Showing posts with label T. Show all posts
Showing posts with label T. Show all posts

Sunday, 19 January 2014

Tales of Mi7: The Kramski Case by J.J. Ward @MI7Ward

Chapter 1: Them Ol’ Paparazzi Blues

Kendal, Cumbria.

Someone called Jilly’s name, then the name of her band, Four Girls on Fire. At first, she thought she was dreaming – they’d just won the nation’s biggest talent show all over again, and from now on, life was going to be really amazing! - then her stomach turned over.

She disengaged herself from Rob, got out of bed and went to the window. Bloody hell, yes, down in the narrow cobbled street that fronted the guest-house. Paparazzi, sixteen or seventeen of them, all men, full of last night’s chip fat and strip-club testosterone, leering up at the net curtain like they could see through it. She swallowed.

The other girls had warned her about dating a member of a boy band, but only tongue in cheek. Twice the publicity, babes, sure you can handle that? She couldn’t help herself, though. Two years ago he’d been her hero and she’d been a nobody. Now they were equals.

“They’ve found us,” she told him.

Rob stretched and yawned. He discarded the bedclothes, picked up his boxer shorts and put his foot in one leg. “The press?”

“You don’t seem very bothered.”

“You were bloody brilliant last night, Jilly.”

“How did they know we were here?”

“I mean it. Outstanding.”

She realised she didn’t even like him much. “Did you tell them?”

“Me?”

“Wake up, Rob! It’s the press! I said the press have found us!”

He pulled on his boxers and put his arms round her. She disengaged herself, plonked herself at the dressing table and brushed her long brown hair, pulling halfway down as if it was full of knots. She was trying to stop herself shaking.

“Anyone could have told them,” he said. “It definitely wasn’t me, babe.”

“Put your clothes on. We’re leaving.”

“Why? They can’t get in here.”

She fished her bra from the pile of clothes on the floor and put it on. “We’re in the bloody Lake District, Rob. We’re supposed to be miles from anywhere. How did they find us so quickly?”

She looked round the room: the plaid curtains, the beds with valances, the 1920s lampshades, all the varnished wooden surfaces, so unlike the places she always stayed when she was touring with the girls. She’d fallen in love with it at first sight. She’d been drunk, true, but she’d never wanted to leave.

Rob pulled his socks and T-shirt on then looked at her. “You’re not frightened, are you?”

“They’ve probably got the place surrounded. And yes. Yes, I am frightened.”

“We’ll just call a taxi. We can be downstairs and in the car before anyone knows it.”

“I’m not bothered about us, Rob. I’m bothered about them.” Tights, tights, where were her bloody tights?

“‘Them’?”

“Yeah, ‘them’. The photographers, journalists, whatever they call themselves. Them!”

He laughed. “First time anyone’s cared what happens to paparazzi. Anyway, what could happen to them?”

“Haven’t you been watching the news recently? Are you really that self-obsessed?”

“Hey, now - ”

“Four photographers shot dead in four weeks. Following Bobby Keynes, Zane Cruse, Mikey from Bad Lads Zero, Stallone Laine - ”

“No such thing as bad publicity, from what I hear. Not that you need it, girl, but it won’t hurt. Besides, they’re all douche bags, right?”

She pulled her dress on and smoothed the waist. She’d had enough now. She wanted out. Of everything. “I misjudged you, Rob. They’re still human beings.”

“No, they ain’t. Anyway, what are the chances?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

He picked up the telephone. “Is that reception? Hi, yeah … Room …”

“Fourteen,” Jilly said.

“Fourteen. Could you get a taxi pronto for me and the shorty? And fetch us the bill for the room? … Yeah, we’re leaving … Yeah, all good things have to come to an end sooner or later … Yeah, we’re disappointed too.” He put his hand over the receiver. “She knows us,” he told Jilly. “It’ll be her that told the reporters.”

“Bitch.”

He put the phone down. “About fifteen minutes. Get your face on, gorgeous.”

“I’m not waiting for her taxi to come, Rob. Not if she’s with them. I’ll get my own. There’s a rank down the road. Come on.”

“What about your make-up?”

She rammed a pair of sunglasses on and picked up her travel bag. He followed her downstairs. They didn’t stop at reception. Rob reached into his wallet, pulled out four fifties and thrust them at Mrs whatever-she-was-called, the proprietress. “Keep the change.”

Suddenly, they were out on the street. Paparazzi to their right, shouting Jilly. Jilly take off your shades, Jilly flick your hair, Jilly wave, Jilly smile, Jilly stop, who’s that with Jilly, that’s Rob from Simply Boyz, Rob give us a smile, Rob –

She took off her glasses, grabbed Rob’s hand and turned left and accelerated. She almost changed direction. There was a loud crack and she jumped like she’d been hit.

Behind them, the paparazzi roared. One of them – a photographer, about twenty-five - lay prostrate and bloody. Four others photographed him, ten or twelve were in full flight, one was trying to get a signal on his mobile. No one was interested in Jilly and Rob any more.

Rob looked at them then at her. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

Jilly started screaming.

Tales of MI7

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Genre – Espionage Thriller

Rating – PG

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Connect with J.J. Ward on Twitter

Friday, 3 January 2014

Through the Glass by Lisa J. Hobman @LivingScottishD

February 2009 - The break up

“So, that’s it then, Flick?” Jim raised his arms in exasperation. “You’re leaving? You’ve completely given up?” He was past trying to convince Flick that they could make a go of it; work things out; get through this and come out the other side stronger. The past few months had been one argument after another and Flick had spent less and less time at home.

“It’s for the best, James. And please don’t call me Flick.” She sighed, “It’s not my name. Not anymore. I grew up. It’s good in the adult world you should visit sometime, you might like it.” She snorted derisively.

Jim shook his head; sadness oozing from every pore, “Aye, well you’ll always be Flick to me. And I’ll always be Jim. What’s with all this ‘Felicity and James’ bollocks anyway?” His accent always became stronger when he was angry. This was one of those occasions when the true Scotsman came out fighting. His chest heaved as he tried to calm the storm raging beneath his skin.

He almost didn’t recognise the woman standing before him in their bedroom; her fitted designer clothes complete with pearls and a shoulder length smooth sleek hairstyle. Such a contrast to the girl he fell in love with. Back then it was all flowing blonde waves and long, floating skirts. She was softer then; in every way.

“Well, as I said James, Felicity is my name…Flick was left behind at university. She was doe-eyed, foolish and rash…look, there’s no point us going over old ground,” she pulled the handle up on her wheeled suitcase, “I’ll be staying with Polly and Matt for a while whilst I figure out my next move.”

Matt had once been Jim’s closest friend but that friendship had somehow fizzled as his relationship with Polly had intensified. That saddened Jim.

Felicity went on, “Nilsson-Perkins have offered to help find me a new place near the city centre so I can be closer to the main gallery.” She wandered over to him and placed her hand on his arm. “It’s for the best, James. I think you know that deep down.”

He looked, pleadingly, into her eyes, his chest still rising and falling at a rapid rate. “For whom? For me?. I don’t think so.” His voice cracked as he shook his head; he stared intently and for several moments she seemed caught in his eyes. He thought he saw her shield begin to melt but she shook her head and looked away.

ThroughTheGlass

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Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-17

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Connect with Lisa J. Hobman on Facebook & Twitter

Website www.lisajhobman.co.uk

Sunday, 22 December 2013

#AmReading - Run by Tahlia Newland @TahliaNewland

Run by Tahlia Newland

Amazon

Demon slayer, Nick Walker has had enough. After nearly dying at the hands of a powerful demon lord, he decides to leave the hidden realm and cut all ties with his previous life. A nightclub provides a welcome distraction but no haven from the demons, and a shocking encounter leaves him wondering whose side his mentor is really on.
This urban fantasy short story has received the AIA Seal of Excellence in Independent Fiction.  It is a prequel to the award-winning contemporary fantasy novel 'Lethal Inheritance' and includes its first two chapters.

Monday, 9 December 2013

#AmReading - When Stars Collide by Tammy Robinson @TammyRobinson76

When Stars Collide by Tammy Robinson

Amazon

When Ivy meets Walt at a party she sees past the corny pick up lines (a dare from his friends, or so he tells her) and his t-shirt featuring the immortal slogan, 'Don't hate me because I'm beautiful - hate me because I have big boobs!' and they fall in love.
Not only is he Ivy's first love, he's also her first lover, and she's sure nothing could ever come between them. Their love is simple yet magical, and they delight in the happiness they have created.
But when tragedy strikes, their future is thrown into turmoil, and Ivy goes searching for answers. Will she find them? Or will she forever be searching for something which just isn't there.
When Stars Collide is a story about love, and the journey of one woman to rediscover what is important to her following the loss of her life as she knows it.

