Sloane Taylor's Blog, page 87
February 7, 2017
Add a Little Wicked to Your Valentine's Day
by Leigh Goff
The strawberry. Could there be a more perfect food for Valentine’s Day? It is as red and heart-shaped as a Valentine and also a symbol of the goddess of love herself, Venus. According to folklore, if a double strawberry is halved and shared with the target of your affection, you will fall in love with each other.
Here is a wickedly delicious recipe that even Sophie, my sixteen year-old witch protagonist from my debut fantasy romance, Disenchanted, would make for her true love using fresh strawberries picked from her aunt’s enchanted garden. Please enjoy the excerpt that follows.
Photo by AmbroWickedly Delicious Strawberries
2 pints strawberries, with stems if possible
1½ cups semi-sweet chocolate chips (or milk chocolate chips)
2 tbsp. corn syrup
6 tbsp. butter
Wash strawberries and pat dry. Place on paper towels until they reach room temperature.
Melt chocolate chips, corn syrup, and butter in a double boiler, stirring occasionally.
Remove from heat and dip each strawberry into chocolate, coating ⅔ of berry. Allow excess chocolate to drip off into pan.
Place stem side down on waxed paper covered baking pan or cookie sheet. Refrigerate until set, about 15-20 minutes.
Yields approximately 28 strawberries.
Recipe courtesy of Food.com
Here's the excerpt to enjoy while your strawberries are chilling.
He grinned his seductive grin, letting me glimpse his dangerous streak. Most likely a family trait and I had to make sure I didn’t forget it was there. He did seem different from them, not as affected from the poison running through their veins.
“I’m curious about you.”
My heart pleaded with my head to ignore the doubts and questions, to be in the moment and believe it was possible. “I love my garden, but this is what I like the most about Wethersfield. Right here. Where the star-crossed lovers are buried. Their story...well, it’s an interesting one.”
His lips pursed. He drew back, dejected. “Their story? Their story is a tragedy. One of many in the Mather family history.”
“The end is tragic, but it’s still a love story and this tree...” I raised my hand, admiring its lushness. “It’s a symbol of their forbidden love. Centuries with no berries and now look at it.” The mulberry swayed with the breeze as if it were dancing. The branches flaunted multitudes of pale, red berry clusters that had begun to ripen for the first time. I liked to think the tree was finally done mourning, but I had no idea why it picked this year of all its three hundred plus years.
“You sound like you believe in happy endings.”
“I want to. Don’t you?” He was kind of young to be tainted, I thought. My mind drifted to the possibility he had been jilted by a beautiful duchess during his time in London.
“Like I said, I come from a long line of tragedy in my family.”
I bit my lip for a second. He was right about that. For as long as we knew his family, they had been dropping dead, and usually in the prime of their lives, except for the really mean ones like the reverend, and his father and Zeke. “You know you have to fight for your own happy ending. You have to will it to happen.”
His eyes held mine, leaving me breathless again. I struggled to think straight.
“I’d bet you’re good at willing things to happen.”
A tendril of sable hair tickled my cheek. I brushed it away. “I’m good at making mistakes. Lots of mistakes.”
His eyebrows furrowed with disbelief. “You make it rain flower petals, yet you wallow in self-pity?”
He was aware I created the storm of blossoms. Crud. Of course, he was. There was no good explanation for it. My stomach sank. “I...uh...uh.”
He grinned, not fazed at all by what I could do. “How would you feel about having me as a friend, Sophie?”
My heart fluttered when he said my name, but I glanced at him curiously, not understanding what he was offering. “I choose my friends carefully.” I thought back to my dream last night. I wasn’t afraid of him, but how could I trust him?
He grimaced from my pause. His threw his hands out in front of him. “Look, I know you hate my family. And we haven’t exactly gotten along swimmingly, but I was thinking, it might be easier for both of us if we could find some middle ground.”
Incredulity colored my tone. “You want to be friends?”
“Why not?” he replied.
I shook my head. “Surprisingly weird.”
“Me?”
“Your suggestion.”
“It’s not weird at all.” He extended his hand to me as if he were serious. “Shake on it.”
My heart yearned for his touch, but it wrestled against the logic from my head. “I can’t.” I glanced around, knowing that since the Wethersfield Witch Trials, minus the rare exceptions, witches were forbidden to enter into any kind of a relationship with ordinaries, especially the Mathers. “This is crazy. Our families are enemies and...and I hate you.” My lips tingled from the devil’s bit, confirming what I already felt. It was a lie. I didn’t hate him at all. In fact, I feared it was the opposite. “Tell me what you really want from me.” I subtly pointed my finger in his direction. “Verum,” I whispered in a hushed voice, attempting to cast a truth spell on him. The magic trickled out. I watched for a change in his focus, but as I watched him, a heart shape carved into the bark of the mulberry’s tree trunk behind him. My eyes popped. I closed my mouth, still staring at the engraving. “Wha?” I uttered in disbelief. Mishaps were guaranteed when I was near him.
“What do I want from you?” he repeated back to me, unaware of my fail.
I averted my eyes, feeling ridiculous.
“I want you to be you. You’ve got everyone thinking you’re thoroughly
ordinary when you’re the farthest thing from it.”
I peered up at his beautiful face from beneath my lashes. Did he see
through me? Did he really know what I was? “What would your father think about you wanting to be my friend?”
“It’s no one’s business but ours.”
“Ours? Like you and me together?” My brow crinkled. “A secret friendship?” I tried to ignore my quickening pulse. Everything in me wanted to believe him. My head railed against the idea. I would be breaking rules and there would be consequences.
He stepped closer. “I think we’re both good at keeping secrets. Why not one more?”
I swallowed hard. “You seem to have everything, including a terror for a brother who’s got your back. Why do you need a friend?”
“Everyone needs a friend.”
He held his hand out, wanting me to shake it while his eyes held me tight. In that moment, dizziness crept in and an overwhelming feeling of falling from a cliff followed. The intensity of it scared me. I put my hand up in a stop motion and pressed my other hand to my stomach, hoping the plummeting sensation would pass. I backed away. My head and heart tore away at each other. “I can’t do this.”
His face bore a forlorn expression. “You’re right. I’m playing with fire, a bad habit of mine. This was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
Curiosity creased in my brow. “What do you mean ‘playing with fire’?”
His eyes, holding tight to his secret, burned through me. “I mean you. I’m pretending I can control something that’s out of my control. I can’t be around you without getting burned, yet I’m completely drawn to you.” He parted his soft lips. “Like a moth to the flame.”
Buy Links:
Mirror World Publishing - Amazon
Leigh Goff loves writing young adult fiction with elements of magic and romance because it's also what she liked to read. Born and raised on the East Coast, she now lives in Maryland where she enjoys the area's great history and culture.
Leigh is a graduate of the University of Maryland, University College and a member of the Maryland Writers' Association and Romance Writers of America. She is also an approved artist with the Maryland State Arts Council. Her debut novel, Disenchanted, was inspired by the Wethersfield witches of Connecticut and was released by Mirror World Publishing. Leigh is currently working on her next novel, The Witch's Ring which is set in Annapolis.
Learn more about Leigh Goff on her website and blog . Stay connected on Facebook , Instagram , Pinterest , and Goodreads .
The strawberry. Could there be a more perfect food for Valentine’s Day? It is as red and heart-shaped as a Valentine and also a symbol of the goddess of love herself, Venus. According to folklore, if a double strawberry is halved and shared with the target of your affection, you will fall in love with each other.
Here is a wickedly delicious recipe that even Sophie, my sixteen year-old witch protagonist from my debut fantasy romance, Disenchanted, would make for her true love using fresh strawberries picked from her aunt’s enchanted garden. Please enjoy the excerpt that follows.
Photo by AmbroWickedly Delicious Strawberries2 pints strawberries, with stems if possible
1½ cups semi-sweet chocolate chips (or milk chocolate chips)
2 tbsp. corn syrup
6 tbsp. butter
Wash strawberries and pat dry. Place on paper towels until they reach room temperature.
Melt chocolate chips, corn syrup, and butter in a double boiler, stirring occasionally.
Remove from heat and dip each strawberry into chocolate, coating ⅔ of berry. Allow excess chocolate to drip off into pan.
Place stem side down on waxed paper covered baking pan or cookie sheet. Refrigerate until set, about 15-20 minutes.
Yields approximately 28 strawberries.
Recipe courtesy of Food.com
Here's the excerpt to enjoy while your strawberries are chilling.
He grinned his seductive grin, letting me glimpse his dangerous streak. Most likely a family trait and I had to make sure I didn’t forget it was there. He did seem different from them, not as affected from the poison running through their veins. “I’m curious about you.”
My heart pleaded with my head to ignore the doubts and questions, to be in the moment and believe it was possible. “I love my garden, but this is what I like the most about Wethersfield. Right here. Where the star-crossed lovers are buried. Their story...well, it’s an interesting one.”
His lips pursed. He drew back, dejected. “Their story? Their story is a tragedy. One of many in the Mather family history.”
“The end is tragic, but it’s still a love story and this tree...” I raised my hand, admiring its lushness. “It’s a symbol of their forbidden love. Centuries with no berries and now look at it.” The mulberry swayed with the breeze as if it were dancing. The branches flaunted multitudes of pale, red berry clusters that had begun to ripen for the first time. I liked to think the tree was finally done mourning, but I had no idea why it picked this year of all its three hundred plus years.
“You sound like you believe in happy endings.”
“I want to. Don’t you?” He was kind of young to be tainted, I thought. My mind drifted to the possibility he had been jilted by a beautiful duchess during his time in London.
“Like I said, I come from a long line of tragedy in my family.”
I bit my lip for a second. He was right about that. For as long as we knew his family, they had been dropping dead, and usually in the prime of their lives, except for the really mean ones like the reverend, and his father and Zeke. “You know you have to fight for your own happy ending. You have to will it to happen.”
His eyes held mine, leaving me breathless again. I struggled to think straight.
“I’d bet you’re good at willing things to happen.”
A tendril of sable hair tickled my cheek. I brushed it away. “I’m good at making mistakes. Lots of mistakes.”
