C.A. Milson's Blog, page 164
March 13, 2018
VBT – Requiem for a Rescue Dog Queen
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About the Author
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M. K. Scott is the husband and wife writing team behind The Painted Lady Inn Mysteries and The Talking Dog Detective Agency. Morgan K. Wyatt is the general wordsmith, while her husband, Scott, is the grammar hammer and physics specialist. He uses his engineering skills to explain how fast a body falls when pushed over a cliff and various other felonious activities. The Internet and experts in the field provide forensic information, while the recipes and B and B details require a more hands-on approach. Morgan’s daughter, who manages a hotel, provides guest horror stories to fuel the plot lines. The couple’s dog, Chance, is the inspiration behind Jasper, Donna’s dog. Overall, both are a fun series to create and read.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK
About the Book
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Title: REQUIEM FOR A RESCUE DOG QUEEN
Author: M.K. Scott
Publisher: Sleeping Dragon Press
Pages: 240
Genre: Cozy Mystery
BOOK BLURB:
Pre-school teacher turned private eye Nala Bonne, and her opinionated dog, Max, have a nose for evil doings in Circle City. They’ve recently gone to the dogs, make that rescue dogs. Not everyone in Indianapolis has a soft spot for a homeless pup. Someone has it out for the dogs and the people who love them. A midnight call jolts Nala and Max into action as they rush to the aid of a local rescue dog queen, but it may already be too late.
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Amazon
Book Excerpt
Forget about it and enjoy the moment. Her hair streamed behind her as the boat picked up speed. Even though it had been a hot Indian Summer day, going this fast on the water chilled her. The windbreaker she brought just in case would solve the issue but would cover up the flirty top she’d donned for the date. Should she be comfortable or becoming?
A loud noise interrupted before she could decide. The lake remained empty and calm, except for the wake behind the boat. Using her flat hand as a sun shield for her eyes, she peered toward the shore to figure out who might be playing the same trio of notes repeatedly. No one on the shoreline, which only deepened the mystery. It sounded so familiar. In an aha moment, she realized it was her phone. Unfortunately, the realization forced her to open her eyes in her dark bedroom.
The red numerals on her clock indicated it was one-thirty in the morning. It was too late or too early for anyone to call. The sound stopped when she realized the tune had been the one she assigned to Karly, her best friend. Karly would only call her this late if it was an emergency. A cold canine nose touched her hand as she reached for her phone on the nightstand.
“Go back to sleep, Max. It doesn’t involve you.”
Even though it was dark and Max was a black German shepherd mix, she would have sworn the dog cocked his head and gave her an oh, really look. The damp nose disappeared with the sound of dog nails on the wood floor as Max settled on the floor. She could hear him mutter under his breath, “We’ll see.”
Yeah, dealing with a talking dog could be problematic at times. Her fingers found the phone which now had a glowing dot on the dashboard for notifications. Before she could call back, the phone rang again, vibrating in her hand. Karly again.
“Why in the world would you be calling me in the middle of the night?”
Her friend’s breathless voice gasped out. “We need your help!”
Why A Talking Dog Character?
By
M K Scott
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Most people who are cozy mystery fans know the genre features small towns, recipes, quirky characters, interfering relatives and adorable pets. At the very least, there are spoiled pets. People have genuine feelings for the pets in the story because they remind them of their own four-legged friends.
Celebrated author, Anne Perry, had mentioned at an authors’ gathering I attended that you never kill the dog. You can pretty much kill anyone else in the story, except for the dog. It makes sense that such an important character should get more space on the page, but there is only so much tail wagging and looking up with imploring eyes that a dog can do.
Max’s unusual ability to speak came from a disenchanted witch who gave the canine the ability to talk when she couldn’t get his taciturn owner who was also her boyfriend to hold up his end of a conversation. To say his owner wasn’t a fan of Max’s new ability would be putting it mildly. His early speaking efforts included how he felt and everything he observed.
Most people would get tired of the mention of squirrels, cats, and the occasional rabbit. Max didn’t stop there. He went so far as to offer relationship advice. His ability to talk resulted in a stay at the shelter where he finally discovers no one really wants a talking dog.
As a dog, Max says what he thinks. Every now and then, he comes up with a real wisdom gem. He also has the same skills as a regular dog such as the ability to track. The big difference is Max can tell Nala what he smells. Just like his non-English speaking counterparts, he is driven by food and will engage in a bark fest with other dogs since he’s multi-lingual. He counts scent as one of his languages, too. It is a treat to write dialogue for Max since he can be silly, snarky, and on occasion, brilliant. There just might be a tiny bit of my own pet in Max, too.
March 11, 2018
VBT – Ivy Vines, Visions
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About the Author
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Judy Serrano holds a Master of Arts in English from Texas A&M University-, Commerce. She is the owner of Make Cents Editing Service, and was an adjunct professor at a local college. Currently she teaches high school English and is a freelance writer for certain on-line publications. Judy also writes romantic suspense and paranormal romance novels. She is the author of The Easter’s Lilly Series, The Linked Series, and Ivy Vines, Visions.
Although originally form New York, Judy resides in Texas with her husband, four boys, two dogs and now five cats. She sings and plays guitar when she has time and enjoys singing with her very musical family in church when she is able.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
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About the Book
Title: IVY VINES, VISIONS
Author: Judy Serrano
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 267
Genre: Paranormal Romance
BOOK BLURB:
Moving to Sedona was the only way Ivy could think of to start over. She would meet her high school sweetheart and work on making things right between them. Her psychic abilities were gradually becoming a curse and she needed a new start. Little does she know that when she applies for a waitressing job at a local, upscale French bistro, she will come in contact with the dark and mysterious Eli Dubois. What she doesn’t realize is she has just walked into the middle of the Vortex Murders, which involve a great deal of paranormal activity. Elijah’s army of seers are being murdered, one by one, which seems to be magnifying Ivy’s special abilities.
Eli’s best friend, Jake, arrives on the scene and reveals the secret that changes everything. With nowhere to turn, Ivy leans on the two men who offer her solace. And who is the old woman in the shroud? Is she a vision, a dream, or is she real? Only time will tell.
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ORDER YOUR COPY:
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Book Excerpt:
My heart was beating almost out of my chest as I drove to the restaurant to see Simone. I checked my rear view mirror often; just to be sure I wasn’t followed. I parked the car and ran as fast as my legs would carry me to the front door. I felt like I was burdened with cement weights around my ankles as I forced my body to keep moving forward. Trying to catch my breath was futile when Eduardo met me at the entrance. I was in no mood for his pretentious smile and flippant tone, but still he would not let me pass.
“I need to see Simone,” I told him, barely able to form the words due to the lack of air in my lungs.
“Will that be one for lunch or two?” he asked me. I almost punched him.
“Two,” I answered, regaining my composure. “Simone is off in a few minutes. She’ll have lunch with me, I’m sure.”
“Very well then,” he answered. He slowly took out two menus and sat me at a table by the window.
“Thank you,” I managed. “Please tell Simone I’m here.” He made an unfavorable face at me and walked away. I looked out the window and began to recapture a normal breathing pattern. I noticed an old woman walking by the creek. She had her head covered by a black scarf and she was wearing what looked like a black cloak over her body. It was warm out, being early September, and that’s why her clothing caught my attention. She took off the scarf and looked at me. When our eyes touched, I could feel my blood pressure rise. My face got warm. Long grey curls cascaded down, past her shoulders and her expression got very grave. Her nose looked like a misshapen staircase and she had a mole on the left side of her face along her jaw line. She pointed her finger at me, slowly straightening it out as far as it could go and I felt a surge of fear strike through my body. I stood up quickly, pushing my chair back with the backs of my knees and felt a hand on my shoulder. I let out a shriek, that was certainly noticeable and when I turned, it was Simone’s hand on my shoulder.
“Ivy, what is it?” she asked. “The last time I heard you scream like that…” I dismissed her, mid-sentence, knowing exactly what she was going to say. Since that day. The day we don’t dare talk about or even remember if we can help it. I turned my attention back to the creek but the old woman was gone.
I could feel her.
“It’s nothing I told her. Are you done with your shift yet?”
“Yes, I’m done,” she answered. “Eduardo is making me change my clothes first. So, sit tight and I’ll be right back.”
