Lori Power's Blog, page 5
June 8, 2015
Romancing the 8's "First Impressions"
An excerpt from "Sea Breeze"
“Then leave Arthur. Forget you found me. Make him understand I had to go. I need a life of my own where I am judged for who I am really. Not who I am because of a name. Not the badge of our father’s business mistake.”
Arthur jumped back and held her shoulders at arms length. “Mother was never a mistake, don’t say that!”
Elleah hung her head, her hair swung forward. “I know,” she whispered.
“He won’t give you up,” Arthur said, shaking her just a little. “You’re his daughter. He loves you. He won’t walk away.”
She drew a big breath, filled her lungs and stepped back from his touch. Head high, strode across the room, towards the door and swung it open. Swallowing back the thickness in her throat, she locked eyes with her brother. “He has to. You have to make him. Forget about me. Leave me to live a life I carve out for myself.”
Arthur paused briefly on the threshold, pulled her tight against him and kissed her brow. Then his heavy step echoed down the corridor. He didn’t look back.
Elleah waited at the door and watched him walk away. With a heavy sigh she turned back to her room. She stopped, surprised. Across the hall another door stood open. Inside a tall man with heavy brows and a stern chin stared with open curiosity. His arm braced against the lintel while he raised a glass with amber liquid to his mouth. Lips upturned in a casual smirk, his daring gaze travelled the length of her flowered silk robe in frank appraisal.
Without confirming the robe had indeed fallen open to pool loosely across her breast, Elleah turned on her heel and closed her door with a decisive click.
For more exciting—titillating—romantic blogs, check out:
http://transcanadaromancewriters.blogspot.ca/search/label/Romancing%20The%208
Darlene Fredette - http://www.findingthewritewords.blogspot.ca/
Gini Rifkin - http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com/
Linda Carroll-Bradd - http://blog.lindacarroll-bradd.com/
Marlow Kelly- http://www.marlowkelly.com/my-blog---...
“Then leave Arthur. Forget you found me. Make him understand I had to go. I need a life of my own where I am judged for who I am really. Not who I am because of a name. Not the badge of our father’s business mistake.”
Arthur jumped back and held her shoulders at arms length. “Mother was never a mistake, don’t say that!”
Elleah hung her head, her hair swung forward. “I know,” she whispered.
“He won’t give you up,” Arthur said, shaking her just a little. “You’re his daughter. He loves you. He won’t walk away.”
She drew a big breath, filled her lungs and stepped back from his touch. Head high, strode across the room, towards the door and swung it open. Swallowing back the thickness in her throat, she locked eyes with her brother. “He has to. You have to make him. Forget about me. Leave me to live a life I carve out for myself.”
Arthur paused briefly on the threshold, pulled her tight against him and kissed her brow. Then his heavy step echoed down the corridor. He didn’t look back.
Elleah waited at the door and watched him walk away. With a heavy sigh she turned back to her room. She stopped, surprised. Across the hall another door stood open. Inside a tall man with heavy brows and a stern chin stared with open curiosity. His arm braced against the lintel while he raised a glass with amber liquid to his mouth. Lips upturned in a casual smirk, his daring gaze travelled the length of her flowered silk robe in frank appraisal.
Without confirming the robe had indeed fallen open to pool loosely across her breast, Elleah turned on her heel and closed her door with a decisive click.
For more exciting—titillating—romantic blogs, check out:
http://transcanadaromancewriters.blogspot.ca/search/label/Romancing%20The%208
Darlene Fredette - http://www.findingthewritewords.blogspot.ca/
Gini Rifkin - http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com/
Linda Carroll-Bradd - http://blog.lindacarroll-bradd.com/
Marlow Kelly- http://www.marlowkelly.com/my-blog---...
May 7, 2015
Romancing the 8's "In the Backyard"
An excerpt from "Hit 'n Run"
Mitch knocked on the front door—red—interesting. Goes with the nose stud. No one answered. He pondered the doorbell, but hearing activity coming from the backyard, he decided to take a peek. Before leaving the wide front porch, which housed a cozy three-person swing off to the side, the cop in him made him check the front door to see if it was locked. “Good girl,” he said, before walking along the neat cobbled path to the side of the house, leading to the backyard.
Not wanting to intrude on a backyard full of company, Mitch peered over the tall fence to see a woman with her back to him, playing with a little boy. The well-rounded ass clad in cut-off shorts that reached to just above her knees, grabbed—and held his attention. However, it wasn’t the cut-offs or the curve of her backside causing his lower body to tense. Nor the fact she was covered provocatively in paint splatters. Instead, what caused a slight harness to his member were the very titillating rips up the sides of the shorts to mid-thigh revealing sumptuous legs, a lovely golden colour. The memory of those legs couldn’t help but capture his imagination of wanting them wrapped around his waist as they once had. Taking a breath and forcing his eyes upward, he admired instead the toned shoulders covered in a loose tank top.
