 EXCERPT FROM ELLA |
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| the_last_ride.pdf |
PURCHASE THE ELLA NOVEL
Ella
$15.00
$10.00
Meet Ella Thomas.
A beautiful 20-year-old writer haunted by a traumatic past. Trapped in a small-town where everyone knows her secrets, she flees on a road-trip across America in search of adventure and to find the man that holds the key to understanding the violent days of her childhood.
Two mysterious men stalk Ella on the odyssey from Massachusetts to Las Vegas - an FBI agent named Marcus that suspects her of being a serial killer and an assassin called Mr. Brown with a familiar face she can't quite remember.
At the core of her journey of self-discovery is the search for Ray Holden. Everyone tells her he is dead, but she refuses to believe it and her insistence on finding him sets off a chain of events that culminates in a shocking final turn.
Follow her journey to learn the answers to the burning questions. Who is Ray Holden? And more importantly...
Is the FBI correct? Is Ella Thomas a serial killer?
One reader described Ella as "Dexter meets Lolita". Read this fast-paced thriller to discover the truth about Ella Thomas.
The Harmonica Tree - The Completely Rebuilt from Scratch Paperback and Ebook Now Available
1/28/2020
MORAN PRESS PRESENTS
THE HARMONICA TREE
BY L. M. BRYSKI
COMPLETELY REBUILT FROM SCRATCH
Moran Press is pleased to announce that the completely rebuilt from scratch paperback and kindle editions of The Harmonica Tree are now available at Amazon and Moran Press.
The original edition of the paperback didn't print as expected and after several failed attempts to fix, L. M. Bryski and I decided on a complete rebuild of the book. We spend a lot of hours going page by page applying fixes to ensure the second edition prints satisfactorily.
I'm proud of the work L. M. Bryski and I did to rebuilt this book and I'm happy that *finally* readers are able to enjoy this wonderful and charming kid's book.
Moran Press presents, The Harmonica Tree.
Winnifred loves playing the harmonica! But her parents want peace and quiet. The neighbors are covering their ears. Even the birds fly away! Can Winnifred help everyone get along without hitting a sour note?
Click the cover image to purchase a paperback edition at Moran Press or
The original edition of the paperback didn't print as expected and after several failed attempts to fix, L. M. Bryski and I decided on a complete rebuild of the book. We spend a lot of hours going page by page applying fixes to ensure the second edition prints satisfactorily.
I'm proud of the work L. M. Bryski and I did to rebuilt this book and I'm happy that *finally* readers are able to enjoy this wonderful and charming kid's book.
Moran Press presents, The Harmonica Tree.
Winnifred loves playing the harmonica! But her parents want peace and quiet. The neighbors are covering their ears. Even the birds fly away! Can Winnifred help everyone get along without hitting a sour note?
Click the cover image to purchase a paperback edition at Moran Press or
CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE AT AMAZON
The Harmonica Tree
$10.00
THE HARMONICA TREE by L. M. Bryski
A kid's book intended for ages 0-10 years old
Winnifred loves playing the harmonica! But her parents want peace and quiet. The neighbors are covering their ears. Even the birds fly away! Can Winnifred help everyone get along without hitting a sour note?
COFFEE, WITH VASECTOMY
AN ELLA FICTION
Rain pelts the windows of the coffee shop, a constant drumming sound that distracts me. I've been sitting here most of the morning, trapped in my anger and unable to write so much as a line of my story. Recent news floods my mind and I can't concentrate.
Alabama bans women's rights.
It's hard to think of anything else with this fucking newspaper staring at me, taunting me. I close my eyes and attempt to force my brain back to the story.
White men in Alabama cancel women's rights.
I need more coffee to deal with this hell. I open my eyes and notice a young man staring at me. No.
"What are you writing?" He flips a mass of blond hair away from pale blue eyes.
"Not today."
He lets out a low whistle. "Why you have to be like that? Is it that time of the month?"
Pushing my chair back enough to stand, I walk past him towards the counter. I know he's following me, close enough I can smell his cheap pine scented aftershave. Sigh. I glance at him over my shoulder.
"I know what you want and I'm telling you no. I can't be clearer with you. No. I came here to write, not to get dick."
