Connections eMagazine February 2023 Edition

Connections eMagazine

Volume 9 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. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

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Naked and Afraid… Meet Sam Mouzer (Page 20). Learn why he decided to join the adventure and what he learned along the way.

Author Interviews…

In this issue KC Grifant (Page 6), Jennifer Lieberman (Page 40), WL Hawkin (Page 66), and the writing duo of Charles Breakfield and Roxanne Burkey (Page 120).

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Book Reviews First Chapters Author Tips and Tricks

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Growing Bookworms

by Robbie Cheadle Once Upon a Dragon

by Sarah Hindmarsh Twirl by Joe DeRouen The Neighbor

by Sarah Hindmarsh A Picture is Worth 1000 Words — Multiple Authors Are AI Chatbots Useful to authors? by Sylva Fae Blood Spatter Evidence

by Melanie P. Smith 77 1/2 Herbs — Coltsfoot

by Ronesa Aveela The Golden Age of Hollywood

by Hannah Howe The Mouse Family that live by the Brambles by Gez Robinson

Editorial Team EDITOR –IN– CHIEF Melanie P. Smith https://melaniepsmith.com/ CONTENT EDITOR… Sylva Fae https://www.facebook.com/SylvaFae COPY EDITOR… LaPriel Dye CONTENT WRITERS… Sarah Hindmarsh https://www.facebook.com/Sarahhindmarshauthor Ronesa Aveela https://ronesaaveela.wordpress.com/ REVIEWS...

Mom’s Favorite Reads Review Group

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MPSmith Publishing

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

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KC Grifant is a Southern Californian author who writes internationally published horror, fantasy, science fiction and weird west stories for podcasts, anthologies and magazines. Her writings have appeared in Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, Unnerving Magazine, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Tales to Terrify, the Lovecraft eZine, Siren's Call Publications and many others.

She’s also contributed to dozens of anthologies, including: Chromophobia; Musings of the Muse; Dancing in the Shadows - A Tribute to Anne Rice; Field Notes from a Nightmare; The One That Got Away - Women of Horror Vol 3; Six Guns Straight From Hell;

Trembling with Fear Year 1; Shadowy Natures - Tales of Psychological Horror; Beyond the Infinite - Tales from the Outer Reaches; and the Stokernominated Fright Mare: Women Write Horror. A member of SFWA and a co-founder of the San Diego HWA chapter, she enjoys chasing a wild toddler and wandering through beachside carnivals. For details, visit www.KCGrifant.com or @kcgrifant on social media.

Exclusive Interview

With KC Grifant

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

I’m an author of horror, fantasy, science fiction and weird western tales. My short stories have been internationally published in podcasts and magazines, including Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, Unnerving Magazine, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Dark Matter Magazine, the British SF Association’s Fission Magazine, Tales to Terrify, the Lovecraft eZine, and many others.

In addition to my horror-fantasy Western novel, MELINDA WEST: MONSTER GUNSLINGER (Brigids Gate Press, Feb 2023), I also have short stories in dozens of anthologies, including: Chromophobia; Musings of the Muse; Dancing in the Shadows - A Tribute to Anne Rice; Field Notes from a Nightmare; The One That Got Away; Six Guns Straight From Hell; Shadowy Natures; Beyond the Infinite - Tales from the Outer Reaches; and the Stoker-nominated Fright Mare: Women Write Horror.

I’m based in Southern California and a member of numerous writing organizations, including the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association (SFWA).

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write?

I’m “multi-genre” in the sense that I write fantasy, science fiction, horror, and weird westerns.

Even though these are different genres, they often feel like a single genre of “speculative” fiction to me. That is, they all explore some element outside of reality, whether it’s ghosts, an alternative or future setting, or some other fantastical aspect.

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?

Lately, I have been very focused on the Weird West genre, which is an amalgamation of the Old West aesthetic/setting fused with speculative or fantastical elements, such as horror or fantasy. For example, the Weird West genre includes alternate history scenarios (what it would look like if a key historical element changed); horror (e.g., what if a zombie plague took over the Old West); or science fiction (think of Cowboys vs. Aliens).

I’ve found this to be a really fun subgenre to experiment with characters and ideas against an iconic time in history.

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

In addition to family and friends, I referenced earlier that I’ve been lucky to have English teachers who were extremely encouraging. From grade school through high school, I generally found teachers willing to read my work, give feedback and encourage me to keep writing.

I can’t express how grateful I am to them.

As an adult, joining the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and connecting with horror writers of a variety of styles was also incredibly inspiring and helped me to discover newfound motivation in writing prolifically and publishing stories. Horror writers are some of the kindest and most supportive people you can find.

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap?

I started writing around fourth grade. My first few stories focused on far-out happenings (like a girl who shrunk down in size to pilot a paper airplane) and they all ended with “it was all a dream.”

I wrote my first novels later in grade and middle school in dozens of composition notebooks.

One was about a group of friends who were whisked off to a land in the clouds to fight alongside mythical creatures; another was about a girl who accidentally created too many clones of herself; a third was a slow-burn alien invasion tale. I also wrote lots of fan fiction before it was called that—mostly about X-Files, X-Men and Frankenstein. Initially, I was focused on adventure and fantasy stories, and became more interested in science fiction and horror in high school. Along the way, I was extremely fortunate to have English teachers who encouraged me to write fiction.

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’m a hybrid. I start with a loose outline (I’ve recently been using the “snowflake method”), but it’s more of a guideline. Generally, I have a few characters in mind, a loose idea of scenes, and the ending. It’s during the act of everyday writing that the story unfolds, and it’s often different than how I originally planned. I do some research but try not to get too bogged down; I find that too many notes can get overwhelming and hamper the creative flow.

I would love to be a formal plotter. I try to be organized in my non-writing life and appreciate efficiency and streamlined processes.

Writing as a panster is the opposite; it’s frustratingly inefficient at times, as I end up throwing away thousands of words, but I’m learning to accept the writing process as it presents itself.

These were the best group yet!! Recurring characters, several my favorites and great story lines.

Will continue to read each SNAFU and hope more keep coming!!

Tell us your latest news My biggest news is around my debut horror fantasy western novel, MELINDA WEST: MONSTER GUNSLINGER (Brigids Gate Press, February 2023). It’s like The Witcher meets Bonnie and Clyde in a re-imagined Old West with monsters, diverse characters and adventure.

The story centers around stoic sharpshooter Melinda West, 29, who, with her charismatic boyfriend, Lance, exterminate monsters for desperate towns in the Old West.

During one of their jobs, they accidentally release a vengeful demon that steals their friend’s soul. They must travel across treacherous lands to pursue a dangerous outlaw and battle a menagerie of creatures—all before an army of soul-devouring demons descend on Earth.

This novel came about after writing short stories featuring the same Weird West characters. These stories were well-received by magazines and anthologies, so I toyed with the idea of expanding their adventures into a novel.

What are your current projects?

I have a long backlist of short stories I’m working on, including a historic fantasy about a vengeful goddess that takes place in Knossos, Greece, and one about parasitic beings akin to angel/ demons forced to participate in a fight club in underground Boston.

I’m also working on the next two sequels to follow the epic adventures after MELINDA WEST: MONSTER GUNSLINGER.

In an Old West overrun by monsters, a stoic gunslinger must embark on a dangerous quest to save her friends and stop a supernatural war.

Sharpshooter Melinda West, 29, has encountered more than her share of supernatural creatures after a monster infection killed her mother. Now, Melinda and her charismatic partner, Lance, offer their exterminating services to desperate towns, fighting everything from giant flying scorpions to psychic bugs. But when they accidentally release a demon, they must track a dangerous outlaw across treacherous lands and battle a menagerie of creatures—all before an army of soul-devouring monsters descend on Earth.

The Witcher meets Bonnie and Clyde in a re-imagined Old West full of diverse characters, desolate landscapes, and fast-paced adventure.

Melinda West Series

New Release https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BNWR19WN

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?

One random thing about me is that I adore the Back to the Future trilogy. It exemplifies creative and well-done storytelling (also, the third one has a fun Weird West theme). I have a good number of Back to the Future mementos, including several DeLorean models, a replica hoverboard, and a sterling silver hoverboard necklace.

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?

Links: instagram.com/kcgrifant/ Twitter: @kcgrifant facebook.com/kcgrifant TikTok @kcgrifant@gmail.com website: www.KCGrifant.com newsletter https://scifiwri.com/contact/

Can you share a sample of your current work with us?

Melinda never missed, not in her 29 years on this earth. But then again, she never dealt with giant, flying scorpions before.

She aimed at the two shapes above a cactus several hundred feet away, fired, and watched as one of the bodies dropped.

Aside from being bigger than any insect on this earth ought to be, the scorpions’ six back legs were webbed, giving them the oh-so-handy ability to become airborne. A calf-sized one flew through the air with its green-tipped tail poised directly toward her head.

She slid behind a toppled boulder, dust whipping up and stinging her eyes, as the scorpion soared past, pincers outstretched. Its back legs brushed the tip of her wide -brimmed hat, caught a draft, and swept back toward her like a giant leaf in the wind.

Four sets of white eyes alongside its orange head fixed on Melinda as it came back around. She sucked in a breath and fired her pistol again, praying the wind wouldn’t shift.

The bullet tore through the insect’s shell, ripping open its soft insides. Its chitin shattered like it was made of fine china. Bright green goo splattered on the cacti and rocks around her.

“These bugs ain’t joking,” Lance huffed as he crouched next to Melinda, his brown hat askew. The grooves along his mouth deepened as he rooted in his knapsack for a weapon, the blondish stubble on his chin dark with dust. “Never seen this many air scorpions before in one place except in pictures. Looks like their guts’ll sting something awful.”

“Poisonous, no doubt. Aunt Beatrice would sure love a sample. Bullets?”

“Almost out.” He hoisted his rifle.

“Bombs?” she asked.

“Just the one,” Lance said as they both peered over the edge of the hill at the sharp drop leading to the mine. Hundreds of the orange and beige insects scuttled out of the mine entrance, agitated, it seemed, by Melinda and Lance’s presence. The gash in the side of the hill was flanked by a steep rise in the earth around it, creating a bowl into which the scorpions poured.

One of the creatures lifted its webbed legs to catch a gust of wind blowing toward them. Before it could take flight, Lance’s shot rang out, exploding the bug into green goo. The rest of the scorpions in the pile chittered and clanked their pincers.

Though they’d seen plenty of odd creatures in their line of work, this sound was one Melinda was sure would haunt her dreams.

Subterfuge: Thin Blue Line Book 3

by Melanie P. Smith Wow! Reviewed by Flower Lady I hadn't realized this was the third book in a series when I picked it up but it didn't matter. This reads as a vibrant stand alone with the tension, thrill, heartache and mystery that makes a great detective book. I loved the subtle layers and the depth of characterization. Here is a book a person can get lost in reading and emerge hours after not aware so much real time has past. I also loved the secondary thread running through this and how it affects the main events for Detective Perkins. I will be on the lookout for more in this series. Highly recommended. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B07G43ZM2F

Forever Scarred (Scarred Series Book 3)

by Jackie Williams Another Great Part Reviewed by Diana — Kindle Customer I love this series so much. The issues it touches on are so real and raw and just reach my heart and soul. In this part the focus is on Joe and Lucy. Joe, like the other men in the series is scarred physically and dealing with mental scars as well.

Through and through he is kind of man that is a hero. I love the way the women are able to see the beautiful men for what they are. I also really liked to see Patrick and Ellen again. It was their story that hooked me on these books. If you are looking for a great romance that deals with the scars of war in a beautiful way, this is totally must read. I was engrossed from the first word to the last. I can't wait to start the next part. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B00EMMD1Y4

Private Messages: A Second Chance Standalone Romance

by Connie LaFortune I Highly Recommend You Check Out Private Messages Reviewed by Dorothea L I absolutely love the mixture of romance and suspense in this book.

The author combines them in a perfect, compelling, page-turning fashion. Lilianna and Zane are two broken, hurt people who get a second chance at love together. This is a wonderful story that will hold your attention and leave you with a great ending. I look forward to reading more from this author. I Highly Recommend You Check Out Private Messages. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B07LGDPRQC Summer’s End

by Kristy Brown Five Stars for Sure!

Reviewed by Diane I came across this book accidentally when looking for a book with a similar title. As soon as my eyes hit the cover, I was already sold.

Summer's End is like a romantic fantasy stuck in a loophole. Summer, the main character wakes up from a bad accident with memory loss. She is so much more than what she seems when the first story begins. Alex is a ruggedly bad boy who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's been told and trained his whole life that he is the one to save the world. How does he save the world?

You can find the answers between the cover and the last page.

When a story can actually affect a readers emotions, this is the kind of book that takes forever to read because you just don't want it to end. I huge thank you and kudos to the author for being able to achieve the perfect balance of emotions that the readers can relate too. I Would recommend this book to anyone sixteen and up. To anyone who enjoys fantasy, romance, even those who enjoy mild christen themes. https://bookgoodies.com/a/B098T9NW59

Teaching our children about the natural environment and conservation is one of the greatest gifts we can give them. There are a few good ways of sharing about nature and conservation with children, as follows: 1.

2.

3.

4.

Reading books about nature with your child; Exploring nature with your child; Art and play; and Watching documentaries

Reading There are a number of wonderful children’s books that subtly teach children about the wonders of nature. One is The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett when Dicken shows Mary how to care for the locked garden and plant new flowers. Journey to the River Sea by Eva Ibbotson is another. Set along the Amazon River in Brazil, this book has a strong theme about the importance of nature to the human spirit. A few other wonderful children’s books about animals are White Fang by Jack London, The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford, Charlotte’s Webb by E.B. White, Jock of the Bushveld by Sir James Percy FitzPatrick, and The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling.

This is the song, The Bare Necessities, from Disney’s The Jungle Book, when Baloo, the Sloth Bear, meets Mowgli, the human boy. https://youtu.be/08NlhjpVFsU There are also some excellent non-fiction books that explain a lot about nature. One of my favourites is Nature Cross-Sections by Richard Orr which includes wonderful picture spreads of cross-sections of, amongst others, a beehive, a tide pool, a termite mound, and a beaver lodge.

This is a cross-section of a beehive from Richard Orr’s Nature Cross-Sections. I referred to this picture when I wrote a piece of my book, Through the Nethergate, about a queen bee and the workings of a beehive.

The Disney Mickey Wonders Why series is also terrific for young children. Laid out as a series of questions such as Why is the sky blue? and Why is the grass green? these books include comprehensive, yet simple, answers and lovely illustrations. You can find the Micky Wonders Why series on Amazon as a set of books or as single books.

Do you have any wonderful books for children about nature that you can recommend?

Exploring nature There are numerous ways to explore nature and its bounty with your child from nature walks to visiting places of interest like aquariums, bunny parks, and game reserves.

Cooking or baking with your child is also a wonderful way of teaching your child about nature’s bounty and the products the animal kingdom contributes to our lives including eggs and fresh milk. I was surprised to discover that some city children don’t know that milk and other dairy products generally come from cows.

Art and play When my sons were younger, we used to play games that included animals. We built a game reserve in the sand pit and set out all the toy animals. We learned about the natural habitat of different animals and that some animals live in rocky terrain, some in savannah areas and some in the forest. We created the right habitat using potted plants and garden rocks and put the correct animals in the correct areas. We also played a water game with a large plastic shell full of water, rocks and a few plants. The water animals lived in the pond. Small children love playing in sand and water and it has many benefits for them. It was amazing how the boys and their friends learned to work together with these games.

I also did a lot of art with my children. We made a swamp from an old cardboard box, paper and paint and learned about the animals that live in a swamp including, of course, Shrek and Fiona. We made centipedes from parts of egg boxes and pipe cleaners and built a volcano from paper mache. When it comes to art, the options are limitless for learning and lots of tactile fun.

Watching documentaries There are numerous amazing documentaries available that parents can watch with their children. It is always fun to discuss the details of these shows with children afterwards and explore and develop their thoughts and impressions from the information and visuals provided.

Conservation It is not enough just to talk about conservation, you have to lead by example and demonstrate through your own choices and actions the importance of helping the planet and all its creatures and forms of life to thrive. I will expand on conservation and leading by example in a future post.

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/

Balancing the Scales by Force A ruthless killer, a survivor, and a dysfunctional family running out of options. A shocking act of violence sends a young widow into hiding. Now, a killer with rules of his own has set his sights on those fighting for justice. Frustrated by the system they dedicated their lives to, doing their best to fly under the radar, a small group of unlikely heroes set out to stop a madman. To succeed, they must put personal beliefs before professional ethics.

Time is running out; a ruthless killer continues his reign of violence; rules must be broken. Can this secret group of vigilantes unearth the truth before it’s too late? They didn’t start this war, but they are the only ones that can finish it.

https://books2read.com/Trigger1

Oh my goodness...what a powerful hook. It grabbed me and I couldn't stop reading. This is a page turner.

-LaPriel

Interview by Sylva Fae

I met Sam Mouzer last year at the Bushcraft Show in England. We camped together and had many campfire chats about his passion for the show, Naked and Afraid, and how he helps to run the fan club. Sam’s enthusiasm to promote the show prompted me to check it out (how had I never seen this before?) Little did I know at the time, that he was secretly preparing to go on the show as a contestant…

You’ve clearly been a superfan of the show for a long time, but what inspired you to participate rather than just watch others?

Firstly Sam, thank you for agreeing to do an interview. As I write, the show has not yet aired, and I’m so excited to see what adventures you had. I know fans of the show wouldn’t want any spoilers but we’re eager to hear what you can divulge.

For someone who has never seen the show, Naked and Afraid, please can you briefly explain what it is about?

Not to give the plot away too much but two people, usually a man and a woman, are left with no food, no clothes and no water in an unfamiliar environment, where they must fend for themselves and survive for 21 days.

They need to survive with their wits and the the most basic of tools; usually a knife, a pot and a firestarter. The entire ordeal is documented by a small crew.

I’ve aways been a fan of survival shows but the first time I saw Naked and Afraid, I thought to myself, this is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, where do I sign up? As a result, I got deep into the fandom and was invited to join the fan group, ‘Fans of Naked and Afraid and XL’, where I enjoyed interacting with the other fans and cast. I was then invited to be a moderator for the group and have been doing that ever since. Although I applied several times in earlier seasons, with varying degrees of effort, nothing ever came of it, or so I thought, until I was contacted last February and the process began. It was very sudden and exciting and difficult for me to keep secret from my friends and family.

Very few British people have taken part in Naked and Afraid, tell us about the application process and how you felt to be chosen?

It’s an honour and a privilege to be selected, if not a little intimidating knowing the incredible skills of the other survivalists who have taken part in the show, and the challenge that lays ahead. Basically, you apply directly to a casting agency and if they like the cut of your jib and they like you, you’re selected! I can’t say much about the details of the process, but while stressful, it’s a lot of fun.

It really gets exciting when you hear phrases like, ‘Congratulations Sam, it seems you’re at the top of a very large pile!’ or you hear people like EJ Snyder* are going to call you! Being an American show, very few foreign participants have had the opportunity to take part, and given the wide selection of unbelievably talented British survivalists, I felt very honoured to even be considered! *EJ Snyder – American army combat veteran, extreme survivalist and TV personality who starred in the first series of Naked and Afraid.

What is your background? Did you have much survival experience before you decided to apply?

Everyone’s a survivalist if you think about it, it’s what we’ve evolved for. That being said, my lifelong personal interests and career paths have culminated in a skillset, that fortunately aligned well with the requirements for undertaking this challenge. I was always an outdoorsy kid and have had a military background. That, combined with my enthusiasm for the show, was no doubt a factor in being selected; however, these things are not always a pre-requisite for selection. The challenge is 90% a mental game, in my opinion.

“...you forget all about the nudity — until you tread on a thorn.”

How did you prepare mentally and physically for the show?

Well obviously being a fan of the show, I’ve watched every single challenge many times! Also, I’ve had the opportunity to interact with many cast members of the fan group, and this perhaps gave me more insight than most about what to expect. Practising skills, watching YouTube videos and attending survival instruction camps has really helped. Ultimately, you need to cultivate a mindset where you can remain cheerful in the face of adversity. Physically, I did lots of cardio and resistant band training, as well as putting on a pound of body fat for each day of the challenge – this is needed or the body will deteriorate quickly.

When I first heard of the show, I was intrigued, and slightly horrified, about the ‘naked’ aspects of it. My initial thoughts were that surely this was just a gratuitous way to grab viewers. Can you explain why the show sends in contestants naked?

It is undeniable there is a sensationalist aspect to the nudity that will draw viewers in. If you’re ever channel hopping and Naked and Afraid is on, you certainly know when you’ve landed on it. That being said, it goes deeper than that, for as humans our first line of defence and shelter is our clothing, being furless, tool making mammals. Without that barrier, there is the psychological effect of feeling extremely vulnerable and raw. “Clothed and moderately concerned” doesn’t really have the same ring to it! It’s definitely one of the most intimidating aspects of the challenge, that’s for certain.

How did you feel about the prospect of being naked on TV? Even with certain body parts being pixelated, it still must have been daunting.

I cannot hide the fact that there was trepidation, we live in a society that now more than ever, is body conscious. To use the old phrase if your face doesn’t fit, springs to mind and you do wonder how you might be received. Very quickly after the challenge begins, you forget all about the nudity – until you tread on a thorn, of course. The small crew are very professional, and as they say it’s nothing they haven’t seen before, and to be honest you have other rather pressing concerns on your mind. I did try and imagine myself wearing blurry underpants and console myself that not many people will actually see me fully naked.

