In an age when people lived off the land and the Wild was still wild—when a young Queen warmed the throne and her Bulwark Knights patrolled the unruly borders—the edge of civilization was a place where dreams went to die.
Welcome to Southwind.
When a salamander poisons Asher’s best friend Finn, he only has three days to live. Suddenly, Asher is pulled off his father’s farm and into a suicide quest for the only known cure: the horn of a unicorn.
Accompanied by the Bulwark Knight Sir Victor and a contentious Healer, Asher must venture into the wild depths of Dragoncliff Cove, home to the most fearsome creatures in the Queendom. And as Asher races to save his friend, a mysterious past comes to light that could doom the quest and leave more than one boy dead.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I wanted to play with classic fantasy tropes–knights, dragons, unicorns–while keeping it fresh and interesting by inserting uncommon fantasy elements such as salamanders, corocotta, condors, setting the story in a Queendom, and providing major plot twists. These stories are supposed to be fun more than anything.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I generally begin with an overall concept and then develop characters to fit. Overtime those characters grow. Since this is a relatively standard coming-of-age story, Asher is a typical farm-boy about to face some serious trials. He’s got a good heart, and it is tested on the adventure. The more entertaining characters are Galen and Victor, two of Asher’s companions. They have a mysterious past and a lot of serious tension that unravels as the story goes on.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Chapter I: The Healer
Once upon a dawn in the far-flung village of Southwind, Asher stirred from sleep. There was a hammering on the frail cottage door, and it dispelled the boy’s dreams, returning him from green, distant lands to his reality: heavy eyes, a hard, straw mattress, and a savage desire to redirect the knocking from the door to the visitor’s head.
The racket continued until George Farmer, the boy’s father, roused from his own bed across the room and confronted the caller. Asher recognized the shrill voice of the Baker, but the two men spoke in a hush, and the boy couldn’t make out their words. Cursing life, he blinked open his eyes.
Through the makeshift window in his wall, a dark sky melted into shades of blue. The dawn meant that it wouldn’t be long before his father pulled him out of bed and into the miserable wheat fields. He wondered what the Baker could possibly want, so loud, so early. When Asher’s groggy memory assembled the answer, he hissed.
Last night, he and Finn Tailor had raided Baker’s shop—and not for the first time. They’d made a habit of breaking into the bake house after sundown and taking their favorite pastries. But Baker had never noticed before. They were always careful to cover their tracks and consume the evidence immediately, and Asher knew Finn would’ve died before betraying him.
The voices went quiet, and the Baker left. The weight of bread lingered in Asher’s stomach from the night before. As his father shut the door and turned back inside, he closed his eyes and resolved not to betray Finn. He could take the lashing for them both.
The floor creaked under Farmer’s steps. The creaks neared Asher’s bed. Farmer eased himself onto the corner of the haystack mattress, and Asher feigned surprise as his father’s hand squeezed his shoulder.
“No way you slept through that,” Farmer said.
Braced for a beating, Asher turned over and squinted innocently. Farmer’s leathery face was kind, however. His eyes were sad.
“Get up,” Farmer said. “A thing’s happened.”
“What?” Asher said, sitting up.
“Tailor’s dead. And Finn’s not long for.”
“Oh,” Asher said. His cloudy mind struggled to untangle his father’s words. Only a few hours ago he had waved goodnight to an obnoxiously loud Finn, drunk off their success.
A rooster crowed at the rising sun.
“Up,” Farmer said.
Suddenly nauseous, Asher rolled out of bed and belted on the nearest tunic. He stuffed his feet into boots and followed the Farmer out the cottage and into the village, hoping he was still dreaming.
★
In an age when people lived off the land and the Wild was still wild—when a young Queen warmed the throne and her Bulwark Knights patrolled the unruly borders—the edge of civilization was a place where dreams went to die.
Southwind marked the southernmost point in the Queendom of Grass and Tree. Originally a military outpost, it was now just a dusty, forsaken village. Even Merchants rarely came so far, and no one went farther. The only visits were en masse invasions by giant Emperor Ants of the eastern desert, and even those ceased when the Ants realized that Southwind had no gold. It was a refuge for the poor and the mad—people with nothing and nowhere to go.
Asher and Farmer rushed up the cool, dirt paths. The two never spoke much, unless they were in the fields and Farmer was barking instructions. Before Asher began his apprenticeship, more of his life had been spent with Finn and the Tailors than with his own father, who was ever occupied with coaxing a living out of the stingy Southern earth.
The boy checked his pace, allowing Farmer to keep up. The man’s short, stout legs were good for moving earth but bad for moving himself. In contrast, Asher was long and athletic. If he was good at one thing, it was speed. Farmer had assured him more than once—always with a hungry glint in the eye—that his legs came from his mother. Asher liked that.
They wound through the scattered village. Each house they passed was a slight variation of the same timber structure, all rotting under long, thatched roofs. The lanterns were lit in the Smith’s, but the usual clamor of metal was absent. Even the stables were eerily quiet save for the snoring of a ragged man hunched against the barn with his head in his lap.
Asher had spent many loud mornings at the stables with Finn, heckling riders and dreaming up names for the horses upon which they hoped to one day escape Southwind. That was before their fourteenth birthdays, after which they were forced into apprenticeships and lost their days to learning the dull work of their fathers. Neither boy wanted to inherit the family mantle. “I’d sooner be a Failor than a Tailor,” Finn liked to say.
Tailor, who was dead now, Asher thought. Finn, who was dying as he walked.
Asher ran.
He raced through the streets, hopping fences, barrels, and fecal mounds until he came to the Tailors’ home on the other end of town. It was dark. The fire that Tailor obsessively kept stoked had fizzled, and the usual smoke was no longer spewing from the chimney. Asher hesitated at the door. A faint, rotten smell tickled his nose.
“No,” Farmer panted, catching up. “Baker said they were taken to that Healer.”
“Healer?” Asher said.
Southwind’s latest refugee, a man named Galen, had appeared a month before claiming to be a Healer. No one welcomed him or sought his services. As for himself, Asher hadn’t met the man, who proved to be a recluse.
The Healer’s hut was across the street from the Tailors’. It was another old, dingy house, laden with moss and begging for an extra buttress. Asher got the impression that a slight breeze might topple it. As he and Farmer approached the door, voices sounded within. Father nodded to son, and they entered uninvited.
★
Inside, the hut smelled like sulfur and dung. Asher and Farmer were momentarily stunned; the stench was vicious, and it reeked of death. A small crowd of villagers was already present with noses pinched, and—despite the dim candle-lighting and his watering eyes—Asher recognized the backs of several heads: Missus Miller’s gray mop; Smith, taller than the rest, his left ear gone; the neck fat and polished bald spot of Southwind’s little Mayor.
Baker emerged from the group and greeted them, cupping his nose. He was a regular brioche, round and golden brown. With his free hand, he waved them in and parted the crowd. Farmer took Asher by the shoulder and steered him into the hushed room, through the people and the stink.
In the center of the hut they found the Tailors. Farmer’s grip tightened, and Asher’s legs locked. Gill Tailor’s body was stretched across the floor under the shaking form of his widow, Maggie. His skin had turned scarlet from head to toe. Most disturbingly, there was no doubt that he was the source of the odor. Asher could taste it.
Shock addled the boy’s brain. These two broken adults had done as much for him as anyone in the world. Unsure how to respond, he pushed his attention to Finn, who lay still as stone on a bed beside his parents.
Hard-faced, Asher scanned him for some sign of life. There was the same ginger hair and pale skin, no blood or bandages. Finn’s chest rose and gently fell. The only change was on his bare right foot. On its sole, an inch apart, were two black specks, and the surrounding skin was swollen and burning red like his father’s.
Maggie Tailor’s sobs echoed in the small space, offset by a busy scratching of wood against wood.
On the far side of Finn’s bed, safely away from the crowd, Galen the Healer sat on a footstool, mashing a lumpy orange paste around a wooden bowl.
Asher, watching Finn, said, “Is he—?”
“Alas!” Mayor’s nasal voice called out. He stepped forward with one hand on his nose, the other over his heart. “One cannot mistake the smell of death.”
Galen interjected, “Skunk piss.”
The Mayor hesitated. “Excuse me?”
“The smell of skunk piss,” Galen said, scraping paste. He didn’t look up, and his face was obscured by shoulder-length black hair. “Young red isn’t dead. Yet. The piss is on the father.”
Asher suddenly understood why everyone hated the Healer. Word was that he’d grown up in Southwind but left ten years ago, parting on bad terms. That was before Farmer had moved himself and Asher south, so the boy only had stories to go on—and not many. People didn’t like talking about the Healer.
Asher looked to his father for help.
Farmer’s eyes lingered on Tailor. “What happened?” he asked through his hand.
“Poison,” Galen said.
A wave of murmurs swept the room. Maggie looked up at Farmer, but he avoided her eye, and she tucked her face back into Tailor’s inflamed neck. The implication of poison, Asher knew, was murder.
“Poison?” Farmer said.
Mayor held up a hand. “How do you mean, poison?”
“Salamander poison,” Galen said, and shrugged as he stirred.
Baker stepped forward. “Was me who found them, Mister Mayor. I was out for a stroll when I heard Maggie screaming. Found the bodies just as you see them now, smell and all, and a little red lizard by the boy, smushed flat as crust. Wasn’t no murder, unless old Tailor did some offense to the lizard.”
Galen looked up for the first time, and Asher gawked for a moment before averting his gaze in a rush of nerves. Half of the Healer’s face was in ruins. Two long, wormy scars ran down his head from temple to chin. The surrounding skin was red and wrinkled with burns, purging him of any youth or charm. He scrutinized the Baker with cold, dark eyes. “Salamanders are amphibians,” Galen said. “And they don’t take morning strolls into other men’s homes.”
“You saying I had something to do with it?” Baker said, turning red. “Want to talk coincidence? I know I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Curious that as soon as young Mister Galen deigns to come back home, people start dying again!”
The crowd, now a few curious faces larger, mumbled agreement.
“Easy, Baker,” the Mayor said. Galen returned to mashing out the orange lumps in his bowl.
A throat cleared, and the Smith stepped forward, his massive hands trembling. He clasped them behind his back. “Begging your pardon, but it’s all my fault.” All eyes pointed to him, including Maggie’s. The Smith was well-liked throughout town.
“You may remember a season back when my forge went weird. The fires couldn’t warm your hands much less steel. Well, it was Tailor here”—he bowed his head—“came over to have a look-see. I told him, I said, what I needed was a Wizard not a Tailor, but he came in and straightways went digging through the coals with his bare hands! I thought he must’ve cracked. But happy as I ever seen him, he plucked this little beastie—little red amphilabean, like you said—right out of the fire. Like he knew it was there! And soon as he did, the fire got properly hot again.
“Said he’d like to keep the creature and course I said yes and anything else he needed. He asked me to fashion a cage and never to mention it, so that’s how it was. I did terrible wrong, didn’t I?” Smith’s stiff, hairy face wrinkled in pain. “I didn’t mean it.”
Red-eyed, Maggie croaked, “How could you?”
“There, there,” Mayor said, reaching up and patting Smith’s back. “He couldn’t have known the creature was dangerous.”
“I’m his wife,” Maggie moaned. Asher had never before seen her be anything but sweet and calm. It was a sign of caring that the villagers let her go on. “I’m his wife!”
