Jamie Marchant's Blog, page 39
May 24, 2013
Beneath the Surface, excerpt
Yesterday we met Erren Grey Wolf, author of the Beneath the Surface series. Today read a sample of her work and my review of the second book in the series, Long-Lost Brother.
Review:
I started with the second book of the series, Long-Lost Brother, and although I enjoyed it, I felt I was missing something by not starting at the beginning. I recommend the book, but further recommend you read the series in order. Sean is a powerful protagonist who has a need for redemption in rescuing the brother he once abandoned. You feel his pain as his younger brother Erren’s body rejects the food of this world, and Erren spirals toward starvation. If that weren’t hard enough, Erren’s father also rejects the boy because Erren’s mother died while giving birth to him. Because of Erren’s telepathy, he, unfortunately, knows exactly what his father is thinking. You just want to give Erren a hug and tell him everything would be all right, then turn and smack his father across the face. I thought the book was a bit wordy and could stand to be condensed, and the poems between chapters didn’t do much for me, but overall, it’s an enjoyable read. I rate it 4 stars.
BENEATH THE SURFACE: THE LOST BOY (VOLUME 1)
SYNOPSIS
In Beneath the Surface: The Lost Boy, an unusual boy is born on a spaceship bound for the planet Midgard, but his very birth brings sorrow to his family. Out of grief for the death of their mother, Sean Archer blames and abandons his baby brother in the forest by an old oak tree. He goes away hunting, never realizing the full consequences of his heartless act. The mysterious Queen of the Forest finds the sad, abandoned child and comforts him. She notices he is able to see her subjects, the elementals (fairies) of her forest, and feels connected to him. While she holds the child in her arms, she gazes into his future, but upon witnessing visions of horrific events, she decides to steal him away into the Otherworld to protect him. When Sean returns and finds Erren gone, guilt strikes him down and he becomes repentant. He sees his mother’s spirit and she tells him, “The forest took him.” Sean begins his noble quest to find his lost brother, to right the wrong he had done, unaware his search is awakening his latent telepathic gift. Inevitably, he comes to realize the longer he hunts, the more he doubts his sanity. The forest becomes haunted and there is a battle of wills as the mystical Queen Elaya tries to stop him from taking her little boy.
BENEATH THE SURFACE: THE LOST BOY (VOLUME 1)
EXERPT FROM CHAPTER 3: SPIRITED AWAY
Sean dragged his baby brother through the majestic woods, where sweet birdsong questioned the complaints that interrupted their peaceful world. Sean did not appreciate the sylvan beauty all around him. In Titan, he had wistfully daydreamt about what Midgard would be like, but now he was here, he did not care. When he had set foot on his home planet two years ago and had left the spaceport, he saw snow for the first time, but he had not looked upon his new environment with wonder, as any normal child would. He had barely noticed anything. Shock had blinded him. In fact, he barely remembered anything at all that had happened during the first few months after his arrival. His memories of that time were all a blur.
Inside the Mississauga Forest, Sean was not thinking about brotherhood. He had not learned how important it was from the racist Titans who had forgotten the ideal for which humanity had originally built their space station. Living in Titan had made Sean bitter, but after the tragedy, he felt even worse! Right now, he was not thinking about brotherhood at all!
With no one to hear him in these beautiful woods except a toddler who would not understand him anyway, Sean cared less and less about repressing his anger. It bubbled to the surface in ever-increasing intensity as he cursed just like his father while grumbling to the unfair world, “This is my hunting day, for Christ’s sake! This is supposed to be my time alone! Why couldn’t Da take care of you?! He’s always running away and dumping you on me! I don’t want you to drag me down, goddammit! This is bloody unbelievable! This is just goddamned unbelievable! How am I going to run around hunting with your stubby little legs?!”
Erren looked up to Sean in many ways, but his eyes creased with the worry he felt about Sean’s tirade. He had never heard his brother so angry before. He was almost as angry as Da often was and that made Erren afraid the red would soon come. He tried his best to keep up with his big brother and not complain, but Sean pulled him a little too fast and despite Erren’s best efforts, he tripped a couple of times on the uneven forest floor and got his bare knees all dirty. This made Sean’s irritability even worse and he sounded more and more like his father as he criticized, “Oh for God’s sake, Erren! Keep up! Come on!”
Erren was trying to do just that! He was trying so hard to please his big brother, but he was so small!
The muddy trail ended when they came to a grand English oak tree called the Old Man Oak, whose buds had opened into small, growing leaves. At this tree, about a kilometre deep into the forest, Sean pulled his brother to where he wanted him to be and pushed him down between two thick roots of the oak on the west side where the ground was dry. He noticed one of Erren’s shoes was missing. Bending over his little brother, he demanded angrily, “Where’s your bloody shoe?!” As he looked at the muddy foot that remained, he added, “Where’s your goddamned sock?!”
Erren looked up at Sean with growing anxiety. He truly loved his older brother and it pained him when Sean spoke to him so harshly. He wished he had not lost his shoe and sock. He wished Sean were not angry with him again. In fact, Sean had not stopped being angry with him since they left the house. In answer to Sean’s questions, Erren quietly and timidly pointed back the way they had come.
“DAMN IT, ERREN!” shouted Sean with his fists clenched as if his voice could give the punch he felt like giving. He no longer cared about repressing his anger for fear of making Erren cry. He had reached his limit and was now bursting out emotionally. Deep in the forest, no one was around to stop him from being mean to his little brother.
Erren flinched, covering his face protectively. Red had appeared in Sean’s aura and had exploded at him like shrapnel with those angry words, hitting not just Erren, but the unfair world around him. Erren felt emotionally hurt by the verbal attack and his own aura exploded in response, but with livid grey C shapes flying outwards, indicating his sudden fright.
Sean’s red and Erren’s grey shapes were thought-forms on the mental plane of existence. They were visual representations of the boys’ own thoughts as influenced by their emotional state and lasted only briefly. Thought-forms happen all the time, but few can see them. Erren saw his brother’s thought-forms, but Sean could not see Erren’s. Usually, Erren preferred his calm, older brother to his quick-tempered father, but the intensity of Sean’s angry outburst surprised him so much that he found himself wishing his da were here.
Sean straightened up and looked back along the trail. When Erren looked back at his brother with widened eyes, he lowered his hands timorously, but covered his chest defensively. He dared not make a sound. He did not cry yet; he was too shocked that such an angry outburst had come from his big brother!
Through Erren’s eyes, you could see Sean’s aura was in two main layers. Although, in Sean’s particular case, the inner aura of the body had two layers of its own, being tan closest to the body with blue surrounding it. The outer aura of the spirit was a violet glow around that. This was the normal appearance of his aura. His present emotional state, however, was producing a fearsome slash of vivid red seemingly cutting up diagonally through his heart and rising to swirl around his throat from the pain in his wounded heart that caused him to speak so angrily. His antagonistic attitude towards his brother made the edges of his aura jagged.
Sean was oblivious to such things as auras and had no idea his brother could see them. He had no idea his brother had become afraid of the red that sometimes appeared in his father’s aura and now his own. All Sean was thinking about was the damned shoe and sock were probably stuck in the mud somewhere back along the trail. “Oh Goddammit!” he vociferated just like his father, but without the Irish accent. He decided he would look for them on the way back. For now, Sean pointed to Erren’s position sternly while he told his brother as one would command a dog, but without the affection, “Stay right there, Erren! STAY!”
Erren froze where he sat, like a little mouse hidden in the grass, fearing a nearby predator. Sean had never been this angry before. It made him afraid, adding pale grey to his aura in the form of a little cloud above his head. He had always thought Sean had loved him more than his da did. He had always been more gentle and patient, but now he witnessed a different Sean. This was the part of Sean that hid beneath the surface and now rose up full of anger, impatience, and resentment.
Erren’s eyes began to water.
Sean turned to leave, still clenching his fists, but tempted by the isolation of the forest and haunted as much by his mother’s painful and bloody death as his father was, he looked back at his sad and scared little brother and shouted a most unkind and terrible thing, “IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU, MA WOULD STILL BE ALIVE!”
Once said, Sean turned his back on his kid brother and ran away southward, fighting back tears. He did not care if his anger made Erren cry this time. He would not be there to hear it! He ran off like his father and left Erren all alone in the untamed woods after finally voicing what both he and his father had been secretly thinking for the past two years.
When Sean had shouted those harmful words, Erren gasped and flinched again, putting his hands up to protect his face against the explosive red thought-forms of anger: all the shrapnel shapes Sean unknowingly shot like arrows at his little brother more exclusively this time. Erren did not comprehend all his brother’s parting words, but he understood the emotion behind them, biting him deeper and hurting him more. As he was besieged, Erren had the horrible realization that his father’s and his brother’s anger were a punishment, not just for the little things he had done, but for something terrible he had done. Even when they did not direct their anger towards him, he was somehow responsible. He was to blame for all of it.
He was to blame.
Erren felt burdened with a heavy guilt he was too young to bear or understand. He had no concept of what “alive” meant, for to understand that, he would have to understand what “death” meant and he had no concept of that, either. Since his father and brother almost never talked about her and since he had never even seen her, he also did not understand who “Ma” was. He did not know what he had done wrong, but he knew it must have been something very, very bad.
As Sean stormed off, Erren’s eyes followed him through a blur of tears, wishing his big brother would not leave him all alone. As he drew shaky breaths, he wiped his eyes with trembling hands so he could clearly see his brother return. He needed Sean to come back and say everything was all right now. He needed Sean to come back and not be angry with him anymore; but more than anything else in the world, he needed Sean to come back and love him again.
Erren hardly breathed as he watched his big brother run farther and farther south through the trees. When his tears blurred his eyes again, he wiped them away only to see his brother was gone. Erren’s chin trembled. In the aftermath of Sean’s angry words, the forest was too quiet. The birds did not sing and the wind did not rustle the budding leaves. Erren had thought his brother loved him, but when Sean left, he took love with him, leaving behind a hole now flooded with shock and despair. The shaky sobs of a broken-hearted child seemed swallowed up by the vastness of the forest as Erren pathetically continued to stare at the place he had last seen his big brother, hoping he would reappear …
… but the forest hid Sean from sight, leaving behind an emotionally wounded little boy at the foot of the old oak tree.
BENEATH THE SURFACE: LONG-LOST BROTHER (VOLUME 2)
SYNOPSIS
In Long-Lost Brother, Sean’s telepathy fully awakens when he finds the lost boy. He discovers that his brother had been living in a mystic palace beneath the surface of the forest. Unfortunately, when Sean brings Erren home, he finds an ancient fairy tale proves to be true: once a human has eaten the foods of the Otherworld, he can never eat the foods of the outer world ever again. To complicate matters, unresolved family problems worsen the issue. Sean’s father never came to terms with the death of his wife during childbirth and can give his youngest son no love; instead, he drowns his sorrows in alcohol. Five years ago, Sean blamed Erren for his mother’s death and did not seem to care whether his brother lived or died. Now Sean fears that the life of the little boy he has come to love is slipping perilously out of his hands and he is desperate to find a solution before his kid brother starves to death in a land of plenty.
BENEATH THE SURFACE: LONG-LOST BROTHER (VOLUME 2)
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1: LOKISDAY (MONDAY)
Midgard had no moon, so Moonday, Monday, was no more. The French no longer called it Lundi for the same reason. The settlers named the day, Lokisday, after the planet nearest the sun, Loki. Little did Sean know that Lokisday was going to be his lucky day.
After midnight on this day, the thirteenth of Twelfthmonth, a lone grey wolf loped purposefully through the forest in the moonless darkness of the Midgard night. Her breath frosted in the air as she ran through the woods. After travelling a long way, she exited the forest, ran down a hill, and passed through the transparent blue forcefield barrier like a ghost. She crossed a snowy field that many sheep had trampled on and made dirty, yet she unnaturally ignored the sheep, all of which fled the intruder, baaing as they went. The wolf passed through the next forcefield fence and slowed her pace until she stopped beneath Sean’s east-facing bedroom window on the left side of the back of the house. The wolf uttered a short howl and waited for a response from inside. When nothing happened, she tried again.
Sean was fast asleep in bed after a very emotional day. He had a spiritual crisis in the heart of the Mississauga Forest on Sunday morning and almost lost all hope of ever finding his missing brother. In the Haunted Clearing, he had become dangerously depressed and had wanted to die at the base of the Grandmother Oak, where once he had found a tiny bare footprint that may or may not have belonged to his little brother.
Spiritually and physically exhausted, the sixteen-year-old slept deeply that night. He lay on his right side, facing his east window and the forest beyond the forcefield fences that surrounded the farm. His mind was always on his brother and on the forest that had taken him. He had many dreams about that forest, but almost three hours after midnight, he had the strangest dream yet:
Sean was in the Haunted Clearing, an eerie place where nothing grew within the ring of tall, straight sentinel trees save the snow-covered Grandmother Oak, who spread out her branches in the very centre. He could hear wolves howling all around, setting the surreal stage. A beautiful, mystical woman caught his eye as she appeared beside the old oak tree. Where she came from, he did not know. A silver tiara held back her long, white-blonde hair. She wore a sparkling white gown with a silver belt that hung down in front. She seemed young, yet motherly at the same time. She held her back straight and stately as a queen, commanding respect, yet full of love. Her body seemed otherworldly phosphorescent and a violet glow expanded about two metres all around her. She seemed like an angel, but when he looked at her, he did not think of Heaven; he thought of fresh white snow covering the forest in winter.
This ethereal beauty held out her hand to him, beckoning in a regal manner. ‘Come,’ she thought to him without moving her lips, adding more to the mysticism of the moment. Sean did not know that in this single word, the Queen of the Forest erased the negative effects of her secret Appeals to drive him out of her forest and stop his quest to find his lost brother.
Sean walked unsurely towards this tall, stately woman and stood before her, barefoot in the snow, wearing beige pyjamas displaying scenes of stags in majestic poses. He instinctively bowed out of respect. Once he looked up and beheld her unusual violet eyes, she smiled serenely. She reached out a graceful hand to touch her right index finger to the centre of his forehead and made him see a brilliant flash of white light as bright as the sun!
Sean awoke suddenly with a gasp as his body jolted as if it had been shocked. He turned over and sat up, startled at first to find not light, but only darkness inside his room. He remembered the dream vividly and wondered what it meant.
Before he could think further on the matter, he heard something outside. He got out of bed and fumbled around in the dark to press a button on the wall to raise the blind on his east window. He leaned over his desk to look outside. The transparent blue sheets of light of the forcefield fences were all that illuminated the dark world.
He heard it again: a furtive howl. He climbed onto his desk, kneeling, and opened his window, letting in the cold air. He leaned out and looked down. To his amazement, he saw a wolf!
“Oh my God! A wolf! Holy Christ! The sheep! One of the pylons must be down!” His heart raced as he did a quick visual search of the forcefield barriers from his perch, worrying that a whole pack might have gotten in, yet he could not see any voids in the fences; at least, he saw none from his limited vantage point. The sheep yard behind the backyard was still intact, but beyond that, he did not know. He would have to wake up his da and have him check the whole grid on his computer to see which pylons were down and scan for other predators. Going out to shoot this seemingly lone wolf might be dangerous if it had come with its pack.
Sean thought it might also be possible that the wolf had gotten through the piled rock barrier on the outside of the farm fence and had dug underneath the forcefield. If that were the case, it must also have dug underneath the forcefield that surrounded the grounds of the farmhouse. He had to wake up his da!
Sean backed up to close the window …
The wolf uttered a short howl at him, standing on her hind legs briefly, as if she wished to jump up to reach him. He leaned out again. She had his full attention. The wolf was staring up at him and he found he could not tear his gaze away from it. They looked right at each other. Yellow eyes, which seemed greener from the surrounding blue light, gazed into his hazel ones. He stared for some time and all the wolf did was sit down on the flat, snow-covered patio stones expectantly.
“That is really odd,” he said to himself in puzzlement, rubbing his hairless chin absently. “Why is it here and not attacking one of the sheep? Or has it already?”
Sean got off his desk and, after retrieving a flashlight from a drawer in his bedside table, he climbed back onto his desk and leaned out the window. He shone the light down on the wolf for a better look. The animals of the Mississauga Forest were familiar to the young hunter, so he knew from the narrower shape of the forehead, smaller muzzle, and less massive shoulders, that this wolf was a female, but why she sat there, he did not know. He saw no blood on her muzzle, so she had not made a major kill recently and did not appear to be in a hurry to do so.
The she-wolf curiously did not run away from his light, though she clearly did not like it shining in her eyes. She blinked and sneezed her displeasure.
“This wolf is not acting the way a wolf should.” Sean did not know how she got in, but she ignored the sheep in the yard right behind her. Instead, she sat there staring up at him! “Why is she –?”
