Search Results for: every last fear

 Posted in Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author Nancy S. Thompson

 CMash  March 9, 2013  1 Comment on Guest Author Nancy S. Thompson

TheMistaken_banner

This winter has been brutal here in New England.  However, curled up with a good mystery is a great way to wait for spring.  And today’s guest has written such a book.  I ask that you help me welcome Ms. Nancy S. Thompson to CMash Reads!

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nancysthompson
NANCY S. THOMPSON

Nancy Thompson makes her fiction debut with The Mistaken. She is an interior designer and California transplant, currently living with her husband near Seattle, WA.
Connect with Nancy at her website, on Facebook and Twitter

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ABOUT THE BOOK

Tyler Karras is an honest man, a transplanted Brit living the American dream, but his charmed life takes an unexpected turn when his brother, Nick, is coerced into joining ranks with San Francisco’s Russian mafia. Ty intervenes to secure Nick’s freedom, yet only succeeds in incurring their wrath. With no choice but to accept Nick’s new life, Ty returns to his own, but his dreams are dashed when his wife—pregnant with their first child—is killed, the victim of a reckless crime.

Despondent and bitter, Ty macerates his grief in alcohol. From the depths of the bottle screams a voice, howling for vengeance. His target is a stranger, the woman who drew his wife toward her death. He doesn’t know her, but he’ll find her, and when he does, he will make her pay, for a deal has been struck with Nick’s Russian associates, enslaving her into a life of bondage. But as Ty moves forward in a cloud of alcohol, he mistakes the wrong woman for his intended victim and now all his plans have gone straight to hell.

With his eyes made clear by the stark reality of his mistake, Ty is driven, compelled by remorse and a relentless sense of guilt to make amends and protect Hannah Maguire, the innocent woman whose life he has derailed. He vows to keep her safe and out of the Russians’ hands, but they’re holding Nick as leverage to force Ty to complete their deal and turn over the girl. Once again, he must fight to free his brother, miring all three lives in further jeopardy. But Ty can’t do it all: Save the girl, his brother and his own soul. One of them must make the ultimate sacrifice.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Psyshological Thriller
Published by: Sapphire Star Publishing
Publication Date: October 18, 2012
Number of Pages: 409
ISBN: 978-1-938404-13-9
Note: Excessive strong language, Graphic violence

Purchase Links:

     

Watch the trailer:

Read an excerpt:

God, I didn’t want to do this. Just thinking about it had my gut tied in knots, but I was out of options. My brother had given me no choice. I was tired of his promises, sick of his attitude, of everything always being someone else’s fault, never his. While my fiancée, Jillian, and I had discussed what I should say to him, I continued to rehearse, point by point, during my short commute home. But who was I kidding? I knew damn well, no matter what I said, my brother would throw every word right back in my face, like he always did. But I didn’t care anymore. After four long weeks, he had overstayed his welcome, and now it was time for Nick to leave.The confrontation loomed only minutes away, and I was dreading it. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the fog. Cold and persistent, it clung to the road like a drowning man to driftwood. It was the one thing I’d never grown accustomed to here in San Francisco, the summer fog burning off each afternoon only to reappear a few hours later, denser than ever. Add to it the waning twilight and you couldn’t see much at all, just indistinct shapes of black and grey. I could barely make out the colorful Victorian facades standing shoulder to shoulder along my street. The painted ladies simply faded into the mist.

I pulled into my driveway and shifted into park, a long sigh escaping at the thought of what waited for me inside. As I grabbed the roll of blueprints next to me, a movement outside caught my eye, a dark shape on the sidewalk a few doors down, writhing about in the murky shadows. I strained to see what it was, an injured animal perhaps, though it seemed too large for that, at least in this part of The City. Golden Gate Park maybe, but that was blocks away. I snatched my keys from the ignition, shut the door to my truck, and ambled up the front walkway, my gaze fixed on the squirming silhouette. There were no noises or crying that I could hear, but then again, the fog had a way of deadening all sound. After wrestling in the dark with the deadbolt, I shot one last glance over my shoulder then pushed through my front door.

“Nick?” I called out, my keys jingling as I worked them from the lock. “Why are all the lights off?” I switched on the hall light and kicked off my shoes as I waited, but I heard no reply, so I tried once more, only louder. “Nick, you hear me? Where are you?”

A disturbing silence hung in the air, uncomfortable and creepy. Unexpected since my brother was supposed to be home, day and night, no exceptions. He’d recently gotten himself into a heap of trouble, and now there were some large men gunning for a little payback. Par for the course for my little brother. He was always getting into one scrape or another. But this time was different. Nick was scared. Really scared. Scared enough to ask if he could hide out at my place while he tried to straighten out the mess with the men he’d crossed, a gang of Russian thugs from his neighborhood in the Outer Richmond District here in The City. One wrong step, like out the front door, and Nick might not see the light of another day, or so he told me.

I glanced upstairs, but it, too, stood dark and quiet. Something definitely wasn’t right. The hair pricked on the back of my neck, and the knots in my stomach morphed into a swarm of butterflies, all battling to escape. I threw down my keys and blueprints and walked through the house, turning on lights in my path.

“Nick, answer me! Where the hell are you?”

I don’t know why I expected a response that third time. Maybe I was just praying for one instead, but the silence was all the answer I received. I stood still, deep in thought, worried about what might have happened. He wouldn’t have left the house, would he? I turned toward the entry hall. Oh God, no. I dashed back out the front door, pausing on the porch as I scanned for the dark form. It was still squirming on the sidewalk, but it appeared even larger now.

The streetlight out front was just beginning to dance to life. Sporadic bursts of pale pink light illuminated two feet as they kicked and twisted in the hazy air. The single shape expanded into three distinct forms—all human—one prone on the ground and two bent above, their arms sawing up and down and back and forth with hands clenched tight into fists.

“Oh, God. Nick!” I sprinted toward them in a panic, anxiety blossoming into fear.

“Tyler!” he wailed, but his cry was cut short by pounding thuds.

The other two men—both built like bulls and panting in exertion—stood up straight. They turned toward me with their fists pulled back. And as the streetlight overhead finally flickered on for good, the one inside my head flashed bright then flamed out.

 

Follow Nancy’s tour and enter for a chance to win THE MISTAKEN:

March 1st:  Review & Giveaway~Kate @ Read 2 Review
March 2nd:  Guest Post~Jo @ Writers and Authors
March 4th:  Reviews~Tammy & Kim @ Reviews by Tammy and Kim
March 6th:  Showcase & Interview~Laurie @ Laurie’s Thoughts and Reviews
March 7th:  Showcase~Ashley @ Dr. Pepper Diva
March 8th:  Showcase & Interview~Jean @ JeanBookNerd
March 9th:  Showcase~Cheryl @ CMash ReadsMarch 12th: Review & Interview by Stacy @ Literary Mania Reviews
March 13th:  Review & Giveaway~Nicole @ Bless Their Hearts Mom
March 14th:  Review & Giveaway~Tammy & Michelle @ The Nook Users Book Club
March 15th:  Review & Giveaway~Athena @ The Stuff of Success
March 18th:  Review, Guest Post & Giveaway~Vicky @ Deal Sharing Aunt
March 22nd:  Review & Giveaway~Brittany @ Britt’s Book Nook
March 23rd:  Review & Giveaway~Gina @ Hott Books

DISCLAIMER

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Providence Book Promotions, Showcase

Guest Author Frank Zaccari

 CMash  January 18, 2013  2 Comments on Guest Author Frank Zaccari

Today I have the the honor and pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Frank Zaccari, as he stops by and visits, during his VT with Providence Book Promotions.  Please help me welcome him to CMash Reads.

FRANK ZACCARI

Frank Zaccari is a native of western New York. He received his bachelor’s in finance from California State University at Sacramento after serving as a military medic in the United States Air Force. He spent more than two decades in the technology industry, holding various positions from account representative to CEO. He also spent time specializing in turn-around management of companies under $100 million. Zaccari left the industry to provide primary care of his children, purchasing a small business that was more accommodating to his family. He presently owns an insurance agency in Sacramento, where he currently resides. “Five Years to Live” is not his only book for sale. He has also written, “When the Wife Cheats,” “From the Ashes: The Rise of the University of Washington Volleyball Program,” and “Inside the Spaghetti Bowl.”
Visit Frank at his website here.

ABOUT THE BOOK

It is the phone call every person lives in fear of receiving. There has been an accident and your loved one is paralyzed. A spinal cord injury is the single most devastating and life altering event. Based on a true story, Michael and Donna were young, successful, in love and planning their life together. That life was radically changed by a tragic car accident. Now a wheelchair user as a quadriplegic, with limited movement, constant infections and multiple surgeries, doctors projected Michael’s best case life expectancy to be five years. See how this young couple battles through his injury and spends his five years making a lasting impact on hundreds of people. It will make you realize what can be accomplished when a person does not let circumstances dictate their life.
Purchase Link:  

Read an excerpt:

With terror in his voice, he said, “I’m not going to walk again, am I?”

“We don’t really know yet, like I said…”

Michael angrily cut her off “Answer the god-damn question. I’m not going to walk again am I?

