Sharon Donovan, Author

CHARADE OF HEARTS WINS BEST ROMANCE SHORT STORY 2011

2012-01-21T15:49:00.000-08:00

CONGRATULATIONS SHARON!

Sharon's gripping romantic suspense novella, 'Charade Of Hearts/ In the Wild Rose Press series 'Jewel Of The Night, starring 'Oliver' won the Preditors & Editors Readers' Poll 2011

If you haven't read this yet, I can heartily recommend it, here's the blurb and an excerpt:

While scuba diving off the coast of Diamond Head with her diving partner on a quest to find a family heirloom, underwater photographer Dominique St. John witnesses his brutal murder and photographs it, ensnaring her in a deadly jewel ring. Then when the investigating officer turns out to be her partner’s identical twin, a man she knew nothing about, her life becomes a Charade of Hearts.

Welcome to the world of greed, intrigue, deception and murder. At its core is a blue diamond worth millions.

As honest as his twin was corrupt, Honolulu Homicide Detective Oliver Carvalho must convince Dominique that her diving partner and best friend was a crook. In a race against time, Oliver must rescue her from a ruthless killer, but his biggest challenge proves to be Dominique herself. Her heart has been torn by betrayal and can only be redeemed with love.

(Pages 122) Sweet

Excerpt:

The fog in her head slowly cleared.

She was on assignment in Hawaii, photographing the shipwreck that had taken her mother’s life. While she’d been shooting pictures, Roberto had been scouring the ocean floor for her mother’s blue diamond, her birthright. By some miracle, Roberto had managed to find the necklace. Just as they were about to surface, a diver came out of nowhere and stabbed him. Her eyelids flew open in shocked horror.

“Roberto!” Dominique screamed, her voice a nasally squeak. “My diving partner? Is he here? Roberto Carvalho?”

The nurse’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Ms. St. John. You were the only patient brought in by emergency helicopter. You’re at the Honolulu clinic.”

Dear God. Killer sharks had been thrashing toward Roberto, jaws chomping. The words came out in a strangled moan. “The owner of the charter? Is he here?”

The nurse shook her head. “But there is someone anxious to speak to you.”

And that’s when Dominique spotted him, framing the doorway to the small room. He’d survived the shark attack. His name caught in her throat. “Roberto! You’re alive! How…”

He strutted toward her, his narrow hips swaggering as he closed in on her, stirring her blood with a primal lust she had never felt. And those dark, broody eyes, so alive with passion, like fiery comets.

He loomed above her, his lips pinched into a thin line. “I’m sorry, Ms. St. John, but I am not Roberto. He flashed a badge. “I am Detective Oliver Carvalho, Honolulu PD, Homicide. Roberto Carvalho was my identical twin brother.”

PURCHASE HERE

Sharon continues to make slow but steady progress. you can read updates in the sidebar on the right and if you would like to send a card or personal message, just email me at Lyn@hywelalyn.co.uk and I'll let you have the address you can send it to.

Thanks for your continued prayers. They are making a difference

UPDATES ON SHARON (By Hywela Lyn)

2012-01-05T03:46:00.000-08:00

1st Place in Preditors & Editors Poll

(Updated 14th January)

As some of you may know, my dear friend Sharon was due for a major heart operation Tuesday, but it was put back Wednesday and then delayed further until today (Thursday) I have access to Sharon's Blog since I put up the pictures for her, so I thought the easiest way to keep people up to date with what's going on would be to start a post here, where you can leave messages for her.

Your Prayers would be so much appreciated. She's been through so much and is so brave and determined as well as talented. I was able to speak to her on the 'phone last night and she sends her love and thanks to everyone who's been praying and sending messages over the last few days.

In case you didn't see Sharon's Editor, Lori Graham's comment,
I'd just like to add that her story in the WRP 'Jewel Of The Night' series 'Charade of Hearts' took first place for best short Romance in the Preditors & Editors Poll.
(It's the one starring Oliver) It's a wonderful story, full of suspense and romance. Many thanks on Sharon's behalf to everyone who voted for it.

Please keep praying for her to be able to recover from
this operation with Faith and courage, and soon be on the road to recovery.

SANTA CONTEST

2011-12-25T05:13:00.000-08:00

OLIVER’S SANTA CONTEST

HO HO HO! Santa Oliver has come to town to announce the winner of his contest. He wanted to know what Christmas carol or movie makes you sentimental and why. After making a list and checking it twice, he has a winner. With no further ado, here’s Oliver.