The she-wolf got to her feet and uttered an impatient howl, facing him exclusively, as if her intent were to communicate directly to him. Sean’s eyebrows rose! He had never seen a wolf act like this before. She absolutely mystified him!
“What the hell?” Sean saw something in the beam of his flashlight that he almost missed. The grey-coloured wolf had something hanging from her neck. He saw a grey object against the white fur of her throat.
“Oh my God!” His eyes went wide. “No! It can’t be!”
The wolf was wearing an entrance key.
Sean changed clothes in a flurry of motion and ran down the stairs as furtively as the impatient young man could possibly go. By the front door, he put on his boots and dark brown leather jacket. His Golden Labrador Retriever did not come to see him off this time. His loveable pet slept soundly in his bed box behind the stairs. “Some guard dog you are,” Sean whispered, which was not fair, because his father had never intended for Halifax to be one.
Sean took out his d-rifle from its cabinet beside the door and slung it over his left shoulder for an easy right-handed draw. His Hunter’s Education Course instructor trained him to use his Gwynn 10 mm the same way the Fleet Army used their Greenfields. He shoved his gloves on and jammed his close-fitting, dark brown woollen toque on his head. He raced out the front door and ran around the south side of the house to the backyard where he saw the wolf last.
He found her still beneath his window, as if waiting for him.
In an instant, Sean had his weapon in both hands and aimed along the sights of his deadly disintegrator rifle, but he had no intention to shoot this mystery. He turned on the light attached to the bottom of the barrel of his Gwynn to see the entrance key around her neck more clearly. “Who put that there, girl?” he asked without expecting a reply. ‘If only she could talk,’ he thought.
The wolf did not like having the light shining in her eyes. She turned away, loped off across the backyard, and ran into the sheep yard, passing easily through the backyard forcefield fence. Her presence disturbed the sheep and they fled in the opposite direction, baaing in protest, but the wolf did not go near them. She merely ran out the sheep yard, able to pass through the outer farm fence with her entrance key.
Sean raced after the wolf. He ran through the sheep yard and leapt trustingly through the second forcefield to clear the rocks piled up on the other side that prevented predators from digging underneath the fence. He wondered about that entrance key! Only Sean’s father, Colin Archer, could program the keys to allow entry into his farm. Only the Archers and the Fosters across the street had access to such keys and only one of them was missing.
That key went missing five years ago when two-year-old Erren was lost in the forest. Colin never deleted its authorization, hoping Erren would somehow find his way back home.
“How the hell did that wolf get that key?!” wondered Sean as he ran.
Sean pursued the wolf with zeal up the hill and into the great Mississauga Forest with his d-rifle’s flashlight the only light in the blackness. He thought about how unwelcome the forest had seemed the past year. Recently, it had seemed as if the forest had spoken to him, telling him to, ‘Go home,’ and, ‘Leave,’ making him think his sanity was becoming as lost as his brother, but crazy or not, this time the wolf seemed to be an open invitation!
Sean ran like hell until he found it hard to catch his breath, yet the wolf kept going. “Wait!” he cried, huffing and puffing.
The wolf did not respond.
The young man was strong from many long hikes and he had run quite a distance, but he had pushed himself beyond his limits. His legs and lungs were burning, but even though he tried to force himself to go farther, he eventually just collapsed in the snow. The wolf did not wait for him and disappeared out of sight.
Sean was exhausted. “Damn it!” he exclaimed breathlessly, pounding his fist in the snow. Wolves had the endurance to outrun the fittest human.
As Sean rested his forehead on one arm while he regained his strength, he realized with apprehension that the black forest surrounded him in the dead of night as he chased after what might be a ghost. Maybe he had cracked. Maybe this was his final breakdown. He had been searching for Erren for five years and now he chased after what could not be. Perhaps the gods were mocking him. Maybe they will send the White Bird of Death for him this night.
About to cry in despair again, as he did yesterday when he lost all hope, he instead pounded his fist in the snow and angrily forced it down. “No!” he said and pushed himself to his feet. He pointed his d-rifle down to shine the flashlight on the snow to look for the wolf’s tracks. They were there. They were real. He followed them at his own pace, confident in his tracking abilities.
He slung his d-rifle over his left shoulder and took out his pocket tracker. On its screen, the rectangular device indicated the wolf as a blinking dot, flashing white and red alternately because the white indicated the entrance key and the red warned of the predator. It was getting farther and farther ahead. Using his right index finger, which his glove did not cover, Sean touched the screen of his tracker where the dot was to zoom in on it. He had to press twice before the tracker zoomed in enough to display the identifier within the entrance key the she-wolf was wearing.
The full-screen readout showed: Erren Tristan Archer, 1903 Longview Road, Oakville, Ontario …
Sean did not need to know the rest. That confirmed the wolf wore the missing key. What remained of the dark depression that had almost drowned him yesterday was gone in that instant. His purpose and hope were completely renewed. His weary spirit brightened up. In fact, he felt energized!
“Oh my dear God!” said Sean, shoving the tracker back in his pocket and marching on with d-rifle in hand. That settled it! “I am going to track you down until the end of the world or I’ll die trying! I swear to God in Heaven! You are not getting away from me, wolf! I’ve hunted down bigger game than you!”
Review:
I started with the second book of the series, Long-Lost Brother, and although I enjoyed it, I felt I was missing something by not starting at the beginning. I recommend the book, but further recommend you read the series in order. Sean is a powerful protagonist who has a need for redemption in rescuing the brother he once abandoned. You feel his pain as his younger brother Erren’s body rejects the food of this world, and Erren spirals toward starvation. If that weren’t hard enough, Erren’s father also rejects the boy because Erren’s mother died while giving birth to him. Because of Erren’s telepathy, he, unfortunately, knows exactly what his father is thinking. You just want to give Erren a hug and tell him everything would be all right, then turn and smack his father across the face. I thought the book was a bit wordy and could stand to be condensed, and the poems between chapters didn’t do much for me, but overall, it’s an enjoyable read. I rate it 4 stars.
BENEATH THE SURFACE: THE LOST BOY (VOLUME 1)
SYNOPSIS
In Beneath the Surface: The Lost Boy, an unusual boy is born on a spaceship bound for the planet Midgard, but his very birth brings sorrow to his family. Out of grief for the death of their mother, Sean Archer blames and abandons his baby brother in the forest by an old oak tree. He goes away hunting, never realizing the full consequences of his heartless act. The mysterious Queen of the Forest finds the sad, abandoned child and comforts him. She notices he is able to see her subjects, the elementals (fairies) of her forest, and feels connected to him. While she holds the child in her arms, she gazes into his future, but upon witnessing visions of horrific events, she decides to steal him away into the Otherworld to protect him. When Sean returns and finds Erren gone, guilt strikes him down and he becomes repentant. He sees his mother’s spirit and she tells him, “The forest took him.” Sean begins his noble quest to find his lost brother, to right the wrong he had done, unaware his search is awakening his latent telepathic gift. Inevitably, he comes to realize the longer he hunts, the more he doubts his sanity. The forest becomes haunted and there is a battle of wills as the mystical Queen Elaya tries to stop him from taking her little boy.BENEATH THE SURFACE: THE LOST BOY (VOLUME 1)
EXERPT FROM CHAPTER 3: SPIRITED AWAY
Sean dragged his baby brother through the majestic woods, where sweet birdsong questioned the complaints that interrupted their peaceful world. Sean did not appreciate the sylvan beauty all around him. In Titan, he had wistfully daydreamt about what Midgard would be like, but now he was here, he did not care. When he had set foot on his home planet two years ago and had left the spaceport, he saw snow for the first time, but he had not looked upon his new environment with wonder, as any normal child would. He had barely noticed anything. Shock had blinded him. In fact, he barely remembered anything at all that had happened during the first few months after his arrival. His memories of that time were all a blur.
Inside the Mississauga Forest, Sean was not thinking about brotherhood. He had not learned how important it was from the racist Titans who had forgotten the ideal for which humanity had originally built their space station. Living in Titan had made Sean bitter, but after the tragedy, he felt even worse! Right now, he was not thinking about brotherhood at all!
With no one to hear him in these beautiful woods except a toddler who would not understand him anyway, Sean cared less and less about repressing his anger. It bubbled to the surface in ever-increasing intensity as he cursed just like his father while grumbling to the unfair world, “This is my hunting day, for Christ’s sake! This is supposed to be my time alone! Why couldn’t Da take care of you?! He’s always running away and dumping you on me! I don’t want you to drag me down, goddammit! This is bloody unbelievable! This is just goddamned unbelievable! How am I going to run around hunting with your stubby little legs?!”
Erren looked up to Sean in many ways, but his eyes creased with the worry he felt about Sean’s tirade. He had never heard his brother so angry before. He was almost as angry as Da often was and that made Erren afraid the red would soon come. He tried his best to keep up with his big brother and not complain, but Sean pulled him a little too fast and despite Erren’s best efforts, he tripped a couple of times on the uneven forest floor and got his bare knees all dirty. This made Sean’s irritability even worse and he sounded more and more like his father as he criticized, “Oh for God’s sake, Erren! Keep up! Come on!”
Erren was trying to do just that! He was trying so hard to please his big brother, but he was so small!
The muddy trail ended when they came to a grand English oak tree called the Old Man Oak, whose buds had opened into small, growing leaves. At this tree, about a kilometre deep into the forest, Sean pulled his brother to where he wanted him to be and pushed him down between two thick roots of the oak on the west side where the ground was dry. He noticed one of Erren’s shoes was missing. Bending over his little brother, he demanded angrily, “Where’s your bloody shoe?!” As he looked at the muddy foot that remained, he added, “Where’s your goddamned sock?!”
Erren looked up at Sean with growing anxiety. He truly loved his older brother and it pained him when Sean spoke to him so harshly. He wished he had not lost his shoe and sock. He wished Sean were not angry with him again. In fact, Sean had not stopped being angry with him since they left the house. In answer to Sean’s questions, Erren quietly and timidly pointed back the way they had come.
“DAMN IT, ERREN!” shouted Sean with his fists clenched as if his voice could give the punch he felt like giving. He no longer cared about repressing his anger for fear of making Erren cry. He had reached his limit and was now bursting out emotionally. Deep in the forest, no one was around to stop him from being mean to his little brother.
Erren flinched, covering his face protectively. Red had appeared in Sean’s aura and had exploded at him like shrapnel with those angry words, hitting not just Erren, but the unfair world around him. Erren felt emotionally hurt by the verbal attack and his own aura exploded in response, but with livid grey C shapes flying outwards, indicating his sudden fright.
Sean’s red and Erren’s grey shapes were thought-forms on the mental plane of existence. They were visual representations of the boys’ own thoughts as influenced by their emotional state and lasted only briefly. Thought-forms happen all the time, but few can see them. Erren saw his brother’s thought-forms, but Sean could not see Erren’s. Usually, Erren preferred his calm, older brother to his quick-tempered father, but the intensity of Sean’s angry outburst surprised him so much that he found himself wishing his da were here.
Sean straightened up and looked back along the trail. When Erren looked back at his brother with widened eyes, he lowered his hands timorously, but covered his chest defensively. He dared not make a sound. He did not cry yet; he was too shocked that such an angry outburst had come from his big brother!
Through Erren’s eyes, you could see Sean’s aura was in two main layers. Although, in Sean’s particular case, the inner aura of the body had two layers of its own, being tan closest to the body with blue surrounding it. The outer aura of the spirit was a violet glow around that. This was the normal appearance of his aura. His present emotional state, however, was producing a fearsome slash of vivid red seemingly cutting up diagonally through his heart and rising to swirl around his throat from the pain in his wounded heart that caused him to speak so angrily. His antagonistic attitude towards his brother made the edges of his aura jagged.
Sean was oblivious to such things as auras and had no idea his brother could see them. He had no idea his brother had become afraid of the red that sometimes appeared in his father’s aura and now his own. All Sean was thinking about was the damned shoe and sock were probably stuck in the mud somewhere back along the trail. “Oh Goddammit!” he vociferated just like his father, but without the Irish accent. He decided he would look for them on the way back. For now, Sean pointed to Erren’s position sternly while he told his brother as one would command a dog, but without the affection, “Stay right there, Erren! STAY!”
Erren froze where he sat, like a little mouse hidden in the grass, fearing a nearby predator. Sean had never been this angry before. It made him afraid, adding pale grey to his aura in the form of a little cloud above his head. He had always thought Sean had loved him more than his da did. He had always been more gentle and patient, but now he witnessed a different Sean. This was the part of Sean that hid beneath the surface and now rose up full of anger, impatience, and resentment.
Erren’s eyes began to water.
Sean turned to leave, still clenching his fists, but tempted by the isolation of the forest and haunted as much by his mother’s painful and bloody death as his father was, he looked back at his sad and scared little brother and shouted a most unkind and terrible thing, “IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU, MA WOULD STILL BE ALIVE!”
Once said, Sean turned his back on his kid brother and ran away southward, fighting back tears. He did not care if his anger made Erren cry this time. He would not be there to hear it! He ran off like his father and left Erren all alone in the untamed woods after finally voicing what both he and his father had been secretly thinking for the past two years.
When Sean had shouted those harmful words, Erren gasped and flinched again, putting his hands up to protect his face against the explosive red thought-forms of anger: all the shrapnel shapes Sean unknowingly shot like arrows at his little brother more exclusively this time. Erren did not comprehend all his brother’s parting words, but he understood the emotion behind them, biting him deeper and hurting him more. As he was besieged, Erren had the horrible realization that his father’s and his brother’s anger were a punishment, not just for the little things he had done, but for something terrible he had done. Even when they did not direct their anger towards him, he was somehow responsible. He was to blame for all of it.
He was to blame.
Erren felt burdened with a heavy guilt he was too young to bear or understand. He had no concept of what “alive” meant, for to understand that, he would have to understand what “death” meant and he had no concept of that, either. Since his father and brother almost never talked about her and since he had never even seen her, he also did not understand who “Ma” was. He did not know what he had done wrong, but he knew it must have been something very, very bad.
As Sean stormed off, Erren’s eyes followed him through a blur of tears, wishing his big brother would not leave him all alone. As he drew shaky breaths, he wiped his eyes with trembling hands so he could clearly see his brother return. He needed Sean to come back and say everything was all right now. He needed Sean to come back and not be angry with him anymore; but more than anything else in the world, he needed Sean to come back and love him again.
Erren hardly breathed as he watched his big brother run farther and farther south through the trees. When his tears blurred his eyes again, he wiped them away only to see his brother was gone. Erren’s chin trembled. In the aftermath of Sean’s angry words, the forest was too quiet. The birds did not sing and the wind did not rustle the budding leaves. Erren had thought his brother loved him, but when Sean left, he took love with him, leaving behind a hole now flooded with shock and despair. The shaky sobs of a broken-hearted child seemed swallowed up by the vastness of the forest as Erren pathetically continued to stare at the place he had last seen his big brother, hoping he would reappear …
… but the forest hid Sean from sight, leaving behind an emotionally wounded little boy at the foot of the old oak tree.
BENEATH THE SURFACE: LONG-LOST BROTHER (VOLUME 2)
SYNOPSIS
In Long-Lost Brother, Sean’s telepathy fully awakens when he finds the lost boy. He discovers that his brother had been living in a mystic palace beneath the surface of the forest. Unfortunately, when Sean brings Erren home, he finds an ancient fairy tale proves to be true: once a human has eaten the foods of the Otherworld, he can never eat the foods of the outer world ever again. To complicate matters, unresolved family problems worsen the issue. Sean’s father never came to terms with the death of his wife during childbirth and can give his youngest son no love; instead, he drowns his sorrows in alcohol. Five years ago, Sean blamed Erren for his mother’s death and did not seem to care whether his brother lived or died. Now Sean fears that the life of the little boy he has come to love is slipping perilously out of his hands and he is desperate to find a solution before his kid brother starves to death in a land of plenty.BENEATH THE SURFACE: LONG-LOST BROTHER (VOLUME 2)
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1: LOKISDAY (MONDAY)
Midgard had no moon, so Moonday, Monday, was no more. The French no longer called it Lundi for the same reason. The settlers named the day, Lokisday, after the planet nearest the sun, Loki. Little did Sean know that Lokisday was going to be his lucky day.
After midnight on this day, the thirteenth of Twelfthmonth, a lone grey wolf loped purposefully through the forest in the moonless darkness of the Midgard night. Her breath frosted in the air as she ran through the woods. After travelling a long way, she exited the forest, ran down a hill, and passed through the transparent blue forcefield barrier like a ghost. She crossed a snowy field that many sheep had trampled on and made dirty, yet she unnaturally ignored the sheep, all of which fled the intruder, baaing as they went. The wolf passed through the next forcefield fence and slowed her pace until she stopped beneath Sean’s east-facing bedroom window on the left side of the back of the house. The wolf uttered a short howl and waited for a response from inside. When nothing happened, she tried again.
