Allan Hudson's Blog, page 40

Guest Author Sarah Butland of Nova Scotia

 
It’s always fun to have one of my guests return for a second visit and that’s the case this week. Sarah shared an excerpt from her novel Blood Day on the last visit and you can see it HERE. She is kind enough to participate in a 4Q Interview.


 
 
Sarah Butland was born in Ontario, the year was 1982. She moved to New Brunswick for over 15 years and now resides at home in Nova Scotia, Canada. Butland has been married to her high school sweetheart and has a superstar son named William and Dogo Argentino named Lumen. Besides home schooling and working part time, Sarah finds time to follow her dream of being an author and teaching others that they can do the same.



   

4Q: It’s been awhile since your last visit Sarah. You’ve been quite busy as one can see from your website. Tell us about your latest work, I Saw the Forest.
 


SB: My latest work is I Saw the Forest, a short story, a practice in imagery and realizing my own obstacles I was letting keep me down. Being in the writing or any creative industry can be daunting and disheartening at times, frustrating when you feel like you’re beating your head against a wall in hopes someone, anyone, will hear. But for most of us in the creative arts, it would be harder to stop breathing than it would be to cease being passionate. 

I Saw the Forest ties in the saying “see the forest through the trees” as I have always had the opposite problem – dreaming so big I couldn’t see or celebrate the little steps or successes which often mean much more than we give them credit for. So, if you will, I always see the forest and not the trees.





 
 
4Q: So, where do your ideas come from Sarah? What inspires you?
 
SB: Good question and I wish I had an answer. The simplest way I can describe this is the ideas come through my fingers. Whether I’m typing or writing, I seem to be transported out of body to write the tales that come from literally thin air. Since I was a child I would wander through the forest behind my house and simply imagine. I didn’t need video games or role playing, I just needed a moment to enjoy the peace before the voices would visit and create chaos.
I write like I read, by the seat of my pants and not knowing what is coming next. It keeps me motivated to listen to the characters and the freedom to just tell their story with no expectations or fears of insulting anyone.


 
4Q: Pleased share a childhood memory or anecdote with us.
SB: When I was “taught” to craft stories in school it was mandatory to show a brainstorm or plot layout before writing the real thing. I struggled with this until I realized I could draft a story and go back to brainstorm or “draw the web” in the time it took my classmates to write out their plotline. I would present my scattered thoughts to the teacher, leaving my story on my desk, and then return to my seat to write another story so it looked like I was hard at work. Then, before the deadline, I would present the story I wrote and I don’t think my methods were ever questioned.  
 
 
 
 

4Q: You have an ongoing story on your website at present and you add to it daily I believe. What is this all about?




 SB: In March I happened to find an organized “AtoZChallenge” which invited participants to write a blog post every day in April starting with the next letter of the alphabet. I felt like I abandoned my blog for other projects at that time so immediately signed up, knowing it wouldn’t be easy but that it was necessary to get me out of my writing funk. And I did it! I wrote random posts about writing and the process of finding time to do what you love.
After I wrote I would occasionally blog hop to see what others participating were writing about and discovered some wrote a short story with each post. I thought it was brilliant and decided to personally challenge myself to keep going with the word a day challenge but write fictional pieces. When I got started I realized the project was turning into something bigger than I imagined as the story the characters were telling weren’t worthy of just one blog, they needed the entire month.

I try to write less than 500 words for a blog post in hopes that someone will actually read it and it just naturally breaks up like that.
*As I am replying to you it is May 27th and I feel like it will either come to a very abrupt and awkward end or could continue. We’ll need to wait and see (or you can go back now as you’re readying this after May 31stand see what happened). 

 
 
 
 


Thank you Sarah for being our guest this week and sharing your thoughts.

For those of you that want to discover more about Sarah and her writing, please visit her website at www.sarahbutland.com, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/SarahButland/ and follow her Twitter feed at https://twitter.com/sarahbutland_co

Wasps - They're back. A short story by allan hudson

Summer is finally here. So are those pesky insects, mosquitos, June bugs, lady bugs, bumble bees (they're not so bad) but worse yet, the damn wasps are back too!    One spring I was stung by one of those despicable critters and not only did it hurt but it inspired a short story. Who knows where these ideas come from?    Imagine if you killed a bunch of wasps and they sought revenge! (copyright held by the author)  Wasps! Seymour Troffmok hightails it out of the baby barn like a scared rabbit with a hungry fox hot on his tail. Four angry yellow jackets, insect warriors, swarm his upper body for the first thirty feet of his escape into the open yard, their stingers dripping with venom. Their intention is to kill. Deeming the threat no longer remains, the determined protectors veer off from the fleeing intruder quickly returning to their hive satisfied the menace has been sufficiently warned.   



Seymour is skinnier than a yard rake and the welt on his neck is a big as a walnut. He’s moaning and cursing, rubbing the sore bump.  It feels as if someone drove a three inch nail in his neck, or at least he imagines it hurts that much. He’s scared too, his bulged out eyes search the yard around him where he stops running by the large pine tree at the edge of his property, fifty yards from the bomb laden storage shed. Confident there are no more of the horrible insects chasing him he rests his shaking body against the tree, eyeballing the open doors of the barn as they swing in the spring breeze.

The sun is behind him as it begins its ascension into the sky. The pine tree is thick and wide enough to keep him in shadow, old enough to remember Seymour’s ancestors. The bark is rough, deeply veined and reassuring upon his back.  One of the massive roots has grown from the ground before burrowing back into the rich earth creating a low uncomfortable seat about four feet long.  The rounded top is wide enough for an average bum; hundreds have polished the aged root for the last fifty years.  Seymour buffs it up once more by plopping down on the wood. Dead needles are scattered at his feet. He’s in his comfort zone, far enough away from the damn wasps.


He sits facing the swaying doors. Turning his head slowly in circles trying to ease the pain he glares at the opening as several wasps appear, hovering briefly as if to decide which way they should proceed. Seymour freezes, wills his heart to stop beating, chilled with the thought they might be looking for him. The three bugs bug out to his left at full velocity, uninterested in Seymour any longer. His shoulders visibly droop in relief, an inaudible sigh escapes his lips. A snicker covers his nervousness when he whispers

“What in the blazes am I going to do? And my aching neck…ohhhh…those little buggers.”

Seymour’s fear turns to anger, that some small pest would chase him from his own property. He strikes up a little bravado directing his comment towards the unseen hive.

“That’ll be the friggin’ day!” Almost in response to the verbal threat, two wasps buzz down from the inside ceiling, holding position in the open doorway, facing Seymour, for several seconds.  Seymour gulps, his Adams apple moving up and down nervously. Before he can react to this new threat the wasps go off in the same direction as those that flew out moments ago. He sighs, trying to calm his jitters. Watching the entry to the small barn, he stares at the top of the opening trying to figure out what he’s going to do. He can see the edge of the patio table inside the shadows of the baby barn. He had been going in to get it out when the wasps attacked him. His first trip had been for the barbeque. They struck when he entered for the second time. The wasps figured that was too many. 

It’s the first Saturday in May.  The yard is covered with dead grass, flattened by the winter’s snow. Small shoots stick up here and there between the brown dried up blades of last year’s lawn, a green promise.  A promise that can be detected in the air, the old tree exuding its piney aroma, the clean earth after April’s rain, the dead seaweed washed up on the shore in front of the house. Breathing deeply through his nose, Seymour continues to rub his neck even though the pain is subsiding. The familiar smells have a calming effect on his nerves. He is embarrassed at himself for being scared to go over there. He hates them. All he thinks of is how he can kill them. 
Seymour arrived early today, a little after 7am at his summer house. Normally his wife Zelda accompanies him as they “open up the cottage” but she and her three sisters are doing the May Run to Prince Edward Island this weekend. They packed tents, coolers, lipstick and gloss, some clean undies, hiking boots and compasses and way too much booze for four women, all in the back of Daphne’s minivan, she’s the youngest. Seymour decided to come to the cottage on his own.
 

Several wasps are returning to their hive as they zoom into the baby barn and disappear up towards the roof. Seymour realizes they aren’t paying attention to him anymore. Their arrival spurs him to action. He doesn’t bother to lock up, instead jumps into his truck to head out to Melanson’s general store. Knowing Gerry Gautreau will be working today, he’ll ask him what to do; the guy knows everything about outdoors stuff. Everybody calls him Goat, a short take on his last name. Watching the road as it twists along the shore, Seymour’s thinking about the wasps, his animosity growing by the second. Seven miles later he turns into the cracked parking lot.


