Shelley Lee Riley's Blog: https://shelleyleeriley.com/my-thoughts/, page 2

May 30, 2024 Stories from the Backside

As promised, here’s another story from the backside. Like Sam’s Stories, this entry was part of a book of short stories I published in 2014 titled For Want of a Horse. All the stories within the book were based either on personal experience or fictionalized versions of life events. The book is currently unavailable, but I’m considering reissuing it in ebook form. I’ll let you know. While Tyler’s Folly is fiction, my experience with horses with prominent personalities is reflected within the telling. And then there’s the folly of taking a loan against the equity in your house to buy horses. Something I am very familiar with. While Jim and I were never late on any payment, we worked hard to keep it that way. Something a good number of you will be familiar with. Hard work and horseracing go hand in hand. And let’s not forget, Hope springs eternal. I hope you enjoy Tyler’s Folly.

Tyler’s Folly — Shelley Lee Riley

The heat had been building under the barn’s roof throughout the day, and the box fans Emma had set up did little to relieve the situation. As sweat tickled across her scalp, she paused before one to redirect the flow toward her flushed face. Pulling a rub rag from her hip pocket, she swiped the moisture from her forehead before it could reach her eyes.

Sighing wearily, she tucked one corner of the towel back in her pocket, unhooked the bottom snap on Folly’s webbing, and dragging the pitchfork behind her, she slipped into his stall.

Once inside, her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim interior, and she searched carefully, looking for anything unusual.

Reassured nothing was amiss, she quietly moved around the stall, fluffing the straw and removing soiled bedding. Before leaving the stall, she took a moment to run a hand across the sleek shoulder of the stall’s occupant.

Folly munched contentedly from the feed tub Emma had hung before she started picking up the stalls. A mixture of grain, bran, molasses, and vitamins, the evening meal was a treat the colt had tried to get to before she could duck into the stall. Unwilling to wait, the colt had burrowed his mouth into the contents as she’d struggled to clip the tub to the screw eyes in the corner.

“What a beauty you are.” Emma’s smile turned sad as she admired the big red colt that had meant so much to her husband.

It was an understatement to say she’d been mad when she found Tyler had mortgaged their house, effectively wagering their future on one unbroken colt. So, without consulting Tyler, Emma had registered the colt as Tyler’s Folly with The Jockey Club. Instead of being put out when the registration papers arrived in the mail, he’d laughed until he cried.

Now Tyler was dead. And there was no time to mourn. Less than a week ago, the love of Emma’s life had been killed galloping a horse. Death, no matter how tragic or unexpected, didn’t mean horses stopped needing to be cared for.

Nor could the feed man wait to be paid. Exhausted and traumatized when Emma arrived that morning to face another day of chores without Tyler, she found the feed man had nailed an invoice to the door of her tack room. “Past Due” blazed across the envelope in bold red letters.

Emma knew what would happen if she couldn’t pay the money she owed promptly—the feed man would turn her into the horse racing board. This would result in her trainer’s license being suspended until all outstanding debts were settled.

She’d had the money, but funerals were expensive, and the money for the feed bill had barely covered the initial payment for Tyler’s funeral. Not that the feed man would care. Everybody who owed the man money had a good reason why they couldn’t pay, and she was sure he’d heard more than his fair share of excuses over the years. He wasn’t a bad man.

Folly rattled his tub as he licked every last grain from the bottom and looked for more. The clatter brought her wandering thoughts back to the feisty colt.

“Time to get out of here,” she said. Though an avid and talented horsewoman, she was well aware of her limitations when it came to this sizable colt. Folly had always been a bit too hot for her to handle.

She admired how her husband managed the colt’s immense personality with an innate mastery. They worked well together. Tyler explained that Folly wasn’t mean—he was just filled with joy. “He’s got big chi,” Tyler laughed as he easily handled the rowdy horse.