“Huh,” Farmer said. “Why would Tailor want to keep a—a salamander? Specially a poison one.” He’d known the Tailor as well as anyone, though evidently no one knew of Tailor’s secret pet.
“Finn’s been tailoring a while now,” Asher said. “He never said anything about a salamander.” Asher hadn’t thought there were any secrets between them. A sprig of betrayal blossomed in his gut.
“Salamander Wool,” Galen said. He looked meaningfully at the assembled villagers, but they blinked back with pinched faces, so he began reciting. “Salamander, order Urodela, enemy of the skunk. Is to fire as the frog is to water. Naturally produces a thread, like a spider’s, but stronger and—of course—fireproof. Salamander Wool.
“Drop a salamander in your hearth,” he said, “it’ll spin a cocoon and sleep the years away, long as the fire’s going. Harvest the cocoon, it’ll spin another. So you can see”—he scanned the crowd—“maybe—why a Tailor would keep one, risk or no.”
Maggie’s sobs renewed.
The gathering drank in the story, the sobbing, and the stench. If salamanders were as powerful as the Healer said, Asher couldn’t blame the Tailor. The creature was valuable. It was a ticket out of Southwind and into a better life. Asher knew that he would’ve done the same. Finn would have, too.
“Yes,” Mayor said. “I can see how that would be enticing. Where is the creature now?”
“Dead, like I said,” said Baker. “I think the boy stomped it.”
“But where are the remains?” Mayor said. “I should like to see it.”
“I brought it over,” Baker said. “The Healer had it.”
“Oh,” Galen said. He held up his bowl. Most of the orange lumps had been smoothed out into paste. “It’ll slow down the poison. Also makes a decent spread, in a pinch.” The Mayor grimaced. Galen took a swab of salamander paste with his finger and smeared it over the bite marks on Finn’s foot. “Kid must be quick to stomp a salamander.”
“He is,” Asher said.
Galen nodded.
“Is he going to die?” Asher said.
“Yes,” Galen said.
Asher hadn’t expected such a frank response. “But you’re a Healer. Heal him.”
“I can’t.”
Asher glanced at Finn again, who could have been dead by the look of him. Panic squeezed Asher’s throat. He turned on the Healer, stomaching the tortured face. “You can’t? You’re not even trying. How are you going to just sit and watch him die?” He clenched his fists, ready to beat a cure out of the Healer.
“That’s all he does!” Missus Miller wailed.
“He’s likely the one who done it!” someone added.
“You’re a Healer,” Asher said.
Galen shook his head. He set the bowl down on the bed and looked at Asher. “There’s one chance. But not really.”
“If there’s a way to fix the boy, say it,” Farmer said. “It’s your job to say it.”
“Fine, I’ll say it,” Galen said. “Alicorn.”
The word alone was meaningless to the pinched faces in the room. They again showed no recognition.
“Alicorn,” Galen sighed, “is what makes up the horn of a unicorn.”
When understanding sank in, the villagers reacted violently. There was groaning and cursing and a mix of jeers lost in the uproar. Asher couldn’t have said why. He’d never seen a unicorn before, but alicorn sounded like progress to him.
Galen ignored the crowd and addressed the boy. “The poison will spread from your friend’s foot. I’d say he’s got three days before it reaches his heart. Alicorn is a panacea. That means it can cure anything.”
“Okay,” Asher said. A magical cure: perfect. “Where do we get some?”
“Oh, yes,” Baker said. “Have the Marshal send over a unicorn at once!” Snorts of derisive laughter spread through the hut.
But Farmer said, “Unicorns? Really?”
“Don’t bother, Farmer,” Baker said. “We heard this half-baked yarn years back, before you came round. Go on, Healer. Tell him where he can find your so-called unicorn.”
“I’ve seen one,” Galen said, hesitating. “In a forest.” He closed his eyes. “In the Cove.”
The Healer’s last word triggered an explosion from the villagers, who all exclaimed at once as if on cue. The Mayor held an arm out against the crowd and begged for order.
Cove was short for the Dragoncliff Cove, which was just a day’s march south from town. The Dragoncliffs were said to be nesting grounds to the almighty Behemoth Dragon. While there was no official approximation of the number of monsters living there, it was an unspoken agreement that even one dragon was too many.
Telling a boy to go to the Cove and hunt unicorn was like telling a mouse to fly into cat country and steal a keg of milk. No one outside of myths had ever stood against a dragon and survived. Asher was open to the possibility of alicorn, but even he knew that going to the Cove was a suicidal notion at best. The people of Southwind had learned this the hard way, and a healthy fear of the place was ingrained into their culture. Asher was taught early on not to even speak of the place.
“While we’re at it,” Baker shouted, “ask a dragon to spare a cup of blood to bathe the boy in. What nonsense!”
Galen stood up. “Dragon’s blood only heals flesh wounds.” His voice was even, and he moved toward Baker. “Let me give you an example.”
Baker’s hand fell from his nose, and his eyes watered. “How dare you,” he said, stepping back.
“Galen!” the Mayor said. As much as the villagers disliked the Healer, and though they outnumbered him, something about the man made them all back down.
He pointed his spoon at Baker’s face. “Know not, speak not, you stupid fish. Unless you have a cookie that can cure poison or raise the dead, don’t make another sound. I’ve faced things whose smell alone would make your heart stop. And,” he said, addressing the room, “I’m not a liar.”
The crowd hushed. Maggie gazed up at the Healer, torn between hope and loathing.
“You all know I’ve been to the Cove,” Galen said. “There are unicorns there. Dragons too, but believe me, they’re not half as bloodthirsty as you all. Want to know how to save Finn Tailor? Get your hands out of your faces and bring me alicorn. But if you find yourselves not quite able to face a dragon, spare me your judgment. This boy’s blood is on you.”
Silence—not even a sob. He returned to his seat.
That was enough for Asher. Fed up with the spineless adults, he stepped forward. “Okay, the Cove. How do you get there?”
Farmer bowed his head, and the men of the room blushed in the shadows.
“Boy,” Farmer said.
“What?”
“It’s not so simple.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand,” Asher said, and he didn’t. “What are you afraid of? Finn’s going to die. If we do something about it, he might live. That’s it.”
“This isn’t some errand to the Grocer,” Farmer said. “You’re young; you don’t know. The world out there is bad, even before it gets to the Cove.”
Asher decided that he hated his father. He was done being dismissed as young, and he was done being condemned to this miserable town. He wouldn’t die here, and neither would Finn.
“Do you smell that?” He pointed at the corpse and looked straight at Farmer, aiming to wound. “That man was practically my father, and he’s dead.” He took a breath to keep control of his rising emotions. “I won’t let it happen to Finn.”
Farmer turned to Galen with a violence that Asher hadn’t seen in him before. “If my boy does some foolish thing by your words, Healer, I swear—”
“Now, now, now,” a strong voice called. “There is no need for that, my dear Farmer.”
A tall man emerged from the shadows by the door, where he had watched unnoticed. It was Sir Victor, Southwind’s Bulwark Knight.
★
Galen’s face fell, and Asher spun around. The villagers parted and lifted up onto their toes in elation as Sir Victor stepped into the light. His nose was straight and proud, uncovered and unplugged. The soft candlelight played on his silky white robes, and a straw-colored ponytail hung between his shoulder blades. Asher had never seen him up close. The man was handsome.
Farmer made a dumb sound.
“Sir Victor!” the Mayor said. “Welcome!” The crowd purred.
Victor raised a hand, and there was silence. He took a knee by Tailor’s body. Asher, standing near on shaky legs, saw the Knight’s pretty face flash a moment of genuine distress, an expression that was different from the obvious grief he presented when he stood back up. The villagers watched with adoration. Victor was a Southwind native, though he had moved his family north after achieving Knighthood.
“People of Southwind,” Victor said, turning to them. “My people.” He shook his head and gave them a moment to witness his sorrow. Missus Miller covered her open mouth.
“I knew Master Tailor,” Victor said. He pinched the corners of his robes and displayed them. “Just last week, in fact, he made these for me. A fine craftsman. Too soon do we lose the best among us.”
Murmured agreement.
“But the boy is right,” Victor said. He cut in front of Farmer and placed his hands on Asher’s trembling shoulders. “If there is only one way to save Finn Tailor, my friend’s son, then it must be done. As a Knight of Southwind, I take it as my sacred duty to retrieve the cure.”
There was a smattering of applause. Only Galen, forgotten by the crowd, looked at Victor with anything less than pleasure. He ground the salamander paste more roughly.
“I will ride to the Cove,” Victor said. “If there is a unicorn there, trust I’ll find it. And the boy will come with me.” He lowered his gaze to Asher, who looked confused. “Of all the men present, he was the only one prepared to take on this quest headfirst. He has a hero’s courage, and this is his quest in every sense. Together, we will go south.”
Asher stared aghast at the faces around him, mirroring his surprise. He landed on Farmer’s conflicted expression and didn’t know what to say or think.
“He’s a boy,” Farmer said.
“It is his friend’s life at stake,” Victor said. “And they say the unicorn can only be found by the pure of heart. So it must be him.” He smiled at Farmer like a parent comforting a child. “Don’t worry! I’ll watch over him. And to ensure our quest, we’ll enlist the best and bravest of Southwind’s garrison. We go into danger but shall emerge victorious with the alicorn to save young Finn!”
Farmer was visibly uncertain, but he didn’t protest. Asher’s heart pumped excitement into his limbs, and the mood in the room lifted—almost above the lingering stink.
“Of course,” Victor said. “For the support of Southwind soldiers, I’ll need the sanction of Southwind government. So, Mayor!” He turned. “Her Majesty has charged you with keeping these lands. What say you?”
The Mayor froze, and his eyes searched frantically for an answer. Absolutely no one ventured toward the Cove lightly, and a governing man didn’t sanction and never invested in such a journey. However, the legendary prowess of the Knighthood made the mission almost seem viable, and everyone looked hopefully to their Mayor. He trembled under the pressure.
Maggie Tailor turned her red eyes on him. “Please,” she said, and he broke.
“Well, uh, of course!” Mayor said. The crowd cheered. “Whatever you need, Sir Victor.”
“Come then!” Victor said. “It’s a full day’s march to the Cove. I will need everyone’s help with the preparations as I gather my company. We depart at noon!”
Hope and excitement had replaced the worry and mystery, and it seemed to Asher then that Finn was saved already. Such was the reputation of the Knighthood: the most elite soldiers; masters of nature, exploration, and combat. There wasn’t a more revered occupation. Asher and Finn had long dreamt of going north to the capital of Riverdale, joining the Institute, becoming Knights, and earning more glorious surnames. Asher couldn’t help imagining that this was his chance.
As villagers lined up to shake Sir Victor’s hand, Asher’s mind raced. Victor had called him a hero and brave. He was going to ride south to find a unicorn. Finn wouldn’t believe it once he’d woken up.
And then Asher saw Galen and the loathing etched into his damaged face. The Healer stood up.
Victor, acknowledging each of his admirers, had Galen in the corner of his eye but was doing his best to ignore the man.
“Now I see where the smell came from,” Galen called out.
Blinking away irritation, Victor resigned himself to the confrontation and narrowed his eyes at Galen. “How may I serve you?” Victor said.
“I will ride with you, Sir Victor,” Galen said, “if you would be gracious enough to accept my aid.”
Many, including Asher, looked with surprise at Galen, others with disgust.
“Galen,” Victor said. “Haven’t you disgraced yourself enough for one lifetime?”