He loves the smell of the old store, ripe bananas and produce to the right, popcorn by the movie rentals in the back, new shoe and glove leather down the center, an open can of paint and boxes of nails in hardware to the left. The floor creaks as he heads to the left where Goat looks after the nuts and bolts. Seymour finds him at the paint counter hammering the cover back on a fresh can.  He’s chatting up the young lady he’s serving while Seymour waits off to the side studying the man he only knows sparingly. He can’t remember ever seeing Goat without a smile, just about the friendliest grin possible. Full head of white hair, eyebrows and moustache to match, make him look wise.  He’s saying something to his customer while he comes from behind the desk to hand her the can of paint and Seymour can’t hear him. The woman blushes a little and thanks him for his help. I step up to catch his attention.

“Hello there.”
“Hey, hey Seymour, comment ca va?”
“I’m doing great...except for one thing.”
A look of concern crosses Goat’s features. “What’s the problem?” 
 
Seymour relates what happened at his house and before he can finish his story, Goat is heading towards the back and disappears to the right.

“Follow me.”   Scurrying around the corner he finds him by a bunch of spray cans, insecticides, pesticides, six sided birdhouses and garden tools. Goat picks up a tall red can from the top shelf. Shoving it towards Seymour he says, “Here’s what you want.” 

On the main body is a giant hornet. The image makes Seymour’s neck throb. The can is a foot high, as big around as a coffee mug, graced with the words in bold black letters, Wasp & Hornet Killer. There is a five inch straw-like plastic taped to the side.

“What’s the little straw for Goat?”  Goat retrieves the can and pops off the top. Pointing to the tiny pore where the spray comes out he says, “Stick it in there and you can spray in tiny holes…” His eyes take on a mischievous glow, his words a bit of a dare. “…or you can stick it right into the hive if you’re brave enough to get that close. Good luck!”

  Twenty minutes later Seymour is standing in the garage door.  He’s wearing a one piece gray winter snowsuit with a big silver zipper in the front. A blue Toronto Maple Leafs toque covers his bald dome and is pulled down to his eyebrows. Oversized safety glasses with an amber tint cover his eyes. A red neck warmer graces his neck and face up to his nose. He is wearing black mechanic’s gloves and in his right hand is the large red can.  It’s a mild 18 degrees and he’s dressed for a blizzard. Sweat runs from every pore because he’s hot and nervous. His glasses keep steaming up when he breathes. He counts to ten.

“…eight, nine ten!”  Heading directly to the baby barn which is between the garage and the house set back towards the property line, he enters, turns and immediately sees the hive in the apex of the gable end. He can reach it quite easily. When he lifts the can, a lone wasp escapes from the hole in the bottom of the hive. It attacks Seymour, harmlessly stinging the padding on the snowsuit. Seymour stumbles backwards, scared and swinging his free hand. Luckily he clips the defender with a swipe. The bug bounces off the right wall and slips down behind the lawn mower. Gathering all his courage he rushes forward, jabs the skinny red spout into the soft side of the hive and fills it with foam. Two or three more wasps have escaped before being consumed by the poison. They swarm about Seymour’s head and he runs.

  Back to the big pine tree, only this time behind it. Seymour knows the bugs will be mad. Peering from behind the wide bole, he can see foam drip into the open doorway from the roof. A smirk crosses his face when he thinks of how he filled the hive, of how the deadly fumes are working right now. There’s almost a glee in his eyes as he removes the goggles. Several wasps have returned to the nest to find it uninhabitable, toxins emanating from its pores. They buzz about with no pattern. The chemicals in the repellant have eaten away a section of the fine paper the hive is made of, causing a piece to fall to the floor. The wasps flee as if in terror.

After fifteen minutes there’s no action, no wasps. Seymour dons his shades and walks hesitantly towards the open doors, ready to sprint in the opposite direction in a second’s notice. Making it all the way to the front, he can see several wasps on their back, on the floor, in a puddle of killing liquid. Each bug has three sets of legs that paddle uselessly in the air. Seymour feels a tinge of remorse, but only the slightest of shade.

“It’s either you or me boys. Looks like I win.”
  Backing into the storage area, Seymour checks out the hive. A portion of the bottom, the size of a child’s fist, has been eaten away exposing a cone like inner structure. More dead bugs fall from the opening. With his foot he sweeps them all in the corner by the snow shovels. Returning to the garage, he tosses the toque, glasses and neck warmer on the work desk. Unzipping the large zipper, Seymour`s dark green t-shirt is sweat stained on the front. His bald head glistens in the sun.  Even though he fells the menace has been effectively dealt with, Seymour decides to keep the padded garment on for a while as a precaution; otherwise he sets about setting up the summer furniture and cleaning up. By mid afternoon, he’s forgotten about the wasps.

  Just a bit before 7pm Seymour has showered, changed clothing and is attending to a 10oz sirloin that hisses on the hot grills of the barbeque. The Montreal steak spice and the rich meat flavour fill the air about the bonnet. Seymour has peeled and sliced a couple of potatoes and placed them in an aluminum pan along with butter, garlic, onions, a little water and shredded cheese. The pan sits to the left of the cooking meat on a low burner. All the food sizzles in harmony. The cooker is at the far corner of the deck across from the sliding patio doors. Disturbed by the pleasant calling of the birds gathered at his neighbor’s feeder, Seymour looks around reflecting on what he’s accomplished today.


The new yellow chairs add some color to the weathered wooden Adirondacks in the sitting area to his left, equally spaced around his new fire pit, a flat black toad-like thing on legs.  The gazebo is up on the right: the uprights drilled to the floor, the screens tied back neatly, the cloth on the roof is taut. The glass dining table is inside, accompanied with the six complimentary chairs that have fat olive cushions. The yard is raked and free of winter’s mess, the screen is replaced on the back storm door, and the water is back in, the dripping faucet is fixed, the kitchen appliances all cleaned, his bed changed and the sheets washed. He’s beat.

“I’ll sleep like a dead man tonight”
Laughing at his quip, he fills his plate with the cooked meal.  After turning off the gas, he retreats to the kitchen to fetch his glass of merlot and brings the bottle as well. There are no mosquitoes yet, the air is fresh with a tang of salt. The meat is tender, the wine dry and robust, the evening slightly warmer than usual. Seymour eats slowly, watching the shadows of night approach. The land is low to the west and the last rays of the sun reflect upon the water to the east, steel blue horizon with pink and orange wisps. The wine disappears at the same pace and by nine o’clock, Seymour is almost falling asleep. Gathering up the dishes, he leaves them on the cupboard, locks up the doors, makes a pit stop in the bathroom, sheds his cloths across the bedroom floor and crawls into the fresh sheets. He’s asleep in less than ten minutes. All evening he never once thought about the wasps.
** In the middle of the night Seymour shifts restlessly upon the bed, the clean sheets tangled about his lower body. Tossing and turning he moans in the darkness, his dream turning into a nightmare. In his mind he has fallen on the middle of the road in front of his house and he’s naked. He tries to rise but his movements are sluggish as if the air is as thick as molasses. Spying a swarm of insects rushing towards him, he is panicking, knowing with a dire certainty that they are coming for him. He urges his body to move more quickly but every effort is useless as if a terrific weight is upon him and he can’t understand why. The insects, closer now, are huge, each one the size of a baseball, they are bright yellow with glossy bodies. Their stingers are visible and poison drips from the sharp points. He can see this as clearly as if they are only inches away. The large wasps are rushing towards him, closer and closer they come with what seems like unbelievable speed and yet, he himself can barely move.

Just before the swarm reaches him, one giant hornet escapes from the buzzing horde, a mini dive bomber propels itself towards Seymour’s exposed body. The stinger is long, gleaming in the sun like a brand new sword. It hovers briefly above Seymour, points its wet dagger towards his prone body and attacks.

  Seymour is startled from his sleep, sitting up suddenly in his bed. He is covered with perspiration, his heart pounding and he is shaking from the fright of his dream. He opens his eyes and can’t see anything, the room has never been so dark, no starlight, no moon light, nothing. His neck throbs where he was stung yesterday morning. There is a terrific noise, like the sound of a dozen circular saws running at the same time.  And then he can feel them. Something or some things are all over his body.


