Broken Pieces

Jack Canon's American Destiny

Orangeberry Free Alert - HORSES AND HEROIN by Bev Pettersen

Friday, May 31, 2013

Horses and Heroin - Bev Pettersen

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating - PG

4.6 (153 reviews)

Free until 4th June 2013

JOCKEY SCHOOL IS NOT WHAT IT SEEMS.
A talented rider disappears without a trace.
His frantic sister poses as a student.
A private investigator's plans for quiet recuperation are shattered.

Megan is determined to find her missing brother even though no one else at the illustrious California Jockey School seems to care. Her only ally is a recuperating PI who unfortunately is the owner's best friend. Soon she is caught between a blossoming romance and a far-reaching conspiracy...where misplaced trust can be deadly.

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Trouble in Paradise by Deborah Brown

A Brand-New Madison Westin Novel, with More Craziness in Tarpon Cove…

Remember Madison? What she had to go through… inheriting her aunt’s cottages was peanuts compared to what awaits her in TROUBLE IN PARADISE, the latest addition to the Paradise Series.

What is big news in small town Tarpon Cove? An accidental drowning or maybe even a ruthless murder? When a dead fisherman rolls up on the shore of Tarpon Cove, Madison cannot resist but to jump into her new role as Private Investigator, with only one goal in mind: to solve this intriguing mystery of the dead guy. But things do not go as Madison wants as she discovers that people in small towns are usually tight lipped, and that is certainly the case for the residents of Tarpon Cove. Although a hot bed for gossip, in a town where everyone knows everyone’s business, what is safer than keeping your mouth shut?

But that is not all…

With Madison’s tenant assessment skills not shaping up, her cottages are still full of riffraff, and it has become Tarpon Cove’s hotbed for illegal affairs. Madison teams up with her best friend and Glock-carrying Fabiana… Together they take on cases no other investigators would ever dare to touch in Tarpon Cove or anywhere else. Sometimes a girl needs a bubble bath and a fun book. So draw your bath and dive into Madison’s adventures!

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Mystery

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Connect with Deborah Brown on Facebook & Twitter

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK by Lee Evans

Thursday, May 30, 2013

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What’s in This Book?

Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK, has 160 NEW jobs, 200 jobs from Killer Work from Home Jobs 1, and 100 jobs from Killer Work from Home Jobs 2. There’s no story. No lessons. Just jobs! Economical too – it’s three books in one. SUPER BOOK identifies Fortune 500 & Legitimate Work at Home Jobs from global, national, mid-sized and start-ups with wings.

Why You Need This Book!

Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK will help you accomplish your dream.

  • Is it finally time to find a job so that you can work from home?
  • Do you really want to trudge hours to work every day?
  • Are you looking for an honest work from home opportunity?

The idea for the Killer Work from Home Jobs Series came from the fact that I trudged to my job, as manager of someone else’s business, wondering why I wasn’t happy. I was good at what I did, achieved the company’s goals, made good money, received accolades, but something wasn’t right, there was no sense of fulfillment.

I can’t convey the melancholy I felt, I worked hard to achieve success, earned every academic credential, had a resume to swoon over. But I wasn’t a happy camper. Was this all there was?

Once I decided to work at home, it was amazing, I jumped in the air and clicked my feet! Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK is dedicated to all those who just can’t go back to work. In addition to the “I can’t take it any mores” of the world, this book will help many who have other compelling reasons, as well. The need to work from home runs deep. Taking the first step to working at home will make you jump for joy.

How is This Book Different?

How is Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK different from other work from home books? It is the largest compilation of home-based jobs available on Amazon today.

  • Is the company financially healthy?
  • Has the company been around for awhile?
  • Does the company have a global footprint?
  • Does the company have “money in the bank?”

My months of research answered these questions, to provide you with key company data.

My Promise to You

I verified all links in Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK at publication. Since companies change web pages, and job needs, if any of the links don’t work, simply contact me at Free-Job-Search-Websites.com, I’ll provide you with revised link info & you can get notice of new books, too.

You’re not just buying a book, you’re buying my promise that I’ll tirelessly provide you with the most up to date info at my disposal. I want to help you make your dream come true!

Learn how to find Killer Work from Home Jobs

Genre – NonFiction / Business / Job Hunting

Buy Now @ Amazon

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Lee Evans on her

Website http://www.free-job-search-websites.com/

Orangeberry Free Alert - Still Fine at Forty - Dakota Madison

Still Fine at Forty - Dakota Madison

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Contemporary Romance

Rating - R

4.6 (7 reviews)

Free until 1st June 2013

It all started with a Girl's Getaway Weekend in Sedona, Arizona...
It's been a year since Jennifer Ellis's ex-husband left her for a much younger woman and Jennifer still hasn't dated. Now turning 40, Jennifer wonders if she'll ever find love again. So Jennifer's best-friend, Melanie Malone, books them on a Girl's Getaway in picturesque Sedona, Arizona in hopes of inspiring Jennifer to have a vacation fling.
Jennifer gets more than she bargained for when she meets the ruggedly handsome 29-year old tour Jeep guide, Cody Miller, and the two begin a passionate romance. What Jennifer doesn't know is that Cody has a secret past that not only threatens to destroy their new love but also expose a tragic event from Jennifer's past that she has tried desperately to forget.

Author Interview – Andrew Seaward

imageDo you recall how your interest in writing originated? I always loved to write, ever since I was in grade school. Poems, short stories, plays, you name it. Aside from reading, it was one of the few ways I could escape from the dullness of life in suburbia. But, somewhere along the way, I lost that desire, and traded my pen for a liquor bottle. At first the drinking was a sort of congratulatory trophy at the end of a long night for a job well done at school, sports, whatever. After a few years, I became physically dependent, unable to stop for fear of shakes, hallucinations, even seizures. What resulted was a five year long struggle in and out of hospitals, rehabs, and detoxes all over the country.

For a while, I didn’t think I’d ever recover and even considered suicide as a possible way out of it. Fortunately, I had some people in my corner who never gave up on me, namely my mom and dad, Patty and Randy Seaward. Because of their unconditional love and their tireless devotion, I was eventually able to get the treatment I needed to recover. It’s been four and half years since I put the cap back on the bottle, and I haven’t once looked back. I’m loving my newfound freedom.

As you can see, I’ve even returned to my writing. In fact, this novel was one of the things that helped me stay sober. By exploring the insidiousness of addiction through the lives of my characters—Dave, Monty, and Angie—I was able to learn some things about myself that I probably wouldn’t have otherwise discovered. What I learned is that I still have a long way to go before I can say I’m truly recovered. But that’s okay. After all, it’s not a race. It’s a lifelong journey.

