#ExcerptWeek – Rebekkah Ford @RebekkahFord

 

custom-book-cover-rebekkah-official-ebook

This morning’s #ExcerptWeek guest is paranormal writer Rebekkah Ford, with an excerpt from Ameerah. I’m very happy to have her with us, and I know you’ll enjoy reading and sharing this one! Rebekkah, the floor is yours.

~~~

Ameerah

We entered an uncarpeted, vacant hallway that branched out on both ends. Several metal doors with bolts lined the walls. The blue paper booties I wore crinkled against the bottoms of my feet sliding across the shiny white floor.

“What did they give me?” I asked when we stepped into the restroom straight across from the room I was in.

Ann led me to a stall with no door, only an off-white partition that separated it from the other johns. “It was a barbiturate used to sedate patients. Sleep therapy is what some doctors dubbed it.” She continued to talk while I emptied my bladder, keeping her word to give me as much privacy as she could.

Once I finished, I went to the sink and cringed at my reflection in the mirror. The right side of my face had a purple, yellowish bruise across my cheek, and the luster in my hazel eyes was gone. My complexion had a grayish cast. Whatever was injected into my body created a carbon copy of myself.

Ann handed me a washrag, and I realized there was no hot water when I went to dampened it. After I cleaned off my eyes and face, we headed down the north side of the hall. I listened to Ann tell me that most of the residents were in the common room, which explained the eerie silence.

“There you are,” a manly nurse with thick forearms and a broad forehead said when we rounded the corner from another corridor. She was heading our way and seemed quite annoyed.

Ann stiffened but held her head high. “Ameerah caught my attention. She needed to use the lavatory, and now I’m taking her to the dining room for lunch.”

“I realize you’re new here, Ann,” the other nurse said, “but we do not call patients by their first name in their presence. Each one has a number.” She pointed at me. “This one is number sixty-four.”

A laugh of disbelief escaped my lips. I couldn’t help it. What type of place was this, sedating people, tying them to a bed, and calling them by numbers instead of their names? I found being called Sixty-four another check in the box under the dehumanization category. “Excuse me,” I said when they looked at me, “I don’t know what type of facility I’m in, but regardless, I have a name. It’s Ameerah. To refer to me by a number is demonizing my identity, so I’d appreciate it if you would stick with my name instead.”

The coarse nurse scowled. “We will do no such thing.”

I made a face. “Why? What’s the purpose in such a demoralizing act? And what the hell is this place?”

Still scowling the nurse snapped, “Watch your mouth.”

“You’re in an insane asylum,” Ann said.

~~~

retro-becki-smaller-size
Rebekkah Ford

Rebekkah Ford is an award-winning author who writes paranormal fiction. She believes her fascination with the unknown derives from her childhood. When her parents were married, they were the directors of the UFO Investigator’s League. They also investigated ghost hauntings and Bigfoot sightings in addition to extraterrestrial cases. Rebekkah’s upbringing, knowledge, and experiences with the paranormal world, along with her colorful imagination, aids her in creating her stories.

Rebekkah has an irreverent sense of humor, is known to annoy her beloved cat, Church, by singing opera to him (Rebekkah is tone deaf, btw), and she believes having a dirty mind makes boring conversations more interesting.

Buy Ameerah Here:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Smashwords
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
I Tunes Apple

Connect with Rebekkah Here:
Amazon Author Page
Goodreads
Website Author Rebekkah Ford
Blog
Facebook Author Page
Twitter
Pinterest
Google Plus

 

#ExcerptWeek – Marcia Meara – @marciameara #SummerMagic

 

smallersm

Thought maybe I’d sneak in a wee excerpt of my own tonight. A fun poem from Summer Magic, just to make you smile. This little book is divided into two parts, the first being a series of poems based on MacKenzie Cole’s summers spent camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains with his dad. Mac is the handsome hero in my first book, Wake-Robin Ridge, and I really enjoyed creating some poetry to bring his childhood to life. Hope you like this one.

~~~

AMBUSH

Silent, sleek, deadly,
The predator climbs high, high,
And stretches out full length
On the smooth, sturdy limb,
Well hidden within heavy green foliage.
The wait begins.

Panting slightly as the sun climbs
And dappled light pierces the shade,
Heat rises, but keen eyes miss nothing
And sharp ears catch the first soft footfalls
Of unsuspecting prey, moving quietly
Down a curve of narrow trail.

Patience is everything.
Lie still, still, still!
No slight movement to cause alarm.
Hunger growing, mouth watering at
The smell of food coming ever closer.
Body tenses, ready to leap.

Humans are slow, pitiful creatures.
Lacking panther senses to warn them
Of danger lying overhead.
Teeth bared, growls erupting,
Body drops downward,
Ready for the kill.

With a shout, the man falls,
Hand over his heart.
You got me, you little panther, you!
Don’t eat my fingers!
Don’t eat my toes!
I brought you peanut butter and jelly.

Gotcha good, didn’t I, Dad?
I was patient, like you taught me.
Grabbing a sandwich, he dances away,
Calling over his shoulder,
Race you to the pond now!
After lunch, I want to be a fish.

