tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15350716859331679782024-03-14T17:46:17.964-07:00Courtney ReneAn author's blog on books, creative outlets, events, and more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger279125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-35697878083682679362024-03-09T07:15:00.000-08:002024-03-09T07:15:32.352-08:00St. Patrick<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6ZKUN2MTp104TaQYVQw4DEhf_AG9HzSDWYQDmLB_CL3hxCszxDIG69AhGVYgOj6LkNYqOr-KP3aQsxv0JLH5o0OshdhB_GIjna0Ico2whX1YrUaqdcwD5OqzbmOexF8ofPsfnvQbQVZ0CIg-SOZR_mkdpp1LuS0Pzsg_21ytTSh36Fjg8xY4Ml0BkLqw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="360" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6ZKUN2MTp104TaQYVQw4DEhf_AG9HzSDWYQDmLB_CL3hxCszxDIG69AhGVYgOj6LkNYqOr-KP3aQsxv0JLH5o0OshdhB_GIjna0Ico2whX1YrUaqdcwD5OqzbmOexF8ofPsfnvQbQVZ0CIg-SOZR_mkdpp1LuS0Pzsg_21ytTSh36Fjg8xY4Ml0BkLqw" width="240" /></a></div><div style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 26px; overflow: hidden; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; text-overflow: ellipsis; text-wrap: nowrap;"><a class="c1AlVc" href="https://images.app.goo.gl/gPmNSpYRafZMnS1B8" jsname="RYUcpc" role="button" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 26px; overflow: hidden; text-decoration-line: none; text-overflow: ellipsis; text-wrap: nowrap;" target="_blank"></a><a class="c1AlVc" href="https://images.app.goo.gl/gPmNSpYRafZMnS1B8" jsname="RYUcpc" role="button" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; line-height: 26px; overflow: hidden; text-decoration-line: none; text-overflow: ellipsis;" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: white; color: #93c47d; font-size: xx-small;">https://images.app.goo.gl/gPmNSpYRafZMnS1B8</span></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimk_oWd6ZLMEZSuKuxr_m5H8jkl0F8gkBtVZiIFTOU2MhUdiilfkdctJ_1TDATqruV7qG8_TlzWzy2lRvZO_Q9ba-1THqOAcjLuW4bMOMwZGVyXgPb3vAJdY_2FbQGsxtHxlttoH1H0S0wOsm-AmmwVkMgOZY82VTKd1m5aJ6zC-DImLWyfZcl11UQbiY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="468" height="818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimk_oWd6ZLMEZSuKuxr_m5H8jkl0F8gkBtVZiIFTOU2MhUdiilfkdctJ_1TDATqruV7qG8_TlzWzy2lRvZO_Q9ba-1THqOAcjLuW4bMOMwZGVyXgPb3vAJdY_2FbQGsxtHxlttoH1H0S0wOsm-AmmwVkMgOZY82VTKd1m5aJ6zC-DImLWyfZcl11UQbiY=w596-h818" width="596" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-7JtI_CT7S_KrLusCbjVcOJyOlYWI2RDu2F0x3E9h4pTZXaQ3mziwF-XPjPS5b3KkpXFFYPyMCxHmg4MjKgKT3IA8b1SifClDBhPrdCaW0mg5YmmGecz3ZVAnXqLpeO35x7BWOkH4DBLOi56TCjl360Fowhbrn1PaQyIVugH2V05zgZ9DMtLH3LHcKUk" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="468" height="810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-7JtI_CT7S_KrLusCbjVcOJyOlYWI2RDu2F0x3E9h4pTZXaQ3mziwF-XPjPS5b3KkpXFFYPyMCxHmg4MjKgKT3IA8b1SifClDBhPrdCaW0mg5YmmGecz3ZVAnXqLpeO35x7BWOkH4DBLOi56TCjl360Fowhbrn1PaQyIVugH2V05zgZ9DMtLH3LHcKUk=w591-h810" width="591" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivbhOpO3R72hp3fLpkqJ09l3EH5x6VGFcOTczhgVuKy_zxXphkJ19fT359LrwdIIG2KONz_ImFOZL6nQGodRzhsTFqrQRv99Ec3joxznwbGS2BM2zgZdwX9tC8U-2e_HwS1xmkQrNH-K_Wfn4SLT_SaWBxNfjzx915NWsGEjzxkHTSQImK07obQfBIopo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="468" height="680" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivbhOpO3R72hp3fLpkqJ09l3EH5x6VGFcOTczhgVuKy_zxXphkJ19fT359LrwdIIG2KONz_ImFOZL6nQGodRzhsTFqrQRv99Ec3joxznwbGS2BM2zgZdwX9tC8U-2e_HwS1xmkQrNH-K_Wfn4SLT_SaWBxNfjzx915NWsGEjzxkHTSQImK07obQfBIopo=w598-h680" width="598" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-64731345719820542622024-02-17T09:13:00.000-08:002024-02-17T09:13:10.297-08:00Conversation Hearts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2015/02/06/19/57/valentine-candy-626446_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="423" src="https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2015/02/06/19/57/valentine-candy-626446_1280.jpg" width="576" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image by Jill Wellington</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtSoIPYhbDQFQyIZV6v3okq-9H4Rrtku3VKQOGDMrLk29st5lcGL1S8wgGTr09dZ_map8Uqe0kk23V2PhJwmpXOHVyWCQLDfMIwnIKaIuxPqQBKfr446JEBLQ35iAuTOi-Bjt4fEhO2QREwAyhOdoz6NvYHkYBtxqgmDzNtlKjKH67NRCx2tqbEqQ9q00" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="468" height="931" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtSoIPYhbDQFQyIZV6v3okq-9H4Rrtku3VKQOGDMrLk29st5lcGL1S8wgGTr09dZ_map8Uqe0kk23V2PhJwmpXOHVyWCQLDfMIwnIKaIuxPqQBKfr446JEBLQ35iAuTOi-Bjt4fEhO2QREwAyhOdoz6NvYHkYBtxqgmDzNtlKjKH67NRCx2tqbEqQ9q00=w554-h931" width="554" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-46631836403148599062024-02-04T08:46:00.000-08:002024-02-06T15:10:26.982-08:00Valentine's Day<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Valentine's Day</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem;">With Valentine's Day coming up, here is a little reminder, that this is actually not a day of love, chocolates, flowers, and stuffies. It is in reality a day of death. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFSjyEVKWPds1UYDhOB0ix4qAgrCadqdHGveIJXE-6C4OZch8sh_zipP7Zjm5PxOnW5o812oyfSk7Gd1UuJRYrY_S1YsI_q8cp9Da-HEBbgHBoPn7ntlOoGmURrH7ToahQvt8GRUCW6hInYNl83L1aE8PIxTWmL2SP7t9qeq5i8fn1Ti_deu4Z4To2J8/s1236/saint-valentine-statue-church-altar-90220700.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFSjyEVKWPds1UYDhOB0ix4qAgrCadqdHGveIJXE-6C4OZch8sh_zipP7Zjm5PxOnW5o812oyfSk7Gd1UuJRYrY_S1YsI_q8cp9Da-HEBbgHBoPn7ntlOoGmURrH7ToahQvt8GRUCW6hInYNl83L1aE8PIxTWmL2SP7t9qeq5i8fn1Ti_deu4Z4To2J8/s320/saint-valentine-statue-church-altar-90220700.webp" width="199" /></a></div><p></p><h2 class="item-description" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--dt-black); cursor: default; font-family: -apple-system, "system-ui", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: var(--fw-r); grid-column: 1 / span 8; line-height: 1.27; margin: 0px 0px 0.9375rem; order: -2; outline: none; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; text-align: center; text-overflow: inherit;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Saint Valentine, statue on church altar</i></span></h2><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">St. Valentine, who the "holiday" is named for, died on February 14th, in the 3rd century. He was a Saint recognized at one time by the catholic church and then removed in 1969 (Britannica, 2023). Why was he removed? Because...the church really could not obtain what they deemed as reliable information on the guy. There are too many "real" and vastly different stories about him that don't add up. So, was St. Valentine one guy? Or several? <span style="font-size: 1.125rem;">St. Valentine is still recognized as a saint, but he is no longer documented in the General Roman Calendar and has not been since 1969. He was named as a saint and was listed as a patron saint of epileptics, beekeepers, and...lovers (Britannica, 2023). Hence, where our story begins. </span></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: 1.125rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">St. Valentine (again, based on unreliable information) was in some stories a Roman priest as well as a physician. He was martyred in Rome during the rein of emperor Claudius II Gothicus in about 270, during the Christian persecutions. Another telling of what is believed to maybe be the same story is that he was a bishop of Italy, but again was martyred in Rome due to his conspiracy against the emperor (Britannica, 2023). </p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">The fairy tale begins and ends in one account that St. Valentine signed a letter with, "from your Valentine" on his day of death. This letter was to the daughter of his jailer, who he had helped heal her blindness (Britannica, 2023). During St. Valentines imprisonment, he and the girl had then become friends and in some telling, St. Valentine fell in love with the girl. This story transpired because St. Valentine was held prisoner in the home of one of the nobles. Once he healed the blind girl, the entire household converted to Christianity, which angered the emperor. He was then tortured, decapitated, and then put to the death, which was how in this story St. Valentine was martyred (Gershone, 2024). Just before his death, he sent the letter to the girl, signed "from your Valentine". I know this is supposed to be a sweet love story, but I get stuck on the idea of how old was St. Valentine and the daughter? </p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">Another telling of the legend is that St. Valentine secretly married people, in defiance of the emperor's order, for the purpose of sparing husbands from war, as married men were not generally forced to go to war (Britannica, 2023). Husbands were seen as not being good soldiers as they missed their families too much. This sounds very romantic in some ways. Couples in love being married in secret. Forget the fact that they were only doing it so the man didn't have to go to war. It's still romantic. More so than some old guy falling in love with a daughter of a noble. St. Valentine was captured, beheaded, and again martyred upon his death for his conspiracy against the emperor (Gershone, 2024). </p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">If you keep digging into the history of St. Valentine, you can find many different stories and tellings. Who knows what is real and what is made up. <span style="font-size: 1.125rem;">With these historical fairy tales in mind, how will you be spending our Valentine's Day?</span></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"> </p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: center;"><b>References</b></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;">Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopaedia (2023, October 10). </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;">St. Valentine</em><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;">. </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;">Encyclopedia Britannica</em><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;">. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Saint-Valentine</span></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;"><br /></span></p><p class="topic-paragraph" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 1.125rem; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: var(--paragraph-margin-bottom); margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: 16px; text-indent: -16px;">Gershone, L. (2024, January 30). <i>Who was the real St. Valentine. The Many Myths Behind the Inspiration for Valentine's Day</i>. https://www.history.com/news/real-st-valentine-medieval</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-58736971352381284322024-01-27T08:34:00.000-08:002024-01-27T08:34:48.595-08:00Winter Hobbies <p>Like many people I have hobbies outside of writing. These include many artistic avenues, but one I spend a lot of time on is painting. I paint in watercolors, acrylics, and even dabble in oils. I'm versatile like that...</p><p>I like watercolors the best, simply because they are easy to clean up. I like oils because even if I mess up, I can just scrap the mistake off and try again. Acrylics are also fun as I can get deep colors and they are easy to use on any type of surface. I don't pretend to be very good. Somethings I can paint very well. Others...I am very lacking. However, I keep enjoying the time spent on them all the same. </p><p>Here are a few for your winter day enjoyment:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAhg2QoJplhO-dK-gqYKjdbKGWHR4RxyYwrzdhBXyjON5RYvp9uNZdabs4nDrxJpYuN1Ky5i9G3Mw9f5dz2dDDfOBrZqHgefAFu1VAmhvTLSy16x9w_2DHV_jSxipl_6mEmiQtQd9JtqgONFg5Sbh1hl6W3uB6JwtfJXp1OCXC-CPdPNy3GhR-5K_03c/s640/House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="534" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAhg2QoJplhO-dK-gqYKjdbKGWHR4RxyYwrzdhBXyjON5RYvp9uNZdabs4nDrxJpYuN1Ky5i9G3Mw9f5dz2dDDfOBrZqHgefAFu1VAmhvTLSy16x9w_2DHV_jSxipl_6mEmiQtQd9JtqgONFg5Sbh1hl6W3uB6JwtfJXp1OCXC-CPdPNy3GhR-5K_03c/s320/House.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">A home in the forest, a watercolor by Courtney Rene</span></i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjy2j6AK3Y6J9IBC1X7OpPLmVx6Zjsq50wNke_QzICAnU7C_R-iKjiT3l5-b3X_cBeYeZl0m0sifnwxCVqqDO_y1AJOxrMHd47fBu9G2fcelSXzAw0Z5gzjvx2Dd9INsivGuU6cDOxEhj0neHV-57VxlyLD2KnNBbw8J1vXia1z-U8CjdHiwVbibvDFg/s640/Ladybug.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="504" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjy2j6AK3Y6J9IBC1X7OpPLmVx6Zjsq50wNke_QzICAnU7C_R-iKjiT3l5-b3X_cBeYeZl0m0sifnwxCVqqDO_y1AJOxrMHd47fBu9G2fcelSXzAw0Z5gzjvx2Dd9INsivGuU6cDOxEhj0neHV-57VxlyLD2KnNBbw8J1vXia1z-U8CjdHiwVbibvDFg/s320/Ladybug.jpeg" width="252" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Ladybug, a watercolor by Courtney Rene</i></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFVMBx0PFrFGn4T6_gcMF9RUPxx3BmPX85qajj_TwprBWRE_xMi8uBW1r5PSNggjPMmcZUZAPMpQcGL5OdRpQ3WDO-uZ85cZF4_mv5eeLyWNkHshFVTqpX4948PFxqbYWMMK0b_ZX7jORo0VCP1vDnFx3uYKrHG7igj8U02Zu5oJA7PGJNqtrxysOjSiQ/s640/Turtle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="566" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFVMBx0PFrFGn4T6_gcMF9RUPxx3BmPX85qajj_TwprBWRE_xMi8uBW1r5PSNggjPMmcZUZAPMpQcGL5OdRpQ3WDO-uZ85cZF4_mv5eeLyWNkHshFVTqpX4948PFxqbYWMMK0b_ZX7jORo0VCP1vDnFx3uYKrHG7igj8U02Zu5oJA7PGJNqtrxysOjSiQ/s320/Turtle.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Turtle, a watercolor by Courtney Rene</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmjZFra-t8t6hJzg0AdtsaJKXvuP3rk1nHqW0Lj2-Axmyid_IzPjwDXbVAbIEzy0vfoxipBSbtoc4eUODxB1f86G2EEKv7UKuAJHSz0JgtIdVwLSqBletraOj7CTJww0w-t5JETeWbHUw2KANvPNGcY_RU3f_d0ACeIkk9dxpf8uBq_quC-e0KIFqJN0/s640/bluebird.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="640" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibmjZFra-t8t6hJzg0AdtsaJKXvuP3rk1nHqW0Lj2-Axmyid_IzPjwDXbVAbIEzy0vfoxipBSbtoc4eUODxB1f86G2EEKv7UKuAJHSz0JgtIdVwLSqBletraOj7CTJww0w-t5JETeWbHUw2KANvPNGcY_RU3f_d0ACeIkk9dxpf8uBq_quC-e0KIFqJN0/s320/bluebird.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Bluebird, a watercolor by Courtney Rene</span></i></div><br /><p>You may begin to notice a trend...I have an affinity to animals, bugs, and nature. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bDvrQx6TEt8zSkODWF2Fq_kVbQbbTdg7Lw6c1hq866oEIjM-uOrxa9Eu9L762r1hDStpvPiIrRt1SVblqCMsY7fDaBAsNBNf751TWoVkTzP8CuEFSyGLKVJCeJSASp3lRWbeOOX06Mi3De9reNA275GhKUyw5Cp52QbStvh_YBYOkIzXE6wiMfTIFbw/s640/Mountain.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bDvrQx6TEt8zSkODWF2Fq_kVbQbbTdg7Lw6c1hq866oEIjM-uOrxa9Eu9L762r1hDStpvPiIrRt1SVblqCMsY7fDaBAsNBNf751TWoVkTzP8CuEFSyGLKVJCeJSASp3lRWbeOOX06Mi3De9reNA275GhKUyw5Cp52QbStvh_YBYOkIzXE6wiMfTIFbw/s320/Mountain.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mountain Landscape in oils by Courtney Rene</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIa00Qwv6Za8_L7lAszKWJL8yQBRIkBCyZWeSMbwlbUQKTyUBEzc8lcNB0pgC13EaNWTuZ_ib311BXMH-snGx0zb5GTqF3EUvkxMlDGH2AQmbkVdKlNPdOx89gg8yBbxJszYzce0yzUsSQy9QdDpxCvcQEX51Gsh-gJOTkQetyEFR-fTpBG-gnxkR6obI/s640/Whale.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="640" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIa00Qwv6Za8_L7lAszKWJL8yQBRIkBCyZWeSMbwlbUQKTyUBEzc8lcNB0pgC13EaNWTuZ_ib311BXMH-snGx0zb5GTqF3EUvkxMlDGH2AQmbkVdKlNPdOx89gg8yBbxJszYzce0yzUsSQy9QdDpxCvcQEX51Gsh-gJOTkQetyEFR-fTpBG-gnxkR6obI/s320/Whale.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Whale, an acrylic, by Courtney Rene</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjHJoNqgRaDrYe1DxcozNa1BWNruVql4QoGSAQ_QCg_B3itpyreiJR_7t9pS91c0Evil6DzlNyIspF4tVEsTudzffmG0srkxL0ez9JFvvHKz032fVha16V1JhuYQ2Gdg4QAWUTPsDSlMONaqNW-f1Rsa2IKuwNhHtH_8h7b6PSoBWbRuzdhFqlIKwkPg/s640/Wolf.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjHJoNqgRaDrYe1DxcozNa1BWNruVql4QoGSAQ_QCg_B3itpyreiJR_7t9pS91c0Evil6DzlNyIspF4tVEsTudzffmG0srkxL0ez9JFvvHKz032fVha16V1JhuYQ2Gdg4QAWUTPsDSlMONaqNW-f1Rsa2IKuwNhHtH_8h7b6PSoBWbRuzdhFqlIKwkPg/s320/Wolf.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wolf, an acrylic, by Courtney Rene</span></i> </div><p>Nothing too awesome but not to shabby either. I use painting when I'm stuck with something I'm writing or when I just can not get inspired to write. I think that may mean that if I have not put out anything in the book or magazine world in a while...someone might need to tell me to put my paintbrush down and get to writing! </p><p><br /></p><p>We all need our outlets. Painting is mine. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-56120369037244960912024-01-20T08:41:00.000-08:002024-01-20T08:41:55.070-08:00Cold January<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vL-47h0bYdp1dppD2QgV2UF0r5gA-7qE2V_UJnkuvz9mYHMVAuawjCVsBUtIhuaArr9TMQtYFY6plWo_642f9aGI-9QyrATVjOsWqm2zSr3tDyeej4vV5Zw0b-ExNNgPQnMDgOq_35z3RxGb9t_kJDdMn7ygz9pBLCrA36_iGDUw0P0s8soohd7wIGo/s3000/kelly-sikkema-hSPVuakrJqs-unsplash.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9vL-47h0bYdp1dppD2QgV2UF0r5gA-7qE2V_UJnkuvz9mYHMVAuawjCVsBUtIhuaArr9TMQtYFY6plWo_642f9aGI-9QyrATVjOsWqm2zSr3tDyeej4vV5Zw0b-ExNNgPQnMDgOq_35z3RxGb9t_kJDdMn7ygz9pBLCrA36_iGDUw0P0s8soohd7wIGo/s320/kelly-sikkema-hSPVuakrJqs-unsplash.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@kellysikkema?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Kelly Sikkema</a> on </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/white-leaves-hSPVuakrJqs?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Unsplas</span>h</a></div><p>This January here in Ohio has been strange. In most years, the 1st of the month hits and hits hard with winter weather. We get blasted with snow, cold, and ice. This type of harsh winter weather stays for weeks and weeks. Then we get a January thaw for a day to help wash away the brown ick that has become our landscape. We breath a sigh of relief at the break in the weather. Only for winter to rear its giant angry head and hit us again with a gleeful vengeance. Schools close and companies let employees work from home. January is a hard month usually. Misery is winter in Ohio.</p><p><br /></p><p>This year, 2024 has not been the usual. We had lovely 40 degree weather for most of the month so far. That is until this week when the snow and ice has come with a vengeance of its own. Temperatures in the negatives and windchills making it even worse. It is only January 20th and I am dreaming of spring. Wishing for it. </p><p><br /></p><p>No, granted it has not been a hard month overall. However, this last week sure has felt hard. Getting outside, walking in that wind is miserable. The air physically hurts. Less than nine weeks until spring at this point. As we still have February to get through, it can not come fast enough for me. Brrr. </p><p><br /></p><p>Welcome to Winter...</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-26512178561590670662024-01-13T08:11:00.000-08:002024-01-13T08:11:44.264-08:00Spark - Book 3 in the Elements Series<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Spark - WIP</span></b></p><p>The new year has brought with it a new and determined spark of creativity on my end. With that in mind, book 3 in the Elements series is firmly in the works and a concrete work in progress. For those that don't know, this series is about four extraordinary teens, each with a corrupted gift from one of the four elements: water, earth, wind, and fire. These young adults come together to face a common threat...their creators. Scientists of a genetic engineering company have been hunting for them since they were children. Each one of these genetically modified teens have been on the run and hiding for years. Alone. They have decided to not run anymore. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKtL4KgmhILtIQMXTSQKnJCb6j8AVY0Ai4-8guN6JMYhSPXYVdUku-nUwCusoz-GuoJykVaZTTNx6wwYRlIVgxXLibqK3dO_zhLu0cokFpB5oK3hMqmI8vtBc-4nX70S2fp_7XrIPR_5a5dj-zvi25R0-QEvOQhHyQxLsJgzLMmRRV6TI9FwhZ4A6zuhU/s1800/BANNER-Cold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1082" data-original-width="1800" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKtL4KgmhILtIQMXTSQKnJCb6j8AVY0Ai4-8guN6JMYhSPXYVdUku-nUwCusoz-GuoJykVaZTTNx6wwYRlIVgxXLibqK3dO_zhLu0cokFpB5oK3hMqmI8vtBc-4nX70S2fp_7XrIPR_5a5dj-zvi25R0-QEvOQhHyQxLsJgzLMmRRV6TI9FwhZ4A6zuhU/s320/BANNER-Cold.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cold-Elements-Book-Courtney-Rene-ebook/dp/B07KTBF7S5/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2URDDM5Q5JR53&keywords=Courtney+Rene&qid=1705161907&sprefix=courtney+rene%2Caps%2C99&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Cold - Book One in the Elements Series</a><br /></p><p>Cold - Book one in the series is Nora's story. Water is destructive all by itself, but turn water to ice and it can become even more deadly, especially in the hands of an angry young woman out to right a wrong.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzCBIBlj1vQcL318zL3bCfqXO_3cIW08SMpRMZ6v1E9mzaPZAZaNwdpipEoGQfHy04evjLcbm3ZEOwYklNkqwtEaLhee_QPUinh_WWRhTVGjr8P1JA4ZlTqP0LLtLRv6PDuyD-2u3ynjdE0n6_gDJ_kz3pcUPWCjkBkbenFmJAQdz0lKOENqP_ftP9vA/s1800/BANNER-Burn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1082" data-original-width="1800" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzCBIBlj1vQcL318zL3bCfqXO_3cIW08SMpRMZ6v1E9mzaPZAZaNwdpipEoGQfHy04evjLcbm3ZEOwYklNkqwtEaLhee_QPUinh_WWRhTVGjr8P1JA4ZlTqP0LLtLRv6PDuyD-2u3ynjdE0n6_gDJ_kz3pcUPWCjkBkbenFmJAQdz0lKOENqP_ftP9vA/s320/BANNER-Burn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Burn-Elements-Book-Courtney-Rene-ebook/dp/B0B9FBP9PN/ref=sr_1_15?crid=2URDDM5Q5JR53&keywords=Courtney+Rene&qid=1705161981&sprefix=courtney+rene%2Caps%2C99&sr=8-15" target="_blank">Burn - Book Two in the Elements series</a></div><p>Burn - Book two in the series is Ash's story. Fire is destruction. It burns and eats anything it comes in contract with. It has been used as a weapon, as a means of demolition, and even as a method of death. That does not mean it always has to be evil and used to destroy. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1IQXkE9altN2gsn8cgkigVDQlBzXtH1olI8JRlM3bw4rfcLWWVevyIl-KuCp2EAH6uFOM_s3nUKNPBq9aaeXpGJfVxAb9b9zFHJhcVKf4xm84m8H05tEcx6ZdQuPOpTLDlueW351YWiIXQq2eL43kuDhK8bokkPptorv_bUhVxXXfmJDI0jQTI5ifvqw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="626" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1IQXkE9altN2gsn8cgkigVDQlBzXtH1olI8JRlM3bw4rfcLWWVevyIl-KuCp2EAH6uFOM_s3nUKNPBq9aaeXpGJfVxAb9b9zFHJhcVKf4xm84m8H05tEcx6ZdQuPOpTLDlueW351YWiIXQq2eL43kuDhK8bokkPptorv_bUhVxXXfmJDI0jQTI5ifvqw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Spark - Book three in the series is Eve's story. We don't yet know what all Eve can do. She is an earth element and with it is a creator of life. Does that mean she is also the bringer of death? How far can she be pushed before she becomes exactly that? </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpnk9PpioD63CL6YQtLdZPA_H1K_KAzSi1H_SgCN9yxk41_ndocpoiKzFJz8-CnysRstRjYXBLoCLt8YijnmOptYR9u6lGpxi14IoxGhH5dpROdQzzrbu8hhky41Zim8NwcNS2V6eMwgmJGgyMNaXLKdL6M3Rf-jDJajoJ_U7RMMrCosQjDF5R1fRBvRw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="626" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpnk9PpioD63CL6YQtLdZPA_H1K_KAzSi1H_SgCN9yxk41_ndocpoiKzFJz8-CnysRstRjYXBLoCLt8YijnmOptYR9u6lGpxi14IoxGhH5dpROdQzzrbu8hhky41Zim8NwcNS2V6eMwgmJGgyMNaXLKdL6M3Rf-jDJajoJ_U7RMMrCosQjDF5R1fRBvRw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Wind - Book four in the series is Reed's story. Stay tuned as his story will be told and soon. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-30960937860516677362024-01-06T09:27:00.000-08:002024-01-06T09:27:22.909-08:00<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Upcoming Events</span></b></p><p>With the new year here and roaring, that brings with it the planning of events. This year, I have worked hard to get some big things on the schedule. I currently have three on the calendar, but anticipate four or five. The main ones, are exciting though.