What inspires you to write and why? Everything! Life! From the dullest trifles to the wildest, zaniest adventures, I can find the drama in just about anything. Of course, I get accused of being a great embellisher. But I disagree. I think most people just aren’t as observant. The drama is there. It’s right in front of us—at work, at home, at the grocery store, at the train station. I once saw two blind men bump into one another right outside of Whole Foods, they then have a sword fight with their canes right there on the frigging street corner!  It was amazing. But I seemed to be the only one watching. Everyone else just kept passing by. Couldn’t they see what was happening!? As writers, we must open our eyes, sit, watch, and listen. Who knows what will be the inspiration for my next novel. It could be you.
What inspired you to write Some Are Sicker Than Others? At first, I didn’t want to write this story. Having spent the better part of my twenties in and out of hospitals and rehabs all over the country, I wanted to get as far away from addiction and thinking about addiction as I possibly could. But I couldn’t do it. No matter how hard I tried to forget all that had happened, the memories were right there, taunting me, teasing me, reminding me just how inadequate I was. So, I did what any stubborn alcoholic with only a year of sobriety would do; I decided to face my addiction head on. I turned off my cell phone, powered on my computer, made a pot of coffee, and locked the door.
But after a few weeks of staring at a blank monitor, I quickly began to realize…I wasn’t gonna remember much. As it turns out, I had drank so much and caused so much brain damage that I couldn’t really remember what had actually had occured. I remembered bits and pieces and fragments of images, like waking up in a hospital bed strapped down by my wrists and ankles while nurses in green uniforms scurried behind me and connected tubes to my arms. But how I got there and what happened after, are all just blurs of another place and time. So, a memoir was out of the question, unless I was gonna fabricate most of it, but we all remember what happened to James Frey.
So, instead of trying to portray the insidiousness of addiction through my own personal story, I decided to portray it through the lives of three fictional characters. This turned out to be a very good decision. Through my main protagonist, Monty, I was able to ask a very difficult question, that I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to ask otherwise. The question I’m referring to is this:
What would happen if, only after a year of sobriety, I lost the only person in my life that I ever truly loved? Would I, like Monty, use it as an excuse to relapse and drink myself into oblivion? Or would I fight to stay sober and live my life clean and pure, the way that she lived hers?
The answer I came up with was a little disturbing, especially for my parents, who I put through absolute hell. But, I believe it was the honest answer, the truthful answer, and I couldn’t have written it any other way. Believe me, I tried.
Who or what influenced your writing once you began? Great question! And to answer it, I’m going to need to tell you a little story. But, bear with me, this could get ugly:
About five years ago, I was sitting at home staring at the checkerboard pattern of wine stains tattooed in my carpet, when I got a call from a girl (let’s call her Vicky) whom I had met only two weeks earlier while detoxing at a hospital in downtown Houston. It turns out, I had given her my cell number and told her to call me, but was so drugged up that I had completely forgotten. Anyway, she said she was going to a twelve-step meeting at the detox hospital (they had alumni meetings there on the weekends) and wanted to know if I was interested in joining. “Hell yeah,” I said. “I’d love to join you.”
I brushed my teeth, threw on a nice sweater, laced up my shoes, and hopped in my Toyota Corolla. She lived with her mom all the way out in the boonies in a small farm town called Alvin, TX (the same town Nolan Ryan grew up in, consequently.) It took me nearly an hour to find it, and another hour on top of that to drive back to Houston for the alumni meeting. We had a good time though, talking, laughing, and sharing our “war stories.” After two years of drinking in isolation, it felt great to be able to connect like that to someone.
Once the meeting was over, I took her out to dinner at Pappadeux’s. Then, we went back to my apartment and watched a movie about heroine addiction called, “Things We Lost in the Fire.” Now, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong…nothing happened. Being the Southern gentleman I am, I offered her my bed while I slept on the sofa. There was absolutely no funny business; no getting up in the middle of the night and slipping under the covers, no team showers, not even so much as a bare nipple!
The next morning we got up, ate breakfast, and drove out to Bellaire for an early morning meeting that Vicky had heard about from her sponsor. After it was over, we had lunch and I drove Vicky back to her mom’s house in Alvin. 
It went on like this for several months. After on work on Friday, I’d pick her up from her mom’s house and take her to the alumni meeting, after which we’d have dinner then crash at my apartment. We spent the whole weekend together, going to meetings, watching movies, and basically just keeping each other sober. We even went skydiving one weekend and wakeboarding another. It didn’t take long for me to develop some strong feelings for Vicky. Not only was she a sexy little Hispanic coke addict (what else could you ask for in a woman?), but she was also the only person in my life at that time who still wanted to be around me. Everyone else was gone, because I’d turned my back on them; my parents, my friends, my sister, my brother…I pushed them all away, because I was too ashamed of all the horrible things I’d said and done to them. But Vicky was different, because she didn’t really know me. She didn’t know all the terrible things I’d done in my addiction. In exchange, Vicky never told me anything about herself, at least, not anything too personal.
But, could you love someone you didn’t know? No, probably not. But so what? That’s the way we liked it. It gave us a chance to start over and be different people. We didn’t have to face our shame and all those poisonous memories—we could just put them on a shelf somewhere and try to move forward. So, what if it wasn’t real love? So, what if it was just codependence? We kept each other sober and that’s all that mattered, right?
Well, after about four months of seeing each other, Vicky suddenly stopped coming over. A dozen or so unanswered voicemails later she finally called me back and told me we couldn’t see each other anymore. She said she was getting back together with her ex-husband, who, it seems, had divorced her while she was in rehab, kicked her out of the house, and confiscated her vehicle. This explained why she was living all the way out in Alvin with her mother and always needed a ride to meetings. But, now, since she had proved she could stay sober for more than a few hours, her ex-husband was willing to take her back and “re-marry” her. She no longer needed me to pick her up and take her to meetings, because she got her car back, not to mention her house and her husband, whom she was still in love with.
Needless to say, I was completely shattered. I felt betrayed and used and fell into a deep, dark depression. I quit going to meetings. I quit calling my sponsor. (I never really liked him in the first place. The only reason I had him was because he was married to Vicky’s sponsor). After about a week of sulking, I started contemplating drinking, which at that point in my career was the same thing as contemplating suicide. You see, I had built my entire recovery around Vicky, and without her, I had nothing. I was lost. I was right back where I started.
Now, I’d like to say I relapsed and fell out of the program and ended up on the street eating from a trashcan. That would really drive home the “dangers of love addiction”. Unfortunately or fortunately, my story isn’t as neat and clear-cut as others. In fact, it’s downright confusing. I still haven’t completely figured it out. But, let me try…
The four months I spent with Vicky was the longest stretch I ever had staying sober, and somehow, it was just enough to “free” me from not just the physical, but also the psychological dependence I had on alcohol. By keeping me sober for those first ninety days out of detox, Vicky became a sort of crutch for my recovery…meaning she helped me to “walk” while I was still wounded, until I was healthy enough to “walk” on my own.
But what if something tragic had happened in those first ninety days out of rehab? What if she had gotten killed in a hit-and-run car accident? Would I have used that as an excuse to go back to drinking? You’re damn right I would’ve. And that, right there, was the jumping point for Some Are Sicker Than Others

What do you consider the most challenging about writing a novel, or about writing in general? TIME! Oh, if I only had the time!

Fact is…writing is so damn immersive hours will pass by, but only feel like a few minutes. Sometimes I’ll sit down to write at 4:30 in the morning, and before I know it the sun will be coming up and holy crap! I have to be at work in thirty minutes.  It stinks, because it takes a while to get going and once you’re into it, it’s hard to pull yourself away. It’s kinda like watching a really good movie. Once you get to a certain point, you just have to finish. Unfortunately, a novel can take years and years to finish. So, you end up thinking about the story when you really shouldn’t; at work, at the grocery store, in traffic. Sometimes I’ll catch myself at work just daydreaming for hours upon hours. It’s like I become paralyzed. I can’t think of anything but the story.
This happened to me on when I was trying to figure out the perfect ending for Some Are Sicker Than Others. I had three POV characters, each with their own thread in the story, and my job was to get their lives to converge in a compelling, but logical manner. It was all I could think about for a good two months. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t exercise. My relationship with my girlfriend suffered. She’d be talking to me about something and I wouldn’t even be paying attention. She’d say, “What the hell is wrong with you?” I’d just look up with a dazed look on my face: “How do I end the story?”
It actually became a serious health hazard. I can’t tell you how many car accidents I nearly had because I wasn’t paying attention to what was in front of me. One time I missed my exit and accidentally drove all the way to Boulder. Boulder’s thirty miles away in the opposite direction! I have no idea what I was thinking. Well, actually I do. I was thinking about my antagonist’s confession to the hit-and-run accident!

Dakota Madison – 10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

by Dakota Madison

1)  Read as much as possible, especially in the genre in which you would like to write.

2)  Write every day, preferably first thing in the morning before your mind gets cluttered with other things.

3)  Set writing goals and stick to them.

4)  Always finish a project before you start a new one, otherwise you’ll end up with files filled with unfinished projects.

5)  Once you’ve finished a project, put it aside for two to four weeks before you even consider rewriting it. This will give you a fresh perspective on the work.

6)  Keep in mind that first drafts are usually scrappy. Give yourself permission to write a scrappy first draft that you can fix during the rewrite process.

7)Never edit while you’re writing because it can block the creative process and flow.

8)Don’t compare yourself to other writers. You have a unique perspective and a unique voice.

9)Write the thing you absolutely have to write. If you’re not passionate about a project, no one else will be either.

10)Make writing a priority.

 

This NEW ADULT ROMANCE contains language and content indented for adult readers (18+).

The Bad-Girl and the Boy-Next-Door…
After getting completely wasted at a wedding reception, bridesmaid Anna Hart wakes up in a strange bed and can’t remember what she did or who she did it with. The stranger in bed with Anna is Brett Conner, a nerdy guy who she vaguely remembers from college, but only because everyone called him Clown Hair. Only Brett isn’t quite as nerdy as Anna remembers. His clown hair is long gone and Brett is almost cute–and kind of sexy.
Over the course of four weddings, in four cities, in one crazy summer, Brett and Anna start a mismatched relationship. But is there a future for the bad-girl and the boy-next-door?

THIS IS AN UPDATED AND EDITED VERSION OF THE NOVEL.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Dakota Madison on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://12novels12months.tumblr.com/

Barbed-Wire Butterflies by Jessica Kristie (Excerpt 1)

Lifeless Metal - CHAPTER 1 - A New Truth

Loud noises banging from the trunk didn’t even make the two men flinch. It was an all too familiar sound. They traveled down a long dirt road toward what seemed, to the untrained eye, to be an abandoned warehouse. The town car didn’t fit the road traveled, but it had been there many times before.

The thumping had finally subsided as they pulled near the desolate building. Quickly, they passed through the guarded entrance and could see another man waiting in his dark green clothing, waving them forward. The large wall receded up, opening into what looked to be an airport hangar. Several small planes, cars, and other equipment were parked inside. The two men got out of their vehicle and walked to the back of the car. The taller man turned to his partner and grinned while he unlocked the trunk.

Inside lay a thirteen-year-old girl, still passed out from the drugs she had been given steadily over the last few days. Her body was twisted from being knocked around during the three-hour trip from the hotel to the warehouse.

“Another one,” the shorter man said with a half-hearted laugh.

“The second one this month; I wonder what’s up,” the shorter one responded.

“It ain’t our business to ask. Let’s just get her in here and get out. I want to get home before four a.m. this time.”

“You take the feet and let’s get a move on.”

They each did their part and carried the young girl to the door where a gurney and two other men were waiting. They placed her on the rolling bed and headed back to their vehicle. It was as easy as that, and they were done. The town car drove off into the night, not to return until another package was to be delivered.

