Covalent bonds aren’t just about atoms sharing electron pairs anymore—it’s about the electricity that happens when you pair two geeks together. This anthology celebrates geeks of all kinds (enthusiasts, be it for comics, Dr. Who, movies, gaming, computers, or even grammar), and allows them to step out of their traditional supporting roles and into the shoes of the romantic lead. Forget the old stereotypes: geeks are sexy.
This geek romance anthology comes out in a month (Valentine's Day 2017, to be exact), but you can win an advanced review copy, plus a cute serotonin necklace to go with it. See below for all the ways you can enter. Giveaway ends January 14, 2017.
"Romance? Geekiness? Yes, please! I was very excited to get my grubby mits on this one. It didn’t’ disappoint. The stories range from sweet to steamy, and cover a wide array of geekery...it drives home the point that I have known all along: Nerds are sexy, ya’ll!"
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 On December 28, 2016 AllRomanceEbooks.com and its all-genre counterpart OmniLit sent out a sudden notice that they were shutting down, effective December 31, 2016. Two days before, they ran a "Boxing Day" promotion, which World Weaver Press participated in and promoted. If we had known they were about to shut down, and that royalties would not be paid to authors and publishers for the books sold during that sale, we would never have participated. All of our books have now been removed from their website, but if you already bought one, it is still available for download.
If you purchased World Weaver Press books through AllRomanceEbooks.com or OmniLit, please make sure you download the books before December 31, 2016. The ARe "Reader Library" will be disappearing, but that does not mean the books you purchased disappear. Save the ebooks to your computer, and transfer them to your device (see the linked article for advice about how to do that). If you pre-ordered COVALENT BONDS through AllRomanceEbooks.com, please email us with a proof of purchase and we will provide a replacement copy. AllRomanceEbooks has never been a major sales channel for us, but some of our romance books have done quite well there--SKYE FALLING by Anna Kyle was even an ARe Bestseller. We will be sorry to see them go, and express our heartfelt condolences to all those affected by this closure, including ARe employees, the authors and publishers who sold books there, and the readers who bought books there (many of whom lost substantial store credit). But. The terms they have offered authors and publishers for royalty settlement are unacceptable. The suddenness with which they have ceased operations is disturbing, and mirrors a recent trend in the small press or "indie" publishing industry to shut down with no warning. This is a hard and unpredictable business, and there are many factors at play, including the fact that creative people are not always the best business people. That doesn't mean that authors and readers should pay for a publisher's or retailer's mistakes.  "Hummer" by Adam Gaylord is original fiction from the anthology Speculative Story Bites. Get the whole anthology from Amazon, Kobo, or World Weaver Press.
Walt turned his coat collar up, more against prying eyes than the cold breeze. He needn’t have bothered. People in this part of town didn’t make eye contact. He’d never set foot on this street in his life and probably never would have but for one simple fact: he was desperate. He checked addresses against the scrap of paper the bartender had given him until he stood before a door painted with the likeness of a flower—an orchid to be exact. He looked around and then knocked. One of the orchid’s petals slid to the side allowing two eyes to regard him coldly for a brief moment before the petal closed again. He heard a series of locks releasing and then the door swung inward to reveal a Buluk, its massive frame and armored shell barring entry. “What you want?” it asked. “I, I’m here to see sreeaaccccchapth,” he did his best to imitate what he’d been told to say. The Buluk shrugged. “Close enough.” It stepped to the side. Walt entered and the door closed behind him, the series of locks clicking home in succession. The Buluk patted him down roughly. “You wait here,” it said, pushing past a curtain and leaving him in the entryway. Walt did as he was told, letting his eyes adjusted to the dim red light. Before long, the Buluk returned, holding the curtain open for a small round figure that resembled nothing more than a deflated volleyball with limbs. The being regarded him for a long moment. “I know every face that’s ever been through that door,” it said in a raspy voice. “But I don’t know yours.” “It’s my first time,” Walt replied without meeting its eye. “Are you sreeaa—” “Stop, please. My name has been butchered enough for one day. You can call me Orchid.” It held out a long skinny arm to shake his hand with long skinny fingers, the gesture decidedly feminine. He shook her hand without offering his name. She didn’t seem to mind. “I’m looking for someone,” he said. “Of course you are,” she chortled. “Why else would you be here? Follow me.” Orchid lead him past the Buluk into the