~~~

 Summer Magic is now available on Kindle for just $.99 – Download HERE        

 

#ExcerptWeek – Lori Spangler

milesofmemories

Today’s #ExcerptWeek Guest has done something  most of us can only dream about. Imagine traveling to ALL fifty states! How marvelous! And she’s done one better. She’s written a memoir about her travels. I know you’ll enjoy reading and sharing this one. Welcome, Lori! The floor is all yours!

~~~

Miles of Memories:
One Woman’s Journey to All 50 States
by Lori Spangler

Several years before I turned eighteen, the voting age changed from 21 to 18. After a lot of debate at my high school, the policy for absence notes changed. Once a student turned 18 she could write her own excuse for being absent from school. Since I turned 18 at beginning of the school year, I was one of the lucky few. I felt grown-up to not need a parent’s signature. Since I never cut classes, and had to be seriously ill for my parents to allow me stay home from school, there was little chance I would abuse my excuse-writing responsibilities.

I wrote my first absence note because I planned to miss school for a college visit. I wanted to go to a college that offered a bachelor’s degree in law enforcement. As a freshman, for a social studies assignment I wrote a paper about a career that interested me. All the other girls wrote about being a nurse, secretary or teacher, except one girl who wrote about being a dog groomer. I wanted to do something different, so I decided on a policewoman. My paper focused on a career in law enforcement, and being a detective on a police force. In essence I probably wanted to be Nancy Drew and solve mysteries, but get paid for it.

My goal of being in law enforcement stayed with me as I shopped for a college. I looked for schools with degrees in Criminal Justice. The University of North Dakota (UND) in Fargo offered this curriculum. Fargo is across the border from Moorhead, a city in northwestern Minnesota.

I arranged with Mom and Dad to miss two days of school, take the Greyhound bus to Moorhead, stay overnight with my sister in her dorm room at Moorhead State University, tour UND, and later get a ride home with her.

When I wrote the absence note, I gave it to the school secretary the day before I planned to be gone. Classes ended at 3:32 p.m. each day, but about 3:20 the principal came to my classroom and asked to speak to me. It was a big deal to get called out of class by the principal. The other kids said “Oh. Oh. What did Lori do now?” and “Busted!” as I walked out of the room. The principal asked me about my note, wanted to ensure my parents knew about my trip, confirmed I had notified my teachers, and that I was considering UND. Yes, yes and yes.

During high school I tried not to have much contact with the principal because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but he inadvertently became a part of my senior goal. I don’t know how or why, but I decided I wanted to pull a fire alarm. Early in the school year I told my goal to the principal, and asked if I could pull it sometime when we had a practice drill. I mentioned it to him once. By the last week of school, since nothing happened, I assumed he had forgotten about it, but I was happily wrong. With two days of school left, he pulled me out of class. And like earlier in the year, everyone in the classroom said, “Oh. Oh. What did Lori do now?” and “Busted!” But this time he walked me to the other side of the school, without talking. I thought I was in trouble too, until he stopped outside his office and pointed to the red fire alarm. I got to pull the lever setting off the alarm. What a feeling of power to make such a loud noise and be able to stop it again. It felt great to meet a goal. Mission accomplished.

lori-photo-may-2014
Lori Spangler

Lori Spangler is a native Minnesotan with a zest for living. Kids and dogs appreciate her infectious laugh, witty sense of humor, and positive outlook. When not indulging in her passion for travel, she can be found reading, biking, eating ice cream or teaching others the finer points of public speaking. Miles of Memories: One Woman’s Journey to all 50 States is her first published book.

Buy Lori’s Book Here:
Miles of Memories Amazon.com
Miles of Memories Barnes & Noble

Contact Lori Here:
www.LoriSpangler.com
Facebook page: Miles of Memories Book

 

 

 

#ExcerptWeek – D. G. Kaye @pokecubster

ps_300x450_72dpi

Today, I’m very happy to welcome D. G. Kaye to #ExcerptWeek here on The Write Stuff. Deb has been having all kinds of frustrating issues this last week, with both her ability to comment on this and other blogs, and issues getting her latest book formatted and published. I’m happy to say that things are starting to look up, and proud to present this excerpt for your reading pleasure. As always, please remember to share far and wide. And now, the floor is yours, Deb. Take it away!

P.S. I Forgive You

P.S. I Forgive You is a sequel to Conflicted Hearts, a memoir about my narcissistic mother, and the psychological hold she had on me by instilling guilt and fear when her demands weren’t complied with, and the heartache she bestowed on her loved ones.

This sequel is a stand alone in its own right. It’s a new journey about discovering and overcoming the narcissists inflictions, and ultimately, learning forgiveness, both for myself and my mother. The story is a completion of a life cycle, the cutting of the cord with all its frayed ends.

BLURB

I hurt for her. She wasn’t much of a mother, but she was still my mother.

Confronted with resurfacing feelings of guilt, D.G. Kaye is tormented by her decision to remain estranged from her dying emotionally abusive mother after resolving to banish her years ago, an event she has shared in her book Conflicted Hearts. In P.S. I Forgive You, Kaye takes us on a compelling heartfelt journey as she seeks to understand the roots of her mother’s narcissism, let go of past hurts, and find forgiveness for both her mother and herself.

After struggling for decades to break free, Kaye has severed the unhealthy ties that bound her to her dominating mother—but now Kaye battles new confliction, as the guilt she harbors over her decision only increases as the end of her mother’s life draws near. Kaye once again struggles with her conscience and her feelings of being obligated to return to a painful past she thought she left behind.

EXCERPT

The End Is Near

My mother had been dying for years, and through those years she refused to surrender her bitterness and remained in denial of her flaws. The many times I heard she was dying reminded me of the boy who cried wolf. I almost believed she was invincible, and even though I never wanted her to suffer, she did.

I thought it was just a horrible and sad way to die—holding hatred for those she had chased out of her life, living in bitter seclusion, knowing her days were numbered. Her once vibrant life had diminished into a mere existence of watching TV and complaining. She’d also given all her caregivers a difficult time, bitching at them all and letting them know how useless they were to her because of what her life had become. Nobody was exempt.

I asked my brother Robby why God didn’t just take her out of her misery and pain during one of the many times she was on the brink of death. Why would he not spare her from suffering? He replied, “God has his own plans.” I couldn’t help but wonder if he was letting her suffer because she had hurt so many people in her lifetime, but in my next thought I couldn’t believe God would play those cruel games, tit for tat.

I wondered what thoughts had to have been going through my mother’s head. How awful it must have been to know her time left on earth was limited. I thought about how frightened she must have felt in her lonely world, although she’d never admit it. I was sad for her, knowing that the anger and bitterness she displayed was a front for the depressed state of her pathetic life. I couldn’t fathom why she remained so obstinate in her resolve to spend what little time she had left wallowing in misery instead of embracing the end and making amends with her children. I wanted to fix her, but I didn’t know how.

