Today is one of my favorite events at the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB! It’s the day we set aside our own “buy my book” efforts to support someone else.
I choose to support author, Karl J. Morgan, a super supportive member of RRBC!
Words and numbers are my life. As an accountant and author of numerous fantasy novels, I am realizing my life’s purpose. Storytelling is a big part of my life, whether novels or business cases. My tales are always action-packed and full of surprises. I write from my laptop in sunny Southern California. I invite you to join the adventure.
The Carl Prescott series is young adult fantasy, and the tale is just beginning. These books tell the story of four friends who discover their amazing talents and begin incredible adventures together. The books so far are: The Sleeping One and The Demon Queen.
The four-part Revolution series is a dystopian fiction story, which follows young Jack Kennedy, his family, and friends as they flee a corrupt government which has almost destroyed the United States of America. The tales are both raw and violent. Our hero must somehow change the course of history to restore the nation. The books are: 2121, 2122, 2123, and 2125.
The Modern Prophet series tells the story of four different protagonists. Three of the stories involve the battle between ultimate good and evil. The Reluctant Prophet is different, and brings back a connection to some key players from the Dave Brewster series. The series includes: Two Doors, The Reluctant Prophet, Hand of God, and Demonic.
The Dave Brewster science fiction series is the first I created. The books tell the story of our hero who is summoned to the future to restart humanity’s drive out into space. As his crew encounters new life forms and distant worlds, his network of friends and enemies grows. The titles are: Showdown over Neptune, The Second Predaxian War, The Hive, Tears of Gallia, and The Accord.
The Heartstone series was my first fantasy series. The hero discovers a magic stone buried under the Earth that connects our planet to others throughout the universe. Unfortunately, that stone has also led terrible dangers to our planet. Let us hope Henry Marshall can learn to control the power of the Heartstone before all is lost. The two books in this series are: Sentinels of Far Sun, and The Time Walker.
These books were not written as part of a series. Each stands on its own. Whistlestop and The Old House are fantasies. Remembrances is a spiritual self-help tome. These stories are: Remembrances, Whistlestop, and The Old House.
Now, isn’t that quite the catalog? Wow!! Please share this everywhere on social media today and let’s lift and support Karl J. Morgan!
It is my pleasure today to host Balroop Singh and her newest book of poetry!
Moments of fragrant love that stand frozen in
time, of dreams that dare not unfold, of passion that fleets by, of erratic joy
that we meet at the crossroads of life, butterflies of time that add color to
our dark moments to scare the demons away – I have gathered all of them in this
book. Some of them whisper softly to create a magical aura while spring of life
sings with them, trying to wipe silent tears. Mother Nature steps in with all
her grandeur to breath quiet messages of tranquility.
Each poem would soothe your emotions with élan
and add a dash of color to your life. Life – that doesn’t halt for your sad
moments; that just floats by. You just need to dive in to soak in myriads of
moments to discover how it could ignite positive tones. All the poems in this
collection are imaginary but inspired from people around me, some of whom chose
to share their frustrations and tremors with me. Sometimes I could read between
the lines to pen my thoughts down.
Balroop Singh, a
former teacher and an educationalist always had a passion for writing.
She is a poet, a creative non-fiction writer, a relaxed blogger and a
doting grandma. She writes about people, emotions and relationships. Her poetry highlights the fact that happiness is not
a destination but a chasm to bury agony, anguish, grief, distress and move on!
No sea of solitude is so deep that it can drown us. Sometimes aspirations are
trampled upon, the boulders of exploitation and discrimination may block your
path but those who tread on undeterred are always successful.
When
turbulences hit, when shadows of life darken, when they come like unseen
robbers, with muffled exterior, when they threaten to shatter your dreams, it
is better to break free rather than get sucked by the vortex of emotions.
Balroop Singh has
always lived through her heart. She is a great nature lover; she loves to watch
birds flying home. The sunsets allure her with their varied hues that they lend
to the sky. She can spend endless hours listening to the rustling leaves and
the sound of waterfalls. The moonlight streaming through her garden, the
flowers, the meadows, the butterflies cast a spell on her. She lives in San
Ramon, California.
To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site. If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.
Today, I welcome Steven Neil to my blogsite to tell you about his latest book.
And, there are Giveaways!!
