Synopsis

Set in the South Carolina Lowcountry and packed with Southern charm and memorable characters, Her Sister’s Shoes is the story of three sisters—Samantha, Jackie, and Faith—who struggle to balance the demands of career and family while remaining true to themselves.

Samantha Sweeney has always been the glue that holds her family together, their go-to girl for love and support. When an ATV accident leaves her teenage son in a wheelchair, she loses her carefully constructed self-control.

In the after-gloom of her dreaded fiftieth birthday and the discovery of her husband’s infidelity, Jackie realizes she must reconnect with her former self to find the happiness she needs to move forward.

Faith lacks the courage to stand up to her abusive husband. She turns to her sisters for help, placing all their lives at risk.

In the midst of their individual challenges, the Sweeney sisters must cope with their mother’s mental decline. Is Lovie in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, or is her odd behavior normal for a woman her age? No one, including Lovie, understands her obsession with a rusty key she wears around her neck.

For fans of Elin Hildebrand, Her Sister’s Shoes is a contemporary women’s novel that explores and proves the healing power of family.

Review

I LOVED this book!  It was hard for me to put down because I wanted to know what happened next with any of the sisters or their mother.  The sisters had a lot to deal with in their lives from abuse to a mid-life crisis to alcoholism to dementia.  I thought that each sister found her strength in different ways and sometimes it took intervention from the rest of the family to make sure they didn’t totally fall apart.  Plus there was their mother, Lovie, who is showing the early signs of dementia/Alzheimers and is obsessed with a rusty key.  She knows it goes to something important but can’t remember what.  Watching how the sisters dealt with this reminded me of my father and his battle with dementia.

There is a little bit of suspense in this book, mostly dealing with Faith’s abuse issues from her husband and not knowing if he is going to go completely off the rails and harm anyone.  And of course the mystery of what the key unlocks for Lovie.  There is some romance, especially for Samantha, who has not really been involved with anyone since her son’s father left them when he found out she was pregnant some 15+ years ago.

Jackie may be the oldest sister but I thought that she was a bit spoiled.  That is probably because while the family grew up somewhat poor or middle class, she wanted to be rich and respected because of money and not who she really was deep down.  Jackie learns a lot about herself and what she is capable of at a turning point in her life, turning 50.

And of course you have the small town feel which brings along the small town “politics” and those that they think own the town and can do whatever they want to anyone they want.  The sisters deal with this in their own way and survive the small mindedness of some townspeople.

I highly recommend this book and I noticed in the Thoughts from the Author below that she plans to revisit Prospect SC with a new set of characters.  I can’t wait and hope that the Sweeney’s make an appearance with their seafood shop!

Thoughts from the Author

When it comes to place, what is your choice, real or fictional? I’m talking mainstream fiction, not sci-fi or fantasy where the setting makes or breaks the novel. As a reader, I don’t have a preference, as long as the author grounds me in place. As an author, it depends on the needs of my plot. I’ve written one of each. Saving Ben is set in three actual locales—Charlottesville, Richmond, and Carter’s Creek, Virginia. While Her Sister’s Shoes takes place in Prospect, a make-believe coastal town forty miles south of Charleston, South Carolina. Time and again, fans of Saving Ben have expressed their appreciation for reading about the places they’ve visited. Or the UVA campus they once called their own. I believe my readers will enjoy Prospect. Early reviewers of Her Sister’s Shoes have referred to the cozy coastal town as charming.

I introduce my setting in the very first paragraph.

Lovie and Oscar Sweeney had been providing vacationers to the South Carolina coast with fresh-from-the-ocean seafood since opening their doors in May of 1959—and little had changed since then. Not the quality of the service or the layout of the store. The same brass ship’s clock still hung on the wall above the door, ticking away the decades. The customers didn’t mind the outdated decor as long as the knowledgeable staff served superior product with a friendly smile. The creaking floorboards and dusty shelves welcomed them back year after year, just as the pungent odor of the marsh at low tide greeted them upon arrival in the small inlet town of Prospect.

In my novel, two of the three Sweeney sisters, along with their mother Lovie, continue to operate Captain Sweeney’s Seafood. With moss-draped trees and ocean breezes and friendly folks with lazy Southern drawls, I based the town of Prospect on Murrells Inlet, a small inlet town north of Pawley’s Island, South Carolina, where I spent a great deal of time growing up. The inspiration for the seafood market came from the Yellow Umbrella, a predominately seafood market in Richmond where I currently live. The house where Samantha Sweeney lives is drawn from my memories of time spent in Raleigh, North Carolina, while my vision of Jackie’s farm comes from a mixture of pictures I found online. Regardless of the source of inspiration for setting in Her Sister’s Shoes, the town and its people have very much come alive in my mind. So much so, I plan to revisit Prospect with a new set of characters somewhere in the near future.

In a nutshell, there’s no right or wrong answer when it comes to place as long as the author paints a picture that creates a vivid image in the reader’s mind.

About the Author

Ashley Farley is a wife and mother of two college-aged children. She grew up in the salty marshes of South Carolina, but now lives in Richmond, Virginia, a city she loves for its history and traditions.

After her brother died in 1999 of an accidental overdose, she turned to writing as a way of releasing her pent-up emotions. She wrote SAVING BEN in honor of Neal, the boy she worshipped, the man she could not save. SAVING BEN is not a memoir, but a story about the special bond between siblings.

