Night Chill by Jeff Gunhus

TWO

Jack Tremont was late. That he would be running so far behind schedule was unthinkable, especially since the two clients waiting for him were his most important. The traffic light ahead of him turned yellow. He thought about running it until he saw a stop sign thrust into the air behind the row of cars to his right.

His Jeep Cherokee, a far cry from the BMW 750 he drove just a few years before, braked easily before the intersection. Still, the school crossing guard shot him a withering look for stopping a foot into the crosswalk. He returned her scowl with a smile but it was wasted. With a look of disgust the guard held up her stop sign in front of his bumper. She stared Jack down as she waved the mass of school kids across the street.

Jack knew the woman, Mrs. Hilder. She was no-nonsense New England and she had little tolerance for the relaxed southern attitude abundant here in western Maryland. All of the kids and half of the adults in Prescott City were scared of her. The parents remembered her as the crossing guard when they were in school and they carried the same fearful awe as their kids did now. One of the parents had admitted to Jack that she still stood up a little straighter each time she saw her coming down the street.  Tough as woodpecker lips, the parent had whispered, laughing but glancing around as if the crossing guard would come charging at them any minute. Mrs. Hilder’s stare was enough to convince Jack of the truth of it. He tried to ignore her and watch instead the stream of colorful jackets, cartoon lunch pails, and action hero backpacks parade in front of him, all headed toward a carefree afternoon. No stress. No worries.

Jack took a deep breath and felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. When would he learn to relax? He and Lauren had moved to Prescott City a year ago for exactly this reason, to undo the mess they had created trying unsuccessfully to balance two high-paced careers while starting a family. To be fair, it had been more his mess than hers. She was an overachiever but always seemed to keep things in balance. He was the workaholic to whom family had become something squeezed into planned increments in a schedule.

The outrageous materialism of living in Orange County, California  hadn’t  helped matters either. They had chased success so hard that they hardly noticed they were failing every day.

Then the accident happened.

As horrible as it was, in some strange way, Jack realized the accident had probably saved his marriage. Almost two years later he was still paying for this marital help with nightmares and a constant black guilt that clawed in his stomach like a living creature. He bore the suffering without complaint. For what he had done, he knew he deserved worse.

The last of the kids skipped across the street and with one last glare, Mrs. Hilder returned to the sidewalk to let Jack pass. He smiled and gave a little wave.

“C’mon Mrs. Hilder. Give me some love,” he murmured. Nothing doing. The crossing guard’s stern mouth grew more wrinkled as she scowled. Jack shook his head and laughed. “Playing hard to get, huh? Maybe next time.”

A few minutes later he pulled into the pick-up area and saw his important clients hanging out on the swing set next to the head office. They saw him and squealed in delight. Grabbing their matching purple Groovy Girls backpacks, his daughters ran over to him and gave him a huge hug.

“Sorry I’m late girls.”

“Are you late?” Becky asked.

“Yeah, a little,” he smiled. Every day he was away from the business world he was reminded that life didn’t have to be so difficult. In the real world, being five minutes late wasn’t such a big deal. He looked back at his girls piling into the Jeep. “You girls know what today is, don’t you?”

“My birthday. I’m gonna be seven!” Sarah shouted.

“Your birthday’s not for months, silly. And you’re only six.” Becky said, poking her sister in the arm.

Jack twisted around in the front seat and said in a serious voice, “I can’t believe you don’t know what day this is. How could you possibly, possibly forget that today is…” he paused for added drama, “ice cream day!”

The girls screamed and then giggled at their dad. Soon they were lost in an important discussion about the relative coolness of different flavors of ice cream. As Jack edged into the after school traffic he thought that moving to Prescott City was the best thing he had ever done.  He actually knew his kids now. Even he and Lauren were starting to feel normal again, as if the worse was finally behind them. Lauren had started to talk about plans years from now, not just weeks and months. It was a subtle change, but its significance hadn’t been lost on him. 

Prescott City had been good for the Tremonts. In California they had sped through life, racking up accomplishments and wealth instead of memories and relationships. Here they were all taking notice of life and enjoying it. Besides some periodic consulting work, he’d even taken the time to dabble in writing mysteries. Sure, life was simple here, but he was learning that simple wasn’t the epithet he’d thought it was. Simple was good and he hoped things stayed that way.

Jack Tremont moves his family to the quiet mountains of Western Maryland hoping to leave behind a troubled past and restart his life. Instead, he finds himself caught up in a nightmare when his daughter Sarah is targeted by Nate Huckley, a mysterious and horrifying stranger driven by a dark power that will stop at nothing to possess Sarah.

When Sarah goes missing, suspicion falls on Jack and he must uncover the secrets of the small mountain town of Prescott City and face the evil secret hidden there. As he digs further, he learns the conspiracy reaches more deeply than he could have imagined. Finally, he will have to face the question, What is a father willing to do to save his child? The answer? Anything. Anything at all.

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Genre – Supernatural Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.jeffgunhus.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Mars Rising by Mark David Major

1 At the Threshold of the Gate

The lieutenant retired to his quarters, removed his tunic, and tossed it across the arm of a chair. He threw his weary body down on the bunk. The collection of bones, ligaments, and tendons in his left knee made a cracking sound as he stretched out the lingering injury. A feeling of anxiety troubled him. He could not adopt the captain’s levity about the situation. The captain had played the role of a man on the brink of Vassalage for so long now that he was, under most circumstances, incapable of gravity. The lieutenant’s position was different. He was young, full of spirit, and most of his life was still before him. He had a lot to lose. He could not dismiss the dread he felt about an uncertain future clouded by civil war. For all he knew, Hande could make good on her boast to raise millions to oppose the Commander, whether through the utility of her foot or more practical means.
His eyes refused to embrace the serenity of sleep. He tried swallowing a sleep aid but it had no effect. His mind raced like a tornado in the lonesome prairie of his quarters. What had the prophecy about the Commander meant? The implications were disturbingly obvious. And because of this, and many other things, the lieutenant could not rest. The lights eventually rose to simulate daybreak within the artificial environment of the ship. The bright light caused the lieutenant’s eyes to momentarily water. An alarm sounded throughout the ship. The lieutenant quickly rose, threw on his tunic, and exited the quarters. He methodically proceeded through the metal corridors of the ship to the bridge. He entered and saw the captain was already there, standing erect among some of the crew gathered about him. The great armada had remained poised throughout the artificial night, holding its position just beyond the invisible boundary formed by the lunar orbit. Other soldiers soon pushed past the lieutenant onto the bridge. One could sense their eagerness, their desire for events to unfold however as they would, rather than continue to bear the strain of this static pause. A sense of anticipation afflicted every person on the bridge. It was reflective of the thoughts and emotions assaulting every member of the crew on every ship of the armada at that particular moment in the drama.