His eyebrows furrowed with disbelief. “You make it rain flower petals, yet you wallow in self-pity?”
He was aware I created the storm of blossoms. Crud. Of course, he was. There was no good explanation for it. My stomach sank. “I...uh...uh.”
He grinned, not fazed at all by what I could do. “How would you feel about having me as a friend, Sophie?”
My heart fluttered when he said my name, but I glanced at him curiously, not understanding what he was offering. “I choose my friends carefully.” I thought back to my dream last night. I wasn’t afraid of him, but how could I trust him?
He grimaced from my pause. His threw his hands out in front of him. “Look, I know you hate my family. And we haven’t exactly gotten along swimmingly, but I was thinking, it might be easier for both of us if we could find some middle ground.”
Incredulity colored my tone. “You want to be friends?”
“Why not?” he replied.
I shook my head. “Surprisingly weird.”
“Me?”
“Your suggestion.”
“It’s not weird at all.” He extended his hand to me as if he were serious. “Shake on it.”
My heart yearned for his touch, but it wrestled against the logic from my head. “I can’t.” I glanced around, knowing that since the Wethersfield Witch Trials, minus the rare exceptions, witches were forbidden to enter into any kind of a relationship with ordinaries, especially the Mathers. “This is crazy. Our families are enemies and...and I hate you.” My lips tingled from the devil’s bit, confirming what I already felt. It was a lie. I didn’t hate him at all. In fact, I feared it was the opposite. “Tell me what you really want from me.” I subtly pointed my finger in his direction. “Verum,” I whispered in a hushed voice, attempting to cast a truth spell on him. The magic trickled out. I watched for a change in his focus, but as I watched him, a heart shape carved into the bark of the mulberry’s tree trunk behind him. My eyes popped. I closed my mouth, still staring at the engraving. “Wha?” I uttered in disbelief. Mishaps were guaranteed when I was near him.
“What do I want from you?” he repeated back to me, unaware of my fail.
I averted my eyes, feeling ridiculous.
“I want you to be you. You’ve got everyone thinking you’re thoroughly
ordinary when you’re the farthest thing from it.”
I peered up at his beautiful face from beneath my lashes. Did he see
through me? Did he really know what I was? “What would your father think about you wanting to be my friend?”
“It’s no one’s business but ours.”
“Ours? Like you and me together?” My brow crinkled. “A secret friendship?” I tried to ignore my quickening pulse. Everything in me wanted to believe him. My head railed against the idea. I would be breaking rules and there would be consequences.
He stepped closer. “I think we’re both good at keeping secrets. Why not one more?”
I swallowed hard. “You seem to have everything, including a terror for a brother who’s got your back. Why do you need a friend?”
“Everyone needs a friend.”
He held his hand out, wanting me to shake it while his eyes held me tight. In that moment, dizziness crept in and an overwhelming feeling of falling from a cliff followed. The intensity of it scared me. I put my hand up in a stop motion and pressed my other hand to my stomach, hoping the plummeting sensation would pass. I backed away. My head and heart tore away at each other. “I can’t do this.”
His face bore a forlorn expression. “You’re right. I’m playing with fire, a bad habit of mine. This was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
Curiosity creased in my brow. “What do you mean ‘playing with fire’?”
His eyes, holding tight to his secret, burned through me. “I mean you. I’m pretending I can control something that’s out of my control. I can’t be around you without getting burned, yet I’m completely drawn to you.” He parted his soft lips. “Like a moth to the flame.”
Buy Links:
Mirror World Publishing - Amazon
Leigh Goff loves writing young adult fiction with elements of magic and romance because it's also what she liked to read. Born and raised on the East Coast, she now lives in Maryland where she enjoys the area's great history and culture.
Leigh is a graduate of the University of Maryland, University College and a member of the Maryland Writers' Association and Romance Writers of America. She is also an approved artist with the Maryland State Arts Council. Her debut novel, Disenchanted, was inspired by the Wethersfield witches of Connecticut and was released by Mirror World Publishing. Leigh is currently working on her next novel, The Witch's Ring which is set in Annapolis.
Learn more about Leigh Goff on her website and blog . Stay connected on Facebook , Instagram , Pinterest , and Goodreads .
February 5, 2017
London Theatre in Regency Times
by Kadee McDonald
By the early 19th century, The Industrial Revolution had made England the leading manufacturing and trading nation in the world. In 1800, London was already the world’s largest city, and its population would almost double over the next four decades, to approximately two million.
Large numbers of the working classes, drawn to jobs in commerce and manufacturing, began to attend the theatre for the first time, causing major changes to entertainments formerly reserved for more well-to-do patrons of the arts. Both Covent Garden and the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, were rebuilt in the 1790’s to accommodate about 3,000 and 3,600 people, respectively. Minor theatres were opened outside Westminster in the 1780’s and 1790’s; then, in 1804, when the Earl of Dartmouth became Lord Chamberlain, he authorized the licensing of minor theatres inside the City of Westminster, so long as they did not infringe upon the rights of the “patent houses” of Covent Garden, Drury Lane and the Haymarket. He also authorized longer seasons for the Haymarket, which had been restricted to a five-month season and, by 1812, it was open seven months of the year.
Attempting to retain audiences, the patent theatres began to include minor dramas in their offerings and extended the evenings to five or even six hours. By 1820, it wasn’t unusual for the evening’s bill to include two full-length plays, an afterpiece, and a number of variety acts.
Since only the patent houses could play regular drama, along with the minor genres, the other theatres found loopholes offered by the burletta and the melodrama, which was a three-act play with a musical score. Thus, a regular drama, such as a work from Shakespeare, could be performed in three acts with musical accompaniment and called “melodrama.” This game of ruse and subterfuge continued throughout the Regency and after, until the Theatre Regulation Act of 1843, which abolished the privileges of the patent theatres, and allowed any licensed theatre to perform works of any type, although all plays continued to be licensed by the Lord Chamberlain.
The upper classes might have worn their very best, but otherwise, theatre-going was an informal business, with members of the audience talking loudly and arriving or leaving at any time during the performances. Dandies strolled and mingled in the “pit,” taking snuff and showing off the latest fashions.
Most of the romantic poets of the day attempted drama, including Coleridge, Wordsworth, Keats and Shelley. George Gordon, Lord Byron, who was a member of the governing committee of Drury Lane, wrote more plays suited for the stage than the others, although only one was actually performed during his lifetime (and that one, “Marino Faliero,” in 1821, over his objections).
The best known actors and actresses on the London stage during the Regency included several members of the Kemble family, especially Sarah Kemble Siddons, who was considered the greatest tragic actress of her day until her retirement in 1812. The Kemble “classical” school of acting was continued by Charles Mayne Young (1777-1856), J. M. Vandenhoff (1790-1861), and Eliza O’Neill (1791-1827). Their classical approach was challenged after 1814 by the romantic school, perhaps best exemplified by Edmund Kean. Kean perfected the style, and exerted his “star power” frequently to demand £50 or more for each performance, an amount unheard of before his time. Other well-known performers, such as William Charles Macready (1793-1873) and Mme. Eliza Vestris (1797-1856), later went from the stage into theatre management.
Here is a brief introduction to my fitting story for February. I hope you enjoy it.
In the coldest days of February, can St. Valentine create enough heat to melt two hearts into one?
Miss Penelope Braxton has never met sensible George Harburton or his more dashing younger brother, Henry, but she agrees to grant her dying father peace of mind by considering marriage to one of them.
The advantage of the match for the brothers is evident in the form of Miss Braxton’s substantial dowry. However, her money takes second place when the brothers realize the extent of Penelope’s courage, wit, and devotion.
Henry doesn't plan to give up his philandering to romance Penelope. George's days are filled with the running of the family estate and he has never put aside his duties long enough to contemplate marriage. When one of the gentlemen changes his ways, will he be able to compose the perfect poetry to win Penelope’s heart?
AMAZON BUY LINK
Kadee McDonald grew up in Texas, but a piece of her heart will always belong to the muslin and lace of Regency England. She is a long-time reader, and now an author of Regency romance. Her books are available as e-books from Amazon .
Learn more about Kadee on her website . Stay connected on Twitter or Facebook .
By the early 19th century, The Industrial Revolution had made England the leading manufacturing and trading nation in the world. In 1800, London was already the world’s largest city, and its population would almost double over the next four decades, to approximately two million.
Large numbers of the working classes, drawn to jobs in commerce and manufacturing, began to attend the theatre for the first time, causing major changes to entertainments formerly reserved for more well-to-do patrons of the arts. Both Covent Garden and the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, were rebuilt in the 1790’s to accommodate about 3,000 and 3,600 people, respectively. Minor theatres were opened outside Westminster in the 1780’s and 1790’s; then, in 1804, when the Earl of Dartmouth became Lord Chamberlain, he authorized the licensing of minor theatres inside the City of Westminster, so long as they did not infringe upon the rights of the “patent houses” of Covent Garden, Drury Lane and the Haymarket. He also authorized longer seasons for the Haymarket, which had been restricted to a five-month season and, by 1812, it was open seven months of the year.Attempting to retain audiences, the patent theatres began to include minor dramas in their offerings and extended the evenings to five or even six hours. By 1820, it wasn’t unusual for the evening’s bill to include two full-length plays, an afterpiece, and a number of variety acts.
Since only the patent houses could play regular drama, along with the minor genres, the other theatres found loopholes offered by the burletta and the melodrama, which was a three-act play with a musical score. Thus, a regular drama, such as a work from Shakespeare, could be performed in three acts with musical accompaniment and called “melodrama.” This game of ruse and subterfuge continued throughout the Regency and after, until the Theatre Regulation Act of 1843, which abolished the privileges of the patent theatres, and allowed any licensed theatre to perform works of any type, although all plays continued to be licensed by the Lord Chamberlain.
The upper classes might have worn their very best, but otherwise, theatre-going was an informal business, with members of the audience talking loudly and arriving or leaving at any time during the performances. Dandies strolled and mingled in the “pit,” taking snuff and showing off the latest fashions.
