Aicha Zoubair

Jessica Bell

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

#AmReading - Sorcerer Rising by F. Nathan Sisk @ENathanSisk

Sorcerer Rising by F. Nathan Sisk


Sorcerer Rising begins the story of Virgil McDane. Once he was a powerful Wizard, an explorer, scholar, and soldier. Outcast from the Wizard’s Guild, stripped of his power and relegated to a lowly Sorcerer, he finds himself more and more desperate.
His world is much like our own, only magic is an everyday occurrence. The greatest resource is Aether, patches of raw magic that spawn whole dimensions. Forged from emotion and thought, the possibilities held within these worlds are endless. Some are featureless nightmares, others whole planets filled with their own people, magic, and culture.
Only expert mages can extract these otherworldly resources from the mist, namely the Wizards with their global Guild, or Sorcerers, rogue mages powerful enough to work the Aether.
Now, a unique phenomenon has provided Virgil with the chance he needs. The Arcus, a column of light and energy that stretches half the world, has landed just outside his home city. Cyrus Aberland, millionaire inventor, is funding an expedition, and with a vendetta against the Guild, he comes looking for a Sorcerer who can do the job.
Now Virgil must guide a team of explorers halfway across the world, protect them and himself against the dangerous arcane threats of the world, and reclaim his power.

The King of Sunday Morning by J.B. McCauley @MccauleyJay


She sat under the shade of a very old tree. Its branches stretched out overhead like a network of broken fingers. She let the strange music wash over her. The tree stood to the left of the dry, dusty square. To the side of her sat trestle tables decked with exotic fruits and pastries. A goat kid was being roasted on a spit, the carcass continually turned by a boy enveloped in a traditional white gown. He had a small white hat atop his head and was obviously concentrating on his task as the smoke stung his eyes.

On the other side of the square, a group of boys, also in traditional dress, were running around after a half deflated football. The square was surrounded on all sides by dilapidated mud brick dwellings. They were crumbling at the edges but were the homes for large extended families. As she looked up on to the surrounding hills, she could see herds of goats being cared for by more small children. She knew if the music hadn’t been there, that she would be able to hear their distant bells as the animals searched for their sporadic feed.

Fatima was with Ali. In traditional bridal wear, face covered to protect the men from her beauty, she danced with joy. The women warbled their joyous cries and the men slapped each other on the back as the great day began to turn into night. She watched her friend. She didn’t really quite understand how she could go from an educated woman to this subservient bride but she was happy for her. Ali was a good man and most of all, they loved each other.

She had always intended to come here, even though she knew that at some point she would become melancholic. This was her friends’ day after all. But things like this were a constant reminder of what she had lost.

Her mind wandered as the dancers moved in faster and faster circles, whirling around at fever pitch. She was hiding here. She knew it. Hiding from the world that had caused her so much pain. There was danger here for sure but that gave her a thrill. She felt alive here.

After the funeral, she had gone home completely devastated. Jimmy had told her that Tray was married. How could he? She had always assumed that Tray would wait for her. But in reality, how could he?

She had been away from him for three years. He wasn’t able to talk to her. It was too dangerous for him, her and her Dad. She had always believed that one day they would be together but Tray had read the situation different.

She knew that Sam had come back a supposed cripple. Word was that he would never walk again. Poor Betty. Her family had been decimated because of Tray’s mistake and he knew it would haunt her until her dying days.

Jo had not got in contact with the family. She couldn’t put Tray in that sort of danger. They couldn’t have anyone make the connection. That had hurt her but they had their own problems. Apparently it had taken a good couple of years for Sam to come good. In that time he had met a nurse who had cared for him. He worked in the family business so that Jimmy could keep an eye on him.

She never heard anything much about him. He didn’t go out. He didn’t mix in any of the old circles. She had driven past the shop a couple of times and saw him seated next to the washing machines and ovens outside. How she wished she had the guts to rush out of the car and ask him what had happened to Tray.

But she kept her word. She hadn’t seen Jimmy and Sam again until that day at the cemetery. Sam had looked embarrassed when he saw her. There was genuine grief in both the men’s hearts and there was something else. She didn’t see it then but after, in the confines of her little flat, she recognised it as guilt.

That evening, as she had sat all alone with just a bottle of merlot for company, she went through the old job offers she had received. She poured over them, concentrating on the ones that were furthest away. The next day she would see if they had anything for her. It was time that Jo Flint took control of her life.

But she hadn’t really. Everywhere she went, every man she met, reminded her of him. She just hadn’t found anyone who matched his heart. It was causing her some concern. She hoped she wasn’t going to end up an old maid. She wondered what he was doing now. If he had kids. What kind of man he had become? Was he still the best man she had ever known?

She sipped the grape juice in her hand and closed her eyes. A stiff evening breeze coming down from the mountains was replacing the dwindling sun. She shivered a little and began to doze off.

She woke with a start as a hand grabbed her shoulder. It was Fatima. Her eyes the only visible part of her face that Jo could see.

“So Jo Flint! You like Afghanistan now?”

King of Sunday Morning

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Genre – Thriller, Action, Suspense, Gangster, Crime, Music

Rating – PG-18

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Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Author Interview – Shanna Hatfield @ShannaHatfield #thechristmascowboy

Image of Shanna Hatfield

Will you write others in this same genre?

Defintely! You can count on it.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

If readers could take away one message from The Christmas Cowboy, I think it would be this: Don’t let experiences from the past hold you back from a happy future.

What are your goals as a writer?

To entertain people. I know my books aren’t works of literary wonder. They aren’t intended to be. I want my books to be a place people can escape for a few hours and finish the story with a happy sigh and a good feeling in their heart.

Can we expect any more books from you in the future?

You can count on it. Look for two new romances, one contemporary and the other historical, by spring.

Have you started another book yet?

Yes. My next book is about an arena football player and a girl he meets at one of his games who really isn’t all that into football or him.

The Christmas Cowboy

"10% of the net proceeds from all my book sales December 1-24 will be donated to the Justin Cowboy Crisis Fund®"

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Genre – Romance (contemporary western)

Rating – PG

More details about the author

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The Power of Mentors – Regan Black @ReganBlack

The Power of Mentors

Thanks for hosting me here today! It’s a pleasure to be here and connect with your readers by way of Orangeberry Book Tours. As a paranormal romance and romantic suspense author, much of my day is spent in relative solitude – when two retired greyhounds and two cats with inflated egos are hanging out in the office it’s hard to be lonely.