Saturday, 7 December 2013

Foreseen by Terri-Lynne Smiles @TLSmiles #Foreseen

This excerpt of Foreseen lets loose the tension and distrust Greg, the male point-of-view character, has regarding adepts and Kinzie’s immersion in their world.
“Face it, Kinzie. You want to do this shit. You want to run the world. And you don’t care about screwing anybody over to do it,” I blasted.
Her hand flashed out to smack me, but I caught it and held it firmly. “Let go!” she demanded, struggling to free herself. “I have to do these things, and you know it. And sometimes that means taking risks. Risks are part of the job.”
I let go of her hand, my heart pounding with anger. I wanted to punch the wall. I didn’t know the person she’d become. I inhaled the frigid air and held it, willing myself to be calm. “Listen to yourself, Kinzie. You don’t pay for your risks. The crane operator paid for them today. And whoever is going to replace that dumpster. And fix the car. Hell, it’s totaled! You don’t even think about what it means to anybody else. You just said it – you don’t care.”
“Bullshit,” she said, her tone suddenly cooling. “I’m working for the greater good. Trying to make things better for everyone. This was important. Rothston is sending me on a mission, and they wanted to make sure I was ready. This matters!”
I pulled up short. “Mission? What are you talking about?”
“Rex and I are being sent to Washington D.C. We are –”
“Brolie?” I shot back. Anger flooded through me like I wouldn’t have believed possible. “You’re going to D.C. with Brolie? When?”
She looked away the way she did when she knew she’d been caught. “The end of next week.”
“Next week!” I shrieked and heard the echo off the distant buildings. “No, you’re not! Not with Brolie.”
“It’s not my decision, Greg. Rothston is doing big, important things and they need my help.”
I stared, not believing she’d just said that. “Not your decision?” I repeated, suddenly calm. “But that’s what you do, isn’t it Kinzie? Make people’s decisions for them. Well, here’s a decision for you: you go with Brolie to fuck up D.C. and we’re over.”
“It’s not my choice, Greg. I have to go.” She paused for a moment before coldly meeting my eye. “And I want to go.”
I put up my hands in surrender. “Well then this is my choice: if this playing superhero is so important to you that you don’t care what happens to us little people, then fine. Go play your games with Rex Brolie. Be Czarina of the Universe. But not with me around.” I stared at her twisted face a moment longer, then turned and walked away.
….
She wasn’t the person I thought she was. That person would have never said those things. Would have never casually ruined a guy’s life. The quiet girl who’d made sure I called the rats by their proper sex didn’t exist anymore. And the power-hungry, self-important czarina who’d replaced her wasn’t someone I needed in my life. I hit the door hard and stormed back into the Pit. Kinzie and I were over.
Foreseen
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Genre - Science, Fantasy, Thriller
Rating – PG-13
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Author Interview - Terri-Lynne Smiles @TLSmiles #Foreseen

Image of Terri-Lynne SmilesHow do you work through self-doubts and fear?
I never doubted my writing until I left my day-job as an attorney to write full-time. As a successful lawyer, no more than a day or two would go by without receiving positive feedback from others – whether a favorable court ruling or a thanks from a grateful client - and those good feelings carried over to my writing. As a full-time author, on the other hand, it’s months before getting any feedback on the work I do today and a year before the readers see it at all. The doubts crept in and paralyzed me for awhile, but it forced me to trust myself more. I step back from my work when I think it’s great and read it more objectively. If I think it’s just okay, then I work on it more. If I think it’s good or more than good, and then I accept the validity of my own opinion. So far, I’ve been fortunate that others agree.
What scares you the most?
Spiders. Terrified of them. Not fond of nuclear or chemical warfare, either.

What makes you happiest?
Helping others. Sappy, I know, but very true.

What’s your greatest character strength?
Optimism, but not in the foolish, everything-will-be-perfect sense.  Few things in life are as I want them to be. The key to optimism is to accept what is rather than dwelling on what is not, and  look for the unexpected benefits and opportunities real life provides.
What’s your weakest character trait?
Remembering facts. My brain works on concepts and ideas, not facts. After talking to someone for a few minutes, I may remember that she is devoted to her family, a go-getter in her career, an active athlete, and whether she was uptight and guarded, or confident and forthcoming. But I will not remember her name, how many kids she has, where she works or what sport she plays. Seriously. You can ask me facts from my own novels, and I will have to look them up.

Why do you write?
I could answer this on many levels - from the spiritual need to create, to enhancing the biochemical production of serotonin – but all of that is geekier than anyone wants to hear. So let me give you a straight-forward answer: I love fiction that I can get lost in and forget I’m reading. I also love fiction that makes me think about something in a way I haven’t thought about it before. I don’t think there’s enough fiction out there that does both. There’s a need. I am filling the need. Quite frankly, I can’t write any other kind of story. If I try to write novels that are either fun but superficial or deep but with little action, I get bored.
Have you always enjoyed writing?
My love of writing and storytelling extends back further than I can remember. My dad says that as a toddler, I collected earthworms and acted out stories of the Worm Family.This past year, I cleaned out my childhood home, finding the only item I kept from grammar school: a series of ghost stories I wrote and illustrated in fifth grade for extra credit. I’d say writing has always been part of me.

What motivates you to write?
From a day-to-day perspective, the people in my head make me write. Once I create them, they are rather demanding and don’t like being left either without any conflicts to resolve or in the midst of a cliffhanger scene. From a broader perspective, I have a gift that I can use to bring people enjoyment. I need to use it.
What are you most proud of in your personal life?
My son. At an early age, he demonstrated the ability to think independently of the rules society imposes. It makes life more difficult for him at times because people don’t understand that he takes positions out of a sense of fairness and personal integrity, while his peers may take the same positions out of youthful rebellion. But I observe a lot about human nature and society watching his struggles and triumphs and am very proud of him.

What books did you love growing up?
Old science fiction – the stories of ideas. Isaac Asimov. Ursula K. Le Guin. Ray Bradbury – I wore out my brother’s copies of Something Wicked This Way Comes, Fahrenheit 451, and The Martian Chronicles.
Foreseen
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre - Science, Fantasy, Thriller
Rating – PG-13
More details about the author and the book
Connect with Terri-Lynne Smiles on Facebook & Twitter

Monday, 18 November 2013

Talion by Mary Maddox @Dreambeast7

Rad had decided Whistler would be his last victim. Whistler had died in Rad’s foyer. The parquet floor had to be torn out and burned, and blood sanded off the underlayment. The wallpaper had to be steamed and scraped from the wall. Every trace of Whistler had to be erased before Rad could bring in workmen to redo his foyer.

When the cops showed up at his office at the university, Rad told them what they would have found out anyway. Robert Whistler had been his student. Yes, he and Whistler had a few beers together. He described an unhappy, confused young man whose disappearance was sad but hardly surprising. “I don’t know what he’s looking for,” Rad said, easing Whistler into present tense. “I don’t think he knows.”

He could have said anything, but clichés worked best on those idiots. He’d known both of them since third grade. Later they would refer to Rad by his childhood nickname, Radish, and snuffle with laughter.

“To your knowledge was he using drugs?” Dave Reynolds asked. Dave used to call Rad mama’s boy and tit-sucker and taunt him for not fighting back.

“He talked about pot,” Rad said. “I never actually saw him smoking it.”

Facing his old schoolmates, their ugliness stark in the office fluorescence, he relished the paradox of his childhood weakness. It protected his strength. In a town like Richfield, where folks never change and you’re only a stranger once, the cops know who the killers aren’t.

Their questions turned to Whistler’s friends. It became apparent they suspected those losers of operating a drug cartel and believed Whistler had met his end in a dispute over methamphetamine. Rad helped them along by implying Whistler had been afraid of their prime suspect. That got them going. Dave pumped his hand and thanked him for his cooperation.

Rad still wondered how Whistler found the article in The St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He couldn’t have been a subscriber. And unless he was looking, he easily could have missed the generic homicide story or failed to recognize the girl he’d seen only once in a bar on Laclede’s Landing. The blurry black-and-white photo negated her most striking feature, her cinnamon hair. It was a disappointment to Rad, who hadn’t been able to take Polaroids of their encounter. All he had were yellowed newspaper clippings and a lock of that hair.

Whistler hadn’t seemed suspicious before he showed up that night in late January. “Yo,” he said when Rad opened the door.

“Robert. It’s been awhile.”

Whistler shuffled in without waiting for an invitation. He reeked of beer. He stopped in the middle of the living room and thrust the folded newspaper at Rad. “Recognize her?”