My God, is that really Lorna? Mitch was slack-jawed. No way. He could never have imagined someone as straight laced as Lorna cutting back in such a relaxed fashion. Wearing a red bandana topped with a once black, well-battered ball cap, singing at the top of her voice some song vaguely familiar from his sister’s house when the kids were watching television. Sweat-curled tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks, giving her the appearance of a young girl. His hand ached to tuck the tendrils back behind her ear.
Before he could reach over to unlatch the gate, a small body clad only in a speedo ran into view shouting, “you can’t get me, nanna-nanna-boo-boo,” while he shook his small hiney in her direction.
“I can too.” She dropped her brush and ran after him. The young boy’s knees buckled in the face of his pursuer and high squeals peeled forth when she grabbed the boy, tipping him upside down to run her fingertips over his stomach. “I’m gonna get that belly button!” Cradling his head in one hand, she held his legs firm as she zooberted his stomach, unleashing fresh squeals. Her hat fell to the ground behind her. Head thrown back, laughing, she moved towards the small pool Mitch could just see at the edge of his vision when she seemed to sense his presence at the gate.
Her step faltered. “Whoa. What? Mitchell?” All laughter left her face and she paled. She still held the child upside down.
“What? Mama?”
Mama? What? Is that it? She’s married. No, he had checked. She’s not married. Common-law? She doesn’t have to be married to have a kid? He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.” Why does she always call me “Mitchell”? I feel like my mom should be scolding me when I hear “Mitchell.”
For more exciting—titillating—romantic blogs, check out:
http://transcanadaromancewriters.blogspot.ca/search/label/Romancing%20The%208
Darlene Fredette - http://www.findingthewritewords.blogspot.ca/
Gini Rifkin - http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com/
Linda Carroll-Bradd - http://blog.lindacarroll-bradd.com/
Mitch knocked on the front door—red—interesting. Goes with the nose stud. No one answered. He pondered the doorbell, but hearing activity coming from the backyard, he decided to take a peek. Before leaving the wide front porch, which housed a cozy three-person swing off to the side, the cop in him made him check the front door to see if it was locked. “Good girl,” he said, before walking along the neat cobbled path to the side of the house, leading to the backyard.
Not wanting to intrude on a backyard full of company, Mitch peered over the tall fence to see a woman with her back to him, playing with a little boy. The well-rounded ass clad in cut-off shorts that reached to just above her knees, grabbed—and held his attention. However, it wasn’t the cut-offs or the curve of her backside causing his lower body to tense. Nor the fact she was covered provocatively in paint splatters. Instead, what caused a slight harness to his member were the very titillating rips up the sides of the shorts to mid-thigh revealing sumptuous legs, a lovely golden colour. The memory of those legs couldn’t help but capture his imagination of wanting them wrapped around his waist as they once had. Taking a breath and forcing his eyes upward, he admired instead the toned shoulders covered in a loose tank top.
My God, is that really Lorna? Mitch was slack-jawed. No way. He could never have imagined someone as straight laced as Lorna cutting back in such a relaxed fashion. Wearing a red bandana topped with a once black, well-battered ball cap, singing at the top of her voice some song vaguely familiar from his sister’s house when the kids were watching television. Sweat-curled tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks, giving her the appearance of a young girl. His hand ached to tuck the tendrils back behind her ear.
Before he could reach over to unlatch the gate, a small body clad only in a speedo ran into view shouting, “you can’t get me, nanna-nanna-boo-boo,” while he shook his small hiney in her direction.
“I can too.” She dropped her brush and ran after him. The young boy’s knees buckled in the face of his pursuer and high squeals peeled forth when she grabbed the boy, tipping him upside down to run her fingertips over his stomach. “I’m gonna get that belly button!” Cradling his head in one hand, she held his legs firm as she zooberted his stomach, unleashing fresh squeals. Her hat fell to the ground behind her. Head thrown back, laughing, she moved towards the small pool Mitch could just see at the edge of his vision when she seemed to sense his presence at the gate.
Her step faltered. “Whoa. What? Mitchell?” All laughter left her face and she paled. She still held the child upside down.
“What? Mama?”
Mama? What? Is that it? She’s married. No, he had checked. She’s not married. Common-law? She doesn’t have to be married to have a kid? He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey.” Why does she always call me “Mitchell”? I feel like my mom should be scolding me when I hear “Mitchell.”
