Author: Marcia Meara

#Reminder – #HugeSale – #SwampGhostsExcerpt – #AlertTheMedia

/ Marcia Meara / 14 Comments

I‘m back, this time to share an excerpt from my first Riverbend book, Swamp Ghosts.  Yep, the big $.99 sale is still going on, and I hope some of you will be intrigued enough by this excerpt to take advantage of this most excellent price! Oh, and please feel free to pass the news of the sale along far and wide, too.  Thanks so much for all your support and encouragement. 

EXCERPT FROM SWAMP GHOSTS: Riverbend Book 1

THE CAR BUMPED and rocked as he drove down the rutted dirt road, steering by a wash of silver light from the gibbous moon. Only a few more nights until it was completely full, making the road nearly as bright as it would be by day, but there was still enough light tonight to see that the way ahead was clear—except for the tall grasses and weeds, indicating no one had driven the road in a long time. That was all the visibility he needed. Not much chance of meeting anyone along such a remote stretch of river, anyway, especially since the state had bought this entire tract of land a few years ago, and chained off all the roads, posting No Access signs everywhere. Still, he wasn’t going to tempt fate by turning on his headlights. Not with what he was carrying in the back on this summer night.

Should be nearing the old canoe launch any time now.

He squinted, peering at the road ahead, waiting to see moonlight on water, and sure enough, there it was. Slowing down, he pulled the SUV into the small turn-around, cut the engine and climbed out, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders to release the tension from the long drive.

The drive’s always the most dangerous part. Too many ways for something to go wrong. Too many things I can’t control. But no need to worry about that now. No one stopped me. No one even noticed me. And here I am. Just me and the mosquitoes.

Of course, that wasn’t true. There were plenty of other things in his immediate vicinity, but he paid no attention to the sounds of a Florida river at night. Green tree frogs and narrow-mouthed toads sang in a shrill chorus, punctuated now and then by the loud “Kronk!” of the much larger pig frogs. Small animals slipping through the palmettos and underbrush rustled here and there. The high-pitched chirps of flying squirrels sounded from the trees, until the soft trill of a screech owl made them take cover. The night was full of noises, all ignored, as he walked to the rear of his vehicle and opened the tailgate. He eyed the bundle inside with irritation.

Hate hauling that dead weight, dammit! May as well get to it, though. It’s not gonna get any lighter while I stand here wasting time.

And with that thought, he dragged the bundle halfway out and lifted it up over one broad shoulder, bending slightly under the load. Then he walked down to the water’s edge and stopped for a brief moment, considering.

Nope. Way too shallow here. Too easy to spot, in case someone ever does paddle this way again.

Instead, he turned to his right and made his way down a narrow and heavily overgrown path that followed the curve of the stream. It was slow going for a hundred yards or more, with branches and palmetto fronds slapping him in the face and scraping at his arms. Sweat trickled down into his eyes, stinging like fury, but even as hot as he was, he was glad he had thought to wear long sleeves. They at least afforded him a bit of protection from scratches and the relentless mosquitoes, which swarmed his head in a hungry cloud. Repellent kept most of them from biting, but it was hard to breathe without sucking them into his mouth or nose, and their humming grew louder with every slow step he took.

Gritting his teeth, he shifted the weight on his shoulder, and plowed ahead.

Seems to be a longer haul each time, but it can’t be much farther now.

He pushed his way through the worst of the underbrush, and there it was—a small open area on a raised embankment, about four feet above the water. He walked to the edge and dumped his burden on the dirt beside him. Taking a deep breath, he stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders once more.

Damn. Ought to be an easier way to do this. Probably is. But not likely to be as efficient.

Untying the lengths of white rope from each end of his bundle, he opened up the blue plastic tarp. For a moment, he admired his handiwork, once again congratulating himself on his hunting skills, and his ability to outsmart the law. Those clowns had no idea who they were up against.

Snickering, he dragged the tarp closer to the water’s edge. He snapped it sharply toward himself, lifting up on the edge of the plastic, and spilling the contents down the bank, where they landed with a splash in the shallow water below. He stood there, folding up the tarp and watching the moonlit surface of the creek. Within seconds, ripples appeared on the other side, rushing toward him, but slowing as they neared his offering. He waited just long enough to watch the huge head come out of the water, jaws wide, before he turned and walked away. The sounds of thrashing and tearing followed him halfway back to his car.