Rad thought of her raw whisper, her lips reduced to meat, begging him. Please kill me, please just kill me. She still turned him on. “It’s late, Robert. What’s this about?”

“The girl in St. Louis, she disappeared that night you hooked up with her.”

Rad glanced at the photo. “It’s not the same girl.”

“It’s her,” Whistler said. “Could be you’re the last one to see her. You better talk to the cops.”

Rad scanned the article. Before their St. Louis excursion, he’d dreamed of making Whistler his protégée, but the moment for revealing himself had never come. Now he saw how dangerous the dream had been. “The body was found in Illinois, Robert.”

“So?”

“She must have gone out again after our—encounter.”

“I went to your room at four in the morning” Whistler said. “Guess what, you weren’t there.”

“I was sleeping, Robert.”

He had no one to blame but himself. Sometimes he savored the loneliness of his life, but when the darkness was more than he could endure, he yearned for another pair of predator’s eyes to confirm its harsh and absolute reality. His friendship with Robert had grown from his own weakness. Now he was paying. The dumb redneck would go to the cops sooner or later.

“I’ve still got her number,” Rad said. “Let’s call and ask her if she’s dead.”

Whistler looked at him with dull suspicion.

“Come up to my office. The number’s in my Rolodex.”

Leading the way upstairs, Rad considered the situation. Whistler was fifteen years younger, two inches taller, and outweighed him by twenty pounds. He might be drunk, but he wasn’t afraid to fight. If he got the chance.

Halfway up the stairs, Rad spun and slammed his forearm into Whistler’s face, then delivered a sharp kick to the knee. Whistler tumbled down the stairs and sprawled in the foyer, motionless. Then he stirred and raised himself onto his elbows.

A jackknife open and ready, Rad straddled him, leaned one knee hard into his spine and yanked a fistful of hair to expose the scrawny throat. Whistler’s ponytail made it easy. Rad wore his hair like a Roman soldier, cropped, so it wouldn’t give the enemy a handle.

He ditched the jackknife afterward. For years he’d carried it around to cut rope or trim an occasional branch, never dreaming his life would depend on it someday. The four-inch blade was long enough for slitting throats, but it could have been sharper. Its edge seemed to bounce off Whistler’s resilient flesh. Rad was forced to keep pressing and sawing deeper until the skin gave way to sinew underneath. Then came a mess of blood, the dark smell.

Whistler thrashed convulsively. Clawing and plucking at the knife. Lunging with his heels, pummeling Rad’s thighs, swiping at his groin. Several times the blade was knocked from its track or lost traction and slipped. Rad wrenched Whistler’s head further back and twisted until the tortured neck groaned. The dying body has a thousand voices.

Rad kept sawing at the carotid artery. He wasn’t enjoying himself. It wasn’t like doing a girl—slow, elegant recreation. It was work, like chain-sawing tree stumps or hacking holes in rocky ground. Afterward he needed ibuprofen for the bruises and abrasions. His left wrist, wrenched during the struggle, had to be wrapped in an elastic bandage.

Then the cleanup, all night and the next day without sleep. After emptying Whistler’s pockets he wrapped the body in old shower curtains that he kept in the garage to use as drop cloths. He taped the edges so that no trace of death leaked into his car trunk.

Whistler’s Pontiac was blocking the driveway, so he dealt with it first. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing the car. The yard was cloaked by trees, and students visiting their friends in the neighborhood often parked where they didn’t belong. Stowing his mountain bike in the Pontiac’s backseat, Rad drove across town to Whistler’s Automotive, the garage where Robert worked for his father and uncle. The peaked hood of a parka shielded his face, but nobody saw him. Nobody was walking around in the freezing night.

The car reeked of beer and marijuana. Empty aluminum cans rattled in the backseat. Rad began to shiver, his jaw twitching and molars drumming. It wasn’t fear. Just cold and aftershock. The rush of killing, usually pleasurable, had gone bad.

He parked behind the garage among the cars waiting to be picked up or serviced. Searching the Pontiac’s interior with his pocket halogen flashlight, he gathered up another section of The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and stuffed it inside his parka, then checked the ashtrays for cigarette butts that weren’t Whistler’s brand. He could imagine Robert cruising with his buds, smoking weed and running his mouth. But nothing in the car suggested any confidential parties lately.

He skirted a floodlight to reach the garage’s rear entrance and tried several of Whistler’s keys. In a minute he was inside an office redolent of metal and grease. His flashlight skittered over a desk sloppy with piled-up work orders, coffee cups, and stacked boxes of auto parts. He drew a breath. No lingering odor of beer or recent smoke here. Whistler hadn’t partied in the garage that night, as he sometimes did.

It took more than chance to account for Rad’s luck. Events fell into place like expressions of his will.

Drinking with a friend, Whistler might have talked about Rad and the missing girl. But everything pointed to his being alone—driving somewhere and parking and downing several cans of beer while he brooded. He probably had mentioned the St. Louis trip to some of his buds and maybe his parents. But Rad was safe as long as nothing connected him to the girl with cinnamon hair.

His muscles howled with exhaustion as he cycled home. Blasts of frigid air stung his face. It was three in the morning when he finally pulled his own car out of the driveway. In the next eight hours he stowed Whistler’s body in his farmhouse outside Richfield, returned home and scrubbed the foyer, then showered and drove to campus in time to teach his first class at eleven.

Rad’s farmhouse was half a mile from the nearest paved road, isolated by brush-choked ravines, a wide crescent of meadow, and fields of corn and soybeans where deer came to graze. Friends and strangers pestered Rad for permission to hunt there, but he always said no. The place was his refuge in hunger and rage and black depression. He loved its smell, moldy to the core, already a grave when he buried Whistler in the dirt cellar two days after killing him. He imagined the corpse decomposing, feeding the carnivorous roots of his house.

Nothing much happened in Richfield, so Robert Whistler’s disappearance was news. The local paper ran stories featuring his distraught family and his reputed ties to drug dealing. The cops claimed to be following up clues. Dave and his partner never returned to ask more questions, but Rad knew he’d pushed his luck far enough. After eight sweet captures and Whistler, it was time to stop. He would succumb to fate and become what he was meant to be, an anonymous loser. He would treasure the memories.

He let his hair grow.

Then Lisa had crossed his path. The moment he saw her, Rad had known he would follow her anywhere. Even to Utah.

Talion

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Thriller / Horror

Rating – R

More details about the author and the book

Connect with  Mary Maddox on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://marymaddox.com & http://www.ancientchildren.com/

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

Author Interview – J.J. Ward @MI7Ward

Image of J.J. Ward

Tell us a bit about your family.

I met my wife when I was in the sixth form. She was the coolest girl there, I was the college nerd (so if you’re reading this and you believe you’re a failed man, think again). We’ve got a Kerry Blue Terrier called Arthur Perrins. People think I’m joking when I say that, but it’s the name he came from the kennel with. I’ve also got two grown-up sons. I can’t remember what their names are.

How do you work through self-doubts and fear?

Just get on with the task in hand. Sometimes, the longer you think about something, the worse it gets.

What scares you the most?

I run a Human Rights club at school, so I’m often hearing, reading and talking about the terrible things humans do to one another. Having a red-hot iron pressed into the soles of your feet for five minutes seems pretty scary, but it happens. Having your testicles crushed with pliers.

What makes you happiest?

Sunshine and seventy-two free hours.

What’s your greatest character strength?

Modesty.

Tales of MI7

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Espionage Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author and the book

Connect with J.J. Ward on Twitter

Monday, 11 November 2013

Tears of Tess by Pepper Winters @PepperWinters

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*Starling*

Where are you taking me, Brax?” I giggled as my boyfriend of two years beamed his slightly crooked smile and plucked my suitcase from my hands.

We crossed the threshold of the airport and nerves of excitement fluttered in my stomach.

A week ago, Brax surprised me with a romantic dinner and an envelope. I grabbed him and squeezed him half to death when I pulled free two airplane tickets with the destinations blacked out by a marker.

My perfect, sweet boyfriend, Brax Cliffingstone was taking me somewhere exotic. And that meant connection, sex, fun. Things I sorely needed.

Brax had never been able to keep a secret. Hell, he was a shockingly bad liar—I caught his fibs every time when sky-blue eyes darted up and to the left, and his cute ears blushed. 

But, somehow, he kept quiet on the whole mysterious holiday. Like any normal twenty-year-old woman, I searched our apartment ruthlessly. Raiding his underwear drawer, the PlayStation compartment, and all the other secret hidey-holes where he might’ve kept the real plane reservations. But, for all my snooping, I came up empty. 