</p><p><br /></p><p>The first big even is the Mid Ohio Indie Author Book Expo. I have been trying to get into this event for about 3 years, but it sells out so fast. I am so excited to finally be apart of this expo. The event will be held on <b><span style="font-size: medium;">August 10, 2024</span></b>, from 12:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. You can find information on location, attendees, food, parking, and more here: <a href="https://www.midohioindies.com/" target="_blank">Mid Ohio Indie Author Book Expo</a></p><p><br /></p><p>The second big event this year is that I have registered to attend the BoucherCon 2024 - Murder and Mayhem in Music City. I was supposed to be a part of this conference in 2021, held in New Orleans, but thanks to Covid and a hurricane, it was unfortunately cancelled. The conference for this year is being held in Nashville on <b><span style="font-size: medium;">August 28-September 1, 2024.</span></b> Once I have more information on the conference as well as any panels I will be sitting on, I will update. For more information on the BoucherCon you can find it here: <a href="https://www.bouchercon2024.com/" target="_blank">BoucherCon2024</a></p><p><br /></p><p>Finally, up and coming is the West Lafayette - Hop into Easter Event on Sunday, <b><span style="font-size: medium;">March 24, 2024</span></b>, from 10:00 a.m. - 2:00 p.m. This event will be held at the Coshocton Moose Lodge. Fellow Author Rebecca Besser will be joining me at this event and we will have plenty of books on hand. </p><p><br /></p><p>Stay Tuned as this list will change as the year progresses, but for now, this is the anticipated events. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-59656150298923480882024-01-02T07:37:00.000-08:002024-01-02T07:37:46.252-08:00New Year - 2024<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mjGXVCxe4D9ll0Gn4OlbpmEXQSdhznEvCOwfbT6iaOTUewWlacP3QwbYhAuj6Lc_y-tAwF-h-ZGf8kjwsLyVz1dLP2-hKfEDgDu1yNhzW3BgM-ad32jEbypSJKMgeupA9lgpKZvqgG7s5l00TFwC3Y8DD7pqdqPwHzWXjYGh9ok2KlwvB__8PCPQbYU/s5000/chri_24_2f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2841" data-original-width="5000" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mjGXVCxe4D9ll0Gn4OlbpmEXQSdhznEvCOwfbT6iaOTUewWlacP3QwbYhAuj6Lc_y-tAwF-h-ZGf8kjwsLyVz1dLP2-hKfEDgDu1yNhzW3BgM-ad32jEbypSJKMgeupA9lgpKZvqgG7s5l00TFwC3Y8DD7pqdqPwHzWXjYGh9ok2KlwvB__8PCPQbYU/s320/chri_24_2f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="<a href="https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/2024-golden-decoration-holiday-beige-background-2022-happy-new-year-background-vector-illustration_68027705.htm#query=happy%20new%20year%202024&position=5&from_view=keyword&track=ais&uuid=afd1da0a-eaa2-41f1-99ea-8f61a29460ae">Image by hannazasimova</a> on Freepik" target="_blank">Image by hannazasimova on Freepik</a><br /></span></p><p>With the new year upon us, most will look back over the previous year and think about what they would have done differently. What they loved the most. What they did not enjoy. Then, there is the big question of what we want to do in the coming year. </p><p>My 2023 came with a job change (or two). It also brought with it a new inspiration with my writing. I am back to working on book three of The Elements series. For those keeping up, this will be Eve's story. Eve has the gift of life. She can create life in the form of plants. She can help create life with animals. The question is, as our four elements are growing and learning and surviving...what else can Eve do? Now that Eve along with Nora, Ash, and Reed, have left SanCorp together, the four need to decide how to forage on in the world they have always been fugitives within. There is also a part of them that wants to understand and set right the wrongs done by SanCorp not only to them, but what they are coming to understand, includes many others as well. Stay tuned as Eve gets here story told. Coming as soon as I can get it written. </p><p>Be save this new year. If can offer any advice, it would be to take the time to find out who you are and what you want. I have been trying to do that for several years now. I think I'm getting closer to actually figuring it out. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-58551691589225834832022-12-16T10:00:00.007-08:002022-12-16T10:07:19.768-08:00Three Year Journey<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The Three Year Journey began in 2020. As the pandemic is slowly but surely making its way into history, a question people ask and ask often is how others got through it. My story begins in January 2020, before the pandemic hit. My last child was a senior in high school. She had been accepted into many different colleges and universities, and many were not close to home. I was aware of the significant changes coming at me in several months. For the last ten years or so, my daughter and I spent most of our time together as she was a competitive dancer. She had dance practice every day and some weekends. During the competitive season, we had weekend-long events and traveled around the state and even the country for events. I learned how to do ballet dancer hair. I learned to sew and alter and fit. I gemmed, jeweled, and bedazzled. I had contacts at dance apparel companies around the world. I had a full-time job outside my full-time job. It was busy and crazy, but I enjoyed it too. </p><p>As my tiny dancer entered her last year at home, I could see my busy lifestyle and close relationship with my girl coming to an end. My house would be child-free, and I would be at loose ends. My husband suggested that I look into going back to school. I'd obtained an associate degree in paralegal studies right out of high school, but I'd always had the intention to return. Then life happened, which included children. There was simply no time to go back to school. In 2020, with the future I was facing before me, it sounded like a great idea. </p><p>I searched online for accredited and reputable online, fully electronic programs. I wanted a program that I could do in my own time, in my own home, whenever I had time, and wherever I could. I found a few, but the one I ended up with was through Northern Arizona University. They had a program of business that fit my needs and wants perfectly. It was competency-based and entirely online. In a moment of determination, I applied to the college and then sat back and waited. I had not been in school for 25 years and was not confident I would get in. After all, I'm not 18, and I don't have SATs or ACTS behind me. I did, however, get in. Surprise! After some frustration trying to obtain my transcript from my associate's degree, I was set up to begin university. </p><p>I was excited. I could do this. I'm a writer, a published writer, after all. I could do this! I'm sorry to say I almost could NOT do this. The program had classes that you must take, just like any college. Within those classes are specific lessons that must be learned. In each lesson, you must complete and pass with a grade no lower than 86 an assignment, an exam, and an essay. I did well on the assignments and the exams. I didn't have any issues there. The essays, however, were a significant bump in the road. When I was in high school, we didn't have essays. We had extended response. We had complete sentence structures. We had reports. I assumed incorrectly that a report was the same as an essay. Wow. I was so wrong. No worries, I'm a writer. I could figure this out. I'm not going to lie. It was not easy. After some serious frustration, a lot of tears, and driving my husband up the wall, I finally figured it out. That first semester almost did me in. I was passing exams with flying colors. I was doing assignments with ease and even some enjoyment. I was reading and learning, which was great! The essays, well, they were the reason I came really, incredibly close to quitting. So close that I contacted my counselor to ask if my credits were transferrable. It was a rough period. I had a professor send me a harsh message saying that as the program was based on a lot of essays, I needed to really think hard about whether or not I should be in it. That hurt. It about broke my spirit. </p><p>So, after more tears and angry frustration, I decided I had to ask for help. My husband, thankfully, explained how an essay works. What the ingredients for an essay are. How to format. How to get evidence and cite things properly. I needed a serious lesson on how to write an essay. Once I felt better about the issue, I drafted and passed a rewrite of my failed essays. I shed more tears over that, more in relief than anything else at that point. I don't know how many essays I wrote throughout my college career, but I feel it was close to 120. I can now say I am pretty darn awesome at essay writing. </p><p>I began my program in February 2020, and as we know, Covid hit in March 2020. The world shut down for many people. Mine did not. I continued to work full-time, in the office, for the entirety of the pandemic. I put in my hours at work, and then I would spend another 30+ hours a week on schoolwork. On average, I completed 24 credit hours each semester and was able to complete a four-year degree in two years and seven months. If I had understood the essays from the get-go, it would have been even faster, as that first semester was slow. </p><p>The college experience helped me to survive the tiny dancer going off to college at Purdue. I was so busy with schoolwork I didn't miss the crazy schedule of dance. It helped get me through the horrible days of sadness with my children all grown and flown. It kept my mind busy instead of lonely. I am so grateful to have started that program, and not going to lie, I am so glad (relieved) to be done. I now have an associate degree in paralegal studies, and as of December 16, 2022, I have a Bachelor of Science in Business with an emphasis on Human Resources with a minor in Computer Information Technology. That's how I survived the pandemic and how I survived my drop into an empty nest. </p><p>Now, what will 2023 bring? We will wait and see.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46LFXR2Vtj6OxGX5AGna8J2V2Qbl1bha0kUmYLSN-WgB5oOw8BqrCMrgSHO42Ee_T9Vy7-6UjhOuPXC_z1vEoJEdW6okMMRRZLxGxt-PeqozfwxkC4Sv1vCYS5Gm5mL988MyBRDJ2yz3sTBzlixQ7x5PJBh1kFwouTqbR-atTCEbgQKUFUtdrOjYe/s640/NAU.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46LFXR2Vtj6OxGX5AGna8J2V2Qbl1bha0kUmYLSN-WgB5oOw8BqrCMrgSHO42Ee_T9Vy7-6UjhOuPXC_z1vEoJEdW6okMMRRZLxGxt-PeqozfwxkC4Sv1vCYS5Gm5mL988MyBRDJ2yz3sTBzlixQ7x5PJBh1kFwouTqbR-atTCEbgQKUFUtdrOjYe/s320/NAU.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-36781026400884280052022-05-26T16:01:00.001-07:002022-05-27T14:09:20.883-07:00Fresno Farmer's Market<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uo4LzhvYJOYiPlolBh7YWxmrlGrxOiLHf61a1_LnrjI1R4YRjjcAuuDeyZ6XZxOg8PuVO0KHr8eE24fBCgJM2K6ZHF4zjluG5lLLG95nRsi7-Duq_yy201YDxEYbmz4yrui33HYqtoQ3fyooIPwaJR2kHguffFf_ueKyBpsUwZHNC4PiKid6Slip/s3264/35BDF9F5-C2FD-4C09-88BB-5DEB64F6ADDA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5uo4LzhvYJOYiPlolBh7YWxmrlGrxOiLHf61a1_LnrjI1R4YRjjcAuuDeyZ6XZxOg8PuVO0KHr8eE24fBCgJM2K6ZHF4zjluG5lLLG95nRsi7-Duq_yy201YDxEYbmz4yrui33HYqtoQ3fyooIPwaJR2kHguffFf_ueKyBpsUwZHNC4PiKid6Slip/w240-h300/35BDF9F5-C2FD-4C09-88BB-5DEB64F6ADDA.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Welcome to Spring 2022!</b></p><p>Now that the world is starting to reopen since March 2020, I have decided to rejoin it by getting back out and about with events. This Saturday, May 28, 2022, is opening day for the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/fresnofarmersmarket/" target="_blank">Fresno Farmers Market</a>. I along with fellow author and friend, Becca Besser, will be there for the opening day's events. Check back here for future date of attendance for this event as I plan on taking part in the the market at least once a month through September 2022. </p><p>Here is a quick excerpt from their page:</p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Rebecca Besser is a graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature and is a member of the International Thriller Writers. Her most notable credits are a short story in an anthology published by Atria Books (Simon & Schuster), a nonfiction article about skydiving for children for NY assessment testing (McGraw Hill), and a children’s poem in an early reader (Oxford University Press India). She is best known for her works of adult horror, especially zombie and organ harvesting, but has been published in the areas of nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and children’s. She will be signing/selling books and homemade cross stitch bookmarks.</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 py34i1dx" href="https://rebeccabesser.wordpress.com/?fbclid=IwAR09G8IB9O8DlX6lfeC-3xy8jAaJHb60iAr6fZaV6FrdUWXayegTvFSfdWM" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank"><i>https://rebeccabesser.wordpress.com/</i></a></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Amazon: <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 py34i1dx" href="https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Besser/e/B004V3IIC4?fbclid=IwAR2nsH4Ky0zSlGkjX7SLGe4kvQVZ7u87Y-shAs29675zsNMoUHmN5YaobU4" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/Rebecca-Besser/e/B004V3IIC4</a></span></i></span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Courtney Rene is a graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature. She mainly writes young adult books in the paranormal genre with contemporary, fantasy, and alter dimensional themes. She hopes to break into the mystery genre soon. She will be signing/selling books, and will be attending intermittently throughout the summer, but will be there opening day!</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 py34i1dx" href="https://ctnyrene.blogspot.com/?fbclid=IwAR0KU0j8zMVmpuO5xilOWH_SfpkrNDGEeAgqEFg5_YqfKfmcWRRlNcvwiIo" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank"><i>https://ctnyrene.blogspot.com/</i></a></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Amazon: <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl gpro0wi8 py34i1dx" href="https://www.amazon.com/Courtney-Rene/e/B004X6SS2Y?fbclid=IwAR03GNhd9mq4CzAjDkpSTM6Jmid6klk427TLO88qV4E3s6wl3gmkkateANk" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com/Courtney-Rene/e/B004X6SS2Y</a></span></i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">It looks to be a lovely day with lots of fun things to see. If you come out, be sure to stop over and say hello, pick up from free swag, and maybe a new book or two to read. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Stay tuned, as there are several exciting updates that I will be making over the next few months, including...a new release on the way. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div></div><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-19828399247658439582021-04-13T07:38:00.013-07:002021-04-14T09:59:15.596-07:00Sci-Fi Thriller: COLD<p>I am generally, just your average paranormal fantasy writer. However, I stepped outside my box to write the book COLD. This is a Sci-fi thriller book that steps into many realms, including paranormal, mystery thriller, and new adult. I began this book as a stand alone story, but realized once I got to know the characters that no, it would end up being a series. Book Two in the Elements Series is in the works. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLq5FZcYuSdx8IyXqktWW6G0yvwQB7KZh65BKqNNEU8-MpAzggCiHhCfajl_xYhV_TpU5JJ64guwcqrq-cf2LCy1fVhm3aNO4KRCdOu28QEfiT1DiF9qDQ0Z5re4Vy5Hn5QrqokFyjJc/s1800/BANNER-Cold.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1082" data-original-width="1800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLq5FZcYuSdx8IyXqktWW6G0yvwQB7KZh65BKqNNEU8-MpAzggCiHhCfajl_xYhV_TpU5JJ64guwcqrq-cf2LCy1fVhm3aNO4KRCdOu28QEfiT1DiF9qDQ0Z5re4Vy5Hn5QrqokFyjJc/s320/BANNER-Cold.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Where to find this book: </p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Cold-Elements-Book-Courtney-Rene-ebook/dp/B07KTBF7S5/ref=sr_1_7?dchild=1&keywords=Courtney+Rene&qid=1618324474&sr=8-7" target="_blank">Amazon</a> </p><p><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cold-courtney-rene/1130039309?ean=2940161279533" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></p><p><a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Courtney_Rene_Cold?id=Sx-BDwAAQBAJ" target="_blank">Google Books</a> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-54242036124434081352018-07-23T07:55:00.000-07:002018-07-23T07:55:10.692-07:00New Release - Feathers<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6GdojFuTZRvzWkufro-Q6Kzt18iD4blaBHuyYIlpKBnRM47qvGKLqoHB-sWbqZ3KxxDQI8IzsHzopu8l3c9xn_jA5z8jTkOwQ7dyu6t2n5aQEBFtHzLMyLIbJ1iWJxs2DVYnpBEwjIs/s1600/COVER-Feathers-front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1038" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6GdojFuTZRvzWkufro-Q6Kzt18iD4blaBHuyYIlpKBnRM47qvGKLqoHB-sWbqZ3KxxDQI8IzsHzopu8l3c9xn_jA5z8jTkOwQ7dyu6t2n5aQEBFtHzLMyLIbJ1iWJxs2DVYnpBEwjIs/s320/COVER-Feathers-front.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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Feathers, by Courtney Rene</div>
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My latest books is on it's way to final publication. Look for it on August 1, 2018. It will be available in both print and electron formats at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, through the publisher, Rogue Phoenix Press, and other fine book retailers. <br />
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Look for it August 1 2018</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-12127631418381105192017-12-05T00:05:00.000-08:002017-12-05T00:05:08.201-08:00Once Upon A Christmas Moon - Blog Tour Stop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just in time for the holidays, I bring you, Once Upon a Christmas Moon, an Anthology of love, pets, and the holidays. As with most tours I host, the authors of this book will be giving away <span style="background-color: white;">a copy of their previous anthologies: A Valentine Anthology, A St. Patrick's Day Tale and A May Day Anthology, to three randomly drawn commenters. </span></span><br />
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; position: relative !important;">
Title: Once Upon a Christmas Moon</div>
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Authors: Christine Young, C. L. Kraemer, Genie Gabriel</div>
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ISBN: ebook: 978-1-62420-369-5 POD: 978-1979071093</div>
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Genre: Anthology/Roamnce/Fantasy</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 1</div>
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Buy at: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Once-Upon-Christmas-Christine-Young/dp/1979071098/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1511032006&sr=8-1&keywords=once+upon+a+christmas+moon" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Amazon</a></div>
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<b><u>TAGLINE</u></b></div>
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A collection of stories about the magic of romance at Christmas time.</div>
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<b><u>BLURBS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><b>TWELVE DAYS TO LOVE</b></span></div>
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When Archer Steele shows up at Calanthe Durand's failing plantation with</div>
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an alligator over his shoulder, Cali thinks she's never seen a more</div>
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handsome man. During the war she had to defend herself and her servants</div>
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from both union and confederate soldiers. Independent and</div>
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self-sufficient, she vows to never marry. But Archer Steele has</div>
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different ideas. The first time Archer sees Cali in town, he feels an</div>
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instant attraction. He decides he will do everything and anything to</div>
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convince the beautiful Miss Durand he is worthy of her love. During the</div>
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weeks leading up to Christmas, he gives her twelve gifts in hopes she</div>
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will fall in love with him.</div>
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<b>BOOTS AND BLADES</b></div>
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An ancient evil from the old country has arrived in the high desert of</div>
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Oregon. Gnome children are vanishing then re-appearing, showing various</div>
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stages of traumatization. Tiamoon, warrior gnome, will put her skills to</div>
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use alongside Killian, a handsome warrior, also in need of a cause.</div>
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<b>CHRISTMAS PAWSIBILITIES</b></div>
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With their world destroyed and their space ship malfunctioning, the</div>
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dogizens of Planet Canid have little choice but to crash land on Earth.</div>
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They face tortuous experiments at the hands of the Geeks in Green...or</div>
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they can trust an eccentric inventor and his zany family to deliver the</div>
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Canine Queen's puppies and help them celebrate new lives.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><b><u>EXCERPTS</u></b>: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Once Upon a Christmas Moon</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><b>Twelve Days to Love</b></span></div>
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<b>by, Christine Young</b></div>
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<i>Near New Orleans October 2,1867</i></div>
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“Sam! Close the shutters on the back landing. I’ll get the front. Hurry. There’s a storm coming.” Calanthe Durand felt the small hairs on the back of her neck rise and shivers run down her spine. A big storm was on its way, probably a hurricane. Energy and fear poured through her like the pounding rain and flooding that accompanied high winds. Closing the house to the storm was imperative.</div>
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Cali took a moment to smile. She’d heard Sam grunt. He didn’t talk much, but she wouldn’t have survived the war or these last two years without Sam and his daughter Daisy. Both sides, the North and the South, had occupied their home. Daisy and Sam were family, the only family she had. She’d do whatever was necessary to protect them. Even with emancipation, life wasn’t easy for blacks in the south.</div>
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“I’ve got them, Miss Cali.” Daisy rushed past her and out the door. Wind whipped her hair and tugged at her dress. Branches torn from trees landed on the porch.</div>
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Cali followed, the storm swirling around her, her hair beating against her face. Her breath was ragged, and fast as her heart thundered. She pushed and tugged at her skirt, trying to detangle the fabric from her legs. “Get inside!” The tempest raging around them swallowed her voice.</div>
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“Not until we’re finished here.” Daisy fastened a shutter before moving on to the next one.</div>