As part of the challenge, you are paired with a stranger, were you at all worried about this?

I know full well being a fan of the show, that they often select individuals who may have opposing views or strategies; however, I found it elevated my anxieties. By thinking of the things we may have a similarity in, including a passion for the show and a desire to complete the challenge, I knew no matter what our differences were, we would have these goals in common. I did not know who my partner was until I met her at the location at the outset of the challenge. All doubt evaporated from my mind when I actually realised who it was.

We now know from the promo release photos that you were paired with Survival Lilly, and judging by her YouTube videos, she seems quite a capable partner. How was the experience of surviving in the wilderness with a stranger for 21 days?

You can’t imagine how overjoyed I was when Survival Lilly* emerged naked from the bushes. I’ve been a fan for a long time and even shared her content on our fan group. Although we’d never previously spoken, I had a good idea of her comprehensive skillset and personality from her YouTube content. That being said, despite the content she creates, she is a very private person. It was a fantastic opportunity to meet the real Lilly. Ultimately, you’ll have to watch the episode to see if we survived the wilderness and if and how our partnership developed. *Survival Lilly – an internationally recognised survival YouTuber.

One of the key features of the show is that contestants are sent to some of the most hostile environments. Were there any places you were dreading or hoping for?

I was dreading a desert and a partner that engages in unproductive and/or conflict seeking behaviours.

Can you tell us anything about where your challenge was based?

Our adventure unfolded on the southern great plains of New Mexico. Yes indeed, it was one of the harshest environments I’ve ever encountered in my life – dangerous wildlife, wildly variable weather (hour by hour) and extremely sparse resources. For someone from the West Midlands in England it was like being dropped on an alien planet.

What skills did you acquire or improve upon during your time on the show? Was it as challenging as you envisaged?

However arduous you think the challenge is going to be, I promise it will be infinitely worse. Actually, many of the skills that I’ve witnessed on the shows over the years, did come in handy as there are certain familiar circumstances that crop up in many challenges. Water, food, fire and shelter, and knowing how to procure or produce these things is very important, however being side by side with a world class survivalist really paid dividends. I would strongly advise, it’s one thing to watch something on a show or on YouTube but it’s a different thing to manifest these skills in reality. The main takeaway for me to advise others is that you must physically practice these skills, fire starting, shelter building and trap making, and accept the fact that everything out there takes three times longer due to extreme exhaustion.

How has this experience impacted your life? What have you learned from it?

It’s impacted my life a lot. I’m receiving a lot of attention, that I wasn’t before, which is wonderful, if not daunting. I feel it was probably a hard experience for my family with all the training and time I spent away. I’ve learned that I’m stronger than I thought I was and that I can achieve things I never thought I would.

What advice would you give to someone who wants to participate on the show?

I’d say chase your dreams. I never thought for one minute that they’d pick me. Be relentless in pursuing, practising your skills and acquaint yourselves with the survival and bushcraft community.

And finally, what’s next for you after Naked and Afraid?

I don’t know what is next but I’ve a feeling this rollercoaster is just winding up. I’m a company man now if they invited me to return, I’d say yes in a heartbeat. I’m up for anything at this point; they can let rich people hunt me with crossbows if they like! I really don’t know what comes next, I’ve been invited to a lot of events that I’m looking forward to attending, such as the Bushcraft Show 2023 at Stanford Hall, and the Naked and Afraid cast cruise in New Orleans.

Thank you for giving us a little insight into the challenges of being a contestant on Naked and Afraid. If you would like to watch Sam Mouzer’s episode, the new series of Naked and Afraid airs on February 19th on Discovery, and is able to be streamed via the Discovery+ app. If you’d like to join the fandom Sam loves so much, check out the Facebook group, Fans of Naked & Afraid & XL. https://www.facebook.com/groups/268944406853639

Do you think you have the skills, knowledge and strength of character to survive a challenge like this?

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 find additional stories and anecdotes on her website https://www.facebook.com/SylvaFae

By Sarah Hindmarsh

Once Upon a Dragon “Aida, you could at least try to be a little bit ladylike.”

“I’m going for a ride Grandmother, not to a ball - it’s not the nineteen hundreds anymore.” Aida straightened her crash helmet and picked up her gloves from the dresser by the door.

“But you are a princess dear,” said her grandmother. “It’s just not right, you’ll never find a prince if you don’t at least make an effort. Don’t you want your ‘Once Upon a Time’?”

Aida pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and clenched then unclenched her fists. “It never hurt the British royal family to be involved in sports. Their princesses all manage to find husbands.”

“Always the same argument Aida, it’s not helping. Find yourself a husband, and I’ll be quite happy for you to do whatever you want.”

The door gave a satisfying bang as Aida slammed it as hard as she could before marching towards the gatehouse. Her trusty steed was ready and waiting in the driveway. Aida swung into the saddle with a well-practised flourish and turned the key in the ignition. The motorbike thrummed into life. Aida eased it down the driveway and on to the road, remembering to thank the guard on the gate as he held it open for her.

“Not ladylike, my backside,” she said under her breath, turning the bike towards the woodland road. “Bloody hate being a princess sometimes!”

Once upon a time, wasn’t that how all the fairy tales started? And they finished with ‘happily ever after’. The trouble with fairy tales was that they were all written about beautiful princesses, damsels in distress, handsome princes and brave knights. Aida was not a damsel in distress, and

she was more often referred to as handsome than beautiful. What’s more, all the princes she could think of were simpering idiots. None of them had ever undertaken a quest to rescue a princess. It was unlikely that any of them ever would. Her grandmother’s chihuahua was braver than all of them put together.

The roads were quiet that day. Not even the local teenagers were out on their dirt bikes as Aida banked through the first corners. The bike spluttered a little so Aida steadied it with a practised hand, then opened the throttle and let it speed down the hill into the valley below the palace, then back up the other side. All she could hear was the rushing of the wind past her helmet.

Her heart beat faster as the bike sped up. It felt like meditating at high speed, the rest of the world vanished and all that existed was the road, the bike and the view.

As the woods thinned they gave way to pasture and wheat fields. Aida brought the bike to a stop in a small car park at the edge of the woods. She removed her gloves and pulled her helmet off her head with clammy hands. Strands of sweat-soaked hair clung to her head, then dried in the wind as she sat astride the powerful machine watching the tractors in the fields spread out before her, going up and down the rows of corn.

“Help!” Aida heard. She looked around for the person who had called out, but she couldn’t see anyone. Just as she decided she had imagined it she heard the cry again.

“Help! Is there someone there?”

“Hello! Where are you?”

“Up here.”

Aida looked up.

“No, over here!”

The sound came from behind her. She spun around in the saddle and there, in a tree above her head, was a man. He wasn’t a young man exactly, but he wasn’t old either. Aida noted the expensive leather of his boots and the dagger sheathed at his waist as she stepped off the bike and walked towards him.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Aida. “How did you get up there?”

“I’m not sure really. One moment I was following the dragon and the next I had fallen from my horse and landed in this tree.”

“Dragon?”

“Yes, you know, big thing with wings. Breathes fire, eats babies.”

“I know what a dragon is. But since they aren’t real I don’t know how you came to be following one.”

“What do you mean they aren’t real? I’ve killed thirty six of them. They might be rare nowadays but they’re certainly real. You’ll be telling me next that the universe doesn’t revolve around the Sun!” the man said, laughing.

“It doesn’t.” said Aida. “Look let’s just get you out of the tree shall we? Perhaps we should look for your horse too.”

“Oh, he’s here, in my pocket.”

“What?”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic horse. Aida had just opened her mouth to say something when the horse moved. It shook its head and swished its tail then pranced across the man’s hand.

“If you could just reach up here and lift him to the ground I’m sure he’ll go back to normal size, and then I can climb down onto his saddle.”

Aida reached up, her mouth still hanging open. The man in the tree locked his legs around the branch and hung upside down, stretching to reach Aida. The not-plastic horse trotted onto Aida’s hand. She held it up close to her face for a moment before placing it on the floor. The horse walked a few steps and as it walked it grew. In two steps it was the size of a large rat, in four it was the size of a golden retriever, by the time it had taken six steps it had grown to the size of a Shetland pony. It took twelve steps before it stopped growing, by which time it was at least eighteen hands high and towered above Aida.

“Over here, Luath,” said the man in the tree.

The horse obediently positioned itself under the branch its master was perched on. The man swung down from the branch, his feet brushed the saddle, then he dropped. Aida expected him to land deftly in the saddle. Instead he toppled and slipped to the side, landing heavily on his hip.

“That’ll be why I fell off then,” he said looking up at his horse from the ground. The saddle hung below the horse’s belly, the girth swinging loose. “I really should remember to check the girth more often.

The man jumped up, dusted himself off then held out a hand to Aida.

“Prince Simeon of Artaran at your service my lady.”

Aida put her hand in his, he dropped to one knee and kissed the back of her fingers.

“May I have the honour of your name my lady?”

“Princess Aida of Belize. Where exactly is Artaran?”

“Past the hills of Ruasath and over the deserts of Hypri.”

Aida wished she had taken more notice in geography classes at school, but she was almost sure those places did not exist.

“And how did you get here?”

“Luath flew me here of course,” replied the man, pointing to his horse.

“This is a wind-up isn’t it? Did my sister put you up to this? Who are you really?”

“Prince Simeon of Artaran,” the man said, frowning. “I don’t know what you mean my lady. I am sure I have never met your sister.”

Aida remounted her motorcycle.

“Very well, Prince Simeon, it was nice to meet you, I’ll be going now.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?” Aida turned to look at him.

“I don’t know how to get home, where am I exactly?”

“About four miles east of Corozal,” said Aida.

“No I mean what planet?” said Simeon.

“Err Earth, what other planet could we be on?”

“Oh there are hundreds.” Simeon grinned and adjusted his saddle, double checking the girth before he remounted. “Could be on any one of them. The dragons go between them quite often, they eat so many babies that they run out if they stay on the same one too long.”

A shriek split the air and the breath in Aida’s lungs turned to ice. There was a clap of thunder as a dark shape swooped out of the sky, wings outstretched, then a rush of heat as the tree Simeon had been sitting in caught fire. A burning twig fell from the tree onto Luath’s saddle pad.

“Look out!” Aida shouted. She jumped forward, batting at the flames with her riding gloves.

The burning twig fell to the floor and Aida squashed the sparks on the saddle pad until they went out.

“Well, princess, that’s twice you’ve saved me,” said Simeon. “It’s most irregular for a princess to do the saving rather the prince, but I must admit I am most grateful.”

“Well, the stories say that if someone saves you three times you have to marry them, so please be careful not to put yourself in danger again any time soon,” said Aida.

“Then perhaps we should move away from the burning tree princess?” said Simeon “I should also find the dragon, before he eats anybody. I’m sure the dragon I was following was Readorn the terrible, he’s one of the most ferocious dragons that ever lived. Nobody on this planet is safe while he’s here.”

It was difficult to argue with that logic. Having seen the dragon Aida could no longer deny that it existed.

“Lead the way then, Prince.”

“Oh, I’ll be going alone. It’s much too dangerous for a girl.”

Aida felt a familiar knot of anger in her belly. Without a word she started the bike and rode away from the Prince.

“Wait, you’re going towards the dragon,” Simeon called after her.

“I’m going towards home,” said Aida, and sped up. Simeon drew his dagger and cantered alongside her.

“Please turn back princess. It’s not safe until I slay the dragon.”

“So go and slay the damn dragon!”

She crouched low over the handle bars and accelerated. The bike responded gamely but it was no match for the long striding (and presumably magic) Luath. They rounded the last corner of the path through the woods at top speed– and found the dragon standing on the path. As the bike skidded Aida tumbled into the dirt. The bike spun away, crashing into a tree and Aida was left lying in the dust with the dragon advancing on her, drool dripping from its teeth.

Then there was a yell and a white flash as Luath bounded past her, Simeon slashing with his dagger at the beast’s neck. A long red streak appeared in its gleaming green scales and it swung round to roar at Simeon. Luath ducked under a jet of flame and jumped forward in between the monstrous front claws. Simeon drove his dagger into the dragon’s chest, then slashed upwards, finally severing the neck. The headless dragon staggered backwards and collapsed to the ground with a thud that Aida was sure would be heard all the way back in Corozal. Simeon swung down from Luath’s saddle and held out a hand to Aida. She ignored it and staggered to her feet cursing loudly.

“Well that’s two to one on the saving each other scale,” said Simeon. Then a look of horror crossed his face. “That three times thing – we don’t have to get married now do we?”

“No. We most definitely do not.” Aida said, swatting the dust from her clothes. “I had it under control, there was no need to save me at all. Now, if you don’t mind I have to walk home. I left my phone at home and my bike is trashed. My grandmother will be fuming if I’m not back in time for dinner.”

She stomped past the dragon, giving the severed head a kick as she walked by. Simeon followed behind her leading Luath. The dragon was already melting in the sun.

“Perhaps, Princess, I could give you a ride home on Luath and introduce myself to your grandmother.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well if you save me once more we’ll be getting married. I think I should meet the people who might one day be my in-laws don’t you?”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I’m always serious, princess.”

“You know that getting married thing isn’t real right? It’s just a legend.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said Simeon. “You never know with legends, sometimes they turn out to be real. You thought dragons weren’t real until twenty minutes ago.”

Aida stopped mid-stride, feeling a little bit sick as she realised the implications of that.

“Well I don’t want to get married,” she said.

“I’m sure you’ll marry someone eventually, Princess. Most people do.”

Aida looked more closely at the strange man who claimed to have fallen from his horse and into a tree. His face was not unpleasant to look at she supposed, and at least he was taller than her, which was a novelty. Her grandmother was always talking about Aida getting her “once upon a time”, although she didn’t seem so bothered about the “happily ever after”. There was no doubt the arrival of a suitable prince at the palace would make at least one person happy.

Aida found herself wondering how to explain the dragon slaying prince and his magic horse to her father.

‘It could be worse,’ she thought to herself, accepting the prince’s hand and allowing him to help her onto his horse. ‘It could definitely be worse.’

Sarah Hindmarsh is a vet student turned teacher turned writer. She has won, and been nominated for, multiple awards and prizes for her children’s fiction, short stories and poetry, and also writes revision guides and books of writing prompts. She is currently writing her first novel for grown-ups – an LGBT+ high fantasy. In her spare time Sarah likes to compete in various equestrian sports and nap on the sofa with her dog, Kohla. Sarah is also autistic and ADHD, and writes personal essays about living and working as a neurodivergent person in a neurotypical world.

Follow Sarah — https://www.facebook.com/Sarahhindmarshauthor

By Joe DeRouen

I held her as we danced,

Imagine my surprise:

Twirling 'pon the precipice,

The knife was in my hand,

Moving together to the music,

The blood,

Apart to our own rhythm.

hers.

A blade lashed out, Blood dripping to the ground, I pushed her away from me, She called my name as she fell.

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.

Excerpt from Advance Review

Managing editor Tahlia Newland reviewed The High Priestess on her blog, and the following is an excerpt from it: “… Tobin’s world building is impeccable. Her characters are three dimensional, well-developed and relatable, and they grow as their stories deepen in complexity as the series progresses.

“Clearly an accomplished writer, Tobin’s prose is confident and her stories tight and well-paced. She skilfully weaves the Tarot cards and their associated themes into each story in a way that is never heavy handed. This series stands with the best of urban fantasy …” — Tahlia Newland, Managing Editor, AIA Publishing

The High Priestess: Persephone’s Return The High Priestess: Persephone’s Return hit virtual bookshelves on January 7, 2023. It is book three of the urban fantasy series Tales from the Unmasqued World by Val Tobin. The High Priestess focuses on student mage Jaycie Nevil, whose life took an unexpected turn in the previous novel when her boyfriend, Chase Spenser, accidentally trapped her in Hades. Back on the physical plane, Kelsey Davis continues to struggle with her situation as she, Philip, and Josh remain in hiding. These characters’ lives have imploded and death’s shadow looms over them constantly.

Someone wants Jaycie Nevil to remain in Hades. Could it be the god of the underworld?

A student mage who doubts her abilities, Jaycie strives to achieve success in her program. When she receives life-changing news, and the boyfriend she relies on accidentally traps her on the wrong side of the veil, her entire existence is jeopardized.

Meanwhile, hiding from a criminal organization and the authorities, human Kelsey Davis has reached the end of her tether. When her downward spiral hits rock bottom, a vampire finally takes action to force her recovery.

While their two nights at a spa are close to heavenly, their return to the cabin they share brings a fresh hell.

With tragedy and horror invading their lives, will anyone survive this fool's journey?

Inspiration Drawn from the Tarot Each story in the series takes inspiration from a different card in the tarot’s major arcana. Each book’s title reveals the relevant reference, which plays up the symbolism and meaning of the card. Readers can have fun puzzling out who or what represents the card in the story. Often, more than one character or object signifies the card or its meaning.

In an additional twist, a non-traditional tarot deck influences the crafting of the stories. Rather than simply using the popular Rider-Waite Tarot deck, the stories use a combination of the RiderWaite deck and Ellen Dugan’s Witches Tarot. While all the cards in Dugan’s major arcana correspond in meaning with the Rider-Waite deck (Dugan based her cards on the classic RiderWaite-Smith deck), the archetypes used differ on one or two of the cards.

For example, Dugan’s deck has the Shadow Side instead of the Devil since Satan isn’t part of a witch’s belief system.

Excerpt from The High Priestess

To whet your appetite, here’s an excerpt from The High Priestess: Persephone’s Return. Cora, Chase’s mother, has convinced a pregnant Jaycie to follow her out of Hecate’s quarters within Hades. Jaycie distrusts Cora but wants to believe she’d do the right thing: “This way.” Cora kept her grip on Jaycie’s arm and towed her down the hall, but instead of going to the front entrance, they made their way to a nearby door. Behind the door, a set of stairs led down into darkness.

Jaycie froze.

Cora tugged on the arm she still held. “Come.”

Jaycie planted her feet on the stone floor and refused to budge. “Where are you taking me?”

“Out.” “Not until you tell me where we’re going.” Both women whispered, but as the argument continued, their voices grew louder.

“Trust me. There’s no time for explanations.”

Jaycie shook her head and wrenched her arm free. “In the time we took arguing about it, you could’ve just told me.”

“I’m hiding you with a friend.”

Silence blanketed them for a protracted pause, but when Cora grabbed Jaycie’s arm again, the young mage balked.

“I want to find Chase.” As she said the words, she recognized them as true. She had to find her boyfriend, the father of her unborn child—not only because he’d help protect them, but because he too was in danger. “I won’t leave without him.”

“Listen to me,” Cora hissed. “You little fool. You’re putting him more at risk with your presence. Come on. We’re out of time. If they’re not already searching for you, they will soon, and then what’ll happen?

I’ll get you to safety and then find Chase.”

She sounded so certain, so confident, but hadn’t Hecate said the same thing? Everyone promised safety, but no one made Jaycie feel safe. Still, what could she do? She had to trust someone, and Cora was Chase’s mother. Wouldn’t she have her son’s best interests at heart? Hadn’t she given him up to protect him? That had to be a mother’s greatest sacrifice. At least Jaycie didn’t have to give up her daughter.

“Okay.” She held out her hand, and Cora accepted it.

With a wave, Chase’s mother illuminated the stairs before them and guided Jaycie downward, one uneasy step at a time….

What’s Next?

Book four, The Empress: A Promise of Rain, revolves around Dakota, Philip’s half-vampire daughter. The fallout from Dakota’s kidnapping continues as Josh decides he wants one more attempt to convince her to leave the faerie prince she’s engaged to despite Dakota’s declaration of love for him.

Does she really want to spend the rest of her life with the prince? Would a change in Josh’s status from human to vampire bring her back to him? How long—or short—will the rest of her life even be? If Josh is caught with her, both their lives would be forfeit, but it’s a risk he can’t seem to help taking.

Where to Buy The first three books are on Amazon, and you can purchase the eBooks and paperbacks or download the eBooks to read for free with your Kindle Unlimited account.

The Fool: New Beginnings starts a fool’s journey for human Kelsey Davis and vampire Philip Belanger when Philip’s daughter goes missing and Kelsey’s son drags her into the search for the half-vampire teen. https://books2read.com/thefool

In The Magician: Infinity’s End, magick influences the

The High Priestess: Persephone’s Return opens

characters’ lives, not always for the best. While Chase deals with his major issues, Kelsey struggles with the repercussions of the new beginning forced on her.

with Jaycie’s trek through the underworld and Chase’s search for her. Kelsey and Philip’s story continues as their life on the run comes to a catastrophic end.

https://books2read.com/themagician

https://books2read.com/thehighpriestess

Val Tobin writes speculative fiction and searches the world over for the perfect butter tart.

Her home is in Newmarket, Ontario, where she enjoys writing, reading, and talking about writing and reading.

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

Actor | Author https://www.jenniferliebermanactor.com/welcome.html

JENNIFER LIEBERMAN is from Maple, Canada and holds a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy from York University in Toronto. She has appeared in over thirty stage productions in Toronto, New York City, Los Angeles, Europe and Australia; including her Award-Winning solo-show Year of the Slut, which her Amazon #1 Best Selling novel Year of the What? was adapted from. In addition to her performance career, she has penned a number of screen and stage plays; her short films Leash and Details which both screened at the Festival De Cannes' Court Métrage among other international film festivals as well as the wacky web-series Dumpwater Divas. Jennifer is also the founder of Make Your Own Break and has helped over 100 creatives bring their own productions to life.