And yet…

While my pets have plenty of personality and aren’t afraid to interrupt me or even ‘talk back’ during my writing time, they aren’t as helpful at identifying a story problem or resolving a marketing question as a human.

Mentors are the people we look up to and admire for their various skills or accomplishments. They are the people we’d like to resemble when we grow up. Debra Webb, one of the top names in romantic suspense, has been that person for me for the majority of my career.

Since our first meeting at a writer’s conference, I’ve leaned on the advice Debra offered in those sessions and during more casual chats afterward. She gave me an outstanding cover quote for my first novel (Justice Incarnate) and she did the same recently for Bulletproof, calling the book “Dark, gritty, sexy suspense with one hell of a hot hero.”

Oh, yeah, I did backflips when I saw that!

I’ve been fortunate to enjoy a close friendship with my mentor through the years and without Debra, I can say Bulletproof  and the Unknown Identities series would still be a strong idea languishing in the ‘to be developed’ file. You see, I was spinning my wheels with several options and no confidence to choose a direction. It took my mentor’s intervention to push me out of my own way.

About a year ago, when Debra’s acclaimed Faces of Evil series was soaring to amazing heights, she called to check on me. Suffice it to say my year wasn’t going nearly as well as hers. In fact, I was sure my career was going down in flames. I had the obituary written (it was some of my best work), but Deb refused to believe it.

More importantly, she refused to let me believe it.

Our friendly phone call quickly shifted into a serious business meeting. I took pages of notes while she dissected my career, listened to my goals and ideas, assessed my strengths and productivity, and laid out a plan to move me forward.

Bulletproof is the next step in that plan:

A soldier is nothing without his honor.

To avoid a dishonorable end to his decorated military career, John Noble made a deal with the devil. He gave up his name, endured harrowing training, and accepted every mission thrown at him for one purpose: redemption.

An ambitious reporter, Amelia Bennett, is about to break the story of her career, if she lives long enough to tell it. Caving to her boss’s demand, she hires a bodyguard and soon it is obvious John Noble is the only obstacle standing between her and certain death.

Debra’s expert guidance gave me confidence as these characters moved from concept to three-dimensional people. With in-depth brainstorming and “Oh! What if…?” phone sessions the story came alive on the page. She kept me motivated with hard release dates, editing, and even advice for the cover art concepts.

The past year has been a productive adventure for me, and I hope readers will enjoy the results with Bulletproof and the subsequent stories in the Unknown Identities series.

Live the adventure,



“Dark, gritty, sexy suspense with one hell of a hot hero.” -USA Today bestseller Debra Webb

A soldier is nothing without his honor.

To avoid a dishonorable end to his decorated military career, John Noble made a deal with the devil. He gave up his name, endured harrowing training, and accepted every mission thrown at him for one purpose: redemption.

When he accepts his latest orders, providing personal security for a reporter in trouble, he bargains hard to guarantee it will be his last job for the shadow agency he knows only Unknown Identities (UI).

An ambitious reporter, Amelia Bennett, is about to break the story of her career, if she lives long enough to tell it. Caving to her boss’s demand, she hires a bodyguard and soon it is obvious John Noble is the only obstacle standing between her and certain death.

Just when John believes he has found someone he can trust and love, who loves him unconditionally for who and what he has become, his orders are amended: Amelia Bennett is to be terminated.

Introducing Unknown Identities: an alternative for elite soldiers and spies facing criminal charges… if they can survive the program.

Don’t miss Double Vision, the next installment of this sizzling, action-packed series.

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Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author and the book

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Sunday, December 29, 2013

#Free - Hannah’s Dream by Lenore Butler @ALJambor

Hannah’s Dream by Lenore Butler

Amazon Kindle US

Genre – Historical Romance

Rating – PG

5 (6 reviews)

Free until 30 December 2013

A sweet historical set in 1895
Hannah Dawes is an enchanting strawberry blond who is betrothed to the boy next door.  When his father sends him a hundred miles away to become a doctor, Hannah vows to wait for him.  When he marries another, she's hurt, but she's not down for long.  Hannah has a dream, and the gumption to see it through.  Drawn to the colors in the church's stained glass windows, she abandons the sandcastle sculptures she shared with her former beau and embraces painting with color.  She draws inspiration from the wild Atlantic ocean and when the family fortune is lost and she is forced to move to Colorado, Hannah is heartbroken - until she sees the Rocky Mountains and a cowboy named Adam.
Adam is a shy man who loves horses and thinks he'll spend his life on the range.  But when he
sets eyes on the saucy, red-haired Hannah, he's smitten.  He hasn't known many women, and that Hannah is a strange one.  At first, he retreats when she gets riled up, which seems to be all the time, and she doesn't think he likes her, and when he tries to talk to her, his lack of sophistication frustrates her.  But there is something about the sweet cowboy that stays with her, and even when she meets a handsome and rich doctor, she can't get Adam out of her mind.
While they try to find common ground, Hannah and Adam grow to love one another, but someone from Hannah's past has come to Colorado to steal her away and won't let anyone stand in his way.  Will he keep Hannah and Adam apart?
Settle into an sweet, old-fashioned romance and get lost in Hannah's Dream.

Whitley & Austin, Where Truth and Fiction Meet by Parker Paige @parkerpaige86

While Charlie listened to the mellow sounds of Alana Davis from her desk radio, she made changes to the heavily marked-up Asset Purchase Agreement. From the corner of her eye, she saw Camina coming towards her desk, carrying a bagel on a paper plate. Irrespective of their animosity, Charlie's professionalism forced her to always speak, even if Camina didn't.

Camina stood an inch taller than Charlie. She was nearly anorexic, with curly red hair to her shoulders, which seemed to add a glow to her painted-on, narrow eyebrows. Not only was Camina close to the same height as Charlie but they were both super slim as well. Easily, they could pass as twin sisters.

"Good morning," Charlie said, keeping her eyes on the computer screen in front of her.

Instead of returning the greeting, Camina chuckled. "Nice dress," she said to Charlie.

Charlie felt the sting of Camina's ridicule, having become intimately accustomed to her insensitive remarks. The animosity between the two stemmed from their high school days together. Not only was Camina petty enough to resent Charlie because Charlie received better grades than Camina did, but it didn't stop there. It was Camina's grudge against Charlie's late sister, Sandy, that Camina mostly hung over Charlie's head. Camina's almost fatal accident left her almost bald and Charlie's sister would always tease Camina about the shortness of her hair. Although Charlie never participated in such crass behavior, Camina seemed to resent her the same as if Charlie condoned her sister's behavior. Her nasty and well-rehearsed words of mockery were Camina's way of reminding Charlie that she had not forgotten and probably never would.

