#ExcerptWeek – THE PRINCE’S SON by Deborah Jay #EpicFantasy

September 26, 2016September 30, 2016 / Deborah Jay / Debby Lush / 22 Comments

For excerpt week, I’ve decided to share a final sneak peek at book #2 in The Five Kingdoms series before I release it early November – yay!

And here, for the first time anywhere, is the beautiful cover…

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Here’s the blurb:

Nessa Haddo has been raised to seek what every well-bred young lady desires: a suitable husband. Unfortunately, as a younger twin in a land where superstition deems her cursed, that dream seems unattainable. When she sets her sights on the handsome foreign envoy sent to escort her sister to an arranged marriage, Nessa’s romantic fantasies entangle her in events beyond her darkest nightmares.

Compared to his last escapade, ex-spy Rustam Chalice’s commission sounds simple: wrangle an unwieldy bridal caravan across a mountain range populated by bandits, trolls, werecats and worse, try to cajole a traumatized princess out of her self-imposed isolation, and arrive on time for the politically sensitive wedding.

Meanwhile, Rustam’s former covert partner, Lady Risada, finally has what she needs, though not what – or who – she wants. Struggling to adjust to life outside the game, all her carefully honed assassin’s instincts are screaming warnings of foul play, yet she can find nothing obviously amiss.

And deep in the halls of a mountain clan, an old enemy plucks his victim’s strings with expert malice.

Now for the excerpt:

(To put this into context, Risada is heavily pregnant at the time of this incident. Oh, and it’s UK spelling.)

Small tapping sounds drew Risada’s attention back to the stairwell. About two thirds of the way up, the crouched figure was driving something into the wall. Without fully straightening, he moved across to the spindle opposite and wrapped something around it before tugging it taught.

“You promised no one would get hurt!” Bel protested. “If they trip over that they might break their necks!”

“That, my sweet Bel, is the idea.”

Risada’s maid took a step back, and although she faced away from the corner where her employer hid, her horrified comprehension radiated from her stiffened back all the way down to her shaking knees.

“And now, dear Bel, it’s time for your reward.”

Bel turned and fled, straight towards the entrance beside Risada’s hiding place. Risada caught the glint of steel in the assassin’s hand and barely stopping to think, thrust out a foot and tripped the running girl. A hefty dagger whistled through the space where Bel’s torso had been a moment before. Bel squealed and scrabbled along the ground, stumbling to her feet as she vanished around the corner.

Risada peeked around the shoulder of the statue shielding her, and her eyes met those of the man on the stair. He shrugged. “Oh well, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, but I suppose it will do as well.”

Lowering her estimation of her opponent’s professionalism for wasting time on speech, Risada slipped her small dagger from its concealed sheath beneath her breast, and assessed the situation. Screaming for help would do nothing. As Bel had stated earlier, the guards were all outside at this time of night, and the bedrooms were towards the back of the house, so too far away for anyone to hear. Bel had vanished, but whether she would raise the alarm was doubtful; she would probably think only of herself. Risada’s sole weapon was her small dagger, and she was hardly in peak physical shape for this sort of work.

On the other hand, as she watched the cocky son-of-a-whore swaggering down the staircase towards her, she realised she still possessed an element of surprise. He clearly had no idea she, like him, was a trained assassin.

“Please,” she added a small quaver to her entreaty. “You don’t have to do this.” Continue reading →

#ExcerptWeek – Austin Crawley @AustinOCrawley

September 26, 2016September 25, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 18 Comments