I sat back down and looked out the window again. A breeze blew open one of the side windows unexpectedly and I almost fell out of my chair. I could hear a faint humming. It was all too familiar. There was still no old woman, but I knew she was there.
She was watching me somehow.
Simone finally came back and sat beside me. “What’s going on, Ivy? I haven’t seen you this unraveled in a very long time. It’s a little disconcerting to say the least.”
“He’s after me,” I told her. “He knows I’m here.”
“Who knows you’re here? Ivy, you’re not making any sense.”
“Lucifer,” I whispered, leaning into her so that no one else would hear me. “He thinks I know.”
“He thinks you know what?” she asked, looking at me as though I had gone mad.
“When Jesus is coming. He thinks I know.”
“Do you?” she asked. “Do you know?”
A hiss filled the air in the room as the wind picked up and gushed through the open window. I drew a breath but I dared not answer.
She was listening.
INTERVIEW WITH…
Judy, thanks for being my guest. Tell us about you as a person.
That is an interesting question. When people look at me, they see a Christian mommy who brought up four wonderful boys and has a happy, wonderful marriage, all of which are true. However, when I was young, I was a bit of a thrill seeker. I used rock-climb without ropes (much to my father’s dismay), drive cross country with not much more than a guitar and a dream, and play music with strangers at campfires. No regrets.
If you could hang out with one famous person for one day, who would it be and why
William Butler Yeats. He is my favorite poet. I would love to hear his story, and find out how he ended up being such a prolific poet. He and I share an interesting fact. He suffered from dyslexia as do I. It is interesting to me that we would both become writers.
What’s the story behind your latest book?
Ivy Vines, Visions takes place in Sedona Arizona. I used to live there. The New Age Movement was fascinating to me. I picked up on a little bit of that and developed it into my novel.
What is your writing process?
The first thing I do is check my social media. Then, I re-read the last chapter that I wrote so that I can remember where I left off. Sometimes I listen to classical music when I write, but in general it doesn’t matter what is going on in the background. I have been known to write while carrying on a conversation with my children.
Tell us about your main character:
My main character is a strong, independent woman. She is vulnerable yet courageous. She has trouble choosing the men in her life though…
If your book was to be turned into a movie, who would play the lead role and why.
I would want Julianne Hough to play Ivy. She is beautiful, strong, and determined, just like my Ivy Vines.
What are you working on next?
Funny you should ask. I just finished grad school a few weeks ago, and I can’t wait to throw myself back into the game. I have a book that I started two years ago about the mafia. Although I already have The Easter’s Lilly Series, which is about the Mexican Mafia, this one is a new book with its own personality. I am excited to finish the final edit.
What advice do you have for other writers who want to get the word out about their book?
Social media is the way to go. I have sold quite a few books from Facebook and Twitter. Make friends and connections, and work together.
What is your favorite book on your shelf right now?
All my books are in my Kindle with few exceptions. I think my favorite book of all time is The MacKade Brothers by Nora Roberts. The book is steamy, romantic and quite tasteful.
Do you have any special/extraordinary talents?
As a matter of fact, I sing and play guitar. I enjoy playing country and Christian music.
You are given the choice of one super power. What super power would you have and why?
After giving this question probably a little too much thought, I think I would like to be able to teleport. I work very far away from my house, and I hate to drive. I think that would make my life so much easier.
List 5 things on your bucket list:
Audition for The Voice
Visit Italy
Visit France
Write a best seller
Own a lake house
Where can readers find you on the web?
Any final thoughts?
Thank you so much for the opportunity to visit with you today. I am blessed to be able to write and live my dream. My advice to anyone who thinks that their dreams are unattainable is to always go for it. Just remember that often the backup plan becomes the plan, so reach for the stars always, and push forward. My favorite quote is by Robert Browning- “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for.”
Thanks Judy 
March 9, 2018
VBT – Sanctuary
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About the Book
Title: Sanctuary
Author: Makayla Love
Genre: Steampunk / Post-Apocalyptic
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Shiloh isn’t adjusting well to her new life in Ironbridge. Life isn’t how she always imagined it would be, and every day is harder than the last. Things only get worse when a small family on their way to a settlement called “Sanctuary” shows up on Shiloh’s doorstep looking for an escort the rest of the way. But Sanctuary isn’t all its supposed to be.
When they find themselves trapped, every second becomes a fight for survival. Can they find a way out before one of them falls to a mad tyrant? Or will their little group be broken up forever?
Author Bio
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Makayla Love is an aspiring Harley Quinn-esque super villain who has decided to spend her time between nefarious schemes by writing paranormal novels in her lair somewhere in the general Kansas area. She enjoys sit-coms and doesn’t have enough shelf space for her ever multiplying collection of books.
Links
Instagram: @agirl_unwritten
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/makaylaloveauthor/
Blog: https://makaylaloveauthor.blogspot.com/
Twitter: @AGirl_Unwritten
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00IR7QD40
Book Excerpts
Excerpt #1:
Late afternoon set in and I decided to put forth every ounce of energy and strength still in my body and sit up.
With that much accomplished, I made my next goal getting up onto my feet.
Doing good so far. I ought to try going somewhere . . . doing something. But what? The laundry needed done but it was far too much effort to fill the wash basin and scrub what few precious pieces of clothes we had. I could do an inventory on our supplies—which would be an easy enough job. I just had to count. Okay, I could do that.
I ended up being rather proud of myself when I finished the task. At least I did something.
Momentum is something best not lost. So while I still had it in me to keep moving even when I didn’t want to I found one of my embroidery projects. I took it out onto the porch after turning the gramophone radio on. By then the air was stifling and I had soaked in sweat since noon. After Garth was home for a while—
(If he comes home at all.)
–when he decides to go back out again—
(Again? He might not come back this time.)
—I could ask him to look for an electric fan for me. It would be nice to set it up in the house and try to cool it down some. But for now there was no reason to sit inside. If I wanted to feel better, I had to create the conditions for it. I had to put forth the effort to stop being like this if I wanted to—
(You’re never going to feel better)
—change my attitude. I needed to relax, to find—
(There’s only one way to make it stop. There’s only one way to end the pain for good.)
–peace.
I had to create a sense of normalcy. Before Rilei and I came out here most of my days were filled with needlework and music and books. I had plenty of books but my needlework had been neglected. A lady can’t be expected to keep up her skills with a needle and thread if she doesn’t practice.
Excerpt #2:
My eyelids fluttered open to a room bathed in the glittering white light of day. Though how late in the day I couldn’t say. It was too bright and hot to be early morning but I didn’t know why I would be allowed to sleep in the way I was. Regardless, I rolled over onto my side and didn’t try to hurry myself to wake up. Why? I already slept much longer than need be. Might as well take my time about it.
Plus the heat kept me too sleepy and stupid to have much of a reaction to anything. Which might’ve been why when I saw Garth hovering outside my window, adorned in one of his shirts with the sleeves cut off so that his well-sculpted arms showed in all their muscular glory, I didn’t think much of it.
How peculiar . . . I thought as I watched him reach his arm up and down. Up and down. Up and down. How does he do that? I think I would want to learn that. It might come in handy someday, to just lift your feet off the ground and fly—
But people can’t fly. Not without the aid of a dirigible or airplane wings or turbine engines.
Everything came at me all at once, and did so with such force that I threw myself out of my bed and at the window.
“Garth! What are you doing?”
He didn’t look at me. “I’m—” He drifted his gaze over to me and whatever he intended to say died in his throat. A shade of bright pink lit up his face as his eyes grew wide and his lips pressed into a thin line. I watched his eyes, which moved from mine to something down . . . lower.
I followed his gaze. When I saw what he was looking at I made an odd sort of sound between a gasp and a scream. In my heat-induced stupidity and the shock of seeing him outside my second-story bedroom window I’d forgotten that I made a habit of sleeping in my bra and panties. I tried to cover my indecency up with my arms but to no avail. At last I drew the curtains shut and hurried to put on something.
Once dressed in my black t-shirt and blue denim shorts, I ran downstairs and out the front door. Garth stood near a long ladder with a gray soaked paintbrush in one hand and a matching paint can in the other.