Maybe so, but that joy came with large teeth prone to nipping, along with a pension for explosive fits of rearing up and pawing the air. These displays were always followed by the colt running backward on the end of the shank faster than she could follow.

Now, she had to face the intimidating rascal daily. Heart in her throat, she felt one step closer to disaster every time she led Folly out of his stall. The colt’s bullying had only worsened after Tyler disappeared from his life.

Tomorrow, Folly would run in the one race her husband had dreamed of winning. A named Futurity and the race boasted a $500,000 purse. Right after Tyler had purchased the colt, he’d insisted on nominating him to this prestigious two-year-old race. He remained steadfast in his belief until the day he was killed—Folly would triumph despite criticism from their fellow horsemen.

She understood why they thought this way. Running close to the lead in a crowded field, let alone winning a race of this caliber, was going to be a tall order for Folly’s first-time start. But after each workout, Tyler returned astride the prancing colt, excited and ever more confident that Folly had the necessary talent to compete with the best colts around.

After Tyler died, she vowed to fulfill his most ardent wish—that Tyler’s Folly would run in the Futurity. The naysayers could laugh at Emma all they wanted. Tyler believed in Folly, and Emma believed in Tyler.

Out of grain, Folly turned his attention to Emma as she slipped under the webbing. She sensed his movement and hurried to step to the other side of the muck basket before he could snag a piece of her clothing.

Foiled, Folly instead used his teeth to upend the basket of soiled bedding in the shedrow. As a two-year-old stud colt, it was all about the mouth and what he could latch his teeth onto next.

“You turkey,” Emma laughed and rubbed his velvety muzzle, avoiding the rubbery lips, working hard to pull her fingers into his mouth. “Save that energy for tomorrow, you little devil.”

With another tired sigh, she bent to the task of cleaning up the mess the colt had created in her clean shedrow. As she worked, her thoughts went to the next day’s race. While she knew that Folly wouldn’t be the only maiden in the futurity, it made her squirm when she considered that her horse, unlike the other maidens, was unraced.

Her stomach rebelled when those same thoughts inevitably turned to what would happen if Folly were to run last. But she couldn’t think about that right now. Dwelling on it wouldn’t affect the outcome. The few hours left to her during the night was her time to cry, her time to mourn.

With the chores done, she turned off the lights, locked the tack room, and headed home—the home she’d shared with Tyler, the home which now included a foreclosure notice posted on the window.

~ ~ ~

I hope you enjoyed this part of the entry. Due to its length, I will publish the rest of Emma’s story tomorrow. I hope you come back for an exciting ending.

Thank you for visiting my website. As always, I love comments and suggestions. If you have a story to share, please do. I won’t share or sell your contact information.

Shelley

The post May 30, 2024 Stories from the Backside appeared first on Shelley Lee Riley.

May 23, 2024 Why Rate or Review a Book

While I planned on sharing another short story for this week’s ‘My Thoughts’ entry, I came across a cartoon by author Shami Stovall on my Facebook feed, and to say that I felt a deep connection to its subject matter would be an understatement.

For those avid readers among us, I’m sure you’re pretty familiar with the one thing you will likely find at the end of any book besides The End. Invariably, you’ll come across a heartfelt request from the author for a review or rating.

The majority of us barely notice it and move on. However, as I have published several books, a memoir, short stories, and two novels, I have come to understand how difficult ratings and reviews are to come by.

Why is that?

Since I am not a pollster, I can only answer for myself, and that answer would be long and convoluted. But I will say this: when I read a book that I’m sad to see come to an end or affects me in some other way, I feel compelled to at least rate it.

This brings me to the cartoon. I could go on and on about why readers should take the few seconds needed to rate a book. However, this cartoon does a far better job and in far fewer words than I would use. Created by Shami Stovall

While no writer likes a negative review, we learn from them. Kind, thoughtful, and constructive critiques nourish a serious writer. However, one-star ratings without a review seem cruel. Tell an author where they went wrong, at least for you. Remember that what took you hours or a few days to read may have taken the author weeks, months, and even years to create.

