All posts in category Author Excerpts

Woe, but It’s a Wicked World: Guest post by Lauri Nienhaus How to Identify a Gothic Tale

This is an excerpt from Laurie Nienhaus’ new book Steeped: The Wanderings & Delights of a Tea Adventurer, which features humorous essays and original recipes along with ephemera art. As a fan of gothic tales, I found it especially fun and wanted to share it with you!

Woe, but It’s a Wicked World

crying angel close

photo by Jo Naylor

For those new to the genre, it’s sometimes a murky line distinguishing the early gothic tale from a mystery or mere romance. How do you know for certain whether you’re reading a true gothic story?  You need only look at your heroine and ask:

     1.   Has she been recently orphaned or is she, at the least,
minus one parent whose advice and admonishments she
tenderly reflects upon?
     2.  Has she recently been locked in her room or held
prisoner in a small cottage, most likely after a long
journey?
     3.  Is she wandering the lost passageways of an ancient castle
or a haunted abbey, perhaps in total darkness and
terrified of witnessing some horrid spectacle?
    4.  Is she being forced to wed a man she barely knows by a
cruel Italian uncle or guardian?
    5.  Does she long for the safe haven of a convent or is she
being forced to become a nun?
If your answer to these questions is yes, you can be assured your tale is early gothic.

While gothic stories abounded with heroines named Adeline, Antonia, and Ellena, you’ll be hard pressed to find even a Matilda or Isabella residing in our modern novels. Gothic heroines simply aren’t made of stern enough stuff for today’s readers.

But in all fairness, the life of a gothic heroine is not easy. Her beauty creates endless complications. Her deepest distress makes her appear even more beautiful and so she tends to be greatly desired by men with wicked intentions. Aside from the man she is being forced to wed, there is likely yet another soon to make a kidnap attempt and still others she might hear discussing her, which only adds to her vague fears and nameless dread. All the while, of course, her mind is greatly preoccupied with memories of happy moments spent with the man she has given her heart to and from whom she’s been cruelly torn. His absence creates the deep melancholy she can never shake, but which serves to make her…still more beautiful.

One wonders if the lot of the gothic heroine would be easier if she didn’t feel things so deeply. While we admire, she feels extraordinary awe rendering her speechless. We may be nervous, but she’s assailed by horrid apprehensions her spirit can not overcome. We experience fear, but she’s convulsed with horror so excessive her senses are threatened. Her recollections are too painful to be endured and her astonishment is always profound. Imagine the fatigue!

frozen roses 2 edited

by Jo Naylor

Perhaps this is why gothic heroines are so prone to sinking lifeless and falling senseless. Their penchant for long solitary walks leads you to believe they possess hardy constitutions. In actuality, they’re quite delicate. In continual need of walls and window casements to lean upon, they lose consciousness with alarming regularity. Their steps falter with the arrival of bad news and their maids are ever ready with open arms to catch them when murder or possible loss of chastity threatens. The bravest gothic heroine might indeed seek out her cruel uncle to plead her case one last time, but it causes her to tremble terribly and she’ll likely end up falling at his feet, overwrought with emotion. The unexpected appearance of a lover, a circumstance occurring with far more frequency than one might expect, could well bring on a slight fever.

Tragically, gothic heroines are also not known for their deductive powers. Despite the lateness of the hour, the remoteness of the castle, and the strangeness of their situation, they’re unable to deduce that some foul plot is afoot. Although we can see numerous reasons why unaccountable terror might grip them, they, strangely, often fail to produce a single one. They’re only, yet again, overcome by their most constant of companions – nameless dread.

At least they’re rarely bored. As is often the case when locked in your room, there’s ample time for introspection. The gothic heroine spends a good portion of her day tormented by unanswerable questions such as, “What have I gained by my fortitude?” or “Is this a charm to lure me to my destruction?” and “Have I truly been abandoned to meet the storms of life alone?”

Their days fill with activity, especially as people leave much lying about for them to find. Chancing upon deadly daggers and mysterious manuscripts keeps a gothic heroine busy. Hours pass quickly when you’re discovering the veiled recesses of rooms not opened in years. Chance upon poetry carved into the trees outside your villa or begin wondering what is behind this or that door and, before you know it, it’s teatime.

two cherubs

by Jo Naylor

A gothic heroine is also quite literate and, in an effort to resist the pressure of sorrow, usually makes at least a feeble attempt to read. Yet how impossible when the silent tears can not be stopped! And most amazing of all, the deepest melancholy or the most sublime enjoyment of nature puts her at her literary best. She can pen a two-page sonnet before the sun completely sinks below the horizon.

Although the gothic heroine finds the world to be a wicked place, in the end she manages to triumph, coming away a wiser, and usually happily married, young woman. She has been:

…shewn that, though the vicious can sometimes pour afflictions upon the good, their power is transient and their punishment certain; and that innocence supported by patience will finally triumph over misfortune.”
 
Perhaps it is true that, for those with an uncommon delicacy
of mind, there is always another door to be opened.
******
 Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Laurie Nienhaus is an author, playwright and public speaker now living on Fort Myers Beach in Florida. She is happiest when managing to combine both her love of history and tea. Steeped is her third book. When not writing, speaking or holed up in a library, Laurie enjoys reading, cooking, sewing vintage reproduction clothing, bicycling, yoga and gardening. She has been married to her husband, Kenny, for 30 years and has two grown children, Kenny and Torie Montana. The newest addition to her family is a miniature Australian Shepherd named Lily Bell. To learn more about her work and her speaking engagements, visit www.LaurieNienhaus.com
.
You can purchase your own copy of Steeped at: Amazon.com
.
Also be sure to visit GLily.com
9 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on April 21, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts
Tagged , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on April 21, 2013

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2013/04/21/woe-but-its-a-wicked-world-guest-post-by-lauri-nienhaus-how-to-identify-a-gothic-tale/

Dirt by Sharon Dwyer

DIRT---HIGH-RES

In 1933 the Great Depression and Dust Bowl brought devastation to thousands of people. For thirteen-year-old Sammy Larkin, it made him an orphan. Refusing to allow the state to take his seven-year-old sister, Birdie and himself from their farm, he decides to do the impossible—live as if his parents were still alive.
Learning to lie and steal, he embarks on an eye-opening fight for survival in the Oklahoma panhandle, finding help in the most unexpected places. The fear of failure overshadows his every decision. Along with a mangy stray dog and new-found friends, he struggles to adapt to the world of adults, discovering the ugly side of life, all the while questioning why his parents left them.
Battling constant dust storms, known as black blizzards, a menacing drifter, and hunger, he fights to get through each day, hoping for a miracle. When circumstances dictate a change in his plans, he has to make a life altering decision.

