tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91909289644119718112024-03-19T03:54:06.962-05:00Books & Book ReviewsTrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-61322041338348723892008-12-19T12:08:00.001-06:002008-12-19T12:13:00.642-06:00moved!<span style="font-size:180%;">Thanks for stopping by Books & Book Reviews. I've consolidated all of my blogs into one which you will find <a href="http://www.joyfulheartblog.com/">here</a>. Stop by <i><a href="http://www.joyfulheartblog.com/">A Joyful Heart</a></i> to read my latest book reviews and posts!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:large;"><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></span>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-42034958597123167962008-11-01T00:00:00.001-05:002008-11-05T09:22:59.445-06:00forsaken (f.i.r.s.t. review)<a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" height="204" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 10px; width: 84px;" width="126" /></a><br />
<br />
It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.jamesdavidjordan.com/">James David Jordan</a></span></strong><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #009900; font-size: 100%;"></span></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #009900; font-size: 100%;">and his book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0805447490">Forsaken </a></span></strong><br />
B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008)</div><br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFz-qc_9D1neAm3cSyVFpnZIB7GHDpx6kdJtYRD5GemyBhum3keQZ0kunYsG1gtogB_oo0XnZlqgHPVadJMBTIPVtvuUIuRg1Nb4mIyP8T9cngzwWtNDnMYS2Ki6VzguOOWPb-G7EglPz7/s1600-h/james.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262822674610749730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFz-qc_9D1neAm3cSyVFpnZIB7GHDpx6kdJtYRD5GemyBhum3keQZ0kunYsG1gtogB_oo0XnZlqgHPVadJMBTIPVtvuUIuRg1Nb4mIyP8T9cngzwWtNDnMYS2Ki6VzguOOWPb-G7EglPz7/s200/james.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 143px;" /></a>James David Jordan is a business litigation attorney with the prominent Texas law firm of Munsch Hardt Kopf & Harr, P.C. From 1998 through 2005, he served as the firm's Chairman and CEO. The Dallas Business Journal has named him one of the most influential leaders in the Dallas/Fort Worth legal community and one of the top fifteen business defense attorneys in Dallas/Fort Worth. His peers have voted him one of the Best Lawyers in America in commercial litigation.<br />
<br />
A minister's son who grew up in the Mississippi River town of Alton, Illinois, Jim has a law degree and MBA from the University of Illinois, and a journalism degree from the University of Missouri. He lives with his wife and two teenage children in the Dallas suburbs.<br />
<br />
Jim grew up playing sports and loves athletics of all kinds. But he especially loves baseball, the sport that is a little bit closer to God than all the others.<br />
<br />
His first novel was <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/159145428X/">Something that Lasts</a> . <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0805447490">Forsaken </a> is his second novel.<br />
<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $14.99 <br />
Paperback: 400 pages <br />
Publisher: B&H Fiction (October 1, 2008) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 0805447490 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-0805447491 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br />
<br />
</span></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNg_uJmArmqaYpjtOF7Bhjfu9L_lS22tZugCLSoNL9qPnl88EiKLnOvDZKwcPqw_M9j9H0tgXnNR7iNLYQ3MPFAZopwmB2FuLU6PeAp9bHikuqqNJK1w9_5HUgKfbUol1_cp8fmP4xqodD/s1600-h/forsaken.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262822823448329570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNg_uJmArmqaYpjtOF7Bhjfu9L_lS22tZugCLSoNL9qPnl88EiKLnOvDZKwcPqw_M9j9H0tgXnNR7iNLYQ3MPFAZopwmB2FuLU6PeAp9bHikuqqNJK1w9_5HUgKfbUol1_cp8fmP4xqodD/s200/forsaken.png" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 133px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Even in high school I didn’t mind sleeping on the ground. When your father is a retired Special Forces officer, you pick up things that most girls don’t learn. As the years passed I slept in lots of places a good girl shouldn’t sleep. It’s a part of my past I don’t brag about, like ugly wallpaper that won’t come unstuck. No matter how hard I scrape, it just hangs on in big, obscene blotches. I’m twenty-nine years old now, and I’ve done my best to paint over it. But it’s still there under the surface, making everything rougher, less presentable than it should be. Though I want more than anything to be smooth and fresh and clean. <br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes I wonder what will happen if the paint begins to fade. Will the wallpaper show? I thought so for a long time. But I have hope now that it won’t. Simon Mason helped me find that hope. That’s why it’s important for me to tell our story. There must be others who need hope, too. There must be others who are afraid that their ugly wallpaper might bleed through. <br />
<br />
<br />
What does sleeping on the ground have to do with a world-famous preacher like Simon Mason? The story begins twelve years ago—eleven years before I met Simon. My dad and I packed our camping gear and went fishing. It was mid-May, and the trip was a present for my seventeenth birthday. Not exactly every high school girl’s dream, but my dad wasn’t like most dads. He taught me to camp and fish and, particularly, to shoot. He had trained me in self-defense since I was nine, the year Mom fell apart and left for good. With my long legs, long arms, and Dad’s athletic genes, I could handle myself even back then. I suppose I wasn’t like most other girls. <br />
<br />
<br />
After what happened on that fishing trip, I know I wasn’t. <br />
<br />
<br />
Fishing with my dad didn’t mean renting a cane pole and buying bait pellets out of a dispenser at some catfish tank near an RV park. It generally meant tramping miles across a field to a glassy pond on some war buddy’s ranch, or winding through dense woods, pitching a tent, and fly fishing an icy stream far from the nearest telephone. The trips were rough, but they were the bright times of my life—and his, too. They let him forget the things that haunted him and remember how to be happy. <br />
<br />
<br />
This particular outing was to a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, owned by a former Defense Department bigwig. The ranch bordered one of the few sizeable lakes in a corner of Texas that is brown and rocky and dry. We loaded Dad’s new Chevy pickup with cheese puffs and soft drinks—healthy eating wouldn’t begin until the first fish hit the skillet—and left Dallas just before noon with the bass boat in tow. The drive was long, but we had leather interior, plenty of tunes, and time to talk. Dad and I could always talk. <br />
<br />
<br />
The heat rose early that year, and the temperature hung in the nineties. Two hours after we left Dallas, the brand-new air conditioner in the brand-new truck rattled and clicked and dropped dead. We drove the rest of the way with the windows down while the high Texas sun tried to burn a hole through the roof. <br />
<br />
<br />
Around five-thirty we stopped to use the bathroom at a rundown gas station somewhere southeast of Amarillo. The station was nothing but a twisted gray shack dropped in the middle of a hundred square miles of blistering hard pan. It hadn’t rained for a month in that part of Texas, and the place was so baked that even the brittle weeds rolled over on their bellies, as if preparing a last-ditch effort to drag themselves to shade. <br />
<br />
<br />
The restroom door was on the outside of the station, isolated from the rest of the building. There was no hope of cooling off until I finished my business and got around to the little store in the front, where a rusty air conditioner chugged in the window. When I walked into the bathroom, I had to cover my nose and mouth with my hand. A mound of rotting trash leaned like a grimy snow drift against a metal garbage can in the corner. Thick, black flies zipped and bounced from floor to wall and ceiling to floor, occasionally smacking my arms and legs as if I were a bumper in a buzzing pinball machine. It was the filthiest place I’d ever been. <br />
<br />
<br />
Looking back, it was an apt spot to begin the filthiest night of my life. <br />
<br />
<br />
I had just leaned over the rust-ringed sink to inspect my teeth in the sole remaining corner of a shattered mirror when someone pounded on the door. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Just a minute!” I turned on the faucet. A soupy liquid dribbled out, followed by the steamy smell of rotten eggs. I turned off the faucet, pulled my sport bottle from the holster on my hip, and squirted water on my face and in my mouth. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt. <br />
<br />
<br />
My blue-jean cutoffs were short and tight, and I pried free a tube of lotion that was wedged into my front pocket. I raised one foot at a time to the edge of the toilet seat and did my best to brush the dust from my legs. Then I spread the lotion over them. The ride may have turned me into a dust ball, but I was determined at least to be a soft dust ball with a coconut scent. Before leaving I took one last look in my little corner of mirror. The hair was auburn, the dust was beige. I gave the hair a shake, sending tiny flecks floating through a slash of light that cut the room diagonally from a hole in the roof. Someone pounded on the door again. I turned away from the mirror. <br />
<br />
<br />
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” <br />
<br />
<br />
When I pulled open the door and stepped into the light, I shaded my eyes and blinked to clear away the spots. All that I could think about was the little air conditioner in the front window and how great it would feel when I got inside. That’s probably why I was completely unprepared when a man’s hand reached from beside the door and clamped hard onto my wrist.</div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-65913708493398385852008-10-11T12:56:00.001-05:002008-10-11T12:56:00.125-05:00goodbye hollywood nobody<a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" height="204" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 10px; width: 84px;" width="126" /></a><br />
<br />
It is <strong><span style="color: #ffcc00;">October 11th</span></strong>, and FIRST is doing a special tour to 'Say Goodbye to Hollywood Nobody'.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong>Today's feature author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">LISA SAMSON</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 100%;">and her book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062229/">Goodbye Hollywood Nobody</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008) </div><br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZHaGYZQoI/AAAAAAAAAS0/zuS-VBcoNeA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><em></em></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRU32wfa4HTwm8_eRHOVFsL_uBVp2iFhsVh1iSwl7Kb0MfEVHJTroJrItS0N4Vs0JwA4nH0gJWvT9nqyFHQj_m8XI0BmP31bk7cuhC-xLO-LCxm-i5ZQcSq9Bsd7xAfvrjHBsZ1iOs903l/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="304" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194889207587266866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRU32wfa4HTwm8_eRHOVFsL_uBVp2iFhsVh1iSwl7Kb0MfEVHJTroJrItS0N4Vs0JwA4nH0gJWvT9nqyFHQj_m8XI0BmP31bk7cuhC-xLO-LCxm-i5ZQcSq9Bsd7xAfvrjHBsZ1iOs903l/s320/lisa+samson.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 293px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 215px;" width="228" /></a>Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning <em>Songbird</em>. <em>Apples of Gold</em> was her first novel for teens<br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
These days, she's working on <em>Quaker Summer</em>, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.<br />
<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZLuWYZQpI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vl_DmC05Mrw/s1600-h/lisa_bio.jpg"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecEyYvpQlBKz-inobVwn5FhB3zwJD8KuyIgYiL7OOPA6x3lsQ0A-bk0p0LmAhLznKP9IvyqNz9Pn20k_cqPAs0iI-yKwQIef1AsZdxepZlVf0m8suH-dtJCFcDRSlhSN3BC7OopH78mJ_/s1600-h/tosca+lee.jpg"></a>Other Novels by Lisa:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600060919/"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062016/"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Finding Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062210/"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Romancing Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568862/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Straight Up</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568854/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Club Sandwich</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446615188/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565987/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Tiger Lillie</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576737489/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">The Church Ladies</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565960/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Women's Intuition: A Novel</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446679313/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">Songbird</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565979/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: #3366ff;">The Living End</span></a><span style="color: #3366ff;"><br />
</span><br />
Visit her at her <a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
Product Details<br />
<br />
List Price: $12.99 <br />
Paperback: 192 pages <br />
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (September 15, 2008) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1600062229 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1600062223 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="color: #000066; font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEB80tkTjzkNEODTym2GISIPz2Do5_yX4cnatRWzNS-bTiKfA3OVIR24wkR32TQLaRQKpP_VJjfEDJZ3JvT3Yu71XI6vfy6F-BzZGt1a8VqXgpKd8QhHDLXFnTsk-hvSp-W1aThoky1uF/s1600-h/goodbye+hollywood+nobody"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254628055180375346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEB80tkTjzkNEODTym2GISIPz2Do5_yX4cnatRWzNS-bTiKfA3OVIR24wkR32TQLaRQKpP_VJjfEDJZ3JvT3Yu71XI6vfy6F-BzZGt1a8VqXgpKd8QhHDLXFnTsk-hvSp-W1aThoky1uF/s200/goodbye+hollywood+nobody" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0 10px 10px 0;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Monday, July 11, 6:30 a.m.<br />
<br />
I awaken to a tap on my shoulder and open my eye. My right eye. See, these days it could be one of four people: Charley, Dad, Grampie, or Grammie.<br />
<br />
“’Morning, dear!” <br />
<br />
Grammie.<br />
<br />
Oh well, might as well go for broke. I open the other eye. <br />
<br />
“Did you sleep well?”<br />
<br />
I shake my head and reach for my cat glasses. “Nope. I kept dreaming about Charley in Scotland.” We sent her off with her new beau, the amazing Anthony Harris, two days ago. “I imagined a road full of sheep chasing her down.”<br />
<br />
“That would be silly. They would have to know she hates lamb chops.” Grammie sits on my bed. Yes, my bed. In their fabulous house. In my own wonderful room, complete with reproductions of the Barcelona chair and a platform bed of gleaming sanded mahogany. I burrow further into my white down comforter. I sweat like a pig at night, but I don’t care. A real bed, a bona fide comforter, and four pillows. Feather pillows deep enough to sink the Titanic in.<br />
<br />
She pats my shoulder, her bangled wrists emitting the music of wooden jewelry. “Up and at ’em, Scotty. Your dad wants to be on the road by seven thirty.”<br />
<br />
“I need a shower.”<br />
<br />
“Hop to it then.”<br />
<br />
Several minutes later, I revel in the glories of a real shower. Not the crazy little stall we have in the TrailMama, which Dad gassed up last night for our trip to Maine. Our trip to find Babette, my mother. Is she dead or alive? That’s what we’re going to find out.<br />
<br />
It’s complicated.<br />
<br />
The warm water slides over me from the top of my head on down, and I’ve found the coolest shampoo. It smells like limeade. I kid you not. It’s the greatest stuff ever.<br />
<br />
Over breakfast, Grampie sits down with us and goes over the map to make certain Dad knows the best route. My father sits patiently, nodding as words like turnpike, bypass, and scenic route roll like a convoy out of Grampie’s mouth.<br />
<br />
Poor Grampie. Dad is just the best at navigation and knows everything about getting from point A to point B, but I think Grampie wants to be a part of it. He hinted at us all going in the Beaver Marquis, their Luxury-with-a-capital-L RV, but Dad pretended not to get it.<br />
<br />
Later, Dad said to me, “It’s got to be just us, Scotty. I love my mother and father, but some things just aren’t complete-family affairs.” <br />
<br />
“I know. I think you’re right. And if it’s bad . . .”<br />
<br />
He nods. “I’d just as soon they not be there while we fall apart.”<br />
<br />
Right.<br />
<br />
So then, I hop up into our RV, affectionately known as the TrailMama, Dad’s black pickup already hitched behind. (Charley’s kitchen trailer is sitting on a lot in storage at a nearby RV dealership, and good riddance. I’m hoping Charley never needs to use that thing again.) “Want me to drive?”<br />
<br />
He laughs.<br />
<br />
Yep. I still don’t have my license.<br />
<br />
Man. But it’s been such a great month or so at the beach. So, okay, I don’t tan much really, but I do have a nice peachy glow.<br />
<br />
I’ll take it.<br />
<br />
And Grampie grilled a lot, and Grammie helped me sew a couple of vintage-looking skirts, and I’ve learned the basics of my harp. <br />
<br />
I jump into the passenger’s seat, buckle in, and look over at my dad. “You really ready for this?” My heart speeds up. This is the final leg of a very long journey, and what’s at the end of the path will determine the rest of our lives. <br />
<br />
He looks into my eyes. “Are you?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But we don’t really have a choice, do we?”<br />
<br />
“I can go alone.”<br />
<br />
I shake my head. “No, Dad. Whatever we do, whatever happens from here on out, we do it together.”<br />
<br />
“Deal.”</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have enjoyed the Hollywood Nobody series by Lisa Samson. If you're looking for a good read that has a sense of humor, grab one of the books in this series. You'll thank me later. :)<br />
<br />
<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-66667407149815541902008-10-11T09:56:00.000-05:002008-10-11T09:57:42.534-05:00win a new hand bag!I just signed up to win a free hand bag. You can, too! Just go to <a href="http://www.handbagplanet.com/">www.handbagplanet.com</a> to register!<br />
<br />
<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-27337771648584743712008-09-03T06:06:00.000-05:002008-09-03T06:07:09.193-05:00up pops the devil<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 130%;">This week, the</span></center><br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 100%;">is introducing</span></center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0061468509">Up Pops The Devil</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<center>Avon A (July 29, 2008)</center><br />
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<center>by</center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.theamensisters.com/">Angela Benson</a></span></center><br />
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<br />
<span style="color: #ff6600; font-size: 100%;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnvaJke99ibKGBwh88AmhUogbePuttJGfiiqdj-4gO94NZsSRnSN4kupXdQ49Cy-B8OqCh3v8Fm32WG4OMkyex1E_bBTdgEq9-bi5mSWeOkvUFFt24GPmU2_N_gGPppUWo8sZJXkl_A4/s1600-h/angelabenson.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241618953147828546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnvaJke99ibKGBwh88AmhUogbePuttJGfiiqdj-4gO94NZsSRnSN4kupXdQ49Cy-B8OqCh3v8Fm32WG4OMkyex1E_bBTdgEq9-bi5mSWeOkvUFFt24GPmU2_N_gGPppUWo8sZJXkl_A4/s200/angelabenson.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a>Angela has published nine novels, one novella, and a nonfiction writing book. Her books have appeared on national, regional and local bestseller lists. She has won several writing awards, including Best Multicultural Romance from Romantic Times magazine and the Best Contemporary Ethnic Romance from Affaire de Coeur magazine. She was also a finalist for the 2000 Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award in Multicultural Romance. <br />
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<i><b>Awakening Mercy</b></i> is the first book in her Genesis House series from Tyndale House Publishers. Awakening Mercy was a finalist for both the RITA Award given by Romance Writers of America (RWA) and the Christy Award for Excellence in Christian Fiction. The second book in the Genesis House series, <i><b>Abiding Hope</b></i>, was published in September 2001. Abiding Hope was awarded the Emma Award for Best Inspirational Romance presented by the Romance Slam Jam. The third book and final book of the series, <i><b>Enduring Love</b></i>, is not yet scheduled. <br />
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BET Books, now Harlequin's Kimani Press purchased the mass market rights to Awakening Mercy and Abiding Hope in 2000 and released mass market editions of the titles in June 2002 and June 2003, respectively. <br />
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Angela's first hardcover title, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446699470">The Amen Sisters</a>, was released in September 2005 by Walk Worthy Press. The Essence bestselling title won the Emma Award for Best Inspirational Romance. The trade paperback edition was released in November 2007. <br />
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Up Pops the Devil, published by HarperCollins (Avon A) in August 2008, is Angela's tenth novel. <br />
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Angela has a diverse education and work history. She majored in mathematics at Spelman College and Industrial Engineering at the Georgia Institute of Technology (Georgia Tech), and worked for fifteen years as an engineer in the telecommunications industry. She holds Masters degrees in operations research and human resources development. Her most recent degree is a doctorate in instructional technology from the University of Georgia. Dr. Benson is now an associate professor of educational technology at The University of Alabama. <br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 100%;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIEOLofdSuQCZfGxZSnurFZ5M53GPzV5_73ZbT9invkTZYqrUJqujDzRps3EyCVyepyBWMZQFB_MV6ywFzNgLnNuVCwqSHzdBgjPG0RDw7a-HXvw2wesHaZW_4F2acpkFtg6mz8LudbQ/s1600-h/Uppops.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241608269915796162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIEOLofdSuQCZfGxZSnurFZ5M53GPzV5_73ZbT9invkTZYqrUJqujDzRps3EyCVyepyBWMZQFB_MV6ywFzNgLnNuVCwqSHzdBgjPG0RDw7a-HXvw2wesHaZW_4F2acpkFtg6mz8LudbQ/s200/Uppops.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a>This is the story of Wilford "Preacher" Winters and the four women—his fiancee' Tanya, his sister Loretta, his old girlfriend Serena, and his new friend Natalie—who complicate his re-entry into society as a law-abiding Christian man after being incarcerated for two years for drug trafficking. Two hard years in prison have changed Wilford "Preacher" Winters for the better. He did his time, now he's going to "do the right thing." But the women in his life have other ideas. <br />
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Tanya, the sleek and sexy mother of his two kids, is much too comfortable with her pearls-and-Porsche lifestyle, and she'll do whatever it takes to maintain it. His sister, Loretta, kept "the business" running smoothly while Preacher was inside, and she can't believe he'd trade Easy Street bling for a nickel-and-dime dead-end job. His one-time girlfriend Serena, now married to his main man Barnard, is hiding a secret—and if past sins come to light, they'll ruin several lives and a very new, very precious friendship between Preacher and Barnard's beautiful-inside-and-out sister, Natalie. <br />
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With his world about to explode all around him, Preacher's going to need every ounce of his new-found faith to remain strong. Because it takes a lot to become a new man, sometimes even a miracle.<br />
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If you would like to read the Prologue and first chapter of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0061468509">Up Pops The Devil</a>, go <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/09/up-pops-devil-prologue-chapter-1.html">HERE</a>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-43159094235900134122008-09-01T23:59:00.000-05:002008-09-02T00:01:13.161-05:00lessons from the road<div align="center" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Your All-Access Pass into the World of Third Day</span></b></div><div align="center" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: 16pt;">New book takes you behind the scenes of a Christian rock icon</span></i></b></div><div align="center" style="text-align: center;"></div><img align="left" alt="Lessons bk cover for email" height="199" hspace="12" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=347c86e336&attid=0.2&disp=emb&view=att&th=11a97cce8934f786" width="129" /><b>Dallas/Ft. Worth, TX—</b>Eight years ago, Third Day, winners of 22 Dove Awards and 3 Grammys, extended Nigel James the invitation of a lifetime: the offer to tour with them as the group’s road pastor.<span> </span>Since that time, Nigel has been the group’s spiritual mentor and companion.<span> </span>In his new book, <i>Lessons from the Road</i>,<i> </i>he gives readers the chance to know the real Third Day—a bunch of regular guys who happen to be brilliant Christian rock musicians.<br />