Shami Stovall is a published author and talented artist. Check her out at Shami’s website: https://sastovallauthor.com

Thank you for visiting my website. Feel free to leave a comment or ask a question; I read and respond to each one. Rest assured that I will never use or abuse your information. You can look forward to another short story next week. It is long, so I may have to serialize it over more than one week’s entry.

In the meantime, let me know your thoughts about the cover change for Casual Lies—A Triple Crown Adventure. I received many positive remarks about this beautiful photo by Bob Benoit of Benoit Photography. It was taken by Bob outside of Woody Stephen’s Barn at Belmont Racetrack in New York just before the Belmont Stakes.

Bob was kind enough to present me with a photo journal that he personally took of Casual Lies and his team throughout our Triple Crown Adventure.

The post May 23, 2024 Why Rate or Review a Book appeared first on Shelley Lee Riley.

May 16, 2024 Stories from the Backside

Last week’s post garnered a lot of interest, and I thank you. Tim Bellasis’s memory of the Cal Expo Flood of 1989 made for a gripping short story I enjoyed writing. It was suggested that there are a vast number of memories among the horsemen and women who work with our beloved racehorses that should be shared and not allowed to be lost to the changing times. Remember, a good story is a gift you get to give over and over again, and each time, you get to relive the moment yourself. If any of you have a memory about an event, a person, or a horse . . . that you would like to share, I will pick one that I feel will appeal to a large audience. When I’ve picked just one, I will do my best to make a fictionalized short story based on your facts. Please reach out to me through the Ask Shelley tab and leave a brief description of the incident.

I’ll start with my own memory, though I haven’t fictionalized it. It’s a true story; many of you will remember Sam Johnson, his wife Audrey, and their two boys. However, I’m sad to add that I believe he lost both of his boys at way too young an age.

Jim and I had just started training at Cal Expo, and as I recall, it was in the late 1970s or early 1980s. I hope you enjoy my memory. (The pictures below are not of Sam, but they give you an idea.)

Sam’s Stories

THOSE HOURS BEFORE THE SUN ROSE IN THE sky were my favorite at the racetrack. When viewed from afar, the horses standing backlit in the doorway of each stall resembled traditional silhouette portraits come to life as shadow theatre. Pawing and whinnying, they all wanted to be first as the cans of grain were doled out.

Once the grain had been distributed, the clamor settled into the quiet munching of hungry equines. Some nibbled and chewed quietly, savoring each morsel. While others gobbled their ration, barely tasting the treat, they’d rattle and bang their empty tubs, demanding more.

I used this short interlude of relative calm to prepare equipment for the day ahead. The blanket rack was hung, and saddles, pads, and bridles were set out on the saw horse.

Buckets of hot, soapy water were readied, and sweat scrapers and fluffy sea sponges dropped into the bubbles. Grooms rolled out wheelbarrows, carrying rakes and pitchforks to muck out the stalls.

When a golden pink edge showed on the horizon, the horses were curried, tacked, and ready to go.

As the first horses stepped onto the freshly harrowed surface, they paused, ears pricked, nostrils flared. Eyes fixed on something unseen and far away, muscular bodies taut with anticipation, they seemed to listen to sounds only they could hear.

Soon, the track would fill with excited horses, a hive of activity as every trainer struggled to track all their charges before the training period ended.

Over the years, I’d been neighbors with several notable characters whose temperaments differed greatly from mine. Some were particularly memorable, but none more so than Sam Johnson. As far as interesting went, it would be hard to beat ol’ Sam. I don’t know how old he was; I couldn’t hazard a guess, but seeing as I was just twenty-six years old when I first met him, he seemed ancient to me at the time.

