Dreaming in the Pages

Books ... where dreams are better than reality

Broken Pieces

Jack Canon's American Destiny

Saturday, November 30, 2013

Peter Simmons and the Vessel of Time by Ramz Artso @RamzArtso

Peter

Chapter 4

Portland, Oregon

October 22nd

Afternoon Hours

I sauntered out of the school building with my friends in tow and pulled on a thickly woven hat to cover my fluffy flaxen hair, which was bound to be frolic even in the mildest of breezes. I took a deep breath and scrutinized my immediate surroundings, noticing an armada of clouds scudding across the sky. It was a rather blustery day. The shrewd, trilling wind had all but divested the converging trees off their multicolored leaves, pasting them on the glossy asphalt and graffiti adorned walls across the road. My spirits were quickly heightened by this observation, and I suddenly felt rejuvenated after a long and taxing day at school. I didn’t know why, but the afternoon’s indolent weather appealed to me very much. I found it to be a congenial environment. For unexplainable reasons, I felt like I was caught amidst a fairytale. It was this eerie feeling which came and went on a whim. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it was triggered by the subconscious mind brushing against a collage of subliminal memories, which stopped resurfacing partway through the process.

Anyhow, there I was, enjoying the warm and soporific touch of the autumn sun on my face, engaging in introspective thoughts of adolescent nature when Max Cornwell, a close, meddlesome friend of mine, called me from my rhapsodic dream with a sharp nudge in the ribs.

‘Hey, man! You daydreaming?’

I closed my eyes; feeling a little peeved, took a long drag of the wakening fresh air and gave him a negative response by shaking my head.

‘Feel sick or something?’ he persisted.

I wished he would stop harping on me, but it looked like Max had no intention of letting me enjoy my moment of glee, so I withdrew by tartly saying, ‘No, I’m all right.’

‘Hey, check this out,’ said George Whitmore,–who was another pal of mine–wedging himself between me and Max. He held a folded twenty dollar bill in his hand, and his ecstatic facial expression suggested that he had just chanced upon the find by sheer luck.

‘Is that yours?’ I asked, knowing very well that it wasn’t.

‘No, I found it on the floor of the auditorium. Just seconds before the last period ended.’

‘Then perhaps you should report your discovery to the lost and found. I’m sure they’ll know what to do with it there.’

‘Yeah, right. That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ he said, snorting derisively. He then added in a somewhat defensive tone, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else, ‘I found it, so it’s mine–right?’

I considered pointing out that his intentions were tantamount to theft, but shrugged it off instead, and followed the wrought-iron fence verging the school grounds before exiting by the small postern. I was in no mood for an argument, feeling too tired to do anything other than run a bath and soak in it. Therefore, I expunged the matter from my mind, bid goodbye to both George and Max and plunged into the small gathering of trees and brush which we, the kids, had dubbed the Mini Forest. It was seldom traveled by anyone, but we called it that because of its size, which was way too small to be an actual forest, and a trifle too large to be called otherwise.

I was whistling a merry tune, and wending my way home with a spring in my step, when my ears abruptly pulled back in fright. All of a sudden, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was being watched. But that wasn’t all. I felt like someone was trying to look inside of me. Right into me. As if they were rummaging in my soul, searching its every nook and cranny, trying to fish up my deepest fears and darkest secrets. It was equivalent to being stripped naked in front of a large audience. Steeling myself for something ugly, I felt the first stirrings of unease.

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Genre – Young-adult, Action and Adventure, Coming of Age, Sci-fi

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with  Ramz Artso on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://ramzartso.blogspot.com/

Author Interview – Stephanie Erickson

Do you intend to make writing a career? Yes!

Have you developed a specific writing style? I think my style is always evolving and heavily influenced by whatever I’m reading at the time.

Have you ever had writer’s block? If so, what do you do about it? I tend to get writer’s block when I have a lot going on in my life, and I can’t focus.  When that happens, I read for inspiration.

Who designed the cover? I did, but I’m a graphic designer by day.

Who is your publisher? I self published The Blackout on Amazon, and am hoping to get it on Nook soon!

What was the hardest part about writing this book? Sticking with it!  I got the idea for my next book when I was half way through this one, and I really wanted to put it down and start writing the new book.  But, my husband helped me stay focused!

How do you promote this book? Social media is my friend!  I spend a lot of time on Facebook and Twitter pounding the pavement with the book.  I also have a blog, and have just recently done guest blogs for other authors to drive interest.

Will you write others in this same genre? I haven’t decided.  I write whatever my muse tells me to!

How much of the book is realistic? That depends on how you look at it.  A catastrophic solar flare could happen according to some scientists.  There’s a lot of speculation about how devastating it would be.  However, if the worst case scenario played out, some of the circumstances in the book could happen.

 

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Genre – Adult Fiction / Contemporary

Rating – PG13 (some strong language)

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Stephanie Erickson on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://stephanieerickson.weebly.com/

Friday, November 29, 2013

Author Interview – Karen S. Bell @KarenSueBell

Image of Karen S. Bell

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

Don’t lose yourself completely in another person. Remain intact. In a marriage it’s easy to get absorbed into your spouse, especially so if your spouse is controlling and dominating. Keep your inner gyroscope and find yourself and be true to that. You can’t change anybody but yourself, and when you change yourself it has an altering effect on others.

Have you included a lot of your life experiences, even friends, in the plot?

Always. It amazes me how much of my experiences are massaged, twisted, turned upside down to become an almost fictionalized version of my life. But the core of the experience is a memory, an event, or a person that is composite of many people in my life. Just pops into my head as I write. In SUNSPOTS, Aurora has an experience riding a horse that is very close to what happened to me in a riding class, except I didn’t get hurt.

Have you started another book yet?

Yes, I have written a few chapters. Very early stages.

What are you most passionate about? What gets you fired up?

Right now it’s politics and the seeming war on women. It disgusts me to have men using religion to control women.To stand against the use of birth control pills, to be against abortion even in incest or rape. Men, who flee from responsibilities in those instances either because they are in prison or run and hide. Conservatives in this country will protect the fetus at all costs until it is born.Then if it needs food stamps or welfare, it might as well die.The hypocrisy is sickening. What’s next? The veil? Don’t get me started.