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They worked together to protect the windows from the storm on the raised porch which stood five feet off the ground as wind howled around the eaves. A steady rain poured from the black sky, and lightning slashed the darkness.</div>
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Cali pushed dripping strands of hair that had slipped from her chignon away from her face. “I’ll light the candles. It could get dark here pretty fast.”</div>
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“Horses and livestock are safe for now.” Sam stepped beside her. “Hope it’s not a big one.”</div>
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“Hello up there. Hello, bonjour, anyone home?”</div>
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Hearing the voice from below, Cali left the protection of the house to lean over the porch railing. Below her a man stood, with cupped hands to his mouth and a dead gator slung over one shoulder a quiver filled with arrows on the other. “Hello. Can I get shelter from the hurricane?”</div>
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“Don’t know if it’s a hurricane.” Terrified of unknown men, Cali didn’t want to do the charitable thing. She pursed her lips, thinking, but all that came to surface was memories of troops commandeering her home. Good lord but she’d had to hollow out a bedpost to hide her jewelry. The soldiers had taken everything they could see. Sometimes she felt as if the war had ripped her soul from her body.</div>
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“Maybe not a hurricane. Could be just a bad storm, but I don’t want to be on the swamp right now. The water’s rising.” A loud roar and a thunderclap followed his pause. Behind him an old Cyprus tree crashed to the ground, uprooted by the wind.</div>
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“You can take shelter in the stable.” Cali watched his back stiffen, while she swallowed hard, but she wasn’t about to back down. The stable was good enough for some wandering man who she owed nothing. Besides, there was a tack room with a bed. No one slept there anymore, but she kept it clean and the moss in the mattress was fresh. Daisy had rolled it out two days ago. Yet a small niggling in the back of her head kept telling her this wasn’t a traveling man but one of means. He was a man she should treat as a gentleman. She’d been taught better but the war had changed all that and the lessons she learned were not served to her with a silver spoon.</div>
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“Much obliged.” He nodded before turning toward the barn. His natural swagger and broad shoulders sent a different kind of sensation through her. Warmth swept inside, swirling within and heating her frozen heart. For a moment he looked back, a strange expression on his well-chiseled face.</div>
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<b>Boots and Blades</b></div>
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<b>C.L. Kraeme</b>r</div>
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<em>High Desert, Central Oregon</em></div>
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Killian stared at the rise of rock from the desert floor. The emerging sun tricked the sky into revealing pink and blue streamers across the horizon exposing the severe lines of craggy mountains. Pine trees scented the air, and the slightest hint of sage tickled his nose.</div>
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“Where are they disappearing to? They’re much too young to be running away.”</div>
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“Master Killian?”</div>
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The young man turned his blue gray eyes from the mountain to answer. “Yes, Ms. Luna. What can I do for you?”</div>
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“Are you sitting out here at this early hour worrying about the young ones?” Luna’s black hair was braided down her back and she sported a shawl bright with her clan’s colors. She handed the young man a steaming cup of coffee. “I hope you don’t mind black. I’ve yet to milk the goat.”</div>
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Killian flashed her a seldom seen smile. “Ms. Luna, you make the best coffee in the desert. Black is fine.”</div>
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Taking up a spot next to him on the porch, she turned her attention to the mountains admiring the soft colors of rose and tan springing to life in the morning sun. “What is it that haunts you so?”</div>
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“The illogicality of it all.”</div>
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“Aye, I figured that. It is indeed illogical. The children are too responsible to leave unannounced, yet they are snatched from their beds in the middle of the night with no clues.”</div>
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Killian sipped the wicked black brew and allowed the liquid to spike his taste buds. The brilliant light of a new day was caressing the landscape and warming the air. “The kinders disappearing are not inclined to run off. </div>
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They are the eldest and most reliable. These missings make no sense. They don’t happen in the same area or at the same time. They’re completely arbitrary and being so—random—has given me pause to find a method. If I were to discover a pattern, the recovery would be simpler.”</div>
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Luna watched the anguish distort his handsome young face. His blue eyes clouded to a dark grey when he spoke of the missing children, and his normally full mouth stretched to a tight slash across his face.</div>
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“I don’t wish to sound cruel, but none of these are young ones of your own family. Why take their absence to heart?”</div>
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Killian relaxed his scowl a bit, and a smile began to touch his lips. “Because it is they who will be the leaders of our clans in but a few short years. I had hoped to retire my sword someday to warm my boots by a fire. Having a mate and young ones around isn’t such a bad idea.”</div>
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He automatically sipped his dark brew. <em>It would indeed be nice to warm my feet by a fire with a mate and children. The problem being I’ve found no person who makes me think in such terms.</em></div>
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“Well, I must admit, Master Killian, I never would have thought you to be the settling type.” She picked up his cup, returning from the kitchen minutes later with fresh coffee in the container.</div>
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“Neither had I, Ms. Luna, neither had I, however, aside from our missing young ones, there has been no conflict between the clans, nor have the Others tried to interfere in our affairs in a very long time. It is a good thing for many but for me, what good is a warrior without a war?”</div>
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Luna could only agree with his forlorn assessment; what good, indeed, was a warrior without a war? “Maybe a solution will arrive in the near future. You never know.”</div>
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Killian shrugged his shoulders. Who knew indeed?</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><b>Christmas Pawsibilities</b></span></div>
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<b>by Genie Gabriel</b></div>
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“So where is this alien craft?”</div>
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Fletcher had never completely trusted Commander Viktor Atrocitor. Since he had taken command of GIG two years ago, the atmosphere at the agency had become cold and suspicious, like the man himself. He seemed carved from six and a half feet of granite, blocky and scowling.</div>
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“It has disappeared.” Fletcher knew this statement would draw Atrocitor’s ire and disdain, but what was the use of denying the obvious?</div>
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“Fool! Can you do nothing right?” Atrocitor turned to the GIG agents waiting at a wary distance. “Search the neighborhood. Someone must have seen something or is hiding them.”</div>
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While Atrocitor berated Fletcher, other GIG agents spread throughout the neighborhood, offending pretty much everyone by demanding they stay in their houses while their property was overrun and searched.</div>
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After two hours of fruitless searching, Commander Atrocitor called a halt. “If you want to save your career and this town, you will bring me these aliens within twenty-four hours.”</div>
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As Fletcher watched the caravan of GIG vehicles disappear down the road out of Watermark, he felt like a six-year-old kid again. Bullied and humiliated for his belief that beings from distant galaxies simply wanted to explore and build alliances. They weren’t like aliens in movies who wanted to destroy humanity.</div>
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That’s why Fletcher started working at Geeks in Green. He thought he found other humans like himself who believed alliances with aliens could benefit everyone. Now he was starting to believe the rumors about Commander Atrocitor being heartless and determined to eliminate aliens were true. How could he know for sure?</div>
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His thoughts were interrupted when Agnes staggered out the back door toward the barn. “Who’s disturbing my goats?”</div>
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With her hair disheveled and her clothes askew, she did indeed look as if she had spent a raucous night of partying—the after-effects of being zapped by a ray gun.</div>
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Laycee and Fletcher followed Agnes into the barn, where the spacecraft was once again visible. Now the hatch was open, with guards standing on either side pointing ray guns at Agnes, Laycee and Fletcher.</div>
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“Holy extraterrestrial!”</div>
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With a sizzle of purple, one of the alien guards fired his gun and Fletcher crumpled to the ground.</div>
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“Why did you do that?” Ryan hustled out of the spacecraft.</div>
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“He is of GIG,” one of the guards stated. “He is a danger to our Queen.”</div>
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“Is he dead?” Ryan knelt over Fletcher’s inert body.</div>
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“Simply stunned. We will revive him when the danger to our Queen is gone.” The two guards loaded Fletcher onto a transport board, which levitated and moved inside the spacecraft.</div>
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“Your mouth isn’t moving but I can hear your words.” Laycee’s shocked whisper matched the stunned expression in her eyes.</div>
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“Our Canine Queen is birthing and is not to be disturbed.” This time the alien’s mouth moved as he spoke, and he looked like any other human except for a twinkle of star light in his eyes. “Weren’t you getting milk for the royal puppies?”</div>
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“Yes.” Ryan refocused his attention on this task, determined to ignore Laycee’s presence. What was she doing here anyway? “Agnes, do you have milk from your goats?”</div>
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“My goats don’t much like to be milked.”</div>
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“Surely it can’t be that difficult,” Ryan said.</div>
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Agnes lifted an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to try. I’ll get a clean bucket.”</div>
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Determined to get milk for the Queen’s puppies, Ryan began stalking one of the goats.</div>
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“I think it should be a female,” Laycee said.</div>
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Ryan felt like a first grader again. “I knew that.”</div>
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Laycee coughed behind her hand to cover her laughter. “There’s a girl goat on top of the space ship.”</div>
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Ryan looked up the curved, smooth surface. “Maybe there’s another girl somewhere easier to reach.”</div>
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He stepped around the space ship and over the boards broken when the craft crashed through the roof. “There’s a girl! Help me get her into a stall.”</div>
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“Um-kay.”</div>
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While Ryan circled around the nanny goat one way, Laycee closed in on her from the other side. The little goat narrowed her eyes at the humans and, when they were within a couple feet of her, she let out a bleat and ran between Ryan’s legs. Startled, he stumbled and dropped to one knee.</div>
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“Watch out!” Laycee’s shout made Ryan turn in time to see an irritated male goat charging toward him.</div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR BIOS</u></b></div>
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<b>Christie L. Kraemer Bio</b></div>
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A traveler for most of her life, C. L. Kraemer has settled in the Northwest with her husband and two cats. When not creating a new world or entity, she likes riding next to her husband on their Harleys.</div>
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<b>Genie Gabriel Bio</b></div>
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Fur against my face and the soft smell of a dog curled protectively around me existed before my first memories of this life. So began my journey of being more in tune with animals than with people.</div>
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I went through the expected motions of marriage, kids, divorce, and career, but usually out of step with most of the human population. This proved to be an advantage in developing an independence and a curiosity about things most people don’t even consider.</div>
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A minor health issue led to energy healing and becoming a master level Reiki practitioner. Working at the local animal shelter flipped on the switch to communicating with animals. Each dog I adopted showed miraculous changes most people couldn’t believe.</div>
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As a writer, I explored the mysteries of why people behave as they do, and also became fascinated by science, especially quantum physics. But perhaps my favorite way of writing stories is to ask the question, “What if?” and dive into those imagined worlds—surrounded by my beloved furbabies, of course!</div>
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<b>Christine Young Bio</b></div>
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Born in Medford, Oregon, novelist Christine Young has lived in Oregon all of her life. After graduating from Oregon State University with a BS in science, she spent another year at Southern Oregon State University working on her teaching certificate, and a few years later received her Master's degree in secondary education and counseling. Now the long, hot days of summer provide the perfect setting for creating romance. She sold her first book, <em>Dakota's Bride</em>, the summer of 1998 and her second book, My<em> Angel</em> to Kensington. Her teaching and writing careers have intertwined with raising three children. Christine's newest venture is the creation of Rogue Phoenix Press. Christine is the founder, editor and co-owner with her husband. They live in Salem, Oregon.</div>
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<b><u>KEYWORDS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Christmas, anthology, romance, fantasy, adventure, mystery</span></div>
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<b><u>SOCIAL LINKS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Rogue’s Angels</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Blog: </span><a href="http://roguesangels.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://roguesangels.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/roguesangels" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/roguesangels</a></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; position: relative !important;">
Christine Young</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website: </span><a href="http://christineyoungromancewriter.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://christineyoungromancewriter.com/</a></div>
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Blog: <a href="http://christineyoung-romancewriter.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://christineyoung-romancewriter.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Christine-Young-350132315013316/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/Christine-Young-350132315013316/</a></div>
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Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/achristay" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/achristay</a></div>
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Pinterest: <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/chrisy/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.pinterest.com/chrisy/</a></div>
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BookBub: <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/profile/christine-young-5a991c21-1f11-47a0-ada5-6c2e6b689cbe" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.bookbub.com/profile/christine-young-5a991c21-1f11-47a0-ada5-6c2e6b689cbe</a></div>
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Instagram: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/achristay/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.instagram.com/achristay/</a></div>
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Google +: <a href="https://plus.google.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://plus.google.com</a></div>
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C. L. Kraemer</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website: </span><a href="http://www.clkraemer.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://www.clkraemer.com/</a></div>
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Blog: <a href="http://mistressoftheredinkpen.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://mistressoftheredinkpen.blogspot.com</a></div>
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Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/christie.kraemer" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/christie.kraemer</a></div>
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Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/kraemerc" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://twitter.com/kraemerc</a></div>
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Genie Gabriel</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website URL: </span><a href="http://www.geniegabriel.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">www.GenieGabriel.com</a></div>
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Blog URL: <a href="http://quantumcanines.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://quantumcanines.blogspot.com</a></div>
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Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/genene.valleau" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/genene.valleau</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-16830623014766001342017-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:002017-11-21T00:01:07.640-08:00Love Sick Love, by D. A. Cairns - Blog Tour Stop<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important;">
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Happy Thanksgiving Week! The holiday season is official upon us. I intend to eat until my pants are uncomfortably tight and then sleep the afternoon away. I love this season of food. I don't care all that much about the presents, but the food? Bring it on! </div>
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So with the season of giving (and food) in mind, this week I'd like to welcome D. A. Cairns to my blog with his new release, Love Sick, Love. He will be GIVING AWAY: one digital copy of this new book to one lucky commentor, so be sure to say hello and welcome David to my blog. </div>
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Title: Love Sick Love</div>
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Author: D. A. Cairns</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-340-4</div>
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Genre: Family Life / Marriage & Divorce</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 4 (contains a scene of rape)</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble</span></div>
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<b><u>TAGLINE</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Lovesick is a brutally honest and confronting story of love, sexual obsession and hope.</span></div>
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<b><u>BLURB</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Angus has battled an obsession with sex throughout his adult life. Although outwardly a model husband and father with a respectable life and a well-paying job, he has a shameful secret life which he has become highly skilled at hiding.</span></div>
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Cassy is married to Angus and has no idea about his secret life. In fact, with her own worries she has been pulling away from him, emotionally and physically which is making his behaviour worse. Although she does not know it, Cassy is fanning the flames of an inferno which threatens to destroy their marriage.</div>
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Lovesickness: the eternal bane of humanity, the inescapable affliction which we simultaneously crave and fear. For Angus and Cassy, already in the thirteenth year of their marriage, the painful journey to true happiness has only just began.</div>
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Lovesick is a brutally honest and confronting story of love, sexual obsession and hope.</div>
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<b><u>EXCERPT</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">She seems agitated, and although I know she is a nervy, jittery type of character, I sense heightened tension on this occasion and naturally so. I feel it too. She’s watching me furtively as I return to her with a schooner of beer in my hand. I offer it to her, and she smiles. Her actions are quick but indecisive. As I settle, I detect reticence.</span></div>
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“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Is this spot all right?”</div>
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Her nodding head juxtaposes her words. “Maybe over there is better.”</div>
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As she scurries to the other side of the room, I follow, exploding with anticipation. She sits in one chair, then moves before I can join her, and I’m just about to sit down when she moves again.</div>
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“Are we playing musical chairs?”</div>
