L.Y. Levand's Blog, page 35
December 21, 2012
December 21, The Bard's Apprentice
The Bard's Apprentice
An Excerpt by Jeanette Raleigh
I dropped the sword. Not just any sword, but the sacred sword of the Guardians, passed down through countless generations to the sworn defenders of the realm. Only a thin carpet adorned the chapel’s stone floors, and the clanging of metal silenced the tiniest rustle in the crowd. I suppose the sword has been dropped before. After all, it is much heavier than it looks.
The reverberating echo silenced the crowd, and I stood shamed in the cape and signia of the guard, my black collar sticking to my neck where sweat had begun to collect. With cheeks aflame, I bent and picked up the sword while whispers rose throughout. None audible to me, but I could well imagine what they said, probably a crass comment about the Oracle’s choice of a daft songstress to be the next Guardian or a murmuring query regarding the selection of an apprentice barely into her womanhood.
Sighing, I attempted to lift the blade again, wobbling with sore arms while the prime minister droned on about responsibility. Mind you, of all of the men and women available for the selection, I am the least pious, outspoken with a wit not always appreciated, and never have I held the sword. Why would the Oracle select as Guardian of the realm a woman who had never trained in sword-fighting? Did I mention the Oracle was blind?
My recitation of the oath, no doubt because of my bardic training, flowed well with the words resounding through the halls. The sword after that clanging moment only wavered and wobbled in the air, a testament to the heaviness and the relief my arms would feel when it was all over. Even now they shook.
The greatest joke was on me, thinking the sword ceremonial when it was handed to me in that first moment, so well did it gleam in the sunlight reflecting the gold, pinks, blues, and greens filtering through the stained glass windows. The guardian carried the sword always. And so I would learn to bear the burden. The ceremony ended none too soon, but my burden in life was only beginning.
* * *
I walked through echoing stone halls to the sword-smith who would check for knicks, no doubt caused by my moment of disgrace, and teach me the care of the weapon. Dropping a sword, particularly an ancient, sacred sword passed down through countless generations and entrusted to only a few, is generally frowned upon by more than monks and for more than religious reasons, however, I expected a little more compassion and fewer angry stares. It’s not like I meant to spoil the most sacred moment entrusted to me. And no one told me how heavy it would be.
My cheeks warmed when I handed Karsta the sword. I sat on a stool and waited. His frown and cold words removed any hope I would have of mercy as he carefully examined the blade. “You’re lucky that magic protects the sword. A lesser blade would be damaged. Surely, you were taught better.”
My throat tightened. Why would anyone assume I knew the role of a Guardian or even how to carry a sword? I answered back sharply, even if it was Karsta who frightened soldiers with his own sharp tongue. “I’ve no training as a soldier nor have I held a blade. I didn’t ask to be a guardian and can’t think of one reason, not one, why I was chosen. Perhaps we could make it lighter somehow?”
The incredulous look on Karsta’s face told me I had committed another egregious sin, though which one I didn’t know, probably speaking my mind or joking about sacred objects. Make the sword lighter?” He puffed and stared and seemed at a loss for words. “You were chosen. How is it you’ve only held a sword once?”
Many a time when people asked, I said it with pride, but this time, my heart felt sore with the humiliation. Straightening my back and trying to look haughty, I answered. “I am Ulrich’s apprentice.”
His laughter shocked me. Not a small polite chuckle, no. Karsta belly-laughed as he polished the sword on his lap. “I bet Tanic suffered apoplexy. The gods do have a sense of humor.”
As he wiped tears from his eyes, I pressed my lips together, trying to find something tragic or funny to say, some way to save my last bit of dignity. Being the guardian was considered an honor, but only if deserved.
I found myself watching a man caught in a fit of wonder, an awed acceptance. The laughter was true joy of the spirit, not the teasing of my incapability or woeful lack. Joy of the spirit from Karsta? The tales carried to my ears from gossips wove Karsta into the role of unsmiling ogre.
He really thought the gods had chosen me. I hope the gods got a good laugh. Perhaps they only meant to put a smile on dour Karsta’s face.
“Come back tomorrow after the prime minister has settled you into your new quarters and explained your duties.” Karsta chuckled again, shaking his head. ”A bard’s apprentice.”
You can find Jeanette Raleigh's book Death Knell: A Birdie Morgan Mystery here!
