Geralyn Beauchamp's Blog, page 2
October 7, 2012
Interesting Book List
Stumbled across this list from Yellow30 SCI-FI reviews. Sad to say the blog stopped and this apparently was one of their last posts dated 12/27/2010. The review site slated these books as the top 25 books of the decade. I was honored to see Time Masters (print version) was on it. Is your book here? Myself, I'm going to be checking out some of these reads!!!
http://bit.ly/RnXGgc
http://bit.ly/RnXGgc
Published on October 07, 2012 10:53
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Tags:
fantasy, paranormal, romance, science-fiction, time-travel
October 5, 2012
Introducing Tylahs Mihn ...
From Time Masters Book Two; The Prophecy.
The hall was dark, empty. A rapid succession of clickity, clickity click, click clicks could be heard racing across the expansive floor. Tylahs Mihn ran as fast as his little eight legs could carry him. If he did the job quickly and efficiently he knew he would be well rewarded.
He rounded a corner and several of his single taloned feet hooked themselves into the bottom of a floor to ceiling tapestry. He’d stopped just in time and let loose a low, staccato whistling sound of relief. A huge Muiraran guard patrolled this part of the palace and was just crossing from one intersecting set of corridors to patrol another. That alone let Tylahs know he was getting close. Once the guard was out of sight, the little Sarian raced on. “Find hersssesss, I must find hersssess. But wheresssesss?” His body, small as it was, could scurry along the wall without being seen well enough. He should be able to slip in and out and not get caught. Just as he’d done when he’d snuck into the palace. But he had to make extra sure he got the right room, and that could take time. Thankfully confidence was on his side tonight and he quickly made his way across the huge expanse of floor at the intersecting corridors. Yes, yes. He could do this. None of his older brothers and sisters could dispute it. They had, almost all of them, failed. Only a few had made it through. Now it was his turn. Tylahs knew he could do it. It was what he was made for. His coloring, his size, all that he was his master had bred into him for this very thing. And above all, little Tylahs Mihn wanted to please his master. Clickity, clickity, click .... He still thought his master should have wrapped his talons to soften the sound emitted on the marble floors. But then escape would become difficult. His master said so. The floors were slick enough as it was without having his talons wrapped in cloth.Tylahs suddenly stopped. He turned slowly as his furry little black antennae quivered. She was near. He could smell her, all but taste her scent. He spun to face the door across the hall. This had to be it! “Yesssesss! I have found hersssess!” He nervously looked this way and that, his large round bulbous eyes quivering with the effort, as he made sure no guards were about. He then quickly raced across the hall to the huge wooden door. “Oh nosssesss! How to get insssesss?” He sat back on his haunches and looked up at the door that to him, seemed to go on and on. He shook his head and furiously rubbed his antanea together as he pondered his next move.
The hall was dark, empty. A rapid succession of clickity, clickity click, click clicks could be heard racing across the expansive floor. Tylahs Mihn ran as fast as his little eight legs could carry him. If he did the job quickly and efficiently he knew he would be well rewarded.
He rounded a corner and several of his single taloned feet hooked themselves into the bottom of a floor to ceiling tapestry. He’d stopped just in time and let loose a low, staccato whistling sound of relief. A huge Muiraran guard patrolled this part of the palace and was just crossing from one intersecting set of corridors to patrol another. That alone let Tylahs know he was getting close. Once the guard was out of sight, the little Sarian raced on. “Find hersssesss, I must find hersssess. But wheresssesss?” His body, small as it was, could scurry along the wall without being seen well enough. He should be able to slip in and out and not get caught. Just as he’d done when he’d snuck into the palace. But he had to make extra sure he got the right room, and that could take time. Thankfully confidence was on his side tonight and he quickly made his way across the huge expanse of floor at the intersecting corridors. Yes, yes. He could do this. None of his older brothers and sisters could dispute it. They had, almost all of them, failed. Only a few had made it through. Now it was his turn. Tylahs knew he could do it. It was what he was made for. His coloring, his size, all that he was his master had bred into him for this very thing. And above all, little Tylahs Mihn wanted to please his master. Clickity, clickity, click .... He still thought his master should have wrapped his talons to soften the sound emitted on the marble floors. But then escape would become difficult. His master said so. The floors were slick enough as it was without having his talons wrapped in cloth.Tylahs suddenly stopped. He turned slowly as his furry little black antennae quivered. She was near. He could smell her, all but taste her scent. He spun to face the door across the hall. This had to be it! “Yesssesss! I have found hersssess!” He nervously looked this way and that, his large round bulbous eyes quivering with the effort, as he made sure no guards were about. He then quickly raced across the hall to the huge wooden door. “Oh nosssesss! How to get insssesss?” He sat back on his haunches and looked up at the door that to him, seemed to go on and on. He shook his head and furiously rubbed his antanea together as he pondered his next move.
Published on October 05, 2012 12:34
October 1, 2012
To Market, To Market!

Book Publishing is the process by which a book comes to be in printed or electronic form and then made available to the public for purchase. The second half of the definition—making books available to the public for purchase—consists of two components: making potential buyers aware of your book and ensuring copies are readily accessible for those buyers to purchase. You determine the best ways to make potential buyers aware of your book while discovering the best avenues of accessibility for them, at whatever scale you decide to promote your book. But first, let’s talk a little about what marketing is and, more importantly, what it is not.
Misconceived Monsters of Marketing
Marketing is not the same as high-pressure selling. A lot of people are terrified, some practicallyparalyzed, by the irrational notion that marketing means personally pestering, even badgering, peopleinto buying something they don’t really want, or need, for that matter. Take some deep breaths andcalm yourself. You don’t have to turn into some self-promoting monster to be successful.In reality, marketing is a very creative process, like solving a puzzle with intriguing and limitlesspossibilities. Authors are very creative people, well-equipped to find all sorts of fantasticsolutions. All you need is a structure, or framework, for decision making, not to mention some basicknowledge of the options available out there. But before you begin to look at all the different optionsto utilize in the marketing of your book, let’s first look at one very important component to thewhole process.
