Monday, December 30, 2019

Much Ado About a Widow



This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Jenna Jaxon will be awarding a $25 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.



Lady Georgina Kirkpatrick defied her family, jilted her fiancĂ©, and married the man she loved. But when her husband died at Waterloo, she was delivered right back into her father’s power . . .

Victory is sweet—but England’s triumph was Georgie’s rout. Now that she’s widowed, the loathsome marriage her father first arranged has simply been renegotiated. With neither money nor rights, and nowhere to flee, all she can do is cherish her last weeks of freedom. . . . Until a band of ruffians overtake her carriage and kidnap her. When she escapes in seaside Brighton and encounters her brother’s rather wild friend, Lord St. Just—whom she suspects aspires to be a pirate—she’s prepared to entertain more of his adventurous suggestions than usual . . .

St. Just knows his mind and his duty, and he loves a challenge. Helping a fair lady make her farewells to hoodlums suits his talents well. Within the hour he has Georgie, her lady’s maid—and her little dog too—sailing for his castle in Cornwall. Meanwhile, the lady’s entire family, her kidnappers, and her scheming intended are in pursuit. But as he and the indomitable Georgie grow closer, he begins to suspect that together they will prove a match for them all . . .


Read an Excerpt

St. Just’s long silence suddenly struck her. He’d asked her a question ages ago. What was it? “Oh, no, my lord. I have never in my life seen such an awe-inspiring sight.”

A sharp gust of wind made her stagger into her companion’s side. The jolt was like a lightning strike, sizzling through her veins from her hair—which might indeed be standing on end—to her curling toes. She could do nothing but cling to him as the ship dipped and a splash of spray cascaded over the bow rail, spattering them with cold seawater. “Let’s get you back to the safety of the mast. The wind’s picked up rather quickly, which means the waves will likely do the same. We wouldn’t want you drenched and catching a chill.” He grinned and reversed their course. “Not when you’ve just begun to enjoy sailing.”

“Of course.” Swiftly, she stepped away from him and moved toward the towering timber in the center of the ship “Come, Lulu.”

The ship dipped violently forward, and a giant wave of water cascaded over the bow.

Georgie shrieked and grabbed St. Just’s arms again.

“I’ve got you.” He grabbed her about the waist, his strong arms anchoring her to his rock-hard chest, and she relaxed against him.

Frantic barking drew her attention to Lulu, drenched by the huge wave.

“Oh, Lulu! Come here.” Georgie bent down and beckoned to the dog.

The ship pitched forward again. Georgie lost her footing on the slippery planks and tumbled to the deck.

“Careful, my lady.” With St. Just’s help, she staggered to her feet, righting herself just as Lulu slid forward and disappeared over the side into the merciless waters of the Channel.


About the Author:

Jenna Jaxon is a multi-published author of historical and contemporary romance. She has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager. A romantic herself, she has always loved a dark side to the genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise. She tries to incorporate all of these elements into her own stories. She lives in Virginia with her family and a small menagerie of pets. When not reading or writing, she indulges her passion for the theatre, working with local theatres as a director. She often feels she is directing her characters on their own private stage.

She has equated her writing to an addiction to chocolate because once she starts she just can't stop.



Links:



Blog: http://www.jennajaxon.wordpress.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jenna.jaxon

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Jenna_Jaxon

Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/passionistimeless



Book Links:



Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Much-about-Widow-Widows-Club-ebook/dp/B07Q6VM63Q/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0



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Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Happy Holidays

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Whatever you celebrate doesn't matter.

most of all...

Be Happy & Healthy

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

Salvaging Love



This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will award a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn commenter via Rafflecopter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.



Animals aren’t the only thing that need rescuing when a sexy veterinarian encounters a hot-headed attorney…

Perfectly content saving animals at her clinic in a charming but run-down neighborhood, veterinarian Ellie Blevins slams into new landlord, Jackson Kincaid, who plans to turn her beloved block of buildings into condos.

Intrigued by Ellie, hot-shot defense attorney Jackson gives her one month to convince him not to put his gentrification plans into progress. Attraction soon sizzles between them, but when Jackson makes his desires known, Ellie’s vulnerable heart doesn’t know what to think.

She wants to trust the sinfully handsome Jackson, just as he wants to gain her trust, but finding their way to love isn’t easy when her traumatic past and his criminal clients could sabotage their relationship for good.

Can the enchanting veterinarian and the brooding attorney fight the demons from the past…and build a new future?


Read an Excerpt

“It’s not a bag of bones. It’s a block of old, historic buildings that need love and care,” she began. But standing there, taking in his polished rich-man strength, it was futile to convince him of anything. “You know what? Deal me the death blow now. I’d like to review the lease I signed before I throw in the towel and start looking for a new space and a new home, because I can tell there’s no way you and I will ever be on the same page.”

“New home?”

“What?” she said.

“You said, ‘a new space and a new home’?”

“I live in the apartment above the French Connection Bakery. Mr. and Mrs. Heely have owned it for twenty-five years.” There she was, exhausted-sharing again. And there he stood intense-staring. She closed her eyes at the craziest, weirdest conversation she’d ever had, and realized Chewie was asleep on her chest with his tiny head nuzzled in her neck. Oh, soft love, she thought, if only people were more like dogs, so trusting, kind, and loving.

“One month,” he said.

“One month to be out of—”

“I’ll give you one month to try to convince me.”

“I… What?”

“You spend time with me for the next month. We get to know each other, and you can state your case.”

“Spend time with you?” Is he insane?

“You said you wanted to try to convince me to change my mind.”

“Oh,” she whispered.


About the Author:
Puget Sound based writer, Sara Ohlin is a mom, wannabe photographer, obsessive reader, ridiculous foodie, and the author of the contemporary romance novels, Handling the Rancher, Salvaging Love and the upcoming contemporary romance Seducing the Dragonfly.

She has over fifteen years of creative non-fiction and memoir writing experience, and you can find her essays at Anderbo.com, Feminine Collective, Mothers Always Write, Her View from Home, and in anthologies such as Are We Feeling Better Yet? Women Speak about Healthcare in America, Take Care: Tales, Tips, & Love from Women Caregivers, and Chicken Soup for the Soul.

Although she’s the author of many essays about life, grief, motherhood and the connections we make through delicious food and shared meals, Sara loves creating imaginary worlds with tight-knit communities in her romance novels. She credits her mother, Mary, Nora Roberts and Rosamunde Pilcher for her love of romance.

If she’s not reading or writing, you will most likely find her in the kitchen creating scrumptious meals with her two kids and amazing husband, or perhaps cooking up her next love story.

She once met a person who both “didn’t read books” and wasn’t “that into food” and it nearly broke her heart. You can learn more on her website.



Website: https://saraohlin.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SaraOhlin222

Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/saraohlin222

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/saraohlinwriter/

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/saraohlin/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/sara-ohlin

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19491440.Sara_Ohlin



Buy Links


Totally Bound: https://www.totallybound.com/book/salvaging-love

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Salvaging-Love-Rescue-Me-Book-ebook/dp/B07YV7QCY7/

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/salvaging-love-sara-ohlin/1133989420?ean=9781913186852

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/salvaging-love

iBook: https://books.apple.com/us/book/salvaging-love/id1485236324

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Sara_Ohlin_Salvaging_Love?id=GL60DwAAQBAJ







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The Wrong Kind

Mystery
This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Austin S. Camacho will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

See below to sign up for the GIVEAWAY.




A distraught woman hires private investigator Hannibal Jones to track down her daughter who has run away, trying to escape the homeless shelter life her mother has come to accept. When Hannibal finds Connie Blanco she is entwined in a gang war and somehow connected to a murder. The corpse is barely cold before a second murder follows and Hannibal finds himself entangled in a complex plot revolving around stolen drugs…but who is the mastermind of this twisted scheme?


My Review

While this is a good read, it has something even better. At least to my liking. It has Hannibal Jones, Private Investigator. I just love mysteries and a good, somewhat honery, character that is kind and even good, well, also sometimes bad when it saves the good people. While there were plenty of twists and turns and all of the things a good mystery should contain here, it was Hannibal that made the story for me. No question about it.


read an excerpt...

Hannibal spun in the sudden darkness, one hand snatching his Oakleys off his face while the other darted under his suit jacket reaching for his weapon. Before his fingers could manage to grip the gun his head exploded with pain.

The impact staggered him. The left rear corner of his head. With luck that might be enough of a clue. He whipped his left fist around and back. He hit nothing but air. Then an arm wrapped around his neck. Another arm went under his right arm and he felt the hand at the back of his head. He knew the hold, not a choke in the classic sense, but what television wrestlers called a sleeper hold, cutting off the blood flow in both his carotid artery and jugular vein. He could breathe fine but with no blood going to his brain it didn’t matter. He felt a deeper darkness moving in and his balance deserted him. The arms suddenly came away. Something crashed into his knees. Most likely the floor. His arms were unresponsive, and it felt like he was falling forward. He took a deep breath because he knew the next part was really going to hurt.


About the Author...