Many times, Charlie considered apologizing to Camina for her sister's behavior, but it was too late. Camina was past the point of forgiveness. This was an unsalvageable relationship, and all Charlie could do was accept it for what it was.


THREE beautiful redheads – THREE Motives – ONE Murder

Tapping into the common wish to be someone else, if only for a short time, this suspense drama explores what happens when a woman, bored with her humdrum existence dyes her hair red and takes on the persona of her late sister.

After the murder of her beloved sister, a quiet and warmhearted legal secretary, Charlie Weiss, who works for the prestigious Whitley & Austin, is in search of an escape. A few sessions with her psychologist propel her to the realization that the excitement that she seeks is in a new life, the life of her late sister.

With a daring wish to continue the wild life of her late sister, she colors her hair red and dares to reinvent herself. And with this new persona comes a different type of experience, including becoming one of three redhead suspects to a murder.

“This whodunit suspense drama will keep you guessing until the last page.”–Elance book editor

Parker Paige has been writing fiction for several years with a passion for creating eccentric characters. She is fascinated with true stories and for that reason, she is drawn to the network Investigation Discovery like a drug. She is the author of “The Color Pink” and “Whitley and Austin.” She is not completely insane, maybe just a little bit crazy. She lives in Los Angeles.

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Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating – PG-13

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Saturday, December 28, 2013

#AmReading - Heart of a Knight by Barbara Samuel @barbaraoneal

Heart of a Knight by Barbara Samuel


Britain, 1351. After an arduous exile to flee the darkness and danger sweeping her lands, Lady Elizabeth D’Auvers returns home to Woodell Castle, yearning only for her looms and her quiet life. To her astonishment, she finds the castle and farmlands thriving, thanks to Lord Thomas of Roxburgh, a knight errant whose size and strength offer protection to Elizabeth’s castle and its people.
Lord Thomas’s warm gaze makes Elizabeth’s flesh burn with unaccustomed fire, and her defenses crumble, leaving her heart as vulnerable as her trembling body. Yet chilling thoughts trouble her mind. For there is something dark and mysterious about this man—a secret that makes him as forbidden to desire as he is impossible to resist.

The Curse Giver by Dora Machado @DoraMachado

Chapter Five
THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE LOST to Lusielle. Her life was a jumbled sequence of snippets, blurry images breaking up long periods of dense darkness, triggered by a sudden jostle or a twinge of pain, cold, heat or thirst. She spotted glimpses of a gray sky, spitting out rain, and campfires burning deep in the woods. There was more rain, and a face—his face—hovering just beyond reach.
Occasionally, sound trickled into her muffled world from a distant place. The wind rustled through the trees. The horses’ hooves pounded on dirt, gravel, and mud. Men spoke, snorted, muttered and snored. A low, measured voice—his voice—echoed very near, urging her to drink, eat or sleep, accompanied by the pervasive masculine scent that was her constant companion.
There were times when she came to just enough to realize that she existed in the world in-between, where gods and mortals met in dreams, where dreams and reality were one and the same. In those moments, she realized that she survived only because of someone else’s will, that if she wanted a future, she had to wake up and seize it. She kept trying, even though it required great effort, like swimming against a colossal tide.
“This way,” the voice said.
She felt listless as a corpse, but she grabbed on to that voice and followed it to a semblance of consciousness. Fighting her heavy eyelids, she managed to glimpse the man’s stern face, outlined against a background of pewter clouds.
She rode with him on his horse, wrapped in an oiled mantle, mostly protected from the rain. His strong arms kept her from slipping off the massive beast. His armored chest offered a hard but steady pillow. The beat of his heart echoed through the copper plates, strong, vibrant, and enthralling.
He must have realized that she was awake, because his stare swooped down on her like a hawk on the prowl, even though his voice was gentle. “Hush,” he said. “We won’t be too much longer on the road today.”
His eyes were lined with worry and exhaustion. So were the faces of the other men who rode with him. All of them were wet, tired and miserable, picking their way up a steep mountain track as the relentless rain continued to pelt them. That same rain was dripping from Brennus’s face, drenching his hair and trickling down his neck.
“The rain,” she whispered. “It’s making you wet.” She reached out to dry the water from his face, but the wound on her back protested with a pang of pain.
He caught her hand and tucked it back into the blanket. “It’s no use,” he said. “You can’t keep me dry.”
“One can try,” she said.
And he actually smiled.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“South of nowhere and north of wherever,” he said. “Far from the usual routes. We’re seven days out.”
Seven days was an awful long time to be senseless among strangers.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Riva’s not going to find us.”
She winced when the horse missed a step.
“Hato!” Brennus called.
Why was he barking like that?
There was splashing, the sound of hooves clattering and then, “My lord?”
“We’ve got to stop. The fever’s back and she’s hurting again.”
“No place to stop around here, my lord,” the other man said.
“Send Severo and Cirillo ahead,” he said. “Tell them to find a decent camp and get a fire going. She’s got to rest.”
“My lord,” he said, “we have pressing business. We can’t slow down to accommodate her comfort—”
“Do you want her alive or not?”
The other man sighed. “As you wish, my lord.” He rode away.
She tried to tell him that she was fine, but ended up whimpering instead.
“Shush,” he whispered in her ear. “You need to sleep.”
And by the Thousand Gods, off she went, at his command, into the darkness again, following his heart’s steady rhythm as it sang a lullaby to her heart.
Curse Giver
Award-Winning Finalist in the fantasy category of The 2013 USA Best Book Awards, sponsored by USA Book News
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Genre – Fantasy/Dark Fantasy
Rating – PG-18
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Living The Testimony by Deidre Havrelock @deidrehavrelock

My Personal Testimony

I grew up in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, as a Cree/Irish borderline Catholic girl, meaning this half-breed rarely went to Mass. However, I did pray every night. I absolutely loved God and believed in Him deeply. Being Catholic, I had heard about Jesus. In fact, my favorite song was “Away in a Manger.” Whenever I was scared, which was often, I would sing this song. But I imagined Jesus to be a fairytale—a fantasy about a perfect God coming to save people. He was just for good thoughts. He was in no way a reality.