The Time FactorWhen marketing your book, you need to be able to, on the one hand, weigh life’s priorities and home life against the amount of time and financial commitment of selling one’s book. You can easilykeep the balance by selecting the marketing tactics and options that best fit you. This way you canenjoy promoting your book without causing yourself a lot of stress or drain on your energy.Introducing your book to the world is a big step for any author. When it comes to marketing your book, it often comes down to time. The time and commitment necessary to perform several planned promotional activities. High pay-off promotional activities at that.
It's fun to think outside the box, (a lot of us get outside the box and stand on it!) but make sure the box you're standing on is balanced and strong enough to hold you and help you identify which marketing strategies best suit whatever level of marketing you choose for your book. I know you can do it!
Then What Is Marketing ?In Bruce Batchelor’s book, Marketing DeMystified, marketing is described as the process ofcreating, implementing, monitoring, and evolving a strategy for the complete marketing mix,which is:
1. having a needed product or service2. available at a convenient place and time3. for mutually satisfactory price (value)4. while ensuring that the correct segments of the public5. are aware (promotional mix)6. and motivated (positioning)7. all in a manner that takes advantage of strategic partnerships and contributes tothe overall purpose, (passion).
The promotional mix includes:
1. Personal sales2. Publicity and public relations3. Paid advertising (at times)4. Sales promotions
Mr. Batchelor goes on to say that this ideally will be done with respect and consideration to:
1. Financial profits2. The planet3. And people (society)
OK, so that’s a lot to take in. But Mr. Batchelor has hit the nail on the head, as these arethe things to consider when building your book’s marketing strategy. At whatever level of marketing you choose, you will often be, as Mr. Batchelor says, “substituting creativity and personal connections for the brute force, expensive strategies employed by large publishing houses.” And more importantly, you’ll be having fun while you do it!
As fiction authors what we are really selling is ourselves. For non-fiction authors they have something more specific people want. Readers can see it displayed, know more about it by picking the book up and leafing through. Have a better idea if the book is what they really need.
Fiction is different. Rather like a smorgasbord prepared by many fine chefs. One may specialize in chocolate, another in fruit-filled confections. It comes down to a matter of taste. What sort of story do you hunger for? How are you going to know what to order if you don't know much about what's on the menu. And let's face it. Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, iTunes among others, are some pretty big menus! So you ask what other readers with somewhat similar tastes to your own, thought of the dish ... er ... book. They may say it's good, where you think it falls flat. Everyone's tastes are different. If you specialize in chocolate, then go to the chocolate lovers! Share your love of chocolate with them! Exchange a recipe or two! And so on. But all of this takes time.
So the big question is: How much time do you have?
I'll discuss this in next week's marketing post!
Published on October 01, 2012 22:31
September 28, 2012
What Did You Do Last Night?

Glencoe, Scotland, February 13, 1692
You are all going to die. See how the snow swirls and rises in high drifts, the wind hard pressed to conceal your glen and its cottage dwellings? It quickly piles the snow and beats against walls as the storm intensifies outside your tiny havens, to serve well those who will need it within the hour…
Dallan MacDonald awoke with a start. He lay wrapped in his plaid, his young brother Alasdair beside him in front of the hearth. He wiped the slight sheen of sweat from his brow as he always did after one of his dreams. The garbled, chilling voice from some unseen source in the dream now fading. They were becoming more frequent of late. Odd and strange dreams that made no sense at all. But this one seemed more like a premonition. And why shouldn't it? He took a deep breath, settled himself and began to muse over his unexpected arrival and his grandfather’s greeting when first they spied each other. The MacIain’s eyes had been warm for the briefest of moments then suddenly consumed by cold warning, the auld Fox’s first words anything but friendly. Of course Dallan had learned to expect nothing else from the chief of the Glencoe MacDonalds. MacIain could be a hard man when he wanted and usually became just that when in Dallan’s company. In fact, Dallan couldn’t remember him being any other way. Alasdair moaned softly in his sleep. Dallan turned to his brother and smiled. The boy had not left his side since the big Scot came trudging through the snow two days ago. He gazed thoughtfully at him with a slight pinch of envy. Alasdair’s face was peaceful, content. Soaking up the weak glow of the dying fire as if ‘twas all he was meant to do. The boy held not a care. No. Not a one. Unlike the rest of his clansmen. Confused at the number of Lowlanders and Campbells residing in the glen when he first arrived, Dallan made his way directly to his elder uncle’s house to find what was amiss. His uncle John had given him the information he wanted to know but it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Indeed, the Campbells had come into the glen almost two weeks ago with papers signed by the king himself. Papers which demanded quarters be given in Glencoe for two companies of his majesty’s foot soldiers. Dallan didn’t trust the Campbells, nor did his grandfather. Fearing disarmament, MacIain ordered his people to hide their arms in the peat stacks or on the brae beneath the stones. If the soldiers were going to take their weapons, let them take the old rusty ones. Alasdair moaned again. Dallan thought of the harsh night and gently pulled the boy into his plaid with him to fend off any chill. The small form immediately snuggled close. Dallan again smiled and let go a lengthy sigh. How he wished he could stay this time. Wee Alasdair had just reached the age of six and would soon be old enough for fostering. Dallan wanted to take him under wing but wasn’t sure how he’d manage it. It would mean taking the boy to France and he doubted the auld Fox would let him. Perhaps their mother could be persuaded, and then she could work on the MacIain. Dallan knew he needed something in his life besides weapons and constant training. Alasdair would be perfect. After twenty years of living Dallan still felt as if he’d done nothing with his life. Something was definitely missing, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Perhaps he just needed to feel like he belonged. If only the MacIain would accept him, treat him with some respect instead of cold, silent disdain. A shout from outside drew the Scot out of his musings and brought his attention to a small window. The three Campbell soldiers sheltered in his mother’s