Tanya Contois's Blog, page 24
March 13, 2012
HOLDING A CONTEST!!!
Dear All Things Readers,
I wanted to thank you for the support. As many of you know there was a death in my boyfriends family so I have been gone from the promotional scene. I'm back now and I have an awesome contest for you all. Its a very simple one!
To WIN a Dedication slot in one of my upcoming books, just email me at kristal_mckerrington@hotmail.com or comment on 'All Things Books' with your favourite scene or moment out of any of my books, in order to win.
If that wasn't huge enough, I am back writing Erotica. I have some great story idea's and I can't wait to share it all with you. There is more characters with more scenes that will have you melting in your seats, while also being unable to stop turning the pages. With any luck, the books should be in PRINT too!
My fight to get the Wrestling Romance genre that I co-founded with L. Anne Carrington, is now getting noticed within the Wrestling community with my questions posted to good friend Mr Valvo, on this Wrestle View radio show. You can find the link to that show below the paragraph. I want to thank him for taking my questions and putting them on his well known show.
CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE ANSWERS TO WRESTLING ROMANCE QUESTIONS BY A WRESTLING REPORTER.
On top of that, I will be hopefully on Mr Watts Wrestling show this month. So I will be posting more information on that soon. I hope that you will be checking this all out since I have been out of the interview scene for a while.
This month, I should be seeing A Different Life going into Print and we are waiting to hear more updates on that. I want to thank you for coming out today, to support me with this wonderful blog and I hope to hear your best scenes, moments on the comments below.
Before I go, here is the few books special guests 'dedications' I have coming out.
--- L. Anne Carrington
--- Lori Foster
--- David Herro
--- Karen B
There is many more, showing support to all those that support me. I hope to see you back next week for more exciting blog posts with me.
Kristal McKerrington
I wanted to thank you for the support. As many of you know there was a death in my boyfriends family so I have been gone from the promotional scene. I'm back now and I have an awesome contest for you all. Its a very simple one!
To WIN a Dedication slot in one of my upcoming books, just email me at kristal_mckerrington@hotmail.com or comment on 'All Things Books' with your favourite scene or moment out of any of my books, in order to win.
If that wasn't huge enough, I am back writing Erotica. I have some great story idea's and I can't wait to share it all with you. There is more characters with more scenes that will have you melting in your seats, while also being unable to stop turning the pages. With any luck, the books should be in PRINT too!
My fight to get the Wrestling Romance genre that I co-founded with L. Anne Carrington, is now getting noticed within the Wrestling community with my questions posted to good friend Mr Valvo, on this Wrestle View radio show. You can find the link to that show below the paragraph. I want to thank him for taking my questions and putting them on his well known show.
CLICK HERE TO HEAR THE ANSWERS TO WRESTLING ROMANCE QUESTIONS BY A WRESTLING REPORTER.
On top of that, I will be hopefully on Mr Watts Wrestling show this month. So I will be posting more information on that soon. I hope that you will be checking this all out since I have been out of the interview scene for a while.
This month, I should be seeing A Different Life going into Print and we are waiting to hear more updates on that. I want to thank you for coming out today, to support me with this wonderful blog and I hope to hear your best scenes, moments on the comments below.
Before I go, here is the few books special guests 'dedications' I have coming out.
--- L. Anne Carrington
--- Lori Foster
--- David Herro
--- Karen B
There is many more, showing support to all those that support me. I hope to see you back next week for more exciting blog posts with me.
Kristal McKerrington
March 12, 2012
Interview with Lisa April Smith and an excerpt of Exceeding Expectations
Expectations
Online Book Tour
Featuring Lisa April Smith
March – April, 2012
About Lisa April Smith
Author Lisa April Smith lives with her husband, He-Who-Wishes-to-Remain-Anonymous, in Eternal Playland, Florida, a delightful spot just off I-95. Ms. Smith describes Eternal Playland as: "a little piece of level heaven with occasional dampness, where the bugs are plentiful but respectful, and even the smallest strip mall contains at least one pizza place and a nail salon."
Before discovering a passion for writing, Ms. Smith sold plumbing and heating and antiques, taught ballroom dancing, tutored, modeled, designed software and managed projects for IBM and returned to college multiple times to study anthropology, sociology and computer science, in which she holds degrees, as well as psychology, archeology, literature, history and art. Combine those widely diverse interests with a love of travel and a gift for writing page-turners and it's easy to understand one reviewer's unbridled praise for Exceeding Expectations, "She (Ms. Smith) has a brilliance for conveying characters, and the intellectual capacity to place them in historical settings that sparkle with glamorous detail . . . that make it fun to read . . . " But it takes much more than lush settings, an eye for detail and a love of history to write a page-turner. Read what another reviewer said about Exceeding Expectations: "Lisa April Smith . . . has woven an intriguingly rich tapestry of delightful well-developed characters into a perfectly balanced plot bursting with riveting mystery, crimes of the petty and the horrible sort, suspenseful twists, and romantic tension complete with love scenes that sizzle and pop. . . Clearly, this author has, and wishes to share with her readers, what the French call joie de vivre – not simply the joy of life – but an all-encompassing appreciation for every facet of life."
For more about Lisa, her books, and upcoming projects visit her website: http://www.LisaAprilSmith.com.
Lisa April Smith can be contacted at WriteLisa(at)LisaAprilSmith(dot)com
Follow her on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/LisaAprilSmith
Friend her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/LisaApril.Smith
Thank you for stopping by, Lisa. I know readers are looking forward to learn a little about you.
A: Thank you for inviting me, Tanya. Delighted to be here.
Q. Which is more important in your books – the characters or the plot?
A. I start with characters and then develop an intricate but believable plot, that will test my protagonists in fresh ways, while remaining true to their personalities. For example, in Exceeding Expectations, I saw Jack Morgan as a living, breathing, complex person with weaknesses and strengths – likeable conman and devoted father. I fabricated a childhood that could produce those traits. He's a man unused to compassion or tenderness. The son of a hard-drinking widower, the youngest of four brothers all reluctantly raised by the sole female in the household, his overworked sister. Yet when he sees a newborn he relates to its vulnerability and can't abandon it.
Q. If you use characters as a starting point, what made you chose suspense for your genre?
A. Once you've created fascinating characters you have decide what to do with them, what troubles to inflict and how your protagonists will deal with them. Today's writers have the Herculean task of inventing novel ways to test and torment fictional characters, plus the added challenge of competing for the attention of insanely busy readers. Try to estimate the number of book, movie and television plots the average American adults today, have encountered by the time they're thirty or forty. It has to number in the tens of thousands. That makes for a jaded audience.
Of course with some genres, romance for example, the plot is a given. Boy and girl meet. Problems and/or misunderstanding keep them apart. Problems and/or misunderstanding are resolved. Kisses. Boy and girl exchange vows promising undying love. End of story. Can't knock it. That's what a sizable group of people want. I'm not one of them. And I'm incapable of delivering it.
My goal is to keep my readers involved and turning the pages far into the night. That's why I construct my books around suspense/mystery. While readers are being alternately charmed, dazzled, entranced, amused, aroused, outraged and entertained by my characters, they're busy looking for clues and guessing what surprises await them. That's what gets my juices bubbling.
Q. Do ever get so emotionally involved when you're writing that your eyes tear?
A. Easy one to answer. Yes. However, I'd like to explain that my tears don't mean that I'm vicariously experiencing a character's pain (or triumph). It's more like the empathy of a concerned relative.
Q. Can you tell us about some of the places you've visited, where would you like to see that you haven't and name the place you'd most like to return to?
A. A three part question: 1) We've been to Aruba, Guadalupe, St. Martin, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Canada, Italy, France, England, China – loved them all. 2) I'd like to go everywhere but if I had to choose a few favorites it would Spain, Argentina, Holland, Peru, Russia and Israel. 3) If I had to pick only one, I would go back to China – in a heartbeat. We spent three weeks touring and there's still so much we haven't seen. It's a huge, very diversified country with deserts and snow-capped mountains, sophisticated business-centric cities and rural farmland. And because many parts of China haven't been affected by industrialization you can still find examples of things being done the same way they were done hundreds of years ago. That's fascinating!
Q. What can you tell us about Exceeding Expectations, your new book?
A. I intended the book to be a page-turner suspense, primarily written for women, so naturally I included romance. The factual events that inspired it took place in Palm Beach, playground of the mega-rich, which triggered my imagination to incorporate additional lush settings, like an expansive estate in Virginia, an entire 5 story Manhattan townhouse, and of course Paris. But frankly, I adore the characters. There's the irresistible rascal Jack Morgan – lackluster artist, gifted lover who prefers women older than himself, and utterly devoted father. His daughter Charlotte (Charlie), a self-deprecating 23 year old who is aware that she's pampered, over-protected and unprepared to do anything besides marrying a member of her elite social class. Raul Francesco, the flirtatious young lawyer, Cuban expatriate, who enjoys teasing Charlie, when he's not helping her deal with the fallout of her father's devastating suicide. But I also provide the supporting characters unique and memorable personalities. I don't want to ruin the surprises that I've worked to hard to include by identifying and describing them. Readers will discover them for themselves.
Q. Can you tell us 10 things about yourself that fans might find interesting or surprising?
A 1. I make jewelry but refuse to sell it. I like what I make too much to part with it. (Occasionally, I give a piece to a very good friend.)
A 2. I enjoy watching documentaries.
A 3. I don't need a time machine, black hole or a crack in the universe to step back in time. A visit to any museum, historic mansion, or dig site that has art or artifacts from the past will transport me. When I can't get to one of the above, and I desperately need a break from the frantic Age of Instant Access, an antique store will do.
A 4. I'm impossibly impatient. For example, besides the news, I record all TV programs I want to see so that I can condense a 60 minute episode into 30. (Which does not disturb my husband whose tastes differ from mine, and who does his viewing in another room. Having things in common in marriage is highly overrated.)
A 5. I'm fascinated by all facets of crime, criminals and deviant behavior.
A 6. I'm a volunteer tutor at an after school program for disadvantaged kids.
A 7. I love watching lightning and listening to thunder but only when I'm safe and dry.
A 8. I'm equally parts left and right brained, a condition I share with the late Oliva Goldsmith, author of First Wives Club. When I worked at IBM it troubled me not to be primarily left brained, like most of my geek colleagues. Goldsmith's must-read primer for novelists, The Bestseller, assured me that the condition was ideal for writing fiction. The creative right side provides the original characters and plot, while the practical left side organizes, evaluates and bullies the right side into endless editing.
A 9. I grow orchids in front of my house and cactus inside. Many varieties of cactus, with their asymmetrical shapes and twisted limbs, resemble modern sculpture.