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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…

~~~

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

#ExcerptWeek – Gateway to Magic by Annabelle Franklin @Anabel1Franklin

September 25, 2016September 24, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 6 Comments

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

#ExcerptWeek – Bill Engleson @billmelaterplea

September 24, 2016September 27, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 7 Comments

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.” 17^th 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 →

Jumpstarting #ExcerptWeek #FindingHunter @marciameara

September 23, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 19 Comments

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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

#ComingSoon – #ExcerptWeek

September 17, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 17 Comments

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After checking my calendar, I realized that my schedule next week won’t allow me time to give my attention to running Excerpt Week, but the following week looks perfect. So, mark your calendars! Our next #ExcerptWeek will begin Saturday, 9/24, and will run through the close of day Sunday, 10/2. (A week, and one to grow on!)

If you are new to #ExcerptWeek, here are the guidlines:

1. Excerpts may be from any book or work in progress, published or not, but may not be political, religious, or overtly erotic in nature. (Fantasy world politics are fine, as are urban fantasies about angels, demons, etc. And sexy is fine. If you aren’t clear on the distinction between sexy and erotic, email me, and I’ll clarify.)

2. Excerpts may be any length you wish to share, though if they are very long, I will let them run in full for a day or two, then will insert the “Read More” tag. This is just to keep the home page from becoming too cluttered. Feel free to share as much as you like.

3. Those who are regular contributors may publish their excerpts at will. Those who aren’t must contact me, and I’ll explain how it’s done. PLEASE do NOT add your excerpt to the Comments section under anyone else’s post. Not only is that unfair to the original poster, but no one will SEE your work there. Just email me, and I’ll get you up on the main page, I promise. Email: mmeara@cfl.rr.com

4. You may publish more than one excerpt during the week, especially if things are slower than usual.

5. Sharing with The Write Stuff means your post will be passed along to many, many other viewers, so it’s a great chance for exposure. All we ask in return is that you do your part by sharing what others post, as often as possible. It’s what The Write Stuff is all about.

So, in brief, share your work, reach new readers, and help others reach them, too.

Again, for you folks who’ve never taken part in #ExcerptWeek here, just email me, and I will do my best to help. mmeara@cfl.rr.com

DON’T FORGET TO MARK YOUR CALENDARS!

Excerpt From #Harbinger: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 3

September 13, 2016September 13, 2016 / Marcia Meara / 13 Comments

Harbinger

Since things are a wee bit slow as summer heads into fall, I thought maybe I’d schedule another #ExcerptWeek. I will do a separate post on exactly when, and how to take part, so stay tuned for that. In the meantime, just to get you thinking about what you’d like to share with us, here’s an excerpt of my own from my latest book, Harbinger. A moment to provide a wee bit of comic relief in this shivery tale. Mac and Rabbit are on their way home from a visit with Sheriff Raleigh Wardell, where 11-year old Rabbit got to spend time with Raleigh’s grandson, Finn. Rabbit was raised in the wilderness, and Finn is the first child he’s ever met. Today, he also met Finn’s sister, Merry, who has left him gobsmacked, as Raleigh would say. Men are from Mars, Women from Venus? Maybe so. Hope you enjoy it.

~~~

Late Saturday Afternoon, March 22, 2014
Wake-Robin Ridge, North Carolina

“NICE AFTERNOON, HUH?”

Rabbit nodded.

“You really enjoy visiting with Finn, don’t you?”

Rabbit nodded.

“His sister seems nice.”

Rabbit turned three shades of red.

Mac reached across the seat and tousled his hair. “You can do better than that, can’t you? After all, you knew Finn had a sister.”

Once again, Rabbit nodded.

“Well, then, what’s got you so quiet about meeting her? Are you saying she wasn’t nice?”

“No! I mean, she was okay. I guess.”

“Just okay? I thought she was very pretty, and she seemed like a friendly girl.”

Rabbit gave a long, drawn out sigh. “You wouldn’t understand,” he finally muttered.

“Wouldn’t I? Do you think you’re the only guy who’s ever felt shy around a girl?”

“Wasn’t shy.”

“No?”

“Just didn’t know what to say to her.”

Mac grinned. “Ah. I see the fine distinction there.”

Scowling, Rabbit flushed redder than ever. “Don’t make fun. I ain’t never had that happen to me before.”

Mac’s smile disappeared, and he blew out a long breath. “I guess it does take some getting used to, doesn’t it? That feeling you get around them, when you want to say the right things, and look clever or funny, but nothing comes out the way you think it will.”