What makes you angry?

Hunting. I can’t stand the idea of going out and killing Bambi. Looking at innocent creatures as something to kill. Well, some say we eat what we kill to justify it.That’s not why they kill. That’s not the motivation. It’s the lust to kill. And those that say we are having a day in nature, I say, let them go into the woods and shoot at each other. Along with this unnecessary killing of wildlife is this crazy gun culture we have. The second amendment was about militias not crazies having automatic weapons.

Sunspots

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Genre – Contemporary romance, Magical Realism

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

 

 

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

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Birth of an Assassin by Rik Stone @stone_rik

Chapter 5

For three weeks, Jez watched his peers leave for the front while his presence wasn’t even acknowledged by the sergeant. He had to face up to him, and find out why.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Sharansky.”

“Yes, private, come in.”

He bent as he pushed through the flaps and into the tent. “If I may, Sergeant, I’ll get straight to the point.” Sharansky sat back and nodded. “You seem to be of an opinion that I wouldn’t be of much use in the field. I’ve trained KooKooEh ever since I got here and…”

“And?” the sergeant broke in.

He stood further to attention. “Sergeant, I know this war is bitter and casualties high. I just don’t understand why my skills are not put to better use.”

“Oh – a tantrum. The boy isn’t getting his way.”

Rankled, Jez discarded caution. “It’s not like that, Sergeant, no, I…”

“All right… all right,” the sergeant conceded, and lifted a hand to silence him. “We’ve received information of a rooftop party for a group of significant conservative officers. I’ve looked at your records. Seems you can shoot, but you’ve never killed. Do you think you can go the distance?”

Had Sharansky waited for him to make this approach?

“Yes, Sergeant, you’re right, I haven’t killed, but there has to be a first time for everyone. I’m ready, it won’t be a problem.”

“It’d better not be. Get your combat gear together and make sure you’re ready to travel at first light. Don’t worry about weapons, I’ll sort them out.”

Night still contested with day as Jez emerged. The KKE boy sat behind the wheel with Sergeant Sharansky next to him. It was so early that his mind hadn’t kicked in properly, or was it that he hadn’t clipped his belt buckle properly? Whichever, he got in a tangle and fell.

“Don’t worry,” the sergeant said, “you’re not late.” He turned to the driver. “Let’s go.”

Friendly enough, but Jez could’ve sworn he’d sniggered.

Then it got worse. The accelerator hit the metal before Jez had sat down, and he crashed over into the rear seat. This time the sergeant laughed for all he was worth.

“After the boy drops us, it’ll take him an hour to get to his KooKooEh comrades and let them know we’re on our way,” Sergeant Sharansky said. “We’ll have that hour and another three to get to our position and set up. Oh, one more thing: you’re Jez, I’m Viktor, and we’re without rank. You’re trained, so there’s no need to explain.”

“No, Sergeant, sorry, Viktor, but why the time limit?”

“We’ve arranged for KooKooEh to make a diversionary attack on a military village in the town’s suburbs. When their firepower can be heard we must be in position and ready to open fire.”

They hadn’t driven for long when the jeep left the main road in favor of dirt tracks and paths that wound along low gullies and high mountainsides. But now the boy drove tentatively and made sure the vehicle didn’t kick up dust. Eventually they stopped on a hillside and Jez pulled his rattled body from the jeep. A spattering of houses lay to the west, or at least he guessed they were houses: from that distance they looked no more than an anomaly in the terrain. Viktor took a bag from the jeep and the boy drove off without a word.

“Will there be opposition between here and the town, Viktor?”

“There’d better not be, or the mission is over. Until we’re ready to hit, low profile is the name of the game.”

They crept silently over sterile ground, and the nearer they got the more patrols they found to skirt around. When necessary they bellied out, slung the bag over the back of whoever’s turn it was to be mule, and crawled. When they reached the halfway mark, Jez was up on his feet and trotting crouched with the bag over his shoulder.

“You want me to take a turn with that bag?”

“No, it’s not a problem.”

The lifetime of physical training had paid dividends and his body thrived on the workout. But his mind was full of the task ahead: he would kill; that was why he’d trained so hard. It was a necessary step in his military evolution. Even so, sweat popped on his face – and it wasn’t through physical exertion.

They arrived on the town’s outskirts and nestled into a niche at the base of a hill. Viktor took two AK-47 submachine guns from the bag: a recently developed weapon created by a young unknown called Kalashnikov. Jez had trained with the rifle and liked its responses – accurate to 800 meters and still a kill shot at 1,500 meters. Viktor laid the guns side by side and dipped back into the bag. He took out enough ammunition to fill the magazines twice over.

“Load up, Jez. Then take off your trousers and shirt, and fasten the ammunition belt with the spare bullets in front of you.”

Jez relaxed and grinned. “We’re going to look a bit obvious if we walk into town like this.”

Viktor sighed. “We’re not quite finished,” he said. “Sling the gun over your back.”

Jez obeyed, and as Viktor pulled out sandals and a couple of hooded kaftans, the fog cleared.

“Get into these,” he said. “Reports say there are Arabs in the town, so we should go unnoticed.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Well, I don’t think the conservatives will lose any sleep over killing us slowly.”

“Right, Viktor.”

Reality sobered his thoughts – death was feasible.

“Noticing the AK-47 won’t be a problem as long as you don’t bend to pick anything up in town,” Viktor continued.

Jez held out the kaftan like a girl in a dress shop and nodded. “I could pass as an Arab without the kaftan. And you’re… well weathered.”

He watched Viktor pull the kaftan over his head. His muscular frame could have been a problem, but in the loose-fit garment he just looked fat. Jez grinned.

“What?”

“Nothing, Viktor, just thinking.”