An Excerpt by Jeanette Raleigh
I dropped the sword. Not just any sword, but the sacred sword of the Guardians, passed down through countless generations to the sworn defenders of the realm. Only a thin carpet adorned the chapel’s stone floors, and the clanging of metal silenced the tiniest rustle in the crowd. I suppose the sword has been dropped before. After all, it is much heavier than it looks.
The reverberating echo silenced the crowd, and I stood shamed in the cape and signia of the guard, my black collar sticking to my neck where sweat had begun to collect. With cheeks aflame, I bent and picked up the sword while whispers rose throughout. None audible to me, but I could well imagine what they said, probably a crass comment about the Oracle’s choice of a daft songstress to be the next Guardian or a murmuring query regarding the selection of an apprentice barely into her womanhood.
Sighing, I attempted to lift the blade again, wobbling with sore arms while the prime minister droned on about responsibility. Mind you, of all of the men and women available for the selection, I am the least pious, outspoken with a wit not always appreciated, and never have I held the sword. Why would the Oracle select as Guardian of the realm a woman who had never trained in sword-fighting? Did I mention the Oracle was blind?
My recitation of the oath, no doubt because of my bardic training, flowed well with the words resounding through the halls. The sword after that clanging moment only wavered and wobbled in the air, a testament to the heaviness and the relief my arms would feel when it was all over. Even now they shook.
The greatest joke was on me, thinking the sword ceremonial when it was handed to me in that first moment, so well did it gleam in the sunlight reflecting the gold, pinks, blues, and greens filtering through the stained glass windows. The guardian carried the sword always. And so I would learn to bear the burden. The ceremony ended none too soon, but my burden in life was only beginning.
* * *
I walked through echoing stone halls to the sword-smith who would check for knicks, no doubt caused by my moment of disgrace, and teach me the care of the weapon. Dropping a sword, particularly an ancient, sacred sword passed down through countless generations and entrusted to only a few, is generally frowned upon by more than monks and for more than religious reasons, however, I expected a little more compassion and fewer angry stares. It’s not like I meant to spoil the most sacred moment entrusted to me. And no one told me how heavy it would be.
My cheeks warmed when I handed Karsta the sword. I sat on a stool and waited. His frown and cold words removed any hope I would have of mercy as he carefully examined the blade. “You’re lucky that magic protects the sword. A lesser blade would be damaged. Surely, you were taught better.”
My throat tightened. Why would anyone assume I knew the role of a Guardian or even how to carry a sword? I answered back sharply, even if it was Karsta who frightened soldiers with his own sharp tongue. “I’ve no training as a soldier nor have I held a blade. I didn’t ask to be a guardian and can’t think of one reason, not one, why I was chosen. Perhaps we could make it lighter somehow?”
The incredulous look on Karsta’s face told me I had committed another egregious sin, though which one I didn’t know, probably speaking my mind or joking about sacred objects. Make the sword lighter?” He puffed and stared and seemed at a loss for words. “You were chosen. How is it you’ve only held a sword once?”
Many a time when people asked, I said it with pride, but this time, my heart felt sore with the humiliation. Straightening my back and trying to look haughty, I answered. “I am Ulrich’s apprentice.”
His laughter shocked me. Not a small polite chuckle, no. Karsta belly-laughed as he polished the sword on his lap. “I bet Tanic suffered apoplexy. The gods do have a sense of humor.”
As he wiped tears from his eyes, I pressed my lips together, trying to find something tragic or funny to say, some way to save my last bit of dignity. Being the guardian was considered an honor, but only if deserved.
I found myself watching a man caught in a fit of wonder, an awed acceptance. The laughter was true joy of the spirit, not the teasing of my incapability or woeful lack. Joy of the spirit from Karsta? The tales carried to my ears from gossips wove Karsta into the role of unsmiling ogre.
He really thought the gods had chosen me. I hope the gods got a good laugh. Perhaps they only meant to put a smile on dour Karsta’s face.
“Come back tomorrow after the prime minister has settled you into your new quarters and explained your duties.” Karsta chuckled again, shaking his head. ”A bard’s apprentice.”
You can find Jeanette Raleigh's book Death Knell: A Birdie Morgan Mystery here!
December 20, 2012
December 20th, 2012
I've joined a website that does blog tours and book hops - and the wonderful person that runs it has sent me a link to an auction to help the families of Sandy Hook. Kathy has donated two items to this auction.
