Sunday, September 29, 2013

Cleanse Fire by Anastasia V Pergakis

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Pars IV

20th day of Solis Moon, 1364

Derac choked. "What?"

"He came to speak with me while I was in the bath." The amber swirls in her eyes glowed bright and betrayed her panic, but her voice was calm.

His eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Did he force himself on you?" He swallowed the bile in his throat.

"No. He stared at me in a way that made me extremely uncomfortable and," she paused and held her lips between her teeth for a moment. "He kissed my neck. He didn't press any further than that, however."

Derac's breath rushed out of his lungs. He leaned back against the sofa and forced his muscles to relax. "What did he say?"

"He told me that he had great power, greater than just being the Mission Commander. He told me I should partner with him."

Derac's eyebrows shot up again. "What did you say to that?"

She spoke in hushed tones, but the words tumbled from her lips. "I told him no. I don't care for power. He said I could have my own power if I did partner with him. Then he told me to think about it. To wait until after the mission. He said that the events of the mission would help me to make up my mind. I have the awful feeling that this mission is going to go terribly wrong, and the Commander is behind it." She paused to her catch her breath. "Centurio, I know it sounds outlandish, but my feelings have never let me down before. We have no proof, but I think at the very least we should exercise caution around the Commander until we do find out the truth."

Derac rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. The elf thought he could barge in on the elfa's bath like he was supposed to be there? He tried to feel shocked at his Commander's possible betrayal and perverted actions, but he failed.

"What should we do?"

"I trust your judgment Kie. And you're right, we don't have proof. But I think I know of a way to get it." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "We tell the Commander our plan is to stay together. During the mission however, we split up. Get one group of faeries out of the cells and have two elite lead them back to the cabin. The other four will get the second group."

"Wait. Wouldn't that make the two vulnerable handling that many faeries on a six hour trip, on foot?"

"Yes. But, even if the faeries are weak, they could offer some help. There are hundreds of them down there according to the report." He winced. "Then again, you may have a point. What if the intel is wrong, yet again?"

"Didn't I see a report about sentry rotations at night?" Her eyes roamed over the table.

"Yes. It's here." He handed her the paper.

Her amber pools scanned the list. "Let's assume this is incorrect. According to this, they cut the guards in half at night. What if they had less? That would mean less to worry about. And, two of us could easily handle a few sentries."

"What do we do if they actually double the guards at night?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Good point."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We can't even rely on our intel. Even if it ended that Palto was not involved, we could still be walking into an ambush. How would we know for sure it was his doing or just bad intel?"

She put her hands behind her head and glanced up at the ceiling. "I don't know. I have no skill with strategy."

He snorted. "You read battle strategies for fun."

"Exactly. I'm trying to learn. Doesn't mean I can make up new ones."

"All right. Let's go over all our options again. We can enter through the front or through the secret tunnel. With any of those options, we can stay together, split in half, or split four to two. Is there any other way to get into the mines?"

She shook her head. "I've heard rumors at the very top of the mountain is a shaft that runs all the way down to the lower levels of the mine. But, I don't know for certain and the mountain side is treacherous. We could injure ourselves more just trying to gain entry."

Derac held his head in his hands and tried to predict the outcome of their mission. Kie mirrored his position as her eyes scanned the intel scattered across the table. Her spine jerked and she sat up straight.

"What if we split up into three groups of two? Two to lead the first group out like you said before, two to provide protection, the last two get the second group. Done fast enough, all six of us and all the faeries would leave right after each other, or at least within moments of each other."

"And you say you have no skill with strategy."

She chuckled. "It's still risky though."

"What part of any mission isn't?" He sucked in air and held it a few moments before he exhaled. "Again, I don't like the plan, but it'll work."

They finalized their strategy and detailed every second of their mission. Confidence filled Derac that their idea would work and he ordered Kie to sleep.

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Genre – Fantasy / Military

Rating – PG13

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Saturday, September 28, 2013

Hindsight by Owen Banner

Seven

I laid in bed that night, assuring myself that it would be the easiest money I'd ever made.

There was something about it, though--something cold sliding down into my gut. I had bitten that worm, and the hook was already working its way through me.

I smoothed over that feeling with the thought that I could be giving Haley a shot at the life she deserved--Winnie too. That's all I needed. I'd pay any price for that. Somehow that thought helped me get to sleep.

Around nine thirty-five, I began to drag myself out of unconsciousness like I was coming out of a coma. Slamming my hand down on my alarm, I stumbled through the living room to the red leather briefcase. An hour and a half later, I was in Philly, turning down a little side road called South Juniper Street. I had the brown paper package and a clipboard tucked under my arm.

About twenty-five steps from the corner was a small shop with a green awning and a candle lantern beside the entrance. The print on the window read McAfee’s Clockworks and Antiques. The curved brass handle on the door was cold. It was the kind of cold that hits your chest like a gong, then vibrates through the rest of you. The bell tinkled over my head as I pushed through the door and a small old man walked out from the back room. Wiping his hands with a dirty towel, he hobbled out from behind the counter.

"Can I help you, lad? Don't be afraid, there isn't anything an old goat like me can do ta hurt ya."

"I've got a package for Mr. Lyndon McAfee."

"Well, that would be me, wouldn't it?" He said with a smile. The man's face was tough, despite his age. He wasn't hobbling because he was old, he must have had some injury back in the day. I handed him the clipboard with the delivery sheet that Isaac had given me.

"This is quite unexpected," his voice had the same syrupy thickness of Isaac's. "There you go." He handed me back the board as I placed the package in his other hand.

"You have a nice day," I said and started to go.

"Can I get you anything before you go? Cup o' tea? A sandwich or something other?"

I turned back and forced a smile. "No thanks, sir. I'd really better be getting back to work," I said holding up my clipboard and giving it a shake.

"Very well, you have a good day."

"You too," I said as the bell tinkled overhead again. The door shut behind me. I rounded the corner feeling the sunlight on my face and crossed the street between the cars. When I stepped onto the sidewalk, I was already thinking about that money and just caught myself before I knocked a latte out of the hand of a blonde-haired businesswoman wearing a little too much perfume. Dodging her, I almost ran smack into a young guy with a black windbreaker and a camera. He stepped aside, and I caught his eye as he went past. I had time to notice he had short, dark hair, olive skin--Middle Eastern. A small scar cut down at the edge of his hairline. His eyes locked onto mine. That's when it hit.

Hindsight

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Genre –  Thriller

Rating – R

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Website http://www.owenbanner.com/

Friday, September 27, 2013

How To Find Your Vital Vocation by Brian Cormack Carr

CHAPTER 2
TALENTS

What you love is what you are gifted at, and there are no exceptions.
~ Barbara Sher

This chapter is action-orientated and is all about finding the key that unlocks your Vital Vocation. It’s where we go in search of your gifts and talents in the sure knowledge that these lie at the root of your ideal work. If you already think you know what they are, great; now’s your chance to verify that. If you don’t, the exercises in this chapter will really help you to unearth them.

Discovering What Makes You Tick

The simplest way to get a hint of where your talents lie is to pay attention to anything that you are attracted to and in particular, anything that you really love.

Even if you don’t have an obvious talent in that area, you can be sure that your love for a thing points you towards a talent of some sort. Perhaps it will be something as simple as the fact that you have a heightened appreciation of the subject in question. Yes, that is a real talent. An expert wine-taster doesn’t need to be able to make wine, but he or she needs to fully appreciate good wine in order to do the job well. A history teacher may never make history, but he or she needs to love learning about it in order to teach it effectively. So it is with you. If you love something, you see it in a particular way: a way that’s utterly unique and therefore very valuable to you, and to others.