“I don’t know Michael.” Tears began to will up in his eyes, and he looked at her, begging for an answer.

After she wiped the tear from her eyes she said “The odds are not in your favor.”

Follow Frank’s tour here for a chance to win a copy of Five Years To Live.

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Author, Giveaway, Tribute Books

ENTRY PAGE “THE LEGEND OF MICKEY TUSSLER” and “SOPHOMORE CAMPAIGN” by Frank Nappi ENDED

 CMash  January 7, 2013  9 Comments on ENTRY PAGE “THE LEGEND OF MICKEY TUSSLER” and “SOPHOMORE CAMPAIGN” by Frank Nappi ENDED

JANUARY 7th to JANUARY 21st, 2013

 

THE LEGEND OF MICKEY TUSSLER

and SOPHOMORE CAMPAIGN

     
by FRANK NAPPI

SYNOPSIS:

The Legend of Mickey Tussler Book Summary:

In the late 1940s, the minor league Milwaukee Brewers are foundering yet again and manager Arthur Murphy is desperate. When he sees seventeen-year old Mickey Tussler throwing apples into a barrel, he knows he has found the next pitching phenom. But not everyone is so hopeful. Mickey’s autism—a disorder still not truly understood even today—has alienated the boy from the world, and he is berated by other players and fans. Mickey faces immense trials in the harsh and competitive world of baseball while coping with the challenges inherent to his disorder. An honest and knowledgeable book about overcoming adversity, and the basis for the television movie A Mile in His Shoes, Mickey’s powerful story shows that with support and determination anyone can be triumphant, even when the odds are stacked against him.
Sophomore Campaign Book Summary:
It’s 1949 and eighteen-year-old pitching phenom Mickey Tussler is back with the rejuvenated minor league Brewers in the sequel to The Legend of Mickey Tussler (the basis for the television movie A Mile in His Shoes). Despite Mickey’s proclamation that he will never play baseball again after last season’s violent conclusion, his manager—and now surrogate father—Arthur Murphy cajoles the emotionally fragile, socially awkward boy with autism into giving it another shot. Mickey reluctantly returns to the field and must once again cope with the violence and hatred around him. When a young African American player joins the team, the entire team is subjected to racial threats and episodes of violence, one of which Mickey witnesses firsthand. Struggling to understand such ugliness and hatred, and fearful of reprisal should he tell anyone about what he has seen, the boy’s performance on the field suffers. Mickey now must deal with a side of human nature he scarcely comprehends.
THANKS TO AUTHOR, FRANK NAPPI,
I HAVE ONE ( 1 ) COPY OF EACH BOOK
TO GIVE AWAY TO ONE LUCKY WINNER.
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*GIVEAWAY ENDS JANUARY 21st AT 6PM EST*

WINNER WILL BE CHOSEN BY RAFFLECOPTER AND NOTIFIED
VIA EMAIL AND WILL HAVE 48 HOURS TO RESPOND
OR ANOTHER NAME WILL BE CHOSEN

DISCLAIMER / RULES

Giveaway copies are supplied and shipped to winners via publisher,
the giveaway on behalf of the
above. I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in
exchange for my honest review. No items that I receive are
ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
I am not responsible for lost or damaged books that are shipped
from agents. I reserve the right to disqualify/delete any entries
if rules of giveaway are not followed

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 Posted in Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours

Guest Author CJ West

 CMash  December 15, 2012  Leave a Comment on Guest Author CJ West

Today I have the distinct honor to introduce you to a very busy, talented and author of 7 novels, as he kicks off his virtual tour with Partners In Crime Tours.  Please help me give a warm welcome to Mr. CJ West!!!!

CJ WEST

C.J. West is the author of seven suspense novels including The End of Marking Time and Sin and Vengeance, which was optioned into development for film by Beantown Productions, LLC (screenplay by Marla Cukor).
Connect with CJ at his website, blog and Facebook.

GUEST POST

Does This Label Make Me Look Sexy?

My research for Dinner At Deadman’s took me to some places that might make you feel queasy and to some estate sales where people love to browse, but some can’t bring themselves to buy because they feel icky buying something from a dead person. My hero, Lorado Martin, has made a hobby out of spotting the treasure in heaps of old junk and he’s pretty darned good at it in real life, too.

A great example is the brown jacket in my Facebook profile pic. It’s my favorite jacket and I wear it often to conferences and signings. It feels lucky after I’ve worn it so much. You’ll have to judge if it’s sexy or not. My brother Lorado (yes my protagonist is created based on my brother), bought that same jacket from a charity called GiftsToGive. Same color. Same label. Much bigger size! But the price was the big difference. I paid $70. He paid $3.

That started me thinking about how much we pay to feel sexy. The only difference between my jacket and his is the store where it was purchased.

My sneakers are another example. I paid about $30. Kids spend a hundred for the cool brand of sneakers so they can fit in on the playground. Luckily at my age I know I’m cool. I don’t need the right pair of sneakers to tell me so. That doesn’t stop the kids (and even some grown women) from scoffing at the label on mine.

Now I’m going to tell you a secret that could crash the American economy. So keep this to yourself…  My brother sells ladies handbags for twenty-five cents. They open at the top. They zipper. And they have a strap to make it easy to carry things around. Still, my daughters both have bags that cost $300 and scream status. (Thanks to their mother. I’d never spend that much money on something so frivolous.)

So why do we spend so much money on things when we don’t need to? According to The Economist, it’s all about sex.

I wonder if we’ll ever evolve to a world where labels don’t make us special. Where frugality reigns and men select women who buy a $10 bag instead of wasting $300. Wouldn’t that be a lifelong recipe for happiness? Men continually complain about how much money their wives spend. Why not pick one who is frugal from the beginning?

Ladies, would you be caught dead with a twenty-five cent handbag? Or would it make you feel smarter than the average mom?

ABOUT THE BOOK

Lorado Martin has loved junk since his grandparents took him bottle digging in the backwoods of New England when he was a boy. The search for antiques and collectibles led him to a unique hobby: digging through the estates of the newly deceased, arranging the sale of goods for the heirs, and keeping the leftovers for himself.

To make a living he builds and maintains housing for recovering addicts and along the way he’s employed a number of his clients. The men wrestle with the siren call of drugs and teach Lorado about the difficult struggle to stay clean one day at a time.

When these two worlds come together, Lorado learns that not every elderly person dies of natural causes and that some estates are sold to benefit a killer. His latest project hits close to home. A woman he’s known since childhood haunts him from a fresh grave. Her grandson, an affable addict who has fallen off the wagon, stands to inherit a considerable sum whether he deserves it or not.

Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
February 17th. Nineteen degrees on a Friday night and I was tucked in a dead lady’s bed trying to convince myself the pressure in my gut wasn’t worth risking the cold oak and then the bathroom tiles. Sound miserable? Not for me. I wasn’t thinking about the punk heir or how silly I looked in a pink comforter covered with big red roses. I was a pig, belly deep in mud. No part of me wanted to move because I’d been treasure hunting all day. Everything was sore, especially my right elbow, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
You’re probably laughing. Picturing a fat guy in a pink blanket who fancied himself a pirate. I was no swashbuckler. Unwanted treasure was my specialty. New England might not have had gold or oil, but it was packed with loot.My ancestors were either cowards or laggards. They landed on the Mayflower and walked inland far enough to get away from the Atlantic storm surge, but not so far they couldn’t run back to the boat if the Indians attacked. I couldn’t run back. I could walk if I lost a few pounds. Okay, probably not.
Every winter New Englanders dreamed of moving to Florida or South Carolina. Adventurous souls picked some island the rest of us had never heard of like Turks and Caicos. Not me. The South Coast was exactly where I belonged. New Bedford was the whaling capital of the world. Every old geezer who croaked had some scrimshaw or an oil lamp or something that had been around a few hundred years.In the old days people had a bottle dump at the back corner of the foundation. Old timers scoured the woods and picked through old homesteads that had rotted into the ground. My grandparents took me along sometimes. They built tiers of wooden shelves in their cellar, a spooky mildew-coated place that had one of the last stone foundations built in the area. They collected thousands of bottles from two-toned brown jugs to tiny blue medicine bottles. One day I found a Fairbanks & Beard soda bottle and my grandfather gave me ten bucks for it. Ten bucks for something I dug out of the ground! I was hooked.I didn’t wait for houses to fall down and their foundations to fill with leaves like my grandparents did. Yuppie kids called me even before their last parent was buried. They saw a house worth two hundred thousand, some cash, and investments. They browsed the jewelry and they were done. The rest of the stuff was just in the way. A bunch of junk that kept them from the big score. They wanted everything gone so buyers could start looking at the house.That was my domain. All the stuff they didn’t want. Some of it was worth a whole lot more than that old F & B bottle with the green glass and jagged top. My last thirty years were dedicated to learning the difference.
At forty miles per hour I could spot a barrel of Lincoln Logs in somebody’s trash and slam the brakes in time to swing around and pick them out before the garbage truck got there. Put me in an old lady’s house and I was in heaven.Everyone had some useless crap that never should have been made in the first place. Once that was gone, every single thing left was useful to somebody. The trick was matching them up. Every fork, can opener, end table, and cheesy 1970’s lamp was dying to make someone happy.In about a week I could have a house open for sale. Posted on Craigslist. In the Standard Times classifieds. A cardboard sign on every main road.