They moved into side alleys of what Jez presumed was a typical mountain town: houses with dark adobe sun-dried brickwork, mainly flat-roofed but some slanted and tiled. Orange trees bore bitter fruit that had been left to over-ripen and wither. Their skins had already bleached to a pale shade of yellow, and the branches they hung from stretched over sandstone walls to reach for the shade of olive trees, whose aged trunks had bloated to more than a meter in width. These olives lined the street, proudly adorning the sidewalks. Their long, heavy branches provided shade for the passersby, while the white paint around the trunks gave guidance to night traffic.

On a main street, Jez watched donkeys pull rickety carts piled with firewood. Rusted old cars belched blue-black smoke so thick that it rasped the throat. An uncovered army truck chugged by, full of soldiers who looked over-heated as they leaned wearily on their rifles. Vehicles had parked on either side of the road, which slowed the traffic. A black chauffeur-driven convertible stopped just ahead with a military officer sat in the back seat, tapping a swagger stick on his forearm and staring straight ahead. His pompous expression raised the hackles on Jez’s neck. The blonde woman sitting next to him was just the opposite: she craned her neck in every direction and showed interest in all she looked at.

They turned off into a side alley and Jez was glad to leave the mayhem behind; but within a couple of meters he found himself pressed against a wall to let a heavily-laden donkey pass. The large wooden cases that flanked the animal looked over-burdening, but it never faltered. A woman led the beast from the front and stared directly at Jez. Her tanned and shrunken face seemed to admonish him, but then he realized she wasn’t looking at him, but through him.

After several alleyways into town they came to an open plaza where Arab vendors manned vegetable stalls. On the opposite side of the square a number of conservative soldiers hung around, smoking, talking.

“Take my hand, Jez,” Viktor ordered.

“What?”

“Just do it,” he said with resignation.

Jez took the sergeant’s hand and they walked diagonally across the square. Viktor clung to him and chatted in Greek – or whatever language it was; it all sounded Greek to Jez. They bumped and pushed their way through a throng of people who eagerly cleared their goods in readiness for an evening of freedom.

Halfway across the plaza, anxiety tingled over Jez’s skin as he brushed against a man. Perfumed and smartly dressed, he looked how a key official might. The stock of Jez’s AK had clipped the man’s arm, not hard, but enough for him to reach up and rub it. With face contorted, he stared at Jez in puzzlement, probably wondering how someone so much smaller than him could cause such pain with a minor bump.

Jez brought his hands together and bowed remorsefully. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, using the only Arabic he knew.

“Yes, sir,” Viktor added, “I’m sorry too. This is an idiot boy and I don’t know why I keep him.”

By the look on the man’s face, he hadn’t understood a word. Jez guessed that’s what Viktor thought too, which would be why he turned on Jez, swiped at his head, and pushed him across the square. He continued with the angry charade until they got nearer to the soldiers, he quieted, took Jez’s hand and returned to jabbering. They cleared the square and the handholding abruptly ended.

“That’s a relief,” Jez said. “I like you well enough, but not in that way.”

Viktor laughed warmly. “It’s not unusual for male Arab friends to hold hands. It doesn’t mean the same with them, and we need to blend in as much as possible.”

“Whatever you say.”

The sergeant shook his head and laughed as he took another swipe at Jez. His directions brought them to their first destination: a red sandstone house with off-white steps that led to a door on the first floor.

“Isn’t there someone here to meet us? You can’t just go in without knocking,” Jez said, as Viktor reached the top step and grabbed the door handle.

“Don’t worry, we have all the information we need, enough to get the job done. That way if we’re caught we can’t let anybody down.”

“What if the house is found after we’re done? Won’t that lead to our informant?”

“You ask too many questions. Me, I just get on with what I’m given. Truth is, I don’t know what cover has been set up. I only know what we have to do and how we have to do it.”

The windows were small, but inside was bright because a French door was positioned to catch sunbeams that reverberated on the stark white walls. A ladder to a trapdoor stood against a teak-colored ceiling beam. Jez slipped the kaftan off over his head and removed the rifle. “Oh,” he groaned, and stretched and arched his body. “I’m glad to get rid of that. When I bumped into that man, the gun moved and the stock was stuck between my shoulders.”

“Ah, such a sensitive little button,” Viktor baited.

Jez nearly rose to defend his words until he realized he was being sent up. They sat in underwear, tucking into the Feta cheese and bread that had been left out on the table.

“Right, Jez,” Viktor said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “We have a good hour before the fireworks begin. According to my information there are a good few rooftops to cross before reaching our position and it’ll be easier to get there while it’s light, so we should make a start right away.”

“That’s not a problem, but do we go in under-shorts and vest? Not a very dignified way to die if we’re caught.”

“Don’t worry about that, there’s no such thing as dignified dying – just dying.”

Maybe, but Jez would prefer it if he had a bit more on than a pair of underpants.

Birth of an Assassin

Set against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking, prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.

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Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Rik Stone on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://rik-stone.simdif.com

Memoirs of a Sex Addict: A Jersey Girl Bares All by Samantha Barrett @samanthabarrett

Even as I got older and kept getting plastic surgery and cosmetic treatments, my father just said, “What are you going to do, go to Hollywood? You look fine.” I didn’t want to be fine, I wanted to be pretty. What I heard, each time he said that was, “If I wanted to be in movies I would need to have work done, but being unattractive was acceptable for living in the suburbs of New Jersey.” I know many fathers have done much worse to their daughters. My dad never physically abused me in any way, but when he would say that, it hurt so much. I would have rather been told I was pretty, and been smacked around once in awhile. I’m sure it’s easy to say, because I was never hit by him. Again, it just seems that the physical pain goes away quicker, and my life outside the home would’ve been easier.

I know many of you will disagree, but it’s just what I think. I can’t help it. And if you think that’s bad, you’re really gonna think I’m fucking crazy after this. One of my closest friends was molested by her father. The kind of molesting where he would give her special attention, buy her gifts for no reason and then seduce her so that, like many molestations, it felt “normal.” It started when she was eight years old and continued on until she was fourteen. When she started dating he hated it; he was jealous. You think that’s fucked up, right? Here’s something a little more fucked up: I was jealous! Not of the molestation, but that he thought she was so beautiful and so irresistible that even though he knew it was wrong, he said he fell in love with her and couldn’t keep his hands off her. He was even jealous and didn’t want anyone else to have her. While here I was thinking my father was afraid that no one would ever want me. I’m not saying I would change his love for me—I wouldn’t trade that for the world.

