Tag: #TimeTravel

Posted in #BookTours

When Time Flies

Posted on by Reluctant Retiree

When Time Flies
Jennifer Moreno
Publication date: February 3rd 2026
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Romance, Time-Travel

She was just a flight attendant…until she landed in her past.

Indy Kash is a corporate flight attendant, jet-setting with the rich and famous in a world most only glimpse through glossy magazine covers. But beneath the polished service and designer luggage lies a past she’s spent years trying to forget. When a mysterious time-slip yanks her mid- flight into the trauma that derailed her life thirteen years ago, Indy is forced to face the crime that destroyed her future—and the man who made sure she took the fall.

Back in the present, he’s suddenly on board her jet, and Indy’s thrown into a battle across time to stop him from destroying the world. With a reluctant spirit guide, a crash course in time travel, and a love she never saw coming, Indy must untangle the past to rewrite her future.

Can she finally clear her name, save the world, and discover if time really does heal all wounds?

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

The old rage from my liver rose, and my intestines churned like an electric whisk on the lowest speed. I was a cliché of both Chinese medicine and Ayurveda. The fact that my shame, anger, and fear culminated into Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD) really made me textbook. As the spiritual experts would say: You keep holding onto old crap.

I’d tried everything to let go of the past. I talked about my feelings to numerous therapists—some good, some not. I even attempted the “woo-woo” including:

Inner child work.

A soul retrieval from a Native American shaman (Apparently my soul couldn’t be retrieved).

Good ole fashioned journaling.

Cry therapy.

Ayahuasca in the Amazon jungle (The result? Shitting and vomiting at the same time).

Exploring my “shadow side.”

Breath work while a didgeridoo played in the background (One word: painful).

Shrooms.

Trauma workshops.

Belief coding.

Vision boarding (I was desperate).

Transcendental Meditation.

Ketamine.

Visits to psychics, mediums, astrologers, and tarot readers, who all agreed…

I was pretty fucked.

Then I returned to the Western approach and did a one-week stint each with Lexapro and Zoloft, which only gave me migraines. I freakin’ loved the I-can’t-even-get-anxious-if-I-wanted-to feeling of Xanax…but alas, it wasn’t enough.

Nothing worked.

I let out a sigh from my belly, as a multitude of yoga teachers had taught me. As I expelled the air, I felt strange…odd…not dizzy, not nauseous, but weird. I checked the monitor that displayed the airshow. Time To Destination, or TTD, was three hours to go until we landed in Teterboro, New Jersey.

The words and numbers on the monitor blurred into an astigmatism.

I rounded the corner into the crew rest and then plopped onto the club seat. Exhaustion crawled through my veins like slow lightning. My vision pulsed. The feeling was jetlag times infinity. I tried to stay centered and think through what was happening. I had been flying, almost nonstop to save money to buy a house. Crossing all those time zones and the constant fatigue combined with the IBD did not make for a healthy lifestyle.

I’d let myself get that run down. Damn.

My body felt weightless. It was like the moment before a fall, that breathless pause—only it never ended. A newfound hum in my ears grew until it swallowed my every thought. My eyes darted over my lap to the khaki fabric wall and finally to the window. The sky brightened to an angelic white, nearly blinding me. I wasn’t dizzy. I had the urge to stare straight ahead, yet I could not focus.

Am I vaporizing?

I stretched out my fingers. They were disappearing! I felt so airy, as if I could levitate off the seat. I grasped the armrests until…

I couldn’t grasp them anymore.

The outline of my body began to blur. I lost the solidity of flesh. Tiny sparks of light flickered along my arms, breaking apart into floating specks, like dust in the sun. These particles—that were once me—scattered outward. Where I had sat, I was now only a swirl of luminous dust, leaving me somewhere between confused and terrified.

The world spun ahead of me, leaving no room for panic, no room to understand. In an instant, purple lightning hummed and sounded like the constant static of a bug zapper. The spinning intensified, yet I wasn’t queasy.

What the fuck is going on?

I realized I was spinning through blackness, as if I was on an otherworldly plane. Then the particles of my body snapped back together and returned it to its human shape. I kept rotating and twirling until, out of nowhere, I smelled old wood and cleaning solution. And then…

There I was, sitting on a chair in a—was it a courtroom?

My mouth was so dry it felt like sand had settled on my tongue. A dull ache pulsed behind my temples, the kind that usually came from waking too early and too thirsty. My eyes darted across the courtroom, desperate to anchor on something steady, but every face seemed sharpened against me, a blur of judgement I couldn’t decipher. My chest tightened, heavy as stone, and though I begged my body to move, shift, or raise even a finger, nothing obeyed. It was as if my body had betrayed me; every molecule refused to budge. Before I could get one thought together, I heard:

“Indy, doodoo, what’s wrong?”