In her unknown destination and an hour after delivery, Elani Benjamin woke up. With confused, red-rimmed eyes and blurry vision, she could make out a tall woman hovering over her. The woman had long red hair and a much-too-wrinkled face to be in her forties. She was dabbing Elani’s forehead with a cold, wet wash cloth knowing full well the young girl would protest soon.

“Where . . .” Elani tried to make sense of her words and surroundings, her head still foggy from the last few days. She darted up from the gurney and scanned the room for something, anything familiar. A nauseous feeling tugged at the lining of her stomach.

Everything was concrete, or white painted over concrete. The room smelled sterile but unclean at the same time. Confused about how she got there, she closed her eyes and tried to remember. The last thing that came to her was stopping at a Quik Stop for something before heading home.

“Elani, I’m Jolene. I need you to keep calm while I explain where you are. Please try and control yourself so you don’t upset the other girls when I put you in your new room.” Jolene paused for a response. “Do you hear me, girl?”

“How do you know my name?” Elani pleaded to Jolene with surprise and a growing concern.

“We know everyone we bring here to The Hub. It’s our job to know who we’re dealing with.”

“Where’s my mom? Does my dad know I’m here?”

“Look, girl. I’m just going to tell you like it is. This is your new home. What you will have is a bed, food, and work. It’s not much, but that’s what it is. Now change into this so I can bring you to your new room.” Jolene threw a blue sweat suit at Elani that was stenciled with an L, along with some old, worn sneakers, and then lifted her hands in a quick attempt to get her going. Elani slowly pulled the clothes toward her and reluctantly changed.

“Here, put your clothes in this. You won’t be needing them anymore. We all just wear the same thing,” Jolene said as she held a plastic bag in front of her.

“I want to go home,” Elani said, panic rising in her voice.

“That’s what you say now, but things will change,” Jolene quickly responded, in hopes to diffuse the pending breakdown. “You’re a big girl, you can do this.”

“I don’t want to do this. I don’t even know what this is,” Elani snapped with tears forming in her big blue eyes. She used her sleeve to rub the salty drops from her face and nervously pushed her dark hair behind her ear.

“Girl, we gotta get a move on. We don’t have time for this. The quicker you realize what is happening here, the easier it gets. I’ve been here for twenty-two years and I ain’t got no qualms about that.”

“What?” Elani was shaking. “I can’t go home, ever? What about my mom and my brother? My brother needs me. I need to get back home.”

“Your brother is fine. Your mom is fine. They will learn to get on without you. Now get dressed and let’s be going.” Jolene was losing her patience and it was obvious she had been through this routine too many times before.

Elani’s heart plummeted in her chest as the lack of control sunk in. She retreated to silence, feeling she might pass out from terror. She had no clue what these people wanted or what new future was being laid out without her permission. It all felt too unreal to comprehend.

She finished changing her clothes and surrendered her old life in a small plastic bag to Jolene. Jolene led her through several dimly-lit corridors with four doors on each side. Each hallway reminded Elani of pictures she had seen on television of the rooms for inmates of a mental-health facility. Small windows, about three inches wide, served as the room’s only peek outside of the personal cells. Elani’s mind was racing. Was this a prison? Had she done something to get put in juvenile hall? She knew of several kids in her neighborhood who had been to juvie, but from what she remembered, the kids went to court first.

Elani was always a fairly good kid. She had never done anything that deserved this kind of punishment. She tried not to shake, and watched Jolene as she stoically continued to lead her down dirty pathways with no hint of natural light to be found.

Finally, after several minutes of walking, they reached a long hallway that was just the same as all the others they had passed. The only difference was a large L stenciled at each entrance. “This is you, girl. L17.” Jolene reached into her pocket and pulled out the biggest ring of keys Elani had ever seen. “You are locked in at all times. We can’t have you girls trying to run about, now. Just keep your head straight and do what you’re told. You got that, girl?” Jolene asked as she unlocked the door and ushered Elani into her tiny room.

“Yes ma’am,” Elani said without thinking.

“Good girl, Elani. That will do. Now meet your bunkmates: Sophie, Jada, and Isabel. They are all nice girls who like being here. You get right, like them, and you’ll be fine.” Jolene turned to the girls in the room, “This is Elani. Tell her what she needs to know.” She then turned back to Elani to confirm she understood.

Elani nodded in confused agreeance as she surveyed the room. There were two sets of metal bunk beds on each wall. The two-foot space between the beds held a single garbage can. To the right of the door was a frayed sheet thrown over a rusted metal frame, serving as a space divider. It seemed to be covering a small toilet and a sink. Elani cautiously moved further into the room and stood there in complete disarray. She was jolted to reality as she heard the heavy door close loudly behind her. Jolene was gone.

“You can have the bed over there,” said a small girl on the bottom bunk across from what was now to be her permanent bed. “I’m Sophie, I’ve been here awhile. About six months, as far as I can tell. I’m trying to keep track but wonder what the point is sometimes.”

Sophie had green eyes and blonde hair. Here hands where tiny, and fit her small frame. She was far too young to be in a place like this and Elani could tell it had aged her too quickly, just like the rest of the girls.

“Where is here?” she asked in a once-again growing panic.

“The Hub,” said the girl in the top bunk above Sophie. “I’m Jada. Been here awhile now, too; it ain’t so bad. Better than what I had before, I guess.” Jada was obviously the oldest. The one who attempted to keep the peace. She had dark brown skin and jet-black hair with beautiful big brown eyes. Her hair, like all the girls, looked matted and dirty.

“Before?” Elani asked.

“Yeah, before they brought me here. I was pretty much livin’ on the streets or from foster home to foster home. Now, I get my own bed and at least one meal a day.” Jada attempted to be reassuring but her sullen gestures gave the truth away.

“Don’t you miss home, though? This isn’t right,” Elani protested. “We shouldn’t be here. I want to go home.”

Tears forced their way down her burning red cheeks and she collapsed on her bed holding her knotted stomach and aching muscles.

“Hey now, don’t upset the other girls. I know it’s weird but you get used to it quick,” explained Jada. “It gets better, I promise. Hopefully the worst is over.”

“I don’t want it to get better. I just want to get back home. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“You’re here to work,” chimed in a new voice she hadn’t yet heard. “I’m Isabel, and we are all here to work.” A thick Hispanic accent escaped her lips and she twisted her dark hair anxiously. Her brown eyes were bulging slightly from her head and she was far less confident than Jada when she spoke.

“To work? I’m only thirteen, why would I have to work?” Elani said through her blanket of tears.

“That’s why we’re brought here; to work,” Isabel said in a quiet and comforting voice.

Jada jumped in, “You are now a part of what you may have heard called a sweat shop. It’s a place where people are forced to work. We make things like clothes, and put together phones and stuff like that, whatever they tell us to do. We always do what they tell us to do. It’s better that way.”

“So we are here just to work, nothing else? Why would anyone do that?”

“Because it’s cheap and people are greedy. I was fifteen when they took me, and I already knew what nasty things people did for money. Or to save money. I’ve been here a year or so and I don’t mind it. This place is different than most. From what I’ve heard, we get treated pretty damn good compared to other places like this,” Jada tried to reaffirm.

“Why? Why would they treat us good? They kidnapped us and threw us in a cement box to never see our families again. How is that good, anyway?” Elani said, her eyes welling with tears again.

Listening to them talk, she was slowly realizing these kids were brainwashed. Trained to say what The Hub needed them to say, and do what they were told to do. Fear was sharp and palpable from wall to wall.

“There’s not a lot of conversation that goes on here. We all stay pretty quiet, but sometimes we hear the leaders or guards talking. From what I know, they pick people who need a place to stay and food to eat. They don’t really care if we’re happy, but want us to be content enough to stay, or . . . I guess . . . not fight staying. I don’t know how many have tried to break out, but from what I’ve heard, no one has,” Jada explained.

“So this is my life, then?” Elani wimpered.

“This is your life,” Jada said with little comfort.

With that new and shocking information, Elani rolled over into her pillow and tried to hold herself to sleep. The other girls peered over at her from their beds.

Isabel looked down at Elani from the bed above to try and offer one last round of comfort. She pulled herself back up when it became clear there was nothing she could say. Isabel had been there once, too, and the fear never really went away. The girls all lay back in their beds as the room went dark. It was lights out for the night.

Elani was frozen in the dark hoping this was some bizarre slip in reality that would be rectified come morning. Her emotional wounds dug deep under her skin making it difficult to breath. She thought that any moment she might lose consciousness, but almost welcomed it. She buried her face in the flat pillow that sat on her sagging mattress. Everything reeked of dirt, sweat, and fear. The salty tears that crawled inside her mouth served as some familiar comfort. The confusion was unbearable and shock took over. Elani fell into a sleep as her body shut down. She hoped that the morning would prove this was all but a bad dream, and nothing more.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Literary Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Jessica Kristie on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://jessicakristie.com/

Review: Be Good by Dakota Madison

Be GoodBe Good by Dakota Madison
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Would you recommend it? I would recommend only to adults who like romance and not offended by vulgar language.

What major emotion did the story evoke in you as a reader? Empathy for Anna. She just did not know she was on the road to destruction.

Amazement with Brett, he was so patient but sometimes too patient.

What are some of the major themes of this book? Forgiveness and change. Learning to forgive ourselves for past actions is the hardest part about learning we need to change.