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Nigel is a native of Cardiff, Wales and the founder of IGNITE, a UK-based youth discipleship initiative, and he is also a frequent speaker on American college campuses.<span> </span>Prior to his tenure with Third Day, he travelled as a speaker with the Newsboys.<span> </span>Having toured with the likes of Michael W. Smith, Max Lucado, and, of course, Third Day, he knows all too well the challenges of life on the road.<span> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;">“So much about traveling with the band happens behind the scenes.<span> </span>Fans only see the stage performances, and occasionally they might shake hands or get an autograph,” Nigel says.<span> </span>“I wanted to not only open up life on the tour bus and in the dressing room so that fans could have a clearer understanding of what tour life is all about, but also to let them know that the band is serious about their devotional life, reading, studying, and praying together.<span> </span>These are just regular guys like anyone else, and they have their challenges in the Christian life as much as anyone.”</span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #333333;">Lessons from the Road </span></i><span style="color: #333333;">includes many firsthand accounts by each member of Third Day—Tai Anderson, Brad Avery, David Carr, Mark Lee, and Mac Powell—describing everything from avoiding the pitfalls of “Christian celebrity” to battling homesickness and finding things to do during the downtime before a concert.<span> </span>Third Day fans will especially enjoy discovering the process through which songs like “Consuming Fire” and “Cry Out to Jesus” were created.<span> </span>Throughout the book, Nigel also shares some of his “lessons from the road”—devotionals he has written and used with the band.<span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;">Both individually and as a group, the members of Third Day are dedicated husbands and fathers, passionate supporters of world missions, and active participants in their local churches, and Nigel attributes their continued success to those qualities.<span> </span>“Maintaining a ministry focus—and your own walk with God—is a very real challenge for anyone working in the Christian marketplace, but in the long run the bands and the artists that flourish and have staying power are the ones that are firmly rooted in the local church and the passionate pursuit of God,” he states.<span> </span>“God is still involved in the ministry of Third Day, and I love being there in the middle of it all.<span> </span>I’m just as genuinely excited now as I was 8 years ago.”</span><br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #333333;">Trish's Take</span></b></i><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;">Third Day is one of my favorite Christian bands. Their music has progressed and changed over the years, but their message has always been the same: Jesus is the Way, the Truth and the Life. I enjoyed <i>Lessons from the Road</i>. I think you will too. </span><br />
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<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-28016754620117795012008-09-01T23:55:00.001-05:002008-09-02T00:01:38.514-05:00once blind<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Gripping Biography Opens Readers Eyes</span></b></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">to Horrors of 21<sup>st</sup>-Century Slavery</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 8pt;"></span></b></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"><b><i>Kay Strom’s new release exposes atrocities of modern-day slavery</i></b><b><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span></i></b></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"><b><i>by exploring compelling legacy of John Newton</i></b></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"></div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"><i>“You may choose to look the other way, but you can never again say you did not know.”</i> – William Wilberforce</div><div align="center" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Dallas/Ft. Worth, TX</span></b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">—Today, over two hundred years after John Newton struggled alongside William Wilberforce to bring an end to the African slave trade, three times as many people around the world are living as slaves. When the first abolition bill passed in 1807, four million people were enslaved; today the number is estimated at <i>twelve</i> million. In the new biography, <b><i>Once Blind</i></b> (Authentic Publishers), author Kay Marshall Strom skillfully employs the legacy of John Newton to call attention to 21<sup>st</sup>-century slavery throughout the world. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><img align="left" alt="bk cover for email" height="188" hspace="12" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=347c86e336&attid=0.2&disp=emb&view=att&th=11a30cde0ffaae9d" width="124" /><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">After years of research into the former slave ship captain’s letters, treatises, journals, and church archives, Strom has penned a riveting biographical narrative of Newton, a broken and desperate man whose stirring hymn, “Amazing Grace,” has testified to millions of his transformation from the worst of the worst to a ringing voice for God. His personal accounts of the slave trade and piercing cry for abolition, along with the work of his friend William Wilberforce, helped turn the heart of a nation against the African slave trade to bring it to an end. <i>Once Blind </i>draws readers into Newton’s life in an engaging way few biographies can. Readers are introduced to his troubled childhood, his forced service to the Royal Navy, and God’s pursuit of Newton with relentless love and amazing grace. Newton once told Wilberforce, “There are two things I know in my life. I am a great sinner and Christ is a great savior.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Strom is convinced her poignant account of John Newton’s fight against slavery two centuries ago is a very relevant call to action for believers today. “Slavers today don’t sail the high seas with chained captives packed into the holds of their ships like in the days of John Newton,” Strom writes. “And they certainly don’t march the slaves out to auction blocks behind the post office and sell them to the highest bidder. Yet when people are owned as property, bought and sold, physically punished for not working hard enough, locked up so they can’t leave, and thrust into deplorable or dehumanizing work conditions, then, whatever they’re called, they are slaves… Never have we needed John Newton’s legacy more than today!”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Unexplainably, most people are completely ignorant of the gruesome details of present-day slavery:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-right: 0.1in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.5pt;">· </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Forcing a woman or girl into commercial sex, especially one under eighteen, is one of the most common forms of human trafficking today—rampant especially in Eastern Europe, Asia, India, and Nepal.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-right: 0.1in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.5pt;">· </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Millions of people are enslaved as bonded laborers, especially in India.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-right: 0.1in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.5pt;">· </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">About 218 million children between the ages of five and seventeen are trapped in child labor, according to the International Labor Organization.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-right: 0.1in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.5pt;">· </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">As many as 300,000 child soldiers are presently forced into over thirty areas of conflict/war around the world.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.25in; margin-right: 0.1in; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.5pt;">· </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">The U.S. government estimates that between 15,000 and 18,000 domestic and sex workers are trafficked into America each year and then tricked into working for little or no pay.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">“Bringing awareness to modern-day slavery is my passion,” states Strom. “I have done extensive traveling and writing and have seen firsthand the individual faces of suffering in India, Sudan, and Nepal. We as Christians have stepped back from ‘doing justice and loving mercy’ like the Bible commands, when we should be in the forefront. As I address audiences across the country about this subject, I am asked again and again why we do not hear about these injustices. I have to answer them honestly. It’s inexcusable.”</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Perhaps John Newton’s own explanation is just as applicable today. “The slave trade was always unjustifiable, but inattention and interest prevented for a time the evil from being perceived.” Fortunately, <i>Once Blind</i> deftly lays bare this evil, leaving readers no further defense for apathy and inaction.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><i><b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Trish's Take</span></b></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 9pt; margin-right: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">The story of John Newton, and how the song Amazing Grace came to be, is a gripping tale of forgiveness and redemption. I don't want to spoil the story for you, so all I will say is that you SHOULD DEFINITELY read this book!<br />
</span></div><br />
<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-66496048053528895492008-09-01T23:42:00.001-05:002008-09-01T23:42:47.776-05:00back to life<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 130%;">This week, the</span></center><br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 100%;">is introducing</span></center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="color: #993300; font-size: 130%;"> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0061378771">Back To Life</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<center>Avon Inspire (September 16, 2008) </center><br />
<br />
<center>by</center><br />
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<center><span style="color: #006600; font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.kristinbillerbeck.com/">Kristin Billerbeck</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #ff6600; font-size: 100%;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvaFxc5WrZW7F2JbXdOyus95Sv-b7c3IracFO1-qx1ornMYdv1NyUEq39tKkXFOcUI2N1xY7_x3-AQavuwWpxQ9wePYnrSiAZ5uo1v1guw5V6teurkR1lN4zbr0gcfuiIHmCt27EF5pDY/s1600-h/homekb.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240852090160098514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvaFxc5WrZW7F2JbXdOyus95Sv-b7c3IracFO1-qx1ornMYdv1NyUEq39tKkXFOcUI2N1xY7_x3-AQavuwWpxQ9wePYnrSiAZ5uo1v1guw5V6teurkR1lN4zbr0gcfuiIHmCt27EF5pDY/s200/homekb.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a><a href="http://www.kristinbillerbeck.com/">Kristin Billerbeck</a> was born in Redwood City, California. She went to San Jose State University and gained a bachelor's degree in Advertising, then worked at the Fairmont Hotel in PR, a small ad agency as an account exec, and then, she was thrust into the exciting world of shopping mall marketing. <br />
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She got married, had four kids, and started writing romance novels until she found her passion: Chick Lit. She is a CBA bestselling author and two-time winner of the ACFW Book of the Year for <i>What A Girl Wants</i> in 2004, and again in 2006 for <i>With this Ring</i>. Featured in the New York Times, USA Today, World Magazine, The Atlanta Journal Constitution, Kristin has appeared on the Today Show. She is credited with jump-starting the inspirational chick-lit phenomenon. Most recently she has been names as a finalist for the Christy Award in the Lits category for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0061375462">The Trophy Wives Club</a>.<br />
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Her other recent books include: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543775">She's All That</a>.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #ffcc00; font-size: 100%;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQHnsm-HOEVEfp-hOnb1TlIB52k3dPMtY5KbwEgcUGRPGOBsunOB4LxOGYWSOsB8VFcRBeItqQ3ft2X44ten8fkqNz303p5sx9SjqEqGaFb-ryryXCSHR14X3WxJ8nWpkfdZ-pVPreJk/s1600-h/back.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240853855935356898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQHnsm-HOEVEfp-hOnb1TlIB52k3dPMtY5KbwEgcUGRPGOBsunOB4LxOGYWSOsB8VFcRBeItqQ3ft2X44ten8fkqNz303p5sx9SjqEqGaFb-ryryXCSHR14X3WxJ8nWpkfdZ-pVPreJk/s200/back.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a><br />
Lindsey realized when she married Ron, a man 17 years her senior, that the odds were he’d see heaven before her, but she never expected to be a widow at 35. There’s too much of life left for her to just sit around in mourning. But she can’t seem to kick start the rest of her life.<br />
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That is until she gets some help from Ron’s first wife, Jane, who shows up unexpectedly at her door one day as the executor of her husband’s estate. Jane is everything Lindsey’s not… independent, stubborn… and a lot older. Plus she has one surprise after another… including a son named Ron Jr. (she insists he’s not “really” Ron’s son). But an unlikely friendship develops as each woman begins to reevaluate what is really important, and owns up to the mistakes they’ve made in the past. <br />
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Told in the alternating voices of Jane and Lindsey, and with the return of many of the witty characters of The Trophy Wives Club, this book is a lighthearted, relatable read for when life goes in a direction you never planned. With faith and friends, there’s always light at the end of the tunnel. <br />
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If you would like to read an excerpt of chapter 1 of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0061378771">Back To Life</a>, go <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/08/back-to-life-excerpt-of-chapter-1.html">HERE</a><br />
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<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-4137364175451680072008-09-01T23:40:00.002-05:002008-09-01T23:43:26.174-05:00the summer the wind whispered my name<a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" height="204" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" style="float: left; height: 133px; margin: 10px; width: 84px;" width="126" /></a><br />
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It is time for the FIRST Blog Tour! On the FIRST day of every month we feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br />
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<b>The feature author is: </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.donlocke.com/">Don Locke</a></span></b><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #009900; font-size: 100%;"></span></span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #009900; font-size: 100%;">and his book:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<div align="center"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061532/">The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name</a></span></b><br />
NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) </div><br />
<br />
<div align="left"><b><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVH1WuQ21rtlqeObLopqdkYDiv5SSQiJbRnMdv1F5Yqb-fcK2qbRz6iMQSi7PGo5aMyq_mFFegTGoTxEryS5Ob-F7rAG9YjKW2jR63DYmz1tw7Dfao2Y6xTcY2R2Oqhfcf02oBzmLYu8z_/s1600-h/bio_donpict.gif"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239649741785923138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVH1WuQ21rtlqeObLopqdkYDiv5SSQiJbRnMdv1F5Yqb-fcK2qbRz6iMQSi7PGo5aMyq_mFFegTGoTxEryS5Ob-F7rAG9YjKW2jR63DYmz1tw7Dfao2Y6xTcY2R2Oqhfcf02oBzmLYu8z_/s200/bio_donpict.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a><br />
Don Locke is an illustrator and graphic artist for <i>NBC's Tonight Show with Jay Leno </i>and has worked as a freelance writer and illustrator for more than thirty years. He lives in Southern California with his wife, Susan. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061532/">The Summer the Wind Whispered My Name</a>, prequel to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600061524/">The Reluctant Journey of David Connors</a>, is Don's second novel.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $12.99 <br />
Paperback: 355 pages <br />
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (August 2008) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1600061532 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1600061530 <br />
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<span style="color: #ffcc00;"><b><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </b><br />
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</span></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhITUkFQYMk5TPIfZTPMGYLs861kOhw5HHrAv6vyqJ8zxC_uTd8VHwWCeZxBBPYcjTE_lFjsZG5FS9jvgz1_oClmk3jXyURPdBNtu3hUTYozyqYmSgq31jaRN_T-OiZr94q61InJLZvaoWq/s1600-h/Summer"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5239648519746851762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhITUkFQYMk5TPIfZTPMGYLs861kOhw5HHrAv6vyqJ8zxC_uTd8VHwWCeZxBBPYcjTE_lFjsZG5FS9jvgz1_oClmk3jXyURPdBNtu3hUTYozyqYmSgq31jaRN_T-OiZr94q61InJLZvaoWq/s200/Summer" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Preface<br />
<br />
Until recently my early childhood memories weren’t readily available for recollection. Call it a defective hard drive. They remained a mystery and a void—a midwestern landscape of never-ending pitch-blackness where I brushed up against people and objects but could never assign them faces or names, much less attach feelings to our brief encounters. <br />
<br />
But through a miraculous act of divine grace, I found my way back home to discover the child I’d forgotten, the boy I’d abandoned supposedly for the good of us both. There he sat beneath an oak tree patiently awaiting my return, as if I’d simply taken a day-long fishing trip. This reunion of spirits has transformed me into someone both wiser and more innocent, leaving me to feel both old and young.<br />
<br />
And with this new gift of recollection, my memories turn to that boy and to the summer of 1960, when the winds of change blew across our rooftops and through the screen doors, turning the simple, manageable world of my suburban neighborhood into something unfamiliar, something uncomfortable. Those same winds blew my father and me apart.<br />
<br />
<br />
One<br />
<br />
Route 666<br />
<br />
With a gentle shake of my shoulders, a kiss on my cheek, and the words It’s time whispered by my mom, I woke at five thirty in the morning to prepare for my newspaper route. Careful not to wake my older brother, Bobby, snoozing across the room, I slipped out of bed and stumbled my way into the hallway and toward the bathroom, led only by the dim glow of the nightlight and a familiarity with the route.<br />
<br />
There on the bathroom floor, as usual, my mother had laid my clothes out in the shape of my body, my underwear layered on top. You’re probably wondering why she did this. It could have been that she severely underestimated my intelligence and displayed my clothes in this fashion in case there was any doubt on my part as to which articles of clothing went where on my body. She didn’t want to face the public humiliation brought on by her son walking out of the house wearing his Fruit of the Loom undies over his head. Or maybe her work was simply the result of a sense of humor that I missed completely. Either way, I never asked.<br />
<br />
Mine was a full-service mom whose selfless measures of accommodation put the men of Texaco to shame. The fact that she would inconvenience herself by waking me when an alarm clock would suffice, or lay out my clothes when I was capable of doing so myself, might sound a bit odd to you, but believe me, it was only the tip of the indulgent iceberg. This was a woman who would cut the crust off my PB&J sandwich at my request, set my toothbrush out every night with a wad of Colgate laying atop the bristles, and who would often put me to sleep at night with a song, a prayer, and a back scratch. In the wintertime, when the wind chill off Lake Erie made the hundred-yard trek down to the corner to catch the school bus feel like Admiral Perry’s excursion, Mom would actually lay my clothes out on top of the floor heater before I woke up so that my body would be adequately preheated before stepping outside to face the Ohio cold. From my perspective my room was self-cleaning; toys, sports equipment, and clothes discarded onto the floor all found their way back to the toy box, closet, or dresser. I never encountered a dish that I had to clean or trash I had to empty or a piece of clothing I had to wash or iron or fold or put away.<br />
<br />
I finished dressing, entered the kitchen, and there on the maroon Formica table, in predictable fashion, sat my glass of milk and chocolate long john patiently waiting for me to consume them. My mother, a chocoholic long before the word was coined, had a sweet tooth that she’d handed down to her children. She believed that a heavy dusting of white processed sugar on oatmeal, cream of wheat, or grapefruit was crucial energy fuel for starting one’s day. Only earlier that year I’d been shocked to learn from my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mercer, that chocolate was not, in fact, a member of any of the four major food groups. <br />
<br />
Wearing a milk mustache and buzzing from my sugar rush, I walked outside to where the stack of Tribunes—dropped off in my driveway earlier by the news truck—were waiting for me to fold them.<br />
<br />
More often than I ever cared to hear it, my dad would point out, “It’s the early bird that catches the worm.” But for me it was really those early morning summer hours themselves that provided the reward. Sitting there on our cement front step beneath a forty-watt porch light, rolling a stack of Tribunes, I was keenly aware that bodies were still strewn out across beds in every house in the neighborhood, lying lost in their dreamland slumber while I was already experiencing the day. There would be time enough for the sounds of wooden screen doors slamming shut, the hissing of sprinklers on Bermuda lawns, and the songs of robins competing with those of Elvis emanating from transistor radios everywhere. But for now there was a stillness about my neighborhood that seemed to actually slow time down, where even the old willow in our front yard stood like one more giant dozing on his feet, his long arms hanging lifeless at his sides, and where the occasional shooting star streaking across the black sky was a confiding moment belonging only to the morning and me. <br />
<br />
From the porch step I could detect the subtle, pale peach glow rise behind the Finnegan’s house across the street. I stretched a rubber band open across the top of my knuckles, spread my fingers apart, and slid it down over the length of the rolled paper to hold it in place. Seventy-six times I’d repeat this act almost unconsciously. There was something about the crisp, cool morning air that seemed to contain a magical element that when breathed in set me to daydreaming. So that’s just what I did . . . I sent my homemade bottle rocket blasting above the trees and watched as the red and white bobber at the end of my fishing pole suddenly got sucked down below the surface of the water at Crystal Lake, and with my Little League team’s game on the line, I could hear the crack of my bat as I smacked a liner over the third baseman’s head to drive in the go-ahead run. Granted, most kids would daydream bigger—their rockets sailed to the moon or Mars, and their fish, blue marlins at least, were hooked off Bermuda in their yachts, and their hits were certainly grand slams in the bottom of the ninth to win the World Series for the Reds—but my dad always suggested that a dream should have its feet planted firmly enough in reality to actually have a chance to come true one day, or there wasn’t much point in conjuring up the dream in the first place. Dreaming too big would only lead to a lifetime scattered with the remnants of disappointments and heartbreak.<br />
<br />
And I believed him. Why not? I was young and his shadow fell across me with weight and substance and truth. He was my hero. But in some ways, I suppose, he was too much like my other heroes: Frank Robinson, Ricky Nelson, Maverick. I looked up to them because of their accomplishments or their image, not because of who they really were. I didn’t really know who they were outside of that. Such was the case with my dad. He was a great athlete in his younger years, had a drawer full of medals for track and field, swimming, baseball, basketball, and a bunch from the army to prove it. <br />
<br />