____________

The crackling sound of an incoming transmission caused everyone to turn towards the center of the bridge. They watched as the light of a hologram slowly flickered into existence, as if arriving from some faraway place and unknown time. The hologram materialized into a shape. It was the image of a woman, larger than life and towering over everyone. It seemed apparent this image was simultaneously appearing before everyone on every ship of the armada. The woman was almost painfully beautiful. Her skin was paler than normal for a human, her eyes were a lush dark green, and her lips narrow but inviting. About her shoulders spilled a mane of curly black hair, which miraculously appeared both unkempt and meticulously groomed. There was something eternal about the vision of womanhood before them. One could easily infer by her dress that she was a Marineris priestess. The sheer garment she wore displayed the nubile shape of her lithe body without revealing any details of the concealed flesh. The woman’s appearance silenced everyone. Now, the low rumbling of the engines powering the ship was the only thing that could be heard.

She raised her right hand to her face and, with her middle and forefinger extended, gracefully touched her forehead and then lowered her right hand to her heart, which she also touched, thus completing the accepted manner of greeting in Marineris ritual; tracing the ‘path of the spear’ from head to heart.

Once completed, she opened her mouth and began to sing. The melody she sang was of pure joy. A joy unlike any of them had ever experienced or even before dreamt. It was a very old song. She sang in a dialect long forgotten to most humans. The translation of the song was:

Exultation, lovely flame of God, Sons and daughters of Mars, We enter fire empowered, Heaven our reward!

Embracing that Destiny, Share your kiss among the stars, Brothers in arms and soul, A loving Father, your true north!

Can you sense this time, brothers! Seek salvation in the valley, Above the stars, you’ll dwell.

Embracing that Destiny, Share your kiss among the stars,
Sisters in arms and soul, A loving Mother, our constant!

Can you sense this time, sisters! Seek salvation in the valley, Above the stars, you’ll dwell. The priestess continued to sing by repeating these verses but then the chattering voices of the soldiers articulated thoughts into words. Phrases like ‘the Creator is with us’ and ‘the Holy Mother blesses our path’ escaped their lips. Another voice rose above the others, “Ran’s hand will strike down our enemies with the force of God!” Several of the soldiers fell to their knees in an almost violent manner to worship before the image of the priestess. The hologram slowly began to fade. The song also began to drift away. The lieutenant continued to watch until the last moment when the image at last vanished from their view. The vision of the woman dissolved into an electronic mist as if consumed in a cloud of smoke. Once the image had completely disappeared, an echo of the song hung briefly in the air. For a moment, many believed they could reach out and capture the dying embers of that song to prevent its escape. A few even reached out their hands in contemplation of the attempt but the song then faded into oblivion. There was silence.

The captain began to bellow orders. “The order is given! Proceed into the forbidden zone! Man your stations or get wherever you’re supposed to be!”

There was a moment of quiet and then the entire bridge burst into frenzied activity. Crew members returned their attention to the stations in front of them. Ordinary soldiers exited the bridge. All had now accepted their roles in the coming drama, each according to their own talents and beliefs. After the song of the priestess, it was clear the crew and soldiers were suddenly triumphant in their demeanor and determined in their purpose. The entire weight of the mighty armada slowly edged forward in united action. So began the fateful crossing of the Moon’s orbit into the forbidden zone around the birthplace of the Sovereignty. Ran had begun his thrust into the very womb of humanity.

The captain made his way across the bridge. He stood beside the lieutenant and whispered like a conspirator with a wry grin on his face. “Some trick of the Commander’s, I suspect.”

The lieutenant merely nodded his understanding.
Was it? Or were the mystics of the Marineris Sect intervening in this great drama on behalf of the Commander? Were they blessing the path he had dared to tread in pursuit of glory and honor?

____________

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Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – PG13

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The Haunting of Wolfe Haven by Debbie A. Heaton

A Journey Begins …

My past is behind me, my future uncertain. All I really have is this moment.

Today, I looked out among the sculpted yews of a garden and saw my husband for the first time in three years. Today, I stood before the gates of Wolfe Haven, lost among other gaping visitors. I climbed the long walk to the high front terrace of the house where I had once lived … and found myself anonymous.

Ahead, the stones of Wolfe Haven glowed like warm honey in the sunshine, instead of frowning cold and gray as they once had. I was nothing to the house. I had been put aside, once and for all. I had loved Wolfe Haven and I’d hated it. But I hadn’t come here to see the house.

I wanted to approach quietly, to establish my presence well within the grounds before I could be caught and sent packing. Fortunately, I had found it simple enough to get here from Albuquerque and make my secret assault upon the gates. At the airport, I had gathered my luggage and made a beeline to the car rental counter.

My research had revealed that Wolfe Haven now offered tours twice weekly to the public. Renting a Chevy Cobalt, I stowed my suitcases and raincoat in the trunk, folding my short frame into the front seat, and then merged with the traffic. If I timed the drive carefully, I knew I would arrive at Wolfe Haven in time to melt into the afternoon tour.

Sunlight glimmered on the pavement, along with the heat of the season I remembered so well. The first hints of summer were hanging in the air, like a forgotten memory.

Whipping into an Arby’s drive-through, I ordered a sandwich, curly fries, and a Diet Dr. Pepper. I headed back into the traffic. Caffeine and food were the best weapons against stress, I’d found—as long as the food was spiked with plenty of cholesterol.

The landscape was amazing—mountains bleeding into desert, every color of nature bursting from the land, the trees, and the sky. It revealed in a heartbeat why so many artists and photographers gravitated here. There was something about the light in New Mexico that made everything seem etched by God’s loving hand.

The scenery whizzed by as the Cobalt ate up the miles. Holding tight to the wheel, I let my mind go on rewind. Memories surfaced and tears puddled in my eyes.

