#Excerpt from ANNA'S SECRET by Margaret Westlie @MargaretWestlie #AmReading #Historical #Murder

“Someone’s gone to great pains to leave her comfortable.” Angus stared down at Anna. He was a church elder, and because of his wisdom, the unspoken head of the community. The ten minutes since Neil had arrived with his news had seemed an hour.

“Aye, they have indeed.” Duncan regarded the neatness of Anna’s grey drugget dress arranged modestly around her ankles, her folded hands lying across her abdomen. “It’s more than she deserved.”

“Hush now, Duncan, it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead.”

“Yes, Duncan, she might come back and haunt you,” said Hector, his pale blue eyes quite serious.

“Och, Hector, you’re always thinking of ghosts.” Angus shook his grey head. “The poor thing probably has more to do than come back and haunt the likes of you.”

“She’s likely dancing in the hot place wishing for a bigger fan,” said Duncan.

A giggle erupted from Neil who had been hovering at the periphery of the small group of men. Angus looked hard at Duncan. “No more of that talk now, in front of children.” He squatted down beside Anna. “Is this the way you found her, Neil?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t touch her?”

“No, sir, only to shake her arm to see if she had just fallen asleep. She was stiff with the cold.”

Angus regarded Anna for another moment. “Help me turn her over, then.”

The three men knelt and turned her onto her left side. A small swarm of flies rose from their feast of sticky blood left on the pillow of yellow straw that had supported her head.

“It must have been someone who cared about her to take such trouble with her remains,” said Hector.

“Aye, it’s as if she was being put to bed,” agreed Angus.

“One more time,” said Duncan.

“Who’s going to tell Ian?” asked Hector.

“I will,” said Angus. “He’s my own cousin and we’ve known each other since we were schoolboys.”

“But we’re his cousins, too,” said Duncan.

“Nevertheless, I will tell him. You two will follow with Anna’s remains.”

“We need something to carry her on,” said Hector.

“There’s the door to Murdoch’s house that’s fallen in,” said Neil.

“Run, then, and be quick about it. Go with him, Hector, he’ll not be able to carry it by himself.”

Hector and Neil set out across the field where they had worked side by side with Ian only a few days before. The oats had been thick that summer and the straw had been plentiful, its shadowy roots home to field mice and grass snakes and crickets. Murdoch’s house had long stood vacant, its windows broken and its door fallen off its leather hinges. The roof had blown off in a winter gale three years ago and now the whole structure sat at a crazy angle not quite ready to fall into its cellar.

“You’re lighter than I am,” said Hector. “Go in and get the other end of the door, but mind where you step, it’s none of it very stable.”

The floor creaked and moved even under Neil’s slight weight. A few moments of careful manoeuvring freed the door from its bed of fallen rafters. In a few minutes Hector and Neil returned to the others.

Neil watched as Hector, Duncan and Angus loaded Anna’s remains onto the grey planks of the door. A smear of blood darkened the wood as they positioned her head for the journey home.

Hector shuddered. “Old Annie said this door would be smeared with the blood of the just.”

“Will you stop it, Hector,” said Duncan. “When did she say that?”

“The winter before Murdoch left for the Boston States.”

“That’s years ago, and Annie’s senile.”

“Not then she wasn’t. She said it as plain as day. I was there and I heard her.”

“And what did Murdoch think of all that?”

“There’s some say that’s the reason he left the Island.”

Anna Gillis, the midwife and neighbour in Mattie’s Story, has been found killed. The close-knit community is deeply shaken by this eruption of violence, and neighbours come together to help one another and to discover the perpetrator. But the answer lies Anna’s secret, long guarded by Old Annie, the last of the original Selkirk Settlers, and the protagonist of An Irregular Marriage. Join the community! Read Anna’s Secret and other novels by Margaret A. Westlie.

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Genre – Fiction, mystery, historical

Rating – G

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Website http://www.margaretwestlie.com

#Gender Harmony by Charlotte L. Piotrowski - GLIMPSES OF HEAVEN ON EARTH - #Women #NonFiction

From the chapter on gender harmony, by co-author Charlotte L. Piotrowski:

“In heaven on earth, women will have the same access to education as men, and the same job opportunities. They will enjoy the same right to voice their opinions. They will not be fearful of the violence most often perpetrated against women, such as: rape (including gang rape), acid throwing, honor killing, and domestic violence (which is perpetrated much more frequently against women). These evil gender-based acts will not occur in a heaven on earth. Men must, and will, view women as their equals.”

