Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Book Spotlight : “You Are Not a Planet and Other Stories” by author Sean Manseau

Today's spotlight is on author Sean Manseau's exceptional and thrilling book "You are not a Planet and other stories", which is already making its successful presence in the world of Young Adult, Science Fiction and Fantasy genres. 

From the author's desk : My Ebook You are Not a Planet and Other Stories is Free today Nov 22 - Nov 23 on the occasion of Thanksgiving. Download this Free Ebook as well as gift your loved ones from the Amazon store by clicking on this link.

AUTHOR LINKS : Connect with author Sean Manseau

Author Page at Amazon : Books by Sean Manseau  

Facebook Page :

Book Spotlight

Ebook : YOU ARE NOT A PLANET and Other Stories

Genre : Science Fiction, Young Adult, Thriller, Short Stories

Author : Sean Manseau

Amazon Store  

Reviews : Multiple 5stars 

Blurb : SHUDDER... as Tom, magical creature and budding romance novelist, must battle to save the life of the man he hates most from elder god The One Who Laughs!

THRILL... to the adventures of young Prince Cazimir as he fights to save his nanny, Boris the Ice Bat, from becoming a breakfast for anarchists in "Kidnapped! By Cossacks!" 

WONDER... as the planet-eating Spacelord gambles everything in a desperate attempt to regain a lost love!

GASP... when you turn the book's final page and learn the fate of super-powered, super-heartbroken Planet Steve...and the rest of humanity as well. 

My Dear Veronica,
Because I am one of the world’s best-selling romance novelists, I get a lot of mail. Perfumed flattery, most of it. Lonely women send me fan letters or marriage proposals accompanied by risqué self-portraits. Occasionally the post delivers something disturbing, such as the box of homemade, blood-filled chocolates once gifted me by an especially ardent admirer. In any event, I reply only with an autographed headshot. I sign them, May the arrows of Eros find their mark for you. Bonne chance, Tom Rimbaud.
However, your note, and the difficult circumstances you describe, touched me. To wit: your husband has promised violent retribution should you continue “wasting time” pursuing your literary ambitions. Veronica, I am writing to tell you, you are not alone. I too know what it’s like to have dreams threatened by a tyrant. And so I’ve decided to share with you the story of my escape, in the hope it will inspire your own.
Would it shock you to learn that I, two-time finalist for the Romance Novelists’ Association’s Writer of the Year award, the author of The Indiscreet Infanta, The Sweetest Taboo, and The Ghost Who Warms My Bed, have been accomplice to many acts of rape, mutilation, and ritual murder? I’m afraid it’s true. If I were a man, my soul would be surely be destined for Hell. But I am not a man. The Cro-Magnon in rimless spectacles from my author portrait?  A model my literary agent met on Fire Island. Not me at all. Not even the same species.
No, a tulpa, the Tibetans would call me: a thought made concrete, a manifested fantasy. I am an unnatural creature imagined into being by a man named Charles Kraft. A master of the blackest magickal arts, Kraft conjured me to be his private joke, his butler, his scapegoat and patsy. But mostly I was created because he needed someone to curate his books.
Sitting atop a Queen Anne house on San Francisco's Fell St., our attic apartment was crammed front-to-back, floor-to-ceiling with Kraft’s library. Books were stacked on every countertop, spilled from the unused oven, and moldered in the bathroom’s clawfoot bathtub. Ancient and crumbling, stained and sticky, the volumes numbered in the tens of thousands, so many the old man had forgotten half of what he owned. Would that I could forget now! What compendiums of horror I catalogued and cross-referenced, what atlases of the unspeakable. They had titles the sensible are afraid to repeat above a whisper: the Daemonolatreia, the Malleus Maleficarum, the Unausprechlichen Kulten. Veronica, I must confess that even decades later and a thousand miles away, typing those words makes my scruff stand stiff.
These works Kraft had collected mostly by murder, murders I abetted by anticipating his every desire as he summoned infernal assassins to do his bidding. During sacrificial ceremonies I was always on hand with a hypodermic needle, or sharp knife, or cold beer, and always, the right book, open to just the instructions needed to corral a particularly unruly demon. Afterward I mopped the blood, swept up the viscera, and disposed of the bodies, so the old man could get back to watching his endless marathons of “Law and Order”. Yes, I was vital to his work, and for nearly thirty years I had served him gladly, without question. Until the day I first emerged from the fetid pleroma of the old man’s unconscious control to realize I had desires of my own…

Amazon Reviews view here 

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