Liza Perrat's Blog, page 8

#Mont Blanc –– the Cursed Mountain?

Mont Blanc or the “White Mountain", at 4,808.73 m (15,777 ft) above sea level, is the highest mountain in the Alps and the highest in Europe after the Caucasus peaks.

“The Cursed Mountain” or “La Montagne Maudite” legend says that during Roman times, Mont Blanc was far greener than today, with cattle grazing on the hillsides.


However, ice devils invaded the hillsides, gradually gaining more and more land.

Perched on the summit was an enchanted kingdom where the queen of the fairies, the “White Goddess” lived amidst foliage and flowers. This highly-respected White Goddess had the power to decide upon the fate of all people, so it was named “The Cursed Mountain’.




Pic of La Montagne Maudite in the background (me rather than the White Goddess!)...


In Blood Rose Angel, the third standalone novel in my French historical trilogy: The Bone Angel series, set during the Black Plague of 1348, Mont Blanc is still known as La Montagne Maudite.

The book is currently available at the special promotional price of only 99c/p at the following retailers:

Amazon

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

Extract from Blood Rose Angel…

The baker was still calling out to anyone there to listen: housewives, chickens and geese, the clouds in the sky, the hills. His happy cries pealed out over the market-place, echoing across field and valley, and to the east a rainbow haloed the Montagne Maudite. Raoul imagined how Héloïse must feel at such heavenly moments: seeing how the birth of a healthy babe brought out the best in everyone. Even in the worst of times.


The baker came striding towards Raoul, holding his new son under an arm like one of his loaves, his grin still wide and silly.

‘A miracle, Raoul Stonemason,’ he said, thumping him on the shoulder. Raoul smiled, but took a step backwards. Sibylle’s husband might be recovered from the pestilence but he was still wary.

The baker carefully laid the baby down on the drawing floor and grabbed Raoul’s hand. He flipped it palm-up and began pouring coins into it from his leather scrip. ‘However can I pay you enough?’ he said. ‘Truly a miracle.’

Raoul kept trying to pull his hand away, but the baker’s grip was, surprisingly, stronger than his own.

‘Stop!’ Raoul said. ‘Why are you paying me? It wasn’t Héloïse who midwifed your Sibylle.’

‘But your young Morgane did just as good a job,’ the baker said. ‘Since that yard-brained Captain


locked up your wife, your girl came instead. And a fine––’

‘Morgane birthed your son?’ Raoul said. ‘But she’s only into her eighth summer. How could she …?’

How to Make #socialmedia #book teaser images

 
Teaser images can be one of the best marketing tools at an author’s disposal. Studies show that Facebook posts and tweets containing images result in at least 87% engagement. Compared to about 4% engagement for posts that are all text, and taking into account how simple the concept, you might wonder why more authors aren’t using them.

A common reason – “I don’t know how to make them." Read the rest of this article on how to make social media book teaser images, by Courtney J. Hall, on Words with Jam here.

Huge congratulations to the six shortlisted entries of ou...

Huge congratulations to the six shortlisted entries of our ‪#‎Big5‬ Competition: Su Lynch, Linda McLaughlin, Diane Stadhams, Gill Thompson, Janet Wright and Sophie Wellstood. Well done ladies!
Full details on the Triskele Blog.

Happy #Bastille Day! #FrenchRevolution #Bookpromo Celebration

Today, 14th July, France celebrates the storming of the Bastille on 14th July, 1789, an important event in Paris during the revolution that had begun two days beforehand. Celebrations are held all over the country, and it is a public holiday.

Last night, the rural village, at the foot of the Monts du Lyonnais, in which I live, put on an impressive fireworks display. We enjoyed it, but the poor cats were growling and hid under the bed!



For my own celebration, I'm running a limited time promotion of 99c/p on my novel, Spirit of Lost Angels, part of which takes place during the French Revolution.

 Extract from Spirit of Lost Angels...