A 10. As a kid, I was so impressed that my mother could whistle through her fingers that I practiced and practiced until I could do it. My daughter is the 3rd generation of women in our family that accomplish this awesome feat. Sad to say, to date, her daughter shows no interest in maintaining the family tradition.
Q. This is your chance to speak directly to readers who haven't discovered your books. What would you like to say to them?
A. I give my readers the respect they deserve. I see them as intelligent discerning people. That's why I avoid clichés: phrases, characters and plots. My readers are going to be entertained, transported for a time from the ordinary and maybe even learn a thing or two. My goal is to give them their money's worth.
About Exceeding Expectations
It's 1961 and Palm Beach socialite, irresistible rascal and devoted father Jack Morgan encounters genuine danger while staging his suicide to shield his beloved daughters from disgrace. Next, meet his daughter Charlotte (Charlie), an over-indulged 23 year-old struggling to cope with the traumatizing loss of her beloved father, her sister's resulting mental breakdown and the discovery that she's suddenly penniless. Fortunately Raul, an admiring young attorney, appears to offer assistance. As terrified as she is about daily survival, Charlie soon realizes that she has to learn what drove her father to kill himself. With Raul's much needed ego-bolstering, the drive of necessity and unforeseen determination, Charlie finds a practical use for her annoyingly lean 5' 11" frame. In time, this career finances her hard-wrought independence, her sister's costly treatment and an emotional eye-opening journey to Paris.
Jumping back in time to romantic pre-WWII Paris, readers meet young Alan Fitzpatrick – aka Jack Morgan – lack-luster artist and expert lover and the bewitching girl who will become the mother of his children. Not even Charlie's relentless detective work will uncover all Jack's secrets, but in a fireworks of surprise endings, she discovers all that she needs to know and more: disturbing truths about her father, her own unique talent, crimes great and small and a diabolical villain.
Chapter One of
Exceeding Expectations
January 2, 1962
Glancing down at the Porsche's speedometer Jack eased up on the gas. The nearest car was a mile back, but a cop could be hiding around the next bend. Being stopped by the police did not fit into Jack's plan. He blamed the excitement. And guilt. Composing the single page to his daughters had been agony. There was no nice way to say he intended to kill himself. There were no comforting euphemisms for suicide. No words to excuse a mortal sin. And worst of all, no way to ease the pain his beloved girls would experience. But they, and everyone else, had to believe his intention was absolute and irreversible or the plan would fail. After several miserable gut-wrenching attempts, Jack wrote how much he loved them and said that this was something he had to do to protect them.
Knowing he could rely on Petal's steely strength, Jack's letter to his wife was more direct. He had explained that he was doing this to save her and his girls from scandal and disgrace. And as he was making this noble sacrifice, he knew she could be relied on to be good to his daughters. Petal might not be the maternal sort, but no one could accuse her of being tight-fisted. After reading the letter, his dying declaration, and waiting for two Chivas Regal's straight to take effect, she would call a few select members of her powerful family, and her attorney. The results of those calls would be a discreet obituary in The New York Times, another in the local paper, hinting at a long-term debilitating disease, and no further investigation. A quiet memorial service would be held in Manhattan, Petal's preferred place of residence, and she would be stunning in black for the next six to ten weeks, depending on her social calendar.
The best thing about his plan was its simplicity. He would wait until two or three in the morning when the roads would be deserted, park the car on the middle of a bridge and disappear into the night. The bridge and town had been carefully selected – less than a five-mile walk to the railroad to prevent someone later recalling giving a lift to a stranger. And the town had to be small – an insignificant speck on the map. The smaller the town, Jack had reasoned, the less sophisticated the police force. Fielding, Florida, a town that lacked a drug store, supermarket, bank, and beauty parlor was ideal. Serious crime in Fielding probably consisted of intimidating the kids who tipped over outhouses on Halloween and jailing the same town drunk every Friday night. A costly abandoned car, coupled with the later discovered suicide notes, guaranteed Jack would be the topic of intense gossip for years, and the object of a bumbling investigation for no more than a week. The Porsche would get more attention than the lack of a corpse in an area where alligators outnumbered house pets, and a Ford with all four fenders intact was considered a damned fine automobile.
Once he boarded a train he'd be fine. Men who rode the rails kept secrets. They were members of a tribe of vagabonds who preferred the town around the next curve – adventurous men ready to share a pot of tramp stew with another kindred spirit. And he was eager to join them. For the last two and half decades, his life had revolved around his girls. Jack had chosen that life and never once regretted it. A man couldn't have finer daughters than Amelia and Charlotte. But they were grown now and maybe he had earned himself a change. He thought he might head for Texas, a leviathan-sized state where a man's past was not apt to be questioned. And Texas was known for its horses. He loved horses — riding them, watching them trot, canter, toss their heads, nurse their foals. Gorgeous, glorious creatures they were.
After several hours of driving through towns too small to boast a stop sign, Jack reached his destination. A weather-beaten building with a concave roof housed the grocery that doubled as Fielding's post office. He gave his letters to a leathery man behind the counter and gazed at a jar of pickles with interest. He had been so focused on reaching his destination he had forgotten to eat lunch. "Is there a place around here to get something to eat?" "Just Wiley's. Kind of a bar/restaurant down the street. Lost its sign in the last hurricane, but you'll find it."
An orange neon light in the window erratically flickered Budweiser. Jack glanced inside. It was more bar than restaurant, and grimy. Lacking an alternative, he entered. A wall of vacant knotty-pine booths faced a long bar backed by a mirror so streaked with fly droppings and smoke, that reflected images appeared cloudy. Five or six patrons turned to note his presence and then quickly resumed what they had been doing. Jack proceeded to the bar's last booth and took a seat where he could oversee the comings and goings. The gym bag containing twenty-seven thousand dollars he stowed under the table.
A blowsy overweight waitress with an elaborate hairdo and a too-tight skirt approached. "Need a menu?" she asked as she wiped the table with a dingy towel.
"What time do you stop serving food?"
"The kitchen closes at eight."
Jack removed his buck suede jacket and placed it on the seat beside him. Assuming this place closed at midnight, he had five long hours to kill. "Bring me a draft beer and a hamburger. And if you could spare a newspaper, I'd appreciate it."
She soon returned with his beer and a ten-page weekly tabloid filled with notices of church events, and feed and grain ads. It was a typical weekday night in a small town bar: plenty of griping and boasting, lengthy recitations of what could have been and should have been, a few stale jokes, more men than women, a lot of talk, little action.
"Would you turn up the radio?" a customer called from the far end of the bar. "That's me and Wanda's favorite song."
The bartender adjusted the dial. A twangy melancholy western tune drowned out the dull background noise.
"Turn it down! Turn that blasted thing down!" several customers shouted in unison.
The bartender found an agreeable level of volume and conversation resumed. It started to rain about nine — a light drizzle at first and then a steady hard-driving downpour. On her return trip from the ladies room, a woman in her late thirties, attractive in a tired way, paused to inquire if Jack would be in town for a while. He politely explained that he was just passing through and she rejoined her companions at the bar.
"That would be eighty cents, including the beer. Would you mind settling up now?" the waitress asked at nine-thirty. "I'm leaving in a few minutes. Buddy, that's the bartender, he'll take care of you. I'm going home to my kids." Jack handed her a dollar and told her to keep the change. At ten o'clock Jack went to the men's room and ducked into a stall. Removing the bills from the gym bag Jack distributed them around the money belt. Twenty-seven thousand dollars. Money painstakingly gleaned from his checking account in amounts that wouldn't later arouse suspicion. It wouldn't finance the way of life he had been enjoying very long, but it could buy ten new Chevrolets. More than enough for a fresh start.
Customers, who had been checking their watches and shaking their heads for the last hour or more, decided the rain was not going to let up. One by one, they finished their beers, turned up their collars, cursed the weather and dashed into the street.
"Last call," the owner announced to Jack and two stragglers. "Closing at eleven cause of this miserable weather."
"No more for me. I gotta go to work tomorrow," the older of the two remaining men announced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and paid his tab. Jack closed his eyes and listened to rain pounding the wood roof. The last customer drank his beer and stared out the front window at the unrelenting downpour. He was about Jack's size and weight, somewhere in his twenties – a kid. His light brown hair was home-cut and in need of a trim. His pants were deeply creased and stained with what Jack guessed to be grease. A handyman, or maybe a mechanic who worked nearby.
Jack grabbed the empty gym bag, handed a dollar bill to the bartender, and headed for the door. The kid blocked the exit.
"My truck's about a mile or so down the road. It weren't raining when I started out. I'd be grateful, mister, if you could give me a ride," the kid said.
Jack appraised the kid grinning back at him. Crooked teeth vied with one another for space, and his tired green eyes spoke of a resilience born of hardship. The faded denim shirt he wore over a grimy T-shirt would provide no protection from the cold and rain. Jack looked at the bartender owner hoping for some indication that this kid was a local, but the bartender was busy counting the day's receipts. "You having any trouble with that truck?" Jack tapped his chest. "This old ticker of mine doesn't work as good as it used to," he lied. "If you need a hand with that truck, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to help."
"I got no trouble with the truck. Runs dandy," he assured Jack. "I left it at a farmhouse to be unloaded. Sold them folks a cord of firewood. But they had to unload and stack it theirselves. That was the deal. They unload it and stack it theirselves whilst I go into town."
Jack weighed the risk. He had twenty-seven thousand dollars in the money belt, but this kid didn't know that. All he knew was that it was pouring, it was cold and he needed a ride. Eleven o'clock was far too early for Jack to carry out his plan. All that awaited him was two or three hours of boredom in a parked car. "What's your name, kid?"
"Folks mostly call me Iowa."
"My name's Jack and the Porsche across the street is mine. Wait here. No sense both of us getting soaked." By the time Jack reached the car and jumped in, his hair and clothes were drenched. Mostly Iowa had fared little better. "Which direction?" Jack asked his passenger.
"You're headin' the right way. Just follow the road a piece. I'll tell you where to turn."
"Is it on the left or the right?"
"Left."
"I expect you live around here."
"Just passin' through."
They soon left the residential part of town. The driving rain and incessant flip-flop flip-flop of the windshield wipers blurred his vision. Jack tried the high beams and quickly switched back. Pointing to a dim light on what appeared to be a house he asked, "It that it?"
"Nope. That ain't it. It's up yonder a bit."
"When I first saw you, Iowa, I said to myself, now there's a fellow who knows his way around cars. You a mechanic?"
"I fiddled with cars some. Nothing as swanky as this."
For the next two or three miles there wasn't a break in the road — not a path, planted field, farmhouse or shed, only endless sawgrass and pine trees. "That had to be some hike into town. Are you sure we didn't pass it? You did say it was on the left?"
"Yep. On the left."