"Year of the What? is an engaging story

with a compelling character that goes on a lively journey of self-discovery that was so fascinating and very fun to follow."

-Literary Titan

"Playwright Lieberman explores themes of partying and sexual awakening in modern New York City in this risqué debut."

-BookLife Reviews

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B08NT1PV64

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

Hi, I'm Jennifer Lieberman, a multi-hyphenate actor-writer-producer and have an ongoing love affair with the creative process. As a child when I wasn't training as a competitive gymnast, I fantasized about being on popular TV shows like “Saved By The Bell” so I began writing myself guest roles in spec scripts at 8 years old. Once I graduated from York University in Toronto, I moved to New York City at age 20 with a duffel bag and a dream...and after years of perseverance, now that dream of writing and performing is my reality.

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of book you would write?

I’m not just a multi-genre author, I also write for stage and screen in addition to writing books. My debut novel “Year of the What?” is adapted from my award-winning solo show and was a play first. Make Your Own Break is my consulting business where I help struggling creatives make opportunities for themselves, and have a couple how-to-books under that venture as well. There will be many more in that series in the future.

The way I decide what to write usually depends on what story is screaming its way out of me, sometimes that has to do with circumstance and sometimes imagination. During the lock down, I recorded my own audiobook for my novel, I messed up so much I had to record the whole thing a second time, sharing my challenges with colleagues is what prompted me to write “Make Your Own Break: How To Record & Publish Your audiobook in Seven Simple Steps.”

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 do tend to write what I know, my writing is generally fueled by an emotional experience, then I find an interesting way to express my emotions in metaphor through a work of fiction.

I’m totally a plotter. I like to do research if I’m writing about a topic I’m not well versed in - when I was writing a piece about people in a coma I interviewed 10 people who survived comas and several neurologists before I crafted my story. I’m also an outliner. I like to have the entire plot outlined and know beat by beat where the story is going before I begin. Sure there is room to veer from the plan, but I always need a plan before I begin.

Tell us your latest news My latest news…2022 has been a groundbreaking year for me and for my novel. “Year of the What?” has won five literary awards this year including the Global Book Awards Gold Medal for Coming Of Age Books and the IPPY Bronze Medal for Romance/Erotica Ebooks.

We have also just completed post production on my latest short film and look forward to a 2023 festival run with the production.

How much of the book is realistic?

“Year of the What?” chronicles the first year after heartbroken Dana’s first big break up and the dating misadventures that ensue. As usual, I started off writing about what I knew from my own experience, and then took creative liberties to structure a story arc, borrowed some outrageous stories I’ve heard from friends along my travels and then got super creative and provocative with it. The most common feedback I get is how relatable the book is, so although it’s not my own true story, the themes, situations and ideas discussed are quite universal.

What are your current projects?

I’m always juggling several writing projects at a time and regularly switching hats from actor, to writer to producer so there is always something in the fire.

In terms of writing I’m currently working on Book #2 in the “Year of the What” series. I also have a stage play and a screenplay I’m chipping away at.

As for productions, I’m in the fledgeling stages of pre-production for my racy dramatic romance feature film “Longing” and am shopping around my new pilot which I can’t currently discuss.

Can you share a sample of your current work with us?

Here is a poem from “Year of the What?”, not only does the protagonist have a sexual awakening in the book, through her heartbreak she also realizes she’s a writer:

WONDERFUL DISASTER You are for me...the most wonderful disaster

Why I’ll never have a happily ever after I’m sitting here dreaming of the sweet hereafter Unable to bare a world without the sound of your beautiful laughter My heart is shaking On the verge of breaking

I don’t know if I’m asleep or waking While the earth around me is quaking You are the leap I have to take The fall I cannot break I’m plunging in for possibility’s sake

Knowing it’s inevitable my heart will ache It’s hard to breath I hate that I need (you) If I were strong I would just leave

But before you I crumble Submitting to my master Unable to avoid you My most wonderful disaster.

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 authors are Tom Robbins and Herma Hess. I’m a total rocker chick and only like the type of music where musicians are sweating over their instruments as they play. When it comes to film, I’m a sucker for a great dark romance like “The Secretary.”

If money was no issue would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake?

Oooooo, this really is a tough one. Growing up in Canada I went camping in national parks here every summer and love being in a canoe on the lake and hiking the trails; however, my Tunisian blood makes me a total beach bum. There is something about the sea, the salt, the sand, and the sun; so, I would have to choose the beach house. Since money isn’t an issue, it’ll be much bigger than a bungalow!

‘FOR EVERYONE OUT THERE LOOKING FOR LOVE…FIRST YOU MUST FIND YOURSELF’ GRADY HARP 5 STAR REVIEW This arousing novel celebrates feminine sexuality through one of the most original adventures of self-discovery written. The primary character – Dana – is surviving her first romantic breakup and the manner in which she not only survives but prospers and grows makes for one of the strongest Chick Lit novels to surface in quite a while. Jennifer simply writes very well, able to compose situations and characters that are so real they seem like yesterday’s chat sharing!

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

My website is www.YearOfTheWhat.com and that links to my other sites.

Here are my social media links: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm1970863/? ref_=fn_al_nm_1 https://www.instagram.com/iamjenlieberman/ https://twitter.com/iamjenlieberman https://www.facebook.com/iamjenlieberman https://www.youtube.com/@iamjenlieberman

I COULDN'T PUT THIS BOOK DOWN! - 5 STARS “Love this hero’s journey! Jen Lieberman has this amazing gift of grabbing the reader from the very first line and mesmerizing us with these deliciously imperfect characters. “Year of the What” is so relatable , honest, raw and wonderfully titillating! This is such a refreshing book!”

Cotton Candy

by L.M Kimblin https://bookgoodies.com/a/B091DCDV3F

Part One – Chapter 1 ‘Every man has his secret which the world knows not…’

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882

Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of my chunky heeled boots on the recently polished parquet flooring reverberated and resounded within the confines of the long, stark corridor. The walls, having recently had a fresh lick of paint, the smell still faintly lingered. Clean and clinical. Not odious, in my view, though some would have found it unpleasant.

Increasingly, I became conscious of the sound of my heels as I was led by an officer in her sensible flat brogues, a look of disapproval, a scowl on her face. It might, however, have simply been the smell of the paint, along this first floor landing, that she was bothered by.

Still, maybe I should have worn more practical shoes but fashion had, once again, ruled my head and, like always, I had given in to its demands. Anyway, I loved my new boots and had worked hard to warrant their size fives on my feet today. I tried to walk discreetly on tip-toe to deaden the sound and wondered how much further along this seemingly endless expanse of corridor the interview room would be?

We eventually arrived and, with a degree of authority, and still scowling, the officer knocked on the door. A key was turned on the inside and I stepped into the room.

A carpet! Still conscious about my heels, I was relieved. Apart from the carpet, the room, just like the corridor, was stark. No faint odour of paint, however. Instead, the room was stuffy and airless. A window needed to be opened. Some fresh air needed to circulate.

Already the room felt oppressive. There was little in the room by way of distraction except for a clock on the wall and a couple of nondescript paintings of flowers. The supervisory officer in attendance, about to afford us the privacy we were entitled to, made her way to stand guard outside, but not before I pointed to one of the smaller top windows. With a nod, and a cursory glance, I was granted permission to open it.

At first Angie Ross appeared like any typical, truculent teenager in trouble, sighing in an exaggerated manner to indicate how little she wanted to be involved in any real discussion. Forced, false bravado. I knew all the signs and I knew to wait.

I sat down on an easy chair, strategically placed by the window and opposite hers. Some attempt at creating a comfortable, less formal environment, but there was nothing at all comfortable or informal about this situation.

A coffee table separated the limited space between us and I waited. I noticed that the table, relatively new, already had a cup stain ingrained on it. Wood tarnished forever. I read once that such stains could be removed with baking soda and water. No chance of that, or time for that in this place. The stain would remain unless someone really cared and tried to restore its polished surface.

I needed to introduce myself and explain why I was there although Angie knew I was there to speak with her. She was not stupid. I already knew this much.

“Hello, Angie. My name is Susan, Susan Raynor. How are you feeling today?”

As expected, no response.

“I’ve been brought in so that we can talk and see if I can help you in any way. So far, I know that you haven’t wanted to speak to anyone and that’s okay. If you feel you still don’t want to talk then we’ll just sit quiet and that’s fine, too” No longer sighing, she now decided to stare. A staring game. Who would hold out the longest? I indulged her and stared back with a quiet, gentle smile on my face.

The only sound in the room was the clock’s regular and consistent tick, tock, tick, tock beat. It seemed to echo and dictate further silence. Her eyes delved into mine expressionless, dead almost. There was no awkwardness. I felt as though she was looking beyond me, right through me as if I were no longer there and I knew that, behind those deep brown eyes, Angie Ross was struggling, battling with her thoughts and was lost.

The silence continued, like a healing balm, a while longer, until rudely interrupted by the pitter patter of rain on the window. The large window overlooked the recently erected units, ugly in contrast to this old, splendid building.

Steady at first, the rain started to attack the window driven by the power of the wind that had decided to blow. I looked at the small, open window above, wondering now whether to shut it but, there was no need, as the rain slid down the pane of glass and dripped, dripped away onto the green lawn below. Nature’s manna, but not for me. I hated the rain. Miserable, relentless and, coupled with a blustery wind, always my enemy. A victim of fashion had its drawbacks, especially in a war between a flimsy umbrella and the elements. This enemy would definitely win today since the flimsy umbrella had been forgotten and was still at home. Drat! Hopefully, just a downpour, a shower and, when leaving, the sun would be shining just as it had done earlier in the day.

The silver birch, standing tall in the distance behind the ugly units, were so tolerant of the wind and rain. Thin, long branches, small green leaves stuck fast, intertwining but strong. These trees were planted long ago to thrive and had, so far, stood the test of time. They would continue in their glory, in their magnificence, unless cut down by man.

A protected species, only to be destroyed by man’s interference, if allowed, or, more likely, by man’s interference if ignored.

My thoughts were brought back into the moment by another noise. Movement. Angie lifted her legs up onto the easy chair and wrapped her arms around them. The staring stopped as she now rested her head on her knees. She started to rock slowly, steadily, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. It was something I had seen a number of times before. A self- soothing mechanism. Backwards and forwards trying to find an escape from emotions; a release from feelings and thoughts too difficult to face. Her movements were hypnotic almost and I watched and waited and gave her time. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, I continued to wait.

Outside, the deluge eased and the wind settled. The tick tock beat of the clock was once more prevalent in the room. No longer dictating further silence, it let me know that our hour together would soon be over and it nudged me to act.

“Angie? Angie?” Nothing. Backwards and forwards.

“Angie?” I tried again. “You might want to tell me about things you really like or are interested in, maybe. What do you think? Your call.”

Lame, I knew that much but I had to start somewhere. I had to break the distance between us and hopefully, hopefully engage.

I tried again, “Angie?”

Suddenly, she stopped her rhythmic movement and slowly turned her head. For the first time she really looked at me. Not through me, but directly. A puzzled look, a frown almost, as if I were speaking in an alien tongue.

“Angie? Who’s Angie? I’m not Angie.”

She turned away. Backwards and forwards; she continued her rhythm.

Fifteen years old and she resembled someone older. Brittle, bleached blonde hair, dark roots visible. Chipped varnish on bitten down, dirty fingernails. Nasty cold sore on lips that could have been full and beautiful but, instead, were chapped and dry.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for getting your name wrong. What is your name?”

Reaction. The rocking stopped and she looked directly at me again.

“My name?”

“Yes, your name.”

“Why? Why do you want to know my name?”

“Well, I’d like to know your name so that I can get to know you a bit better.”

“A bit better? You don’t know me at all so what do you mean by, a bit better? You make it sound like you already know something but want to know more.”

“Is that what you think? It’s just an expression. I’m sorry.”

“What is it you want to know, then?”

“Whatever you’d like to tell me.”

She looked at me a lot more intently now, drinking in my every feature, or so it seemed.

“I like the red,” she said.

“The red?” I was puzzled.

Still hugging her knees, she managed to point a finger up towards my face.

“Yes, your lipstick. I like red lipstick.”

“Oh,” I smiled. “My lipstick.”

I knew that young people responded more readily when they could relate to something or someone. Lipstick. It was a start.

“Yes,” I continued, “it’s actually called Cherry Red. I got it in Woolworths. It’s Max Factor. Do you want me to show you?”

Breakthrough. She put her legs down and leaned towards me, the coffee table still a divide. She watched me closely, almost mesmerized, as I opened my handbag and got out the lipstick. She watched me closely as I lifted off the gold top and unscrewed the base to reveal the slender infusion of red. Cherry Red. A bullet of pigmentation that broke the distance between us.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “I used to have one just like it. My friend, Jimmy, would sometimes get it for me. He used to go to Woolworths too and get me things. I tried to tell him not to but he never listened. I wanted red lipstick, I got red lipstick. Yes, I got it.”

Silence. She turned away and looked out of the window. I knew to wait until such time when she was ready to speak to me again but, for now, silence ensued.

I did not have to wait long. It was as if she had been digesting what had just taken place and had decided that I was okay. Progress. Small steps. She looked at me.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I answered softly.

“Well, will you be writing anything down?”

“Do you want me to write anything down?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Like a story.”

“A story? Okay.”

“Right then. And, will you let me read it?”

“Of course,” I answered, somewhat bemused.

“Good. I want you to use good words, proper words like they do in stories. They make things sound special.”

“If that’s what you want me to do,” I assured her, still somewhat bemused.

“Yes, I do.”

I smiled. She looked at me now up and down, up and down. I knew she was simply trying to establish in her mind whether or not she could trust me.

“You look like one of those women in the catalogues. Yes, you do. Pretty. I found a catalogue once. Someone had thrown it out with the rubbish and left it in the back street by the bin. There were newspapers there too but I wasn’t interested in those. I took the catalogue. Thin, glossy colourful pages. ‘Empire Stores’. Do you know it?”

She did not wait for an answer. Instead, with some animation, she continued her rambling.

“I’d spend ages looking through at all the lovely dresses and skirts and jumpers and shoes and boots.” She paused and pointed at my boots. “Boots like yours. Anyway, if I really liked something, sometimes I’d show Jimmy. Shouldn’t have done really because then he’d go to town and see if he could get it for me or something like it. I really like those jumpers without sleeves. They look tight and snug. If I had one, I’d call it my ‘hug

me tight’. I liked one that was knitted in different striped colours. Have you got one? I bet you have.”

Again, she did not wait for an answer.

“Yes, well, Jimmy tried to get one for me even though I told him it wasn’t necessary and he didn’t need to. He wanted to surprise me. Couldn’t find one, though. Still, he would never come back empty handed. Even if it was just sweets or chocolate. Well, anyway, Woolworths is a magical place for sweets and chocolates. Jimmy just loved the magic!

The sweets especially are all set out ready for you to help yourself and pick your own.

Jimmy always did. As many as he could stuff into his pockets” She giggled to herself, lost once more in her thoughts. She stared out of the window and silence returned enveloping the room; the tick tock beat of the clock steadily taking over.

I could not help thinking how articulate Angie Ross was for such a young girl that had missed out on so much of her education.

I broke the silence. “Did Jimmy ever manage to get you the ‘hug me tight’?”

She turned her head and looked at me. Reaction. “Pardon?”

“Jimmy? Did he ever get you the ‘hug me tight’, the jumper?”

No longer animated, she looked like she was going to cry and she whispered, “No. No, he didn’t. Just sweets. Just some sweets.”

I knew at this stage not to prompt her further as she withdrew into herself. Our session was nearly over anyway and so I began to collect my things together. The rain outside had now completely stopped. No need for my flimsy umbrella after all; the one lying abandoned in the hallway at home. Tomorrow, I must not forget it just in case.

“Jenny. My name’s Jenny.”

Startled, I looked at her. She was still staring out of the window.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“My name. You wanted to know my name. Well, it’s Jenny. Jenny Smith.”

I knew full well not to question who she said she was. Angie Ross? No, she was Jenny Smith. Dissociation with who, deep, deep down, she knew she really was.

For now, she was Jenny Smith and, as Jenny Smith, she would tell me her story.

As if she could read my thoughts she said, “Don’t forget my story.”

“No. No, I won’t. We can start tomorrow.”

“Fine, but remember you said you will write down what I tell you like a story. You know what I mean? Like in a book from a library. Yes, like in a library. I like the library. So many books and lots of peace and quiet. No- one bothers you. Libraries are wonderful places, you know. The library I go to is like a huge palace and, when you go inside, after climbing up a lot of steps, it smells all sweet. A bit like chocolate.” She giggled quietly. “Maybe that’s why I like it there so much…”

She was rambling animatedly again but this time I managed to interrupt. “Have you got a favourite? A favourite book?”

“A favourite book? Well, yes, there are quite a few I like and a few I have always liked from being really little. The very first book I ever tried reading by myself was all about fairies and pixies and elves and other magical beings. It was the word ‘fairies’, you know, that made me want to read it. A very kind man first told me about them. He didn’t tell me about pixies, though, but I soon learned that they were cheeky and mischievous and enjoyed playing games under the moon. The fairies, well, they were just beautiful and magical. It was a book of poems and rhymes with lots of colourful drawings. Each poem told its own little story and I loved trying to get my tongue round some of the really difficult, funny sounding words that I never understood. It didn’t matter, though, because I could usually make out their meanings from all the drawings that went with them. Do you know? I can still remember the words of some of the rhymes… ‘stars are shining, the moon is alight, the folk of the forest are dancing tonight…”

She paused for a brief moment, her gaze unfocused, and her thoughts, quite literally, ‘away with the fairies’. Still, her flight into fancy, or distant memory, was short-lived, however, as she shook her head and looked at me.

“There is one book that will always be my favourite, though, and that’s because it was the very first story that was ever read to me. It’s a lovely story but sad as well. ‘The Giving Tree’. Do you know it? A beautiful, very kind lady read it out loud once when I was really little. I had to ask for it in the library I go to and, even though it’s for children, they still had a copy in the main library. I had to ask for it because I didn’t know who had written it. All I remember is that it was a funny name. A foreign name. Anyway, this time I read it myself and I could see all the lovely drawings.

“There’s a tree, you see, and it’s like a mother to this little boy. A lovely mother who for-

gives him no matter what. As he gets older, he’s always asking the tree for things and the tree, just like a good, good mother tries to give him what he wants. Sometimes, though, he’s not always grateful. Whenever I read it I always imagine it’s a little girl that goes to the tree. A little girl with a lovely, caring mother.”

She confused me. Not only articulate but loved to read too. Probably why she was

articulate. Reading encourages a mastery of words, even picture books, when you are little, they open the mind to uncommon words. An avid reader myself, I knew this only too well and could relate to her interest in fairies and the magic of poetry and rhyme.

‘The Giving Tree’, however, was not a book I really knew at all. I would get a copy.

I did not want to leave. The hour had soon passed and I felt there was so much more she wanted to say. Fashion and make-up. Common ground. Books. Common ground. What else I wondered?

As I stood up I could feel her eyes following my every move. The sun started to shine through the window. So much in one hour. Blustery wind and rain and now sunshine, highlighting smears on the glass like dried up tears on a dirty face.

“What’s your name again?”

A little startled I replied, “Oh, yes, of course. My name’s Susan. Susan Raynor but you can call me Susie if you like.”

“You don’t look like you are a Susan. You look more like a… like a… like a Rose. Yes, Rose.

Rosie Raynor. Has a ring to it, don’t you think? Rose for red. Red for Rose. It suits you.

Yes, I like Rose.”

I smiled at her. She smiled back. Some understanding. A connection of sorts. The supervisory officer, still in dutiful, stoic attendance outside the room, entered as I opened the door and informed her that the session was over.

“Right, I’ll see you again tomorrow, Jenny.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Rose. Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow, Rosie Raynor.”

From carpet to parquet flooring, I no longer cared about the click, clack of my chunky heels resonating and reverberating within the confines of the long, stark corridor ahead.

In fact, I embraced the sound. Confident and wanting to make my presence felt in this austere place, I made my way back, unescorted this time, to reception.

L. M. Kimblin was born in Bolton, Lancashire, in the 1950’s. She grew up in a home of diverse cultures, Ukrainian and Italian, both of which blessed and shaped her life in all the right directions. She studied English and Art at Sedgley Park Teacher Training College in Prestwich, Manchester, and went on to teach English, for the next 33 years in the same school, until taking early retirement in 2012. She enjoys listening to tranquil piano music, being ‘arty’ and adding to her shoe collection!

THE TRAITOR

Book Two of The Order’s Assassin Series

D. C. Gomez is an award-winning USA Today Bestselling Author, podcaster, motivational speaker, and coach. Born in the Dominican Republic, she grew up in Salem, Massachusetts. D. C. studied film and television at New York University. After college she joined the US Army, and proudly served for four years.

The Urban Fantasy Dynamics continue with USA Today Best-selling author, DC Gomez Witches, Demons, and Shifters are all landing in Salem. But who do you trust?

Eric’s search for Rafael, the Order’s betrayer, is leading to a dead end. Running out of time, he decides to enlist the help of some old acquaintances in Salem’s underground.

In the meantime, the Garcia Clan, the deadliest of all the shifter assassin families in the world, has been attacked. Tensions are rising as Sasha is forced back on the field to investigate and bring the culprit to justice.

With both the Order of Witches and the Garcia Clan searching for the truth, Eric and Sasha are the only ones standing between a full-on blood bath. * The Traitor is book two in the Urban Fantasy Series The Order’s Assassin. Our favorite witch and former cop, Eric, from the Intern Diaries Series, has a new job with the Order of Witches.