Disclosure: I received a review copy of this book from the author.

View all my reviews

Orangeberry Free Alert - How I Wrote 2 eBooks in 21 Days by Glen Stanford

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

 

How I Wrote 2 eBooks in 21 Days - Glen Stanford

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Non Fiction

Rating - PG

4.6 (55 reviews)

Free until 2 June 2013

Ride a hilarious roller coaster with Glen Stanford as he follows Steve
Scott's plan in "How to Write a Nonfiction e-Book in 21 Days!"
Not one to let the writing process cramp his style, this ukulele-playing,
bluegrass-singing YouTube sensation (32 views and counting) juggles his
new-found fame with astonishing persistence to produce not one, but two
works of genius. This is the true story.
FIVE CRITICAL Reasons you MUST read this book
1. America's Funniest Recipes want you to read this book
The (secret) recipe for success:
Writer's buzz - 1 oz
Sleepless nights - 2 oz
Tenacity (and beer) - 7 (units left deliberately vague)
Irreverence and political incorrectness - to taste
Espresso - administered intravenously - 55 gal
Pizza (1/2 pepperoni, 1/2 mushroom) - 37 slices
Humility - a whole bunch
Blend and enjoy.
2. Chuck Noris wants you to read this book
You gonna argue with Chuck? I'm not! He is a huge believer in the power of
laughter because it leads to the lowering of stress hormones. This is
the carrot AND the stick - lower your stress by laughing and you won't
have to worry about Chuck getting angry with you at the same time.
P.S.
Chuck Noris is from Dubuque, Iowa and is in no way related to Chuck
Norris, the consummate actor karate-guy who would probably kick my ass
if I used his name without permission.
3. The Bible wants you to read this book
The Good Book says "A joyful heart is good medicine" (Proverbs 17:22).
Then again, it also says "Judas hanged himself" (Matthew 27:5) and "Go
and do likewise" (Luke 10:37) so you gotta be kind of selective when you
pick your quotes from this 1700-year-old classic.
4. It's flipping funny and Rated PG, too
While I might dance around some edgy subjects, I never want my readers to squirm. I leave that to the Ben Stilers of the world.
P.S.
Ben Stiler is in no way related to the incredibly funny Ben Stiller,
whose masturbatory comedic genius (when he's not meeting some Fokker)
always leaves you with a chuckle.
All of my books are swear-word-free. I tire of today's "comics" who resort to f-bombing
their material as if dirty words are the main ingredient instead of an
occasional spice.
The worst word you'll ever hear from me is "crap." Feel free to substitute something stinkier if it makes you feel
better, but honest humor shouldn't have to rely on shock jock laziness.
Then again, Howard Stearn made $100 million with his lesbian obsession and I
sell my books for the price of a cup of coffee, so what do I know?
When you see the word "flipping," you are also free to substitute something
racier, like "freaking." It's your theater of the mind, and you are the
only one taking the tickets.
That is, unless you object to me using the word "Damn" in the subtitle. That's just too funny to pass up,
and I'm #%$#&! using it.
P.S. Howard Stearn is in no way related to the radio professional Howard Stern, for whom I have only the
greatest respect. Baba Booey. Oh, and "lesbian" isn't a dirty word
anyway, nana.
5. For Writers only
You will uncover nuggets of resources that will be incredibly helpful on your journey to write
and publish your own book. You'll just have to suffer through the fun
stuff to uncover them. Think of it as a treasure hunt.
IN SUMMARY
God,
Chuck, America's Funniest Recipes and the movie Rating Board all want
you to read this book (and probably Ben and Howard, too). I wouldn't
mess with any of them. So it's no coffee for you today -  you have a
hormone level to lower.

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Too Many Secrets (Cleo Sims Mysteries) by Lynn Osterkamp

Chapter 1

December 11

Waves of nausea overwhelmed me as I rushed into Turley’s Restaurant at noon that icy December day. A blast of hot air smelling of fish, burgers, onions and such sent me careening to the ladies room to avoid puking on the dining room floor. Amazingly, once I was inside the safety of the stall, I managed to avert the worst, containing my sickness to dry heaves. I hurried out to the sinks to make myself presentable for my lunch meeting with Bruce, the local dot-com millionaire who funds an experimental project that is a major part of my grief-therapy practice. I was a wreck. I'd had a miserable morning, I was late to a meeting with Bruce who prizes promptness, and my shaky queasiness exacerbated my anxiety about why Bruce had summoned me.

As I calmed my breathing and dabbed at my face with a wet paper towel, the ladies room door flew open, letting in a tall blond woman wearing designer jeans and a red ribbed turtleneck, topped with a necklace of multicolored glass beads. My best friend Elisa, looking stunning as always. We both jumped in surprise, then she darted over and enveloped me in a welcome hug. “Cleo? Honey, you look under the weather. Is the morning sickness getting worse?”

“Shhh,” I said. “Let’s not spread the news all over Boulder.” I wasn't ready to tell the world about my pregnancy, since I was only three months along, and Pablo and I aren’t married. So far Elisa and Pablo are the only ones who know.

Elisa pulled back, looking up and down the room. “Sorry for the blabbing, but you know me. Sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain. The good news is it looks like we’re alone in here. Now let’s fix you up a little,” she said, straightening my sweater. She grabbed a comb out of her bag and worked some magic on my hair.

I felt better right away. Elisa is like a big sister to me. The kind of sister who knows how to do stuff you don't, but never makes fun of you. She just helps.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, “but I have to run. I’m already late for my lunch meeting with Bruce.” I headed for the door.

Elisa waved me on. “Oh—you’re meeting Bruce! Well hang in there, honey, and call me later with the scoop.”

Back in the dining area, I scanned the room a couple of times. Didn’t see Bruce. Deep breath. Maybe I’m not as late as I thought? But no, there he is sitting with a petite dark-haired woman in a booth next to a brick wall. Unexpected. Bruce is a brilliant guy who works all the time. Divorced. No social life. Who is this woman and why did he bring her?

I hustled over to their table and slid into the booth across from them, my mind on autopilot running through possible menu choices that my gut would be willing to tolerate. “Sorry to be late,” I muttered, hoping my winning smile would distract from my tardiness. “Good to see you, Bruce.”

“Hi, Cleo, I thought you forgot. This is my sister, Gayle. She needs your help.”

Whew! A relief on that score. Good to know he hadn’t summoned me to talk about problems with the funding for my Contact Project.

Gayle gave Bruce a poke. “Whoa, Bruce. This isn’t a computer-programming job. It’s personal. Let’s take a few minutes before we dive in.”

“Okay, let’s order first, then talk,” he said, burying his face in the menu.

As we perused our menus, Gayle’s cell phone rang. She answered, and jumped up. “No,” she said sharply into the phone. “That’s not acceptable.” She turned to us. “I have to take this,” she said. “Be right back.” She dashed toward the door, talking intently into the phone with her hand over her other ear to block the restaurant noise.

“Gayle’s a real estate agent,” Bruce explained. “Her phone is her life.”

We sat quietly looking at our menus. Bruce isn’t much of a talker. He’s a techie. Brainy, but basically shy. Even though he’s forty-five and a self-made multi-millionaire, his social skills aren’t well developed. He’s one of those guys who goes around looking at the floor or off into the distance so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. Small talk is definitely not his forte.

Gayle darted back across the room to our booth. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m ready to order if you two are.”

I took a last look at the menu. Turley’s trademark is its healthy food, and in addition to more traditional lunch and dinner entrees, they serve breakfast all day. Knowing I needed protein for the baby, I decided on a garden omelet with mushrooms, spinach, and tomato with toast on the side. Hoped I could get it down with the help of a ginger ale. Bruce ordered a buffalo burger with a side of fresh fruit, and Gayle ordered the sesame spinach salad with the dressing on the side.

“So like I was saying,” Bruce began as the waitress left to turn our orders in, “Gayle needs some help from you.”

I turned to her. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

She took a deep breath and launched in to her story. “You’ve probably heard about the woman who went missing from the Rainbow Lakes Campground in the Indian Peaks Wilderness area a few weeks ago.”

“I did,” I said. “Do you know her?”

Gayle looked down at the table silently for a couple of minutes, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of her problem was a burden too heavy to lift. When she finally looked up, tears streamed down her face. “She’s my best friend, Sabrina—or maybe I should say she was my best friend. She’s probably dead. But they can’t find her and we don’t know what happened to her and that’s even worse.” She wiped her face with a tissue, but her tears continued to flow.

Bruce put his arm around Gayle’s shoulders and hugged her. More empathy than I would have expected from him, but then again until today I didn’t even know he had a sister. All I know about Bruce is what he told me in his grief therapy sessions after his eighteen-year-old daughter died from a drug overdose. He’s such a private person, he would have never come for grief counseling except that his business partner—who saw how paralyzed Bruce was after his daughter’s death—insisted. Bruce’s relationship with his daughter had been stormy for several years before she died, and his deep regrets that they hadn’t made peace had intensified his grief.

Gayle continued wiping her face as she struggled to regain her composure. But I could see grief winning out. "Take your time," I said gently. "I know it's hard to talk about."

