Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Bernt Erik Bjontegard today, who will be unveiling an insightful excerpt from his latest book, History Rules My Tomorrow. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into this amazing book!

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About the Book

In this engaging and inspiring autobiography, Bernt “Erik” Bjontegard narrates his life filled with the stories of his grandparents’ sacrifices during WWII, his own mistakes and discoveries, and poses important questions on how to engage the listeners and their families to assist in creating and inventing better human-technology interfaces. Learning from his history, he is embarking on the journey to make his tomorrow better than today.

You can find History Rules My Future here:
Amazon | Audible | Everand | Apple Books | OverDrive | Kobo | Storytel | Audiobooks | YouScribe | Libro.fm | Hoopla | Nextory | Chirp

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Excerpt

Chapter Five — My Story

While my own life story does not include war, Mayan Indians, Nazis, or building new countries or nations, you may start to see some interesting trends that I have only now started to understand as my hair is turning gray.

I left Norway to study in the UK at 18 instead of attending the university in Norway where my father was a visiting professor. I had been accepted, and staying in Norway would have been easier. All the education was in Norwegian. In England, they speak English a lot, even more so in the university classes.

I worked on subsea engineering and robotics. I got stuck in a submarine at the bottom of the North Sea. It made me look into space and explore other paths, which eventually brought me to the USA. So, I shifted from subsea robotics to aerospace and worked with NASA on their space shuttle at one of their big sub-contractors.

I had great success and was on the corporate ladder, supporting Boeing and Airbus in certifying their aircraft for the FAA, but I wanted more adventure. So, I ventured into a completely different realm, from deep-sea robotics, aerospace, and deep space to the equally mysterious world of make-up and fashion. As you may be able to tell, it is not a typical employment path.

From there onward, I moved into another entirely different business sector: building new homes and communities and becoming a real estate broker and land developer. Once that wasn’t exciting enough, I went onto something brand new.

Mobile technology. Another brand new frontier. I came into telecommunications, looking for new ways to connect the physical and digital worlds and build a way to enhance daily experiences.

As an American sci-fi author, Kage Baker said, “I don’t think humanity just replays history. We are the same people our ancestors were, and our descendants are going to face a lot of the same situations we do. It’s instructive to imagine how they would react to different technologies on different worlds.”

You must have figured by now that I am somewhat unusual. I don’t choose the road that most take. Instead, I create new paths. While different from my forefathers and parents, we will explore some remarkable similarities.

I am a patented inventor. I have started new companies and have also gone bankrupt.I have made a fortune and have lost it all. I’ve lived in tiny apartments and huge mansions. I have had a large family to feed and have sometimes been alone with my boy with little support.

But throughout it all, I seek answers to new questions! I ask, then paint visions of the future in my head. I think outside the box. I have been recognized by the high-tech giant CGI as one of the top technology visionaries in the world and have won numerous awards and accolades, from recognition at the White House to magazine cover stories.

I choose to do things differently. I’m an idealistic inventor and fascinated by technological and scientific innovation. I have conceived and invented things that affect millions of people and more to come. The common thread between all these various industries has been my desire to do something different and deliver better outcomes. I model, recreate, build, and deploy, and then I seem to get bored and go to the next challenge!

Weird, huh?

I have traveled the world and met key political figures across the globe, from 10 Downing Street in the UK to the White House in the USA, from Abu Dhabi to Norway, and from Hong Kong to Thailand.

As I look to the future, I wonder what we can learn about the past. Can we look at my family’s history and see how this can be used to improve the algorithms of augmented intelligence systems of the future? Is this my next destination? I am building solutions that connect the physical and digital, creating new worlds—Metaverses and Phygital spaces.

During the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown, I discovered my interest in the lost art of storytelling. My family, our four kids, and my fiancé had conversations around our dining table and shared ideas. I have observed my kids’ changing use of technology over the years. Now, we sat down and talked about it instead of using it. This made me realize that technological advancement has challenged the human transfer of knowledge and experience. Before, it was the tech that enabled us to talk. Now, we sat down at the table and spoke.

It was as if we had rediscovered something powerful. The COVID pandemic made us pause and observe how we had become dependent on tech for tech’s sake. We had lost the art of storytelling.

Personally, as you may be able to tell, I’ve always been driven by the challenge of combining science and innovation in ways that improve our lives. This is especiallysignificant in today’s ever-changing digital world, but we must keep the human elements.

