Category:

Ken Mooney Godhead giveaway.

5/9/2013

Tonight we have Ken Mooney on the blog with his book Godhead. Yep, he was here over the weekend as he had his ebook for free, which if I'm totally honest, threw out my schedule!

Anyway, he's had a slap on the wrist for it, and it looks like it's all worked in our favour since he is now offering a FREE signed paperback of Godhead! Wooooo!

All you have to do is go over to his Facebook page and give him a 'like'
http://on.fb.me/17AHa2s
that's it. If you already 'like' him on Facebook, follow him on Twitter
https://twitter.com/kenmooney
Once you have done one or both of those things (doing both gets you two chances), go to the event page and leave the comment: 'Aphrodite is a naughty goddess'. http://bit.ly/18wYasS Once all entries have been verified, I'll announce a winner. This competition will go on until tomorrow morning, so don't think that it's too late for you.
If you want to read more after the excerpt attached, go directly to his website to read an extra little snippet.
http://kenmooneybooks.com/

Tomorrow night he'll be back again with an amazing flashfiction piece entitled 'The fall of Bacchus'

Happy reading

Claire ♥

Ken Mooney was born in Dublin, Ireland and still lives there. From an early age, he wanted to be an author or a writer, going all the way back to when he used to write continuations of his favourite TV shows, films and comics: it's too embarrassing to discuss the contents here and now.

Ken attended Trinity College Dublin where he studied English Literature, furthering his love of genre fiction and the act of storytelling. A variety of desk jobs helped to pay the bills, but Ken was always found tapping away at a keyboard, and just couldn't get certain ideas out of his head.

Godhead was one of those ideas; it was originally written nearly fifteen years ago. Like most things, it's changed significantly since then, but the bare bones are still there. What it's turned into, however, is something completely different.

Ken works in the TV advertising industry, and when not writing or working, he can usually be found reading all sorts of literature or comics, playing video games, watching TV or movies...and then arguing over their literary merit (or lack thereof.)

A Quick Get To Know The Author

FIVE FACTS ABOUT YOU THAT PEOPLE WON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU. CAN YOU JUGGLE? RIDE A BIKE WITH NO HANDS? DRINK BEER UPSIDE DOWN? SOMETHING UNUSUAL… GO!

1.You can probably tell I wear glasses, but I can't see a thing without them.

2.Since you mentioned riding a bike with no hands…I can't. Ride a bike. At all. No sense of balance.

3.I used an ATM next to Colin Farrell once.

4.I've an unhealthy obsession with Mean Girls.

5.Nine times out of ten, I'll kick all the covers off me when I sleep.


FIVE FACTS ABOUT YOUR NEWEST BOOK THAT PEOPLE WON’T KNOW. SOME BACKGROUND HISTORY ON ONE OF YOUR CHARACTERS MAYBE? MAYBE IT WAS GOING TO BE CALLED SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TO START OUT WITH? IS IT THE SAME GENRE IT STARTED OUT AS?...

1.It was originally going to be called Kaos Rising (Kaos being the force of demons.)

2.In the first draft, Aphrodite died at the end. Infer spoilers as you will.

3.Two characters didn't make it to the final cut; one was moved forward from a later book to cover them.
4.The scene where Megan's grandfather passes away is based on the death of my own grandfathers; both of them died in pretty similar circumstances within a month of each other. That scene was a way of dealing with that, and sort of acknowledging them.

5.My favourite part of the book is the last sentence.

FIVE FACTS ABOUT YOUR NEXT BOOK… NAME, GENRE, EXPECTED DATE OF RELEASE…

1.It's called The Hades Contract. It's god Hades in it; there'll also be a contract…

2.I'm hoping it'll be out early 2014.

3.I'm ridiculously excited to see what my designer comes up with the cover. I hope it's red.

4.Godhead is heavily inspired by The Odyssey and Oedipus Rex; The Hades Contract is a bit more courtroom drama…
5.I've planned three short stories to fill the gap between the two, and hoping the first will be published on my website in September/October.