While Jack had been struggling to locate the elusive house and truck, Mostly Iowa had been facing right. Damn! What an idiot he had been! A solitary man wearing expensive clothes and a flashy gold watch. A new Porsche – obviously his. A mysterious gym bag that had never left his side. A transient loner who needed a ride. "We must have passed it. I'm going to turn around."
"Just pull over here!" Mostly Iowa's eyes were cold. His right hand expertly cradled a knife.
Targeted like a deer by a hungry kid. Stalked! Jack's foot remained on the accelerator. "You don't want to do this, Iowa. How about I slow down to ten, fifteen miles an hour and you jump out? We part friends and forget this ever happened."
"You stop this here car or I'll stick you like a pig. It wouldn't bother me none to kill you."
Now Jack was a man who liked a good laugh as much as the next guy, but irony had its place. Dying the very night he scheduled his fake suicide was not his idea of a joke. Iowa grabbed Jack's right arm. "Stop this car or I'll cut out your gizzard and leave it for the birds."
"I'm not stopping the car as long as you got that knife," Jack said in a calm friendly voice. He could feel the frightening tip of the steel blade through his suede jacket. "Toss it out the window and I'll stop the car."
Iowa grabbed the steering wheel. The Porsche hydroplaned and fish-tailed, barely avoiding trees on both sides of the road.
By intuitively releasing his grip, the finely engineered racing car realigned itself. Jack glanced at his passenger looking for some hint of humanity, still hoping to change the kid's mind, yet very much aware of the danger. "You're going to get us both killed. We're doing twenty miles an hour. The ground is soft from the rain. Open the door and roll out."
"Not a chance in hell, you miserable fuck. You're going to die."
The knife slashed the jacket and dug into the money belt. If it weren't for the thick wad of bills, the blade would be boring into his rib cage. Jack deliberately swerved the car right and then left. Iowa grabbed the wheel. Using the butt of his right fist Jack smashed his attacker's hand. Iowa howled with pain and dropped the knife. He alternated curses with punches aimed at Jack's head.
Jack fought to simultaneously keep the car on the road with his left hand and ward off his attacker with his right. A pothole caught Iowa off balance. He slid away. Jack used the opportunity to use the bent right arm that had been guarding his chest and lash out, landing an explosive blow with his clenched fist. He could feel the bridge of Iowa's nose collapse, hear the bones crack.
"Goddamn you! You jackass. You busted my nose!" Iowa fumbled beneath the seat.
Seeing the dreaded knife reappear, Jack made the only decision left. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He braced himself and floored the Porsche, aiming the passenger side at a massive oak tree. Iowa reached for the wheel again, too late. The car hit the tree with a violent jolt, throwing both men forward. A branch smashed the windshield a microsecond before Jack's head reached it. The glass shattered harmlessly, but his chest had struck the steering wheel with an impact that left him gasping for air. The motor groaned and sputtered as Jack waited with his eyes closed. His chest ached with every breath. Tentatively touching his forehead he discovered a swelling throbbing bump. Jack opened his eyes. Mostly Iowa had not fared as well. He lay slumped against the door. Blood from the broken nose bathed his face, neck, and shirt. Jack didn't know if he was dead or unconscious, but he wouldn't be a threat for a while.
"Why didn't you jump when you had the chance?" Jack asked the limp figure. "Soon as I find out what kind of shape I'm in, I'll figure out what I'm going to do with you. If I can walk back to town, I'll send someone out to help. And that's better than you deserve, you dumb bastard, considering you were trying to kill me."
Limb by limb, joint by joint, Jack tested his extremities. His arms, hands, and fingers moved, painfully, but they didn't appear to be broken. He flexed one leg and then the other. "My legs seem okay," he informed his silent companion. His chest and shoulders ached. "Probably cracked a few ribs and there's a buzzing in my ears. Going to be sore for a while, as well as black and blue, but I'm alive. What about it, Iowa? You going to make it?"
Jack leaned across the inert body expecting to hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Silence. The kid was dead! Jesus Christ! He hadn't intended to kill the kid. His goal had been to prevent his own imminent demise.
"Now look what you did, Iowa. You tried to kill me and you ended up killing yourself. God damn dumb kid!" he said to keep his teeth from chattering. "God damn dumb kid!" His entire right side throbbed and he was trembling. "Got to get out of here."
He tried the door handle. It turned, but the bowed door would not budge. He threw all his weight against it and grimaced. It groaned in sympathy and swung open causing him to crash onto the muddy ground. The rain had subsided to a trickle. Jack wiped his hands on soggy moss and sat down to think beside the demolished car.
There was nothing more that could be done for Iowa. His problems were over. Jack's problems had tripled. In a day or two, Petal and the girls would read the letters he had mailed. A first-class plan wiped out because he wanted to help out a dumb kid. Okay, he told himself, if faking his suicide by leaving the Porsche on a bridge was no longer possible, he simply needed a new plan. A new plan. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The Porsche would be traced to him. They would find a dead kid in his car. If he disappeared now he would be accused of murder. Unless . . . Unless . . . Iowa was about his size. The police would assume the body belonged to Jack Morgan if – if it was unrecognizable. But how? The car and its contents would have to be burnt beyond recognition. He could do that. Provided he kept calm, and no one came along in the interim, it was a good alternative plan.
Jack removed the ruined suede jacket. It could go on the corpse. A scrap of burnt suede would add to the illusion, as would his wedding band. He had intended to sell it before he reached Texas, but it would be better used now. As he removed the ring he noticed his prized gold watch. They might look for it. It was too bad about the watch, but it too had to go.
The tight quarters inside the crumpled Porsche, coupled with Jack's reluctance to touch the bloody corpse made the exchange time consuming, exhausting, and grisly. As a final touch, Jack traded shoes with the dead man before shoving him into position behind the wheel.
An hour had passed since the crash and no one had driven by. His luck was holding. Now he needed matches. Matches or a cigarette lighter. His pockets yielded neither. His plan would fail because he lacked a pack of matches that every bar and restaurant supplied free. Think, he told himself. There had to be a solution. The Porsche's cigarette lighter. Would it still work? Leaning over Iowa's body, Jack located it and pressed it. Thirty seconds later it popped out glowing red. God bless the Germans! Every twenty or thirty years, it took a war to remind them who was boss, but they sure knew how to build a car. Jack looked for something to start the fire. Downed branches were too wet. A dry rag. He kept a towel in the trunk.
Jack walked to the rear of the car to unlock the trunk but it wouldn't release. He kicked it with his heel. Another sharp kick. The trunk creaked open. A white, still-folded hand towel lay tucked in a corner. A few more minutes and it would be over.
He stuffed as much of the towel as would fit into the gas tank, then replaced the ignition key. As he was about to press the cigarette lighter he remembered the knife. What if it were found with the remains? Palm beach socialite Jack Morgan didn't carry a switchblade. He would have to find it. Ten minutes passed as he searched the car and the corpse. He was about to give up when he felt it lodged under the passenger seat. He folded it, tucked it into his belt, and inserted the dependable lighter.
Half a football field away Jack leaned against a tree and waited. Several times the flame appeared to die, only to flare up again. And then the rag ignited with an enormous pop – followed by ear-splitting thunder. Roaring flames, the height of a church steeple leapt from the car's rear. Jack could no longer make out Iowa's silhouette in the flames. Just a few more minutes, he told himself. The smoke and heat from the blaze reddened his face and seared his lungs. When it was time to leave Jack strode away in Iowa's ill-fitting shoes, away from the wrecked Porsche, the town of Fielding, and his past. Then he heard it. A train whistle. The magical hollow sound of a train whistle. And it wasn't far off. Damn, if he wasn't a lucky so-and-so. One of God's favorite children. Jesus tolerated the pious, sober, and abstinent. Yes, He tolerated the tiresome righteous and their smug unforgiving Christian smiles. And He had little pity for the tyrant, the merciless, and the cruel. But Jesus loved the ordinary sinner. Isn't that what the bible taught? The Almighty loved sinners. Without sinners there would have been no reason for Jesus to come to earth and experience the joy and pain of mortals.
Intoxicating freedom mingled with the chilling air. Jack could forget the chafing money belt, cheap ill-fitting shoes, sore feet, and aching muscles. He had a new name and a thousand new possibilities. The next time he found himself with a drink in his hand he would remember Iowa and raise his glass to the tragic dumb kid.
"This one's for you, Iowa, you miserable misguided creature," he would say. "May the good Lord take mercy on your soul and your time in Purgatory be brief."
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Online Book Tour
Featuring Lisa April Smith
March – April, 2012
About Lisa April Smith
Author Lisa April Smith lives with her husband, He-Who-Wishes-to-Remain-Anonymous, in Eternal Playland, Florida, a delightful spot just off I-95. Ms. Smith describes Eternal Playland as: "a little piece of level heaven with occasional dampness, where the bugs are plentiful but respectful, and even the smallest strip mall contains at least one pizza place and a nail salon."
Before discovering a passion for writing, Ms. Smith sold plumbing and heating and antiques, taught ballroom dancing, tutored, modeled, designed software and managed projects for IBM and returned to college multiple times to study anthropology, sociology and computer science, in which she holds degrees, as well as psychology, archeology, literature, history and art. Combine those widely diverse interests with a love of travel and a gift for writing page-turners and it's easy to understand one reviewer's unbridled praise for Exceeding Expectations, "She (Ms. Smith) has a brilliance for conveying characters, and the intellectual capacity to place them in historical settings that sparkle with glamorous detail . . . that make it fun to read . . . " But it takes much more than lush settings, an eye for detail and a love of history to write a page-turner. Read what another reviewer said about Exceeding Expectations: "Lisa April Smith . . . has woven an intriguingly rich tapestry of delightful well-developed characters into a perfectly balanced plot bursting with riveting mystery, crimes of the petty and the horrible sort, suspenseful twists, and romantic tension complete with love scenes that sizzle and pop. . . Clearly, this author has, and wishes to share with her readers, what the French call joie de vivre – not simply the joy of life – but an all-encompassing appreciation for every facet of life."
For more about Lisa, her books, and upcoming projects visit her website: http://www.LisaAprilSmith.com.
Lisa April Smith can be contacted at WriteLisa(at)LisaAprilSmith(dot)com
Follow her on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/LisaAprilSmith
Friend her on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/LisaApril.Smith
Thank you for stopping by, Lisa. I know readers are looking forward to learn a little about you.
A: Thank you for inviting me, Tanya. Delighted to be here.
Q. Which is more important in your books – the characters or the plot?
A. I start with characters and then develop an intricate but believable plot, that will test my protagonists in fresh ways, while remaining true to their personalities. For example, in Exceeding Expectations, I saw Jack Morgan as a living, breathing, complex person with weaknesses and strengths – likeable conman and devoted father. I fabricated a childhood that could produce those traits. He's a man unused to compassion or tenderness. The son of a hard-drinking widower, the youngest of four brothers all reluctantly raised by the sole female in the household, his overworked sister. Yet when he sees a newborn he relates to its vulnerability and can't abandon it.