March 8, 2018
VBT – Last Puffs
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About the Author
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Harley Mazuk was born in Cleveland, the last year that the Indians won the World Series. He majored in English literature at Hiram College in Ohio, and Elphinstone College, Bombay, India. Harley worked as a record salesman (vinyl) and later served the U.S. Government in Information Technology and in communications, where he honed his writing style as an editor and content provider for official web sites.
Retired now, he likes to write pulp fiction, mostly private eye stories, several of which have appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. His first full length novel, White with Fish, Red with Murder, was released in 2017, and his newest, Last Puffs, just came out in January 2018.
Harley’s other passions are his wife Anastasia, their two children, reading, running, Italian cars, California wine and peace.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
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About the Book
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Title: LAST PUFFS
Author: Harley Mazuk
Publisher: New Pulp Press
Pages: 293
Genre: Mystery/Crime/Private Eye
BOOK BLURB
Frank Swiver and his college pal, Max Rabinowitz, both fall in love with Amanda Zingaro, courageous Republican guerilla, in the Spanish civil war. But the local fascists murder her and her father.
Eleven years later in San Francisco in 1949, Frank, traumatized by the violence in Spain, has become a pacifist and makes a marginal living as a private eye. Max who lost an eye in Spain but owes his life to Frank, has pledged Frank eternal loyalty. He’s a loyal communist party member and successful criminal attorney.
Frank takes on a case for Joan Spring, half-Chinese wife of a wealthy banker. Joan seduces Frank to ensure his loyalty. But Frank busts up a prostitution/white slavery ring at the Lotus House a brothel in Chinatown, where Joan was keeping refugees from Nanking prisoners.
Then Max sees a woman working in a Fresno cigar factory, who is a dead ringer for Amanda, and brings in Frank, who learns it is Amanda. She has tracked the fascists who killed her father and left her for dead from her village in Spain to California. Amanda wants Frank to help her take revenge. And by the way, she says the ten-year-old boy with her is Frank’s son.
Joan Spring turns out to be a Red Chinese secret agent, and she’s drawn a line through Max’s name with a pencil. Can Frank save Max again? Can he help Amanda avenge her father when he’s sworn off violence? Can he protect her from her target’s daughter, the sadistic Veronica Rios-Ortega? Join Frank Swiver in the swift-moving story, Last Puffs.
Praise
.5 out of 5 stars Wonderful Read – Easy and Fun
February 10, 2018
Format: Kindle Edition| Verified Purchase
Frank Swiver is a detective. Murder investigations are his specialty. He likes wine, loose women and fast cars. Not necessarily in that order. Swiver inhabits an earlier world that is archaic and, without doubt, politically incorrect by today’s standards. Harley Mazuk recreates in Swiver a character from another era whose story is fun and entertaining. Mazuk has an impressive knowledge of wines and cars which permeate his narrative. As to his knowledge of women, I am not competent to judge. I do know that the geography and time period portrayed is well researched. There are many twists and turns to the plot as well as an injection of espionage that keeps the reader guessing. Fans of old fashion detective novels will enjoy this book. I know, I did.
— Amazon Reviewer
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Book Excerpt:
Aragón, Spain, March 1938
There’d been a dusting of fresh snow in the high ground during the night, and the captain wanted our squad, which was nine men, to relieve an outpost on the crest of a hill, just up above the tree line. Max Rabinowitz took point, and I followed, climbing steadily. It was a cold, quiet morning, and we talked between ourselves about the ’38 baseball season, and whether we’d be back in the States to see any games.
“I would like to see Hank Greenberg and the Tigers play DiMaggio and the Yanks,” said Max. Max was dark-haired and rangy, and I always thought he looked a bit like Cary Grant, though now after a year in the field, there was nothing suave nor dapper in his appearance.
“How about Ted Williams?” I said. “We’ve already seen DiMaggio play in San Francisco with the Seals.”
“We saw Williams play with the Padres. Besides, he isn’t in the big leagues yet,” said Max.
“Yeah, but the Red Sox signed him.” I walked along just off Max’s shoulder. I was about the same height as Max, six feet, six-one, a little thinner, and looked at least as scruffy that morning. I wore a burgundy scarf around my head and ears, under a dirty and battered grey fedora. I scanned the virgin snow ahead of us with heavy-lidded eyes. The wind was faint, just enough to pick up a feathery wisp of snow in spots and spin it around.
“He’s only about 19. I think they’ll keep him down on the farm for ’38.”
“I would like to see Bob Feller pitch to your boy Greenberg,” I told Max.
Smitty came up between us. “Feller throws 100 miles an hour, and he strikes out more than one per inning.”
“They say,” said Max, “he walks almost one an inning,”
“Keeps ‘em loose up there,” said Smitty, who was from Cleveland. “Hundred mile an hour heat and nobody knows where it’s going.”
As the three of us stepped out of the cover of the tree line, Smitty kind of hopped up on one leg and threw his arms out. I wondered what sort of a weird little dance that was; then I heard the automatic weapons fire coming down at us off the hill. It was a mechanical chatter, rather than gunpowder explosions, and the wind had blown the sound around the hills so that the bullets cut Smitty down before it had reached us. Branches near us started to snap off and tumble earthwards. Max hit the snow on his belly and rolled downhill to his right to get to cover behind a rock. I motioned for the others to get back into the trees, and dove into a low spot in the ground.
When we could look up, we saw that the fascists had overrun the outpost we’d been climbing up to the ridge to relieve, and the firing was coming from there. We returned fire. I heard cries in Spanish from behind me, a curse in a low voice, then a high-pitched prayer.
A potato-masher grenade came flipping end-over-end down the hill toward me. It seemed like slow motion. It hit a rock and bounced up. I could say a Hail Mary in about four seconds flat in those days, and I said one then. The grenade sailed over my head; I heard it explode, and felt a shower of dirt on my back. In front of me, Max was popping up and firing one round with his Springfield, then dropping behind the rock. I popped up and fired when he dropped down. I thought we were doing pretty well taking turns, but grenades kept arcing over our heads and bullets pinged into Max’s rock and raked the dirt beside me. Max tried lobbing one of his grenades towards the machine gun, but his throw was uphill, and he didn’t have an arm like DiMaggio.
After a few minutes of this, I tried to aim and squeeze the trigger instead of popping off quick shots. Then I didn’t hear anyone behind us firing anymore. I looked around and saw Rocco and Pete sprawled in the grass. I called to a couple of the others.
“Comrades…anyone…sound off.” Nada.
“Frank, this is bad,” Max yelled to me.
“I’d rather be facing Feller’s fastballs,” I told him. “Maybe it’s time for us to dust.” Then we heard an airplane motor. It grew louder, and the first plane, a Heinkel, zoomed over the ridge seconds later. Max had risen to his feet and was scrambling down the slope. He looked back over his shoulder at the plane just as a cannon shot from the aircraft hit the rock he’d been behind. The explosion flipped Max in mid-air and tossed him towards me. The ground under him ripped up and clods of dirt flew towards us.
The scene faded to black, but for how long, I don’t know. When I opened my eyes, I was facing the sky but I smelled the forest floor, earth and leaves. Truffles, perhaps? Max was on top of me, limp, and it was quiet. No planes, no shooting. “Max,” I said, “we gotta get up. Get off me.” I felt my voice in my head, but couldn’t hear it in my ears. Max didn’t get up. I rolled him over next to me, and saw that his hat was gone. The top of his head and the right side of his face were a collage of blood and dirt. I shook him, and he gasped for breath, earth falling out of his nostrils. He was still alive.
“Frank, Frank. I can’t see. I can’t see.” It didn’t sound like Max, but there was no one else there.
“Easy, Max.” I tried to rinse some of the dirt, debris and blood off Max’s head with my canteen, then I ripped open a compress from my pack and put it over his forehead and eyes. I wrapped more dressing around his head to keep the bandage in place “Hold this on your face, man. Don’t try to open your eyes.” I was afraid his right eyeball was going to fall out. “Hold it tight.” Using the slope, I maneuvered him across my shoulder, head down in front of me, and struggled to my feet. I took off at a trot along the tree line.