I’m sure it sounds worse than it was. My parents were young. They had my brother at seventeen and me at nineteen. As an adult, I came to the conclusion that I just wasn’t my father’s type, you know what I mean, right? My mother looked like Tiffany; in fact, people often asked if they were mother and daughter. Remember, I was the opposite of Tiffany and my mother, so I just wasn’t the “type” my father found attractive.

Who knows, I looked more like him, and maybe he saw in me what he didn’t like in himself. Perhaps he just expected his daughter to look like her mother and not her father and was unpleasantly surprised by the outcome. I had told this to my mother once, when I was in my early twenties, and she, of course, said I was wrong on all counts. I even told her this story, but made her promise not to get mad or tell my dad. It was twenty years ago; I had forgiven him already, so she couldn’t get mad at him and she promised she wouldn’t. I explained to her how that Sunday afternoon my dad and my uncle were sitting on the couch watching football. My dad asked me to get them each a beer, so I did. I handed my uncle his, but opened my dad’s—it was a screw top. I was so proud, I said, “Here Dad. Look, I even opened it for you!” He started by saying, “Yes, I see that, thank you.” He then went on to say, jokingly, “You’re going to make someone a wonderful husband some day!”

My uncle’s eyes grew wide in disbelief, but he burst out laughing, slapping my father’s knee. My dad just laughed as well, proudly because my uncle was laughing hysterically at his joke. I was nervous to hear my mother’s reaction to the story. When I finished telling her, my mother just looked at me and said, “I don’t get it.” I said, “Neither did I,” even though I kind of did. It was confirmation that no man would ever marry me and I would never be any one’s wife. I also remembered how it made me feel, but I didn’t tell my mother that. I even remembered the details. I was long gone by the time they contained themselves and went back to watching the game. I just walked away embarrassed, yes, but a little bit confused too. I knew the joke was on me, and how I wasn’t a “pretty” girl, but I didn’t know what the punch line actually meant. I didn’t know if he meant my facial features were so masculine that I looked like a boy and no man would ever want to marry me; or, was it because I was such a tomboy? I had short hair; I always wore jeans, never dresses, and I played in sports so maybe he thought I would grow up to become a lesbian. No matter which was right, none of it was funny to me.

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Genre – Biographies & Memoirs / Self-Help

Rating – R

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Connect with Samantha Barrett on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.memoirsofasexaddict.com/

#Bargain Sand Dollar: A Story of Undying Love by Sebastian Cole @sebastiancole3

sanddollar
Beverly Hills Book Award winner, USA Best Book Award finalist, ForeWord Reviews Book of the Year Award bronze winner, International Book Award finalist, ForeWord Firsts debut literary competition finalist.
The story opens with Noah Hartman, eighty years old, lying on his deathbed recounting his life of love and loss to Josh, a compassionate orderly at the hospital. As Noah’s loved ones arrive one by one, they listen in on his story, and we’re transported back in time to Noah’s younger years.
Though outwardly seeming to have it all, Noah, now thirty-five, is actually an empty, lost, and broken man running on automatic pilot. He has no true identity due to having allowed his powerful, wealthy parents to manipulate, control, and brainwash him from a young age. With the threat of disinheritance and withholding love and approval if he doesn’t comply with the plan they have for his life, Noah is lured in by the reward of great wealth and the illusion of running the family business empire some day.
Enter Robin, twenty-five years old, who — in direct contrast to Noah — is a vivacious, free spirit. Full of life and always living in the moment, Robin’s love saves Noah by inspiring him to stand up to his parents and live his own life at all costs, reclaiming his true self.
They get married, and while snorkeling in the Caribbean, the captain of the boat warns them not to disturb anything in the sea. Ignoring the exhortation, Noah dives down and snags a sand dollar from the ocean floor, whereupon it explodes in his hand. With the fragile sand dollar taking on new significance, Robin inexplicably leaves Noah shortly after returning from their honeymoon. Like a passing breeze, she disappears out of his life without a trace, seemingly forever.
Years pass, and Noah still can’t get Robin out of his mind and out of his heart. After all, the one he loved the most would forever be the one who got away. That’s when he finds out about her hidden secret, the underlying condition responsible for her leaving. Noah has no choice but to move on with his life without her, meeting Sarah at the premiere of SAND DOLLAR, the movie he wrote about his time with Robin.
Years later, it’s Noah and Sarah’s wedding day, and Robin discovers a clue that Noah had surreptitiously inserted into the movie, inspiring her to race to the wedding to try to stop it. With the wedding in shambles, the scene jumps back to present day, with both Robin and Sarah placed in Noah’s hospital room. But which one did he choose?
As Noah wraps up his story, he discovers a far greater truth about the past, present, and future. Things are definitely not as they appear as the pieces of a shattered love are put back together in the remarkable final chapter of Noah’s life.
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Contemporary Romance
Rating – PG 13
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Connect with Sebastian Cole on Facebook & Twitter

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle @MsBessieBell

Tackling the Time Factor

by Jessica Bell

The biggest problem I had with deciding to go indie was the time factor.

With a stressful full-time job as a project manager for the Academic Research & Development department at Education First, it was difficult for me to see how I could possibly work, write, blog, edit, publish, market, run a literary journal, direct a writer’s retreat, and live my life all at once. It doesn’t help that I’m a bit of a stickler. I like to get everything done myself because I have a hard time waiting on others to do things I know I can get done more quickly and efficiently. I outsource if I really have to, but I do enjoy doing the work, such as designing covers, learning new skills and navigating social media. So when I say, DIY, I really mean DIY. Where on Earth, I wondered, would I find the time to be an editor for an educational publisher and literary magazine, an author, a typesetter, a designer, and a marketer? And what about walking the dog? Making dinner? Sleeping? (Forget the laundry. I have months of unfolded washed clothes in a heap on the couch that will soon need to go straight back into the machine from the dog rubbing herself all over them.)

