale. When I joined Zumaya Publications, he/she became our unofficial mascot.

Now, we’re going to make the bear our OFFICIAL mascot, but he/she needs a name. So, for the next month, until ArmadilloCon 33 in August here in Austin, send us your suggestions for what to name the bear. If your name is chosen, we’ll send you a new Kindle loaded with Zumaya ebooks and some other cool swag or a terrific computer attache full of signed Zumaya paperbacks—your choice. We’ll give prizes to the nine runners-up, too.

Send your suggestion to zumayaebooks@gmail.com; please include your address with your entry. Entries will be judged by a panel of Zumaya authors and the winner announced on August 28th. You may enter as often as you like, but you must be 13 years old or more to enter. Sorry–legal stuff. And Zumaya authors and their immediate families will have to forego the fun, too. I’ll make it up to y’all, I swear.

Let the contest begin!

Here’s a picture

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The Newest Jack Meter Novel is here!

Meter Parents, the newest in the Jack Meter Case Files  SF Mystery series, is now out and is available in Trade Paperback and ebook for Kindle and Nook.

Jack is suddenly stuck with babies. But are they really babies, or an expendable tool for someone else’s revenge?

Jack Meter’s hard-won peace is about to be shattered again. Two fugitives have descended on his apartment and are demanding help. They’re Phoenixes, a species that start as babies in the morning, age through the day and vanish after sunset, only to be reborn the next day.

Then there’s the Kayzar. The aliens want the Phoenixes back and are willing to kill anyone to recapture them, including Jack.

The Phoenixes’ story doesn’t ring true to Jack, but what’s a PI to do when his home is invaded, his friends feel sorry for the refugees, and he has a dead Kayzar stinking up his apartment?

The family is the test of freedom; because the family is the only thing that the free man makes for himself and by himself.— G. K. Chesterton

Read a sample.

“Jack Meter stays smart, sexy, and darkly funny—despite a new crop of aliens messing with his life. M.D. Benoit’s fast-paced and unique blend of science fiction and hardboiled detective will keep fans of both genres eagerly turning pages!” –Sherry D. Ramsey, editor of The Speculative Elements series

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Meter Parents published

Meter Parents

Jack is suddenly stuck with babies. But are they really babies, or an expendable tool for someone else’s revenge?

Jack Meter’s hard-won peace is about to be shattered again. Two fugitives have descended on his apartment and are demanding help. They’re Phoenixes, a species that start as babies in the morning, age through the day and vanish after sunset, only to be reborn the next day.

Then there’s the Kayzar. The aliens want the Phoenixes back and are willing to kill anyone to recapture them, including Jack.

The Phoenixes’ story doesn’t ring true to Jack, but what’s a PI to do when his home is invaded, his friends feel sorry for the refugees, and he has a dead Kayzar stinking up his apartment?

The family is the test of freedom; because the family is the only thing that the free man makes for himself and by himself.— G. K. Chesterton

Read a sample.

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Bourbon Street Review

From Guest Blogger Jim Luce

Two in the afternoon, I’m dodging bodies on Bourbon Street, ducking and juking from sidewalk to gutter to sidewalk to curb. Rolling with the shoulder bumps, sidestepping excuse me’s and sorry’s, pausing in doorways. The air is humid, close, redolent with the scents of this famously sleazy street–beer, whiskey and wine, come on in, have a good time, cooking grease, warm and enticing cajun/creole, cold grease odors in the alley, in a trash can down there somewhere…seafood, truck exhaust, rank sweat, faint piss smell. The soundtrack is an oddly synchronous symphony, a shout, a curse, female laughter, genuine, delighted, truck horns, car horns, impatient, c’mon, move your ass…. Open air bars, mazed by cases of alcohol waiting to move to the back room, dark narrow doorways, impenetrable to my eye, vaguely forbidding, wonder, stay out…. Cacophony of hip hop, reggae, classic rock, a little jazz on this street that was once all about great jazz and great jazz musicians. Neon signs, motionless in the limp air, Gumbo Ya Ya, T-Shirt Alley—“I Got Bourbon Faced On Shit Street”, Temptations, Little Darlin’s, Larry Flynn’s Hustler Club…. Mid-afternoon, wake up call for party animals, streets jammed already, tourists like me, deliverymen, shopkeepers, Bourbon Street residents, no-eye-contact types alert to potential prey, different drummer marchers…still room to fall down if you get stabbed, but barely.
Da wife (we’re from Wisconsin) is safely parked on a stool in one of the open air bars, Jester’s, happily out of the stream of stabbers and staggerers, sipping a 191 proof Jester’s margarita. She chats with the bartender, amiable young guy, full of stories of the street, decorative holes the size of quarters in his stretched earlobes. I take my camera and dive into the polluted gene pool swirling outside the bar. Across the street, between a cab and a tour bus, down a block.… Behind me, “Hey, brother, how ya doin’, like your hat. You at the game?” I’m wearing a Super Bowl cap, my Green Bay Packers having won Super Bowl XLV a couple weeks ago here in New Orleans. I turn back. “Good game,” I agree. “Coulda been a blow out. They dropped too many passes.”
“Was you at the game?” he asks again. His eyes hold mine, wet, rimmed bright pink, whites yellow. They don’t shift away, don’t look past my ear. Good sincerity technique. Overweight, shaved three, four days ago, from shirt collar to pants cuff a stained canvas of hard times. I hook thumbs in my back pockets to keep contact with my wallet and settle in to talk Packer football. He’s worn, wilted, well-spoken though, and he knows his football. It takes two, three minutes to get to it. Glances away for the first time, comes back, “I don’t mean ya no worry, friend. Been havin’ kind of a rough go lately. Haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. You think you could spare enough I could get a hamburger?” I have a twenty and three ones. “I can’t afford a burger on this street.” I smile. “I can give you enough for a beer to keep you goin’, though.” He grins broadly, busted. “That’ll work too.” I give him the three singles and we shake on it. As I move on he calls, “Hey, go Packers.” I flash him a thumbs up and move on downstream.
Bourbon Street. Once the home of New Orleans jazz greats. Now sleaze multiplied by sleaze–dark bars, strip joints, sex shops, subtle lurk of danger…gaudy, crowded, loud. The sleaze doesn’t bother me, it belongs here now, creates the atmosphere that lets the street live up to its billing of today. And it’s a good place to meet new friends and talk a little football.

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Free Downloads

From noon EDT US today through midnight EDT Sunday (10 April 2011), Zumaya Publications is doing a free ebook promotion for Carole Waterhouse’s The Tapestry Baby and Mark Roberts’s Unforced Error.

You can download for free the two books in either PDF, epub or mobi:

For Tapestry Baby:

Tapestry Baby PDF

Tapestry Baby EPUB

Tapestry Baby MOBI

 

For Unforced Error:

Unforced Error PDF

Unforced Error EPUB 

Unforced Error MOBI

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