Allan Hudson's Blog, page 42

Class Act Publishing - 3 Guest Authors.

 The Scribbler

...........is such a cool place to hang out that we have been approached by Class Act Publishing to feature their cast of authors and we are thrilled to help out. This week you can meet the first 3.





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  


     Juanita Aydlette was born in Shreveport, Louisiana. What started out as a
childhood obsession with magical creatures in storybooks, became a passion in later years. She creats such magic in her first novel It’s in the Blood, which was a Top Ten finisher in the 2016 Preditors & Editors readers Poll in the “Young Adult Novel” category. Juanita challenges her imagination to bring readers into her world of romance, suspense and fear of the unknown. Her upcoming novel Blood Ties continues this paranormal romance series.
 


Excerpt from It’s in the Blood:
 
Away from the open menagerie was a path surrounded by dense trees. It was across a narrow decorative bridge built into the landscape. The thick greenery provided a shady side to the open garden. After only a few yards inside the cover of the trees, my body was seized by a rumble and a frightening snarl. A chill blanketed me and I couldn’t move. I didn’t dare look around, for the back of my blouse had already been saturated by the heated moisture from the breath of the beast. My first instinct was to scream, but fear had stolen my voice. So I took a deep breath and held it. The scent of horror filled my lungs. It was familiar. Was I being stalked by the animal that lurked outside my hotel grounds?  
Help me please, rang inside my head. My eyes squeezed shut as its sharp fangs pinched my shoulder. Tears filled my eyes and my hands formed a fist. I waited to feel my bones snap when suddenly, it let go. The leaves crunched. The sound grew fainter by the second, then nothing. My eyes remained closed as I trembled and listened.
“Miss? Are you okay?” A woman’s voice severed my nightmare. 
Without hesitation I ran past her, clutching my throat and sobbing. The other tourists were boarding the van and I made my way to the back.
When the bus stopped, I ran from the tourist center to the hotel. Once inside the bathroom, I stripped and examined my shoulder. A painful bruise was both in front and in back. I cried out loud, shook convulsively, and then laughed hysterically. Was I going mad?
   

Find out more about Juanita at:
https://www.facebook.com/juanita.aydlette




http://thesouloffiction.com/
https://www.facebook.com/Class-Act-Books-279355422086332/?fref=ts
Twitter: @Juanita Aydlette 
Youtube Trailer for It’s in the Blood: https://youtu.be/K6IzSGAVSxM
 
BUY LINKS: 
Publisher’s website: http://www.classactbooks.com/component/virtuemart/cat-fantasy/it-s-in-the-blood-716-detail?Itemid=0
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Its-Blood-Juanita-Aydlette-ebook/dp/B01KEC287G/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1471477043&sr=8-3&keywords=It%27s+in+the+Blood







 
***
 
Linda J. Burson is an author from Connecticut. After years of writing and editing for others, Linda decided to tackle her first romantic suspense novel entitled Rage, which began as a single book, eventually became a trilogy, and finally a series. There are currently six novels in the Marcy series. Linda’s novel Rage placed in the Top Ten in “Best Thrillers” in 2016, and in 2016, she was in the Top Ten in Preditors and Editors Readers Poll in the “Best Author”  category. Her novel The Agreement was also in the Top Ten under “Best Thrillers.”
 





Excerpt from Rage:
 
The tears are pouring down my cheeks. I can’t believe this. This man was in love with me from the moment he saw me, and he knew nothing about me.
I understand it because I seemed to feel a sense about him from the beginning. I let him in my home late at night, a perfect stranger, but I felt it was all right. It’s like my soul was speaking to me as well. Maybe I’m as crazy as he is.
What I don’t understand is if we were meant to be together, why did I meet Brad? Why am I in love with two men? I’m so confused. No wonder he doesn’t mind coming here and staying. This place is his sanctuary. It’s our place…a place where no one can take me away from him.
Find out more about Linda at:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Lbursonbooks/?fref=ts 


Instagram:  www.instagram.com/lindajeanburson 
Website is lindaburson.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2258525.Linda_Burson
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Linda-Burson/e/B016SOB3S4
Twitter: @lindaburson23
Youtube Trailer for Rage: https://youtu.be/jYrpurqFtUw
Buy Links:
Rage: https://www.amazon.com/Rage-Linda-Burson/dp/193870374X/
Confusion: https://www.amazon.com/Confusion-Marcy-2-Linda-Burson/dp/1938703782/
Agony and Ecstasy: https://www.amazon.com/Agony-Ecstasy-Marcy-Linda-Burson/dp/193870388X/
The Agreement: https://www.amazon.com/Agreement-Marcy-Book-4-ebook/dp/B01IG982NS/
  The Past Returns: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MYMGCH5/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1479186993&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Past+Returns+by+Linda+Burson
Caught in a Lie: https://www.amazon.com/Caught-Lie-Mar...
Also available at the publisher’s website: www.classactbooks.com
 
***
 
Jack Frost is a Louisiana native now living in Lincoln, NE.  After 40 years in media news, starting out in radio, and ending as a news director in television, Jack retired in 2002, but continues as a spokesman for senior citizens in a once a week interview broadcast on KOLN/KGIN-TV in Lincoln. Jack writes political thrillers set in Louisiana. Class Act Books has published three of his Jake Coleman novels, Dead Man’s Hand, Cold Deck, and Stacked Deck.
 







Excerpt from Dead Man’s Hand:
 The General took a deep breath and launched into what would direct my life for many years to come.
“The sheriff came to see me yesterday. They’re still looking into the accident that took the life of that unfortunate girl. He wants to know who was driving the car and whether the driver had been drinking.”
I stared at the General in astonishment.
“Cornelius says he doesn’t remember anything about that night,” he added before I could speak. “I’m wondering if you may have been behind the wheel. They found another tux coat near the wreckage, all torn up and a whiskey bottle crushed in the pocket. They think that coat was yours. The sheriff wants to charge you with vehicular homicide.”
My skin went cold. My mind was in turmoil trying to absorb what the General had said.
 “Sir,” I finally was able to speak. “It was Trey who was driving. He’d been drinking. I hadn’t.”
“Now, Jake. Let’s be reasonable. You know Cornelius would own up to this if he had been driving. But that night is a blank to him. Cornelius just got notified he has been chosen as a candidate to West Point. I know we can come to some sort of agreement here.”
  He got to the real reason he was there.
  “I can make the charges go away that the district attorney wants to file against you. And I can make sure you and your mother never have to worry about anything as long as you live.”
The General spelled out specifics of his proposal without actually admitting anything incriminating about his son’s involvement. It was a well thought out plan.
I was stunned, but I was thinking. He had achieved his purpose. I had a bleak future except for what the General had offered. Over Mother’s protests, I agreed to his terms.
With a half million dollars deposited in my mother’s name, I went to court the next month and pleaded no contest to vehicular homicide. My probation was contingent upon me joining a branch of military service. The General wanted me out of sight…and out of mind.
 Buy Link: 
Publisher’s website; www.classactbooks.com/our-authors/manufacturer/jack-frost

Amazon: Dead Man’s Hand: http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Mans-Hand-Coleman-Mystery-ebook/dp/B013XLVGBE/

Stacked Deck: https://www.amazon.com/Stacked-Deck-Jake-Coleman-Mystery-ebook/dp/B016NGFHNO/

Cold Deck: https://www.amazon.com/Cold-Deck-Jake-Coleman-Mystery-ebook/dp/B015DC4W6W/  

 
  
 




Thanks for visiting dear readers. Some great choices to pick from for your next read. Class Act will be back in two weeks with three more authors, don't miss it.



***This post is not an endorsement of Class Act Publishing but rather an opportunity presented by them to meet their authors and the Scribbler is happy to accommodate. Please visit their website for more information and submission details

    Wall of War Available now on amazon.com and amazon.ca

The Shattered Figurine - Chapter 8.

Like Crime stories?

The Shattered Figurine took shape a few years ago as a short story and it evolved from there. It's nowhere near being finished yet but it's fun sharing as I go. You can read more if you like by clicking on the page bar above, or here but this excerpt is a sample of what's going on with Detectives Jo Naylor and Adam Thorne.








