Possibly. I’m not one to make promises. And, given my senior years are advancing steadily toward that hazy horizon, promises are in short supply for me as well.
If you are one of those folks who like to plan holidays years in advance, we are kindred spirits. The recent death of my husband has switched on an alert beacon and I can vaguely hear a count down. Perhaps I should focus on making the days I have left count for more than something like writing a novel that may never get passed the first draft.
And yet, few things give me as much pleasure as writing. I’m certain you’ve had similar experiences when your heart and soul becomes lifted as you submit to your passions – better than sex, some times. Physical discomforts vanish. Time is no longer linear. While pounding at my keyboard, I swear there are moments when I can feel the presence of my characters, observing and guiding me.
Forbidden’s plots are nicely wrapped up, with perhaps one exception. Without going into detail and spoiling your thrill of reading the ending, there is one character who really needs a thrashing (to put it mildly), but escaped. The problem is this Mr. X is the equivalent of a mafia don – untouchable.
Bart and I have been working on the plot, and baby, it’s dark. Someone must enter the lair of this twisted man and collect evidence of his horrific plans for, ah, hum, can’t tell you anything about that. And, that’s just the first four chapters.
I’ve come up with a tentative plan that will resolve the ‘write a sequel’ dilemma. It’s simple. Forsaken can be a short story, or at least much shorter than Forbidden’s 363 pages. It should be published by spring of 2020, or hopefully before Alzheimer takes root, . I don’t dare reveal more. Unless, of course, you might like to sign up to my quarterly newsletter and get in on more secrets.
Don’t miss out on this extraordinary book. I guarantee you won’t be able to put it down!!!!!
Gunfire echoes within the walls of a Middle East police compound. Screams of terror are brutally silenced. Police captain Hashim Sharif captures one survivor. Soon Eliza MacKay will wish she had died with her companions.
The vile act of terrorism is covered-up. Sharif becomes the reluctant keeper of his city’s bloody secret – and the witness, MacKay. His corrupt superiors have a gun rammed against his skull. Disloyalty to the mayor will be rewarded with being buried alive.
Whatever the cost, his government’s honor must be restored. Secretly, Sharif hunts forensic evidence. Who is responsible for the murder of fifteen American volunteers? And, why did MacKay lie about her identity? He can’t trust her. Her mental illness is going to get both of them killed.
When he receives orders to dispose of MacKay, his Muslim faith is tested. Murder an innocent in cold blood? He will suffer Allah’s eternal wrath.
CIA Agent Hutchinson has the lying Sharif in his cross hairs. Sharif dodges the agent’s traps almost as easily as the hit man on his tail. When Sharif discovers the shocking truth, he loses all hope of survival.
What is worth dying for? Perhaps it’s not bringing a madman to justice. Could it be saving the life of a woman who kick-started his numb heart? On the knife edge of risk, Sharif plots an act most forbidden and fatal.
Genre: Suspense, Romance, International Thriller Published by: Indie Publication Date: December 2016 Number of Pages: 363 ISBN: 0995150907 (ISBN13: 9780995150904) Purchase Links:Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗
On our cattle ranch in Alberta, when an animal was in distress or injured, I was put in charge of nursing it back to health. Never mind that I was just a kid and hated the sight of blood, but I had to muster up the courage to apply home remedies. My survival rate was pretty good. It seemed like a foregone conclusion that I would progress to nursing – humans. After one year into nurses training, I bolted. Bed pans and chronic diseases pushed me in different direction; a career of dealing with drug addicts, murder, suicide, fatalities, and biker gangs. In 1983 I graduated with honors as a paramedic and worked in the City of Edmonton’s Emergency Services.
For the next twenty years, I came face to face with scenes most people would rather not think about. I loved it. Having experienced life in the most deadly and gut wrenching events, and work alongside the police service, I gained the fodder for creating intense novels.
My creative DNA shocked me when I was driven to write a dystopian / paranormal / romance novel, The Guardian’s Wildchild. After taking several writing courses, I presented the manuscript to Omnific Publishing who published it in 2011. Just when I thought I could get my life back, another story took me prisoner – Forbidden. I couldn’t believe there was this kind of story within me and desperate to be told. I resisted. It was futile.
Retired and focused on home life, I’m back to being a mom to four pets and one husband. We travel and taste the excitement of other cultures. In between adventures, I’ve dabbled in water color painting, photography, needle work, gardening – the list goes on. In my next life, I plan to explore the cosmos.
I’ve learned a few things in my seventy years. Thoughts are powerful. Intention is everything. Passion is the key to success.