The people would fill the place shoulder to shoulder. Browsing. Smiling and sharing reminders of their childhood. Kids would pick up useless junk and laugh. An hour later an old lady would buy the very same piece. Young and old alike were struck with a combination of nostalgia and bargain fever, but every person who walked through the door had one problem. They were all trying to forget someone died in that house not long ago.
Death never bothered me much.

There’s nothing wrong with dead stuff. Road kill could make a great hat if the bumper didn’t poke a hole in the pelt. It was awful hard to mess up a raccoon’s tail with a car and those rings looked pisser dangling down the back of your neck. When you were seventeen anyway. Or maybe twenty. The raccoon didn’t care. He was gone.
People were different. They knew death was coming and didn’t want to entertain the thought any longer than necessary. Sometimes they got angry when they died. Sometimes I could feel it. That night working in Mrs. Newbury’s house I swore the old lady was watching me. And she wasn’t happy about me rummaging through her stuff.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know I was coming. My parents had known her a long time. They went to school together back when Rochester kids went to New Bedford High. Decades ago.

A year ago she’d hired me to replace her kitchen cabinets. And she walked me through the house when I was done. Showed me her treasures. Pieces of scrimshaw squirreled away in the attic. Plates I had to Google to find out what they were worth. Mrs. Newbury had some great stuff. She knew her grandson, Newb, wouldn’t appreciate any of it. Her telling me was a sign she wanted me to make sure the valuable pieces weren’t thrown away.
Sometime between showing me her house and dying, she’d gotten angry and decided to take it out on my stomach. Maybe I was sleeping on Mr. Newbury’s side of the bed, but that shouldn’t have mattered. They were together in Heaven. Or at least they should have been.

Maybe she’d changed her mind about me selling her stuff to strangers. The closet cramped with fifty years of floral dresses and skirts. Two bureaus overflowing with scarves and socks and underwear. Boxes, purses, and shoe trees pressed into every available space. The clutter slumped against the walls parted just enough to reveal the oak flooring along the weaving path Mrs. Newbury followed to the bathroom. The night light’s glow gleamed off those precious few boards and my gaze fell there as I struggled to sleep in spite of being haunted.

Old people got out of bed to pee a lot. Well, they couldn’t pee a lot, that’s why they got up so often. Anyway, the thing they feared most was a fall at night when no one could hear them and come to help. If you’d seen my big blue coffee cup you’d know I needed to get up a time or two myself. And at three hundred twenty pounds, when I fell there was damage. So I left the night light on even though I wasn’t keen on anyone seeing me wrapped in the old lady’s pink comforter. I’d have been under the pink sheets and rose-patterned blankets, too, if I wasn’t so worried about bedbugs. The look wouldn’t have changed. Only the temperature.

It’d be just like Roxie to swing by for a little action and snap a picture from the doorway. She was a whiz with the Internet. She’d email it to all our friends before I could get dressed and chase her home.
Giving her a key to job sites was a risk, but who knows what’d happen in those old neighborhoods. Junkies read the obits. They’d hack out every length of copper from the cellar if they thought no one was home. If they caught me sleeping and roughed me up, maybe she’d call the cops and save my ass. More likely she’d come by to give me a piece of hers. Sadly, three days after Valentine’s my stomach hurt so much I hoped she wouldn’t come.

My gut rumbled and I pulled the comforter tighter. Damned unromantic.
Wind whistled against the toothless exterior and found its way in through gaps around the windows. I’d pitched the kid a siding and window replacement job, but the only thing the vulture wanted was his grandmother’s place gone in a rush. Forsythia slapped the shingles and tickled the glass. The bushes could have been cut back enough in a day so you could see the street from the windows. The briars and scrub out back mowed with a brush cutter in three hours. Two hundred bucks to triple the yard and jack up the sale price at least three times that. No deal. No cash was going into grandma’s house. He wanted me to wring out every penny. Every cent he could get without lifting a finger or spending a dime.

Thankless cheapskate I worked for. Even worse when he worked for me.
A knot in my gut twisted so tight I forgot my annoyance with the kid.

The cramps forced me to wrestle out of the comforter and lumber down the path, hunched over in the dark, cradling my gut in my arms. On my second step, something jabbed the meat of my right foot. It pressed in so deeply, I hopped and crashed my right shoulder into the doorframe.
I swiped at the sole of my foot, feeling for blood, expecting a staple or a tack. A bit of broken plastic was all I found. It bounced into a corner for me to step on again later. The jostling hurt so much I thought my stomach was going to erupt horizontally. I wished I’d just kept walking and let the plastic burrow its way in. It would have been a lot less painful.

Four hobbled steps carried me through the hall into a bathroom that had been designed for tiny old people. Her toilet was wedged in a corner between the closet and the window. I leaned against the wall. Ignored the ceramic toilet paper dispenser digging into my knee. The cold air rushing through the window. Balanced there in the dark, the pain radiated lower.

Giving birth had to feel like this. It hurt too much to push. It hurt too much not to push.

The contents of my bowels willed themselves free with a liquid rush that went on far longer than should have been humanly possible. Stuff I’d eaten days ago freed itself from my body in a torrent that released so much pressure it felt as good as any orgasm.

Then my entire body seized in a cramp that folded me in half.

Women complain about cramps like it’s the end of the world. If this was what having a period was like, I’d take back every menstrual joke I ever told.

Forty minutes later I was still sitting there with the seat jammed so firmly into my backside the impression wouldn’t fade for a week. I’ll spare you the details, but stuff kept squirting out of me until I swore my intestines were inside out, hanging down there in the bowl getting a rinse.

I hate doctors almost as much as I hate health plans and the government sponsored socialist crap that forced me to pay for something I didn’t want so some lowlife could get free healthcare. My right elbow had hurt for two years before that night and I hadn’t seen a doctor yet. I’d rather wake up wincing in pain than pay some rich boy two hundred bucks to talk with me for seven minutes.
That night it hurt so badly I might have called an ambulance if I could have gotten my pants back on. Might have driven myself in if I could have taken a step away from the porcelain throne, but I was tethered by unrelenting cramps and the fear of my insides splashing all over everything if I stood up.
I clutched my gut and leaned forward, praying that somehow the pain would pass and I’d make it back to bed. Sleep would set me right. Little did I know sleep was coming in a rush. A nasty cramp hunched me right over forward and my foot slipped.

The bolt of pain in my groin erased any memory of the cramps. Blinding, mind-erasing pain that only men experience. My arms shot down to catch myself on the seat and free my crushed testicle.

The toilet seat broke free under my weight and I leapfrogged forward. The sharp edge of the vanity creased my forehead. That was the last pain I felt that night. My vision faded like an old tube TV, closing in from the outside to a point of light. As I lost consciousness I had the distinct feeling the old woman was cackling with delight.

Purchase Links:  

AMAZON link
Barnes & Noble link
GoodReads link
Follow CJ’s tour here where you can enter to win a copy of Dinner At Deadman’s.

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Book Review, Guest Author, Showcase, The Story Plant, The Story Plant

Guest Author & Review “Leaves” by Michael Baron

 CMash  December 8, 2012  Leave a Comment on Guest Author & Review “Leaves” by Michael Baron

I am thrilled, no, ecstatic, no, jumping up and down excited, YES!!!

Please indulge me with this introduction.  When I first went public with the former CMash Loves To Read, Mr. Aronica, publisher of The Story Plant contacted me to read and review one of his author’s novels, Crossing The Bridge by Michael Baron.  And the novel blew me away.  Mr Baron went on my “authors to read” list and I have read every one of his books since.

In August of this year, through The Story Plant’s Spread  The Word Initiative, I read and reviewed Mr. Baron’s latest novel, Leaves.

Some may know that I am the owner of Partners In Crime Tours, a virtual tour company for authors of mystery and suspense novels.  Even though this has always been a favorite genre, I do also enjoy other categories.  So on September 7th of this year, I launched Providence Book Promotions, for general literature.  And I am honored and humbled for this opportunity that Mr. Aronica has bestowed on me.  And that is to, kick off PBP, with one of my favorite authors, Mr. Michael Baron!!!!!   YES!!!!  I will be reposting my review from August, so without further ado, please help me give a warm welcome to Mr. Michael Baron!!

MICHAEL BARON

I grew up in the New York area and I’ve lived there my entire life. I worked in retail and taught high school English before I got my first book contract. I have gotten several additional book contracts since then, which is fortunate because I didn’t have the patience to work in retail and, while I quite enjoyed teaching, my approach was a bit too unconventional for most school systems. One school administrator told me that, “there are more important things than being a dynamic teacher.” Since I couldn’t name any of those things (at least in the context of school), I figured I didn’t have a long-term future in the profession. Hence, I became a writer, where I believe people appreciate a certain level of dynamism.

Though I started with nonfiction, I have always loved fiction and I have always wanted to write it. Since I can remember, I’ve had a particular affection for love stories. In fact, the very first book-length thing I ever wrote, when I was thirteen, was a love story. Mind you, it was the kind of love story that a thirteen-year-old boy would write, but it was a love story nonetheless. I have a deep passion for writing about relationships – family relationships, working relationships, friendships, and, of course, romantic relationships – and I can only truly explore this by writing fiction. These novels have given me a way to voice the millions of things running through my head.

