Blog Archives

Unstoic Radio presents: A Round of Razors - Rob Plath and Scott Wozniak read #poetry

8/27/2018

Unstoic Radio presents:
A Round of Razors
Rob Plath and Scott Wozniak
Read Poetry

A radio broadcast of poets Rob Plath and Scott Wozniak reading poetry. Enjoy. Click the cover link below to purchase Crumbling Utopian Pipedream by Scott Wozniak from Moran Press.

0 Comments

#Fiction - Routine - Excerpt from Ella

8/22/2018

0 Comments

ROUTINE
EXCERPT FROM ELLA
BY STEPHEN MORAN

Late night is my favorite time of day. When he is sleeping and the TV is off, I can breathe. All is silent. I am left to myself. Not even he can bother me. He fell asleep on the couch hours ago, giving me time. There are those moments before he passes out in front of the tube. I wonder if I’ll go insane. I can’t even watch television without a hassle. I wish he’d leave me alone.

What I wouldn’t give for a good book right now. I wish I had a book to read, so I wouldn’t have to think so much. Some days, all I do is think of all that is happening and wonder. I wonder why my life is like this and why Mother went away. I wish my favorite writers would write faster. I read all they write and read them again and again, but my eyes get tired. And I end up sitting and thinking, thinking and sitting, and waiting, waiting, waiting for sleep.

Every night, I go through the same routine with few exceptions. After dinner, I do my homework for two hours. My father has this idea that I should study for two hours. I don’t know where he got the idea that 7th graders were supposed to study for two hours, probably from some paper sent home from the school, but he thinks it is an unwritten law. He makes me sit at my desk for two hours even if I finish early.

“Read something,” he’ll yell up the stairs if I ask if I can watch television. “At least, use all that damned shit I bought you. That computer wasn’t fucking cheap you little, ungrateful witch.”

It usually goes something like that for two hours. It is the same every night, except Friday and Saturday nights. I get to do the weekend homework on Sundays. And yes, he was nice enough to buy me a computer to do my writing. He says it cost him fifteen hundred dollars, but I know he stole the damn thing. On the nights I finish my homework early, I type in my computer journal like tonight. I like to rant and rave about school, but usually, I bitch about my dad. I never run out of things to say about him.

Well, back to the routine. I told you about the homework part. After I finish my homework, which he of course checks, I am allowed to watch exactly one hour of television. When he is in a good mood, I’m allowed to choose the shows. Those nights are rare, but when they occur, I take advantage. I turn it to MTV. He hates this channel. He sits next to me on the couch and grunts his disapproval.

He will even goes so far as to bash a song or two, but when he lets me control the set, he doesn’t change the channel. He just sits there and watches right beside me. Sometimes, to show my gratitude, I’ll lean my head on his shoulders. And on nights that he is really pleasant, I’ll let him hold my hand. I may not get along with him, but since my mother died two years ago, he is all I have.

After I watch my hour of television, he tells me it’s time to get ready for bed. Bedtime around this house for me is nine o’clock. I can’t tell you how many hours I have spent arguing and pleading with him for a later bedtime, but he is stuck on his routines. Bedtime is nine o’clock. Sharp.

So, up the stairs to get ready for bed, which isn’t a simple thing for me. I have to look my best. Imagine going to bed for the night with snarled hair! I won’t have it. No. Not at all. I must groom with care. The routine will probably bore you, but here it is anyway.

First, I put on my pajamas. There is no sense in brushing your hair when you have to pull a shirt over your head! I brush my hair for ten minutes. I love the way the brush feels in my hair. I run the brush through from front to back again and again. One hundred times. After I brush my hair, I tend to my nails. I clip them, file them, and wonder how they would look with those fancy nail polishes I see advertised on television. My dad won’t let me wear nail polish, or makeup for that matter. He says it would make me look like a tramp. I don’t want to look like a tramp like that girl Jessie at school, but I do want to paint my nails. It might make me feel more grown-up.

After I do my nails, I go to the bathroom. I brush my teeth. I can hear him now saying five minutes, floss, and use the mouthwash. He likes me to use spearmint kind. He is very particular about my breath. Then I wash my face. I go back to my room, check myself in the mirror, and hop into bed with the light on. Dad always shuts it off for me. I count the minutes until he raps on the door.