Sean was fast asleep in bed after a very emotional day. He had a spiritual crisis in the heart of the Mississauga Forest on Sunday morning and almost lost all hope of ever finding his missing brother. In the Haunted Clearing, he had become dangerously depressed and had wanted to die at the base of the Grandmother Oak, where once he had found a tiny bare footprint that may or may not have belonged to his little brother.
Spiritually and physically exhausted, the sixteen-year-old slept deeply that night. He lay on his right side, facing his east window and the forest beyond the forcefield fences that surrounded the farm. His mind was always on his brother and on the forest that had taken him. He had many dreams about that forest, but almost three hours after midnight, he had the strangest dream yet:
Sean was in the Haunted Clearing, an eerie place where nothing grew within the ring of tall, straight sentinel trees save the snow-covered Grandmother Oak, who spread out her branches in the very centre. He could hear wolves howling all around, setting the surreal stage. A beautiful, mystical woman caught his eye as she appeared beside the old oak tree. Where she came from, he did not know. A silver tiara held back her long, white-blonde hair. She wore a sparkling white gown with a silver belt that hung down in front. She seemed young, yet motherly at the same time. She held her back straight and stately as a queen, commanding respect, yet full of love. Her body seemed otherworldly phosphorescent and a violet glow expanded about two metres all around her. She seemed like an angel, but when he looked at her, he did not think of Heaven; he thought of fresh white snow covering the forest in winter.
This ethereal beauty held out her hand to him, beckoning in a regal manner. ‘Come,’ she thought to him without moving her lips, adding more to the mysticism of the moment. Sean did not know that in this single word, the Queen of the Forest erased the negative effects of her secret Appeals to drive him out of her forest and stop his quest to find his lost brother.
Sean walked unsurely towards this tall, stately woman and stood before her, barefoot in the snow, wearing beige pyjamas displaying scenes of stags in majestic poses. He instinctively bowed out of respect. Once he looked up and beheld her unusual violet eyes, she smiled serenely. She reached out a graceful hand to touch her right index finger to the centre of his forehead and made him see a brilliant flash of white light as bright as the sun!
Sean awoke suddenly with a gasp as his body jolted as if it had been shocked. He turned over and sat up, startled at first to find not light, but only darkness inside his room. He remembered the dream vividly and wondered what it meant.
Before he could think further on the matter, he heard something outside. He got out of bed and fumbled around in the dark to press a button on the wall to raise the blind on his east window. He leaned over his desk to look outside. The transparent blue sheets of light of the forcefield fences were all that illuminated the dark world.
He heard it again: a furtive howl. He climbed onto his desk, kneeling, and opened his window, letting in the cold air. He leaned out and looked down. To his amazement, he saw a wolf!
“Oh my God! A wolf! Holy Christ! The sheep! One of the pylons must be down!” His heart raced as he did a quick visual search of the forcefield barriers from his perch, worrying that a whole pack might have gotten in, yet he could not see any voids in the fences; at least, he saw none from his limited vantage point. The sheep yard behind the backyard was still intact, but beyond that, he did not know. He would have to wake up his da and have him check the whole grid on his computer to see which pylons were down and scan for other predators. Going out to shoot this seemingly lone wolf might be dangerous if it had come with its pack.
Sean thought it might also be possible that the wolf had gotten through the piled rock barrier on the outside of the farm fence and had dug underneath the forcefield. If that were the case, it must also have dug underneath the forcefield that surrounded the grounds of the farmhouse. He had to wake up his da!
Sean backed up to close the window …
The wolf uttered a short howl at him, standing on her hind legs briefly, as if she wished to jump up to reach him. He leaned out again. She had his full attention. The wolf was staring up at him and he found he could not tear his gaze away from it. They looked right at each other. Yellow eyes, which seemed greener from the surrounding blue light, gazed into his hazel ones. He stared for some time and all the wolf did was sit down on the flat, snow-covered patio stones expectantly.
“That is really odd,” he said to himself in puzzlement, rubbing his hairless chin absently. “Why is it here and not attacking one of the sheep? Or has it already?”
Sean got off his desk and, after retrieving a flashlight from a drawer in his bedside table, he climbed back onto his desk and leaned out the window. He shone the light down on the wolf for a better look. The animals of the Mississauga Forest were familiar to the young hunter, so he knew from the narrower shape of the forehead, smaller muzzle, and less massive shoulders, that this wolf was a female, but why she sat there, he did not know. He saw no blood on her muzzle, so she had not made a major kill recently and did not appear to be in a hurry to do so.
The she-wolf curiously did not run away from his light, though she clearly did not like it shining in her eyes. She blinked and sneezed her displeasure.
“This wolf is not acting the way a wolf should.” Sean did not know how she got in, but she ignored the sheep in the yard right behind her. Instead, she sat there staring up at him! “Why is she –?”
The she-wolf got to her feet and uttered an impatient howl, facing him exclusively, as if her intent were to communicate directly to him. Sean’s eyebrows rose! He had never seen a wolf act like this before. She absolutely mystified him!
“What the hell?” Sean saw something in the beam of his flashlight that he almost missed. The grey-coloured wolf had something hanging from her neck. He saw a grey object against the white fur of her throat.
“Oh my God!” His eyes went wide. “No! It can’t be!”
The wolf was wearing an entrance key.
Sean changed clothes in a flurry of motion and ran down the stairs as furtively as the impatient young man could possibly go. By the front door, he put on his boots and dark brown leather jacket. His Golden Labrador Retriever did not come to see him off this time. His loveable pet slept soundly in his bed box behind the stairs. “Some guard dog you are,” Sean whispered, which was not fair, because his father had never intended for Halifax to be one.
Sean took out his d-rifle from its cabinet beside the door and slung it over his left shoulder for an easy right-handed draw. His Hunter’s Education Course instructor trained him to use his Gwynn 10 mm the same way the Fleet Army used their Greenfields. He shoved his gloves on and jammed his close-fitting, dark brown woollen toque on his head. He raced out the front door and ran around the south side of the house to the backyard where he saw the wolf last.
He found her still beneath his window, as if waiting for him.
In an instant, Sean had his weapon in both hands and aimed along the sights of his deadly disintegrator rifle, but he had no intention to shoot this mystery. He turned on the light attached to the bottom of the barrel of his Gwynn to see the entrance key around her neck more clearly. “Who put that there, girl?” he asked without expecting a reply. ‘If only she could talk,’ he thought.
The wolf did not like having the light shining in her eyes. She turned away, loped off across the backyard, and ran into the sheep yard, passing easily through the backyard forcefield fence. Her presence disturbed the sheep and they fled in the opposite direction, baaing in protest, but the wolf did not go near them. She merely ran out the sheep yard, able to pass through the outer farm fence with her entrance key.
Sean raced after the wolf. He ran through the sheep yard and leapt trustingly through the second forcefield to clear the rocks piled up on the other side that prevented predators from digging underneath the fence. He wondered about that entrance key! Only Sean’s father, Colin Archer, could program the keys to allow entry into his farm. Only the Archers and the Fosters across the street had access to such keys and only one of them was missing.
That key went missing five years ago when two-year-old Erren was lost in the forest. Colin never deleted its authorization, hoping Erren would somehow find his way back home.
“How the hell did that wolf get that key?!” wondered Sean as he ran.
Sean pursued the wolf with zeal up the hill and into the great Mississauga Forest with his d-rifle’s flashlight the only light in the blackness. He thought about how unwelcome the forest had seemed the past year. Recently, it had seemed as if the forest had spoken to him, telling him to, ‘Go home,’ and, ‘Leave,’ making him think his sanity was becoming as lost as his brother, but crazy or not, this time the wolf seemed to be an open invitation!
Sean ran like hell until he found it hard to catch his breath, yet the wolf kept going. “Wait!” he cried, huffing and puffing.
The wolf did not respond.
The young man was strong from many long hikes and he had run quite a distance, but he had pushed himself beyond his limits. His legs and lungs were burning, but even though he tried to force himself to go farther, he eventually just collapsed in the snow. The wolf did not wait for him and disappeared out of sight.
Sean was exhausted. “Damn it!” he exclaimed breathlessly, pounding his fist in the snow. Wolves had the endurance to outrun the fittest human.
As Sean rested his forehead on one arm while he regained his strength, he realized with apprehension that the black forest surrounded him in the dead of night as he chased after what might be a ghost. Maybe he had cracked. Maybe this was his final breakdown. He had been searching for Erren for five years and now he chased after what could not be. Perhaps the gods were mocking him. Maybe they will send the White Bird of Death for him this night.
About to cry in despair again, as he did yesterday when he lost all hope, he instead pounded his fist in the snow and angrily forced it down. “No!” he said and pushed himself to his feet. He pointed his d-rifle down to shine the flashlight on the snow to look for the wolf’s tracks. They were there. They were real. He followed them at his own pace, confident in his tracking abilities.
He slung his d-rifle over his left shoulder and took out his pocket tracker. On its screen, the rectangular device indicated the wolf as a blinking dot, flashing white and red alternately because the white indicated the entrance key and the red warned of the predator. It was getting farther and farther ahead. Using his right index finger, which his glove did not cover, Sean touched the screen of his tracker where the dot was to zoom in on it. He had to press twice before the tracker zoomed in enough to display the identifier within the entrance key the she-wolf was wearing.
The full-screen readout showed: Erren Tristan Archer, 1903 Longview Road, Oakville, Ontario …
Sean did not need to know the rest. That confirmed the wolf wore the missing key. What remained of the dark depression that had almost drowned him yesterday was gone in that instant. His purpose and hope were completely renewed. His weary spirit brightened up. In fact, he felt energized!
“Oh my dear God!” said Sean, shoving the tracker back in his pocket and marching on with d-rifle in hand. That settled it! “I am going to track you down until the end of the world or I’ll die trying! I swear to God in Heaven! You are not getting away from me, wolf! I’ve hunted down bigger game than you!”
May 23, 2013
Guest Author, Erren Grey Wolf
Today, welcome Erren Grey Wolf, author of the Beneath the Surface series, two of which book are available: The Lost Boy and Long Lost Brother. Come back tomorrow for a sample of her work.
First of all, is Erren Grey Wolf really your name, or is it a pen name?
I legally changed my name to Erren Grey Wolf. My original name was so popular that there were two of us with the same first and last name at the walk-in clinic I used to go to, which made me worried if they ever got our files mixed up! I wanted to have a unique name. Erren is an old word for Ireland, and Grey Wolf is my Totem.
Tell us a little about yourself.
Personally? I have Bipolar Disorder, which I think has made me more creative, but at the same time, it’s a nightmare. I would not be able to function without medicine.
What made you want to become a writer?
I did not at first want to become a writer. I wanted to be an artist, but after my second breakdown in 2004-5, I had to take Lithium, which made my hands shake. This forced me to quit art school. That was a very painful decision, and I mourned the loss of my artistic talent. However, my creativity demanded an outlet, and I set down to writing the stories I have had in my head since I was a teenager. Once I began writing seriously, my imagination exploded and what started as one paragraph has now become a series of at least 10 books!
Your novel Long-Lost Brother contains poetry between chapters, can you tell us your inspiration for writing it that way?
I wrote about some sorrowful things and poems just sprang naturally from them to describe situations in a different way. My stories inspired my poems. It gives me another way to express my creativity.
You make a lot of references to Norse Mythology in your book. Can you talk about that and how it impacts the novel?
I love mythology. I was quite the nerd in high school and used to spend lunch hours in the library studying mythology. My books have both Celtic and Norse mythology within them. For example: Sean’s disintegrator rifle is called a Gwynn 10 millimetre. Gwynn ap Nudd is the Welsh leader of the Wild Hunt. In the first book, The Lost Boy, Sean has a dream about the Stagman taking him along on the Wild Hunt when he was searching for his brother in the forest. Within the second book, I use the stag as a symbol for Sean, the hunter, as if he were the leader of the Wild Hunt himself. When the enemy captures Erren in the fourth book, Wolfboy, Sean again plays the hunter as he searches for his missing brother.
As for Norse mythology, I named all the planets and the days of the week after Norse gods. In the sixth book, The Dragon Assassin, when Erren is turned into an assassin, he has a Viking 9 mm as a disintegrator handgun to symbolize how Viking marauders used to invade foreign countries to kill. He also has a Surtfyre sword. Surt was the Viking fire giant with a flaming blade and “fyre” is the Norwegian word for “fire.” His blade burns so hot it glows white and can slice through anything.
As yet, I only have the first two books published, but as you can see, I have the series all planned out. Most of it is already written and just needs polishing. I hope to have the third book out by the end of this year.
Your novel contains a mixture of science fiction and fantasy. Can you talk about that blend and what drew you to write in a mixed genre?
I never intended to write in any particular genre at all. I wrote the stories in my head, and they just came out that way. I love science fiction and fantasy stories, so I guess their influence merged into a crossover genre.
You named one of your main characters after yourself. Is this because you saw yourself in him? Or is there some other reason?
When I was a teenager, I had many problems with my Bipolar Disorder, which was at that point undiagnosed. My concentration grew worse in my high school years, and I often could not stay focused on my homework. I ended up many times retreating into a corner behind my desk and just sat there daydreaming about being another person in another place. I daydreamt about the two brothers, Sean and Erren. Erren was always getting into trouble or getting wounded, and Sean was always there to rescue and heal him. Perhaps some part of me wished someone would rescue and heal me. I identified with Erren so completely that I later took his name for my own. When I changed my name, I never realized at the time that I would actually write these stories. Now that I am writing them, it’s kind of weird that one of the characters has the same name as myself, but I wouldn’t change his name to anything else. He is my alter ego.
What other inspirations lie behind your book?
I believe my stories welled up from my subconscious and presented my problems to me in a symbolic way. There’s a lot of truth in my stories, if you read between the lines. My whole life is in this series. There’s a lot of sorrow and trauma that has been put together in a symbolic and creative way.
Are your characters based off real people, or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
Erren, of course, is my alter ego. Sean … I don’t know where he came from. Perhaps he is my wiser, Higher Self? Perhaps he is that part of me that is trying to heal me?
Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?
Sean is my favourite. He is the loving brother I never had. My own brother is a real asshole.
What is the biggest surprise that you experienced after becoming a writer?
That I would write such a huge saga of at least 10 books! I started with a single chapter in an autobiography! That chapter grew so big that I stopped working on my autobiography to work solely on my science fiction/fantasy stories.
Is there any particular author or book that influenced you either growing up or as an adult?
I love J.R.R. Tolkien and Isaac Asimov. I love the Lord of the Rings. That is also based on a mythological story.
Do you have a day job in addition to being a writer? If so, what do you do during the day?
I write all day, almost every day.
What is your favorite writing tip or quote?
“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don't we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we're partisans of liberty, then it's our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!” J. R. R. Tolkien
Tell us a little about your plans for the future. Do you have any other books in the works?
My future is to publish all the books in my saga. As I have mentioned, I have about 10 books so far.
Where can we find you online?
Website
Facebook
Twitter
Amazon
Barnes & Noble Smashwords
First of all, is Erren Grey Wolf really your name, or is it a pen name?I legally changed my name to Erren Grey Wolf. My original name was so popular that there were two of us with the same first and last name at the walk-in clinic I used to go to, which made me worried if they ever got our files mixed up! I wanted to have a unique name. Erren is an old word for Ireland, and Grey Wolf is my Totem.
Tell us a little about yourself.
Personally? I have Bipolar Disorder, which I think has made me more creative, but at the same time, it’s a nightmare. I would not be able to function without medicine.
What made you want to become a writer?
I did not at first want to become a writer. I wanted to be an artist, but after my second breakdown in 2004-5, I had to take Lithium, which made my hands shake. This forced me to quit art school. That was a very painful decision, and I mourned the loss of my artistic talent. However, my creativity demanded an outlet, and I set down to writing the stories I have had in my head since I was a teenager. Once I began writing seriously, my imagination exploded and what started as one paragraph has now become a series of at least 10 books!
Your novel Long-Lost Brother contains poetry between chapters, can you tell us your inspiration for writing it that way?
I wrote about some sorrowful things and poems just sprang naturally from them to describe situations in a different way. My stories inspired my poems. It gives me another way to express my creativity.
You make a lot of references to Norse Mythology in your book. Can you talk about that and how it impacts the novel?