Her face crumpled. “I’ve cried so much in the past few weeks that I’ve made myself sick,” she sobbed. “I’m totally devastated about Sabrina.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and collected herself. “Okay. I’m ready to tell you the story,” she said quietly. “I was part of the group at the campground—there were six of us who’ve been friends for years. We each went off separately on our personal journeys and Sabrina never came back. We searched, the rescue groups searched, the dogs searched, the helicopter searched. But no one has found her. And now they’re calling off the search.” She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat.

The waitress showed up with our lunch. I took a quick bite, which actually tasted good. Bruce spread mustard on his burger and bit in.

Gayle picked at her salad. “I was blown away when Bruce told me about your Contact Project—that he actually talked to his daughter Charlene after she died and how he resolved things with her,” she said, her voice perking up a little. “At first I didn’t believe him when he said you put him in your apparition chamber. It’s so unlike Bruce to have anything to do with the paranormal. He debunks everything. When he told me he reached Charlene, and they forgave each other and said goodbye, I knew it was real for him.”

Bruce put his burger down. “I don’t debunk everything,” he said.

“Ha!” Gayle said. “Remember when I played the DVD of that movie, What the Bleep Do We Know? for you last year? You went on and on about how it misrepresented science, that it was pseudoscience, and quantum mysticism. You weren’t open to it at all, even though so many people liked it that it’s made over $16 million.”

Bruce scowled. “Gayle, the science was unsupported and incorrect. New Age hogwash. One of their so-called experts turned out to be a 35,000 year-old spirit from Atlantis.” Bruce gave her a self-satisfied grin as he speared a chunk of pineapple with his fork and returned to eating.

She laughed and gave him another poke. “Bruce, I’ve told you before, you totally missed the point. The movie is supposed to blow your mind, not engage it in an analysis. It’s about learning to become the creative force in your own life, instead of being a victim of circumstances. My friends and I have watched it over and over. We know group consciousness can change reality. If you looked up from your computer now and then, you’d see.”

They were off the track here, but I hesitated to break into habitual brother-sister banter. Also, I figured Gayle needed a few minutes to relax before we talked more about her missing friend. I focused on my lunch, thankful I could eat without gagging.

Bruce ignored Gayle’s jeers and turned to me. “Here’s the thing, Cleo,” he said. “Gayle needs to go into your apparition chamber and try to contact Sabrina to find out if she’s dead or alive. She needs to know and the sooner the better.”

Uh oh. As soon as Gayle said they didn't know whether or not Sabrina was dead, I should have guessed this was what Bruce wanted. But my apparition chamber is for grief-therapy clients who want to reach a loved one to resolve an issue, not for solving missing-person cases. I didn't want to refuse Bruce's request, but I had concerns about Gayle. “I understand that it’s hard not knowing what happened to your friend,” I said. “But the contact process may not make you feel any better.”

Gayle looked straight into my eyes. “It’s not about how I feel,” she said intensely. “It’s about how Sabrina’s sister Brandi has taken over Sabrina’s house and her son Ian. Sabrina would be furious. She expressly didn’t want that to ever happen. If she’s dead, everything is in trust for Ian, and I’m Ian’s guardian. But Brandi jumped in as soon as Sabrina went missing, and right now she has control. So I need to know if Sabrina is dead or alive.”

“I’m not sure the contact process can answer that question,” I said. “You could try to reach her, but if you do, it wouldn't constitute legal proof of her death, and if you don’t, that doesn’t mean she’s alive.”

Bruce broke in. “Actually I’d already thought of that,” he said. “I want you to do a thorough job. If Gayle can’t reach Sabrina, then the other women who were up there should try. In fact, why not start by meeting with all of them and telling them about the process. Get some of that group consciousness going. I’ll pay for your time—whatever it takes.”

Before I had a chance to think about how else to voice my reservations, Bruce slid out of the booth, stood up, and picked up his coat. “I have to go. You two can go on from here. Gayle can keep me updated.” He nodded at us and headed for the door.

“Oof!” Gayle said. “That’s my brother. Makes his point, and ducks out before the discussion gets complicated. But I suppose you’re used to his tactics.”

I shrugged. I'd have to go along, at least for a while. Not only had Bruce been very generous in funding my Contact Project, all he’d asked of me was that I operate professionally and that he remain anonymous as a funder. So even though the timing wasn’t ideal for me to get involved in a situation that smelled like trouble, I didn’t see any other options. “No problem,” I said. “Here’s my card. Call me and we can set up a time to talk more.”

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre - Mystery

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Lynn Osterkamp on Twitter

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Surrender by Melody Anne

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Raffaello (Rafe) Palazzo takes what he wants with no regrets. Arianna (Ari) Lynn Harlow has led a charmed life until tragedy strikes her family. He’s looking for a no-emotions attached mistress, she’s looking for redemption.

They are not a pair that should ever work, but undeniable attraction and devastating tragedies bring them together in the city by the bay where he fights to keep their relationship nothing more than an enjoyable way to meet his needs, and she battles to not lose herself in him. Spending time with Ari starts cracking the hard shell that Rafe has built around his heart, but he denies the affect she has on him until it’s too late to stop the inevitable conclusion that their relationship is headed for.

Rafe once believed in happily ever after, coming from a large Italian family. He’s got the Midas touch, since every endeavor he tries turns to gold. That all ends when his wife walks out the door and leaves him blindsided. His devastation quickly turns to steel when he decides no woman will fool him again. From that point on he treats relationships as nothing more than business transactions where both party’s come out mutually benefited.

Just when Ari has sunk to the lowest she’s ever been she finds an ad in the paper announcing a job that’s too good to be true. It turns out she’s right. She makes it through the intense rounds of interviews only to find out the job is for a mistress to the powerful Rafe Palazzo, owner of Palazzo Enterprises. Rafe gives her a day to think about whether she wants the position or not, and she’s sent on her way, only to find out her mother’s near-terminal position has taken a turn for the worse. Her mom’s only in the hospital because Ari messed up, and her mother’s the one who paid the price. Is Rafe her savior, or will he take her with him straight to the depths of hell?

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – 18+

More details about the author

Connect with Melody Anne on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.melodyanne.com/

Orangeberry Blast Off – Sam’s Top Secret Journal: We Spy (Book 1)

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

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Sam’s Top Secret Journal – Book 1: Sam Spies by Sean Adelman. Join Sam as she embarks on her first big adventure in this middle-grade mystery full of fun, suspense…and just the right amount of spying! Sam is a middle school girl living a normal life-except when she is occasionally bullied for the differences kids perceive in her. Sam has Down syndrome. See how she and her brother John work together to find some stolen money, help a new friend and escape real danger in this exciting adventure!

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Genre – Middle Grade Mystery

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Sean Adelman on Facebook

Website http://www.raiseexpectations.com/

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Jack Templar and the Monster Hunter Academy: The Templar Chronicles: Book 2 by Jeff Gunhus

Jack Templar and the Monster Hunter Academy: The Templar chronicles: Book 2 - Jeff Gunhus

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - YA, Fantasy

Rating - PG

4.6 (14 reviews)

Free until 30 May 2013

After barely surviving the onslaught of monsters that tried to kill him the day before his fourteenth birthday, Jack Templar leaves his hometown on a quest to rescue his father and discover the truth about his past. Joined by his friends Will and T-Rex, and led by Eva, the mysterious one-handed monster hunter, Jack sets out for the Monster Hunter Academy where he hopes to find answers to his questions. Little does he suspect that the Academy is filled with dangers of its own, many of them more terrifying than anything he’s faced so far.

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Intoxicated by Alicia Renee Kline (Excerpt)

Prologue

“So you are really going ahead with the roommate thing?”  Matthew’s voice crackled over the telephone.

Blake wasn’t sure if her brother’s words were garbled due to her faulty cell reception or if they were laced with emotion.  She had, of course, announced with a flourish approximately six months ago that it had been the appropriate time in her life to purchase her own place.  Up until then, they had been roommates themselves.  But her wildly independent streak as well as a buyer’s market had persuaded her to take the leap into homeownership.  That and the fact that Matthew was still best friends with her ex.

She just never expected to feel so alone.

“Yes, I guess I am,” she replied as she paced her floor.

“And you’re sure about this?” he pressed.

Blake sighed.  No, not really.  But posting a room for rent online and actually having someone sign a lease for it were two entirely different things.  So what if someone was coming to look at the place tomorrow morning?  If things didn’t feel right, she could always lie and say that she had been fielding a lot of calls and that, unfortunately, she had chosen someone else.

“You’re not having money problems, are you?” he continued.

“No,” she responded quickly.  Now that had upset her a little bit.

“Just be careful.” Matthew warned.

Despite herself, Blake chuckled.  If anyone should be giving that advice, it should be the other way around.  Matthew’s indiscretions had been the whole reason that they themselves had been roommates.  Although it had been a terrible, uncomfortable time in both their lives, it had been the beginning of their beautiful friendship.  There was no one else that she trusted as wholly and completely as her brother.  Their past had forced them to lean on each other in a way she never would have imagined when she was younger, and they had ended up on the other side as better people for it.

Matthew either chose to ignore the giggle or he found the irony in the situation.  There was silence on the other end of the line until Blake whispered her response.

“Always am.”

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Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Romance / Chick Lit

Rating – PG13

More details about the book

Connect with Alicia Renee Kline on Twitter

Website http://aliciareneekline.com/

Time Killer by Todd M. Thiede (Excerpt 1)

Monday, May 27, 2013

Tuesday morning 2 a.m.