For more exciting—titillating—romantic blogs, check out:
http://transcanadaromancewriters.blogspot.ca/search/label/Romancing%20The%208
Darlene Fredette - http://www.findingthewritewords.blogspot.ca/
Gini Rifkin - http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com/
Linda Carroll-Bradd - http://blog.lindacarroll-bradd.com/
March 5, 2015
A Woman of Love
On Sale Today
TWRP
Second book in the Honour, Love and Courage Series
Rating: Spicy (PG13)
When her dissolute husband insists that Lady Annabel Peters bed one of his villainous cohorts to repay a gambling debt, she is scandalized. But she is forced to agree because he controls every aspect of her life.
A physically and emotionally crippled war hero, James Drake has retreated from society. At the request of his brother, he manipulates events so he can interrogate Annabel, a woman he thinks may be part of a ring of thieves.
Neither of them count on an instant and overwhelming attraction. James may now believe Annabel but she suspects her husband plans to kill her. As one of her husband’s friends, James is not to be trusted.
Yet how can she escape a man who has the ability to control her with a gentle kiss?
Lady Annabel Peters sat in the open-top carriage and realized she had left it too late. She should have escaped yesterday.
“Really, Annabel, I don’t want you to give your left eye. All I’m asking is that you go in there and do what comes naturally.” Lord Elliott Peters, her husband of two months, sat opposite her, smoothing his waistcoat against his flat, toned abdomen. A lock of blond hair fell across his brow, accentuating his startling blue eyes. He claimed all he had to do was crook his finger, and besotted society women swooned, but she couldn’t imagine it. His grotesque personality obliterated any physical beauty he possessed.
The warm summer breeze touched her face. She inhaled the scent of grass and honeysuckle. Frogs sang somewhere in the distance, and crickets chirped, a sure sign it was going to be a warm night. She looked out at the passing Berkshire countryside, and wondered how anything this ugly could happen on such a perfect summer evening.
“It is not natural for a married woman to bed a man who is not her husband.” She struggled to breathe; a vise tightened around her chest.
“You must be joking. Women do it all the time. That’s how they entertain themselves. You didn’t believe we would be faithful to each other for the rest of our lives, did you? What a ridiculous notion.”
The thought of copulating with Elliott was horrific enough. Now he wanted her to sleep with his friends, too. Bile rose in her throat at the idea of having to endure another man like her husband. He was totally amoral, and thought nothing of sleeping with a friend’s wife. He undoubtedly took pleasure in it. He never controlled his lust. If he saw a woman he wanted, he took her by any means possible.
About Author Marlow Kelly
After being thrown out of England for refusing to drink tea, Marlow Kelly made her way to Canada where she found love, a home and a pug named Max. She also discovered her love of storytelling. Encouraged by her husband, children and let’s not forget Max, she started putting her ideas to paper. Her need to write about strong women in crisis drives her stories and her curiosity regarding the lives and loves of historical figures are the inspiration for her characters. You can visit Marlow at www.marlowkelly.com.
http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/mai...
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marlowkelly?ref=hl
Twitter: https://twitter.com/want2write
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/Marlowkelly14/
a Rafflecopter giveaway
TWRP
Second book in the Honour, Love and Courage Series
Rating: Spicy (PG13)
When her dissolute husband insists that Lady Annabel Peters bed one of his villainous cohorts to repay a gambling debt, she is scandalized. But she is forced to agree because he controls every aspect of her life.
A physically and emotionally crippled war hero, James Drake has retreated from society. At the request of his brother, he manipulates events so he can interrogate Annabel, a woman he thinks may be part of a ring of thieves.
Neither of them count on an instant and overwhelming attraction. James may now believe Annabel but she suspects her husband plans to kill her. As one of her husband’s friends, James is not to be trusted.
Yet how can she escape a man who has the ability to control her with a gentle kiss?
Lady Annabel Peters sat in the open-top carriage and realized she had left it too late. She should have escaped yesterday.
“Really, Annabel, I don’t want you to give your left eye. All I’m asking is that you go in there and do what comes naturally.” Lord Elliott Peters, her husband of two months, sat opposite her, smoothing his waistcoat against his flat, toned abdomen. A lock of blond hair fell across his brow, accentuating his startling blue eyes. He claimed all he had to do was crook his finger, and besotted society women swooned, but she couldn’t imagine it. His grotesque personality obliterated any physical beauty he possessed.
The warm summer breeze touched her face. She inhaled the scent of grass and honeysuckle. Frogs sang somewhere in the distance, and crickets chirped, a sure sign it was going to be a warm night. She looked out at the passing Berkshire countryside, and wondered how anything this ugly could happen on such a perfect summer evening.
“It is not natural for a married woman to bed a man who is not her husband.” She struggled to breathe; a vise tightened around her chest.