~~~

D.G. Kaye Author
D. G. Kaye

D.G. Kaye was born and resides in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of Conflicted Hearts – A Daughter’s Quest for Solace From Emotional Guilt, Meno-What? – A Memoir, and Words We Carry. D.G. is a nonfiction/memoir writer. Kaye writes about her life experiences, matters of the heart and women’s issues.

D.G. writes to inspire others. Her writing encompasses stories taken from events she encountered in her own life, and the lessons that were taken from them. Her sunny outlook on life developed from learning to overcomes some of the many obstacles that challenged her. From an emotionally neglected childhood, to growing up with a narcissistic mother, leaving her with a severely deflated self-esteem, D.G. began seeking a path to rise above her issues. When she isn’t writing intimate memoirs, Kaye brings her natural sense of humor into her other works.

Find D. G. Kaye Here:

Connect with D.G. on her blog DGKayewriter.com
www.twitter.com/@pokercubster

www.facebook.com/dgkaye
www.linkedin.com/in/dgkaye7
www.google.com/+DebbyDGKayeGies
www.pinterest.com/dgkaye7
www.instagram.com/dgkaye

Find D. G. Kaye’s Books Here:

D.G.’s book, P.S. I Forgive You was just published this week. Check it out on Amazon Here! And Visit her Amazon Author page to view and purchase her other books.

