tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43794858266019133162024-03-17T20:03:45.613-07:00Better Living Through FantasyThe blog of fantasy writer A.M. Manay.A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.comBlogger223125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-75287368279011975692019-10-20T20:00:00.000-07:002019-10-20T20:00:04.587-07:00Welcome to the "MOMENTS WE LOVE" Blog Tour! @BalroopShado @4WillsPub #RRBC<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is my pleasure today to welcome a fellow member of Rave Reviews Book Club, Balroop Singh. Keep reading to learn about her poetry. Take it away, Balroop!<br />
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Moments of fragrant love that stand frozen in time, of dreams that dare not unfold, of passion that leets by, of erratic joy that we meet at the crossroads of life, butterflies of time that add color to our dark moments to scare the demons away – I have gathered all of them in this book. Some of them whisper softly to create a magical aura while spring of life sings with them, trying to wipe silent tears. Mother Nature steps in with all her grandeur to breath quiet messages of tranquility.<br />
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Each poem would soothe your emotions with élan and add a dash of color to your life. Life – that doesn’t halt for your sad moments; that just floats by. You just need to dive in to soak in myriads of moments to discover how it could ignite positive tones. All the poems in this collection are imaginary but inspired from people around me, some of whom chose to share their frustrations and tremors with me. Sometimes I could read between the lines to pen my thoughts down.<br />
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Memories and moments merge here<br />
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Today when I return to share<br />
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The glow of rainbows<br />
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Embers of emotional entreaties<br />
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And smoldering debris.<br />
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Buying links:<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07W57M462">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07W57M462</a><br />
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<a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/us/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">US</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/uk/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">UK</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/de/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">DE</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/fr/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">FR</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/es/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">ES</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/it/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">IT</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/nl/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">NL</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/jp/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">JP</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/br/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">BR</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/ca/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">CA</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/mx/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">MX</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/au/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">AU</a> <a href="https://kdp.amazon.com/amazon-dp-action/in/dualbookshelf.marketplacelink/B07W57M462">IN</a><br />
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Many of my poems are inspired by nature:<br />
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<b>This Fall </b><br />
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The fall adds wings to my words <br />
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The soft swish of breeze carries them away<br />
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Floating down merrily, they smile at me<br />
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And dance around with glee.<br />
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The ‘J’ of joy, the ‘M’ of melancholy<br />
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The ‘S’ of solitude, the ‘T’ of twilight<br />
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The ‘H’ of hope, the ‘C’ of calmness<br />
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All merge into each other<br />
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Enhancing the beauty of brilliant decay<br />
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Colors of fall highlight each ray<br />
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Of sun to inspire thoughts of twilight<br />
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Of forbearance, of change, of new days<br />
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At night the frightening wind <br />
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Brings sweeping somber thoughts<br />
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Of chilly gusts, of lonely nights<br />
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A yearning yells at those sights…<br />
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To get away, to stay adrift, to disengage<br />
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All those memories glide softly back<br />
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Into those enclosed caskets<br />
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Never shall I excavate.<br />
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This fall I am burying them deeper<br />
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This fall is more buoyant, more blissful<br />
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The resilience rests on my brow<br />
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The happiness lives with me now<br />
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In my thoughts, in my loving home<br />
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In all seasons, even in this fall<br />
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It brings sweet memories of moments dear<br />
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My words fly now with the same cheer.<br />
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© Balroop Singh <br />
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About the Author</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil0VvuGcg-IRgHiqox9lnat5ecREZYkUg7c2m3eZs8IHuuQbv4AwH5eOVD8NfpEwVbYcK9nln3WWSS3mFVlh2eXCUSsNP4q8d_K6d3o0ePnziQnYIhJhzwHN998lwG7UTnrj_9kcub4kM/s1600/7I5ms6nj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="452" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil0VvuGcg-IRgHiqox9lnat5ecREZYkUg7c2m3eZs8IHuuQbv4AwH5eOVD8NfpEwVbYcK9nln3WWSS3mFVlh2eXCUSsNP4q8d_K6d3o0ePnziQnYIhJhzwHN998lwG7UTnrj_9kcub4kM/s320/7I5ms6nj.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
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Balroop Singh, a former teacher and an educationalist always had a passion for writing. She is a poet, a creative non-fiction writer, a relaxed blogger and a doting grandma. She writes about people, emotions and relationships. Her poetry highlights the fact that happiness is not a destination but a chasm to bury agony, anguish, grief, distress and move on! No sea of solitude is so deep that it can drown us. Sometimes aspirations are trampled upon, the boulders of exploitation and discrimination may block your path but those who tread on undeterred are always successful.<br />
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When turbulences hit, when shadows of life darken, when they come like unseen robbers, with muffled exterior, when they threaten to shatter your dreams, it is better to break free rather than get sucked by the vortex of emotions.<br />
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A self-published author, she is the poet of Sublime Shadows of Life, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073YLWLG1">Emerging From Shadows</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07F1VVJK7">Timeless Echoes </a>– her widely acclaimed poetry books. She has also written <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LZGEG6W">When Success Eludes,</a> <a href="http://goo.gl/1t3u2B">Emotional Truths Of Relationships,</a> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MR1WGC3">Allow Yourself to be a Better Person,</a> her latest poetry book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07W57M462">Moments We Love</a> has just been released.<br />
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Balroop Singh has always lived through her heart. She is a great nature lover; she loves to watch birds flying home. The sunsets allure her with their varied hues that they lend to the sky. She can spend endless hours listening to the rustling leaves and the sound of waterfalls. The moonlight streaming through her garden, the flowers, the meadows, the butterflies cast a spell on her. She lives in San Ramon, California.<br />
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You can visit her blog at: <a href="http://balroop2013.wordpress.com/">https://balroop2013.wordpress.com</a><br />
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Connecting links: <a href="https://twitter.com/BalroopShado">https://twitter.com/BalroopShado</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Emotional-Shadows/151387075057971">https://www.facebook.com/pages/Emotional-Shadows/151387075057971</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.pinterest.com/balroops/">https://www.pinterest.com/balroops/</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7340810.Balroop_Singh">https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7340810.Balroop_Singh</a><br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Balroop-Singh/e/B00N5QLW8U/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">https://www.amazon.com/Balroop-Singh/e/B00N5QLW8U/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0</a><br />
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<b>To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the <a href="https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/upcoming-events/welcome-to-the-moments-we-love-blog-tour-balroopshado-4willspub-rrbc/">author's tour page</a> on the <a href="https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/">4WillsPublishing</a> site. If you'd like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click <a href="https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/literary-services/virtual-blog-tours/">HERE</a>. <br /><br />Thanks for supporting this author and her work! </b></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-66746623996306731052019-10-03T20:00:00.000-07:002019-10-07T12:22:07.596-07:00RRBC Block Party: Two Magical Fantasy Series<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/rrbc-events/back-to-school-book-or-blog-block-party/welcome-to-the-october-ween-rrbc-block-party/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="672" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXNiAnDKLwQp_HExF4fT2y3Q5UPf8DhFe4ssmh3td2-3gT69zMzHsJwywAOFW8Gi50_0x6PLZ0M-yKHKMna99y-HqPLr8vxVOnu4eLAa5k8xqeKAVjHOas87kvZoWlOnSQ124X8pieJg/s320/October_Ween.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Welcome to the <a href="https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/rrbc-events/back-to-school-book-or-blog-block-party/welcome-to-the-october-ween-rrbc-block-party/">Rave Reviews Book Club Book, Blog, and Trailer Block Party</a> here at Better Living Through Fantasy! Please read and comment for a chance to win one of my door prizes.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta;">Today I'll be giving away </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta;"><br /></span><span style="color: magenta;">A $10 Amazon gift card plus bookmark</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta;"><br /></span><span style="color: magenta;">and</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta;"><br /></span><span style="color: magenta;">Two handmade Hexborn-themed book marks</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta;"><br /></span><span style="color: magenta;">Number of winners for this stop: 3</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: magenta;"><u>Our lucky winners: </u></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: magenta;">(1) $10 Amazon gift card + bookmark - Rhani D'Chae<br /><br /><br />(2) Handmade Hexborn bookmarks - Yvette Calleiro & John Howell</span></span><div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="text-align: left;">I'm thrilled to be sharing with you both of my fantasy series, </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01MRAHTUV/" style="text-align: left;">The November Snow Series</a><span style="text-align: left;"> and </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/bookseries/B07L5WX3NZ/" style="text-align: left;">The Hexborn Chronicles</a><span style="text-align: left;">. Both of them feature strong heroines with world-changing magical power, complex characters, and villains both dangerous and fascinating. There, however, the similarities end.</span></div>
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Do you like vampires, werewolves, and fairies, with some adult language and the occasional sexual escapade? Then <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01MRAHTUV/">November Snow</a> is your girl. </div>
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Do you prefer a "clean" fantasy featuring kings, wizards, adventure, and a touch of romance? Then the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/bookseries/B07L5WX3NZ/">Hexborn series</a> has you covered. </div>
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Are your interests flexible but your demand for quality writing unyielding? Then I invite you to check out both of my magical worlds.</div>
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This time of year always feels especially fantastical to me. We have Halloween at the end of the month, plus Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. On Halloween, we put on costumes to assume a new identity, to live in a fantasy for a short while. Reading is another way we inter into a fantasy, inhabiting a world of the author's creation. Within the story, the characters often also assume a new role or identity over the course of the book, transforming into something new. </div>
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In <a href="http://books2read.com/u/mBe7QM">She Dies at the End</a>, my main character November goes from being a carnival fortune teller to a major player in a supernatural civil war. In <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y">Hexborn</a>, my protagonist Shiloh goes from being an outcast mountain orphan to a powerful knight and courtier.</div>
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Learn more about my characters and their journeys below, and share some of your favorite character transformations in the comments.</div>
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Book 1 of The November Snow Series: <a href="http://books2read.com/u/mBe7QM">She Dies at the End</a></h3>
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She’s watched her own burial a thousand times. November knows she is doomed, yet when a vampire and fairy from her vision finally appear at her door, it’s almost a relief. Drawn into a supernatural civil war, the psychic teenager fights to protect the innocent from cruel vampire lord Luka, who seeks to steal his father Ilyn’s throne. As betrayals pile up around her, November can’t help forming an unbreakable bond with the grieving Ilyn, who cares for her in her hour of greatest need. When Luka succeeds in getting his hands on the young soothsayer, can November stay alive long enough to foil his plans and escape his clutches? All she knows for sure is . . . she dies at the end.<br />
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Perhaps it would be better to lose all hope. It would be easier to just snuff it out,<i> she told herself.<br /><br />And yet, she was sure that she would have felt Ilyn’s death, even at this distance. She knew that her vision of her own burial was a true seeing. Thousands of times it had come to her, unchanging.<br /><br />Whatever Luka intended, whatever he might do to her, however broken she might become, she knew that it would be Ilyn who brought her to her next incarnation. This was her fate. She had always known it.<br /><br />So, rather than snuffing it out, she blew on that ember of her hope until it was a little flame, and then she hid it away where no one could see, where it could keep her warm in the dark. And she prepared herself for battle.</i><br />
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Book 1 of The Hexborn Chronicles: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y">Hexborn</a></h3>
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Hexborn. Abomination. Unclean. Young Shiloh knows exactly what she is. Her missing hand and the world at large are ever ready to remind her. Outcast she may be, but her broken body hides great magical power. The king’s servant Silas seeks to use that power to preserve the uneasy peace the kingdom has enjoyed since the end of the Siblings’ War. He'll slit her throat if she threatens it instead. Will Shiloh prove her worth? Or will past sins rise to destroy Shiloh, Silas, and the kingdom of Bryn?</div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuEIcnFLrMR2C59B1P51pfw_M_J4ztsLjsheuWwTppr1uUc5_wt-FK5uwbQpqAIkqzNNeerT-R2_USYmRYBFSai6vGj_L6081F2pX_PtHTYT2SXozCbZIdgilFY77QZmbEBFAUhqIVtWk/s400/Hexborn+award+twitter+post.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Mini-Excerpt</b></div>
<i><br />Shiloh broke off an icicle from the tree behind which she’d taken shelter and yanked off her glove with her teeth, then grabbed the ice in her bare hand. With this makeshift wand, she harnessed the power of water to cast a shield of protection around them, one which allowed the curses from Hatch and Perce to pass through unimpeded. The arrows of the Feralfolk, meanwhile, didn’t simply stop dead upon hitting the ward; they turned and sped back toward their points of origin, betraying those who’d loosed them.<br /><br />Silas threw his head back and fairly cackled in delight when he realized what she’d done, then continued to cast his curses. The rest of the men stood up now that they had no further need to fear incoming projectiles, save Gil who lay bleeding in the road.</i><br />
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Intrigued? To learn more, check out my <a href="https://ammanay.net/">website</a> or<a href="https://www.amazon.com/A.M.-Manay/e/B0113KJ14Q?ref=dbs_mng_calw_a_0"> Amazon author page</a>.<br />
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Please also take a look at the rest of the tour, which you can find <a href="https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/rrbc-events/back-to-school-book-or-blog-block-party/welcome-to-the-october-ween-rrbc-block-party/">here</a>. Don't forget to leave a comment below. And happy reading!</div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-85068511386347533442019-09-04T15:35:00.000-07:002019-09-04T15:35:05.680-07:00School Days: A Hexborn Excerpt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Shiloh was, naturally, the first to arrive for Master Jonn’s tutorial. Tentatively, she pushed open the door to find a shabbily cozy office. A fireplace surrounded by a handful of upholstered chairs dominated the room; a desk piled high with books and papers stood opposite the hearth.<br />
<br />
A set of open double doors separated the office from a large laboratory. The sight of it stole Shiloh’s breath. Six rows of work benches filled the well-lit space. Potions in progress dominated one bench, bubbling in elaborate contraptions of glass, while other tables bowed beneath the weight of various plants and captive creatures. Some of the plants Shiloh recognized as medicinal. Others appeared to be crop samples afflicted with various blights. A young man—Shiloh assumed him to be Master Jonn—peered down at a cage full of rodents, a water wand in his hand and a magnifying glass held to his eye. She fairly itched to examine it all.<br />
<br />
The door behind her creaked, and Shiloh turned to see two other girls enter. One had kind eyes and gave her a hesitant half-smile, but the other kept her nose firmly in the air. They both took chairs near the fire. Shiloh followed their example but kept her distance, choosing a seat across from the pair.<br />
<br />
“Ah, we’re all here,” Master Jonn declared, stepping in from the laboratory and closing the doors behind him. “Let’s get started. We have a new student joining us.” He looked down at one of the papers on his desk. “I’m Jonn Gateborn. Shiloh Teethborn, is it?” he asked, his smile warm and welcoming. “Silas mentioned you to me.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Master,” she replied, nodding her head in greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”<br />
<br />
“Ladies?” Master Jonn prompted. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”<br />
<br />
“I’m Penn Warwick,” the kind one offered. The other girl said nothing, and a long-suffering expression came over Jonn’s face. Penn broke the awkward silence by adding, “And this is Lady Hana Kramer, Lord Penfield’s eldest daughter.”<br />
<br />
Jonn took the seat between Shiloh and Penn. “Now, Shiloh won’t have done the reading for today, but how did the two of you find the new article on Kirshan’s Hex?”<br />
<br />
