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The Making Of The Pattern and The Archangel Brothers, the first two chapters of my book, Angel War, can be read on Wattpad and also on the page for my book on Amazon, using the Look Inside Facility.
Dawn Of An Idea, Chapter One of my lighthearted, bird brain science fiction story, called Klubbe The Turkle and the Golden Star Coracle, which I am still polishing and pruning for publication, can be read on Wattpad.
Here is the second scene of the first chapter of "Crossing the River," my historical novel about the beginning of the American Revolution. Numerous excerpts can be found on my blog site http://authorharoldtitus.blogspot.com.
The black woman who labored amongst the tables took little notice of the three men standing near the front doorway until one of them, a blonde-haired, lean-bodied youth, separating himself, walked toward the kitchen. Widowed, gregarious, passionate, she appraised his physical attributes. Afterward, she regarded, less lasciviously, his traveling companions, who were taking chairs at a nearby table.
One of them was two or three years older than the boy now in the kitchen. He was, perhaps, twenty-two, twenty-three, dark-featured, slightly built, angular-faced. She watched his eyes, his inquisitive eyes -- face devoid of expression -- study each customer while his companion, fifteen or twenty years his senior, spoke. When his eyes fastened upon her, feigning indifference, she looked away. Having collected empty tankards and dishes from a vacated table, she walked into the kitchen.
When she returned, the dark one was speaking to the older one. She studied the man who now listened. Broad forehead, round eyes in close to a thin nose, large lips -- a face his mother had probably regretted -- his was a countenance quite different from the many that demanded each day her service. Using a wet cloth, snorting derision, she brushed pastry crumbs off the top of an empty table.
When they spoke to her, telling her what they wanted, she knew they were British officers. The way they spoke, the way they moved their heads as they spoke, their gestures: all was too familiar. For six years she had worked in a Boston tavern off King Street, an establishment frequently attended by the scarlet-coated officers of His Majesty's foot.
She had quit her job there and had left Boston during the first week of December. One of her current employers, Jonathan Brewer, had hired her the week before Christmas. Normally thick-skinned, she had had more than her fill of the arrogant, besotted British gentleman. One could not smile, banter, or laugh indefinitely when the jibes she parried revealed a bigoted nastiness. With their first words the two officers at the table had exposed themselves. The one with the broad forehead and thin nose she had previously seen.
Angrily, she returned to the kitchen.
Who was he? His name! She believed she knew his name. She glanced at the not pretty but rather handsome youth eating kidney pie at a little table pushed against the far wall. He was not an officer. More probably he was a servant of the man whose name escaped her. Enlisted men never ate in the same room with officers, one fact of many that she had involuntarily gleaned from her Boston patrons.
“More ale for you, sir?” she asked.
He glanced up at her, grinned, started again to chew.
“So you like eating here in the kitchen t’eating with your friends? What's wrong with them now?” She laughed with good humor.
“Oh, they be weary o' me. They want t'talk, I think, ‘bout me, private like. They be strangers here 'bout, surveyors, y' know. They hired me t'show ‘em about. Now I think they might be wantin’ t’give me the boot.” He shrugged, offered her a silly grin.
“How do you weary them, boy? Do they not take t’funnin'? You have that look about you, seems to me.”
A mischievous grin. “Tis true, ma'am. Tis true. They're a stiff bunch, all serious like. They'll have their maps out in front o' them in a minute, you'll see. You watch.”
Well, she didn't resent him, despite his being a soldier -- he might have passed as a young apprentice had she not connected him. In truth, she fancied him, despite being four or five years his senior. But when had age mattered, she reminded herself, when the look of a light-hearted, well-featured man had stirred her?
The one in the other room, the one she had recognized, his name was Browne. Such a common name. It had come to her, effortlessly, while she had been thinking of the boy. She had seen Browne five years ago. Browne had come to the Boston tavern often, right up until the time of the Massacre. His regiment had then left the city. During the past three months -- during her absence -- the regiment had evidently returned. From Canada. What was he doing here, dressed in his silly costume, the same costume this boy and the dark officer wore? Pretending to be surveyors, wearing brown clothing with red handkerchiefs tied around their necks, country people they were pretending to be!