#ExcerptWeek – M. E. Hembroff @margiesart1

amazon-image-small

Today, I’d like to welcome children’s author M. E. Hembroff. Hope you’ll enjoy this excerpt from her book, and please don’t forget to share, thanks!

~~~

Bess’s Magical Garden

Chapter 1

The sun streamed in the window and illuminated the ivy wallpaper. Bess looked around and felt bewildered until she remembered that she was in their new home in Pineview. After she was fully awake, she realized that the room looked different in the daylight. The streetlights were on when they arrived the night before. She looked out the bay window and noticed the snow-white apple blossoms. So that was the fragrance she had smelt.

          Bess’s thoughts drifted back to the day she had collapsed in ballet class. An ambulance had rushed her to the hospital, where her parents met her. After several tests the doctors told them that she had a mild case of polio. She ended up spending many months in the hospital undergoing treatment and physical therapy before she was ready to go home. She had worked hard, but she still had to wear a brace and use a crutch.

          Her thoughts were interrupted when Mother breezed into the room. “Rise and shine.”

          “Don’t want to,” Bess grumbled, as she brushed some tousled hair out of her eyes.

          Mother smiled. “It’s a warm sunny day. Let’s have breakfast in the garden.” The air was filled with the scent of jasmine as she walked past. Mother took the clean clothes out of the open suitcase on the window seat.

          Bess rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Would rather eat here,” she said. Didn’t Mother know how difficult it was to walk that far? Megan, her cousin and best friend, had always dropped in before school, so they could have breakfast together. Megan had lived in the apartment across the hall. Bess had stayed at Megan’s last weekend, while Mother and Uncle Joe moved the furniture. Megan beat her at snakes and ladders and checkers several times. The fun-filled weekend ended too soon, and her new life suddenly began. She and her mother had left the city early Monday morning and arrived at their Pineview home late last night.

          It wasn’t fair that Mother had wanted to move. The doctors had told Mother that Bess needed fresh air and light exercise and not to lie around the apartment all day.

          “Get up and get dressed,” Mother said firmly. “There will be all kinds of fun things to do this summer. Would you like to decorate your room?”

          “What’s the point? There isn’t anything to do without Megan,” Bess grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

          “There is a path near the patio door that leads into a sheltered garden. See you there shortly,” Mother answered.

Chapter 2

          Bess reluctantly got out of bed. After tucking her crutch under her arm, she hobbled across the room to look at the clothes that Mother had laid out. Why did Mother want her to dress up? Weren’t her everyday clothes good enough? As Bess tried to decide whether to wear the skirt or a pair of slacks, her thoughts drifted to that day six months ago when they’d received the news about the car crash that took Father away forever. Bess had waited at the hospital with Mother, because she had been released the same afternoon to continue therapy as an out-patient. She and her mother had received the news that someone had sped through a green light and rammed into the driver’s side of the car, killing Father instantly.

          Bess proceeded down the hallway to the patio door and hobbled down the path. She stopped and looked around in amazement. For a brief second, she thought that she saw an archway covered with orange flowers that lead into a colourful garden…. but it was gone in an instant. Instead, an arch covered in tangled vines with a broken gate swung on its hinges. The space was overgrown with weeds and surrounded by a crumbling stone wall. A tangle of weeds almost hid the stepping stones.

          She proceeded to the stone bench in the middle of the yard. Not until Mother arranged a tray with an assortment of muffins and fruit did Bess realise how hungry she was.

dsc_0147-1
M. E. Hembroff

I was creative and shy as a child. I spent a lot of time outside either playing by myself or with my younger sister. There was an embankment on the south side of the house with a path that led down into my mother’s sunken flower bed that was sheltered on three sides by caragana and lilac bushes. It was fun skipping around among the flowers and it was a great place to let the imagination run wild. The clay was great for making small dishes and utensils. I made a lot of them and dried them in the sun. There was a couple of places among the trees where tables and chairs and swings were set up. We would often play house or pretend it was a store. Our snacks came fresh out of the large vegetable garden on the other side of the caragana hedge. The leaves off the lilac bushes became money. I was impulsive and some of my ideas got me in trouble. A few years later I drew a picture of the Flying Purple People Eater from the hit song.  I was always making up stories in my head but never wrote any of them down. It was easy to become someone totally different whenever I wanted.

I grew up on a farm in southwestern Manitoba, Canada before there was TV and our entertainment was usually listening to the radio, reading, listening to Father play the fiddle and doing crafts. I was the fourth in a family of five and imaginative and impulsive. We went to a red-brick one room schoolhouse three miles from home. Most of the grades consisted of three or four students taught by one teacher.

Many years later when I had young children I started to take courses and put my ideas onto paper. While the children grew up I took art and writing courses. My stories disappointed me so I concentrated on my art for a long time. When I turned sixty five I started to write in earnest and developed stories that I was starting to feel proud of. That was when the idea for Bess’s Magical Garden came and Bess was born. At that time I took an online course to get me started and after four years finally had a completed manuscript. It is my belief that one is never too old to learn a new skill.

Social Media Links:
https://facebook.com/mehembroff
https://twitter.com/margiesart1

My book can be purchased at the following:
|
https://www.amazon.com/author/mehembroff
https://www.friesenpress/bookstore

Working your Blog Tour

Once again, another very helpful and informative post from Story Empire. Ever wanted to schedule a blog tour, but had no clue where to begin or what to expect? Coldhandboyack’s post will help!

coldhandboyack's avatarStory Empire

Craig here again. Today I want to talk about taking your book out on a blog tour. This is a great way to expose your product to new readers.

Blog tours come in many formats, and I’ve done several kinds. These include a cover and excerpt, cover and blurb, and we might as well include email blasts in this list too. Today, I’m going to focus on the “friends and family” plan. I promoted a book priced at 99¢. With a 35¢ royalty, how many copies would I have to move to pay for a $75 blog tour? Friends welcome you to their blog without having to pay. Be willing to host them when the time comes.

I recently finished a tour involving my friends hosting me at their blogs. It was simple enough to set up. I posted a request for hosts to help me out. I wound up…

View original post 915 more words

#ExcerptWeek – Austin Crawley @AustinOCrawley

 

front200a

Today’s excerpt is from horror writer,  Austin Crawley. Austin, welcome to The Write Stuff. We’re ready to be scared, so take it away!