An armored truck with a mounted machine gun roared up behind the two police motorcyclists. Something is terribly wrong. She ducked deeper behind the luggage and stared into the darkness. She desperately searched for a rational explanation. A cold knife pierced her core.
After speeding through intersections and red traffic lights, the vehicles came to a sudden halt. Gate hinges squealed in protest. The impulse to leap from the back of the truck fought with her intense need to remain hidden. If it were not for the armed vehicle at the rear, she would have jumped and disappeared into the night. In another moment, the opportunity vanished.
The vehicles lurched forward. Through the flap’s opening, she saw a massive iron gate. High walls extended on either side. The vehicles stopped.
The motorcyclists drove to either side of the truck. The armored vehicle surged forward, nearly crashing into the back of the supply truck (where Eliza is hiding). Eliza scrambled to put more of the luggage between her and the mounted gun. It bore down on her as if it had spied her. She gasped.
Eliza strained to hear a pleasant greeting, an apology for the change of plans, anything that would tell her heart to stop its thundering in her chest.
Someone shouted, “Ikhrog men al Araba,” then in English, “Get out of the bus!”
“Stay together,” Charlie called out. At first the volunteers sounded merely annoyed, but their mood rapidly deteriorated.
“Charlie, there’s a mounted automatic weapon on that truck. Something’s not right here.” The man’s alarm ricocheted through his companions. Quick footsteps reminded Eliza of nervous horses in a corral – wild-eyed, snorting and circling as they searched for an escape.
Charlie attempted to calm his group. “I’m sure this will all make sense. I’ll see why there’s been a change. Who’s in charge here?” he called.
Scattered thoughts fed her fear. The unmistakable sound of large guns being maneuvered sucked the air from Eliza’s lungs. Near the supply truck, she heard the ping, ping of a cell phone, then the trembling voice of a woman crying, “Ralph, pick up the phone. Please. Oh God ….” The woman screamed. With a blast of gunfire, her cries stopped. Bullets pierced the canvas and shattered a suitcase in front of Eliza.
Her body trembled violently. In minutes she would be killed. The luggage offered no protection. Terrified to make any sound, yet frantic to hide, she pressed her backpack to her chest. She gasped as if starved for oxygen. Tears ran down her cheeks as she heard the terrified people and Charlie beg for their lives.
This is only one of my nightmares. I’ll wake up and everything will be fine.
The truck with the mounted machine gun swerved around the supply truck. Deafening sounds of machine gun blasts and screams tore through her chest. She plunged down among the luggage.
A man came into her view as he lunged toward the gate. A police officer ran after him and fired several shots into the man’s back. The American dropped, bloody and lifeless.
Suddenly, an armed man dashed to the rear of the supply truck and saw her. She gasped. Oh my God, he’s going to kill me. I’ve got once chance. Get his gun. Her martial arts training kicked in. She lunged forward. As they grappled, both fell.
Falling on top of him Eliza punched his groin. He cried out in agony. She crab crawled on all fours toward his weapon several feet away. Too late she saw a boot aimed at her head.
She ducked for cover under the supply truck. Too late. The cop stomped on her head, ramming her forehead into the pavement hard. Her momentum pushed her under the truck’s back end.
Dazed, she checked to see if he followed her. He was struggling to free his boot, snared in her scarf. A gun’s muzzle appeared, aimed in her direction. Bullets ripped through her coat’s shoulder. Puffs of down feathers stuck to the sweat and blood on her face.
I’m hit. Get out. Run. Eliza kicked and crawled out from under the truck on the far side of the killers. The deafening gunfire and screams surrounded her. Her mind froze. She pressed her body into the truck’s solid frame.
More bullets smacked the ground near her. More vehicles arrived. Bright headlights blinded her. She turned away to shield her eyes. Desperate, she ran an erratic, aimless course. Silhouettes of shapes, helmets, guns and bloody bodies flashed in front of her. Keep running. Dodge. Find cover. She ran like a wild animal, blind to the teeth that would tear her apart.
When the thunder from the machine gun stopped she glanced back. The man at the machine gun tumbled head first off the truck. His companions continued to fire their weapons, but now toward the gate. More shots came from behind the blinding lights. The men ran toward the front of the supply truck. Riddled with bullets, their bodies twisted and fell.
Eliza gazed in bewilderment at the tall form appearing in the light. He raced forward past the open gate, his weapon raised in her direction. More men followed behind him. She ran, searching for cover.
He shouted, “Tawakaf and am, la tatharak Kiff.” Then in English, “Stop where you are. Don’t move! Stop.”
