Allan Hudson's Blog, page 41

Guest Author Balroop Singh of California.

The Scribbler is most fortunate to have Balroop Singh as our guest this week, agreeing to a 4Q Interview. She lives in California with her family and is originally from India.


Balroop Singh, a doting grandma and a dedicated wife, a former high school teacher and an educationalist always had a passion for writing.  She is a poet, a creative non-fiction writer and a relaxed blogger. She writes about people, emotions and relationships. A self-published author, she has written five books.  She always had a passion for poetry which evoked images before her eyes and carried her far beyond the horizon. She could see the visions of her own poetry while teaching the poems. Her dreams saw the light of the day when she published her first book ‘Sublime Shadows Of Life.’
Balroop Singh has always lived through her heart. She is a great nature lover; she loves to watch birds flying home. The sunsets allure her with their varied hues that they lend to the sky. She can spend endless hours listening to the rustling of leaves and the sound of waterfalls. The moonlight streaming through her garden, the flowers, the meadows and the butterflies cast a spell on her.
Realism and fantasy blend perfectly in her poetry, which highlights the fact that happiness is not a destination but a chasm to bury agony, anguish, grief, distress and move on! No sea of solitude is so deep that it can drown us. Sometimes aspirations are trampled upon, boulders of exploitation and discrimination may block our path but those who tread on undeterred are always successful.

4Q: You have lately received high praise from author Deborah Stevens for your book of poetry – Emerging from Shadows. Please tell us more about this collection and your inspiration.
BS: Poetry is timeless as it carries a profound message, which remains eternally relevant. Poems capture raw emotions most eloquently, sooth our disillusioned minds and leave an everlasting impact on sensitive souls. It is the succinct style of writing through imagery that inspired me to embrace this genre.



Here is an introduction to ‘Emerging From Shadows’:
From darkness into light, from despair onto the wider ways of hope…life oscillates between sunshine and shadows. Emerging from shadows is a choice, which lies dormant, which can be gently inspired by self-talk. Each poem in this book banks on the hope of emerging stronger, saner, positive and resilient. Each poem in this book would talk to you, revealing layers of enclosed emotions. Each poem would divulge a secret path that could lead you into the world of poise and serenity.
When turbulences hit, when shadows of life darken, when they come like unseen robbers, with muffled exterior, when they threaten to shatter your dreams, it is better to break free rather than get sucked by the vortex of emotions.
Let one of the reviewers speak for my poetry:
“Forty poems, composed and curated by the author herself, adorn the book. All the poems, though not related to each other, seem harmonious to me as I finished reading. As if, they are pearls of the same string and, together they exude a feeling that resonates with your mind in more than one way.

Balroop’s poems liberate the mind of the reader from darkness to light. Life, for us, is not a bed of roses. It is a roller coaster ride alternating continuously with highs and lows. The carousel of life concocts love, discord, merriment and strife. Balroop made us understand this eternal truth and guides us to rise above mediocrity. Her poems would make you feel stronger from within, would help you ameliorate the pain and suffering life has thrust upon you, would lead you to have that insight towards self-discovery. There lies the magic of her poetry!

Portraying the philosophy of life in the poetical form, that is what the poet has done in the book. But, so subtle, so beautiful is her approach, that the reader will never feel encumbered. The language is a delight, exuberant bubbles of words rising softly upwards– leaving behind a sillage to cherish for a long time.” 
- -Maniparna (read more at Amazon.com)


An excerpt from my poetry, liked by Cathleen Townsend, another reviewer: 
“I can no longer remain insignificant

Your harrowing Forgive me for finding my own avenues
My gratitude goes to my spirit.”
This is one of my favorite poems from the book:

OASIS OF PEACE 
Carried me far into the haven of peace

Solitude softly spoke in serene tone,
We welcome weary travelers alone 
Divesting dirty robes of dissent

We revel in the glorious sun
You too can embrace this light,
Just follow it with smiling delight

The light that enlightens the mind
The light that permeates all around
Adds new dimension to thoughts,
Guides us out of those knobby knots

Illumines those innate virtues
When we try to shake them off
In annoyance, in rage, in resentment,
Leisurely hours are wistfully spent

Rejoicing in the new found glee
We sat and shared upon His knee
Palpable peace pervaded all around,
Into which all dismay drowned.

4Q: I’ve visited your blog – Emotional Shadows – (see below for link) and you spoke of teaching, sharing your thoughts and experiences in your pursuit of happiness. Does writing make you happy? How so?
BS: Teaching molded me into a patient, kind and responsible individual and I discovered myself anew when I was placed amongst youngsters who spoke intrepidly and honestly. I stumbled upon my writing talent while I was encouraging them to pen down their thoughts. I was bewildered that I could compose poetry, when challenged to do so. Happiness filtered through those tireless moments of working together in creative writing workshops.

The elation of recording our feelings is so liberating! When we write, we can create our own world of fantasy, we can unlock all the doors, as the keys are in our possession…isn’t it a wonderful feeling?

Writing calms us and leads us to self-discovery. Words become our best friends, teach us tolerance, control our anger and rein our negative thoughts. They slash those emotional walls down, which ward off our progress towards becoming a better person.
All those hurts, the agony and emotional throttling gets assuaged when we pour it out. Healing starts the moment we pen down our thoughts. We feel relieved. We learn to forgive. We rise above human imperfections.
Writing has given me wings. I can fly anytime, anywhere. I often perch on the branches of my favorite trees and can communicate with anyone without any reticence. All those who sit far away, in the comfort of their homes can hear me as I let my voice merge into the clouds that float around, merrily.

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.
BS:  Little children like to follow their moms and we were probably too determined not to be left behind. Our moms thought they could slip by while we were playing near the pond outside our grandma’s home. We must be too little as I have heard this story many times but have a faint memory of this incident.


The moment we saw our moms going out, my cousin Debi suggested we must see where they were going. So we ran after them. We were told many times to return home but we were made of sterner stuff and didn’t get deterred by the threats and gestures that we could see. We knew any punishment at grandma’s home was not possible!


They quickened their pace and thought we would return when we wouldn’t see them. We didn’t. Our moms returned home in the afternoon to discover that we were missing and were blamed for being irresponsible. The whole house was searched. My grandma rushed into neighboring houses, hoping we must be playing somewhere.
The big news was conveyed to my uncle, an authoritarian man with haughty demeanor who considered talking to women a waste of time. He was furious and thundered: “These women can’t even take care of two kids!” Only grandma could face his wrath and ordered him to send men all around the village. No success!
Having realized the gravity of the situation, my uncle took his bike out and told grandma that the kids must have drowned in the stream. Mumbling some obscenities about the women of the house, he drove away to request the local authorities to stop the discharge of water so that the bodies could be retrieved.
No one could have ever seen such a delight at the face of my uncle as he returned home with us, chatting away to glory! My grandma ran to the storehouse to carry round blocks of Gur (jaggery) to be distributed to all those who came to congratulate! Nobody was interested in our story and who saved us!
Within hours, my uncle announced that we should go back to our own homes next morning as he had had enough of our adventures!

4Q: What’s next for Balroop Singh in writing? Travelling?
BS: My next poetry book ‘Echoes Within’ is almost ready. I am looking for a suitable cover.
Travelling has been my passion though I have never made any bucket list. When I look back, one memory looms large and that is the wish to visit Switzerland. Though it had faded away as I grew up, it is returning now with passionate reminders.



Thank you Balroop for taking the time to answer our questions. For you readers, you can learn more about the talented author here:


https://balroop2013.wordpress.com/

Let’s connect: https://twitter.com/BalroopShado https://www.facebook.com/pages/Emotional-Shadows/151387075057971

https://plus.google.com/u/0/+BalroopSinghsrao/posts https://www.pinterest.com/balroops/ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7340810.Balroop_Singh

https://www.amazon.com/Balroop-Singh/e/B00N5QLW8U/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Class Act Publishing Finale!

This has been a fun series. This week you will meet the last three from the growing roster of published authors of Class Act Books.

If you've missed the list, please check out the following links back to the start of this collection.

The most recent March 17th

Previous March 3rd

The beginning January 13th


Website:  www.classactbooks.com


Blog: www.classactbooks.blogspot.com

**Class Act Books is currently open for manuscript submissions and are looking for finished and proofed novels or series in the genres of western, romance, and mystery/suspense, to be published in e-book and paperback. More information on manuscript submission can be found on their website at: http://www.classactbooks.com/submissions


   Toni V. Sweeney 
About the Author:
Toni V. Sweeney has lived 30 years in the South, a score in the Middle West, and a decade on the Pacific Coast and now she’s trying for her second 30 on the Great Plains. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Art and a diploma in Graphic Art and also produces book videos. Since the publication of her first novel in 1989, Toni divides her time between writing SF/Fantasy under her own name and romances under her pseudonym Icy Snow Blackstone. Her novels have garnered awards from The National Writers Association, Preditors & Editors, The Maryland Writers Association, and The Paranormal Romance Guild. In March, 2013, she became publicity manager for Class Act Books. She is also on the review staff of the New York Journal of Books and the Paranormal Romance Guild.  Recently she was named a professional reader by netgalley.com.  
More about Toni at: 
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/tvsweeney
Amazon Author’s Page: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B002BLQBB8
MySpace: https://myspace.com/tvsweeney
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard
Twitter: @ToniVSweeney
 
 
Blurb for The Story of a Peace-Loving Man:
 
Allan McAllister is a Paxist, a believer in peace, forced by the United Terran Federation into military service to punish his treasonous kinsman. N’Sagar sh’en Singh is the daughter of a Felidan pride chief, one of the enemy, but there’s no hatred in her heart for the lone Terran marooned on her planet.
 
Thrown together, then torn from each other by the aftermath of a war neither wanted, their love will be a tragedy and a triumph as a man sworn to walk the road of Peace is made to follow the dictates of War and suffer its consequences.
 
 
Excerpt for The Story of a Peace-Loving Man:
 
He was in the line with all the others, dressed in his Federation-issue fatigues, duffel bag resting at his left ankle. The Sarge was going down the line, comparing names on the screen of his hand unit with the little holographic ID tags hanging around each recruit’s neck.
  He stopped when he came to Allan. “Well, well...who do we have here?”
  Thinking the man actually expected an answer, Allan replied, “Allan Malcolm McAllister, sir.”
  “Did I give you permission to speak?”
  “Well, no, sir. But I— ”
  “Then keep quiet, recruit!” He turned to the others. “Gentleman... ” Even that word was deliver with a modicum of irony Allan would learn was the Sarge’s normal speaking voice. Odd how Southern accents fitted themselves so well to that mode of delivery. “We have here the relative of a very famous personage, or infamous, I should say. Mr. McAllister is the nephew of… Why don’t you tell us, Mr. McAllister?”   When Allan didn’t answer, he leaned forward and went on in a stage whisper, “You may speak now, Mr. McAllister.”
  “Egan Rand.” Allan supplied the name very quietly.
  “What?” The DI cupped one hand to his ear, “What was that? I didn’t quite catch that.”
  “Egad Rand!” Allan answered, louder.
  “Egan Rand. That’s right. The traitor who thinks we should love the Felidans instead of killing them. Who wants the Federation to stop the war and welcome those murderous aliens with open arms.”
  “I don’t think that’s— ”
  “I don’t care what you think, McAllister! Isn’t your uncle a fugitive from Federation justice for preaching sedition by urging our young men not to enlist?”
  “Yes, sir, he’s a fugitive, but that’s not exactly—”
  “Well, then?”
  “If I could explain, sir.”
  “Oh, by all means, please. Explain.”
“No one knows why the Felidans attacked Ferris Alpha.  My uncle thinks we should find out the reason. Maybe the Felidans feel they were justified. H-he thinks if we know why they did it, maybe it can be resolved without a war…”
  “Well, now, that sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?” That slow, deep accent fairly dripped sarcasm. “Love thy neighbor. Now, I know that’s what Christos taught, and it’s what each of you dewey-eyed innocents heard when your Mamas took you to church every Sunday, but in that Bible each of you were issued along with your LX-15, it also says, an eye for an eye and do unto others—” 
Spittle flew as the Sarge ranted. Allan blinked to keep from being struck in the eye by a globule. He forced himself not to flinch, didn’t dare dodge or reach up to wipe his face, just stood there, feeling the bit of wet trickle down his cheek.
“Quite frankly, I think that’s what we ought to do. We ought to take a couple of dirty laser bombs and drop ’em on Felida and wipe out all of those murderous bastards…” He broke off to survey the young faces a moment before continuing, his tone now mild in shocking contrast to his previous angry one. “But use of those type of weapons was banned at the Jovian Covention of 2120, so we’re going to do the next best thing. We’re going to use our gunboats to kill as many of ’em as possible. As for you…” He swung back to Allan. “As a little reminder to keep your mouth shut and not spread any of your uncle’s crap, drop and give me fifty!”
  “Fifty what, sir?” Allan didn’t move.
  “Are you smart-assing me, McAllister?”
“N-no sir. Fifty Credits? I-I don’t have that much cash—”
“Fifty push-ups you idiot! Now!”
  While the rest of the company marched off to the barracks, Allan flung himself to the ground and performed the requested callisthenics, calmly counted out by the corporal.
 