Q. If you use characters as a starting point, what made you chose suspense for your genre?
A. Once you've created fascinating characters you have decide what to do with them, what troubles to inflict and how your protagonists will deal with them. Today's writers have the Herculean task of inventing novel ways to test and torment fictional characters, plus the added challenge of competing for the attention of insanely busy readers. Try to estimate the number of book, movie and television plots the average American adults today, have encountered by the time they're thirty or forty. It has to number in the tens of thousands. That makes for a jaded audience.
Of course with some genres, romance for example, the plot is a given. Boy and girl meet. Problems and/or misunderstanding keep them apart. Problems and/or misunderstanding are resolved. Kisses. Boy and girl exchange vows promising undying love. End of story. Can't knock it. That's what a sizable group of people want. I'm not one of them. And I'm incapable of delivering it.
My goal is to keep my readers involved and turning the pages far into the night. That's why I construct my books around suspense/mystery. While readers are being alternately charmed, dazzled, entranced, amused, aroused, outraged and entertained by my characters, they're busy looking for clues and guessing what surprises await them. That's what gets my juices bubbling.
Q. Do ever get so emotionally involved when you're writing that your eyes tear?
A. Easy one to answer. Yes. However, I'd like to explain that my tears don't mean that I'm vicariously experiencing a character's pain (or triumph). It's more like the empathy of a concerned relative.
Q. Can you tell us about some of the places you've visited, where would you like to see that you haven't and name the place you'd most like to return to?
A. A three part question: 1) We've been to Aruba, Guadalupe, St. Martin, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Canada, Italy, France, England, China – loved them all. 2) I'd like to go everywhere but if I had to choose a few favorites it would Spain, Argentina, Holland, Peru, Russia and Israel. 3) If I had to pick only one, I would go back to China – in a heartbeat. We spent three weeks touring and there's still so much we haven't seen. It's a huge, very diversified country with deserts and snow-capped mountains, sophisticated business-centric cities and rural farmland. And because many parts of China haven't been affected by industrialization you can still find examples of things being done the same way they were done hundreds of years ago. That's fascinating!
Q. What can you tell us about Exceeding Expectations, your new book?
A. I intended the book to be a page-turner suspense, primarily written for women, so naturally I included romance. The factual events that inspired it took place in Palm Beach, playground of the mega-rich, which triggered my imagination to incorporate additional lush settings, like an expansive estate in Virginia, an entire 5 story Manhattan townhouse, and of course Paris. But frankly, I adore the characters. There's the irresistible rascal Jack Morgan – lackluster artist, gifted lover who prefers women older than himself, and utterly devoted father. His daughter Charlotte (Charlie), a self-deprecating 23 year old who is aware that she's pampered, over-protected and unprepared to do anything besides marrying a member of her elite social class. Raul Francesco, the flirtatious young lawyer, Cuban expatriate, who enjoys teasing Charlie, when he's not helping her deal with the fallout of her father's devastating suicide. But I also provide the supporting characters unique and memorable personalities. I don't want to ruin the surprises that I've worked to hard to include by identifying and describing them. Readers will discover them for themselves.
Q. Can you tell us 10 things about yourself that fans might find interesting or surprising?
A 1. I make jewelry but refuse to sell it. I like what I make too much to part with it. (Occasionally, I give a piece to a very good friend.)
A 2. I enjoy watching documentaries.
A 3. I don't need a time machine, black hole or a crack in the universe to step back in time. A visit to any museum, historic mansion, or dig site that has art or artifacts from the past will transport me. When I can't get to one of the above, and I desperately need a break from the frantic Age of Instant Access, an antique store will do.
A 4. I'm impossibly impatient. For example, besides the news, I record all TV programs I want to see so that I can condense a 60 minute episode into 30. (Which does not disturb my husband whose tastes differ from mine, and who does his viewing in another room. Having things in common in marriage is highly overrated.)
A 5. I'm fascinated by all facets of crime, criminals and deviant behavior.
A 6. I'm a volunteer tutor at an after school program for disadvantaged kids.
A 7. I love watching lightning and listening to thunder but only when I'm safe and dry.
A 8. I'm equally parts left and right brained, a condition I share with the late Oliva Goldsmith, author of First Wives Club. When I worked at IBM it troubled me not to be primarily left brained, like most of my geek colleagues. Goldsmith's must-read primer for novelists, The Bestseller, assured me that the condition was ideal for writing fiction. The creative right side provides the original characters and plot, while the practical left side organizes, evaluates and bullies the right side into endless editing.
A 9. I grow orchids in front of my house and cactus inside. Many varieties of cactus, with their asymmetrical shapes and twisted limbs, resemble modern sculpture.
A 10. As a kid, I was so impressed that my mother could whistle through her fingers that I practiced and practiced until I could do it. My daughter is the 3rd generation of women in our family that accomplish this awesome feat. Sad to say, to date, her daughter shows no interest in maintaining the family tradition.
Q. This is your chance to speak directly to readers who haven't discovered your books. What would you like to say to them?
A. I give my readers the respect they deserve. I see them as intelligent discerning people. That's why I avoid clichés: phrases, characters and plots. My readers are going to be entertained, transported for a time from the ordinary and maybe even learn a thing or two. My goal is to give them their money's worth.
About Exceeding Expectations
It's 1961 and Palm Beach socialite, irresistible rascal and devoted father Jack Morgan encounters genuine danger while staging his suicide to shield his beloved daughters from disgrace. Next, meet his daughter Charlotte (Charlie), an over-indulged 23 year-old struggling to cope with the traumatizing loss of her beloved father, her sister's resulting mental breakdown and the discovery that she's suddenly penniless. Fortunately Raul, an admiring young attorney, appears to offer assistance. As terrified as she is about daily survival, Charlie soon realizes that she has to learn what drove her father to kill himself. With Raul's much needed ego-bolstering, the drive of necessity and unforeseen determination, Charlie finds a practical use for her annoyingly lean 5' 11" frame. In time, this career finances her hard-wrought independence, her sister's costly treatment and an emotional eye-opening journey to Paris. Jumping back in time to romantic pre-WWII Paris, readers meet young Alan Fitzpatrick – aka Jack Morgan – lack-luster artist and expert lover and the bewitching girl who will become the mother of his children. Not even Charlie's relentless detective work will uncover all Jack's secrets, but in a fireworks of surprise endings, she discovers all that she needs to know and more: disturbing truths about her father, her own unique talent, crimes great and small and a diabolical villain.
Chapter One of
Exceeding Expectations
January 2, 1962
Glancing down at the Porsche's speedometer Jack eased up on the gas. The nearest car was a mile back, but a cop could be hiding around the next bend. Being stopped by the police did not fit into Jack's plan. He blamed the excitement. And guilt. Composing the single page to his daughters had been agony. There was no nice way to say he intended to kill himself. There were no comforting euphemisms for suicide. No words to excuse a mortal sin. And worst of all, no way to ease the pain his beloved girls would experience. But they, and everyone else, had to believe his intention was absolute and irreversible or the plan would fail. After several miserable gut-wrenching attempts, Jack wrote how much he loved them and said that this was something he had to do to protect them.
Knowing he could rely on Petal's steely strength, Jack's letter to his wife was more direct. He had explained that he was doing this to save her and his girls from scandal and disgrace. And as he was making this noble sacrifice, he knew she could be relied on to be good to his daughters. Petal might not be the maternal sort, but no one could accuse her of being tight-fisted. After reading the letter, his dying declaration, and waiting for two Chivas Regal's straight to take effect, she would call a few select members of her powerful family, and her attorney. The results of those calls would be a discreet obituary in The New York Times, another in the local paper, hinting at a long-term debilitating disease, and no further investigation. A quiet memorial service would be held in Manhattan, Petal's preferred place of residence, and she would be stunning in black for the next six to ten weeks, depending on her social calendar.
The best thing about his plan was its simplicity. He would wait until two or three in the morning when the roads would be deserted, park the car on the middle of a bridge and disappear into the night. The bridge and town had been carefully selected – less than a five-mile walk to the railroad to prevent someone later recalling giving a lift to a stranger. And the town had to be small – an insignificant speck on the map. The smaller the town, Jack had reasoned, the less sophisticated the police force. Fielding, Florida, a town that lacked a drug store, supermarket, bank, and beauty parlor was ideal. Serious crime in Fielding probably consisted of intimidating the kids who tipped over outhouses on Halloween and jailing the same town drunk every Friday night. A costly abandoned car, coupled with the later discovered suicide notes, guaranteed Jack would be the topic of intense gossip for years, and the object of a bumbling investigation for no more than a week. The Porsche would get more attention than the lack of a corpse in an area where alligators outnumbered house pets, and a Ford with all four fenders intact was considered a damned fine automobile.
Once he boarded a train he'd be fine. Men who rode the rails kept secrets. They were members of a tribe of vagabonds who preferred the town around the next curve – adventurous men ready to share a pot of tramp stew with another kindred spirit. And he was eager to join them. For the last two and half decades, his life had revolved around his girls. Jack had chosen that life and never once regretted it. A man couldn't have finer daughters than Amelia and Charlotte. But they were grown now and maybe he had earned himself a change. He thought he might head for Texas, a leviathan-sized state where a man's past was not apt to be questioned. And Texas was known for its horses. He loved horses — riding them, watching them trot, canter, toss their heads, nurse their foals. Gorgeous, glorious creatures they were.
After several hours of driving through towns too small to boast a stop sign, Jack reached his destination. A weather-beaten building with a concave roof housed the grocery that doubled as Fielding's post office. He gave his letters to a leathery man behind the counter and gazed at a jar of pickles with interest. He had been so focused on reaching his destination he had forgotten to eat lunch. "Is there a place around here to get something to eat?" "Just Wiley's. Kind of a bar/restaurant down the street. Lost its sign in the last hurricane, but you'll find it."
An orange neon light in the window erratically flickered Budweiser. Jack glanced inside. It was more bar than restaurant, and grimy. Lacking an alternative, he entered. A wall of vacant knotty-pine booths faced a long bar backed by a mirror so streaked with fly droppings and smoke, that reflected images appeared cloudy. Five or six patrons turned to note his presence and then quickly resumed what they had been doing. Jack proceeded to the bar's last booth and took a seat where he could oversee the comings and goings. The gym bag containing twenty-seven thousand dollars he stowed under the table.
A blowsy overweight waitress with an elaborate hairdo and a too-tight skirt approached. "Need a menu?" she asked as she wiped the table with a dingy towel.