Steven is giving away (3) Signed Paperback copies of “THE MEREST LOSS.” For your chance to win, be sure to leave him a comment below.
Take it away, Steven!
A story of love and political intrigue, set
against the backdrop of the English hunting shires and the streets of Victorian
London and post-revolutionary Paris.
Character
Studies
I always draft character studies of my main
characters and keep them close when I am writing. The more detail the better
and the more likely it is that continuity errors can be avoided. Here are some
extracts for three characters in my 19th century historical romance
novel The Merest Loss.
Harriet
Howard b. 1823
Harriet is born
Elizabeth Ann Harryet. She is the daughter of Joseph Gawan Harryet, self styled
Squire but actually a boot maker and son of a Brighton hotel owner. Joseph
Harryet inherits wealth when his father dies and the hotel is sold.
Elizabeth has a private education and is
coached to achieve her father’s ambition for her that she should enter society
and marry well.
The young Elizabeth is beautiful,
capricious, and precocious. She has a touch of arrogance about her. Whilst
disguised as a boy, aged thirteen she has an encounter with a livery yard owner
and attempts to secure a hunter hireling from him:
‘Well find me something else and be quick
about it. I am Squire Harryet’s son and he wishes me to hunt in his place. We
are guests of the Duke and I am keeping him waiting. And you sir are keeping me
waiting.’
As she becomes a young woman she retains
her flamboyance but adds charm and humility to her personality. She is a
talented mimic and has a wicked sense of humour. She has ambitions to be an actress.
When she meets Jem Mason she is infatuated
with him and runs away to live with him in London when she is still only
fifteen.
She is the heroine.
Jem
Mason b. 1816
Jem Mason is born
in Stilton, Cambridgeshire and is the son of John Mason; horse dealer to the
gentry and very wealthy as a consequence.
Jem is educated at Huntingdon Grammar
School and later given private tuition. He is a talented rider from a young age
and destined to become a successful jockey.
Jem is handsome, elegant, well-dressed,
slim, tall, gifted and athletic. He is also witty, smart, charming, and
charismatic and has an easy, confident manner.
He smokes cigars and drinks champagne. He
likes the opera, ballet and the theatre.
One story told about him is that when
walking the steeplechase course at Stratford, in company with other jockeys,
they come to two options: a five-bar gate and a bullfinch (a tall birch hedge
which is jumped through rather than over). One of the jockeys asks Jem whether
he would have the fence or the gate.
‘I’ll be hanged if I am going to scratch
my face. I’m going to the opera tonight. I shall have the gate, forty miles an
hour, and defy any man in England to follow me’
The Sporting Life described him as ‘a
lath-like elegant figure, beautiful seat and hands and a very quick eye.’
When Jem and Harriet (then Elizabeth) meet
they are immediately attracted to each other.
Major
Francis Mountjoy Martin b. 1808
Francis Mountjoy
Martin is the son of Charles Fuller Martin, former Sherriff of Calcutta who was
by all accounts a rather eccentric character. Francis and his brother are
reputedly the sons of an Indian mother.
Francis is public school and Eton educated
and becomes a Guards officer. He is the perfect gentleman. He is stiff, polite
and very correct. He is tall, chivalrous and well-spoken. He is also quite shy
in company and can speak with a stammer. He is artistic and also a musician and
plays the violin
In the novel he is an operational officer
in the British Secret Service. He works for Nicholas Sly, Head of Espionage,
French Operations.
He is Harriet’s cover story and she lives
under his ‘guardianship’ in London. It is believed that he is the father of
Harriet’s son. It is ambiguous whether Harriet and Francis have a relationship
or whether it is a business arrangement.
He apparently provides a home and a trust fund for Harriet as he is not free to marry. This lends credibility to her wealth. In reality the money is provided by the British Government which is grooming Harriet to seduce Louis Napoleon.
He acts as a sympathetic mentor to Harriet as the novel develops.
Follow Steven Neil onhttps://twitter.com/stevenneil12for information on how to purchase the paperback through an independent bookseller in the UK.
Bio
Steven has a BSc in
Economics from the London School of Economics, a BA in English Literature and
Creative Writing from the Open University and an MA in Creative Writing from
Oxford Brookes University. He has been a bookmaker’s clerk, bloodstock agent, racehorse
breeder and management consultant amongst other professions in his varied
career. He is married and lives in rural Northamptonshire, England. The Merest
Loss is his debut novel.