Damn my thoughts! I had to sever old ties, as I hadn’t been able to do back in New York. The only thing to do with a dead love is to bury it. The letter from Abby Collins had reached me a week ago, and I’d spent the hours since reading it over and over, assuring myself that Tristan Russell meant nothing to me anymore, and that my marriage was over. Words can arouse emotions, all right, but they don’t work so well at burying them. Only seeing him again would set me free—I hoped.

There was no longer a need to hate him furiously, as I had when I ran away from Wolfe Haven. Surely I had grown up enough in these three years to know that hating was never the way out of anything. But if I saw him again, if I felt again that cold, piercing gaze, I would understand how thoroughly love could die. I would be released from—what? Damned if I knew. Whatever it was, released I must be, so that I could get on with my own life without Tristan and Wolfe Haven tugging at my memory and weighing me down. I was still young, and there was a lot of life to live.

Shutting out the warning storms in my mind, I took leave from my social services job in New York and flew headlong across the continent. I had sent no word to Abby, Tristan’s cousin, who kept Wolfe Haven for him, or to anyone else. Five years ago at age twenty, I had married Tristan. Three years ago, I had run away. Had I grown up at all since then? Sometimes I wondered.

My journey ended when I rounded a sharp bend and caught sight of the tour bus I had so hoped to find. As I parked behind the idling vehicle, I saw the tourists waiting inside to step down. I could see the handsome wrought-iron gates that I remembered all too well, and I swallowed a lump in my throat. What would those strangers think if they knew that Riley Russell, just parking her car, was about to join their group?

Glancing down at my body, I smiled. With my slender, five-foot-one-inch frame tucked neatly into blue jeans and a yellow blouse, and my auburn hair brushed back and loose, I didn’t stand out. Anyway, who would recognize me?

It seemed strange to find Wolfe Haven’s gates closed and barred. It was necessary to summon the gatekeeper to open them. In days gone by, the gates stood hospitably ajar, and the security guard occupying the gatehouse had little to do. He wore no uniform, unlike the strapping young man who now came to let us in. The locked gates were my first hint that all was not well within, and I felt the first stirring of a new uneasiness.

Climbing out of the car and into the heat of a New Mexico monsoon season, I looked through the gates before me to the house beyond. I tried to breathe in some of the peace and calm of the surrounding countryside, but it was impossible. I’d come to settle issues from the past. Nothing calming there.

I retrieved my raincoat and camera from the Cobalt’s trunk. Fumbling with the camera, I stared at the fanciful Wolfe Haven crest, a wrought-iron German shepherd at the center of the gate. Pain stabbed me. Long before this house was built, the crest of a German shepherd belonged to the Wolfes, and the motif was repeated throughout the house and grounds, even on the family letterhead. It had been a Wolfe Haven tradition to breed German shepherds as well, though the litters produced had declined as the demand for them tapered off.

The first puppy born after Tristan had brought me home from our honeymoon became, without a doubt, my dog. Echo we had named her, in honor of one of her ancestors. Tristan and I had raised her together. But Echo had been mine. The only thing here that was ever mine.

I’m not the most affectionate person in the world—with people, that is. My passive side makes me good at my job, but I’m not much for getting close to people. But critters? I lavish attention on them as if I were a twenty-year-old gold digger going after a wealthy but ancient and ailing husband. I cringe to think what Dr. Phil would say about my behavior … probably something along the lines of my overcompensating with animals to make up for a lack of physical closeness with my father after he married my stepmother, all of which no doubt contributed to my failed marriage. Whatever.

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Genre – Romance (Gothic)

Rating – R for graphic sex and language

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Website http://debbieaheaton.com/

Pistachio the Tyrant (Tales of Pistachio) by Elvis Deane

Things aren’t going well for Prince Pistachio. Just as his grandpapa dies and revolution sweeps the kingdom, the bratty young lad is betrayed by his most loyal servant and sent into exile.

Lost in the woods with only an adventurous rabbit to accompany him, Pistachio’s courage is tested time and again. While his only goal is to find a way home,along the way he might discover a thing or two about himself.

Pistachio the Tyrant is written by Elvis Deane, with cover art and illustrations by Samantha Turnbull.

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Genre - Children’s Fantasy

Rating – PG

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Website http://impossibilia.com/

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Transcender: First Time by Vicky Savage

Transcender: First Time - Vicky Savage

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Fantasy

Rating - PG

4.6 (68 reviews)

Free until 25 July 2013

When a freak lightning storm turns terrifying, seventeen-year-old Jaden Beckett leaps for her life only to be glitched into an alternate universe. The destiny police want her out. Jaden's got other plans.
Ripped away from her quiet Connecticut life and dumped into a post-apocalyptic version of earth, Jaden lands smack in the middle of a kidnapping--her own!
Agent Ralston of the Inter-Universal Guidance Agency (IUGA) rescues her and helps her to assume a new identity. And what an amazing identity it is ...
In this world, she's Princess Jaden a member of the royal family of one of the three surviving nations. Plus, her mother's alive here--a miracle she never dreamed possible. If that weren't enough, she finds herself falling hard for Ryder Blackthorn, the half-Cherokee half-Irish outlaw who kidnapped her in the first place.
So, when IUGA finally gets its act together and is ready to send her home, Jaden's not budging. She's pretty sure Agent Ralston's been lying to her, and this whole thing isn't really a cosmic accident after all.
Can the powerful IUGA force her to leave? Or is Jaden what some in this strange land believe her to be--a Transcender with the ability to travel among alternate dimensions at will?

#AmReading - Cleanse Fire by Anastasia V Pergakis

2011 Preditors & Editors Readers Poll Nominee in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Category

* * * * *

Complete the mission, no matter what...

Captain Derac Vidor has served Kinir for nearly twenty years. It's his life, his blood. And then his Commander betrays everything Derac holds dear. Now he has to focus on his own life and his team instead of saving the citizens of Kinir.

Treason is only the beginning...

Fueled by rage, the team chases the source to their Commander's betrayal - a powerful wizard bent on revenge. The wizard seeks to destroy the Kinir Elite, in both mind and body. No place is safe, even among their allies.

The past holds the key...

Derac's tragic past may be the key to saving the team. But can he face the gruesome nightmare in time?