Detective Jo Naylor surveys the decrepit two-storey structure she faces, her left hand lightly caressing her throat where a garrote had tightened around her neck no more than nine hours earlier. Her esophagus still hurts when she swallows. Jonathan Dunsmore had tried to take her life last night. She now stands outside his last known address. Her right hand reaches around behind her back, under her jacket, and undoes the security strap on her waist holster. Her Glock is free to draw. She is not sure she wants to know what is inside the depressed rooming house.  Trying to digest the info her partner, Adam Thorne, had given her earlier connecting her father and the man that had attempted to kill her, she becomes hypnotized by a loose shutter on the second floor that hangs from one screw. For a few moments she is lost in concentration.
Thorne covers her back when he sees she is deep in thought. They had both agreed it was unlikely Dunsmore would be in his room, but he is taking no chances and studies his surroundings. A brisk November breeze sallies south on Blueberry Street, bringing a chill. The sun is not yet over the buildings, so they are poised in the long shadows. He closes the top button on his sport coat as he turns to inspect the used car lot across the road on the corner of Main, less than half a block away. The owner, a rotund, back-slapping man, is showing a young man a red car, something Japanese.
Thorne’s attention shifts to one of the two houses across the road when two kids bustle through the front door, school bags slung on their backs, lunch bags swinging as they rush off the front porch. Both boys – one several years older – are laughing and chatting non-stop as they hasten toward Main. They pay no attention to the two people on the opposite sidewalk. Other than the dull grey cop car they came in, Thorne and Naylor don’t look like police officers.
Turning to face the boarding house, Thorne gazes at the homes to his left that continue to the top of the dead-end street. A postman is walking away from him six or seven houses away on the same side of the street. He can see several more children heading toward Main, probably to catch a school bus. The houses are all old but well kept, lots of shrubs with bare branches. The odd car is parked here and there, but there’s no traffic. The only blight on the street is the rooming house he and his partner are about to enter.
He gazes at Jo, waiting for her to come out of her reverie. He can’t imagine what she must be feeling. He recalls the day they arrested her father, the day she found out he had killed the three young girls whose deaths they were investigating. It has taken her many months to get over it all – the newspapers, the trial, her father’s final incarceration in the prison where he’d been warden for over twenty-five years. And now the father of one of the victims has tried to kill her.  He shakes his head in disbelief and decides he’ll give her a few more minutes and then they’d go in.
Naylor is reliving the terrible memories; they flash through her mind like fireworks – the young girls, the broken figurine she’d found, the day she’d walked into her father’s house for the last time, his attempted suicide, the day they took him to prison, the intense publicity that followed and the healing that is taking forever. Returning to work had been difficult; but in the end work became her saviour, taking her mind off the dreadful past. Until now. Now she is the daughter someone wants to kill. The realization makes her weak, makes her shoulders sag. A gentle hand on her back returns her mind to reality.
“What do you think, Jo? You don’t have to do this, you know. It wouldn’t be a big deal if we pass this on to Burger and Fries!”
Naylor looks back at her partner with a grin. Burger and Fries are Ted Burgess and Cornelius Friesen, two other detectives on the force. Each man tips the scales at close to 200 and it’s not all muscle. Both men share a fondness for burgers and jokingly call each other Wimpy 1 and Wimpy 2. The rest of the force calls them Burger and Fries. The mention of the two oversized cops offers Jo relief from her dire memories and causes her to laugh. The two share a light moment until Thorne says, “Let’s get on it, Jo. We’ll go have a look and see if we can put a stop to this menace.”
Naylor nods at her partner, thankful for his understanding. 
“You’re right; and thanks, Adam.”
He offers his serious smile.
“Hey, we’re partners!”
Thorne takes the lead even though he is the junior officer. The concrete pads forming the walkway to the front porch are cracked and uneven, so Thorne treads carefully as he approaches the front porch. The steps are the only thing that’s new, and the wood is still white while the rest of the narrow porch is weathered. There is a doorbell on the left. The center of the push button is missing, but the tiny yellow light inside is still intact. On the left are a black 1 and 5 affixed to the siding, level with the doorbell. A piece of white plastic the size of a postcard is affixed under the numbers. Thorne has to bend down to read it.
Rooms to Let
555-223-0009
Joseph Spangler
Mgr.
 
The name is printed in indelible black marker. Black smudges around it attest to the recent change in manager. Thorne pushes on the worn button, points at the plaque and says, “That’s a good omen, another Joe. Let’s see how co-operative he’s going to be.”
“Maybe we should go by the book on this one and get a warrant.”
Thorne looks at Naylor, eyebrows raised.
“That never stopped you before, and besides I think any judge would agree that this is hot pursuit. We know he committed a crime; he could be here.”
They are interrupted by the door opening. The heated air that greets the detectives reeks of old furniture and marijuana. A short, stocky man peers out at them with scrunched eyes. Long greyish wisps of hair haphazardly cover a pale dome. White stubble covers his lower face. His dark-blue housecoat is worn and tightly belted around the waist. Neck, calves and feet are bare. His temperament is foul.
“Whadda ya want? There’s no rooms available.”
He eyes the two strangers, noting their well-tailored attire, and frowns at Thorne. “This ain’t no rent-by-the-hour pad, Jack.”
Thorne ignores the man for a moment, turns to grin at Naylor, who is on his left and slightly behind him.
“This is going to be easy.”
Naylor is staring the man down. “And enjoyable.”
Thorne reaches into his right inside pocket and retrieves his ID and badge. Flipping it open directly under the man’s nose, he says, “You Spangler?”
The manager quickly recognizes the brass gleam of a policeman’s badge even without his glasses.
“Aw, shit!”
He tries to close the door, but Thorne steps in and pushes the man gently back. Again Thorne turns and speaks to Naylor. “Do you smell marijuana, Detective Naylor?”
She is watching the nervous twitch in the man’s left eyes when she replies. “I believe I do, Detective Thorne. I bet if we looked around, we might find out why.”
Spangler backs toward an open door to his right, reaches into the room and pulls the door shut.
“You guys need a warrant for that. I ain’t stupid, you know.”
Josephine Naylor might be slight, but she is cast in steel. The glare from her eyes can freeze the hardest of criminals. She steps closer to the manager, taller than him by a good six inches, and says, “If you’re in possession of marijuana, Mr. Spangler, I could take you to jail. I could arrest you right now. There’s an itch in my skull that suggests you might’ve been in trouble with the law before. Maybe we should dig around a bit. What do you think?”
Spangler is sufficiently cowed to drop his boldness. He is on probation until the end of the year, two months away, for his third DUI conviction. He drops his gaze but remains mute. Thorne plays the good cop and explains they really just want to know about Dunsmore. How long has he been here? When did Spangler last see him? What’s he like? Any trouble with him? Jo is taking notes as the men speak. Spangler, relieved that he is not their target, can’t stop talking.
“…I haven’t seen the jerk in two days. He owes three weeks rent, and he promised me he would have it by tomorrow. Seeing as you’re here looking for him, I ain’t likely to see that now, am I?”
Naylor answers him: “I wouldn’t count on it, Mr. Spangler. The man is wanted for attempted murder, and I suggest that if you do see him, you lock your doors and call us ASAP.”
This shakes Spangler up. He wrings his hands in a nervous manner and remains quiet. Thorne says, “How about you let us take a look in his room?”
“I don’t know about that. I think I should call the owner first.”
Naylor looks Spangler in the eye as she says, “Sure, why don’t you do that, and we’ll check your room while we’re waiting.”
Spangler sticks his chin out defiantly and says, “Hang on a minute and I’ll get you the key.”
“Good idea.”
Spangler opens the door to his room, enters and shuts the door firmly behind him. While he is retrieving the key, the detectives look around. There is a stairway directly in front of them on the left side of the hallway which extends back into the kitchen. A living room can be seen through an open archway on the right. The moldings around the doors and windows are dark stained wood marred with nicks and scratches. An old couch with yellowed fabric sits against the far wall under a narrow window. A matching chair sits beside it. In the middle of the room is an ornate French provincial coffee table that looks as out of place as a meat tray at a vegan convention. Several magazines lay on top, alongside a glass ashtray full of butts. Dust covers almost everything. The floors are hardwood and dull, in need of polish.
Spangler opens his door and extends an arm, holding a shiny brass key attached to a silver ring with a white paper fob, like the one used at a car repair shop when they tag your keys. It has a large 2 marked on it.
“Here, fill yur boots.”
Naylor takes the key and says, “What about the other tenants?”
“No one here but me. Both old John in # 1 and Reggie in #3 work at the meat packing plant in the Industrial Park and they leave here at 6 a.m. If Dunsmore ain’t comin’ back, when can I get rid of his junk?”
“Don’t touch anything, Mr. Spangler; don’t even go in the room until we say you can. Depending on what we find, the room might be off limits for a while. We’ll let you know.”
Spangler grimaces and shakes his head.
“Well, keep the key then. I have another.”
He shuts his door again, muttering something about lowlifes.
The detectives draw their weapons even though Spangler confirmed Dunsmore is gone. Naylor leads the way up the stairs. Off the landing at the top, there are four doors, two facing them, one on the right and one on the left. The left door is open and the detectives can see a toilet with the seat up. A towel lays on the floor by a white vanity. The door facing them, to the right, has a crude 2 scrawled on it in black marker. Thorne steps around his partner and says sotto voce, “Let me go first, Jo.”
“Being chivalrous are we?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
Thorne takes the key and, before he slides it into the keyhole in the knob, he places his ear to the door to listen. Naylor is holding her weapon with both hands, pointed at the door. Thorne knocks on the door with a knuckle and waits for a moment. When there is no response, he turns the key until there is an audible click, then turns the knob. Shoving the door open quickly, he steps into the room with his weapon at eye level. The door swings into the wall with a slight bang.
The scene before them is shocking. Naylor drops her hands to her side and gasps.
The wall facing them is covered with blown-up photos of her. The image in each one is the same, taken from the front page of the local paper when her father was on trial a year ago. Naylor had been leaving the courthouse when the photographer caught her image with a zoom lens. The look on her face is one of sorrow. The headline that day had read, “Randolph Naylor Convicted of Murder!” The same headline hovers above each print in bold black letters. The shocking part of what Thorne and Naylor see is the large hunting knife stuck in the wall, in the center photo, in the middle of Detective Josephine Naylor’s face.  

Thank you Dear Reader for dropping in.





Help me out here; Why would a penitentiary warden go on a killing rampage? What could three young girls - strangers to each other - have in common? 
Feel free to leave a comment below, would love to hear from you.

Part 2 of "Night Index" by Guest Author Ryan Madej -.

.....and here's the rest of the story!

There has been a terrific response to Ryan's story when I posted Part 1 on Saturday past. If you missed it then pleased scroll down to the end or go HERE!


