Date Published: August 14, 2026

Jazz loves pretty things and things that go BOOM. Tyger, AKA Riot, is a man on
a mission, searching for the bits and pieces that’ll repair his damaged,
bio-constructed DNA. It only makes sense for the happily mismatched lovers to
turn airship pirates and sneak, snatch or con what they need, right?

Right. One problem. Occasionally Jazz gets a little too fond of explosives,
and Tyger gets a tad too focused on his quest. When that happens, they need to
vent a little steam. So to speak.

T-minus sixty seconds. Really, it was bad manners to blow up a tea party, but
some society dames were just asking for it. Jazz landed in the ornamental rose
bushes outside his hostess’s parlor window, gathered his heavy silk skirts
around his knees, and ran like hell.

Not that he was worried. Jazz knew his explosives like he knew his way around
the three-dimensional differential equations of a projected illusory field.

And wine. And perfume. What? Jazz prided himself on having layers.

He ticked off the seconds in his head, listening to an internal countdown.
Right about now the aforementioned queens of “polite” society (and those who
knew Jazz knew far better than to push a particular argument on behavior
becoming to a lady and the mind-boggling double-standards that — oh, anyway).

Jazz did enjoy traveling to different worlds and sampling the finest wines,
velvets, songs and yes, incendiary devices from the thousands of cultures that
flourished around the galaxies, but the next time his honey, Riot, wanted to
spend time where good manners were forbidden in favor of good times? No
thanks.

Where had he been? Oh, right. Crap! Cue the fine ladies screeching, coughing
and sneezing, the last of a harmless fog floating out the window he’d
helpfully, er, opened by jumping through, and they might have regained enough
composure after the flash and bang that went with the smoke to have started
complaining and oh, right.

Five, four, three, two —

Jazz managed to free himself of the pannier hoops just in time to dive under
the cover of a cluster of almost-certainly-sacred ancient oak trees, before —
BOOM.

If a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing properly. “Proper.” See what I
did there?

This time, however, the dainty device of detonation had not been hidden in
Jazz’s decolletage (quite convincing cleavage, if he did say so himself). He’d
set the charges long before smiling politely and pretending to enjoy a
coin-sized cress sandwich in the ladies’ salon.

BOOM.

There, that was the ticket! One for distraction, two to cause confusion to his
enemies, e.g. the people in possession of A Thing Jazz Wanted, and a third to
blow the ever-living fuck out of irritatingly secure locks that otherwise
prevented his honey from wholesale liberation of a few deliciously prized
goods.

POOF.

Oops. He’d forgotten the fourth bomb in the salon. Well, that one had been a
bit spur of the moment. And a leetle more powerful. Enough to, say, jar loose
some ripe pickings of his own, if he were lucky. All he needed to do was
circle back around, and —

The discreet two-way comms device concealed in the cunning shape of a rosebud
earring spoke to him. “Overkill, Jazz. Overkill.”

“Spoilsport,” Jazz said, and sneezed. “Let he who has never enjoyed the smell
of C4 in the morning cast the first stone in a glass house.”

“Excuse me?” The voice on the comms sounded amused. “You’re high on adrenaline
again, aren’t you?”

“Pish, tosh, nonsense, and absolutely, yes. Perhaps that was overkill. Others
could say I was in the wrong, but I can’t blame me.”

“You are a ridiculous man,” the speaker said fondly.

“I know.” Jazz preened. He sneezed again. “Tch. Plastique is one thing. Debris
coated in dust is quite another. What about you, tick-tock man? Did you get
what you came here for?”

“Stop calling me that,” Riot said, quite clear — even over the comms — that
he didn’t mind in the least, and even had a soft spot in his heart for the
nickname. “Yeah, I got what I needed. And then some. Wasn’t easy to find and I
had to pay a price, but it was worth it.”

Jazz enjoyed a ripple’s worth of goosebumps. He anticipated all sorts of good
things once back on board the Sarah-Jessica-No-Parking. A triumphant Riot made
for a feisty Riot with his blood running hot and his body all-systems-go. He
employed the same affectionate tone when he replied, “Tell that to the
watercress and unspiced kimchi I had to eat to make nice with my hostess.”

“The one you just blew up?”

“Unspiced kimchi,” Jazz repeated.