A ho ho ho and a Merry Christmas! Thank y’all so very much for entering my contest. Each of your stories have moved me to tears. Here are the entries.

Well my favorite is the movie frosty the snowman. The reason why is that I was living in the Gulf fand went on job interview. Well a lady came out of the house and then I sat at the table and filled out the info for her; well she said 'my husband has to d.Well what come out my Mouth, Fosty the snowman it just reminded me of him and he laughed and he said 'you be here tomorrow at 8 am' and then I worked

for him and his wife and his friends for over 2 years

Desi

I love watching The Christmas Card. Both and my husband and I come from military

families and it means so much to us.

Every year we would have soldiers over for Christmas and share with them. It made

it special for both of us. Some of those Christmases stayed with me for a very long

time.

Debra Guyette

"It's a Wonderful Life"! I love this movie and every time a bell rings (lol around

christmas, at least) I always think "Huh, an angel just got his or her wings." lol

The reason why I love it is because this movie started me actually giving other classic

movies a chance, and I would have missed so many great movies if it hadn't

Emily T

This year my christmas song is I'll be home for christmas . Last year hubby and my

dad wasnt able to get here for christmas but this year they are both suppose to get

home so i have been sing I'll be home for Christmas all month long .. there's just

nothing like have the whole family here :)
Jennifer Mathis

Hi Sharon,

My favorite classic movie is Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase. I love when he

has a nervous breakdown and everyone want to go home and he blows up. At the end

he want some tylenol. That gets me everytime. I often wondered how many takes he

had to do or if it was one. Every year we watch this movie. I always feel like no

matter how bad things are they can never be as bad as Christmas Vacation. Especially

the turkey. LOL. Merry Christmas.

Thanks for the giveaway.

Sue Brandes

HI SHARON,

MY FAVORITE SONG IS "I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS" AND IT RINGS TRUE AS OUR SOLDIERS

ARE COMING HOME!

LIN

Hi,

My son has a profound hearing loss. At the children's Christmas concert he & his

classmates signed OH HOLY NIGHT as the music played softly in the background. Tears

streamed down my face the entire way through. It was incredibly beautiful.

Cheers!!

Mary Preston

My favorite holiday movie is ‘White Christmas’ with Bing Crosby and Fred Astair.

It just inspires me to think about other people during this time of the year when

we can all be overwhelmed by the commercialism of the season. I love the songs

and the scenery, it does not hurt that it takes place in my neck of the woods up

here in New England.

Catherine Lemanski

DRUM ROLL

Oliver grins. And the winner is Mary Preston. Congratulations love. You and your sweet son win a box of chocolates. All other entries win a pdf of Winter Wonders. Christmas Angel stars yours truly as leading alpha male. Happy reading. Stay tuned for more stories in 2012 starring Oliver. Wishing you and yours a very Merry Christmas!

LOVE AND BLESSINGS

Sharon and Oliver

Legend of Christmas Candle

2011-12-18T21:51:00.000-08:00

According to legend, throughout medieval Europe, a large candle known as the Christmas candle was burned until the twelfth night in remembrance of the arrival of the Wise Men to Bethlehem. In Victorian times, the candle represented good will and was placed in the window from December 25 to January 6 to welcome any passerby in need of shelter and food.

Many legends and superstitions are associated with candles. Certain cultures believe the burning flame will frighten away evil spirits during the darkest evenings of the year. Norwegians believe that if the Christmas candle burns out on Christmas Eve, bad luck will befall on a family member.

Legends tell us that Christmas candles light the way for the Christ child on Christmas Eve as He wanders from house to house looking for a place to stay. For this reason, no traveler should be turned away on Christmas Eve should he be the Christ child.

The custom of lighting candles on indoor trees was started in Germany to symbolize stars and was a custom that found its way to America. In today’s culture, the lighting of Christmas candles signifies the season of Christmas.

In my house, we light blue candelabras in each window as a symbol of peace and tranquility. When it snows, nothing is more beautiful than serene blue flames reflecting on a blanket of downy white. In the living room, we light fragrant pillar candles to give the house and home a warm ethereal glow.

Where do you light your Christmas candles?