My name is Ryan Madej and I began writing in my teens. Just this past summer I finished my fourth book entitled The Threshold and the Key, the final volume in a novella/memoir cycle that I’ve worked on for the past 20 years. My style is in the experimental vein because I find that playing with form in the fragmented way that I do plays to how I think memory works. The short story I’m submitting was originally published in Infinity’s Kitchen no 6, that showcases works to an American audience. It’s my pleasure to show it to my fellow Canadians.

Night Index....continued,

  H: Halcyon
 
Where the fuck is he? What is taking him so long? But I digress. I find comfort in the past as most people do by drowning in the familiar. Over the course of the last few months a kind of bomb has gone off in my mind. A time bomb. Literally a bomb that erases the present, insofar as only the immediate is of any interest to me, and the rest of my days are spent living in situations that are only tangible through the lens in my head. One piece in particular has been floating around as of late, taking me back into that deep fluorescent gray sphere of my memory. I must have been about ten years old at the time, wandering around in the garden trying to catch those cabbage butterflies with a makeshift net, feeling only the deep swell of well being that is common amongst most kids, only there is something wrong with the scene as it progresses. The longer I play the wind picks up, the clouds gather, and I come to realize that perhaps this didn't happen at all. My idea of memory is only a disguise for imagination, and the longer I wait for him to come see me, the more I know that what I see through that lens, the more it needs actualization. 

I: Icicles  
I'm surprised she hasn't texted me yet. Perhaps I'm just taking my time in order to push her buttons. The streetlights have just come on and I realize I'm running late, knowing that she will be pacing back and forth in her apartment pissed off that I'm not in her arms. Good.  As we draw nearer, the more my feelings for her linger in an odd space between strong affection and coldness. If nothing else I've achieved a sort of control with her. I can hang over her now like those icicles on the eaves of houses...
J: Jealousy  
Third cigarette. I decided to open the bottle and drink a little in order to calm my nerves. Maybe he has decided to forget me and fuck some other girl. The topic did come up once when we were lying naked on the bed and turned away from another, me looking out the window of my bedroom, and his eyes gazing into the mirror in the corner, perhaps staring at the curve of my back. I asked him if he would ever tire of the games we played with one another. Without turning over, he said in a soft, almost boyish voice that he didn't know but that every game, no matter how intricate and pleasurable, would inevitably end with one side being defeated.  I asked him what he meant. All he did was chuckle.   
K: Kabuki 

As I walk over the High Gate bridge, brightly lit and empty, I feel a void inside me. Nothing. Odd that she wouldn't make an effort to try to contact me in order to see where I was. Perhaps our relationship is different from others—yes, definitely different. But different how? What is it about us that make us unique? The way she looks at me when I touch her is more the look of a little girl than a woman, and perhaps that is what I find to be the most appealing aspect about her. How she wriggles beneath my hands as I stroke her skin or touch her breast as though she is resisting me. It is responses like that—subtle and intensely erotic—which make me believe they hide something about her. I will never know. Like a kabuki dancer upon the stage acting out the movements of a story, she covers her inner world with beautiful make-up.
L: Letters, Lies  
We were having a drink on a rooftop bar during the summer—a night suffused with a sticky heat and a growing mutual drunkenness—when I think he asked me if I had ever received a love letter from someone. My head swimming with whiskey, I asked him to repeat the question. Instead he produced a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me, his eyes three quarters closed and his breath thick with the smell of Bombay gin. Leaning back in my chair and lighting another slim cigarillo, I put the letter up to the dim patio lantern and began to read: Funny how in this age of distances and isolation I came to find you across those great distances on a computer screen. Lonely is no longer a word I know since I found you. I remember laughing. I also remember how incredibly empty his words sounded. But again, I found him interesting despite his tacky lies. When I looked over at him again something silver flashed in his hands. He smiled and showed me the tiny knife he was playing with in the growing moonlight. 
 
: Millennium 
   I see her apartment off in the distance, the pallid light coming from the living room in thin streams. Pausing in the street, more deserted now than before, I lean against a lamppost taking a flask from my coat and sip slowly. Looking up at her balcony I have the feeling that I won't return here after tonight. Just call it a hunch. Maybe I have grown tired and bored in much the same way when we entered this new century and realized I have gone nowhere but inward away from the light. Many people claim to know where they are going and how they will get there.I've just let impulse drive me to where I need to be. I throw the flask into the street.   

N: Nihilism  
I'll be ready once he does arrive. After all this time together I've finally learned how to see, and by opening my eyes wider than ever before, I understand what I must do. In order to move forward, one must break the mirror and walk barefoot over thepieces. Only then can I truly understand what I've been trying to destroy all these years without regret. Perhaps deep down he even wants me to do it for him, because maybe he is thinking the exact same thing. Nothing left. 
O: Origins  
Someone once said that this universe is possessed by war and games. I would go so far to add that in the midst of that great miasma of energy that brought us here to this point in time, death would have to be the third.

 


P: Pipe dreams
Images change in my head. Moving away from those of his beautiful face and into that place where butterflies play and roses bloom. Some call that paradise. I call that an impossibility, even though the images are so clear and alive. I step outside onto the balcony and breathe in the emerging night air, all cool and dead, and look westward seeing only the faint glimmer of the day that passed...That and what I thought was real with him.
 
 
Q: Questions 
I ask myself: Where did this all start going wrong? Answer: When our eyes met under the glare of those black lights. 

R: Rain
 







 Why is that when we are so close to the end of a given situation that our minds give way to distant memories? Even now, especially now, I remember the presence of rain as that natural process stirring my thoughts as the vivid darkness set in. The sting of leaving this apartment in the middle of the night when the streets were still and filled with deep puddles, mysterious unwanted tears matching the landscape, always indicated I was heading somewhere I didn't want to go. Not this time. Tonight the cycle is broken. Tonight I act. Tonight I transcend.
 


S: Snakes
The lobby has several chairs that sit beside a small wall fountain whose vertical ripples remind me of a dream I had of snakes, or rather of one snake in particular. The room— it always tends to be a room with no windows or doors for quick escape—is dimlylit and the snake lies coiled near a slow burning candle, rearing its sleek head as I approach. We study one another in way that is uncanny as though we share some sort of symbiosis, then the mouth opens. Only then do I accept that I will not survive...I close my eyes and smile.
  T: Tears 

Turning off the lights, I sit down with my head pressed to the door, listening for the elevator door to open and his soft approach down the hall. My bitterness has turned to tears. Large, salty tears that run down my cheeks and neck into my cleavage. I can almost feel his fingers there, and I shudder to think that he touched me so many times. I try not to breathe deeply so any tiny sound reaches my ears, even my heartbeat which seems dangerously slow. Somehow, I knew this night would be memorable.
 

U: Unicorn 

As I ride up in the rickety frame of the elevator, the sounds of Vangelis flood my ears—Memories of Green, Blade Runner soundtrack. And as the sounds give way to the scrutiny of memory, the vivid image of Decker's unicorn comes to mind inmuch the same way it did to him, almost like a dream. Just as he may have thought the image was not really his, but planted there by those who created him, I begin to think that nothing has ever really been mine...even her.  

V: Vendetta 
One can only assume what they will do in any given situation until they are actually  confronted with that situation. Now, as I hold the blade in my hand, I give in to what I've always felt: a desire to see an ending. 
W: Walking  

I like to walk in silence, for in silence one comes to know the slow moving current of the universe and the dynamics of change. Someone told me that once. It might have been her, actually. Sounds like something written on a fortune cookie, but agrain of truth nonetheless.  The hallway is still; I must tread lightly so I don't destroy what I have just created. All I have to do now is walk through her door.
 
X: X-rays 
Once the mirror is broken, the reflection is gone and one can truly see the other. Or rather, one can now see through the other. 
Y: Y chromosome 
My hand grazes the doorknob and my breathing slows. She never locks the door, for she is the inviting type and I'm always welcome. The man, or in this case insect, drawn into the web of the widow spider, suddenly paralyzed and put to sleep. How tired I've become. She has sensed my fatigue and prepared a bed for me to lie down in. Thank you for everything.
 Z: Zenith 
I can almost taste him now. Lightly licking the edge of the blade, my hunger pangs reach their peak. Tonight, I dine alone.  



Thank you Ryan for sharing your story. Well done!
 
For any of you readers that want to reach Ryan, send him an email at ryan.madej@outlook.com



Please leave a comment below and/or your name for a chance to win a copy of Wall r War to be drawn for January 31/2018.


 

Guest Author Ryan Madej of Western Canada.

2017 is almost over. This is the last post of the year and the Scribbler is pleased to have Ryan share one of his stories.    My name is Ryan Madej and I began writing in my teens. Just this past summer I finished my fourth book entitled The Threshold and the Key, the final volume in a novella/memoir cycle that I’ve worked on for the past 20 years. My style is in the experimental vein because I find that playing with form in the fragmented way that I do plays to how I think memory works. The short story I’m submitting was originally published in Infinity’s Kitchen no 6, that showcases works to an American audience. It’s my pleasure to show it to my fellow Canadians. 
Night Index (A sample from the story - copyright held by the author.)