With no way out, he must continue his mission to clean out the Order, before he becomes the one hunted down.

“The concept of Death and the interaction between life endings and soul capturing provides a stage for a cast of inimitable characters, both supernatural and strange natural, whose interactions provide one fine-tuned rollicking tale - the initial adventure of a series that now numbers six volumes! For those who love humorous paranormal fiction, this is a series to explore!” _ Grady Harp, Top 100 Amazon Reviewer It isn't very often that I buy the second book in a series before I've finished the first so that should tell you just how much I enjoyed this one. Grab yourself a copy and join Isis, Bartholomew, Bob and not forgetting Constantine in their unusual jobs._ Mike Powell, Amazon Reviewer

DC Gomez

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B09S6QM2JJ

Erica Schaef is a fan of all things horror and loves to write her own stories in that genre. She is an Affiliate Writer member of the Horror Writers Association. Her work has been featured in a variety of journals, magazines, audio productions, and anthologies. She lives in rural Tennessee with her husband and two wild children. More information about her can be found at:

https://ericaschaef.wordpress.com

The newest psychological horror from critically acclaimed novelist, Erica Schaef

This Cold Night Following the death of a loved one, Rachelle Collins visits Ferguson Estate, an expansive country mansion which holds many fond memories, and one sinister secret, within its walls. Throughout the course of a single,

terrifying night, Rachelle must confront horrors, both psychological and tangible, to prove just how far she is willing to go to keep her family together.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BM8F7SRZ

“The author has a way of expressing details and actions that continually want you to know more!

The choice of characters and their development was very unique for a novel taking place in the 1800s as was her use of the technology of the time! I can easily see this becoming a series as there is so much more I want to know about this group of unlikely comrades! Fun read!” _ Voeg

“HIGHLY RECOMMEND!! I absolutely could not put this book down. I fell in love with the characters and the story is so unique and original. It’s adventure, romance, mystery, and horror all wrapped up in one book and done so well!! I really hope this turns into a series!! _ Staci, Amazon Reviewer

By Sarah Hindmarsh

When the doorbell rang Amie lifted her head from her hands, wiping the tears from her cheeks before getting up from the kitchen table to open the front door. Mrs Wilson from next door, rollers still in her white hair, held out a handful of letters.

“Useless postman gave me your mail again dear, you really should think about putting in a complaint.”

Amie just shrugged, thanked Mrs Wilson for returning the mail. She started to shut the door, but the old lady stuck one of her wellington boots in the way.

“Are you alright dear?” she said. “Perhaps we should have a cup of tea.”

Amie started to protest, but Mrs Wilson had already marched through the door and started taking off her boots. With a sigh, Amie closed the door behind her and led the way to the kitchen.

The floor of the hallway was strewn with toys. Freddie’s trucks and Grace’s plastic horses made for quite an obstacle course.

“Please don’t break a hip,” Amie murmured under her breath.

The kitchen was even worse. A broken washing machine sat in the middle of the floor where the engineer had left it that morning. Piles of dirty laundry surrounded it and a puddle of water was gradually creeping out from underneath. Amie pushed the worst of it under the counter where the washing machine should have been, stammering apologies about the mess as she went.

Meanwhile Mrs Wilson had the kettle on and was ferreting through the cupboards looking for cups. The kettle rattled on its base as it came to the boil. Amie flopped into a chair by the kitchen table, leaving her neighbour to it.

“So,” said Mrs Wilson after a few minutes, plonking a mug of steaming tea in front of Amie and pulling up a chair opposite her, “I take it the washing machine is what’s got you so upset. Or is that no-good ex of yours sniffing around again?”

“I haven’t heard from Gavin.” Amie took a tentative sip from the mug. “He would have known how to fix this mess though, I don’t know what I’m going to do without a washing machine. I can’t take three kids to the laundrette - especially my kids - they’ll cause havoc.”

“You don’t need a man to fix a washing machine dear, there’s a second hand machine going for thirty pounds in the charity shop down the road.” said Mrs Wilson. “I’m sure we could get them to deliver it for you.”

“I don’t even have thirty pounds.” Amie felt another tear creep out of the corner of her eye.

She tried to wipe it away but it was no use. “I’ve got a grand total of one hundred and fifty seven pounds to last me two weeks and a final demand for the electric for a hundred and forty.

They’ll cut me off and then I won’t be able to put the heaters on in the kids’ rooms.”

Mrs Wilson reached for the electricity bill on the counter behind her. Amie opened her mouth as if to stop her, but took another gulp of tea instead. Mrs Wilson pursed her lips, appearing deep in thought, and tapped the letter twice with her forefinger.

“Is this the right bill dear?” she asked.

“Yep, that’s the one. I can’t pay that and buy nappies for Lauren for the next two weeks, let alone buy a washing machine.”

“But dear, it says forty pounds, not a hundred and forty.”

“What? That can’t be right.”

Amie reached for the bill. She was sure it had said a hundred and forty pounds when she looked at it earlier but sure enough, it now said forty pounds and thirty two pence.

“Looks like you’ll be able to afford the washing machine at the charity shop after all then.”

Mrs Wilson took a gulp of tea. “Tell you what,” she said, setting down her mug. “I’ll get my niece to take this broken thing away for you when she visits to cut my lawn tomorrow and we’ll go to the shop together once Grace is at school. They won’t refuse to deliver for an old lady.”

Amie continued to stare at the bill. It was all she could manage to nod her head.

By ten o clock the next morning she was staring at the new washing machine as the first load of laundry went round and round while Mrs Wilson made another cup of tea. The charity shop owner had offered to deliver straight away, and had given Amie a toy horse with a broken leg for Grace as well. Mrs Wilson’s niece was next door gluing the leg back on.

“Thank you so much for helping with the washing machine,” Amie said as she took the offered cup of tea from Mrs Wilson.

“No problem dear, you know where I am if you need anything else,” Mrs Wilson replied as she headed for the front door, leaving Amie alone watching the soap bubbling around the clothes in the machine.

Three weeks later Amie woke at five in the morning to the sound of the baby crying. She struggled out of bed and stumbled to the door, rubbing her eyes. As she stepped into the hallway she felt a shock of cold lance through her socks and the carpet squelch beneath her feet. Her vision was still blurred with sleep but it seemed as though a sheet of water was streaming down the wall.

“Shit! The water tank!”

Freddie chose that moment to add angry toddler’s shouts to Lauren’s hungry crying. Then there was a knock at the door. Amie looked out of the window and saw a man’s silhouette below her, a familiar blonde bowl cut sticking out from under a baseball cap. Gavin!

“That’s all I bloody need,” she said to the empty hallway.

She waded through the water to the nursery, picked up the baby, then went to answer the door.

Outside there was a yell and a loud bang. Freddie’s shouts became screams as she hurried to draw the bolt. She swung the door back to find Mrs Wilson standing on the front step. A stray lock of hair was peeking out of her rollers, and her spectacles were strangely askew. Amie peered over her shoulder looking for Gavin. Had the old lady chased him off? There was no sign of him. The street was clear in both directions. Amie wondered if she had imagined seeing him after all. Then she spotted a man’s shoe by the bush at the bottom of the garden. She had given Gavin those shoes for Christmas the previous year. She shook her head, looked again, then decided to just be pleased that it was Mrs Wilson on the doorstep and not Gavin.

“Please can you take the baby?” she said. “I’ve got a flood upstairs I need to turn the water off.”

“Of course dear, looks like her nappy needs changing, there are some in the living room I presume?”

Without waiting for an answer Mrs Wilson took Lauren and shuffled off in the direction of the living room. Amie took a deep breath and went back upstairs.

“The floor’s all wet Mummy.” Grace stood at the door to her bedroom. “Freddie won’t stop crying.”

“I know Grace. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Will Daddy come and fix the water?”

“I said in a minute Grace!” Amie snapped, and winced as her six year old slammed her bedroom door.

She climbed the steps to the attic, finding the broken pipe just above the floor boards. It was within easy reach but Amie had no idea what to do with it. She wished, not for the first time, that she had a man around to take care of things like this. Tie up the ball cock; that was the one thing she knew about water. If she did that the water would stop flowing. She looked around for something to use, tugging nervously at the cord of her dressing gown. It took almost a full minute before she realised that the cord was exactly the thing she needed .

Freddie was still screaming when she got back down stairs so she picked him up and went to see how Mrs Wilson was getting on with Lauren. Grace’s bedroom door was still shut. Amie sighed and decided that was a battle for another day.

In the living room Mrs Wilson was sitting on a chair rocking Lauren. She looked up as Amie walked through the door.

“Is it sorted now dear?” she asked.

“I wish,” Amie took Lauren to give her a feed and Mrs Wilson bounced Freddie on her knee. “I don’t know how to fix pipes,” she said. “I dread to think how much it’s going to cost me to sort this mess out.”

“Your insurance will cover that though surely?”

“Well, Gavin took care of all that. I’m not even sure if I’m still covered, In fact I’m almost sure we aren’t, these things only last a year don’t they? He left ten months ago.”

Mrs Wilson pursed her lips. “I think we’re going to need to sort that out aren’t we? Where are the papers?”

Amie turned most of the house upside down before finally locating the insurance documents in the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet. Mrs Wilson read through them while Amie put the baby down for a nap and fixed breakfast for Freddie and Grace. Freddie babbled happily as he munched banana and grapes. Grace sat with arms crossed refusing to touch her cereal until Amie left the room.

“So is the news bad or worse?” Amie asked Mrs Wilson once the children were settled.

“It’s fine, you’re covered, you just need to ring this number.”

Mrs Wilson handed Amie the papers and the phone. Amie didn’t recognise the name of the insurance company. She had never even heard of Far Away Insurance. Still the large print at the top of the page promised same-day service for emergencies so she dialled the number. It was less than two hours before the plumber arrived. She had hardly made it to the attic when there was another knock at the door and two more women were bustling up the stairs to deal with the wet carpet. Grace had gone to school with Mrs Wilson without a single argument. Freddie had even gone down for a nap with only five minutes of screaming, and they were finally sitting down with a cup of tea.

“Is there anything else Gavin used to take care of that we might need to get sorted out?” Mrs Wilson asked.

“Probably everything,” Amie said, rubbing the handle of her mug with her thumb.

“Well then,” said Mrs Wilson. “Where do you want to start?”

It wasn’t until Amie was walking Grace home from school that she realised she had never found out why Mrs Wilson had knocked on her door that morning. Grace had forgotten that she was supposed to be cross with Amie and skipped along the path, telling Amie all about the school trip the class was going on the next term. Amie groaned. With the excess on the insurance for the flood to pay there was no way she could afford the trip as well. As she rounded the corner onto her street she caught sight of someone bending over near the bushes at the bottom of her garden. Gavin’s too-tight blue jeans ended in one dirty white sock and one black shoe.

Amie quickly pulled the pram back around the corner. Grace ran into her back.

“Ow, why did you stop Mummy?” Grace was rubbing her nose when Amie looked over at her.

“Sorry Grace, I’ve, er, well.”

“What is it Mummy?”

“A stone in my shoe Grace, that’s all. Here hold on to the pram while I get it out.”

Amie made a show of removing her shoe and turning it upside down while she took several deep breaths. She tied the laces as slowly as she could, then gripped the handles of the pram tightly before stepping round the corner for the second time. From next to the bushes Mrs Wilson waved at them. Gavin was gone. Again. As she walked past the bushes Amie saw that the lost shoe had now been joined by its pair. She kicked them both into the road and smirked as a passing van flattened the left one.

Mrs Wilson wasn’t able to offer any insight to the trip problem when she called in the next morning.

“Gavin would have found the money,” Amie said, putting the dishes from breakfast in the sink.

“You’ll find a way.” Mrs Wilson was unflustered. “Why don’t we take Freddie to the park?”

“Okay, let me get the kids’ coats.”

With the kids bundled up against the chill May winds Amie pulled on her wellies but hesitated to take the coat Mrs Wilson held out to her.

“Is my red one there instead, there are snacks in the pockets for Freddie.”

“This one will be warmer dear, it’s very chilly out there today.” Mrs Wilson gave a smile that Amie recognised. It was exactly the same as the one her mum used to give when she didn’t want any further argument.

Amie took the coat, stuffing a packet of toddler biscuits from the kitchen counter in her pocket.

As she pulled her hand out of the pocket something fell to the ground. She bent down to pick it up.

“Hey, I thought I’d lost that purse months ago.” She snapped open the clasp and gasped.

“There’s money in here, a whole roll of twenties.” Amie flicked through the notes. “There’s eighty quid, I can’t have forgotten I put this in here, where did it come from?”

“I don’t know dear,” said Mrs Wilson. “It seems like it’s come at a good time though, how much did you say Grace’s school trip is?”

“Eighty pounds exactly, this makes things so much easier.”

Amie glanced at Mrs Wilson, a suspicious thought forming in her head, but her neighbour was already half way out of the door, ushering Freddie in front of her. Amie followed her out of the door pointing the pram in the direction of the park.

Summer came and went. Grace enjoyed her school trip so much she didn’t have a tantrum for over a week. It became a routine during term time, that after Amie had taken Grace to school Mrs Wilson would come over for a cup of tea. One morning, as Mrs Wilson knocked at the door, Amie saw Freddie toddle across the landing with his arms outstretched. Then she saw the stair gate standing open and her blood ran cold. Everything seemed to happen so quickly. Freddie got to the top of the stairs, tottered down the first step. Then he slipped. Three nightmareish seconds later Freddie was at the bottom of the stairs screaming, his left arm sticking out at a forty five degree angle just below his shoulder, the rest of the arm limp. Amie flew down the stairs and bent to pick him up.

“Wait!” Hearing the commotion Mrs Wilson had let herself in. “Don’t move him until we see if he’s injured.”

Amie stifled a sob, grabbing at the St Christopher around her neck. She couldn’t move, she didn’t know what to do and her legs refused to work.

“Go and call an ambulance,” said Mrs Wilson, crouching down next to Freddie.

Amie forced her unwilling legs to carry her to where she had left her mobile phone charging in the kitchen and dialled 999. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mrs Wilson crouch down next to Freddie and tap his arm twice with her forefinger. Amie took deep breaths as she gave the operator the address and was assured an ambulance was on its way. When she went back to the hallway Freddie had quietened down a little. Mrs Wilson was sitting on the floor next to him, stroking the top of his head.

When the ambulance arrived Mrs Wilson took Lauren and Amie went with Freddie, hardly noticing the paramedics talking to her in reassuring tones. At the hospital a female doctor with dark hair and a Spanish accent sent Freddie for x-rays and a tall, male nurse gave him some painkillers while they waited for the results. Amie was amazed when the doctor told her that the arm wasn’t broken. There had definitely been a bend in it that wasn’t a joint before she had

called the ambulance. The hospital called them a taxi home and Amie had already put Freddie to bed by the time Mrs Wilson brought Lauren and Grace round.

“Thank you for looking after Lauren today, and picking up Grace from school, I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Amie said, sitting down on the sofa with a cup of tea once Lauren had been fed and Grace put to bed.

“No problem dear,” Mrs Wilson said, taking a sip of tea. “Did you notice that even though today was so stressful you didn’t once mention wanting Gavin around?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Amie said with a smile. She was still smiling when she went to bed, where she lay awake for a while listening to the wind howling around the chimney, rattling the tiles.

The next morning Amie got home from taking Grace to school to find the wind had blown several tiles off the roof. It didn’t take her long to find the insurance documents and call to get them to send someone to repair the hole left by the tiles. When Mrs Wilson arrived for her cup of tea the builder had already arrived and the sound of hammering reverberated from the roof around the house.

“You should take the builder a cup of tea as well dear,” said Mrs Wilson.

“I already did,” Amie said with a smile.

Mrs Wilson didn’t stay very long, her niece was due to pick her up for a holiday she said.

“A bit of a last minute thing, one of those bargain trips you know dear,” she explained.

“Have a great trip,” said Amie.

“Goodbye dear,” said Mrs Wilson.

A week passed and Mrs Wilson didn’t return. Two more weeks went by and Amie began to grow concerned. One morning, on the way to the school, she asked Libby, who lived in the house on the other side of Mrs Wilson’s, if she had heard from their elderly neighbour, or knew when she was coming back. Libby looked at her with a confused expression.

“Amie, nobody’s coming back. That house has been empty for three years, since before you moved in.”

Amie walked the rest of the way to the school in silence. Grace skipped ahead, running into the playground to greet her friends without even saying goodbye. Amie stopped at the park on the way home to let Freddie play. She sat on the park bench watching Freddie and feeding Lauren, wondering what had happened to Mrs Wilson, or if she had imagined the old lady completely.

When she reached home the post had arrived. In amongst the bills and the birthday cards arriving for Freddie, who would turn three the following week, was a postcard.

Dearest Amy, You have probably realised by now that I won’t be coming back.

I’m sorry I didn’t say a proper goodbye, an urgent case needed me elsewhere and you have come so far in the last few months that you no longer need me.

We will meet again one day.

Lots of love Faye Wilson, your fairy godmother.

Out in the street the last remnants of a pair of leather shoes skittered across the road as the wind stirred the autumn leaves around them, hiding the worn pieces from view.

Sarah Hindmarsh is a vet student turned teacher turned writer. She has won, and been nominated for, multiple awards and prizes for her children’s fiction, short stories and poetry, and also writes revision guides and books of writing prompts. She is currently writing her first novel for grown-ups – an LGBT+ high fantasy. In her spare time Sarah likes to compete in various equestrian sports and nap on the sofa with her dog, Kohla. Sarah is also autistic and ADHD, and writes personal essays about living and working as a neurodivergent person in a neurotypical world.

Connect with Sarah Hindmarsh at: https://www.facebook.com/Sarahhindmarshauthor

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

W. L. Hawkin W. L. Hawkin writes “edgy urban fantasy with a twist of murder” from her loft near Vancouver, B.C. Her novels—To Charm a Killer, To Sleep with Stones, To Render a Raven, and To Kill a King each stand alone but form the Hollystone Mysteries series. This coven of West Coast witches, and their eccentric friends, solve murders using ritual magic and a little help from the gods.

Although she’s an introvert, in each book her characters go on a journey where Hawkin’s travelled herself. She researches all her locales (Ireland, Scotland, the B.C. Coast) to soak up the sensory landscape. In 2017, she climbed Croghan Hill in Ireland to survey the land her king would rule in To Kill a King, a romantic time-travel thriller set in Iron Age Ireland.

A seeker and mystic, fascinated by language, archaeology, and mythology, Hawkin graduated from Trent University, Ontario, and has post-bac diplomas from SFU in B.C. Her background in Indigenous Studies and Humanities informs her work. She found her voice publishing poetry and Native Rights articles in Canadian news magazines and is now an Indie author/publisher at Blue Haven Press. https://www.facebook.com/wlhawkin https://twitter.com/ladyhawke1003 https://www.instagram.com/w.l.hawkin/

http://bluehavenpress.com

Lure: Jesse & Hawk

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B09KX6Y84W

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

I’m a spiritual seeker at heart. I’ve wandered down many avenues—Indigenous spirituality, Buddhism, Wicca, Druidry, energy healing—though I grew up listening to the poetry of the King James bible in the Anglican church. I read Tarot and use the pendulum like my Wicca characters, and honour trees like my Druid characters. I’m curious about the past and have no interest in the future; probably because most Sci-Fi presents the future as technological, and I need heaps of nature in my life. I’d love to time travel which is probably how Sorcha ended up in Iron Age Ireland in Book 4.

I’ve moved many times and never quite found home, although some places, like Ireland, beckon me. I love animals, especially horses and dogs. I just became a gramma recently and adore my little red-haired boy, who constantly surprises me and makes me laugh.

I moved from Ontario to the West Coast twenty-five years ago because I hated the weather extremes (although we’re starting to see the same thing here.) And I love to travel for research. I never set a story in a place I haven’t walked myself as I need to feel the energy of the land.

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what type of book you would write?

I bend and weave genres—urban fantasy, speculative fiction, romance, thrillers, mysteries . . . I love mystery. I also write LGBTQ characters because we are not all the same. The story determines what the book eventually will be. For example, To Charm a Killer and To Sleep with Stones are edgy murder mysteries with a dash of fantasy because they involve a Vancouver

Wicca coven who solve murders using ritual magic. But because the Hollystone Mysteries feature the bisexual gothic magician and coven high priest, Estrada, as the main character, they go where he goes. Book 3, To Render a Raven, is a vampire thriller set in the Pacific Northwest. But Book 4, To Kill a King is a prehistoric, time-travel thriller set in Iron Age Ireland. I don’t sit down and say, “What should I write about?” I let the stories flow naturally from one to the other as I listen to my muses. I don’t think I ever made a conscious decision to write. I wanted to escape with the characters, and I did.

When did you start writing? Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap?

I wrote the draft for my first novel thirty years ago when I was leaving my ex-husband and starting my degree in Indigenous Studies at Trent University. It was a traumatic time, but also an exciting time. I was healing through Indigenous spirituality, and that comes through in the character of Jedediah. When he discovers the Chippewa reservation across the bridge from Lure River and finds a friend in Joe, he’s quite young (about seven or eight) and he loves it so much he keeps running away to stay with Joe and his wife. Jed’s parents finally make him a deal that he can spend time with them on holidays, but he can’t just take off. So, Joe and Effie kind of adopt him into their culture. After Jed’s wife dies while he’s delivering their child, he’s riddled with guilt. He changes his name to Hawk and escapes to the reservation where he lives alone in a cave, until Jesse appears, and he finds redemption.