It was my dad who had managed to pull the strings that allowed me to have a paper route in the first place. I remember reading the pride in his eyes earlier in the spring when he first told me I got the job. His voice rose and fell within a wider range than usual as he explained how I would now be serving a valuable purpose in society by being directly responsible for informing people of local, national, and even international events. My dad made it sound important—an act of responsibility, being this cog in the wheel of life, the great mandala. And it made me feel important, better defining my place in the universe. In a firm handshake with my dad, I promised I wouldn’t let him down.<br />
<br />
Finishing up folding and banding the last paper, I knew I was running a little late because Spencer, the bullmastiff next door, had already begun to bark in anticipation of my arrival. Checking the Bulova wristwatch that my dad had given me as a gift the morning of my first route confirmed it. I proceeded to cram forty newspapers into my greasy white canvas pouch and loop the straps over my bike handles. Riding my self-painted, fluorescent green Country Road–brand bike handed down from my brother, I would deliver these papers mostly to my immediate neighborhood and swing back around to pick up the final thirty-six. <br />
<br />
I picked the olive green army hat up off the step. Though most boys my age wore baseball caps, I was seldom seen without the hat my dad wore in World War II. Slapping it down onto my head, I hopped onto my bike, turned on the headlight, and was off down my driveway, turning left on the sidewalk that ran along the front of our corner property on Willowcreek Road.<br />
<br />
I rode around to where our street dead-ended, curving into Briarbrook. Our eccentric young neighbors, the Springfields, lived next door in a house they’d painted black. Mr. and Mrs. Springfield chose to raise a devil dog named Spencer rather than experiencing the joy of parenthood. Approaching the corner of their white picket fence on my bike, I could see the strong, determined, shadowy figure of that demon dashing back and forth along the picket fence, snarling and barking at me loudly enough to wake the whole neighborhood. As was my custom, I didn’t dare slow down while I heaved the rolled-up newspaper over his enormous head into their yard. Spencer sprinted over to the paper and pounced on it, immediately tearing it to shreds—a daily reenactment. The couple insisted that I do this every day, as they were attempting to teach Spencer to fetch the morning paper, bring it around to the back of the house where he was supposed to enter by way of the doggy door, and gently place the newspaper in one piece on the kitchen table so it would be there to peruse when they woke for breakfast.<br />
<br />
Theirs was one of only two houses in the neighborhood that were fenced in, a practice uncommon in the suburbs because it implied a lack of hospitality. Even a small hedge along a property line could be interpreted as stand-offish. The Springfields’ choice of house color wasn’t helpful in dispelling this notion. And yet it was a good thing that they chose to enclose their property because we were all quite certain that if Spencer ever escaped his yard, he would systematically devour every neighborhood kid, one by one. The strange thing was that the picket fence couldn’t have been more than three feet high, low enough for even a miniature poodle to clear—so why hadn’t Spencer taken the leap? Could it be that he was just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to jump that hurdle? So I was thankful for the Springfields’ ineptitude when it came to dog training because it allowed me to buffer Spencer’s appetite, knowing that whenever he did decide to make his move, I would most likely be the first course on the menu. <br />
<br />
The neighborhood houses on my route were primarily ranch style, third-little-pig variety, and always on my left. On my left so that I could grab a paper out of my bag and heave it across my body, allowing for more mustard on my throw and more accuracy than if I had to sling it backhand off to my right side. This technique also helped build up strength in my pitching arm. I always aimed directly toward the middle of the driveway instead of anywhere near the porch, which could, as I’d learned, be treacherous territory. An irate Mrs. Messerschmitt from Sleepy Hollow Road once dropped by my house, screaming, “You’ve murdered my children! You’ve murdered my children!” Apparently I’d made an errant toss that tore the blooming heads right off her precious pansies and injured a few hapless marigolds. From that day on I shot for the middle of the driveway, making sure no neighbors’ flowers ever suffered a similar fate at my hands.<br />
<br />
I passed my friend Mouse Miller’s house, crossed the street, and headed down the other side of Briarbrook, past Allison Hoffman’s house—our resident divorcée. All my friends still had their two original parents and family intact, which made Mrs. Hoffman’s status a bit of an oddity. Maybe it was the polio scare that people my parents’ age had had to live through that appeared to make them wary of any abnormality in another human being. It wasn’t just being exposed to the drug addicts or the murderers that concerned them, but contact with any fringe members of society: the divorcées and the widowers, the fifty-year-old bachelors, people with weird hairdos or who wore clothing not found in the Sears catalogue. People with facial hair were especially to be avoided.<br />
<br />
You didn’t want to be a nonconformist in 1960. Though nearly a decade had passed, effects of the McCarthy hearings had left some Americans with lingering suspicions that their neighbor might be a Red or something worse. So everyone did their best to just fit in. There was an unspoken fear that whatever social dysfunction people possessed was contagious by mere association with them. I had a feeling my mom believed this to be the case with Allison Hoffman—that all my mother had to do was engage in a five-minute conversation with any divorced woman, and a week or so later, my dad would come home from work and out of the blue announce, “Honey, I want a divorce.” <br />
<br />
Likely in her late twenties, Mrs. Hoffman was attractive enough to be a movie star or at least a fashion model—she was that pretty. She taught at a junior high school across town, but for extra cash would tutor kids in her spare time. Despite her discriminating attitude toward Mrs. Hoffman, my mother was forced to hire her as a tutor for my sixteen-year-old brother for two sessions a week, seeing as Bobby could never quite grasp the concept of dangling participles and such. Still, whenever she mentioned Mrs. Hoffman’s name, my mom always found a way to justify setting her Christian beliefs aside, calling her that woman, as in, “just stay away from that woman.” Mom must have skipped over the part in the Bible where Jesus healed the lepers. Anyway, Mrs. Hoffman seemed nice enough to me when I’d see her gardening in her yard or when I’d have to collect newspaper money from her; a wave and smile were guaranteed.<br />
<br />
I delivered papers down Briarbrook, passed my friend Sheena’s house on the cul-de-sac, and went back down to Willowcreek, where I rolled past the Jensens’ vacant house. The For Sale sign had been stuck in the lawn out front since the beginning of spring. I’d seen few people even stop by to look at the charming, white frame house I remember as having great curb appeal. Every kid on the block was rooting for a family with at least a dozen kids to move in to provide some fresh blood.<br />
<br />
A half a block later, I turned the corner and was about to toss the paper down Mr. Melzer’s drive when I spotted the old man lying under his porch light, sprawled out on the veranda, his blue overall-covered legs awkwardly dangling down the front steps of his farm house. I immediately stood up on my bike, slammed on the brakes, fish-tailed a streak of rubber on the sidewalk, dumped the bike, and rushed up to his motionless body. “Mr. Melzer! Mr. Melzer!” Certain he was dead, I kept shouting at him like he was only asleep or deaf. “Mr. Melzer!” I was afraid to touch him to see if he was alive.<br />
<br />
The only dead body I had touched up till then was my great-uncle Frank’s at his wake, and it was not a particularly pleasant experience. I was five years old when my mom led me up to the big shiny casket where I peered over the top to see the man lying inside. Standing on my tiptoes, I stared at Frank’s clay-colored face, which I believed looked too grumpy, too dull. While alive and kicking, my uncle was an animated man with ruddy cheeks who spoke and reacted with passion and humor, but the expression he wore while lying in that box was one that I’d never seen on his face before. I was quite sure that if he’d been able to gaze in the mirror at his dead self with that stupid, frozen pouting mouth looking back at him, he would have been humiliated and embarrassed as all get out. And so, while no one watched, I started poking and prodding at his surprisingly pliable mouth, trying to reshape his smile into something more natural, more familiar, like the expression he’d worn recalling the time he drove up to frigid Green Bay in a blizzard to watch his beloved Browns topple Bart Starr and the Green Bay Packers. Or the one he’d displayed while telling us what a thrill it was to meet Betty Grable at a USO function during the war, or the grin that always appeared on his face right after he’d take a swig of a cold beer on a hot summer day. It was a look of satisfaction that I was after, and was pretty sure I could pull it off. Those hours of turning shapeless Play-Doh into little doggies and snowmen had prepared me for this moment.<br />
<br />
After a mere twenty seconds of my molding handiwork, I had successfully managed to remove my uncle’s grim, lifeless expression. Unfortunately I had replaced it with a hideous-looking full-on smile, his teeth beaming like the Joker from the Batman comics. Before I could step back for a more objective look, my Aunt Doris let out a little shriek behind me; an older gentleman gasped, which brought my brother over, and he let out a howl of laughter, all followed by a flurry of activity that included some heated discussion among relatives, the casket’s being closed, and my mother’s hauling me out of the room by my earlobe. <br />
<br />
But you probably don’t really care much about my Uncle Frank. You’re wondering about Mr. Melzer and if he’s a character who has kicked the bucket before you even got to know him or know if you like him. You will like him. I did. “Mr. Melzer!” I gave him a good poke in the arm. Nothing . . . then another one.<br />
<br />
The fact is I was surprised when Mr. Melzer began to move. First his head turned . . . then his arm wiggled . . . then he rose, propping himself up onto an elbow, attempting to regain his bearings. <br />
<br />
“Mr. Melzer?”<br />
<br />
“What?” He looked around, glassy-eyed, still groggy. “Davy?”<br />
<br />
I suddenly felt dizzy and nearly fell down beside him on the porch. “Yeah, it’s me.”<br />
<br />
“I must have dozed off. Guess the farmer in me still wants to wake with the dawn, but the old man, well, he knows better.” He looked my way. “You’re white as a sheet—you okay, boy?”<br />
<br />
Actually I was feeling pretty nauseated. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just thought . . .”<br />
<br />
“What? You thought what?”<br />
<br />
“Well, when I saw you lying there . . . I just thought . . .”<br />
<br />
“That I was dead?” I nodded. “Well, no, no, I can see where that might be upsetting for you. Come to think of it, it’s a little upsetting to me. Not that I’m not prepared to meet my maker, mind you. Or to see Margaret again.” He leaned heavily on his right arm, got himself upright, and adjusted his suspenders. “The fact is . . . I do miss the old gal. The way she’d know to take my hand when it needed holdin’. Or how she could make a room feel comfortable just by her sitting in it, breathing the same air. Heck, I even miss her lousy coffee. And I hope, after these two years apart, she might have forgotten what a pain in the rear I could be, and she might have the occasion to miss me a bit, too.”<br />
<br />
Until that moment, I hadn’t considered the possibility of the dead missing the living. Sometimes when he wasn’t even trying to, Mr. Melzer made me think. And it always surprised me how often he would just say anything that came into his head. He never edited himself like most adults. He was like a kid in that respect, but more interesting.<br />
<br />
“You believe in heaven?” I asked Mr. Melzer.<br />
<br />
“Rather counting on it. How ’bout you?”<br />
<br />
“My mom says that when we go to heaven we’ll be greeted by angels with golden wings.”<br />
<br />
“Really? Angels, huh?”<br />
<br />
“And she says that they’ll sing a beautiful song written especially for us.”<br />
<br />
“Really? Your mother’s an interesting woman, Davy. But I could go for that—I could. Long as they’re not sitting around on clouds playing harps. Don’t care for harp music one bit. Pretty sure it was the Marx Brothers that soured me on that instrument.”<br />
<br />
“How so?”<br />
<br />
“Well, those Marx Brothers, in every movie they made they’d be running around, being zany as the dickens, and then Harpo—the one who never spoke a lick, the one with the fuzzy blond hair—always honking his horn and chasing some skinny, pretty gal around. Anyway, in the middle of all their high jinks, Harpo would come across some giant harp just conveniently lying around somewhere, and he’d feel obliged to stop all the antics to play some sappy tune that just about put you to sleep. I could never recover. Turned me sour on the harp, he did. I’m more of a horn man, myself. Give me a saxophone or trumpet and I’m happy. And I’m not particularly opposed to a fiddle either. But harps—I say round ’em up and burn ’em all. Melt ’em down and turn them into something practical . . . something that can’t make a sound . . . that’s what I say.”<br />
<br />
See, I told you he’d pretty much say anything. I don’t think that Mr. Melzer had many people to listen to him. And just having a bunch of thoughts roaming around in his head wasn’t enough. I think Mr. Melzer chattered a lot so that he wouldn’t lose himself, so he could remember who he was. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, well, anyway, I figure I’ll go home when it’s my time,” he continued. “Just hope it can wait for the harvest, seeing as there’s no one else to bring in the corn when it’s time.”<br />
<br />
As far back as I could remember, Mr. Melzer used to drag this little red wagon around the neighborhood on August evenings, stacked to the limit with ears of corn. And he’d go door to door and hand out corn to everybody like he was some kind of an agricultural Santa.<br />
<br />
“Do you know I used to have fields of corn as far as the eye can see . . . way beyond the rooftops over there?”<br />
<br />
I did know this, but I never tired of the enthusiasm with which he told it, so I didn’t stop him. About ten years before, Mr. Melzer had sold off all but a few acres of his farmland to a contractor, resulting in what became my neighborhood.<br />
<br />
“I still get a thrill when I shuck that first ear of corn of the harvest, and see that ripe golden row of kernels smiling back at me. Hot, sweet corn, lightly salted with butter dripping down all over it . . . mmm. Nothing better. Don’t nearly have the teeth for it anymore. You eat yours across or up and down?”<br />
<br />
“Across.”<br />
<br />
“Me too. Only way to eat corn. Tastes better across. When I see somebody munching on an ear like this”—the old man rolled the imaginary ear of corn in front of his imaginary teeth chomping down—“I just want to slap him upside the head.”<br />
<br />
I was starting to run very late, and he noticed me fidgeting. <br />
<br />
“Oh, yeah, here I am blabbering away, and you got a job to do.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll get your paper.” I ran back to my bike lying on the sidewalk. <br />
<br />
“So I see nobody’s bought the Jensen place yet,” he yelled out to me.<br />
<br />
I grabbed a newspaper that had spilled out of my bag onto the sidewalk, and rushed back to Mr. Melzer. “Not yet. Whoever does, hope they have kids.” I handed the old man the newspaper.<br />
<br />
“Listen, I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.<br />
<br />
“It’s okay.” I looked over at a pile of unopened newspapers on the porch by the door. “Mind if I ask you something?”<br />
<br />
“Shoot.”<br />
<br />
“How come you never read the paper?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, don’t know. At some point I guess you grow tired of bad news. Besides, these days all the news I need is right here in the neighborhood.”<br />
<br />
“So why do you still order the paper?”<br />
<br />
The old man smiled. “Well, the way I see it, if I didn’t order the paper, I’d miss out on these splendid little chats with you, now wouldn’t I?”<br />
<br />
I told you you’d like him. I grinned. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Mr. Melzer.”<br />
<br />
“Likewise,” he said, shooting a wink my way. When I turned around to walk back to my bike, I heard the rolled up newspaper hit the top of the pile.</div><br />
<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-66241112026405092042008-08-01T00:00:00.000-05:002008-08-01T00:00:00.593-05:00<a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" height="204" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" style="margin: 10px; float: left; width: 84px; height: 133px;" width="126" /></a><br />
<br />
It is <b><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">August FIRST</span></b>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br />
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<br />
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<div align="center"><b>Today's feature author is: </b></div><br />
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<div align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">LISA SAMSON</a></span></b></div><br />
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<div align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(153, 51, 0);">and her book:</span> </span></b></div><br />
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<div align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062210/">Romancing Hollywood Nobody</a></span></b></div><br />
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<div align="center">NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) </div><br />
<br />
<div align="left"><b><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b></div><br />
<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZHaGYZQoI/AAAAAAAAAS0/zuS-VBcoNeA/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><i></i></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRU32wfa4HTwm8_eRHOVFsL_uBVp2iFhsVh1iSwl7Kb0MfEVHJTroJrItS0N4Vs0JwA4nH0gJWvT9nqyFHQj_m8XI0BmP31bk7cuhC-xLO-LCxm-i5ZQcSq9Bsd7xAfvrjHBsZ1iOs903l/s1600-h/lisa+samson.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="304" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194889207587266866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRU32wfa4HTwm8_eRHOVFsL_uBVp2iFhsVh1iSwl7Kb0MfEVHJTroJrItS0N4Vs0JwA4nH0gJWvT9nqyFHQj_m8XI0BmP31bk7cuhC-xLO-LCxm-i5ZQcSq9Bsd7xAfvrjHBsZ1iOs903l/s320/lisa+samson.jpg" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 215px; height: 293px;" width="228" /></a>Lisa Samson is the author of twenty books, including the Christy Award-winning <i>Songbird</i>. <i>Apples of Gold</i> was her first novel for teens<br />
<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"></span><br />
These days, she's working on <i>Quaker Summer</i>, volunteering at Kentucky Refugee Ministries, raising children and trying to be supportive of a husband in seminary. (Trying . . . some days she's downright awful. It's a good thing he's such a fabulous cook!) She can tell you one thing, it's never dull around there.<br />
<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_cESuxv-WNX8/RyZLuWYZQpI/AAAAAAAAAS8/vl_DmC05Mrw/s1600-h/lisa_bio.jpg"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgecEyYvpQlBKz-inobVwn5FhB3zwJD8KuyIgYiL7OOPA6x3lsQ0A-bk0p0LmAhLznKP9IvyqNz9Pn20k_cqPAs0iI-yKwQIef1AsZdxepZlVf0m8suH-dtJCFcDRSlhSN3BC7OopH78mJ_/s1600-h/tosca+lee.jpg"></a>Other Novels by Lisa:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600060919/"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1600062016/"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Finding Hollywood Nobody</span></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568862/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Straight Up</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568854/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Club Sandwich</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446615188/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Songbird</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565987/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tiger Lillie</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1576737489/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">The Church Ladies</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565960/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Women's Intuition: A Novel</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0446679313/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Songbird</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578565979/willsamsoncom-20"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">The Living End</span></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><br />
</span><br />
Visit her at her <a href="http://www.lisasamson.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
Product Details<br />
<br />
List Price: $12.99 <br />
Paperback: 195 pages <br />
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1600062210 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1600062216 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </b><br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJmiNj-joVKKj5kTtM9FWubO91Q8IDgID7lcHcz9SmU5K-aH5Yu40oEPtpdgMJDTPEmhZP38TFrqmyC04JmrDwkYePBTPwRIzyuq11ktb1NV5BgcihsHy4mvIWyN3zXAaqfJ1a7v1NVtN/s1600-h/rhn"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227910218932266754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJmiNj-joVKKj5kTtM9FWubO91Q8IDgID7lcHcz9SmU5K-aH5Yu40oEPtpdgMJDTPEmhZP38TFrqmyC04JmrDwkYePBTPwRIzyuq11ktb1NV5BgcihsHy4mvIWyN3zXAaqfJ1a7v1NVtN/s200/rhn" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" /></a><br />
<div style="overflow: auto; height: 307px;"><b>Monday, April 30, 6:00 a.m. </b><br />
<br />
My eyes open. Yes, yes, yes. The greatest man in the entire world <br />
<br />
is brewing coffee right here in the TrailMama. <br />
<br />
“Dad.” <br />
<br />
“Morning, Scotty. The big day.” <br />
<br />
“Yep.” <br />
<br />
“And this time, you won't have to drive.” <br />
<br />
I throw back the covers on my loft bed and slip down to the dinette of our RV. My dad sleeps on the dinette bed. He's usually got it turned back into our kitchen table by 5:00 a.m. What can I say? The guy may be just as much in love with cheese as I am, but honestly? Our body clocks are about as different as Liam Neeson and Seth Green. <br />
<br />
You know what I mean? <br />
<br />
And we have lots of differences. <br />
<br />
For one, he's totally a nonfiction person and I'm fiction all the way. For two, he has no fashion sense whatsoever. And for three, he has way more hope for people at the outset than I do. Man, do I have a lot to learn on that front. <br />
<br />
He hands me a mug and I sip the dark liquid. I was roasting coffee beans for a while there, but Dad took the mantle upon himself and he does a better job. <br />
<br />
Starbucks Schmarbucks. <br />
<br />
He hands me another mug and I head to the back of the TrailMama to wake up Charley. My grandmother looks so sweet in the morning, her frosted, silver-blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. You know, she could pass for an aging mermaid. A really short one, true. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I wave the mug as close as I can to her nose without fear of her rearing up, knocking the mug and burning her face. “Charley . . .” I singsong. “Time to get a move on. Time to get back on the road.” <br />
<br />
And boy is this a switch! <br />
<br />
All I can say is, your life can be going one way for years and years and then, snap-snap-snap-in-a-Z, it looks like it had major plastic surgery. <br />
<br />
Only in reverse. Imagine life just getting more and more real. I like it. <br />
<br />
Charley opens her eyes. “Hey, baby. You brought me coffee. You get groovier every day.” <br />
<br />
She's a hippie. What can I say? <br />
<br />
And she started drinking coffee again when I ran away last fall in Texas. I mean, I didn't really run away. I went somewhere with a perfectly good reason for not telling anyone, and I was planning to return as soon as my mission was done. <br />
<br />
She scootches up to a sitting position, hair still in a cloud, takes the mug and, with that dazzling smile still on her face (think Kate Hudson) sips the coffee. She sighs. <br />
<br />
“I know,” I say. “How did we make it so long without him?” <br />
<br />
“Now that he's with us, I don't know. But somehow we did, didn't we, baby? It may not have always been graceful and smooth, but we made it together.” <br />
<br />
I rub her shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you could say we pretty much did.” <br />
<br />
The engine hums its movin'-on song. “Dad's ready to pull out. Let's hit it.” <br />
<br />
“Scotland, here we come.” <br />
<br />
Scotland? Well, sort of. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>An hour later </b><br />
<br />
This has been a great school year. In addition to the online courses I'm taking through Indiana University High School, Dad's been teaching me and man, is he smart. I'm sure most sixteen-(almost seventeen)-year-olds think their fathers are the smartest guys in the world, but in my case it happens to be true. <br />