If you'd like to help them out, you can here go here to read about the auction.
Our hearts go out to the families who lost loved ones. I hope that this helps them all, and makes it a little bit easier.
If you'd like to help them out, you can here go here to read about the auction.
Our hearts go out to the families who lost loved ones. I hope that this helps them all, and makes it a little bit easier.
December 19, 2012
December 19th, 2012
"The color of springtime is in the flowers; the color of winter is in the imagination." ~ Terri Guillemets
I think this is true. Spring's color is obvious; it's unmistakable, bright, and everywhere. But winter is mostly white, gray, black. It's the perfect pallette for an artist, who can use it as a backdrop for beautiful, wonderful things. Only someone with little or no imagination could say that winter is just a dreary, awful season. It has its moments, that's for sure. But there is something about the resting world that can give rise to things that otherwise sleep in the mind.
I think this is true. Spring's color is obvious; it's unmistakable, bright, and everywhere. But winter is mostly white, gray, black. It's the perfect pallette for an artist, who can use it as a backdrop for beautiful, wonderful things. Only someone with little or no imagination could say that winter is just a dreary, awful season. It has its moments, that's for sure. But there is something about the resting world that can give rise to things that otherwise sleep in the mind.
December 18, 2012
December 18th, 2012
This cookie is my all-time favorite. I like the sugar cookies, and the chocolate chip, and the peanut butter...but these...these are my favorite out of all the cookies.
Lemon Tea Cookies
You will need:
2 teaspoons lemon juice
1/2 cup milk
1 3/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup butter or margarine
3/4 cup sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon shredded lemon peel
And:
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice
(for the glaze; just mix them together)
Stir 2 teaspoons lemon juice into milk and set it aside (it curdles really funny, too). Stir flour, baking powder, baking soda, a 1/4 teaspoon salt together (use a smaller bowl). Beat butter (in big bowl) for thirty seconds. Add sugar and beat until fluffy. Add the egg and lemon peel, and mix it together well. Add the dry ingredients and that milk/lemon juice stuff alternately, beating well between each addition. Drop onto cookie sheet 2 inches apart and bake in a 350 degree oven for twelve to fourteen minutes. Remove to a wire rack (right after pulling from oven) and brush with the glaze.
This recipe was taken from the Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book. The directions were written by me, checking the book often for accuracy.
Lemon Tea Cookies
You will need:
2 teaspoons lemon juice
1/2 cup milk
1 3/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 cup butter or margarine
3/4 cup sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon shredded lemon peel
And:
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice
(for the glaze; just mix them together)
Stir 2 teaspoons lemon juice into milk and set it aside (it curdles really funny, too). Stir flour, baking powder, baking soda, a 1/4 teaspoon salt together (use a smaller bowl). Beat butter (in big bowl) for thirty seconds. Add sugar and beat until fluffy. Add the egg and lemon peel, and mix it together well. Add the dry ingredients and that milk/lemon juice stuff alternately, beating well between each addition. Drop onto cookie sheet 2 inches apart and bake in a 350 degree oven for twelve to fourteen minutes. Remove to a wire rack (right after pulling from oven) and brush with the glaze.
This recipe was taken from the Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book. The directions were written by me, checking the book often for accuracy.
December 17, 2012
December 17th, 2012
Weekly Challenge:
Say something nice to yourself every morning.
Negative self-talk will not help you. If you don't believe in yourself, who will? You can say something like 'today will be a great day' or 'I'm going to accomplish something wonderful today.' You can pick almost anything, as long as it is nice, and about or to yourself. Think happy thoughts!
Say something nice to yourself every morning.
Negative self-talk will not help you. If you don't believe in yourself, who will? You can say something like 'today will be a great day' or 'I'm going to accomplish something wonderful today.' You can pick almost anything, as long as it is nice, and about or to yourself. Think happy thoughts!
December 16, 2012
December 16th, 2012
My heart aches for the families who lost loved ones in the Connecticut school shooting. It was a terrible occurrence, and I hope healing and peace will come to those that are hurting right now.
I think it's important to recognize that, while a gun was the weapon of choice, the gun on its own would not have caused this tragedy. It was the hands that held it that turned it into a murder weapon, not the fact that it was a gun. In the hands of a responsible police officer, that same weapon could be used to save lives.
