Haunted Flint

Haunted Flint

Friday, February 21, 2020

Emerging Butterfly by Constance G. Jones

Emerging Butterfly
Constance G. Jones

Genre: Non-Fiction, Memoir
Publisher: Beautiful Sky Publishing

Date of Publication:  1213/2020
ISBN: 978-1-7338439-0-4
ISBN: 978-1-7338439-1-1
ISBN: 978-1-7338439-2-8
Number of pages: 245
Word Count: 65,132

Cover Artist: mycustombookcover.com

Tagline: Survive the darkness of the cocoon and you will emerge into the light of day.

Book Description:

Raised in San Diego in the 1980s, Constance was born to be a Californian dreamer. The fourth of nine children in a poor, dysfunctional family, she grew up with three demons in her household: alcohol, abuse, and absence. She buried her dreams in the dark cocoon of her childhood. As a teenager, an accident upended her world and cursed her with epilepsy for the rest of her life.

Entering adulthood, Constance hoped she’d left the worst behind her. Instead, toxic relationships, misguided spiritual teachings, and close calls with death nearly broke her.

But Constance discovered curses can hide blessings in their inner layers. Instead of breaking, she chose to break free, realizing her heart could sprout wings to take her in the direction of her wildest dreams…

In a mesmerizing memoir that is by turns heartbreaking and heartwarming, writer and philanthropist Constance Grays Jones retraces her precarious journey towards truth, love, community, and self-discovery. Tackling issues of epilepsy, depression, infertility, and family drama with refreshing sass, humor, and compassion, she reminds us that we are products of our past but also the creators of our purpose. Her inspiring story is a wakeup call for the soul, showcasing the tenacity of the human spirit, the pockets of sunlight in the darkest corners, and the transformational power of belief and love.


It is remarkable how lonely you can feel even when constantly surrounded by people. It is eerie how life is dictated by luck—the luck of which family you are born into. I had friends who had stable households, loving parents, families who always made time for them, normal siblings, and access to ballet lessons, summer camp, and nice clothes. I, on the other hand, lived in the heart of chaos. I felt neglected, unseen, and forced to grow up fast. I’d tried running away a few times. I’d tried staying with my relatives for as long as I was able. I always ended up back home.
Would they even notice if I was gone? Would they even care?
I’d be one less kid to worry about. One less mouth to feed. There were so many of us anyway. And I would be free… free from the pain, neglect, emptiness… free from my returning father.
Derrick would care. I felt a pang of regret that I would leave my best friend behind. I thought about my younger sisters. Would they hate me for abandoning them as our dad had abandoned us? Would they be able to take care of themselves without me? Maybe my parents would have regrets. Maybe my mom would feel horrible for ignoring me. Maybe she would cry over my little dead body and wish she’d treated me nicer. She would tell my dad and he would feel like it was his fault. He’d have to live with the regret for his entire life.
Yes. Good. It would serve them right.
I wondered if I would go to Hell. According to the Bible, God would damn me for taking my own life. It was a sin. The fires would be hot… there would be pitch forks, torture, and demons…
My hands started to shake. I couldn’t get myself to open the bottle of pills.
Or maybe God would take pity on me. Maybe he’d take me up to Heaven so I could finally be happy. That would be a very different sort of afterlife. I envisioned blue skies and sunny fields of lush green grass, colorful flowers and refreshing rivers, beautiful smiling angels and music. I would be able to fly in Heaven, it would be a place filled with enchanting music, and I would be given everything I’d ever wanted in my life. I wouldn’t be poor. I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep at night. I wouldn’t need to live with my father ever again.
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…
A knock on the door startled me. “Connie?” Andre’s voice drifted through the keyhole. “What are you doing in there?”
I paused. He had seen me go in. I’d pushed past him while I’d been crying. Had he seen the pill bottle? “None of your business!”
“Open the door!” he said.
“No!” I retorted.
“Open the door! Open it now!”
His demands and his frantic knocking incited a fresh wave of tears. The enormity of what I was about to do frightened me. His frantic awareness of it frightened me even further.
“No,” I kept saying. My hands were shaking so badly that it was difficult to get the cap off the bottle, but I finally managed. “No!” This was what I wanted, right? Yes, I told myself. This was what I needed. There couldn’t be any turning back. They won’t change, I reprimanded myself. Nothing will change. Only I can change this. It wasn’t a bad thing. I hadn’t contemplated death too much, but I hoped that it would be like swimming out of blackness and into the light, like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Surely it would be better than all this.
I’ve wondered, since then, why so many people choose bathrooms as a suicide setting. There are many reasons to choose from, probably. Bathrooms are where pills and razors are located. They are private spaces, where other people are far less likely to interrupt you or bang down the door if they think you’re taking your sweet time flossing or grappling with constipation. Bathrooms are also easier to clean, since water is in great supply. Then there’s the mirror, too, offering a final face-down and farewell.
For my fourteen-year-old self, this bathroom had become a narrow ledge at the world’s end. I teetered on the cliff between hope and despair, reeling from my never-ending exposure to a world of violence and vulnerability where no one seemed to care and no one seemed to notice. From my vantage point, there was only one way out: step off the cliff and into the void. I wasn’t sure yet if falling meant flying.