Our lines were behind us to the east but it looked like the whole damned fascist army was charging down from the outpost, headed that way, so I ran south. It was downhill and my momentum carried us. The going was easy, but I felt panic building in my gut so I tried to slow down. I slid on the snow, fell on my butt, and slammed into a tree and dropped Max.
“Frank, where are you? Am I dyin’?”
“I got you, Max. You caught some shrapnel in the head from that plane. Say an act of contrition or something.”
“I’m a Jew, you idiot.”
“Say it anyway.” I lifted the gauze off his forehead and looked under it. His wound didn’t appear to be deep, but the right eye was very bad, all blood and pulp, and the bone around it may have been shattered. “Press on this, Max.” I pressed the bandage back against his face and put his hand on it.
I hoisted him over my shoulder again, and stepped off, forcing myself to keep my pace steady and not too fast. We went on till the sun was high in the sky. I didn’t fall again, but my ankles were burning, and my toes were pinched in my boots from going downhill. I stopped twice, and opened our bota. I washed my mouth out with the wine, a rustic red from Calatayud, then I cradled Max’s head and opened his mouth. I squirted the wine in, squeezing the leather skin, the way I’d squeezed the trigger of my rifle. Max coughed. He seemed only half-conscious.
I carried Max down the hill and to the south, parallel to our lines, until we were deep in some woods. I was scared and it wasn’t easy, but I would have done anything for Max. We had been roommates and run around together at Berkeley. We fell out of touch when he went to law school, and I started drinking, trying to forget Cicilia. When Max re-connected with me in ’36, he tried to help me sober up and get back on my feet. I’d come around for a while, but always, I’d slip back into the abyss.
Max was a red, even back in our student days. I hadn’t been serious about my politics then. One evening to keep me from drowning my demons, Max took me to a meeting about the Spanish Civil War and the Abraham Lincoln Brigade. Before the night was over, we’d signed up to fight in Spain. Max didn’t have to. I think he did it to save me. Now I was going to save him.
When the sun dropped behind the hills, the woods quickly grew dark. There was a smell of pines, and the footing was better—no snow or ice on the ground, which was hard and covered with dry pine needles. Under the background din of war, the roar of artillery and airplanes, I heard water down to my left. I turned towards it and a few minutes later, came to a stream, probably flowing south to the Ebro. It wasn’t night yet, but it was so dark under the tall trees, I would have walked into the stream without seeing it if not for the sound of the water rushing over the rocks. I put Max down on his back, head and shoulders downhill toward the stream. The blood had dried; the gauze was stuck to his head. I scooped up water with my hat and poured it on his face. The icy cold shocked him into consciousness—and panic and pain.
“Morphine, Frank,” he moaned. “Gimme the morphine.” But I had used our morphine one night weeks ago on guard duty on a cold hillside. We did have a flask of Cardenal Mendoza Spanish Brandy, and I gave him some, then I drank. I rinsed his wound good and put a new bandage on it using Max’s kit this time. My legs felt weak and started to shake with cold or exhaustion. I don’t know if I could have stood up then if the Generalissimo had come down the hill waving his pistoles. We were down low, and there were some bare shrubs and young trees sheltering us on the uphill slope. I fought my exhaustion and tried to keep watch as long as I could. I had another swallow of brandy and pulled close to Max. My eyes closed, and I fell asleep.
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March 7, 2018
VBT – The Study of Silence
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About the Author
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Malia Zaidi is a writer and painter, who grew up in Germany and lives in the US. An avid reader and traveler, she decided to combine these passions, and turn her long-time ambition of writing into a reality. The Study of Silence is the third book of The Lady Evelyn Mysteries.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK
About the Book
Title: THE STUDY OF SILENCE
Author: Malia Zaidi
Publisher: Bookbaby
Pages: 448
Genre: Historical Mystery
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BOOK BLURB:
Lady Evelyn Carlisle has returned home to England, where she is completing her degree at St. Hugh’s, a women’s college in Oxford. Her days are spent poring over ancient texts and rushing to tutorials. All is well until a fateful morning, when her peaceful student life is turned on its head. Stumbling upon the gruesome killing of someone she thought she knew, Evelyn is plunged into a murder investigation once more, much to the chagrin of her friends and family, as well as the intriguing Detective Lucas Stanton. The dreaming spires of Oxford begin to appear decidedly less romantic as she gathers clues, and learns far more than she ever wished to know about the darkness lurking beyond the polished veneer. Can she solve the crime before the killer strikes once more, this time to Evelyn’s own detriment?
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Amazon
Book Excerpt:
My hair is tangled, a loose knot at the nape of my neck, where my head rests against the cool stone wall. I close my eyes and see it all swimming like a dream beneath my lids. And him, always him. I open my eyes, still here. Still here. The thought echoes in my mind as if I have spoken it aloud, and it is bouncing from the uncaring walls of this chamber.
Suddenly, from somewhere above and beyond comes the sound of clanging metal. A door opens and with a screech is shut again. Closed. Secured. Barred. Steps follow. Slow, reluctant steps. One, two, three . . . I want to lose myself in the monotony of the rhythm. I grow used to it, even enjoy it, when the steps suddenly cease once more. Silence. Then nearby, another metallic cry. A key is turned in a rusty lock. A door is opened. A door. My door. Steps again. Two this time. Only a small space to cross. I notice his shoes first. They gleam in the low light. Attached to the shoes, a man in a dour black suit. I look up at his face, but perceive only shadow, dark lines. Squinting, I make no effort to get to my feet. There is no pretending we are equals now. He has no choice, but to crouch to my level. I have brought him down with me. To me.
“Do you have anything to say?”
His face is close, and I am shocked by his youth. I had expected gray temples and furrowed brows. He is younger than I, not by much perhaps, but nonetheless. His eyes meet mine. Can I speak to him? Should I tell him the truth, my truth? A sudden bang from a place beyond these walls makes him flinch and he tears his gaze from mine, only for a moment, but it is decisive.
His voice is quiet, calm . . . kind? “My child, speak.”
A warbled laugh escapes my dry throat. My child. I am no one’s child any longer. The words are ludicrous coming from this man, this frightened boy in an adult’s body. He wants to be here nearly as little as I, and fights with himself not to recoil at the sudden sound erupting from my mouth. I frighten him. I, a helpless creature sitting at his feet, frighten him. Another choked laugh.
“Shall I get you some water.”
Water. I shake my head.
“Will you not let me hear you?” I am struck by his earnest expression, nothing like the permanent mask of stern reprimand, the looks of disgust I have received these past weeks. Could I tell him? Might he understand? It would not change my fate. But someone else would know the truth. Before I can think of reasons to stay silent, before I can begin to understand the consequences, my words pour out. The last words I will ever speak find compassionate ears. Once spoken, they cannot be unspoken, and when I complete my tale, my truth, I am empty. There is nothing more and I am nothing more.
The light is so bad I cannot tell whether he has paled at my confession. Our eyes meet in the gloom, glowing embers. He watches me for another moment, then gets to his feet, brushes his trousers and walks the few steps back to the door. I hear him rap the thick wood twice. Then the lock is turned.
He speaks once more, his words run through me like flour through a sieve. Nothing sticks. Nothing stays. I am water and he is oil. The door clatters shut and his steps fade away.
I am alone.
March 6, 2018
VBT – Body of the Crime
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About the Author
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Jennifer Chase is a multi award-winning crime fiction author and consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master’s degree in criminology & criminal justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent sociopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling. She is an affiliate member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists.
Her latest book is the mystery suspense, Body of the Crime.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
WEBSITE | TWITTER | FACEBOOK
About the Book
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Title: BODY OF THE CRIME
Author: Jennifer Chase
Publisher: JEC Press
Pages: 397
Genre: Mystery Suspense
BOOK BLURB:
Three grisly murders linked to five old cold cases, dubbed the Flower Girl Murders, pushes detectives to their limit to find a clever and extremely brutal serial killer, leaving a California town demanding justice. The District Attorney’s Serial Special Task Force retains the help of the reclusive Dr. Chip Palmer, a forensic expert and criminal profiler, to steer them in the right direction.
Palmer is known for his astute academic interpretations of serial and predatory crimes, along with his unconventional tactics that goes against general police procedures. He is partnered with the tough and beautiful D.A. Inspector Kate Rawlins, a homicide detective transplanted from Phoenix, and the chemistry ignites between the team—turbulent and deadly.