From the chapter on gender harmony, by co-author Charlotte L. Piotrowski:

“Getting to the point where men and women live in harmony will take time and commitment. Gender apartheid, which is the practice of discriminating against women economically and socially through the use of physical or legal force, is most associated with Islamic cultures in the Middle East and Northern Africa. However, it occurs worldwide and has been found to exist in the context of all of the major religions of the world. This may range from women’s struggles to gain leadership roles in certain religions to the requirement of women to cover themselves (veiling), when men have no such mandate. Removing these obstacles is necessary. Where men and women are treated fairly, harmony can exist.”

Editor and author John E. Wade II has compiled a spiritual guide of invaluable insight for finding peace and meaning in life while making the world a better place for all. Along with co-authors Charlotte Livingston Piotrowski, Daniel Agatino, Michael Nagler, and Martin Rutte, this collection of enlightening essays and inspirational quotes from renowned thinkers and leaders throughout history provides the intellectual tools needed to live a more harmonious life.

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Genre - Inspirational

Rating – G

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Victoria Bernadine Shares an #Excerpt from A LIFE LESS ORDINARY @VicBernadine #ChickLit #Women

Manny laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for sleep. She plucked restlessly at the blanket and wished she could relax. Tomorrow was Steph’s first staff meeting. Today she’d reacquainted herself with everyone in the office then spent the rest of the day with Manny being briefed on the details of the work of the branch and any current issues she’d need to resolve within the next few days. That meant Manny’s own work had been delayed, and tomorrow it would be delayed again–and Manny would have to leave early in order to meet Rebecca and Daisy at the lounge for drinks before heading to the club.

Manny took a deep breath and slowly let it out. It wouldn’t be too bad, she staunchly told herself. Steph was young, energetic, and had a shrewd intelligence almost obscured by the cleavage-revealing shirts, short skirts and a figure that could stop traffic–and probably did. Manny wondered if Craig truly understood what he’d gotten himself in for by promoting Steph rather than Manny.

Cleavage and legs.

She mentally rolled her eyes at Harvey’s dry, cynical tones.

Maybe–but that’s not really fair to him, is it? He’s not a bad guy.

But he is just a guy.

She does bring a new perspective–a new way of thinking about things. She’s not a bad choice–and I can’t argue with Craig’s idea that shaking things up could make things better.

And where does that leave you?

No worse off than I was before.

And no better.

If you’re not going to be helpful…

Harvey glanced down at his suddenly ruffled shirt opened to the middle of his muscled chest and skin-tight breeches. He glanced back at her with a ruefully amused smile.

Watched the Ice Pirates again, did you?

Oh, shut up–it’s a classic no matter what anybody else thinks!

I’m just sayin’–if I was real and regularly wore pants this tight, I’m not sure I’d be of any use to you. If you know what I mean.

Manny groaned and shook her head, and Harvey blinked out of existence. She wondered when she’d managed to lose control of a figment of her imagination–one she’d eventually felt compelled to name after an invisible rabbit.

She groaned again, rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. It was going to be another long day tomorrow.

Complete with dancing.

For the last fifteen years, Rose “Manny” Mankowski has been a very good girl. She turned her back on her youthful fancies and focused on her career. But now, at the age of 45, she’s questioning her choices and feeling more and more disconnected from her own life. When she’s passed over for promotion and her much younger new boss implies Manny’s life will never change, something snaps. In the blink of an eye, she’s quit her job, sold her house and cashed in her pension, and she’s leaving town on a six month road trip.

After placing a personal ad for a travelling companion, she’s joined in her mid-life crisis by Zeke Powell, the cynical, satirical, most-read – and most controversial – blogger for the e-magazine, What Women Want. Zeke’s true goal is to expose Manny’s journey as a pitiful and desperate attempt to reclaim her lost youth – and increase his readership at the same time. Leaving it all behind for six months is just an added bonus.

Now, armed with a bagful of destinations, a fistful of maps, and an out-spoken imaginary friend named Harvey, Manny’s on a quest to rediscover herself – and taking Zeke along for the ride.

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Genre – ChickLit, Contemporary Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Blog victoriabernadine.wordpress.com

#Excerpt from LUCIFER & THE INDIGO KIDS by @Lord_Ra_Krishna #Poetry #NonFiction #Relationships

Hannah

Butterflies and Blunts
Surfboarding in outer space

Amber and crystals
on my fingers
Beautiful tattoos on my face...

Inspiration...
Interracial...
Cocaine nights
And track shoe days...

Inspired me to live my music...
I won't forget the way we slept

Like two snakes on Hermes Scepter
Entangled in a warm embrace...

