G.N.A. Publishing░N░e░w░ ░A░u░t░h░o░r░s░ discussion
note: This topic has been closed to new comments.
Work here Authors
>
Post your book excerpt & get featured for free!
message 101:
by
Grasshopper, Administrator
(last edited Jan 11, 2019 01:12PM)
(new)
Jan 11, 2019 01:09PM
Mod
reply
|
flag
Grasshopper wrote: "Authors please feel free to post excerpts from your book to get them reviewed by our readers."https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07K131PMM FRANKENSTINA (From Chapter 7 Valedictorian)
Joyce Langer never attended the graduation ceremonies. She knew people would look at her, as they have at other functions for years, and wonder why she didn’t have a man with her. Some checked it off to her being overweight and unattractive, while others guessed that she didn’t like men, but was into women. The latter was true, but only young women…very young women.
She would always target the youngest girls, ones who were on the very poor side of town. She would start by tutoring them, and then bait them with a few dollars before she made her move on them.
Tonight she was on her couch, sipping a glass of wine and watching a tape she made of her seducing her most recent young student. She was just about to cum when she felt a pair of eyes staring down at her from behind the couch. As she attempted to sit up, a huge gloved hand pushed her face back down onto the couch.
Gaberdeen leaned forward so that Joyce could see the Frankenstein mask. Joyce Langer tried to move but Gaberdeen’s three hundred pounds fell like a ton of bricks onto her face. The sounds of Joyce having an orgasm on the tape cause Gaberdeen to turn slowly and watch.
She then turned, again slowly, back to Joyce.
She said, “Now I understand why you were trying to separate April from me when you took her in to Mrs. Hoyt’s office.”
Joyce’s eyes went wide as she recognized Gaberdeen’s build and voice.
Gaberdeen revealed a trophy that she was holding in her hand. It was small but had a marble base, which gave it weight. She moved her hand, so that Joyce could speak, but kept her pinned to the couch.
“Gaberdeen, I don’t know what you’re planning on doing,” Joyce said, “but I’d advise you to think very carefully about it.”
“To Joyce Langer, most outstanding teacher of the year 2003,” Gaberdeen said. “That was the year before I came to Hardin.”
“Now listen to me…” Joyce said.
“No, you listen to me, rapist,” Gaberdeen said. “We’re going to have an oral quiz. Whom are you going to demean next year now that I’m gone? Whom are you going to avoid helping while the class shoots spitballs at her? Who are you going to mock about their weight, because it makes you feel better?”
Before she could answer, Gaberdeen lifted the trophy over her head. She brought it smashing down with such force that her upper denture flew across the room, along with several bottom teeth. The trophy’s sharp metal edge sliced an opening in the side of her mouth, exposing the white tissue. The marble base was embedded in the back of her throat.
Gaberdeen stood watching Joyce’s legs twitch violently before they went still.
“I’m afraid you didn’t pass,” Gaberdeen said and climbed out the window she had come in.
Mod
Mod
Mod
Nice, so many new excerpts to read! Looking forward to learning more about your stories.
Hey everyone, I posted a blurb a while ago, but I received some negative feedback from friends and other authors I know. Also, it felt cliche (which may not always be a bad thing) and I personally didn't like it. I posted a new one and went in entirely different direction. Let me know what you think. Would you read this book based on the blurb? Is there any part you don't like? Thanks in advance."A young man signs his own death warrant when he joins an already failing resistance movement. A teenage girl is haunted by her childhood abuses and begins to crave the very things she hates. A childless mother finds herself on the run as a convicted murderer. Yet, they are all unaware that their own fates are tied to a young boy who has drowned and come back alive in a foreign land where he is told that he will be the death of everyone he meets.
Hælend’s Ballad is a tale about what happens when men and women realize they may not be on the right side. Heroes are villains. The persecuted are oppressors. And when rumors begin to spread that the world is dying, the darkness of their own hearts betrays them all."
Ian wrote: "Hey everyone, I posted a blurb a while ago, but I received some negative feedback from friends and other authors I know. Also, it felt cliche (which may not always be a bad thing) and I personally ..."Hi Ian,
I like it! Could you add their names though? I also would change the word alive in the sentence "...back alive in a foreign..." to back to life. But it sounds good and I would read it based on the blurb.
But I would say "A young man, (insert name here) signs his own death..." and 'A teenage girl (insert name) it helps me feel connected to them somehow when I hear their names. Others might disagree...
Thanks for the feedback! I changed "back alive" to "back to life." But I've wrestled with whether I should add their names or not. I have a lot of characters in the story and I if I add their names I'm afraid it might give away too much of that specific character. Keeping it vague gives some information, but still maintains a bit of mystery. But then again, you may be right. It may help the reader have a connection with the character.
