Wednesday, September 28, 2022

Flock by Tom Roy #Flock @tomroyscn


Author: Tom Roy

Publisher: Tall Pines Publishing

Pages: 97

Genre: Christian Leadership


Tom Roy shares his wisdom and knowledge and shows how transformational leadership can change everything. He gives easy to follow examples and lessons and reminds us all of what matters most when we are leading. He follows the Chief Shepherd, Jesus Christ, and reminds us that we cannot go wrong if we follow the Kingdom principles from the Bible that have changed the world. Read this book! It will encourage you and help you to be a better leader!

Book Information

Release Date: June 6, 2020

Publisher:  Tall Pines Publishing

Soft Cover: ISBN:979-8645083878; 97 pages; $12.99; eBook $8.99




About the Author


Longtime baseball coach Tom Roy served as the assistant coach for & team chaplain for Grace College’s baseball team in 2019. Roy has worked with the Lancers in three different decades. He was the Lancers’ head baseball coach from 1980-83. He led Grace to two winning seasons in 1981 and 1982. He was also the squad’s pitching coach from 1970-73 and graduated from Grace with a Bachelor’s degree in 1974. 

Roy has spent close to 15 years as an associate scout for Major League Baseball. He was an associate scout for the Philadelphia Phillies from 1976-79 and was an associate international scout for the Atlanta Braves from 1993-99 and for the San Diego Padres from 2000-05. Roy also served as the varsity baseball coach at Tippecanoe Valley HS from 1974-76 and was the pitching coach at Huntington College from 1987-89. 

He has visited over 65 different countries teaching and coaching the game of baseball. He is the former president and founder of Unlimited Potential, Inc and started SHEPHERD COACH NETWORK in 2019. He played briefly in the San Francisco Giants organization before starting his career. He authored an autobiography about his experience with UPI entitled “Released.” Roy serves as a board member for the Warsaw YMCA, UPI, and Fellowship Mission. He has authored four books entitled “Released”, “Shepherd Coach”, and “FLOCK” and has co-written six books entitled “Beyond Betrayal”, “Take it on, Suit up, sit down”, “9 Innings of Memories and Heroes”, “Sandusky Bay”, “Ellison Bay”, and “Lake of Bays.” He resides in Winona Lake with his wife Carin. They have daughters (Amy and Lindsay) and 6 grandchildren.

His latest book is the Christian leadership book, Flock: Lead Your Tribe, Feed Your Team, Protect Your People).

You can visit his website at or connect with him on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.


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Wednesday, September 21, 2022

Read an Excerpt: Grady Whill and the Templeton Codex by Carole P. Roman #BookExcerpt #GradyWhill @caroleproman


Title: Grady Whill and the Templeton Codex

Author: Carol P. Roman

Publisher: Chelshire, Inc.

Pages: 286

Genre: YA

Templeton Academy- the superhero high school is finally open!

The prestigious academy is recruiting the best of the best to enroll in its student body.

The school is as mysterious as it is exclusive.

Grady Whill thinks there is nothing special about him to make the grade.

However, his best friend, Aarush Patel has been selected and thinks Grady has the right stuff.

Even school bully, Elwood Bledsoe is attending.

If Grady is fortunate enough to be picked, his guardian has forbidden him to attend.

Will a family secret prevent Grady from becoming the superhero he was destined to be?

"Roman's writing is excellent: portraying wonderful, complex characters. Narrated by Grady, the story reveals his kindness and humor. ("Aarush lived in a smart home as opposed to my stupid home," he tells readers). It also illustrates the lovely symbiotic friendship between Grady and Aarush, who protect each other from trouble and ridicule...With the book's many touching, funny, and edge-of-your-seat moments, readers will be cheering to hear more from Grady." Blue Ink Review

"With a page-turning plot and exciting twists and turns, this book is sure to become a treasured favorite."- Review by Book Excellence

