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!
Thursday 25th September
Victoria was lonely. It was a week since she’d arrived and she hadn’t made any friends yet. She sensed most of the women resented her. Probably because she was Seth’s favourite, she told herself, pushing away the memory of two days ago.
She hadn’t seen him to speak to since then.
She thought it would be so different being in a commune; that she’d belong; be accepted for herself. Not as Richard’s stroppy sister, or her parents’ difficult daughter, which she knew was how they thought of her, but as one of the community here; as Seth’s girlfriend. It wasn’t turning out like that; not yet anyway. Two of the girls in the dorm had already complained about the amount of time she spent on herself instead of her taking on a share of the work. Well, stuff them, they could get lost. She had no intention of looking as grungy as they did. Any more than she was going to learn how to do the stupid knitting Jasmine had insisted she tried. She reckoned if she kept on dropping stitches Jasmine would give up on her. As for using that makeshift cooking range… Victoria shut out the humiliating scene. That woman, Chrystal, hadn’t needed to be so nasty, how was she to know she was supposed to check there was enough wood to keep the fire going underneath? Wasn’t that a job for the men? The tears came easily.
She breathed on the window and rubbed a circle in the grime on the glass with her finger. Peering out, she shivered. She hated it here.
She hated the rusted fence, just yards from the building she was in, and beyond it the expanse of wasteland. Hated the ugly skeletons of old buildings, mapped out on the ground by foundation stones, covered in pink weeds and coarse grass. Hated the spindly-looking shrubs growing from the collapsed ruins of the old mill. She especially hated the large corroded metal sheets that had replaced a part of an old fence, blocking off any view of the road beyond. By twisting her head she could just about see the large gates, padlocked together and leaning lopsidedly against two brick pillars. Like a bloody prison, she thought.
The excitement she’d felt last Wednesday as they drove away from the boring little village in Wales had gone. She’d replaced one stifling place for another.
If only they hadn’t walked by the canal that day.
She flopped down on her mattress and looked down the long room that was allocated to the single women in the commune. There was no one else around but they’d left their smells behind. She crinkled her nose against the smell…no, the stench, she thought the stench of sweat, of unwashed hair. Body odours. She pulled at the thin, horrid sheet of material that divided her mattress from the next. It didn’t reach far enough for her; she’d have liked to shut everybody out completely. The ‘so called’ curtains separating the twelve narrow mattresses weren’t enough to give Victoria the privacy she’d been used to. But they were enough to make her feel cut off from the other girls when they chatted at night.
That was how she knew that Seth held the daily meditations that she hadn’t been allowed to go yet. All he’d said on the second day she was in the commune was, ‘I’ll know when you’re ready to join in.’
She listened to their discussions, jealous of their time spent with him, envious whenever one of them had been singled out for group contemplation. Wanting to feel part of what they shared. To learn how to find that spiritual peace she’d been unable to find. That Seth had promised her that day, way back in the summer.
~~~
When I’m not writing or teaching, I’m doing research for my writing, walking the Pembrokeshire countryside or reading and reviewing I review books for Rosie Amber’s Review Team #RBRT, along with some other brilliant authors and bloggers.
My Books:
Pattern of Shadows:
http://amzn.to/1onvi4R
http://amzn.to/1WBN3bP
Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-ca/ebook/pattern-of-shadows
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1Riznh1
Amazon.co.uk & Amazon.com
Changing Patterns:
http://amzn.to/21rNd6u
http://amzn.to/1U1TRSd
Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-ca/ebook/changing-patterns
Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1U1XmYD
Amazon.co.uk & Amazon.com
Living in the Shadows:
http://amzn.to/1PWBLiV
http://amzn.to/22grYXn
Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-ca/ebook/living-in-the-shadows-1
Barnes &Noble: http://bit.ly/1pHmeIh
Since we got such a rush of excerpts at the end of last week, I extended it for another one, but now it’s gone quiet again. You know what THAT means, doncha? You’ll be getting more of MINE, again. 😀 Starting with this one from Swamp Ghosts, which hasn’t been feeling the love around around here, and demanded that I give it equal time. Maggie Devlin and Gunnar Wolfe have just met, when Gunn hired Maggie to canoe him into some remote waterways to photograph rare birds. Turns out, Gunn knows nothing about canoes or boats at all. Hence, the early morning lesson before their first foray into the black waters of the St. Johns. And did I mention, prickly Maggie doesn’t much care for the big guy. So far. 🙂 Enjoy!
~~~
SUNDAY MORNING ARRIVED looking like a picture out of a travel brochure. A buttery yellow sun beamed down from a cloudless swath of blue sky, and the trees along the river were that jewel-like shade of green you only see in early summer. I watched Gunn as he surveyed the boat launch. “You sure you don’t want to do a dry run on land first?”
