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 : http://www.facebook.com/seanmanseaufiction
Book Spotlight
Genre : Science Fiction, Young Adult, Thriller, Short Stories
Author : Sean Manseau
Amazon Store : http://www.amazon.com/You-Planet-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B009HTGIGA
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…
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