Alligators. Nature’s best garbage disposals. Soon, there won’t be much left of that little package for anyone to find.

He tossed the folded tarp into his car, and climbed in, just as the first fat raindrops began splatting against his dusty windshield. Within seconds, the water was coming down like only a Florida rainstorm can, heavy and fast. It would be over just as quickly as it started, but not before wiping away all traces of his visit.

He snickered again. Right on time, and thank you, Mother Nature. No need to worry about evidence left behind now. It will all be washed away.

He turned the SUV around, and headed back to civilization, smiling the whole way, and wondering how much longer it would be before some sharp-eyed detective or reporter began to connect the dots. He almost wished they would hurry it up, so he could find out what they would call him.

After all…Son of Sam, The Boston Strangler, The Night Stalker…all the good ones have names.

DOWNLOAD SWAMP GHOSTS HERE

Hope you enjoyed that little trek through the Florida swamps! To find out more about what’s lurking there, head right on over to Amazon and download your copy of Swamp Ghosts today! Thanks so much for reading along today!

#Reminder – #HugeSale – #AlertTheMedia – #WakeRobinRidge1 – #Excerpt

/ Marcia Meara / 8 Comments

Just a reminder that there are only ten days left for my Happy Valentine’s Day $.99 Sale. ALL my books are on sale until February 14, so I hope you’ll take take advantage of this low price to check one or two of them out. And please, by all means feel free to spread the word, anywhere you’d like. Some of you might want to consider donning a sandwich board and taking to the sidewalks. Okay. Maybe not. But I do hope you’ll share the news with your friends and neighbors and anyone else you can accost without being arrested. 😂 As for me, I’ll be busy sharing excerpts from several of my books now and then, just to whet your appetites.

Today’s excerpt comes from the book that started it all, Wake-Robin Ridge Book 1, and is  one of the creepier moments in the story. (It can’t ALL be flowers and romance, after all. At least not in this book.😁 ) 

EXCERPT FROM WAKE-ROBIN RIDGE

SUNDAY, JANUARY 24, 1965
WAKE-ROBIN RIDGE, NC 

AT EXACTLY 2:00 A.M., Ruth’s eyes flew open and she sat up with a gasp, momentarily confused at finding herself on the couch with General Penny snuggled against her. Shivering, she noticed the dying embers glowing faintly from the cooling hearth, but the only sound she heard was the thudding of her own heartbeat. She wondered what had awakened her, but a glance at Penny showed the little dog was still sound asleep, so she told herself one of her bad dreams must have roused her, and nothing more.

Huddled under the afghan, she was trying to muster the energy to grab Penny and head upstairs to her bedroom, when a wash of light spread over the back wall of the living room. For a split second, she thought it might be from Frank’s headlights, but she discounted that idea, knowing Frank would never come up here, unannounced, in the middle of the night. She stared in growing horror and shock as the light began a slow crawl around the room, sliding in oily silence from wall to wall. Hand at her throat, Ruth rose from the couch to watch the pale, greasy-looking light disappear toward the back of the cabin, then reappear on the other side of the room seconds later.

I’m still dreamin’. This isn’t real. It isn’t real. It can’t be!

She watched, dry-mouthed and trembling as the light came to a stop. It remained smeared on the back wall in a nasty, sickly stain, only vaguely resembling the clean, sharp gleam of real headlights.

The faint rumble of an engine insinuated its way into the quiet of the night, a low throb, barely loud enough to be heard. She spun to face the front door, eyes wide with disbelief. Growing in volume, the sound projected a sense of bone-chilling menace that brought Penny scrambling to his feet, growling in fear. Ruth stood frozen, unable to make sense of what she was hearing, but too afraid to look out the window. The muted snick of a car door opening sent Penny into a frenzy of shrill barking, yet Ruth stood in the center of the room, paralyzed, fear rising thick and clotted within her.

The rumbling vibration of the engine faded away, and was replaced by another noise coming from right outside the living room window. Creak-creak. Pause. Creak-creak. Pause.

Ruth gasped. It was unmistakably the sound of the porch swing moving back and forth in a deliberate, steady rhythm, slowly and softly at first, then growing louder and faster.