“You must be joking. Women do it all the time. That’s how they entertain themselves. You didn’t believe we would be faithful to each other for the rest of our lives, did you? What a ridiculous notion.”
The thought of copulating with Elliott was horrific enough. Now he wanted her to sleep with his friends, too. Bile rose in her throat at the idea of having to endure another man like her husband. He was totally amoral, and thought nothing of sleeping with a friend’s wife. He undoubtedly took pleasure in it. He never controlled his lust. If he saw a woman he wanted, he took her by any means possible.
About Author Marlow Kelly
After being thrown out of England for refusing to drink tea, Marlow Kelly made her way to Canada where she found love, a home and a pug named Max. She also discovered her love of storytelling. Encouraged by her husband, children and let’s not forget Max, she started putting her ideas to paper. Her need to write about strong women in crisis drives her stories and her curiosity regarding the lives and loves of historical figures are the inspiration for her characters. You can visit Marlow at www.marlowkelly.com.
http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/mai...
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marlowkelly?ref=hl
Twitter: https://twitter.com/want2write
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/Marlowkelly14/
a Rafflecopter giveaway
February 20, 2015
Emmeline Pankhurst
Guest post by Author Marlow Kelly
marlowkellyauthor@gmail.com
www.marlowkelly.com
In A Woman of Love war hero, James Drake, is haunted by his actions in the Crimean War, and the man he had to become to survive. James’ mother is long dead by the time he meets Annabel, but in my head I imagined her to be very much like Emmeline Pankhurst – a woman of conscience who fought for those less fortunate than herself.
Would you be surprised to learn that Emmeline Pankhurst, the leader of England’s suffragette movement did not hate men? I was. It never occurred to me that the militant feminist who set empty buildings on fire had actually been a happily married woman.
I’ll start at the beginning, she was born Emmeline Goulden, in Manchester, England, in 1858. Her family was known for their radical politics openly supporting causes such as women’s suffrage, but they weren’t so forward thinking as to want their daughter to have a man's education or to go into politics.
In 1879 Emmeline met and married Richard Pankhurst, a man twenty years her senior. Richard was a lawyer, barrister and an ardent supporter of women’s rights. He authored the Married Woman’s Property Acts of 1870 and 1882. These acts of parliament allowed women to own and control property, keep their earnings, and inherit in their own name.
In her autobiography Emmeline wrote this of her marriage and family life:
“My home life and relations have been as nearly ideal as possible in this imperfect world. About a year after my marriage my daughter Christabel was born, and in another eighteen months my second daughter Sylvia was to come. Two other children followed, and for some years I was rather deeply immersed in my domestic affairs.
I was never so absorbed with family and children, however, that I lost interest in community affairs. Dr. Pankhurst did not desire that I should turn myself into a household machine. It was his firm belief that society as well as the family stands in need of women’s services. So while my children were still in their cradles I was working on the executive committee of the Women’s Suffrage Society, and also on the executive board of the committee, which was working to secure the Married Women’s Property Act.”
Richard died suddenly from a perforated ulcer in 1898, devastating Emmeline. They had been married for nineteen years. Later that same year, she continued his work by founding the Women's Franchise League, which fought to allow married women to vote in local elections. Not happy with the slow pace of the league, she helped establish the more militant Women's Social and Political Union (WSPU) in October 1903. It is as head of the WSPU that she came into her own. Emmeline’s actions and those of her followers were quiet radical and included arson, smashing windows, and heckling politicians. Very unladylike behavior indeed.
The WSPU suspended their militant activities in 1914 on the outbreak of World War I. They were rewarded in 1918 when women over 30 years of age were given the right to vote. Men at this time had the right to vote at 21. Some say the disparity was because so many men had died in the war they didn`t want women voters to outnumber the men. I`m not sure how true that is, but I find the idea thought provoking.
In 1928 women in England were finally given equal voting rights to men. The years of lecturing, touring, activism and hunger strikes had taken their toll on Emmeline`s health and she died later that same year.
I was struck by two things with Emmeline`s life the first was how profoundly she was influenced by her husband. I suppose the old saying that behind every great man there`s a great woman can be reversed for Emmeline because without Richard’s encouragement and support she might not have achieved her goals.
She did not hate men and her fight was not about taking away the rights of male voters. It was about giving women the freedom and power to choose.
Pre order your copy of
"A Woman of Love" today ...
release date March 4th, 2015
http://www.marlowkelly.com
marlowkellyauthor@gmail.com
www.marlowkelly.com
In A Woman of Love war hero, James Drake, is haunted by his actions in the Crimean War, and the man he had to become to survive. James’ mother is long dead by the time he meets Annabel, but in my head I imagined her to be very much like Emmeline Pankhurst – a woman of conscience who fought for those less fortunate than herself.