Sam had a uniform he wore daily. Every item consisted of faded khaki, including the floppy hat he wore without fail. We shared a hot walker next to the barn, and as we watched our horses cool out, he loved to share his recollections.

A prolific storyteller, Sam’s old memories just flowed off his tongue. He painted a picture with his words, and those words frequently engaged my imagination. Unlike most older people I’d met, Sam never told the same story twice. His repertoire was vibrant and varied.

Most people judged Sam by his looks. Both cataract-covered eyes bulged—one looked to the left and the other at his feet. The bottom lid on the right eye had a large divot of flesh missing, and as a result, the eye watered steadily—a stream of tears that coursed over his cheek to decorate his khaki-colored jacket.

He carried a crumpled and disreputable handkerchief tucked in his back pocket—a stained flag at the ready, which followed him everywhere.

From what I could see, only one tooth remained in Sam’s mouth. Located in the middle of his bottom jaw, mottled yellow and brown with age, it angled out, and his top lip stayed tucked behind it. Mumbling through chapped lips, it was often difficult to make out his words.

My husband, Jim, couldn’t understand why I’d listen to anything ol’ Sam had to say. Like the rest of Sam’s critics, Jim felt the horse business had moved past the elderly man and considered him little more than a derelict and, as such, no longer relevant.

But I found Sam remembered things long forgotten by his more youthful colleagues, those who’d been seduced by the lure of cutting-edge technologies and were often dependent on new medications to do a good deal of the training for them.

I might have to listen to fifty stories to glean one helpful gem, but I didn’t find that to be a hardship. Sam was also a gentle soul with a rather pointed sense of humor that I thoroughly enjoyed.

He only had a couple of good clients left, but they’d been with him for a long time, and they’d kept the faith. One spring, his best client sent Sam a very nice two-year-old colt to break and train.

Truthfully, I thought this big, rambunctious colt would get the best of the ol’ guy. And sure enough, one day, the colt reared up, struck Sam with his front hooves, and thunked him a good one, right on the top of his head. The floppy hat never budged.

In response to my shriek of alarm, Jim burst through the tack-room door and caught the loose horse while I helped Sam to his feet.

Sam sported a nasty red scrape but, surprisingly, seemed none the worse for wear. He pulled his disreputable hanky out of his pocket, wiped his nose, and stepped over to reclaim the feisty colt from Jim.

As the days passed, the young horse became more of a problem. He had obvious talent but was turning into an uncontrollable rogue, both around the barn and on the track.

One by one, Sam had recruited every gallop boy on the backside to exercise the colt. And one by one, they all met the same ignominious fate—unseated with Sam’s unruly scamp running loose. Eventually, Sam approached Jim. When Sam told Jim he wouldn’t allow him to carry a whip while riding the colt, he refused.

The nasty-tempered animal liked nothing better than to rub a rider off using any solid surface he could get next to, which left riding the undisciplined colt without a whip both foolish and reckless.

Though I felt sorry for Sam, I agreed with Jim; it wasn’t worth getting busted up on an ill-mannered baby for the small fee Jim would earn.

The next thing I knew, I looked up to see Sam headed off to the track leading the obnoxious colt hooked up to a harness-racing sulky. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Frankly, I was more than a little surprised Sam wasn’t already dead and the horse down on the ground tangled up in the remains of the buggy.

Since everybody knew the colt was as wild as a March Hare, what was about to take place had all the earmarks of a clear case of suicide by stupidity and right in front of all our eyes.

Hooking any horse to a buggy without a lot of prep work was just plain idiotic, let alone a green two-year-old thoroughbred with a bad attitude.

Word spread rapidly around the barn area, and everybody who could raced to the rail to watch the smackdown. The buzz of excited voices ceased abruptly when the colt stepped onto the track at the three-quarter chute, dragging the cart with big ol’ Sam now in the driver seat.

The colt stood there, frozen in place. The railbirds held their breath, eyes riveted, unblinking, for fear of missing the launch.