He reaches for the switch to his night light. The 60 watt bulb casts a mellow yellowish light and once his eyes focus he gasps. The room is full of wasps, hundreds and hundreds of them. They cover everything. They cling to the walls, to the open door, to the bed; they cover the floor so deep that he can’t see his clothes he shed last night. The room swirls with a cloud of yellow jackets. Staring at the mass of moving insects he screams.


The buzzing stops, every wasp stops moving except those in the air. He feels every insect eye upon him. He experiences an impending doom. He knows they mean to kill him. Reaching for the magazine on the night table, he curls it amid the frenzy of the insects and starts swinging it in the air. The hornets assail him. Trying to untangle his legs from the sheets he swats at the mass, killing a dozen every time he swings the curled paper in his hand. They sting him all over his body, the pain is excruciating. Rising on the bed, his head near the ceiling, he swings with both hands. He needs to escape from the bedroom. When he tries to jump, his tangled feet cause him to fall. He lands on the floor crushing another twenty or thirty wasps. Scrambling to his feet he makes for the stairs. The wasps set upon him even more vigorously, this time about his head. He’s blinded; he slams into the bedroom wall. Feeling with only his hands he finds the open doorway and turns towards the stairs. He can’t see the steps and plunges into the darkened stairway. Missing the first step he falls.

**
Zelda returns home Monday afternoon. When she enters her house, there is no one home. She finds this odd as Seymour told her he would be returning Monday morning because it is her birthday and he promised her dinner at her favorite restaurant. He is never late. She tries his cell phone only to discover that there is no answer and his mailbox if full. Seymour is meticulous about clearing his messages, almost obsessive with deleting useless data. Immediately she knows something is wrong, a dread she can feel. She leaves her bag and camping gear in the middle of the kitchen floor, hurries to her car and heads to the shore. Forty minutes later she unlocks the front door. Calling out his name and getting no response she heads towards the stairway. Turning the corner from the living room, she freezes in her tracks and screams.

Seymour Troffmok lies at the foot of the stairs, his neck and arms twisted in an unnatural position. From the pallor of his skin, it is obvious he has been dead for some time.


The End.   

Thanks for visiting the Scribbler this week. Anyone out there that actually likes Wasps? Would love to hear your comments!

Watch for great guests coming soon to the Scribbler.

Sarah Butland of Nova Scotia

Jeremy Gilmer of New Brunswick.

Stephen Keirnan  of Vermont.

Brigid Gallagher of Ireland.

Sue Vincent of Great Britain.

Guest Author J.A. Dennam of Kansas, USA.

  J.A. Dennam writes impossible love stories; literary thrill rides of mystery, suspense, action and spontaneous sex that always conclude with hard-won happy endings.
Sounds like a winning combination.
The Scribbler is most fortunate to have JA as our special guest this week. Read on for an intriguing interview and an excerpt of her latest work.

    J.A. DENNAM, an award winning author and RWA member, resides in a small Kansas town with her husband and children. Creativity is her strong suit and she has nurtured a career as a painter of western art and also enjoys dabbling with graphic arts.
Storytelling, however, has been a part of her life since childhood. At six years of age, insomnia forced her to endure many long, sleepless nights staring at the ceiling. After confessing her problem to her older sister, the two of them decided to tell each other stories to entice sleep; however, the inevitable snore always tore through her sister’s nose before she could utter the words Once Upon A Time. So the stories began to flow in silence, her imagination taking her to quiet, private places so enthralling, the sudden trick was to stay awake.   
Those habits carried on to adulthood until the need to purge her stories demanded she put them in print. Her fascination with romance, fast cars and adventure films is what structures her novels today.
 
4Q: When I discovered your author page, I was most impressed with the description of your writing which I’ve copied and used above in the opening sentence. What inspires you to write your novels?
JAD: My inspiration comes from everyday people and their stories, which my imagination automatically takes to the extreme. I see possibilities in the mundane act of standing in line at the grocery store. Who does she meet? What kind of “prize” is in that box of Cracker Jacks she’s about to purchase? Will she make it out of the store before a hot detective arrests her for unwittingly exchanging specially marked bills? I’m also a huge movie buff. I guess I’m always “watching” my scenes as I’m writing them which helps with action and flow.


 
4Q: Tell us about your newest novel and the excerpt below.
JAD: Sexual Integrity is my first traditionally published novel. This office romance is about an entitled career woman who competes with a sexy, arrogant newcomer for the same job. I love my love-hate romances, and this one is loaded with heat, pranks, colourful side-characters, and a special room that could change one’s life forever.
       
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with us. 


JAD: I devoured my first romance novel at the age of twelve, which I thought was quite unique and scandalous of me. (Since joining the writing community, I have discovered that aged twelve falls in the geriatric range of beginner romance junkies.) The book was titled “Dreams of Yesterday” and was singly responsible for my teenaged disillusions about boys. As much as I liked them, none of them were “real men,” though for a long time I believed that sex between two people consisted of lots of kissing and rolling around beneath the sheets. My grandmother’s secret stash of romances only went so far, you know.


 
4Q: What’s next on your author’s agenda, what can your readers look forward to?
JAD: My next romantic suspense novel is in the good hands of my agent; my first historical western romance is ready to pitch at the RWA convention in July; I am deep in the editing stages of my third and final Flesh Series instalment, which I plan to self-publish this year. I am also four chapters in on my tenth full-length novel, which is quite a milestone for me. As far as other projects go, I would like to record book 1 of my Captive Series, Truth and Humility, as an audio book. I would also like to try my hand at script writing because I have a very cool western that would make a great movie and I just KNOW that Henry Cavill is looking for work. ;-)
 




An Excerpt from Sexual Integrity:(copyright held by the author. Used with permission)
Sid slowly leaned forward. Brooke moved in to meet him halfway.
They shared a sensual kiss that was tentative at first and then deepened into something more. His breath smelled good, like rich Napa Valley wine. His lips were firm yet soft. The way he moved told her that he knew how to please a woman.
Despite all that, her heartbeat notably failed to pick up its pace.
The doorbell rang. Brooke wasn’t sure if it was an annoyance or a blessing. She backed out of the kiss, leaving him with an unfocused look that told her he’d enjoyed it way more than she had. “It could only be Mrs. Costa from next door,” she explained as she got to her feet and put her glasses back on. “She always comes over when her computer acts up. I’ll tell her to hold off for now.”    
Sid appeared in no hurry to leave his spot on the floor. He drew a knee up, but not before Brooke saw the suspicious bulge in his Bermuda shorts.
When she opened the door, a shockwave of alarm washed through her. Ethan stood there leaning against the doorframe in jeans, a black T-shirt, and an intense focus on the welcome mat. All she could do was stare in abject surprise at a man who couldn’t possibly have sought out her address.