Despite my vague belief in Jesus, my relationship with God seemed deep. I would have conversations with my invisible God; I would tell God I loved Him. And I certainly did love Him. Although, I was becoming a bit frustrated with Him because of my dreary life circumstance. You see, my dad drank—a lot. And this stress, along with the stress of my quickly emerging spiritual life, was simply too overwhelming.

As a child I lived with a strange secret. I sensed an ominous yet deeply intriguing spiritual force in my home. I simply assumed a ghost lived in my house. To convolute matters even more, when I was just seven, a man with fire for hair appeared to me in a dream, forcing me to marry him in front of an upside-down cross. He told me in the dream, “Don’t worry, you have been chosen.” From this point on, I completely believed I was married to the devil—irrevocably dark and aligned with evil.

Fortunately, this dream did motivate me to dig my heels in and search for God. I figured only God could get me divorced from the devil. But instead my search led me to Fred, a kind spirit I met in grade four through a Ouija board. Being Cree, spirits were nothing new to me. My mom’s family always talked about spirits. Most of my aunts and uncles were scared of the spirits or ghosts they saw in their dreams and in their houses, but my grandmother told me the spirits were there to help and protect us. I wasn’t quite sure what to believe. I was confused. After all, the spirits I sensed around me and the ones I saw in my dreams scared me, too. But then again, Fred seemed different. This spirit was nice. He was funny. Fred told me through the Ouija board that his job was to protect and watch over me. Eventually, I began telling myself that spirits just felt creepy, but once you got to know them they could be nice. Especially, if you were nice to them.

Fred became my constant companion. But one day, in grade six, after my best friend’s dad tried to molest me and just after my uncle Glen (who had sexually molested me as a small child) came to live with us in our home, I had a nervous breakdown. While left home alone with Glen, I grabbed a butcher knife and ran to my room to hide. Once in my bedroom, instead of picking up my Ouija board to call on Fred, I cried out to God, telling Him I wanted to kill myself. Suddenly I heard a voice speak out loud: “When you are big everything will be okay.” It was God; He spoke to me. He was real.3 I told God I’d hang on until I was big, which obviously, to a twelve-year-old mind, meant eighteen.

By age sixteen, things seemed to have miraculously changed for the better. First of all, my dad was now inexplicably healed from alcoholism. Second, I was introduced by my high school teacher to a New Age transcendental meditation and channeling group that met weekly in the back room of a small bookstore.4 I was so excited. I thought for sure—in this extremely spiritual group—I would find God and get my divorce from Satan.

This group also told me spirits were good and helpful. However, a few sessions later, I found myself strangely altered after my spirit guide Fred, along with another extremely violent spirit, entered my body during group meditation and refused to leave. A member of the group did attempt to help me force these spirits from my body, but the endeavor failed. Consequently, I was kicked out of my New Age group for having bad karma. This meant I was the one attracting these evil spirits to the group—because I was evil. I left the group feeling deeply hurt, misunderstood, and very aware of being “chosen” by the devil.5

A school friend of mine named Doug, who had joined the channeling group with me, then suggested, without knowing anything about my spiritual past, that I study Satanism. His brother had a Satanic Bible.6 After flatly declining, I began dreaming I was killing people. I also dreamed of horrible evil creatures. Rats invading my house was a common dream, and the devil with fire for hair began reappearing in my dreams, growing angrier every time I refused to follow him. When I turned eighteen, I gave up on spirituality. I simply wouldn’t choose Satan and God had failed to show up and save me.

When I was twenty-two years old, now bulimic/anorexic, depressed, and suffering from intense back pain, my life took an unexpected turn when at work God surprisingly spoke to me again saying, “This is the man whom you shall marry.” That man was DJ, a young man who worked in the same office as I did. Eventually DJ and I began dating, and even though we seemed to have nothing in common—because I was convinced that God had sent him to help me—on our third date, I opened up to him, describing to him my nightmares and my spirit guide, Fred. Of course, I worried DJ might consider me crazy, but instead he said, “I’m here to help.”7

It was a few weeks later that DJ opened up to me, explaining how he believed in Jesus. He told me he believed Jesus was alive. He told me Jesus could heal me and save me; and because he was God’s actual Son, he was the gateway to knowing and experiencing God. DJ asked me to simply trust Jesus.8

But I was more than a little doubtful. In fact, his Christian beliefs made me furious. It seemed idiotic for anyone to believe that a childhood fairytale could be true, and it seemed positively arrogant that DJ thought he knew and understood God. After all, why couldn’t God just save me Himself? What did He need Jesus for? Why was Jesus so important? I argued with DJ about the relevance of Jesus many times. Then one night, after arguing about Jesus yet again, my back flared up with pain. DJ asked if he could pray for me. I was uncomfortable with this but thought, What will it hurt?

As DJ prayed for me, particularly when he asked me to be healed “in the name of Jesus,” my back pain sharply escalated—then the voices began. It was just like during my channeling days. Spirits stirred inside me wanting to speak. Except this time they were enraged. As DJ continued praying, my body contorted as my muscles tightened; a low growl came from my lips. Within seconds, a thick black mass pulled out from my back and hovered above us. I remember huddling against DJ, whispering, “What is that?”

“It’s evil,” he said.

I was terrified. DJ, however, immediately told the evil spirits to “leave, in the name of Jesus.” Surprisingly, the blackness retreated back down inside me. I was horrified and confused, crying and shaking. I didn’t understand I was possessed. All I knew was that Fred and another spirit were living inside me; they were angry, extremely strong, and they absolutely hated the name Jesus.

DJ, now with clear confirmation that my problem was actually demonic possession, had to find help, but where was he to go? He wasn’t sure if his church leadership would believe him. DJ then met with a Christian girl, Audrey, who also worked in our office.9 She and DJ decided to bring me to her church. They hoped her pastor could pray for me and expel the evil spirits.10

DJ convinced me to attend a service. However, shortly after arriving at the church, I found myself running from the service after voices in my head told me to kill the pastor. I remember this pastor was preaching about Jesus being able to heal. The whole service felt strange and uncomfortable to me, but DJ convinced me to go back to this church two more times. Each time I returned, the strength and rage of the voices grew and my strange back pain returned. Finally, much too terrorized and confused to go on, I refused to go back. I told DJ talking about Jesus aggravated my problems, so the solution was obviously not to talk about him.