The colt looked right, then left. He lifted a front leg. The ghoulish audience leaned further over the rail, straining to catch all the action. At this point, the colt, as though he’d done it a thousand times before, walked up the track, broke into a jog, and finally a gallop.

Sam trained that horse using a buggy for weeks on end. When he finally put a rider on the colt’s back and took him to the track for the first time without the sulky, the colt galloped around the track like an old campaigner.

Eventually, the colt went on to win a few races, making money for his owner.

Stable characters have come and gone, and I still remember how colorful and unique ol’ Sam had been, dressed in his faded khaki uniform.

Though people disagreed with his tactics, Sam was secure in his unorthodox style. He didn’t care if anyone thought he was relevant or not. But after the day of the sulky, no one could deny that there was more than one way to train a racehorse.

As for Sam, he always had another story to tell. That is, if anybody was willing to listen.

Thank you for taking the time to visit my website. I hope you enjoyed Sam’s Stories, and I wish I had a picture to share with you, but sadly I don’t. However, Sam will always hold space in my memory. Feel free to ask if you have a question about the Triple Crown of horseracing or might be interested in any aspect of writing. Or . . . do you have a good story that you would like to share? I just wanted to let you know that I won’t sell or use your contact information.

The post May 16, 2024 Stories from the Backside appeared first on Shelley Lee Riley.

Road to the Triple Crown of Racing

     Now that the new year is upon us, the road to the Triple Crown is heating up. There is always increased interest in some of the unique stories behind past participants. For those who haven’t had the chance to read the story behind Casual Lies, the fuzzy brown colt that nobody wanted, now is your opportunity to get the eBook at the discounted price of $.99 at Amazon.com. Or you can read it for free with a Kindle Unlimited subscription. 

     I hope you enjoy the unusual story behind the horse who became known to the world as Stanley. He was such a character and never passed on an opportunity to pose for the cameras. And you can trust me when I say I had no problem poking fun at myself.

        

 

     Also, as some of my followers have discovered, I have been writing novels and short stories. The first eBook in The Born from Stone Saga, Into Madness, is also available at $.99 for those who like the escape that a fun fiction read offers. 

     Join Ravin Carolingian, who, after a decade in hiding, is captured and imprisoned by the man who killed her father and stole her kingdom. Left to question everything she thought she knew about herself. At the same time, as the line between ally and enemy blurs, Ravin comes to understand one thing. If she is to help the Carolingian people, she must first escape the evil that walks the halls of the place she once called home. 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B088T3D9PM/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1 

I hope you'll join Ravin and her allies as they attempt to find a way to save the Carolingian Kingdom and its people. Dragon's, ancient prophecies, magic, and more. 

     Thank you for visiting my blog, and I look forward to hearing from you with any comments you might like to share.

Take care,

Shelley Lee Riley

Promotion Price Has Ended

    

     It's challenging for an independent author to go up against industry algorithms skewed toward the traditionally published. 

     Still, I’m going to keep trying to reach the reading public that appreciates a fun adventure with a likable protagonist. Wouldn't you agree that ninety-nine cents is a small price to pay for a few hours of entertainment? 

     Please take a chance and have a look. For less than the price of a cup of coffee, you can join Ravin Carolingian as she fights for her freedom. 

     The ebook edition of my debut fantasy novel Into Madness, Book One in the Born From Stone Saga, is still available at the reduced price of $.99 on Amazon. 

     Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Into-Madness-B...  

     Scroll down for a preview.

Take care,

Shelley Lee Riley

Promotion Price Still Available

    

     It's challenging for an independent author to go up against industry algorithms skewed toward the traditionally published. 

     Still, I’m going to keep trying to reach the reading public that appreciates a fun adventure with a likable protagonist. Wouldn't you agree that ninety-nine cents is a small price to pay for a few hours of entertainment? 