To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site. If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE. Thanks for supporting this author and his work!
I am truly speechless! To have TWO of my short stories as 1st and 2nd place winners in this International short story contest is beyond my belief!! I am honored and humbled!
These two stories are available on Amazon for only 99 cents!
For almost eighteen years, Jewel has known little beyond hopelessness and hunger. Barely existing in a ramshackle cabin, on the edge of a Louisiana swamp with her little sister and their mother, she sees no way to stop the downward spiral. When her mother falls gravely ill, Jewel learns that her life is about to take a drastic turn. But will it lead to joy or more devastation? Take a heart-warming journey with Jewel as she struggles to rise from the clutches of poverty and shame.
At the tender age of fourteen, Jennifer shoulders the full responsibility of running a household and caring for her seven-year-old sister. It’s bad enough that their father is lost at war in Afghanistan, but troubles multiply when their so-called mother abandons them for another man. Hardships and struggles are constant companions. Family is whatever Jennifer can make it. That’s the way the cards have been dealt, and that’s the way she’ll play them. This strong young girl meets every obstacle head-on, while never losing hope for a better tomorrow.
I’d be thrilled and honored if you’d pick them up today!! You can see all of my books on my Amazon Author Page!
I want to give a HUGE “Thank You” to those who have already purchased, read and reviewed these stories!
Hello, and welcome to the next stop on the RRBC Spotlight Author Blog Tour for the amazing author, John Fioravanti!
It is an honor to introduce you to John and his work!
The REFLECTIONS Blog Tour
I’m grateful to my host of this fifth post of the REFLECTIONS TOUR, and to Nonnie Jules
and the #RRBC Team who arranged it all!
Reflection 26 – Love Yourself – You’re Worth It!
“You can search throughout the
entire universe for someone who is more deserving of your love and affection
than yourself, and that person is not to be found anywhere. You yourself, as
much as anybody in the entire universe deserve your love and affection.”
~ Buddha
Buddhism is based upon the teachings of Gautama Buddha who
taught in eastern India over twenty-five centuries ago. His philosophy
sought a middle way between unbridled sensuality and a-self discipline that denied
any sensual pleasure. His teachings were handed down by oral tradition until
put into writing four centuries later.
I read this quote twice to make sure I got it right the first
time. My immediate reaction was, Really? On reading his words a
third time, there came a glimmer of understanding. As I began to see his
meaning, I realized that it is my own life experience that allowed me not only
to understand, but to admire his wisdom. I’m afraid that as a young man, this
lesson would have completely escaped me.
We are social beings, and we search for love because it is
one of our basic needs. Yet most, if not all of us, look outside of ourselves
to find those worthy of our love. At this point, I’m not differentiating
between familial, platonic, or romantic love relationships, because I don’t
think this teaching is about any one of them. In my mind, this statement is
about all of them. We look outside of ourselves for our best friends and our
intimate romantic partners. What we don’t do is look within first.
Buddha is not only teaching us that we must love ourselves
first, but he goes further by saying that no one is more worthy of
our love than ourselves. That means that I am at least as worthy of my
love as any other person I might choose. Embracing his meaning, my mind
reeled… I wasn’t used to thinking along these lines!
I was raised in a culture that taught self-denial to make me
worthy of God’s love. I equated self-love with selfishness – another negative
characteristic that one would do well to eliminate. Christianity taught me to
focus my love and good deeds outside of myself… do
unto others… look after the needs of others first… are just a couple
of lessons that come to mind from my early religious instruction.
How many of us grew to adulthood with a jaded view of ourselves?
I was taught to control my urges – all of them – lest they lead me into sin.
I’m sure this is why Buddha’s words seemed so alien to me at first; it was
culture shock. When I take the time to digest this idea, it is enlightening… charity
or caritas begins at home.
I’m sure we’ve all met people who suffer from self-loathing. They
are not happy and they do not love others. How can they? It stands to
reason that if I do not believe myself worthy of my own love, then how could I
see myself as worthy of love from another; how could I trust another to be
worthy of my love? On the other hand, if I accept myself, not as a perfect
being, but as a worthy being, I can love myself. In loving
myself, I can make choices that are good for me. I’m not talking about being
self-indulgent, constantly seeking to satisfy every desire, with no
consideration of the consequences. I mean that I must look after my own best
interests by doing the hard work that is necessary to make me into the kind of
person I wish to become! But I can’t do that unless I start by recognizing
my own worthiness.