Mom.

Where am I?

Author Bio:

Jennifer Moreno has a master’s degree in creative writing from New York University. She was a corporate flight attendant for six years and is the host of the Corporate Flight Attendant podcast.

She is deeply involved in metaphysical practices, including obtaining certificates in trance and advanced mediumship; medical intuition; and psychic detection. She is also a reiki master and hosted a metaphysical podcast called Two Inches Off the Ground.

In her personal life, Jennifer is a proud Colombian adoptee. As a Colombian American, she enjoys improving her Spanish and exploring her roots in her native Colombia. “Jennifer” is her adopted American name, and “Moreno” is her original Colombian surname, thus combining these different…yet magical cultures.


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Amaranthine

Posted on by Reluctant Retiree

Eternal Life. 

Endless Love. 

Infinite Cost.


Amaranthine

by Delia Strange

Genre: SciFi Time Travel Historical Paranormal Vampire Romance



Eternal life comes at a cost

For centuries, Amaranthine has walked through time—an immortal bound by a gift she never asked for. From the opulent halls of the Roman Empire to the decadent jazz clubs of 1920s London, to the futuristic floating city of New Francisco, she has lived countless lives, loved deeply, and lost more than most could ever bear. With each new era comes new faces: lovers, rivals, and those drawn to the mystery of her eternal existence. But immortality comes with a price, and as the world changes, so too does the weight of the centuries she carries.

Torn between living for the future and haunted by the choices of her past, Amaranthine must confront the question that has followed her for an eternity: What does it mean to live forever when everything and everyone else fades away?

 

“This is the first book in a while that I have continued to mull over even after I’d finished reading it as it’s definitely a story that gets you thinking.”
~ Lynne Stringer, Goodreads Review

 

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The olive trees stood like shadows in the distance, swaying in the night breeze. Amaranthine’s steps were cautious, her eyes scanning the darkness, but as she reached the edge of the grove, there was no sign of him. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sudden pang of doubt freezing her where she stood. Had she waited too long? Her heart sank as she looked around. She’d been foolish to think this was possible, that someone like her could step outside the boundaries of her life, if only for a moment.

But then Marcellus stepped forward, his form emerging from the darkness and appearing in front of her like a dream. His smile was slow, knowing, and when his eyes met hers, she felt that rush all over again, more powerful this time for the waiting.

“I thought you might change your mind,” he said, his voice cutting through the night.

Amaranthine exhaled, the tension leaving her body in a soft, trembling breath. “I almost did,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but then she smiled, feeling the same reckless pull that had brought her here. “But I’m here.”

Marcellus took her hand, his touch warm, and without a word he led her deeper into the olive grove. The trees closed in around them and the world outside the grove disappeared, leaving only the two of them beneath the cover of night. The air smelled faintly of the earth and the lingering sweetness of ripening fruit, but all Amaranthine could focus on was the heat of his hand against hers, the certainty in his steps as he drew her farther away from the villa, away from everything she knew.

When he stopped, she nearly stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. Marcellus turned to face her, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that made her catch her breath. His eyes roamed her face, her body, lingering as though his look could somehow touch her skin. It wasn’t just a glance; it was deeper, heavier.

Slowly, deliberately, Marcellus ran his fingers up her arm, light as a breeze. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, thrilling and delicate all at once. His hand traveled over her shoulder, warm and sure, before brushing against her neck, where her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek as his other hand slid into her hair, gently cradling the back of her neck. The closeness of him—his soft breath against her skin, his scent unfamiliar and intoxicating—made her dizzy.

When he pressed his body against hers, she didn’t hesitate. Amaranthine’s arms wrapped around him as though it was the most natural thing in the world, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. She could feel the heat of him through the thin cloth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the thrilling, terrifying anticipation that hovered in the air between them. He leaned in, his lips so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath, and her body instinctively tilted forward, closing the last distance between them.