The name... the same...
Backwards or forwards...
H-A-N-N-A and H

Yellow diamonds on a butterfly ring
Her name is tattooed on my neck

Now we're married / then divorced
In strawberry fields is where we met...

Krishna... Buddha... Jesus... Loki...
Achilles.... Alexander and me
Interracial... and taboo...
I won't forget the way we slept

Was it love? Or just a fling?
Do you still have that butterfly ring

I think I took it back from you...
You hurt my feelings in the club...

Like somebody else I know?
And we are kinda married still

A god no monster can defeat...
But love is my Achilles heel

1000 leagues beneath the ocean
Further than the deepest depths...

Like 2 snakes on Hermes Scepter
I won't forget the way we slept

"This “new age” book of poetry reflects the diverse views and philosophies of it’s author Ra Krishna EL. It’s an intimate, humorous and thought provoking group of poems intended to evoke strong emotion. To quote the German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, this style of poetry can be called “Zukunfts poesie“ which translates into “Poetry of the future”, where truly original ideas are presented thru poetry. Also known as post Nietzschean poetry.

It’s subjects include society, pop culture, love, religious dogma, God and the new age of Aquarius. This book was written and published during the false incarceration of its author in Chicago’s notorious Cook County Jail, the largest jail in the country."

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Genre - Poetry, Philosophy

Rating – PG-13

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WHAT FREEDOM SMELLS LIKE #Excerpt by Amy Lewis @AmyLewisAuthor #Marriage #Women #Memoir

They have a special room on the ICU for people like me, so you don’t bother the other patients and visitors. Isolating the freshly widowed makes sense; I wouldn’t want to be around me either at that moment in time. You wouldn’t even know the room exists unless you need it. About a hundred square feet, a love seat sat on one side and two chairs on the other. There were two corner tables one holding a phone and on the other a small digital clock. The room had no magazines or TV as this wasn’t a waiting room. It was a mourning room, a breakdown room, a scream out to heaven because clearly God didn’t hear your prayers room. It was a break the news to the others room. It was a room for everything that everyone else didn’t want to witness – a parents losing child room, a children loosing parents room and in my case, it was a widow’s room.

I sat down onto the loveseat and tried to breathe. In and out. Innnn and Outttt. Innnn and Outttt. My head had a constant low level buzzing preventing me from holding a thought. Dad sat down next to me and held my hand tightly.

“Sweetheart” he whispered, “we need to make some calls.”

Calls. Calls. Calls. The word calls starting buzzing along with the noise in my head.

“Do it for me. Please. I just wanna sit here.”

He started by phoning Barbara. I had the awareness of him talking to her, but I don’t remember hearing the words. He hung up the phone. Decisions needed to be made. A young nurse walked into the room shutting the door behind her. I had never seen her before. She sat down next to me and put her arm around me.

“You know honey, in my experience with these things, it’s important for you to go in and see the body.”

The hair on my arm stood up as I heard her say the body. He was no longer a he. He was now just the body.

Diagnosed with Borderline Personality disorder, Amy struggled with depression and an addiction to sharp objects. Even hospitalization didn't help to heal her destructive tendencies. It took a tumultuous relationship with a man named Truth to bring her back from the depths of her own self-made hell.Amy's marriage to dark, intriguing Truth was both passionate and stormy. She was a fair-skinned southern girl from New Orleans. He was a charming black man with tribal tattoos, piercings, and a mysterious past. They made an unlikely pair, but something clicked. During their early marriage, they pulled themselves out of abject poverty into wealth and financial security practically overnight. Then things began to fall apart.

 Passionate and protective, Truth also proved violent and abusive. Amy’s own self-destructive tendencies created a powerful symmetry. His sudden death left Amy with an intense and warring set of emotions: grief for the loss of the man she loved, relief she was no longer a target for his aggression.

Conflicted and grieving, Amy found herself at a spiritual and emotional crossroads, only to receive help from an unlikely source: Truth himself. Feeling his otherworldly presence in her dreams, Amy seeks help from a famous medium.

Her spiritual encounters change Amy forever. Through Truth, she learns her soul is eternal and indestructible, a knowledge that gives Amy the courage to pursue her own dreams and transform herself both physically and emotionally. Her supernatural encounters help Amy resolve the internal anger and self-destructive tendencies standing between her and happiness, culminating in a sense of spiritual fulfillment she never dreamed possible.

An amazing true story, What Freedom Smells Like is told with courage, honesty, and a devilishly dark sense of humor.

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

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Website www.WhatFreedomSmellsLike.com

JOHN SMITH : #Microsoft Wars (#Excerpt) by Roland Hughes #AmReading #Fiction #Dystopian

SK:      Can we talk about the Microsoft Wars now?