“Yes,” Galen said. “But I promised your father I would keep an eye on you. Remember?”
Victor’s face turned salamander red, and Asher could see the fury locked behind his eyes. “Stay here, Healer. I don’t have use for cowards, and I’m sure you’re a far better nurse than soldier.”
“Okay,” Galen said. “Then, for the Mayor’s sake—he’s risking quite a lot—tell us about the terrain inside the Cove.” Victor stared back at him. The Mayor looked on nervously. “Tell us how you plan on getting past the Cliffs and into the woods.”
Asher looked back and forth between the men. All eyes locked on their faces or their hands, waiting for one to lash out against the other. The Mayor was sweating.
“No?” Galen said. “Do you even know what woods I mean? I guess not. Because I’m the only one living in this Queendom”—he took a breath—“who’s been past the Cliffs. So if it pleases the Mayor, I’ll be your guide. And your Healer. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to nurse you.
Victor’s jaw clenched and worked, but he produced no answer other than the hatred in his eyes. “Fine,” he said at last. “The southern meadow. Noon.” And, clutching his robes, he swept from the hut.
The villagers glared at the Healer as though he’d bitten the Tailors himself. The hopeful mood was poisoned, and the weight that Victor had lifted sat back on Asher’s shoulders. Without another word, everyone filed out of the hut, one by one after the Knight. Asher risked a backwards glance at Finn and found Maggie over her son, stroking his head. Behind them, Galen’s cold, dark eyes caught Asher’s. The boy turned away and followed Farmer back into the relief of fresh air. They went off to prepare for the journey south.
Author Bio:
Ronny Khuri is a Lebanese-bred, Tennessee-born, New York-educated, San Francisco writer who currently resides in his mind.
Ronny became an avid reader at age 9, when—in order to research the construction of a lightsaber—he was forced to turn to books. Seventy-odd Star Wars novels later, he gave up becoming a Jedi in favor of becoming a Writer.
Growing up, Ronny was also inspired by the likes of Roald Dahl, Madeleine L’Engle, Frank Herbert, J.M. Barrie, Charlie Kaufman, and Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
In 2009, he earned a BFA in Writing from Pratt Institute and has spent the subsequent years finishing his homework: a singular piece of fantastical long-fiction that pays homage to his influences and presents a classic story through an original concept.
Can an always-tardy garlic mogul and a punctual Silicon Valley librarian fall in love?
The world needs garlic and somebody’s got to sell that garlic. Cedric Johnson is that man. But even though he’s got just about everything he can wish for, Cedric is still missing one thing in his life: someone special. Fate may be on his side, but he encounters a few distractions along the way—like almost being killed by a UPS truck. Oh, and a little case of blackmail.
Ellie Fontaine is a walking Wikipedia with clear professional goals, but when it comes to landing Mr. Right, she doesn’t know jack squat. She gives online dating a shot, but ends up with an unappetizing buffet of unibrows and losers. What’s a girl to do?
After Ellie saves Cedric’s life, serendipity takes over as they continue to run into each other. Their connection grows stronger with each meeting, even though he embodies her number one pet peeve: he’s always late. But even if they can get past their issues and misunderstandings, Ellie’s ex-boyfriend, an unscrupulous cop, will do anything to keep them apart.
FIVE MINUTES LATE is a hilarious fast-paced romantic comedy, full of snappy dialogue and fun, quirky characters, guaranteed to warm your heart.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Five Minutes Late started out as a short story that I wrote for a Stanford class in 2012. My hot Spanish wife loved the story so much she encouraged me to turn it into a full-length novel. So I did!
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Good question! And the answer is: I don’t know! Seriously, the main thing I wanted was to have the characters feel so real that you could picture the story as a movie in your head as you were reading it. I love crazy characters, silly characters, sweet characters. I knew I wanted a balance of different personalities and started from there.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Chapter One
“For the last time, I’m not possessed by demons,” said Cedric Johnson.
“Could have fooled me,” said Tony. “I need to perform a circumcision on you.”
“Okay, number one, you know it’s an exorcism, so quit trying to steer the conversation back to body parts and sex. Number two, it was just a dream about death. Everybody has them.”
“Not me.”
Cedric loved him like a brother, but Tony Garcia’s imagination didn’t have an off switch.
“I’m going to wear garlic around my neck.”
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Great, now I’m a vampire.” He pressed the speaker button on his cell phone, set it on the kitchen counter, and prepared his morning coffee. “And why are you calling? I’m going to see you in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m having a light bulb moment.”
“Of course you are.”
Tony was his best friend and general manager of Cedric’s company, Papa George’s Heirloom Garlic. He liked to brainstorm on expanding the company, and although he was the smartest guy Cedric knew, some of his ideas were out there.
“How’s this?” Tony continued, “We could sell garlic necklaces at the midnight showing of Twilight at theaters across the country.”
“And why would that appeal to teenagers?”
“You’re right, you’re right.”
Cedric added sugar to his coffee and took a sip as he waited for Tony to continue. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long.
“Okay, got it,” said Tony. “Perfect for teenagers. Condoms. Garlic-scented condoms.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait, I need to tell you—”
“Tell me when you get here.”
Cedric disconnected and reached down to scratch Tofu between the ears. The West Highland Terrier dropped to the floor and rolled over on his back, his short white legs shooting to the ceiling in an obvious effort to give Cedric more area to work on.
Smart dog.
Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang, followed by a Phil Collins drum solo on the door.
Tofu went nuts—as usual—sprinting toward the door. “Arf. Arf, arf, arf.”
“Tofu, it’s Tony. You should be used to him by now. Relax.” Cedric opened the door to Tony, who sported his usual jeans and rocker T-shirt: Maroon 5 plastered across his broad chest. Cedric gave him the why-the-hell-do-you-do-that look.
Tony shrugged and tucked some of his long black hair behind one ear. “I can’t help it if I like to hear the little guy bark.” He ran his hand along the length of Tofu’s back, stopping at his butt to scratch it. Tofu leaned into the scratch and moaned as his body shook from the power of Tony’s hand. “Dude, he’s having an orgasm.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“And that’s why you don’t have a woman in your life. You think orgasms are disgusting.”
“No. I think dog orgasms are disgusting. And the reason I don’t have a woman in my life is I choose not to.”
“Pansy-ass.”
“Scumbag.”
“Dickweed.”
“Numbnuts.”
The exchange may have sounded immature coming from a couple of guys in their thirties, but Cedric enjoyed the occasional silly verbal sparring with Tony. Plus, life was too short to be serious all the time.
Cedric held up his index finger. “Hang on, I’m not ready.”
“What a surprise.”
Cedric ran to the family room, put on his shoes, grabbed his coffee cup from the kitchen counter, and returned to the front door, where Tony was still petting Tofu.
Cedric grabbed Tofu and tucked him under his arm. “Come on …” He closed the door behind them.
Tony slapped Cedric’s arm with the back of his hand. “I almost called you at two in the morning. You won’t believe the news.”
“Get in first.”
They piled into Cedric’s SUV and took off on their weekly trek to the farm in Gilroy. He loved the early-morning drive from San Jose, and never got tired of watching the sun come up over the mountains to the east as they passed through Morgan Hill on Highway 101.
“I hope your news has to do with our numbers and not with the latest woman you’ve fallen for.”
As the general manager, Tony handled the marketing as well as Internet sales of the products on their website.
Tony did a drum roll on the dashboard. “We tripled our normal monthly sales.”
“No way.”
“… in two days.”
Cedric gritted his teeth. “Very funny.” He glanced over to Tony who had a dead-serious look on his face.
Tony had built the company website from the ground up and maintained it. It included an online store, recipes with garlic, company history, and a secure payment system. His degree in Web Programming and Graphic Design at San Jose State came in handy.
But what Tony just told him was insane.
“A hundred and twenty thousand?” said Cedric.
“Yup.”
“In two days?”
“Yup again.”
“What caused the spike?”
“The fresh heirloom garlic. There was also a huge jump in the fresh peeled. The shallots kicked ass too.”
Initially, Cedric only sold fresh garlic, like his grandfather. Tony had convinced him a few years back to expand their online presence by offering roasted garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh ginger and shallots, and many other specialty items. Tony’s instincts paid off as regular garlic customers began adding other items to their online shopping carts before checking out. The business doubled within a year and has steadily grown ever since.
Cedric glanced over to Tony and then got his eyes back on the road. “Where are the hits coming from?”
Tony laughed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Martha Stewart.”
Cedric’s mouth dropped open as he turned to Tony in disbelief.
“Hey!” Tony grabbed the steering wheel and straightened the car after Cedric had veered off into the other lane. “You trying to kill us?”
“It’s your fault! You got me excited!”
“If you expect me to believe you had an explosive erection that hit the steering wheel, knocking us into—”
“Focus! Back to Martha Stewart. How the hell did that happen?”
“Remember when I sent samples of our garlic to some of the top restaurants in California?”
Cedric nodded. “We got like ten contracts from that.”
“Twelve.”
“Okay, how does Martha Stewart fit into the equation?”
“So! I had the brilliant idea of also sending our garlic to Rachael Ray, Mario Batali, José Andrés, Bobby Flay, The Barefoot Contessa, Wolfgang Puck, and Martha Stewart. Not exactly in that order.”
“You’re a genius!”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Anyway, Martha was talking on her television show yesterday about the quality of garlic available in the United States, that most of it comes from China, yadda yadda yadda. Get this … then she said ‘if you want to kick up your recipes a notch, you can always use Papa George’s Heirloom Garlic.’”
“Holy crap.”
“Holy crap is correct. I went into our client database and saw her name right there, Martha Fucking Stewart. She purchased garlic from us four times over the last year. She’s got a million people who like her on Facebook. We hit the jackpot.”
“We’re going to run out of garlic.”
“That’s a good problem to have.”
Cedric chuckled. “Have you told your dad yet?”
“Yeah, I called him on the way to your house.”
Tony’s father, Antonio, managed everything on the garlic farm: the workers, soil preparation, planting, mulching, harvesting, cleaning, grating, packaging—everything. The farm was a well-oiled machine that produced some of the finest garlic in the country, year after year.
“Speaking of my dad … you know we don’t have to do these weekly meetings with him anymore. If you need to talk with him, just pick up the phone. It’s a lot easier.”
Cedric knew that. Their weekly jaunt to Gilroy wasn’t about the business—hell, they probably only talked about garlic five percent of the time. For Cedric, it was about being with good people. The Garcias were the closest thing he had to family.
“You know how much your family means to me,” said Cedric.
“I know. You spoil my parents.”
“Anyone else in my position would do the same.”
Cedric appointed Tony’s parents, Antonio and Ana, co-proprietors of the company and moved them to live on the farm, free of charge.
“No way,” said Tony.
Cedric felt as if someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed it. “We take care of each other. That’s what families do.”
“Well, Mamá says you need to come over more often and eat more.”
Tony’s mother, Ana, was always cooking something. Chilaquiles was a typical breakfast in their home—corn tortillas, scrambled eggs, cheese, and green chili. It was Cedric’s favorite Mexican dish.
“She’s trying to fatten me up.”
Tony laughed and rubbed his belly. “I know the feeling.”
Thirty-five minutes after leaving San Jose, Cedric exited Highway 101 and drove through Gilroy, along one of the rural county roads toward the farm.
“What the hell?” muttered Cedric. He slammed on the brakes and pulled off to the shoulder. Tony grabbed Tofu before he fell off his lap, as the car slid on the gravel, coming to a stop slightly sideways.