The kiss began softly, their lips brushing with a delicate hesitance, as though both of them were testing the boundaries of something new. It was sweet, tender, like a whispered secret exchanged in the dark. Amaranthine’s heart fluttered, the warmth of his mouth against hers sending gentle waves of pleasure through her body. Her hands tightened their grip on his tunic, pulling him closer, and for a moment, everything else faded away—her worries, her fears, even the nagging sense of not belonging. Here, in this kiss, she felt connected, as though they shared something deeper than words.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the kiss deepened. Marcellus’ arms wrapped around her waist, his hands pressing her closer, and the softness between them gave way to something more intense, more urgent. Passion overtook them both, their lips moving with a fervor that surprised her. Amaranthine had never kissed anyone before, but she felt as though she’d always known how, the way their mouths fit together, the way their breaths mingled in the cool night air. Her heart pounded faster, and a strange heat pooled in her chest, spreading through her veins in a way that made her feel alive.

Then something within her awoke. At first, she didn’t recognize it, mistaking the growing intensity for the natural progression of a kiss. There was a pull, a sensation inside her, almost like the drawing of breath, but deeper, fuller. She thought it was part of the magic of kissing, the way it could make someone feel as though they were floating, untethered from everything. No wonder people kiss, she thought, her mind hazy with the thrill of it. It’s wonderful. She let the sensation sweep over her, unaware of what she was truly doing. But then, after a moment, she noticed something different. Their lips had stopped moving. The rhythm they had found, the tender push and pull, had stilled.

Amaranthine opened her eyes, confused, and pulled back. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcellus staggered away from her, his face ashen, his once bright eyes dull and clouded. He looked gaunt, hollow, as though something had been drained from him. His skin sagged against the bones of his cheeks, and before her eyes, he aged—twenty years, maybe more—his youthful vibrance withering into something frail and brittle. He gasped, his hands reaching out toward her as though for help, but no words came. Then, with a final shuddering breath, Marcellus crumpled to the ground, motionless.

The world around her seemed to tilt, the ground beneath her feet suddenly unsteady as she stared at Marcellus’ lifeless body. Her chest tightened, a wild panic rising inside her, but she couldn’t move. Her legs felt rooted to the spot, her mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Only moments ago, they had been so close—he had been so alive. Now, the boy who had held her in his arms, who had smiled at her like she was a secret worth keeping, lay motionless at her feet, his face hollow and pale, drained of life.






An only child with an active imagination, I created many stories in my head. My bookcase was overflowing, and I loved visiting the library. I’d always been a reader, but I hadn’t considered writing until a childhood friend said we should write our ideas down. Once I started writing my stories, I couldn’t stop.

I gravitated to stories of peculiar places and happenings. I loved twists and dark reveals, so my writing didn’t stray far from that. I was a fan of fantasy—of ancient Greek myths or contemporary paranormal stories. They captured my imagination and opened me to worlds of possibilities. There were no constraints on fantasy, no wrong or right answers; anything I dreamed up was acceptable. And then came H. G. Wells and science fiction, which also opened the door to paranormal and speculative fiction, my three favourite genres.

 

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Born Like This

Posted on by Reluctant Retiree

She went back in time to rescue him.

She never counted on falling in love…


Born Like This

Maizemerized Book 2

by Maggie Blackbird

Genre: Historical Paranormal Time-Travel Romance



She went back in time to rescue him.  She never counted on falling in love…

Alma Whitecrow prefers hunting and fishing with men, not romancing them. But hearing about the roguishly handsome coureur de bois, who saved her sister from the Dakota, haunts her thoughts and dreams. Well-versed in surviving the wilds, Alma resolves to travel to the mid-eighteenth century, as her sister once did, to save the man from impending death.

Charlot Baudelaire thumbs his nose at society’s expectations, content living as a loner, trading with people he calls the Saulters. If he needs a woman for the night, there is always a willing maiden. What he doesn’t expect is a spunky and stubborn female warrior to challenge him.

Charlot is not the man Alma dreamed about, and Alma is not the kind of woman Charlot pursues. But the longer they are together, the more drawn to each other they become, until Alma faces the biggest decision of her life. Stay with a man who may never reciprocate her love, or return to her Ojibway home and bland existence.

 

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Alma had expected to step into a battle. Reality set in. The only killing she’d done was animals when hunting with Grandpa. But if she didn’t shoot, she risked her own life and Theodore’s as she faced six Dakota sporting arrows.

 

Theodore growled, waiting for her command.

 

The Dakota didn’t fire at her, though. They seemed to fire everywhere else, hollering in a language she couldn’t comprehend. The fear in their eyes indicated she’d terrified them.

 

Maybe they assumed she was a ghost when she’d emerged through the flickering flames.

 

As the Dakota scattered, she tracked their moccasin footprints, but one set stood out. Grandpa had told her about the spread of the toes, and these toes weren’t spread. They came from a person who walked in shoes or boots. Someone who later in life had switched to the footwear of the Indigenous people.