The Flower Girl Murders leaves three homicides, five cold cases, two seasoned detectives, three suspects, and one serial killer calling all the shots. The investigation must rely on one eccentric forensic scientist to unravel the clues to solve the case. But at what cost?
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Amazon
Book Excerpt
I HATED THE CURIOUS AND often skeptical looks, which came from the audience in the gallery. I gently eased my body into the chair and faced them directly. It felt more like I was a participating target in a firing squad than a courtroom proceeding.
Shifting from side to side in the cushioned seat, I fidgeted with my tie. It was the only thing I could do under the circumstances.
I waited patiently trying not to nervously tap my fingers.
At least the chair was comfortable as I rested my forearms and hands on the armrest. It was not easy to avoid looking at the two burly sheriff deputy bailiffs stationed at the back corners of the room. They watched everyone with an extreme somber, statue-like presence. I was not even sure if they actually blinked or not.
All eyes in the courtroom fixated on me.
The room fell into complete silence. The audience readied themselves waiting for the show to begin. At least that was what I had imagined in my own mind.
I realized when the prosecutor had finally called my name to testify and the bailiff escorted me into the courtroom that I had forgotten to change my shoes. Dirt and mud had affixed deep into the crevices of the heavy-duty rubber soles, which donated little chunks of dried soil as I walked from the back of the courtroom to the witness area. There were little piles of mountain soil left behind with every stride. It looked like I had stolen shoes from a homeless person.
It was only yesterday that I had taken an extra-long walk down a wooded path that was barely passable even for the native wildlife, but I did not let the rugged terrain scare me out of adding another specimen to my collection of California sediment. In the process, my shoes sunk deep into the mud. At one point my foot had slipped from the left shoe and then plunged my sock-clad foot directly into the sticky muck.
I was all too aware of how disheveled I looked only two months before my fortieth birthday. It was not appealing. My appearance did not give the impression that I was an expert at anything, but somehow I managed to muddle through with an air of authority.
Crime scenes never lied, and it was my job to explain the scientific facts to the non-scientific community; but in the end, it was up to the jury to make the right choice of guilt or innocence. Twelve good people ultimately shouldered the justice burden, and I was just the messenger of facts—good or bad.
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Blog Tour – Welcome Reluctant Stranger
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About the Author
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Evy Journey, SPR (Self Publishing Review) Independent Woman Author awardee, is a writer, a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse. Her pretensions to being a flâneuse means she wishes she lives in Paris where people have perfected the art of aimless roaming. She’s lived in Paris few times as a transient.
She’s a writer because beautiful prose seduces her and existential angst continues to plague her even though such preoccupations have gone out of fashion. She takes occasional refuge by invoking the spirit of Jane Austen and spinning tales of love, loss, and finding one’s way—stories into which she weaves mystery or intrigue and sets in various locales.
In a previous life, armed with a Ph.D. and fascinated by the psyche, she researched and shepherded the development of mental health programs. And wrote like an academic. Not a good thing if you want to sound like a normal person. So, she began to write fiction (mostly happy fiction) as an antidote.
Her latest book is Welcome Reluctant Stranger.
WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:
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About the Book
Title: WELCOME RELUCTANT STRANGER
Author: Evy Journey
Publisher: Sojourner Books
Pages: 314
Genre: Multicultural Women’s Fiction
BOOK BLURB:
What happens when a brokenhearted computer nerd and culinary whiz gets rescued by a relationship phobic psychologist with a past that haunts her? For Leilani and Justin, it’s an attraction they can’t deny but which each is reluctant to pursue. More so for Leilani whose family had to flee their troubled country when she was only nine.
Leilani is focused on leaving the past behind, moving forward. But when she learns the truth behind her family’s flight—the shocking, shameful secret about her father’s role in a deadly political web—she is devastated.
Is her father a hero or a villain? Can she deal with the truth?
But the past is impossible to run away from. Together with Justin, she must get her father out of her former home. Can she forgive her father, accept him for what he is? And can she reconnect with her roots and be at peace with who she is?
ORDER YOUR COPY:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble
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Book Excerpt:
PROLOGUE: ROOTS
If you could see heat, you would see it that day rising from the concrete paving in the schoolyard, colliding with rays plummeting from the sun. The light was blinding, the heat oppressive.
The schoolyard was unlike most others on this tiny island on the Pacific. A concrete wall, eight-feet high and topped with countless pieces of broken glass embedded into the concrete, surrounded both the school and the perimeter of the 30,000 square foot yard. A young woman fully covered—except for her face and hands—in the white habit of a Catholic novice, circled the yard, watching pupils play.
About a hundred girls, ages six to eleven, clad in dark blue skirts and white shirts with peter pan collars loosely tied with wide, dark blue bows, formed groups around three or four games. Despite the buzz of activity, no one shouted, shrieked, or raised a ruckus.
The girls ignored the heat as they played in the few minutes they had for recess. All, except one girl. She sat in the shade, smiling, content with observing everyone else, and enjoying the light breeze that blew now and then.
Younger girls hovered around rectangular hopscotch courses drawn with chalk on the cemented yard. Some older pupils ran games of tag but the majority, along with a few younger ones, waited in a long line to take their turn at jumping rope.
From a slatted wooden bench, Leilani watched the game with cool interest until her best friend, Myrna, ran into the arc of the spinning rope to join another girl from her class. Leilani leaned forward.
Two girls, each holding one end of the rope, swung vigorously down, sideways, up, and around over and over. The rope whirled so fast that all Leilani saw was an elliptical form pinched at its ends, like a sausage bulging in the middle. Inside, the girls jumped, as fast and as high as they could to evade the whirling rope. If they got their feet caught, they lost and had to get out. The player who lasted longest won.
Myrna was good at it, maybe the best. She skipped like a fawn and could outlast everyone else Leilani had seen. Before long, the other girl gave up and yielded her place to another. Leilani clapped hard for her friend, a wide smile wiping away the pout on her lips.
“Why aren’t you with the other girls, Leilani?”
Leilani turned as Sister Young sat on the bench next to her. Sister Young was the newest novice who alternated with another novice, Sister Mariano, in watching the children in the schoolyard. Leilani liked Sister Mariano better. She had a nicer smile and she spoke in a soft, sweet voice. Sister Young, tall, thin, light-skinned, and sharp-featured, looked like she disapproved of everyone. And she was too nosy.
Leilani shrugged, her pout returning, as she turned her attention back to the girls skipping rope.
“Is anything wrong, Leilani?”
“No. It’s too hot to play.”
“Your classmates don’t seem to think so. Myrna looks like she’s having fun.”
“Myrna likes to jump rope better than school.”
Sister Young chuckled. “I can understand that. When I was your age, I preferred running around with my brothers than playing with my dolls or reading. But what about you? What do you like to do best?”
“Watch people.”
“Is there much fun in that?” Sister Young sounded as if she believed the opposite.
Leilani shrugged again. The novice said nothing more for a few minutes.
Myrna jumped out of the spinning rope, yielding her place to a girl who had just joined her in it. Standing outside the arc of the rope, she swiped her arm across her face and wiped it on her shirt. She ambled to the side and dropped her butt down next to one of the girls swinging the rope.
“She must be tired,” Leilani mumbled to herself, sitting back on the bench and sticking her lower lip out farther.
Sister Young said, “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“How’s your family doing, Leilani?”
“Fine.”
“Sister Mariano told me your father is a doctor who’s part of the team that takes care of the president. You must be very proud of him.”
“He’s no better than other doctors.”
“But he must be pretty good to be on the team. Do you see him much? I know doctors can’t keep regular working hours like others do.”
“I see him enough.”
“What about your mother?”
“Mamá is Mamá.”
“Does she work?”
Leilani scowled. “She paints her nails different colors every day and fills lots of vases with flowers.” She knew no one who worked, among the mothers of her classmates. She added, “We have maids who do the housework.”
“Like all the families of the other children here, I’m sure.”
Leilani turned toward Sister Young. “Didn’t you have maids when you lived at home?”
“No. I learned to clean and cook by the time I was your age.”