“I’m pretty sure I shit my pants.” Tony looked down at Tofu. “What about you?” He lifted Tofu’s tail and looked underneath. “All clean.”
Cedric didn’t say a word. He just stared at the farm across the street, Papa George’s old property.
“You see dead people? Do I need to drive a stake through your heart?”
Cedric kept his eyes on the property and didn’t respond.
Papa George started the garlic revolution in that house. It had history, not only in the garlic industry, in Cedric’s family as well. His grandfather sold the property back in the fifties and bought a much larger property—where they’ve been ever since. Cedric drove by the place every week, but it seemed different today.
Cedric cocked his head to the side and continued to study the farm. “Something’s not right.”
Tony squinted. “The driveway is chained off.”
“And the farm equipment is gone.”
“You think the Abbotts sold the place and moved?”
“I’d be surprised. Mr. Abbott swore he’d sell it to me if they ever decided to move. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m going to find out.”
Cedric made a promise to his mom on her deathbed he’d acquire the land when it became available, to build a garlic museum there and keep the family history alive.
“Maybe my dad has heard something,” said Tony.
A few minutes later, Cedric drove under the wrought iron arches of his farm and down the long driveway lined with palm trees on both sides—queen palms his grandfather planted over fifty years ago. The classic white farmhouse with the wraparound porch, complete with rockers, always brought back wonderful memories of Cedric and his grandfather rocking and talking after dinner, as they watched the sunset.
Cedric spotted Tony’s dad in the field inspecting the garlic. “He never stops working.”
“Never.”
Antonio climbed the tractor and drove to the main house to meet them. Cedric pulled in behind Antonio’s old Chevy pickup and opened his door. Tofu leaped from the car and sprinted toward the chickens, sending them skittering off in different directions. Cedric laughed as he approached Antonio.
“Buenos días, Cedric,” said Antonio, smiling as he hugged Cedric
“Buenos días, Antonio.” Cedric smiled back, admiring the silver-haired man with tanned, wrinkled skin weathered by four decades of hard work under the hot Gilroy sun.
Antonio turned to Tony. “Buenos días, hijo.” He kissed his son on the cheek.
“Good morning.”
Antonio shook his finger at Tony. “You’re losing your Spanish.”
“No, señor.”
Cedric put his hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “Do you know what’s going on with Papa George’s old property? It looks like the Abbotts are gone.”
Antonio shrugged. “I saw him and his wife a couple of weeks ago at the Farmers’ Association meeting and they didn’t mention anything.”
“It almost looks as though they cleared the land to sell it.”
“Let me text him and see.”
Cedric laughed and eyed Antonio’s phone.
“What? You think I’m too old to text?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t think I’m hip, that’s it. Well, I’ll have you know that I was thinking of getting an Xbox.”
Cedric blinked a couple of times. “Really?”
Laughter erupted from Antonio. “No. Not really.”
They laughed and headed inside for the meeting—more like a great meal, with a side of chitchat. It was held in the kitchen, at the large solid oak farmhouse dining table that seated ten. They would discuss the latest news in the world of garlic, farming, the weather, this year’s crop, and any issues with the equipment, but it wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later—usually sooner—Ana would change topics to Cedric’s nonexistent love life.
Cedric entered the kitchen with Tony and Antonio and smiled as he stared at the back of Ana’s head, her black hair up in a bun.
She placed a bowl in the sink, wiped her hands on her rose-print apron, and turned around. “Buenos días, hijo.”
Cedric loved it when she called him son. “Buenos días,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. He was sure the lines he saw around her eyes weren’t from aging, but from all of the smiles she shared with him over the years.
Tony kissed his mom. “Hola, mamá.”
“Hola, hijo.” She spooned chilaquiles onto the plates and gestured to the chairs. “Sit down and eat.”
The men obeyed orders, grabbed the forks, and put them to work.
Ana sat and turned to Cedric. “Have you found yourself a good woman yet?
Right on cue.
“It’s been exactly one week since the last time you asked me that.” He took a bite of food and moaned.
“And what’s your answer this week?”
“Yes.” Three heads turned in his direction. The chewing stopped as Ana, Antonio, and Tony waited for Cedric to continue. “And I’m in love.”
Tony pointed his fork at Cedric. “Bullshit. I would have heard about it.”
“You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.”
“Okay, what’s her name then?”
Cedric grinned. “Martha Stewart.”
Laughter filled the kitchen as the eating continued.
“Well, if that’s the case, I’m in love with her too,” said Tony.
“Me too!” said Antonio, promptly smacked on the arm by Ana.
Ana wiped her mouth and tapped her fingers on the table. “I’m still waiting for a real answer.”
Cedric finished chewing and set his fork down. “No, I don’t have a good woman. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t have a bad woman either.”
“You’re going to meet someone soon, I know it.” Ana rubbed Cedric’s arm. “She’ll show up when you least expect it, you need to be open to it.”
“I think I’ll just place an advertisement on a billboard. Wanted: Woman who cooks as well as Ana Garcia and is just as pretty.”
Antonio let out a hearty laugh. “Impossible!”
Ana kissed Cedric on the forehead. “Gracias, hijo.”
There was a noise at the front door.
Tony pointed. “That must be her, Cedric, your new love.”
“Right,” said Cedric.
Ana laughed as she got up and walked to the door. A few seconds later, Tofu sprinted into the kitchen and screeched to a halt in front of the cupboard below the sink.
“Arf! Arf, arf, arf.”
Ana opened the cupboard and pulled out a plastic container filled with rawhide treats.
“Someone is spoiled,” said Cedric.
Antonio’s phone beeped and he grabbed it from the table as Cedric watched with anticipation, hoping it was from Mr. Abbott.
Antonio read the text. “You were right.”
Cedric’s eyes opened wide. “About the property?”
“The Abbotts lost the property after five years of unpaid taxes. They moved to Oregon just last week.”
Cedric sat up in his chair and leaned forward. “Please tell me I have a chance to buy the place.”
Antonio scrolled down on his phone. “He says the Tax Collector is going to sell it at auction, so yes, it looks like you have a chance.”
“Good.” Cedric flopped back in his chair and smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Antonio smiled. “You’ll have a lot of competition for that land.”
“True. But all I need is a chance.”
“How much do you think it’ll go for?” asked Tony.
Cedric shrugged. “Hard to say, I’m guessing two to three million. I’ll pay whatever they want. My promise to my mom is the most important thing in the world to me.”
Ana smiled. “This is wonderful.”
Cedric nodded. It was more than wonderful.
He couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be with a woman in his life.
On second thought, he needed to scratch that thought from his brain.
The last thing he wanted was his success marred by another tragedy.
Author Bio:
Rich Amooi is a former Silicon Valley radio personality and wedding DJ, now a writer of comedy and romance. He believes in public displays of affection, silliness, infinite possibilities, Betty Crocker Super-Moist Yellow Cake with chocolate frosting, gratitude, laughter, and happily ever after.
Rich lives in San Jose, California with his wife and their very hairy dog. He enjoys writing stories that are light, fun, a little bit crazy, and romantic.
Alistair Deacon is on the hunt for the perfect engagement ring for his girlfriend, Emma. When he and his workmate, Dee, find it in a tiny shop in Covent Garden, the old shop woman there makes a startling prediction. Now Alistair may have got more than he bargained for.
The Perfect Ring is a short story of 3700 words or about 18 pages which should appeal to fans of contemporary romance and romantic comedy.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
A writing contest inspired this story. One of the parameters was a character needed to have a unique ability. This story won second place in the contest.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Like most of my other characters, they popped into my head fully formed and started talking.
Book Excerpt/Sample
We find the perfect ring at the last shop Dee drags me into, a quaint little place in Covent Garden. We’ve found others I’ve liked as well at Harrods and Selfridges, but none of them, she says, are perfect for Emma. Too big. Too small. Too cheap. Too expensive. Too posh. Too tacky. I can’t tell the difference. A half-carat solitaire is a half-carat solitaire.
But this one, she assures me, is perfect.
“If it’s the one, then it’s the one,” I say, watching the facets flash like a sparkler on her left hand.
Dee casts me a wicked smile. “Well, we could carry on to a few more shops if you like. But I don’t think we’ll find anything more perfect than this.”
“I think I’d rather not, actually.” I turn to the old shop-woman who’s been hovering over us with an expectant smile pasted on her fuchsia lips ever since we walked in. “We’ll take this one.”
“Lovely choice,” the woman purrs, taking the ring from Dee and popping it into a box. She pauses for a moment, admiring it, then squares it on the counter in front of us. “You know.” She leans forward as if to impart a great secret. “My husband and I have owned this shop going on thirty-five years. In that time I’ve developed a bit of an unusual talent. You see, I can usually tell whether or not a couple’s marriage will last by the type of engagement ring they choose.” She raises an eyebrow, regarding us over her peacock blue reading glasses as if she’s waiting for this revelation to sink in. “And I can tell the two of you are going to have a very long and very happy marriage.” With a knowing wink, she whisks the ring box off the counter, snaps it shut, and carries it over to the cash register.
I glance at Dee. Her face is a similar shade to the old lady’s lipstick. I imagine mine very well is too.
“We’re not—” I start to say, but Dee grabs my arm and shakes her auburn curls. “Don’t worry about it, Alistair. Just get your ring.”
“Right.” I follow the shop-woman and hand over my Visa card, wishing she’d hurry up with the transaction.
At last she tucks the small box into an equally small bag and hands it across the counter with my receipt. “Congratulations,” she says with another knowing wink. “The two of you will have beautiful babies.”
I hurry Dee from the shop, my ears burning.
“Last time I take you ring shopping,” I say.
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad was it?” Dee laughs and links arms with me. “It’s only natural she’d mistake us for a couple.”
“Yes, but I’d rather think about having beautiful babies with Emma. No offence.”
“None taken. Dee Deacon sounds horrendous anyway.”
“Still, what load of rubbish. Predicting a couple’s marriage by the type of ring they choose.”
“She probably says that to all her customers. Gets more sales that way.”
“I’d rather she hadn’t said it at all.”
“Wouldn’t we both.” Dee rolls her honey-coloured eyes. “Well, I’m going to make a prediction right now.” She looks at me as if over the tops of reading glasses and tries not to giggle. “You and Emma will have a very long and very happy marriage. And will make beautiful babies together.”
“If she says yes.”
“Of course she’ll say yes, you bloody fool.” Dee punches me in the shoulder. “She’s mad about you.”
Author Bio:
Rachel Elizabeth Cole writes a mix of genres–from heartfelt literary and women’s fiction, to laugh-out-loud chick-lit, to quirky contemporary middle grade fiction. Her short stories have appeared in literary magazines both online and in print, including Cahoots, Literary Mama, and Flashquake.
When she’s not writing, Rachel works as a graphic designer specializing in book covers. Her favourite season is autumn, she prefers tea to coffee, and she wishes every morning began at ten a.m.
Even though she hates the rain, Rachel lives just outside Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband, their two sons, and two very spoiled house rabbits.