Winner of the B.R.A.G. Medallion

 

Excerpt:

Outside the wind roared, tore at the cellar door, moaned through cracks, bringing with it a cloud of dust. Sammy and Birdie turned toward the wall and buried their heads within their arms. On and on, the roaring wind shrieked. The temperature dropped by almost forty degrees. Each new gust slammed the door against the frame. It blocked out the sun and turned day into night. The faint light from the lantern flickered. After what seemed like hours, the short dust storm finally passed them over and kept heading east. One minute the roaring filled the tiny room; the next, a blanket of dead quiet descended.

“Is it over?” Birdie asked

“I think so. We need to sit and wait a while, jus’ in case it comes back.” Sammy unrolled himself and leaned back against the wall, his heart pounding. The storm seemed a lot worse now that his ma and pa weren’t there to comfort them. Usually they made a game of hiding in the cellar waiting for a storm to pass. It wasn’t fun anymore.

He crept up the steps and listened for the wind. He could hear the blowing dirt whisking against the door and house. It seeped through the cracks, rained on his face and in his eyes. He wiped at the dirt on his face and listened again for the wind. It seemed quiet beyond the door. Sammy pulled the latch back and slowly raised the cellar door a few inches, looking and listening for the hateful storm. With the exception of a few minor gusts, the storm had passed.

He turned back down the steps and said to his sister, “Come on, let’s git out of here.”

Birdie jumped to her feet, blew out the lantern, and scooted up the stone steps, eager to leave the dank, dark cellar. By the time she reached the top step, Sammy had thrown the door all the way back.

A haze of dusty sky covered the sun. The day seemed confused as to whether it should be early morning or dusk. With a dark yellow-brown hue blanketing the lonely landscape, it was hard to tell.

“I didn’t like that, Sammy. It ain’t like when Momma and Daddy was with us down in there,” Birdie said when she climbed out of the cellar. She stood on the cellar door, hugging herself against the chill, while Sammy secured the latch.

“I know. Ain’t nothin’ fun no more. Next time maybe we can ride it out in the house, ‘stead of the cellar. If’n it’s a big‘n we still go to the cellar. The little ones . . . I ain’t goin’ down there.” Sammy struggled with the rusted latch, finally giving up after pinching his hand. He kicked it shut. “Oh, snake boogers. That there door done up an’ bit me.” He squeezed the side of his hand, holding back the blood.

“Mamma don’t like ya to be sayin’ that,” chided Birdie.

“Ain’t nobody gonna be around to say nothin’ ‘bout it.” He stomped around the corner out of her sight.

Birdie hurried to fall in step with her brother as they made their way back to the house, stopping first at the pump for some cool, refreshing water. Breathing in all the dust that had crept into the cellar had parched their throats. Ma woulda remembered to bring water to the cellar, Sammy thought. And Pa woulda got them down ‘for the winds got too strong.

“Don’t make no difference. Gotta do it my own way now,” he mumbled. “I gotta think smarter and faster, too. If’n I don’t, me and Birdie gonna git hurt or maybe even kilt.

“Who’s gonna get kilt, Sammy?” Birdie asked, catching up with him.

“I ain’t talkin’ to ya. Mind yer own business,” he said.

“Who ya talkin’ to? Ain’t nobody ‘round cept us”. Birdie grabbed his sleeve. “Who ya talkin’ to, huh?”

Sammy stopped walking and turned to his sister. “I’m talkin’ to myself, okay? I gotta make some sense of all this and there ain’t nobody to be talkin’ to that knows nothin’. We gotta make plans.”

“What plans?”

“Plans on how we keep a-goin’. Gittin’ food and stuff.”

“I’m hungry,” Birdie whined.

“Me too,” Sammy agreed, knowing there wasn’t much left in the house. He had to find a way to bring some food in.

“I want one of Momma’s roast chickens with mashed tatters and corn ona cob. Wouldn’ that be good?” Birdie licked her lips, savoring the memory of what used to be on the table.

“Yeah, if’n we had us a chicken or tatters or corn. We ain’t got nothin’ ‘cept some bread ‘n that there can stuff. I gotta git us some food.”

.

http://www.amazon.com/DIRT-ebook/dp/B008NXEIKO/ Available in paperback and kindle

 

 

About Sharon Dwyer:

What can I say. I dream. I write. I dream some more. I love books with a good story that keeps me up way past my bedtime.

Seriously, well I was serious but, I’ve worked in several professions – nursing, engineering, finance and technology. I love a challenge, so when I felt bored with an occupation, I went back to school for a new one. Along the way I discovered I loved to write and once again changed profession.

As my website says, “Books are the gateway to adventure”. Reading is more than just an enjoyable story, so many books out there have tidbits of information weaved into the story, we learn something everytime we pick one up. At least I do.

Website http://www.sldwyer.com/

 

2 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on April 6, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts
Tagged , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on April 6, 2013

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2013/04/06/dirt-by-sharon-dwyer/

Lost by Kenn Phillips

LOST E-book Cover

As children, we’re afraid of the monster in the closet or the boogeyman under the bed. Most of us grow out of that and we relegate the superstition of a dark, evil force out to get us to paranoid conspiracy theorists and the psychotic. Stew Kasey is one who grew out of it. The bad thing is, he should reconsider, because there’s definitely a dark and evil force out there who is out to get him. Fortunately, for Stew, there is also a force of good looking out for him—his brother. Now, if only Stew knew that he had a brother.

Stew Kasey is a normal 23-year old trying to make his way as a film critic for the local paper. His life gets flipped upside-down and inside-out when he gets attacked in an alley, wakes up from a coma three days later and begins to see things. Strange things.