My wife and kids are the center of my life. My wife is the inspiration for all of my love stories and my children enthrall me, challenge me, and keep me moving (and have served as the inspiration for several of the kids I’ve written about). One of the primary reasons I wrote my first novel,When You Went Away was that I wanted to write about being a father. Aside from my family, I have a few other burning passions. I’m a pop culture junkie with an especially strong interest in music, I love fine food (as well as any restaurant shaped like a hot dog), and I read far too many sports blogs for my own good.

You might have noticed that I haven’t published a photo of myself. This isn’t because I’m involved in the Witness Protection program or because I have an innate fear of cameras. It’s because Michael Baron is a pseudonym. I’m writing these novels “undercover” because they’re not entirely compatible with the nonfiction books I write, and I didn’t want to confuse readers. We’re all different people sometimes, right? I just decided to give my alter ego another name.

You can reach me at michael@michaelbaronbooks.com.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Welcome to Oldham, CT, a small town rich in Colonial heritage while being utterly contemporary. Situated along the Connecticut River Valley, Oldham bursts with color every fall, as the leaves on its trees evolve into an unmatched palette of scarlet, orange, purple, yellow, and bronze. For more than three decades, the Gold family has been a central part of Oldham in the fall, its Sugar Maple Inn a destination for “leaf-peepers” from all over the country, and its annual Halloween party a stirring way to punctuate the town’s most active month.
But this year, more than just the leaves are changing. With the death of their parents, the Gold siblings, Maria, Maxwell, Deborah, Corrina, and Tyler, have decided to sell the Sugar Maple Inn, and this year’s Halloween party will be the last. As October begins, the Golds contend with the finality that faces them, and the implications it has for a family that has always been so close. For some, it means embracing new challenges and new love. For others, it means taking on unimagined roles. And for others, it means considering the inconceivable. Complicating it all is a series of “hauntings” that touch each of the Gold siblings, a series of benign interventions that will remain a mystery until October draws to a close.
Filled with romance, tension, and unforgettable family drama, LEAVES is the first in a series of novels about a world and a family that readers will want to make their own.

Purchase links:    Amazon     B&N     IndieBound

My review, originally posted August 29th, 2012

My Thoughts and Opinion:
Michael Baron has been compared to Nicholas Sparks, but since I have not read any of Mr. Sparks books I can’t compare, but what I do know is that when I first went public with my blog, Mr. Baron’s publisher contacted me to read the author’s book Crossing The Bridge and I instantly became a fan. However, I did recommended his books to another book blogger, Ann from  Ann’s Reading Corner who has read Mr. Sparks’ novels and she stated “personally I like Michael’s novel much better than Sparks novels” (you can see her review  here). Crossing The Bridge was a short read but written with such tenderness and emotion that it was hard to believe a male author had penned it. Since then I have read every book written by him and we have both grown. His books became full length novels, books that I would anxiously wait for and I am coming up on my 3rd blogiversary. His répertoire of books that I have read are The Journey Home, Anything, Spinning, When You Went Away, and A Winter Discovery. And now Leaves.

Leaves takes place over a period of less than a month’s time. Four siblings have decided that it is time to sell their parents Inn that they have helped with, even as children, since their parents have passed away. Their parents hosted a yearly event and would open the Inn’s door to the small and quaint town of Oldham with a big Halloween party. And this year will be bittersweet as it will be the last day before the new buyers take ownership the next day. In the days before the party, the reader is introduced to the siblings and also a look into their family dynamics.

Mr. Baron has the gift and ability to sweep you away from reality into the story like the winds of autumn sweeps the last leaves off the trees. The characters are so life like that they become one’s own family. The story felt like a real life event, whereas you are looking forward to see what happens as he counts down the days to the Halloween party but then on the other hand, you know that the story will end but don’t want it to be over. His manner of writing flows and is so realistic that it transports the reader right into the middle of the plot. This is the first time that I have read a book that every one of the senses was a vivid experience. Mr. Baron, has shared his music on Spotify to listen to and hear as you are reading, the details of Deborah’s cooking made my mouth water and could imagine the smells in the kitchen, I could create the imagery of seeing the settings, I was able to feel the emotions and tender touches of the characters. And as the days kept getting crossed off the calendar and getting close to the end, I didn’t know whether to read faster to see what happened or read slower so that I could savor this book and not have it end. The ending bittersweet, which I did not see coming (sorry but I will not include a spoiler). The ending is too special to even hint at what happens.

Knowing the style of Mr. Baron’s work, when I read the following from the prologue, I knew that this book, like his others, would tug at my heart strings, take me away and that I would have a difficult time putting it down.

For this October, certain threads would fray and certain binds would loosen. Unspoken words woud be uttered at last while things that needed to be said would be withheld. Tradition would be honored and the past would be rejected. One heart would beat for another’s for the first time, while one heart would stop beating forever. And a message would be delivered that was essential to all who heard it.

Mr. Baron’s, Leaves, is a poignant, compelling, moving, passionate, feel good read. Once the last word is read and the book closed, the characters live on in one’s heart and mind. An absolutely recommended read!!

Read an excerpt:

The River Edge Café had been open for business since the late ‘90s, when a husband-and-wife team made a killing during the tech stock boom and decided to “chuck it all” and follow their passion for fine food. Located on the water between Oldham and Essex, it was popular for its ambitious menu, its beautiful setting, and its attentive staff. However, it had recently lost two executive chefs in quick succession, leading to rumors that the owners were impossible taskmasters and maybe even a little abusive. Deborah didn’t necessarily believe these unfounded stories, but they made her wary through the entire interview process, and even now, in her third meeting with the couple, she wondered if there was something less than genuine behind Carla Bonner’s ubiquitous smile or Vince Travers’s persistence.
“We want you here, Deb,” Vince said. People didn’t really call her “Deb,” but Vince seemed to insist on it. He had been doing so since they first met half a decade ago. “There are maybe two dishes on the menu we think we need to keep. The entire rest of the menu would be yours.”
“It would be like having your own restaurant without the hassle of ownership,” Carla said. Deborah had been in precisely that situation her entire adult life, so she wasn’t sure why Carla thought this was a selling point.
“I’m completely willing to wait until the middle of November if you want to take a couple of weeks off between jobs,” Vince said. “Trina’s an excellent sous chef and she’s doing a great job of holding the fort for us. To be honest, if we weren’t so intent on recruiting you, we’d give her the job right now.”
“That’s very flattering,” Deborah said, wondering how resentful Trina would be of her if she decided to take the position.
This wasn’t the first offer Deborah had received, though it was certainly the most aggressive. She got a couple of calls as soon as word got out about the sale of the Inn. The people buying the Sugar Maple even made her an extremely attractive offer to stay precisely where she was. She never seriously considered it, though. It was hard enough cooking there now that both of her parents were gone. It would be impossible to take direction there from someone else and even harder to watch the inevitable changes they made. Deborah imagined herself collapsing into tears the first time they replaced a table lamp. She was convinced that when she walked out of the Inn at the end of the Halloween party she would never again set foot in the place just so she could remember it forever the way she wanted.
None of the offers she’d received so far had seemed very appealing. She knew that she was running the risk of seeming like a prima donna and she also knew that she should be eternally grateful for the attention, but she couldn’t allow herself to take a position unless it sang out to her. She even considered trying to find a job in a diner or a coffee shop somewhere – something completely one-dimensional with little or no room for personal investment – just to recalibrate. But of course that was ridiculous. How long could she flip burgers before she started slipping exotic ingredients into the ground beef? She had enough money saved to get by for about six months, and if it took that long to find the right spot, that was fine with her.
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Vince said. “I’m trying to employ you. Your customers will flatter you every time the waitstaff delivers one of your inventions.”
Deborah smiled. The “Deb” thing aside, she’d always liked Vince and she wished the rumors weren’t causing her to question his sincerity. That was the pernicious thing about rumors.
“The package you’re offering is great,” she said, nodding to both Vince and Carla. “I’ve always been fond of this restaurant, and you have a great kitchen. I just need a couple of days.”
“Of course,” Carla said. “Take as long as you must.”
Vince patted her hand. “We’re here for you, Deb. Call me anytime if you have questions. I gave you our home number, right?”
“You did, yes. I just want to take a little longer to think. I’ll call you on Monday.”
Deborah stood and shook their hands. The fact was, she already made her decision, but it didn’t seem polite to turn them down flat. The River Edge Café was a fine restaurant and it did have a sensational kitchen. The more time she spent there, though, she realized there wasn’t anything about this place that felt like home.
She drove through downtown Oldham on the way back to the inn. Waiting for a couple of pedestrians to cross Hickory, she noticed the sign for Sage, the gourmet shop that had opened a couple of weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t visited it yet. When a car pulled out of the parking space across from the store, she decided the time was right. The store was in a moderately large space between a music store and a bookstore. Deborah had a hard time remembering what was in the space before (there had been several shops there over the past few years), but the new owner had done a great job of remodeling it. Lots of blond wood fixtures, warm lighting, and handwritten signage. There was a refrigerator case housing artisanal cheeses and sausages in understated, small-production packages.
Deborah liked being here immediately. Maybe it was the slack-key guitar music coming from the sound system or that one of the front tables was dedicated to the small Tuscan pasta manufacturer she “discovered” a couple of years ago and had used exclusively at the inn ever since. Deborah knew this would be a place she’d visit often. She’d been to all the gourmet shops in the area, and was frustrated by the sameness of them. It was almost as though some food rep came along and set each one up based on some model. This place had a decidedly individual point of view, though. The shelf of spices was an asymmetrical jumble of bottles and tins of different sizes. Next to it was a card that read, “This might not be the prettiest display of spices you’ve ever seen, but it’s hopefully the best. I’ve compared everything on this shelf to the competition and only carry the ones I love the most.” Deborah agreed about the mustard seed, the ground coriander, and the smoked paprika, but she would have chosen a different Telicherry peppercorn.
A man walked up to her while she was standing at the display. “Find anything you like?”
She turned to look at him. He was a little over six feet and lean. And he had very expressive eyes. “Krendahl has better peppercorns,” she said.
“You’re right, but they only sell from their catalog. I tried, believe me. They also import this fabulous five spice powder, but again, I couldn’t get it. Think I should change the card in the spirit of full disclosure?”
Deborah laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re the owner?”
He extended his hand and Deborah took it. “Sage Mixon.”
“Deborah Gold. So the store is named after you and not after” – she reached for a bottle – “Brookfield’s hand-rubbed Albanian.”
He smiled. “You obviously know your spices. Are you in the food business?”
“I’m the chef at the Sugar Maple Inn – at least I am until the end of the month.”
“Moving on to bigger and better things?”
Deborah rolled her eyes. “That part isn’t at all certain at the moment.” She turned toward another display. “I’ve never seen these preserves before.”
“They’re incredible. They’re all made by a single dad out of a barn in New Hampshire. He sweetens them with a ‘proprietary blend’ of fruit juices and balances each with some kind of spice or infusion. The lemon marmalade is mind-boggling.” He picked up a jar and handed it to her. “He adds a touch of Thai basil. It’s amazing what happens.”
Deborah examined the jar in her hand. If nothing else, Sage was an excellent salesman. Of course she would buy this. Before she did, though, she spent another half hour in the store walking from display to display. Sage stayed with her when he wasn’t helping other customers, and it became obvious that there was a story behind everything he carried. She hoped the visitors who flitted in and out appreciated the thought that went into this. More importantly, she hoped that – appreciative or not – the visitors were plentiful. Oldham needed more stores like this one.
By the time she’d finished shopping, Deborah had the marmalade, a salsa from Nogales, a bottle of raspberry thyme vinegar made a half hour away, and a package of stroopwafels made in Montana, of all places. She didn’t need any of it. She certainly had access to just about everything she wanted from the network of suppliers she’d developed over the years. But it was fun buying here and she definitely wanted to support the place.
“Come again soon,” Sage said as he packaged her purchases. “I will. Definitely. Hey, come by the Inn for dinner sometime in the next month.”
“I might just do that. I mean if you know this much about food, you might actually be able to cook.”
Deborah laughed. “Yeah, it’s a possibility.”
He smiled and his eyes danced. Deborah would definitely be back soon.