Living the testimony

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Genre – Christian Living

Rating – G

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The Colors of Friendship by K. R. Raye @KRRaye

Moving On

Lance flicked his wrist and checked his watch.  Yes, 5:00 p.m. on the dot.  With a smile he knocked on the girls’ dorm room door ready to tackle their English study session.  Even though they each pursued different majors: Melody, Communications; Imani, Chemical Engineering; and he studied Business; they all made a vow at orientation to align their core Freshmen classes and liberal arts electives whenever possible. 

He heard movement behind the door as one of the girls checked through the peephole and then Imani threw open the door.

Lance smiled and landed a peck on her cheek before he strolled inside. 

The phone rang and Imani shoved him towards it.  “Could you get that? It’s my mom,” she said heading towards the bathroom she shared with Melody and the two girls in the connecting room. 

Colors of Friendship

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Genre – New Adult, Contemporary

Rating – R

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Friday, December 27, 2013

Tom Skinner – Rage Against The Machine > Embrace rejection @PictureBookTom

Do You Have More Blocks Than A Lego Set? > Writer’s block

by Tom Skinner


Writer’s block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol. (Steve Martin)


Sometimes things (people/rivers) just dry up.

Walk and/or walk away from your manuscript.

Change the where and/or time you write.

Baby steps. Warm up with smaller/easier scribbles eg journal.

#### happens. Is there other stuff/trash going on?


Reward yourself. It works a treat.


Huffington Post: writer’s block is bunk by Lev Raphael


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Genre – Children’s Picture Book

Rating – G

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Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Standing Stark: The Willingness to Engage by Carla Woody @CarlaWoody1

Chapter Two:
Beyond Words

I was leading a very mainstream life. While I had some sense of purpose, I additionally had an underlying feeling that something was seriously lacking. Even though there was a recognition of incompletion, I can’t say that it was a conscious realization, more of a sense of things not expressed, blocked or segregated.

The previous year I’d left the large government agency where I’d worked nearly my entire career up to that point. Being out from under bureaucratic constraints lent a certain kind of freedom that I craved, but a large part of my livelihood was still generated through that environment where I returned as a consultant. I felt the rigidity of the organization to the point that it triggered an aversion in me.

What I now know is that whenever we have an unreasonably strong response to something external, something is lurking internally of the same nature. At the time, I recognized what I can only describe as flatness, a lack of real engagement to anything in which I was involved. It’s unlikely that this fact was apparent to anyone but me. I was known for my mind and abilities for pulling people and projects together. To others, my guess is that I appeared actively engaged in my life. After all, I was busy doing what needed to be done, just like most with whom I came in contact.

But I knew something was omitted. Fourteen years earlier, I’d had a major signal identifying my disconnection. Because of a viral infection that attacked my thyroid, I became extremely ill. I was likely within a hair’s breadth of death before I’d had any inkling of the seriousness of the illness. It probably was only through my mother’s mother-bear-like, protective attention and demands to the physician I finally visited that I am even alive today.

A major crisis such as this one is often the impetus that will kick start a revelation—or revolution. After my recovery, I finally comprehended the level of absurdity and danger that the lack of awareness of my own condition brought. I was able to discern that I wasn’t practicing denial in the sense of not wanting to face something. But more so, I was disconnected from my body to the degree that I had been unable to recognize my lack of health. How could I? My life and level of consciousness was weighted in my head, cut off from my physicality and any real experience or attunement other than mental observation.

I heeded a cry from my Core Self, not even knowing of her existence, and sought out meditation. That was an unlikely avenue back then, only because where I was living at the time offered very few opportunities to explore anything even somewhat resembling consciousness studies. With the help of a couple of books, I put together a practice to which I remained faithful.

Over the years, I found myself becoming increasingly calmer and healthier. I knew that the change was due directly to my dedicated focus on meditation. Indeed, I became much more in tune with my body and its messages to me. I began to trust those messages implicitly, telling me when things were right, or not, in my world.

But I knew something was still missing. I remained an observer to a large degree, not a participant. While I’d read of spirituality and various states that told of that realm, I’d had no direct experience. I intellectually knew that Spirit was an aspect of my makeup, but couldn’t quite grasp even the concept of such a reality. And yet there was something underpinning my entire existence that called out for this wholeness. Some part of me deeply desired integration.

When strong intent is present, the means to fulfill it will automatically appear. But I didn’t know this truth at that point in my journey. I only knew that I felt somewhat fragmented, and one day noticed an ad in a professional journal for a retreat with a Peruvian shaman to be held in the Southern Utah desert. Ignoring the fact that my sole idea of camping then was in pensions in large European cities, or that I didn’t even know what the term “shaman” meant, I felt a strong draw in my body to call and register. So, I did.

Four months later, I flew cross-country to Salt Lake City where I was picked up with some other retreat goers and driven some hours south to a remote canyon in the San Rafael Swell. The beauty of the area was incredible and helped to overwhelm my uneasiness of being with people with whom I wasn’t acquainted, and an upcoming event about which I knew absolutely nothing.

When we finally rolled into the makeshift camp, I climbed out of the truck feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension, the two being closely linked anyway. While in this state, I noticed a brown-skinned man making his way toward me. He had dark, wavy hair, a mustachioed, handsome face, and wore a woven poncho. His eyes sparkled. He smiled broadly and wrapped his arms around me in greeting. As he did so, any fear I felt dissipated immediately and was replaced by great warmth swelling from some place inside me, unlike any I’d ever felt. This was the man the sponsors had advertised as a shaman, the person who, in the years ahead, I would come to know not only as a mystic and teacher of the heart, but a cherished friend—Don Américo Yábar. My meeting him was to change the fabric of my entire life. And I had asked for it unknowingly.

Around the campfire that evening, Don Américo introduced the subject of intent through his translator. He encouraged each of us to set our intent that evening for the week that was to follow. I went off on my own to think about what he’d said, the whole idea of intent being a slippery one, at best, that I had a challenge grasping. However, I decided that I must have set my intent, at some level, before I even came. That was what pulled me to the retreat not even knowing what it entailed. I wanted to be joined. I wanted direct engagement. I wanted integration of my mind, body and spirit. I told no one.

The next morning held the usual gorgeous, blue desert sky. The group had hiked some distance from our camp and found a natural rock amphitheatre. We made ourselves comfortable in the shadows of the boulders, out from under the Utah sun which was already getting quite warm. Don Américo began to speak. I don’t remember now exactly what he said. I was being lulled by the lilting rhythms of his and his translator’s vocal patterns that took the meaning of the words to some unconscious level.