About the Author:

Constance G. Jones is a San Diego native, an avid reader, and a storyteller. She earned her bachelor’s degree in Management and Organizational Communications from Point Loma Nazarene University and has since worked in administration, public relations, and career services; most recently, she serves as a site manager at Walmart Global eCommerce. In 2016, Constance founded Elevate Foundation with her husband, Claude, driven by their personal mission to make an impact in their local community and inspire others to do the same. Emerging Butterfly: A Memoir is Constance’s debut book.

Elevate Foundation: http://elevate.foundation

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Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Advice for Aspiring Writers from Bestselling Author Laura Munson

Just about nothing makes me happier than giving tips to aspiring writers. It’s often like I’m speaking to myself when I started living the writing life in 1988 after college, and felt so alone in the process. In many ways, I am still that young woman. I think that’s part of why I lead my Haven Writing Retreats in Montana and now have over 1000 alums of my different programs. I want to end the tortured artist paradigm, and help people move into the empowered artist reality. To help them find their unique voices and to set them free in whatever form that takes: a book, an essay, a short story, a poem, a speech. It’s all the same. We have to put our fingers on the pulse of what we truly need to say and that takes courage. It’s so important to have support because even though we write in solitude, it’s mined from the collective act of living in community. 


Fasten yourself to your process. 

Raise a flexible writer in yourself. And know that your writing process changes the way life changes. 

Focus on creating a writing process that is true to who you really are, and show up for it with all your might. We have to honor our habits, responsibilities, when the creative juices flow, and when they don’t. 

Cultivate an inner champion who can calm the inner critic down. Afterall, the inner critic is just a scared child who knows exactly what to say to break our hearts. 

Forgive yourself when you have to choose something else besides your writing, and get intentional about when you can realistically show up next. 

Learn to love the process. To truly love it. To be obsessed with it. To treat it like your dearest friend. It’s the only thing about your writing that you can control. Not publication. Not readers. Not fame. And that’s good news! You can control doing the work. That’s where the real power is. 

Don’t worry about platform building, networking, or the business of publishing. Yes, those things are important once you are ready to put your work out into the world. But first learn who you are on the page. 

Take care of yourself. I say over and over that I believe writing should be up there with diet and exercise in the realm of preventative wellness. Let your writing fuel you. Ground you. Be your guide. And that means that you have to get up and move around! The writing will work in you as you honor your body by taking a good long walk! Or even a short one. Or a good stretch. But please…move that body of yours which does so much to support your muse. 

Be well, writers! And come to a Haven Writing Retreat in Montana! It’s pure manna.
Yours, Laura

Willa’s Grove
Laura Munson

Genre: Women’s Fiction
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Date of Publication: March 3rd, 2020
ISBN: 978-1-9826-0524-7
Number of pages: 304 pages
Cover Artist: Alenka Linaschke

Tagline: Four women. One week. One question.

Book Description:

In this powerful and inspiring novel, three women, from coast to coast and in between, open their mailboxes to the same intriguing invitation. Although leading entirely different lives, each has found herself at a similar, jarring crossroads. Right when these women thought they’d be comfortably settling into middle age, their carefully curated futures have turned out to be dead ends. The sender of the invitation is Willa Silvester, who is reeling from the untimely death of her beloved husband and the reality that she must say goodbye to the small mountain town they founded together. Yet as Willa mourns her losses, an impossible question keeps staring her in the face: So now what?