<br />
Okay, even I have to admit he probably won't win the Nobel Prize for physics or anything, but he's street smart and there's no replacing that sort of thing. Big plus: he knows high school math. We're both living under the radar. And he's taken our faux last name. Dawn. He's now Ezra Fitzgerald Dawn. After Ezra Pound, one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Lost Generation friends. <br />
<br />
I'm just lovin' that. <br />
<br />
“Your mom would have loved the name change, Scotty.” <br />
<br />
He told me about his life as an FBI agent, some of the cases he worked on, and well, I'd like to tell you he had a life like Sydney Bristow's in Alias, but he probably spent most of his time on com-puter work and sitting around on his butt waiting for someone to make a move. The FBI, apparently, prefers to trick people more than corner them in showdowns and shootouts. The Robertsman case was his first time undercover in the field and we know how terribly that worked out for him. And me. And Charley. And Babette, my mother. <br />
<br />
I pull out my math book and sit in the passenger seat of the TrailMama. “Ready for some 'rithmetic, Dad?” <br />
<br />
“You bet.” He turns to me and smiles. His smile still makes my heart warm up like a griddle ready to make smiley-face pan-cakes. I flip on my book light. <br />
<br />
<br />
It's still dark and we're headed to Asheville, North Carolina for Charley's latest shoot. A film about Bonnie Prince Charlie called Charlie's Lament. How ironic is that? The director, Bartholomew (don't dare call him Bart) Evans, is a real jerk. I'm not going to be hanging around the set much even though Liam Neeson is Lord George Murray, the voice of reason Prince Charlie refused to listen to. But hey, that's my history lesson. We're still on math. <br />
<br />
I finish up the last lesson in geometry . . . finally! Honestly, I still don't understand it without a mammoth amount of help, but the workbook's filled and that's a good thing. <br />
<br />
There. <br />
<br />
I set down my pen. “Finished!” <br />
<br />
Dad gives a nod as he continues to look out the windshield. You might guess, despite the tattoos, piercings, and his gleaming bald head, he's a very careful driver. And he won't let me drive like Charley did. <br />
<br />
“So . . . driver's license then, right?” <br />
<br />
He's been holding that over my head so I'd finish the math course. <br />
<br />
“You know it. After the film, we'll request your new birth certificate and go from there.” <br />
<br />
“What state are we supposedly from?” The FBI has given us a new identity, official papers and all that. <br />
<br />
“Wyoming.” <br />
<br />
“Are you kidding me? Wyoming? Why?” <br />
<br />
“Think about it, honey. Who's from Wyoming?” <br />
<br />
“Lots of people?” <br />
<br />
“Know any of them?” <br />
<br />
“Uh. No.” <br />
<br />
“See?” <br />
<br />
<br />
“Okay, Wyoming it is, then.” <br />
<br />
“You realize you'll only have my beat-up old black truck to drive around.” The same truck we're towing behind the TrailMama. <br />
<br />
“I'll take it.” <br />
<br />
So here's the thing. The rest of the entire world thinks my father was shot in the chest and killed when he was outed by a branch of the mob he was after. This mob was financing James Robertsman's campaign for governor of Maryland. <br />
<br />
The guy's running for president of the United States now. <br />
<br />
I kid you not. <br />
<br />
Wish I was kidding. <br />
<br />
We thought he was after us for several years because Charley knew too much. But then last fall, we found out the guy chasing me was my father, and Robertsman is most likely cocky enough to think he took care of everything he needed. I say that's quite all right. Although, I have to admit, the fact that a dirtbag like that guy may end up in the Oval Office sickens me to no end. <br />
<br />
Thanks to that guy, we had been running in fear from my own father. <br />
<br />
The thing is, I could be really mad about all those wasted years, and a portion of me feels that way. But we've been given another chance, and I'll be darned if I throw away these days being angry. There's too much to be thankful for. <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I still have my surly days. I don't want Dad and Charley to think they have it as easy as all that! <br />
<br />
Okay, time to blog. <br />
<br />
<b>Hollywood Nobody: April 30 </b><br />
<br />
Let's cut to the chase, Nobodies! <br />
<br />
<b>Today's Seth News: </b>It's official. Seth Haas and Karissa Bonano are officially each other's exclusive main squeeze. The two were seen coming out of a popular LA tattoo parlor with each other's names on the inside of their forearms. How cliché. And pass the barf bag. <br />
<br />
<b>Today's Violette Dillinger Report:</b> Violette has broken up with Joe Mason of Sweet Margaret. She wanted you all to know that long-distance romances are hard for any couple, but espe-cially for people as young as she is. “Joe needed to live his life. I'm on the road a lot. It wasn't fair to either of us.” Sounds like she's definitely not on the road to Britney. I'm just sayin'. <br />
<br />
<b>Today's Rave:</b> Mandy Moore. The girl can really sing! And her latest album is filled with good songs. The bubble gum days of insipid teen heartbreak are over. She's finally come into her own. (Wish some others would follow her example, but I won't hold my breath. And man, are we on the theme of bratty stars today or what? Well, there are just so many of them from which to choose!) <br />
<br />
<b>Today's Rant:</b> Crazy expensive celebrity weddings. What? If they spend more, will they be more likely to stay together? I have no idea. Mariah Carey's $25,000 dress pales in comparison to Catherine Zeta-Jones's $100,000 gown. What are those things made of? <br />
<br />
<b>Today's Quote:</b> “Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.” <i>James Dean </i> <br />
</div><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-56208734119690118432008-07-09T16:53:00.000-05:002008-07-09T16:54:23.441-05:00author chat on abunga.comI haven't posted any book reviews in a while. I was taking a bit of a break from reviewing, since it seemed like my life just sort of exploded (albeit in a good, God way) in February. I received a press release from Abunga.com today that I feel is worth sharing. I'm in the process of reading <i>My Soul to Keep</i> by Melanie Wells, and since she's the first author to be interviewed at Abunga.com, I feel it's appropriate to post the press release here:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER AUTHOR TO CHAT</span></span><b><span style="font-size: 13.5pt; color: black;"><br />
<span>ABOUT WHAT LIES BETWEEN THE LINES:</span><br />
</span></b><span>Melanie Wells Joins Readers on Online Bookstore Chat</span></div>
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<td style="padding: 0.75pt; width: 49.8pt; height: 32.45pt;" valign="top" width="66"><b><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">WHO:</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-transform: uppercase;"></span></b></td>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;">Melanie Wells</span></b><span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">, author of the critically acclaimed Dylan Foster series – “When the Day of Evil Comes,” “The Soul Hunter” and the newly-released “My Soul to Keep.” Wells will join the family-friendly online bookstore, Abunga.com, to discuss her insights on the fiction series, writing, building story lines and using one’s creativity and imagination to shape character development.</span></span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;"></span></div>
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<td style="padding: 0.75pt; height: 24.55pt;" valign="top"><b><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">WHAT:</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-transform: uppercase;"></span></b></td>
<td style="padding: 0.75pt; height: 24.55pt;" valign="top"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;">“Authors at Abunga” Chat with Melanie Wells</span></b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;"><br />
Wells’ Dylan Foster trilogy is packed with both humor and suspense. Each thriller tracks the mayhem surrounding Wells’ unlikely heroine, college psychology professor Dylan Foster. Wells, who is also a psychotherapist and accomplished musician, will provide insights into her writing style, how stories are created, and where characters come from.<br />
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<td style="padding: 0.75pt; height: 36.05pt;" valign="top"><b><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">wheN:</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-transform: uppercase;"></span></b></td>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;">Wednesday, July 16, 2008<br />
11 a.m. – Noon PDT / 1 – 2 p.m. CDT / 2 – 3 p.m. EDT (LIVE)<br />
At <a href="http://www.mmsend3.com/ls.cfm?r=54948565&amp;amp;sid=4355272&amp;amp;m=521180&amp;amp;u=LarryRoss&amp;amp;s=http://www.Abunga.com/AuthorsAtAbunga" target="_blank">www.Abunga.com/AuthorsAtAbunga</a></span></div>
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<td style="padding: 0.75pt; height: 72.85pt;" valign="top"><b><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; text-transform: uppercase;">DETAILS: </span></b></td>
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;">Wells is the first author to be featured on the newly-created “Authors at Abunga” chats by Agunga.com. A Texas native, Wells is an accomplished musician (she’s a fiddle player) a licensed psychotherapist, and the founder and director of Dallas-based LifeWorks counseling associates (<a href="http://www.mmsend3.com/ls.cfm?r=54948565&amp;amp;sid=4355273&amp;amp;m=521180&amp;amp;u=LarryRoss&amp;amp;s=http://www.wefixbrains.com" target="_blank">www.wefixbrains.com</a>). </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt; color: black;">Beginning with “When the Day of Evil Comes,” each of Wells’ novels weaves a gripping tale in which the quirky, likeable Dylan Foster wrestles with her own personal demon -- Peter Terry – “a spiritual and emotional stalker,” Wells says, ”Peter Terry is a compelling character who rings true for all of us. He is a metaphor for the opposition we all have in our lives. And we can all relate to Dylan, who often feels like she’s fighting forest fires with a squirt gun.” More info found at <a href="http://www.abunga.com/FeaturedAuthorWells" target="_blank">www.Abunga.com/<wbr></wbr>FeaturedAuthorWells</a>. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Abunga.com is an online bookstore founded to provide families a protected shopping environment. Headquartered in Knoxville, Tenn., Abunga.com offers more than 1.6 million family-friendly books, savings through distributor-direct prices and support to nonprofit organizations by donating 5 percent of each transaction to a customer-selected charity. For more information, visit <a href="http://www.abunga.com/" target="_blank">www.Abunga.com</a>. </span></div>
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<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-79899360501565378292008-07-02T13:53:00.000-05:002008-07-02T13:54:02.907-05:00love starts with elle<div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 130%;">This week, the</span></center><br />
<br />
<center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 100%;">is introducing</span></center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(153, 51, 0);"> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543384">Love Starts With Elle</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<center>(Thomas Nelson - July 8, 2008)</center><br />
<br />
<center>by</center><br />
<br />
<center><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><a href="http://www.rachelhauck.com/">Rachel Hauck</a></span></center><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuB-X3Eo3b2qXqrCSKZhEpvth-56odKwFgVinmKKA3NSM7VemlXRS8IkOnHH3H8EOA3VmgZHzCExBg_8mqN2CB2eYbDK05HJnqI2v9xXBcqXCkFo27rq0hjp_9n0AVbbKdEO7WIOahpnw/s1600-h/RachelHauck.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218246921115036578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuB-X3Eo3b2qXqrCSKZhEpvth-56odKwFgVinmKKA3NSM7VemlXRS8IkOnHH3H8EOA3VmgZHzCExBg_8mqN2CB2eYbDK05HJnqI2v9xXBcqXCkFo27rq0hjp_9n0AVbbKdEO7WIOahpnw/s320/RachelHauck.jpg" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" /></a>Rachel Hauck is a forty-something, a child of the '60's, '70's, '80's, '90's and '00's, who roller skated through the '70's into the '80's with Farrah Fawcet hair and a three-speed orange Camero. She graduated from Ohio State University (Go Buckeyes!) with a degree in Journalism. <br />
<br />
After graduation, she hired on at Harris Publishing as a software trainer, destermined to see the world. But, she's traveled to Ireland, Spain, Venezuela, Mexico, Australia, Canada and the U.S. from California to Maine. <br />
<br />
Rachel met Tony, her husband, in '87, at church, of all places. They married in '92. <br />
They don't have any children of their own, just lots of kids-in-the-Lord and they love them all. However, they do have two very spoiled dogs, and a very demanding cat.<br />
<br />
With a little help from my friends, my first book was published in ' 04, Lambert's Pride, a romance novel. My current release is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543376">Sweet Caroline</a> from Thomas Nelson. Romantic Times Book Club gave both books their highest rank of 4.5 stars, with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595543384">Love Starts With Elle</a> being honored as Top Pick! <br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrY3R9uhw0DIe2YyY2mTvY10lqeQRLnfesU7HBu82v59nn_Cnb4N2D1s-Ctj94as-qj53mZfF3u1D9WS_8VdzG3Jss1azbEliq_3MlrICPsrTt_PGd8IsTK-QE0BUXAeym1HLlDDtA7k/s1600-h/LSWE.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218246504720266370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLrY3R9uhw0DIe2YyY2mTvY10lqeQRLnfesU7HBu82v59nn_Cnb4N2D1s-Ctj94as-qj53mZfF3u1D9WS_8VdzG3Jss1azbEliq_3MlrICPsrTt_PGd8IsTK-QE0BUXAeym1HLlDDtA7k/s320/LSWE.jpg" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" /></a>Elle's living the dream-but is it her dream or his? <br />
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Elle loves life in Beaufort, South Carolina-lazy summer days on the sand bar, coastal bonfires, and dinners with friends sharing a lifetime of memories. And she's found her niche as the owner of a successful art gallery too. Life is good.<br />
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Then the dynamic pastor of her small town church sweeps her off her feet. She's never known a man like Jeremiah-one who breathes in confidence and exhales all doubt. When he proposes in the setting sunlight, Elle hands him her heart on a silver platter.<br />
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But Jeremiah's just accepted a large pastorate in a different state. If she's serious about their relationship, Elle will take "the call," too, leaving behind the people and place she loves so dearly. Elle's friendship with her new tenant, widower Heath McCord, and his young daughter make things even more complicated.<br />
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Is love transferrable across the miles? And can you take it with you when you go?<br />
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If you would like to read the first chapter, go <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/07/love-starts-with-elle-chapter-1.html">HERE</a><br />
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<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-78749304232015995642008-07-02T13:46:00.000-05:002008-07-02T13:47:29.859-05:00a mile in my flip-flops<a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" height="204" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" style="margin: 10px; float: left; width: 84px; height: 133px;" width="126" /></a><br />
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It is <b><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">July </span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">FIRST</span></b>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br />
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<div align="center"><b>The feature author is: </b></div>
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<div align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">Melody Carlson</a></span></b><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"></span></span></b></div>
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<div align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">and her book:</span> </span></b></div>
<div align="center"><b><span style="font-size: 180%; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073146/">A Mile in My Flip-Flops</a></span></b><br />
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WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)</div>
<div align="left"><b><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcqGphTjqNiQnLjmrHXRVnrNO5Ra1wBNAYaC6aM6nzWQoXC7hrqSf2QecxEwHC_J-LzqReVO93SQaH-nr2Bv7ts3FxrsooTxVd8U_hGAtB_79D7-NdZwxdYoFgCxNH_vowFMPJU28VXI/s1600-h/carlson.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213072267768585634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcqGphTjqNiQnLjmrHXRVnrNO5Ra1wBNAYaC6aM6nzWQoXC7hrqSf2QecxEwHC_J-LzqReVO93SQaH-nr2Bv7ts3FxrsooTxVd8U_hGAtB_79D7-NdZwxdYoFgCxNH_vowFMPJU28VXI/s200/carlson.jpg" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" /></a>In sixth grade, Melody Carlson helped start a school newspaper called The BuccaNews (her school’s mascot was a Buccaneer...arrr!). As editor of this paper, she wrote most of the material herself, creating goofy phony bylines to hide the fact that the school newspaper was mostly a "one man" show.<br />
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Visit Melody's <a href="http://www.melodycarlson.com/">website</a> to see all of her wonderful and various book titles.<br />
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Don't miss her latest teen fiction, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310714893/">Stealing Bradford (Carter House Girls, Book 2)</a>.<br />
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Product Details:<br />
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List Price: $13.99<br />
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Paperback: 336 pages<br />
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Publisher: WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)<br />
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Language: English<br />
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ISBN-10: 1400073146<br />
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ISBN-13: 978-1400073146<br />
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<span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"><b><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfeikM4o71dlwaa_8vMZOdCJdNTPNa2aiiVgIHbo-YYrnZjQ8v8WW9Gucv_lygBDCk1ORoD10rWNt8eoqQdmkzaC9dsdElASgcbc3K6wz_u0w6U0M1pTfgIYhdYikqKH7Gqmzr8-vHvwe/s1600-h/flip-flops.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215547850508500450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJfeikM4o71dlwaa_8vMZOdCJdNTPNa2aiiVgIHbo-YYrnZjQ8v8WW9Gucv_lygBDCk1ORoD10rWNt8eoqQdmkzaC9dsdElASgcbc3K6wz_u0w6U0M1pTfgIYhdYikqKH7Gqmzr8-vHvwe/s200/flip-flops.jpg" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" /></a></span><br />
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I’m not the kind of girl who wants anyone to feel sorry for her.<br />
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So after my fiancé jilted me less than four weeks before our wedding date, and since the invitations had already been sent, my only recourse was to lie low and wait for everyone to simply forget.<br />
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Consequently, I became a recluse. If I wasn’t at work, teaching a delightful class of five-year-olds, who couldn’t care less about my shattered love life, I could be found holed up in my apartment, escaping all unnecessary interaction with “sympathetic” friends.<br />
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And that is how I became addicted to HGTV and ice cream. Okay, that probably calls for some explanation. HGTV stands for Home and Garden TV, a network that runs 24/7 and is what I consider the highest form of comfort TV. It is habit forming, albeit slightly mind numbing. And ice cream obviously needs no explanation.<br />
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Other than the fact that my dad, bless his heart, had seven quart-sized cartons of Ben & Jerry’s delivered to my apartment the day after Collin dumped me. Appropriately enough, dear old Dad (who knows me better than anyone on the planet) selected a flavor called Chocolate Therapy, a product worthy of its name and just as addictive as HGTV.<br />
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But now, eighteen months and twenty-two pounds later, I seem to be in a rut. And apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so.<br />
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“Come on, Gretchen,” urges my best friend, Holly, from her end of the phone line. “Just come with us–please!”<br />
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“Right…,” I mutter as I lick my spoon and dip it back into a freshly opened carton of Chunky Monkey–also appropriately named, but let’s not go there. Anyway, not only had I moved on to new ice cream flavors, but I also had given up using bowls. “Like I want to tag along with the newlyweds. Thanks, but no thanks.”<br />
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“Like I keep telling you, we’re not newlyweds anymore,” she insists. “We’ve been married three months now.”<br />
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“Yeah…well…”<br />
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“And it’s Cinco de Mayo,” she persists, using that little girl voice that I first heard when we became best friends back in third grade. “We always go together.”<br />
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I consider this. I want to point out that Holly and I used to always go to the Cinco de Mayo celebration together–as in past tense. And despite her pity for me, or perhaps it’s just some sort of misplaced guilt because she’s married and I am not, I think the days of hanging with my best friend are pretty much over now. The image of Holly and Justin, both good looking enough to be models, strolling around holding hands with frumpy, dumpy me tagging along behind them like their poor, single, reject friend just doesn’t work for me.<br />
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“Thanks anyway,” I tell her. “But I’m kind of busy today.”<br />
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“So what are you doing then?” I hear the challenge in her voice, like she thinks I don’t have anything to do on a Saturday.<br />
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I slump back into the sofa and look over to the muted TV, which is tuned, of course, to HGTV, where my favorite show, House Flippers, is about to begin, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. “I’m, uh…I’ve got lesson plans to do,” I say quickly. This is actually true, although I don’t usually do them until Sunday evening.<br />
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She snickers. “Yeah, that’s a good one, Gretch. I’ll bet you’re vegging out in front of HGTV with a carton of Chocolate Fudge Brownie.”<br />
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“Wrong.” Okay, Holly is only partially wrong. Fortunately, I haven’t told her about my latest flavor.<br />
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“Come on,” she tries again. “It’ll be fun. You can bring Riley along. He’d probably like to stretch his legs.”<br />
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I glance over to where my usually hyper, chocolate Lab mixed breed is snoozing on his LL Bean doggy bed with a chewed-up and slightly soggy Cole Haan loafer tucked under his muzzle. “Riley’s napping,” I say. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”<br />
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“Like he wouldn’t want to go out and get some fresh air and sunshine?”<br />
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“We already had our walk today."<br />
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Holly laughs. “You mean that little shuffle you do over to the itty bitty park across the street from your apartment complex? What’s that take? Like seven and a half minutes for the whole round trip? That’s not enough exercise for a growing dog like Riley.”<br />
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“I threw a ball for him to chase.”<br />
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“So there’s nothing I can do or say to change your mind?” House Flippers is just starting. “Nope,” I say, trying to end this conversation. “But thanks for thinking of me.”<br />
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“Want me to bring you back an empanada?”<br />
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“Sure,” I say quickly. “You guys have fun!” Then I hang up and, taking the TV off mute, I lean back into the soft chenille sofa and lose myself while watching a hapless couple from Florida renovate a seriously run-down split-level into something they hope to sell for a profit. Unfortunately, neither of them is terribly clever when it comes to remodeling basics. And their taste in interior design is sadly lacking too. The woman’s favorite color is rose, which she uses liberally throughout the house, and she actually thinks that buyers will appreciate the dated brown tiles and bathroom fixtures in the powder room. By the time the show ends, not only is the house still on the market despite the reduced price and open house, but the couple’s marriage seems to be in real trouble as well.<br />