Austin S. Camacho is the author of seven novels about Washington DC-based private eye Hannibal Jones, five in the Stark and O’Brien international adventure-thriller series, and the detective novel, Beyond Blue. His short stories have been featured in several anthologies including Dying in a Winter Wonderland – an Independent Mystery Booksellers Association Top Ten Bestseller for 2008. He is featured in the Edgar nominated African American Mystery Writers: A Historical and Thematic Study by Frankie Y. Bailey. Camacho is also editorial director for Intrigue Publishing, a Maryland small press.




Visit other stops on this tour too!
December 2: Rogue's Angels
December 3: Mythical Books
December 4: Readeropolis
December 5: LisaHaselton's Reviews and Interviews
December 6: Danita Minnis
December 9: Fabulousand Brunette
December 10: AuthorC.A.Milson
December 11: TheAvid Reader - review only
December 12: It'sRaining Books
December 13: Harlie's Books
December 16: JazzyBook Reviews
December 17: EnchantingReviews - review only
December 18: Our TownBook Reviews - review only
December 19: Long and ShortReviews
December 20: IndependentAuthors
December 30: All the Upsand Downs
December 31: BooksChatter
January 1: Wendi Zwaduk
January 2: Hope.Dreams. Life... Love
January 3: StraightFrom the Library


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Monday, December 16, 2019

The tears we never cried



This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will be awarding a $15 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner via Rafflecopter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.


A mother’s tragic diagnosis.

A daughter’s life on hold.

An ending and a new beginning ...

Cassandra McDowall’s mother has been forgetful for a while, but she never anticipated rapid-onset Alzheimer’s to come out of nowhere and shake their world to its very core.

As Cassie puts her already-lackluster life on hold, her mom’s indomitable will and spirit of adventure prove to be a handful.

And as her mother fades, the two embark on one last adventure—a journey that reveals secrets on the brink of being lost, the joy of foreign sunsets, and love where she hadn’t thought it possible.


Read an Excerpt

The door shut and I turned around to face Russ.

“The pizza is on the table.” He stopped. “What’s wrong?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he came over and put his hands on my shoulder. “You can’t do this nonstop. It’s taking a toll. Maybe I could take you out—there’s a show you’d love...”

“Russ,” I said cutting him off. I would’ve liked nothing better, but that wasn’t going to happen. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I have to be here for Mom.”

He frowned.

“You’re not alone, Cassie. I’ll be there for you every step of the way if you’ll let me.”

“Russ, I can’t ...”

He hauled me against his chest and kissed me. His lips were soft and then hard, hot with passion. Feeling his strength, his heart beat against mine, my breasts rocking against his chest and it was all too much. I wanted him. And nowhere in my life was there room to have him.

When he let me go I just stood there—shell-shocked, my heart pounding in a good way.

“And not just as friends,” he finished. “I want you in my life, Cass.”

“You can’t think of me like that, Russ.” I shook my head. “Like what?”

“In a romantic situation. It’s never going to happen.” And as final as that statement was I knew by the look on Russ’s face and how I felt when I looked at him, that neither of us believed it.


About the Author:
The winner of her city’s writing award, Ryshia Kennie’s novels have taken her characters from the depression era prairies in her first book “From the Dust” to a across the globe and back again. There’s never a lack of places to set a story as the too long prairie winters occasionally find her with travel journal in hand seeking adventure on foreign shores. While facing off a Monitor Lizard before breakfast or running through the Kasbah chased by an enraged Water Carrier aren’t normal travel experiences and might never find a place in one of her stories, they do make great travel stories. When not collecting odd memories from around the world, she’s writing mainly romantic suspense and women’s fiction.



Website: http://www.ryshiakennie.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ryshiakennie

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Author.RyshiaKennie/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ryshiakennie



Amazon Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Tears-we-Never-Cried-ebook/dp/B081HWTVF3/ref=sr_1_6












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How Deep is the Darkness

How Deep Is The Darkness by Mary Anne Edwards Banner

 

 

How Deep is the Darkness

A Charlie McClung Mystery

by Mary Anne Edwards

December 17, 2019 Book Blast

Synopsis:

How Deep is the Darkness by Mary Anne Edwards


Charlie McClung has always known about darkness, it’s part of being a police chief.


But now it’s spreading throughout the town and creeping into his life.

With each body found, the killer deepens the darkness and McClung must put an end to it.

Now.


Book Details:

Genre: Traditional Mystery

Published by: Sellem Books

Publication Date: December 2, 2019

Number of Pages: 247

ASIN:B081MYBYG8

Series: The Charlie McClung Mysteries Book 6

Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads



Read an excerpt:

This story begins on Monday, June 20, 1983, in Lyman County, Georgia

Chapter 1

Chief Charlie McClung stared at the pale, bloated body of Myron Wagstaff lying next to his own swimming pool. He’d seen enough bodies to know when dead is dead. And Myron was dead.
McClung glanced at his wife standing near the diving board at the far end of the pool. Marian’s white tee shirt clung to her body and her wet hair was plastered to her head and neck. Hugging herself, she managed a pitiful grin.
Not only was Myron Wagstaff a neighbor and the president of their Homeowners Association, but he was also Marian’s archnemesis.
McClung knelt beside Myron, grabbed his thick wrist, and checked for a pulse. His fingers sank into doughy flesh. Myron’s waterlogged polo shirt looked as if it had been spray painted on his belly, now bloated more than normal.
While McClung held his fingers in place waiting for a beat, he scanned the area. The patio furniture was jumbled together with the garden hose, snaking between the chairs, and stopping at the spot where Myron lay.
That, combined with the fact there weren’t any signs of bruising on Myron, perhaps meant this was an accidental drowning.
“Boss?” Sergeant Thayer asked as he stood behind McClung.
He shook his head as he moved aside for the paramedics to perform their magic. But McClung realized not even Doctor Frankenstein could reanimate poor Myron.
As the emergency team worked on Myron, Charlie hurried toward Marian.
“Are you okay?” He kissed her forehead and pulled her into his arms.
Marian’s body trembled against his chest.
“Thayer! Get Marian a blanket.”
The young sergeant ran full blast and quickly returned.
“I’m okay just, um, just, um.” Marian fought hard to keep her tears in check.
“Here.” Thayer’s breath pounded the back of Marian’s neck as he laid the blanket across her shoulders.
Charlie released Marian, secured the blanket then blotted a tissue under her eyes and nose. “Here’s a clean one.”
“Love the magical tissues.” A weak chuckle tumbled from Marian as she pulled the blanket tighter. “You’d think I’d be sweating in this June heat.”
“Well, it’s not even ten o’clock. It’s cloudy, and you’re soaking wet.” Charlie glanced at her feet. “Where are your shoes?”
“They were muddy, so I took them off before I went into Myron’s house to call 9-1-1 after I failed with CPR.” Marian sighed. “I was afraid that if Myron survived, he’d send me a bill to have the muddy floors cleaned.”
Pointing at the patio doors, she winced. “My shoes are over there.”
“What’s wrong?”
Marian massaged her lower back. “I guess I hurt my back getting Myron out of the water. I’ll be okay.”
Charlie squeezed her hand. Ever since Marian had the terrifying encounter with the Paper Heart Stalker and fell from a second-floor balcony last year, he worried about her health.
When McClung came face to face with the Paper Heart Stalker, Marian almost lost her life to save his but unknowingly sacrificed their unborn child.
He crossed over to the diving board and beckoned for her to follow. “Sit down. Here. Back toward me.”
She eased down on the hard plank.
Charlie’s strong hands ran across her shoulders and down her back.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not really.”
“I guess nothing’s broken, dislocated, or cracked.”
He crossed over the board and sat down. “When I get home tonight, I’ll give you an intense massage once you’ve soaked in a tub of hot Epsom salt water.”
“Sounds good.” Marian watched the paramedics work on Myron.
The team’s jaws were tight as they knelt over Myron’s body. One paramedic rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in defeat while the other one closed Myron’s eyes and pulled a blanket over his face.
“I didn’t think they’d have much luck reviving him. I’d hoped, but…” Marian's voice trailed, her head heavy as she leaned on Charlie’s shoulder.
“You did everything by the book. I still don’t see how you got Myron out of the pool.”
Marian sighed. “I did what I had to.” She studied Charlie’s face, then swallowed hard and grimaced. “I tried to revive him. CPR but maybe if—.”
“Don’t even go down that path.” Charlie scratched his eyebrow. “Dispatch said you saw a man run from the scene.”
She sat up. “Yeah. Do you think he had something to do with this?”
“Possibly, but we won’t know for sure until we’ve gathered the facts.” Charlie shrugged. “To me, every death is suspicious. Been fooled before but never again.”
A year ago, two weeks after Charlie McClung had moved to Lyman County, he was called to the scene of a fatal shooting, Dianne Pannell. Without an investigation, the then chief of police ruled Dianne’s death a suicide, but Charlie proved it was murder after Dianne’s irritating neighbor, his now-wife, Marian, pressed him to look further into the case.
“Yeah.” Marian murmured.
Charlie stood. “Could be the guy got spooked when he saw Myron in the pool and ran away.” He held out his hand. “Come with me. The paramedics need to give you a quick check.”
“Why? My back isn’t hurting that bad.”
His hand cupped her cheek. “Sweetie, please just humor me.”
Marian avoided looking at Myron and let her husband guide her to the ambulance.
They met officers Willard and Marsh at the gate. Photographer Sam Goldstein wasn’t far behind.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” Marsh’s voice quivered, and his eyebrows drew together.
Marian looked at him for a moment. “I’m fine. Just a bit damp.” She bit her bottom lip and blinked several times. “Maybe a little shaken.”
Both officers were like sons to Marian.
A tentative smile eased the furrow between Marsh’s eyes. “Thank goodness.”
Willard scratched his head. “Where are your shoes, ma’am?”
McClung answered. “They’re outside the patio door. One of you get them for Marian.”
“Consider it done, Boss.” Willard took off.
“Marsh, I want you and Willard to help Thayer process the scene.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Willard returned a few minutes later, holding the less-muddy sneakers. His hands were filthy. “Here you go. I cleaned them up the best I could.”
“Thank you, Willard.” Marian took the shoes.
“No trouble.”
“You two. Go assist Thayer.” McClung barked.
“Wait.” Marian held up her hand. “I scratched the running guy’s tag number on the sidewalk.”
“Marsh go find it. Willard, you report to Thayer.” McClung directed his trusted men.
The two young men hurried off on opposite paths.
“Sam, how did you know I needed you?”
The silver-haired man tapped his temple. “Didn’t take me long to figure you out. You’re a cop that sees murder everywhere.”
“But Sam, how did you know to come here?” Marian blurted.
Charlie and Sam answered. “Police scanner.”
Marian frowned. “Just anybody can have one?”
“Yep!” Charlie sighed. “In this case, it’s a good thing but mostly it’s not.”
Sam coughed. “I’ll just take a picture or two of that tag number.”
“Yeah, do that. Plus, there’s a lot going on behind the house.” Charlie watched the older man trudge down the sidewalk. Camera bags banged against Sam’s body with each step he took.
One of the paramedics joined McClung and Marian at the ambulance.
“Ma’am don’t fret. There wasn’t a thing you could’ve done for that guy.” The bear of a man shook his head. “I ain’t no coroner, but I’ve been at this job for a long time. He’s been dead too long to be revived.”
The reassurance that she wasn’t a factor in Myron’s death didn’t make Marian feel any better.
“Mel, do you mind giving my wife a quick once-over to make sure she’s safe to go home?” Charlie stroked Marian’s back as he spoke.
“Sure.”
Mel removed his latex gloves and put on a fresh pair. He tilted his head toward the rear of the ambulance. “Just sit there.”
“Boss.” Thayer called to McClung from the open gate.
Charlie looked at Marian.
“Go on. Do your job.” Marian kissed her husband's cheek.
He didn’t move from her side.
“I’m fine, just a tweaked back. Besides you’re making me nervous watching me like a hawk.”
“Boss.” Thayer repeated more urgently.
Charlie smiled and gave her a casual salute. “As you wish.”
McClung hurried toward Thayer. “Found something?”
“I think I figured out what happened.”
McClung disappeared behind the fence.
♦♦♦♦♦♦
“What is it, Thayer?” McClung followed him into Myron’s house as he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “I was hoping I could go a whole year without having to use these.”
“Makes for a mundane job.” Sergeant Thayer said flatly. “Here sir, in the kitchen. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey and one glass.”
McClung arched an eyebrow as he leaned over to study the bottle of Four Roses Single Barrel Bourbon Whiskey. About three fingers of liquid was left inside the bottle, a few drops coated the bottom of the tumbler.
He walked to the sink and smelled the drain. No lingering odor of alcohol. Then he carefully picked up the tumbler. “Thayer, flip on the overhead light.”
The fluorescent tubes buzzed to life.
McClung held up the tumbler to the harsh light. On the rim, was a faint lip print. “Hmm, make sure you dust this for prints and bag it.” He set it back in its original position.
Marsh squinted as he entered the kitchen. “Boss, put me to work.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Taking pictures of the deceased before they cart him away.”
McClung rubbed his earlobe. “Tell Mel to instruct the hospital not to release the body until I say so. I want Jack Jackson to do the autopsy, if he’s available.” He snapped his fingers. “And tell Sam I’ll need him in here when he’s finished.”
“Will do.” Marsh headed outside.
McClung studied every inch of the kitchen: the floor, inside the cabinets, oven, and refrigerator. He examined everything as he searched for possible clues. There was no hint to what may have led to Myron’s death.
“Boss, I don’t think it’s murder.”
McClung raised an eyebrow and replied sarcastically, “Yeah? Well then, enlighten me with your hypothesis of poor Wagstaff’s watery demise.” He strolled toward the open patio door and headed for the pool.
As Thayer spoke, McClung studied the jumbled furniture.
“Myron was drunk, got tangled up in the patio furniture, stumbled around, and then fell into the pool. He was too drunk to get himself out of the water.”
McClung pushed out his bottom lip and nodded. “Hm. He was in the shallow end. All he had to do was stand up.”
Thayer rubbed the top of his head. “Maybe he hit his head on the bottom. Knocked himself out.”
McClung wandered around the pool. He stopped where the garden hose lay beside the pool.
The concrete was soaked, and the grass drenched to the point that a small stream had flowed down the incline, out the gate and onto the street.
“What do you think Myron was doing with the hose?”
Thayer hunched his shoulders. “Topping off the pool?”
“Yeah, sounds right.” McClung pointed to the water-logged grass. “The hose had to be on for a long time to have created that miniature creek rolling down the hill and into the street.”
“That goes to show I’m right. He was drunk standing here. The hose got tangled in the furniture. He yanked it. Lost his balance. Dropped the hose. Hit his head on the concrete and fell into the pool. Accidental drowning.” Thayer crossed his arms and grinned.
McClung pulled on his bottom lip. “Plausible.” Something on the concrete caught his eye.
“What does this look like to you?” McClung knelt close to the spot.
“It looks like blood. Must be where he hit his head.”
“Yeah, and what about this?”
McClung touched a hard, yellowish, rectangular-shaped chip, like a half of a Chiclet. He looked around for Sam Goldstein.
The EMTs were talking to Sam as he photographed Myron’s body.
McClung yelled over his shoulder. “Sam, get over here.”
The paramedics began moving Myron’s body.
“What do we have there?” Sam held the camera to his eye, snapping pictures as McClung pointed toward the areas.
“That appears to be blood.” McClung pointed to the yellowish object. “And that, my friend, doesn’t belong here. Possibly a clue.”
Thayer knelt beside McClung. “Yep, could be. It looks like old ivory?”
McClung thought the odd chip looked familiar, but the vague memory faded away.
Sam zoomed to get a few tight shots of the chip and the blood spatters.
McClung glanced at the EMTs. “Thayer, bag it and look for more spatters and anything else in this area. I want a chat with Mel.”
“Mel, where’s Marian? Is she all right?” McClung moved out of the way of the paramedics while they loaded Myron onto the stretcher.
“She’s fine. Just hurt her back. Understandable.” Mel groaned as they lifted Myron’s body. “Even for me this guy is hefty. I’m surprised your wife got him out of the water. She’s a tiny lady. What 5’3’ and 125 pounds?”
McClung snorted as he nodded. “Yep, but she’s stubborn. If she’s got it in her mind to do something, consider it done.”
“Is Marian still sitting in the back of the ambulance?” McClung followed the gurney.
“No, sir. She’s sittin on the front stoop waitin on you.”
Officer Billy Crawford met them inside the gate.
McClung couldn’t help but smile at his oldest officer. Crawford was always in a jolly mood.
But not this morning.
“Boss, sorry it took me so long to get here.” Crawford wore a rare frown.
“What’s the matter?” McClung waved the paramedics to go on.
Crawford shifted the criminal investigation kit from one hand to the other. “Ah, the missus got news her favorite uncle isn’t doing so good and her dad’s not taking it none too well. If her uncle dies, my father-in-law will be the last one left in his family.”
McClung gripped Crawford’s firm shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure you should be here? Your wife needs you.”
“Thanks, but I’m not much help. Best thing for me is to stay out of her way.”
“Okay, but don’t be shy about asking for time off. Understand?”
“I appreciate that, Boss.”
“If there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.” He shook his index finger at his officer. “I mean it. Ask. Marian will make sure you’re fed, you got that?”
“Yes, Boss. But I saw her sitting out front, and she doesn’t look so good.”
McClung’s eyes widened. “What?”
“You didn’t know she’s here?” Crawford pulled back his head.
“Yeah, but she said she was fine.” McClung patted the officer’s back. “Let me go speak with her. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Charlie hurried to find his wife, but stopped a few yards away to observe her.
So many questions he needed to ask, but he was worried about her. Marian didn’t need this stress. Not now.
Marian looked like a triangular-shaped lump of coal. The dark gray blanket was wound tightly around her body and she was resting her forehead on her knees, which she’d pulled up to her chest.
Charlie wondered how she was able to breathe. He sat beside her and rubbed her back. “Sweetie?”
Marian’s head popped up. “Hey! I didn’t hear you come up. I must’ve dozed off as I was praying.”
“Yeah? Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so hot.” Charlie wrapped his arms around her.
Marian winced. “You’re such a sweet talker.”
Charlie released his embrace. “Sorry.” His fingers massaged her lower back.
“That’s okay.” Marian pulled off the blanket and neatly folded it. “I’m tired. I want to lie down. Is it okay for me to walk home, now?”
“Nope, it’s at least a mile and a half. I’m driving you home.”
She straightened her legs. “Might as well. These sneakers are ruined. Not good for anything but stomping around in the yard.”
Marian tucked the thin blanket under her arm. “What about the investigation? Aren’t you going to question me?”
“Your well-being is more important to me. Besides, Thayer’s opinion is this is an accidental drowning. My best team is on this. They don’t need me telling them how to do their job. And you can tell me what happened when you feel like it.”
“Now?”
“Do you honestly want to talk about it now?”
Marian whispered. “I need to, but—”
“But means later. Tonight?”
“Yeah, tonight.”
Charlie held her hand as they walked toward the gate. “Let me tell the guys I’m taking you home.”
McClung passed the EMTs as he disappeared behind the fence.
Marian shuddered as she watched the paramedics load Myron’s body inside the ambulance. “I’ve witnessed this scene too many times in the past year.”
***
Excerpt from How Deep is the Darkness: A Charlie McClung Mystery by Mary Anne Edwards. Copyright 2019 by Mary Anne Edwards. Reproduced with permission from Mary Anne Edwards. All rights reserved.