Sharon Donovan

Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith

www.sharonadonovan.com

sharonad@comcast.net

My radio interview is live!

http://booktourradio.com/185

WIN A BOX OF CHOCOLATES

OLIVER’S CHRISTMAS CONTEST!

www.sharonadonovan.com

Follow me on Twitter

http://twitter.com/SharonADonovan

MY BOOKS

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE AND IN PRINT

Winter Wonders

ISBN-13: 978-1-936167-66-1

Charade of Hearts
Oliver’s story!
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/charade-of-hearts-p-4346.html

Her Biggest Fan
An edge of your seat chilling suspense
ISBN: 1-60154-813-3

http://www.TheWildRosePress.com/Her-Biggest-Fan-P-4234.HTML

Mask of the Betrayer
Book one in the Mask series
Filled with so many twists, turns and surprises, you’ll be
hooked from the first chapter.
ISBN: 978-1-936167-06-7

http://www.whimsicalpublications.com/sharon_donovan/mask_of_the_betrayer.html

Echo of a Raven

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/echo-of-a-raven/7275809

Winter Wonders released today

2011-12-13T12:24:00.000-08:00

Winter Wonders
Genre: Winter Anthology 2011

When the cold of winter sets in and your body shivers, warm up with a cup of hot
chocolate, a warm blanket, a comfy chair and a good book. Join the authors as they
share stories that will scare you, thrill you, delight you, break your heart and
entertain you, all set with a winter theme.

Hearts of Fire by Regina Puckett
Mantequero by Jenny Twist
Christmas Angel by Sharon Donovan
Till Death Do Us Part by S.M. Senden
Long Winter by Paul McDermott
Christmas Hope by Jane Wakely
Burgers and Hot Chocolate by Angela Adams
Saving Santa by Melissa Hosack
If Only by Janet Durbin
December 12, 2011
ISBN-13:978-1-936167-64-6
PURCHASE HERE

Whimsical Publications,
LLC/paperback, 174 pages
Ebook $4.99
December 2011
$11.95
ISBN-13: 978-1-936167-66-1

Legend of Rudolph

2011-12-11T14:31:00.000-08:00

Origin of the legend

Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer is the only addition to the Santa folklore in the twentieth century. In 1939, Robert May, an advertising copywriter for the Montgomery Ward Department Store in Chicago conceived the idea for a shiny nosed reindeer, a Santa’s helper to distribute to parents and children. An artist friend, Denver Gillen spent hours at a local zoo drawing whimsical sketches of reindeer at rest and play. After many names, May finally settled on naming the reindeer Rudolph, the preference of his four-year old daughter. That Christmas in 1939, 2.4 million copies of the Rudolph booklet were handed out at Montgomery Ward stores across the country.

Rudolph was reprinted as a Christmas booklet sporadically until 1947. That winter a friend of May’s, Johnny Marks, put the poem to music. One professional singer after the next declined the opportunity to record the song until 1949 when Gene Autry consented. The Autry recording rocketed to the top of the Hit Parade. Since then, 300 different recordings have been made and more than eighty million records sold. The original Autry hit is second only to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas as the best selling record of all times.

Sharon Donovan

Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith

www.sharonadonovan.com

sharonad@comcast.net

My radio interview is live!

http://booktourradio.com/185

WIN A BOX OF CHOCOLATES

OLIVER’S CHRISTMAS CONTEST!

www.sharonadonovan.com

Follow me on Twitter

http://twitter.com/SharonADonovan

MY BOOKS

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE AND IN PRINT

Charade of Hearts
Oliver’s story!
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/charade-of-hearts-p-4346.html

Her Biggest Fan
An edge of your seat chilling suspense
ISBN: 1-60154-813-3

http://www.TheWildRosePress.com/Her-Biggest-Fan-P-4234.HTML

Mask of the Betrayer
Book one in the Mask series
Filled with so many twists, turns and surprises, you’ll be
hooked from the first chapter.
ISBN: 978-1-936167-06-7

http://www.whimsicalpublications.com/sharon_donovan/mask_of_the_betrayer.html

Echo of a Raven

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/echo-of-a-raven/7275809

Legend of St. Nick

2011-12-06T03:30:00.000-08:00

The original Santa Claus, St. Nicholas, was born in the ancient Southeastern Turkish town of Lycia early in the forth century. His generosity was legendary and he was particularly fond of children which led to his becoming the patron saint of children.