Hi all, This is from the beginning of my Paranormal Romance book, SUMMER'S END. Hope you enjoy!Somewhere between then and now
Screaming jolts me from my sleep. A shrill, sickening sound that vibrates deep within me. My stomach lurches as vomit rises up, sitting in my throat. Covering my ears, I pray for it to end. Someone is in excruciating pain. As the seconds unravel, and my consciousness clears, I realise that it’s me; I’m the one screaming out in constant agony. I want to stop but can’t. I need to force it all out, the pain, the darkness and this feeling of complete dread. There’s this great hole in my chest, like an inkblot expanding, taking over me until there’s nothing left.
Sobbing, my energy depleted, my emotions turn to sorrow. The slightest movement makes my flesh tear. My hands are now sore, blistered gloves of skin. I want to wriggle out of this body, discard it like a cheap suit…I want to walk away from this pain, this living hell, this life…I want to die. Why didn’t I die?
The skin holding my face together seems too tight for my skull. I want to rip it off. Digging my fingernails in, I drag them roughly down my cheeks.
“It burns!” I cry. “It burns!” There’s blood caked in my nails, and yet I still scratch. I can’t stop. It must come away, this rotten shell… I want it off me! I tear and claw at it, not just my face now; my legs, arms, and stomach…every touch feeling like a scorch mark, a lighted match etching over this flesh. I know I’m still under here somewhere, a prisoner in my own body. How did I become this? I don’t know if I’ve been brought here to die but right now, I’d welcome it. I’m lost, alone in this unknown hell. The real me has to be here somewhere…but who the hell am I? What’s happening to me?
“Help…please help me.”
“Stop!” A slim, tall woman appears. “You must stop.”
I obey without question. Tears trickling down my cheeks feel like drops of acid. The woman moves closer. With blurry eyes I can see that she’s beautiful, the kind of woman people see in dreams…I must look disgusting to her. She smiles, and I immediately relax. Her silver eyes lock with mine, I feel a sense of weightlessness. The pain’s still there, but I’m floating up, away from it. I know when my eyes open again that this nightmare will still be ongoing…but for now, I’m letting go of everything. If this is death, then it can take me. I’m silent, my body numb as I await her instructions. I’m floating somewhere between my body and the ceiling. In this moment, I am content to die. “You need to rest.”
“Who are you?” My voice sounds distant, like it doesn’t belong to me.
“I am here to help you, Summer.”
“Yes, that’s my name, isn’t it…Summer.” I know that but can’t seem to think past it to any other details about myself. Every time I try, a huge mental door clamps down in my mind. Panic bubbles, tightening my chest, I can’t remember one thing about this ‘Summer’ person I’m supposed to be. I have no recollection of anything at all! “What’s happened to me?” I whisper.
“You were in a terrible fire. Luckily, you are still with us.”
“A fire? What fire?” Shaking, I look down at my injuries and anxiety sweeps through me all over again. “I want to die,” I sob. “You should have let me die.”
“Please don’t.” She carefully places her hand on my hair. I feel cooler, like an anaesthetic is washing over me. “The process will take a while. I’m going to give you something to ease your pain.”
I feel a pinch to my arm and I’m incredibly sleepy.
“Did you save him too?”
“Save who, Summer?”
“I-I…don’t know…” My sore eyelids weigh down over swollen eyes. “I should have died…” I utter as a welcome abyss embraces me.
Screaming...that what I wake up to, it takes me a second to realise that it was me screaming. My sister burst through the door, shotgun in hand until she realised what was going on and dropped it instantly on the floor and walked over to me while pulling me into a hug while I sobbed into her shirt. We stayed there for a couple of minutes with my crying the only noise in the room until my sister softy tells me "It alright, I'm here and your safe", "says the person who ran into my room with a shotgun" I retorted with a smirk, pulling away from her. Kay laughs, "well it not my fault, you were screaming bloody murder", "do you mean that literally or metaphorical?" I asked as my sister stands up next to my bed, "metaphorical" she replied picking the gun back up. "You should be used to this by now" I muttered, "that doesn't make me any less worried, sis," she says as she goes to leave the room, "by the way, you should check your phone, it's been blowing up with messages" and with that she close the door.From a book I'm planning on writing called Spirit Hunters
Mod
Offering the first book in my Bake Drysdale for FREE in ebook format right now on Amazon. I really need some reviews so if anyone's interested in some old-school retro adventure fiction, please check it out. C'mon - the price is right!https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07...
Mod
We are trying to keep this discussion, exclusively for excerpts only.
Hello everyone. Here is an excerpt from my debut book, The Wrath of Isis: From the Chronicles of the Temporal LensThe Wrath of IsisHope you enjoy.
Alister and Allison suddenly found themselves standing on a hill overlooking a small stone bridge that spanned a river.
One moment, Allison had been in a dorm room safe within the confines of the University of Kansas campus. The next moment, she was standing outside bathed in bright sunlight as a cool October wind of the Italian countryside blasted her though the thin cloth that adorned her body. The sounds of battle harassed her ears, the sharp odor of burning wood and the smell of blood assailed her nostrils.