He lifts palms into the air as if surrendering to police and takes a step back from me. "It's like a sin nowadays if a man talks to a woman in public. It's too bad, you sound bitter and angry. You could use some dick in your life."
"Next," the barista says, and I step to the front of the line.
I'm trying to breathe, trying to calm the rage. Don't stab him in the coffee shop. Don't stab him in the coffee shop. I order my drink and step to the side, waiting and counting in my mind.
"I'll make you forget your own name," he whispers in my ear.
The barista places my coffee on the counter. "Is he bothering you?"
I shake my head and return to my table with coffee. The blond boy follows like a puppy and sits without an invitation. He grabs the newspaper and scans the headlines.
"I support this. It's about time they stopped women from killing babies."
No. Just no no no. I close my notebook and stuff it inside my backpack. "Men are all talk. Are you ready right now, right this minute?"
He smiles and nods. I sling the backpack over my shoulder and walk towards the door. Without turning, I say, "Are you coming or not?"
He follows me to the car and jumps into the passenger's seat of my Firebird, slamming the door shut to escape the rain. "Cool fucking car. I can't believe the hottest chick in town drives a sports car."
"You'd be surprised at the things women like if you just listen. Some of us even like to fuck." I gun the accelerator and the tires squeal as I turn onto RT 16. His eyes are on me and I wonder what’s going on in that pea sized brain.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere private." I turn off the main road towards one of the public dams. "Nobody comes out here on rainy days, I can tell you that much."
I park and stomp the emergency brake into place. The rain increases in intensity and I wait, but the boy remains silent and staring. Another one that needs fucking training wheel help.
"Well, I'm waiting for you to make me forget my name. When's that gonna start."
"Ahh..." he stammers and tries pawing at my chest.
I sigh and motion for him to get into the back seat. "And take off all your clothes."
He does as I command with haste and in moments is naked on his back, knees bent trying to fit his tall body in the confines of my car. A rather mediocre cock salutes me and again I sigh before joining him.
'This isn't going to make me forget anything." I open my backpack and remove the items I require. I tie a rubber band around the base of his testicles, smiling when he yelps in pain.
"What are you doing?" he asks as I blindfold him.
"Do I have to explain everything? Are you a virgin?" I stroke him with my hands and wait for him to answer. He tries to respond, but only manages to shake his head in the negative. Men. "Well, did you bring a condom?"
"No, aren't you on the pill?"
A wave of anger passes over me and I squeeze until he screams. "Are you kidding? You're against abortion and don't have a condom?"
Grunting noises escape his lips as I continue to pull and twist his cock. Sweat forms on his temples and he grips the seat, knuckles turning white from the effort. I finally release him and smile when he groans in relief.
"Looks like I have to take care of everything."
I retrieve my knife and place the blade flat against his testicles.
"That's cold. Is it ice? You're a dirty..." he says, but I don't let him finish. I can't listen to another word escape his ignorant mouth.
I slice through his testicles with one quick cut, laughing as blood gushes from the gaping wound. Screams of agony and the stench of fear tickles my black heart. I smile as he thrashes in pain.
He presses both hands against the wound to stop the blood flow, but it's futile. Blood spurts through his fingers, his screams getting weaker as his life splashes onto the seats.
Leaning towards him, I press my lips against his ear.
"You shouldn't have worn that shirt. You were asking for it."
If you enjoyed this Ella fiction, buy the novel! ELLA, the #serialkiller of Uxbridge, Ma. Coffee, with Vasectomy is also available via free PDF download - yours FREE.
| coffee_with_vasectomy.pdf |
STORIES FOR THE MAD
RELEASE WEEKEND SALE
The wait is finally over, Stories for the Mad - Volume One, the debut fiction anthology from Moran Press is ready for orders! An official post will drop Sunday afternoon with all the details, but you can order a copy of STORIES FOR THE MAD now in the Moran Press store. Click HERE.
To celebrate the release, eight Moran Press titles are on sale in Ebook for 99 cents and many of the paperbacks are heavily discounted as well.