“The trials and tragedies you face, darlin’.”

“Darn right. This piece of the puzzle you went after — tell me about it,” he
coaxed.

“Later. For the moment –“

“Yes, yes. Run and keep running until you swoop in to save the day, and clear
out of here before the smoke does?”

“You read my mind,” Riot said, very dryly indeed but pleased. Almost purring.

Consider Jazz’s curiosity piqued.

“I’m on my way.” Such a tragedy, but the skirts had to go. Almost a full bolt
of silk! Still, a man had to do what a man had to do, even when he’d tricked
himself out in the finest of ladies’ clothing.

Probably more so at such times. Hmm. He’d have to think about that more later.
In the meantime, business. Beautiful, sparkly, gloriously shiny business! Jazz
retrieved the pouches of more easily liftable and valuable trinketry from the
panniers and pushed them into his reticule.

“Jazz? When I said run, that wasn’t a suggestion.”

Oh! Right. “And what’ll you be doing while I skedaddle? How will I know if I’m
being rescued by the right man?”

“I’ll be the one dangling out of an airship with a rope and a half-cocked
plan.”

“Easily recognizable,” Jazz said happily. Wait. “How long a rope? How high do
the airships go?” Wouldn’t exactly Be Done to whip off the 3-D fooler facade,
and on this steampunk aficionado’s wet dream of a world the airships he’d seen
before had to go quite high indeed –“Riot? How high?”

“High enough I’ll make it worth your while to man up and climb. And,” Riot
purred, “when I say ‘worth your while’ I mean, ‘I plan to punish you, then
fuck you three-quarters of the way through the nearest flat surface.'”

“I am so on my way now.”

“Fast?”

“Darling, you have no idea.” Jazz kicked off his heels. Not the shoes, mind,
those gorgeous soft-supple open-calf boots of fawn-soft suede. Just the heels
and pattens. “After all, who do you think you’re talking to?”

Oh dear. Jazz heard a set of mastiffs on their way. Here I go again. Skirts,
knees, running feet, check. Go time.

Fast.

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat
hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter
weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong
love of storytelling. Will’s definitely one of the quiet ones you have to
watch out for, though he — not she anymore — is a lot less quiet these days.

Will on Facebook

Will on Instagram

Will on Goodreads

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

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Date Published: 04-07-2025

Publisher: RiverPlace Press

A hairy arm, plaid flannel sleeve rolled up, extended out of the pickup window
and held high a fist with middle finger raised. A week before Christmas, at
the end of the tumultuous year 2020, I was headed for the dump. Driving where
four lane transitions to two, loud rumbling acceleration of an engine caught
my attention. There he is, up ahead of me in the right lane, a big pickup.
Speeding up, he slid in front of a small car. That’s when I spotted his
obscene gesture. What, I wondered, did that other driver do to earn that
reaction? Drawing close behind the little car, I spotted the offense. This
little old lady had made the mistake of sporting a small presidential campaign
sticker in her back window. I guessed giving her the finger was a victory for
him.

Witnessing this attack on humanity by a bearded young man in a big pickup
caused me to reflect on his place in our society and world. I thought about
the large number of bearded young men I had lately witnessed in televised
protests, a few packing assault rifles. Some, recently, shouted obscenities at
me and others for standing in silent support of Black Lives Matter. I
wondered, has this whole generation been lost? But then I recalled, my own son
is bearded and drives a noisy, old jeep, and he’s currently using his
vocational skills to put together a virtual Christmas Eve service for his
church.

That was Friday. Today, Monday, my wife and I pulled into a long line outside
Burger King. I immediately took notice of the young man ahead of us in the
row. He was driving an old pickup, paint peeling off and rusty jagged holes in
its fenders. Seeing him watching us in his mirror, I wondered if he was
another of these young ruffians.

Behind us, a brand new, red Jeep slipped into line. In my mirror I saw another
young man driving. I noted huge tires, winch, fancy mirrors, decals, all the
options. Lots of money for that one, I thought. I wonder what kind of a job he
has? I never had money to buy something like that when I was his age. I
don’t have money to buy something like that even at age 68.