When she’s not working on her next novel, HER SISTER’S SHOES, scheduled for release in July of 2015, she can be found book blogging at www.chroniclesofavidreaders.com

Website ~ Twitter ~ Facebook

 

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Synopsis

Malcolm Carter and Ryan Boone, two New York City friends whose lives have been dominated by the financial markets, are about to exchange their charts and reports for guns and survival supplies—but not because they want to. When China and Japan decide it’s time to dump U.S. Treasury Bonds, an economic nightmare plays out in America.  The Federal Reserve watches helplessly as the dollar is decimated and the resulting food shortage spreads lawlessness across the land like a virus.

Malcolm is a successful day trader who always needs to make one more score before he’ll listen to Ryan and diversify some of his assets into real estate or gold. He figures an impressively-larger bank account might be the only way he can lure his Secret Service agent ex-wife back. Malcolm finally hits it big by aggressively shorting bonds when the market crashes, but waits too long to invest in tangibles. All that newfound money suddenly won’t by him a bar of gold, a pint of beer, or a minute of Hannah’s attention—especially when she’s in the field chasing down a former counterfeiting gang.

As luck would have it, Ryan turns out to be a closet doomsday prepper. The two of them attempt to escape the chaotic Big Apple and reach Ryan’s land in West Virginia, supplied only by the contents of Ryan’s bug-out bag. But it’s not going to be an easy journey. Travelling has become difficult and dangerous. Malcolm learns he must redirect the same tenacity which helped him beat the markets towards staying alive on the road …and, hopefully, finding Hannah.

 

Excerpt

The constant smell of smoke validated the continuous sound of sirens on 8^th Avenue. Foot traffic was busy. Malcolm reached inside his coat and felt his pistol, extremely grateful to have it. Ryan didn’t have a holster, so kept his weapon in the front pocket of his bag. For that reason he carried it loose over one shoulder. Still, Malcolm would be faster on the draw, and thus the probable first line of defense if they had any trouble.

Malcolm noticed he and Ryan weren’t the only ones bugging out of New York. The street was full of others also wearing backpacks, or else carrying travel bags of varying shapes and sizes. No one moved slowly. Most people headed north. Many looked no better prepared for the chaos than confused tourists would be.

“They’ll have a tough time going that way,” Ryan said.

“Why’s that?”

“There’s a ‘black bloc’ happening on the west side of Central Park. Pretty big, from what I hear. So the park isn’t exactly the safest place right now, either.”

Malcolm strained to see up the street. “What in the world is a black bloc?”

“This way,” Ryan said turning west on 52^nd Street. Malcolm was happy to follow. The last place he wanted to pass was the alley two streets north.

“It’s best if we walk a few feet apart from each other.” Ryan used his arm to space himself from Malcolm. “I’ll scan the left, you watch the right. A black bloc is a street protest, a form of demonstration that originated in Germany. Thousands of protestors take over an entire street, or any large public area, all of them dressed in full black.”

“That’s how the anarchists dress.”

“Right,” Ryan said. “They’re usually in the mix pretty heavy in a black bloc. But so are other kinds of rebels. Word gets around and every nut on the tree shows up. Those things always end badly—with vandalism, violence, and the inevitable but wholly necessary use of excess police force.”

As they crossed 9^th Ryan added, “I can’t think of anything more absurd than desiring anarchy. Well, those idiots might get their wish this time. Would serve them right. I don’t imagine many of them being trained in survival tactics.”

“Just don’t tell them that,” Malcolm said.

Ryan gave him a curious look.

They increased their pace. Soon they were past 11^th, almost to the Hudson River, alongside De Witt Clinton Park.

“Let’s jog across the park diagonally,” Ryan said.

“Wait a second. You said parks weren’t safe, and that we shouldn’t go north.”

“I said Central Park wasn’t safe. And we’re only going a couple streets up. Come on!” Ryan nudged him and they began running through the trees.

A couple streets up? He must not have said that right. The ferry crossing was all the way at 39^th Street. That’s where Malcolm figured they were headed. If the ferry was still running, it did sound like a good way to get off the peninsula. Unless they were taking a water taxi instead—but it seemed unlikely those would be operating today.

The two of them came out of the trees on to the baseball field at De Witt Clinton Park. Malcolm heard a dog growl. He looked in the direction of the sound. A bald man held a large pit bull by the collar, at the edge of the trees. The dog must not like people running. Malcolm decided to keep an eye on them.

The man then crouched beside his dog, shouted something, and let go of its collar. The dog broke into a sprint towards Malcolm and Ryan.

Was this really happening? That son of a bitch just ordered his pit bull to attack them.

“Ryan!” Malcolm said stopping. He drew his pistol. Ryan turned and saw the dog coming. He cursed and swung his bag around, fumbling for the front pocket zipper. But the dog was much too fast for him.

Not for Malcolm. He quickly had his pistol aimed at the bounding canine. Its owner must have noticed, because he whistled for the dog. But it was too late. The pit bull was committed. It picked Malcolm as the first target. Malcolm fired one round just as it leapt at him. The impact of the 5.7x28mm slug into the dog’s chest sent it spinning backwards. It landed on its head and crumpled, making no further sound.

Ryan finally got his gun out. The dog owner shouted in anger and began running towards them. Malcolm and Ryan both aimed their weapons at him in response. He stopped, held up his hands, and walked backwards.

Malcolm and Ryan resumed jogging, slowly, while holding their weapons and keeping an eye on the would-be attacker.

When they reached the third base line they stopped. Malcolm re-holstered his gun. Ryan put his safety latch on, and then tucked the 9-millimeter into his jeans, pulling his shirt tail over the bulge.

“I guess you were right,” Ryan said. “I’ll keep my weapon handier. Nice shot. That thing fires those little rounds impressively. Kind of wish we’d gotten the scumbag owner as well.”

“Me too. Now where are we going? The ferry landing?”

“No.”

They came out of the park on 54^th Street. Ryan pointed to the river. “Pier 96, right there. We better keep moving.”