"What time do you stop serving food?"
"The kitchen closes at eight."
Jack removed his buck suede jacket and placed it on the seat beside him. Assuming this place closed at midnight, he had five long hours to kill. "Bring me a draft beer and a hamburger. And if you could spare a newspaper, I'd appreciate it."
She soon returned with his beer and a ten-page weekly tabloid filled with notices of church events, and feed and grain ads. It was a typical weekday night in a small town bar: plenty of griping and boasting, lengthy recitations of what could have been and should have been, a few stale jokes, more men than women, a lot of talk, little action.
"Would you turn up the radio?" a customer called from the far end of the bar. "That's me and Wanda's favorite song."
The bartender adjusted the dial. A twangy melancholy western tune drowned out the dull background noise.
"Turn it down! Turn that blasted thing down!" several customers shouted in unison.
The bartender found an agreeable level of volume and conversation resumed. It started to rain about nine — a light drizzle at first and then a steady hard-driving downpour. On her return trip from the ladies room, a woman in her late thirties, attractive in a tired way, paused to inquire if Jack would be in town for a while. He politely explained that he was just passing through and she rejoined her companions at the bar.
"That would be eighty cents, including the beer. Would you mind settling up now?" the waitress asked at nine-thirty. "I'm leaving in a few minutes. Buddy, that's the bartender, he'll take care of you. I'm going home to my kids." Jack handed her a dollar and told her to keep the change. At ten o'clock Jack went to the men's room and ducked into a stall. Removing the bills from the gym bag Jack distributed them around the money belt. Twenty-seven thousand dollars. Money painstakingly gleaned from his checking account in amounts that wouldn't later arouse suspicion. It wouldn't finance the way of life he had been enjoying very long, but it could buy ten new Chevrolets. More than enough for a fresh start.
Customers, who had been checking their watches and shaking their heads for the last hour or more, decided the rain was not going to let up. One by one, they finished their beers, turned up their collars, cursed the weather and dashed into the street.
"Last call," the owner announced to Jack and two stragglers. "Closing at eleven cause of this miserable weather."
"No more for me. I gotta go to work tomorrow," the older of the two remaining men announced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and paid his tab. Jack closed his eyes and listened to rain pounding the wood roof. The last customer drank his beer and stared out the front window at the unrelenting downpour. He was about Jack's size and weight, somewhere in his twenties – a kid. His light brown hair was home-cut and in need of a trim. His pants were deeply creased and stained with what Jack guessed to be grease. A handyman, or maybe a mechanic who worked nearby.
Jack grabbed the empty gym bag, handed a dollar bill to the bartender, and headed for the door. The kid blocked the exit.
"My truck's about a mile or so down the road. It weren't raining when I started out. I'd be grateful, mister, if you could give me a ride," the kid said.
Jack appraised the kid grinning back at him. Crooked teeth vied with one another for space, and his tired green eyes spoke of a resilience born of hardship. The faded denim shirt he wore over a grimy T-shirt would provide no protection from the cold and rain. Jack looked at the bartender owner hoping for some indication that this kid was a local, but the bartender was busy counting the day's receipts. "You having any trouble with that truck?" Jack tapped his chest. "This old ticker of mine doesn't work as good as it used to," he lied. "If you need a hand with that truck, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to help."
"I got no trouble with the truck. Runs dandy," he assured Jack. "I left it at a farmhouse to be unloaded. Sold them folks a cord of firewood. But they had to unload and stack it theirselves. That was the deal. They unload it and stack it theirselves whilst I go into town."
Jack weighed the risk. He had twenty-seven thousand dollars in the money belt, but this kid didn't know that. All he knew was that it was pouring, it was cold and he needed a ride. Eleven o'clock was far too early for Jack to carry out his plan. All that awaited him was two or three hours of boredom in a parked car. "What's your name, kid?"
"Folks mostly call me Iowa."
"My name's Jack and the Porsche across the street is mine. Wait here. No sense both of us getting soaked." By the time Jack reached the car and jumped in, his hair and clothes were drenched. Mostly Iowa had fared little better. "Which direction?" Jack asked his passenger.
"You're headin' the right way. Just follow the road a piece. I'll tell you where to turn."
"Is it on the left or the right?"
"Left."
"I expect you live around here."
"Just passin' through."
They soon left the residential part of town. The driving rain and incessant flip-flop flip-flop of the windshield wipers blurred his vision. Jack tried the high beams and quickly switched back. Pointing to a dim light on what appeared to be a house he asked, "It that it?"
"Nope. That ain't it. It's up yonder a bit."
"When I first saw you, Iowa, I said to myself, now there's a fellow who knows his way around cars. You a mechanic?"
"I fiddled with cars some. Nothing as swanky as this."
For the next two or three miles there wasn't a break in the road — not a path, planted field, farmhouse or shed, only endless sawgrass and pine trees. "That had to be some hike into town. Are you sure we didn't pass it? You did say it was on the left?"
"Yep. On the left."
While Jack had been struggling to locate the elusive house and truck, Mostly Iowa had been facing right. Damn! What an idiot he had been! A solitary man wearing expensive clothes and a flashy gold watch. A new Porsche – obviously his. A mysterious gym bag that had never left his side. A transient loner who needed a ride. "We must have passed it. I'm going to turn around."
"Just pull over here!" Mostly Iowa's eyes were cold. His right hand expertly cradled a knife.
Targeted like a deer by a hungry kid. Stalked! Jack's foot remained on the accelerator. "You don't want to do this, Iowa. How about I slow down to ten, fifteen miles an hour and you jump out? We part friends and forget this ever happened."
"You stop this here car or I'll stick you like a pig. It wouldn't bother me none to kill you."
Now Jack was a man who liked a good laugh as much as the next guy, but irony had its place. Dying the very night he scheduled his fake suicide was not his idea of a joke. Iowa grabbed Jack's right arm. "Stop this car or I'll cut out your gizzard and leave it for the birds."
"I'm not stopping the car as long as you got that knife," Jack said in a calm friendly voice. He could feel the frightening tip of the steel blade through his suede jacket. "Toss it out the window and I'll stop the car."
Iowa grabbed the steering wheel. The Porsche hydroplaned and fish-tailed, barely avoiding trees on both sides of the road.
By intuitively releasing his grip, the finely engineered racing car realigned itself. Jack glanced at his passenger looking for some hint of humanity, still hoping to change the kid's mind, yet very much aware of the danger. "You're going to get us both killed. We're doing twenty miles an hour. The ground is soft from the rain. Open the door and roll out."
"Not a chance in hell, you miserable fuck. You're going to die."
The knife slashed the jacket and dug into the money belt. If it weren't for the thick wad of bills, the blade would be boring into his rib cage. Jack deliberately swerved the car right and then left. Iowa grabbed the wheel. Using the butt of his right fist Jack smashed his attacker's hand. Iowa howled with pain and dropped the knife. He alternated curses with punches aimed at Jack's head.
Jack fought to simultaneously keep the car on the road with his left hand and ward off his attacker with his right. A pothole caught Iowa off balance. He slid away. Jack used the opportunity to use the bent right arm that had been guarding his chest and lash out, landing an explosive blow with his clenched fist. He could feel the bridge of Iowa's nose collapse, hear the bones crack.
"Goddamn you! You jackass. You busted my nose!" Iowa fumbled beneath the seat.
Seeing the dreaded knife reappear, Jack made the only decision left. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He braced himself and floored the Porsche, aiming the passenger side at a massive oak tree. Iowa reached for the wheel again, too late. The car hit the tree with a violent jolt, throwing both men forward. A branch smashed the windshield a microsecond before Jack's head reached it. The glass shattered harmlessly, but his chest had struck the steering wheel with an impact that left him gasping for air. The motor groaned and sputtered as Jack waited with his eyes closed. His chest ached with every breath. Tentatively touching his forehead he discovered a swelling throbbing bump. Jack opened his eyes. Mostly Iowa had not fared as well. He lay slumped against the door. Blood from the broken nose bathed his face, neck, and shirt. Jack didn't know if he was dead or unconscious, but he wouldn't be a threat for a while.
"Why didn't you jump when you had the chance?" Jack asked the limp figure. "Soon as I find out what kind of shape I'm in, I'll figure out what I'm going to do with you. If I can walk back to town, I'll send someone out to help. And that's better than you deserve, you dumb bastard, considering you were trying to kill me."
Limb by limb, joint by joint, Jack tested his extremities. His arms, hands, and fingers moved, painfully, but they didn't appear to be broken. He flexed one leg and then the other. "My legs seem okay," he informed his silent companion. His chest and shoulders ached. "Probably cracked a few ribs and there's a buzzing in my ears. Going to be sore for a while, as well as black and blue, but I'm alive. What about it, Iowa? You going to make it?"
Jack leaned across the inert body expecting to hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Silence. The kid was dead! Jesus Christ! He hadn't intended to kill the kid. His goal had been to prevent his own imminent demise.
"Now look what you did, Iowa. You tried to kill me and you ended up killing yourself. God damn dumb kid!" he said to keep his teeth from chattering. "God damn dumb kid!" His entire right side throbbed and he was trembling. "Got to get out of here."
He tried the door handle. It turned, but the bowed door would not budge. He threw all his weight against it and grimaced. It groaned in sympathy and swung open causing him to crash onto the muddy ground. The rain had subsided to a trickle. Jack wiped his hands on soggy moss and sat down to think beside the demolished car.
There was nothing more that could be done for Iowa. His problems were over. Jack's problems had tripled. In a day or two, Petal and the girls would read the letters he had mailed. A first-class plan wiped out because he wanted to help out a dumb kid. Okay, he told himself, if faking his suicide by leaving the Porsche on a bridge was no longer possible, he simply needed a new plan. A new plan. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The Porsche would be traced to him. They would find a dead kid in his car. If he disappeared now he would be accused of murder. Unless . . . Unless . . . Iowa was about his size. The police would assume the body belonged to Jack Morgan if – if it was unrecognizable. But how? The car and its contents would have to be burnt beyond recognition. He could do that. Provided he kept calm, and no one came along in the interim, it was a good alternative plan.
Jack removed the ruined suede jacket. It could go on the corpse. A scrap of burnt suede would add to the illusion, as would his wedding band. He had intended to sell it before he reached Texas, but it would be better used now. As he removed the ring he noticed his prized gold watch. They might look for it. It was too bad about the watch, but it too had to go.
The tight quarters inside the crumpled Porsche, coupled with Jack's reluctance to touch the bloody corpse made the exchange time consuming, exhausting, and grisly. As a final touch, Jack traded shoes with the dead man before shoving him into position behind the wheel.