Words escaped her. The silence stretched as he too seemed to wonder what the hell he was doing there. Finally, he looked up. His eyes darted past her and over to the man at her coffee table. Slowly, their blue-gray depths changed into something turbulent.
Her hand slipped from the knob as he stepped over the threshold. He stood so close she could feel his body heat. His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. “We need to talk.”
Now her heart was beating fast enough to power a small locomotive. Dazed and confused, she stepped back and turned to find Sid standing right behind her. “Sid...do you mind if we do this another time?”
The man stepped closer, caressed her back in an intimate way. “Isn’t this the guy you were arguing with the other day?”
“And we’ve done a lot of that since then, haven’t we, Brooke?” Ethan chimed in, sounding dangerous. “Well...not all of it was—”
“Ethan, shut up,” Brooke snapped.
A quick look confirmed that Sid was following along just fine. As he nodded at his adversary, the pulse at his freckled temple began to thrum. “I get it.” He turned to Brooke. “Are you sure you want me to leave?”
She took one of his hands and gave it an apologetic squeeze. “Yes, I’m sure. Another time would be better, when I’m all here.”
Sid hesitated a moment and then pursed his lips as he began to leave. When Ethan moved aside to give him clear access to the doorway, Sid stopped, leaned over, and deposited a tender kiss on her temple.
“I’m only a phone call away,” he said, his voice laden with meaning.
She closed the door behind him, swimming in mixed emotions. Why the hell had she just done that? And why the hell was Ethan Wolf standing in her living room? Brooke cleared the uncertainty from her throat. “I don’t want our problems inside my home,” she said.
When she turned to confront him, he was taking a good long pull from the open bottle of cabernet. Her anger rose to a fever pitch as she realized he’d just swallowed about twenty bucks worth of wine in one shot, no doubt to make a point. She moved toward him and was about to tell him to leave when he set the bottle down on the coffee table, turned, and immediately drew her into his arms.
Suddenly she was fully involved in a scorching kiss that completely rendered her senseless. It was not tender or sweet, but rough and demanding. All of her irritation melted away along with her reasons for not wanting him here. She’d been geared up to welcome Sid’s touch. Surely that’s why her body was thrumming with a need so strong, she clung to Ethan as if he were the only thing keeping her upright.
“You drive me insane,” he hissed against her mouth, closing his eyes against the inner struggle she understood all too well.
Brooke dropped her head in a desperate attempt to find sanity. This wasn’t possible. How could he turn her insides into molten lava like that when the mere sight of him pissed her off so badly? When she backed away, he let go of her waist and did the same. A moment of silence followed. “You said you wanted to talk,” she said finally.
Ethan turned his back and jammed a hand through his hair. “Give me a second.”
“Why should I?”
“Look.” When he faced her again, aggravation laced his words. “I don’t want to be here either. In fact I’m still trying to figure out why I’m not in Fort Myers.”
“Because you’d rather harass me, apparently.”
“Because no matter how hard I try with you, I can’t get my bearings—which scares the hell out of me. We’ve been taking one step forward and two steps back since the start of this competition, and for what? Because we hate each other?”
“Yes!” she threw out in a desperate attempt to believe it.
His brow smoothed out with a look of wonder. “Really? Why, Brooke? What makes you want to skin me alive and me want to shake the living shit out of you?”
(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)
 
Thank you JA for being our guest and sharing part of your story.   
 
For you readers that want to know more about JA and her books, check out the following links.    
You can find all novels by J.A. Dennam on her website, www.JADennam.com.
Other links:
www.facebook.com/jadennamauthor
https://twitter.com/JADennam

Guest Author Janice Spina of New Hampshire.

 
The Scribbler is pleased to have Janice Spina returning to share her thoughts in a 4Q Interview. We have been fortunate to have Janice visit before and share an excerpt from How Far is Heaven.
If you missed it, click here.
    
Janice is an award-winning author with 20 books ranging from PS-Grade to 18+. She has 11 young children’s books, five middle-grade/preteen/YA books and three novels and a short story collection. Her children’s books are written in rhyme with life lessons. Janice writes under J.E. Spina for her novels. She is a copy editor, blogger, avid reader and reviewer and supporter of her fellow authors.
She has been writing poetry since the age of nine years old. She has always wanted to be an author but didn’t realize her dream until after she retired from an administrative secretarial position in a school system in Massachusetts. She published her first book in 2013 and hasn’t stopped since. When her books started to win awards in 2016 she became more confident and realized that this is what she wanted to continue to do.
She lives in New Hampshire with her husband, John, who is her illustrator and cover creator. Together they plan to continue to create more books for all ages.

Janice loves to hear from readers and welcomes reviews of her books. Her logo is Jemsbooks – books for all ages! Her motto is Reading Gives You Wings to Fly! Soar with Jemsbooks! Her goal is to encourage children of all ages to read.
When she isn’t writing she enjoys crocheting, walking to stay fit, going out to the movies and dinner with her husband and spending time with her grandchildren.
 
   4Q: You have 11 children’s books and 5 mid-grade to your credit. What is it that draws you to writing for this age group which must be difficult?
JS: What draws me to writing books for children and middle-graders is the fact that they make me feel young again. These books are fun to write and bring me back to my childhood. I guess I am a child at heart. It also helps to have five grandchildren who inspire me to write.     
4Q: Tell us about your latest work as well as your partner that does the illustrations for you.
JS: When I received requests from a few readers for a series for girls I decided to write one to keep my readers happy. A month ago I began working on the new series which is a spin-off of my Davey & Derek Junior Detectives Series Book 5. The two girls who appeared in book 5 will have their own mysteries and adventures in this series. I hope to write the first two books this year.
Now about my other half, I call him the silent partner. John doesn’t want to be in the limelight or take credit for anything. He is a talented illustrator and cover creator besides being a wonderful husband. He has a doctorate in Educational Administration. He was retired from being a Supervising Principal in a K-8 Grammar School in Massachusetts for seven years when I asked him if he would be my illustrator. He already could draw and paint so I figured illustrating should be a piece of cake for him. He was reluctant to take on this new venture but after convincing him that we would save money if he did, he agreed.
It was a learning curve at first for both of us with all the rules and regulations to complete before publishing. He has successfully completed illustrations for 11 children’s books, 5 MG books and covers for all 20 of my books. He is currently working on my first fairy tale which we hope to publish over the summer.
We work well together and seldom argue. He knows who is the boss. Ha! I do have final say about covers but not always on the illustrations. After all, he is the artist here. I’m only the author.
   4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote of memory.
JS: I had a happy childhood but nothing exciting to talk about. Some of my happiest times were when my father brought my brother and me to the beach to pick periwinkles. I always loved the ocean, eating all kinds of seafood, the briny smell in the air, the joy of finding my first periwinkles and seeing all the little creatures each time I turned over another rock. It was even more special because I got to spend time with my dad.
  4Q: What’s next on your agenda?
JS: I always have another idea going around in my head. Two books sit in the wings that need edits – a YA fantasy series book 1 and a historical novel. There is the early beginnings of a romantic mystery awaiting my attention. I also plan to write book 6 of Davey & Derek Junior Detectives Series once I complete books 1 & 2 of the girls’ series.
There is no end to the books I plan to write from all the ideas that keep coming along. When I write all I need is a title and off I go.  


Thank you, Allan, for extending this invitation to be a guest today. I had a lovely time sharing a little about myself and my books.
 
Thank you, Janice, for being our featured guest this week.
For you readers that want to know more about Janice and where to buy her novels, please follow these links:
Amazon Author Page http://Amazon.com/author/janicespina
Barnes & Noble Children’s Books: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Janice+Spina?_requestid=2167923
Barnes & Noble Novels: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/J.E.+Spina?_requestid=2170583
Blog: http://Jemsbooks.wordpress.com
Website: http://Jemsbooks.com

Guest Partners Judy Savoie & Gilbert Babin. Author & Musician

Partners!
The Scribbler is running a series of creative people that happen to be partners with other creative people. The third part of this series includes one former guest to the Scribbler, poet and author Judy Savoie (previous visit) and her musician partner Gilbert Babin. They have agreed to a 4Q Interview.








From NB to PEI to NS, Gilbert and Judy discover and indulge in the everyday richness of landscapes. Inspired by beaches, sunsets, wharfs, lighthouses, local people, and events, the couple capture the beauty of their rustic travels into a tapestry of poetry, music and photography.

 



 Undeniably a unique journey in time and nature - a soothing experience cultivated solely by the scopes of their imagination and creativity.


Judy is the author of two books. ‘Serendipity’ (2015) is a collection of poetry, prose and song lyrics. It expresses a love of music, photography and nature - all elements nurtured by life spent near the beauty of the ocean. The second book ‘All About Hats’ (2016) contains lighthearted, interesting stories, poetry and historical facts on the influential role of hats affecting all world cultures for countless centuries. It is based on research and collaborating personal experience with a life-long passion for hats.       Both books are available on lulu.com at: http:\\www.lulu.com/shop/judysavoie/serendipity and http:\\www.lulu.com/shop/judysavoie/simply-about-hats, contacting her on her Facebook writer page at http\\facebook@judysavoiewriter, in person, or at related events.


Gilbert Babin is an Acadian singer-songwriter and instrumentalist. His songs, usually inspired by local events and places, contain a subtle Acadian poetry that can easily go unnoticed to the inattentive ear. He strives for musical simplicity and prefers creating songs that can be performed with only guitar and voice. His repertoire, consisting of 40 original and close to 100 traditional French songs, makes him very suitable for francophone cultural events and wild Acadian kitchen parties.





Q4: First question is for you Judy. Please tell us how your writing is going and what has taken place since your last visit.




JS: After my last book (Simply About Hats) was completed and our last visit in 2016, my momentum slowed down to almost a halt for about a year. It was a demanding challenge to write two books within a year apart.