THREE TIPS THAT YOU THINK MIGHT BE USEFUL FOR OTHER AUTHORS… ANYTHING YOU WANT. IT COULD BE, TO WRITE A CERTAIN AMOUNT EVERY DAY, ONLY WRITE AFTER MIDNIGHT AND NEVER GET GIZMO WET (SORRY, THAT’S GREMLINS NOT WRITERS! MY BAD.) MAYBE IT’S SOME INFORMATION THAT WAS GIVEN TO YOU THAT HAS HELPED YOUR PROCESS…

1.Some scenes never work. Just keep going through them; you'll pick it up in edits.

2.Never trust the story to be final until you've published. You'll make changes till the end, but at least then, it's too late.
3.Know your characters inside and out: it doesn't have to show on the page, but if you don't know them, scrap em.

Goodhead Teaser & Cover

Olympus would soon be in ruins.

The sky overhead burned, smoke and flames licking against a blue dome that arced overhead. That same sky should have been free of clouds, save for when the rains were permitted to come and tend the land. But a black fog had come to spoil its perfect clarity, a thick creature of embers and ashes that haunted the sky, attacking eyes and lungs. Its tendrils whipped through the air, branches of smoke reaching forward in the darkness, ready to wrap their arms around the city.

War had come to Olympus, and it would not be quick to leave: it had worked its way through the city’s streets, into its buildings, into the homes and hearts of the city’s inhabitants. It had spread like a sickness, a virus that gathered momentum as it had grown in strength, consuming everything it touched. Only one place had remained untouched by battle, but even here, the signs of war could not be ignored: the Great Temple dominated Olympus’ skyline, giving a view of the city with its mountainous walls on all sides. Smoke obscured the view, but as the thick billows ebbed and flowed, the Great Temple provided a singular watchtower for the city’s destruction.

The temple was set atop a stone plateau that rose in the centre of the city; its sides were steep, rising near-vertical from the ground, dark greys lined with gold and marble veins that reflected always-dazzling sunlight. A single flight of steps led up these sharp sides, hewn into the rockface, white marble marching steeply towards the temple’s doors. These steps were a symbol, a test: they were not there to be climbed. They were a penance that visitors should undergo before the gods would entertain them, before they would be allowed access to the temple.

As one climbed the steps, the temple rose ahead, filling the gaze, a vast courtyard before it that served as meeting place and statuary. Curved colonnades embraced this plaza, much as the mountains embraced the city below: in each archway stood a different sculpture, heroic figures forged of gold, hewn from marble and stone, keeping watch on this hallowed place.

The Great Temple itself rose behind another twelve mighty steps; the building was round, so vast that its size and shape could only be appreciated from the city far below where its white marble burned as a second sun in the daylight, remained an unmoving moon in the twilight. The walls were punctuated with small balconies and windows, walkways and stairs snaking their way between them. But these could not be seen from the courtyard: from here, the temple’s greatest feature was its doors. Constructed from the same marble as the building, the doors were flush with its surface, decorated with gold etchings and jewels. These doors were usually open, welcoming visitors inside after their harsh climb.

But at this time, the doors had been sealed, closed against the world outside.

This was the home of the gods, and war had come to their city.

***

The vast room behind the Great Temple’s doors did not have a name: it was a throne room, a council chamber, a place of festivities that occupied the entirety of this level. Twelve balconies lined the room, giving access to just some of the pathways and chambers that led to the other parts of the Temple. The walls of this room rose high, forming an incomplete dome in the centre of the ceiling, open to the usually-perfect sky beyond.

But now it admitted only smoke and ash: the absent sunlight cast the edges of the room in significant shade. Opposite the door, a large throne dominated the room: like much about the temple, it was hewn from perfectly white marble, but this was unblemished with any veins, an oddity in itself. It had no identifying features save for its size, wide enough for several men to sit in, high enough at the back that even were a man to stand on the seat, he would not be able to reach its top.

But this room’s most dominating aspect, its most unusual feature, was the pool in the centre of the floor: many believed that the pool was endless, that its depths reached into the very bowels of the earth itself, deeper than any man, mortal or god, could go. Even as the gods had built their temple into the rock beneath this place, they had found the ground beneath this pool unyielding.