One, two, three quick, light knocks.

“Are you sleeping?” he asks every night.

“No, Daddy.”

He opens the door, shuts off the light, and gets into bed with me.

PURCHASE A SIGNED COPY OF ELLA
CLICK BUTTON BELOW
OR GRAPHIC TO PURCHASE OTHER
MORAN PRESS TITLES

PURCHASE SIGNED COPY OF ELLA

0 Comments

SECRET Book Release - THREE STORIES by Stephen Moran

8/18/2018

1 Comment

SECRET BOOK RELEASE
THREE STORIES
BY STEPHEN MORAN

Without fanfare or a drum roll, I present the new release from Moran Press - Three Stories by Stephen Moran.

This mini-collection of three stories comprise the additions to The Terrorist of Providence Street that transform that book into Server. Several readers that bought The Terrorist book expressed an issue with paying for Server to simply get three additional stories.

I concur and present Three Stories. The e-book will be permanently free at Amazon once the minions in charge over there make it so. That way, readers that purchased The Terrorist of Providence Street can get the three stories without charge. There will be a paperback edition and I will keep it on min-pricing of $3.58 to make the addition of the missing stories as small of an impact to you budget as possible.

To sum up, I made a graphic with the covers.

So to those that have already purchased Server, no need to buy Three Stories. This is for those that bought the first collection. Thank you to all my supporters.

Have a great weekend. Hope to see you at the event tonight.

Stephen Moran
Owner of Moran Press

PURCHASE A SIGNED COPY OF THREE STORIES

1 Comment

A Literary Treasure Hunt - The First Clue - Edmund Monologue from King Lear Act 1 Scene 2

8/15/2018

0 Comments

A LITERARY TREASURE HUNT
THE FIRST CLUE
EDMUND MONOLOGUE
KING LEAR ACT I, SCENE II

EDMUND:
Thou, nature, art my goddess. To thy law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines
Lag of a brother? Why “bastard”? Wherefore “base”?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true
As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us
With “base,” with “baseness,” “bastardy,” “base,” “base”--
Who in the lusty stealth of nature take
More composition and fierce quality
Than doth within a dull, stale, tirèd bed
Go to th' creating a whole tribe of fops
Got ’tween a sleep and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land.
Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund
As to the legitimate.—Fine word, “legitimate”!--
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall top th' legitimate. I grow, I prosper.
Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Now, take another read of my story Edmund from Server. 

EDMUND
FICTION BY STEPHEN MORAN
EXCERPT FROM SERVER

Scott walked along the boulevard with head hanging low as if he were staring at his own shoes. His fingers worked fast with energy, picking at his cuticles and cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails. As he passed the liquor store, the clock tower on the front side of the arts came into view. It was ten minutes to three. He shook his head and quickened his pace, all the while mumbling under his breath.

Edmund. He pronounced the last consonant hard with great distaste as he wrung his hands together. I’ll catch up with you one of these days. I promise you.

He continued walking with hands in constant motion. He ran fingers over his shaved head, feeling the bristles of short hair tickling his palm. Lifting his gaze to the sky, he laughed.

Of all people to cost me my job. He smiled, indeed, through his fit of laughter, which caused him to sway off course. I’ll get that man if it is the last thing I do. I just need to talk to her before I look for him. I need to tell her about last night.

He turned the corner at the coffee shop, leaving the boulevard behind and stepping out of the afternoon sun, happy to escape the sun’s glare. He passed along an alleyway. The shade a welcome relief, and his hands came to a rest. They hung limply at his sides, and he slowed his gait. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh.

Stopping next to a dumpster, he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and scanned the alley. A smile parted his lips, softening his features. His shaved hair revealed scars on his scalp, and his dark brown eyes were ringed with the black circles of sleep deprivation.

He sat upon a milk crate and rested his face in his hands, talking to himself in a quiet, hushed tone.

Some might call it madness, and I agree there may be a hint of it, just a slight whiff, in this incessant hatred of him. For all these years passing does nothing to dampen the seething constant bile in my mouth I feel when I think upon his visage.

Edmund! I wish to strike thee. I wish to call upon the many powers, terrible and wide to do thee harm. I will be revenged upon thee, Edmund. Wounds may heal, but indeed, memory does not fade. My hatred will not abate.
But of her, but of her, that is something I shall not relish. She attempts to soothe my anger, to lessen the bitterness of him, of that day, but it is in vain. I wish she could understand.