Buy links:
 
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Story-Peace-Loving-Adventures-Sinbad-ebook/dp/B01N0DIJOJ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479594056&sr=8-1&keywords=the+story+of+a+peace+loving+man
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-story-of-a-peace-loving-man-toni-v-sweeney/1125148495?ean=2940153853819
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/681801
Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/cat-romance/the-story-of-a-peace-loving-man-detail

 
Tony-Paul de Vissage 
A writer of French Huguenot extraction, one of Tony-Paul de Vissage's first movie memories is of being six years old, viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula's Daughter on television, and being scared sleepless—and he’s now paying back his very permissive parents by writing about the Undead. 
Shadow Lord, first novel in the Second Speciesseries, was named one of the top ten horror novels of 2013 by Preditors & Editos Readers Choice Poll for that year.
 
Find out more about Tony-Paul at:
Twitter:  @tpvissage
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tonypaul.devissage?fref=ts
Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/our-authors/manufacturers/tony-paul-de-vissage
Amazon author’s page: https://authorcentral.amazon.com/gp/profile
Buy Link Shadow Lord: https://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Lord-Second-Species-Book-ebook/dp/B00UPN872A/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1471479573&sr=8-1&keywords=shadow+lord+by+Tony-Paul+de+Vissage
 
 
Blurb for Shadow Lord:
 
Men call them vampires.  They call themselves aventurieri.  For generations, they hide in the mists of the Carpathians away from their human foes.
In 1794, everything changes… Their prince’s assassin is murdered. His son demands revenge.
Marek Strigoi’s quest for justice will take him from his Transylvanian homeland to the Hellfire clubs of Vienna, to the boudoir of a Parisian Marquise, but not even love will stop his vengeance.
Mrcea Ravagiu must die.
When both the hunter and the hunted are vampires, not even Hell will stand in the way!
 
Excerpt from Shadow Lord: 
When Marek appeared, the girl was already dressed, braiding her hair before the cheval glass.
“You’re leaving?” He tried to hide his disappointment as he pushed the door shut.
“I must, my lord.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “I’m certain Madame Lubos has already missed me.”
 “Do you want to go?” Marek came closer, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet. When she looked up to find him standing directly behind her, she appeared startled.
“Not really.” The gaze she turned on him was unhappy. “I'll probably get a beating for coming here.” She tried to look unconcerned. “Oh, well, it won’t be the first time.”
“What’s your name?” He touched her shoulders. Unconsciously, she leaned against him.
“Lily. Lily-Magda.”
“Don’t go, Lily-Magda.” He whispered the words into her ear, one arm going around her waist. “Stay here. With me.”
“Madame’llnever let me stay, my lord, not even to be a servant to a ghidaj.”
“I don’t want you as a servant.” Recklessly, startling himself with the words, he went on, “I believe I love you, girl. Stay with me, my crimson lily.”
To his surprise she burst into tears. Marek was dismayed. Oracle, damn it. Am I to be accursed this night with crying women?
“Oh, master, since the moment I saw you standing in the gallery…I didn’t know who you were and when I found out…How could the ghidaj want someone like me? You did and now…” She put her hands to her face and began to sob louder.
“Does that mean yes?” Marek pulled her hands away.
She gave him a watery smile and nodded. Throwing his arms around her, he lifted her off the floor, swinging her in a tight circle. He kissed her again. Holding her body against his chest, he ran to the window, climbing upon the window seat.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
With one hand, he pushed the shutters open and stepped onto the sill. There was a soft rustle as his wings unfurled. Marek flung himself from the window, Lily clutched in his arms.
She struggled slightly, then her squeal was bitten off as she realized they weren’t falling to their deaths, but instead rising above the trees. Marek circled the courtyard, then climbed higher, the sweep of his wings pushing the air past them in loud gusts.
“Look, Lily.” He gestured, and she glanced at the scene far below them…the casteland the forest around it, and further on, the rough slopes of the mountains and the far-off peaks.
On the parapet of the castel they could see soldati walking the walls. One looked up, pointing, calling to another, and they raised their hands saluting, not the least surprised by seeing their ghidaj flying with a female in his arms.
Marek swooped lower, spinning in the air, acknowledging their homage as Lily laughed with delight.
“Oh, master, it’s so beautiful!”
“This is all Strigoi land, Lily. It’s mine, and it’ll be yours too, if you’ll stay with me.”
Circling above the tallest pine, he rose higher until they touched the first wisp of cloud hovering above the mountain peak, the shadows of the cliffs covering and hiding them.
“It’ll be summer soon,” he said. “When the nights are warmer, we’ll fly over the river and see our reflections in the water. It’s so clear you can see to the bottom when the moon’s full. The travertine in the currents reflects it like a mirror. Would you like that? Will you stay?”
“Oh, yes.” Her arms tightened around his neck.
Before them loomed the highest tower of the castle, its stones silvered in the moonlight. His wings bore them to the spire where the Strigoi banner, a sword cleaving the sun, waved in the night air. Around the emblem in blood-red script was embroidered the clan motto, In Fidelitas, Est Potentia…In Loyalty, There is Power.
Circling the tower, he kissed her with a quickening hunger, eagerly, desperately, even
as he tried to be restrained, trailing small bites across her throat. His wings caused the banner to flap wildly as if in a sudden storm, the words seeming to blink at them…     
     …Fidelitas… Potentia….Loyalty…Power…
 

 
Robb T. White
Author’s Bio: 
Under the names Terry White, Robert White, and Robb T. White, Robert White has published dozens of crime, noir, and hardboiled short stories, and three hardboiled private-eye novels.  A lifelong reader of crime fiction, he published his first story in Gary Lovisi's Hardboiled magazine. Since then, he has published several dozen crime stories, and a collection of mainstream stories in 2013. An ebook crime novel, "Special Collections," won the New Rivers Electronic Book Competition in 2014.   White was born, raised, and continues to live in Ashtabula, Ohio. 
More about Robb at:
http://tomhaftmann.wixsite.com/robbtwhite
https://www.amazon.com/Robert-White/e/B001JP338Q
 
Blurb for Dangerous Women: 
Weaker sex?  Not hardly!
The female is definitely deadlier than the male.  Short stories about ladies who can hold their own.  
 
Excerpt for Dangerous Women:
 
Be careful what you wish for, Regina.
Her mother’s words. Sometimes she could hear her mother’s voice in the house.
The Vindicator piece on Bodycomb’s death was two paragraphs.
He was found floating in Lake Milton, a popular summer resort area for fisherman seventeen miles east of Austintown just off the Interstate 80 overpass. Shot by a small-caliber weapon in the back of the head. The important information was in the second paragraph: Bodycomb, it noted, was running a dog-fighting network among three states: Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia for a loose-knit West Virginia crime family connected to the Pittsburgh LaRizzo family.
Damn you, Leo.
She was blowing through caution lights, ignoring the honking of cars, as she beelined for the office on Market.
Like a script from a cheap thriller, he was there, wearing the same clothes and unshaven, big jowls dark with stubble, pong of body odor in the overheated single room.
“You promised me full disclosure, total honesty,” she said.
She threw the paper across his desk.
“Here it is in case you missed it.”
Be calm, Regina, she told herself. She wasn’t going to lose her temper and a new job in that order.
“I did and I meant it, Baby,” Leo said.
He glanced at the paper sideways and pushed it back to her. He’d obviously read it.
“You asked me—no, you demanded I call somebody. I did,” he said.
He disgusted her with those wagging jowls and big stomach. She noticed his belt was undone and a patch of curly belly hair exposed.
Probably jerking off in here, the freak.
“I suppose you’ll tell me when the mood strikes.”
“I meant the second case—your next case,” Leo said. “Full disclosure, just like you want.”
Her indignation petered out at the prospect. “So tell me about it,” she said.
Bodycomb was moving in on Donnie Bracca’s territory with his dog-fighting, Leo said.
“He can kill all the dogs he wants in West Virginia,” Leo said. “But Donnie B. controls gambling around here.”
“Donnie Bracca was your real client all the time,” Baby said.
“It’s like this, kid. They don’t blow each other up in cars no more. Gentlemen’s agreements, all nice and polite. But rules have to be followed. Bodycomb went rogue.”
She bit back a retort: You mean, like your own father?
Leo went on, waxing large, a hopeless Mafioso lover, although a real mafia man, a made man, could see Leo couldn’t be trusted. But even the Aryan Brotherhood used outside associates to get things done. Leo could be useful if you couldn’t buy a cop or scare off an investigative reporter snooping in shady politics or business deals.
She didn’t feel bad about Bodycomb’s death. After all, she'd wanted to kill the guy herself.
“Damn it, Leo,” she said. “You should have told me this in the beginning.”Baby moved in the direction Bodycomb’s vehicle had taken. After A couple of hundred yards through meadow grass up to her knees, she stopped and listened. Moving on, she dodged stunted bushes that popped up out of nowhere to snag her clothing. The foliage grew less dense. She found the parallel ruts of the Road Runner’s tracks and kept moving, straining her eyes to see light ahead. If Bodycomb was hiding assets from his soon-to-be ex-wife, he was taking a lot of trouble over it.
After five minutes of faster walking in the grooves, she heard barking coming from the right. She saw the first glimmer of light in the distance. The terrain was sparse but small slopes refracted the light source so it appeared and disappeared with every rise of the ground. A single dog barking became two, then three and finally a pack. Beneath their howls, men’s voices.
When she got close enough to make out words, she lay flat on her belly and put the binoculars on a cluster of men beside a ramshackle barn surrounded by cages of dogs in the beds of trucks beside a squared string of light bulbs a dozen feet from the ground. It looked like a crude boxing ring for backyard brawlers.
Its purpose became clear in the next few minutes. It was a dog-fighting pit.  

Buy Links:
Publisher’s website for paperback: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/cat-romance/cat-romance-paranormal/shadow-lord-565-detail
Amazon(US): https://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Lord-Second-Species-Book-ebook/dp/B00UPN872A/
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/shadow-lord-tony-paul-de-vissage/1121462181?ean=2940046635546
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/527699      Thank you Toni for telling us about your list of authors and for being part of the Scribbler.    And thank you to our readers for visiting.  Tell us what you are reading, leave a comment below!

An excerpt from The Alexanders by allan hudson

In 1917 World War 1 is raging in Europe. Death & destruction continues with no end in sight.



My work-in-progress (WIP) is about 3/4 finished. It's an historical fiction beginning in 1911 in Scotland. My main character emigrates to Canada, builds a new life and in 1917, is ready for war. I posted the beginning of the story in August, 2016. Find it here.

Before Dominic Alexander leaves for Europe, his fiancé, Maria, hosts a goodbye party for him and ma tante Emma introduces him to poutine rapee.

An excerpt from 1917.