Would you be surprised to learn that Emmeline Pankhurst, the leader of England’s suffragette movement did not hate men? I was. It never occurred to me that the militant feminist who set empty buildings on fire had actually been a happily married woman.
I’ll start at the beginning, she was born Emmeline Goulden, in Manchester, England, in 1858. Her family was known for their radical politics openly supporting causes such as women’s suffrage, but they weren’t so forward thinking as to want their daughter to have a man's education or to go into politics.
In 1879 Emmeline met and married Richard Pankhurst, a man twenty years her senior. Richard was a lawyer, barrister and an ardent supporter of women’s rights. He authored the Married Woman’s Property Acts of 1870 and 1882. These acts of parliament allowed women to own and control property, keep their earnings, and inherit in their own name.
In her autobiography Emmeline wrote this of her marriage and family life:
“My home life and relations have been as nearly ideal as possible in this imperfect world. About a year after my marriage my daughter Christabel was born, and in another eighteen months my second daughter Sylvia was to come. Two other children followed, and for some years I was rather deeply immersed in my domestic affairs.
I was never so absorbed with family and children, however, that I lost interest in community affairs. Dr. Pankhurst did not desire that I should turn myself into a household machine. It was his firm belief that society as well as the family stands in need of women’s services. So while my children were still in their cradles I was working on the executive committee of the Women’s Suffrage Society, and also on the executive board of the committee, which was working to secure the Married Women’s Property Act.”
Richard died suddenly from a perforated ulcer in 1898, devastating Emmeline. They had been married for nineteen years. Later that same year, she continued his work by founding the Women's Franchise League, which fought to allow married women to vote in local elections. Not happy with the slow pace of the league, she helped establish the more militant Women's Social and Political Union (WSPU) in October 1903. It is as head of the WSPU that she came into her own. Emmeline’s actions and those of her followers were quiet radical and included arson, smashing windows, and heckling politicians. Very unladylike behavior indeed.
The WSPU suspended their militant activities in 1914 on the outbreak of World War I. They were rewarded in 1918 when women over 30 years of age were given the right to vote. Men at this time had the right to vote at 21. Some say the disparity was because so many men had died in the war they didn`t want women voters to outnumber the men. I`m not sure how true that is, but I find the idea thought provoking.
In 1928 women in England were finally given equal voting rights to men. The years of lecturing, touring, activism and hunger strikes had taken their toll on Emmeline`s health and she died later that same year.
I was struck by two things with Emmeline`s life the first was how profoundly she was influenced by her husband. I suppose the old saying that behind every great man there`s a great woman can be reversed for Emmeline because without Richard’s encouragement and support she might not have achieved her goals.
She did not hate men and her fight was not about taking away the rights of male voters. It was about giving women the freedom and power to choose.
Pre order your copy of
"A Woman of Love" today ...
release date March 4th, 2015
http://www.marlowkelly.com
February 9, 2015
On the run
Mitchell raced through the maze of residential streets. The mobile buzzed in his palm.
Vonnie.
Despite the rush, he had to take this call. Letting the air escape naturally through his nose, he answered in his most casual voice “Hey.”
“Hey to you, Mikie.”
The luster of her voice reminded him of the black lace thong she wore the night before—kinky and a little bit slippery—and how much he enjoyed the slow way she removed the slip of material.
“Whatcha doin’?”
He shook his head to dislodge the image. “Errand boy for your father.”
“All work and no play makes for no fun at all for little Johnny.”
His body, a traitor to the end, responded and “Little Johnny” jumped to attention at her casual reminder of their recent affair. He wiped a slick palm along his thigh, mentally reminding himself Veronique represented an opportunity, an "in", whose time had now come to an end.
Vonnie.
Despite the rush, he had to take this call. Letting the air escape naturally through his nose, he answered in his most casual voice “Hey.”
“Hey to you, Mikie.”
The luster of her voice reminded him of the black lace thong she wore the night before—kinky and a little bit slippery—and how much he enjoyed the slow way she removed the slip of material.
“Whatcha doin’?”
He shook his head to dislodge the image. “Errand boy for your father.”
“All work and no play makes for no fun at all for little Johnny.”
His body, a traitor to the end, responded and “Little Johnny” jumped to attention at her casual reminder of their recent affair. He wiped a slick palm along his thigh, mentally reminding himself Veronique represented an opportunity, an "in", whose time had now come to an end.
January 14, 2015
ARC - When you're the only one left
“Evan.”
The voice was a soft whisper on the wind carried across the distance of a millennium. The accented lilt conjured the image of a woman peaceful in sleep. Her auburn hair haloed a face unmarred by lines.