During the middle ages and well beyond, he was referred to by many names, none of them Santa Claus. Children today would not recognize the St. Nick who brought gifts to European children all those centuries ago. Except for a billowy white beard, he bore no resemblance to Santa. He wore red and white bishop’s robes and arrived on donkey opposed to fleet-footed reindeer. And he arrived not late on Christmas Eve to leave gifts but on his Christian feast day of December 6^{th. Gifts he left at the hearth were fruit, nuts, hard candy, clay and wooden figurines.}

During the sixteenth century, St. Nicholas was banished by most European countries, replaced by more secular figures who were not considered center stage at that point in history.

The Dutch kept the tradition of St. Nicholas alive. As the protector of sailors, he graced the prow of the first Dutch ship to arrive in

America

. The first church in New York City was named after St. Nicholas.

The Dutch brought two items with them to the new world that were quickly Americanized. In Sixteenth Century Holland, children would leave wooden shoes filled with straw before the hearth the night of St. Nicholas’s arrival. The straw was a meal for the gift-laden donkey. In return, the saint would insert a small gift in the clog. In

America

the wooden shoe was replaced by a stocking hung at the chimney.

The Dutch spelled St. Nicholas ‘Sint Nikolass’ which in the new world became ‘Sinterklass’ and eventually Santa Claus.

Much of modern-day lore, including a reindeer-drawn sleigh originated in America, and it was here that he put on weight. The rosy cheeks and roly-poly Santa are credited to the influential nineteenth century cartoonist Thomas Nast. From 1863 until 1886 Nast created a series Of Christmas drawings for Harpers Weekly. These drawings exhibited a gradual evolution from the pudgy elf-like creature to the roly poly bearded life-size bell ringing Santa recognized on street corners today.

Sharon Donovan

Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith

Check out my books and reviews

www.sharonadonovan.com

Shoot me an email

sharonad@comcast.net

http://www.sharonadonovan.com/index.html#newsletter

Follow me on Twitter

http://twitter.com/SharonADonovan

Wednesday Spotlight with Maureen A. Miller

2011-11-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! I have a very special treat today for lovers of Romantic Suspense. Maureen A. Miller is in the house! When the doorbell rings, the musical chimes floating through the mansion, Oliver swaggers down the corridor, a bouquet of freshly-cut red roses in hand. Answering the door with an appreciative smile, he presents the flowers and escorts Maureen to the parlor to join Sharon.

Designed with a distinctive New Orleans flair, feather face masks and faded murals accent the walls. From satire and humor to fantasy surrealism, the art decor evokes the essence of the time-worn French Quarter. A cherry wood log snaps in the hearth, the rustic scent permeating the air. Two silk chenille chairs face the fire, the blazing flames taking the chill out of the crisp autumn day. A cornucopia embellished with colorful acorns, pomegranates and gourds decorate the coffee table.

Sharon: Have a seat and make yourself comfortable, Maureen. How are you?

Maureen: Hello Sharon, I’m so happy that you invited me over, and I’m so grateful for the fire…it must have dropped to 40 out there!

Oliver appears, pushing a sterling silver butler’s caddy brimming with coffee, tea and pink party cakes. With a wink and a smile, he takes a sweeping bow. Ladies, refreshments are served. Would you care for anything from the bar?

Maureen:Coffee, Oliver, thank you, and no need to bow.

With a mischievous wink, Oliver pours coffee into two china cups.

Sharon: I am so thrilled to chat with you about my all time favorite genre, romantic suspense. I can’t tell you how excited I was to learn about your blog; in fact, that’s putting it mildly! Stumbling upon JUST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE was like receiving an unexpected present. Tell us all about it.

Maureen: JUST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE was born from a random internet search. I am a big fan of the genre. (Don’t roll your eyes, Oliver.) So one day I did a search for romantic suspense authors, and I found so many varied results. Romantic Suspense authors by publishing house, by RWA Chapter, by political party, suspense writers, mystery writers…but I wanted to find just romantic suspense. As a reader, I wouldn’t want to have to search all of these sites for one morsel of information. I would want all that information accessible to me in one location. And that is my goal with JUST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE.

Sharon: Kudos to you, Maureen. With the onslaught of so many cross genres taking the nation by storm, is it just me or is romantic suspense taking a back seat to the darker, the bolder, the more erotic?

Maureen: I’ve heard rumors to that effect. Perhaps I’m a tad biased when I say the rumors are not true. The bold and the dark will draw attention just by the sheer nature of the beast, but the romantic suspense fans are a strong and resilient crew. Romantic Suspense has not sat idle over the years−with the damsel in distress running along the edge of the cliff. The genre has evolved with women who are strong, smart, and determined. The hero is now gritty and patriotic.