Leilani stared at the young novice. She wanted to say something nice to her, but what? Cooking and cleaning at her age—nine years old—seemed like punishment. How did a child tell someone older and able to order them around that she was sorry? She reached her hand out to touch Sister Young, but remembered that school rules did not allow touching between teachers and pupils. So, she regarded her in sympathy and the novice acknowledged it with gratitude in her eyes.
The bell rang, announcing the end of recess. Leilani jumped up from the bench. Although she felt close to Sister Young for a few moments, she was relieved to be free of her. She joined Myrna in the line for girls from her class.
“Oh, Myrna, you’re sweating into your white shirt. Your uniform has stains on it.”
“Yes, lucky our skirt is dark. I’m sure it’s dirtier than my white shirt.”
“Is that why you stopped skipping rope?”
“Yeah, but it’s too hot, anyway.”
“The stains—will your Mamá be angry with you?”
Myrna shrugged. “She doesn’t care. But Nana will give me a scolding. You’re lucky your parents didn’t get you a Nana.”
Leilani crinkled her nose. She had once asked her father for one. “No. Mamá thinks she and no else should take care of us. I’ll bet she’s stricter than your Nana.”
“Keep it down, girls,” Sister Young said as she led the line of girls back into the school.
Everyone stopped talking as they entered the classroom where Sister Lourdes, their math teacher, waited. A middle-aged nun with a thin face, whose smiling eyes had etched upward creases on the corners, she was kind but she inspired awe. Her pupils knew quite well what that set to her jaw meant: She was determined to make them as proficient, if not better, in math as boys. She followed up on her mission by rigorous training, starting each day with written exercises on lessons and homework of the previous day.
Leilani calculated that she spent more time studying math than other subjects, although literature was her favorite. She wanted to please Sister Lourdes.
A quarter of an hour later, only the scratching of pencils on paper and the swishing of the nun’s habit, as she paced between desks, could be heard in the room. The class was absorbed doing the written arithmetic exercise of the day. Every second pupil or so, Sister Lourdes peered discreetly down the girl’s back to gauge her progress.
Leilani sensed the nun’s presence behind her. She bent lower over her work. She had solved two-thirds of the problems halfway through the allotted time but she did not want her teacher to see her progress until she finished. A soft knock on the door saved her from the sister’s watchful eyes. The nun hurried to the front of the classroom. Leilani sighed in relief.
A low but excited buzz of voices broke the relative quiet of the room as Leilani and many other girls raised their heads from their work. Before Sister Lourdes reached the door, it swung open and the principal entered. Behind her, a visitor walked in, partly hidden by the principal’s layers of black and white habit.
The principal once said she was anxious not to disrupt lessons, so she rarely came to their classrooms. She had meant to reassure them of her unwavering interest in growing their minds. Instead, she aroused curiosity and anxiety when she did come—reactions that grew more acute when she brought a visitor along.
A visitor meant some pupil was going to be singled out, taken out of the classroom for some shameful or unhappy reason in her family. If she had a problem having to do with school, she usually had to go to the principal’s office. That was the rarest event of all, and it caused greater shame.
“Mamá,” Leilani muttered, when the visitor came out in full view from behind the principal. Her mother picked her and her sister, Carmen, up when school was over, but she never entered the school grounds. She waited in her car.
She was staring at her now, her lips pressed into a line, as if she was holding back an urge to cry or to shout. Deep creases on her brow cast shadows on her eyes. Something disturbed her. Something terribly wrong.
Leilani turned toward the huddled heads of the principal and Sister Lourdes who had been talking in hushed voices. She thought, they’re talking too long, as she put the stubby end of her pencil in her mouth, and bit on it so hard that the eraser broke off.
She spat the broken piece in her hand and looked around at her classmates, their faces animated with malicious delight. They were relishing the little drama unfolding before them, squirming with anticipation for what was to follow.
She knew what it was like, watching and waiting for trouble to fall on another. But the visitor was her mother and she looked much too worried.
Before long, the principal stepped back and Sister Lourdes faced the class. Leilani knew what was coming. She held her breath. Today was her turn—the unfortunate girl drawn into a familiar scenario, the butt of the week’s jokes for her often bored classmates. She had known it would come, and though she was sure it was impossible, she wished she could will it away.
Later that afternoon, they would gossip. Taunt arrogant, aloof Leilani, finally pulled down from her pedestal by the disgrace of being taken out of the class by her nervous mother.
Her teacher said, “Leilani, please gather all your things and give me your work. I’ll grade whatever you finish. You must go with your mother at once.”
To Leilani’s relief, instead of the whispered guessing and curious stares she had anticipated, her classmates hushed up. Maybe, like her, they sensed something terrible. Their teacher spoke in a tone they had never heard before, a tone so solemn that her usual calm demeanor seemed as troubled as her mother’s.
Leilani seized pencils, books, and notebooks off her desk and hastily stuffed them in her bag. Her arms were trembling and she could not zip up her bag. She picked it up, hugging it close to her chest.
Myrna, who sat behind her, leaned over and said, “Call me tonight.”
Leilani nodded without turning toward her friend. She marched, head straight and gaze forward, toward the waiting adults.
Sister Lourdes lightly tapped the top of her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the number of right answers you gave against the total number you finished. That’s fair, don’t you think?”
Leilani nodded.
“Thank you, Sister Lourdes,” her mother said. “Let’s hope she can come back to school tomorrow. She doesn’t like to miss any of her classes.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Torres. And don’t worry about Leilani’s progress. She catches up very quickly. I’ll give her extra exercises, but I don’t think she’ll need them. I hope things turn out all right for your family.”
Leilani felt her mother’s hand pushing her toward the door. She was impatient to be out of there.
*****
In the car, her older sister Carmen waited in the front passenger seat. They bobbed their heads in greeting.
Leilani threw her schoolbag on the back seat and climbed in. She was dying to know what was going on, but she knew better than to ask. They hardly ever talked in the car. Their mother insisted on silence while she was driving.
She and Carmen needed only one incident to learn that their mother meant what she said. One day, they continued their banter after she told them to stop. Without warning, she slammed on the brakes and Carmen, who always took the front seat, hit her head on the dashboard. Leilani fell on the floor. Carmen sported a bump on her head for days after that.
Leilani was impatient to be home, certain that her sister knew what was going on. Unlike her, Carmen could coax things out of their mother. She would not hold anything back, eager to show Leilani that their mother trusted her and liked her better. Leilani refused to believe her sister, but conceded that because Carmen was thirteen—nearly a young woman—their mother told her grown-up things.
For now, Leilani would play her waiting game. She tried to calm down, but her resolve lasted only until her mother turned at a street. She could not hold her tongue then.
“This isn’t the way home. Where are we going?”
Neither her sister nor her mother answered and all she could do was wait to see where her mother was taking them. She scooted close to the window and watched all the buildings they were passing by.
A while later, she heard the drone of planes flying low above them and recognized the streets they were on. She knew it. They were off to a place away from home. She was not about to be dragged away, without knowing why.
“We’re near the airport. What’s going on? Are we going somewhere?”
Her sister said, “Just shut up, will you? You’re getting on my nerves.”
Carmen was quick to notice and use their mother’s expressions. “Getting on my nerves” was their mother’s way of telling her children to go away. Leilani heard it often enough that she could tell from the way she glared and parted her lips that her mother was about to say it. Leilani learned to walk away before she could utter those words.
But, trapped for the moment, she could only comply.
At the airport, Mrs. Torres parked the car in a ten-minute zone and said, “Get all your things. Don’t leave anything in the car and keep quiet until we’re out of here.”
She went to the back of the car and took two suitcases out, one large and the other small. She banged the trunk close but did not bother to lock the car, as she usually did.
“What about Papá and Rudy?” Leilani cried. Were they escaping? But where to and why? And from what?
Again, neither her mother nor her sister answered. Her mother handed Carmen the small suitcase. Carmen handed Leilani her schoolbag.
As she rushed alongside her mother and sister inside the airport building, she began to imagine stories about escaping and became excited at the idea of it. Her heart raced and her whole body tingled. They were off on an adventure. Any adventure was welcome. She had so little of it in school, and less at home.
Walking briskly, carrying two schoolbags heavy with books, she sweated profusely. Her arms ached and her legs groaned. The air conditioning helped, but that was over too soon. They passed through the building before she could cool down.
