Connections eMagazine February 2024 Edition by Connections eMagazine

Connections eMagazine

Volume 10 Issue 1

Message from the Editor The Purpose of this eMagazine is to connect readers and bloggers with authors. This is a FREE eMagazine that is produced quarterly. The first magazine of the new year is always one of my favorites. It’s dedicated to spring, love, and new growth. After a long winter season, where everyone I know seemed to get some kind of flu, I think we could all use this one. I hope you enjoy the books, stories and articles as much as I did. “Reading one book is like eating one potato chip” - Diane Duane

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FEATURES

Terror in the Library… Meet Captain Lloyd Prescott (Ret.) The man who risked his own life to save his fellow hostages. (Page 6)

Author Interviews… In this issue Dan Flanigan (Page 20), Gretchen McCullough (Page 74), Katherine Hayes (Page 110), Nir Yaniv (Page 120), and S Atzeni (Page 134)

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Blogs | Articles •

Dear Mom by Pearl Oliver

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Jack and Hedgie By Helaman

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— Mortimer J. Adler

First Chapters Book Reviews Author Tips and Tricks

@ConnectionsEMagazine

77 1/2 Herbs — Horsetail by Ronesa Aveela

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Hollin Hey by Sylva Fae

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Survival by Melanie P. Smith

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Rain by Joe DeRouen

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I Am An Ocean by Defiance

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In every issue...

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words — Multiple Authors

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The Mouse Family that live by the Brambles by Gez Robinson Steven Kelly Interviewed by Sylva Fae Growing Bookworms by Robbie Cheadle

Editorial Team EDITOR –IN– CHIEF Melanie P. Smith https://melaniepsmith.com/ CONTENT EDITOR… Sylva Fae https://www.facebook.com/SylvaFae COPY EDITOR… LaPriel Dye https://dyenamicsediting.com CONTENT WRITERS… Sarah Hindmarsh https://www.facebook.com/Sarahhindmarshauthor Ronesa Aveela https://ronesaaveela.wordpress.com/ REVIEWS... Mom’s Favorite Reads Review Group PUBLISHER... MPSmith Publishing PARTNERS… Creative Edge Publicity https://www.creative-edge.services

MPSmith Publishing and Connections eMagazine does not endorse any information contained in the articles or advertisements throughout this magazine. All contents are Copyright © by the individual authors and used with their permission. All rights reserved.

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The cop that saved

Synopsis... Before we get into the interview, I need to relay the story and provide a brief explanation of how things unfolded. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away — just kidding. Lloyd Prescott may not be an intergalactic Jedi knight, but the force was certainly with him on this particular day.

March 5, 1994 — just after 0900 hours It was a cool spring morning. The second floor of the Salt Lake City library was buzzing with patrons attending a sand painting ceremony conducted by a group of Tibetan Buddhist Monks that had been exiled from India. The focus of this particular mandala was world peace —quite ironic in hindsight. This small group of monks spent four days constructing their masterpiece. On this bright Saturday morning, they were gathered — along with a large group of patrons — to conclude this four-day live-art ceremony of creating, destroying, and dispersing the sand into flowing water. Once the public ceremony was completed, they were to throw the sand grains into the nearby Jordan River. Those in attendance expected a serene morning of love and tranquility. They came to see a temporary piece of art that symbolized peace, healing, and enlightenment. Instead, they were forced to endure the exact opposite. What started out as a relaxing Saturday morning turned into nearly six hours of terror for nine hostages and their loved ones.

Salt Lake City Library — Photo circa 1955 — Courtesy of the Utah Historical Society

How it all began… Once the ceremony was completed, a man jumped onto a table waving a pistol in one hand and a curling iron in the other. He announced he had a bomb and began directing hostages into a nearby conference room. The scene erupted into chaos with the monks and most of the attendees escaping. The man’s name was Clifford Draper, and he had a history of exhibiting bizarre behavior. For example, while working as a Salvation Army bell ringer he suddenly and unexpectedly broke into a “war dance.” On another occasion, he lurked outside a local supermarket and scared customers and employees with his strange actions. He was also dishonorably discharged from the military, was diagnosed with serious mental health issues, and refused to take his medication. Now, he was armed with a gun, a bomb controlled by a Deadman switch, and several hostages.

Full city block containing the Salt Lake City Library (upper right), Metropolitan Hall of Justice (tall building in the center), the Salt Lake County Metro Jail, (lower left) and the District Court Building (lower center) — Courtesy of the Utah Historical Society 8

A Case of Courage and Heroism The standoff… Lloyd Prescott, a lieutenant at the time, was behind his desk on the main floor of the nearby Metropolitan Hall of Justice. He was working in his office, overseeing an academy course, when a man entered the building yelling for help. He didn’t hesitate to investigate. As is often the case for police, while everyone else was running away from danger, Lloyd Prescott rushed toward it. Prescott maneuvered his way to the second floor of the library; all the while being told by fleeing patrons to run — there was a dangerous man upstairs with a gun and a bomb. Prescott continued forward — he was in cop mode, gathering as much information as he could while he approached the scene.

“Sheriff’s Office, hit the floor.”

Then, he did the unthinkable — he manipulated his way inside, becoming the gunman’s tenth hostage. Now he just needed to find a way to resolve a volatile situation with a madman, a gun, a bomb, 9 hostages, and no way to communicate with his fellow cops. Morning faded to afternoon. Outside, SWAT teams gathered, friends and family waited with bated breath for the tiniest tidbits of information, reporters raced between police sources and their cameramen to broadcast what little they knew about the hostages, the demands and a possible resolution. Finally, more than five hours after it all began, Draper made a decision that would have fatal consequences. He ordered the hostages to draw straws to see who would die first. Unwilling to standby and watch a madman kill an innocent hostage, Prescott acted. While Draper was distracted, Prescott stood, resigned, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice — his life in exchange for 9 others. Knowing he would likely be killed once the bomb exploded, he drew his gun and called out “Sheriff’s Office, hit the floor.” The hostages dropped, the gunman whirled around, and Prescott fired. SWAT stormed the room, secured the area, escorted the hostages to safety, and the bomb squad was called in. They assessed the device and determined it was too unstable to move. It was detonated inside the conference room.

Surprisingly, everyone survived that day — except the gunman. Draper was rushed to the hospital but was confirmed dead on arrival. Thirty years later, we live in a time when police are vilified — and, still, good men and women wake up each morning, don a uniform, and head out to perform their duties to the best of their ability. And, just like Lloyd Prescott, most will run toward danger when everyone else is running away.

You worked at the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office for 30 years. Tell us about your career and what made you want to become a cop? Well, there were several things. I have worked different jobs in my lifetime, some of them I enjoyed, some of them I didn't. I knew some of the jobs that I previously worked —like farm work and construction — would be difficult to continue into my later years. I liked working with people and I didn't want to sit behind a desk. I also liked a little excitement back in my younger, testosterone days. So, looking around at what was available, I thought about law enforcement. You help people, you get a little bit of excitement, and you're not sitting behind a desk. You get to move around.

All images © MPSmith Publishing, unless otherwise attributed.

Lt. Lloyd Prescott’s call to serve. “Through his willingness to sacrifice his life for others, Lt. Lloyd Prescott had just become a national hero.”. - Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office Annual Report 1994

Can you give us a brief outline of your career? There were quite a few different assignments that I worked. I started my career in Patrol and then I went to a tactical team — we called it the TAC squad. After the federal funds ran out, they moved me to what was called a Felony Car — where you responded to some of the more serious crimes. It was a two-man car. Later, I went to the K9 Unit where I worked a dog, and I quite enjoyed that. Unfortunately, we had a change in sheriff and he downsized the K9 Unit. So, I was moved back to Patrol. I remained there for a short time before I was transferred into the Detective Division where I worked auto theft and burglary. That was rewarding in some ways and frustrating in other ways —because there are so many people that never get their stolen items back, and the perpetrator often walks due to lack of evidence, or because he couldn’t be connected to the crime. From there, I made sergeant and returned to Patrol until I was promoted to lieutenant. They moved me into the jail where I was involved in jail training. A while later, I was transferred over to the new minimum security, Oxbow Jail Transition Team and was involved in the hiring and training of new employees. Once I was promoted to captain, my first assignment was Division Commander at the Oxbow Jail. I did that for three years before I was moved into the Special Operations Division.

Did you have a favorite assignment? Each assignment had its own challenges. One of the more exciting jobs was the TAC squad and the jail was a real challenge because it's like running a small city. Then, of course, Special Operations because you're always getting called out with the SWAT team and Search & Rescue. So, I enjoyed all of those. I liked getting back out in the field and the excitement — because when you're a division commander, a captain, you're primarily sitting behind a desk. 11

“If I can give the hostages enough time to dive under the table before the bomb explodes, they ‘ll have a chance.”

-Lloyd Prescott

While overseeing the jail. I would walk around and respond to fights. Then, during my time running Special Ops and the SWAT team, I took a peripheral position. I wasn't actually involved in kicking doors or anything, but I was there to support the guys and take care of issues — like if somebody was walking into the danger zone. They may seem like small things, but each is somewhat rewarding in their own right.

“Textbook case of courage” - Deseret News

You were working on the weekend when the incident at the library began to unfold. How did you get drawn into the situation? One of the patrons from the library; I don't recall his first name, but his last name was Blume. He realized the library was just across the courtyard from the Metropolitan Hall of Justice. The City had moved out, but the Sheriff’s Office still occupied the building. The gentleman ran across the plaza and entered the building.

I heard someone yelling, asking for help from police officers. So, I went out to see what the problem was. At that point, he told me there was a man with a gun and a bomb, taking hostages in the Salt Lake City library. The first thing I realized was that something of this nature would be a big problem. I said, “Let's call the city police.” Of course, a lot of people had already called the city police. I agreed to walk over and see what I could do. When I arrived at the library, I was very cautious. The incident occurred on the second floor. They shut the escalators off, going up and only allowed the people exiting to go down. On my way up, I had several people say, “Don't go up there.” “There's a crazy man with a gun and a bomb.” Of course, I was a police officer, so I was gonna go up and see what I could do.

Once I reached the top, I ran into a gentleman by the name of Carl Robinson. He approached me and said, “Get out of here —now! There's a man with a gun and a bomb.” I told him I was with the Sheriff's Office and began to ask him a few pertinent questions — Where are they, how many, et cetera? He held out a packet and said, “He gave me this. He wanted me to mail this.”

I noticed the door going into a conference room, where the hostage situation was taking place, was only twenty-to-thirty feet away. I took the letter from him; and, knowing the doors would probably be shut shortly, I held the letter in my left hand and approached the door on an angle — in police terms, we call it cutting the pie. As I approached, I had a jacket on, and I kept my hand on my weapon. I approached cautiously to see if I needed to take the shot and if I could get a shot without endangering other people. I waved the letter at the suspect and asked, “What do you want me to do with this?” He said, “I want it mailed.” I turned and handed it back to Carl Robinson. I wanted to be on the inside at that point. The suspect already had hostages and he seated them around the table to kind of cover him. I assume he thought ahead and believed, if the police arrived, he’d have people surrounding him and that would protect him somewhat.

“Of course, I was a police officer, so I was gonna go up and see what I could do. “ I raised my hand and said, “What do you want me to do? You're scaring the hell out of me with that gun.” At that point, he said, “Go over there and take a seat.” So, I took a seat but I turned the chair around so it was on an angle; where, if I needed to, I could take a shot if he started to shoot hostages, or whatever. I immediately knew I didn’t have a clean shot. On the table, I could see the canister of black powder that he had made a bomb out of. He had a curling iron that was connected to a deadman switch. I could see the wires from the curling iron going to the canister of black powder. I took the seat and stayed there, because I was in a good position. I wasn't around people, and I could watch the suspect. At that point, Gwen Page — he called her The Library Lady — was ordered to tie the doors closed with a rope and barricade them with tables. Then, he ordered everyone to take their clothes off. Well, there were several women in there and they kind of moaned and pleaded with him to not have to take their clothes off. He relented and ordered us to take our jackets off.

Radio station KSL quoted witnesses as saying the gunman told them he had a bomb “big enough to blow up the whole building.” My jacket was concealing my weapon, and I didn't know quite how to do that without exposing the gun. So, I said, “I'm kind of cold. Can I keep mine on?” This made him pretty irate. He pointed the gun at me and said under no circumstance could I keep it. “Take it off!” The Library Lady went around collecting all the coats. When she reached me, I gave her a subtle shake of my head and she passed me by. The suspect watched her instead of me so I was able to slip my jacket off and pull my shirt tails out to conceal my gun. Then, I positioned myself at an angle where he couldn't see the bulge under my shirt. 13

A short time later, he ordered me to move to the table with all the other hostages. Again, this caused me some concern. I didn't want him to see the bulge under my shirt, because you could clearly see the outline of a gun. I picked up my chair and held the back seat over the top of my gun to conceal it as I approached the table and settled down with the others. We were all positioned with our backs to the table — away from the suspect. Once we were settled, he handed out copies of his hostage demand letter. I read through the letter, which caused me a lot of concern. I could see that he was very irrational. He didn’t just want to take hostages; it was clear, he had some mental issues as well. The demands were pretty disconcerting. By the time I finished reading, I knew he was just off. This helped explain his emotional outbursts and fluctuating moods that seemed to go up and down erratically without warning or provocation. INTERVIEWER NOTE — I obtained a copy of the demand letter. Here is a sample of the demands… •

Active duty pay … of the rank of 0-4 (this would be equivalent to the rank of Major. It should also be noted he wanted this to be calculated adding fictitious dependents over time).

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Tax deductions based on the Arkansas tax rate—don’t ask because I have no idea why.

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$50,000 dollars in cash ($25,000 in 100’s | $20,000 in 50’s | and $5,000 in 20’s) He suggested they should bill the D.O.D. for this expense.

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Gold, platinum and silver bullion to cover back pay since his discharge from the military.

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An immediate pardon from the Governor of Utah and the President of the United States.

In addition, he protested the following…. •

“Liberal feminists and homosexuals”

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“Totalitarian drug laws”

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Lack of nicotine gum

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Activities of religious fanatics and greedy capitalists

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Gun laws, drug testing, and motorcycle helmet laws

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He also didn’t want to live amidst “blacks, Hispanics and the mentally ill”

Did he explain why he was giving his demands to you guys? He said he wanted people to understand why he was doing this and it was his way of doing that. So, we all read the letter; and afterwards, he had the two guys sitting at the end of the table move onto the table next to the bomb. That’s when he gave a rather chilling statement. He said, “If this bomb goes off, I wanna make sure it kills everybody.” 14

What happened next? He called his favorite radio station because he wanted certain types of music to be played. At first, the person he talked to was a young lady who thought it was a hoax. Her boss came in later and tried to appease him. She changed the play list, the radio station no longer exists, it has been sold, but it was KNCR — Z93. He wanted to hear certain types of music — he mentioned Aerosmith and a few other similar types of music, and he didn't want any commercials. So, to her credit, she did away with all the commercials and just played the music he wanted to listen to. Draper would listen for a while; then, to save batteries on the radio, he would shut it off. Sometimes, he would rant and rave and yell and scream. Other times he would be very calm. At one point, he said he wanted to get out of the United States because it was such a corrupt, vile country. He wanted to move to another country. One of the hostages said he should go to Brazil or Sweden, or something like that — he added another country would be a nice place. Several of the hostages laughed. I guess they wanted to find something humorous, so they chuckled about it. Then I remember, and I will never forget because it indicated he was willing to kill people. He said, “Let's not get too chummy in here.” That’s when I realized he was telling us you don't kill people you like. So, he didn’t want to like any of us. He didn’t want to laugh with us or bond with us, or whatever else. Eventually, a Salt Lake City hostage negotiator called — he actually called a total of three times while we were in there. The negotiator asked if he could get Draper anything. Draper demanded a doctor, stripped to his shorts to bring in medicine. He explained there was a diabetic lady that needed insulin. He also wanted sedatives for the hostages to keep them calm so they wouldn’t get too excitable, and amphetamines for him so he could stay awake for 72 hours — because that’s the amount of time he set to have demands met before he started executing people.

I didn't cover this earlier, but in the hostage demand letter, he said that he wanted a pardon from the governor of Utah and a pardon from the president of the United States and he wanted transportation out of the United States. I took this as a good thing because he indicated that these things are what he really wanted. It gave the police a clear picture of his state of mind. But, if he didn’t get it, he would kill people. I continued to evaluate the situation; and, at one point, Draper caught me glancing over my shoulder. He caught me looking at the gun and the bomb and he got really angry over that and challenged me. He started yelling and screaming before pointing the gun at me and said, “You know, I can understand why you're curious about this gun and this bomb, but you're making me nervous — and, trust me, you don't want to make me nervous. I raised my hands in sign of submission and said, “No sir, I don't wanna make you nervous.” Then I turned back around. What I learned in watching him and studying the bomb was every time he would get tired, he would switch hands with the curling iron — that was his deadman device. He also had a .45 caliber handgun with a strap that was connected to his wrist. It was never out of his reach, but he would have to take the strap off and put it on the other wrist to change hands with the deadman device. The way he constructed the deadman switch was to use duct tape and rubber bands with the two stripped wires on the very end. So, if he let go of the curling iron, the two wires would touch — completing the circuit and igniting the bomb. Because it wasn't done very well, it started to move. I was sitting close enough to him that I could actually see that the wires were moving. He noticed it too and had one of the hostages tear off some duct tape to anchor the wires better, which turned out to be very fortuitous to me. By doing that, he used so much duct tape to solidify the wires, that it was so thick when he finally let go of the deadman switch, the wires didn't touch. At this point, Sue Alison, the diabetic lady, was feeling faint. She became so weak, we moved her onto a table to try and make her comfortable. She was only a few feet away from me and I could see her going in and out of consciousness. When the negotiator called again, Draper yelled and screamed irrationally. He was upset because a military doctor, stripped to his shorts with the medication he demanded hadn’t arrived. There was no sign of transportation out of the United States and the funds he wanted hadn’t been arranged. He informed the negotiator they hadn’t complied with his demands so now he was going to kill a hostage and they knew which one. Things just got really serious. I've got two things that I'm looking at, I'm not gonna let him execute a hostage. I also recognized that Sue Alison, has got to have that insulin or eventually she's going to die. I was contemplating my options when he told the library lady to get some cord, the same cord she used on the door, and get the knife. She was instructed to cut lengths of rope, with one shorter than the others. We would have to — as the expression goes —draw straws. The person who had the short piece would be executed. She walked around the table to get a piece of rope, and on the way back, as she passed me, he was watching her. She asked him where he put the knife. Well, the knife that she used originally to cut the rope, was in a backpack down by his feet. He glanced down and began searching for the knife. 16

When he did that, it was my opportunity I’d been waiting for. I pulled my firearm. I knew I needed to get everybody below the table because black powder is a low-level explosive. It's not powerful enough to pulverize the table and blow up the whole room. It will stay above the plane of the table. When he constructed the black powder bomb, he glued some 36 caliber pistol bullets to the outside of the can. In effect, he made a claymore-type device. So if the bomb ignited, the projectiles would be forced outward; and, in theory, hit everybody. He wanted to make sure he killed everybody. Recognizing this, I needed to get everybody below the table. I stood up and yelled as loud as I could, “Sheriff's Office, hit the floor.” At the same time, I was drawing my gun. Draper looked up from his backpack and turned around. I knew I had to give everybody enough time to get down below the plane of the table. I yelled so loud, even the diabetic rolled off the table. And at that point, I was looking down the barrel of his gun. I had run out of time. If I didn't take him out, he was going to shoot me. Then he would shoot the rest of the hostages, or the bomb would go off. I wasn't sure if the bomb would work or not, but I was in the hope stage. I fired at him. The table was ten feet and I was probably eight feet away from him. There was no chance of him missing me, or of me missing him. I'm looking down the barrel of the gun and he's got his finger on the trigger. I knew if I went down, he would kill hostages. I sacrificed my life and the hostages, too. I opened fire and put as many rounds into him as I could to make sure he wasn't capable of hurting anybody else. The force of the bullets hitting him, actually knocked him backwards —off of the chair. He let go of the deadman device; and, to my good fortune, and perhaps an angel watching from above, the bomb didn't go off. But, I lost sight of him. I ran around the table and realized he was trying to get back up, to get to his gun. He had actually taken the suicide strap off of his wrist to find the knife, so the gun was still on the table. I told him not to move or I would shoot. He replied “I’m already dead.” I said, “You move and you damn sure will be.” Because of the bomb, I told the hostages to get out of the room. They crawled over, opened the door, and escaped. The SWAT team entered. Now I realize I'm the only guy in this room holding a gun and that’s not good. I didn't want to be a friendly-fire casualty. So, I backed up to a table, reached back, and I put the gun behind me on the table.

While inside watching things unfold, knowing you were in Salt Lake City’s jurisdiction and they were on scene working the case from the outside, are you focusing on helping the city or protecting the hostages? I use the analogy of the insurance policy. My thought, at that time, was to let the negotiator do his job — to talk him down. Everybody walks out of the room. I’m the insurance policy. If the suspects starts to endanger people, then I'm there and I'm going to be able to take some immediate action. 17

So, at some point you decided to act. The whole time he's in there, he's erratic and you’re prepared to act — but you don’t. What changed? At what point did you decide this is the time I have to intervene. Two things. Number one, you've got a diabetic lady; I could have more time with her, but I know sooner or later, if she doesn't get the insulin, she's gonna go into shock and she's gonna die. And secondly, when he decides that we're gonna draw straws, because he's actually gonna execute somebody — he set the time clock in motion. I can't let him shoot somebody and not take action. I can't let Sue Allison lay there and die. I can't let either of those things happen.

Once the shooting started, what was your main focus? Was it return fire, the bomb, the safety of the hostages, SWAT storming into the room and you are standing there with a gun, or something else? In essence, all of those things. Number one, I've got to take him out and I know that. I'm thinking, I'm not sure if that bomb's gonna go off. So, I've got to get everybody below the table in case it does go off to ensure it only takes him and me. And number two, I've got to put enough rounds in him so that he can't use that handgun on anybody else. I've got to literally take him out. Thankfully, the bomb didn't go off, but I wasn't so sure there wouldn't be some kind of a delayed reaction. I also know the SWAT team is out there. Earlier, he ordered Gwen Page — the one he called The Library Lady — to go to all the windows where the blinds were drawn and look out to see if there were any cops. She advised there were some SWAT team guys out there. He blew up and yelled and screamed. Later on, he had her walk around to look for holes in the wall. He was afraid that they might drill a hole and put some kind of a listening device or a camera in there to watch what was going on. It really concerned him. He was somewhat paranoid. I believe, if he had a psychiatrist look at him, he would have been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. At any rate, those things are all a concern to me because I can see him. He's not a stable person by any means and because of that, and what he threatened to do I knew he was quite volatile. I understood he could be volatile at any second.

The entry team consisted of both Salt Lake City and Sheriff's Office SWAT members. At what point do you know that? And, did that give you a sense of relief, knowing there were guys in the room that knew you? There were two guys on the SWAT team that were from the Sheriff’s Office that I know of. One was Jim Potter and the other was Kim Bowman. Potter, when I went down on the ground, he recognized the hostage taker was just a few feet away from me. Potter came over and stood over me to give me a level of protection, just in case some of the other SWAT guys got excited, or rough, or something like that. 18

Periodically (ten-year anniversary, twenty years, and now thirty years later) this tends to be brought up again, and you get more publicity. Does it feel like the day that never ends, or do you think — especially in light of society's attitude towards police these days, it reminds people there are men and women that put on the uniform, go out, and run towards danger, just because that's their job, and that's what they do.

This was an unusual situation. Describe the aftermath. Were you honored for your heroic actions? I received a lot of honor and a lot of recognition. None of which I was accustomed to or I'd ever even thought about. Unbeknownst to me, they submitted me to the National Chiefs of Police and the National Sheriff's Association as a candidate for Police Officer of the Year. I had all kinds of magazines and newspapers interviewing me. I had numerous recreations of the incident. America's Most Wanted was one. There were several of them. Reader's Digest sent somebody to do an interview with me and they did a story on it. It was literally overwhelming. I just had so much that I wasn't accustomed to. I mean, throughout my career in the Sheriff's Office, you hit the news occasionally, but there was nothing of that magnitude and it was just overwhelming to me.

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I don't believe people do that primarily as a job. There are probably some that do, but most do it because they want to make their little piece of the world a little bit better and a little bit safer. In the course of going on men-with-gun calls, family fights, bar fights, and so forth — police officers literally still go out and save a lot of people. Say you arrest a criminal — a serial rapist. When you take him off of the street, then you're saving numerous women from the potential of being a victim of crime. I believe the average police officer really does try and make this world a better place; and, because of some of the political overtones that are prevalent in our society right now, I think you have a lot of people that would be really good police officers, that aren't willing to step into it because they don't feel like they would be appreciated. They feel like they would be in jeopardy of being sued and defamed in the newspaper and so forth. I see that times have changed, and they're not what I experienced. I had a better time than a lot of officers have nowadays. I say that in the context, that I was viewed more favorably by the media and by society than many officers are now. In closing, on behalf of Connection eMagazine, I would just like to thank you for your service to the citizens of Salt Lake County.

Dan Flanigan is a novelist, playwright, poet, and practicing lawyer. He holds a Ph.D. in History from Rice University and J.D. from the University of Houston. He taught Jurisprudence at the University of Houston and American Legal History at the University of Virginia. His first published book was his Ph.D. dissertation. The Criminal Law of Slavery and Freedom, 1800-1868.

Dan Flanigan He moved on from academia to serve the civil rights cause as a school desegregation lawyer, followed by a long career as a finance attorney in private law practice. He became a named partner in the Polsinelli law firm in Kansas City, created its Financial Services practice, chaired its Real Estate & Financial Services Department for two decades, and established the firm’s New York City office and served as its managing partner until October 2022. His legal bio may be viewed at https://www.polsinelli.com/dan-flanigan.

Taking a break from the law practice for two years, he and his wife, Candy, founded Sierra Tucson, a prominent alcohol and drug treatment center located in Tucson, Arizona. Recently, he has been able to turn his attention to his lifelong ambition—creative writing. In 2019 he released a literary trifecta including Mink Eyes, the first in the Peter O’Keefe series, Dewdrops, a collection of shorter fiction, and Tenebrae: A Memoir of Love and Death.