JS:       Orwell was right.  Everyone was forced to read his book and yet, it still happened.  In reality, that is all anybody needs to know.

SK:      Orwell?

JS:       <sighs> Back in 1949, an author by the name of George Orwell published a novel titled 1984.  It was a look into the future and basically created the concept in society of Big Brother.  This Big Brother was a government, any government really, which would watch over you like a child.  Your life would be monitored and controlled 24 hours per day.  The dictionary would not grow in size, but shrink, as words and thoughts were continually restricted.  Anyone who possessed a thought against the government, system or the way things were being run would be turned in by friends/family/neighbors as a thought criminal.

One by one, various ministries were set up to control every aspect of life, all for the betterment of society, and most had some plausible excuse bringing them into existence.  There would be monitors installed everywhere, so you were continually watched and controlled.  It was one of the best- selling and most widely talked-about books of all time.  Many movies were created showing various flavors of the book.

SK:      Well, if everybody knew about it, then it surely didn’t happen.

JS:       Not in 1984, no.  The final vehicle for control wasn’t  chosen until the early 1990s and it took a while to roll out globally.  Sometime during 2010, the governments around the world achieved 95 percent of what they wanted.  The vast majority of citizens carried with them a 24-hour monitoring device, which could be accessed remotely and would, via GPS, give a complete picture of their travels.  Each one had a unique ID.  Best of all, the devices were marketed in such a way as to make people think they were nothing unless they had one and kept it with them at all times.

When it became apparent that some portions of society simply couldn’t afford the devices—yes, each citizen paid for their own, and gladly…they even paid to customize them—most governments came up with some kind of ministry or program to ensure each and every person falling into the “cannot afford” category was issued one under some plausible story as “medical need” or “neighborhood watch.”  This removed the poor-person-rejection-of-charity problem.  Nobody felt insulted to receive the devices, since the devices allowed them to communicate with anyone at any time, as long as they knew the other person’s unique ID.

SK:      Do you honestly expect me to believe that everybody stood in line to get a unique ID for the government to monitor them 24 hours per day, seven days per week?

JS:       No. They didn’t see it like that. They stood in line to get the latest and greatest cellphone with video camera, GPS, speaker phone, Internet access, and every other buzz phrase marketing could think of.  If you don’t know what any of that is, it doesn’t matter.  All you need to know is the more applications, called apps, it had, the more people wanted it.

Each phone had to have a phone number, which was globally unique so anyone in the world could call anybody else in the world, no matter where they were at the time. It was that “anywhere, anytime” communications capability that was a major selling point. A system of assigning phone numbers to allow for international calling had been in place for many years due to the older land line system, so it was simply leveraged.

Everyone proudly carried and used their government monitoring device.  There were even crime shows on television showing how law enforcement agencies could track a cellphone as long as it was turned on.  What they didn’t tell you was that the phone would periodically report in even when turned off, and if certain instructions were waiting, it would turn itself back on, silently, so full monitoring could continue without the owner being aware.

The only thing that could truly stop monitoring was to remove the battery, then turn the cellphone on to drain the hidden reserve.  When you did that, however, the phone was of no use.

SK: So let me get this straight—you’re saying that there was a communications network that could monitor every person in the country?

JS: No.  Before the middle of 2011, thanks to some production cost reductions, it was every person on the planet living in any civilized country and even many third world countries.  A basic cellphone could be manufactured and sold for under $20 retail, which put the actual production cost at about $6.  Those countries too poor or with terrain too rough used the satellite phones, which cost a bit more, but leveraged cellphone components to reduce costs.  Both networks were monitored by government agencies, even though commercial companies were providing the services to the cellphone owners.  Even children in third world countries who didn’t have food to eat or a bank account in their name had a phone so they could be tracked.

“John Smith: Last Known Survivor of the Microsoft Wars” is one big interview. It is a transcript of a dialogue between “John Smith” (who, as the title of the book implies is the last known survivor of the Microsoft wars) and the interviewer for a prominent news organization.

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Genre – Dystopian Fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://johnsmith-book.com/

Mike Hartner on The Eternity #Series - An Epic Saga of Good vs. Evil @MHartnerAuthor #HistFic #AmReading

What Inspired Me to Write This Book

This book is the second in a series of books called The Eternity Series.

The Eternity Series has several inspirations.

The first inspiration is to show that each life, each person, is different. We all have our crosses to bear, and how we overcome them determines who we are as a person. Whether we blame everyone else and fester in the crap that we are given by fate, or overcome the challenges and have a good life is up to us.