"If I were to give a book to every young adult in this world, I would give them Grady Whill and the Templeton Codex by Carole P. Roman without blinking. I absolutely loved every moment of this uplifting and fascinating story. It's filled with valuable life lessons, adventure, peril, and highly relatable and lovable characters." Reviewed by Emma Megan for Readers' Favorite

"Harry Potter meets Sky High. If you're a fan of young adult stories where protagonists go to mysterious schools to train their superhuman abilities, don't miss out on Grady Whill and The Templeton Codex." Reviewed by Pikasho Deka for Reader's Favorite

"With a detailed descriptive narrative, great character development, and compelling dialogue, the author has created a story that will have young readers engaged to the very end." Reviewed by Emily-Jane Hills Orford for Reader's Favorite

Book Information

Release Date: July 18, 2022

Publisher:  Chelshire, Inc.

Soft Cover: ISBN:  978-1950080434; 286 pages; $10.99; eBook $8.99; FREE on Kindle Unlimited



Book Excerpt:


Scarface Mountain – Present Day 

A BARELY COOLED LUMP of lava hardened under my  

feet. One of my sneakers was stuck between two small  rocks in the solidifying mess. I stared at my foot in disbelief.  Instinct told me I should be a human torch, my legs nothing  more than toasted stumps. I glanced up, my heart beating  wildly. We were trapped on the side of the mountain facing our  school, separated by a burning sea of molten rocks.  

The world around me steamed, the lava staining the sky  burnt orange. Trees swallowed by molten rock looked like  skeletal hands emerging from a grave that glowed beneath the  blackened crust. I saw heat waves shimmering from the earth  but felt none of its intensity. I pulled fiercely, feeling my ankle  twist. Aarush steadied me as I nearly toppled over. He was 

shirtless, his back slick with sweat and covered with scrapes.  His fingers worked feverishly to free my foot. 

Overhead two helicopter-sized pterodactyls circled the  craggy summit. The wind from their leathery wings buffeted  the two of us. I think the air they circulated stopped the  patches of lava from cooking us alive, but what do I know? 

“We better get moving, Grady. Leave your sneaker. We are  risking getting burned by staying too long in one spot.” The  ever-practical Aarush reasoned as he pulled the velcro releas ing my foot. I wobbled, then fell to one knee. 

“Do you think they’re real?” I hollered to my friend over  the noise, pointing upward.  

“I’m not sure,” Aarush responded with a shake of his head.  “Right now I can’t tell the difference between fantasy and real ity.” The answer to that question was resolved when one of the  predatory birds spiraled downward in a dive. “We have to go  that way!” He waved to the lee side of the mountain, where  small brush fires dotted the hillside. “The lava appears to be  traveling in the other direction.” His hands moved to push  glasses up on his nose, only to realize they were long gone, lost  in our escape. 

“Look out!” Aarush hunched down as the wind from the  pterdactal’s wings fanned the area around us. “Oh yes, I’d say  they’re real!”



About the Author


Carole P. Roman is the award-winning author of over fifty children's books. Whether it's pirates, princesses, spies, or discovering the world around us, her books have enchanted educators, parents, and her diverse audience of children of all ages.

Her best-selling book, The Big Book of Silly Jokes for Kids: 800+ Jokes! has reached number one on Amazon in March of 2020 and has remained in the top 200 books since then.

She published Mindfulness for Kids with J. Robin Albertson-Wren.

Carole has co-authored two self-help books. Navigating Indieworld: A Beginners Guide to Self-Publishing and Marketing with Julie A. Gerber, and Marketing Indieworld with both Julie A. Gerber and Angela Hausman.

Roman is the CEO of a global transportation company, as well as a practicing medium.

She also writes adult fiction under the name Brit Lunden and has created an anthology of the mythical town of Bulwark, Georgia with a group of indie authors.

Writing is her passion and one of her favorite pastimes. Roman reinvents herself frequently, and her family calls her the 'mother of reinvention.' She resides on Long Island, near her children and grandchildren.