Most of the romantic poets of the day attempted drama, including Coleridge, Wordsworth, Keats and Shelley. George Gordon, Lord Byron, who was a member of the governing committee of Drury Lane, wrote more plays suited for the stage than the others, although only one was actually performed during his lifetime (and that one, “Marino Faliero,” in 1821, over his objections).
The best known actors and actresses on the London stage during the Regency included several members of the Kemble family, especially Sarah Kemble Siddons, who was considered the greatest tragic actress of her day until her retirement in 1812. The Kemble “classical” school of acting was continued by Charles Mayne Young (1777-1856), J. M. Vandenhoff (1790-1861), and Eliza O’Neill (1791-1827). Their classical approach was challenged after 1814 by the romantic school, perhaps best exemplified by Edmund Kean. Kean perfected the style, and exerted his “star power” frequently to demand £50 or more for each performance, an amount unheard of before his time. Other well-known performers, such as William Charles Macready (1793-1873) and Mme. Eliza Vestris (1797-1856), later went from the stage into theatre management.Here is a brief introduction to my fitting story for February. I hope you enjoy it.
In the coldest days of February, can St. Valentine create enough heat to melt two hearts into one?Miss Penelope Braxton has never met sensible George Harburton or his more dashing younger brother, Henry, but she agrees to grant her dying father peace of mind by considering marriage to one of them.
The advantage of the match for the brothers is evident in the form of Miss Braxton’s substantial dowry. However, her money takes second place when the brothers realize the extent of Penelope’s courage, wit, and devotion.
Henry doesn't plan to give up his philandering to romance Penelope. George's days are filled with the running of the family estate and he has never put aside his duties long enough to contemplate marriage. When one of the gentlemen changes his ways, will he be able to compose the perfect poetry to win Penelope’s heart?
AMAZON BUY LINK
Kadee McDonald grew up in Texas, but a piece of her heart will always belong to the muslin and lace of Regency England. She is a long-time reader, and now an author of Regency romance. Her books are available as e-books from Amazon .
Learn more about Kadee on her website . Stay connected on Twitter or Facebook .
January 31, 2017
TOFFEE FOR YOUR VALENTINE
by Sara Daniel
Buying your valentine chocolates? Yep, you and millions of other shmucks.
Going with flowers? Ditto. Sorry.
How about making a sweet for your sweetie this year? It’s sweet, chocolate-y, and easy to make. And the personal effort is worth far more than that bouquet of roses you were eyeing.
Chocolate Toffee
1 ½ cups butter
1 ½ cups sugar
½ tsp. vanilla
Pinch salt
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
½ cup chopped almonds
½ cup chopped pecans
Sea salt
Combine butter, sugar, vanilla and salt in a saucepan over medium heat for 12-15 minutes, stirring constantly with a spatula.
Line baking sheet with parchment paper and spread toffee mixture. Top with chocolate chips. When chips begin to melt, spread chocolate over toffee.
Sprinkle with almonds, pecans, and/or sea salt.
Refrigerate for 1 hour then break into pieces.
Serve with a Sara Daniel romance for the sexiest Valentine’s Day ever!
The Bad Boy’s Commitment
He’s supposed to be the town hero. He’s not!
Haunted by comrades he was unable to save, Drake Miller walks away from his military career for the relaxed, quiet life of running his father’s bar in Regret Hollow. Too bad no one tipped him off that his father sold the bar.
While the townspeople treat him to a hero’s welcome that he doesn’t want and doesn’t deserve, he finds one person who doesn’t fall at his feet, calls him out for bad behavior, and kisses like a fantasy. Unfortunately, she also owns the bar that was supposed to be his.
As a single mom and small business owner, Mallory Marquette takes her commitments and responsibilities seriously. She can’t give away her livelihood just because Drake thinks he’s entitled to it—even if he is the town hero and the first man in a decade who gets her blood flowing. Besides, she needs a reliable bartender much more than she needs a lover.
Can this hero turned bad boy step up to a lifetime commitment, or will the freedom he sacrificed so much for cost him everything?
Buy links:
Amazon - Barnes & Noble - iTunes - Kobo - Google Play
Sara Daniel writes what she loves to read—irresistible romance, from sweet to erotic and everything in between. She battles a serious NASCAR addiction, was once a landlord of two uninvited squirrels, and loses her car keys several times a day.
Learn more about Sara on her website and blog . Subscribe to Sara’s newsletter .
Stay connected on Facebook , Twitter , and Pinterest .
Buying your valentine chocolates? Yep, you and millions of other shmucks.
Going with flowers? Ditto. Sorry.
How about making a sweet for your sweetie this year? It’s sweet, chocolate-y, and easy to make. And the personal effort is worth far more than that bouquet of roses you were eyeing.
Chocolate Toffee1 ½ cups butter
1 ½ cups sugar
½ tsp. vanilla
Pinch salt
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
½ cup chopped almonds
½ cup chopped pecans
Sea salt
Combine butter, sugar, vanilla and salt in a saucepan over medium heat for 12-15 minutes, stirring constantly with a spatula.
Line baking sheet with parchment paper and spread toffee mixture. Top with chocolate chips. When chips begin to melt, spread chocolate over toffee.
Sprinkle with almonds, pecans, and/or sea salt.
Refrigerate for 1 hour then break into pieces.
Serve with a Sara Daniel romance for the sexiest Valentine’s Day ever!
The Bad Boy’s Commitment
He’s supposed to be the town hero. He’s not!
Haunted by comrades he was unable to save, Drake Miller walks away from his military career for the relaxed, quiet life of running his father’s bar in Regret Hollow. Too bad no one tipped him off that his father sold the bar.
While the townspeople treat him to a hero’s welcome that he doesn’t want and doesn’t deserve, he finds one person who doesn’t fall at his feet, calls him out for bad behavior, and kisses like a fantasy. Unfortunately, she also owns the bar that was supposed to be his.
As a single mom and small business owner, Mallory Marquette takes her commitments and responsibilities seriously. She can’t give away her livelihood just because Drake thinks he’s entitled to it—even if he is the town hero and the first man in a decade who gets her blood flowing. Besides, she needs a reliable bartender much more than she needs a lover.
Can this hero turned bad boy step up to a lifetime commitment, or will the freedom he sacrificed so much for cost him everything?
Buy links:
Amazon - Barnes & Noble - iTunes - Kobo - Google Play
Sara Daniel writes what she loves to read—irresistible romance, from sweet to erotic and everything in between. She battles a serious NASCAR addiction, was once a landlord of two uninvited squirrels, and loses her car keys several times a day.
Learn more about Sara on her website and blog . Subscribe to Sara’s newsletter .
Stay connected on Facebook , Twitter , and Pinterest .
January 29, 2017
IT'S ALL ABOUT LOVE
The incomparable Janis Lane has stretched out of her comfort zone into a new genre with her delightful new release Angels Abound with Love. Here is a brief introduction for your reading pleasure.
In a small town, a series of mysterious coincidences tests and strengthens the faith of a group of friends and neighbors. Love is in the air.
A coincidence is an angel-delivered message from God vows her vivacious nurse to young Doc Cathy. To a science educated person, this seems a bit far-fetched. On the other hand, is it? The doctor is in as episode after episode tests her faith and her education. To her delight, love enters her life in depths she could never have imagined.
A handsome detective is too busy with his good works to ask for help either from his church, friends or his God. When he encounters the lovely Doc Cathy his horizons expand beyond his wildest imagination, and he suddenly remembers to include his most powerful partner. Love is the message.
EXCERPT
“She’s a doctor just like Doc Smitty. I’m sure you can trust her. She probably goes to hockey games too.” Mark Mallory turned his attention to the delicate face gazing solemnly down at him and felt a slight jolt to his constitution as if he’d put his finger near an electric outlet. He hastily stood, tugged on his well-worn t-shirt and brushed his hand over his close-cropped hair. It immediately sprang back into curled disarray.
“I’m standing in for his mom,” he stated quickly. “She called and asked me to bring Robbie to you. She’s on her way.
“Oh, sorry--Detective Mark Mallory. I volunteer on Tuesday’s at the Boy’s and Girl’s Club.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and reached it out to her.
“How do you do,” the doctor returned.
“I heard there’s a new doctor taking over for Doc Smitty. Welcome to town.” He shook her hand, feeling foolish as she looked steadily up at him; her calm gray-blue eyes, heavily fringed with dark lashes, seemed to be taking his measure. She was a little bit of a thing, he thought absently, but somehow her height failed to diminish her authority. He hadn’t expected such an attractive young woman to be standing in for old Doc Smith and belatedly regretted his sweaty T-shirt and well-worn jeans. Was that his big toe peeking out of his sneakers? How did that happen? He tried to tuck one shoe behind the other and hoped she wouldn’t notice.
*
Driving home to Aunt Serena and little Elisa, who was hopefully to be her new foster child, Cathy reviewed her day--a quite extraordinary day. Meeting the congenial policeman put a smile on her face—he was one handsome hunk and… now was no time to be distracted by a good looking detective even if it was obvious he spent time working out. Policemen probably needed well developed muscles to help them catch criminals—and to keep themselves healthy. She, a new, and maybe temporary foster parent (she didn’t know yet) needed to keep her thoughts centered. No time for flirting with the local police.
She was still astounded by her impulsive offer this morning to take charge of a four year old orphan in need of a foster home. She almost gasped at her own temerity, but the thought of providing urgent shelter to the tiny girl-child pleased her. She knew her aunt would welcome the tot as well. There was lots of room in that comfortable, rambling older and well-lived-in home where she and her brothers had grown up.
*
“Where there is love, there also shall be God,” she sang softly, the tone of her voice pealing like the soft, tinkling tones of a far away, crystal bell.
Inside the woman leaned forward, her heart filled with empathy for the misery of the child. As the doctor spoke impulsively to the social worker, the angel smiled and floated upwards, the halo around her head fading as she ascended into the clouds and turned into a shining pallet of colors, which disappeared into the arch of a distant rainbow.
