With the Northern provinces in ruin, the mercenary Gideon Greythorne embarks on an epic adventure to save the world – only his adventure is being written by Joseph Anderson, a college dropout who packs boxes in the suburbs.


With lofty aspirations but cynical expectations, Joseph tries to reconcile his vision with his reality as he works at a hobby shop, penning the epic fantasy of his dreams.


It's two novels in one. And it's awesome.






People who like intelligent things. And judging by what's in demand in the contemporary media landscape, such people are in the minority.


"All these people, gathering, to share in common visions... And all these companies, sweeping down upon them, bombarding them with images and words, battering them with 'properties' and products till they forget the meaning of quality."


But you're not like everyone else. You're a busy, sophisticated engine of new world progress, with just barely enough time to squeeze in a riveting Michael Bay film, a $60 game of Modern Warfare, three hours surfing badly drawn webcomics and porn, and a gallon of beer. You don't have time or money to read. And if you do read, you're partial to vampires.


Well, if that's the case, then by all means, return to your regularly scheduled programming. But be prepared to die not knowing what you missed. Your loss.






"Out of the misty darkness, the clatter of ringing steel mingled with the bestial roars of both men and flame. The cacophony of combat echoed across the ravaged stone buildings of the city, down the murky alleyways, and through the shattered window.


They were the sounds of midnight nightmares, the cries of minds gone mad, of worlds colliding, shattering each other until nothing was left but empty remnants. They were the howls of the nightstalkers, the walkers of the lands of the maimed and the damned. It was a nightmare, yes, but whether one of the waking mind or the sleeping one, it was impossible to discern."






"And now Tom with the weather!"


"Thanks. Now, tomorrow, fifty-percent chance it's going to snow. Then, after that, fifty-percent chance it's going to snow. Then, after that, it won't snow, but it'll just be really cold, but not any colder than normal this time of year. Then, after that, it's going to rain."




"Yeah, don't ask me. Then after that, forty-nine-percent chance it's going to snow. And then for the weekend, it won't snow, but it'll be really cold. Like damn cold. And a couple old people without working space heaters will probably die. Back to you!"






"The jingling of Christmas bells on the radio, the voice of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby singing about a Coca-Cola concocted fat bastard of a childhood fantasy driving themselves like an industrial nail gun into his skull, shattering bone until there was nothing left but a bloody pulp of holiday red and bits of brain oozing over his eyeballs.


But after a time, the silence did indeed come, the silence of transience, the quiet of non-existence. To fade out into nothing, to become no one, a dispossessed spirit without a soul. To watch everything pass by and give in to the temporal sweep of god's fell blade. It was not paradise, but it was a way to pass the time."






It's a generous sampling, more than you will find with any other publisher.


Give the book a chance; you have nothing to lose.






Digital editions are only $5. If you like smart, engaging, innovative fiction, you will never find a better bang for your buck.


Or buy a sandwich if that sounds better, big guy. A cheap, filthy sandwich.












Roark & Hudson Associates

Blood For Culture is Copyright © Mitul Mistry 2011