Integrate is a Paranormal Suspense/Thriller that centres around the murder of a young woman called Helena. Her identical twin sister Corinne, predicts Helena’s death during a tarot reading. Helena’s death hits Corinne hard and she struggles to cope with the loss. At her lowest ebb, Corinne becomes friends with Jack, a stranger in town, but whenever she is around him Corinne gets visions (premonitions), visions that keep taking her back to the horrifying scene of her sister’s death. Corinne realises that the visions may be her only chance of finally understanding what really happened to Helena.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Integrate actually started life as a screenplay. I trained as a Production Assistant (in Media), and I had always wanted to write a film script, something that was slightly dark, about a murder but with paranormal elements. I came up with Integrate (which is where the tarot and premonitions come in), and really enjoyed writing it . Sadly Integrate never got made into a film, instead it got packed away in a box in the attic which is where I re-discovered it a few years ago. After re-reading it, I decided it would make a great book, so I re-wrote it and published it.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The characters were very easy for this book. There are only four of them, and two are twins. Jack had to be intense, and not in a good place in order for the story to work, and I wanted the twins to be polar opposites to give them one definition. I really enjoyed creating the characters in this book.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Grey laced clouds began to form and move across the dark sky as Jack continued his journey. The moon continued to bathe the surrounding countryside with ethereal silver light, and the silence remained. He lit another cigarette, allowing the thick smoke to envelop him. Tobacco was one of his favourite scents, and he savoured each blissful cigarette he smoked. The alcohol had started to numb him and it no longer burned when he took a swig. He could feel it flowing through his body, warming his blood and dulling his senses. Taking away the pain. He relaxed a little, enjoying the three things he loved most in the world: driving, smoking and drinking.
Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he caught his own reflection again. His bloodshot eyes were surrounded by dark circles; his face giving away his lack of sleep and fond affection for alcohol. He ran his hand through his dark mid-length hair, which was getting in his eyes again. It really did need a cut, another thing to add to the list of things he should do, but would probably forget to.
He was lost in life; had no direction.
Everything had been taken from him. Getting up each day seemed to serve no purpose at all. Waking each morning to usher in a new day only reminded him of all that was missing from his life. The only peace he found was whilst asleep or staring into the bottom of a glass. If he were an animal, someone would have put him out of his misery. His life was like the road he was currently travelling: long, winding, dark and so very, very lonely.
Author Bio:
Chrissie lives in London with her husband and is a freelance Production Coordinator working in the TV, documentary and film industry.
Chrissie is also an Author. Her thriller Integrate was released in October 2013 and her historical fiction Among the Olive Groves was released in July 2014.
Other written work includes factual articles for the Bristolian newspaper and guest articles for the charities Epilepsy Awareness Squad and Epilepsy Literary Heritage Foundation. Chrissie has also written a book of short stories and poems, one of which was performed at the 100 poems by 100 women event at the Bath International Literary Festival in 2013.
Chrissie is passionate about Ancient History, Archaeology and Travel, and has completed two six-month Archaeology and Egyptology courses with Exeter University. She also likes to read, collect books, make bracelets and listen to music.
When we were children and made a mistake during play, we could call for a “do-over” to get a second chance to get it right. For those of us who are remarried, this is our chance to call that “do-over”. Divorce and remarriage are statistically on the rise in the United States. The rate of divorce increases with each remarriage that a person goes through. The odds are heavily stacked against the success of a remarriage. Unfortunately, the same can be said of Christian remarriages as well. So what can you do to ensure the success of your remarriage? We are a Christian couple that has been successfully remarried for ten years. We have personally weathered many storms during our marriage and, with God’s help, we have beat the odds. We want to let you in on the secrets of our success! Ranging from information on how we handle our relationship with each other and God, to tips on dealing with stress in your marriage, we will give you some tools to help make your “do-over” a success.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
We made many mistakes with our first marriages. We have applied those lessons to our remarriage and we have a successful marriage. When you look at the statistics of success for remarriage, we were doomed to fail from the start. But we didn’t. Why? This book is our answer to that question.
Book Excerpt/Sample
WHAT QUALIFIES OUR MARRIAGE AS A SUCCESS?
So now you want to know what our credentials are. Do we have a PhD in Psychology or a Doctorate in Marital Counseling? No. As a matter of fact, our formal education, which is accounting and engineering, have nothing to do with psychology, theology or any other “ologies”. We are just graduates from the school of hard knocks. More accurately, we are lifetime students of God’s school for the not perfect, yet forgiven. We have a love in our hearts for our Lord, Jesus Christ and a desire to help our fellow brothers and sisters in Christ to be successful in their marriages.
Author Bio:
Loraine Nunley grew up in Madison Heights, Michigan and now lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area of Texas with her husband, Thom and three of their five children. She is an author, accountant and stay-at-home mom. Aside from writing, she enjoys reading, home-schooling her children and spending time with her family. Her first book was “I Do… Over? A Christian’s Guide to Remarriage”. Her other books include a non-fiction birthday celebration idea book, children’s fiction and a series of children’s non-fiction books on military aircraft.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I like buddy cop movies, and I like fairies. I like a lot of other things, too, but for some reason these were the two things I liked that I decided to combine.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Some of them are inspired by characters from fairy folklore, but most of of them were just made up by me. I don’t really know I come up with them. I guess I just think of one defining characteristic I want a character to have (e.g. cool, obnoxious, smart, that kind of thing) and build from there.
Author Bio:
My name’s Charlie, I’m 28 years old, and I live in Salt Lake City with my wife (Sarah) and three kids (Dragon, Shadow, and Nova Mae).
I like comic books, chocolate milk, and writing. I like a lot of other things, too, but those are the three I probably couldn’t live without.
Frotwoot’s Faerie Tales (Book One: The Unseelie Court) is my first novel, and my mom really likes it so you KNOW it must be good.
When Samantha finally got away from her controlling husband, she swore she’d keep her nose in a book until she got her degree in hand. Being a little older than the other college students made it easy for her to keep her distance, and her mind on her studies.
But that unusual girl from biology class keeps turning up, and Sam finds it harder and harder to stay focused–and to ignore the undeniable chemistry between them.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I like writing about people going through upheavals in their lives, and the ways they find to deal with change.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I make them up! Usually I steal a little detail from one person, another bit from someone else, and the rest from my imagination.
Book Excerpt/Sample
I never expected this. Here I am, thirty years old, back in school. I’m taking a staggering course load of science classes, cranking out the pre-reqs I need on my way to a nursing degree. It’s a massive amount of work and frankly I’m not used to that, but I’m doing okay. It’s good to work, right? Good for the spirit. I spent the last five years with a husband who wanted me to sit at home, his little princess, my makeup perfect, every material thing provided for.
Get that—every material thing. The other stuff a person needs (respect, for starters, and the list goes on) there wasn’t much of that happening.
One of the things I like best about school is being around so many people. At first I felt awkward and out of place, since most of them are so much younger than I am. But you know how it is, you get used to a thing. Boy do I know about that, and you can get used to good and bad things, so better choose good from the start.
So I started out here sort of shy, bringing my lunch and eating by myself. Didn’t go up to any groups of students hanging out and join in. I felt like they would be thinking what’s this old lady bothering us for, you know? It seemed like they all had so much in common. They looked the same, dressed the same, of course used all the same slang.
One day in bio this girl came in just before class started. She was a hot mess—dropping papers, pencils rolling under her desk, her hair looking like it hadn’t seen a brush in about a month. I smiled to myself because sometimes the students, I mean the girls, can seem so ridiculously turned out, like they’re spending all their time in front of a mirror and primping for selfies and not so much time actually studying. At my age you understand that college isn’t just a four year party, it’s a step on the way to somewhere better, and you’re gonna regret wasting it.
I kept my eye on her. She amused me. I’d see her around campus and it was always the same general deal with different details: her backpack stuffed to bursting with a broken zipper, mismatched socks, no makeup, carrying a book with her finger marking her place, once even glasses held together with duct tape. When I saw that last one, I thought hold on, she’s role-playing or something, no girl is that nerdy without playing it up on purpose. At least I wasn’t sure. I was wondering about it when I washed my dishes after supper that night.
My home now was a teeny little crappy apartment on the wrong side of town. If the world was fair, I’d be getting a decent settlement from my soon-to-be-ex, and living in one of those nice condos near campus where some of the students with well-off parents live. I’m talking pool, media room, exercise room that’s as good as any gym. One of them even has a sand volleyball court. Can you believe that?
But the world isn’t fair, I’m old enough to know that now. I can’t afford the kind of lawyer you need to squeeze money out of someone like my soon-to-be-ex. And it’s not only that. I know it’s pride talking, but part of me wants to put those years behind me and start a new life without taking anything from my soon-to-be-ex. No furniture, no money, no nothing.
Just make it on my own.
Author Bio:
Mariana Lewis has worked as a server, a writer, a teacher, a cook, a hostess, and a reporter. These days she lounges around in silk pajamas, eating chocolate and drinking Prosecco.
After genetically altered weeds devastate Earth’s croplands, Dr. Tula Macoby believes photosynthetic skin can save the human race. Her people single-mindedly embark on a mission to convert the cannibals roaming what’s left of Earth. But when Levi, a peaceful stranger, refuses alteration, Tula doesn’t think the only options should be conversion or death.
Levi Kraybill, a devout member of the Old Order, left his Holdout farmland to seek a cure for his terminally ill son. Genetic manipulation is a sin, but Levi will do almost anything for the life of his child. When he’s captured, he’s sure he’s damned, and his only escape will be death.
Tula’s superiors schedule Levi’s euthanization, and she risks everything to set the innocent man free. Now she and Levi are outlaws with her people, and she’s an abomination with his. Can they find sanctuary in a cannibal wasteland?
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
While weeding in the garden one day, I wondered what it would be like if those weeds took over the world. Of course, normal weeds can’t really take over the world, so I made them genetically engineered and researched all the ways plants compete with each other, giving the new “superweeds” all the tools in nature’s toolbox. Violå – Amarantox!
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
How does one survive a world over-run with inedible weeds? Use sunshine to make your own calories. Photosynthetic skin would require more surface area than the human body can provide with normal chloroplasts, but, hey, this is fiction, so I ran with it anyway.
Who else might have survived? The Amish might potentially have had enough manpower invested in pulling weeds to hold back the invasion. And they were a perfect counterpoint to the green people because they would envision genetic modification as a mortal sin. For even more tension, I decided to make this character, Levi, Tula’s love interest.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Conversion Laboratory
Haldanian Protectorate
One of the insipid overhead bulbs in the Confinement Lab had developed a mild flicker, not strong enough to demand replacement, but enough to bring on the beginnings of a headache. The smell of antiseptic and the sweat of the frightened boy strapped to the lab table didn’t help matters. Tula checked the monitor for the third time. The boy’s blood pressure spiked above one-eighty. Not ideal, but within tolerances.
“Okay, Jo Boy. You good. Good.” She looked into his frantic eyes and willed him to be calm. Preparing captives for the experience of conversion was next to impossible because the Cannibal dialects were too simple and straightforward. But Jo Boy was a quick learner, and she’d spent the last ten days building his trust.
Tula pulled a piece of candy from her sheer lab coat pocket, an expensive treat, but one of the best motivators when it came to teaching new converts. “Is it okay?” she asked the gene tech.
He nodded his permission and bent over the screens, his bare, green skin stretching tightly over each vertebrae.
The equally naked adolescent on the table jerked against his restraints as the IV dripped conversion fluid into his veins. “Ow, ow, ow.”
“I know, it hurts.” She spoke in Cannibal. Time enough for him to learn Haldanian during Integration.
She placed her palm on his shaven head, looking for the telltale hint of yellow in his skin signifying the chloroplasts were taking hold. The jade tint of her own hand would have been vibrant if not for the sickly florescent lighting down in Confinement. She spent far too much time down here.