Creak-creak. Pause. Creak-creak. Pause. Creak-creak. Creak-Creak. Creak-Creak-Creak-Creak-Creak.

Louder and louder, the harsh sound of metal grating on metal grew more shrill and horrifying every second, until it became a mind-shattering shriek that rent the night. Penny’s barking took on an insane pitch, and Ruth clapped her hands over her ears, screaming in mindless terror.

And then—nothing. Silence, complete and absolute. A dead hush settled over the room, muting even the sounds of Penny’s miserable whimpers and Ruth’s ragged breathing.

Shaking from head to toe, and filled with a nauseating horror she’d never imagined existed, Ruth wanted to believe whatever had just happened was finished. The sickly, greenish light began to fade from her wall, and she whispered a frantic prayer. “Oh dear God, please let it be over! Please, please let it be over, let it be over.” She choked back a sob as she turned to comfort Penny, and then she heard it—an answering whisper as cold and evil as damnation itself.

“Ruuuthie … I’m hoo-oome”.

Ruth Winn dropped to the floor in a dead faint.

BUY WAKE-ROBIN RIDGE HERE

I hope this sparks your interest in checking out WRR, if you haven’t already done so.  And thanks so much for stopping by today and for all your support!

 

#WordPower – #ProfoundlyPoetic – #PurpleGrackles by Amy Lowell

/ Marcia Meara / 27 Comments

Purple (Common) Grackle

Alas! All but one or two of my gorgeous little painted buntings have moved on, hoping for warmer weather along their journey northward to their summer/nesting grounds. (I’m afraid they may be a bit disappointed about that, at least for another week or two, but I wish them safe journeys.)

At my feeder, the grackles have taken over, both common and boat-tailed varieties. Jostling, shoving, crowding each other off the tray in their fever to stock up for their own northward journey. Today, because I love them dearly, and because I had a request from Patty,  I’m going to share one of my favorite poems again. It captures the exuberance and beauty of these birds perfectly, along with so much more. And it has inspired me to start a new series of posts. Will tell you more on that later.  For now, even though spring will soon be here, I hope you’ll enjoy Amy Lowell’s  tribute to autumn’s arrival, Purple Grackles. (It’s long, but it’s well worth savoring every word.)

PURPLE GRACKLES by Amy Lowell (1874 – 1925)

The grackles have come.
The smoothness of the morning is puckered with their incessant chatter.
A sociable lot, these purple grackles.
Thousands of them strung across a long run of wind,
Thousands of them beating the air-ways with quick wing-jerks,
Spinning down the currents of the South.
Every year they come,
My garden is a place of solace and recreation evidently,
For they always pass a day with me.
With high good nature they tell me what I do not want to hear.
The grackles have come.

I am persuaded that grackles are birds;
But when they are settled in the trees
I am inclined to believe them fruits
And the trees turned hybrid blackberry vines.
Blackness shining and bulging under leaves,
Does not that mean blackberries, I ask you?
Nonsense!  The grackles have come.

Nonchalant highwaymen, pickpockets, second-story burglars,
Stealing away my little hope of Summer.
There is no stealthy robbing in this.
Who ever heard such a gabble of thieves’ talk!
It seems they delight in unmasking my poor pretense.
Yes, now I see that the hydrangea blooms are rusty;
That the hearts of the golden glow are ripening to lustreless seeds;
That the garden is dahlia-coloured,
Flaming with its last over-hot hues;
That the sun is pale as a lemon too small to fill the picking-ring.
I did not see this yesterday,
But today, the grackles have come.

They drop out of the trees
And strut in companies over the lawn,
Tired of flying, no doubt;
A grand parade to limber legs and give wings a rest.
I should build a great fish-pond for them,
Since it is evident that a bird-bath, meant to accommodate two goldfinches at most,
Is slight hospitality for these hordes.
Scarcely one can can get in,
They all peck and scrabble so,
Crowding, pushing, chasing one another up the bank with spread wings.
“Are we ducks, you, owner of such inadequate comforts,
That you offer us lily-tanks where one must swim or drown,
Not stand and splash like a gentleman?”
I feel the reproach keenly, seeing them perch on the edges of the tanks, trying the depth with a chary foot,
And hardly able to get their wings under water in the bird-bath.
But there are resources I had not considered,
If I am bravely ruled out of count.
What is that thudding against the eaves just beyond my window?
What is that spray of water blowing past my face?
Two–three–grackles bathing in the gutter,
The gutter providentially choked with leaves.
I pray they think I put the leaves there on purpose;
I would be supposed thoughtful and welcoming
To all guests, even thieves.
But considering that they are going South and I am not,
I wish they would bathe more quietly,
It is unmannerly to flaunt one’s good fortune.