club. Sultry jazz drifted through the smoky air over the dull murmur of numerous conversations. Couples and groups chatted at private candle-lit tables or in dark booths and everywhere scantily-clad members of every race, species, and gender ferried drinks, lit cigars, sat on laps, or danced on tables. Every now and then, one of these would lead a patron or two back through one of a series of doors along the back wall. Orchid motioned to a seat at a table near the bar and Walt sat, fiddling with his wedding ring while nervously scanning faces. “Don’t worry about them,” she said, noticing his ring and his apprehension. “None of them are here. Just ask any one of them tomorrow and they’ll tell you, they weren’t here. Just like tomorrow, you won’t have been here. Like you aren’t here now.” She smiled and Walt relaxed a little. She noticed that too and chuckled. “Good. Now, what kind of someone are you looking for? We have an excellent variety. Just about any age, size, shape, and color of someones that are human, and plenty of someones that are not.” “Uh, well, I was told I could find—” “Wait, let’s see if I can guess.” She looked him over again. “There are plenty of human-only establishments, none as well stocked as mine of course, but since you came here you must either be looking for a specific human or a someone who’s not. I’m guessing the latter.” It's back, and it's sexier than ever. Alexa Piper's paranormal erotica story collection, LUMINOUS DREAMS, has been relaunched with a new cover, a brand new story, and limited-time special ebook price. Warm up this winter with nine sensual dreams of enchantment.  Here's a sample of what you'll find between the covers: Candy and the Witch
About the Author  Alexa Piper enjoys writing, romance, and the paranormal. This said, becoming a paranormal romance writer seemed perfectly reasonable, but for Alexa, it is more than that; it's fun. Alexa’s work has appeared in the anthologies Demons, Imps, and Incubi and The Naughty List. Luminous Dreams is Alexa's first collection, and she hopes her readers will have as much fun reading it as she had writing it. Check out Alexa’s online home (alexapiper.com) for all things related to her writing and be sure to follow her on Twitter @prowlingpiper.
 "The Legacy of the Butterfly King" by Anya J. Davis is original fiction from the anthology Speculative Story Bites. Get the whole anthology from Amazon, Kobo, or World Weaver Press.
Dust dances in the shaft of sunlight that slices the room full of dead things. A floorboard groans under well-worn loafers, snapping the sullen teenager out of his trance. Iris watches his top lip twitch, his father’s movement at the bookcase deemed unworthy of even a scowl. He focuses on his phone again, ignoring his mother, who peers at the cases above the mahogany desk. Iris inches over to her, twenty-five years of practice informing her approach. “Fascinating, aren’t they? Sir Edward’s collection. His pride and joy.” “Creepy.” The woman pulls her cardigan around her. “Insects on the wall.” “Perhaps.” Iris’s reply is dip-dyed with amusement. “Although collecting them was a perfectly acceptable pursuit in the nineteenth century.” “Did he actually…?” A wrinkle of her nose completes her question, the meaning all too clear. “Yes, they— “ A beep punctures Iris’s words, too shrill, too modern for the surroundings. The woman flinches. “Brandon! Stop that!” She bustles him out of the room, dismissing Iris with a half-hearted apology. Her husband follows, the commotion an instantly recognized command. Iris straightens the badge that announces her tourist guide status and surveys the butterflies. She rewinds the last few moments in her mind and presses play, imagining the conversation as if the interruption had not occurred. “Yes, they died at his hand. He anesthetized them in chloroform-filled jars, then squeezed the life from them.” Intolerable now, Iris thinks, but times change. The world spins, hurtling us forward. Just look back, see how far we have come, how fast we have moved, without even noticing. Nostalgia nudges her, tugs at her sleeve, clamors for attention. Lipstick red, daffodil yellow, sunset orange, tree-bark brown. A kaleidoscope of color beneath glass. The Purple Emperor’s black-tipped wings are lapis blue in the late afternoon light, betraying its title. His Majesty. Apatura Iris. The most sought after of British butterflies, coveted by every Victorian lepidopterist. The treasure after which she was named. At least, her mother had been. Violet Iris Huntingdon-Ward then passed Sir Edward’s christening gift, one that spoke of beauty snuffed out and crucified, on to her only child. Yet, Iris thinks, as she pads out of the room, despite its murderous associations, she prefers it to her other name. She retrieves her handbag from the stuffy office and locks the door. Calling goodnight to the estate manager as he hunts for lollygagging visitors, she steps into the sunshine. The crunching gravel, the hum of bees and the honeyed scent from the buddleia bushes are familiar companions as she makes her way along the drive and through the butterfly garden, towards the cottage. She pauses by the lavender, inhales its heady fragrance.