* * * * *

A fun new take on a classic genre: high fantasy. By this, I mean the tradition of J.R.R and Dragonlance, but with an added dash of military thriller. -- Rebecca Demerest

The author makes the characters three-dimensional, with strengths, weaknesses, and quirks of personality. -- Neil Benson

I love the world Ms Pergakis creates and can't wait to read more of it. -- Linda S. Andrews

* * * * * Combine the action and suspense of the movie SWAT with the magic and fantasy of LORD OF THE RINGS, you'll get CLEANSE FIRE!!

*****

GIVEAWAY: Deadline is July 23rd at 11:59 pm Eastern Time!

Win an e-copy of Cleanse Fire!

To enter, answer ONE of the following questions in a comment on this post.

1. "Do you think you'd be better as a strategist (planning missions/a thinker) or are you more action (aka following orders/a fighter)? Why?"

2. "Who is your real life 'super hero' and why? (Can be anyone!)"

**If you answer both, you’ll be eligible for a SPECIAL BONUS PRIZE!**

Names will be put into a hat and drawn randomly! I can’t wait to read your answers and good luck!

Win a signed paperback OR an audio book copy of Cleanse Fire!

Two Winners! Winners choose which prize they’d like! You can read or hear a sample of on the Kinir Elite website.

Head over to the Kinir Elite Website to enter! http://kinirelite.com/cleanse-fire-event-july-2013

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Fantasy / Military

Rating – PG13

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Connect with Anastasia V Pergakis on Facebook & Twitter

Anastasia V Pergakis - 5 Things You Didn’t Know About Cleanse Fire

5 Things You Didn’t Know About Cleanse Fire and The Kinir Elite by Anastasia V Pergakis   

1. Kie’s Looks 

The character of Kie originally had straight brown hair and brown eyes. But, when the romance between her and Derac blossomed, she was changed to wavy auburn-reddish hair with amber colored eyes. Since Derac’s wife died in a fire – and to play into the title that relates to the main plot of the story – Kie was changed to represent “fire” herself in a way. She “cleanses Derac’s heart” so to speak and so, she was changed to match the “fire” aspect of the book’s title too. This way, both the main plot and the romance thread, match with the title.        

2. Birthdays The team members all share birthdays with people that are important to me (and okay, I threw in my birthday too!) In some cases, they even sync up in other ways, that made it fun for me when writing the book! Derac – my Dad - December 21 Kie – myself - May 24 Aeli – my sister - November 30 (both highly intelligent/geniuses, but sort of hide it) Jardel – my son - August 4 (both blonde hair, blue eyed, wild and hyper boys!) Tyn – my friend, Charlene A. Wilson -February 14 (Both romantic and somewhat soft spoken. Yes. Charlene’s birthday is actually Valentine’s day.) Rakan – my friend, J.D. Brown - April 23  

3. Uniforms  

My son loves Disney’s show “Phineas and Ferb”. I was trying to design the team’s uniform, while sitting on the couch with my sketch pad. Then – voila. The character Vanessa came onto the episode and there it was. The initial design of the uniforms. Of course, I made some changes and additions but the black color and the placement of the tunic buttons stayed the same though. Then I decided to continue with the design through the entire Kinir Army.      

4. Elite Qualifications Elves cannot apply or request to be on the Elite. An elf must first serve 10 years in the Kinir Army and 3 to 5 years in the Kinir Rangers. An elf must also have the following qualifications:

• Be fluent in 6 languages
• Pass all intelligence tests with a score of 175 or better (out of 200)
• Be an expert in all manners of combat
• Pass the Elite Aptitude and Endurance Test with a combined score of 1900 or better (out of 2000) –Only Rangers who have served 3 years and have all the other qualifications on this list, are allowed to take the test. BONUS Info: In the history of the Kinir Elite, no member has ever had a score on the EAET lower than 1975. The highest score ever, belongs to Aeli, with a score of 1998.)

5. The Kinir Crest When I went searching for inspiration for design the crest for the Kinir Elite, I original thought to have a fantastical creature, like a griffin or a dragon on the crest. But I kept coming back to a stock photo of a lion sitting regally with one paw raised. I don’t know what captured me about it. I did some research about real family and heraldic crests and what the symbols on them meant. I discovered that a lion on a crest can mean “dauntless courage”. Further research led me to discover that a lion reared up on its hind legs meant “bravery, strength, and valor.” Perfect for an elite military unit right? So, I changed tactics and went with lions rather than a fantastical creature. A crown on the crest can sometimes be a token of civic honor, which again, fits well with the Elite and what they stand for. The “K” of course stands for “Kinir.” 

GIVEAWAY: Deadline is July 23rd at 11:59 pm Eastern Time!

Win an e-copy of Cleanse Fire!

To enter, answer ONE of the following questions in a comment on this post.

1. "Do you think you'd be better as a strategist (planning missions/a thinker) or are you more action (aka following orders/a fighter)? Why?"

2. "Who is your real life 'super hero' and why? (Can be anyone!)"

**If you answer both, you’ll be eligible for a SPECIAL BONUS PRIZE!**

Names will be put into a hat and drawn randomly! I can’t wait to read your answers and good luck!

Win a signed paperback OR an audio book copy of Cleanse Fire!

Two Winners! Winners choose which prize they’d like! You can read or hear a sample of on the Kinir Elite website.

Head over to the Kinir Elite Website to enter! http://kinirelite.com/cleanse-fire-event-july-2013

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Fantasy / Military

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Anastasia V Pergakis on Facebook & Twitter

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Redwood Violet by Robin Mahle

CHAPTER 1

KATIE MADE HER way to the back of the plane. Lightheaded, heart still racing, she stood in the galley and spotted a tray of water set out for the passengers. A nagging thirst that was brought on by the intense dream from which she had just awakened consumed her. After three cupfuls, her tongue no longer felt like cotton still clinging to its boll. However, the water could not satiate the vivid images that were still swirling in her head. A dream, more like a nightmare, had been the cause of many sleepless nights of late. The best she could recall, it had been about two months since they first started.

“Excuse me,” Katie said, returning to her seat.

“You okay?” Spencer stood up to allow her to squeeze back into the middle seat.

Flying home, or at least close to it, was not something she relished or did frequently. Her current destination was as close to home as she had gotten in the last three years. However, the upcoming nuptials of her dearest friend was the reason this time. It just happened to be that Sam lived near her childhood home.