In recognizing my own worthiness to be loved by myself, I am
not denying that I am a flawed being. This does not negate the fact that I get
impatient easily, or that I lose my temper and hurt those around me. But I am
sure that by being wise enough to love myself, I will find it easier to deal
with my shortcomings more successfully. A friend has been trying to teach me
this lesson for quite some time, and now, I think I understand.
In loving myself in this way, I am eminently qualified to take a lover and cherish that person in a way that testifies to their worthiness to be loved. In the same way, I am free to love another person as my best friend. Because I acknowledge my own worthiness to be loved, I can extend that caring to my best friend who will be inclined to reciprocate in kind. You reap what you sow.Because of this teaching, taken to heart and internalized, I am more open to the lessons of love – no matter what their origin.
Author Bio:
John
Fioravanti is a retired secondary school educator who completed his thirty-five
year career in the classroom in June, 2008.
Throughout
his career, John focused on developing research, analysis, and essay writing
skills in his History classroom. This led to the publication of his first
non-fiction work for student use, Getting
It Right in History Class. A
Personal Journey to the Heart of Teaching is his second non-fiction work;
it attempts to crystallize the struggles, accomplishments, and setbacks
experienced in more than three decades of effort to achieve excellence in his
chosen field.
John’s
first work of fiction is Passion &
Struggle, Book One of
The Genesis Saga, and is set within
Kenneth Tam’s Equations universe (Iceberg Publishing). He claims that, after
two non-fiction books, he’s having the time of his life bringing new stories
and characters to life! Book Two is Treachery
& Triumph.
At present, John lives in Waterloo, Ontario with Anne, his bride of forty-six years. They have three children and three grandchildren. In December of 2013, John and Anne founded Fiora Books for the express purpose of publishing John’s books.
Thank you so much for dropping by today to support John and his work. Please drop by the “SPOTLIGHT” AUTHOR forum at RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB to find out more about John’s time in the spotlight.
If you’d like to be featured in one of the many wonderful hot-seats held by RRBC members, we invite you to JOIN US! We’d love to have you!
I saw something the other day about how we perceive ourselves in our everyday worlds and it got me thinking about how we see ourselves as writers. How much value do you place on yourself as a writer?
And what does that even mean? It may mean something different to each one of us because we are unique individuals. But, there are some aspects of writing that are the same for all. In this world of self-publishing where anyone can upload a book to Amazon, we have all experienced running across books that are sub-par in every aspect from grammar and punctuation to dialogue and unbelievable characters. What kind of impression does that leave with you about the writer?
I do not want to be known as a writer who produces work riddled with errors. Of course, we make mistakes. We are human. But, to gain credibility in this over-crowded industry, we must strive to make every aspect of our written communication as perfect as possible.
That doesn’t mean just our books. That means our blogs, our tweets, our facebook posts and our emails as well. It all reflects on us as self-claimed professionals.
But, in order to value our writing, we must first value ourselves!
I never thought about my self-image reflecting in my writing, especially with writing fiction. After all, it’s a made-up world with made-up people. But, the part that reflects is the pride we take in our writing. For me it all starts with a clean uncluttered writing space (again, I know we are all different). If my work space is clear, my mind is more at ease and I can get into a creative flow.
Expressing the scene we see in our minds is not always the easiest thing to do. When we start to put it into words, if we don’t choose the best descriptive words possible, the scene starts to get fuzzy around the edges and can fade. I use tools. Next to my computer, I have three reference books I grab often. “Emotional Beats” by Nicholas Rossis (who is a member of RRBC) is a fantastic tool to find a more descriptive way to show an emotion, as is “The Emotion Thesaurus” by Becca Puglisi and Angela Ackerman. Those gals know how to put it all together as does Nicholas! The third book I reach for is “Strong Verbs Strong Voice” by Ann Everett.
The saying comes to mind about doing things right the first time. Any extra effort is reflected in our work. So, even though it might take a few more minutes to reach for one of these tools, it’s worth it in the end product. And, our work is a product.