The second inspiration is to show that nobody’s life is perfect. Everyone has challenges. And appearances are not always what they seem.

More than that though, The Eternity Series is an epic saga of good vs evil, of man’s desire to survive and thrive, and of what we can be if we come together.

James Crofter was ripped from his family at age 11. 
Within a year the prince was a pauper in a foreign land. 
Is nature stronger than nurture? And even if it is, can James find the happiness he so richly desires? 

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Genre - Historical Fiction, Romance

Rating – PG

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DARK CHEMISTRY #Excerpt by Kirsten Mortensen @KirstenWriter #AmReading #Suspense #Romance

This excerpt, from chapter 4 of Dark Chemistry, introduces Donavon Todde, the man who destined to fall in love with the novel’s protagonist, Haley Dubose. He actually encounters her in this scene, although he doesn’t know who she is—the woman who’s about to assume control over the company where he works; the woman who is now his boss. Instead, as you’ll see, Donavon is wrapped up in a personal struggle that consumes him with emotional pain and humiliation. When we meet him, here, he’s flying home from a fruitless trip to Las Vegas . . .

Donavon set his iPhone on the bar.

What kind of a loser—

Damn it, damn bartender walked by again without looking over. What was that, the third time? Because bartenders in airport bars don’t make eye contact. Of course they don’t. They don’t believe they’ll ever see you again. For them it’s just a shift, just get through the shift, they’ll never see anyone in here again, if they get good tips they get good tips, if they don’t, so what? It’s a job, hourly, benefits. It’s not about relationships, like in a real bar ...

Donavon waited, watching, for the guy to come back over to his end of the bar. Good, he’d turned, he was heading this way ...

What kind of a loser does it take to—

“Another Sam Adams, when you get a minute.”

The bartender nodded at Donavon, but without smiling. It was a “yeah, I heard you” nod.

Donavon checked his phone again.

No messages.

“Is this seat taken?”

“No.” Donavon smiled at the woman who had spoken to him, sizing her up. Shoulder-length hair, no discernable gray, but a little crinkling around her eyes as she smiled back at him. Forties, he’d say. Mid-forties.

The bartender returned with his beer. “Menu?” he said into the air between them, and the woman said yes and asked him what sort of white wine he had, and ordered a Pinot Grigio.

“Lucky you got him,” said Donavon. “He’s a busy guy.”

“Eh, he can take all the time he likes—my flight’s been delayed until at least 7:30, apparently.”

“Yeah? Where you headed?”

“Rochester, New York. You?”

“Syracuse.”
Of course. They were in Concourse G, the spot where the little planes land and take off, the planes headed to the little airports.

Too bad she wasn’t flying to Syracuse. He could use a distraction ...

The woman was checking her phone now, sending a text message, but then when she got her wine she put her phone away and turned slightly toward him. Good—she was a friendly one. “Syracuse, eh?” she said. “So what do you do?”

“Sales.”

“Oh yeah? What company?” Smiling at him.

“RMB.” He felt himself relax as he spoke. “We’re a small chemical manufacturing plant nobody’s ever heard of, that makes stuff that other companies—companies you have heard of—put into their products.”

“What kind of products?”

“Cosmetics mostly—shampoo, lip balm, that sort of thing.”

“So is RMB based here in Chicago?” She sipped her wine, and he noticed her left hand.

No wedding ring.

Maybe he should date someone older. Maybe an older woman would be easier, less drama ...

“Nope,” he said. “It’s south of Syracuse. But as you know, if you fly to Rochester a lot, there aren’t any direct flights. I spend half my life in O’Hare. Is Rochester home for you?”

“Yes. So where are you coming from, this trip?”

“Vegas,” he said without thinking, and then wished he’d lied.

“That’s a fun town. So did you win, or lose?”

“Broke even, more or less,” he said. “Or anyway,” he struck a jovial note, “that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.”

She smiled again, then flagged the bartender and ordered a chopped salad with chicken, and Donavon asked for his check, then watched out of the corner of his eye as the woman fumbled through her purse, took out a little bottle of Purell, opened it, and rubbed it into her hands.

“How about you?” Donavon asked as she recapped the bottle and dropped it back into her purse. “What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“No kidding. That’s interesting. What do you write? Books? Or ...”

“A little bit of everything. Stories, novels. But I pay the bills with corporate contract work. Marketing brochures, that kind of thing.”

A man’s voice came on over the terminal intercom and the woman paused, listening.

“Syracuse,” she said. “Is that you?”

Donavon nodded and pushed his stool back. “Yeah.”

“Well, have a nice flight.”

“I’m Don, by the way,” he said and held out his hand.

