The Stories of Haven Bookmarks are here!

The Stories of Haven - The Stories of Haven News

We've gotten our new Bookmarks for The Stories of Haven: I, and man they look awesome!

We'll be sending a bunch of these all over the country to bookstores as giveaways, but you can get one free when you order a copy of The Stories of Haven: I at The Brick Cave Media Store.

Be the Star of your Own Comic Short Story!

The Stories of Haven - The Stories of Haven News

The story will then be distributed as an e-book through all major e-book stores, Apple's iBookstore, Barnes & Noble's Nook, Amazon's Kindle store, and many others. The money raised from this auction will be used to promote this particular story, as well as the Haven story franchise overall. The story may also appear in future print editions as well.

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About Haven
http://www.brickcavebooks.com

Haven, started in 1994 as part of a literary nonprofit called Anthology, through their magazine of the same name, is a unique and exciting storytelling opportunity for writers and readers alike. In 2009, Anthology asked Brick Cave Media to develop and promote the Haven series as a separate entity.

About J.A. Giunta
http://www.jagiunta.com

J.A. Giunta was born in Brooklyn, New York, in November of 1969. Though he spent most of his childhood growing up on Long Island, he has been living in Arizona for more than twenty-five years. Joe started writing stories at an early age, creating adventures for his pen and paper Dungeons & Dragons campaigns on a Commodore 64. Spooled from a dot-matrix printer, that first stapled manuscript has not survived, but it has evolved over the years to form The Ascension trilogy. His first Fantasy novel, The Last Incarnation, was published in February of 2005. With a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Arizona State University, he is both an avid reader and gamer. He currently writes full-time. He currently lives with his wife, Lori, and six-year old daughter, Ada Rose, in the perpetual summer that is central Arizona. He credits all of his work to the advent of air-conditioning.

About Brick cave Media
http://www.brickcavemedia.com

Brick Cave Media is a dynamic multi-disciplined group of talented individuals whose talents have come together into a vibrant display of products. Whether it's Movies, Spoken Word or art, BCM has worked to provide a medium for talented people to be exposed and promoted. We don't necessarily want to change the world, we just want to realize the promise of the internet to provide an equal opportunity for talented persons to make a living at what they love. If that changes the world... oops :-)

Rights
The winner of this auction understands that the rights for the charecter(s) created belongs to Anthology, Inc. as the rights holder for the Haven story franchise. Anthology is a literary non profit 501c3 located in Arizona the promotes the literary arts. They further understands that Brick Cave Media is the publisher of record and liscences the rights to use of the Haven franchise from Anthology, Inc.

The Stories of Haven: I Excerpts

The Stories of Haven - The Stories of Haven: I

Bow to Your Partner
The streets were slick with rain in the flickering lamplights of the lower east end. Nothing unusual for autumn in Haven, with cold winds that set teeth to a steady chatter and ominous gray clouds that could gather in the space of a deep breath – but unsettling just the same. The winter months of snow and ice were enough to choke a snowman, and the days of summer were just this side of fried eggs on the sidewalk. All in all, the weather in Haven was a fairly consistent streak of gloom.
Such things were beyond man’s control. There was little sense in complaining about the rain, or so the pragmatic would claim, clothes drenched and discolored by a small pool of gray water that gathered at the head and ran down in heavy rivulets.
The people were like that for the most part, simplistic and practical. If the skies chose to open up and soak the streets, what could be done but head for cover? It was a frame of mind that had saved more than a few lives. Water wasn’t the only thing to ever rain down on the streets of Haven. Clothes and skin dry with time. Bullet-holes were another story.
Of course the police did what they could to patrol the streets and keep crime to an uncomfortable minimum, but Commissioner Charley Norris could only do so much with the limited number of men-in-blue at his disposal. Norris had served as Commissioner for more years than most people on the streets could remember. Then again, cheap wine and memories are discordant by their very natures.
A gruff and solid man a bit on in years, Norris had once walked a beat himself. He had the perseverance of a bulldog, a trait most admired by Mayor Thomas. Formal head of the city government, owing consecutive success to his clear-thinking constituents and the generosity of friends and family (and their relative bank accounts), Mayor Thomas promised “to wipe the city clean of its troublesome debris.” He was keenly aware things weren’t all they should be, that yet more funds needed to be allocated to the city’s protection. But he also knew things were not as bad as they could be.
A believer in quality, not quantity, Mayor Thomas would have liked the police to work harder at their jobs before cutting programs to free money for more officers. The upper echelon, his greatest supporters, whole-heartedly agreed, protected as they were by private companies. Unfortunately, it was lower to middle class and the poor who suffered the brunt, waiting out the crimes, biding time until police got better at their jobs – or the masks did enough damage to catch the Mayor’s attention.
That was the lot of the common man, made patient and unnoticed, afraid and frustrated. Virtue or no, patience was not the answer. The unwritten laws of pragmatics state the easiest way to solve a problem is at its source. If the law could no longer protect the innocent from those who paid it no heed, then maybe another way should be considered.
Laws were useless unless everyone agreed to abide by them, if not by the letter than at least in spirit. Without that agreement, rules become no more than words, a mere suggestion for the brazen; empty phrases that mock the innocent and sometimes shield those who would break them.
It would be too strong a statement to say the people of Haven were closet vigilantes, but those few who did take the law into their own hands by far made up for those who didn’t.
A place of crime and warring gangs, a city choked in growing shadow, its very name had become a joke. Haven was in desperate need of a healing. Like the broken heart of a spurned lover, it needed time and a reprieve from its pain.
But that is rarely the way of life... or love.