A short burst of gunfire. Bullets struck the ground a few yards in front of her. She skidded to a stop. Breathless, she turned toward the gunman. She could not make out his face below the dark helmet. He wore a police uniform like the killers had – black from head to toe. If not for his vehicle’s headlights, he would have been invisible. He raced toward her, his weapon held steadfast in her direction.
Today is a bad day. The worst actually. After dealing with the constant manhandling that comes with being a cocktail waitress at a dive bar and surviving a date from hell, I see an eviction notice slapped on the door of my sketchy basement apartment. Great.
When my best friend Devon shows up at my door and uses his stubborn charm (emphasis on stubborn) to get me to move in with him, I give in. We’ve had about a million sleepovers since we met in the kindergarten Deaf program, but this time it’s different because I can’t stop thinking about his hard body covering mine, every single night.
I know Devon would do anything for me, but I’m afraid what I want to happen will ruin our friendship forever. And the more time we spend together in close quarters, the harder it’ll be to resist the spark of attraction I’ve always felt. But maybe it’s possible to have the best of both worlds: keep the one relationship I can’t live without and indulge in an attraction I can’t deny.
I guess the only thing we can do is try…
Read an excerpt:
I was still staring at my notebook when a light flashed by my tiny window. Outside someone stood with a flashlight, shining it into my apartment. I didn’t need to adjust to the light to know who that someone was with the one, two, three blinking pattern.
It took five steps to stomp over to the door. Dev came in once I wedged it open. He pushed the door closed.
“You can’t have your clothes back,” I signed, even as I was grateful to see him. When Dev was around, even this place sorta felt like a home.
“I don’t want my clothes back. Not now, at least. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”
I held out my hands, showing that I was fine. Even if I did scan my coffee table and breathe in relief that the eviction letter was face down in a crumpled mess.
He studied me, searching for all my little tics that spelled I was in trouble, tics only he knew. I blanked my face; otherwise he would latch onto there being a problem. A big one. Dev shoved a hand through his hair, those wavy locks rioting into one massive sexy-as-hell bedhead. I missed the days when he was a spindly little thing, before he grew into this hunk I could never unfriendzone. He meant too much to rock the boat, and I didn’t dare risk losing him. He scratched at a day’s worth of scruff, the black stubble contrasting with his pale skin. Then he kicked off his shoes, tossed his coat on the back of a chair, and plopped down on my bed in a way that had to have a spring or two digging into his back.
He didn’t budge.
I wanted to laugh. Forget me time—neither one of us had given the other the right to be alone since we first met. Still, I couldn’t let go of our usual bickering match. “Go home.”
He folded his hands behind his head, not moving. I crossed my arms. A few seconds later he sat up, grabbed my laptop off the floor, and flipped it open. “We’ll watch a movie.”
“My laptop can’t handle Netflix. You know that.”
He closed the laptop. “Right. Forgot.” He unlocked his phone and placed it on the bed.
“Tiny viewing tonight?”
“You refused to come to my place.” Underlining meaning: we could have watched on a large flat-screen TV.
Since there was no budging him now that he had settled in, I climbed onto the bed with him. He picked up the phone so we could watch, and I settled my head on his chest.
I didn’t pay much attention to the action flick he put on. Most days I loved the intensity of those movies. Tonight, those explosions felt too close for comfort. Instead I made a mental list of my options. Had to before Dev found out. He’d want me to stay with him. And being cuddled up with him, I had to admit, had potential. More so when I placed my hand on his firm stomach and took in a deep breath of the ocean scent of his soap. Problem was, I needed to be on my own two feet. The last person to take care of me—my mother—had failed. I couldn’t trust anyone else.
Laura Brown lives in Massachusetts with her quirky abnormal family. Her husband’s put up with her since high school, her young son keeps her on her toes, and her three cats think they deserve more scratches. Hearing loss is a big part of who she is, from her own Hard of Hearing ears, to the characters she creates.
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A young man is found in a riverside park, his head bashed in with a rock. One clue is left behind to uncover his identity—an admission stamp for the local gay club.
DS Lucy Black is called in to investigate. As Lucy delves into the community, tensions begin to rise as the man’s death draws the attention of the local Gay Rights group to a hate-speech Pastor who, days earlier, had advocated the stoning of gay people and who refuses to retract his statement.
Things become further complicated with the emergence of a far-right group targeting immigrants in a local working-class estate. As their attacks escalate, Lucy and her boss, Tom Fleming, must also deal with the building power struggle between an old paramilitary commander and his deputy that threatens to further enflame an already volatile situation.