It’s about taking advantage of the latest communication innovations delivered to everyone’s hand, wrist, and pocket. We all walk around with these connected “supercomputers” —our mobile phones. They are far faster and superior to those my grandfather used at UCLA or those my father used to find oil. Better than those used to build and used to operate the Space Shuttle to deliver people to space and back! Vastly more powerful than those I used to ensure we are all safe when we fly commercial airliners. We have enabled businesses and organizations to drive dynamic marketing, services, and communications. The result is the ability to easily bring real-time, relevant experiences to people in places like convention centers, universities, airports, medical centers, hospitals, events, office buildings, and tourist destinations. We even use these computers to play games when in the restroom! With my patented platform, we even deliver a layer of contextual intelligence to communications, turning engagements into relationships. Today’s norm was crazy science fiction only a few years ago. Imagine what we will consider normal 5 years from now?!

An excerpt from Yuval Noah Harari’s book, Homo Deus: A History of Tomorrow, reads, “If Kindle is upgraded with face recognition and biometric sensors, it can know what made you laugh, what made you sad, and what made you angry. Soon, books will read you while you are reading them.”

This is possible today. My platform can do this and more… much more. Even when shopping, stores can read people’s reactions to products and ads served on shelves in real time. Creating experiences like those in the SciFi movie “Minority Report” with personalized ads and offers to those in front of the signs is quite easy with my platform. We can even do more. We can send that offer to your phone there and then, and with a single button, ship it to your home! Why is it not everywhere yet, you may ask? Sometimes, just because you can doesn’t mean you should. The creepy factor of these interactive AI displays is rather high. But soon, this will be common. Imagine a flight display at an airport changing the flight and gate information to your flight as you approach it and then sending the gate information to your phone’s indoor navigation system so the phone will tell you where to go. This is possible now with contextually intelligent signage systems, integrated indoor navigation, and hybrid mobile app interfaces. It’s all part of a Contextually Intelligent Communication Platform ecosystem.

Nowadays, technology is all around us; as we fast forward deeper into the territories of intelligent computers and brain interfaces, the question of whether technology isneutral or not arises. One can argue that no moral value can be accredited to technology.

Technology is blind, is the thought. Thus, tools only have value when a person with their value system applies them, and thus, the technology is dependent on the value system of that individual.

Hence, this outlook advocates that the operators are responsible for the ethical use of technology. This argument is used all over. Crypto itself doesn’t cause terrorism. Terrorist do. Another such argument is that we shouldn’t blame guns for killing people. It’s not the gun that kills in and of itself. It’s the person pulling the trigger. Guns are neutral; people aren’t. But isn’t the fact that the gun enabled the killer and that crypto enables terrorists to do their horrible acts of violence? So, then, the tech enables actions. In fact, in a way, with this mindset, the technology augments the human’s actions.

When evaluating technologies and what to invent, should we consider why and what they can be used for? Surely, the invention of the atomic bomb had these diabolic considerations—if you drop one bomb, hundreds of thousands will die. But if you don’t drop the bomb, the war will continue, and many more will be lost. Is it our values that determine what technology to build? It’s the consideration of what is good and what is right. If a choice to invent something may be used for evil and wrong reasons versus not inventing it at all, I would suggest that it’s better to invent and then invent ways to control it. Someone else will eventually invent something similar and may not have the same moral considerations as you do!

While the actual value for the technology users will determine how the technology is used, the fact that it only exists because of our values makes them inseparable. Thus, we can debate that technology can be maneuvered. It can add choices or improve processes that point in a specific direction.

In addition to that, when we get too used to how things are, it takes a greater struggle to see how things could be different. It takes a more creative mind to see it in any other way. As time passes and familiarity grows, the technology and its functions become so entrenched as to be hardly thought about or questioned.

In 1986, Robert J. Welchel wrote in IEEE Technology and Society Magazine:

“This moral neutrality is based upon viewing technology purely as a means (providing tools for society to use) with the ends (the actual usage of technology) lying beyond and outside the realm of engineering; this position also assumes that available means have no causal influence on the ends chosen. If technology truly is only a means, then engineering is a second-class profession since we are the mere pawns of the real power brokers. We buy our innocence at a tremendous cost: To be innocent, we must be powerless.”

A vital impediment here is our inherent acceptance of the failure to predict the future. If no designer, inventor, or company can foresee the future benefits and costs of what they build, how can they ensure they embed good values?