TITLES AVAILABLE FOR 99 CENTS ON KINDLE
ELLA
BLOOD CHILL
CRUMBLING UTOPIAN PIPEDREAM
BONDAGE NIGHT
CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
SERVER
MEMOIRS IN FRAGMENTS
LOVE AND QUARTERS
ELLA
BLOOD CHILL
CRUMBLING UTOPIAN PIPEDREAM
BONDAGE NIGHT
CLOUDY DAYS, STILL NIGHTS
SERVER
MEMOIRS IN FRAGMENTS
LOVE AND QUARTERS
And the reason for the season. Release weekend for Stories for the Mad. Get a paperback copy for $15 SHIPPING INCLUDED to a US Address. Each purchase gets a FREE homemade chapbook OR FREE EBOOK of choice added to the order.
STORIES FOR THE MAD
THE DEBUT FICTION ANTHOLOGY
FROM MORAN PRESS
FICTION
IAN'S VIKING FUNERAL DREAMS
BY GABRIEL RICARD
Ian sat up, head screaming like a history of haunted house movies, confirmed that he was indeed inside a boat, and felt briefly pleased that his guess from a few minutes ago had turned out to be true. Waking up from a dream often meant a shaky transition into reality, which also meant having to accept that reality wasn’t what it was cracking up to be moments earlier. Sometimes, that was a shame.
He thought about this for a second, which ushered him towards realizing that he was inside a fucking boat. “And it’s on fire.” He said this to see how the words would feel in the open air. The hangover was immediate. A migraine was cramming an entire Black Flag concert into his skull, and the line to get into the broom closet venue was trailing around the block that made up his neck and spine.
He was pretty sure a small piece of vomit was stuck in his teeth. Saying again out loud that the boat was on fire gave him the energy he needed to quite possibly ruin his body by getting up. It wasn’t the most realistic plan of all time. The migraine didn’t need the strength of ten urban legend lumberjacks to knock him into what turned out to be shallow water.
A functional section of his brain told him this was probably the lake behind Michele’s grandparents’ rarely-used summer home. Swallowing too much water brought on some heaves, but his stomach had nothing to offer in the way of sacrifice.
Someone screamed what the fuck, and he realized after a moment that it was him.
“Shit, guys.”
That sounded like Campbell.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
And that sounded like Anna.
“Is someone gonna help him?”
Campbell again.
“Eh, he’s got it.”
That sounded like Dominique, probably lighting a cigarette as she spoke, for effect. He finally turned around to confirm all of those suspicions. Everyone else looked uncomfortable with the idea of expressing themselves. They had not foreseen this development. “What the fuck,” he continued spitting out drops of water, “What the fuck?” His Frankenstein Monster legs carried him the few feet he needed to travel to get to dry land. That was all they were going to do for him. “What the shit?”
“Well,” Casper started, “We thought you were dead.”
He remained on his knees. Everyone was just shy of arms reach, and no one made an effort to change that. The pieces of last night, of the entire weekend, were not only pieces of the smallest, most useless quality. They may as well have been travel videos from eons ago. “What does that even mean?”
“It was a Viking funeral,” Dominique replied, almost in the form of a question.
There was no reason why this had to qualify as a mystery. He thought about getting up, but the early morning oxygen was somehow cleaner, more medicinal, when it was closer to the ground. Maybe it was the light fog, or the way it kept him away from Dominique’s cigarette. “I don’t,” his gag reflex jerked the words away, and he looked up. “I don’t understand what that means.”
“You’re always saying how you want a Viking funeral.”
For the five years in which he had known him, Campbell had always liked to tell people outside of their social circle that he was the voice of reason for said social circle. “I have never, never, ever, never,” he coughed, “Ever said that.”
“You’ve been saying that for years,” Campbell retorted.
To be fair, it was possible. Their routine habits formed routine evenings, and those were numbering in the four-figure range at this point. “You set the boat on fire…” He realized he had not completely caught up with reality yet. Those words could have been used to describe the plot of a movie, and they would have sounded exactly the same.
Bill coughed, looking back at the house several times. “It seemed easier than calling the cops.”
“Why would you call the cops?” Good. Whole sentences.
“You drank half a bottle of Everclear,” Anna explained, in a tone that was trying to break the tension with understanding and low volumes.
“And we’re twenty miles from anything,” Casper reminded him, “Let alone a hospital.”
“Viking funeral just seemed like the easiest way to go,” Campbell said.