In order to cast the net as wide as possible, I’m going to ask you to explore several areas which will provide you with clues as to what you should be doing with your life. In the exercises that follow we’ll be searching for this treasure in:

- Your memories

- Your future plans

- Your imagination

- Other people’s perceptions of you

- Your unconscious mind

Each area is explored in a separate exercise and I’ll give examples from my own life so that you can see how it’s done.

It’s worth giving yourself sufficient time to do each exercise without having to rush through it. By going searching for what you love in each of these areas (the last two are optional) you’ll be able to gather enough information to spot any pattern in the things that are capable of satisfying and stimulating you. Once you can see a pattern like that, you can begin to build a life and career around it.

Ready? Enjoy this. We’re about to do no less than discover your purpose in life!

EXERCISE 3: Journeying into the Past

For this exercise, you’re going to cast your mind back to things you’ve loved doing in your past.

Step 1

Wherever you are just now in your life, think back to several earlier periods, for example:

- Childhood

- Your teenage years

- Young adulthood

- Adulthood

- Middle age

Write each of the periods you’ve chosen as a heading on a separate page and make a list of all the things you really loved to do when you were that age. List as many as you can recall and be as specific as possible.

However – and this is important – only write down the things you particularly loved. Choose things that would rate a 7 or above if you were to rate them on a “lovability scale” of 1 to 10 (with 10 being highest).

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Genre –  NonFiction / Careers

Rating – G

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Website http://vitalvocation.com/

Author Interview – T.G. Ayer

How often do you write? And when do you write?

I try to write every day. I think creativity in writing is like a muscle and if you stop using it it tends to get lazy. I try to do 3k a day and sometimes when I do want to push I do 5k a day. It’s a rush and can sometimes get crazy if I have edits happening at the same time but I love it more so because I hate the feeling when I can barely write 500 words in a day. Then I feel a little useless because I know I can do more.

I usually write first thing in the morning until lunchtime and sometimes I may come back to write a little more late at night when the household is asleep.

Do you find the time to read?

As a writer you must find time to read. I think reading is inspiration and most writers need the creative input of reading to boost their own creativity. At least it works that way for me. I find I’m most prolific in terms of plotting and writing when I make the time to read.

What inspires you to write and why?

Everything inspires me, especially people and culture. I’ve always been fascinated with the way the mind works so that’s something that I question a lot when I’m working on a project.

What genre are you most comfortable writing?

Definitely paranormal/fantasy. I love mythology and fables. I love the mystery of the possibility of the impossible J

How did you come up with the title?

The Hand of Kali series is a Trilogy based on the three key elements of the Goddess Kali- Fire, Blood and Time. I’d played with different names but in the end I liked the simplicity of the three powers.

Can you tell us about your main character?

In FIRE (the Hand of Kali #1) Maya Rao just wants to be normal, the all-American girl. She’s tired of being different and just wants to fit in. What she doesn’t know is that she is the furthest from normal that she could possibly be.

Who designed the cover?

My cover artist Eduardo Priego

Fire

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Genre – YA Fantasy/Paranormal

Rating – PG13

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Website http://tgayer.wordpress.com/

Thursday, September 26, 2013

The Hunters and the Queen: Element Series (Young Adult Fantasy Romance) @VirginiaVayna

The Hunters and the Queen – Virginia Vayna

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre – Fantasy, Paranormal, Mythology

Rating – PG

3.8 (4 reviews)

The Hunters and the Queen is a work of fiction in the young adult, fantasy and paranormal romance genres. The story blends elements of romance, darkness, history, fantasy, and reincarnation. The second book in the series, The Gypsy Hunter, has a release date during fall 2013. I hope you enjoy the story. Please come back for more of the journey.~
Description:
The main character, Jolán Vajnbirg, is developing into another being. She has a calling from the sky world. A battle is on the horizon.
While working on her studies at the Churchill Military Academy in Kinsburgh, England, Jolán Vajnbirg’s final year at the academy develops into a year of competition, aristocratic love, reincarnation, and a calling from the sky world to help save earth from the death and destruction caused by the Order of the Hunters.
Jolán Vajnbirg is an often reserved, yet occasionally outspoken young woman living in Kinsburgh, England. She has a relatively easy life living in her quiet England town. She has a full-ride swimming scholarship to the Churchill Military Academy. She has a strong mind, she has an athletic body, and she has a loving family and caring friends.
As Jolán embarks upon her final year at the Academy, her life takes an unexpected turn. She has a quaint encounter with Colemund, the Prince of Gallia Belgica, and the two are literally a universal match created centuries ago. As Jolán begins the last year of her studies, she experiences many changes. She is unaware her future love will develop in to a star-crossed romance.
The sky world is steadily preparing Jolán for her future fate. She will need her friends to help her battle the Order of the Hunters. The hunters have upset the universal balance of earth, and the hunters have upset the sky world.
Jolán will learn about her past, she will learn about reincarnation, and she will understand her responsibilities in the realm. Her relationship with Colemund is no ordinary college love.
An Excerpt from The Hunters and the Queen:
The Phoenix
Hadrian immediately placed an angry phone call to Akuji, but this time she answered her phone. Hadrian sharply inquired, ‘Where are you, Akuji? We have a major problem in development.’ Akuji nonchalantly replied, ‘I just transformed a farmer into a hunter, and I’m explaining the rules.’ Hadrian didn’t care about what Akuji was currently doing at the moment; he violently said, ‘Return to Komi. Do not waste time, do not waste resources, but return on the next flight out of England.’ Akuji said, ‘I still have to finish one more assignment. I need to find and follow this girl named Jolán.’ The mere sound of such a name caused Hadrian’s stomach to turn, and his unnerving sensation returned. Hadrian dryly inquired, ‘Who is Jolán?’ As soon as Hadrian spoke Jolán’s name, he felt his insides turn and his stomach ache. Hadrian felt weak. Akuji said, ‘She is some assignment I have to figure out, but I’m not having any success.’ Hadrian gathered as much strength as he could for the moment, and he said to Akuji, ‘Get on the next flight back to Russia. We have heavy issues of concern we need to assess for action.’ At that moment, Akuji heard several voices come through her phone; but she was unsure what happened or where the voices were located. She asked Hadrian, ‘Are you ok?’ All Akuji could hear was the sound of a thousand whispers. Hadrian kept saying, ‘Akuji, are you there? Answer me.’ Hadrian received no response from Akuji. Hadrian finally hung up the phone, but Akuji still heard the voices. She was caught in a trance for several minutes until she received a piercing headache. Akuji quickly left some items behind for the farmer to study, and she walked towards her car. She hustled to the seat of her car. She was en route to the airport; and she was headed back to Komi. Akuji felt something had changed. She felt a sense of urgency.

Author Spotlight - Andrew Seaward (Some Are Sicker Than Others)

 
Was there a specific moment in time when you realized "I've got a problem and I need to do something about it?" Even though it was your family that intervened - when did YOU "own" it? Yes. I remember the exact time and place when I first discovered I had a problem. I was twenty-three at the time, in a competitive PhD program at the University of California, Santa Barbara, trying to prepare for midterms in Reaction Engineering and Kinetics. I needed to level myself out, because I had been on a week-long whiskey binder. Unfortunately, my standard Nyquil cocktails weren’t really doing the job for me. I didn’t want to take a drink, because I really needed to study, so I poured out all my liquor, bought a pair of handcuffs, and chained myself to the bedpost. I know, I know, pretty stupid. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, at least in the mind of a delusional alcoholic. 
 