The time factor is a logical fear. But once I finally made the decision to do this on my own, I realized that it wasn’t as daunting as it seemed. Do you know how much more you actually get done when you think something is impossible?

I don’t want to tell you how to schedule your day, but I’m going to give you a run down on how to approach this time management malarkey mentally. The key for me is not to focus on one thing all day. When you do this, you burn out. Your brain starts to lag from the monotony of the same information. You need to mix it up. If you mix it up, you get more done, because your mind is consistently stimulated with fresh information.

Let’s start with the actual writing of your books. Because this is what it all boils down to, yes? But first, I have to say, everyone is different. Everyone writes at different speeds, deals with stress in different ways, has different expectations of themselves. So you need to figure out what you want and works for you.

1. Stop thinking about what other people will think of your work. And write honestly. The first version of my debut novel was written for an audience. It was rejected again and again—for five years. And then, I found a small press who saw something in me and made an effort to get to know me. (Unfortunately that publisher liquidated only six months after its release, but that’s another story which you can read about here.) The publisher said my book was good, but that it felt like she was watching the characters through a window. She said: “Go deeper.” So I dug deeper and dragged the truth from my heart and soul. A truth I was afraid to admit was there. But it resulted in an honest book—a book I didn’t know I had in me. And one I hope women will be able to relate to. It’s glory-less, but real. And real steals hearts. What does this have to do with time management you ask? A lot. When you believe in your work, when you love your work, the words get written faster.

2. Focus on one paragraph at a time. I will never forget Anne Lamott’s advice from Bird by Bird (most accessible and nonsense-less book on writing I’ve ever read): write what you can see through a one-inch frame.

The reason I say this, is because knowing how much you have to revise can sometimes be daunting and overwhelming, and you might try to get through as much as possible and forget to focus your attention on the quality of your work. If you make each paragraph the best it can be before you move on, you won’t have to do any major rewrites (unless there’s a snag in your plot that you’ve overlooked and it’s related to a pertinent turning point). I’m talking revision here, not first draft.

3. Divide your writing time into short bursts. I find that if I give myself only one hour to write every morning before work, sometimes even shorter periods of time (especially when I accidentally sleep in), I’m forced to come up with things I wouldn’t normally think of.

The brain works in mysterious ways when it’s under pressure, and sometimes a little self-inflicted pressure can push you to great heights. Can you believe I wrote the first draft of The Book over a three-day long weekend? I did this because I experimented with the self-inflicted pressure idea. It worked. But be careful not to expect too much from yourself. There is nothing worse than becoming unmotivated due to not reaching personal goals. Which brings me to my fourth point ...

4. To start with, set your goals low. Set goals you know for a fact you can reach. If you set them too high, and continuously fail to meet them, you are going to feel really bad about yourself. This may result in neglecting your goals altogether. I know this from personal experience. If you later realize that you are meeting your goals with ease, gradually make them more challenging. But I strongly urge you to start small. It’s better for you, psychologically, to meet easy goals, than to struggle meeting difficult goals. Not achieving goals is a major hazard for self-esteem, motivation, and creativity.

So what about the rest?

Let’s see. These are the things I continuously have on the go that are not part of my day job or writing books, and I still find time to walk the dog and make dinner (sorry, the washing is still on the couch):

—Vine Leaves Literary Journal (reading submissions, sending rejection/acceptance letters, designing the magazine, promoting the magazine)

Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop (organizing the event and handling finances)

Typesetting, designing, and marketing my books (which includes, what seems, a never-ending thread of guest posts and interviews)

Blogging (including keeping up to speed with my weekly guest feature, The Artist Unleashed)

Maintaining my online presence (Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, etc.)

I do all this stuff on top of the day job. On top of my writing. Because I do it all in scheduled, short bursts. I get up early to make sure I have one hour to write and one hour to do something else from the list above. I pick and choose depending on priority. During my lunch break, I blog and spend about half an hour to an hour (depends on how long I can take from work) on social media. After work, I walk the dog, make dinner, maybe go to yoga. Once that’s done, I’ll spend another hour or so doing something else from the list above. Then I have a shower, relax in front of the TV, or do something else away from the computer before I go to bed. Then in bed, I’ll read a chapter or two of the book on my bedside table. Reading to me is relaxing and not a chore.

So what have I accomplished in this average day of mine?

Here’s an example:

My job (at least 7 hours worth)

500-1000 words on my WIP

I read 30 Vine Leaves submissions and sent a few responses, maybe even set up a classified ad on NewPages.com.

I wrote/scheduled a blog post, commented on other blogs.

I connected with everyone I wanted to online. I may have worked on my latest book cover for a bit.

I made dinner.

I walked the dog.

I relaxed.

Look ... I’ll deal with those clothes tomorrow, okay?

I know people with kids who have just as much, and more, on their plate, and they’re still finding the time to self-publish. You can too.

My point is, it can all be done. And it doesn’t have to freak you out, or overwhelm you. Just pace yourself. And if you don’t have a full-time job like me, imagine how much more you can get done.

Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it.

Nothing is impossible if you truly want it.

Nothing is impossible. Full stop.

Bio:

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she’s written.

In addition to her novels, poetry collections, (one of which was nominated for the Goodreads Choice Awards in 2012), and her Writing in a Nutshell series, she has published a variety of works in online and print literary journals and anthologies, including Australia’s Cordite Review, and the anthologies 100 STORIES FOR QUEENSLAND and FROM STAGE DOOR SHADOWS, both released through Australia’s, eMergent Publishing.

Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and annually runs the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

Keep an eye out for her forthcoming novel, BITTER LIKE ORANGE PEEL, slated for release, November 1, 2013.

indiestructible

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre –  Non-fiction

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Jessica Bell on FacebookTwitter

Blog http://thealliterativeallomorph.blogspot.com/

Gringa – A Love Story (Complete Series books 1-4) by Eve Rabi @EveRabi1

What do you hope your obituary will day about you?

She showed us the way.

She will never be forgotten.

Location and life experiences can really influence writing, tell us where you grew up and where you now live?