“Is it the one by Fergoss, from the university in Vreeland?” Shiloh asked, eyes brightening.<br />
<br />
Jonn smiled. “Why, yes, it is. Have you read it?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Master,” she replied. “My teacher subscribed to their journal. I found it fascinating.” She was overcome with self-consciousness when Penn shot her an impressed look and Hana rolled her eyes.<br />
<br />
“I found it dull as dishwater,” Hana declared.<br />
<br />
“Of course you did,” Jonn sighed. <br />
<br />
“Well, I’m not likely ever to be on a battlefield, am I?” Hana shot back.<br />
<br />
“No, not likely, my lady,” Jonn allowed with a shake of his head. “Penn, why don’t you share your thoughts? How did you find his argument on the alternative use of Comfort Potion in a topical formulation?”<br />
<br />
Shiloh felt her anxiety dissipate as Penn began to speak in a soft, shy voice, and as Jonn patiently encouraged her to elaborate.<br />
<br />
<i>I can do this,</i> Shiloh told herself.<br />
<br />
<i>I can do this.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
***<br />
<br />
Intrigued? Download your copy of <i>Hexborn</i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y">here</a>.</div>
A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-9851691205842353412019-09-02T15:32:00.000-07:002019-09-02T15:32:02.504-07:00Fear and Feralfolk: A Hexborn Excerpt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Shiloh forced herself not to look away when they rode by what was left of the Feralfolk who’d attacked the previous winter. Edmun would have wanted her to face the truth. Their bodies had been mostly consumed by the fireball, but the scorched bones had been left behind. The elders had insisted on mounting the skulls for a warning, and Edmun had gone along with them.</div>
<br />
So far, it had been effective. There hadn’t been a raid in eight months. Not so much as a single goat had gone missing. Shiloh wondered if the warning would continue to work once word got around that the pink-haired monster had left town.<br />
<br />
“You have to accept what happened,” Edmun had insisted. She’d spent days after her father’s death sitting in the dark, neither eating nor sleeping, neither weeping nor raging. She’d just sat, like a stone. He had insisted on dragging her out into the light. “I know it is terribly painful, my dear poppet, but you simply must.”<br />
<br />
It had been so strange, to watch her teacher puttering around her father’s house, doing her chores, fixing her meals, taking care of her as she had him for the previous decade. Watching the frail old man trying his damnedest to prepare her a bath had finally broken through her ice and allowed her to cry.<br />
<br />
And she had faced it all, in the end. She had buried her father properly, with all the rites. She had faced the pile of smoldering corpses she’d produced in her paroxysm of grief. She had faced her terrified neighbors at Temple and at market. She had faced Edmun every morning, faced his sad eyes and his declining health. At least Edmun hadn’t been afraid of her, even after the Feralfolk.<br />
<br />
She wondered how the people at court would see her. Would she just be a country mouse, poor and ignored by her betters? Would she be taunted for her condition, as she had been in her village? Would they learn to both fear her and need her, as her neighbors had? Would they know what she had done?<br />
<br />
<i>Will the king decide he doesn’t want me alive after all?</i><br />
<div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>***</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
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Intrigued? Download your copy of <i>Hexborn</i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y">here</a>.</div>
</div>
A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-21084275650551509462019-08-30T15:31:00.000-07:002019-08-30T15:31:05.536-07:00Dead Earth: A Hexborn Excerpt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Shiloh again stayed behind at the end of tutorial. Master Jonn had been kind enough to set a workbench aside for her in his laboratory. A dozen tiny ceramic pots sat in a neat row, ready to be labeled with the date of treatment and the method to be used.<br />
<br />
“I only brought one jar of dead earth with me,” she told the healing master.<br />
<br />
“Not to worry. I’ve got barrels,” Jonn assured her. “I make the stewards haul some back from the Vine and the Wood when the summer progress heads that way. They think I’m mad.”<br />
<br />
“They’ll eat their words if you ever figure it out,” Shiloh replied. “Edmun told me the Deadlands cover thousands of square miles. If they can be reclaimed . . .”<br />
<br />
Jonn winked at her. “If they can be reclaimed, we’ll be heroes. But that is a mighty large ‘if.’”<br />
<br />
“Your notes say you’ve already tried Jalar’s Poison Remedy?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Aye, both formulations. And I added fertilizer from the gardeners for good measure. I was able to get sprouts, but they would die within hours. They’d turn crimson and shrivel up black as pitch,” Jonn confirmed. “Now, last month I read that a man named Hadrian, who teaches at the University of Vert in Estany, claims to have invented an all-purpose countercurse. It’s well-described in the literature, but I haven’t been able to get it to work on so much as a child’s hex. Of course, I’m a much stronger potioner than I am a spell caster. Such is the mixed blessing of wielding a water wand.” Jonn eyed her appraisingly. “You, on the other hand, little miss steel wand . . . you should give it a go.”<br />
<br />
“Do you have the paper?” she asked eagerly. An all-purpose countercurse could come in quite handy the next time she became ill. And if it really did work on people, who’s to say it might not work on soil, with a few adjustments?<br />
<br />
“Sure,” he replied, looking over his messy desk with a touch of despair. “Somewhere. I’ll dig up the translation for you.”<br />
<br />
“The original is in Estan?” she asked. Master Jonn nodded. “You can give me original,” she told him.<br />
<br />
“You speak Estan?” he asked, eyebrows raised.<br />
<br />
“Brother Edmun taught me. Gernish, too. He insisted it would come in handy. My accent is probably atrocious, but I can read it well enough,” she assured him.<br />
<br />
“My, my. Remind me never to underestimate you. Old Edmun gave you the education of a princess,” Jonn replied.<br />
<br />
He said it with a smile, but something in his eyes made Shiloh uneasy. It wasn’t until she’d left him, research paper clutched in her hot little hand, that she identified the healer’s look.<br />
<br />
<i>Fear. It was fear.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>***</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Intrigued? Download your copy of <i>Hexborn</i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y">here</a>.</div>
A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-65531615327876860332019-08-29T04:00:00.000-07:002019-08-29T04:00:03.057-07:00Don't Scream: An Excerpt from She Dies at the End<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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November slept fitfully, waking up again and again, tangled in her sheets, chased by bad dreams and visions all in a jumble. She felt trapped: trapped in the house whose grounds she hadn’t left once in nearly a month, trapped in her apparent future as a vampire, trapped in this spider web of centuries-old plots spun by cruel strangers. For a few weeks, her infatuation with William had provided enough distraction for her to put out of her mind the fact that someone in this house was working for the enemy and intended her harm.<br />
<br />
No longer possessing that luxury, she found that she was afraid. She feared being taken, hurt, forced to help Luka do bad things. She feared failing in the use of her gift to help win this fight. She feared that when death changed her into a new creature, she would become a monster. She feared finding out the identity of the mole and the pain that discovery might cause, but she feared even more continuing to live with the viper in her nest.<br />
<br />
It was afternoon before she finally fell asleep, so she was still dozing when dusk came. She was finally up and brushing her teeth, still in her nightgown, when Pine and Greg fairly flew into her room without so much as a knock on the door. That was the first indication that something was seriously wrong. The second sign came when Pine threw her over his shoulder as Greg moved faster than she could see, clearing her room in a whirl and hiding all obvious evidence of her existence. Previously unknown to her was a false wall in the back of her closet. It concealed a cubby into which Greg tossed all her personal belongings.<br />
<br />
Pine rushed her out the door with Greg hot on his heels, moving so quickly that November closed her eyes tight with instinctive fear, her breath frozen in her throat. Her fairy bodyguard threw open the door to the linen closet down the hall and revealed a hidden trapdoor in the floor. He then murmured, “We’re going through the chase. Don’t scream,” and dropped dozens of feet straight down, landing lightly on his toes.<br />
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Intrigued? Download your copy of <i>She Dies at the End</i> <a href="http://books2read.com/u/mBe7QM">here</a>.</div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-62320076389480171932019-08-28T16:37:00.000-07:002019-08-28T16:59:57.272-07:00We Must Exchange Blood: An Excerpt from She Dies at the End<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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“We must exchange blood.”<br />
<br />
“I beg your pardon?” she blurted, sliding away from him. “Why would we need to do that?” she asked with alarm, turning to Savita to look for aid.<br />
<br />
“So that other vampires and fairies know that he has a claim on you, that you are not prey available to them,” Savita explained gently. “You only need to swallow a drop of his blood, and he will need a sip or two of yours. It will not harm you. Then our people will be able to tell when they meet you that you are bound to William. He is Lord of California, so none of his vassals would dare molest you.”<br />
<br />
“They’ll think I’m his pet human?” she asked with some distaste, wrinkling her nose.<br />
<br />
“Essentially,” William admitted. “That will make them curious about you, as I have not had a favorite human in many years. They will be even more curious if they find out that you’re living in my home. That simply isn’t done unless a vampire plans to turn his human in short order, and you are too young yet to turn legally. You will be meeting dangerous people who will want your blood and your body and, once they find out about it, your gift. This blood bond will make them at least think twice about trying to take you, as it would be an act of aggression against me. It is well known that I am not a good man to have for an enemy, and I have a powerful family. The blood will also help us to find you if you are ever stolen.”<br />
<br />
William leaned in to look into her alarm-widened eyes. “I know it must be horrifying, the thought that people will think of you as property. But it will help protect you. It must be done.”<br />
<br />
November nodded. The idea of being seen as someone’s pet was horrifying; the idea of being seen as “free prey” was rather more horrifying. “Will it hurt?”<br />
<br />
“A little, as the fangs pierce the skin. Like a needle. After that, no,” Savita assured her.<br />
<br />
“Okay,” November said softly after a brief pause. She swallowed. “I’m ready.”<br />
<br />
“You really are a brave girl,” William said with a touch of regret. Fangs appeared in his mouth, transforming his features in a rather terrifying fashion and quickening November’s heartbeat. He pricked his finger with one fang and held out his hand. November took a drop of blood on the tip of her finger, braced herself, and licked the crimson liquid from her hand, grimacing with anticipatory disgust.<br />
<br />
Her mind was filled to bursting with image upon image, too fast to process or appreciate, one bitten victim after another, a millennium's worth of hunting and feeding and fighting and sex compressed into thirty seconds of whirlwind. She heard someone cry out in pain or pleasure; she couldn’t tell which. It took her a moment to realize the voice was hers. When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor, William, Zinnia, and Savita hovering over her with worried faces.<br />
<br />
“That was rather intense,” she said, placing her hand upon her forehead as the struggled to sit up.<br />
<br />
“You looked like you were having a seizure of some sort,” Savita said, helping her back onto the couch. “That is not the typical reaction to consuming our blood. What did you see?”<br />
<br />
November hesitated. “A lot of feeding. A lot.” She colored again as she remembered what else she'd seen. “I’m alright. It wasn’t painful, just really, ah, vivid.”<br />
<br />
William looked like he would blush if he could.<br />
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***</div>
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Intrigued? Download your copy of <i>She Dies at the End</i> <a href="http://books2read.com/u/mBe7QM">here</a>.</div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-30200273856673408582019-08-28T15:29:00.003-07:002019-08-28T15:29:41.355-07:00The Hatchet's Obsession: A Hexborn Excerpt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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“Were there other marks?” Silas demanded of his sister. The hour was late. Lill already wore her nightcap, but Silas was still hard at work, candles ablaze.<br />
<br />
“Aye, poor child,” Lill confirmed. “All over, poor child. Old ones, newer ones that were still red and purple. Bruises, pretty fresh.”<br />
<br />
“Could you draw them for me?” he asked, eyes greedy. “The scars, not the bruises.”<br />
<br />
“Heavens, no! I wasn’t making a study of them, for the Gods’ sakes! It was all I could do not to burst into tears!”<br />
<br />
“Never mind,” he replied, waving a hand. “I can get her maid to do it for me in a few days.”<br />
<br />
“Already picked a girl out to spy on her, have you?” Lill asked, arms crossed.<br />
<br />
“Of course, I have,” Silas confirmed, as though it were self-evident.<br />
<br />
“I know it’s your job, brother, to do such things to protect the king. But that is a good girl. I can tell,” Lill clucked. “You had best be kind to her.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t tell you how to do your job, Lill. Pray do not tell me how to do mine,” came his stern reply.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Intrigued? Download your copy of <i>Hexborn</i> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D4MR86Y">here</a>.</div>
A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-17367285161514061372019-07-19T03:00:00.000-07:002019-07-19T03:00:11.236-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm so happy to welcome to my blog today RRBC and RWISA author <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-bernard-foong-rrbc-rwisa/">Bernard Foong</a>!</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
Vignettes Parisian</div>
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by Bernard Foong, AKA Young</div>
<br /><i>Vignettes Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author’s past and present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as Paris.</i><br /><br /><u>Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</u><br />It is impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior Couturier of Dreams)exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (Museum of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before admission was granted.<br /><br />This spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his successors well documented,the exquisite fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.<br /><br />Since my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my love for Paris hasnever waned. Before I left sunny Maui, I had designed and made a haute couture gold, silver, and black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind creation. <br /><br />A stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins for this resplendent Maison – The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion industry. <br /><br /><u>Shopping In Paris (Then & Now)</u><br /><br />I am one of those blessed individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping Avenue,des Champs Elysées.<br /><br />A sole of my shoe had divorced itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my fashion malfunction. <br /><br />I remembered an amusing incident that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fashion student. Accompanying Moiwas Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.<br /><br />To elongate his petite stature beneath his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit. To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.<br /><br />Eyes turned in our direction as we trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms. The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery sidewalk.<br /><br />Mario, wasted no time whipping out his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I looked on in shock.<br /><br />As if modeling for a Vogue fashion shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in the middle of Avenue des Champs Elysées to witness this “fashion happening.” Advertently, our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.<br /><br /><u>The Magical Power of The Written Word</u><br /><br />“Why are there beds located at different corners of the bookstore?”I asked Monsieur Mercier, an assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.<br /><br />“The beds are available for writers to stay a night in Paris for free,” the man responded before he resumed,“ Are you a writer? Do you intend to stay the night?”<br /><br />Surprised by the man’s inquiries, I evinced, “I am a writer. But no thank you to the lodging offer.”<br /><br />“What genre of books do you write, Monsieur?” Mercier queried.<br /><br />“I’m an autobiographer,”I replied.“Because of its controversial and provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.”<br /><br />The bookseller questioned, “What are the titles of your books, and what is the author’s name?”<br /><br />“A HAREM BOY’S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It’s a five-book series,”I declared.<br /><br />“I believe we have your books in the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and METANOIA?”he promulgated. <br /><br />I nodded, delighted by his information. <br /><br />The Frenchman led me through a series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf,my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.<br /><br />“I read the series. What a compelling teenage life you’ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity program like yours,”the teller quipped smilingly.<br /><br />He recommenced,“Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary activities, like poetry readings, writers’ meetings, book readings, writing festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and Sunday tea.<br /><br />“Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might invite you for a book reading at our store.”<br /><br />“That will be splendid. Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,”I proposed.<br /><br />Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop. Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.<br /><br /><u>S.O.W. and R.E.A.P.</u><br /><br />Over the years, I have been asked by many, “Why do you love Paris so much?” My reply is always the same – S.O.W.<br /><br />Although the Parisian cityscape has changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W.is also a reason Walter and I chose France as our home away from home.<br /><br />In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh(one of my Arab patriarch’s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi, an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Café de Flore, La Belle Époque, Maxim’s, and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are tourist attractions.<br /><br /> Through the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks, sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly, this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction(S), Originality (O), and Wit (W).Some may say that wittiness is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now, with my beloved husband in tow, I’m here to R.E.A.P.its rewards.<br /><br />“What the hell is R.E.A.P.?” you ask.<br /><br />I will explain:<br /><br />R– Romancecontinues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will narrate another time. <br /><br />E– Elegancein this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly seductive. <br /><br />A– Authenticityis historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux reproduction of the Las Vegas ‘Paris’ in Nevada, United States of America.<br /><br />P– Parisequals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity.But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfectionreigns supreme. <br /><br />PARIS – Mon Paree!<br /><br />***<br /> <div>
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<span style="color: purple;">Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan. <br /><br />We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-bernard-foong-rrbc-rwisa/"><span style="color: purple;">Bernard Foong's RWISA Author Page</span></a></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-33898354845384815832019-07-18T03:30:00.000-07:002019-07-18T03:30:01.652-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It is my great pleasure today to welcome to my blog <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-ron-yates/">Ron Yates</a> as part of the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour. He will really draw you in. Enjoy!<br />