I love mythology. I was quite the nerd in high school and used to spend lunch hours in the library studying mythology. My books have both Celtic and Norse mythology within them. For example: Sean’s disintegrator rifle is called a Gwynn 10 millimetre. Gwynn ap Nudd is the Welsh leader of the Wild Hunt. In the first book, The Lost Boy, Sean has a dream about the Stagman taking him along on the Wild Hunt when he was searching for his brother in the forest. Within the second book, I use the stag as a symbol for Sean, the hunter, as if he were the leader of the Wild Hunt himself. When the enemy captures Erren in the fourth book, Wolfboy, Sean again plays the hunter as he searches for his missing brother.
As for Norse mythology, I named all the planets and the days of the week after Norse gods. In the sixth book, The Dragon Assassin, when Erren is turned into an assassin, he has a Viking 9 mm as a disintegrator handgun to symbolize how Viking marauders used to invade foreign countries to kill. He also has a Surtfyre sword. Surt was the Viking fire giant with a flaming blade and “fyre” is the Norwegian word for “fire.” His blade burns so hot it glows white and can slice through anything.
As yet, I only have the first two books published, but as you can see, I have the series all planned out. Most of it is already written and just needs polishing. I hope to have the third book out by the end of this year.
Your novel contains a mixture of science fiction and fantasy. Can you talk about that blend and what drew you to write in a mixed genre?
I never intended to write in any particular genre at all. I wrote the stories in my head, and they just came out that way. I love science fiction and fantasy stories, so I guess their influence merged into a crossover genre.
You named one of your main characters after yourself. Is this because you saw yourself in him? Or is there some other reason?
When I was a teenager, I had many problems with my Bipolar Disorder, which was at that point undiagnosed. My concentration grew worse in my high school years, and I often could not stay focused on my homework. I ended up many times retreating into a corner behind my desk and just sat there daydreaming about being another person in another place. I daydreamt about the two brothers, Sean and Erren. Erren was always getting into trouble or getting wounded, and Sean was always there to rescue and heal him. Perhaps some part of me wished someone would rescue and heal me. I identified with Erren so completely that I later took his name for my own. When I changed my name, I never realized at the time that I would actually write these stories. Now that I am writing them, it’s kind of weird that one of the characters has the same name as myself, but I wouldn’t change his name to anything else. He is my alter ego.
What other inspirations lie behind your book?
I believe my stories welled up from my subconscious and presented my problems to me in a symbolic way. There’s a lot of truth in my stories, if you read between the lines. My whole life is in this series. There’s a lot of sorrow and trauma that has been put together in a symbolic and creative way.
Are your characters based off real people, or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
Erren, of course, is my alter ego. Sean … I don’t know where he came from. Perhaps he is my wiser, Higher Self? Perhaps he is that part of me that is trying to heal me?
Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?
Sean is my favourite. He is the loving brother I never had. My own brother is a real asshole.
What is the biggest surprise that you experienced after becoming a writer?
That I would write such a huge saga of at least 10 books! I started with a single chapter in an autobiography! That chapter grew so big that I stopped working on my autobiography to work solely on my science fiction/fantasy stories.
Is there any particular author or book that influenced you either growing up or as an adult?
I love J.R.R. Tolkien and Isaac Asimov. I love the Lord of the Rings. That is also based on a mythological story.
Do you have a day job in addition to being a writer? If so, what do you do during the day?
I write all day, almost every day.
What is your favorite writing tip or quote?
“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don't we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we're partisans of liberty, then it's our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!” J. R. R. Tolkien
Tell us a little about your plans for the future. Do you have any other books in the works?
My future is to publish all the books in my saga. As I have mentioned, I have about 10 books so far.
Where can we find you online?
Website
Amazon
Barnes & Noble Smashwords
May 17, 2013
Tunnel W, Excerpt
Yesterday, we chatted with Michele M. Reynolds. Today read an excerpt from Tunnel W.
Excerpt:
FREE On Smashwords
Tunnel W- After being forced to run into a high-risk prison tunnel, a fearless woman uses the two officers who chased her in there to help her escape.
"I can't believe they bucketed me,” she thought. She never thought she would be a Relo. She swore she would not be a victim, but here she was captured and eating carpet. The carpet smelled like rock salt. Her face look toward the front seat. She could see a dime under the black seat. Her hands were strapped behind her back by electronic cuffs. Four large shoes attached to two large people were on her back and legs. "It is hard enough to sit up from this position, let alone fight," she thought. "That's probably why they have me like this." She was glad she had positioned her belt buckle to her left hip. Nobody ever wears their belt buckle in the center anymore in case of being bucketed. Bucketed that is what they call being thrown in the back of a car with bucket seats. She didn't even remember that it was the 1st of the month. She had been told by elders that the 1st of the month used to just meant turning your calendar to a new picture of a cute kitten or beautiful landscape. Now it means that you better turn and run and watch your back. You never knew when it was going to be your turn to be bucketed. It was a 1 in a 1,000 chance in her city.There was a sharp pain in her knee."Lay off the knee you Swabby!" she managed to yell from the floor mats. The Swabby on her knee lifted up his or her feet and placed them lower on her calf. The Swabby with her feet on her back pushed harder and leaned down close to her head."Listen here, Relo," the Swabby said through her gritted teeth. "We don't have to take anything from you. We have lost many lives during transfer. It is nothing to us. We can hit you again if you want." "Look Amazon, let's not let the estrogen run wild in here," she answered. "No reason for me to piss all over your van." Then that Swabby grabbed her hand and twisted it hard. A surge went up her arm, but she refused to scream."Easy," the other Swabby said. It was a young man's voice. "She will bring us a lot of points. She is in good shape. I need the points, so easy, easy.""Hear that sweetie," Amazon Swabby said. "Your lucky my partner here is sticking up for you.""Look just take these cuffs off me, and you and I can go toe to toe, Amazon," she answered. Amazon Swabby scoffed."Nothing like that will happen," the male Cutie Swabby interjected. "I have the taser on the highest level.” She heard the clicking of the taser gun. "Got it?""Got it," she answered. "Hey, can we at least stop for some fries?" She loved that saying. She had no idea what fries tasted like, but remembered them from some old 1990's movies."Get her prints," Amazon Swabby ordered. Guy Swabby grabbed her hands and gently slid her fingers into something that felt like have a soft, plastic glove. The glove tightened on her hand and she smiled."Whhhattt?" Cutie Swabby said."Is it one of those hard to pronounce names," Amazon Swabby asked as her voice trailed. She was looking out the back window."Nope," Cutie Swabby answered."Fingerprints removed?" Amazon Swabby asked."Nope there are fingerprints alright," Cutie Swabby answered. "According to this, she is five people." "Let me see that," Amazon Swabby answered as she grabbed the fingerprint translator from him. "Okay, so Janis Joplin, Cassie Cain, Penny Parker, Harriet Truman and Alannah Scott. So which one is it honey?" Amazon Swabby called down to her and dug the heel of her boot into her back. “Take your pick,” she answered as she chuckled. “How do people address you?” Cutie Swabby asked. He actually seemed puzzled. “They don't,” she answered.“I am sending this in about Ms. Five here,” Amazon Swabby said.“Sindi, we. . . what,” Cutie Swabby said and then whispered. “I have never run into this.”This statement was followed by silence. She heard some light ticking on something and realized Sindi was probably typing a message into base.“Vizio, they said to take her into Tunnel W,” Sindi said.“What?” Vizio asked. “Is that necessary? She is just a . . . girl.”“Orders,” Sindi said.She lay on the floor under their feet with just the sounds of the road funneling through her left ear. She could see the black shoes of the driver up front. The driver's right foot pushed on the gas and left foot tapped lightly as if to the beat of music. She thought about how music, singing, and dancing helped people through many tough times. She thought about busting into song but knew that would drive Sindi's heel harder into her back. She was going to Tunnel W. It must be a terrifying place. She heard the quiver in Vizio's voice. The car turned onto a gravel road. Sindi moved forward and tapped the hard, plastic divider between the back and front seat.“Tunnel W!” Sindi yelled. The car veered a hard right.As her face lay against the rug, she felt her adrenaline kick in. She slowly started moving her wrists back and forth trying to loosen the restraints. She attempted to pull her wrists away from each other the restraints got tighter. “Sweetie, you are going to get your wrists cut-off if you keep struggling. So struggle all you want,” Sindi laughed. “They are mechanical, electronic ya' know,” Vizio said. “Stop struggling.”She said nothing. They stopped and she could hear the driver roll down the window and share words with someone. It sounded like two guys speaking. She tried to lift her head and to look at the guard. Sindi pushed her feet into her slamming her to the floor. “Easy there Amazon!” she said. “Save it for your husband.”“You know you will get what you deserve. You should be scared,” Sindi's voice grew to a whisper. “I wouldn't even step foot into Tunnel W.”A small horn sounded and she heard what she thought was a gate opening. Her adrenaline was kicking in faster. She steadied her breathe, closed her eyes, and smiled. The car stopped and Sindi got out first. As she stepped out she put extra pressure on her captives back, and pushed the palm of her hand into the back of her captive's head. Sindi slammed the door shut.“Easy now,” Vizio said. “Don't make me zap you.” Vizio opened the door. “Ok get up on your knees and I will guide you out.” She got on her knees. Vizio grabbed her wrists and pulled her backwards out of the van. Vizio led her a few steps away from the van. Before her stood a man in a brown suit, another man in what seemed to be a guard uniform, and a woman about six feet tall. She guest the woman was Sindi. Vizio stood behind her still holding her wrists that were fastened behind her.“This her?” the man in the suit asked. He had brown and gray hair and a receding hairline. His face wore many wrinkles.“This is she,” she answered. “Feisty huh?” the suit asked.“Yes, sir,” Vizio answered. “But no problem picking her up. I am thinking that this must be some misunderstanding. I don't think she is Tunnel W level.”“Officer?” the suit man asked as he looked at Sindi.“No problem, just a big mouth, sir,” she answered. With that the man in the business suit waived the guard off and the guard walked over to a booth 100 feet away. She looked around her. They were in the middle of what looked like a common. In front of her was a wall made of gray, square rocks. It looked to be about 200 feet tall. In the middle of wall was an opening with an arced entryway. Behind her was the road from which she came down. There was a weird blue hue that tainted the trees and mountains.“Surrounded by a force field,” Vizio whispered to her. “You don't want to get within ten feet of that.”A few guards emerged from a building attached to the wall. They were about 100 yards away. She looked back at the man in the business suit. He was squinting with the sun behind her. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.“I am assuming I should,” she answered.“Yes you should,” he answered. “I am High Commander, Sam Day. I run the tunnels.”“You must be fit,” she answered. “You know all that running.” He let out a short laugh and said, “Now your turn.”“Turn?” she asked. “Turn to introduce yourself,” he answered. “That was rather clever with your aliases.”“Did you guys know them?” Sam asked Vizio and Sindi.“No sir,” Vizio answered and Sindi just shook her head.“One of them was a druggie a hundred years ago,” Sam said.“Janis Joplin, musician,” she said over her shoulder to Vizio. He tightened his grip on her wrists.“One of them was the name for cat woman or bat woman or something,” Sam continued.“Cassie Cain,” she said as she turned to Sindi. “She would kick your ass.” Sindi's lips formed a snarl. “Then there were two names that were tough,” Sam said. “But with some time I found it. The female versions of Spiderman and the Green Lantern.”“Nobody reads comics anymore. It is such a shame,” she said as she moved her wrist apart and the restraints got tighter.“Stop squirming,” Vizio whispered. “I can't loosen them on you.” The guards were only 20 yards from them at this time. One of the guards slowed as he saw her. He put his arm out and stopped the other guard and seemed to say something to him.“And then there was Tubman,” Sam said as he looked at her.“Queen of the underground railroad,” she said to all of them.The approaching guards turned pale and reached for their weapons. She was the only one that noticed the fear in their eyes.“Rebel,” one of the approaching guards said. “Rebel!” he yelled. Sam's eyes went wide. Vizio tightened his grip on her wrists. “Rebel?” Sam asked. “You?”
Tunnel W is FREE on Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/searc...
Michele M. Reynolds is author of three publications Trail Swap, Off-Trail, and Tunnel W. These can be found on Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble
Check-out her blog at mmreynolds.blogspot.com.
Excerpt:
FREE On Smashwords
Tunnel W- After being forced to run into a high-risk prison tunnel, a fearless woman uses the two officers who chased her in there to help her escape.
"I can't believe they bucketed me,” she thought. She never thought she would be a Relo. She swore she would not be a victim, but here she was captured and eating carpet. The carpet smelled like rock salt. Her face look toward the front seat. She could see a dime under the black seat. Her hands were strapped behind her back by electronic cuffs. Four large shoes attached to two large people were on her back and legs. "It is hard enough to sit up from this position, let alone fight," she thought. "That's probably why they have me like this." She was glad she had positioned her belt buckle to her left hip. Nobody ever wears their belt buckle in the center anymore in case of being bucketed. Bucketed that is what they call being thrown in the back of a car with bucket seats. She didn't even remember that it was the 1st of the month. She had been told by elders that the 1st of the month used to just meant turning your calendar to a new picture of a cute kitten or beautiful landscape. Now it means that you better turn and run and watch your back. You never knew when it was going to be your turn to be bucketed. It was a 1 in a 1,000 chance in her city.There was a sharp pain in her knee."Lay off the knee you Swabby!" she managed to yell from the floor mats. The Swabby on her knee lifted up his or her feet and placed them lower on her calf. The Swabby with her feet on her back pushed harder and leaned down close to her head."Listen here, Relo," the Swabby said through her gritted teeth. "We don't have to take anything from you. We have lost many lives during transfer. It is nothing to us. We can hit you again if you want." "Look Amazon, let's not let the estrogen run wild in here," she answered. "No reason for me to piss all over your van." Then that Swabby grabbed her hand and twisted it hard. A surge went up her arm, but she refused to scream."Easy," the other Swabby said. It was a young man's voice. "She will bring us a lot of points. She is in good shape. I need the points, so easy, easy.""Hear that sweetie," Amazon Swabby said. "Your lucky my partner here is sticking up for you.""Look just take these cuffs off me, and you and I can go toe to toe, Amazon," she answered. Amazon Swabby scoffed."Nothing like that will happen," the male Cutie Swabby interjected. "I have the taser on the highest level.” She heard the clicking of the taser gun. "Got it?""Got it," she answered. "Hey, can we at least stop for some fries?" She loved that saying. She had no idea what fries tasted like, but remembered them from some old 1990's movies."Get her prints," Amazon Swabby ordered. Guy Swabby grabbed her hands and gently slid her fingers into something that felt like have a soft, plastic glove. The glove tightened on her hand and she smiled."Whhhattt?" Cutie Swabby said."Is it one of those hard to pronounce names," Amazon Swabby asked as her voice trailed. She was looking out the back window."Nope," Cutie Swabby answered."Fingerprints removed?" Amazon Swabby asked."Nope there are fingerprints alright," Cutie Swabby answered. "According to this, she is five people." "Let me see that," Amazon Swabby answered as she grabbed the fingerprint translator from him. "Okay, so Janis Joplin, Cassie Cain, Penny Parker, Harriet Truman and Alannah Scott. So which one is it honey?" Amazon Swabby called down to her and dug the heel of her boot into her back. “Take your pick,” she answered as she chuckled. “How do people address you?” Cutie Swabby asked. He actually seemed puzzled. “They don't,” she answered.“I am sending this in about Ms. Five here,” Amazon Swabby said.“Sindi, we. . . what,” Cutie Swabby said and then whispered. “I have never run into this.”This statement was followed by silence. She heard some light ticking on something and realized Sindi was probably typing a message into base.“Vizio, they said to take her into Tunnel W,” Sindi said.“What?” Vizio asked. “Is that necessary? She is just a . . . girl.”“Orders,” Sindi said.She lay on the floor under their feet with just the sounds of the road funneling through her left ear. She could see the black shoes of the driver up front. The driver's right foot pushed on the gas and left foot tapped lightly as if to the beat of music. She thought about how music, singing, and dancing helped people through many tough times. She thought about busting into song but knew that would drive Sindi's heel harder into her back. She was going to Tunnel W. It must be a terrifying place. She heard the quiver in Vizio's voice. The car turned onto a gravel road. Sindi moved forward and tapped the hard, plastic divider between the back and front seat.“Tunnel W!” Sindi yelled. The car veered a hard right.As her face lay against the rug, she felt her adrenaline kick in. She slowly started moving her wrists back and forth trying to loosen the restraints. She attempted to pull her wrists away from each other the restraints got tighter. “Sweetie, you are going to get your wrists cut-off if you keep struggling. So struggle all you want,” Sindi laughed. “They are mechanical, electronic ya' know,” Vizio said. “Stop struggling.”She said nothing. They stopped and she could hear the driver roll down the window and share words with someone. It sounded like two guys speaking. She tried to lift her head and to look at the guard. Sindi pushed her feet into her slamming her to the floor. “Easy there Amazon!” she said. “Save it for your husband.”“You know you will get what you deserve. You should be scared,” Sindi's voice grew to a whisper. “I wouldn't even step foot into Tunnel W.”A small horn sounded and she heard what she thought was a gate opening. Her adrenaline was kicking in faster. She steadied her breathe, closed her eyes, and smiled. The car stopped and Sindi got out first. As she stepped out she put extra pressure on her captives back, and pushed the palm of her hand into the back of her captive's head. Sindi slammed the door shut.“Easy now,” Vizio said. “Don't make me zap you.” Vizio opened the door. “Ok get up on your knees and I will guide you out.” She got on her knees. Vizio grabbed her wrists and pulled her backwards out of the van. Vizio led her a few steps away from the van. Before her stood a man in a brown suit, another man in what seemed to be a guard uniform, and a woman about six feet tall. She guest the woman was Sindi. Vizio stood behind her still holding her wrists that were fastened behind her.“This her?” the man in the suit asked. He had brown and gray hair and a receding hairline. His face wore many wrinkles.“This is she,” she answered. “Feisty huh?” the suit asked.“Yes, sir,” Vizio answered. “But no problem picking her up. I am thinking that this must be some misunderstanding. I don't think she is Tunnel W level.”“Officer?” the suit man asked as he looked at Sindi.“No problem, just a big mouth, sir,” she answered. With that the man in the business suit waived the guard off and the guard walked over to a booth 100 feet away. She looked around her. They were in the middle of what looked like a common. In front of her was a wall made of gray, square rocks. It looked to be about 200 feet tall. In the middle of wall was an opening with an arced entryway. Behind her was the road from which she came down. There was a weird blue hue that tainted the trees and mountains.“Surrounded by a force field,” Vizio whispered to her. “You don't want to get within ten feet of that.”A few guards emerged from a building attached to the wall. They were about 100 yards away. She looked back at the man in the business suit. He was squinting with the sun behind her. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.“I am assuming I should,” she answered.“Yes you should,” he answered. “I am High Commander, Sam Day. I run the tunnels.”“You must be fit,” she answered. “You know all that running.” He let out a short laugh and said, “Now your turn.”“Turn?” she asked. “Turn to introduce yourself,” he answered. “That was rather clever with your aliases.”“Did you guys know them?” Sam asked Vizio and Sindi.“No sir,” Vizio answered and Sindi just shook her head.“One of them was a druggie a hundred years ago,” Sam said.“Janis Joplin, musician,” she said over her shoulder to Vizio. He tightened his grip on her wrists.“One of them was the name for cat woman or bat woman or something,” Sam continued.“Cassie Cain,” she said as she turned to Sindi. “She would kick your ass.” Sindi's lips formed a snarl. “Then there were two names that were tough,” Sam said. “But with some time I found it. The female versions of Spiderman and the Green Lantern.”“Nobody reads comics anymore. It is such a shame,” she said as she moved her wrist apart and the restraints got tighter.“Stop squirming,” Vizio whispered. “I can't loosen them on you.” The guards were only 20 yards from them at this time. One of the guards slowed as he saw her. He put his arm out and stopped the other guard and seemed to say something to him.“And then there was Tubman,” Sam said as he looked at her.“Queen of the underground railroad,” she said to all of them.The approaching guards turned pale and reached for their weapons. She was the only one that noticed the fear in their eyes.“Rebel,” one of the approaching guards said. “Rebel!” he yelled. Sam's eyes went wide. Vizio tightened his grip on her wrists. “Rebel?” Sam asked. “You?”