The ice storm of January 2017 prompted me to turn to the pen for comfort during a complete blackout. The office I worked at closed early in the afternoon due to an unexpected major storm rapidly picking up intensity. My partner was working out of town at the time. I was totally unprepared for a treacherous two hour nerve-racking drive alone in my car from work in the city to our house in a rural community that normally would be a half hour drive. My car was very low in gas, with gas stations being shut down throughout the province due to power outages. As I plowed my way into the driveway, I felt such relief to finally be home safely. Within minutes, my car was encased in a solid sheet of ice and snow. As I got into the house, my heart sunk again, realizing I was without electricity, heat, light, or food (no time to shop), and my cell phone had become uncharged quickly as my car charger was not working properly. It turned dark very early, and I had absolutely no sense of time, no means of communication, and my only source of light was a small LED flashlight. Although the experience was frightening and foreign, my barely legible handwritten notes from a night of insomnia, turned out to be one of my best and favourite pieces, entitled "Ice King Serenade". I continued writing more frequently after that.




I was also motivated when I found many miscellaneous notes and journals of our day trips together, abandoned poems and ideas. I merged old and new pieces together to create an 85-page manuscript - poems were transformed into songs, journal entries into poetry, prose or lyrics, and a number of them deleted. It now has around 50 pages after many revisions. It will be a continuum of 'Serendipity' - another collage of poetry, prose and song, and photography. The prominent theme is nature, time and morality. The progression of my writing style is evident.

 
  Last summer, I began to organize over 50,000 photos on my laptop into categories to simplify finding images for my next book, cd cover designs and other projects I have on the go. It is a lengthy ongoing work in progress.





Q4: How long have you been playing guitar and singing Gilbert. Has music always been a big part of your life?




GB: I started playing guitar at the age of 14. Supposedly, I told my family that I was going to my room and not coming until I knew how to play. Not sure how long I stayed in my room but did come out with an understanding of music. Months later someone pointed out that, my guitar was tuned wrong and I had to relearn how to play. I am entirely self-taught and learned through experimentation and observation. Music has been quite a journey and yes it has become a big part of my life. On the social side, most of my friends are musicians and on the spiritual side I still connect to higher levels through my instrument.

 

 
 Singing however, was not a journey, it’s more like a necessary evil. My father and family always said I couldn’t sing and made fun of my singing so I only sang when I was alone. It was only in my mid-thirties that I started singing in front of people. I was writing a lot of songs, and the only way to get them heard was to sing them. Although I didn’t have a good voice, people would listen attentively to my lyrics which encouraged me to continue. My voice has improved since then.





Q4: You write many songs also Judy and collaborate with Gilbert. How does song writing (if it does) differ from your usual writing habits?



JS: I’ve come a long way in writing song lyrics since I started over five years ago. It has really evolved naturally but I still have much more to learn. My writing habits, whether it is poetry, prose, or music, are acquired through trial and error, constantly changing, yet flowing progressively in a way.


Initially, I separated writing poetry/prose from song writing. In both cases, the ideas or thoughts were put down, even if only a few words. In song writing, I get drawn to guitar instrumentals that Gilbert composes, and if it has a title, I instinctively know it must have words. The biggest challenge in song writing is that in music, there are beats and rhythmic patterns, as well the rhymes, which are slightly more complex to prepare than in poetry. That is the part I enjoy. I've also translated a few of his French songs into English. More recently, several of my older mediocre poems were converted into beautiful songs fitting perfectly like a puzzle. Using my cell phone, I have saved and recorded well over 500 spontaneous, one-of-a-kind short instrumental clips created in the middle of the night which I can listen to carefully whenever I want to.

Whether existing poem or new lyrics, the words are revised. When the lyrics flow well, I am eager for feedback. If it is solid, we try to record a fresh new instrumental track for me to practice on, followed by recording voice with lyrics as a draft.


I still write lyrics to Gilbert's creations, but not as frequently as at the beginning. Although I have written over 25 songs in five years, not all are ready for recording, and a few are incomplete.
 




Q4: You recently put together a CD of original Acadian songs Gilbert. Tell us about the songs and the recording process.

 


 
 GB: I was not planning to make a cd at all. The dentist had removed one of my teeth and I thought that it had improved my voice. I was scheduled to get an implant the next day, so I decided to record a few songs in my home studio while the missing tooth made my voice better.

I just sat down and quickly laid the guitar tracks for 12 French folk songs. I then did the voice tracks for all songs. I then mixed the tracks into songs and burned a mp3 versions of the songs to a cd. I got the dental surgery done and held ice on my face for a few days. Judy and I started playing the CD in the car and were surprised at the quality of the recording. Sounded as good as most other musicians CDs. The more we listened to the songs, the more we liked them.



I called the sound engineer who had worked on my first instrumental CD to see if he could remix and master the tracks. Mastering is an important part of the CD creation process and it usually is best to let professionals do it. Unfortunately, I was working out of town and I just could not find any suitable time to meet with the sound engineer. I really wanted to see how the CD would sound like if mastered. Therefore, I decided to learn how to mix and master a CD. I did not expect that part to be so hard but it took me almost 2 months to learn the techniques required to produce a good quality audio cd. After many failed attempts, and making every possible mistake imaginable, I managed to create a master CD that sounds good on many devices.
A professional studio might do a bit better, but not enough to justify the investment at this point.

Luckily, that night before the dental surgery, I had recorded 12 songs without a single mistake. Out of these 12, I was able to master eleven, which is enough for a CD.




Q4: We are going to cheat this week and slip in a fifth question that you can both answer. What’s in the immediate future for both of you?


JS: My manuscript for the third book is nearing completion and will soon be ready for editing and publishing.

We've considered having a small show with an ensemble of our own original music, and once our books and CDs are complete, perhaps another book/cd launch will be planned. 




I also hope to design more of Gilbert's cd covers and inserts. Who knows - maybe our creative versatility will ultimately be the foundation for future careers, to help others, and at the same time to have fun!


GB: My next project is a CD of Acadian Songs.










Thank you both for sharing your thoughts. Links for “the partners” are listed below.




You can follow Judy's facebook writer page, which has samples of several songs, photo slideshows and her writing endeavours at:
https://www.facebook.com/judysavoiewriter/  


Gilbert's music can be listened to and found at:   https://gilbertbabin.bandcamp.com/album/un-peu-folk
or on facebook in English or French musician pages at: http\\facebook@GilbertBabinmusician (English), http\\facebook@GilbertBabinmusicien (French)

Guest Author Ana Rubio-Serrano of Spain

Ana Rubio-Serrano is our featured guest this week. We are extremely pleased to have her share her thoughts with a 4Q Interview.


Over 20 publications in different languages do
credit to Ana Rubio-Serrano as an international author. She is specialized in behavioral ethics. She has written various non-fiction books. Most famously, "The Nazis and Evil. The Annihilation of the Human Being." Ana has also written several articles on humanities, coaching in values and translated historical, cultural and educational books.



A storyteller by birth, an author by heart, Ana adapts writing style to different audiences and genres. Creative and versatile, she authentically connects with the thoughts and feelings of others. Her goal is to make meaningful work that inspires and motivates others to grow. Her motto: “It’s Time for Storytelling by Changing Minds, Shaping Brains.”



Ana is a Doctor Staff Member at the University of Barcelona and served as a visiting Professor at the Faculty of Theology of Catalonia, and at the University of Barcelona.

   4Q. I was immediately captivated by the cover and subject matter of your book – The Nazis and Evil - subtitled, The Annihilation of the Human Being. Needless to say, this book moved to the top of my reading list. Please tell our readers about the book.
 
ARS: The book is about the Nazi Totalitarianism: how ordinary people became faceless murderers and murderers by choice. The writing seeks to forge a closer view of the Nazis who went on a journey into Darkness by making Evil an acceptable commodity. It is not focused on atrocities, but on the cause and know-how.
The fact-based shows as Nazism opened the door wide to global terrorism. It designed a legal murderous global state where no one was safe, not even the German people themselves. The enemy was anyone to think freely for themselves, in a manner contrary to rules dictated to the Nazis. Aryans were merely “manufactured individuals”, clones designed for violence.
The reader will discover the socialization of crime promoted by law through violence turned into a culture in the regime.
This is a current book that reflects on the past and offers us questions on the present.   
4Q: There were many compelling reviews on amazon about your book. What made you want to write it? 