Wiz is an… What? You’ve never met anyone named Wiz before? When a spiritual entity tells you through a Ouija board that his name is Wiz, you don’t question it. Now, Wiz is an immortal who has been searching for his brother who vanished into thin air over 1250 years ago after a botched execution. His quest has now brought him to Charlotte.

Zachary—who is also an immortal, just not as prone to wandering as Wiz—is plotting to finish the task he started 1250 years ago and
destroy the Circle of Light.

 

Excerpt:

“I’ve never seen anything like this outside of a… I am an expert,“ the shop keeper insisted. “Trust me. This guy is no collector.“ Wiz was hungry, but not for anything edible. Food had not quelled his hunger in quite some time. Still, time passed so slowly on its own and eating the occasional meal helped it to pass just a little bit quicker. But he needed money for that. He stood in the darkness of an alley in Uptown Charlotte, Goose at his side, staring out into the street. Blurs of color went by but he did not notice. For a moment, his mind was distracted by something far less tangible than shiny machines. He took a deep breath as he blinked his eyes into focus on what he came here for. He looked down at his callused, empty hands and in a bright flash, they were no longer empty.

In the past, Wiz had been successful selling items at flea markets, antique stores, second hand stores and even an occasional small pawn shop. Lack of identification limits his ability to sell to bigger stores. Some of the items he had been able to sell for a decent amount of cash included a Native American flute, a bearskin rug, and his favorite, an ivory tobacco pipe carved into a Viking longboat. He had heard from a friend that Ace Pawn had a thing for swords. He wasn’t sure how big Ace Pawn was, but swords were pricey items and perhaps today would be his lucky day.

The wind was whistling, but he couldn’t feel its ferocity until he and Goose stepped from within the alley. A gust of wind swept underneath his wide-brimmed hat and blew it off his head, forcing him to chase it a hundred feet down the sidewalk. He tucked the sheathed sword underneath his arm and had to brush his scraggly, greasy hair out of his face before he could put his hat back on. He looked around and the street was empty, as was the sidewalk. He was relieved that he didn’t have to worry about anyone thinking he was a crazy man with a sword.

He walked into the shop, being careful not to let the sword hit the glass of the door. The shopkeeper’s bell jingled as he closed the door behind him. Inside, it smelled of dusty plastic and stale cigarette smoke.

“Hey! You can’t bring that dog in here,“ the pawnshop owner declared, pointing at the door from just beyond the entryway into the back room.

“He’s very well-behaved. I take him with me everywhere. He’s practically my guide dog.“ Goose was black with brown on his chest, legs, snout and around his eyes. He looked like a leaner and smaller version of a Rottweiler. But, in fact, he was a Smalandsstovare, which originated in Scandinavia. He was loyal, strong and very smart. “I can put a harness on him and wear dark sunglasses if it makes you feel better,“ Wiz said, smirking as he tried to catch the shop owner off guard.

“No. I don’t suppose that’ll be necessary. What’ya got?“ the pawnshop owner asked as he brushed aside a dark green curtain and stepped into the front of the shop from the back. His face was plump, but clean-shaven; his hair neatly trimmed.

“Well, I’ve got this sword,“ Wiz replied as he approached the register, pulling his sword from its sheath and placing it on the counter. It was a traditional Viking sword—Damascus folded steel blade with a woven leather hilt decorated with bronze rivets.

“You got ID?“ the owner queried.

“Hmm, ID. No, I don’t. Is that a problem?“ Wiz could conjure just about anything, but the item he wanted had to either be not owned by anyone or made from material not owned by anyone. He could occasionally conjure money. Usually a dollar bill in the pocket of
some discarded jeans or loose change, but never anything very substantial. Conjured items could come from anywhere in the world and so, Wiz sometimes even got foreign currency. ID cards are made mostly of plastic but he was not sure what else and, therefore, could not conjure himself any modern identification. Fifty years ago it wasn’t a problem. Twenty years ago, even. Times change, however, and technology with it. Conjuring precious metals gems, even though there are plenty to be found in the ground that aren’t owned by anyone, went against the Laws of Immortal Magic set at the Conclave Triskaideka of 1354 in Prague.

“Yes. Lack of identification poses somewhat of a problem. This is not a cheap sword,“ the owner said, hunching over to look at the details more closely. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it? It looks like a movie prop. Thirteenth Warrior… or Pathfinder, perhaps.“

“No. It’s a family heirloom. But I need cash.“

“Are you on drugs?“ the owner inquired with a bit of cynicism and suspicion, eyeing Wiz’s faded blue jeans, raggedy Army field jacket
and unkempt hair.

“No. Look… if you don’t want to buy it… or… can’t buy it because I don’t have ID, just give it back to me and I’ll find someone who can.
No big deal.“

“Do you mind if I go back and look this up? I just want to see what something like this is worth.“

“No, go ahead.“

The owner turned around and quickly took the sword to the back, nearly getting the tip of the sword caught in the fabric of the green curtain. Wiz could see a sliver of the somewhat heavyset man between the curtain and the doorframe, looking at a computer screen. He could see the man bring something up to his ear and look back at Wiz. It was a cell phone. By the look of the man’s shifty eyes, Wiz assumed he was calling the police. Wiz strained and could just barely make out what he was saying.

 

Author’s Bio
Kenn Phillips lives with his wife, Marie, and three sons in Salisbury, North Carolina, where he is a correctional sergeant at a medium custody prison. Lost/ is his first novel. His other writing credits include film and music reviews, as well as various other articles, while working as Assistant Arts and Entertainment editor for the University Time at UNC-Charlotte. He also wrote film reviews for Backwash.com.

Link to buy: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B0Y56RW
Website: ravenspost.net

 

5 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on February 17, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts
Tagged , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on February 17, 2013

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/lost-by-kenn-phillips/

Divided Realms by Catherine L Vickers

Divided Realms.rev - Catherine L Vickers

The destiny of four young people living their ordinary lives, changes almost overnight. The youngest, Prince Raphael, thought to die young through illness, is kidnapped by the evil Emperor of the Dark Side of Aarabassa. His ransom is Heather, the Changeling and key to enabling his vamplin army to enter the Lightlands once he has used the Fire Giant to destroy the Magic Wall. Prince Leon and Prince Amos must travel the realms to unite the People of the Lightlands in readiness for a battle to stop the evil monshaad Emperor from destroying the Magic Wall. Dragons, Dwarves, Centaurs and many a creature will fight for the continuation of their races.