Stephen Bjornson wakes up and tries to roll over towards his wife only to find he cannot move at all. His thinking feels slow and hazy as if he has been drugged. He opens his eyes slowly to see that the room is dark with only a small beam of light from the full moon breaking through the drapes. He had opened them earlier to make sure the front gate was shut. His son rarely remembers to shut the gate when he comes home for dinner from the neighbor’s house. He surveys his room and continues to fight the fog in his brain as he can feel something is very wrong.

He tries to stay calm, but his mind and heart are racing. He slowly tries to raise each arm and finds that he is tied down to the bed with duct tape across his chest, torso, and legs. With his arms pinned to his sides, all he can do is turn his head far enough to the left to see that his wife, Gwen, is still there, but she is also taped to the bed. Mr. Bjornson notices Gwen has tape over her mouth. Her brown eyes are wide and look very dark in the moonlit room. Her hair is splayed out and crowns her head like a halo. At first, Stephen thinks he must be dreaming. He can’t imagine why he would be tied to his bed and his angel, Gwen, tied next to him. Then, he shakes his head as nothing is making sense. He closes his eyes and reopens them. He focuses on Gwen and realizes that the halo was created by her messy blonde hair as she struggled to break free from the bonds. She keeps sweeping her gaze away from him to stare towards the foot of the bed and Stephen slowly focuses his gaze on the shape of a person behind the footboard. He is terrified at the thought of some stranger in their house. However, he is having a hard time maintaining focus on any one thought.

Stephen starts to remember the early days of their marriage when they fought over silly things like furniture. He and Gwen had spent three months shopping for bedroom sets, picking at each other’s tastes for traditional or modern furniture. The young couple had taken almost every Saturday to go shopping to fill their home. Giddy and in love, their fights never lasted long and often ended in the bed. In hindsight, maybe that was why they had been so careful in their choices. Stephen wishes their lives could be that easy now – just make love to end an argument. He is not able to remember the last time he and Gwen had made time for intimacy. He keeps thinking that now isn’t the time for memories – like having a daydream at work – but he can’t think about what is more important than remembering the good times with Gwen.

He feels a bouncing sensation next to him on the bed and wakes from his drug-induced reverie. Gwen is bouncing her head and moaning beneath the tape. She keeps staring at him and then throwing her head towards the foot of the bed. He remembers that there is a person standing over him and his wife, just staring across the bed at them, waiting for him to wake up. Stephen vaguely wonders how Gwen can be so awake when he is so tired.

He tries to swallow, but his tongue feels like lead. His mouth feels like it is full of cotton. After a few tries, he squeaks out, “Who are you? What do you want?” He is disappointed in the quiver of his voice so he tries again, hoping to sound more intimidating. “Who do you think you are, coming into my house? What do you want from us? We don’t keep large sums of cash in the house.”

The man just stands there, staring down at Stephen and Gwen, not saying a word. Stephen thinks that it must be a man based on the wide shoulders and body shape. Besides, there is no way a woman would do this, he thinks. This man is wearing a dark ski mask. He is also wearing black leather gloves, which particularly frightens Stephen. He has watched enough forensic shows to know that gloves can make identification of criminals much harder. As he begins to become more aware and able to focus, he sees that the man seems to be very well dressed, wearing an expensive suit, button-down shirt, and tie. The ski mask and leather gloves clash against the business attire and Stephen starts to wonder who would dress so nicely to commit a crime. He feels like he is going to drift off again so he shakes his head and tries to maintain focus on the intruder.

Just when it seems like an eternity has passed since he first tried to roll over in his own bed, he jumps as the man yells, “You wasted my time!”

The voice is so loud and deep, that Stephen believes he feels the rumble through the floor into the bed. He jumps and his eyes open wide. He instantly tries to put on a brave face again and stares the man down. After all, this man is threatening his family. Then, he starts to worry if his kids will be woken up by this man. He doesn’t want them to wake and see any of this. Writhing wildly against his bindings, they don’t give. Fear raises his neck hair. This isn’t a normal burglary.

He decides that he is getting nowhere and tries conversation, which is what he is best at anyways. “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this?” Mr. Bjornson says, his voice quivering. All he can do is lie there, thinking about his children just across the hall from him. He has no idea what this madman knows about his family and if he knows the kids are sleeping right across the hall. While he is very concerned for his and Gwen’s safety, he closes his eyes and quickly asks God to protect his children from harm.

It seems like hours that the suited man continues to stand over them, but only minutes pass. Stephen is scared to speak more, worried that any noise will arouse the kids. Just when the angst is going to force Stephen to say something again the stranger finally speaks again, “You wasted my time…Time is money!” Gwen had been fighting her restraints up until that second yell. She lays completely still except ratcheting her head towards Stephen. He looks back at her and can see the tears spilling from her eyes. The moonlight catches the tears just right that they remind him of his playtime with his daughter the other day when they blew bubbles in the backyard and the sunlight glistened off the bubbles in the air.

The man grabs a pen from the top of Stephen’s dresser. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the bed, clicking the pen over and over again. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! The clicks echo through Stephen’s head and return him to the moment. The man continues to mumble, “You wasted my time…you wasted my time…you wasted my time.” Gwen, still staring at Stephen nods towards the man. He understands that she expects him to do something, but he is at a loss. He cannot free himself so he focuses on what he can do – continue to try to talk his way out of this.

As he is trying to come up with a plan, the man finally kneels down next to the bed, pen still in hand. He leans over and says, “Stephen, is it okay if I call you Stephen?” Stephen nods his head in reluctant approval. Stephen starts thinking, how does this man know my name? Have I met him before? What does he want from me?

“Stephen, I know you and your type. You don’t have a care in the world outside of you and your family’s own little bubble. You don’t think that your actions have any effect on other people’s lives. You see, Stephen,” he intones, “I once had a nice wife and a daughter just like you. We were happy, just like you; we had the perfect life, just like you. But you see, things are not always as they appear. Are they, Stephen?”

Stephen decides not to answer as he fears that the answer to the question is nothing that he wants to hear, particularly from some aggressive stranger. “Answer me!” the suited man shouts directly into Stephen’s ear. Stephen shakes his head no. “You see, Stephen, my wife packed up all her things one day and decided she was taking my daughter away from me. It seemed that she was leaving me for another man. She said I was wasting her time. I couldn’t provide her with what she needed. She needed financial stability and, even though I had a good job that kept us afloat, it wasn’t enough. Stephen, it wasn’t enough because, every so often, people like you waste my time and I don’t make any money. People like you cost me money and you cost me my family.” That comment was chilling. The man walks over to Gwen.

“Please don’t hurt us!” says Stephen whimpering now, his bravado completely gone. “I love you, Gwen,” he murmurs as he starts to sob. He turns his face away so that Gwen does not see him. He feels compelled to turn back as the man approaches his wife who, despite their distance, he loves dearly.

“Oh poor Stephen, poor, poor Stephen. You didn’t tell him, did you, Gwen? I can call you Gwen, can’t I?” Gwen nods her head reluctantly. She is between sobs because the bed is only shaking on Stephen’s side. She starts fighting at her restraints again, trying to push away from the approaching masked man with her feet, trying to dig her heels in. The tape keeps her from being able to arch her body high enough to move towards the head of the bed. Stephen is sick, watching her suffer this way and he starts to fight his restraints, too.

“You see, Stephen, ever since you and I met a month ago. I have been following you and your family, watching you and Gwen, little Billy and Sandy in your daily lives. Now, I haven’t been able to watch you every day because I have a job and time is money, you know. Nonetheless, I have been watching all of you. And what I have learned from watching you is that you enjoy wasting people’s time. Gwen here is not only wasting other people’s time, she is also wasting your time, Stephen. You see, Stephen, your precious little Gwen is having an affair,” he states matter of factly.

At those words, everyone in the room freezes. Stephen lays completely still, weighing whether there could be truth to the words of this madman. Gwen stops moving either because of his words or because the mask is now only inches from her face. She is staring into his eyes and cannot drop her gaze.

Stephen decides that whether it is true or not, this man is not their marriage counselor and has no right to intrude or reveal their issues like this. He musters up more courage and exclaims, “No, that’s not true. I know my Gwennie loves me and would never do that!” The suited man now leans over and whispers into Gwen’s ear, “Tell him, tell Stephen the truth! He deserves that at the very least. Tell him the truth now.” What had started as a whisper has turned into a menacing hiss in her ear. She flinches as he says truth so loud that her eardrum hurt. Stephen watches, helpless, as his wife pulls her head as far away from the man’s face as possible.

The masked man suddenly rips the duct tape from her mouth in one quick jerk. Gwen screams in pain and then throws her head towards Stephen. “It’s not true, Stephen! I love you with all my heart and would never do that to you or our family!” She is crying again and Stephen is not sure who to believe. Why would a man break into his house and lie about this to him?

“Lies, lies, lies…you are wasting my time again, Gwen. Now tell him the truth. Stop wasting my time. Stop it; stop it, stop it…time is money!” he shouts and hits the bed next to her. “Tell him now!” Stephen is feeling impatient about what this man wants and worries about why his children haven’t come in to see what is going on. He starts to fear the worst about their fate, but asking will only remind the man that they are close by.