Her series includes:

Captain No Beard

If You Were Me and Lived in- Cultural

If You Were Me and Lived in- Historical

Nursery series

Oh Susannah- Early Reader and coloring book

Grady Whilland the Templeton Codex

Giggles Galore- Coming in December 2022

Mindfulness for Kids with co-author J. Robin Albertson-Wren

The Big Book of Silly Jokes for Kids; 800 plus Jokes! 1 and 2

Spies, Code Talkers, and Secret Agents A World War 2 Book for Kids

Navigating Indieworld- with co-author Julie A. Gerber

Marketing Indieworld- with co-authors Angela Hausman and Julie A. Gerber

Adult Fiction under the pen name Brit Lunden


The Knowing- Book 1- A Bulwark Anthology

The Devil and Dayna Dalton- Book 9-A Bulwark Anthology

Her latest book is the YA Grady Whill and the Templeton Codex.

Visit her website at or connect with her on Twitter and Facebook.


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Tuesday, September 13, 2022

Read an Excerpt: Eternal Graffiti by Peter Marlton


A young man confronts the ghosts of his past in an attempt to reconcile what has brought him to this point in his life…

By Peter Marlton 

“I don’t know if this is a confession or a purge, a scream or a lullaby,” begins twenty-seven-year-old Owen Kilroy’s journal, in which he writes about the remarkable women—friends and lovers—who’ve come and gone and who have shaped his life, as well as the many varieties of heartbreak he’s experienced.

Owen revisits himself as a seventeen-year-old guitar player, songwriter, and drug dealer in a small, fictional California desert town. He relives being arrested, violently, by half the town’s police force and sent to juvenile prison. He faces the pain of being disowned by his mother and having his father disappear. And he re-experiences inadvertently killing his girlfriend by providing her with drugs.

After escaping from juvenile prison, ending up broke, desperate, and homeless in Venice Beach, he eventually meets Kiera, a nineteen-year-old Irish student at UCLA. She is the great love of his life, a love that he knows would cripple him if he were to lose her. Now, ten years later, Owen discovers that writing about her and all that came before isn’t enough. If he is to move on, he realizes he must go back to California and face his ghosts directly.

“Marlton’s prose mixes lyricism with grit, which often results in evocative images. The author has an eye for nuance and detail, and he manages to evoke the era and the youth culture of the time.” ― Kirkus Reviews

Book Information

Release Date: September 6, 2022

Publisher:  The Story Plant

Soft Cover: ISBN: 978-1611883329; 352 pages; $16.95; eBook $7.99


Barnes & Noble:



Book Depository:


On the Monday after the long Thanksgiving weekend in 1970, I came home for the last time to the little rented house my mother and I lived in. Two bedrooms, one bath, tiny living room, washer and dryer on the covered back porch. A typical low-rent box in Rockville Flats, California, an all but forgotten, end-of-the-road, jerkwater town on the southwest ass-cheek of the Mojave Desert. It’s bordered in all directions by a barren landscape probably not so different from the one Christ wandered into as a would-be savior.

I remember walking into the house excited and a little afraid (which I never would have admitted at the time). My best friend Shooky and I were running away to Venice Beach early the next morning. It was something we’d been planning for months. Steven Gregory, our high school principal (at his core a simpleton, a gray suit with a head on it), told us earlier that day that because we were such fuck-ups we’d have to repeat our senior year. That sped up our departure date by months. No way were we going to stick around for that.

I found my mother sprawled out on the couch, unconscious. She worked the counter at Winchell’s, selling donuts and coffee to truck drivers all night long on the graveyard shift. She must’ve traded with somebody to be home at that hour. I could smell the bourbon from ten feet away. I was probably as high as she was drunk. Shooky and I had been getting stoned for the last few hours. The hash had taken me to a magical place — an otherwise inaccessible neighborhood in my mind, one that was free of existential angst, uncontaminated by any form of law enforcement, where Rockville Flats’ fossilized, infertile hills were uncharacteristically alive with the sound of music.

