Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Current list of Sean Sweeney titles

At the moment, my website is down. I've provided the links for you here:

Amazon US 
Amazon UK 
Amazon Canada 
Amazon Australia

For Apple iBooks, search in iTunes for Sean Sweeney

Books and stories by Sean Sweeney

The Jaclyn Johnson, a.k.a. Snapshot AGENT series 
Model Agent: A Thriller*
Rogue Agent: A Thriller*
Double Agent: A Thriller*
Promises Given, Promises Kept: A Jaclyn Johnson novella
Federal Agent: A Thriller
Literary Agent: A Thriller (Coming soon)

Royal Switch: A Major League Thriller
Zombie Showdown*
Eminent Souls

The Obloeron Prequel Series
The Rise Of The Dark Falcon
The Shadow Looms
Cold Altar
Voir Dire
Furball and Feathers: The Cat Food Caper
Furball and Feathers: The Birdseed Bugaboo
Furball and Feathers: The Case of the High-Wire Horse

Short stories
Belief Debt: Paid In Full (Part of Christopher Nadeau’s Not in the Brochure anthology)
C is for Coulrophobia (Part of the Phobophobia anthology*)
Red Christmas (Part of the Bump in the Night 2011 anthology*)

As John Fitch V

The Obloeron Trilogy*
The Quest For The Chalice
The Return To Labergator
The Fall Of Myrindar

One Hero, A Savior*
Turning Back The Clock*
A Galaxy At War*
The Mastermind: A novella

Short stories
Amber Twilight

Thursday, October 10, 2013

A little down time never hurt anyone...

Everyone needs a break now and again.

I'm currently in the middle of a little down time. I've had days off scattered here and there, of course, and I had a little bit of a vacation to Cape Cod two months ago, but this is the first time in a while that I'm not really working on anything. Nope. No projects crossing my desk, and if there were any, I'm ignoring them.

Breaks like these are essential. I'm currently letting the mind recharge, and letting my body rest. I'm taking a nice nap in the midday hours, and I'm catching up on my reading (I'm currently reading buddy Jason Letts' THE SCARS OF AMBITION, great book). I'm catching up on projects that have taken a back seat (at least that's what I'm telling myself). And I'm preparing the farm for the winter months ahead.

My hope, though, is to get back to work on a new project either next week or the week after. I haven't decided if the next project is a YA tale I've been meaning to tell for a couple of years now, or if I'm going to hunker down and write a long book, one that may or may not trump REDEEMED in size and scope. That will all come into clearer focus within the next few days. Of course, there is still some editing to be done (JJ5 is on the hard drive, and so is a murder mystery novella and another hush-hush project that needs a bit of polish), but it's not time yet.

Until that time arrives, I'm kicking back and relaxing as the brisk winds of fall churn the leaves about.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

#SampleSunday -- REDEEMED

Part 1
Chapter 1
Boston, Massachusetts
May 1988

Don’t smile Duane, the man thought as he pumped his legs harder, putting more space between himself and the pursuing officers. Don’t ever fucking smile.

With his size and stamina as twin allies, Duane Thompson churned both pavement and concrete as he fled, weaving from the street to the sidewalk and back again. He used parked cars and parking meters to his advantage, swerving around them with the grace of someone who dodged defensive ends and linebackers through high school. Thompson pounded the ground with purpose as he ran. Each step came as fast as the last, and the sounds of his partially-unlaced sneakers were vivid reminders of what followed him from the swanky brownstones of the aging Beacon Hill neighborhood.

I almost killed that old man, he thought as he turned left from Mount Vernon Street onto Walnut Street. I cut him, but he won’t die. Duane gritted his teeth hard, hard enough to jar a filling loose.

He better not fucking die.

Duane felt the wind in his face as he approached Boston Common at speed, but he couldn’t hear the oncoming traffic for the sounds of the blood pounding in his ears and the vibrations in his chest as he pushed his heart beyond its limits. He ran the two hundred or so yards in half a minute, then made a wide left-hand turn onto Beacon Street, his momentum carrying him out into the street. A red Geo Tracker, fresh off the lot, had to stop quickly. Its brakes squealed, the tires peeled, and soon the smell of freshly burned rubber hung in the salty air. Duane leaped back onto the sidewalk once the horn and the headlights jarred his senses.