Empowered by the strength of our numbers, I felt my anguish fade for a brief moment, as we marched into the overcast morning of July 14th. By six o’clock, our seething arms-hungry crowd had reached Les Invalides, and I was relieved when the French Guards peacefully seized the guns, pikes and sabres, and several pieces of cannon from the arsenal within the old veterans’ hospital. Nobody was hurt. ‘There is no ammunition!’ Aurore shouted, along with several others.‘A la Bastille!’ people began chanting. ‘A la Bastille!’ Aurore’s eyes gleamed with that potent combination of resentment, patriotism and the desire for change, as the excited mob propelled us down the rue Saint-Antoine.‘We want the Bastille!’ While their shouts fuelled and thrilled me, they sent bolts of terror through me too, as I moved with the crowd, like some carousel abandoned to centrifugal force, towards the old fortress.‘Surrender the prison!’ the people shouted, gathering before the Bastille as early daggers of sunlight sheared the dirty brown underbellies of clouds.‘Remove the cannons!’‘Release the gunpowder!’‘Get the Governor to withdraw the cannons!’Two men chosen to represent the mob entered the fortress to negotiate. By mid-afternoon, when nothing had happened and people were pawing the ground like restless horses, the crowd hacked down the drawbridge chains and streamed, unimpeded, into the undefended outer courtyard.
 
I heard shouts from the roof. The panic rose in my chest. ‘They’re going to fire on us, quick run!’ I grabbed Aurore and tried to push our way back through the crowd, away from the prison, but we were trapped, unable to move any which way. The garrison began firing. I shut my eyes and held my breath.I expected, any second, the hot burn of a bullet would throw me to the ground. Flambeaux blazed, fanning the shrieks of terror and pain as more and more bloodied bodies crumpled around us. Clouds of gunpowder smoke burned my eyes, almost blinding me. I clutched Aurore’s dress, whimpering like a child as we crouched and cowered in what were the most terrifying moments of my life.As much as I had yearned for things to change––for an improvement to the commoners’ lot––never had I wished for that change to wash in on such vast rivers of human blood. It was over quickly. Our brave French Guards massacred the garrison and the Governor of the Bastille, de Launay surrendered, his face an ivory-pale mask of terror. The crowd tore and spat at de Launay in his grey frock-coat, clubbing and kicking him to the ground. Faint with horror, my mouth dropped open as a man stepped forward and drove his bayonet into de Launay’s stomach. He withdrew the bayonet and the Governor staggered upright, only to stumble onto the point of another weapon. 

Someone hammered at the back of his head with a lump of wood, another dragged him into the gutter. I glanced around wildly, helpless to stop the grisly attack. I grabbed Aurore’s arm again as a third man fired shots into the Governor’s smashed body, and when he finally stopped twitching, a wild-looking man flicked open his knife, strained the corpse’s head back, and began hacking at his throat. I turned from the gruesome scene, clutching my heaving belly.I tried again to find a way through the crowd; away from the sickening butchery. It was impossible, and besides, I was certain Aurore would never agree to flee. Her eyes shining, she seemed bewitched, energised, by the bloodthirsty recklessness. ‘The Bastille, symbol of our intolerable regime, has fallen!’ the people shouted, parading the Governor’s head around on a pike.Our revolution had received its baptism in blood, and I felt too shocked to cry; too stunned to feel anything. I did not even know what I should feel––joy, triumph, sadness? Perhaps a mixture of all of those.
If you would like a copy of Spirit of Lost Angels at this discount price, it is available at the following retailers:

e-Book at all Amazon stores, Kobo, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
 

Calling all #readers to our #Litfest2016!

A LITERARY FESTIVAL:adventures in readingBuilding on our experience of running two Indie Author Fairs, Triskele Books imagined our ideal Lit Fest. One word sums it up:

INCLUSIVITY!