“Christine,” she said.

Her hand felt small and clean from the Purell.

He slung his duffel bag strap over his shoulder. “Good luck on your flight.”

“Bye.”

Old enough to be his mother, almost. But maybe that’s what he needed—someone older, someone who had dealt with all her baggage, who would be grateful for the attentions of a young stud. And she was well-preserved. Trim, probably worked out. Pilates, probably, or spinning ...

So that’s it, Donnyboy?

That’s how you’re going to cope? By hitting on anything that moves?

He shook his head, trying to shake off the thought.

You get dumped, so you hate yourself, and then you cope by becoming a person you’ll hate even more?

He reached his gate and stepped into the plume of people waiting to board.

He pulled his boarding pass out of his back pocket.

There was a blond just off to the side, a little ahead of him. Her back to him. She was wearing those tight blue jean jeggings that show off every curve, black leather boots up over her calves—he let his eyes move up and down, lingering.

Yeah, now that—that was a morsel. Had to be at least an 8 or 9 ...

He shifted forward to get a glimpse of her face, her profile. Fine, like a porcelain doll. Easily a 9. Stupid, no doubt, but that was all the better. Yeah, this was exactly what the doctor had ordered. He should move in, now ... it would be easy. Let her know he had a job, strike the right balance between suave and aloof, flirtatious and superior ...

An older couple stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the blond, interrupting his thoughts, and his mind flashed back again to Vegas.

How many times had he made that trip?

And why?

What kind of a loser does it take to keep flying back out there? You know you’re not going to just run into her. And even if you did—then what? It’s done. She chose.

They’re probably fucking married by now.

What kind of loser does it take to keep chasing after a woman who is long fucking gone?

Donavon handed his boarding pass to the agent and waited as he scanned it. No beep. The agent scanned it again, and again, and finally the scanner beeped and Donavon took the ticket back and started up the jetway.

Goddamn it, they’d better have beverage service on this flight.

A woman's worst nightmare

Drugged by something...that makes her think she's fallen in love.

All Haley Dubose has ever known is beaches and malls, clubs and cocktail dresses.

But now her father is dead.

And if she wants to inherit her father's fortune, she has to leave sunny Southern California
for a backwater little town near Syracuse, New York. She has to run RMB, the multimillion dollar
chemical company her father founded. And she has to run it well.

Keep RMB on track, and she'll be rich. Grow it, and she'll be even richer. But mess it up, and her inheritance will shrink away before she gets a chance to spend a dime.

Donavon Todde is her true love. But is it too late?

He's RMB's head of sales – and the more Donavon sees of Haley, the more he's smitten.
Sure, she comes across at first as naïve and superficial. But Donavon knew Haley's father. He can see the man's better qualities stirring to life in her eyes. And Donavon senses something else: Haley's father left her a legacy more important than money. He left her the chance to discover her true self.

Donavon has demons of his own.
 
He's reeling from a heartbreak that's taking far too long to heal. But he's captivated by this blond Californian, and not only because of her beauty. It's chemistry. They're right for each other. But has Donavon waited too long to woo this woman of his dreams? Because to his horror, his beautiful Haley falls under another spell. Gerad's spell.

A web of evil.

Gerad Picket was second-in-command at RMB when Haley's father was alive. And with Haley on the scene, he's in charge of her training. But there are things about RMB that Gerad doesn't want Haley to know.

And he must control her. Any way he can.

Romantic suspense for your Kindle

Will Haley realize that her feelings are not her TRUE feelings?
Does Donavon have the strength left to fight for the woman he loves?
Will the two of them uncover Gerad's plot to use RMB pheromones to enslave the world?
And even if they do – can they stop it?

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Romantic suspense

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://kirstenmortensen.com/

John W. Mefford on Listening to His Inner Voice and Leaving the IT Industry @JWMefford #Mystery #Suspense

I look in the mirror, and what do I see? Extra lines, less hair, a little more weight, depending on my current level of fitness. Time stands still for no one. And, if you’re open to growing, learning, that’s a good thing. A very good thing.

By looking at that reflection—literally and figuratively—I’ve seen more changes than I can possibly count over the years. With more salt than pepper in my goatee, my facial hair shows some tread on my tires. Muscle strains, joint pain, squinting to read small print, all come with living a full life year after year for almost five decades. And don’t get me going about my torn rotator cuff. But it certainly beats the alternative.