Rather than taking away firearms, the core issue should be addressed. A lack of value for human life is part of the problem. I won't deceive myself into thinking I know the real reason these things are happening to us, but I can tell you that a gun doesn't kill people. People kill people, and they will do it with guns, or without them. Instead of fixing gun laws, let's fix the problems that make them necessary.
Children should not be afraid to go to school, and parents should not fear to let their children go.
I think it's important to recognize that, while a gun was the weapon of choice, the gun on its own would not have caused this tragedy. It was the hands that held it that turned it into a murder weapon, not the fact that it was a gun. In the hands of a responsible police officer, that same weapon could be used to save lives.
Rather than taking away firearms, the core issue should be addressed. A lack of value for human life is part of the problem. I won't deceive myself into thinking I know the real reason these things are happening to us, but I can tell you that a gun doesn't kill people. People kill people, and they will do it with guns, or without them. Instead of fixing gun laws, let's fix the problems that make them necessary.
Children should not be afraid to go to school, and parents should not fear to let their children go.
December 15, 2012
December 15th, 2012
Troy scampered along on the ground, his tail waving behind him like a flag. The gnomes lived in the mountain, but they had a tree that they used, too. Hedgehogs had been seen carrying packages, and they all went to that tree. He'd heard it was hollowed out inside, and they used it like a tower. He wondered why they needed it, if they had a whole mountain.
He slowed down as he got closer to where the tree grew, and his whiskers began to twitch. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to go home. But he knew if he came back without Beenie, he would be in even more trouble. His mother would be worried that they hadn't shown up to take Beenie home.
He climbed up a nearby tree, and crawled carefully along a branch so he could see the gnome's tree. It was starting to get dark, but he could still see. Then he heard a funny little snuffling sound, and it was so sudden and unexpected that he jumped and almost fell off the branch.
"Beenie?" he hissed. "Is that you?"
He slowed down as he got closer to where the tree grew, and his whiskers began to twitch. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to go home. But he knew if he came back without Beenie, he would be in even more trouble. His mother would be worried that they hadn't shown up to take Beenie home.
He climbed up a nearby tree, and crawled carefully along a branch so he could see the gnome's tree. It was starting to get dark, but he could still see. Then he heard a funny little snuffling sound, and it was so sudden and unexpected that he jumped and almost fell off the branch.
"Beenie?" he hissed. "Is that you?"
December 14, 2012
'The Perfect Job' by Julia Hughes
The Perfect Job
Courtney Wilson squared off papers into an oblong pile, and began checking out backgrounds. Ninety men and eleven women had applied for eight vacancies. The short-listed applicants' lives were chronicled in black ink on the forms as neatly as their handwriting would allow. These were the chosen ones–once references were obtained and they were confirmed as trustworthy, they'd be employed by Rock Solid Security, the fastest growing security company in London.
Courtney began by firing off twelve emails. Each man (despite equality laws her boss, Mr Bolan only employed male security guards) had granted permission for RSS to contact previous employers for references. Each man's fate depended upon how swiftly those previous employers responded: The first eight applicants whose credentials proved sound would be formally offered employment by old man Bolan. Courtney returned to the top of the stack and began trawling the web.
The first two companies didn't have websites. She could have checked Company's House, but they took weeks to respond. It had been agreed at board level that if names and addresses checked out with 192.com they were "kosher".
Her fingernails tapped against the passport sized photograph of the third applicant, Jack Ramsey. Wide broad forehead under dark, almost black cropped hair, deep brown eyes, and a dimple in his chin. He'd shone in his interview–glowing as he spoke of his adventures in Bosnia, teaching underprivileged children English. Since returning to the UK, he'd been seeking work, picking up causal doorman/bouncer hours with a small agency. 'But I'm joining the police part time too – as a "Special"; my medical is next month.' He'd explained, handing over a letter from Oxfordshire Police.
Bolan had given the letter a cursory glance, nodding his approval for Jack's community spirit.
'What else you got in that file son?' He asked. Seeming embarrassed, Jack handed over a folder, stuffed with award certificates. 'My achievement folder, from the Army Cadets.' He blushed. 'I wanted to join the army, but my parents …especially my mum …'
'Good lad.' Tanner said. 'You mind your mother, mums know best.'
Jack's gaze met Courtney's, they exchanged smiles.
'Yes sir. I will.' Jack replied.