“Maggie, I’d feel silly standing over there under a tree, getting in and out of the canoe, instead of just launching it here, like anyone else. I’m sure I can do this.”
“Okay, Thor. Your funeral,” I muttered.
Gunn’s eyes widened. “Excuse me? Thor? Did you just call me Thor?”
I looked up from the cooler I was arranging in the stern of the canoe in order to offset his weight in the front. “Oh, please don’t tell me I’m the only one to ever call you that.”
He was put out. More so than I expected, though to be honest, I had been trying to get a rise out of him. His perpetual good humor was getting on my nerves this early in the morning.
“Actually, you are.” Now he had a definite scowl on his face.
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, look at you.”
He was growing redder, and his smile was ancient history, now. Hmmm. This was a different, and unexpected, side to Gunnar Wolfe.
“I beg your pardon? Look at me? What are you talking about?”
“Gunn, for Pete’s sake. You look just like the guy. You know? The guy from the Avenger movies?”
His mouth dropped open in astonishment, as though such a thought had never crossed his mind. “I don’t look like that guy!”
“Yes, you do. Exactly.”
“I do not!”
“Do.”
“Oh my God, Maggie. Just because we are both blond . . .”
“And huge.”
“And … big … doesn’t mean we look alike!”
He stomped back to the truck to get our floating seat cushions and paddles, muttering to himself every step of the way. Damn. I may have been trying to needle him a bit, but I didn’t expect it to be quite so successful.
We carried the canoe down to the area designated for launching smaller craft, and I pushed it nose first into the water, leaving the stern on the sand. I could tell he was still annoyed with me, but I figured it would be best to just ignore it.
“Watch how I do this.” I stepped into the canoe. “You have to be sure your feet are in the dead center, one right behind the other. You want to bend at the waist and hold onto the gunwaling—this aluminum edge around the top of the canoe—with each hand. Then you carefully walk forward bent like this, but remember to keep holding on for balance. Step over each thwart—these braces here—then step over the bow seat, and sit down. Once you’re sitting, I’ll push the canoe out, and we’ll talk about paddling. Remember, don’t let go of the gunwaling while you’re walking. Oh, and be careful to keep your feet centered directly over the keel. That’s this indentation right here that runs down the middle of the canoe.”
I straightened up, turning to get out and realized Gunn had that look on his face. You know … the one guys get when they are staring at your butt and don’t think you will catch them? But then you do, and they get this stupid, wide-eyed look of fake innocence that makes you want to smack them with a two by four? Yeah. That look. Continue reading
One of my inspirations for the Birdwell drive.
Just wanted to share a brand new excerpt from Harbinger, for those who’d like to read a completely different type of scene. This one features Mac and his adopted son, Rabbit, hiking up a long, deserted mountain driveway to an abandoned cabin. I won’t go into the reasons they’re headed that way, because it would involve spoilers, but I think the scene might capture your imagination, anyway. Hope you’ll take a minute to check it out, and my heartfelt thanks to Carmen for having me as a guest on her blog. (I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that someone in Romania is posting a sample of my work. What a world we live in!)
Check out the Excerpt HERE.
Available on Amazon in Print and Kindle Format
Pairs on Ice, a Novel for Tweens
Jamie, 12, is a competitive figure skater who dreams of the Olympics. She won a medal at the U.S. National Championships and is getting ready for the next season. At the rink one afternoon, her coach, Christa, tells her that some people are coming to watch her skate, but won’t say who or why. Jamie’s best friend suggests that they could be millionaires who want to sponsor her skating. Jamie laughs, but then wonders if maybe it could be true. At the end of her lesson, she skates her freestyle program.
“Good job,” Christa said, “but not perfect.”
“And you gotta be perfect to win.” Jamie said it before Christa could.
But Christa wasn’t listening. She was scanning the bleachers again. Jamie followed her eyes to three people—a man, a woman and a boy—sitting by themselves near the top. How could she have missed them before? The man looked like any parent, with dark hair, brown jacket, and a cup of coffee in his hand. But the woman! Her pouffed up bleached hair and white fur jacket wasn’t like any mom Jamie had ever seen. Jamie studied the boy. He was wearing all black and . . . her eyes froze. He was the wild skater who almost ran her down!
“That’s the O’Connors,” Christa said, turning back to Jamie. “I’ll introduce you to them, but first, we have to talk. Let’s go to my office.”
Jamie watched them clump down the bleachers. The woman led the way. No one smiled. Jamie knew one thing already–they didn’t want to sponsor her skating. A knot formed in her stomach as she followed Christa to the edge of the rink. She had a bad feeling about this.
They stepped off the ice, only to find their way blocked by the woman. Christa took Jamie’s arm and tried to maneuver around her. “Nice to see you, Violet. Jamie and I will meet you in the snack bar in a few minutes.”