He kept running.

He knew that if he stopped now, or any time soon, his freedom was forfeit. He needed to get away from the trailing officers, which had fallen back so far that they hadn’t yet made the turn onto Beacon. The only way he knew how to escape was with his feet and his powerful strides, long honed by his football regimen. The cops would give up the chase soon, he knew, for they had no chance to catch him.

Duane stifled a grin as he made his way up the long incline toward the Massachusetts State House.

Don’t smile, he thought.

This would be where he knew he’d lose them. He had trained for a hill like this: he had used the stairs at Brockton’s famed Rocky Marciano Stadium and its large twin stands for pre-season preparation, and now it was as if he could hear his feet slamming against the steps again, rubber pounding against steel in an exquisite concerto of testosterone. He powered his way up the long, steep embankment without breaking stride. He looked behind his shoulder for just a moment: the two police officers had just made the turn, and it seemed to Duane’s eyes that they didn’t have it in them to continue the chase any longer. They couldn’t keep up. Their uniforms clung to their swollen bodies, their skin saturated with sweat. They bent over and gasped for breath. One grabbed his radio and pulled it toward his mouth.

This time, Duane smiled as he passed the western entrance to the State House. He turned his head and continued to run, his nostrils flaring into a snarl even as wailing sirens converged closer.

Sweat coated his brow as he reached the summit of Beacon Hill. His legs showed no signs of tiring. He continued into the cavern of tall buildings that had sprouted up in the last twenty or so years, the nighttime revelry well underway on the outskirts of what had become known as the Combat Zone. He didn’t try to blend in or be like one of them, as the knife in his hand would have told anyone that he did not belong. He sped by as a blur, his ebony skin and dark clothes making him appear wraith-like, a swift-moving shadow to any onlookers or passersby. It served as his camouflage for his freedom.

Duane swept the corner and headed down the hill toward Tremont Street. He paid careful attention to the curb cuts on the left-hand side, which occasionally stood higher and more prominent than the others. The red bricks were also poorly laid, and it wasn’t odd to see one jut out as if waiting for someone to stub their toe against it, or trip while evading capture. He wet his lips and hoped he wouldn’t turn an ankle in his flight.

After passing the old King’s Chapel at a dead sprint, he crossed the street as he came into the area once known as Scollay Square. With squealing brakes, two Boston Police cruisers skidded to a halt at the corner of Cambridge, Tremont and Court Streets, nearly colliding with one another as they came from different directions. The one on the left came from the vicinity of Massachusetts General Hospital, the other screeching to a halt as it came from the direction of the Common just as Duane crossed the street in front of 1-2-3 Center Plaza. Duane propelled himself onto the cruiser on the right, his feet denting the fiberglass hood twice before he jumped down and continued to run. Two officers, both with fresh legs, vaulted out of their cruisers and tried to give chase as Duane launched himself onto the sidewalk. Ahead, the red-bricked ziggurat of the Government Center subway headhouse stood as if belched from the hillside, a blemish on City Hall Plaza’s hardened skin; behind it, the Brutalist Boston City Hall, its beastly concrete sides reaching for the night sky.

Duane skirted the headhouse and pumped his legs harder. He gained ground on the new cops as he sped across the Plaza.

Duane couldn’t avoid the man headed to the subway near the first set of granite stairs, their collision sending him into a spiral. The bystander hit the ground hard, the back of his head cracking against the bricks, his momentum sending him down the three stairs. Duane lost his balance though, but only a hand, his left, touched the ground. He sprang up as if his fingers were a matching set of fleshy Slinkies and immediately continued running, not caring that the man’s life spread out on the bricks in a crimson tidal wave. Behind him, the police halted if just for a second, then rushed to the aid of the fallen man, their quarry rushing away.
Duane tried to escape across the Plaza, his feet and legs tiring after nearly a mile of sprinting. Congress Street was in front of him now. He trotted down the stairs leading to the street. He felt he could take it easy and walk briskly instead of running away, seeing as he had lost the police, hopefully for good.