They rate me of no consequence,
But they might reflect that it is my gutter.
I know their opinion of me,
Because one is drying himself on the windowsill
Not two feet from my hand.
His purple neck is sleek with water,
And the fellow preens his feathers for all the world as if I were a fountain statue.
If it were not for the window,
I am convinced he would light on my head.
Tyrian-feathered freebooter,
Appropriating my delightful gutter with so extravagant an ease,
You are as cool a pirate as ever scuttled a ship,
And are you not scuttling my Summer with every peck of your sharp bill?

But there is a cloud over the beech-tree,
A quenching cloud for lemon-livered suns.
The grackles are all swinging in the treetops,
And the wind is coming up, mind you.
That boom and reach is no Summer gale,
I know that wind,
It blows the Equinox over seeds and scatters them.
It rips petals from petals, and tears off half-turned leaves.
There is rain on the back of that wind.
Now I would keep the grackles,
I would plead with them not to leave me.
I grant their coming, but I would not have them go.
It is a milestone, this passing of grackles.
A day of them, and it is a year gone by.
There is magic in this and terror,
But I only stare stupidly out of the window.
The grackles have come.

Come!  Yes, they surely came.
But they have gone.
A moment ago the oak was full of them,
They are not there now.
Not a speck of a black wing,
Not an eye-peep of a purple head.
The grackles have gone,
And I watch an Autumn storm
Stripping the garden,
Shouting black rain challenges
To an old, limp Summer
Laid down to die in the flower beds.

#AlertTheMedia – #Sale – All of My Books Just $.99 From Now Until #ValentinesDay – #Don’tMissOut!

/ Marcia Meara / 28 Comments

Treat yourself to a reading bargain for Valentine’s Day! For the next fourteen days, all of my books —yes, every single one of them–will be available for download at the rock bottom price of $.99 each! That’s four Wake-Robin Ridge novels, three Riverbend novels, three Emissary novellas, and one Summer Magic book of poetry. Need to know more? Here you go:

Wake-Robin Ridge Book 1

“A PHONE RINGING AT 2:00 A.M. never means anything good. Calls at 2:00 A.M. are bad news. Someone has died. Someone is hurt. Or someone needs help.”

On a bitter cold January night in 1965, death came calling at an isolated little cabin on Wake-Robin Ridge. Now, nearly 50 years later, librarian Sarah Gray has quit her job and moved into the same cabin, hoping the peace and quiet of her woodland retreat will allow her to concentrate on writing her first novel. Instead she finds herself distracted by her only neighbor, the enigmatic and reclusive MacKenzie Cole, who lives on top of the mountain with his Irish wolfhound as his sole companion.

As their tentative friendship grows, Sarah learns the truth about the heartbreaking secret causing Mac to hide from the world. But before the two can sort out their feelings for each other, they find themselves plunged into a night of terror neither could have anticipated. Now they must unravel the horrifying events of a murder committed decades earlier. In doing so, they discover that the only thing stronger than a hatred that will not die is a heart willing to sacrifice everything for another.

A Boy Named Rabbit: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 2

“Evil’s comin’, boy…comin’ fast. Look for the man with eyes like winter skies, and hair like a crow’s wing. He’s the one you gotta find.”

The remote mountain wilderness of North Carolina swallowed up the ten-year-old boy as he made his way down from the primitive camp where his grandparents had kept him hidden all his life. His dying grandmother, gifted with the Sight, set him on a quest to find the Good People, and though he is filled with fear and wary of civilization, Rabbit is determined to keep his promise to her. When he crosses paths with Sarah and MacKenzie Cole, neither their lives nor his, are ever the same again.

The extraordinary little boy called Rabbit has the power light up the darkness, and the resourcefulness to save himself from the one person his grandparents had hoped would never find him. His dangerous and bittersweet journey will touch you in unexpected ways, and once you’ve let Rabbit into your heart, you’ll never forget him.