Here’s an excerpt:

A small boy moaned in a dark damp cave, deep in the Ginnung mid-mountains. It was not his imminent death that he feared, though that would be a relief. It was that Morte-Bielz was not to end the agonising torment he was afflicting, not even in death could he escape this evil monshaad. The Emperor had threatened to continue his persecution long after Raphael’s death, upon his mortal soul. For a long time Raphael had endured the continual loud screeching that bounded around the walls of the cave, echoing down the passageways and never ceasing. His eyes and ears bled with the pressure that Morte-Bielz inflicted on him with the Mindtalk. His bones ached; his muscles had stiffened and throbbed with pain. His body felt raw, with no skin for protection. Hunger had ceased long ago but his dry cracked lips bled with pain as he pleaded for water. He had stopped drinking from the small pool that he had managed to crawl to, it was nothing but salted water, which made him crave a drink even more. The twisted torment did not end at the physical pain. The emperor had filled Raphael’s young mind with his own twisted hatred for humankind. He had graphically described the slow deaths he was going to inflict on human villages when he, once again, would be upon the Light Lands. He told him of cruel events gone by and worse yet to come.

For a short while, the emperor was quiet as if relishing his thoughts.

On the rare moments that the monshaad creature was not present in his mind, he tried to sleep; this was a means of escaping the reality of his world.

Again, the tormenting words began.

Did you know boy, that it was I who killed your mother?

Raphael hated this foul creature. How could he know of his mother? What mischief was he up to now?

She would not let me have your soul when I entered into her mind. Oh Yesss, I entered her mind because she was ill with fever from your body feeding off her like a leach. She was a fool to refuse me. No one refuses my orders; I poisoned her blood and twisted your bones. She died in agony fearing for the innocent little child in her womb. I told her that I would ensure her child did not live long. Ohhh how she wept. Once I was in her mind I simply would not let go.

Raphael listened to the horrific laughing of the foul creature. He did not feel saddened. He would not let this entity take over his mind. He must stay strong for as long as he could hold out.

She disobeyed me and I could not get to her soul. You see it is her fault that you are so ill. She selfishly passed on to the Realm of the Dead so I punished you instead and twisted your spine.

The boy could only cry dry tears. He had no strength. He tried to fight death because this would not end the suffering. The emperor had threatened that his soul would be imprisoned for all eternity in the Dark Lands or until the monshaad Lords fed upon him. He did not want to think of his mother and the agony she must have gone through before her death.

I have news for you boy. Again a short silence whilst he thought he could hear the emperor breathing heavily. The humans will soon have a new king.

During the silence that followed this news, Raphael could not understand what the monshaad had meant. His thoughts were confused and he could only conclude that his father’s illness had become worse.

Your father will soon be dead and I will devour his soul. Am I not kind to make your brother a king? Now it is also time for you to face the final moments of your paltry life.

The emperor spoke no more. Raphael felt his pained body being dragged along the hardened floor to the centre of the cave. His skin shredded until he bled, leaving a trail on the rough rocks. For a moment, the pulling motion ceased and then his legs shot violently up into the air. Left there to dangle, his feet were dragged higher and his head swayed close to the hard ground. Blood pumped rapidly through the veins in his head, pounding with a soft rhythm in his eardrums, his stomach heaved as he felt bile slither into his throat. He coughed up blood and spat it to the dusty floor. His limbs ached with the agonising position as he dangled in mid air. His arms fell downwards; he knew he was weakening to the point of no return. It was strange that the emperor had left him alone in his last moments. At least he could pass from life peacefully.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious because the emperor hadn’t returned yet. A faint hissing sounded very near by, he tried to open his puffy eyes. Something was entering the cave, he could just make out a long dark shape, like a giant snake, slithering towards him. Raphael did not care if the snake poisoned his body; there would be less for Morte-Bielz when he returned.

The snake swiftly coiedl itself around the little human body in slow gentle movements.

‘You can only kill me snake, ‘Raphael croaked a whisper from his throat. ‘Get on with it. Are you not hungry? You are welcome to feast on me but I am wasted bones and will not fill the likes of you.’

The snake had all but covered Raphael’s bony body and the boy waited for the crushing, fearing no pain.

 

********

Divided Realms is available on Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A8YTHNE

********

Catherine lives in the UK and started writing quite late in life as she is now a grandma. This is the first book she’s written and is presently working on Book 2.  She am never without a book to read, and she reads mainly Fantasy Adventure, which inspired her to create her own world with all her favourite creatures and weave them into an epic tale.

Be sure to check out Catherine’s blog at http://onewomansquestuk.blogspot.co.uk/

4 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on January 19, 2013  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts
Tagged , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on January 19, 2013

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2013/01/19/divided-realms-by-catherine-l-vickers/

A New Release from LC Cooper – Man Cave

As a fan of Ms. Cooper’s work, I had to share this with you

A follower and an introvert, Adam is content accepting whatever life throws at him. Eric, Adam’s gregarious best friend, talks Adam into a different birthday present, one that proves to be more than a distraction from life’s dramas. Although seasoned outdoorsmen, neither man is prepared for what they uncover.

Who can help them? Who can they trust? Frequent dangers they face possess the power to consume their very souls. Adam and Eric must grow together if they are to survive. Will Adam become the man he only dreamed of being? If not, what awaits them in “Man Cave” will most certainly destroy them.

 

You can read it for free on her blog (links to follow) or for 2.99 you can download it from Smashwords to your device of choice and not be chained to the computer to read it.

Another one for my TBR list!

8 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on September 16, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts
Tagged , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on September 16, 2012

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2012/09/16/a-new-release-from-lc-cooper-man-cave/

To Finish a Quilt by Grant Staley

Today’s excerpt is from the  novel To Finish a Quilt by Grant Staley 

 

To Finish a Quilt

‘Why did I deserve that abuse? What indecency did I have that made you turn away from me when I called?’

She [Eunice] had asked that very question tens of times almost every day for over two decades. She waited for God to speak to her, but she heard no reply so she searched within her memories for a cause. The same minor trespasses came to mind: a trivial curse when she bumped her knee on a pew, an unkind word to her grandmother, lying to her brother Tommy. Those were not real answers to her question so it was probably as her father had said in his last words to her. Somehow, she had failed God with the deep stains she wore.