She might have been talking to the air. The woman didn’t budge. The stiletto heels on her black boots dug deep into the soft flooring surrounding the rink.
“I don’t know, Christa,” she said, waving long red nails at Jamie. “She’s the right size, but how can you think her skating’s up to Matt’s? I mean, she two-footed the landing of her one triple and . . .”
Jamie flinched as the woman attacked her skating.
“Violet, please,” Christa interrupted. “Not now. I told you I had to talk to Jamie.”
The woman kept talking. “. . . her form in the double combination wasn’t all that good.”
The boy in black looked at Jamie as if she were a bug he wanted to squash. “I have two triples down cold,” he said. “I’m not going to skate with anyone who can’t even . . . Hey, I bet you’ve never even skated pairs, have you?” He jabbed at her. “Huh?”
Jamie stepped back. Who WAS this kid? And why was he talking about pairs?
Christa tried again. “Please, all of you. Get yourselves a snack and wait for us.”
The session ended and skaters poured off the ice. Violet shook her head at the crowded counter. “It’s too busy in there. We should go to your office.” She looked at Jamie again. “Although I think we might be wasting our time.”
The man in brown smiled at Jamie. He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Come on, Violet, let’s do what Christa says. And if you want my opinion, I think the young lady skates beautifully.”
From the look Violet gave him, Jamie knew she didn’t want his opinion.
The Zamboni rumbled onto the ice to start its slow circles around the now-empty rink, leaving a layer of clean, smooth ice with each pass.
Jamie shivered at Matt and Violet’s icy glares. “Could somebody maybe give me a clue about what’s going on?” she demanded. “’Cause I have better things to do than stand here and freeze.”
Christa sighed. She shot an angry look at Violet before turning to Jamie. “Okay, I guess I didn’t handle this very well.”
Ya think? Jamie thought.
“I’m sorry,” Christa said. “I wanted the O’Connors to see you skate . . . but I had planned that we’d talk . . . you see, you’re a talented skater, but you . . . so when Matt needed a partner . . .” She took a deep breath. “I thought you and Matt would make a good pairs team.”
Pairs? With Matt? Jamie’s eyes widened. She wasn’t a pairs skater. And even if she was, she’d rather eat worms than skate with someone as full of himself as Matt, whose crazy mother already hated her. What was Christa thinking?
~~~
ELIZABETH WEISS VOLLSTADT has many happy memories of skating on a nearby pond when she was growing up on Long Island, NY. Like Jamie’s stepmother, she marveled at skaters who could jump, spin, and glide over the ice. When her daughter became a skater, she enjoyed several years as a skating mom.
Elizabeth has also written Young Patriots: Inspiring Stories of the American Revolution. She lives in Florida with her husband where she enjoys reading and boating on the St. Johns River.
~~~
Find Elizabeth here:
http://www.amazon.com/author/elizabethvollstadt
www.elizabethvollstadt.blogspot.com
Genre: Paranormal/light romance/light historical/light mystery
Mystery, Suspense, Reincarnation
Anne’s relationship with her boyfriend Neil has disintegrated. After a two-year separation, they pack for a week vacation in hopes of reconciling. But fate has other plans for them.
The discovery of a bejeweled cross and ancient human bones opens a door to a new and frightening world–one where the ghost of a medieval nun named Genevieve will not let Anne rest. This new world threatens not only to ruin Anne and Neil’s vacation but to end all hopes of reconciliation as Anne feels compelled to help free Genevieve’s soul from its torment.
Can Anne save her relationship and help Genevieve find her eternal rest?
A touching, compelling story of tragedy, loss and the power of endless love and good magic.
The twists and turns in this paranormal tale keep the reader guessing up to the end and weave themselves together into a quest to rekindle love.
The mountain shadows grew thicker and closer.
Genevieve moved her weight from one leg to the other. They ached from so much standing, but she lacked the strength to return to the gardener’s cottage and wait for Andrew’s arrival as planned. She closed her tired eyes. The image of old Ryan, slumped dead in his chair in his cubicle, caught life in her mind and made her whole body ripple with fear.
She’d rather wait for Andrew here, outside.
Had he forgotten his promise? What if something terrible befell him during the last three days, or he had changed his mind? Why should he risk all for an ordinary nun?
Had his folks talked him into giving her up, made him see reason? Helping her out of her predicament meant a huge risk for him –losing his family, his friends and his position among his peers. His words echoed in her mind. “I will risk everything for you, even life, if necessary.”
A gust of wind swirled the dust on the path and dried the beads of sweat covering her temple. She shivered and pressed her cool hands to her cheeks. Had she misunderstood Andrew? No. She remembered vividly what he’d told her when they talked in Ryan’s cottage. Three days. The evening of the third day, she should wait at Ryan’s.