She grabbed onto Alister’s arm to prevent herself from falling over, the inertia of her body propelling her forward from her previous lunge in the dorm room.
The scene was chaos. Steel clashed, and men screamed in agonizing pain. All around her, the broken and bleeding bodies of soldiers littered the ground, their limbs torn and slashed, their intestines oozing from their stomachs turning the frosty earth to blood-soaked mud. In the valley near the river below, an army stood over countless dead bodies. Some soldiers still fought in small clusters around the blood-stained waters of the river.
“What did you do?” Allison nearly screamed at Alister. After regaining her balance, she took up position behind him, as if using him as a shield, desperately clinging to his arm with both hands. She frantically looked around in fear.
“Oh my God, we’re gonna die!”
“Calm down,” said Alister with a confidence he didn’t really feel. “We’re not gonna die.”
“They can’t hurt us, can they?” he asked aloud, looking up toward the sky, seeking reassurance for himself as much as for Allison.
“No. You do not reside in this plane of existence physically,” said the Lens. The Lens was no longer visible, but Alister and Allison could hear it in their minds. “You are but a shadow, a mental projection into the temporal plane.”
“Wow, kinda like Scrooge then, you know, when the ghosts of Christmas took him to see the past and future, so nobody can see us. This is the shadow of what once was. It’s like watching a movie,” Alister said to Allison.
Alister’s statement was not true, of course. The Lens had merely stated it had projected the consciousness of the humans in its charge into a holographic representation. The holographic representation served to limit the energy output. It was far easier to transport streams of consciousness and to coordinate the experiences encountered back to the physical forms left in the present, rather than to transport physical bodies. With the stream of consciousness thus configured, the transport of their physical selves would not have added to the experience in any meaningful way. The holographic images of the two students were very much visible to those around them, giving them a semi-transparent, ghostlike appearance. However, the Lens was not programmed to offer unsolicited information to correct the misrepresentations of fact from its operator. It made no response to Alister’s proclamation.
Allison calmed quickly as the realization that they were in no danger sunk in. Looking at herself and at Alister now, she could see that they were semi-transparent. The experience was uncanny, and the gruesome scene before her was more than a bit disturbing, but it was a comfort to know that they were in no mortal danger.
She let go of his arm, took a step back and tried to comport herself.
“Where exactly are we?” Alister asked, still looking up as if talking to the Lens.
“You stand on a hill, near the shore of the river Tiber in Italy, just north of Rome,” said the Lens. “The date is October 28, 312. This is the date and location of the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, the historical battle in which Constantine the Great is purported to have seen his vision from God.”
“Are you insane?” Allison asked angrily, punching Alister in the arm. “You could have warned me. You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Allison, still seething from being brought back to this time against her will, along with Alister’s remarks back in the bedroom, looked around, her face set in a stern visage. She spotted a man and a woman standing near them on the hill. The woman, dressed in fine robes vaguely similar to those that Allison herself wore, looked to be in her mid-thirties. She wore robes of woven wool, not fine silk as were Allison’s, and like Allison she also wore a necklace. It too was made of gold, although it didn’t have the enormous ruby that Allison’s had. Allison took a moment to admire the woman. She looked stately in her robes, almost regal. Allison almost smiled at her image, but for the moment, she was still too aggravated to smile. A man in his early forties stood next to the woman. He was dressed in Roman soldier’s garb. She had seen enough historical movies to know he looked like a general of the Roman Legions. He stood, unmoving, with a sword raised above his head.
“There he is,” she said.
“Who? Where?” asked Alister.
“There! Right there!” she said, raising her arm and pointing her finger at the Roman general. “That must be Constantine.
Mod
Mod
Here it is anew release 17 & Life, Memoir.Sleep is just not going to happen. Some of the stuff these guys are shouting at each other, to give you an idea. "You are a dead man tomorrow, don't date step out of your cell, I will be waiting" sounds oh so nice doesn't it ? Another is arguing about what he is owed and shouting more threats, it is almost like they are picking on. Certain people who are just not answering back or something. They yell even louder to get an answer. I AM beginning toto feel a little for whomever is the subject of theses threats.
It is like as if there are a few unsettled issues going on, every so often a new voice comes out and says something like, "shut up you had your chance and you are mouth, you will do nothing" they know this voice though because there is no aggression back to this person. It as if they know him to be a boss like or a dominant one. The accent of Dublin Ireland, I should recall take a little time to explain, it is known as a harsh and strong accent among the people of Dublin. The real inner city accent has a touch to it that is automatically detected as threatening and fierce and so these guys shouting are pretending to be tough by using any harsher an accent, they are true subs and naturally hard. Well I suppose when you take a look around where I now find myself, you a prison cell, why would it surprise me that these guys are the real deal and the real criminals of the city. I am stuck in amongst them.
