Philosophy is defined as a theory underlying or regarding a sphere of activity or thought. Well, my theory is if I can add at least 10 new books to my Wishlist and move at least 5 older Wishlist selections to my TBR list every month, then life is a ice cream sundae. And if I can find those 10 books from at least 5 new blogs each month then that's the cherry on top.


Well, I've made it almost 5 years now, so for better or worse, I continue on. I tend to blog in spurts as the urge to be creative erupts. As I don't have an artistic bone in my body, you will see very few changes in the layouts. Hey, I'm a reader not an artist like so many of the awesome bloggers I follow. I know you don't always have the time but if you stopped and looked, take a half a minute and say your piece. Recommend a book that you have enjoyed or hated for that matter. Thank you to all who visit.
Oh, and I moved my Google Friend Connect info and share this buttons to the top, as without our friends, who are we?

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Audiobook Release of Mudman by James A Hunter

  • MudMan: The Golem Chronicles,

    James A. Hunter (Author)Armen Taylor (Narrator)
  •  Volume 1 Audible – Unabridged

  • Listening Length: 13 hours and 57 minutes
  • Program Type: Audiobook
  • Version: Unabridged
  • Publisher: Shadow Alley Press Inc.
  • Release Date: August 2, 2016
  • ASIN: B01JH34EZC
Levi Adams is a soft spoken, middle-aged Mennonite man—at least he tries to be when he’s not murdering people.

Levi’s a golem, a Mudman, crafted from the muck, mire, and corpses of a World War II concentration camp—killing is just a part of his DNA. He doesn’t like it, but unfortunately he’s been saddled with a divine commission to dole out judgment on those who shed innocent blood. After seventy years as a cold-blooded murder machine, however, Levi’s trying to change his grisly nature. And the AA meetings and church services are helping. A little. But when he runs across a wounded girl, Sally Ryder, during one of his “hunting expeditions,” he realizes self-help may have to go on the back burner.

Someone is attempting to revive a pre-Babylonian murder god, and the road to rebirth is paved with dead bodies. Lots and lots of them.

Now, Levi must protect Ryder—the key to an unspeakable resurrection—and defeat a Nazi mage from Levi’s murky past. But the shadowy mage holds a terrible secret about the Mudman’s unorthodox birth, one offering insight into Levi’s morbid compulsion for bloodshed. It’s a secret Levi would pay anything to uncover: maybe even Ryder’s life. If Levi isn’t careful, he may end up turning into the monster he always imagined himself to be.

  • Awakening
    June, 1943
    He blinked his eyes open for the first time: a newborn stealing his first look at the world,
    which, in a way, is exactly what he was. Except no squealing, rosy-cheeked infant had ever been
    so big, so ugly, or so filled with blood-boiling rage. Never had a child been so appalling. He
    squinted at first, letting in only the merest trickle of light because even the wan illumination from
    the moon, which loitered over the world like a fat thumbnail, was harsh to his virgin eyes.
    Smells came next: the scent of musky earth, the harsh tang of powdery slaked lime—used
    to mask the reek of decay—and buried beneath that, the sour stink of rotten flesh and burnt hair.
    The sky spit down a misty drizzle, fine droplets of cool water that turned his gray skin
    slick. After a few moments more his eyes adjusted fully, allowing him, at last, to survey his
    surroundings. Mud and muck, deep brown and goopy, lined everything. It squished beneath his
    shoulder blades, clung to his arms and legs, and liberally coated the corpses crudely piled to his
    right. Despite the mud, the bodies appeared almost white, like angry specters waiting for him,
    welcoming him to this new hell with silent screams and vacant eyes.
    How he knew anything was beyond him, since this was the first day of his life, the day—
    or rather night—of his unnatural birth. Surely, no baby pushed and fought its way into the world
    with dark and grisly thoughts of murder and death lingering in its mind, with knowledge of mass
    graves, heinous experimentation, and hasty executions. But he knew such things. Fragments of
    memories floated and swirled inside his skull, dancing a slow funeral dirge, parading incoherent
    snatches of imagery through his head.
    The Wehrmacht march through the streets in their black spit-shined boots and high-
    collared, gray wool uniforms. Smart and dashing, those uniforms, dressing up the face of murder
    in civility and pageantry …
    The Luftwaffe soars overhead. The buzz of the single-prop Focke-Wulf and the
    thunderous roar of the colossal Messerschmitt transport planes fill the air with their racket …
    He clutches a small boy to his chest, his body trembling as he hides, holding his breath
    for fear of being heard. Terror and panic wriggle in his guts as the black-garbed Schutzstaffel—
    the SS—make their way from door to door, fists rapping on wood, rifle buttstocks smashing out
    windows, booted feet kicking their way inside …
    Then, train cars, loaded to capacity, roll through his thoughts. Bodies press up against one
    another so tightly he can’t breathe—except he isn’t a he, but a she. And she is searching for her
    sister. They’d been separated in all the chaos …
    So many images, circling around, each screaming more loudly than the last, each
    demanding he lend them an ear or an eye or a hand. He clutched at either side of his head. Broad,
    fleshy palms pressed in as though he could simply pulverize the images and send them back to
    whatever nightmare they’d come from. But they kept coming, and as they came—faster and
    faster, like a hail of automatic machine gunfire—his chest began to itch and burn. It felt like
    someone had taken a cherry-red fire iron and jabbed it into the meat covering his breastbone.
    A huge hand flew to the pain, his fingers finding crude markings etched directly into the
    skin, cut deep into the muscle below. As he touched the mark, the jagged wound, the voices and
    visions coalesced into a single demand. A demand for retribution. The anger came next, flowing
    from the brand like gasoline pumping through his veins, scorching his insides and propelling him
    to action. He lumbered to his feet, the muck squishing around his thick toes, and made for the
    muddy wall of his earthen womb. In reality, an open grave. He dug his digits in and used his
    flabby, though powerfully built, arms to pull himself upward and free.
  • He lay on the edge of the pit for a long beat, charting the lay of the land, eyes scanning
    the dark, which covered everything like a velvety blanket. In the distance, not so far off, he saw a
    squat building. Some sort of bunker, outlined by the faint glow of light bulbs. He wasn’t
    surewhat he was. Where he was. Or how he’d gotten there. But, as the brand burned in his chest,
    he was certain of one thing: someone—or, perhaps, lots of someones—had quite the butcher’s
    bill to account for, and he was ready to collect.
Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thiland. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

No comments: