What happens on the Ridge, Stays on the Ridge. (Mostly)
Just $.99 on Amazon. com
Wake-Robin Ridge Book 1
Author: Marcia Meara
#ExcerptWeek – Gateway to Magic by Annabelle Franklin @Anabel1Franklin
Children’s Fantasy writer, Annabelle Franklin, is our guest today. Welcome to #ExcerptWeek, Annabelle. The floor is yours!
~~~
GATEWAY TO MAGIC: The story of a gaming fanatic trapped in Fairyland where technology is banned by law!
Steven Topcliff hates Fairyland – there are no video games, no chicken nuggets and no one tells the truth. He has to deal with spiteful cousin Tracy, who goads him into activating the interdimensional gateway, Nigel the Nuisance, an out-of-control shapeshifter who insists on being his best mate, and the diva-like Fairy Queen who embroils him in some mysterious game of her own. His only chance of escape is to use magic to forge a gateway back to Earth.
There’s no controlling this dimension with a console – Steven must use his own ingenuity to survive and get himself home. But can he believe in himself enough to do it?
Excerpt
Close up, the stone looked more like solidified fungus than rock, and the red plastic button seemed out of place on top of it. The whole thing had a feeling of wrongness, as if it didn’t belong there. The smell in the clearing had got much worse; it really was a dogs’ toilet.
Steven crouched down so he could read the words on the front of the stone:
DO NOT PRESS THIS BUTTON
‘There, we’ve looked,’ he said. ‘It’s just an ordinary stone with a plastic button on it.’
Tracy rolled her eyes. ‘Do ordinary stones usually have plastic buttons on them?’
‘They do if they’re bits of scenery left over from a TV show.’
Tracy crouched next to him. ‘Press it, then.’
‘What?’
‘Press the button and see what happens.’
Steven didn’t move. He felt hot, tired and sick; all his senses were telling him to run for his life, but his feet seemed to be glued to the ground.
‘There’s no need to be scared,’ Tracy went on. ‘If it’s just a bit of old scenery, like you say, nothing will happen, will it?’
That word again. ‘You’re the one who’s scared,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’d press it yourself. You’re scared to press it, because it tells you not to.’
‘There’s no point me pressing it. You can only go to Fairyland once, and I’ve been already.’ She stood up and brushed leaf mould off her hands. ‘Anyway, it only tells you not to press it so you will.’
‘What?’ He turned his head to look at her. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Yes it does. It’s like those signs that tell you not to walk on the grass – you just want to do it all the more.’
She had a point.
‘I wish I could go back,’ she sighed. ‘Fairyland is awesome! It’s not the girly sort of place you read about in the kiddy books; it’s so wonderful and exciting, I can’t even describe it.’
‘You can’t describe it because you haven’t been there.’
Tracy crouched down next to him again. ‘Just think, Steven,’ she said softly. ‘If you went there, you wouldn’t be around when the holidays are over. You wouldn’t have to go to that horrid big school you’re so scared of.’
Steven felt like she’d punched him in the stomach. ‘How did you – ’ he began, then caught himself. ‘I’m not scared of going to Comp!’
‘Oh yes you are,’ the soft voice went on. ‘There’s so much to be scared of, isn’t there? Strict teachers and harsh punishments. Being late for lessons because you can’t find your way around all those corridors. Tonnes of homework. And worst of all, the bullies. Big boys and girls, flushing your head down the toilet in break and waiting for you outside the gates after school. Kids with knives – ’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Steven. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Tracy just kept smiling smugly, and at that moment Steven hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone in his life. He didn’t want to think about Comp; with the whole summer stretching before him, he’d managed to put it out of his mind, and that was where he wanted it to stay.
But Tracy had other ideas. ‘Let’s face it, you won’t stand a chance. You’re exactly the sort of boy that bullies love to pick on.’ She put on a mocking baby-voice. ‘A mummy’s boy who never goes out of the house, who’s too scared to press an itty-bitty little red button.’Steven felt like he was going to explode. He wanted to punch Tracy on the nose; but he wasn’t the sort of boy who hit girls, so he punched the stone instead.
Right on the red button.
Annabelle Franklin lives on South Wales’s stunning and magical South Gower coast, sharing her chalet home with two rescued sighthounds. As well as two children’s novels, Gateway to Magic and The Slapstyx, she has written a short story Mercy Dog which appears in Unforgotten (Accent Press), an award-winning anthology themed around WW1. Another short story Haunted by the Future will feature in Dark Gathering, a horror anthology due for publication later in 2016.
Annabelle loves humour, hates housework and believes magic should be on the school curriculum. She is currently working on a series of supernatural stories for children.
Where to Buy
Gateway to Magic on Amazon http://myBook.to/Gateway2Magic
Smashwords http://bit.ly/1j3wjfw
Apple http://apple.co/1Q3NrjX
Kobo http://bit.ly/1UW13fe
Nook http://bit.ly/1K6IkNE
Connect with Annabelle:
Blog http://annabellefranklinauthor.wordpress.com/about
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Annabelle-Franklin-Author/1474449249481609
Twitter https://twitter.com/Anabel1Franklin
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6904737.Annabelle_Franklin
Email ankhana2000@yahoo.com
Share this:
#ExcerptWeek Reminder!
It’s here again! As you can tell from Bill Engleson’s wonderful essay, #ExcerptWeek is underway. (From the HOME page, his post is the one directly under this one.) Just wanted to remind you all that any writer, of any skill level, from beginner to old pro, is invited to share with us this week. This time around, we even have several children’s authors in the mix, which will be a lot of fun, I think.
Those of you who are regular contributors to the blog, please feel free to post at will, any time between now and the end of day next Sunday. No need to clear when. I have at least one post going up from new folks every day this week, so post yours any time you wish. Let’s make this the best #ExcerptWeek, yet!
And please remember to share far and wide. That’s what it’s all about! Now enjoy Bill’s post, and keep an eye out for the rest, as they show up. Happy reading!
Share this:
#ExcerptWeek – Bill Engleson @billmelaterplea
Starting off #ExcerptWeek for us this time around is novelist and essayist, Bill Engleson, with a very funny essay on–of all things–turnips! Welcome, Bill, and thanks for sharing with us today.
~~~
Turnip Love
“A degenerate nobleman is like a turnip. There is nothing good of him but that which is underground.” 17th century saying.
There are so many issues aflutter in the world today that even I, a practitioner of tangential thought, am shocked and embarrassed that I am taking the time to ruminate on the lowly turnip. Earthquakes, hurricanes, floods and war occupy the airwaves. I follow all of their ramifications religiously, never wavering from the belief that one has a responsibility to remain current. These events are often overwhelming; they are frequently of catastrophic size. Certainly this past year has witnessed the giant tsunami that steamrolled the Far East and Hurricane Katrina that sank New Orleans, not to mention the massive earthquake along the Pakistan border whose toll, at this writing, can only increase.
But to cope with the monumental hugeness of nature and man run ferociously amuck, I have to seek out smaller issues, tinier morsels of potentially digestible material.
Hence, the story of my life and how it collided with The TURNIP.
“The candle in that great turnip has gone out.” Winston Churchill, commenting on the passing of conservative politician, Stanley Baldwin
Growing up, my diet was a simple affair. Both of my parents had humble origins and even humbler palates. Meat and potatoes, potatoes and meat were the order of pretty much every day. These staples would often be supplemented by plain salads and boiled, sopping wet vegetables. My father, manly in ways I would never be, rarely cooked, and my mother resisted kitchen captivity except when domestically unavoidable. While I never thought of her as a stellar cook, she could whip up a fried or boiled dinner with the aplomb of a third world street vendor.
Even under these adverse conditions, my appetite was not intimidated. I was not a finicky eater. While I may not have wanted to chow down with others as regularly as my family expected, displaying an early antisocial bent I am still troubled by, once settled in at my eating stall, I rarely left any food on the plate. That really was the key dining rule in our home: “Finish your plate before you leave the table, Willy,” was a frequent refrain from my pop. Food was not to be wasted.
Often I would have hoovered my food down and be ready to leave the table before my mother even had a chance to join us. Clearly I was a rude little bugger, an observation my father would frequently make. He would say, “You’re a rude little bugger, isn’t he Marion?” And my mother would say, “Isn’t he what, Sterling?” And he would answer, “Isn’t he a rude little bugger? He doesn’t even have the decency to wait until you sit down.” And she would refrain, “Let the boy eat, Sterling. Can’t you see he’s hungry?”
By the time my father had made his initial observation, he was half way through his first helping. He was a hefty man, setting an unavoidable standard for me, I’m afraid. He demonstrated his love for my mother, amongst other ways, by courageously seeking out seconds of her cooking at every turn. No matter what she prepared, he christened it “delicious, darling.” My mother would invariably look at him in adoration, turn back to what was occupying her on the stove and parry his praise with “you’re a fibber, you are. A woman can`t believe a word you say. You’d eat an old leather shoe if I cooked it just right.” She knew my father’s love was, in part, measured by food consumption and the absolute pleasure he found in eating.
I didn`t really know it then but my mother found equal pleasure in simply having enough to cook. Simply having enough was such a joy for her. Growing up, there was often little or nothing to eat, except what the surrounding countryside and family garden could provide. She was raised on a small scrub farm in the shadow of the Rockies. Her parents were the children of farmers and grew what their ancestors grew; root vegetables. Parsnips and turnips headed the list. My mother was raised on a diet of rogue weed vegetables, heavily supplemented by roots. This Spartan lifestyle strongly influenced her culinary routine.
Continue reading
Share this:
Jumpstarting #ExcerptWeek #FindingHunter @marciameara
Tomorrow is the first day of #ExcerptWeek, and I thought I’d get a jump on it by sharing one of my own excerpts today, thus keeping it out of the way of all the others that will be forthcoming.