A:  Archive
A kind of modest radiance trickled through my mind as I leave the Archive on Friday,
only to be presented with a sickening taste of my last meal welling up in my throat as I
stop to button up my coat. The streetlights are just coming on as the light blue
fluorescence of twilight, always so vast and deeply meaningful to me in some obscure
way, begins fading and giving way to a quiet evening. Taking out my cell-phone I notice a text glowing in red letters: Don't be late tonight by any means. I miss you. I chuckle to myself, knowing that being late was our way of seducing one another; or to put it another way: a direction in which to fool one another with mirrors.
B: Barbiturates, Benjamin (Walter), Black Lights
 
The stage is set for another evening of transparent dreaming. That is what this strange
arrangement has become when I sit down and think about it hard. We didn't know each
other prior to hooking up...I mean, who does that anymore, right? But that evening four
months ago when I opened my inbox on that dating site I knew I had found something
interesting. Not special, mind you, but something interesting. I could tell by the words
and phrases he used in describing himself he was not ordinary like a lot of other men I
had met recently with their greasy charm, and on top of that, small penises. He didn't give himself away; he remained hidden, or at least partially seen when I threw tough questions at him. He didn't flinch in anyway.  The more he looked at me—in a way that wasn't bewitching, but hardly familiar—the more I felt like I had tapped into something rarely observed. Call it a hunch or womanly intuition, but I unearthed a diamond in his gaze and then I was his. He sat there across from me in that black light lounge sipping his whiskey in an almost half-hearted way, and after a time we said nothing more at all. I felt like there was no barrier anymore, perhaps because he was a stranger with no knowledge of who or what I was, or the inclinations and desires I kept only to myself. Through the course of our first few hours together we found that we had a mutual appreciation for Walter Benjamin; in particular his great, unfinished magnum opus The Arcades Project. We talked of the flaneur and how wandering the streets of Paris with no
true intention but to wander had more appeal than doing a shit load of drugs, which
he admitted he had done anyway when he was young. I had no choice but to admit
the same, maybe just to impress him, when really all I had ever done was a lot barbiturates when I needed a vast amount of sleep.  And yes, my sleep became more
interesting as well...
C: Calls in the middle of the night
 
I tend to take my time on these nights when we are supposed to meet, more out
of a necessity to prepare myself for the unknown pleasures that wait than anything
else. Still, there are times when she has totally caught me off guard and I would lie
awake in my empty bed wondering what would come next as I lay my head down
to sleep, a heavy gust of wind rattling my window. It was during these reflections
where my mind drifted over past memories of women with less charm, which she would
surprise me with a phone call just as the pain of remembrance served as a narcotic to
bring on sleep. “Did I wake you?...sorry...I had a dream about you and had to tell
you right away.” Without protest I sat up to listen, relieved by the sound of her voice
that washed away those bad memories. I told her it was alright, I hadn’t fallen asleep
yet anyway. Lighting a fresh cigarette for my waiting mouth, she continued almost
breathlessly: “I was walking in the desert somewhere in Mexico. I assumed this because
the only sign I saw outside a ramshackle town I passed through had Spanish phrases.
No one inhabited the town, nor was there any real sign of life. An entirely cloudless
day that would be appealing other than the fact I was alone, watching a series of vultures off in the distance. This is what probably propelled me to investigate. Anyway, once I got closer to where the vultures flew, I could see what looked like a person lying on the ground. Rushing over, the sun blazing in my eyes, I looked down to see that it was you who lay bleeding on the verge of death, eyes closed and murmuring. I remember placing my finger on your cracked lips and that is all." Strangely, I wasn't at all taken aback by her dream, but rather intrigued by the thought of a quiet yet agonizing death in the open desert. More often than not—the cherry of the cigarette nearly burning my fingers as I spoke—I had many playfully morbid fantasies just like the one she described. She stifled a laugh, then apologized for waking me at such a late hour and assured me she would be calling me again soon to meet. Ending the call, I sat in bed for a long time ruminating over the scene she painted from her unconscious, somehow calm and ready to find her in my own dreams with a smile on my face.
D: Daggers
 
How should I put this? Really, there is no clear explanation to my fascination with
daggers a fascination I had forgotten over time—but I can say with a degree of
certainty that once we came to know each other a little better through the miasma of
the erotic exchange, a deep impulse to greet him with one in the future came rushing to
the forefront of my thoughts. The idea almost made me come.





E: E=mc, Elephants
 
The streets are dead tonight. They become deader as the months pass and the waning light of fall inevitably disappears, making the nights seem like endless excursions into a
gradually cooling void called "winter". Lately, when I'm not thinking of her, I watch old stock footage of atomic bomb tests on the Internet, somehow drawn to the deep light
of splitting atoms.  Maybe it's more than that, though. Perhaps it has more to do with
ultimate endings, whether taken up by forces we cannot control or the people behind
them whose intentions seem removed from death until they see, as Oppenheimer did,
the price of knowledge. Bad thoughts to have on such a quiet night. I used to lie on my
bed when I was a kid and imagine an elephant carrying me across the plains, my head
held high, searching out a place to drink water coming down from the mountains. When
I come to realize how far removed I am from innocent memories like those, I tend to
laugh a lot more at what I've become...

F: Fathers, Fingers
 
A bottle of white wine chills in my fridge. Thick blue smoke circles my head. I'm
restless for one reason and one reason alone: him. He always makes me wait and what
inevitably happens is some sort of regression into how and why I've come to this point
in time with such a strange man. Maybe he reminds me of my father—the bastard that
he is—but to imagine such a thing is wasteful and tiresome, even though the more I've
come to notice the similarities between them. The dark hair, the intense gaze, the silences, even the laugh seems so exact.  How didn't I notice this before?  Sometimes the sudden appearance of a new toy makes one forget what it is they are playing with in the first place. But the aspect of him that really surprised me was his fingers and how much
they reminded me of my father's touch. Those gentle fingers wiping away my tears,
even as the smell of whiskey and stale cigarettes wafted in my face, or the other hand
caressed my leg. Glad he's gone. So very glad. I was right in saying this was a waste of
time.
G: Gifts
 
Nothing she has said as of late has pushed me in the right direction. As we've come
closer together a kind of fog has appeared between us obscuring the other. She looks
at me curiously now, searching for that bad seed that she is certain must exist. Her
gaze is close to the truth, that I will not deny, but I want more of her. Every piece.
Every pore. Every strand of hair. Every eyelash. Trophies, gifts, call them what you
like. Is it wrong to want all of someone? The air is so still and the streets so quiet that
 imagine nothing else but the two of us, mimicking each others movements...
    To be continued - The balance of the story will be posted January 1/2018 

4Q Interview with the World's Most Famous Man - Santa Claus

Is anybody busier this time of the year than Santa Claus?
I doubt it and yet he has taken the time to participate in a 4Q Interview for the Scribbler again this year. In 2014 when we had Santa’s first interview we were hoping to make this an annual event back then but the marketing arm of SC Enterprises informed us that there are too many magazines, talk shows, blogs and Christmas gatherings begging for his attention. They did note however, that Mr. Clause was extremely pleased with the last interview (Santa's interview in 2014) and picked The Scribbler for this year’s participation.
 
Thank you Santa for being our guest again. We are humbled that someone so famous would consider the Scribbler for an interview. Due to the popularity of your previous visit, there were many questions posed by our readers so we selected several we felt were interesting. 
 



4Q: We talked about elves previously and there was mention of a retirement fund that had been established for them. One of our readers posed the following question. How old are elves when they retire and where do they go?





SC: Ho Ho Ho, that’s a good question Allan. Although I often speak fondly of my many helpers, no one has asked that before. Prior to the unionization of the elves (UEM&M – Union of Elves, Mystics and Magicians) in 1975, an elf would work most of their life if their health held out and always seemed happy doing so. It never dawned on me that an elf would want leisure years in their old age, I mean they never stop, they rarely get sick, they are always underfoot looking for something to do. How was I to know when they never mentioned it to me?
It all started when Bobbly Longapple the 10th discovered marijuana. He was one of our time-travelers that check up on children throughout the year and while making a stop in Rexton one time to check on the wee ones in the village, he warped into a birthday party for one of the Herbert boys. Something went wrong with his Flow-Dominator and he appeared in the middle of the living room bodily instead of invisible. Everyone freaked out but they all thought it was ‘pretty cool’ after the initial excitement settled. Bobbly was gone for several days without anyone knowing his whereabouts. When he returned, all he talked about was peace, love and happiness. He started talking of “spare time” and when the union formed, mandatory retirement is when an elf reaches 200 years of age.  Most of them go to the Hippy Happy Home, a commune in southwestern Peru. Not many return.
 
4Q: We didn’t have a chance to discuss the reindeer last interview. What makes them so fantastic? I mean, can they really fly or is it all a myth?
SC: Ho, now they’re another thing like elves, very difficult to explain. But think back to when we discussed our ability to manipulate time, they’re part of it. Our reindeer are breed for lightness, sleek bodies with short tails. A Sami family carefully selects the best females from our herds to breed with fertile stags that bear the ancient strain of the original septet. The offspring bear the same names, which will forever be  Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and of course, Rudolph. Everyone knows Rudolph, don’t they? Ho Ho Ho. And before you ask, no, his nose is not red but that song is a cute little diddy. Me and the boys in the band, you remember from our last interview, Merle and Jaspar, we do a jazzier version of it.
Anyway, once they are of age, the get hitched to the sleigh for the first time and a transformation takes place that is so fantastic as to be almost unbelievable. Sparks fly, lightning bolts shoot from the withers, vapors emanate from their bodies and it’s a little scary but no harm is done. After a few moments, the reindeer shakes its body like a dog shedding water until the magic is complete. Then they can cloak themselves in invisibility, fly, easily dodge other flying creatures, navigate in any type of weather and land anywhere. It’s quite a marvelous transition and still amazes me each time it takes place.
 
4Q: One reader that lives in Jamaica wants to know how you get in the houses that have no chimneys.
  