So, using the information we have, we must find the best explanations or predictions we can. We can learn from our mistakes and make better decisions if we consider how different technologies progress and their consequences.

This is important, as future technologies will likely be much more powerful and consequential than today. Can we find ways to ensure these systems are based on knowledge of what works elsewhere? What worked before? Is there a way to learn from this transfer of knowledge that passes from generation to generation when the ages cannot physically meet? Naturally, I cannot meet and talk with my great-great-grandfather; he passed away long before I was born. How am I following his path so closely?

So, we are heading into a future where it is important to start asking strange and new questions. When intelligent machines make their own ethical choices, it will make no sense to say that technology is neutral, and aligning our values will be tremendously important.

Now it is getting interesting, isn’t it? There is much more to ponder and think about. We all know that there are consequences to our actions. Now, we must consider that there are consequences to our thoughts, dreams, and visions.

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About The Author

Erik’s career path has been anything but conventional, spanning fashion, real estate, and advanced telecommunications. His time with Qualcomm’s Corporate R&D team saw him contribute to emerging platforms like Vuforia and Gimbal, and it was there he learned to write patents and began his deep dive into innovation. Erik is also an honorary Fellow at the University of Salford and serves on advisory boards for several universities, sharing his visionary insights with future generations.
In his autobiography, Erik reflects on his life journey, his family’s sacrifices during WWII, and the inherited spirit of innovation that connects generations. He explores how human experiences can shape the development of intelligent systems that enhance rather than replace human work.
Through personal stories and big-picture questions, Erik invites readers to imagine a better future—one where technology supports humanity, not the other way around.

You can find author Bjontegard here:
Author Website | Facebook | LinkedIn | X | Instagram | Amazon | Goodreads

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If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Adam Knight today, who will be unveiling an insightful excerpt from their memoir, Made of Iron: The Dina Jacobson Story. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into this beautiful book!

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About the Book

You can find Made of Iron here:
Amazon

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Excerpt

DINA’S STORY

Spring 1998

Stepping into the lecture hall of my high school filled me with a sense o freverence and awe. Ordinary classes on ordinary days took place in ordinary rooms, but the lecture hall was for special events. As a freshman, I had never been inside. I scanned the banked rows of hard-backed plastic seats and the laminated tables that curved in a semicircle around the lighted stage. A pair of chairs sat in the middle of the stage. One, I knew, was for my teacher; the other was for the guest—the guest for this special event.

I took a seat in the second row. I didn’t dare sit in the back row. People who sit in the back row send a certain message to the speaker. I also didn’t sit in the front. That was too close. I was, and will always be, a sit-in-the- second-row type of person. I set my overloaded backpack down by a seat, then plunked myself down. The seat swiveled. How fancy! How collegiate! I could hear the squeaks and groans of all of the other seats in the hall. My classmate who sat next to me commented about how we should have class here every day. I smiled and agreed. It’s just a thing to say.

Recently, in history class, we finished a unit about the Holocaust and genocide. It was the first time I learned about these topics, and as always, I studied and did well on the test. Our teacher, Mr. Adessa, invited this guest speaker to give us a better understanding of the material. Since I had already gotten an A on the test, I did not see how much better understanding I could have, but I welcomed any assembly that broke up the monotony of the school day. I was 15 years old.

Mr. Adessa stepped onto the stage. He was tall, over six feet with a military bearing that made him seem taller still. Mustachioed, hair swept back, he was a man who rarely smiled, I had come to recognize him as a teacher who was tough and demanding and expected more of his students than they realized they could handle. A teacher who would give a B+ to an A student, so the student worked harder to realize what an A requires. Me.

He welcomed us and invited us to sit and pay attention. His students obeyed.

“I have with me here an important guest to our school. She is also a dear friend of mine. In class, you have learned about the Holocaust. You have heard of the Auschwitz concentration camp. You have learned a little bit about what happened to those who survived. I want to introduce you to my friend, Dina. She lives in Elmira, about an hour from here. She has a family there and has lived here in upstate New York for almost 50 years. But before that, she grew up in Poland and—well, I will let her tell her story.”

He escorted a woman to the chairs on the stage. He stooped down to offer an arm, though she did not need it. This woman could not have been more than five feet tall, with curly white hair and piercing eyes. She seemed old, the age of my grandparents, but she moved with a sense of strength and surety that made her seem like she could live forever. She sat in one chair. Mr. Adessa took the other.