The twenty-fifth of February is bitterly cold, especially just as the sun sets, which is early today at 5:20. Any time spent out of doors is an invitation to more than frost bite, more like a frost banquet. Exposed skin will freeze in twenty minutes. It’s been that long since Dominic left his house. Walking into the city, he’s warm inside his new greatcoat. Ice crystals whiten a khaki scarf that covers his mouth. A beaver skin hat is pulled down to cover head, ears, nape of his neck and forehead. The greatcoat goes to his ankles. Pure Canadian wool that keeps you warm even if it gets wet. Inside the heavy coat, Private Dominic Alexander is wearing the olive drab uniform of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, wool jacket, shirt and tie and heavy wool pants with leggings wrapped about his calf to his knees, tucked into black sturdy boots large enough for two pairs of socks. He’s not bothered by the cold.
 
Two days from now, on Tuesday, he’s to report for duty at 6:00 a.m. in Halifax where he will embark for England on the HMS Andania. Dominic will depart for the war from the same wharf he arrived at a little over two years ago. Tonight he is attending a going away party for him and today is also his birthday. When he turns up Cameron Street, Maria’s aunt’s house is on the next corner on Gordon Street, less than a minute away. He’s familiar enough with the large house where Maria and her family tend to have their gatherings because the place is so big. Ma tante Emma, as she is called, is a widower whose late husband was a doctor. An addition contained his offices at one time but now they are all divided rooms to let, providing a continuous income. She keeps the main house as it was, terribly big, bought with the expectation of many running feet when they were younger, but alas, that wasn’t to be. A large open living room and adjoining parlour can hold twenty people in comfort. The kitchen has a cozy nook and small table in one corner and room for three or four cooks. With a dining room containing heavy furniture that can seat ten, there’s plenty of space.  No one enjoys a get together more than ma tante Emma and her home is the perfect spot.
People are coming over later but Emma invited him to come earlier and have supper with her and Maria, who has been there helping. She made an old family recipe especially for Dominic, an Acadian treat she told him. What she called it sounded like Poo-tin Raw-pay. Maria assured him they are delicious and a lot of work to make.
By the time he knocks on the front door, he’s starting to shiver a little. A faint command to “come in” seeps through the keyhole and he enters the foyer. Maria greets him in the hallway, standing back slightly, not recognizing the shrouded figure at first. Only when he removes the scarf away from his mouth does she know who it is.
“Hello my beloved. Come in quick, don’t let too much of that cold in here.”
Regarding the coat of frost on the scarf where it covered his mouth, her eyes widen in disbelief.
“My goodness Dominic, did you walk from your house?”
While removing the hat, he’s nodding.
“Aye I did. I didn’t realize it was this cold but I’m warm enough.”
She pays more attention to his clothing as he removes his greatcoat.
“Oh how wonderful Dominic, you wore your new uniform. Here, give me that coat and let me see.”
She calls out to her aunt who is setting the table in the kitchen nook where she, Maria and Dominic will have their supper.
“Ma tante Emma, vien voir Dominic avec sa nouvelle uniforme!” (“Aunt Emma, come see Dominic with his new uniform”).
Passing his coat and hat to Maria, Dominic removes his boots to leave them at the door and steps forward to meet Emma. She doesn’t walk so much as she waddles. She’s a big woman, not too tall, with open arms and a large bosom that begs to be hugged. Rosy cheeks always look like they’re blushing and a perpetual smile adorns her face. Short greyish curls top her round head. An aroma of boiled potatoes follows her.
“What a handsome lad you are Dominic. A shame that you have to go off to war.  We’ll have to telegram ahead to warn all those young British girls, won’t we Maria?”
She says that with a wink and engulfs Dominic in her arms. Stooping a bit to enjoy the warmth of her embrace, he takes in the lovely scent of jasmine she always wears.
“Now come Dominic, we have some delicious poutines for you. I’ve made a batch for our company to enjoy later on. If it’s one thing you will learn from us Acadians is that we love a good meal.”
Placing Dominic’s coat, scarf and hat on a hanger, Maria stows them in the closet by the front door and gives her boyfriend a quick hug, a peck on the check and waves for him to follow. The hallway has a set of stairs on the right and extends toward the back on the left. Colorful ribbons are strung around the walls and a hand printed sign hangs over the stairway proclaiming Bon Voyage, Happy Birthday and Best Wishes. The dining room is on the immediate right and the kitchen is on the same side. A table in the corner of the kitchen is set for three and Emma invites Dominic to take the head of the table near the window and has Maria take the side seat facing the kitchen and her place setting is on the opposite end of Dominic’s. She spoons out each a poutine on three plates and brings one to set in front of Maria and the other in front of Dominic. He stares at it and loses his appetite.  
  
For those who’ve never eaten poutine rapee, the first time you see one can be a perplexing proposition. Dominic doesn’t know what to say. The object on his plate is the size of a grapefruit, a misshapen, steaming globule that makes him think of snowballs. Emma sets her plate down and turns to get them some tea. Maria is slicing hers in half when she notices the look on Dominic’s face and starts to giggle. She’s seen the same look before when someone is introduced to this delicacy.
“They’re much tastier than they look Dominic. Just cut it in bite size chunks and add some sugar or molasses on it. There’s delicious meat in the middle and you can choose between white sugar or brown sugar. I like brown sugar on mine. Some folks just eat them with salt and pepper.”
He replies hesitatingly.
“Okay, if you say so.”
Not wanting to seem ungrateful, he does as she suggests. Picking up his knife, he slices the poutine down the middle. The two halves divide to expose a center of tender chunks of pork that have been salted and spiced.
 “Well it certainly smells good.”
After placing cups the cups of tea down, Emma joins them.
“I prefer molasses on mine Dominic. You can try a little bite of each and see which you like best.”
Slicing small tentative pieces, he sprinkles a bit of brown sugar on one, white sugar on another, a drip of molasses on the third and only salt and pepper on the fourth. Not sure about sugar on potatoes, he tries the unsweetened one first. Biting into it, he closes his eyes and his teeth sink into the firm but creamy potato mixture with tender pieces of pork that almost melt in his mouth.
“Mmmm, it is good! Certainly much better than I expected.”
Maria agrees as she chews on her own piece.
“Told you so, didn’t I?”
Dominic tries the sweetened pieces and a smile states how much he agrees with the flavors but decides he likes the natural taste of the poutine best with salt and pepper. Poutine is a heavy meal and he shares a second one with Emma, Maria is full with just one. For their dessert one of her neighbors has dropped off a raisin pie for the celebration and it is another food that Dominic has not had before and he falls in love with the flaky crust and the sweetness of the dried fruit. The plates are cleared off and washed up before the trio sit at the table with their last cup of tea. People will not begin arriving before seven o’clock. With everything ready for their guests they broach a variety of subjects.
Dominic wonders how you make poutine. Emma fills him in.
“Well we started with about 90 potatoes because we wanted to have 60 poutine or so. After we peel them, half of them are boiled and mashed. The other half is grated, the liquid squeezed out with a cheese cloth which we call epurer. Salt and milk are added and the two potato mixtures are blended together, we call that part meler. Then you need to be quick because if the potato mixture is left out too long, they turn grey, still as tasty but not so pretty. So you form them into balls, rouler, put them in a pot of boiling water for two hours and voila, you have poutine rapee.”
“Wow! That does seem like a lot of work”
Emma is Maria’s favorite aunt and she loves the rapport and goodwill between her aunt and her boyfriend and listens to their banter. Emma shows concern with knitted brows when she asks Dominic about going to war.      Thank you for visiting/ Hope you enjoyed the excerpt. I expect to be finished writing this story sometime in 2019. Watch here for more excerpts and I would love to hear your comments.   Wall of War is my current novel and available at amazon.ca and amazon.com   

Three new Authors from Class Act Books

Class Act Books really have their act together!



Pardon the pun but I couldn't resist. This has been a fun series with some talented authors that Class Act have been willing to share on the Scribbler. Take a few minutes and check them out.





Class Act Books is a royalty-paying publisher of electronic and trade paperback novels and novellas, with the goal of providing quality fiction at a reasonable price in all media: paperback (available exclusively on the publisher's website), Kindle, pdf, Mobi, and eBook.

After coming under new ownership in 2013, the publishing commitment was changed from only romance to all genres and they now feature Westerns, Adventure, SciFi, M/M, and Horror among their titles. Class Act Books offers standalone novels as well as series, and features award-winning authors. Titles are available on the website as well as Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. They are also featured on the UK, French, German, Japanese and Italian versions of Amazon.com.


Website:  www.classactbooks.com

Blog: www.classactbooks.blogspot.com

 
LINDA NIGHTINGALE
Linda Nightingale is a native-born South Carolinian who has lived in England and Canada, and now resides in Texas.  Before turning to writing, she bred, trained and showed Andalusian horses for thirteen years.  
In 2012, her novel, Gemini Rising, was voted Best Mainstream Novel in the Preditors & Editors Readers Poll. Her vampire romance, Cardinal Desires won the Georgia Romance Writers Magnolia Award in 2013, and that was followed by her science fiction romance, Love for Sale, being awarded Best SF/Fantasy novel of 2015 by the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewer’s Choice, and also voted one of the Top Ten Romance Novels of 2015 by the Preditors & Editors Readers Poll for that year.
Four by Moonlight is her first novel for Class Act Books.



 
Find out more about Linda at:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/linda.nightingale.52?hc_ref=SEARCH&fref=nf
Website: http://www.lindanightingale.com
Blog: https://lindanightingale.wordpress.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4839311.Linda_Nightingale
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/lbnightingale1/?etslf=10520&eq=LInda%20Nightingale
Twitter: @LNightingale
 
Blurb: 
An anthology of love in the moonlight…in the paranormal universe.



Gypsy Ribbons – A moonlight ride on the moors and meeting a notorious highwayman will forever change Lady Virginia Darby’s life.
Star Angel – Lucy was stuck in a rut and in an Idaho potato patch. She’d seen him in the corner of her eye—a fleeting glimpse of beauty—now he stood before her in the flesh.
The Night Before Doomsday – All his brothers had succumbed to lust, but Azazel resisted temptation until the wrong woman came along.
The Gate Keeper’s Cottage – Newlywed Meggie Richelieu’s mysterious, phantom lover may be more than anyone, except the plantation housekeeper, suspects.  
Excerpt from “Gypsy Ribbons”:
Red eyes watched from the grate as she slipped into the cold, empty bed. Simon should have been there to warm her rather than the dying fire. Not pursuing a dangerous dream. Too angry, too miserable to weep, she tossed and turned. The relief of sleep eluded her.
An icy breath whispered through the room. Tory snuggled deeper beneath the goose down covers. Had the weather made up its mind? Was Simon riding in ice and snow? She imagined white flakes in Goliath’s long black mane and on the highwayman’s plush velvet cloak. Poor darling, he would be cold. Tory slowly drifted to sleep unrelated thoughts scrolling in her mind. A soft sound snapped her wide awake. She sat bolt upright, tugging the covers over the breasts.  The room was iceberg cold.  The ghost.
“Not Simon.” She held her breath, ears stained for the horrifying, otherworldly whisper, a warning of imminent death. The sound came again, closer. A slow footstep creeping over the old oaken floor. Tonight, the ghost of Darby Manor wandered its dim corridors.
“No. No.” Tory squeezed her eyes closed and prayed, forgetting she didn’t believe in ghosts.
The footsteps halted. Tory’s heart stopped. She started to cover her ears, refusing to hear. The ghost breathed that heartbreaking sigh at her door.
Shuddering, she slid back under the layers of down. The warmth had no effect on her shivers. She folded into a fetal position.  I’m no longer alone.  Fear chilled her anew.  Though she couldn’t see clearly in the dim light, she knew her breath puffed white clouds in the frigid air. Dread sank its wicked claws into her racing heart.
 
Buy Links: 
Publisher's website at http://www.classactbooks.com 



Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M3Q9J8B/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1
 
 
SHERRY DERR-WILLE
Sherry lives in a mid-sized Southern Wisconsin with her husband of 46 years, Bob, whom she deems a saint for putting up with a crazy writer. 
With three children, seven grandchildren, more book signings than she can sometimes handle, she puts out four to five books a year and loves writing in her hot pink office.