house were reportedly pulling out in the morning. Could it be they were preparing to depart? Perhaps the reason the three had not returned to the house after meeting with their captain was due to the preparation. But that wouldn’t have taken them all night. What could they be doing all this time? His earlier dream flooded his mind and the hairs on the back of Dallan’s neck rose with the thought. He detached himself from Alasdair and went to the window, dirk drawn. He’d had this warning too often to ignore it; something was wrong. Bad enough a sense of dread hovered over the glen yesterday to put everyone on edge. But later the Campbell’s own piper was the one to keep Dallan up most of the night. He’d heard the piper play, knew it to be more than a pleasant passing of the time. There had been something in the music. A message. Flee. Yet his mother, along with many of his other clansmen, had not taken heed and insisted on staying. The soldiers would be gone tomorrow and all would be well… Another shout. Dallan hurried back to Alasdair’s sleeping form and quickly pulled away the blankets. “Wake up, lad,” urgency in his deep velvet voice. “Alasdair, wake up!” The boy opened his sleepy eyes and gazed at his older brother. “Wha…what’s wrong then?” Dallan grabbed up his plaid, wrapped it about himself then reached for his sword and shield near the hearth. He’d brought them out of hiding in mute preparation for what he knew must surely be happening now. “Wake mother and Fergus, tell them to dress quickly.” Alasdair popped up to a sitting position, his eyes blinking back sleep. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” “I dinna ken, but I’m going to find out.” Dallan hurried to the door. “Wake them and prepare to leave. Ye may ha’ to head into the hills, lad.” “But Dallan, that far? What are the Campbells doing?” A woman’s scream carried on the wind was answer enough. “Hurry lad! I’ll not see this family’s blood spilled.” He opened the door to a blast of wind, “Go!” And as Alasdair scrambled to his feet, Dallan left the cottage. Snow beat relentlessly against him as he stumbled out into the storm while shouts and pistol shots echoed above the wind in the distance. Sounds the wind carried ever closer to his family’s cottage. He picked up another sound among the rest, one much closer, and ducked into a sheltered area between some of the houses. Sword drawn, shield ready, his every muscle screamed for release for a few tense seconds before Dallan recognized the labored breathing of his clansman and grabbed him. “Ian! What happened?” He pulled his grandfather’s servant into the shelter with him as the more menacing noises drew closer. “Dallan lad! The MacIain! Yer Grandmother!” The man pushed out terrified. “The soldiers got into the house. We let them in! I swear we didna ken what they were about!” Dallan shook him, his grip tight on the old man. “Campbell has set his dogs on us, then?” “Aye! Get yerself and yer house to the hills! Be quick!” He struggled to get away, his clothes tearing with the effort. Dallan held him fast. “The MacIain?” “I dinna ken! There were shots! The Lady, she screamed something terrible! We tried to get to them, but there were too many soldiers. We got out as fast we could, and they came after us!” Ian glanced fearfully about, body trembling as more shots fired. Closer. “Believe me lad; there was nothing we could do to help them! Get ye gone to the hills! Now!” Dallan loosened his grip. Ian wrenched his arm away and ran into the storm as sounds of the soldiers’ slaughter neared, death with them. Within moments Dallan burst through the door of his family’s house, the snow and wind with him. His mother gasped at the sudden entrance. She and her husband of eight years, Fergus MacDonald, stood against a far wall wrapped in whatever they could find to bear the storm outside. Alasdair huddled between them. Dallan gave his step-father a curt nod. “It is as we feared. We must flee. Now.” Fergus closed his eyes and lowered his head a brief moment in mute acceptance, then ushered his wife and son to the door. They allowed Dallan out first and, at his signal, followed him into the blinding snow. Cold bit through the plaids they wore, the wind nearly tearing the clothes from their backs. Yet the small family ignored the harsh elements that greeted them. As long as it was not Death extending his greetings this day, the light of dawn only an hour or so off, the elements were welcome. Dallan silently vowed to keep death from his family as long as he could, no matter what the cost. They were all he had. Screams rent the darkness around the four as they haphazardly fought their way through the storm. They’d managed to get themselves some distance from the house, and Dallan, now grateful for the storm which kept them hidden and would perhaps see them to some semblance of safety, allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. It was then his mother screamed. Her voice and the clash of steel were quickly carried away by the wind. Dallan hoped not in the direction of more soldiers as he felled the first of two of Campbell’s men. He recognized him as one of the soldiers who partook of Fergus’s hospitality. Irony has a strange way of working. The second soldier lunged, bayonet in hand, as Dallan tried to wrench his sword from the first. The big Scot leapt to the side, the deep snow thwarting his movement as the bayonet missed its mark yet scored all the same. Pain seared through the back of his left shoulder as the blade cut its way to the bone. Dallan clenched his teeth against a sick wave of dread, only two thoughts in his mind. He had to save his family. To do that he had to fight. He didn’t remember falling, but found himself in the snow next to his shield, his sword no longer in his hand. He must have let go of it when he was hit, or perhaps as he fell. Either way, there was no sign of his sword anywhere. Dallan looked up and dark as it was, met the eyes of the man about to kill him, the bayonet already on its descent. Dallan briefly contemplated closing his own eyes when the soldier suddenly fell to the snow next to him. Dead. “Go!” Dallan commanded as he struggled to his feet. He gave a thankful nod to Fergus as the older man pulled his dirk from the soldier’s back. He then sought and retrieved his own weapons and reached for his mother. Her face turned frantic as Dallan took her by the arm. “Alasdair!” She screamed and turned a circle in the snow that nearly pulled him off his feet. “Where’s Alasdair?” “Quiet woman!” Fergus warned. “The wind will carry yer voice!” Dallan scanned the area and cursed. The boy was gone. “He must ha’ panicked and run back to the house. I thought he was right behind me.” Fergus told him in a low voice. “Take her to the hills, man. Keep her safe.” Dallan grasped his mother’s hands firmly in his own. “I’ll see to him. Go with Fergus now.” He gave Fergus another quick nod then wheeled back in the direction they had come, his tall form quickly swallowed up by the storm. He carefully picked his way through the blinding snow to avoid as much as possible the nearest sounds of pistol shots and shouting, praying he didn’t pass the boy. Dallan