Standing in the passageway to the taproom, she saw that they had spread a map across the table. The dark officer was pointing a stiff forefinger at the center of it. Browne nodded. Oh yes, they were surveying. They were taking a lay of the land. They were spies, insulting her intelligence!
Well, she would play with them a bit. She would let them fancy their success. When they left the tavern, she would tell her employer. He would send their description to the local militia, and that would be the end of Officer Browne! Good riddance. But not of the boy in the kitchen.
Having served the two officers their food, she watched the blonde-haired servant finish his tankard of ale. Smiling across the kitchen at her, he placed the vessel noisily on the table. Straightening his legs, leaning backward, he sighed. She walked over to him.
“The bigger one in the other room. The one with the thin nose. I know him.”
His eyes flashed. “Oh, I don't think so. They be strangers to the county, like I said. They've not been here before.” He looked at her guilelessly.
Oh, he was good, likable, convincing.
“I know your Captain Browne from a Boston tavern where I worked, maybe five years ago. I know your errand. You mean to take a plan of the country for your General Gage, I think.”
He moved his legs, then his upper body. He started to rise. Placing a hand on his left shoulder, she said, “I'll not betray you, not yet; rest easy. Let your friends enjoy their pie and ale. Once on the road, …”
The young man stared at the pie crumbs on his dish. He shrugged, then grinned. Sitting, then lifting his tankard, he said, “I'll be havin’ some more ale. Bein’ that Captain Browne does pay for it.”
“The young lad in the kitchen says you are surveyors,” she said as they stood to leave. Wanting him to recognize her, she stared at the older man.
“Just so. A very fine country hereabouts,” Browne replied, as though he were answering a voice.
She slammed his empty tankard upon the table. He stared at her, his startled eyes crowding the bridge of his nose.
“It is a very fine country!” she exclaimed. “And we have very fine and brave men to fight for it!”
He blinked, twice, several times more.
“If you travel much farther you will find out that is true!”
My first giveaway just ended on the 24th of January and I am not really sure if it was a success or not. At the end of the giveaway I had 1444 requesting and 640 "to read." was this a good outing? Although I offered to give out only 20 copies of the book but I wish to let more people who requested to have a chance of reading the book, so I am offering to send free digital copies of the giveaway book to the first hundred people who will ask for it and send their email address to me. I will send the digital copy also hoping you will leave an honest review on amazon and goodreads. This is the link to the give away https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...Book Title: The Unstoppable You: The strength you need now to keep moving!
The kingdom diaries exerpt:Blurb : a world where different sexualities and
gender identities are represented by different
kingdoms. A world where allies are literally just
that. Read about Florist Chang as she journeys to
become one.
JOURNAL ENTRY 1
Ok so I'm not exactly sure how to start this off. I've
been meaning to keep a journal. But I never really
bothered too. I guess since I'm about to start
training for the Allies it may as well be a good time
to start. Though, I'm not sure if it's a good idea. To
be honest, I'm not sure why I keep writing. You
don't even know who I am. Then again you are a
book, so I don't quite know how you would. Ok I
guess it's time for introductions then. Hi, my
name's Florist. I live in the Kingdom of Dime. I
realize not everyone knows about Kingdoms other
than their own residents.
So I should probably tell you about it. In history
we're taught about The "Separation". When society was separated based on identity. But we aren't
taught about the lands that the "Separation" divided
us into. Since I am studying for the Allies I know
all about them. This was special information given
to me in preparation for my training. To be honest
I'm lucky to know this information. The realm of
Dime contains people who identify as Demisexual.