Between sobs, Gwen begins to choke out her confession in a small pitiful wail. “Okay, it’s true, Stephen. I met someone else. But I love you and I love our kids! You have to believe me, Stephen, I do love you.” The silence hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Stephen feels a gulf widening between them – the woman he so desperately wanted to protect a minute ago has indeed betrayed him.

Stephen’s eyes widen and he struggles against the tape. A slow look of realization comes across his face. His tears stop and his eyes start to narrow to slits. “So that’s why you missed my work luncheon? Is that why you weren’t there that day to pick up Billy from soccer practice? Have you been busy sleeping around?” Stephen’s voice begins to roar, forgetting about anyone, but the two of them. “Who is it, Gwen? Who is he?” he yells, trying viciously to face her. He succeeds in partially turning his body towards her. The suited man steps back, folds his arms, and watches the argument as it progresses. A smile of accomplishment is visible in the mask’s mouth opening. He seems proud that he caused the two of them to fight.

Gwen continues to cry and shake the bed. “I have been seeing David, one of the dad’s from Sandy’s daycare. I never loved him, Stephen. I just needed more than you have been giving me.” With the last statement, her words sound hollow, as if she is wrung out and tired. Guilt creates an ugly mask of her face as she looks into Stephen’s eyes.

The masked man takes advantage of her pause. “See, Stephen, do you see how she is wasting your time? It’s just like you did to me last month when you wasted my time. Now, here’s the difference between you and me. I am here to help you, Stephen; I am going to rid you of your problem so you are no longer wasting time with Gwen.”

As soon as he finishes this statement, he begins clicking the pen again as if he is nervous. Stephen starts to fight his bonds again to stand between the masked man and his wife, who he knows he still loves. The masked man places his hand between Stephen and Gwen. Then he crawls on top of her, positioning himself so he is straddling Gwen and her body is between his legs. After the humiliation he has faced – being told by a total stranger that his wife is cheating – seeing him on top of her is too much for Stephen. He manages to get a leg free from the tape and starts kicking towards the man. However, the bed is wide and he just grazes his arm. He is waiting for the man to pull up her night gown and rape her, but that doesn’t happen.

The man looks back and forth between the two, savoring her fear and his anger. He then thrusts the pen directly into Gwen’s right eye. He jams it in so hard and so fast that she dies almost instantly from the pen penetrating the brain pan. Blood spatters everywhere and the suited man takes a few seconds to survey the results. Stephen can see the man’s teeth in the mouth hole of the mask. His smile is demonic and growing. Vice grips of trauma lock his body. He feels numb. It is a blessing.

“Just like I said, Stephen, I am here to help you. I’m here to stop you from wasting everyone’s time.” The man stands up from the bed and walks around to Mr. Bjornson’s side to sit next to him. He stops talking directly to Bjornson, but the husband can hear him mumbling, “You wasted my time, you wasted my time, time is money,” over and over again.

Stephen, still lying there in shock, wakes up as if from a dream and starts to scream, “No, No. No. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this?”

“Okay, Stephen, here is the situation: I’m going to need you to pay me for the time you took from me. After all, time is money. So for the time you took away from me last month, I figure you owe me $633. That would make us even for the three hours of my time you wasted. Heck, I won’t even charge you for the time I just saved you by taking Gwen out of your life, consider that a gift from me to you,” he says in a very calm business-like voice.

Stephen thinks he must have fallen back into a dream because this cannot be real. Money for the time he took from the suited man? Three hours? This was all about three measly hours of time? Where did he meet this guy? How did he waste three hours of his time? he keeps thinking.

“Where is my money, Stephen? I am going to have to start adding to the bill if you don’t tell me where my $633 are. Time is money! You wouldn’t want to waste any more of my time would you, Stephen?” the suited man asks angrily. Stephen shakes his head slowly, still not understanding.

As the man starts rifling through their things, Stephen finally comprehends he is looking for his money. He proceeds to tell him that his wallet is on his dresser in the corner of the room and that there should be enough to cover it. The suited man walks over to the dresser and grabs his wallet, takes out the money and counts it. “You only have $450 here, Stephen. Where is the rest of it? Quit wasting my time!” he screams.

“My…my…wife may…have some money in her purse. It’s in the closet…probably on the floor,” Stephen says, his voice choked.

“You know what, Stephen, I kind of like you,” the man says calmly as he goes to the closet. “I liked you last month, too. Well, that is before you decided to waste my time. I like the fact that you want me to take the money from your wife’s purse. I mean, it isn’t like she needs it anymore anyhow and, after all; it is your money anyway. Am I right?” The man’s laugh is high pitched and evil. He reaches into the closet, pulls out the purse and takes out some money. “All she has in here, Stephen, is two 100 dollar bills.” With that, the masked man takes out his own personal wallet and puts $17 exactly on Stephen’s dresser. He puts the $650 into his wallet and proceeds to sit back down by Stephen. Stephen tries to take note of the wallet to tell the police later, but then he realizes that he may not be alive much longer either.

“Stephen,” he says, “like I told you earlier, I’ve been following you and your family for about a month and noticed that you like wasting people’s time. I mean, you went to the appliance store and talked to a salesman about a new television for almost an hour two weeks ago and didn’t buy it. Then you went into an open house just last week and walked around talking to the realtor about how you were considering buying a new home. You took about two hours of his time with no intention of buying the house or even calling him back. You were just there wasting his time! Like his trying to make a living is a joke to you and Gwen.”

“I was going to call him back, that isn’t true. I was very interested in that house!” Stephen spits out.

“Sorry, Stephen, I know better. You see, like I said, I was watching you closely and, the moment you walked out of the house, you threw the realtor’s card away, while you and your wife laughed. You both thought the house was disgusting and way overpriced. You discussed how you love your house right now and would never leave it. Now quit wasting my time with lies and accept the fact that I know you better than you think I do,” he says with some finality.

“I am going to do the rest of the world a favor here, Stephen. You are right handed, is that correct?” he asks. No sooner than Stephen nods his head, the man grabs the duct tape from the floor and duct tapes Stephen’s mouth shut. He then walks out of the bedroom only to return a few moments later with bolt cutters. He leans over Stephen and whispers into his ear, “I am going to cut off your thumb and index finger on your right hand.” Stephen blanches. The man continues, “So you can no longer fill out any paperwork or sign anything and waste anyone else’s time like you wasted mine, the realtor, and the appliance salesman.”

He then stands up and cuts off Mr. Bjornson’s thumb and finger. As Stephen lays there in unbearable pain, unable to scream with his mouth taped shut, his face blood red , his temple veins popping thick, the suited man leans back in and whispers, “Don’t worry. You won’t die from this. I want you to live and learn not to waste other people’s time anymore. I also want you tell anyone and everyone to stop wasting people’s time. Tell them all how time is important to you now that you have a second chance. Tell them that they need to be considerate of other people’s time and not just their own. You can do that for me, right, Stephen?” Stephen nods frantically as tears flow from his tortured eyes. He feels himself slipping in and out of consciousness as he feels his blood pumping out of his hand. The masked man tears more duct tape from the roll and wraps it around Stephen’s hand almost like a bandage. “We wouldn’t want you bleeding to death before you can get that message out, would we, Stephen?” Stephen shakes his head no.

The man now rips back the tape from Stephen’s mouth, taking part of his moustache off with it. He tastes blood. The tape has ripped off some skin. The man then picks up the phone next to the bed, lays the mouthpiece on the pillow next to Stephen’s mouth and proceeds to dial 911. He picks up Stephen’s bloody finger off the floor and uses it to write, “DON’T WASTE PEOPLE’S TIME” on the wall as the phone rings. He then calmly walks out of the room, whistling as if he has no care in the world. The song he is whistling is very familiar, but Stephen cannot place it. Stephen recognizes the sound of his back door opening and closing. The man is finally gone. As he starts to feel light-headed, he wonders if he is in a nightmare he cannot escape.

The tickle of the blood dripping down the side of his jaw brings him back to awareness. He hears the operator repeatedly asking if anyone is there. Stephen yells hoarsely into the phone as best as he can, “Please help me, there was a man here in my house! He killed my wife. He…..he hurt me. I’m bleeding and I’m tied up. Please hurry – I’ve lost a lot of…” As he drifts in and out of terrible dreams and thoughts, his mind keeps returning to his children. Did the man hurt them? Are they even alive? He prays that they will not find him like this. With tears now flowing along with the blood, he finally closes his eyes to the darkness of what has happened, his body numbing with the shock. Stephen passes out.

It takes almost ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive, followed shortly by the police. The police knock on the door at first, but hear nothing so they break down the door and rush into the house. They yell as they rush around the house, looking for the family, but no one responds.

The smell of copper from the bloody mess the murderer has left behind consumes them as they move up the stairs. With the medics behind them the police clear rooms one by one potentially destroying evidence. The master bedroom is the first room the paramedics enter upstairs as the door stands slightly ajar. There they find Stephen unconscious with blood dripping from the duct tape bandage on his right hand. His right cheek lies in a small pool of blood from his torn moustache. He is still duct taped to the bed and, next to him, lays his dead wife. The first officer in the room takes one look around and runs to the master bath and vomits up his lunch. Today is his first day, and the pen in her eye and the blood surrounding Stephen is just too much for him to handle.