I grew up in South Africa but I have lived in Australia for the last 14 years.

Growing up “hood” has contributed immensely to my writing and has kept me compassionate and humble.

How did you develop your writing?

I was part of three writing groups at the same time, besides all my courses I had done.

My ex-husband and I also ran a magazine in Sydney’s North Shore, where I wrote just about all the articles.

Where do you get your inspiration from?

Crazy people and music mainly. I like obtuse people, they are more fun that people who have their shit together.

Gringa

This is the complete Gringa Series, books 1-4 being offered at a discounted price.

SERIES DESCRIPTION:

I was twenty-one, a sassy college student who took crap from no one. While holidaying in Mexico, I was accosted by Diablo and shot, because the motherfucker mistook me for a spy.

I survived, only to encounter him again months later. How’s that for luck?
Furious and sick of all that I’d been through because of him, I slapped him, told him to go fuck himself and braced myself for the bullet. He could shoot me – I no longer cared.
But, to my surprise, the fucker became fascinated with me and blackmailed me into becoming his woman. He’d slay the entire village that sheltered me, if I rejected his proposal.
He was Kong, hairy, tattooed from fingertips to face, with scary ass piercings, blood-shot snake eyes, a ruthless killer and above all, he was my murderer – how could anyone expect me to say yes?
To save the village I had to.
He took me by force, terrorized me into submission and made me his. To make matters worse, I had to put up with his ruthless, backstabbing family who hated me and wanted to kill me.
I despised the bastard and I told him that. Spark flew. Fists too.
When the FBI came on the scene and secretly recruited me to help put Diablo behind bars, I was thrilled. I wanted them to throw his ass behind bars, then torment him for the rest of his life like he was doing to me. I was willing to do whatever it took to get him there.
But, the more I rejected Diablo, the more he wanted me.
At times he wanted to kill me because of my insolence, but other times he just wanted me to love him.
I was his Gringa and in an attempt to get my love, he began to change for me. Drastic changes that made me laugh at him at first, then made me curious and even intrigued me.
After all, I was an ignored child and as an adult, nobody gave a rat’s ass about me. Here was a man who actually wanted me and was willing to do whatever it took to get me – how the hell could I not be flattered?
As the days went by, I found myself drawn to him and I began seeing him differently. When I found out about his past, everything changed.
I now wanted to protect my murderer, my tormentor, The Devil of Mexico from the FBI and I was prepared to lie to the Feds, if it meant saving him from them.
I was even prepared to go to jail for him.
And I did.
My days in Mexico were filled with violence, hate, lust and sorrow.
It was also filled with laughter, love and passion and most importantly, it taught me that love conquers all.

Gringa – a modern–day, love story that will have you laughing, crying and wanting more!

WARNING: This book contains sexual violence, sex scenes, graphic language, drug references, violence and is suitable for mature readers

REVIEWS FROM READERS:

“A crude rendition of Beauty and the beast”

“IMO, It is one of the best romance books ive read in some time. I read it all in one sitting. I couldnt peel my eyes away even for a minute. The story had it all from action to romance.”

“Some scenes had me giggling out loud, but there was one scene that had me laughing out loud for a couple minutes.”

“This book is not for the faint of heart. It’s horrible, dirty, raw, passionate, hilarious, sweet, sad, addictive, and so much more.”

‘One thing that I like from this author now that I have read all her books is that she takes time to develop her characters as well as develop the romance. There is no zero to 60 in 3 seconds here. Her characters are flawed and multi-dimentional. They also experience growth throughout the book. There are plenty of twists and turns in ths book to keep you guessing.’

“A college student, an alpha male. Nuff said. The author has woven such intricate characters in this tale and I will be hard pressed to find another book which was so well rounded and beautifully written.”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fiction

Rating – PG 13

More details about the author

Connect with Eve Rabi on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://everabi.wordpress.com/

Gringa – A Love Story (Complete Series books 1-4) by Eve Rabi @EveRabi1

What do you hope your obituary will day about you?

She showed us the way.

She will never be forgotten.

Location and life experiences can really influence writing, tell us where you grew up and where you now live?

I grew up in South Africa but I have lived in Australia for the last 14 years.

Growing up “hood” has contributed immensely to my writing and has kept me compassionate and humble.

How did you develop your writing?

I was part of three writing groups at the same time, besides all my courses I had done.

My ex-husband and I also ran a magazine in Sydney’s North Shore, where I wrote just about all the articles.

Where do you get your inspiration from?

Crazy people and music mainly. I like obtuse people, they are more fun that people who have their shit together.

Gringa

This is the complete Gringa Series, books 1-4 being offered at a discounted price.

SERIES DESCRIPTION:

I was twenty-one, a sassy college student who took crap from no one. While holidaying in Mexico, I was accosted by Diablo and shot, because the motherfucker mistook me for a spy.

I survived, only to encounter him again months later. How’s that for luck?
Furious and sick of all that I’d been through because of him, I slapped him, told him to go fuck himself and braced myself for the bullet. He could shoot me – I no longer cared.
But, to my surprise, the fucker became fascinated with me and blackmailed me into becoming his woman. He’d slay the entire village that sheltered me, if I rejected his proposal.
He was Kong, hairy, tattooed from fingertips to face, with scary ass piercings, blood-shot snake eyes, a ruthless killer and above all, he was my murderer – how could anyone expect me to say yes?
To save the village I had to.
He took me by force, terrorized me into submission and made me his. To make matters worse, I had to put up with his ruthless, backstabbing family who hated me and wanted to kill me.
I despised the bastard and I told him that. Spark flew. Fists too.
When the FBI came on the scene and secretly recruited me to help put Diablo behind bars, I was thrilled. I wanted them to throw his ass behind bars, then torment him for the rest of his life like he was doing to me. I was willing to do whatever it took to get him there.
But, the more I rejected Diablo, the more he wanted me.
At times he wanted to kill me because of my insolence, but other times he just wanted me to love him.
I was his Gringa and in an attempt to get my love, he began to change for me. Drastic changes that made me laugh at him at first, then made me curious and even intrigued me.
After all, I was an ignored child and as an adult, nobody gave a rat’s ass about me. Here was a man who actually wanted me and was willing to do whatever it took to get me – how the hell could I not be flattered?
As the days went by, I found myself drawn to him and I began seeing him differently. When I found out about his past, everything changed.
I now wanted to protect my murderer, my tormentor, The Devil of Mexico from the FBI and I was prepared to lie to the Feds, if it meant saving him from them.
I was even prepared to go to jail for him.
And I did.
My days in Mexico were filled with violence, hate, lust and sorrow.
It was also filled with laughter, love and passion and most importantly, it taught me that love conquers all.

