What They Don’t Know Giveaway

Greetings! Here we are for another fantastic spring week. We have a giveaway running on Goodreads. The prize is a print copy of What They Don’t Know, K.V. Scruggs’ upcoming release. Here’s the link for your clicking pleasure.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

What They Don't Know by K.V. Scruggs

What They Don’t Know

by K.V. Scruggs

Giveaway ends August 01, 2017.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway


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The Rats by Georg Trakl

In the farmyard the white moon of autumn shines.
Fantastic shadows fall from the eaves of the roof.
A silence is living in the empty windows;
Now from it the rats emerge softly
And skitter here and there, squeaking,
And a grey malodorous mist from the latrine
Follows behind them, sniffling:
Through the mist the ghostly moonlight quivers.
And the rats squeak eagerly as if insane
And go out to fill houses and barns
Which are filled full of fruit and grain.
Icy winds quarrel in the darkness.

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Poe Tattoos

poe tattoo 1

poe tattoo 2

poe tattoo 3

poe tattoo 4

poe tattoo 5

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Interview with Gillian Flynn, author of Gone Girl

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What They Don’t Know – Cover Reveal and an ebook Preorder

We are excited to announce that What They Don’t Know by K.V. Scruggs is now available for preorder! The link to the book on Amazon and the cover are below.

What They Don’t Know by K.V. Scruggs

What they don’t know can’t hurt them…or can it?

In the year 2030, the government has seized control of healthcare. Routine treatment is administered to patients and monitored via in-home telemedicine. Hospitals have been replaced by the Center for Standardized Medicine (CSM). No one is a bigger proponent of the changes than reporter Cheyenne Rose, who lost her mother shortly after the Healthcare Crash of 2018 and her fiancé ten years later after a freak accident.

Despite her incredible success and popularity, her life feels empty. Then she meets the Reid family and feels drawn to their simple and honest love for each other. When eight-year-old Ridge Reid’s younger brother develops kidney failure, he agrees to donate one of his kidneys to save his brother’s life. But Ridge unexpectedly dies on the table, and the doctor who performed the surgery vanishes.

Faced with a conspiracy that runs far deeper than a single surgery, Cheyenne finds herself thrust into a dangerous investigation. When one of her informants turns up dead, she realizes the people responsible will do almost anything to keep their secret. Cheyenne will risk everything to uncover the truth.

“An exciting adventure into the world of futuristic medicine where nightmarish consequences await. There are clever and unexpected twists and turns, mixed in with murder and romance, and believable characters that command our sympathies.”
– Leonard Goldberg, author of The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes

“This propulsive, dystopian thriller thrusts you into a terrifying, futuristic medical world, and leaves you with an ending you’ll never forget.”
– Sandra Block, author of The Girl Without a Name

“Down a dark rabbit hole we go, following headstrong Cheyenne Rose and her need for the truth. This suspenseful tale is an anticipatory tale as much as it is a thriller. Intriguing and compelling, the story dares us to consider what kind of medical care we want for our nation and what we’re willing to sacrifice to have it.”
– Nadia Hashimi, author of International Best-Seller, The Pearl that Broke its Shell

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Touchstone on a Bus by Alfred Noyes

Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus
From Ludgate Hill to World’s End. It was he!
Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat,
I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly,
The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings,
The madcap morning star of elfin-land,
Who used to wrap his legs around his neck
For warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back,
To see what men were doing in a world
That should be wiser. He had watched a play,
Read several books, heard men discourse of art
And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring
In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may,
Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.
Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!
Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine,
He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:–




“I want to be new,” said the duckling.
“O, ho!” said the wise old owl,
While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
To tell all the rest of the fowl.

“I should like a more elegant figure,”
That child of a duck went on.
“I should like to grow bigger and bigger,
Until I could swallow a swan.

“I won’t be the bond slave of habit,
I won’t have these webs on my toes.
I want to run round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.

“I don’t want to waddle like mother,
Or quack like my silly old dad.
I want to be utterly other,
And frightfully modern and mad.”

“Do you know,” said the turkey, “you’re quacking!
There’s a fox creeping up thro’ the rye;
And, if you’re not utterly lacking,
You’ll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!”

“I won’t,” said the duckling. “I’ll lift him
A beautiful song, like a sheep;
And when I have–as it were–biffed him,
I’ll give him my feathers to keep.”