knew he was not only losing time but blood. He had to find Alasdair, and fast. After agonized minutes of bracing himself against the blinding snow he reached the house. A dim light shone through the window. A candle; someone was inside. Dallan stilled his labored breathing and melted into the shadows at the rear wall of the house. The door to the kitchen area lay open. Alasdair must have gone though the back. Carefully, he made his way to the door, peeked inside, then silently entered. The hairs on the back of his neck immediately rose and he quickly crouched behind the thin curtain separating the tiny kitchen from the hearth room. “Search the house!” A man shouted in a husky voice. “No one lives!” Only three of them, a preview to the bulk of the slaughter Dallan quickly surmised. But where is Alasdair? He got his answer quick enough. Alasdair screamed as one of the men pulled him out from behind a chair and threw him to his superior. The captain grabbed the boy by the back of the neck and eyed him with an odd sort of numbness, as if he wasn’t sure of what he was. He then looked the boy over carefully, as one might a chicken or a cow at market, his mouth curling into a crooked smile. “Ever been buggered, lad?” he asked and grabbed at his own groin for emphasis. Alasdair cringed and shrank in the man’s grasp. “Well then,” he chortled, “there’s always a first.” With a wave of his hand he sent his two men to search the back of the house. They laughed, knowing they were to take their time, and headed for the curtained doorway. Dallan’s dirk plunged into the first man, the action tearing the feeble curtain. The second man, too stunned to react in time, heard only the snapping of his own neck as Dallan let him drop to the floor next to his fallen comrade. That left just the leader. A man Dallan knew immediately and just as immediately, hated. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon held Alasdair by the hair, a dirk poised at the boy’s throat. Never taking his eyes off the scene before him, Dallan took a pistol from the nearest dead man, trained it on the Campbell, and stepped out from behind the half torn curtain. “Surrender and I’ll spare him,” Campbell pushed out, his face pasty, sick-looking, and full of lust. Dallan’s jaw twitched with revulsion as he judged where the ball might hit. “Let the boy go first,” he countered his own voice soft and menacing. Alasdair let out a yelp of pain as Campbell’s grip tightened. “You fool! My men are next door and come even now! You are dead already!” Dallan’s green eyes grew fierce. “Only a fool and a coward would harm an innocent lad while one o’ his clansmen has a pistol pointed at him.” He took aim and prepared to fire, praying the Campbell would either throw Alasdair out of the way or think to keep himself shielded with him. Dallan sighted for the man’s face instead of his heart. Campbell’s eyes suddenly widened with fear. Good, Dallan thought. He could kill the man, take Alasdair through the back and hope the storm was still enough to conceal them in the pre-dawn light. He put the first traces of pressure on the trigger. Campbell watched in horror and looked as though he was going to scream. But it was Alasdair’s scream that pierced the room, bringing Dallan’s attention to his rear. Too late. The big Scot’s breath was crushed from his body as blood from his forgotten wound gushed anew, pushed as if everything within him could be squeezed through the jagged cut in his shoulder. The pistol in Dallan’s hand dropped to the floor, useless, as two thick black arms wrapped around him from behind and mercilessly smashed him against a huge body. He fought the giant holding him, but it was no use. The strength in those arms was like nothing he had ever encountered or would ever want to. Suddenly a deep laugh penetrated the air as an odd tingling sensation began to course through his body. The giant seemed to move but Dallan wasn’t sure, his feet no longer touched the floor, or did they? By all the Saints, what was happening? Alasdair screamed and watched in horror as Dallan was dragged into the shadows. “Dallan! No! Dallan!” He squirmed against the stunned Campbell leader who, too shocked to cuff the boy into silence, merely stood, his grip tight, the dirk unmoved. Dallan tried to cry out but his lungs had no air. The tingling sensation only increased with his efforts to an odd burning, as though his skin were on fire. And of all things he thought he heard some sort of music. Dallan couldn’t afford to lose consciousness. He again struggled against the arms holding him; he had to get to Alasdair! But it was no use. Helplessly he watched his brother, now cut and bleeding from Robert Campbell’s unmoved dirk; slowly disappear behind a blanket of darkness. Dallan MacDonald contemplated if he was dying but honestly didn’t know; all he did know was he had not saved Alasdair and the deep booming laugh behind him was getting louder. These were the only two realizations to accompany him into the blackness that took him from his brother, his home, and his very life.
Published on September 28, 2012 22:37
September 26, 2012
A Highland Scot's Version of a Multipurpose Tool
The Scottish Dirk. Why Dallan MacDonald never leaves home without one.

Dallan peered intently around the edge of the aisle, then looked at Lany and brought a finger to his lips before returning his attention to the sounds coming from around the corner. “Little Bo Peep?” The voice was mocking, dangerous. “Where is your sheep? Send it out to play with us.” Lany cringed at the words, and took a cautious step forward to stand next to Dallan whose eyes were narrowed to two bright green slits, his jaw tight, nostrils flared. Lany knew he no longer searched. Dallan was on the hunt, stalking his prey, and it wasn’t the Maiden. “Oh look, a little lost sheep with tender white meat, all for us to devour. Can’t wait to eat this young little sheep, too bad we’ve only an hour.” Dallan reached his right hand behind him, down the back of his loose sweatshirt, and silently pulled a dirk out from underneath. Lany grimaced. So that’s why Dallan had worn his hair unbound today, he thought to himself—to hide the weapon better. It also explained why he’d wanted to rip the elastic off the sweatshirt last night. Dallan’s eyes narrowed even further. Lany tapped the Scot on the shoulder and he abruptly turned his head around, eyes intense, brow furrowed in warning. Lany mouthed the word ‘No’, indicating the dirk with a nod of his head. Dallan remained expressionless and turned his attention back around the corner. Now he heard nothing. Only silence. He began to move. Lany grabbed him. “Dallan, wait,” he whispered urgently. “This isn’t seventeenth century Scotland. You can’t just kill someone and be on your way.” “Quiet, man,” Dallan’s voice was low. “She’s running again.” They both froze and listened intently to the light footsteps fleeing down the next aisle. This section of the library was like a huge maze, the shelves and aisles all connecting in a pattern. The problem was, neither Dallan nor Lany knew it well enough to know where they were, not to mention the Maiden and the unexpected company which lurked