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Burning Out in Tokyo </div>
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By Ronald E. Yates</div>
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Clayton Brandt stood just behind the glass doors of the Ministry of International Trade and Industry <br />
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building waiting for a let-up in the storm that pummeled the hot Tokyo pavement. Wisps of vapor rose into the air as the rain hit the warm ground. <br />
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He searched the eight-lane boulevard in front of the MITI building for an empty taxi. He knew it could be a long wait before an empty cab came down Sakurada-Dori. Thousands of bureaucrats glutted Tokyo's Kasumigaseki district, and whenever it rained, it seemed like all of them wanted a taxi.<br />
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"Son of a bitch!" he said, his words echoing through the lobby. Two middle-aged Japanese bureaucrats standing nearby looked over at the tall foreigner. They understoodthat English phrase. <br />
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Clayton grinned. "Ame-ga futte imasu," he said. <br />
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The two men looked at one another and then back at Clayton as if to say: "Yes, we can see it is raining. But is that any excuse for such a rude public outburst?"<br />
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Clayton sighed, opened his umbrella, and stepped out into the downpour. He turned right and hurried through the governmental heartland of Japan, maneuvering his 6-foot, 3-inch frame through the crowded sidewalk glutted with black and gray umbrellas. Sometimes the edge of an umbrella held by a much shorter Japanese man or woman slashed at his throat or slapped against his face. Whenever it rained, and the umbrellas came out, Clayton always felt Gulliveresque—like a giant trapped in a forest of undulating toadstools.<br />
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He looked up at the leaden April sky. The rain had drenched Tokyo for the past four days, covering the ground with a pink and white patina of delicate sakura blossoms. A slow rumble of thunder curled between the squat granite structures of Kasumigaseki. Clayton looked at his watch. It was four-thirty and the evening traffic was already crawling. He had hoped to get his story written and filed by six o'clock, but the briefing about Japan’s angry reaction to Washington’s decision to bar the U.S. government’s purchase of Japanese supercomputers had taken longer than usual.<br />
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The sky rumbled again, and bolts of lightning streaked overhead. A taxi pulled up outside the Ministry of Health and Welfare and was disgorging three Japanese bureaucrats in dark blue suits. Clayton closed his umbrella and dashed for the cab splashing through rivulets of water as he ran. The three men had barely climbed out before Clayton bolted past them and into the rear seat. He gave the driver his destination, closed his eyes, and rested his head on the seat back as the taxi inched its way back into the gridlock.<br />
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Every so often, his eyes opened just long enough to take in the somber Tokyo landscape. The perpetually gray skies of Tokyo didn’t do his already sepulchral spirit any good. In fact, very little seemed to buoy his disposition these days. He couldn't help it. He felt depressed and probably a bit too sorry for himself. A few hours before the MITI briefing, he had suffered through another of those telephone "chats" with Max, the foreign editor of Global News Service in London about expenses and the need to cut back on costs.<br />
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"O.K., O.K. Max," Clayton had sighed bleakly into the phone. "I get the picture."<br />
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The exchange ended with Max suggesting that Clayton not be such a "cowboy." A "cowboy?" Why? Just because he was from Oxford, Kansas and not Oxford, England? It wasn't easy working for a bunch of Brits when you sounded more like Garth Brooks than Sir Laurence Olivier. But he knew what Max meant. <br />
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Clayton was an iconoclast in a profession that increasingly rewarded conformity rather than individualism. Newspapers today all looked alike, loaded with the same predictable stories about the same predictable events. It was rubber-stamp journalism practiced by rubber-stamp editors who worked for rubber-stamp publishers who worked for boards of directors who wanted twenty percent operating profit margins above all else—quality journalism be damned.<br />
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He went over the notes he had hurriedly scribbled during the MITI briefing, searching for the lead of his story. His pen scratched heavy lines under the words "ill-conceived" and "studying our response." Then he stuffed the notebook back into his bag.<br />
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“It's over,” Clayton thought to himself as he watched the snarl of cars and trucks crawl along Uchibori-Dori through Kokyo-Gaien, the large plaza that fronted the walled Imperial Palace. It was as if today he had been forced finally to confront the inevitable mortality of his professional career; or at least of his particular brand of journalism. He was writing the same boring stories over and over again. Where was the challenge? The sense of accomplishment?<br />
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Clayton exhaled and gazed out the taxi window at the striated, ashen facades of drenched buildings. They reminded him of the mascara-smudged faces of women weeping at a rainy graveside. <br />
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He closed his eyes and nudged his mind away from the depressing Tokyo landscape. Soon it was obediently shuffling through old images of another, more beguiling Asia. It was an Asia of genial evenings spent beneath traveler palms; of graceful, colonial-era hotels in Singapore and Malaysia with their chalky plaster facades and their broad verandahs peppered with rattan settees and peacock chairs; of slowly turning teakwood paddle fans that moved the heavy night air with just enough authority to create a light breeze, but not enough to obliterate the sweet scent of evening jasmine. THAT was the Asia he missed; the Orient of the past.<br />
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Yes, it was ending. Clayton could feel it. It had been a good run . . . A good career. But now the journey was ending, like a train that had roared through the night and was now pulling into its last station. How many times had he almost gotten off only to be lured back on by the promise of what lay ahead at the next stop? How many times had he been disappointed by that decision? How many times had he been rewarded? At first, the rewards outweighed the disappointments, but in recent years, as he had grown older, the regrets seemed to have gained a definite edge. <br />
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For one thing, the passengers kept changing. And the conductors. And the engineers. But what did he expect? Wasn't that the way the world worked? What was it that Tennyson had written: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new?"<br />
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Clayton shuddered. Was he the old order? Should he be yielding? Was he burned out?<br />
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Maybe he was becoming the old order, Clayton thought. But he wasn't burned out just yet. And if there was any yielding to do, he wanted it on his own terms. The trouble was, the gulf of time between his past glories and the imminence of the callow, computer savvy handlers in the home office who controlled his destiny was becoming almost unbridgeable. <br />
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Most of his career predated cell phones and computers. For the computer literates at Global, his life's work might as well be stored on some remote database. As it was, he existed only in yellowing newspaper clips, aging telexes, and letters of commendation that were kept in his personal file back in London. And nobody bothered to look at that stuff anymore. <br />
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It made no difference, Clayton thought. In the mutable, evanescent province that modern journalism had become, it was ancient history. Hell, HE was ancient history. He was like a piece of old journalistic parchment—readable, but, unlike a computer, much less utilitarian.<br />
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What Clayton needed was another journalistic rush . . . A story he could get hold of and play like a newly discovered Mozart piano concerto. He needed something . . . Not to satisfy the yuppies back at Global, but to give him a reason to get back on the train and to leave the station again.<br />
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The taxi slewed to a stoplike a wooden bathhouse sandal skidding along a wet tile floor. Clayton looked up. They were in front of the Kawabata Building.<br />
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"Kawabata Biru, desu," the driver announced.<br />
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Clayton fumbled in his pocket, handed the driver a one thousand yen note, and waited for his change. Then he bolted through the swirling Tokyo rain and put his shoulder against the massive glass and steel doors of the Kawabata Building. Unlike most of Tokyo's modern structures, the Kawabata Building didn't have sleek automatic glass doors that hissed serpent-like and opened automatically at the approach of a human being. It was a pre-war relic—an architectural throw-back with cracked marble floors and a fading art deco interior that had somehow survived the allied bombings. <br />
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The building's deteriorating facade, which was the color of dead autumn leaves, seemed to glower at the world—like the rumpled brow of an angry old man. But the tumble-down building had an undeniable individuality in a country that too often prized sameness, and that was the reason Clayton liked it and had refused an offer to move into one of the new glass and steel "smart buildings" that soared over Tokyo's Otemachi district.<br />
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He paused to talk for a moment with the old woman who operated the small grocery and newsstand tucked away in the corner of the lobby. From his many conversations with her, Clayton had learned that the old woman had operated her little concession since 1938 and knew the building's history better than anybody.<br />
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She smiled as Clayton's towering frame bent toward her in one of those peculiar half bows that Japanese make when they are in a hurry. Japanese could do it with a certain grace; but not Clayton. When this big foreigner bowed, he always looked like he was on the verge of crashing to the ground like a gingko tree struck by lightning. Nevertheless, she liked this gaijin. Ordinarily, she merely tolerated foreigners, but this one had a solitary charm. He was big, but not threatening; assertive, but not arrogant. <br />
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"So, Oba-san, Genki datta?" Clayton asked, combining the Japanese honorific for “grandmother” with the less formal interrogative for "how are you?"<br />
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"Genki-yo," the old woman replied. Clayton picked up a package of Pocky chocolates and placed a one hundred yen coin in the old woman's hand.<br />
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"Sayonara,” Clayton said as he turned and scuttled toward the bank of elevators.<br />
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"Sonna ni hatarakanai ho ga ii desu!" the old woman called after him. <br />
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Clayton smiled and nodded over his shoulder. The old woman was right. He was working too hard, and where was it getting him? Back on a train to oblivion?<br />
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“Oh, get over it,”Clayton thought as the elevator door closed. “You’ve got a story to write. Feel sorry for yourself AFTER you make your friggin’ deadline! Besides, what else do you know how to do, you old hack! Burning out is not an option.”<br />
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The End<br />
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***<br />
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<span style="color: purple;">Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan. <br /><br />We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-ron-yates/"><span style="color: purple;">Ron Yates's RWISA Author Page</span></a></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-47567478086883287002019-07-17T03:00:00.000-07:002019-07-17T03:00:20.404-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today we have the pleasure of reading this short work by <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-karen-ingalls-2/">Karen Ingalls</a>. I know it will speak to you.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
NATURE SPEAKS</div>
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<br />Why did my life spiral into darkness in a second? One minute I am married to my soulmate, a mother to a beautiful daughter, and owner of a successful bookstore. My friends asked me, “How do you have the perfect life? It is so easy for you.” They were right. I had the perfect life.<br /><br />My husband was an engineer, and I opened a bookstore naming it Mile High Books offering old and new books, coffee or tea. Leather chairs and couches provided comfort to the patrons. Classical music played in the background. I loved going to my store enjoying the smell of books, coffee, and leather. <br /><br />We had our first and only child, Lynn who also loved classical music and dreamed of being a ballet dancer.<br /><br />One Saturday morning, my life changed forever. I had awakened with a migraine headache, which was intolerable. It was best if I stayed in a dark, quiet room until the medication relieved the blinding pain. <br /><br />My husband, Miles volunteered to run the bookstore that fateful day. “Lynn and I can manage the bookstore today. You stay home and take care of the headache.” He leaned over and kissed me. “I love you,” were the last words I would hear him say.<br /><br />I curled up, closed my eyes, and waited for the pain to go away.<br /><br />A pounding on the front door and the continuous ringing of the bell awakened me. “This had better be important,” I muttered while staggering down the stairs. Two police officers with grim looks were standing on the porch. I collapsed when the words, fire, death, husband, daughter floated around my confused mind. <br /><br />My once perfect life was unbearable with the memories of it everywhere. I sold everything, bought a second-hand Volkswagen Beetle, and drove west with just the clothes on my back and a photographof Miles, Lynn and me. I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t care. <br /><br />The small cabin in the foothills of Costa Mesa, California overlooking the Pacific Ocean was my new residence. It was not a home. It was a place to sleep, eat and try to escape from my past. <br /><br />The land was arid with brush, oak trees, scattered thistle weeds, and clay soil. Every evening, I walked down a short path from the cabin to a flattened area where I sat under a large oak tree and watched the sun dip into the ocean. One day at dusk, I leaned against the tree, closed my eyes and dreamed that Miles arms were around me while we watched Lynn ballet dance on a large stage. I could hear the music of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.<br /><br />When I awoke there were two limbs embracing me, and leaves and acorns were swirling around creating Tchaikovsky’s music. “Am I still dreaming?” The bark of the trunk and the limbs was rough and uncomfortable. I squirmed and pulled at the limbs. “What is happening? This is crazy.” I yelled for someone to help me, but the only words I heard were not human.<br /><br />Ginny, you are a strong woman. Use your strength to get through this storm in your life. <br /><br />I pulled the limbs off, jumped up, and looked around expecting to see someone nearby. “Is anyone here?” I yelled again. Everything was quiet. A full moon radiated light around me. <br /><br />Staring at the tree, I brushed my clothes, scratched my head, and said, “That was quite a dream, but how did those limbs wrap around me?” I shook my head trying to clear the confusion. “It was a beautiful dream of Miles and Lynn. I miss them so much.” With the sleeve of my sweater I wiped the tears. “I’ve got to get hold of myself. I’m losing my mind.” <br /><br />The voice said. That was not a dream. I am here to help you. <br /><br />“Oh, my God, I am going crazy. Trees don’t talk.”<br /><br />Ginny, you are not going crazy. All trees talk, but humans do not listen. Do you remember your friend, Meredith who told you she talks to trees?<br /><br />I nodded. “How do you…?”<br /><br />I saw a friendly face of a kind, elderly man etched in the trunk. Every flora and fauna communes with humans, but they are too busy or unbelieving to listen and learn from us. <br /><br />I fell to my knees, grabbed a handful of soil, and watched it slowly stream out of my clenched fist. “This was my life. Time was going by with no troubles.” I opened my fist and let the soil out in one burst. “Then everything changed. My life was never the same. It is now an empty hand.” I sobbed and my whole body shook. <br /><br />You are strong. Your faith is like my roots: stretching wide and going deep. <br /><br />The limbs stretched out, wrapped around my shoulders and leaned me against the trunk. Miles and Lynn are speaking to you through me.<br /><br />Then I heard them say, We love you and will always be with you. Follow your heart.<br /><br />The limbs were gentle and comforting. The rough bark was now smooth. My tears dried up, and I drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep.<br /><br />The warm and bright rays of the morning sun radiated through the tree’s canopy bringing warmth to my body nestled against the oak tree. Standing up, I stretched and looked out at the blue waters of the Pacific marveling at its majesty and beauty. I smiled as the words follow your heart floated around. “Wow! That was quite a dream.” <br /><br />I walked a few steps on the path back towards the cabin. I stopped and looked back at the oak tree. “It might have all been a dream, but thank you.” <br /><br />A thistle plant with its purple flower in full bloom was further up the path. I stopped. “You are beautiful, but your spikes are sharp.” <br /><br />The spikes turned inward. Do not let fear hold you back. <br /><br />I couldn’t believe what was happening. “Now I hear a flower talking to me. I am going crazy.”<br /><br />The thistle plant swayed back and forth though there was no breeze. It bent forward bringing its flower near my hands. Touch me and accept my gift of peace.<br /><br />I placed my hand on the purple flower and a deep sense of serenity swept over me. For the first time since the deaths of my family I was at peace. I whispered “Thank you.” <br /><br />A short distance from the cabin porch, I saw the white silken top of a trapdoor spider’s home. I did not remember seeing it before and bent down to get a closer look. The trapdoor opened and a dark spider poked his head out. I stumbled as I tried to jump back.<br /><br />The spider was small and ugly with fine hairs covering its dark brown body. He was frightening to look at, but his kind words put me at ease. You have walked by many doors, but you didn’t open them. <br /><br />“What is going on? I am hallucinating with all these voices in my head.”<br /><br />You are not hallucinating. Your family is talking to you through the oak tree, the thistle and me. The spider moved back into his home and closed the trapdoor. <br /><br />For days I paced around the cabin, reliving each moment and the words about strength, peace, and opportunities. I prayed and cried. I read about mysticism and nature. <br /><br />One morning, I awoke and saw Miles and Lynn standing beside my bed. We will always be with you in your heart. Let nature continue to teach you.<br /><br />The magnificent oak tree taught how to be strong of body, mind, and heart. Staying healthy and opening my arms to others became my ways of living.<br /><br />I found beauty in my life and other people after removing my thorns of bitterness and self-pity. <br /><br />My cabin was a trap shutting out people until I opened its doors and made it a home and retreat center. I added rooms for guests to stay and classrooms for teaching.<br /><br />I called my new endeavor Nature Speaks, helping people to commune with and learn from all aspects of nature. When people open their hearts and minds to nature there are opportunities for a richer life. <br /><br /> ***<br /><br /><span style="color: purple;">Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan. <br /><br />We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:<br /></span><div>