He stood up as if pulled or yanked, flicking his cigarette to one side, and began to walk. His face showed no emotion. His eyes were straight forward, not seeing or caring to see the vagrant lying on his side in the alley. The sun shone at the far end of the way as a palpable heat in visible color. He made for it and exited the alley, turning brisk and sure to the left, not pausing a moment for afternoon shoppers.
“It’s what I must do,” he muttered, passing the bookstore with the Chinese restaurant in sight. He looked at the clock through the window of the bookstore: 3:05. Stylishly late.

I love you. I always will. I just want you to know that this isn’t about you. This is something I must do. You know how I feel about him. You know this will never leave me until that moment I see him looking into my eyes, staring up into my eyes, knowing the time is close at hand. Please understand.

He rubbed his neck with his fingers, kneading tension and doubt.
He approached the door with his hands once again moving, picking at his cuticles. Pulling the door open, Scott stepped into the restaurant.

Black leather, maître de, and stained glass.
Gentleman, fat, looking at his gray overcoat.
Lady in pink with water in her eyes.
Captain with paid smile, pouring wine.
Three ladies, pretty, average, and unremarkable, chatting without sound, husbandry.
Empty space at the next table.

Scott halted next to the fat gentleman holding his gray overcoat and screamed, smashing the silent, dumb show of pretty, average, and unremarkable.

EDMUND!

Need more clues? Click the link below to purchase the book. I will give a free paperback to the first person to figure out the riddle.

SERVER

0 Comments

A Poem got Banned from Facebook - Is this #Censorship

8/15/2018

3 Comments

A POEM
BANNED FROM FACEBOOK

A poem posted to Facebook today was banned and earned a 24-hour ban for the account posting it. Here is the poem that got the account suspended.

men are trash

say three words
men are trash
and men will show up to prove it

whisper three words
men are trash
like a prayer, god will always answer

learn these words
men are trash
and don't you ever forget it

lest you forget,
repeat it with me
men are fucking trash

Facebook said the poem was hate speech.

Questions for readers and followers:

Does this constitute censorship?
Do you believe this poem is hate speech?

Sound off in the comments.

BECOME A PATRON OF MORAN PRESS

3 Comments

COVER REVEAL - Blood Chill by L. M. Bryski

8/15/2018

0 Comments

COVER REVEAL
BLOOD CHILL
BY L. M. BRYSKI
COVER ART BY X-POTION DESIGNS

I'm thrilled to present the cover reveal for Blood Chill - the upcoming medical thriller by L. M. Bryski. This amazing cover was created by X-Potion Designs. Click HERE to check out their Facebook Page.

Here's a blurb for Blood Chill.

BLOOD CHILL, The New Medical Thriller by L. M. Bryski
COMING SOON

0 Comments

#Fiction - EDMUND by Stephen Moran from SERVER

8/11/2018

0 Comments

EDMUND
FICTION BY STEPHEN MORAN
EXCERPT FROM SERVER

Scott walked along the boulevard with head hanging low as if he were staring at his own shoes. His fingers worked fast with energy, picking at his cuticles and cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails. As he passed the liquor store, the clock tower on the front side of the arts came into view. It was ten minutes to three. He shook his head and quickened his pace, all the while mumbling under his breath.

Edmund. He pronounced the last consonant hard with great distaste as he wrung his hands together. I’ll catch up with you one of these days. I promise you.

He continued walking with hands in constant motion. He ran fingers over his shaved head, feeling the bristles of short hair tickling his palm. Lifting his gaze to the sky, he laughed.

Of all people to cost me my job. He smiled, indeed, through his fit of laughter, which caused him to sway off course. I’ll get that man if it is the last thing I do. I just need to talk to her before I look for him. I need to tell her about last night.

He turned the corner at the coffee shop, leaving the boulevard behind and stepping out of the afternoon sun, happy to escape the sun’s glare. He passed along an alleyway. The shade a welcome relief, and his hands came to a rest. They hung limply at his sides, and he slowed his gait. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh.

Stopping next to a dumpster, he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and scanned the alley. A smile parted his lips, softening his features. His shaved hair revealed scars on his scalp, and his dark brown eyes were ringed with the black circles of sleep deprivation.