So, as I stood in the Melbourne airport, with a crazy happy boyfriend and nerves rioting in my heart, I could only grin like an idiot.

“Not telling. The check-in clerk can be the one to ruin my surprise.” He chuckled. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t tell you until we arrived at the resort.” He dropped the suitcase and dragged me toward him with a smirk. “In fact, if I could, I’d blindfold you until we got there, so it would all be a complete surprise.”

My core clenched as thoughts flared with hot images—sexy, sinful visions of Brax blindfolding me, taking me roughly, completely at his mercy. Oh, God, don’t go there again, Tess. You were going to block thoughts like that, remember?

Ignoring myself, I gasped as Brax’s fingers grazed my flesh. I shuddered, and my sequined top became insubstantial.

“You could do that, you know?” I whispered, dropping my eyelids to half-mast. “You could tie me up….”

Instead of pouncing and kissing me like crazy for offering him the chance to dominate, Brax swallowed and looked as if I told him to slap me with a dead fish.

“Tess, what the hell? That’s the third time you’ve quipped about bondage.”

Rejection crushed, and I dropped my gaze. The tingles between my legs popped like dirty bubbles, and I let Brax shove me back into the box where I belonged. The box labelled: perfect, innocent girlfriend who’d do anything for him, as long as it was in the dark and on my back.

I wanted a new label. One that said: girlfriend who will do anything to be tied, spanked, and fucked all over rather than adored.

Brax looked so disappointed and I hated myself. I need to stop this.

I reminded myself for the three-hundredth time, that the sweet, wonderful relationship I had with this man was far more important than a bit of sexy play in the bedroom.

I mumbled, “It’s been too long. Almost a month and a half.” I remembered the exact date when the lacklustre sex, in good ole missionary, took place. Brax worked overtime, my uni course demanded a lot of brainpower, and somehow life became more important than a roll beneath the sheets.

He froze, looking around us at the hordes of people. “Great time to bring that up.” He guided me to the side, glaring at a couple that came too close. “Can we talk about this later?” He ducked his head and kissed my cheek. “I love you, hun. Once we aren’t so busy, then we can have more alone time.”

“And this holiday? Will you take me like the girlfriend you adore?”

Brax beamed, enveloping me in a hug. “Every night. You wait.”

I smiled, letting anticipation and happiness dispel my angst. Brax and I wanted different things in the bedroom department, and I hoped, prayed, got on my knees and begged, that I didn’t ruin what we had because of it. 

My blood simmered for things entirely not sweet. Things I didn’t have the courage to say. Downright sinful things that amped my blood to lava and made me wet—it wasn’t chaste kisses.

And standing in his arms, in a public place, with that sexy smirk on his mouth, and hands on my waist, I trembled with a cocktail of need. This trip would be exactly what we needed.

He brushed his lips against mine, no tongue, and I had to squeeze my legs together to stop the vibrations threatening to overtake me. Is there something wrong with me? Surely, I shouldn’t be this way. Maybe there was a cure—something to take the edge off my desires.

Brax pulled back, smiling. “You’re gorgeous.”

My eyes dropped to his shapely mouth, breathing faster. What would Brax do if I pushed him up against the wall and groped him in public? My mind turned the fantasy into him pushing me hard against the wall, his thigh going between my legs, hands pawing, bruising me because he couldn’t get close enough.

I swallowed, battling those far too tempting thoughts. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I joked, plucking his baby-blue t-shirt that matched his eyes so well.

I loved this man, but missed him at the same time. How was that possible?

Life wedged between us: the university course stole five days a week, not to mention homework, and Brax’s boss landed a new building contract in the heart of the city.

Each month trickled into the next, and lovemaking became second fiddle to Call of Duty on PlayStation, and architectural sketching for the extra credit I’d signed up for.

But all of that would change. Our life together would improve, because I was going to seduce my man. I’d packed a few naughty surprises to show Brax what turned me on. I needed to do this. To save my sanity. To save my relationship.

Brax’s fingers squeezed my waist and he stepped away, ducking down to grab the suitcases again.

If I wanted to seduce him, wasn’t it best just to go for it? Planning and dreaming seemed wrong when he stood right in front of me.

I dropped my shoulder bag and grabbed the lapels of his beige canvas jacket, yanking him into me. “Let’s join the mile-high club,” I whispered, before crushing his mouth with mine. His eyes flashed as I leaned forward, pressing my entire body against his. Feel me. Need me.

He tasted of orange juice and his lips were warm, so warm. My tongue tried to gain welcome, but Brax’s hands landed on my shoulders, holding me at bay.

Someone clapped, saying, “You attack him, girl!”

Brax stepped back, looking over my shoulder at the bystander. He dropped his eyes to mine, temper flashing. “Nice spectacle, Tess. Are we done? Can we go check in?”

Disappointment sat like a heavy boulder in my belly. He sensed my mood—like he always did—and gathered me into a hug again. “I’m sorry. You know how much I hate PDA’s. Get me behind closed doors, and I’m all yours.” He smiled, and I nodded.

“You’re right. Sorry. I’m just so excited to go on holiday with you.” I dropped my eyes, letting wild, blonde curls curtain my face. Please, don’t let him see the rejection in my eyes. Brax used to say my eyes reminded him of dove’s feathers as the white bird flew across the sky. He could be very poetic, my Brax. But I didn’t want poetry anymore. I wanted… I didn’t know what I wanted.

He chuckled. “You’re right about being excited.” He waggled his eyebrow, and together we headed to check-in. The girl who’d told me to attack him winked and gave me a thumbs up.

I smiled, hiding the residual pain that my attack didn’t inspire the same reaction.

We joined the queue, and I glanced around. People milled like fish in a pond, darting and weaving around groups of waiting passengers. The vibe of an airport never failed to excite me. Not that I travelled a lot. Before the university course, I travelled to Sydney to study the architecture there, and sketch. I loved to sketch buildings.  At ten-years of age, my parents took my brother and me to Bali for a week. Not that it was fun going on holiday with a thirty-year old brother, and parents who despised me.

Old hurt surfaced, thinking of them. When I moved in with Brax eighteen months ago, I drifted apart from my parents. After all, they were almost seventy-years old, and focused on other ‘important things’, rather than a daughter who’d come twenty years too late. A dreadful mistake, as they loved to remind me. 

They’d been so horrified at the pregnancy, they promptly sued the doctor for botching my father’s vasectomy.

An old enemy: rejection, ruled my life. I supposed the desperation to connect with Brax was a way of confirming that someone wanted me. I didn’t just want intimacy, I needed it. I needed to feel his hands on me, his body in mine. It was a craving that never left me in peace.

I blinked, putting the impossible together. I needed Brax to be rough because I needed to be claimed.

Oh, my God, am I that screwed up?

I followed Brax, in a daze, to the counter and let him put the suitcase on the scales.

“Morning. Tickets and passports, please,” the girl in her smart uniform said.

Fumbling with luggage tags, Brax asked, “Honey, can you give her our tickets? They’re in my back pocket.”

I reached around and pulled out a travel wallet from his baggy jeans pocket. Although twenty-three years old, Brax still dressed like a grungy teenager. I squeezed his butt.

His eyes flashed to mine, frowning.

I forced a bright smile, handing our documentation to the clerk. I didn’t even check where we were headed, too focused on ignoring the twinges of sadness at not being allowed to grope my boyfriend. Maybe I’m too sexual? My fears were right. I was hardwired all wrong.

“Thank you.” The girl’s eyes dropped, showing heavily shadowed lids. Her brown hair, scraped back into a tight bun, looked plastic with so much hair spray. She bit her lip and pulled out a ream of tickets before checking our passports. “Do you want your bags checked all the way through to Cancun?”

Cancun? My heart soared. Wow. Brax outdid himself. I never would’ve thought he’d travel so far from home. I turned and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much, Brax.”

His face softened as he captured my hand. “You’re welcome. There’s no better way to celebrate our future, than going to a country that values friendship and family.” He leaned closer. “I read that on Sundays, the streets come alive with strangers dancing. Everyone becomes connected by music.”

I couldn’t tear myself from his crisp blue eyes. That was why I loved him, despite not being completely satisfied. Brax suffered the same insecurities. He didn’t have anyone but me. His parents died in a car accident when he turned seventeen; he was an only child.

Brax owned the apartment we lived in, thanks to the life insurance pay out, and his dad’s husky, Blizzard, came with the bargain.

Blizzard and I didn’t see eye to eye, but Brax loved the dog like a tatty teddy-bear. I tolerated the beast, and kept my handbags far from chewing height.

“You’re the best.” I captured his chin, planting a kiss, not caring he was uncomfortable. Hell, the couple beside us were practically dry humping; a peck on the mouth was PG stuff.