Closer. “Evan. It’s time.” The voice was strong and insistent.
Time?
Time, for what?
“Evan.” She sounded closer and coincided with the slamming of his heart against his ribcage like the first beat of life.
The serenity of her image behind his lids altered when her emerald eyes flew open wide, scared. “Don’t forget about me.”
He tried to lift a hand to cup her cheek, to reassure, but his limbs felt thick and weighty, unmovable. His breathing echoed hoarse in his ears and water gurgled all around.
Her image floated and faded in rhythm to the beats of his pulse.
The voice was a soft whisper on the wind carried across the distance of a millennium. The accented lilt conjured the image of a woman peaceful in sleep. Her auburn hair haloed a face unmarred by lines.
Closer. “Evan. It’s time.” The voice was strong and insistent.
Time?
Time, for what?
“Evan.” She sounded closer and coincided with the slamming of his heart against his ribcage like the first beat of life.
The serenity of her image behind his lids altered when her emerald eyes flew open wide, scared. “Don’t forget about me.”
He tried to lift a hand to cup her cheek, to reassure, but his limbs felt thick and weighty, unmovable. His breathing echoed hoarse in his ears and water gurgled all around.
Her image floated and faded in rhythm to the beats of his pulse.
December 8, 2014
Romancing the 8's ~ The Moose
The cracking of heavy branches gave only a moments notice before the great black apparition bounded directly across her path. Ashley tried to stop and slipped on a patch of ice falling just as the creature leapt at her. Doodles barks had turned to whimpers as he skittered back down the trail.
Ashley righted to all fours like a runner at the blocks waiting for the shot to sound. She glanced behind to see the beige fur of the dog fade through the foliage. She pushed her cap back from her brow and lowered her scarf dragging air through her nose. Snorting reverberated in the silence. If she got to her feet now could she outpace the animal and make it home? Would it even give chase? Perhaps the animal was more scared of her than she of it. The hum of her heart pulsed in her ears and she doubted it was more scared than her.
Trees knocked together, sounding like bullets in the stillness. The huge shadow raced out of the foliage. She couldn’t remain in her hunched position. Sighting a sapling, Ashley dashed for cover while the beast launched itself from the woods directly on her tail. She swallowed a scream and ducked to the side. The black apparition tore through the tree as it would branches.
She huddled behind a larger aspen. “Ohmigod.” Her palms hugged the smooth, paper-like trunk moving around the base praying the big creature would keep going.
The crashing changed direction and approached slowly. Grunting and snuffing proclaimed the beast’s intent.
Her feet sunk in the soft snow to her knees. The narrow tree she hobbled against seemed inadequate to the task of protection. Moving to keep an object between she and the monster, she peered around the side trying desperately to get a grip on what to do next. Sweat trickled from under her cap as the nose of the moose blew a great gust of air in her face from its great height on the other side of the aspen. When the massive head butted against the bark moving the wood as though it were no more than a twig in its way, she whimpered helplessly. Punctuated with a loud snort, a large hoof lifted higher than her waist before dropping down to the snow again, pawing the powdery dust out of its way.
Ashley laid her cheek against the trunk. If the tree held up, the best she could hope for was to wait the animal out. Her manoeuvrability around the base being far greater than the moose’s awkward gait.
The moose butt the tree again and the base of the trunk cracked in protest moving Ashley back a pace. She hunched her shoulders to buried her face in her scarf.
View more blogs for Romancing the 8’s Blog:
http://www.transcanadaromancewriters.blogspot.ca/
Stacy Dawn - http://www.stacydawn.blogspot.com
Darlene Fredette - http://www.findingthewritewords.blogspot.com
Marlow Kelly - http://www.marlowkelly.com/holiday-reads
Gini Rifkin - http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com/
Ashley righted to all fours like a runner at the blocks waiting for the shot to sound. She glanced behind to see the beige fur of the dog fade through the foliage. She pushed her cap back from her brow and lowered her scarf dragging air through her nose. Snorting reverberated in the silence. If she got to her feet now could she outpace the animal and make it home? Would it even give chase? Perhaps the animal was more scared of her than she of it. The hum of her heart pulsed in her ears and she doubted it was more scared than her.
Trees knocked together, sounding like bullets in the stillness. The huge shadow raced out of the foliage. She couldn’t remain in her hunched position. Sighting a sapling, Ashley dashed for cover while the beast launched itself from the woods directly on her tail. She swallowed a scream and ducked to the side. The black apparition tore through the tree as it would branches.
She huddled behind a larger aspen. “Ohmigod.” Her palms hugged the smooth, paper-like trunk moving around the base praying the big creature would keep going.