Now the curious end of this fable,
So far as the rest ascertained,
Though they searched from the barn to the stable,
Was that only his feathers remained.

So he wasn’t the bond slave of habit,
And he didn’t have webs on his toes;
And perhaps he runs round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.



The man who discovered the use of a chair,
What a wonderful man!

He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,
Till he thought of a highly original plan.
For years he had sat on his chair, like you,
But his looks were grim

For he wished to be famous (as great men do)
And nobody ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state
Hear! hear!
In the proud Guildhall!

And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;
But nobody heard his opinions at all;

There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech
(Grouse! Grouse!
What a dreary bird!
With five fair minutes allotted to each,
But never a moment for him to be heard.

But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,
Order! Order!
They cried, for the Chair!
And, much to their wonder, our friend arose
And fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor.

“We have come,” he said, “to the fourteenth course!
for the Chair
,” he said.
Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,
He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor’s head.

It missed that head by the width of a hair.
What a horrible squeak!

But it crashed through the big bay-window there
And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.

And the very next day, in the decorous Times
How the headlines ran!
In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,
There were five full columns about that man.


Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write
(My stars!
And you very well may!
That white is black and that black is white,
You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:

It is easy enough to be famous now,
How the trumpets blare!
Provided, of course, that you don’t care how,
Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.



Shun the brush and shun the pen,
Shun the ways of clever men,
When they prove that black is white,
Whey they swear that wrong is right,
When they roast the singing stars
Like chestnuts, in between the bars,
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

When you see a clever man
Run as quickly as you can.
You must never, never, never
Think that Socrates was clever.
The cleverest thing I ever knew
Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Homer could not scintillate.
Milton, too, was merely great.
That’s a very different matter
From talking like a frantic hatter.
Keats and Shelley had no tricks.
Wordsworth never climbed up sticks.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Lincoln would create a gloom
In many a London drawing-room;
He’d be silent at their wit,
He would never laugh at it.
When they kissed Salome’s toes,
I think he’d snort and blow his nose.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

They’d curse him for a silly clown,
They’d drum him out of London town.
Professor Flunkey, the historian,
Would say he was a dull Victorian.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John,
Bless the bed I rest upon.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.




Fashion on fashion on fashion,
(With only the truth growing old!)
And here’s the new purple of passion,
(And love waiting out in the cold)
Who’ll buy?

They are crying new lamps for Aladdin,
New worlds for the old and the true;
And no one remembers the story
The magic was not in the new.

They are crying a new rose for Eden,
A rose of green glass. I suppose
The only thing wrong with their rose is
The fact that it isn’t a rose.
Who’ll buy?

And here is a song without metre;
And, here again, nothing is wrong;
(For nothing on earth could be neater)
Except that–it isn’t a song.

Well. Walk on your hands. It’s the latest!
And feet are Victorian now;
And even our best and our greatest
Before that dread epithet bow.
Who’ll buy?

The furniture goes for a song, now.
The sixties had horrible taste.
But the trouble is this–they’ve included
Some better things, too, in their haste.

Were they wrapped in the antimacassars,
Or sunk in a sofa of plush?
Did an Angelican bishop forget them,
And leave them behind in the crush?
Who’ll buy?

Here’s a turnex. It’s going quite cheaply.
(It lived with stuffed birds in the hall!
And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeply
That settles it, once and for all.)

Here’s item, a ring (very plain, sirs!),
And item, a God (but He’s dead!);
They say we shall need Him again, sirs,
So–item, a cross for His head.
Who’ll buy?

Yes, you’ll need it again, though He’s dead, sirs.
It is only the fashions that fly.
So here are the thorns for His head, sirs.
They’ll keep till you need ’em. Who’ll buy?

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The Way of the World by Henry Lawson

When fairer faces turn from me,
And gayer friends grow cold,
And I have lost through poverty
The friendship bought with gold;
When I have served the selfish turn
Of some all-worldly few,
And Folly’s lamps have ceased to burn,
Then I’ll come back to you.

When my admirers find I’m not
The rising star they thought,
And praise or blame is all forgot
My early promise brought;
When brighter rivals lead a host
Where once I led a few,
And kinder times reward their boast,
Then I’ll come back to you.

You loved me, not for what I had
Or what I might have been,
You saw the good, but not the bad,
Was kind, for that between.
I know that you’ll forgive again,
That you will judge me true;
I’ll be too tired to explain
When I come back to you.

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