Suddenly, he stopped and gazed intensely at me. He motioned for me to come to the middle of the circle where he stood. Under normal circumstances, I would have done so reluctantly, if at all, not being comfortable “exposing” myself to others in that way. In that case, however, I felt completely at ease.

I approached him. He stood directly in front of me only about eighteen inches away, his liquid brown eyes locking onto mine. It was as though he was channeling pure love directly into my being. Both of his hands hovered right outside my body at the chest level.

Making a motion of pulling apart outside the heart center, he said, “The way to see is with the body’s eye.”

I felt what I could only describe as a sweet welling in that energy center that began to undulate, creating a rippling effect.

He moved one hand up to my forehead. Making a wiping motion in my subtle energy field, he proclaimed, “Not the mind’s eye!”

I felt something shut at that level, all the while the heart energy continued to reverberate. I was unaware of anything other than large waves of effervescent warmth that seemed to echo silently, returning from the stones surrounding us, further intensifying the awakening. People seated around us gasped and murmured. I have no idea how long I stood that way. I do not know how I found my feet to return to my seat. I do not recall what occurred the rest of the day.

I was opened. I was filled. I’d had my first direct experience—beyond words.


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Genre – Nonfiction, Spirituality

Rating – PG

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Connect with Carla Woody on Facebook & Twitter



Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Julia (The Good Life series) by Sarah Krisch

Brad had taken up residence at the counter in the deli's dining area. He flipped through the Harmony Grove Gazette as he waited, not really reading anything but the sedate headlines. Harmony Grove seemed like a different world than the one he'd left behind in Iraq. So quiet. So normal.
Madi finally came out from the kitchen. She carried a plate of food in one hand and her opened laptop in the other.
"While you eat, take a look at this." Madi placed the laptop on the counter next to the plate with his roast beef sandwich.
"Madi, I don't have the patience for this right now. You know I hate computers. I just want to sit in peace for a few minutes before I get back to work."
"Humor me. Just don't get any mustard on the keyboard." She walked back to the kitchen as he sighed in protest.
He took a bite of the sandwich and glanced at the computer screen. Tangy tomato gushed from between the slices of sourdough. He wiped his lips with a napkin and did a double take at the screen.
A banner at the top of the screen read: The Good Life by Rachel Walker. And beneath the banner was the image of a woman sitting on the front steps of a wrap-around porch. Her jeans were dirty at the knees. She held her gardening gloves in a loose grasp as she leaned her elbows against her thighs. She had the most vibrant smile, the kind that elevated attractive women to striking status. He could almost hear her throaty laughter. Though she was physically attractive, what he found most intriguing was that she was getting her hands dirty, working the soil for some kind of gardening project.
"If only I could find a woman like that…" Brad muttered to himself.
Madi bustled back to the counter and placed his iced tea within easy reach.
"Recognize her?" she asked.
"Should I?"
"It's Julia McCarthy."
Brad took a closer look and tried to reconcile the woman in the photo with the adolescent in braids he remembered from summers long ago.
"Julia McCarthy? As in Guy and Trudy's granddaughter?"
"Uh huh."
"Are you sure?" he said, still not believing it. "It says here it's someone named Rachel Walker." He squinted, and then tried again to picture the girl who used to tag along wherever he went when he was a kid. He supposed he could see something of a resemblance in the shape of her nose and prominent cheekbones. "Yeah, I guess that could be Julia. How did you find this? And what is it?"
"I wasn't even looking for Julia, but when I stumbled across a link to a blog called The Good Life, I just had to read what it was about. After reading some of the entries, I realized I recognized her. I messaged her on Facebook, and sure enough, it's her."
Brad rolled his eyes. "Seriously. You have way too much time on your hands."
"A single mom's got to fill her lonely evenings somehow," she said. Brad turned and gave her a quizzical look and she punched his shoulder. "You know what I mean!"
"Sure, whatever you say. So Rachel is really Julia, and she's what… a blogger?"
"Here, scoot over and I'll show you. The image doesn't fit the computer screen."
As Brad took a big gulp of iced tea, Madi tapped a few keys and the image of Julia decreased in size. When it did, a menu of links appeared at the bottom of the screen. "I don't know why it does that. Websites should default to your computer settings, right?"
"You're asking me?"
"Yeah, right. I forgot who I was talking to." Madi clicked on the link marked BLOG.
"So what is this?" Brad asked.
"Julia, writing as Rachel Walker, is a full-time blogger. She writes about organic gardening, simple living, that sort of thing."
"A blogger? Really? You can do that for a living?"
"There are bloggers for just about anything you can imagine. And you can make money on it when you're syndicated by the Chicago Herald."
The bells rattled at the front of the store, and Madi looked up. The Worleys, a young couple with twin two-year-old boys, worked their way back to the deli.
"Looks like I have some customers. Go ahead and take a look around Julia's blog. I thought the subject matter might be right up your alley."
Brad nodded, for once not grumbling about delaying his return to work at the McCarthy farm.
"Hi, everybody! How are my favorite little guys today? Hungry for some of my famous PB&J? I have some fresh raspberry jam in the back." Madi smiled, greeting her customers. It was obvious she loved what she did.
Drawing his attention back to the computer, Brad clicked the numerous links. He was impressed not only by the variety of topics but also by the depth of her knowledge. Apparently the summers on her grandparents' farm had taught her well.
He clicked on the BIOGRAPHY link and read about her blissful life as a green Martha Stewart-type. She lived on a small farm in the Midwest. She kept bee hives for cultivating her own honey. There was an orchard with apple, pear, and cherry trees for pies galore. She managed a couple of acres for a large vegetable garden. Her farmette included a mini cow—Brad had never heard of such a thing—to supply the dairy needs of a small family, and a couple of goats for making her own cheese. She even had sheep for producing her own wool. The bio also mentioned that she had a wonderful husband and young son.
It figures, he thought. All the good ones are taken.
Brad was so engrossed in reading the articles that it startled him when his sister cleared away his dishes. In fact, he could barely remember eating at all.
"I didn't expect you to stay so long today, Brad."
"Sorry. I'll clear out. I know you need every available seat for the lunchtime crowd."
"Forget it. You've been here so long the lunch rush is already over."
"Is it really that late? I have to get back to the farm." He wiped his mouth with a napkin and placed twice as much money on the table as the bill called for.
"I'll get your change."
"Keep it."
"You know, one of these days I'm going to pay you back for all of your 'tips.'"
"I'm not worried about it. I don't need much. Besides, that little girl of yours is growing fast. I can only imagine all of the things that a seven-year-old needs."
Madi gave her brother a peck on the cheek. He didn't know how his sister did everything she did—a great mom, a successful businesswoman, a volunteer at the Harmony Grove public library, President of the PTA… and all by herself. Sure, he and Madi never talked in much depth, but there was more going on under the surface than either one would admit. They shared more things in common than most siblings. Both were alone as they crossed from their twenties into their thirties. Both would want nothing more than to find that special someone and make a go at having something resembling a normal family.
Brad nodded to Pauline before he stepped back out into the sun, the temperature a solid five degrees warmer than when he had entered Madi's. It was now the kind of heat that covered your skin in a sheen of sweat within minutes. And with the wind having disappeared, Brad's mood turned surly as he climbed back into his pickup, kicked it into gear, and pulled away. Julia McCarthy, he thought, unable to get her out of his mind. Little Jules, how did the little girl I used to push on that tree swing turn into a wife and a mother?
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Contemporary Romance
Rating – PG-13
More details about the author
Connect with Sarah Krisch on Facebook
Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