Jed feels much like I did when I began that journey—enamored of a culture that is not his own. I hung onto that draft for thirty years, rewrote it recently, and launched it last year. It’s called Lure: Jesse & Hawk and it’s a small-town romantic suspense novel set in the American Midwest.

What are your current projects?

I’m juggling several projects right now. First, I’m madly drafting Book 5 in the Hollystone Mysteries series, working title, To Right a Wrong. My muses are with me and it’s coming fast on the tail of Book 4. When I’m in this space, I get very little sleep because my mind won’t shut off. My characters show me exactly what’s happening and whisper in my ear. I write what they tell me, whether I agree with them or not.

I’m also about to start shopping Ghostlight which is a YA novel set at a West Coast lighthouse. I spent a year working as a relief lighthouse keeper and blogged about it here. For this book, I combined aspects of several lighthouses where I worked to fictionalize the setting. Right now, I’m awaiting comments from several teen beta readers. Here’s the pitch: Ghostlight is a story about an awkward, orphaned, teenage girl with inherent psychic powers, who returns to her lighthouse home in search of the truth about her mother’s life and death.

There, she reunites with her childhood love, and encounters fearsome ghosts who want the truth to remain buried.

Also, I’m taking a university course in Creative Non-Fiction and writing splashes of memoir.

Part of that involves writing the story of my Indigenous great-great grandmother who I’ve been researching for years. I didn’t know about her until I was in my mid-thirties and doing my degree in Indigenous studies. One day, my seventy-five-year-old mother said, “Oh, I see why you’re into this stuff. My great grandfather married an Indian.” Really Mom? You’re just telling me this now? https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0753H1Q1H

Can you share a sample of your current work with us?

It can be hard to jump into the middle of a series but here’s the first scene from Book 5. Raw. June 21st Croghan Hill, County Offaly, Ireland “How much farther to this Lolly place?” Estrada’s eyes burned, his ass ached, and his gut was as hollow as the volcano beneath Croghan Hill. He stared at the hind end of Sorcha’s wonky brown pony and waited for an answer.

He was tired of bouncing through the Irish countryside on this sweaty gray horse. Tired of feeling out of control. He wanted to believe that he’d succeed at the epic challenge with which he’d tasked himself, but if he couldn’t even get them out of Ireland, how was he supposed to obliterate a vampire horde on the other side of the world? An image of Diego holding his baby rose in his mind, his pulse quickened, and he snarled.

Sorcha raised her left hand, without turning back, and showed him two fingers. He snarled again. Two more hours? Raising his hand, he showed her his middle finger, though she couldn’t see it. He had to believe the red-haired hellcat who’d got them into this mess, could get them out.

Ireland was Sorcha’s territory, and she claimed to know people in the next county, who could stable their horses and lend them some cash. That’s where they were riding now. Cernunnos, the ancient Horned God, had sent them back through the wormhole from Iron Age Ireland with no means to traverse the twenty-first century. No credit cards, no cash, no driver’s license; not even a piece of I.D. He glanced over his shoulder at Conall, who rode behind him on his white stallion, head bowed, lost in his own world. He’d ripped a strip of linen from his pale homespun shirt to tie up his long copper hair.

After the icy rains they’d endured in ancient Croghan, its modern counterpart felt like a sauna.

Conall was a living piece of history, a handsome druid bard flown forward in time still clutching his blood-slick iron sword.

Finally, as the three friends left the pastures behind and began trotting single file down the narrow country road, Estrada breathed in hope. The square, white-washed homes inched closer together. Then he saw a gas station, and a sign written in Gaelic he didn’t dare pronounce.

They were coming to a village.

Late afternoon shadows climbed stone garden walls, whispering the promise of a cool evening.

He swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and licked his dry lips. His stomach growled again. How were they supposed to get food with no money? Steal it? The Horned God had likely done this on purpose. Humans were his entertainment, and he never made it easy.

As he listened to the rhythmic clip clop of the horses’ unshod hooves, his thighs ached for his Harley. He raked his fingernails through the loose hair that dusted the edges of his damp shoulders. They passed a shop with a sign for Red Bull in the window, and he snorted. What he wouldn’t give for a cold shot of sugar and caffeine. But the lights were out, and the closed sign dangled cockeyed in the window. The village seemed vacant and silent. Where were all the people? Holed up inside with air conditioners and fans away from this oppressive heat?

He’d crossed to the far side of an old stone bridge when he realized he’d been so involved in his own thoughts, he’d forgotten the others. The familiar clopping of Conall’s horse’s hooves had disappeared. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched the road.

The bard was gone.

Tugging the leather reins across his horse’s neck, he spun it around with the force of his thighs and heels.

At the far side of the stone bridge, he caught the white flash of Capall’s tail as the stallion disappeared down the side. Urging his horse into a trot, Estrada bounced over the lonely bridge and down the trail that led to the river below.

“Conall,” he yelled. He saw the man’s cast-off clothes, but where was the man?

When his gray mare saw Conall’s white stallion belly-deep in the river, she headed down the bank. Estrada leapt off, ripped his soiled linen shift over his head, and doffed his leather boots.

He waded in, searched upriver, and then followed the current down.

He gasped. Conall floated face down, arms outstretched; his shoulder blades and the slick curves of his naked ass the only pale parts showing above the coppery water.

“Conall,” he yelled, his heart pounding. “Raise your head, man. Breathe.” Plunging into the current, he rode it downstream.

Please don’t tell me you’ve given up after all this.

Conall had still not risen for a breath. Catching his friend’s shoulders with both hands, Estrada yanked. Conall’s head flew back, and he blinked. Then, his face lit up.

Estrada caught him with both hands and crushed him to his chest. “What’re you doing, man? I thought you were . . .”

“Why?” Conall laughed, infused with the sheer joy of bathing in a cool stream on a hot day.

“Why would you think that?”

“You lost Ruairí and your home, and I can’t imagine what it must be like to see your beautiful Ireland clear-cut and purged for peat.” The flat black striations bothered Estrada, and he was used to environmental destruction. Conall was not.

“Aye. My heart breaks for all those things, but . . .” Conall grasped Estrada’s face in both hands. “I’m alive, and I have you, and Sorcha.”

Estrada’s hands rose to grasp Conall’s bearded jaw. He had no words. But their eyes locked, and he knew his friend spoke the truth. For this moment, at least, Conall had surpassed his grief, and there were only the two of them standing, chests bare and hips deep in the flowing copper river.

Leaning in, Estrada pulled Conall’s jaw closer, and then their lips met, and he breathed Conall’s breath and tasted the silt on his skin. His body fired with their first kiss; one he’d waited days to feel. It was only Conall’s grief for Ruairí that had held his desire at bay. As his hands slid down Conall’s cool naked back and pulled him in, their mouths formed promises. Then Conall’s hand slid down Estrada’s wet leather breeches, and he groaned.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I thought I’d lost yus, and here yus are, making out under the bridge like a couple of horny trolls.”

Estrada ignored Sorcha. and continued to savor Conall’s kiss. Eyes closed, tongues teased, thighs pulsed, fingers caressed. He wanted more. They both wanted more.

“Alright then, boys. You stay here and have at her. I suppose we all need a little recreation after what we’ve been through. I’ll be down at the village green enjoying the free barbecue.”

The kiss ended abruptly as Estrada and Conall turned to face Sorcha. They were both starving.

“Free barbecue, you say?”

“Aye. Burgers and pints. Salads. All you can eat and drink. Music too. It’s put on by the village to celebrate the Solstice. No cash required. And I’ve just secured us an invitation.”

Conall squinted. “Burgers and pints?”

“Trust me,” Estrada said. “You’ll love it.

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

Sorcha O’Hallorhan is a fiery red-haired Irish archaeologist who drinks and swears and asks for what she wants. She’s strong, independent, vocal, and free-spirited. Sorcha’s traveled the world on archaeology digs and doesn’t tolerate macho behaviour from anyone. But she also has a soft romantic side, and we see that in To Kill a King when she time-travels to Iron Age Ireland and falls in love with Ruairí Mac Nia, then puts herself in peril to save him from his fate. (Ruairí Mac Nia is based on Old Croghan Man, a real bog body dug from the Irish peat in 2003.) So far, we don’t know much about Sorcha’s backstory. There have been a few comments. Her mother was also an archaeologist, a vocal lesbian who slept with her most handsome grad students only long enough to get pregnant with Sorcha.

In Book 5, which I am currently about half-way through writing, Sorcha is put into a situation where she meets her ex-girlfriend. They’d been lovers in university until she came home from a dig one day to discover Franye in bed with Sorcha’s best friend, Viviane.

She’s still mad for Franye, perhaps because she’s the one who got away. But Franye’s already betrayed her once . . . The rest of that story will be revealed sometime this year with the release of To Right a Wrong but let me tell you, this is no smoldering coal. There’s enough heat here to spark a forest fire.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

Forget about Mark Twain’s advice. Don’t worry about writing what you know. Write what you feel, what you love, what you want to know. Personally go to your key settings and allow the energy of the landscape to wash over you. Gems and surprises will emerge if you let them.

Write from beginning to end and trust your muses to guide you. Let the story take its own shape. If someone falls in love or dies unexpectedly, feel it to your core and let that raw emotion take you deep. The words will find their way to the page. When you’ve come as far as you can, then get other eyes on your work.

Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why?

I’m a huge fan of singer-songwriter, Peter Gabriel, because of his brilliance. Not only am I blown away by his voice, but his writing is archetypal, and he’s involved in incredible work with people around the world. Unbeknownst to him, Peter’s become one of my muses. When I started writing my last Hollystone Mystery, To Kill a King, a sweet Druid bard from ancient Ireland appeared named Conall Ceol. Ceol (pronounced cool) means music, and Conall is an amazing singer and musician who plays ancient instruments. He started out as a sidekick, but I fell in love with him (as did my hero, Estrada) so his character evolved. I gave Conall, Peter’s voice. When Estrada hears Conall sing, he’s reminded of a “six-hundred-year-old yellow cedar tree that had been split by lightning.” The bard’s voice makes him want to “curl into Conall’s yellow cedar soul and steam.” I feel that way listening to Peter Gabriel most days myself and often dance to his Secret World video when I feel overwhelmed or need inspiration. I’m listening right now. Of course, if I ever did meet Peter Gabriel, I’d probably melt.

Can you share something personal with your readers?

Like my Druid characters, I believe I’ve lived many lives. Some of these, I’ve seen in visions.

Others I’ve felt when I visited certain parts of the world. They weren’t grand lives where I was the emperor or commanded an army like the Celtic Queen, Boudica, but they’ve affected me in this incarnation. Driving through the West Coast of Ireland, I felt like I’d come home. I could easily live as a hermit in a monastery. When I listen to Indigenous singers, I burst into tears.

Many years ago, when I was meditating three, sometimes four hours a day, I clearly saw this: I am being carried through a churning river in the arms of a tall, angular Indigenous man. He’s

Anishinaabe, and we’re somewhere near Gichigamiing (Lake Superior). An arrow whizzes through the air and hits him in the heart. We fall onto the beach, and I lie across his bleeding chest. Sobbing. Screaming. I feel this heartbreak, this grief, stronger than anything I’ve ever felt in my current life. A red coat commander appears from the bush and says, “Her too.” I’ve been searching for this Indigenous man my whole life. You’ll likely find shades of him in my characters.

If money was no issue, would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake?

How about a rustic cabin cresting an ocean beach? As much as mountains are beautiful in photographs, they make me feel claustrophobic. As does snow. I hate snow! The first time I drove through the Rockies after arriving in British Columbia from lowland Ontario, I was petrified.

As I drove along the cliffs, I put up my hand to shield my view and said, “Never again!” And I never have. I much prefer an ocean beach where I can gaze out over the waves and imagine sailing off to lands unknown. That’s why I recently moved to Vancouver Island.

If you check my Instagram account, you’ll find plenty of seaside photographs. Perhaps, it has something to do with my Piscean nature. If money was no issue, I’d buy seaside cabins throughout the world—along the Mediterranean Sea, the Caribbean, somewhere in the South Pacific, in the Canadian Maritimes, and of course along the West Coast of Ireland.

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?

Through Blue Haven Press you can find all my social media and sign up for my seasonal newsletter, or if it’s easier just visit Link Tree where everything is neatly listed. http://bluehavenpress.com/ https://linktr.ee/wlhawkin

Nobody can say for sure who coined the phrase ‘A picture is worth a thousand words’ but we do know it’s been around since the early 1900s. It’s clear why the saying has stood the test of time. One glance at a picture and the person seeing it instantly imagines the story behind it. It might be personal, like a couple in love relaxing in a gondola in Venice. For me, that image brings back memories of my honeymoon and the amazing adventure my husband and I shared.

Or, it could trigger strong emotions of love, hate, loneliness, or contentment.

As authors we work hard to show our readers the worlds we conjure in our minds, the sometimes loving, sometimes quirky, sometimes sadistic characters, and the stories behind them.

We hope our words jump from the page and prompt an emotional response similar to a vivid picture or photograph.

That’s what we had in mind when we developed this writing prompt. We sent the picture above to a group of authors and asked them to tell a story in approximately 1000 words. Each story is unique, compelling and interesting. I guess it just goes to show, that while the picture might be worth a thousand words… those words can change depending on the story teller.

This month we had six authors participate as well as an additional story that coincided with the image from our last publication. A poll with the authors names will be posted on our Facebook page where you’ll have a chance to vote for your favorite story. You won’t want to miss it! https://www.facebook.com/ConnectionsEMagazine

No Fairytale

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

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess. She met a handsome stranger from a far-off land, who just happened to be a prince. They soon married and lived happily ever after in peace and harmony…

Wouldn’t that be lovely? Sadly, not all fairytales are so idyllic, and despite my attire, this is definitely no fairytale. So, here I am, deep in the forest, trying to stop this ridiculous gown from snagging on brambles as I hastily make my way to the clearing. From there, it’s thankfully only a few minutes’ walk to the small access road where I left my car early this morning. I’m nearly there – thank goodness I had the foresight to wear trainers under this voluminous skirt. *****

We came at dawn to capture that special light as the first sunbeams filter through the trees, appearing to radiate from a single distant source. Komorebi, I believe the Japanese call it; they have such beautiful words to encompass the whole mood and feeling of what we only describe.

My photographer husband delighted at the way the light danced across the scarlet fabric of my fairytale gown, following blindly as I wandered farther, in search of the perfect setting. I was reluctant at first, when Nick suggested I model for him – he wanted create an advertising campaign to entice new customers to book a photoshoot. Dressing up for a walk in my favourite place did seem like fun, if a little less practical than my usual jeans and t-shirt. I soon lost my inhibitions as I breathed in the glorious earthy scents, and Nick snapped away oblivious to anything beyond the viewfinder.

The familiar landmarks we passed, the thicket of spiky holly with a secret hollow inside, the ancient oak with boughs that reached down to provide an easy foothold, the bank of delicate indigo belladonna beneath towering foxgloves, brought memories of long summers and magical adventures, while Mum foraged for blackberries and wild mushrooms .

The knowledge engrained, and the delight of free food had carried forward into adulthood and I still tramped familiar paths with my basket of berries. I had hoped Nick would share my passion, but no, he was a big-city boy through and through. This photoshoot was one of the rare times I’d been able to coax him away from a concrete path and he seemed more alive than ever.

I hoped the experience would inspire him to join me on future walks, and chattered about how we could do this every weekend. Nick shushed me, more engaged with the camera than conversation.

Nick urged that we only stop for a quick break, as he needed to get back soon for a work meeting. I carefully draped my skirts over a fallen log that conveniently served as a seat, and poured us both coffee from the thermos Nick insisted on bringing. I savoured the moment, soaking up the glorious sunshine. Nick stood, sipping his coffee while fiddling with his camera settings.

Inevitably, the coffee sent Nick off searching for a ‘private’ place to attend to a call of nature, but not before instructing me to guard his equipment. Seriously? Who did he think was going to be hiding behind a tree, waiting to steal a camera at this time of the morning? I chuckled at Nick’s city ways, and picked up his mobile to check the time – with no pockets, I’d left mine in the car. A flurry of notifications pinged in as the screen lit up… ***** The sunbeams disappeared as grey clouds drifted overhead. I managed to reach the car as the first raindrops splashed through the leaves. They mixed with the tears soaking my cheeks. I hadn’t thought rationally earlier, I had just gathered up my skirts and run, weaving between the trees, needing to get as far away from my cheating husband as possible. I sat watching the rivers of rain streaming down the car windscreen, distorting the scene beyond – I imagined Nick too intent on keeping his precious camera dry to notice my absence. Then I imagined him slowly realising he was alone, deep in unfamiliar territory. I pictured his panic when he realised his guide back to civilisation had disappeared. I assumed that right about now, he was searching for the phone that sat on the passenger seat next to me.

I shrugged off any guilt of leaving him stranded as I read back through the messages. They started with flirtatious jokes that soon developed into plans for covert meetings. A quick checking of dates showed their trysts coincided with my weekly woodland wanders, the walks that Nick avoided because he was ‘too busy with work’. I remembered the many times he’d seemed distant when I’d rambled on about all my foraging finds, while rinsing bowls of plump black berries – I’d just assumed him weary from work. It was the final text that snapped me out of my misery – Sorry I couldn’t do the shoot this morning. Want to meet up after you drop her home?

My tummy rumbled. Despite the surge of emotions churning, I was hungry. Nick would be getting hungry too. Would he pick berries to stave off hunger pangs as he wandered, wet and lost?

The belladonna berries were ripening very close to where I’d abandoned him. Would Nick remember me chattering away about wild flowers? Would he remember their other name – deadly nightshade – or that ingesting them would cause hallucinations, convulsions and eventually death? I shrugged; it was no longer my problem.

The rain eased off; it was time for this princess to drive home, alone. But first, I needed to send a message to my now ex best friend to come rescue her prince from the forest – that is if she could find him. I switched off Nick’s phone, wiped my eyes and set off, spurred on by the thought of breakfast, a hot coffee and getting changed out of this silly dress. This fairytale was over and it was time to create a new love story.

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.

Sylva has published several children’s books and also writes a blog, Sylvanian Ramblings.

Are AI Chatbots Useful to Authors?

The idea of artificial intelligence systems taking over the tasks we find arduous and time consuming is simultaneously exciting and quite scary – I’ve watched far too many sci-fi films to blindly accept this without some research and experimentation! For the record, I need to explain that I am no expert on technical stuff, but I am curious to try new programs and have sufficient competence to learn how to use them. So, as an indie author, I was intrigued to see how it worked and what an AI chatbot could do to help me in my writing. I was given an opportunity to try ChatGPT, and within moments I was astounded, and hooked. The possibilities seemed endless.

What is it?

I am using a free research preview of OpenAI’s ChatGPT, which aims to make AI systems more natural, and safe to interact with. ‘GPT’ stands for ‘Generative Pre-trained Transformer’, which was the architecture of the model used to train it. It is a language model, trained to produce text, and optimised for dialogue using reinforced learning with human feedback. (ChatGPT explained this to me when I asked it its name.) With every command or query, there is an opportunity to uptick or downtick the response, and you can write specific feedback, which helps to improve the accuracy of future

responses. The ChatGPT model remembers what the user said earlier in the conversation and allows you to provide follow-up corrections. During this phase, conversations may be reviewed by AI trainers to improve their systems. (Additional information from OpenAI FAQs.)

First experiments As I predominantly write rhyming children’s picture books, this was the first focus of my experiment. I asked a brief question, ‘write me a rhyming children’s story about a mouse.’ Within seconds, the text started appearing on the screen, writing the story as fast as I was reading it. I was astounded! It was pretty good considering the minimal input I’d given it. The downsides, there were words that were not suitable for the age group, the metre was inconsistent, some of the rhyming words were repeated and some were contrived, rhyming but not relevant, and it was only three verses long. I realised I needed to give some more specific instructions.

I decided to try again, but this time using the story from my book, Yoga Fox. I wanted to see how ChatGPT fared against the original story.

This time, I asked it to write 10 paragraphs, and added that it should use language appropriate for a six-year-old. It wasn’t the exact story but it followed a similar structure and plot. It was considerably better, but it was still what I would consider to be a rough draft stage. I requested it change a few aspects of the story. It refined the previous attempt, and it was like something I could have written.

I was really excited about the potential. I could easily use something like the story appearing in front of my eyes as a plan / draft, and develop it (with much editing) into something worthy of publishing. And I did feel like it truly represented my work as I had guided the process with my ideas and instructions.

Problems Given how easy it was to use, and given that the first attempts were passable as

a draft, I worried it was open to exploitation. I imagined an influx of AI written books, with an unscrupulous ‘author’s’ name on the cover. I imagined non writers, who haven’t spent years studying and honing their skills, publishing the AI text without any editing or development. Suddenly, there would be a flood of poorly written books hitting the market, that would give indie authors a bad reputation.

According to the FAQs on the OpenAI webpage, ‘Subject to Content Policy and Terms, you own the output you create with ChatGPT’, meaning you can generate text for commercial uses, and publishing it as a book would legal.

Split Opinions I shared my research with my writer group, and it generated an interesting discussion. Opinions were split, ranging from a definite, ‘it’s not for me, even as a trial,’ to those curious to see how it might be used as a tool to assist the writing process. Most people expressed their worries about possibilities for accidental plagiarism, plus they echoed my own concerns regarding unscrupulous wannabe authors, with no writing ability, flooding the market with poor quality AI generated books. I went back to ChatGPT and asked the chatbot what it ‘thought’.