Harbinger: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 3

“. . . he felt the wet slide of the dog’s burning hot tongue on his face, and the scrape of its razor sharp teeth against the top of his head. A white-hot agony of crushing pain followed, as the jaws began to close.”

The wine-red trillium that carpets the forests of the North Carolina Mountains is considered a welcome harbinger of spring—but not all such omens are happy ones. An Appalachian legend claims the Black Dog, or Ol’ Shuck, as he’s often called, is a harbinger of death. If you see him, you or someone you know is going to die.

But what happens when Ol’ Shuck starts coming for you in your dreams? Nightmares of epic proportions haunt the deacon of the Light of Grace Baptist Church, and bring terror into the lives of everyone around him. Even MacKenzie Cole and his adopted son, Rabbit, find themselves pulled into danger.

When Sheriff Raleigh Wardell asks Mac and Rabbit to help him solve a twenty-year-old cold case, Rabbit’s visions of a little girl lost set them on a path that soon collides with that of a desperate man being slowly driven mad by guilt.

The Light: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 4

The Magic is Back!

For Robert MacKenzie Cole—or Rabbit, as he’s known to all—the chance to accompany his family to see North Carolina’s infamous Brown Mountain Lights has him nearly dizzy with excitement. And what better night to watch this unexplained phenomenon unfold than Halloween?

But when the entrancing, unpredictable lights show up, Rabbit gets far more than he bargained for. He’s gifted with what folks in the Appalachians call “the Sight,” and it’s this extrasensory perception that enables him to spot the one light different from all the rest.

In his biggest challenge to date, Rabbit—aided by his daddy and his newest friend, Austin Dupree— begins a quest to learn more about the mysterious light. Their investigation unveils a web of cons and corruption none of them expected and exposes a brutal murder along the way.

Throughout all, Rabbit is unfaltering in his commitment to do whatever it takes to understand the truth behind the glowing orb and to determine how he can help it. After all, it followed him home.

Swamp Ghosts: Riverbend Book 1

Wildlife photographer Gunnar Wolfe looked like the kind of guy every man wanted to be and every woman just plain wanted, and the St. Johns River of central Florida drew him like a magnet. EcoTour boat owner Maggie Devlin knew all the river’s secrets, including the deadliest ones found in the swamps. But neither Maggie nor Gunn was prepared for the danger that would come after them on two legs.

On a quest to make history photographing the rarest birds of them all, Gunnar hires the fiery, no-nonsense Maggie to canoe him into the most remote wetland areas in the state. He was unprepared for how much he would enjoy both the trips and Maggie’s company. He soon realizes he wants more than she’s able to give, but before he can win her over, they make a grisly discovery that changes everything, and turns the quiet little town of Riverbend upside down. A serial killer is on the prowl among them.

Finding Hunter: Riverbend Book 2

Before, I never thought about taking a life. Not once.
Now, the thought fills my mind day and night, and
I wonder how I’ll hide that terrible need,
As an old car swings to the shoulder,
And stops.

~ Traveling Man ~

Hunter Painter’s darkest fears have shaped his offbeat personality since he was a child, crippling him in ways invisible to those unable to see past his quiet exterior. In a sleepy Florida town known for its eccentric inhabitants, he’s always been a mystery to most.

Only one person sees beyond Hunter’s quirky facade. Willow Greene, the new age herbalist who owns the local candle and potpourri shop, has secretly loved him since they were in high school. When, sixteen years later, she discovers Hunter has loved her just as long, Willow hopes her dreams are finally coming true.

Willow soon learns that Hunter fears happiness at her side isn’t in the cards for him. With her natural optimism and courage, she almost convinces him he’s wrong—that they can really have that life together they both long for—but even Willow can’t stop what Hunter knows is coming.

One by one, his worst nightmares become reality, culminating in an unthinkable tragedy, which devastates everyone it touches. Willow’s battle begins in earnest as Hunter is plunged into a bleak, guilt-ridden despair, threatening to destroy not only their love, but Hunter, himself.

Finding Hunter is the story of a lost man’s desperate struggle to make his way home again, and one woman’s unshakeable faith in him and the power of their love.