“It didn’t occur to you…” It was a perilous call to make, but his knees couldn’t take digging into the small rocks and twigs that made up the landscape. He shifted his body to put the balance of his universe on knee. He couldn’t choose between the various things they could have done instead. “What about a shower?” Anna of all people helped him finish the journey to becoming upright. She held onto him. “Doesn’t anybody,” he stopped to let heavy breathing do what it could, “Induce vomiting anymore?”
Dominique dropped and stomped out her cigarette. “We’re still kind of drunk,” she reasoned. “And well…”
“We kind of felt bad about your birthday last month.”
The last two or three minutes had been spent trying to create a memory of this latest reenactment of the first weekend they had ever gotten together, the one that had put them close to bragging rights with immortality. The half-clear images he could pull from this weekend needed to keep their shape for more than a minute, and also be capable of standing up to scrutiny. So far, nothing. He couldn’t even remember things like his birthday last month. Everything was severe and violent enough to feel like it was all happening for the very first time. Thirteen years old, hanging out with that kid, what was his name, he had kept plastic sheets under the bed. “I see,” he finally said, taking Anna’s hands away from him. Now or never.
“You’ve been so depressed the last few months,” Carly added, finally finding the courage to speak. “What with the last seven years of your life culminating in what you realized was complete failure at everything you’ve ever hoped to achieve.”
The temples continued to try to push whatever was trying to massacre his brain right through the actual skull. “I wouldn’t go that far…” But at least it was a little easier to breath. His hands dug through his pockets for cigarettes, ibuprofen, or the miracle of both.
“You said it like seven times yesterday morning.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t seven, Carly.” he replied, dimly wondering if they were getting too far off topic. After barely swallowing seven ibuprofens, he lit a cigarette. It was then he realized he didn’t have shoes or socks.
“It was seven,” confirmed Dominique.
“We were just trying to help,” Anna said.
“It was just kind of a why-not-kill-two-birds-with-one-stone thing that no one wanted to drive you to the hospital.”
“And I mean, your birthday,” Casper started, “All we did was take mushrooms and go to Six Flags.”
“Which we were gonna do anyway,” Campbell said. “And we just kinda felt bad about that.”
“And it’s not like your life is going to get any better,” Casper continued.
“Boom,” Dominique said, holding up her hands, “Viking funeral.”
He suddenly remembered a conversation with Kieran from a month ago. Condescending was his natural language, the natural language of older siblings, and he had always felt that people who kept anything or anyone around for more than five years was clinging to the past. Ian couldn’t wait for Kieran’s fifth wedding anniversary, which was less than a year away. “I don’t get it,” he said, trying to claw his way back into the present. “I don’t understand.”
Campbell and Casper both came forward, but Campbell was the one who put an arm around him. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get inside, have a beer and some of those toquitos, and we’ll try to explain everything again.”
Ian let Campbell move him along. Each step meant crushing twigs and small rocks under his feet. It wasn’t something he could ever see himself getting used to.
“We’re glad you’re alive,” Anna told him.
“History’s important,” Dominique concurred.
Kieran didn’t have a very high opinion of these people. Ian had made the mistake of asking him about things like ruts and the value of consistency in a friendship. The argument that quickly took over the conversation focused a lot of its time and energy on the shitty people who were making it easy to make it to 30, and have nothing to show for it. Ian could remember now that he had argued that they were still his friends, that history was important, and that he was a long ways off from 30 anyway. Kieran dismissed those reasons, and then apologized later without actually saying anything that someone would normally include in an apology.
Campbell sat him down on a stool at the kitchen’s island. He brought him a beer and a plate of toquitos a moment later. Anna sat at the stool next to him, and everyone broke off into watching TV, dicking around with their phones, or fixing drinks. Dominique announced she was going to bed, and disappeared up the stairs.
He could remember the drive up here now. Sitting in the back, listening to Anna and Dominique argue about whether or not Casper was doing coke again. His headphones had stopped working again, so their banter was the only thing available to pass the long drive, deeper and deeper into the kind of middle of nowhere that some people were spiritual about. The house was located in a small gated community, and the best part about the long drive over was how the trees became bigger, older, more frightening in the arrangement of their branches. And the longer the drive went on, the more of them there were.