An Interview With OpenAI ChatGPT Me: What are your main functions?

ChatGPT: As a large language model, my main function is to generate human-like text based on the input I am provided. Some of the specific tasks I can assist with include:

Text completion: I can continue a sentence or paragraph that you provide, making it more coherent and complete.

Text generation: I can generate new text on a wide range of topics, such as writing a story, an article, or even a poem.

Language Translation: I can translate text from one language to another.

Language summarization: I can summarize a long text or article, making it shorter and more concise.

Answering questions: I can answer questions on a wide range of topics, such as providing definitions, explanations, and historical context.

Dialogue generation: I can generate dialogue for characters in a story or script, or even simulate a conversation.

Sentiment analysis: I can analyze the sentiment in a given text, determining whether it is positive, negative, or neutral.

Sentiment analysis: I can analyze the sentiment in a given text, determining whether it is positive, negative, or neutral.

These are just a few examples of the many ways I can assist you. If you have any specific task or question feel free to ask me and I will do my best to help.

Me: Please explain how ChatGPT can be an asset to a children's author.

ChatGPT: ChatGPT can be an asset to a children's author by providing assistance with the writing process. For example, ChatGPT can generate ideas for story plots, characters, and dialogue. Additionally, ChatGPT can help with editing and proofreading, making sure the text is free of grammatical errors and is written at an appropriate reading level for children. It can also help with creating educational content. With its language understanding capability, it can help to create engaging stories or educational content which is age-appropriate and easy to understand for children. Overall, ChatGPT can save the author time and effort while allowing them to focus on crafting an engaging and highquality story for their young readers.

Me: If I ask you to write a story, how can I be sure it is not plagiarising other authors?

ChatGPT: As a language model, ChatGPT is trained on a vast amount of text from the internet. It uses this training data to generate new text, which can include phrases or sentences that have been used previously in other works. Therefore, it is important to be aware that there is a risk of generating text that is similar to existing works, including copyrighted material.

To help mitigate this risk, you can use the generated text as inspiration and then edit it heavily to make it unique. Additionally, it's a good practice to run the generated text through a plagiarism checker to identify any instances of text that match existing works.

It is also important to note that even if the text generated by ChatGPT is not an exact copy of an existing work, it could still be considered a derivative work and therefore may still be subject to copyright laws. So, it is important for you to be familiar with the copyright laws and make sure that you are not violating any copyright laws.

As a writer, it is always best practice to create original content and reference any quotes or paraphrases of existing works. It's also a good idea to keep records of your research and sources to demonstrate the originality of your work.

Me: Can you recommend a plagiarism checker, please?

ChatGPT: There are many plagiarism checkers available online, some of the most popular ones include: Grammarly: This tool not only checks for plagiarism but also for grammar and punctuation errors. It's a great all-in-one tool for writers.

Turnitin: This is a widely used plagiarism checker that is often used in academic settings. It checks against a large database of academic papers and can identify text that is similar to existing works.

Copyscape: This plagiarism checker is specifically designed for online content and can help identify text that has been copied from websites.

Quetext: It's a free plagiarism checker that offers a free trial for the premium features. It compares your text to over 8 billion web pages and academic papers.

PlagScan: This plagiarism checker compares your text to a wide range of sources, including books, journals, and websites, to identify any potential plagiarism.

All of these tools are good options, but it's always a good idea to read reviews, compare features, and check the terms of service before deciding which one to use.

Me: Thank you, I'm very impressed with the services you provide.

ChatGPT: Thank you! I'm glad to hear that. I'm a language model created by OpenAI, designed to assist with a wide range of tasks that involve natural language understanding and generation. If you have any specific questions or tasks you would like me to help with, please let me know. I'll do my best to assist you.

My Conclusions I understand and share the misgivings of some of my author friends, and do worry that programs like this will be misused to produce subpar books. The question of whether using AI generated text as part of your writing process is morally right is a tricky one, and depends very much on how much the raw text is edited before it is published. This is a huge grey area. Personally, I think that this can be a really useful tool to speed up some of the early ideas and first draft stages, and I will be experimenting further. That said, I would only feel comfortable using the raw text as inspiration, to be rewritten, tweaked, edited and refined before I would consider publishing it under my author name. Is it any different to using other tools, like voice to text, or an online spellchecker? If used purely as a tool, with all the creative input added by the author, I do believe this could become a huge asset for authors.

What are your thoughts? Would you consider using AI generated text to aid your writing process?

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 find additional stories and anecdotes on her website https://sylvafae.co.uk/blog/

WOLF PACK

Edo van Belkom

Nothing gets between a wolf and its pack…

Most of the time, Noble, Argus, Harlan and Tora are like any other teenagers. Prowling the halls of their high school in search of new crushes and true friendships, all while trying to keep up their grades. Except these teens are anything but ordinary…

Discovered as wolf cubs in the wilderness of Redstone Forest,

the pack knows their adoptive parents are the only humans they can trust with their shape-shifting secret. So whenever the siblings want to wolf around, they race to the forest to run—and relish their special bond. Until the terrible day a TV crew films their shocking transformation—and Tora is captured by a scientist determined to reveal her supernatural abilities to the world.

Now the brothers will do anything to get their sister back. Even if it means taking their powers to a whole new level by becoming werewolves for the very first time--something their parents warned them never to attempt. But once the teens go to the dark side, will they ever make it back to the only life they’ve

“A well-plotted story. The plot moves quickly enough to hold interest and may appeal to reluctant readers.”

— School Library Journal

ever known?

Edo van Belkom is a Canadian author from Brampton, Ontario and has written 35 books and over 300 short sto-

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BCKZWS8P

ries in the genres of horror, science fiction, fantasy and mystery. His short fiction has been published in countless anthologies such as Year's Best Horror Stories, Year's Best Erotica, Robert Bloch's Psychos, the Hot Blood and Shock Rock series, as well as several anthologies based on RPGs. His stories "Rat Food" (with David Nickle) won the Bram Stoker Award from the Horror

Writers Association, and "Hockey's Night in Canada" won the

Other Books in Series

Aurora, Canada's top prize for speculative fiction. More recently, his young adult series Wolf Pack, has served as the inspiration for the new Jeff Davis supernatural TV series Wolf Pack

Wolf Pack is the inspiration behind a new TV Series released by Paramount Plus on January 26th, 2023

starring Sarah Michelle Geller, which premieres on ParamountPlus January 26th in Canada and the US, and the next day across the rest of the world.

Royal Matrimony

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

Princess Katarina Delafontaine studied her reflection in the mirror. The silky crimson gown was beautiful, her hair was pulled back in an intricate bun, and her makeup was exquisite. The staff outdid themselves tonight. She swallowed hard and told herself to relax — told herself to breathe.

Instead, panic swamped her, threatened to choke her; and, suddenly, she felt claustrophobic.

She had to get out of here. She needed air. Kat turned and bolted for the door. Once she reached the old hallway, she ran. Moments later, she shoved her way through the servant’s entrance and dashed across the perfectly manicured lawn. The spikey heel of her shoe sank into the damp lawn, and she nearly toppled over.

Once she regained her balance, she slipped her foot from the shoe and continued her mad dash toward the forest. The ground was covered in soft damp leaves, the large oaks shimmered and swayed in the gentle wind, shadows settled on the soft earth and contrasted with vibrant beams of light that sliced through the branches and illuminated her favorite hiding place. A soft layer of fog floated around her, creating the illusion of privacy. This place was her only hope of finding peace. She had to relax because her heart was pounding with such intensity, she thought it might burst through her chest.

Eliza called her name, but she ignored it. She needed to think — to accept her fate, plaster a fake smile to her face, and appear happy. It was a time to celebrate — she could mourn later.

“Oh, Quinten! Why did you leave me?” Kat settled onto an old log, defeated. Memories flooded her mind. Sitting on the old stump, she was transported back in time — three months earlier.

The castle was beautiful, the ballroom so enchanting it belonged in a fairytale. Attending Princess Millington’s engagement party was a duty, not a choice. She was representing her family.

So, she would mingle for a few minutes, speak to the right people, then sneak out the back.

“Best laid plans,” she spotted her cousin and grinned. Nathaniel Griffin was her favorite person in the entire world. Unfortunately, they rarely had time to visit these days. Most knew him as the distinguished Lord Nathaniel; but, to her, he would always be Nate.

The instant he saw her, Nate glided across the room and lifted her into a big bear hug. “Let’s dance, pretty lady.”

“Good idea, fine gentleman,” Katarina slipped her arm through his and headed for the dance floor. They glided around the ballroom like teenagers, laughing and joking, not caring what the rest of this stuffy crowd thought of the display. Winded, Katarina spun around and spotted the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on leaning against the far wall. His intense, chocolatecolored eyes were focused on her. A tingle of awareness slid down her spine and she stumbled, but recovered quickly.

“So, that’s how it is?” Nate smiled. “Thrown over for a scoundrel with a pretty face. At least, I was tossed aside for Quinten — somehow, that makes the blow a little easier to stomach.”

“You know him?” Katarina wondered.

“I do,” Nate affirmed. “He’s headed this way. Should I bow out gracefully or stand my ground?”

“I—” she didn’t know. The man intrigued her and those eyes… she could get lost in those eyes.

“Bow out, it is,” Nate smiled and took a step back. “Quinten, it’s good to see you again. It’s been what? Nearly a year now?”

“Time flies,” Quinten smiled. “Mind if I cut in? You’ve monopolized the prettiest girl at the ball long enough.”

“Right,” Nate nodded. “Meet my cousin, Katarina Delafontaine.”

Something flashed in Quinten’s eyes but he masked it. “Madam?” he held out his hand.

Kat hugged Nate, then accepted the offer. Quinten was charming and funny and his talent on the dance floor rivaled her cousin’s. She was having so much fun, she lost track of time. When the music stopped, Quinten took her hand and led her to the balcony. They stood against the railing, talking, laughing, and enjoying the warm night air under the sparkling stars and a full moon. She lingered, not wanting the night to end. Finally, Quinten led her to a waiting car. He opened the door, hesitated, then pulled her into his arms and gave the most mind-blowing kiss she’d ever experienced “Thank you for a night I will never forget. This is only the beginning, I promise.” He took a step back, turned, and slowly walked away.

Katarina stood abruptly and pushed the memories away. Quinten didn’t come. Her white knight didn’t confront her parents, didn’t declare his love, he didn’t rescue her. He left. And in less than an hour, her parents would announce her engagement to Duke Maximus Tennesley, the second son of the King of Belleville.

The arrangement was binding, her parents finalized it a year ago. It was tradition, but Kat didn’t care. She wanted passion and romance. She wanted Quinten. With a heavy sigh, she brushed away a tear, gathered up her gown, and slowly made her way back to the palace. Quinten was nothing more than a fond memory. It was time to meet her husband — her future. She absently leaned down, pried the shoe loose that was still embedded in the lawn, and approached the servant’s entrance.

Lila, Kat’s assistance who was also family, met Kat at the landing. “Come, it’s time.” She wrapped a loving arm around Katarina and guided her to her room. “Let’s get that shoe cleaned up. Maximus is waiting in the ballroom. Hold your head high and greet your future husband with dignity and confidence.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Katarina mumbled.

“He’s handsome,” Lila added. “And he has kind eyes, you might come to love him.”

Doubtful, Kat thought but remained silent. She slipped into her shoe, walked to the large double doors that led to the ballroom, and waited for the guard to swing them open. When he reached for the knob, she squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

Her eyes landed on her parents. Cecilia was stunning and glowing with happiness, perched on the edge of the large throne, her father stood regally to her right. They were telegraphing solidarity and strength. Maybe her parents weren’t living an epic romance, but Kat knew they loved each other, and they ruled with integrity and compassion. At least she could hope for that.

Resigned, her gaze shifted to the right. It was time to meet the man she’d be bound to until the day she died. The instant her eyes locked with his, she faltered and nearly tripped.

Maximus darted forward and wrapped an arm around Kat in support.

Katarina felt his warm grip and inhaled sharply. Electricity traveled through her entire body, heat radiated outward, and she couldn’t get her balance. “You came.”

“I always keep my promises beautiful Katarina,” he grinned.

“You—” she choked; her mouth was so dry she could barely speak.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, guided her up the stairs, and nodded to her parents.

A stranger stepped forward. “May I present Maximus Quinten Tennesley, son of Alistair and Adelia Tennesley of Belleville. Lord Tennesley is here today to ask for the hand of your daughter, Princess Katarina Delafontaine, in marriage.”

“We accept,” Kat’s father bellowed. The crowd cheered.

Kat remained silent, too stunned to speak. She was going to marry Quinten. Maximus Tennesley WAS Quinten and he was here. He kept his promise. That glorious night was just the beginning.

By Melanie P. Smith

What Do You Know about

Blood Spatter Evidence?

Blood Spatter Evidence

Blood spatter evidence — why does it matter? Well, that depends on who you ask. For a detective working a homicide, it’s an invaluable tool to have on your belt. To a reader, it may be less important — unless, of course, you get it wrong. For most readers, their knowledge consists of what they saw on Dexter or Forensic Files. For the professionals, it’s an art — one they spend years learning, testing, and studying. For a writer, it’s only necessary to know the basics because it can play a crucial role in your next police procedural, crime thriller, or murder mystery.

The Basics Blood reacts differently according to certain scientific principles. Trained professionals can examine blood patterns and draw conclusions as to how that blood was shed. Crime scene analysts gather information from these spatter patterns, transfer, and other marks to recreate the sequence of events and how those patterns were created. They use the evidence gathered; size, shape, distribution, and location, to determine what did or did not happen.

A police term used to describe bloodstain pattern analysis is blood spatter evidence.

The adult human body contains ruffly 8-to-10 pints of blood, depending on body size. A human must lose approximately 40% of their total blood volume before they are at risk of death from blood loss. When the human body suffers trauma, liquid blood will escape from the body. How much blood depends on the extent of the trauma and the type of wounds. When the trauma is the result of assault, the police typically become involved. Experts will analyze the scene to determine: • • • • • • •

Where the blood came from What caused the wounds Which direction the attack came from Where the victim and perpetrator were positioned at the time of the attack What movements were made after the blood was shed How many people were present at the time of the attack (i.e., one victim, multiple attackers) Does the evidence support witness statements?

Police can learn a great deal from blood spatter evidence. Often when police first arrive on a crime scene, the only thing they know is someone is reporting a crime. If it is a crime of violence, there will almost always be blood. How much blood, how old the blood, and the bloodstain pattern(s) can tell the police a great deal about what happened, where it happened, when it happened, and what type of weapon was used.

To the police, blood is valuable evidence. Analysis of the blood can tell them if it is from animal or from a human. If human it can tell them if the victim was male or female, it can tell them if all the blood at a crime scene is from the same human, or more than one human.

And DNA can tell the police who’s blood it is. When investigating a crime, the police will photograph the patterns; and, once the initial walkthrough and analysis is complete, they will sample the blood for DNA testing.

If a crime scene involves a dead body, blood lividity (settling of blood in the body after the heart stops) can tell the police approximately how long the person has been deceased, and if the body was moved after death. When writing a scene where you plan to use blood spatter evidence to drive the plot, keep in mind that the first officers on scene are not typically trained in analyzing blood spatter evidence. Upon arrival, the uniformed officer will likely secure the site, ensure the crime is not still in progress, and then call in the professionals — usually detectives, to reconstruct what happened.

So, what will the detectives do once they arrive? They will focus on blood spatter, and the analysis of bloodstain patterns.

Blood is in a liquid state when inside the body, and when it exits the body, it does so as a liquid, but it doesn’t remain a liquid for long. Blood will begin to clot within a few minutes, forming a dark, shiny gel-like substance that grows more solid as time passes. How, as authors, can we use this in our writing? Well, the gel like substance becomes more solid as time passes. If you want the body to be discovered after several hours, describe the blood as this dark, gellike substance, and have your detective analyze it to determine the approximate time the crime occurred. Also, the presence of blood clots within the pool would indicate the attack was prolonged or the victim was bleeding for some time after the injury occurred.

Blood can leave the body in many different ways, depending on the type of injury inflicted. It can drip, flow, spurt, gush or just ooze from wounds. It can even spray when acted upon by outside forces. Bloodstains are classified into three basic types; 1. Passive blood stains — This would include drops, flows and pools. These typically result simply from gravity acting on the blood as it leaves the body. When drops of blood hit the floor, they produce elliptical stains. Spatter analysis can trace the blood and determine where it originated, map the pattern across the floor to determine direction of travel, and using basic geometry can determine the impact angle from these elliptical stains. These types of stains can fall from an open wound, or may drip off a piece of clothing or a weapon. They can also determine the speed the person was traveling at the time of the drip.

Passive Blood Stains

Transfer Blood Stains

Projected or Impact Spatter



Drops



Flows



Swipes



Gushes



Pools



Handprints



Splashes



Smears



Arterial Spurts

2. Transfer stains — Transfer stains result from objects coming into contact with existing bloodstains leaving behind wipes, swipes, or pattern transfers of blood such as a bloody shoe print or handprints on objects or surfaces, or smear from a body being dragged. They could indicate signs of a struggle, or an attempt to clean up the scene, or escape quickly.

3. Projected or Impact spatter — Impact stains result from blood projecting through the air and are usually seen as spatter, but may also include gushes, splashes, and arterial spurts.

Impact spatter is created when a force is applied to the blood source such as cast-off from a slinging object, spatter from blunt force impact from a club or bat, or projected spray/ mist from gunshot impact

Cast-off blood results when an object is swung in an arc flings blood onto nearby surfaces. This occurs when an assailant swings the blood covered object back before inflicting another blow.

Analysts can tell the direction of the impacting object by the shape of the spatter droplets (tails point in the direction of motion). Counting the arcs can show the number of blows delivered. Imagine dipping a paint brush into a can of red paint, then flicking that brush and letting the paint fly two-to-three feet and collide with a white canvas. Medium velocity stains are generally caused by a blunt object, a fist, or a severed artery.

Gunshot spray/mist will vary depending on the caliber of the gun, where the victim is struck, distance between the victim and the gun and location of the victim relative to a wall or other surfaces. Gunshot spray/mist stains are distinct and leave little doubt a gun was involved. It is impossible to reproduce the mist left from a gunshot wound, which is why they are easily identifiable to experts. However, if you could introduce red dye into an aerosol can of hair spray and then spray the liquid onto a canvas approximately two feet away, the mist or specks on the canvas would resemble the blood mist or spray produced when struck with a bullet. High velocity spatter that creates tiny droplets or mist is likely from a gunshot wound.

For the perpetrator, blood spatter is problematic. It can’t be picked up from the crime scene like a bullet casing. Fine droplets of blood tend to go everywhere and get on everything, including the perpetrator himself. If time allows, much of the blood can be cleaned up and removed. At least, what is visible to the human eye can be cleaned up. But some of the bloodstaining will be latent, meaning they cannot be seen with the naked eye. Investigators can use chemical reagents such as Luminol to find and photograph latent bloodstains. When applied to an area where traces of blood are present, Luminol creates a bright blue luminescent glow

under a black light, by reacting with the iron in the blood trace.

Blood spatter evidence is often used as a tool to support or refute eyewitness testimony. For instance, a suspect may insist he acted in self-defense during the commission of a violent crime but maybe the spatter evidence shows the victim was sitting or laying down at the time of the attack, proving there was no threat and refuting the suspects statements.

In conclusion… in capital crimes like homicide, police often approach crime solving through Reconstruction. By reconstructing the crime, it will help answer the “Who? What? Where? Why? When? And as importantly How? For the police it is not enough to know the answers to these basic questions, they must be able to prove it in a court room. This is accomplished through evidence. Eyewitness evidence, circumstantial evidence, and the most critical of all, physical evidence. Blood Spatter falls into the latter category. It is an important and valuable tool in the policeman’s toolbox. Accurately reading blood spatter patterns has become somewhat of an art form in forensic science.

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 from Author Melanie P. Smith on her website: https://melaniepsmith.com/

Late

by Lesley Hayes http://www.lesleyhayes.co.uk/

She was supposed to marry the prince that day, but predictably he turned up late. That was the final straw in a betrothal that frankly had been a disaster right from the start. She fumed and fidgeted impatiently until eventually she turned on her pretty heel and stomped off angrily into the forest behind the castle grounds.

Brushing speedily past the snatching fingers of the spikiest branches, she was suddenly wary of ripping her scarlet wedding gown. It was admittedly risqué but what the hell, she was about to become royalty so she could do what she damn well liked. She felt piqued and sorry for herself.

The prince was a catch, she supposed, but having caught him she was having second thoughts about keeping him after all. Being late was just one of the many ways he continually sought to control the narrative of their relationship.

It wasn’t so much that he was late, he always justified, as that she had a ridiculous obsession about always being early. He found it emasculating he told her. A man should be free to turn up whenever he liked and still be welcomed.

Besides which, he had decided to grow a beard in order to look more regal, with an eye on the not too distant future when he would exchange his role as prince for monarch. It made him look not so much regal as tatty in her opinion. Some men can carry off a beard but he was not one of them. It was scratchy and unhygienic and kissing him recently made her feel icky. But would he listen to her? No. “I can do as I please,” he told her. “I’m a prince, after all.”

Then there was the issue of his snoring, which made sleepovers a minefield of broken nights and crosspatch mornings.

“Why the moody face?” he would say at breakfast, servants discreetly keeping their distance in the room but quietly smirking. She knew they loved a good gossip when they retreated to the kitchens.