A long wait; we were one car back now. The young driver in the rusty pickup
carried on an extended conversation with the window person whose hand held the
outstretched plastic tub awaiting payment. Is he hassling that poor cashier?
Finally, he put his credit card in the tub, received his food, and drove away.
Our turn. The twenty-something man in the window, masked, said, “Your
meal has already been paid for. The fellow ahead of you took care of your
bill.”

“What?”

He repeated. Bill paid. Young man in the pickup truck. $17.84.

“Well, can I pay for the people behind me?”

“Yes, if you want to.”

“Yes, please, let me pay for their bill.” His bill. I remembered;
it was the young fellow in the expensive Jeep. I handed the cashier my credit
card and he rang it up.

“How much was it?”

“Just over three bucks.”

“Well, can I pay for the next car too?”

“Sure.”

“How much is that one?”

“That one is $24.95.”

“Okay, thanks, that will be just fine.”

Bill paid. Food delivered. Credit card returned. Ready to coast away, I looked
my young fellow in the eye and offered, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas and God bless you,” he replied.

“And God bless you too,” I said to one of my new young friends at
Burger King.

Five young men just before Christmas in 2020. Pandemic, political strife,
racism. So much trouble all around. Five young men and an old guy. Maybe
there’s still hope.

Darrell J. Pedersen was raised in the 1950-60s, on a little lake in
Minnesota’s North Woods. He grew up and moved away, but his heart has
never left that place. His family, the lake, woods, and critters that embraced
his young life taught him to appreciate today and to be hopeful for tomorrow.
He learned to care for the creation and the neighbor. To leave the world a
little better place than he found it.

Since retirement, he has published his first memoir/collection of essays,
Campfire in the Basement: Reflections from a North Woods Lake. One year later,
Who Will Carry the Fire? More Reflections from a North Woods Lake is now in
your hands. Both books include real life stories of everyday people living one
day at a time in a challenging, yet amazing world. Hard work, laughter, tears,
wins and losses. He believes you will find your story here too. Darrell and
his wife, Jennifer, live in Baxter, Minnesota.

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LGBTQ+ Historical Romance, MPreg, Mystery & Suspense

Date Published: August 14, 2026

Phillip’s on the run, with not just one but two alphas on his trail.

Raised as an alpha, Phillip’s unexpected manifestation as an omega turns
his life upside down. His father demands a handfasting, insisting Phillip be
mated to whichever alpha wins the day with their pheromones. But when the
triumphant alpha turns out to be his school friend Everett, Phillip realizes
they are fated mates. However, as a diminished omega, his chances of bearing
Ev’s children are slim. Heartbroken, Phillip flees to London.

Everett never expected to be Duke of Harriford. His title brings a slew of
distasteful marriage and handfasting offers. The latest invitation for his old
friend Phillip shocks Ev into accepting. Phillip is everything he remembers
and more, and Ev soon finds himself responding to the potent scent of
Phillip’s pheromones. When his mate runs, Ev questions whether their
feelings are true, or merely the bond of alpha and omega. Despite his fears,
he’s determined to find Phillip and bring him home.

As Ev searches London, Phillip questions the wisdom of his choices. His plans
have begun to unravel rather spectacularly. To start with, he’s
pregnant, the one thing he thought he’d never be. Worse, there’s
an alpha hunting him — and it’s not Ev.

EXCERPT

Yorkshire, 1811

Lord Phillip Tyerman stared through the barred windows of his tower room at
the parade of men and women summoned by his father. All of them were
well-heeled and every one of them was looking to make a prestigious match with
the earl’s eldest son. The earl’s omega son, who was unable to
inherit either lands or title. The earl’s useless son, who wasn’t
even a full-fledged omega. Just a not-quite-beta whose first presentation had
caused no scandal, lured no lusty alphas, and could have been passed off as
little more than being in his second puberty. Not even the beta servants of
the household had realized anything was amiss. Only his youngest sister had
noticed. It had been Philomena, who was now heir to their father’s
estate at fifteen, thanks to her unexpected and early manifestation as a
dominant alpha. Lovely Phil, whose patrician nose had wrinkled as though a bad
odor had just filled the air.

“What a dreadful stink! Have the oranges gone over?”