At its centre was a tree, a bark of silver-white wood that shimmered with light, even in this dark hour. The tree grew from the water itself, its roots stretching just under the surface. It was always in bloom, regardless of the season, always shimmering with a white light that cast rainbows through the water underneath and the marble walls of the room. Some of its blossom had fallen, white petals floating on the smooth water below, clinging to life even as other flora would have drowned.

The Olympians had no formal name for this tree: it had been here longer than the city, would no doubt remain even after the walls around it had crumbled. But they knew the truth of its fruit: this was the source of their powers, the very thing that had made their ancestors gods. Many of them believed that the tree was linked to their souls, that if they died, their Essence would return to this place and passed onto another.

The war already had a high cost: if this story was true, many of the gods had already returned to the tree.

This great room, usually bustling with life, was empty save for one woman, bent low as she stared into the hidden depths of the pool. As she stood to pace, she glanced at the great doors, toying with the idea of leaving the relative safety of the temple, wondering what awaited her beyond the walls.

If the gods of Olympus had a queen, this was she. Hera, keeper of the Great Temple, wife of Zeus, and one of the few gods not armed for the battle outside. The gods had no qualms about women on the battlefield, so Hera’s absence was not due to some misogyny. Hera and her capable powers were to be the last defence; if the Great Temple were to fall, Hera had been left explicit instructions, a final effort that could either save or damn the city.

On the eve of battle, Zeus had sought her counsel, whispering to her of love, of honour, of duty. In Hera, Zeus had sown the seeds of a plan, of a victory for the gods, a victory that necessitated her survival; if the gods were to survive, Hera would be the instrument of their salvation. The other gods knew of his plan: he gave them the courtesy of voicing their disagreement and their dissent, but it remained a courtesy. All of the gods knew the dangers that they would face, knew the toils that battle had already taken on their kind.

The gods did not love Hera, not like they loved Zeus; what deference they showed her was tied to her age, to her powers and her position. Even as they bowed before her, they did not lower their eyes. It was her own fault: she had done little to earn their trust, allowing herself to be consumed with challenging the purity of her husband’s bastard children, of clinging to the Olympian throne. Her pride had made her many enemies, most of them in her own family. But as that family had withered and fallen to war, Hera had realised the error of her ways for one reason alone: Hera feared for her life.

She bent once more, white and cream skirts gathered around her so she could kneel low, drifting one hand through the waters of the pool and sending ripples across its surface. The water sent fire through her senses; at once warm and cool, at once permissive and resisting her touch. In its waters, her reflection was that of a much older woman than she remembered, her hair and face turned grey and blue by the waters’ depths.

A whip-crack of sound caused her to start, rising to her full height and letting the skirts fall from her lap. She dressed simply, as did most of the gods, beige robes covering her shoulders but leaving her arms bare, a fine golden braid tied around her waist and hanging loose on her right side. In her auburn hair she wore a simple golden diadem, two golden bars criss-crossing in waves.

She turned to find Hermes mere feet behind her: in the vastness of the chamber, he was startlingly close. His robe was loose around his waist, hanging above his knees, his smooth chest bare to the elements, legs strapped into leather sandals. He wore a crimson cloak draped around his shoulders, hanging loose down his back as he leaned on his staff for support, a spiral of wood decorated with gold as tall as he was, the spiral doubling and twisting apart as the staff approached its tip.

“My queen, I came as soon as I could.”

His eyes darted low, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Hermes?”

Hera’s tone was brisk, pointed. She had enough of her time alone in this room; if Hermes had come with news, she would prefer that he share it. She stepped forward, her heart beating fast as he turned his face; he would not look at her, turning away as she tried to search his features. She knew that Hermes would not abandon the battle were it not necessary; she feared the worse.

Her hand touched his chin, pulling his face to look at her own: even as she did so, his eyes moved away. His face was red, nearly as red as his cloak; his eyes were dark, burnt by smoke and tears. A long gash broke his youthful features, torn into his face, wet with blood as it stretched from his right eye down to his lip.

“My queen.”

He looked at her, tears falling freely.

“It is Zeus. Your…Zeus has fallen.”