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Power Struggles
Jerry laughed, counting a stack of twenties as he walked down the alleyway. It was late at night, with little more than the flashing neon of advertisements to light his way, but Jerry walked as if nothing could touch him.
“This city is a joke,” he said and shook his head.
The paper band holding the bills into a neat stack said $1,000. Jerry ran his thumb over the bills and listened close, more out of pride than mistrust. He didn’t really care how much money was there. He just liked the feel of it in his hands, the power it stirred with just looking at it. No one or thing couldn’t be bought.
Money was power, and Jerry was drunk with it.
As far as cat burglars go, he wasn’t the best. Jerry was good, though, good enough to steal a hundred thousand dollars from a Sci-Tek administration building without getting caught. A good thief knew where to look for money. The banks had enough money to make the prospect worth the endeavor for some, but the risks were too high for someone of Jerry’s ability. He prided himself on knowing his limitations, never reaching too far and always coming out ahead.
He put the money back into the satchel and swung it over his shoulder. As long as he stayed in the downtown area, near Gutter Ways and the Old Village, no cops would ever find him – or dare to come looking for him. His only real concern was for the scum on the streets, but his car was close now. He’d already ditched the getaway truck in the east river.
He patted the gun at his waist, comforted by the touch and grateful he’d only needed to use it a handful of times.
“Whatcha got in the bag?” a voice asked from the shadows, though nothing could be seen of the speaker. “A contribution for Green Peace?”
A fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Jerry’s chin. The blurring of light made the street look like Jell-O, like heat rising off the blacktop in summer. Another punch to the face sent him sprawling back as a series of kicks took the air from his lungs. The satchel floated up of its own volition and was thrust into the air by an unseen arm in a show of victory. Jerry only moaned his defeat, once again recognizing his limitations. He felt for the gun at waist, but it was gone.
Arrows hit before he could hear the terrible whistling noise that soon followed. Three struck as if fired in the same instant, one catching the satchel and the other two embedded into thin air. The satchel slammed against a wooden door and hung on its feathered peg. The nothing collapsed with a muttered curse and blood running free.
A laugh from the rooftops made the hair on Jerry’s neck stand on end. Suddenly New York didn’t sound like such a bad place. He promised himself a plane ticket if he made it out of this alive.
The dark nothing pulled itself up as more arrows came whistling by. It grunted and broke off the feathered ends, dropping them to the street with a growl. Splashes disappeared down the alley, leaving Jerry alone with the sound of his heart racing and a deathly silence all around.
He pulled himself to his knees and stifled a cry. His ribs were broken. Each step felt like fire in his side. The satchel full of cash beckoned him forward. The money was still his. He’d earned it. He reached out and took hold, using the door for support.
His eyes opened wide as an arrow pierced his back. He tried to call out, but even his gasp made no sound. His voice was little more than a liquid rattle. He knew the arrow had punctured a lung, made every breath an effort of will. He clutched the money even harder. Darkness rounded his vision, rose up to overtake as the poison dragged him down. The satchel slipped from his grasp. A chuckle fell from the rooftops like trickling rain.
The satchel was out of reach, taunting as he passed.
The World is a Cold Hard Place
Kelly winced as she applied the salve to her torn and swollen lip. She knew by the dark discoloration around her right eye that this time the damage was severe. She placed a cold compress against her face and let out a hiss as she glanced at the clock beside the bed. She’d been unconscious for at least an hour. The one thing she could be grateful for was that now he’d be gone for most of the night, seeking to gratify himself with other distractions. He always stayed out after these ‘little sessions,’ as he called them. She had an urge to try the door, but it would be locked, as usual. Well, she had her plans and nothing could change them. She just had to survive long enough to implement them.
Ignoring the damage to the apartment, she went into the kitchen for a cold pack. It never mattered how badly he wrecked the place, she thought, someone always came the next day and cleaned up. Then things would go on as usual. Hopefully, this time would be the exception.
Kelly lowered herself onto the sofa with a groan. If she’d known this would be her fate, she would’ve left Armand when she’d had the chance. But how could she have known that Armand would die in that stupid accident, leaving her to be auctioned off with the rest of his possessions.
She’d been such a pampered pet.
And she’d enjoyed it. Belonging to Armand had been the best part of her life.
When her father had finally tired of abusing her, she’d been only fifteen. His exorbitant gambling debts had put him at odds with the local loan shark, and selling his oldest daughter had been the easy way out. Besides, she’d grown too old for his particular sick tastes. She pressed the cold pack harder against her face, hoping the rush of pain would push away the dark memories that clamored for admittance
Armand had been kind and gentle, and had genuinely cared for her. She’d never known a man could be so loving. It was such a huge contrast to the way she’d been treated at home. He’d showered her with presents, took her to fine restaurants, told her she was beautiful, treated her like a lady. The thought of it made her eyes well with tears. Yes, pampered is what she’d been. And it had all been so wonderful and over-whelming that being owned had become a good thing.
And then Armand had died.
He’d been out on business late at night. When the police came to give her the news, she’d been numb. Lost in her sorrow, she had no idea what to do, or where to go. So she stayed.
That was her big mistake. Two days after the accident, they came. Armand’s business associates. They took her and everything else of value. It was the end of a dream and the beginning of her nightmare.
The auction didn’t take long. The bidders knew what they wanted and were willing to pay. Mandrake had his eye on her from the moment he saw her, and he had a nasty habit of getting what he wanted. No one dared bid against him. Had she known he’d be worse than her father . . . But how could she? She’d been spoiled by Armand’s kindness.
That had been six long months ago, and Mandrake had been brutal from the start. At first, Kelly was still too numb with shock to care, but gradually she awakened and began to hate the man, this creature who took perverse pleasure in causing pain. She began to plan her escape from this hell. Oh, she knew the city was full of cruel and evil people. The news was full of their doings. But there were others out there. There had to be. There were good acts committed in Haven, too. Besides, if she could escape from Mandrake, she could escape from Haven, as well. It was just a matter of time now. Time and the proper tools-