Rabbit turned sideways in his seat. “Did you feel like that when you met Mama? I mean, like every word you ever knew just up an’ left your brain, an’ you couldn’t quit starin’ at her, an’ you just knew that she could tell exactly what was happenin’ to you?”

Thinking back to the day he had raced down Sarah’s drive, hunting Rosheen, and had seen his future wife for the first time, Mac remembered the alarm he’d felt. “Yeah. I think you’ve about summed it up. Women have this way of turning men into powerless, speechless dolts sometimes, especially when we first lay eyes on them. It can knock the wind right out of our sails, but you’d better get used to it. You’re growing up fast, and it’s sure to happen more and more.”

“Huh.” Rabbit grew quiet again. After a few minutes, he blurted, “Trouble is, I can’t tell if I like feelin’ this way, or I hate it worse’n anything.”

“Welcome to the club, partner.”

He pulled his truck into the drive, and Rabbit raced for the house almost before it came to a stop. By the time Mac joined his family in the living room, the boy was in the middle of telling Sarah everything.

“An’ she was beautiful, Mama. Like you. Like an angel, but only wearin’ jeans an’ a t-shirt like me an’ Finn. An’ hangin’ on the fence to feed Pawnee an’ Peanuts, too.”

As Rabbit bounced a laughing Branna on his knee, Mac nodded his agreement. “She was, Sarah. A very pretty—”

“Beautiful,” corrected Rabbit, still tickling Branna.

“I mean beautiful. She was a very beautiful young girl. Charming, and just as nice as Finn.”

Rabbit handed Branna to Mac, then rose to pace back and forth across the living room floor. “I reckon I expected Finn’s sister would be just like him, only maybe wearin’ a dress, or carryin’ a doll, or somethin’. I never figured on someone like Merry. Are all girls so beautiful an’ smart?”

Sarah grinned at Mac before answering. “Some are, yes. And some aren’t. In that way, they’re very much like boys, Rabbit. Each one is different, but all of them are special.”

“Do they all make you feel unhappy about your own self?”

A slight frown touched her face as she responded. “How do you mean?”

“Dunno,” Rabbit mumbled, not meeting her eyes. “It’s hard to put in words. I reckon it’s that I wanted her to like me, but then I couldn’t come up with nothin’ good to say, an’ I started thinkin’ she wasn’t never gonna like no boy raised on a mountain like I was, anyway. I don’t even go to school, or into towns, or nothin’. For the first time, I saw there wasn’t all that much about me for her to like.”

Mac and Sarah started to protest at the same time, but Mac gave way and let his wife speak.

“Oh, Rabbit. You don’t ever have to feel bad about who you are. You’re so special, and so sweet, any girl would be happy to have you as a friend. Just you wait. If Merry doesn’t know this already, she soon will.”

“You sure, Mama? I’m askin’ you ‘bout this here stuff, ‘cause Daddy already told me that men mostly can’t understand women at all, so I figured you’d be the one who could ‘splain these things to me. I ain’t never had to think ‘bout girls before.” Rabbit’s voice went up an octave as a panicked expression swept across his features. “An’ now, I can’t think about nothin’ else!”

Mac ruffled Rabbit’s hair. “Don’t worry, Little Rabbit. Women might not make sense to you right now, or maybe even later on, but trust me on this. They’re worth it.”

~~~

Harbinger: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 3

#SALE #$0.99 this week – DESPRITE MEASURES, a Caledonian Sprite novel by Deborah Jay #UrbanFantasy

July 11, 2016 / Deborah Jay / Debby Lush / 10 Comments

Following a fabulous Excerpt Week (thanks Marcia), I have my urban fantasy DESPRITE MEASURES on sale for one week at $0.99/£0.99 (US & UK only, sorry folks) starting NOW, in case anyone would care to dip their toe into my fantastical world of elementals and magical happenings.

You can read the excerpt I shared here and you can find the book on Amazon here

Please share!