Joseph A. Coley Interview

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Fish To Die For Excerpt & Cover

Excerpt from FISH TO DIE FOR – As we travel to Jalalabad, we can see the Kabul River running along the side of the highway. We stop and speak to a man who has set up a lean to with corrugated metal, shaking reams of fish he had pulled out of the river. Just out of courtesy, we buy a few of his fish and ask him about this legendary fish, the Cadaver fish. He told us he has never heard about this fish so we move on. We stop as we approach Jalalabad and notice that traffic was gridlocked. I asked a local riding a bike what was causing such a snarl. He told me in Pashtu, the local language, that it has been like this since the Taliban lost control. As we were leaving, he yelled out “At least with the Taliban, the trains ran on time.” Now, where had I heard that before?

The Black Hours Blurb

‘Look upon this wretch, all of you!  Look upon her and thank God for his love and his mercy.  Thank God that he has sent me to rid the world of such filth as this.’

1647 and England is in the grip of civil war. In the ensuing chaos, fear and suspicion are rife and anyone on the fringes of society can find themselves under suspicion. Matthew Hopkins, self -styled Witchfinder General, scours the countryside, seeking out those he believes to be in league with the Devil. In the small village of Coggeshall, 17–year-old Alice Pendle finds herself at the centre of gossip and speculation. Will she survive when the Witchfinder himself is summoned?

A tale of persecution, superstition, religious fundamentalism, hate and love, ‘The Black Hours’ mixes fact with fiction in a gripping fast-paced drama that follows the story of Alice as she is thrown into a world of fear and confusion, and of Matthew, a man driven by his beliefs to commit dreadful acts in the name of religion.

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The Black Hours Excerpt

Chapter 1

Alice pulled her cloak tightly around her as she pushed her way through the crowds. The gruesome shadow of the gallows loomed ahead, five rope nooses creaking in the bitter wind that whipped through Halstead’s bustling square. She wanted only to escape these people who knocked against her, surrounding her with their noise and smells. It had been a hard two days walk from Coggeshall in the biting cold and she was looking forward to the warmth and refreshment she would no doubt receive in Hannah’s home.

Around her vendors called their wares, children laughed or cried in excitement; women giggled and gossiped with each other, their breath cloudy in the freezing air, pausing now and then to slap their unruly offspring. Men told raucous jokes and drank toasts of warm ale, their voices rising above the howl of the wind.

‘It’ll be a good one today.’

‘That it will. Wish I’d got here earlier. Might’ve got a seat inside.’

Alice swallowed, her heart beating faster. This was not an execution then; indeed the accused had not yet stood trial. The nooses swayed as she passed by the gallows. Alice shivered as she imagined the poor souls that would soon dangle from those cruel ropes. She quickened her step, filled with a need to get to the safety and quiet of Hannah’s cottage.

She had not been to Halstead since the previous summer. The months since had been full of worry. Her father, Samuel, had taken ill, gripped by a cough that left him gasping for breath, his eyes wide with a fear that turned Alice cold. The harsh, long winter had only made him worse, and Alice and her grandmother Maggie were becoming desperate. Although skilled in the use of herbs and plants, nothing Maggie had given to Samuel had made a difference. Eventually they had been left with no choice but to seek the help of Hannah Woodbury, an old friend of her grandmother’s. Maggie had known the wise woman all her life, and had a high regard for her ability to cure ailments when all other remedies had failed. However, the two women had not been in contact for the past year. Alice had thought it was because of an argument, but as Maggie had packed her a basket of food to take on her journey, her eyes had been fearful.

‘Take care when you get to Halstead, Alice. Mind you speak to no-one. The fewer people that know you seek Hannah, the better.’

Alice had looked at her grandmother questioningly. Maggie had hesitated, then pursed her lips.

‘These are difficult times, Alice. There is so much suspicion.’

A series of wracking coughs from the bundle of blankets in the corner of the cottage had sent Maggie rushing to Samuel’s side. Despite her fear, Alice had smiled at her grandmother. She had to do something to help her father.