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“Too bad,” I say out loud as I mute the TV for commercials. Riley’s head jerks up, and he looks at me with expectant eyes.<br />
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“You just keep being a good boy,” I tell him in a soothing tone. Hopefully, he’ll stretch out this midday nap a bit longer. Because once Riley starts moving, my tiny apartment seems to shrink, first by inches and then by feet.<br />
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My hope for an elongated nap crumbles when his tail begins to beat rhythmically on the floor, almost like a warning–thump, thump, thump–and the next thing I know, he’s up and prowling around the cluttered living room. Riley isn’t even full grown yet, and he’s already way too much dog for my apartment. Holly warned me that his breed needed room to romp and play. She tried to talk me into a little dog, like a Yorkie or Chihuahua, but I had fallen for those liquid amber eyes…and did I mention that he’s part chocolate Lab? Since when have I been able to resist chocolate? Besides, he reminded me of a cuddly brown teddy bear. But I hardly considered the fact that he would get bigger.<br />
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After he climbed into my lap that day, licking my face and smelling of puppy breath and other things that I knew could be shampooed away, there was no way I could leave him behind at the Humane Society. I already knew that he’d been rejected as a Christmas present. Some dimwitted father had gotten him for toddler twins without consulting Mommy first. Even so, Holly tried to convince me that a good-looking puppy like that would quickly find another home.<br />
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But it was too late. I knew Riley was meant for me, and that was that. And I had grandiose ideas of taking him for long walks on the beach. “He’ll help me get in shape,” I assured Holly. She’d long since given up on me going to the fitness club with her, so I think she bought into the whole exercise theory. She also bought Riley his LL Bean deluxe doggy bed, which I could barely wedge into my already crowded apartment and now takes up most of the dining area, even though it’s partially tucked beneath a gorgeous craftsman-style Ethan Allen dining room set. Although it’s hard to tell that it’s gorgeous since it’s pushed up against a wall and covered with boxes of Pottery Barn kitchen items that won’t fit into my limited cabinet space.<br />
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“This place is way too small for us,” I say to Riley as I shove the half-full ice cream carton back into the freezer. As if to confirm this, his wagging tail whacks an oversized dried arrangement in a large bronze vase, sending seedpods, leaves, and twigs flying across the carpet and adding to the general atmosphere of chaos and confusion.<br />
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My decorating style? Contemporary clutter with a little eclectic disorder thrown in for special effect. Although, to be fair, that’s not the real me. I’m sure the real me could make a real place look like a million bucks. That is, if I had a real place…or a million bucks.<br />
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I let out a long sigh as I stand amid my clutter and survey my crowded apartment. It’s been like this for almost two years now.<br />
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Overly filled with all the stuff I purchased shortly after Collin proposed to me more than two years ago. Using my meager teacher’s salary and skimpy savings, I started planning the interior décor for our new home. I couldn’t wait to put it all together after the wedding.<br />
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“Have you ever heard of wedding presents?” Holly asked me when she first realized what I was doing.<br />
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“Of course,” I assured her. “But I can’t expect the guests to provide everything for our home. I figured I might as well get started myself. Look at this great set of espresso cups that I got at Crate & Barrel last weekend for thirty percent off.”<br />
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“Well, at least you have good taste,” she admitted as she stooped to admire a hand-tied wool area rug I’d just gotten on sale. Of course, she gasped when she saw the price tag still on it. “Expensive taste too!”<br />
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“It’ll last a lifetime,” I assured her, just like the Karastan salesman had assured me. Of course, as it turned out, my entire relationship with Collin didn’t even last two years. Now I’m stuck with a rug that’s too big to fit in this crummy little one-bedroom apartment–the same apartment I’d given Mr. Yamamoto notice on two months before my wedding. It was so humiliating to have to beg to keep it after the wedding was cancelled, but I didn’t know what else to do.<br />
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And now, a year and a half later, I’m still here. Stuck. It’s like everyone else has moved on with their lives except me. It wouldn’t be so bad if I had enough room to make myself at home or enough room for Riley to wag his tail without causing mass destruction…or enough room to simply breathe. Maybe I should rent a storage unit for all this stuff. Or maybe I should move myself into a storage unit since it would probably be bigger than this apartment.<br />
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As I pick up Riley’s newest mess, I decide the bottom line is that I need to make a decision. Get rid of some things–whether by storage, a yard sale, or charity–or else get more space. I vote for more space. Not that I can afford more space. I’m already strapped as it is.<br />
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Kindergarten teachers don’t make a whole lot. I feel like I’ve created a prison for myself. What used to be a convenient hideout now feels like a trap, and these thin walls seem to be closing in on me daily. Feeling hopeless, I flop back onto the couch and ponder my limited options. Then I consider forgetting the whole thing and escaping back into HGTV, which might call for some more ice cream.<br />
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But that’s when I look down and notice my thighs spreading out like two very large slabs of ham. Very pale ham, I might add as I tug at my snug shorts to help cover what I don’t want to see, but it’s not working. I stare at my flabby legs in horror. When did this happen?<br />
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I stand up now, trying to erase that frightening image of enormous, white thunder thighs. I pace around my apartment a bit before I finally go and stand in front of an oversized mirror that’s leaning against the wall near the front door. This is a beautiful mirror I got half price at World Market, but it belongs in a large home, possibly over a fireplace or in a lovely foyer. And it will probably be broken by Riley’s antics if it remains against this wall much longer.<br />
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But instead of admiring the heavy bronze frame of the mirror like I usually do, I actually look into the mirror and am slightly stunned at what I see. Who is that frumpy girl? And who let her into my apartment? I actually used to think I was sort of good looking. Not a babe, mind you, but okay. Today I see a faded girl with disappointed eyes.<br />
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Some people, probably encouraged by Holly, a long-legged dazzling brunette, used to say I resembled Nicole Kidman. Although they probably were thinking of when Nicole was heavier and I was lighter. Now it’s a pretty big stretch to see any similarities. To add insult to injury, Nicole has already hit the big “four o,” whereas I am only thirty-two. Her forties might be yesterday’s twenties, but my thirties look more like someone else’s fifties. And I used to take better care of myself. Okay, I was never thin, but I did eat right and got exercise from jogging and rollerblading. Compared to now, I was in great shape. And my long strawberry blond hair, which I thought was my best asset, was usually wavy and fresh looking, although you wouldn’t know that now. It’s unwashed and pulled tightly into a shabby-looking ponytail, which accentuates my pudgy face and pale skin. Even my freckles have faded. It doesn’t help matters that my worn T-shirt (with a peeling logo that proclaims “My Teacher Gets an A+”) is saggy and baggy, and my Old Navy khaki shorts, as I’ve just observed, are too tight, and my rubber flip-flops look like they belong on a homeless person–although I could easily be mistaken for one if I was pushing a shopping cart down the street.<br />
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Then, in the midst of this pathetic personal inventory, my focus shifts to all the junk that’s piled behind me–the boxes, the myriad of stuff lining the short, narrow hallway and even spilling into the open door of my tiny bedroom, which can barely contain the queensize bed and bronze bedframe still in the packing box behind it. If it wasn’t so depressing, it would almost be funny. I just shake my head. And then I notice Riley standing strangely still behind me and looking almost as confused as I feel. With his head slightly cocked to one side, he watches me curiously, as if he, too, is afraid to move. This is nuts. Totally certifiable. A girl, or even a dog, could seriously lose it living like this. Or maybe I already have. They say you’re always the last to know that you’ve lost your marbles.<br />
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“It’s time for a change,” I announce to Riley. He wags his tail happily now, as if he wholeheartedly agrees. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m offering to take him on a nice, long walk. “We need a real house,” I continue, gathering steam now. “And we need a real yard for you to run and play in.” Of course, this only excites him more.<br />
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And that’s when he begins to run about the apartment like a possessed thing, bumping into boxes and furnishings until I finally open the sliding door and send him out to the tiny deck to calm himself.<br />
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After he settles down, I go and join him. It’s pretty hot out here, and I notice that the seedling sunflower plants, ones we’d started in the classroom and I’d brought home to nurture along, are now hanging limp and lifeless, tortured by the hot afternoon sun that bakes this little patio. Just one more thing I hate about this place.<br />
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So much for my attempt at terrace gardening. I’d seen a show on HGTV that inspired me to turn this little square of cement deck into a real oasis. But in reality it’s simply a barren desert that will only get worse as the summer gets hotter. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears now. It’s hopeless.<br />
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This is all wrong. On so many levels. This is not where I was supposed to be at this stage of the game. This is not the life I had planned. I feel like I’ve been robbed or tricked or like someone ripped the rug out from under me. And sometimes in moments like this, I even resent God and question my faith in him. I wonder why he allows things like this to happen. Why does he let innocent people get hurt by the selfishness of others? It just doesn’t make sense. And it’s not fair.<br />
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Oh, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m over the fact that my ex fiancé, Collin Fairfield, was a total jerk. And I try not to blame him for being swept away when his high school sweetheart decided, after fifteen years of being apart, that she was truly in love with him. I heard that the revelation came to Selena at the same time she received our engraved wedding invitation, which I did not send to her. She wasn’t even on my list.<br />
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And I actually believe that I’ve mostly forgiven Collin…and that sneaky Selena too. And I wish them well, although I didn’t attend their wedding last fall. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.<br />
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But all that aside, this is still so wrong. I do not belong in this stuffy little apartment that’s cluttered with my pretty household goods. I belong in a real house. A house with a white picket fence and a lawn and fruit trees in the backyard. And being single shouldn’t mean that I don’t get to have that. There must be some way I can afford a home.<br />
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Of course, I’m fully aware that real estate isn’t cheap in El Ocaso. It’s on the news regularly. Our town’s prices certainly aren’t as outrageous as some of the suburbs around San Diego, but they’re not exactly affordable on a teacher’s salary. I try not to remember how much I had in my savings account back before I got engaged and got carried away with spending on my wedding and my home. That pretty much depleted what might’ve gone toward a small down payment on what probably would’ve been a very small house. But, hey, even a small house would be better than this prison-cell apartment.<br />
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And that’s when it hits me. And it’s so totally obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I will become a house flipper! Just like the people on my favorite HGTV show, I will figure out a way to secure a short-term loan, purchase a fixer-upper house, and do the repairs and decorating myself–with my dad’s expert help, of course!<br />
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And then, maybe as early as midsummer, I will sell this beautifully renovated house for enough profit to make a good-sized down payment on another house just for me…and Riley. Even if the secondhouse is a fixer-upper too, I can take my time with it, making it just the way I want it. And it’ll be so much better than where I live now.<br />
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I’m surprised I didn’t come up with this idea months ago. It’s so totally simple. Totally perfect. And totally me!<br />
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“We are going house hunting,” I announce to Riley as I shove open the sliding door and march back inside the apartment. His whole body is wagging with doggy joy as I quickly exchange my too-tight shorts for jeans and then reach for his leather leash and my Dolce & Gabbana knockoff bag–the one I bought to carry on my honeymoon, the honeymoon that never was. I avoid looking at my image in the big mirror as we make a hasty exit.<br />
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“Come on, boy,” I say as I hook the leash to his collar at the top of the stairs. “This is going to be fun!” And since this outing is in the spirit of fun, I even put down the top on my VW Bug, something I haven’t done in ages. Riley looks like he’s died and gone to doggy heaven as he rides joyfully in the backseat, his ears flapping in the breeze. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a house for sale on the beach.<br />
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Okay, it’d have to be a run-down, ramshackle sort of place that no one but me can see the hidden value in, but it could happen. And while I renovate my soon-to-be wonder house, Riley can be king of the beach. The possibilities seem limitless. And when I stop at the grocery store to pick up real-estate papers, I am impressed with how many listings there are. But I can’t read and drive, so I decide to focus on driving. And since I know this town like the back of my hand, this should be easy.<br />
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But thanks to the Cinco de Mayo celebration, the downtown area is crowded, so I start my search on the south end of town, trying to avoid traffic jams. I’m aware that this area is a little pricey for me, but you never know. First, I pull over into a parking lot and read the fliers. I read about several houses for sale, but the prices are staggering.<br />
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Even more than I imagined. Also, based on the descriptions and photos, these houses already seem to be in great shape. No fixer-uppers here. Then I notice some condo units for sale, and I can imagine finding a run-down unit in need of a little TLC, but it’s the same situation. According to the fliers, they’re in tiptop, turnkey shape–recently remodeled with granite counters and cherry hardwood floors and new carpeting and prices so high I can’t imagine doing anything that could push them a penny higher. My profit margin and spirits are steadily sinking. Maybe my idea to flip a house has already flopped. Just like the rest of my life.<br />
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Excerpted from A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody Carlson Copyright © 2008 by Melody Carlson. Excerpted by permission of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.<br />
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<img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" />Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-53613783203055567582008-06-03T22:55:00.003-05:002008-06-03T22:58:37.358-05:00from a distance<a name="3389080408758975052"></a><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/06/from-distance-by-tamera-alexander.html">From A Distance by Tamera Alexander</a><br /><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><br /><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><br /><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><p></p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764203894">From A Distance</a></span></center><br /><center>(Bethany House June 1, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://www.tameraalexander.com/">Tamera Alexander</a></span></center><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-size:100%;" >ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Fn5SDvqbox9weX6NEIjphKLkxT3xYmmo5a9hlMDuScCmO6SbrqPOciGAJ530tSL6Dr2Fcxs2ZCBf9sWBjir7wwt_iDMik4NhNzpiDugwXD86BUMeLKi3_NbVZSUhx86GauxN4kohto/s1600-h/TameraAlexander58.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Fn5SDvqbox9weX6NEIjphKLkxT3xYmmo5a9hlMDuScCmO6SbrqPOciGAJ530tSL6Dr2Fcxs2ZCBf9sWBjir7wwt_iDMik4NhNzpiDugwXD86BUMeLKi3_NbVZSUhx86GauxN4kohto/s320/TameraAlexander58.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207819268262896594" border="0" /></a>Tamera Alexander is a bestselling novelist whose deeply drawn characters, thought-provoking plots and poignant prose resonate with readers. Tamera is a finalist for the 2008 Christy Award <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764201107">Remembered</a>, and has been awarded the coveted RITA® from Romance Writers of America <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764201093">Revealed</a>, along with Library Journal’s Top Christian Fiction of 2006 <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0786293357">Rekindled</a>. Having lived in Colorado for seventeen years, she and her husband now make their home in the quaint town of historic Franklin, Tennessee, where they enjoy life with their two college-age children and a precious—and precocious—silky terrier named Jack.<br /><br /><strong>A Note from Tamera:</strong><br /><br />Stories are journeys, and each story I write is a journey for me.<br /><br />Rekindled began with a dream—the image of a man returning home on horseback. He came upon a freshly dug grave and when he knelt to read the name carved into the roughhewn wooden cross, he discovered the name was…his own. The inspiration for Revealed grew from two characters in Rekindled whose stories needed to be told. But even more, whose stories I needed to tell. Writing Revealed was a very personal journey for me, and a healing one. For Remembered, I met that story’s heroine (figuratively, of course) while strolling the ancient cobblestoned pathways of a three hundred-year-old cemetery in northern Paris, France. And <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764203894">From A Distance</a> came from a question I was struggling with in my own life at the time, “What happens when the dream you asked God for isn’t what you thought it would be?”<br /><br />For me, the greatest thrill of these writing journeys is when Christ reveals Himself in some new way, and I take a step closer to Him. And my deepest desire is that readers of my books will do that as well—take steps closer to Him as they read. After all, it’s all about Him.<br /><br />In the Potter’s Hand,<br /><br />Tamera<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);font-size:100%;" >ABOUT THE BOOK</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJX0UQ3QWXc_IOtWmaxVurkYK2On-g54ININDYc3tlDQow8woNoyVRl-bO7azrkkw8bqDKnIGDLkZEbLqeIof1X3GpZsllH9STApnjQMRdmR-g8S5E5mgcmDtxhnSh3QMRqGbo7CtHUjU/s1600-h/From+A+Distance+Curls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJX0UQ3QWXc_IOtWmaxVurkYK2On-g54ININDYc3tlDQow8woNoyVRl-bO7azrkkw8bqDKnIGDLkZEbLqeIof1X3GpZsllH9STApnjQMRdmR-g8S5E5mgcmDtxhnSh3QMRqGbo7CtHUjU/s320/From+A+Distance+Curls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207819623629882658" border="0" /></a>What happens when dreams aren’t what you imagined,<br /><br />And secrets you’ve spent a lifetime guarding are finally laid bare?<br /><br />Determined to become one of the country’s premier newspaper photographers, Elizabeth Westbrook travels to the Colorado Territory to capture the grandeur of the mountains surrounding the remote town of Timber Ridge. She hopes, too, that the cool, dry air of Colorado, and its renowned hot springs, will cure the mysterious illness that threatens her career, and her life.<br /><br />Daniel Ranslett, a former Confederate sharpshooter, is a man shackled by his past, and he’ll do anything to protect his land and his solitude. When an outspoken Yankee photographer captures an image that appears key to solving a murder, putting herself in danger, Daniel is called upon to repay a debt. He’s a man of his word, but repaying that debt will bring secrets from his past to light.<br /><br />Forced on a perilous journey together, Daniel and Elizabeth’s lives intertwine in ways neither could have imagined when first they met . . . from a distance.<br /><br />If you would like to read the first chapter, go <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/06/from-distance-chapter-1.html">HERE</a><br /><br /><blockquote>“…a rich historical romance by possibly the best new writer in this subgenre.”<br />--Library Journal</blockquote><br /><blockquote>“…a most amazing story. The characters are more than words on the page; they become real people.”<br />--Romantic Times</blockquote></div></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-14066690594245743332008-05-30T06:54:00.000-05:002008-05-30T06:55:39.342-05:00dragonlight<p> <a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="margin: 10px; float: left; width: 84px; height: 133px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" border="0" height="204" width="126" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">June FIRST</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div align="center"><strong>The feature author is: </strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><a href="http://www.dragonkeeper.us/">Donita K. Paul</a></span></strong><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:100%;" ></span></span></strong></div><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);font-size:100%;" >and her book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-size:180%;" ><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073782/">DragonLight</a></span></strong><br />WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008) </p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br />Donita K. Paul is a retired teacher and award-winning author of seven novels, including DragonSpell, DragonQuest, DragonKnight, and DragonFire. When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us.<br /><br />The Books of the DragonKeeper Series:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1578568234/">DragonSpell </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400071291/">DragonQuest </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400072506/">DragonKnight </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400072514/">DragonFire </a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073782/">DragonLight</a><br /><br />Visit her <a href="http://www.dragonkeeper.us/">website</a>.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span></div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Castle Passages</strong><br /><br /></span>Kale wrinkled her nose at the dank air drifting up from the stone staircase. Below, utter darkness created a formidable barrier.<br /><br />Toopka stood close to her knee. Sparks skittered across the doneel child’s furry hand where she clasped the flowing, soft material of Kale’s wizard robe. Kale frowned down at her ward. The little doneel spent too much time attached to her skirts to be captivated by the light show. Instead, Toopka glowered into the forbidding corridor. “What’s down<br />there?”<br /><br />Kale sighed. “I’m not sure.”<br /><br />“Is it the dungeon?”<br /><br />“I don’t think we have a dungeon.”<br /><br />Toopka furrowed her brow in confusion. “Don’t you know? It’s your castle.”<br /><br />“A castle built by committee.” Kale’s face grimaced at the memory of weeks of creative chaos. She put her hand on Toopka’s soft head.<br /><br />The doneel dragged her gaze away from the stairway, tilted her head back, and frowned at her guardian. “What’s ‘by committee’?”<br /><br />“You remember, don’t you? It was just five years ago.”