“What, the kayak place?”

Ryan didn’t answer. He started off in a trot again. Malcolm ran to keep up with him. As they crossed 12^th Avenue, Malcolm looked to the air. Several helicopters circled to the north. They must be over the black bloc.

A car horn blared, startling Malcolm, instantly drawing his eyes back to the street where a taxi sped by in front of them, easily doing 75. The crazy driver had a fare in the back seat. Must be someone important—or rich.

Malcolm and Ryan finished crossing the wide street, ran through the short section of the Port Authority parking lot, and continued on to the Greenway Lawn. Several homeless people were camping there. Malcolm tried to see if any of them were Dion, but it was difficult while running. He also kept an eye out for dogs.

The Manhattan Community Boathouse, a nonprofit organization, came into view. Most New York City residents knew about the free kayak rentals on Pier 96. On weekends during warm months you had to get there early or late if you wanted one without waiting for hours. Malcolm and Hannah came on a Tuesday evening once, and had no trouble acquiring a tandem kayak. Starting in May the boathouse opened at 5:00 pm on weekdays. It was only about 3:30 now.

But they looked open, judging by the half-dozen or so kayaks on the water. The kayakers didn’t seem to be flitting about, as was normal. Rather, they all paddled towards the west shore of the river. One was just leaving the floating dock.

As Malcolm and Ryan drew closer, it became apparent the kayaker leaving the pier wasn’t doing so with the well wishes of the staff. A man and a woman stood on the dock shouting angry voices at him.

That didn’t slow Ryan down. He ran onto the pier and down the upper ramp that led to the covered shed where all the kayaks were stored.

“We’re closed!” a stressed female voice shouted. “Go away!”

Malcolm looked to the voice and saw a petite, dirty-blond twenty-something behind a counter. She pointed back up the ramp with a purple fingernail.

“Where’s Tim?” Ryan said. “I’m here to see Tim.”

“Oh, are you here to help us?” The girl came around the counter. “Thank God! People are just coming and taking the kayaks by force, pushing us away when we try to stop them. Can you believe that? We’re a nonprofit group! I called the police three times and they still haven’t arrived.”

She then turned to the launching barge and shouted.

“Tim! Some friends of yours are here!”

The man down on the dock heard her. He walked up the lower ramp, shaking his head of curly black hair and stepping carefully in his flip flops. Malcolm felt a little out of place in jeans and a sport coat. But he noticed some of the kayakers out on the Hudson were also fully dressed.

Tim instantly recognized Ryan when he got to the shed.

“It’s gone,” he said raising his hands up. “Someone took it. Sorry. You should have gotten here a couple hours ago.”

Ryan tilted his head. “What do you mean, someone took it? I paid you a hefty sum to keep it on hand for me.”

The girl spoke. “What’s he talking about, Tim?”

“Man, I couldn’t hold it! Thugs are taking our kayaks! Tough guys—some of them armed, no doubt. There’s nothing we can do here. The city is in chaos, in case you haven’t heard.”

“Well, then give me back my $300.” Ryan held his hand out.

Tim looked down and muttered, “I don’t have it.”

“What?” the girl said. “You took a bribe, Tim?”

Tim turned to her. “I sold him the leaky green one. It’s been patched too many times now, and we needed to get rid of it anyway. He said he only wanted it for getting across the river.”

“That’s not what we do here, Tim—”

“You don’t have my money,” Ryan said glancing around the shed, “so you owe me one tandem kayak. Any of these will do.” He began reaching towards one on a rack.

“No!” the girl said.

“No.” Tim stepped in front of Ryan, blocking his path. “You can’t have one of these.”

Ryan only stared back.

At that moment, two more men arrived in the shed. They definitely didn’t work there. One was bald and wore a black leather vest and black jeans. The other had a spikey haircut and lots of piercings. He carried a duffel bag.

Malcolm didn’t take his eyes off the bald one. Was that the guy who had the pit bull in the park? Malcolm couldn’t tell. He studied Malcolm longer than was comfortable and sneered before grabbing a kayak.

“What are you doing?” the girl said to him.

“Going kayaking.”

“No you’re not. We’re closed.”

“Grab that end,” the bald one said to his friend. His friend slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and picked up the front end of the kayak.

“I said no!” The girl ran at them.

The one in front swung his bag so it smacked her on the side of the head. The girl shrieked as she fell. Tim then came at the guy, but wisely stopped and reconsidered when his adversary assumed a combative stance. Tim ended up bending down to help the girl, who was now crying and whimpering.

The bald guy stared at Malcolm again. Malcolm instinctively reached inside his coat. The bald guy didn’t care for that movement, and reached inside his vest in reaction.

Ryan moved his hand under his shirttail. The punk with the duffel bag then set his end of the kayak down, unzipped his bag, and put his hand inside. The four of them stayed in that position for the longest fifteen seconds of Malcolm’s life.

About the Author

Ken Benton appears to be your run-of-the-mill city slicker at first glance, blissfully playing with his iPhone at the bar of the local barbeque joint while sipping on craft-brewed IPA. But he has a secret passion: doomsday survival prepping. And if you ever snuck up behind him to see what he was reading, it would likely be one of those apocalyptic-survival stories set after the collapse of modern society. Yes, he’s one of those nuts. But someday soon, Ken believes, those nuts may become the new upper class in society. Until then, we’ll just have to make do with story-telling. And preparing. Cheers.