Well, about three hours into the night, I started flopping around like a fish out of water. The left side of my face went numb and I couldn’t stop convulsing. It was my first real episode with an alcoholic seizure. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I was dying. I tried to get to my cell phone so I could call my parents. Only, I had left the key to the handcuffs in the center console of my Toyota Corolla. I pulled and pulled on that bedpost until my wrist was all cut up and bloody, and, somehow, I was able to the pry the headboard away from the rest of the bed frame. I got to my cell phone in the kitchen, but my parents didn’t answer, so I had no choice but to call an ambulance. The paramedics came and sawed off the handcuffs then took me to the ER and gave me a bunch of Valium. 
 
Unfortunately, that little escapade wasn’t enough to make me stop drinking. In fact, I was right back at it only a week later. It took several years and several trips to detox and rehab facilities all over the country before I finally said enough was enough; I had to quit drinking. 
 
I remember the day very clearly. I was on the floor of my one bedroom apartment in Houston lying face down in a puddle of red wine and vomit. I hadn’t been to work in a few days and was probably about to get fired. I figured I either had to clean myself up and check back into detox or just end it right there and swallow a bottle of sleeping pills. After a few hours of sucking from the mouth of a bottle of Seagram’s Seven, I crawled to the kitchen and called up my boss (and only friend at the time) and asked if he would take me to the hospital. Fortunately, my boss was a compassionate man and had a lot of experience with addicts and alcoholics. He promptly picked me up and took me to the hospital where I got pumped with a bunch of fluids and phenyl barbituates. The next day, I was transferred to a detox on the west side of the city. A few days later, my boss picked me up upon my discharge and somehow got me my job back, without which I probably wouldn’t have been able to stay sober. 
 
It’s been four years since that day and I haven’t yet taken another drink of alcohol. In fact, I’m so used to living without it, I rarely even think about it, except of course when I’m talking about my book or doing interviews. ;)  
 
Do you feel that addiction is addiction, regardless of the substance (is alcohol addiction the same as drug addiction?  Is crack addiction the same as meth addiction?) Absolutely yes. An addiction is an addiction, no matter what it is you are addicted. It could be food, sex, gambling, heroine—whatever it is, you know you have a problem when that “thing” is isn’t really fun anymore and is not only destroying yourself, but everyone around you. 
 
In my book, I deal primarily with substance abuse addictions, specifically crack, meth, and alcohol. However, I did meet a kid in rehab who said he was addicted to embalming fluid. 
“You mean the stuff they use in mortuaries to preserve dead bodies?” I asked him. 
“Yep,” he said, smirking mischievously. “Stuff gets you messed up. For real dawg.” 
 
I couldn’t believe it. And I thought huffing paint was an exotic way to get inebriated. But, embalming fluid? Well, now I’d heard everything. I decided to do a little research. It only took a few seconds of poking around on Google before I was taken to an entire treasure trove of articles written on the recreational use of embalming fluid. I was shocked. Not only was it prevalent all around the country, but people had been getting high off this stuff since the 1960’s! 
 
The way it works is…the embalming fluid, which is basically just a mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, and ethanol, is used as more of a solvent for the dissolution of PCP, a highly potent hallucinogen. Since a tiny amount of PCP (less than a milligram) is enough to make even a full-grown gorilla go absolutely bananas, it can’t be ingested directly, and must first be diluted down into the embalming fluid. Then, a cigarette, usually marijuana or sometimes straight-up tobacco, is dipped into the solution and dried out in a freezer. The result, known as a “fry”, “fry stick”, or “death stick”, can be bought on any street corner for about twenty-bucks, give or take. 
 
Okay, well that makes more sense. At first I thought the kid meant he was stealing embalming fluid from mortuaries and injecting it straight into his veins, like you would a cadaver. Thank goodness, that’s not the case. 
 
In reality, the embalming fluid is not the drug itself, but more of a solvent or “carrier” for the real drug, PCP, which is nothing to joke around about. This stuff is so dangerous and so potent…it seems to make people want to do the craziest and vilest things imaginable. In fact, anytime I hear a story about a guy who was “tased” seventeen times and shot in the chest with thirty rubber bullets, but still didn’t go down, I know the culprit right away; PCP…angel dust. 
 
What is your opinion of people who repeatedly "fall off the wagon" - do you think they are only seeking the attention the drama brings or  ... ? Not really. In my experience, relapse is a direct result of the physiological and psychological anguish that the withdrawal symptoms bring. Depending on the drug, these symptoms can include fun stuff like vomiting, nausea, diarrhea, sweating, shaking, tremors, heart palpitations, insomnia, even hallucinations. 
 
I remember, one week, I had a big presentation to give in front of all the managers and I didn’t want to come in smelling like a whiskey barrel. So, once again, I decided not to drink anything. Unfortunately, when you’re that far deep into alcoholism, drinking isn’t just something you can turn off and on like a water faucet. I ended up having the worst damn hallucinations imaginable. To give you an example, I thought my bed was filled with black widows that were spinning me in their web and trying to eat my eyeballs! It was absolutely horrifying. I didn’t even know you could get hallucinations from alcohol, but apparently I was wrong. You can have all sorts of weird stuff happen to your body. 
 
I immediately quit that exercise in abstinence and drove up to the store and bought a bunch of Vodka. You know how they say Vodka doesn’t have as much of an odor as other liquors? Well, that’s only when it goes in. When it comes out the next day it reeks of nail polish remover. That’s the acetaldehyde; a byproduct of the dehydrogenation of alcohol. For a normal person, this substance hangs out for only a matter of minutes before being broken down by a substance in the liver called glutathione. But for alcoholics, the chemical hangs around almost indefinitely, because there isn’t enough glutathione to combat the massive amounts of alcohol entering the blood stream. The result is a stench not unlike that of vinegar or nail polish remover, emanating from the sweat pores like a bad case of body odor.  One of my managers actually commented on the stench. Of course, I just told them I was trying out a new cologne. I don’t think I fooled him. 
 
When does a "problem" become and "addiction" - (I have a family member who seems to be addicted to group help (AA) - and I don't know that he actually has a "problem" with alcohol.  He seems to use the group as a dating pool. - okay, now that's another question:  Have you seen this happen, where group members start dating each other..  okay, maybe a different topic all together here...)
 
Yes, I have seen other group members start dating each other. In fact, I am guilty of that very thing unfortunately. Remember that detox I said I went to in Houston? Well, it just so happens that I met a nice little girl there—let’s call her Vicky—who was just as broken and desperate as I was. A few weeks after discharge, we started seeing each other pretty regularly. We went to tons of meetings together and even did a lot of fun stuff like skydiving and wakeboarding. It didn’t take long for me to develop some strong feelings for Vicky. Not only was she a sexy little Hispanic coke addict (what else could you ask for in a woman?), but she was also the only person in my life at that time who still wanted to be around me. Everyone else was gone, because I’d turned my back on them; my parents, my friends, my sister, my brother…I pushed them all away, because I was too ashamed of all the horrible things I’d said and done to them. But Vicky was different, because she didn’t really know me. She didn’t know that I hit my mom in the face and sent her to the hospital. She didn’t know that my dad called the cops and had me locked up in prison. She didn’t know any of this, because I never told her, and, in exchange, Vicky never told me anything about herself, at least, not anything too personal. 
 
But, could you love someone you didn’t know? No, probably not. But so what? That’s the way we liked it. It gave us a chance to start over and be different people. We didn’t have to face our shame and all those poisonous memories—we could just put them on a shelf somewhere and try to move forward. So, what if it wasn’t real love? So, what if we were just codependent? We kept each other sober and that’s all that mattered, right? 
 