Her gaze strayed again to the impassive building of the abbey, her home for such a long time. She blamed the increasing wind for the sudden trail of dampness on her face, for the unmistakable tears blurring her vision. She blinked several times to clear her view. This was no time for tears.
Genevieve’s brow wrinkled, and her breath caught in her throat. Sister Francesca and Sister Benedicta smiled and waved at her from the abbey’s entrance.
She shook her head and closed her eyes. Impossible. Both were dead. Genevieve wiped her tears and gazed at the abbey again. The image of the two sisters, so dear to her, faded out.
Genevieve dared another peek along the path from the town.
Not a sound. Not a shadow.
Hopefully, Andrew hadn’t decided to follow the direct route through the forest. Danger lurked there. He should know all the dark legends people told about the cursed forest.
“Dear God, protect Andrew from the evil forest,” she prayed; Andrew’s face came to her as she’d last seen it three days before.
His kind loving eyes. His soft encouraging words. His tender touch.
She recalled the turmoil of emotions she’d experienced when she first met Andrew. Everything made sense now, in the light of the latest events. The warm waves coming from him and engulfing her, searing her body and soul, and the anxiety following those waves. It had been love at first sight. A feeling neither of them wanted to admit to until recently.
Love. Love and sin.
Carmen Stefanescu resides in Romania, the native country of the infamous vampire Count Dracula, but where, for about 50 years of communist dictatorship, just speaking about God, faith, reincarnation or paranormal phenomena could have led someone to great trouble – the psychiatric hospital if not to prison.
High school teacher of English and German in her native country, and mother of two daughters, Carmen Stefanescu survived the grim years of oppression, by escaping in a parallel world that of the books.
Several of her poems were successfully published in a collection of Contemporary English Poems, Muse Whispers vol.1 and Muse Whispers vol.2 by Midnight Edition Publication, in 2001 and 2002.
Her first novel, Shadows of the Past, was released in 2012 by Wild Child Publishing, USA. On 9th June 2016 she had a new release, Till Life Do Us Part, with Solstice Publishing.
Carmen joined the volunteer staff at Marketing For Romance Writers Author blog and is the coordinator of #Thursday13 posts.
* * * * * * * * * *
Buy links: Wild Child Publishing
http://www.wildchildpublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=84&products_id=410
All Romance
https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-shadowsofthepast-1013184-140.html
Buy Link: Barnes & Noble
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/shadows-of-the-past-carmen-stefanescu/1113910162?ean=2940015715026
You can stalk the author here:
http://shadowspastmystery.blogspot.ro/
https://twitter.com/Carmen_Books
http://www.pinterest.com/carmens007/
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Carmen-Stefanescu-Books/499245716760283
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6624397.Carmen_Stefanescu
https://plus.google.com/117216040843648957646/posts
http://www.amazon.com/Carmen-Stefanescu/e/B00APVDGAA/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
Thought I’d squeeze in an excerpt of my own, if you guys will indulge me. This is a scene from Chapter 3 of Harbinger: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 3. Hope it gives you a shiver or two, and you get a small hint as to the kind of man Cadey Hagen is, along the way. Enjoy!
~~~
3:00 A.M. Sunday, March 2, 2014
Morganton, North Carolina
EYELASHES FROZEN, EACH gasping breath a snowy plume in the frigid night air, the boy ran for his life. Heart pounding, he scrambled up the wooded slope, terror driving him faster and faster.
There! Just ahead, a warm light glowed in a small window. Home. Safety. Only a few yards more.
He lurched forward, sure he was going to make it, now. His heart sang with joy, even as his foot slid on an icy patch of old snow, and he went down hard, knocking the wind right out of himself. The metallic taste of blood from his bitten tongue flooded his mouth, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. He was simply too tired to keep going.
No, no, no…get up. You got to get up. You’re almost there.
Desperation gave him a last burst of energy, and panting, he struggled to his knees. The woods loomed dark and silent around him, and he dared to hope he had outrun his pursuer. Then he heard it. A soft rumble at first, the sound built into a full-throated growl, coming from the last stretch of trees between him and his daddy’s tiny cabin. Somehow, it had gotten in front of him. He was cut off!
As he stared in horror, two glowing pinpoints of red appeared not ten feet away, growing steadily larger, as the beast stepped out of the bushes and into the moonlight. The dog was huge, and black as coal. And those fiery eyes stared unblinking, directly into his.
Whimpering, he felt a rush of warmth as he wet himself. He’d seen the Black Dog, and that meant it had come for him. He was going to die.
Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, he heard his aunt calling his name, but it was already too late. When Ol’ Shuck shows up to get you, it’s always too late. Still, she called, her voice coming from far away.
“Cadey? Cadey . . . ?”
He tried to answer, but could make no sound, and stood helpless, watching. Just before it leapt, the Black Dog’s lips peeled back, revealing long, gleaming teeth. Hot, foul breath washed over his face, as Ol’ Shuck opened its mouth impossibly wide, and Cadey tumbled forward into its reeking maw.
At last, he screamed.
“Cadey? Cadey? Wake up. You’re tearin’ all the blankets off the bed with your thrashin’ around. Come on. Wake up, honey.”
With a cry, Cadey Hagen bolted upright, head swiveling this way and that, as he recognized the familiar shadows of his darkened bedroom.
His wife of ten years was sitting up, as well, her face lined with concern. “Are you okay now? You were havin’ a bad dream, hon. Haven’t had one like that in a while, have you? You want to talk? Bet you won’t be goin’ back to sleep any time soon. I can make coffee, if you like. It won’t be any trouble, Cadey. How about I make some coffee for us, and you tell me about your dream? Would you like that?”
What he would like would be for his wife to shut the hell up and let him catch his breath. But of course, that wasn’t going to happen. The woman didn’t know how to close that mouth of hers, even when he asked her to.
“No, Vonda. No need to get up. I’ll be fine in a minute. Just go back to sleep, okay?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Where are you goin’? I mean, I really can make some coffee, if you can’t go back to sleep. I’ll be happy to get up with you.”
“Vonda, for God’s sake. Can I just go pee by myself? I’ll be back as soon as I’m done in the bathroom. I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to listen to you talk, either.”
He glanced at the clock. “It’s three in the morning. No one drinks coffee at three in the morning, even if they’ve had a bad dream. Now go to sleep, dammit!”
To give her credit, she did shut up then, lying back down, but her hurt silence made more noise than her rapid-fire chatter. He knew if he didn’t apologize, the rest of the night would be a lost cause.
He patted her arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It was just the dream still hanging on. Really, I’m fine now. Just go back to sleep, and I will, too, when I’m done. We can talk tomorrow, if you want.”
She gave him a tremulous smile, nodded, and turned over, always ready to do his bidding. It was one thing he really liked about her. Maybe the only thing.
In the privacy of the bathroom, he sat on the closed toilet seat, and buried his head in his hands. The dream had really shaken him up, even though he’d been having it every three or four months for twenty years. You’d think it would have disappeared by now, or at least changed in some way. Or maybe, he could just once be smart enough to realize it was the dream, as soon as it started.
But no. That never happened. And every single time, it all proceeded exactly the same way, except for one odd thing. It was always the same season in the dream world that it was in the real one.
Other than that, nothing ever changed. The dream would start with him running through the dark woods, heart pounding, and desperation building, as he tried to make it back to the safety of his home. Every painful gasp, every terrified cry, the same each time, until he pitched forward into the foul-smelling darkness of that hideous mouth.
When his shivers subsided, he washed the sweat from his face, got a drink of water, and headed back to bed, where Vonda already snored softly. Hoping he’d have no trouble falling to sleep, he crawled in beside her. Only a few hours until he had to be at church, to take care of several tasks before his Bible study class got underway. Plus, there were items to get ready before regular services started, too.
Being the deacon at the Light of Grace Baptist church carried important responsibilities, and he wanted to be sure people noticed how well he carried them out.
~~~
Harbinger: Wake-Robin Ridge Book 3 is available on Amazon here, in both print and Kindle format. (Do be aware that while it can be read alone, there are some things that will make more sense if you’ve read the preceding two.)
Until we actually live through something, it’s difficult to imagine what the experience is like. When I was young but nearing menopause, I became interested in how the physiques of menopausal women began to change. Women come in all shapes and sizes, but I noticed that even the waistlines of smaller women weren’t as proportionately small as their slight frames suggested. I was certain the dreaded middle-age spread would not apply to me, and I referred to it as circumference expansion.
As we approach the early stages of menopause, estrogen begins to cozy up to our midriffs. Then, when we reach menopause, our depleted estrogen is replaced by cortisol-induced fat cells. Cortisol compensates for estrogen loss and loves to store fat cells around the belly. Thanks again, estrogen, for abandoning us and leaving us with an unfair trade-off of fat as your substitute! This is certainly a cruel punishment for those of us who worked so diligently to stay on top of our weight issues.
As a woman who had spent most of her young life on diets and lived fearfully by the scale, I was sure this phase would spare me. I thought it was simple: If we let ourselves get out of control and eat too much, of course we’ll gain weight. I believed that if I was disciplined in my diet and exercise regime, I wouldn’t have a problem with my waistline expanding.
Wrong again.
My waist used to be my smallest feature, compared to my curvy hips. As a petite woman with a short waist-to-hip ratio, I was obsessed with keeping my weight down. Granted, as I approached my thirties and forties, my body weight began to shift. I had to accept that my twenty-six-inch waist had grown to twenty-nine inches all on its own. I did my best to maintain what I had left after I went through The Change. I noticed, without any change in my diet or exercise, that those little muffin tops or love handles, as they are so affectionately named, had somehow attached themselves to my body. Whoever had given them such sweet names was either deranged or male, I decided.