The girl sighed across the counter. “Is this your honeymoon? Cancun is amazing. My boyfriend and I went there a few years ago. So hot and fun. And the music is so sexy, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

Images filled my mind of twirling around Brax in a new sexy bikini. Maybe a change of scenery would amplify our lust.

I said, “No, not our honeymoon. Just a celebration.”

Brax grinned, his eyes sparkling.

An idea ran wild. Was this trip special? Was Brax going to propose? I waited for the heart-flipping joy at becoming Mrs. Cliffingstone, but a swell of comfort filled me instead. I would say yes. 

Brax wanted me. Brax was safe. I loved him in my own way—the way that mattered, the long-lasting kind.

Silence descended while the girl tap-tapped her keyboard and printed off our boarding passes. After tagging our bags, she handed everything back. “Your bags are checked all the way to Mexico, but you’ll have a stop in Los Angeles for four hours.” She circled the gate number and time. “Please make your way through immigration, and proceed to the departure lounge. You board at eleven-thirty.”

Brax took the documentation and shouldered his laptop bag. Linking hands with me, he said, “Thank you.”

We headed toward the Passengers Only lounge. We had little over an hour before boarding. I could think of a lot of things we could do in an hour, but I doubted Brax would be into them.

But we were on our way to Mexico. A different country and a different bed awaited us. I could be patient.

I made up my mind, as Brax browsed the tax-free PlayStation games, that tonight would mark a new beginning for us. Goodbye contentment, hello lust. 

Our relationship was going to rip and roar with love and flame. I would make sure of it.

Yes, tonight things would be different.

I needed different.

Tears of Tess

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Genre – Dark New Adult Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-18

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Website http://www.pepperwinters.wordpress.com/

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Author Interview – Ian Truman @iantruman

Image of Ian Truman
Tell us a bit about your family.
I’m from a working class family and I grew up in the East end of Montreal and East of the East End (which is way nicer). My dad’s a welder, my mom worked as an office clerk for many hospitals (she’s retired now). I’m mostly French-Canadian but with all things concerning origins in this country, it’s complicated and “mixed” so those notions of “where was your great-great-granddad from” are increasingly irrelevant to me.
My spouse is Mary Lee Maynard and we met because we were both signers in hardcore bands back in the day. Funny thing is that she’s from the same neighbourhood I was from but we didn’t meet because of that. She has her degree in Studio Arts from Concordia University and now works on big film sets in the props deptartment. She’s the one who kicked my ass into going to college in writing.
We have a four year old daughter named Kaori, two cats and two lizards. I guess that covers it for now.
How do you work through self-doubts and fear?
I go to sleep. Usually, self-doubt arises when I’m too tired and sore from work. I usually sleep it out and everything works out fine the next morning. As far as fear goes, I can’t say it’s a problem I really have to deal with. I have fears concerning my daughter’s well-being in this shitty world we’re headed for. As far as I am concerned, I’ve been in the shit before but everything’s been peaches and cream for years, so I knock on wood.
What scares you the most?
To die before my daughter has come of age. It might sound fucked up, but I don’t mind my own death so much as the fact that I could die before she can fend on her own. This also implies that I couldn’t give her everything she needs to get a good life which means some money for college and a place to live.
Aside from that, I think that highly religious people scare me the most. I mean, I understand the need for spirituality, but some guy reading me scripture in the Metro (Sorry! Sorry! Subway) just tingles my backbone.
What makes you happiest?
Combine all of these: Art gallery, my wife being happy, some friends and the good discussions that come with that, daughter paiting on her own wall, good coffee (the first one who says starbucks is getting stomped) – from the Italian Social club on St-Viateur. Maybe a good Jewish bagel while we’re at it. 10 degree weather, a hoodie on, instrumental hip-hop or post-rock in the corner…
I mean, a lot of stuff will make me happy, but that, will make me happiest.
What’s your greatest character strength?
I’m stubborn. Hopefully in a good way. I don’t really accept failure, I mostly look for ways to make things work. That kind of Stubborn.
What’s your weakest character trait?
I don’t work well with others. I can work with others, but people I actually like to work with are few and far between. I’d stick with these ladies and gents through any projects, but I rarely admit anyone else in that circle and I don’t trust other people’s work over mine that easily.
Why do you write?
It’s in me and it needs to get out. Is there another reason to write?
Have you always enjoyed writing?
I started coming up with stories in grade 3 and I don’t think I stopped since. The first thing I remember writing was this sort of role playing game rule book. Me and my two friends (yes, two of them) used to play shit like Hero Quest or something and we thought I’d be cool to write our own quests. So we did. I think we also tried to adapt some videogames and make them into role playing games. (I know, how geek was that? – remember this was in, like, 1991 so cosplay and conventions with sexy geeks DID NOT EXIST) That old Jurassic park game from SNES was one of these.
I had a phase where I didn’t write fiction at all through my early years of college (I focused on philosophy and political science) but as the years went by, I came back to fiction. I’m not saying I’d never write philosophical essays again. I enjoy theater and scripts too, as well as graphic novels (I don’t think I’d do another game, but who knows?). For the time being, it just happens that the stories I need to tell come out better as novels.
What are your goals as a writer?
I really just want to write works that I want to write. Some people take jobs as bloggers or journalists and then hope to write fiction. I wrote a few blog posts for Criminal Element, which a few friends told me was a pretty good gig, but I didn’t have it in me to do that.
I can only write something properly if I feel it in my guts and it has to get out. So I only write that now. I got a decent job so writing doesn’t need to pay the bills just yet. I’d rather build a long term career rather than fake my way into the popular genre of the moment.
Do you have to travel much concerning your book(s)?
Not at all in fact. With the internet and global shipping these days, I can actually do nearly all the work from a laptop. Luckily enough I live in a big, culturally driven city (Montreal) so that means I just get to do events in my home town and it’s both enjoyable as well as easy. I guess I need to make my way to Toronto for a weekend someday, but that city has never impressed me at all, so I’m compelled to stay put.
What books have most influenced your life?
“We owe you nothing” the punk planet collected interviews, was a big thing for me. All ages, reflections on Straight Edge was also significant. As far as literature goes, 1984, of course, but also As I lay Dying. I did most of my studies in French and somehow, As I Lay Dying was the first novel I ever read in English.
Have you ever considered anyone as a mentor?
Not really. Not at all in fact. I have certain artists and musicians that inspire me, but as far as having some guy telling me “oh! That’s how you start or end a scene.” That never happened.
Who is your favorite author and why?
If I had to choose a favorite poet, it would be Al Purdy. I also like the way Tim Barry writes songs.
I’m also a big fan of David Fennario, a bilingual playwright from Montreal. Mordecai Richler is way up there on the list and I just started Murakami’S 1Q84 and I really, really like it so far.
Can we expect any more books from you in the future?
I’m sincerely trying to put out two significant works every three years. I have another novel that’s well under way and I’m also writing a movie script at the same time for a project that could see the day of light in 12 to 18 months.
Have you started another book yet?
I have. The title is Grand Trunk and Shearer and it’s the name of a street corner in the working class district of Pointe-St-Charles. It’s a literary-noir in the sense that it’s a story about a gruesome murder but I take a lot of pleasure in talking about the community, tradition, the impacts on the family/friends. I get into some pretty hardcore stuff (mma fights on reserves, nazi skinhead beatdowns, 24h boxing gyms, tattoo shop dialogues, crack dens, the guy works a trucking yard, etc…) but I try to write it in a compelling way.

I think it’s more important to capture the emotion and the details of a moment rather than just add gore and violence. The heavy, violent parts become “greater” or more visceral if you get the humanity driving them.
A Teenage Suicide
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Genre - Literary, Coming of Age
Rating – PG13
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Tuesday, 5 November 2013

Thirty Scary Tales by Rayne Hall @RayneHall

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Lucie clutched the pole by the exit, willing the train to go faster, urging it to take her further away from Jake.

“May I see your tickets?” singsonged a male voice. “Tickets, please.”

While the seated passengers dug into pockets and rummaged through bags, Lucie reckoned she had about two minutes before she was found out.

She was in luck: The train slowed and hummed to a halt. She pushed the “open” button and jumped out.

The place was dark and deserted, one of those small unstaffed stations. Behind her, the doors beeped and whooshed shut. The train accelerated with a growl and vanished into the night.

A rust-streaked sign proclaimed that she had reached Seelsden: merely five villages from where she had left. Her heart was still thudding from her escape, her mind reeling from the confrontation with Jake, and her thoughts churning in a jumbled mess, but she knew she had to hop onto the next train and this time try to get further.