Hatred and complicity abound in McGilloway’s new Lucy Black thriller. Compelling and current, Bad Blood is an expertly crafted and acutely observed page-turner, delivering the punch that readers of Little Lost Girl have grown to expect.
Genre: Thriller, Mystery Published by: Witness Impulse Publication Date: June 13th 2017 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 0062684558 (ISBN13: 9780062684554) Series: DS Lucy Black #4 Purchase Links:Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗
Read an excerpt:
The hall was already packed by the time Detective Inspector Tom Fleming arrived. The air was sweet with perfume and talc and, beneath that, from the farmers still wearing their work clothes, the scent of sweat and the smell of the earth.
The congregation were on their feet, being led in the opening hymn by Pastor James Nixon. Fleming smiled apologetically at those he squeezed past to get to a free seat in the third row from the back. The hymn finished, the assembly took their seats just as Fleming reached his, and settled to listen to the words of Pastor Nixon.
‘My brothers and sisters, it is a great honour to be here with you this evening and to see so many of you have taken the time to come and pray with me.’ His voice was strong despite his age, a rich baritone still carrying the inflections of his native Ballymena accent.
‘But it is a time of great challenge for us all. Daily, all good people face an assault on their morality with the rampant homosexual agenda that assails us and belittles everything we hold to be true and dear. Men of conscience are tried for refusing to make a cake celebrating homosexuality or print leaflets and posters furthering that agenda. And on the other side of the border, the Irish Republic has voted to allow homosexuals to marry, as if two women playing house is no different to the consummated union of a man and a woman. As if it is not a perversion which shames us all.
A few voices appended his comment with ‘Amen’.
Nixon raised his hands, acknowledging their support. ‘There are those who would silence me, silence us. They tell us we must accept homosexuals in our town, our shops, allow homosexual bars and public houses to operate on our streets. We must allow sodomites to teach our children and to corrupt our young. We must stay silent while a new Gomorrah is built next to our homes and farms, our shops and schools. They say I am dangerous. They say I preach hatred. They say I should be silent. But I say this: I say that there is no danger in truth. I say that there is no hatred in goodness. And I say that I will not be silent.’
Another chorus of ‘Amens’ greeted his proclamation, accompanied by a smattering of applause which began at the front and rippled its way through the hall.
‘I will not stand idly by as our families are exposed to sin and depravity. I will not countenance the laws of the land being used to protect profane persons, allowing them to indulge their lustful practices, forcing those of us with consciences to humour this lifestyle. It is an abomination. The people who practise it are abominations and, like those before them, they will end in fire and brimstone.’
Fleming glanced around at the others in the congregation. While one or two shifted uncomfortably in their seats, for the most part the listeners sat intently waiting for Nixon to continue.
‘Friends, only last week, I read of an African nation – a heathen nation, a Godless nation – who arrested two men for homosexual acts. One of these men was sixteen. Sixteen! And do you know what they did to the pair of them? They stoned them. They took them out of the town and they threw rocks at them until the pair of them were dead. And do you know what I thought? Shall I tell you?’
An elderly lady in the front row called out ‘Yes’, to the amusement of those around her. Nixon smiled mildly at her, as if indulging her.
‘Stoning was too good for those men. Every rock that struck them was a just reward for their sinfulness, their immorality, their ungodly behaviour. Every drop of their blood that stained the ground was a reminder that they deserved to die. It was the wages of their sin!’
Brian McGilloway was born in Derry, Northern Ireland. After studying English at Queen’s University, Belfast, he took up a teaching position in St Columb’s College in Derry, where he was Head of English. He is the author of the New York Times bestselling Lucy Black series, all to be published by Witness. Brian lives near the Irish borderlands with his wife and their four children.
Q&A with Brian McGilloway
Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Very much. Writing to me is like dreaming awake and in the same way your experiences and concerns bleed into your dreams, so too do they bleed into your writing. More specifically, most of my books are triggered by real world events’ Little Girl lost by a child found wandering in a snow storm and, in Bad Blood, the targeting of Romanian families in Belfast housing estates with slogans which included ‘Romans Out’ daubed on the gable wall of the family home.
Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
Never. I start at the start and work my way through the story and the plot. It should be as much a journey of discovery for me as for the reader. With one book I did have an ending in mind from the start and then worried that id made the villain of the book too obvious as a result and so changed it half way through!
Are any of your characters based on you or people that you know?
