Love’s Pale Road
Publisher: Self Published
Release Date: July 27 2014
Edition/Formats Available In: eBook & Print
Tag Line: Love is a pale road, for Death waits at the end.
Beware the one who will betray you; for you have given them your heart.
Love is often a beast of convenience: two strangers meeting and connecting on some chemical and psychological level; sharing laughs and tears, and maybe bodily fluids.
But love can be real, when it wants to be. There are honest moments in the days we spend with our lover, there are days of sunshine and laughter, and nights of pleasure.
When it wants to be real. Love has its own designs, as poor Bailey finds out: Tasked by a dead man to perform a murderous act, he finds himself in love with a stranger. He was a simple-minded farmer, tending his turnips and his pumpkins, when the outside world burst in, sending everything he held dear to the far winds.
And so the poor chap is alone and scared when Abigail bares her pretty face. Although her family lies dead—somewhere on the path behind her—Bailey trips headfirst into the wants of his own heart, takes her hand, and carries her along a new road.
For Bailey, Love is more than a chemical reaction: It is a living thing, a living road… a pale road. A pale, murky, dangerous road.
For Death waits at the end.
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Martin Gibbs lives in the snow-covered paradise of Minnesota, where he writes novels, short stories, and poetry. By day he is an IT professional, though his passion for writing has led him down an intricate network of exciting roads.
Gibbs is an avid reader. He favors the classics: Dumas, Dickens, Tolstoy, Proust, Lovecraft; as well as Stephen King, Robert Jordan, George RR Martin.
He enjoys cross-country skiing, biking, and burning béarnaise sauce. He has two very active boys who share his wild imagination, and a wonderful wife who supports all the craziness.
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But Sorchal was talking: “So if this is your farm, then you know the drill.” He looked at me funny again. “Gods help us, you better! Do you?”
“Do I what?” I was thinking about the Great Temple and it made me a little scared that people would attack it. It was a very holy place. But then Fa always said holy places were just places. The Gods were always with us. Why was Sorchal so angry?
“Do you know the drill?” he screamed. He needed a nap.
The stranger’s face bunched up like the side of a rotting pumpkin. “Know the drill?”
“Gods be—” his fists were white balls and he looked like he was going to hop away. He made a noise in his throat. “How long have you lived here?”
“Seventy-seven years, six months, four days, and nine hours.”
He snorted. “All right, you are useless. Who else is home?”
Useless. Yes. Good ol’ Bailey, useless as always. At least he didn’t say other bad words. I heard enough of those Friday night, when Fa and I went out for dinner. “Who else lives here?” he shouted.
The strange man’s head bounced like a rabbit. I think he was going to say something mean again, but he just ran to the house. He didn’t say thank you. Maybe he had come from the rock. A rock-person would be mean.