Tenebrae is a bracelet of verse and prose poems dedicated to his wife, Candy, to honor her last illness and death and their 40-plus years together, a work that has been described as “celebratory” and “heartbreaking and exquisite.” It was a Finalist for both the 2022 IAN Book of the Year in Poetry and in the 2022 American Book Fest “Best Book” Award in the Legacy: Autobiography/Memoir category. 20

Mink Eyes – The Peter O’Keefe series is born amid a mink farm, the mafia, and a brutal shootout in the desert.

The Big Tilt, the award-winning second book in the Peter O’Keefe series, was published in 2020 and has been described as “deft, hard-boiled, but literary prose that’s reminiscent of Raymond Chandler’s best work.” The Big Tilt won the 2022 National Indie Excellence Award for Crime Fiction and was a Finalist for the 2022 Independent Author Network’s Book of the Year in Thriller/Suspense. In 2023, The Big Tilt, was awarded the Honorable Mention in the prestigious Eric Hoffer Awards in the Legacy Fiction category, which included hundreds of books across all fiction genres. On Lonesome Roads, published April 26, 2022, is the third book in the series, and was a Notable 100 Book in the 2022 Shelf Unbound Best Indie Book Competition and 2023 Silver Medalist in the Best Mystery/Thriller eBook category. Most notably, On Lonesome Roads followed up The Big Tilt’s 2022 NIEA Crime Fiction win with a finish as Finalist in the same contest and category for 2023. In the 2023 American Fiction Awards, On Lonesome Roads, finished with a virtual sweep: winner for Mystery/ Suspense: General, finalist for Mystery/Suspense: Hard-Boiled Crime and finalist for Thriller: Crime.

He has also written stage plays including Secrets (based on the life of Eleanor Marx) and Moondog’s Progress (inspired by the life of Alan Freed), which was awarded Honorable Mention in 2022 in the 91st Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition for “Script.”

https://danflaniganbooks.com/

Peter O'Keefe Series

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

Dan’s novella, Dewdrops, was originally written for the stage and enjoyed a full-cast staged reading at the Theatre of the Open Eye in New York. The short story collection was a Finalist in the 2022 Independent Author Network’s Book of the Year for Short Story Collection and a 2022 American Book Fest “Best Book” Award Finalist in Fiction-Short Story. 22

Can you tell us a little about yourself? Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write?

I am at the end of a long career in the law and now able to devote myself to what I have wanted to do all my life, creative writing, and in the last several years have published five books and getting the sixth ready for publication. I was born and raised in Kansas City and though I have moved around some (Houston, Charlottesville, Tucson, and New York City), I do always end up back here. I am widowed and have a daughter and two grandchildren.

I am multi-genre and the type of book depends on what I have to say. My first book, Tenebrae: A Memoir of Love and Death, which focused on the last illness and death of my wife of 40plus years, was most appropriately expressed as poetry. My second book, Dewdrops, a collection of a novella and two short stories, were what is so -called “literary” fiction though I don’t accept that category generally. Which leads me to what I have been focusing mostly on the last few years, a mystery/crime/detective series, which are not written with any intention of writing “crime/mystery/detective” tropes but as “literary” fictions that might just be a little more engaging from a plot perspective than many other “literary” fictions.

https://www.tiktok.com/ @danflaniganbooks/ video/7159364169043578155

He serves on the Board of Directors of Childhood USA, the U.S. arm of the World Childhood Foundation, established by Queen Silvia of Sweden, working to end child sexual abuse and exploitation everywhere. He divides his time among Kansas City, New York City, and Los Angeles, and when possible, visits the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington state and Vancouver and Vancouver Island in British Columbia.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B07PHH7KDR 23

Peter O'Keefe Series

If you write in multiple genres, do you have a favorite, or is one type of book easier for you to write than others, and why? Well, I began writing plays, and I feel I am best at that (dialogue), and it is my favorite medium, but, though I had early-on a full-scale staged reading of one of my plays in NYC, it’s just too hard to get your work in front of audiences in that medium. Lately, I have focused my efforts on three published novels, and a fourth one ready for publication, in some version of the crime/detective/mystery/thriller genre or genres. This series begins in 1986, focusing on the main character Peter O’Keefe and a cast of characters in his orbit (new ones being added all the time) that will bring all of them through the transformations, schemes, scams, and scandals in American life up to the present (or at least as close to then as my energy, mental powers, and lifespan will permit (however, it’s the fourth book now and I’m still in 1988!).

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap? I have wanted to be a writer since high school. It turned out that, on the one hand, I wasn’t ready to undertake it seriously for most of my life, but on the other, the drive never left me and I am now exceedingly grateful that I’ve eventually gotten there. Although I was frustrated for decades by my failure to pursue it, now it seems that it really was best to wait. I unnecessarily suffered a lot, and most unfortunately caused my wife also to suffer too much, over my failure to get it going earlier.

How / where do you find the plots you write about? The poetry book is “real life” and the three shorter pieces in Dewdrops all come from people, situations, or characters that, while remaining fictional, originated in “real life” circumstances. The O”Keefe novels are much more “imaginative”— although they are rooted in real aspects of the American situation in their time (e.g. the old-time mafia and its decline, the S&L financial debacle and scandal of the 1980s and 1990s, the Satanic/Moral Panic of the 1980s/1990s), the characters, situations, and plot developments are painstakingly (sometimes too painstakingly) birthed and developed, the painstaking caused mostly by wanting to be scrupulously true to the real world as it was and is.

Mark Twain said, “Write what you know.” Tell us about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you plot, plan, and conduct hours of research; or, do you just sit down and write whatever comes to mind based on your personal history and knowledge? I start with a very rough outline and it’s pants from then on including hitting blank walls and going down various ends that turn out to be dead ends and having to regroup a bit. Sometimes, when stuck, I just start with a thread and see where it goes. So far, I have done a lot of research, both up front and as I am writing. Even though I lived through those times, my memory isn’t perfect, and I didn’t live through everything and want to make sure I make as few mistakes as possible in writing what are essentially “historical” novels. As we all know, those were times of rapid technological change, and it takes some work to make sure I don’t have people, for example, emailing or voice mailing before those things existed.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? My writing, like most writing, is about characters struggling to overcome challenges, whether created inside of them or outside and often both. Themes running through the books are addiction and recovery, the misuse of all kinds of power (legal, political, financial, gender-based, familial), sin and redemption (in a secular sense), love and the lack of it, responsibility, duty, Tikkun Olam (repairing/ healing the world in whatever way, large or small, that is reasonably and practically within one’s capability). The main character in the O’Keefe books is, as he says, trying to become a “useful person.”

Tell us your latest news. The fourth installment in the Peter O’Keefe series is finished and will be available by this summer. While all the books connect, they also stand alone, especially the new (fourth) one. I have been lucky enough to win some awards, which are described on my website https://danflaniganbooks.com.

How much of the book is realistic? If it’s not realistic, I don’t write it, or at least try not to. It can be difficult to create suspense, excitement, etc. but still keep it real. This is a big challenge for me but one I take very seriously, maybe too seriously.

What books have influenced your life the most? Don’t laugh, I don’t pretend to be in their league, but: Dante, Shakespeare, early Wordsworth, Dickens, Turgenev (Fathers and Sons), Joyce (especially Dubliners), Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby), Faulkner, Joseph Campbell’s work (Hero with a Thousand Faces and many others), the “Big Book” of Alcoholics Anonymous. I’m sure I am missing some major ones. More recent: Dog Soldiers by Robert Stone, E. L. Doctorow’s Book of Daniel, Ragtime, Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, the play Chorus Line, less than you might imagine since they are in my “genre,” but Ross MacDonald, Raymond Chandler, and Elmore Leonard showed me that you could do something interesting and serious in that genre.

Do you have a mentor that helped or encouraged you to follow your dream of writing? Father Wilfred Fangman [not a snake], high school English teacher. Matthew Lippman, from whom I took a poetry class as I was writing Tenebrae. (I am so afraid I am not remembering important people here.)

What are your current projects? Finishing the latest O’Keefe novel, fourth in the series, tentatively titled An American Tragedy. Revising my play Secrets based on the life of Eleanor Marx, Karl Marx’s youngest daughter. Scrounging around for the next O’Keefe plot, and if I can’t get going on that, a short memoir based on my recovery from alcoholism and the founding by my wife Candy and I of Sierra Tucson, an internationally known drug and alcohol treatment center in Tucson, Arizona.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers? I mostly welcome and enjoy hearing comments and thoughts, including even most criticism, on my books or the “musings” (I call them blog posts, but they are more like quips) that I post too infrequently on my website. You can post in the comments section on my website, or you can email me at danflaniganbooks@gmail.com (my hero O’Keefe will hunt down and do harm to all trolls). If you like the books, please post reviews. https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDanFlanigan https://twitter.com/_DanFlanigan 26

Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why? The question is too hard. I will lamely offer Shakespeare.

Pick one of your characters and share some of their backstory that didn’t make it into the novel. Hmm. Sara Slade started as O’Keefe’s secretary and her ambition, energy, and penchant for sometimes foolish risk-taking earned her a detective position in the little agency and now even a partnership. Her backstory is a mystery and there is an unstated but real gentlewoman/man’s agreement not to pry into it. I will be telling everyone her secret once I know what it is, but she deserves a blockbuster and one of sufficient quality hasn’t revealed itself to me yet.

Do you have any advice for other writers? While I get irritated with everyone talking about how “humble” they feel about this and that, I feel very hesitant and humble about giving such advice. I can only say (1) it’s never too late, (2) consider seriously all that the professional writing advisors have to say but in the end follow your own instincts, (3) get over that horrifying risk of indifference or even rejection and publish, (4) if you believe in your work, don’t let the gatekeepers stop you, self-publish, (5) quit if it’s too much suffering, but if you believe in your work and it’s not costing you too much of whatever else in life you value—persist, persist, persist.

What do you want written on your headstone and why? There is writing already on a headstone where I will involuntarily “rest.” (It is weird to see your own name on a headstone, waiting for the second date to be entered.) When my wife died, I ordered a large headstone that would work for both of us. My daughter suggested I engrave on it what I had engraved on my wife’s wedding band in 1969. “The One of Us.” That’s plenty, but I will also say I was very impressed by the writing on a headstone on a tombstone in the small graveyard behind Trinity Church in New York City of a young man who died of some fever or contagious disease: “He died in the midst of his usefulness.”

Other than writing do you have any hobbies? I have long loved to kayak and canoe, and many both family and solo trips throughout my life have centered around them. I find kayaking preferable now, more stable and enjoyable, as we have had a few harrowing (actually life threatening) moments in canoes over the years. Whales (orcas, humpbacks especially) are of great interest, and I am a financial and other supporter of efforts to advance the interests of these endangered beings. I seek out careful and respectful opportunities to see them in their habitat. There are many outfits that work very hard to not disrupt or harm them or their way of life as much as possible. I have played tennis on and off since I was younger but lately have really dived in and am endeavoring to become the best “old guy” tennis player that I can be. I follow college basketball closely though the roller coaster of emotion can become overwhelming. With that being said, Rock Chalk Jayhawk.

Can you share something personal with your readers? Do you have any holiday traditions? What kind of music do you enjoy? What kind of movies do you prefer? Do you have a favorite author? My best (perhaps only) holiday tradition is that my daughter and I go out to lunch and shopping on Christmas Eve Day. This started when she was 8 and her mother needed some extra time to prepare for the holiday. We are still doing it 38 years later. I think we only missed one year in all this time. Music: Bach, Handel, sacred choral music of all kinds, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, much else (this would be a very long list.) Movies: Favorites include Cinema Paradiso, Lost in America, Blade Runner, The Big Lebowski, Young Frankenstein, Z, Alien, Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V, Breaker Morant, Amelie. Favorite Author: Shakespeare, followed closely by Dickens.

If money was no issue would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake? Rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake (river would be much better), But too cold or too much snow and I’m heading for that beach, or better, lower altitude in the forest.

One final question...Do you have a blog/website? If so, what is it? Do you have a social media platform where your fans can go to interact with you and follow your progress? My website is https://danflaniganbooks.com. Other social media is a work in progress. I do send out a newsletter occasionally; people can sign up to receive it through the contact page on my website or send an email request and we will add you. 28

Dear Mom

By Pearl Oliver

If I could make a wish And if that wish came true Good health and much happiness Would surely come to you

This world is so beautiful But it cannot compare To what God has prepared In heaven to share

I will say a little prayer It will reach to heaven’s door You can have a celebration Like none you’ve had before About the author in her own words: I was born April 22, 1920, the third child in seven of Arthur S. and Florence M. Jones. They homestead some land in Colorado. Cut trees from the land and built a log cabin. Dad worked for some farmers for $1.00 a day and his dinner. We cleared land a little at a time to farm, no machinery, just two horses and a walking plow. We attended a one-room country school. One teacher taught first - eighth grades. I wrote a few poems when I was in my teens but was afraid I would be made fun of so I wouldn’t show them to anyone, and later destroyed them. Pearl Jones Oliver 1920 - 2005 29

FANTASY MYTHOLOGY ADVENTURE

ARTIFICE IMMORTALS SERIES BOOK 2

COMING 2024

melaniepsmith.com

Jack and Hedgie By Helaman (Age 8)

One day, a little boy named Jack Jeryington found a hole. The hole was very big, so he decided to stick his head inside. On the inside of the hole, he saw a lot of hedgehogs and turtles. He wondered why they lived in a hole and why they had houses and he wondered if they could talk. He wondered and wondered until he had to go home and go to sleep.

The next day, he went back to the hole. While he was inside, he hid in a cave by the town and watched. He noticed they had cars and trucks, and they could talk — because he heard a turtle say, “Come over and play.” Then he heard something behind him. He looked around and saw a baby hedgehog hiding behind a big rock. The hedgehog was afraid — so was Jack. He went over to the hedgehog and asked, “What’s your name?” The hedgehog answered quietly, “My name is Hedgie.”

They became best friends. Hedgie brought Jack to his house, and they played Go Fish and tag. They also built a ladder that led out of the hole to make it easier for Jack to visit. THE END 31

We had some great entries for our 4th Quarter challenge. If you didn’t get a chance to read them, you should take a minute to check them out. Congratulations to Sarah Hindmarsh for getting the most reader votes for best story. You can read her story as well as the other entries here…

https://view.publitas.com/mpsmith-publishing/connections-emagazine-4th-quarter-2023/page/56 1st Place — Underneath — Sarah Hindmarsh

Everyone has heard the saying A Picture is Worth 1000 Words. Well, this is where we put that saying to the test. In each edition we post an image and ask authors to tell a story in approximately 1000 words. Each story is unique, compelling and interesting. It just goes to show, while the picture might be worth a thousand words — those words can be as diverse as the authors writing them. Keep reading to discover new authors and their stories based on the picture provided. And be sure to visit our Facebook page to vote for your favorite. https://www.facebook.com/ConnectionsEMagazine

Up and Down Down-Under

By Suzanne Downes https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100037757172678 “Oooh, take me here, Arnold, take me right here!” He sighed heavily and lifted the camera to take yet another snap of Freda against some magnificent Australian backdrop – he’d lost count and interest – didn’t even know what State they were in. None of this was going according to plan! Down-under had seemed the perfect solution to his problem. Wasn’t it supposed to be the home of the ten deadliest creatures in the world, as well as some of the most remote and unforgiving terrain? 33

It should have been a doddle to kill Freda and get away with it. But they hadn’t seen sight nor sound of anything faintly dangerous – not a peep from a python, nor a sniff of a spider. The crocs had been soporific, the box jellyfish had floated harmlessly away on the tide when he had managed to persuade her to swim. Now they were on the last leg of the journey and hope was fading as they headed for Sydney – not much peril in an Opera House, he thought sourly. However, he had the glimmer of an idea as he scanned the guide books. The Blue Mountains were only a train ride away and there must be crags and cliffs aplenty just ripe for a fatal accident. Echo Point should resound nicely with the fading screams of his falling wife. The day began and ended with frustration. The train ride was long, and in his opinion, tedious, with Freda’s trilling, breathless admiration of every amazing scene flashing by the window. The Blue Mountains themselves, wondrous, beautiful, haunting, were entirely lost on Arnold as he tramped after his tireless wife, taking endless pictures, almost every one of them on the edge of a precipice which would have been ideal for his purposes, if only the hordes of Japanese tourists had not dogged their every step. He just could not catch a break. Even when he suggested the furthest reaches, where only the most determined hikers would venture, there were always some beardy weirdos and their birkenstocked, sturdy-legged girlfriends admiring the view. He was rapidly running out of patience. Then came the brainwave. A walk over the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge – A fall from there would kill anyone and there must be the odd opportunity, when no one was looking, to trip and push, then act the devastated husband – there might even be a chance of some compo – that would be an unlooked for bonus! What was also unlooked for was the modern obsession with Health and Safety. Arnold very quickly realised that he should have followed his wife’s oft-given advice, research, research, research! Then he would have known that the climbers are harnessed and lashed together like a chain gang, with no possibility of a tragic “incident.” The walk was bloody hard work, accompanied by enthusiastic young Aussies who wanted to share their love of their great city and the wonderful, panoramic view from the apex. To make matters worse Arnold was attached for the long walk to a “bridge bore” who appeared to have personally counted every rivet and girder and seemingly knew the names of the men who built this wonder of the modern world. If he had managed to throw Freda over the side, he would gladly have risked the “double” and chucked the bore right after her! Ever enthusiastic, Freda then wanted to walk around the Opera House when they were finally released from the tyranny of the Bridge and Arnold was too weary to argue. He had to thank his lucky stars when his indomitable wife led him to the furthest point possible behind the milky-white structure, for suddenly they were alone with only a railing between Freda and the choppy, dark waters of Sydney Cove. 34

He tried to hide his glee as he encouraged her to lean on the rail while he took the photograph, silently taking a deep breath and girding himself for a sudden run and a heave. All his muscles tensed, ready for the moment; the instant when he would be converted from a husband to a widower and he would be free forever, with all his author wife’s royalties rolling in, year after year, and not a penny of it wasted on her fatuous “action” holidays and pet charities. “By the way, sweetheart,” she said suddenly, as he lowered the camera, “I almost forgot to tell you. I had an email on my phone from my agent. She absolutely loved the idea I had for the next novel set in Australia and she has already negotiated triple my usual advance from the publisher!” Triple! Arnold knew for a fact that her usual advance was in the hundreds of thousands, so triple would be bringing them enticingly close to millionaire status – but no Freda, no book, no millions! He sagged as though she had punched him – it would be another year at least before she would finish writing and he could carry out his plan – still, it would be worth the wait! They began to stroll back along “Writer’s Walk” towards their hotel, Freda still stopping every now and then to take more pictures or remark on the names of writers on the plaques at their feet. Impatiently Arnold forged ahead, eager now to get back and treat himself to a very large whisky. He half-turned and called back to her to hurry, failing utterly to hear or see that he had stepped directly into the path of a large and speeding skateboarder. He found himself bowled off his feet and into the air like the last skittle in a bowling alley and the last thing he saw hurtling towards him as he plunged face-first onto the pavement, was the sun glinting off the brass plaque dedicated to the “Queen of Crime” Agatha Christie. Who could have known that Arnold had been cursed from birth with a skull so fragile that the slightest blow would have smashed it like a fine bone china tea cup? Of course, the poor widowed Freda earned a fortune on the back of her husband’s tragic end; and within two years, had her very own plaque on the Sydney Walk of Fame. *

Author of the The Inspector Lazarus Mysteries

77 ½ Magical Healing Herbs

By Ronesa Aveela

Horsetail Venture into the magical, healing world of herbs and embrace the power of nature. This article is taken from the book 77 ½ Magical Healing Herbs, which is an introduction to herbs found in a special Midsummer’s wreath. This is an especially enchanting time of year. Among the Bulgarians, the day is called Eniovden. You may think herbs are only for spicing up food and healing the body and mind, but they have other uses, as well. This unique herbal book is an essential guide for tapping into the power of herbs. It highlights centuries of lore and historical facts about healing and magical uses of herbs from Slavic and other traditions. Please see the medical and magical disclaimers before you try any of the recipes from the book.

***

Viscum album European mistletoe Description: Hollow stems grow from a creeping rhizome. Yellowish-green, yellowishpink, or brown stems, which grow first, are fertile and produce spores. After those have 36

wilted, green ring-shaped stems, which are sterile, appear. The jointed stems grow to a height of between 4 to 36 inches (10 to 90 cm), with the average being around 2 feet (60 cm). The stems can have up to twenty joints, each being about 1 to 2 inches (2 to 5 cm) long. The plant produces no flowers, bearing spores instead. The green stems grow needle-like leaves, looking like small Christmas trees. The rhizomes can grow up to 3 feet (1 meter) long and 6 feet (2 meters) deep. History and Traditions: The genus name comes from the Latin equus for “horse” and seta for “bristle,” referring to the bristle-like leaves. The specific name is derived from the Latin arvum for “ploughed,” because of how the plant grows in disturbed soils. Its common name of horsetail is in reference to the fact that a bunch of the plants bunched together look like a horse’s tail. Horsetail is believed to be a descendant of plants that existed up to 600 million years ago. Not only that, but it’s one of the oldest medicinal plants known, having been a treatment for inflammation and kidney problems. Poorer Romans are believed to have eaten it as a vegetable. The plant is abrasive and was a method of scouring pewter and wooden utensils. Habitat and Distribution: Native to the arctic and temperate regions of North America, Europe, and Asia. It also can be found in the southern hemisphere in South America, Australia, and New Zealand. The plant grows in damp areas, open woodlands, pastures, and disturbed areas. Growth: Perennial. The spore-producing stems grow in April and May, while the sterile ones grow after the others have wilted. These grow until autumn frosts arrive. The plant prefers wet soil and shade.

Harvesting: The green fern-like part is used. Harvest the plant from June through October. Cut the stems about 8 inches (20 cm) from the top. Gather a bunch of the stems and put a paper bag over them. Tie it with a string and hang it upside down in a warm, wellventilated room. Poke holes in the bag so air circulates through it. When they’re dry, store them for up to four years. Medical Use: Only the green fern-like parts are used medically, not the roots. Not enough clinical research data exists to verify the plant’s health benefits, but it has been a traditional remedy for osteoporosis, tuberculosis, and kidney problems, as well as used as a diuretic, to stop bleeding, and to heal wounds. It’s made into a tea, added to baths, and applied as a compress. Due to the naturally occurring calcium, magnesium, potassium, and other minerals, the herb helps maintain healthy bones and joints, strengthen hair and teeth, and keep skin wrinkle-free. Its strong diuretic effect makes it useful in losing weight. Rituals and Magical Use: Horsetail can be added to pouches or amulets to increase fertility. Hang it on your bedpost or above your bed to increase your chance of conceiving. If you have relationship or situational problems, especially those where you need to let go of the past, the plant can help you strengthen your willpower and define boundaries. It also offers protection against intruders, is an anti-aging herb, and can summon or charm snakes. Other Use: The tan-colored shoots that appear first have been eaten as a vegetable, but their safety has not been proven. The green stalks are not edible. Although the plant has not been proven to grow hair, it is thought to replenish minerals such as selenium in the diet, which does promote healthy hair. The plant produces various dyes when boiled, and an extract acts as a fungicide.

Other Names: Field horsetail, common horsetail, corn horsetail, bottle brush, pewterwort. Aromatic: Horsetail has a mild grass-like flavor, which is considered pleasant enough as a tea by itself without honey. CAUTION: Large quantities are toxic. An enzyme in the herb breaks down vitamin B1 and may cause thiamine deficiency. Children and pregnant and lactating women should not use. Do not consume if you have alcohol-use disorder, diabetes, or a thiamine deficiency. Consult a medical professional before use.

Discovering Gold In addition to other nutrients the horsetail root system retrieves from the soil, the plant can suck soluble forms of gold from groundwater and accumulate them in its cell membranes. It’s only nanoparticles that you’ll find, not a nugget, but the presence of the particles indicates the existence of gold in the ground or water. Remedy for Skin Care An infusion of horsetail can help cleanse your skin of problems such as pimples, psoriasis, and eczema. Mix equal parts of horsetail with linden tree (Tilia) blossoms. Pour a cup of boiling water over 1 Tablespoon of the mixture and let it infuse for 1 hour. Strain the mixture. Dip a cotton swab into the warm liquid and wipe it across your skin before you go to sleep. You can also freeze the liquid into cubes and do the same thing. 39

*** Herbs are powerful, but they can also be dangerous. MEDICAL LIABILITY DISCLAIMER: The information in this article, in the book and on our website is not intended to be medical advice, nor does it claim that the herbs listed are safe or effective to use in the manners described. It is not meant to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease. It is merely a brief summary of various herbal folk remedies and how they have been used in the past and may still be used today. With the exception of a few personal recipes, we have not tried any of these remedies and cannot verify their effectiveness or safety.

MAGICAL DISCLAIMER: Magical ingredients and spells are for entertainment only. We have not tried any of these remedies, nor do we make any claims as to their effectiveness or safety.

77 and a Half Herbs? The wheels in your mind have probably been turning as you think, “77½ herbs is an odd number.” And you’re right. But it’s a special, magical number, referring to herbs gathered on Eniovden, June 24, when Bulgarians celebrate Midsummer’s Day. If you want to find out the secret of the half herb, you’ll have to read the book. https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/ronesa-aveela/77-1-2-magical-healing-herbsthe-secret-power-of-herbs Ronesa Aveela is “the creative power of two.” Two authors that is. The main force behind the work, the creative genius, was born in Bulgaria and moved to the US in the 1990s. She grew up with stories of wild Samodivi, Kikimora, the dragons Zmey and Lamia, Baba Yaga, and much more. Her writing partner was born and raised in the New England area. She has a background in writing and editing, as well as having a love of all things from different cultures. She’s learned so much about Bulgarian culture, folklore, and rituals, and writes to share that knowledge with others.

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The Ring

By Sylva Fae https://www.facebook.com/SylvaFae

“Are you sure this is the right day, Rosie?” Phil asked as he unpacked the flask from the backpack. I shared out the last of the coffee and handed Phil a cup. “Yes, you know it is. I’ve had it marked in the diary all year.” “I don’t think he’s coming. If he’s not here by the time we’ve finished our coffee, we’ll go. We’ve been here three hours already, and it really was a long shot that he’d turn up.” “Let’s just stay another hour. Please?” I pleaded. I stuck my hand in my pocket, feeling for the ring. It was still there. Last year... “Race you to the top!” As per usual, Phil cheated and set off running before he finished the sentence. I jogged the last few steps, letting him win. “Look at that view! It’s glorious up here today. It’s worth the trek up here just for that view.”