Gringa – a modern–day, love story that will have you laughing, crying and wanting more!

WARNING: This book contains sexual violence, sex scenes, graphic language, drug references, violence and is suitable for mature readers

REVIEWS FROM READERS:

“A crude rendition of Beauty and the beast”

“IMO, It is one of the best romance books ive read in some time. I read it all in one sitting. I couldnt peel my eyes away even for a minute. The story had it all from action to romance.”

“Some scenes had me giggling out loud, but there was one scene that had me laughing out loud for a couple minutes.”

“This book is not for the faint of heart. It’s horrible, dirty, raw, passionate, hilarious, sweet, sad, addictive, and so much more.”

‘One thing that I like from this author now that I have read all her books is that she takes time to develop her characters as well as develop the romance. There is no zero to 60 in 3 seconds here. Her characters are flawed and multi-dimentional. They also experience growth throughout the book. There are plenty of twists and turns in ths book to keep you guessing.’

“A college student, an alpha male. Nuff said. The author has woven such intricate characters in this tale and I will be hard pressed to find another book which was so well rounded and beautifully written.”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Fiction

Rating – PG 13

More details about the author

Connect with Eve Rabi on Facebook & Twitter

Blog http://everabi.wordpress.com/

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

#AmReading - The Designer Bag at the Garbage Dump by Jackie Macgirvin @Jackiemacgirvin

The Designer Bag at the Garbage Dump by Jackie Macgirvin

Amazon

Welcome to The Designer Bag at the Garbage Dump. It's a fish out of water story about how God turns 32-year-old Julie's manicured, pedicured, self-absorbed designer life upside down.  

 

Julie, a nominal Christian, heads to New York for a weekend shopping binge. On a deserted train, she sits next to a stranger who turns out to be Jesus. After a wonderful, healing conversation she agrees to His request to, "feed My lambs." When she gets off the train she's in India.

 

Her charmed life is shattered--she must care for 12 "filthy orphans" living on a dump before she can return to her comfortable life. She lives on the street and overwhelming new challenges arise daily. While squatting in an alley, going to the bathroom, an orphan, named Ravi, steals her designer purse. Unbeknownst to Julie, Ravi, who speaks English, holds the key to her communicating with the other orphans.

 

Will Julie learn 1) to trust the Lord when nothing is in her control? 2) that she doesn't have to perform to be loved? and 3) that her life is built on a shaky foundation? Can she protect the orphans from a predator who steals and maims children and sends them out to beg? How will God provide food when her wallet is stolen? Can she find safe homes for the children?


The answers to these questions will also be the answers to many of your questions about God, life and yourself. Pick up a copy of The Designer Bag at the Garbage Dump
and jump into a great adventure!

Breathing for Two by Wolf Pascoe @WolfPascoe

ONE
BREATHING LESSONS
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IN the freshman year of my anesthesia residency, I was given a lesson in breathing by a patient whom I’ll call Otto. Anesthesia residencies come replete with breathing lessons, but Otto was also teaching humility that day, a subject absent from the formal anesthesia curriculum.
A doctor gets humility not from curricula but from his patients. I acquired a truckload of humility the day I met Otto, and the truck has only gotten larger since.
Otto was undergoing a cystoscopy, a look inside the bladder performed by passing a thin viewing scope through the urethra. There is no incision in such a procedure.
Generally, you don’t need anything fancy to support a patient’s breathing while giving anesthesia during a cystoscopy. As the patient passes from wakefulness into unconsciousness you can let him continue to breathe for himself.
In Otto’s case, I strapped a rubber anesthesia mask over his mouth and nose to make an airtight seal against his skin, and delivered through the mask an appropriate combination of oxygen and anesthetic gas. In principle, what I did was essentially what the Boston dentist, William Thomas Green Morton, had done during the first public demonstration of ether anesthesia in 1846.
The modern anesthesia face mask is a hollow cone of rubber or plastic. It’s like the oxygen mask that drops down from above a passenger’s head on an airplane, though it’s more substantially built. The base is malleable and cushioned by a ring of air, a sort of inner tube. The mask is shaped to fit around the nose and mouth; with a bit of pressure, it seals against the skin. The top of the mask connects to a source of anesthetic vapor and oxygen.
Readers of a certain age may remember the TV series, Marcus Welby, M.D., which began each week with Dr. Welby lowering a black anesthesia mask down over the camera lens. In those days, apparently, the family doctor did everything.
The anesthesia machine—the “cascade of glass columns, porcelain knobs and metal conduits” I described previously—is the gas delivery system. The machine connects to an oxygen tank and directs the flow of oxygen from the tank through a vaporizer where the oxygen mixes with anesthesia gas. The mixture passes out of the machine through plastic tubing (“anesthesia hose”) that connects to the face mask.
The patient breathes the mixture.
Gas leaving the anesthesia machine actually flows through the anesthesia tubing in a circle—in fact it’s called the circle system. One limb of the circle travels from the machine to the anesthesia mask, where the patient inhales it. The other limb, carrying exhaled gas, travels from the mask back to the machine, where excess carbon dioxide from the patient is filtered out. The filtered gas is mixed with fresh gas and travels back to the patient.
The same gases, minus the carbon dioxide, keep going round and round. The system is airtight, except for a pop-off valve that relieves excess pressure.
Otto was a large man with a thickly muscled neck, but by extending his head I could keep his airway clear, allowing him to continue breathing while the urologist worked. Instead of using an anesthesia mask to deliver my mix of gases, I could have assured Otto’s airway by using an endotracheal tube. This is a long breathing tube (about a centimeter in diameter) inserted through the mouth all the way into the trachea.
But getting an endotracheal tube in isn’t always easy, and it’s usually not necessary during a cystoscopy. Most often an anesthesia mask will do.
One side effect of anesthesia is the loss of normal muscle tone. This happened to Otto. A few minutes into the case, his flaccid tongue fell back in his throat. His diaphragm continued to contract, but air couldn’t get through to the lungs—his airway was obstructed. Otto was, of course, completely unconscious at this point.
Everyone loses some muscle tone during sleep—this is the cause of snoring, and of the more serious condition of sleep apnea. But the loss of tone is even greater under anesthesia, and the anesthetized patient cannot rouse herself to find a better breathing position.
I managed the problem by putting a short plastic tube called an airway into Otto’s mouth. The airway depressed the tongue and cleared a passage for air. It wasn’t as good as an endotracheal tube, which would have extended all the way into Otto’s trachea, but it seemed to do the trick.
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Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Non-fiction / Memoir
Rating – G
More details about the author and the book
Connect with Wolf Pascoe on Facebook & Twitter