But there she was, my one and only mother, bringing me down again. She lay there in her white blouse, her nametag slightly askew (Janet), her black polyester slacks, and her fat little brown shoes rounding out an ensemble of hopelessness. Her whiskey-soaked brain was surely submerged somewhere on the edge of eternity, her I’ve-smoked-for-twenty-years-and-I-ain’t-quitting-now-and-you-can’t-make-me lungs sounding, as usual, like the tired engine of a battered old train desperate to make one last trip to Clarksville. I had grown so accustomed to seeing her in that condition that it hardly fazed me. I felt nothing. No, that’s not true. I felt pity, which is worse than feeling nothing. 

So it was another one of those days when everything in and around and about the house was redundant and stale, bereft of soul, devoid of hope. I wish now I had a happier memory of that last day with her, maybe just a tiny moment, maybe just her asking me to pass her the TV Guide so she could do her crossword puzzle and me saying OK, but then everything would have had to be so different. I was out of control back then and embraced it fully — the perpetually stoned-out peace-and-love poster-boy hippie kid who, underneath it all, was consumed with rage and hurt and resentment. Why that was will, I hope, become clear. No wonder my mom was a drunk. I stood and watched her wheezing, and chose not to think about the “good ol’ days” when she and I got along. This time I was leaving. There was no point. 

I grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs, a carton of milk, a mixing bowl and a spoon, and took them into my room. I ate my chocolate breakfast food like I thought a gladiator would eat chocolate breakfast food, and felt like a Roman emperor when I was done. 

I picked up the beautiful Gibson Hummingbird guitar I’d bought with drug money and practiced a few songs I’d written. I put the first stack of records on my little stereo, cleared off my “homework” table, set up my scale, took out the block of hash and the two pounds of weed I’d scored in Anaheim the day before and started to work. I had to weigh and cut as many grams of the hash as I could by the time Shooky came by to pick me up at five the next morning. Whatever I didn’t finish I’d do in Venice. I didn’t mind staying up. I loved the work; it took me out of myself. I bagged the thirty-two ounces of Michoacán first and set them aside to be ready for packing.

Two or three hours after starting in on the hash I realized that the last record had ended, and I heard nothing in the house except the mousy squeak of the dope scale. It must have been around midnight or later. Something was wrong. No wheezing. I walked out into the dark little hallway and looked into my mom’s room. It smelled of stale cigarettes and dirty laundry. Piles of clothes were everywhere. Her bed was a sad, concave, spoon-like thing supporting a sheet-sculpture of the Alps. The bathroom was right across from my room. She wasn’t in there either. 

It was only three or four steps to the living room, which was still and dark, except for the slow sweep of a car’s headlights moving across the walls and the cottage-cheese ceiling. I flipped on a light. Mom had not moved since I’d gotten home. She always screamed at me if I ever woke her, so I tiptoed up to the couch and leaned over to look at her face, which was turned inward toward the wall. I lifted her eyelids and saw a frightful mackerel stare. I put my head to her chest and couldn’t hear a heartbeat. That was as close to her as I’d been since my father Harry left when I was eight. She’d clung to me for a short while after that.

Yelling her name, shaking her, slapping her, nothing had any effect. The fear I felt flipped my otherwise pleasant and mellow hash high for a loop. I wasn’t sure what to do. I headed into the kitchen to get a pan full of water to throw on her, but then somehow I realized that the idea came out of anger rather than from an effort to try and save her (this had happened more than once before), so I decided I’d better call 9-1-1.

It seemed like the ambulance was there before I hung up the phone. The medics went to work. From my stoned-out perspective it looked like they were performing open-heart surgery. My mother moaned and threw up on the weird brown suburban shag carpet. Two cops parked outside and came sauntering in. I paid no attention to them. I was fixated on the unfolding drama. Mom passed out again. “Fuck!” one of the ambulance guys said quietly. They made their magic orange gurney spring to life. They flopped her onto it and then shot out the door as if she were a time bomb that might blow up the whole block.

