Monday Morning Post: The Cutlass Edition

Happy release day to me! Er, well, to US, since it was a group effort. I am proud to announce the release of Cutlass - Ten Tales of Pirates, a new anthology that was compiled and edited by the amazing Rayne Hall. It's available on Smashwords and Amazon (so far). Check out the company I'm keeping on this one!

1. KHABALLO by Margo Lerwill
Careened on a cursed island, the old captain and her men are caught between warring navies. 

2. VICTORIA AND THE IRONCLAD by Douglas Kolacki
An escaped slave and a pirate captain race to capture the Confederacy's ultimate weapon.

3. BLIND MAN'S BLUFF by Jonathan Broughton
The trickster's reward is deceit.

4. SKRITCH by John Blackport
Your enemy may be your best ally.

5. DIAMONDS AND BONES by Kris Austen Radcliffe
In space, you may need to deal for the diamonds your bones need.

6. UN HOMME DE COULEUR LIBRE by Liv Rancourt
Fate sets Robert's life on a new course.
(Yeah, I made mine bigger. So? It's my blog.)

7. SCYLLA AND THE PEPPER PIRATES by Rayne Hall
A spunky young woman sets out to rescue her long-lost lover.

8. BROADSIDED by JK Kiegan
Love can take you off course.

9. THE PENSIONER PIRATES OF MARINE PARADE by Jonathan Broughton
Rebel pensioners revolt.

10. THE BOOK OF ADVENTURES by Douglas Kolacki
In the Great Depression, two brothers find two kinds of escape.

For those of you who have been following along with this blog, my short story, Un Homme De Couleur Libre was written from the perspective of a 16 year old boy (check out my post here), and the piece is set in 1810 New Orleans. I'd love for you to read it and let me know if I managed to pull it off - both the perspective and the historical setting. And in the interest of garnering that feedback, I'd like to give away three copies of Cutlass. Leave a comment on this post, and next week I'll announce the winners. 

There's a snippet below to whet your appetite. Thanks so much for reading along!

Peace,

Liv

Excerpt...

February 4, 1810

New Orleans, Louisiana

             They say I am not yet a man. Maybe not in years on earth, but by my own measure, yes. I am old enough to love and I promise I am old enough to bed a woman. I am old enough to lie, and I'm old enough to do what I believe is right, even when it leads me to kill. The last one has aged me faster than any other thing.   
            At first, I was simply running, while trying not to appear rushed. The streets of the French Quarter were busy with people celebrating the start of Carnivale. I moved quickly through the laughing crowds, their gaudy silks and linens splattered by mud from the street and their perfumes barely covering the stench of the open sewers. They were French and Spanish and Creole, along with a few rude Americans, and everywhere there were dark-eyed women on the arms of fair-skinned men. 

            At Canal Street, I passed a pair of lamplighters working together to raise the ladders needed to light the oil-fueled lanterns that hung from iron poles along the street. I had run out in only my breeches, shirt and waistcoat, and while I blended with the rowdy crowds on Decatur street, here my missing coat would raise questions. I hoped to avoid notice because although I was one of the gens de couleur libres, or the free men of color, without the backing of my family, my safety was not guaranteed.

            The French Quarter's gardens and wrought iron balconies were replaced by the raw and unfinished American Quarter. I turned onto Magasine Street, a block away from a stretch of warehouses that covered the ground down to the banks of the Mississippi River. If I could make it to the river, I could perhaps climb aboard a barge heading north towards Destrehan, my father's plantation. I knew I couldn’t stay there, but it was the only idea I had. Before I could take action, the lamplighters turned the corner and began working their way towards me.

            I dropped into the shadow of a spare two-story clapboard building and pressed myself up against the wall, then slowly edged around until I was in the strip of weeds that separated this building from its neighbor. The clatter of horses’ hooves told me another party of men had joined the lamplighters. Angry voices knifed back at me from the street. I recognized my brother's friend Philippe. Someone must had watched me leave the lodging and followed, or else they never would have come this close. I couldn't clearly distinguish their words, but from the ire in Philippe’s voice I guessed that the lamplighters weren't providing him the information he sought. I had a moment of hope that they would pass by.

            A soft growl from behind me destroyed my tenuous sense of relief. I glanced back and saw the glistening eyes of an angry dog. The growl erupted into a staccato burst of barking.

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