Author panels to draw in readers eager to explore the world of books

Indie authors and trade-published authors on an equal footing on the same platform

BAME authors invited to talk about their books, not about diversity

Authors paid a decent fee for their appearance 

True to the founding principles of Triskele Books and Words with Jam, we knew it was up to us to make it happen.
So this year, alongside the trademark pop-up bookshop of our Indie Author Fairs, we will be staging a series of author panels, each focused on a genre popular with readers. The panels will bring together authors to discuss why they work in their chosen genre - what they love about it, what its challenges are, and their own favourite authors. Our Preserving the Unicorn panel will explore how editors and authors work together when the text, at first sight, defies conventional wisdom about how a narrative ‘should’ be put together. Ground-breaking novels, by their nature, break the rules. How does an editor work to hone such a text, without destroying the unique magic the author has created?Supported by Matador Books and Ingram Spark, we bring you the first Triskele Lit Fest.We look forward to welcoming you to Lift in Islington on Saturday 17th September.
Booking will open SOON for those who want a table in our pop-up bookshop.Keep an eye on the Triskele Lit Fest blog.

#Big5 #Writers Mentorship #Competition @TriskeleBooks

Have you written The Greatest Story Ever, but not sure how to independently publish?

You might want to enter (only one month left till deadline), Triskele Books' Mentorship competition.

Win a year’s mentoring from Triskele Books - from manuscript to publication - worth over £5000! PLUS £100 cash to spend on any aspect of the publishing process courtesy of our new sponsor, IngramSpark.

Enter here and best of luck!

#VDay #WW2 8th May, 1945 Victory in Europe!

Today, 8th May, we celebrate Victory in Europe Day, known as V-E day, VE Day or just V Day, to mark the formal acceptance by the Allies of WWII of Germany’s unconditional surrender of its armed forces. This day, in 1945, thus marks the end of WWII in Europe.





As every year in the rural French village in which I live, La Municipalité and les Anciens Combattants have invited all the villagers to assemble on the central market place, from where we will begin a walk to the cemetery, in commemoration of this important date. It is especially significant around here, since it was a powerful centre of the French Resistance forces against the German Occupation during WWII.

The presence of La Résistance in this area, as well as the tragic war crime that occurred in Oradour-sur-Glane, formed the basis of Wolfsangel, second standalone novel of The Bone Angel trilogy, which is currently on sale for only 99c/p for a limited time only.

at Amazon stores, Smashwords, Kobo and Barnes & Noble.

Extract from Wolfsangel...

Thursday June 8, 1944.

1330 hours

The sight of all those familiar faces made me feel a little better. The SS would never go to all the trouble of assembling the entire village and surrounding areas if it was only me they’d come for.

Calm and confident, the soldiers positioned themselves around the perimeter of the square, the red flag with its black swastika flapping above them. Even as they levelled their machine guns at us, nobody seemed truly concerned. After the Allied landing, their caution wasn’t the least bit shocking.

In a quiet corner of the square, a stray cat was crouched in the shade of an awning, carrying a bird in its mouth. It dropped its prey onto the cobblestones, plunging its claws into the tender flesh.
The heat was overwhelming, the shade sparse. Conversation became strained. Babies started wailing, and children whined for drinks.

‘I want to finish my lunch, Papa,’ Anne-Sophie said with a scowl.

‘Baby, baby. Little baby wants to finish her lunch,’ her brothers needled, dancing about and jabbing fingers at their sister.

‘As soon as they’ve finished checking our papers,’ Uncle Claude said, his face tightening in a frown, ‘we’ll go home and finish lunch.’

‘I’ve got cakes in my oven,’ Yvon Monbeau said to one of the soldiers. ‘I need to take them out.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get back in time for them,’ the soldier said with a smirk. But the baker flung his hands up and sighed.

I too was hungry and thirsty, and started to get impatient. Besides, if this went on much longer, it would be too late to get to Julien to see my mother, and I’d miss Martin.

1340 hours.

Some of the soldiers began separating us: men and boys on one side, women and girls on the other. Uncle Claude took his sons by the hand as a soldier pushed Paulette and Anne-Sophie in the direction of the women.

‘Papa, Papa!’ the little girls cried.

‘I’ll take care of them,’ I called to Claude, taking the girls’ hands.

Olivier’s uncle dashed me a fearful look as the soldier hustled me off to line up against the church wall with the other women and children.

‘Where are you taking my husband?’ Ginette Monbeau said.