In the sickly light of a wall lamp, she scanned the time-table poster. Only one train served Seelsden at night: the 11.36pm that had just rumbled away. After that, no trains stopped here until 6.42am.

The small station building was unlit, the door to the waiting room locked. At the contact point - “For Information And Enquiries, Press Here” - a cardboard sign said “out of order.”

She hugged herself against the chill and rubbed her bare arms. Now what?

An empty coke can rattled across the concrete, a crisp wrapper rustled along the track, and somewhere in the distance, a motor whined.

The hamlet of Seelsden was a mile away on that gloomy hill. A lone female trudging up there would put herself at risk from motorised predators, and even if she got there, where would she go? She had no money for a hotel – assuming that the village had one, which was unlikely. Other doors would remain locked. People around here did not open the door to strangers after 8pm, and those who did had unsavoury intentions.

It was safer to stay on the platform, a semi-public place where she could see anyone approaching.

Overhead lamps soaked the station platform in their sulphurous light. The station clock ticked 11.50.

Claws of tiredness spiked at her brain. A warm bed, a cosy duvet, a safe place to spend the night... but there were only the benches along the single platform, with their hard white metal and curving backs. One of them would have to do for the few hours until dawn. She did not need to be comfortable, she just needed sleep.

Lucie picked the one least soiled by pigeon droppings and grime. The metal was cold, and the chill seeped through the thin fabric of her dress into her flesh.

It had been stupid to run away unprepared. She should have kept a bag packed, saved some money, identified places to stay. Instead, she had clung to her denial and her hopes that Jake would mend his ways, until she had no choice and she had to flee without even the chance to grab a jacket.

The jaundiced lamp glowed its disapproval.

If she had had any sense, she would have seen the danger signs as soon as she moved in with Jake – the satisfied pleasure with which he crushed that moth, the way he kept the spider trapped in a glass for weeks before he squashed it, the way his blue eyes gleamed when rough bedroom games escalated in violence – but she had clung to her denial, had shut out the truth even when it banged on her mind and demanded entry. Until tonight, when he had tried to...

No. She would not think about that.

She wanted to curl into a ball with her knees against her chest to keep warm, but the bench was too narrow for that. Cigarette stubs crammed into the gaps still stank of nicotine.

Denial followed by panic - this had always been her mistake. She could see the pattern now. When the lycée discriminated against girls, she meekly accepted it – and then one day she dropped out. When her father's new wife made her life hell, she suffered in silence – and then ran away. When the father of the family where she worked as an au pair made lascivious remarks, she ignored them, but when he tried to paw her, she freaked out, packed and left.

Each time, she could have made a formal complaint, given notice, taken her time to find a better way out. But each time she had denied, then panicked, and each time she had landed in a worse mess.

Midnight. Clouds flitted like pale ghosts across the sliver of moon. In the thicket that flanked the platform, rodent feet scurried.

She had to get some sleep. Dawn would bring warmth, light and clarity of thought.

Not far away, an animal howled. There were no wolves in England, she reminded herself. It had to be a dog. She turned to find a position of acceptable discomfort, one arm under her head and the other across her eyes, blocking out the light.

She woke, shivering. After a moment's disorientation, she realised where she was, and why. What a stupid situation to get into! At least it was over. But wait: the station clock said 2.13 - still four and a half hours before she could get into a train.

A pair of yellow eyes stared, flickered, vanished. There, again. Did England really have no wolves? Hadn't she read somewhere about wolves and foxes spreading into towns? And then there were exotic illegal pets, and big cats escaped from zoos.

Her pulse pounded in her throat. What if it was a hungry panther in search of easy prey? A thousand ants seemed to crawl over her skin.

Why hadn't she stayed on that train? Why hadn't she stayed at home?

Silence. Wind swished through the treetops.

She needed to go to the loo, really bad. But the railway companies had closed station toilets. Cost saving, budget cuts.

Another four hours before the train would take her away. And then, what? She still had no money, still had nowhere to go.

At least, the train would have a toilet. Probably. But could she hold out until then? The pressure on her bladder increased. Sleep wouldn't come back until she had a pee.

She squatted by the metal fence at the edge of the thicket, releasing a hot stream. Nothing stirred in the undergrowth. No eyes, no animal. She had imagined things because of her overwrought nerves. Already, she felt better. Even her panic about Jake subsided, and her thinking grew rational.

Running away like this had been stupid. If she had held out just a few more hours, she could have left in the morning with her clothes, with some money, with a proper plan.

Had she submitted until his violent lust was spent, she would have some bruises, but she would be lying in her own bed, cosy and warm.

Silly panic. How could she have thought Jake would kill her? He had different erotic tastes and sometimes he got carried away, that was all. She should have talked with him about her concerns and explained that they were not compatible. They could have had a rational discussion and broken up civilly. No need to panic, no need to run like a madwoman, no need to spend the night on a platform bench.

Those eyes again. And a second pair. Lucie's breath stalled, and fear clenched like a tight fist around her chest.

If only she had a weapon! That empty coke can over there – but it wouldn't help much even if she could reach it.

She lowered her lids, hoping this made her own eyes less visible to the beasts. But they had probably already taken her scent and were waiting to pounce. Would the metal fence keep them out? The bars were a handspan apart; too narrow for a big animal to squeeze through, she hoped. Another five minutes ticked by. Six.

She tried to hold absolutely still, so the predators would not see her move. How ironic: by fleeing from Jake, she had put herself in real danger. Instead of beaten by an intemperate lover, her flesh would be ripped by wild beasts.

If Jake were here, she would not be frightened. He would chase away the beasts, real or imagined.

A motor vroomed down the road. Twigs cracked, and when she opened her eyes a crack, the four gleaming pupils had vanished as if they had read her thoughts.

Where were the eyes now? Did she dare hope they had left? She breathed into her abdomen to still her racing heart. If she could get through the night, she would be more sensible in the future. She would talk things through with the persons concerned. No more rash running.

The night grew colder still, and the station clock seemed paralysed, taking an eternity to advance by even one minute.

Wind rustled the leaves in the thicket, and the bushes seemed filled with flickering eyes - a trick of the moonlight glinting of pale leaves. As usual, she had overreacted, worked herself into a pointless panic. She had to get a grip on herself and stop indulging in silly fears.

Tiredness gritted her eyes and blocked her thought, and she must have slept, because when she looked again, the clock stood at 3.04. The bench had grown harder still, and the temperature had dropped beyond what any human would willingly endure. She rubbed her feet, trying to massage life into her icy toes.

Faint nausea rose from her stomach, and a headache threatened to split her skull. She remembered the week when she was ill, too sick to leave the bed. Jake had taken care of her, feeding her dry toast and sips of water, washing her limbs, emptying the vomit bowls, all with an angel's patience and a lover's tenderness.

A motor stuttered to a halt, a car door slammed.

Her mind raced through scenarios in which someone would drive to a deserted railway station where no train stopped at night. None of them was reassuring.

Heavy steps thudded on the tarmac, came closer.

It was best if the person did not see her here. She squeezed tighter against the curved back of the bench, the icy metal pressing into her cheek.

Thud, thud, thud.

Bunched keys jingled with every harsh step.

“Lucie?”

Jake! A warm wave of relief swept through her.

“Thank heaven, I've found you. I've searched everywhere.” The familiarity of his firm, gentle voice enveloped her.

His shirt was unevenly buttoned, and stubble shadowed his jaw. He slipped off his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “I've been worried sick. In the car, I have a thermos with hot tea.”

She followed him out of the station gate to the car park. “I'm sorry I overreacted. When I saw that rope... I thought.. I panicked....”

“It's my fault, Lucie,” he said gently. “I should have explained what I was doing. Of course you were frightened. We need to talk. But first, I'll take you home. You look like you could do with some sleep.”

He held the passenger door open and waited until she had sunk into the seat. The familiar smells – pine air freshener, fish & chips, milky tea - hugged her with their familiarity. Her mind sank into drowsy warmth.

Their relationship was doomed, she would tell Jake that. But she appreciated the trouble he had gone to to find her, and she would tell him that too. In her own time. No rush.

He got in on the driver's side, pulled his door shut, and snapped the central locking.

“Look at me, Lucie.” His blue eyes gleamed, and his smile bared teeth. “See what I've brought.”

His hands held the thumb-thick rope.