Well, after about four months of seeing each other, Vicky suddenly stopped coming over. A dozen or so unanswered voicemails later she finally called me back and told me we couldn’t see each other anymore. She said she was getting back together with her ex-husband, who, it seems, had divorced her while she was in rehab, kicked her out of the house, and confiscated her vehicle. This explained why she was living on the outskirts of town with her mother and always needed a ride to meetings. But, now, since she had proved she could stay sober for more than a few hours, her ex-husband was willing to take her back and “re-marry” her. She no longer needed me to pick her up and take her to meetings, because she got her car back, not to mention her house and her husband, whom she was still in love with. 
 
Needless to say, I was completely shattered. I felt betrayed and used and fell into a deep, dark depression. I quit going to meetings. I quit calling my sponsor. (I never really liked him in the first place. The only reason I had him was because he was married to Vicky’s sponsor). After about a week of sulking, I started contemplating drinking, which at that point in my drinking career would’ve been the same thing as committing suicide. You see, I had built my entire recovery around Vicky, and without her, I had nothing. I was lost. I was right back where I started. 
 
Now, I’d like to say I relapsed and fell out of the program and ended up on the street eating from a trash can. That would make the story all the more heartbreaking and would really drive home the “dangers of love addiction”. Fortunately, my story isn’t as neat and clear-cut as others on this topic. In fact, it’s downright confusing. I still haven’t completely figured it out. But, let me try… 
 
The four months I spent with Vicky was the longest stretch I ever had staying sober, and somehow, it was just enough to “free” me from not just the physical, but also the psychological dependence I had on alcohol. By keeping me sober for those first ninety days out of detox, Vicky became a sort of crutch for my recovery…meaning she helped me to “walk” while I was still wounded, until I was healthy enough to “walk” on my own. 
 
Without really knowing it, we were using each other for similar reasons. I was using her love and friendship as a reason to stay sober, while she was using my car and apartment to get her life back together. And even though I was hurt that she left me for her ex-husband, I will always “love” her for being my friend when I most needed it. If it wasn’t for her, I would’ve never gotten sober and reconnected my family, and I certainly wouldn’t have had the chance to write about it in my first novel, Some Are Sicker Than Others. 
 
Just like me, the main character in my book, Monty, falls in love with a recovering coke addict named Vicky, who he meets in Alcoholics Anonymous. Against his sponsor’s warnings, Monty hinges his entire recovery on Vicky, believing he can stay sober for her instead of doing it for himself. But when Vicky is killed in a hit-and-run car accident, Monty is left with nothing but his liquor and a head full of guilt for not pulling over when Vicky wanted. Because Monty still has unresolved guilt for the bad things he did in his addiction (like punching his mother in the face), Vicky’s death only propels him further down the wormhole. He quits his job and cashes in all his savings and embarks on a mission to drink himself to death alone in his apartment. Fortunately, his parents intervene and have committed to Sanctuary, a rehabilitation facility high in the Rocky Mountains. There, he meets Dave Bell, a narcissistic crack addict, and the driver responsible for the death of Vicky. That’s, when all hell breaks loose! 
 
Do you think forgiveness has to start with yourself before you can forgive others? Absolutely. My biggest road block to recovery was my inability to forgive myself for the hell I put my family through. Even though my parents and the majority of my friends had long forgiven me, I still wasn’t able to accept their forgiveness and move forward. As silly as it sounds, I actually enjoyed feeling sorry for myself, because it gave me license to continue being a miserable drunk. It was like I was throwing one long, elaborate pity party of which I was not only the host, but the guest of honor. 
 
This is reflected in my book, in which Monty, being the neurotic, self-destructive alcoholic that he is, takes full responsibility for the accident that killed Vicky even though it wasn’t his fault. He uses her death as an excuse to keep drinking, because it’s a whole hell of a lot easier to get drunk than have any real feelings. But, when Dave finally admits that he was the other driver, Monty has no blame to hind behind. He is totally exposed. 
 
I won’t tell you what happens. You’ll just have to read it, to find out for yourself. 
 
What's your take on the 12 step programs - too many, not enough? Your question must refer to all the different types of twelve-step programs out there. I ran a quick search in Google and it seems there’s an Anonymous for just about everything. Here’s a short list: 
 
Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA), Friends and Family of Alcoholics (Al-Anon/Alateen), Cocaine Anonymous (CA), Clutterers Anonymous (CLA), Crystal Meth (Crystal Meth Anonymous), Co-Dependents Anonymous (CoDA), CoSex and Love Addicts Anonymous (COSA), Debtors Anonymous (DA), Emotions Anonymous (EA), Gamblers Anonymous (GA), Heroin Anonymous (HA), Marijuana Anonymous (MA), Narcotics Anonymous (NA)…and I’m only halfway through the alphabet. 
 
It’s a little exhaustive, isn’t it? Not to mention pretty redundant. I was taught that a drug is a drug is a drug. My only explanation is…and forgive the cliché…“Birds of a feather flock together.” I guess people feel more comfortable with their own kind, even down to the nitty, gritty details. 
 
It kind of makes sense if you think about it for a minute. I doubt a cocaine addict would get along very well with a heroine addict. One would be bouncing off the walls and running around in circles, while the other would be laid out on the floor trying to get some peace and quiet. I’m not sure what the Gambler would be doing. Probably watching a horse race! 
 
How has the book been "received" - are people liking it, hating it - seeing too much of themselves in it, or are they able to better understand someone in their life who is dealing with addiction/forgiveness?
 
So far, people are really liking it, but having a difficult time with the roller coaster of emotions involved in it, especially if they know someone who is or was an addict. 

For example, I traded emails the other day with a young woman who said she cried several times during the novel. It seems her husband, now a full year clean and sober, had a real difficult time trying to get off painkillers. From what I gathered, he was addicted to synthetic opiates, which have one of the most or perhaps the most painful withdrawal symptoms. She said her husband tried everything he could to get off them and even lasted three full days cold turkey, before eventually relapsing and being admitted to the hospital. His doctor prescribed him Suboxone, which like Methadone, is supposed to help addicts transition through the early psychological withdrawal symptoms. Unfortunately, these “transition drugs” are just as addictive, if not more addictive, than the real thing, heroine. As a result, the woman’s husband had to go through several episodes of withdrawal, relapse, withdrawal, relapse, before he finally was able to stop for good. 

There’s a part in my book where Dave Bell, the former all-American track star, breaks into the detoxification trailer and steals a bunch of Suboxone. When the reviewer read that part she had a real personal moment and remembered all the pain she and her husband had gone through only year ago with the Suboxone. She really complemented me by saying the book was “truly gut-wrenching because I discussed, in very explicit and accurate details, the mental, psychological and physical effects of withdrawal and the various stages of recovery.” This makes me so happy, because my main objective, above all else, was to paint an accurate portrayal of the insidiousness of addiction. I think I’ve accomplished that. And if just one person can gain a better understanding of recovery and addiction, then I’ll know I’ve accomplished something that I can be proud of. 

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Genre - Literary Fiction
Rating – R
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The Hunter’s Son by BE Jewell (Excerpt)

He begins to squeeze the trigger but feels a rumble under his feet. Before he knows it, his shoes are no longer touching the ground. The river walk crumbles into the water below. He hits the water with arms and legs still trying to find steady ground. He surfaces as quickly as possible, gasping for air.

Thankfully, the water is still warm from the summer. James looks up and sees a huge hole in the walkway twenty feet above him. He looks around, sees a ladder 100 yards down the river and lets the slight current drag him toward it.