‘I will be fine, Grandmother. Do not worry. Besides, if Hannah knows how to help Father, then I have no choice.’

Now, as she finally made her way out of the crowds, Alice felt that fear again. She took a small, overgrown path that was sheltered from the icy wind by a row of scrabbling crab apple trees. The ground was slippery underfoot, the mud frozen around clusters of sharp stones that Alice could feel through the thin soles of her boots. The bare branches of dogwood and hawthorn snagged in her skirts, catching on her cloak as she left the noise of the square further behind. Hannah liked to keep a distance from others, choosing to live in a tiny cottage on the edge of some scrubland on the very outskirts of the town. Alice could understand why. More than once the old woman had been blamed for the bad luck, bad weather and disease that periodically caused death and destruction among the townsfolk. But Alice was sure that whenever those same people needed something, some curative for an affliction, a draught of herbs to see off an infection, or a potion to restore or relieve, they would turn to Hannah, conveniently forgetting the names they had whispered as she had passed them in the street, or the doors they had slammed in her face when times were hard and she was in need herself. And Alice was sure that Maggie had suffered the same way, though she tried to hide it, knew that it worried her as she watched Alice grow and learn about the powers of the plants that grew around them.

It was silent as she walked on, the cold having driven any creatures to ground. All Alice could hear was her own footsteps as her boots struck the solid earth and the relentless whistle of the wind. The path became more and more overgrown, and she was forced to push her way through the branches, the sleeve of her cloak wrapped over her hand to protect her from the thorns. It was as if no-one had passed this way for weeks. Through the silence came the distant sound of knocking. Alice paused for a moment, the cold catching at her throat, and listened carefully. There was definitely some sort of rhythmic thumping ahead of her. Puzzled, she pushed on, the noise becoming louder with each step. At last the branches grew thinner and she eventually stepped free; Hannah’s cottage standing alone in front of her.

It looked more run down than she remembered; the thatch was patchy in places, ivy straggled thin woody stems across the grimy walls and the door swung haphazardly on its hinges. This explained the knocking then, the door thumping back and forth in the wind. It was not like Hannah to leave her home open like this, vulnerable not only to the cold winds. No smoke billowed from the chimney either. Surely Hannah was at home? After all, she would not be in the town; she was not one to attend such horrible gatherings. Apprehension gripped Alice – no smoke meant no fire in the grate; perhaps Hannah was ill?

Cautiously she approached the cottage, her breathing heavy, fear combined with the cold clutching at her chest with each intake. The door continued to bang. As she drew nearer, Alice saw that only one hinge held the heavy door to the frame; the other was twisted, hanging from a single rusty nail. A boot-sized dent had caused the lower half of the door to buckle, the wood broken and splintering at the edges. Tentatively, Alice pushed against the upper half and the door flew inwards, into the darkness beyond. For a second Alice was taken aback by the stench. The air was musty despite the cold and was under laid by a fetidness that enveloped her, a closeness that made it even harder to breathe. It was as if a brimming pot had been left to stand for days. But Hannah was clean, scrupulous even, despite her poverty. Perhaps she was ill then, or worse.

‘Hannah, Hannah, are you there?’

Alice’s voice sounded too loud in the silence. There was no reply, only the howl of the wind in her ears.

‘Hannah, it’s Alice. Alice Pendle.’

Still silence. Grasping her cloak tighter, Alice stepped over the threshold. It was dark inside the cottage, no candle was lit, and the odour was stronger. Wrinkling her nose, Alice waited for her eyes to adjust. The door slammed behind her and then continued its banging, the hinge creaking in time. She turned and wedged her basket in the gap, relishing the quiet for a moment. Once used to the dimness, Alice could see that the room was in turmoil. Furniture was overturned and smashed. Jars lay broken on the floor. A few scraps of what looked like Hannah’s clothing were piled on the hearth, charred and singed. Someone had tried to start a fire with them – but who would do such a thing? Alice picked up a handful of the blackened remains, shaking her head in confusion, suddenly very afraid. Something dreadful had happened here.