My body seemed to take on a new life. Don’t get me wrong, I can still fit into my pants, but somehow they don’t look quite as good with the outline of a muffin top through my shirt. Oddly enough, my hips and thighs have managed to remain the same size, albeit not as firm. But meno muffin had taken up residence in my midsection. My body had definitely been re-proportioned. Getting dressed became a completely new experience. Gone now were the wool sweaters and turtlenecks of the past, as were my nice fitted tops.
When I was younger, if I gained weight, it went directly to my hips and thighs. The new targets were my waist, arms, and back. No longer was I only plagued by my fear of an expanding waistline—I had discovered fatback. I’m sure many of you are well acquainted with this dragon. This is a fat attack on the upper body, love handles that stick out of the bra line when you wear a fitted top. I have yet to learn of any invention with the ability to camouflage this. Can we even liposuction this? I’ve gotten into the habit of buying my tops one size up to try to combat this occurrence. Hey, whatever works. It doesn’t eliminate the problem, but at least it doesn’t accentuate my overage.
Listen: We can exercise, starve, self-tan, buy bigger clothes, wear Spanx, or put on a happy shade of lipstick. Whatever it takes to make us feel better about ourselves, I say we should go for it. The bottom line is that we all reach a stage where we have to accept ourselves. We can highlight our best features, we can laugh and make light, and we should always just be grateful that we are still on the right side of the green.
D. G. Kaye
Please feel free to visit and follow me at:
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Check out my books and read first chapters:
Conflicted Hearts: www.smarturl.it/bookconflictedhearts
Words We Carry: www.smarturl.it/bookwordswecarry
August 1944
The wedding party piled off the bus, a rowdy giggling crowd, leaving it almost empty.
‘That bus driver had a shock seeing us lot,’ Patrick laughed.
‘The conductor sent his best wishes,’ Mrs Winterbottom said to Jean, peering from under the brim of her hat which had been knocked crooked in the crush. She straightened it and followed at a sedate pace as they crowded into The Crown. The groom’s father was already there. He sat in his usual place in the corner of the room by the large stone fireplace, pint pot in hand. There was no fire in the hearth; instead a large aspidistra filled the space, Betty Green’s contribution to the celebrations.
It was a gloriously sunny day. Some of the guests, mostly Patrick’s workmates and a few off duty nurses from the hospital, collected their drinks from the bar and made their way outside to sit on the benches. Except for Ellen the family stayed inside.
‘I don’t know why you couldn’t have come to the Registry Office,’ Winifred stood over her husband, brave enough to challenge him in a roomful of people.
He didn’t answer. Instead he raised his glass. ‘Cheers, you two,’ he shouted across the room, ‘mine’s a pint.’
Mrs Winterbottom, resplendent in her matching floral hat and dress, once the curtains in the back bedroom of her house, looked at him with distaste and turned her back.
Mary watched Patrick carry the foamless beer over to her father. Wedding or no wedding Stan Green wasn’t going to let sentiment get in the way of business; if anything the ale looked more watered down than ever.
‘You’re feeling generous,’ she said to her brother as he passed her.
‘I told you, nowt’s going to spoil today. Master of my own house now, our kid.’ He winked at her. She supposed he was right, Jean’s home was his now, though it didn’t seem quite right. She hoped when her friend realised that it wasn’t too much of a shock
‘What’re you having Mam? Stout, sherry?’ Mary said, pulling out one of the chairs at her father’s table. ‘Sit down, it’ll be a crush once they bring the food out, so you’ll be better off over here.’ She put a hand on her father’s shoulder. ‘You’re ok with that aren’t you Dad?’ She made the warning clear. ‘You’ll make sure there’ll be nothing that spoils the day for Patrick and Jean, won’t you?’
He waved his hand, refusing to meet her eye. ‘Just keep the drinks coming,’ he said.
‘I wish out Tom could be here, Mary.’
‘And me, Mam.’
Bill glowered into his glass.
At the bar Mary stood next to Jean and her new husband.
Although Jean was paler than usual the weight Mary’s friend had lost suited her and she looked lovely in the fitted powder blue silk and wool crepe mix two – piece that she’d bought from the Co-op for eleven coupons; six of which were Mary’s, her wedding gift. She still gripped the prayer book that she’d carried for the ceremony and every now and then touched the artificial spray of white carnations on her lapel. Her dark curls escaped from the short lace veil and the swathe of pale blue net across her forehead accentuated her eyes. Mary grinned, Mrs Winterbottom could certainly work wonders with curtains and Dolly Blue.
She’d also made Mary and Ellen’s dresses.
*
‘Could have been a bit fancier,’ Ellen grumbled, the first time they tried them on, ‘she just doesn’t want us take any attention away from Jean.’