I suspect all my characters have facets of me – even the bad ones. That doesn’t mean I share their views of behaviour, but I need to understand them to be able to write them. Devlin and Lucy, my two series characters, certainly have a lot in common with me. Devlin’s voice is pretty much mine, I think, and his concern with family and balancing his responsibilities is mine. Lucy’s stories are set in Prehen where I grew up and many of her memories are my memories.
Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
I’ve started writing in cafes more and more. I have an office at home but as my children have got older, it’s harder to find quiet to work. Ironically, I find the bustle of a cafe helps me concentrate and I know I’ve an hour without interruption to work so I’m less inclined to surf the net or check Facebook!
Tell us why we should read this book.
I guess this book is about the rise of right wing populism and the manner in which hate is enflamed through the words of people who then decry when others take those words and act on them. That’s a pattern which is being replicated in various parts of the world at the moment, not just in Northern Ireland.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
James Lee Burke, John Connolly, Michael Connelly, Stuart Neville, Adrian McKinty, Steve Cavanagh, Arlene Hunt, Dennis Lehane, Ian Rankin…
What are you reading now?
Here and Gone by Haylen Beck. It’s excellent so far.
Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I am – it’s a new Devlin book. I’ve only just started it so I can’t really say what it’s about at the moment.
Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
That’s a tricky one. For Devlin, I think someone like Brian Gleeson would be perfect. For Lucy, I’m not so sure. An actress called Laura Pyper played Lucy in a radio adaptation of one of the short stories and I thought she was excellent.
Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
Going to the cinema!
I’ve started making paella for the kids these past few months and have developed a bit of a love for it at the moment.
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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Brian McGilloway and WitnessImpulse. There will be 3 winners of one (1) non-Kindle eBook coupon for a copy of THE FORGOTTEN ONES by Brian McGilloway. The giveaway begins on June 24 and runs through August 1, 2017.
According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.
Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.
Friday: LAST BREATH by Karin Slaughter eBook from Harper Collins/PICT
Have you ever researched a topic only to discover what you thought was real is nothing more than a fantasy. I’ve been living in a fantasy. My upbringing on my family’s cattle ranch led me to believe that with hard word and perseverance, success is guaranteed. Not necessarily the kind of success that brings unlimited wealth, but one would enjoy a stable and rewarding life. I also believed that everyone has access to jobs and health care. I also believed that all girls attend schools. How blind could I be?
While writing FORBIDDEN I hunted down every scrap of information about the Middle East, its complex history, the birth of Islam, watched dozens of home videos taken by Iraqi’s while on a joy ride, driving down main street of Baghdad long before the current warfare.
Then I read Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace . . . One School at a Time by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. Synopsis: Anyone who despairs of the individual’s power to change lives has to read the story of Greg Mortenson, a homeless mountaineer who, following a 1993 climb of Pakistan’s treacherous K2, was inspired by a chance encounter with impoverished mountain villagers and promised to build them a school. Over the next decade he built fifty-five schools—especially for girls—that offer a balanced education in one of the most isolated and dangerous regions on earth. As it chronicles Mortenson’s quest, which has brought him into conflict with both enraged Islamists and uncomprehending Americans, Three Cups of Tea combines adventure with a celebration of the humanitarian spirit.
What the …. in many countries, girls are not allowed to attend school? In fact, there are no schools in the most remote and dangerous sites in the Middle East, specifically Pakistan and Afghanistan. That’s when I discovered the Central Asia Institute (CAI) and began to contribute monthly to their efforts to build schools and empower women.
From CAI Website: “Educating one woman is the equivalent of educating several men because she shares her knowledge with her family, her children, and her community, amplifying the impact of one school ten-fold.
SHE is the key.
Her family will be smaller and healthier, her children will be twice as likely to go to school, and she will raise her family out of poverty by bringing home more money with every year of school she completes. In a seedbed of poverty, ignorance, and extremism, she is a ray of hope.
So we must do everything in our power to help her succeed.
• We must build her a school
• We must make it safe
• We must give her well-trained teachers
• We must keep her healthy
• We must help her grow
It has been said that “the roughest road leads to the heights of greatness.” Central Asia Institute attempts to navigate that road every day.”
Video by CAI:
Video: Meet Gul Bahar, a day in the life of an Afghan School girl:
FORBIDDEN’s setting can become a reality – a place of peace, inclusiveness, growth, equality, and intelligent leadership by men and women. It is my mission to nurture the beauty that is in the Middle East and its people through support of education programs. Instead of sitting in our comfortable chair watching televised horrors taking place in the Middle East, we all need to get up, step forward, and take on some responsibility to make peace happen.