“Thank you,” she said, and I immediately heard the Eastern European accent. She faced the audience. “My name is Dina Jacobson, and I was in Auschwitz concentration camp.”

I listened, silent and respectful, as Dina spent the next hour telling us about her life. She told us a few details about growing up on a farm in Poland. She told us about Nazis coming to her hometown and taking her family away, then eventually taking her. Much of her talk consisted of stories about her years in Auschwitz. She told about the abuse she suffered at the hands of guards, about living off of no more than a cup of ersatz coffee and a thin slice of bread each day. She rolled up her sleeve and showed us her forearm, where a number was written in blue ink. I couldn’t see the number clearly, as I was two rows back. Mr. Adessa told us that if we want to come up and see the tattoo up close at the end of the talk, we will have an opportunity. I already knew I would not. That would be too close.

Dina finished her talk by telling us a little about liberation from the camp, and about living in Elmira. Then she took questions, and students wanted to know more about the concentration camps. They wanted details. They wanted to know how terrible it was, and Dina did her best to explain. I asked no questions. I was moved, though not to tears, like some of my classmates. I assumed that this talk, like most educational experiences, will settle into my memory and stay there. I assumed that between the unit in history class and the presentation that day, I learned most of what I needed to know about the Holocaust. I assumed my relationship with Dina would end after the talk, and my relationship with my history teacher would end in June.

About all of these assumptions, I was completely wrong.

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About The Author

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Robert A. Walker today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from their new series, The Legends of Baelon. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

About the Book

Excerpt

Sibil Dunn

By mid-morning, they were deep in what Gradi repeatedly referred to as “the wicked woods,” surrounded by coniferous evergreens, patches of smokewood, and masses of joining trees so closely knit the sun could not find the forest floor. Overhead, the only visible patch of sky mirrored the trail they followed, like a ribbon of blue framed by the tips of tall trees on either side. 

Warm air enveloped them, prompting conservation of movement. Their horses plodded along, side by side, hooves nearly silent on a carpet of duff.The lush forest undergrowth captured other noises, quickly suffocating them. But each snap of a twig, every rustle of dried leaves, reminded Sibil that the bortok thought itself the king of the Dark Woods, and its subjects all fair prey.  

There was little in the landscape to spark interest, or to distinguish one stretch of trail from the next, until the sudden appearance of a fork in the road.

“Corpse’s Choice?” she asked.

Gradi nodded. “Decision time. You’re sure you won’t turn back?”

Before she could answer, the old man raised a hand, suggesting she stay silent. What sounded like the faint patter of rain caused her to look back down the trail, her gaze fixed there until three bare-chested riders turned a corner into view.

The biggest of them, a heavy, burly man, sat atop his horse like a large soup kettle. Or is he half beast? Thick, dark hair covered his bare arms and chest. A dozen or more coarse braids dangled past his shoulders, a few resting on his untrimmed beard. A string of white shells encircled his neck. Two leaner riders followed, their faces hidden from Sibil’s view until Black Braids stopped his mount to gawk at her and Gradi. His companions sidled next to him, one bald with a square, clean-shaven face and sunken eyes; the other was clearly younger than his counterparts, despite his scraggly beard. Even sitting in the saddle doing nothing, he appeared wild-eyed and agitated. 

Just the type one might expect to inhabit the Dark Woods!

Wherever they were headed, the leader seemed in little hurry. Black Braids cast a look at Corpse’s Choice before cultivating his interest in Sibil. The way he stared reminded her of the king’s steward, and she glared back at him. He would have to do or say something especially pleasant in the very near future to change her first impression of him. 

He spat into the woods. “Lost, are you?” His bald companion circled slowly behind Gradi. The youngest, all too interested in Sibil, coaxed his mount so close to Shadow the two horse’s flanks rubbed against one another. Sibil’s hand crept inside her shirt.

“Listen to me, friend.” Gradi leaned forward in his saddle to capture Black Braids’ attention. “Where we’re going is of no concern to you.” The words came slowly, as though meant to be digested just as carefully. “But as I can see what’s on your mind, I’m going to do you a favor and tell you what you need to know. The young lady is to be received by someone of importance. I’m not at liberty to say just who has sent for her, but given our location and the direction of our travel, I think that you might guess. If she does not arrive when expected, and in sound condition, whoever is to blame for that will live just long enough to regret his actions a thousand times over.” 

