Historical Fiction

Date Published: 09-23-2026

Publisher: Echoes Publishing

At the turn of the century, twenty-three-year-old Paul Tietjens is a gifted
classical pianist with dreams of greatness and a non-refundable ticket to
Europe to study with the master composers of his time.

But when the bank calls in the debt on his family’s Missouri farm, Paul
forgoes his dream to save them from financial ruin. Desperate to find a new
road to success, he moves to up-and-coming Chicago, where he persuades author
L. Frank Baum to collaborate on a comic opera of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,
setting the stage for the defining cultural touchstone that we know today.

Paul embarks on his opera with high hopes, but scandal threatens his soaring
ambition when he falls in love with his best friend’s beautiful but
married sister, and his fears grow as the Wizard of Oz demands not only his
talent but his soul.

Inspired by Paul’s 1901 diary, The Lark follows Paul as he journeys from
the theaters of Chicago to the streets of Manhattan, from his family’s
Missouri farm to the beaches of Michigan, fighting to hang onto the chance of
a lifetime, his integrity, and the woman he loves.

From Chapter 27 of The Lark by Laura C. Rader

After lunch, I sat at the parlor piano and ran through some of the songs
for The Wizard of Oz, replaying each moment with Katherine in my mind as my
fingers played the keys. She sat nearby, silently reading Persuasion, our
glances meeting now and again as Daisy played with Lina and Vita in between
sorting through the boarding house accounts. I mulled over the sanctity of
marriage, the frailties of the heart, and the ominous predictions of the palm
reader. My fate was surely sealed, and I only prayed I hadn’t somehow
thrown Katherine’s completely off course.

In addition to The Lark, Laura C. Rader is the award-winning author of the
historical novel Hatfield 1677, based on the lives of her ancestors in
Hatfield, Massachusetts, in the seventeenth century.

When she isn’t writing, you can find her researching history for her
books and her family tree and spending time with family, friends, and pets.

A native of southern California, she now lives north of Raleigh, North
Carolina.

Please go to http://www.lcrwriter.com for more info on her books or to subscribe to
her newsletter.

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(Hades Abyss MC 15)

Date Published: September 25, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

Katy — Running was supposed to keep my daughter safe. Instead, it left us
stranded with a broken SUV and nowhere to go. Then Dread pulled up. He’s
gruff, stubborn, and impossible to push away. Every day I spend behind the
gates of Hades Abyss makes it harder to remember why I should leave. Ellie
finally feels safe, and my heart is starting to believe we might have found a
home.

But the man I escaped isn’t finished with me. If he comes for us, I know
he’ll discover the worst mistake of his life was threatening the woman
Dread has claimed as his own.

Katy

The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling
in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash. No shade.
No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the
thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted
at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the
stones.

I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and
awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base
wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted
whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.

My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench. The nuts were torqued down by some
mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway
vibration had fused them to the studs. Either way, the wrench handle grew
slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like
it had been oiled. I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried
again. The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed. I
adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it. My arms shook. Not
the fine tremor of fatigue — a deep, structural quiver that started in my
shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists. Shaking that meant my
body was running out of things to burn.

Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the
SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her
shins. Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in
damp curls against her neck. She watched me with a small, tight frown that
didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.

“Are we going to be late?” she asked.

“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.

“Does it hurt your hands?”

“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Not long. Almost done.”

Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured
calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me. The heat
was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting — a slow, nauseating roll
through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over. I planted my
feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.

I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching
and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air. The second
came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades
and along my spine. The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy
against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.

The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was
at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something
give — not the nut, but the jack. It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal
on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch. I jerked back, heart hammering,
and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself. The metal
burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I
could feel besides the heat and the fear.

Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful — the tone she
used when she was scared but trying not to show it.

“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost
done.”

I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting. I crouched beside it,
my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow
trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm. The metal was hot enough to
raise a blister. I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I
wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my
forehead.

Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage,
wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled. My shoulders screamed. The
nut turned — a quarter inch, then nothing. I repositioned, pulled again.
Another quarter. The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more
than the last.

The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly
catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and
stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked
and nothing changed.

One nut left. The last one.

I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had
into the turn. My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade — a hard,
sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s
brightness. The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped
into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas.
Breathe. Just breathe.

Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in
my ears.

“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out
strained and hollow. “One second.”

The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water
draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then
pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like
they’d been filled with wet sand.

The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare
lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with
fine dust.

Almost done.

I wasn’t almost done.

* * *

The sound reached me before I saw the source — gravel crunching under wide
tires, a slow, deliberate roll that didn’t belong to a highway-speed
vehicle. I turned, wrench still clutched in my right hand, and watched a
weathered gray pickup ease onto the shoulder behind my SUV.

The engine cut. A door opened.