Find more information about Sherry at:  
Website: www.derr-wille.com

Blog: www.derr-wille.blogspot.com 
 
Blurb: When Lissa Adams flew to Chicago to be with her father, she never thought she’d become involved in a vendetta between a mob family, the Chicago police force, and her cousin, Detective Paul Bastion.

Paul Bastion was in seclusion until his uncle suffered a heart attack. Once he came back to Chicago to be with his family, he knew he’d also be testifying against Antonio Vargas.

When Paul is kidnapped and Lissa badly beaten, he knows he’s living his last hours. The cost of his return is freedom for the drug lord. Even if Vargas is freed, Paul knows he’ll lose his life.
 
Excerpt:
The parking garage for the hospital seemed to be deserted. Lissa was glad she was with Paul. Going to places like this by herself usually creeped her out.
Since their parking pass had been stamped, there would be no charge, allowing them to leave the parking area without having to pay. After they cleared the tollbooth, she gasped with shock as someone grabbed her from behind and put a knife to her neck.
She trembled as she heard the voice in the seat behind her.
“Just do as we say, Bastion, and the little lady won’t get hurt.”
Lissa blamed herself for what was going on. If she hadn’t been with Paul, he might have been more careful about getting into his car even though it was locked. He always prided himself on his ‘cop sense’. It was entirely possible the events of the last two days had made him careless.
“Everything is going to be alright,” Paul said.
She knew he was trying to put her at ease.
“Cut the chatter Bastion. Just drive,” the man in the back seat ordered.
Lissa could feel the cold blade of the knife pressing against her throat as Paul followed the instructions on where to drive. She watched the familiar streets give way to the countryside, and at last Paul was instructed to pull off onto a side road leading to a wayside by the lake.
In front of her, she saw a black SUV parked crossways the road so they couldn’t see the license plate.
“Now get out,” the man holding the knife ordered.
Paul glanced at her but was silent, his lips drawn into a hard straight line as he got out of the car and was met by two men wearing ski masks. It was then the knife was removed and duct tape was placed over her eyes.
“What do you want with us?” she pleaded
“Shut up, bitch, and get out of the car.”
 Unable to see, she felt the cold air as the door was opened and someone roughly pulled her outside.
“You will go with us, Bastion, but not before you see what happens to your girlfriend.”
“She’s not…”
Lissa heard the thud of a punch being delivered to Paul’s midsection, at least that’s what she thought it was. She had little time to contemplate that as she was thrown against the car and her own beating began. One of the men hit her with what she could only guess was his fist, and she heard the bone in her nose break. Stunned, she could feel blood pouring over her lip before another punch, this time to her jaw, produced a pain like none she’d felt, even in childbirth.
 Her last conscious memory was of Paul shouting, “Nooooo…”
 
Buy Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Relatives-Sherry-Derr-Wille-ebook/dp/B072N6X83L/
Paperback exclusively from the publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/component/virtuemart/cat-murder-mystery-suspense/blood-relatives-8182017-06-14-21-49-06-detail?Itemid=0
 
 
MICHAEL D. SMITH
Michael D. Smith was raised in the Northeast and the Chicago area, before moving to Texas to attend Rice University, where he began developing as a writer and visual artist.  In addition to exhibiting and selling paintings and drawings, he’s completed fifteen novels.  



Smith’s writing in both mainstream and science fiction genres uses humor to investigate psychological themes.  On his blog, he explores art and writing processes, and his web site contains further examples of his writing and art. He is currently Technology Librarian for McKinney Public Library in McKinney, Texas.

CommWealth is his first novel published by Class Act Books.  




Find out more about Michael at: 
Website: , www.sortmind.com,



Blog: www. http://blog.sortmind.com/wordpress/
 
 
Blurb: forCommWealth:
 
The CommWealth system, has created a society in which there is no legal claim to any kind of private property. Any object from your house to the clothes you’re wearing can be demanded by anyone, to be enjoyed for thirty days before someone else can request it. As actors in the Forensic Squad theatrical troupe attempt to adapt to this chaos, their breaking of the Four Rules sustaining the system, as several members navigate betrayals, double agents, and murder to find themselves leading a suicidal revolution. 



Excerpt: 
Rule One - You are free to enjoy the chosen object for thirty days. During this period no other person may request it.


Rule Two - The requestor is untouchable for thirty days by the person asked. Attempts at retaliation, such as demanding unusually large quantities from the original requestor after the thirty-day period, carry stiff penalties.
Rule Three - Once you ask somebody for something, you can never ask him or her for anything else again.
Rule Four - You can never ask for the same thing back from the person who got it from you, not even after his or her thirty days of enjoyment.
 
Allan shivered at the reflection of his black overcoat and his striding legs on the wet sidewalk. Up ahead someone with a DreamPiston Electronics bag opened a shiny red Porsche glistening with thousands of water beads.
“Okay,” Allan said, “I’ll take your car here.”
The mustached little twerp looked up. “Ahhh, crap...”
“C’mon, don’t give me any trouble. Gimme the key.”
“Look, it’s raining. And I just got these MP3 players and the new Fappy tablet—”
“Not my problem. Fork the damn key over.”
“Look, my umbrella’s in the car—can I just get my umbrella so my stuff—”
“Forget it. The umbrella’s part of the car as far as I’m concerned. Anything in the car. Besides, I just lost my umbrella a couple blocks back. I’m soaked.”
“C’mon, I just got this car the other day!”
 “Don’t hand me that. The sticker on the plate says you got it a month and a half ago. You’re overdue, buddy. Now hand me the key.”
“Got trouble there?” A bright blue City of Linstar police car idled in the rain. “Got a Hoarder there?” a huge officer grinned.
“Uh, no... not at all...” said the twerp. “I just—I just can’t find the key—”
“Yeah, right—you just unlocked the damn car with it,” Allan said, turning to the policeman. “He is giving me a lot of crap about it.”
“C’mon, sir, you know better than that.” The officer’s name tag read BARCLAY.
“Dammit!” the twerp snarled. He separated the Porsche key off his key ring, thrust it at Allan, then spun around and fastened on a man coming down the sidewalk. “Give me that umbrella! Right now!”
The man grunted,surrendered his umbrella to the twerp, who grabbed it and hoisted it above his DreamPiston bag.
“We really got the Christmas spirit here, don’t we?” Barclay said.
“Really,” Allan said. “Some people...” He examined the Porsche key in the rain. “Thanks for your help, officer.”
“Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t really necessary. People are basically good, you know. Give ’em time to adjust and all, that’s what I say.”
The twerp leapt into traffic with his new umbrella and his bag, waving his free arm. A little green car skidded to a halt. The twerp ran to the window and pounded on it. “Give me this car! Right now!”
“Jesus...” Allan said. “What a bastard!”
Barclay was out of his patrol car in a second, hand on his hand on his holster. “Sir, that’s not the right way to go about it. We need to be respectful. That’s the CommWealth way.”
CommWealth is available at: 



Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/component/virtuemart/dystopian/commwealth-6022015-08-14-23-29-50-detail?Itemid=0
 
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/CommWealth-Michael-D-Smith-ebook/dp/B013YPU5D4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1478983628&sr=8-1&keywords=CommWealth
 
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/commwealth-michael-d-smith/1122537291?ean=2940152097313
 
SmashWords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/569160
 
Also available from amazon.uk: https://www.amazon.co.uk/CommWealth-Michael-D-Smith-ebook/dp/B013YPU5D4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1478983892&sr=1-1&keywords=CommWealth+by+Michael+D.+SMith









Thank you dear readers for visiting the Scribbler. Watch for some new and exciting authors in the coming weeks. As well as new work by myself from my Work in Progress which is an historical fiction of the Alexander Family beginning in 1911 when Dominic Alexander is only eleven years old in Scotland and has to leave his family home.


Wall of War is available on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com.

  
She strides off indignantly along the path that leads out of the park, her husband obediently tagging along.  When they reach the sidewalk, Drake points at them. “Go with them, Elijah, keep your eyes open. I’ll stay and watch for Theresa” Elijah moves to Drake’s side. “I’m not even Catholic, think I’ll stick out?” Drake looks at his friend to see if he is serious. Seeing the smirk on his face, Drake eyes the man up and down. “Not as much as the bloused fatigues and polished boots will, and that vest makes you look like a Unabomber. Maybe you should sit in the back. No, I wouldn’t worry about not being Catholic if I were you.”
 

4Q Interview with Guest Author Jack Eason of Great Britain.

Jack Eason has distinguished himself as an author of the highly successful novel – Race Against Time. He has agreed to participate in a 4Q Interview and we’re very lucky to have him visit.
 
Jack Eason lived in New Zealand for forty-two years until 2000 when he returned to his birthplace in England. As far as he is concerned he will always consider himself to be a Kiwi. After military service in the 1960's, he travelled the world, visiting exotic lands and making many friends. Now in his mid-sixties he is content to write and travel via the Internet. Besides writing novels and short stories, he contributes to his own blog “Have We Had Help?” Some of his short stories and numerous articles appear in the No: 1 online E-zine “Angie’s DIARY”. His literary interests include science fiction, history, both ancient and modern, and humorous tales like those written by his fellow writer Derek Haines, such as “HAL”. He lives in semi-retirement in his home town surrounded by his favourite books, ranging from historical fact to science fiction. His literary icons are J.R.R Tolkien, George Orwell, Arthur C Clarke and John Wyndham.
 
4Q:  I’ve added your novel to my To Be Read list and am anxious to dig into the story. Perhaps you can give us a brief outline of what to expect?
JE: Here’s the blurb: In 2012, many otherwise rational people had convinced themselves that because the Mayan calendar stopped at December 21st of that year, that we were about to enter the biblical end of days. But it didn’t happen. Why are we still alive? Read the archaeological adventure Race Against Time for one possible explanation.
My main character is a young English Doctor of Archaeology – Nick Palmer. He was shunned by mainstream academia for daring to suggest that time is slowing to a standstill. To find out if anything can be done, Nick is helped by several people and one Crypto-terrestrial – Ithis.  
 

4Q: How is this novel related to your previous work – The Seventh Age?
JE: It is the new version of The Seventh Age
 
4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory with us.
JE: Back in the late forties early fifties we had a mixture of Italian and German P.O.W’s and one White Russian Cossack on our farm. He loved us kids while terrifying all the grownups, both his fellow P.O.W’s, my father and the farmhands. When my father beat me with his belt for some minor infringement one time, I told him that if he ever beat me again I’d tell my big Russian friend. After that my father never beat me again…
 
4Q: What’s next for Jack Eason? What are you working on now?
JE: After writing my short history about the end of Saxon rule in England – Autumn 1066 a few months back, I’m now contemplating several ideas for book number twelve.
 
 




Thank you Mr. Eason for being our guest this week. I've enjoyed your stories. 


Discover more about Jack and his writing here. His website: https://havewehadhelp.wordpress.com/2018/03/10/how-far-do-you-go/
Go here to buy his books:
https://www.amazon.com/Jack-Eason/e/B003MEA7AY/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1391810789&sr=1-2-ent

We're back! Three new authors from Class Act Publishing.

After a brief hiatus, the Scribbler is active once more.

We are very pleased to bring you three new authors from Class Act Publishing.

Class Act Books is a royalty-paying publisher of electronic and trade paperback novels and novellas, with the goal of providing quality fiction at a reasonable price in all media: paperback (available exclusively on the publisher's website), Kindle, pdf, Mobi, and eBook.

After coming under new ownership in 2013, the publishing commitment was changed from only romance to all genres and they now feature Westerns, Adventure, SciFi, M/M, and Horror among their titles. Class Act Books offers standalone novels as well as series, and features award-winning authors. Titles are available on the website as well as Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. They are also featured on the UK, French, German, Japanese and Italian versions of Amazon.com.



Website:  www.classactbooks.com
  Blog: www.classactbooks.blogspot.com    Paul McDermott  Born in the Year of the Tiger, Paul’s natural curiosity combined with the deep-seated feline need to roam has meant that over the years he’s never been able to call any one place home. His wanderlust has led him from one town to another, and even from one country to another.