‘What are you doing with them?’ Simon Laforge’s wife said, holding the hands of her two youngest children.

The SS, chatting and laughing amongst themselves, offered no replies.

1350 hours.

A clipped order was barked in German and the soldiers divided the village men into groups and began marching them down the westbound street, away from the church.

‘I want my papa,’ Séverine cried, clutching my hand tighter.

Several babies were wailing, and young children complained loudly.

‘I’m thirsty.’

‘Pee-pee, Maman. I need to do pee-pee.’

I detected the first signs of panic in the women’s voices as they tried to calm their children.

‘Silence!’ an officer snapped. ‘No more talking.’

The minutes ticked by. I felt my rising fear, as cloying as the hot summer air that thickened over the square. The children kept crying, their mothers placating them with hushed words.


1405 hours.

‘All into the church!’ an officer snapped, and the troops began herding the women and children up the steps of Saint Antoine’s. We all fell quiet, and my heartbeat quickened as I held the hands of Anne-Sophie and Paulette and trudged into the house of God. Mothers carried their babies and small children, neighbours and friends helping when there were too many to carry. I felt not a breath of air.

Get your copy of Wolfsangel for only 99c/p now at:
Amazon stores, Smashwords, Kobo and Barnes & Noble.

Happy #labourday! #fêtedutravail #fêtedumuguet #Mayday

French Provençal proverb: En mai, fais ce qu’il te plaît! (In May, do what you like!)



On May 1st, the French celebrate La Fête du Travail (labour day) or La Fête du Muguet (Lily of the Valley day). A national holiday where people offer sprigs of muguet –– lily of the valley –– to each other, this tradition dates back to 1561.



People in medieval times often gave each other bouquets of muguet in spring, but the tradition became official on May 1st, 1561 when King Charles IX, having received a sprig himself, returned the gesture and gave the flower to every lady in his court.


The tradition continued, more recently becoming associated with the worker’s rights movement when demonstrators wore lily of the valley sprigs during protest marches.

Today over 60 million bouquets of lily of the valley are sold in France yearly, charities and labour organisations being allowed to sell the sprigs, tax-free, on the streets on May 1.

So, if someone offers you a sprig of lily of the valley today, accept it graciously, for it’s meant to bring good luck! However, glancing out at the grey skies and cold, sleeting rain of today, I’m not sure I’ll be brave enough to go outside and buy any!


We might just stay inside and singalong to: Le muguet du 1er mai

#SELFeChat on #indie #author discovery platform in USA #libraries

My second novel, Wolfsangel (on sale for 99c/p at the moment), was named as one of the top read SELF-e books of 2015, and I was pleased to be invited to the #SELFeChat on Twitter last Thursday, to discuss SELF-e library journal.


If you are an author interested in learning about SELF-e library journal, and getting exposure for your books through US libraries, click here.

Read my summary of our recent Twitter chat on this topic, hosted by @PubPerspectives Editor-in-Chief @Porter_Anderson, here.

#WW2 #FrenchResistance #warcrime novel Wolfsangel on sale 99c/p

For a limited time only, Wolfsangel, the second (standalone) novel in my French historical trilogy: The Bone Angel series, is on sale for 99c/p at the following retailers:


Amazon
Smashwords 
Kobo 
Barnes & Noble
A heart-stopping page-turner of love, betrayal and courage which will leave you shaken and profoundly moved … Karen Maitland –– bestselling author of Company of Liars.
Wolfsangel Listed on TOP SELF-e ebooks of 2015 HERE  