 

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Guest Author, Showcase

Guest Author Michaelene McElroy and Giveaway

 CMash  December 6, 2012  1 Comment on Guest Author Michaelene McElroy and Giveaway

I am excited about today’s guest because this is her first time visiting us here at CMash Reads.  I was contacted by frequent visitor, author and friend, Melissa Foster (Come Back To Me, Megan’s Way and more great books) to ask if I would host today’s guest.  And every author that Melissa has recommended have been amazing authors.  So there was no hesitation.  I ask that you please help me welcome Michaelene McElroy to our group!!!

MICHAELENE McELROY

Michaelene McElroy makes her debut as an author with The Last Supper Catering Company.  She lives on four acres in the woods on an island in the Puget Sound of Washington State where magic is ever present.
Visit Michaelene at her website, Facebook and Twitter.

ABOUT THE BOOK

The Last Supper Catering Company is the humorous and heartwarming story of B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow. Turned out with red corkscrew hair, one eye brown, the other green, and gifted with the power to hear the voices of the departed, B. Thankful is cast aside by the town, and lives an isolated upbringing in the woods with Big G, Little G, and Tyler Lucknow.

Tragedy, followed by the discovery of a long-forgotten paint-by-number picture of the Last Supper, thrusts B. Thankful from the safety of everything she has ever known.

Beyond the boundary of her sheltered life, B. Thankful discovers the world’s hard edges as well as its beauty. More importantly, with the help of a cast of quirky and tenderhearted souls (both earthly and heavenly), she discovers why God made her special.

Reviews:
“The Last Supper Catering Company is beautifully crafted, a throwback to a style half forgotten yet sorely missed.” — Nick Bantock, Author/Artist Griffin and Sabine Trilogy

“…With tones of To Kill a Mockingbird and Forrest Gump, this novel tenderly declares its own delicious literary voice of innocence and courage, with rich, full characters and marvelous sightings of what the world could be…A literary gem that begs to be savoured…” – Tess Wixted, Associate Editor, Life As A Human

Read an excerpt:
Following are excerpts from Chapters Three, Four and Five: The year is 1968. Since B. Thankful’s birth in 1950, and her shunning by the town for being “different,” B. Thankful has lived in the woods, protected by Big G, Little G, and Daddy from the outside world, but that’s about to change forever, and it all starts with a wish.