The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall — though he was that, well
over six feet — but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that
suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym.
Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that
had seen actual use. And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches
I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across
the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.

I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up — one step sideways,
placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The
wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.

He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing. Hands at his sides, visible,
relaxed. His eyes — steel blue, I registered distantly — moved over me in a
single pass that felt nothing like being looked at. Precise. Evaluating.
Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my
stance I couldn’t hide anymore. Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same
evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less
thorough.

“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in
it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”

I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.

“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He
didn’t phrase it as a question. Didn’t soften it with a please or
cushion it with reassurance. He turned, walked to his passenger door, and
pulled it open. Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint
smell of leather and clean air underneath. The vents were already running,
aimed at the seat.

I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around
it.

He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to
reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame,
and waited. The patience in him carried its own force — steady, unhurried,
taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.

A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision
pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made
the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my
free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”

She slid off the running board and took my hand. Her fingers were small and
hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on
some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there. The cold hit us
in layers — first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made
the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy. Ellie made a small sound, almost a
whimper, and pressed against my side.

Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He
didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing
himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough
to reach, far enough to leave space.

He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse
point. His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow,
then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch
lasted three seconds, maybe four.

“How long have you been out here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”

“When did you last have water?” he asked.

“This morning. In the car.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Lightheaded?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk
back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not
scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that
hadn’t decided about him yet.

“What’s your name?” he asked her. His voice dropped, not to
the singsong adults use with children, but quieter. More contained.

“Ellie,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Hi, Ellie. I’m Shay. Does your tummy feel okay?”

She thought about it. Nodded.

“Head hurt?”

Small shake.

“Throat dry?”

Nod.

He reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. Not cold
— room temperature, the sort that had been sitting in a vehicle for a while
— but he twisted off the cap and handed it to her without offering it to me
first. Smart. She took two careful sips, then passed it to me. I drank. The
water tasted like plastic and salvation.

Dread watched us both, his gaze moving between my face and Ellie’s with
the same measured attention. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back,
recapped it, and set it in the cup holder.

“Stay here,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t get out
until I come back.”

He closed the door. Through the windshield, I watched him walk to my SUV,
crouch beside the jack and pick up the lug wrench I’d left lying in the
dirt. He examined it for half a second, then set to work.

Ellie’s hand found mine under the edge of the seat. Her fingers were
cool now, the heat leaching out of them in the blast of AC. I squeezed once,
gently, and didn’t let go.

* * *

I watched him through the windshield. Dread moved with the ease of someone
who’d done something ten thousand times and stopped counting — each
motion flowing into the next without hesitation or wasted effort. He
positioned the jack with two adjustments, tested the base with his boot, and
nodded once to himself. He closed his hand around my lug wrench, the same one
that had nearly broken me, and started in with easy, practiced turns.

The first nut came loose in his hand like it had been waiting for permission.
He set it on the hub cap, and glanced at the other four, already in a neat row
where I’d left them — the only things I’d managed before my grip
gave out. No straining on his end. No throwing his weight into it. Just the
smooth turn of a wrench in capable hands, one clean rotation, and he lifted
the flat tire away as if it weighed nothing.

Ellie pressed against my side, her shoulder tucked under my arm, both of us
slowly cooling off in the blast of AC. The cold had stopped feeling like a
shock and started feeling like a state my body remembered — a baseline it had
forgotten existed. My shirt was still damp, but the fabric had gone from
soaked to merely clammy, and the trembling in my arms had subsided to a faint,
background hum I could almost ignore.

Dread rolled the spare into position, lined up the holes, and lifted. The tire
settled onto the studs with a solid thunk. He replaced the lug nuts by hand
first, tightening each one finger-tight in a star pattern, then reached for
the wrench. Five rotations per nut, same star pattern, each turn measured and
even. No guesswork. No testing. He knew exactly how tight they needed to be.

When the last nut was set, he lowered the jack in a smooth, controlled drop.
The SUV dropped onto its new tire with a creak of suspension. Done. From blown
flat to roadworthy in less time than it had taken me to loosen two nuts.

But he didn’t straighten up and wave us over. Didn’t dust his
hands and head back to the truck. He crouched beside the rear wheel well
instead, one hand braced against the quarter panel, and ran his other palm
along the hub behind the new spare. His fingers traced a flaw I couldn’t
see from inside the cab. He went still. Not the pause of a man thinking — the
complete, motionless freeze of someone who has found exactly what they were
looking for, and it wasn’t good.

He stood, wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his truck bed, and walked back
to the passenger window. I rolled it down. The heat rushed in, a wall of wet
air that made the cold from the vents feel suddenly artificial.

“Wheel bearing’s shot,” he said. No lead-in. No cushion. His
expression hadn’t changed — same level gaze, same measured delivery —
but the words landed like stones. “You’ve got a spare on, but this
vehicle isn’t safe to drive. Another mile, maybe less, and you’ll
lose that wheel entirely.”

