- December 3 - Joanna Bourne
- December 4 - Pamela Callow
- December 5 - MK McClintock
FEATURE AND GIVEAWAY!
and now for something completely different ...
Today's featured book is:
"So as near as I could tell the end of the world began roughly about the time that Billy Carver’s butt rang for Santa Claus about halfway through the War of 1812."
Sixteen year old Briar Gamble is having a bad day.
It started with the cell phones singing for Santa Claus.
Then came the tanks and the storm troopers.
The Black Masks, in their black fish bowl sunglasses.
And then along came Captain Albino.
The shooting started shortly after that.
Like I said - Briar Gamble is having a REALLY bad day.
And it's about to get a whole lot worse.
I've only met Steve once face to face, but online he's everywhere! He's written so many books and has been brilliant in his local marketing of them. The ones I really like are his Real Life ghost stories - Nova Scotia is full of ghosts and he's tracked them all down. So much fun. Steve is constantly keeping NS authors up to date on our facebook pages, sharing important facts and sites for us all, so we can learn. Thank you so much, Steve, for being here today, and for letting us sample your fun new book!
Chapter One – How Does High School Suck, Let Me Count the Ways
So as near as I could tell the end of the world began roughly about the time that Billy Carver’s butt rang - about halfway through the War of 1812.
All right – so his butt didn’t really ring – but the brand new cell phone that he was carrying in his butt pocket went off awfully sudden and unexpected.
It was absolutely the weirdest ring tone that I had ever heard – kind of like a crossbred mix tape of rap-music-gargling and stained-church-glass-yodeling but I recognized the tune right off.
There wasn’t a kid on the planet who didn’t know that tune.
The tune was Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.
You know – better not pout and checking his list twice, watching when we’re sleeping – which is really kind of creepy when you stop and think about some fat old bearded man peeping at kids in their Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas – not to mention that whole bit about rooty-toot-toot and rummy-tum-tum.
Whatever the heck that meant.
In any case, that was the tune that Billy Carver’s butt was playing - which – when you think about it is a pretty weird tune to hear playing in the middle of the month of May – even if it was coming from a free butt-covered cell phone – which each of us had been given by a guy in a pair of fish bowl sunglasses.
Which I’ll tell you about in just a little bit.
Right now we are talking about Billy Carver’s butt.
Mind you – I was not looking at Billy Carver’s butt when his cell phone rang.
That’d be just weird.
Maybe not as weird as Santa Claus peeping – but weird just the same.
What I was actually looking at – the same way as I had looked at it for five days a week and nine months of the year for the last entire decade - was the classroom wall clock.
In fact, as far as I can calculate I have been sitting here for about a hundred years or so – give or take a glacial millennium - just waiting for that lunch bell to ring – even though I knew that we had thirty-two minutes and twenty-one and a half seconds before the lunch bell was actually supposed to ring.
It turns out that lunch bell wasn’t ever going to ring.
Not in the way that I expected it to.
Not unless you count the way that it rang when it hit the floor later that morning after being shot from off of the gymnasium wall by one of Captain Albino’s headphone-wearing stormtroopers.
But I’ll tell you about that a little bit later on too.
You don’t want to rush into the end of the world.
You want to take your time.
But first - I really ought to introduce myself before we get much further into this story.
My name is Briar Gamble – and if you want to know the complete honest truth – I have been waiting for a bell of some sort to go off for the last ten years or so – ever since that first horrible day when Dad had looked up from his Pac Man coffee mug in the middle of a Bugs Bunny cartoon that I had seen at least fifteen times before and had said those thirteen terrible words to me – “Well Briar, I guess you are old enough to go to school now.”
That was way back in grade primary – but even then I knew that there were about thirty million other places in the known and unknown galaxy that I would rather be living in than sitting here in some funky old classroom listening to one teacher or another spouting off about algebra, grammar and the War of 1812.
I just didn’t belong here.
I knew that – even back in grade primary.
I knew that before the first homework assignment got handed out – and forgotten.
I knew that before the first bully had ever wedgied my underwear up about three degrees beyond the pooping zone.
I knew that like I knew my very own name.
Which was Briar Gamble – in case you weren’t reading too closely, seven paragraphs back. My Dad said that he and Mom had named me after a weed – on account of the way I had sprouted up where I wasn’t supposed to be – whatever that was supposed to mean.
That guy sitting across from me? That little fellow, with his hair poked up like a hay stack that can’t spell “comb” if his life depended on it and that freckly bent up nose, slightly running? That’s my buddy Jemmy Daniels. His real name is Jeremiah but we all call him Jemmy on account of Jeremiah has about three too many syllables. Jemmy is my best friend – which is another way of saying that his head had been swirly-dunked nearly as often in the boy’s room toilet bowl as I had been – by Billy Carver and his so-called friends.
Jemmy had one short-coming.
Jemmy actually liked going to school.
Which was weird.
I don’t really know why I hated going to school so very much. I always have. It was like I was born hating it.
Nearly everyone else in the school seemed to be getting along all right – or else maybe they just took a while to catch on to the fact that school just plain sucked – but I knew that school sucked and high school sucked even worse than that.
I knew it just as soon as somebody first tried to teach me poetry.
Which was way worse than the War of 1812.
Steve Vernon is a long-time Halifax resident with seven regional books and about a truckload of e-books available on Kindle and Kobo and other varied formats. You take a look in the dictionary under storyteller – you’ll most likely see a picture of this man, in place of a definition. That’s right, Steve Vernon has successfully broken into every dictionary publishing company in the world and committed acts of self-aggrandizing vandalism. Or that’s his story anyway – and what else might you expect? Steve Vernon is a storyteller. The man was born with a campfire burning at his feet. The word "boring" does not exist in this man's vocabulary - unless he's maybe talking about termites or ice augers.
And two fantastic additional Christmas presents:
Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it.
"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening."
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author