That night when she was sixteen, she had been curled up on the bed wearing her long white nightgown with flowers embroidered around the neck, praying with all her might that her father might just go on to bed without another sloppy conversation. The periods of icy silence and cutting jabs between her mother and him had been bad enough, but by that point, talking with a drunk had become intolerable without disgust-soaked words filling her voice. Those prayers had been in vain.

The twenty-one year old echoes of her father bumping his way up the staircase filled her with a medley of hate, shame, and guilt. The sobbing and pain, the stench of alcohol, and the taste of blood inside her lip were still as real as that night when her pale eyes had felt about to burst from their orbits as if the pressure of her imprisoned screams were pushing them out. As always, she decided that desire was not on her bastard father’s mind that night. It was punishment.

More than punishment, her father was a first taste of what men really were. Her brother, who had deserted the family, and her husband, who like all men could not help himself around loose women, confirmed the message of that awful lesson even if they had never assaulted her physically. Her brother’s emotional abandonment had concluded with irreparable and devastating consequences. There was nothing that would rectify what he had done. Her husband’s throwing her over for an infant; however, was a grievance she would not permit. Something must change the course of his infatuation. She needed to prevail this time.

That damn baby was making more noise. Without more of a true-ringing answer to the question of why she had suffered so at the hands of men, she walked away from the bedroom, her head throbbing with every step and every cry of the baby.

Halfway down the hallway, she paused to take in the commanding panorama from high above the San Gabriel Valley. She loved this house, the prestigious address, and the outlook of the city that always gave her a sense of accomplishment. But, the baby’s cry broke the spell an instant later, causing her to sigh before she stole into her daughter’s room.

She walked through the full moon’s blue light that filled the nursery and looked down into the crib. The child kicked her chubby legs in gleeful anticipation, and her mouth arced into a pudgy heart that cooed her welcome. The child had begun to recognize her over a month ago, and she took that as a sign of intelligence. This child would be clever, probably not as smart as the son but crafty and, as a girl, able to manipulate her father.

Watching the child wriggle in its crib, she felt the night’s anger and disgust rise again. She hated this baby. She could right that wrong. It was all in her power. Jules would be sad for a while, but he would get over the loss. She would be there to help him through the pain. Babies die in their sleep all the time; she knew that to be true.

Julie started to fuss again and seemed about to let out a cry. Eunice bent over to caress the tiny, buttery face with the back of her hand. Solemnly she took the pillow from under the child’s head.

“Shhh, there there,” she whispered as she placed the pillow over the baby’s face and pressed it down along her ears.

There were sounds, painful ones that brought back her own vain pleas from long ago, but she could learn to live with those too. The infant’s legs started to dart frantically in every direction. Seconds dragged by as Eunice looked out the window.

How much longer could this take, she asked herself as the convulsions continued. She heard a click and decided it was the crib uttering a final creak.

“Mom?” she heard a second later and flinched.

Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw her son Gary slumped on the doorframe behind her. His red plaid pajamas hung from his lean five-year-old body.

Without hesitation, Eunice slid the pillow away, and the baby started to bawl. She spun in Gary’s direction and stomped her way close to him.

“Damn it Gary. See what you’ve done?  I almost had her down, but you’ve ruined that.”

The boy, recoiling away from her, said, “I was having a bad dream.”

“And what can I do about that?”

Gary brought a hand to his mouth and started to gnaw on his thumbnail. He turned back to his room.

“Nothing, I guess.”


************

Grant, originally from California, lives in the Auckland suburb of St. Heliers with his wife and their two dogs. He is an avid sailor, musician, cyclist, and writer.

 His first novel To Finish A Quilt is a story of a young woman’s unfathomable hurt, the way it influences others around her, and how two men central to her life reach resolution and peace. A second novel is in progress for release in late 2013. Learn more and how to purchase at www.grantstaley.com


6 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on June 12, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts, Daily Samples
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on June 12, 2012

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2012/06/12/to-finish-a-quilt-by-grant-staley/

Who Will Hear Them Cry by Phyllis Campbell

Kate’s world is secure, a loving husband, a baby on the way, and a partnership in a small town detective agency, until she returns home to a scene of horror. Her husband lies dead in a room covered with his blood. This is the last thing she will ever see with her physical eyes, as the killer emerges from the shadows to hurl a jar of acid at her face, killing her unborn child, and leaving her totally blind.

He had warned her not to testify against his son, the psychopath who called himself the messenger of the lord. If she had only listened! Her adjustment to her new world is excellent, they tell her, but no one knows the paralysis that holds her spirit in bondage as her guilt forces her into a world of computer games where she can control life and death on the screen, a world where she can’t hurt nor be hurt.

Before you begin to read close your eyes, listen, smell, touch. Is that a stealthy footfall? Is that fragrance coming from someone waiting in the dark? Does that hand suddenly touching you belong to a friend or an enemy?

Now you’re ready to walk with Kate through her world of darkness as she follows the trail of a series of fatal accidents in a private school for disabled children. She resists the journey that Brett, her former partner has asked her to take, but something, call it determination, call it love, call it what you will, pushes her from her world of computers into the real world where danger waits.

Walk with her through the dusty attics of the school, to the state mental hospital, to a country funeral, and along a narrow ledge with a sheer drop on one side and a raging fire on the other. Feel her bitter sweet joy as she is enveloped in a man’s arms again. Her world will never be the same, but it is her world, and it is good.

 

Available now at

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/149753

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Who-Will-Hear-Them-ebook/dp/B007WMRRRS

 

*******************

Phyllis Staton Campbell was born in Amherst County Virginia, and moved to Staunton when she was seven, where she graduated from the Virginia School for the Blind, where she later taught, and where she still goes three afternoons a week to give private piano lessons. She serves as organist at Faith Lutheran Church in historic down town Staunton.

She has been writing professionally since the 60′s, and in addition to short fiction and nonfiction for numerous magazines, she has written two books, one of which was published in China and the United Kingdom as well as in the US. She writes two bi-monthly columns for “Our Special Magazine” published in Braille by National Braille Press. Who Will Hear Them Cry is her first digital book.