An hour had passed since the crash and no one had driven by. His luck was holding. Now he needed matches. Matches or a cigarette lighter. His pockets yielded neither. His plan would fail because he lacked a pack of matches that every bar and restaurant supplied free. Think, he told himself. There had to be a solution. The Porsche's cigarette lighter. Would it still work? Leaning over Iowa's body, Jack located it and pressed it. Thirty seconds later it popped out glowing red. God bless the Germans! Every twenty or thirty years, it took a war to remind them who was boss, but they sure knew how to build a car. Jack looked for something to start the fire. Downed branches were too wet. A dry rag. He kept a towel in the trunk.
Jack walked to the rear of the car to unlock the trunk but it wouldn't release. He kicked it with his heel. Another sharp kick. The trunk creaked open. A white, still-folded hand towel lay tucked in a corner. A few more minutes and it would be over.
He stuffed as much of the towel as would fit into the gas tank, then replaced the ignition key. As he was about to press the cigarette lighter he remembered the knife. What if it were found with the remains? Palm beach socialite Jack Morgan didn't carry a switchblade. He would have to find it. Ten minutes passed as he searched the car and the corpse. He was about to give up when he felt it lodged under the passenger seat. He folded it, tucked it into his belt, and inserted the dependable lighter.
Half a football field away Jack leaned against a tree and waited. Several times the flame appeared to die, only to flare up again. And then the rag ignited with an enormous pop – followed by ear-splitting thunder. Roaring flames, the height of a church steeple leapt from the car's rear. Jack could no longer make out Iowa's silhouette in the flames. Just a few more minutes, he told himself. The smoke and heat from the blaze reddened his face and seared his lungs. When it was time to leave Jack strode away in Iowa's ill-fitting shoes, away from the wrecked Porsche, the town of Fielding, and his past. Then he heard it. A train whistle. The magical hollow sound of a train whistle. And it wasn't far off. Damn, if he wasn't a lucky so-and-so. One of God's favorite children. Jesus tolerated the pious, sober, and abstinent. Yes, He tolerated the tiresome righteous and their smug unforgiving Christian smiles. And He had little pity for the tyrant, the merciless, and the cruel. But Jesus loved the ordinary sinner. Isn't that what the bible taught? The Almighty loved sinners. Without sinners there would have been no reason for Jesus to come to earth and experience the joy and pain of mortals.
Intoxicating freedom mingled with the chilling air. Jack could forget the chafing money belt, cheap ill-fitting shoes, sore feet, and aching muscles. He had a new name and a thousand new possibilities. The next time he found himself with a drink in his hand he would remember Iowa and raise his glass to the tragic dumb kid.
"This one's for you, Iowa, you miserable misguided creature," he would say. "May the good Lord take mercy on your soul and your time in Purgatory be brief."
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Guest post by Nicholas Denmon
Thanks for letting me come to your site and pontificate. I really appreciate the opportunity to get in front of unique readerships and talk about myself. It really feeds my narcissistic nature!
My debut novel, For Nothing, is a mafia thriller and the first in the trilogy: An Upstate New York Mafia Tale. It follows the story of an undercover cop (Alex Vaughn) avenging his friend's death, as well as an assassin (Rafael Rontego) embroiled in a mafia civil war.
The story came out in May of 2011 and here we are in March 2012 releasing the second novel in the series, Buffalo Soldiers. It comes out on the 20th and I am hoping it is greeted as warmly by the reading and blogging community as the first. When For Nothing debuted I was very nervous as it was the first work I ever released for public critique. Fortunately, the reviews have been mostly positive and I owe the bit of success it has had to blogs such as this one.
When you publish a novel it is interesting how you, as the writer, fall in love with certain characters and the view you have during the creation. Even more interesting is how the reader comes to their own conclusions about those characters, regardless of your intentions as a writer. It is very much like being a parent. You think your child is beautiful, but your neighbor is pretty sure you have an ugly baby or vice versa. It is all in the eye of the beholder. When I created the assassin, Rafael Rontego, he was supposed to be an evil, deadly, heartless, assassin. Somewhere along the line though, the audience developed a love affair with this dark character. More often than not I found that my readers were rooting for him as the novel progressed.
That being said, I really enjoyed writing this second installment of the series. I'm a bit nervous to see how the audience adjusts to some risks I took as a writer. Who will they root for, assuming they care at all? Will they be as satisfied with Buffalo Soldiers as they were with For Nothing? Most importantly, will they come back for the final chapter and the third book?
I hope so and I hope you all enjoy it. I love getting feedback and appreciate you letting me have the pulpit for a day at your own special place. You have my sincerest thanks.
ND
His Amazon product link:
http://www.amazon.com/Nothing-Upstate-York-Mafia-ebook/dp/B0050WA44K/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1331523771&sr=8-2
Blog:
http://dratednovelist.blogspot.com
Website:
http://best-fiction-novels.com/
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/authornicholasdenmon
Twitter:
@nicholasdenmon
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4845754.Nicholas_Denmon
My debut novel, For Nothing, is a mafia thriller and the first in the trilogy: An Upstate New York Mafia Tale. It follows the story of an undercover cop (Alex Vaughn) avenging his friend's death, as well as an assassin (Rafael Rontego) embroiled in a mafia civil war.
The story came out in May of 2011 and here we are in March 2012 releasing the second novel in the series, Buffalo Soldiers. It comes out on the 20th and I am hoping it is greeted as warmly by the reading and blogging community as the first. When For Nothing debuted I was very nervous as it was the first work I ever released for public critique. Fortunately, the reviews have been mostly positive and I owe the bit of success it has had to blogs such as this one.
When you publish a novel it is interesting how you, as the writer, fall in love with certain characters and the view you have during the creation. Even more interesting is how the reader comes to their own conclusions about those characters, regardless of your intentions as a writer. It is very much like being a parent. You think your child is beautiful, but your neighbor is pretty sure you have an ugly baby or vice versa. It is all in the eye of the beholder. When I created the assassin, Rafael Rontego, he was supposed to be an evil, deadly, heartless, assassin. Somewhere along the line though, the audience developed a love affair with this dark character. More often than not I found that my readers were rooting for him as the novel progressed.
That being said, I really enjoyed writing this second installment of the series. I'm a bit nervous to see how the audience adjusts to some risks I took as a writer. Who will they root for, assuming they care at all? Will they be as satisfied with Buffalo Soldiers as they were with For Nothing? Most importantly, will they come back for the final chapter and the third book?
I hope so and I hope you all enjoy it. I love getting feedback and appreciate you letting me have the pulpit for a day at your own special place. You have my sincerest thanks.
ND
His Amazon product link:
http://www.amazon.com/Nothing-Upstate-York-Mafia-ebook/dp/B0050WA44K/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1331523771&sr=8-2
Blog:
http://dratednovelist.blogspot.com
Website:
http://best-fiction-novels.com/
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/authornicholasdenmon
Twitter:
@nicholasdenmon
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4845754.Nicholas_Denmon
March 9, 2012
Excerpt of Obsession by Lisa Beth Darling
BLURB: In a Small Town Secrets Are Kept and Then They Kill.
After the death of her husband, Helen Makris never expected to fall in love again until she met retired Colonel Kevin Smith. Both widowed for years the two unexpectedly meet in Helen's new home, the quaint New England Village, Tarrytown, Maine. All would be well if it weren't for the watchful eye of the Shaw Street Strangler who has his sights set on Helen.
In a grand homage to The Master, Stephen King, Lisa Beth Darling and Moon Publishing proudly invite you to take a rocketing no-holds-barred journey into the diseased mind of a madman with this ADULT Chiller/Thriller Horror Story with heavy Romantic Tendencies.
EXCERPT FROM "OBSESSION"—Excerpt rated PG novel is ADULTS ONLY.As she opens the bedroom door to exit, the heady aroma of the beef bourguignon she started early in the day greets her making her empty stomach growl. The dish is Kevin's favorite and she learned how to make it just for him after he sat through Julie & Julia with her one night. Nearly floating on air, she wanders over to the oven humming a happy little tune; "I love you baby," the newspaper on the kitchen table blaring the headline: SHAW STREET STRANGLER TAKES ANOTHER VICTIM, hardly catches her eye, "and if it's quite alright, I need you baby….""It's fine by me, sweetheart."The unexpected voice behind her makes Helen jump causing her nearly to spill the hot dish of the fancy French dinner on the kitchen floor. Barely making it to the countertop, she settles the dish down, but before she can turn around hands drop into her line of vision and they are holding something. Her heart and mind race as she gropes for the carving knife on the counter only to have her hand slammed down the second she picks it up. The other arm wraps around her, pinning both arms at her sides and yanks her back. It holds her firmly against a brawny body so tightly she can't move. "Let go…""Whoa, Ellie, it's me. Shhh, sweetheart, it's just me."No one in the world calls her Ellie except, "Oh, it's you." She sighs letting the exotic accent sweep over her.Not exactly the welcome home he was expecting, "You expecting someone else?" Even though she was trembling in his arms, Kevin tried to make light of the situation to ease her mind, "Should I be worried?"The heart thundering in her chest with fear slows a moment so it can change gears and leave the fear behind to now race with excitement and desire. "No, of course not," She rests her head against Kevin's chest and let's go of the knife handle before turning around in his arms to take his ruggedly handsome face. "You're a sight for sore eyes," she sighs and throws her arms around his waist to hug him tightly. "Phew," he mocks relief with a grin, "you had me worried for a minute, maybe I'd been gone so long my best girl found another man."Helen would like nothing more than to say 'never' but Kevin's absences are growing longer and longer, the time without him is excruciating as she hides in her cabin with her cat sucking down glasses of Moscato like water and waiting for an email or the all-too-infrequent phone call. "Not yet," she teases. While it is true that Colonel Kevin Smith is retired from the New Zealand Air Force with full honors and pension, it is also true that he's been working for the United States Government as a private security contractor the last decade. She doesn't know just what he does for the government or what he keeps secure. Kevin has a strict policy about not discussing his work…ever. Kevin says that it will just be better if they don't talk about because it will only upset her. Although she understands his point of view, Helen wishes she knew more about the man who occasionally shares her bed and her home in between his long absences. Not knowing where he is or what he is doing for so long is getting unsettling."Good, 'cuz I got this for you," he holds up a stunning onyx and emerald necklace, the same necklace he'd been trying to place around her neck when he ended up scaring her half to death. He loops it around her throat and locks the clasp."Oh, my god, it's gorgeous." Helen picks it up and looks down at it, even in the dimly lit kitchen it shines like the sun. It has seven strands; three stands of rough-cut onyx on the top and four strands of glittering rough-cut emeralds on the bottom. "This is exquisite, you shouldn't have done this," the glittering necklace must have cost him a small fortune, "but I'm so glad you did." Her voice and face lights up. Not since Craig has someone given her such a lavish gift and it warms her heart and eases a few of the lingering doubts in her mind.Kevin's arms tighten around her small waist, "I saw it in a shop window and thought it would be perfect on you so I had to get it." It does look perfect and so does she. She's not the only one who's been waiting months for this moment he can't wait any longer. As their quivering lips meet, he swears he hears the ocean crashing with fireworks exploding above it igniting a lonely night sky with brilliant color. His closed eyes roll back in his head with desire and delight when she melts into him."God, I've missed you," Helen moans as she reaches up to grab handfuls of soft midnight hair and pull him closer letting her tongue explore the back of his throat as her breasts with their hardening nipples press against his chest and the thundering heart below.End Excerpt
Author Links:
Web: http://www.moonsmusings.com/lbdarling
Blog: http://lbdarling.wordpress.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/lbdarling
Twitter: lb_darling
OBSESSION Buy Links:
From the publisher in a variety of e-book formats: http://www.moonsmusings.com
Also available on Kindle and Nook
After the death of her husband, Helen Makris never expected to fall in love again until she met retired Colonel Kevin Smith. Both widowed for years the two unexpectedly meet in Helen's new home, the quaint New England Village, Tarrytown, Maine. All would be well if it weren't for the watchful eye of the Shaw Street Strangler who has his sights set on Helen.