The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses is both a literary award, and a "best of" anthology that honors short fiction published by literary magazines and small presses. We are proud to announce our picks from the three anthologies World Weaver Press published this year. Best of luck to the authors, and we hope to see your names in the final Pushcart Prize anthology table of contents! Below are the six stories we picked this year, along with a brief excerpt from each.
"We Are Sirens" by L.S. Johnson, from Sirens, edited by Rhonda Parrish
“One More Song” by Eliza Chan, from Sirens, edited by Rhonda Parrish
Mira had vowed she was done with all that. It was dangerous work, and those who came pleading to her door rarely had the money to pay. Shell necklaces and a side of salmon didn’t keep the landlord from yelling obscenities about stinking fish wasting his time. Even a submerged studio apartment caked in coral cost more than she was bringing in these days. “Homecoming” by Tabitha Lord, from Sirens, edited by Rhonda Parrish
When I am certain he is no longer in my house, I slam the salon door so hard that I rattle my own teeth, and then I lock it shut. My hands shake as I stare at the mess of yarn by my feet. I pace the room, clenching and unclenching my fists. I am furious, and now I am also desperate. My plan, carefully laid with Eurykleia’s help, has failed. Antinous will force my hand and make me choose a husband from this self-serving, insolent band. “Villainess Ascending” by Steven Grimm, from He Sees You When He’s Creepin’: Tales of Krampus, edited by Kate Wolford
“John Knocking” by Kristina Wojtaszek, from Speculative Story Bites, edited by Sarena Ulibarri
“The Legacy of the Butterfly King” by Anya J. Davis, from Speculative Story Bites, edited by Sarena Ulibarri
Dust dances in the shaft of sunlight that slices the room full of dead things. A floorboard groans under well-worn loafers, snapping the sullen teenager out of his trance. Iris watches his top lip twitch, his father’s movement at the bookcase deemed unworthy of even a scowl. He focuses on his phone again, ignoring his mother, who peers at the cases above the mahogany desk. Iris inches over to her, twenty-five years of practice informing her approach.
Guest Post by Kristen Bates
Now that Thanksgiving is over, the festivities of Christmas have officially taken over. People all around the world are dusting off their decorations and getting into the holiday mood. Santa Clauses have taken over malls and tiny elves are magically appearing on shelves of unsuspecting children. It seems as though Christmas is the season of cheer. Or is it? For children who have been extra devious this year, it looks like it’s going to be the season of fear. While St. Nick knew when you were awake and was watching while you slept, he had a sidekick that was taking extra careful notes of your behavior too. Krampus has made his list and checked it twice. You better hope you’re not on that list. Every year, Krampus hunts children from St. Nick’s naughty list and punishes them with a rod of birch. His German name, Krampen, means “claw” and originates from the times of Germanic Paganism. Because he was heralded as evil and often compared to the devil, the celebrations of Krampus were outlawed by the Catholic Church in the 12th century and again around 1934 after the Austrian Civil War. However, the celebrations of Krampus returned and are still recognized to this day. The description of Krampus in folklore has changed over the centuries but his demon-like appearance has remained constant. He is shown as a hairy beast with the typical cloven hooves and large horns. Along with the rod of birch, Krampus carries chains and bells to let children know he has arrived. In some folklore, he is considered the son of the Norse god of the Underworld, Hel – which makes him even more terrifying. Basically, he has the physical appearance of pure evil. 