nearby. The footsteps stopped just as another set, heavier, could be heard in another aisle, and yet another. They, whoever they were, had split up to either try to box the Maiden in or simply flush her out into the open. Dallan took a step forward and Lany again grabbed him and got his face right in the Scot’s ear, albeit on tiptoe. “No killing! If you do we’ll all be in a lot of trouble!” Dallan turned to face him, narrowed his eyes, flared his nostrils, then spun away. He crept down a side aisle, stopped abruptly, and motioned Lany to do the same. He listened intently, and then looked to Lany, a wicked smile on his face. Lany glared back and folded his arms across his chest. Dallan merely winked at the Assistant Councilor as he turned to the wall of books at his left. He brought a hand to the shelf at his own eye level, paused then moved his hand to the shelf below and began to quietly shove books aside. Lany watched nervously as Dallan reached into the hole he’d created and started pulling books from the shelf in the next aisle over. Comprehension dawning, Lany tiptoed to the opposite end of their aisle to carefully peek around the corner. Sure enough, what must be one of the thugs stood up against the shelves. The young man had a long ponytail that swished every time he moved his head to scan the aisle. He probably waited for the Maiden to come running by. Lany turned and glanced back into his own aisle. Dallan looked at him, flipped his dirk in the air once and smiled broadly. Lany gulped as quietly as he could and waved his hands frantically. “No blood, no wounding, no killing!” He mouthed. Lany got an inspiration. “However,” he added, eyebrows arching mischievously, “you can humiliate them.” Dallan smiled and reached through the hole in the books. Lany gulped and carefully peered around the corner. Thug Number Two’s head was turned away from him at the moment. Lany switched his position and looked back to Dallan, who had his left arm in the hole, the dirk in his right hand poised and ready for use. The Weapons Master’s eyes intent on his prey. Lany nearly gasped at the audible thud that followed, and prayed no on else heard. Almost afraid to look, Lany leaned back far enough to see Dallan, dirk still poised in his right hand and what looked like a long piece of hair in his left. The Scot quickly strode past and tossed the severed ponytail at him. Lany caught the hair, looked at it, glanced at the unconscious form in the next aisle and sighed audibly. He then threw the hair over his shoulder and trotted after Dallan. “Well, that takes care of humiliating that one.”
From Time Masters Book One; The Call copyright 2012.
It's one thing to see the weapons you're writing about in books, perhaps even as part of a Highland games participant dressed in full Highland rigout. But to then actually get to see and handle the weapon itself is quite another matter. I went into a Scottish store in Portland to see if I could get my hands on a MacDonald plaid to utilize for book signings and events. The ladies of the shop were quite happy to help me out and made sure I had the correct plaid for Dallan's time period. (Seeing the illustration of Dallan didn't hurt the fun they were having in doing so either!). Whilst busy with Tartan catalogues and fabric samples, I noticed something within the glass counter beneath the folded pieces of tartan. A Scottish Dirk. The hilt alone was scary. Easily grasped by a man, not so easily as held by a woman. The shop keeper took it out for me and showed me the craftsmanship of the hilt and sheath. Though not an antique, it was still superbly crafted. I, of course, asked her to unsheath it. She pulled the blade from its cover and the steel flashed more brightly than I imagined it would. It was one of the most wicked blades I had ever seen. To then think of the scene I just shared with you, and picture Dallan reaching back and pulling something like that out from under a sweatshirt, well ... no wonder Lany freaked!When I wrote the scene so very long ago, (I wrote Time Masters back in 1994) I was more concerned with measurments than anything else. Dallan, at 6'6", had to have a long enough and broad enough build to pull the stunt off, and after seeing the blade, I knew I had calculated correctly. But again, to see such a wicked and extrememly deadly looking thing was something else all together. My hats off to the Scots for so handling such a weapon. And to think in the next scene Dallan is picking at his finger nails with it!I now own the dirk pictured above. I do not however clean my finger nails with it!
Published on September 26, 2012 11:20
September 20, 2012
FIRST KISS! Ahhh the memorable first kiss! Wh...
FIRST KISS! Ahhh the memorable first kiss! What is the most memorable first kiss of either one of your own characters as a writer, or characters of a favorite book?
From Time Masters Book One; The Call ...He sat back down upon the bench as he took in the sight of her and swallowed. “I’ve come to find someone.”
“Who?”
“A lass.”
She shook her head, not understanding any of this, that particular thought the most annoying of all. She was still trapped in his gaze and realized he had begun to tighten it.
Now she had to swallow. “How long have you searched?” Her voice still betrayed her.
He softened his look and shifted on the bench, bringing his body closer to hers. He leaned slightly in her direction. “A verra long time.”
“Why are you looking for her?
He shifted again, scooting a few inches closer. “She is verra special, verra important. But she doesna ken who or what she is. I came to find her, to tell her and take her home.”
Shona found herself staring long and hard at the huge Scotsman seated in front of her. Find her. Tell her. Take her home? Oh… She felt her face turn pale.
Her voice trembled. “How… how will you know when you’ve found her?”
His face became oddly stern, yet gentle. She recognized the look and froze. “Mayhaps I’ll know her by her hair. Hair with all the colors of the sunset.”
Shona’s face twisted slightly at the way his voice dropped into a dreamy deep whisper. Oh boy. I am in trouble!
He scooted a few inches closer.
She scooted a few inches back.
“Mayhaps ‘twill be her eyes. Eyes that ‘twould surely drown a man if he got too close to them. Fall right into them, he would.”
She leaned back against the bench’s armrest as he closed the remaining distance between them. Oh no! Trapped! To make matters worse, her mouth wouldn’t work, reigniting her earlier annoyance with the situation. And what was this sunset hair and drowning eyes business anyway?
Shona leaned as far back as she could, grimacing slightly at the sudden euphoric look on his face. Here it comes…
Dallan leaned even closer. “Mayhaps I came to find you, lass.”
He was so close his breath brushed her face. She began to sweat, her mouth suddenly dry. What in the world was happening to her? This was ridiculous! She knew what he was up to and she wasn’t about to let him get away with it. Or was she?
Without thinking, she quickly and nervously pushed out, “What will you do when you find her?” Blast! She shouldn’t have asked, she knew she shouldn’t have asked! She was going to pay for that one.