My own hangover has been starting to kick in and some feelings of weakness, physical weakness are tingling up and down and around my body. I am sitting on the edge of my bed now, or is it better called a bunk ? A lot perhaps a military type cot that is as basic a single bed as you can imagine. I sit up here listening to noises from the cell block, the white of the fluorescent lights from under my door and I have my head in my hands. There is light from a moon coming through my lovely plexiglass window, not much mind you but I am staring at nothing. I am noticing everything but I definitely finding it hard to concentrate.
Having a headache coming on and the feel of.my head being too heavy in my own hands. I have a bump or two around my scull too, the one on the right hand side of my head I have touched it a couple of times by mistake, with my finger as I cradled my head in my hands, I tell you honestly it is beginning to feel a little more sore now as the hangover is getting stronger. Tipping the wound on my head by accident just isn't a smart thing and so I have been tipping gently trying to investigate exactly how bad is it. For me it is feeling like a gaping hole in my head, ah it's probably.not that bad is all I can think about it for now as there is no getting a couple of aspirin at this hour in this place.
Prison ya know ? I do not think they make bedside visits with medication and are too worried as to my well being. I am a criminal to them and so deserve less I guess.
Some of the guys shouting is definitely bullying, one guy is crying out for his mother and he is genuinely crying, all the other seem to get excited by this and the cell block comes to life with both bullies and some genuine guys shouting words of encouragement. "Go on and kill yourself, you will never survive tomorrow when we get our hands on you" like who even thinks that could be funny? The more genuine guys are shouting encouragement " don't worry a sentence goes by fast and you can do it on your back " on your back means you can do it lying down and the sentence will be easy like taking a nap. It will be over before you know it, so "on your back" is the term that people use.
Here is a link
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/197826092X
Mod
Hi! This is an excerpt from my forthcoming YA fantasy, STEEL HAND, COLD HEART. The Odyssey meets The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue in this Viking version of the self-exploratory road trip.
I have eARCS available for download at the link below and would love a few reviews before it launches in May. Thank you!
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/x2uzdoz8zx
Chapter 1
They called me Carina the Unstoppable. No, the name did not render men to terror like Merciless Merle, nor did it inspire awe like Dagna the Destroyer, or command attention like Odda Ironfist. But the moniker was mine. I earned it for the many times I had been knocked flat on the training grounds or limped on bleeding limbs to finish a fight. It was how I earned my place as one of Hel’s Daughters, the Hand of Death Herself.
I leaned over the rails of our longboat, Jörmungandr, aptly named because the figurehead was carved in the image of the giant sea serpent, wriggling its way through the water east toward Frisia. A strong wind held our mainsail, and we bobbed back and forth on gentle waves. These smooth waters were a blessing from the sea giant, Aegir. He approved of our quest, speeding us along our last raid of the season, the last offering to Hel before the long winter.
This was the Daughters’ last raid of the season but my first. I could hardly contain my excitement. I wanted to be there already, to see the villagers’ faces when we arrived on their shore in droves. When we offered their blood to the Goddess Hel.
I curled my steel fingers into a fist. On the eve of my initiation, Thora warned me attaching my steel hand would hurt. Her exact words were, “It feels like cutting your fingers off one by one and pissing in the wound.” Vidar warmed the steel gauntlet in the coals until it glowed sunset red, and I grit my teeth as he slid the molten metal over my fingers. The steel hand burned through flesh and muscle until the metal touched bone. My eyes had watered. A violent scream had gathered in my chest.
I held it back. I didn’t have the luxury of showing weakness, and once the hand was seared to my fingers, I belonged to Hel. She who bears the steel hand has the Goddess’s blessing to take life.
That was three months ago. It took that long for my hand to heal, to become useful again.
“Oy, Carina!”
My fist curled tighter at the sound of Dagna’s voice. She made the application of the steel hand seem like a hangnail in comparison.
Whereas the steel only burned me once, Dagna burned me again and again and again.
Slowly I turned, on my time, not hers.
She stood opposite me on the port side of the longboat, still too close for my liking. Her gold hair glowed under the pale moonlight, tied tight into a perfect braid that resembled a thick coil of rope. She stood tall and lean, bright-eyed and fierce. With her broad axe slung over her shoulder and the cruel smile on her lips, one look from her caused men to fall to their knees and weep for mercy. She painted the perfect picture of one of Hel’s servants, and I despised her for that.
“When we arrive at Frisia,” she said. “I hope you don’t forget who you should be fighting. It will be easy to get confused in the dark. Should you find my axe in your back, forgive me. You blend so well with blackness.”
Her cruel smile widened. This was an old joke, a tired one, except a few of our Sisters still laughed. It stuck at me like nails. I was not the perfect picture of Hel’s Daughters. I had been claimed by a raid in the Southern Isles years ago, brought back as a spoil of battle at three. I had olive-toned skin and black hair, wood brown eyes, and even though everyone could plainly see it, Dagna felt the need to shine a painful light on my differences.