“I’m okay; I just needed some water,” Katie replied.

The flight was packed when they had boarded in Sacramento this morning. And that was after the sold-out flight from San Diego. Traveling from southern to northern California could sometimes be as difficult as a cross-country flight. Then, there was the forty-five minute drive to the suburbs outside of town, where Sam and her fiancé called home.

“Another dream?” Spencer asked.

She only nodded and shrugged her shoulders. Her post-nightmare routine—leaping out of bed, eyes, full of terror—was becoming something of a habit with which Spencer was growing accustomed. However, its occurrence during a brief nap was something new. Her fatigue was crossing into new levels of desperation.

The plane began its descent, the left wing tilting up towards the blue sky, high above the clouds to make the turn into Eureka. The jet engine groaned and a swift drop in elevation sent a shot of adrenalin through Katie’s body. Landing wasn’t as bad as the taking off; nevertheless, her tolerance for flight had decreased significantly over the past several years.

“I’m glad your parents will be at the wedding. It’s important for you to see them,” Spencer said.

Katie only tightened her seatbelt and prepared for the landing.

Rio Dell was a small town and was even smaller when Katie and Sam were growing up. Everyone knew each other, as was often the case in rural communities. So, when Sam mentioned she had sent an invitation to Katie’s parents, she was not surprised. Slightly disappointed, but not surprised. She knew it was Sam’s plan to get the three of them in the same room. A plan she might regret.

The wheels made contact with the runway in a rough fashion, forcing the plane to bounce up and down. As it slowed down, the drag pulled the plane forward. Relieved that she had touched ground, Katie opened her eyes and released the death grip she had on the arms of her seat.

“Come on, this’ll be fun!” Spencer patted her shoulder.

His sardonic wit was a quality she only mildly appreciated and this wasn’t one of those times.

“Sure! I’m looking forward to it.” She returned an equally ironic smile as they deplaned.

They were a good match for each other.

In the baggage claim area, Katie saw Sam in the distance and headed her way. Arms open and flashing her sparkling smile, Sam seemed thrilled at the sight of her old friend. Katie’s eyes brightened in response as she was both genuinely happy to see her friend and grateful the journey was over.

“How was your flight?” Sam asked. “It’s so good to see you!”

“You too, Sam; you look beautiful. The flight was all right. You know me, not much of a flyer.”

Spencer collected the bags from the conveyor and approached the two of them. “Hi, Sam, long time no see.” He leaned in for a hug from the waist up; appropriate physical contact for his girlfriend’s female friends.

“It has been a while. I’m so glad the both of you could come,” Sam said.

“Are you kidding? You know we wouldn’t miss your wedding.” Katie glanced around. “By the way, where’s Jarrod?”

“Oh, he’s driving around the airport, waiting for us to go to the curb. He didn’t want to pay for parking.”

Katie raised her eyebrows at Spencer as they followed Sam out of the terminal.

***

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Genre – Mystery  / Thriller / Suspense

Rating – PG

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Andrea S. Gould – What Inspired Me to Write My Book?

What inspired me to write my book? And inside the mind of this writer.

by Andrea S. Gould

Like many folks who keep a journal, I have a history of detailing my life, largely in order to savor it and to have it accessible to me— not as a blur, but as a collection of reverie and memory of every color and texture.  I’m in my sixth decade now and so in retrospect, I can see my life in chapters—some consumed with philosophical introspection,  awesome achievements or hard working adjustments to change or grief and loss.

The inspiration for The Virgin Widow comes from my chapter of loss and recovery, following the early and unexpected death of my husband.  Writing, as I say in the memoir, became my way of keeping in touch with the reality of my new existence as it formed in stark relief to the life I had come to know. Considering words– pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, is a reassuring practice of “staying in touch” with what is unfolding as it unfolds.

As a psychologist, I have always been fascinated by the process of how life comes to be.  As a writer, the documentation of the moment to moment is way of honoring the present while being true to the awareness and exercise of choices that wind up becoming the tapestry of life.

The Virgin Widow is a memoir– a self-help/personal growth book for individuals who have recently lost a partner, written for those who are aware that lifelong partnership is never guaranteed. When the reality of partner loss is thrust upon us, we are most often unprepared. The grief that accompanies the loss is typically overwhelming, as painful as picking one’s way through rubble after an earthquake.

Not only do we acutely mourn the specific comforts and familiarity of the beloved– we are forced into a new, unwelcome, and radically shifted world-picture that eerily enough contains many of the same objects, people and places, in a different light. “Virgin Widows” are innocent, first-time widows and widowers who have an unexplored base of experience upon which to draw the wisdom, philosophy and behavior necessary to find a way through the myriad, intricate and immobilizing situations demanding their attention.

The book provides guidance on how to navigate this kaleidoscopic and confusing time — opening up a variety of ‘windows’ on the process of moving through this altered life landscape, and consciously working with change and transition.

The Virgin Widow traces the compelling and universal journey of the author, Dr. Andrea Gould, a successful psychologist, through the spectral phases of her own widowhood. Follow the author’s personal journals, the reader will study the healing journey — replete with all of its uncertainties, challenges and triumphs — of a trustworthy and sensitive sister. Like millions of women, Andrea became a “virgin widow” overnight, thoughtfully willing herself to survive the challenge with grace.

As a psychologist she is almost by definition, sensitive to the nuanced shades of psychic change, and so as she mourned, her journal entries became a repository of conscious reflection on the process of adjusting to change and transition itself. These notes from the ‘front’ are meant to guide others on their own healing path, just as a field guide’s penciled drawings of blue jay sightings and deer tracks assist fellow voyagers in the natural world. Intended ultimately as an interactive tool, experiencing The Virgin Widow will help readers learn about what quotidian pitfalls lay ahead, receive solace, and encourage thinking and reflection about how to cope with change and sudden loss.

In fact, The Virgin Widow presents a larger philosophy about change and transformation through the structures of its format, and the presentation of its distilled wisdom. The Virgin Widow models a process of conscious choice within the upheaval, and embraces the vicissitudes of interior monologues. It frankly acknowledges just how difficult it is to manage these internal voices, shifting from one world-outlook to another.