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write - my father claims to possess a story I wrote when I was six, which filled 4 standard school exercise books! What I do remember from that time was being told off for doing the Liverpool Echo crossword before he got home from work!”  While Paul was living in Denmark, he allowed himself to be persuaded to write for a purpose instead of purely for his own amusement. Perhaps it was the catalyst of breathing the same air as Hans Christian Andersen.   Paul’s IT guru (aka his talented daughter) has recently constructed a website for him:             www.paulmcdermottbooks.webs.com Paul frequently lurks at:  www.thewriterschatroom.com  (Sundays & Wednesdays)   Blurb: In 1945, U-boat Kapitän Herbert Nollau must deliver a weapon which will turn the war in Germany’s favour. His orders are delivered verbally. There will be no written records... and no witnesses.  Alone, far from home, hunted by the Danish Resistance and the might of the Allied Forces, he must obey either his final Orders…or the inner voice of his conscience. Excerpt:  ÜberlojtnantHerbert Nollau stood with his Zeiss nightglasses glued to his eyes, impervious to the rain whipped across his cheeks by half a gale. This howled almost exactly at ninety degrees to the tide, which had just reached the full but had not yet begun its retreat. His command craft, U-534, sat uneasily at anchor, dipping at bow and stern in the current, yawing appreciably as frequent Force Ten gusts buffeted her broad flanks. Low, heavy rainclouds hunkered closer, seeming to settle on the upper branches of the natural pine forest which spread untamed, unculled, across the low hills of Schleswig-Holstein. An identical pair of black Opel staff cars bracketed a canvas bodied Mercedes half-track transport wagon, all three vehicles picking their way carefully along an unmarked country road. The headlights were taped down to the size and shape of a feral cat's vertical slits, acknowledging the strict rules governing all traffic during the hours of darkness. The road to the harbour just outside Lübeck was neither tarmac’ed nor enhanced with any form of lighting. The drivers were obliged to steer cautiously around every twist, using the gears and brakes more frequently than the accelerator. "Amateurs!" he thought to himself, as the three sets of headlights crawled slowly closer. He blanked the thought as soon as it intruded on his consciousness, forcing himself back into State-approved Wehrmacht thinking, based on purely practical matters directly related to carrying out current instructions, with maximum efficiency, without question. He pulled the collar of his oilskins closer around his throat in a futile attempt to prevent the rain from seeping through, soaking his uniform. Raising his night glasses once more, he cursed the weather, the Wehrmacht and the world in general, feeling more exposed and vulnerable with every minute that passed as he waited for the convoy of lights to crawl closer, carrying the equipment which he had been ordered to collect. It bothered him that he was expected to set sail immediately, and await orders concerning his destination by radio once he had cleared the bay and entered Store Bælt: technically, that section of the North Sea was neutral Danish waters, and if he were to remain on the surface for any length of time in order to receive orders … As the lights snaked around another pair of curves and began their final descent to the shoreline and the jetty where U534 was waiting, Herbert Nollau realized that he had on board a much more powerful sender/receiver than any other U-boat: in fact, not just one but tworadios equipped with the Enigma cryptographic programme had been installed, ostensibly for testing. With a sudden jolt, the deceptively young-looking Überlojtnant realized that this technology was far more sophisticated than that which had previously been regarded as the best in the world: apart from being guaranteed unbreakable as a code, it could also send and receive radio signals without his craft needing to surface. He shook his head to clear the worst of the pools which had formed in the upturned brim of his sou’wester and made his way down the ladder bolted to the side of the conning tower, aiming to be waiting on the quay before the three vehicles wheezed to a halt. His mechanic’s ear analysed and diagnosed a list of faults he could clearly identify from the laboured chugging of each engine. Furious at this indication of inefficiency, a corner of his mind decided that he would have had the senior officer responsible for each vehicle court-martialled, if the decision had been up to him. In spite of the horrors he had witnessed in three years of naval warfare, he shuddered. His orders, distasteful though they might be, were crystal clear … Two gaunt, silent shadows slid with simultaneous choreography from the rear seat of each of the Opels: their sleek black trenchcoats almost touched the planks of the jetty, glistening in the starlight as if the officers wearing them had been marching for hours in the rain rather than just stepping out of a warm, dry car. Nollau fired off his most formal salute: the four SS-officers responded with a world-weary, bent-elbow half-salute and pointedly refrained from returning Nollau’s “Heil, Hitler!”One detached himself for a moment and gave a hand-signal to the driver of the canvas-sided truck.  The driver immediately hammered his fist twice on the bulkhead behind his seat. Four soldiers appeared over the tailgate of the wagon and began to manoeuvre something long and heavy out of the cargo space. Turning to face his command meant that Herbert Nollau had to turn his back on the four staff officers. Somehow he managed to do this with an insolence which stated quite clearly that, as far as he was concerned, they were barely worthy of his contempt. He placed a small, shrill whistle to his lips and blew, one long (but not overloud) blast. Within ten seconds, the deck was populated by about twenty matelots, standing at ease, who somehow contrived to arrive from nowhere and in total silence. Close to the bows, and just for’ard of ’midships , cables were deployed from two small jib cranes. Within seconds, the submariner crew were on the jetty, taking the unidentified cargo from the shoulders of the four soldiers and hoisting it with ease onto the foredeck, thence by some lightningfast legerdemain out of sight below decks. The crew had followed, leaving Überlojtnant Nollau as the only member of the Senior Service still on the jetty. At a silent gesture from one of the anonymous black trenchcoats the four soldiers climbed back over the tailgate, into the truck. After about four attempts, the driver managed to coax the engine into life and began to back and fill, facing back the way he had come. As he completed the manoeuvre and gunned the engine to set off up the hill, the four SS officers opened their trenchcoats to reveal the muzzles of rapid fire MP40 machine pistols. With one accord they raised their weapons and sent round after deadly round of ammunition into both the cab and the rear of the vehicle, holding the triggers steady. Before the hail of bullets ceased, the fuel tanks of the wagon exploded, sending flames soaring high into the night sky, setting small fires in the tree tops as they lost their intensity and curled back towards the ground. Suddenly, Herbert Nollau’s orders seemed fractionally less dishonourable. Having emptied their weapons, the four executioners appeared to have rediscovered some of their habitual swagger and pride. Crashing the butts of the now-empty weapons against the rough wooden planking of the jetty they raised their right arms to the fullest, and screamed: “Heil, Hitler!” as their heels crashed together in perfect unison.             Sick to his stomach at the pleasure his countrymen took from the callous murder of fellow Germans, it was all Herbert Nollau could do to raise his arm, bent-elbowed, in the less formal salute he would never under normal circumstances have accepted from others nor used himself.     The Spear of Destinyis available at:   Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/component/virtuemart/historical-fiction/the-spear-of-destiny-detail?Itemid=0 Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06ZZKRH5K/ Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/718491
James Austin McCormick is a college lecturer from Manchester, England and his free time enjoy writing speculative fiction, mostly science fiction, horror and a little sword and sorcery fantasy. He is also a particular fan of classic Gothic and Victorian horror tales and is currently in the process of writing updated versions of these with a science fiction spin. BLURB for Dragon: The Tower of Tamerlane:  
After the death of the Tuolon Ambassador Lagua and the failure to bring the non-humanoid worlds into the Alliance, Sillow and Brok’s long partnership is finally at an end. Now a reluctant solo agent, Sillow is called upon to undertake his first mission, investigate the Tower, a high-tech prison complex along with the oligarch who runs it, a mysterious nobleman who calls himself Tamerlane. Seeking evidence to prove Tamerlane is responsible for a series of terrorist attacks, Sillow quickly uncovers the sheer scale of his plans, a lethal military strike on all four humanoid home worlds. Caught and imprisoned however, the Sylvan finds himself helpless to warn the Alliance of the coming danger. All the while, something has been evolving, growing stronger inside the Tower, something intangible yet far more dangerous than Tamerlane ever could be, a being implacably opposed to all life in the galaxy. And only Sillow has any chance of stopping it.
EXCERPT from Dragon: The Tower of Tamerlane:   Laser fire and shouts echoed as Sillow was thrown headlong into the cell. “What are you?” a female voiced asked. “Some type of green midget?” Sillow groaned and tried to get up. He settled for a slumped kneeling position. “I’m a Sylvan,” he replied. He squinted into the shadows and saw a figure seated on the upper berth of a bunk. He could make out little apart from a muscular, yet shapely pair of legs. “Who are you?” The figure jumped down from the bunk. She was an Amazonian, strong and athletic with an impressive cleavage and long chestnut hair falling around her shoulders. She wasalso extremely pretty despite the artificial eye and cheek implant. She stretched out a perfectly formed silver arm, extending her hand. “Titanya.” 
Sillow’s eyes widened. “The Pirate Queen?” The woman nodded. The Sylvan took her cybernetic hand and let himself be hauled to his feet. He found himself head high to her magnificent chest. 
“Sillow,” he replied, smiling at her breasts. “I’m from the Alliance.” “Up here, short stuff,” the woman told him. Slowly and very reluctantly, Sillow turned his attention upwards. He grinned. “Nice to meet you.” Outside, cries and weapon fire continued to echo through the halls. Titanya frowned. “Any idea what all that’s about?” “Whole place is going crazy,” the Sylvan replied. “Something got into Tamerlane’s AI system.” The woman took a couple of tentative steps toward the door. Screams echoed through the walls. “Sounds like a warzone out there,” she remarked. “You sure the AI is causing all this?” Sillow frowned. “You know, this is going to sound kind of crazy but…” he paused, running a hand over his pointed chin. “What?” Titanya demanded. “Well, it kind of looks like the one causing all this is Darius Drake. You heard of the guy?” “Oh yeah,” the Earth woman answered. “We’ve met.” “Well, somehow he’s put himself into the computer system.” Sillow gave an embarrassed shrug. “Sounds sort of off the wall I know.” There was a sudden explosion and flames tore through the slits at the top of the door. “Look out.” Sillow threw himself at Titanya, knocking her off balance and sending her tumbling to the floor. The Sylvan landed on top of her, head buried in her thick auburn

locks. A fireball tore past them, turning the bunks into cinder. It was some moments before Sillow glanced up. He found himself looking at the stern, beautiful features of the Terran woman. “You okay?” he asked. “Just so you know, that was me protecting you.” “Just so you know,” Titanya replied, “under any other circumstances I’d have busted your jaw for that.” Sillow grinned. “You mean saving your life?” Titanya flung the little Sylvan back onto his feet. “Yeah, right. I can’t believe a pipsqueak like you got the drop on me.”