I should have been glad she at least warned me she might stab me in the back this time.
She had officially tried to kill me three times and maim me more times than I could count. The breeze lifted her tunic, revealing the edge of a long pink scar. I gave her that one on the practice field, self-defense with a touch of vengeance.
“A good, healthy rivalry,” Merle called it, seemingly proud that when it came to fighting, neither Dagna nor I held back.
But it was not exactly healthy. If one of us were stabbed, or trampled, or drowned tonight, the other one would open a bottle of mead and drink in celebration.
Words In Flight: The Phantom Of Poetry Kindle Editionby Anahit Arustamyan (Author)
5.0 out of 5 stars 2 customer reviews.
https://www.amazon.com/Words-Flight-P...
Words In Flight 2
Mod
by Anahit Arustamyan (Author)
5.0 out of 5 stars 2 customer reviews.
https://www.amazon.com/Words-Flight-P......"
Hi Anahit. Do you mind reposting this in the Book Promotion folder? This spot is for excerpts only. We offer reviews to Authors here for the passage they post.
Mod
The Odyssey meets The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue in this Viking version of the self-explor..."
Very interesting Rachel. Have marked it as
{To be read} All the best for it's publication.
Hi, This is an excerpt from my dark fantasy, Rise: A Blood Inheritance Novel
“I thought I saw something.”
Amanda dropped to her knees in the grass beside some of the bright red flowers. She brushed at the palm-sized petals with her hand, parting them to inspect the area closer to the ground. “I swore it went past by my face, a blue creature, it swooped down and I thought…”
A red thing unfolded itself from one of the petals and darted at her. Angry at the intrusion, it circled her head once, flapping its leathery wings.
Then, as if cursing at her, it stopped, hovering directly in front of her face, its small claws poised for attack if necessary as it took in the sight of her.
She could see its tiny nostrils flare as the small winged reptile opened its mouth, releasing a puff of smoke. It beat its wings in her direction one more time as if making a point before turning and flying away, its long slender tail whipping back and forth behind it.
Aden lowered himself to sit by Amanda.
Amanda leaned in closer to the ground and watched as another similar creature uncurled itself from the deep grass, this one an identical shade of green. It spread its wings and beat them several times, revealing sharp spikes that lined its back before it lifted and flew away.
Aden grinned. “Dragons.” She raised one eyebrow and stood, placing her hands on her hips. “In human lore that’s what they call them, anyway.” Aden continued to examine the shrubbery.
“No way, those are tiny.”
“They always were.” Aden looked up at her, squinting as the sun hit his eyes. “Humans have a tendency to embellish, from what I have learned, anyway.” He went back to his search. “They come in all sorts of colors, and they are very protective of their homes.”
That is a unique theory. Very intriguing.
Mod
Catherine wrote: "That is a unique theory. Very intriguing."😊
Mod
My pleasure.
Here is These Words Are True and Faithful, Chapter 1, part 1. If anyone is interested, this weekend, I can pick some other excerpts suitable for posting here.“Today’s Scripture reading,” said Pastor Mandeville, “says that ‘the end of all things is at hand.’ People back then thought they were living in the end times, but we know we are. We know because we can discern it from the Bible, which is God’s inerrant Word.”
The congregation murmured approval. Some sat with their hands folded in their laps, while others took notes. If they had any reaction to Pastor Mandeville’s preaching other than passive acceptance, their faces did not betray it.
“And that’s what the life and ministry of this church have been leading up to since this denomination was founded,” continued the Pastor. “Now, I see some new faces in the congregation today, so let me say for their benefit what the church members already know, so please bear with me. The Holy Spirit called certain men to found the United Church of the Saints in 1934 to restore the church originally founded by Our Lord Jesus Christ in the year 33 A.D. and to prepare for His second coming.”
If anyone wondered what had happened between the years 33 and 1934, no one let on.
Among the congregation was the Overton family, pillars of the church and of their working-class community in suburban Kingsbridge Township. The Overtons were at first glance the picture-perfect evangelical Christian family. The head of the family was Saul Overton, who had done well selling cars and ended up owning one of the metropolitan area’s largest car dealerships, on Route 1 in Elrod Township; the people of the church knew that the Lord had blessed him financially to reward him for his faith. He had decided to keep the family in Kingsbridge rather than move to one of the more expensive suburbs west of the city because he preferred the traditional family atmosphere of Kingsbridge.
The Overtons’ second son, Sam, was in attendance, although he had not attended regularly since going away to college and then moving from Kingsbridge into the city. The first son, Nathan, was not in attendance and was no longer welcome since having been disfellowshipped. He had asked enough difficult questions during Sunday school that he was eventually determined to have blasphemed against the Holy Spirit. He was also living in sin with his girlfriend, Tracy.