That Darkest Place: Riverbend Book 3

“There are dark places in every heart, in every head. Some you turn away from. Some you light a candle within. But there is one place so black, it consumes all light. It will pull you in and swallow you whole. You don’t leave your brother stranded in that darkest place.”
~Hunter Painter~

The new year is a chance for new beginnings—usually hopeful, positive ones. But when Jackson Painter plows his car into a tree shortly after midnight on January 1, his new beginnings are tragic. His brothers, Forrest and Hunter, take up a grim bedside vigil at the hospital, waiting for Jackson to regain consciousness and anxious over how he’ll take the news that he’s lost a leg and his fiancée is dead. After all, the accident was all his fault.

As the shocking truth emerges, one thing becomes obvious—Jackson will need unconditional love and support from both of his brothers if he is to survive.

Just as he begins the long road to recovery, danger, in the form of a sinister, unsigned note, plunges him back into bleak despair. Scrawled in blood red letters, the accusation—and the threat—is clear. “MURDERER!”

Will the long, harrowing ordeal that lies ahead draw the Painter brothers closer together, or drive them apart forever?

Suspenseful and often heartbreaking, this small-town tale is a testimonial to the redemptive power of love and paints a story filled with humor, romance, and fierce family loyalty.

The Emissary: A Riverbend Spinoff Novella

An angel’s work is never done—that’s part of the gig. But angels hadn’t been created to deal with such a vastly over-populated planet, rife with misery, suffering, and general chaos. Helping souls in peril has become a nearly impossible job, and even angelic tempers are frayed.

The archangel Azrael has had enough. He believes he’s found a way to ease their burden while saving jeopardized humans, too—hired help.

When Jake Daughtry lost his life rescuing a total stranger from certain death, he was on the fast track to Heaven. But that was before Azrael pulled him right out of line at the Pearly Gates. Now, as an Emissary to the Angels, Jake is taking to the highway in a quest to help souls in trouble. But the innate stubbornness of human beings bent on self-destruction is a challenge unlike any he’s ever faced.

It’s up to Jake and Azrael to bridge the gap between humans and angels. Will they ever convince the Council of Angels this endeavor is worthwhile? Can Jake figure out how to play by Azrael’s complicated rules? Will Azrael ever master the use of contractions in general conversation?

To find out the answers, hop on board Jake’s big red-and-white semi and travel the roads from the Florida Keys to north Georgia on an adventure that will make you laugh hard and cry even harder.

The Emissary 2: To Love Somebody

They’re back!

Jake and Dodger, the first (and so far, only) Emissaries to the Angels, are on the road again.

They’re looking for mortals about to take a wrong turn. You know the ones—the kid thinking about stealing from a corner market or the man planning to lie about a coworker and destroy her career. Yeah, them. People on the brink of making a mistake that could send them down that wrong road and jeopardize their mortal souls.

Of course, there are rules by which the emissaries must play, and the archangel Azrael stands ready to enforce them. First and foremost, a person’s free will must never be compromised. Emissaries are allowed to use only the smallest of mental nudges. Thankfully, a whispered suggestion here or images of a better course of action there is usually all it takes. The potential mugger walks on by. The thief drops the wallet back into the unattended purse. But whether the results are obvious or not, Jake and Dodger are fully committed to making a positive difference, even as they struggle with issues of their own.

Will Dodger get over losing his chance to learn what true love is all about? Will Jake survive the grueling angelic equivalent of Boot Camp? Will Azrael ever finish the Official Emissarial Guidebook—including the chapter titled Do Not Even Think About It?

One thing’s for sure—Jake’s and Dodger’s strengths are growing daily, as they help more and more people make better choices. But is the price for so much power higher than they’re willing to pay?

The Emissary 3: Love Hurts

The archangel Azrael created his emissaries to help mortals avoid choices that would doom them for eternity. He hadn’t planned on the youngest member of the team falling in love with one. In Marcia Meara’s final installment of her Emissary Trilogy, a Riverbend spinoff series of novellas, we find our heroes facing a new problem, and it’s all because Dodger died before having a chance to learn what love was all about. His request that Azrael help him correct that situation causes a multitude of problems no one could have foreseen. Except the angel, himself.

Summer Magic: Poems of Life and Love

Summer Magic: Poems of Life & Love is a collection of contemporary poetry about exactly that–life and love. The first part of the book features poems about the magic a young boy discovers while camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The second part of the book has a sampling of poetry about love, life and death, autumn, and dreams coming true.