Bolan murmured just loud enough to be heard: 'Respects his elders – I like that.' And he'd moved Ramsey's application form to the left, onto the smaller pile of papers. Jack's eyes widened at Courtney's in an unspoken question, to which she'd nodded, and he'd smiled again, momentarily seeming almost wolf like.
'So, if we offered you this position, where do you see yourself in five years?' Bolan launched into the "second stage" questions. Straightening his tie, Ramsey responded eagerly: He'd researched everything he could about RSS. '– I know you promote from within, and I'd welcome the chance to take on extra responsibility.' This time, he reminded Courtney of a fox about to enter the chicken coop. Jack directed the slightest of winks at her – as though to say "best to feed the old codger what he wants, eh sweetheart?"
When Jack finished enthusing about his future should RSS employ him, Tanner wound up the interview, thanking Jack for his time. Almost as an afterthought the old bore added:
'You'll be collecting large amounts of cash from clubs all over London. Nothing to worry about– we've state of the art GPS tracking you, if you're ever more than ten minutes at each pick up point, our own back up unit swoop.'
Courtney had stifled a yawn at that point, she'd heard that spiel so many times before.
Ramsey had seemed impressed though. Flexing his shoulders, so that even under the sober black jacket the ripples of his biceps showed, he replied. 'I'm not worried Sir. Your clients' money will be in safe hands.'
****************************************************************
An electronic 'ping' signalling incoming email jolted Courtney back to the present. She clicked on her email folder to find five responses already from referees, none of them from "Pitchers" – Jack's employers. He'd spoken of Marlene Pitcher with affection, explaining that while she might be a little "rough and ready" she provided some upmarket clubs with quality doormen. Courtney sighed, wondering if Jack was "hooked up" as she scrutinised the somewhat ambitious website for the small security agency Jack Ramsey gave as his "current employer". Another email pinged in – Courtney frowned, and sent her computer into hibernation mode. She straightened her paperwork once more. From the top of the applicants' pile, Jack's warm brown eyes implored her mutely.
Picking up her office phone, Courtney dialled for an outside line, then a number in Oxfordshire.
A voice confirmed she'd connected with Jennifer Clawson, manager of "Twilight Gardens" then in clipped tones asked how she could help. Courtney pictured a middle aged matron on the other end of the line. 'I'm calling from "Rock Solid Security", Jack Ramsey has given your name as a reference.'
The brusque manner disappeared. 'I've known Jack since he was fourteen – lovely boy – used to cut the residents' lawns. He's just back from abroad you know – '
Cutting the woman short, Courtney thanked her and replaced the handset. May as well give Marlene Pitcher a ring, she thought, and dialled out again.
**********************************************************************
Frankie Powell twisted the yale key in the lock, and pushed against the front door. As he stepped into the cluttered living room, a mobile phone shrilled out. The middle aged woman hunched over a laptop placed a finger to her lips to hush him, grinning back at Frankie when he jabbed both thumbs into the air triumphantly.
'Yeah – this is Marlene Pitcher – 'ow can I 'elp?' Frankie grinned widely, as in gravely tones "Marlene" assured the caller 'Jacky, 'is a lovely bloke, I'll be gutted to lose him.' Promising to respond to RSS's email immediately, she disconnected and chucked the mobile into the wastepaper bin, where it joined three others.
'Piece of cake. Keep your head down and be the perfect employee for a couple of months, Frankie – I reckon they'll be good for at least two hundred grand.' The "Estuary Cockney" of "Marlene" had been replaced by a more refined "home counties" accent similar to the one used by Jennifer Clawson.
Frankie Powell aka Jack Ramsey crossed over to the sofa, skirting a pile of blank Sunday School "good attendance" certificates, to deliver a bone crunching hug; grimacing at the rather flashy website especially created for "Pitchers Security."
'This should be the last job son, we'll be able to retire after this one.'
Laughing outloud, Frankie headed for the bathroom, loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket as he went.
''Whatever you say mum. You know best.'
This original piece of Flash Fiction "The Perfect Job" was written in 2012 by Julia Hughes and remains the property of the author. All rights reserved. The Perfect Job appears on Laurel Levand's site with the full permission of the author, but may not otherwise be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author, or her agents, Talon Publishing.
Julia Hughes is the author of the Celtic Cousins' Adventures, and the romantic fairy tale romance "The Bridle Path". Her latest title is a young adult fantasy "The Griffin Cryer", was recently released by Talon Publishing and is already receiving rave reviews. Signed numbered glossy cover prints of "The Griffin Cryer" are available free, in a limited edition of 100. Freebies.