Struggling to find the answer alone, fiercely independent Willa eventually calls a childhood friend who happens to be in her own world of hurt—and that’s where the idea sparks. They decide to host a weeklong interlude from life, and invite two other friends facing their own quandaries. Soon the four women converge at Willa’s Montana homestead, a place where they can learn from nature and one another as they contemplate their second acts together in the rugged wilderness of big sky country.


The Women

On a typical day in their typical lives, three women went to their mailboxes and found — amid junk mail and bills and shiny flyers for unshiny things — an invitation, sealed with a bold W pressed into sage-green wax.
They had been waiting for this invitation. They longed for it as much as they feared it. Because to break this seal was to release a behemoth of a question — a question so impossible that they had almost stopped asking it.
Each hesitated, looked around, and in respective order, thought, Sweet Jesus, What the hell, Here goes nothing, and slid her finger under the seal, revealing a thick handmade note card, pressed with silvery leaves.
Words winked up at them. Words that might, if given the chance, change everything.
They swallowed hard and pulled out the card. Inside, nestled with a wild bird feather, were the following words:
You are invited to the rest of your life. You know you can't go on like this. Not for one more day. You need an interlude.

* * *

Imagine this: You are in a farmhouse in Montana, wrapped in a soft blanket, sitting by a warm woodstove. There is a cup of tea in your hand, just the way you like it. There are women surrounding you who need this just as badly as you do. We all have the same question. The question is: So now what? Come to Montana and find out ...

Love, Willa (You don't have to do this alone.)

Each woman held the invitation to her heart, drew in a deep breath before letting out an exhausted sigh that echoed from Connecticut to Wisconsin to California and back to Montana, and went inside to call a dear friend.

The Invitation

Willa walked into the Mercantile, her plaid flannel pajama bottoms tucked into her mud boots, her duct-taped parka zipped up to her chin. It was a cold late-April morning and it had taken her all week to get the courage to take the steps she now took. Past Earl and Wink, the farrier brothers getting their coffee before rounds, past Tally Hansen setting out her Morning Buns on parchment paper atop the cracked glass counter, past Syd the Dog Man and his daily, "I can't resist," growling about his type 2 diabetes, and ending with Marilyn at the post office counter, admiring the latest stamps just in.

"Morning, Marilyn. I need some stamps, please," said Willa, her hands firmly in her pockets.
Marilyn eyed Willa like this was a test. "US Flag, Endangered Species, or Wild and Scenic Rivers?" "Wild and Scenic Rivers, of course," said Willa, adding, "I hear the Upper Missouri is one of them. And the Flathead too. Read it in the Great Falls Tribune." This was a test she longed to pass. These days, she didn't have it in her to be any more misunderstood than she already was.
Marilyn glared over her reading glasses and pushed a pane of stamps forward.
Willa produced three envelopes of the handmade stationery she'd been saving, pressed with slivers of sage leaves from her garden, added a river stamp to each, and put her lips to the wax seal, sending them off with a kiss. I hope I chose the right words, she thought as she slid them into the slot marked not local. Not local was used most often, local only seldomly, word of mouth and the Community Bulletin Board being what they were in Willa, Montana. Willa, Montana, with its very own zip code. Population: thirty-five. Well, thirty-three now that her sons were at college. Thirty-two since Jack's heart attack last September. And soon to be thirty-one.
"That'll be six dollars and sixty cents," said Marilyn, glancing over Willa's shoulder. "Hey, Earl."
"Hey, Marilyn."
Willa recognized the familiar leathery voice, but no Hey, Willa followed. There hadn't been any Hey, Willas lately. There had been times in her life when she'd wished she was invisible. But as a forty-six-year-old widow in the rural Montana town she loved madly and deeply, and perhaps unreasonably, this wasn't one of them.
She gambled a smile at Earl, whom she'd never known not to be up for at least a morning headline or a carnal joke. He looked past her at Marilyn. Willa could feel Marilyn's scowl between her shoulder blades, as if she was branding not local into her skin. She put a ten on the counter and Marilyn pushed her change toward her like chess pieces.
Willa took the change and her stamps, pausing, waiting for some sort of peace offering, but none came. So she offered her own version and dropped the money into the spare-a-dime jar, and looked at Tally, who stared into her pastry display. Even Tally. Willa lingered, looking at her, trying to find words, but none came.
Then she went to the door she'd passed through a million times with a million Hey, Willas and stopped short, the sting of it too much. She turned and looked at each of them. Really looked, even if they wouldn't look at her.
"We never dreamed of leaving, you know." She fought back tears. "It's my home too." She didn't say, I have no other choice. Because Montanans found choices where most people couldn't fathom them. And stood by them.
The hard fact, as far as this beautiful adopted oddball family of hers knew — this pack which for decades had lived and breathed and grieved as an undeniable unified western front — as far as their Montana-ness could fathom: Willa Silvester was choosing to leave them for no good reason. Except for perhaps grief. And grief wasn't enough of a reason. She could barely admit the real reason, even to herself.
So, no. No one met her eye to eye, or even eye to boot.
Willa sighed. "Well, if you see some strangers here before too long, they're my friends."
Still nothing. Not even the cock of a head. That was the nail in the casket. Willa, Montana, loved its visitors.