Another aspect of valuing ourselves comes from valuing others. I know that may sound strange, but it is true. Don’t compare yourself to other writers because there are always going to be writers better than you. And even if your best friend, who has been only writing since last spring, did get published, you can’t wallow in self-doubt that you’re not good enough. Take this negative comparing energy and move it towards positive creating energy. Your time will come. Get back into your chair and create! Oh, and create some good karma and congratulate your friend with love and sincerity.
When I was accepted as a member into the RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS, I knew I had to “up” my game. It is advertised and promoted as the place where the best writers within RRBC reside. And, it has been a great motivator for me. I now proof every email, tweet, FB post and blog post before I hit the publish button. Why? Because I don’t want bad writing to reflect on the organization that so kindly accepted me as a member. AND, I don’t want to be that writer who is criticized for constant grammatical errors. I do value myself as a writer!
If you want others to value you as a writer, it all starts with YOU. Take pride in your work and value what you do. I have read some of the best books in my life written by indie authors! Slowly but surely, we are breaking the misconception that all indie writers are writing slobs. And it all goes back to valuing yourself as an author!
I loved this when I ran across it. Don’t mark your price tag down. I’d love to hear your thoughts on how you see yourself as a professional in an industry that is over-saturated with sloppy work. We can continue to change that one great story at a time!
I am happy to showcase the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB’S July 2019 Spotlight Author, Karl Morgan!
Carl Prescott and the Demon Queen
Excerpt from Chapter 20
They
stood on a beach where gentle waves rolled up toward their feet. Both wore
shorts and pullover shirts. Sylvia led Carl off the beach toward a small house
that sat behind a picket fence. They went up onto the porch and stopped. Sylvia
stared at the door. “This was a bad idea. I don’t think I’m ready for this.”
“We
don’t have to stay,” Carl replied. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
She
turned, put her arms around him, and hugged him tightly. “Now, that’s the Carl
that I know. Don’t ever change, okay?” He nodded. She released him and walked
over to the rail at the edge of the porch. “This place reminds you of
something, doesn’t it?”
He
joined her at the railing and looked around the area. “This is a lot like my
secret place.”
She
nodded. “I figure when we were on the Rope Bridge, you must have seen this
place in my memories.” She put her hand on his upper arm. “And that’s why your
island is similar to mine.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You
put a piece of me into your place, just like I did.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“You
will. I’m okay now, and I really want you to come inside.” She walked over to
the door, took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Carl
walked inside and gasped. The main room was identical to his island home, even
down to the placement of identical furniture and the doilies on the back of the
couch. “This is amazing.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “We must have an
amazing connection.”
She
sighed, walked over to a closed door, and turned to face him. After a few deep
breaths, she said, “My bedroom is behind this door. Whenever I’m feeling the
most vulnerable, I come here to cry myself to sleep.” She turned and ran her
hand over the door. “If you come inside, you’ll know everything. I’m terrified
that you will be shocked, horrified, or hate me forever.”
“I
don’t have to go in there. This is your choice.”
She
turned back to him and wiped tears from her face. “Is it?” She turned to the door
and pushed the door slightly ajar. “I think you deserve to know everything
about me, Carl Sandberg Prescott.” She sighed, pushed open the door, and
stepped inside.
Carl
could hear her crying, so he followed her into the room. Sylvia was sitting on
the bed with her hands over her face. Tears dripped down her arms and fell onto
the coverlet. Carl looked around the room. There were dozens of portraits of
men filling most of the open wall space. Carl’s picture hung near the bed. He
walked over and sat next to her. “Are you okay? I really like that picture of
me.”
She
dropped her hands and chuckled. “Which one?”
He
pointed. “This is the only one, Sylvia.”
She
groaned, stood up, and faced him. “Carl, these are the pictures of every man
I’ve ever loved. All of them are you! Don’t you get it?”
“I
don’t know what to say.”
“In
every one of these lives, I have lived like a normal person, yet we always
ended up together. I didn’t even realize all had the same soul until you were
about to step off the Rope Bridge. In that instant, I saw all of these men in
you. When you left me behind, I thought I’d lost you forever.” She began to cry
again.
Carl
stood and held her. At first, she resisted, but eventually held him back. “I am
so happy to have had so many lives with you, Sylvia. I had no idea.”
She
moved back and wiped her eyes. “Neither did I until the Rope Bridge. Now, I
look around at these pictures and don’t know what to think. You said before
there is a chance we could be together in this life, right?”