#AmReading - The Moon Coin by Richard Due @RichardDue

The Moon Coin by Richard Due


Inquisitive 13-year-old Lily Winter finds herself in the Moon Realm, the setting of her uncle's long-ago bedtime tales. Separated from her brother Jasper, armed with only her wits and the Moon Coin, Lily must find her way through worlds much darker than any tales Uncle Ebb ever told. Illus by Carolyn Arcabascio.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

#AmReading - Hallowland by Amanda Hocking @amanda_hocking

Hallowland by Amanda Hocking


Hollowland - the first book in the young adult dystopian series The Hollows..
"This is the way the world ends - not with a bang or a whimper, but with zombies breaking down the back door."
Nineteen-year-old Remy King is on a mission to get across the wasteland left of America, and nothing will stand in her way - not violent marauders, a spoiled rock star, or an army of flesh-eating zombies.
This is a young adult title with some language, violence, and mild sexual situations recommended for ages sixteen and up.

Loving Conor: A Clairvoyant’s Memoir on Loving, Bonding and Healing by Tami Urbanek @tamiurbanek

Chapter Three: Surviving Life

I woke up to the phone ringing in the middle of the night.

“Tami, you need to pick me up,” I heard Nyle say.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at 7-11,” he said, slurring his words.

He told me the street and packing Bethany into the car, I drove through a light snowstorm to find him.

I located the correct 7-11 and I walked in looking around for Nyle.

“Hey, are you looking for that drunk?” The 7-11 clerk asked as he nodded at me.

“Was a guy here waiting for someone?” I asked.

“Yeah, he wanted booze, I told him to leave.”

“Do you know which way he went?” I asked.

“Have no idea.”

Leaving the store and getting back in my car, my hands clenched the steering wheel. I drove around looking for Nyle, scolding myself for coming out in the snow with Bethany in a car that didn’t have snow tires, to look for a drunken soon-to-be ex-husband.

I found Nyle wandering the sidewalk. Pulling over, I rolled down the passenger window.

“Nyle, what are you doing? Get in the car.”

He just looked at me, obviously drunk, confused, and swaying as he tried to keep his balance.

He crawled into the front passenger seat, laid his head back, and closed his eyes. I drove him back to my apartment. Once I parked the car, I realized I had no idea how to get him from there to inside my apartment. It was too cold to leave him in the car overnight, though I did consider it. I looked over at Nyle, and I wondered what the hell I was doing and how I was going to get him to wake up.

After continually pushing on his arm to wake him up, he finally roused awake enough to stumble into my apartment. He immediately staggered over to the couch and collapsed on it. I gently placed Bethany in her crib, gazing at her as she slept. In that moment, I was grateful I was divorcing Nyle and knowing my daughter was safe and asleep, I immediately fell asleep too.

I was still on maternity leave, so I was home the next morning when someone came to get Nyle for work.

“Hey, you need to wake him up,” Nyle’s friend said. He had figured out that Nyle was here when he didn’t show up at the barracks last night.

“I tried, I can’t get him up. I think he’s still drunk.”

“He’s going be in trouble if he doesn’t show up to formation.” Giving up, the guy left.

Walking over to Nyle and pushing on him hard, I said, “Nyle, wake up! GET UP! You have to get up for work!” I felt like I was yelling at a deaf person.

He finally opened his eyes and looked at me with a confused expression. He seemed to be trying to remember how he got to my apartment. He slowly sat up, keeping his hands on the couch for balance. He mumbled something, but it sounded as if his mouth was full of cotton. He stood up and with a shaky walk he made his way to the phone as I watched him call a friend to come get him.

Later that day, as I sat on the couch, in my apartment, I looked at my bills and felt my ongoing fear starting to rise. I began looking at my past choices. At eighteen, I had made the choice to marry and by nineteen, I had made a choice to be a mother. I had stayed with Nyle for fifteen months even though he was drinking and would be violent when he was drunk. I wasn’t proud that I was working at McDonald’s to meet basic financial needs, and I was fearful on a daily basis.

How was I going to fix this? How was I going to survive? Would things ever change? Would I ever be happy? Would I ever earn more than slightly above minimum wage? I didn’t know.

I walked around the apartment while Bethany was napping in her crib. Without Nyle there, the apartment was cleaner and I didn’t fear the weekends anymore. I still had to deal with the holes in the doors and walls at some point.

Out of desperation, the next day, I took my wedding ring to the pawnshop and I was grateful for the cash. It had a couple of diamonds, so they offered me a decent sum of money.

When my mom called to see how I was doing, I told her I had pawned my wedding ring.

“Why did you pawn your ring?”

“I needed the money,” I said, feeling depressed.

“Well, we’ll give you the money to go and buy it back. You don’t want to pawn your ring.” With my parents’ financial assistance, I bought back my ring before it was sold to someone else. But what about next month, when money would once again be tight?

That week, the manager at McDonald’s called to make sure I was still coming back to work when my maternity leave ended.

I told him I couldn’t wait to get back to work and I meant it. I was looking forward to having at least a few dollars in my wallet.

I spent the next couple of weeks getting on a schedule with Bethany and looking for home daycares. I found one near my apartment.

I returned to work, and I happily started earning money again. I was receiving child support, and life began to take on a more routine state, but I was experiencing a lot of anxieties. I still wanted a man to make me feel better about myself. I didn’t understand that I was not giving myself the credit I deserved in being able to love and take care of myself. As a result, I drew in the same types of people and relationships as before.