The Black Hours eBook Giveaway

Emotionally Compromised Synopsis

"A smile will get you far, but a smile and a gun will get you farther" -Al Capone.

Federal Agent Alex Turner deals better with guns than boyfriends, and prefers it that way. Her emotional range is bleak, but her aim is damn near perfect.

Thinking saving the world is a far easier task than dating, Agent Turner springs at the opportunity to prevent young scientist Marcus Gibbs from selling his biological weapon to the highest bidder. With her goal in sight, and Marcus eating out of the palm of her hand, an obstacle she doesn't see coming interferes. Meet Jeremy Hunt -- the distractingly handsome CEO of Sunscape Biotechnologies, and Marcus's boss and best friend.

A man who is accustomed to getting what he wants, Jeremy's never been one to take no for an answer, which has Agent Turner realizing for the first time that her wit might get her farther than her weapon. With no protocol or training to reference when it comes to matters of the heart, she worries that this might be her hardest assignment yet.

Emotionally Compromised Trailer

EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED TEASER

TEASER #1


The car pulls away, and I am alone with Jeremy, who is now standing right next to me.

I stare into the distance, not wanting to make eye contact even though I know he's staring at me. I bob back and forth on my heels, waiting for a cab, wishing for this moment to be over. He scoffs next to me, and I still don't budge.

As if he can't take it, he says, "Really?"

The statement almost offends me. I turn to look at him, and it is a blatant mistake. He stands with hands in his pockets in a nonchalant sort of pose. My mouth starts watering. Focus.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"You're kidding right now, right? That stunt you just pulled with Marcus. Is this all because I grabbed your ass?" He is coming dangerously close to being crude, and I decide to get right to the point.

"Is this because I offered him my number, and not you?"

His mouth forms a hard line, and he is all tough CEO, but I am no mouse and I stare right back. After a moment, he is trying to hold back his smile.

"Maybe it is." He pouts.

When Jeremy pouts, it's a remarkable sight. I gulp over my last thought.

"Well, I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not," I say.

As if dumbfounded, he continues, "Why Marcus? Why him? He's been a drunk slob all night!"

Is he really putting down his friend? I wonder if talking about his friends this way is a habit.

I turn to look away because I can't think of a logical response. He knows I am attracted to him, and I will not let him take advantage of that fact. I can tell he thinks it's funny that I am giving him the silent treatment, and it annoys me. He riles me up!

He leans in somewhat close, and in a mocking tone, he says, "Is it these blue eyes? Are they too much for you?"

Before I can stop it, a laugh erupts from my mouth, and I look at him and roll my eyes.

"Mr. Hunt, you are definitely not used to not getting what you want, and it almost pleases me that I can affect you so."

He bites his lip, nodding his head as he looks away.

"You're toying with me."

Maybe I am.



TEASER #2


I try the distraction technique. I press my lips against his, and though he is shocked by the move, he accepts them willingly. His lips devour mine in need.

He slams my body hard into the wall, and pins me with his hips. His hands drag down my torso, gripping my behind roughly, and his fingers dig into my skin.

This is Jeremy Hunt. Commanding and demanding. Another favorite. With this version, I don't need to think.

He pulls away from me, out of breath. "I need to know we are OK." I realize this is our way of doing things. Sometimes I suck at talking, and this might be my only way of showing him that we are fine.

His mouth covers mine again, and I can't help but whimper. He pulls away once more. "That's better."

The bastard knows that talking like this isn't my thing, and he seems aware of his power over me. I return his heated crystal glare with a wry look. Obviously, he's aware I let him control me. "Fine. Let's not talk, then."

He scoops me up, bridal style. "Jeremy, what are you doing?" I yelp in surprise.

"You don't want to talk. Fine! But I will at least make this more comfortable for both of us." He beelines for my bedroom.

"I am no good at talking," I blurt out.

He raises an eyebrow at me, starting up the steps. "Oh really? I think you are good at it when you are scolding me."

Before I can respond with something sarcastic, he throws me onto the bed. "Jeremy!"