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Caught Read-Handed
Series: Read Em and Eat Mystery (Book 2)
Mass Market Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Berkley (July 7, 2015)
ISBN-13: 978-0425270295
E-Book ASIN: B00Q5DLWXA

Synopsis

From the national bestselling author of Well Read, Then Dead comes the second mystery featuring Sassy Cabot and Bridgy Mayfield, who bring Fort Myers Beach, Florida, residents plenty of sinful treats and killer reads at their bookstore café, Read ’Em and Eat.

Happy to help her fellow bibliophiles, Sassy visits the local library with book donations for their annual fundraising sale. Unfortunately, the welcoming readers’ haven is in turmoil as an argument erupts between an ornery patron and new staff member, Tanya Lipscombe—also known as “Tanya Trouble.” She may lack people skills, but everyone is shocked when she’s later found murdered in her own hot tub.

The man last seen arguing with Tanya is soon arrested. But Alan Mersky, a veteran with PTSD, happens to be the brother of Sassy’s former boss—and he’s no murderer. Now it’s up to Sassy and Bridgy to clear Alan’s name and make sure the real killer gets booked.

Includes a recipe for Miss Marple scones!

Review

This is the second book in this series and I will have to say I had no clue who to suspect until some clues were sort of dropped near the end.  I did suspect this person at one point earlier but just because something seemed off.  I will say there were not a lot of people that could have done it so you might be able to figure it out.

The book seemed light on the mystery and more on veteran’s affairs/rights which I think brought it out into the open, that they need our help.  Then there was the anaconda that needed to be caught and disposed of one way or another and it had many of the citizens in the town divided on the issue – should it be killed or captured and moved elsewhere?

The book was enjoyable and I’ll check out the next book.  We give this one 3 1/2 paws

About The Author

Short-listed twice for The Best American Mystery Stories, Terrie Farley Moran is delighted to introduce mystery fans to the Read ’Em and Eat café and bookstore, which debuted with Well Read, Then Dead. The only thing Terrie enjoys more than wrangling mystery plots into submission is playing games and reading stories with any or all of her grandchildren.

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July 6 – Sapphyria’s Book Reviews – Review, Giveaway

July 7 – StoreyBook Reviews – Review, Giveaway

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Marrow by Preston Norton

Marrow is a fourteen-year-old prodigy at FIST (Fantom Institute for Superheroes-in-Training). With a perfect score on his finals, the ability to smash through walls, and leaps that can launch him over a city block, the Sidekick Internship Program is bound to place him with a top-notch superhero mentor for the summer. But when a series of disastrous events lands Marrow on academic probation, he is forced to team up with Flex–a drunk, hippie, bum with the power of elasticity.

The two Supers’ powers and personalities clash as they are forced to overcome their differences to prevent the return of Cosmo City’s most notorious foe, a supervillain so powerful, no one will survive the cataclysm he is sure to unleash.

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Praise for Marrow

• “If you can’t get enough of superhero and comic book movies, read Marrow now! It’s like stuffing an action movie into your head. The twists will surprise you.” — Adam Glendon Sidwell, Bestselling Author of CHUM and EVERTASTER.
• “Fans of comics, superheroes, and stories with twist after twist will love Marrow. It’s filled with nods and homages to classic heroes, yet still manages to put a unique stamp on the genre.” — Jacob Gowans, Bestselling Author of the PSION BETA Series.

 

Excerpt

Having super powers isn’t always as super as it sounds.

Actually . . . that’s a lie. It’s pretty much awesome.

It was the last day of Finals at FIST (Fantom Institute for Superheroes-in-Training). There were exactly ten of us who had qualified for the Sidekick Internship Program. All fourteen years old. All dangerous in our own unique ways. Based on our scores and overall performance, we would be evaluated and paired up with Superheroes who would serve as our mentors for the summer. With top-notch scores, I could be teamed up with a hero like Nova. Or Apex. Or the most legendary hero of them all . . .

Fantom, himself.

Fantom wasn’t just the founder of FIST. And he wasn’t just a Superhero either. The guy was an icon. A symbol of hope. He was the fastest, strongest, smartest, insert-whatever-awesome-adjective-you-can-think-of-est hero of them all. And the guy had style. Oh man, did he have style.

Legend had it that Fantom was the first of the Supers—merely a kid out on a boat with his parents when the Gaia Comet struck. (It was the foreign radioactive energy of Gaia that gave birth to the Supers.) The comet made impact right where they were sailing, killing Fantom’s parents instantly. However, fate or pure luck allowed Fantom to emerge unscathed, and he was reborn with power unparalleled by any other

Super.

Fantom was going to be my mentor. I had already decided that.

 

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About the Author

Preston Norton is a lover of the English language, a connoisseur of the written word, a crafter of worlds, a creator (and killer) of characters, a drinker of caffeine, a freak for scary movies, a kisser of his super hot fiancée, Erin, and an overall decent human being who really likes hamburgers.

Also, he kinda digs books.

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$50 Amazon Gift Card or Paypal Cash or $50 Costco Gift Card

Ends 7/30/15

Open only to those who can legally enter, receive and use an Amazon.com Gift Code or Paypal Cash. Winning Entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen by rafflecopter and announced here as well as emailed and will have 48 hours to respond or a new winner will be chosen. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter or any other entity unless otherwise specified. The number of eligible entries received determines the odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Kathy from I Am A Reader and sponsored by the author. VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW.

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Synopsis

Why is The Morrígan’s raven crying? Only Britons with hearts for true liberty know!

In 43 CE Roman conquest of Britannia seems all but certain — until a chance meeting between King Prasutagus of the Iceni and a runaway slave of royal decent from the Aedui tribe in Gaul changes the fate of the British islands forever.

Tacitus meets modern archaeology in this exciting non-fiction tale!