     Please take a chance and have a look. For less than the price of a cup of coffee, you can join Ravin Carolingian as she fights for her freedom. 

     The ebook edition of my debut fantasy novel Into Madness, Book One in the Born From Stone Saga, is still available at the reduced price of $.99 on Amazon. 

     Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Into-Madness-B...  

     Scroll down for a preview.

Take care,

Shelley Lee Riley

INTO MADNESS Seven day promotion

Starting at midnight and for the next seven days. The ebook edition of my debut novel Into Madness, Book One in the Born From Stone Saga, will be reduced from $2.99 to $.99 on Amazon.

Please feel free to take a look at the opening pages in my previous posting.

And don't forget, reviews are always welcome.

Take care,

Shelley Lee Riley

Into Madness - Book One from the Born From Stone Saga

 


It is an absolute killer trying to get a debut novel noticed. I have tried many things. Since my book blog has been receiving quite a bit of interest, I thought I would try posting the first few pages of Ravin’s story in the hopes of getting a tiny bit of additional exposure. I hope you enjoy this beginning. 

Prologue

Kingdom Carolingian—938 Middle Era


Crouched atop an ancient Building, a giant stone serpent loomed black against a full moon. Nine-hundred years had passed under its frozen gaze. But on this night, as the mist swirled, minuscule particles locked within the moisture carried a scent that evoked a long-dormant memory.

    The dragon stirred, his once drab scales transformed, coming to life in a dazzling swirl of color. His stone pupils blazed to life, and a forked tongue flicked from between misshapen lips. Leathery wings spread and the dragon lifted into the sky.

    Those citizens who traveled the streets cowered at the sight of the dark alterity.

    Ignoring the humans, Mystislav shifted with the cold breeze and drifted toward the far end of the narrow valley. His destination: a hulking stone fortress, silhouetted against a towering V-shaped cliff, and the tumultuous waterfall that cascaded over the pitted surface.

    Dipping through the billowing mists, Mystislav angled his glistening wings to pass over the Carolingian castle walls.

    His acute hearing picked up the squall of a newborn infant. Banking sharply, he spiraled down and landed on the donjon tower, the highest point in the castle keep.

    The dragon curled his long neck to look over the edge at a balcony that protruded from the castle wall. His nostrils flared, and his eyes flashed crimson. Over nine-hundred-years he’d waited to fulfill his vow. It wouldn’t be long now.

    Satisfied, Mystislav folded his wings and returned to stone.


Chapter One

Carolingian Castle—Eighteen Years Later

It wasn’t like her mother hadn’t told her what to expect. But nothing could’ve prepared Ravin for the level of disdain—even outright hatred—displayed in the glittering hall by the nobility that had gathered there.

    Her mother’s icy hand brushed against Ravin’s wrist.

    ~You need to control yourself. Her mother’s mind-speak failed to calm the outrage that threatened to claw its way out of Ravin’s chest. But it was enough.

    “Delinda Carolingian Danpert . . . Ravinia Carolingian Danpert,” the herald boomed.

    Together the two women descended the stairs. When they reached the bottom step, the crowd was slow to part. Ravin ignored the hostility. Instead, she focused her attention on a dais at the far end of the great hall where two men sat on gilded thrones. The older, darkly handsome, with a cruel edge to his countenance. While an arrogant sneer made the other’s golden-hued features repellent. Though Ravin had never seen either man before, she knew who they were—Grigorii and his son, Brakken. Both wore the crowns of the conquered Carolingian kingdom. The kingdom her father had died to protect—Ravin’s kingdom.

    The sea of jewel-toned satins blurred into a wash of color at the periphery of her vision as she concentrated her attention on her mortal enemy.

    The man she had dreamed of killing for the last ten years was a knife’s throw away. How easy it would have been to lodge a blade between his eyes. If only she’d had one.

    Hatred gnawed at her gut as the distance shortened between her and the monster, who waited like a spider in its lair.