He could remember thinking about that when they were heading up this way, as he always did, but almost everything after that was still a stack of shredded abstract paintings. No point, he thought, washing down a toquitos with a small sip of beer, about half of the original migraine gone, in getting frustrated. Nothing was going to change for now. It was best to just stay calm and feel better.
Casper wondered aloud how many more days they were going to stick around.
Campbell wanted to put in a couple more days, but he added that he wanted to wait until Dominique got up from her nap. Then they would put it to a vote.
I hope you enjoyed the fiction. Get books by Gabriel Ricard. Bondage Night, a romance that dares to tell the whole sordid truth about happily ever after, and Love and Quarters, because the world is a badly run 1890's-style asylum, but at least there's a lot of good stuff on TV.
Bondage Night
$15.00
$10.00
A savage, unreasonable love story for savage, unreasonable times.
Bondage Night chronicles the vicious climax of a chaotic, intense, compulsion-driven love affair between two unhappy, delusional people.
Gabriel Ricard's debut novel shows what brought them together in the first place.
Then comes the surreal, exhausted aftermath.
Through it all, the protagonists persevere.
But by the time it finally ends, Leo and Laura may never be the same.
*Bondage Night will be available on Valentine's Day and will ship a few days after that.
AMAZON PAGE
Bondage Night chronicles the vicious climax of a chaotic, intense, compulsion-driven love affair between two unhappy, delusional people.
Gabriel Ricard's debut novel shows what brought them together in the first place.
Then comes the surreal, exhausted aftermath.
Through it all, the protagonists persevere.
But by the time it finally ends, Leo and Laura may never be the same.
*Bondage Night will be available on Valentine's Day and will ship a few days after that.
AMAZON PAGE
Love and Quarters
$15.00
$10.00
Gabriel Ricard’s 2nd poetry book is about coming to terms with the good, the bad, and the reliably hideous. The world is a badly run 1890s-style asylum, but at least there’s a lot of good stuff on TV. Love and Quarters goes deep into love, depression, high adventures in the great outdoors, and whatever the hell else may happen while in transit.
Art/Coloring Page for Homemade Chapbook
Proceeds to Benefit Mom's Demand Action
Gun violence is front and center in the news with recent tragedies in El Paso, TX and Dayton, OH
Moran Press joins with the vast majority of Americans asking for representatives to take action and pass sensible gun control. Enough is enough.
The artist, Anne Segal (creator of the Cloudy Days, Still Nights and Second Civil War cover art) made this cover art to help my kids color covers for the Mom's Demand Action homemade chapbooks. $5 will be donated to Mom's Demand for each chapbook purchased.
What you get
A homemade chapbook with a generous sampling of Moran Press fiction and poetry as well as special spotlight author angels that donate their words to this charity printing.
What it costs
It's $10 for a custom homemade chapbook. $5 to Mom's demand. $1 to my color artist. The rest helps pay for costs of printing - toner - shipping - envelopes - processing fees.
Please support Mom's Demand Action whether you get a chapbook or simply make a donation direction on their website. Click the Mom's Demand Action Logo for more information.
TO PURCHASE HOMEMADE CHAPBOOK - MOM'S DEMAND EDITION - CLICK THE 'BLOSSOMS NOT BULLETS' COVER IMAGE
Moran Press joins with the vast majority of Americans asking for representatives to take action and pass sensible gun control. Enough is enough.
The artist, Anne Segal (creator of the Cloudy Days, Still Nights and Second Civil War cover art) made this cover art to help my kids color covers for the Mom's Demand Action homemade chapbooks. $5 will be donated to Mom's Demand for each chapbook purchased.
What you get
A homemade chapbook with a generous sampling of Moran Press fiction and poetry as well as special spotlight author angels that donate their words to this charity printing.
What it costs
It's $10 for a custom homemade chapbook. $5 to Mom's demand. $1 to my color artist. The rest helps pay for costs of printing - toner - shipping - envelopes - processing fees.
Please support Mom's Demand Action whether you get a chapbook or simply make a donation direction on their website. Click the Mom's Demand Action Logo for more information.
TO PURCHASE HOMEMADE CHAPBOOK - MOM'S DEMAND EDITION - CLICK THE 'BLOSSOMS NOT BULLETS' COVER IMAGE
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