Inside the building the doctor wondered at her uncharacteristic and impulsive boldness, but would not rescind her offer. She had love to give and this little girl needed to be loved. Cathy became cognizant of an extreme sense of serenity and well-being. Briefly she wondered at it, but not finding a particular cause, blithely and casually accredited it, quite correctly, as a gift from God and went on with her work.
AMAZON BUY LINK
Read more about the books by Janis Lane on Amazon .
Janis Lane is the pen-name for gifted author Emma Lane who writes cozy mysteries as Janis, Regency as Emma, and spice as Sunny Lane.
She lives in Western New York where winter is snowy, spring arrives with rave reviews, summer days are long and velvet, and fall leaves are riotous in color. At long last she enjoys the perfect bow window for her desk where she is treated to a year-round panoramic view of nature. Her computer opens up a fourth fascinating window to the world. Her patient husband is always available to help with a plot twist and encourage Emma to never quit. Her day job is working with flowers at Herbtique and Plant Nursery, the nursery she and her son own.
Look for information about writing and plants on Emma's new website . Leave a comment or a gardening question and put a smile on Emma's face.
Stay connected to Emma on Facebook and Twitter . Be sure to check out the things that make Emma smile on Pinterest .
In a small town, a series of mysterious coincidences tests and strengthens the faith of a group of friends and neighbors. Love is in the air.A coincidence is an angel-delivered message from God vows her vivacious nurse to young Doc Cathy. To a science educated person, this seems a bit far-fetched. On the other hand, is it? The doctor is in as episode after episode tests her faith and her education. To her delight, love enters her life in depths she could never have imagined.
A handsome detective is too busy with his good works to ask for help either from his church, friends or his God. When he encounters the lovely Doc Cathy his horizons expand beyond his wildest imagination, and he suddenly remembers to include his most powerful partner. Love is the message.
EXCERPT
“She’s a doctor just like Doc Smitty. I’m sure you can trust her. She probably goes to hockey games too.” Mark Mallory turned his attention to the delicate face gazing solemnly down at him and felt a slight jolt to his constitution as if he’d put his finger near an electric outlet. He hastily stood, tugged on his well-worn t-shirt and brushed his hand over his close-cropped hair. It immediately sprang back into curled disarray.
“I’m standing in for his mom,” he stated quickly. “She called and asked me to bring Robbie to you. She’s on her way.
“Oh, sorry--Detective Mark Mallory. I volunteer on Tuesday’s at the Boy’s and Girl’s Club.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and reached it out to her.
“How do you do,” the doctor returned.
“I heard there’s a new doctor taking over for Doc Smitty. Welcome to town.” He shook her hand, feeling foolish as she looked steadily up at him; her calm gray-blue eyes, heavily fringed with dark lashes, seemed to be taking his measure. She was a little bit of a thing, he thought absently, but somehow her height failed to diminish her authority. He hadn’t expected such an attractive young woman to be standing in for old Doc Smith and belatedly regretted his sweaty T-shirt and well-worn jeans. Was that his big toe peeking out of his sneakers? How did that happen? He tried to tuck one shoe behind the other and hoped she wouldn’t notice.
*
Driving home to Aunt Serena and little Elisa, who was hopefully to be her new foster child, Cathy reviewed her day--a quite extraordinary day. Meeting the congenial policeman put a smile on her face—he was one handsome hunk and… now was no time to be distracted by a good looking detective even if it was obvious he spent time working out. Policemen probably needed well developed muscles to help them catch criminals—and to keep themselves healthy. She, a new, and maybe temporary foster parent (she didn’t know yet) needed to keep her thoughts centered. No time for flirting with the local police.
She was still astounded by her impulsive offer this morning to take charge of a four year old orphan in need of a foster home. She almost gasped at her own temerity, but the thought of providing urgent shelter to the tiny girl-child pleased her. She knew her aunt would welcome the tot as well. There was lots of room in that comfortable, rambling older and well-lived-in home where she and her brothers had grown up.
*
“Where there is love, there also shall be God,” she sang softly, the tone of her voice pealing like the soft, tinkling tones of a far away, crystal bell.
Inside the woman leaned forward, her heart filled with empathy for the misery of the child. As the doctor spoke impulsively to the social worker, the angel smiled and floated upwards, the halo around her head fading as she ascended into the clouds and turned into a shining pallet of colors, which disappeared into the arch of a distant rainbow.
Inside the building the doctor wondered at her uncharacteristic and impulsive boldness, but would not rescind her offer. She had love to give and this little girl needed to be loved. Cathy became cognizant of an extreme sense of serenity and well-being. Briefly she wondered at it, but not finding a particular cause, blithely and casually accredited it, quite correctly, as a gift from God and went on with her work.
AMAZON BUY LINK
Read more about the books by Janis Lane on Amazon .
Janis Lane is the pen-name for gifted author Emma Lane who writes cozy mysteries as Janis, Regency as Emma, and spice as Sunny Lane. She lives in Western New York where winter is snowy, spring arrives with rave reviews, summer days are long and velvet, and fall leaves are riotous in color. At long last she enjoys the perfect bow window for her desk where she is treated to a year-round panoramic view of nature. Her computer opens up a fourth fascinating window to the world. Her patient husband is always available to help with a plot twist and encourage Emma to never quit. Her day job is working with flowers at Herbtique and Plant Nursery, the nursery she and her son own.
Look for information about writing and plants on Emma's new website . Leave a comment or a gardening question and put a smile on Emma's face.
Stay connected to Emma on Facebook and Twitter . Be sure to check out the things that make Emma smile on Pinterest .
January 24, 2017
A WARM TASTE OF ITALY
A small bowl of hot soup is an excellent starter to any meal. You can also enjoy soup for lunch or dinner by adding a salad and fresh bread. This hearty recipe works great for all situations. Add a glass of crisp white wine and enjoy!
Minestrone (Vegetable) Soup
½ cup dry white beans, navy or Great Northern
4 tbsp. butter
1 cup frozen peas
1 cup zucchini, unpeeled, scrubbed and diced
1 cup carrots, diced
1 cup red potatoes, diced
⅓ cup celery, diced
5 strips bacon, diced
¼ cup onion, chopped
½ cup leeks (or substitute onions), chopped fine
2 cups drained diced tomatoes
2 quarts chicken stock, homemade or canned
1 bay leaf
1 tbsp. parsley
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
½ cup rice
Bring 1 quart of water to a boil in a heavy 3-to 4-quart saucepan. Add the beans and boil for 2 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and let the beans soak for 1 hour. Return the pan to the stove, and over low heat simmer the beans uncovered for 1-1½ hours, or until they are barely tender. Drain the beans and set aside.
Melt the butter over moderate heat in a heavy 10-to 12- inch skillet. When the foam subsides, add the peas, zucchini, carrots, potatoes, and celery. Toss constantly with a wooden spoon to coat the vegetables. Cook 2-3 minutes. Set aside.
Fry the bacon in a heavy 6-to8-quart saucepan over moderate heat until crisp. Drain the bacon on paper towels, but retain the grease in the pot. Stir in the onion and leeks. Continue to stir until the vegetables are soft and lightly brown, about 5 minutes.
Stir in the tomatoes, vegetables from the skillet, chicken stock, bay leaf, parsley, and pepper. Bring the soup to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat and simmer partially covered for 25 minutes.
Remove the bay leaf. Add the rice, beans, and bacon. Cook 15 – 20 minutes longer.
Garnish
½ tbsp. dried basil
½ tbsp. dried parsley
1 tsp. garlic, chopped fine
½ cup Parmesan cheese
Combine all ingredients into a small bowl. Stir well.
To Serve
Ladle into individual bowls. Sprinkle with herb/garlic mixture. Pass a bowl of grated cheese.
Leftovers freeze well.
Serves 8
May you enjoy all the days of your life around a well laden table!
Sloane Taylor
Twitter
Amazon Author Page
Minestrone (Vegetable) Soup
½ cup dry white beans, navy or Great Northern4 tbsp. butter
1 cup frozen peas
1 cup zucchini, unpeeled, scrubbed and diced
1 cup carrots, diced
1 cup red potatoes, diced
⅓ cup celery, diced
5 strips bacon, diced
¼ cup onion, chopped
½ cup leeks (or substitute onions), chopped fine
2 cups drained diced tomatoes
2 quarts chicken stock, homemade or canned
1 bay leaf
1 tbsp. parsley
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
½ cup rice
Bring 1 quart of water to a boil in a heavy 3-to 4-quart saucepan. Add the beans and boil for 2 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat and let the beans soak for 1 hour. Return the pan to the stove, and over low heat simmer the beans uncovered for 1-1½ hours, or until they are barely tender. Drain the beans and set aside.
Melt the butter over moderate heat in a heavy 10-to 12- inch skillet. When the foam subsides, add the peas, zucchini, carrots, potatoes, and celery. Toss constantly with a wooden spoon to coat the vegetables. Cook 2-3 minutes. Set aside.
Fry the bacon in a heavy 6-to8-quart saucepan over moderate heat until crisp. Drain the bacon on paper towels, but retain the grease in the pot. Stir in the onion and leeks. Continue to stir until the vegetables are soft and lightly brown, about 5 minutes.
Stir in the tomatoes, vegetables from the skillet, chicken stock, bay leaf, parsley, and pepper. Bring the soup to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat and simmer partially covered for 25 minutes.
Remove the bay leaf. Add the rice, beans, and bacon. Cook 15 – 20 minutes longer.
Garnish
½ tbsp. dried basil
½ tbsp. dried parsley
1 tsp. garlic, chopped fine
½ cup Parmesan cheese
Combine all ingredients into a small bowl. Stir well.
To Serve
Ladle into individual bowls. Sprinkle with herb/garlic mixture. Pass a bowl of grated cheese.
Leftovers freeze well.
Serves 8
May you enjoy all the days of your life around a well laden table!
Sloane Taylor
Amazon Author Page
January 22, 2017
IN THE NAVY
They never eat a Bean Soup as good as the one Regency Romance and Cozy Mystery author Emma Lane prepares. Emma brings us a delicious and easy recipe for a hearty soup sure to keep you warm. The kitchen is all yours, Emma!