    Her mother swayed against her, breaking Ravin’s focus.

    ~Ravin, your emotions are tearing at me. Try to control yourself. Please, I beg you.

    Ravin closed her fingers around her mother’s wrist and projected her will. But her mother blocked Ravin’s energy.

    ~Don’t. If you want to help me, you should use your gift to calm yourself.

    Chastened, Ravin concentrated on the gleaming marble beneath her feet. Following their capture, two weeks of hard travel had done little to extinguish her self-loathing. Every mile traveled was a constant reminder of what her arrogance had cost them. This time would be different.

    When Delinda came to a stop, Ravin took a deep breath and looked up. The malevolent gaze of the usurper Grigorii Clovis Mercoviche matched Ravin’s mood perfectly. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she returned her gaze to the floor.
                                                                ~

As the two women made their way across the ballroom, Grigorii wanted nothing more than to prolong his moment of triumph.

     He may have won the right to rule Carolingian through force, but he’d craved far more than the right to wear the crown when he’d turned his eyes toward this kingdom. The blood that ran through these two women’s veins was more valuable than a mere golden circlet to lay upon his head or a gilded chair to sit upon. Theirs was a hereditary claim that extended beyond the land now under his control. Delinda’s lineage, and that of her daughter, traced back to the very first ruler of Carolingian—the infamous sorcerer-king, Remfry Carolingian.

    This deposed queen who stood before Grigorii was a true daughter of Carolingian. And, as such, represented the most critical aspect of bringing a prophecy he’d found outlined in the pages of an ancient illuminated manuscript to fruition.

    But first, he would cement his hold on the Carolingian people by marrying their beloved queen and put an end to the petty rebellion that kept this kingdom in constant turmoil. Even though the land was of little consequence compared to his overall ambition, the unrest remained a continual thorn in his side.

    Grigorii remained seated as the woman raised her eyes. A smug smile played across his full lips. The prize he’d sought for so long was finally his.

    The queen was, if anything, more beautiful than he’d been led to believe. Not that it mattered. Ugly or pretty, it would change nothing. That she wasn’t hideous was just an unexpected bonus.

    Regal beyond words, Delinda appeared as though age would never mark her. Fiery and bright, her red-gold hair gleamed in the candlelight, her luminous skin warm and inviting.

    He moved his gaze to the princess, a contrast of dark versus light, her blue-black hair framed pale porcelain skin, and he noted that she was far too thin to appeal to his randy son. When she glanced up, their gazes locked. Her eyes were remarkable. Neither blue nor gray, but some smoky hue Grigorii had never seen before. What he had seen was the direct challenge reflected within their depths. Few had ever survived long enough to challenge him twice—and never a woman. He quirked an eyebrow, amused.

    Grigorii returned his gaze to Delinda. Despite the poor quality of her clothes, there was no doubt she was the product of a multi-generational monarchy. His gaze raked the queen from head to foot, leering over the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. That her mouth tightened under his crude perusal pleased him more than he would have thought. As a means to an end, he hadn’t considered the subjugation of these two women would prove to be such a pleasurable undertaking. His cruel smile widened at the possibilities.

    “Delinda, welcome to my court.” Grigorii rose, descending the steps, he took her hand. He relished the thought of what she endured as she stood helpless before the architect of her husband’s death and the subsequent fall of their kingdom.

    Grigorii still chafed at the galling memory of his triumphant ride into the citadel ten years past only to find the real prize, Queen Delinda, had outwitted him and escaped before he’d arrived.

    “So this is your daughter?” Grigorii turned his avaricious gaze on Ravin. “The resemblance to your late husband is striking.”

    Grigorii drew out the moment of their humiliation. The queen’s features remained stoic. However, the princess rolled her shoulders, and her eyes conveyed a promise she was wise not to utter. His dark eyes narrowed in anticipation as he imagined how pleasurable it would be to crush this defiant child.