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The meaning of the question, and its allusion to childhood games eludes her, and by the time I have settled she’s moved again and is now sitting on a stool directly in front of me. Our knees almost touch, and she leans forward, wide eyed as though she has something exciting to say. I wait, but she retracts, averts her eyes, then quickly glances back to me.</div>
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“Talk to me,” I say. “What’s on your mind?”</div>
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I study her face and note her blemishes and the lines which quietly assert her maturity. She’s in her late thirties, thirty-eight maybe, but she looks younger. Her expression changes rapidly through numerous emotional displays, but I can’t read anything except uncertainty. She wants to speak, but either won’t or can’t.</div>
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“I want to be with you. You like me too, so there is nothing to stop us,” I say.</div>
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“Except you are married.”</div>
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There is no conviction in her tone. No reproach. It is a statement of fact, which is perhaps not as meaningless to her as it is to me.</div>
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“Okay,” I say, cautiously. I’m convinced if I play this right, I can seduce her and make her my secret lover. There is an element of moral ambivalence. “Let me explain why I am chasing you when I’m married.”</div>
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She looks away, and sips her beer. I have nearly finished, while her glass is nearly full. My head and heart are also beyond capacity, verging on chaotic inundation. I’m going to justify my adulterous intentions, or at least attempt to.</div>
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“My wife and I have been married for twenty years, and we’re friends. We get on well most of the time, but our marriage is really more like a business arrangement. We both work and have little time together. Time we do have is taken up with shopping, and cleaning and visiting, or arguing about money or our children. She’s unwell. Mentally. She’s been diagnosed with depression, but I think she’s bi polar as well. We’re often at odds over little things. She tends to be very negative and critical. She’s miserable actually, and at lot of the time she makes me miserable.”</div>
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With the painful realization I’m slandering the woman I love—or perhaps once loved— and have committed to spending the rest of my life with, I pause and take a mouthful of beer. Lying too, with frightening ease. Cassy isn’t sick and we haven’t been married for twenty years; not even close. Chao-xing’s watching me intently, fascinated I suspect. I don’t want to speak ill of my wife. Actually, I don’t want to talk about her at all, but some of this is necessary so Chao-xing will understand where I’m coming from, and not think badly of me. Adultery is a bad thing to do, but I’m not a bad person. I blame circumstances. Years of neglect and sexual frustration. I blame my wife though I would never say that out loud. I don’t want to blame her but am less inclined to blame myself. The uncomfortable truth is I can’t help myself. I’m out of control, but rationalization is a better option than accepting the facts.</div>
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“I need some fun and excitement and I need sex.”</div>
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Chao-xing is typically unruffled by my directness, but she moves seats again, shifting to my right where she reclines as though tired. She’s staring at me, examining me, interrogating me with her eyes.</div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR BIO</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Heavy metal lover and cricket tragic, D.A. Cairns lives in Darwin in Australia’s Northern Territory, where he works as an English language teacher and writes stories in his very limited spare time. He has had over fifty short stories published (but who’s counting, right?) He blogs at Square Pegs</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="http://dacairns.blogspot.com.au/" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://dacairns.blogspot.com.au</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">and has authored four novels, Devolution, Loathe Your Neighbor, Ashmore Grief, and A Muddy Red River which is also available from Rogue Phoenix Press.</span></div>
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<b><u>KEYWORDS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">love sick love, lovesickness, sexual addiction, obsession, divorce</span></div>
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<b><u>SOCIAL LIINKS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website URL: </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="http://dacairns.weebly.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://dacairns.weebly.com</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Blog URL:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="http://dacairns.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://dacairns.blogspot.com</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Facebook page: </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/devolution.dacairns" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/devolution.dacairns</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Twitter handle: @da_cairns</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-32797636440751384322017-11-07T00:01:00.000-08:002017-11-07T00:01:03.141-08:00Blog Tour - North of the Azores by Ruth Danes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Morning readers and friends of the page. Welcome to a new post and blog tour stop for the book, North of the Azores, a new release by author, Ruth Danes. As per-usual, with all the stops that I host for books, Ruth will give a digital copy of North of the Azores to one randomly drawn commenter.</div>
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Title: North of the Azores</div>
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Author: Ruth Danes</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-336-7</div>
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Genre: Historical Fiction</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 4</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble</span></div>
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<b><u>TAGLINE</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">A young princess is forced to choose a new life in an unfamiliar world where she finds adventure, friendship and love.</span></div>
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<b><u>BLURB</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">The year is 1780 and the Devil’s Isles, a group of islands in the North Atlantic Ocean, have recently been conquered by Britain after a brief war. The inhabitants of the Devil’s Isles practice magic and both human and animal sacrifice. Nebula, a young princess from the islands, struggles with this and is beginning to question what she has been taught.</span></div>
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Aware of a plot to kill everyone on the islands, Nebula defects to the British side where she takes on a new identity and a new life. Under the name Adeliza, she works in England as a maid for a Dr Moon. Only two men know her real identity; the kind-hearted doctor and the seemingly terrifying Mr Lastman.</div>
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<b><u>EXCERPT</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">I slept well and when I awoke I felt very weak but no longer ill. The doctor was present when I opened my eyes. He examined me, asked me some questions and gave me something to drink. Mr Lastman knocked and entered the room. Both men sat in front of me.</span></div>
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“Well, young lady, you are one of the lucky few who will be able to say you wore red lace and rubies and survived but we will have the truth now, if you please. Who are you?”</div>
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I looked at their solemn faces. There was no way I could lie anymore. I ran my tongue over my teeth to moisten my terror-dried mouth.</div>
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“My name is Nebula, I am a low princess from the Devil’s Isles and I am the last of the House of Beaumarch. I was given that name when the High Queen called me to her court when I was seven years old. I was born Adeliza and I turned thirteen in May.</div>
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“Every Islander knew about the plot to blow everything up on the night before the treaty was signed. I didn’t want to take part so I swam to the Mermaid and told all. I dressed as a boy, a boy from the streets of Arx, because I heard women are not well treated on ships and I needed to be disguised before I left land. I also recognised some of the men and knew they might have recognised me if I was dressed as a low princess.”</div>
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There was silence. I hung my head, my stomach churning and my palms sweating.</div>
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At last the doctor spoke. His voice was like granite.</div>
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“When you inhabited the Devil’s Isles, you and your ilk were responsible for the death and torture of many good, honest men and indeed, many good, honest women too. We all know the female royalty of that accursed race openly controlled everything that took place in that godforsaken land.</div>
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“As Gowther, you did indeed save many lives but your real motive was to save yourself, was it not? You could kill but you never had the courage to endure what you have inflicted on others. You also made an attempt to seriously injure Mr Lastman, and no, I do not want to hear it. You have repeated yourself many times stating you only wanted to escape and never meant to do any harm but you cannot be so stupid as to realize a face full of boiling soup is excruciatingly painful at best and deadly at worst. Besides, you should never have tried to escape in the first place. We all trusted you not to and you broke our trust.</div>
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“Finally, you wandered about the Mermaid when you knew you were ill, aye, maybe you did not know quite what ailed you, but you must have felt very ill for a good few hours before we saw your rash. The rash is never the first symptom of red lace and rubies. You knowingly spread that sickness and in doing so, you defied your captain, whose word is law on this ship, for a second time. It is impossible to know for sure but you can never clearly square the question with your conscience of would more men have been spared if you had obeyed your captain and reported your sickness immediately. Or was that part of your plan? A last attempt at causing mayhem and taking a few souls before being dispatched to Bristol and then to hell?”</div>
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Here he paused. I did not dare speak, I could only shake my head, trying desperately not to give way to the tears and the hysteria which were rising inside me.</div>
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The doctor resumed speaking in the same cold, hard voice.</div>
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“The orders that we received at Westmarnoch are clear. As soon as we dock at Bristol, you are to be handed over to the commissioners there, after which you are to be kept safe until you are hanged with as much pomp as possible in the heart of the city. We have docked at Bristol, with just over half of the men that set sail from here two years ago, and we will be released from quarantine tomorrow.</div>
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“Look at me, Adeliza.”</div>
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I forced myself to meet his gaze. His eyes were unforgiving but his voice had softened somewhat.</div>
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“That will not be your fate if you obey Mr Lastman and me.”</div>
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My heart seemed to stop and my face expressed the astonishment that my tongue could not. I scarcely dared believe my ears.</div>
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“Neither of us agree that anyone should be executed for who they are as opposed to what they have done. You have indeed committed many crimes but none that should be punished by death.</div>
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“Neither of us trust you, nor do we like you, but we are willing to save you.</div>
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“As you already know I am a doctor and a magistrate in a large village, a few days ride from Bristol, called Swanford. I am a bachelor but also a very busy man. On my return, I will take on two apprentice physicians and I will need a maid to help the man and woman who have been my servants for more than twenty years.</div>
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“If you swear to obey both Mr Lastman and me on anything and everything, I will take you back to Swanford with me to join my household as that maid. I will treat you as I have always treated my servants, with kindness but also with firmness. You will receive board and lodging along with anything else absolutely necessary until you are at least seventeen, at which point I <em>may</em> consider paying you wages. My word will be law and you will obey the upper servants, Mr and Mrs Dottey, as you will obey me. You will treat the apprentices with every respect and courtesy, as indeed you will treat everyone else with whom you come into contact.</div>
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“You will only ever speak, read and write English. You will make no attempt to escape your new life nor will you ever speak of your past life. We will think of some story and stick with it.</div>
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“You will stay within my household until you turn one-and-twenty. After this point you are free to leave my service <em>if</em> I believe you to be harmless. If you give any reason to cause either of us any worry, you will regret it. Neither of us are disposed to be merciful twice and you might remember the order for your execution stands until you die.”</div>
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I fell to my knees in gratitude and disbelief.</div>
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“Sir, I don’t know what to say… Thank you, thank you very, very much. I will be your maid and I will do whatever you say.”</div>
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The doctor nodded, satisfied but not softened. Mr Lastman snorted.</div>
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“I’ll believe you if you keep your word for the next eight years. Here.” He handed me a comb. “You might as well tackle the knots in your hair before you start your new life.”</div>
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I thanked him inarticulately but from the depths of my heart for his kindness as I took the comb but his coldness soon stopped my tongue. With a heavy heart, I realized nothing I could then say or do would change either man’s opinion of me and it was on their opinion of me and my behavior my life rested.</div>
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<b><u>Author Bio</u></b></div>
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Ruth Danes has enjoyed history and fiction since childhood and has travelled widely within three continents. These interests and experiences were the inspiration for the <em>Life on Another Island</em> series which is set in a world where many characters unexpectedly start new lives in foreign, sometimes seemingly hostile, lands.</div>
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Ruth currently lives in the heart of England and works in administration. Writing novels forms her secret life.</div>
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<b><u>KEYWORDS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Alternative history; historical thrillers; 18th century historical fiction; historical romances</span></div>
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Welcome to the blog tour stop of Greg Gildersleeve, with his new release, The Power Club. As with most of the blog tours I host, Greg will be giving one digital copy of his new book, The Power Club to one randomly drawn commenter. So as usual, please show Greg some love. </div>
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One quick note, in order to qualify, you must comment on the blogs along his tour. Sadly, an email won't do it. Sorry for any inconvenience. If you have any issues trying to comment on my blog, please let me know. I will help you out. Happy Reading!</div>
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So, without further ado:</div>
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Title: The Power Club</div>
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Author: Greg Gildersleeve</div>
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ISBN Ebook: 978-1-62420-359-6</div>
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ISBN POD: 978-1547113569</div>
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Genre: Mid-Grade, Sci-Fi Adventure</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 1</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Buy at:</span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075XT21TW/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=achristay-20&camp=1789&creative=9325&linkCode=as2&creativeASIN=B075XT21TW&linkId=66f3ce44c298bb1701723deeeeadc262" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank"> Amazon</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">, Barnes and Noble</span></div>
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<u><b>TAGLINE</b></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Some kids play piano. Some kids make hook shots. Some create darkness…or teleport…or fly. Damon has what ordinary kids want: a power. Ords have what he wants: freedom.</span></div>
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<b><u>BLURB</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Some kids play piano. Some kids make hook shots.</span></div>
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Some create darkness…or teleport…or fly.</div>
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Damon has what ordinary kids want: a power. Ords have what he wants: freedom.</div>
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If he joins a “special club,” he can use his powers more freely. But getting into a club isn’t easy, and joining one is just the beginning.</div>
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<u><b>EXCERPT</b></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Two agonizing days passed before Damon’s leg healed enough that he could walk into the Evanses’ backyard. He approached carefully.</span></div>
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“HEYDAMON.” Vee’s words ran together as he sped by. Damon looked left and right. He barely caught a glimpse of the super-fast kid.</div>
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“Glad ya made it.” Danner’s voice boomed from overhead. Damon looked up to see Danner towering at a height of fifteen feet.</div>
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Kyle waved to him from across the yard and turned to Denise—yes, Denise was there, after all. So was another girl. Ali Reeves lived up the street. She possessed one of the most coveted powers in the district: the ability to fly. Ali gracefully swooped above Danner’s head. He reached out to grab her with his massive hands, but she flitted higher, out of his reach.</div>
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Her long brown hair flowed over her face, partly masking an exhilarated smile. “You can’t catch me,” she teased.</div>
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“I can if I grow bigger,” Danner boomed, “but I wanna give ya a fair chance.”</div>
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“Oh, you’re so sweet.” She swooped down between his arms, mussed his hair, and took off again.</div>
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“Hey, Danner—catch me!” Vee ran circles around Danner’s tree trunk-size legs. Danner ignored him.</div>
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Damon, unsure what to do, walked over to Kyle, who called, “Hey, Denise. What am I going to do next?”</div>
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The blonde girl stood several feet away near the stoop of the back porch. Her arms were folded as if she were bored by it all, but when Kyle called her name, her face lit up. Then her eyes glazed over, and she did something Damon did not expect. She raised her arms to the sky.</div>
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...fft.</div>
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A football appeared in the air several feet above Denise and dropped into her arms. She held up the football and laughed nervously as if catching it were a great achievement.</div>
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“Where’d the football come from?” Damon asked.</div>
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“My room,” said Kyle, finally turning to acknowledge him. “I can now teleport things without seeing them if I know where they are.”</div>
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“Cool,” Damon replied. Everyone knew powers got stronger as kids grew up. “But how did Denise know what you were going to do?”</div>
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Kyle leaned closer. “Can you keep a secret—” He stopped himself and rolled his eyes at his own mistake. “Of course you can. You’re one of us now. Denise can see the future.”</div>
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A light turned on somewhere in the attic of Damon’s memory. The jar of peaches! Denise didn’t make him drop it. She predicted he would drop it. Damon felt badly for misjudging her. Trying to cover his embarrassment, he joked, “I wonder if she can see how I’ll do on my math test tomorrow.”</div>
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“A big fat F!” Denise yelled from the stoop.</div>
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Damon felt exposed. “She heard me?”</div>
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“Or she predicted you were going to say it.” Kyle smirked. “Don’t listen to half of what she says. She sometimes jokes about predicting our futures.” He reached out to Denise and clapped his hands.</div>
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She raised the football to throw it. “I predict Damon’s going to catch this one.” A blur rushed behind her and the football disappeared from her hand. “VEE!” she bellowed. “Give it back.”</div>
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“Stopmeifyoucan.” The voice came from everywhere, some syllables from halfway across the yard, others hitting Damon in the face. Twice the blur rushed right in front of him, nearly blowing him off his feet.</div>
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“Vee, stop it!” Denise shouted. “You’re getting carried away.”</div>
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The backyard spanned an area large enough to allow Vee to run around the perimeter, creating what appeared to be a blurry fence, boxing everyone in. He darted between Kyle and Damon, zoomed behind Denise, and circled Danner’s massive legs, creating a powerful wind which assaulted everyone from all sides.</div>