Author Bio:
Mary Anne Edwards
Born in Mercedes, Texas, Mary Anne has lived in Georgia for most of her life. A life-long fan of authors such as Agatha Christie, Anne Perry, Caroline Graham, and Elizabeth Peters, it wasn’t until a few years ago that Mary Anne listened to the voices in her head and began writing her own series of traditional mysteries featuring Detective Charlie McClung.
The first book in the series, Brilliant Disguise, was released to critical acclaim in January 2014. The next three in the series, A Good Girl, Criminal Kind, and Sins of my Youth were released soon afterward. The fifth book in the series, Flirting with Time, was released on June 30, 2017. The sixth book, How Deep is the Darkness, will be released on December 2, 2019. She is working on the seventh book, Complex Kid, with at least three more to follow.
Mary Anne and her husband live in Smyrna, GA with an ill-tempered Tuxedo cat named Gertrude. Mary Anne is a member of Sisters in Crime and sits on the advisory board of Rockdale Cares, a non-profit advocacy group for the developmentally challenged.

Catch Up With Mary Anne Edwards:

MaryAnneEdwards.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Instagram, Twitter, & Facebook!






Book Blast Participants:

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GIVEAWAY!!!!:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Mary Anne Edwards. There will be 2 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card each. The giveaway begins on December 17, 2019 and runs through December 27, 2019. Void where prohibited.
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Sunday, December 15, 2019

Murder Double or Nothing

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Lida Sideris will be awarding a copy of the book (US ONLY) to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

See below to sign up for the GIVEAWAY.

Corrie Locke, newbie lawyer and daughter of a late, great PI, is learning the ropes at the Hollywood movie studio where she works--and where things are never what they seem. Life imitates art when a fictional murder attempt turns real--right before her eyes.


With more than a little help from friends and a crazy movie legend, Corrie trips down a trail littered with wisecracks, mysterious messages, and marginally legal maneuvers to track down the killer. Meanwhile, clues keep disappearing and Corrie makes an enemy whose deadly tactics keep escalating. Will her impromptu sleuthing skills be enough to catch the mysterious assailant before he takes her down?

My Review...
This is the first book I have read by Lida Sideris. It was light and although a mystery, it had that touch of humor that I enjoy and a character that I really enjoyed too. Corrie Locke is an attorney and “kind of” a Private Investigator. At least her dad was a very great P.I. and a good teacher. Corrie worked with him a lot growing up. The fact that she’s the “kiddie flicks attorney” makes this funny to begin with. Her job really has very little to do with the story line at all, but it is just one more little piece of that humor I’m talking about. I had a little trouble figuring out “who was who” so to speak, but only at first. Things fell into place very quickly providing an easy to read, enjoyable mystery with plenty of twists and turns to make any mystery reader happy.

Definitely worth the time to read as I am sure is her other book in this series, Murder Gone Missing.

read an excerpt...


He pedaled the bicycle hard and fast down the narrow, deserted alley, stealing glances behind him. It was a late, warm Friday afternoon somewhere on the eastside of Los Angeles where police protection was scarce and hoodlums plentiful. Two and three story buildings huddled together on both sides of the rider. Graffiti stained the walls.
  
Hunched over the handlebars, the cyclist whizzed past a dented metal dumpster, unsettling newspapers and milk cartons pressed against a doorway. The collar of a gingham dress shirt stuck up beneath his red pullover and a backpack flopped behind him. Chuck Taylors clinched his nerdiness, as did the argyle socks. He looked fresh out of a computer lab, on his way to the library. There was nothing unusual about him, if you didn’t count the bulging eyes, gritted teeth and heavy panting. His expression belonged on a trapped animal.
  
A black sedan barreled around the corner, tires grinding and coughing up pieces of asphalt. Leaning his torso out of the passenger window, a muscular guy in a white T-shirt clutched a revolver. He aimed at the cyclist, fired three times and missed.
  
The rider angled around a corner and skidded to a stop. Dropping the bicycle on its side, he stumbled over the upturned wheel moments before the car crushed the bike beneath its fat tires, spitting out a tangle of metal and chrome. The car parked, and two thugs spilled out. They raced after the cyclist, guns drawn. The nerd careened toward the side of a brick building and jumped up, arms outstretched above his head. The silver cuff around his wrist glinted as he grabbed the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder, legs flailing wildly. The ladder creaked and swayed. He’d barely started the climb when the hoodlums fired. And missed again.

“Oh, brother,” I whispered.

The nerd scrambled onto a landing and dove through an open window.


 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lida Sideris' first stint after law school was a newbie lawyer's dream: working as an entertainment attorney for a movie studio...kind of like her heroine, Corrie Locke. Lida lives in the northern tip of Southern California with her family, rescue dogs and a flock of uppity chickens. She was one of two national winners of the Helen McCloy Mystery Writers of America Scholarship Award for her first book.





http://www.lidasideris.com            

https://www.facebook.com/lidasideris     



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Saturday, December 14, 2019

Last Seen

A NEW AUDIOBOOK by JO HIESTAND




MY REVIEW...

By the time I’d read Book 1, I knew that Jo Hiestand was great at developing characters, be they the good guys or girls, or the bad ones. I also realized she could write so descriptively that she could help you “be in the moment”. She could make you feel as if you were right in the story; almost see your surroundings.  Then Michael McLaren, retired cop extraordinaire comes into the picture. He’s definitely hunky by Hiestand’s description and alone, at least for a while. Amid all of the above is a good mystery with suspense, action, the occasional bit of humor and of course the damsel in distress, Dena.

Then came Book 2 in audiobook format. Could a narrator possibly get all of what I have described across to the listener? I couldn’t help but wonder. There’s so much depth to the story it seems a narrator would almost have to perform a Vulcan mind-meld. However, this narrator, Tristan Kopta, seems to have done it. Since I got Book 2 as fast as I could when I finished Book 1, I had already read Book 2. I knew the ending and I still felt the tension, the fear, and the suspense as the narrator told the story of Michael McLaren and Dena. It was like getting a two-fer. I got to read it and then I got to hear someone put their own spin on the story as a narrator.

I happen to know there are 11 books in this series so far. Not enough, but at least 11. That’s 11 two-fers as soon as all of the books have an audiobook. Can’t wait. 



ABOUT JO...
Jo A. Hiestand can usually be found at her computer, which is good, since she writes three 
mystery series.  It seems a natural progression from her job as a graphic artist – crafting word images on a sheet of paper instead of creating graphics on the computer screen. Between the two computer stints, she lived in Britain for her semi-pro folk singing career and became friends with several English police detectives. The latter relationship was not a consequence of the former calling, however, but all these UK aspects find their way into her books. When not tapping on the keyboard, Jo enjoys reading, baking, and photography. She lives in the St Louis area with her cat, Tennyson, and way too many kilts.

Jo's Favorite authors and books in this genre. 
Well, first that comes to mind is just about any book from Ngaio Marsh. Some of my favorites of hers are Scales of Justice, Overture to Death, and Death at the Bar.  I also like Josephine Tey a lot, especially The Daughter of Time. PD James is another of my favorite authors, as well as contemporary author Charles Todd.  I loved Ann Cleeves’ Shetland Island series. As you can tell, I tend to like the slower paced books that have a  lot of description and character development.

Jo's LINKS





Website: http://www.johiestand.com


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Thursday, December 12, 2019

A womans persuasion

Lesbian Fiction


This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.
Jeanette Watts will be awarding a Cameo Necklace to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.



What would you do for a second chance at a perfect love?

Anne's privileged family forced her to break off her romance with Freddie Wentworth, an Air Force pilot; they didn't approve. Almost eight years later, Freddie is back in her life. Can they rekindle an old flame? Or is there too much hurt and misunderstanding in the way?