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-karen-ingalls-2/"><span style="color: purple;">Karen Ingalls' RWISA Author Page</span></a></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-43434519945442136692019-07-16T03:30:00.000-07:002019-07-16T03:30:04.325-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_FbRmnL7FrW-tN0IBZ268dHIi8j3EFIJhmSNVr5pDdnk_AKRbTRyw5IjDWWUGDcGTXIJY2HDBTaq6vLrZXZ8eQ25l6jIibWPloHU2M_M94cTRSceTSnQ-L9AZt-d9vmPZAka6bgOEzI/s1600/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="672" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL_FbRmnL7FrW-tN0IBZ268dHIi8j3EFIJhmSNVr5pDdnk_AKRbTRyw5IjDWWUGDcGTXIJY2HDBTaq6vLrZXZ8eQ25l6jIibWPloHU2M_M94cTRSceTSnQ-L9AZt-d9vmPZAka6bgOEzI/s400/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WqTGAR7PLmvb1VFkILskAAE6GyCZV9NFYvHpIAGePLyBmzDxPqRMzfFHpof0IAsM041P2iovNUUKoxY0usJ9YT4mOmJV7JpFFEEmtcvjhNlripHVNSHi3220bOiKfYjIRGRe_694hcc/s1600/Suzanne+Burke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WqTGAR7PLmvb1VFkILskAAE6GyCZV9NFYvHpIAGePLyBmzDxPqRMzfFHpof0IAsM041P2iovNUUKoxY0usJ9YT4mOmJV7JpFFEEmtcvjhNlripHVNSHi3220bOiKfYjIRGRe_694hcc/s320/Suzanne+Burke.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7WqTGAR7PLmvb1VFkILskAAE6GyCZV9NFYvHpIAGePLyBmzDxPqRMzfFHpof0IAsM041P2iovNUUKoxY0usJ9YT4mOmJV7JpFFEEmtcvjhNlripHVNSHi3220bOiKfYjIRGRe_694hcc/s1600/Suzanne+Burke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>I'm so happy to welcome to my blog today gifted author <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/meet-rwisa-author-suzanne-burke-pursoot-rrbc/">Suzanne Burke</a> as part of the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour!<br /><br /><br />THURSDAY’S CHILD<br /><br />By Suzanne Burke<br /><br />Copyright 2019<br /><br /><br />She hadn’t really intended this to happen. Oh, sure, she’d thought about it often enough, but thinkingabout something didn’t make it a crime. A convergence of circumstances had prompted her choice. Regret was such an outmoded commodity.<br /><br />She checked her latex gloves fitted well, and flicked her dark eyed gaze across to where Peter Cameron lay, still and silent. “You brought this on yourself, Peter. Did you think me a complete fool?”<br /><br />Carol moved across to the edge of the bed and stood over him. She reached down and flicked the blonde hair back from his forehead, then gently rested her hand there.<br /><br />“You’re cold. Shall I fetch you a blanket?” Her laughter soothed her.<br /><br />The man’s eyes were now open, and Carol revelled in the fear she witnessed in their blue depths. “Ah, thereyou are. How do you feel?” She laughed again. “Oh, silly me. You can’t feelanything. Can you? Such a handy little drug, and no taste I believe, especially in your malt whiskey.”<br /><br />Peter Cameron’s blue eyes registered the words and Carol watched on as he commanded his brain to activate his fingers, his arms. He had no control of his voicebox. His brain refused to obey. He remained still.<br /><br />“Oh, don’t fret so, darling. You’re not going to die … yet. The paralysis will last just long enough for my needs. It’s all in the timing. You need to helplessly contemplate what I may have in store for your immediate future.”<br /><br />Carol walked away from him, and headed for the bar, whistling happily in anticipation. She placed his used glass and the bottle of Glenfiddich into her handbag, then poured a stiff belt of burbon into a paper cup, and seated herself comfortably on the sofa in the large living room and admired afresh the warm ambience of her surroundings. <br /><br />“The best that all my money could buy.” Her voice brought her comfort.<br /><br />She drained the cup and refilled it. When empty she crumpled it and placed it alongside the other items now concealed in the bag.<br /><br />The wall clock reaffirmed that she had an hour remaining before company arrived. She nodded in satisfaction and rested. <br /><br />With twenty minutes remaining she stood and checked on her captive one more time. “Not long now.”<br /><br />A low groan came from the bed. <br /><br />Carol gently stroked his cheek. “Are you terrified, my darling? Your eyes tell me you are. Good. That’s as it should be.”<br /><br />Carol smiled in satisfaction and left the room, content to wait this out for a few minutes. At exactly 11.02p.m she heard the front door open and close again. A musical female voice called out, “Peter? Darling, where are you?”<br /><br />Carol listened carefully from her dark space in the hallway. She held her breath as the woman came into view and she watched her enter the master-bedroom in search of her lover.<br /><br />“Waiting in bed for me, darling? That’s different. I thought we were going to share a late supper.”<br /><br />The woman sounded disappointed.<br /><br />“He can be very disappointing. I agree.” Carol said from the doorway.<br /><br />The woman jumped in fright and managed to say “Oh, my God. I’m not, that is, we aren’t, this isn’t.” She shut her mouth when her frightened eyes took note that her lover’s wife was standing in front of her wearing latex gloves and aiming a gun at her head.<br /><br />“It isn’t what? An affair? Oh, please. Do you expect me to believe that you’ve come here to my home every second Thursday at 11.00p.m for 3 months to do something innocent? Go ahead, enlighten me. I’m a reasonable woman. Convince me I don’t have a reason to hate you.”<br /><br />“Please! I’m so sorry. It doesn’t mean anything.”<br /><br />“Oh, no, Thursday’s Girl. It means everything. The others meant nothing to him, therefore I ignored them. Ah, but you, you’re different. Turn around, let me take a closer look at you.”<br /><br />Carol walked across to the shaking woman and prodded her with Peter’s handgun. “I said turn around.”<br /><br />The younger woman nodded and hurriedly complied.<br /><br />“He does love a tight ass. Long legs too. That’s always a bonus.”<br /><br />“He doesn’t care about me. It’s a … a fling.”<br /><br />“Nice try.”<br /><br />“I’ll end it and never see him again. I promise. I’m sorry, please. Let me go.” The woman was sobbing now.<br /><br />“Don’t you want to know howI know your special?”<br /><br />The woman shook her head. “I’m not ….”<br /><br />“Shut your stupid mouth and listen!” Carol barely controlled her anger and shoved the nozzle of the Glock into her rival’s chest.<br /><br />She drew a deep calming breath and lowered the gun slightly. “I know,because he’s been happy. Happier than he’s been for many years. The only thing that’s different in his life since the advent of his peculiar behaviour is you!”<br /><br />Carol fished inside the pocket of the coat she was wearing and drew out a small velvet box. “He brought you this little diamond trinket from Caliago. His jeweller of choice. It’s an engagement ring for you, Thursday’s Girl. The ring size is smaller than mine, and besides I only wear emeralds. My contact at the jewellers tells me it’s worth upwards of one million dollars. I do hope it’s insured. Give me your hand. Let’s try it on for size.”<br /><br />The hand the woman held out was shaking. Carol nursed the gun, and held out the jewellery box. “Now place it on your finger. Don’t be stupid enough to flex your hand. Slide it on.”<br /><br />The diamonds glistened as the ring slid into place perfectly.<br /><br />“And lastly, should you think me presumptive, then don’t. You see our darling Peter visited our attorney to get the ball rolling for divorce proceedings. I can only wonder that he made such a stupid mistake. Our attorney was the one I recommended twenty-years ago. He earns every cent of the additional fees I pay him every month.”<br /><br />Peter groaned again from the bed and his lover stood there watching on, too afraid to move.<br /><br />Carol smiled. “How tragic love is. How very sad that you came here to end your relationship. Peter Cameron had never been denied anythingin his life. He couldn’t take the rejection. He apparently decided that if hecouldn’t have you, then nobody would.<br /><br />The woman began to scream, and Carol laughed with pleasure. “Oh, yes, scream. Go right ahead! We do loveliving out here. There’s a righteous freedom in having no near neighbors.”<br /><br />The woman was still sobbing as Carol sat next to Peter on the bed and shot her three times in the chest. She calmly watched as the body was flung backward by the impact and dropped to the floor.<br /><br />Carol gazed down on her for long enough to see the faint hold on life vacate her eyes.<br /><br />Carol checked the spandex gloves, satisfied that they’d worked as they should. She placed the weapon down for a moment as she removed the other things that she’d need from the bureau.<br /><br />Peter’s arm felt like a dead weight as she wrapped the tourniquet around his upper bicep. The veins responded beautifully, and Carol inserted the syringe and watched in fascination as her husband’s body jerked several times. She watched him begin to foam at the mouth. She watched him die. “Heroin is so deadly, if you don’t get the dosage just right. I believe it’s referred to as a ‘hot shot’. <br /><br />She placed the Glock in his right hand and checked to ensure the trajectory married up with the bullet’s impact on his dead companion. Carol squeezed his fingers closed around the weapon with his finger on the trigger, then let his arm drop and the gun lay loosely in the dead hand.<br /><br />Carol stood back and admired her handiwork. Content now she hurried outside.<br /><br />She ran to her car secreted behind a tall stand of trees and drove it into her driveway, behind the visitors Porche. She let the car idle and punched in 911 on her iPhone.<br /><br />“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”<br /><br />“Please! Help me. I need help! Please!” The voice was frantic.<br /><br />“I’ll help you, Ma’am, but I need you to calm down. Please tell me what is happening.”<br /><br />“I heard a woman screaming! Then I think there were gunshots! Now I can’t hear anything. Please! Please, I beg you, please hurry, I think my husband is inside. Should I go in? I have to help him!”<br /><br />“Please give me your address.”<br /><br />Carol gave it.<br /><br />“Do NOT enter the dwelling. Police and Paramedics are on the way. Stay on the line with me. Are you close to the house?”<br /><br />“I’m outside in the driveway.”<br /><br />“Please move away from the property. Stay away from the windows. They’re on their way.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />CNN breaking news.<br /><br />“In breaking news! The body of United States Senator Peter Cameron has been found at his home. A crime scene now exists. Early indications from our sources indicate that another body has been found at the scene. Murder/Suicide has not been ruled out.”<br /><br />“Tragically it was the senator’s wife who made the grim discovery. She is reported to be resting under sedation. In deep shock as these events unfold. Police at this stage don’t believe that a third party was involved in the tragedy.”<br /><br />Carol listened to the excited broadcaster and smiled.<br /><br />Then she settled down in her pristine hospital bed and drifted off to a contented sleep.<br /><br /><span style="color: purple;">Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan. <br /><br />We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/meet-rwisa-author-suzanne-burke-pursoot-rrbc/"><span style="color: purple;">Suzanne Burke's RWISA Author Page</span></a></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-68316055624452375522019-07-15T09:15:00.000-07:002019-07-15T09:15:12.556-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm so pleased today to welcome <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/meet-rwisa-author-fiza-pathan-fizapathan-rrbc/">Fiza Pathan</a> on the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour! Fair warning: this is a powerful and challenging story.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"The Star Pupil’s Diary Entry" by Fiza Pathan</div>
<br />Dear Diary,<br /><br />I had a wonderful day at school today. I got a star and I’m going to tell you all about it.<br /><br />I’m eight years old, but I’m the tallest boy in the class. I, and the other kids in my neighborhood, study at the school down the block. Actually, our school was once something terrible; it was a disgusting Christian church, something called “Catholic.” The school officials tore it down and made it into a proper school for us kids. <br /><br />So, I went to school today. I was the first one there so I got the biggest teddy bear to do my training with. The kids who were late got teddies that were way too small, the cheap ones that our soldiers stole from the hands of fleeing Jewish kids before they shot them in the head.<br /><br />My teacher made us do our practice training in the morning. He handed us our daggers. We each checked with our fingers if they were sharp enough. Since I was early to class, I got to demonstrate. I put the dagger on the neck of the teddy and slit it the way my teacher had taught me to do. The other students followed me, but I was the best at cutting off teddy’s head.<br /><br />“The jugular,” my teacher scolded another student who was cutting the wrong part of the teddy. “The jugular and do it slowly; it should make them cry.”<br /><br />After dagger practice was over, we all sat and singing practice began. Singing is important; it touches souls and bring them closer to God.<br /><br />We sang the national anthem. Teacher said I was the best singer and patted me on the head. <br /><br />“Now, who knows a good English song, a hymn for our nation?” our teacher asked.<br /><br />Every kid was stumped. They knew plenty of English songs, some of them were American. But you couldn’t sing those songs anymore. They knew “If I Was Your Boyfriend” by that Justin Bieber nonbeliever and “That’s What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, another group of nonbelievers—may the devil plague them! <br /><br />But no one knew a hymn in English to our cause. Not a single kid. Well, everyone except me!<br /><br />I raised my hand and teacher smiled.<br /><br />He asked me to stand up and sing in place. <br /><br />The other kids turned to look at me. They were jealous because they were not as smart as me. <br /><br />I put my hands behind my back and stood straight like I do when singing the national anthem. I opened my mouth and began to sing:<br /><br /><i>We for the sake of Allah have come under the banner,<br /><br />We for the sake of our Caliph have torn the world asunder;<br /><br />We for the sake of our raped sisters will kill the ones responsible,<br /><br />We for the sake of our nation will die, but not before we become incredible.</i><br /><br />I didn’t know the meaning of raped, but daddy had taught me this song while we were fleeing India to come here, to this land of milk and honey. Daddy taught me a lot of songs and hymns as we fled India. We almost got caught, but our fake passports worked. Daddy is so smart. He is now working as a soldier here.<br /><br />“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said, and he shook my hand. The other kids clapped, but some spat on the ground with disgust.<br /><br />“Bravo, my son,” my teacher said again, holding me by the shoulders and looking into my eyes. “You are a gem of a man already. You get a star for this.”<br /><br />And I did; a star made of metal shining like gold, the ones soldiers put on their uniforms. I was so proud that I couldn’t stop smiling. <br /><br />The teacher then said it was almost time for prayers, but before that, did any of us kids know who we were deep in our hearts? Many kids answered: <br /><br />“We are Allah’s blessing in flesh.”<br /><br />“We are the terror of the Westerners.”<br /><br />“We are the protectors of our faith.”<br /><br />“We are true worshippers of the almighty.”<br /><br />But the teacher said all their answers were wrong. I knew that too, because I knew the real answer. Teacher then asked me, “Tell me, son, who are we?”<br /><br />I smiled, fiddling with my gold star before answering: “We are men who love death just as some people love their life; we are soldiers who fight in the day and the night.”<br /><br />My teacher clapped, and so did the other kids, except for the ones who yet again spat on the floor and gave me angry looks. <br /><br />We spent the rest of the day praying, going to the mosque that was once a church. They called it Lutheran, which sounds so ugly. I then came home, and here I am writing in this diary, which Daddy gave me to record the fun time I’m having here in this new country, the place where Allah truly lives with his beloved people.<br /><br />I’m so happy to have earned my star. I’ll wear it tomorrow to the next beheading on the main square of those bad men who were trying to escape heaven, this place where we stay. I love beheadings. I take pictures of it on my uncle’s cell phone. I love the blood, snapped bones, and torn veins the best. <br /><br />Tomorrow, our class will burn crosses at the beheading. I will burn not a cross, but a small statue of Mary, mother of that prophet who sinned against us. I’ve never burned her before, not because I haven’t gotten a chance to do so, but because . . . her eyes, her eyes when they look at me are funny.<br /><br />Well, it’s time to go for prayers. I shall write later. <br /><br />Yours always,<br /><br />Alif Shifaq of the ISIS children brigade,<br /><br />3 Bel Anif Mansion,<br /><br />Sultan Saladin Road,<br /><br />Raqqa,<br /><br />ISIS Syria,<br /><br />March 12, 2015. <br /><br />*<br /><br />After the fall of ISIS in Raqqa, an American soldier with his entire team were on the ground for inspection purposes. It was the year 2017, and the whole city had been razed to the ground. <br /><br />The American soldier’s name was Emmanuel, and as he walked over the immense quantity of rubble, he spotted something.<br /><br />It was a diary. A bit battered due to the bombing, but in good shape. <br /><br />The hand of a preteen was found holding a pen beside it. The hand only. Not the rest of the body. The body had been incinerated. <br /><br />Emmanuel lifted the diary and dusted it. He took it along with him, jumping over a pile of dusty teddy bears with their throats cut.<br /><br />“City of the dead,” Emmanuel intoned, as he opened the diary to read. The first thing he read was an inscription in black ink from a fountain pen. It was done in calligraphy—skillfully done.<br /><br /><i>We are men who love death just as you love your life,<br /><br />We are the soldiers who fight in the day and the night.</i><br /><br />Emmanuel sighed and turned a page.<br /><br />***<span style="color: purple;"><br /><br />Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan. <br /><br />We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/meet-rwisa-author-fiza-pathan-fizapathan-rrbc/">Fiza Pathan's RWISA Author Page</a></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-83111255382869849962019-07-12T10:22:00.000-07:002019-07-12T10:22:00.208-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today's guest is multi-genre author <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-beem-weeks/">Beem Weeks</a>! Check out his new short story below.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 24.533334732055664px;">"Dying for a Kiss"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in <i>Ripley’s Believe It or Not</i>. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a <i>kiss?</i>Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—<i>that’s</i>the souvenir <i>I</i>brought back from <i>my</i>spring break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Okay, let me back up to the beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I <i>know</i>what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go <i>somewhere</i>that’s almost as fun and exciting.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">When Dad speaks of <i>somewhere</i>, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I <i>hate</i>camping.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">A little backstory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in <i>my</i>hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I <i>hate</i>camping.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“I hate that song,” Amanda complains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Dad says, “Well, I like it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mom tries to lighten the mood. “<i>I spy</i>with my little eye—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Slug bug green!” <i>Thwack!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Slug bug blue!” <i>Thwack!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” <i>Thwack!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Hey! No fair!”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if <i>she</i>has <i>her</i>way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Too stupid to last long in <i>this</i>world,” Amanda says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Or<i>something</i>,” Amanda says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. <i>That’s</i>not happening anytime soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Nora sits in the middle—facing <i>me!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">And she’s two years older than me</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">, I think, as her lips press against mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">My first kiss—well, first <i>real</i>kiss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">From a <i>kiss!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Is that a <i>Ripley’s </i>story or what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">And what a kiss—<i>totally </i>worth dying for!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Well, <i>almost </i>dying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">***</span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-58673097391979024702019-07-11T04:00:00.000-07:002019-07-11T08:10:28.767-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuA2CzqT5181V3Qfj72Esk1Bcf1ZmNV8wv8_0vlV4YhNCc_EKASZL4cYo1k2SnfHxXEAWt6P4_GKRtS7wll25DklgzTHDCxFvtO8I_oQ2rHRwCm69VutrKir5DZpZOsvZGnl6nJRDHOG4/s1600/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="672" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuA2CzqT5181V3Qfj72Esk1Bcf1ZmNV8wv8_0vlV4YhNCc_EKASZL4cYo1k2SnfHxXEAWt6P4_GKRtS7wll25DklgzTHDCxFvtO8I_oQ2rHRwCm69VutrKir5DZpZOsvZGnl6nJRDHOG4/s400/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm thrilled to be hosting <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-jan-sikes/">Jan Sykes</a> today, a fellow member of RRBC and RWISA. Check out her heart-warming short piece below.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY</span></b></div>