3 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on May 20, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts, Daily Samples
Tagged , , , , , , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on May 20, 2012

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2012/05/20/who-will-hear-them-cry-by-phyllis-campbell/

Heir of Nostalgia by Steve Muse

This is an excerpt from Heir of Nostalgia by Steve Muse, available on Amazon.

Blurb:
Age Level: 14 and up | Grade Level: 9 and up

I’m here to tell you, the world never started out this way. It became this way through a mistake, through my pride. I created the Hell we all have to live through. Because of me, the decisions I made, the world has been earmarked for suffering. I tore the veil between life and death. I caused the great shift, the new awakening. Because of me, the world will never be the same.”

Theo Valerian’s world is one of privilege, of always having enough, of having everything go his way. Up until the moment he meets Phillip, a thirteen year old runaway.

Phillip is homeless, hungry, and heartbroken. He’s been living on the streets of New York ever since losing his family. Since that time, the only thing that keeps him going is thoughts of vengeance. He’s looking for the man he feels is responsible for his father’s disappearance, the same man that destroyed his family, a man with silver singing spurs that can walk between worlds. Will a Riot Grrl called Maggie, who claims she can talk to angels, be able to help Phillip? Will a murder of ravens masquerading as teenage thugs defeat them? Or are there stronger forces at work, dark forces? Forces bent on destroying everything in Phillips life?

No one ever said growing up would be easy- then again no one ever said it would be this hard either.

Excerpt:

I finally located Phillip, he was with a man- but before I go there, there is something you must know, the corners of the roof, the corners of the doorways, anything at all that resembled a clear ninety degree angle of any sort; they all began to bleed darkness like a severed artery bleeds blood.

And that darkness the corners bled began to pool.

“Dad?” Not a cry, not an observation, but a plea from my son.

“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to reassure him, “everything is going to be alright.”  But I was lying; everything wasn’t going to be alright, because everything felt so incredibly wrong, starting with the man lounging beside the entrance of the stairwell leading back down into Union Station, the one with his hand on the back of Phillip’s neck, the one with the smirk on his face, raven hair hanging in strings alongside a face so pale, so long, as to appear cartoonish and sinister, the one holding a small silver dagger against my son’s throat.

In the fading light of day, “I’m glad you could join us.”  A voice so harsh, so painful, that simply hearing it is enough to cause headaches and nosebleeds.  Gratingly low, it sounded like what dragging your fist through a box of broken glass would feel like, only in your head.

“What do you want,” I asked.

Over the man’s left shoulder, hanging low upon the horizon, Domiciles sword, the all too familiar comet, like a blood smear drawn across the sky.

The man appeared to be dressed in the rags, the haphazard clothing of a street dweller.  In other words, nothing all that unique or familiar about him, in fact, he could have been anybody, but at the same time it was obvious he was more than that.  From the look on Phillip’s face, the boys stance, his drawn shoulders and hunched back, the man’s grip obviously caused him a great deal of pain.

Before the man answered, he seemed to breathe in deeply, as if ‘tasting’ the very air, like a bloodhound seeking to catch the scent of his recently acquired prey, “Nothing now,” he said.

The way he said this only confirmed what I already knew, that we were in for some serious trouble.  It would take more than simply staring the man down to get rid of him.  If he could be gotten rid of at all.

“Is there anything I can do?  Can we talk about this?”  I hated doing it, bargaining with both our lives, but I’d do anything at the moment.  Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the quivering of fear from my voice.

Phillip immediately picked up on my fear, because of this, any glimmer of hope in his eyes and on his face, quickly vanished, as tears began to leak from his eyes.  ‘Sorry,’ he silently mouthed.

‘It’s alright,’ I returned.

“There is nothing to discuss.  The only reason you two are still breathing is because, it has been such a long time since I’ve been here.  My curiosity has bought you both a momentary stay of execution, that’s all.”

It was obvious, unlike the majority of bad guys portrayed in popular novels, and/or made for the TV or big screen, our ‘bad guy’ was neither stupid nor obnoxiously helpless, simply put, if dark and gruesome had anything to say about it, we were going to die.

The only real question left to answer, was when.


About Steve Muse:

After meeting Frank Herbert, author of the acclaimed Dune Series, I decided the life of writing was for me. That was about 30 years ago, I’ve been writing ever since.

Heir of Nostalgia is my first published novel, and thanks to the encouragement of my loving wife Janet, is the first in a series chronicling the trials and tribulations of young man in search of his family, his country as well as his place in the world.

Here’s to the land of wonder, an air of Nostalgia, and childhood memories. May we never grow too old to dream… Got a question, comment or review, I’d love to hear from you. Simply drop me a line at: heirofnostalgia@gmail.com.

…………………………………………………………………………….

For more information  please visit :


2 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on May 1, 2012  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts, Daily Samples, Paranormal, Sample Chapters, Self/Indie Publishing, Vampires
Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on May 1, 2012

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2012/05/01/heir-of-nostalgia-by-steve-muse/

Warrior by Violette Dubrinsky

This is an excerpt from Warrior by Violette Dubrinsky, a Fantasy-Historical novel available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and All Romance Books.

Excerpt:

Jaisyn tugged her arm free and pushed past him, grabbing the brass handle and pushing inward. No fire had been lit in that hearth in the days since her father’s death. Just thinking about that made her want to cry. Her father was dead, the kingdom was no longer theirs and a large, evil wretch of a king now occupied Wilhelm’s chambers. What had her father been thinking, giving Mathilda to someone like him? Of all his daughters, he betrothed the one who would run screaming from this giant of a man?

As she’d sat across from Vulcan, Jaisyn had critically assessed him. She knew that many would find him handsome, with his thick head of silky black hair that cascaded past his shoulders, and stern yet sensual face, but he was in no way approachable. She had no idea how to reach him. She had to do something to get her kingdom back, but she didn’t know what. The people of Lytheria didn’t live for war, and this man did.

So lost was she in her thoughts that she didn’t recognize Vulcan was pushing the door in until she heard an audible snap of the latch. She spun immediately, recognizing that the door was closed and his tall body was against it.

His eyes looked dangerous and that scowl still loomed on his lips. What was he doing?

“Remove your veil,” he said in that pompous voice of his. Was he serious? She was a princess, a daughter of Lyria!