SC: Yes, well not to give away too many secrets, you remember the pass key I mentioned last interview, well the lock manufacturers, since the early 1800’s, have always committed to the Universal Protocol of SC Enterprises that no door would create a barrier to Santa and his gifts. Right up until the 1950’s most homes in the northern climes would have a large chimney and I could easily get in and out (I dislike those jokes about my large ass not fitting into the chimney by the way) but when I visit homes in the warmer regions where chimneys don’t even exist, I always need a way in. That’s where the universal agreement came into effect that I could gain entry using a passkey that would open any door. It’s never failed me yet.
   
I must admit that there have been a few times when I should’ve left the door closed.  For one example, the times when the kids are at the grandparents or away visiting and the parents are left alone and give no thought to keeping their sexual liaisons in the bedroom, know what I mean?  
4Q: Yes, I expect that could be embarrassing Santa. Please tell us about some of your favorite things, like movie stars or food or clothing or whatever.
SC. Ho Ho Ho. Gosh this’ll be fun. Well first off I have to say that there are three ladies in Hollywood that I absolutely adore and make sure that I leave them very special gifts when I visit their house. To be quite frank, I wish I had a bit more time to snoop around their homes and see how they really live but that would be impolite, wouldn’t it? They are Sandra Bullock, Kate Beckinsale and Rachel McAdams, great actresses and very pleasing to look at. I like Ed Harris, a terrific actor and that young Canadian, Ryan Goseling, he was especially good in the new Blade Runner movie.  
My favorite snack foods are Cheezees, Two-Bite Brownies and Hello Dolly Squares (got the recipe for that one from one of the Chiasson girls in Moncton), I mean how else do you think I got this fat. My favorite food is reindeer burgers (thank goodness they can’t read) with plenty of mustard, pickles, hot peppers and tomatoes on Missus Claus’ famous buns. A young girl named Carol left me a butterscotch pie one year that was unforgettable. Other than that, I like guinea pig when I visit Peru, hot tamales from Mexico, pastry from any Parisian café, German strudel, Russian blini, Japanese sushi, anything Chinese and Vito’s pizza when I can get it.
I love reading and most of the authors I enjoy have been on the Scribbler and are way too many to name but I especially enjoy stories from a bunch of writers that live in New Brunswick, I mean, there is so much talent, wow! Best thing to do there is go online to the Writers Federation and check out their members.
I’m an avid snowboarder and ride an old Burton Supermodel. I like long fast boards, none of that short tricky stuff for me. You know that expression, “long boards truck, short boards suck”, well I made that up. 
For music I love listening to Ella Fitzgerald, anything by Dave Brubeck and his sons (Chris Brubeck is awesome on bass), Oscar Peterson on the piano, all the Beatle songs, anything by Luther Chase and Supermoon Den. I know this will baffle a lot of people but I don’t care much for that twangy country music although Shania Twain and Garth Black deserve a listen occasionally. But JJ Cale will always be my favorite musician and I leave a lot of his CDs for Christmas.(photo credit - Luther Chase)  
And of course, I love the kiddies, leaving them gifts and eating the cookies they leave for me. They are what Christmas is all about, family and fun and celebrating the birth of Christ.     Not sure what else to tell you about Allan but I’ve got to end this now. I’m being fitted for another red suit because the last one I had made was in 1953 and even though I only wear it once a year, it’s starting to fray around the edges and I need some new threads. My tailor just arrived and I can see my Greeting Elf removing his blindfold, so take care my friend and have a Merry Christmas. 
Thank you once more Santa for this informative session. I always knew you were real.      And a special Thank You to you for visiting the Scribbler.  Please enter your name for a copy of Wall of War to be drawn January 31/2018. You will have the choice of a paperback or eBook, delivered anywhere in the world.    

Four Boxes of Memories by Allan Hudson

What's your favorite story?



This is one of mine which I wrote several years ago. I am the owner of four boxes of memories and one day I was thinning out the contents and imagined someone doing it for the last time in their lives. That's how this story began.

A compilation of my short stories will be published in 2018 and the book will have the same title.





FOUR BOXES OF MEMORIES (copyright held by author)
Lloyd Minister settled frumpily into his new chair. He drained his busy head of the day’s events resting his foggy colored mane gently on the plush leather. He drew in a huge breath through his nose, the aroma of the tanned hide of his cushioned throne rich and pleasing.  He pulled the handle on the chair side and a footrest responded like a storm trooper, lifting his fatigued legs. On his lap, wrapped in several elastics were a cluster of envelopes that he had kept for many years, nothing special really, the result of a boyish hobby he started over 80 years ago. There wasn’t any room in one of the boxes for it but he couldn’t let them go, it would be losing his own sense of something unique, silly to anyone but him.   He shut his tired and elderly eyes, once a deep brown, now faded of old age. His wrinkled face was wide and square shaped by nature, cheap cigars and the rough seas that blasted winds and water upon his being as he fished the Atlantic Ocean from the time he was a bewildered boy alongside his father. His prodigious hands rested on the arms of the chair, the fingers splayed, they looked like baby squids.  His husky torso was clad in his favourite blue and white plaid shirt that stuck outside of a pair of dark blue Dockers. He was wearing his Dora slippers his four year old granddaughter insisted her Daddy buy for “Gampy”.

He opened his eyes and they were about level with the two little girl explorers on his feet. Like many times before when he laughed at them, he remembered the delight when he wore them for the first time, tiny Gracie danced about overcome with little girl glee, clapping her hands and making him dance in his new slippers, she had a pair the same and he remembered the jolly fun. He laughed now with hearty guffaws until his tummy hurt. He caught a couple of laughing tears with his chunky forefinger.
As his vision cleared he looked around his new home. He had a large bedsitting room, his own washroom, ample fine furniture, a few antiques from his own ancestors and a closet full of good clothes. The walls were bare of course and bore a hellish pink. He had told his son Eugene changing the color would be their first task otherwise he wouldn’t live here. Before Eugene left earlier he assured his old man that they would go shopping tomorrow.
“Don’t worry Dad, we’ll go up to Livingston’s Hardware in the morning and find something with a little less passion, something with some hair on its chest, to make sure people don’t think you’re an old funny guy  with pink walls.”
He smiled thinking of his boy, wrinkles doubled around his eyes.  It was a good thought, safe and cared about. His brief interlude was disrupted as he focused on the four boxes by the front door.
They were simple Banker’s boxes, bought flat, resurrected at your office type. They stood in a straight line in front of the closet, decked out with square brown lids. The significant red numbers on the top of each, from 1 to 4, made them look like toy blocks for an adult. In reality it held the most precious items, the bullion of his life. The contents were the dearest of everything he owned. They were his boxes of memories.

He groaned as he pushed back the stick and brought the chair upright. He winced as he began to rise; his left knee getting worse it seemed. His thought about his doctor who kept offering, then insisting he get a new knee but Lloyd reminded him,
“I’ve had this knee for 85 years young man. I don’t expect my journey to be much farther and I think I’ll bring it along. You can have it when I’m gone.”
At this point in his life he wasn’t too worried about becoming addicted to some drug. He was planning on drifting through his last years; the hardest strain he wanted to experience was the turning of the pages on his latest book, if the pills Dr. Gallant prescribed made life a little more passive, he was all for them.
He rose from his chair and the indented leather slowly filled out. Cautious short steps brought him to the boxes. As he shuffled by #1 he glanced at it knowing his son would take it tomorrow. It was full of legal stuff, last will, stocks bonds, bank accounts, his finances. He farted as he passed the money cube, showing it tremendous disrespect. He stuck his tongue out at the box as well, grinned at it with a bit of unkindness as he reminded himself he never had to touch another check book or credit card for the balance of his days. He told Eugene so long as he had a hundred dollar bill in his pocket he’d be as right as a starling in its nest.
He stopped and stooped over number two lifting the edge, testing its heft. He bent with both knees as far as the pain would allow picking up the crate with as much of his back as he could. The box probably weighed fifteen pounds but Lloyd would be bragging to Eugene tomorrow how he lifted the fifty pounds with ease.  He would swear it felt like fifty pounds.
He set the box on the coffee table that Taffy, his daughter-in-law, had given him. She had made it herself in her metal shop. The legs were twisted dark steel and fine metal polished copper coils provided an ornate rhythm around the sides. The top was beveled clear panels, all different sizes. Under each one were sepia toned photos over a dark brown background. The photos were thematic and everyone was in some stage of laughter, alone or in familial groups. It was a work of art, of love.
As he stood before the box he thought about Eugene when he had to tell him before they left his old house that he would only have room for two boxes, so two couldn’t go. He offered to store them at his house if they were important. They had been standing by the door then, the boxes the last thing to take were at their feet. With a pang of tenderness he remembered his son when the poor man delivered his news. He had looked his father directly in the eye. Eugene’s were normally bright and green, at that moment they were hurt and soft.  He could tell his son was trying not to blink, not to spill their liquid glaze. Lloyd spoke first to give his son respite.
“What is it Son, it can’t be that bad?”
“Oh Dad, you can only bring two. I know how much they mean to you”
It bothered the young man with more depth than Lloyd could muster. He reached over to his father giving him a shy hug that embarrassed them both.
“I wish you’d come and live with me, why do you insist on being alone?”
Lloyd remembered the warmth as he patted Eugene on the back and said with a benign voice.
“I love you Son for your goodness but I want my privacy and I want you and your family to have yours. There’s nothing worse in a house than a cranky old man. Besides you two are too lovey-dovey for me, always cuddling and patting each other’s behind and the cute names you call each other; I find it quite sickening really.”
The irony at the end of his speech shifted the mood. Father and son soon broke into laughter and the merriment accompanied them with the boxes. Lloyd had asked Eugene to bring all four to his new pad, as he called it and he would cull out anything that didn’t stir up any emotion from the past. He vowed to have it done this week.
With that last thought he removed the cover chucking it on the couch, telling the room out loud, “Now’s as good a time as any to toss away some of my past.”
He realized he couldn’t stand much longer. The box was too high on the tables so he placed it on the floor to his right and sat down. He dug out the first thing he found. He knew it would be there, he made sure it was there on the top. It was a white cardboard about a foot long and three inches wide. The edges were frayed like an old friendly shirt collar, indicative of the many times it was handled.
Along the cardboard’s center a blue faded ribbon was glued forming a silky embroidered spine. He held it in both hands, the long fingers reverent and protective. He held it to his heart and it emitted a vision so pure and sorrowing and sweetly joyful as could be possible. At that instant he knew with all certitude that this was the only memento he truly cherished, he experienced an intense awareness that the rest really didn’t matter. The memory the ribbon provoked schlepped the old man away. He leaned back on the sofa and remembered the day thirty years ago when Eugene came into his life.