You can read an excerpt of "The Griffin Cryer" here.
Julia Hughes is the author of the Celtic Cousins' Adventures, and the romantic fairy tale romance "The Bridle Path". Her latest title is a young adult fantasy "The Griffin Cryer", was recently released by Talon Publishing and is already receiving rave reviews. Signed numbered glossy cover prints of "The Griffin Cryer" are available free, in a limited edition of 100. Freebies.
If you would like to participate in Flash Fiction Friday, you can find the sign-up here.
Courtney Wilson squared off papers into an oblong pile, and began checking out backgrounds. Ninety men and eleven women had applied for eight vacancies. The short-listed applicants' lives were chronicled in black ink on the forms as neatly as their handwriting would allow. These were the chosen ones–once references were obtained and they were confirmed as trustworthy, they'd be employed by Rock Solid Security, the fastest growing security company in London.
Courtney began by firing off twelve emails. Each man (despite equality laws her boss, Mr Bolan only employed male security guards) had granted permission for RSS to contact previous employers for references. Each man's fate depended upon how swiftly those previous employers responded: The first eight applicants whose credentials proved sound would be formally offered employment by old man Bolan. Courtney returned to the top of the stack and began trawling the web.
The first two companies didn't have websites. She could have checked Company's House, but they took weeks to respond. It had been agreed at board level that if names and addresses checked out with 192.com they were "kosher".
Her fingernails tapped against the passport sized photograph of the third applicant, Jack Ramsey. Wide broad forehead under dark, almost black cropped hair, deep brown eyes, and a dimple in his chin. He'd shone in his interview–glowing as he spoke of his adventures in Bosnia, teaching underprivileged children English. Since returning to the UK, he'd been seeking work, picking up causal doorman/bouncer hours with a small agency. 'But I'm joining the police part time too – as a "Special"; my medical is next month.' He'd explained, handing over a letter from Oxfordshire Police.
Bolan had given the letter a cursory glance, nodding his approval for Jack's community spirit.
'What else you got in that file son?' He asked. Seeming embarrassed, Jack handed over a folder, stuffed with award certificates. 'My achievement folder, from the Army Cadets.' He blushed. 'I wanted to join the army, but my parents …especially my mum …'
'Good lad.' Tanner said. 'You mind your mother, mums know best.'
Jack's gaze met Courtney's, they exchanged smiles.
'Yes sir. I will.' Jack replied.
Bolan murmured just loud enough to be heard: 'Respects his elders – I like that.' And he'd moved Ramsey's application form to the left, onto the smaller pile of papers. Jack's eyes widened at Courtney's in an unspoken question, to which she'd nodded, and he'd smiled again, momentarily seeming almost wolf like.
'So, if we offered you this position, where do you see yourself in five years?' Bolan launched into the "second stage" questions. Straightening his tie, Ramsey responded eagerly: He'd researched everything he could about RSS. '– I know you promote from within, and I'd welcome the chance to take on extra responsibility.' This time, he reminded Courtney of a fox about to enter the chicken coop. Jack directed the slightest of winks at her – as though to say "best to feed the old codger what he wants, eh sweetheart?"
When Jack finished enthusing about his future should RSS employ him, Tanner wound up the interview, thanking Jack for his time. Almost as an afterthought the old bore added:
'You'll be collecting large amounts of cash from clubs all over London. Nothing to worry about– we've state of the art GPS tracking you, if you're ever more than ten minutes at each pick up point, our own back up unit swoop.'
Courtney had stifled a yawn at that point, she'd heard that spiel so many times before.
Ramsey had seemed impressed though. Flexing his shoulders, so that even under the sober black jacket the ripples of his biceps showed, he replied. 'I'm not worried Sir. Your clients' money will be in safe hands.'
****************************************************************
An electronic 'ping' signalling incoming email jolted Courtney back to the present. She clicked on her email folder to find five responses already from referees, none of them from "Pitchers" – Jack's employers. He'd spoken of Marlene Pitcher with affection, explaining that while she might be a little "rough and ready" she provided some upmarket clubs with quality doormen. Courtney sighed, wondering if Jack was "hooked up" as she scrutinised the somewhat ambitious website for the small security agency Jack Ramsey gave as his "current employer". Another email pinged in – Courtney frowned, and sent her computer into hibernation mode. She straightened her paperwork once more. From the top of the applicants' pile, Jack's warm brown eyes implored her mutely.