"Oh, are you angry at me now?"

His grin is infectious as I watch his Viking form, in only his boxer briefs, crawl over the bed toward me. My previous anger vanishes, and I smile. How does he do that?

Before I can finish my thought, his lips come down on mine hard, he presses his hips into me, and he grabs my hands, pinning them above my head. His tongue dips into my mouth for a brief moment, teasing me, eliciting an involuntary moan to slip from my lips.

He pulls away looking triumphant. "Now that I've got you calmed down, and right where I want you"—his eyes glitter mischievously—"you need to know that I am glad I am everything to you."

My eyes widen, and the previous panic seeps back into my core. My arms jolt, trying to get free of his grasp, but his grip is firm. I try to speak, but he cuts me off with an authoritative voice. "I am not finished yet." He places a chaste kiss on my lips to soften the conversation. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, and I have to admit that would frustrate the hell out of me, but for now I will let it go. I just want to say a few things. Maybe we don't know what everything means to us, but those feelings are mutual. You don't need to be scared, or embarrassed by your emotions. I can tell this is something you don't know how to handle, and in a way, it's kind of"—he tilts his head to the side as if pondering it for a moment—"cute."

I furrow my eyebrows at the word cute. Teddy bears are cute, not trained federal agents.

He laughs at my look and kisses the soft skin between my wrinkled brows. "You are so much cuter than you let on, but that is beside the point. You are a lot to handle, you know that?"

My lips twitch playfully, hiding my own secrets.. "Oh, you have no idea."

We both let out a belt of laughter, and things feel back to normal. Whatever normal means to us.



TEASER #3


I try to soften my expression and unclench my fists as I stand before Marcus. The deep-seated hatred I feel for this man is indescribable, but I keep my cool. I don't have a choice.

Marcus's eyes feel heavy as they drag down my body and then back up, bouncing as they catch my eyes. His demeanor is harsher than I remember of the pleading boy I first encountered at the club. Despite his transformation, I feel like the man could show a little, I don't know, remorse? Decency? There is no shame in his salacious expression. I'm tempted to comment on his audacity.

Bravo, sir. You have made me feel incredibly uncomfortable in under thirty seconds.

Although, this might be my angle. I take another drag from my cigarette, smiling but eyeing him suspiciously. He lets the silence hang, and my patience wanes.

Fine, have it your way, Marcus. "I hope you don't mind my intrusion." I pout.

He shrugs, and I worry that he either knows my secrets, or is hiding his own.

I'll take option two, please.

"Glad to have some company, actually. What's your excuse?"

I raise an eyebrow, and I let my lip twitch, pondering his question. He doesn't seem too attached to his date. Thinking about that horrid woman, my eyes dart to the glowing windows. I spot Jeremy's towering, broad frame on the dance floor. My heart skips a beat. He is already dancing with her. He's smiling; she's smiling.

It's all going according to plan, isn't it? I feel my stomach plummet with jealousy. I take a deep breath, feeling the crisp night air burning an icy path where the cigarette smoke once was, trying to regain my focus.

"So, I see even you aren't immune to the Jeremy Hunt effect." Marcus interrupts my reverie. He takes a long drag, not taking his eyes off me.

Marcus is either entirely driven by his drug habit, or he has managed to accrue a substantial amount of confidence between now and our front door encounter almost a week ago. It’s in his eyes. Before he couldn’t even hold my gaze, but now his eyes are determined, teetering on piercing. I want to be impressed, but instead, I see it as another opportunity to work to my advantage.

I peruse the veranda, checking for any familiar faces. There is only one other couple out here canoodling, which means few observers. As my eyes swing back around, Derek makes his entrance onto the balcony through the double doors. Perfect timing, as usual.

Derek's lips don't move, and he doesn't make eye contact, but my earpiece buzzes with his disapproving tone. "Are you really smoking right now?"

The corner of my mouth twitches with a lingering smile. I take a defiant stance and take a long drag, bringing my eyes back to Marcus.