Tunnel W is FREE on Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/searc...
Michele M. Reynolds is author of three publications Trail Swap, Off-Trail, and Tunnel W. These can be found on Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble
Check-out her blog at mmreynolds.blogspot.com.
May 16, 2013
Michele M. Reynolds, Guest Author
Today, welcome Michele M. Reynolds, author of Trail Swap. Tomorrow come back for a sample of her work.
Tell us a little about yourself?
I grew-up in NJ but have lived in PA, NC, FL, and now Massachusetts. Right after undergrad I started doing work with kids and never looked back. I live at home with my family of 10 (don't panic this includes a dog and 4 cats.)
What made you want to become a writer?
I love reading about different worlds, characters, and adventures. I love even more being the creator of things like that. I love that ideas just pour out of me onto the computer screen that I was not expecting. I write some dialogue or scene and think, "Where did that come from?" Those are wonderful moments.
What genre do your works fall into?
Today I wrote a list. Right under Buy Mangos I wrote figure out what genre you fall into. I am not joking you. My best bet right now is GENERAL FICTION.
What about this genre appeals to you?
I like fiction because it has such creative freedom. I, however, one day might write a nonfiction book.
Could you tell us a bit about your most recent book and why it is a must-read?
Number one reason: Every time I re-read the book I was entertained and laughing at parts. I found myself pretty clever and hilarious.
Trail Swap is about an amusing woman who tries to find new direction in life while hiking the Appalachian Trail (AT) and battles her fears of life's broken hearts. It has outdoors action, some romance, a lot of humor, family issues, and a boatload of fun characters.*I also have Off-Trail & Tunnel W for FREE on Smashwords.
What gives you inspiration for your book?
Trail Swap is two stories in one, so there are different inspirations. One is my love of hiking the AT and the love for the trail culture. The second inspiration was my time living in North Carolina. I lived in a small town in western North Carolinawhere the southern hospitality was wonderful.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
Little pieces of the characters are based on real people. The most notable was Tucker a 10 year old going on 20. He is based on my nephew Aaron and named after one of my mentors. The rest of the people are just random people who pass me in a supermarket or are completely made-up.
Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?
I have been asked that before. I have to say at this point, Tucker. He is very witty and such an old man. I love the relationship him and Farryn create. It reminds me of my nephew and my relationship when he was growing up.
What is the biggest surprise that you experienced after becoming a writer?
That strangers would read my book and write a critique that said "I could not put it down." The negative was that there were people whom I was close to would not read the book. If one of my friends wrote a book, I would read it. I will still keep them on the friends list though.
Is there any particular author or book that influenced you either growing up or as an adult?
Recently, I really like the Book Thief. I love Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, Barbara Kingslove, and Margaret Atwood. I hope to be half the writer as they are. I love Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut. How the character writes the book on scraps pieces of papers. That is classic. Together each of them have qualities of writing fearlessly, humorously, and entertaining.
Do you have a day job in addition to being a writer? If so, what do you do during the day?
I am a supervisor in an outreach clinical team. I supervise therapists' clinical decisions and assign families to teams of outreach workers. I love the organization I work for, and I love our team. My favorite part is helping them learn and grow.
What is your favorite writing tip or quote?
This is a GREAT question. I know this seems simplistic, but "Show Don't Tell." That is basic advice, but some seasoned authors still TELL INSTEAD of showing.
Tell us a little about your plans for the future. Do you have any other books in the works?
Boy do I! If I could quit my day job (that I love) and just write, I would. I am currently getting Trail Swap ready for print. I, also, have a long list of book ideas.I writing a book about the Evergladeswilderness camp in the 2040's. There is a tough woman with some moxie that enters this corrupt, invalidating world and bites off a little more than she can chew. I used to be a wilderness counselor in Florida so I am drawing on that personal experience. I am hoping to have it ready to be out August 2013.
Where can we find you online?
Blog
Twitter: @MReynolds42
Smashwords Off-Trail & Tunnel W FREE
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
May 10, 2013
Fractured by Tim Ouellette, an excerpt
Yesterday Tim Ouellette talked to us about the benefits of cross genre writing. Today read an excerpt from his collection of horror fiction and poetry, Fractured. If you like the excerpt, why not try out the book.
Blurb:
Demonic children. A husband on the brink of insanity. A woman whose obsession brings her back from the dead . . . night after night. Fractured is a collection of horror fiction & poetry that seeks to delve into the darkest regions of the human mind.
Excerpt:DemontiaByTim Ouellette
From “Fractured”, a collection of Dark FictionPaul McGowan sat in the passenger seat of his wife’s black Dodge Caravan, his forehead pressed firmly to the cold glass. The sun was setting as he stared, unblinking, out the side window at the houses and trees passing by. The last time he had been on this road was August; he’d been delusional and in the back of an ambulance, strapped to a gurney. Screaming.It was October now and most of the leaves had turned color and fallen victim to either gravity or entropy. Those not quite in the grip of the former flipped and turned in sharp bursts of frenetic energy, a stiff wind driving them forward in violent displays of brilliant, bleeding-red and burnt-orange.An architectural engineer for a large firm in downtown Boston, Paul had spent the better part of his life coloring safely inside the lines. Logic and reason had dictated his existence for as long as he could remember. Paul had a habit of reducing everything in his life down to very specific, precise patterns. Deviation was not an option.One could say that, up until now, Paul’s life had been the very antithesis of chaos and disorder. Beverly pulled into the driveway of their modest split-level home and turned off the ignition. She dropped the keys into her pocketbook. Paul sat up and rubbed his neck. Beverly turned to her husband and smiled; it was forced, thin. The engine continued to tick for a moment and then was quiet. “Are you sure you’re ok?”Paul nodded without answering. Lowering his eyes he wiped his palms on the clean, crisp blue jeans his wife had brought to the hospital; this left two sweat-stained smear marks running from his upper thighs to his knees. He checked his shirt pocket for his medication, jiggling the small, cylindrical plastic container. The pills that had stopped his delusions and pulled him from the brink of insanity rattled around like plastic beads in a child’s toy.He wiped his hands on his jeans again. I’ll have to wash these now, he thought absently. He pressed his left hand to his temple, rubbing counter-clockwise in slow, deliberate circles. He turned to look at his wife. She was staring out the windshield now, waiting patiently for him to finish. He cleared his throat. “I’m ok.”She continued staring ahead. “Alright then; let’s go inside. Alyssa’s waiting Alyssa’s waiting she’s been waiting waiting so long and now you’re here and she’s so hungry for you inside.” Paul opened the van door and stepped out. The moon was rising, casting their familiar surroundings in shadow. Beverly came around the other side of the van, held out her hand, and together they approached the house. Trimmed hedges surrounded a well-maintained front yard; a brick walkway ran from the driveway to the front steps. The house, dark-blue with white trim, sat at the end of a cul-de-sac in an affluent suburb of Boston. An autumn wreath hung on the outside of the front door. Beverly grasped the doorknob and turned. The front door opened into a darkened foyer; there was a light on in the adjoining room but it couldn’t quite penetrate the deepening shadows.
Paul peered into the dark. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He could just make out the shape of someone crouching in the center of the darkened foyer and could hear the sound of rapid breathing. Beverly smiled. “There you are honey; come out and say hello to your father.” The figure shifted forward slightly and scuttled to its left, cocking its head first to the left, then to the right, like a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle. Paul shook his head from side to side. “No…I can’t…this can’t be happening,” he whispered. The darkness parted as something slowly separated itself from the shadows. “Daaadddyyy….”
Blurb:Demonic children. A husband on the brink of insanity. A woman whose obsession brings her back from the dead . . . night after night. Fractured is a collection of horror fiction & poetry that seeks to delve into the darkest regions of the human mind.
Excerpt:DemontiaByTim Ouellette
From “Fractured”, a collection of Dark FictionPaul McGowan sat in the passenger seat of his wife’s black Dodge Caravan, his forehead pressed firmly to the cold glass. The sun was setting as he stared, unblinking, out the side window at the houses and trees passing by. The last time he had been on this road was August; he’d been delusional and in the back of an ambulance, strapped to a gurney. Screaming.It was October now and most of the leaves had turned color and fallen victim to either gravity or entropy. Those not quite in the grip of the former flipped and turned in sharp bursts of frenetic energy, a stiff wind driving them forward in violent displays of brilliant, bleeding-red and burnt-orange.An architectural engineer for a large firm in downtown Boston, Paul had spent the better part of his life coloring safely inside the lines. Logic and reason had dictated his existence for as long as he could remember. Paul had a habit of reducing everything in his life down to very specific, precise patterns. Deviation was not an option.One could say that, up until now, Paul’s life had been the very antithesis of chaos and disorder. Beverly pulled into the driveway of their modest split-level home and turned off the ignition. She dropped the keys into her pocketbook. Paul sat up and rubbed his neck. Beverly turned to her husband and smiled; it was forced, thin. The engine continued to tick for a moment and then was quiet. “Are you sure you’re ok?”Paul nodded without answering. Lowering his eyes he wiped his palms on the clean, crisp blue jeans his wife had brought to the hospital; this left two sweat-stained smear marks running from his upper thighs to his knees. He checked his shirt pocket for his medication, jiggling the small, cylindrical plastic container. The pills that had stopped his delusions and pulled him from the brink of insanity rattled around like plastic beads in a child’s toy.He wiped his hands on his jeans again. I’ll have to wash these now, he thought absently. He pressed his left hand to his temple, rubbing counter-clockwise in slow, deliberate circles. He turned to look at his wife. She was staring out the windshield now, waiting patiently for him to finish. He cleared his throat. “I’m ok.”She continued staring ahead. “Alright then; let’s go inside. Alyssa’s waiting Alyssa’s waiting she’s been waiting waiting so long and now you’re here and she’s so hungry for you inside.” Paul opened the van door and stepped out. The moon was rising, casting their familiar surroundings in shadow. Beverly came around the other side of the van, held out her hand, and together they approached the house. Trimmed hedges surrounded a well-maintained front yard; a brick walkway ran from the driveway to the front steps. The house, dark-blue with white trim, sat at the end of a cul-de-sac in an affluent suburb of Boston. An autumn wreath hung on the outside of the front door. Beverly grasped the doorknob and turned. The front door opened into a darkened foyer; there was a light on in the adjoining room but it couldn’t quite penetrate the deepening shadows.
Paul peered into the dark. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He could just make out the shape of someone crouching in the center of the darkened foyer and could hear the sound of rapid breathing. Beverly smiled. “There you are honey; come out and say hello to your father.” The figure shifted forward slightly and scuttled to its left, cocking its head first to the left, then to the right, like a dog listening to a high-pitched whistle. Paul shook his head from side to side. “No…I can’t…this can’t be happening,” he whispered. The darkness parted as something slowly separated itself from the shadows. “Daaadddyyy….”
May 9, 2013
Writing Outside the Box
This week my guest is Tim Ouellette, author of Fractured. He talks to us about cross-genre writing. Come back tomorrow for an excerpt from his work.
Writing Outside the Box: The Benefits of Cross-Genre Writing
So…you’re a writer. You’ve published that poem, short-story or novel, either through traditional publishing channels or by self-publishing. You’ve begun to garner a following of faithful Twitter devotees and Facebook Fans, folks who have begun clamoring for more. You’re in the zone, and you can feel it. You’ve got your mojo working, and it’s time to craft another story just like the last one, right? You wrote a great horror story, or mystery, or young adult novel, and you’d like to capitalize on that success. Who wouldn’t?You step up to your laptop, set your fingers on the keyboard and produce…Nothing. Zip. Zero. Zilch.The well has been tapped, the mojo’s gone, and the only thing you feel capable of capitalizing on is the stock you purchased in those energy drinks that kept you going while editing your previously published work late into the night.What’s a writer to do?I’m going to make a suggestion here, and it’s one that might seem a bit outlandish; in fact, it’s something that might appear to fly in the face of standard business marketing principles. It may work for some, but not for all. It entails a leap of faith and requires one to enter a world that, at first blush, might appear a bit frightening to those who have only looked at its landscape from afar.It’s the world of Cross-Genre Writing.SCRATCH THAT NICHE?
Folks who run their own business often talk about their ‘niche,’ that segment of the marketplace where they have strategically chosen to run their business. It’s somewhat of a safety-zone in that it helps the business owner to maintain a cadre of faithful customers who will (hopefully) purchase their service or product, perhaps even multiple times. It’s a standard marketing principle and, for the writer, it helps to put into practice a well-known aphorism: divide and conquer.Business owners who “divide and conquer” have gone to great lengths in establishing themselves within a focused segment of their market. It allows them to utilize certain resources in a highly focused, extremely efficient and productive manner. Writers who do the same are those who have perhaps discovered a unique talent for creating genre-specific work. Whether they write crime fiction, horror, young adult, or another of the standard genres, writers who specialize in a certain “type” of fiction are the type of people who recognize the worth of a good, solid formula for success and focus on developing their careers almost exclusively around genre-specific material.Genre-specific writing, in my opinion, is also the type of authorship that allows the writer to put into practice an extremely efficient marketing plan. Writer’s write, as they must; but writers must also market their work, which translates in some fashion to exposure. The genre-specific author who is marketing-savvy will do well to push not simply his or her work but themselves as the commodity. In other words, their name becomes their brand, and the genre they’re writing in becomes, in a way, their advertising.