THREEWhen I was seventeen, Daddy took up with the sickness that’s got no cure. As Daddy had no people of his own to care for him, Little G had me move him from his cabin across the river into our house. Though the times had somewhat changed, some folks still saw the world in either black or white, and those same folks didn’t take to Little G swirling the colors together. From the day we moved Daddy in, she made sure her shotgun was always loaded and near the front door. That’s how much she loved Daddy.
I, too, would have done anything for my Daddy, and there must have been some part of him that knew it to be true. One morning, when I finished telling Daddy one of my stories, he rested his tired hand on mine. He watched the curtains lazily rising and falling with the breeze; his tapered breath, best it could, doing the same. Daddy’s speech came out slow, the space between each word giving thoughtful consideration to the next.
“You know what would make me happy before I die, B.?”
Daddy had never before mentioned the absolute, and I was so taken aback by his matter-of-fact way, I lost my reply, could only shake my head. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, fearful if he leaned toward suffering, he might ask me to help him cross over before the hour God intended.
Between breaths as light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, Daddy said his wish wasn’t for himself, but for Little G, who seemed as near as Daddy to calling an eternal time out. My heart started beating fast because I knew what Little G was longing for, and had been longing for it ever since Big G’s passing, seven years prior.
It was all I could do not to call out my own wish: Please don’t say it, Daddy. Please don’t say it. And then the three words never meant to line up one behind the other did just that: jellied pig’s feet. I grew up spying that nasty concoction in the icebox, and no matter how many times I saw it, it turned me shrill. Tired of my shrieks, Big G hid the jellied pig’s feet under a plastic shower cap, but it was a useless cover up. And, try as I might, I couldn’t hide my disgust when Big G spooned the whole wobbly mess onto a plate and Little G slathered horseradish mustard over each nasty bite. The way it quivered up to Little G’s mouth made it look as if the pig’s feet were making one last attempt at a getaway.
But here’s the thing I’ll never forget–the sound of pleasure coming from deep within Little G, the pure joy lighting up her face, and that same joy resting on Big G’s face as she watched her girl. A kind of holy communion took place between the two of them, like Daddy and me sharing a Banner Bar.
If I could bring a final joy to Daddy by fixing jellied pig’s feet for Little G, I would just have to pull on my big girl boots and make Big G’s god-awful dish. I owed them both that much…FOURNext morning, on the sly, I thumbed through Little G’s recipe box, where I found a worn- out piece of paper with the ingredients for jellied pig’s feet. I recognized Big G’s stiff letter-by-letter way, but she didn’t spell out how much of this or how much of that to use. Deep down in her belly know-how, Big G understood numbers had nothing to do with the righteous power of food; a person’s loving intention was the main ingredient necessary for an eternal soul-to-soul union.
If still alive, Big G could have taught me how she made her jellied pig’s feet with so much love it had reached right in and took hold of Little G’s senses for all of time. Without Big G’s help, my Daddy’s final wish, the only thing he ever asked of me, wouldn’t come true. I couldn’t let that happen. Hard pressed to make Daddy’s wish come to pass, I gave birth to the most far-fetched plan I ever hatched.
I went searching for Little G’s old wooden picture box and found it in the sideboard. If you put Little G in an angry state of mind around you, she took your picture out of the box and placed it in an old medical book under diseases. When things went right again between you, back to the box you’d go. That is, everyone but Little G’s ex-husband, Useless, who ran out on her when she was pregnant with Momma. His picture was permanently glued in the old medical book under warts…
…Thumbing through pictures of long gone strangers, looking for a picture of Big G, I discovered there were notes on the back of each picture…
…There were pictures of folks who loved stews; cornbread (some the way those up north ate it, and those who were staunch in the way of the south); ice cream in every flavor imaginable; barbecued ribs; thick slices of ham with their eggs–sunny side up, scrambled, poached, wrecked on a raft; mustard pickles on buttered rye bread; potatoes–fried, hash browned, boiled, baked; you name it. And some folks yearned all the cold winter long for cobblers filled with the fat berries and juicy peaches only found in the heat of summer.
Finally, I found what I was looking for and sat down at the kitchen table with a picture of Big G. Unlike Little G, who was about as big as a minute—but don’t let that fool you, that woman was strong—Big G was a tall woman with broad shoulders, large hands, and a vestigial third tit. I kid you not. And she wore a look in her eyes that told you she didn’t have the time for much more than a postcard conversation.
Like I said before, the departed had been sharing their stories with me for as long as I can remember, but Big G had never dropped so much as a single word anywhere close to my ear. I closed my eyes, rested my hand on Big G’s picture, and put my plan to the test. My thumb tapped out:
I-n-e-e-d-t-o-t-a-l-k-t-o-y-o-u-a-b-o-u-t-y-o-u-r-j-e-l-l-i-e-d-p-i-g-s-f-e-e-t-B-i-g-G.
Since only Big G had the answer I needed, I couldn’t give up hope. I tapped and tapped. Waited and waited. If by some miracle I reached her, I figured Big G might start with a “Howdy, B. Thankful,” or “Isn’t this a hoot!” But when Big G suddenly came through, she got right to the point, like a postcard. Fortunately, without Wish you were here!
“Ask when the pig was slaughtered, and to see the blood. It should be deep red, not rusty in color. Look for meaty feet. Peel the skin back to see the flesh.”
Somewhere around “peel back,” all of my insides started churning. I was glad for the chair beneath me, for my own feet turned jellylike and would have left me lying in a pool of quiver.
A quick rap to the side of my head brought me back to attention. I rubbed my eyes to prove I was seeing things with my daytime mind and not dreaming. As if she hadn’t dropped dead seven years back, there sat Big G at our kitchen table, just as nonchalant as could be.
I had never actually thought about, or, for that matter, desired to talk face-to-face with the departed; hearing their voices was quite enough. As was its job in the past, my thumb was busy tapping away, but it wasn’t spelling anything. While I was gawkin’, Big G went on talkin’, not giving me one iota of a chance to ponder how this wonder of wonders was possible. As always, Big G’s manner was direct, her words lean.
“You won’t find the soul of this dish in words or numbers. You’ve got to go beyond what you see, into what you feel. I can show you how. Let’s fetch supplies and get to work.” Well, so much for pleasantries…FIVE…It was getting late by the time I got home from my day with Big G, and I found Daddy and Little G in full slumber exactly where I had left them. After I fixed them a simple supper of collard greens and cornbread, which they mostly just poked at, I tucked them into their beds and, as if they were my own children, told each a special story I made up just for them. When I was certain they were asleep, I went about my business in the kitchen with Big G. We had no more than started when Little G called out, “Who are you talking to?”
Big G gave me the hush signal, as if I might tell Little G her dead momma was visiting, and maybe she’d like to put on her chenille robe, come out, and chew the fat with her. I waved Big G off.
“Nobody, Little G. I’m just singing. Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
When she didn’t answer, I hurried down the hall. Frail as a baby bird, Little G was perched on the edge of her bed, her skinny legs dangling over the side. Little G stared down at the very close veins on her hands, and then into my eyes.
“You sure there’s nobody else in the house but your daddy?”
I didn’t think myself lying when I nodded my head. Really, there was no other body in the house…
…Back in the kitchen… For old time’s sake, we kept one of Big G’s aprons on a hook near the pantry. When I slipped it over my head, an unfamiliar sensation moved through my body. My insides grew fuller and my skin turned as tight as a ready to burst watermelon left too long on the vine…
…Please don’t think me crazy, but I got the feeling I wasn’t alone in my own body, someone else working from inside me, tying the apron strings. I looked over to where Big G had been sitting, but the chair was empty; only her picture remained, leaned up against the honey jar. I panicked.
“Big G, where are you?”
“I’m right here, B. Thankful.”
Oh, mercy! Saints preserve me! I swear what happened is not one of my stories. I wouldn’t know how to make this up. If I’m lyin’, let me be dyin’. When Big G’s voice sat in the curve of my ear, I was fine with that, recognized it for what it was. I was even getting used to having her come back for a visit. What I was not ready for was Big G inside of me.
“Get out! Get out!”
“Now, don’t go all haywire on me, B. I’m new to this, too. We don’t wanna get stuck in some oddball way that would be hard to explain, do we? Shouldn’t we give God’s handiwork a try?”
Soon as Big G mentioned God, I recalled Little G saying God had chosen me to do Him a favor one day, and then Daddy telling me God sent me here to do something great. Just in case this was it, peculiar as the setting was, I handed myself over.
“Okay,” I said, same as if Big G told me she was going outside–no mind about it, really. But I had a question I needed answered. “Do I have to talk out loud to you, or can you hear me through my thoughts?”
“Good question. Let’s find out.”
I screwed up my forehead and concentrated, then asked with my mind, “What do I do first?”
“Put all the ingredients on the counter,” Big G answered. It worked! Big G heard my thoughts.
I laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter: pig’s feet, celery, carrots, garlic, black peppercorns, and bay leaves. My movements were Big G’s movements–quick and sure; my hand, her hand that knew her old knife, had lived all the stories held in its handle. We had become woven into a tapestry of good cookin’ know-how. Together we trimmed the feet, plucking out a bristly stray hair, and then christened the pig’s parts under cold water and scrubbed away anything unholy.
“Good job, B. Now, one more time in clear water, honey, then light the stove.”
Once the fire got going and we put the pot on the stove, Big G started humming Down by the Riverside. My own vocal chords strummed along with her until we were humming in fine harmony.
“I’m like a ventriloquist who swallowed her dummy,” popped into my head.
“Not funny!” But Big G was laughing when she said it.
When the water came to a boil, I carefully set the feet to cooking.
“Now’s the time to add a little salt. Salt now will enter the meat in a slow way; salt at the end will simply sit on top. You don’t want that. And not too much now, you want to add a little more when the time comes to add the vegetables. Okay, B., take some of those peppercorns, about the size of a blackberry not quite ready to pick, and set them down on the board for cracking.”
I gave them a whack and some of the peppercorns turned buckshot, flying out from under the knife.
“Now add the peppercorns and two bay leaves to the pot. Wait.” Big G had me taste a bay leaf. “No, make that two and a half bay leaves.”
Once the liquid came to a boil, I turned it down to a simmer. For the next two hours, the pig’s feet simmered in a relaxed way, the pointed hooves floating to the top and bouncing up and down in a circle like fishing bobbers.
In their own time, the bay leaves gave themselves up to the broth and the peppercorns released their fiery oils. A meaty, yet delicate fragrance tinged with sharpness rose from the pot and found its way into my lungs. A burst of aliveness sent me spinning through the kitchen, where the temperature was no less than a hundred and ten degrees. But I was cool as a cucumber as we sliced through carrots without effort, orange coins stacking up neatly, then chopped sweet celery, and garlic, sticky and sure of itself.
One time, when I was a smidge of a girl, my Daddy woke me from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and carried me outside, where the cold air of winter stung my face, and rain rushed from the sky, as if late for a reunion. Daddy pointed up, and I was put out he woke me just to show me a full moon. Before I had a chance to start squawking, Daddy turned me around to the sky opposite the moon and I witnessed a most rare and mysterious sight–a moonbow. Mystifying as that moonbow was, it paled in comparison to the sanctified magic spinning around Big G and me in our kitchen.
It was around midnight when Big G gave me the go ahead to add the vegetables. I watched as the carrots, celery, and garlic took a slip slide from the board and joined the bobbing hooves.
“Now’s the time to see if a little more salt is needed.”
Oh, jeez, I knew that meant I was gonna have to taste the broth. You’d a thought I was about to take a dose of cod liver oil the way my face squeezed up. With more than an ounce of queasiness, I dipped the spoon into the broth, tiny rafts of pepper floating on the surface. Trying to buy time, I blew on it and blew on it until Big G cleared her annoyed throat.
When my lips touched the edge of the spoon, I tasted how the pork had turned the broth meaty and salty; the fat was smooth on the inside of my mouth. The pepper and bay leaves didn’t bite back; they laced the broth with their spicy perfume. None of the ingredients stood in front of the other; they worked together in harmony.
Big G let out a little sigh, as if she had sampled the broth and found it just right. It was then I knew it had all come together, and I quickly doused the flame beneath it.
“Nice call, B. You recognized the moment of perfection all on your own. Now you need to strain it off. Set the colander over my big earthenware bowl and run some cold water alongside it. The cool water will keep the steam from taking over. Go slow so you don’t burn yourself.”
I watched the broth fill the colander, with fall-off-the-bone tender meat, and vegetables right behind. With the flesh shrinking up some during cooking and the bones of the pig laid bare, a deep and abiding respect for the animal rose within me.
The next part of my job took some getting used to, but with Big G’s expert hand I learned how to crack the joints to extract all the meat. Once the vegetables had been added and the strained broth poured over the meat, I looked upon my very first batch of jellied pig’s feet. By the grace of God, and Big G’s help, I had been shown how to recreate the meal that, even across the great divide, forever linked two souls together.
The most important ingredient not found in the words or numbers was Love. Remember me, for I will remember you.
That ready to pop feeling I had when Big G entered my body was plucked from me, and a big sigh went along with it. I opened my eyes and there sat Big G wearing a blue ribbon smile.
“Well, that was different. I gotta say, B. Thankful, traveling light is a lot better than being stuck in a body. I forgot how tight they feel. And, double G-daughter of mine, I am so proud of you. You accepted your calling with willingness and grace.”
“What calling is that, Big G?”
Big G puffed up as if ready to recite a script she had rehearsed over and over again, her manner of speech, preacher flavored.
“B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow, God has chosen you to walk among the dy —”
An urgent call from Little G sent me running to her room before Big G could finish her sermon…