In my Kingdom, we do not experience sexual
attraction until a deep bond is formed with our
interest. We only experience sexual attraction to
those we are close to after we've become close to
them. Otherwise, we experience no attraction . This
is the Kingdom of Dime.
This is where I'm from. I know that training to be a
representative and studying for the Allies, is a lot of
work. And I know I may not be chosen. However, I
feel like the Kingdoms are interesting in their own
right. I find them fascinating and it's hard to believe
we never studied about them in school. I want to
learn more about them. I mean I know about them
but I don't "know" about them. I want to
experience first hand what they do. I realize the
only way to do this is to become a member of the
Allies. To visit the Kingdoms is my dream and I
honestly need to fulfill it. So that's an introduction
to me. I hope this journal thing works out. I don't
know if it will or won't but I plan on writing about
my experiences in training. That's why no one else
can see this book. It's a secret. If anyone found
out...well that doesn't matter. All that matters is that
I'm Florist and this is me.
Yes, I do like that in the Kingdom of Dime, inhabitants "do not experience sexual attraction until a deep bond is formed with our interest."In these brief journal entries, Florist has gained my trust--although she claims to have no interest in readers
Hmm..
Piccolo: An Intern's Tale
Piccolo wrote: "Yes, I do like that in the Kingdom of Dime, inhabitants "do not experience sexual attraction until a deep bond is formed with our interest."In these brief journal entries, Florist has gained my t..."
Could you care to elaborate? I am slightly confused as to what you mean. My apologies I am autistic.
Hi, everyone. Here's the prologue of my historical thriller 'Anne', which can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Anne-Carmen-Ste...She had not been there at the time. She had not the courage to go back. She knew how she could not, anyway. Why would she want to? Her father was nothing but a selfish, sadistic drunkard, always abusing her, always devouring that whiskey. Yet she knew the impulse to rush back and the sudden desire to do so.
Why did Anne suddenly feel like her life was changed?
Her young nose sniffed the thick air cautiously. Was that the stink of old London bathing itself in one of its filthy baths of smoke and fog, or the defective redolence of brick being eaten by a fast fire? Whichever it was, she had to turn back. If her learned instincts whispered to her truly and that comfortless beast of a house was crumbling down onto its firm foundation, perhaps her paltry father had crumbled down on his shaking foundation as well, within it. The horrible building had always been, after all, a rather disconsolate, unwieldy object for Anne in her rather unreliable life. Her father had been no different, yet she had still learned to live fluently and somewhat successfully in the fearful world of London. She knew strongly in her heart, thus, that she could continue to faithfully persevere, no matter what event fate would next throw her way.
Can you love an Italian (greyhound) sculptor? If so, here's a passage from my YAAA novel (young adult and after!) to be released in print in Dec.Thanks for taking a look...
Piccolo: An Intern's Tale
i. From Venice
Call me Piccolo. I was born in Venice on Christmas day at the turn of this century to a proud family of Italian greyhounds who have lived and worked for many generations in the sestiere di Cannaregio, a quiet neighborhood of morning markets and small cafes beside the green waters of the Grand Canal.
My father Alfonso Fortunato was a sculptor whose own father and grandfather had followed the occupation of stone-cutters—while it is said that our family had for several ages supplied Venice with artisans skilled in mosaic, metal work and glassblowing. And so my father, a descendant of many traditions, had from a young age trained me to carve the wood, chisel the stone and with the small blue flame of my torch to cut and weld the steel.
My mother Isabella, renowned for her gracious nature and the sheen of her fawn and cream colored coat, often said that we resembled her ancestor whose portrait had been painted against a hazy silhouette of our city in 1793 by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo—and that the Venetian master much revered the canine apprentice who labored in his studio. Although this story may well have been apocryphal, I certainly believed it whole-heartedly as a pup.
In more recent years my mother’s family had fallen on hard times when her father, a Roman racing dog of superior strength and legendary speed—a veteran of a cruel sport that only ended in my country with the closing of the Cinodromo track in 2002—had broken his leg and been put down, forcing my grandmother to split up the family to live with various relatives. Having moved in with an elderly aunt of limited means in San Polo, Isabella was sent out at a young age to beg in the Mercato di Rialto.