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The wind pushed Ali higher and higher. “Help me! Her arms and legs flailed about in the air.</div>
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Danner grew another five feet and reached out his hand. Ali grabbed his giant fingers and thumb and held on for dear life as he guided her back to the ground.</div>
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Still, Vee did not slow down.</div>
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“He’ll tire himself out eventually,” Kyle shouted over the wind storm.</div>
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Damon remembered something he’d learned in science class. “Won’t he burn himself?” he shouted back. “The friction—”</div>
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“He’s got a speed aura. Almost nothing can hurt him while he’s running.”</div>
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Another light went on in Damon’s brain. He knew how he could both impress the others and join in the fun. The timing would have to be just right. He carefully studied every object in the backyard and noted Vee’s pattern. At just the right moment, he exhaled.</div>
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<b><u>Author Bio</u></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLq34EEoA6sZhkySy9YomkcPDGXSgpbkVE7X6JjbkkyDT2I83b8PGic-Z2e_ufsR7D3Nvpo1gMdhOKs3LzX9GKwmaCWFrlTcN4ByYLVONBxdiP2d8n0-MP6RH5WqSeXGRy4zttgJTiMxA/s1600/Greg+Gildersleeve+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLq34EEoA6sZhkySy9YomkcPDGXSgpbkVE7X6JjbkkyDT2I83b8PGic-Z2e_ufsR7D3Nvpo1gMdhOKs3LzX9GKwmaCWFrlTcN4ByYLVONBxdiP2d8n0-MP6RH5WqSeXGRy4zttgJTiMxA/s320/Greg+Gildersleeve+photo.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Greg Gildersleeve grew up in the northwestern corner of Missouri, where comic books and science fiction caught his eye at an early age. In addition to writing, Greg teaches writing at an online university, and won the 2013 Publication Award at Johnson County Community College, Overland Park, KS. He earned a bachelor's degree in English from Missouri Western State University and a master's in English from the University of Missouri-Kansas City. His work has appeared in Show & Tell, Teenagers From the Future, The Teaching Professor, Faculty Focus, and the Grantham Blog. He lives in the Kansas City area, where he hangs around too many coffee shops, listens to classic and modern rock, and daydreams a lot.</div>
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<b><u>KEYWORDS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">super-powers, super-heroes, super-hero teams, mid-grade fiction</span></div>
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<b><u>SOCIAL LINKS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website URL: powerclubheroes.com</span></div>
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Blog URL: greggildersleeve.com</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-30109273495482444462017-09-12T00:01:00.000-07:002017-09-12T00:01:10.481-07:00Blacktop, by Terry Lloyd Vinson - Blog Tour Stop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This week, I'd like to welcome author, Terry Lloyd Vinson to my blog with his new release, BLACKTOP. Please note, that <span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Terry will give a digital copy of Blacktop to one randomly drawn commenter on his blog tour. If you are in to Sci-fi Horror/Thrillers, maybe you should check out this book. </span></div>
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Title: Blacktop</div>
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Author: Terry Lloyd Vinson</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-330-5</div>
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Genre: Horror</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 3</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Buy at:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Blacktop-Terry-Lloyd-Vinson-ebook/dp/B075BK2TBR/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1504646438&sr=1-1&keywords=Blacktop+by+terry+vinson" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Amazon</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">,</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/blacktop-terry-lloyd-vinson/1127053575?ean=2940158821776" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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Atop a dark, desolate stretch of blood-spattered West Texas asphalt, the road to survival will require the ultimate sacrifice. </div>
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<b><u>BLURB</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Blacktop is a terror-filled road-trip atop the dark, isolated back-roads of West Texas. Equal parts action/thriller and sci-fi/horror whodunit, it guides readers through a shock-filled maze, beginning with the hijacking of a commercial bus and concluding with a furious battle royale pitting the ultimate in extraterrestrial evil versus the few survivors of that initial abduction.</span></div>
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<b><u>EXCERPT</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">The commotion, and alien sounds reverberating from same, drew me, beckoned me back to the open door, so much so that by the time I stood on the bottom step looking out, I couldn’t recall even a trace of the actual movement that got me there. I might have considered, before better judgment kicked blatant stupidity’s ass, venturing out to obtain a better visual not so obscured by the latest in torrential downpours. In retrospect, it wasn’t at all necessary. I’d seen plenty,</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333px;">more </em><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">than enough, to fuel a lifetime of couch-trip counseling sessions. To describe it in the layman is damn near impossible, the closest I’ve managed is to say it was a scene written by</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Sid and Marty Krofft</em><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">, storyboarded by</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333px;">H.R. Giger</em><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">and directed by</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333px;">David Cronenberg. </em><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Sometime during the duration of what had begun as my private voyeur session, I’d felt but utterly ignored the presence of others peering over my shoulder from the higher steps. There were startled gasps, muttered curses and assorted grunts and groans that proceeded the turning of the Beast’s engine and subsequent revving, a few of which might’ve even been my own. This was due</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><em style="font-size: 13.3333px;">to</em><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">...</span></div>
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From no more than five or six yards away, Blake Carver’s limp form was being slung and swung about like a rag doll on a stick, the stick in question being the right arm of Deputy Olive-Oil, AKA Grimes, the fingers of the attached hand clenching and unclenching in a furious attempt to free itself from the once future king of porn’s thoroughly hollowed-out skull. As Stony’s lifeless corpse flopped and floundered, at one point spinning in a complete circle, head over heels and back a total of three times like a roulette wheel constructed of flesh and bone, the good deputy struggled mightily to free that wrecking ball disguised as a fist from the backside of his mutilated noggin.</div>
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It was, bat-shit crazy as it sounds, like watching a disgruntled angler try to free a snarled fishhook from the catch of a lifetime, as in ‘the one that got away’. Only, poor Stony hadn’t been so lucky. In his haste to avoid death, Blake had apparently ran smack dab into the King Kong of right hooks. Bony build aside, it seemed the good Deputy possessed some seriously hazardous punching power. As disturbing as watching Blake’s faceless husk being flung and jostled about was, it was no better than a child’s boo-scare compared to his killer’s verbal frustration in being unable to free her submerged appendage. Frustration and something else; a wail of pure agony I could only equate with the highest order of regret.</div>
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Head tilted back, her mouth was pulled so wide I swear I could’ve chunked a regulation-sized basketball inside, the klaxon-like shriek that escaped was no more human or animal than the pulsating, orange-glow eyes or forked tongue, three, I swear I counted three separate prongs that accompanied its ear-splitting concerto. One final, ferocious jerk Grimes had paused to strategically plant the back of a booted foot at the corpse’s lower back for leverage sent the body sailing overhead, spinning into the distance with arms and legs failing and giving the temporarily illusion of life. The ruin that had been Blake Carver landed with a loud crash atop the Deputy’s parked cruiser, what little that had remained intact above his shoulders bursting apart like a rotted Jack-O-Lantern while splintering the windshield dead center.</div>
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Call me a cracked egg, no denying it at this stage, but my initial thought at seeing Stony’s headless corpse splayed across that powder-blue hood was that the adult industry’s loss was gonna be decent society’s gain. Cruel I know, but apparently my subconscious was large and in-charge and not at all in the mood to mince words. As for that aforementioned hodgepodge of gasps and groans only partially overheard from over my shoulder, what little dialogue was identifiable went something <em>like</em>…</div>
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“Sweet Jesus, did she just…boss, w-what the fu…” cried Wesley Muncie.</div>
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“As I’d stated most vehemently, old friend, this very second is the time to vamoose,” replied Malcom Gentry, seemingly on the verge of hysteria-driven tears.</div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR BIO:</u></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQi9myMcYJSSKixkah4Y8lXH3BY9IFInBxTAoPjpBZT-wWJTlqAFZ0xmGrF2XxdN0uNSeecJLK_JnQB_P34HU-r-kkCv6_ZgqmJNsFmTXoKcDVCI-2le4FAfc8o4KHmV9b8keZiQhUPg/s1600/terrypic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkQi9myMcYJSSKixkah4Y8lXH3BY9IFInBxTAoPjpBZT-wWJTlqAFZ0xmGrF2XxdN0uNSeecJLK_JnQB_P34HU-r-kkCv6_ZgqmJNsFmTXoKcDVCI-2le4FAfc8o4KHmV9b8keZiQhUPg/s320/terrypic.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Born and raised in Northern Alabama, Terry Lloyd Vinson is an Air Force veteran and former corrections officer who is the author of over a dozen published novels. Having previously resided in five states and overseas, he currently homesteads in Nashville with his wife Liza and their canine pal, Dexter.</div>
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<b><u>KEYWORDS</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Road-trip, horror, Texas, back-roads, flood, apocalyptic landscapes</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><b><u>SOCIAL LIINKS</u></b></span></div>
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<strong style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website URL: </strong><a href="http://www.authorsden.com/terrylvinson" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">www.authorsden.com/terrylvinson</a></div>
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<strong>Blog URL:</strong></div>
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<strong>Facebook page:</strong> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/terry.vinson.90" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/terry.vinson.90</a></div>
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<strong>Twitter handle: @</strong>Tagsmaniac</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-50496747275809933802017-08-29T00:01:00.000-07:002017-08-29T00:01:54.037-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Welcome to another week with an opportunity to win free books! This week I have author Christopher T. Werkman, on my blog with his new release, titled: Girlfriending. He will be giving away: A Digital Copy of Girlfriending to one of the many commentors along his blog tour. So, comment, say hello, you could just win a free book. </div>
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Title: Girlfriending</div>
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Author: Christopher T. Werkman</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-327-5</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Genre: Short Stories</span></div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 4</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Where to Buy:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B074V11W4K/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=achristay-20&camp=1789&creative=9325&linkCode=as2&creativeASIN=B074V11W4K&linkId=87825d94f053c6dc6adfdd3e14aa243d" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Amazon</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">,</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/girlfriending-christopher-t-werkman/1126984402?ean=2940158878602" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<u><b>TAGLINE</b></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Girlfriending is a collection of funny, sad, and occasionally bizarre stories of characters beginning, ending, or finding a way through some type of romantic relationship.</span></div>
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<u><b>BLURB</b></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">A detective known for bold courage on the job deals with mental and physical abuse by his trophy wife. A woman strives to overcome the PTSD she brought from battlefields in Iraq so she can become a loving partner. In the title story, a socially dysfunctional man “girlfriends” women he “meets” in obituaries. From liaisons that are real, to those that are imaginary or somewhere between, Christopher T. Werkman skillfully creates characters beginning, ending, or finding a way through some type of romantic relationship. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Girlfriending, Werkman’s collection of short stories, will fascinate, amuse, and astonish. Many of the stories are published in literary magazines and anthologies, but most appear only in this collection. His novel, Difficult Lies, was published in 2015.</span></div>
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<u><b>EXCERPT</b></u></div>
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The bottle danced an erratic jig. Otis saw it floating near the stern of Bubble Watcher as Andre backed the fifty-five footer into its mooring slip. Otis decided prop wash caused the motion, but even after Andre shut down the grumbling diesels, the clear-glass beer bottle continued to jiggle, bottom-end-up. While other divers off-loaded their gear, Otis watched the bottle continue to wiggle and bob amongst the Styrofoam cups, plastic bags and other harbor flotsam. He realized there had to be a creature hooked on a line tied to the bottle’s neck, engaged in an unending struggle for freedom. The work of bored teens, he figured. Bait the hook and toss it in the ocean—a floating gallows. Otis grabbed the gaff, climbed out of the cockpit and shuffled along the narrow deck-space between the cabin and the gunwale, hoping the bottle would come within reach.</div>
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“What’s up?” Andre called down from the flying bridge.</div>
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“Not sure,” Otis shouted back. He could snag anything inside ten or twelve feet, but the bottle was out of range. It submerged, then popped to the surface again. Whatever the line held was too small, or weakened, to take it under for long. “C’mere,” Otis hissed, in his raspy whisper. Instead, the bottle moved closer to the algae-coated jetty, green as ripe spinach. Just as Otis decided to get off the boat and try to recover the bottle from the pier’s walkway, it made a break for open water, giving Bubble Watcher wide berth.</div>
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Diving in to swim after it was Otis’ only option. He noticed a tampon applicator floating in the coffee-with-cream colored shore-water. A mile or so out to sea, he could count the planks in Bubble Watcher’s hull from a depth of a hundred feet, but in the marina, all manner of waste found its way into the water. Not only that, he had no idea what was hooked on the line. Getting bitten or being speared on the dorsal of a panicky fish was even less appetizing than a leap into the murky water. So, the bottle skittered away, leaving Otis as angry at his own inaction as he was with whoever set the trap.</div>
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He jumped down onto the main deck, stowed the gaff and picked up his gear. He dove the summer-warmed ocean in his swim trunks and a tee-shirt. Since Andre, the owner, supplied him with a tank and regulator, he had only to off-load his buoyancy vest, weight belt, mask, fins and snorkel.</div>
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Andre climbed down from the bridge and tilted his head toward the jetty. “No treasure?”</div>
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Otis hoisted his equipment onto the pier, then glanced in the direction the bottle took. He wanted to tell Andre about the bottle, but the words hung in his throat. “Nah, turned out to be nothing.”</div>
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“How was the dive?”</div>
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“Spec-tacular. One of those little gals and I found a sea turtle with a wad of fishing line tangled around her flippers. We cut it loose, and she followed us around for most of our dive.” His smiled. “Neat.”</div>
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“That ‘little gal,’ the tall drink of water you surfaced with?” When Otis nodded, Andre did a once-around to make sure she wasn’t nearby. “Man, Otie. I was you, I’d be on her like spar varnish.”</div>
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Otis winked. “She probably already has a grandpa.” He stepped up onto the stern, then to the pier. “Same time tomorrow morning?”</div>
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“Sure. Eleven spots reserved. Probably some walk-ins. Castin’ off at ten sharp.”</div>
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“I’ll fill the tanks and have everything good to go.” Otis picked up his gear, walked into the dusty gravel parking lot and discovered the girl they were talking about was parked next to his car. Her shiny red SUV wore New York plates. She was toweling off her robin’s-egg blue aluminum tank. A large woman with olive skin and long raven hair, she was fleshy, but athletic. He judged her to be in her thirties, and imagined she might look at home on a soccer field or a basketball court.</div>
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“Hey, Otis.” Her smile came on like high beams. “I really enjoyed the dive. That poor turtle seemed so happy when we cut off the fish line.”</div>
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“Yeah, glad we ran across her. Damned monofilament line is ruining the ocean.” The jittering bottle did an encore in his memory as he opened his car’s trunk and laid his gear inside. He almost mentioned it, but as he turned to face her, she stooped to remove the regulator from her tank. Instead, Otis watched the top of her Day-Glo pink swimsuit strain to contain her breasts.</div>
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She stood and gave him a knowing look. “I bet you’d like one of these.” She stowed the regulator in the back of her car, and pulled two cans of beer from a cooler.</div>
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“There’s the way to my heart, girl. Thanks.”</div>
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“What makes you think I’d want your heart?”</div>
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“You wouldn’t.” He opened the can and took a sip. “It’s old and worn out, just like the rest of me.”</div>
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She laughed hard. “I work with guys half your age who will never be in the shape you’re in.”</div>
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“Then they have my sympathy. And what is it you do up there in…?”</div>
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“Schenectady. Marketing.”</div>
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Otis grinned. “Convincing people to buy what they don’t know they need?”</div>
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She wrinkled her nose. “Sometimes. Or what they bought from me a year ago isn’t as good as what I have to sell them today. Companies though, not people.” She closed the SUV’s back hatch and leaned against it, her reflection on the window doubling her beauty. She explained she was a refugee from the dot com collapse of the late nineties and she’d sold software for six years. “The company is moving into a new building in late August, so I bumped my vacation up a few weeks. I get a corner office with a great view of a park, and I need to be there to make sure it’s arranged the way I want.”</div>
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“Well, if you have to work, it sounds like you’ve got a great situation.”</div>
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“Have to work.” Her laugh rolled. “That’s right, you said you retired. What did you do before you became a dive bum?”</div>
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“Michigan State Patrol. Was a trooper for thirty-two years. My wife, Jayne, died a few years back after ten rounds with breast cancer. Right after that, I had a bout with the big C myself.”</div>
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For the first time, a serious expression cleared away the woman’s smile. Her dark eyes brimmed with concern, making her even lovelier. “Oh, Otis.” She touched his arm lightly. “You’re okay now?”</div>
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“Seem to be. Had surgery and some radiation.” Radiation scared him, especially because he believed radiation exposure from traffic radar caused the cancer in the first place. When the course of treatment ended, he was declared clear of disease, but lacked confidence in his body. To his way of thinking, nurturing cells bent on his destruction amounted to treason. As a trooper, he relied on his body to safeguard his life. Its dalliance with cancer shook him to his core. On the way home from his final radiation treatment, he saw a mid-sixties Pontiac GTO gleaming beneath the wind-tickled plastic flags on a used car lot. Half an hour later, he was writing the chain-smoking salesman a check. The car took Otis back to the time when he was young, strong and healthy. At another level, the control he exerted over such a powerful machine transposed into a feeling of mastery over his body. Otis liked to think of the GTO as an outgrowth of his psyche, although the reverse was probably closer to the truth. “But, yeah,” he told her. “I’ve been clear since.”</div>
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“And you had it…where? Do you mind my asking?”</div>
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Otis shrugged. “Not if you don’t mind me telling you. My testicles. They took the right one. Managed to save the left.” He raised his eyebrows, amplifying his grin. “Easier to cross my legs, now.”</div>