The crashing changed direction and approached slowly. Grunting and snuffing proclaimed the beast’s intent.
Her feet sunk in the soft snow to her knees. The narrow tree she hobbled against seemed inadequate to the task of protection. Moving to keep an object between she and the monster, she peered around the side trying desperately to get a grip on what to do next. Sweat trickled from under her cap as the nose of the moose blew a great gust of air in her face from its great height on the other side of the aspen. When the massive head butted against the bark moving the wood as though it were no more than a twig in its way, she whimpered helplessly. Punctuated with a loud snort, a large hoof lifted higher than her waist before dropping down to the snow again, pawing the powdery dust out of its way.
Ashley laid her cheek against the trunk. If the tree held up, the best she could hope for was to wait the animal out. Her manoeuvrability around the base being far greater than the moose’s awkward gait.
The moose butt the tree again and the base of the trunk cracked in protest moving Ashley back a pace. She hunched her shoulders to buried her face in her scarf.
View more blogs for Romancing the 8’s Blog:
http://www.transcanadaromancewriters.blogspot.ca/
Stacy Dawn - http://www.stacydawn.blogspot.com
Darlene Fredette - http://www.findingthewritewords.blogspot.com
Marlow Kelly - http://www.marlowkelly.com/holiday-reads
Gini Rifkin - http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com/
November 27, 2014
The Shout Out
On one hand it’s a day I wish had no meaning, yet by the other, I am grateful for the ability to mark it.
A year ago I received the news of having colon cancer as stoically as I could, which is to say, I was a crumbling mess suddenly catapulted into a vacant, dark hole lacking hope. But it was not black. Way off in the distance was the exit and I find I lack the vocabulary to describe what it is like now to be shrouded by the light. Translation, after surgery and months of chemo, I am cancer free.
I didn’t get to this point alone and it is important to thank those who are responsible for my success.
First and foremost, my family; a stubborn husband, combined with kids who didn’t seem to register any difference, whereby my youngest still needed his evening snack and snug-a-bug. For those who’ve been there, you know how important those moments are—being needed and having to force yourself to be normal.
My mom and dad, siblings and in-laws. Mom, you’re a rock!
I won’t name names. There are far too many, but they have to be mentioned. To the doctor who found the tumor, you didn’t hesitate to take immediate action. To my surgeon, you will always have a special place in my heart. To everyone at the Sturgeon Hospital who ensured my care with compassion and a smile. My Oncologist who had just THE BEST demeanor ever. Thank you for bringing everything down to a level where, in my befuddled state, I could still understand and make informed decisions.
And what to say about ALL of the staff at the Cross Cancer Institute? You earn your reputation each and every day. From the reception, to the lab, radiology, to the chemo room, I never felt anything but hope. It became a community onto itself, my visits welcomed and chitchat never rushed.
During this past year I have longed for Nova Scotia—home. For the people who know me best. To all my family and friends, I must tell you, I FELT your well wishes and prayers. I am in awe of your capacity to reach out. I was surrounded with your affection and please never think for one moment that you didn’t make a difference—you did. Thank you!
For any who may have just entered or are in the midst of the vortex known as cancer, I send you my love. Embrace and allow the love of others to shield you against the unknown, scary future. And if I can leave you with only one piece of advice, it would be to remember funky socks. Every time I had to face the next round of chemo, I would ‘dress’ for the occasion because ‘it’ was not going to get to me. Part of my outfit included red, cool, or sometimes striped sock. They were my rebellion, my reminder of smiles and happiness, a secret concealed under my pants and in my shoes, but I knew they were there. They were a symbol of what ALL OF YOU gave me ... hope.
Thank you!
A year ago I received the news of having colon cancer as stoically as I could, which is to say, I was a crumbling mess suddenly catapulted into a vacant, dark hole lacking hope. But it was not black. Way off in the distance was the exit and I find I lack the vocabulary to describe what it is like now to be shrouded by the light. Translation, after surgery and months of chemo, I am cancer free.
I didn’t get to this point alone and it is important to thank those who are responsible for my success.
First and foremost, my family; a stubborn husband, combined with kids who didn’t seem to register any difference, whereby my youngest still needed his evening snack and snug-a-bug. For those who’ve been there, you know how important those moments are—being needed and having to force yourself to be normal.
My mom and dad, siblings and in-laws. Mom, you’re a rock!
I won’t name names. There are far too many, but they have to be mentioned. To the doctor who found the tumor, you didn’t hesitate to take immediate action. To my surgeon, you will always have a special place in my heart. To everyone at the Sturgeon Hospital who ensured my care with compassion and a smile. My Oncologist who had just THE BEST demeanor ever. Thank you for bringing everything down to a level where, in my befuddled state, I could still understand and make informed decisions.