One morning, just beyond the arched bridge on his way to the pescaria to purchase oysters from the lagoon for his midday meal, my father first saw this statuesque beauty. Day by day she was charmed by the short-legged artist in the pork pie hat who presented her with small bags of biscotti, some filled with jam or flavored with anise, and the ones he soon discovered were her favorite, the biscotti di regina studded with the pale white seeds of the sesame plant. By the end of that mild summer, despite her aunt’s objections, they wed in la Chiesa di San Felice, a small church a short distance from the house where I was raised.
Isabella too was an artist, and as a puppy I sat by her paws on our balcony overlooking the Canale di Cannaregio where I watched her paint with much delicacy and detail our sestiere—a district bustling with workmen and shopkeepers and vendors with their icy crates of sardines and baskets of crabs and bulbs of bright green fennel. When Mama painted, it came to life—the purple red radicchio with its curling white veins, the overlapping movements of the boats and barges and people walking along the quay—the light as it filtered through the white wing of a pigeon. She could even paint the coolness of the evening as it fell like a shadow over the deep green and shifting waters of the canal.
In my father’s studio I learned to love the clang of steel, the fizzling spray of sparks from his welder, the smell of burning metal and the underlying rumble of the compressor that accompanied the air hammer and chisel as he sculpted stone. But in the stillness that surrounded my mother as she painted, I learned the quiet between each moment of creation.
(If you'd like to read on, this title will be released in print next month, but in the meantime I'd be happy to send you a PDF. Just contact me at piccolonyc@gmail.com)
Adam wrote: "Piccolo wrote: "Yes, I do like that in the Kingdom of Dime, inhabitants "do not experience sexual attraction until a deep bond is formed with our interest."In these brief journal entries, Florist..."
Hi Adam,
Sure I'll be glad to elaborate. Based on what Florist has told us so far, Dime is a sane society, which values friendship and concern, the basis of intimate relationships in that world. Also, as a narrator Florist, although writing in the privacy of a journal, has gained my trust-- I am interested in this character, and in terms of the info to follow, I believe in this character's credibility!
Piccolo wrote: "Adam wrote: "Piccolo wrote: "Yes, I do like that in the Kingdom of Dime, inhabitants "do not experience sexual attraction until a deep bond is formed with our interest."In these brief journal ent..."
Thankyou. ^__^
A sample from A Bloody Bloody Mess In the Wild Wild WestEight Months Earlier.
It was chaos. Bullets were flying everywhere, in every direction to the point where it was hard to tell who was shooting whom. Javier Jones was in the crossfire of this madness that he had started. An hour or so before the whole ordeal had begun, Jones had a plan to steal thousands of dollars in gold and head off to Texas. Unfortunately for him, his plan was spoiled.
Jones had come from California a few weeks prior and figured going into Mexico and stealing a few thousand would be easy, but he underestimated it dearly. He settled into town so the folks would grow accustomed to him.
“Ah, Javier my friend what brings you down today?” the teller asked.
“Sorry to say amigo but I’m going to have to ask you to give me all the money you got stored back there and kindly hand it over or Im gonna have to put a bullet in that head of yours,” Javier politely responded.
“Javier, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
“Oh, save me the sappy crap,” he said. “I came to this god forsaken shithole for one reason only to make right of what’s mine. You thought I was righteous, did ya? Sorry to break it to ya but I’m as bad as they come. Now I’m giving you a chance amigo, hand over the money or Im gonna kill you where you stand.”
Just as Javier was making his threat, two law men walk in from behind, only to notice Javier sticking the place up. The teller looked past Javier and over by the lawmen but Javier sees his glance and turns around to see the men.
“Ah, gentlemen, I was just making a quick transaction. I don’t suppose you’re here to stop me?” Javier asks.