ARS: While working on my dissertation about Nazism and Holocaust, I realized that the Second World War was not just another war against an enemy, but a plan of extermination of the whole human being. Then, I started doing research: how Nazism worked, why, its goals…
Twenty years later, Steven Spielberg reflected on his movie, “Schindler’s List” saying: “I feel so blessed I had the opportunity to tell this story.” Looking back, I am also proud of having written this book.
It has not been easy at all. When one discovers the hidden purpose beyond the atrocities and the fine line between being ordinary people and becoming murderers, frankly, this has all come as a bit of a shock. The faith in the humanity is going through a crisis.
On my way, I met some survivors who taught me a valuable lesson: “The human being always deserves another opportunity. Every human being is responsible for the other.” They did give me a precious gift.
 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or fond memory.
ARS: Memories clear visible come to me. It seems like only yesterday. “My brother and I’s favorite day is Friday. It’s 5:30 p.m., we sit down on the floor and are wide-eyed with amazement. In front of us, our granny, Anne. It’s time for storytelling!
And yes, of course, we have a favorite tale, “The three little pigs.” When the big bad wolf blows the houses, so do we all together. We blow, get up and run one after the other. Then, laughs and my brother and I sit down again cross-legged.
Sitting in her rocking chair, our granny Anne looks in suspense at us and… there they were, the four characters of the tale show their faces. The wolf and the three little pigs turned into marionettes. How exciting it was!
Our granny Anne was a gifted dressmaker and a brilliant storyteller. We had a great time. She knew how to amaze us!
 
4Q: What can we expect from Ana Rubio-Serrano the author in the future?
 
ARS: Well, I have different projects. I will continue writing non-fiction books, and I have a challenge that gives me a thrill: a short story for teenagers and a novel. I’m not still sure what will come first.

Other non-fiction books about ethics and values will come. Although, I feel that my writing about Nazism and Holocaust is not over. A lot of readers ask me for more books on that subject.   
 
Thank you, Ana, for being our guest this week and your insightful answers.
For those wishing to discover more about Ana and her writing, check out these links.
 
www.anarubioserrano.com
LinkedIn
arubioserrano.phd@gmail.com
Twitter
FB Author Page
FBStoryteller
InstagramAmazon Author Page

The Whip! A short story by Allan Hudson.

Help me out here!





At one time, there was an Underground Railway that brought slaves from the deep south to different parts of the northern USA as well as Canada, including my home province of New Brunswick.

Imagine if you can that your son was owned by another person and could be bought and sold at anytime. A terrible thought.


I finished this short story a few weeks ago but I'm not sure if it's complete. I would like to add it to a forthcoming collection of short stories called "Boxes of Memories".

I need you to let me know what might be missing. Please leave me a comment below.

(copyright is held by the author)



May, 13, 1860
 
The whip snaps as it completes its arc, slashing a red bloody groove on the pale, delicate skin of the thirteen year old girl.  Her upper torso is naked, the blouse torn from her thin frame. Immature breasts are scrapping against the rough bark of the hemlock tree her arms and hands are bound to as she wails and shimmers from the deadly lash. Her tormented shrieks echo through the forest. Besides the dappled sun streaming through the leaves and boughs, the only other witnesses to the punishment is the two black slaves, mother and son, tied at the base of a hardwood tree close by, near enough that the horror in their eyes can be clearly seen.
The man holding the whip is a bounty hunter. Rough skinned, cold eyes and a scarred face make him as ugly as the tightly wound leather strap he wields. Hired by the richest plantation owner in South Carolina to find his runaways, Cletus Sawyer, intends to teach the young lady that helped them a lesson. Even though she’s white like him, he doesn’t care. When he presents his prisoners, there’s an extra forty dollars from the cotton baron for dissuading future intervention by the freedom lovers of Southern New Brunswick, where the Underground Railroad he followed has lead him. From the route they took, he knew they’d be here, he’s found others crossing over the St. Croix River before.
Raising the whip to strike again, his callous heart won’t listen to the pleas from the girl, the begging to stop. His arm is poised high in the air, the leather braids flowing from the handle are stretched taut as they reach their apogee. Seconds before the fall of the whip completes its trajectory, a loud blast shatters the air. A bullet tears through the back of Sawyer’s head exiting through the left eye.  The bounty hunter is dead before his foul body topples to the forest floor.
   Three months earlier.
 
Melody is of the Kota Tribe of Gabon, Africa. Before she was abducted by slavers, her name was Akara.  The man that purchased her, Cyrus B. Sheppard, when examining her at the slave market of Charleston, both she and her son in shackles, commented to his overseer that this one looked too proud, too old, guessing her to be sixteen, to be tamed. Too much work. His advisor suggested to not fret over her jutted chin and hateful glare, he would handle that but instead, to study the young woman’s hips, pendulous breasts, already a mother so young. She would have many strong babies. Both regarded her as if she were an animal, selected for stock regeneration. Deeming his investment would be returned many times over, he purchased her and her child. It was not to be. (photo credit -snipview.com)
Six months of infertility was punished by grueling field work in addition to her role of child bearing. She had been serviced by the strongest bucks on the plantation. She resisted at first, yelling and kicking. Only when the roughest, smelliest white ranch hands were made to hold her, their presence more objectionable than there purpose, did she become compliant. The couplings were timed to her monthly administrations by the Negro midwife, to no avail. In the eyes of many of her suitors she saw lust, some of them expressed pity, only a few said forgive me. The punishment for the twelfth monthly flow of blood was the sale of her son.