The girls were both standing on kitchen chairs in the front room of Moss Terrace.
‘Sshhhh, stop whinging and stand still,’ Winifred hissed through a mouthful of pins. ‘I might not like the woman but she’s done you both proud. Now let me finish this hem or we’ll be here all day.’
Elsie Winterbottom came through from the kitchen holding a large tray with a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits and four china cups and saucers that Mary had never seen before.
‘Patrick,’ Ellen mouthed, pointing at the biscuits.
Mary shrugged and frowned.
‘Your Patrick got the parachute silk for us,’ Mrs Winterbottom said, ‘I cut it on the bias across the weave of the fabric so that it fits nicely’.
*
It did; it clung closely to their slender figures and now Mary pulled self – consciously at the waist, smoothing it down over her hips and watching Ellen blatantly playing to the admiring glances of Patrick’s friends.
‘Look at that lot gawking at her,’ Jean nudged Mary who turned her back to the group of men following her sister to the bar.
‘Silly devils! I hope the wedding photographs turn out ok,’ Mary said deliberately. It would be a good day to remember out of all the dark times they’d had.
‘I could have killed you lot for watching us through the window when we went into the studio for that photo.’
‘Well, you have to admit it was a scream,’ Mary grinned.
‘We were supposed to be driving away on our honeymoon,’ Jean said, ‘that’s why we had the country scene in the background.’
‘Sitting on two chairs behind a cardboard car?’
Jean giggled. ‘I’ll have you know that was a Lanchester Convertible.’
‘Best bit was when Patrick fell off his chair and knocked the whole thing over,’ Mary laughed.
‘Oi, watch it,’ Patrick punched her lightly on the arm. ‘It was a bloody silly idea anyway.’
‘He bent one of the headlamps, the photographer was furious.’ Jean joined in the laughter. ‘It was good of Tom to send money to Patrick to pay for the photographs out of his prison wages.’
A shadow crossed Mary’s face; whatever Patrick thought about him, she knew Tom loved his brother. It had probably taken months for him to save the six shillings they cost. She just hoped Patrick appreciated it.
‘Hope you remember to write and thank Tom, Patrick,’ Mary said.
The laughter faded. ‘I will,’ he said, ‘don’t worry, our Mary, I will.’
‘Grub’s up.’ Stan Green carried in long wooden tray filled with salad, potatoes and bread and put it on the line of tables covered with blue and white checked tablecloths, alongside the elaborate wedding cake.
‘Cake’s lovely,’ Winifred called to Mrs Winterbottom. Jean’s mother sniffed and pushed the cake to one side to make room for the plates of food Stan was unloading.
‘Hey up, you’ll have it over.’ Winifred shouted again, finishing her third sherry. The cake tilted to reveal a small sponge underneath.
‘I thought you’d splashed out,’ Mary whispered to Jean, who giggled and clutched hold of Patrick’s arm, pulling him closer to her.
‘It’s a model, isn’t it Patrick?’
‘No!’ Mary said in mocked surprise.
‘We hired it from Hirst’s bakery.’
Patrick waggled his eyebrows. ‘Only the best cardboard for us today.’
‘Ice cream for afters,’ Stan called.
‘You really pushed the boat out today for us, Mr Green,’ Mary said.
‘Got an allowance for extra food,’ he said. ‘You know, dried egg, margarine, cheese and a few other bits and bobs.’ He gathered up the long strand of greasy hair that had fallen over his ear and stroked it back across his head. ‘And your Patrick got us some stuff as well.’
Mary blocked her immediate response; if her brother couldn’t use his black market connections today when could he? Holding her plate aloft, she pushed her way through the groups of people, smiling and adding to the babble of conversations. ‘You had enough to eat, Mam.’
‘I have, love, I’ve had your dad’s as well; he didn’t want any,’ Winifred said. ‘It was a lovely spread.’ She smiled and patted her navy handbag that matched her dress. ‘I’ve put some by for tomorrow.’ Then she lifted her chin. ‘What’s Ellen doing?’
Mary looked over to where Ellen swayed around in front of Jean. ‘Show me your wedding ring then,’ her voice was shrill, ‘God, I bet that cost a fortune,’
Mary could tell she was being sarcastic; she hoped Jean couldn’t.
‘Twenty five shilling and ninepence from Wright’s in Bradlow,’ Jean twirled the ring round her finger with the pad of her thumb, ‘it’s a bit big at the moment but Patrick says when I get a bit of meat on my bones it’ll be just right.’
His smile softened the angular lines of his face.