Stop right there!”

His eyes didn’t widen even as the police officer emerged right in front of him, stepping out from the side of City Hall.

Fuck,” he breathed. He made sure he kept the knife hidden, the blade touching his inner wrist. He held the handle steady, not letting the sharp edges nick his skin.

The cop drew closer, step by step, his gun up and pointed right at Duane’s heart. He inched closer to the perp. “Hands where I can see them, asshole!”

Duane gripped the knife harder and, without thinking, slashed upward. A blood-curdling scream preceded the sound of metal slapping against concrete. Duane then took off toward Haymarket, the cop’s blood sliding down the edge of the knife, hoping the cop wouldn’t recover and end up shooting him in the back.

I just sliced a fucking cop, he thought as he ran toward the Government Center parking garage, which hovered over the area up ahead. He also thought that it would be great to get lost in this area of Old Boston, with its darkened alleyways and hidden nooks and crannies, a criminal’s wet dream. He crossed New Sudbury at a light run; it was almost a trot. Beyond, the lights of cars on the elevated Central Artery left as quickly as they appeared, both toward Dewey Square to the south, toward the North Shore and the Tobin Bridge to the north.

He looked back and forth as he approached the Haymarket subway stop, pigeons toddling away on the gray bricks. The scent of fresh coffee, even this late at night, poured out from a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts, assaulting him with its fresh roasted flavor. He crossed New Chardon and Market Streets, headed for Canal. In the distance, Boston Garden and its cohabitant North Station stood ready to receive him if he decided to get out of the city proper. There were still trains headed out even at this late hour for points north and west. He couldn’t see the spires at either end of the building nor the tall windows that ran from top to bottom, but he did see the tall gold lettering shining brightly underneath a wide billboard, a white bull terrier with a red bow tie letting a toothy grin down on the masses: Spuds and Boston Party Right With Bud Light.

Duane didn’t grin back.

He tried to regulate his breathing. He could still hear sirens behind him and edging closer, growing louder even as he walked further away from Government Center and the scene of his original crime, but he did not feel the need to panic just yet. They weren’t anywhere near him, but he still walked at a brisk pace. He tried to appear calm and innocent, which for a black man in 1988, some fourteen years after the racial tensions that embroiled this city had ended, was hard to do. He checked behind him every few steps. There were no flashing blue and red lights coming down Canal.

He knew there had to be an all-points bulletin out for him, and he knew he couldn’t stay out in the open, especially in this part of the city, for long. The police, he knew, loved to patrol Causeway Street. The criminal element used the darkness provided by the elevated subway line as a way to conduct their business in between the routine sweeps. He heard, even as he walked closer to the Garden, the steel wheels of the Green Line subway headed for the elevated line to head out to Lechmere, or to the lower level at the corner of Canal and Causeway.

Five minutes later, he approached the station, his eyes darting back and forth, from the far side of Canal to the chain link fence to his right. There weren’t many waiting for the subway, as there were no events at the Garden on this night: the Celtics were done, the Bruins on the road. Cars passed frequently, not slowing for pedestrians, or other cars for that matter. Even with the meager light from nearby street lamps, Duane could see the rivets bolted to the green steel columns that held the elevated tracks up like Sisyphus and his stone. He slipped by the station, and he couldn’t help but feel anxious as he passed it: he felt the illuminated Green and Orange Line signs perched above the black doors staring at his back accusingly, as if they had eyes. He turned right onto Causeway, only to feel his skin crawl as another set of signs peered down.

Duane paused at the black lamp post that stood in front of the station, the one with the large letter T in the circle, if only to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and gulped air. Within seconds, he felt his resolve building once again. He was close to freedom, some eighty feet or so before he entered the Garden and followed other passengers to the Commuter Rail platform in the rear of the building.

Yet as he peered to the other side of Canal, he saw a homeless man crouched near one of the steel pillars. He wet his lips as thought caught up with him.

