Hello Everyone!


I’ve landed a job with Conscious Talk Magazine(CTM)

Conscious Talk Magazine


Isn’t that great?

I’ve just signed a contract with Conscious Talk Magazine and am now, officially, a magazine writer. I will be writing in the ‘Writer’s life’ column and in the ‘Health and well being’ column.

Thank you, Kim Knight, for this wonderful opportunity.

I have been unemployed for the past  six years, but to be fair, I’ve only just started searching for something, now that my youngest has turned three.

But wait, there are still openings. Want to become a writer for Conscious Talk Magazine? Check the recruitment banner below and get in touch with Kim, our chief editor.



recruitment banner


The first edition will be launched on August 30th. Don’t forget to come and check it out. I’ll be sending out links to remind you all!




Like us on Facebook: @conscioustalkmag
Follow us on Twitter: @conscious_talk

Mosquitos with repellent masks


Those are ninja mosquitos


Mosquitos are attacking every night. They come in drones, armored with swords and shields, masked against repellents. They bring the band with them, buzzing their death songs as the areal forces attack.

The sheets provide no cover at all, those mosquitos are clever with very high IQ levels. they burrow under the sheets from the sides, the foot of the bed, their attacks relentless.

Hurling the pillow at them means nothing, they bounce and spring back for action. A few spiral away, nearly colliding with the group of guerillas that had come the previous night.

They buzz their cry of war and attack in force, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand soldiers, uniform in their attack. ninjas, samurais mosquito seals.

Turning on  the fan only forces them onto a sneak strategy, from the ground up, catching on the folds of the sheet for protection and crawling like lizards to the allure of the warm blood.

Carnivorous, cannibalistic beings with the vampiric complex behavior, attacking all night long, retreating at dawn when the sun begins to rise.

They leave bloody and triumphant, their prey an itchy mess, sleepy and full of polka dot wounds as the only silent proof of the war.






Hello Everyone!


“the Curse’ is now available here for you to download for FREE.

Check it out!


The Curse – Roxanne Fosch 0.5, by Jina S. Bazzar


Here’s a brief blurb:


Wanted neither by the Seelie or unseelie, the Dhiultadh are a proud, secretive mixed breed, half Seelie, half unseelie. They took refuge on earth many centuries ago where they thrived with their anonymity, away from their better kin, the sidhe land fee.
This story will talk about how Fosch, the clan leader of the Dhiultadh came to be indebted to Oberon, the Seelie consort, and put his entire clan in danger and under the human government spotlight.

Bad review: Why are you torturing yourself?


Why write a book review of a book you didn’t like?


Throughout all my life I’ve wondered why people give bad publicity to authors they never met, probably never will. ‘This book was awful’, or ‘I was grateful when it ended’, or ‘It was so boring, I  fell asleep halfway through’, or ‘I skimmed through most pages’, so on and etc.

The fact is, ¾ of the people who give this review aren’t getting paid or asked to give such review. So it always baffles me, why do you do it?

I understand the reviews are nothing more than that individual’s personal opinion, but this ‘personal opinion’ is shockingly, irrevocably very bad publicity not only for that particular book, but for the author itself. A reader who might be contemplating buying that book would be discouraged after reading such negative review, and there’s a 50 50 chance he would have enjoyed that book very much.

How do I figure?

Simple. I’ve read reviews of books I’ve loved that reflected negatively upon it, followed by comments about how someone almost bought that book and ‘thank you for warning me’.

Maybe, I figured since a lot of people are posting book reviews, the negative reviews are written with no ill intention in mind, but simply because book reviews are good blogging material. But then again, I wonder, are people posting negative reviews because they can’t find good books?

Why are you torturing yourself reading something you can’t stand? There are tons of books out there you can write honest, positive reviews about. If you aren’t getting paid, aren’t asked to do that review, why give the author, and that book, such bad publicity?

Haven’t you ever picked up a book, decided you didn’t like it, put it aside, only to pick it up again a few years later and totally enjoy it?






Imagine a land full of light, color and laughter. Where the land animals are docile, amicable creatures. Where the insects don’t bite, the snakes aren’t venomous. Where the people have no hard feelings toward one another, where they earn as much as the next person. Where everyone are equal, hard-working neighbors.

Imagine a world safe, free of plagues, jealousy, war … Full of peace.