The overseer, a heavy browed, mean individual named Dilly Perkins, is having them transported to the Fletcher plantation ten miles southeast, she for breeding and the boy for transfer of ownership, accompanied by two white men of Sheppard’s employ, both ruffians. A mud stained field wagon drawn by two sturdy draft horses is used. Melody and Moses are chained in the back, the men sitting up front. Perkins reminds them of the load they need to pick up after.
“Sam, Joey and Billy will follow y’all shortly and meet you at Castlemoor’s General Store. They’ll be staying in town for the night, Sheppard givin’ them a few days off but they’ll give ya hand with the load of feed we ordered. Now get outta here.”
The early afternoon sun is blistering, like a hot bellied stove roaring with dry wood. The tree line they enter is the only wooded area on their route. It extends easterly for almost a mile before cotton fields dominate the view on both sides once more. Around a long bend in the road, one side has a slight rise where the trees are much taller and their shadows partially cover the dirt road. The driver pulls to the left to take advantage of the shade. It’s a movement the two men hiding behind a large boulder a hundred feet ahead of them were planning for. They’re expecting them. There is no one around as far as can be seen on the open road. They believe no one will hear the gun shots.
The man driving the wagon is a drifter, young, gnarly beard and unkempt hair. The only clean and polished item on his body is the Colt single action firearm in his holster. He’s a deadly shot with it if he has time to draw. A slug enters his chest through the side and pulverizes his heart. His companion reeks of hard liquor and wears a sweat stained hat. The second shot takes him just above the left ear and the lid spins skyward. The horses panic and bolt. The momentum throws the two dead men backwards with one of them landing directly on top of Melody. She screams.
“Whoa, whoa!” someone shouts out. The horses obey the firm command and jerk the large wagon to a stop. The momentum shifts the dead body and Melody pushes it off. Blood from his wound smears her cotton smock. Moses is under the front seat crunched against the corner. His bottom lips quivers and fright owns his eyes. They both look up from their strained position, wrists in locks, chained loosely to the sideboard. A man glares down in the wagon, the sun shines in her eyes and only the shape of his head and wild hair is visible. When he moves it in front of the sun his eyes are sad but his voice hopeful, his skin is white.
“Are you okay Ma’am?”
Melody has never been called Ma’am. She wonders who he is talking to casting her eyes about. Moses stares at the tall person, quieted by the events, knowing not to complain, not to cry, someone will hurt him.
“No, you Maam,” he says pointing at her, “are you alright?
She shakes her head, unsure how to react.
The man steps back while she sits up, pulling Moses to her side, dragging his chain closer. Pulling himself up on the ladder on the front right, he can see the shackles that redden the skin around her wrists and those of the boy. Another man approaches the wagon. His skin is black, black as raven’s feathers. Climbing up into the driver’s seat, he pushes the other body aside. Kneels over the back to stare down at the sorriest sight he never gets used to. Their eyes lock in some form of instant communication, the sameness of their skin bonds them immediately. Hope overcomes despair. He dispels any fears with a friendly nod. The white man points at the dead bodies lying in the wagon.
“Those scum must have the keys to the shackles Adisa, dig through their pockets and get these poor folk loose.”
“Will do Mistuh Jones. We needs to get this wagon gone too Mr. Jones?”
“We will Adisa. We’ll get these folks out first.”
Melody is not sure of what is happening. With a racing heart, anticipation shines in her eyes but she’s known too much disappointment to cling to anything hopeful. She watches the black man straddle the sideboard and begin to rifle the pockets of the dead men at her feet. He smiles at her when he tells her she’ll soon be free.
“Free?” she asks. The word seems foreign.
“Yeah, we goin’ to get ya free ma’am but yous goin’ to have ta hurry.”
Finding a skeleton key in the pants pocket of the bearded man, he steps over the body and unlocks the restraints from Moses first, then Melody.
“What’s your name, missy?”
She speaks unsure and leery.
“Mine’s Melody and this here’s Moses.”
“Well ain’t he a handsome young man. Mine’s Adisa and that genl’man’s Mistuh Jones. But no time to get friendly, we need to move now missy.”
Jones urges Adisa to get the wagon moving. He will abandon it and the bodies in an empty field where it will go unnoticed for many days.  Jones, Melody and Moses are heading towards the woods when around the bend come horses being ridden hard, startling them into a brisker run. The three horsemen heard the shots and figured there was trouble. Seeing the black woman and boy with a white man running towards the woods and the fleeing wagon, they know something is wrong. When the trio enters the woods, a gunshot ricochets off a boulder grazing Jones in the lower leg. He falls to the ground, rolls towards the boulder and yells to Melody.
“Go on, get to the end of the path, cross the river, it’s not deep and head across the valley towards a small thicket of trees near a dirt road and there will be someone there to get you to safety. Hurry! I’ll hold these men off.”
Melody grasps her son’s hand and runs. Jones starts to return fire. He checks to see the cloud of dust that Adisa makes with the fleeing wagon and watches one of the men veer off to pursue him. The other two have dismounted and are in a crevice at the edge of the road. Taking careful aim, Jones takes one out with a bullet to the temple. The other man is hunkered down cowardly where Jones can’t see him. A shot rings out from up the road and the third rider is thrown from his horse. Jones grins, knowing Adisa is deadly with a rifle even when firing from a moving wagon. The distraction gives the man in the ditch a brief moment to run to his horse. Jones fires after the weaving target but his shots are wide and the man is able to mount the moving horse to gallop back the way he came. Jones stands and limps deeper in the path where his horse is tethered. Both he and Adisa rode here from the field where they left Adisa’s horse so he could return to Jones’ farm. He has no time to worry about the escaped slaves.
 
***
The dogs following her scent, the men bearing guns on their horses, can be heard across the valley. The woman and child they are hunting hasten through tall grasses towards a wooded grove where her transport awaits. At least in her highest hope it awaits. Her heart pounds in her chest like the clomping of the heavy hooves that pursue her. She can feel the beating of a smaller heart, frightened, pulsing through her clenched hand as she tows her young son behind her. She thinks only of him who has been sold to another cotton farmer, a simple exchange of a life of servitude for one hundred dollars.  She hates them. Fear and loathing drive her on.  
It will take thirty-two days of hiding and running until they arrive in New Brunswick. When the bounty hunter shows up, Melody and Moses will have been free for sixty days.
 
***
Cletus Sawyer lies dead between the captives. Surprise is etched forever on his face, except in the hole where the left eye was, other than that he looks just as mean. The young girl moans softly, red welts on her flaxen skin are obscene. Melody and Moses tremble in their bonds, unable to see where the shot came from. A soft noise of crunching leaves betray someone’s approach. The smell of gunpowder slips by more casually. A man shadows them, stopping several feet away.  A wide hat, dark clothing, dark skin hides his identity. It’s only when he speaks does Melody gasp.
“I knowed if I looked hard enough I’d find ya Melody. You won’t have ta look over yur shoulder no more. Adisa will take care of ya.”     
The End I would be forever grateful if you left a comment telling me what you think of the story. Don't be shy!Thank you for visiting the Scribbler.

Guests Nicole Tremblay & Zev Bagel - artist & author - of Shediac, NB

Partners!
The Scribbler is running a series of creative people that happen to be partners with other creative people. The second part of this series includes two former guests to the Scribbler, visual artist Nicole Tremblay and author Zev Bagel. They are back as a team for a 4Q Interview.
  Zev's previous visit can be viewed here , Nicole's here .  
**Of special note, Moncton's famous Frye festival begins this week and as a kickoff, Zev will be reading from his work, along with other authors at the Shediac Frye Fringe Fest. 

4Q: First question is for you Nicole.  Since your previous visit to the Scribbler, you have completed many beautiful paintings. Which one is your favorite and why? Please share what inspired the painting.





NT: Well…..isn’t this a bit like asking one…and which one is your favourite child?HAHAHA!  I would say that there is always a certain part of a painting that brings it together and gives me the big YES!  Some paintings are much quicker than others giving that ‘yes feeling’.  I do not really plan a painting… I might have a colour in mind and I start building up the background – I love  colour and texture.  I cover the surface with paint, collage, stencils until it takes a form/shape I can feel and then go on…it can sometimes be a rather long process….and then it happens.  I listen to music while I paint. Chris Rea is probably my favourite singer/musician and will often inspire the title of the piece I’m working on.
 
  4Q: I’ve recently completed your latest novel Zev, Secrets, and I enjoyed it very much. Please tell our readers about the story.
ZB: Most of my books are based on real events or personal experiences. Secrets is pure fiction. Well, almost.  I was a life-coach for thirty years, and would never divulge the secrets people told me. The idea for this book came when I thought “What if a psychopath became a life-coach?” Imagine what such a person could do with the secrets he heard. So here’s a man who arrives in New Brunswick, decides to become a life-coach and takes on clients, opening the way to fraud, blackmail and murder. Getting into the mind of such a character was frighteningly easy! It must have helped that an undercurrent of humour pervades the mayhem. 
     4Q: You have an exposition at present Nicole at Café C’est La Vie in Moncton, NB in which many of your paintings are on display until mid April. Where else can your paintings be viewed and/or purchased?
NT: The exhibit at Café C’est la vie will come down on Saturday April 14.  Zev and I will be at the Shediac Market in the Park every Sunday from June 3 to September 30 (9am-2pm) rain or shine.   Friday evenings (6-10pm) July and August (check newspapers for dates) you can find us at the Allée des Artistes off Main Street in Shediac.  We will have books, paintings, poems and cards.   Viewings can also be arranged by appointments (506) 351-0645.
 
     4Q: Your latest novel which you discussed above was published by Museitup Publishers and in the last section of the book, it tells us that there are 5 more novels waiting for publication. Care to tell us about any of them, or perhaps all of them.
ZB: The titles awaiting publication by MuseItUp are: The Last Jew in Hania, Bender’s Box, State of Flux and Lost. I have just completed my latest, which is called Solitary. This last one is about a Canadian who is in solitary confinement in Iran’s notorious Evin prison. He befriends an Iranian prisoner by communicating through a hole in the wall. Some of the story is based on the family history told to me by an Iranian-Canadian friend. This was the hardest book for me to write, since I had to get into the head of someone enduring forced confinement willing himself to survive. The relationship between the two prisoners is what lifts the story.
 
  4Q: We are going to cheat this week and slip in a fifth question. What’s in the immediate future for both of you?    
NT:  Having fun, working on my next art projects, going to workshops, travelling.
ZB: The immediate future is now, which is where I like to be. Now is good. I’m between novels right now, and enjoy writing poems to Nicole’s paintings. We have some travel plans, and will be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary while we’re away. As for the next book – inspiration awaits.
  Thank you both for sharing your thoughts. I'm very happy to say that I own two of Nicole's paintings and enjoy them daily. It is my hope to add more to my collection. I have also collected Zev's novels and am looking forward to the coming stories. https://zevbagel.wordpress.com/    

Guest Author Connie Shipley of Italy

  There is a saying, “Tuscany, like a fine wine, has been some time in the making…
One of the special things about Tuscany is that our guest calls the region home. Meet Connie Shipley and enjoy her 4Q Interview.
 