    “Let me introduce you to my son.” He turned to glower at the young man sprawled on the smaller of the two thrones, openly flirting with a pair of giggling girls. “Meet Brakken Clovis Mercoviche. Brakken, come and meet our illustrious . . . guests.”

                                                                   ~

Prince Brakken didn’t think the tedious charade could get any worse, but he was wrong. He’d spared the two women only a perfunctory glance when they appeared at the ballroom entrance. Why his father would insist on parading his prisoners in front of the entire court was beyond Brakken. But then again, thwarting Grigorii’s machinations was Brakken’s primary goal in life, and the inelegant girl standing before his father was going to make it easy.

    “Brakken!”

    Heaving a sigh, Brakken rose to his feet, swaggered down the steps to stand before the stork. Snagging her icy hand, he raised it to his lips. But instead of kissing her fingers, his lip curled in distaste before he met her smoky-eyed glare.

    ~Surely Father can’t expect me to bed this crone?

                                                
I hope you enjoyed this short excerpt from Ravin's adventure. And thank you for reading it. You can find it in paperback and digital format on Amazon.
Take care,
Shelley Lee Riley

Moon Called - A Mercy Thompson Novel by Patricia Briggs

In a world with kick-ass supernatural heroines, Moon Called is kick-ass fun. Mercy Thompson is a Native-American coyote shifter with the grit and courage of a Bengal tiger. 

She not only doesn't fear the local alpha, but she also takes great pleasure in taunting him. Nestled in her single-wide trailer, she positions a wheelless old junker on blocks in the field that separates their two properties, and she does it in such a way that he will see it every time he looks out of the window of his sprawling mansion. 

One of the things I really appreciated about how Patricia Briggs is the way she takes her time to build her characters. All too often, authors, in an attempt to develop the quintessentially strong, independent character, end up missing the mark and lurching off into snarky, petulant, and for me, irritatingly irredeemable. Not so with Mercy.

If you are tired of cliffhanger endings, you will find each of the Mercy Thomson stories is its own adventure. Recurring characters with storylines? Yes, there are. Moon Called is indeed the start of a long series where you will find lots of fun to enjoy with each new episode. Give it a try.

Shelley Lee Riley - Author of the debut novel Into Madness, Book One in the Born From Stone Saga, and the memoir Casual Lies - A Triple Crown Adventure

Bad Money - Carl Hiaasen

I know that I promised to find novels by lesser-known authors. And I assure you that I will. Still, after my last venture into the unknown, I decided to delve into the past. And to that end, I found a review that I wrote a while back—Carl Hiaasen’s Bad Monkey. I want to share that review with you. 

“There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.”—Erma Bombeck.

     I might add to Erma Bombeck’s quote; there’s a thin line between funny and ghastly. Carl Hiaasen doesn’t balance carefully between satire and black humor in the opening paragraphs of this book. He jumps feet first into a situational comedy. The author so skillfully crafts James Mayberry’s character that his arrogance and shamelessness, combine with a bold audacity to leave no doubt in the reader’s mind about this character’s true nature.

     What should be shockingly abhorrent to the reader is adroitly twisted by Hiaasen into a macabre, cynical sort of humor. The reader is left to experience both laughter and discomfort simultaneously. 

     The writing is first-rate; however, I did find it distracting when every reference to the Mayberry character included both his first and last name. After the character’s introduction, I think further references to him could have been with his first name only. This is a small criticism on the whole. 

     I liked that the protagonist, Andrew Yancy, isn’t perfect. Far from it. For me, that makes the character more believable, and I found him quite colorful besides.

     I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and I will be looking for another book by this author.

     I end this review with another quote. “The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.”—E.E. Cummings.

The time I spent reading Bad Monkey was not time misspent.

Shelley Lee Riley - Author of Into Madness, Book one in the Born From Stone Saga, and the memoir Casual Lies - A Triple Crown Adventure