“Don’t you move you son of a bitch! I had a feeling about you since you came into town. My suspicions were right. Now slide the gun over and step away,” the first lawmen said.
“Do what they ask, Javier. Please!” said the teller.
“Here’s the problem guys. I don’t have me any money yet and you two are in my way.”
“Drop the damn gun Jones or we’re gonna shoot you dead!”
Jones, while still pointing the gun at the teller, reached in with his other hand to pull out his .45 caliber and shot both men. Then he shot the teller in the head before going behind the booth to avoid getting shot himself.
“Shit! I’ve been shot.” One of the law men exclaims in pain.
“Bastard had another gun...shit…he killed the teller,” he adds.
“Jones now you got blood on your hands so if you take that money, you’re gonna have two charges on you. Just surrender before this gets ugly.”
“This coming from two guys with holes in their stomachs and not much time to live. I hardly think you’re gonna make me do a damn thing,” he says back. Jones then goes into the back room and fills his bag with money. He then slides back under the booth and looks around to the two men.
“I got the money, now you two are gonna end up dead, unfortunately, unless you let me walk.”
“Jones, we ain’t letting you leave with that money.” Before either of the men could say another word, Jones leaps onto the wood counter with both guns drawn and fires a few more shots into their stomachs. Unable to react, both men are finished off and collapse to the floor from their knees. He puts one of his guns back into its holster and picks up the bag of money with his now empty hand.
“You damn fools. I told you I was leaving with my money and a couple killings,” Jones says as he laughs. “Well that’s what I call a fine bonus.”
http://smarturl.it/ABBMITW3
Here's a little excerpt from my historical-romance novella Corral Nocturne, a Western retelling of Cinderella:http://shortstorysymposium.blogspot.c...
Here's the opening of my historical thriller 'The Garden of Earthly Delights':DEN BOSCH. 1490
Aleyt stands in the darkened room, hidden, as if in a long-ago childhood game with her older sister or her cousin. Inside her head is the same remembered sound: a surging rush, like liquid being poured away, over and over. Her blood, pumping.
Today it is the world outside that she hides from. But the noises and smells of that world are finding her out anyway, creeping cunningly through the gap in the heavy shutters: the stench of packed bodies and quick-fried sweetmeats; the tolling of a bell; the voices of the massed people of Den Bosch, a low ruh-ruh-ruh pierced occasionally by shriller cries. Drawn unwillingly by a horrid curiosity, she peeps out at the town square below.
The bearded man at the centre of it all draws her eyes at once. He is clad only in a loin cloth with his hands bound behind his back. Like Jesus in the images of the Passion, he is surrounded by a howling, jeering crowd that is gripped by lust for his death. But he doesn’t wear Jesus’s serene expression, the look that speaks of transcending all earthly torment. No, this bearded man’s face is an open book of terror. His eyes dart from place to place, and his tongue works at his parched lips. The loin-cloth is soiled a filthy brown.
Aleyt’s breath feels trapped in her throat. She moves slightly so that the narrow gap in the shutters lines up with a different part of the scene. There is a tall, thin figure, like an island of black-robed calm in the broiling bustle. Beneath his cowl, most of his face is hidden. On a lectern before him is a Bible, and only his mouth moves. Surely, no one will be able to hear him in the hubbub. This is her first sight of the man. For weeks his reputation has stalked the town. Even now that he has finally come out into the open, he is still partly concealed. In spite of her fear, she is curious to see his eyes.
Behind him, on the steps of the Stadhuis are ranged the monks and nuns of Den Bosch, a mass of brown and black cloth. Dotted amidst this loamy soil like the flowers of the year’s early spring are the more colourful robes of the cathedral clergy. They all have the best view of the proceedings, and, in contrast to the Inquisitor’s pious concentration, they are busy gossiping and eating nuts and haggling with the street vendors who offer cups of watered-down brandy from small barrels strapped to their backs.