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<b><a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-jan-sikes/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">JAN SIKES<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-jan-sikes/" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwNskAlqcWzPMXBwNj4ntdLdN5qK6Na_0ESZDGKznqLTwS51qh7q-eVuaN2JNTiypQHye97lBMbXAEjJFuqfnkLDddIrRWgcUolxuGkqY5OmsqWmTLivt0zK-KkEydCR9Ap0pR60T_-u0/s320/Jan+Sikes+w+books.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Gertrude McNabb placed a gnarled hand on her arthritic back as she bent over to take a chocolate cake from the oven. She inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack to cool. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">A black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. “This is for you, Hiram. I didn’t forget it was your birthday. It’s your favorite. I’ll always remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot, held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“We might as well make use of the time while I wait for your cake to cool. Then I’ll frost it with your favorite French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The mahogany stereo cabinet from the 1960s occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram McNabb brought it home as a Christmas surprise. They’d spent many happy days and nights listening to record albums. Hiram never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not Gertrude. For her, it was ol’ Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Oh, the wonderful and countless hours they’d waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Soldiers-Children-Jan-Sikes-ebook/dp/B07TMR8LQH/r" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JMnPEn1RsMZY117GPXSsKNKgTKCWP8nd-gZBMlZ2NohHE8sx8z0m6odh2xSGeZ16vHLE5b2GbPy6Db8YCEUO7ckQOu4ve4BaivG59HO0Yhw-AgFvqt3s55hY3ggBHlNU4VDaPUpGH20/s320/A+Soldier%2527s+Children+by+Jan+Sikes.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She adjusted her glasses and thumbed through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the photo she’d perched on the coffee table. “Since it’s your birthday, my dear, and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Her fingers, once nimble and efficient, struggled to remove the round disc from its package. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Remember how this one caught my eye in the record store, but we didn’t buy it?” She chuckled. “And then you brought it home the very next day.” She blew out a sigh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Once she had the disk secured on the turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She clicked on the stereo and waited until the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the black groove.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Then with a great flourish, she picked up the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jewel-Jan-Sikes-ebook/dp/B07TKMXK5B/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsr4U1vzpQW2pfBJrXd5y6635RxaZbXGdHpcRNi2E8kIz1MND4hoyO0TWkCaRgxE54hOT_8td8Y0N2AG8Apb81V8Ia8q_oQ6b1YggoDjzw9VXSs5ji0ZUbdKRaRh5zWymFporTAm4YPLk/s320/Jewel+by+Jan+Sikes.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Even though she hardly moved from the spot where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back to days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“It was fascination, I know, seeing you alone with the moonlight above,” Nat King Cole sang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">A smile graced her lips. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She whispered, “Hiram Edward McNabb, you swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your Army uniform. I’ll never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to stay with them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She paused and steadied herself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“You asked me to dance and didn’t let me sit down one time the whole night.” She giggled. “From then on, I knew we were meant to be together. I’d always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Memories swirled around in her mind. Sweet remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the fullest life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">No, they hadn’t been wealthy, but Hiram made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However, it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that kept her excited and happy for over sixty years. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Voodoo-Destiny-Decide-Jan-Sikes-ebook/dp/B07TMQJKSS/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcJjyDc8rO4oC1kMm2_fyE1hPX9xu9EmrLR2zoIeDdvPfMUpCRY8aN7Cpq8Jf2K6UuhdK8peLEr2CRNl3rKimdh3P8ubLF1Ug5aW4t-n77miG9Rpa7Oqpl9pUqlckF3dA9yPhEv3ZLeYU/s320/VooDoo+or+Destiny+by+Jan+Sikes.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">As impossible as it seemed, he’d now been gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didn’t carry on a conversation with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night declaration of love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Sometimes, she could swear that he answered her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The needle reached the end of the record. She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Rosie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She turned around. “Hiram?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">No one was there. Then she heard it again. Was she going daft? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“Well, I’ve certainly let my imagination get the best of me. I guess that’s what happens to old ladies when they’re alone too long.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">As she reached for her favorite Frank Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Now she was sure she was losing what little bit of sensibility she had left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">When she was a child, her relatives shared stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing more than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did old folks know?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">As hard as it was to admit, she might have been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had shown up to celebrate his birthday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and soak up every moment, even if it wasn’t real. She could make it true in her mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song, she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Her feet moved, and she twirled just like she’d done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed. She was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside the SPJST Hall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Song after song played, and still, they danced, they laughed, and they kissed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Then the record reached an end and she was met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she stood in the same spot where she’d been. She truly had been waltzing and twirling with Hiram. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">“I’m tired now, my love.” She moved toward her easy chair. “I just need to rest awhile.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Perhaps one day before long, she’d be waltzing again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had the memories, and she’d continue to dance with them until that day came.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">She reached for the photo and pressed it to her heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you for supporting this member along the </span><span style="color: #9900ff; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour </span><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the </span><span style="color: #9900ff; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">RWISA</span><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We ask that you also check out their books in the </span><span style="color: #9900ff; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">RWISA</span><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> or </span><span style="color: #9900ff; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">RRBC</span><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-jan-sikes/"><span style="color: #9900ff; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jan Sykes's </span><span style="color: #9900ff; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">RWISA Author Page</span></a></span></span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-30212171648279904492019-07-10T04:00:00.000-07:002019-07-10T08:52:16.311-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuA2CzqT5181V3Qfj72Esk1Bcf1ZmNV8wv8_0vlV4YhNCc_EKASZL4cYo1k2SnfHxXEAWt6P4_GKRtS7wll25DklgzTHDCxFvtO8I_oQ2rHRwCm69VutrKir5DZpZOsvZGnl6nJRDHOG4/s1600/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="672" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuA2CzqT5181V3Qfj72Esk1Bcf1ZmNV8wv8_0vlV4YhNCc_EKASZL4cYo1k2SnfHxXEAWt6P4_GKRtS7wll25DklgzTHDCxFvtO8I_oQ2rHRwCm69VutrKir5DZpZOsvZGnl6nJRDHOG4/s400/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Today we get a taste of <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-mary-adler/">Mary Adler's</a> thoughtful work. I do hope you enjoy it!<br />
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"Black Notes Beat" by Mary Adler<br />
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-mary-adler/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMhaf84ZhxxM41KRw2xuoLfOXqovsUrrgfCB4XQ25tSRgVLVXAnvjt9EMShyphenhyphenIlgz4dGWfX2uWGpINqxJQVjULnvYATOdYD4_heo9n28zdXGOze64RykTRBAQ1EvyUbqb2h021Ct66RDo/s320/Mary+Adler.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I have studied and observed crows for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”<br />
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Over the years, I have told my family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that I don’t know where to begin.)<br />
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During the non-nesting period of the year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place. They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even dynamiting their roosting places at night.<br />
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Like many natural creatures, they are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky--one small group after another--as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.<br />
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One evening, after watching them move across the sky, I wrote this:<br />
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Black Notes Beat<br />
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Black notes beat<br />
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Unfurling dusk<br />
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Across the bruising sky.<br />
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Quarter notes, half notes<br />
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Rise and fall.<br />
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Whole notes <br />
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Rest on treetops.<br />
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An arpeggio of eighth notes<br />
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Silently swirls, <br />
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Scribing a nocturne <br />
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in the fading light.<br />
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Softly they spill<br />
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to the nighttime roost:<br />
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Rustling,<br />
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murmuring, <br />
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settling,<br />
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hushed.<br />
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Now the still moment,<br />
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the last note fading,<br />
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No bows, no curtsies,<br />
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No fear of reviews.<br />
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They need no applause to perform their works.<br />
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<br />
Mary Adler<br />
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***<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUylUkknoejSBJ-RzaA2rAEbUKb7Coj53xxHF5k9YEYbkrzT65oEQbHWKF5TLmRbW5zzIPK5eMf40Q0gHcgedXAcDXSoegNjA13T-rk6QBkc6CtA8-SNNwSrR871I7jlAYPk9JtkJLQw/s1600/Shadowed+by+Death+by+Mary+Adler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="227" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUylUkknoejSBJ-RzaA2rAEbUKb7Coj53xxHF5k9YEYbkrzT65oEQbHWKF5TLmRbW5zzIPK5eMf40Q0gHcgedXAcDXSoegNjA13T-rk6QBkc6CtA8-SNNwSrR871I7jlAYPk9JtkJLQw/s400/Shadowed+by+Death+by+Mary+Adler.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
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<b><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.amazon.com/Shadowed-Death-Oliver-Wright-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07F2V369K/ref%3Dsr_1_1?keywords%3Dshadowed%2Bby%2Bdeath%2Bby%2Bmary%2Badler%26qid%3D1562768504%26s%3Dbooks%26sr%3D1-1&source=gmail&ust=1562860264513000&usg=AFQjCNHCLxfyMjyxh-cypXvm6jUSBNnZUw" href="https://www.amazon.com/Shadowed-Death-Oliver-Wright-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07F2V369K/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=shadowed+by+death+by+mary+adler&qid=1562768504&s=books&sr=1-1" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">"SHADOWED BY DEATH"</a></b> by Mary Adler </div>
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<b>Blurb:</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">San Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things her own way—a dangerous decision. </span><br style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Oliver guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put them both in mortal danger. </span><br style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">When Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a rougher kind of justice.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">Shadowed by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.</span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;">Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.<br /><br />We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don't forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:</span><br />
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-mary-adler/">Mary Adler's RWISA Author Page</a></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-26150852796647440232019-07-09T03:30:00.000-07:002019-07-09T09:08:54.310-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Fantasy author extraordinaire <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-wendy-j-scott/">Wendy J. Scott </a>is our guest today on the Watch RWISA Write blog tour, and I am thrilled to have her. Take it away, Wendy!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The Awakening by Wendy Scott</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">(An excerpt from 'Prophecy and Pirates' my unpublished first fantasy novel).</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Evarna gazed at the tinker's sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through Rick's locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The chill of the morning air vanquished the warmth she'd experienced in his arms as she eased out of the feather quilt. She untangled her discardedclothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they'd been shed as the lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The wagon's interior was a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature table. Evarna’shand hovered close to a silverharp, itching to touch the strings, but she lowered her hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn't appreciate being woken by the sound of mutilated chords.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">His abode hinted at depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment shelingered at the door and glanced back at his tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddleup against his muscular length was almost more than she could control. Instead, sheaverted her gaze and whispered, "Farewell, Tinkerman."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Sighing, she stepped outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding downnext to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Last evening she hadn't given her furry friend a moment's thought after the tinker's first kiss.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">A moist tongue licked her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept her voice low. "Hey, boy. Time to go home."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Stitch stalked over to the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the remains of yesterday's stew.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Not feeding you. Now, that's something you would not easily forgive."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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***<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The sound of horse hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick's eyelids snapped upwards,and he bounded out of bed. He hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed, ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Naked, he jerked the door open, streaked across the camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Two small, winged creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his pillow. Twin pixie expressionspeered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavenderto compliment her eyes.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Hrumph! You shut us out." Yasmin pinched her nose. "We had to snuggle up to a smelly dog to keep warm. Now you've got yourself a lady friend, you think you can ignore us as if we're not good enough company anymore."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"I don't understandwhat you see in her." Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. "She doesn't even have wings!"</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Elbowing her sibling out of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, "I thought you'd prefer blondes."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Rick grinned down at the pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. "And pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely ladies as yourselves?"</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The sisters clasped hands</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">. "He's got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come between us."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"The tinker islucky that we give him the time of day. Fancy him thinking he'd be acceptable to either ofus."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Rick shook his head, showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and scurried backward.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Stop mucking aroundand put some clothes on for goddess-sake." Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">After a token pass with a towel Rick grabbed his pantsand began dressing. "Evarna is the one I've been searching for. The prophecy foretold her arrival."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"How can you be sure she's the one?" Jasmin waggled her finger.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">He placed a hand on his chest. "Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk we can and march for Carnavalla."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Yasmin plucked a dog hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. "And how do you expect we'll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of years ago."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Carnavallawas hidden from mortals on purpose, it's only sleeping and I've severalgyp tricks I haven't shared with you."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Rick frowned. "Unfortunately, Evarna's in for a few magical surprises. I'm going to have some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving type."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Yasmin arched her brow. "But does she love you?"</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">"Of course she does, she just doesn't know it yet."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px; line-height: 32px;"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">***</span></span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-39289493418761780892019-07-08T07:30:00.001-07:002019-07-08T07:30:25.282-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRX3HD8-mNHsgen3vXYZgN2zdIlDxcH_MQCfJr06LdGkX7fu1T3wAwEP-3Cs3ZlfHi0excGD7lkr0I0H0vTGYEJxlpSt3f7Ces3h2QTvUAeMI_9oguZg8rdJKmyS39RhOKZ0SRGZzhkAk/s1600/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="672" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRX3HD8-mNHsgen3vXYZgN2zdIlDxcH_MQCfJr06LdGkX7fu1T3wAwEP-3Cs3ZlfHi0excGD7lkr0I0H0vTGYEJxlpSt3f7Ces3h2QTvUAeMI_9oguZg8rdJKmyS39RhOKZ0SRGZzhkAk/s400/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I'm so pleased today to welcome Rave Reviews Book Club and RWISA founder <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-nonnie-jules/">Nonnie Jules</a> to the blog! She's sharing a powerful poem called "Silent Tears." Take it away, Nonnie!<br />