Read an Excerpt:

She looked in the mirror at the result of eight years of self-neglect and self-hatred, and she didn't like what she saw. She wished Freddie could have looked at her and seen that she had improved over the years. It didn't even need to be about her physical appearance. If she would have had three Master's Degrees and a PhD to her name, or a Pulitzer Prize, or an Oscar for Best Screenplay, or a byline in The New Yorker, that would have been something. But she had nothing to show for all the intervening years.

She wondered if Freddie had said the words out of spite, calculating that Henry and Louis would repeat them to her, or they were merely said honestly, not thinking that they might get repeated back to her. She could only assume that Freddie expected the hurtful words to reach her ears. Freddie had not forgiven her.

Well, could she blame her? Her feebleness of character, her inability to stand by her loved one in the face of adversity, wasn't something Freddie would respect. Being in a relationship with a soldier in military service took dedication and courage, not weakness and timidity. Anne couldn’t blame her for being hurt, even disgusted. She was not worthy of the love Freddie had offered her.

The eyes that looked back at her in the mirror confirmed what she already knew. She was going to have to change. It was too late with Freddie, but she needed to be a person she could respect. She wanted her self-respect back.


About the Author:
Jeanette Watts was happily writing historical fiction when she got the idea for her first Jane Austen-inspired novel, Jane Austen Lied to Me. Going to a JASNA event to work on selling that book, she attended a lecture that asked, "Why does everyone rewrite Pride and Prejudice so much more than her other novels? Why doesn't anyone rewrite Persuasion?"

So she had to...




Website: http://www.jeanettewatts.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AWomansPersuasion

Twitter: https://twitter.com/JeanetteAWatts

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6967936.Jeanette_Watts

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jeanetteamlwatts/






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Wednesday, December 11, 2019

Bread Bags and Bullies

Bread Bags & Bullies:

Surviving the '80s

by Steven Manchester

on Tour November 1 - December 31, 2019

Synopsis:

It’s the winter of 1984. Twelve-year-old Herbie and his two brothers—Wally and Cockroach—are enjoying the mayhem of winter break when a late Nor’easter blows through New England, trapping their quirky family in the house. The power goes out and playing Space Invaders to AC DC’s Back in Black album is suddenly silenced—forcing them to use their twisted imaginations in beating back the boredom. At a time when the brothers must overcome one fear after the next, they learn that courage is the one character trait that guarantees all others.

This hysterical coming-of-age tale is jam-packed with enough nostalgia to satisfy anyone who grew up in the ‘80s or at least had the good fortune to travel through them.

Praise for Bread Bags & Bullies

“If you loved the ever popular A Christmas Story, be prepared for another classic. Bread Bags & Bullies is a must read! Funny, poignant, and heartwarming—Steven Manchester is a master storyteller.” – Jamie Farr, Actor, M.A.S.H.

Bread Bags & Bullies is a detailed eye-opening experience of the Big Hair decade. Enjoyable whether you were there or not—or just can’t quite remember it.” – Barry Williams, Actor, The Brady Bunch

“Steven Manchester’s Bread Bags & Bullies captures a simpler time, just before technology began dominating America’s time and attention. This nostalgic story is hilarious, told by a family of characters you won’t soon forget. A must read!” – Ed Asner, Actor, Lou Grant

“Steve Manchester’s Bread Bags & Bullies is a fantastic blast from the past, evoking all the fun and nostalgia of the ‘80s—even my big hair!” – Audrey Landers, Actress, Dallas

“An extraordinary recall of 1980s pop cultural, Bread Bags & Bullies will make you laugh out loud as you revisit the pains and pleasures of growing up. The book made me want to pick up the phone, call my brother in Nebraska and reminisce about our own snow day adventures.” – Douglas Barr, Actor, The Fall Guy

“In Bread Bags & Bullies, the writing is so vivid, the pace and rhythm so quick, that I truly felt I was watching it on screen.” – Joan van Ark, Actress, Knots Landing

“Steven Manchester’s latest book, Bread Bags & Bullies, made me recall the town I ‘grew up in’— mythical Mayfield. Instantly taking you back to 1984, the characters and situations are so believable that you’ll want to keep turning the pages.” – Tony Dow, Actor, Leave It to Beaver

“It’s always fun to be a part of history and pop culture. Reading the Waltons’ famous ‘Goodnight, John-boy’ referenced in Bread Bags & Bullies was a special treat—especially since the reply was ‘Night, Erin.’” – Mary McDonough, Actress, The Waltons

“A determined effort. Bread Bags & Bullies rocks!” – Billy Squier, ‘80s Rock Icon, Stroke Me

“You can like this book if you want to. You can leave your friends behind. Because if your friends don't like this book…well, they’re no friends of mine.” – Ivan Doroschuk, Lead Singer of Men Without Hats, Safety Dance

“In Bread Bags & Bullies, Steven Manchester captures the ‘80s to the smallest detail. With each page turned, memories flood back. Using the lightest of touch, he tells his story with tongue firmly planted in cheek. Bread Bags & Bullies is a delight!” – Nick van Eede, Lead Singer of Cutting Crew, Died In Your Arms

“Steve Manchester’s newest novel, Bread Bags & Bullies, is a well-written love letter to the ‘80s—bringing me home with every page turned.” – Bertie Higgins, ‘80s Recording Artist, Key Largo

Bread Bags & Bullies is so—like, totally—‘84, it makes me want to get out my leg warmers and glow sticks, backcomb my hair, and romp around the room to Footloose. And then I remember, I don’t have any hair.” – Thomas Dolby, ‘80s Recording Artist, She Blinded Me with Science

“Manchester’s book, Bread Bags & Bullies, brings to mind many of our techno ditties. ‘How you gonna keep ‘em down on Maggie’s Farm once they’ve seen Devo?’” – Gerald V. Casale of DEVO, Whip It


Book Details

Genre: Commercial Fiction
Published by: Luna Bella Press
Publication Date: November 19, 2019
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 978-0-9841842-7-9
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads


Read an excerpt:


FRIDAY

It was the afternoon of Friday 13th, the last day before February vacation. A whole week off from stupid middle school, I thought, excitedly.
From the moment I stepped onto the bus, the atmosphere felt electric, everyone happy for the much-needed winter break. Nena’s song, 99 Luftballoons, was playing on some concealed boom box in the back.
Many of the bus’s green fake leather bench seats were split and duct-taped. As I made my way down the narrow aisle in search of a seat, I heard the usual remarks offered to most eighth graders from the high school kids who’d already claimed their territory.
“You can’t sit here, dufus.”
“This seat’s taken.”
Even on such a joyous afternoon, I was quickly reminded that riding the bus was a hard kick in the teeth. It didn’t matter whether they were wearing black leather vests and chain wallets or Swatch watches and turned-up collars on their pastel IZOD Polo shirts, the high school kids were just plain mean.
As I made my way further down the line, the objections got even stronger.
“Oh, I don’t think so, dweeb.”
“If you even think about sitting, you dink, I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
Eat shit and die, I replied in my head, but never out loud.
I hated sitting with the nerds or the kids that smelled like spoiled lunchmeat, but after receiving enough rejections I began to wonder, Maybe the older kids see me the same way?
Although school had its social order, this mobile environment was even less forgiving. At a time in life when the mind is impressionable—constantly worrying about what others think of you, even about what you think of yourself—the bus’s sadistic hierarchy created scar tissue that would help to define many lives for years to come. It was a cruel testing ground for survival, where the tougher or more popular kids claimed the back of the bus. Those coveted seats were sacred territory that most of us spent years aspiring to. On the big, yellow school bus, physical threats were the least of our worries. This is psychological warfare, I realized early on.
Besides having to deal with the pecking order, there was incredible peer pressure to do things most of us would have never dreamed of doing—like distracting the elderly driver, Mr. Gifford. Given that the bus had no seat belts, this daily practice seemed pretty insane to me. I’d never actually seen Mr. Gifford’s eyes; the two narrow slits were usually squinting into the rear-view mirror. “Sit down!” he constantly yelled.
There was always the smell of smoke wafting from the back, though I was never really sure it was cigarette smoke. Usually, there were two kids making out—a boy and girl—and it wasn’t always the same couple. The bus had its own sub-culture, a microcosm of the twisted society we were growing up in.
It’s amazing Old Man Gifford can keep this giant bus on the road and not in one of the ditches we pass on our way home, I thought.
As I claimed my seat beside another outcast Junior High-Schooler, I spotted my brother, Wally, sitting toward the middle of the vessel. Wally had straight brown hair, serious brown eyes and the chunky Bloomfield nose. He looked like my father. Unfortunately, a terrible case of acne was in full bloom, taking away from his rugged handsome looks. Our eyes locked. I nodded toward him. Although he returned the gesture, he was much more subtle in his action. You’re such a butthead, I thought.
A cold breeze tapped me on the shoulder. It’s freezing in here, I realized, turning around to see that the windows were open in the back of the yellow torture chamber. As I turned, I caught a whiff of my bus mate. And thank God they’re open, I thought, trying to place the unusual smell. Fried Spam? I guessed, before noticing that the stinky kid was wearing a Smokey the Bear sweatshirt that read, Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires. I had to do a double-take. No way, I thought in disbelief, it looks like Beetlejuice, here, has a death wish…wearing a lame pullover like that. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a Just Say No campaign button pinned to the front of it. I chuckled aloud, drawing a look from my new best friend. I pity the fool, I thought, quoting Mr. T.—one of my favorite TV personalities—in my head.
I’d just popped my last Luden’s cherry cough drop into my mouth when I heard it. There was a commotion behind us, much louder than the usual raucous. What the hell? No sooner did I turn in my seat to investigate the ruckus when my heart plummeted past my stone-washed jeans straight into my worn Chuck Taylor high tops.
Owen Audet—the most feared enforcer on Bus 6—was standing toe-to-toe with Wally. He was more than a head taller than my poor brother. Oh no, I thought, Wally’s gotta be shittin’ bricks right now. I swallowed hard. I know I would be. Owen was big, dumb and mean—and heavy on the mean.
“I need to borrow another book,” the Missing Link barked, looming over my brother.
There were a few laughs from the bully’s brain-dead minions.
My mouth instantly went dry, while my heart began to race. Although my brother was on the “big-boned” side, built like a Sherman tank, he still looked so small next to Owen. That dude’s a Clydesdale, I thought, and Wally’s road pizza.
“Sor…sorry, but I can’t do it,” Wally refused, his voice three octaves higher than normal. Even though he sounded like a yipping dog, he somehow stood his ground.
Owen’s face turned beet red. He obviously didn’t appreciate being challenged in front of the crowd.
It’s Friday the 13th, I remembered, and Jason’s back.
Owen grabbed for Wally’s backpack, who pulled away violently.
“Ooooh,” the crowd groaned.
“You must be out of your damn mind, loser,” the aggressor hissed.
“I…I would be if…” Wally stuttered, looking like a terrified Kindergartner, “…if I let you take another book.”
I didn’t blame him. After the way Pop reacted the last time this same nightmare happened, I thought, Wally has no choice. My find quickly flashed back.

~~~

A month earlier, Owen had snatched one of Wally’s school books, opened the bus window and tossed it out—while everyone laughed nervously, hoping they weren’t next.
This could never happen to me, I realized, priding myself on the fact that I never took a book home. This wasn’t because I wasn’t supposed to, or didn’t need to. I’d simply decided early on that if the material couldn’t be learned in the classroom, there was no way I was going to “get it” at home.
When we got home, Wally explained that he’d been “bullied on the bus.”
Our father’s reaction was even worst than the crime Wally had reported. “Bullied?” Pop roared, addressing Wally, me and our little brother in the living room, “there’s no such thing as being bullied unless you allow it, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Lions are not bullied by sheep,” he barked, “and I hope to God I’m not raising sheep!”
“Okay, Pop,” Wally mumbled at a little more than a whisper, “I get it.”
“There’s only one way to set a bully straight,” Pop added, staring my older brother in the eye.
Any one of us could have recited his next words by heart.
“Punch him square in the nose as hard as you can.”
“Walt!” my mother yelled from the kitchen, clearly opposed to the tough lesson.
Pop peered even harder into Wally’s eyes. “As hard as you can,” he repeated through gritted teeth.
Three heads nodded.
Message received, I thought, loud and clear. When teaching us, Pop never gently peeled back the onion. He always sliced it right down the middle, cutting straight to the bitter tears.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Wally had heard two earfuls over the missing book—not just from our father but from his teacher, as well. My brother had reported that his book was missing; that he’d lost it. It was better than the alternative. If he’d told the truth, it would have been so much worse. Owen would have been enraged and Wally’s classmates would have labeled him a stool pigeon. And Pop, well, Pop would have thought he was a coward—a fate worse than death itself.
Yup, it’s so much better to lie sometimes, I decided.

~~~

Back on the bus, the crowd grew louder. “Oooooh…” they sang in chorus; everyone was now up on their knees to witness the inevitable pummeling.
I’d always looked up to my brother. Now, I just felt bad for him.
As Owen’s jaw muscles flexed violently, his beady eyes darted back and forth—his baby brain clearly considering his options. He looked toward Mr. Gifford, whose squinted eyes were looking into the giant rear view mirror positioned directly above his head.
“You’re lucky, you little queer,” Owen spat at my brother.
Wally kept his ground. “Why don’t you pick on…on someone your own size?” he stammered.
I couldn’t believe my ears. It was like experiencing a scene from Karate Kid. Wally’s sticking up for himself, even though Magilla Gorilla’s threatening to bash his squash in. Although my brother had found the courage to stare the predator down, I knew he wasn’t crazy enough to accept the giant’s invitation to tussle.
Owen laughed, cynically. “Oh, you’re my bitch now,” he said, “and I’m gonna take care of you good when we get back from vacation. You got it, bitch?”
The crowd didn’t laugh this time; everyone feeling bad for Wally. It could be any one of us at any time, I thought. Owen was an equal opportunity bully who didn’t discriminate.
“I’m gonna beat you down,” Owen promised Wally, “and it’s gonna be like that for the rest of the year.” He chuckled. “And next year, too.” By now, his putrid breath was inches from my brother’s crimson face, spittle flying with every terrifying word he spouted.
I’d never felt so freaked out, and the scumbag wasn’t even talking to me. I don’t know how Wally’s staying on his feet, I thought, proud that my brother’s eyes never left Owen’s.
As the bus screeched to a stop in front of our house, Wally turned to leave. The brakes weren’t done squealing when Owen pushed him in the back, collapsing him to the filthy floor.
Eyes wide, Wally looked up from his prone position.
“Say one word,” Owen growled, “and I’ll kick your friggin’ teeth in right here.”
Wally scrambled to his feet and glared at him again before marching off the bus, hyperventilating from either fear or anger. Most likely both, I figured.
As the bus’s folding door closed and the air brakes belched out a sigh, I turned to Wally. “Do you think the Sleestak will actually…” I began to ask.
“Shut your damn mouth before I kick your teeth in!” he barked.
“Well, okay then,” I mumbled. My big brother was a master of wedgies and Indian sunburns, with years of experience under his belt. I hope you get yours after vacation, I thought.

As we entered the house, Ma was at the stove, making a vat of hot dog stew. “How was everyone’s day?” the short woman asked. She had the kindest eyes and most loving smile—except on those moody days when she’d eaten a bowl of spiders for breakfast.
“Just great,” Wally said, storming toward our bedroom.
“Better than his,” I said, pointing at my brother.
Wally stopped at our bedroom’s plastic accordion door, spinning on his heels to stare me into silence.
The menacing look worked. “I had a good day,” I told my mother, prepared to quell any questions she might have. “Mr. Timmons, my science teacher, nearly choked to death on an apple in class today,” I told her, laughing.
“And you think that’s funny, Herbie?” she asked, disgustedly.
I shrugged. “You would have too, Ma, if you’d been there,” I told her. “He was just starting to turn blue when he coughed it out.”
“Dear God,” she said, “that’s enough. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
I smiled. Mission accomplished, I thought, knowing there was no way she’d remember my comment about Wally. “Oh, and we’re on vacation all next week,” I reminded her.
“I know, I know,” she said, her face incapable of concealing her disappointment. “When Alphonse gets home, I want the three of you to clean up that pig sty you call a bedroom.”
“Why would we clean it now, before vacation week?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense, Ma. We’re only going to mess it up all week.”
“Because I said so, that’s why.” She stared at me for a moment. “If you want, I can have your father…”
“Fine,” I quickly surrendered, “we’ll get started when Cockroach gets home from school.”
My younger brother was still in elementary school and took a later bus. I have a half hour to play Atari, I thought, and that new Donkey Kong game is mint.

The Atari gaming system was the best Christmas gift my brothers and I had ever received. Although I’d begged for Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots, Ma adamantly refused. “Not on your life,” she told me, “the last thing you guys need is more encouragement to fight.” Instead, we received a much better—and completely unexpected—Christmas present.
The Atari 2600 came with two joystick controllers with red buttons, a conjoined pair of paddle controllers, and black game cartridges that looked a lot like Pop’s 8-track tapes.

Wally stormed out of the room just as I was entering.
“Where are you heading?” I asked.
“To do my paper route.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No.”
“Come on, Wally,” I said. “I can help you and…”
“I said no,” he barked. “Besides, I need to hurry today and get it done quick.”
“Why?”
“None of your business.” He stepped through the kitchen, heading for the front door.
“Be back for supper,” my mother told him.
“I will, Ma,” he said, walking out of the house and slamming the door behind him.
“What’s wrong with Wally today?” my mother called out, just as I was starting to control the block-headed ape on the black-and-white TV screen.
Nice try, Ma, I thought, confident that I’d never make the same mistake twice. “He’s just wiggin’ to get his paper route done, so he can veg out tonight,” I told her. “The Dukes of Hazzard are on and he’s in love with Daisy.” I smiled, thinking, We all are.
“Well, there’ll be no Dukes of Hazzard, if you boys don’t get that room cleaned up.”
“We’ll get it done, Ma,” I yelled from the bedroom. “Me and Cockroach will tackle it when the space cadet gets home.”
I returned my attention to the TV screen, and began jumping barrels with my two-dimensional video ape.