“Yes, and it’s the perfect place for a picnic. I’m starving!” Phil replied, unpacking his backpack. “Are you going to come join me? Rosie? Hello...earth to Rosie. Are you people-watching again?” “Yeah, sorry. Do you see that couple over there? The young man and that old lady?” “Yes, what about them? Rosie, can you be a bit more subtle, you’re staring.” “Oops! I just wonder what their story is. He looks sad and her clothing seems oddly inappropriate for a trek up a hill. What’s he doing?” I watched as he picked up a rock and added it to a small pile.

“Nosy Rosie strikes again! Leave them in peace and come have something to eat. I’m...” “Starving? Yeah, you’re always hungry,” I giggled as I unwrapped the sandwiches. I couldn’t help glancing over at the odd couple as we ate our lunch. “He’s leaving.” “So?” Phil rolled his eyes. “We came up here to see the view, not stare at random strangers.” “Yes, but look! He’s gone back down the rocky path and left the old lady on her own. Do you think she’s OK?” Phil glanced over. “She looks fine to me. Maybe, she is going to take the easy path down, or maybe they weren’t even here together.” “I’m going to talk to her, check she’s OK.” “Seriously, Rosie?” I heard Phil muttering something but my mind was made up. I wandered over to where the lady was sitting on a large boulder. Up close, I could see that the man had been adding rocks to a small cairn. I sat close to the lady and smiled, but she seemed lost in thought. “It’s so beautiful up here, isn’t it?” I said. “Yes, it was one of our favourite places when we were young. Now, we just come here once a year,” she replied, still gazing at the path the man had taken. “We love it here too. That’s my husband over there,” I said pointing. “He looks nice. My son’s getting married next year.” “Was that your son who was here earlier?” “Yes, that was James. We used to bring him here when he was little. He moved to Canada a few years ago to be close to his fiancé’s family, but he comes back to visit me. We make the trip up here on the same day every year.” My curiosity was burning but before I could ask more, she continued. “This will be my last trip up here and I’m so annoyed at myself. Look!” The old lady handed me a gold wedding ring inset with four tiny diamonds, “I forgot give him this; and now, he’s gone and I won’t be able to get it to him.” 43

I looked at the ring, there were two names engraved inside: James and Emily. I went to hand back the ring but she closed my hand over it. .“Will you give it to him for me, please?” “Well, I’m not sure, I don’t know him and...” I faltered not quite knowing what to say. “It would make me happy. I won’t make it to the wedding but if you give him this ring, I can be a part of it in a small way.” The old lady gazed into the distance again while I pondered what to do. We do this walk often, it would be no hardship to come back. “So he’ll be back here next year?”

“Yes, dear. Same day, every year.” I said my goodbyes, promising I would do my best to get the ring to her son, then wandered back over to Phil. “So, did you satisfy your nosiness then?” Phil asked. I filled him in on the strange conversation we’d had and showed him the ring. “She sounds a bit loopy to me. Why didn’t she just post it to her son? Surely that’s easier than trusting a random nosy stranger to return in a year. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?” Phil shook his head. “Well, when you say it like that, yes it does sound odd. Maybe, I should give it back to her and suggest she post it instead.” I glanced back towards the rock cairn. “Too late, she’s gone. And I did make her a promise...”

Present day... “Look Phil, there’s a man coming up the path. Do you think that could be him?” “I don’t know. Don’t go rushing over, Rosie, let’s just wait until he gets closer.” The man headed straight to the cairn and tidied the fallen rocks back into place. “You stay here, I’ll go ask him if his name is James.” I ignored Phil’s exasperated sigh and wandered over. “Hi, I know this is going to sound weird, but is your name James?”

The man nodded and stared in confusion. It was the look of someone trying to work out whether he knew me. “You were here last year, so were we and I spoke to your mum after you left and...” “I was here, but you have the wrong person,” he replied abruptly.

I held out the ring for him to see. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was supposed to give this ring to a James who comes here on the same day every year.” I cringed inwardly as I turned to leave. “Wait, I don’t understand but that looks like my mum’s ring. Let me have a closer look.” “The lady I spoke to wanted her James to have it for their wedding. She had the names James and Emily engraved inside,” I added. “Emily’s my fiancé. We’re getting married in a couple of months,” he replied looking even more confused as he examined the ring. “So I have got the right James then?” James faltered, “I...I think so but I just don’t get it. It’s true I come here every year, but last year was the first time I came alone. I came to scatter Mum’s ashes with my Dad’s.”

Sylva Fae is a married mum of three from Lancashire, England. She has spent twenty years teaching literacy to adults with learning difficulties and disabilities, and now works from home as a children’s writer and illustrator.

Hollin Hey Short Story By Sylva Fae

The farmhouse stood proudly on the hill overlooking the town below. Its white render glowed brightly against the dark fields that led to the moors beyond. It stood out from the landscape as now it stands out in my memory, a magical place of fun and laughter. Once a majestic manor, it had become a gently worn farmhouse, with 350 years of memories echoing round its walls. Hollin Hey was more than just a home, it was a refuge for waifs and strays and a place of safety for the injured and unwanted. From the holly-lined driveway to the dry-stone walls, the garden was filled with a menagerie of mad animals. I'm not sure if they came with issues or whether they adapted to fit into our eclectic family, but each one had its own quirky personality. It all started when my mum proclaimed, "What this garden needs is some chickens." She had this idyllic dream of the gentle cooing of hens and collecting fresh eggs for breakfast. A trip to the local farmers’ market started her dream but instead of the brood of plump birds we were expecting, mum came home with the most pathetic, scrawny creatures I'd ever seen. What feathers remained were dull and caked in mud. They nestled together in the box, with more of a whimper than a coo.

"Nobody wanted them," Mum said sadly. "I felt sorry for the poor, little things." They looked so forlorn huddled in the corner of their new pen, shivering despite the warm sunshine. Within a week though, they tentatively ventured out. The freedom to roam, good food and a dry hut soon had them resembling something like a chicken. As they grew in size, they grew in confidence and explored their new home with clucks of delight. It wasn't long before they'd established a sunbathing routine, scratched up the lawn, and designated the doorstep as a toilet, much to my dad's annoyance. 46

With the chickens settled in, Mum announced, "What this garden needs are a couple of geese to guard the place while we're at work." And so it continued. Mum's announcements became more frequent and our dysfunctional family grew. Sam, the sheepdog with a fear of sheep, was next to bound into our lives. He claimed a sofa and discovered his vocation as a hen herder. A giant rabbit called Cally took over as 'top dog' and guarded the house with ferocious tenacity. Word spread locally of the strange people on the hill and their wonky collection of free-range misfits. Donations from well-meaning neighbours flooded in: injured and unwanted creatures, mad, lame or wild, none were turned away. Lawnmowerstrimmed hedgehogs snuffled into the pile of sticks and leaves in the corner of the garden, embarrassed by their reverse Mohicans. They bedded down and hid away while their spines grew back. Ducks, chucks and pullets flocked in, wrecking the lawn with their dust bathing and adding to the poop on the doorstep. Sam revelled in his new role and practised synchronised duck herding - the chickens had long since grown bored of this game and fluttered out of reach mocking him. My dad was kept busy building huts to house each new resident to keep them warm, and safe from foxes during the night. During the day they all roamed free causing mayhem and mess. Mum's dream was becoming a reality, a noisy, messy reality but we loved it. We learnt quickly how to care for our growing brood, the injured were healed, the wild returned to their natural habitats, and the rest grew fat and content in their new home. Cally rabbit kept order well, and we settled into a routine. We started working with the local wildlife sanctuary, taking on animals and birds that needed release into the wild. Hollin Hey became a safe haven under the ever-watchful eye of a giant bunny. The garden started to resemble Mum's dream as I started my final year of school. Lester the potbellied pig romped into our lives creating havoc wherever he went. That pig had a great sense of humour and proved to be a better sheepdog than Sam. A pair of mischievous billy goats, Bruce and Max, was added to the mix and we decided that was definitely enough. Actually, Dad said that after each new creature joined us. Mum never could resist a sad story though, and that was how our most challenging recruit came to us. A young crow, who'd been reared in captivity then kicked back into the wild, appeared one autumn day. With his flight feathers clipped he was unable to fly or defend himself and had already been beaten up by the rowdy, local sparrows. The wildlife sanctuary told us of his sorry start in life and warned he was unlikely to survive. This earned him a place at Hollin Hey. We endeavoured to give him a fighting chance to reclaim his place in the wild. 47

Unlike the scaredy chickens, as we lifted the cardboard lid, he gave a triumphant 'Caw' and peered out defiantly. Jet black eyes met mine and twinkled. I was sure I saw intelligence and mirth behind them. He fluttered forward to my outstretched hand, fell lopsided, but hopped back up and onto my finger. A silent moment of acceptance passed between us and for a second, I wished I could keep this marvellous creature as a pet. My reverie was broken by a sharp peck to the knuckles as my new friend tried to steal the shiny stone from my ring. Claws gouged grooves across my hand as I shuffled him gently back into the box. Maybe I'd have to rethink the tame pet idea. "What shall we name him?" Mum asked. The big characters had been named, those who would be staying, but the wildlings remained just that. With our adopted naming system, this straggly crow should stay as crow but something about him demanded a name. I stared into his coal eyes; he cocked his head to one side and regarded me quizzically. "Ceefer!" Mum suddenly blurted out. "C for crow," I giggled and Ceefer gave a loud 'Caw!' "Ceefer it is then." Ceefer was not impressed by being shut back in his box while we transported him to the abandoned barn over the wall. He shouted his annoyance all the way, claws scratching the cardboard as he tried to get out. The shoulder height hayloft was a perfect home, high enough to be safe from foxes and big enough for Ceefer to have freedom to recuperate. The ledge had a scattering of straw, sticks and old plant pots, all festooned with cobwebs and covered in dust. There were plenty of places for an inquisitive crow to explore and hide in. A grimy, cracked window let in just enough light to sparkle the dust motes disturbed by our entrance. He emerged from the box with a fluttering of wings and a disgruntled cry, and scuttled off to explore his new home. We placed a bowl of puppy food and a shallow tray of water at the side of the ledge and retreated quietly. The light dimmed as I slowly pulled the door to. Peeping through, I took one last look at Ceefer. He stood in the shadows, head cocked to one side watching, then he sidestepped into the sliver of light, nodded and gave a loud 'Caw!' Maybe my fanciful nature was imposing human values on a wild bird, but it felt like gratitude coming from this tiny, fragile creature. Perhaps it was just relief to be out of the box. Whatever it was, I felt we'd made a connection. "Good bye Ceefer. I hope you like your new home." As the first week went by, Ceefer grew accustomed to our presence. He'd rearranged the eightfoot square space, piling the straw and sticks in one corner and annoyingly, he'd designated the water tray as a toilet area. 'Ah well, he'll get on well with the chickens', I thought as I rinsed the tray and added fresh water. Ceefer craved company. He soon learned our routine and would be waiting at the edge of his ledge, cawing with excitement. At first, I thought the food was the allure but as soon as someone approached within hopping distance, he quickly scooted up an arm to sit on a shoulder. I'd learnt my lesson the hard way and I had the scars to prove it. I now knew to take off any jewellery and wear a jacket, whatever the weather, to protect against sharp claws and brutal pecks.

There was intelligence behind Ceefer's jet eyes. He appeared to listen to everything, and was a great audience for my ramblings. I absent-mindedly told him about my day and the antics of the other animals. He listened, head cocked, as I chatted about which chickens had roosted in Mum's favourite roses or how the pullets had escaped to the field. He pecked at the loose thread on my sleeve as I recounted the tale of how the pig had chased and terrorised the postman; the poor guy literally bolted across the yard and over the gate. Ceefer took it all in, watching as I filled his food bowl. I arrived one day with a handful of mealworms, a favourite treat of Ceefer's. As usual I called to him as I lifted the heavy iron catch of the barn door, but I was met with silence. I rushed in fearing the worst - cats, foxes, had a dog got in? I scattered the mealworms on the ledge, shouting to him. Nothing. Trying to avoid the spider webs, I moved the plant pots, hoping he wouldn't be there. Instead of the cold bundle of feathers I dreaded finding, I found a stash of treasure. I had no idea where Ceefer had found all this stuff, but hidden in the corner was a pile of teaspoons, nails, a broken earring, silver foil and bits of metal. My beady eyed crow had a love of all things shiny. Carefully, I replaced the pots to hide his treasure and called again. A familiar scratching of claws came from somewhere out in the larger part of the barn, followed by an excited, 'Caw, caw, caw!' To my amazement, he fluttered down from the beams above and landed on my head. I giggled as he made his way down my outstretched arm. Ceefer dropped his most recent find onto my hand, a broken silver chain. "Thank you, my friend," I said, attempting to stroke his head. My affection was met with a sharp peck to the knuckles. I shuffled him off my arm onto the ledge but he fluttered straight back on. Like a proud mother I watched him fluttering from the ledge to the beam and back to my shoulder. "Now you're just showing off, Ceefer," I said as he cawed back triumphantly. His new wing feathers were starting to grow back. They didn't quite hold his weight enough for flying but they gave him a new-found freedom to explore. My little friend had become a treasure hunter.

Mum and I discussed releasing Ceefer back into the wild with a mixture of excitement and sadness. Over the next few weeks we scattered his food further away, hiding bits around the rubbish that had collected in the corners of the barn. Ceefer was forced to search and forage for his food. Each visit, we found an empty ledge but within minutes, he would appear with an excited 'caw', bringing a shiny gift. My own collection of nails and teaspoons was growing as large as Ceefer's treasure pile. "Right, my little friend," I said in response to his raspy call. "How would you like to meet the rest of the menagerie?" He hopped onto my shoulder and tucked his latest spoon down my collar. Wandering down the lane, I pointed out the field that led onto the moors, and showed him the holly-lined driveway that gave the house its name. Finally, we came to the gate. Ceefer shifted on my shoulder and nuzzled under my hair, a low, throaty rumble buzzing against my ear as he watched our dozy guard dog lumbering towards the gate woofing his welcome. Jack hadn't even noticed my shoulder companion and jumped up at the gate to be stroked. Ceefer peeked out from under my hair. Maybe it was the sunlight glinting off Sam's collar tag, or maybe just curiosity, but Ceefer hopped onto the surprised dog's back. Sam bolted into the garden, scattering basking chickens and lazy ducks. Ceefer rode the bucking sheepdog, intent on claiming the silver dog tag and apparently unaware of the commotion he was causing. Bruce and Max, already expert mischief makers, quickly joined in the game, leaping ducks and taunting Sam. I collapsed giggling at the scene, unable to do anything productive. Mum came scurrying out of the house to rescue the poor dog. With Ceefer on Mum's shoulder, Sam slunk off to his kennel. Cally rabbit herded the ducks back to the pond and calm resumed once more. It wasn't quite the visit I'd had in mind but Ceefer didn't appear to be traumatised by his introduction to the rest of the gang. 50

Mum and I took turns to take Ceefer for walks each day. Some days we'd wander up the fields, accompanied by Sam, other days we'd potter along the hedgerows down the lane. Ceefer's wing feathers were now fully grown back. He delighted in flying from shoulder to tree and back again. We gradually reduced his food until he was totally fending for himself. Ceefer was ready to go. He just didn't know it yet. Towards the end of the summer, I was preoccupied with planning to leave home and go off to university. Mum took over walking the crow while I packed and planned. Finally, I could do no more, my belongings were packaged up and my childhood packed into a trunk in the corner of my bedroom. My stomach churned with the excitement of new beginnings and the thought of leaving behind all that I'd known. I knew a walk in the fresh air would do me good. I collected Ceefer from the barn and slipped the broken silver keyring in my pocket, after retrieving it from down my top where the cheeky crow had shoved it. Mum and I set off up the hill in a companionable silence; even Ceefer seemed to sense the mood and wasn't chattering away. We reached the top of the hill where the fields bordered the moors. An old stone gatepost was the only thing to break up the landscape. Whatever the gate had led to had long since crumbled away but the post remained, a mysterious remnant of the past. I slumped down, back resting against the post as I caught my breath. Ceefer took flight and I smiled as I watched him glide on the wind currents then swoop down to the ground. I watched as he circled the trees that edged the field below. From here I could see my whole childhood world. Hollin Hey looked like a dolls' house with miniature animals roaming outside. Just a shiny speck of black floating on the wind, Ceefer did a circuit of the house, swooping down to the garden and back up to roof. He glided down the holly-lined driveway and followed the trees back up the hill. Mum and I sat in silence as we watched him soar on new wings. He swooped and curled back up to the stone post where we sat. Automatically I held out my hand for him to land on but instead he fluttered just out of reach. Shiny black eyes met mine and with a loud 'Caw' he was off. With a mixture of pride and sadness, we watched as he disappeared over the tree line. "He's not coming back this time, is he?" I said, not really needing an answer. "No," said Mum. "And now it's time for my other baby to fly the nest." Sylva Fae owns a wood where she and her husband run survival courses and woodland craft days. She escapes to the woods at every possible opportunity to enjoy the peace and fresh air. She takes the girls off on adventures in their own enchanted woodland, hunting for fairies and stomping in muddy puddles. You can connect with Sylva through Facebook https://www.facebook.com/SylvaFae

Vacillating

By Melanie P. Smith https://melaniepsmith.com

“Look,” Lisa exclaimed. “There he is. I told you he’d come.” She leaned over the railing and waved frantically, hoping to get Ezra’s attention. Tony couldn’t stop the excited grin that spread across his face. He immediately whipped off his hat and began waving both hands, hoping to catch his friend’s eye. It was a beautiful afternoon. Spring in the Rockies could be unpredictable. But nothing would keep them from this annual trip — just the three of them, hanging out, catching up, and sleeping under the stars for an entire weekend.

Ezra grinned and waved in relief when he spotted his two closest friends. He desperately needed their help — but was it fair to ask? Fear gripped him with so much force, he struggled to breathe as the predator suffocating his soul surfaced. A sadistic anticipation filled Ezra and his eyes flashed a deep crimson red before fading to black, then returning to the translucent hazel of his youth.

Ezra sagged in defeat. Maybe this was a bad idea — but it was his only hope. He stumbled over a large rock protruding out of the hard-packed dirt, regained his balance and continued forward. Hatred coursed through him, heat flowed through his veins, and he struggled to breathe. He stopped abruptly, clenched his hands, and dug his fingernails into his palms as he fought an internal battle of wills. Finally, he wrestled back control — again. But for how long? He swiped his arm across his brow, clenched his jaw, and forced a fake smile. He was so tired, and his muscles felt like limp noodles, but he was still alive. That alone was something to celebrate. He swallowed hard and gave himself a moment to enjoy his latest triumph — grateful he was able to push down the predator and lock him deep inside. It wouldn’t last, he knew that, but he’d never stop fighting. And he knew Lisa and Tony would help — or they’d die trying. Ezra hopped over the railing and held onto the feelings of joy and love he felt when the three of them embraced. “Are you okay?” Lisa pulled back and studied his eyes. There was something different about Ezra and it worried her. “We need to head out,” Ezra evaded. “We have a long hike ahead of us.”

Tony launched himself over the rail. “Let’s get this party started.” “Tell us all about your latest adventure,” Lisa inquired. “Do you still love it? I was sure you’d get tired of living off grid by now. I thought you’d hang up your medicine man hat and in exchange for a job at a nice, cushy hospital. And a place with hot water and a nice comfy mattress.” “I think that sounds like paradise,” Ezra would hang up his backcountry doctor hat and stay in the city — if he survived. They rounded a bend and spotted their favorite camping spot. Ezra already had the tents erected and wood piled next to the pit. “You’ve been busy,” Tony studied his friend in surprise. “When did you get here?” “I headed straight here,” Ezra evaded. “I thought I’d get a jump on things.” “That wasn’t necessary,” Lisa objected. “We always set up camp together.” “Not this time,” Ezra barked. “Stop acting like ungrateful, spoiled brats and let’s get dinner started.” He stomped away and disappeared into his tent. Lisa blinked, then blinked again. She would have sworn Ezra’s eyes flashed bright red, then faded back to hazel — but that was impossible. She turned and focused on Tony. “There’s something wrong.” “Yeah,” Tony started forward. “Stay close to me until we figure out what’s going on.” Hours later, the group sat around the campfire and silently watched the flames dance against the darkness. The only light was the full moon shining above. Embers crackled and glided upwards before they cooled and settled on the soft dirt and wild grass. 53

“I’m in trouble,” Ezra admitted. “My last assignment, the tribe I visited last week, they were dying from a strange illness. Nearby villages were terrified, but we headed in to investigate — like we always do. My team, all of them, are dead. I’m the only survivor and I’m fighting a losing battle. “Your eyes are glowing red,” Lisa stumbled back and collided with Tony. He wrapped an arm around her and studied Ezra. “What’s inside of you?” Tony demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ezra fought to regain control. “Something evil.” “What should we do?” Lisa burrowed into Tony’s chest. Tony frowned, maneuvered Lisa behind him, shoved the stick he was holding into the fire, and without warning, flicked several hot coals toward Ezra. Ezra hissed, and his eyes glowed red. “It doesn’t like fire,” Tony rushed to his tent, grabbed the thick rope from his gear and returned to study his friend. “Can you control it long enough for me to tie you down?”

“What are you going to do?” Lisa’s eyes grew wide. “We’re going to force that thing out of Ezra,” Tony tied the rope around Ezra’s ankles, then secured them to a large tree. “Get on the ground.” Ezra dropped to his back. Tony tied one arm to a tree before Ezra began to hiss and thrash. When he couldn’t get free, he spewed foul, hateful words toward his friends. Tony leapt onto Ezra, braced his arm with his knee and secured the rope around his friend's other wrist. “Give me that roasting stick, the one that’s been inside the fire.” “It’s red hot,” Lisa objected. “Exactly,” Tony held it inches away from Ezra’s face. Ezra’s eyes glowed bright red. He hissed, thrashed, and tried to escape the radiant metal. “Put that other one in the fire,” Tony demanded. He waved the glowing stick in front of Ezra’s face, then switched them out when the metal cooled. It took four tries, but finally a black mist began to retreat from Ezra's eyes, his ears, and his nose. Lisa screamed. Tony grabbed another hot stick and blocked the eerie mist that was creeping along the hard pack dirt, forcing it toward the river. Lisa kept grabbing sticks from the flames and thrust them toward Tony. He used the fiery weapons to block the path of the evil mist and forced it toward the edge of the forest. The mist slithered above the ground, looking for a victim. 54

Tony watched in horror as it continued forward, engulfed a coyote on the opposite side of the river, and was sucked into the animal through its nose like a vacuum sucking up dirt. The coyote’s eyes glowed red and focused on Tony. It took one step forward, growled, and was about to lunge when Ezra stepped forward and fired a gun toward the feral animal. The coyote howled, turned and bolted — flying through the forest with lightning fast speed that was unnatural and terrifying. “What do we do now?” Tony turned to Ezra. “We pack up and leave,” he sobered. “I think this year, I’d rather stay at the spa and lounge by the pool.” “I second that.” Lisa moved to stand between her friends. “Camping is seriously overrated.”

Melanie P. Smith — Long before she delved into the world of fantasy and suspense, Melanie served nearly three decades in the Special Operations Division at her local sheriff’s office; working with SWAT, Search and Rescue, K9, the Motor Unit, Investigations, and the Child Abduction Response Team. She now uses that training and knowledge to create stories that are action-packed, gripping, and realistic. When Melanie’s not penning her next adventure, she can be found riding her Harley, exploring the wilderness, or capturing that next great photo.

Short Story Arianna blinked in surprise and glanced around, unsure where she was and how she got here. A thick, cloying mist settled over her body — making her feel like she was suffocating. She slowly inhaled, coughed, and inhaled again — hoping a few deep breaths would calm her pounding heart. Instead, her nostrils filled with the tangy smell of something rotting. She gagged, then coughed and instinctively pressed one palm to the damp, mossy earth for support as she covered her face with her other hand. Arianna had a bad feeling about this — a very bad feeling. She lowered her forehead to her knees and tried to think — tried to push away the terror and the strange sense of grief that she didn’t understand. Where was she, and why was she here? She didn’t know. No matter how hard she tried to remember, her mind was blank — well, except for a distant sense of urgency that was buried just under the surface. Resigned, she 56

glanced up and spotted a beautiful brown horse just a few feet away. He was wearily watching, waiting for something, with a guarded look in his eyes. She straightened, pushed her body forward — away from the tree — and surveyed the area. It looked familiar, yet foreign. She was in a forest, but something was wrong. It was quiet here, eerily silent — no birds chirped from the treetops, no butterflies flittered through the air, no bees buzzed around happily looking for that next beautiful flower. There weren’t any flowers. Here there was just decomposing moss and fog mixed with a sharp awareness of something sinister. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, and that sense of urgency intensified. She actually jumped when she heard the distinct sound of a branch snapping. Worried, she pivoted and shifted into a crouched position. Her palm hit something wooden, something long and sleek and smooth. Confused, she focused on the object and realized it was a bow. Her eyes traveled across the damp mossy earth and landed on a quiver full of arrows. Frowning, she slid her body toward the weapon and spotted the sword hidden behind another tree. The instant she wrapped her hand around the flexible arch of the bow, her body relaxed, and a feeling of confidence engulfed her.