SIMPLIFY…OR DIVERSIFY?
The above heading is not in any way intended to imply that niche writing is somehow inferior to, or a simplified form of, authorship as compared to cross-genre writing; rather, I use the terms “simplify” and “diversify” to simply distinguish between writing within a single genre and writing within multiple-genres. I thought it would be best to get that clarification out there.Writers who are used to producing a specific type of work and who choose to begin creating cross-genre material will suddenly find themselves surrounded by an array of creative choices. No longer bound by self-imposed literary restrictions, authors who write across multiple genres allow themselves license to express their ideas in whatever literary form their story decides to take.This type of writing can be very liberating, not only for the writer but for the story as well. In other words, the writer who specializes in a distinct literary form will undoubtedly gear their raw material toward whatever genre it is they’re working in rather than allowing the story and characters to develop and grow in a truly organic fashion. Diversification in fiction writing is also a good way for writers to stay on top of their game. Developing plot lines comes easy for some, not so much for others; but for everyone it’s a labor of love and something that must be attended to regardless of the genre one is writing in. Restricting oneself to a specific genre does, in my opinion, limit one's playing field; it sets up creative boundaries where none should exist. If one feels “bound” by commonly-held literary “standards” related to genre, then one might not allow oneself the freedom to create…period.
I DID IT MY WAY There really is no right or wrong way to do this. Whether one feels the need to write within certain boundaries related to a specific genre or allows their work the freedom to grow and take shape across multiple genres the writer must be true to oneself, one’s story, and one’s audience. Writing the best story one can, with as clear and distinctive a voice as possible, regardless of one’s commitment to (or lack thereof) genre is really all a writer needs to concern themselves about.
May 4, 2013
The Lost Heir, Excerpt
Yesterday, we talked to Andi O'Connor. Today, read an excerpt from her novel, The Lost Heir. If you like it, comment below and buy a copy.
Blurb
Always a meticulous planner, Darrak Hunter leads a dull life until his dreams become plagued with visions of a peculiar and distant world. Waking up to a brilliant purple sun looming ominously in the sky, Darrak is met by a mysterious violet-eyed sorcerer who whisks him away from the struggling Earth.
Thrown into the clutches of a foreign world where magic is reality and not all is as it seems, Darrak embarks on a journey where he is forced to come to terms with his past and do what he can to shape the future. Accompanied by a talented swordswoman, a prince, and a beautiful young sorceress, he must overcome cunning plots of treachery and betrayal to discover the strength to stand against a destructive black magic and an enemy who is a master at deception.Excerpt Mionee suppressed a shiver as she dismally followed the soldier through the dark hallways. The moment that she had materialized outside the entrance to the Dréyan castle, she had immediately regretted her decision to Travel with such great haste. Having only been in Dréyan once when she was a small child, she had forgotten how frigid the southern country was. The vastness of the surrounding mountains allowed little sunlight to enter the valley where the country lay, and cold formidable air penetrated the land.When inside the castle, visitors were not allowed to forget the dreariness of the outside. Constructed of heavy black stone from the Norath Mountains, the castle was built more like a fortress than a home. It was three levels of solid rock except for narrow slits on the top level, designed to let in what little sunlight the land was fortunate to receive. The hallways and rooms, lit only by occasional wall torches, were tremendously cramped, and the furnishings were dark and solemn.Mionee became increasingly depressed the longer she followed the soldier through the meandering hallways, and she was extremely grateful when he came to a sudden stop in front of a large wooden door ornately carved with the Denthald coat of arms. He knocked once, quickly opened the door, and wordlessly waved her through. Mionee jumped as the door slammed shut behind her, and she found herself standing in a room more spacious than the others she had seen, but not much warmer.“Ah, milady, it is wonderful to see you!” King Denthald exclaimed as he stood to greet the princess who blushed as he affectionately kissed her hand. “That is quite a stunning gown,” he said with obvious admiration. “Unfortunately, we do not see much besides wool and fur in these parts. Practical, but not flattering to the figure,” he winked.Mionee giggled softly. She felt quite bashful, which was a stark contrast to her usually confident and outgoing demeanor. “I forgot how much colder it is in this country than in Mystandia,” she replied, unable to control a shiver.“Ah! Where are my manners?” the king exclaimed as he took off his cloak and gently placed it around her shoulders. “You must be freezing! I will have you meet with a master dressmaker as soon as we are done here. He is the best in the country and will do a superb job in outfitting your wardrobe. In the meantime, please wear my cloak. It is not very elegant, but it will certainly keep you warm!”“Thank you,” Mionee murmured as she closed the heavy fur tightly across her chest, allowing the warmth to slowly seep back into her body.“So,” Denthald began as he lowered himself back into his chair. “How are things developing? I must say that it came as a surprise when you told me you were Traveling here this morning!”“It was a surprise to me as well. Events have been progressing rather quickly, but everything has remained in our favor,” Mionee answered with a sly smile. “Cyrus has found the boy.”“Well done,” the king said as he leaned forward in his chair, quite pleased with Mionee’s news. “Where was he?”“Mystandia,” she said simply. “Once his parents were murdered, my father knew the boy was no longer safe and brought him to the palace. With a few quick spells, his appearance was changed, and Ipzaag took him in as his apprentice.”“That is glorious news. Perhaps the young heir will be able to give us some valuable information. Will Cyrus and the boy be joining us here?”“Yes, but they will not be making the journey with the aid of méno. It is too risky. We cannot control where the boy would materialize. I have instructed Cyrus to bring him over the Pass of Kal’denk. We should expect them within a month.”“Excellent!” Lord Denthald exclaimed as he leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with their good fortune.“Milord...”“Please, call me Garenth,” he said with a warm smile. “After all, that is my name is it not?”“Garenth,” Mionee continued as the heat quickly returned to her cheeks. “It is time to unite the bands of The Organization. We must be ready to launch an attack as soon as possible.”“Aye,” he agreed. “Those were my thoughts as well. The attack must come swiftly. I will send riders to our strongholds in Lé’nath, Bé’nag, and Taneim. We should be able to strengthen our army by approximately six thousand soldiers within a month. After that, it is simply a matter of making the journey to Mystandia. The Pass of Kal’denk is dangerous, but it will allow us to travel in secrecy. The trees shielding the Létaag River will provide our forces with sufficient cover. If necessary precautions are taken, they will be able to travel swiftly down the river unnoticed. The palace guard will not realize they are under attack until the hour is too late.”Mionee nodded her agreement. “I will notify the members of The Organization in Mystandia. With a little communication and some careful timing, we will be able to launch the two attacks simultaneously.”“Very good,” Garenth said as an iniquitous smile spread acrosshis face. “I think, my dear, that we are finally going to get what we deserve.”“Yes,” she replied. “Thanks to your father’s recent and unexpected death, the rule of Dréyan is already ours. We simply need to defeat the palace to have dominion over all of Dragonath. Once we have reign over both Dréyan and Mystandia, the other countries will fall. None will have the power to defeat our armies.”“And what of Earth? How are developments there?” “Exemplary. The changes are already beginning to take effect. Soon the human population will be too weak to resist our forces. Earth will be ours.”“This calls for a celebration!” Garenth exclaimed as he stood and walked over to the sidebar. “Would you care to join me?”“I would be honored,” Mionee replied with a dazzling smile.He handed her a goblet and grinned when she took a sip. Used to the sweetness of the Mystandian wine, Mionee was shocked at the sharp bitterness of the liquid and had to force herself to swallow. “It is quite strong,” Garenth chuckled, “but it will warm you up rather quickly. You will find that a little goes a long way.”“It certainly does,” she said with a tiny hiccup. She had not eaten anything since the previous day and could already feel the wine going straight to her head. “It usually does not affect me like this,” she said bashfully.“As I said, it does not take much. Perhaps we should finish our conversation over lunch,” Garenth suggested. “Would you like to accompany me to the dining hall? I believe the cook has prepared something special for your arrival.”“That sounds lovely!”“Come, milady. There is much we have yet to discuss.”“What did you have in mind?” Mionee asked.Garenth set down his wine, offering her his arm. “Our future.”
Blurb
Always a meticulous planner, Darrak Hunter leads a dull life until his dreams become plagued with visions of a peculiar and distant world. Waking up to a brilliant purple sun looming ominously in the sky, Darrak is met by a mysterious violet-eyed sorcerer who whisks him away from the struggling Earth.
Thrown into the clutches of a foreign world where magic is reality and not all is as it seems, Darrak embarks on a journey where he is forced to come to terms with his past and do what he can to shape the future. Accompanied by a talented swordswoman, a prince, and a beautiful young sorceress, he must overcome cunning plots of treachery and betrayal to discover the strength to stand against a destructive black magic and an enemy who is a master at deception.Excerpt Mionee suppressed a shiver as she dismally followed the soldier through the dark hallways. The moment that she had materialized outside the entrance to the Dréyan castle, she had immediately regretted her decision to Travel with such great haste. Having only been in Dréyan once when she was a small child, she had forgotten how frigid the southern country was. The vastness of the surrounding mountains allowed little sunlight to enter the valley where the country lay, and cold formidable air penetrated the land.When inside the castle, visitors were not allowed to forget the dreariness of the outside. Constructed of heavy black stone from the Norath Mountains, the castle was built more like a fortress than a home. It was three levels of solid rock except for narrow slits on the top level, designed to let in what little sunlight the land was fortunate to receive. The hallways and rooms, lit only by occasional wall torches, were tremendously cramped, and the furnishings were dark and solemn.Mionee became increasingly depressed the longer she followed the soldier through the meandering hallways, and she was extremely grateful when he came to a sudden stop in front of a large wooden door ornately carved with the Denthald coat of arms. He knocked once, quickly opened the door, and wordlessly waved her through. Mionee jumped as the door slammed shut behind her, and she found herself standing in a room more spacious than the others she had seen, but not much warmer.“Ah, milady, it is wonderful to see you!” King Denthald exclaimed as he stood to greet the princess who blushed as he affectionately kissed her hand. “That is quite a stunning gown,” he said with obvious admiration. “Unfortunately, we do not see much besides wool and fur in these parts. Practical, but not flattering to the figure,” he winked.Mionee giggled softly. She felt quite bashful, which was a stark contrast to her usually confident and outgoing demeanor. “I forgot how much colder it is in this country than in Mystandia,” she replied, unable to control a shiver.“Ah! Where are my manners?” the king exclaimed as he took off his cloak and gently placed it around her shoulders. “You must be freezing! I will have you meet with a master dressmaker as soon as we are done here. He is the best in the country and will do a superb job in outfitting your wardrobe. In the meantime, please wear my cloak. It is not very elegant, but it will certainly keep you warm!”“Thank you,” Mionee murmured as she closed the heavy fur tightly across her chest, allowing the warmth to slowly seep back into her body.“So,” Denthald began as he lowered himself back into his chair. “How are things developing? I must say that it came as a surprise when you told me you were Traveling here this morning!”“It was a surprise to me as well. Events have been progressing rather quickly, but everything has remained in our favor,” Mionee answered with a sly smile. “Cyrus has found the boy.”“Well done,” the king said as he leaned forward in his chair, quite pleased with Mionee’s news. “Where was he?”“Mystandia,” she said simply. “Once his parents were murdered, my father knew the boy was no longer safe and brought him to the palace. With a few quick spells, his appearance was changed, and Ipzaag took him in as his apprentice.”“That is glorious news. Perhaps the young heir will be able to give us some valuable information. Will Cyrus and the boy be joining us here?”“Yes, but they will not be making the journey with the aid of méno. It is too risky. We cannot control where the boy would materialize. I have instructed Cyrus to bring him over the Pass of Kal’denk. We should expect them within a month.”“Excellent!” Lord Denthald exclaimed as he leaned back in his chair, clearly pleased with their good fortune.“Milord...”“Please, call me Garenth,” he said with a warm smile. “After all, that is my name is it not?”“Garenth,” Mionee continued as the heat quickly returned to her cheeks. “It is time to unite the bands of The Organization. We must be ready to launch an attack as soon as possible.”“Aye,” he agreed. “Those were my thoughts as well. The attack must come swiftly. I will send riders to our strongholds in Lé’nath, Bé’nag, and Taneim. We should be able to strengthen our army by approximately six thousand soldiers within a month. After that, it is simply a matter of making the journey to Mystandia. The Pass of Kal’denk is dangerous, but it will allow us to travel in secrecy. The trees shielding the Létaag River will provide our forces with sufficient cover. If necessary precautions are taken, they will be able to travel swiftly down the river unnoticed. The palace guard will not realize they are under attack until the hour is too late.”Mionee nodded her agreement. “I will notify the members of The Organization in Mystandia. With a little communication and some careful timing, we will be able to launch the two attacks simultaneously.”“Very good,” Garenth said as an iniquitous smile spread acrosshis face. “I think, my dear, that we are finally going to get what we deserve.”“Yes,” she replied. “Thanks to your father’s recent and unexpected death, the rule of Dréyan is already ours. We simply need to defeat the palace to have dominion over all of Dragonath. Once we have reign over both Dréyan and Mystandia, the other countries will fall. None will have the power to defeat our armies.”“And what of Earth? How are developments there?” “Exemplary. The changes are already beginning to take effect. Soon the human population will be too weak to resist our forces. Earth will be ours.”“This calls for a celebration!” Garenth exclaimed as he stood and walked over to the sidebar. “Would you care to join me?”“I would be honored,” Mionee replied with a dazzling smile.He handed her a goblet and grinned when she took a sip. Used to the sweetness of the Mystandian wine, Mionee was shocked at the sharp bitterness of the liquid and had to force herself to swallow. “It is quite strong,” Garenth chuckled, “but it will warm you up rather quickly. You will find that a little goes a long way.”“It certainly does,” she said with a tiny hiccup. She had not eaten anything since the previous day and could already feel the wine going straight to her head. “It usually does not affect me like this,” she said bashfully.“As I said, it does not take much. Perhaps we should finish our conversation over lunch,” Garenth suggested. “Would you like to accompany me to the dining hall? I believe the cook has prepared something special for your arrival.”“That sounds lovely!”“Come, milady. There is much we have yet to discuss.”“What did you have in mind?” Mionee asked.Garenth set down his wine, offering her his arm. “Our future.”
May 3, 2013
Andi O'Connor Interview
Today, welcome Andi O’Connor, author of The Lost Heir. Sorry, I'm a day behind schedule this week. Tomorrow come back for an excerpt from Andi's novel.
Tell us a little about yourself?
I am an avid reader and book lover, and I am the proud owner of 5,043 books. Yes, you read that right. 5,043 actual books. I don’t do the e-book thing and refuse to own an e-reader, and I cannot walk into a bookstore without purchasing at least 4 books.
Now that you all think I’m completely loony, I’ll tell you a bit more about myself. I am obsessed with elves and am genuinely distraught that they don’t exist. I listen to vinyl, particularly records from The Monkees, and my favorite drink is a large Jameson, neat. Up until recently, British Comedies were my main form of visual entertainment, but my two-year-old son has forced my husband and me to add Sesame Street to our repertoire. I am an avid ballet dancer, and I am convinced that if everyone took ballet, the world would be a much more joyous place.
What made you want to become a writer?
When I was growing up, my mom shared her love of books with me, and I in turn developed my own book affair. My love of reading led me to write for fun, and things slowly developed from there.
As to why I write, it goes beyond simply wanting to share the stories I create. I am a firm believer that books are some of the most powerful weapons in our society. I am not one who follows the belief that ignoring difficult or controversial issues will make them disappear, and I do not shy away from including such topics in my writing. Although I write fantasy, I have touched on things such as female equality, rape, racial discrimination, and the discrimination of people with disabilities. People may agree or disagree, that is not important. What is important, and the reason I do what I do, is that I get people to confront the issues. Perhaps my writing will introduce my readers to a new way of thinking and get them to reconsider their opinion. Perhaps it will help them to better understand the views of someone who does not share their opinion. Perhaps it will inspire them to take action in their community and help to bring awareness to an issue. Perhaps it will aid them to begin a discussion with friends and family. Whatever the outcome, they are not ignoring the issue, and that is what is important. That is what will allow our society to evolve and grow.
What genre do your works fall into?
Fantasy
What about this genre appeals to you?
I love the freedom I am granted when writing fantasy. I can allow my imagination to take me wherever it wants to go. There are no limitations or restrictions to the worlds and beings I create. Yet, what I find truly magical about fantasy is that a completely fictitious world riddled with fanciful beings and nonexistent powers can be totally believable.
Could you tell us a bit about your most recent book and why it is a must-read?