He was fifty-five years old. His parents had died recently, within a week of each other, old age claiming one; old age compounded by loneliness took the other. He had been approached by a neighbour to rent the old homestead to the man’s grandson. The man explained that the youth was fatherless and troubled. He needed to be away from the vices of the large city life. Lloyd was against the idea in the beginning but when he met the lad he felt sorry for him, he was only nineteen and his girlfriend was four months pregnant. He remembered laughing inside at the young boy when he proudly exclaimed to Lloyd that he was going to be a famous poet someday. They stayed for six months. With their rent two months past due, he watched them sneak out in the middle of the night. He stood on the deck of his darkened house and made out the silhouette of a furniture-laden half ton pulling out of the driveway, its lights conspicuously out.
He was angry when he remembered they had no furniture when they came. They were leaving and stealing his rent money and his furniture also. The little buggers he thought. He could see the clock in the kitchen, it was just past three. The tired old farmhouse stood dark, even the outdoor lights had been extinguished.  The night was dim with the moon being a faint cuticle in the sky. Unorganized clouds sponged up the faint starlight even. Amazingly an odd thing happened; he felt the skin tighten on his neck. He swore he could see a faint aura over the house. It wasn’t lights of any kind but a sense, a presence he felt.
He reacted as if his parent’s place was on fire hurrying back to his kitchen to retrieve his flashlight.  He didn’t even bother to put on his boots but ran across the field in his stocking feet, lamp in hand. The field had just been mowed, stiff bristle poked through the fibres of his socks, some cutting. He knew his feet were bleeding but sped up reaching the house breathless.
He gasped and gulped trying to ease his breathing. He tried the front door as he drew large breaths and it swung open with a disturbing yawn. He stepped into the hallway and from the recesses of the darkness came the saddest, softest whimpers he had ever heard.
“The uncaring little turds”, he said out loud thinking they had abandoned a puppy. His booming voice had a startling effect, a weak tiny voice wailed from upstairs. He had dizzied for a moment then as he realized they had left their baby. He rushed upstairs cursing the selfish teenagers. The sobs grew louder, more shrilling as he followed the sound coming from the far bedroom
The lonely pleas suddenly stopped when he entered the chamber. Moving his light about the room he soon found the source of the noise in the night. There was a heavy corrugated box on the bed, the kind the grocery stores ship bananas in. He walked slowly to the bed almost scared of what he might find. The box jiggled as he approached with something moving about inside. He neared the red and white carton shining his light into the box.  The bright
beam startled the wee creature and it cried out in protest. Lloyd moved the light from the baby but kept the child in the penumbra.

The baby quieted, it didn’t look as if it could even see it was so small. There was a yellow and white quilted blanket wrapped about its small frame. It pursed its tiny lips. Its nose was red, smeared with moisture. Its eyes were the size of dimes and as dark as his old cellar, no cornea visible, just two innocent and harmless pools. A wisp of brownish down covered the immature dome. The baby’s fontanelles were apart and the infant’s heartbeat pulsed in the soft spot. Its fists were like tiny pink walnuts that batted at the air. Around one thin wrist was tied a blue ribbon.
Nothing stirred, neither moved but the baby knew someone was close, a mystery undefined. The stillness was soon shattered as the tiny lungs proclaimed in the only language it knew, “pick me up”. Lloyd set the flashlight on the bed and cradled the small body in his muscled arms. He cooed and chanted softly a lullaby he heard many years before. The sobs soon ceased. The baby’s eyes stared into the nether blinking back the sleep. It was almost as if it didn’t want to miss this moment but weariness over came the child, the fragile lids grew lazy. Soon the baby was sleeping, never stirring as Lloyd carried it to his house.  Crossing the field late at night, a week old baby asleep in his arms was the last of the memory before he dozed off, slumped over on the couch.
Two hours later the pain hit him in the chest. It was if someone struck him with a wide plank. It burnt like a hundred fires and covered all his upper body. The room’s lights were still on as Lloyd Minister gasped his final breaths, the cardboard and ribbon crushed in his grip. His last thought as he lay there dying was his son’s voice when he left that night.
“I love you Dad”.
 The End     Thank for stopping by today. Don't forget to enter your name in the comment box below for a chance to win a copy of Wall of War. Details here.
    

Guest Author Diane Carmel Leger of New Brunswick

   
The Scribbler is pleased to have Diane as our featured guest this week. We met several years ago at a Writer’s Federation function and she has agreed to be part of a 4Q Interview. She is an award-winning bilingual author who grew up in Memramcook, New Brunswick. Besides her dozen books, Diane also wrote her translations. On the East Coast, she is best-known for her novel, La butte a Petard, winner of the 2006 Hackmatack Award. On the West Coast, Diane is remembered for the Vancouver Island picture book, Maxine’s Tree*, a Canadian bestseller, praised by Farley Mowat as "the kind of book I wish I had had as a child". It raised a controversy which lasted for weeks in the early 1990’s, when a pro-clear-cut logging group called for its ban from libraries in B.C. schools. It remained on the shelves and was listed as one of the events of 1992 in the Globe and Mail.   4Q: Thank you Diane for being our guest this week. It must be very special when your work gets noticed. Please tell us about the Hackmatack Award for La butte a Petard.     DL:Winning the Hackmatack was a wonderful reward for being true to myself. It meant a lot to me that young readers in the Maritimes chose this novel, which I wrote when I was longing for N.B. I received it just a few months before I finally moved back home after 20 years in Victoria. What a great welcome! When I was growing up, I thought that the language spoken in my village was inferior to the Québécois French or the European French heard on the radio and television. In the High School away from my village, classmates laughed at my accent and some of my words, so I rarely spoke in class. At the Université de Moncton, while studying Acadian History, I was elated to learn that words I frequently spoke were Old French, a legacy from my Acadian ancestors. I felt that by speaking those precious words, I was honouring my ancestors, my village, my family and myself.  This gave me confidence. As an adult, I insisted on using some of those words in my first book, even though there was a chance it might be rejected by the publisher, readers, and critics. La butte à Pétard won an honorable mention for the 1990 Prix France-Acadie, and later, the augmented edition won the 2006 Hackmatack Award. It has been continually published since 1989. Along with its sequels, it has been used in schools across Canada and in Louisiana as an introduction to the history of Acadians. For the last 30 years, I have kept my Acadian accent and continue to speak those words on the radio, television and in presentations to audiences across Canada and in Louisiana. Being true to myself, led to a wonderful writing career.   4Q:You write mainly in French with several works in English. It must be rewarding to entertain in both languages. Please tell us about that experience. DL:Yes it is… and I revel in it! My father was a Francophone and my mother, an Anglophone so naturally I love both languages equally. My mother, Sheila Tower, was from Dorchester, and a voracious reader. Thanks to her, I am an English and French author!     In 1963, Acadian children with an Anglophone mother were automatically sent to English schools. That was the rule in my 99% French community. Despite being intimidated by the education system, my very young mother was adamant that I go to a French school. My mother often said that insisting her six children go to school in French was one of the best things that she had ever done. My father, Raymond E. Léger was an Acadian from Memramcook who sang every day and recited La Fontaine’s fables at work! Surprisingly, for a man who never sat still long enough to read a book, my father became a most unusual literary agent! His enthusiasm and support for my first book gave me the confidence to send its manuscript to a publisher. He sold hundreds if not thousands of La butte à Pétard. Even at the end of his life, unable to move from his hospital bed, he sold my books to the nurses!     4Q:Please correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t your latest publication My Two Grandmothers? Can you share what your inspiration was for this story?    DL:Yes, it is my latest in English. My Two Grandmothers (like the French version, Mémére Soleil, Nannie Lune), is a true account meant to poke gentle fun at the differences between my Acadian grandmother, Hermance, who ran a general store in my village, and my Scottish grandmother, Henrietta, who lived in the nearby village of Dorchester. I love reading these books and imitating my grandmothers, who were as different from each other as the sun from the moon, with only their grandchildren in common. Children and adults respond very well to this book. The teacher in me is pleased to have inspired people of all ages to write stories about their own grandparents.  My latest book in French, L’Acadie en baratte, was published in October. It is about an Acadian grandmother and her Québécois grandson who go on a whimsical camping tour of the Maritimes in her old Westfalia. It is not because I am a new grandmother that I have written these last two stories. Grandparents have been characters in my books from the first one. As a matter of fact, Nannie from My Two Grandmothers is also the great-grandmother in Maxine’s Tree.  I actually wrote My Two Grandmothers 25 years ago before it was finally published in 2016! So to you writers out there: hang on to the stories that are dear to you!  4Q:  Lastly, please tell us what is in the future for Diane Carmel Leger.    DL:I have my fingers crossed for a couple of English manuscripts being considered by publishers. I will have a new French novel in bookstores this summer, if all goes as planned. Experience has taught me not to speak about a book before I have it in my hands. Delays happen often in the publishing world. A writer must be very patient!      Thank you Diane for being our guest this week. Happy writing and best wishes for all your future works. You can read more about Diane and her books by going to these links. dianecarmelleger.com Facebook: Diane Carmel Léger-Children’s author Facebook : Diane Carmel Léger-Auteure jeunesse * Maxine’s Tree is no longer available from the publisher, but can be purchased at Chapters in Dieppe, N.B., or during Diane’s author visits.    Thank you dear reader for visiting. Who is your favorite Author?   Feel free to leave a comment below, we'd love to hear from you and don't forget to enter your name below for a chance to win a copy of Wall of War to be shipped anywhere in the world.
 DETAILS HERE!
 