He sat upon a milk crate and rested his face in his hands, talking to himself in a quiet, hushed tone.

Some might call it madness, and I agree there may be a hint of it, just a slight whiff, in this incessant hatred of him. For all these years passing does nothing to dampen the seething constant bile in my mouth I feel when I think upon his visage.

Edmund! I wish to strike thee. I wish to call upon the many powers, terrible and wide to do thee harm. I will be revenged upon thee, Edmund. Wounds may heal, but indeed, memory does not fade. My hatred will not abate.
But of her, but of her, that is something I shall not relish. She attempts to soothe my anger, to lessen the bitterness of him, of that day, but it is in vain. I wish she could understand.

He stood up as if pulled or yanked, flicking his cigarette to one side, and began to walk. His face showed no emotion. His eyes were straight forward, not seeing or caring to see the vagrant lying on his side in the alley. The sun shone at the far end of the way as a palpable heat in visible color. He made for it and exited the alley, turning brisk and sure to the left, not pausing a moment for afternoon shoppers.
“It’s what I must do,” he muttered, passing the bookstore with the Chinese restaurant in sight. He looked at the clock through the window of the bookstore: 3:05. Stylishly late.

I love you. I always will. I just want you to know that this isn’t about you. This is something I must do. You know how I feel about him. You know this will never leave me until that moment I see him looking into my eyes, staring up into my eyes, knowing the time is close at hand. Please understand.

He rubbed his neck with his fingers, kneading tension and doubt.
He approached the door with his hands once again moving, picking at his cuticles. Pulling the door open, Scott stepped into the restaurant.

Black leather, maître de, and stained glass.
Gentleman, fat, looking at his gray overcoat.
Lady in pink with water in her eyes.
Captain with paid smile, pouring wine.
Three ladies, pretty, average, and unremarkable, chatting without sound, husbandry.
Empty space at the next table.

Scott halted next to the fat gentleman holding his gray overcoat and screamed, smashing the silent, dumb show of pretty, average, and unremarkable.

EDMUND!

Thank you for taking the time to visit Moran Press. If you enjoyed the story, click the cover image below to purchase a signed paperback copy of Server.

0 Comments

FREE E-book Alert - The Terrorist of Providence Street

8/11/2018

0 Comments

FREE E-BOOK
THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

This e-book is FREE for the next two days. Get some cutting edge fiction on your Kindle without paying a cent. Warning - this book might disturb you. Don't say I didn't let you know.

Inside one writer's mind exists a hall of mirrors. Is he the creator-or a character? Is his work fiction-or a manifesto? And who set off the bomb in the middle of the city?

Take a journey into the thoughts of a madman that snaps on society.

Scott Holden.

The Terrorist of Providence Street.

Here's a review to let you know what the book is all about.

Be sure to check out the free e-book. If you'd like a signed copy instead, click the link below.

PURCHASE A SIGNED COPY OF THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

0 Comments

PHOTO - Moran Press Books with Mug, Courtesy of David Koster

8/9/2018

0 Comments

THREE BOOKS AND A MUG
PHOTO COURTESY OF
DAVID KOSTER

Thank you to David Koster for the constant support. he recently purchased a Moran Press book and mug pack and this is a photo of the Arthouse Paperbacks. Click the images below to check out each title.

0 Comments

#Fiction - A Providence, RI Story - Dead Sunday Afternoons

8/5/2018

1 Comment

DEAD SUNDAY AFTERNOONS
A PROVIDENCE, RI FICTION
BY STEPHEN MORAN

I wait in cold sterile anticipation for Monday, for this day, a rather stale Sunday afternoon in the month of birth, reeks of decay. Indeed, Monday calls, with its promise of five more days of hell, growing old, old, and older. Sunday feels limp and crawls slow and sure towards further nothing, a repeating forgettable day, endless malaise of boredom.

I watch others move, action. I can’t feel, or maybe will not give in to the urge to commit to a single motion, for nothing can be accomplished. The dead power of nothing, Sunday claws with blades of steel, scraping the sides of my veins. Will it ever be different?

Robert sipped at his beer, an attempt at motion, not feeling comfortable with his hands lying limp at his sides. He desired silence instead of motion, but the music throbbed insistent into his ears, all the while he eyed a young blonde talk and talk and talk to an elderly gentleman, the curled ringlets of her hair shaking as she looked around her, a tangled boredom visible in her movements.