I noticed then that one of the two cops was Officer Beatrice Walls, whose new blond bowl cut surprised me for its radical unattractiveness. We knew each other from a previous idiotic skirmish. Most of the cops in Rockville Flats knew me. I hated all of them. About a year before, Walls busted me for shoplifting. I’d stolen a Penthouse and dropped it accidentally on the way out of the store. I was the catch of the year for the store rent-a-cop, but a routine bust for Walls. This all happened while I was cutting school. The judge dismissed the charge if I agreed to do twenty hours of community service. So I spent a little time digging around in a county irrigation ditch for a couple of weekends. Big deal. The school suspended me for five days for truancy. Suspending a kid for cutting school is like punishing a masochist. I was thrilled.

I could feel Walls’ eyes on me. She whispered something to her partner, an Officer Duke, a tall, tanned rookie trying very hard to look menacing. He nodded. She seemed to be his mentor. He stood by studying everything she did. 

“Sorry about your mom, Owen.”

Walls sounded like she was teetering on the edge of sincerity. I said nothing. I was trying to appear as though I wasn’t high. We were standing by the open front door. The ambulance backed out of the driveway and screamed its way to the hospital. Walls’ squad car was parked like nobody else would ever park, diagonally, on the lawn. The obnoxious, manic, red and blue twirling lights exacerbated my disorientation. 

“I guess I have to go to the hospital?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said, closing the door. “But first I’d like to know what’s gone on here tonight.” She took out a flip notebook and a pen and stood there poised to write.

 “Nothing has ‘gone on’ here tonight.” 

“Your mother just got hauled away in an ambulance.”

“You’re blaming me for this?”

“Well, what happened?”

“She doesn’t need an excuse to get shitfaced, does she? She and Romeo have been having problems. Maybe that’s what it’s about this time.”


“Her boyfriend.”

Walls squinted. “Oh, come on!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that that’s his stupid name.”

She turned to Officer Duke. “See what I mean?” Then back to me. “What kind of problems have they been having?”

“They can’t agree about where to retire on the French Riviera.”

“Watch it, pal.”

“I am watchin’ it.”

“What are your mother’s drinking habits?” 

What a stupid question! What an idiot!  “You saw her just now. What’s the mystery? She’s a goddamn raging alcoholic. The whole police department knows that.”

She scribbled all that while looking at me and not at the notebook, as if that were supposed to impress me. 

“Where’s the attitude comin’ from, Owen?”

“East Berlin.” 

She snorted. “That’s just dumb. That’s it for now.” She barked at the rookie: “Let’s go.”

 “I gotta use the bathroom,” he said. 

I stared at the couch, which still retained a vague but discernible outline of my mother’s body. I was thrown off-kilter by how rotten I felt after hating her for so long. 

“Do you have any other family?” Walls asked. 

 “There’s nobody else.”

“What’s your dad’s name?”

“Harry Kilroy.”

“Where is he?”

“Hey!” Officer Duke shouted. “You’d better come check this out!” 

She made a serious tactical mistake by not keeping an eye on me — a fuck-up that maybe could have put her back on a motorcycle, standing on the street in ninety-eight-degree heat, pointing a ray gun at passing cars. I’ll never know. All the stuff on her utility belt shook as she jogged toward my room. In my emotional hash-infused fog I’d completely forgotten that I’d left my door open — a fuck-up that was far worse than hers.

I took off running, winding my way around the black and white and off into the night. But there was nowhere to run. I knew I was finished. The cool desert night air was my last taste of freedom. Walls and Duke were chasing me now, demanding that I “halt.” I asked myself, for what? To give myself up to whatever horrors were in store? Was Walls going to shoot me if I didn’t stop? Part of me hoped so. 