Book review: Wild fire by Ilona Andrews

Wild fire – The hidden legacy 03


Book review: Wild fire (no spoilers)

Author: Ilona Andrews

Series: The hidden legacy (03)

Paper back: 391 pages

Publication date: July 25th 2017 by Avon


This last book begins soon after Nevada discovered that her grandmother, Victoria Tremaine, has uncovered her identity and cuts her romantic retreat with Rogan short. She rushes home to deliver the bad news to her family, only to find Rynda Charles, Rogan’s former fiancé in her home. But Rynda, despite all she has gone through and Nevada’s involvement in her social pariah status, requests the assistance of Baylor investigative agency to search for her missing husband, the prime head of house Sherwood.

Against her grandmother Frida’s warnings about accepting a job from a clingy, vulnerable woman who was also Rogan’s ex-fiancé, Nevada accepts the case and is thrown right back into the conspiracy. But there’s still Victoria Tremaine to deal with, and after a tense debate, Nevada, her sister Catalina and Bernard decide to undergo the necessary trials to become a house and gain a three year reprieve where no house, including house Tremaine can attack them without facing dire consequences.

As Nevada uncovers evidences and surprising plots, she still manages to balance her blossoming romance with Rogan, avoid getting killed by the conspiracy, and dodge Victoria Tremaine’s indirect kidnap attempts.

Wild Fire is a fast paced, alluring book that keeps you turning page after page. I wasn’t surprised with its unique authenticity, and as usual when I read one of Ilona Andrews’s work, I always wonder where they come up with all those amazing ideas. I admit book 1, Burn for me wasn’t a total hit like all other prior books by these authors, but book 2, White hot and book 3, Wild fire get a rate of 6 out of 5. I’m not going to compare this individual book with another, but against the Kate Daniels’s series, the Hidden legacy has measured up and surpassed it in its unique plots, character development and amazing dialogues. I recommend it to anyone who has had a marginal liking to Ilona Andrews’s prior works and guarantee you will not only like it, but love it. It was amazing!


Well, this is my first time writing a book review, but I loved this book so much, I just had to do it. Sorry if I didn’t do a great job there or if I missed some pointers I was supposed to make or something.