No, don’t leave the city, he thought. The pigs won’t catch me. If I can hide out for a bit, I’ll be fine. They won’t fucking find me if I can blend in with my surroundings.

He crossed over as rapidly as his tired legs would take him. He began looking for a darkened doorway along the front of the Garden, a place to hide from police until enough time had passed. A minute later, he found one. It was dark, just as he wanted, with discarded newspaper leaves, red, gold and white Super-sized French fry containers, and clamshell Styrofoam refuse, all in tan, gold and baby blue, from the McDonald’s across the street, clogging the concrete. The windows were dirty, the remains of exhaust fumes clinging to the glass, choking the cleanliness away. The pungent scent of stale urine hung in the air. Duane choked on it, but he remained stoic even as his eyes watered. Within moments, with his legs seizing up from his exertions, he slid down into a crouch and lowered his head. 
There, with his face shrouded, he allowed himself a little smile. He knew that if he had a mirror, he would be able to see his white teeth even in the darkness, gleaming like a beacon. He reminded himself to stop smiling. His smile would give him away, even in the darkness of Boston’s armpit.

And there, with his head down, he thought about the robbery he and his “friends” had committed, and how he ended up here in this piss-scented doorway.

If you like what you've read, consider grabbing a full copy of REDEEMED for your eReader, or the trade paperback copy. You can get your copy at the links below.

US Kindle
UK Kindle
Trade paperback on Amazon

Monday, September 9, 2013

Jaclyn Johnson novels in order

I used Grammarly to grammar check this post, because I get my panties in a bunch when I see, read, or hear improper grammar usage, and you can take that to the bank!

Sure, everybody's talking about REDEEMED, my newest release. But one question I get all the time is this: What's the proper order to read my Jaclyn Johnson AGENT series?

I'll tell you.

1. Model Agent (currently free on Kindle and iBooks, published February 2011)
2. Rogue Agent (published June 2011
3. Double Agent (published November 2011)
4. Promises Given, Promises Kept: A Jaclyn Johnson novella (published August 2013)
5. Federal Agent (published November 2012)
6. Literary Agent (Coming Spring 2014)
7. Future JJ6 novel (2015)

I finished writing the first draft to LITERARY AGENT early Sunday morning, clocking in at 90,425 words. I'll set it aside for a couple of months before I dive into the first round of edits. Hopefully I'll strengthen the book with my patented detail. The book should be ready to go by St. Patrick's Day 2014. That's if real life doesn't get too much into the way. But we'll see.

Happy reading!

Friday, August 30, 2013

What is REDEEMED all about?

Coming soon to all eTail outlets, REDEEMED by Sean Sweeney:

All he wanted was a second chance at life.

Duane Thompson’s incarceration following a crime-filled night on the streets of Boston lasted just a little over a decade and a half. When the Commonwealth paroled him, his second chance at life stalled. No one wanted him near their businesses.

Despite being dogged by the police officer that had initially collared him, Duane does get his second chance, helping the poor in a small Central Massachusetts city. But when a woman is hounded by the same cop, Duane comes face-to-face with his greatest challenge.

Yet unbeknownst to him, while all of this is going on an extremist government has begun reshaping Boston in its twisted image.

Praise for REDEEMED

"Duane is evil incarnate - Sweeney has created a literary villain that will have you biting your finger nails as you read each of his thoughts and deeds."

--Bruce A. Sarte, author of A PHILADELPHIA STORY and SANDS OF TIME

"The first chapter left me breathless and the book stayed with me long after I finished it. Even now, the characters have not let me go."

--Nickie Storey, author of GRIMSLEY HOLLOW

"Through the character of Duane, Sweeney paints a near cinematic vision: he is a man who tries to take a plea deal but winds up being railroaded by the justice system. Upon his release sixteen years after the fact, Duane tries to start over fresh. But his past always seems to catch up with him, even when he turns around and tries to atone for all the wrong he’s done."


REDEEMED, a novel by Sean Sweeney, coming to Amazon Kindle, Nook, Kobo, iBooks, and Sony on September 17, 2013.