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Rue the Day
Sinking.
Carried along helplessly with the cascading black water. Water thick with the sewage of Haven. This is where the Reaper, a mercenary for hire whose real name had once been known only to people now dead, had intended for Jaguar to die.
But sometimes it takes more to kill a cat than to tie it up and throw it in a river.
“A crap zombie,” Ricky whispered in fear to himself and trembled, unable to think of any other name to give to the silent terror before him.
Ricky had been barely thirteen when he came to live on the streets of Haven last year. He had taken to hanging out down in this labyrinth under the city. It smelled worse than the city above, generally, but it was a good deal less dangerous. Most of the time.
When Ricky saw the black shape rising up, dragging itself out of the water onto the grate just outside the alcove he was eating in, he cowered in the farthest dark corner, his eyes wide with terror. When the thing muttered something and then lay there motionless, dripping, Ricky let another good ten minutes go by before he made a move. He imagined the black man-like thing springing to life and grabbing him the moment he emerged, and dragging him down into the murky depths.
Ricky inched his way slowly over to the walkway, his back pressed against the slimy wall. When he reached the motinless mass, he tensed, then leaped around the corner and ran for all he was worth. He climbed out of the sewer and kept on running; to the first place he would go if he were ever in real trouble.
“Rue! Rue!” he yelled, banging on the boarded-up front door to the abandoned butcher warehouse. The color was peeling and fading from the mural of pigs and cows painted on the mason walls.
From a broken upstairs window, a figure in velvet and black slipped out and lightly landed beside the startled boy. The person’s face was partially concealed by a violet mask that pulled down over the eyes and bridge of the nose and wrapped under the chin, exposing only her mouth, but the curves of her lithe body were clearly feminine. “Rue, there’s a crap zombie! A Crap Zombie!
Down in the sewer, it came out of the water.”
The girl, known to Ricky and other kids on the street only as Rue, was actually just a couple of years older than him. But a life on the streets made this stubborn orphan behind the mask grow up fast. It didn’t turn her into Little Orphan Annie, and no rich bald guy came to adopt her. But these homeless kids did. Adopted her as sister, mother, and savior. She was none of these things, but when someone tried to hurt one of them, she got mean.
She grabbed the hysterical boy and shook him. “Who gave it to ya? Huh?!”
“W-what? Who gave me what?” the boy stammered.
“The drugs!” she spit angrily. “What scumbag gave you the drugs, Ricky?”
“I d-dinnint take no drugs, Rue. Honest!”
Rue lightened up, a little.