The wind bites at him as he reaches the top rung and pulls himself onto the walkway. He strips off his soaked hooded sweatshirt and scans the area. He sees movement in the distance between some trees and reaches instinctually toward his waist for his gun but comes up empty. He stares into the river knowing his favorite piece is long gone.

He turns and walks away from the tree line, back toward the city. He doesn’t know what to do without his gun. Hunting has evolved in the last 200 years or so to the point that he has become reliant on shooting as an answer to his problems. It’s no longer necessary to burn a witch, and using a pail of water always had its problems, anyway. Fire does a fine job just like it would with any animal, but a bullet does the trick a lot easier. It takes a hunter a long time to realize they do not need to stock up on garlic and wolfsbane to ward off evil spirits. Silver bullets do work a bit better than the junk from the sporting goods store and nothing beats a wooden stake up close, but who really wants to get that close? Plus, there isn’t always time to drive a stake in the ground or spread a salt ring to protect yourself.

The problem is everyone thinks witches and warlocks are busy running around a castle in England fighting bad wizards with wands, but that just isn’t true. If people knew how heartless these creatures are, they wouldn’t let their kids dress up like them on Halloween or stand in line to see movies glorifying them.

James moves quickly away from the park, putting as much distance between himself and the warlock as possible. After ten blocks, he sees an alley and ducks in to rest and get his bearings. This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. It’s just a young warlock, he thinks to himself as he crouches next to a dumpster.

A few smaller trashcans help hide his position but are too small to hide his broad shoulders. He sits down on the dirty ground and takes in his surroundings. He could not have picked a worse place. This is the kind of alley even a bum wouldn’t sleep in. Whoever is dumping trash here doesn’t care if it ends up in a dumpster or not. At least the smell of rotten fish is a welcome change from the warlock.

Something crashes off to his left and James shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. He glances down the alley but nothing appears out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of kids horsing around out on the street. A boy picks his grimy body up off the ground and starts after his friend. James’s heart beats way too fast and he takes a deep breath. It rolls out of his mouth like smoke and he pats the area where his gun should be again.

“Getting way too old for this. I guess this will have to do,” he whispers as he slowly pulls the six inch blade from his boot.

Suddenly, his nostrils fill with a depressingly familiar smell. Even the rotting fish in the dumpster can’t cover it up. He looks around but sees no one in the alley. His body tenses at the eerie lack of movement out on the street. People should be moving about at this time night, especially in a busy town like this. Maybe they are all down the street a bit. Daylight is gone now and he cannot see much beyond the edge of the buildings. That smell is strong. It seems to come from all around him. He inches slowly around the trashcan and into the alley. He turns toward the main street at the end of the buildings and takes one step forward, quickly glancing over his shoulder.

A blinding pain shoots through James’s throat as a thin, but incredibly strong, forearm slides around it. He lets out a terrified yelp for the first time in years as he loses the grip on his knife. It clanks on the concrete like a church bell ringing. James struggles to get out of the warlock’s grasp. He can feel its hot breath on the back of his head and the smell begins to burn his nostrils. If he could breathe, he would puke. James’s head whips back and he can see an old, broken fire escape above him. He did not notice it before. Such an obvious hiding spot, he can’t help but think.

“What do you want with me, hunter?” The warlock hisses in his ear.

Rancid breath fills his nose, and he can feel heat radiating off of the warlock’s body. He does not understand why the warlock would have a conversation at this point. He has been shooting at it all day. He did not hesitate to try to kill, why would this creature give him this type of courtesy? If he could get to his knife he would stab straight through the thing’s heart. Instead of killing him, the warlock is more concerned with James’s job description. Compassion is not their strong suit. No negotiating with a hunter or with a monster. The rules of war are being broken. The forearm begins to release a little pressure in anticipation of his answer and he gasps for air. His lungs are really on fire now.

“It’s nothing personal. Just a job,” he chokes before the blinding pressure returns to his throat.

James sees the witch’s mark on the creature’s forearm move as the muscles strain to block air from his lungs. Curious things, those marks. Often they look like any ordinary tattoo, with criss-crossing in varying patterns depending on the clan. This particular one is in the shape of the letter “Y” with two lines running through the curved stem. It is the only way to be certain that you have a witch or warlock on your hands and not just an extraordinarily smelly person. Every one of these creatures is born with the little symbol. It really would be fitting if this mark is the last thing he ever sees.

“JUST A JOB,” the warlock snarls. “IT’S NOT A JOB, THIS IS MY LIFE! You hunters seem to think you are the only things on the planet with a life. I did nothing to no one. Understand that? You need to learn that things bigger than you are going on all the time. Maybe in the future you won’t be so quick to shoot at someone who isn’t bothering you or your family. Next time the consequences might be far worse than today. Next time I will rip your heart from your chest. Believe me, I better not see you ever again.”

Everything goes black as something thuds against James’s head.

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Genre – YA Supernatural Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.jewellbe.com/

Blog http://jewellbe.blogspot.com/

Sweet Karoline by Catherine Astolfo

Chapter 1

I met Ethan on the day that I killed Karoline.

Other than a few minor adjustments, I believe that I have handled her murder exceedingly well.

The state of my car, for instance, has become something of a nuisance. Bits of tissue, used napkins, paper cups and pop cans litter the floor at my feet or fly out the window as I drive along. I am invariably subjected to a barrage of honking whenever I reach a red light.

People these days have no patience. They ought to understand that I am busy examining the stray bits in my car. Some of them are works of art. I don't notice the change to green because they are so infinitely interesting.

This study of creative possibilities has become somewhat of an obsession. In the back of my mind I know that all I have to do is clean it up. Yet the thought of actually tackling the onslaught of debris leaves me inert and helpless.

Ethan offered recently to take me to the car wash. He'd help me dump the debris and vacuum the inside, but I have seriously considered the idea that I may be destroying a future Picasso. I have thus far refused his proposition. Not that I have shared my vision of a Picasso with him, of course. I just say that I never have time.

I have acquired a habit of going shopping. I make lists of things in my mind—groceries, toiletries, cosmetics, medicines, vitamins or clothing—that seem absolutely essential to the arrival of tomorrow. But once inside the pharmacy, the clothing store or the shopping center, the bright lights mesmerize me. My eyes blur and I can't for the life of me remember what I have come for.

When I do buy something, I am left vaguely dissatisfied, certain that I could have gotten a better bargain somewhere else had I only looked a little longer. Depressed because I had to use my credit card again and this purchase will become just one more thing to do. Write the check. Buy the stamp. Walk to the post box. Mail the envelope.

The little, unfinished things do sometimes bother me. Dirty laundry is piled up in the closet. The bed is always unmade. In the bathroom, the ceiling is slowly cracking from some unspecified leak that I have failed to report to the superintendent. The drapes in the living room neither open nor close anymore.

At first I tended to watch television all night long, despite the fact that the next day I was a zombie. After I decided to go on an extended sick leave, it didn't matter. I started to sleep all night and all day, never moving unless forced to by some phone call, knock at the door or the call of nature.

I spend hours at the sink. For some reason, the suds and the water are calming. So far I have washed every dish, bowl, and ornament in the apartment two or three times. I reenact advertisements for the latest dishwashing liquid, showing off my lovely long fingers and hands to, well, myself. I speak in a sing-song voice to the imaginary audience, telling them how kind the dishwashing liquid has been to my hands over the years, encouraging them to run right out and buy this product before it disappears from the shelf.