Navy Bean Soup
2 strips bacon
1 med, onion, chopped
3 cups water
1 med. white potato, peeled and cubed
1 can navy or great northern beans, drained
1 clove fresh garlic, chopped fine (optional)
Sauté' onion and bacon until onion is pearly-colored and bacon is crisp. Crumble bacon and add both to pot.
Stir in water, beans, potato, and garlic.
Simmer for at least an hour. Stir occasionally. Do not add more water before serving.
Top the serving with a spoonful of grated cheese or a dollop of sour cream.
Serve with a pear salad and a loaf of French bread or hard rolls.
Pear Salad
l can pears halves or slices, drained
lettuce
dollop of sour cream
sprinkle of nutmeg
Assemble on individual salad plates. Chill until ready to serve.
While you're waiting for everyone to come home for dinner, here's a teaser from one of my Regency books.
What happens when a strong heroine meets an arrogant, but handsome hero? Sparks fly. It's a Regency Romance Romp!
Miss Amabel Hawkins acknowledges her unusual upbringing, but she thinks James Langley, the Duke of Westerton, might be a tad unbalanced when he protests her efforts to right his badly managed properties. The duke, who has been away on the king's business, demonstrates no respect for the beautiful but managing Miss Hawkins. Amabel has taken refuge at Westerton, fleeing from a forced marriage to a man who claims to be her relative in order to gain control of her young brother's estate.
The Duke arrives home to find his estate under the firm control of a beautiful but managing female. His suspicions are fueled by his recent task of spy-hunting and he wonders if Amabel Hawkins is just who she seems. While a dastardly spy lurks, a wicked man poses as her cousin threatening to take over the guardianship of her young brother. Amabel might be falling in love, but she knows for certain the duke would never approve of a meddlesome woman, and she decides to flee his estate. Will the duke finally realize the true value of the woman he loves or will his prejudice ruin his chances forever?
Amazon Buy Link
Emma Lane is a gifted author who writes under several pen-names. She lives with her patient husband on several acres outside a typical American village in Western New York. Her day job is working with flowers at her son’s plant nursery. Look for information about writing and plants on her new website . Leave a comment or a gardening question and put a smile on Emma's face.
Stay connected to Emma on Facebook and Twitter .
Navy Bean Soup
2 strips bacon1 med, onion, chopped
3 cups water
1 med. white potato, peeled and cubed
1 can navy or great northern beans, drained
1 clove fresh garlic, chopped fine (optional)
Sauté' onion and bacon until onion is pearly-colored and bacon is crisp. Crumble bacon and add both to pot.
Stir in water, beans, potato, and garlic.
Simmer for at least an hour. Stir occasionally. Do not add more water before serving.
Top the serving with a spoonful of grated cheese or a dollop of sour cream.
Serve with a pear salad and a loaf of French bread or hard rolls.
Pear Salad
l can pears halves or slices, drained
lettuce
dollop of sour cream
sprinkle of nutmeg
Assemble on individual salad plates. Chill until ready to serve.
While you're waiting for everyone to come home for dinner, here's a teaser from one of my Regency books.
What happens when a strong heroine meets an arrogant, but handsome hero? Sparks fly. It's a Regency Romance Romp!Miss Amabel Hawkins acknowledges her unusual upbringing, but she thinks James Langley, the Duke of Westerton, might be a tad unbalanced when he protests her efforts to right his badly managed properties. The duke, who has been away on the king's business, demonstrates no respect for the beautiful but managing Miss Hawkins. Amabel has taken refuge at Westerton, fleeing from a forced marriage to a man who claims to be her relative in order to gain control of her young brother's estate.
The Duke arrives home to find his estate under the firm control of a beautiful but managing female. His suspicions are fueled by his recent task of spy-hunting and he wonders if Amabel Hawkins is just who she seems. While a dastardly spy lurks, a wicked man poses as her cousin threatening to take over the guardianship of her young brother. Amabel might be falling in love, but she knows for certain the duke would never approve of a meddlesome woman, and she decides to flee his estate. Will the duke finally realize the true value of the woman he loves or will his prejudice ruin his chances forever?
Amazon Buy Link
Emma Lane is a gifted author who writes under several pen-names. She lives with her patient husband on several acres outside a typical American village in Western New York. Her day job is working with flowers at her son’s plant nursery. Look for information about writing and plants on her new website . Leave a comment or a gardening question and put a smile on Emma's face.
Stay connected to Emma on Facebook and Twitter .
January 17, 2017
A HOT BEVERAGE FIT FOR THE QUEEN
by Suzanne G. Rogers
Whenever I’m writing Victorian-era English romance, I will often consult Mrs. Beeton’s The Book of Household Management (1861), for ideas on how things were done. Mrs. Isabella Mary Beeton was the Martha Stewart of the age, writing a highly-plagiarized cookery column for "The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine." Her book covers diverse topics such as household duties, dining, kitchens, servants, doctors, and the rearing of children, as well as detailed recipes for everything from soup to nuts. I’ve downloaded the manuscript onto my computer from Project Gutenberg, which makes it available to everyone in all different formats HERE .
Since it’s winter, I thought I would share one of Mrs. Beeton’s recipes for Hot Punch, which sounds perfectly delicious and terribly intoxicating.
TO MAKE HOT PUNCH
INGREDIENTS.— ½ pint of rum, ½ pint of brandy, ¼ lb. of sugar, 1 large lemon, ½ tspoonful of nutmeg, 1 pint of boiling water.
Mode.— Rub the sugar over the lemon until it has absorbed all the yellow part of the skin, then put the sugar into a punchbowl; add the lemon-juice (free from pips), and mix these two ingredients well together. Pour over them the boiling water, stir well together, add the rum, brandy, and nutmeg; mix thoroughly, and the punch will be ready to serve. It is very important in making good punch that all the ingredients are thoroughly incorporated; and, to insure success, the processes of mixing must be diligently attended to.
Sufficient.— Allow a quart for 4 persons; but this information must be taken cum grano salis; for the capacities of persons for this kind of beverage are generally supposed to vary considerably.
Enjoy the punch over a copy of my latest sweet Victorian romance, Spinster.
Staring down life as an old maid, newly jilted Clare flees to a country home she's inherited from her grandmother. She doesn't count on clashing with her handsome neighbor, whose gentlemanly manners and education are at odds with his workingman's image. As their relationship unfolds, however, she discovers the mysterious Meriweather Holcroft is not what he appears to be.
Suzanne's historical Victorian YA book is available January 31, 2017 for your Kindle at Amazon .
Suzanne G. Rogers lives with her husband and son in romantic Savannah, Georgia, on an island populated by deer, exotic birds, and the occasional gator. She's owned by two Sphynx cats, Houdini and Nikita. Movies, books, and writing are her passions.
Learn more about Suzanne G. Rogers on her historical romance blog and her fantasy blog . Stay connected on Facebook and Twitter . Also, be sure to check out the website for the Sweet Romance written by Suzanne G. Rogers.
Whenever I’m writing Victorian-era English romance, I will often consult Mrs. Beeton’s The Book of Household Management (1861), for ideas on how things were done. Mrs. Isabella Mary Beeton was the Martha Stewart of the age, writing a highly-plagiarized cookery column for "The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine." Her book covers diverse topics such as household duties, dining, kitchens, servants, doctors, and the rearing of children, as well as detailed recipes for everything from soup to nuts. I’ve downloaded the manuscript onto my computer from Project Gutenberg, which makes it available to everyone in all different formats HERE .
Since it’s winter, I thought I would share one of Mrs. Beeton’s recipes for Hot Punch, which sounds perfectly delicious and terribly intoxicating.
TO MAKE HOT PUNCH
INGREDIENTS.— ½ pint of rum, ½ pint of brandy, ¼ lb. of sugar, 1 large lemon, ½ tspoonful of nutmeg, 1 pint of boiling water.
Mode.— Rub the sugar over the lemon until it has absorbed all the yellow part of the skin, then put the sugar into a punchbowl; add the lemon-juice (free from pips), and mix these two ingredients well together. Pour over them the boiling water, stir well together, add the rum, brandy, and nutmeg; mix thoroughly, and the punch will be ready to serve. It is very important in making good punch that all the ingredients are thoroughly incorporated; and, to insure success, the processes of mixing must be diligently attended to.
Sufficient.— Allow a quart for 4 persons; but this information must be taken cum grano salis; for the capacities of persons for this kind of beverage are generally supposed to vary considerably.
Enjoy the punch over a copy of my latest sweet Victorian romance, Spinster.
Staring down life as an old maid, newly jilted Clare flees to a country home she's inherited from her grandmother. She doesn't count on clashing with her handsome neighbor, whose gentlemanly manners and education are at odds with his workingman's image. As their relationship unfolds, however, she discovers the mysterious Meriweather Holcroft is not what he appears to be.
Suzanne's historical Victorian YA book is available January 31, 2017 for your Kindle at Amazon .
Suzanne G. Rogers lives with her husband and son in romantic Savannah, Georgia, on an island populated by deer, exotic birds, and the occasional gator. She's owned by two Sphynx cats, Houdini and Nikita. Movies, books, and writing are her passions.
Learn more about Suzanne G. Rogers on her historical romance blog and her fantasy blog . Stay connected on Facebook and Twitter . Also, be sure to check out the website for the Sweet Romance written by Suzanne G. Rogers.
January 15, 2017
ACTION, ADVENTURE, FANTASY - HOT DAMN!
I am pleased and proud to bring you a new release by Elliott Baker, an exciting author who weaves fact with fiction to create a thrilling swashbuckler that plunks you right in the middle of the action.
Kirkus Review says it best.
“Alexandre Dumas meets Horatio Hornblower and The Mummy in this sweeping, swashbuckling tale.”
For three thousand years a hatred burns. In seventeenth century France two souls incarnate, one born the child of a prosperous merchant, the other, determined to continue an incarnation begun long ago.