Sharon: Very well put. Tell us what draws you in to a romantic suspense?

Maureen: I am a romantic at heart, as most of us are. It is the complexity of the relationship in Romantic Suspense that draws me in. External forces enhance the interaction of our characters. A kiss is wonderful, and an act that makes us all sigh and feel warm inside. A kiss when your life is on the line is intense and desperate and full of a passion.

Oh dear, I do believe Oliver has turned a tad green in the face.

Sharon: He’ll get over it. LOL You know long before I began writing romantic suspense, I was influenced by many books and movies that fed my addiction. What authors and or actors influenced you?

Maureen: Initially I was riveted by gothic romances. Victoria Howard−even the Brontes. Then I read an Elizabeth Lowell novel and my metamorphosis began.

Sharon: Tell us about WIDOW’S TALE?

Maureen: Would you believe WIDOW’S TALE was an 8 page short story back in high school, a million years ago? The setting of Victory Cove and the characters stayed with me for all those years until the novel was born. Serena Murphy is a woman who is at her lowest, and in that respect some might feel she is not too strong. Yet, aren’t we all a tad quiet until someone threatens those we love? When that happens, do we not possess superhuman strength?

Sharon: My goodness! A romantic tale that took such a strong hold is one that needed to be told. The thought of Serena standing on the deck of a tavern every night, looking for a sign of her husband’s body gave me chills, drew me right in. As a reader and writer, what elements do you look for in a romantic suspense?

Maureen: Call me strange, but I like the atmosphere of cold and stormy settings. ENDLESS NIGHT is another novel set in Victory Cove, with yet another storm. (chuckles) I wrote JUNGLE OF DECEIT in Guatemala just to warm up!

Sharon: I know exactly what you mean about storms creating atmosphere. Counts in her head. Yes, I do believe there’s a storm in all my books. Smiles at Maureen. Before you go, can you share a blurb and excerpt of WIDOW’S TALE with us along with a buy link and your contact information? Thank you, Maureen, for a delightfully intriguing interview. Chatting with you has been a pleasure. Wishing you and JUST ROMANTIC SUSPENSE the best of luck.

Certainly…if you let me have one more of those little pink cakes. Thank you so much for having me, Sharon. You have a lovely house.

WIDOW’S TALE (Available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble)

Come visit Maureen A. Miller at her website.

Blurb:

Serena Murphy was losing her mind.

Every night Serena stood on the deck of O'Flanagans Tavern, searching Maine's rugged coast for a sign of her husband's body. Though he was pronounced lost at sea, Alan Murphy still haunted her as only his malevolent spirit could. In the loft above her tavern, Serena hears footsteps pace across her living room floor, yet when she turns, no one is there.

Alan would not let a little thing like death stop him from tormenting her. If she could just find his body, surely this torture would stop.

It had been ten years since Brett Murphy saw his sister in-law, although the separation was by design, to avoid temptation. Now Brett was in Victory Cove, not to declare his feelings for Serena, but to discover the truth about his brother's death. In doing so, he must battle Serena's ghosts, both real and contrived.

Excerpt:

For a moment, time seemed suspended. Brett was lost in the shadows at the far end of the deck, and the ocean stopped its assault long enough to allow her to stand. There was a perverse sense of calm as the screeching gale winds grew faint.

Using the rail for leverage, Serena forced her numb feet to cooperate, and managed a few awkward steps.

Something made her stop. That prickly sensation at the back of her neck—the same paranormal awareness that occurred just before her ghosts arrived.

Under the beacon atop the bordering trawler, Serena traced the arc of light. In horror she watched the surging black wall of water that came straight at them.

Her scream was severed by its impact.

Launched from the deck into the frigid void, suspended in churning darkness for an eternity, Serena surfaced, choking. She squinted against the onslaught of the storm and located the trawlers, shifting shadows several feet away. She struggled to kick her feet, and flailed her arms to keep above the waves.

Cruelly, Serena’s mind flashed to the past. She felt the weight of Alan’s hand on her head. Sputtering for breath, she tilted her neck back so that only her face reached the cold night.

Two kicks.

One.

Serena’s legs ceased moving. With a last twitch of strength, her arms fell still.