BUY LINKS: 
  Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/component/virtuemart/science-fiction/dragon-the-tower-of-tamerlane-593-detail?Itemid=0   Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Dragon-Tamerlane-James-Austin-McCormick-ebook/dp/B011MNZQ52/ref=la_B00F3F9SGY_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1470566864&sr=1-7  
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dragon-Tamerlane-James-Austin-McCormick/dp/1938703634/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1470585322&sr=1-7&keywords=James+Austin+McCormick  Find out more about James at:

  Facebook https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJamesAustinMcCormick/ Twitter https://twitter.com/jimbomcc69 Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9860555.James_Austin_McCormick Amazon https://www.amazon.com/James-McCormick/e/B00F3F9SGY Class Act Books http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/our-authors/manufacturers/james-austin-mccormick  

Rick McQuiston is a forty-six year old father of two who loves anything horror related.  By day, he works for a family-owned construction and management company. By night, he churns out horror fiction. Rick has well over 300 publications so far. He’s written seven anthologies, one book of novellas, and edited an anthology of Michigan authors. He’s also a guest author each year at Memphis Junior High School, and is currently working on his fifth novel, a Cthulhu-based anthology. Rick currently has two novels with Class Act Books:  Fear the Sky and When Only the Nightmare Remains, which was voted #2 in Horror for 2015 by the Paranormal Romance GuIld’s Reviewer’s Choice.
Blurb: A town sheriff and three young boys manage to overcome an evil entity threatening their town. Excerpt: Emily nudged closer and closer to the spider-webbed pane of glass. The window offered little in the way of a view—being octagonal and no larger than a dinner plate— but what it did reveal was adequate to say the least. It allowed anyone gazing through it to see the lush rolling landscape surrounding the house…and all it contained.  Feeling her already weak heart pound heavily in her chest, Emily scanned the grounds intently, watching for any signs of movement, for any hint of life. For any signs of William. She held the Book tightly in her small hands, refusing to relinquish it to anything or anyone. She had only scratched the surface of its contents, but that was stillenough to impart its importance to her.  Her eyes moistened with tears as  she thought of earlier, happier times in her life and her marriage to William.  She should have been thinking about raising a family and planting flowers around the front porch of her home. She should have been thinking about what to cook for dinner when her husband returned home from a hard day’s work. All these simple notions, ones so many young people took for granted, were well beyond her grasp. In their place were terrifying visions of a dim future. Or worse—no future at all. Movement caught her eye, sending a fresh batch of fear down her already frail spine. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and stared at the spot where she thought she had seensomething. It took only a few seconds before her fears were confirmed. Something had moved. She was sure of it, but it was not easily noticeable. Whatever was lurking in thedense foliage was crafty and using stealth to its advantage. Despite expecting it, Emily found herself cringing from the implications. She knew what it was, slithering around the fields, worming its way closer and closer with each passing minute. She also knew that eventually, inevitably, it would reach her house. Her house. It was her house and hers alone since her beloved husband died earlier that year. Nearly eight cold, empty months had passed since that fateful day when a
bullet found its way into his forehead, killing him instantly. Some said that it was a suicide. Perhaps it was, but Emily was not so sure. William had no reason to kill himself. The pain of that day pushed its way into Emily’s heart, so slowly at first as to be almost unnoticeable, but gradually increasing in its intensity. William had been a good man anda good husband, at least he was before he had changed into a cold, cruel person wholly incapable of compassion or love. Emily stepped back from the window and slumped into a small, worn leatherback chair. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and the alluring thought of sleep entered her mind more than once. She ignored it. She had too many problems, too many things to think about to be able to enjoy a good rest. Not that she didn’t deserve it. Outside the house, nestled snugly within the green vegetation of the fields, something waited for its chance to move, to advance toward the house and reach a solitaryfigure huddled in the attic of the building, and end her life.   Buy links for When Only the Nightmare Remains: Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/When-Only-Nightmare-Remains-McQuiston-ebook/dp/B00NKX4TAG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479149882&sr=8-1&keywords=When+only+the+nightmare+remains Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/when-only-the-nightmare-remains-rick-mcquiston/1120364310?ean=2940046171884 Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/476484   Find out more about Rick at: Publisher's website: www.classactbooks.com Author's website: www.many-midnights.com

Nothing this week. Taking a break. See you next week.

Nothing this week. Taking a break. See you next week.

Guest Author Walter Giersbach of Manchester, New Jersey.

I was pleased to discover Walter's stories on commuterlit.com and he agreed to be our guest this week and share one of his tales, as well as what inspired it.



Walt Giersbach’s fiction and articles have appeared in more than a score of print and online magazines.  Two volumes of short stories, Cruising the Green of Second Avenue, have been published by Wild Child.  He also served for three decades as director of communications for Fortune 500 companies, helped publicize the Connecticut Film Festival, managed publicity and programs for Western Connecticut State University’s Haas Library, and moderates a writing group in New Jersey.  Living in Taiwan for a year gave him a second home.  Having an Asian-born spouse immediately placed him in the enviable cultural position of sharing in two worlds and celebrating twice as many holidays.    He can be contacted at w.giersbach@att.netand blogs at http://allotropiclucubrations.blogspot.com/.
   Back Story: Test of English by Walt Giersbach   I completed “Test of English as a Foreign Language” several years ago, but the germ of the story has gnawed at me for many years — actually since 1979 when I returned to Taiwan on a business trip.  I met up with my wife’s girlfriend who had married an American, lived several  years in the States, and came back when her husband was reassigned to Taiwan.  It was poignant when I saw her treated as an American hwa-chiao (foreigner on a homeland visit) in Taipei’s marketplace, but as a bargirl when she tried calling her husband stationed at a military post.    She was no longer Taiwanese and not yet American.  Of the many stories I know about bi-national people, this one stood out.  
I wondered if perhaps we’re all expatriates of one sort of another as we swim through any murky pool filled with strangers.  I’ve always had a creepy feeling about being a tourist — buying a vacation, looking confused in a new city, acting gawky and “foreign.”  Perhaps it’s because I used to scorn the clots of people clustered in midtown Manhattan, holding maps and looking at the skyscrapers as though waiting for God to be their Gray Lines tour guide.  While I was rushing across town on some mission of capital importance, I’d have to stop and detour around these Ausländers in their blousy sports shirts and khaki shorts.       So add to the expatriate syndrome in “Test of English” the despair of a dead child and a divorced husband and you have the making of a universal tension.  Key to writing the story was the characters’ realizing how hard it is to be accepted.  Rightly or wrongly, Shirley felt Americans were “predisposed to believe that American men only married bargirls.”  Orville, too, had difficulty with his environment, saying, “It was all getting to me.  The telephones and car horns.  Fire sirens, even chatter at parties.  It was all like a toothache. It was getting on my nerves.” How can feeling like a stranger be otherwise when store clerks answer an expat’s question by turning to her spouse, when locals are perplexed by an unfamiliar accent, or when an in-law ingratiatingly says all children or women in [insert country name] are beautiful or intrinsically smart or better at sports?  These are the preconceptions — if not prejudices — that all Asians are good at math (and, by extension, at gambling), that immigrants must all have come from a certain class or occupation, and that some people have in-born diet preferences. Let me make a case that there’s a universal feeling of discomfort among expatriates, beginning with Moses coming back to Egypt announcing, “I have been a stranger in a strange land.”  Granted, it’s easier to be an expatriate in the U.S. than, say, in an insular nation like Japan.  America is a nation of immigrants.  A Hungarian engineer once told me, “I worked in Germany for several years, but to them I was always a Hungarian.  In the U.S., I’m called a ‘new American.’” “Test of English as a Foreign Language” tries to approach this situation of apartness.  Writers feel compelled to connect with people, to cross cultural bridges, and to obliterate barriers.  Perhaps through writing and reading — passing our test of English as a foreign language — we can all become assimilated.  For aren’t we all “new Americans” in one way or another? Test of English as a Foreign Language Why bother to go to the Bowlerama, she wondered. It smelled of people’s feet, the sound of balls hitting the pins jangled her nerves, and she never beat her 168 game years ago at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas. Still she returned once a month or so, almost always by herself. At least there was physical action, exercise. In a few days it would be 1972. She should be doing something, anything, tonight.             Strangers — they were mostly strangers in this upstate town on the Hudson River — would stare at her figure, still fit at the age of forty-one. Occasionally, as these very white, often loud wai-guo renstruggled for small talk, they would say offhandedly “You’re tall for a Chinese woman.” Men would ask, “You married? What unit’s he in?” They never wondered what she did for a living, whether she had gone to school, where she worked. They assumed she was an enlisted man’s wife who spent her days at the NCO club. 
            And more assumptions. That she’d been a bargirl in Kaohsiung or Taipei, hooking sailors or soldiers to buy her drinks. They were primed to believe that American men only married bargirls.              Whenever she returned to her parents’ in Yung Ho City, outside of Taipei, the shopkeepers made assumptions, too. They knew from signals given off by her clothes or hair or gestures, that she was American or at least a hwa-chiao on a homeland visit. “Hey, Shirley,” the assistant manager called from behind the desk. He waved when she looked up. A year ago, he’d told her, “Surely, you’re kidding,” when she ordered a pair of size ten bowling shoes. “Shirley? How did you know my name?” she asked. It had been a standing joke. Of course, Ronald the slacker would be in charge. It was Christmas Eve. Who on earth would be bowling on Christmas Eve? There was a young woman with him, chewing gum and leaning over the counter so her breasts hung on her crossed arms. She would go home with the assistant manager. Shirley chose a ball from the ladies’ rack, hefted it and tried several others before she found one to fit her long fingers. She loved the colors of the balls, especially the blue, agate-toned ones. The balls were smooth and impermeable to her feelings, the sweat of her palms, even her hurt and anger.  She was the only player tonight. Everyone in Newburgh would be at home, except for those on duty at Stewart Air Force Base. A cough made her turn to the banquette that formed a horseshoe-shaped arena behind her lane. Players usually extended courtesies to each other, careful not to invade a bowler’s single-minded concentration or their wish to bowl alone. “Guess we’re the only ones here. Want to play together?”  The man wore civilian clothes, but his short haircut telegraphed the fact that he was military. Because no one else was playing, ordinary courtesies here might be suspended tonight, Christmas Eve. “Okay, I guess.” She wasn’t attracted to short hair. It brought back too many memories, and this man had cut his almost to fuzz — like a five o’clock shadow on his head. Her own hair still fell below her shoulders and was brushed to a silky dark shine — not black, but the color of mahogany. “I’m Orville,” the man said. “Got off duty and haven’t found a party worth going to. And you?” “I’m Shirley.” His eyes went up and down her body, slowly. “Ni shr Chung-hwo ren?”  His accent was terrible. Americans could never form their lips around foreign languages. “Yes, I’m Chinese. Taiwanese, but American citizen.” “You met your husband in Taiwan. I was there once.” This man seemed proud of his reasoning. She knew what he thought. Any Asian woman must have been brought by a husband to the Land of the Big PX, full of glorious stores, fully stocked supermarkets, lots of TV channels. “Family?” he asked. “No husband. No kids. Not any more, so you do not need to feel nervous.” She flipped her hair back. It was a gender symbol of defiance. She could say the word “divorce” as easily now as she could talk about the price of bread and eggs going up because of President Nixon. Quiet anger soaked all conversations about the economy, politics, war, the culture. Perhaps it was frustration over not being sure any path wasn’t aimless. Other things were harder to speak of, like the body bags being unloaded from the C-47 Skytrains. Like the little coffin that had contained her son. The airmen sometimes called the airplanes Gooney Birds, an undignified way of referring to an airborne coffin.  She bowled an entire game without speaking to the man, with none of the chatter about missing a split, keeping your wrist straight or ending your approach with your toe on the same spot. Occasionally, he turned and gave her an open smile, one without meaning. This made her wonder if she’d hurt his feelings, whether he was now asking how the hell to get to the next step with this cold bitch. Or maybe he was just dense and stupid. He ended with a score of 210, but she wasn’t apologetic about her 134. When she bowled, she felt no competition. A score was just a place mark, digits that told her the balls had hit the pins or they hadn’t. Like so many things now, it was a matter of no consequence. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked. “It’s too soon to go to sleep.” She took a moment to digest the fact that he hadn’t said go to bed, which could be an invitation filled with a great many presumptions. “Sleep comes when it comes,” she answered. “Sleep is like a cat you are chasing to bring it home. It doesn’t want to be caught.”             Surprisingly, Orville didn’t guide her to the bowling alley bar and coffee shop where a few people were nursing drinks. He took her to his car and drove her through the thin snow down Route 9W to a restaurant.  “Favorite place of mine,” he said parking and walking around to open her door. “The owner came from Tuscany. That’s in Italy. When I was in language school, assigned to NATO, I really fell in love with Italy. As a kid, I moved around a lot. I never really had a home. So,” he laughed, “I find places I really like and call them home. Really.” “You say really a lot, don’t you?” She didn’t chide him. It was simply an observation. Reallymeant a person might not be terribly sure of his or her reality. He paused to roll her comment around in his mind, the way a person might try a strange dish on his tongue. “Really means it’s the truth and there’s no other interpretation.”  The man was an agreeable surprise — so far — on Christmas Eve. There had been other Christmases and surprises that hadn’t been so nice. Her husband Whit had often gotten drunk, and Christmas was an especially good excuse to get stinko, get mad, and then slam the front door on his way out of the house. Her simple response, after the pain and humiliation of having Whit walk naked in front of her parents, was to say He is sick, sick in the heart and the soul — and he doesn’t know it.
The restaurant was almost empty, but had comfortable warmth from the votive candles and linens on the tables. It was like a church for the disenchanted, or maybe Italian ghosts. When Orville had seated her at a table, she decided she wanted a brandy. “Who can drink coffee on Christmas Eve?” She said it with what she hoped was a light tone. “I agree completely,” he said, signaling the owner. “Cognac — Hennessey VSOP if you have it.” “You know,” she said, “the best seller in Hong Kong is brandy. No one drinks vodka or gin. No Chinese. Only the English.” “Really?”  “Brandy is the color of gold. I learned that when I went there on R and R.” “You were on R and R?” “No. Sorry. I went with my husband. He was an alcoholic, so now I don’t drink. Almost never.” The waiter placed the drinks and Orville silently toasted Shirley. “I wonder if being an alcoholic is just a substitute for wanting love. That’s what psychiatrists say.” She took a quick sip, wet her lips and leaned forward. “You can think of all the substitutes you want.” She searched for the words. “There is no substitute for looking things in the eye. Not backing away. Not giving up. I was married and lost my husband. I had a son and lost him. I had education in Taiwan and stateside, I have a green card and earn my living as an accountant. I pay my own rent — no alimony. I have never given up.” “I admire that,” he said. “I admire you holding on and fighting back.” “Now, tell me about yourself.” He shrugged. Was it humility or an affectation? She didn’t want to know too much about this Orville, why he was so smart in language school and still in the military. And why he was alone on Christmas Eve. Knowing too much about someone tied you to him with a knot. Talking led to feelings of closeness, and closeness led to attachments. It was a triangle that could wind around your neck like a rope and drag you under water. Her husband, her son, this American dream world all threatened to pull her under the waves to an inviting cool darkness that spelled submission. “I was raised in the south, in Texas.”  She nodded, remembering Lackland. “I did the usual stuff. High school and college and then….” His voice trailed off and he impulsively lifted the Cognac to his lips. “I kind of had a breakdown. Nerves, the doctor said. I quit college.” He lifted the glass again. “See, it was all getting to me. The telephones and car horns. Fire sirens, even chatter at parties. It was all like a toothache. It was getting on my nerves.  I just wanted to…yank that fucking tooth out.” He muttered an apology for saying fuck. “It was static in my head. Static, like a radio station that isn’t tuned in right. ” Shirley stared, hoping she appeared sympathetic. 
He shrugged again. “I quit school and joined the Air Force. I was good at languages. I learned to speak schoolbook Spanish as a kid. Even studied French out of a book I got at a library sale. When they gave me the language test,” he laughed, “it was nothing but Esperanto!” She nodded her head, not knowing what Esperanto was, but he seemed to take it as understanding. “I was that way with business,” she said. “Accounting. Numbers are easy.” Unbelievably, he said maybe it was a racial ability. “I never knew a Chinese who wasn’t good at business.” “Like gambling, they say.” He wasn’t ignorant, this Orville. He absorbed information, like the smattering of pidgin Chinese he had picked up. “It’s all communication. Italian, Chinese. Just another way people relate to each other. Sign language, body language. Even the clothes they wear. The red sweater you have.” He pointed to Shirley’s breasts. “Happy color. Positive. Outgoing and gregarious.”  “Christmassy,” she explained. “Not dressing like an FOB.” “What?” “Fresh off the Boat Chinese girl.”  She decided he talked too much. Maybe it was to drown out this static in his head. She wanted to go home and make a cup of tea. The Cognac was making her head woozy, but being with this man was something, and on Christmas Eve something — someone — was better than the vacuum of reading a book or calling Taiwan to speak to her mother. Orville wasn’t a bad person or a stupid person. Just something she couldn’t find the English word for.  “Is Shirley your real name or one you picked up, you know, for convenience?” He had changed the subject again.  “It’s my real name. My legal name, too. My Chinese name is Mei-Fun. Lee.” “Lee is your last name? Your Chinese name?” “No. My ex-husband’s name.” “So, how did you meet your husband?” A very direct question, but not entirely unexpected in this land of pioneers and cowboys where there was no time for nuance. “He was teaching an ESL class. Teaching wasn’t his Air Force job. It was something to do when he was off duty. I was studying for my TOEFL to get into college here.”  TOEFL brought a frown to his face. “Test of English as a Foreign Language.” *   *   * Orville was perfunctory in his love-making.  Short in duration, attentive but not offering any illusions. Each of them needed to be satisfied in some way as the snow fell outside, and this was a simple expedient. Shirley got up afterwards and went into the bathroom to wash. Then she returned to Orville’s bed while he went in. When he returned, she thought about putting on her bra and panties, although there was no reason. It was no matter to her now whether she remained nude or dressed, whether he wanted to make love again or not, whether she stayed there or went home. “I was just thinking,” the man said. “About movies. You know what I like about Chinese movies?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “They have really great characters. Great subtle story lines.” “Plot?” “Plot, yes. I didn’t know if you knew that word, so I said. . . .” “My degree is in accounting, but I read a lot.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began waving his hands in enthusiasm. “The thing with Chinese movies now is that they imitate American films. The subtlety has disappeared since they made Crouching Tiger.” “That was made by a Taiwanese.” She looked at his face more closely, approvingly, in spite of his ridiculous haircut. “Americans want a snappy ending. Real closure that wraps up all the loose ends. Aaand,” he drew out the word to emphasize it, “they prefer the ending have fiery explosions and bodies flying through the air. There has to be some guy who was shot, but he sits up with a gun and has to be killed for good. And the hero needs to say a catchy phrase then, like ‘Make my day’ or ‘I told you smoking’s bad for your health.’” He laughed. “Surprise endings. Something that makes the audience say, ‘Shit, I wasn’t expecting that.’” She stared at him. “Closure?” “Ending. Finality.” The man seemed disappointed that she hadn’t responded to his critique of movie-making. He reached over and fondled her breast, and he mounted her again, but he couldn’t get an erection so they lay side by side. *   *   * “So, let me get this straight,” he said. They had gotten dressed and were driving back to Newburgh. The snow was a silent blessing over the world, a promise that the children would have a white Christmas when they woke up. “You and your ex met in Taiwan and then you both came to the States?” “Lackland, then Stewart. Then he was reassigned back to Taipei. I went with him. My parents were there. I knew a U.S. accounting firm here so I came back. Afterwards.” “And your child. What happened?” “It’s a long story. Some other time, maybe.” “You know,” he said. “I was in Taiwan. TDY for two months. Maybe I knew your husband. What’s his name?” “Whit. Whit Lee.” “Whit? What kind of name is that?” She shrugged. “Whitman, I think. We lived in Tien Mou. Outside Taipei.” He shook his head. There was no recognition.  
“This is my place,” she said. It was a two-lane street lined with one-story houses in a vaguely Cape Cod style. The snow and darkness made them look more identical than they would otherwise. Snow and darkness treated people the same way. “I hate to say good night,” the man said. “We’re just getting to know each other. Can I come inside?” “No, not tonight. But we can talk for a minute or two. Then I have to go.” “So you mentioned a kid. Your child. Where’s he — or she? Taiwan?” She sighed and watched the snow begin to thicken on the windshield like sticky rice. “I had gone to work, to do the accounting at a friend’s business in Taipei. I left my husband to take care of our little boy. He was one year old. Whit got drunk and fell asleep on the couch with a cigarette. He burned down the house and killed our son. He escaped. Our son could not. That’s why we’re divorced.” “Holy shit,” the man said. “That’s terrible.” She grimaced. “Closure. You weren’t expecting that.” She opened the door and got out. “Thank you for a very nice time. Watch out for the static.” “Can I see you again?” What a stupid question, she thought. They would see each other or not. She turned back to the car. “In your movie, about the guy who’s supposed to be dead but isn’t. Should I have killed my husband?” “Closure. End of story.” “I think in a Chinese movie I would have killed myself.”