The police officers go back into the hall to allow the medics to work on Stephen. James is fairly new to the force and has never seen such a violent crime. While he is upset that this happened to the family, he is also excited to be involved in what will likely be a big case for his station. His partner, Bob, is tired and waiting to retire soon. He is trying to pass on his knowledge to James, but feels that sometimes James lacks compassion for others.

James enters six year old Billy’s room. Above the red race car bed, Billy’s name is carved into a piece of driftwood. There are little green army men scattered around the floor as if it was the beaches of Normandy. James sees numerous trophies on his dresser top for various sports. James wonders how Billy could have slept through all the mayhem in his parents’ room. He doesn’t want to startle the boy as this is going to be a terrible night for him. The officer wants to take him out of the house before he can see anything that has happened to his parents just down the hall. He tries to lift the small boy up very carefully as not to wake him.

However, Billy isn’t ever going to wake up. Billy lays in James’ arms like a limp doll. The murderer had smothered him with his pillow and, after he was sure he was dead, he cut off his finger and thumb from his right hand. The lack of bruising around the cuts indicates Billy’s heart was not beating at the time. James says a silent prayer that his future children will never go through this and gently places the boy back down.

Written on the wall in blood, only visible after James turns on the car-shaped lamp, is, “LIKE FATHER LIKE SON”. James can only imagine what this monster has done to the little girl. Right then, he gets a huge lump in his throat as he sees Bob walk out shaking his head.

For some reason, James has to see this other room. Maybe by seeing the chaos, he can understand and control it. Sandy’s room is very upbeat. There are pink walls, a princess bedspread, and dozens of stuffed animals on her bed and dresser. He can feel her presence and happiness just by walking into her world. She is only three yet there she is having been smothered with her own pillow. Her finger and thumb are missing, and just like her brother, they were removed after she was murdered. Written in blood on the wall is, “WHORE JUST LIKE MOM”.

Bob drops to his knees and starts sobbing right there. He thinks of his grandchildren, who are about Sandy and Billy’s ages. What would he do if this ever happened to them? How could a human being do this to children? he thinks. James doesn’t know what to do except pat Bob on the shoulder. He is having the same thoughts, but isn’t as affected since his kids do not exist yet.

As James and Bob re-enter the master bedroom, they see Stephen being transferred to a gurney. He has an IV in his arm. He looks up at them and says in a hoarse voice, “Please check on my kids. They’re down the hall.” The officers exchange a quick knowing look. They assure Mr. Bjornson that they will take care of everything while he gets treated.

Stephen starts to feel woozy from the drugs that were given to him by the paramedics and finally closes his eyes into a deep sleep. As they push Stephen out into the hallway the paramedics ask the police officers if they need to help the children. Bob shakes his head no, putting one finger to his lips to indicate silence; He then puts his head down again to pray.

In the small city of Rockton, Illinois, someone is tired of waiting. He’s tired of standing in line at the grocery store and tired of waiting at the drive-through line. Now he’s doing something about it.

The first murder rocks the city. The entire Bjornson family—except the father, Stephen—has been brutally murdered, and the killer has left a message behind, written in the victim’s blood: Don’t Waste People’s Time. It’s a grizzly start for two young detectives who’ve just become partners. But Max Larkin and Jesse Fairlane put their personal distaste for each other aside and start concentrating on how to find the killer from striking again.

As they investigate the scene of the crime and interview Stephen at the hospital, the clues slowly begin to add up. Could this be a deranged killer who struck ten years ago and has now returned to the area? Before they can answer that question, another murder is reported, and Max and Jesse suddenly realize they have a serial killer on the loose.
But as they get closer to the truth, a past memory begins to haunt Max, one that might lead to a break in the case—or the end of his career.

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Genre – Mystery / Thriller

Rating – PG

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Review: Time Killer by Todd M. Thiede

Time KillerTime Killer by Todd M. Thiede
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What are your concerns about this book? If any part of the story was based on a true story.

Is the title a good one or a poor one and why? Title was perfect. It fit so well with the story and the killer's act of vengeance.

Tell in your own words the beginning of the book. Stephen wakes up and tries to roll over, when he realizes that something is wrong.

Disclosure: I received a review copy of this book from the author.

View all my reviews

Orangeberry Book Tours – Refuge by NG Osborne

Sunday, May 26, 2013

On a dusty, sweltering night, Noor Khan, a beautiful, headstrong Afghan refugee, comes face-to-face with Charlie Matthews, a brash, young American aid worker. To Noor’s fury, Charlie breaks every cultural norm and pursues her. She wants nothing to do with him: her sole aim in life is to earn an overseas scholarship so she can escape the miseries of the refugee camps.

However when Noor’s brother threatens to marry her off, she is forced to seek refuge in Charlie’s home, of all places, and suddenly everything Noor believes in is put into question.

Set in the mystical and seething city of Peshawar, where no one is without an agenda and few can be trusted, Refuge is a timeless and unforgettable love story about the struggle for love and purpose in a cruel and cynical world.

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Genre – Literary Fiction / Romance

Rating – PG13

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Chris Angus – Publishing in the Age of Armageddon

Publishing in the Age of Armageddon
by Chris Angus
The letter came out of the blue. It was from a regional publisher that had been considering my submission of a young adult novel for three years. The elapsed time wasn’t a surprise. They’d published one of my earlier books after a seven year “study” period. But when I opened the letter, I finally comprehended what a really tough business this is.
The publishing house had experienced a “freak accident” the letter began. Wow! I thought. They’re actually going to publish something.
No such luck. A car traveling at ninety miles an hour had crashed through a brick wall, careened through the office of their President, through an interior wall, across the entire showroom and partially out the exterior wall on the other side of the building. While no one was hurt and the driver went directly to jail, the damage done to the business was extraordinary.
They were writing to tell me this because a number of manuscripts, including mine, had been on the President’s desk at the time and had been destroyed. Could I possibly send them another copy? Such is the state of mind of any writer, I actually took this as a positive sign. My book was on the President’s desk. It was still being considered! It’s hard enough to get anything published these days, but actually having a book run over takes things to a new level.
It can take a while to break through. I know that. My earliest memory of my grandfather is of him poring over papers in his eighties through thick glasses. An immigrant from Russia, unhappy in his career as a dentist in Manhattan, he spent much of his free time translating Russian literature and poetry. My childhood attic held stacks of those translations, not one of which, to my knowledge, was ever published. His father, my great-grandfather, had been falsely accused of murder in czarist Russia in the 1890s. The family was exiled to Siberia, where my great grandfather established a successful business and the family became part of an intellectual community. Among the family’s friends was writer Maxim Gorky, considered the father of Soviet literature. With a lineage like that, even if only associative, members of my family shouldn’t have to have their manuscripts run over. Exiled to Siberia? Maybe.
My parents, both college English professors, published many books between them. When I bought my father’s house in 1993, the home I grew up in, I was cleaning out the attic, about to throw out a box filled with old correspondence, when I discovered a file of letters from the 1960s. They were from writers my parents had corresponded with concerning purchasing the rights to stories for a series of anthologies. I was a writer myself by this time and pored over the contents like lost gold coins from a sunken Spanish galleon.
Here were signed, often hand-written letters from the likes of Saul Bellow, Heinz Huber, Wright Morris and others. One of my favorites was a single-spaced, typed letter from Thomas Pynchon, written on yellow, lined graph paper and signed by the author. In it, he apologized for refusing permission to include a story entitled Entropy in one of my parents’ collections. He wrote: “I have a funny thing about that story: I don’t like it, and I regret having written it…it embodies a number of bad writing habits I still haven’t shaken, and it would embarrass me now to see the thing come grinning and rattling out of its closet after six years.” Evidently he got over the embarrassment, because a few years later I learned that Entropy had been published again after all.
The treasure trove brought to mind one of my mother’s mantras: never stop sending things out; it keeps the mails interesting. These days it’s email, but the principle is the same. Extending that advice, over the years I’ve written to many authors whose work inspired me. To my surprise, most of them responded. I have letters from Farley Mowat, Barbara Tuchman, Edward Abbey, Annie Dillard and John McPhee, among others. In a second letter to me, McPhee signed his name John Angus McPhee. Clearly, a lost relative.
A number of years ago, I read about an author who had written twenty-seven books without getting any of them published. It gave me heart. I was only up to fifteen at the time, and while I had published several works of nonfiction, I had close to a dozen novels either rattling around my desk or out with various agents. The Guinness Book of Records seemed well within my grasp.
Following the stock market tumble of 2008, my agent called to tell me he’d been talking to a major publishing house about one of my thrillers. Half a dozen editors had read the book and were enthusiastic about it. One actually said he thought it could be the next Da Vinci Code. I went out to dinner.
That was the last I ever heard about it.
Of course, I sent out another copy of the book that had been run over. In a few years, perhaps after the present economic crash has run its course, I’m sure I will receive another letter: “Dear Sir: We are sorry to inform you that due to  _______ (insert phrase of choice) earthquake, volcanic eruption, ozone belt depletion, Armageddon, we will need another copy of your manuscript.
Please be assured we would not make this request if your book wasn’t under serious consideration.”
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Genre – Thriller
Rating – PG
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