Biography Edition

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Stage Adaptation – Kindle * Smashwords

Excerpt

From Chapter Five

Three days later every Briton in the east and south met ten miles north of Camulodunum.  Numbering nearly one hundred thousand, every level of British society came together:  farmers, warriors, druids, crafts people, nobles, royals, and beyond.  Some drove war chariots.  Some marched on foot.  Some rode with light saddles on their horses.  Clad in bright colors, in plaids, in simple white, brown, or dark green, some covered their bodies in blue tattoos, war paint, and piercings while others wore only the simplest bracelets and necklaces.  It was a gathering such as the southeast had not seen since the wars against Julius Caesar.  War drums pounded.  Harps played.  Women, men, and children shouted, dancing themselves into the war fury that terrified the Romans decades before.  It was everything that terrified the mighty legions most about these peoples they called barbarians and savages.  Yet Boudicca, her family, and allies knew better.  For the brutality of Rome was second to none in the western world, brutality aimed at anything or anyone different from the elite classes of men who ruled them.  With the spirit of the war god Camulos, the fire of the trinity goddess the Morrígan, and the rage of Cathubodva, protectress of violated women, the peoples of the south and east came together with a single voice.  Ready for battle, they charged!

The streets of Camulodunum shook as if hit by an earthquake. In front of the temple dedicated to Claudius, the winged statue of Victory fell off its base, shattering prophetically. Alarmed by the omen, Roman citizens who came as colonists from Gaul fled from their houses, trying to get away while they could. With all but a couple hundred soldiers fighting to conquer Ynys Môn to the west and the rebellion of the highlanders and lowlanders to the north, Camulodunum sat ripe for the taking.

Ten minutes later, Boudicca charged into Camulodunum.  Torches now ignited across her forces.  Archers hailed thatched roofs with fire. Smoke rose up.  Those who had weapons retreated to the well-fortified temple of Claudius, forcing Boudicca’s warriors to laid siege to it.  For two days Boudicca and the enraged Britons with her slaughtered by fire and by sword every living person in Camulodunum, cleansing the city of its Roman stench and destroying every building, every statue, and every trace of what the Romans called ‘civilization.’ Cries of victory shouting Boudicca’s name rang out in the many dialects of the tribes.  Finding a field downwind of the lingering smoke, the joyful Britons slept in freedom under the stars.  Camulos was with them, avenging the wrong done to his people.

In the morning, an alarm rose among the Britons: alerted about their attack on Camulodunum, cohorts of the Ninth Legion under the command of Petilius Cerealis were less than two hours from the Briton’s encampment.  War drums beat fiercely, the cry rousing all from their beds.  In half an hour the entire British force stood ready to take on the famous Ninth Legion whose swords slaughtered so many druid priestesses and priests on Ynys Môn in their effort to destroy the British heart and soul.  At the head of her ranks, Boudicca stood proud on her chariot, her alto voice booming as she addressed those near her, “This dawn is glorious.  Camulodunum is cleansed.  Now shall we destroy this mightiest symbol of Roman power. We shall send a great message to Governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus:  leave our island forever or be driven off by the might of our swords!  It is right our demands are made first and foremost by women whom they think exist purely for the service of men – to bear their sons and whore themselves in Roman bed chambers. But we Britons would rather die than serve for death in freedom is honorable.  Look!  Their cavalry comes!  Cry out, my people!  Cry for vengeance, for blood, for freedom!”

“FOR FREEDOM!” shouted wave after wave of Britons as the queens words spread like lightning.  Dancing, drumming, screaming, shouting, the Britons raged in battle fury before they charged head first into the fray.  For two hours the Britons slaughtered the legion until only a few survivors, including Petilius Cerealis with a handful of cavalry beside him, escaped the bloody field to shouts of joy and victory in a dozen tribal dialects.  The day was Boudicca’s.  Now Boudicca set her sights on a bigger target, one far more precious to Rome:  the trading port of Londinium itself.

Excerpt

Stage edition: ACT I, SCENE III

March.  The spring equinox.  A beach on the shores of the North Sea. The soft sounds of lapping waves fill our ears.  Downstage left is a bonfire upon which cooks crabs, lobsters, mussels, clams, and fish. Center right a crowd of BRITONS watch as BOUDICCA and PRASUTAGUS stand in front of the druid priestess LINET center stage.

LINET

Do you Prasutagus, king of the Iceni take Boudicca of the Aedui as your wife?  Will you honour , love, and respect her in all things, forsaking all others, and with reverence and respect for the goddesses and gods?

PRASUTAGUS

I will.

LINET

Do you Boudicca of the Aedui take Prasutagus, king of the Iceni as your husband? Will you honour , love, and respect him in all things, forsaking all others, and with reverence and respect for the goddesses and gods?

BOUDICCA

I will!

LINET

(loosely binding their joined hands with a woollen cord and tying a simple knot)

With this cord I bind together your hearts, your lives, and your very souls.  May the love you have declared this day before the Morrígan bind you forever together.  In every life may you find one another in love, peace, and passion until the stars are no more and all that exists ceases to be.  If this eternity remains your will, I bid you bind yourselves now and for forever with a kiss.

PRASUTAGUS/BOUDICCA

Now and forever, I am yours!

(Prasutagus and Boudicca kiss passionately)

LINET

(raising her hands in blessing)

SO MOTE IT BE!

BRITONS

(echoing)

SO MOTE IT BE!

[Ad Lib Local cheers]

(END OF SCENE)

 

About the Author

Born, raised, and educated in Lincoln, Nebraska USA, author-historian Laurel A. Rockefeller has written over a dozen book titles since August 2002 including The Peers of Beinan science fiction series, American Stories, the Legendary Women of World History biography series, and the My First Cockatiel Series.