Thirty Scary Tales

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Genre – Horror

Rating – PG-13

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Friday, 18 October 2013

Author Interview – Tami Urbanek @tamiurbanek

Image of Tami UrbanekTell us a bit about your family
My family is a different sort of family. My father is a medium and I grew up learning much about spirituality, ghosts, and ‘the other side’. His controversial teachings caught the attention of the NBC Today Show, Time Magazine and other media sources.
I’ve never felt it necessary to read books on spirituality because it was taught to me as I was growing up. It was taught through example, love, and general discussions. I also passed this onto my own daughter as she was growing up.
I’m thankful for my childhood, especially as I began to develop my own medium abilities. I knew I could talk to my family and understand how it all worked or why certain things would happen.
How do you work through self-doubts and fear?
In the past, I’ve had to work past a lot of fear. Fear around ghosts, fear around ridicule, and fear around my daughter making painful life-long choices. Each fear that surfaced, I had to do something with it. A lot of times, I would try to deny the fear and push it aside. That is until the fear was in my face and I could no longer deny it. I had to confront the fear and stop giving it control over my mind. If my fear says I shouldn’t do ‘that’, then I do it anyway. That is confronting the fear.
It’s the same with self-doubt. I have to identify from where the doubt is coming and address it face forward. If I deny the self-doubt, it just gets stronger. In addition, the more respect I have for myself, the less self-doubt I have. Strong self-respect, a self-knowingness, and positive pride cannot reside with self-doubt. They are opposites.
How did you develop your writing?
As a child, I always loved writing stories. A story would enter my mind and I would immediately go to my notebook and begin writing down whatever story plot was entertaining me at the time. I loved doing that until I took a creative writing class in community college.
I allowed the instructor to determine my self-worth about my own writing ability. So I stopped writing in a creative fashion. As I worked towards my degrees in Special Education and Public Administration, I only wrote in an academic format. That was safer for me and I was good at it after writing so many college papers.
Even after I stopped working as a teacher, I wrote articles for newsletters and a local free paper. My writing style continued to be very academic. When I began writing my memoir, I had to shift from academic style to creative style so that my story would be interesting to read.
I had an editor who assisted me in this process of writing good dialogue, paying attention to redundancy, and structure. I improved my creative writing style through practice. I didn’t take any classes. I just wrote my story and then edited and re-wrote it so many times that now I know how to write in a creative way.
Tell us about your new book. What is it about and why did you write it?
My book is my memoir-Loving Conor; A Clairvoyant’s Memoir on Loving, Bonding and Healing. I work with the public as a medium/clairvoyant, but my story is less about that and more about my daughter and her son, Conor.
The story began when I was eighteen years old and in an abusive marriage. I walked away from my marriage at nineteen, with a month-old baby, and no money. I continued to make painful relationship choices until I turned twenty-two years old and I realized my pattern. I met my second husband who continues to love and support me in my work.
The story moves quickly to my daughter’s teenage years in which her anger profoundly develops toward her biological father and also her desire for older teenage boys. My daughter’s anger was expressed in different ways and my anxiety level was high much of the time during her teenage years.
At the same time, my medium abilities were developing when my daughter was around age thirteen and fourteen. In one of the chapters, I explain how it developed and some of the people I approached in a public setting who had a ghost attached to them.
When my daughter was around age fifteen, she fell in-lust with a boy of age twenty-one and who carried similar personality characteristics to her biological father. She became pregnant at age sixteen and we found out just how traumatized and angry the soul of her unborn child was. With my medium abilities, I had to help him begin healing his anger while he was still in spirit form-before birth. We talked with him while he was in spirit form. I had no idea if what we were doing would work. But this is how we came to love Conor. Did it work? Read it to find out! Also, my daughter writes her perspective at the end of the book too.
When you are not writing, how do you like to relax?
I am the type of person who has to have relaxation time. I can’t say for certainty when that developed, but I’ve been that way a long time. I relax differently depending on where I’m at and what time of day it is.
I like to relax through reading, listening to music from the 1940s and 1930s, drinking wine, taking walks, exercising/hiking, taking naps, watching music videos, and meditating. It’s not difficult for me to relax. I especially like low-key mornings. I’ll have my ‘old school’ Big Band Swing music on, drinking my coffee, and I’ll be on my computer. Or on a weekend evening I’ll have ‘old school’ Jazz playing, enjoying a Grey Goose martini or Kendall Jackson chardonnay, cheese and salami or crackers.
Relaxation is very important to me-just as important as my work. Balance.
What are you the most passionate about? What gets you fired up?
When I see or read about parents physically punishing their children or I read comments in which people say children need to be punished more gets me really fired up.
People have a misperception that punishment teaches respect. Like attracts like and like teaches like. Most people can agree that we learn by our parents’ examples more so than their lectures. We learn by what we see, feel, and experience. Punishment teaches punishment. Respect teaches respect. Consequences teach respect for outcomes. Punishment teaches how to hide so not get caught and it teaches the cycle of punishment.
Most people who were consistently punished as children continue that cycle as an adult. For some, it’s a major issue and for some not as major. Self-punishment is a synonym for self-judgment, self-sabotage, self-denial, and allowing others to control you on some level.
We can raise our children to be respectful by creating strong boundaries, offering respect, and delivering consequences without the energy of punishment or judgment. It just takes a lot more work and involvement.
What is your greatest strength as a writer?
I think my greatest strength is taking the time to write. But, that wasn’t always the case. I had to have my inspiration. A strong desire had to be there and then I always had time to write and edit my work.
LovingConor
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Genre - Memoir
Rating – PG-13
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Monday, 7 October 2013

Free Alert–Twined by A.L. Collins @ALCollins2011

Twined by A.L. Collins

Amazon Kindle US

Genre – YA

Rating – PG13

4.5 (6 reviews)

Free until 11 October 2013

Avalin Marsh is used to disappointment. When her mother murdered a woman in the kitchen of her home on her eleventh birthday, Avalin decided that the people in your life were only there to let you down. She built up walls over the years making a mental fortress impervious to disappointment, heartache and sadness. However it also isolated her from others, making her bitter... and lonely.
When her mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia after the murder, Avalin began to see and experience things that she couldn't explain. She thought she could handle these episodes by pushing them back into her mind. Until the day she sees one of her classmates morph into a monster right in front of her eyes. Pushed to the brink of paranoia, Avalin truly believes she's insane. Then a mysterious man named Albert comes into her life. She's wary of his motives yet for some reason finds herself drawn to him even though they've never met. What's even more inexplicable is that Albert knows who Avalin is. She's the daughter of the famous Abigail Marsh. Her mother.
Now the two of them will need to put their differences aside and trust one another. If Avalin can't let her guard down long enough to let Albert in, then there might be dire and far reaching consequences in store for them.
It turns out Avalin Marsh isn't as crazy as she thought.

A Day in the Life of (Pepper Winters) – Pepper Winters

A Day in the Life of (Pepper Winters)

I’m pretty boring really. It’s all about the written word and socializing with my awesome readers. And I’m a nerd too so I spend about 14-15 hours a day on my laptop.

Morning: I spend the morning answering emails, fan messages, and wasting time on Facebook. I check twitter and pinterest and I have a minor addiction about checking my amazon rankings to see how people are going with purchasing my work. I try and avoid Goodreads as much as possible, but sometimes I can’t help myself and have a sneak peek at reviews.

Afternoon: I finish up my other online work. Answering emails and clearing my desk. Then I open my manuscript and try and get 5000-10000 words done in one sitting.

Dinner: After dinner I re-read what I read and try and tweak the little bits. I then move back to Facebook, twitter, and arranging some more promotion for my work.

As you can see, I eat, sleep, and breathe writing and getting the word out there! J I’m a slave to my craft!

Tears of Tess

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Genre – Dark New Adult Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG-18

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Website http://www.pepperwinters.wordpress.com/

Tuesday, 1 October 2013

Inspiration from Places – Rayne Hall

Inspiration from Places

Rayne Hall

“Where do you find your ideas?” people often ask me.

The truth is, I don’t find ideas. Ideas find me.

Like ghosts, they seek me out, haunt me, and don’t let go until the story is written.

My mind is like a revolving drum filled with hundreds of jigsaw pieces, each representing a story idea. Sometimes two or more pieces click together, and that’s when a story takes shape.

The location is often among the first jigsaw pieces to click. The setting lends atmosphere and determines the flavour of the story. Some of the places in my stories are real, others exist only in my imagination, while yet others are a blend of the real and the imagined.

Many of the stories in Thirty Scary Tales are inspired by the places where I have lived and travelled in Britain. I live in a small dilapidated town of former Victorian grandeur on the south coast of England, and if you know the region, you may recognise the landscapes that inspired some of the tales.

The southeast of England has many village churches from the Norman period and the Middle Ages, many of them in isolated locations, often surrounded by tilting, lichen-encrusted gravestones. To research Take Me To St. Roch’s I spent a night in one of those old cemeteries, taking notes about every flickering shadow and every creepy noise. I jotted down how the wooden gate creaked on unoiled hinges, how the gravel crunched under my steps, and how the twigs of the trees beckoned like skeleton fingers, withered and pale.