Instinct took over, and she swung the quiver over her shoulder before she plucked up the bow and stood. She took two steps, stopped, snatched up the sword and moved toward the edge of an overgrown trail. She gripped the bow, slid an arrow into place, and crouched. The stress and anxiety that hung on her shoulders like a yoke mere moments before slid away the instant she got into position. She was in her element now, and she knew what to do. Arianna frowned; how did she know what to do? She wasn’t a warrior she was — she didn’t know, couldn’t remember anything but her name. She rubbed her thumb over the sleek wood of the bow and knew, deep inside, she was a warrior. She had adapted and changed out of necessity — not choice. The knowledge comforted her. Her mind relaxed, but her body was on high alert, tense and ready for battle. The bushes rustled only a few feet away. Soon, it would be soon. In a matter of seconds, she would know who or what was coming for her. Arianna worked to level her breathing and remain completely silent, but she couldn’t control the nerves — her body was thrumming with anticipation. Still, she wasn’t afraid. She was ready to strike at just the right moment. She saw the foliage to her left shift, and she gripped the bow, prepared to fire. After another brief second, she froze and gaped in shock at the scaley, gray skinned creature that emerged from the shadows. A dragon? How was that possible? The mythical creature casually jumped onto the trail and ambled toward her. What should she do? Was he friend or foe? She did not know. “Halt,” she called out. “Not again,” the dragon sighed. “We’ve been here before, Arianna. You may not remember, but you know it’s true. You can shoot that offensive projectile toward me. I’ll counter, and you will wound me, but in the end, the conflict will be a waste of valuable time. Let’s skip the whole messy ordeal and proceed to the next phase unscathed.” 57

“I don’t understand. How do you know my name?” “I am a friend,” the dragon told her. “This harness is for you. We’ve been here before — many times. Relax your mind. Let yourself feel the truth and you will know what I say is true. We must go. Climb on and let us get started.” “I don’t —” she paused at the brief flicker of awareness that flashed through her mind. She believed him, but why? How? She glanced back at the horse, confused. “Arianna,” the dragon pushed. “You must leave him here or he will die. Come quickly. There is something different about this quest. I fear, if we fail, the consequences will be permanent. We must go.” Arianna hesitated for another few seconds, then she flung her bow over her shoulder, grabbed her sword, and hopped onto the dragon’s back. He darted forward, folded his enormous wings into his side, and rushed down the pathway. Before long, the trail flowed from the misty confinement of the trees and emptied onto a paved pathway. Arianna glanced from side to side, trying to take it all in. There were intricately carved statues surrounded by a beautiful garden. Ahead, there was a large, framed structure built into the path, like an entrance to a private oasis or a hidden city — she wasn’t sure which. On either side of the entrance stood two beautiful columns built to hold a candle or a lantern. She was so focused on the structures, she didn’t see the woman — no, not a human. A fairy. The girl had purple hair, antennae that pointed straight into the air, and large delicate wings. She was wearing a leafy green top and a matching skirt. She wore no shoes, but her feet looked delicate and feminine, with purple nails that matched her hair. Arianna frowned, not sure where the fairy came from, but she knew the girl would blend with the shrubbery and the luscious trees. The fact that she was now standing in the middle of the pathway meant she wanted to be seen. “Drozun,” the fairy greeted. “You were quick this time.” “What does she mean this time?” Arianna frowned. “She doesn’t know?” the fairy frowned. “I was quick,” Drozun shrugged. “We are running out of time. It feels different, more urgent. I didn’t take time to explain.” “Arianna,” the fairy focused on the woman. “Can I join you?”

“Uh,” Arianna waited for a response from the dragon. When she didn’t get one, she shrugged. “Sure.” The fairy’s wings fluttered, and her body rose several feet off the ground, then she leaned forward and zoomed onto the back of the dragon. Once she was settled behind Arianna, she gave Drozun a gentle pat. The dragon spread his wings, lunged forward, and flew. They soared over the treetops, into the clouds, and then rose even higher. The fairy pivoted and moved to 58

Arianna’s side to begin her story. “My name is Dahlia Littlesage,” she began. “We are bound in love and friendship and have been since the last cycle of the planet Calarook. Before the mist darkened and began to suffocate our land.” “I have no idea what that means,” Arianna complained. “Let’s just say we are friends and have been for a while. Does that work?” “Yes,” Dahlia smiled. “I forget, you were cursed. I will speak plainly because my message is urgent.” “What do you mean, cursed?” Arianna demanded. “You are Arianna Thronsen,” Dahlia advised. “You were born into a loving, but common, family. You are a maiden, a farm girl, a commoner. Do you understand?” “Sure, okay,” Arianna nodded. “But your family has a secret,” Dahlia explained. “Your mother was a powerful white witch. That necklace you wear is an heirloom, passed down from the great and powerful witch Dorthea Brix.” “I don’t remember my family.” Arianna wrapped a fist around the necklace. “I can’t remember anything about my life. I don’t know who I am, or why I’m here — it’s all a blank.”

“I know.” Dahlia patted her arm in comfort. “I can show you, if you let me.” She reached out a hand and waited for Arianna to take it. Arianna swallowed hard, then reached out with the hand that was gripping the amulet and accepted the hand. Dahlia gripped it firmly, then wrapped her other tiny fist around the wiccan symbol dangling from a thin chain that hung around Arianna’s neck. 59

Arianna gasped in shock as images flooded her mind like a whirlwind. “Is that real?” she demanded when Dahlia finished. “Are those my memories, or did you plant them in my head?” “They are real,” Drozun answered. “You are powerful and dangerous. You are the only hope our world has to survive. That is true because you are the descendant of Dorthea. But, even with that power, you would fail without love.” “You knew her?” Arianna wondered. Was Drozun speaking of the love he had for an ancestor Arianna didn’t know? “Aye,” Drozun whispered. “Continue, Dahlia. We are running out of time.”

“Time for what?” Arianna asked. “Time to save Prince Herington?” Dahlia answered. “Who is —” Arianna stopped. Herington. There was something familiar about that name — a little tingle that tugged at her heart and made her unbearably sad. Before she could evaluate it or understand the emotion, a sudden and urgent feeling of hopelessness swamped her. “Keyden Harington,” Drozun told her. “The man you love with such devotion you risked your own life, your own happiness, to spare his.”

“Where is he?” Arianna demanded. “Why do I have to save him if I risked my life to protect him?” “Because Raven wants him,” Dahlia explained. “She can’t have him though, can she? Keyden loves you as much as you love him. He will never give her what she seeks. Raven cursed you, banished you, and took your memories. She believed Prince Herington would forget you, flick away the memories once you were gone, and join her. She desperately wanted him to reign by her side as she destroys our world in her desperate need for more power.”

“But he didn’t?” Arianna realized. “He loves you,” Dahlia said in such a matter-of-fact way, it didn’t leave room for debate. “What did she do?” Arianna asked, a sinking feeling settled in her stomach. “She condemned him,” Dahlia explained. “She sentenced him to death.” Pain sliced through Arianna, but she pushed it away. “How can I save him?” “She took him to the Mountain of Bones,” Dahlia brushed a tear away. “There she stood with the Scepter of Luna pointed at Prince Herington’s chest. Razza guarded the path, and Keyden was powerless to fight back. He was bound, secured with thick iron manacles to the Archway of the Fallen with no way to escape.” “What happened?” Arianna whispered; her voice was barely audible in the fierce wind that was whipping around them as they sliced through the dark clouds. She didn’t know anything about the mountain or the scepter. She’d never heard of the archway. 60

“You,” Drozun answered. “You arrived just in time. Raven was furious. She cast a spell at the same time you cast your own spell to free Keyden. They were both powerful magic; one was pure, the other dark and destructive. They collided, morphed, and exploded, pulling all of us into an endless vortex. We’re destined to repeat those last moments until one of you makes a different decision and either saves us all — or destroys us forever.” “I don’t understand.” Arianna frowned and glanced around. They were flying over what looked like a city and the landscape looked familiar to her. She was experiencing an uneasy feeling of déjà vu.

“You cast a spell to save Keyden,” Dahlia explained. “Raven’s curse was meant to destroy. When combined, they opened up some kind of time loop. We are reliving the same events again and again. We will continue to live those events until someone changes the pattern. Only you or Raven can alter this reality and send us back to Brahm Tul, to our home. Back to the realm where Prince Herington reigns at Castle Windamere — or, into oblivion through the Archway of the Fallen.” “What happens if they push us through the archway?” Arianna wondered. “I fear we will be lost forever,” Drozun admitted. “I also fear Raven has chosen that destiny for all of us. We have lived and relived this quest every day for the past five years. Today, something has changed, something dark and sinister.” “Why do you remember this quest and why we are here, but I do not?” Arianna felt uneasy about that. She was putting a lot of trust in the dragon and the fairy. What if she was wrong? “When the spell collided, it wiped out your memory,” Dahlia explained. “Fortunately, Raven’s memory was also altered. She may have found a way to retrieve some of what she lost, the way we have been able to explain things to you. We’re not sure, but it feels right. If so, she may believe her magic will save her from destruction, from banishment, if she’s forced into the archway. We believe she is wrong.” “You think she plans to kill us all and somehow cheat death using her own dark magic?” Arianna asked in surprise. From the memories Dahlia had restored, that was impossible and even an evil, malevolent witch should know that. “Or she thinks she can kill us all and somehow escape,” Drozun considered. “We cannot let that happen.” “How do I stop her?” Arianna wondered.

“Only you can find the way,” Drazun advised. “Hold on, we are approaching the archway. I can feel the black, greasy essence of Raven and her faithful pet, Razza.” Drazun glided to the right and dove. They sliced through the clouds and emerged over a rocky outcropping that was covered in tall grass and weeds. His dive was quick and smooth. They were closing in on the ground with so much speed, Arianna wondered if they could pull out in time. She shouldn’t have worried. Drazun made a smooth turn, leveled out, and glided silently 61

over the stark landscape. Arianna studied her surroundings carefully. Everything had a familiar feel to it, but it was also foreign to her. She concentrated on every rock, every outcropping, every cave. She wasn’t sure she should believe the story Dahlia had relayed, but parts of it had a familiar ring to it. So, for now, she’d trust the information and follow her own instincts. If this time was different, what did that mean? Did Raven find a way to break free of the curse and alter history, or was she only allowed to make different decisions to alter the future? Either way, Arianna knew she had to think fast.

An idea struck her. Drazun said they’d been replaying this battle day after day for years. Maybe she’d been battling Raven the same way, never straying from the norm. What did that mean? It meant following her instincts and never deviating from the plan meant failure. Which meant, if she wanted to survive — she’d need to develop a new plan. Before she could explore that option, Drazun increased his speed and flew higher until they were surrounded by heavy white clouds. They were so thick; Arianna couldn’t see anything but white. She could barely see a foot in front of her own face. Then, as quickly as they entered the fluffy barrier, they broke through into blue sky and sharp rocks. That’s when she saw him. Keyden Herington was secured to an archway, his arms spread out, braced in heavy iron chains. His head was dropped nearly to his chest — was he even alive? Arianna’s breath caught when she felt him. A warm, calming feeling of love that was so intense it couldn’t be denied. She loved that man, and she was going to save him. She glanced to the side and spotted a white unicorn guarding the prisoner. “I thought you said Razza was Raven’s guard,” Arianna barked angrily. She couldn’t harm a unicorn. “He is,” Dhalia insisted. “He’s using a form you would find repulsive to harm. You are being manipulated. If you let him, for even one instant, Raven will win and we will die.” “You said we have been here before, fought this battle before,” Arianna focused on Dahlia. “How did it end?” “You saved Keyden, but you died,” Drazun informed her. “How do we win?” “Don’t die,” Dhalia told her. “Did I harm the unicorn?” Arianna wondered. “It is an illusion,” Drozun insisted. “Razza is a demon that can take any form. He is not a unicorn. That form is your weakness. Do not fall for the deception this time.” “Take me to the archway,” Arianna demanded. Drozun looked at Dhalia in understanding and disappointment. Nothing would change. They would fight, Arianna would die and Drozun would sustain injuries that would likely prove fatal 62

as well. They were doomed to repeat the madness for another cycle. Arianna saw the exchange and immediately realized the events of the past were repeating. Think! She told herself. Change the pattern. She focused on the unicorn and wondered if she could take it out. If it wasn’t a real unicorn, if it was something else, something Raven was using to deceive them, she could sacrifice the pet to save the man she loved. But could she trust Dahlia and Drozun? That was the question. When Drozun circled the archway, Arianna gripped her bow in one hand, grabbed her sword in the other, and jumped. She hit the ground, rolled, and leaped to her feet. The instant she was upright, she ran. A woman appeared, blocking her path. Somehow, instinct maybe, she knew it was Raven. There were streaks of bright red flowing through her dark hair. She was small in stature, but Arianna automatically knew she was strong and powerful. She wore a tight leather outfit and her dark locks flowed over her shoulders and down her back. In her right hand, she gripped a scepter with a silver crescent moon prominently displayed on top. In the center was an enormous blue crystal that pulsed. There was a white misty cloud circling within the orb that bounced against the sides in a violently tumultuous storm that reminded Arianna of a tsunami. She briefly wondered if that was Raven’s magic trying to break free. “Arianna,” the woman sneered. “Go home, child. This man has harmed you enough. You do not need to see his execution. Let me protect you from this.”

Arianna focused on Raven, but let her mind wander. She needed a plan, a new plan, one she didn’t use before. How would she know? She raised her bow and aimed an arrow at Raven’s heart. The witch laughed. “Do you plan to kill your own mother?” Arianna’s gaze pivoted, and she glared at Dhalia. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “She is lying,” Dahlia stood firm. 63

“Keyden is the liar, sweetheart,” Raven soothed. “I’m sorry. He seduced you and he lied to you, then he tried to kill you.” “That’s another lie,” Drozun advised. “Trust yourself, Arianna. Trust what you have to do, then do it.” “You can trust me,” Raven countered. “Do not trust the dragon or the fairy. They kidnapped you. The traitor is working with them. They must be destroyed. Join me, my daughter, help me banish them through the archway where they can never hurt anyone again.” “I don’t believe you,” Arianna decided.

“That is a mistake,” Raven growled. “You are a common farm girl, not a warrior. You should look like the peasant you are.” She flicked her wrist and suddenly, Arianna was dressed in a tattered shirt and ripped jeans. She had a shawl draped over her shoulders and her hair was no longer pulled back, away from her face. It hung loose, the soft curls tangled and unkempt. Her weapons were gone now, and it left her feeling vulnerable and weak. The transition was shocking, but Arianna recovered quickly. She reached for the six-pointed star, closed her eyes and whispered a spell that came more naturally to her than breathing. Once it was finished, she transformed back into the warrior. She immediately knew what she had to do. She gripped the sword, pivoted, and ran. “Arianna,” Raven screamed. “You must listen to me. Do what I say. I am your mother! Slay the dragon and live. Slay the dragon, my child, my daughter. Do what I tell you, slay that monster.” Arianna bolted toward the archway. She was only a few feet away when the unicorn swooped in and dropped behind her, blocking her escape, before he reared up and spread his wings. The attack would be quick, but necessary. She was only three feet away from the arch when Keyden lifted his head and locked eyes with Arianna. She saw the love, the fear, and the despair brewing behind those dark chocolate spheres. That’s when she knew she could trust the dragon. With the flick of her wrist, she freed the man she loved from his restraints and used one of the large rocks to catapult herself toward the unicorn. A single tear slid down her face as she raised the sword and charged. The unicorn stood frozen in surprise. His hesitation gave Arianna the opening she needed. She slid between his legs and jabbed upward, slicing her sword through his heart. He stumbled back and collided with the archway. A swirling dark vortex opened, and the unicorn shifted — morphed into an ugly green monster with enormous scales and jagged yellow teeth. The newly formed monster stumbled through the opening and disappeared. 64

Arianna turned just in time to see Keyden — her hero, the love of her life, the man of her dreams — raise the bow and fire an arrow into Raven’s chest. The witch screamed out in pain, stumbled forward, and toppled off the rock. The swirling clouds swallowed her, then spit her out as her body continued to drop from the sky before it collided with the ground below. Dahlia sat on Drozun’s back, gripping the harness with both hands, as the two of them dashed through the clouds to follow. Arianna moved slowly to Keyden, fear and apprehension swirled in her stomach. The conflict was over, but would he still want her? She took another step, then slumped to the ground, and cradled her head in her hands. The pain was excruciating as her memories returned. She moaned, fell onto her back, and closed her eyes, wishing the onslaught stop. She would gladly lose the memories if it would halt the pain. Keyden dropped to his knees beside her and gently lifted her head into his lap. “Relax. It should be over soon. Don’t fight it, just relax, and let me help you.” He rubbed circles over her temples in a gentle rhythmic motion that didn’t only soothe — it dulled the pain, then eliminated it completely. “I’m okay,” she finally sat and pushed her body backwards. “I’m okay. The pain has dissipated. I think—” She paused when Drozun interrupted her.

“We must go,” he insisted. “Raven is dead, and the curse has been lifted. We must leave this area before the vortex shifts and swallows the realm completely. We don’t want to be sucked into the archway and be lost just like Razza. Come, climb onto my back and let’s join Dahlia in the field.” Arianna swung onto the dragon's back, Keyden hopped on behind her and the two of them glided to earth on the back of a dragon. Once they were standing next to Dahlia, who was now perched on the back of the brown horse. Keyden moved forward, took Arianna’s hand, and lifted it to his lips, kissing her knuckles with such tenderness, she wanted to burst into tears. When she didn’t pull away, he moved forward. “Thank you,” he whispered just before he pressed his lips to hers. The wind churned, the ground slowly started to spin, and it catapulted the group back to their homeland — back to Brahm Tul, where the citizens were anxiously waiting for their Prince to return.

Melanie P. Smith — An American, multi-genre author of Paranormal,

Criminal Suspense, Police Procedural and Romance novels. Embark on a rollercoaster journey of discovery.

Find more about Author Melanie P. Smith on her website: https://melaniepsmith.com/

The Warrior Within

By Tom Benson http://www.tombensonauthor.com Colombia South America September 2012

“Here it comes,” Kirsten said, leaning over the old stone bridge, waving. Marcus joined her, but they stopped when gunshots sounded, and the growling minibus engine quietened. The vehicle was below them, a kilometre away, on the winding jungle trail. When the pair peered over the low wall, gunshots sounded, and stone chippings flew all around them. They dropped, their backpacks pressing against the wall. Marcus panted. “What are we going to do?” Kirsten looked around. “Let’s get back into the jungle.” She ran across the trail into the undergrowth but reappeared. “Do you want to die, Marcus?” “No ,but—” “Come on,” she called and waved. 66

As Marcus reached the tree line, there were gunshots, and bullets thudded into the sandy trail nearby. He turned and raised his hands. A battered jeep skidded to a halt, and the driver climbed out. The gunman leapt from the passenger seat, ran forward, and crashed the butt of his rifle into Marcus’s head, sending him to the ground, dazed and groaning. "Shit,” Kirsten muttered, crouching within the dense foliage fifty metres away. The minibus, with bullet holes in the driver’s door, stopped behind the jeep. The civilian vehicle was driven by another man in combat uniform. A fourth man exited from the back doors. Although the four bandits wore battle fatigues, they had a variety of headgear, and each carried a rifle. The jeep driver waved his weapon at Karl, indicating for him to get into the minibus. One bandit remained behind while the other three entered the jungle, abreast of each other. Kirsten crept deeper among the waist-deep greenery, thinking about Marcus. The pair met twenty minutes earlier at the stone bridge only because it was the nearest rendezvous to catch the occasional regional minibus. Marcus had explained that he was a botanist and had been in the jungle for five days. He said he planned to visit jungles in four South American countries. He’d been so excited relating his discovery of a rare flower that he’d failed to ask about his new acquaintance. This was fine with Kirsten, who’d spent the past three weeks alone. Like Marcus, she was thirty and had flown from London to Bogota, Colombia’s capital. Unlike the botanist, Kirsten had bought a few necessities within two days of arrival. She then set off into the jungle to relax, to be at one with nature, away from other people and the stresses of her regular life and recent past. Kirsten was pulled from her reverie when a bandit approached through the foliage, pausing nearby to relieve himself. The man hung his assault rifle over his shoulder on its sling, sighing as he urinated noisily over a bright tropical flower. Kirsten stood silently behind him, gripped his loose neckerchief with both hands and pulled tight. She cut off his air supply and simultaneously prevented any sound. While maintaining her fierce grip, Kirsten tucked a foot in front of the man’s legs. He dropped to his knees, his struggles ending as he fell forward onto a large saturated flower among the greenery. While the other two men slowly waded through the dense jungle, occasionally pausing and listening, Kirsten crept down the gradient. She stayed within the tree line to assess the situation. Behind the jeep, the minibus sat silently, the back doors open, the passengers guarded by the bandit holding a US-issue M16 rifle. The seats in the back of the minibus were bench-style, running along both sides, meaning that the passengers faced each other and not towards the front or rear. Two people sat with their backs to the jungle, while on the opposite side, Marcus stared between them, straight at Kirsten’s dirt-smeared face, as she partially rose out of the greenery. 67

When Kirsten gave a thumbs-up sign, Marcus nodded slowly, wiping the blood from his forehead. The next signal was a forefinger pointing first at Marcus and then at the man standing outside with the rifle. Kirsten moved her hand as if it were inside a glove puppet, her fingers and thumb touching and parting. Marcus wiped his head again and turned to speak in Spanish to the man guarding the minibus. When he got a response he maintained the conversation, by explaining that he’d found a rare flower. The bandit shrugged, but importantly, he’d faced Marcus. “Pssst,” Kirsten whispered.

The sentry was turning when a mud-covered hand covered his mouth, and a hunting knife was thrust deep into his lower back, perforating several internal organs. By the time the broad, partly -serrated blade was twisted and withdrawn, the dead man was lowered slowly to the ground. “Oh my ….” Marcus murmured, seeing the bloody knife in Kirsten’s hand. The two young Scandinavian tourists, a man and woman sitting opposite Marcus, stared silently. When the woman sobbed and covered her mouth, her friend embraced and comforted her. Shouts in Spanish could be heard in the jungle as the remaining bandits called out for their missing colleague. They called out and fired short bursts, turning to rush back between the trees. “Marcus,” Kirsten said and glanced at the jungle. “Can you drive?” “Yes … yes—” He climbed out. “Reverse the minibus back across the bridge.” “What about you?” he said as he jumped into the driver’s seat. “If I’m not with you in ten minutes, drive to the nearest town.” Kirsten winked at the young couple and closed the back doors. She dragged the dead bandit to one side, lifted his M16, and checked the ammunition in the magazine. Kirsten found the US rifle preferable to the Kalashnikov she’d recently acquired, which remained slung from her shoulder. When the two bandits exited the jungle, they automatically turned right, raising their weapons, to aim at the rapidly retreating minibus. Two short bursts of automatic fire followed but came from nearby, behind the bandits. Sergeant Kirsten Reid was one of three women in 40 Commando, Royal Marines. Two bloody tours in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, had tempered the warrior within. The End

By Joe DeRouen

Water's touch brings me to life, Rain dancing on my skin, Lightning marks my way, Brightness against the darkened sky, Thunder calling me back again.

Strength has returned, tempered with knowledge, Power and responsibility intertwined, I've longed for it, lusted after it, It's back now. Mine! Smiling, I let it go, mortal again.

Troubles fall 'way, sadness forgotten, Tears melting from the rain's wet kiss, With a start, I'm alive again, Power so long lost is mine again, In a crashing rainstorm, joyful bliss.

But a little wiser… And not so weak.

Joe is the author of the best-selling SMALL THINGS trilogy. He was born in Carthage, Illinois, and currently lives in Rogers, Arkansas with his wife Andee, their son Fletcher, and their cats Archer and Biscuit. Joe is a freelance writer, web designer, and substitute teacher. He collects all sorts of things, including Mego action figures, books, and Bicycle playing cards. When not teaching or writing, you can probably find Joe playing Pokemon Go on his phone. 69

Chantal Bellehumeur is a Montreal author born in 1981. She has 20 published books of various genres as well as numerous short stories, memoirs, poems and articles featured in compilation books, eMagazines, plus articles in The Suburban l newspaper. For a complete list of publications, including free reads, visit the following website: author-chantalbellehumeur.webnode.com/products-/ Follow me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chantal -Bellehumeur-public-authorpage/347446362035640 Follow me on Twitter https://twitter.com/c_bellehumeur Follow me on Linkedin: www.linkedin.com/in/chantalbellehumeur-author Follow me on Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.ca/ Authorchantalbellehumeur/

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About the book:

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This fictional ghost story with a slice of humour was inspired by historical facts and true events.

Chantal Bellehumeur

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Discover the dark history of Cornwall's old jail, built in 1833, and follow the fictitious Roy family as they conduct a paranormal investigation inside the historic building. Their spooky venture evokes questions about a spirit possibly following them home. Author's notes: Inspiration for this fictional story came from my visits to the Cornwall historic jail. My husband Jeff and I went on a daytime guided tour with my aunt in June 2023, and came back with our son Aidan in October 2023 to conduct a paranormal investigation.

PROLOGUE The original jail and courthouse of Cornwall Ontario burned down in 1826. About a year after the fire, the British crown approved the construction of a replacement building. The new structure, built on the downtown waterfront in 1833, kept a regency architectural style with its square shape and evenly spaced windows. The left half of the new prison doubled-up as living quarters for the appointed governor and his family as well as an office. Over the years, the live-in governors’ wives acted as a matron to the female inmates or became head nurse. Although the two-story stone building looked beautiful from the outside, the living conditions on the inside were atrocious. Within the cold and gloomy confinements, the general treatment of the jail’s occupants was incredibly harsh. Not only was there a lot of violence between inmates, but guards often tortured the prisoners in their custody. Sometimes the beatings and lashings led to their unfortunate deaths. Other deaths by illness, suicide, murder, and executions at the gallows occurred there. Many unclaimed cadavers were then buried on the premise. During the 1985 expansion of the North part of the jail, several human remains were dug up from the grounds of the exercise yard. It is estimated that hundreds more are still buried under the current yard and what is now a parking lot. The jail originally incarcerated all types of prisoners in its single cell block below the courthouse. Men, women, and even children accused of all types of crimes were mixed with mental patients, as the jail also served as an asylum. In addition, it became a refuge for the homeless and even housed the families of some inmates at times, so was often overcrowded. There weren’t enough individual cells with beds for everyone and absolutely no privacy. Since violent and homicidal criminals on death row weren’t separated from minor offenders like debtors and thieves, or those deemed insane, the jail wasn't a safe space for anyone. To stay alive at night, you practically had to sleep with one eye open. Not even the different governors in office or their families felt completely at ease despite the cell blocks being locked, so the children were kept away from the prison as much as possible. There had been many escapes from that prison, the first being in 1835 and the last in 1995, so you could never be too careful.

Due to the city of Cornwall's rising population and crimes, two new cell blocks with concrete walls and metal ceilings were added in 1869. This allowed the separation of prisoners by gender and severity of their criminal acts, but it was still a scary place. The cell block used for keeping dangerous criminals became known for holding members of the Hell’s Angels gang in the 1960’s. The windows of the other cell block got covered up during the many restorations. Both cell blocks were nicknamed accordingly.