After I've allowed the water to swirl down the drain, I shift to spending hours in front of the little mirror that hangs in my kitchen. People tell me that I am a very beautiful woman. On good days, when I feel haughty and happy, I can gaze into the polished glass and agree with their assessment. On other days, I notice the nose that's a little too upturned. The lips that protrude a bit too much. The dark birthmark above my left eyebrow. The ears that don't lie flat against my head. I have no idea why I am considered flawless, for I have many perceptible flaws, both inside and out.

My father is white and my mother is black with some Native American thrown into her background. My parents have always bragged that I inherited all the great physical features of those races. Their perspective is far less critical than mine. They focus on all the positives. Naturally wavy hair. Large brown eyes with long curling lashes. High, full cheekbones. A small, pert nose. Lips just thick enough to be called luscious.

I am one of those fortunate people who can eat all day and not gain an ounce. Thus I am described as tall and lean as opposed to thin. I have full breasts and a narrow waist. I am a fast runner and good at any sport I attempt. In Hollywood, I am considered full figured.

My skin is a light brown, the color of coffee with cream I guess you would say, that makes me look as though I've just stepped out of a tanning bed. Heads literally turn to stare at me in the street, from across a room, or on the subway. Male and female. To me, it's a constant source of surprise, chagrin and exasperation.

Lots of people, especially women, have jealously told me that I should be grateful for my looks. But I hate being identified as beautiful. Men tend to stare only at my chest when they talk to me. Or they show me off like some trophy and do not bother to ask my opinion on anything. I have been approached in bars and stores alike. Even in this land of plastic enhanced faces, I literally cannot go anywhere without being stared at or even followed. Most people, in fact, are convinced I am a movie star or model. These are not careers I've ever wanted.

I have often been stalked, thus the three sets of locks on our door. Our telephone number is always unlisted and has to be changed once some obsessed man discovers it. When you are lovely on the outside, it's always difficult to entice people to look for the true person underneath. I'm learning through Ethan that it's exactly the same for truly ugly people.

1373252870_2924_Sweet_Karolina_Createspace_Front_Cover

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Genre –  Psychological Suspense

Rating – 18+

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Website http://www.catherineastolfo.com/

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Above and Beyond: A Novel of the Civil War by Jessica James

Chapter 1

Looks like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.

—Shakespeare, MacBeth (Act I, Scene V)

June 1862

Major Douglas Benton rode in front of his men, his straight, broad back giving no indication of the hard-fought battles through which he had recently passed. To anyone watching, he appeared the epitome of rugged masculinity and imposing power, yet beneath the stalwart exterior of muscle and strength rode a man with straying thoughts.

With the fighting well over and the enemy long gone, Benton’s wandering mind had turned to more peaceful pursuits. He was daydreaming—mostly about things like shade and a cool draught of water but also of kindly succor at the hands of a beautiful maiden. It was a dream that had little chance of becoming reality, dusty and dirty and disheveled as he was. But it was his to dream nonetheless as he and his horse, with his staff and troop behind him, plodded wearily down an overgrown bridle path.

Two days and nights in the saddle is enough to dull most men’s thoughts of women, but Major Benton found that fatigue did little to diminish his appreciation for the opposite sex. Recently entrusted with his own command, Benton’s orders had kept him engaged in tracking and harassing the enemy for the past few weeks, which had resulted in an unusually long isolation from feminine society. So hot as it was and as parched as he was, Benton still dreamed of warm smiles and womanly charms, deciding he would gladly forego the water and shade if only for a few minutes diversion with a female face and form.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, what is it?” Benton’s voice betrayed his annoyance when the young officer interrupted his daydream. He knew only the name and rank of some of those he now commanded—and not even that for others.

“Sir, I don’t think…”

“There’s a house up ahead, Major,” another one of his men interrupted.

“Yes, finally.” Benton’s weary gaze fell upon a well-tended home sitting amidst a clump of old oaks. Aha, the trees prove evidence of bountiful shade, and the stone well in the yard testifies to the existence of water. Now all that is needed

The lieutenant interrupted again just as Major Benton began turning his horse off the path to the wagon track toward the house. ““Sir…as I was saying…”

“It will have to wait, Lieutenant.” Benton stuck spurs to his horse to ride in advance of his men. He’d already noticed the place itself was a thing of singular beauty, offering the added advantage of remoteness and isolation. He had only another quarter mile to dream about who might inhabit it.

* * *

The yard smelled of roses and appeared carpeted with velvety grass. The sun fairly gleamed from the broad, white bosom of the majestic ivy-covered house, making it appear almost celestial in nature. As he drew close, the slight hint of a breeze caressed Benton’s brow; he felt like he was part of a dream.

As Benton tugged on the reins to slow his anxious horse, his gaze fell upon a womanly form sitting on a garden bench with her head bent intently over a book. He pulled his horse to a halt and took in the scene, then reached down to open the latch of the gate. It was then that she stood and turned her face toward him, and it was then that Benton’s movements were for a moment arrested. Even a dream could not equal the perfection of beauty that stood before him. Astonished, Benton moved his horse forward and removed his hat, bowing low over his saddle. “Pardon the intrusion, miss. My men are tired and thirsty and would be much obliged for a place to rest.”

Benton was close enough now to see two blue eyes regarding him unemotionally from above the high collar of a drab, black mourning dress. Although he thought he had caught a glimmer of welcome at first glance, he could not help notice now the straight, authoritarian bearing of her stance, a trait he tended to find disagreeable in women. His gaze drifted down to the book she held in one hand, and its scuffed and tattered cover. As black as her dress, it reflected hard usage, but he could still read the title in barely recognizable gold letters: Holy Bible.

“Conscience compels me to decline the honor.” She spoke softly yet firmly, never removing her eyes from him as she slowly let the Bible drop to the bench behind her.

“We wish you no ill, miss.” Benton leaned on the pommel with negligent grace, confident of his effect on women. “Surely you are aware there is no refreshment more delicious than that afforded by shade.” He nodded toward the large canopy of trees to his right as he spoke, yet it took no intimate knowledge of his character or familiarity with his dream to know that shade was not necessarily the refreshment he was seeking.

The young woman’s eyes swept across his uniform, then over his shoulder to the approaching horsemen. The suspicion in them turned to intolerance. “I have offered you no invitation, sir,” she said in a cold voice.

Benton laughed as much from amusement as from surprise at her tone and examined her in such a way as to surely make her feel he knew her better than he possibly could. He continued to sit erect and poised, full of manly strength and confidence. “I see you are in mourning, and offer my condolences for your loss. But you are mistaken if you think we mean you harm.” He loosened his reins, making preparations to dismount.

“I have made no mistake.” The woman’s voice turned clearly hostile as she lifted an ancient shotgun from the folds of her skirt. In another instant, the gun was locked expertly between her side and elbow and was pointed straight at his chest. “But if one of your boots dares touch this soil, you may claim the responsibility for making one.”

“But I am Major Douglas Benton—” He stopped short when he saw the look that radiated from her eyes.

“Yes, I gathered that.” Her gaze remained locked on his. “I am no stranger to your character and reputation.”

The words were said in such a tone that it was clear she believed his character and reputation were not features to be proud of. Benton looked at her incredulously. In her expression, he could behold no friendliness or affection, yet the voice was distinctly Southern, gentle and drawling.

“Surely you do not mean to deny water to the soldiers defending you.”

She spoke unemotionally, not deigning to lower the gun. “I can deny water to those who are trespassing on my property.”

Benton looked down at her now with blank astonishment and then back toward his men still some twenty yards away. He saw out of the corner of his eye that she shifted her gaze to the east with a look of grave concern, but by the time he turned back around, her full attention was once again upon him.