“Like tattoos. You will be strong.” The only way to convince cannibals to accept conversion was to give them a choice in terms they understood. Strength. Survival. After Integration they would understand how they were making the world better.
Jo Boy flailed against his bonds, a high-pitched squeal rising from his throat. Tula cringed, remembering her own conversion and the burn of the genetic cocktail coursing through her cells — worse than any sunburn.
Showing him the candy, she asked, “Be still?”
He quieted a little as she pressed the sweet into his mouth.
A voice boomed from the door, “Sure it won’t bite?”
Tula jumped, but didn’t turn to look at her supervisor. She could picture the scowl on his sickly green face. Had she ever seen Vitus smile?
Vitus marched into the room and leaned over the terrified boy. “Dr. Macoby, this one has not been cleared for conversion.”
Her attention darted to the electronic gamma pad next to the tech’s computer before looking up at her glowering supervisor. Copper strands around his neck matched beaded hoops dangling from his ears, but the adornments failed to disguise his yellowing skin. Must be due for another treatment. She didn’t dare say it out loud. Vitus was full Haldanian, born and bred, but to his shame, suffered from a medical condition called ripening. Every few weeks he underwent gene therapy to fortify his chloroplasts.
In spite of Vitus’s looming, Tula kept her voice firm. “The Board approved his conversion this morning.”
“Where’s the Telomerase Acquisition form?” Vitus crossed his arms. “And he seems a bit old. Did you get a Verification of Consent?”
“He’s in the early stages of puberty, but still a child by Ordinance three-one-seven. No need for consent.” Barely. Tula had rushed Jo Boy’s conversion because getting Verification of Consent from an adult within the time allotted was nearly impossible. And non-converted prisoners were euthanized. “I have the telomerase form on my gamma pad.”
Vitus snorted. “I’m sure he considers himself quite grown up. These mongrels breed at the first sign of a pubic hair.” He rearranged his necklaces over his own hairless chest and peered at the quaking Jo Boy. “If I don’t have the proper forms on my desk, the conversion stops. Now.”
The tech jumped to his feet. “Sir —”
Tula stood as well, shouldering herself between Vitus and the boy. “Don’t be an idiot, Vitus. Stopping the procedure now would kill him and waste the resources we’ve already put into him.”
“You’ve put into him. Without permission. And I still think he needs a Verification of Consent.”
“The Board doesn’t agree.”
“The Board know how old he is?”
This was an old argument. Tula retrieved her gamma pad. “He doesn’t even know how old he is. I thought our mission was to bring enlightenment to the Outside. To make the world safe again.”
Vitus shrugged, his earrings swaying. His gaze lowered to her wrist where a shiny patch of pink scar tissue over most of her right forearm had not taken the chloroplasts during her childhood conversion. “You can’t trust a convert.”
Tula’s face burned. The scar served as a constant reminder of her outsider roots. By force of will, she met his eyes. “You look like you could use a little therapy yourself, sir. Jo Boy should be done in another forty minutes, if you want to come back.”
An angry flush obliterated the remaining green in Vitus’s skin. The tech covered his jolt of laughter with a cough and turned to his computer. No one liked Vitus, and it didn’t help that he thought he was too good to allow his own Conversion Team to oversee his treatments. “I want to see that paperwork before you go home today.” He pivoted on his heel and stalked from the room in a jangle of copper beads.
Author Bio:
Tam Linsey lives in Alaska with her husband and two children. She is a certified Master Gardener, an avid cook, and reads scientific studies for fun. In spite of the rigors of the High North, she grows, hunts, or fishes for much of her family’s food. During the long Alaskan winters she writes speculative fiction and gluten free cookbooks.
What if there had been social media during the first mission to land a man on the Moon in 1969?
If you were not fortunate enough to be able to witness the entire historic mission as it unfolded, this account will put you believably back inside those eight incredibly tense and dramatic days. The unique social media format of the book allows us to experience all the drama and achievements as if we were following them live, and as if the participants were speaking to us directly in real time. The narrative is based on actual astronaut accounts, NASA transcripts of the fascinating continual communications with the astronauts, broadcasts of the all main TV networks covering the mission and the thoughts of many laypeople observers. The account also includes details that were not publicly available at the time, such as the secret speech to be delivered to the nation by President Nixon should the astronauts fail to return from the Moon. There is an extensive list of major sources at the end of the book.
This is not a book, therefore, written in the usual book format. It is the story of man’s first exploration of Earth’s nearest neighbor, the Moon, told as if in real time in the form of imaginary social media posts by the main participants and observers. By using the fictional (at the time) vehicle of social media, the book is able to give an accurate account of the historic mission, revealing what the people involved in, and those witnessing, the momentous events were thinking, doing and saying at each stage of the mission.
The account covers the entire mission, from the tense build up and countdown to the launch, to the heart-stopping descent to the lunar surface, the first moonwalk, the experiments on the surface, the journey back to Earth, re-entry, recovery and the triumphal reception back in New York.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
During the Libyan Civil War in 2011, I was following the dramatic unfolding events closely. However, it was difficult to find up to date information on the regular media, so I turned to social media sites such as Twitter where I could receive minute by minute updates on the unfolding conflict. Receiving updates of unfolding events in that format was very much like watching the situation developing in real time reported by the actual warring participants, as well as live posts by journalists on the ground and up to date analysis by commentators and politicians in multiple locations.While a great deal of the social media posts were repetitious or inaccurate, as is often the case with sites like Twitter, it was clear that if all the information could be cross-checked and the dross and repetition edited out, what would remain would be an engaging, accurate and detailed account of the real events. It would be an account with more detail, accuracy and real-time immediacy than any produced by the more conventional media.
So I set about constructing a day-by-day account of the final days of Hitler’s Third Reich as if the participants in World War II had been able to post their thoughts and actions through social media sites. The result was an extremely readable and informative account of the main events which was very well received by members of a history discussion site of which I am an active member.
When the day by day account of Hitler’s last days was completed, I was encouraged to compile the daily account into book form and publish it under the name #Berlin45:The Final Days of the Third Reich. Followed by books about the defeat of Japan, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Apollo 11, 12 and 13 missions to the Moon.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Most of my characters are actual historical figures and their words (presented as tweets) are words they actualy spoke or wrote down.
Book Excerpt/Sample
Walter Cronkite @WCCBSNews
A couple of days ago, we had our last close up look around the massive vessel that will surely rank in history with…perhaps Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis, Darwin’s Beagle and Columbus’s Santa Maria.
Walter Cronkite @WCCBSNews
How can a country which seems to have such difficulty building a reliable washing machine build all these incredibly efficient space vehicles? Well, the answer lies in NASA’s system of quality control.
Walter Cronkite @WCCBSNews
If American automobiles were built to the same quality control standards of, for example the lunar module, the price would be considerably higher. But then… so would the trade-in value.
David Brinkley @DBNBCNews
In Mission Control, Houston and in the Firing Room at Cape Kennedy, the atmosphere is as cool and quiet as if all those computers down there were figuring out a factory payroll.
Philip Gibson @philiplaos
American TV says 1 million people will be on site watching the launch. There will be hundreds of millions more watching on TV. I’m so excited to be one of them even though I’m thousands of miles away on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
David Brinkley @DBNBCNews
This will be the most carefully-planned, meticulously-engineered trip anywhere in the history of the world. In fact, probably the most carefully-engineered ANYTHING in the history of the world.
Jack King @JKLaunchControl
We encountered a leaking valve in part of the equipment that is used to replenish the hydrogen fuel supply in the third stage of the Saturn V launch vehicle.
Jack King @JKLaunchControl
A team of technicians was sent out to the launch pad at about the time the astronauts were travelling to the pad. They tightened some bolts and we were able to bypass that valve and proceed with the countdown.
Walter Cronkite @WCCBSNews
While the Apollo 11 team prepare for lift off, there has been much speculation in recent days that the Soviets may be about to attempt some kind of Moon launch themselves.
Walter Cronkite @WCCBSNews
This race to the Moon has indeed been that – a race between the Soviet Union and the United States. It has been that way since the launch of the first Earth satellite and the first man into space by the Soviets.
Walter Cronkite @WCCBSNews
As always, a great deal of secrecy surrounds the intentions of the Soviet space program. It may, or may not be, that their upcoming Moon mission (whatever it is) is intended to steal some of the glory from the Apollo 11 mission.
Author Bio:
Philip Gibson is a teacher and author of over thirty books on ESL and historical fiction. He has taught and lived in (in order): England, Spain, Saudi Arabia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Japan and Laos.
In 1991, he took up a position in Laos, met and married a Lao lady and now lives with his wife and two teenage boys on their small farm on the forested banks of the Nam Ngum River (tributary of the Mekong) about 25 miles from the capital city of Vientiane. Philip is a lover of history, especially modern history.
Exotic luxury cruises to the Bahamas are supposed to be fun and exciting. This trip is just a routine investigative job for a woman who works in disguise and undercover, using her beauty to entice men to reveal their secrets. The exciting and sometime harrowing is expected, but this job will be like no other.
Her boss is aboard—as is a mafia enforcer with murderous ties to her own family. She chases suspects through the tropical islands, gets into physical confrontations with knife, fist and firearms. By the end of the cruise, the deck is awash in blood. Can she survive a deadly fun cruise—and her boss—who may prove to be more dangerous than the Mafia gangsters?
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was in the midst of writing Deadly Memories when ‘writer’s block’ hit. It was so complex, tying all the threads together plot-wise for the ending, that for relief I started to write an idea about a woman sleuth. It was so much fun! It turned out to be this book, Deadly Fun.
Eventually I finished both books, taking turns working on one and then the other.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Lolita came to me in bits and pieces as I wrote the novel. First I described her. I didn’t know she was in prison until I wrote it and made sense for the plot. She wouldn’t give information on her beloved deceased husband in a court case and was imprisoned for obstruction of justice.
Lance also came to me as I described him through Lolita’s eyes. He’s her boss and the head of an investigative service that works through the FBI. He’s tough, in a loveless marriage, and hides his feelings, like most men.
Book Excerpt/Sample
DEADLY FUN – (SNEAK PEEK)
CHAPTER 1
“The fringe comes off.” His voice was soft and implacable.
Lo looked at him without expression, thinking, you’ve got to be kidding. “It’s better to go slowly,” she said.
“We have time limits.”
Lo gazed down at the dress she was wearing. It was low cut. Without the fringe over the bodice it would almost be indecent. But he was the boss. She didn’t like it, and turned away from him to strip off the offending border. It came off neatly and cleanly with a soft xylophone popping sound as the threads broke. She fastidiously picked away the little strands that had held it in place.
Moving across the room to a full length mirror in the floating hotel room, Lo peered at her reflection. The dress was now visibly molded against her breasts, blatantly suggestive of nakedness.
The long gown was strapless and form fitting, a shimmering off white color. It contrasted nicely with her tan, she thought. Her hair was still in a ponytail. Lo pulled out the tie holding it in place and shook her head. She pushed it away from her forehead and it fell dark and straight, just past her shoulders. It was her natural color. Lo didn’t like it natural when she was working. However, as he had said, this was a rush job.
Lo could see his reflection behind her, looking her over critically in the mirror. The big bed loomed between them.