<br /><br />“I remember the wizards coming and the pretty tents in the meadow.” Toopka pursed her lips. “And shouting. I remember shouting.” “They were shouting because no one was listening. Twenty-one wizards came for the castle raising. Each had their own idea about what we needed. So they each constructed their fragment of the castle structure according to their whims.”<br /><br />Toopka giggled.<br /><br />“I don’t think it’s funny. The chunks of castle were erected, juxtaposed with the others, but not as a whole unit. I thank Wulder that at least my parents had some sense. My mother and father connected the tads, bits, and smidgens together with steps and short halls. When nothing else would work, they formed gateways from one portion to another.”<br /><br />The little doneel laughed out loud and hid her face in Kale’s silky wizard’s robe. Miniature lightning flashes enveloped Toopka’s head and cascaded down her neck, over her back, and onto the floor like a waterfall of sparks.<br /><br />Kale cut off the flow of energy and placed a hand on the doneel’s shoulder. “Surely you remember this, Toopka.”<br /><br />She looked up, her face growing serious. “I was very young then.”<br /><br />Kale narrowed her eyes and examined the child’s innocent face. “As long as I have known you, you’ve appeared to be the same age. Are you ever going to grow up?”<br /><br />Toopka shrugged, then the typical smile of a doneel spread across her face. Her thin black lips stretched, almost reaching from ear to ear. “I’m growing up as fast as I can, but I don’t think I’m the one in charge. If I were in charge, I would be big enough to have my own dragon, instead of searching for yours.”<br /><br />The statement pulled Kale back to her original purpose. No doubt she had been manipulated yet again by the tiny doneel, but dropping the subject of Toopka’s age for the time being seemed prudent.<br /><br />Kale rubbed the top of Toopka’s head. The shorter fur between her ears felt softer than the hair on the child’s arms. Kale always found it soothing to stroke Toopka’s head, and the doneel liked it as well.<br /><br />Kale let her hand fall to her side and pursued their mission. “Gally and Mince have been missing for a day and a half. We must find them. Taylaminkadot said she heard an odd noise when she came down to the storeroom.” Kale squared her shoulders and took a step down into the dark, dank stairwell. “Gally and Mince may be down here, and they may be in trouble.”<br /><br />“How can you know who’s missing?” Toopka tugged on Kale’s robe, letting loose a spray of sparkles. “You have hundreds of minor dragons in the castle and more big dragons in the fields.”<br /><br />“I know.” Kale put her hand in front of her, and a globe of light appeared, resting on her palm. “I’m a Dragon Keeper. I know when any of my dragons have missed a meal or two.” She stepped through the doorway.<br /><br />Toopka tugged on Kale’s gown. “May I have a light too?”<br /><br />“Of course.” She handed the globe to the doneel. The light flickered. Kale tapped it, and the glow steadied. She produced another light to sit in her own hand and proceeded down the steps.<br /><br />Toopka followed, clutching the sparkling cloth of Kale’s robe in one hand and the light in the other. “I think we should take a dozen guards with us.”<br /><br />“I don’t think there’s anything scary down here, Toopka. After all, as you reminded me, this is our castle, and we certainly haven’t invited anything nasty to live with us.”<br /><br />“It’s the things that come uninvited that worry me.”<br /><br />“All right. Just a moment.” Kale turned to face the archway at the top of the stairs, a few steps up from where they stood.<br /><br />She reached with her mind to the nearest band of minor dragons. Soon chittering dragon voices, a rainbow vision of soft, flapping, leathery wings, and a ripple of excitement swept through her senses. She heard Artross, the leader of this watch, call for his band to mind their manners, listen to orders, and calm themselves.<br /><br />Kale smiled her greeting as they entered the stairway and circled above her. She turned to Toopka, pleased with her solution, but Toopka scowled. Obviously, the doneel was not impressed with the arrival of a courageous escort.<br /><br />Kale opened her mouth to inform Toopka that a watch of dragons provides sentries, scouts, and fighters. And Bardon had seen to their training. But the doneel child knew this.<br /><br />Each watch formed without a Dragon Keeper’s instigation. Usually eleven to fifteen minor dragons developed camaraderie, and a leader emerged. A social structure developed within each watch. Kale marveled at the process. Even though she didn’t always understand the choices, she did nothing to alter the natural way of establishing the hierarchy and respectfully worked with what was in place.<br /><br />Artross, a milky white dragon who glowed in the dark, had caught Kale’s affections. She sent a warm greeting to the serious-minded leader and received a curt acknowledgment. The straight-laced young dragon with his tiny, mottled white body tickled her. Although they didn’t look alike in the least, Artross’s behavior reminded Kale of her husband’s personality.<br /><br />Kale nodded at Toopka and winked. “Now we have defenders.”<br /><br />“I think,” said the doneel, letting go of Kale’s robe and stepping down a stair, “it would be better if they were bigger and carried swords.”<br /><br />Kale smiled as one of the younger dragons landed on her shoulder. He pushed his violet head against her chin, rubbing with soft scales circling between small bumps that looked like stunted horns. Toopka skipped ahead with the other minor dragons flying just above her head.<br /><br />“Hello, Crain,” said Kale, using a fingertip to stroke his pink belly. She’d been at his hatching a week before. The little dragon chirred his contentment. “With your love of learning, I’m surprised you’re not in the library with Librettowit.”<br /><br />A scene emerged in Kale’s mind from the small dragon’s thoughts. She hid a smile. “I’m sorry you got thrown out, but you must not bring your snacks into Librettowit’s reading rooms. A tumanhofer usually likes a morsel of food to tide him over, but not when the treat threatens to smudge the pages of his precious books.” She felt the small beast shudder at the memory of the librarian’s angry voice. “It’s all right, Crain. He’ll forgive you and let you come back into his bookish sanctum. And he’ll delight in helping you find all sorts of wonderful facts.”<br /><br />Toopka came scurrying back. She’d deserted her lead position in the company of intrepid dragons. The tiny doneel dodged behind Kale and once more clutched the sparkling robe. Kale shifted her attention to a commotion ahead and sought out the thoughts of the leader Artross. “What’s wrong?” asked Kale, but her answer came as she tuned in to the leader of the dragon watch.<br /><br />Artross trilled orders to his subordinates. Kale saw the enemy through the eyes of this friend.<br /><br />An anvilhead snake slid over the stone floor of a room stacked high with large kegs. His long black body stretched out from a nook between two barrels. With the tail of the serpent hidden, she had no way of knowing its size. These reptiles’ heads outweighed their bodies. The muscled section behind the base of the jaws could be as much as six inches wide. But the length of the snake could be from three feet to thirty.<br /><br />Kale shuddered but took another step down the passage.<br /><br />Artross looked around the room and spotted another section of ropelike body against the opposite wall. Kegs hid most of the snake.<br /><br />Kale grimaced. Another snake? Or the end of the one threatening my dragons?<br /><br />The viper’s heavy head advanced, and the distant portion moved with the same speed.<br /><br />One snake.<br /><br />“Toopka, stay here,” she ordered and ran down the remaining steps. She tossed the globe from her right hand to her left and pulled her sword from its hiding place beneath her robe. Nothing appeared to be in her hand, but Kale felt the leather-bound hilt secure in her grip. The old sword had been given to her by her mother, and Kale knew<br />how to use the invisible blade with deadly precision.<br /><br />“Don’t let him get away,” she called as she increased her speed through the narrow corridor.<br /><br />The wizard robe dissolved as she rushed to join her guard. Her long dress of azure and plum reformed itself into leggings and a tunic. The color drained away and returned as a pink that would rival a stunning sunset. When she reached the cold, dark room, she cast her globe into the air. Floating in the middle of the room, it tripled in size and gave off a brighter light.<br /><br />The dragons circled above the snake, spitting their caustic saliva with great accuracy. Kale’s skin crawled at the sight of the coiling reptile. More and more of the serpentine body emerged from the shadowy protection of the stacked kegs. Obviously, the snake did not fear these intruders.<br /><br />Even covered with splotches of brightly colored spit, the creature looked like the loathsome killer it was. Kale’s two missing dragons could have been dinner for the serpent. She searched the room with the talent Wulder had bestowed upon her and concluded the little ones still lived.<br /><br />The reptile hissed at her, raised its massive head, and swayed in a threatening posture. The creature slithered toward her, propelled by the elongated body still on the floor. Just out of reach of Kale’s sword, the beast stopped, pulled its head back for the strike, and let out a slow, menacing hiss. The snake lunged, and Kale swung her invisible weapon. The severed head sailed across the room and slammed against the stone wall.<br /><br />Kale eyed the writhing body for a moment. “You won’t be eating any more small animals.” She turned her attention to the missing dragons and pointed her sword hand at a barrel at the top of one stack. “There. Gally and Mince are in that keg.”<br /><br />Several dragons landed on the wooden staves, and a brown dragon examined the cask to determine how best to open it. Toopka ran into the room and over to the barrel. “I’ll help.”<br /><br />Kale tilted her head. “There is also a nest of snake eggs.” She consulted the dragon most likely to know facts about anvilhead vipers. Crain landed on her shoulder and poured out all he knew in a combination of chittering and thoughts.<br /><br />The odd reptiles preferred eating young farm animals, grain, and feed. They did nothing to combat the population of rats, insects, and vermin. No farmer allowed the snakes on his property if he could help it. “Find the nest,” Kale ordered. “Destroy them all.”<br /><br />The watch of dragons took flight again, zooming into lightrockilluminated passages leading off from this central room. Kale waited until a small group raised an alarm. Four minor dragons had found the nest.<br /><br />She plunged down a dim passage, sending a plume of light ahead and calling for the dispersed dragons to join her. Eleven came from the other corridors, and nine flew in a V formation in front of her. Gally and Mince landed on her shoulders.<br /><br />“You’re all right. I’m so glad.”<br /><br />They scooted next to her neck, shivering. From their minds she deciphered the details of their ordeal. A game of hide-and-seek had led them into the depths of the castle. When the snake surprised them, they’d flown under the off-center lid of the barrel. As Mince dove into the narrow opening, he knocked the top just enough for it to rattle down into place. This successfully kept the serpent out, but also trapped them within.<br /><br />Kale offered sympathy, and they cuddled against her, rubbing their heads on her chin as she whisked through the underground tunnel in pursuit of the other dragons.<br /><br />Numerous rooms jutted off the main hallway, each stacked with boxes, crates, barrels, and huge burlap bags. Kale had no idea this vast amount of storage lay beneath the castle. Taylaminkadot, their efficient housekeeper and wife to Librettowit, probably had a tally sheet listing each item. Kale and the dragons passed rooms that contained fewer and fewer supplies until the stores dwindled to nothing.<br /><br />How long does this hallway continue on? She slowed to creep along and tiptoed over the stone floor, noticing the rougher texture under her feet. Approaching a corner, she detected the four minor dragons destroying the snake’s nest in the next room. Her escort of flying dragons veered off into the room, and she followed. The small dragons swooped over the nest, grabbed an egg, then flew to the beamed roof of the storage room. They hurled the eggs to the floor, and most broke open on contact. Some had more rubbery shells, a sign that they would soon hatch. The minor dragons attacked these eggs with tooth and claw. Once each shell gave way, the content was pulled out and examined. No<br />hatchling snake survived.<br /><br />The smell alone halted Kale in her tracks and sent her back a pace. She screwed up her face, but no amount of pinching her nose muscles cut off the odor of raw eggs and the bodies of unborn snakes. She produced a square of moonbeam material from her pocket and covered the lower half of her face. The properties of the handkerchief filtered the unpleasant aroma.<br /><br />Her gaze fell on the scene of annihilation. Usually, Kale found infant animals to be endearing, attractive in a gangly way. But the small snake bodies looked more like huge blackened worms than babies.<br /><br />Toopka raced up behind her and came to a skidding stop when she reached the doorway. “Ew!” She buried her face in the hem of Kale’s tunic, then peeked out with her nose still covered.<br /><br />The minor dragons continued to destroy the huge nest. Kale estimated over a hundred snake eggs must have been deposited in the old shallow basket. The woven edges sagged where the weight of the female snake had broken the reeds. Kale shuddered at the thought of all those snakes hatching and occupying the lowest level of the castle, her home. The urge to be above ground, in the light, and with her loved ones compelled her out of the room.<br /><br />Good work, she commended the dragons as she backed into the passage. Artross, be sure that no egg is left unshattered.<br /><br />She received his assurance, thanked him, then turned about and ran. She must find Bardon.<br /><br />“Wait for me!” Toopka called. Her tiny, booted feet pounded the stone floor in a frantic effort to catch up.<br /><p></p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-77744483836762418412008-05-28T14:24:00.001-05:002008-05-28T14:25:53.756-05:00Ruby Among Us<a name="6754297823966907844"></a><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/05/ruby-among-us-by-tina-ann-forkner.html">Ruby Among Us by Tina Ann Forkner</a><br /><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><br /><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><br /><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><p></p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073588">Ruby Among Us</a></span></center><br /><center>(WaterBrook Press May 20, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://tinaannforkner.wordpress.com/">Tina Ann Forkner</a></span></center><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-size:100%;" >ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZkshdmuo08RAb_PL7mLNJhpr9Kxqm48ugNhI3gN20WrL48B-zYp2WVDxxFht26O3qtqXhlnE_iAdYOvnhoOTrIEIj5ewI6BAw-lcI44YHa1C-BM1rhr7jHZl3pfbc7W8JER9SHkJYQA/s1600-h/tina.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZkshdmuo08RAb_PL7mLNJhpr9Kxqm48ugNhI3gN20WrL48B-zYp2WVDxxFht26O3qtqXhlnE_iAdYOvnhoOTrIEIj5ewI6BAw-lcI44YHa1C-BM1rhr7jHZl3pfbc7W8JER9SHkJYQA/s320/tina.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205258379970131890" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Tina Ann Forkner </strong>writes contemporary fiction that challenges and inspires. Originally from Oklahoma, she graduated with honors in English from CSU Sacramento before ultimately settling in the wide-open spaces of Wyoming where she now resides with her husband and their three children. Tina serves on the Laramie County Library Foundation Board of Directors and enjoys gardening, spending time outdoors with her family, and works as a full-time writer.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);font-size:100%;" >ABOUT THE BOOK</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBzLV4jDDBGeGggI97FttujA2B2qgMtyLHPb-n7t8_IQNp0em1a4wqqjuXyWxs9l0sCJzOg7HyFJbq-qfWNu-A3iJlzWpYloS8rHB3hClDIdVbnne5zoJ-nzn0HITVczkEItxCkoQ9Uss/s1600-h/Ruby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBzLV4jDDBGeGggI97FttujA2B2qgMtyLHPb-n7t8_IQNp0em1a4wqqjuXyWxs9l0sCJzOg7HyFJbq-qfWNu-A3iJlzWpYloS8rHB3hClDIdVbnne5zoJ-nzn0HITVczkEItxCkoQ9Uss/s320/Ruby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5205258654848038850" border="0" /></a><em>Sometimes, the key that unlocks your future lies in someone else’s past...</em><br /><br />In <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073588">Ruby Among Us</a>, Lucy DiCamillo is safely surrounded by her books, music, and art─but none of these reclusive comforts or even the protective efforts of her grandmother, Kitty can shield her from the memory of the mother she can no longer remember. Lucy senses her grandmother holds the key, but Kitty seems as eager to hide from the past as Lucy is eager to find it.<br /><br />From the streets of San Francisco and Sacramento, to the lush vineyards of the Sonoma Valley, Lucy follows the thread of memory in search for a heritage that seems long-buried with her mother, Ruby.<br /><br />What she finds is enigmatic and stirring in this redemptive tale about the power of faith and mother-daughter love.<br /><br /><blockquote>“What an incredible story. As both mothers and daughters, Ruby Among Us struck a special cord in each of the four of us. Tina writes in a way that makes us feel like we’re there; from the first line, we were captivated and drawn into an intricate weaving of the precious and fragile relationships that define us.”<br /><strong>~Point of Grace~</strong></blockquote><br /><blockquote>“Reading is a passion of mine, and when I find myself identifying with the characters, anxious to get to the next page to find answers to my questions, I know I’m into a good book! The daughter-mother-grandmother theme in Ruby Among Us pulled me in. Wonderful story-telling.”<br /><strong>~Jordin Sparks~</strong>, <strong>2007 winner of American Idol</strong></blockquote><br /><blockquote>“Highly recommended. If you’re a mother or daughter, you’re going to love Ruby Among Us. Forkner does an extraordinary job…. I look forward to more from this author.”<br /><strong>~Ane Mulligan~, Novel Journey</strong></blockquote><br /><blockquote>“Don’t miss this one! Tina Ann Forkner is a strong new voice in fiction and Ruby Among Us is an amazing story of trials, regrets, and, ultimately, redemption. Lucy and her family history in the historic wine country of Sonoma bring to life the Scriptures about the Vine and His branches.”<br /><strong>~Kristin Billerbeck~, author of The Trophy Wives Club</strong></blockquote><br /><br />If you would like to read the first chapter go <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/05/ruby-among-us-chapter-1.html">HERE</a><br /><br /></div></div><p></p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-89763240647599342922008-05-22T06:48:00.000-05:002008-05-22T06:50:00.421-05:00broken angel<h3 class="post-title entry-title"> <a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/05/broken-angel-by-sigmund-brouwer.html">Broken Angel by Sigmund Brouwer</a> </h3> <div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size: 130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size: 100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(153, 51, 0);"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400070325">Broken Angel</a></span></center><br /><center>(WaterBrook Press (May 20, 2008) </center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><a href="http://www.coolreading.com/">Sigmund Brouwer</a></span></center><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgPG7lii0NiSUseOP_OFNl71Pp6EgVjlE2lc6cTu-WZugtELbeoz7hu125n5fw4PCf_UDPMjja6LIP2irvsmTmd_pBDcn7MIThLzzhFwEZcg4trs407aLz3OMcFbDorxBsiOiQ3k1R1Uo/s1600-h/sigmund.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202646684927426882" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgPG7lii0NiSUseOP_OFNl71Pp6EgVjlE2lc6cTu-WZugtELbeoz7hu125n5fw4PCf_UDPMjja6LIP2irvsmTmd_pBDcn7MIThLzzhFwEZcg4trs407aLz3OMcFbDorxBsiOiQ3k1R1Uo/s320/sigmund.jpg" border="0" /></a>Sigmund Brouwer is the author of eighteen best-selling novels for children and adults. His newest book is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1414310277">Fuse of Armageddon</a> and his novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0842384383">The Last Disciple</a> was featured in Time magazine and on ABC’s Good Morning America. A champion of literacy, he teaches writing workshops for students in schools from the Arctic Circle to inner city Los Angeles. Sigmund is married to Christian recording artist Cindy Morgan, and they and their two daughters divide their time between homes in Red Deer, Alberta, Canada and Nashville, Tennessee.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size: 100%; color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7x8apVPQADrJdhCjPARw_vM2ttXB3KQ1lXTW8T4Qusu9E4WHmdaNJsxUSdJoFMq-G3_LxvTMCYkITYzeo_2CZba1HDjPHQQWCe-aH1TqHovLxoMfqM6oKb8ZVGKDjeneHUULVjl2eAI/s1600-h/Broken+Angel.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5202640431455043890" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7x8apVPQADrJdhCjPARw_vM2ttXB3KQ1lXTW8T4Qusu9E4WHmdaNJsxUSdJoFMq-G3_LxvTMCYkITYzeo_2CZba1HDjPHQQWCe-aH1TqHovLxoMfqM6oKb8ZVGKDjeneHUULVjl2eAI/s320/Broken+Angel.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%; color: rgb(51, 51, 0);">Her birth was shrouded in mystery and tragedy.<br />Her destiny is beyond comprehension.<br />Her pursuers long to see her broken.<br />She fights to soar.<br /></span><br />A father's love for his daughter…a decision that would change both their lives forever. But who is she really─and why must she now run for her life?<br /><br />Caitlin's body has made her an outcast, a freak, and the target of vicious bounty hunters. As she begins a perilous journey, she is forced to seek answers for her father's betrayal in the only things she can carry with her─a letter he passes her before forcing her to run, and their shared memories together.<br /><br />Being hunted forces Caitlyn to partner with two equally lonely companions, one longing to escape the horror of factory life in Appalachia and the others, an unexpected fugitive. Together the three will fight to reach a mysterious group that might be friend or foe, where Caitlyn hopes to uncover the secrets of her past...and the destiny she must fulfill.<br /><br />In the rough, shadowy hills of Appalachia, a nation carved from the United States following years of government infighting, Caitlyn and her companions are the prey in a terrifying hunt. They must outwit the relentless bounty hunters, skirt an oppressive, ever-watchful society, and find passage over the walls of Appalachia to reveal the dark secrets behind Caitlyn’s existence–and understand her father’s betrayal.<br /><br />Prepare yourself to experience a chilling America of the very near future, as you discover the unforgettable secret of the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400070325">Broken Angel</a>.<br /><br />In this engrossing, lightning-paced story with a post-apocalyptic edge, best-selling author Sigmund Brouwer weaves a heroic, harrowing journey through the path of a treacherous culture only one or two steps removed from our own.<br /><br />If you would like to read the first chapter, go <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/05/broken-angel-chapter-1.html">HERE</a>.<p></p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-11611988676009521542008-05-07T08:47:00.000-05:002008-05-07T08:48:12.172-05:00<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><br /><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/05/warriors-by-mark-andrew-olsen.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>The Warriors by Mark Andrew Olsen</a><br /><br /><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><br /><br /> <div class="post-body entry-content"><br /> <p></p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/076420274X">The Warriors</a></span></center><br /><center>(Bethany House April 1, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:130%;" >Mark Andrew Olsen</span></center><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-size:100%;" >ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUX-F99PG9s-xJIq9WwYqbrfpeTOSHiaMRbK5TDXRMqhd_P_dT0QgEDXIwafDaBjCxS60Ajnr5DrA0oHFZDcBDWx0sweppyxAhTxBe1t_U32RQadrz_KejMhuuZa7IWnT958OLh3XtN0/s1600-h/Olsen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5038267195393364146" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUX-F99PG9s-xJIq9WwYqbrfpeTOSHiaMRbK5TDXRMqhd_P_dT0QgEDXIwafDaBjCxS60Ajnr5DrA0oHFZDcBDWx0sweppyxAhTxBe1t_U32RQadrz_KejMhuuZa7IWnT958OLh3XtN0/s200/Olsen.jpg" border="0" /></a> MARK ANDREW OLSEN whose novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/076422817X">The Assignment</a> was a Christy Award finalist, also collaborated on bestsellers <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764229435">Hadassah</a> (now the major motion picture: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0430431/">One Night With the King</a>), <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764203371">The Hadassah Covenant</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764202006">Rescued</a>. His last novel was the supernatural thriller <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764228188">The Watchers</a>.<br /><br />The son of missionaries to France, Mark is a Professional Writing graduate of Baylor University. He and his wife, Connie, live in Colorado Springs with their three children.