     

Guest Author John Sutherland

This week the Scribbler welcomes award winning author, John Sutherland of Fredericton, New Brunswick. He shares samples of his clever stories and novels. Make sure you check them out.


I was born in northern England, York, during WWII. I remember bombers, airplanes thick in the sky, heading west; finding a small hand dropped bomb, seeing the ruins of a house near us demolished by a failed bomb, and seeing the stucco on houses riddled with strafing bullets.
I am still haunted by the gut-gripping sensation of an air-raid siren. 
I was brought up in York, but spent most of my holidays on my uncle’s farm in Teesdale, without electricity or hot running water. And an out-door privy. Oh, joy! 
Somehow, after grammar school, and university, I wound up in Canada. I’m still here, and a member of a wonderful little writing group in Fredericton.
 
 
 
 
Below are the teasers (some a little modified) for each of my 'Tales Told Out Of School’ stories, that are on inkitt.com   under johnksutherland . They are warmly erotic, but at the same time, all are romances that end happily. I added a few others, as space allowed. 
 
 

1. A Kitten in Delightful Trouble.


 Teaser: Erin was hung up on the steep ramp of the old barn, her skirt trapped behind her, pulled tight under her breasts, and exposing everything. She had splinters sticking everywhere. Then, he walked in and saw her.


Blurb: Erin and her four friends went looking for the old cat's kittens, finding the last one in the top of the barn which was out-of-bounds to them. After a few minutes, they heard the stable door open, and close. Someone was coming! They should not be caught here. They scattered. Erin was last. She decided to use the old hay ramp, slide down it, and go. She slipped, slammed down hard onto the wooden surface with a shout, and slid down on her backside, picking up wooden splinters in the most tender parts of her anatomy on the way down. About four feet down she was brought to a sudden stop by her skirt, caught on the edge of the ramp behind and above her. The waist of her skirt was wrenched up her body. Her breasts were all that stopped it finishing up under her armpits, or her losing it altogether. Her panties were pulled tight to the point of murder, buttons flew off her blouse, her bra felt as though it was not long for this world, and she was well and truly stuck. 
Then he walked in and saw her. What price would she be made to pay to enlist his help before she could escape back to school? If he would let her go. The next two hours changed both of their lives in a revolutionary way.
 
2. A Mind Of Her Own.


   
Teaser:  Susan awoke. She sat up under the mosquito net, feeling, and seeing that she was completely naked. She recognized nothing, did not know where she was. She remembered some of what had happened the previous night and she began to panic.

 
3. On Being A Man In A Girls’ School. 
 

Teaser: They met in the School Office on the first day for both of them. He was the new maintenance man, and she, an older student. There had been a connection between them almost from the start. It only grew from there. Then one day, a year later, it exploded.


 
4. Iris Corrects An Unfortunate Mistake.
 
Teaser: Iris led him into the girls’ deserted changing room to see to his stings. No one would disturb them there. He was nervous with her being so lightly dressed after gymnastics, and not knowing what she intended for him. Then she sat opposite him and picked up his hand. He knew then that he might not get out alive!
 
5. A Runaway Situation.
 
 

Teaser: It was the night of the heavy rains when Angela opened the dormitory door to see Robert standing there. She had expected the principal. The other girls had retired. She was in only her nightdress. Mostly in it! And, boy, did she get to meet him!
 
6. Stuck, on a ladder.
 
Teaser: Marilyn is at the top of his ladder, frozen in fear. This plan of hers had gone seriously off track. The other girls had swarmed her, almost getting away with her panties and skirt, as well as her bra. He can see almost everything about her as he climbed. Getting her down would be hell. Or heaven.
 
7. Eunice Dyson’s Lost Panties.
 
Teaser: Eunice was in a panic. She had lost her panties on the fells in the wind that had sprung up as she and her friends had bathed in that pool. She imagined the worst things possible when they were found with her name sewn in them. She was not prepared for what actually happened.
 
And teasers of a few Polite Romances.
 
'The Caroline.'
 
  Teaser: Would you wager your sister, as well as everything you owned in a poker game? Robert did, thinking he could not lose, and died for it when he played Wyatt, a man who cheated much better than he did. Wyatt, had waited years to be revenged on that family. The man won everything, including Caroline, the sister. Then, she learns of the wager!  Wyatt has some explaining to do, and to a decisive woman!
 
'Saving Selena.'
 
Teaser: Robert leaves home, never to return, after making love to his twin brother’s fiancé, falling in love with her. Selena had mistaken him for Charles, and he had been unable to tell her of her mistake. Ten years later, learning of his brother’s untimely death, and that the title is now his, Captain, Lord Robert Penfield returns to what awaits him. His life will never be the same.
 
'In Love and War.’
 

 
Teaser: Seven Confederates ride onto the plantation with drawn guns. Elizabeth snatches up a gun to meet them. Now, seven men lie dead around the yard. Another lies wounded; a southern Yankee! Where did he come from? And he did all this? They could not believe it, except they had seen it all. He changes their lives forever.
 
Deception by Proxy (my first Novel)
 
  **Authors note: This story will appear weekly on his blog (see address below). The first two chapters are online and available for reading now.



Teaser: A ruthless villain marries your dying sister and comes into your family. He remains tied to your family by that marriage and a promise made to your dying father. You would kill him to protect them from him, before he learns the real secret that you hide, but you cannot. You are caught in his spell. Then your sisters conspire to have him seduce you! By then, it is too late.
 
  Thank you John for being our guest this week and offering us some teasers for your work.

A special thanks to you, the visitor. For those looking for more information on John and his books please go to www.johnksutherland.com
    *******Don't forget to enter your name and contact email address in the comments box below, or comment by email box above, for a free copy of the Wall of War to be drawn the first of January, 2018


   Go here for more details. 

Get Ready - Wall of War is here! Win an autographed copy and read an excerpt.

I'm very excited to have a copy of my latest novel in hand. Three years in the making and it's been terrific fun! 

Lots of action, a new Drake Alexander adventure.









Enter for a chance to win an autographed copy directly from the author to be shipped anywhere in the world. See details how to enter below***.





I'd like to share an excerpt with you this week.



The story opens in 1953 when an amateur rock climber makes a strange discovery while scaling a sheer cliff in the Andes. Due to circumstances beyond his control, the revelation remains hidden for another fifty years. The excerpt is from Chapter 1 when Miguel Pisconte and his assistant, Teodoro Delapaz, are wrecking a water stained ceiling and something clatters to the floor.

(copyright is held by the author)





Teodoro clears his head of the troubling thoughts, going to his room to change into work clothes before he goes to help Father Pisconte with the renovations. He actually smiles, for he enjoys nothing more than wrecking things. He secretly appreciates the skills he is learning from the priest. The occasion to work with his hands is fulfilling. He can forget his cloistered life as he concentrates on the details of construction. He quickly changes into a pair of jeans faded from many washings and a navy t-shirt that has a faded picture of Yoda on the front. He sits on the bed to lace up his work boots, wondering if Senora Carmona’s granddaughter Beatriz will be there. He smirks, scoffing at the idea of celibacy. He may have made the vows, but they were in word only, the fire of carnality continues to burn within him.