“Is that right?” Black Braids snorted. “Someone special, is she? And yet…” His eyes spent a few moments studying Gradi and his rusted sword. “Whoever waits for her trusts the likes of you to protect her?” 

 “I’m not here to protect her,” Gradi said. “I’m merely her escort, and that should tell you something about the degree of trouble we are expected to encounter from others. You could easily dispense with me, no doubt. Just know that would offend the one who waits for her. She’s not to be touched. Not by me. Not by anyone. No one in their right mind would dare.” 

One of Black Braids’ little fingers barely twitched, but its message was as clear to Sibil as it was to its intended audience. The youngest rider removed his hand from Shadow’s rump.

Gradi cleared his voice. “You’ve been warned.”  

Clearly weighing options, Black Braids tried a different tack. “You don’t say. Perhaps whoever’s waiting for her would appreciate our joining you. Might they not be grateful for our protection?”

“They would not,” came Gradi’s curt response. “I’m to report any contact or unpleasantness upon our arrival. I trust I shan’t have to mention you, and that we’ll not cross paths again.” One of Black Braids’ nostrils began to twitch. Gradi’s expression did not waver. “I’ll close my eyes for a silent count of ten, shall I? And when I open them, I’ll pretend you were never here.”

Sibil’s fingers curled around the hilt of her knife. Her heart pounded as Gradi’s eyelids lowered. 

Black Braids gave her a last look, and she returned it impassively. He spat toward the ground before digging his heels into his horse’s ribs. “Hyah!” All three riders took the left fork and trotted out of sight.

Sibil’s hand relaxed.

Gradi opened his eyes, and for a long moment, he just stared at her. “We’ll stay put for a bit, and let them put some distance between us, shall we?” Sibil nodded. “Though I seriously doubt they’ll trouble us further.”

“You’re shaking,” Sibil said.

“Am I?” Gradi held a hand out and watched it tremble. “So I am.”

“That was…” Sibil struggled to find the right words. 

Gradi gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, it was.” He exhaled a heavy breath. “But I know the type.”

“Which is to say?” asked Sibil.

The old man smiled. “There are men whose courage is bound to their heart. It’s as much a part of them as any limb or bone. You cannot tame it, nor can they, not even in the face of certain death. It’s in their blood, you see, and will remain there until the last drop is spilled.” 

Like Rolft, wounded and unarmed, challenging the knife-wielding “cat” to attack him during the celebration of Six Moons!

“These were a different breed,” Gradi said. “Their courage comes and goes like water from their bodies. If they think they hold the high ground or sense a weak opponent, they drink it in and swell like a sponge. But if they sense the slightest threat or danger, their courage leaks from them as easily as sweat or piss until there’s nothing left. A baby lamb could be attacking them, but if they’re made to believe it is a bortok, if they see it as a bortok, they’re going to run and hide.”

“What told you they were this breed?” 

Gradi shrugged. “It was a gamble, to be sure. What I could see without a doubt was their intent. What else was I to do?”

Sibil nodded slowly. “I see.” 

“You know the kind of man I’m talking about?”

“I do. And now I know the kind you are as well.” She tilted her head toward the left fork of Corpse’s Choice. “Shall we?”

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About The Author

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Robert A. Walker today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from their new fantasy series, The Legend of Baelon, Six Moons, Seven Gods. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

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About the Book

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Excerpt

Night was falling as Sibil left the cobbler’s shop. She turned to watch its front door close, managing to wave before the cobbler’s wrinkled face and long leather apron disappeared inside. The small shop was, as the abbot had said, but a short walk from The God of Children’s House; she had had no trouble finding it following his directions. The abbot had given her a metal amulet in the shape of a rectangular shield the size of her palm. Its leather thong enabled it to be worn around the neck, but the abbot had told her to present it to the cobbler with one of her mother’s worn shoes upon arrival.

She had done so and, as predicted by the abbot, the cobbler—a kindly old man with a mop of white hair—had simply asked, “How do you come by this, my dear?”

And though it seemed a bit odd to her, she had responded as instructed: “Thank you for asking, Master Nash. Father Syrus prays for me.”

The cobbler had returned the amulet to her hand, folding her fingers around it. “Then I am at your service, madam. What can I do for you?”

When Sibil had explained her predicament, the cobbler had assured her that if she would return on the morrow at sunrise, he would have ready for her mother a pair of new turnshoes made of soft leather goatskin. There would be no charge.