Enjoy Ms. Rockefeller’s books in English and Chinese in your choice of digital, paperback, and audio editions narrated by dynamic British voice artist Richard Mann. Three Act stage adaptations are available on Legendary Women of World History biographies and on the Peers of Beinan Series novellas.

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Giveaway

The author is generously giving away any 3 of her eBooks.  You can see all of her books here, and if it is available as an eBook it is yours if you win!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

If you enjoyed the Little House on the Prairie books as a child, you will probably enjoy this book! Yona was sweet enough to send me a copy and while I haven’t read it yet (that towering TBR pile), it is one that will be kept with the series of books I read and re-read many times as a young girl.

Synopsis

Many girls in elementary and middle school fall in love with the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. What they don’t always realize is that Wilder’s books are largely autobiographical, and highlight the family and friends she loved so well.

This middle-grade biography describes even more of the details of Laura’s real life as a young pioneer homesteading with her family. Complete with charming illustrations, the narrative points out the differences between the fictional series as well as the many similarities. It’s a fascinating story of a much­ celebrated writer.

About the Author

Yona Zeldis McDonough is the author of six novels (with a seventh forthcoming) for adults, twenty six books for children as well as numerous essays, articles and short stories that have appeared in national and literary publications. She is also the editor of two essay collections and is the fiction editor of Lilith Magazine. She currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband, two children and two very noisy Pomeranians.

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Synopsis

As nightly raids burn the capital city, the mundane existence of Gerald Sanpatri takes a dramatic shift when Rosia walks into his life bringing laughter and unexpected love. She inspires the ex-writer to once again take up his pen and write the impossible: a love story for an entire nation. A Love Story for a Nation chronicles the explosive and heart-warming journey of one country’s brush with history through the eyes of a courageous man who dared to stand up, smile, and think the unimaginable.

Excerpt

From Chapter 6

Gerald left the house and weaved through the maze of alleyways to Gomez’s house. He nodded politely at the overflow of people who spent their lives in the filthy streets; the homeless, local youth committees killing time, thinking over their nighttime shenanigans, the women washing their dishes in basins, old men smoking, and children playing with rocks and sticks. Reoux had a unique sensation that pulsed through its heart, a smell all its own, charcoal and garbage, fresh fruit and onions, rice and mud—an evening feel of warmth amid the din of the crowd and the dung of society’s underbelly.

Cecilia greeted Gerald at the door and escorted him out to the back of the house overlooking the river. He saw four gentlemen standing near the bank of the river and looking off into the distance towards the presidential complex.

“Gomez! Gerald is here,” Cecilia called to her husband.

Gomez turned around, as did another familiar face, Horace.

“Gerald, come,” said Gomez.

“Well, this is a delight,” added Horace. He stood beside the two other men, one looked familiar but the other a stranger.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” said Gerald.

“Company, indeed. Since when has Uncle Horace been company?” said Horace. “Is there not familiarity here?” He laughed.

“Gerald, please, have a seat here on the blanket,” said Gomez, pointing at the identical spot where they had sat just a few days earlier. “Horace will be staying here for a week or so.”

“Just passing through, you know. It has been so long, and I had such a grand time on Independence Day. Antoine was in rare form. I feel such affinity here, able to gaze on his highness over the banks of the polluted river. Poetic justice. You reap what you sow.” Horace continued surveying the fortress across the river as he spoke. “So how is that lovely wife of yours?”

“Rosia? She’s fine. Thank you.”

“Oh, and I’m sorry. This is Sonni.”

“Yes,” said Gerald. “I believe I met him earlier today. You are the one who moved into the apartment up near the boulevard, right?”

“That’s right. I met Mr. Sanpatri already. Nice to see you again.”

“Well, good,” said Horace. “This is cozy. And lastly, this is Meneshmi.” He signaled to a middle-aged man who had yet to speak a word.

“Meneshmi?” inquired Gomez with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“That’s right. Meneshmi Bula,” said the stranger, holding out his hand to Gerald.

“But—” Gerald stopped, and pondered for a minute at the strange coincidence.

“Oh,” laughed Horace. “That’s right. I’ve become so used to it that I hadn’t even thought of the connection. Ironic. Hahaha. So ironic.”

Gerald shook the gentleman’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sanpatri. Or rather, to see you again,” said Meneshmi.

“Again?” asked Gerald.

“Of course he wouldn’t remember you. You were just a freshman…” said Horace, looking over at Meneshmi, “when Sanpatri was graduating with his Bachelor’s degree.”

“We went to school together?”

“That’s right, Mr. Sanpatri. I remember you well, but there’s little reason you would remember me.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Gerald, still puzzled over the man’s name.

“Please don’t be,” said Meneshmi.

“But Meneshmi Bula? Is that really your name? It’s just—” continued Gerald.

“Oh, it’s no coincidence,” said Meneshmi.

“No coincidences ever occur in politics and literature,” joked Horace.

“I’m sorry,” said Sonni, the young man who had been trying to keep up with the conversation, “… but what are we talking about here?”

Horace leaned over to whisper in Gerald’s ear. “Illiterate.”

“Sonni, the main character in Mr. Sanpatri’s most famous novel, The Belle of Burgundy, was named Meneshmi Bula,” said Gomez.

“Gomez, you’re going to have to paint this young pup a picture. I don’t think the words are making it through that fishnet brain of his,” cackled Horace.

“Standing firm. In the native dialect of the Banti hill tribe, Meneshmi Bula means ‘standing firm’,” offered Gerald.

“This man is a walking metaphor. A literary reference who has come to life,” continued Horace, pointing at Meneshmi.

“But why would you choose that name, Meneshmi?” asked Sonni.