Monday, November 25, 2013

#AmReading - Looking for Alaska by John Green @realjohngreen

Looking for Alaska by John Green

Amazon

Winner of the Michael L. Printz Award An ALA Best Book for Young Adults An ALA Quick Pick A Los Angeles Times 2005 Book Prize Finalist A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age A 2005 Booklist Editor’s Choice A 2005 School Library Journal Best Book of the Year Before. Miles “Pudge” Halter is done with his safe life at home. His whole life has been one big non-event, and his obsession with famous last words has only made him crave “the Great Perhaps” even more (Francois Rabelais, poet). He heads off to the sometimes crazy and anything-but-boring world of Culver Creek Boarding School, and his life becomes the opposite of safe. Because down the hall is Alaska Young. The gorgeous, clever, funny, sexy, self-destructive, screwed up, and utterly fascinating Alaska Young. She is an event unto herself. She pulls Pudge into her world, launches him into the Great Perhaps, and steals his heart. Then. . . . After. Nothing is ever the same.

Author Interview – Cerece Rennie Murphy @CereceRMurphy

http://g-ecx.images-amazon.com/images/G/01/ciu/6a/9f/ab3dda5ba6070ad8976fda.L._SX80_.jpg
Is there any books you really don’t enjoy?
I’ve read books that I wouldn’t even donate because they were so bad, but I would never disparage an author publically.  I just don’t see the point in that.  If I really had a problem with something I read, I would email the author if I felt my opinion was constructive enough to be useful.
What do you hope your obituary will day about you?
I hope that it will say that I loved with all my heart and did what I could to make this world a better place.
Location and life experiences can really influence writing, tell us where you grew up and where you now live?
I grew up in the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington, DC in the 1980s, which is to say at the height of the crack trade in poor neighborhoods like mine.  But despite all this, I never felt unsafe in my neighborhood.  My parents, who immigrated to this country from Trinidad and Grenada, bought a house in Columbia Heights at a time when everyone who could was moving out.  But I loved living in the city. I had a tight group of friends that were pre-approved by a group of like-minded parents (We all HAD to get along because we weren’t allowed to play with any other children). We walked everywhere together and played indoors for hours.  If something unsafe was going on outside, my parents kept us from it and, for the most part, I was clueless.  None of the drug dealers ever offered us drugs or bothered us because my Dad was crazy (in a good way) and they knew it.  Because of that safe space that my parents created, I was able to focus on all of the potential and beauty in my neighborhood – loving families, hope and struggle, diversity of every race, nationality, ethnicity, religion and income. That experience shaped how I see the world.
What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing?
For me, the hardest part of the journey is the marketing.  It is the part that requires me to truly step out of my comfort zone and say “LOOK AT THIS THING I MADE! DO YOU LIKE IT?” When I am writing, I don’t think about anything else. So even when self-doubt hits, I’m not doing battle with anyone but myself.  Marketing is where things get VERY risky for me.
What marketing works for you?
I honestly have no idea what “works”, but I can tell you that I enjoy meeting and talking with people, so going to sci-fi conventions is something I really love to do.  Besides the fact that sci-fi conventions are the only places I’ve ever been where weirdness is celebrated with unrestrained fervor (which is AWESOME), I just love connecting with people face-to-face.  It’s the only opportunity I have to really meet the people who read my books.
Order of the Seers
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Science Fiction
Rating – NC-17
More details about the author
Connect with Cerece Rennie Murphy 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.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

The Howling Heart by April Bostic

* * * *

Three days after my father’s funeral, I landed at the airport in Denver. I rented a Jeep Wrangler, because I needed a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get up the mountain. The July weather was mild, so I wore khaki shorts, a plain white tee, and beige Vans sneakers.

One of the odd things about finding our cabin was you had to find the nearby town first. I remembered we got lost during our vacation, which caused an argument between my parents. Finding the road that led to the town was tricky, because there was only one accessible by vehicle, and there was no road sign. My father knew how to get there, because the person who sold him the cabin gave him a landmark. Luckily, he passed that information onto me during one of our conversations. Once you found the road, the town was so small that if you blinked, you’d drive right by it. When my mother said it was remote, she wasn’t being facetious.

I drove on the interstate for over an hour before I realized I missed my turn. I had to find a tree shaped like a wishbone—it was struck by lightning — but all the trees looked alike to me. It took another half-hour for me to turn around and make another attempt.

I found my landmark, but a tangle of fallen branches blocked the entrance. My hands gripped the steering wheel. I knew I was in for a bumpy ride. I floored the accelerator, and the Jeep broke through the roadblock. The road was narrow, and the terrain was rough. Whoever constructed it didn’t want people to travel on it. I screamed when tree branches appeared out of nowhere and banged against the windshield. The forest surrounded me on both sides, and I wondered if I’d ever reach the town.

SONY DSC

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Paranormal Romance

Rating – Adult

More details about the author & the book

Connect with April Bostic on Goodreads

Website http://www.aprilbostic.com/