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The Grass Is Always Greener
The saturating red hue of sunset provides the perfect backdrop for William DeForest’s returned to Haven. The train sways and buckles as it makes it’s way into the heart of Haven, slightly shifting the man in the seat as he stares out the window, watching solemnly as the world flashes by.
It had been almost ten years since he left his grandfather, first attending college, then joining the military.
Outside, the now fading light strikes the pounded metal, stone and brick of the city. He is lost in his memories, not so much distant in space as distant in time. Years ago, he barely remembers the night the police came and took him away from his parents. He was too young to know what was happening, too young to understand the upheaval. But he remembers the strange lady who tried to tell him he was going to get new parents. Confused and frightened, William had already begun to feel defeated in his young life.
He also remembers his grandfather, who fought tooth and nail to win the right to raise his grandson. His Grandfather had saved him. Like some superhero from nowhere, he appeared, took William in and raised him. He smiles at this memory, sighing. He misses the old man. His lips draw back to center as he remembers being unable to attend his grandfather’s funeral.
William’s grandfather had owned a few acres of land, out of the way, beyond the city limits, where they lived together fishing, camping, and farming. When William turned sixteen, his grandfather sat him down, and talked to him about the future, telling him that he should go to college, even consider military service. The old man knew that, if he didn’t push the boy out into the world, William would end up alone.
He grimaces, recalling the fight he and his grandfather had before he left for school. He hadn’t wanted to go, didn’t want to leave his grandfather. The elder DeForest was stubborn, and kicked William out of the house. William went to school, earning a double major, then joined the military. During those years, he reached out to his grandfather, the two of them sharing their stories over the phone late at night. William’s grandfather was proud of him, but with each call, William knew the elder DeForest was slipping away. He had wanted to come home, to care for his grandfather in his final days, but his service to his country came first—it was the way his Grandfather had wanted it. But that hadn’t assuaged his feelings of guilt.
The shuddering lurch of the slowing train car jolts William back to the present. He glares at his watch. The train is pulling into the station much later than he had hoped. Whispering silent curses at the time, he gathers his belongings and makes his way to the platform. Exiting the train, he stands in the sea of people moving towards the station, his 6’2” frame forcing the flow of people to separate and move around him. Then he sees her.
Lori.
She is standing next to a concrete column and just as beautiful as the day he left. In a fleeting sequence of moments that flash through his mind, he remembers meeting her the first day of high school, staring into her deep brown eyes, watching the wind play with her fiery hair. There is an instant recognition as their eyes grow wide with excitement. In a rush they embrace without speaking, holding each other amidst the bustle of people moving past them.
“It’s really good to see you. I can’t say how I’ve missed you.” She fights back all but single tear that slides down her cheek.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
She leads him to her car, barely able to contain her excitement at being reunited. She’s unaware that she is almost skipping.
“Your parents asked me to drop you by their new house tonight.” She smiles in assurance. She knows the family history.