In a grand homage to The Master, Stephen King, Lisa Beth Darling and Moon Publishing proudly invite you to take a rocketing no-holds-barred journey into the diseased mind of a madman with this ADULT Chiller/Thriller Horror Story with heavy Romantic Tendencies.
EXCERPT FROM "OBSESSION"—Excerpt rated PG novel is ADULTS ONLY.As she opens the bedroom door to exit, the heady aroma of the beef bourguignon she started early in the day greets her making her empty stomach growl. The dish is Kevin's favorite and she learned how to make it just for him after he sat through Julie & Julia with her one night. Nearly floating on air, she wanders over to the oven humming a happy little tune; "I love you baby," the newspaper on the kitchen table blaring the headline: SHAW STREET STRANGLER TAKES ANOTHER VICTIM, hardly catches her eye, "and if it's quite alright, I need you baby….""It's fine by me, sweetheart."The unexpected voice behind her makes Helen jump causing her nearly to spill the hot dish of the fancy French dinner on the kitchen floor. Barely making it to the countertop, she settles the dish down, but before she can turn around hands drop into her line of vision and they are holding something. Her heart and mind race as she gropes for the carving knife on the counter only to have her hand slammed down the second she picks it up. The other arm wraps around her, pinning both arms at her sides and yanks her back. It holds her firmly against a brawny body so tightly she can't move. "Let go…""Whoa, Ellie, it's me. Shhh, sweetheart, it's just me."No one in the world calls her Ellie except, "Oh, it's you." She sighs letting the exotic accent sweep over her.Not exactly the welcome home he was expecting, "You expecting someone else?" Even though she was trembling in his arms, Kevin tried to make light of the situation to ease her mind, "Should I be worried?"The heart thundering in her chest with fear slows a moment so it can change gears and leave the fear behind to now race with excitement and desire. "No, of course not," She rests her head against Kevin's chest and let's go of the knife handle before turning around in his arms to take his ruggedly handsome face. "You're a sight for sore eyes," she sighs and throws her arms around his waist to hug him tightly. "Phew," he mocks relief with a grin, "you had me worried for a minute, maybe I'd been gone so long my best girl found another man."Helen would like nothing more than to say 'never' but Kevin's absences are growing longer and longer, the time without him is excruciating as she hides in her cabin with her cat sucking down glasses of Moscato like water and waiting for an email or the all-too-infrequent phone call. "Not yet," she teases. While it is true that Colonel Kevin Smith is retired from the New Zealand Air Force with full honors and pension, it is also true that he's been working for the United States Government as a private security contractor the last decade. She doesn't know just what he does for the government or what he keeps secure. Kevin has a strict policy about not discussing his work…ever. Kevin says that it will just be better if they don't talk about because it will only upset her. Although she understands his point of view, Helen wishes she knew more about the man who occasionally shares her bed and her home in between his long absences. Not knowing where he is or what he is doing for so long is getting unsettling."Good, 'cuz I got this for you," he holds up a stunning onyx and emerald necklace, the same necklace he'd been trying to place around her neck when he ended up scaring her half to death. He loops it around her throat and locks the clasp."Oh, my god, it's gorgeous." Helen picks it up and looks down at it, even in the dimly lit kitchen it shines like the sun. It has seven strands; three stands of rough-cut onyx on the top and four strands of glittering rough-cut emeralds on the bottom. "This is exquisite, you shouldn't have done this," the glittering necklace must have cost him a small fortune, "but I'm so glad you did." Her voice and face lights up. Not since Craig has someone given her such a lavish gift and it warms her heart and eases a few of the lingering doubts in her mind.Kevin's arms tighten around her small waist, "I saw it in a shop window and thought it would be perfect on you so I had to get it." It does look perfect and so does she. She's not the only one who's been waiting months for this moment he can't wait any longer. As their quivering lips meet, he swears he hears the ocean crashing with fireworks exploding above it igniting a lonely night sky with brilliant color. His closed eyes roll back in his head with desire and delight when she melts into him."God, I've missed you," Helen moans as she reaches up to grab handfuls of soft midnight hair and pull him closer letting her tongue explore the back of his throat as her breasts with their hardening nipples press against his chest and the thundering heart below.End Excerpt
Author Links:
Web: http://www.moonsmusings.com/lbdarling
Blog: http://lbdarling.wordpress.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/lbdarling
Twitter: lb_darling
OBSESSION Buy Links:
From the publisher in a variety of e-book formats: http://www.moonsmusings.com
Also available on Kindle and Nook
March 8, 2012
44 Body Language Mistakes You're Probably Making
Like the myth that we only use 10% of our brains, the idea that 93% of communication is non-verbal stubbornly persists because people just won't shut up about it. However, the real figure is believed to be about 60-70%, which means body language is still more important than spoken words in getting your point across. Sometimes the signals we send are natural symptoms of how we really feel, and sometimes they're completely unintentional and unwanted. Hopefully you aren't making every mistake on this list, but here are 44 common ways your body may be talking behind your back.On a Date Crowding them : Personal space means just that. Find the right balance between being seductively close to your date and stepping on their toes the entire night, or else they will think you are desperate. And nothing kills romance like a whiff of desperation. 10-foot pole : On the other hand, if you are overly concerned with keeping plenty of breathing room between you and your partner, they may become self-conscious or think that you are aloof and uninterested. Crossing your arms : Ladies, if you don't want a guy to think you don't like him, resist the urge to cross your arms and jut your hips out. For fellas, crossed arms imply arrogance, annoyance, or boredom, all messages you probably want to avoid. Leaning too far in : Just like with shaking hands, there's a fine line between appearing interested and breathing down your date's throat at the table. You'll come off needy or aggressive. Holding your drink too high : When's the last time you wondered how the way you hold your drink affects your "vibe?" Holding it close to the body and protectively says you're shy, while holding it with crossed arms is an ice-queen pose. Nodding too much : You want your girl to know you're right with her in the conversation, so you're nodding constantly. Ironically, people can take this to mean you're faking interest and are some kind of phony.At Work Shaking hands too hard : We get it, a firm handshake means confidence. But we'd much rather discover that you are self-assured by speaking to you than having our fingers crushed. Weak handshake : It's tough to say which is worse, the too-hard or the too-weak handshake. Men and women equate a weak grip with weak character, which neither a boss nor a romantic interest find desirable. Wearing the wrong clothes : Clothes are a part of body language you ignore at your own peril in the business world. Clothes too baggy, too ratty, too sexy, too wrinkled: all of these tell employers you are not responsible enough to work for them. Ignoring people : A presenter has no way of knowing that you are taking notes on your iPhone, not texting or scrolling Facebook, and is liable to think you are being extremely rude. Use a pen and paper to avoid a miscommunication. Preening : Gussying up has its place in the mating world, but in a business environment straightening your tie or patting down hair makes people think you're vain or arrogant. Not gesturing : When making a presentation, if your arms are too still people will be off-put and think you're nervous, even if you aren't. If you're not a natural gesticulator, force yourself to incorporate a bit of gesturing. Over-gesturing : On the other hand, a recent survey of hiring managers found gesturing with the hands too much was in the top five of reasons employers would be less likely to hire an applicant, so don't overdo it. Turning your back on the audience : Make sure you practice your business presentation enough that you don't need to turn to look at the screen behind you, simply because no one wants to look at your behind. Not looking at everyone : Nobody likes to feel ignored. If you have a job interview with multiple interviewers, even if one never asks you a question, be sure to regularly make eye contact with him or her.For Women The Scissors Stance : Crossing the legs while standing is typically a female thing. It may be fine in social situations, but don't do it at work because it implies submission, vulnerability, and even negativity. The partial arm cross : This is another entry from the world of women. Grabbing one arm with the other hand is like a one-armed hug for yourself, and it tells people you need calming down or reassurance. Tilting your head : Some of you ladies may be guilty of sending the wrong signal to male coworkers by tilting your head to the side while listening to them. They are probably seeing that as a flirtatious move, even if you only mean to convey agreement.For Men Not shaving : Guys who don't shave regularly run the risk of being perceived as lazy and sloppy, not ideal qualities in an employee or a boyfriend. The Figure Four : In this position, you sit with one leg crossed over the other at a 90-degree angle. It may be comfortable but it implies a competitive attitude and, when coupled with the "hand clamp" (holding the crossed leg with both hands), it conveys stubborn intransigence. Cracking your knuckles : For one thing, the sound of cracking knuckles is disgusting to everyone within earshot who isn't you. It's also seen as a macho-poser move for guys.Sitting Sitting on the edge of your seat : Athletes on the bench of a losing team sit forward because they're tense and nervous. If you do this in a job interview or on a date you'll look the same way. The Ankle Lock : Courtroom defendants are three times as likely as plaintiffs to sit with ankles locked before a trial. It's a blatant defense mechanism that gives away the fact you're afraid or uncertain. Leaning back : Leaning back in your chair says, "Keep talking, boss/girlfriend; I'm just going to get comfortable while you blather about earnings/your day." Tap dancing : If you just have lots of energy and bounce your knees or tap your feet without realizing it, you may want to train yourself to stop. Tapping feet or hands signify impatience, nervousness, or boredom.Standing Shifting weight : When you have to stand to give a presentation or are at a bar, you may get tired and need to shift your weight from one foot to the other. This may instinctively look like weakness to others. Pocketed hands : Take comfort in the fact that nobody else knows what to do with their hands either. So remove your mitts from your pants pockets because it looks like you're indifferent or unconfident. Walking small : Politicians walk with big strides because doing so exudes energy and confidence. If you walk slowly or shuffle people will associate it with uncertainty and weakness. Hunching your shoulders : Poor posture and slouching suggests to onlookers that you have no spine, literally and figuratively. Even if you aren't feeling it, you can fake confidence just by sitting up straight.Eyes Rapid-fire blinking : If you're excessively blinking because you've got a contact out of place or something, people may think you're uncomfortable or arrogant, as if you're too important to even look at them. Hawk eyes : Squinting can be a good way to convey keen focus on what someone else is saying, but it can also be mistakenly interpreted as distrust or uncertainty over the accuracy of what the other person said. Staring : Blinking is natural; long periods of looking at someone without blinking weirds people out and can convey aggression or even dishonesty. Searching for inspiration : If you look around before you open your mouth or while you're speaking, you're non-verbally saying you don't really know what you're talking about. Looking for the exit : If you're shy and have trouble making eye contact, it could be a problem. If your lady friend is telling you all about her job as a dental hygienist and you're looking anywhere but in her eyes, she'll think you're bored and wanting to bail. Saying hi to your shoes : You have to bow your head to look down, and if you do that in an interaction with someone, you've just silently told them you submit to their authority.General Feeling your face : When you're nervous, you may get the urge to touch your face or rub the back of your neck. These are sure-fire ways to let everyone know you're nervous, so avoid them. Letting your mood determine your body language : If you let it, your emotions will seep out through your body language. But you can flip this around by forcing yourself to smile, for example, and your mood actually will improve. Checking the time : Looking at your watch may be a completely innocent act of seeing what time it is. Nevertheless, it's almost impossible for a person you're speaking with to not interpret it as you being bored. Biting your nails : You may only be doing it out of habit and boredom, but the message people get when they see you biting your nails is that you're anxious. Letting them see you sweat : You might be nervous, but unless they can smell you or you're in a white shirt, the best way to ensure they know you're nervous is to visibly wipe your sweaty palms on your pants. Just leave them alone and try to relax. Pursed lips : Your lips may be giving you away without words coming though them. Pursing your lips can convey distrust or disapproval. Yawning : You're exhausted from a late night yesterday. But hide your yawns or conversation partners will be positive they're boring you and will be offended.Misusing Body Language Attributing too much to one signal : Did someone pass you in the hallway and not return your smile? Don't make the mistake of automatically thinking they hate your guts; there's probably another explanation. Not getting the message : Is it possible people have been non-verbally telling you that you have bad breath or that you're on thin ice? The body language mistake you're making is not reading the signs, so open your eyes!