Phillip could hear it even now, a full year hence, and it still rankled to the
point where he’d taken to wearing a strong sandalwood fragrance to avoid
smelling like rotted fruit. His father’s shocked look had likewise never
left his mind. The forbidding expression on the earl’s face had been bad
enough, but Phillip’s subsequent banishment to the tower room from the
heir-presumptive suite had cut even deeper. He had been nearly twenty-two at
the time, grown tall and strong. He was the spitting image of his father.
Everyone, even his omega mother, had assumed he’d manifest soon as an
alpha, and his delicate sister as an omega.

The tall and strong young man had become the omega, and the petite, delicate,
and winsome girl had become the alpha. God most certainly had a peculiar sense
of humor, at least insofar as the Tyerman family was concerned.

With a snort of irritation at the memory, Phillip turned his attention back to
the courtyard below, where the last equipage had rolled up to the front steps.
The livery on the carriage door proclaimed the occupant to be a member of the
Harrifords. Intrigued despite himself, Phillip opened the windowpanes and
peered through the bars, hoping for a glimpse of whomever it was that had come
from that prestigious family to gawk at the sale of the Tyermans’
awkward omega son. Of course, even if the occupant proved to be Ev Harriford,
Phillip fully intended to be well away from this house long before
arrangements could be made to pursue a match with any of these honored guests.

He sighed and turned away from the window, leaving it ajar to bring in fresh
air to a room that was stuffy even in the dead of winter. He had no fear of
his scent drawing unwelcome attention from all those alphas despite being near
his heat. His pheromones were practically indiscernible, as even in heat they
never carried much beyond his immediate person. The doors to the tower stair
were securely locked, and only his mother and his beta valet carried the keys.
He felt no qualms about allowing the room to air out while he dressed for this
ridiculous charade.

Well, said charade would come to an abrupt and hopefully embarrassing end for
his father. Phillip had a small bag packed with the most minimal necessities
safely stowed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He’d return to his rooms to
“refresh himself” when the alphas retired for brandy and banter,
and he’d make his escape then, while his father negotiated with them for
Phillip’s eventual marriage to the highest bidder.

The tiniest tremor ran along his spine. It seemed his estrus had chosen to
come in a timely manner. At least he would not have to spend several days in
isolation waiting for it to arrive so the festivities could begin in earnest.
The mere thought of said festivities sent another shiver through him, this one
of disgust.

A brisk tap sounded on the door, followed by the sound of keys in the lock and
his mother’s quiet entrance. She gave him a mildly disapproving glance
upon seeing him still in his ordinary daywear. “You should always lock
the inner door, Phillip,” she chided him. “You ought to be in your
tails by now. You have a scant half hour before dinner. Your father wishes you
to meet the guests tonight prior to the formal ceremony on Saturday.”

“Ceremony!” Phillip winced as the word came out in shocked tones.
“What ceremony?! I thought this was the usual idiotic dinner party
series so he can twist the arms of his alpha friends and convince one of them
to marry me to their offspring –”

“No, dear,” his mother interrupted with false serenity. She smiled
at him, the attempt obviously meant to soothe, yet the smile did not reach her
eyes. “The earl has decided to make this a formal handfasting ceremony,
to ensure the chosen candidate does not hand you the mitten after. So only the
most acceptable and honorable suitors were invited. If you don’t find
anyone particularly to your liking, the earl will decide who wins the right to
bond with you.”

The earl will decide. His mother’s use of his father’s title told
Phillip that Lady Winifred Tyerman did not support this extraordinary
decision. It also told Phillip that his father had chosen not to leave the
critical matter of his awkward son to chance or romantic feelings. His
thrice-damned sire would pick the person who would control Phillip for the
rest of his life. Then the true significance of his mother’s words
penetrated the fog engendered by the word “ceremony.”

“A handfasting? What on earth are you on about?” Phillip cursed
himself for the shake in his voice.

Handfasting was an ancient custom, very much out of use, as it used a bonding
bite to ensure the omega couldn’t flee with another alpha or beta. But
to do so in this day? The handfasting ceremony included a public bite, binding
the omega to the alpha forever, socially and physically, even if the alpha
chose to marry someone else. While the ceremony wasn’t precisely
outlawed, it was frowned upon as outré and generally reserved only for
omegas of wealthy families perilously close to the end of their breeding
years.

And this was to be his fate? He’d be damned first.