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);font-size:100%;" >ABOUT THE BOOK</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq5WT1wqYmMvtXyrkKfUnvwYvxxVBIwhQiWPmH7SQYVrpMG5TnRZ1BD1eGNcGzgUKoftB3EZwu7ev5DjZyhl8micXKVF-Ab3A4rIvr8E6GganiDg56Jf1m1mVGxJALxqw3sCeVm1gFdLc/s1600-h/202742_1_ftc_dp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq5WT1wqYmMvtXyrkKfUnvwYvxxVBIwhQiWPmH7SQYVrpMG5TnRZ1BD1eGNcGzgUKoftB3EZwu7ev5DjZyhl8micXKVF-Ab3A4rIvr8E6GganiDg56Jf1m1mVGxJALxqw3sCeVm1gFdLc/s400/202742_1_ftc_dp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196755898044679506" border="0" /></a>A failed recon mission deep in the tunnels of Afghanistan has provoked a demonic onslaught that had been brewing for centuries. The mission's sole survivor is reformed black ops assassin Dylan Hatfield, and he once again teams up with Abby Sherman, now at the helm of the Watchers, an ancient spiritual force. Uncovering and preventing a secret wave of death whispered across cyberspace and threatening to be unleash against civilization will require another level of spiritual power and expertise--the Warriors.<br /><br />Journeying across the Alps of Europe through the multilayered history of warfare in the unseen world, Dylan and Abby uncover an age-old stone engraving that rouses the church's Warriors to action, placing them dead center in one of the fiercest spiritual battles of their time!<br /><br />And once again they are reminded: This is all part of a vast and perpetual war, a war beyond all human conflicts, one that has engulfed heaven and earth since before the dawn of history....<br /><br />Abby Sherman is headed back to Israel, where a Watcher, the Sentinel of Jerusalem, lies dying. In her last breaths the old woman tells Abby of an ancient document prophesying humanity's full-scale entry into the ongoing conflict between armies of heaven and fallen angels.<br /><br />Dylan Hatfield has decided to answer a summons from his old boss and join a secret operation, its mission to reconnoiter the Afghani tunnel complex from which Osama bin Laden escaped in 2001. What he discovers sears his very soul and likely will end his life.<br /><br />Abby learns of the peril facing Dylan, and she sends out a call for intercession on his behalf. Her frantic email message sets in motion a series of harrowing events, propelling the two on a new mission and quest--one where the stakes are the lives of millions!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/076420274X"><em>The Warriors</em></a> is packed with high-octane action, featuring exotic international locales, with characters in a clash against spiritual "principalities and powers" with eternal consequences, The Warriors is a story that will enthrall, enlighten, and engage its readers.<br /><br />If that piques your interest, you can read the first chapter <a href="http://thestorybeginnings.blogspot.com/2008/05/warriors-chapter-1.html">HERE</a><br /><br /><blockquote>"Olsen, one of the better writers in this subgenre, delivers powerful, action-packed plots that delve into mystical paranormal worlds."<br />~<strong>Library Journal</strong>, Feb. 2008</blockquote><br /><blockquote>"Olsen delivers an entertaining thriller likely to be enjoyed especially by fans of the spiritual warfare genre."<br />~<strong>PUBLISHERS WEEKLY</strong></blockquote><br /><br /><center><p></p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p></center></div></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-56580603979570114402008-04-23T14:43:00.001-05:002008-04-23T14:44:57.554-05:00Winter Haven<a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/04/winter-haven-by-athol-dickson.html">Winter Haven by Athol Dickson</a><br /><h3></h3><br /><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><br /><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#993300;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764201646">Winter Haven</a></span></center><br /><center>(Bethany House April 1, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"><a href="http://www.atholdickson.com/index.html">Athol Dickson</a></span></center><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDBm5D390oaIfl4z-qzWDq840dYSHVlK6bngNiKJaKQAQFuOtQubcXpKfH-DpAEIBXYCuoi3z_wh2YXzozj4z_73gHM-tkMwzWvAMkGc6jRAHNKlcy2vJD9s91T_RsSTkrmsy2DOPU9g/s1600-h/atholdickson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192259535437202642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDBm5D390oaIfl4z-qzWDq840dYSHVlK6bngNiKJaKQAQFuOtQubcXpKfH-DpAEIBXYCuoi3z_wh2YXzozj4z_73gHM-tkMwzWvAMkGc6jRAHNKlcy2vJD9s91T_RsSTkrmsy2DOPU9g/s400/atholdickson.jpg" border="0" /></a>Athol Dickson's university-level training in painting, sculpture, and architecture was followed by a long career as an architect then his decision several years ago to devote full time to writing.<br /><br />Athol Dickson’s writing has been favorably compared to the work of Octavia Butler<br />(Publisher’s Weekly), Daphne du Maurier (Cindy Crosby, FaithfulReader.com) and FlanneryO’Connor (The New York Times).<br /><br />His <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0842352929">They Shall See God</a> was a Christy Award finalist and his <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/076420338X">River Rising</a> was a Christy Award winner, selected as one of the Booklist Top Ten Christian Novels of 2006 and a finalist for Christianity Today's Best Novel of 2006.<br /><br />He and his wife, Sue, live in Southern California. Visit AtholDickson.com for more information.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ffcc00;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHR4dltqRkWlCyOnTPvgFnIhJrwqtv5_rpbndX9EsRa_MUMhf4K3Ax5A7Xmmi1ynfkNlnB39-_tFOeM0FwRxSOgP4uJTYuoEr6jKDPTZnuO1vYGH_osRspxBqN32Ascg2YYgQlnvWxtA/s1600-h/winterhaven.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192259879034586338" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHR4dltqRkWlCyOnTPvgFnIhJrwqtv5_rpbndX9EsRa_MUMhf4K3Ax5A7Xmmi1ynfkNlnB39-_tFOeM0FwRxSOgP4uJTYuoEr6jKDPTZnuO1vYGH_osRspxBqN32Ascg2YYgQlnvWxtA/s400/winterhaven.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="color:#663300;">Boys who never age, giants lost in time, mist that never rises, questions never asked...on the most remote of islands off the coast of Maine, history haunts the present and Vera Gamble wrestles with a past that will not yield. Will she find refuge there, or will her ghosts prevail on...</span></em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0764201646"><strong>Winter Haven</strong></a><br /><br />Eleven years ago, Vera Gamble's brother left their house never to be seen again. Until the day Vera gets a phone call that his body has been found...washed ashore in the tiny island town of Winter Haven, Maine. His only surviving kin, Vera travels north to claim the body...and finds herself tumbling into a tangled mystery. Her brother hasn't aged a day since last she saw him.<br /><br />Determined to uncover what happened in those lost years, Vera soon discovers there are other secrets lurking in this isolated town. But Winter Haven's murky past now seems bound to come to light as one woman seeks the undeniable and flooding light of truth.<br /><center></center><br /><p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-14964715919061529872008-04-15T22:36:00.000-05:002008-04-15T22:37:46.720-05:00my soul to keep<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/04/my-soul-to-keep-by-melanie-wells.html">My Soul To Keep by Melanie Wells</a><br /></h3><br /><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><div class="post-body entry-content"><p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#993300;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1590524284">My Soul To Keep</a></span></center><br /><center>(Multnomah Books - February 5, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"><a href="http://www.melaniewells.com/">Melanie Wells</a></span></center><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</strong></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PJ71AUkOrd9vMZYa2xBDT2v6d5Jq6UV5-QFMiEmGgSFneEvmzeDK3PMbwI15fQAebPXZ2Y0uwfosIZUifZcD-JV_hH_icl7cELl9fQobVY1ZT7ObJYuYiRoP6c_NlHUtbPOc1Sno9vE/s1600-h/mwells-140-Wellsauthor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189660902434583666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1PJ71AUkOrd9vMZYa2xBDT2v6d5Jq6UV5-QFMiEmGgSFneEvmzeDK3PMbwI15fQAebPXZ2Y0uwfosIZUifZcD-JV_hH_icl7cELl9fQobVY1ZT7ObJYuYiRoP6c_NlHUtbPOc1Sno9vE/s400/mwells-140-Wellsauthor.jpg" border="0" /></a>A native of the Texas panhandle and the child of musicians, Melanie Wells attended Southern Methodist University on a music scholarship (she's a fiddle player), and later completed graduate degrees in counseling psychology and Biblical studies at Our Lady of the Lake University and Dallas Theological Seminary.<br /><br />She has taught at the graduate level at both OLLU and DTS, and has been in private practice as a counselor since 1992. She is the founder and director of LifeWorks counseling associates in Dallas, Texas, a collaborative community of creative therapists.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1590524268"><em>When the Day of Evil Comes</em></a> is her first published work of fiction, and the first of a three-book series. The second work, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1590524276"><em>The Soul Hunter</em></a> was released in May, 2006. Melanie lives and writes in Dallas.<br /><br /><span style="color:#003300;"><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">ABOUT THE BOOK: </span></strong></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKwhNYFSf00F5xmyvCgG17je6elghu2RNC_M09v656dLU_qjRdlpe276K1fsoaQfHvN_j2HkqylG7-7HVZ84QXVLugIJxeABoAXo_7ecwSIvwooNhflYcGfGcgZr-8kha5vyipmWjouk/s1600-h/Soul.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189662135090197634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKwhNYFSf00F5xmyvCgG17je6elghu2RNC_M09v656dLU_qjRdlpe276K1fsoaQfHvN_j2HkqylG7-7HVZ84QXVLugIJxeABoAXo_7ecwSIvwooNhflYcGfGcgZr-8kha5vyipmWjouk/s400/Soul.jpg" border="0" /></a><em><span style="color:#663333;">As nasty as I knew Peter Terry to be, I never expected him to start kidnapping kids. Much less a sweet, funny little boy with nothing to protect him but a few knock-kneed women, two rabbits and a staple gun…</span></em><br /><br />It’s psychology professor Dylan Foster’s favorite day of the academic year…graduation day. And her little friend Christine Zocci’s sixth birthday. But the joyful summer afternoon goes south when a little boy is snatched from a neighborhood park, setting off a chain of events that seen to lead nowhere.<br /><br />The police are baffled, but Christine’s eerie connection with the kidnapped child sends Dylan on a chilling investigation of her own. Is the pasty, elusive stranger Peter Terry to blame? Exploding light bulbs, the deadly buzz of a Texas rattlesnake, and the vivid, disturbing dreams of a little girl are just pieces of a long trail of tantalizing clues leading Dylan in her dogged search for the truth.<br /><br /><blockquote>“<em>Like water rising to a boil, My soul To Keep’s suspense sneaks up on you…before you know it, you’re in the thick if a frightening drama…Superbly crafted</em>.”<br />---<strong>ROBERT LIPARULO</strong>, author of <em><strong>Deadfall, Germ,</strong></em> and <strong><em>Comes A Horseman</strong></em></blockquote><br /><blockquote>“<em>Written with passion, a good dose of humor and, dare I say it, soul, this novel reminds us that we all, with grace and good fortune, bumble our way toward salvation</em>.”<br />---<strong>K. L. COOK</strong>, author of <strong><em>Late Call </em></strong>and <strong><em>The Girl From Charmelle</em></strong></blockquote><br /><br /><p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p></div></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-70661615339902074052008-04-15T01:00:00.002-05:002008-04-15T01:00:00.947-05:00do hard things<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601421125"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189308280597503650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigokijC6wxUpsYYtX2j6qoHVC583C42GVbJkKhQZ92Yjk1UHvAq2jB57meW4MaVWH_4i-xR4gzaQT8ArEOi0n8DKZs4Gy20-LQL_BT9otx6pWDRplaxDsG0q0W7wENfa0XWhMfbn8ehkke/s200/Do+Hard+Things.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p><br /><p>With over 10 million hits to their website TheRebelution.com, Alex and Brett Harris are leading the charge in a growing movement of Christian young people who are rebelling against the low expectations of their culture by choosing to “do hard things” for the glory of God. </p><br /><p>Written when they were 18 years old, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601421125"><em>Do Hard Things</em> </a>is the Harris twins’ revolutionary message in its purest and most compelling form, giving readers a tangible glimpse of what is possible for teens who actively resist cultural lies that limit their potential. Combating the idea of adolescence as a vacation from responsibility, the authors weave together biblical insights, history, and modern examples to redefine the teen years as the launching pad of life and map a clear trajectory for long-term fulfillment and eternal impact. </p><br /><p>Written by teens for teens, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1601421125"><em>Do Hard Things</em> </a>is packed with humorous personal anecdotes, practical examples, and stories of real-life rebelutionaries in action. This rallying cry from the heart of revolution already in progress challenges the next generation to lay claim to a brighter future, starting today.</p>~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~<br /><br />I have a brand new copy of <em>Do Hard Things</em> to give away. If you would like to be entered into the drawing, just <a href="mailto:simplescrapper@gmail.com">send me an email</a>. Please put "do hard things" in the subject box so my spaminator won't eat it! :)<br /><br />I will draw a winner next Monday, April 21 ~ entries will close at 12:00pm (noon) CST that day. Because this giveaway came with a postage-paid envelope from the publisher, the drawing is open to residents of the lower 48 contiguous US.<br /><p></p><br /><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-44898647200834306602008-04-09T13:33:00.000-05:002008-04-09T13:34:32.679-05:00trouble the water<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/04/trouble-water-by-nicole-seitz.html">Trouble the Water by Nicole Seitz</a><br /></h3><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:150;color:#993300;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544003">Trouble the Water</a></span></center><br /><center>Thomas Nelson (March 11, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"><a href="http://www.nicoleseitz.com/">Nicole Seitz</a></span></center><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DMCWG7rWM4uVUVYc6HFxpzKqemlFODILRZVBw5CJ9m83VF0iJ7M7Lzin2knLheYCo0ec-3L-aTuSqvFa9BOMHKMdvCmZG1ly5VcJcEEWB1M4jeY4rsikHNZE5VauESC28qOizF4Pkx8/s1600-h/nicole+seitz.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186355842770778690" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DMCWG7rWM4uVUVYc6HFxpzKqemlFODILRZVBw5CJ9m83VF0iJ7M7Lzin2knLheYCo0ec-3L-aTuSqvFa9BOMHKMdvCmZG1ly5VcJcEEWB1M4jeY4rsikHNZE5VauESC28qOizF4Pkx8/s320/nicole+seitz.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Nicole Seitz is a South Carolina Lowcountry native and the author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1591455065">The Spirit of Sweetgrass </a>as well as a freelance writer/illustrator who has published in numerous low country magazines. A graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill's School of Journalism, she also has a bachelor's degree in illustration from Savannah College of Art & Design. Nicole shows her paintings in the Charleston, South Carolina area, where she owns a web design firm and lives with her husband and two small children. Nicole is also an avid blogger, you can leave her a comment on her <a href="http://nicoleseitz.blogspot.com/">blog</a>.<br /><br />Seitz's writing style recalls that of Southern authors like Kaye Gibbons, Anne Rivers Siddons, and Sue Monk Kidd, and this new novel, which the publisher compares to Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees, surely joins the ranks of strong fiction that highlights the complicated relationships between women. Highly recommended, especially for Southern libraries.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ffcc00;">ABOUT THE BOOK:</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_cJeqBcennIHIR9WkOFkhhM9F-c0NCaW1HbL9ChSlnNS0GstCQ3STjXxSzdLYPtqXlQb2c7pEAgVnVgKB-wRpFlQHKZYTQRyvSbO0yKKdEHWV2gxT2RjvnyDopCpoCeSPnPMZbddZ1g/s1600-h/TroubletheWaterCover"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186355924375157330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_cJeqBcennIHIR9WkOFkhhM9F-c0NCaW1HbL9ChSlnNS0GstCQ3STjXxSzdLYPtqXlQb2c7pEAgVnVgKB-wRpFlQHKZYTQRyvSbO0yKKdEHWV2gxT2RjvnyDopCpoCeSPnPMZbddZ1g/s320/TroubletheWaterCover" border="0" /></a>In the South Carolina Sea Islands lush setting, Nicole Seitz's second novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1595544003">Trouble the Water</a> is a poignant novel about two middle-aged sisters' journey to self-discovery.<br /><br />One is seeking to recreate her life yet again and learns to truly live from a group of Gullah nannies she meets on the island. The other thinks she's got it all together until her sister's imminent death from cancer causes her to re-examine her own life and seek the healing and rebirth her troubled sister managed to find on St. Anne's Island.<br /><br />Strong female protagonists are forced to deal with suicide, wife abuse, cancer, and grief in a realistic way that will ring true for anyone who has ever suffered great loss.<br /><br /><span style="color:#330099;"><em>"This is another thing I know for a fact: a woman can't be an island, not really. No, it's the touching we do in other people's lives that matters when all is said and done. The silly things we do for ourselves--shiny new cars and jobs and money--they don't mean a hill of beans. Honor taught me that. My soul sisters on this island taught me that. And this is the story of true sisterhood. It's the story of Honor, come and gone, and how one flawed woman worked miracles in this mixed-up world."</em><br /></span><br /><br /><blockquote>"...a special sisterhood of island women whose wisdom and courage linger in the mind long after the book is closed."<br />-<strong><em>NEW YORK TIMES</em></strong> best-selling author <strong>SUSAN WIGGS</strong></blockquote><br /><br /><p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p></div></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-80126268147863667432008-04-07T13:54:00.003-05:002008-04-07T14:11:51.688-05:00amber morn<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/04/amber-morn-by-brandilyn-collins.html">Amber Morn by Brandilyn Collins</a><br /><br /></h3><p class="post-body entry-content"><div class="post-body entry-content" align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content"><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content"><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content"><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content"><span style="font-size:150;color:#993300;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310276411">Amber Morn</a></span></center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content">(Zondervan Publishing Company - April 2008)</center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content">by</center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"><a href="http://www.brandilyncollins.com/">Brandilyn Collins</a></span></center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhEqCWCdFT2rTdFBXP3dL0BCY59xsQOprkVnflNmt7VrU57sA_HMfR0Ve6OXxscDAKGyRXqJSU0eHq0dBH37uTA7Krl4MU1KJMMYo4KN6rKXqro7BqiRzNMnqApGpINPBmCk1SETgkl4/s1600-h/new_photo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5051974884012994370" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhEqCWCdFT2rTdFBXP3dL0BCY59xsQOprkVnflNmt7VrU57sA_HMfR0Ve6OXxscDAKGyRXqJSU0eHq0dBH37uTA7Krl4MU1KJMMYo4KN6rKXqro7BqiRzNMnqApGpINPBmCk1SETgkl4/s320/new_photo.jpg" border="0" /></a>Brandilyn Collins is a best-selling novelist known for her trademark Seatbelt Suspense™. These harrowing crime thrillers have earned her the tagline<br /><br /></div><center class="post-body entry-content"><strong>“Don’t forget to b r e a t h e …®”</strong></center><div class="post-body entry-content"><br />Brandilyn writes for Zondervan, the Christian division of HarperCollins Publishers, and is currently at work on her 19th book. Her first, A Question of Innocence, was a true crime published by Avon in 1995. Its promotion landed her on local and national TV and radio, including the Phil Donahue and Leeza talk shows.<br /><br />She’s also known for her distinctive book on fiction-writing techniques, Getting Into Character: Seven Secrets a Novelist Can Learn From Actors (John Wiley & Sons), and often teaches at writers conferences.<br /><br />Brandilyn blogs at <a href="http://www.forensicsandfaith.blogspot.com/">Forensics and Faith</a>. Visit her <a href="http://www.brandilyncollins.com/">Website</a><br />to read the first chapters of all her books.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ffcc00;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMa90DqI3B6_bAq8ubfEKpS79tF-orN95QLxk7pWRQC9H4P95C_HOpnSDni6bCI29wTNEJFbK6BJnHwGzaVd-cgjH5SqLfSv-PIZJirGBn-9gcgErK17zELSNETXl0aeLvSev3f8P698/s1600-h/amber+morn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186313085678946290" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMa90DqI3B6_bAq8ubfEKpS79tF-orN95QLxk7pWRQC9H4P95C_HOpnSDni6bCI29wTNEJFbK6BJnHwGzaVd-cgjH5SqLfSv-PIZJirGBn-9gcgErK17zELSNETXl0aeLvSev3f8P698/s400/amber+morn.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content"><em><strong>The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than sixty seconds.<br /><br />Bailey hung on to the counter, dazed. If she let go, she’d collapse—and the twitching fingers of the gunman would pull the trigger. The rest of her group huddled in frozen shock.<br /><br />Dear God, help us! Tell me this is a dream . . .<br /><br />The shooter’s teeth clenched. “ Anybody who moves is dead.”</em></strong></blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br />On a beautiful Saturday morning the nationally read <a href="http://www.kannerlake.blogspot.com/">“Scenes and Beans”</a> bloggers gather at Java Joint for a special celebration. Chaos erupts when three gunmen burst in and take them all hostage. One person is shot and dumped outside.<br /><br />Police Chief Vince Edwards must negotiate with the desperate trio. The gunmen insist on communicating through the “comments” section of the blog—so all the world can hear their story. What they demand, Vince can’t possibly provide. But if he doesn’t, over a dozen beloved Kanner Lake citizens will die...<br /><br />Amber Morn is the climactic finale to Collins’ widely read <a href="http://www.kannerlake.com/">Kanner Lake</a> series. All first three titles in the series, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310252237">Violet Dawn</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310252245">Coral Moon</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310252253">Crimson Eve</a>, were bestsellers. Library Journal placed Crimson Eve on its Best Books of 2007 list, and hailed it the “Best Christian suspense of 2007.”<br /><br />A few early reviews of Amber Morn:<br /><br /></div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content">“… essential reading … a harrowing hostage drama.” – <strong>Library Journal</strong></blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content">“… heart-pounding … breakneck pace … satisfying and meaningful ending.” – <strong>RT Bookreviews</strong></blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content">“This cataclysmic ending left me breathless … Kanner Lake is the Best Suspense Series of 2007/2008.” – deenasbooks.blogspot.com</blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content">“Collins has saved the best for a last .. a powerful ensemble performance.” -- <strong>BookshelfReview.com</strong></blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content">“… a staccato tempo … Sometimes you just have to close the book in order to come up for air.” – <strong>Dale Lewis</strong></blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /></div><blockquote class="post-body entry-content">“…a masterpiece of page-turning suspense with a cast of dozens.” – <strong>Peg Phifer</strong></blockquote><div class="post-body entry-content"><br />~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~</div><div class="post-body entry-content"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><em>Trish's Take</em></strong> </span></div><div class="post-body entry-content"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content">I am most definitely a Brandilyn Collins fan. I was so excited when <em>Amber Morn</em> came up on the reviewers' list for CFBA. I enjoyed the first 3 books of the Kanner Lake Series (<em><a href="http://astore.amazon.com/domesticarts-20/detail/0310252237/002-5666955-8068058">Violet Dawn</a>, <a href="http://astore.amazon.com/domesticarts-20/detail/0310252245/002-5666955-8068058">Coral Moon</a>, and <a href="http://astore.amazon.com/domesticarts-20/detail/0310252253/002-5666955-8068058">Crimson Eve</a></em>).</div><div class="post-body entry-content"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content">I was not disappointed with <em>Amber Morn</em>. It delivered the expected action, and the unexpected actions of the characters, which kept the story moving at a fantastic pace. <em>Amber Morn</em> includes a lot more character introspection than the first three books of the series, but Ms. Collins's ability to provide character depth keeps the introspection interesting.