Purchase Links:   Amazon    B&N

MICHAELENE McELROY IS HOSTING A SPECIAL GIVEAWAY.
HERE ARE THE DETAILS:
As the story for The Last Supper Catering Company unfolds, B. Thankful learns about the power of food prepared with love, the communion that takes place between the giver and receiver, and the eternal bond that remains even after the giver has departed from this world to the next. When B. Thankful discovers that her ability to hear the voices of the departed is the magic needed to fulfill the wish of the dying, she becomes a conduit between earth and heaven (where the recipe now resides).

Close your eyes and let your heart lean back in time to a moment when you tasted food prepared with so much love, it’s the one meal you would want for your last supper. Who prepared your favorite dish that will forever sing Remember me, for I will remember you? Send in your stories and recipes and the winner will receive an autographed copy of The Last Supper Catering Company.
Visit Michaelene’s blog here to enter.
Giveaway ends December 21st.  Good Luck

DISCLAIMER
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

 Posted in Author, Book Review

Review “Leaving The Hall Light On” by Madeline Sharples

 CMash  December 3, 2012  1 Comment on Review “Leaving The Hall Light On” by Madeline Sharples

Leaving The Hall Light On by Madeline Sharples
Published by Dream of Things
Publication Date: July 13, 2012
ISBN-10: 0982579489
ISBN-13: 978-0982579480
Pages: 338
Review Copy from: Dream Of Things
Edition: TPB
My Rating: 4 

Synopsis:
Leaving the Hall Light On is about living after loss: first and foremost how author Madeline Sharples chose to live and go on with life and take care of herself as a woman, wife, mother, writer. It is about the steps Sharples took in living with the loss of her son, including making use of diversions to help ease her grief and the milestones she met toward living a full life without him. She says, “to let ourselves grieve is to feel the depth of our love. For those whose children have died, that may take the rest of our lives, but we will discover the gifts of our loss in the process.”

My Thoughts and Opinion:
Over the past year or so, I have stepped out of my comfort zone, and started reading memoirs. And honestly, the ones that I have read have had a lasting impact on me.

The author shares, very candidly, her journey as, a wife and mother, coping with a son who was diagnosed with a Bipolar Disorder and then his suicide. Her pain and recovery. This book was a bit of a hard read for me because of some of the parallels in the story. A thought provoking read on many levels and for varied reasons.

One of the similarities was I am a parent of 2 sons, 2 1/2 years apart and the oldest named Paul, the same as the author. While reading of her struggle with her son Paul, I found myself asking, “what if it was my Paul? Another thing I could relate to was the Bipolar Disorder, because of my background in nursing, I am familiar with the struggles of those diagnosed with the disease, the patterns they have and the signs and symptoms.

Ms. Sharples shares her painful experience of living through her son’s periods of mania and depression. Her raw emotions are palpable. Then the worst nightmare that every parent fears, burying one’s child. And even worse, not knowing the whys. Does any parent have closure? No such thing. How does one go on? I can’t even imagine, having to go through something like this. She frankly and honestly describes her emotions of love, anger, worry, depression, hope, guilt, and even at times, selfishness. How she used writing poetry, which are also in the book, as a coping mechanism. And the decision to write this, which had to be very painful, memoir. As a parent, it was a heart wrenching read. But it was also a read of survival and recovery. It’s then that the hall light goes off.

A powerful and poignant read!! 

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble.  I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.
 Posted in Guest Author, Showcase, The Story Plant

Guest Author Ethan Cross

 CMash  October 16, 2012  Leave a Comment on Guest Author Ethan Cross

Don’t you just love when authors come back and visit your blog?  It means that they have another book to tell us about.  Mr. Cross was here back in March of 2011.  But today,  for me, it is even more exciting for a few reasons.  Not only does it mean that you will get to read about his book, but he is returning today at the request of The Story Plant as he kicks off his virtual tour with Partners In Crime Tours. But before I introduce this amazing writer, I would like to thank Mr. Aronica, publisher of The Story Plant.  I have been reviewing this company’s novels from the time I first went public with this blog and can honestly say, that every author and book I have read under this imprint, has been added to my “authors to read list”.  I invite you to visit The Story Plant, and see for yourself , the phenomenal authors and titles they have.  And now, I ask you to help me welcome Mr. Ethan Cross!

ETHAN CROSS

When a fireman or a policeman would visit his school, most of his classmates’ heads would swim with aspirations of growing up and catching bad guys or saving someone from a blazing inferno. When these moments came for Ethan Cross, however, his dreams weren’t to someday be a cop or put out fires; he just wanted to write about it. His dream of telling stories on a grand scale came to fruition with the release of his first novel, the international bestseller, THE SHEPHERD.

Ethan Cross is the pen name of a thriller author living and writ- ing in Illinois with his wife, two daughters, and two Shih Tzus. In addition to The Shepherd and The Prophet, he has published two no- vellas––The Cage and Callsign: Knight (with Jeremy Robinson).
Connect with the author at his website, Facebook and Twitter.

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

OLD ENEMIES…
Francis Ackerman Jr. is one of America’s most prolific serial killers. Having kept a low profile for the past year, he is ready to return to work – and he’s more brutal, cunning, and dangerous than ever.

NEW THREATS…
Scarred from their past battles, Special Agent Marcus Williams cannot shake Ackerman from his mind. But now Marcus must focus on catching the Anarchist, a new killer who drugs and kidnaps women before burning them alive.

HIDDEN TERRORS…
Marcus knows the Anarchist will strike again soon. And Ackerman is still free. But worse than this is a mysterious figure, unknown to the authorities, who controls the actions of the Anarchist and many like him. He is the Prophet – and his plans are more terrible than even his own disciples can imagine.

With attacks coming from every side, Marcus faces a race against time to save the lives of a group of innocent people chosen as sacrifices in the Prophet’s final dark ritual.
Read my review here.

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONEFrancis Ackerman Jr. stared out the window of the dark copper and white bungalow on Macarthur Boulevard. Across the street, a green sign with yellow letters read Mosswood Playground – Oakland Recreation Department. Children laughed and played while mothers and fathers pushed swings and sat on benches reading paperback novels or fiddling with cell phones. He had never experienced such things as a child. The only games his father ever played were the kind that scarred the body and soul. He had never been nurtured; he had never been loved. But he had come to accept that. He had found purpose and meaning born from the pain and chaos that had consumed his life.

He watched the sun reflect off all the smiling faces and imagined how different the scene would be if the sun suddenly burned out and fell from the heavens. The cleansing cold of an everlasting winter would sweep across the land, cleansing it, purifying it. He pictured the faces forever etched in torment, their screams silent, and their eyes like two crystal balls reflecting what lay beyond death.

He let out a long sigh. It would be beautiful. He wondered if normal people ever thought of such things. He wondered if they ever found beauty in death.

Ackerman turned back to the three people bound to chairs in the room behind him. The first two were men—plain-clothes cops that had been watching the house. The older officer had a pencil-thin mustache and thinning brown hair while his younger counterpart’s head was topped with a greasy mop of dark black. The younger man’s bushy eyebrows matched his hair, and a hooked nose sat above thin pink lips and a recessed chin. The first man struck Ackerman to be like any other cop he had met, honest and hard-working. But there was something about the younger man he didn’t like, something in his eyes. He suppressed the urge to smack the condescending little snarl from the younger cop’s ferret-like face.

But instead of hitting him, Ackerman just smiled at the cop. He needed a demonstration to get the information he needed, and the ferret would be perfect. His eyes held the ferret’s gaze a moment longer, and then he winked and turned to the last of his three captives.

Rosemary Phillips wore a faded Oakland Raiders sweatshirt. She had salt and pepper hair, and ancient pock marks marred her smooth dark chocolate complexion. Her eyes burned with a self-assurance and inner strength that Ackerman respected.

Unfortunately, he needed to find her grandson, and if necessary, he would kill all three of them to accomplish his goal.

He reached up to her mouth and pulled down the gag. She didn’t scream. “Hello, Rosemary. I apologize that I didn’t properly introduce myself earlier when I tied you up, but my name is Francis Ackerman Jr. Have you ever heard of me?”