 CHAPTER 1 of Wolfsangel... We gather in the cemetery, before the ossuary, with the straggle of other remaining survivors and their families. Our heads dipped, the mayor begins his memorial speech to commemorate the tragedy that became a legend around these parts; the evil that part of me still believes was the result of my own reckless actions.There isn’t a region in France that didn’t pay the price of war with the blood of its children, but here in the village of Lucie-sur-Vionne one can truly contemplate the depths to which the pure devilry of man was cast. The chill of last winter stole my husband, and though my extended family are with me, I feel lonely without him by my side, remembering the fateful afternoon that has tormented me for sixty-eight years –– the sickening odour of charred flesh, the smoke parching my throat, the green-brown blur of the woods as I fled the clomp of German boots. My fingertips skitter across the scar on my left arm, eternal reminder of that inconceivable climb, then the free-fall of an unstrung puppet, and the certainty that I too would die any second.My conscience might have been soothed if I’d been punished; if I’d had to pay somehow, but by then there was barely a soul left to sit in judgement.Perhaps that’s why I chose to become a midwife, bringing new lives into a world from which I’d taken so many. Or, as my mother claimed, the birthing skills were simply in my blood. I glance across at my granddaughter, who wears the bone angel necklace these days. She’s gripping the pendant between her thumb and forefinger as I used to; as countless kinswomen of L’Auberge des Anges did before us. I touch the spot where it once lay against my own breast, feeling its warmth as if I were still wearing the little sculpture. I wonder again if my daughter and granddaughter truly understand what that heirloom endured with me through those years of the occupation. Can they grasp the comfort, the strength it gave me? I doubt it. You’d have to live through a thing like that to really know how it was.My eyes slide down the list of names engraved on the ossuary’s marble plaque, their cries, curses and laughter chiming in my ears as if it were yesterday. The breeze catches the perfume of lilacs and splays the velvety heads of the red roses, like opened hearts, as the mayor concludes his sombre speech. We stand in silence for a minute, remembering those who never got the chance to grow old –– loved ones who perished for our freedom. From beside the row of the oldest, grandest headstones, the band strikes up La Marseillaise, the trumpets drowning out shrill birdsong and the low hum of a passing tractor. We trudge out of the cemetery and head along the woodland path to the Vionne River for a picnic lunch, as we do every year. It’s part of the ritual.Ip, iptrills a bird. Ga, ga cackles another. A dragonfly hovers over a seam of current that folds the waters of the river across stones, ferns and errant flower heads. The Vionne displays her illusion of tranquillity, though I know, better than most, that it has claimed victims — witches of the Dark Ages punished by drowning, and the children who perished two centuries ago, for whom a stone memorial cross sits on the ridge. I think of the others who died here –– those who have no such memorial; not the slightest trace, for rain and snow have long since washed away the bloodstains. I have always wondered who found them and where they were buried, and if it weren’t for a dog-eared sepia photograph gathering dust in a secreted wooden box, I might convince myself they had never existed.After the picnic, my daughter offers to drive me home to the farm. No, thank you very much, I tell her, I’m only eighty-nine, still quite capable of walking back to L’Auberge. L’Auberge des Anges, haven for weary travellers, orphans and refugees, which has withstood centuries of plague, revolution and war, reclines on the crest of the slope like a solid matriarch. I shuffle through the wooden gateway, the sun flinging its warmth across the cobbled courtyard, the pink puffs of cherry blossom and the white backsides of rabbits bobbing through the orchard. My daughter fancies herself as an artist and as I negotiate the uneven cobbles, I dodge the collection of sculptures she has fashioned from scrap metal, waste and discarded objects –– effigies of our loved ones who never came home. The official document confirming their deaths didn’t arrive until 1948 but it seemed we’d already mourned them for a lifetime.Curious travellers who have heard of the tragedy stop off in Lucie-sur-Vionne on their way south, or west to the Atlantic coast, for summer holidays. Once they’ve toured the legendary site they find their way up here to L’Auberge des Anges, and wander amongst my daughter’s sculptures. They ask us who the people were, and they want to know about Max, as they admire his paintings in the gallery.I climb the steps, wincing as another barb pierces my frail shell. It appears from nowhere, this guilt I claimed from the smouldering wake of that evil reprisal. I know it will shadow me for days, weeks or months. Then, as winter seems to have settled forever, spring arrives, and my self-reproach will vanish for a time, only to return to the same dark nooks of my mind, the cycle beginning again.No one ever knew for certain why they marched into Lucie-sur-Vionne that hot June morning of 1944, but it is a crime I have never been able to forget. Nor can I forgive. Least of all myself.