Finding her way through the grieving process, the author relied heavily on her practices of meditation, internal self-talk and journal-keeping attempting to make sense of her new and tenuous life as a widow. What emerges is a pattern of evolution, and a distillation of how coping tools can work for the average person. Making transparent the experience of loss and transformation helps readers know that they are not alone– that the healing cycle has a dynamic rather than a static, stepped rhythm helps mourners as well as caretakers relate to the unfolding of healing from personal crisis.

The Virgin Widow is a special book because it addresses difficult matters with a light and humble touch. Existential problems around the “ordinary” arise, and these issues are treated with humor and anecdote throughout. Moreover, The Virgin Widow provides a high degree of wisdom and objectivity about these matters through its psychological commentary. The memoir is thereby lifted into another realm of educating readers about how to develop creative competence for adjusting to change.

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Genre – NonFiction

Rating – G

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Website http://lucidlearning.com/

The Final Straw by Ted Tayler

CHAPTER 2

The following spring and summer were taken up with mock exams and then the real thing. Several children suffered badly with nerves and a couple threw up as soon as they were seated in the main hall to sit an exam. Others went out in large groups and persuaded older lads to buy them cheap booze so they could go and get shit-faced in the park. There were floods in the girl’s toilets; floods of tears as more and more pupils realised that instead of watching TV or standing on the street corner chatting to their mates, they might have been better served doing a little revision.

As June drifted on summer breezes and warm sunshine towards July, Colin was walking down the school drive on his way home to an empty house after a maths exam. It had been an easy paper (with calculator) which had been stretched out to an hour and a half, heaven knows why, as he had completed it in an hour and spent thirty minutes looking at the students in front of him catching up on some sleep or doodling. He had answered every question; most of them had flicked through the pages of the question paper and made a stab at a couple then given it up as a bad job.

“More tears in the toilets and more cans in the park” he thought as he strolled towards home and the prospect of making beans on toast for tea, plus a quick flick through the 1982 bumper Christmas edition of ‘Boobs Unleashed’ before his mother crept into the front room so as not to have to talk to him when she got in from work.

“God that was hard!” said a voice “I hate sums don’t you?” It was Karen with her first words to Colin since last autumn.

“Not so bad” he replied, hoping she would be satisfied with that and leave him to get off home to his magazine. “Get you!” she giggled and walked alongside Colin with no sign of wanting to leave anytime soon.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” asked Colin. Karen looked at him and wondered at how he still remembered that afternoon last year. She hadn’t given it a second thought since. Surely, something must have happened in his life since then? “Our Susan works with your Mum at Graceland’s. She gives her a lift in that clapped out old car of hers and Susan said they stopped at the garage on the way home so she could pick up a cheapo card for her useless son.”

“Oh” said Colin.

“Do you want to know when my birthday is?” asked Karen.

Colin wasn’t sure. He was almost at the crossing where he could leave Karen to head off to the Greenwood estate, while he hurried to the outskirts of town and the sanctuary of his bedroom. Karen was resigned to the fact that Scott and Charlotte would be screwing their way through the summer holidays and she would be stuck with little to do except mooch about at home, trying to avoid the chores her mother would put her way, so she didn’t wait for Colin to answer.

“It’s next Friday” she said. “You can take me to the pictures, if you want?”

Colin was still unsure. Then he suddenly remembered his mother talking on the phone the other evening and was certain a handful of middle aged cast-offs like his mother would be descending on the front room on Friday night. Fat chance of any TV for him then! So he blurted out “Yeah! Definitely, okay I’ll meet you outside the Palace.”

Before Karen had a chance to change her mind, he shot across the zebra crossing just as the lights changed and almost got wiped out by the 432 bus. As he glanced back to see the driver using the time honoured hand signal suggesting he played with himself a bit too much, he spotted Karen waving, but as more traffic spilled across the gap between them, he pretended not to notice her and hurried home.

Their final exams were out of the way over the next couple of days, but their timetables didn’t coincide again, for which Colin was extremely grateful. Karen made no attempt to contact him, nor did he her. As the days ticked ever more quickly forward to the Friday Colin was growing more and more tense and nervous. Why had he agreed to go? Why couldn’t he have walked around town while his mother was entertaining the bible class, looking in bedroom windows on the nearby estates in the hope of a glimpse of carelessly exposed flesh? He’d done that on more than one occasion.

Friday duly arrived and Colin decided there was nothing for it but to get to the Palace cinema at half past six and tell Karen he could only afford his own ticket. With luck she would be expecting him to pay, it was her birthday after all and she’d stomp away in a huff and he’d be off the hook. There would be no recriminations at school as neither of them would be going back except for final assembly.

Colin got to the cinema a few minutes early, to try to calm his nerves before the storm that he envisaged when Karen learnt he wasn’t going to treat her. It was too late. Karen was already there and as soon as she spotted Colin she waved two tickets for the balcony and said “My treat. I used the birthday money from my Nan. If you can buy some sweets and crisps for us to share, that will be brilliant!”

“Damn” thought Colin “I’ll have to go through with this now.”

Colin was dragged through the swing doors by the birthday girl and up the stairs to find their seats. Several other couples were scattered around the auditorium and Colin sank lower into his seat as he recognised some of them as kids from school. Scott and Charlotte were about four rows in front and another two pairs of pupils were also awaiting the start of the main feature, but Colin noticed they appeared more interested in who it was that Karen had brought with her.

He imagined they were saying. “Who is that? Never seen him in here before.” Or even “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him!”

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Genre – Crime / Thriller

Rating – 18+

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Website http://www.tedtayler.co.uk/

Tripped Up Love by Julie Farley

Chapter 1

Eighteen months later

“I can’t believe he didn’t take the fucking garbage out again,” she yelled without even thinking.

Shit, Heather thought. He’s dead. He’s been dead for over a year and I’m still yelling at him.

And then the tears came again. He’s dead and I’m still talking to him. I’m supposed to be taking care of three children and finding a job and I talk to my dead husband. No less, I yell at him. I don’t cry and say I wish he were here. I automatically yell. What does that say about me? I’m a complete bitch. The thoughts in her mind were racing.

And the cycle continued. Crying and beating herself up because she had forgotten Hank was gone. Hank had been Heather’s world. But in an ironic twist right out of the Alanis Morrisette song, her everything was here today and gone tomorrow.