Rosemary met his gaze. “I’ve seen you on television. You’re the serial killer whose father experimented on him as a child, trying to prove that he could create a monster. I guess he succeeded. But I’m not afraid of you.”

Ackerman smiled. “That’s wonderful. It means that I can skip the introductions and get straight to the point. Do you know why I asked these two gentleman to join us?”

Rosemary’s head swiveled toward the two officers. Her gaze lingered on the ferret. Ackerman saw disgust in her eyes. Apparently, she didn’t like him either. That would make things even more interesting once he started to torture the young cop.

“I’ve seen these two around,” she said. “I’ve already told the cops that my grandson ain’t no damn fool. He wouldn’t just show up here, and I haven’t heard from him since this mess started. But they wouldn’t listen. Apparently they think it’s a good idea to stake out an old lady’s house instead of being out there on the streets doing what the people of this city pay them to do. Typical government at work.”

Ackerman smiled. “I know exactly what you mean. I’ve never had much respect for authority. But you see, I’m looking for your grandson as well. I, however, don’t have the time or patience to sit around here on the off chance that he might show up. I prefer the direct approach, and so I’m going to ask you to level with me. Where can I find your grandson?”

“Like I told them, I have no idea.”

He walked over to a tall, mahogany hutch resting against the wall. It was old and well-built. Family pictures lined its surface and shelves. He picked up a picture of a smiling young black man with his arm around Rosemary. A blue and gold birthday cake sat in front of them. “Rosemary, I’ve done my homework, and I’ve learned that your grandson thinks the world of you. You were his anchor in the storm. Maybe the one good thing in his life. The one person who loved him. You know where he’s hiding, and you are going to share that information with me. One way or another.”

“Why do you even care? What’s he to you?”

“He’s nothing to me. I could care less about your grandson. But someone that I do care about is looking for him, and I try to be useful where I can. And like you said, sometimes bureaucracy and red tape are just too damn slow. We’re going to speed along the process.”

Rosemary shook her head and tugged on the ropes. “I don’t know where he is, and if I did, I’d never tell a monster like you.”

His father’s words tumbled through his mind.

You’re a monster…Kill her and the pain will stop…No one will ever love you…

“Oh, my dear, words hurt. But you’re right. I am a monster.”

Ackerman grabbed a duffle bag from the floor and tossed it onto a small end table. As he unzipped the bag and rifled through the contents, he said, “Are you familiar with the Spanish Inquisition? I’ve been reading a lot about it lately. It’s a fascinating period of history. The Inquisition was basically a tribunal established by Catholic monarchs Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile in order to maintain Catholic orthodoxy within their kingdoms, especially among the new converts from Judaism and Islam. But that’s not what fascinates me. What fascinates me are the unspeakable acts of barbarism and torture that were carried out in the name of God upon those deemed to be heretics. We think that we live in a brutal age, but our memories are very short-sighted. Any true student of history can tell you that this is the age of enlightenment compared to other periods throughout time. The things the inquisitors did to wrench confessions from their victims was nothing less than extraordinary. Those inquisitors displayed fabulous imagination.”

Ackerman brought a strange device up out of the duffle bag. “This is an antique. It’s previous owner claimed that it’s an exact replica of one used during the Inquisition. You’ve got to love Ebay.”

He held up the device—built from two large, spiked blocks of wood connected by two threaded metal rods an inch in diameter each—for their inspection. “This was referred to as the Knee Splitter. Although it was used on more than just knees. When the inquisitor would turn these screws, the two blocks would push closer together and the spikes would first pierce the flesh of the victim. Then the inquisitor would continue to twist the screws tighter and tighter until they received the answers they wanted or until the affected appendage was rendered useless.”

Rosemary spit at him. As she spoke, her words were strong and confident. He detected a slight hint of a Georgian accent and suspected that it was from her youth and only presented itself when she was especially flustered. “You’re going to kill us anyway. No matter what I do. I can’t save these men anymore than I can save myself. The only thing that I can control is the way that I go out. And I won’t grovel and beg to the likes of you. I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

He nodded. “I respect that. So many people blame the world or society or others for the way that they are. But we’re all victims of circumstance to a certain extent. We like to think that we’re in control of our own destinies, but the truth is that much of our lives are dictated by forces far beyond our control and comprehension. We all have our strings pulled by someone or something. It’s unavoidable. The only place that we have any real control is right here.” He tapped the tip of his fifteen-inch survival knife against his right temple. “Within our minds. Most people don’t understand that, but you do. I didn’t come here to kill you, Rosemary. It will give me no pleasure to remove you from the world. But my strings get pulled just like everyone else’s. In this case, circumstances dictate that I hurt you and these men in order to achieve my goal. I’m good at what I do, my dear. I’ve been schooled in pain and suffering my entire life. Time will only allow me to share a small portion of my expertise with you, but I can tell you that it will be enough. You will tell me. That’s beyond your control. The only aspect of this situation that you can influence is the duration of the suffering you must endure. So I’ll ask again, where is your grandson?”

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak.

The smell of cinnamon permeated the air but was unable to mask a feral aroma of sweat and fear. Ackerman had missed that smell. He had missed the fear, the power. But he needed to keep himself contained. He couldn’t lose control. This was about information, not about satisfying his own hunger.

“Time to begin. As they say, I’m going to put the screws to this officer. Makes you wonder if this device is responsible for such a saying, doesn’t it?”

~~*~~

After several moments of enjoyment with his new toy, Ackerman looked at Rosemary, but she had diverted her gaze. He twisted the handles again, and the officer’s thrashing increased.

“Okay, I’ll tell you!” she said. “He’s in Spokane, Washington. They’re set up in an abandoned metal working shop of some kind. Some crooked realtor set it up for them. I’ve tried to get him to turn himself in. I even consider calling the police myself, but I know that he and his friends won’t allow themselves to be captured alive. He’s the only family I have left.” Tears ran down her cheeks.

Ackerman reached down and twisted the pressure from the officer’s legs. The man’s head fell back against the chair. “Thank you. I believe you, and I appreciate your situation. Your grandson has been a bad boy. But he’s your flesh and blood, and you still love him.”

He walked over to the table and pulled up another chair in front of Rosemary. As he sat, he pulled out a small notepad. It was spiral-bound from the top with a blood red cover. “Since you’ve been so forthcoming with me and out of respect, I’ll give you a genuine chance to save your lives.” He flipped up the notepad’s cover, retrieved a small pen from within the spiral, and started to write. As the pen traveled over the page, he said, “I’m going to let you pick the outcome of our little game. On this first sheet, I’ve written ‘ferret’ to represent our first officer.” He tore off the page, wadded it up, and placed it between his legs. “On the second, we’ll write ‘Jackie Gleason’ to represent the next officer. Then Rosemary. Then all live. And all die.”

He stirred up the wadded pieces of paper and placed them on the floor in front of her. “I think the game is self-explanatory, but to make sure that there’s no confusion, you pick the piece of paper, and I kill whoever’s name is on it. But you do have a twenty percent chance that you all live. And just to be clear, if you refuse to pick or take too long, I’ll be happy to kill all three of you. So please don’t try to fight fate. The only thing you have control over here is which piece of paper you choose. Have no illusions that you have other options. It will only serve in making the situation even less manageable for you. Pick one.”

Rosemary’s eyes were full of hate. They burrowed into him. Her gaze didn’t waver. A doctor named Kendrick from the Cedar Mill Psychiatric Hospital had once told Ackerman that he had damage to a group of interconnected brain structures, known as the paralimbic system, that were involved in processing emotion, goal seeking, motivation, and self-control. The doctor had studied his brain using functional magnetic resonance imaging technology and had also found damage to an area known as the amygdala that generated emotions such as fear. Monkeys in the wild with damage to the amygdala had been known to walk right up to people or even predators. The doctor had said this explained why Ackerman didn’t feel fear in the way that other people did. He wondered if Rosemary had a similar impairment or if her strength originated from somewhere else entirely.

She looked down at the sheets of paper then back into his eyes. “Third one. The one right in the center.”

He reached down and uncrumpled the small piece of paper. He smiled. “It’s your lucky day. You all get to live. I’m sorry that you had to endure this due to the actions of someone else. But as I said, we’re all victims of circumstance.”

Then he stood, retrieved his things, and exited onto Macarthur Boulevard.

~~*~~

Ackerman tossed his duffle bag into the trunk of a light-blue Ford Focus. He wished he could travel in more style, but the ability to blend outweighed his own sense of flare. He pulled open the driver’s door, slipped inside, and dropped some jewelry and the wallets and purse of his former captives on the seat next to him. He hated to lower himself to common thievery, but everything cost money. And his skill set didn’t exactly look good on a resume. Besides, he didn’t have time for such things.

He retrieved a disposable cell phone from the glove box and activated the device. As he dialed and pressed send, he looked down at the small slip of paper that Rosemary had chosen. The words All Die stared back at him.

After a few rings, the call connected, and the voice on the other end said, “What do you want?”

Ackerman smiled. “Hello, Marcus. Please forgive me, for I have sinned. But I do it all for you.”

Purchase links: Amazon     B&N     IndieBound

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble.  I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.