Not long after returning to work, I ran into Josh, a guy I had briefly dated when I was seventeen years old. We easily picked up where we left off and we quickly became exclusive in our dating.

Initially, Josh was attentive toward Bethany, and we had fun getting to know each other again, but it didn’t take long before we began to fight. We would get into yelling matches that were reminiscent of my relationship with Nyle, always fighting about something that wasn’t even important. We were young, immature and neither one of us knew how to communicate. Still, I was thankful he was in my life when one day out of the blue, I found Nyle knocking on my door.

“Tami, can we talk?” Nyle asked. Standing there waiting for me to say it was okay for him to come into the apartment. His hands were in his pockets and I noticed the tension he held in his shoulders.

“I guess…”

He walked into my apartment and sat down on the couch.

“Tami, I’m sorry. I screwed up.” He paused and then said, “I know I messed up with you….” Nyle’s voice trailed off and I waited for him to continue, not really knowing where this was heading.

He finally continued, “What do you think. Could we try again?”

I looked at him wondering what to say. Despite our fighting, I had strong feelings for Josh and now, here was Nyle apologizing and proposing we try again. As I paused, not sure what to say to him, I looked around my apartment. It was cleaner, and I immediately noticed the still unpatched holes in the wall and doors. I wasn’t sure I wanted to start again and have the same old result of drunken weekends.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea…” I said.

He left without much hesitation. That was my clue that he wasn’t invested in starting over, but maybe just looking for convenience. I knew he never liked living in the barracks on base. Also, I always wondered if his mother had talked him into trying to get back together or if it was all his idea. I knew she wanted me to take care of him.

I had begun to understand that it was never my job to take care of Nyle. That was his job. Although it took me a few years to fully realize that I needed keep my focus on caring for Bethany and myself. Even then I had begun to understand this and that I didn’t need to feel guilty for leaving Nyle.


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Genre - Memoir

Rating – PG-13

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Sunday, December 22, 2013

#Thriller - Stark Warning by James Raven @JamesRaven9

Stark Warning by James Raven

Amazon Kindle US

Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG13

4.5 (26 reviews)

“Every time you appear on screen someone will die.”
That’s the stark warning given to Jessica Lee, host of a confessional talk show on network television with millions of fans. But one deranged viewer is out to destroy her career. He demands that her programme be scrapped and tells her to stop appearing on TV. To prove he means business he claims his first victim – a young woman who is found dead with her throat cut. Jessica and her bosses face an agonizing dilemma: take the show off the air or risk more murders. They decide to defy the killer, for fear of setting a dangerous precedent. But there are dire consequences.
James Raven, author of Stark Warning, has worked for over thirty years in the television industry and drew on his experience when writing this novel. He’s also the author of Malicious, After the Execution, Rollover, Urban Myth, Red Blitz, Brutal Revenge and Arctic Blood.


Check out the Video trailer for MALICIOUS:

The King of Sunday Morning by J.B. McCauley @MccauleyJay

The Mile End Mambo
He held him in his arms and looked into the glassy eyes. Yellow flecks dotted the cornea. This boy was dead a long time before Roger had run him through. He knew the look. Too much top shelf and not enough down time.
The body from which life dramatically seeped away began to convulse. It would not be a Hollywood death. It would be a harsh demise for this gangster. Unexpected but unavoidable. He had stepped on the wrong toes and nobody touched Roger’s patch.
The big screen had always glamorised death but there was nothing glamorous about having a gaping 12-inch gash where your stomach had once been. Roger’s white shirt was splattered with blood and sputum. He noted to himself with an air of cold detachment that he would have to dispose of it later. The boy soldier’s back arched in agony. A gurgling noise rushed from his throat and then he was gone.
Roger put his arm underneath the boy’s knees and slowly lifted him from the red morass that had filled the doorway. He cradled him in his arms and walked slowly along the pavement. A young couple averted their gaze as he struggled with the limp body. They knew not to look. This was after all the witching hour in the East End. What you don’t see, you can’t tell. He turned the corner and moved into another shop doorway. It was a Dixon’s electrical shop exalting the latest stereos and TV’s.
Roger placed the body carefully on the ground. He took one final look at what 10 minutes ago had been the epitome of arrogance, bravery and youth, then left. He walked quickly to the edge of Walters Street, turned into Burden and darted through a now deserted car park and onto Rially. He saw a red telephone box just up from Dunston Road. He opened the door and tried to ignore the stench of piss and shit. He dialled the number and waited patiently for the connection.
His rich baritone West-Indian voice caressed the receiver.
“Yeah, he’s in Dixon’s shopfront on Walters Street.” He paused, digesting the question on the other end of the line.
“Yeah he’s dead. Dead as a door nail. See you at home.”
With that, he hung up the phone and disappeared into the night. His red Rasta beanie swaying as he loped through the shadows. The victim wouldn’t be missed. Roger had nothing to fear. The status quo had been maintained and an example had been made.
Most of all, Rudi would be pleased.
King of Sunday Morning
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Genre – Thriller, Action, Suspense, Gangster, Crime, Music
Rating – PG-18
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Saturday, December 21, 2013

#AmReading - Unfinished Business by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson @AWritingWoman

Unfinished Business by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson


Sometimes the dead need our help and sometimes, we need theirs.
ANGELA PANTHER HAS A PERFECT LIFE:  A lovely home, an attentive, successful husband, two reasonably behaved children, a devoted dog and a lot of coffee and cupcakes. But while her life might border on mundane, she's got it under control. Until her mother, Fran dies-and returns as a ghost. It seems Fran's got some unfinished business and she's determined to get it done.
Now Fran's got some nifty celestial superpowers and isn't opposed to using them to levy a little ghostly retribution on her granddaughter's frienemies and even her own daughter, which doesn't make Angela happy.
While Angela's shocked and grateful to have her mother back, she's not thrilled about the portal to the afterlife Fran opened upon her return. Now every ghost in town is knockin' on Angela's psychic door, looking for help-and it's a royal pain in the butt.
Now Angela's got to find a way to balance her family life with her new gift and keep her mother in line. And it's a lot for one woman to handle.
Carolyn Ridder Aspenson tackles, with comic cleverness, the serious subjects of mother-daughter relationships, death and raising teenagers in this smart, funny take on the love of family and the uncontrollable paths our lives take.