It was time to wake Hayes up for middle school. Gracie was still asleep in Heather’s bed under the quilt of Hank’s t-shirts Heather had made a couple of months ago. Henry was watching his morning dose of ESPN before he got on the bus. Fortunately, Heather didn’t think Henry had heard her yell at his dead father.

Getting everyone up and ready to go hadn’t gotten any easier in the last year and a half. At first they were buoyed by the constant barrage of meals and help from every which way imaginable but that was long gone. Now, Heather was the pitied one. She was still included in all of the neighborhood get-togethers, but Heather’s Catholic guilt was tired of bringing the party down. Tanya, one of her neighbors, had once mentioned to Heather that she must be jealous of all the women. Heather was astonished to hear that. Of course, she wished that Hank could sit next to her at the happy hour, but she could not imagine being jealous of the other women because they had their husbands. Most of their husbands treated Heather like a little sister and not their next conquest. Some thought Heather might be out to steal their husbands. Tanya kept a watchful eye on her husband whenever he came over to help Heather. She obviously wasn’t sure what kind of plumbing problem he was going to fix. Heather knew that was more Tanya’s problem than her own, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Last month, she went out with one of the newly divorced neighborhood moms. Heather had noticed an increase over the last few years in the number of divorced women that she knew. She stayed away from the gossip but was able to piece most of the stories together on Facebook between snide comments made by spouses or friends. Heather found herself in a similar single parent situation, but her situation was also different. Her husband wasn’t going to take the kids on alternating weekends or every Wednesday night for dinner. He was dead. He couldn’t help from the grave, and it made her so mad sometimes. Not sometimes…most times. They had had everything, and now she had a hard time believing she had anything. She had three fabulous kids who were holding on to her like she was an anchor. And she felt like she was the worst kind of anchor. The kind that was about to pull them under.

Heather forced all of her thoughts out of her head because it was time to execute the morning routine. Heather popped two frozen waffles into the toaster and went upstairs to wake Hayes up. He jumped into the shower and screamed, “HENRY! You spilled all of the Axe all over the shower!”

Once again, Henry, the early riser, had messed with his big brother’s stuff. Heather wondered what a kindergartener needed Axe for anyway.

  Heather peered over the balcony and saw Henry smiling on the couch tossing his ball in the air and catching it with his mitt. He had gotten the reaction he wanted.

  Now, to wake up the little angel who seemed more like a saber-toothed tiger when she had to get up.

“Gracie, sweetie. Time to wake up.” Heather slowly lifted the t-shirt quilt off of Gracie in hopes a blast of cooler air would get her up.

“I don’t want to go to school, Momma.”

“I know, sweetie, but you have to go. Let’s get up and get you dressed.”

Picking out clothes with Gracie was one of the most torturous parts of Heather’s day. Gracie was so particular, hating tags and rough seams in her clothes. Hank used to tease her and pretend her clothes were biting her. Heather tried to tease her now, but they both usually ended up in tears. Flip-flop season freed them of socks, and fake Uggs, stinkily, did the same. Heather picked out a t-shirt and skirt that were quickly rejected because they were too green. The next choice, a dress, was too flowery. The third choice Heather presented was a pair of leggings and an off the shoulder neon shirt from Justice. Gracie acquiesced after a few minutes, got dressed and ran downstairs for breakfast. And finally, all three of Heather’s cherubs were awake and ready to face the day.

Breakfast was the same every day - a frozen chocolate chip waffle and a mango, banana, kale smoothie. One offset the other. Henry preferred to eat his waffles frozen, so there was even less preparation. As long as he didn’t break a tooth, Heather didn’t really care. But she really didn’t care about much lately.

Hayes left first, and the other two got on the bus about 45 minutes later. As soon as the kids were gone, Heather came inside and sat at the computer for a bit. First she got on Facebook - a great diversion - and she caught up on all of the other mommies’ going ons. Elizabeth had just gotten back from Tennis sectionals in Florida. Tanya’s daughter had made honor roll for the eleventh time in a row in middle school. It made her feel like a part of them without having to leave her house. That was just what she wanted. She promised herself she would do some writing as soon as she walked the dog and cleaned the house.

Hank’s life insurance policy had stated if he died at work Heather would receive more money. Fortunately, he died at his desk in the office. What a terrible thought, but true. If there was a silver lining, that was it. A $500,000 silver lining. Heather was determined to finish her book this year and submit it to publishers to see if she could be a real writer. Heather had never really given much thought to financial independence. She had a master’s degree and was a smart woman. But she had spent her time raising her kids and now felt lost without Hank and his career. Well, that was only one of the ways she felt lost. There were so many others it was sometimes hard to count. Writing was her dream, so writing was what it was going to be until the money ran out. She lived frugally, but frugal didn’t come easily with three kids. The truth of her financial situation was one that was hard to bear and certainly hidden inside the 3,700 square foot house she lived in. But for now, all she had to do was get through the next two days. Then her mom would have the kids overnight giving Heather a much needed chance to recharge.

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Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.juliefarley.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day – Eyes Behind Belligerence by KP Kollenborn

P A R T  O N E

They Will Live in Infamy

Chapter One

NO ONE turned off the radio as the sheriff and mortician carried a body down the stairs; their large feet popping the creaky steps. A sheet covered the boy’s face, hiding his lips that were frozen in a death grin. He was only seventeen. Jim watched the two strangers haul his older brother on a stretcher as if he were luggage; as if scraps. The broadcaster’s voice straggled up the staircase, pursuing a haunting image. Each whitewashed wall, with flowered borders peeling at the tips, reflected streaks of drizzle and snow from the windows. Jim stared out the window.  Away from the body.  Away from his parents. He felt like vomiting. Only five hours ago he had asked John if he could borrow one of his Count Basie records.

“Take the whole damn collection,” his brother retorted. “Ka-mai-ma-sen.” He then crumbled a Valentine’s card he made for his girlfriend, uttering, “Worthless!” and tossed it into the trash.

Jim didn’t understand his brother’s sarcastic tone. He didn’t take any records, fearing his brother would lash out, or that it was some sort of test. Because his brother had been irritable all month, Jim maintained an amicable distance. John’s bruises had remained dark after arguing with their father. And that was unusual. Normally their father showed restraint by keeping his fists relaxed; calmed. But John’s girlfriend was pregnant and dishonor had blighted the family name.