I felt my jaw tighten. The muscles along the back of my neck locked.
“How bad?”

“Not a roadside fix. Needs a shop. New bearing, possibly a new hub
assembly depending on how long it’s been failing.” He paused,
giving me time to absorb it, then continued in the same flat tone.
“Driving it risks more than a second flat. At speed, a wheel separation
could roll the vehicle.”

I looked at Ellie. She was watching me, not him, her gaze tracking the minute
shifts in my expression with the hypervigilance of a child who’s learned
to read the weather in her mother’s face. I smoothed my features by
force. Smiled at her — or tried to. My mouth felt stiff with it.

Then I looked back at Dread.

The SUV sat twenty feet away, rear end now level on its spare tire, looking
deceptively whole. Everything we owned was packed inside it. Clothes in trash
bags and suitcases. Ellie’s stuffed animals in a pillowcase. My laptop
and the external drive with five years of tax records and every photo
I’d ever taken of her. The box of granola bars and bottled waters
I’d stockpiled for the drive. The map folded in the glove box with three
possible destinations circled in pen, none of them committed to, because
commitment meant permanence and permanence meant he could find us.

Now the vehicle itself had become the threat. The thing I’d trusted to
carry us away was falling apart underneath us, and the man telling me so stood
at my window with the patience of someone who delivered bad news for a living
and had long since stopped being surprised by how people took it.

My hands went still in my lap. Fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing against
each other. A pose I’d held in hospital waiting rooms and police
stations and the driver’s seat of a different car five years ago,
watching the rearview mirror for headlights that didn’t belong.

Ellie leaned against me. Her body was slight, barely there, but having her
against me quieted some of the panic. She tipped her head back and looked up
at me, her blue-gray eyes clear and untroubled by anything except the question
forming on her lips.

“What happens now?” she asked.

The air conditioning hummed. Dread waited at the window, hands resting on the
frame, his expression giving away nothing. Beyond the glass, the highway
stretched empty in both directions, heat rippling off the blacktop in waves
that made the horizon waver and dissolve.

I didn’t have an answer.

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
don’t forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and
other exciting perks.

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

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

Pre-Order Today

How to Stop Scrolling Through Your Life and Start Living It

 You’re not broken. You’re overstimulated.

They sat on
the beach with their backs to the ocean, faces in their phones, watching clips
of someone else’s vacation. As Heather Henderson stood a few feet away,
ready to capture the perfect Cabo moment, she realized we were promised more:
more connection, more freedom, more possibility — not a life spent
refreshing feeds.

Handed devices before we were taught how to live with
them, most of us inherited this algorithmic world. We learned to let
notifications and endless recommendations choose for us in small, quiet ways,
until the choices no longer felt like choices at all, and we found ourselves
scrolling through life instead of living it.

The problem goes beyond
casual screen time. It is unconscious time — the moments we surrender
without realizing the cost.

Drawing from her years inside major tech
companies, including Google and Uber, Heather Henderson invites readers to
ask:

Did I choose this, or was it chosen for me?

If you feel wired
but tired, connected but lonely, or busy but empty, this book is an honest
look at how we lost presence — and a guide to reclaim it.

 

Contact Link

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Spiritual, Meditation

Date Published: September 22, 2026

Publisher: Serapis Bey Publishing

Experience a transformative journey of resonance. Pairing 99 activation cards
with eight hours of unique vocal soundscapes, this book guides you to remember
your innate truth. Discover the power of sound to restore balance, align with
the Earth’s natural frequency, and return to a state of wholeness,
truth, and love. Immerse yourself in these galactic keys and awaken the voice
within your soul.

 

About the Author

Carmen Belle White is a visionary composer and artist who crafts unique,
otherworldly soundscapes designed to transport listeners to realms of
awakening. By weaving her voice with over eight hours of original, recorded
vocal sound activations—each approximately four-and-a-half minutes in
length—she guides her audience into spaces of deep remembrance. Her work
serves as a bridge, translating the vast, timeless frequencies of the universe
into healing resonances for the human soul.

A Book of Cosmic Frequencies: The Galactic Sound Keys is the culmination of
this transformative project. Designed to be experienced alongside a set of 99
cosmic activation cards, this book provides a profound way to articulate the
sense that when we become “nothing,” we become everything. Each of the 99
cards is paired with a specific vocal sound activation, exploring a vast
spectrum of cosmic themes—from anchoring grounding Earth-based
frequencies to traversing ethereal, celestial realms. Through this journey,
Carmen integrates the interplay of voice and sound within each frequency,
inviting you to engage with these powerful keys to discover your own unique
resonance and inner potential.