I’ve never been one to hide my age, starting when I was a young kid, and looking even younger. I always had a stubborn, driven core that pushed me to work hard, even if the task or nature of the job was unappealing, or even if it made me want to puke. In my teenage years I built banana splits and flipped burgers, then mowed yards in triple-digit temperatures. Once I made it out of college, I worked long hours trying to scoop my rival reporter at the cross-town newspaper—my first paying gig in the writing world. But my drive and competitiveness hit an advanced level once I hit the grind of corporate life.

Information Technology was the field, the very hot field that sucked me in like an F5 tornado. It’s a remarkable industry, with an amazing array of talented, visionary people, especially in the early days, before anyone had used the term start-up.

From day one, I never quite felt comfortable working in IT, and most of the time truly felt out of place. Technology has never been a keen interest of mine. I had a few talents that helped me along the way…I’m pretty good with numbers and motivating people to get stuff done, even if I didn’t truly understand the nuts and bolts of what the hell we were trying to accomplish. It didn’t matter. I was told to break through the brick wall, and I did anything to reach the goal. I was about the best grinder around. Many were smarter, but few worked as hard. I never let my brain relax, because I couldn’t afford to.

And then I woke up. It wasn’t an overnight epiphany. I had internal struggles for years, my true voice softly telling me to find a job or business that suited me. It took a good ten years for me to take action, to recognize that little voice as my true self.

I have a friend who knew what he wanted to do when he was fourteen years old, maybe younger. He dreamed of working as a nuclear physicist. I’m not kidding. He was—is—brilliant. He wanted it so badly he could taste it. He talked about it all the time, studied everything about that world, and mapped his path toward his destiny.

Outside of dreaming to play for any number of sports teams, while growing up I could never figure out what I was destined to do with my life. Working as a reporter allowed me to work a muscle that I’d never used. The job itself was bit confining, but it ignited a creative spark in me that stayed alive like the Olympic flame. Then came the IT gig.

It was all meant to be…to provide life experiences that have taught me plenty, that I can share with others, my family, and, yes, write about in the most unbridled, embellished way possible. It’s empowering to finally admit the truth about who I am, how I want to contribute to the world, to evoke emotion from readers of my work. Is it a mid-life crisis? That’s not how I see it. I don’t want to buy a red sports car, I love my wife more than ever, and I have great fulfillment by watching three kids grow up and figure out life.

Instead, I’ve experienced a mid-life enlightenment. I might be in my late forties, but it’s better to admit who you are and what you’re passionate about before there’s no life left to live.

My only advice to my kids and anyone else of any age? Listen to your true self. Find your passion and then don’t hide it. Work like hell to be better at it, and be proud of who you are and how you impact the world.

It’s funny how things work out in life. My friend? Well, the government shut down funding for the super-collider, and after investing seven years of college and low-paying internships in cold-weather cities, his dreams of making a living as a nuclear physicist were flushed down the toilet. Now, though, he’s one of those visionary, brilliant people in the IT industry. He’s damn good at it, and I think he enjoys most of it. Bravo for him!

As for me, I’m a writer. I think I’m pretty damn good at it, and I’ll work my ass off to get better. That’s my passion. I hope you find yours.

Behind the façade of every corporate takeover executives pull levers this way and that, squeezing the last profitable nickel out of the deal. But no one knows the true intent of every so-called merger. 

No one knows the secret bonds that exist. 

An Indian technology giant swallows up another private company that has deep roots in North Texas. For one unassuming man the thought of layoffs, of losing his own job to a bunch of arrogant assholes feels like a kick to the jewels. 

Until the day Michael’s life changes forever.   

Perverse alliances. An affair of the heart. A grisly murder. A spiraling string of events thrusts Michael into a life-or-death fight to save a tortured soul and hunt down a brutal killer…one who lurks closer than he ever imagined. 

Greed knows no boundaries.

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Genre – Suspense, Thriller

Rating – R

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Connect with John W. Mefford on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.johnwmefford.com

Prologue from HUSH by Kimberly Shursen @KimberlyShursen #Goodreads #AmReading #Thriller

-Prologue-
June 21, 1997 

Thirteen-year-old Ben Grable stared out the window of his father’s car. He wished he could close his eyes and be somewhere—anywhere else—just not on the way to the nursing home.He hated today.

Every Sunday, his father dragged him to visit his grandmother. Two years ago, the woman who had laughed at all of his jokes, baked him chocolate chip cookies, and played Chutes and Ladders with him growing up was given a death sentence. It wasn’t fair to his Nana or the people who watched her die an inch at a time.

“Come on, son,” his father said when he parked his car in the lot. “Put on that smile your Nana loves to see.”

The one-story, all-brick building sat on an acreage surrounded by pine trees. The scene was serene, but the moment Ben stepped inside, the smell of urine and decay was overwhelming.