Writing prompt contest: Star Dust – short story


The boy watched the land burn. Beside him, Tranal, his mentor stood watch, a horn in his hand. They were waiting to sound the alarm. If the methane well started leaking, he would have to evacuate. The boy knew it was a matter of time, but the elders were hopeful. Diggers were trying to patch-up the rock, fliers were trying to vent the hydrogen away.
Evacuation tubes had been built, a planet had been found that could house life. There was plenty of water, oxygen, hydrogen. But this was their land, the boy thought, looking around at the rocky hills, the squat trees. The huts, built side by side, forming the mazes of squares, towns, cities that had once brimmed with people and activities stood now vacant from its inhabitants.
A bonasky trotted far below the ridge, its powerful hooves eating ground as it trotted easily away from the fire, unaware of the dangers it posed to it.
A flier passed on down low, its whiskers like rotor blades in front of it. It was long, the span bigger than three huts together, the natural centrifuge stronger than a thousand bonaskies, its sole purpose to vent the hydrogen away from the flames. It was a big responsibility, one with dire consequences. One single wrong move and they would be venting the hydrogen straight into the flames.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
How long would it take, the boy wondered, before the entire planet exploded into a shower of meteors?
The entire planet was made of gas. Methane in its center, covered by a thick layer of rock, dirt, plates and rocky earth. The air was full of hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen. It was what they breathed, the three gases combined. But the nitrogen had frozen centuries ago, the methane started leaking, and for the past fifty years the planet had gone into alert. Already entire cities had evacuated, gone into the planet far beyond that looked hospitable enough. It was closer to the sun, and the fact that no ship had returned communication once it entered the planet’s orbit was the reason a mass evacuation hadn’t been issued yet.
The man suddenly raised the horn to his lips, and the boy tensed, searching the land. He braced himself for the alarm to sound, but the man didn’t blow on it. He searched the area where he knew the layer of the well was thinner, but he wasn’t a miner, therefore, he couldn’t see the gas leak.
After a moment the man lowered his arm, and the boy loosed the breath he hadn’t known he held.
The evacuation tube named for him was parked not far from where he stood, but he didn’t want to go alone. The man had raised him, had taught him all he knew. How could he leave him? There were only a handful of tubes left, and far too many people yet to evacuate.
But the boy was the only son and heir of the late emperor, and a new civilization in another planet wouldn’t be possible without a leader. The only reason he had been left in the planet for so long was because he had yet to learn all the ceremonies, rituals, rules and orders a leader should bring to the seat of power.
The man had done a good job for an advisor, had urged the boy to leave without him. But the boy wouldn’t, couldn’t go without the man who had raised him. So he had stayed, knowing his presence kept the miners, diggers and fliers working harder to protect him.
Perhaps there was still hope.
Suddenly his mentor raised his arm and blew, a long, haunting sound that travelled and travelled and travelled and rounded the entire planet.
The boy’s heart jumped and lodged in his throat, and frantically he searched. A hard hand gripped the boys arm and began pulling him back. The fliers lowered as much as possible, as near to the boy as they could lower, formed a wall of protection behind him. Their tales twitched back and forth, a sign of exhaustion and fear.
He looked down at the arm pulling him away, the greenish webbed fingers, up at the face of the man who had raised him, his calm, orange eyes.
It was time to go, the boy knew, so he held on tight to the webbed fingers and began to run. They reached the tube together, and the man helped him buckle in. neither spoke a word.
He had begged plenty in the past, knew how futile his pleas were. The webbed fingers worked agilely, expertly, buckled every belt, hooked every tube with care, precision.
Dropped something oval into the boy’s pocket before stepping back, gripping the boy’s shoulder with his hand. the boy glanced at him, covered the webbed fingers with his pale, slender fingers.
“Come with me, Tranal.” The boy begged again, but the man only squeezed his shoulder, pulled back.
The tube closed, compressed. The boy watched the man move back and back, growing smaller by the second.
He watched as the man raised the horn again, blew on it. Heard the haunting sound as it moved by him, around the planet.
The controls ignited, already programmed, the engine hummed.
The take off was as smooth as it could be inside a three by four spaceship under turbulence, but the boy didn’t care. His eyes remained fixed on the green man below, on the fliers that accompanied him as far as they could without moving away from the planet’s stratosphere.
He was still within the planet’s orbit when the methane caught, like a small flame that grew and grew and grew, funneling down into the earth. There was a pregnant pause where he thought he caught the green of his mentor’s skin, than the force of the explosion, the brilliant light, the hellfire that punched his small tube brought him unconscious for the remainder of the trip.
When he awoke, surprised to still be alive, there was no fire trying to eat him. The land was green, luscious, fragrant. Trilling noises sounded from above, scuffling from below. The boy opened his eyes, winced at the brightness, wondered at the vivid blue above, the green below.
The tube was dead, not even a single blip showing on the monitor, and the boy had to yank everything with his trembling fingers to unhook himself.
The ground was soft underneath his feet, despite the small rocks littering the ground. He inhaled deeply, parsing the strange scents, the different gases, knew this atmosphere was different from the atmosphere of his land. He began walking, watching the sky, the land, even the far sea, determined to find and gather the ones who had left the planet before him.
Anderson rolled on the bed, blinked at the time. Five thirty pm, the digitals told him. Wearily he sat, scrubbed a hand over his face. He hated those dreams, hated what they did to him. He moved to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water before bracing on the sink and looking up at the mirror, at his reflection. His eyes glowed a brilliant grey, his pupils yellow. Anderson closed his eyes, concentrated, jaws clenched. When he opened them again, his eyes were normal – or human grey, the pupil’s black.
Two hundred years, he thought, and the boy had evolved, adapted. And never found one single individual from his planet.
Anderson moved back into the room, opened the nightstand drawer, picked a small, oval globe. He watched the rocky hills, the squat trees, the small sized huts built side by side. He shook the globe, watched as miniature fliers appeared, slowly landed on the rocks beside a green figure.
He jolted when his phone rang, cursed loudly in the language of the people he had been watching for centuries.
“Hello.” He said in a gruff voice.
“Yo, did I wake you?” Brad, his partner asked jovially.
“No, I was awake.”
“My mistake. Should’ve called earlier.”
Anderson chuckled, leaned back on the bed, the oval globe still clutched in his hand.
“What do you want, man?”
“Just wondering what you’ll be doing in an hour or so?”
“Guess nothing, why?”
“Danny lee is cooking this big ass dinner to celebrate our success earlier, thought you should come over.”
“Alright,” Anderson agreed, returning the globe to the drawer. “I’ll be there in thirty.” He said and got up to dress.
He hadn’t found anyone from his planet, but he had made friends here, gotten multiple jobs throughout the centuries. He wasn’t a leader, but he had given himself purpose. He had made the planet earth his new home.

All time passport

The imagination carries an all-time passport, everywhere, anywhere.
When I write, I let my imagination loose. It goes everywhere, anywhere, any time, all the time.
And the best of all?
No immigration can stop it, alien, human, fee, monsters, superheros . . . NO ONE!
It’s my ticket to the galaxy and beyond.