“It’s not difficult to guess,” said Gerald, feeling uncomfortable and regretting his decision to visit.

Horace shook his head in disbelief. “He’s an example of the young, uneducated saps whose only schooling comes through the current system of modern manipulation-matriculation. Don’t worry, Sonni. It’s not your fault.” He turned back to Gerald. “Can you believe what these people learn these days? Sonni was telling me about a class he takes called, ah…”

“Patriotic Socialization.”

“That’s it, Patriotic Socialization and the… what was that? The crappiness of…”

“Patriotic Socialization and Citizen Contribution.”

“Yes, exactly. What a young memory he has! Let’s hope he’s half as clever when he becomes an engineer. Have you covered two plus two yet?”

About the Author

Mark is a proud Western PA native but has lived most of the last twenty years in Vietnam and Malaysia. His experiences in Asia have redefined everything including his palate, his outlook on life, and naturally his writing. You can find him most days cruising around Penang Island, eating the local delicacies and taking in the sun and exotic breezes as he looks for interesting places to write.

He has authored four novels with number five and six already somewhere on the horizon. His interests cast a wide net – from politics to literature – to culture and language – to history and religion – making his writing infused with the unexpected as he seeks to tell authentic and engaging stories about people from all walks of life. His writing is straightforward and accessible to all, especially those who enjoy writing injected with doses of Asian culture, history, adventure, and delightful humor. You never know what you might get when you pick up a Sasse novel.

Besides novel-writing, Sasse is a prolific dramatist, having written and produced more than a dozen full-length dramatic productions. He especially is fond of the short play format and has twice won the Best Script award at the Short & Sweet Theatre Festival Penang. His plays and short musicals have also been produced in Kuala Lumpur and Sydney, Australia. Performances of his scripts also won Gold and Bronze medals at the Southeast Asian Forensics Competition 2014.

His professional background is as diverse as his writing. He holds Master’s degrees from California State University Dominquez Hills and Azusa Pacific University in Humanities and TESOL respectively. His undergraduate degree was in English, which helped him develop his passion for creative writing. He has extensive experience in teaching English, history, and drama.

On top of all of this, he loves to cook everything from gourmet pizzas, to Mexican, to various Asian dishes. Flavor is the key of both his cooking and his writing. He very much hopes you enjoy the taste.

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Synopsis

Thirty-five-year-old Miranda Berenzweig is not an impulsive person. She’s been at her editorial job at Domestic Goddess for eight years, she has plenty of great friends, and even though she just broke up with her boyfriend, her life is back on track.  Having a baby isn’t even on her radar until the day she discovers an abandoned newborn in a Brooklyn subway station. Rushing the little one to the closest police station, Miranda hopes and prays that the newborn will be all right and that a loving family will take her. But Miranda can’t seem to get the baby off her mind—and she keeps coming up with excuses to go check on her, until finally a family court judge asks if she’d like to be the foster parent, and maybe even adopt her.  To her own surprise, Miranda jumps on the chance. But nothing could have prepared her for the ecstasy of new mother love—or the heartbreak she faces when the baby’s biological father surfaces, wanting to claim his child.

Excerpt

The rocking of the train was making her sleepy; Miranda Berenzweig rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Just for a minute, she thought. Just one little minute. When she opened her eyes, she was still sitting in the subway car, entirely alone and freezing. She leaped up in a panic. Clearly, she had slept right past her stop, and several stops after that; she’d come to the end of the line. The doors were open and the platform was elevated; that’s why she was so cold. But where was she? Coney Island–Stillwell Avenue, that’s where—at least according to the sign.

Well, she’d just have to get a train going back; she could forget about finding a cab out here.

Miranda stepped onto the platform. Even from up here, she could smell the sharp, salt-laced wind coming from the ocean. It was a good smell, actually—clean and bracing. But she had to get home. She felt nervous being out so late by herself, a feeling that intensified when she went down the stairs. There were no longer any token booths; she could see the phantom spot where the booth had been, its ghostly perimeter still outlined on the floor, like something from a crime scene. There was not a soul in the station, and she was just about to sprint up the stairs to the other side when her attention was snagged by a neat, cream-colored bundle that sat right by the banister.

She paused. It looked harmless enough—a folded blanket or something—but in the post-9/11 world, she had to wonder. Could a bomb be concealed in those folds? How would she know, anyway? Did she even have a clue as to what a bomb looked like? While she was debating this, she saw something else even more startling: a tiny foot peeking out from one corner of the blanket. It flitted through her mind that this was the second bare foot she’d seen tonight. Only this one belonged to a doll.

A doll. Not too likely there was a bomb in there. Miranda could see the little toes, all five of them, lined up like tiny brown nuts. What a well-made thing. Clean too. Why would someone have thrown it away? Then the foot moved. Miranda stopped, not sure she saw what she thought she saw. She was exhausted, disoriented, and possibly a little drunk. The foot was an exquisite creation, crafted from something so smooth and pliant that she could not guess what it might have been. But when it moved again—this time causing the blanket on top to stir ever so slightly—she knew that it was no mere simulation. The cold she had been feeling ever since she woke up seemed to gather speed and force; it shot right through her, like a bullet. Carefully, she lifted a corner of the blanket away.

There, wrapped in a surprisingly clean white towel and cushioned by the bottom part of the blanket, was an infant. No, not an infant, a newborn, with cocoa-colored skin, black hair plastered to its tiny skull, and eyes that were tightly shut against the harsh light of the subway station. Oh. My. God. Was it even alive? Should she touch it? She remained that way for several seconds until the infant opened its mouth in a yawn that seemed to devour its entire face. The eyelids fluttered briefly before closing again. Definitely alive!