Sibil retraced her steps down a narrow alley as her thoughts returned to her mother’s strange behavior. She had purposely ignored previous impulses to reconstruct the day’s events, telling herself she had more important things to pursue. She had first focused her energies on finding shelter, and then busied herself with the abbot’s offer of new shoes. Those would help her mother’s immediate plight, no doubt, but the woman’s physical ailments were clearly nothing compared to what was plaguing her mind. Things had not been right with her since Sibil’s father died. And they had gotten progressively worse. It was as though she had drifted away from her old self, and from those she had been close to. Sibil had not had a meaningful conversation with her for almons. There were sparks of life here and there, moments when Sibil dared to hope that her mother might be released from whatever enthralled her, but today’s events had seriously dashed any such dream. Aloof and withdrawn was bad enough. Now it seemed her mother was drifting from reality as well. Her irrational rants about the king and Sibil’s own safety were a new—

A violent force slammed into Sibil’s shoulder, knocking her sideways and into the alley wall. She lost her footing, falling to one knee, dazed. There was the sound of gravel grating under foot.

“Well now, lass, jest where might you be goin’?”

Sibil’s heartbeat quickened. She should have known not to take the alley. It was dark, but not so dark that she could not make out the shape of a tall man standing over her. She could smell him as well. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head toward his crotch.

Sibil still held the amulet. Instinctively, she drove it as hard as she could up between the man’s legs. He gasped and released her hair.

“Bitch!” The man reached once more for her, but Sibil had already drawn her arm back. She struck him again with the amulet, in the same spot, only this time with more purchase and resolve. “Agh!” Too late, the man struggled to shield his privates.

Sibil stood, dropping the amulet as she reached frantically for the dagger beneath her coat. Her fingers trembled as they curled tightly around its hilt. She brandished the blade menacingly, panting as she sought to ward off her attacker.

“Bitch!” The man drew his own, much larger, knife. He lunged as Sibil turned and ran straight into the arms of an even larger man she had not seen approaching from the other end of the alley. She tried to push away, but already he had wrapped a strong arm around her, pinning both of hers and lifting her off her feet. Still holding her, the big man grabbed her oncoming assailant with his other arm and threw him headfirst against the alley wall.

Sibil squirmed, but the big man held her tightly with one arm. With the other, he pried the dagger from her hand.

“I’m going to let you go now. No further harm will come to you.”

Sibil found herself standing on her own, unsure of what to think. The big man held her dagger by the blade and offered it to her. “Take it and be off.”

What’s happening? Sibil hesitated before instinct overrode all else. With another surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, she snatched her knife and ran.

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About The Author

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Andrew Goliszek today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from their new fantasy series, Like Embers in the Night. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

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About the Book

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Excerpt

Slumped almost lifelessly against the tufts of her chair, Wanda stared out an open window overlooking a lovely garden. Warm August rains had colored the grounds with a sea of vibrant flowers, their scent filling her room like a bouquet, though she barely noticed. Occasionally, even the most insignificant events would trigger memories from a time long gone: a soft whisper, a faint smell, the delicate warmth of a child’s breath against her face, the soothing melody of a Mozart sonata. It was at those moments that Wanda would waken from her darkness and, with a look of fear spreading across her face, remember her family in Radom, who had no idea that a hundred miles south, the skies rained gray with the ashes of a thousand souls. On most days, they hardly detected the grainy soot around them, or even witnessed an evening sunset because the five incinerators in Auschwitz burned bodies day and night. Before long, everyone in Radom simply got used to it—a lingering grit that filled the air and settled upon the smallest things: a blade of grass, a delicate flower, a pat of butter spread on toast, a tongue that flicked unconsciously to rid itself of a strange and fleshy taste that hours earlier had been someone’s husband or wife.

    Wanda’s memories these days came in and out, bubbling to the surface, then vanishing as if someone had reached in and wiped them away. On especially bad days, her world was a blank slate. No parents or grandparents to remember. No children or grandchildren to bring joy into her life. Not even a husband to keep her warm at night as she slept. The good sisters of Saint Francis who ran the Catholic nursing home tried as best they could to ease the bouts of anger and depression that overcame her. It didn’t help that Wanda, afflicted with worsening dementia, had, on some days, reverted to speaking Polish to everyone around her. 