Thank you Walter for being our guest and for your excellent story.

I mentioned above that Walter has other stories published on commuterlit. com and you find them here





Thank you faithful reader for visiting this week.

Class Act Publishing Guest Authors

    South Branch Scribbler  
 
....helps you find new authors....this is the second series of the Class Act Publishing assemblage. Meet three more storytellers.

Class Act Books is a royalty-paying publisher of electronic and trade paperback novels and novellas, with the goal of providing quality fiction at a reasonable price in all media: paperback (available exclusively on the publisher's website), Kindle, pdf, Mobi, and eBook.

After coming under new ownership in 2013, the publishing commitment was changed from only romance to all genres and they now feature Westerns, Adventure, SciFi, M/M, and Horror among their titles. Class Act Books offers standalone novels as well as series, and features award-winning authors. Titles are available on the website as well as Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords. They are also featured on the UK, French, German, Japanese and Italian versions of Amazon.com.



Website:  www.classactbooks.com
Blog: www.classactbooks.blogspot.com 



Kenneth Gordon lives in Milford, NH. When he isn’t writing SciFi-infused horror novels, he plays PC games, electric and acoustic guitars, and drums. He also holds a brown belt in Kung Fu.
 
Ken has written five SciFi/Horror novels for Class Act Books: Dark City, Cadre of Vampires, Harmonic Convergence, In My Blood, and Dirus Sonus.
 
 

Excerpt from Dark City: 
“I’ve been promoted. I am now in my boss’ position.” Joe flailed his arms with glee.

“That’s great. Congratulations!” they all said in unison.
“Where’s Joe?”
“I don’t know. He just left. An appointment I guess,” Sarah responded.
“The ’droids are settin’ things up, so I’ll stay out of their hair for a bit.” Something was off, but he couldn’t pin it down. “I’ll find him,” he told himself and bolted for his new office.
The androids had done their work quicker than expected, and Jeremiah’s office was quiet when he got there. He had to use the scanner to get in. Immediately, he was taken aback. On his desk were pictures of his family that he didn’t put there. Setting that thought aside for the moment, he jacked into the phone system and sent the sequence to dial.
 He called Joe’s office. No answer. A moment later, he called the central office to see if Joe could be located.
The automated attendant replied, “We are sorry, that person is no longer employed at this company.”
A sense of panic raised the hair on the back of his neck. Immediately, he ran with every ounce of strength to his friend’s office. It was empty. No trace that Joe worked thereor had ever worked there was found. It was swept clean.

 
“Maybe I went to the wrong place,” he thought. “All these offices look the same.”
To his own chagrin, he knew too well the location of his friend’s office. The paranoia built to a steady state when, upon finding his other compatriots, they had no knowledge
that Joe had ever been part of their group. Jeremiah’s heart sank. He even checked the payroll office and no trace of his friend could be found.
There was no mistake. Joe had been intentionally erased.
Learn more about Ken at:Web Site: http://kennethgordonnovelist.com/
FB page: https://www.facebook.com/KennethGordonNovelist/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KennethGordon69
Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/our-authors/manufacturers/kenneth-gordon  
Buy Links:


Dark City: Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/component/virtuemart/science-fiction/dark-city-689-detail?Itemid=0
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Dark-City-Kenneth-Gordon-ebook/dp/B01FOOX3DW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1469976535&sr=8-1&keywords=Dark+City+by+Kenneth+gordon#navbar



Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-City-Kenneth-Gordon/dp/1938703901/
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/636567
 

 

***
 
Icy Snow Blackstone was born in 1802, in northern Georgia where her father, the Reverend John Blackstone, was prominent in local politics. Two hundred and five years later, her great-great-great-great-granddaughter began using her name as a pseudonym for her romance novels. The present Icy Snow Blackstone lives far from her Southern roots in Lancaster County, Nebraska, where she continues to write romances.  Her novel Tuesday’s Child was award Best in Contemporary Romance by the Paranormal Romance Guild’s Critics Choice in 2014, while her SciFi romance Earthman’s Bride won first in the Maryland Romance Writer’s “Reveal Your Inner Vixen” Contest. Her Three Moon series has won awards as a series and also for individual novels. Icy Snow currently has eleven novels published by Class Act Books.
 