Out in the sun, their mother ran in front of them, toward a small plane waiting on the tarmac. She looked back at them and shouted, “Run, you two. You move like turtles.”
Her mother was actually laughing, as if she shared and enjoyed her fantasy that they were about to embark on a great adventure.
Leilani was bewildered. The fear in her mother’s eyes and her mouth had been palpable not only when she stared at her inside the classroom, but also when she drove towards the airport, gripping the steering wheel so tight that, from the back passenger seat, Leilani could see the muscles in her arms twitching.
Leilani and Carmen ran faster, laughing, infected by their mother’s mirth. Leilani felt light and carefree. Everything was going to be all right. But the feeling lasted only a few short minutes.
Before they reached the plane, she saw a man she remembered seeing with her father once. He was a big man with alert, suspicious eyes that Leilani found menacing. He waited for them at the foot of the steps to the plane.
He took the suitcase from her mother’s hand and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Torres, I couldn’t get him out. Rudy is waiting for you inside the plane. He’s in the front row.”
The laughter died from her mother’s face and deep worry crept back on her brow. The man was clearly talking about her father. Something awful was going on and no one was telling them anything about it. She had to find out what it was.
Inside the plane, she spotted her brother sitting on an aisle seat. He stood to let her and Carmen pass to the seats next to him. As was Carmen’s habit on a bus, a train, or a plane, she claimed the window seat and Leilani had to content herself with the place wedged between her and Rudy. At least her brother, the oldest among them, liked her better than Carmen. He would tell her what was going on.
Her mother took the aisle seat across from Rudy. He helped her place the small luggage Carmen carried in the compartment above her.
Before she sat down, she reached out silently, reassuring each of them with a tender pat on their hands. But Leilani caught the sadness in her eyes.
Rudy sat down again and buckled himself in place.
Leilani said in a soft subdued voice, “Where’s Papá?”
“He couldn’t come. But he should follow us soon.”
“What’s going on, Rudy? Where are we going?”
“I don’t know any more than you do. The guy you saw by the steps? I know him. He picked me up at school, said he had a letter from Papá to me. But I wasn’t supposed to open it until after we get to where we’re going. It’s in my jacket pocket. Then, he brought me here without telling me anything more.”
“Are we escaping? Is Papá in trouble?”
“Why do you say that?”
Leilani pouted and scowled. “Because … Why doesn’t anyone say anything and why is everything so mysterious? Can’t you open the letter now?”
Rudy shook his head. “No! You’ll have to wait, like me.”
“Does Mamá know what’s going on?”
“She must, but you know Mamá. She thinks her main role is to protect Papá, at all costs.”
“But why does Papá need protecting? Did he do something wrong?”
“I’m as clueless as you about this,” Rudy said, scowling and getting irritated.
“What about my clothes? My dolls? I promised to call Myrna.”
“I think Mamá might have brought a few clothes in that big suitcase.”
“But where’s that suitcase?”
“The stewardess put it away on a luggage rack. Now, Lani, will you shut up until we get to wherever we’re headed?”
Leilani pouted again, leaned back against the seat, and closed her eyes. She was going to sleep if nobody wanted to talk to her. Still, she did not give up that easily. She would find out somehow.
Not long after, she felt her brother’s hand on her arm. He whispered in her ear.
“I’ll tell you this, though you won’t like it. Be prepared. For anything.”
“Why?” She tried to whisper but her shrill voice rose above the whirr of the plane.
“Shhh! I don’t know much, but I’ve seen and heard enough. We’re not going back home. Ever. No more Myrna. And you’ll have to make do with the few clothes Mamá packed for you until Papá comes.”
Sometimes ……
It is coming up to the time of the first anniversary of my dad passing. A good man, who, not only only was the head trainer for the QLD Rugby League, but was also the first to speak out on TV against the dangers of the AIDS virus in sport.
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Remembering Allen Morris. August 12, 1944 – March 6, 2017.
Sadly, it seems Parkinson’s is generic, and I have symptoms of the disease….
March 5, 2018
Book Spotlight – A Collection of Twisted Tales
(Kindle edition) $8.99 (paperback)
Title: A COLLECTION OF TWISTED TALES
Author: Kraig Dafoe
Publisher: Createspace
Pages:114
Genre:Thriller Short Story Collection
Most of these stories have one thing in common, death. Although death
is the common thread, there is nothing common in the way that it comes
about.
This collection is chock full of interesting characters scattered
among various settings that inspire the imagination, such as a Lavish
English mansion or the dark interior of a rundown home.
This book is inspired by and written in the style of, Edgar Allan Poe.
Praise:
“A Collection of Twisted Tales is an ambitious project that
testifies to the author’s appreciation of Edgar Allan Poe’s fiction in
particular. In this collection, Kraig Dafoe offers a creative
homage with many original ideas and unexpected twists.”
Professor Vanessa Steinroetter, PHD
Order Your Copy!
The Unheeded Omen:
“when an arrant mind wanders,
and breaks open the protective shell,
rising up, a wicked demon saunters,
from the darkened depths of hell.”
–Louis Banks–
The general populace has long considered ravens to be associated with bad
omens, though never putting much stock in such trivial absurdity, I delightedly
accepted the opportunity to move my family into a lavish home located on Raven
road.
In the early morn, in the spring of the year 18–, bracing yet dreary,
leaves insignificantly rustled as a gelid breeze swept along, washing away
droplets of early precipitation. Clouds hanging oppressively low, still
darkened, loomed overhead, threatening another ghastly shower to descend upon
us while we rode protected from the elements, while the wheels of the carriage
jostled us about as they trundled over cobblestone. The voyage was relatively
short, reaching just beyond the edge of town, which I had and would continue,
to call home for many a year.
The caw of ravens echoed overhead as we veered down the road of our new
dwelling, with seemingly thousands of the blackened beasts residing in its
progression of Oaks.
My darling Penelope and our two young progenies, plus one in the womb, sat
delighted as the driver directed the carriage down the lane to the two-story
brick mansion as it seemed to us, having lived a life of little resource. This
was the beginning to a new epoch, this auspicious occasion afforded by a
promotion I procured; we received the home joyfully with the compliments of my
company, as part of my bonus.
As the carriage rolled into view of the domicile, the children curiously
gazed through the panes of glass, pressing their noses to achieve a better
glimpse, their fidgety disposition putting smiles on our faces. Penelope and I
showed approval for their enthusiasm.
The usually neatly manicured grounds were awash with the residue from the
storm of the previous eve. Well-groomed hedges of significant splendor and
foliage lined the drive, their once proud branches drooped towards the ground,
some almost bear of leaves, and as the carriage circled in front of the home,
ivy, overspreading the exterior, glistened in the dim light of day.
A valet, another benefit of my new station and being a servant of the house
for numerous years, met the carriage as we stopped.
As we departed, the valet bowed deeply and gestured toward the portico,
commenting that he had allocated our possessions to their proper place and now,
the vast luxury of the domicile awaited us.
We embraced the cold air and made haste for the door, the children
enthusiastically, first through its threshold. I followed my beloved, nodding
attentively to the valet and, approaching the door, I noticed my new neighbor,
an elderly man, pitifully disheveled, standing on the porch of his own
discriminately decrepit home across the adjoining field.
The grass of the field, more resembling brome, between us was unkempt and
thus made it impossible to tell where the abandoned yard ended and the
neighbor’s began. The neighboring house was decayed from years of neglect,
paint long ago wearing thin, cracked and peeling, and shutters hung
precariously from their mounts. A broken fence of rotted wood surrounded the
property, half its horizontal slats lying at angles to the ground and hidden by
overgrown sedge. The windows seemed blackened by death, empty eye sockets
peering at our new home and the roof seemed to house more ravens then did the
trees, as any of its worn shingles were barely visible. Overgrown and under
trimmed vegetation scattered the lot, yet the view of the house itself, unfortunately
for me, was unobstructed. Upon looking at the melancholy house, a sense of
indispensable gloom washed over me.
My new neighbor seemed to be as unkempt as was his yard and I noticed, with
ease, the elderly man’s demeanor appeared to be one of utter indifference. I
waved to him in what I considered to be a polite gesture and, perplexingly, he
just turned and entered his house without response, which I thought a bit odd
as I entered my new home.