    That particular day in early August started out as a good one. Perked up and searching the room for anything familiar, her eyes sparkled as she caught glimpses of happier days, but suddenly turned despondent when she remembered the day she’d seen her beloved Janek for the last time. He was eighty-six years old when she walked into his hospital room in Pensacola, Florida—a gentle shadow of a man with a Polish accent, a kind but stoic face, and such remarkable stories of love and suffering and war that they’d forever changed the way his children and grandchildren looked at life. The few friends he had knew him as John, but he preferred Janek, one of the few reminders he had of his beloved Poland. His hazel eyes, so animated they seemed to dance, would glisten with tears whenever he spoke of what his wife and daughter had endured in the brutal labor camps of Siberia; and it was at those moments when Janek’s eyes would harden and expose the very depths of his soul.

    Wanda remembered that morning like it was yesterday, picturing the ventilator tube snaked down his throat, his frail chest rising and falling to the rhythm of oxygen that kept his heart from stopping until his family could all gather and say goodbye for the last time, staring at his ashen face as she thought back to a life that most people would find unimaginable. Her bony fingers clenched as if holding onto something precious, she looked at a small painting of the Virgin Mary, then glanced around the stark room. Something familiar pervaded the silence. She felt alone, as she did on most days, though she rarely knew it or even cared, until her memory suddenly returned and she would whisper, “Janek. Where are you, my love?” 

    For the entire minute she was lucid, Wanda remembered pressing Janek’s cold hand into hers, thinking that he had no business being alive; that his children and grandchildren should not have been born; that whosever’s life he’d ever touched or changed, made better or worse because of his existence on earth, would be as different as night and day. And that whatever he’d done in his next forty-six years, whatever contributions he’d made, significant or not, would have vanished like dust in the wind were it not for the fateful day he’d risked his life and walked to freedom while twenty-five thousand other Polish soldiers marched in lockstep to Stalin’s execution order and on to their graves in the Katyn Forest.

    Over the years, Wanda had heard the tragic story of Stalin’s Katyn Massacre and the Polish soldiers executed and thrown into mass graves where they lay buried and forgotten for decades. Though she’d never spoken of it herself, and it pained her to listen to Janek’s heart wrenching tales of war, she’d accepted that, for him, it was cathartic. But as she grew older, and because she’d experienced more pain in seven years than most women would suffer in a lifetime, she prohibited even a mention of anything Russian, especially when Janek would describe a time in history when hell, in all its fury, had made its home on earth.

    Wanda’s Poland, with a population of only thirty-five million, was the only Allied nation that fought in World War II from the opening salvos of Nazi occupation and Russia’s invasion in 1939 until Germany’s surrender a week after Adolf Hitler had committed suicide in 1945. For its size, no other nation on earth had given as much or had suffered more than Poland: millions sent to gulags or deported to labor camps in Kazakhstan and the frigid regions of Siberia; millions more exterminated in concentration camps dotted across the Polish landscape; countless men, women, and children starved, tortured, murdered, and worked to death simply because they were Poles. By the time the war ended, its population had been reduced by at least ten million. To survive six years of the two most brutal regimes in modern history was not only unlikely, it was truly a miracle. But amongst the ashes and smoldering ruins, broken lives and unspeakable horrors of war, miracles did happen; survivors who’d lived to tell their children of war and gulags, of victors and unlikely heroes, trying in vain to forget the shocking cruelty of a world that had taken everything they had from them, living their lives in the shadows as if no one else in the world cared. It’s said that these heroes are like embers in the night, glowing brilliantly in the darkest moments of history, forever changing the course of humanity, and then, just as suddenly, vanishing as distant memories fade and the world forgets what ordinary men and women did when hope was gone and all seemed lost. Wanda and Janek were two of those seemingly ordinary people, and on that day and at that moment in Sandusky, Ohio, Wanda remembered.

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About The Author

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Allen Whyler today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from their newest release, Deadly Odds 7.0. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

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About the Book

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Excerpt

EXCEPT FOR OCASSIONAL intense sapphire glints from her eyes, low sweeping cedar branches formed an island of impenetrable layered shadows in a lake of harsh mercury-vapor streetlight, cloistering a petite female in black jeans, black wool turtleneck, black shoes, and a black ski mask over her pale white skin and regimented coif of platinum-blond hair. She sat cross-legged in a roughly triangular patch of weed-infested ivy, back propped against the scaly red strips of cedar bark. Her third consecutive night of surveilling Arnold Gold’s home from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. Precisely. And like the prior nights, no one appeared to be inside the ultra-contemporary cube despite various lights that turned on at the same time each evening. Alexa smart switches, she assumed.