BIO:

Maureen's illustrious writing career started in the fourth grade with the blockbuster hit, Super Watermelon Man. Many years later, Maureen evolved into a full-fledged Romantic Suspense author with her first novel, WIDOW'S TALE, which was nominated for a Golden Heart by the Romance Writers of America.

A fan of gothic romance, Maureen enjoys the formula of danger, romance, dark cliffs, and sinister houses-aspects that she probably acquired from watching too much Scooby Doo. All these elements can be found in her latest thriller, ENDLESS NIGHT. Although, there's no accounting for her new novel, JUNGLE OF DECEIT, which is an adventure in

Guatemala

's humid jungle. :)

Wednesday Spotlight with Raven Kelly

2011-11-09T00:18:00.000-08:00

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! It is my pleasure to have the Diva Queen of Vampires in the house today. Hearing the raven chimes, Oliver, dressed in flowing black cape, glides down the corridor, eyes gleaming. Answering the door, he presents his guest with a bouquet of double-dipped chocolate covered strawberries. He escorts her to the Gothic-inspired parlor and seats her on the pink satin settee. A bottle of pink champagne sits on ice in a silver bucket on the coffin table. With a wink and a smile, he pops the bubbly and pours into two fluted goblets. To a backdrop of bleeding roses and violin music, the phantom’s voice floats through the parlor.

Do you have a day job? If so what do you do?

My name is Raven Kelly, I'm from Canada, and live in the beautiful province of British Columbia. I read and review paranormal and vampire books as a hobby, and I absolutelylove it. My fiance and I have our own Internet company together. He truly is my soul

mate, my best friend and the other half of me. I'm also the mother to four loving

fur babies named Blacks, Bouncer, Priscilla Pussycat Presley and Tili.

How did you become interested in vampires? What are your favorite vampire and paranormal romance books and/or authors?

I have always been interested in Vampires and Witches from a young age. I started reading Twilight (yes I know what you are thinking), and that ignited my interest in vampires again.

WOW, that is hard question to answer. I don't want to be biased, but some authors that instantly come to mind are Lyndsay Sands, Katie MacAlister, Christine Freehan, and Tabitha Shay are a few authors that I really enjoy.

Why did you decided to establish a book review site?

I read a few books in the vampire and paranormal genre, and soon after decided thatI wanted to give other Vampire and Paranormal fans like myself a heads up on good Vampire and Paranormal Romance books to read.

What is your favorite color?

I absolutely love the color pink. I wear at least one piece of clothing that is the color of pink every day. I even have pink streaks in my hair.

How many pieces of jewelry do you wear on a daily basis?

I wear at least seven pieces of jewelry. One bracelet, four to five rings, and one necklace.

What is your favorite junk food?

CHOCOLATE, I love chocolate. Anything that has chocolate on it, I'm eating. My fiance has to hide chocolate from me because I would eat it all day long.

What is your favorite movie?

Oh my, I can not just name one movie, I love watching movies. Here are some of my favorite movies that come to mind are:

- Twilight Series

- Star Wars

- Lord of the Rings Trilogy

- Braveheart

- Underworld Series

Please tell us about your various website's, blog, etc., and how authors and readers can get involved.

I'm the webmistress for four websites. Vampiress.ca, VampireBooks.ca, ParanormalRomance.ca and RavenKelly.com. I review vampire and paranormal romance books. I also post author Interviews on VampireBooks.ca, and would love to have any authors who would love be interviewed be part of my website. I hope everyone enjoyed learning a little about me, I enjoyed sharing myself with you all.

Please check out my website's here by visiting these URL's below.

http://www.vampirebooks.ca

http://www.vampiress.ca

http://www.ravenkelly.com

http://www.paranormalromance.ca

My Blog:

http://BookReviewDiva.blogspot.com/

Twitter Page:

https://twitter.com/BookReviewDiva

VampireBooks Facebook Page:

http://www.facebook.com/VampireBooks

ParanormalRomance Facebook Page:

http://www.facebook.com/ParanormalRomanceBooks

AND THE WINNERS ARE

2011-11-01T04:00:00.000-07:00

Surrounded by flickering candlelight, Oliver stands before a bubbling cauldron, stirring the many names in the pot. After thirteen stirs, he pulls out the thirteen winners. With a wink and a smile, he turns to the audience. Good Evening! Thank you all for attending our Halloween Fest. With great pleasure, I present the winners. Drum roll. And the winners are:

VICTORIA RODER wins a PDF of The Wolf's Torment by Stephanie Burkhart!