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-nonnie-jules/"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="997" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDEBapzMOQBmC59E2U67T1ZjYEdLP2kRXOFORXCHKGYc3AHgnVG3HP_Kva0Zp6ycKrHRmuDZ4CWZ6zBzr9KL_psvJ5IO5HgJFQAI5VX1fwOztM-B4kW5v8Pxs5qA22JDWKGAv_2fjly0/s640/Nonnie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 22.82666778564453px;">SILENT TEARS</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 22.82666778564453px;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">by Nonnie Jules<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">I cry these silent tears for her<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">For her loss, for her pain, for her heart<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Breaking when she looks into their eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Her children – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts breaking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">The memories – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">the hardest<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of what used to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">There once was a HE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">But his chair is empty now<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Just as their hearts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Hollow as the tree he chose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">He left it all there<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">His back against a world filled with painful memories of a childhood unprotected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">His pain…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Reckless abandon he gave to it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">But quit…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">he could not<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">would not<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">was it his choice not?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">In the end, the call of the poison was stronger<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">and he had to answer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">he was forced to answer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">given no choice but to answer…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">was the way he felt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">His choice gave her no choice<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Single parenting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">A thing for some<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">but…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">It wasn’t her thing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">That is<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">until<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">he left her<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">no choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">She’ll be fine<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Kids are resilient<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">They’ll be fine<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Time heals all wounds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">All clichés but true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">Still…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">I cry my silent tears for her<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.97333335876465px;">For the husband she once knew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-18725900810612858002019-07-06T04:22:00.000-07:002019-07-06T04:22:05.139-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxOxbB79GBkxw3It6PtxwTdVCI7fu8yR0GhXyBZ9Z_dbxuJwVlXEGgW_z1Xrd3RZybRocq-f__AiiW5XHSSYyjqWT4SFq73K1vho48Phs9unlNvsrNz5_qKNaaJpLqajrP1xA25ndr6A/s1600/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="672" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxOxbB79GBkxw3It6PtxwTdVCI7fu8yR0GhXyBZ9Z_dbxuJwVlXEGgW_z1Xrd3RZybRocq-f__AiiW5XHSSYyjqWT4SFq73K1vho48Phs9unlNvsrNz5_qKNaaJpLqajrP1xA25ndr6A/s400/Watch+Write+Showcase+Tour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Welcome back to the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour! Today I'm hosting Linda Mims and her new short story "Solace." Enjoy!<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Solace<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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by Linda Mims</div>
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/author-linda-mims/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ClMUsuXh_OngtWb9yETLc8Ndmos5GHhmgofFlqL2f8Xx5aQo4L8dmg2EHu3qcJmMAs-D6rWthiyZIxDuLTSsuzwgGYBTPCD-fb56y6g9NVqRs3eAT8Gc6e-kR9uhFM4ffNupqa4pWek/s320/Linda+Mims.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Eighteen precocious kindergartners stared as Carly walked into the colorfully decorated classroom. Carly hoped her smile was more reassuring than she felt. <i>Was this a mistake? </i>She spotted two six-year-olds who'd been in her charge on the first field trip she’d chaperoned. They gave her a friendly wave, and a true smile parted Carly’s pursed lips and lightened her heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ms. Jones, the principal, asked all of the children to file around and shake hands with Carly, but some of them hugged her around the waist and Carly bent to embrace them. The huggers stared up at her and quickly turned away unsure how to behave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After Carly shook hands and hugged them, she asked their new teacher’s permission to lead them to the circle in the back of the room. She’d read that schools were frowning on seating students on the floor, but their former teacher, Miss Mason, had valued the practice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Miss Mason sat smack dab in the middle of “her kids” and shared her own childhood or read to them from her favorite stories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, hovering above the painted line, Carly squatted until she dropped. Sitting crossed-legged wasn’t as comfortable or as easy for Carly as the children made it appear. She smiled as they sank to the floor on legs like rubber bands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The children sat on the painted circle touching their neighbors with legs, arms, or elbows. There was no jostling or whining from anyone about invasion of space. They needed to connect in this strange time, so it was okay for someone to sit too close. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two little ones, seated across from Carly, couldn’t stop sniffling, so she held out her arms, and they came over. She pulled them down on either side of her and nuzzled them there. She wanted to join in. Be as free and uninhibited as they, but she held her feelings in check.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The children bowed their heads, but a few raised their eyes to cast envious glances at the two burrowed beneath Carly's arms. She smiled around the room, looking for the ones Miss Mason had told her about. Johnnie, who was the biggest discipline challenge. Grown-ish Jenny of the fresh mouth and Einstein mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Carly recognized little unkempt Anna who caused Miss Mason enough anxiety to refer her family to DCFS. Diana Mason loved these children, and they loved her. The students spent more time with Carly’s daughter than with their own parents.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Listen and I’ll tell you about the day little Ms. Mason broke the rules and made cookies for herself and her little sister,” Carly said. “When her father and I were away from home, she wasn’t supposed to fool with the stove, but you guys know how feisty Ms. Mason can be.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“She was a mischievous little girl,” Carly said with exaggerated feeling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the little ones giggled and hurriedly stifled it when the others swiveled their heads to stare at her, disapprovingly. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Children,” Carly said. “Ms. Mason would want you guys to smile as you remember her. She’d want you to remember the stories I’m about to tell you and think of her with love.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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***<o:p></o:p></div>
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Joe Mason waited outside the old brick building where, four years ago, his daughter and some of her colleagues had started their own small school. His wife was inside visiting his daughter’s kindergarten class, but Joe remained in the car. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He hadn’t agreed with Carly that this was a good idea. His family had spent a crushing two days grieving Diana’s sudden death and just when—maybe—the weight was easing, his wife sprung up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“Oh God, Joe! Her kids.”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m sure someone has told them,” he assured her, but Carly wouldn’t be comforted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re five and six years old, Joe. They don’t understand death. Can you imagine the confusion and anguish for those children? I have to go,” Carly said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“They need to hear from me and know that it will be all right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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She had made up her mind and Joe didn’t try to talk her out of it. Perhaps she needed this, too. He, on the other hand, couldn’t bring himself to think about Diana without feeling guilty. There was no peace for him as he shouldered the weight of his daughter’s death.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The night Diana died alone in her room, Joe had convinced himself that he’d heard her knocking for help. He’d been dreaming and in the dream, Diana had knocked on the front door. He was upstairs, and he wondered why Carly didn’t go to the door and let their daughter in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She knocked in random succession maybe three times, but when Joe woke, he heard nothing. He lay there for a long while listening and wondering if someone had been knocking on the door for real. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was 1:45 a.m. and outside, the sounds of jazz music told him his neighbor Jimmy was in his parked van, again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jimmy did that after a spat with his wife, Vanessa. That’s what the knocking had been. A radio commercial. Satisfied, Joe turned over and went back to sleep. It never occurred to him to wake Carly or to go check on Diana. If he had, his daughter could have gotten help, and she’d still be alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Joe couldn’t tell anyone. Carly and Diana were more than mother and daughter. They were best friends. Carly would never forgive him for, if nothing else, letting her remain asleep. God! The pain of losing Diana, compounded by his guilt, was eating Joe alive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Inside, Carly carried her own guilt. Diana had been working herself to the bone raising money to keep the school afloat. More than just exist, Diana and her colleagues wanted the school to make a huge impact on the lives of their students and their families.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Diana wasn’t sleeping. She was losing weight, and more than a few times, Carly argued with her about taking care of herself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If you don’t take care of your own health, you won’t be any damned good to your students!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mom, relax! What am I going to do? <i>Die</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Your heart, Diana. Please remember your heart.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I do, mom. I think about my heart all the time. School is the only thing that prevents me from thinking about my heart. <i>Can you give me a break? </i>And don’t go to Dad with your suspicions.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, Carly gave her a break and she didn’t tell Joe that she suspected Carly was sicker than she was letting on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You smell like her,” said a little one who'd scooted over and was hugging Carly from behind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Let me smell,” said another, peeling his classmate’s arms from around Carly and nudging the child over to squeeze in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I wanna smell,” cried a young girl who had stopped twirling her hair around her finger and now stood.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Soon they clustered around Carly, talking and gesturing. Their little voices serious as they shared stories of the times Ms. Mason had been kind, or funny, or very, very stern. Their beautiful faces weren’t so sad now and they made Carly laugh. An hour passed and the pall over the room lifted. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Outside, the breeze blew leaves from the young trees Diana had planted across the grounds. Joe trained his eye on a leaf that floated across his windshield on the gentle breeze. Instead of drifting along, the green leaf frolicked and rolled on the air in front of him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He’d never paid attention to leaves, and he wondered that this one seemed determined to hang right there, tumbling and playing in front of him. While Joe watched, the leaf floated down and lay on the hood as though spent. Then, to Joe’s amusement, it blew flat against his window and stuck there for a few moments.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The leaf stood on its stem and Joe bent to see it flutter across the car and brush Carly’s face just as she opened the passenger door. Carly started, then laughed and touched her face. Smiling, without even knowing why, they watched the little leaf fly off over the building and out of sight. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> ***</o:p></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-41230607273273659732019-07-05T01:30:00.000-07:002019-07-05T01:30:01.782-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today, I'm pleased to welcome <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-gwendolyn-plano/">Gwen Plano</a> to my blog. I hope you enjoy her brand new short story "The Rosary."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Young or old, we are all children at heart. This truth became apparent to me last December when I had neurosurgery. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Prior to the operation, a clerk handed me a stack of documents to sign—billing forms for the hospital and the doctors and several medical release forms that included a list of potential risks. My apprehension grew as I fingered through the papers and provided my signature. It was then that I wished that my mom could be with me. Like any child, I thought she could make it all better. But sadly, she had passed away nine months prior. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My mom was a person of prayer, and when I was young, she’d gather her seven children, tell us to get on our knees, and then proceed to pray. We’d follow her lead—usually protesting—and pray for family members, friends, and the unknown masses. Often, she led us in saying the rosary. Prayer was my mom’s response to any challenge or difficulty, and we had plenty of both on our farm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mom’s most common expression was, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” While some of us might curse or yell in frustration, Mom would say this phrase instead. So, when one of my brothers sent a golf ball through the picture window, Mom called out “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before scolding him. When we siblings squabbled with one another, Mom would mutter, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before sending us to our bedrooms. Without exception, we grew up knowing that when Mom said “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” we were in trouble. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t remember a time when Mom wasn’t praying. Whether washing the dishes, hanging the wash on the clothesline, working in the garden, or driving us to a sporting event or a 4-H meeting, Mom quietly prayed. I asked her about this once, and her response left an indelible impression. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Life is short,” she began, “and we must use every moment to the fullest. People need our prayers, and some don’t have a family to pray for them like we do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t understand her comment about using every moment to the fullest until I grew older. But her explanation helped me grasp why she rarely watched television and why she rushed from one room to another throughout the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When Mom passed at ninety-two years of age, she left a legacy of beliefs and practices that had found a place in the heart of each of her children. We may have complained about kneeling on the hard floor, but even as little tykes, prayer became part of our lives because of our mother. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At her passing, we were bereft. Mom was our strength, our compass. She was the one we called about concerns, both large and small; she was the one we talked with about our hopes and dreams. Her passing left a huge emptiness that still echoes in our memories. When we sorted through her belongings, not so surprisingly, we discovered she had a dozen or so rosaries. I received two of them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I checked into Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles, I took my mom’s wooden rosary with me. I felt her near when I held it, and this sensation gave me comfort. I held the beads tightly and imagined Mom with me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After the surgery, I was rolled into a room on the Pain Floor where all neurosurgery patients were housed. Next to me was an adjustable overbed table, and when I awakened, I realized that my mom’s rosary rested on it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My nurse, Lucy, regularly came in to check on me, and each time she walked through the door, she sang a refrain which included the words, <i>our lady of the rosary</i>. I was surprised by this, because Cedars Sinai is a Jewish hospital. After Lucy left, an aide visited, and she explained that her sister was a nun, and my rosary reminded her of this sister. Later, the night nurse came in and told me about immigrating to the US and how she loved the rosary. <o:p></o:p></div>
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During my hospital stay, one staff person after another visited me and shared family stories and photos—all evoked by the rosary that rested on the overbed table. As I was preparing to leave, Lucy came in to say her goodbyes. She pulled a photo from her pocket. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is my mom,” she proudly stated. “I thought you’d like to see her.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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The image was of a petite woman, hunched over by time, smiling broadly at the camera. She stood next to her much-larger daughter, Lucy. I was stunned; she looked like my mom. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As the hospital staff came to say goodbye and wish me well, I suddenly realized that Mom had been with me the whole while. I had been loved and cared for by many at the hospital, but it was Mom who drew them near with her rosary. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times new roman,serif;"><a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-gwendolyn-plano/"><span style="color: #9900ff; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gwen Plano's </span><span style="color: #9900ff; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">RWISA Author Page</span></a></span></span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-50402516747596484952019-07-04T02:00:00.000-07:002019-07-04T02:00:00.376-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm so pleased to welcome to my blog today multi-genre author Rhani D'Chae. Such a visceral writer! I hope you'll enjoy her excerpt below.</div>
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EXCERPT FROM UPCOMING NOVEL, “WINTER OF THE DRILL”</div>
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<a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-rhani-dchae/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNbZWyJotVmamF8e2yFGqvWjXl_4vlfjPrZCkZ-4rEC0Vr5eZ8bcC14K5RYMpLLotOOxjWFZFJksxjy6JQ1EdogFviFQ5CQVddQrYf-dDPVGw1A7hQezK-2uTVKPjIVi8C_S9JiSXS2E/s1600/Rhani+D%2527Chae.jpg" /></a>By Rhani D’Chae</div>
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***<br />
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Decker leaned against the hood of his car, talking to JT in a low tone of voice. His face wore a pleasant expression, and a casual observer would have had no clue as to the seriousness of their conversation.<br />
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"Second floor, third from the left?"<br />
<br />
JT nodded without turning, keeping his eyes focused on Decker's face. "That's what Hunt said, and it does make sense."<br />