Her eyes met his; singed nerves, running down his spine, her eyes locked with his as she traced her fingers over elderly man’s face. He forgot about his hands, which he no longer knew existed, his body entire ceasing to exist. Numb, the feel of her stare crushed into his thoughts. He closed his eyes and still there remained a picture of her eyes, hazel, framed thick and heavy with eyeliner, almost as if she were a circus performer, the heavy color making her look clownish. He breathed a hope outward that her eyes still watched him, prayer, and exhale!

He opened his eyes to those same greedy, heavy hazel eyes, which bit into his skin. Watching her, feeling; the slope of her neck tantalizing and sleek. He could feel velvet of her skin on his fingers. Slow, slow, slow, waiting for time to begin anew, fresh raw emotion digging wounds into his back, he jumped as if from a physical pain. His thoughts remained blinded, the want of his senses alive.

Time stopped, silence broke through, the music blinked out of existence.

“Hi,” she said, from the distance, her fingers full of grey hair, her silken skin touched by the gnarled fingers of age.

“I feel faint,” he said. Air pressed in his lungs, desiring escape, the fair life within him revolting all in one moment with a feeling of light exploding in star shapes, fireworks, as if brazen heaven arrived to taunt him with a wagged finger.

“Soft morning will break the night sky and the sight of her eyes will remain with me,” he whispered to himself.

“Sarah.” Words, clouds, light airy being.

Hazel burned scars on his flesh. Once more he closed his eyes.

Robert woke to the sound of the phone. His ears protested, leading to a general feeling of disgust at being awaked, a feeling which passed as a wave over his body.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at the clock beside his bed, whose red numbers bled harsh light into the darkness. Seven o’clock in the morning.

“No. I’ll be in at nine,” he replied, voice still thick with sleep, tinged with anger at being roused.

“Nine, O’clock.” He repeated, slowly and angrily. He hung up the phone and rolled away from the glare of the alarm clock.

He sensed her near him and saw her standing next to his chair as he looked in the mirror, all of her at once; the thick flesh of her breasts, her thighs pressing against his hand. He ran his palm over her skin, dragging his fingertips slowly, memorizing the feel of her by touch. She leaned in close to him, kissing his ear and whispering.

“I’ve been watching you all night,” she said.

Robert laughed and put his arm around her waist.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” He breathed deep and called to the bartender for another beer. He spun his chair to face her, pulling her between his legs.

“What is your name?” She asked. She pressed herself against him, which caused agony in his midsection. He held her tightly against his jeans, the sight of her exposed skin making his head swim with pleasure.

“Robert.”

She smiled and asked him to dance. Without waiting for him to answer, she put her hand in his and escorted Robert towards the back of the room. Observing the others, the girls, talking and flirting and sitting with men, bare skin and smiles, the music provided soundtrack to the panoramic scene. He let himself be led, following Sarah to a small room, which contained black leather recliners and a sparse amount of light. Waiting and studying her as she waited for the next song to begin, he tried to enjoy the moments as time ticked and ticked in his blood. She fluffed her hair and pulled a strap of her bra off her shoulder onto her arm. The music pulsed in his chest and she sauntered towards him, separating his legs with her hands.

“Sit back and enjoy.”

Robert slammed the alarm with his hand, silencing its persistent ringing. He rolled out of bed and made his way towards the bathroom, sleep in his walk. Running the water hot as he could take, he shaved with the warm steam providing comfort. He stepped into the shower and stood motionless under the water, letting it run over his face. Moments passed, which turned into minutes, and he remained under the water, thinking. Then, as if he remembered the business at hand, he grabbed the soap and with a sigh, began to scrub.

Time drifted into the small hours, on and on with Sarah at a table near the stage, talking. She sat next to him, rubbing her hands on his legs, smiling, and her eyes bright and shining. He sipped his beer as she talked and talked, her hands moving, her legs stretched out next to his. A fast dance song blared through the speakers and Sarah exclaimed with delight.

“This is one of my friends; I want to see her dance,” Sarah said as she turned and sat between Robert’s legs. A tall, slim brunette strutted onto the stage and swung round the pole that ran from floor to ceiling.