Our bedroom door opened and closed like a cheap accordion, catching Cockroach’s fingers within its folds. “Ouch!” he yelled out.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. In fact, each time my little brother screamed out in pain, Wally and I laughed like it was the first time he’d ever hurt himself. Cockroach’s injuries never get old, I thought.
As soon as he stopped his belly-aching, Cockroach and I went straight to work. “Either that,” I told him, “or Ma won’t let us watch Dukes of Hazzard.”
“She wouldn’t do that,” he said.
I shrugged. “You wanna risk it?”
“What about Wally?” he asked. “Isn’t he gonna help us?”
“He’s on his paper route.” I thought about it, surprised that I still felt bad for my older brother. “Let’s just get it done, you little cabbage patch kid.”
He flipped me the bird.
Our bedroom consisted of single bed and a set of bunkbeds that was also used as a fort, a spaceship, or anything our cross-wired brains could conjure up—with a bed sheet draped down from the top bunk. There were two bureaus, Cockroach’s padlocked toy box and a small black-and-white TV that sat on a rickety fake wooden stand, the Atari console and joysticks lying in front on the shag carpeted floor. Three beanbag chairs helped to complete the cluttered room.
Cleaning was not as simple as it sounded. Not long ago, Ma had insisted, “You guys are gross and, from now on, you’ll be doing your own laundry and making your own beds.” I had KISS bedding that once belonged to Wally. Although Cockroach liked to pretend he was sleeping on Star Wars bedding, he enjoyed my hand-me-down astronaut set. It wasn’t easy changing the bedding on a bunkbed, but we finally got it done.
For the next hour, while we put away clothes and moved things around—mostly kicking everything under the beds—Steven Tyler from Aerosmith wailed away on Cockroach’s massive silver boom box. Although we each owned a portable stereo system, Cockroach’s was in the best shape. He takes good care of his stuff, I thought, in case he ever wants to unload it to the highest bidder. It was in pristine condition, with no stickers or corroded battery compartment,. He barely used it, so this was a treat.
When we were done straightening up, I turned to Cockroach. “Looks schweet, huh?”
He nodded in agreement. Without a proper inspection, the place looked immaculate—or at least as clean as it had been in a very long time. “Schweet,” he repeated.
It was amazing to me how different my brothers were. Being stuck in the middle of them, I usually played the family diplomat. Cockroach’s real name was Alphonse, after our Pepere—but we always called him Cockroach. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the way he scurried about, or because no matter how badly Wally and I beat on him we couldn’t seem to kill him. I learned later on that he’d actually been nicknamed after a character on one of Pop’s favorite TV shows, Hogan’s Heroes.
Cockroach was more like a skeleton wrapped in olive skin, while I was built on the sturdy side like my older brother. Although we also shared the small potato-shaped nose, I had blue eyes with curly blonde hair, which made more than a few people confuse me for a girl when I was young. Cockroach had darker eyes and a nose as slender as his build, making him appear like the one piece that didn’t quite fit into the family portrait.
“What do you want to play?” he asked me once we’d finished cleaning. His deep dimples framed a grin that was sure to make most females crane their necks.
“We could play with your Stretch Armstrong doll,” I teased.
His handsome face went white.
I laughed, remembering that ridiculously violent day.

~~~

My brothers and I had enjoyed a few rare days of peace, until turning into our usual slugfest. During the melee, Wally grabbed Cockroach’s Stretch Armstrong doll, who ended up getting the worst of it.
Wearing blue bikini underwear, the bare-chested, blonde-haired rubber doll could take a real thrashing. We could stretch him and even tie him into a knot before he went back to his original bulky form. Whether catapulted high into the air or used as the rope in a heated tug of war match, the action figure was reputed to be indestructible.
Screaming for mercy, Cockroach watched on in horror, while Wally and I put that poor doll to the test. We pulled and pulled, both of us ending up on our backsides, digging in our heels to create more distance between us.
As the first break in the skin revealed itself, Cockroach cried out, “You’re hurting him!”
That’s when something came over me and Wally—who was also known as the Mangler. We pulled harder, mutilating Mr. Armstrong beyond recognition and dispelling the fact that he couldn’t be destroyed. As Wally and I finished ripping the arms off of old Stretch, a clear gel that looked a lot like Crazy Glue oozed out.
“No!” Cockroach wailed.
“That’s weird,” Wally commented, nonchalantly, “the jelly doesn’t have any smell.”
Inconsolable, Cockroach went down on all fours to mourn the death of his favorite playmate.

~~~

“You guys suck,” Cockroach said, back in the present.
I couldn’t argue with him. Our job as big brothers is to toughen you up, I thought, justifying the cruel act. I then realized that Wally the Mangler destroyed everything in his path. The new Merlin six-in-one hand-held electronic game I’d gotten for Christmas a couple of years ago, the table-top motorcycle game he unwrapped last year…everything.
“You want to play Operation?” Cockroach asked me.
“Nah.”
“Perfection?”
“Half the pieces are missing,” I reminded him.
“Battleship?”
I shook my head. “Can’t, the batteries are dead.” I smiled. “What about Twister?”
“No way,” he said, “it just turns into a pig pile with me on the bottom.”
I laughed. That’s right.
His eyes went wide with excitement. “What about G.I. Joe’s, Herbie?” he asked. “We haven’t played war in a long time.”
I was well beyond the cusp of being too old to play soldier, but making Cockroach happy was the perfect excuse for me to play. It’s the least I can do after helping to murder Stretch Armstrong, I thought. Besides, war is not an individual sport.

Wally and I had received the entire G.I. Joe Command Center a few years earlier when we’d both gotten our tonsils removed. “It’s for all three of you to share,” our mother had announced, referring to the large gift. In recent months, Cockroach claimed the cool play set as his own, and we were good with it.
It didn’t take long for my little brother to set up everything on the floor we’d just cleared. The grey G.I. Joe Headquarters Command Center was walled in the front and wide open in the back, allowing for the tank to drive in and out of its bay, and the Jeep to enter the Motor Pool. Multiple G.I. Joe action figures manned the communication tactical station with colorful stickers illustrating the security monitors. An armory, filled with weapons, was located directly beneath the Heli-Pad—home to the awesome Dragonfly Helicopter. A holding cell for captured enemies was normally empty—as Cockroach and I rarely took enemies—while machine guns and canons defended strategic positions on top of the spot-lit wall.
For the next hour or so, we fought—and defeated—battalions of imaginary enemies.
“Come in, Flying Squirrel,” I called into a damaged walkie-talkie, “this is Swamp Yankee. How copy, over?”
“I read you, Swamp Yankee,” Cockroach called back on his matching broken walkie-talkie. “The enemy has been neutralized.”
I laughed. Cockroach is too smart for his age, I thought. It must be from all the TV he watches. It didn’t really matter that our walkie talkies had been broken since we’d gotten them. We were kneeling side-by-side only a few feet apart.
“So you really like this girl, Donna Torres, huh?” Cockroach commented, parking the Jeep in front of our perimeter.
I wheeled the tank through the Headquarters compound. “Like totally,” I said, never looking up. Donna’s different, I thought, she’s beautiful. Most girls aren’t too hard to look at, but Donna’s in a class all her own.
“Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” Cockroach joked, mimicking the funny commercial of an elderly woman pushing a panic button on her necklace.
That’s clever, bro, I thought. After a few moments of tank patrol, I blurted, “I think she’s the one.”
Chuckling, my little brother took the plastic helicopter into the air. “Sure she is, Herbie. You said the same thing about Abby Gerwitz last summer.”
He’s right, I thought. For as long as I could remember, I had a huge crush on Abby Gerwitz. But who hasn’t? I thought. “She likes Richard Giles and everyone knows it,” I told him, and because of that my feelings for her had died a very cruel death. “Donna’s the one,” I repeated, hammering my point home.
Cockroach stopped playing. “Have you told her?” he asked, giving me his undivided attention.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
For weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about exchanging valentines with Donna; giving her those small chalk hearts that said everything I didn’t have the courage to tell her: Be Mine and I Love You. I decided that these colorful messages of affection were much safer to give than a greeting card or a box of chocolates. But what if she doesn’t like me? I kept thinking, torturing myself. I’ll be a laughing stock at school. I began getting heated, picturing Paul Roberts laughing at me, and then me punching his smug face over-and-over-and-over again. Even young, I sensed that love never went unpunished.
On Valentine’s Day, I got to homeroom early and left a box of the chalk hearts in Donna’s desk. I signed the gift, From Herbie. While my heart pounded out of my chest, I watched from the back of the room as she found the candy. She looked back at me and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and I nodded—my face feeling like it was on fire.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Donna had never gotten the real message I was trying to send.
“I gave her a Valentine’s,” I explained to Cockroach, “but I’m not sure if she thinks I gave it to her as a friend.”
“Oh…” He thought for a moment. “That’s pretty lame.”
“What do you know?” I snapped back. Cockroach was still too young to understand the risk and devastation associated with being rejected by a girl—especially a girl as perfect as Donna. It was like being picked for teams in gym class; no big deal unless you were picked last. And you only have so many shots in Middle School, I thought. If you’re rejected by more than one girl, then you’re destined to be stuck in Loserville for life.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked, bringing me back into the moment.
“I think I’m going to write her a letter.”
“Really?”
“No question.”
While we played, I began to daydream about my crush. I could picture Donna as plain as the bearded G.I. Joe doll I was holding.