“King Vulcan,” she began stiffly, her hands clasped tightly at her midriff. “You are in my castle because I wish it. Do not think to disrespect me in such a manner.”

***

Vulcan could have laughed at how she phrased that statement. He was not here because she wished it; he was in his castle because he had conquered it. Twice. He took a step forward and with her fighter’s instincts, Jaisyn took one backwards.

“Take off the veil, Princess.”

***

Did he suspect it was she who’d tried to kill him on that horrid night? She’d tried her best to put that night from her mind but she’d still had dreams—nightmares—about it.

“My liege, you are being disrespectful. I am a princess of Lytheria—”

Two quick strides brought him directly before her and in the next instant, he was plucking the crown from her head, pulling the veil off and tossing it aside.

Jaisyn let out a startled cry and spun away from him, moving over to the fireless hearth. Vulcan’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

“Turn and face me, Princess. Or are you afraid your face will bring back memories of a night not so far gone?”

He did suspect her. How? It didn’t matter, but he did. Which probably meant that he wanted revenge. And he had promised to continue where he’d left off if he ever saw her again. Her eyes darted to the broadsword above the hearth.

Her father’s sword rested there as a reminder of the great king who had once occupied the place. She sent up a quick prayer to Lyria, and one to her deceased father, praying she would not soon be joining him soon.

Quick as a fox, she reached for the heavy weapon, unsheathed it, spread her legs wide, and spun to face him.

***

Vulcan was accustomed to the unusual. He prided himself on not being shocked easily, but this…girl—not just any girl, but a princess—wielding a sword? It was almost comical, with her flowing dress and brandishing a man’s sword. The he remembered that this same woman had almost killed him as he slept. There was nothing funny about that.

He lifted his eyes to her face. Her skin was lovingly kissed with the sun’s rays—a dark bronze. Her mass of golden curls was pinned intricately atop her head, and her eyes, cat’s eyes—almost yellow in their vivid brightness—flashed angrily at him.

This was his princess. This had to be his princess, or else she wouldn’t be gripping a warrior’s sword, looking like she was ready to decapitate him.

“Put the sword down, lady,” Vulcan said as calmly as he, known for his bouts of temper, could manage.

Jaisyn lifted it higher as her soft lips curled into a snarl. “So that you can rip off more than my veil? I do not think so! Lytherians are not as barbaric as your people, my liege!”

“Put the sword down before I am tempted to take you over my knee!” Vulcan bit the words out angrily, and took a menacing step forward.

She moved to the left, and the grace with which she did so made Vulcan recognize something: she was at ease with the sword. If it wasn’t completely unheard of, he might even say that she was a swordswoman.

He began to tread more carefully. More than likely she wasn’t skilled at using the weapon, but he was taking no chances. Stupidity did not a High King make.

“I am giving you to the count of three. If that sword is still in your hand after that, you cannot hold me accountable for what I do,” Vulcan threatened.

She held onto the sword. Vulcan had had enough. He took a few steps forward, intent on twisting her arm, as he’d done a few nights ago, and pulling the weapon away from her. He didn’t even get close. As soon as he was in range, she flicked her wrist so the flat of the broadsword faced him, and swung. A resounding crash reverberated in the room as the sword caught his breastplate, pushing him back a step and making his ears ring.

“I will not warn you again! Do not come any closer!” she hissed out, her hands aching slightly.

Vulcan recovered from his state of shock as anger took him by full force. Steel screeched as he pulled his broadsword from its sheath and advanced on her.

About Violette Dubrinsky:

Violette Dubrinsky is the author of the Dark God, Warrior, and upcoming Moonlight (in which she introduces you to her werewolves) sagas. She enjoys writing romance stories with stubborn, at times, clashing characters, who eventually learn the error of their ways and sometimes grow to love each other. She is the youngest of three, and the only girl. As such, she was spoiled rotten (in her elaborate dreams), and always wished for a playmate closer to her age.  At a young age, she began creating stories to fill in for the lack of creativity on the part of her two older jock brothers. Violette resides in New York and Boston, and although she has no pets, is intent on getting a Malamute or Husky (since it is the closest she will ever be to a wolf and she is quite obsessed with werewolves) at some point in her life.

She can be reached at: violettedubrinsky.com and violettedubrinsky.wordpress.com

…………………………………………………………………………….
For more information on this and her other titles, please visit :

8 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on August 15, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts, Daily Samples, Paranormal, Sample Chapters, Self/Indie Publishing, Vampires
Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on August 15, 2011

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2011/08/15/warrior/

Genesis by Mark Mackey

Today’s excerpt is from the novel Genesis by Mark Mackey

A young girl of ten, Elizabeth Axelmore, is forced to leave her planet, Tarnex-4, and family and go to earth following a space criminal invading it, hired by Danse Windman, who Elizabeth’s oldest sister Juliara, jilted time and again, and he’s looking for revenge, and wants the space criminal to bring Juliara to him.

There she is taken in by a family, the Duncan’s, Alison,  Deborah, Herbert, where she witnesses her the girl who becomes her best friend, Jordan Ellison, the daughter of US soldier Kimberly disappear without a trace, and befriends a boy, Matthew Briarson, who becomes her future boyfriend whose ghostly older sister, Tess Briarson, has one heck of an evil streak within her. Matthew later traps her in a box magically created to contained souls.

Elizabeth grows up to be seventeen.

Another one of her friends, Nicole Bakersfield get abducted.  She and a girl, Kristen Flemings, 17, roaring into town, fresh from Blue Winter Connecticut, and almost becoming the main coarse of her older sister turned zombie, Jennifer Flemings are forced to go rescue her from a secret underground military base.

There they discover that the mastermind behind the abductions is an extraterrestrial hating general, Mark Taylor, married to Kimberly, bent on destroying her due to his first wife being killed by an extraterrestrial, despite nearly dying at the hands of the general, she manages to survive, finds out that her family and her faithful witch nanny Wendeline Snowdiamond, survived the space criminal invading her planet and decides to return home, with the promise that she’ll soon make another visit to earth.