Sarah moved with the music, her hips pushing back against him. He wrapped his arms around her and crossed his hands below her breasts. He felt dizzy from excitement and tried little to follow the brunette’s movements across the stage. He kissed Sarah on her back and her neck.

“Isn’t she good?” Sarah asked. She kept moving her hips with the music.

“Yes.” He ran his hands over her stomach and traced over her breasts with his fingertips.

“Don’t get too frisky now,” she said her voice light and airy, the sound of which tickled his spine once more.

He moaned as she rubbed against his erection, his hands getting closer to her breasts. The music seemed to fade as his desire turned hot in his blood. The room around him vanished, leaving him alone with her, the feel of her flesh in his arms the singular experience of existence. He gasped as she made time with the music, eyes closed, inhaling her fragrance, the smell of sweet decay. Gripping her arms tightly, he pulled her closer. He laid his head against her back and with his eyes shut, the world ceased into perfect nothingness as his body shuddered against hers.

Robert dressed for work as he listened to the traffic report on the radio. The man reading the report sounded dead he thought to himself.

‘Traffic is moderate to heavy on I-95, with a twenty-minute delay at the I-195 exit. Traffic northbound is heavier due to an accident at exit twenty-five. That’s the traffic at ten to the hour.’

He shut off the radio and grabbed his keys from the desk. Staring into the mirror near the door, he ran hands through his hair, wishing for more time to be ready. He placed a hand on the doorknob and paused. Closing his eyes for a moment, his head slumped down. With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold sunlight of January.

SUBSCRIBE TO MORAN PRESS

BECOME A PATRON OF MORAN PRESS

If you enjoyed the story, be sure to check out Server by Stephen Moran. Purchase by clicking the cover image.

1 Comment

<<Previous

Unstoic Radio presents: A Round of Razors Rob Plath and Scott Wozniak Read Poetry

ROUTINEEXCERPT FROM ELLABY STEPHEN MORAN

PURCHASE A SIGNED COPY OF ELLACLICK BUTTON BELOWOR GRAPHIC TO PURCHASE OTHERMORAN PRESS TITLES

SECRET BOOK RELEASETHREE STORIESBY STEPHEN MORAN

A LITERARY TREASURE HUNTTHE FIRST CLUEEDMUND MONOLOGUEKING LEAR ACT I, SCENE II

A POEMBANNED FROM FACEBOOK

COVER REVEALBLOOD CHILLBY L. M. BRYSKICOVER ART BY X-POTION DESIGNS

BLOOD CHILL, The New Medical Thriller by L. M. BryskiCOMING SOON

EDMUNDFICTION BY STEPHEN MORANEXCERPT FROM SERVER

FREE E-BOOKTHE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

THREE BOOKS AND A MUGPHOTO COURTESY OFDAVID KOSTER

DEAD SUNDAY AFTERNOONSA PROVIDENCE, RI FICTIONBY STEPHEN MORAN

If you enjoyed the story, be sure to check out Server by Stephen Moran. Purchase by clicking the cover image.

Archives

Categories

Unstoic Radio presents:
A Round of Razors
Rob Plath and Scott Wozniak
Read Poetry

ROUTINE
EXCERPT FROM ELLA
BY STEPHEN MORAN

PURCHASE A SIGNED COPY OF ELLA
CLICK BUTTON BELOW
OR GRAPHIC TO PURCHASE OTHER
MORAN PRESS TITLES

SECRET BOOK RELEASE
THREE STORIES
BY STEPHEN MORAN

A LITERARY TREASURE HUNT
THE FIRST CLUE
EDMUND MONOLOGUE
KING LEAR ACT I, SCENE II

A POEM
BANNED FROM FACEBOOK

COVER REVEAL
BLOOD CHILL
BY L. M. BRYSKI
COVER ART BY X-POTION DESIGNS

BLOOD CHILL, The New Medical Thriller by L. M. Bryski
COMING SOON

EDMUND
FICTION BY STEPHEN MORAN
EXCERPT FROM SERVER

FREE E-BOOK
THE TERRORIST OF PROVIDENCE STREET

THREE BOOKS AND A MUG
PHOTO COURTESY OF
DAVID KOSTER

DEAD SUNDAY AFTERNOONS
A PROVIDENCE, RI FICTION
BY STEPHEN MORAN