Today’s special feature is the collection of short stories, Curious Stories, by Gregory Eaves.
During is virtual book tour with Goddess Fish Promotions, Gregory will be awarding a $15 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card to a randomly chosen winner. To be entered for a chance to win, use the form below. To increase your chances of winning, feel free to visit his other tour stops and enter there, too.
Gregory Eaves was born October 18, 1950, in Indianapolis, Indiana. He attended Speedway High School and Indiana University. In his twenties, he traveled extensively throughout the United States, with an eight year stay in San Diego, California, where he studied and practiced meditation.
Gregory moved to Florida and completed a master’s degree in Library and Information Science from the University of South Florida.
Library school rekindled his interest in reading, which had been his favorite activity as a child growing up. Mysteries had been his first love, and he devoured his first mystery books with singular passion and zeal. Nothing else seemed to hit the sweet spot like reading The Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes, and Poirot. He later enjoyed authors like Raymond Chandler, John D. McDonald, Graham Greene, Patricia Highsmith, and others.
Schism is Gregory’s first novel. His prior experience with writing included poetry and short stories. One of his short-shorts won runner-up in a contest in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
He now lives on the east coast of Florida, and when he isn’t writing, he enjoys playing guitar and collecting vintage stereo gear and vinyl records. He is a member of American Mensa.
Blurb about Curious Stories:
If you like mysteries with a surprise twist at the end, then Curious Stories is for you. This is a small diverse collection of mystery short stories, ranging from the noir detective story to supernatural suspense. Neurotic characters and strange turns populate the pages of this quick and entertaining read.
Excerpt from Curious Stories:
THE EDITOR IS ALWAYS RIGHT
Marchand sat down and stared dumbly at his computer screen, not knowing where to begin. He had tried creating outlines and character profiles, but no ideas surfaced. He took his hands and buried his face in them. They moved up to his forehead and slowly began a descent over the mounds of his closed, bulging eyelids, then over his bulbous nose and rough, reddened cheeks. He shifted his oversize torso in the direction of a buzzing noise; his body felt heavy, leaden with humidity and the salty crust of baked-on sweat. With uncharacteristic speed and violence he smashed a fly with his flyswatter, then turned his attention back to the screen.
He made a few tentative stabs at the keyboard, trying to grease the wheels. Nothing. Then he noticed the smell again, the same stench from yesterday that hovered somewhere between sweet and putrid. It irritated him not knowing what it was. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Marchand got up and crisscrossed the room several times, sniffing the air, trying to home in on a location. The dusty books were possibilities; he walked slowly past them, examining the gold-striped and leather bound volumes the same suspicious way a Nazi commandant would inspect prisoners-of-war. Some of the books were very old, with yellowed pages and stitched bindings that disintegrated when handled. They were musty with age and produced a very intense odor, to be sure, but that wasn’t it. He stood over a bologna sandwich, considered it, but rejected that as the source of the smell.