‘Al says he’ll give me his grandmother’s wedding ring,’ Ellen boasted. ‘It’s twenty four carat. He inherited it.’ She smoothed her hands over her blonde hair that, like Mary’s, had been carefully rolled to frame her face. ‘He says when we get home to Philadelphia.’ She obviously liked the sound of that as she repeated it. ‘When we get home to Philadelphia, we’ll have the biggest, fanciest wedding, one that will beat any over here into a cocked hat. He says when he takes me to America we’ll have servants. He says all American wives have servants.’
He says a lot of things from the sound of it, Mary thought, edging past the scrum of people at the food table. Her sister was heading for a fall with that American, she was sure of it. She touched Ellen’s elbow. ‘Come and have something to eat.’
‘Not hungry. ‘Ellen was surly; she stood with one hand on her hip, head poked forward, ‘and I still don’t know why Al wasn’t allowed to come to the wedding; since we’re as good as engaged, he’s almost my fiancé.’
‘We don’t know him; none of us do. And how would you have explained him to Dad?’
‘Oh, bugger off, Mary.’
‘The ‘appy couple are leaving now,’ Stan Green bellowed. Everyone cheered and swarmed outside. The brightness of the sun caused the sky to shimmer, the tar between the cobbles glistened and heat radiated from the walls of the pub.
‘Couldn’t have been a lovelier day,’ Jean’s mother linked arms with Winifred who was fanning her face with the woman’s hat.
‘By it’s a warm one alright.’ Four sweet Sherries each and they were best friends, at least for the day, as Winifred confided to her eldest daughter later.
Jean clasped Mary to her. ‘Thanks for everything.’ Tears threatened to spill over.
‘You are very welcome … sister-in-law,’ Mary beamed. ‘And I’ll take your wedding presents back to our house and look after them until you can pick them up.’
They giggled; the couple had been given seven hand knitted tea cosies and two lots of egg cosies.
‘You guard them with your life,’ Jean warned. ‘I’m expecting them to last until our Silver Wedding Anniversary.’ She grabbed hold of her husband’s hand.
Some of the nurses had been collecting bits of paper from the office paper punch at the hospital for the last month and now they scattered them like confetti over Patrick and Jean as they ran up the street, Jean’s hand flat on top of her head to hold on her veil.
‘Don’t forget, I’ll be back from Aunty Florrie’s on Friday,’ Jean’s mother called.
‘Thanks for reminding us,’ Patrick shouted. ‘I’ll be sure to lock the door.
Even as Mary joined in the laughter a cold sadness filled her.
***
Judith Barrow
When I’m not writing or teaching, I’m doing research for my writing, walking the Pembrokeshire countryside or reading and reviewing I review books for Rosie Amber’s Review Team #RBRT, along with some other brilliant authors and bloggers.
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Pattern of Shadows:
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Genre: Urban Fantasy
DESPRITE MEASURES (yes, you read that right) is the tale of a Scottish water sprite who’s quiet life is jeopardised by a magician intent on using her natural powers to fuel his dangerous experiments in energy production.
A reviewer recently described it as ‘an eco-urban fantasy’ which sums it up pretty well.
The drive into town seemed to take forever.
In truth, it took no longer than any other time, but I was impatient. I’d chosen the Audi Quattro this time—no point making things easy for Liam—and I was frustrated that I could not use all the power the sleek little beauty offered me. Every driver who delayed me by even a fraction of a second had me fuming at the wheel. By the time I turned into the club’s paved driveway, I was as near boiling point as it is prudent for a sprite to reach. A discreet parking attendant, whom I suspected doubled as a bouncer, pointed me to an empty bay, and then directed me to the head of the stairs leading down to the basement club. Not wanting to arrive looking flustered, I paused to gather myself.
Hair still caught in pony tail band. Check. Dress neckline showing equal expanse of skin either side of cleavage. Check. Hem straight and not quite riding high enough to show that I hadn’t wasted mass on fashioning underwear. Check.
Ready to go, I stepped one well-shod foot onto the first step down. And froze. Involuntarily, my body ceased to function. My mind blanked and a chill of fear iced my veins. I gazed numbly at the slender, dark figure lurking at the base of the stairs until he glanced away, freeing me, permitting life to return to the lifeless.
My paralysed brain shot back to working order. Recognition of the figure chilled me all over. Vampire.
Not something you see every day in downtown Inverness, but I’d encountered enough of them in the distant past to know one when I saw one. And to know the horror of being trapped by their gaze, unable to move or even to think.
This one, darkly handsome and with more than a passing resemblance to a youthful Bryan Ferry with his ever-present hint of a sneer, glanced at me again but without interest. Vampires prefer their blood more full bodied than the pseudo-stuff that runs through my counterfeit veins.
Somewhat troubled at finding his sort here, I was, however, still determined to continue with my evening’s plans. I descended, brushing past the cold figure in his immaculate Armani suit. A body-wracking shiver ran down my spine, even though I knew I was in no danger from him.
I wondered what he was doing here. Perhaps it was simply a good place for him to get a carry-out meal.
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