I ran so fast and so hard that she was forced to slow down — she was out of shape — and I didn’t know where the hell to go at first. I thought about going to Shooky’s but it would be a big mistake leading the cops there. I could hear sirens screaming. 

A few houses were already decorated for Christmas, some festooned with bright, colorful outdoor lights. I’d seen them earlier, and on that sad night they looked more cheerful than ever. Santas, elves, sleighs, candy canes, and reindeer all congregated on the front lawns. Christmas trees decorated with more lights and glittery ornaments and topped by golden stars and golden angels stood in the windows of those houses. All this made the undecorated houses look like tombs. 

I crossed Rockville Flats Boulevard and looked behind me and there was Duke, stopping, turning around and running at full speed toward the sound of the sirens. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck that was about. He was running away from me. Walls was getting up off the ground. 

I threw myself over the fence that separated the boulevard from the no-man’s-land I’d spent so many afternoons and nights getting stoned in and headed to Manderley, a special little spot where Shooky and I always hung out. I took a second to rest and breathe. It was pitch dark. I could see flashlights, lifeless eyes not blinking, coming over the fence. I shimmied down a steep pitch into a ravine. It was even darker there, a pool of octopus ink. A minute later about a dozen of those dead flashlight eyes appeared around the perimeter. A cop shouted a blistering command to a police dog. It was Duke! So he was the K-9 cop. He’d gone for the dog. I was impressed. His command cut into the night air like a bayonet. I couldn’t understand what he was yelling but there was no doubt it sounded like deep trouble. I was Lee Harvey Oswald. I decided that if those bloodthirsty bastards were going to catch me I was going to make them work for it. They were in my backyard. I ran west, toward the Pacific Ocean. I’d always wanted to live by the ocean. So what if it was more than a hundred miles away? I could hear the wind, my breath, my feet landing on the hard uneven ground, the crazy dog barking viciously. 

Beatrice Walls shouted, “Owen, Owen!” in the loudest fake-friendly voice she could muster. “Everything is gonna be OK if you just stop running and show us your hands!”

No way out. No hope. I was the fun they were going to have that night. But I kept going. All the king’s soldiers were relentless in their blitzkrieg, but they were taking the long way around because they knew nothing about where they were or what they were doing. The flashlights moved across the ravine, the beams getting bigger, brighter. I found myself in a large open area that a science teacher once said had been a lake in ancient times. My only hope was to get across the lake and climb up to a ridge that a million years ago probably served as a platform from which cave men practiced their swan dives. From there I might stay free a little longer. I scrambled up the hillside and after a few attempts I pulled myself up onto the ridge. But the not-very-well-regulated militia was closing in. They knew more about where we were than I thought. I started running and slipped and fell into a ditch, eating the dry dirt, scraping my hands on the little bastard rocks. I crawled like a wounded diamondback under a big gooseberry bush. The cops were converging on me now, no more than thirty feet away. I heard one set of footsteps approaching, crackling on the rocky ground.

Walls said, “Owen, we know you’re under there. Show us your hands and come out! Unless you prefer to be dragged out by the dog.” Another command from Duke and the dog went crazy, as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks and wanted to crack my skull with his teeth. 

I looked behind me and saw nothing but a cluster of flashlights and the ominous silhouettes of the Flatvillian soldiers behind them. Above me, through the branches of the bush, the spectacular panorama of useless stars. There was a sudden violent rustling sound. In what she probably thought was a career-restoring move, Beatrice Walls dived under the bush and pointed her deputy cowgirl six-gun an inch from my temple. I looked at her in shock — she knew me better than that — and then I turned to face the ground and waited to die.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said.

Peter Marlton
is a pseudonym for Pete MacDonald, both as a fiction writer and as a musician and songwriter. He was born in San Francisco and has lived in Los Angeles, New York City, Seattle, and in three European countries. He’s published short stories, a novella, and essays in various literary magazines and The New York Times.

His latest book is the adult literary fiction, Eternal Graffiti.

You can visit his website at or connect with him on Twitter.

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