He scooted even closer and put one arm around her. He pulled her into his chest, causing her head to tilt back, eyes still mercilessly locked with his. He lowered his face down, closer, closer, as his other arm wrapped itself around her, anchoring her in place.
A tiny squeak of alarm escaped her, too late.
“This, Flower.” He whispered, then gently, and she sensed with as much human restraint as possible, brushed his lips across her own.
Shona couldn’t believe it. She’d been kissed!
For her first kiss, she always pictured the usual things happening to lead up to the event. A date, flowers, friendship, talking, laughing, all the things Kitty raved on about. She was supposed to be heady with emotion, her feet feeling as though they had left the ground. Fireworks were supposed to go off and she would find herself all but swooning in this man’s arms. At least according to Kitty.
Shona’s immediate reaction, however, didn’t even come close.
She socked him right in the face. Hard.

“Who?”
“A lass.”
She shook her head, not understanding any of this, that particular thought the most annoying of all. She was still trapped in his gaze and realized he had begun to tighten it.
Now she had to swallow. “How long have you searched?” Her voice still betrayed her.
He softened his look and shifted on the bench, bringing his body closer to hers. He leaned slightly in her direction. “A verra long time.”
“Why are you looking for her?
He shifted again, scooting a few inches closer. “She is verra special, verra important. But she doesna ken who or what she is. I came to find her, to tell her and take her home.”
Shona found herself staring long and hard at the huge Scotsman seated in front of her. Find her. Tell her. Take her home? Oh… She felt her face turn pale.
Her voice trembled. “How… how will you know when you’ve found her?”
His face became oddly stern, yet gentle. She recognized the look and froze. “Mayhaps I’ll know her by her hair. Hair with all the colors of the sunset.”
Shona’s face twisted slightly at the way his voice dropped into a dreamy deep whisper. Oh boy. I am in trouble!
He scooted a few inches closer.
She scooted a few inches back.
“Mayhaps ‘twill be her eyes. Eyes that ‘twould surely drown a man if he got too close to them. Fall right into them, he would.”
She leaned back against the bench’s armrest as he closed the remaining distance between them. Oh no! Trapped! To make matters worse, her mouth wouldn’t work, reigniting her earlier annoyance with the situation. And what was this sunset hair and drowning eyes business anyway?
Shona leaned as far back as she could, grimacing slightly at the sudden euphoric look on his face. Here it comes…
Dallan leaned even closer. “Mayhaps I came to find you, lass.”
He was so close his breath brushed her face. She began to sweat, her mouth suddenly dry. What in the world was happening to her? This was ridiculous! She knew what he was up to and she wasn’t about to let him get away with it. Or was she?
Without thinking, she quickly and nervously pushed out, “What will you do when you find her?” Blast! She shouldn’t have asked, she knew she shouldn’t have asked! She was going to pay for that one.
He scooted even closer and put one arm around her. He pulled her into his chest, causing her head to tilt back, eyes still mercilessly locked with his. He lowered his face down, closer, closer, as his other arm wrapped itself around her, anchoring her in place.
A tiny squeak of alarm escaped her, too late.
“This, Flower.” He whispered, then gently, and she sensed with as much human restraint as possible, brushed his lips across her own.
Shona couldn’t believe it. She’d been kissed!
For her first kiss, she always pictured the usual things happening to lead up to the event. A date, flowers, friendship, talking, laughing, all the things Kitty raved on about. She was supposed to be heady with emotion, her feet feeling as though they had left the ground. Fireworks were supposed to go off and she would find herself all but swooning in this man’s arms. At least according to Kitty.
Shona’s immediate reaction, however, didn’t even come close.
She socked him right in the face. Hard.
Published on September 20, 2012 22:33
August 28, 2012
For all you Kitty Morgan lovers out there ...She's back!

Back in the latter half of the twentieth century …
“Lordy, Kitty, can’t you just snap out of it?” Tomika Ashby chastised for at least the ninth time that day. “There is nothing we can do about Shona not being here anymore and you and I are just …” She choked back a sob. “Are just going to have to learn to deal with it!”
Kitty stared straight ahead at the television in her room. She and Tomy sat on her bed amidst various half eaten and empty containers of junk food. She pressed the mute button of the remote to better hear Tomy, her own tears falling again. Without looking she grabbed a nearby box of tissues off her night stand and shoved them at her friend. Her only friend, now that Shona was gone.
Tomy took another tissue, as did she. They both blew their noses in unison, then threw the tissues onto the already growing pile on the floor in front of them.
Kitty finally turned to Tomy and asked, “More ice cream?”
“Are you kidding me, girl? We’ve done near eaten a whole gallon already! I’ve gained eight pounds hanging around you these last three weeks!” Tomy grabbed another tissue and blew her nose again. “Hand me that package of Oreos!”
Kitty complied but not before grabbing a handful for herself. “Shona said she would be back again in a week after she came and got some of her stuff, but she hasn’t shown up yet!”
“Well someone certainly showed up and took the rest of her things back to … well … when ever they are.”
“I wish we could go see her.” Kitty mumbled between bites of Oreo.
“Now how are we supposed to do that?”
Kitty stopped chewing and sniffed against renewed tears. “That’s just it. There’s nothing we can do!” She burst into sobs again. “And we can’t even talk about it with anybody except her parents!” Tomy threw the box of tissue at her and took another cookie.
Sinclair, Kitty’s cat approached his mistress and rubbed himself against her legs. She absently reached down and petted him. “At least I still have you, Sinclair.” She said then hefted him up onto her lap.
“That has got to be the biggest, fattest cat I have ever seen!” Tomy exclaimed.
“Sinclair is not fat. He’s just big boned.” Kitty retorted as she hugged the animal until he let out a grunt.
Tomy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure he is.”
Sinclair looked right at her. Tomy met his stare head on. “And what is up with the looks he gives? Lordy, you’d think he could understand every word we say!”
Kitty buried her face in Sinclair’s thick yellow fur and mumbled, “He’s a smart cat! Aren’t you Sinclair?”
Sinclair let out a howl in response, jumped from Kitty’s lap, and ran out the bedroom door.