He
smiled. “Yes, that is true, but as you’ve said, I’m still a teenager, and like
everyone will have different relationships before I’m ready for marriage or
anything serious.”
“What
do you want me to do, Carl?”
“First,
I don’t want you to join with the others. It won’t work, and countless lives
could be lost, including yours.”
She
nodded. “I’ll think about it, okay?” He smiled. “Now, take my hand.”
Carl
reappeared outside of Death’s bungalow, which was now surrounded by hundreds of
thousands of supplicants headed to pledge allegiance to the demon queen. Carl
walked up on the porch and sat on a rocking chair. “I can’t believe this is all
about me.”
Death
stepped out of the door and offered a mug of coffee. “Busy day, huh?”
Carl
took the mug and sipped his drink. “This isn’t regular coffee, Mort.”
“I
know what you witnessed, Carl. I thought a little fortified drink might help
you cope with what you saw. Full disclosure, I have been to that place before.”
“Am
I really the only man she’s ever loved?”
Death
sat on the other rocking chair. “Yes, but that isn’t the point.”
Carl
sighed and looked at his feet. “I am so confused right now and why isn’t that
the point?”
“You
are a mortal human, and she is an immortal demon. What Sylvia did is not
unusual. Many immortals choose to live regular lives in order to experience the
unimaginable power of life, love, and desire. The only thing they are incapable
of knowing that it always ends too soon. That is what makes life so perfect. It
is temporary, and every moment could be the last, which makes every experience,
emotion, and feeling real and important.”
“I
never thought of it that way, Mort.”
“Of course, you didn’t. As a human, life is a journey. It is impossible for you to imagine eternity, even though the spirit within you is eternal. Sylvia is different and more like me. In my job, I experience death constantly, not my own, but those of my children. Even I do not comprehend their emotional state and those they have left behind.” He sighed. “Oh, how I wish I could sometimes.”
Author Bio: Karl Morgan has a lifelong fascination with stories in the science fiction and fantasy genres, whether it was the Tom Swift novels by Victor Appleton he read as a young boy, or television like Lost in Space and Star Trek, and especially films like Star Wars, Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings. All of those tales put the protagonist in terrible situations where the odds are against them and, yet, somehow they prevail. The reader/viewer is always left with a sense that something greater than ourselves is watching over us. In his new Carl Prescott young adult fantasy series, the journey continues as our hero faces terrible danger and odds to help his friends and family. At the end, he will learn new things that will change his perspective on life. Karl lives in the San Diego area with his best, four-legged friend, his toy poodle Chachis. Follow Karl online: Twitter Facebook Website
Please follow along on Karl’s tour as he shares writing advice as well as excerpts from his new book!
It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, whoever heard of anybody dying from a kiss? Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.
Okay,
let me back up to the beginning.
My
parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine.
This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And
believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and
maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify
this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that
engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad
is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to
break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on
scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or
gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s
the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom
refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry,
kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this
time.”
Amanda,
being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of
disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of
tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of
ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I
figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad
tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean
we can’t go somewhere that’s almost
as fun and exciting.”
When
Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually
a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda
hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I
don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things
to do.
* * *
A
little backstory.
My
parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad,
well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of
saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies,
they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as
in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen
and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they
met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom
works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity
to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad?
He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly,
maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really
sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as
professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of
Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s
a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So,
anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table.
Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been
all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry
festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island
three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s
Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my
hands.
Hiawatha
National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad
broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The
Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda
despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate
camping.”
* * *
Radio
songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy
twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I
hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad
says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom
tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please
don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug
red!”
“Ouch!”
And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the
time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug
bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug
bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug
bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie
sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just
long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many
hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the
bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But
in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore.
She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her
way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be
able to afford it.
Evening
spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground
inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew
and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot
within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud
and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s
collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either
direction.
“Too
stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom
gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy
and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are
you two twins or something?”
“Or
something,” Amanda says.
Her
name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda,
who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s
their collie running wild.
“Five
kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers
and a baby sister.”
“Sounds
kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She
looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of
her.
“You
don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out
this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue
jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning.
And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s
not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s
top.
“But
you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s
hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you
kids going boating?”
