Hey ho... special promotional discounts until the end of the month (29th) on digital versions of all 4 books... Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple, and Google Play, and others. Bon Voyage...!
A random excerpt from Blaggard's Moon:
“CONCH IMBRY AND his pirates,” Delaney said to the fish. “Now there’s piranha for ye. Put you little boys all to shame.”
The fish reacted to this news with dull stares and lazily flapping fins.
Delaney tried to think about something else. He did not want his mind to go back there, did not want to think about what had happened next. So he thought of a big glass of ale, and when that got him remembering the Cabeeb pub where the shooting had happened, he switched to thinking about a jug of cool water. That made him think about the water in the lagoon, which he’d just tasted, so he looked at the fish and tried to think about fish that weren’t piranha but were regular fish that men killed and ate, instead of the other way around. Grouper and tuna and blackfish.
For a while he succeeded, remembering his favorite dinner. A great steaming plate of grilled seafood. But then he thought of a big hunk of boiled shark meat, which he’d eaten once and was strong and tasty. Then when he’d thought about shark meat, the old legends about Firefish rose in his head...”
Excerpt From: George Bryan Polivka. “Blaggard's Moon.” iBooks. https://itun.es/us/bmK-8.l
Hey all! My publisher has a promotion going through the end of November… my eBooks are on sale.
Here are the details:
Blaggard’s Moon $3.99 (reg $7.99)
The Trophy Chase Saga $9.99 (reg $17.99)
Click your favorite eBook reader...
Amazon Kindle http://goo.gl/Vzsk0M
Barnes & Noble Nook http://goo.gl/tPTt6i
Google Play https://goo.gl/kze0qf
Wikipedia has a new entry!
Thinking about days long gone, went back to the dedication page in Blaggard's Moon:
For Weeks and Lag, and Eeker, for Rodge, for Mark and Dan, and Jimmy, and for all the fellow pirates of my youth.
God bless you guys. And Eeker, rest in peace.
Check out my page on IMDB under Bryan Polivka
Quote of the Moment...
The Trophy Chase changed the game. Her designers, John Hand and Lund Lander, made her longer, narrower, and deeper in proportion than any ship ever built. Her sleek hull and deep, long keel simply refused to allow her any significant sideways drift. Her masts were also taller and nimbler than those on any other ship, giving her more canvas to catch the wind, and more opportunity to take advantage of every change in its direction or speed.
The combinat...ion of these design features, handled skillfully, made it such that any wind that could fill her sails could force her forward with amazing speed. With the wind pressing from the bow, only twenty-five degrees from head-on, and with her sails close-hauled and her lee rail down, she was a sight to see. Tonight, in twenty knots of breeze, she was doing twelve knots to windward under reefed main and mizzen. The sensation was extraordinary, even for a lifelong seaman like Scat Wilkins. She shot through the water like a grape seed squeezed between the finger of the wind and the thumb of the sea.
The Captain looked astern. Behind the Chase, off the port side, was the Camadan, and off the starboard, the Marchessa. They were both good ships, steady and strong, faster than all but a handful of Vast ships. But in comparison to the Chase, they were aging, plodding bulwarks.
“They’re struggling now!” the Captain announced, clearly pleased to see his flagship putting distance between herself and her escorts, despite the severe angle at which both ships were heeled, sails full, fighting, not to catch up, since that was impossible, but just not to lose ground so quickly that they would risk Scat Wilkins’ ire.
“As usual, Captain,” Andrew Haas responded, smiling. Captain Wilkins would rather fly ahead and turn back, running literal circles around them at a full gallop, than to slow his course in order to keep ranks. “A ship is made to sail, boys,” he liked to say, “and the wind is free.”
Another random quote...
The piranha seemed to want more, but Delaney was through with his discourse.
Who wouldn’t a' turned pirate? he asked silently, gazing up through the blue hole in the canopy above. But the sky was silent. His mind worked on, studying in his memory the earnest, fearful face of the one man who wouldn’t turn, just before the shot that killed him. A true hand, Avery had called himself. Delaney felt a twinge, the strong sensation that some meaning was nearb...y again, something deep and mysterious, something that wanted to be known but could not be known. But this time it was a sad and lonesome meaning, right down to the very core of him. He felt empty and hollow, like an open, upturned keg of ale on the morning after the Autumn Festival.
A true hand.
"A true lang time..."
The beautiful voice of that young girl came back to him now, not the dream voice, but the real girl, which wasn’t a lot different. The way she sang the song with sorrow and longing, with the painful, troubled joy of unquenched innocence, innocence she couldn’t help, couldn’t stop having, even though it would surely be crushed in a dark, dark world.
"A true lang time, a lang true la…"
It all rose now in Delaney’s chest like a welling spring… the girl, the dream, the song, Jenta and Damrick, the Trum brothers. Maybelle Cuddy. The true hand that was Avery Wittle. It was all wound up together somehow. But it didn’t feel like a jumble. No, it felt more like a chord. Like a song. Like a song in a dream, a dream where every different part of life and memory that didn’t connect at all did in fact connect, there in the dream, and seemed to make sense in the connecting, though in life it never would. And he felt like it should mean something, but he couldn’t make out what. And the more he thought on it, the more slippery it became.
"A true lang time, and down the silver path into a silver sea…"
--From "Blaggard's Moon"
Quote of the moment...
"From deep within him came a war cry, certainly as much fear as rage, but more of victory than of defeat, a cry that intertwined the desire to protect and the desire to kill in order to protect. He thrust his sword downward at the rising beast, meaning, somehow, to stop it. It was, of course, a ludicrous, impossible effort. A hundred swordsmen and a hundred swords couldn’t stop a Firefish intent on its feeding. But Packer Throme could do nothing else. He saw the jaws closing, felt the hot, fetid breath, saw the teeth like knives, the Achawuk spear points. But he never saw what happened next. It was his last conscious effort, before all went dark." -- The Legend of the Firefish