In ancient Egypt, there were two brothers, disciples of the pharaoh, Akhenaten. When the pharaoh died, the physician took the knowledge given and went to Greece to begin the mystery school. The general made a deal with the priests and became pharaoh. One remembers, one does not.
The year is 1671. René Gilbert’s destiny glints from the blade of a slashing rapier. The only way he can protect those he loves is to regain the power and knowledge of an ancient lifetime. From Bordeaux to Spain to Morocco, René is tested and with each turn of fate he gathers enemies and allies, slowly reclaiming the knowledge and power earned centuries ago. For three thousand years a secret sect has waited in Morocco.
After ages in darkness, Horemheb screams, “I am.” Using every dark art, he manages to maintain the life of the body he has bartered for. Only one life force in the world is powerful enough to allow him to remain within embodiment, perhaps forever. Determined to continue a reign of terror that once made the Nile run red, he grows stronger with each life taken.
Bordeaux, France
Three men bled out into the dirt.
René stared at the hand that held the bloody rapier. His hand. Tremors shuddered through his body and down his arm. Droplets of blood sprayed the air and joined the carmine puddles that seeped into the sun-baked earth. He closed his eyes and commanded the muscles that grasped the rapier to release their tension and allow the sword to drop.
Years of daily practice and pain refused his mind’s order much as they had refused to spare the lives of three men. The heady exultation that filled him during the seconds of the fight drained away and left him empty, a vessel devoid of meaning. He staggered toward an old oak and leaned against its rough bark. Bent over, with one hand braced on the tree, he retched. And again. Still, the sword remained in his hand.
A cloud shuttered the sun. Distant thunder brushed his awareness and then faded. Rain. The mundane thought coasted through his mind. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and glanced down hoping to see a different tableau. No, death remained death, the only movement, that of flies attracted to a new ocean of sustenance.
The summer heat lifted the acrid blood-rust smell and forced him to turn his head away. Before him stretched a different world from the one in which he had awakened. No compass points. No maps. No tomorrow.
The Maestro.
The mere thought of his fencing master filled him with both reassurance and dread. René slid the rapier into the one place his training permitted, its scabbard. He walked over to where the huge black stallion stamped his impatience, and pulled himself into the saddle.
Some impulse caused him to turn his head one last time. The sunlight that surrounded the men flickered like a candle in the wind, and the air was filled with a loud buzzing sound. Although still posed in identical postures of death, three different men now stared sightless.
Their skin was darker than the leather tanned sailors. Each wore a short linen kilt of some kind that left their upper bodies naked. As strange as the men appeared, their weapons were what drew René’s eye. The swords were archaic; sickle shaped and appeared to be forged of bronze. These men wore different faces and yet their eyes—somehow he knew they were the same sailors he had just killed. René blinked and there before him the original three men lay unmoved. Dead.
For an instant his mind balked, darkness encircled the edges of his vision.
Do not anticipate meaning. The Maestro’s voice echoed in his head. Meaning may be ignored, but it cannot be hurried.
The darkness receded, and he reined the stallion’s head toward home.
René approached the linden shaded lane to the château. The stately trees, their clasped hands steepled over the gravel drive, had always welcomed him. Now they were just a faded backdrop that moved past the corners of his eyes. Could it have been only hours ago that the anniversary of his sixteenth year had presented itself like a gaily wrapped gift waiting for his excited appreciation? The day had dawned as grand as any he had yet experienced, and he had awakened early, eager for the morning’s light.
“Henri,” he yelled, as he charged down the marble staircase and into the dining room. Breakfast was set and steaming on the polished mahogany table. Burnished silver platters and cream colored porcelain bowls held a variety of eggs, sausages, fruits, and breads. How Henri always seemed to anticipate his entry amazed René.
“Oui, Master René.” Serene as always, the middle-aged major domo entered the dining room. Henri walked over to the table and poured a cup of tea for René. “ S’il vous plaît, be seated, sir.”
“I cannot. Maybe a roll and a link of sausage. Henri, do you know what today is?”
Henri paused as if deep in thought. “Thursday. Oui, I am quite sure ’tis Thursday.”
René took a still sizzling sausage from a tray and did his best to fold it within a baguette.
“Non, ’tis my birth date,” he managed around a mouthful of sausage and roll.
“Which one is that, sir?”
“How do you not know? You were there.”
“Well, I remember ’twas after the end of the war. Let me see. The war was over in…”
“Very droll, Henri. Your memory works fine, ’tis your humor that leaves room for improvement. Today is... so... I cannot explain, it feels like anything is possible today.”
“Given that there is still plenty of day left, perhaps you might sit down and eat. I expect you will need all your strength for a day so filled with possibility.”
“I cannot be late.” René gulped his tea and shoved the rest of the roll and sausage into his mouth.
“Happy anniversary, Master René.”
“Merci, Henri.” René checked his appearance in one of the grand foyer mirrors, and then strode toward the courtyard. The time had come to present himself to the Maestro.
René vibrated with excitement. He paused just inside the entrance to the training area. This was no way to face the Maestro. He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and reached for that quiet center. The torrent of chaotic thought stilled and that unique calm of intense focus settled around him. His friends Marc and Anatole sported their weapons in public. René had yet to earn that privilege. Disarming the Maestro was the only way, and since that possibility seemed as remote as the ability to fly, it generated a great deal of frustration.
Today, however, might be the day.
Amazon Buy Link
Award winning, international playwright Elliott B. Baker grew up in Jacksonville, Florida. With four musicals and one play published and done throughout the United States, New Zealand, Portugal, England, and Canada, Elliott is pleased to offer his first novel, Return, book one of The Sun God’s Heir trilogy.
A member of the Authors Guild and the Dramatists Guild, Elliott lives in New Hampshire with his beautiful wife Sally Ann.
Learn more about Elliot Baker on his website . Stay connected on Twitter and Facebook . Like Elliott's Author Page on Facebook to learn all his latest news.
Kirkus Review says it best.
“Alexandre Dumas meets Horatio Hornblower and The Mummy in this sweeping, swashbuckling tale.”
For three thousand years a hatred burns. In seventeenth century France two souls incarnate, one born the child of a prosperous merchant, the other, determined to continue an incarnation begun long ago. In ancient Egypt, there were two brothers, disciples of the pharaoh, Akhenaten. When the pharaoh died, the physician took the knowledge given and went to Greece to begin the mystery school. The general made a deal with the priests and became pharaoh. One remembers, one does not.
The year is 1671. René Gilbert’s destiny glints from the blade of a slashing rapier. The only way he can protect those he loves is to regain the power and knowledge of an ancient lifetime. From Bordeaux to Spain to Morocco, René is tested and with each turn of fate he gathers enemies and allies, slowly reclaiming the knowledge and power earned centuries ago. For three thousand years a secret sect has waited in Morocco.
After ages in darkness, Horemheb screams, “I am.” Using every dark art, he manages to maintain the life of the body he has bartered for. Only one life force in the world is powerful enough to allow him to remain within embodiment, perhaps forever. Determined to continue a reign of terror that once made the Nile run red, he grows stronger with each life taken.
Bordeaux, France
Three men bled out into the dirt.
René stared at the hand that held the bloody rapier. His hand. Tremors shuddered through his body and down his arm. Droplets of blood sprayed the air and joined the carmine puddles that seeped into the sun-baked earth. He closed his eyes and commanded the muscles that grasped the rapier to release their tension and allow the sword to drop.
Years of daily practice and pain refused his mind’s order much as they had refused to spare the lives of three men. The heady exultation that filled him during the seconds of the fight drained away and left him empty, a vessel devoid of meaning. He staggered toward an old oak and leaned against its rough bark. Bent over, with one hand braced on the tree, he retched. And again. Still, the sword remained in his hand.
A cloud shuttered the sun. Distant thunder brushed his awareness and then faded. Rain. The mundane thought coasted through his mind. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and glanced down hoping to see a different tableau. No, death remained death, the only movement, that of flies attracted to a new ocean of sustenance.
The summer heat lifted the acrid blood-rust smell and forced him to turn his head away. Before him stretched a different world from the one in which he had awakened. No compass points. No maps. No tomorrow.
The Maestro.
The mere thought of his fencing master filled him with both reassurance and dread. René slid the rapier into the one place his training permitted, its scabbard. He walked over to where the huge black stallion stamped his impatience, and pulled himself into the saddle.
Some impulse caused him to turn his head one last time. The sunlight that surrounded the men flickered like a candle in the wind, and the air was filled with a loud buzzing sound. Although still posed in identical postures of death, three different men now stared sightless.
Their skin was darker than the leather tanned sailors. Each wore a short linen kilt of some kind that left their upper bodies naked. As strange as the men appeared, their weapons were what drew René’s eye. The swords were archaic; sickle shaped and appeared to be forged of bronze. These men wore different faces and yet their eyes—somehow he knew they were the same sailors he had just killed. René blinked and there before him the original three men lay unmoved. Dead.
For an instant his mind balked, darkness encircled the edges of his vision.
Do not anticipate meaning. The Maestro’s voice echoed in his head. Meaning may be ignored, but it cannot be hurried.
The darkness receded, and he reined the stallion’s head toward home.
René approached the linden shaded lane to the château. The stately trees, their clasped hands steepled over the gravel drive, had always welcomed him. Now they were just a faded backdrop that moved past the corners of his eyes. Could it have been only hours ago that the anniversary of his sixteenth year had presented itself like a gaily wrapped gift waiting for his excited appreciation? The day had dawned as grand as any he had yet experienced, and he had awakened early, eager for the morning’s light.
“Henri,” he yelled, as he charged down the marble staircase and into the dining room. Breakfast was set and steaming on the polished mahogany table. Burnished silver platters and cream colored porcelain bowls held a variety of eggs, sausages, fruits, and breads. How Henri always seemed to anticipate his entry amazed René.
“Oui, Master René.” Serene as always, the middle-aged major domo entered the dining room. Henri walked over to the table and poured a cup of tea for René. “ S’il vous plaît, be seated, sir.”
“I cannot. Maybe a roll and a link of sausage. Henri, do you know what today is?”
Henri paused as if deep in thought. “Thursday. Oui, I am quite sure ’tis Thursday.”