There was a loud blast of the horn, a few thuds she could feel through her feet, and a tiny lurch. The ship had begun moving. Florida scenery, palm trees and pastel buildings, floated slowly past the three portholes in the cabin. She had a momentary, panicky, claustrophobic feeling of being trapped. No place to run away on a ship. Then the feeling disappeared as she looked at his image behind her, still watching her in the mirror.
They had never met before. His manner over the phone had suggested a courtly old grandfatherly type. The only other communications had been by encrypted email, which had been courteous in the extreme, again suggesting an older person. But he was young, with thick dark hair, shaggy black, and eyes such a light blue they were like looking into clear water. Kind of spooky, those eyes, which were impassively and objectively examining the effect of the evening gown without fringe. He was a scary guy. A spook, in the real sense.
“It’s better.” He nodded judiciously, studying her up and down like a slab of beef. He didn’t appear hungry.
Lo turned away from the mirror and faced him.
“I don’t usually do this sort of thing, as you know,” he said. There was a small sigh, like he didn’t intend to ever again. “But our target requires a couple.”
“The thrill of the chase.” Lo said, smiling briefly, and thinking her boss was perfect for the part. He could have been a blue eyed young Sean Connery in an old 007 movie. His appearance was still a surprise. He was thin and tall and the white evening jacket and slim black pants looked good, and expensive.
“Yeah. Wresting the prize from another man,” he said.
“Thereby verifying his manhood.”
That provoked a quick smile, but he didn’t look like he did it often. “Sit down a moment. I need to tell you a little more. My name is Dan. You’re Linda. I’m sorry about how fast you had to get here. That last one got a little hairy, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. My clients want this one real bad. Steven Marconi is on vacation, his guard will be down. Anyway, we’re married.”
He was throwing Lo’s identity on the bed. A driver’s license, credit cards, pictures; the usual. She looked them over with a critical eye. The photographs of them together were false, but they appeared real. She snapped the documents into a beaded evening bag that matched the gown. Lo never carried identification when she was traveling, unless it was false.
“Our last name is Duncan. It’ll only be a week or so. Then you can have some time off.”
“That’s fine,” Lo said. “Nice to meet you, Dan Duncan. It’s a good name…sounds stupid.”
Dan smiled briefly and falsely, with deep dimples and brilliant white teeth. “You know the routine. I’m the possessive married man. You’ve got a roving eye. I think he’ll bite.”
“Lots of pretty women on a cruise.”
“None like you,” Dan said. It was a compliment, sort of, but his face didn’t say so.
She watched him take a breath. Then he said with a rush, “I’m going to have to act like a husband. Don’t be afraid to touch me.”
Lo was positive he was gay. She’d gleaned some pointed rumors hunting through the internet, and he came off that way; much too handsome, too particular with details, like his buffed nails and the shoes that glowed black with polish. He was probably a wonderful dancer. She could envision the two of them dancing in one of the ballrooms aboard this vessel as it floated over the sea. It was kind of a nice image, although she couldn’t let preconceived notions prejudice her. Extreme caution was the only code of behavior. He had her career, such as it was, in his well-manicured hands.
“I arranged for wardrobe, but mostly it will be casual clothes.”
She knew; the revealing little shorts and tops, the bathing suits which were merely strings tied together. He certainly knew her size after the last few jobs. This dress fit like snake skin. That part of the job was depressing and a bit demeaning. She never wore clothes that revealed anatomy in her normal and quiet life in Carmel, California. But her assets would be used in whatever way deemed necessary for this job. To a certain point, of course.
“You’ll have to be careful,” he said. “Steven Marconi’s a dangerous guy; ties to the mafia, organized crime. His reputation is brutal with woman. Can’t keep his hands off them. Rough hands. And he’s young and strong. Reputed to have done some contract killing in the past. Also, there’s no escaping a ship at sea. You can’t disappear if it gets risky.”
Lo assumed with near certainty that Dan had a fallback, a back-up cabin aboard this ship. He wouldn’t tell her unless there was an emergency. From past experience with him as her operative, she knew he took extreme precautions to keep her safe. It wasn’t personal. She had great assets. He didn’t want to lose them. Neither did she. These jobs were lucrative, but her career would be short. She didn’t intend for her career, and her life, to end simultaneously.
“He’s traveling under the name Mason.”
Oh, goody, she thought, we’ll all have assumed names. “Does he have anyone along that I’ll have to watch out for?”
Dan nodded with a sardonic, dismissive smile. “Hard to miss. Stereotypical bodyguards. One looks enough like Marconi to actually be his brother, but I’m still checking. They have adjoining cabins. So you can’t go to Marconi’s. You’ll have to use this one.”
“Would he chance it?”
“He’s a gambler…likes taking risks. A married woman, whose husband might walk in, ups the excitement a tad.”
He started to the door, then stopped and took a small envelope out of his pocket. “Almost forgot.” He emptied the contents in his palm and threw the envelope into a wastebasket. He took one ring out of his palm and handed it Lo. The other gold ring from the envelope he put on his finger.
Lo looked at it. “Fabulous fake,” she said as she slipped it on her left hand.
Dan gave a quick smile. “Try not to lose it. It’s genuine.”
Lo felt her eyebrows go up in surprise. It fit perfectly, at least two carats. The sparkles were mesmerizing, dazzling, and she had to pull her eyes away from the gorgeous ring.
As he crooked his arm to lead her out of the cabin, she thought she would probably be safer on this assignment than the usual ones, when she worked alone. Yet she liked working by herself; enjoyed the careful preparation for the role she was to play, which could sometimes take months. The physical risks were higher, but no one was watching. She had little doubt that her boss had planted video cameras in their stateroom.
As they walked along the long corridor she wished she could have taken the time to change her hair color, at least. Dan would be discreet, she was sure, but knowing you’re being observed, and videoed, made it more difficult to be a good actress.
As they exited the long hallway, Lo tried to map out the corridors in her mind. Passenger cruisers could be like mazes. It’s easy to get turned around. Later tonight she would tour the whole ship. It was critical to find out where all the stairways and elevators were located. Lo didn’t want to think about the possibility of being chased down one of these long hallways, panicked and out of breath, and finding herself trapped at a dead end.
They strolled past expensive gift shops and Lo peeked into the large, noisy, floating gambling casino. Marconi liked taking risks. He’d probably spend some time in the gaming rooms. She could hear the tinkle of the slot machines and wondered about the people inside using the first hour of a cruise in those bright and utterly garish rooms, filled with artificial neon displays of chance.
They went up a broad flight of inside stairs to get to the dining room and joined a throng, also climbing. Many were older couples. This cruise was expensive. Lo could feel Dan’s forearm under hers, hard as steel. His name wasn’t Dan, but she had to think of him that way. In addition, she was glad to be Linda. It was better than her real name.
“I arranged for the late dinner, same as Marconi,” Dan said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. She glanced up and saw him smiling like he had whispered an endearment. He had a cleft in his chin, sensuous lips, and she caught herself wondering if he was married. Then she remembered he was gay. Dan was already playing his role, and damn good at it.
Lo noticed the people on the stairs looking them over. There was a little good humored jealously from the grey couples, probably because she and Dan were assumed to be part of the smart, young and wealthy, beautiful generation. She sensed female disapproval vibes coming in waves. The dress was too exposed, even for the first night on a cruise, when everyone dressed formally.
There was always a crush getting into the dining room on the first night. The maître d’ was consulting a seating chart, showing each couple and the few single people aboard where their tables were located. The large dining room had been made up elegantly with tables covered in pristine white linen and fine silver, crystal goblets at each place setting and beautiful flower displays.
“He’s at our table,” Dan whispered in Lo’s ear and she braced herself, still resentful that she hadn’t had time to study Marconi. Lo hated going in blind. Usually, by the time she was in the territory, she knew what the target looked like and his preferences in food and women and how he spent his leisure time. Marconi was a connected thug, but she had no idea what to expect.
That thought sent a flashback of her previous job, which had ended two days ago. Her target had been middle-aged, with a big gut, pinkly florid skin and sparse white hair. He looked like a big mean pig, with squinty eyes and a tiny turned up nose. You could look him in the face and see right up the hairy nostrils. He had been stronger than he looked. It had been her mistake to underestimate his strength. But people underestimated her, too. Lo was tall, narrowly built, and naturally slim. There was a continuous fight to keep her weight up, to hide muscles beneath a layer of fat. Although it was the fashionable thing to be very thin, men never seemed to mind a little extra padding in the right places.
Dan was pulling out her chair at a large round table and Lo chastised herself for letting her mind wander. There were four couples already seated, so she assumed that Marconi hadn’t arrived. But there weren’t any spare place settings. Then she understood. The target had brought along a companion for the voyage.
She scanned the men quickly, searching for someone who didn’t fit, who seemed wrong. Dan was still standing, shaking hands all around. There was that wonderful movement of waves gently swaying the whole ship as she nodded and smiled at each of the couples, memorizing names. Their table was right next to the window, and the sea far below was a pastel palette of blues, pinks and dark purple shading in the burnished glow of the setting sun. The small sounds of discrete meal service were all around as she locked gazes with Marconi.
Dan was right about removing the fringe, Lo thought. This guy was attracted to conspicuous flash. A little disappointment clouded her first impression. He didn’t look particularly dangerous, just horny. The fact that his companion looked like a pretty brown wren had nothing to do with the fact that his large black eyes had fastened themselves to her bodice. His gaze slowly lifted to her face. She felt a momentary stab of repulsion as she smiled and nodded at Marconi, when Dan said, “Mr. Mason, this is my wife, Linda.”
“Call me Steven,” Marconi said. It was his real first name and Lo was glad. It got tricky remembering a lot of false names.
Dan was smiling down at Lo with proprietary pride and gave her shoulders a squeeze, proclaiming to the whole table; this is mine. Then he sat down and picked up a gold engraved menu the size of a map.
“Maybe when you grow up, you’ll look like her,” Marconi whispered to his date, loud enough for the whole table to hear.
Lo looked at him, astonished at his insulting bad taste. Mason’s girlfriend, who appeared about eighteen years old, soft and gentle, gazed up at him with melting tenderness. “Yes, maybe.”
Then she looked at Lo, still smiling with the innocence of a child. “Your dress is beautiful, Linda. My name is Gwen.”
Of course, Marconi had failed to introduce Gwen. She looked like her name, with short petals of light brown hair and large brown eyes. Lo wondered if Gwen was for real, as innocent as she seemed, or privately seething about the remark Marconi just made.
What in the world was Gwen doing with Marconi, anyway, Lo thought as she surreptitiously studied the improbable couple. He was attractive enough, with dark eyes, thick brows and black hair. But unlike her boss, Dan, who exuded elegance, Marconi seemed degenerate, coarse and crude. The flesh was too loose around the jowls, hinting at extravagant indulgences, and his lips were lewdly thick, almost purple in color. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, massively heavy around the upper torso, reminding her of a bull; clumsy in girth, but potentially lethal. He was dressed in a white dinner jacket with wide lapels, a black shirt and white tie. He certainly didn’t seem the type to attract a simpering innocent little girl, although Gwen was probably past the age of consent.
“Gwennie and I are getting married after this trip,” Marconi said, slapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing too hard. Lo could see her wince. Marconi had already been into the sauce. She recalled Dan’s warning about rough hands, cringing at what was in store for that little girl.
“Congratulations,” Lo said, smiling brilliantly, hoping she didn’t sound as unenthusiastic as she felt.
“This is our pre-honeymoon,” Marconi said, again leering at her chest.