Technically, Krampus is not celebrated on the Christmas holiday. Most celebrations take place on the evening of December 5th, which gives Krampus an entire season to punish misbehaved children. The celebration, called Krampusnacht, honors the creature by having several people dress up as Krampus and scare others during the festival. These festivals honor Krampus and serve as a reminder to kids to behave.
Thanks to the internet, the popularity of Krampus in America has increased over the years. Krampus has been making his way into several festivals that have popped up over the country. Perhaps the American Christmas tradition will continue to make room for the old but exciting ritual of Krampusnacht. Who needs an elf to report to Santa when Krampus is already watching? Be sure to check out some Krampus festivals in your area this week and get in the holiday spirit with some good ol’ Krampus scaring. If your Krampus urges have not been satisfied, be sure to check out our newest anthology: He Sees You When He's Creepin': Tales of Krampus. Order yourself a copy, cozy up to the fire with a nice cup of hot chocolate and delve into the wonderful and scary stories that this anthology has to offer. 
Kristen Bates is a college student who loves to read and write. Star Wars is her primary obsession but she loves all things science fiction, fantasy, and speculative fiction. Kristen hates writing in third person but can be talked into doing it on occasion. Find her on Twitter: @kristenkelly1
 "The Gift of Death" is original fiction from the anthology Speculative Story Bites. Get the whole anthology from Amazon, Kobo, or World Weaver Press.
Death snipped the last tsunami victim’s life thread and sheathed her golden shears. That made fifty thousand, five hundred and thirty-six acquisitions along Miami Beach tonight. “So many,” Death whispered. She had been human once, a long time ago. The memories were like wisps of a dream. She had been thinking about that time more and more recently, trying to remember if she had been generous enough in life to compensate for what she was doing now. Cold, musty air passed over her, making her shiver. The Overseer’s hand fell upon her shoulder. Death stiffened. She brushed a red curl behind one ear, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in her hand. When she had accepted this role, she had taken the form of a young woman in the hopes it would ease some of the anxiety that mortals felt at her presence. “You pulled this off without a hitch,” the Overseer said, his voice like the autumn wind rattling dead leaves on trees. “It was beautifully orchestrated. Do you want to know the final death toll?” Not really, she wanted to say. The Overseer moved in front of her. He was a swirling darkness that oozed in and out of humanoid form. Hovering over her, he blotted out some of the stars. “Nearly three hundred thousand,” he said. “And that doesn’t include all the other fatalities that will be associated with this from looting, illness, sheer panic.” The Overseer solidified, placing his hands on Death’s shoulders, a hint of a face beneath his black cowl. “You have earned yourself an advancement. After tonight, you will no longer be Death, but an Overseer.” She took a step back, easing from his hold. “I—” The words of acceptance stuck in her throat. “I…can’t.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t do this anymore. Any of this.” The Overseer receded into swirling darkness again. “I’ve pushed you too hard. Why don’t you take some time off, get your thoughts back together, and then come back? This can wait a little while.” Death removed her golden shears and held them toward the Overseer. His eyes became twin red orbs, a gaping hole where his nose should have been, his mouth filled with rotten teeth. He towered over Death. When he spoke, the smell of the grave washed over her. “You will become mortal,” he said, “subject to misery, disease, and eventually, the victim of your successor. Do you really want that?” She opened her hands, letting the shears fall into the swirling waters of the Atlantic. The Overseer howled, erupting into a dark maelstrom. The air pressed in on Death, crushing her. She tried to scream, but couldn’t. Then everything went black. *** |
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