Old people with crinkled faces and withered hands who had shrunk to a portion of their original height sat in chairs lined against the wall saying nothing. Nothing. The years had sucked the life and voices out of them. Nursing assistants offered cookies and a smile along with a pat on the patients’ decomposing backs and told them it was a beautiful day. What did they care if the sun was shining or a tornado was about to sweep them away? Every moment of each day was the same. Pain. Loneliness. Humiliation. And fading memories of who they once were.

“Nana?” Ben said, and walked to the elderly woman sitting in a wheel chair that faced the window. Even before he reached her, he noticed the spastic movements of her hands and head were worse. He bent down next to her in the room the size of his closet, a crucifix hanging on one wall.

Her tired, puffy eyes stared at him, and Ben’s heart sank when he realized she didn’t recognize him. He could have been Batman or a poodle, and she wouldn’t have known the difference.

After a few minutes of trying to understand what she was saying, Ben turned to his father. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

His father gave him an understanding nod.

He’d wandered down the hallway, blinking back tears of anger and pain. Angry that his grandmother was never going to get better and the pain of knowing he’d already lost her.

On the other side of the nursing home, he spotted another set of double doors. Staring inside, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Babies, children, and young adults filled the long, narrow hallway; some lay flat on their backs on bare mattresses, their heads rolling back and forth in slow-motion succession. Others traipsed the floor mindlessly with unblinking, glazed eyes, their backs hunched over. Heads too large for their bodies—slanted eyes, some missing limbs, a couple with wide, open gashes in their upper lips. Where did these monsters come from, and why were they here?

Nurses changed diapers, or knelt beside mats and held baby bottles for children who looked as old, or older, than Ben. Long, guttural moans and helpless cries filtered through the doors, the smell of feces was disgusting.

He jumped when he felt something touch his shoulder.

“Sad, isn’t it?” a young nurse said.

“What’s wrong with them?” Ben asked, tasting his own sour bile.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Different things. Most were born this way, and their parents just couldn’t take care of them.”

“Why are they here? In a nursing home?”

“Part of the building is for a nursing home and”—she nodded to the other side the window—“this part is controlled by the state. There are so many nursing homes for old people and not enough institutions for people like this that a few months ago we started taking in the overflow.”

“Will they ever get better? Go home?”

The nurse shook her head. “I’m afraid not. This is the only life they’ll ever know.”

When he looked back through the windowed door, he gasped and jumped back. On the other side of the window, only inches away from his face, a pair of eyes pleaded with Ben for help.

“It’s okay. They won’t hurt you,” the nurse told him.

Ben shook his head back and forth slowly, tears welling in his eyes. He turned and raced through the halls toward the front door of the building. The face on the other side of the door burned into his memory—the bulging, watery eyes, the slobbering drool running down the glass, the hopeless and far-away look of misfortune and doom.

Heart racing, his temples throbbing, he was going to vomit. Breathless when he reached his father’s car, he found it locked. Panicked, he pulled at the handle over and over. “Open, please, open!” he sobbed uncontrollably.

He turned, leaned back against the door, and slowly sank to the concrete. If his friends saw him, they’d call him a sissy-boy. It didn’t matter. Those things, those sad, awful looking creatures weren’t human. His parents had always told him that all of God’s children were created equally. But it wasn’t true.

He brought his knees up to his chest and covered his tear-streaked face with his hands, trying hard to get the images out of his mind.

It just wasn’t true.

Soon after Ann Ferguson and Ben Grable marry, and Ben unseals his adoption papers, their perfect life together is torn apart, sending the couple to opposite sides of the courtroom.

Representing Ann, lawyer Michael J. McConaughey (Mac) feels this is the case that could have far-reaching, judicial effects -- the one he's been waiting for.

Opposing counsel knows this high profile case happens just once in a lifetime.

And when the silent protest known as HUSH sweeps the nation, making international news, the CEO of one of the top ten pharmaceutical companies in the world plots to derail the trial that could cost his company billions.

Critically acclaimed literary thriller HUSH not only questions one of the most controversial laws that has divided the nation for over four decades, but captures a story of the far-reaching ties of family that surpasses time and distance.

*** Hush does not have political or religious content. The story is built around the emotions and thoughts of two people who differ in their beliefs.

 EDITORIAL REVIEW: "Suspenseful and well-researched, this action-packed legal thriller will take readers on a journey through the trials and tribulations of one of the most controversial subjects in society today." - Katie French author of "The Breeders," "The Believer's," and "Eyes Ever To The Sky."

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Kimberly Shursen through Facebook and Twitter

Website http://www.kimberlyshursen.com/