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"Are you sure?"<br />
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The boy closed his eyes, remembering Hunter's words immediately after the shooting. <br />
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"I think it came from that window over there!" Hunter's eyes zeroed in on a building across the street. "Second floor, three in, left."<br />
<br />
JT nodded his head, confident that he had given the correct information. "Third from the left. I'm sure."<br />
<br />
Decker dipped his head almost imperceptibly, flicking his eyes quickly over the row of windows on the second floor of the nondescript building. Nothing seemed to be out of place, but he had not expected to find anything. However, the address of the building, as well as the location of the window and anything of interest nearby, went into the small notebook that he always carried with him.<br />
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"Well?" JT's voice held a touch of impatience. "Do you see anything?"<br />
<br />
"Yes." Decker laid one hand on JT's shoulder. "I see a boy who needs to learn that some things take more than a minute."<br />
<br />
The addition of a friendly smile took most of the sting from his words, and JT responded with a smile of his own.<br />
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"Okay." Decker rose from his perch and stepped on to the sidewalk. "I'm hungry, and you never got to the Olive Garden. Let's find some food."<br />
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* * *<br />
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From his vantage point at the front window of the Greyhound station across the street, the man known only as Rhegan, watched them head toward a small cafe. He had returned to the strip in search of street gossip but had surprisingly heard almost none. And what he did hear was not worth listening to.<br />
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As he watched the pair walk slowly along Pacific Avenue, he thought back to when he had sighted on the boy and pulled the trigger. He had aimed carefully, not wanting to kill, but even so, he was surprised to see JT back on the street so soon.<br />
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After the shooting, he had taken a few minutes to watch the fireworks, knowing that the police would not be called. <br />
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His victim had fallen hard, his panic obvious as he managed to scrabble behind the nearest parked car.<br />
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His companion had reacted with cool precision, slipping one arm behind the boy's shoulders and speed-dialing his cell phone with the other hand.<br />
<br />
Even from a distance, Rhegan could see that the man was scanning the street. When the steel-blue eyes passed over the window that he looked through, he felt a sudden chill, as if those eyes had looked directly into his and issued a challenge.<br />
<br />
A few passersby stopped to offer assistance, but Rhegan could tell that the man was dismissing each with a plausible excuse, for there was none of the panic that usually accompanied a public shooting.<br />
<br />
Within minutes a car had pulled smoothly to a stop, collecting both men before exiting at a sedate speed that would not attract attention.<br />
<br />
Rhegan had expected the part-time bouncer to run crying to Valdez, resignation in hand. Hopefully, the news that another person had taken a hit in his name would force a desperate Valdez to sign his club, the Toybox over to Malone, at whatever terms had been typed above the signature line.<br />
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Malone had told Rhegan that desperation was the only thing that would put a pen in his rival's hand and had given him a list of potential targets. Malone had laid out his plan of attack, and Rhegan had no problem with any of it.<br />
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But, instead of running, his first victim had returned to take care of business. Head high and shoulders straight, he walked the sidewalk that still bore spatters of his blood, not even glancing down when his boots passed over the red splotches.<br />
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He was doing what Reagan himself would have done, and the hard-eyed gunman respected that, even while he planned when and where to take the boy out for good.<br />
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-1216276518032101492019-07-03T03:46:00.000-07:002019-07-03T03:46:04.618-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today is my day on the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour. I've written a short story flashback set in the universe of my Hexborn Chronicles epic fantasy series. I do hope you will enjoy it!<br />
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Mirror, Mirror”</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">by A.M. Manay<o:p></o:p></span></h1>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Set in the world of The Hexborn Chronicles</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh stood in her teacher’s doorway, pulling anxiously on the end of a pink braid that had snuck out of her hood. Brother Edmun was in high dudgeon, ranting about insults and ingrates. A wooden crate sat upon the table, straw peeking through the slats. She could feel magic pouring out of it like waves of heat. It didn’t feel like dark magic, not exactly. But it didn’t feel like good magic, either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Master?” she ventured. “Would you like me to make your breakfast?” She didn’t bother to ask about the box. She knew that he would tell her if he wanted her to know, and in his own good time, not before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun looked at her as though she’d appeared out of thin air. He waved her off. “Don’t bother, poppet. I couldn’t eat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh’s eyes strayed to the crate, but she said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Go finish your essay from yesterday,” Edmun barked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh took her seat at her little desk. Her back now to the table, she could hear Brother Edmun unpacking the mysterious arrival. It was all she could do to resist the urge to peek when she heard the sound of a hammer. Edmun muttered under his breath, a constant patter of unintelligible complaints. At least, she heard him pull out a chair and collapse into the seat. She looked over her page one more time, searching for mistakes, before standing to present her work to her teacher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">He looked down at the offering in her little hand, her words marching neatly across the page. He took up his pen in one hand and her paper in the other. The glower slowly disappeared from his face as he read, leaving behind only weariness and a hint of satisfaction. At last, he nodded, putting down his pen unused, and Shiloh exhaled in relief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Well done. A princess at the Academy could not have done better at twice your age.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Thank you, master,” she said. Her smile lit up her eyes, which then strayed over Edmun’s shoulder to a mirror now hanging on the wall. The ornate frame looked out of place in the mountain cabin, all gilded leaves and lacquered flowers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Don’t look in it more than you can help it,” Edmun ordered, and she turned her gaze back to her teacher’s face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Yes, master,” she replied. “May I know why not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun hesitated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“I can feel that it’s magic, master.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">He snorted. “I’m sure you can.” She waited, hoping he would be more forthcoming but knowing well enough not to press him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun heaved a sigh. “A man can give you a gift out of love, to please you. Or he can send it as an insult, to remind you of errors and caution you against repeating them. This mirror is the latter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“What does it do?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“That is none of your concern,” he replied. “And that is all I will tell you. Go get a wand from the cabinet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh’s face lit up. “We’re using wands today?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun looked at her from beneath his eyebrows. “Is there another reason I’d ask you to get one? Now, do it quickly, before I think better of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The following evening, Shiloh picked up a clean rag and set about the dusting. Edmun was busy in the temple, preparing for the upcoming Feast of the Father. As soon as she was done in the house, she was to join him there. The red cabinet took most of her attention, as usual. The many books, wands, and magical curiosities inside had to be carefully wiped and replaced in their accustomed positions. It was tedious work, but she was pleased that Edmun trusted her with the task.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Her work on the cabinet finally completed, she turned to dust the mirror and gasped. The silver surface had turned to black. A face appeared, and not her own. Shiloh took a step backward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">A man cocked his head to the side, a slow smile spreading across his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Shiloh did not wait to hear the words. She ran, her head scarf flying behind her all the way to the temple doors. She threw them open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“What?” Edmun demanded, looking up from the altar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“The mirror,” she panted. “It turned black, and there was a man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun crossed the floor and took her by the shoulders. “What did he see? What did you say?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Nothing! I ran as soon as I saw him. I was only finishing up the dusting. Who was he?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun ran a hand over his mouth and chin and took a deep breath. “The most dangerous man in the kingdom. Silas Hatch.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“The Hatchet?” Shiloh shivered. “The king’s spymaster? Why would he appear in your mirror?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Who do you think sent it? Hatch likely meant to speak with me, to threaten me. The king hates and fears me for reasons you well know.” His brows drew inward. “He gave you a right scare, didn’t he, poppet?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh nodded. Edmun knelt to look her in the eye. “Now, if I were a kind man, I’d tell you that you need not fear him. But I’m not, so I’ll tell you the truth. You should be terrified of him. If you ever give him reason to believe you are disloyal to the crown, he will slit your throat with his own hands.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Why would I ever be disloyal to the crown?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun placed a hand on her head. “Good girl. Now, put that man out of your mind and help me ready the temple for tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh nodded, yet the ice of fear in her stomach remained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">As did the look of worry on her beloved teacher’s face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Shiloh sat on her bed in the loft above her father’s smithy. Upon her blanket lay an array of charms she’d just made, for protection against all manner of hexes or ill-wishing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The look upon the mirror man’s face had chilled her to the bone—something about the smile. It had been predatory. Proprietary. Wary. It had given her the distinct impression that the man’s interest lay not only in her master but in herself as well. <i>I will not leave my teacher unprotected.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">She pinned one charm on the linen beneath her tunic. The others she gathered into an old handkerchief. She tied it tight and placed the bundle in her pocket along with a jar of paste.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">She knew Edmun would already be in the temple performing his ablutions for the feast day. She let herself into his house and crossed warily to the mirror. She exhaled with relief to find it clad in its ordinary silver. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Carefully, she lifted the mirror off of its nail and turned it face down upon the table. She held the pot of glue in the crook of her elbow and pried it open, then affixed seven charms to the back of the Hatchet’s “gift” to her master, one for each of the Lords of Heaven. She returned the mirror to its proper place and hurried to the temple before Edmun could scold her for tardiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">At dusk, Edmun sat his tired bones into his favorite chair and looked balefully at the mirror. Given the visitation to Shiloh the night before, Edmun expected to see Silas Hatch’s face, yet as the pink light of sunset faded, the man did not appear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Perhaps tomorrow,” Edmun murmured. “I had hoped to get it over with.” He looked up at the mirror and realized that it was just slightly askew. He stood and removed it from the wall. Turning it over, he found Shiloh’s handiwork.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun smiled and shook his head. “My sweet, clever poppet. Too clever by half.” Sighing, he plucked the charms from the backing and set the mirror on the table, leaning against a water pitcher. Silas appeared in moments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Master Edmun, I feared you had forgotten the terms of our arrangement. There was to be no meddling with the mirror.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun swallowed heavily. “It was a momentary lapse,” he lied. “I thought better of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Silas grinned. “You don’t have lapses. It was the girl, wasn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Silas laughed. “It was. Ha! And what is she, only eight years old?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Still, Edmun said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“She must love you as much as I did,” Hatch mused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“What do you want?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Are you really teaching her mirror magic this young?” Hatch asked, brow raised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun closed his eyes and sighed. “Of course not. Evidently, I didn’t teach you your own well enough, as she defeated you with a handful of charms and some paste.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">The young man’s ears flushed. “Well, then,” he managed, “I shall have to redouble my efforts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“You do that. And Silas?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">“Yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Edmun leaned in. “The next time you frighten that girl, it had best be after I’m cold in the ground.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-40237849195585840592019-07-02T03:39:00.000-07:002019-07-02T03:39:03.705-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm so pleased today to be hosting author D.L. Finn. Today, she is spring with us four brand new poems. Enjoy!</div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">ICICLES <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The icicles dangle downward<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Reaching for the substantial snow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Each drop bringing them closer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">As the landscape merges into itself<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">It is silent in its existence<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Until a raven reveals itself<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Wondering what’s in the trash <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Yet, the moment remains peaceful<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Sitting and surveying in the chill<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">An instant promising potential<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">When there is no celerity<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">When crackling fires call<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">When surroundings are concealed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Soon, the renewal will be revealed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">But now it’s the stage of contemplation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">For sustenance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">For solace<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">For soul<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">To live on our abundance of the past<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">This is the gift of the snow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">When we can replenish our hearts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">In the silence of the icicles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.66667175292969px;">FREEDOM (Musings from the back of a Harley)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The freedom of the blue skies<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Welcome us warmly back<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Our path is asphalt<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Our vehicle a mechanical horse<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Our guide is the wind<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Lush green walls soar<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The sun illuminates the way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Oaks are waking up after a long nap<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">And I…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">I fill my soul<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">With nature’s flowering renewal<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Bursting with beauty and abundance <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">In the freedom of spring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.66667175292969px;">WHERE THE RIVERS MEET</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Roaring white, pounding the granite<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Swirling, swelling, splendor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The air is heavy with anticipation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">It blows over me like a lover’s touch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Filling my heart with sweet floral ecstasy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">I relax into the experience<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Each breath carries away my worries <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">My eyes fill with abandonment<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">As the rushing liquid serenades me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Singing the praise of this paradise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Until the different directions converge <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">After a brief resounding rumble<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">They combine and continue on their way <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Leaving the moment where the rivers meet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.66667175292969px;">OCEAN<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">As I sit perched up high on our lanai<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Comfortable on my recliner in the shade<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The ocean draws my gaze<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Its sapphire and emerald water calls me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">While the blue pool floats in its space—uninviting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">I hear the sea’s song as it smashes onto the shore<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The surfers ride its motion<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">The snorkelers gaze into its depth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">And the swimmers float on its perception<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Our attraction is undeniable<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Opposites: one of air, one of water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">It beckons, and I must respond<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Offering myself up to the hidden world<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">Under the cerulean summon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.33333206176758px;">I answer, embracing the ocean completely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-18517104497643189522019-07-01T07:31:00.000-07:002019-07-01T07:31:03.934-07:00Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm so pleased to welcome you to the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour. Today, I'm hosting <a href="https://ravewriters.wordpress.com/meet-the-authors/author-john-howell/">John Howell</a> and sharing his new short story "The Road."