</div><div class="post-body entry-content"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content">As with the first three books of the Kanner Lake Series, I had difficulty putting this book down. I finished it in less than 48 hours. It's a great read, especially if you like fast-paced Christian mysteries. I definitely recommend this book ~ even if you haven't read the other books in this series. There's enough character information and background in <em>Amber Morn</em> to make it a good stand-alone book.<br /><br /></div><p class="post-body entry-content"><p class="post-body entry-content"><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-68702689105171450442008-04-02T00:31:00.000-05:002008-04-02T00:32:02.455-05:00when zeffie got a clue<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"><a href="http://christianfictionblogalliance.blogspot.com/2008/04/when-zeffie-got-clue-by-peggy-darty.html">When Zeffie Got a Clue by Peggy Darty</a><br /></h3><br /><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><br /><div class="post-body entry-content"><br /><p><div align="center"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/1600/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5500/1432/320/CFBAreviewer_gif.0.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;">This week, the</span></center><br /><center><a href="http://www.christianfictionblogalliance.com/"><span style="font-size:100%;">Christian Fiction Blog Alliance</span></a></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:100%;">is introducing</span></center><br /><center><span style="font-size:150;color:#993300;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073332">When Zeffie Got a Clue</a></span></center><br /><center>WaterBrook Press (March 18, 2008)</center><br /><center>by</center><br /><center><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;"><a href="http://www.peggydarty.com/">Peggy Darty</a></span></center><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-J7BBXnWoATOvs05sqdXDUTHXA0yC7kv11gAz70RBEmcmW33j5xBqpeAHskLEXSJwFVvGJrmWQXr7GLkDTaz9eHifNFrqCDK8Wv4j1JwFaF5IrHNrVEIxInUpjTdapmqmsowI-1uZT_Q/s1600-h/peggy+banner"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182496277784410578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-J7BBXnWoATOvs05sqdXDUTHXA0yC7kv11gAz70RBEmcmW33j5xBqpeAHskLEXSJwFVvGJrmWQXr7GLkDTaz9eHifNFrqCDK8Wv4j1JwFaF5IrHNrVEIxInUpjTdapmqmsowI-1uZT_Q/s320/peggy+banner" border="0" /></a>Peggy Darty is the award-winning author of twenty-seven books, including two other cozy mysteries set in Summer Breeze, Florida: When the Sandpiper Calls and When Bobbie Sang the Blues. She has worked in film, researched for CBS, and led writing workshops around the country. Darty and her husband call Alabama home but spend a great deal of time in Colorado, Montana, and on Florida’s Emerald Coast.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:100%;color:#ffcc00;"><strong>ABOUT THE BOOK:</strong></span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXuYdFadp-WJV4zjO3M-O6FsGqYfQM_0LIiVh7KWx3seZerKZmgZEfMOYZB8I5NtmEtDJ8RLmbhhMthtcBr7sYGVABbnhul0jqfdtwpUuX25NW25pXQHPNCeLsCH8VFf_UinAlvbFgO4s/s1600-h/when+zeffe+got+a+clue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184485199137376018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXuYdFadp-WJV4zjO3M-O6FsGqYfQM_0LIiVh7KWx3seZerKZmgZEfMOYZB8I5NtmEtDJ8RLmbhhMthtcBr7sYGVABbnhul0jqfdtwpUuX25NW25pXQHPNCeLsCH8VFf_UinAlvbFgO4s/s400/when+zeffe+got+a+clue.jpg" border="0" /></a>It’s an ordinary afternoon in Summer Breeze, Florida, when a young, wide-eyed girl steps into I Saw It First, the trash-to-treasure shop Christy Castleman and her Aunt Bobbie have opened. Clutching a jewelry box, Zeffie Adams tells Christy she needs money to pay her grandmother’s medical bills, prompting Christy to offer this curious visitor more than the jewelry box is worth–or so she thinks.<br /><br />But complicated questions form when Christy rips out the box’s lining and uncovers a clue to a cold case murder mystery from eight years ago. Despite warnings from her family and handsome boyfriend Dan Brockman, Christy decides to do a little detective work of her own. After all, the infamous murder happened close to her grandmother’s farm. How risky could it be to take the jewelry box back to the Strickland plantation and ask around about it?<br /><br />Soon Christy finds there is more to the small box than someone wants her to know. A jewelry theft. A mansion murder. Dangerous family secrets buried in history. Can Christy convince others to let go of the past before it’s too late?<br /><br /><center><p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p></div></center></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9190928964411971811.post-69762821216330721812008-04-02T00:26:00.000-05:002008-04-02T00:27:36.434-05:00ryan watters and the king's sword<a href="http://fictioninrathershorttakes.blogspot.com/"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" height="204" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2402/1433/1600/FIRST%20Button.2.jpg" width="126" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It is <strong><span style="color:#ff9966;">April FIRST--no foolin'--</span></strong>, time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The special feature author is: </strong></div><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.ryannwatters.com/">ERIC REINHOLD</a></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;"></span></span></strong></div><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#009900;">and his book:</span> </span></strong></p><br /><p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1599792885/">Ryan Watters and the King's Sword</a></span></strong><br />Creation House (May 2008) </p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Illustrated by:</span> </strong></span><a href="http://www.coreywolfe.com/"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Corey Wolfe</span></strong></a><br /></div><p align="center"></p><br /><br /><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#333399;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnV4I2MyinzjdeV59Uy2ZnLixcJb4ETy89A4ChVIIi1c7vIPEmB2K7odXOJNEx1bW7LiZrU9qoEQP7JYy3QmRBds3N-VgellD3CzvatE6r_vUpEBdx4pbN1b_UJoeDAyVhv75BvJqLxtOg/s1600-h/eric+reinhold.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182862853243124210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnV4I2MyinzjdeV59Uy2ZnLixcJb4ETy89A4ChVIIi1c7vIPEmB2K7odXOJNEx1bW7LiZrU9qoEQP7JYy3QmRBds3N-VgellD3CzvatE6r_vUpEBdx4pbN1b_UJoeDAyVhv75BvJqLxtOg/s400/eric+reinhold.png" border="0" /></a>Eric J. Reinhold is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy. The former Naval officer writes extensively for a variety of national financial publications in his position as a Certified Financial Planner® and President of Academy Wealth Management. His passion for writing a youth fantasy novel was fueled by nightly impromptu storytelling to his children and actively serving in the middle and high school programs at First Baptist Sweetwater Church in Longwood, Florida.<br /><br />Visit him at his <a href="http://www.ryannwatters.com/">website</a>.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong><br /></span><br /></div><div align="left"><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182864253402462754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7KlxZe0uUWlmt0ESNnv57XF_iANvJzIsl_9icAU0YQwdNW5XcAfYvTeOSaJcSm4M3z3stA3_Sxs0dFqYOiD8TQU5V_Ax89lOXrwKsUzxt2nhtLSMX9-sWmC20y1suVVz7yiLRiOG08Hse/s200/horn.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>The<br />Angel’s Visitation</em> </span></p><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><p align="left"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0X7Asv2PQUT4CeG8Rt-D7yKXMcLaXra7mikp6pQerKsSA5ei9O6_aFHeGMFNA_o1Zej7GFOXa3_610mDI_gL6GyHKc-1GTQSbsH2P_YMK2RxyH_PWEfzkceX-ExXr2iEBsXEv3fCAkQj/s1600-h/ryan+watters"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182862574070249954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0X7Asv2PQUT4CeG8Rt-D7yKXMcLaXra7mikp6pQerKsSA5ei9O6_aFHeGMFNA_o1Zej7GFOXa3_610mDI_gL6GyHKc-1GTQSbsH2P_YMK2RxyH_PWEfzkceX-ExXr2iEBsXEv3fCAkQj/s400/ryan+watters" border="0" /></a>It first appeared as a gentle glow, almost like a child’s night-light. Heavy shadows filled the room as the boy lay face up, covers tucked neatly under his arms. A slight smile on his face hinted that he was in the midst of a pleasant dream.<br /><br />Ryann Watters, who had just celebrated his twelfth birthday, rolled lazily onto his side, his blond hair matted into the pillow, unaware of the glow as it began to intensify. Shadows searched for hiding places throughout the room as the glow transformed from a pale yellow hue to brilliant white.<br /><br />Ryann’s eyelids fluttered briefly and then flickered at the glare reflecting off his pale blue bedroom walls. Drowsily, he turned toward the light expecting to see one of his parents coming in to check on him. “What’s going on?” his voice cracked as he reached up to rub the crusty sleep from his eyes.<br /><br />*** <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvAKzpTcGNcJ7vmM6puzOt5f2wZACUnCanfNHyjCmbsfcD9kCRizMGMH6ZtoRkpF8WEwvKXiK6EGlfLihBWl_aHJ4PHMe8zsHozc8Zoomokz6Jv69409a8S-e9upmR2rvJFcXq-kfBzYf/s1600-h/mount+dora.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182863802430896642" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvAKzpTcGNcJ7vmM6puzOt5f2wZACUnCanfNHyjCmbsfcD9kCRizMGMH6ZtoRkpF8WEwvKXiK6EGlfLihBWl_aHJ4PHMe8zsHozc8Zoomokz6Jv69409a8S-e9upmR2rvJFcXq-kfBzYf/s400/mount+dora.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Under a pale half-moon, Drake Dunfellow’s house looked just like any other. A closer inspection, however, would reveal its failing condition. Water oaks lining the side of the curved driveway hunched over haggardly, like old men struggling on canes. The lawn, which should have been a lively green for early spring, was withered and sandy. A few patches of grass were sprinkled here and there. Rust lines streaked down the one jagged peak atop the tin-roof house. The flimsy clapboard sides were outlined by fading white trim speckled with dried paint curls. Hanging baskets containing a variety of plants and weeds all struggling to stay alive shared the crowded front porch with two mildew-covered rocking chairs. Inside, magazines and newspaper clippings both old and new were carelessly strewn about. Encrusted dishes from the previous day’s meals battled each other for space in the bulging kitchen sink. In the garage, away from the usual living areas, was a boy’s room. Dull paneling outlined the bedroom, while equally dreary brown linoleum covered the floor. The bedroom must have been an afterthought because not much consideration had been given to the details. A bookcase cut from rough planks sat atop an old garage sale dresser.<br /><br />Moonlight pressing through the dust-covered metal blinds tried to provide a sense of peacefulness. Instead it revealed bristly red hair atop a young boy’s head poking out from beneath a mushy feather pillow. His heavy breathing provided the only movement in the quiet room. Tiny droplets of perspiration lined his brow as he began jerking about under the thin cotton sheets.<br /><br />Starting at the edge of the window, the blackness spread downward, transforming all traces of light to an oily dinginess. Drake was slowly surrounded and remained the only thing not saturated in the darkness. Bolting upright to a stiff-seated attention, Drake’s bloodshot eyes darted back and forth. He stared into the black nothingness shuddering and aware that the only thing visible in the room was his bed.<br /><br />“Who . . . who’s there?” Drake cried out, puzzled by the hollow sound that didn’t seem to travel beyond the edge of his mattress. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck, connecting his numerous freckled dots. He strained, slightly tilting his head, ears perked. There was no reply.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Neatly manicured streets wandered through the Watters’s sleepy, rolling neighborhood. If someone had been walking along in the wee morning hours of March 15, they would have noticed the brilliant white light peeking out from around Ryann’s shade. Below his second-story window the normally darkened bed of pink, red, and white impatiens was lit up as in the noonday sun.<br /><br />Ryann was fully awake now and quite positive that the dazzling aura facing him from in front of his window was not the hall light from his parents entering the bedroom. Golden hues flowed out of the whiteness, showering itself on everything in the room. It reminded Ryann of sprinkles of pixie dust in some of his favorite childhood books. His blue eyes grew wide trying to capture the unbelievable event unfolding before him.<br /><br />“Fear not, Ryann,” a confident, yet kind, voice began. “I have come to do the bidding of one much greater than I and who you have found favor with.”<br /><br />Rapid pulses in his chest gripped Ryann as he struggled to understand what was happening. Instinctively he grasped his navy blue bed sheets and pulled them up so that only his eyes and the top of his head peeked out from his self-made cocoon. Squinting to reduce the brilliance before him, Ryann stared into the light, trying to detect a form while questions scrambled around his mind. What had the voice meant by “finding favor,” and who had sent him? As Ryann struggled to work this out, the center of the whiteness began to take the shape of a man. Human in appearance, he looked powerful, but there was a calmness about his face, like that of an experienced commander before going into battle. Ryann recalled hearing about angels in his Sunday school class at church. He wondered if this could be one.<br /><br />“Ryann, thou have found favor with the One who sent me. You will be given much and much will be required of you.”<br /><br />Still shaking, Ryann was fairly certain he was safe. “S-s-s . . . sir, are you an angel?”<br /><br />“You have perceived correctly.” “And . . . I’ve been chosen by someone . . . for something?” Ryann asked.<br /><br />“The One who knows you better than you know yourself,” the angel answered.<br /><br />Ryann knew he must be talking about God, but what could God possibly want with him?<br /><br />“What am I supposed to do?”<br /><br />“Thou must search out and put on the full armor of God so that you can take a stand against the devil’s schemes. For your struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the powers of this dark world and against the forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”<br /><br />“The devil? Forces of evil? I’m just a kid,” Ryann said. “What could I possibly have to do with all of this? You’ve got to be making a mistake.”<br /><br />“There are no mistakes with God. Thou have heard of David?”<br /><br />“You mean the David from David and Goliath?” Ryann asked.<br /><br />The angel nodded. “He was also a boy chosen by God to accomplish great things. God chooses to show His power by using the powerless.”<br /><br />Ryann tried to comprehend the magnitude of what this mighty being was saying to him. Realizing he was still sitting in his bed, covers bunched around him, he pulled them aside and swung his feet out, never taking his eyes off the angel. Landing firmly on the carpet, Ryann’s wobbly knees barely supported him, the bed acting as a wall between him and the angel.<br /><br />“Who are you?”<br /><br />“I am Gabriel and have come to give you insight and understanding.”<br /><br />“Wow!” Ryann couldn’t believe this was the same angel who had appeared to Joseph and Mary in the Christmas story he heard every December. The lines of excitement on his face drooped as he fidgeted, thinking about the angel’s words. “I don’t want to . . . seem . . . ungrateful,” Ryann hesitated, “but . . . is there any way you can . . . ask someone else?”<br /><br />“Only you have been given this trial, Ryann, yet you shall not be alone.”<br /><br />“Who will help me?”<br /><br />“As the young shepherd boy David spoke, ‘The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him, and He delivers them. For He commands His angels to guard you in all your ways.’” Gabriel’s twinkling gaze rose as he stretched his arms heavenward, “And these will assist you along the way.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirc-lG56zrK6R_9CYabtIa15v6CUMfJfnS9m-0VLD1uZjOn8q1dhozNQr4H-RZBIHZpcR4kGGbNsdO6X26L10mufWJ07ZEi3p6vlhpyiTLKbzatZXRObeJh7ScHMSysfPQxfz-GQgH_ySu/s1600-h/aeliana.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5182864343596775986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirc-lG56zrK6R_9CYabtIa15v6CUMfJfnS9m-0VLD1uZjOn8q1dhozNQr4H-RZBIHZpcR4kGGbNsdO6X26L10mufWJ07ZEi3p6vlhpyiTLKbzatZXRObeJh7ScHMSysfPQxfz-GQgH_ySu/s400/aeliana.jpg" border="0" /></a>Beckoning Ryann from behind the bed, the angel glided effortlessly forward to greet him. Walking to within a foot of Gabriel, Ryann bowed humbly, basking in the radiant glow that emanated all around him. Reaching out, the angel grasped Ryann’s left hand firmly and slipped a gold ring, topped by a clear bubble-like stone, onto his finger. Before he could inspect it, the angel took his other hand and placed a long metal pole in it. Ryann’s hand slid easily up and down the smooth metal finish. Its shape and size were similar to a pool cue. Bone-white buttons protruded from just below where he gripped the staff. They were numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7. Mesmerized by the gifts that begged for more attention and questions, Ryann hardly noticed Gabriel loop a long leather cord through his arm and around his neck. From it a curved ivory horn hung loosely below his waist, resting on his hip.<br /><br />As Gabriel finished and backed away, Ryann continued marveling at each of the gifts. Reaching down to inspect the horn, he ran his hands along its smooth, yet pitted surface, until he reached the small gold-tipped opening. He wondered how old the horn was and if it had been used before.<br /><br />“What do I do with these? How do I use them?”<br /><br />“It is not for me to reveal,” answered the angel calmly. “You shall find out in due time.”<br /><br />“But what do I do now?”<br /><br />“Thou must seek the King’s sword.”<br /><br />“How? What King? Where do I look?” Ryann blurted out, panicking as questions continued to pop into his head.<br /><br />“The Spirit will lead you, and the ring will open the way,” the angel replied as he began floating backwards, the light peeling away with him.<br /><br />“Wait, wait! Don’t leave—I don’t know enough—where do I go now?”<br /><br />“Remember,” Gabriel’s clear voice began to fade, “all Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting, and training in righteousness, so that you may be thoroughly equipped for all good works.”<br /><br />Clutching the mysterious heavenly gifts he had been given, Ryann collapsed in a heap on his bed, body and mind drained from his supernatural encounter. He drifted into a welcomed sleep.<br /><br />***<br /><br />It seemed Drake’s bedroom no longer existed. Only his bed remained, an island floating in a sea of darkness that completely surrounded him. His eyes bulged, darting about for anything that would give him a hint of what was going on. A cool draft drifted down his neck, chilling him despite the safety of his covers. Caught between reality and a nightmare, he let loose a scream that normally would have been heard throughout the house and beyond, but now was absorbed into the heavy darkness enveloping him.<br /><br />“Who’s there?” he said again. He pinched himself to see if he was dreaming.<br /><br />With a loud swoooooooosh, huge wings shot out of the darkness surrounding his bed. Drake dove for the safety of his covers.<br /><br />A thunderous, commanding voice ordered, “Come out from hiding and stand up!”<br /><br />Drake hesitated, knuckles tense and white as they curled tightly around the edges of his blanket.<br /><br />“Now!” the voice thundered.<br /><br />Jerking his covers off, Drake scurried to the edge of the bed, lost his balance, and awkwardly fell face-first onto the cool floor. Petrified at what he might see, yet too scared to disobey, he raised his head slightly. Half expecting some hideous beast, Drake was surprised at what he was facing. The black-winged warrior towering over him was imposing enough to paralyze anyone with fear, but his face was what captivated Drake. Instead of a hideous three-eyed ghoul with fangs, like Drake imagined, he stared into one of the most ruggedly handsome faces he had ever seen. Drake froze, mesmerized.<br /><br />“Sit up and listen closely, human,” the dark angel began, closing his wings in an effortless swish. Lowering his voice, he spoke in a precise, but less threatening tone. “I have chosen you to carry out my wishes.”<br /><br />Drake raised himself to a clumsy crouch. The face he looked intently into was perfect in almost every way, except for a long thin scar that traveled from his left ear to his jaw. He was convinced now that this wasn’t a monster trying to devour him.<br /><br />“Why me?”<br /><br />The angel’s scar became more noticeable when he smiled at Drake. “I have been here before with great success and have reason to believe you will serve me well.”<br /><br />“What do you want me to do?” Drake blurted.<br /><br />“The one who seeks to bind me must be stopped!”<br /><br />Drake stumbled backwards, putting a hand on the floor to keep from falling. Swallowing hard, he could feel the black, penetrating eyes staring deep into his.<br /><br />“You are the one,” the creature said confidently.<br /><br />No one had ever chosen Drake for anything, yet this powerful being wanted him. He didn’t know if he could trust the dark angel or not, but the chance for power excited Drake. “How do I do it?”<br /><br />The dark angel continued to smile, sensing the blackness in Drake’s heart spreading murkily throughout his body.<br /><br />“I will be your eyes and ears, a guide to lead you in the right direction, and,” he hesitated, “I will give you these.”<br /><br />The dark-winged angel stretched out his hand, his index finger pointing toward the empty floor in front of him. Immediately three items appeared before Drake’s eyes. He blinked again. They were still there. Drake’s hand shot out in a blur to grab the closest item.<br /><br />“Stop!”<br /><br />Drake froze, and then cowered, his eyes shifting back to the booming voice as he slowly retracted his hand. His eyes darted back and forth between the three items and the dark angel in the awkward silence.<br /><br />“You move when I tell you to move. Now . . . kneel before me, child of the earth, while I make you ready for your task.”<br /><br />Still hunched-over, Drake pitched forward onto his knees with his head bowed, eyes glancing upward in anticipation.<br /><br />“My first gift to you is a cloak of darkness. It will provide you with cover at night. You and the night shall become one.”<br /><br />Drake reached out his hands to receive the cloak. It felt smooth and slippery. Looking intently at it, the cloak seemed several feet thick, as if it was projecting darkness.<br /><br />“My second gift to you is a ring of suggestion. With it you will have the ability to project persuasive thoughts to those who are weak-willed or in the midst of indecision.” Powerful hands with long curled fingers took hold of Drake’s hand, spreading an icy chill from the tip of his fingers to his wrist. As the creature slipped the black band onto his finger, Drake briefly noticed a red blotch on the top. His hand felt stiff, then the numbness traveled up his arm and throughout his body. Chattering clicks from his own teeth broke the silence as he awaited the angel’s next words. “Lastly, I provide you with a bow and arrows of fire. These arrows were formed in the lake of fire and will deliver physical and mental anguish to those they touch.”<br /><br />“Thank you . . . uhh . . . what should I call you?” Drake asked.<br /><br />“I am one of the stars that fell from heaven. My master is Shandago and I am his chief messenger. You may call me Lord Ekron.”<br /><br />“Thank you, Lord Ekron, for these gifts. I may be young, but I’ll do as you ask to the best of my ability.”<br /><br />“It is expected. Also, these items I have given to you are not for use in this world. When the time is right, you will find a passage into another land. There you will put these gifts to work.”<br /><br />The darkness in the room began to rush toward Lord Ekron, as if he were absorbing it, except he wasn’t getting bigger—only darker. Drake kept staring at him, trying not to blink, so he wouldn’t miss anything. Despite his efforts, the dark angel began to fade, and Drake found himself peering into the darkness at the blank wall. When he was sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him and enough time passed so that he felt safe to move, he stood up.<br /><br />Drake would have thought this was all a bad dream, but the items he held in his hand were proof that it was real. He ran his hands through the dense blackness of the slick cloak, wondering how he might use it. Drake was anxious to try the bow and arrows as well. He didn’t dare pull the arrows out of their quiver right now, but decided that he would have to buy a regular bow and quiver of arrows as soon as possible so that he could begin practicing. Looking down at his hand, he examined the unusual ring he now wore. The entire band was a glossy black, except for the unusual red marking on the top, which resembled a flying dragon. </p><p>Not much had gone right for Drake during the first thirteen years of his life. “Now things are going to be different,” he thought. The smile inching across his face looked evil. He knew with Lord Ekron at his side no one would be able to tell him what to do.</p><p align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">BUY THE BOOK AT </span><a href="http://www.ryannwatters.com/"><span style="font-size:78%;">WWW.RYANNWATTERS.COM/</span></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> </span></p></div><br /><br /><p><p><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/Home%20Sweet%20HomePage%20Graphics/Lminireadingglasses.gif" /><img src="http://i55.photobucket.com/albums/g148/trishanderson/sig2.png" /></p>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14302337343097746314noreply@blogger.com0