“It’s my morning face,” she would reply. “You’ll have to get used to it.” Although as soon as they were wed she would retreat into the traditional his and hers arrangement, and only share his bed for purposes of procreation. That would make her morning face far more contented. A girl needed her sleep.

As she stood there sheltered by the gently breathing forest she wondered why it was that in all the fairy tales she had read so voraciously as a child there was never a chapter after the one that ended: ‘… and so they lived happily forever after.’

Did she even like the prince? He was disastrously good looking of course (without the beard) and filthy rich, and despite his oppressive parents he had devised plans to shake up the monarchy when he got that far. He was somewhat of a rebel within the constraints of his royal family.

But there were other rebels, out there among the peasants and the servile masses, and lately there had been rumblings and mumblings of a revolution in their faraway kingdom. What might happen then? Would they storm the castle and tear down all the carefully built traditions? Might they be angry enough (and this was truly unthinkable) to actually oust the royals from their privileged position?

For several minutes she fretted about this, although her attention was quickly drawn away from such thoughts towards concern for her dainty but uncomfortably ridiculous shoes. The forest, initially a welcoming sanctuary from the brouhaha surrounding the forthcoming nuptials, now appeared vaguely ominous. Who was going to protect her from potential predators? The image of a wolf came to mind and a half forgotten myth about a girl in a red cloak.

There was a sudden noise, a whispering of leaves and bracken and the sharp sound of twigs breaking, as if someone or something was stalking her. Whoever or whatever it was grew closer. Her heart pounded and she gasped to find breath as her chest constricted with fear. And then…

“Oh, it’s you!” she said. There was such relief at the sight of him.

“Of course it’s me,” the prince replied huffily. “Who else were you expecting?” She could tell he was more than a little put out as he brushed dirt and stray leaves from his gorgeous mohair jacket. She rather liked that sulky face he pulled when he was cross with her. It made him even more attractive.

He held out his hand and pulled her close, and she could smell the irresistible scent of his expensive cologne. There was something wolfish about his eyes, though she couldn’t have said exactly what. It made him seem safely dangerous and a small thrill shot through her.

“Ready now?” he said. He knew her better than she knew herself, and she liked that too.

“My shoes are too tight,” she complained.

“Poor baby,” he said, lifting her in his arms and carrying her back in the direction of the wedding party.

It would probably be all right, she thought.

INERTIA An ecological crisis of epic proportions

Mark Everglade Mark Everglade has spent his life studying social conflict. He runs the website www.markeverglade.com where he reviews cyberpunk media and interviews the greats. He also runs Cyberpunk Day each year with a group dedicated to bringing dystopian fiction to a new

generation. His short stories have been featured beside legendary authors like Cory Doctorow and Wal-

As a planet spins out of control, a young geophysicist, Ash, and her father must solve the ecological crisis using the latest cybernetics, while evading an oppressive regime profiting off the destruction.

ter Jon Williams.

"Severum is positioned as a critique of our vision of a neat split between nature and corporate existence. The tension of a world that is now connected but with cultural practices that reflect that old divide was fun to explore!"

As a planet spins out of control, a young geophysicist and her father must solve the ecological crisis using the latest cybernetics, while evading an oppressive regime profiting off the destruction. The virtual and the real worlds clash in this new cyberpunk novel from the author of Hemispheres.

_ Dr. Joseph Hurtgen, Sci-Fi Scholar and Professor

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BFZP5VJL

The CK Scarf Tom Benson http://www.tombensonauthor.com

I’d been running along the forest path when I saw a flash of bright red among the trees to the right. I went to investigate, and though hard work, I reached the red item to discover that it was a scarf. It smelled of perfume, so hadn’t been there long.

* I arrived at the village police station, perspiration blinding me. My breathing was ragged, but I waved to say that I didn’t want to sit.

“The CK scarf,” I gasped and placed the item on the counter. “Don’t touch it … prints … fingerprints.”

Okay, catch your breath, mate.” The constable left the glass screen and came through via a door on my right. “The boss is on her way.”

A handsome woman in her late twenties joined us. “Hello, I’m Sergeant Moore. Take your time, and tell me what’s happened.” She studied me carefully.

“Fetch a local map, please … and I’ll explain.”

“Tony, get a map quickly.” Sgt Moore turned to me. “Would you like to sit—” “No, thanks … my legs will cramp.”

She nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Pete … Halliwell.” I took deep breaths. “I believe that’s the scarf from the television appeal last night.”

“It looks like it.” She used a pencil to hook the small label and lifted the red material from the counter. “Where and when did you find it?”

“The forest.” I checked my watch. “I’ve been here four minutes, so twenty minutes ago … half past seven.”

“Okay, Pete. When we’ve got a—”

The internal door opened. “Sarge, this is a good scale.”

“Thanks, Tony. Please get Mr Halliwell a glass of water.” She unfolded the map against a wall.

“We’re here, Pete.” She used her pencil to circle small black shapes; Driffield Village. “Take your time and tell me where you found the scarf.”

I took her pencil and drew a tight circle on the map. “The nearest vehicle access would be here … or here.” I marked crosses at two forest entrances.

The door swung open, and the constable handed me a glass of water.

“Thank you.” I took several sips.

Pete,” Sgt Moore said. “The forest is three miles away, and that location is two miles from an entrance.” She checked her watch. “Are you sure that’s—” “Sergeant Moore, I’d already run eight miles before I went into the forest. It’s a training run.”

“I’m sorry—thank you.” She half-turned. “Tony, get a blanket for Mr Halliwell.” She hooked her pencil into the scarf’s label again.

I said, “I hope it helps.”

Sgt Moore unhooked the handset from her belt. “Hello Mansford Central, this is Driffield Village—urgent message for the duty officer.”

“Roger that, Driffield,” a man responded.

A woman’s voice was next. “Hello Debbie, it’s Inspector Kane.”

“Ma’am, a young man has come into the station with a red scarf that he found in Mansford Forest. It’s a match.”

“Could he give an approximate location?”

I placed a finger on my marked circle. “That’s accurate to within one hundred yards.”

Sgt Moore winked and nodded. “He’s marked the location to within one hundred yards.”

“Excellent, Debbie. Can you give me coordinates?”

I pointed out what I’d written on the map’s border.

“I’ve got a six-figure grid reference.” She nodded again and gave me a thumbs-up as she relayed the information to her duty officer.

“That’s great, Debbie. Please thank the young man for me, and carry out the usual procedure.

I’ll control all available assets from here, and I’ll update you later.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

I asked, “Is she prepared to act that quickly … you know, without seeing the scarf?”

“Sometimes, if we act quickly enough, we get a good result.”

“Will I have to make a statement or anything like that?”

“Not right now, but I’ll take your contact details and organise a lift home for you.” * By one o’clock, I’d had lunch and fixed a coffee before getting on with a project I’d brought home from uni. We were on a break for a week, so apart from enjoying my morning run, I liked to make progress at home with my studies.

My phone buzzed and showed an Unknown Caller.

“Hello?”

“Pete, it’s Sergeant Moore at Driffield Village Police Station.”

“Hi there.”

“Could I visit and take your statement this afternoon?”

Yes, I’ll be here all day.”

“That’s great, and I wondered … do you keep up with the news?”

“It’s usually too depressing. Why do you ask?”

“Check out the News at One … it’s just started.”

“Right, I will. Bye.” The call ended, and I switched on the television with the remote. ‘… and now we can go back to the story of the young woman kidnapped yesterday evening.’ The middle-aged newscaster smiled as the picture of a beautiful, smiling girl appeared on the screen briefly. ‘Twenty-year-old, Caroline Kane, was within one hundred yards of her home when she disappeared last night. Caroline’s handbag was discovered by a neighbour parking his car. He alerted police, and an appeal was advertised on radio and television within the hour.’

The screen filled with an overhead camera shot of a forest, and clearly seen was a large area cordoned off with blue and white police incident tape.

‘Early this morning, a young man out running discovered the missing woman’s red scarf in a forest and reported it to local police. Caroline had written her initials on the label, mimicking a famous designer, so making the item easy to identify. Police investigated, and found the victim in a forest maintenance hut. Caroline was bound and gagged, and in a state of shock, but otherwise unharmed. A local man has been arrested.’

It felt amazing, having played a part in the young woman’s rescue, and as a design student, I appreciated how she’d personalised the scarf.

‘Caroline’s mother has praised the quick-thinking and rapid reactions of the man who found the scarf. She and her daughter will arrange to meet him later to thank him personally. Caroline’s mother is Detective Inspector Kane of the Mansford police.’

77 ½ Magical Healing Herbs

By Ronesa Aveela

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. ***

Tussilago farfara Coltsfoot Description: The plant’s basal leaves and its flowers do not appear at the same time. The flower grows first in spring from a white creeping, highly branched rhizome. Scaly, lance-

shaped, brownish-red leaves cling tight up the brown stem, which grows to a height of 4 to 12 inches (10 to 30 cm). The golden-yellow flower at the top resembles a dandelion, and it grows in colonies of dozens of plants. The flowers open only on sunny days. They produce seeds topped with fluffy, silky white hairs. After the flowers and stems die, fuzzy basal leaves appear as a rosette. As the leaves expand, the upper surfaces lose their hairs.

The leaves are hoof- or heart-shaped. The edges are serrated, and their tops are dark green, while the underside is whitish. In early summer, the leaves wither and die. The plant spreads by its seeds and rhizomes.

History and Traditions: The genus name comes from the Latin tussis for “cough,” because the plant has been deemed “nature’s best herb for the lungs.” In Pliny’s time, the dried leaves were burned and smoked through a reed to get rid of coughs. The specific name is an ancient name for the poplar tree, which has similar leaves. The common name is derived from the resemblance of the leaves to a colt’s foot. An old name for the plant was Filius ante patrem (Latin for “the son before the father”), because the flowers appeared before the leaves. For this reason, Pliny and other botanists believed the plant lacked leaves.

The flower’s silky hairs were once stuffed into mattresses and pillows, and the felty hairs on the leaves were wrapped in rags dipped in a solution of saltpeter and dried so they could be burned as tinder.

Habitat and Distribution: Native to Europe, western and central Asia, and spread across northern Africa, and North and South America. This common weed grows in damp, waste areas and disturbed areas along roadsides.

Growth: Perennial. The flowers bloom in spring, even as early as February, while the leaves appear later. The plant prefers damp, clay soil with full sunlight. It will tolerate a little shade.

Harvesting: Leaves, flowers, and roots are used. Young green leaves are harvested from June to August. The flower stalks can be collected in February or early spring when they bloom. Dry them in the shade or in a dehydrator at 113°F (45°C). Store them in a wellventilated, dry place, out of direct sunlight.

Medical Use: As in ancient times, the smoked leaves are used for coughs, as well as for shortness of breath. Both flowers and leaves can be taken as a tea or syrup, and they have been made into cough drops. Besides colds, the herb is a remedy for other respiratory problems: laryngitis, hoarseness, bronchitis, and bronchial asthma.

A poultice of the leaves can be applied to boils, wounds, burns, eczema, and insect bites, and a compress can be put on swollen areas, as well as on the forehead and stomach to relieve fevers.

The root is used similarly.

Rituals and Magical Use: The plant’s bright yellow flowers make it popular in rituals that welcome the return of the sun. The leaves and flowers are also used in love spells. Theocritus, a Greek poet of the third century B.C., mentions the herb in a spell to bring back a wandering lover: “Coltsfoot is an Arcadian weed that maddens, on the hills, the young stallions and fleet-footed mares. Ah! even as these may I see Delphis; and to this house of mine, may he speed like a madman, leaving the bright palaestra.” Even today, the herb is used in other rituals to bring money and peace and tranquility to the family, and the leaves are burned as incense as a part of divination and healing rites.

Other Use: Flowers, buds, and leaves can be added to salads or steamed as a vegetable, but it’s not recommended doing this often due to potential toxicity in high doses.

Other Names: Coughwort, horsehoof, foal’s foot, bull’s foot, horse foot.

Aromatic: The flowers, buds, and leaves taste similar to anise or licorice.

CAUTION: Prolonged use and large doses can cause side effects. The root should not be taken internally because it has higher levels of potentially toxic alkaloids. Not recommended for children under 6 years of age, or pregnant and lactating women. Use only under a doctor’s prescription and control.

Recipe for Acute Bronchitis Brew 1 Tablespoon of elderflower and coltsfoot in 500 g of boiling water. Let it stand for 10 minutes.

When cooled, add 1 Tablespoon of honey. Drink instead of water.

Remedy for Colds and Asthma Add 1 ounce of leaves to 1 quart of water. Boil the liquid down to a pint. Sweeten with honey or licorice. Drink a teacupful dose frequently (Botanical.com).

*** 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.

Lady in Red by Penny Luker www.pennyluker.wordpress.com http://mybook.to/LadyintheWoods http://mybook.to/ChildofTime

Catherine thought it strange to be asked to Melissa’s birthday ball. Her mum worked at Bickerton Hall as the cook, and Catherine occasionally helped out at their big events, but she was fairly sure they didn’t consider her their equal. When she was a child and Mum couldn’t find a babysitter, she’d been allowed to go and play in their grounds with Melissa and George. Melissa used to studiously ignore her, and George, who was five years older, would sometimes find an activity they could do together, such as pick some beans or collect the windfall apples.

George was now something in the city, and she hardly saw him these days. Goodness knows what Melissa did to pass her days, but work or study didn’t seem to be on her agenda.

Catherine took the invite to her mum.

‘Yes, I’ve heard about the ball. I have to serve a light lunch by mid-day and then leave the kitchen clear, as they’re getting in outside caterers for the event. Suits me, but it is kind that she’s invited you. Are you going to accept?’

‘Of course. Don’t worry, I won’t get drunk and shame you. I won’t risk your job at The Hall.’

Catherine knew her mum couldn’t afford to buy her a ball gown and her Saturday job wouldn’t run to one either, so she searched eBay and the local charity shops. One of the assistants told her to go to their branch at Altrincham, where they sold posher frocks, so off she went. There were several ball gowns, but only one that fitted well. It was bright red, which was not a colour she would have chosen, but she had to admit she looked quite striking, when she tried it on.

When she got home, she put it on again, but it was too large for their small rooms so she went into the garden.

‘Oh, you look so beautiful,’ said her mum, and she rushed inside, emerging with a gold and red gem stone tiara.

‘Try this on. It will go perfectly.’

Catherine couldn’t stop herself laughing. It was not a thing she could wear, ever, but she put it on to please her mum, and then she walked around the garden, feeling like an Arthurian princess as the sunlight filtered through the trees. Meanwhile her mum took photographs.

‘My only worry,’ said Catherine’s mum, ‘is that strictly speaking it’s not a ball gown. You could never dance in that, with its long train. You’ll have to alter it.’

Catherine set to work. She carefully cut off the train and hemmed the dress with matching red tulle and then her mum helped her practise all the formal ballroom dances.

Soon the day came for the grand ball. Catherine spent time on her hair and make-up and she walked carefully up to The Hall, hiding the tiara in a tree, so her mum would not be hurt. She could hear the party was in full swing when she arrived and hesitated at the doorway.

Melissa had obviously had a bit too much to drink. She air kissed Catherine and then turned to her group of friends and said, ‘And here’s the entertainment.’

Catherine looked horrified. Absolutely everyone was in fancy dress, and here was she, in a rather formal, old fashioned ball gown. Worse, she was dressed in bright red, so no-one could miss her.

Out of the melee of strangely dressed young people, stepped George.

‘Ah, Chris DeBurgh’s, Lady in Red. Now that’s my sort of fancy dress, and he leaned forward and air kissed her too, whispering as he bent near her, ‘Hold your head high’.

Melissa looked annoyed as the sniggering from her friends petered out. Most of them fancied George.

‘Mum and Dad have gone out, leaving me to make sure Melissa’s party doesn’t get out of hand.’ George said. ‘It’s lovely to see a friendly face that I know won’t do anything stupid,’

The music was loud and it was difficult to talk and George kept wandering off to patrol around the youngsters, but he kept returning to see Catherine wasn’t on her own and was chatting to people.

Melissa strolled up to her about half an hour later.

‘It was just a joke, not telling you it was fancy dress. You know.’

Catherine took a deep breath. She had to be careful for her mum’s sake, but she wasn’t going to be intimidated by Melissa.

‘I can see you might have thought it would be funny to ridicule someone, you see as inferior, but I thought it was rather unkind.’

‘Well, let’s be honest, Cate. You are inferior,’ said Melissa, slurring her words.

George strode over. ‘Catherine is not inferior. She’s just been accepted for medical school.

What have you done with your life, since leaving school early? You are meant to be the hostess tonight and that involves making your guests feel comfortable and happy. Go away. Get out of my sight.’

Melissa swanked off with her friends and George apologised.

‘She can be such a bitch, but she’s a lost soul, really.’

Catherine smiled and said nothing. She would slip away soon, but before she could, they heard screaming. They both ran to the pool outside, where the commotion was coming from. There was Melissa lying face down in the water. George handed Catherine his phone and went straight in and hauled Melissa out. She wasn’t breathing. Catherine immediately performed a rapid assessment of Melissa’s vital signs, and started CPR, while George called for an ambulance. It seemed to take ages before Melissa coughed and was then sick on the paving stones.

Catherine went in the ambulance with Melissa, while George followed in the car. When he reached the ward, he handed Catherine a coat.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked Melissa.

‘I’m feeling tired,’ she said. ‘I guess I owe you, my life.’

‘It was Catherine who saved you. She did all these first aid courses in Guides. You are so lucky

she was there.’

Melissa turned to Catherine, ‘Thank you, Catherine. I’ve been a complete numpty. You were always so pretty and clever and you had the type of mum I always wanted. Yours cuddled you and spent time with you. I’ve been so jealous. I really will try to grow up.’

Catherine smiled. ‘Fancy being jealous of me. You have both your parents and a brother, and you live in a grand house, with loads of money. The world is literally your oyster.’

Melissa gave a weak smile and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Let me take you home, Catherine,’ said George, ‘while Melissa gets some rest.’

As they walked along the long, white corridors of the hospital, George said, ‘Funny thing is, we were both jealous of your warm, loving mum and your cosy home. I spent a lot of my growing up years in the kitchen, chatting with your mum.’

‘I do know I’m lucky. We may not be rich, but Mum is always kind. One day I hope to be like her.’

‘You are like her, although from now on, I shall always think about you as the Lady in Red.’

Mary Pickford by Hannah Howe, author of Tula, a novel about a young actress and her exploits in 1920s Hollywood.

Mary Pickford (April 8, 1892 – May 29, 1979) enjoyed a career that spanned five decades. A movie pioneer, she co-founded Pickford-Fairbanks Studios and United Artists. Furthermore, she was one of the thirty-six founders of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

During her career, Mary Pickford was known as “America’s Sweetheart”, “The Girl with the Curls”, and the “Queen of Movies”. One of the earliest stars to receive a billing under her own name, Mary enjoyed great popularity in the silent movie era of the 1910s and 1920s.

Mary Pickford defined the ingénue role in motion pictures. She received the Academy Award for Best Actress for her first sound movie role as Norma Besant in Coquette, 1929. However, the arrival of the “talkies” signalled a decline in her career.

In 1909, Mary Pickford appeared in fifty-one films, most of them shorts. She starred in fifty-two features throughout her career. However, she didn’t adapt to the arrival of sound. She said of the “talkies” – “Adding sound to movies would be like putting lipstick on the Venus de Milo.”

Mary Pickford retired from movie acting in 1933. An astute businesswomen and producer throughout her career, she switched her focus to life behind the camera. A co-founder of United Artists, she finally sold her remaining shares in that company in 1956, for $3 million.

Mary Pickford married three times. First, to Owen Moore, a silent film actor, and an alcoholic. Second, and most famously, to Douglas Fairbanks. Their “marriage of the century” took place on March 28, 1920, after a secret relationship. Later, the couple were referred to as the “King and Queen of Hollywood”. And third to actor and band leader Charles “Buddy” Rogers, star of the highly acclaimed 1927 movie Wings.

Mitchell Leisen, a director, said, “Charlie Chaplin and myself went up there (Pickfair, the home of Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford) almost every night for dinner. Mary would go to bed and we’d run a picture. Pickfair had a Turkish bath and a pool with a three-hundred-pound cake of ice in it. We had to go in every night and take a sauna and then dive into the ice bath. We’d go to bed, and climb into the Rolls Royce the next morning and go to the studio.”

After a glittering career, the lights dimmed on Mary Pickford later in life. Her divorce from Douglas Fairbanks and the end of the silent film era induced depression. Like her father before her, she turned to alcohol for comfort. Owning the rights to her early silent movies, Mary intended to burn them at her death but, thankfully, she donated them to the American Film Institute instead.

Footnote: A Mary Pickford is a Prohibition Era cocktail made with white rum, fresh pineapple juice, grenadine, and Maraschino liqueur. It is served shaken and chilled, often with a Maraschino cherry. It is said that the drink was created for Mary at the Hotel Nacional de Cuba when she visited Havana with Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks.

Hannah Howe is the author of the Sam Smith Mystery Series, the Ann's War Mystery Series and the #1 international bestseller Saving Grace. Hannah's books are published by Goylake Publishing and distributed through Gardners Books to over 300 outlets worldwide. Visit her website to learn more.

https://hannah-howe.com/

Set In Stone

by Cathy Donnelly www.cathymdonnelly.com

I escaped. I wonder why I had not tried before this day to run from the prison I used to call my home.