René took a still sizzling sausage from a tray and did his best to fold it within a baguette.
“Non, ’tis my birth date,” he managed around a mouthful of sausage and roll.
“Which one is that, sir?”
“How do you not know? You were there.”
“Well, I remember ’twas after the end of the war. Let me see. The war was over in…”
“Very droll, Henri. Your memory works fine, ’tis your humor that leaves room for improvement. Today is... so... I cannot explain, it feels like anything is possible today.”
“Given that there is still plenty of day left, perhaps you might sit down and eat. I expect you will need all your strength for a day so filled with possibility.”
“I cannot be late.” René gulped his tea and shoved the rest of the roll and sausage into his mouth.
“Happy anniversary, Master René.”
“Merci, Henri.” René checked his appearance in one of the grand foyer mirrors, and then strode toward the courtyard. The time had come to present himself to the Maestro.
René vibrated with excitement. He paused just inside the entrance to the training area. This was no way to face the Maestro. He sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and reached for that quiet center. The torrent of chaotic thought stilled and that unique calm of intense focus settled around him. His friends Marc and Anatole sported their weapons in public. René had yet to earn that privilege. Disarming the Maestro was the only way, and since that possibility seemed as remote as the ability to fly, it generated a great deal of frustration.
Today, however, might be the day.
Amazon Buy Link
Award winning, international playwright Elliott B. Baker grew up in Jacksonville, Florida. With four musicals and one play published and done throughout the United States, New Zealand, Portugal, England, and Canada, Elliott is pleased to offer his first novel, Return, book one of The Sun God’s Heir trilogy.
A member of the Authors Guild and the Dramatists Guild, Elliott lives in New Hampshire with his beautiful wife Sally Ann.
Learn more about Elliot Baker on his website . Stay connected on Twitter and Facebook . Like Elliott's Author Page on Facebook to learn all his latest news.
January 10, 2017
FUN with SOUP
Several years back I attended a writer’s convention in Michigan.While there, I became enthralled with the book Stone Soup by Ann McGovern. One of the other authors winked and handed me a medium-sized stone from Michigan beach. I was hooked. Bought the book and couldn’t wait for my youngest granddaughter and me to make stone soup. We did over this past summer. Great fun with a delicious end result. Give it a whirl. You, too, will make wonderful memories.STONE SOUP
1 stone large enough that it won’t get lost in the soup. Quartz is good as it won’t break down while cooking.1tbsp. butter
1 medium onion, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped fine
2 large carrots, sliced
1 large garlic clove, pressed
6 cups chicken stock
2 boneless chicken breasts, chopped
1 tsp. dried thyme *
1 tbsp. dried parsley *
2 cups penne pasta
Freshly ground pepper to taste
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Scrub the stone with dish soap. Rinse thoroughly.
Melt the butter in a large pot on medium heat. When the foam subsides turn heat to medium-high. Add onion and sauté for 3 - 4 minutes. Stir in celery and carrots. Continue to sauté for 6 – 8 minutes. Lower the heat to medium. Add the garlic and stir for 30 seconds.
Carefully pour in the stock. Stir in the chicken and then herbs. Gently lower the stone into the soup. Stir in the pasta.
Increase heat and bring the soup to a boil. Cook until pasta is done al dente. Be sure to stir often.
Remove stone and ladle into individual bowls. Pass the cheese in a separate dish.
Serves 6.
* fresh herbs are excellent if you have them. Use nine springs of each in place of the dried herbs.
May you enjoy all the days of your life around a well laden table!
Sloane Taylor
Amazon Author Page
January 8, 2017
Whence Washing Away?
by SS Hampton Sr.
Hello!
I have been aware of Steampunk for some years now, found the premise interesting, and always thought I should try writing Steampunk someday. But what does an older guy like me know about Steampunk? Not much, actually. But it sounded interesting.
Anyway, while researching a story I once came across mention of a 1778 treaty at Fort Pitt in which American Indians, if assisting the Continental Army against the British during the Revolutionary War, were offered the possibility of their own state and representation in Congress. Once the war was over, of course. The idea of an American Indian state intrigued me, and I thought I should try writing an alternative history someday.
Of course, just like tomorrow, “someday” never comes.
Then I saw Nicole Gestalt’s Call for Submissions for Valves & Vixens, Volume 3 (House of Erotica). The sub-title Steampunk Erotica clinched the idea. So, “someday” finally became “now.”
And the idea hit me—why not write about West Delaware, the American Indian state (the 14th State, or the Treaty State) in a Steampunk world? Of course, that meant research in order to gain a better understanding of Steampunk, and to develop a believable timeline from the 1778 Treaty of Fort Pitt to New Year’s Eve, 31 December 1900. Especially important was what the Steampunk world of West Delaware was like on the eve of the 20th century.
Sooo…as midnight approaches, West Delaware is a populous state with the descendants of survivors from Eastern tribes, as well as tribal refugees who made their way out of the West, through watchful US Army picket lines. There are descendants of white colonists who elected to live under American Indian authority rather than be removed by the fledgling American government and lose their land; descendants of runaway slaves, and still arriving European immigrants. It is a state in a flux of change where the people are blending ancient cultural and social customs with new ways, all against a background of a rapidly evolving computer-based technology.
The people in this world include Carlton Snow, Chief of West Delaware; Solomon Prophet, Director of West Delaware’s powerful state police; Kyrie Sosoni, Executive Assistant to Chief Snow, and who serves both a master and mistress; the influential Senator Walker Diamond who, along with others in the Federal government, wishes to do away with West Delaware; Lord Gallatin Andover, a member of the British Parliament and envious enemy of West Delaware’s computer technology superiority; Lady Elysia Delacroix Stuart, successful Washington madam with ties to West Delaware and Lord Andover, and her sister Lady Cassandra Delacroix Gordon, a member of Elysia’s brothel.
I suppose a last question would be, “How will this all end?” Who knows? Answering that question might deserve another story, or perhaps a novel. We will have to see.
Here's a peek into my story Washing Away .
December 31, 1900, New Year’s Eve. A murder of a prominent British politician, an opportunistic computer technology entrepreneur in a seedy hotel in Washington, D.C. Is the murder nothing more than a sleazy robbery, maybe industrial espionage, or perhaps revenge?
Lady Elysia Delacroix Stuart, a brothel owner in Washington, and her sister Lady Cassandra Delacroix Gordon, a member of the brothel, are on their way to Chestertown, West Delaware—the American Indian state, created after the Revolutionary War—for a New Year’s Eve celebration. The American Indian state leads the world in early computer technology and Lady Elysia’s family played a role in developing the technology. She also had a secret and less than pleasing history with the politician, and finds herself suspect in his murder.
EXCERPT
The solitary gaslight swayed in the strong, wintry wind. Snowflakes spun through the cone of light that swung back and forth across the sidewalk to the side of a wood framed hotel that saw better days. Large snowflakes stuck to a window for long seconds before reluctantly losing their shape and becoming thin rivulets that trickled downward.
Within the dark room the feeble light filtered through curtains that also saw better days. The solitary room was warmer than the winter night outside, but not by much.
“Why this place?” a masculine voice asked. “Why a seedy, dirty little place like this?”
His answer was the squeak of the bed as a feminine form outlined by the curtained window light giggled and crawled forward. The woman turned at the head of the bed and lowered her hips.
“Taste me,” she whispered and tilted her head forward so that her long hair dangled back and forth across his hips. A deep, masculine groan answered her, and beefy hands rubbed and squeezed her hips, then her ass cheeks. She giggled again and lowered her hips further. The groan became muffled. “Do you like my scent,” she asked and reached between the man’s legs. The excited reply was muffled as she rolled her hips back and forth, and her head rose and dipped in a slow rhythm. The man groaned again.
After a few moments she stopped and rose on her knees. His voice rose in protest.
She turned and straddled his chest. The light barely lit the long face framed by long dark hair and decorated with a bushy mustache. His hands resumed their rubbing of her hips and ass cheeks.
“You like?”
“Always have,” he replied in a low voice and squeezed, hard. “You were the best. Especially your first time. That belly dancing in Egypt did wonders for you.”
The woman leaned forward and kissed his forehead. He slipped a hand between her thighs. She gasped and sighed.
“I know.”
“I should have married you back then,” he added.
“I know.”
“You should have married me when we met in London.”
“Really?” A hint of sarcasm was in her voice.
“Yes.”
“But then, we wouldn’t be here.”
She reached behind the pillows, between the headboard and the end of the sheet covered mattress.
“What are you doing?”
“Sshhhh,” the woman replied and placed a finger against his lips.
He chuckled and trailed thick fingers through her pubic hair while he curled her long hair around his other hand.
She pulled her hair free and sat on his stomach. The light from the window shone briefly on a polished, thin round stiletto blade. The woman clapped a strong hand across his mouth and the blade disappeared into the shadow of his left temple. His eyes opened wide, the whites easily visible in the near darkness. A less than lustful gasp and groan filtered through her fingers. His body jerked, his feet kicked, and then he went limp though his limbs shuddered spasmodically.
The woman sighed, placed a pillow against the side of his head and withdrew the stiletto, now darkly stained and dripping.
She remained seated on his stomach, slowly tilting her head from side to side as if studying the now motionless body. She turned the head so that his lifeless eyes gazed at her.
“I wasn’t sure I could do this,” the woman told him in an emotionless voice. “But, it was so easy.”
The window rattled from a strong gust of wind.
“Everything could have been so different,” she said later in a matter-of-fact voice while standing by the bed, shrouded in a winter cloak, and pulling on a pair of gloves. “I’m glad things worked out the way they have.” She paused at the door and listened. At that time of the morning no one was up. Odds were, even the night clerk was asleep. The woman cast a final look at the body followed by a whispered, “Someone really should have told you, hell hath no fury like a girl scorned…or…ill-used.”
The gas lamp lit hallway decorated with a faded, frayed carpet, was empty. She hurried to a door at the rear of the hotel and plunged into the frigid night. Only a horse carriage, and a hissing steam carriage were out and about. With a final look up and down the street, she left the hotel grounds and disappeared into the snowy darkness that was Pennsylvania Avenue.