It’s
not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic.
I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda
has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora
sits in the middle—facing me!
I
think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora
talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well,
the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend,
but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce,
but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing
how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s
after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only,
she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We
end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more
about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re
cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My
cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And
she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips
press against mine.
My
first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On
her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What
I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda
intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It
strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my
mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s
hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy
to a hospital.”
Only,
I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But
I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two
weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From
a kiss!
Is
that a Ripley’s story or what?
And
what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well, almost dying.
THE END
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tourtoday! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
I have studied and observed crows
for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their
complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use
tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher
said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever
enough to be crows.”
Over the years, I have told my
family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person
said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to
run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that
I don’t know where to begin.)
During the non-nesting period of the
year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of
thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place.
They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even
dynamiting their roosting places at night.
Like many natural creatures, they are
good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their
beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky–one small group
after another–as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are
together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where
it is. They share, but only within their own flock.
One evening, after watching them
move across the sky, I wrote this:
Black
Notes Beat
Black notes beat
Unfurling dusk
Across the bruising sky.
Quarter
notes, half notes
Rise and fall.
Whole
notes
Rest on treetops.
An
arpeggio of eighth notes
Silently swirls,
Scribing
a nocturne
in the fading light.
Softly
they spill
to the nighttime roost:
Rustling,
murmuring,
settling,
hushed.
Now
the still moment,
the last note fading,
No
bows, no curtsies,
No fear of reviews.
They
need no applause to perform their works.
THE END
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tourtoday! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Please take a minute to check out Mary’s newest book, Shadowed by Death!
Blurb:
San Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things her own way—a dangerous decision.
Oliver guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put them both in mortal danger.
When Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a rougher kind of justice.
Shadowed by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.
Today is Day 6 of the WATCH #RWISA WRITE Showcase Blog Tour.
And, it is my pleasure today to bring you a piece of writing from Author, Linda Mims!
Solace
by Linda Mims
Eighteen precocious kindergartners stared as Carly walked
into the colorfully decorated classroom. Carly hoped her smile was more reassuring
than she felt. Was this a mistake? She spotted two six-year-olds who’d
been in her charge on the first field trip she’d chaperoned. They gave her a
friendly wave, and a true smile parted Carly’s pursed lips and lightened her heart.
Ms. Jones, the principal, asked all of the children to file
around and shake hands with Carly, but some of them hugged her around the waist
and Carly bent to embrace them. The huggers stared up at her and quickly turned
away unsure how to behave.
After Carly shook hands and hugged them, she asked their new
teacher’s permission to lead them to the circle in the back of the room. She’d read
that schools were frowning on seating students on the floor, but their former
teacher, Miss Mason, had valued the practice.
Miss Mason sat smack dab in the middle of “her kids” and shared
her own childhood or read to them from her favorite stories.
So, hovering above the painted line, Carly squatted until
she dropped. Sitting crossed-legged wasn’t as comfortable or as easy for Carly
as the children made it appear. She smiled as they sank to the floor on legs like
rubber bands.
The children sat on the painted circle touching their
neighbors with legs, arms, or elbows. There was no jostling or whining from
anyone about invasion of space. They needed to connect in this strange time, so
it was okay for someone to sit too close.
Two little ones, seated across from Carly, couldn’t stop
sniffling, so she held out her arms, and they came over. She pulled them down
on either side of her and nuzzled them there. She wanted to join in. Be as free
and uninhibited as they, but she held her feelings in check.
The children bowed their heads, but a few raised their eyes
to cast envious glances at the two burrowed beneath Carly’s arms. She smiled
around the room, looking for the ones Miss Mason had told her about. Johnnie, who
was the biggest discipline challenge. Grown-ish Jenny of the fresh mouth and
Einstein mind.
Carly recognized little unkempt Anna who caused Miss Mason
enough anxiety to refer her family to DCFS. Diana Mason loved these children, and
they loved her. The students spent more time with Carly’s daughter than with
their own parents.
“Listen and I’ll tell you about the day little Ms. Mason broke
the rules and made cookies for herself and her little sister,” Carly said. “When her father and I were away from home, she
wasn’t supposed to fool with the stove, but you guys know how feisty Ms. Mason can
be.”
“She was a mischievous little girl,” Carly said with
exaggerated feeling.