In 1936, dungeons accessible through hidden trap doors were discovered inside three of the cells from the windowless cell block. Those dark holes were not on any of the architectural plans which begged the question about what other secrets the jail held. For instance, Governor Ralph Cook was found murdered in 1938. Upon further investigation, it was concluded that Governor Cook had taken his own life. There was no explanation as to why the political man chose to shoot himself inside the prison’s garage that day. The speculations about an escaped convict returning for revenge transformed into rumors about evil presences lurking in the shadows of the jail. Neither theory was reassuring. In 1959, another extension to the jail was built which was used as a two-story apartment for another governor and his family. The proximity to the criminals and possible restless spirits continued to be disconcerting. The governors' daughter was sent away to a boarding school due to concerns about her safety after being threatened by an inmate. This governor retired in 1971 and a superintendent was hired to look after the building. From that point on, nobody other than prison inmates lived in the building.

Another major change of the early 1970’s included the modernisation of the jail. Humanitarian protests from appalled citizens led to the construction of a plumbing system and wiring of electrical circuits. Communal toilets and showers were put in each cell block for the prisoners, plus security cameras and electrical door locks were installed. The metal cots inside each cell were eventually replaced with cement beds. Around 1990, an infirmary as well as a kitchen were added. Although the living conditions improved over time, remnants of the horrible past seemed to remain. At night, the faint sound of metal chains or keys rattling, and even mysterious footsteps could be heard in the empty stairways and halls. The sound of children crying, insane laughter, screams for help, and whispered words echoed in the building. Strange shadows or figures were sometimes seen. When the jail shut down in 2002, the remaining inmates were relocated to the Ottawa penitentiary. The Cornwall jail became a historical site and opened its doors to the public. Guided tours were given five times per day, during which visitors and staff members often claimed to see or hear unusual things. Mysterious 9-1-1 calls came from there on occasion. After several years of unexplained occurrences, professional paranormal investigators were called in. With the high amount of paranormal activity recorded, it was concluded that the Cornwall historic jail was haunted. 72

I am an Ocean By Defiance, age 16

I am an ocean, the prospect of me is terrifying, You look out and I am vast waters, every wave a new discovery. I am the tide that moistens the sand and I am every creature that lies inside, Look out to me and call my name and hear the crashing of the waves.

Why must you pollute me? I am an ocean, the one whose hands reach out to build castles only to wash them down, you forgive me, it’s the way of the waters. Wash your hands in my ocean body and dip your feet for an ounce of thrill, I am an ocean, my waters are rapids but love me still.

Defiance is a young writer in love with live music, all types of art and writing poetry. Poetry is a way of releasing their emotions in a healthy way to make it into a more beautiful form.

You can connect with Defiance on Instagram: 2defiance2

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

Gretchen McCullough

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

I am originally from Harlingen, Texas, close to the Mexican border. I have spent most of my adult life living abroad. I have taught in Egypt, Turkey, Japan, Syria. I lived in Egypt twice, once in the eighties. I returned in 2000 to accept a faculty position at the American University in Cairo. I have been here ever since. I love humorous tales with quirky characters who find themselves in bizarre situations, especially in foreign countries. This mirrors my own experience of the world! 74

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write? I write novels, short stories, essays and reviews. I prefer writing novels to short stories. When I didn’t publish my first novel, I went back to the short form and focused on stories and essays. Writing short stories doesn’t come naturally to me since I like the space offered by the novel. Writing short stories is harder since there is so much you can’t include! After I published many reviews, essays and short stories, I returned to writing my novel.

If you write in multiple genres, do you have a favorite, or is one type of book easier for you to write than others, and why? I think each book project presents its own challenge. I feel the most comfortable in the novel form since there is room for a huge cast of characters and digressions.

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap? I went to Stephens College on a tennis scholarship. It was my first year of college and I signed up for a Fiction Writing course with the novelist Jaimy Gordon. I had intended to sign up for courses in Radio and Television! In the course of the year, I injured my shoulder and was unable to play. Jaimy encouraged me to apply to Brown University because of their creative writing program. Quite literally, a single course and the encouragement of one professor changed my career path.

gretchenmcculloughfictionwriter.com

How / where do you find the plots you write about? Much of my fiction is inspired by tidbits, events and gossip from daily life in Cairo. The first section of my novel Confessions of a Knight Errant was inspired by the Egyptian uprising. I returned from Spain on the very day January 28th, 2011, that mobile networks were cut. It was bizarre. There were no taxis at Cairo airport. Unheard of! In the end, some enterprising Egyptian, not a bona fide cab driver was going to take me into the city. A Spanish diving instructor who didn’t know any Arabic latched onto me. When I saw there were tanks in the streets, I told the driver to turn around. I spent the night at some cheap hotel near the airport. The next day, I found a taxi and got back into the city. When I saw the Mubarak’s party headquarters on fire, I knew that the situation was really serious. We didn’t sleep for ten days. Since there were no police, folks in the neighborhood took turns guarding businesses and buildings from looters. Foreigners started to flee and many abandoned their pets. A lot of crazy things happened. This was the inspiration for the first section of Confessions of a Knight Errant.

Many of the short stories in Shahrazad’s Gift were inspired by characters or situations from the building where I lived in Cairo. For example, when I was learning Arabic, the porter at my building told me about an incident with one of the tenants in the building. In Cairo, apartment buildings are often very close together. You can sometimes see into someone else’s apartment, a little like Hitchcock’s movie, “Rear Window.” When my neighbor saw that the woman in the balcony across from him kept watching him, he threw an egg at her and it hit her in the ear! She was an Egyptian housewife who was bored and had become obsessed with his sexual shenanigans. That story became “Taken Hostage by the Ugly Duck.”

Mark Twain said “Write what you know.” Tell us about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a panster? Do you plot, plan, and conduct hours of research; or, do you just sit down and write whatever comes to mind based on your personal history and knowledge? Writing might look spontaneous, but it is not. I take a lot of notes and do a great deal of reading and research before I write, especially the novels. Before I started work on my West Texas novel, I read numerous books on the thirties. I did archival research at Sul Ross University in Alpine, Texas. I am fluid when I am determining the plot. I do make a plan, but don’t always stick to it strictly. For example, there was a murder near my parents’ property in Ingram, Texas and I got the idea to incorporate it into the novel, Confessions of a Knight Errant. The dead man was rather mysterious. I decided to make him an antiquities dealer in my novel. After the Arab Spring, a lot of very valuable antiquities were flooding into the U.S.

Tell us your latest news: My collection of short stories, Shahrazad’s Gift will be published by Cune Press, February 20th, 2024.

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? From Confessions, It’s a different take on globalization. I think anyone who is going back and forth between cultures, could relate to it. It’s about being in-between cultures. Feeling like you don’t fit. The main character, Gary has been an expatriate for most of his life and he finds it hard to return to the U.S. His pal, Kharalombos, a Greek-Egyptian, cannot adjust to the rigid work ethic of America. He misses the more fluid, leisurely atmosphere in Cairo. Shahrazad’s Gift is a collection of linked short stories, that focuses on odd, humorous encounters between foreigners and Egyptians. Even if one knows the language, it is possible to fall into a bizarre cultural misunderstanding.

How much of the book is realistic? Neither Confessions of a Knight Errant nor Shahrazad’s Gift are realistic fiction. Living in Egypt has changed the way I tell stories. Egyptians from all walks of life are great raconteurs—and they exaggerate wildly. 76

Confessions of a Knight Errant is a comedic, picaresque novel in the tradition of Don Quixote with a flamboyant cast of characters. Dr. Gary Watson is the picaro, a radical environmentalist and wannabe novelist who has been accused of masterminding a computer hack that wiped out the files of a major publishing company. His Sancho Panza is Kharalombos, a fat, gluttonous Greek dancing teacher, who is wanted by the secret police for cavorting with the daughter of the Big Man of Egypt. Self-preservation necessitates a hurried journey to the refuge of a girls’ camp in rural Texas. Then a body turns up nearby that is connected to Middle East antiquities, and they are on the run once more.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0C2L5SQZ8

What are your current projects? I just finished a draft of a new novel, which is set in West Texas in the nineteen thirties during the New Deal. My grandfather went to college at Sul Ross University in Alpine. He left a number of diaries about his life. That prompted me to visit Sul Ross and spend some time in the archives. I was so interested in the building of Big Bend National Park and the swimming pool at Balmorhea; these were projects that were completed under the New Deal. Young, unemployed men in their twenties were recruited to work in these CCC camps. I was drawn to the project in Balmorhea. It is a huge swimming pool, probably as big as a football field that is completely fed by natural springs. The novel focuses on a man camp at Balmorhea, but also overlaps with a medical quack. Doctor John Brinkley, a medical charlatan, who promised men greater virility with transplants of goat testicles. He was a real character and was practicing medicine in the thirties.

What books have influenced your life the most? There are so many! I loved the Russians in college and read all of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Love Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I love Mark Twain. I read in Arabic as well: Yusef Idris, Tewfik Hakim, Taha Hussein, Naguib Mafouz, Yehia Haqqi.

Pick one of your characters and share some of their backstory that didn’t make it into the novel.

Do you have a mentor that helped or encouraged you to follow your dream of writing?

The character, Mary Alice Bodewell in Confessions was based on a missionary I knew in Cairo in the 1980’s who was in Iran when the Shah fell. In real life, she was the chair of the English Department at Ramses College where I taught. She was a character and used to sometimes lapse into reminiscences about her experience in Iran and Sudan. I only used her memories about the Iranian Revolution because they were so dramatic. She would recount all of the people she knew who vanished or were murdered in Tabriz during the Iranian Revolution. She was working with nurses in a hospital in Tabriz. I didn’t use this part of her experience.

The late Allen Wier was my mentor at the University of Alabama. He was my guide in the first novel I wrote—and then, he also read Confessions and gave me feedback. Sonallah Ibrahim, the Egyptian novelist is a good friend. I interviewed him for the Prague Writers’ Festival website and we became friends. He encouraged me a lot and read Confessions. He is a satirist so I think he liked the political satire in the book. Loved the humor. 78

Shahrazad’s Gift is a collection of linked short stories set in contemporary Cairo—magical, absurd and humorous. The author focuses on the off-beat, little-known stories, far from CNN news: a Swedish belly dancer who taps into the Oriental fantasies of her clientele; a Japanese woman studying Arabic, driven mad by the noise and chaos of the city; a frustrated Egyptian housewife who becomes obsessed by the activities of her Western gay neighbor; an American journalist who covered the civil war in Beirut who finds friendship with her Egyptian dentist. We also meet the two protagonists of McCullough's Confessions of a Knight Errant, before their escapades in that story. These stories are told in the tradition of A Thousand and One Nights.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/1951082435

Do you have any advice for other writers? Start small. Write reviews, short stories and essays to build a portfolio. You get the experience of being edited and working with an editor. You gain confidence by publishing in journals and magazines. You don’t always have to take the agent/big house route if it is blocked. Find another way. My husband, the Egyptian poet, Mohamed Metwalli encouraged me to publish my fiction here. We got a grant from the American University in Cairo—and published a bi-lingual book of short stories in English and Arabic called Three Stories from Cairo. We published a thousand copies. Then, I published a book of short stories only in English with them. That eventually led to an independent publisher in the U.S.: Cune Press.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers? I hope my work is entertaining, but also provocative. In that, I mean make you aware of something you had never thought of before or of a world that you don’t know about. 79

Can you share something personal with your readers? I met my husband, the Egyptian poet, Mohamed Metwalli in 2008 at a downtown bar in Cairo called, The Horreya, the Freedom Café. He told me his whole history about how he had been married three times and had lived in Seattle. He asked me if I were a vegetarian! He made me laugh, but I was sure that it wouldn’t go beyond the first date. We have been together for sixteen years!

Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why? My idol, Mark Twain. Because he seemed like a larger-than-life character. Recently I watched a documentary about him and was made aware of the many tragedies of his life—he lost his wife and two of his children. He was a talented speaker and could enthrall audiences. But he didn’t have the talent for business, a different “hat” than writing or speaking.

If money was no issue would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake? I love the beach. But quite frankly, sitting in my room with a view of the trees on my street in Zamalek, Cairo, works as long as I have time.

What do you want written on your headstone and why? This is a tough one. Does anyone want to think about their mortality? Of course, I would like to be remembered as a writer, but I think being a good person is more important. Those small acts of kindness that somehow impact someone’s life.

One final question...Do you have a blog/ website? If so, what is it? https://gretchenmcculloughfictionwriter.com

Other than writing do you have any hobbies?

Do you have a social media platform where your fans can go to interact with you and follow your progress?

I play tennis and swim. My husband and I have started playing pool every Friday at an old rooftop hotel in Cairo. This is a new hobby.

Facebook, Gretchen McCullough

After disappearing for a year, her uncle makes an unexpected appearance with secrets of his own. And, when a woman is found dead in the small town, accusing fingers point directly toward him.

Secrets. Lies. And murder. Charley’s relationship with her boyfriend is better than she’d hoped, but she’s keeping a secret from him that could destroy his trust.

It seems all of Whispering Pines is about to explode from the secrets it’s keeping. How can Charley expose the skeletons and find a murderer before chaos erupts? If you enjoy magic, quirky characters, and small -town mysteries with a touch of romance, you're sure to enjoy A Witchy Secret!

https://rhondahopkins.com/

MARK MORTON Mark Morton’s debut YA novel, The Headmasters, called “a brilliant science-fiction debut” “Mark Morton’s The Headmasters is a brilliant sciencefiction debut from one of Canada’s best-loved nonfiction writers. This compelling YA novel is a spot-on updating of Robert A. Heinlein’s classic The Puppet Masters for the new millennium, with intricate world-building, a great sciencefiction puzzle, and — ironic for a novel about suppressed memories — a main character you’ll never forget. I loved it.” — Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Awardwinning author of The Downloaded

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0CMFC5925 Sixty years ago as The Headmasters opens, something awful happened. Something that killed everyone except the people at Blue Ring, a research facility in northern Ontario. Something that caused the Headmasters to appear. But young Maple doesn’t know what is was. Because talking about the past is forbidden.

Everyone at Blue Ring has a Headmaster. They sink their sinewy coils into your skull and control you, using your body for backbreaking toil and your mind to communicate with each other. When someone dies, their Headmaster transfers to someone new. But so do the dead person’s memories, and if one of those memories surfaces in the new host’s mind, their brain breaks. That’s why talking about the past is forbidden. Maple hates this world where the past can’t exist and the future promises only more suffering. And she hates the Headmasters for making it that way. But she doesn’t know how to fight them – until memories start to surface in her mind from someone who long ago came close to defeating the Headmasters. But whose memories are they? Why aren’t they harming her? And how can she use them to defeat the Headmasters? Maple has to find the answers herself, unable to tell anyone what she’s experiencing or planning—not even Thorn, the young man she’s falling in love with. Thorn, who has some forbidden secrets of his own . . .

https://aspirebookcovers.com/ Aspire Book Covers is a website that offers inspirational book covers and formatting services at affordable prices. The website, located at aspirebookcovers.com, is run by Sharon Brownlie, who warmly welcomes authors to her site. Whether you have finished your book or are in the final stages, Aspire Book Covers provides customized covers to meet your specific requirements. Prices for pre-made covers are listed on the website, and keep a lookout because occasionally, some covers may be on sale! For custom book covers, Sharon Brownlie will work closely with you to ensure that your book's cover design reflects your vision accurately. She will collaborate with you closely, engaging in discussions about your book description and understanding your requirements. 83

The Mouse Family That Live By The Brambles

by Sylva Fae Photography by Gez Robinson

Gez Robinson is a talented wildlife photographer from Yorkshire, England. For the last few years, I’ve been following the story of a family of mice, that live in an area of the garden dedicated to wildlife. It has been fascinating to watch the trust that has built up between the mice and Gez, as he patiently sits behind the camera. The photos are stunning, and and show what characters wild mice are, whether it be their quirky antics in their natural environment, or their curiosity as they interact with the props left by Gez for the mice to explore.

*****

Gez has been a wildlife photographer for around fifteen years, and has a passion for wildlife. During the first pandemic lockdown, craving his photography fix, he started taking photos of the birds and other wildlife in his garden. “…and that’s when I spotted a little mouse on the old decking. It was looking at a blackberry on the blackberry bush and just stood there whilst I took photos of it. My passion with the mouse family was born.” Since the early successes of the Mouse Family That Live by the Brambles facebook page, Gez has published a book of the same name and set up other social media accounts.

https://www.facebook.com/bramblemouse https://www.gezrobinsonphotography.co.uk/ Instagram: gez_robinson_photography TikTok: @mousefamilybythebrambles Copyright @ Gez Robinson for all photos featured in this article. 87

Andy Chang is an independent comic artist– based in New jersey. He has made several children-friendly/all-age comics-such as Add-Zero and Adventures of Sniffy – prior to the creation of Northwood Meadows. His style of art was inspired by a mixture of Japanese Manga and the Sunday comics – whimsical and simplistic- but the stories he creates references a funny take on the reality of the everchanging daily life. Andy lives with his wife and three daughters, who all provides unlimited resource of inspiration and aspiration for Northwood Meadows’ future comic art.

Northwood Meadows Lifestyle In the beautiful place of Northwood Meadows, there lives an entertaining crew of animals (and one extraterrestrial). Phil the penguin is the unappreciated artist of the group, while Ana is trying so hard to live her best life. Ally is making the most of his time on Earth and Ted the turtle is terrified of it all, but still tries to “upgrade his shell.” Balancing out this chorus of voices is Bob, the source of reason in Northwood Meadows.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/173717586X

A collection of webcomic that truly display life from an animal’s point of view 88

THE LAST MAGDALENE

Coming April 9th, 2024

Book One of the Magdalene Chronicles The temple of Asherah has existed in Jerusalem for hundreds of years, disguised as a benevolent society for widows and orphans. Within the sheltering walls, priestesses are taught to honor the goddess through rites of passion passed from mother to daughter and from priestess to priestess. Into this world, Miriam of Bethany, is born. Miriam longs to become The Magdalene, High Priestess of Asherah, as her mother and grandmother before her, but learns she is to marry an obscure rabbi from Galilee, Yeshua bar Yosef. Determined to control her own destiny, she runs away and is brutally attacked in the streets of Jerusalem. Broken in body and spirit, she resigns herself to her fate. Yeshua, hailed as the Messiah, teaches love and acceptance, and places Miriam in the forefront of his followers. Together they find the courage to face the hostility of the priests and the brutality of Roman occupation. But Rome is a power unlike any the world has known, and Rome deals harshly with those who oppose its rule. The Last Magdalene is an exquisite story of passion and love, and the lasting power of one woman’s voice which refuses to be silenced. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0CP3BZ3DF

Donna Conrad is an award-winning author, journalist, activist, and teacher. Her core values revolve around individual empowerment, a sustaining ideal running through the books she writes. Her writing interests include articles for fine-art periodicals, memoir/narrative non-fiction, as well as historical, flash, and paranormal fiction. She is a regular presenter at writers' conferences. Donna's life is as varied as her writing. She embraces change as an exciting adventure. She has studied writing with the likes of Alan Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Jack Whyte. 89

The Last Magdalene does for the New Testament what The Red Tent did for the Old Testament.

EARL OF CAVENDISH by Ceri Bladen https://bookgoodies.com/a/B09581HP6Q

Chapter One Loyalties August 1811—Bath “Oh, you must, Meg!” pleaded Elizabeth as she paced to the cold fireplace and back, the heels of her mules clicking across the wood flooring before becoming silent on the rugs. “I cannot, Bess! What if we get caught!” Margaret’s heart pulsed like never before. She placed a hand on her chest to calm its beating. She worried her bottom lip—a childhood habit—while she tracked her cousin with her eyes. What her cousin asked of her was scandalous! Thank the Lord she was sitting on a stool when Elizabeth asked if she would pretend to be her. “No, no, I cannot do it,” she said, shaking her head to confirm her convictions. Stopping her pacing, Elizabeth rested her hands on her hips and scowled at Margaret before thinking better of it. She swiftly replaced her glare with a smile. Her dear mother had often said that honey worked better than the belt. “Oh, dear cousin Meg—” she moved across the thick carpets to kneel in front of Margaret, “—darling Meg. Do not fret. There is no chance of us getting caught.” She grabbed her cousin’s hand and squeezed. “Lord Cavendish is out of town, and his aunt has never met me. Neither will know of our—” she paused, her brow creasing, “—ruse. No one will get harmed. I will marry him, as planned, in a couple of months.” “But we will deceive his aunt. And she is a viscountess!” she spluttered. “Think of the 90

scandal if we get caught. The gossip columns—” The rest of her words caught in her throat. Elizabeth’s lips thinned. Margaret was normally more of a pushover. “We will not get caught, and her title does not matter. She is skin and bones, like the rest of us.” Margaret’s emerald eyes remained widened in alarm. It seemed her cousin had everything worked out, but she had barely a moment to wrap her head around the plans. There were too many ifs and buts to merely say yes, as much as she loved Elizabeth. “But what happens when his aunt attends the wedding? She will know we have deceived her! He will know!” Fear gripped her, closing off her arguments. “They will not. Fear not, darling Meg,” soothed Elizabeth. “You are fretting too much.” Margaret held up her hand. “Please give me a moment to think, Bess.” Her eyes narrowed on the pleading face of her cousin before she looked away in order to think straight. Elizabeth, or Bess as family called her, could not fulfil an obligation to her betrothed—the Earl of Cavendish—and had asked her to stand in for her. That alone was shocking, and daresay risky, but Bess also wanted her to pretend to be her! What if she got caught? If anyone found out their duplicity, the humiliation, and scandal would be intolerable. Society might eventually forgive Elizabeth, as she was betrothed to an Earl—people had a way of forgiving the richer—but it could further ruin her own already perilous reputation on the circuit. Would a scandal of deceit damage her to the point of spinsterhood? Her cousin’s request made little sense. Why ask such a thing? Could she not just say she had another engagement? Would her cousin’s betrothed be mad? She bothered her bottom lip as she concentrated. It would not surprise her if he were. If she was being honest, the thing that had her heart racing the most was the thought of the Earl. What if he found out! She fingered the locket of her mother’s necklace. If the stand-offish, dour Earl of Cavendish found out, well… There would be hell to pay. She closed her eyes and tried to control her increased breathing. She had to become calm and think rationally. Elizabeth assured her that he would not be at his aunt’s house in Bedford because he was in France. That was comforting—if she was going to do her cousin’s bidding—as she did not choose to get on the wrong side of him. He could even frighten the Devil with his dark countenance! “Please?” Elizabeth’s pleading continued. She tightened her hold on Margaret’s hands. “I continue to need a moment to think, Bess.” She stood and walked over to the bay window, hoping the scene outside would soothe her. When they had arrived on the London circuit, early in the season, Margaret had glimpsed the Earl. His handsomeness stole her breath. He was the first man to stir heat within her. But as her observation of him through the evening continued, it was plain to see that although he was there in body, he was not there in spirit. Nevertheless, intrigued by him— 91

and by the whispers about him—she continued to track him from a distance, not even daring to tell Elizabeth of her fascination. The surrounding gaiety made his dourness even more obvious. To this day, she vividly recalled the shiver which coursed through her when his gaze caught hers before she cowardly hid behind her fan. By the end of that first ball, she found herself attracted to him, but also intimidated by him. But it did not matter how she felt. Her aunt had singled him out as a potential suitor for Elizabeth. He was an Earl, after all. It was not long into the season before her aunt procured an introduction, confident that her daughter’s beauty and conduct would woo him. But he refused to be introduced to them! Her aunt was incensed, but his rebuff did not surprise Margaret. Whenever she had seen him, it seemed he barely said two words to anyone. Was he angry, bored, rude, or all of those? He was evidently comfortable ignoring society’s rules; but then he was a man. Society was not so harsh on males. Margaret sighed as she watched her neighbours alight from their carriage, the footman carrying their bags. She rubbed her arms, hoping her brewing headache would wane. At one of the next balls, when Lord Cavendish strode across the room in their direction, her aunt pushed Elizabeth into his path, forcing him to stop. Horrified at her aunt’s scheme to gain a meeting, Margaret remained behind her cousin, trying not to win anyone’s attention. She flinched when his penetrating blue eyes trapped hers for a moment before he swung his attention on her aunt, already singing about Elizabeth’s attributes. When he finally invited Elizabeth for a dance, she was grateful, but equally humiliated that, after what she could only call a stare, he completely disregarded her. From the moment he snubbed her, she avoided him, even when he came to their rented London townhouse to call on Elizabeth. She quietly snorted. Life was heartless because, despite him being with her cousin, the peculiar longing which ran through her when he pinned her with his gaze remained scorched into her memory. It was why she kept her distance. It was easier to be afraid of the man, than be afraid of her true feelings for him. “Please? I beg you.”

Elizabeth’s voice brought her out of her reflections. She turned from the window and pulled her shoulders back. She was prepared to tell her cousin she would not—for fear of someone finding out—do as she asked. “I cannot possibly do it. If Lord Cavendish finds out…” “Poppycock!” Elizabeth let out a snort, and her lips thinned at her cousin’s protests. “Do not be childish, Meg.” Is that what Elizabeth thought she was being? “I am not being childish. I am being prudent. Someone will know what we have done because I am one of your bridesmaids,” she said, praying her cousin would not notice the wobble in her voice. Her quickened breathing and pounding heart made talking difficult. 92

Elizabeth rolled her eyes while letting out an exaggerated sigh. “We went over this, Meg. Lord Cavendish’s Aunt Agnes is not attending our wedding. She detests travelling and has already declined the wedding invitation.” “But what about the other guests?” Elizabeth paused. “Your stature and liking to me is too close. If they detect a small difference, they will think I am merely glowing with happiness on my wedding day. If you meet anyone in Bedford who is invited, which I doubt you will, I will avoid talking to them on the day. With over three hundred guests, it will be simple.” She shook her head, not the least bit convinced. “Even if that is so, are you not expected to visit his aunt? Does Lord Cavendish not pay her calls?” Her mind raced with all the scenarios that might make her cousin see sense.