AMAZON BUY LINK
See more books by S.S. Hampton Sr. on Amazon .
SS Hampton, Sr. is a full-blood Choctaw of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, a divorced grandfather to 13 wonderful grandchildren, and a published photographer and photojournalist. He retired on 1 July 2013 from the Army National Guard with the rank of Sergeant First Class; he previously served in the active duty Army (1974-1985), the Army Individual Ready Reserve (1985-1995) (mobilized for the Persian Gulf War), and enlisted in the Nevada Army National Guard in October 2004, after which he was mobilized for Federal active duty for almost three years. Hampton is a veteran of Operations Noble Eagle (2004-2006) and Iraqi Freedom (2006-2007) with deployment to northern Kuwait and several convoy security missions into Iraq.
He has had two solo photographic exhibitions and curated a third. His writings have appeared as stand-alone stories and in anthologies from Dark Opus Press, Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy, Melange Books, Musa Publishing, MuseItUp Publishing, Ravenous Romance, and as stand-alone stories in Horror Bound Magazine, The Harrow, and River Walk Journal, among others.
In May 2014 he graduated from the College of Southern Nevada with an Associate of Applied Science Degree in Photography – Commercial Photography Emphasis. A future goal is to study for a degree in archaeology—hopefully to someday work in and photograph underwater archaeology (and also learning to paint). He is currently enrolled as an art student at University of Nevada-Las Vegas.
As of April 2014, after being in a 2-year Veterans Administration program for Homeless Veterans, Hampton is officially no longer a homeless Iraq War veteran.
Hampton can be found at:
Dark Opus Press - Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy Publishing - Melange Books - MuseItUp Publishing - Goodreads Author Page - Amazon Author Page - Amazon UK
Hello!
I have been aware of Steampunk for some years now, found the premise interesting, and always thought I should try writing Steampunk someday. But what does an older guy like me know about Steampunk? Not much, actually. But it sounded interesting.
Anyway, while researching a story I once came across mention of a 1778 treaty at Fort Pitt in which American Indians, if assisting the Continental Army against the British during the Revolutionary War, were offered the possibility of their own state and representation in Congress. Once the war was over, of course. The idea of an American Indian state intrigued me, and I thought I should try writing an alternative history someday.
Of course, just like tomorrow, “someday” never comes.
Then I saw Nicole Gestalt’s Call for Submissions for Valves & Vixens, Volume 3 (House of Erotica). The sub-title Steampunk Erotica clinched the idea. So, “someday” finally became “now.”And the idea hit me—why not write about West Delaware, the American Indian state (the 14th State, or the Treaty State) in a Steampunk world? Of course, that meant research in order to gain a better understanding of Steampunk, and to develop a believable timeline from the 1778 Treaty of Fort Pitt to New Year’s Eve, 31 December 1900. Especially important was what the Steampunk world of West Delaware was like on the eve of the 20th century.
Sooo…as midnight approaches, West Delaware is a populous state with the descendants of survivors from Eastern tribes, as well as tribal refugees who made their way out of the West, through watchful US Army picket lines. There are descendants of white colonists who elected to live under American Indian authority rather than be removed by the fledgling American government and lose their land; descendants of runaway slaves, and still arriving European immigrants. It is a state in a flux of change where the people are blending ancient cultural and social customs with new ways, all against a background of a rapidly evolving computer-based technology.
The people in this world include Carlton Snow, Chief of West Delaware; Solomon Prophet, Director of West Delaware’s powerful state police; Kyrie Sosoni, Executive Assistant to Chief Snow, and who serves both a master and mistress; the influential Senator Walker Diamond who, along with others in the Federal government, wishes to do away with West Delaware; Lord Gallatin Andover, a member of the British Parliament and envious enemy of West Delaware’s computer technology superiority; Lady Elysia Delacroix Stuart, successful Washington madam with ties to West Delaware and Lord Andover, and her sister Lady Cassandra Delacroix Gordon, a member of Elysia’s brothel.
I suppose a last question would be, “How will this all end?” Who knows? Answering that question might deserve another story, or perhaps a novel. We will have to see.
Here's a peek into my story Washing Away .
December 31, 1900, New Year’s Eve. A murder of a prominent British politician, an opportunistic computer technology entrepreneur in a seedy hotel in Washington, D.C. Is the murder nothing more than a sleazy robbery, maybe industrial espionage, or perhaps revenge?
Lady Elysia Delacroix Stuart, a brothel owner in Washington, and her sister Lady Cassandra Delacroix Gordon, a member of the brothel, are on their way to Chestertown, West Delaware—the American Indian state, created after the Revolutionary War—for a New Year’s Eve celebration. The American Indian state leads the world in early computer technology and Lady Elysia’s family played a role in developing the technology. She also had a secret and less than pleasing history with the politician, and finds herself suspect in his murder.
EXCERPT
The solitary gaslight swayed in the strong, wintry wind. Snowflakes spun through the cone of light that swung back and forth across the sidewalk to the side of a wood framed hotel that saw better days. Large snowflakes stuck to a window for long seconds before reluctantly losing their shape and becoming thin rivulets that trickled downward.
Within the dark room the feeble light filtered through curtains that also saw better days. The solitary room was warmer than the winter night outside, but not by much.
“Why this place?” a masculine voice asked. “Why a seedy, dirty little place like this?”
His answer was the squeak of the bed as a feminine form outlined by the curtained window light giggled and crawled forward. The woman turned at the head of the bed and lowered her hips.
“Taste me,” she whispered and tilted her head forward so that her long hair dangled back and forth across his hips. A deep, masculine groan answered her, and beefy hands rubbed and squeezed her hips, then her ass cheeks. She giggled again and lowered her hips further. The groan became muffled. “Do you like my scent,” she asked and reached between the man’s legs. The excited reply was muffled as she rolled her hips back and forth, and her head rose and dipped in a slow rhythm. The man groaned again.
After a few moments she stopped and rose on her knees. His voice rose in protest.
She turned and straddled his chest. The light barely lit the long face framed by long dark hair and decorated with a bushy mustache. His hands resumed their rubbing of her hips and ass cheeks.
“You like?”
“Always have,” he replied in a low voice and squeezed, hard. “You were the best. Especially your first time. That belly dancing in Egypt did wonders for you.”
The woman leaned forward and kissed his forehead. He slipped a hand between her thighs. She gasped and sighed.
“I know.”
“I should have married you back then,” he added.
“I know.”
“You should have married me when we met in London.”
“Really?” A hint of sarcasm was in her voice.
“Yes.”
“But then, we wouldn’t be here.”
She reached behind the pillows, between the headboard and the end of the sheet covered mattress.
“What are you doing?”
“Sshhhh,” the woman replied and placed a finger against his lips.
He chuckled and trailed thick fingers through her pubic hair while he curled her long hair around his other hand.
She pulled her hair free and sat on his stomach. The light from the window shone briefly on a polished, thin round stiletto blade. The woman clapped a strong hand across his mouth and the blade disappeared into the shadow of his left temple. His eyes opened wide, the whites easily visible in the near darkness. A less than lustful gasp and groan filtered through her fingers. His body jerked, his feet kicked, and then he went limp though his limbs shuddered spasmodically.
The woman sighed, placed a pillow against the side of his head and withdrew the stiletto, now darkly stained and dripping.
She remained seated on his stomach, slowly tilting her head from side to side as if studying the now motionless body. She turned the head so that his lifeless eyes gazed at her.
“I wasn’t sure I could do this,” the woman told him in an emotionless voice. “But, it was so easy.”
The window rattled from a strong gust of wind.
“Everything could have been so different,” she said later in a matter-of-fact voice while standing by the bed, shrouded in a winter cloak, and pulling on a pair of gloves. “I’m glad things worked out the way they have.” She paused at the door and listened. At that time of the morning no one was up. Odds were, even the night clerk was asleep. The woman cast a final look at the body followed by a whispered, “Someone really should have told you, hell hath no fury like a girl scorned…or…ill-used.”
The gas lamp lit hallway decorated with a faded, frayed carpet, was empty. She hurried to a door at the rear of the hotel and plunged into the frigid night. Only a horse carriage, and a hissing steam carriage were out and about. With a final look up and down the street, she left the hotel grounds and disappeared into the snowy darkness that was Pennsylvania Avenue.
AMAZON BUY LINK
See more books by S.S. Hampton Sr. on Amazon .
SS Hampton, Sr. is a full-blood Choctaw of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, a divorced grandfather to 13 wonderful grandchildren, and a published photographer and photojournalist. He retired on 1 July 2013 from the Army National Guard with the rank of Sergeant First Class; he previously served in the active duty Army (1974-1985), the Army Individual Ready Reserve (1985-1995) (mobilized for the Persian Gulf War), and enlisted in the Nevada Army National Guard in October 2004, after which he was mobilized for Federal active duty for almost three years. Hampton is a veteran of Operations Noble Eagle (2004-2006) and Iraqi Freedom (2006-2007) with deployment to northern Kuwait and several convoy security missions into Iraq.He has had two solo photographic exhibitions and curated a third. His writings have appeared as stand-alone stories and in anthologies from Dark Opus Press, Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy, Melange Books, Musa Publishing, MuseItUp Publishing, Ravenous Romance, and as stand-alone stories in Horror Bound Magazine, The Harrow, and River Walk Journal, among others.
In May 2014 he graduated from the College of Southern Nevada with an Associate of Applied Science Degree in Photography – Commercial Photography Emphasis. A future goal is to study for a degree in archaeology—hopefully to someday work in and photograph underwater archaeology (and also learning to paint). He is currently enrolled as an art student at University of Nevada-Las Vegas.
As of April 2014, after being in a 2-year Veterans Administration program for Homeless Veterans, Hampton is officially no longer a homeless Iraq War veteran.
Hampton can be found at:
Dark Opus Press - Edge Science Fiction & Fantasy Publishing - Melange Books - MuseItUp Publishing - Goodreads Author Page - Amazon Author Page - Amazon UK