An adequate response seemed impossible, so Lo picked up her menu. The other couples were deep in conversation about golf courses they had mutually visited. They were animated silvers, nice older couples, probably happily retired. Dan was still hiding behind his menu.
Mealtimes were going to be interminable and tortuously boring, Lo concluded, as she smiled and winked into Mason’s eyes when he glanced back at her. His reaction was a momentary lapse into perfect stillness, as he sat there with a stupid look of surprise on his face. He abruptly dropped his arm from around Gwen and visibly puffed up like a toad, actually believing that she was flirting with him. It was exactly what he was supposed to believe. Sometimes her work was extremely distasteful. In this situation, Dan had been right. With another woman in the picture she had to shovel on the temptation. There would be no time for flirtatious niceties. It was imperative to go in for the kill swiftly.
Lo managed to perk up when she saw the choices on the menu. When the waiter came she ordered shrimp cocktail, lobster tail, and a chocolate mousse for dessert.
Lo continued giving covert little glances under her lashes at Mason throughout the dinner, and he was eating it up, along with a big steak. Gwen was picking at a salad. Dan was regaling the silver retirees with boredom, explaining his job, selling prime life insurance. She didn’t see how they could swallow that for even a moment, but they seemed to.
In between sending suggestive looks to Marconi Lo was behaving like a restless and bored wife, tapping her lips, playing with the silverware and glancing around the room. She was obviously ignoring her husband. Marconi was getting the message loud and clear that she was available, and ignored poor little Gwen.
At the end of the meal, Gwen leaned across the table. “Will you go to the Ladies’ with me?”
She looked like a pleading puppy, with the big dark eyes. Lo was feeling guilty about manipulating the man she obviously adored and nodded and smiled at her, although she was simultaneously thinking that this woman could reveal information she would never find from another source.
Lo opened her handbag before she stood up and turned on the tiny tape recording machine embedded inside an ornate looking pen. A field test was in order for the small device. She enjoyed the tricky little gadgets she used while working and always shopped the amateur ‘spy’ stores for the newest miniature camera or video equipment. She was seriously contemplating a newer and smaller type of night-vision goggles. The item was indecently expensive, but probably worth the extra cost.
On the way out of the dining room she gave a little extra twitch to her walk, knowing both Dan and Steven would be watching their backsides.
Standing beside Gwen in front of the mirror in the Ladies’ room, Lo speculated that they appeared like parallel species with diverse evolutions. Gwen resembled a chubby, domestic tabby cat; Lo was the lethal and wild white panther.
“I’ve never been on a cruise before. It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” Gwen disappeared into one of the stalls. There was tinkling, flushing, and she came out. Lo pretended to comb her hair as Gwen fussed in front of the mirror, applying lipstick.
“You and your husband, Dan, look like models from a fashion magazine. And how in the world do you stay so thin, Linda?”
Gwen had turned to a side view in front of the mirror and was obviously trying to hold in her chubby stomach.
“I run about three miles, every day,” Lo said. It was the truth. She didn’t mention the excruciating workout with weights that was also a part of the daily two hour regime.
“I knew it! The way you were eating,” Gwen said. “I never could get into exercise. It’s so…strenuous and painful. Are you going to run on the ship?”
Lo nodded. “Would you like to come along?”
“I could never keep up.”
It didn’t take much persuading to get the plump woman to agree to meet her on the Lido Deck the next morning. Poor thing could use the exercise. Lo made plans to run Gwen into the ground and then pump her for information. It would be perfect. No one would pay any attention to two women taking a little exercise and gossiping. There was very little possibility that they would be overheard out in the open, or that Marconi would be inclined to join them. The way he’d been putting away the wine, he would probably be in bed suffering a blinding hangover.
As they went back into the dining room, Lo was wishing she could get enough information from Gwen so that she wouldn’t be forced to manipulate Marconi himself. Gwen probably didn’t know enough, though. He would hide his real business from the potential wifey until after they were married. Sometimes the wives suspected, but never knew the whole truth about the brutality of their husband’s profession.
Lo’s work consisted mainly of obtaining information. She never appeared in court. It was unthinkable that a government agency would be forced to admit to using someone like her. The expertise she provided was a secret shortcut for the upper echelons of law enforcement.
Lo thought Dan probably worked for the CIA or the FBI, or even an organization hidden within the government to oversee those agencies. When he said his ‘clients’ wanted Marconi badly, he was referring to one of those groups. Using Lo’s talent was somehow justified within their budgets. A full blown investigation, with many operatives, could be hundreds of times more expensive than a lone woman, and sometimes not as effective. Lo was dammed expensive herself, and worth every penny. She had proven that if there was evidence, she would find it. If not, the evidence didn’t exist, or it wouldn’t be found by any number of operatives.
Her targets might vow mortal revenge, but they were usually embarrassed when they finally figured out how the information had been procured. She’d never had one come after her, that she knew of. Her cover identification paraphernalia was always expensively impeccable. But most important, she always disappeared before the target could figure out that pretty woman he was trying to impress or seduce had revealed his secrets to the authorities.
Being a domestic spy, because her talents were seldom used abroad, sounds exciting. Usually it isn’t. Rarely did she have to do any actual snooping, B & E style, although she had. Lo had also been in actual battles, with guns and sometimes bare hands. That was rare. Physically fighting for her virtue was not. Mostly, she spent lots of time on the computer, doing research, and worked hard to stay in shape in case one of the targets decided to use physical force with a woman.
Walking back to the table, chattering with Gwen, she spotted the two men with Marconi. The blond man had hair so short it bristled, with pink scalp showing through, and a neck the size of a tree trunk. The dark man beside him did resemble a pallid, younger version of Steven Marconi. Neither had dates; neither appeared visibly swishy. Just good buddies out for a fun cruise.
Lo decided it was time to give a little demonstration of what Marconi would miss if he didn’t ditch Gwennie and take up her invitation. Hoping her boss would understand, Lo leaned over and kissed his ear, and then his cheek as she sat down. Dan’s shoulder muscles suddenly became rigid as steel under the arm she had draped around his neck. The tension was gone in an instant. He turned his head, smiling, and kissed her cheek, saying, “I missed you, darling.”
He’s quick, Lo thought, as she sat down with one arm still wrapped around Dan’s shoulders. She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I missed you, too.”
As the meal progressed slowly to its end, with cognac for the men and crème de menthe for the women, they acted like lovers, sending false smiles back and forth and holding hands. Lo pointedly ignored Steven Marconi.
Dan knew exactly what she was doing and was so adept in his role it was almost fun. Their acting was like a dance two naughty adolescents might play together to arouse jealousy in another lover. This time the stakes were high indeed. Dan wouldn’t be here unless Marconi had planned something as horrid as it was illegal.
Lo was surprised at the little flutters in her abdomen when Dan picked up her hand and kissed the palm warmly before they got up to leave. He was very convincing as a besotted husband, and certainly an attractive man. She just bet every woman aboard the cruise was throbbing with jealousy.
Dan looked down into the most exquisite face he had ever seen smiling up at him. He put an arm around Lolita as he escorted her out of the dining room. He reminded himself that he had to make the name Linda real, but Lolita fit. The fictional character had been an adolescent seducer, unaware of her fatal attraction. This woman had honed the role of seductress to precision. It was ironical that Lolita was her real, given name.
The touch of satiny skin against his hand as he guided her through the tables was what he supposed every male yearned for. She was a chameleon; every man’s living dream. He sensed he might be falling under her spell as well, and wished she didn’t affect him the same way. It was demeaning, and more to the point, he was her boss. They would be staying together in one small cabin for the next several days. It was going to be awkward, at best.
Momentarily, he decided his reaction was caused by the provocative dress, but he knew better. His first impression, when she had walked into their state room, had been purely visceral. He knew she had to be tired after traipsing across the whole country, and especially following that last assignment, which had proven to be harrowing. But when she finally got to their cabin, just a few minutes before departure time, it was as though a heat wave hit him hard in the gut.
She had been dressed in worn jeans, beat up running shoes, and a black clingy tank top covered with a loose unbuttoned shirt. Her hair was tied back severely from her face. It was not the typical portrait of male fantasies. Still, the jeans had emphasized her long lean legs and the tank top hinted at lushness beneath the folds of the covering shirt. Lolita had an aura certain actresses possess. They come on screen and you can’t look away.
At first glance, he thought she could pass for eighteen, although he knew she was in her late twenties. Her face was bare, no make-up he could discern, and his vision was better than 20/20. Her mouth was what he noticed first. The only way to describe it was curly. The full lips tilted upward on the ends, even when she came hurrying in their cabin door and then stopped dead still, as though surprised to see him there. She had stared at him seriously, maybe warily, her lips curving up naturally in repose.
Dan removed his hand from Lo’s back and dropped it to his side. Impure thoughts would be banished, now. He immediately felt her hand slide inside his. She gave him a squeeze and a little jerk to get his attention. He plastered a smile on his face and looked down at her.
“He gives me the creeps,” Lo said quietly, so she couldn’t be overheard. She was smiling falsely also. “You were right about the fringe.”
“Good acting,” Dan said quietly. “I think he’s going to be sniffing around.” Like a dog in heat, his mind added resentfully.
After dinner there was a Las Vegas type production for entertainment in a gigantic show room. Dan and Lo followed Steven and Gwen casually, within a large crowd also headed to see the show, and sat through an hour of singing, dancing, and comedians, keeping an eye on the target, seated near the front of the room. Lo kept nodding off and jerking herself out of a comatose state. She had received an email regarding this assignment only yesterday. It had been tricky making travel arrangements. She had just thrown a few clothes into a carry-on, knowing Dan would take care of everything else. The dogs went to Lo’s grandmotherly neighbor, who was thrilled every time she got to babysit the canines.
Since there had been no timely flights available from Carmel to Los Angeles, where she would catch a plane to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, she had to make the long drive that night. Arriving in Los Angeles at midnight, Lo had stayed at the Airport Hilton, sleeping only fitfully, with nasty nightmares about the previous assignment with the Mean Pig. He had been one of the few intelligent targets who figured out what she was doing before she could get away.
Later that morning, still exhausted, she had taken an American Airline jet for the five hour cross-country flight. Before going to the cruise ship she had to take a detour to buy an essential and illegal item. She had lucked out with a wild taxi driver who got her to the ship just in time for final boarding.
“You can rest, I’ll watch.” She felt Dan push her head onto his shoulder and wondered, briefly and groggily, if he was reading her mind. She closed her eyes and saw the hypnogogic visions you sometimes receive in that peculiar state between wakefulness and sleep; phantom faces with metamorphosing expressions, changing from benign indifference to screaming terror. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least she got a little rest. She planned to be busy tonight.
Author Bio:
Pam lives in West Hollywood, California. She has a degree in Psychology from Northridge State University. She worked as a property manager for Nansay, Corp. a multi-national corporation, been a dance teacher for Arthur Murray and Fred Astaire Dance Studios. The Most Fun! She has five novels and two children’s books available on Amazon Kindle.
I love to hear from readers – I give away free books and tell of upcoming novels on my mailing list. (See links below)
*Deadly Memories
*Deadly Fun
*The Living Image
*The Necromancer
*Midnight Reflections
*Trifecta – A Box Set of three novels
Children’s books featuring Bobby and Cindy
*Christmas with Uncle Nick and the Sugarplum Fairies
*Little Ghostie (A Halloween Fantasy for children)