Another glance at her watch. Another sixty minutes had just snailed past. Amazing. The time just seemed to… dissipate. Another sixty minutes of her life had evaporated doing… what, exactly? Surveillance. There was, however, a bright side. Those sixty minutes were billable. The not-so-bright side, however, was that the time could never be recaptured. Oh well, it was a job, and like certain orifices, everybody needs one. If she weren’t doing this, she might be wiping tables and slinging hash browns at a Denny’s. She stifled a yawn. Enough. She had fulfilled her commitment for the evening.

According to the property records, this was indeed Gold’s home. But he wasn’t inside during the specified hours on these specified evenings. Where was he? On vacation? At a girlfriend’s? Or perhaps a boyfriend’s? No idea and not her problem, for she hadn’t been asked to address that question. Adhering to her well-established reputation as a diligent and rigorous investigator, she intended to write up the exact details outlined in the assignment and that would be that. Then on to the next job.

She stood, swatted debris from her black pants, did an about-face to ruffle the matted ivy back into some semblance of natural confusion, then stepped back to inspect how well she’d disguised her presence. Not quite perfect. Bending over, she messed up an edge that didn’t look quite right. Surveyed her work again and nodded silent approval. Now it was perfect. 

Three full strides and she was standing on the edge of the narrow, windy, asphalt side street. Stood still for a moment, scanning the immediate vicinity. No vehicular nor pedestrian traffic. No one in sight. Off came her ski mask, which she quickly wadded into the back pocket of her jeans, then slid from the concealing shadows up the sidewalk of the deserted street. Turned right at the corner, continued straight ahead for half a block, then another right turn into the alley that again shrouded her in the dense shadows of shrubs and fences. Silently she navigated an obstacle course of color-coded recycling, garbage, and compost bins, all the while concealed in the darkest areas. Her contracted three hours finished, she was now working on her own time. But true to her reputation for scrupulous thoroughness, she felt it necessary to add a trademark garnish to her report. Lest anyone should ever accuse her work of being shoddy. And besides, it cost only a handful of minutes. Salve for her conscience. This job, after all, had turned out to be less of a challenge than originally thought, so anything to spice it up…

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About The Author

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Harold Phifer today, who will be unveiling tantalising excerpts from their newest masterpiece, Surviving Chaos, How I found Peace at a Beach Bar. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

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About the Book

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Excerpt

The 6 Year Old Flirt

Out of nowhere, one of the twins grabbed my cap while the other delivered a blow to my head. She slapped the taste right out of my mouth. I couldn’t even feel my tongue. I spun around to face my bullies. The twins had become triplets. I couldn’t remember ever trying to drink three glasses of anything and this wouldn’t be the day to try. The girls stared at me and said, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

As I approached the twins I smiled, tipped my hat, and continued on my way. I had done the ‘big move’ just as Jerry instructed. I smiled from jawline to jawline; I was so full of myself.

The third girl disappeared. She was a mirage, a figment of my imagination; created when I was knocked senseless. I shrugged and stared back at the twins. They gave me back my cap and told me to get lost. I didn’t challenge those instructions.

So much for Jerry’s advice! I needed to create my own playbook.

Tapping Out

Once I got to know Adela, I learned she was a religious zealot. Her friends and family were of the same mindset. They always tried to ‘out-Christian’ one another. If one person said, “Praise the Lord” then the other had to top it with, “Praise the Lord and Thank you, Jesus!” Or someone would say, “Oh, help me Lord,” then a voice would say, “Help me Lord. You are an angel of mercy on high.” Or, someone would say, “Jesus carried me today,” and suddenly some- one would jump up doing the church dance while screaming, “Won’t he do it, Lord! Won’t he do it!”

Dinner at 2:00

Second, I knew Dad was concerned about my past associations. I was from the Trash Alley. It was my community. I hung out with thugs from the Frog Bottom, the Burns Bottoms, the Red Line, the S-Curve, the Sandfield, the Morning Side, and a bunch of other places that shall remain nameless. I knew all of the “Legends of the Hood”: Sin Man, Swap, Boo Boo, Emp-Man, Cookie Man, Shank, Polar Bear, Bae Willy, Bae 

Bruh, Skullhead Ned, Pimp, Crunch, and Goat Turd (just to name a few). I thought maybe Dad had summoned me as a “show and tell” for the kids in his neighborhood—the hardliner to scare those wayward suburban brats back into reality.

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About The Author

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com