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Happy Book Day: FREEDOM

Earlier this morning, David Wood uploaded and released FREEDOM, the Dane Maddock/Bones origins novella that he and I co-wrote back in March. It is currently available on Kindle and Kobo; I'll post a link when its Nook placement is up and running.

The story goes back through the mists of time, bringing Dane and Bones to when they completed BUDS as part of their Navy SEAL training. The thing is, these two simply despise one another. And in true literary fashion, they are brought together by circumstance, eventually working together during the course of the story.

FREEDOM takes place in my native Boston, some twenty years ago or so. Anyone who knows Boston will get the time period within the first few chapters of the book, as there are several locales no longer standing that we included in the story. And there is something that, if you've read David's Maddock books before now, sneaked into the story without our say-so. What can I say: It happens.

David invited me into this project back in December. I jumped at the chance--David's books sell, and there were infinite possibilities. I had only asked  for some time to finish writing REDEEMED. In fact, one of the characters in REDEEMED makes a brief appearance in this story. We started brainstorming in February, I wrote the first draft in March, he wrote the second draft, and I recently looked through the book before firing it off to DW.

And here it is.

This was an interesting experience for me, to say the least: David and I's styles clash a little, and the way we approach our work is totally different. But I think that it worked as a whole, and the finished product is before you now.

I'm hoping that David and I get the chance to work on book two!

FREEDOM on Kindle

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

It's time for a change; sexual assaults in the military MUST end

There won't be anything witty about this particular blog, folks. I know you come here looking for witticisms, but alas, you won't find any here today.

The recent revelation about the rise of sexual assault in the military has me disgusted. More than disgusted, even. I'm steamed, heated, and pissed off to the fact that there are a number of individuals--notice I'm not using an ad hominem attack--that wear our country's uniform and defend us who, I'm sad to say, have no regard or use for the word "no."

This isn't false indignation, folks. This hits close to home for me, and according to the article, it hits home to the 26,000 soldiers that have dealt with inappropriate sexual contact during their time in the service.

I've written that my cousin Tara is my hero. Tara's four years older than I am, and I've always looked up to her, even though now I tower over her by a good five inches or so (OK, one witticism sneaked through the censors). When Tara was a senior in high school in the early 1990's, the late Senator Ted Kennedy nominated her to be one of Massachusetts' representatives to the Air Force Academy. We were all thrilled for her. She wanted to become an astronaut, and I hoped that her dream would come true one day.

But during her time in Colorado Springs, something occurred to her. I think you know what that is. She was sexually assaulted in 1994. Ten years or so ago, she testified before a Congressional committee about sexual assaults in the military.

As you can see by the recent revelation, nothing has been done: if anything had been done, the number of sexual assaults would have decreased instead of increased. At least that's what logic tells me.

So what should be done? Where do we begin? My cousin wants solutions. She wants this to end. I want this to end. I don't want anyone else to be a statistic.

We have a huge problem in this country. It's called violence. We are a violent society. This really isn't a secret. But when a huge secret is exposed, like the secret exposed recently, it's time to come up with solutions. Some may mock and say there isn't a problem, or that I'm bashing the military, but numbers do not lie: 26,000 soldiers experienced unwanted sexual, violent conduct between 2010 and 2012.

That is 26,000 too many.

That could be your brother, your sister, your cousin, sexually assaulted while serving your country. An aunt or an uncle. It could be your best friend, and they can't tell you. Do you really want this for them, or do you want change?

I have one solution: it's time to change the way we do business. It's time for some transparency between the military and the public so we can figure out how to solve this problem. Tomorrow wouldn't be soon enough to start changing this. I urge you to contact your senators and your representatives in Congress.

It is time to change, before anyone else becomes harmed by this.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Checking in after a busy couple of months

It's been a while, hasn't it?

Yes, the blogging has taken a back seat as of late: I've been relatively busy between writing and editing various projects, all which should see daylight within the next few months. I've gone through the first major edit of REDEEMED, which is now out to first readers. I've written and edited a Jaclyn Johnson novella entitled PROMISES GIVEN, PROMISES KEPT, which is set between DOUBLE AGENT and FEDERAL AGENT. I've written a new Furball and Feathers story, and I've written the first draft to FREEDOM, a Dane Maddock novella that I'm co-authoring with David Wood, our first collaboration.