Donna’s so choice, I thought. She had the prettiest chocolate-colored eyes and a smile that made me feel like I was the only eighth-grade boy walking the earth. Every day at school, she either wore Jordache or Sergio Valente jeans; these were skin-tight right down to a pair of jelly shoes or clogs. Unlike most of the other girls who wore big hair with bangs—mall hair, as we called it— or tied up in a scrunchy, Donna’s dirty blonde hair was parted in the middle and feathered back. Just like Farah Fawcett on Charlie’s Angels, I thought. She usually wore a shirt with shoulder pads and her jewelry was simple; gel bracelets and friendship beads. I’d only seen her in leg warmers and a colorful headband once, realizing she’d look good no matter what she wore.
Yup, I thought, I definitely have to write her a letter. It’s the only way she’ll ever know that I…

“Herbie!” I heard someone scream.
I looked up. Cockroach was gone and I was sitting on the floor alone. Wow, that’s weird, I thought.
“Herbie!” I heard again, struggling to register reality.
It’s Ma, I realized. “Sorry, Ma, I didn’t hear you.”
“How could you not hear me? I’ve been yelling for you for ten minutes.”
Now there’s an exaggeration, I thought. “Sorry, Ma,” I repeated.
“Your father’s home from work. Go get cleaned up for supper.”
“Okay.”
“Now,” she said.

When I pulled my chair out from the kitchen table, Pop was already sitting at the head of it—wearing his faded dungarees and graying crew-neck t-shirt. Thankfully, his same-colored handkerchief—used to blow his nose and then yank out our loose teeth, sometimes one right after the other—remained in his back pocket.
Wally was also there, his face ruddy from the cold.
“How was school today?” Pop asked, blowing on his hot bowl of stew.
“Fine,” Wally mumbled, his eyes on his steaming meal.
“Good,” I added, “we’re on vacation next week.”
The old man looked across the table at Ma. “Lucky Mom,” he said, grinning.
“And we cleaned our room,” Cockroach reported.
“Well, what do you know,” he said, “it’s a winter miracle.”
For the next half hour, besides the occasional grunt or groan, we ate in silence. “Lots of hot dogs tonight,” Pop commented, dunking a slice of buttered bread into his bowl. “Did we hit the lottery or something?”
Ma grinned. “They were on sale, Walt.”
As they discussed the expensive price of groceries, my mind drifted off again. I couldn’t help it. I don’t even care that Donna has a crush on Kevin Bacon, I thought, shrugging to myself. All those hearts on her Trapper Keeper, with his initials written inside each one—who cares. I inhaled deeply. I love it when she wears that Luvs Baby Soft perfume. I could actually smell the liquid baby powder when I closed my eyes. Ahhhh…
“I’m done,” Wally announced loudly, bringing me back to the table. After placing the plastic bowl into the sink, my brother grabbed his heavy winter jacket and put it on.
“Where are you going now?” Ma asked him.
“The cellar,” he said.
“Good,” she said, getting up. “Why don’t you throw a load of towels into the wash while you’re down there?”
Although Wally’s face contorted, he nodded in surrender. “Fine, Ma.”
Within seconds, she was back in the kitchen with an overflowing laundry basket of mismatched towels.
“Bo and Luke Duke are on tonight,” Cockroach reminded him.
“I’ll be back by then,” Wally said, wrestling the bulky basket out the front door.
My father was finishing his second bowl of soup when he asked, “What the hell’s he do down there, anyway?”
“Laundry,” Ma said, standing to fetch him another bowl of stew.

At eight o’clock, Wally, Cockroach and I watched our favorite show—the Dukes of Hazzard. While we sat entranced by Bo and Luke’s unrealistic car jumps in the General Lee—as well as Daisy’s really short cut-off jeans—Ma treated us to our favorite Friday treat: hand-cut French fries, salted and shaken in a brown paper bag. There’s no better snack on a Friday night, I thought. Hold the vinegar, please.
Once the show was done, the TV belonged to Ma—who watched Dallas at nine o’clock, immediately followed by Falcon Crest. For two full hours, she snubbed out one cigarette butt after the next into a giant ashtray that rested atop its decorative wrought iron stand right beside the couch. In no time, the living room was engulfed in smoke, a low-clinging fog that had quietly crept in. While Pop snored on and off in his worn recliner—a half-empty beer can in hand—my brothers and I decided to call it a night. We’d already second-hand smoked a full pack that day.

My brothers and I wrapped up the night with a lively game of Atari Pong.
Cockroach preferred the longer paddles, while I was a bit more skilled and liked the shorter rectangles. I loved it. With virtual reality, there was much less need for actual reality.

Once Cockroach turned out the light and we retired to our beds, I called out to Wally, “Goodnight, John-boy…”
My big brother normally responded like we were part of the Walton Family, but there was no reply tonight. There was no laughter—just silence.
It suddenly hit me. Wally’s still buggn’ out, I thought, realizing that my brother’s fear was so great that it was swallowing him whole. All because of that bullshit on the bus today. I shook my head. He just needs to take a chill pill. I mean, we’re off for an entire week.

---

Excerpt from Bread Bags & Bullies: Surviving the '80s by Steven Manchester. Copyright © 2019 by Steven Manchester. Reproduced with permission from Steven Manchester. All rights reserved.


Author Bio:

Steven ManchesterSteven Manchester is the author of the #1 bestsellers Twelve Months, The Rockin' Chair, Pressed Pennies and Gooseberry Island; the national bestsellers, Ashes, The Changing Season and Three Shoeboxes; and the multi-award winning novels, Goodnight Brian and The Thursday Night Club. His work has appeared on NBC's Today Show, CBS's The Early Show, CNN's American Morning and BET's Nightly News. Three of Steven's short stories were selected “101 Best” for Chicken Soup for the Soul series. He is a multi-produced playwright, as well as the winner of the 2017 Los Angeles Book Festival and the 2018 New York Book Festival. When not spending time with his beautiful wife, Paula, or their four children, this Massachusetts author is promoting his works or writing.

Find Steven Manchester Online:

StevenManchester.com | Goodreads | BookBub | Twitter | Facebook



READ MORE ABOUT STEVEN MANCHESTER:

Does this book have a special meaning to you? i.e. where you found the idea, its symbolism, its meaning, who you dedicated it to, what made you want to write it?

On September 5, 1945, my father, William Manchester, entered this crazy world with the same promise we each get—life is what you make it. He grew into a good man, the salt-of-the-earth, always willing to help anyone in need. Dedicated to his family, he exercised a backbone forged from steel—usually working two jobs—to feed and clothe his five children. He was funny. He was kind. He was my greatest hero.

On September 5, 2018, my father, William Manchester, left this crazy world with all that he’d earned—the eternal love and undying respect of a grateful family.

This book is both a love letter to my father and a well-deserved thank you note. Without my dad, I could have never been me.

Within each comical passage and every heartfelt scene, Bread Bags & Bullies is a tribute to my greatest hero—my dad—who remains present in every fiber of my being.


Where do you get your storylines from?

Real life. I write real and relatable fiction, with plot lines and characters that feel like they’ve actually existed


Was this book easier or more difficult to write than others? Why?

This book took me four months to write, which is very quick. In many ways, it was easier than most. But it was also a means for me to grieve my father’s death (which will come as a surprise to readers as it’s primarily a comedy).


Do you write in more than one genre?

I used to, but it’s not the best idea (as you can risk becoming a jack of all genres, but a master of none). Besides, once you establish a readership, they expect a certain story. I write stories from the heart, emotional roller coasters between two covers.


Give us a picture of where you write, where you compose these words…is it Starbucks, a den, a garden…we want to know your inner sanctum?

Strangely enough, I write in my dining room, which is a place in the house few people travel through (unless they’re taking out the trash or letting the dog out—which also happen to be my responsibilities). I write with music playing in a loop (white noise), which helps me to focus on the parallel world I’m creating.


And finally, of course…was there any specific event or circumstance that made you want to be a writer?


When I was young, my grandfather was an amazing storyteller. Although he never put pen to paper, I was awed by the power of words—to make people laugh or even cry. I knew then that I wanted to be a storyteller too.
I’d just returned home from Operation Desert Storm, and was working as a prison investigator in Massachusetts. Needless to say, there was great negativity in my life at that time. I decided to return to college to finish my degree in Criminal Justice. During one of the classes, the professor talked about police work but nothing else. I finally raised my hand and asked, “The criminal justice system is vast. What about the courts, probation, parole – corrections?” He smiled and told me to see him after class. I thought I’d done it! In his office, he explained, “There’s no written material out there on corrections or prisons, except from the slanted perspective of inmates.” He smiled again and dropped the bomb. “If you’re so smart,” he said, “why don’t you write it?” Nine months later, I dropped the first draft of 6-5; A Different Shade of Blue on his desk. From then on, I was hooked. I was a writer.
The vast majority of the time, the ideas for my books come from real-life. My books are normally about relationships and the challenges that we all must overcome. The underlying theme for each is that “none of us is ever alone.”

I believe that the purpose of writers is to connect people.



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