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Reaperville
Thick, oily rain lubricated the sidewalks and streets, causing the light of the street lamps to reflect eerily off the cracked and broken street. Against the backdrop of silence, the rain ticked heavily against the sides of the concrete buildings. The lights of the city seemed to melt into the brooding clouds, absorbed into billowing blankets of darkness that spread out overhead. This was not a night to be out anywhere, much less on the streets of Haven.
Jaguar stood in the shadows of a dark building on the downtown corner of First Avenue and Washington. The dim light reflected in his eyes as he peered out across the bedraggled street. His attention was fixed on the scene developing before him. A driver in an expensive-looking car had ventured into the wrong part of town. The local thugs, always ready to take advantage of any opportunity, had placed a neatly disguised shard of metal in the middle of the poorly lit street.
The driver cursed his luck as he emerged from the vehicle to survey the damage. A middle-aged man in a well-made suit, he was clearly unaccustomed to the manual labor before him, working in the rain to change the now useless tire. Apparently, even AAA refused to travel into this part of Haven at night.
Jaguar had happened along by mere chance. Of course, Jaguar was capable of handling the kind of trouble that this area of the city bred. The stranger below, obviously, was not.
“Not very bright,” thought Jaguar, referring to the well-dressed man before him. He noticed that there were now shadows moving out from the building across from him.
The shadows shifted quickly taking shape as three sordid looking gangsters descended on their intended victim before the man realized they were there. The ambush was perfect, commencing with a quick kick that incapacitated the vehicle’s owner. Perfect, that is, except that unknown to them, the attackers were being watched.
Jaguar struck as if from nowhere, yet as if he were everywhere at once. The first of the three hoodlums fell unconscious. The other two grew pale as they realized who they faced.
“It’s Jaguar—Run for it!”
The two hoods scattered, leaving the night warrior standing in an empty street with two unconscious bodies and a very nice new Cadillac.
Jaguar rifled through the paperwork in the vehicle in an effort to identify its unconscious owner, making several interesting discoveries. First and foremost, that the car was actually registered to Symbolics Electronic, a company that was regularly involved in some pretty shady deals, some of which also involved ATAR, a name that had become synonymous with bad luck and worse times.
In the back seat of the Cadillac, Jaguar found a briefcase. Very expensive and very locked. Unable to open it, he replaced it in the car and turned his attention to his silent companions.
The gangster, who had roused himself, managed to run off as Jaguar climbed out of the car, but the car’s owner was still out cold. Unable to leave a defenseless man lying in the street, Jaguar let the thug go. Work for another day. Meanwhile, Jaguar resumed his search. A quick riffling of the unconscious man’s pockets, all empty, provided no clues to his identity.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” thought Jaguar, returning to the car to sleuth out additional information. In the still-open trunk, he found a plain brown clipboard, obviously left there when the driver had removed the spare tire. He picked it up and read the top page, eyes nearly popping pout of his head. Written in all caps at the top of the page were the words “TO DO,” and below that a list of items:
The Invisible Man
Loring Park sat as a decaying reminder of Haven’s illustrious past. The park, a large wooded area sat to the south of the city’s current downtown complex. It was nestled in what the kids now called “Chemical Alley,” the part of the city that had become home to the multitude of industrial and chemical plants that fed the city’s income. Originally intended to be a landmark in a city of landmarks, with the passage of time and shortage of funds the area had become neglected.
Now, most saw the park as a nuisance, and few visited it. It had become another decrepit symbol of the current wave of crime that gripped the city. Gangs used the untended underbrush to hide from the police and a slough of rapes and robberies occurred before the area was finally deemed unsafe by local authorities.
Few people cared for the land beyond the mere real estate value. The growing opinion was that the area should be sold off to quench the relentless debt that plagued the city.
Fortunately, sometimes victory cannot be measured in mere numbers, but in the determination of an individual.
One such individual hid in this particular park, waiting. It was night and there was no one to see the man in the underbrush. They probably would not have seen him even if they had been there. This was a vigilante, one of the many that had begun to surface in and around Haven as the city declined. The man’s name was Arborean now, though it had been William DeForest in a previous time. It was a time far away now, nearly beyond remembrance, and he had been on the run for even longer.
“Tonight will be a new beginning,” Arborean whispered to the chilling night winds. His meeting here would change everything. The Green Guard was another vigilante of sorts, someone to help Arborean take the offensive against ATAR, the giant conglomerate that had killed his parents and stolen his grandfather’s land. This meeting had been a long time in the making.
He had first heard about the Green Guard and their illustrious leader during a radio broadcast the day after his attack on the ATAR research complex and his acquisition of the amazing suit that now made him virtually invisible. “In a dramatic series of events, the Advanced Technologies and Research Corporation facility in west Haven has been destroyed by an unexplained force. Authorities at this hour have sealed the area off to reporters and a federal task force has left Washington D.C. to investigate the site. Federal Marshals and FBI agents have set up a guarded perimeter, and spokespersons for ATAR have declined comment. Local reporter, Lori Marsons, is rumored to have been at the scene when the attack took place, but has so far been unavailable for comment. The environmental group, Green Guard, has taken responsibility for the incident. In a statement issued earlier today, the eco-vigilante group claimed that the hand of justice had come down and punished those who had abused Mother Earth. The statement went on to accuse ATAR of gross violations of EPA regulations, as well as conducting illegal military weapons research. ATAR spokespersons have denied the charges, calling them ‘gibberish’ and ‘unfounded’.”
Those were the words that scared Arborean. He was living proof of what ATAR denied. He didn’t care who took credit for his work. He only cared that the Green Guard might be his only hope of survival.
The Green Guard, one of the oldest environmental organizations in existence, was made up of people who had sworn an allegiance to mother earth, pledging to protect her from the abuses of mankind. They worshipped a figure they called Arborean, God of Earth. DeForest knew that. He had chosen his new identity carefully. Soon he would be able to announce to the world that he was Arborean, the chosen guardian of nature.
That was why he was here, to meet with the Green Guard. He had chosen this place carefully as well. He was crouched on the edge of a leafy grotto. Surrounded on all sides by trees and wild undergrowth, it provided a natural meeting place. Light was scarce, blocked out by the canopy of vegetation from above. As if in a horror movie, a thin shimmering beam from the full moon above struck down to light up the center of the tangled clearing. He didn’t activate the suit while he waited, instead counting on the thick underbrush to hide him until the Green Guard arrived.