It's a Dog's Life by Mel Comley (Review by Lia Fairchild)
It's a Dog's Life by Mel Comley (Review by Lia Fairchild)
I was drawn to It's a Dog's Life for two reasons. First, I'd read some of the author's Lorne Simpkins thrillers and was already a big fan of her writing. I was curious to see how she would incorporate this important topic into the detective'sstoryline, which brings me to the second reason. The story of these poor,defenseless dogs is heartbreaking and I applaud the author for taking action.
It's a Dog's Life is a great short story that sheds light on the horrific subject of animal cruelty. DI Lorne Simpkins gets a tip about what happens to some Greyhounds when their racing days are over, and makes a horrible discovery. During her investigation she must track down who's behind the mistreatment of the animals as well as find a way to right the situation. You can tell from the story that both the main character and the author share a great love of dogs.
Proceeds from this book are donated to PUPS, The Protection of Unwanted Puppies Society. They can be reached on their blog at http://puppyprotection.blogspot.com/ or on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Protection-of-Unwanted-Puppies-Society/295832963779304
It's a Dog's Life is available for just 99 cents on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Dogs-Lorne-Simpkins-novelette-ebook/dp/B0063CCIA4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1331159524&sr=1-1
For more on Mel Comley and her other books, visit her at http://melcomley.blogspot.com/
***
Lia Fairchild is a writer and the author of the novel, In Search of Lucy, and the new mystery series, A Hint of Murder. Look for more on her at http://www.liafairchild.com/ or http://www.ahintofmurder.blogspot.com
March 7, 2012
Life of the Liar Preview: Dominique Weldon
Here's a piece from my novel Life of the Liar. It still needs some work and major editing, but here's a preview of it~
I didn't cry at Tristan's funeral.
Tristan's body was pronounced dead at the scene. His body was too disfigured for identification. The only way the coppers knew it was him was because he had his I.D. Most of the cops couldn't handle the scene. The blood, the rotten flesh in the air… They lost their stomachs too, the same reaction I had. Even dad fell to his knees in sickness.
All they found was Tristan's remains… That's it.
The past two days I've been locked in my room, by choice. Everyone thinks it's because I'm traumatized with grief. That's not true. The reason I'm staying in this room is because… I can't leave. Somehow I made it out of that forest. But that couldn't be right. Tristan dead… me alive?
That can't be right…
When is my time up?
March 5, 2012
Printrunner.com giveaway
Hello Tanya!Thank you so much for accepting our invitation to host a PrintRunner Giveaway!Before proceeding with the giveaway instructions let me give you a brief background of our company.PrintRunner.com was established with little more than a small press and a dream. Ten years later our company became one of the foremost quality printers in Southern California. Our commitment to provide the best value and high quality full color printing at affordable price made our company grow. PrintRunner is a full service high quality printing company located in Chatsworth, California. a. Details of the giveaway prize: Postcards Postcard Size : Postcards 5x7 Quantity : 100 Colors : 4/0 Front Only Printing Paper : 14 PT. UV Coating on Front, Rounded Corners : Yes Proof : None Ready to Ship In : 4 Business Days *Giveaway is open to US Residents only, ages 18 years old and above. b. Disclaimer - I did not receive a compensation or product from the sponsor of the giveaway ex. Thank you to PrintRunner for providing us this giveaway, I will receive a set of postcards for hosting this. c. Keywords and URLs - The set of URLS and Keywords below must be used on the giveaway blog post. The URL must only be linked to the keywords provided. online printing - http://www.printrunner.com print postcards– http://www.printrunner.com/postcard-p... EX. PrintRunner is your convenient online printing resource. Check out their site and print postcards. d. Product Image - The image of the product attached to this email must be used on the giveaway post. e. Follow us on Twitter and Like us on Facebook - It is optional to ask your readers to Like us on Facebook or Follow us on Twitter.4. Deadline of submission of winners is on March 13, 2012 to be included on our prize awarding this coming 15th of March. Prizes for both winners and hosts will be awarded on the same date.Make sure to submit your winner's information before the date stated to be included in this month's awarding. If you will not be able to submit your winner's information within the said date, your winner will be included and awarded in the next month's awarding. Please advise your winners of the awarding dates.Thank you so much and we are very glad to be working with you!
March 1, 2012
Once Upon A Time, I Learned Something
Every night, before we tuck the children into bed, we treat them to a story. My son is just coming up on his third birthday, and prefers the board books we pick up at the library. His current favourite is Blankie by Leslie Patricelli. My daughter, who just turned four, loves books about monsters and dragons.For a while, I tried to steer them toward the classic stories, fairy tales and fables. My daughter enjoyed Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit. After three readings, she could recite most of the story along with us. However, the bright colours and cartoon faces, on the cover of Disney Books, soon caught her eye. (My husband still shudders when he sees anything "Nemo", after six months of nightly readings.)
I was a little disappointed about her lack of interest in the old stories. I have fond memories of many of them, and the life lessons I learned from them. It wasn't until I became an adult that I realized how valuable some of those fairy tales were, in helping me cope with the world. Some of the lessons might be fairly obvious, but I thought I'd share a few of my perceptions with you.
Red Riding Hood - Bad people can, and will, fool you if you aren't perceptive.
The Pied Piper - If you don't pay your bills, you may lose things more precious to you than money.
The Three Little Pigs - Lock your door, Silly! And don't use substandard building materials. ;)
The Valiant Little Tailor - Bragging will always get you in trouble. Quick thinking can save your hide.
Cindrella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel etc. - Only beautiful girls get the world given to them by handsome princes. If you aren't beautiful, you'd better be clever, or hardworking, to get anywhere in life.
The Frog Prince & Beauty and the Beast - If you're willing to overlook his flaws, and love him enough, he'll turn into a handsome prince.
Alice in Wonderland - The world can be a messed up place... adapt. (And never eat or drink anything if you don't know what it is.)
Heidi - Deprivation doesn't have to mean depression.
Little Women (Especially Jo) - If you work hard enough, you can achieve your goals. Bitterness can be overcome by kindness. Be yourself. Find someone who loves you just the way you are. (Thank goodness for Jo! All of those beautiful girls were beginning to get on my nerves!)
So tell me, what life lessons do you remember from your childhood stories?
Before I run away, since we're discussing fairy tales, I have a little trivia for you.
Did you know:
1. The original Grimm's Faerie Tales was not a book intended for children. It was an effort by the Grimm brothers to record the folklore of the German people, kind of a cultural preservation project, if you will. It was only after they realized their stories were being told to children, that they rewrote many of them to make them more appropriate reading material.
2. In the original story of The Little Mermaid, the prince married a different princess. Ariel was given a knife, and the option of murdering the prince to change back to a mermaid. She commited suicide.
3. In the original Red Riding Hood, there was no grandmother, and no hunter. Red Riding Hood is eaten by the wolf.
4. In the original Hansel and Gretel, the witch is a devil. He doesn't bake the children, but butchers them on a sawhorse. The children pretend they don't know how to get on the sawhorse, so the devil's wife shows them. The children slit her throat, and escape.
5. In the original Three Little Pigs, the first two pigs are eaten. The wolf tries to get into the third pig's house Santa-style, via chimney, and falls into a pot of boiling water. He becomes dinner for the third pig, (presumably still stuffed with the piggy's brothers).
6. The original Sleeping Beauty isn't awakened by a prince, at all. Instead, she's... um... "handled" by a married king, who stumbles across her while she's in her comatose sleep. She gives birth to twins, (still unconscious), and one of the babies removes the poisoned bit of flax, from her pricked finger, while attempting to nurse. Then the King takes them all home to his wife, who makes plans to cook the babies, and feed them to their father. I don't know who to pity most in this one.
It doesn't seem so ironic, anymore, that the brothers' surname was Grimm.
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February 29, 2012
I think I hate today: by Dominique Weldon
I think today may be the worst day of my life,Blossoms dancing with the innocence of spring,
The sun blazed golden rays across the sky,
They danced with the blue ocean in the air,
Smiles lit upon their faces,
My eyes met their glee with a certain distaste,
How dare their warmth magnify the moment of today,
If hatrid must hold me, it must chain all,
Words whisper commands to forget, but how foolish,
Hell's flames licks me, therefore it must lick all