“He’s smart enough to leave!” Tomy laughed.
“He loves me, probably more than any of my other cats. Don’t you be mean to him!”
“I’m not being mean. I just think he’s funny looking that’s all. Lordy, he’s as big as a dog and he’s fat and boney all at the same time. Face it Kitty, he’s about as different a cat as you can get!”
There was a natural pause after Tomy spoke and both girls let out a sigh as an oppressive silence suddenly filled the room.
Kitty fidgeted on the bed then took another cookie. “Something doesn’t feel right, Tomy.”
“What do you mean, something doesn’t feel right? Lordy girl, after eating all this junk food how can anything feel right!”
“That’s not what I mean. I think something is wrong where Shona and Dallan are.”
Tomy could only look at her. “Did you have another one of those weird dreams again about Shona dying? You know they give you the willies. Stop thinking something is wrong and start thinking positive. What is up with all the doom and gloom anyway? You should be happy for Shona!”
Kitty stared straight ahead again. “I know I should be. But I’m telling you, something just doesn’t feel right. Maybe I’m dreaming things because things are wrong with them.”
Tomy scooted over and put her arm around her friend. “Tell you what, tomorrow is Sunday. Why don’t we call Maggie and Evan and see if they want to go have dinner with us? Then you can ask them about things. Who knows, maybe they know what’s going on or have even seen Shona since we talked to them last.”
“But that was only a week ago we saw them.”
“I know, but a lot could happen in a week.”
Kitty certainly knew that. In one week her best friend Shona had met the man of her dreams, gotten married, and then been whisked away to a far off land in another time. “If only it would happen to me …” she whispered to herself, and then took another bite of cookie.
From Time Masters Book Two; The Prophecy
Published on August 28, 2012 00:00
August 22, 2012
Meet Time Master Assistant, Melissa Meeks. Yes, beh...

Published on August 22, 2012 16:13
February 9, 2012
A Little Bit About Shona Whittard ...

Evan walked them to the door and kissed them both good-bye. Shona felt oddly detached at his brief peck on the cheek and wondered why she was feeling that way around him lately. She didn’t feel that way around her Mother. In fact, she was feeling increasingly more comfortable around her, whereas her father ... it was as if he was becoming more distant, or distanced, from her. The relationship had not changed. What could be making her feel this way?
Maggie interrupted Shona’s thoughts as they pulled out of the driveway. “Julia will be by this evening. She said she has something to tell us.”
“Did she say what it was?” Shona asked as they drove down from the west hills of the city into downtown.
“No, but I have a strong feeling it has something to do with that European university she’s been in contact with lately.”
“The one in France?”
Maggie threw a smile at her. “That’s the one. Excited?”
Shona stared out her window and watched the expensive old homes pass by. “I do not really know,” she replied quietly.
“Well, no use jumping to any conclusions until we hear what Julia has found out about them. Let’s not worry about it now.” Maggie looked at Shona. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
“I am sure.” Shona’s voice was weak as she fought for some semblance of control, the waves of emptiness hitting her harder by the minute. They had come so fast she could think of nothing to defend herself with. She didn’t want to break down in front of her mother, and certainly didn’t want her mother finding out what was wrong. If that happened, any hope of getting out of her parent’s house and claiming her own freedom would be gone. She concentrated on Julia and the news she held. If Shona could get accepted to this new university, her dream of going abroad, not to mention just getting out of the house, could at last be realized.
Shona Elsey Whittard loved her parents, loved her home, her few friends and her music. She had a lot; everything she could possibly ask for, some would say. Except for the freedom to run her own life and make her own decisions. She had so many people telling her how envious they were of her singing talent. But if all her competitors and fellow musicians only knew that Julia and her mother ran the show, made the recital and concert schedules, handled everything from the time she got up until the time she went to bed, they might not be so envious. Or would they? She supposed she didn't know or care anymore.
What Shona did know was that she was tired of her life. Other girls her age, including Kitty, were all in their second year of college while she was still under her mother's and Julia's educational thumbs. Other girls went to parties. Shona was stuck at home watching Masterpiece Theater or studying some sort of cultural etiquette that Julia insisted she learn. Other girls dated. Shona, not really interested in the opposite sex at the moment anyway, was still jealous of the freedom of choice normal girls had. More than once Kitty had made the comment, "Geez Shona, are your parents planning on sending you to a convent or what?"
Or what indeed, she mused feeling as if she was to be sent somewhere. She could speak four languages for crying out loud and was working on a fifth. She spoke proper English. Something others teased her about. And she was well tutored by Julia as to what was acceptable for a young lady to do or say in not only the twentieth century, but the fifteenth through nineteenth centuries as well. On the other hand, she could also fence and land a man smack on his back in the wink of an eye. "Martial arts and fencing are excellent workouts." Julia would exclaim along with, "A girl can't be too careful now a days! It's best to know how to defend one's self."
Careful? If she counted, Shona could come up with at least a dozen ways she'd been taught how to kill a man and hardly leave a mark! A lot of good all that training had done her though …
Shona shuddered and pushed the incident she was about to think of aside as her mother pulled up in front of their first stop. She looked longingly at all the normal people inside her mother's favorite little cafe eating and chatting away. She continued to watch them as she got out of the car, choked back the cold emptiness she'd learn to battle over the last few months, and told herself she'd just have to accept the facts. It was, after all, the logical thing to do.
There were no if ands or buts. She wasn't some astounding musical sensation to be envied. She was a freak.
Published on February 09, 2012 15:09
November 8, 2011
The Time Master Chronicles

To the Readers and Students of these Chronicles,
Salutations,
Time Masters Book One; The Call was written quite some time ago during the latter half of your race’s twentieth century and shortly after the events themselves took place. At least from the perspective of those involved within said events. To the Muirarans (Pronounced Muir –are-ans.) events leading up to those recorded go back further still, occurring within the previous centuries and then tied to the current year of 3698.