About the Author

Autumn grew up loving history, mythology, and all things Japanese, not
necessarily in that order. This eclectic love affair has bled over into her
writing, and her stories are always well spiced with the taste of Japan,
strange mythological beasties, or the lords and ladies of the ton. Sometimes
all three, leading to dark desires and forbidden loves.

And after all, dangerous passions should lead to uninhibited love.

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Medical Thriller

Date Published: April 22, 2026

The end of disease is the end of humanity.

Can the destruction of humanity be prevented?

At an international medical conference, infectious-disease physician Noah
Winter encounters the enigmatic Dr. Balodis—a visionary who claims to
have engineered microbes capable of regenerating human cells, ending aging,
and curing the world’s deadliest diseases.

But the miracle comes with a terrifying cost. Balodis plans to force
humanity’s evolution—and reshape the world order. Once unleashed,
the organisms mutate beyond control, spreading rapidly across the globe.

Hunted by intelligence agencies, mercenaries, and Balodis’s private
army, Noah must expose the truth before the cure becomes a global extinction
event.

Time is running out—and the cure may be humanity’s final mistake.

 

 

About the Author

Mo Kramer brings a background in medicine, communication, and psychology
to the world of suspense fiction. After publishing several nonfiction books,
Kramer makes a thriller debut with a chilling story of microbes, invisible
threats, and the dangerous illusion of human control. Combining scientific
realism with psychological suspense, this thriller keeps readers on edge while
leaving disturbing questions behind long after the final page.

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Middle-grade fantasy Adventure, fantasy

Date Published: January 6, 2026

Publisher: MindStir Media

One boy. One impossible dream. One journey that could change his world
forever.

When a mysterious force hurls young Chetanna into the home of an enigmatic old
bird, he arrives carrying an extraordinary dream: to bring peace to the wicked
and divided world around him.

Even Chetanna is unsure such peace is possible.

But when his mother tells him of a distant land of possibilities—a place
where hidden answers may be found—Chetanna finally sees a path forward.
As darkness spreads across the island he calls home, he begins a dangerous
quest armed with only a slingshot, a mysterious name whispered by his mother,
and the ancient power of the Eight.

Chetanna believes that courage, hope, and determination will be enough to
complete his mission.

He is wrong.

Halfway through the journey, betrayal changes everything. The companions he
trusted most abandon him, convinced that the quest is doomed. Left for dead
and stranded in an unforgiving wilderness, Chetanna loses nearly everything he
depended upon.

He should turn back.

He should surrender.

Instead, he holds tightly to the one thing no enemy can take from him: his
dream of creating a better world.

Driven by resilience, courage, kindness, and an unshakable belief in what
might still be possible, Chetanna presses forward. But when he finally reaches
the legendary land he has risked everything to find, a devastating truth
awaits—one powerful enough to destroy his mission and shatter everything
he believes.

The Baal of Shangisha is a lyrical middle-grade fantasy adventure filled with
mystery, ancient power, dangerous choices, unexpected betrayal, and
unforgettable lessons about hope, sacrifice, selflessness, and perseverance.

Perfect for readers who enjoy:

Blending atmospheric storytelling, African cultural echoes, and timeless
themes, O. Mez delivers a powerful debut novel for young readers who believe
that courage is not the absence of fear—but the decision to keep moving
forward.

How far would you go to save your world when everyone else has stopped
believing?

Begin Chetanna’s unforgettable journey in The Baal of Shangisha today.

 O. Mez is a Nigerian-born author whose storytelling is shaped by the rich oral
traditions, cultural rhythms, and imaginative tales that surrounded him while
growing up. Inspired by stories passed down through generations, he writes
lyrical, atmospheric fantasy that explores courage, resilience, hope, and the
quiet strength of those who dare to believe in a better world.

Now based in Colorado, Mez brings together African cultural echoes, timeless
life lessons, and immersive fantasy adventure to create meaningful stories for
young readers. His debut middle-grade fantasy novel, The Baal of Shangisha,
follows a young hero on a dangerous quest filled with mystery, betrayal,
ancient power, and the unshakable determination to change his world.

Through his writing, Mez hopes to encourage children to embrace kindness,
perseverance, selflessness, and the belief that even the smallest voice can
make a lasting difference.

When he is not writing, he enjoys watching football, spending time with his
wife and daughters, and reading stories about forgotten lands, brave souls,
and extraordinary journeys.

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