When he reaches the dressing room, Miguel is on a rickety step ladder tugging at the mouldings that frame the trapdoor. Teodoro glances at the reddish water stains that decorate the old plaster, tugs the chair they are using as steps into the middle of the room and grasps the extra pry bar from the floor.
“What section should I tackle, Father Pisconte?”
Miguel reaches up to tear off the mitered wood he has loosened and replies, “Teodoro, when we are alone, I would like it if we could forget the formalities. Please call me Miguel. Why don’t you start on the section beyond this hatch and work towards the back wall. I will work in the opposite direction. Try to direct the larger pieces towards the pile behind me, okay? “
The young man smiles because he really does like the priest, who is not much older than him. Miguel has been kind to him even though Teodoro’s dislike for the priesthood and his posting have been evident in his behaviour. It isn’t this man’s fault, he knows.
“Very well, Miguel.”
“Use those gloves on the counter, Teodoro; you can’t be giving out hosts with scarred fingers. The parishioners will be reluctant to let you put them near their mouth.”
The men laugh at the quip, knowing that it is only the older members of their congregation that want the priest to place the precious body of Christ upon their lips; the younger people want it in the palm of their hands.
Teodoro puts on the gloves before sweeping some of the larger rubble towards the main pile. Getting up on the chair, he places the wrecking bar into the cavity made by the missing mouldings and heaves on the laths that hold the plaster in place. He is fortunate in his placement. When he pulls down, a section of the ceiling the size of a small coffee table falls. The laths at the opposite end are rotted from the excess moisture. They crash to the tarp-covered floor, breaking into a dozen pieces. A dust cloud erupts from the collection of rubbish fogging the air.
Teodoro jumps from the chair to get out of the way of the falling ceiling, slipping and falling onto his butt. The pry bar he has been using lands in the middle of the pile with a thud.
“Be careful you don’t hurt yourself Teodoro,” says Miguel.
“Well, I hope it all comes down that easy, it was all breaking off in small pieces before. This won’t take us too long.”
He picks himself up, brushes away some of the dust and retrieves his tool. When he bends down to pick it up, he disturbs a dusty blue rag that was rolled into the insulation. He picks it up.
“What have we here, Miguel?”
Miguel is braced upon the ladder. He watches Teodoro reach for the rag, noticing that there is something rolled up inside where the edge of the flap is open.
“It’s very heavy, whatever it is.”
Teodoro unravels the cloth to reveal a roll of paper.  The shiny edge of something gleams from within. He drops the rag to the floor, holding the items in his hand. The paper has an unfamiliar feel and thickness. As Teodoro unrolls the paper, the golden object slips out, falling to the floor. Miguel has alit from the ladder, curious as to what Teodoro has. He is standing beside the younger man when the object falls. He stoops to pick it up. Holding it in both hands, the men are speechless as it is obviously made of gold. After several moments, Miguel says, “This is an ancient dagger, Teodoro; it is similar to one on display I saw at the University in Cuzco. Archeologists have suggested knives like this were used in what was referred to as capacocha ceremonies, human sacrifice, often children. The squat figure of the haft might be a depiction of one of their gods. This one reminds me of Supai,the god of death, but I’m only guessing.”
Teodoro remains spellbound, not so much by Miguel’s interpretation, but at what such a relic might be worth. He has forgotten about the paper he holds in his hand until Miguel hands the golden object out to him and says, “Hold this Teodoro and let me see the paper. Handle the scroll carefully for it seems quite old.”
The men trade objects; the younger man’s eyes are glazed by greed, unnoticed by Miguel. Teodoro handles the dagger with caution, turning it over while inspecting the details of the carved figure. Miguel studies the paper roll, surprised at how white the paper is. It hasn’t yellowed like most paper, adding to the mystery. The texture is much different than normal paper; it almost feels like a banknote. It is then that he realizes that it is likely rag paper, paper made from fibres of the cotton plant. That would explain why it is not brittle.





 







 
 ****To win an autographed copy, please go to the "Follow by email" area in the top left of this page. Send me your name and contact info before December 31, 2017 when a winner will be drawn by an independent source. You will be contacted for your shipping address. Or you can choose a digital copy if you prefer. Thank you for entering.






Wall of War is available as an eBook and paperback at amazon in Canada, USA, France, Great Britain, Denmark, Australia, France, Spain, Italy, Netherlands, Japan and Mexico. The paperback is available at amazon in the US, Denmark, Great Britain and France.
Paperback copies will also be available at bookstores in Atlantic Canada starting in mid-December and the New Year, as well as from   the author. (shipping charges may apply)

Watch here for more details.

Thank you for visiting the Scribbler today.

 

Get Ready - Wall of War is here!. Win an autographed copy and read an excerpt.

I'm very excited to have a copy of my latest novel in hand. Three years in the making and it's been terrific fun! 

Lots of action, a new Drake Alexander adventure.









Enter for a chance to win an autographed copy directly from the author to be shipped anywhere in the world. See details how to enter below***.





I'd like to share an excerpt with you this week.



The story opens in 1953 when an amateur rock climber makes a strange discovery while scaling a sheer cliff in the Andes. Due to circumstances beyond his control, the revelation remains hidden for another fifty years. The excerpt is from Chapter 1 when Miguel Pisconte and his assistant, Teodoro Delapaz, are wrecking a water stained ceiling and something clatters to the floor.

(copyright is held by the author)




Teodoro clears his head of the troubling thoughts, going to his room to change into work clothes before he goes to help Father Pisconte with the renovations. He actually smiles, for he enjoys nothing more than wrecking things. He secretly appreciates the skills he is learning from the priest. The occasion to work with his hands is fulfilling. He can forget his cloistered life as he concentrates on the details of construction. He quickly changes into a pair of jeans faded from many washings and a navy t-shirt that has a faded picture of Yoda on the front. He sits on the bed to lace up his work boots, wondering if Senora Carmona’s granddaughter Beatriz will be there. He smirks, scoffing at the idea of celibacy. He may have made the vows, but they were in word only, the fire of carnality continues to burn within him.
When he reaches the dressing room, Miguel is on a rickety step ladder tugging at the mouldings that frame the trapdoor. Teodoro glances at the reddish water stains that decorate the old plaster, tugs the chair they are using as steps into the middle of the room and grasps the extra pry bar from the floor.
“What section should I tackle, Father Pisconte?”
Miguel reaches up to tear off the mitered wood he has loosened and replies, “Teodoro, when we are alone, I would like it if we could forget the formalities. Please call me Miguel. Why don’t you start on the section beyond this hatch and work towards the back wall. I will work in the opposite direction. Try to direct the larger pieces towards the pile behind me, okay? “
The young man smiles because he really does like the priest, who is not much older than him. Miguel has been kind to him even though Teodoro’s dislike for the priesthood and his posting have been evident in his behaviour. It isn’t this man’s fault, he knows.
“Very well, Miguel.”
“Use those gloves on the counter, Teodoro; you can’t be giving out hosts with scarred fingers. The parishioners will be reluctant to let you put them near their mouth.”
The men laugh at the quip, knowing that it is only the older members of their congregation that want the priest to place the precious body of Christ upon their lips; the younger people want it in the palm of their hands.
Teodoro puts on the gloves before sweeping some of the larger rubble towards the main pile. Getting up on the chair, he places the wrecking bar into the cavity made by the missing mouldings and heaves on the laths that hold the plaster in place. He is fortunate in his placement. When he pulls down, a section of the ceiling the size of a small coffee table falls. The laths at the opposite end are rotted from the excess moisture. They crash to the tarp-covered floor, breaking into a dozen pieces. A dust cloud erupts from the collection of rubbish fogging the air.
Teodoro jumps from the chair to get out of the way of the falling ceiling, slipping and falling onto his butt. The pry bar he has been using lands in the middle of the pile with a thud.
“Be careful you don’t hurt yourself Teodoro,” says Miguel.
“Well, I hope it all comes down that easy, it was all breaking off in small pieces before. This won’t take us too long.”
He picks himself up, brushes away some of the dust and retrieves his tool. When he bends down to pick it up, he disturbs a dusty blue rag that was rolled into the insulation. He picks it up.
“What have we here, Miguel?”
Miguel is braced upon the ladder. He watches Teodoro reach for the rag, noticing that there is something rolled up inside where the edge of the flap is open.
“It’s very heavy, whatever it is.”
Teodoro unravels the cloth to reveal a roll of paper.  The shiny edge of something gleams from within. He drops the rag to the floor, holding the items in his hand. The paper has an unfamiliar feel and thickness. As Teodoro unrolls the paper, the golden object slips out, falling to the floor. Miguel has alit from the ladder, curious as to what Teodoro has. He is standing beside the younger man when the object falls. He stoops to pick it up. Holding it in both hands, the men are speechless as it is obviously made of gold. After several moments, Miguel says, “This is an ancient dagger, Teodoro; it is similar to one on display I saw at the University in Cuzco. Archeologists have suggested knives like this were used in what was referred to as capacocha ceremonies, human sacrifice, often children. The squat figure of the haft might be a depiction of one of their gods. This one reminds me of Supai,the god of death, but I’m only guessing.”
Teodoro remains spellbound, not so much by Miguel’s interpretation, but at what such a relic might be worth. He has forgotten about the paper he holds in his hand until Miguel hands the golden object out to him and says, “Hold this Teodoro and let me see the paper. Handle the scroll carefully for it seems quite old.”
The men trade objects; the younger man’s eyes are glazed by greed, unnoticed by Miguel. Teodoro handles the dagger with caution, turning it over while inspecting the details of the carved figure. Miguel studies the paper roll, surprised at how white the paper is. It hasn’t yellowed like most paper, adding to the mystery. The texture is much different than normal paper; it almost feels like a banknote. It is then that he realizes that it is likely rag paper, paper made from fibres of the cotton plant. That would explain why it is not brittle.


 







 
 ****To win an autographed copy, please go to the "Follow by email" area in the top left of this page. Send me your name and contact info before December 31, 2017 when a winner will be drawn by an independent source. You will be contacted for your shipping address. Or you can choose a digital copy if you prefer.Thank you for entering.






Wall of War is available as an eBook and paperback at amazon in Canada, USA, France, Great Britain, Denmark, Australia, France, Spain, Italy, Netherlands, Japan and Mexico. The paperback is available at amazon in the US, Denmark, Great Britain and France.
Paperback copies will also be available at bookstores in Atlantic Canada starting in mid-December and the New Year, as well as from   the author. (shipping charges may apply)

Watch here for more details.

Thank you for visiting the Scribbler today.