Then Willa did what she'd been dreading for weeks: She pulled a cardboard sign out from under her parka. She found a lone tack on the Community Bulletin Board — full of its usual lost dogs and give-away puppies and fifth wheels for barter for chainsaws and snow tires and all the important currency of a town of thirty-five — and pushed it through the poster and into the old dry cork.





There it was in writing on the Mercantile Community Bulletin Board, where everything she'd wanted to communicate with the town over the years had been attached by a tack into this exact cork — her twin boys' birth announcement, the annual Harvest Cider Party in the orchard, summer movie nights at the barn, the Fourth of July parade and fireworks down Main Street (the only street), town meetings at the Merc, new batches of microbrew and honey, forest-fire alerts, hand-me-downs, the Free Library, the Christmas Swap, Hunter Safety classes, Meals on Wheels (and hooves) for the ill, the old, the lonely. And there had been thank-you notes for any number of services offered in kind to the town by its denizens: knife sharpening, lawn mowing, hay hauling, fence mending, gun repair. And then her most recent posts: her boys' college announcements, Jack's memorial service, their horses and mules to give away.
In a matter of weeks, this twenty-year chapter of her life would be over. And she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do next. The only thing she was sure of was that she was leaving. And that her heart had splintered into too many pieces to count, never mind put back together. So now what? It was anybody's guess.
Willa couldn't bear to look at any of them then. Instead, she closed the old, time-tested door behind her and walked past the gas pump, wondering if it would go dry now. Whether the phone booth would get disconnected. The eci cooler left empty. (Earl was dyslexic.) They'll finally fix that, Willa thought. Or not.
She stopped and stared out over the womanly foothills that rubbed up against the masculine mountains of the Lewis and Clark National Forest, the friction of the two holding this town in place. She had always thought if the hills didn't push back, those mountains would have swept the whole valley west, right into the Missouri River. She wasn't pushing any more. She couldn't.
She picked up a rusty nail from the parking lot, rolling it between her fingers. Then she pressed it into her thumb, but not for blood, holding it there, imagining the invitation she really wanted — the invitation to return to everything that came before the desolate day last fall that had rewritten her history. Pull yourself together, Willa. The women are coming.

She pitched the rusty nail into the trash can, got in her truck, and drove home, trying not to look at the homemade signs attached to every single highway mile marker along the way:


Willa, Montana, did sympathy to perfection. Change, not so well. Abandonment, not at all.
She pulled onto her road and cut the engine. She could hear his voice telling her for the hundredth time that the truck was a '74 Ford pickup —"F-100, Forest Service green, with the first SuperCab. For our family," beaming like an about-to-be father of twins. She caught herself smiling in the side mirror and imagined herself on the passenger side, pregnant, holding his hand, so proud of this land and how they cared for it. And this family of four that was about to be.
She looked at her meadow, cupped by the ridge behind it and Bison Butte in the close distance, and imagined it fractured. House, house, house, house, house. Maybe a mill. Maybe a silver mine. Maybe shopping outlets. A cell phone tower. Natural gas rig mats. A power line slicing it right down the middle.
"I'm sorry, Jack," she whispered, and swiped the tears from her cheeks. But she was practical before she was romantic, and a mother first and foremost. Her boys needed her to move on, even though they didn't understand that yet. They'd swallowed it like the bitter pill that it was. "You gotta do what you gotta do," Sam had said. Ned had nodded and looked at Bison Butte.
Willa put her hands in her pockets and felt the thank-you note she'd toiled over. She hadn't had the guts to tack it to the Community Board. It could never say enough and it could never say it right. Because it wasn't enough and it wasn't right, and it never would be. She read it now:
Wherever we all end up, I wish us all love, peace, joy, and the beauty of this place to live in us always. Thank you for being who you have been to my family. And to Willa, MT. I am so sorry that I have to move on. I'll love you all forever. Willa.
She crumpled it up and put it back in her pocket.
To the white-tailed deer who grazed in the meadow, she said a stern, "Absolutely ... no ... woe ... is ... me." It might just be herself and three Not Local women in her home the night of the nineteenth, but at least there would be a proper goodbye to Willa Homestead. Willa, Montana, would be a vision in her rearview mirror on her way out of town on the road to So Now What.

About the Author:

LAURA MUNSON is the bestselling author of This Is Not The Story You Think It Is, which chronicles her journey through her own midlife crossroads. Drawing from the striking response to her memoir, the essay version of it in the New York Times “Modern Love” column, and her speaking events at women’s conferences across the US, Laura founded the acclaimed Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops. After watching hundreds of people find their unique and essential voices under the big sky of Montana she calls home, Laura created Willa, the invitation, the friends, and the town to share what she has learned with people globally. Her work has been published and featured in many media outlets throughout the world. Visit the author’s website: LauraMunsonAuthor.com.

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Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Gothique - A Victorian Gothic Tea Party is Seeking Event Sponsors #Gothique #seekingsponsors

Teacup Sponsorship is $25- sponsors will receive their logo on event programs and promotion on the Gothique Facebook Page and in the Gothique Facebook Event Page

Teapot Sponsorship is $50- sponsors will receive their logo on event programs, promotion on the Gothique Facebook Page and in the Gothique Facebook Event Page, and ads placed on the sidebars of the blogs Roxanne’s Realm, Fang-tastic Books, and A Bewitching Guide to Halloween (which also posts on Haunted-Flint.comhttps://www.haunted-flint.com/a-bewitching-guide-to-halloween). 

Both sponsorship levels will also receive social media promotion through all of Roxanne's social media outlets: Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, MeWe, Pinterest and multiple Facebook pages.

Please complete the form below and send payment to https://www.paypal.me/bewitchingbooktours or by email via Paypal to RoxanneRhoads@bewitchingbooktours.com  or if you prefer we can send an invoice to your email address.

We will need a jpg or png of your logo and a square or rectangle ad for the website sidebars and program. A digital copy of your business card is acceptable. Please email them to RoxanneRhoads@bewitchingbooktours.com

To Complete the Sponsorship Form Click Here 

Monday, February 17, 2020

New Release Steel Reign: Flight of The Starship Concord by Braxton A. Cosby #SciFi

Steel Reign: Flight of The Starship Concord
The Red Gemini Chronicles
Braxton A. Cosby

Genre: Science Fiction
Publisher: Cosby Media Productions
Date of Publication: 02/02/2020
ISBN: 979-8603527376
Number of pages: 401
Word Count: 80k

Cover Artist: CMP

Tagline: A Thief turned Spy, turned Bounty Hunter, turned Hero!

Book Description:

After surviving an all-out implosion of catastrophic proportions following the failed fusion of twin stars Mira A and B in a class B Supernova, the people of galaxy Proxima Centauri have pressed forward with dreams and hopes of finally living in peace. But for Bounty Hunter Steel Reign, the clock of destiny is speeding ahead at a steadfast pace as he desires to hunt down a group of rogue super-soldiers before they can plot against King William Derry and his kingdom on planet Fabricius.