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Dark as she was with a tan compounding her complexion, her blush ripened. “I’m sorry” She laughed. “I deserved that.”</div>
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Otis shook his head. “No. You really didn’t. I should watch my manners. I’m the one who’s sorry.”</div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR:</u></b></div>
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Christopher T. Werkman</div>
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Keywords: short stories, romance, humour, bizarre, sad</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website URL:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="http://www.chriswerk.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://www.chriswerk.com/</a></div>
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Blog URL:</div>
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Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/christopher.werkman" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/christopher.werkman</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Twitter : @Chwerks</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-34233140443164647582017-08-22T00:01:00.000-07:002017-08-22T00:01:02.522-07:00More than Just a Dog - by Genie Gabriel<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px; position: relative !important;">
Welcome to another author post. I hope you all are enjoying these as much as I am. This week I'd like to welcome, Genie Gabriel to my blog as one of her stops along her tour for her new release, More than Just a Dog. </div>
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Genie will giveaway a digital copy of her new boo, More Than Just a Dog to one randomly drawn commenter at each stop, so make sure you say hello!</div>
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Title: More Than Just a Dog</div>
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Author: Genie Gabriel</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-341-1</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Genre: Paranormal</span></div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 3</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Buy at:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/More-Than-Collie-Chronicles-Book-ebook/dp/B074Q5R3LJ/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1502494482&sr=1-1-fkmr0&keywords=more+than+just+a+dog+by+genie+gabriel" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Amazon</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">,</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/more-than-just-a-dog-genie-gabriel/1126962181?ean=2940158790973" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Three generations of independent women, driven in different directions by one man’s anger. Until his death reconnects them with their mystical Irish ancestors and wonders beyond this limited human existence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Three generations of independent women, driven in different directions by one man’s anger. Until his death reconnects them with their mystical Irish ancestors and wonders beyond this limited human existence.</span></div>
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Trained in the shamanic arts by her Irish grandmother, Chessie Durand travels to alternate worlds to rescue animals in danger. Aided by her Chosen One, an angel dog and a mysterious merkaba necklace, she discovers powers unknown to most humans.</div>
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Ever practical, her mother provides a sanctuary for these alien and exotic species stall-beside-stall with barnyard creatures. And when their paradise is threatened by ignorance and poachers and unknown dangers beyond the stargates, Marlise loads her shotgun and joins the fight.</div>
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<u><b>EXCERPT</b></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">With only a fleeting second thought, Peter entered the coordinates in the computer implanted in his wrist to transport to the cave on Chessie’s farm. His mentor had warned him of disturbances in the stargate that caused several “incidents” and had resulted in the decision to seal it off. However, Peter hoped opening the surface entrance had corrected those disturbances.</span></div>
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This was the most direct route to see Chessie and, after weeks of waiting, he wanted more than to just court her in dreams. He wanted to touch her. Smell the scent of flowers in her hair. Convince her they could build a relationship in the real world.</div>
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But which real world? His dimension or hers? Or perhaps somewhere totally different.</div>
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<em>One step at a time,</em> Peter reminded himself. After his abrupt departure the last time he had seen her, Chessie might not exactly fall eagerly into his arms. Best he establish a cover story before he contacted her. Thanks to a disagreement between the ruling governments of his dimension, he had some time off between assignments of retrieving endangered species during which he could pursue his Chosen One.</div>
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He stepped through the stargate in his dimension, anticipating the look of pleasure on Chessie’s face when she saw him.</div>
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”Danger. Danger. Coordinates cannot be guaranteed.” His computer implant transmitted the message to Peter’s brain as his body was sucked into a spinning vortex, faster and faster, buffeted on all sides by angry voices and recriminations until he blacked out.</div>
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The rock formations fascinated Chessie as she descended into the cave. However, the hot springs drew her most strongly. She loved to slip into the heated water and feel all her tensions wash away, as she was doing today. She thought about posting a notice at the entrance of the cave informing her family of her private hours in the hot springs so she could soak in the nude. But so far, she limited herself to wearing a modest one-piece bathing suit while in the springs.</div>
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Her body floated slightly as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back on a rubber pillow she brought with her. “Ahhh…”</div>
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She wondered if Peter would enjoy the hot springs as much as she did. <em>Where was he?</em> <em>Were her dreams of Peter and the cave simply her overactive imagination?</em></div>
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Intuitively, she knew more than fantasies were involved. She hoped by returning to the cave, she could solve this mystery.</div>
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With her eyes closed, her mind and body relaxed even more. The water rippled against her skin, soothing and calming. A small wave splashed against her chin and Chessie shifted her body. Opening her eyes, she noticed tiny, choppy waves across the pool’s surface that hadn’t been active when she first stepped into the pool.</div>
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Sitting up straight now, she touched the merkaba around her neck and wondered if some of its magic was at work.</div>
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The ground began rumbling.</div>
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<em>Get out of the pool.</em> Chap’s image appeared in her mind.</div>
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She didn’t need to be told twice. She shoved her feet back in her tennis shoes and pulled the terry cloth robe around her body.</div>
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Frozen with fascination, she stared toward the rock wall where the cave ended—that her grandmother insisted wasn’t the same as when the cave had been closed up.</div>
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The rock wall was now splitting apart like giant elevator doors, revealing the dark night sky filled with billions of stars and a spinning vortex that grew larger and larger as it moved toward her.</div>
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<em>Use the merkaba,</em> Chap stated. <em>Do not give in to fear. Simply know the merkaba will protect you.</em></div>
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Chessie braced her feet at shoulder width apart and placed a hand over the merkaba. <em>Protect all that is pure. Surround us with love and keep us safe.</em></div>
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She didn’t know where the words came from, but Chessie repeated them over and over as the vortex engulfed her, echoing with her grandfather’s angry voice. “You will never practice your witch’s spells again! You will be obedient! You will do as I tell you!”</div>
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Images of her grandfather as he had been when alive swirled within the vortex. Chessie held fast to the merkaba and called upon the spirit of her grandfather. <em>Help us! By all that is loving and pure, keep us safe!</em></div>
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As Chessie repeated these words, a body fell at her feet as the vortex faded and drifted away like mist dispersing under the morning sun.</div>
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<u><b>Author Bio:</b></u><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span></div>
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Fur against my face and the soft smell of a dog curled protectively around me existed before my first memories of this life. So began my journey of being more in tune with animals than with people.</div>
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I went through the expected motions of marriage, kids, divorce, and career, but usually out of step with most of the human population. This proved to be an advantage in developing an independence and a curiosity about things most people don’t even consider.</div>
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A minor health issue led to energy healing and becoming a master level Reiki practitioner. Working at the local animal shelter flipped on the switch to communicating with animals. Each dog I adopted showed miraculous changes most people couldn’t believe.</div>
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As a writer, I explored the mysteries of why people behave as they do, and also became fascinated by science, especially quantum physics. But perhaps my favorite way of writing stories is to ask the question, “What if?” and dive into those imagined worlds—surrounded by my beloved furbabies, of course!</div>
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Keywords: Angel dogs, stargates, alternate worlds, independent women, fated lovers</div>
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Website URL: <a href="http://www.geniegabriel.com/" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">www.GenieGabriel.com</a></div>
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Blog URL: <a href="http://quantumcanines.blogspot.com/" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://quantumcanines.blogspot.com</a></div>
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Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/genene.valleau" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/genene.valleau</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-76335562512884930952017-07-18T00:01:00.000-07:002017-07-18T00:01:18.686-07:00Captain's Sortie - Blog Tour<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
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Welcome to another week at my blog. I've been gone the last few weeks enjoying a very much needed holiday away from it all. But like all grand things, my holiday must end and so here I am, back to the ole grind of life. </div>
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This week, I'd like to welcome author, Mike Fuller, to my blog. He has a new book release, that I'd like to share with you. As with most blog tours, make sure to comment, as <span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Mike will give a digital copy of Captain's Cross to one randomly drawn commenter.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBEhyphenhyphenCRgTyvIlnNMjarkWLz8F0qc83unGNdZluM6MRIR7Jldj7GeHLbUHRHTf6F64QMtoTbmKah-VjI55YvVrs8ffxM3r43z08HKaG_YTwwv519hvOMlo1oM014VZA6tEQOfD6W4HHBw/s1600/Captains+Sortie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJBEhyphenhyphenCRgTyvIlnNMjarkWLz8F0qc83unGNdZluM6MRIR7Jldj7GeHLbUHRHTf6F64QMtoTbmKah-VjI55YvVrs8ffxM3r43z08HKaG_YTwwv519hvOMlo1oM014VZA6tEQOfD6W4HHBw/s1600/Captains+Sortie.jpg" /></a></div>
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Title: Captain's Sortie</div>
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Deland Sea And Land Adventure Novel Book 2</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-300-8</div>
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Author: Mike Fuller</div>
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Genre: Historical, Action, Adventure</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 2</div>
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Buy at: <a href="mailto:https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073PGSMQS/ref=sr_1_1%3Fie=UTF8%26qid=1499451583%26sr=8-1%26keywords=captain%2527s+sortie+by+mike+fuller" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="mailto:https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/captains-sortie-arlo-young/1126683550%3Fean=2940158933127" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<b><u>TAGLINE</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Captain Ben Deland sails north from the Caribbean to join the English and provincial forces moving to stop the French from control of the frontier. But Ben becomes the only hope for the rescue of loved ones snatched by Indian and French raiders.</span></div>
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<u><b>BLURB</b></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">The American colonial frontier is at war and stained in the blood of farmer and soldier alike. French generals have filled the land with armies of white uniformed troops and their north woods Indian allies. No one is safe from the perils of this conflict that seems to have no end. Captain Ben Deland sails north from the warm Caribbean with more than one mission to accomplish. The war is not going well for the British and Americans in the late winter of 1758 and Ben once again must lead his loyal crew ashore and into the dangerous forests and mountains to face the French and Indians.</span></div>
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But the British have undertaken a great task to stop the French from overwhelming the Hudson and splitting the colonies in two. Captain Deland is drawn to their aid and then has to launch a desperate rescue into the dangerous wilderness filled with enemies to find the victims of the war raging all around them.</div>
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Sea and shore action and adventure told through the stories of the men and women who face overwhelming obstacles and evil characters. Real history mixed with rich descriptive portrayals of nature and man set in the violence and uncertainty of war on the colonial frontier. Another thrilling novel from the author of <em>Captain's Cross.</em></div>
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<b><u>EXCERPT</u></b></div>
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T<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">homas had done the same thing when he was younger. He lay next to Paul just behind a moss-covered log. He could see Paul’s hand quiver just a little as the boy cocked the hammer of his short rifle. Thomas had been surprised and a bit overwhelmed when Ben presented an almost identical rifle to him years ago. Thomas had since outgrown it and now had his own full sized long rifle. So, it was his turn to pass along to Paul the knowledge of the mountains as Ben had done to him before.</span></div>
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“Just where the shoulder rounds over the front leg,” Thomas whispered. The shot would drop a little over the distance and put the ball in the vital spot of the doe whitetail on the opposite bank across the stream. “Take a breath and let part of it out. Just touch the trigger, don’t pull it…”</div>
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The little rifle roared and through the smoke Thomas could see the doe crumple to the ground. Paul tried to see where the deer had gone and rose up on his knee to look over the smoke. As he started to move over the log, Thomas reached out and put a firm hand on Paul’s shirt.</div>
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“What did you forget?” Thomas had heard the same thing from Ben in the past.</div>
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Paul looked at Thomas for a moment and then frowned. “Yes, Sir, to reload.” Paul stood and began the process of powder and ball, finishing with priming the pan of the flintlock. It took longer than Thomas would like, but the lad was still learning.</div>
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The meat from the doe would fill out the load on their pack horses and send them back to the smoke camp. Paul was out with Thomas on this trip. Paul had been sent out with several members of the crew, each adding their own woods wisdom to his education. The summer was full and they had to be careful where they stepped as they moved through the thick forest. There were other hunters in the warm woods now and some of them had very poisonous fangs.</div>
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Ben was less than a mile north of them and leading the mare and his pack horse down a ridge following an Indian trail too narrow and overgrown to ride atop the mare. Horses were sometimes more of a burden in the thick woods and Ben decided he would leave the mare behind next trip and only walk with the pack horse.</div>
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The warm southerly wind carried the sound of the gunshot to him and he stopped for a moment trying to place the direction of the sound. He listened for any follow on shots, but none came. The meat they brought in was feeding boat builders and soldiers south of them at the head of the Mohawk. They would have to move soon. </div>
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The army was loading the boats on wagons and going to the west. Another part of the war was off to the northeast. The French and the British fought over the lakes and forts there without much progress for several years. The farmers on the frontier suffered the most though. Raids from the north continued with bloody results. The French relied upon their Indian allies and did little to hold back their murder and torture. Thomas had lost his family to it.</div>
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Ben kept moving. He likely would cross with the shooters when they got closer to the smoke camp. The summer heat meant that they had to turn around their hunts quickly lest the meat spoil. It was good they were moving west again to new hunting territory. They would have to venture farther every day that they took game around the camp.</div>
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Just the smallest bit of red color in the distance ahead brought Ben to his knee and the long rifle up and aimed at the spot. He dropped the leather rein to the mare and slipped sideways into the thicker brush aside the narrow trail. It would hurt his soul if the mare took a ball meant for him, but that may have to be. With skill refined to the highest level over twenty years in the woods, he moved toward the swatch of color angling out away from the horses.</div>
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The red swatch was joined by another of a less bright hue and another of gray feather. The top dressings of northern woods Indians. He counted three, but knew more could be just behind these three. It would come to confrontation soon. They had not seen the mare and pack horse yet, but in only a few more steps…</div>
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Draco had the scent. The wolf dog appeared just as Paul was tying off the meat on the pack horse and circled the small piece of forest the two men and four horses occupied. Thomas stopped his digging at the front foot of the gelding and let the hoof drop back to the ground to watch the dog.</div>
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“Something’s wrong,” was all that Thomas said before he mounted and slipped the buckskin cover from his short rifle. He tapped the gelding’s sides with his moccasins and the horse was gone into the trees in only a moment behind the dog. Paul was confused, but regained his thoughts and gathered the leads of the pack horses and once on his own horse, set off after Thomas.</div>
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Thomas hadn’t gone far to the north when he pulled the gelding to a standstill. Draco was walking with his nose to the ground and the gray and black hair standing almost straight up on his back. Dismounting and loosely tying the horse to a sapling, Thomas followed on foot. Each step was thought out. It slowed him, but he knew silence was putting favor to his cause. He still carried the short rifle. He lost little in range and nothing in caliber with the smaller weapon. In the thick woods, he was satisfied his first rifle served him well. A turned leaf, an oak dropped this spring after the winter, showed the wetness from its underside where a careless foot pulled it over revealing passage. Thomas examined the forest floor and was able now to see the slightest trace of a game trail. Another leaf and a thin branch pulled forward then caught in the crook of another betrayed more of the man or men that had moved through. Not many White men would leave so little of a path behind. These were woodsmen, White or no.</div>
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Thomas scarcely breathed and within a few more steps saw Draco down on his belly and pointing his nose straight ahead. Only the soft swish the small breeze made as it passed through the upper leaves added to the stillness. Not a bird sound. Something or someone, more likely, was just beyond the pines blocking the way. Thomas tried to will his eyes to see through them, but it would not be.</div>
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It happened together. Paul crashed ahead through the trees from behind leading the horses atop his own and Draco lunged just as an Indian showed himself through the pine boughs and fired his musket past Thomas’s head toward Paul. The Indian died only a second later and Thomas hesitated deciding if he was to reload the rifle or go after Draco with his pistol and sword.</div>
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The sound of the dog roaring, as only Draco could do, within the pines and Paul hitting the ground with a cry of pain gave Thomas no choice. He spun and covered the distance to Paul and as he got close enough to see the boy awash in blood, he heard a gunshot then another from the pines. Thomas grabbed Paul’s collar and drug him back behind the horses scooping up Paul’s short rifle as he passed. A thick beech sheltered him as he put his body between Paul and the pines and began to reload his own rifle.</div>
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“Where?” he whispered to Paul. He heard no answer and did not dare take his eyes from the place the Indian had emerged. Thomas nudged Paul’s shoulder and said again, “Where?”</div>