 

She followed the footprints with Theodore beside her, sniffing. She used the end of her rifle to move aside the thick brush, which was why her homeland was called the bush at her reserve. There was nothing to call a forest or woods about Northwestern Ontario.

 

The thick underbrush kept trying to snag her clothing. Clothing she longed to remove. When she left home, she’d donned an outfit for a cold Halloween night. But summer bloomed here. She could remove her jacket since she had a sweater underneath, and beneath that a tank top.

 

A groan came about ten feet from her, and she aimed her rifle in the direction of the sound. She moved through the many twigs and branches but didn’t spot a blood trail. Whatever lay beneath the berry bush had been hit there.

 

Another groan.

 

Whoever was hurt wasn’t an animal. That was the sound of a human being. Maybe one of the Dakota?

 

She edged in closer until she caught the moccasins sticking out, along with breeches. This wasn’t a Dakota or warrior from the village under attack.

 

Her heart held its beat.

 

Had she found Charlot?






Born For This

Maizemerized Book 1



She’s always been obsessed with her ancestors, and now he’s offering her a chance to live with them… forever.

Second-year university student Edie Whitecrow gobbles up each course on Indigenous studies. If only she could experience the lives of her Anishinaabe ancestors instead of reading about them. On her way to a Halloween party decked out as a historical Ojibway maiden, she spies a corn maze in a spot known to be barren.

A scarecrow figure beckons Edie to enter with the enticing offer of making her biggest wish come true. She jumps at the chance and finds herself in the past, face to face with the man who haunts her dreams—the handsome brave Thunder Bear. He claims he’s spent twelve years waiting for Gitche Manidoo to send her to him.

Life in the eighteenth century isn’t what Edie romanticized about, though. When her conscience is tested, she must choose between the modern day or the world of her descendants—where the man she was born for resides.

 

What readers are saying:

“This novel is true to history while still spinning a lovely tale of love. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves historical and time travel romances.” –Goodreads Reviewer


“The story had me glued to the pages from start to finish. Loved and recommend this book.” –B&N Reviewer


“Based on prior reading from the author, I knew this would be a great book. I had no idea just how much I’d love it.” –BookBub Reviewer


“Once I started reading, I was not putting this book down.” –Goodreads Reviewer

 

This is one of the best romance novels I’ve ever read in my entire life. This book will pull you in full force and make you feel so many different emotions.” –Goodreads Reviewer

 

 

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Thunder Bear nodded. “Fire Woman. Is it not an appropriate name? The flames did not burn you. Fire is your friend. Your spirit guide.”

 

“I want to be honest.” She wet her plush mouth with the color riper than raspberries. “I have been educated in the ways of the white men. Where I come from, we live like white men.”

 

“I know you do. It is in your speech, your movement, your behavior.” He reached out and touched her bare arm that possessed delicate strength beneath the smooth flesh he palmed. “You are here to become what you are meant to truly be. We will teach you, if you are willing.”

 

“I am more than willing. In the white man’s world, I am learning everything about the People. I have studied the People ever since I was a little girl.”

 

“I know you have. It is why you came.” He could not resist letting his palm move along her arm. Beneath the skin he stroked, her slight muscle flexed.

 

She wet her lips.

 

The urge to claim her mouth was a test of his restraint. They’d only met this morning, and he must go slow. To slide his mouth over hers after just meeting was not how a warrior conducted himself. Yet, the way she’d drew her tongue along her lower lip was caressing and licking him beneath his breechclout. Her innocent gesture might as well have been her nails raking his backside, her hands boldly exploring his arms, and her breasts melting against his chest.

 

She was aptly named, because a fire danced in her sparkling dark eyes. A fire of desire. A fire of need. A fire flickering with mesmerization in her gaze touching his face.

 

He stifled the groan aching to leave his throat.

 

She seemed to drag her gaze to the dark water. If where they stood was better lit, he’d probably witness redness on her cheeks.

 

“What is it?”

 

Again, she wet her lips. “I… Maybe I should go back?”

 

A punch seemed to knock his gut. “Return? Now?”

 

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean the wigwam. Not the…the…”

 

“The dancing flames?”

 

She nodded.

 

Relief loosened the knots of his shoulder muscles. He didn’t believe in restraining any maiden, but if she had dared to run for where she had come from, he probably would have tossed her over his shoulder and carted her back to the camp. Now that he had found what he’d waited twelve years to capture, he wasn’t letting her go.

 

Somehow, he had to help her find her courage to survive with them. She was destined to be here.







An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful Alaskan Malamutes.  When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush, teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with the people she loves most.

 

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