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OverKill
The armored communications truck, hidden between tall rows of shipping containers, would have been out of place and easily spotted were the moon full or lights in that area of the old docks turned on. Two black SUVs parked out front of an unused warehouse to the east were equally hidden in the dark – at least for those without night vision goggles or infrared satellite tracking.
Grimm looked down at his watch.
He stood behind Ms. Vasquez, his attention back to the monitors of her tactical station. There were two field analysts and a communications technician behind him inside the truck. He avoided looking at their screens. He’d seen more than enough to warrant a headache already.
Three teams of twelve approached the warehouse from every direction but the water. They appeared as green dots on the large central monitor, with comms and biorhythms – heart rate, body temp, injuries, pain levels, etc. – for each of them tagged in sidebars. A monitor on the right zoomed in, marking the heat signatures of targets in the warehouse.
A simple drug deal, two gangs of fourteen targets in all, the operation was a routine encounter. That didn’t stop Grimm from assigning delta tier packages, with heavy armor and anti-siege armament.
“There’s no such thing as overkill,” he said quietly.
The others couldn’t hear him, his voice drowned out by team chatter and the drone of local emergency bands; for the moment his comms were turned off.
Anna had heard. She was always listening.
“You won’t get any argument from me,” she replied through his aural implant. Anna was halfway across the city, on the bottom level of AOD headquarters, but never far from his ears. “Local authorities have been notified.”
The monitor to his left changed from a citywide view to a street mapping between third precinct and the warehouse. A timer counted down to when the moving red markers would arrive. A dull beep from his implant indicated a call.
“It’s Senator Bryer.” Anna sounded annoyed, nearly as much as he did. “Should I redirect the call?”
“Hold on.”
He watched as each team called out in turn and entered the warehouse simultaneously. They closed in so fast and with such precision that not a shot was fired by either side.
Grimm headed for the exit and stepped out into the cold. His breath frosted the air, yet he barely felt a chill. He wiped his brow and the back of his neck with a hand-kerchief from his pocket. Soft to the touch, a powdery blue flecked with lighter shades, it was the only item of sentiment he allowed in his life.
The feel of it always reminded him of his wife, of their time at the cabin, fresh snow on the sill, her laughter and smile more warm than the fire, golden hair flowing down to perfect curls across her shoulders, the way she looked at him from behind a wine glass…

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Haven Book Trailer

The Stories of Haven - The Stories of Haven News

Much like Roger Daltrey once said of The Who, we here in the brick cave stay on top of all the trends, and apparently, book trailers are now a trend.

So, since we make movies, we figured a book trailer wouldn't be too bad, right? So we made one, messed it up, then made a second one that we liked much better, and now you can enjoy it, too.

Special thanks goes out to Julie Pelletier, Jason Palmer and BCM's own Brent Heffron for their contributions. You can, of course, purchase each of the Haven stories individually as e-books, or all of them together as a print book, The Stories of Haven: I.

Here are the (Amazon*) links:

Buy the book: http://tinyurl.com/havenbook

Buy the e-Books (on Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/bcmamazon

And here is the trailer itself: http://youtu.be/MEZyZb1Bsnc

You will most likely see more trailers going forward for Haven stories as they come out, so you can get all the crazy Haven action your little heart desires!

* The E-books are also available from most of the major retailers, we keep direct links to them all at the BCM Print Website.