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“In the pine trees, Thomas. The Indians are…” Paul coughed and went silent. Thomas meant to learn of Paul’s wound, but the boy went past that to the threat before them.</div>
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Thomas had his rifle reloaded and judged the distance to the long rifle in the scabbard on the gelding behind them. With both short rifles, his pistol and his long rifle, he could answer well for them. But then he had Paul to deal with. He took time to look down at the boy curled up beneath him in the lee of the beech. There was a lot of blood on the boy’s summer shirt. Most of it was near his waist and on the right side.</div>
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“I know where they are. Are you still with me, Paul?” Thomas again whispered.</div>
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“It hurts, Tom. So bad. My side hurts.”</div>
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The Abeneki was only about Thomas’ age and had a war club in his hand as he burst from the trees toward them. Thomas was looking down at Paul and could not see the look of pure and concentrated rage in the Indian’s eyes. The sound of the Indian’s buckskins against the pine boughs is what drug Thomas back into the fight, but it was too late to bring the short rifle to bear. Thomas was knocked backward and was underneath the warrior before he could even begin to defend himself.</div>
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The Indian swung the club down and caught the flinching Thomas with a glancing blow to the side of his head. Thomas felt the strike, but it didn’t hurt. He was too full of fight himself by then and the Indian was launched up and over Thomas, the club falling away. The warrior was well trained and rolled to his feet with a rather substantial trader’s knife in his hand. Thomas reached for the pistol in his belt, but it was gone and he didn’t bother searching for it, instead coming to his feet with the short sword in his hand.</div>
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More snarling dog sounds came from behind, but Thomas was otherwise occupied at the moment. The Abeneki did not know that Thomas’ family had been butchered by Abeneki raiders when Thomas was only thirteen. It may have not made a difference, but it did to Thomas. With a fierceness that overwhelmed the Indian, Thomas charged and swung the sword at the very last moment. The Indian died as his body hit the ground, the sword finding the heart of the attacker and ending the fight.</div>
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Thomas dove back to Paul and scooped up his rifle, ready for the next threat. But only a bloody faced Draco appeared followed a moment later by Ben and three Mohawk warriors.</div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR:</u></b></div>
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Mike Fuller</div>
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<strong style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Keywords: </strong><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">history, action adventure, colonial America, war, French and Indian War</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-5934481450530791942017-06-27T00:01:00.000-07:002017-06-27T00:01:20.514-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This week I'd like to welcome, Julie Beekman, the author of Two Trees to my blog as one of her stops for her tour. For <span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Julie's blog tour, she will give a digital copy of Two Trees to one randomly drawn commenter. </span></div>
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Title: Two Trees</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">ISBN: Ebook 978-1-62420-326-8</span></div>
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Print 978-1546754114</div>
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Author: Julie Beekman</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Genre: Memoir/Trauma/Adoption/Therapy</span></div>
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Book Heat Level: Mention of sexual abuse</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Buy at:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="mailto:https://www.amazon.com/Two-Trees-Julie-Beekman-ebook/dp/B071JZQDRQ/ref=sr_1_1%3Fs=digital-text%26ie=UTF8%26qid=1497305088%26sr=1-1%26keywords=two+trees+beekman" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Amazon</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">,</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="mailto:https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/two-trees-julie-beekman/1126434614%3Fean=9781546754114" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Children who experience trauma always need an advocate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Julie is adopted by the Beekmans in the late 1960’s and at first, brought up in the idyllic town of Grand Haven, Michigan. When her father dies, her mother, Marge decides to sell everything, leave town and provide Julie and her brothers with some “cultural awareness” which includes enrolling Julie in an all black school in the south. Over the years, Marge becomes more abusive and ultimately Julie seeks help. She begins to confide in a young Art Therapist who helps uncover a barrage of secrets. While the book covers some dark times and tragedy, there is a strong sense of humor running through it that will keep the reader reading to see just how Julie manages to pull through it all, not only in one piece, but as an adult well able to survive in this world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">I don't remember the baby showers family and neighbors threw for Marge after the Beekmans adopted me, or that I refused to eat anything other than lima beans. I was nine months old when Warren and Marge brought me home. I listened to stories about how it all came to be. "We kept having boys and, after three, I just wanted a girl, so bad." These were the moments when I loved listening to Marge, when she was just being my mom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">She was endearing and it reminded me she meant to love me. "I just told the caseworker we wanted a girl with blue or green eyes. I mean, no one in our family has light eyes!" she explained dramatically. The speech was always the same; Marge telling me it took four years for the adoption agency to approve them, that I cost three-hundred and fifty dollars.</span></div>
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"When we went to visit with you for the first time, you were wearing a little pink dress. You held out your arms to Warren and said, Da Da." She raised her arms out and made a face that looked helpless. "We knew then, we just had to have you." She seemed to always refer to him as Warren and not my dad.</div>
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"Did Randy, Scot and Dan want a sister?" I asked like it was the first time I heard the story.</div>
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"Oh, of course." Marge lit a cigarette, took a short drag, and then held it near her coffee mug. I hated when she just held her cigarettes and didn't smoke them or take the time to tap the ashes into the ashtray, because I couldn't focus on her. I could only stare at the long cylinder of ash, wondering when and where it would fall. </div>
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"We came home after meeting you and told the boys all about you. We were especially concerned when it came to Danny because he was only five and used to being the youngest." Marge took a sip of black coffee without the slag of her smoke even moving slightly, although I could see the slight orange glow move fast toward her fingers. "I don't want to be the youngest, Mama! I want a sister, is what he told me." Marge pushed her cheeks out to imitate her idea of what Dan looked like when he was a kid and she laughed. "He was so damn cute! All you kids..." She smiled, stamped out her cigarette and looked far away like it had been some other lifetime and now she was let down. It felt the same to me because I didn't remember any of it.</div>
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My first memory is my third birthday and that Grandma Beekman made me a cake in the shape of a lamb. The white sugared icing was thick and billowy, like wool. The lamb's eyes stared back at me with chocolate glare. It was also the first year of many that Grandma made me a baby purse. She washed out old dish detergent bottles, cut out the bottom half and punched holes along the edges. Then she crocheted the holes so that she could build a purse with drawstrings from the plastic base. She showed me how to pull the drawstrings and yarn over the plastic sides, to reveal a crib with a tiny doll baby inside. The crib had a pillow and knitted blanket, too. She demonstrated over and over. It seemed she rather liked talking about her own creations and it drove Marge over the edge sometimes. Thankfully, Marge allowed Grandma to stay on my birthday and the cake didn't end up on the floor.</div>
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Grandma didn't come over too often. My dad would go to her house every week and sometimes take us kids. I especially liked to go, because Grandma gave us sugary treats and we rarely got sweets. Once, I spent the whole day with Grandma and we made church window cookies. We melted butter and chocolate, stirred in mini colored marshmallows, rolled everything out into a log coated with coconut, and refrigerated it in wax paper. Once the cookies were chilled, we sliced the log to find all the colors like on a stained-glass window. Grandma cut a lot of slices for me to take home.</div>
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When Marge picked me up and we headed for the car, she threw the bag of cookies into a snowbank. "How many times do I have to tell you and that woman, no sugar. You're fat enough!"</div>
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I huddled against the passenger door on the way home.</div>
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Wherever I wandered, there was Blackie. Blackie was adopted about a week after I was. She was the runt from a litter of short-haired mutts. She was a sweet little dog that, right from the start, tried jumping into my crib. She ate everything I didn't want and protected me as best she could. At night, she slept under my covers and growled when anyone entered my room.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUU-JHfaX3q3pjS-TbkJoOjEa_LSt6aDPCdjPlJ3v-1NGok8Wyi9W03FfEB74rBRluPqBL894Ucy5tKpN-4W-vPkPDXCetNAPp7gqCafOUPcY4T1GiYA1utD5QDee5uRLE64Ls4S69nsk/s1600/Julie+Beekman+Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUU-JHfaX3q3pjS-TbkJoOjEa_LSt6aDPCdjPlJ3v-1NGok8Wyi9W03FfEB74rBRluPqBL894Ucy5tKpN-4W-vPkPDXCetNAPp7gqCafOUPcY4T1GiYA1utD5QDee5uRLE64Ls4S69nsk/s320/Julie+Beekman+Photo.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR BIO AND LINKS:</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Julie Beekman is an avid runner, hiker and skier and lives in Boulder, Colorado with her dog, Francesca. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Facebook:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/authorjuliebeekman" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/authorjuliebeekman</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Website: Authorjuliebeekman.com</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-22177174228321054212017-06-20T00:05:00.000-07:002017-06-20T00:05:08.865-07:00Unmasked - Blog Tour Stop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6PKAFsyW4FoaJps7tNm4XVJ8jRkLcB99pmom_jxizL47jv-RyXfXWp7E_BXZVbXzD4_5zFzLynQxb4encJkspTxK_DyPJ9dj8pBzj7djnvedkZLVl5WrOohxIk2EhDiwajlS_XDsZfI/s1600/BANNER-Unmasked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="1600" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6PKAFsyW4FoaJps7tNm4XVJ8jRkLcB99pmom_jxizL47jv-RyXfXWp7E_BXZVbXzD4_5zFzLynQxb4encJkspTxK_DyPJ9dj8pBzj7djnvedkZLVl5WrOohxIk2EhDiwajlS_XDsZfI/s320/BANNER-Unmasked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Welcome to another week. This week I have Maggie Mundy on my blog as part of her blog tour for her new release, Unmasked. She will be giving away one copy of her new release to a random commentor along her tour. So, what that means is, comment! What do you have to loose? </div>
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Title: Unmasked</div>
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Author: Maggie Mundy</div>
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ISBN EBOOK: 978-1-62420-323-7</div>
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ISBN POD: 978-1547054831</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Genre: Paranormal Romance</span></div>
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Book Heat Level: 4</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Corrupted magic is hard to fight when you’re the only one who believes something is wrong. Daria faces a battle to save her world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Six hundred years of peace are destroyed when Daria’s settlement is attacked. It is the start of problems for the land of Majura. Daria saves people with magic and must join the magic wielding Mask wearers who rule the land. Her dreams have warned if she became one it would be the end of Majura. Are the Mask wearers keeping secrets or is she the only one who can see the power in the land is changing. A Mask wearer called Alenze believes her and offers to go on a quest with her to fix the Essence where the magic comes from, but he is keeping secrets from her that could be the death of them all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">If most of the other Masks were like Alenze, then she was never going to fit in. He didn't have a hair out of place. His clothes were grey but of the highest quality, with a beautifully fitted long tunic and breeches and well-made knee-high leather boots.</span></div>
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"During the travelling, you'll be placed in a trance. This is done so you're not alarmed by the experience. I'll be in control, and you'll not be aware of what's happening around you."</div>
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He spoke to her as if she were a child. The fact he was at least a head taller than her didn't help matters as he peered down.</div>
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"I assure you growing up here has made me resilient." Daria crossed her fingers behind her back at the lie.</div>
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"Many people struggle with the experience. I myself was glad I wore brown britches the first time. I agree though. I sense you'll not be alarmed easily," Alenze replied.</div>
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For a second Daria saw a smirk on his face. He had a sense of humor, who would have thought. He even almost looked handsome when he smiled.</div>
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"Traveler Quatrome, the sun is setting," her father interrupted. "The Chamber is ready." He bowed his head to both of them.</div>
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Alenze offered his arm to escort her into the Travelling Chamber. Daria stared at his hand as her heart pounded in fear, but knew she had no choice but to eventually take it. Pell stopped outside the Chamber and smiled at her, then looked to Alenze.</div>
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"Take care of her, and warn your fellow Masks to watch out for her temper; she didn't inherit her mother's green eyes and red hair without reason," Pell warned.</div>
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"You have my word, Master Gallo," Alenze replied as he shook her father's hand.</div>
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Atia and Chelle hugged her with tears streaming down all their faces.</div>
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"It won't be long, and I'll be back, especially if they don't want me, which is highly likely," Daria soothed them as she tried to get her tears under control.</div>
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Alenze coughed and Daria couldn't delay any more. Again, his arm was offered and this time she accepted. He escorted her into the chamber and as the doors shut behind them, she could hear Rumus howling and her breath caught in her throat.</div>
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Alenze let go of her arm and walked into the center of the circular, windowless room. With the doors closed, there was an oppressive feel to the space, with the only illumination coming from the oil lamps placed about the walls. The floor was covered with a beautiful painting. The tales were that the settlement had been built around this place.</div>
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Alenze was studying the markings on the floor. Daria's breath was catching in her throat and the room was getting smaller. She couldn't go through with this, they couldn't make her go. Her chest was getting tight as her panic increased. She ran to the door of the chamber and raised her fists, thumping hard again and again. The yells coming from her throat blanked out the pain as her fists started to redden and bleed.</div>
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"Let me out."</div>
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A hand touched her shoulder, causing her to spin around screaming, her clenched fist aimed at Alenze. Placing his hand over hers, he brought her fist down. He stared intently at her with his dark grey eyes as he spoke.</div>
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"When I went to the Domain in Denarius, I believed no one would want someone like me. Those who came with me at that time were filled with a confidence I never had. I didn't feel I'd ever belong, but now I do. </div>
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Becoming a Mask has given my life meaning beyond what I would ever have thought possible. I've grown to love what I've become. You must trust me, and believe you'll feel that, too." He paused. "Are you ready?"</div>
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Daria nodded as he let go of her hands and walked over and stood over the open mouth of the winged serpent painted on the floor. She stood on the outside of the circular floor painting and thought her eyes must be playing tricks on her. The painting was starting to move as the serpent's coils began to entwine one upon another hypnotically.</div>
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"We can delay no longer. Stand on the mark of the moon." Holding out his arm, Alenze beckoned her to move forward.</div>
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She took the step, her breath coming in gasps. The outer circle had symbols of the sun, moon, stars and the Goddess Ikrar. The Goddess stood with her hands clasped around a crystal.</div>
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Alenze removed a small, plain brown mask from a pouch hanging around his neck and put it on his face. It had no hooks or fastenings, but melded to him on contact.</div>
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"Enter the circle, Daria."</div>
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Daria stepped forward onto the moving picture. Alenze took her hands in a firm grip, and needing something to hold onto, she gripped equally as hard around his wrists. She wondered if he could hear her heart beating. He should, as it felt as if it was going to explode through her chest.</div>
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"I don't want to do this. My life is here, Crane is here, I love him and I want to stay." Tears flowed down her face.</div>
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"Trust me, Daria, and you'll be safe," Alenze instructed.</div>
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"I don't want to trust you. I don't want to go and no one there will want me. They think I'm bringing doom with me because I touched the crystal," Daria sobbed, but Alenze wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were shut and he was chanting strange words over and over. There was a humming noise making her dizzy, and then something touched her foot. She jerked her knee up. Peering down, she let out a scream as the coils of the snake picture on the floor started slithering over her feet and around her ankles - where was the trance Alenze had promised? The Mask was no longer solid on his face; the flat surface was bubbling as though something was trying to erupt. Then the small heads of two snakes broke free from the surface and bit into his temples. If he felt any pain he didn't react.</div>
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More snakes oozed from the Mask until the whole of his head was a wriggling mass moving down his back and entwining around his arms. Two vipers separated from the others encircling his arms. The snakes stopped their movements at his wrists and raised their bodies up as though to get a good look at her. They swayed hypnotically. Daria tried to pull free of Alenze's grip, but he was too strong. Then without warning, both snakes struck at her wrists in unison.</div>
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"Alenze," his name burst from her mouth as the pain hit her arms and the poison burned into her. His eyes opened, looking first to her face and then at the vipers injecting their venom. She could hear his thoughts.</div>
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<em>Forgive me, Daria</em><u>.</u></div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR BIO & LINKS:</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">I live in Adelaide, Australia with my husband, one cat, two dogs and a snake. I have a motorbike that I would like to ride more than I do and I love walking at the beach and listening to the waves. I've always loved reading all forms of fiction from high fantasy and paranormal to contemporary and decided the stories in my head needed to be written down. It was either that or start on medication. Unlike many, I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer until a few years back. I started off doing a degree in drama but soon realized my love was in writing, though there is a play lurking somewhere on my computer. My day job is as a nurse in the operating room. I believe romance can be fun to read and write but it’s exciting to spice it up with the uncertainty that comes with suspense where the rules can be broken. </span></div>
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Buy at: <a href="mailto:https://www.amazon.com/Unmasked-Liranni-Trilogy-Book-1-ebook/dp/B071FN2N6N/ref=sr_1_1%3Fie=UTF8%26qid=1496674597%26sr=8-1%26keywords=unmasked+mundy" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="mailto:https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/unmasked-maggie-mundy/1126509486%3Fean=9781547054831" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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Website URL: <a href="http://www.maggiemundy.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">www.maggiemundy.com</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-58843417685152188892017-06-13T05:32:00.000-07:002017-06-13T05:32:12.189-07:00Blog Tour Stop - My Last Sunset, by Christian Chiakulas<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
Welcome to a new week. I'd like to welcome Christian Chiakulas to my blog with her new release., My Last Sunset. I have not as of yet read this book, but it is on my TBR list. I'm sure I will let you all know what I think once I have. </div>
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
Title: My Last Sunset</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
Author: Christian Chiakulas</div>