The Lost Heir follows a young man on a journey to a distant world where he must come to terms with his true identity before he can battle an evil that threatens the future of both his new home and his old. Only through his inner-strength, and trust in his new companions, can he begin to accept his responsibilities to save both Dragonath and Earth from destruction.
I suspect that at one time or another, many of us have wondered what it would be like to visit a distant world or discover we had magical abilities. By taking a character from Earth and introducing him to such a place, I was able to create a distinctive level of empathy towards Darrak. The scenes in the beginning of the book where I alternate between the two worlds are intentionally jarring to the reader. When Darrak arrives on Dragonath, the reader makes the same journey. They experience the same wonderment, confusion, and fear. They get as close to traveling to a distant world as they possibly can.
What gives you inspiration for your book?
I get inspiration from everything. Literally. I have always been content to be an observer rather than a participator, and I am continually amazed at how much that affects my writing. I pick up details that many others might not notice. A particular scene or emotion I am working on will suddenly jog my memory of something I witnessed months earlier. People, places, world events, controversial issues, conversations, dreams, books, animals, expressions, actions; you name it. I’ve even drawn inspiration from the color and patterns hanging in my office.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
I’ve done both. My husband was the inspiration for Darrak, especially in the beginning of The Lost Heir when the reader is introduced to his soda addiction and laundry habits. Other characters, such as Selantia and Anarra, are completely from my imagination.
Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?
I would have to say that my favorite character is Jae from my short story, Redemption. I was able to get inside his mind on a deeply raw and personal level. The situation he is in puts him in an extremely vulnerable state, both mentally and physically, yet there is an air of tenacity about him. Despite the deplorable actions performed against him, he still has compassion for others and a willingness to put the lives of others before his own. I actually find him to be quite inspirational.
What is the biggest surprise that you experienced after becoming a writer?
The thing I continually find to be surprising is that I do not experience a sense of completion when a project is finished. So far, I have written two books and four short stories. When each one was completed, I experienced a great sense of pride and accomplishment, then immediately thought, Now, I can begin editing and work on the sequel to this or finish that…Though, I suppose that’s the great thing about being a writer. I won’t ever be done.
Is there any particular author or book that influenced you either growing up or as an adult?
Terry Brooks was my first introduction to fantasy, and I am still a huge fan of his writing. His Shannara series is what got me hooked to the genre and prompted me to hunt for other fantasy authors. Philip Pullman is another author I read when I was younger, and I still think about his writing to this day.
Do you have a day job in addition to being a writer? If so, what do you do during the day?
I do not. I used to teach private cello, piano, and violin lessons, but I stopped that so I could focus on my writing.
What is your favorite writing tip or quote?
Do not write to conform to society. Be honest, and be yourself.
Tell us a little about your plans for the future. Do you have any other books in the works?
The Lost Heir is the first book in The Dragonath Chronicles. I have begun work on the second book, Awakening, and have loose plans for 2 other books in the series. I recently finished another fantasy novel titled Silevethiel. It is also the first book in a series, so I will begin writing book 2 in the not so distant future. I also have plans to expand one of my short stories into a novel, but that keeps getting pushed further down on my list.
Where can we find you online?
Blog Website Facebook Amazon Barnes & Noble
April 26, 2013
The Ruby Brooch excerpt
Yesterday, we met author Katherine Lowry Logan. Today, read an excerpt from her time-travelling romance, The Ruby Brooch. If you like the excerpt, buy the novel.Blurb
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~Anaïs NinCan a 21st century paramedic find her heart's desire on the other side of time?From the white-plank fenced pastures of Lexington, Kentucky, to the beautiful Bay of San Francisco, “The Ruby Brooch”
,
a saga steeped in family tradition and mystery, follows a young woman's journey as she searches for the truth on the other side of the heather-scented mist. As the lone survivor of a car crash that killed her parents, paramedic Kit MacKlenna makes a startling discovery that further alters her life. A faded letter and a well-worn journal reveal that she was abandoned as a baby and the only clues to her identity are a blood-splattered shawl, a locket that bears a portrait of a nineteenth-century man, and a Celtic brooch with mystical powers. After studying the journal, she decides to continue her father's twenty-year search for her identity and solve her birth parents' murders. For safety reasons, she adopts the persona of the Widow MacKlenna. Although a perfect cover for her eccentric behavior, she will be forced to lie and MacKlennas don't lie, or so she thought. Finally, dressed and packed, she utters the incantation inscribed on the ancient stone and is swept back to Independence, Missouri, in the year 1852.Upon arriving in the past, she meets Cullen Montgomery, an egotistical Scotsman with a penchant for seducing widows. The San Francisco-bound lawyer happens to resemble the ghost who has haunted Kit since childhood. She quickly finds the Bach-humming, Shakespeare-quoting man to be over-bearing and his intolerance for liars threatens her quest.If she can survive his accusations and resist his tempting embrace for seventy-three days, she might be able to find the answers she seeks, and return home to a new life without changing history or leaving her heart on the other side of time.Excerpt
PChapter One
MacKlenna Farm, Lexington, Kentucky, February 10, 2012KIT MACKLENNA TOOK the brick steps leading to the west portico two at a time. When she reached the top step she slipped on a patch of black ice. Her arms and legs flailed rag-doll like, giving her some kind of weird location never intended for a human body. Forward motion ended abruptly when she collided with the farm’s marketing manager exiting the mansion wearing three-inch heels and her signature pencil skirt. Tucked under Sandy’s rail-thin arm was Thomas MacKlenna’s 1853 journal. Both women screamed. Sandy’s arms went up and the book hit the floor. And for the second time in less than thirty minutes, Kit landed on her ass.“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sandy helped Kit to her feet. Then she picked up the leather-bound journal, brushing ice crystals from its cover.“My fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” Kit rubbed her sore butt. “That’s old Thomas’ journal, isn’t it? Did you read the proclamation to the staff?”Sandy’s normally animated face brimmed with heartfelt concern. “The forty-day mourning period is officially over. But I’m not sure it will make your life any easier.”Kit unbuckled her helmet and tugged on the dangling chin strap. “I woke up believing I’d feel better today, but I guess that’s my character flaw.”“What is?” Sandy asked.“Believing the impossible is always possible.” Kit slipped her hand into the pocket of her plaid bomber jacket and fingered a crumpled letter. “Every once in a while, impossible is just what the word means.”Sandy squeezed Kit’s arm. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll get through this, too.”Kit removed her helmet and shook her hair, pulling out a few long blond strands and a clump of mud. “Days like today make me wonder.”Sandy gave her another reassuring squeeze. “I wanted to ask you something.” She opened the journal and pointed to a line in the proclamation. “This mentions a great-grandson born on the fortieth day? Do you know his name?”Kit read the line above the marketing manager’s manicured nail. “There’s no record of a birth. Daddy said old Thomas was senile when he died. He probably imagined a grandson.”“I wonder why no one ever made a notation in the journal.” Sandy snapped the book shut. “Whatever. Oh, by the way, I left the sympathy cards that came in this morning’s mail on the table in the foyer.”A salty tear slid from between Kit’s eyelids and down her face, leaving behind a burning sensation on her wind-chapped skin.Sandy pulled a tissue from her pocket. “Here, take this.”Kit wiped her face and silently cursed that she no longer had control over her emotions.“Everyone on the farm misses your parents and Scott. We’re grieving with you.”“I know.” Kit blew her nose. “It’s made the last six weeks easier.”“Well, call me later if you want to go to lunch or talk or cry. I don’t have broad shoulders like Scott, but I can listen.”“I miss him bugging the crap out of me.” Kit scratched the scar on the right side of her neck, something she often did when she thought of her childhood friend.“I can bug you, if you want. Since I don’t have your dad to pester, I feel sort of useless.” Sandy grasped the railing and made her way down the stairs. “Hey, what happened to your stick?”Kit stooped and picked up her broken whip. “Stormy went one way. I went the other.”Sandy cupped one side of her mouth as if sharing a secret. “Don’t tell Elliott. He worries about you enough.”“The way news spreads around here, I’m sure the old Scotsman has already heard. He’ll find me soon enough and ream me out.”“Don’t let anyone hear you call him old. That’ll tarnish his reputation.” A crease of amusement marked Sandy’s face. “Hey, did you hear what happened to his latest fling?”Kit covered her ears. “TMI.” Half of Lexington’s female population gossiped about the sexual exploits of the serial dater. The other half made up the membership in the Elliott Fraser Past & Present Girlfriends’ Club.Sandy eased her long legs into an electric cart. “Oh, I forgot. I returned your copy of Palm Springs Heat. Loved it.” She depressed the accelerator then gave a beauty-queen wave goodbye.Kit mimicked the wave.The former Miss Kentucky and marketing guru laughed. “A bit more wrist, sweetheart.”“Pshaw.” Kit glared at the offending wrist that had been broken four or five times. She wasn’t the beauty queen type. She could ride a Thoroughbred bareback, but put her in a pair of strappy sandals and she’d get stuck in the mud. It wasn’t that she was clumsy. Just the opposite. Silly shoes couldn’t compete with her penchant for practical footwear. She lived on a farm, for God’s sake.Before entering the house, she ran the soles of her tall riding boots across the blunted top edge of the boot-scraper. Then she turned the brass doorknob and gave the heavy oak door pockmarked with Civil War bullet holes a quick shove. It opened on quiet hinges into an even quieter house.The scent of lemon oil permeated the twenty-foot wide entrance hall. Even as a child, she’d loved the smell. The room cast the appearance of a museum with a vast collection of furniture from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Each piece darkened by countless waxings. Now that Sandy had read the proclamation, the cleaning staff could remove the black linen shrouds that draped the family portraits dotting the oak-paneled walls.Kit dropped her helmet, crop, and muddy jacket on the rug, and then pulled off her boots, leaving everything piled by the door.The letter.She grabbed it from her jacket and stuffed the note inside her shirt pocket.The side cabinet held a stack of sympathy cards. She blew out a long breath. People from all over the world sent condolences. Their thoughtful words tugged at her heart, but she couldn’t read them right now.An official looking envelope from the Bank of San Francisco piqued her curiosity. It was incorrectly addressed to Mrs. Kitherina MacKlenna. She pried her nail beneath the sealed flap. Then the phone rang. Elliott? Avoiding him was impossible. He’d continue to call until she answered. She dropped the mail on the edge of the table and hurried down the hall.On the second ring, she entered her father’s office. On the third, she plucked the receiver from the cradle. “MacKlenna Farm.”“Do you have a cold, or are you crying?” Elliott asked in a voice that held only a hint of his brogue.She propped a hip on a corner of the mahogany desk. “I strained my vocal chords last night singing all of Scott’s favorite songs.”“Heard that squawking. Almost called the police.”A faint smile eased the tension in her face. “You’re in rare form today.”“I’ve been at a meeting with the board of directors.”“Well, that explains it. Where are you now?”“Driving through the main entrance. Stay put. We need to talk.” The line went dead.“I need to talk to you, too,” she said, sassing the handset before dropping it into the charging cradle. The dang thing tumbled out and landed on the desk next to a Jenny Lind doll trunk. The bread-loaf-shaped trunk held that closed up for a long time smell that made her nose twitch. “Achoo.”She smacked the lid closed and somehow pinged her finger on one of the brass nail heads that held a metal strap in place. Droplets of blood pooled beneath the tip of her nail. The injured digit automatically went to her mouth.My accident prone morning finally drew blood.She shoved off the desk and paced the room. When she heard the door knocker, she veered into the hallway. The canvases were now uncovered. Welcome back. Just as she’d done since childhood, she patted each one, saying their names in a sing-song manner: Thomas I, Thomas II, Sean I, Jamilyn, Sean II, Sean III, Sean IV, Sean V. She usually kissed the portrait of her father, Sean VI, on the cheek, but not today.At the ripe old age of five, Kit had decided she wanted her portrait to hang alongside Sean I’s twin sister, Jamilyn, who died while sailing to America. Kit didn’t want her great-great-great-great aunt to be the only woman in the MacKlenna Hall of Fame. So she drew a self-portrait, then nailed it to the wall with wood screws she found in her daddy’s toolbox. She’d never forget explaining to her pony that she couldn’t ride for a month because she damaged the wall. She patted the blemishes between the portraits, still visible to those who knew they were there. Punishments and tragedies had never diminished her ability to take it on the chin—until now.Elliott was visible through the front door sidelight standing on the porch wearing a green Barbour jacket and khakis with the usual knife-edge press. His aviators were tucked into the collar of his polo shirt. A MacKlenna Farm ball cap covered all but the sides of his freshly barbered hair. She kicked her boots and muddy jacket aside and opened the door. “Why’d you knock?”“Door was locked. Didn’t have a key.”“Sorry. I must have done that when I came in.”Her godfather crossed the threshold, favoring his right leg. His expression was solemn and severe. She knew the old injury to his calf was especially sensitive to the cold. He removed his cap. Then as he raked his fingers through the silver hair above his temples, he sniffed the air. “Cleaning day.”“Sandy just read the proclamation.”“It’s done then.”Kit pointed over her shoulder. “Mom’s portrait is uncovered. All the shrouds are gone.”He glanced at the portrait hanging over the mantel. An equal measure of sadness and anger registered on his face. “That’s Sean’s best work. It never should have been draped.”“I had to follow MacKlenna tradition. Daddy would have come back and haunted me if I hadn’t. The last thing I need is another one of those see-through people.”“Sean MacKlenna as a ghost. That’s an intriguing thought.” Elliott hung his jacket and cap on the hall tree. When he spied her coat and boots on the floor, he clucked his disapproval. “Let’s go into the office and you can tell me why you came off your horse this morning. That’s twice this week.”She held her breath a moment waiting for the lecture.“Your horse showed up at the barn without you. Scared the grooms and trainers. If a hot-walker hadn’t seen you cutting through the tree line, every alarm on the farm would have sounded.”She twisted a corner of her shirttail that had come untucked when she fell the first time. “The ghost spooked me at the cemetery. Stormy planted his feet and I went over his shoulders. Then I had to walk home with a sore back, a bruised ego, and that handsome apparition shadowing me. Again.” She glanced out the sidelight to be sure the ghost wasn’t still hanging around. “Today he looked like a nineteenth-century lawyer all decked out in a double-breasted frock coat. What’s up with him anyway?”“I’m sure your ghost didn’t intend for you to fall.”She elbowed Elliott in the side. “Get your tongue out of your cheek. I never know whether you believe me or not.”“I believe you. But if you fall and break your back again, you might never get up.”She rolled her tongue along the backside of her teeth to give it something to do instead of blurting out that she didn’t want Elliott or a ghost or anyone else hovering over her. She was a paramedic. The Lexington Fire Department trusted her. Wasn’t that proof enough she could take care of herself? “If you’re done with the lecture, tell me what the board of directors wanted.”His face tightened. “It was a heated meeting. Hazy Mountain Stud wants to buy a controlling interest in Galahad. I don’t want to decrease the farm’s percentage of ownership in the stallion, but as CEO I only have one vote.”“That means he’ll shuttle to the southern hemisphere every year. Daddy didn’t have a problem with that. I guess the board feels—”Elliott reached over and patted her twice on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”She folded her arms, stiffened, then followed him down the hall. “If I had a dollar for every time Daddy told me not to worry, I’d have more millions than his estate.”“And more Apple stock than me.”“Haha,” she said, glowering at his back.They entered the office. Elliott headed straight to the full-service wet bar located opposite a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. “I suppose it’s too early for scotch.”As if on cue, the long case clock in the corner sounded the hour.“Nine o’clock is a bit early for me, but you might want a drink to wash down what I’ve got to tell you.”He poured a cup of coffee instead and pointed it toward the desk. “What’s with the trunk? I’ve never seen it before.”She lifted the lid. Small leather pouches filled with diamonds, gold nuggets, and coins lay on top of a bloodstained lace shawl. “Jim Manning’s office called late yesterday. He wants a copy of the 1792 land grant for probate. No one could locate the original. I searched the desk this morning and bingo. It was with this trunk.”“I didn’t know there was a drawer that big.”“There’s a secret compartment. Daddy showed it to me when I was a kid.” She framed an imaginary headline with her hands. “Heir learns secret at age of ten.” Her shoulders sagged. “He said never to open it until I was the farm’s mistress. Now I am and I still felt guilty doing it.”“Thanks to that MacKlenna brainwashing, you feel guilty about everything. So what’d you find in the treasure chest? Gold doubloons?”“Sort of. And a journal. And a letter from Daddy.” Her voice teetered on the verge of cracking. “He said he found me on the doorstep when I was a baby.”Elliott muttered, shifting uneasily on his bad leg. “We both—” He cleared his throat. “—found you asleep in a Moses basket.”The heat of confusion burned through her. “You knew?”A wistful expression deepened the fine lines on Elliott’s chiseled face. “Sean asked me never to tell you.”