I absorbed the splendor of my new abode, which was of stark contrast to my
neighbors, while trying to shake the awkward encounter from my mind. Artful
paintings hung from the brightly colored walls while decorative rugs dotted the
cherry hardwood floors. The furnishings bore elaborate carvings, with soft
velvety cushions, while brass and silver trinkets topped the stands and
mantles. Fires burned in the ornate fireplaces casting a warm glow about the
rooms, filling them with a cozy air, and simultaneously casting eerily dancing
shadows about. Spacious was the home, with formal living and dining rooms, a
parlor, four bedrooms upstairs and indoor plumbing, a fairly new innovation. We
quickly settled in and, with assistance from the valet, we fell into a routine,
living a somewhat leisurely life compared to the drudgery of life before my
promotion.
Kraig Dafoe was born in Potsdam, New York and grew up in Canton. He
played high school football and joined the Army Reserves at the age of
seventeen.Kraig has earned his BA in English writing and graduated cum laude from Washburn University in 2017.
Kraig has published two novels and published poetry. He is currently working on another writing project.
His current novel is A Collection of Twisted Tales.
You can visit his website at http://www.kraigdafoe.com.
March 4, 2018
VBT – His Scandalous Love
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His Scandalous Love
by Anya Summers
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GENRE: Erotic Romance
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BLURB
Carter Jones is a fairly simple man. He loves his ranch, his horses, and dominating women in the bedroom. He’s the owner and founder of the exclusive Cuffs and Spurs Club in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, yet for the past year Carter has achieved something of a monk’s status within the ranks of his club. And all because of Jenna, a woman he had an unforgettably sensual week with a year ago, who then vanished from his life without a trace and left him reeling.
When he discovers Jenna practically on his doorstep, Carter moves heaven and earth to draw her back into his life. Only she has a scandalous secret, one that upends his life completely. Can he forgive her for the secrets she kept? Or will the mistrust tear them apart – forever this time?
Purchase His Scandalous Love by 3/17/18 & get the FREE full-length ebook novella His Unexpected Love delivered to your email! Discover where Carter & Jenna’s sinfully erotic love story began.
Email the proof of purchase (receipt or screenshot) to anya@anyasummers.com.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Excerpt
The Double J was Carter’s life. He enjoyed it. Lived and breathed the ranch day in and day out. Loved training the offspring of his mares into the finest trail horses in the Northwest. And yet, he’d been walking around with a hole in his chest since the previous August.
He’d not found her.
As much as he’d promised himself that he would track Jenna down, it was like she had disappeared off the planet. He’d even toyed with the idea of hiring a private investigator to locate her. But there was a part of Carter that wondered, now that almost a year had passed—eleven months and one week to be exact—since he had first set foot on the tiny strip of an island in the Bahamas, whether he was being obstinate and downright idiotic. If Jenna wanted to be found by anyone from the island, she would have left a way to be reached. Jared, the owner of the Pleasure Island Resort, had assured Carter that he’d not been in contact with her, and that perhaps it was best if Carter let her go.
And wasn’t that just the problem?
Jenna had rocked his world. The feisty submissive had wormed her way past his hard-fought defenses and had set up residence inside his soul. He dreamed about her. Woke up in the dead of night reaching for her. Carter used to joke about Doms who became whipped and would cave to their submissive’s every desire.
It was karma, perhaps. Because now the fucking joke was on him.
He’d been living a half-life, cursing himself that he’d failed to take action after their week together on the island. That he had waited too long to contact her afterwards. He’d tried to be a gentleman. And, he admitted to himself, he’d let his ego get in the way. Because he would forever regret that he hadn’t hauled her to the fucking plane with him and carted her back here to his ranch. He knew now that he should have gone all caveman, tied her up if he’d had to, and even gagged her if necessary to get her on the damn plane.
Because now she was lost to him, and Carter had no idea how to move past it. Past her.
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AUTHOR Bio and Links
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Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Anya grew up listening to Cardinals baseball and reading anything she could get her hands on. She remembers her mother saying if only she would read the right type of books instead binging her way through the romance aisles at the bookstore, she’d have been a doctor. While Anya never did get that doctorate, she graduated cum laude from the University of Missouri-St. Louis with an M.A. in History.
Anya is a bestselling and award-winning author published in multiple fiction genres. She also writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance under the name Maggie Mae Gallagher. A total geek at her core, when she is not writing, she adores attending the latest comic con or spending time with her family. She currently lives in the Midwest with her two furry felines.
Visit her website here: www.anyasummers.com
Visit her on social media here:
http://www.facebook.com/AnyaSummersAuthor
Twitter: @AnyaBSummers
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15183606.Anya_Summers
Anya Summers Newsletter
Amazon Author Page https://www.amazon.com/Anya-Summers/e/B01EGTVRKC/
Bookbub https://www.bookbub.com/authors/anya-summers
Instagram https://www.instagram.com/anyasummersauthor/
Available at:
Amazon https://goo.gl/4ysu8P
iBooks https://goo.gl/S51TKo
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His Unexpected Love
A Cuffs & Spurs Prequel Novella
Carter Jones is the owner and founder of the exclusive Cuffs and Spurs Club in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He’s been invited to Pleasure Island, a lifestyle themed resort on a private island in the Bahamas, to experience what the all-inclusive getaway has to offer. His plans for the week include indulging in the finer points of life – mainly sex, and lots of it. He’s a man used to dominating a woman in every way imaginable, and then receiving praise and thanks from his selected bed mate for his prowess.
That all changes when he literally runs into Jenna. She’s beautiful and headstrong, and turns his world upside down with merely a pout of her gorgeous lips. Lips he can imagine on various parts of his body. Carter devises a plan to claim the feisty woman. But will he be able to keep it strictly physical, or will her surrender to his touch affect him in unexpected ways?
Don’t miss these exciting titles by Anya Summers and Blushing Books!
Dungeon Fantasy Club Series
Her Highland Master, Book 1 https://www.amazon.com/Highland-Master-Dungeon-Fantasy-Club-ebook/dp/B01E9UB8SO/
To Master and Defend, Book 2 https://www.amazon.com/Master-Defend-Dungeon-Fantasy-Club-ebook/dp/B01FNG23HI/
Two Doms for Kara, Book 3 https://www.amazon.com/Doms-Kara-Dungeon-Fantasy-Club-ebook/dp/B01GXGOAK0/
His Driven Domme, Book 4 https://www.amazon.com/Driven-Domme-Dungeon-Fantasy-Club-ebook/dp/B01IIUY8Y2
Her Country Master, Book 5 https://goo.gl/YWhLqm
Love Me, Master Me, Book 6 https://goo.gl/QlTE9u
Submit To Me, Book 7 https://goo.gl/Or8pYr
Her Wired Dom, Book 8 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRJY9TF/
Pleasure Island Series
Her Master & Commander, Book 1 https://www.amazon.com/Master-Commander-Pleasure-Island-Book-ebook/dp/B06Y5SVVB9/
Her Music Masters, Book 2 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0711R9D1H/
Their Shy Submissive, Book 3 https://goo.gl/ufyJLn
Her Lawful Master, Book 4 https://www.amazon.com/Lawful-Master-Pleasure-Island-Book-ebook/dp/B073SRDNNT
Her Rockstar Dom, Book 5 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075VSGP8Q
Duets & Dominance, Book 6 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075TG9RYC
Her Undercover Dom, Book 7 https://goo.gl/HKhVba
Ménage In Paradise, Book 8 https://goo.gl/qce2BD
Her Rodeo Masters, Book 9 https://goo.gl/HDZw6v
Cuffs & Spurs Series
His Scandalous Love releasing March 8, 2018
His Wicked Love releasing May 8, 2018
His Untamed Love releasing July 9, 2018
His Tempting Love releasing September 6, 2018
His Seductive Love releasing November 8, 2018
His Secret Love releasing January 8, 2019
His Cherished Love releasing March 8, 2019
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RAFFLECOPTER GIVEAWAY
Anya will be awarding a $15 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.
Enter to win a $15 Amazon/BN GC – a Rafflecopter giveaway
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