Picking up her office phone, Courtney dialled for an outside line, then a number in Oxfordshire.
A voice confirmed she'd connected with Jennifer Clawson, manager of "Twilight Gardens" then in clipped tones asked how she could help. Courtney pictured a middle aged matron on the other end of the line. 'I'm calling from "Rock Solid Security", Jack Ramsey has given your name as a reference.'
The brusque manner disappeared. 'I've known Jack since he was fourteen – lovely boy – used to cut the residents' lawns. He's just back from abroad you know – '
Cutting the woman short, Courtney thanked her and replaced the handset. May as well give Marlene Pitcher a ring, she thought, and dialled out again.
**********************************************************************
Frankie Powell twisted the yale key in the lock, and pushed against the front door. As he stepped into the cluttered living room, a mobile phone shrilled out. The middle aged woman hunched over a laptop placed a finger to her lips to hush him, grinning back at Frankie when he jabbed both thumbs into the air triumphantly.
'Yeah – this is Marlene Pitcher – 'ow can I 'elp?' Frankie grinned widely, as in gravely tones "Marlene" assured the caller 'Jacky, 'is a lovely bloke, I'll be gutted to lose him.' Promising to respond to RSS's email immediately, she disconnected and chucked the mobile into the wastepaper bin, where it joined three others.
'Piece of cake. Keep your head down and be the perfect employee for a couple of months, Frankie – I reckon they'll be good for at least two hundred grand.' The "Estuary Cockney" of "Marlene" had been replaced by a more refined "home counties" accent similar to the one used by Jennifer Clawson.
Frankie Powell aka Jack Ramsey crossed over to the sofa, skirting a pile of blank Sunday School "good attendance" certificates, to deliver a bone crunching hug; grimacing at the rather flashy website especially created for "Pitchers Security."
'This should be the last job son, we'll be able to retire after this one.'
Laughing outloud, Frankie headed for the bathroom, loosening his tie and shrugging off his jacket as he went.
''Whatever you say mum. You know best.'
This original piece of Flash Fiction "The Perfect Job" was written in 2012 by Julia Hughes and remains the property of the author. All rights reserved. The Perfect Job appears on Laurel Levand's site with the full permission of the author, but may not otherwise be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author, or her agents, Talon Publishing.
Julia Hughes is the author of the Celtic Cousins' Adventures, and the romantic fairy tale romance "The Bridle Path". Her latest title is a young adult fantasy "The Griffin Cryer", was recently released by Talon Publishing and is already receiving rave reviews. Signed numbered glossy cover prints of "The Griffin Cryer" are available free, in a limited edition of 100. Freebies.
You can read an excerpt of "The Griffin Cryer" here.
Julia Hughes is the author of the Celtic Cousins' Adventures, and the romantic fairy tale romance "The Bridle Path". Her latest title is a young adult fantasy "The Griffin Cryer", was recently released by Talon Publishing and is already receiving rave reviews. Signed numbered glossy cover prints of "The Griffin Cryer" are available free, in a limited edition of 100. Freebies.
If you would like to participate in Flash Fiction Friday, you can find the sign-up here.
December 13, 2012
Promo Post for "First Time" By Samuel Ben White!
Tour Schedule 
First Time: The Legend of Garison Fitch"What if history didn't happen that way ... the first time?"
Garison Fitch was one of the most revered scientists in the Soviet Americas until he left fame behind to work on a secret project in his log cabin in the mountains of Marx.
But something went wrong. Instead of traveling interdimentionally, Garison has traveled through time ... twice.
Now, he's in something called "The United States of America" and a woman he's never met before is calling herself his wife. It it a hoax? Or, has he somehow changed history?
If so, can he return the world to what he believes is "normal", or must he live in this strange world he created?
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Praise:
"Sam continues to weave his magic as a storyteller. I always find myself anxious to find out what will happen next and what kind of twist will befall the adventurers. It helps to be familiar with the places that the heroines go, which adds to the story."
~Labdaddy, Texas
"I've had a few very unproductive but enjoyable days thanks to Samuel Ben White. If you haven't read Sam's books you have been missing a treat. These were funny, suspenseful, spiritual and kept you turning the pages."