That week, Sam had brought his, um, “friend,” Ernie Butler, of whom no one was sure what to make, and of whom no one was quite sure what to say, at least to the face of anyone in one of the church’s most important families. Besides, neither Sam nor Ernie seemed like, well, you know, those people, at least as the media had portrayed them to be. For one thing, Ernie was a police officer, and what could be more respectable and upstanding than that? Rumor had it that they were having difficulty in their relationship, although no one felt like asking Sam or anyone else who would know for sure; besides, who wanted the details? Ernie had also grown up in a churchgoing environment, although Catholic rather than evangelical Protestant, and he had learned to avoid all but the most superficial discussions of theology, so he knew how to make small talk with the people in the congregation with few missteps. Some of the church members were cordial to him, while others were polite but cool, and still others avoided him. At least Nathan was living in sin in a heterosexual way. The churchgoers would certainly not have known what to make of the circumstances under which Sam and Ernie had first met.
Thanks Eugene. We will be very interested in reading the same.
Mod
Marked as {To be read}
Here is an excerpt from my book To And From Crack To Christ: A Sinner In Recovery THE LOST OF MY BROTHER
At 17 a few months before I was to go to the army, my confusion would cause me to get into an argument with my older brother (the one who had been in the army). He had asked me to help clean the house and instead of cleaning up I started an argument with him because I had a joint in my pocket and wanted to go and get high. He could have just beated me up until I changed my mind and helped with the cleaning but instead he chose to be a better person and just walked away.
He left the house and about 10 minutes later I heard gunshots and didn't really pay them no mind because gunshots where nothing new in my neighborhood. A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door saying that my brother had been shot. Oh this can't be right! I know I didn't hear what I thought I just heard, not my big brother! So me and my family ran down the alley to find my brother lying there bleeding out while waiting for an ambulance that would break down after it arrived.
As I stood there watching my brother as the paramedics tried to help him I was thinking how I wish I could apologize. I'm thinking, I'm so sorry, please get up big bro. Please move, I will do whatever you want me to do just show me a sign that you're still with me please. Can you hear me big bro? Can you at least move your hand? Please get up, please!!!! I'm so sorry.
I don't know how long the family stood there before my brother was taken to the hospital where they pronounced him dead. Oh if ever I needed a drink, it's now. This is all my fault. If I hadn't started an argument he would have stayed in the house. Why did I have to argue over something so stupid? I just wanted to go outside to smoke a joint. Dear God, let this be a dream and wake me up. Father in heaven, just wake me up and let me see my brother again.
Later I got high until I passed out trying to get away from the pain, but I woke up the next morning and my big brother was still gone, the pain was still there and my brothers death in my mind was still my fault and it was unforgiveable. How will I live with and forgive myself for this? Maybe a stronger drink will help? Again I lied to myself.
Growing up I was not taught to express my feelings. Talking about your feelings was something that rich people did with their private psychiatrist. There was no psychiatrist for the poor that I knew of and getting emotional was also like a sign of weakness. So when things got a little rough I dealt with it the only way I knew how. I held the pain in and I turned to the doctor in the bottle.
The doctor in the bottle didn't judge me and always had time to listened. He also never helped but at least he was always nearby. The devil saw to that, for he had seen into my future and tried to keep me from my destiny. He had me for a while but the DEVIL IS A LIE. Though I still had to make it through years of addictions I thank God for the grace He kept showing me.
http://www.christianfaithpublishing.c...
Mod
Grasshopper wrote: "Dear Anonymous Sinner, you write from the heart. The experiences sound very personal and believable. Good luck with your upcoming featured month in April. Looking forward to knowing more about the ..."Thank you for the opportunity to share this on your site
Goodmorning :) My fantasy novel just got translated to English and I'm very happy, that I can finally give you an ecerpt of my "Song of a Falling Star" (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4...)
***
With hardly a sound its powerful wings sliced through the night. Only now and then could a loud, long drawn-out ‘flap-flap’ be heard when they stroked briefly to prevent the dragon from losing altitude. Its gigantic, cobalt-blue body glided like an arrow through the clouds which repeatedly amassed on it, then were broken through, dispersing in small swirls to the right and left along the edges of its massive body. Periodically it looked down at the landscape rushing past. It shimmered like a specter in the light of the pallid moon.
It hadn’t flown over any other settlements for hours. This region was inhospitable, and only isolated farmsteads stood at broad distances from one another.
Deep within the dragon, seethed rage boiling in his powerful chest. Like that of a wild animal, his heart beat against his ribs and pumped the desire for vengeance into every corner of his being. Inside rose a profound resentment which he tried to suppress for a while, but finally it erupted and thundered over the undulating desert below. With sharp eyes he could see small stones on the ground jump and tremble from the shock wave. Now he dove completely through the layer of clouds and glanced around attentively. At some distance he saw a hill standing considerably higher than the others. It was almost a small mountain, its summit a gently sloping plateau of weather-smoothed granite. He’d be able to land there.