Elizabeth shook her head slowly before shrugging. “Lord Cavendish does not visit her often. She lives in her country estate far from his townhouse in London. Besides, I plan to live in Bath.” Her brow creased with confusion, and she rubbed her temples, hoping to relieve her brewing headache. “But will you not live in London when you are married? The Earl of Cavendish is a representative of the House of Lords.” Elizabeth’s delicate nose crinkled. “I am not living in that cesspit of London. It was fine staying there for the debutante season, but that is all. Lord Cavendish can work there in the week and return to a country house on the weekends.” “Oh.” She quietened as Elizabeth was not listening to reason. Her protests were either being batted away or landing on deaf ears. She could not truly comment on her cousin’s future living arrangements. She had never been in the position of marrying herself—not even close—so did not have an inkling about the intricacies of marriage and living arrangements. Her shoulders sagged when she sat down by the fireplace. It was a depressing fact that Elizabeth knew if she persisted to pester, Margaret would likely do her bidding. It had been the same since she arrived in Bath when she had been grateful to be taken in after her parents perished in a carriage accident. Elizabeth’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Besides, if he wants me to visit his aunt in Bedford, I can always make an excuse. Feign a headache or something.” She waved her hand. “Why would I want to spend time with a doddery old aunt?” As she continued to listen to Elizabeth, although she was still annoyed by the request, she felt her resolve to refuse slipping away. It was not because she did not have a backbone, but when she became her uncle’s ward, with no friends of her own, a fear of losing Elizabeth caused her to pander to her cousin’s whims. Now they had grown into adults, it seemed a difficult cycle to break. Besides, she learned it was usually best to agree with Elizabeth if you wanted a calm environment. Elizabeth’s parents had spoiled their only child to a point where she rarely saw anyone’s viewpoint apart from her own. 93

“Oh, for goodness’s sake, stop your fidgeting, Meg.” Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, her voice hardening. “If you are going to pass as me, you will have to act more like me.” “But I have not agreed…” She clenched her mouth shut and lowered her gaze to study the pattern on the carpet when Elizabeth glared at her. In her heart, she knew her cousin was panicking, and therefore using pressure for her to do her bidding. But it did not make the situation any easier. “It is only this once.” She flapped her hand dismissively. “Besides, Aunt Agnes may never see me. She has already got one foot in the grave.” Margaret’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh Bess, that’s an awful thing to say!” Elizabeth shrugged. “Well, I speak the truth.” She tilted her head and smiled warmly, changing her tactics of persuasion. “Now Meg, stop with all the excuses. Are you going to Lord Cavendish’s aunt in place of me? Please? It is only a couple of weeks.” Her hands clapped together. “Oh, please say you will.” She remained silent because she really did not want to. Her mother, when she was alive— God rest her soul—had brought her up to be a truthful person and this situation was wrong, despite her cousin insisting that it was not. At the very least, they were consciously going to deceive an elderly woman. “Please?” Margaret looked at her cousin’s pleading eyes. She tried to spin the situation into something positive. Perhaps pretending to be Elizabeth, who she knew so well, for a couple of weeks was not the end of the world. And she would help her beloved cousin not to get into strife. She let out a large breath. She loved her, and Elizabeth knew, when it came down to the wire, she would do anything wished of her. “All right, I will do it…” Elizabeth squealed with delight before spinning in a full circle. “But—” she said firmly, holding up her hand, “—only if you guarantee they will not catch us out.” Elizabeth beamed. “Of course, we will not get caught. Lord Cavendish is away in France for a month. He will not be back until September when the Commons reconvene. Aunt Agnes has never seen me, and never will. I have yet to meet his friends in London, so they do not know me.” “Did they not meet you at the functions we attended during the season?” Elizabeth laughed. “They are men, dear cousin. They would not remember me unless there was something in it for them. You have a lot to learn.” Her brow gathered. Seemingly, she did. “We have the same delicate bone structure and similar colour hair. If you wear more 94

makeup to hide the rosy colour in your cheeks—” Elizabeth tapped a finger on her lips, “— you really should always wear your bonnet…” She scowled. Her parents had never insisted she wear one as a child and she sometimes forgot as an adult, revealing freckles on her nose. Now her cousin would not let her forget how dark her skin was before they taught her the ‘fashionable’ way.

“No one will know, even if they meet me in the future,” concluded Elizabeth. “I do not wish to wear more makeup to hide my complexion.” “You must if you are to pass as me. Your skin must be white. It is the fashion,” said Elizabeth, aghast her cousin would contemplate pretending to be her without her impeccable style. “You must look the part.”

Margaret detested the fashion of pale makeup to hide natural rosiness, and especially hated the newer fashion of drawing blue veins on your arms! She veered towards the more natural appearance, but it was potentially the reason why, at nineteen, she still had not received one marriage proposal. It secretly worried her that she was bordering on being an old maid! But what more could she do? She had been ‘out’ for two seasons, but only Elizabeth received male callers after the balls. She received merely one—an older boorish man with a paunch, who ran as soon as he realised she did not have a five numbered dowry. “That is it,” said Elizabeth, excitement lacing her voice as she swirled around. “We will spend the weekend practising your makeup, so you look like me.” She tapped her lips with her finger, deep in thought, before smiling. “You will need to take some of my dresses, mantels, wraps, shawls, and spencers. My morning and visiting gowns; my dinner dresses and my ball gowns. My fur-lined pelisse, too.” She frowned. “You will not need to take my promenade dresses because you are in the country.” Margaret’s mouth dried. So many things. “Luckily, mother ordered many clothes and accessories for the season. There are plenty for you to choose from.” Margaret’s heart sunk even more when the feeling of entrapment intensified with another worry on her shoulders—caring for Bess’s expensive dresses. Her uncle and aunt gifted her beautiful gowns, but they were not on the same level as Elizabeth’s. Their daughter’s image was important in society. They wanted her married to someone of worth, and their expenditure on her reflected that wish. Late one night, as they chatted in candlelight in their rented London townhouse, she asked Elizabeth why she did not have suitors calling on her because, unless she was being naïve, she did not think that having a less expensive dress limited her suitors. Elizabeth informed her that besides her lack of title and dowry, she needed to become a more talented actress, demure and coy when in the presence of males, but also flirtatious, too. It made little sense to Margaret, but she did not have another reference other than her 95

cousin. Why could you not be yourself? Did that mean you had to continue to hide your true personality for the rest of your married life? Although she recalled a warm feeling of love when she remembered her parents, it was fleeting. Her heart told her that her parents were in love, and she hung onto that. It was what she wanted in her future, but Bess told her love within marriage was virtually impossible. Her cousin’s candour about affairs of the heart shocked Margaret. After all the effort it appeared to take to meet a suitor, did it all just come down to money and titles? Mayhap it was why her uncle, knowing his daughter’s personality, had allowed the Earl to court Elizabeth. Lord Cavendish, richer than most and a member of the House of Lords, was no pushover for Elizabeth to manipulate. She shuddered, and struggled to refocus on her cousin, when an image of his scowling face popped into her head. “Oh, yes. His aunt would expect you to be properly presented with fine attire.” While Margaret’s less fortunate family circumstances made her less of a catch, suddenly the idea of becoming an old maid became more appealing! “If you say, Bess,” she mumbled. She prayed the viscountess was not cut from the same cloth as her nephew. His dismissive, piercing blue eyes still seemed to take everything in. “Do I honestly have to wear your clothes? Your dresses are silk. I am afraid they might get damaged.”

“Do not be so ridiculous. I have many. If one gets spoiled, it will not be too much of a loss to replace. Besides, when I marry Christopher, he has the money to buy me new.” Margaret’s eyes widened at the use of his name. Earl of Cavendish or Lord Cavendish seemed to suit him much more adequately. “Do you call him Christopher?” “I do, but only in private when there is no one around and the chaperone does not overhear.” “But I cannot be alone with him or call him Christopher!” Elizabeth put her hands on her hips, tapping her foot under her dress. “You will not see him. Remember he is in France, Meg.” Margaret let out a breath, fanning her face with her hand. Even the thought of him was making him seem too real. “Oh yes, sorry. He is away in France. Where exactly, so I know if questioned?” “Paris.” “The capital?” “Yes, Meg. I will school you on what information you need to know, and I will turn you into looking like me. Our ruse will be simple.” Elizabeth swirled around the room, arms extended, as though all her troubles had ended. Tears glazed in Margaret’s eyes. She was fearful of all the things that could go wrong with Elizabeth’s plan. She loved Bess, she truly did, but her cousin often got her into scrapes 96

where only she paid the price. Repeatedly, the blonde, blue-eyed beauty was never viewed as the instigator, only ever the victim. Elizabeth learned from a young age to batter her eyelashes and act dumb so her father would forgive her for any misdemeanours. If only she had been so lucky! Margaret let out a huff. Perhaps it is what Elizabeth intended to do with Lord Cavendish—if he ever found out! “Come,” said Elizabeth, waving her hand. Margaret stood. “Come, let us call on my abigail to help dress you.” She paused, her face losing its colour. “But I thought you said no one would know of our deception.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Don’t be silly. Alice is just an abigail. She won’t say anything.” Her brow creased at hearing Elizabeth’s statement. If her cousin took the time to enter the kitchens, she would know that although servants were to be ‘seen and not heard’, that did not mean they kept their master’s secrets. Elizabeth rang the servant’s bell to require assistance before she walked to the bedchamber door and opened it, poking her head out to view the corridor. When she spotted her abigail rushing along, she urged, “Maid, come quick. We need your help.” Margaret stayed quiet when, eventually, Elizabeth’s abigail rushed into the room. “I have a mission for you, and you have to promise to keep quiet about it.” “Whatever you want, miss,” said Alice, giving a small bob.

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder and winked at Margaret. “We are going to turn cousin Meg into me.” The shock that flittered over the abigail’s face was clear to Margaret, but obviously not to Elizabeth, as she included her maid in their subterfuge. They walked over to her closet. “Come here, dear cousin. Look at my clothes. We will pick some for you to wear. We need a selection of undress, half dress, and full dress. Evening wear, too.” Margaret slowly made her way over, while Elizabeth looked her up and down. “You can wear your own stays, stockings, and chemise.” Elizabeth inspected the clothes, choosing and discarding as she walked alongside them. Margaret glanced at the beautiful gowns carefully arranged in the closet. Up-to-date gowns in white and light pastels with square cut necklines, beautifully decorated with elaborate embroidery, filled every nook and cranny. While she herself was privileged enough to own similar—a luxury bestowed on her by her uncle as her father had gambled most of their family fortune away before he died—they were nowhere near as decorative or as delicate a fabric as Elizabeth’s collection. Elizabeth’s were made from lawn and batiste 97

materials, silks, and velvets, while hers were mainly muslin. Elizabeth’s were exquisite. “Help Meg take her gown off, down to her shift, petticoat, and stays.” “Yes, miss,” said Alice, motioning for Margaret to turn around. Elizabeth tapped her finger on her lips. “I will have to lend you some of my more elegant chemisettes, Meg. When they fill the neckline of the dress, they will be more in keeping with my style.” She reached into her closet to remove an evening dress. “This one—” she fingered the long sleeves, bunched at intervals by ribbons, “—is a new design. My dressmaker said they call the sleeves mameluke or Marie sleeves. Aren’t they wonderful?” Margaret looked at the puffy material and chose not to comment. She preferred the capped sleeves of her dresses, but it did not appear as though she had a choice in what she was about to wear for the next couple of weeks.

—-#—Hours later, after being donned in many beautiful dresses, she now wore one with a delicately embroidered hem. Under Elizabeth’s guidance, Alice had coiled her hair into an elab-

orate hairstyle, and her makeup was perfect. Elizabeth held up a mirror in front of Margaret. “Look.” Excitement laced her voice. “Apart from your eye colour, you look like me!” Tentatively, Margaret reached for the handheld mirror, not really wanting to know what she looked like concealed under a facade. Moving her head from side to side, she inspected her image. Elizabeth was proved right. They were remarkably similar when made up. But that did not make her mood any better about what they were about to do. “We certainly have a likeness,” she muttered, concerned that the plans were becoming even more difficult to back out of. “Yes, yes! Of course, we do. This is going to be so easy.” She grabbed Margaret’s hand. “I will send Alice with you and she will help.” She turned to her abigail. “Won’t you?”

“Yes, miss.” In the mirror’s reflection, Margaret noticed Elizabeth’s smile fade. What had soured her cousin’s mood? Had she changed her mind? As her heart skipped a beat, she placed the mirror on the dresser and swivelled around on the stool. “You can go now,” said Elizabeth, shooing Alice out with her hands. “Come back later to help me pack.” “As you wish,” said Alice with a bob of her mob capped head before she left. When Alice shut the door behind her, Elizabeth whirled around so quickly she made Margaret jump. 98

“Come now. Stand for me to get a better view of you.” Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “You look the part but there is a lot to remember.” Margaret’s shoulders sagged. Her cousin had not changed her mind as she hoped. “Remember, you must not fidget. You must be respectful to the viscountess.” Margaret’s mouth opened. Did her cousin think of her uncouth? “And you must try to be as forgettable as possible.” Elizabeth’s mood changed again as she laughed gaily. “Not that I am ever forgettable, but you know what I mean.” Margaret’s nose crinkled as she digested her cousin’s words. “Dear Meg, do not appear so sour. You should not come across any of Lord Cavendish’s acquaintances at Aunt Agnes’s home. If Christopher is not there, his friends will not visit.” Margaret could not help her mind wandering to the Earl, despite Elizabeth’s insistence he would not be there. Even from a safe distance, the black-haired nobleman continued to affect her. The worry, when she resided at Chenny House, was that he would be on her mind all the time, when she hoped to forget about him! Suddenly, Elizabeth’s laugh faded, and she tilted her head to the side. “And certainly, do not worry your bottom lip as you always do. You will spoil your lip salve.” Margaret’s cheeks reddened under her makeup. Her cousin always reprimanded her for how she behaved; needless really, as apart from a couple of silly habits, she always was a model of decorum. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Meg. Pull your shoulders back. You will crease the material.”

Jumping at the censor in Elizabeth’s voice, she stood straight. Any joy she might have gleaned for wearing such gowns well and truly evaporated. “Can I get out of this dress?” “Why?” Elizabeth’s brows gathered. “You will wear gowns like this for the next three weeks.” “I know, it’s just—” she searched for something to say other than that would be long enough to act, “—I do not want to spoil this. Besides, we must attend dinner with your parents, tonight, and they might wonder why I am in one of your dresses.” “Good point, Meg. Let us get you back to your normal self.” She let out a sigh of relief before her anxiety returned. There was so much to think of. “What will we say to your parents about my absence?” Panic surged through her, tightening her chest. She reached out for Elizabeth’s hand. “I go nowhere without you!” “Oh, don’t worry about that. I can wrap my parents around my little finger. I will come up with some explanation.” She squeezed Margaret’s hand before letting go. “I will call my abigail to help you get out of my dress.” 99

“Before you do,” she paused, wondering how to tackle the subject, “I haven’t asked…” “Asked what?” Elizabeth’s nose crinkled and her eyes narrowed. “Lip, Meg.” Margaret released her bottom lip, ignoring Elizabeth’s enormous sigh. She would have to remember to curtail that habit. “I have not asked why you need me to go.” Her eyes narrowed when she noticed a flush creep up Elizabeth’s neck. It was a rare occasion to see her cousin redden. “It’s not something awful, is it?” “No, not especially.” “Well, what is it then, Bess? Why am I to be put in this situation? You should tell me.” “Because…” Elizabeth turned away before she rounded back around to look at Margaret. “Because I am meeting my lover.” Margaret’s hands shot to her mouth, covering it. “Your lover?” she stuttered out, not believing she had heard her cousin correctly. “Yes, my lover.” “Who? When? How?” Questions stumbled out of her mouth so fast, Elizabeth had no time to answer. She shook her head, the shock too much. “You cannot have a man!” “Come, let us sit and chat,” Elizabeth suggested, pointing to the two padded chairs next to the fireplace. “I will explain as much as I can about affairs of the heart.” Shaken, she made her way over to the seats, wanting—but also not—to hear what Elizabeth had to say. After listening to her cousin’s confession, Margaret sat back in the chair. Her head spun, but she resisted the urge of censor in her voice. She was not in her cousin’s shoes—well, not yet anyway! “Do you not love Lord Cavendish?” “No, I have agreed to his marriage proposal as mother said he is a respectable suitor—” Elizabeth let out a sigh, “—and I am sure I will grow to love him once we marry.” Margaret’s eyes widened. “You are still going to marry him when you… you have another man?” “Don’t be silly. Of course, I am. Father spent a long time securing a good marriage for me to a man of great wealth. Besides, mother chose him.” “But you don’t love him.” Her stomach dropped with the knowledge. “There is nothing to suggest he loves me, either!” Elizabeth shouted defensively.

“But he asked you to marry him,” she mumbled, her mouth down turned. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Elizabeth let out a sigh. “Most marriages are not born of love, dear Meg. I have told you that many times. Women are married off to the best suitor for their—” she gave a bitter laugh, “—moral protection.” 100

A furrow appeared in Margaret’s brow as she looked at her cousin. Was genuine love just an illusion? Today, she had not only learned her cousin’s morals were not what they seemed, but any hope she clung to that love was out there, diminished too. Marriage truly was a business negotiation. Could she give up on that dream? “Surely, some marriages are for love?” “No, most are merely contracts for fiscal or social gain. And to produce heirs.” “But I want to marry for love,” she protested. Elizabeth emitted a hoot of laughter. “Oh, darling Meg.” She scowled. She truly thought Elizabeth had feelings for the Earl—enough to contemplate marriage. She was not totally naïve; she was aware there were marriages of convenience, but surely the love that poets, singers, and entertainers wrote about must exist somewhere? “I want a husband that I adore.” Elizabeth’s chin lifted as a wry smile flittered on her lips. “Then you are a fool, cousin.” “I’m not.” Her cousin often called her such names, but to call her such because she believed in love was uncalled for. “My parents loved each other.”

“So, you think, Meg” said Elizabeth, standing quickly. Her rapid movements clearly displaying her agitation. “You were too young to know when they died.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she stood to face Elizabeth. “That is unfair, Bess. You did not live with my family; you did not see my parent’s love.” “Would you love your husband if he spent all your fortune on gambling and whores?”

Panic rose within her. Had she spent years defending a feeling, not facts? “Elizabeth!” Without thinking, she struck her cousin’s cheek. Elizabeth’s icy blue eyes narrowed on her as she flinched away from Margaret’s outstretched hand. “I will let you have that blow. I was out of order, bad-mouthing your father, but if you are going to act as me, you had better learn to reel in your temper.” “I don’t have a temper,” she countered, shocked that Elizabeth could say so. “You do,” Elizabeth murmured, “when you are pushed too far.” “You have an awful temper!” she countered. “But I know when not to show it! I am schooled in social behaviours, as you are!” Elizabeth spat out.

“But you told me things about my father I did not wish to hear. You were unkind about him. I would never disrespect yours.” Elizabeth removed her hand from her cheek as she tilted her head. “That is because he took 101

in his brother’s orphan, and you have to be grateful.” Margaret bit down on the inside of her cheek. There was no point arguing with Elizabeth even though she spoke an untruth. Her gratitude and respect for her uncle was not only because he had taken her in—voluntarily or otherwise—it was because he was a fair and kindly man. Although he had amassed a fortune on top of his family inheritance—and not squandered it like her father—he still had time for special charitable causes close to his heart. Not that Elizabeth would know. Unlike her, Elizabeth never accompanied her father on his charitable work because there was nothing in it for her. Margaret sighed as she glanced at her cousin. Her self-centeredness and vanity often over shone her natural beauty. “I am sorry,” murmured Elizabeth. “The stress is evidently getting to me.” The sadness in her cousin’s apology deflated her anger. Why had she slapped her? They of-

ten niggled each other and fought, but never physically. This outburst was not in her character. She stepped forward, her tears finally flowing, and enveloped her cousin in a hug. “I am so sorry, too! I do not know what came over me. I should not have slapped you, even if your words hurt me.” Elizabeth pulled away and walked towards her dresser. “Let us forget our incident.” She picked up her mirror, turning it in her hand. “All I ask is for you to pull this off for me, Meg. You must be on your best behaviour. If Christopher gets a whiff of what is going on, or his aunt comments on something I would not do—” her eyes narrowed on Margaret, “—my life, and yours, will not be worth living. The gossip could kill the family name.” Their family name was all on her shoulders! She was innocent in all of this. So far! She finally snapped. “I do not want to partake in this ruse,” she said, her frustration clear. Deceit, and the chance of Lord Cavendish finding out, was terrifying for one that always thought truth was the right path. This was too much. “Why can you not put off whatever you have planned and go yourself? I am sure your…” she struggled over the word, “lover would understand.” Elizabeth’s face hardened. “Because I cannot.” She slammed the mirror back down, forgetting its value. “Why?” “Because he is married. Normally, he has little time to get away, but his wife is resting—” she had the decency to flush, “—because she has birthed a child.” “Elizabeth Howard! That is awful. He’s a rake!” Elizabeth’s hands shot up into the air. “He is not. He does not love her! She cares not if he flirts with me or if he visits me when she has her monthly courses.” “How long has this been going on, Bess?” Elizabeth gazed at her entwined hands, having the decency to flutter her gaze away from Margaret’s. “For years. I met him when I was barely sixteen.” 102

She grabbed her necklace. Had she ever truly known Elizabeth and her heart? “Were you acquainted before he married?” “Yes, we were in love.” “Why did you not marry him?” “He never asked.” Her emerald eyes widened. “Why not? Does he not love you?” Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “Yes, of course he does, but father would not give his permission for us to wed. This is the next best thing.” “Why did he not give permission?” “Because he is lower in station than me.” She studied her beautiful cousin and although the exterior package was familiar, what was underneath was a revelation. How had she not known something was going on under her nose? Shaken, she sat, trying to process everything she had heard. Elizabeth took a step forward. “I will ask once more; will you do this kindness for me?” Her blue eyes glazed with tears. “If you do not go, they will find us out. I cannot bear not to see him.” Elizabeth was an only child, so she had no sister to sully in this mess. But if her cousin got caught, it would also blacken her name, which was already precarious enough because of a gambling father. This was enough for her to be shunned by polite society. Elizabeth bent over and grabbed her hands, her face sombre. “Father will be disgraced if I do not become a Countess.” Margaret was angry with Elizabeth for her indiscretions. It did not matter if Elizabeth declared her love for the man, it was still wrong. But she still did not want to see her family ruined. She felt her resolve not to be involved in the ruse, slipping away again. “Remember, Lord Cavendish will not be in London. He is safe in France,” Elizabeth continued with her argument. Finally resigned to her fate, Margaret nodded. “Wonderful. Now let us get you organised.” Elizabeth stood and walked across the room, the tone of her voice displaying her relief. As Margaret followed Elizabeth back across the bedchamber, her stomach churned at the upcoming events. What have I got myself tangled up in? While Elizabeth wittered on about how she should behave—as if they had not schooled her in such manners—she let out a lengthy sigh of resignation. It appeared she was going to be mixed up in one of her cousin’s schemes yet again. https://www.facebook.com/ceribladenauthor

Steven Kelly Army Commando, Bushcraft and Survival Entrepreneur, Children’s Author.

First of all, tell me a little about your background.

After dedicating 21 years to the British Army, serving full-time in the elite 29 Commando Regiment, I faced a daunting diagnosis that threatened my military career, and could see me discharged due to medical grounds. Given the uncertainty, and having a passion for the outdoors, I chose a different path—one that led me to establish my bushcraft survival company.

www.southwestsurvival.co.uk,

Interview by Sylva Fae

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Tell me more about your business. You’ve also had a couple of brushes with fame… Yes, I took part in the first episode in the show, Naked Alone and Racing to Get Home with my wife, Jenny. We were dropped in the British countryside, stripped of our clothes and possessions, and had to race to the finish line, finding food and building shelters along the way. I recently did Discovery Channel’s, Naked & Afraid and my episode will be aired on the 17th of March. You’ll have to watch it though to find out how it went.

South West Survival, is a survival and bushcraft company infused with a military twist. Our primary mission is to motivate and inspire both children and adults to embrace the great outdoors. Through sharing the skills honed during my military service, I like to encourage people to step out of their comfort zones, engaging in activities like insect-eating and learning essential survival techniques. The role involves fostering teamwork, problemsolving, and teaching individuals how to stay alive in challenging situations. It’s not just about surviving; it’s about thriving and building a newfound confidence in the face of nature’s challenges.

What do you love about your work?

What inspired you to write a children’s story?

What fuels my excitement about this industry is the transformative power of the survival skills sessions. These activities push individuals to discover their true selves, and highlight their areas for personal growth. South West Survival offers realistic courses that go beyond survival, focusing on thriving in adverse conditions.

It was mainly my daughter and my wife who inspired me. They have an image of what I’m like running around with my dog, so that’s where the idea came from. I put all the survival bits together, and my daughter wrote the story, with input form my wife too. The other thing that inspired me was that I wanted to target the younger audience in a fun way, and get them outdoors. I added bubbles to the illustrations with survival tips to teach them the skills related to the story.

What inspires you to do what you do? My inspiration comes from wanting to provide my daughter Chloe with the childhood I wished for. Pursuing my dreams and goals enables me to do that, and show her that with hard work and determination, she can achieve her own dreams.

When you’re not working, where are you happiest?

Outside of work, I find solace in nature. A walk in the local woods serves as a therapeutic means to clear my mind after a day’s work.

And finally, if you found a winning lottery ticket, what would you do? I wouldn't feel right to cashing it in, I'd report the lost ticket to the lottery in the hopes that the rightful owner gets their winnings.

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https://bookgoodies.com/a/B09HH8RXBZ

Survival Ste and Benji go on an Adventure By Steven Kelly and Chloe Kelly Illustrated by Adam Endacott

Survival Ste and Benji the toy poodle are venturing through the woods when oh no! Benji runs off with the map! Can Survival Ste navigate the dangerous forest and make it to his fluffy companion safely?

Find out in this exciting adventure.

A fab read for kids who enjoy adventures and fun! A great read for kids and adults too! A good way of teaching children about the outdoors and the issues they may encounter. The book comes with a story and puzzles too for the kids to enjoy when they have completed their reading. Definitely worth purchasing. Read to 6 & 8 year old boys who loved it! — Amazon Customer

For those curious to find out more, Steven invites connection through his social media platforms— Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok, under the handle @survival_ste. His website, www.southwestsurvival.co.uk, serves as a hub for those interested in exploring the world of survival

Steven Kelly is a British Soldier, Survivalist, from Liverpool, United Kingdom. He has trained and instructed weapons, survival, and bushcraft skills in the British Army for 21 years, working in Afghanistan, Norway, Sierra Leone, and numerous other countries. Alongside the military, he has his own company called South West Survival, based in Plymouth.