~~~

Snippets from Letters To The Damned  

From Chapter One:

Cris drifted between waking and sleeping, his dream images of his wife, Shannon, already lost in half remembered impressions and the haze of another dream world involving a strange, English village, like the ones on Shannon’s favorite calendar. The foreign imagery faded and Cris felt consciousness begin to win the struggle. He rolled over to the edge of his comfortable double bed to reach towards the floor where he had heard scuffling noises. He expected to feel his fingers stroking the soft fur of his little tortoiseshell cat, Mocha, but instead a strange hand clasped his own in an iron grip.

He instinctively pulled back, but the hand wouldn’t let go. Cris tried to force open his eyes, to reach full consciousness, but his eyelids would not respond. He heard his own sharp, gasping breaths in the darkness. His mind tried to make sense of the thought that a hand had come from the floor, perhaps someone under the bed? Cris struggled with rising terror and a feeling of vulnerability when his body failed to respond to his conscious commands to open his eyes. He wanted to scream, but his voice would not respond.

Chapter Three:

“A freshly disturbed soul might not be amenable to performing supernatural tasks.” The dowdy teashop owner with a lazy, northern English accent looked at Cris as if he had used the wrong spoon to stir his Earl Grey tea.

Suddenly he regretted having told her about his wife’s accident. Cris hadn’t come to England to try to raise the dead, after all. He had only wanted to get away for a while, to forget the bustle of Los Angeles and spend a few days somewhere quiet where he might collect his thoughts. He watched the unpretentious swishing of the teashop owner’s faded flowered dress as she walked back behind the counter to make his sandwich and reflected on how the conversation had turned suddenly to the thoughts he had refused to voice to himself.

Later:

He glanced up at the picture over the desk, the ship out in a stormy sea, and he wondered why someone would paint a ship in such difficult circumstances when they might have shown it at full sail on a pleasant day. If they had wanted to capture the wildness of the sea during a storm, they could have painted a stormy seascape with waves crashing onto a rocky coast.

Cris’ gaze wandered over the picture and he began to feel a sense of swaying, which he dismissed as an effect of the movement of his eyes from an odd angle to the painting. He began to appreciate the realism of the artist and could almost feel the salt spray as waves crashed over the side of the ship. He could hear men shouting orders and feel the burn of a rope held tightly by a man balanced precariously on the main mast yardarm.

The swell of the next wave tipped the boat to a forty-five degree angle and he felt his feet slipping from the yardarm, the rope tearing skin in bloody patches on the palms of his hands, then falling, falling…

~~~

aocrawley
Austin Crawley . . . I Think?

Austin Crawley is a civil engineer who has written stories for more than ten years, usually involving ghosts, demons or spirits in some form. He has a Christmas book in publication called A Christmas Tale, based on the ghosts from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and currently has a Horror story on special price pre-order for October 1st release, Letters To The Damned.

He lives with his wife and three children, as well as a menagerie of outlandish creatures generally referred to as ‘pets’.

Buy Austin’s Book Here:  Letters to the Damned

Find Austin on Social Media Here:
Blog: https://austincrawleyblog.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Austin-Crawley-687952104674224
Twitter: https://twitter.com/austinocrawley
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14211612.Austin_Crawley

 front200