The Time Master Chronicles on the other hand, have taken the recorded events and added the missing pieces so to speak. The Muirarans feel this to be only fair, as Time Masters Book One; The Call was recorded mainly by the Humans involved, one Human in particular, who lumped the events into one huge book and whose accuracy in recording what happened was somewhat skewed. At least according to the Muirarans who feel the Human scribe wished to tone down some of the events to make the documents more appealing to a general audience, namely Human children who, over recent years, have been taught about the Muirarans through the use of these records. Let it be noted that what was recorded did add significantly to the histories of both the Human and Muiraran races, but the latter feel they need further clarification. Further study of these chronicled events have educated many, and managed to relieve some of the tensions growing between the two races of late. Especially those of the lower working classes of your species, who question the very existence of the Muirarans. Before going further it would behoove you, the Human reader studying these events, to be told some history dated prior to the chronicled events themselves. Or in essence, your future.
For those making a study of these chronicled events and who are from time periods prior to what has been called, ‘The World’s End’ which took place in 2313, the Muirarans apologize. Their intent by making these chronicles available to you via utilizing what technologies you have within the centuries prior to 2313 is to educate, not cripple the reader by fear of your world’s impending doom. It is what it is and it serves what it serves. All you can do in the mean time is live your lives as best you can and pray your descendants do not make the same mistakes to the degree you yourselves will. Lucky for you, the Muirarans and their Time Masters have been most generous in helping your race out in that area. But you will learn more of that later. What you need to know now before delving into the recorded events is the following:
After World’s End, Man barely scraped by for centuries until finally, two hundred years before the rebellion of 3349, (which resulted in heavy casualties for the human race, civil war always was a nasty business) he finally started to show promise. Man began to rebuild his civilization and technology that was lost to him when the old world died. Let it be interjected here that you will not find out how your world nearly, as your kind from your twentieth and twenty first centuries phrase it … “bit the big one.” That information is held within the latter chronicles. It is best to start at the beginning in order to understand fully the impact of actions taken by not only your race as pertains to war, but the Muirarans as well.
After the rebellion and subsequent civil war of 3349 Man had to start over yet again, and the Earth once more began the slow process of healing. This time however, new, never before seen things began to grow and species of animal discovered. Some in the form of edible plants and fauna, others in the form of strange mammals, and lastly beings on a much higher intellectual plane began to make their presence known. None of your kind has ever been able to determine where the Muirarans livestock, agriculture, and they themselves came from. For that matter, those at your famous Anontist Center, that ‘Den of Death’ as the Muirarans call it, tried everything to find the answers to a sudden rash of questions. Where did the Elvin like race originate? How did they come to possess such great knowledge and power? Are their origins extraterrestrial? Could they be the Fairie of old? Whatever the Muirarans place of origin, most of you didn’t care. It didn’t matter. (Except to those at the Anontist Center whose sole purpose was to do whatever it took to find out whom and what the highly reclusive Muirarans were. They’ve never done a very good job.) What did matter at the time was they were able to help your kind rebuild some of what was lost.
Though not as technological as man used to be before nearly annihilating himself, the Muirarans were still able to advance man at a much faster pace than if left to his own devices. The Muirarans lived simply and used their own methods to heal their sick or fight any battles that needed to be fought in order to defend themselves from harm. Man, seeing this simplicity, longed for a chance to make it right again for themselves. Let it be known to you, the reader, that your kind decided to forgo rebuilding the world on a technological basis and instead adopted new laws and new ways of doing things. Certain advancements that could be recovered and revitalized were. Mostly in the areas of medicine and some forms of communication. Ideas and philosophies deemed useful were also revived. This put the two races on a more even playing field, as far as your race was concerned. But over time Man noticed the reclusive Muirarans possessed a few things Man did not. Abilities Man could only dream of. Abilities and attributes bred into certain strains of the Muiraran race. Certain Muiraran family’s bloodlines contained more powerful abilities, much more rare abilities, that others did not and these you will soon learn about as you read these chronicles. Man, however, had no such power.
A little more than sixty years ago (3635 to be exact) Man sought to create his own “special abilities” without the use of technology, returning to and resurrecting practices found thousands of years in man’s prior history. Witchcraft, vampirism, reanimation and sorcery to name a few. This went on for at least a decade but he to no avail as the dark arts practiced by man often tended to go sour on him. For a time the Anontist Center was thought to have become the hub of such practices despite all the failed attempts man made. This caused a bit of a rift with Man’s relationship with the Muirarans who told Man in no uncertain terms he’d best “get his act together” as you say. What Man was doing just wasn’t in the Divine order of things as far as they were concerned. And of course, when people began disappearing and Man had to enlist the Muirarans help to find them, (unfortunately all were dead, obvious victims of these detestable practices) this caused even more tension. Needless to say after that, anyone caught dabbling in said practices were severely punished. So even though many tried and failed at these dark arts, they soon gave up on the notion completely once the new laws were enforced.
All but a few.
It is believed that this “few” are behind Man’s current dilemma but no one is really sure. All anyone is sure of is civil war is once again brewing, near boiling in fact. People are once again disappearing, and man is scrambling to try to find a solution to the problem. Some blame the Muirarans, those that actually believe they really do exist. While others lay blame on the Anontist Center, which ironically was created for the sole purpose of proving the Muirarans do exist. While even more blame what ever village or province is right next door to them, this group simply out looking for a good fight, not caring who started what, they just want something to pulverize first and ask questions later. Boredom and bad living conditions will do that to a human.
And for those actually in charge of coming up with a plan of action and putting a stop to the death toll, they weren’t above asking the Muirarans for help. Again. After all, wouldn’t it be easier to use a Time Master to fix the problem before it even really got started? But unfortunately, it wasn’t that easy. No one really had much of a clue of what was going on. This could take time, and time wasn’t something they had if they wanted to put a stop to it all fast. The rebellion of 3349 escalated so rapidly that before anyone knew it Man had practically once again obliterated the planet. No one wanted to go through that again. But any trails and clues as to who was behind things fifty to sixty years ago had gone cold. No one had an answer, a clue, even a starting point. Man faced an unseen enemy that was meticulously picking him off sector by sector, village by village. Man was killing man and no one knew why. And the Muirarans were none too happy about it. A nasty business no matter how one looked at it. And this, dear reader, is where you will begin …
Published on November 08, 2011 14:39