United Vidden The first book in the Thyreins Galactic Wall Series

FERN BRADY

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B08BWHG4JF

Shattered by her father’s decision to deny her the throne as the first female heir of Dravidia, Princess Verena makes the worst mistake of her life: She runs away. Her departure, days before her wedding to the heir of the Principality of Aulden, throws her nation into war. In a desperate bid to reverse the consequences of her choice, the princess returns to planet Jorn, anxious to prove herself worthy to rule. But it is too late. The princess finds her kingdom conquered by Prince Amiel ra Aulden. Now, Verena must earn back her birthright as well as the trust of her people.

Fern Brady is the founder and CEO of Inklings Publishing. She holds multiple Masters degrees and several certifications. She began her professional life as a foreign correspondent, and taught for 15 years in Alief ISD. She has published numerous short stories, two children's picture books, and a couple of poems. Her debut novel, United Vidden, which is book one in her Thyrein’s Galactic Wall Series, was given a glowing review by Dr. Who Online, the official site of the fandom. Also available for purchase is volume one of her graphic novel/novella hybrid project, New Beginning. She has returned to the leadership of the Houston Writers Guild, with whom she served as CEO for four years previously. She co-hosts two podcasts – Author Talk and The Hot Mess Express. Besides being Municipal Liaison for Nanowrimo Houston, she is also a member of Blood Over Texas, Romance Writers of America, and American Booksellers Association. Fern lives in Houston TX with her parents and her talkative husky, Arya. Follow Fern's writing at: www.fernbrady.com 108

Tree planters on the run from parasitic insects. A physicist who has become the target of a murderous airline. Teenagers trapped in a museum with an eldritch horror. An escaped pit fighter thrust into a desperate stand at a sagging mountain fortress. And a luckless cowboy sailing across a sea of grass to the bloody resurrection of an elder god. Welcome to Joel McKay's It Came from the Trees and Other Violent Aberrations, a collection of five page-turners as strange, disparate and bloody as their titles suggest.

So, grab a stiff drink, turn the lights down low, settle into your favorite reading nook and enjoy this brief but memorable collection of tales from one of the newest voices in Canadian pulp fiction.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0CL61XD9V ALSO BY —

All Charlotte Deerborn wanted was a nice Thanksgiving dinner with family and friends. Too bad for her no one else wanted to be there. By the time the turkey is carved, old grievances, bad behavior and crass remarks have transformed her dinner party into a disaster. And then a werewolf shows up to do some carving of its own. Wolf at the Door is a fast-paced, absurdist take on modern creature horror, levering humor and action to highlight how one family comes to grips with what really matters in life.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/ B0B35X89CH Joel McKay is an award-winning writer. He calls Prince George, B.C. home, where he lives with his wife and two daughters. Wolf at the Door is his first novella, which won the 2022 Global Book Award gold medal for horror. His most recent published fiction was the short story Number Hunnerd in Tyche Books’ anthology Water: Selkies, Sirens and Sea Monsters, and the splatterpunk western short story Hands, which was published in Brigids Gate Press' anthology Blood in the Soil, Terror on the Wind. The inspiration for his fiction is drawn from the landscapes and people of British Columbia, particularly the province's vast, untamed and often misunderstood north. It's the small towns and the people who call them home that inspired the good ol' boys featured in Number Hunnerd, or the cool, crisp evenings and early sunsets of October that planted the idea for werewolves at a Thanksgiving feast. Joel is passionate about Canada, its history and the history of the peoples who have called it home since time immemorial. As far as he's concerned, New England has got nothing on Northern B.C. when it comes to perfect settings for supernatural tales. In his spare time, Joel is an avid fly fisherman, mountain biker, hiker and reader. His work as an economic development professional, public relations specialist and journalist has earned him numerous national, provincial and local awards and recognitions. 109

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

Author, speaker, and educational consultant I'm a dedicated educator at heart, minister by way of parenting, and administrator by trade. I'm passionate about writing, speaking, playing music, and surviving the odds to be used by God in anyway possible to reach the hearts of HIS people!

https://linktr.ee/drkatherinehutchinsonhayes https://www.instagram.com/authordrkatherine/ https://www.linkedin.com/in/dr-katherine-hutchinson-hayes-3b5a3254/ https://twitter.com/khutch0767 https://www.facebook.com/authordrkatherinehayes/ 110

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

God’s Little Black Dress

I'm an author, editor, and speaker with a passion for education. I grew up in New York and have a blend of Jamaican and Portuguese roots. I'm married to a retired Army officer, and we have a blended family of seven children. I hold a bachelor's degree in English, a master's degree in education, and a doctorate in Education, Leadership, and Supervision. I conduct creative writing and poetry workshops and I'm a member of several writers' associations. My upcoming thriller, A Fifth of the Story, will debut in February 2024. Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write? As a multi-genre author, I have honed my skills in writing across various genres. I specialize in crafting insightful Bible studies, thought-provoking devotionals, and thrilling novels that keep my readers on the edge of their seats. With my extensive experience, passion for writing, and unwavering commitment to excellence, I strive to deliver the best possible reading experience to my audience.

Women want to be spiritually stylish, but wearing the armor of God sounds clunky and unattractive. In "Gods' Little Black Dress for Women: How to Put on the Full Armor of God Without Losing Your Femininity", we discover how God tailormakes a "little black dress of truth" that is battle ready for every occasion. Each of the 12 chapters is followed by a "Teaching Highlights" and "Participants' Guide" complete

with memory verse and prayer focus scriptures. Also included is an excellent "Leaders' Discussion Guide", "Small Group Leadership Guidelines", "The ABC's of a Small Group Covenant" and much more!

If you write in multiple genres, do you have a favorite, or is one type of book easier for you to write than others, and why?

As someone who enjoys writing both nonfiction and fiction, I have discovered that each genre offers its own unique benefits. While nonfiction allows me to explore real-world topics and educate readers on important issues, fiction allows me to tap into my imagination and create worlds that exist only in my mind. However, out of all the genres I've tried, I must say that writing suspense thrillers is my absolute favorite. There's just something about the tension, the plot twists, and the intense emotional rollercoaster that makes it a truly exhilarating experience. When I'm writing a suspense thriller, I feel like I'm transported to another world––a world where anything is possible and anything can happen. It's a form of escape that no other genre can provide for me, and that's why I love it so much. 111

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap? Since I was a child, I have always been fascinated by the art of writing. My parents played a significant role in nurturing my love for literature, exposing me to books from various genres and authors. As I grew older, I began to develop an interest in crafting my stories, poems, and plays. By the time I reached middle school, I had already started writing and experimenting with different forms of writing. I found solace in weaving together words to create a story that could transport readers to another world, evoke emotions, and provoke thought. Writing has become an integral part of who I am, and I am grateful for my parent's support and encouragement in pursuing this passion. How / where do you find the plots you write about? One of my favorite creative pursuits is taking inspiration from real-life events and using them as a foundation to build a fictional world. I find it fascinating to explore the possibilities of what could have happened or what could have happened in a parallel universe. The process usually involves taking a seed of an idea that intrigues me, and then expanding on it to create a detailed plot, complete with characters, settings, and a storyline. It's a fulfilling and exciting experience to see a story come to life from just a small idea.

Mark Twain said “Write what you know.” Tell us about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a panster? Do you plot, plan, and conduct hours of research; or, do you just sit down and write whatever comes to mind based on your personal history and knowledge? I've discovered my writing style is a combination of two approaches– –plotting and pantsing. I typically begin by creating a rough outline and plan for my story. This outline includes the setting, characters, and a basic idea of how the plot will unfold. This gives me a general direction to work towards, but I don't like to restrict myself too much. I enjoy letting the story develop organically and I'm open to making changes or adding new ideas as I write. Despite my love for spontaneity, I always spend a considerable amount of time researching before I write. This research helps me to ensure accuracy and depth in my writing. I research the setting, themes, and any other relevant topics that I intend to include in my story. This helps me to create a compelling and authentic story that readers can relate to.

My writing process involves a rough outline, but I allow myself the freedom to let the story unfold naturally. I always conduct extensive research before writing to ensure accuracy and depth in my work.

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Tell us your latest news I am extremely excited to share that my very first thriller novel, titled "A Fifth of the Story", is all set to release on the 27th of February, 2024. This novel has been my passion project for quite some time now, and I can't wait for readers to get their hands on it. In other exciting news, I'm also thrilled to announce that I have just finished writing the prequel to "A Fifth of the Story". This prequel is an equally gripping and suspenseful tale that delves deeper into the backstory of the main characters. I'm confident readers will love it just as much as the main novel itself. Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? My main objective as a writer is to captivate and entertain readers with a compelling and engaging story. However, I also aim to convey a message that promotes the values of loyalty, truthfulness, and friendship. I believe that these qualities are the fundamental building blocks of any strong relationship and are crucial in developing a better society. Loyalty serves as a backbone to any relationship, fostering trust and dependability. Truthfulness, on the other hand, is vital for maintaining transparency and honesty – key elements of a healthy relationship. Lastly, friendship is a powerful bond that brings people together, allowing them to grow and learn from one another. I hope that my readers will recognize the importance of these qualities and be inspired to cultivate them in their lives.

How much of the book is realistic? My book delves into a series of real-life incidents that pose a significant threat to our national intelligence agencies. These incidents, which have taken place in our country, have been fictionalized and transformed into a gripping story that will keep readers on the edge of their seats. The book is based on actual events, but it has been written in a way that makes it accessible to a wider audience, bringing to light the challenges and threats that our intelligence agencies face daily. The story is a work of fiction, but it is grounded in reality, presenting a cautionary tale that raises important questions about the state of our national security.

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What books have influenced your life the most? The Bible has had a profound impact on my life, more than any other book I've ever read. It's a collection of diverse, thought-provoking stories that have captivated me in a way that no other book has. The stories in the Bible are not only filled with suspense and action, but they offer valuable lessons that have helped shape my worldview. The tales of kings and prophets, of love and loss, of miracles and redemption, all woven together in a seamless narrative, have left an indelible impression on me. I find myself constantly drawn back to the Bible, eager to discover new insights and meaning in its pages.

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There’s an attack on US soil, and Brock―an agent of the CIA―finds himself in the middle of the mess. He soon discovers that there’s been a breach that threatens not only to destroy the nation’s safety, but very possibly, Brock’s own life. In the race against the clock, Brock tries to keep his field officer’s wife and children safe and stay alive. In the midst of the chaos, Brock discovers one of his closest allies is a part of the dangerous intelligence breach responsible for a recent string of crimes by an extremist organization. It’s up to Brock to either take down the organization, or find himself―and those he loves most―at their mercy. A Fifth of the Story is the suspenseful, action-packed tale of one man's courage and resilience as he works against the clock to save the lives of his two best friends and, ultimately, the freedom he's fought for as a CIA agent during one of the US's history's darkest hours, using the backdrop of espionage, loyalty, betrayal, and the ultimate test of friendship.

This is one of the best first novels I’ve ever read. Not often can we read an authentic thriller that begins in Mali, Africa, and it remains just as believable in Washington, DC. Her well-drawn characters feel like real people. The last 75 pages kept me so engrossed I couldn’t put it down to eat my evening meal. --Cecil Murphey Suspense at its finest! I kept turning pages, looking over my shoulder, and forgetting to breathe. --DiAnn Mills Sometimes we read stories. Other times, we live them. Katherine’s captivating knowledge, writing, and plot grab us and refuse to let go. Dive into the adventurous and exhilarating world of a CIA operative, Brock O’Reilly, who wrestles with social issues, friendship, costly love, and a worthy mission. But cancel your appointments because you’ll not want to exit Brock’s world until you must. --Rodney Combs, Ph.D.

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Do you have a mentor that helped or encouraged you to follow your dream of writing? As I look back on my life, I can't help but feel grateful for the mentors who have played a vital role in shaping who I am today. Among them, my parents hold a special place in my heart for being my first mentors. They taught me invaluable life lessons, instilled in me a strong work ethic, and encouraged me to pursue my passions. In addition to my parents, I have had the privilege of being mentored by Cecil Murphey, a seasoned writer and author. Cecil has been a guiding force in my writing journey, helping me refine my skills, providing constructive feedback, and pushing me to pursue my dreams. His wisdom and expertise have been invaluable to me, and I feel incredibly fortunate to have him as a mentor. What are your current projects? I am dedicating my time to working on the next three books in my current thriller series. I am constantly brainstorming and developing new storylines and plot twists to keep my readers on the edge of their seats. Alongside my passion for writing, I am also heavily involved in the mission field. I believe in giving back to my community and making a positive impact on the world. That's why I volunteer my time as a virtual art teacher for the nonprofit organization, www.lightforthefuture.org. I am committed to helping children and young adults develop their creativity and artistic skills, even if it is through a virtual platform. In addition, I have the honor of sitting on the board of directors for both www.submersion14.com and www.the540writerscommunity.com. As a board member, I am actively involved in decision-making, providing strategic guidance, and ensuring that organizations are fulfilling their missions.

Dr. Katherine Hutchinson-Hayes wants to live in a world where lattes are free, lines are short, and people are judged by what’s inside instead of outside.

Pick one of your characters and share some of their backstory that didn’t make it into the novel. The protagonist in my story, Brock O'Reilly, has an extensive backstory that I ended up cutting out. He has a background in martial arts that I didn't get to showcase as much as I would have liked. Additionally, he had a tumultuous relationship with his girlfriend, which I had to write out of the story. Although I briefly touch on his unique "adopted" family that takes care of his home when he's deployed, I really wanted to include the background of how he rescued a mother and daughter, but I had to cut it out. 116

Can you share a sample of your current work with us? Chapter 1 “How much for the goat?” Brock pointed to an animal whose ribs jutted through its filthy coat. A fly landed on Brock’s eyelid, forcing it shut with its bulging weight. He smacked himself, missing the target that lazily flew away. The fly buzzed nearby to a freshly butchered camel’s head, then upward, joining a cloud of flies feasting on fish strung by their tails on a clothesline. Mohammed threw his head back and laughed. His stomach jiggled through his white bubu, a traditional Malian gown. “You don’t want no goat, man.” “No?” Brock scanned the jagged rock path between the crowd of jumbled buildings behind where the vendor sat. Several Islamic schoolboys ran toward the town center. In the distance, a sign for where he’d slept the last few nights at the La Colombe Hotel glistened in the African sun. He’d spent evenings there as the hotel’s singular guest. The adjoining restaurant was a popular eatery during the day, but when the sun set, everyone deserted. Even the manager went home come nightfall. Brock walked to a rack of knock-off sunglasses displayed on nails tacked through a piece of zinc. He donned a pair and checked his reflection in the full-length mirror perched against the camel’s head. It had been more than six months since he’d been taking the canthaxanthin (food-color) pills. But seeing his tall, muscular, bearded image always took him by surprise. This darker version of himself made his green eyes smolder. Dressed in a head wrap with jet-black curls peeking through and a mud-cloth dashiki, he really did resemble the accredited Egyptian archeologist his colleagues at the excavation site believed he was. “You want info,” Mohammed said. “Right, boss?” “Right.” “Men you seek.” He used his head to point. “Second building to the left, third floor.” “Which apartment?” “Follow smell.” “What smell?” “You’ll know.” Mohammed’s mouth opened in an uneven grin displaying betel-colored teeth. “The cost of that goat is $400, Boss,” he said, brown spittle spraying into his goatee. “That’s a pretty expensive meal.”

He shrugged. “Last meal costs more.” Brock folded a wad of bills into Mohammed’s meaty palm. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” They wouldn’t meet again, something Mohammed already knew. Mohammed fanned himself, looking directly into Brock’s eyes. “No, Boss.” Brock knew this time he was lying. 117

Do you have any advice for other writers? One piece of advice that I would give to aspiring writers is to take themselves and their craft seriously. Writing is not just a hobby but a profession that requires a lot of dedication and hard work. For others to take us seriously as writers, we must first take ourselves seriously. This means investing time in perfecting our writing skills, learning about the industry, and understanding the business side of writing. By doing so, we will be able to position ourselves as professionals, build our brand, and gain credibility within the industry.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers? In my opinion, it's always a good idea to analyze the characters in a book and draw parallels with real-life situations. This can help readers gain a deeper understanding of the story and the world around them. I encourage my readers to take this approach and explore the different perspectives presented in my book. By doing so, they can expand their own worldview and learn to appreciate diverse viewpoints. Ultimately, my goal is to inspire readers to think critically and engage with the material in a meaningful way.

Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why? It's evident that the absence of my father's parents left a profound impact on my father’s life. I can't help but wonder what it would have been like to have met them and developed a relationship with them. Unfortunately, both passed away before I was born and as a result, I missed out on the opportunity to connect with them. I feel that if I had the chance to meet them, it would have allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of my family's history and culture, and I would have been able to develop a stronger sense of identity. Despite not having met them, their legacy lives on through my father, and I am grateful for the memories he shares with me about them. What do you want written on your headstone and why? I want to be remembered for loving people well, making a significant and positive impact in their lives, and serving God fully. These are the most important things in life to me.

Other than writing do you have any hobbies?

I have a deep passion for music, and it brings me immense joy to sing and play the piano. Whenever I am not indulging in music, I love to keep myself active by biking, running, and exploring the beauty of nature. I also have a creative side to me, and painting serves as a great outlet for my artistic expression. However, if I had to choose one thing that truly makes my heart sing, it would be traveling with my family. There is nothing more fulfilling than creating beautiful memories with the people I love and exploring new cultures, cuisines, and places together. 118

Can you share something personal with your readers? Do you have any holiday traditions? What kind of music do you enjoy? What kind of movies do you prefer? Do you have a favorite author? Although I am outgoing and extroverted, I enjoy spending time by myself. There is also a part of me that is somewhat introverted. My favorite holiday is Christmas, and my tradition is to decorate right after Halloween and before Thanksgiving. I insist on corny Christmas music and Hallmark during this time. I have an eclectic taste in music ranging from classical to rap, but my favorite kind of music is jazz and reggae. I prefer sci-fi and action-packed dramas, especially suspense and thrillers. I'm usually not a chick-flick type of girl unless it's Christmas. I have a long list of favorite authors, but a few of them are Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, E. Lynn Harris, Amy Tan, Walter Mosley, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Kiersten Modglin, Steven James, DiAnn Mills, Ted Dekker, Stephen King, and Jodi Picoult. If money was no issue would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake? If money was no issue, I would absolutely love to own a charming and comfortable bungalow situated on a pristine and secluded beach. There is something truly magical and rejuvenating about the ocean that I find irresistible––the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the salty, briny scent of the sea air, and the mesmerizing beauty of the endless horizon all create a unique and special ambiance that fills me with joy and tranquility.

One final question...Do you have a blog/website? If so, what is it? Do you have a social media platform where your fans can go to interact with you and follow your progress?

I’m active on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/authordrkatherine/ and on X at https://twitter.com/khutch0767 (formerly known as Twitter). I also run a website, www.drkatherinhayes.com, which serves as a platform for me to engage with other writers and readers in the writing community. On my website, I share my personal writing journey, including my writing process, tips and tricks, and other insights that I've learned along the way. I also work with several other talented authors, who contribute to my weekly blog, sharing their own experiences, ideas, and perspectives on the craft of writing. Our blog is a space for us to connect with other writers, share knowledge, and encourage each other to grow as writers. We cover a wide range of topics related to writing, including fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and more. Our goal is to create a supportive and inclusive community where writers of all levels can come together, learn from each other, and grow as writers. 119

Nir Yaniv Website: www.niryaniv.com Twitter: @TheNirYaniv FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/nyfiction Instagram: @nyfiction BlueSky: niryaniv.bsky.social

Interview by Melanie P. Smith Nir Yaniv is an Israeli-born multidisciplinary artist living in Los Angeles. He's an author, a musician, an illustrator, and a filmmaker. He founded Israel's first online science fiction magazine and served as its chief editor for ten years, after which he moved on to editing a printed genre magazine. He collaborated with World Fantasy Award-winning author Lavie Tidhar on two novels, including the "deranged sci-fi extravaganza" (per The Jewish Quarterly) The Tel Aviv Dossier, and his English- language collection The Love Machine & Other Contraptions was published by Infinity Plus in 2012. His most recent Hebrew novel, King of Jerusalem, was published in Israel in 2019. His short stories have appeared in Weird Tales, Apex, and ChiZine, among others. Nir's musical career includes soundtracks for film, dance shows, and theater. His most recent work is the voice-and-drums animated album The Voice Remains (LifeArt Music, 2021). Nir has also directed several short films and music videos, both live-action and animated. 120

I’m an author, musician, and short film director. In my shady past, I also served as a magazine editor, a motorbike reviewer, and a software developer. Simultaneously, by the way. On the music front, I’m a decent singer and a sort-of-ok bassist, and in addition to my albums, I spent ten years as a composer for a dance company. On the literature front, my new novel, The Good Soldier, is out this January. Originally from Israel, I now live in Los Angeles.

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write? I mostly write science fiction, but at times I’d go as far as horror or — horror/fantasy. I don’t decide what kind of book I write, though. Rather, a situation or a scene comes to me, and the story grows from there. My one big rule is: if it’s not fun to write, I won’t write it.

www.niryaniv.com

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

If you write in multiple genres, do you have a favorite, or is one type of book easier for you to write than others, and why? The less research I have to do, the easier it is to write. It sounds like an easy conclusion, but I’ve learned it the hard way, having once written a book that required eight years of research. It’s in Hebrew, so you won’t get to read it anytime soon, but I’ll just mention here that it deals with a time-traveling King Solomon.

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap? I’ve always been an avid reader, and it seems to me that at some point I’ve fallen through the looking glass into the world of writing. While memory eludes me, I suspect I started writing just like everything else I’ve learned to do: do it first, ask questions later. This is especially easy when you deal with writing, a bit less so when trying to learn to play the trumpet. Believe me, and if you don’t - believe my long-suffering girlfriend. How / where do you find the plots you write about? They usually find me. I have some recurring themes, sure - the tiny cog that breaks the whole system; the inhumanity of technology, especially tech that attempts to anticipate what a human might want or need; being too smart, or cunning, for one’s own good; and the inherent weirdness of religions, especially of the organized kind. 121

Mark Twain said “Write what you know.” Tell us about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you plot, plan, and conduct hours of research; or, do you just sit down and write whatever comes to mind based on your personal history and knowledge? All my stories and novels started the same way: I had an idea, sat down and wrote an opening scene, instantly forgot about it, then found it in my notes and said to myself, “Hmm, there might be a story in that.” No matter how weird or otherworldly the setting is, the situation would be a human one, and one that’s familiar to me on some level. Tell us your latest news

Well, said new novel, The Good Soldier, came out this January. It’s a spoof on military SF, but has a lot to say about the current state of democracy, or lack thereof. I’ve also recently released a new short film named Loontown, written by author Lavie Tidhar and directed and animated by myself. It’s an 18 minutes long film noir, in which all the characters are balloons. It finished a nice round of film festivals and is now free to watch on YouTube. More short animated films are in the works. How much of the book is realistic? For a military SF novel with huge spaceships, exploding aliens, futuristic weapons and an all-galactic empire - quite a lot! While I’ve never been inside a spaceship, nor have fought any aliens recently, I did spend three years of my life in mandatory military service, and I do know how serving in the army feels from the inside. I wasn’t a fighter, nor is that experience about fighting. It’s about being a part of a system that has its own - often idiotic - rules. It’s about having to obey illogical orders, or at least find ways to pretend such obedience took place. I’ve read novels by authors who were drafted in various places and times, and found that it doesn’t matter whether you’re a part of the Austro-Hungarian army in 1914 or the Russian army in 1940 or the American army in 1969 - a soldier will always feel like a soldier.

What books have influenced your life the most? I learned a lot from the firecracker-fast writing of Alfred Bester, who could put in a single chapter enough ideas and plots that other writers would take a whole trilogy to discuss; the deceptively simple writing style of Philip K. Dick, who could move from attempting to fix a broken TV to a full-scale galactic invasion before the reader notices that something is off; and the complex ideas of Stanislaw Lem, combined with his deliberate use of “old” technology”, showing us, among other things, that it’s not about the shiny gadgets.

What are your current projects? A novella about a no-good galactic gumshoe chasing a lethal alien bird on a mafia-ridden frontier planet; A children’s short animated film about a radio mysteriously appearing in a garden; And a story about an AI con-man on the moon. Because why not? Can you share a sample of your current work with us? Of course. Check out www.niryaniv.com, which includes links to the books, the music albums, and the animations, plus some free stories, cartoons, and weird drawings.

Do you have any advice for other writers? Listen to your editor. Always, always, always listen to your editor. Embrace that horrible feeling that all writers have, the universal “you don’t understand what I’m trying to do here!” bit, and cry a little, then cut out the offending paragraph, or, sometimes the entire story. You can thank me later. Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why? I would have liked to meet Philip K. Dick. He was the best conspiracy theorist ever, but more importantly, he was the best at disputing said theory the next day.

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The Imperial Navy has long been at war. It is a well-oiled machine, a mighty galactic power in which nothing can go wrong. Enter Pre-Private Joseph Fux, self-proclaimed Idiot, Second Class. When Fux arrives on board the light frigate UPS Spitz, things immediately begin to go wrong. It’s not Fux’s fault. It never is. Accidents just happen when he’s around, despite the best intentions. And as the always-cheerful Fux bungles his way through one job after another, he throws the whole ship and its orderly crew into chaos. No one is left unscathed: not the responsible and lonely Lt. Lipton, grieving for his lost love; not the mercilessly logical Doctor Nightingale, who may or may not be Lipton’s current romantic interest; not the overzealous Ensign Berseker, or the pompous political officer, Commander Kapust. Not even the hidden, monstrous Captain. Knowingly or not, Fux is an agent of resistance, his blind stupidity the only sane response to the insanity of war. Something’s gotta give, and the tiny spanner-in-the-works that is Fux threatens at last to destroy the entire machinery of the Galactic Empire . . .