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMKP0EMfWEjCvjxfEXYwRCBNM9kjU9Z_uxNtjbvPq0wqeDI-ZUnJN606sC5-MyWeyEnpQtfUw4SpyEil_qEDc6KRFU57bzdMLC79S3Yg2XZEADcxJEKuOA-KbZoT0YJJe83OpnhVyt6U/s1600/John+Howell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMKP0EMfWEjCvjxfEXYwRCBNM9kjU9Z_uxNtjbvPq0wqeDI-ZUnJN606sC5-MyWeyEnpQtfUw4SpyEil_qEDc6KRFU57bzdMLC79S3Yg2XZEADcxJEKuOA-KbZoT0YJJe83OpnhVyt6U/s1600/John+Howell.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Just a couple more hours and I’ll be able to rest my eyes. Been on this damn highway for what seems like forever. </i>His head slowly nods until the rumble strip noise causes him to jerk awake. “I have been asleep,” he yells. He yanks the wheel, and the tires screech in protest as he swerves back on to the highway. He can feel his heart in his chest and pressure in his eyes. In an instant, he regrets being so weak as to give in to the physical need. He also becomes alarmed since now he knows that sleep could overtake him without notice. One second, his eyes could be open and the next closed. Thank God for the jarring and noise of the rumble strips since without its alarm, he is sure he would have ended up piled into a tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As his heart settles down, he concentrates on the road ahead. There’s someone at the side about a half mile away. A hitchhiker by the looks of a backpack. A sign in the person’s hand is not readable at this distance. The thought occurs that It would be a good thing to have someone else in the car to help him stay awake.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Of course, there are dangers in picking up a stranger. As he gets closer, he can see that the hitchhiker is not a guy like he thought. It’s a young woman about his age.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">She is wearing some kind of overalls, but the distinctive female form still comes through. He decides to slow down and assess the situation. A girl makes all the difference in trying to reach a decision for or against a pickup. After all, who knows where this could lead? He does know that in all probability, she is not likely to stick a knife in his ribs and demand his wallet after a couple of miles down the road.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He eases the car to the shoulder and can’t help kick up some dust in the process. The sign is facing him even as the person turns away to avoid the dust storm he has created. Kansas City in black marker on cardboard is all it says.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He opens the passenger door and waves her over. “I’m going to Kansas City. Want a ride?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The young woman looks back at him, and he can tell she is doing an evaluation on the safety prospects of accepting a lift. She slowly hoists her backpack on to her shoulder and walks with hesitant steps toward the car. She puts her hand above her eyes to cut the glare of the sun and stops short of the door. She leans in. “Did you say you’re going to Kansas City?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes. Yes, I did. I also asked if you would like a ride.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“That all depends on your intentions?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“My intentions?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah. You are offering a ride. How much will it cost me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Cost you? I’m going to Kansas City. Your sign says Kansas City. Why would it cost you anything?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Just want to make sure is all.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No charge. I’ve been on the road forever, it seems, and I would welcome the company. My name is James.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Sorry, James. I know I sounded a little ungrateful, but I have also been on the road and have met several guys that think I owe them something for a ride.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I can understand that. Let’s just say you can ride or not it’s your choice. No other decisions to be made.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Fair enough. I accept your offer. My name is Sarah.” She slides in and slams the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Nice to meet you, Sarah. You want to put your backpack in the rear?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No, I’ll just keep it here in the front with me. You can never tell.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Tell what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“When I’ll have to bail. Everything I own is in this pack, and I sure wouldn’t want to leave it behind.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I get it. No use trusting someone just cause they say you can.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Right. I think I like you, James.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Wainwright. My last name’s Wainwright. How about you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Not sure I have a last name. I go by Sarah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No last name? How can that be?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You going to start this car or is my fear well founded.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
James flushes as he turns the ignition. “Yeah, here we go.” He looks in the side mirror and signals as he pulls back on the highway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You are a cautious one. There’s no one for miles.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I guess it’s a habit from city driving.” He keeps checking in the mirror until he is up to highway speed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Where you from, James?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“New York. You?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I think I was originally from down south somewhere.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You don’t know?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well, it’s been a long time.” She pauses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
James glances at her and sees that she is lost in thought somewhere. Her skin is fair, and she has the high cheekbones and lips of a runway model. She looks vaguely familiar, and he compares her looks to Joni Mitchell. There is that innocent, fragile look that makes you want to take care of her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” She is back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I didn’t say anything. I’m amazed you don’t know where you are from.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Well do you remember where you’re from or is it someone told you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
She has a point. James only knew he was born in Chicago because his parents told him so. He lived in New York for twenty years so unless clued in he would have thought he lived there his whole life. “I guess I should rephrase the question. Where did you last live?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes, James. That makes a little more sense. I last lived in Dubuque, Iowa.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What a coincidence. I am driving from Dubuque. Do you believe that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I can believe that. Someone once said there are only six degrees of separation of everyone on Earth. You and I traveling from Dubuque at the same time certainly falls into that realm.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Aw come on, Sarah. We are both going from Dubuque to Kansas City. That has to be more than a coincidence.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I never said I was going to Kansas City, James.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Wait. You have that sign that says Kansas City.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Doesn’t mean I’m going there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What does it mean?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You think I know?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I’m getting a weird feeling here, Sarah. Like you aren’t telling me something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Do you remember swerving after you ran off the highway?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“What? Back there. Yeah, I remember almost falling asleep. Hey, wait a minute. How would you know about that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Think a minute, James. How do you think I would know about that moment?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Sarah I’m too tired for guessing games. What is this all about?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Do you feel okay, James?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, just tired.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Look around. Do you see any other cars?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No, but I haven’t for a while. What are you trying to tell me, Sarah?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You fell asleep James.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“When did I fall asleep? I know I nodded off, but when did I fall asleep?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Just before your car went off the road and you hit a cement culvert.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Now, you are joking. Right? Right, Sarah?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No joke, James. Look ahead. What do you see?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Uh up the road, you mean?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes, up the road.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Nothing but what looks like a sandstorm.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“It’s no storm, James. It is nothing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Who are you anyway?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Do you remember that little girl who went missing in the second grade?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yeah, what does that have to do with you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Does the nickname Jimmy Jeans mean anything?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“That’s what Sarah called me in the second grade.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“How did I know that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You wouldn’t unless.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Unless I’m Sarah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Oh My God. Sarah. It is you. Where have you been?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“That’s not important. What is important is you were broken hearted when I vanished. You prayed for my return and made promises to God if only I would come back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“I never got over that either. I think of that little gir<span style="font-family: Symbol;">¾</span>. I mean, I thought of you almost every day. Why didn’t I recognize you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Cause I’m all grown up. There would be no way.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Where have you been Sarah. I have missed you so much.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Don’t cry, James. I’m here with you now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Can you tell me what happened to you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“No, James, it’s not worth the time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“So why now? Why are you here now?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“To help you, James.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“To help me. How?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“To understand what your life is like now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Now? What do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You were in an accident, James. You ran off the road, and I am sorry to say your body didn’t survive. You are now going with me on an eternal trip.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You are saying I’m dead. I can’t believe that. Look at me. I’m just as alive as you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“That’s right. You are.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Um, Sarah?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Yes, James.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You are dead too?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, James. A man took me from school and killed me. They never found my body.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“W-what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t think about that now. Think about the future. Because you prayed so hard and missed me so much, I was given the honor of escorting you to the other side.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Other side? There’s a Future?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“A wonderful one. You and I for all time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I would like that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Take my hand then. Let’s be off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I have more questions.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“All in good time, James. All in good time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4379485826601913316.post-44090831145638819072019-06-18T20:00:00.000-07:002019-06-18T20:00:07.033-07:00Welcome to the "THE CHOICE, the unexpected heroes" Blog Tour! @gmplano @4WillsPub #RRBC <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />I'm please today to welcome fellow Rave Reviews Book Club member Gwen Plano. She's promoting her book <a href="https://amzn.to/2Z3dUEm">The Choice</a>, now available for $0.99! Take it away, Gwen! <div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKN_pzZ8uiZZ1cy5S_nprp1Z4ewGt6aReM3XQE_unm8fOSpB-T4WEJzqYUS-ZPWnQiHQ0eqlOHy-gUxS2wL25Pv9VQyWf0bMH7il9pFw4KUuY28yuhhELlKSXbO35I9_9vBk3haBlOHw/s1600/Head+Shot+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKN_pzZ8uiZZ1cy5S_nprp1Z4ewGt6aReM3XQE_unm8fOSpB-T4WEJzqYUS-ZPWnQiHQ0eqlOHy-gUxS2wL25Pv9VQyWf0bMH7il9pFw4KUuY28yuhhELlKSXbO35I9_9vBk3haBlOHw/s320/Head+Shot+2017.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
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<br />As a child of the Sixties, tragedy squelched my idealism. First, the unbelievable occurred. President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. His death was followed by the murder of civil rights leader and minister, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. A few months later, JFK’s brother, Senator Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated. Three notable and beloved leaders were dead. <br /><br />These events shook the nation as nothing had prior. There were answers given, culprits found, but many of us did not believe what we were told. Doubt became part of the fabric of our lives.<br /><br />In THE CHOICE, questions are raised about key deaths and theories abound. In this clip, a traitor (Robert Sullivan) is murdered while in prison. </div>
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<a href="https://amzn.to/2Z3dUEm" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="322" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsezSZqigaa-AxHQxSWImc65q259dUTDOjOFYQdKNelnYutogZuKPqceAyVuVBL2LhE4kLsnjdblDOgiPuElE1GEYoGpd-4CfOXB7W1YIeR54eJcB1JKfQaPJTQmjkfUH0Km_b4QPvcIg/s400/The+Choice+by+Gwen+Plano.jpg" width="257" /></a><br /><br /> <b>Excerpt:</b><br /><br />Admiral Parker walks into the OPS Center and asks for Sergeant Gruner. A staffer leads him to the back office.<br /><br />“Good morning, sir. You must have heard from General Taylor.”<br /><br />“I sure did. What in the world happened?” <br /><br />“The preliminary reports show that Sullivan was poisoned. The kitchen delivered breakfast at 0600. The airman brought it in to the prisoner. He began eating at 0620 and became unresponsive by 0625.”<br /><br />“Did you check the camera feeds for anything unusual?”<br /><br />“Done it, sir. This has to be a professional hit. We also checked the camera feed in the kitchen and don’t see anything unusual.”<br /><br />“How many trays were prepared today?”<br /><br />“Besides this one, fourteen to the medical center.”<br /><br />“Does this one stand out in any way? How do you identify them?”<br /><br />“Each tray gets labeled because of the special diets in the clinic. This one simply said, prisoner.”<br /><br />“What about the delivery truck and driver?”<br /><br />“Nothing unusual so far, sir. We’re going over every inch of footage.”<br /><br />“All right. Call me if you find anything.”<br /><br />“Copy that, sir. I’m sorry I let you down.” <br /><br />“You didn’t let me down, Gruner. We just got too close to the Lion, andhe sent a clear message.”<br /><br />“Sir?”<br /><br />“No one will stand in his way.”<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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BIO: <br /><br />Growing up in Southern California, Gwen Plano loved learning. She earned four degrees and taught and served in universities and colleges across the country and in Japan. Now retired, she is focused on writing. Gwen's first book, Letting Go into Perfect Love, is a memoir. Her second book, The Contract, is a thriller co-authored by John W. Howell. Gwen lives in the Midwest with her husband, and when she is not writing, she is traveling, usually to see one of her four children and many grandchildren. <br /><br />Links: <br /><br />Amazon: <a href="https://amzn.to/2Z3dUEm">https://amzn.to/2Z3dUEm</a> <br /><br />Website: <a href="https://gwenmplano.com/">https://gwenmplano.com/</a><br /><br />Twitter: @gmplano<br /><br />Facebook: @GwendolynMPlano<br /><br />***<br /><br /><div style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;">
To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the <b><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/announcing-publication-of-the-choice-the-unexpected-heroes-blog-tour-gmplano-rrbc-rwisa-4willspub/&source=gmail&ust=1560956526027000&usg=AFQjCNFbJ1GP0BxBsjdc3VvLRWWDVjibbA" href="https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/announcing-publication-of-the-choice-the-unexpected-heroes-blog-tour-gmplano-rrbc-rwisa-4willspub/" style="background-color: #b8eab8; color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">author's tour page</a></b> on the <b><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/upcoming-events/&source=gmail&ust=1560956526027000&usg=AFQjCNES6lN-tVywTNr4K54O9NWJUZTgQg" href="https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/upcoming-events/" style="background-color: #b8eab8; color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">4WillsPublishing</a></b> site. If you'd like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click <b><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/literary-services/virtual-blog-tours/&source=gmail&ust=1560956526027000&usg=AFQjCNEsbzm3b3g00i1BBbL5fXtrmjogbQ" href="https://4willspublishing.wordpress.com/literary-services/virtual-blog-tours/" style="background-color: #b8eab8; color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">HERE</a></b>. <b><span class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599TSRSpan" id="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599TSRSpan_113"></span></b><b><span class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599TSRSpan" id="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599TSRSpan_112"></span></b><b><span class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-TSRSpan" id="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-TSRSpan_36" style="display: inline-block; height: 16px; padding: 0px 2px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; width: 16px;"></span></b><b><span class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-TSRSpan" id="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-TSRSpan_35" style="display: inline-block; height: 16px; padding: 0px 2px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; width: 16px;"></span></b></div>
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Lastly, <span class="gmail_default">Gwen</span> is a member of the best book club ever - <b>RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB {#RRBC}!</b> <span class="gmail_default"></span>If you're looking for amazing support as an author, or if you simply love books, <span class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-m_-2288715560009538847m_157083801522638362TSRSpan" id="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-m_-2288715560009538847m_157083801522638362TSRSpan_603"></span><span class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-m_-2288715560009538847TSRSpan" id="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-m_-2288715560009538847TSRSpan_14"><img class="m_-5220447763049813849m_-466672747559242070m_-1995820654702492232m_6768473633950056254m_-2448349073628205599m_-7790545674777664815m_-8409415860448195729gmail-m_4403395989761840172m_-1449908763193539806m_7339302404092883219m_5541998087638703730gmail-m_226335843029313003m_-1477509226986766471gmail-m_4087407984987365353m_-4273348293086387304m_-3242547602491752017gmail-m_-2288715560009538847TSRWebRatingIcon" /><b><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/join-here/&source=gmail&ust=1560956526027000&usg=AFQjCNF-5pVl9jFzwHcjZkaS5XI5llUm6g" href="https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/join-here/" style="background-color: #b8eab8; color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">JOIN US</a></b>! We'd love to have you!</span></div>
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A.M. Manayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08222317405551709724noreply@blogger.com16