Filled with guilt and despair as the result of a terribly tragedy, Hunter Painter has disappeared. No one in the little town of Riverbend has any idea where he’s gone, but most fear the worst. Only Willow Greene, who has loved him for years, still has faith he’ll come home to her again, though his middle brother, Forrest, is trying hard to believe she’s right.
~~~
“Forrest, what was in the box Hunter left with you?”
He gazed at his empty plate. When he looked at her again, his puzzled eyes were dark with sadness. “Things I never knew he had. Family mementos. Photos from vacations. Stuff Jackson an’ I never paid no attention to. I couldn’t believe he’d kept ‘em. Pictures from a trip to Disney when we were kids. The three of us buildin’ a sand castle at New Smyrna Beach. Ticket stubs from concerts. Sea shells, marbles, an old miniature train engine …”
He took a drink of tea, cleared his throat, and went on. “It made me feel sad … an’ sort of ashamed … to see how much value he’d put to memories Jackson an’ I’d taken for granted. Like he didn’t want to let go of those times, while I was rushin’ to get through ‘em, an’ grow up.”
He shook his head, marveling. “Found a couple of things of mine he must have taken out of the trash. I couldn’t believe it. They hadn’t meant anything to me, but Hunter saw something in them. I guess he left ‘em with us, because he knew we were the only ones who would recognize them. Or maybe … maybe he left ‘em so we wouldn’t forget him.”
Willow could picture Hunter carefully rescuing those small bits of his childhood, tucking them away in closets and drawers. Holding on to his memories as hard as he could. A familiar ache wormed its way through her heart as she thought about the little boy who never quite felt like he belonged, but who still wanted tangible evidence that he’d been there—when this thing happened, or this one, or that.
She rose, blinking back sudden tears, and patted Forrest’s shoulder as she passed his chair. “Be back in a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”
When she returned to the kitchen, Forrest jumped to his feet. “Here, let me take that for you.”
“I’ve got it. I’m stronger than I look. But could you move the dishes to the sink to make more room?” She put the oversized basket on the cleared table, then took her seat again.
“What’s all this?”
“This is what Hunter left me. Did you know your brother wrote?”
He looked blank. “Wrote who?”
She sighed. Had no one ever known who Hunter was?
“He wrote, Forrest. Poems, and short stories, and essays. He’s been keeping journals or notebooks since he was a child. They’re filled with beautiful writing. Observations. Descriptions. Words upon words about life, and love, and fear, and loneliness. And he left them all with me.”
Smiling, she ran her fingertips across the soft leather cover of the top journal. “He left you his memories, and he left me his heart. And you and I are going to be the caretakers of both, until he comes home to claim them again.”
~~~
Finding Hunter: Riverbend Book 2
My Inspiration for Hunter Painter
Share this:
Grow your Newsletter List the Easy Way
Very helpful info on mail lists, and a link to AuthorsXP that I found super interesting. Check it out!
Book marketing gurus like Mark Dawson swear by the power of newsletters. The idea is that you have a free medium to contact your readers. Essentially, this turns you into a one-man Bookbub. I have posted in the past about ways to add more subscribers, while Mark advocates Facebook Ads.
My way, which is pretty much organic, adds a couple of new subscribers daily. Facebook ads have been more successful, adding maybe 200 subscribers (depending on the budget). They’re expensive, though, and about half of them unsubscribe after receiving the first newsletter. So, when I added over 1,000 new subscribers in the last month for $40 and only some 10% of them unsubscribed, I thought you might wish to know about it.
Even better, there’s a free way of doing this; more about it below.
AuthorsXP
Amy Vansant of AuthorsXP offers a variety of tools of…
View original post 383 more words
Share this:
#ThorsDaySmile
Here’s one for those of us who march
to our own drummers.
😀
Share this:
Wednesday Wing….#New #Twitter gives you more for your 140 characters #wwwblogs #TwitterTip
Good news! Check out Rosie’s post this morning. This change will make a huge difference in what you can cram into a Tweet, now.
Share this:
33 Common Words & Phrases You Might Be Saying Wrong | WritersDigest.com
Click on the link in this post from the Archer’s Aim blog, and grab the infographic. It’s a great one for quick reference. And it validated my remarks in several “discussions” with others who thought differently. So, OF COURSE, I love it! 🙂
This infographic is courtesy of Jennifer Frost of GrammarCheck. Visit them online at grammarcheck.net or check out the free online grammar checker at gramm
Source: 33 Common Words & Phrases You Might Be Saying Wrong | WritersDigest.com
Share this:
#Free Book #Kindle Promo – Conflicted Hearts by D. G. Kaye
Check out this bargain, folks! Deb’s book, Conflicted Hearts, is FREE through 9/23. Yep. FREE! It doesn’t get better than that! Go here to learn more:
#Free Book #Kindle Promo – Conflicted Hearts
The Write Stuff 