~Karen S.
"Just wanted to say how much I have enjoyed your books. I have a Kindle and I have purchased all of the Garison Fitch novels. I am in Saudi Arabia and your books have really helped take me away from here."
~Scott, Saudi Arabia
Also Part of the Series:
Saving Time
Two years ago Garison Fitch traveled through time and rewrote history. An accident in the eighteenth century created a whole new world, and even gave Garison a wife he had never met before. Now, he’s got a daughter and he’s coming to enjoy this world he created. Until he’s attacked by men masquerading as Indians, and a funeral procession from out of the past enlists his help, and a tree grows from sappling to full-grown in a matter of minutes, threatening his daughter’s very life. Time itself is unraveling and Garison’s trips through time seem to be the cause. Garison must go back in time once again and keep himself from making the original trip that started the problem. But he can’t use his time machine to go back. How does one sew up a rip in time?
Lost Time Jason Kerrigan and Brownwyn Dalmouth are pilots with the Republic of Texas Army Air Corps. A world war is going on and bombs have just brought an end to Crockett Air Field in south Texas. Jason and Bronwyn, though, are called away from the battle to be test pilots for a new aircraft that-they're told-will bring the war to an end. The experimental craft lives up to expectations in early tests, but then it lands them somewhere it never should have sent them. Another place? Another time? Another dimension? Somehow, they've taken a trip to the future and changed the past. Or did they? The answer to their change of reality may be known to a Justice of the Peace in Colorado named Garison Fitch. To figure it out, though, Garison may have to team up with his least favorite person: Bat Garrett.
Excerpt
"That's George Washington," she replied, surprised that he had never seen a dollar bill before. Although, she was becoming less surprised with each of these new revelations. His memory seemed to be as full of holes as a sponge, yet sometimes as solid as coral.
"Is he someone famous?" Garison asked. Inwardly he laughed as he mused that young George must have taken his advice and made something of his life to appear on currency.
Heather looked at him incredulously, but said, "Everyone in the world knows who he was—literally. Everyone. George Washington? He was the first President of the United States. Lead the Continental Congress when they drafted the Constitution. Held us together. Father of the country."
"I thought John Adams was the first president," Garison offered meekly, surprised he remembered even that little bit of historical trivia. He was embarrassed by his lack of knowledge of history—which in the last day seemed to have become even worse than he thought.
"No, John Adams was the second president, and George's vice-president before that. George was the man who, as general, turned the colonial rebels into a force coherent enough to beat the British off the soil. Then he brought us together as a nation."
"Uh-oh," Garison said, slumping to the couch.
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Author Samuel Ben WhiteSamuel Ben White (“Sam” to his friends) is the author of the national newspaper comic strip “Tuttle’s” (found at www.tuttles.net) and the on-line comic book “Burt & the I.L.S.” (found at www.destinyhelix.com). He is married and has two sons. He serves his community as both a minister at a small church and a chaplain with hospice. In addition to his time travel stories, Sam has also written and published detective novels, a western, three fantasy novels and four works of Christian fiction.
Links
Twitter * Facebook * Website
Blog Tour Giveaway
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First Time: The Legend of Garison Fitch Tour Schedule:
http://iamareadernotawriter.blogspot.com/2012/10/first-time-blog-tour.html
December 12, 2012
December 12th, 2012
"Family quarrels have a total bitterness unmatched by others. Yet it sometimes happens that they also have a kind of tang, a pleasantness beneath the unpleasantness, based on the tacit understanding that this is not for keeps; that any limb you climb out on will still be there later for you to climb back." ~ Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
All families have their squabbles. But, unlike fights between friends, coworkers, or significant others, family fights don't end a family relationship. You may be disowned, but your family is still your family, and most often they will forgive and forget things that most others would not. The things I dislike about my brother or sisters might make me dislike someone else, but I put up with them, and love my siblings in spite of the things they do that drive me bonkers on an almost daily basis. I know I do the same to them, and they love me anyway.
All families have their squabbles. But, unlike fights between friends, coworkers, or significant others, family fights don't end a family relationship. You may be disowned, but your family is still your family, and most often they will forgive and forget things that most others would not. The things I dislike about my brother or sisters might make me dislike someone else, but I put up with them, and love my siblings in spite of the things they do that drive me bonkers on an almost daily basis. I know I do the same to them, and they love me anyway.