And there you have it, my friends. If anything in that list sounds good to you, now is the time to download your copy.  I’ve never  had a sale this big before, and might not ever have one like it again, so don’t miss out! (And don’t forget, Gifting a download to a Kindle-loving friend is easy, too.  Just sayin’ … 😄)

Amazon Author Page

 

A Wee Thought After a Difficult Week – #Poetry (Sort of)

/ Marcia Meara / 66 Comments

Ode to a Painted Bunting

A sign.
My heart called out for a sign.
Something to hang onto.
Something to give me hope.
Something to remind me the world can be beautiful,
And people can be kind, generous, and loving.

Just a sign.
Please.
Nothing momentous.
A simple reminder that Life can be good.
That’s all I asked.
All I needed.

And then …
A sudden glimpse of red,
An impossible flash of chartreuse,
A dollop of bluish purple …
There!

Just there, outside my window.
I held my breath, staring in wonder.
How could such a creature even be real?
So tiny and quick, and yet …
So brilliantly magical!
Reminding me of all the beauty in the world.

A sign.
That’s what it was.
And I smiled, at peace again,
And ready to face the day.

Painted buntings have been at my backyard birdfeeder for over 2 weeks now, passing through on their northward migration. I have been in awe every day, as they never stay here this long. (Guess they got the weather report and decided to postpone heading farther north). Last week was a tough one, and I was feeling pretty discouraged, but when I got up today and saw there were still two males and two of the solid green females at my feeder, I realized what a gift I’d been given. A sign, indeed! Better days are ahead! For ALL of us! 💖💖💖

 

#ThorsDay Smile #Humor #FunnyCritters

/ Marcia Meara / 51 Comments

It’s been a while, I know, so I thought I’d take a break from sneezing and moaning and groaning, and do something constructive … like maybe bring a few of you a laugh or two. I’m going with animals this time, because why not? They are usually good for a giggle or six, so here are some dogs and cats I hope will brighten your morning. Enjoy!

And the Grand Finale …

And there you have this week’s #ThorsDaySmile!

 

Happy Tewe’s Day!

/ Marcia Meara / 48 Comments

Just touching base to let you know I’m still here, and still improving slowly. Far too slowly to suit me, but it beats the heck outta getting worse, that’s for sure! 😁 

I’m kinda at a standstill on my Riverbend WIP and haven’t been quite “sharp” enough to make much progress on my Wake-Robin Ridge spinoff novella, either. Not quite sure what’s going on here, as I’ve never had this happen before, but this came to me yesterday. Maybe you guys can identify with it?

Writer’s block,
Tick-tock.
Mind in a cage,
Click-lock.
Hours go by,
What a crock!
My brain stays stuck,
Under a rock.
Writer’s block.
Tick-tock
……..tick-tock
…………….tick-tock.

And on that note of silliness, I shall get back to … something. Who knows? Today, that something might even be WRITING! 

#ReblogAlert – #Twofer – #ThisWeekOnStoryEmpire and #SmorgasbordWeeklyRoundUp

/ Marcia Meara / 10 Comments

 

A bit late this morning, but here you go! Another week, another recap of the fantastic posts on #StoryEmpire and Sally Cronin’s #Smorgasbord WeeklyRoundUp. Trust me … lots of stuff you won’t want to miss this week, so happy browsing!

As usual, #StoryEmpire has three most excellent posts on writing-related topics, and here are the direct links:

MONDAY: To start the week, D. Wallace Peach presents a wonderfully helpful post on one of my favorite topics–character development, and I know you’ll enjoy it as much as I did. Check out Crafting Rich Characters Part 1 HERE.

WEDNESDAY: Mid-week, we have Jan Sikes sharing a super post entitled #MKTG – Part 10 – More on Amazon Ads. If you struggle with marketing like I do, you’ll definitely want to check out this post, and the entire series! You can find this post HERE.

FRIDAY: And wrapping up the week, we have Craig Boyack’s super-interesting post Expansion Pack: Story Engineering, featuring some wonderful tips from author Sue Coletta. Check it out HERE.

And of course, you know I wouldn’t miss sharing Sally Cronin’s weekly roundup on her fabulous Smorgasbord blog. SO much going on over there, you’ll want to check it out to be sure you didn’t miss anything.

Check out this week’s #SmorgasbordWeeklyRoundUp HERE.