One of the little ones giggled and hurriedly stifled it when
the others swiveled their heads to stare at her, disapprovingly.
“Children,” Carly said. “Ms. Mason would want you guys to smile
as you remember her. She’d want you to remember the stories I’m about to tell
you and think of her with love.”
***
Joe Mason waited outside the old brick building where, four
years ago, his daughter and some of her colleagues had started their own small
school. His wife was inside visiting his daughter’s kindergarten class, but Joe
remained in the car.
He hadn’t agreed with Carly that this was a good idea. His
family had spent a crushing two days grieving Diana’s sudden death and just
when—maybe—the weight was easing, his wife sprung up.
“Oh God, Joe! Her kids.”
“I’m sure someone has told them,” he assured her, but Carly
wouldn’t be comforted.
“They’re five and six years old, Joe. They don’t understand
death. Can you imagine the confusion and anguish for those children? I have to
go,” Carly said.
“They need to hear from me and know that it will be all
right.”
She had made up her mind and Joe didn’t try to talk her out
of it. Perhaps she needed this, too. He, on the other hand, couldn’t bring
himself to think about Diana without feeling guilty. There was no peace for him
as he shouldered the weight of his daughter’s death.
The night Diana died alone in her room, Joe had convinced
himself that he’d heard her knocking for help. He’d been dreaming and in the dream,
Diana had knocked on the front door. He was upstairs, and he wondered why Carly
didn’t go to the door and let their daughter in.
She knocked in random succession maybe three times, but when
Joe woke, he heard nothing. He lay there for a long while listening and
wondering if someone had been knocking on the door for real.
It was 1:45 a.m. and outside, the sounds of jazz music told
him his neighbor Jimmy was in his parked van, again.
Jimmy did that after a spat with his wife, Vanessa. That’s
what the knocking had been. A radio commercial. Satisfied, Joe turned over and
went back to sleep. It never occurred to him to wake Carly or to go check on
Diana. If he had, his daughter could have gotten help, and she’d still be
alive.
Joe couldn’t tell anyone. Carly and Diana were more than
mother and daughter. They were best friends. Carly would never forgive him for,
if nothing else, letting her remain asleep. God! The pain of losing Diana,
compounded by his guilt, was eating Joe alive.
Inside, Carly carried her own guilt. Diana had been working
herself to the bone raising money to keep the school afloat. More than just exist,
Diana and her colleagues wanted the school to make a huge impact on the lives
of their students and their families.
Diana wasn’t sleeping. She was losing weight, and more than
a few times, Carly argued with her about taking care of herself.
“If you don’t take care of your own health, you won’t be any
damned good to your students!”
“Mom, relax! What am I going to do? Die?”
“Your heart, Diana. Please remember your heart.”
“I do, mom. I think about my heart all the time. School is
the only thing that prevents me from thinking about my heart. Can you give me a break? And don’t go to Dad with your suspicions.”
So, Carly gave her a break and she didn’t tell Joe that she
suspected Carly was sicker than she was letting on.
***
“You smell like her,” said a little one who’d scooted over
and was hugging Carly from behind.
“Let me smell,” said another, peeling his classmate’s arms
from around Carly and nudging the child over to squeeze in.
“I wanna smell,” cried a young girl who had stopped twirling
her hair around her finger and now stood.
Soon they clustered around Carly, talking and gesturing.
Their little voices serious as they shared stories of the times Ms. Mason had
been kind, or funny, or very, very stern. Their beautiful faces weren’t so sad
now and they made Carly laugh. An hour passed and the pall over the room
lifted.
Outside, the breeze blew leaves from the young trees Diana
had planted across the grounds. Joe trained his eye on a leaf that floated
across his windshield on the gentle breeze. Instead of drifting along, the
green leaf frolicked and rolled on the air in front of him.
He’d never paid attention to leaves, and he wondered that
this one seemed determined to hang right there, tumbling and playing in front
of him. While Joe watched, the leaf floated down and lay on the hood as though
spent. Then, to Joe’s amusement, it blew flat against his window and stuck
there for a few moments.
The leaf stood on its stem and Joe bent to see it flutter across the car and brush Carly’s face just as she opened the passenger door. Carly started, then laughed and touched her face. Smiling, without even knowing why, they watched the little leaf fly off over the building and out of sight.
THE END
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