The yawn propelled Miranda into action. She lifted up the tiny creature. Under the towel the infant was naked; the umbilical cord, tied in a crude, red knot, looked as if it had been sawed off, and there were reddish streaks on her body. Was the umbilical cord infected, or was it supposed to be that way? She had no idea but wished she had some antibiotic ointment. Avoiding the red protuberance, Miranda shifted the baby gingerly in her arms. Around one wrist was a bracelet; the small pink glass beads were interspersed with white ones whose black letters spelled out baby girl. Someone had cared enough to place that bracelet on her wrist; was it the same person who left her here in the station? Miranda wrapped the blanket around the infant’s body. But that didn’t seem sufficient, so she opened her coat and positioned her close to her own body. That ought to keep her warm. Or at least warmer.

The station was still empty. What should she do? There was an app on her phone that would help her locate a police station. But she did not want to be walking around here in this strange neighborhood by herself. No, she’d rather head for the station house back in Park Slope. She waited downstairs for the train; it would be warmer than the windy platform. When she heard it arriving, she hurried up the stairs and got in as soon as the doors parted.

As the train chugged along, it occurred to her that the infant might be hungry or thirsty. Hungry she could not fix. But she had a bottle of water in her bag; also hand sanitizer, which she wished she had thought to use earlier. Damn! Gripping the tiny body under one arm, she managed to squirt the green gel over both hands and rub furiously. Then she wet her fingers with the water and held them to the infant’s lips. She opened her mouth and began to suck. Tears welled in Miranda’s eyes. She was thirsty, poor little thing. Naked, abandoned in a subway station, and thirsty too—the final and crowning indignity in a brand-new life that so far seemed comprised of nothing but.

When they reached their stop, Miranda made her way through the dark streets toward the police station. At least the rain had tapered off. Against her body, the infant felt warm and animate. Miranda was keenly aware of her breath, in and out, in and out. The rhythm calmed her.

Yanking open the heavy doors to the station house, she stepped inside. A bored-looking officer behind a bullet-proof shield was leafing through a copy of the New York Post; two other officers, one pale and seemingly squeezed into a uniform that was a size or two too small, the other brown as the baby Miranda held close to her heart, were chatting in low voices. Above, the fluorescent light buzzed like a frantic insect. The cop reading the paper finally glanced up. He looked not at Miranda, but straight through her. “Can I help you?” he said in a tone that suggested he would sooner endure a colonoscopy, a root canal, and a tax audit—simultaneously.

“Look,” she said urgently, opening her coat to reveal the infant in its makeshift swaddling. “Look what I just found!”

 

About the Author

Yona Zeldis McDonough is the author of six novels (with a seventh forthcoming) for adults, twenty six books for children as well as numerous essays, articles and short stories that have appeared in national and literary publications.  She is also the editor of two essay collections and is the fiction editor of Lilith Magazine.  She currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with her husband, two children and two very noisy Pomeranians.

Website * Facebook * Twitter

 

 

Synopsis

After her foster mother’s unexplained death six months ago, fourteen-year-old Isla Timearth just wants things to go back to normal for her and her twin brother, Monty. But “normal” can only go so far for a closed-off girl with abandonment issues and an anxious boy that gets frequent nosebleeds. Still, the troubled redheads give it a shot by returning to the summer camp they’ve been going to for years.

Aside from her crush showing up unexpectedly, the summer starts out as Isla expected: she participates in multiple activities with her friends, while her brother shies away from doing anything with anyone. But camp traditions get rained on when their biological mother shows up unannounced and, as far as Isla’s concerned, unwelcome.

Knowing that Mother Nature is the mother of all mood swings, Isla isn’t all that surprised to find out that her temperamental biological mother is the terrestrial goddess. What does surprise her is that Monty, the favorite twin, already knew but never told her. Despite being annoyed that such a huge secret was kept from her, Isla has always questioned the loyalty of her own flesh and blood. But once more family secrets start to unravel around her fellow campers, Isla finds out whether blood really is thicker than water.

Excerpt

That doesn’t answer my question,” I said. “But don’t worry. I used to care, but I got over it.” I’d grown sick of Mona playing favorites between Monty and me, and it was amazing how much better I felt once I stopped trying to compete for her time.

“It’s not as straightforward as you think, Violetta.”

“Oh I’d say it’s pretty straightforward, Mona.”

“Well maybe you’ll change your mind after you see this,” Mona said as she pressed together her middle finger and green-tinted thumb. As soon as she snapped those two fingers, the downpour stopped cold turkey. “You see? I’m not just your birth mother, Violetta, I’m Mother Earth as well. And there’s nothing straightforward about being a child of Mother Earth.” Well, that explained why Mona told us when we were younger that she didn’t have a stable home or income that would support us full time. Not that it really made a difference anyway; the fact that Mona chose the weather over her biological children was inexcusable in my book. “Isn’t that right, Montrose?”

“Wait, you knew about this?” I asked my brother.

“I thought we weren’t gonna tell her,” Monty said to Mona. He looked just as shocked as I was, but obviously not for the same reason.

About the Author

The first story J.B. Kantt ever wrote was for a creative writing class application during her college days. Little did she know that a step towards fulfilling her undergraduate language arts requirement would also be a step towards fulfilling a passion for writing she never knew she had. Now, despite her dreams of becoming a developmental pediatrician, not a day goes by that J.B. doesn’t think about becoming an author as well. When she’s not hitting the books, she’s working on her next book (in between volunteering and practicing taekwondo).

Her debut novel, Roses Are Red, is the first of the Blood, Sweat, and Tears Series. J.B. hopes that her journey to publication helps other writers realize that through hard work and dedication, anything is possible, no matter how old you are or how long you’ve been writing.

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