Aleyt moves again, trying to free her breathing, her gaze skimming over the mob. Ruh, ruh, ruh… like the sound of an angry sea, surging even to the wall of their house directly below her. Thank God the cottage at Roedeken will soon be finished. If the future is to bring more such abominations to the market square, they will be able to lock up this house for the day and escape.
She is startled by the door opening behind her, and turns quickly to face it. Of course: it’s Jerome. He has been back for more than a week from his long absence in Reims, but she still forgets that he is in the house. The silence in his studio is the same, whether he is there or not.
He remains standing in the doorway, peering uncertainly into the gloom of the shuttered room.
“Aleyt?”
“Yes, Jerome. I’m here by the window.”
He moves forward carefully, eyes adjusting, irises opening. The pale oval of Aleyt’s face forms itself in front of him, like one of the phantoms that any darkness conjures in his mind’s eye.
“Why are the shutters closed?” he says, knowing why.
Aleyt begins to fumble with the catch, but Jerome is taken by an impulse of pity, which grows instantly to rebellion, and he steps forward again and puts his hand gently over hers.
“Well – let them stay closed, why not?” he says.
She feels now that she can draw on his strength to face what is out there.
“But you know we must watch.”
“Perhaps they may not know we’re at home,” he says.
“Of course they know we’re here. Where else would we be?”
She is right. He puts aside her hand and himself unhooks the heavy metal latch and lifts the crossbar. He pushes the shutters outwards and the hinges groan as if they too have a voice in this matter. Noise floods into the room, and the square below is framed by the opening like one of his paintings, teeming with vivid little figures. From all the other houses around the market place, the most prosperous citizens of Den Bosch look out from their windows. They will be seen by all now, the Master Painter and his wife, watching in approval, it might be, as God’s soldiers go about their work.
You can read further on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Garden-Earthly-...
A warm hello to everyone in the group!I'm always on the lookout for a new writer, possibly one that is interested in writing a tribute to someone they deem a worthy subject. Write to Remember is a book that I published in Nov. 2013 with two goals in mind:
1) to remember my loved one (you forget so many important details over time), and
2) to keep his memory alive in the public mind for a long, long time.
Originally it consisted only my father's story. Two other authors have since joined in and added their parents' stories. I hope to finish Volume 1 this year on time for the anniversary of my father's passing and would like to be able to include another 6-7 stories (Chapters) to complete it. That is why I am reaching out to you – might there be someone you'd like to honor in black-and-white this way?
The book is free to download. When I receive suitable manuscripts, I re-publish the book with the new Chapters added in, also at no charge. It's my "golden years" hobby and I do it happily to honor the memory of my father. I hope you will read our book, enjoy it and want to join in the project. If that is not possible at this time perhaps you would consider giving the book (only 63 pages currently) a short, honest review on Amazon? I very much appreciate hearing reader viewpoints; feedback is so important to improve our writing.
Many thanks,
Phil
Creative Reviews
Books mentioned in this topic
A Bloody Bloody Mess In the Wild Wild West (other topics)Piccolo: An Intern's Tale (other topics)
Piccolo: An Intern's Tale (other topics)
Crossing the River (other topics)
Angel War (other topics)
More...
Amazon here:
http://www.amazon.com/Toastie-ebook/d...
Description:
For the Heaths and their kin, in post-World War II England, it will be a pivotal year. The, untimely, death of the family patriarch, provides the catalyst for most of the events that unfold throughout Toastie. The book is a coming-of-age story in the vein of.
Eleven year-old Johnny is growing up without his father, but still considers himself lucky. Cordelia Heath, Johnny’s mother, is a young widow who has always taken care of others. Cousin Gavin Macveigh is a, deceptively, average bloke, who is keeping a dark secret.
Together, they discover the true meaning of family, generosity, and second chances. Toastie captures some of the confusion, as well as, the determination of the Heaths to “get on with it” in their own tiny hamlet of Maulbron.