They will find me soon. ‘Come home, Your Highness,’ they will say. They will not ask me why I am here. They know. Most of the servants and soldiers have seen me grow from a feisty child who saw wonder in everything—to this. A princess who has lost her spirit, and has to marry the old king who awaits my presence. After the welcoming dinner in his honour, he will formerly ask my father for my hand in marriage. I have no say in the union that will unite our people. I cannot object to the groping hands of a man who sees me merely as an object of his desire, and the means to satisfy his greed for power and more land.

How did it come to this? If only my beloved mother had survived the birth of her fifth son. He joined the other four in the grave. How unaware I was of her life, and the pain she endured for so long. I only glimpsed it in her eyes when they took my baby brother’s small bloodied corpse from her arms. She shed no tears. She had none left to give. I held her gaze, and heard her silent words.

‘I have to leave, my daughter. My spirit is weary and broken.’

I nodded, and waited until she closed her eyes for the last time before I allowed the pain to overwhelm me. When I think of that sad day, I am reminded of what the future holds for me. I will suffer as she did, knowing I do not have her strength. It is selfish of me to long to be engulfed again in her warm arms. The only place I felt truly happy.

In this time I have alone, I dream of what might have been. David. My friend since childhood.

His mother was my mother’s lady-in-waiting. We spent many happy hours, playing and running and hiding from our nannies. When we grew older, he joined my father’s army, as did his father before him. I missed him so much that I thought of running away just to be near him.

But it was only a fantasy. He was a soldier, and I, a princess. When he returned to our castle, he would seek me out, and I would sit wide-eyed, listening to his adventures. Those were the only times I felt I belonged in this world; that I was important to someone other than my mother.

The pain of his death changed me. I strangled my feelings, and chained them in a dark dungeon inside me. A place I never visited. Memories of a living David resided with my mother in a happier place that I always returned to when I felt alone and needed comfort.

And today, just for a short time, I allow myself to visit that happy place. I feel the joy of love and friendship. I bathe in the journey to a past I cherished.

But I am not my mother. I am not David. I do not have courage or strength to face the future that awaits me. I am a coward.

I hear movement in the bushes. I take a deep breath and turn towards the sound.

‘Your Highness.’ The soldier bowed his head. ‘We have been searching for you.’

I have no-where to run.

He looks around. Is he considering letting me go? Then three other soldiers appear behind him.

He turned back to me, and I see the pity in his eyes.

I smile at him. ‘Thank you for your concern. I am ready to return to the castle.’

Each step of the way is one of sorrow and regret. I do not know what to except when my father summons me on my return. I take a deep breath before entering his chamber. He turns to me, his eyes glaring.

‘Stupid child. Why did you leave without permission? You have caused great worry and confusion.’

I walk slowly towards him. ‘I felt the need to be on my own.’

‘That is no excuse. You could have at least have told someone, and a guard could have accompanied you.’

‘I apologise, Father.’

He continues to glare at me. ‘Well, King Wendell does not know of your absence. Return to your chamber and prepare yourself for tonight’s event. We will speak no more of this.’

Mara, my maid, says nothing as she helps me change my dress. She surprises me taking my hand in hers. She wipes her tears before silently leaving the room.

I look in the mirror. I am beautiful. I know that. My body is slim, but well-developed where it matters. I have seen the lust in King Wendell’s eyes when he looks at me, and the drool that falls from the side of his mouth.

I walk to the drawer that holds the poison I plan to give to him on our wedding night. But will it save me? There will be another suitor waiting for the chance to ravage my body and possess my eventual inheritance. I look around my room—the only place I feel safe and able to imagine a different future. But not today. The sadness grips my body and will not let go. There is only one way out of this for me. I have to do it, no matter the cost.

I slowly open my jewel box and remove the key. I slip it into the lock, gently turn it, and remove the tiny bottle of clear liquid.

Do I have the courage? Yes. I have no choice. I remove the lid and put it to my lips.

Why Are We Here?

by Breakfield & Burkey hHttps://www.EnigmaSeries.com

The rising tide carried the echoes of the surf crashing against the rocks to the outdoor porch where Colson sat—comfortably dressed in shorts and a Cody Johnson tee shirt, with leather sandals at the end of his long legs.

He enjoyed his first-morning coffee, watching the waves bring treasures onto the sand.

“I need to pick up some of those shells to add to my collection this afternoon,” he thought.

The beach house’s distressed wood exterior, expansive windows, and deck allowed year-round ocean views. Colson owned the property to the cliffs a half-mile to the north. He observed the greedy seagulls dancing on the wind, screeching messages between one another on the available breakfast tidbits. He laughed at their antics.

Few people ventured this far down the sand, but he imagined today would be perfect for trying

to start a conversation. Colson leaned forward, delighted when her head emerged around the sea stairway separating his home from the public beach. Letting out the breath he unwittingly held, he murmured, “Good, she came back.”

Gusts of wind carelessly picked up the sea-misted strands of her long auburn hair. Hair sailed around her face with its pensive expression. Her long-sleeved white coverup twirled to expose shapely-tanned legs. Random light sea sprays caught by the wind added water droplets to her face and hair yet not interrupting her graceful progression. She paused just out of reach of the rising tide and turned toward the endless horizon where the sky became one with the water.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but I’d like to ask you something.”

The pretty lady half-turned toward his voice. Her eyes met his, and a slight frown played on her lips. She appeared confused as if seeing the structure for the first time.

“I’ve seen you glide every day onto this stretch of beach.” He continued, “You stop and stare at the sea. You appear neither melancholy nor hopeful. I don’t sense happiness or sorrow, but you appear lost in thought. I’ve become intrigued, so I wished to begin a conversation today.”

She turned toward him a bit more, and he noticed her bright green eyes register the house, patio, and him in a penetrating glance. “I don’t know you, but you seem more than a stranger. I find your curiosity an intrusion on my private thoughts. I don’t want to talk to you or anyone.”

She turned back to the moving water as it ebbed and flowed. The sun started melting the morning fog, adding sparkling rainbows to her new water droplets.

“I meant no offense,” he stated, undaunted and determined. “My name is Colson. Since you first appeared on this part of the beach, I’ve tried to imagine musings as you stare, oblivious to everything but the sea.”

“I come here to forget I’m alone. Sensing the rhythm of the waves, I can free my mind. I treasure these private moments, Colson, where I want to plan my future.”

He walked to the railing, casually leaning against the smooth wood. “I moved here years ago for the opposite reason—to gain peace with the past.” He grinned and slightly shook his head, noting the determined edge to her chin and flawless complexion. “Serendipity for us to arrive in a place where we can escape the present.”

Her shapely figure silhouetted through the translucent material glided closer.

Colson saw her eyes trace across his form like an X-ray looking for his soul. “You have a nice look about you, young and powerful. From your tanned features, you must spend a lot of time outdoors. You need a haircut to smooth the edges and compliment your jawline.” She shrugged and grinned. “For some reason, I don’t believe you barter with your looks, even though your dark eyes could take a person ten fathoms toward the ocean floor.” She laughed. “I’m called

Diana because my mother wished for too much.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” he replied with a slight grin and tilted his head.

“To be honest, Colson, I never noticed you or your house. I see this remote, unfettered beach as my private retreat.” Her arms moved in a sweeping motion. “I cannot ask you to leave as you live on the edge of paradise.”

“I’ve watched you walk for weeks across the sand and then vanish. You’ve crept into my dreams.” Trying to find the right words to clarify, he dragged his hand across his face and briefly closed his eyes. “Visions of you returned from fleeting childhood imaginings I never comprehended. Like premonitions. I hoped if we talked, I’d finally know.”

Diana took additional steps toward him, pushing the wet hair from her eyes as if to better focus her attention. She giggled. “Seriously, is that your best line?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t a line. Join me for a cup of coffee. Help me understand why our paths crossed.” He gestured to the empty chair. “You still get a great view of the water.”

“Colson, I don’t think I’m ready for a complication.”

“Neither am I. Consider this a stop at the end of a beautiful beach. If you prefer, I can serve you a glass of water.”

Diana shifted her body in resignation and walked through the gate in the railing toward the open seat. “Plain coffee would be nice,” she said as a slight smile blossomed.

A sensation of possibilities swelled around his heart. Colson turned and entered the house to complete the short chore. Moments later, he handed her a cup and raised his.

She met his cup in midair. “To beaches.”

He gazed at her, praying she wouldn’t disappear. “And coffee with a special friend.”

They sat in companionable silence. Diana finished her coffee and stood. “Same time tomorrow?”

Colson nodded with a grin and avowed, “I’ll be here. Wouldn’t miss it.”

She walked onto the beach and looked back, appearing somehow relaxed. “Neither would I, my new friend.”

For additional stories based on this image, see our 2022 4th quarter publication. https://view.publitas.com/mpsmith-publishing/connections-emagazine-4th-quarter-2022/page/58-59

Interview by Melanie P. Smith

https://www.EnigmaSeries.com

Can you tell us a little about yourself?

Breakfield and Burkey first met at a technology company. We found common ground with our views on family, technology, and work ethic. These elements permitted us to work in several technology organizations. We’ve written documentation, delivered technical workshops, and got considered subject matter experts. Breakfield focuses on security and international finance and studies World War II. Burkey delves into customer experience, optimizing technology investments, and working with various people.

We enjoy all sorts of storytelling. Our short stories are often backstories to novel characters or a flight of fancy like the one above. Our professional careers give us insight into the technology we use in our thriller novels and pay the bills. We love attending festivals, visiting bookstores, and speaking at book clubs or events. Recent interviews and podcasts allow us to discuss and explore multiple viewpoints on the digital threats we face.

We feel that technology is today’s weapon of choice and offer suggestions on keeping a safe digital presence.

Are you a multi-genre author or a single-genre author? How did you decide what types of books you would write?

Breakfield & Burkey began in the technology thriller genre, aka TechnoThrillers. Over the past few years, we have branched into historical fiction, cozy mysteries, and women’s contemporary. Our short stories are included in several anthologies and have won multiple awards.

Starting with fictional thrillers began as an offshoot of our non-fictional white papers and technical manuals. The bad thing about technology is it moves like the Orient Express, with changes, updates, and new ideas. As such, any non-fiction is typically outdated before it is available. We found fiction with the foundation of technology allows a delightful way for the cyber heroes to compete with the cyber crooks hiding on the darknet. Best of all, we have a never-ending stream of ideas for future books.

When did you start writing?

Did an event or person prompt you to take that leap?

We started writing white papers together when Burkey got invited to create documents to help upcoming professionals when she was in graduate school. The speed of change in the field, plus the extensive research needed for correct information, made papers outdated when they were published.

Breakfield added security aspects to many of those documents.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B07959YZ86

We seriously began writing fiction in late 2011 and published the first TechnoThriller of the Enigma Series, The Enigma Factor. In 2019 we decided to provide readers and fans with a second edition that added current technology elements into the storyline. Here is the link: https://amzn.to/3Nb2tF0

What was the defining event?

Writing technical manuals and white papers is a daunting process, made worse with the hamster wheel of change in the industry. Breakfield got fed up with the technical manuals. Burkey enjoyed the writing process and felt a co-author deal might work.

When she gave Breakfield a beginning to The Enigma Factor and promised he could kill people in stories without going to jail, it worked. His imagination runs like crazy in front of his keyboard. His wife is our first line editor. Today we have 12 novels, 10 short stories, 2 novellas, 9 contributions to anthologies, and a new series to start in 2023.

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?

We each prefer two hours of uninterrupted writing time before our day jobs heat up. Coffee is the beverage companion during our early morning effort.

We only handwrite something before keying it into a Word document when driving to a book signing.

Breakfield takes the notes, and Burkey drives—batout-of-hellious style--while we freeform a story or plot. If Breakfield is over-amped on coffee by the close of business, he will hammer on an idea Burkey pitched. Otherwise, all writing efforts go into our laptops without the analog step in between.

Afternoon writing requires music to help cocoon his thinking/writing. Music is usually either Pink Floyd, Zeppelin, or Beethoven. Sometimes Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries is played only on max volume; that way, the neighbors know not to disturb him.

How / where do you find the plots you write about?

Breakfield and Burkey work in the technology industry and are home-based. We see the latest and greatest, good and evil, and have extensive people interactions. We see many cyber threats, travel internationally, and hone our collective imaginations when traveling to book events. We get inundated with material and find it a struggle sometimes to get the two hours of quiet writing time to capture those delicious experiences for our next story. Usually, we swivel-chair between our work computers and personal laptops as time permits during the day. Our best writing time is early morning before we need to start our day job. Some days work is too frantic to be creative.

Other times the creative writing break makes our work product better. In those instances, lunch gets forfeited.

Tell us your latest news Our new series, the Enigma Heirs, is our direction beginning in 2023. Still fiction and thrillers, but with younger characters with a different edge to their thought processes. The first book in the series will be Enigma Tracer. It is a techno-thriller series but also picks up with a new generation of cyber heroes fighting the cyber thugs from the Darknet. These characters kick butt, take names and know their technology at the bleeding edge.

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BRD6BWSG

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

Breakfield & Burkey want storytelling to educate people on the hostile and cruel technical threats we see daily. No adult likes being lectured to but build a fact-based story with lots of interesting characters and excellent plot material, and lessons get communicated via our storytelling.

How much of the book is realistic?

Breakfield and Burkey are knowledgeable and passionate about their work in the hightech world. Our professional background with years of working for tech manufacturers helped us gain this credibility. Viewing the latest and greatest bleeding edge digital shift helps us deliver genuine cyber threats inside our thrillers. The fabulous arrangement of work in the tech field, combined with world travel to teach workshops and pick the layers of the latest digital inroads, provides endless fodder for the stories of cyber heroes versus the criminals oozing out of the Darknet, ready to exploit anything and everything.

Each novel focuses on a real cyber threat like Identity Theft, Ransomware, or Data Mining to govern the future. People are vulnerable to social engineering and cyber sweet-talk. We want readers to see the threats inside our technothrillers and take care to reduce their risk of giving up their freedom to technology without guardrails.

Our heroes of the R-Group evolve with each book, growing in every way. We write fictional stories, but the technology inside the pages is accurate. The technical research is fact based with a little futuristic license thrown in for the extra spice we like to add.

We developed several characters from the myriad of real people who have crossed our paths. We foresee no shortage of story themes or crazy people on either side of the battle lines in our technothrillers.

Connect and follow on Social Media: LinkedIn:

https://www.linkedin.com/in/charlesbreakfield/ and

Twitter:

https://www.linkedin.com/in/roxanneburkey/ https://twitter.com/EnigmaSeries and https://twitter.com/1rburkey

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/TheEnigmaSeries

and YouTube:

https://www.facebook.com/roxanne.burkey.50 https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC6Vz4x5ctTnx3yUhZk1OJkw

Pinterest:

https://www.pinterest.com/enigmseries/

Instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/enigmabookseries/

Bublish:

https://bublish.com/author/breakfieldandburkey

What are your current projects? Can you share a sample of your current work with us?

See below the newest short story released for ChristmasCharacters in this story first appeared in The Enigma Beyond, Book 11, of the Enigma Series. This is a bit of their backstory.

Jo Wagner, JoW, the young Brazilian supermodel, experiences a horrible flashback to her previous life in captivity. The trauma hits her like an unexpected sledgehammer she thought buried and forgotten.

Her outburst freezes the film crew, fellow models, and JJ, her heart’s desire, get stunned by her emotional meltdown. Her career and future survival are at stake. She must come to terms with her past and create her empowered path forward.

Her adopted family unite to provide the safe framework to overcome her emotional fears. JJ’s tender words of encouragement steel her nerves to find an inner solution.

JoW seeks help from her Uncle Carlos for an unorthodox method to not only conquer the past, but jump to the next phase of life on her terms.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

The best advice is practice daily. Then have your work graded by other authors not your family or friends. Join some writer groups and start learning everything you thought you knew.

Is there one person past or present you would like to meet and why?

Breakfield & Burkey would really enjoy meeting and talking with Allen Turing, one of the main computer engineers that helped to break the Enigma machine code. He is often called the father of the modern-day computer.

What do you want written on your headstone and why?

Breakfield - W.C. Fields said it best: All things considered; I’d rather be in Philadelphia.

Burkey – Good Storyteller Other than writing do you have any hobbies?

Breakfield and Burkey are creative in several different ways. We’ve picked up cast-off furniture, then repaired and refinished the myriad of finished pieces for others to use. We have taught ourselves re-gluing, stain and varnish matching, and upholstery. Our families have all the tables and chairs they need for their homes. We also like experimenting with cooking, especially around odd holidays like Ground Hog Day, to share with our respective families.

If money was no issue would you prefer a cozy beach bungalow or a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake?

Burkey would prefer a cozy beach bungalow. Breakfield would prefer a rustic cabin overlooking a mountain lake. Both choices have to have high speed Internet access.

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?

Email: Authors@EnigmaSeries.com Website: Blog:

https://www.EnigmaSeries.com/ https://EnigmaBookSeries.com/the-enigma-chronicles/category/blog-statement/ and https://roxburkey.com/

Medium

https://medium.com/@enigmaseries

https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0BL89DYX1

Zachary Hagen

ZACHARY HAGEN is an Minnesota based author and editor. Writing has always been a passion for him since he was little kid when he put together little books from scrap paper. The earliest story he remembers writing was about a dragon who gave flowers to children.

He also teaches creative writing to his students and loves to see their talents flourish. When he isn’t working hard at his two passions, he enjoys spending time with his wife and dog and making music any way he can.

More information can be found about him at: https://zacharyhagenwrites.com/

“The apparent audience is the teen and YA group, though the ideas supported by this novel should appeal to a wider group. Zachary Hagen is establishing a solid seat in the fantasy genre” _ Grady Harp, Top 100 Amazon Reviewer.

ETERNITY’S REFUGE

Book 3 of the Eternal Chronicles Series

The battle between God and Satan continues in this Christian saga The Eternal Chronicles Series centers around the great controversy between God and Satan in a fantastical and magical filled way. Spanning from the ministry of Christ in the gospels all the way to the second coming of Jesus foretold in Revelation, The Eternal Chronicles teaches the importance of faith, obedience, fellowship, and perseverance through trials amidst a background of important moments in Christian history. Zachary Hagen takes a page out of C. S. Lewis's book by making the stories of the Bible accessible to teens and young adults by putting them into a fantasy world with characters they can relate to with the end goal of pointing them back to the greatest book ever written.

TEDDY LOVES SPAGHETTI

The story of Teddy, the Cat Without Ears Continues!!!

The Adventure of Teddy series, are all non-fiction stories for children and families about my real-life rescue cat named Teddy. Teddy lost his ears to frostbite while being homeless in freezing weather conditions in central Canada. All of the books in the series will highlight educational points about pet care, support inclusivity and celebrate being different, together. Teddy Loses

His Ears is the introduction book into the series, and touches on self esteem and disability awareness as we fielded many questions about Teddy's abnormality while emphasizing his beauty and purpose, despite injury. Teddy Loves Spaghetti uses humour to educate children about nutrition, alternatives to food-based rewards and introduction to diabetes. We've had many

https://bookgoodies.com/a/0228883091

unique experiences since fostering Teddy, and my children's reactions to these incidents were inspirational.

I am a full-time essential services worker and mom of two primary school-aged children. My kids enjoy choosing books from the school library and I'm always genuinely impressed with the messages of acceptance and kindness in the stories they select for us to read together. During the pandemic, we had to get creative to keep our home an exciting

We hope that children connect with Teddy as a loveable character who shares his stories to help save other animals from preventable injuries, just like his. Everybody has a story. We need to listen to one another to create opportunities to learn from their journey and perspective to grow to become kinder, more compassionate humans, to animals and each other.

and positive space that we all wanted to spend a lot of time at! Our entire family loves animals, so we decided to foster a litter of kittens over the Christmas Holidays. They brought so

More In the Series:

much joy into our lives, that we planned to continue to foster animals as much as possible! Then we saw Teddy. Teddy just belonged with our family and we knew it the moment we met him. Since that day, he has made our family feel complete.

His uniqueness and character have inspired a series of stories that we hope to share with other avid child readers that love animals!

Christine Milkovic Krauss

& Tricks

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

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.

Parts of a Book From Cover to Cover: The parts of a book include the front matter, the body, and the back matter. The body is the most significant portion, containing the main narrative. The front matter and back matter are the non-story pages that come before and after the story is told. https://kindlepreneur.com/parts-of-a-book/ 127+ of the Top Free and Paid Book Promotion Sites: Book promotion sites can be a powerful way to get your book in front of new readers, which is why some authors work with as many free and paid book promotion sites as possible. https://kindlepreneur.com/list-sites-promote-free-amazon-books/ How to Write a Book Blurb: It can be tough figuring out how to write a book blurb, especially for new authors. The key is to make it attention grabbing, as it’s a sales pitch to your readers… https://www.thefussylibrarian.com/newswire/for-authors/2019/12/13/how-to-write-abook-blurb-crafting-an-attention-grabbing-summary-of-your-book How to Get Your Self-Published Book Into LIbraries Many of us spent formative years reading in libraries. Certainly, I used to hang out in the local library after school, reading all kinds of things. It was a haven of learning, and an escape for a quiet child who loved reading — and still does! https://www.thecreativepenn.com/2022/01/27/how-to-get-your-self-published-book-intolibraries/ Google Scholar: Need to search for scholarly sites? Google Scholar provides a simple way to broadly search for scholarly literature. Search across a wide variety of disciplines and sources. https://scholar.google.com/

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 stood 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.

Authors Goylake Publishing has teamed-up with the Fussy Librarian & is offering 20% off your first book promotion. To qualify, your book must be either permafree or listed free during the special offer.

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