He felt as though he’d been in the air for an eternity and noticed how tired he was only when he circled slowly in his decent over the mountain. Also, he had eaten very little. Only a few pathetically gaunt sheep in that abandoned farming village between the fringe of the forest and the beginning of the rocky desert.
Incensed he had trampled down the remnants of the houses there; however, that hadn’t appeased him. A thirst for blood smoldered in him. For what had been done to him, his claws longed to crush and pulverize more than dry stone.
Revenge is what he sought.
Bittersweet, bloody revenge!
***
Thanks for reading :)
Mod
Good morning Sylvia, I enjoyed how you painted a clear picture of what the dragon was viewing as well as how you gave us the sense of something had been done to make the dragon thirst for revenge.
Mod
Calling all members, to feel free to review excerpts of books posted here. The writers will surely benefit from your valuable inputs & reviews.
Anonymous wrote: "Good morning Sylvia, I enjoyed how you painted a clear picture of what the dragon was viewing as well as how you gave us the sense of something had been done to make the dragon thirst for revenge."Thank you. I'd like to pass this compliment also onto my excellent pair of translators. This was the scene I asked in a translators forum to be translated as a sample of their work from anybody who applied for the job. I got 36 replies and 36 times a very different translatio of this part. That was really exciting.
This is a great place to post. This is the opening of my novel, Sweet Bitter Cane It's about a woman who after WWI travels from Italy to Australia to find a better life. CHAPTER ONE
The Madonna flew from Jerusalem. Like a gyre she rose, wing-less, from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, passing over the sea, over Crete and Sicily, between Capri and Vesuvius, close to the sun, amongst the starlings and swifts and the shrieking sea-birds. She swept along the coast of conquered pasts, above the dusty aqueducts, the chipped and crumbling buildings, olive groves and grain fields and winter-gnarled vineyards, never once losing her way, full of grace.
She glided over the cobblestones of Tovo di Sant’Agata in far northern Italy, past the stirring baker and the sleeping cob-bler, through the village square, over the water well and barking dogs and prowling cats and shivering rats. She touched down, crimson and sapphire robes fluttering, her lips and cheeks a healthy rose, at the end of Amelia Durante’s bed.
For the first time in many years, this vision returned to Ame-lia uncourted. While staring at the Madonna to the side of the altar in the parish church, blood pulsed the statue’s white marble to flesh, her lips alive, her weeping robes the same deep colours. The questions came again to Amelia: What did this vision mean? That she was blessed? That she would travel? Or that she would never leave the village? The Madonna cared for her? What else could it mean? The Madonna beckoned her.
Taken over, she extended her right hand, splayed her fingers. They hung in midair, a featherless wing. The air, heavy with frankincense, scorched her eyes. Amelia gasped, snatched back her hand and raised her left. What kind of fool gave the wrong hand? She swallowed her doubts and watched the gold ring slip over her knuckle. How innocent it looked, this self-joined circle, and what power it held. Even through the white film of her veil it shone, sun-gold.
The priest began. ‘Confírma hoc, Deus, quod operátus es in nobis.’
With her free hand, she rotated the ring, just a single turn, this key to freedom.
‘A templo sancto tuo, quod est in Jerúsalem,’ the small con-gregation responded.
Amelia looked beyond the priest to the white-lace altar and the risen god above. She inhaled the incense.
‘Et ne nos indúcas in tentatiónem.’
‘Sed líbera nos a malo,’ she said.
Had she made the right choice? So much was still to be re-solved.
‘You may kiss the bride.’
Giuseppe turned to her. So strange to see him in a suit, with a tie and white shirt. With infinite care, he gathered the bottom of her veil as if raising the curtain on a theatre performance. His eyes didn’t leave hers. He leaned forward, moving his mouth towards her lips. She pressed up on her toes, as far above her mere 150 centimetres as she could muster, but turned so his lips touched her cheek, then the other. It seemed natural to kiss her brother like this. He was just her proxy groom.
Mod
Intriguing...Marked as {To be read}
I really enjoyed reading this. Yes, intriguing is the only word.
G.S. wrote: "This is a great place to post. This is the opening of my novel, Sweet Bitter Cane It's about a woman who after WWI travels from Italy to Australia to find a better life. CHAPTER O..."
I liked the idea of the flying Madonna for a long while - but was she singing Like A Virgin? So happy you liked the excerpt.
Grasshopper wrote: "Lovely excerpt GS. You have transported us to a beautiful world. A flying Madonna, miracles and then, boom! A proxy marriage with the brother!Intriguing...Marked as {To be read}"
That's great if I've intrigued you with a few paragraphs.
Grasshopper wrote: "Great setting Eugene. The stage seems set for your unique storyline. The eternal struggle between the rigid moral system prescribed by the church Vs path of true/modern love is dealt with very subt..."Thank you. That's a perceptive take on it.
Mod
Intriguing...Marked as {To be read..."
But of course!
Mod
You are most welcome Eugene.