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Rewired Excerpt 

After slamming the front door, Charlie stood, lightly shaking her keys in her hand. With her frustration at its peak, she seethed, unable to control the twitch from the corner of her mouth.

Silence.

Don’t do it, Charlie. Not tonight. I’m in no mood for a lecture.

“You’re a FUCKING coward!” she shouted.

Shit.

She threw her purse across the room, its contents splashing against the wall and bouncing to the floor. Jesse remained with his hands in his pockets and his body motionless, with the exception of a small eye twitch.

Her tone fierce, she continued, “You fight. You fuck. You run. And you’re gonna fucking drown! Welcome to rock-fucking-bottom, Jess.”

“Oh wake up, Charlie! Take a good fucking look!” he shouted, pointing to his face. “This has always been and will always be rock bottom. It doesn’t get much more desperate than this.”

“Then why don’t you do something about it! Be a man for once in your life, and take responsibility for who you are and who you’ll become. What the hell are you waiting for? You think this is going to get any easier?” she continued screaming, emptying her lungs. She took a deep breath before continuing, “Goddamn it! You’re infuriat—”

Grabbing her arm and jerking her forward, he stopped her just as she was about to crash into his chest. His mouth, now devouring hers, removed the fury, the tension, and the rampage. Their lips were engaged in a fiery entanglement and Jesse began tasting the blood from the cut on his lip again. But it wasn’t enough to stop him.

Nothing would be enough to stop him now.

And Charlie showed no hesitation. Her fingers fumbled with the button on his jeans as Jesse ripped her cotton shirt from her back. Taking a moment to absorb the sensation, he allowed his fingers to glide down the length of her back, knowing that the feel of her smooth skin wouldn’t deceive him. His hands found her breasts, and as the white lace of her bra caught his eye, his intoxication with her flared.

I don’t care that none of this makes sense. I’m not going to stop this to ask her why she’s doing this.

I need her.

He lifted her up by her backside as she spread her legs, locking her ankles around him; he then carried her to the kitchen island. Slamming against it, she arched her back for him to set her down.

He pulled himself out of his jeans and boxers and stripped Charlie of the rest of her clothes. With one swipe of his hand, the roll of paper towels, vase full of daisies, and the perfectly arranged dishes went crashing to the floor behind her. He lay her down gently and spread her legs wider.

“I want to taste you,” he whispered.

His tongue, teasing her most sensitive area, began a devoted dance. He slipped two fingers deep inside of her with his lips whispering a secret, meant only for Charlie. She wailed in sweet desperation.

He let out a guttural groan, a reflex of wanting her to hear his desire for her. Her insides clenched around his fingers and he was unable to control his craving any longer.

Grabbing her calves, he slid her toward him. The countertop at a perfect height, he slipped himself inside, reveling in her immediate constriction. She gasped with her eyelids shut tight. After a few seconds, her entire body relaxed as Jesse ran his finger up the side of her leg.

“Are you ready for this, Charlene?” He stood still, waiting for her reply as she opened her eyes. “This is going to be fierce,” he said with a satisfied grin.

She responded by sliding down the counter another inch and lifting her hips, burying him deeper. His backside clenched and his throat trembled with an exaggerated exhale.

Slam after slam, Jesse crashed into her. The countertop creaked and Charlie couldn’t hold back her yearning rasps. Watching her breasts spring against the underwire of her bra, he put one hand behind her shoulder to keep her from sliding backward.

She put her arms straight out on each side, gripping the ends of the countertop. With her knuckles turning white, she slowly lifted her legs into the air, until her ankles were touching his shoulders. He slung them to one side of his neck and held on with a firm grasp, pounding into her, penetrating deeper than he thought was possible.

“Say it,” he said.

She looked at him briefly, asking a question with her eyes.

“Say you love me.”

Spreading her legs back down to his hips, she grabbed his shoulders and brought him onto the counter with her. Reaching her hands around his back, she slid them down to his ass, pushing him inside of her again. “No,” she whispered and arched her back as an invitation.