“Come, my dear, where is your loyalty to Virginia?” Benton knew his tone revealed his agitation and made an attempt to sound less surly.

“I am loyal to the only authority I recognize,” she snapped, loud enough now for his approaching men to hear.

Benton let his breath escape him in a loud sigh of exasperation as he thought of the many battles he had fought to achieve his renowned reputation as a fighter. Yet not quite knowing what to do or say, he stared at the foe before him. “You intend to deny shade and water to these men?” He purposely asked the question in such a way as to indicate he did not think he had heard her correctly the first time, and wanted to give her another chance.

Her reply was simple. “I intend to defend my property. If you do not wish me to bestow the contents of this gun upon you, I suggest you urge your men to move on.”

In the heat of the moment, Benton completely forgot his dream. “And I urge you, miss, to put down that gun!”

Although he possessed a voice of easy command, Benton knew he was in a situation in which he was losing control. Indeed, if eyes possessed the power to kill, he knew he would be departing the earth for good, because her gaze, like the two barrels of her shotgun, remained locked on his heart.

“You may have the power to make that request, Major Benton—but most assuredly not the authority.”

“Madam, I did not request you. I ordered you!”

Benton looked from the gun to her face and saw no sign of fear or compromise. Then his agitation became obvious. His face kindled with the fire that was wont to burn there when on the battlefield. “I beg your pardon, young lady, for seeing the necessity of giving advice,” he said from between tightly clenched teeth, “but as we are men worthy of respect, I must insist that you drop that weapon.”

The woman remained unflappable. “As you have kindly begged my pardon for giving me this advice, I must beg yours for not taking it. To be frank, sir, you ought to have more prudence about where you request hospitality.”

Benton sat back on his horse as if having suffered a physical blow. Staring at his opponent with a look of intense annoyance, he dropped the focus of his gaze to the muzzle of the gun, which he noticed had begun to lower ever so slightly. Lifting his eyes to hers, he saw they had softened considerably as she followed the approach of a horse and rider behind him.

“Major, this isn’t a place you want to stop.” The soldier urged his mount forward and then drew rein beside Benton. “It’s the home of a traitor.”

The woman’s cheek twitched slightly at the words, like the spontaneous quiver of a horse’s hide when touched by a fly.

“You are acquainted?” Benton scrutinized the same lieutenant who had attempted to stop him earlier from turning down the lane.

“Sir, I have the unfortunate duty to report that this is my sister. Well, that is… was my sister.”

“I am still your sister, Jake,” the woman said softly, all the callousness gone from her voice. “The war cannot change that.”

The lieutenant did not answer her, just turned his head and spit into the dust as if that was a sufficient response. Then he addressed Benton again. “As I tried to tell you earlier, sir, there is a loyal family only another mile down the pike.”

Benton looked from one to the other for a moment and then decided to take his lieutenant’s advice. For a moment, he considered warning the woman about her unpopular stance in the region and the possible danger to her welfare, but one more look into those fearless, ice blue eyes changed his mind on the necessity. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

Riding at a swift pace, it did not take long for the band of warriors to put the house called Waverly behind them. As they trotted up a small rise, a scout came galloping out of the tree line and pulled his horse to a sliding stop in front of Benton. “Found this in the old tree, sir.”

Benton opened the communication and scanned the missive quickly. Turning his horse back toward the east, he scanned the landscape a moment and looked over at his next in command. “You see anything suspicious out there, Captain Connelly?”

Connelly squinted against the late-afternoon sun and then pulled a spyglass from his saddle. “Yea, looks like something’s kickin’ up some dust down there.” He handed the spyglass to Benton. “Might even be heading to Waverly from the direction they’re heading.”

Benton stared through the lens briefly then closed it in disgust with a loud snap.

“If that’s from Sid, looks like he’s right again.” Connelly nodded toward the piece of paper Benton still held.

Benton merely grunted in reply as he leaned over his pommel and studied the horizon with a scowl. “Whoever Sid is,” he said at length. “He seems to know every movement the Union army makes in this region—and I don’t even know who he is.”

The two officers sat silently and assessed the situation as the moving cloud of dust slowly transformed into a small band of cavalry wearing blue uniforms.

“Well, I reckon it’s a good thing we didn’t hang around Waverly.” Connelly shifted his weight in the saddle. “Looks like nothin’ but a small scouting party, but they could have caused some headaches.”

Benton took one more look, and then turned his horse back around. “Well they are welcome to Waverly—and its inhospitable occupant as far as I’m concerned.”

“Speaking of which, what do you reckin’ we should do with that one?” Connelly tilted his head back toward the house from which they had come.

Benton sighed heavily, trying to erase the image of those brilliant blue eyes filled with hostility, and attempted instead to imagine them shining with the devotion with which he was accustomed. “Frankly, I’m inclined to cut off the tail and hope it dies when the sun goes down,” Benton muttered as he tried to reconstruct the dream that had been ruined by the only woman he’d ever met immune to his charms.

Above and Beyond

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Genre - Christian Fiction

Rating – G

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Website http://www.jessicajamesbooks.com/

Author Interview – D.A.& M.P. Wearmouth

What are you most proud of in your personal life?

M – My children

D – Managing to get Dawn to put up with me for nearly sixteen years.

What books did you love growing up?

M – I remember the Narnia Chronicles more than any others.

D – My eldest brother was a James Herbert fan, I used to sneak books off his shelf and read them under my duvet. ‘Rats’ was the most memorable.

Who is your favourite author?

M – Not sure I have one there are too many to mention.

D – There’s a few I love, if I was pushed I’d say Richard Matheson, D.J Molles and

Michael Crichton.

What book genre of books do you adore?

M – I like an action/adventure story with some horror laced in.

D – Post Apocalyptic, so I guess that’s a cross between Science Fiction, Horror and Action.

What book should everybody read at least once?

M – Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks.

D – I am Legend by Richard Matheson.

Are there any books you really don’t enjoy?

M – I was surprised with how basic Clive Cussler books were, I enjoyed the first couple but thought after a few that there was no real content.  Great ideas but two dimensional.

D – I’m not a particular fan of reading about ‘real life’ struggles. It’s not that the stories aren’t worth reading, I just like books to take me to another place.

First Activation

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Genre – Horror/Science Fiction

Rating – R

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Website http://dampwearmouth.com/

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Lisa Regan – 10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

by Lisa Regan

1. Read voraciously. Whatever your genre is–read as many books in that genre as you can.

2. Read with your writer hat on. If you’ve read a book that knocked your socks off, go back and reread it to look for the things the writer excelled at and how they pulled those things off.

3. Use critique partners!

4. Give yourself permission to write badly. Remember, you don’t have to use everything you write, but you should write something.

5. Just get it on the page. Even when your writing feels bad and awkward, forge ahead. Fix it later, that’s what editing and revisions are for. For now, just get as much on the page as you can.

6. Study books on the craft.

7. Don’t be afraid to cut. Cut, cut, cut. It may hurt you to cut what you feel is good work, but sometimes it is necessary to make your work as a whole better.

8. Think about your story when you’re doing mundane things like the dishes or folding laundry. Let the story simmer in the back of your mind so that when it is time to sit down and write, you’re already there.

9. Don’t be afraid to try new things and experiment in your writing. That’s one way you get better, by coming out of your comfort zone.

10. Critique other writers’ work. You may think you have nothing to offer, but it’s always easier to see the flaws in other people’s work than your own. Critiquing other writers’ work gives you practice so that when you sit down to revise your own, you’re better able to identify what needs fixing.