Catherine wrote: "Thanks Eugene. We will be very interested in reading the same."Thanks. In this passage from These Words Are True and Faithful, we see an unnamed old man get under the skin of Ernie, who is a police officer.
They walked hand in hand to one of the gayborhood’s restaurants best known for brunch. Ernie requested a table outside, telling the greeter, “I’m in the mood to be seen today.” He ordered the brunch buffet and coffee for both of them.
At the table next to them, an old man nursed a bloody Mary. After Ernie had gone inside for seconds from the buffet, the old man leaned over to Sam and said, “You’ve managed to find yourself a handsome boyfriend. He is your boyfriend, right?”
“Um, yes, he is,” said Sam, suddenly tongue-tied yet proud of his accomplishment.
“And he’s completely besotted with you. It’s written all over his face.” After a pause, the old man said, “I envy you young people, being able to be so free and open about your lives.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“We didn’t have all of this in my day,” said the old man, waving his hand toward the businesses lining 36th Street, many of them flying rainbow flags. “Back when this state had sodomy laws, which it did until 1979, if they thought your business catered to homosexuals, it’d be denied a license renewal on that basis alone, for promoting criminal activity. That was unless you greased the right palms, of course. There were only a few towns on the shore or in the western part of the state that did it differently. And even well after that, we certainly wouldn’t have walked down the street holding hands the way you and your beau did.”
Ernie returned with his seconds and sat down.
The old man continued, “Not unless we wanted our heads cracked open, anyway.”
“But surely,” Sam said, “there were police around in case such things happened, right?”
“Young man,” the old man responded, “you cannot be serious.”
Ernie shifted in his chair and scowled at the old man.
“If you got the police involved,” the old man said, “they’d let your attackers go and look for things to arrest you for, or just arrest you for inciting a riot or some such. That’s if they weren’t the ones attacking you, or if they weren’t all busy undercover at the local porn store or the park, which they often were. And if it did go to court—”
Ernie attacked a sausage with his fork and said, “Hey, gramps, thanks for the lesson in ancient history, but can you wrap it up now? I’d like to eat in peace.”
The old man responded, “I think it’s important to know where we came from. Not remembering the past, and all that.” Then he went back to staring into his bloody Mary.
After they were done eating and settled the check, Ernie told Sam, “We’re taking a little walk around the area. I’d like to show you off some more.” Ernie put his arm around Sam’s waist and guided him up the street. They stopped at the offbeat or gay-themed stores. Ernie delightedly pointed out to Sam whenever anyone seemed to check out either or both of them.
At the end of the commercial strip, Ernie said, “Stand over by that wall.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“I want to take your picture. I need a good one of you to print out and put in a frame on my nightstand.”
“I thought you had one.”
“Yeah, I do, but it’s of you in a suit, and I want one like this.”
Sam went and stood by the wall.
“A little to the right,” Ernie said. “Turn just a bit. Just a bit more. Smile.” Ernie took out his cell phone, took several pictures of Sam, and showed them to Sam. “Which do you think is best?” he asked.
“I don’t like any of them,” said Sam.
“Why not? You look hot in all of them.”
“I don’t really look that young, do I? That’s not really how I see myself.”
“Yeah, you do, and that’s how you should see yourself. I think I like this one the best.”
On the way back, Ernie asked Sam in a suspicious tone, “So what were you and that old geezer at the restaurant talking about, anyway?”
“About how nice it was that we could be free and open about our lives and how much worse it was in his day.”
“And when was that, the sixties?”
“Actually, he made it sound as though a lot of it had gone on into the early eighties at least.”
“Um, Sam? I was a little kid in the early eighties, and you weren’t even born yet.”
Sam thought that it was suspicious that Ernie would address him by his first name. “Why are you so upset about it, anyway?” he asked.
“He just sounds like a complaining old crank who hates authority, just the sort of person who shouldn’t be listened to.”
“Well, what he said did get me thinking about—”
“That’s just it. Your problem is that you think through these things too much. Some things are just the way they are, and that’s that. Now I got 13 years of lived experience on you, so you might as well listen to me.”
“He must have more than that.”
Ernie sighed. “I certainly don’t doubt that, but are you gonna listen to me, or are you gonna listen to some bitter old rabble-rouser you just met, who probably had one too many bloody Marys?”
Sam figured that anything that he could possibly say would be wrong, so he decided not to argue further. “I guess you’re right,” he said; “we do live in different times.”
This topic has been frozen by the moderator. No new comments can be posted.
G.N.A. Publishing░N░e░w░ ░A░u░t░h░o░r░s░
Books mentioned in this topic
Madness (other topics)Moments - Few Tales in Time (other topics)
Money Gone (other topics)
Haelend's Ballad (other topics)
Finding Identity (other topics)
More...
Authors mentioned in this topic
Paityn E. Parque (other topics)Vikas Khair (other topics)
Ian V. Conrey (other topics)
E.S. Hazard (other topics)
E.S. Hazard (other topics)
More...