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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62420-322-0</div>
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POD ISBN: 978-1546836339</div>
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Genre: Mystery/Crime</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 3</div>
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Buy at: <a href="http://www.roguephoenixpress.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Rogue Phoenix Press</a>, <a href="mailto:https://www.amazon.com/My-Last-Sunset-Christian-Chiakulas/dp/1546836330/ref=sr_1_1%3Fie=UTF8%26qid=1496674746%26sr=8-1%26keywords=my+last+sunset+chiakulas" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="mailto:https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-last-sunset-christian-chiakulas/1126475769%3Fean=9781546836339" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a></div>
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<b style="font-size: 13.3333px;">CONTENT WARNING</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Although it is not described in detail, this book deals with sexual abuse.</span></div>
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<b><u>TAGLINE</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">An antisocial teen sets out to solve the mystery of why Jessica Carpenter killed herself in the halls of their high school.</span></div>
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<b><u>BLURB</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">My Last Sunset is a hardboiled detective story set in a contemporary American high school. Damon Riley is an angry, antisocial teenager with a penchant for solving mysteries. His life is shaken up when Jessica Carpenter, a girl in the grade below his, shoots herself in the halls of the school, leaving behind a note that names him as the culprit for driving her to suicide. Taking the bait, Damon embarks on a quest to find out what really happened to Jessica, leading him through a web of conspiracy, betrayal, and brutality. Along the way he learns more than he ever dreamed possible about the girl he could never have saved.</span></div>
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<b><u>EXCERPT</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Michael might be having the same idea as me, because he says, "Hey, you hear about that freshman who killed herself?"</span></div>
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"She was a sophomore," I say, staring ahead at the blackboard.</div>
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"Oh," Michael says. He's a senior, so it makes sense he wouldn't know. "That's right, I knew that." Liar. "You heard she did it here?"</div>
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"Yeah, in the bathroom downstairs," I say. This class is on the fourth floor. Jessica killed herself on the second. The music was so loud from the dance that nobody heard the gunshot, and she didn't get found until a janitor came in the next day. She'd been absent from school Thursday and Friday last week, and I heard her mom had reported her missing to the police. Then, for whatever reason, she came back to school to end her life.</div>
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What the hell, Jessica.</div>
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It's not that I can't believe it. Jessica was a nice girl, I think, and seemed happy a lot of the time, but seeming happy and being happy aren't the same thing; you don't have to be smart to know or even articulate that. Like I said, I didn't know her that well, but I knew her a little; enough to see that, like the rest of us, she had shit going on she didn't talk about. What I didn't see was that she was the kind of person who couldn't deal with it, like we all do.</div>
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Or that it was the kind of shit that can't be dealt with.</div>
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"Heard she left a note," Michael says, and now I'm aware that he's looking at me even though his face hasn't moved. His eyes moved.</div>
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I didn't hear anything about a note. Whatever was going on with her, she definitely wanted to be found, wanted somebody to know.</div>
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Or maybe everybody.</div>
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Half a dozen more people stream in over the next two or three minutes; this class is pretty small to begin with and there are four absent. The eight o'clock bell rings just as Goldman appears in the doorway. Behind him is Panzer, one of the school's security guards (not his real name, but it should be).</div>
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I raise an eyebrow as Goldman enters the classroom and the talking dies down. Then he looks right at me and says, "Damon, could you please go with Mr. Cousins to the dean's office?"</div>
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A low "Oooooh..." goes through the small class, and I stand up, wondering what the hell I did. Usually when I'm in trouble, I know exactly why. As I cross the room to where Panzer is standing, arms folded across his chest, I notice the two girls who'd been in the room early shooting me nasty looks, like I personally wronged them. I don't even know their names.</div>
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Panzer steps aside to let me exit the room first then closes the door after us. I throw my messenger bag over my shoulder and look at him.</div>
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"What's this about," I say, a little worried.</div>
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"Just walk."</div>
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The halls are deserted, and I stare at the floor as we walk to the main nexus where the stairwells are, passing over the blurry reflections of the fluorescent lights in the freshly-waxed floor. The dean's office is on the second floor, right down the hall from the girl's bathroom. I stare at the door as we pass it.</div>
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The dean's office is small, considering there are three deans that share it along with a secretary and the school's sole counselor. The hub is a yellow-painted room with the secretary's desk, several file cabinets, a large wooden conference table, doors to the private offices of the deans and counselor, and plastic bins hanging on the walls filled with handouts and leaflets about substance abuse, sexual abuse, good ol' fashioned domestic abuse, birth control, STDs, juvie, and there at the end—</div>
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Suicide.</div>
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The three deans are all sitting at the conference table along with the counselor, Mrs. Mullen, and the school's police liaison, Officer Pasture. A pit drops into my stomach. Whatever I did, it must've been bad.</div>
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"Damon, please sit," Dean Goodfellow says. He's a pudgy man with long blonde hair and a face like a bulldog; if you're picturing him comically, stop, because everyone in this school is terrified of him, including yours truly. </div>
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The other two, Dean Haskins and Dean Washington, are serious men, but none attack their jobs with the rage-filled passion of Dean Goodfellow. He runs this school like it's the streets of Baltimore in The Wire, keeping detailed, ever-growing files on every student with the misfortune to cross his path and trading favors to some of them for information. I'm not gonna lie, I've gotten out of more than one detention this way. Wouldn't you know it, he's in charge of students with surnames P-Z.</div>
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But they're all three here, which means this is really serious. I pull up the blue plastic seat across from him, willing myself not to break eye contact, and Panzer disappears outside. The secretary isn't here either. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. What's going on?</div>
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"Damon," Goodfellow says, shifting in his seat and locking his fingers together on the table in front of him. Everybody else at the table is staring at their laps; they know the drill. When Goodfellow is working...</div>
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interrogating, more like<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">...you let him be.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfMIU4tW28zwMaIxMlbBdytfIC5vUBk22mHZr1x32fp8zkfXNSLYxpyn8NeM4K49dzqKt46wUBhFaxXUtpa13h0moriy1_zYl91acfh6zSRt3gMzXh7Eqwx4ahWsPF-iNGCGGtD_qLZw/s1600/christian+chiakulas+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="540" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwfMIU4tW28zwMaIxMlbBdytfIC5vUBk22mHZr1x32fp8zkfXNSLYxpyn8NeM4K49dzqKt46wUBhFaxXUtpa13h0moriy1_zYl91acfh6zSRt3gMzXh7Eqwx4ahWsPF-iNGCGGtD_qLZw/s200/christian+chiakulas+photo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b><u>AUTHOR BIO & LINKS:</u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Christian Chiakulas is a writer, musician, political activist, and single father from Chicago. His writing has appeared in the Huffington Post and he writes the “Radical Christian Millennial” blog for Patheos.com.</span></div>
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Website URL: blogspot.com/christianchiakulas</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Blog URL:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/radicalchristianmillennial/" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">http://www.patheos.com/blogs/radicalchristianmillennial/</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Facebook page:</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/christianchiakulasofficial" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; font-size: 13.3333px;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/christianchiakulasofficial</a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Twitter handle: @ChrisChiakulas</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-85867240339979374102017-05-29T13:28:00.003-07:002017-06-01T05:47:54.975-07:00Blog Tour - Before the Dawn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzYKLrwaxYB0GdK58PmffYjIeUA08D9Hv4s7Z4lq5gvPq0Lo7TzaLaHdMYJ4wO9JmwL0cLGqNA0_JEPZemy7-17_SnGFeq7C1KwZtz3TqLNP981dbhoeeXo6DTp72PamMdlA-uo57nmQ/s1600/Before+the+Dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRzYKLrwaxYB0GdK58PmffYjIeUA08D9Hv4s7Z4lq5gvPq0Lo7TzaLaHdMYJ4wO9JmwL0cLGqNA0_JEPZemy7-17_SnGFeq7C1KwZtz3TqLNP981dbhoeeXo6DTp72PamMdlA-uo57nmQ/s1600/Before+the+Dawn.jpg" /></a></div>
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This week I'm on a blog tour for...me! The third book in the A Howl in the Night series, titled Before the Dawn, has officially released. Stop over along the tour stops and ask a question, or just say hello, but I will be giving away a free ebook of Before the Dawn for one random commenter. The more stops you go to and comment on, the better your chances of winning.<br />
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Here are the stops with easy to access links. I hope to see you on the tour.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1535071685933167978" name="aolmail_OLE_LINK67" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: underline;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1535071685933167978" name="aolmail_OLE_LINK66" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: underline;">MAY 29 ~ Genene Valleau ~ </a><a href="http://www.designsbymsg.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">www.designsbymsg.blogspot.com</a></div>
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MAY 30 ~ David Cairns ~ <a href="http://dacairns.blogspot.com.au/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://dacairns.blogspot.com.au</a></div>
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MAY 31 ~ Rosemary Indra ~ <a href="https://rosemaryindra.blogspot.com./" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #386eff; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 16pt;"></span></a><a href="https://rosemaryindra.blogspot.com/" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://rosemaryindra.blogspot.com</a>.</div>
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MAY 31 ~ Rogue's Angels ~ <a href="http://roguesangels.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://roguesangels.blogspot.com</a></div>
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JUNE 1 ~ Tamara White ~ https://alternativeblackchick.com </div>
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JUNE 1 ~ Andrew Richardson ~ <a href="http://andrewjrichardson.blogspot.co.uk/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://andrewjrichardson.blogspot.co.uk/</a></div>
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JUNE 2 ~ Maggie Mundy ~ http://maggiemundy.blogspot.com.au</div>
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JUNE 2 ~ Christine Young ~ <a href="https://christineyoungauthor.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">https://christineyoungauthor.com</a><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Edit: A new stop has been added.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">JUNE 2 ~ NICKIE FLEMING ~ </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #386eff; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16pt;"><a href="http://nickieflemingswritings.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">http://nickieflemingswritings.blogspot.com</a></span></div>
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Also, if you have any questions or would like to purchase a copy of my newest release, let me know! I'll get back to you ASAP.</div>
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Have a great week everyone.</div>
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ctny</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535071685933167978.post-6364663107273852862017-05-23T00:01:00.000-07:002017-05-23T00:01:16.500-07:00Blog Tour - Grayson by Tamara White<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0HVyNOrqpkaAnBSBzyD6SoFRnUTqLMk16RqoQeuUHFqplfSVAVauolIvdfs4JiuFLgGNt7hIkkKTHuGU6faYX2e4nXdoAXZmeS7pSdwKG32P4eckahNPyJ8mL46jOwnRZg8F3BKyI58/s1600/BANNER-Grayson400+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS0HVyNOrqpkaAnBSBzyD6SoFRnUTqLMk16RqoQeuUHFqplfSVAVauolIvdfs4JiuFLgGNt7hIkkKTHuGU6faYX2e4nXdoAXZmeS7pSdwKG32P4eckahNPyJ8mL46jOwnRZg8F3BKyI58/s320/BANNER-Grayson400+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Welcome to another week at the blog. I'd like to welcome Author Tamara White to my blog with her new release, Grayson.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">As part of the blog tour, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Tamara will give a digital copy of her new book, Grayson, to one randomly drawn commenter. Therefore, please play along. Drop us a hello or a comment. You never know what you may win.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kwEuKB8ZLnBv5pv2BgyXWOGBxzIeSRFoltB7dUStinEQTAs4B2zIIHm8niIoMjFq6gbWiEzGHt745LPsClmDVvbjl2saoYcF3A2kXigR4ymWnLUnfDxqVJg047OB971LDIRw6k9wWiw/s1600/Grayson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7kwEuKB8ZLnBv5pv2BgyXWOGBxzIeSRFoltB7dUStinEQTAs4B2zIIHm8niIoMjFq6gbWiEzGHt745LPsClmDVvbjl2saoYcF3A2kXigR4ymWnLUnfDxqVJg047OB971LDIRw6k9wWiw/s1600/Grayson.jpg" /></a></div>
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Title: Grayson</div>
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Author: Tamara White</div>
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ISBN: 978-1-62420-343-5</div>
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Genre: Contemprary Fiction</div>
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Excerpt Heat Level: 1</div>
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Book Heat Level: 4</div>
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Buy at: <a href="http://www.roguephoenixpress.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">Rogue Phoenix Press</a>, Amazon, Barnes and Noble</div>
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Website URL: under construction launch in app. three weeks.</div>
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Facebook page: <a href="http://www.facebook.com/tamarawhite888" style="color: blue; cursor: pointer;" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/tamarawhite888</a></div>
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Twitter handle: @twhitebutblack (recently launched)</div>
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<u>REVIEW:</u></div>
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<em>Grayson</em></div>
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By Tamar White</div>
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5 Stars</div>
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Reviewed by G. Lloyd Helm</div>
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<em>Grayson</em> is a book about family history, secrets, and rivalries. Families can be complicated enough, but if you mix in race and egotism they become even more so. <em>Grayson</em> explores the connections between mothers and daughters and what daughters don't know about mothers and mothers don't know about daughters. Each character is keeping explosive secrets in this story, from who is whose father and who is actually related to whom and, more interestingly, why the characters are so at odds.</div>
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I can't say I enjoyed this book, but I was awed by the Ms. White's ability to make her characters come right off the page. She is a hell of a writer. It was well worth the read for the people in it.</div>
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<u>TAGLINE</u></div>
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Unable to shake off her past and the destruction colorism played in her childhood, Grayson returns to Lakeland in an attempt to reconcile her past.</div>
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<u>BLURB</u></div>
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The Harrow family is a family that has spent generations hiding behind the illusion of perfection and lineage. Grayson thought she had escaped the dysfunction of the Harrow Family until the shock of an unplanned pregnancy forced her to return to Lakeland. Grayson must confront her color struck mother, Vivianna, about her childhood at Lakeland and the real reason why her biological father was never apart of her life. Grayson learns how twisted her mother’s version of love is, and how the truth is more complex than she could have ever imagined. Her husband David is there to support her every step of the way, and when Grayson reconnects with her sister, Gigi, she learns the price Gigi paid for being their mother’s favorite.</div>
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<u>EXCERPT</u></div>
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Grayson took a moment to soak up the quietness of the afternoon before they headed inside. The country air tickled her nose. Grayson had forgotten how clean air could smell. The sweet smell of the honeysuckle lingered over the slight breeze and settled her stomach as it occupied her lungs. She enjoyed how the crisp air danced on her skin, and brushed away the city of Boston's lingering aroma. Grayson turned her eyes towards the estate she had grown up in, and saw Lakeland in a way she never had before.</div>
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The unusually harsh winters over the past few years had abused the hand-made clay shingles and caused a distinct discoloration. The landscaping was neat, but not kept to the same standard it had been when her grandfather was alive. </div>
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Grayson knew her grandfather would have never allowed the forsythia bushes to expand and move about the grounds freely. He would have demanded the gardeners control the beautifully bright yellow shrubberies and conform them to the Harrow standard. Wild is for the wilderness, Grayson's grandfather would have said. Grayson smiled at the absence of the ancient oak tree she'd fallen out of when she was ten. The enormous oak tree with the giant knock hole had shaded her bedroom, and helped her sneak out when she was sixteen to Elizabeth Brownsworth's end of the year party. The white washed bricks demanded a thorough cleaning, and the cliché, <em>Gone with the Wind</em> pillars pleaded desperately for a fresh coat of cloud white paint. Lakeland looked miserable. It was as if Lakeland knew her final chapter was already written.</div>
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<em>"Lakeland is really showing her years." </em>Grayson stared at the midnight black, heavily ornate front door with the bulky lion head doorknocker, and equally obnoxious doorknob she swore she'd never enter again, every time she walked out. Grayson picked up her laptop bag and started her pilgrimage towards her past.</div>
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"Relax," David whispered from behind her. "Everything is going to be fine."</div>
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Her mother, Vivianna, opened the front door and stood in the archway like a Grand Duchess impatiently awaiting the arrival of her audience. "Grayson, put the bag down!" she snapped in an egotistical tone. "We don't carry our bags. We have them carried. Has city life caused you to abandon your upbringing? Ladies of means do not carry bags."</div>
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Five seconds. That's how long it took Grayson to go from a strong, accounting firm executive, to the shy, chocolate-skinned, frizzy haired, correction-shoe girl of her past.</div>
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"Mother," Grayson retorted in the stiff flat tone she reserved for addressing Vivianna. "So nice to see―"</div>
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"Never mind all that." Vivianna motioned them towards the front door. "Inside quickly. No need for some of us to get any darker than we already are, darling." Vivianna paused in the foyer to admire her creamy beige skin in the mirror before entering the sitting room. She never passed on an opportunity to admire what she perceived as her greatness. "Grayson, I don't see how you're able to endure. I don't know what I would do if my skin was permanently darkened by the sun." The physical differences in Vivianna and Grayson went beyond skin tone. Vivianna was thin in stature. She never had an issue maintaining a hundred and ten pounds on her five foot three frame. Her nose was narrow, her lips thin, and her eyes were almond shaped. People, mostly women, assumed her green eyes were fake, but they were indeed real. Vivianna was everything a color-complex struck Black man found irresistible. She was their must-have. Grayson, on the other hand, possessed curves for days, full lips, and a round face with a button nose to match her high cheekbones. She had the type of body hip-hop artists paid homage to in their lyrics, minus the chocolate-colored skin.</div>
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"Come, Grayson ... sit. I want to know how things are going. Was the flight enjoyable? I hope you flew first class. I've heard people in coach can have an odor to them."</div>
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Grayson rolled her eyes behind Vivianna's back. <em>And so it begins...</em></div>
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<u>AUTHOR BIO:</u></div>
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Tamara White is married and lives in Illinois with her husband, children and dogs. She enjoys photography and reading.</div>
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