And following a couple of days on Cape Cod last week, I've completed the outline to the fifth Jaclyn Johnson novel entitled LITERARY AGENT.

Let me wipe the sweat away.

It was once said of pulp magazine writers a century ago: you have to be prolific, or you'll starve. I wear that mantra on my chest even though I try to keep the "prolific" label out of my mind, as I'm not half as prolific as Kevin J. Anderson. Just because I'm only a few days away from beginning to pen what will be my 19th novel doesn't mean you can slap that label on me. I'm just not there yet.

Am I paying for food with my royalties? Yes, I am.

Not starving writer, over here.

I will say, though, that at the beginning of 2013, I set a goal: three published novels, and 200,000 words written.

I'm 79,069 words away from reaching that second goal.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Oh, my aching legs....

Eeek. Ooof. Owwww.

I had a stress test today. For those that don't know, a stress test is basically walking/running on a treadmill, one with an incline. It was my first stress test in at least two decades, seeing as I haven't seen a cardiologist for nearly two decades until three weeks ago. This is all a part of Getting Sean Healthy, which is going fairly well so far. I've had a bit of a weight gain in the past four weeks, so I'll have to get that back in order right quick.

I lasted 9:09.

For me, that's not bad. It's just a barometer of how much work I need to do in getting back into shape. Being a writer in Massachusetts, one with a heart condition, limits exactly how much exercise one can do, especially in the heart of winter. And seeing as if winter just doesn't want to give up its choke hold, I'll have to wait until better weather comes around.

Right now, I'm achy. My hip joints are screaming at me, and I just want to rest. But once I wake up, I think we'll dive into the WIP I have going on, which I'll tell you a little bit about when I come back.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Author Spotlight: K.R. Jordan

Today, we start the week with a special treat, as K.R. Jordan, one of my favoritest peoples in the state of Texas, has just released a new novella entitled Riftglade. You can find it on Amazon. She's also on Goodreads, as well as Facebook. Remember to click LIKE on it so you can let your peeps on Facebook know, you know, that you like it.

Without further ado, here's Miss Jordan!

Thank you very much for having me on your blog, Sean!  Hello everyone!  I’m River Jordan and I write under the nom de plume, K.R. Jordan.  I’m from the Gulf Coast of Texas where I enjoy swimming, writing and fishing as hobbies.  I only write part time, but I have been writing since forever!

If you haven’t read any of my short stories, my writing leans toward YA or YA paranormal (Leela: and Alba: ). My collaboration with author Scott Prussing, Blue Fire Heat is a love story about his two main characters: I wrote the story and he added the “heat” to it.  It is for adults only. I also write poetry, though none is published as of yet.

I’d recently read an extremely sensual poem by poet/author Gary L. Robinson named Clover’s Bliss:

I laid her down in a field of clover
her wanting body I hovered over
dress gathered, seductive at her waist
ahh I saw her thighs, longed to taste

she raised her hips, dress pulled over
and left it lying stoic in the clover
yes, nothing to hinder my view of her
with a whisper she said "come higher..."

she opened herself to me, nothing left to hide
yes no need to play, just to explore inside
freed and pulsing my masculinity her reward
with the heels of her feet she led me inward

I lay my hardness on her place just to tease
she gasps in a breathless tone "take me, please"
without a second thought and boyish grin
I concede to her request, our passion begins

Making love in a field of clover!
These are my dreams, over and over

Clover's Bliss by Gary L. Robinson, 2012

Like most authors, I never know what will inspire a story. It could be anything, you know?  Well, this poem started a story in my head that just took off!  It really wrote itself!

Riftglade is published by Hot Ink Press ( ) and does have an erotic love scene but is chock full of excitement and adventure as well! 

Princess Yaliza must reluctantly venture out into the world on her own to find her destiny. Right as her journey begins, she is flung straight into an unexpected adventure!

Thanks for dropping by, River!