And what to say about ALL of the staff at the Cross Cancer Institute? You earn your reputation each and every day. From the reception, to the lab, radiology, to the chemo room, I never felt anything but hope. It became a community onto itself, my visits welcomed and chitchat never rushed.
During this past year I have longed for Nova Scotia—home. For the people who know me best. To all my family and friends, I must tell you, I FELT your well wishes and prayers. I am in awe of your capacity to reach out. I was surrounded with your affection and please never think for one moment that you didn’t make a difference—you did. Thank you!
For any who may have just entered or are in the midst of the vortex known as cancer, I send you my love. Embrace and allow the love of others to shield you against the unknown, scary future. And if I can leave you with only one piece of advice, it would be to remember funky socks. Every time I had to face the next round of chemo, I would ‘dress’ for the occasion because ‘it’ was not going to get to me. Part of my outfit included red, cool, or sometimes striped sock. They were my rebellion, my reminder of smiles and happiness, a secret concealed under my pants and in my shoes, but I knew they were there. They were a symbol of what ALL OF YOU gave me ... hope.
Thank you!
November 7, 2014
Romancing the 8's ~ "The Promise"
~
An excerpt from the novel ARC
He kept a firm hold of her hand, scared if he let go, she’d be gone, lost between the cracks of this barren wasteland. Though she didn’t lag or complain, he could tell she struggled to keep the pace. Yet, they had no choice but to keep going. The twin sun’s beat down upon them, heat searing through their protective clothing. He strained his vision to pierce the haze of the horizon. They would have to find shelter soon before night fell and the landscape came alive with predators. Nothing so much as a stunted tree offered itself up for protection and Evan wondered briefly where all these carnivorous animals hid during the day?
“How do you…” she panted, paused to swallow before continuing. “…keep going? Where you always this way? Tenacious in everything you do?”
It was easy to forget they’d only just met. He felt he knew her, had known her his whole life, yet he really knew so very little about this brave woman – the first to take on Project ARC. Just how much courage would you have to have to submit to an experimental procedure, risking death or a future unknown? But she did and here she was by his side wondering what made him go on? He shook his head at the irony.
The short answer would be You, but now was not the time for that explanation. Instead, he glanced down at her and winked. “Always.”
She swiped a forearm across her temple, revealing a raised quizzical brow. Her lips lifted marginally and a dimple announced itself in her flushed cheeks. “No, really?”
He paused his step and turned to her. Reaching with a free hand, he tucked a sweat-soaked lock of hair back within the confines of her hood and let himself dive into the deep pools of her sea-green eyes. “I go until I can’t go any further. When I feel like stopping I remember why it’s important to keep going and I just do. I try to see the end and picture myself there.”
“But what if you can’t get back?”
He cupped the curve of her cheek. “If I can get there. I can get back. Always.”
View more blogs for Romancing the 8’s:
Blog: http://www.transcanadaromancewriters....
He kept a firm hold of her hand, scared if he let go, she’d be gone, lost between the cracks of this barren wasteland. Though she didn’t lag or complain, he could tell she struggled to keep the pace. Yet, they had no choice but to keep going. The twin sun’s beat down upon them, heat searing through their protective clothing. He strained his vision to pierce the haze of the horizon. They would have to find shelter soon before night fell and the landscape came alive with predators. Nothing so much as a stunted tree offered itself up for protection and Evan wondered briefly where all these carnivorous animals hid during the day?
“How do you…” she panted, paused to swallow before continuing. “…keep going? Where you always this way? Tenacious in everything you do?”
It was easy to forget they’d only just met. He felt he knew her, had known her his whole life, yet he really knew so very little about this brave woman – the first to take on Project ARC. Just how much courage would you have to have to submit to an experimental procedure, risking death or a future unknown? But she did and here she was by his side wondering what made him go on? He shook his head at the irony.
The short answer would be You, but now was not the time for that explanation. Instead, he glanced down at her and winked. “Always.”
She swiped a forearm across her temple, revealing a raised quizzical brow. Her lips lifted marginally and a dimple announced itself in her flushed cheeks. “No, really?”
He paused his step and turned to her. Reaching with a free hand, he tucked a sweat-soaked lock of hair back within the confines of her hood and let himself dive into the deep pools of her sea-green eyes. “I go until I can’t go any further. When I feel like stopping I remember why it’s important to keep going and I just do. I try to see the end and picture myself there.”
“But what if you can’t get back?”
He cupped the curve of her cheek. “If I can get there. I can get back. Always.”
View more blogs for Romancing the 8’s:
Blog: http://www.transcanadaromancewriters....