Praise for The Good Soldier “Drawing on a tradition of anti-war fiction and his own military experience, Nir Yaniv meshes together classical American gung-ho SF with the delightful absurdism of European literature to create an unforgettable far-future fable for our times. Think M.A.S.H. in space, and you’ll come closest to capturing the spirit of The Good Soldier, but you’ll have to enmesh yourself in the (mis) adventures of Idiot-First-Class Fux and company of the good ship Spitz to find out for yourself. This is one explosive novel you do not want to miss!” – Lavie Tidhar, award-winning author of Central Station and Neom “A madcap dystopian satire that shoulders its way into the ranks of Bill the Galactic Hero and Catch-22, then stands sloppily at attention as it smirks in the face of an apoplectic political officer.” – Alex Shvartsman, Award-Winning Author of The Middling Affliction and Eridani’s Crown “I really enjoyed this: a rattling, SFnal updating of The Good Soldier Švejk/em> via Starship Troopers (as it might be: Švejkship Troopers): funny, pointed, readable, a subversive depiction of the futility of war and a satire on the perennial logic of the military mind and the structures of the army. Fux is a wonderful anti-hero: a buffoon and an idiot (‘second class’) but also an everyman. Highly recommended.” - Adam Roberts, award-winning author of Jack Glass “In this amiable satire of the gung-ho heroics of military sci-fi, Yaniv (coauthor of The Tel Aviv Dossier) sets a seeming simpleton against an immense empire, and the contest is hardly fair . . . (A)n amusing alternative to the usual run of martial marvels and battle-tested warriors. Military SF fans will enjoy this gentle roasting.” – Publishers Weekly 125

Other than writing do you have any other occupations? As mentioned about, I’m a musician and a filmmaker. My latest album, The Voice Remains, can be found on Spotify, Apple Music, and the rest of them. It features drums, voices, and Nothing Else. I even animated it. Speaking of animations, you can find my work – including said album, here.

https://www.positronish.com/

What do you want written on your headstone and why? Here Lies Someone Else.

One final question...Do you have a blog/website? If so, what is it? Do you have a social media platform where your fans can go to interact with you and follow your progress? Sure. Website: www.niryaniv.com Twitter: @TheNirYaniv FB: https://www.facebook.com/nyfiction Instagram: @nyfiction BlueSky: niryaniv.bsky.social

Can you share something personal with your readers? Do you have any holiday traditions? What kind of music do you enjoy? What kind of movies do you prefer? Do you have a favorite author? While far from being religious, I take great joy in the Jewish holiday foodstuffs. Well, some of them. In particular, the Hanukkah Sufganiot, which are just jelly donuts, sure, but don’t tell anyone I said that. Oh, and the Purim Hamantaschen, or Ears-of-Haman (who’s the holiday’s story antagonist) - triangles of dough filled with poppy seeds (and not chocolate, ye sinners!) As for music, I’m on the funky-jazzy side of things, with touches of old prog-rock and a hint of EDM. My girlfriend wouldn’t let me listen to country music which I find extremely entertaining, though perhaps not in the way its makers intended - and so I can’t listen to it at home, only when alone in my car. As for movies and authors, the list is very long and life, alas, is short. 126

Zachary Hagen Zachary Hagen is a Christian fantasy author and editor. He lives with his wife, Claudia, and their dog, Flynn. When he isn't busy writing his next book or working with an editing client, you can often find him walking around his neighborhood or hiking. From a young age he was enthralled with the world of story. From the stories his parents read to him from his blue bedtime story books (if you know, you know) to the first two series that he read, The Chronicles of Narnia and A Series of Unfortunate Events, Zachary's tastes continued to develop throughout his years of reading. The influences for his first series, The Eternal Chronicles, include Christopher Paolini, J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and others.

Civil war is the beginning of the end, but who will survive? After Taking over the leadership of the Refuge, Elior and His friends have a time of peace, but when Taariq makes good on his promise to marry Viola and make her his empress, no one could withhold the wrath of the people when they rebel against djinn rule. The Refuge must become a beacon of light in a world darkened by rebellion, but when a self-proclaimed “Holy Army” rises up, will Elior and his friends be able to keep that light shining bright? Will Aelon’s call prove too much to handle? Will the past keep them from moving forward? Eternity’s Edge is the penultimate book in the Eternal Chronicles series. Its pages will take you on an epic journey to the absolute Edge of the world where the end of this spellbinding tale will begin. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0CGMKWBCG

zacharyhagenwrites.com “Zachary Hagen's Eternity's Well (Eternal Chronicles Book 1) is a bold and delightful opening into a fantasy series that is worth following” _ The Serial Reader

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The name of a child is important to him/her as well as to their community. From an individual point of view, a child’s name plays an important role in the advertisement and maintenance his/her self identity. The first word most children learn to write is their name. Some children and adults chose to be known by a nickname and others prefer to use their full name. From a parental perspective, the name they chose is often symbolic of their hopes and dreams for that child. Some families practice namesaking or the naming of a child after the father or grandfather. The practice of namesaking is much more common in male children than in female children. Namesaking can be positive for a child, but it can also result in high expectations being placed on the child if the person after whom they are named is a high performer. Namesaking often happens in wealthy families and royalty and comes with an expectation for the child to live up to the accomplishments of the previous generation/s. John Jacob Astor IV and his son, John Jacob Astor VI, come to mind when I think of failures to live up to an inherited moniker. From a community point of view, names often have religious or cultural significance. In these circumstances, the name of a child can impact the way in which they are accepted by, and integrate into, a community. Names also have meanings which can be important. I remember smiling when meeting a heavily pregnant lady with the name of Chastity.

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Based on the above, it is obvious that the name of a character / characters in a children’s book are important. The names will immediately tell the child a lot about the character and the child will also make assumptions based on the names, as follows: •

the religion of the character/s – does the character have a Biblical name or a Hebrew name or a Muslim name?

•

the ethnic background of the character – does the character have an Irish, Spanish, English, American, or Japanese name? In South Africa, there are 11 official languages and each group of language speakers has its own traditional names. For example, popular Afrikaans names are Pieter, Willem, Hans, and Mariska and popular Zulu names are Amahle, Bongani, Lindiwe, and Dumisani.

•

does the character use a nickname or their full name? I have always been called Robbie although my full name is Roberta. Both my sons chose to use their full names of Gregory and Michael.

•

a name can also tell you about a character’s employment or social position. For example, a lot of native African people who work in service industries chose to either use European names instead of their traditional names or they use a short form that is easier for customers to say and remember.

English author, Enid Blyton, made great use of names in her children’s books. 129

You can always tell what type of character you are dealing with from their names. You can also usually get a good idea about the genre and type of story from her naming conventions, as follows:

The Land of Far-Beyond is a Christian allegory and tells the story of a boy named Peter and his two sisters, Anna and Patience, who travel from the City of Turmoil to the City of Happiness in the Land of Far -Beyond. The three children carry the heavy burdens of their bad deeds on their backs. With them are 130

two other children, Lily and John, and five adults—Mr Scornful, Mr Fearful, Dick Cowardly, Gracie Grumble and Sarah Simple.

The Enchanted Wood series of three books tells of the adventures of three children who live near the Enchanted Wood. One day they discover a great tree that reaches right up into the clouds called the Faraway Tree. The children climb the Faraway Tree and discover that it is inhabited by magical people, including MoonFace, Silky, The Saucepan Man, Dame Washalot, Mr. Watzisname, and the Angry Pixie, whose houses are built in holes in the great trunk. I have tried to make good use of names in my children’s book series. Sir Chocolate and Lady Sweet were intended to clearly indicate that the books are fantasy and are about sweet treats. All the illustrations are made from cake and fondant art and the books all include recipes. Neema the Misfit Giraffe was intended to make it obvious that the book has an African setting. The name, Neema, means grace in Swahili. Neema’s companion, Amhale, has a Zulu name which means the beautiful one.

What are your thoughts on names in children’s fiction? Do you think they are important? Let me know in the comments.

Robbie Cheadle is a South African children’s author and poet with 9 children’s books and 2 poetry books. She has also published 2 books for older children which incorporate recipes that are relevant to the storylines. Robbie has 2 adult novels in the paranormal historical and supernatural fantasy genres published under the name Roberta Eaton Cheadle. She also has short stories in the horror and paranormal genre and poems included in several anthologies. Connect with Robbie… https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/

Hall Pass For Life: A steamy tale of overcoming pain & finding romance

by Dorothea Lynne

Hall Pass For Life Reviewed by Reader This romance started out with Thea, a forty year old woman married to a real jerk. To be blunt, one I wanted to pull from the book and slap like he'd done to her. Thea was more of a woman than her husband a man. I found her to be brave and putting herself last for her family, was the most honorable. She had married Malcolm when he approached her, offering her to help her family if she married him. Malcolm became bored with his young wife. He had several affairs, which Thea had been fully aware of. One day Malcolm wants his home to himself and send Thea away for a week long vacation, which just so happens to Liam Pierce. I LOVE Liam! I love how he was so understand and kind with Thea. Side note: I wish Dorothea Lynne would have ended the book different though. I would like to know if the husband ever attempted to reach out to Thea. Maybe an epilogue? Give the happy couple a baby that Thea wanted. Just putting that out there. Perhaps give Thea's best friend a book? . https://bookgoodies.com/a/B078PF6B96 The Heart Won’T Let Go by Laura Rosek A second chance romance with Flair... Reviewed by Love2Read Wow, The Heart Won't Let Go was a fast-paced insta-love kinda romance with several genres all molded into one! Nonetheless, it was loaded with suspense, intrigue and enough twists and turns to keep me completely enthralled throughout. The characters were engaging and well-rounded, although Matt might have ticked me off in the very beginning but Chantelle's charm and sincerity more than made up for his callous behavior. In fact, a famous quote came to mind while I first started reading this book, 'absence makes the heart grow fonder.' I highly recommend The Heart Won't Let Go to anyone who believes in second chances... https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0796555D5 132

Odin's sons: Twe12ve: Twelve keys, one secret. by Ceri Bladen Entertaining quick read Reviewed by Dernhelm I listened to this story using text to audio and enjoyed the fast pace and unique plot idea. Odin and his clan protect the remaining two of twelve key holders, one of whom has a primary key. These keys unlock a vault that contains the secret to prolonging life. Loki and his team want the keys so they can sell the contents of the vault to big pharma.

The author's writing style makes it easy to read, though, at times, some repetition on words or phrases distracts. Even with a multitude of characters, it's easy to keep track of who's who. It wraps up neatly at the end but with the promise of more to come. The story entertained, was suspenseful, and I'd be interested in reading more. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B017EV5DW2 Venus Trap by Maya Daniels Exciting Paranormal World Reviewed by Cassandra DenHartog The story is very well done overall. Artemis is a strong upfront character with a bit of a bad streak at first, but likable. Raphael is my favorite, as he isn’t just your typical dark and mysterious monster. I loved the new approach to the Far, Vampires, and a fantasy world in modern times. It was exciting and refreshing. Maya Daniels takes her time building the world and relationship. Venus Trap breaks a lot of traditional romance rules. For this book, I’d say it worked. Taking the time to build up the characters and the world really helped with the overall story and plot. The book had a few point of view shift issues where it was too jarring and was hard to really stick with the characters. This only happened in a few places. There were also a few typos, but they were minor. Overall this novel was unique and a fresh take on a paranormal romance. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B07P2RJPC5 133

S. Atzeni Interview by Melanie P. Smith

S. Atzeni (she/they) is a writer of prose, comics, and academic scholarship. They are the co-author of The MOTHER Principle graphic novel series and The Legend of Dave Bradley and the upcoming W(h)ine and Cheese in the One 'n Done series. S. Atzeni is the co-founder and editorial director of Read Furiously Publishing and holds a Masters of Arts from The College of New Jersey.

Find Samantha online at:

The One 'n Done series—

smatzeni.com

Quick reads worth every minute.

instagram.com/smatzeni

Build your reading experience with short works by talented authors. Portable and pocket-sized, the One 'n Done series offers a variety of genres to be read in an afternoon or weekend.

Readfuriously.com

https://readfuriously.com/ 134

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BYSRHXZ3

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved books and I’ve always wanted to be a writer. My life path definitely took a different turn than what I expected, but I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished over the years: I’ve written prose, comics, and academic scholarship. Each one has taught me a lot about audience, structure, and deadlines (the last one I’m still working on). I studied journalism and professor writing as an undergrad and then received my Masters of Arts - both from The College of New Jersey. I then taught writing as an adjunct professor for fifteen years - I’ve worked with students of many different levels and had the privilege of exploring many different subjects through my classes, including Holocaust and genocide studies, ethnography, sequential art, and cultural criticism. I’m also the co-founder of Read Furiously Publishing, a responsibility I share with my partner, Adam Wilson, who is a comics writer. Besides running the publishing house as co-publisher, I’m also the editorial director and in charge of acquisitions. Through Read Furiously, we get to publish great books, work on our own projects, be a part of an amazing indie community, and participate in literary activism. With every title we publish, Read Furiously and its authors donate a portion of our net proceeds to various literacy programs and book-related charities, and we work with Little Free Libraries and book donation programs throughout NJ. We understand that reading can be a form of activism and we take this responsibility very seriously. 135

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write? I definitely try to be a multi-genre author, but I find that skillset is better suited to running the editorial department of my publishing house. As an author, I do enjoy writing creative nonfiction since my background is in journalism and professional writing. I also tried a different genre with the graphic novel series, The MOTHER Principle, co-written by Adam Wilson and illustrated by Alicia Padron; that was probably my most challenging, but worthwhile, writing experience. When I am deciding what type of book to write, I always come back to my first love: fiction. Of course, as I get older, I feel like my fiction is moving toward the experimental side rather than the traditional descriptive narration we usually associate with the genre.

If you write in multiple genres, do you have a favorite, or is one type of book easier for you to write than others, and why? As writers, we learn early on that no book is easy to write. Books will be as challenging or as accommodating as they want to be, regardless of what we, as authors, want to happen. With that, my favorite genre to read and to write is short fiction. I fell in love with it as a teenager and it’s still a genre I admire and respect. Writing short fiction, whether it’s flash fiction, episodic chapters, or short stories, reminds me of a high-wire act. There is so much you need to accomplish in a short amount of time. To me, a great short story is a miracle.

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap? I left my seventh birthday party to go into my room and write a story, and that terrifying lack of social skills is still with me today. I’ve been blessed with a writing village that prompts me to take that leap every time I want to write something: the letter Ann M. Martin wrote to me in response to my letter (I saw her once in a bookstore and I am very sure I fangirled as I recounted that story to her); my seventh grade writing teacher Mr. Michael Lynch who gave us a writing assignment every day; my family who continues to buy me books and read my work; and my writing professors who reminded me that we write for ourselves first. Also, one time, I met Francesca Lia Block at a book event and she hugged me as I cried about how much she means to me. So, many awkwardly wonderful social situations led me, and continue to lead me, to this point where I want to write every day. How / where do you find the plots you write about? I’ve always liked playing the “what if” game and trying to see how far I can go before I stop believing this would happen. Also, I am the worst to be around in a public place because I am always listening in on people’s conversations. People both scare me and fascinate me, which makes for great storytelling.

Mark Twain said “Write what you know.” Tell us about your writing process. Are you a plotter or a panster? Do you plot, plan, and conduct hours of research; or, do you just sit down and write whatever comes to mind based on your personal history and knowledge? Sigh…I wish I could say I’m super cool and I sit down and write whatever comes to mind. But the academic in me is starting to panic, so I would have to say plot, plan, overthink, research, overthink, talk about it, plot some more, research, leave it for a few days, rethink my entire life plan, plot some more, plan it out, and then write it. Once it’s written, I’ve forgotten all of the steps and have convinced myself it’s easy enough to do again. I will say that I do love research and making lists - they are my favorite parts of the writing process. Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? With any of my stories, I want to create a cast of characters that remind readers of the many different stories out there. I try to play around with points of view or perspective to build a world that people may overlook. As a mixed race, nonbinary person, I’ve always felt safer observing the world until I realized I can be both observer and participant on my terms. I want my readers to feel the same.

Tell us your latest news I have a new book out this summer! With running a publishing house, my partner and I don’t get a lot of time to work on our own projects, so I’m really excited that we both have books coming out this year. My newest one is part of our bestselling One ‘n Done series and it’s my first campus novella called W(h)ine and Cheese. It’s similar to my first One ‘n Done book, The Legend of Dave Bradley, where it’s a combination of heartwarming relationships and complete chaos (my two favorite topics to write about!). Our One ‘n Done series is a project that’s really close to our hearts since we created it back in our punk rock flea market days. People kept coming up to us and sharing that they wanted to read more, but didn’t have the time. So we created this series of pocket-sized books that contain full stories that can be read during a long weekend, during a commute, during a trip - it’s designed to be a friend in your pocket. I love writing for this series - it keeps me sharp in terms of my short fiction skills and I love when they’re published and I get to hold this cute little pocket book in my hand. Also, whenever everyone comes up to me and says, “I read your book! It was so funny!,” it’s a happy moment every time. 137

How much of the book is realistic? What are your current projects? Right now, I’m focused on Read Furiously’s roster for the next two years, so it’s a lot of planning and editing. I am also starting on the third volume of our NJ anthology series, Life in the Garden State, which is one of my favorite anthology projects.

I always hope the characters come off as realistic - people that you can connect with and maybe hang out with in the real world. All of the situations are amalgamations of different experiences and I make sure the realism is kept to a minimum - sometimes, it’s funnier that way to have realistic people in these ridiculous, unbelievable situations.

What books have influenced your life the most? Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris, Dangerous Angels and Echo by Francesca Lia Block, World of Wonders by Aimee Nezhukumatathil, The Opposite of Fate by Amy Tan, Still Writing by Dani Shapiro, Jazz by Toni Morrison, Upstream by Mary Oliver, Geek Love by Katherine Dunn, and SlaughterhouseFive by Kurt Vonnegut - these books have inspired my writing and my reading journeys. Of course, I can keep going because there are so many books I’m reading or have read in the past year that I’m still thinking about. Also, a special shout out to The Baby-sitters Club, a series that made me realize I wanted to be a writer.

Do you have a mentor that helped or encouraged you to follow your dream of writing? I’m lucky to have a few people encouraged to keep writing. In college, my mentor was, and still is, Kim Pearson, who is one of the greatest journalists of our time. She taught me how to be intentional with my words and through her brilliant instruction in her classes and just in conversation, she taught me that my writing can make a difference. I’m still in awe of her - she’s one of the coolest people to talk to. In terms of writing creatively, my workshop professors, Sheila Callaghan and Dan Pope, taught me to always take risks in my work. Fun fact: the first version of The Legend of Dave Bradley was actually written for Dan Pope’s fiction workshop! Both Sheila and Dan encouraged me to keep working on my dialogue which plays a big role in how I build my scenes. Finally, the late great Bob Cole taught me to “get off my ass and knock on doors” in his introduction to journalism class. When I’m too tired/lazy to work on promotion or moving the needle forward, I think of his class and start knocking on doors (figuratively speaking, because — internet).

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Can you share a sample of your current work with us? This is the opening to The Legend of Dave Bradley. I love this story, but this is one of my favorite parts because it has changed shape over the years and I’m happy with how this turned out: “The following is a true story. The following story is mostly true. The following story is partially true, told to anyone who will still listen. These days, the only people who still listen are the ones who were there. Everyone else sits patiently until the tale is complete, a frozen smile on their faces, trying to figure out if they should laugh at the events that transpired. Some feel too real to be funny. Fair warning, dear reader: this story contains an unhealthy balance of horror and humor. For those who work in retail or any soul-crushing customer service experience, this story must be funny because otherwise we would weep over our own misfortunes. Or finally tell the customers what we truly think of them. The following story is no longer true because it has been told to anyone who will still listen. At this point, we cannot remember when this happened, how it really happened, or to whom it happened. I have tried to compile the memories of those who were witness to the reign of Dave Bradley to create a tale that remains true to its protagonist. Dave Bradley is not this person’s real name, but a culmination of customer qualities that have come together to have the same unbelievable brightness of a supernova. The celestial fragments fall to Earth and become part of the landscape. Dave Bradley is the human equivalent of space garbage. The following story is probably true because it happens every day within the realms of customer service. The following story is most likely two truths and a lie because Dave Bradley is both protagonist and antagonist. He is the hero and the villain. The moral at the end of a long-winded story that we have heard too many times. That last customer who shows up three minutes before closing to “just get a few things.” Dave Bradley is the itchy tag on your uniform, the meager paycheck for too much work. Dave Bradley is metaphor and hyperbole - an exaggeration hiding behind a very real truth. He is the Fool and the Truth-teller. He is also the Tower of Calamity. Dave Bradley has become such an urban legend, I cannot remember his real name. But I can still hear his slow shuffle of footsteps as he tries to get away with a lobster from the seafood tank. We remember the old writing adage (ahem, lie) to “write what you know.” This is terrible advice because it makes you remember people like Dave Bradley.”

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Pick one of your characters and share some of their backstory that didn’t make it into the novel. In our graphic novel series, The MOTHER Principle, Curie is the quiet observer who writes it all down and tries to keep the peace among her sisters. While everyone sees Curie as the chemist, she’s also an accomplished botanist. She has this connection to the earth which is one of the things I love about her. Her scientific mind is perfect for taxonomy, but her passion lies in ethnobotany because it combines her two favorite topics: plants and people. None of this was able to make it into the series, but I like to think her creativity and groundedness is a result of this passion. Do you have any advice for other writers? My advice is twofold: Write your way and Do the work. Right now, we are bombarded with so many different kinds of writing advice or what type of writing makes the most money and I feel writers get stuck in their heads (I’ve definitely been there!). Yes, writing is for an audience, but it starts with you, the writer. I get it - writing is an isolating practice; however, there are so many different communities to connect with without losing your own voice. No one else can write your book and you shouldn’t try to write a certain way if it isn’t part of your voice. Write YOUR story - be a portal to another experience that readers can connect with. Also, and this is the publisher in me, if you are writing to make tons of money and for the ego trip of being on bestseller lists, you’re in the wrong business. Publishing is tricky and the industry is unpredictable. Once you finish writing, the real work begins in finding your readers. Readers want to connect with the writer and that requires putting in the work. I promise you: the effort is completely worth it. Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers? Thank you for reading my work and thank you for supporting Read Furiously. Meeting people who love our books fills me with joy. My favorite words to hear are, “I HAVE to read that!” whenever anyone sees one of our titles. Without your support, I wouldn’t be able to do what I do, so thank you. Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why? There are many that come to mind, but I just finished The Only Woman in the Room by Marie Benedict, and Hedy Lamarr sounds fascinating. She was multifaceted and lived an extraordinary life. I would love to just sip some tea and listen to her life story. If money was no issue would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake? Definitely a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake - I’m not a beach person. Plus a rustic cabin is a great place to read every Mary Oliver book ever written. That and I love being around trees. 140

Other than writing do you have any hobbies? In another year I’ll be 40 and to quote Nick Miller, “I like getting older, I feel like I’m aging into my personality.” My students used to laugh at me because I would always make a reference to books I’m reading or what I’m planting in my garden (“Professor! My parents do that!” - the horror!) But it’s true - if I’m not writing, I’m reading, watching films, trying to build a sustainable garden (I’m getting this - this is my year!), and being with my favorite people. Also, our son is really into Pokémon and learning all of the different names feels like a new hobby. Can you share something personal with your readers? Do you have any holiday traditions? What kind of music do you enjoy? What kind of movies do you prefer? Do you have a favorite author? My favorite holiday tradition with my family is our book flood. I prepare for it year round and then on the day, we exchange books and treats. I love finding weird and interesting books to give my partner and now that our son is getting older, he’s getting into it too.

What do you want written on your headstone and why? “She didn’t finish her TBR” just kidding! (Kind of) I don’t know what it should say exactly, but I want people to remember me as someone who tried their best to make the world a better place.

One final question...Do you have a blog/ website? If so, what is it? Do you have a social media platform where your fans can go to interact with you and follow your progress?

As for music, I am not cool and still listen to the 90’s and early 00’s music that I grew up hearing. My Spotify Wrapped looks like a time capsule every year.

Okay, real talk, I am TERRIBLE at updating my author website and socials, but I’m great at keeping up with Read Furiously’s digital footprint. So the best way to find out about me is through the publisher’s website https://readfuriously.com/ - and our social media platform @ReadFuriously. It’s usually me writing the blog and making the posts, so be sure to say “hi!” My author IG is @smatzeni which is basically a fan page for my cats.

As for movies, I try to see everything I can. I LOVE LOVE LOVE going to the movies, streaming movies, arguing about movies, reading about movies - once upon a time, I studied screenwriting and filmmaking and it’s still something that fascinates me. My favorite author is more challenging to pin down because I can think of so many books in my life that have changed my way of thinking, inspired me, and/or became an old friend that I revisit every year. 141

& Tricks

“Reading is essential for those who seek to rise above the ordinary.” - Jim Rohn 142

The web is a wonderful tool. There’s instant access to a wealth of knowledge on any topic - including Self-Publishing. Here are a few examples to help authors along the way. How To Write Without Editing | 5 Quick Tips Writing while editing can be like driving with both the gas and brake pedal pressed at the same time. For many writers though, you'll want to separate these two processes. https://youtu.be/Ly3WdL-Ukms?feature=shared Using BookBub’s Ad Design Tool: 12 Examples Readers Loved BookBub Ads is a powerful tool for promoting books with a flexible budget to targeted audiences of BookBub readers. While many authors choose to design custom ad images, the BookBub Ads set-up form includes an ad creative builder, which offers a quick and easy way to design simple ad images that feature the advertised book’s cover and a short blurb. https://insights.bookbub.com/creative-builder-bookbub-ads-readers-loved/ Creative Resilience For Authors Think of creative resilience like your secret superpower as an author. It’s that awesome ability to keep your creativity flowing and your spirits high, no matter what plot twists life throws at your writing journey. It’s about bouncing back stronger from those “Oh no, my character’s stuck in a dead-end!” moments and turning “I just can’t write today” into “Wow, where did all these cool ideas come from?” https://www.atticus.io/creative-resilience-for-authors/ The Art Of [Self-Publishing] War Ever feel like you’re going to battle when you approach certain self-publishing tasks? I have a few strategies to help you turn every challenge into a favorite part of your author experience. https://www.atticus.io/the-art-of-self-publishing-war/

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