Locals know what a menace herring gulls can be, but well-meaning tourists always feed them leftovers from their fish&chips takeaway, and this encourages the birds to even more aggression. Like daring highwaymen, they swoop and rob anyone holding food. I live in a top floor flat near the seafront. Every morning, seagulls hammer their beaks on my windows as if trying to break the glass. Watching them gave me the idea for the Seagulls story.

Never Leave Me was the first horror story I ever wrote, a long time ago. Inspiration came from reading about the archaeological discovery of the mummified “Druid Prince” and from a visit to the wind-swept Yorkshire Moors.

When the tide is out, it’s possible to walk on the seabed below the chalk cliffs, across black boulders and rust-coloured shingle. The air smells of salt and seaweed. Waves swish and slurp across the shingle, and in the distance, seagulls squawk. On one side, the sea glints like a diamond-studded sheet, on the other, the steep cliffs tower like unassailable fortress walls, a sublime sight. But woe when the tide comes rolling in while you’re still on the seabed! With no accessible path for miles, you’ll be trapped between the rock face and the smashing waves. In Double Rainbows, I imagined this scenario. What happens if you realise you got the time wrong?

The ferocious force of wind and waves sometimes erodes the cliffs and breaks off whole sections. The first time I walked below Fairlight Cliffs, the sight made my throat constrict. A large chunk of the cliff had recently fallen, leaving houses half destroyed, half standing. From below, I could see the inside of living rooms and kitchens, still furnished, as if any moment the inhabitants would enter. For years, the sight haunted me, but I could not come up with a story. Then St Leonards Writers decided to write stories about a local area, the so-called America Ground. Around the same time, I revisited Hastings Castle, which was partially destroyed during a violent storm 1287 when part of the cliff on which it stood fell. The three places – Fairlight, Hastings Castle, America Ground – clicked together, and I placed my story Scruples during the 1287 storm.

I had long mulled over a ghost story idea, but could not bring it to life until the plot clicked with several places from my memory. I recalled the railway tunnel next to the station where I used to wait after school for the train home, its entrance gaping like a black, hungry mouth. This combined with memories of travels in Wales, of steep slopes, grey slate houses, and drizzling rain. The story Through the Tunnel is the result.

The Devil You Know started with the memory of a night I spent as a young woman on a platform at Richmond station, waiting for the morning train to take me home, trying to sleep while the cold from the metal bench seeped through my thin dress. I kept the bench but moved it to an imaginary railway station on the Kent-Sussex border. Many of the small railway stations these days are unstaffed most of the time, with the waiting rooms and toilets locked, and the help points are often out of order.

Many years ago, I joined a group of divers for a holiday in Dorset. I couldn’t dive – I still can’t – but I listened to them as they talked about their plans for the day, and discussed the adventures at the evening campfire. I wondered if a wreck could be haunted, and what would be the worst thing that could go wrong on a dive. The divers were eager to help me with their know-how. The resulting story was I Dived the Pandora, which has been published in several versions. The current version is set in Sussex.

The main idea for Four Bony Hands haunted me for many years. What if the events in a certain fairytale didn’t happen quite the way everyone believes? After several abandoned attempts, another jigsaw piece clicked: the place was a cosy interior, heated by a big oven, providing shelter from the cold weather, refuge from persecution, and sanctuary from evil. Although the story takes place indoors, you can imagine the pine and oak woods surrounding the cottage, snow-laden like the Scottish forests in winter.

Beltane was my entry for a contest where each writer has twenty-four hours to create a complete story about a given topic. The theme was something about a blind fruit vendor and a young female customer. It was the first of May – the date of the traditional Celtic Beltane festival – and fresh green leaves and white blooms covered the trees, so I decided to set the story in ancient England in Celtic times. What did the blind vendor know that the girl did not? The story didn’t win, but I liked it, and a year later I wrote a more polished version.

Stone circles hold a deep fascination for me, and there are many of them in Britain. I’ve visited many stone circles, from the big ones like Avebury and Stonehenge to the ones which are so small they’re hard to spot among the bracken, from the major tourist attractions to the unknown ones, accessible only after a long hike, climbing across stiles and squeezing through thorny brambles. My favourites are the stone circles of Cornwall: Tregeseal, Merry Maidens, Boscawen-Un and all the others. Sometimes I would reach an out-of-the way place and discover that a previous visitor had left an offering, such as a posy of wildflowers, which always delighted me. On one occasion, though, I was disconcerted to find the offering was the flattened, fire-parched body of a frog. Readers familiar with Cornwall will recognise the landscape in the story Druid Stones and may even guess which circle was the fictional inspiration for the Dredhek Stones.

Burning was one of the most difficult stories I’ve ever written, and I believe it’s one of my best. Several places combined in my mind to form the inspiration. The first was a house on fire in the neighbourhood. My father forced me to watch it burn, even though at the age of seven I was upset and terrified. The second was also a house that burned out. This time, I did not witness the inferno, but I heard afterwards that the Turkish family who lived there had not been able to get out. Their charred skeletons told how they had cowered in the corner as the flames devoured them, and the father had shielded his daughters with his own body for as long as he could. This moved me deeply, and then I heard someone say “They were only Turks. Good riddance to the vermin.”

Later, I learnt about the atrocities committed against Jews during the Nazi period. In the town of my birth, locals burnt the synagogue and then built a church on that spot. In a nearby town, the eager citizens went even further: they locked the Jewish population into the synagogue before they set it on fire. The fire brigade, instead of putting out the flames, fanned and fed them, and made sure none of the Jews could escape. Much later, after the al-Qaeda bombings in London, a wave of burning hatred against Arabs swept through England, and it frightened me. Burning houses, churches, racial hatred, hypocrisy, a scared child witnessing events she cannot understand… these elements clicked together into a disturbing tale of human evil.

The story Only a Fool started with a real incident. As a young woman, I lived in London. One night I walked home from the Tube station when a drunken man attacked me, and I was saved by my wits and vivid imagination. For the story, I added memories of the many places where I had been nervous to walk alone, the kind of alley where shattered windows wink in the sparse light and footsteps echo as loud as your thudding heart.

I enjoy evoking the atmosphere of a place with the senses of sound, touch and smell.

My stories involve little violence. They are horror, but not of the slash-and-gore type with chainsaw massacres and lakes of blood. My brand of horror is of the suspenseful, creepy kind. Where other horror writers shock their readers with graphically mangled corpses, I tantalise mine with with places that ooze creepy atmosphere.

Thirty Scary Tales

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Genre – Horror

Rating – PG-13

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Sunday, 29 September 2013

Author Interview – Todd Cheney

What’s your weakest character trait?

Inconsistency in my habits. I tend not to keep up with things that I should.

What’s your greatest character strength?

I think my greatest strength is persistence. Even though I have fallen down so many times, I continue to try and do what needs to be done. I haven’t always had that but it’s been more and more clear that I should keep trying.

Is there any books you really don’t enjoy?

I’ve never quite gotten into crime drama or murder mystery. They just don’t spark my interest. Perhaps it’s because I don’t enjoy being reminded that murders do happen in the real world?

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

Well, I grew up in Wisconsin, USA and continue to live there. The farthest I’ve been as of this interview is Scotland. So I don’t consider myself the traveling type.

What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing?

Unless you count self-publishing here, by far the hardest for me is getting published. It’s intimidating to realize how many writers there are in the world and how few of all the written books you are seeing when you go into the bookstore. That is a SMALL percentage of every written book, even current ones. It boggles the mind.

Do you find it hard to share your work?

Yes, but only because I feel I am always so close to it that it’s hard to not take criticism very personally, even if it’s meant to be constructive. If I were so dispassionate as to not be affected by negatives about the book from readers or reviewers, I shouldn’t have written anything in the first place. That kind of detachment will come off in the writing of the books.

Do you plan to publish more books?

If I could find the time or motivation to write more, then yes. I had planned more books but haven’t really started any lately.

What else do you do to make money, other than write? It is rare today for writers to be full time…

I’m also a computer programmer/IT specialist. I have a degree in this. I really enjoy it and it helps to pay the bills.

What other jobs have you had in your life?

I’ve worked anything from fast food to telemarketer to janitor. So I’ve been all over the map.

Is there anyone you’d like to acknowledge and thank for their support?

My mother, of course. My writing wouldn’t be possible without her.

What makes you angry?

Feeling left out, shortchanged or generally ignored.

The Seventh Circle

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Genre - Fantasy

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Todd Cheney on Twitter

Website http://www.toddcheney.com

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