“Don’t you think I had a right to know?”Elliott stared into his coffee and pulled his lips into a tight seam.She pointed her finger at him. “You know what’s in the trunk, don’t you?”“Did he save the shawl?”The confirmation in the form of a question stung her far beneath the skin.“I thought you were hurt, but the blood was on the shawl, not you.” He set his cup on the desk and picked up the ruby brooch Kit had taken from the trunk earlier that morning. “This was pinned to your dress. I haven’t seen it since we found you. I didn’t search the basket. Sean said he would do that.”“I found a book on Celtic jewelry in Daddy’s library. That’s a fourteenth-century brooch. The letter said it’s magical. Do you believe that?”Elliott picked up a portrait miniature of a blond-haired, nineteenth-century man, studied the face, set the painting aside, and then ran a finger across the two-inch ruby set in delicate silver work.“I’ve studied our folklore most of my life, Kitherina. I believe there’re forces in the universe we can’t see or understand. If Sean said this is magical, I have no reason not to believe him.” Elliott turned the brooch over and studied the back of the stone. “My grandfather used to say, ‘Some see darkness where others see only the absence of light.’”She drew in a breath. “Meaning?”He placed the brooch in her hand and curled her fingers around it. “Keep an open mind.”“That’s what Daddy said in his letter before he said this thing took him back to 1852.”Elliott’s face lost its color. “Where’s the letter?”Kit pulled it from her pocket and nudged his arm. “Here.”Lines formed between his eyebrows. “You made a paper airplane out of it?”She glanced at the blister on her knuckle. “With sharp creases, just like you taught me. Then I flew it into the fireplace. It crashed on its side or the whole thing would’ve caught on fire.” She walked over to the wet bar to grab a bottle of water. “My grief counselor would probably call it a form of disassociation. Burned my finger when I pulled it out.” Her finger hurt like hell. “Read it out loud. It might make more sense hearing it from you.”Elliott smoothed out the folded letter and began with a quick throat-clear. “Dear Kitherina, I’m writing this knowing you may never read it, but I can’t risk dying without telling you the truth of your birth. Please keep an open mind as you read.“You were only a baby when I found you on the steps of the west portico, wrapped in a bloody lace shawl. At first, I thought you were bleeding, but you weren’t. You had a ruby brooch pinned to your dress and a portrait miniature clutched in your hand. Both the portrait’s gold frame and the shawl have a monogrammed M worked into their design.”Elliott carried the letter and cup of coffee across the room and sat in a tufted, hunter green, velvet wing chair situated just so in front of the fireplace. He took a sip and continued. “Not long after your second birthday, I discovered whoever made the brooch had split the ruby and hinged the halves together. Engraved inside is a Celtic inscription: Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”Elliott lowered his hand to his lap and she could tell he was thinking hard. Then he said, “‘Love is not measured by time or space. Love is measured by the power of the soul.’ At least that’s my best translation.”Kit dropped onto the ottoman in front of him. “I wondered what it meant.”He took another sip of coffee. “When I read those words out loud, I was instantly propelled toward amber light. I found myself in Independence, Missouri, in the spring of 1852. The city was a major jumping off point for those traveling the Oregon Trail. That year alone, there were over fifty thousand people heading west, so you can imagine the crowds in the city. Since I was there for several weeks, I painted portraits to earn money for room and board. I also painted from memory the face of the man in the portrait miniature and showed it to everyone I met. Although a few people thought he looked familiar, no one was able to identify him.“When I decided to return home, I repeated the words. I had no way of knowing if the brooch would take me home, but neither did I understand why it had taken me to Independence to begin with, although I am thankful it did. The brooch is, however, your legacy, not mine.”Elliott leaned forward, pressed his elbows into the arms of the chair, gripped the letter between his hands, and continued reading. “I’ve spent over twenty years researching 1852, Independence, and the Oregon Trail, but I’ve found no mention of a missing ruby brooch or a disappearing baby. If I had discovered evidence of one or the other, I would have gone back. If a lead existed, it has been lost to history by now.“I had the bloodstains on the shawl tested. The DNA profile was compared to a sample of your DNA, and there is a genetic match. The blood belonged to your birth mother. I’m sorry I can’t offer you more to help you understand where you came from, but I know where you belong, and that’s on MacKlenna Farm.” Elliott’s hands shook as he ended the letter. “Even though you weren’t born a MacKlenna, you are one—the ninth generation.” He dropped the paper on the table next to the chair. Color drained from his face. “I’ll have that scotch now.”Kit picked up the letter and slipped it between the pages of the journal. “You and Daddy were friends for over forty years. You believe this is true, don’t you?”Elliott poured two fingers of scotch and tossed them back in a single swallow. “Sean never lied to me.”“Well, he lied to me,” she said, her voice cracking. She dropped the journal on the desk next to a photograph of her show jumping at the 2010 World Equestrian Games in Lexington. The tips of Kit’s fingers traced the smooth edges of the frame. “If I had died in the crash too, this information never would have surfaced.” The normal steel in her voice melted into a gray puddle at her feet.Elliott shuffled to her side and wrapped his arms around her—arms that had held her through boyfriend breakups and broken bones and burials.“Daddy raised me to believe in a code of honor. Keeping a secret like this goes against everything he taught me.” Her eyes filled with drowning grief. “I hurt, Elliott. I hurt because my parents and Scott are dead. I hurt because my parents didn’t tell me about this. I hurt because I don’t bleed MacKlenna blood. My life has always been about bloodlines and pedigrees. We know our stallions’ dams and sires.” She thumped her chest. “Who sired me? Who?”The winter wind ceased, and the skeleton branches no longer thrashed against the side of the house. “Damn it,” she said, breaking into the silence. “It would have been so different if I’d known all my life that I was adopted. I wouldn’t have bought into this two-hundred-year-old family legacy if I’d known I wasn’t really one of them.”Elliott punched his fist into his palm. “You’re wrong, young lady. You’re as much of a MacKlenna as those old men whose pictures are hanging in the hallway.”She grew quiet as a dozen thoughts bunched up like racing Thoroughbreds along the rail. “You don’t get it, do you?”His deep brown eyes held a puzzled look. “I get it. I’m not sure you do. You’re still Kit MacKlenna. It doesn’t matter who your birth parents were. You’re now the heart and soul of this farm.”The wind started up again, blowing hard and swirling around the house with a mournful cry. Kit pushed away from him and faced the window. Her fingers dug into the thick drapery panels. She pulled them aside, allowing a shaft of outside gloom to peek through.“What’s in the journal?” Elliott asked.Glancing over her shoulder, she offered him a smile—a tense one, without warmth or humor. “After I read the letter, I couldn’t read anything else.”He swept his hand toward a pair of sofas that faced each other. “Let’s sit and look through it. There might be something in there to make you feel better about this news.”From her position at the window, she could see her mother’s winter garden—stark and bare. “That’s unlikely.”He put his arm around her. “Come.”They settled into the thick cushions, a signal to Tabor, a brown tabby Maine Coon, to jump up between them and perch on the back of the couch. “Get down, Tabor,” Kit said. The cat jumped to the floor and sauntered over to a corner of the room.“Your mom spoiled him. I’m surprised he listens to you.”“He doesn’t. He’s scared of you. He thinks Dr. Fraser is going to give him another shot.”“Memory like an elephant.” Elliott gave Tabor a thoughtful glance, then flipped to the first page of the notebook where Sean had written 1852 Independence, Missouri. The next pages contained pencil sketches. Shops on the right, a grid of roads around a town square on the left.She pointed to one of the buildings. “Look at the woman in that window. Who does she look like?” Kit opened the drawer in the table next to the sofa, rifled through the contents until she found a magnifying glass and then held it over the picture. She gasped. “Good God. It’s Mom. Why’d he sketch her there?”Elliott grabbed the glass and squinted through it, then regarded Kit with narrowed eyes. After a moment, he returned his gaze to the drawing and said, “Sean drew Mary’s face when he doodled, just like you draw Stormy.”Kit turned to the next page and began to read. With a gulp of surprise, she grabbed Elliott’s hand, demanding, “Listen to this. ‘I met Mary Spencer the day I arrived in Independence.’” Kit could barely move, feeling as if her joints had frozen where she sat. “What’s he saying, Elliott? That Mom was from the nineteenth century? But that’s impossible.”He placed his other hand over hers and squeezed. “You’re the one who believes the impossible is possible.”“Yes, but—”“If we had told you we’d found you on the porch, you would have wanted to know what steps were taken to find your birth parents. Sean wasn’t going to tell you that he’d found a way to travel back in time. If he had, would you have believed him?”“An act of omission is still a lie and MacKlennas don’t lie.” The revelations stripped away the bare threads of her self control. She jumped to her feet and whipped her head around so fast her ponytail smacked her in the chin. The room folded in on her. If she didn’t get air she would suffocate. She staggered to the French doors, pushed them open, and stumbled onto the portico.Elliott stood in the doorway. “Come back in here. Let’s talk about this.”The fingers in her right hand tensed into a fighting fist. “Go to hell.”A moment later, the doors clicked shut.She pounded her fist on the railing as she stared out over the rolling hills covered with frost-tipped Kentucky bluegrass. Her stomach roiled, but she kept down the little bit of food she’d eaten at breakfast. Why has this happened? She closed her eyes, but darkness couldn’t halt her father’s words from flashing strobe-like across her brain.When her eyelids popped open, she spotted her ghost. He stood under the pergola in the garden, rubbing his thumb across the front of his watch case. A gesture she’d often seen him make. He stretched out his arm, beseeching her to come to him.“What do you want?” The panic in her voice reminded her of the little girl she had once been, sprawled on the ground after falling from her horse—scared, but not of him. A sob tore from her throat. “There’s nothing you can do.”He slipped his watch into his pocket, gazed once more into her eyes, then faded away.Sometimes life is nothing more than a photo album full of goodbye pictures. She stepped back into the house, an empty house, where unlike her ghost, the hurt and the heartache would never fade away.
April 25, 2013
Guest Author, Katherine Lowry Logan
Welcome today's guest, Katherine Lowry Logan, author of the romance time travelling novel, The Ruby Brooch. Come back tomorrow for an excerpt.
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Tell us a little about yourself?
Katherine is a marathoner and an avid reader who turned her love of reading into a passion for writing and has completed a sweeping time-travel romance The Ruby Brooch. She is currently working on two additional time-travels and a romantic suspense.
A graduate of Rowan University in New Jersey, she earned a BA in Psychology with a minor in Criminal Justice. Following graduation, Katherine attended the Philadelphia Institute for Paralegal Training earning a General Practice Certification. She returned to Central Kentucky and worked for twenty years as a paralegal and law firm office manager.
What made you want to become a writer? Is there any particular author or book that influenced you either growing up or as an adult?
I started writing poetry as a teenager and still dabble a bit. There are a couple of original poems in THE RUBY BROOCH. From the fall of 1996 to September 1997, I read almost three hundred romance novels. I started with Elizabeth Lowell’s WINTER FIRE and from there read her entire back list. Then I moved on to Beatrice Small, Linda Howard, and others. After all those books, the day came when I put down the one I was reading, and said, “I can do this.” Ten weeks later, I wrote The End to THE RUBY BROOCH. Over the next several years, the story was either in the closet or going through one of a dozen rewrites. Then, in 2012, the book came out in print.
What genre do your works fall into?
Paranormal/Time Travel Romance/Historical
What about this genre appeals to you?
I’ve been interested in time-travel since childhood. The Time Machine, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, and my all-time favorite Somewhere in Time. Also, Ifell in love with historicals reading Hawaii, Centennial, The Source, The Fires of Spring and other words by James Michener.
Could you tell us a bit about your most recent book and why it is a must-read?
The Ruby Brooch is a Kindle bestselling time travel romance. I’ll let a recent reviewer explain why it’s a “must read.”
“Katherine Logan has weaved an intricate tale in the classic western mode spiced up with the fantasy elements of time travel. She has avoided all the clichés and has done a great job invoking the feel of the times, the smells, tastes, fears and joys, hardships and triumphs and created a true masterpiece worthy of films such as How The West Was Won and the Pulitzer Prize winner - The Way West. I had goose bumps all over when I finished this work of brilliance and am eager for the next installment. A riveting five star read.”
Brief Synopsis:And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. ~Anaïs NinCan a 21st century paramedic find her heart's desire on the other side of time?From the white-plank fenced pastures of Lexington, Kentucky, to the beautiful Bay of San Francisco, The Ruby Brooch , a saga steeped in family tradition and mystery, follows a young woman's journey as she searches for the truth on the other side of the heather-scented mist. As the lone survivor of a car crash that killed her parents, paramedic Kit MacKlenna makes a startling discovery that further alters her life. A faded letter and a well-worn journal reveal that she was abandoned as a baby and the only clues to her identity are a blood-splattered shawl, a locket that bears a portrait of a nineteenth-century man, and a Celtic brooch with mystical powers. After studying the journal, she decides to continue her father's twenty-year search for her identity and solve her birth parents' murders. For safety reasons, she adopts the persona of the Widow MacKlenna. Although a perfect cover for her eccentric behavior, she will be forced to lie and MacKlennas don't lie, or so she thought. Finally, dressed and packed, she utters the incantation inscribed on the ancient stone and is swept back to Independence, Missouri, in the year 1852.Upon arriving in the past, she meets Cullen Montgomery, an egotistical Scotsman with a penchant for seducing widows. The San Francisco-bound lawyer happens to resemble the ghost who has haunted Kit since childhood. She quickly finds the Bach-humming, Shakespeare-quoting man to be over-bearing and his intolerance for liars threatens her quest.If she can survive his accusations and resist his tempting embrace for seventy-three days, she might be able to find the answers she seeks, and return home to a new life without changing history or leaving her heart on the other side of time.What research did you need to do for this book?
· I read countless Oregon Trail journals to get a feeling for the life and challenges the travelers experienced.· I joined the California-Oregon Trail Association and had dozens of conversations with experts about life on the trail.· I talked to people all around the world about carbon dating, Thoroughbred racing, guns, clothing, food, snakes, and the list goes on.· I travelled the trail from Independence, Missouri to Portland, Oregon, and in many places followed the actual wagon ruts. The round trip from Lexington, Kentucky to Portland took nineteen days. It was an incredible adventure.
What was your inspiration for writing The Ruby Brooch?
I set out to write a time travel that took place in the American west in the mid-1800s. The story evolved as I wrote by “the seat of my pants.” When I realized I needed a time travel method, I decided to use a ruby brooch based on a bracelet I have. The bracelet has an interesting past. It was an original design made for a woman in the 1970s. In the 1980s, she paid her CPA’s bill with the bracelet. In the early 1990s, the CPA’s widow paid her legal bill with the bracelet. After the death of my husband, the lawyer in the story, I ended up with the bracelet. The bracelet is now memorialized by the book.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
I think many of the characters have traits of friends and family members. And I can certainly identify with Kit’s grief and trauma. My husband died five days after I wrote THE END. During the many rewrites over the years, I was able to pull from my own experiences and add depth to Kit’s grief and recovery.
Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?
Elliott Fraser is Kit MacKlenna’s godfather. In the beginning, he was a groom on the horse farm, but he developed into a 50-year-old veterinarian/bachelor from Scotland. By the end of the book, I knew I had to write his story next. Although he has significant physical and emotional scars, he can be tender and passionate. You can’t help but love him.
What is the biggest surprise that you experienced after becoming a writer?
Two things: How much writing truly gels with my personality and skill set. I have a passion for research and turning that research into an interesting story.2. I lived in a happy writer’s world prior to publication, writing and talking with other writers. I wasn’t concerned with marketing because I had nothing to market. I have since learned that an author needs a platform in place long before there’s a book to promote. Now I split my time between writing and marketing. Like many others, I find social networking a challenge. There are many days when I think Twitter and Facebook control me, not the other way around.
Do you have a day job in addition to being a writer? If so, what do you do during the day?
I’m a full-time writer and LOVE IT!
What is your favorite writing tip or quote?
I love editing, but I have to remind myself daily that I can’t edit a blank page. Write. Write. Write.
Tell us a little about your plans for the future. Do you have any other books in the works?
I’m currently working on Elliott’s story titled The Last MacKlenna. I have two more time travel stories (The Sapphire Brooch and The Emerald Brooch) in the works that will complete The Celtic Brooch Trilogy. I also have a prequel (short story) to The Ruby Brooch plotted that I intend to write as soon as I finish The Last MacKlenna.
Where can we find you online? (please cut and paste links):
Now available: The Ruby Brooch, Book 1 of the Celtic Brooch Trilogy, a time travel romance.
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