He continued slowly and stared at her face, trying to maintain eye contact. And even though she kept her eyes shut, she held onto him with an unyielding grip.

Soft and finite, Charlie was no longer just a fantasy but indeed his reality as he swept down and dominated her lips, tasting the flavor he had missed and craved for so long. And even if she wouldn’t say it, her body was whispering the words back to him again and again.

He tried to think of anything else to prolong it, but her warmth was so satisfying and so exquisitely rousing that he could no longer resist the anticipation with every thrust. And as the sensation built, the familiar feeling of his impending climax enveloped him as he thrashed forward thrice, falling to her chest.

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CRASH BOOK COVER

Crash Excerpt 

Chris knew that Michael could see straight through him. He’d have given every drop of blood and his final breath to give his son a guarantee that things would get better. But he couldn’t. They currently existed in a world without precedent. Life was now a desperate struggle. Looking at the small, dirty boy in his arms, he had to swallow the lump rising in his throat and blink away his tears. “All I can really promise you…” he coughed to clear his throat, “…is that I will do my best to look after you. I will do everything in my power to…” Before he could finish, a loud crash exploded outside.

In the past, Chris would have rushed to the window if he’d heard such a disturbance. Now he was much more cautious because ‘get off my land’ didn’t quite cut it anymore. He pulled the curtain back slightly and peered out.

The cold breeze hit him, and he flinched. Although it was winter, they left the window slightly ajar to try and let the smell of four dirty bodies out of their living space. As a result, there was more ice on the inside of the glass than the outside.

Their home was one of six large and detached red brick houses in a gated community. The houses horseshoed around a road that was wide enough to u-turn a bus in. Even looking at it now, with the overturned bins and abandoned toys, Chris could still see Michael and Matilda playing outside with their friends. The gates were made of iron, painted black, and did an effective job of keeping people out when everyone was living under the previous, if tenuously balanced, capitalist society. Back then, a gate meant keep out and was effective at enforcing its will. Things were different now. All that was left of the old social structures were memories. New rules were being established, and to survive you had to evolve. Failure to do so invariably resulted in death. With this in mind, Chris’ plan to hide away like a scared fox in a hole didn’t seem like such a good idea. Especially now the hounds had arrived.

“What is it?” Michael asked as he stood on tiptoes to peer through a gap in the heavy curtain.

A black and battered Ford F-150 had rolled through the gates. In spite of the superficial damage, it still looked relatively new. Chris assumed the huge truck must have been taken from the forecourt no more than six months ago because the angry and pockmarked paintwork showed no signs of rust. It didn’t have licence plates, so he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of its age, but he felt like it was a good hunch. He wondered for a moment where in London one would get such a car until he remembered the American car importer a few miles south. He assumed the driver was local.

A huge battering ram protruded from the front that looked like a steel pillar of about six feet long by four feet in diameter. It gave the truck a fierce nose that looked like it had been utilised many times. Its effectiveness was clear to see because the black gate that had once provided the family with such a strong sense of security had been cast aside like it was made out of cardboard. It now lay useless and mangled like a barely identifiable body part of someone who’d stepped on a landmine.

There were seven men in the back of the truck. They were filthy and bulked up with layers of clothes to combat the January chill. The youngest, Chris guessed, was in his mid-twenties, the oldest no older than fifty.

Chris looked at their weapons and saw steel bars with spikes, baseball bats wrapped in razor wire, long knives and swords, and even a tennis racket that looked like the edges had been sharpened to be as keen as the deadliest blade. Each weapon, without exception, looked like they could end a life with great efficiency. From looking at the fierce men with their deep frowns and blood-splattered clothes, Chris had no doubt that they already had.

He finally replied to his son in hushed tones, the fear of these men discovering them clinging to him like frostbite. “They look like looters.”

Crash Ebook Giveaway

Michael is kindly giving away two ebook copies of Crash to a couple of lucky winners. All you have to do is 'like' him on Facebook  or Twitter (links below) with the following quote:
I crashed into Michael Robertson on Claire C Riley's Blog!
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