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Genre – Psychological Thriller / Crime Fiction

Rating – R

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Website http://www.lisaregan.com/

White Chalk - Pavarti K. Tyler

Chapter 1

Troy Christiansen came for me.

I knew it the moment he first walked into Northwoods Secondary School. I watched, transfixed, as he glided right through the crowd of popular kids who hung out by the front door—like someone used to being ignored, slicing through the throng like a ghost. He had a black Mohawk pulled tight into a ponytail, and smelled like cigarettes and delinquency. A black T-Shirt and long-sleeved hoodie clung to his hunched shoulders.

Something about him looked so perfectly fragile.

He looked up only once and, by the smirk on his wide full lips, I knew I’d been caught staring. It didn’t really matter. I’d fallen instantly and obsessively in love, but not the kind of teenage drama crap you might expect. No, this was the real soul-wrenching kind of love. I’d never be the same again.

The whole school trilled with gossip. Morgan heard he’d moved here to live with his dad after his mom got arrested. Sebastian said he’d been in Juvie and just got out.

I knew better, having spent that entire day wandering the high school between classes, getting more tardies in one afternoon then I’d received so far that year. But I didn’t care. I was determined to figure out a way to talk to him, whatever it took. Something about the way he’d looked at me, the way the world fell away, taking with it the dread sitting in the bottom of my stomach. Like getting shock therapy, or jumping in the lake in winter, suddenly I felt alive—thanks to him.

Two days later at lunch—one of the few events not segregated by grade—I finally saw him.

I’d been held after class in Algebra; too many days of missing homework. Teachers seemed to think we possessed this unlimited amount of time between getting home and going to bed for all this work, and every one of them gave enough homework to fill the whole night. This assumed I bothered to even try. Between cleaning up the house, trying to keep the reality of my life from caving in, worrying about Dad coming home drunk or Ma crying over bills, Earth Science homework just didn’t seem like that big of a fucking deal. At least I didn’t have to worry about homework in History—it paid to be Mr. Harris’ star student.

When I finally got out of there, I trudged down to the cafeteria, ignoring the insults the boys tossed, or their occasional moo call. Fuck them. I retreated to my usual spot in front of the vending machine, looking for something sugary before finding Morgan on the front steps with her friends.

Cheetos or cupcakes or a Rice Krispies Treat… the options for processed fat and sugar proved endless.

“The machine gave me two, you want one?” A low rumble came from around the corner.

I stepped to the side and looked around the clunky machine blocking my view. There, on the ground with earbuds dangling around his neck and one hand offering up a HoHo, sat Troy Christiansen.

“Umm, Yeah.”

I took the treat and shifted my weight to the other foot. I wanted to tell him I’d seen the way he’d looked at me, that this place didn’t suck too bad, that I could be something—maybe something special—if he wanted. Instead, I just crinkled the plastic wrapper between my fingers.

He shrugged, put the earbuds back in, and picked up the book on his lap—something old, with tan pages and a cracked spine.

Dejected, I turned away.

“You can sit here if you want,” he said, without looking up.

A swelling in my chest made it difficult to breathe, and, for a minute, I floundered. I wasn’t even sure if I could find the strength to sit, but when he glanced up and raised one eyebrow, I shivered and stepped closer.

“Um… yeah… sure.” My mouth went dry and my tongue felt stiff as a diving board, but my legs managed to lower me to the floor without falling. Little miracles shouldn’t be taken for granted.

The waist of my jeans cut into my middle and made it tough to figure out just how to sit, but I didn’t want to fidget too much. With one leg bent and the other curled under me, it wasn’t comfortable, but I couldn’t cross the other leg. I left it bent, my knee poking out at an angle.

“Thanks.” I peeked through my hair, afraid to look right at him. When he smiled, a thrum of excitement started in my chest, speeding up my breath.

“What’s your name?”

“Chelle.”

He nodded. “I’m Troy.” His eyes shone in the florescent glare of the cafeteria, and he passed me one of his iPod’s earbuds. When I took it, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, not bothering to eat the HoHo balanced precariously on his knee.

The earbud was still warm, and shrill, fast music crashed into my brain. It clamored around in my head, abusing the parts of my mind normally reserved for coherent thought, but I didn’t care. Troy Christiansen and I listened to the same thing, shared the same sensations.

I didn’t eat the HoHos he’d given me, despite a tingling at the back of my mouth anticipating the decadent mixture of chocolate and cream. I leaned against the wall, enjoying how every breath he took moved the air around me. The hairs on my arm reached out to him, and I vibrated with the fantasy that he might touch me.

When the warning bell rang, chairs scraped against the linoleum floor as everyone rushed to finish their conversation, stuff in one more bite of processed meat, and dump their trash before heading to class.

Troy and I just sat, him with his eyes closed, me trying desperately to look at him… without looking. His sharp features were symmetrical, and sitting side-by-side, we weren’t too different in height. But my figure was thick, his lanky, and where I curved, he stuck out in angular points. He wore the same tight jeans as the first day I saw him. His lip ring dangled from the center of his bottom lip, pulling it out into a pout that made me shiver and look away.

The class bell rang and even though I couldn’t afford another tardy, the mere idea of moving away proved inconceivable. I’d spent all week searching for him; no way I’d get up first. Every minute we sat—the cafeteria now cold and barren—the knot in my stomach grew. I tried not to fidget, to keep my hands still and not worry about needing to go to my locker before class.

Finally, he opened his eyes and pulled out his earbud. He set the iPod on the ground before standing up and stretching.

From where I sat I could glance at the swatch of skin above his pant line, pale and smooth. I fumbled with the earbud and gathered the cord around the iPod to keep from staring.

“You smoke?” He stuffed the iPod and uneaten HoHo into his bag.

“Yeah.” I scrambled to pull myself up as he slung it over a shoulder.

“You didn’t eat. Aren’t you hungry?” He pointed to the HoHo in my hand.

“Nah, I’ll eat later.” I hoped he couldn’t hear my stomach growl, or the crinkling of the plastic wrapper as my hand shook.

He shrugged and walked away, out of the cafeteria and down the long hall leading to the main door.

“Aren’t you going to class?” My voice reverberated in the empty hall, too loud as I rushed to keep up with his long legs.

“No. Why would I ask you to smoke if I was going to class?” His response made so much sense, I felt stupid for asking.

“Well, you can’t go out front,” I offered, lowering my voice a little, trying to make it sultry or something. I knew something he didn’t, and despite the fact I was essentially skipping class for the first time in my life, I desperately wanted him to keep me around. “We have to go out back, behind the loading docks. None of the teachers bother going there.”

“I don’t give a fuck what the teachers do.” He glanced down at me, his eyes cold before softening into a teasing smile. “But if you do, we can go.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, embarrassed to have cared, to assume he would care about getting in trouble. He was a junior—he didn’t have to give a fuck.

We turned and walked back past the cafeteria, beyond the foreign language hall and out the side door. He followed me, not speaking as I jumped over a pile of unmelted snow left over from the last storm.

He chuckled—laughing at me or with me? Didn’t really matter, given the smile that brightened his face.

When we rounded the shed to the unofficially designated smoking area, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. His thin face appeared even more drawn as he held in the smoke before exhaling through his nose.

I rubbed my hands on my pant legs. I didn’t have my bag with me, so no cigarettes.

Troy didn’t seem to notice, though. He just gazed out over the parking lot, tapping his foot as he smoked.

I wrapped my arms around my middle, trying to keep warm.

White Chalk

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Genre –  Literary Fiction/Coming of Age

Rating – R (15+)

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Website http://www.fightingmonkeypress.com/