     The thoughts still fresh in ten year old Elizabeth Axelmore’s mind, the events of the past hour. Her seated in her quarters, painted a dark shade of pink, furnished with an immaculate white bed, a dark gray desk, both just right for Elizabeth’s size and shape. Her nanny, tall, regal Wendeline Snowdiamond, dressed from the neck down in a stunning, velvet dark blue gown, face framed by a thick mane of jet black hair, standing towering over her. Informing her in her familiar warm voice “you’re becoming one heck of a writer Elizabeth,” as she sat gathered behind the dark gray desk, putting words into a spiral bound notebook.

“It’s what I wanna do when I grow up Wendeline!” Elizabeth squealed in a high voice. “It’s my dream!”

“And it’s a good one to have Elizabeth,” Wendeline enthusiastically commented, offering up a warm smile.

The arrival of a unique auburn winged butterfly into the quarters brought Elizabeth to cease with her writing and stare at her with excited eyes.

“A butterfly!” Elizabeth blurted out, her eyes glistening with pure excitement.

Landing on top of her desk, it was only a second before it collapsed and died.

“Oh no, it died Wendeline!” Elizabeth yelled out. “I don’t want it to be dead!”

“Then don’t let it be Elizabeth,” Wendeline quietly commented.

“Wake up little butterfly!” Elizabeth brought forth with enthusiastic glee, restoring the insect back to life with a simple touch of her right index finger.

“I did it Wendeline!”

“Indeed you did, and you should be very proud of yourself,” Wendeline said in a congratulatory voice.

“Good-bye butterfly!” Elizabeth called out. Waving her right hand frantically up and down as it zoomed back out the octagon shaped window.

Elizabeth’s excitement was abruptly interrupted by her oldest sister Juliara come barging in. Wrapped in a sparkling blue overcoat, she immediately yelled out “space criminals had invaded the royal castle, along with her informing Wendeline to find some place to hide, and rushing Elizabeth out.

Where Elizabeth and Juliara ended up, hiding in a closet.

“Elizabeth,” Juliara said, squatting down before her youngest sister, “just in case something bad happens, I want to give you something important.”

And with that, Juliara removed a perfectly square purple object from the pocket of her sparkling blue overcoat, placing it in the palm of Elizabeth’s right hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “This is a history cube, it contains our recorded family history, as well as a few messages I’ve recorded for you,” Juliara informed her youngest sibling. “Now I want you to be brave for me Elizabeth.”

“I will be Juliara!” Elizabeth burst out in a shrill voice, not wasting a moment stuffing the history cube into her trusty backpack she always carried around with her. Unfortunately for the two of them, this fully emotional, tearjerker moment was cut short as the result of the room’s door being whipped open by one Victor Dracmore, a handful of his space criminal underlings standing behind him with her identical twin sister and brother Dawstone and Dawster as hostage. Victor yanking Juliara’s ruby red necklace off her and she kicking it out of his hand, where Elizabeth was able to catch it, point it at the space criminals, who had stupidly released Dawster and Dawstone, eager to join Victor in his fight against Juliara, allowing Elizabeth to point the ruby red diamond necklace and obliterate them. Juliara screaming out for her to run, the last thing Elizabeth seeing before tearing around a corner, filling her with one hundred degrees of horror, Victor murdering Juliara, Dawstone, and Dawster, and then giving chase after her.

“Leave me alone!” Elizabeth screamed out, her white Tarnexian gown, an inch too long, causing her to almost trip over her feet as she ran for her life.

Attempting to escape down a hallway with spotless white walls adorned with large purple velvet tapestries with authentic likenesses of Axelmore’s going back centuries sewn into them. A space criminal who less than five minutes ago, she saw her two older sisters, Juliara and Dawster, and older brother Dawstone lying dead at his black boot feet hot on her trail.

“Get the back here you little brat,” he roared out after her.

“No, leave me alone,” she shrieked.

“You don’t give me that necklace, you’re going to end up like your sisters and brothers, dead,” she heard him holler out.

Managing to arrive back into her quarters, Elizabeth darted under the bed, the same place countless times she mischievously hid from both Juliara and Wendeline, much to their sheer aggravation.

Elizabeth was quick to realize this wasn’t the best place to hide, as the space criminal dashed in, eager to get his hands on her and the ruby red diamond necklace in her possession.

“I know you’re in here you little brat and I’m not going to let you leave this room until you give me that necklace!”

Quick Elizabeth think there has to be something you can do to prevent him from getting his hands on Juliara’s necklace. And then it came to here, and just in time, for the space criminals black, scruffy booths were soon stationed before her bed.

“Gotcha,” he cried out. His shadowed face framed with long, stringy, dingy black hair as he peered in at her. Sliding a right hand underneath the bed, no doubt to try and get a grip on her, causing Elizabeth to move further under the bed to escape his reach.

The next thing Elizabeth knew, the lead space criminal was jumping back to his feet, yanking the bed up with a strength filling her with utter amazement. Just as she feared he would win out, get his undeserving hands on Juliara’s necklace, her natural ability of flight, inherit in all those with Tarnexian blood flowing in them, came into play and allowing Elizabeth safe passage high over his head and out of her quarters all together.

And into the throne room, where Elizabeth expected to find her parents King Kilex and Queen Randa, finding no sign of them. Indication they might be prisoners of the space criminals invading her home, soon to meet the fate as her siblings. Figuring it would only be a matter of moments before the lead space criminal would once again find her, Elizabeth fled.

Arriving at the royal castle’s outdoor docking bay and her silvery white Averson model spacecraft, Elizabeth realized with her family and probably soon Wendeline were all dead, and the space criminal hot on her trail, she had to depart with haste, racing up the landing platform.

“Where should I go? Elizabeth asked the sentient artificial intelligence installed within it.

“The best place for you to get lost on so he won’t find you Elizabeth is a planet called Earth,” the mature sounding male voice responded, sounding like it was suffering from one tremendous heck of a bad case of stuffed up nose.

“Thanks spaceship,” Elizabeth said, heading up a silvery white metallic landing platform and boarding.

You can buy Genesis on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/Genesis-ebook/dp/B00596V4PK/

2 Comments
by Joleene Naylor on July 4, 2011  •  Permalink
Posted in Author Excerpts, Daily Samples
Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by Joleene Naylor on July 4, 2011

http://joleenenaylor.wordpress.com/2011/07/04/genesis-by-mark-mackey/

« Older Posts
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,510 other followers