Carmen’s unique relationship with sound stems from childhood experiences
that heightened her sensitivity to high-pitched frequencies. This allowed her
to “tune in” to the Earth’s natural hum—a constant, grounding
surround sound that defines her music. This deep connection to resonance has
taken her across the globe, from the sacred waters of Southern France to the
recording of her debut album, forever seeking locations that hold ancient,
sacred memories.

Today, Carmen offers this extensive body of work as a practical tool for your
own journey. She invites you to explore these sound activations, starting with
the card corresponding to your date of birth, to uncover your innate truth.
Her mission is to help us remember our own voices, restore balance with the
Earth, and return to a state of wholeness, truth, and love.

We are all waking up to a resonance that requires no words—only the
willingness to listen. To explore the full collection of sound activations and
resources, please visit the author’s website.

 

Contact Links

Galactic Sound Keys Website

Carmen Belle White Website

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Date Published: 05-23-2025

Publisher: Holy Cow! Press

In this memoir, Stephanie Mirocha weaves a blend of botany, philosophy,
personal reflections, and healing through nature from grief after the loss of
her father. Trees provide the backdrop of friendly support she clings to as
she revives her father’s educational Tree Trek. She “speaks for the trees,”
bringing enthusiasm to the treks she leads. Each chapter focuses on the
science of a different tree, connecting the reader with the beauty of nature,
and the vitality that comes from listening to the guiding wisdom of one’s
inner voice.

Excerpt

I’d known all along my dad was volunteering for tree projects in the park, starting with invasive buckthorn shrub removal. My daughter had told me about Grandpa’s tree tags. For 15 years, I might have randomly come across one or two tagged trees on my exercise walks, probably telling my dad how much I liked what he was doing. Beyond that, I didn’t look for more information or even think about it. My work took me away on weekends, and Tree Trek was only one Saturday a year. A favorite photo my mom gave me years earlier I knew perfectly well was a Tree Trek promo taken for the neighborhood newspaper. Yet, never before had I noticed that in it, he’s wearing a pair of binoculars around his neck! In fact, I ended up using that photo for his memorial service, creating a birch bark frame to surround it. How many people are like me, needing big arrows under a spotlight before they take notice? Understandably, we’re distractedly putting energy and effort into making a living. Our focus is directed elsewhere as parents. Sometimes we’re just not paying attention.

When I started paying attention, the whole picture swung into a full and complete view. My perspective shifted. Things no longer lined up within me the way I was accustomed, and as a consequence a new picture presented itself. My heart led me to realize that I very much wanted to pick up my dad’s legacy and continue where he had left off. Like Douglas-fir, you could say I needed to place myself in a new genus, a genus I never imagined existing in previously. I no longer, however, fit in the former one. Being here now feels familiar and safe, like home. It makes me feel connected and alive. There is no going back!

Each one of us evolves as we go through the many ups and downs of life. Even in the midst of grief and loss, opportunities present themselves for listening, paying attention, taking notice and following where your own arising inner wisdom leads. As we unlock from the inside and nurture what we find there, a new purpose can reveal itself allowing us to share latent gifts we each possess within us. We may even emerge significantly changed.

The winter after my dad died, upon getting the go-ahead from the park district to revive Tree Trek, I waited for spring to arrive and the snow to melt. Then, I walked my dad’s original route using his initial map to locate trees while planning for my own, first Tree Trek. I was so excited! The Douglas-fir from my dad’s photo was the first tree I looked for when planning my route. The probability was high that it would prove to be one of his tagged trees. Great anticipation of confirming this filled me as I crested the brick stairway of the park memorial that rests nearby Douglas-fir’s hill. That monument was familiar, but then I stepped beyond into an area of the park where I had never set foot before.

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Date Published: 09-15-2026

Publisher: Oculus Print

ZOMBIE ZOO is Book 1 in a five-book middle grade adventure series for readers
ages 8-13, blending paranormal mystery, zombies, unlikely friendship, and
STEAM-powered problem-solving.

To find a cure, Felix must team up with Ninja, a shadow-dwelling orphan who
trusts her instincts and never backs down. Intense and razor-sharp, she
notices what others overlook and lives up to her name as the island’s most
mysterious sleuth. With their eccentric mentor Doc Brunne compromised and the
town’s water supply contaminated by a glowing bioluminescent substance, the
two mismatched investigators must combine scientific observation with sharp
intuition to stop the outbreak before their island home is devoured.

Featuring diverse protagonists, quirky humor, spooky-but-fun scares, and
strong female and male leads. ZOMBIE ZOO is ideal for reluctant readers and
fans of Max Brallier’s The Last Kids on Earth, B.B. Alston’s Amari and the
Night Brothers, and Goosebumps. Comprehensive educator resources-including
discussion guides, vocabulary lists, STEAM extension activities, and printable
maps-support classroom use, library programming, book clubs, and make this
title ideal for cross-curricular lessons bridging ELA, STEAM, and SEL.

About the Author

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https://mybook.to/ZombieZoo

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