Consistent work as a Hunter in Proxima Centauri has always been a feast or famine occupation, and when the flow of credits slow to a snail's pace, Reign must find a secondary means of funding to finance his seek and destroy assignment by way of scalping a precious artifact on the open Black Market. That is, until his supplier comes up short, forcing him to pump the brakes and fall back to Plan B: finding his long lost sister Olia who was captured by the space pirate Forge, and forced to compete in a deadly game of chance aboard the Eclipse. And if that wasn't bad enough, the stakes have just been raised when he discovers that she is the only source of an antibody that can offer a cure for the deadly, venomous DX virus lurking in his blood, just waiting to consume him.

To survive, Reign will have to test not only his skills as a legendary assassin, but also his patience, as he takes on a rogue band of misfits to steal and crew the prototype starship Concord to thwart Forge's plans once and for all.

Monday, February 10, 2020

Cover Reveal Echoes from the Veil by Colleen Halverson

Echoes from the Veil
Aisling Chronicles
Book Three
Colleen Halverson

Genre: Paranormal Romance
Publisher: Entangled
Date of Publication: Feb. 24th 2020
Number of pages: 305
Word Count: 88K

Tagline: Love is Always Worth Fighting For

Book Description:

Aisling Elizabeth Tanner is now the leader of the Faerie rebellion. Facing the end of the world, she will have to find the strength to lead the Fae to victory against the threat they face, or risk losing everything, including Finn, whom she’s come to love more than life.      

Warrior Finn O’Connell wants nothing more than to fight by Elizabeth’s side. But an ancient Celtic goddess threatens to take charge of his soul, and he will have to wage a war within himself to save the rebellion from disintegrating into chaos.         

Betrayal leads them into the Fae Underworld, where Finn discovers his greatest sacrifice might be letting Elizabeth go—forever.

Amazon     BN     iBooks     Kobo     Entangled

About the Author:

As a child, Colleen Halverson used to play in the woods imagining worlds and telling stories to herself. Growing up on military bases, she found solace in her local library and later decided to make a living sharing the wonders of literature to poor, unsuspecting college freshmen. After backpacking through Ireland and singing in a traditional Irish music band, she earned a PhD in English with a specialization in Irish literature. When she’s not making up stories or teaching, she can be found hiking the rolling hills of the Driftless area of Wisconsin with her husband and two children. She also writes as C.B. Halverson.

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Saturday, February 08, 2020

Tickets on Sale for Gothique: A Victorian Gothic Tea Party

Join us for a darkly elegant Victorian Gothic Tea Party to celebrate World Goth Day on May 16, 2020 brought to you by Roxanne Rhoads and Ilona Curry (the woman who planned the Flint Vampire Ball for years)

World Goth Day is May 22 but it's also Memorial Day Weekend so we were unable to rent the venue on that date. So we're celebrating a week early. We hope you'll join us. You don't have to be "Goth" to come to our event. The event is geared towards people who enjoy dark aesthetics be it witchy, pagan, Goth, or vamp. And for those who just want to try something new and have fun with their friends.

This is an adults only event. 18 and older please.

Our party is a traditional Victorian Tea with a Goth Twist. 

Enjoy a menu of tea sandwiches, scones, dessert, and of course, tea.

Have your Oracle Cards read and learn how to read your tea leaves.

Dress in your Victorian Goth Best.

Prizes awarded for:

Best Victorian Ensemble
Best Hat
Best Victorian Vampire
Best Overall Goth Look

We'll also have Raffle Prizes

Bring a donation for the Humane Society of Genesee County and receive 5 free raffle tickets.

Signed copies of Haunted Flint will be available for purchase.

Join the Facebook Event Page for Updates

Like the Gothique Facebook Page 

Get Your Tea Party Ticket from Brown Paper Tickets

Tickets must be purchased in advance. No tickets will be available at the door. This is a small venue so we have a limited number of seats available. Get yours before they sell out.

Gothique is Seeking Event Sponsors

Teacup Sponsorship is $25- sponsors will receive their logo on event programs and promotion on the Gothique Facebook Page and in the Gothique Facebook Event Page.

Teapot Sponsorship is $50- sponsors will receive their logo on event programs, promotion on the Gothique Facebook Page and in the Gothique Facebook Event Page, and ads placed on the sidebars of the blogs Roxanne’s Realm , Fang-tastic Books , and A Bewitching Guide to All Things Halloween (which also posts on Haunted-Flint.com)

Please complete the sponsorship registration HERE