Saturday, January 23, 2021

Luck Be a Lady by Chris H. Stevenson


Release date: December 26, 2020
Subgenre: Contemporary fantasy, Greco-Roman mythology 

About Luck Be a Lady:


Mason Hart has just lost his job, fiancé, and car in less than 48-hours. A short time later he accosts a cop and ends up in jail. He finally lands in a hospital as the result of a jailhouse brawl. He’s helpless to quell this downhill slide into calamity. Since he believes all is lost at this point, suicide seems the only alternative left…

Until the figure of Felicity Fortune, the Roman Goddess of Luck, interrupts Mason’s suicidal plans in the nick of time. It seems Felicity Fortune was hampered by the bird flu and few other appointments, so she must apologize for her tardy appearance. She tells Mason that he’s ripe for a cosmic alignment, and that his 15-minutes of fame and wealth are finally at hand. He is allotted six chances via the roll of the golden dice for his deserved share of the “Great Cornucopia.”

Beshaba, the Maid of Misfortune, has ear-marked Mason at the exact same time, to heap upon him the bad luck part of the equation. She is the evil incarnate daughter of Felicity, and now covets Mason for her own devious alignment. Everything that Beshaba represents is in stark contrast to her mother. It is a deliberate ploy to spite the good works of her mother, thus laying down a challenge of cosmic power.

Their simultaneous claim to Mason forces the two Goddesses into a mythological cat fight in hell. When this push and shove reaches a fevered pitch, even the destiny of mankind in called into question. Mason must find the solution and tear away the veil of darkness that could upset the divine balance between good and evil. What he doesn’t know is that the final key to the solution is himself.




Mason Hart felt a searing pain as he tried to move his eyes under closed lids.  When he tried to open them, they wrenched up like rusty garage doors and throbbed against his brows.  They wouldn’t stay open.  His mother used to ask where it hurt in his head when he had a migraine, and he would tell her that it was the top of the overhead camper.  That was the overhang part of the brain, and it was exactly where he felt such a terrible thrombosis now.  The two-headed boy in the circus never had such a headache. 

            Mason tried to speak but his lips were stuck together, so he grimaced and felt a tear and a stream of spittle over his chin.  He pushed some wind up through his throat and a sound escaped.  “Haaaagh.”     

            He tried again. “Halp guh!” 

            Struggling, he swallowed a small puddle of saliva and tried once more.               

            “Help ma,” he finally uttered. 

             He raised his eyelids again, but he only saw dappled light juxtaposed behind a milky film that he supposed was his vision trying to clear.  Blinking several times to wash away the glue-like residue, he saw a familiar box-like object that sat perched high up in the corner of a room.  The object was a television set, but it was hanging on the ceiling, which seemed terribly wrong.  Televisions always sat on the floor or at eye level.   

            He shuddered, believing he had ended up topsy-turvy in an 8.5 earthquake and was now on the ceiling looking up at the floor.   

            “Halp,” he called weakly, certain that rescue workers would bring their chainsaws and axes.  

            With eyes still out of focus, he saw something that looked like a small snowstorm with red stripes appear from a hole in the wall.  It drew closer, moving swiftly around him.  In the next moment, the conflagration came at him and he could see the static outline of a human being in the blur of colors.  A face as big as a truck came over him to look down into his eyes, and then felt a cool mop on his forehead.  A warm breath washed over his cheek with some words. 

            “There, there, you’re going to be just fine.  Try to relax.  I’m Wendy, and I’m a candy striper here at Juliet hospital.  You’ve had an accident and we’re taking care of you.  Do you understand?” 


            “Yes, you had a little problem in incarceration.  But that was after your car was stolen.  They transferred you here from the main jail.  That’s all over now.  What you need to do is rest.  How is your head feeling?” 


            “Do you have pain anywhere else?” 

            He made the effort to formulate words and spoke slowly.  “If I have … pain … I don’t … feel it.” 

            “Ah, then that might be a good sign.”  She furrowed her brows.  “I think.  Try to stay awake before you fall asleep.  Okay? You wait right here.  I’ll get you a real nurse.”  With a flourish, she vanished.  

            “Okay.” Mason realized he had been abandoned by the candy striper girl and tried to gather his thoughts, but his eyelids grew heavy again and he lapsed in and out of consciousness. 


About Chris H. Stevenson:

Chris Stevenson author photo

Chris H. Stevenson, (pen name, Christy J. Breedlove) originally born in California, moved to Sylvania, Alabama in 2009. His occupations have included newspaper editor/reporter, astronomer, federal police officer, housecleaner and part time surfer. He has been writing off and on for 36 years, having officially published books beginning in 1988. Today he writes in her favorite genre, Young Adult, but has published in multiple genres and categories. He was a finalist in the L. Ron. Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest, and took the first place grand prize in the Entranced writing contest for The Girl They Sold to the Moon. Other awards include YA book of the Year in the N.N. Light Novel Writing Contest, and bronze medal for YA horror in the Reader’s Favorite International Book Awards Contest.  

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