 

Hi, and thanks for having me on your blog. Now what can I say about myself? I was born in Belgium, although my parents were British. Well actually dad was, but mom was Belgian and became British through marriage. I spent my childhood there and visited the UK at least once a year. Our house was full of books, history, military stuff, as my dad had been in the military and had fought during WW2. He passed the love of books onto me and he used to make up funny stories, so I guess I got the fantasy side from him.  I studied foreign languages, physiotherapy, and osteopathy. Soon after my studies, I traveled to the Middle East for work.  I was fortunate to have met interesting people and I had the privilege of attending embassy socials, as well as observing military training which was quite exciting.  I’ve done quite a bit of traveling for work and for pleasure, so most countries and locations I write about, I have visited in the past.

Today I’m married and living in Tuscany, with my Italian husband and three dogs. I’m an avid researcher, always out on the look for new ideas. I don’t quite remember why I started writing, but it was two years ago, with my first novel MoonHuntress. I created a series, so now there are three completed books. I love complex characters and the psychology that surrounds them. I always try to show the reader how my characters really are, what they think, how they live, feel, their emotions. I also love fashion, so there’s the feminine side to my books as well. I hope you enjoy the series.
 
4Q: You have a successful series named “MoonHuntress,” which is also the name of the first novel in the series. How did this series come about? What inspired the stories?
CS: It started out as a completely different story about a Sisterhood, but there were far too many characters, so I began to remove them. Then, after talking to some military friends and doing some research, I began to write the first draft of MoonHuntress. Now, as I said before I’ve lived and worked in the Middle East, so many characters are based on real people but of course the entire story is invented. I never really know what’s going to happen with the characters, so I just write as I go. And when I arrived at the end of the first book, I thought, why not continue, and write a series. So, I went back to the story-board, talked to military friends with their specific knowledge on tactics, weapons, strategy, and went from there. There’s also a lot of research in my books, which I love doing.  If you like action, adventure, and a dash of romance, this is the series!
 
   4Q: In the second book of this series, SoulCatcher, your heroine is Bina Knopfler. Tell us about her.
CS: Bina Knopfler is already introduced and the main character in the first book of the series. She’s the protagonist. She’s a Mossad agent. She’s beautiful, clever, and very strong minded and determined (a bit like me, yes). But she also has her weak side, she isn’t perfect, and she makes mistakes. Life hasn’t been easy on her, and she pretty much has been a loner. But through the story, she needs to face the truth, and it’s a hard truth. Then of course there’s romance, but you’ll have to read the books, I’m not giving out any spoilers, ha!
  

 
 
 
4Q: Pleased share a childhood anecdote or favorite memory.
CS: My favorite memory is my childhood at the beach. I think I had the best childhood ever. We used to live in a beach town. So, every summer was great fun going to the beach with my cousins. Playing in the sand, digging holes, swimming in the sea. My cousin and I used to have two bathing suits, one dry one, and one to go swimming, we used to change them every ten minutes, making our mums go crazy. It was fun.
 
   4Q: There are three books in the series with the third called The Golden Key and all sound intriguing. Two have also been translated into Italian. What’s next for Connie Shipley?

CS: Well I’m working together with my American editor on an upcoming book, a paranormal thriller.  I’m very excited about this project. It’s completely different, very intriguing and hope the readers will love it as we explore a wing of the esoteric world. Plus, in the meantime I’m working with my Italian editor on the translation of the Golden Key. It’s a lot of work and it’s keeping me quite busy.
      Once I’m finished with the thriller, I’m going to work on the final book of the MoonHuntress series. So watch out!!
 



Thank you, Connie, for sharing your thoughts and writing and for being our guest this week. 
For those that are interested in discovering more about Connie and her novels, use these links.
https://www.facebook.com/ShipleyConni...
https://twitter.com/ShipleyConnie1
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=moonhuntress
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100012074071518
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15227631.Connie_Shipley
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=442FFSuWX4M&t=2s
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rSzBCJpRr4
https://www.instagram.com/connieshipley_moonhuntress/

Gueat Author Connie Shipley of Italy

  There is a saying, “Tuscany, like a fine wine, has been some time in the making…
One of the special things about Tuscany is that our guest calls the region home. Meet Connie Shipley and enjoy her 4Q Interview.
 
 
Hi, and thanks for having me on your blog. Now what can I say about myself? I was born in Belgium, although my parents were British. Well actually dad was, but mom was Belgian and became British through marriage. I spent my childhood there and visited the UK at least once a year. Our house was full of books, history, military stuff, as my dad had been in the military and had fought during WW2. He passed the love of books onto me and he used to make up funny stories, so I guess I got the fantasy side from him.  I studied foreign languages, physiotherapy, and osteopathy. Soon after my studies, I traveled to the Middle East for work.  I was fortunate to have met interesting people and I had the privilege of attending embassy socials, as well as observing military training which was quite exciting.  I’ve done quite a bit of traveling for work and for pleasure, so most countries and locations I write about, I have visited in the past.

Today I’m married and living in Tuscany, with my Italian husband and three dogs. I’m an avid researcher, always out on the look for new ideas. I don’t quite remember why I started writing, but it was two years ago, with my first novel MoonHuntress. I created a series, so now there are three completed books. I love complex characters and the psychology that surrounds them. I always try to show the reader how my characters really are, what they think, how they live, feel, their emotions. I also love fashion, so there’s the feminine side to my books as well. I hope you enjoy the series.
 
4Q: You have a successful series named “MoonHuntress,” which is also the name of the first novel in the series. How did this series come about? What inspired the stories?
CS: It started out as a completely different story about a Sisterhood, but there were far too many characters, so I began to remove them. Then, after talking to some military friends and doing some research, I began to write the first draft of MoonHuntress. Now, as I said before I’ve lived and worked in the Middle East, so many characters are based on real people but of course the entire story is invented. I never really know what’s going to happen with the characters, so I just write as I go. And when I arrived at the end of the first book, I thought, why not continue, and write a series. So, I went back to the story-board, talked to military friends with their specific knowledge on tactics, weapons, strategy, and went from there. There’s also a lot of research in my books, which I love doing.  If you like action, adventure, and a dash of romance, this is the series!
 
   4Q: In the second book of this series, SoulCatcher, your heroine is Bina Knopfler. Tell us about her.
CS: Bina Knopfler is already introduced and the main character in the first book of the series. She’s the protagonist. She’s a Mossad agent. She’s beautiful, clever, and very strong minded and determined (a bit like me, yes). But she also has her weak side, she isn’t perfect, and she makes mistakes. Life hasn’t been easy on her, and she pretty much has been a loner. But through the story, she needs to face the truth, and it’s a hard truth. Then of course there’s romance, but you’ll have to read the books, I’m not giving out any spoilers, ha!   
  
 
4Q: Pleased share a childhood anecdote or favorite memory.
CS: My favorite memory is my childhood at the beach. I think I had the best childhood ever. We used to live in a beach town. So, every summer was great fun going to the beach with my cousins. Playing in the sand, digging holes, swimming in the sea. My cousin and I used to have two bathing suits, one dry one, and one to go swimming, we used to change them every ten minutes, making our mums go crazy. It was fun.
 
   4Q: There are three books in the series with the third called The Golden Key and all sound intriguing. Two have also been translated into Italian. What’s next for Connie Shipley?

CS: Well I’m working together with my American editor on an upcoming book, a paranormal thriller.  I’m very excited about this project. It’s completely different, very intriguing and hope the readers will love it as we explore a wing of the esoteric world. Plus, in the meantime I’m working with my Italian editor on the translation of the Golden Key. It’s a lot of work and it’s keeping me quite busy.
      Once I’m finished with the thriller, I’m going to work on the final book of the MoonHuntress series. So watch out!!
 


Thank you, Connie, for sharing your thoughts and writing and for being our guest this week. 
For those that are interested in discovering more about Connie and her novels, use these links.
https://www.facebook.com/ShipleyConni...
https://twitter.com/ShipleyConnie1
https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=moonhuntress
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100012074071518
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15227631.Connie_Shipley
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=442FFSuWX4M&t=2s
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rSzBCJpRr4
https://www.instagram.com/connieshipley_moonhuntress/