The mortician’s wide shoulder bumped into a family portrait, slanting the frame. Jim recoiled. His brother’s rigid mouth suspiciously resembled a smirk.

“Harold!” the sheriff snapped. His leather coat squeaked with his movements. “Watch yerself!”

The mortician scowled. His youthful appearance implied clumsiness like a newborn calf in the field. Glancing up, he uttered, “Sorry!”

They proceeded to step down; their knuckles grazing by the wooden rail on one side; family photos on the other. The mortician trampled to the bottom of the staircase, and balanced the stretcher to his chest.  He shifted and crimped the rug. Swinging his head back and forth, grumbling, he tried to avoid bumping into the radio that sat on an end table. The sheriff thumped down the last two steps. A dizzy odor of fried shrimp and seaweed wafted under their broad noses; the stench of an unfinished dinner lagged in the air. The sheriff and mortician never got used to the odd smell of the Japanese. Even after all those years living on the same island.

Jim’s father calmly sat on the couch with his hands over his knees. His clean, shaven face became petrified; his small frame transformed into frigidness. He had forgotten to remove his polished shoes and damp coat, not realizing he still had them binding his body. Jim’s mother cradled Bethany, Jim’s youngest sister, in her lap. Her cotton yukata, a delicate housecoat, wrinkled underneath the child’s heat. Both parents retained composure in front of the strangers as they sipped down their son’s death like a glassful of razor blades. To expose their pain to outsiders was simply not done. They felt once they cried out they would never stop bleeding.

Stroking Bethany’s hair, the mother wondered how much of John her daughter would remember. At seven, she was too young to comprehend everything. The mother was only two when her eldest brother was killed during the Russo-Japanese war. She had no memory of him. The familiarity of her brother came from an old, discolored photograph that hung with her other ancestors’ portraits.  Every week she was forced, by her parents, to pay respects to an unknown dead brother. She would not do the same to her daughter. She accepted the grief and agony she felt for her son, but would not force guilt onto her daughter as if her life bore less value than her brother’s death.

Dr. Ellis, a middle-aged man with reddish hair, stood in the living room with the family. He wiped off droplets of sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Yoshimura,” he said. “We’ll take care of the rest. Don’t you worry.”

The father shook the doctor’s hand and bowed his head. Dr. Ellis couldn’t disguise his pity. The circumstances of John’s death would torment Mr. Yoshimura for the rest of his life. Having children of his own, Dr. Ellis understood the fear of not only losing a child, but also claiming responsibility for that child’s death. He had known his friend since he stepped off the boat to work in the lumber mills. Their friendship lasted through war and Black Tuesday, never wavering under the pressures of politics. He had always perceived Mr. Yoshimura as a good man.

“We’ll get you through this,” Dr. Ellis continued, “if that’s what you want. Anything else I can do, let me know.”

Mr. Yoshimura said nothing, and only bowed his appreciation. He was grateful for his friend’s immediacy and discrepancy, declaring his son’s death as accidental. No other white doctor would have done the same. He was grateful, and yet all he felt were shards of grief and guilt; his tongue shackled by pain. No father could ever prepare himself for the death of his oldest son. Especially in that fashion. Especially when he had pushed his son to that brink. The pride he had possessed now seemed ridiculous. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth it.

The sheriff and mortician paused to listen to the radio. Reports of the Japanese Imperial Army ravaging China amplified the details of executions, beatings, and violations against women. The sheriff shuddered with a series of grunts, and glanced at the mortician.

Walking through the front door, Jim overheard one of them disdainfully utter, “These Japs don’t even cry for their dead son! Go figure!”

The doctor quickly shut the door, nervously looking at Jim, wondering if he had heard the cruel remark.

Jim bruised his tongue with his teeth until it bled. Hate began to bloat inside. These outsiders knew nothing, not a goddamn thing, about his family. About his grief. About being Japanese in America. Now the war in China began castrating horrible images, and the public winced. What Jim couldn’t believe was how these men spat out judgment on the day of his brother’s death. What goddamn right did they have?

The car door slammed. He heard their large feet sloshing over the mud. Roughly exhaling as if breathing out boiled water, Jim looked at his father. His father had not protected John, and now John was dead.

“Doc!” the mortician yelled. “Ready when you are!”

Jim turned his attention to the doctor; although avoided eye contact. He knew Dr. Ellis was observing him while he tightly folded his arms across his chest. The doctor’s worried expression only aggravated him. He hated pity. Pity meant stupidity.

The doctor gently rested his hand on the father’s shoulder, and said, “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”  He then reached for his hat and long coat that lay on an easy chair. He browsed through the drafty house, examining the painting of Jesus on one wall, and two Japanese scrolls on the other. It was a superbly tidy home. Too tidy, in fact. Organized, dust free, and not cluttered. Unlike his home. His four children, all teenagers, managed to overrun his household. Swing music blaring. Magazines, coats, lipsticks, and jock straps crowded him out of his living room and into his tiny office. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. As frustrating as it often was, at least they were content. Glancing at the father, then the son, he opened the door and left.

Jim finally gazed out the window. He relived the image of John’s face and body as he lay beside a box of rat poison; stiff like an iron rod; lips curled over his teeth like a decomposed corpse. There Jim found his brother dead on the attic floor.

The men started the hearse. Mist outlined the black vehicle like pebbles in a pond, enforcing the unwanted change. It pulled down the dirt driveway. A soft layer of snow sunk in the dusk’s darkness.

Jim suddenly ran upstairs to his bedroom; the very room he had shared with his brother. The walls were covered in stripes, but bare of pictures except one. The portrait of their great-grandfather hung in an oval frame glared down at their beds. Dressed in traditional Japanese garments from the Meiji era, his stern expression locked an implication of customs. His deteriorating portrait seemed primitive in a modern world. Jim spat at the picture. Slamming the door, he fell on his bed, and plunged his face into the pillow, weeping. He felt like his chest had been crushed by an avalanche of rocks. Choking on his saliva, he had difficulty breathing. He wanted to die. To end this piercing pain. To escape. Jim knew once the doctor departed, John’s name would never be repeated in the house. It would be as if he had never existed.

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – R (strong language)

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Blog http://kpkollenborn.blogspot.com/