Excerpt from Three Moon Station:
 
“Mr. Trant. I guess we’d better have that talk now,” she began and he nodded soberly. “There’s so much we need to discuss. W-we haven’t even talked about how much I’ll be paid.”
 “What would you consider fair payment, Katy?” He asked it very softly, his expression serious.
“I guess that’s up to you. What do you think my services are worth?”
“Truthfully? I doubt I have that much money.” He looked a little flustered. “The women in town…at Larkin’s…ge’ ten Federals per toss, so…”
“I’m sorry,” Katy interrupted. “What’s a toss?”
“Maybe they call it something else on Terra.” He startled her by seizing her shoulders, saying with an earnestness that made her frown, “Katy, I want you to know I’ll ne’er holdyour old life against you.”


She smiled at this statement of reverse snobbery. Since she had no intention of ever letting him know that her uncle was one of the richest and most criminally unscrupulous men on Terra’s Northern Hemisphere, she didn’t answer.
“How about you pay me five hundred credits a month? For services rendered?”
“What kind of services?” he asked, suspiciously.
“The usual kind.” She shrugged, wondering why he looked even more confused. “I think we should get one thing straight, though. I’m grateful for your saving me from Alwin Marsten, and I fully intend to uphold my end of the Agreement and work hard for you b-but…” Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself free of his grasp. “I won’t sleepwith you.”
 
“Na right now, you mean.” He didn’t look too upset.


“Not ever.” She shook her head, adding, “I’m sorry.”
“’Tis I who’s sorry, Sunshine, most definitely. But I do na understand. If you intend to adhere to that contract, how can you refuse to—”
“I’m certain the Federation didn’t send me here to satisfy the lust of some sex-starved colonist, Mr. Trant.”
“Is that what you think I am? A sex-starved colonist?”
He didn’t look insulted as she expected, just a little more bewildered.
 She took a deep breath. He’d obviously expected it to be so easy. “I’ll be a good housekeeper, Mr. Trant but I just won’t sleep with my employer. I can’t.”
“Employer?” he repeated. “That’s what you think I am? Your employer?”
 “Of course,” she nodded. “You hired me to be your housekeeper—”
He stopped whatever else she was going to say, by laughing out loud. “Sunshine, I’m na your employer. I’m your husband.” 
 

Information on Icy Snow and buy links can be found at: 
Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/our-authors/manufacturer/icy-snow-blackstone

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Snow-Blackstone/e/B002E420HQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1514836998&sr=1-2-ent
Youtube Trailer for Three Moon Station: https://youtu.be/TiRNGguyPdc


 
 
***
 
Jeremy Higley was born in California, raised in Alabama, and now lives in Arizona. As of 2016, he's a graduate student working on a master’s degree in English, as well as an instructional aide at a local elementary school, a novelist, and a contributing editor for a nonprofit student success company called LifeBound. Jeremy’s debut novel with Class Act Books is The Son of Dark, the first book in the Darksome Thorn series, a young adult fantasy. 
 

Excerpt from The Son of Dark:   Marga pointed to the south. Zar didn’t turn, but he heard a gasp of recognition from Skel. 

 
 


“Aja-aja,” he said with concern. “Three of them, about two miles away.”
Zar sighed in trepidation. The aja-aja were rare, enormous snakes prowling the Eltar plains, preying on elephants and any herders foolish enough to attack them. They had three heads each and stocky, powerful bodies to match, and could grow to over forty feet long. They killed and then predigested their prey by spitting streams of corrosive poison from their mouths.
“The aja-aja will be no problem,” he bluffed, staring into Marga’s eyes. “I have two magic-users with me now, a wizard and a Phage. They’re perfectly capable of dispatching a few overgrown snakes.”
“If so, then I’ll simply have to wait longer to be reunited with my precious one,” the Wyvern said, eyeing the flattened snake corpses around her.
Something inside Zar began to burn like a fuse at the words “precious one.”
“You knew her before, I presume,” he continued, his voice much quieter. “Before you kidnapped her, I mean, and took over her mind.”
“She was mine to take,” the Wyvern retorted through Marga’s lips. “She was always mine to take.”
The last words hissed from Marga’s mouth like a challenge. Zar’s fingers wrapped around his sword’s hilt. He wanted nothing more at this moment than a way to strike at
his enemy, but the Wyvern was far, far away.
“If you want her,” Zar said, “you’ll have to kill me.”
“Too risky,” the Wyvern replied. “You crave nothing more than to die for her. To kill you might break my grip.”
“If you don’t kill me she will never truly be yours,” Zar said. He walked to within an arm’s length of her. “As long as there’s breath in me, I will always be fighting to freeher.” 
 
 

Learn about Jeremy:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jeremy.higley.3?fref=ts 

                   https://www.facebook.com/darksomethorn/
LinkedIn:  https://www.linkedin.com/in/jeremy-higley-93b0b418
Google+: https://plus.google.com/100303315189666735431
Youtube Trailer: https://youtu.be/svt6n7Rv2Lw


 Buy Links:   

Publishers Website: http://www.classactbooks.com/index.php/component/virtuemart/cat-young-adult/the-son-of-dark-tales-of-the-darksome-thorn-book-1-detail?Itemid=0

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Kindle-eBooks/b?ie=UTF8&node=154606011
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Son-Dark-Darksome-Thorn-Book-ebook/dp/B01IG983XC/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=U
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/650660
   
Thank you to Class Act for bringing these guests to our attention. Watch for the next series in two weeks.


















 
   

Guest Author Robbie Cheadle of South Africa

  Robbie was born in London in the United Kingdom. Her father died when she was three months old and her mother immigrated to South Africa with her tiny baby girl. Robbie has lived in Johannesburg, George and Cape Town in South Africa and attended fourteen different schools. This gave her lots of opportunities to meet new people and learn lots of social skills as she was frequently “the new girl”.
Robbie is a qualified Chartered Accountant and specialises in corporate finance with a specific interest in listed entities and stock markets. Robbie has written a number of publications on listing equities and debt instruments in Africa and foreign direct investment into Africa.
Robbie is married to Terence Cheadle and they have two lovely boys, Gregory and Michael. Michael (aged 11) is the co-author of the Sir Chocolate series of books and attends school in Johannesburg. Gregory (aged 14) is an avid reader and assists Robbie and Michael with filming and editing their YouTube videos and editing their books. Robbie is also the author of the new Silly Willy series the first of which, Silly Willy goes to Cape Town, is now available. 





Why did I publish the Sir Chocolate books?
I have always been a great reader. I learned how to read when I was four years old and that was the beginning of a wonderful voyage of discovery. I read everything I could get my hands on; Beatrix Potter, Enid Blyton, C.S. Lewis, L.M. Montgomery and a myriad of classical authors. I went on adventures up the Faraway Tree, anguished over the death of Beth in Little Woman, explored the prairies of America with Laura Ingalls Wilder, flew with Wendy and her brothers in Peter Pan and grew bigger and smaller with Alice in Alice in Wonderland.
By the time I was ten years old I had exhausted all the books in our local library and the school library. I had seven library cards, four were mine and three I pinched from my younger sister. I used to ride my bicycle to our local library twice a week and take out seven books at a time. I used to read, curled up in a chair in my room while snacking on Marie biscuits dipped in milk.
I was attending a convent in George in the Western Cape at this point in my life, one of the fourteen schools I attended, and I had a wonderful teacher, Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha started providing me with some very unusual and interesting books. The ones that I remember most notably were I am David, When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, Fattifpuffs and Thinifers, The Diary of Anne Frank, Child of Satan, Child of God (a personal account by Susan Atkins of life and death with the infamous Manson family), Mafeking Road: and other stories by Charles Bosman (a book that gives insight into Afrikaner life in the late 19thcentury) and, eventually, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
These books made a deep impression on me and I have never forgotten any of them. I have copies of these books in my adult home and have re-read all of them as an adult. My son, Gregory, a big reader in his own right now, has read some of these as well. I can still remember sitting and reading A Tale of Two Cities with a dictionary. I used to look up the words I didn’t know and write them down in a notebook. One word I have always remembered looking up was “countenance”.  Who was to know that this interesting word meant face?
 I developed a love of classical books and went on to read most of Dickens’ books, Great Expectations is my favourite, the creepy old lady in a wedding dress spending her days among the decaying cake and remnants of a wedding feast bored into my young mind. I also discovered my three favourite classics, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, Journal of a Plague Year by Daniel De foe and Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.
During my youth there seemed to be so many wonderful books to read and most of them were inspirational. They showed you people to be hard working, brave and adventurous and highlighted respect for faith, family and friends as being very important.
So, what has my reading journey as a child and young adult got to do with my own writing? Two things.
Firstly, I was inspired to start writing down my thoughts, little poems and other ideas because of reading L.M. Montgomery’s trilogy about Emily of New Moon. This book depicts a young girl who loses her mother at a very young age and then her father when she is ten years old. Emily loves to write and, although writing, and especially poetry, is considered to be a frivolous waste of time by the elderly maiden aunt relative who takes her into her home, she continues to write, expanding into poetry and short stories. The book is partly a journey of Emily’s development as a writer and poet and I found it very inspiring when I read it on entering high school when I was twelve years old. I recently acquired the audio book of Emily of New Moon and my younger son, Michael, was totally entranced by this story. He listened to all twelve hours of this book in a week and that is pretty impressive for an eleven-year-old boy.
If a book can make such a big impression on someone’s life, then surely books are very important items and deserve to be treated as such. The content of books must be such that it encourages the best in our impressionable children.    
The second reason that I decided to publish Michael and my Sir Chocolate books was linked to the first reason in that I became very disillusioned with modern children’s books.
When I had my own children, it gave me great pleasure to read to them when they were small. We revisited all my old favourites and some of them we just about wore out with re-reading. A favourite of Michael’s was the Faraway Tree trilogy by Enid Blyton. I think I could recite those books for you. Gregory learned to read by himself very quickly, but Michael took a bit longer so when we had exhausted all the books I had read as a child, I set about trying to find some new books for us to read together and for me to continue to read to Michael.
I was disappointed and saddened by the content of many of the modern books I bought. A lot of these books seemed to poke fun at the things I deemed to be important like family. The youngsters were portrayed as being rude, precocious and devious to their parents and authority figures. They were also disloyal and deceitful to their friends and teachers. I did not like the concepts embedded in a lot of these books, and so I started writing little stories with Michael to read to him and his cousins who frequently visited. Over time, we started illustrating the stories with fondant creations as baking and fondant art was another hobby we used to do together, and I started reading these books to the children at my Church.
  One of my friends knew a small publisher of books and she suggested that I submit my books to Anne Samson from TSL Publications to see if she was interested in them. She was and so Michael and my publishing journey began. Like all things in life, writing and illustrating a book for children seems to be about 10% talent and 90% hard work but we have persevered and are pleased to see some interest being generated in our books. We included five simple recipes in each of our books with the aim that our little story and cook books would encourage baking activities and other imaginary play between caregivers and their children. Our fondant artworks can be reproduced in plasticine or play dough and I have even seen on industrious little boy try to make a cake out of mud.    
Of course, there are plenty of wonderful modern children’s books. I absolutely love the Winnie the Witch series of books. I have also discovered Indie books over the past few years and this has also opened a whole new reading world for me. I have found some marvelous book series to read with Michael which both of us enjoy and which have messaging that I am comfortable with. It is a great thing that there are so many wonderful children’s authors out there writing amazing books for children.
Thank you, Allan, for providing Michael and I will this opportunity to visit you at The Scribbler and share some of our thoughts on reading and writing.   


It is our absolute pleasure having you as our guest this week Robbie. It's been fun to read about the development of your books and characters. We wish you continued success with your writing.





Follow Robbie Cheadle at:Blog: robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15584446.Robbie_Cheadle
Facebook: @SirChocolateBooks
Plus.google: https://plus.google.com/105609586198905397891 


Purchase Sir Chocolate and Silly Willy at:https://www.amazon.com/author/robbiecheadleORhttp://tinyurl.com/zdokqjr (currently available at a discounted price)