SUE BRANDES wins an autographed copy of HER BIGGEST FAN by Sharon Donovan!

BARBARA MONAJEM wins a PDF of BLACK SWAN by LINDA NIGHTINGALE!

BIANCA SWAN wins a print copy of CROSSED LINES by Pat Dale!

D.B. MOON wins a HALLOWEEN SHORT REFLECTIONS by Cate Masters!

Barbara Edwards wins a print copy of ABSOLUTION by P. L. Parker!

PAT DALE wins a print copy of TRIPPING THROUGH TIME by Mary Ricksen!

MONA RISK wins a t-shirt from Oliver!

Thomas olbert wins an autographed copy of MASK OF THE BETRAYER by Sharon A. Donovan!

WICKED LEANORE wins a pdf of TWO VAMPIRE TALES by Tony-Paul De Vissage!

SARAH J. MCNEAL wins a pdf of DANCING WITH FATE by Hywela Lyn and a $6 WILD ROSE GC!

CALISA RHOSE wins a box of Autumn Leaves Yankee Candles Scented Tea Lights, a Panera GC and a bag of chocolate by Stephanie Burkhart!

HYWELA LYN wins a critique for a partial manuscript by Lori Graham!

CONGRATULATIONS!

Editor Appreciation Day

2011-10-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

“Good evening.” Oliver smiles, taking a sweeping bow. “It is my great pleasure to present the talented and lovely Lori Graham, Senior Editor of the Crimson line of The Wild Rose Press. Lori, my sweet, how are you on this most enchanted evening?”

Lori: Ah, my sweet Oliver, the stress of my day is fading away now that I am sitting with you.

Oliver: The pleasure is all mine. May I pour you a glass of Francis Ford Coppola’s deep red, my dear? Unless you would like Sharon to serve you something else? We’ve reversed roles for this hallowed event.

Lori: I am content as long as you keep my drink from becoming empty.

A vampire serves drinks from behind the sleek mahogany bar. Music from The Godfather eerily drifts from hidden wall speakers. Standing candelabras flicker on either side of the crimson settee, and a log crackles and snaps in the hearth. Looking devilishly handsome in a flowing black cape with blood-red interior, Oliver escorts the lovely Lori Graham into his parlor where crimson roses, a bottle of deep red wine and chocolates are laid out on the coffin coffee table. The raven clock gongs thirteen times, announcing the witching hour.

Oliver: Your wish is my command. As we embark on the spookiest night of the year, there is nothing I enjoy more than drinking a glass of red before a crackling fire while reading a good thriller. As senior editor of a romantic suspense line, what do you look for in one of these chilling manuscripts?

Lori: I am looking for something that is unique and keeps the reader guessing. This “guessing” can come through a variety of methods - - maybe it is the identity of the villain. Maybe it is the reason behind his villainy.

Oliver: As a reader of spine tinglers, I rather expect certain things in a book of my favorite genre; otherwise, I’m not above burying the book in the mausoleum. Casting the coffin coffee table a wicked wink, he continues. The first thing I look at is the setting. New Orleans, reputedly one of the spookiest cities in the world, draws me in every time. After all, with the haunted mansions, land of voodoo and all the ghosts roaming the French Quarter, there are a million storylines that an author could create. Then after creating the setting and an intriguing storyline, there are the characters. I have to connect to the hero, heroine and villain or villainess. Last but not least, I want a satisfying closure. Tell me, Lori, as an editor, what do you look for in a crimson manuscript?

Lori: First, let’s look at the technical side. I am looking for an author who controls the story and not the other way around. Characters often have the ability to take a story in circles without the resolution needed. So the author needs to set the stage and guide the characters. From the plot standpoint, I am looking for emotion. I would like to feel, hear, smell, etc. the emotions of the characters. But I would also like to have my emotions pulled, touched, tweaked, singed.

Oliver: But of course, my dear. What character traits do you look for in the hero, heroine and villain/villainess

Lori: The villain needs to be creative. For this character to come up with something unique, he/she needs to think fast and thorough. For the heroine, I am looking for a woman who knows her own mind. Yes, there needs to be something for her to work on but there is nothing worse than a whiny female. (Excuse me, Oliver, but my drink is getting low.) Basically, I don’t want a heroine who is annoying. The hero is so much easier to define. Really want an alpha male—a man who is strong in his own beliefs. Yes, I like a nice physique – who wouldn’t. J But what I want more is a man who knows himself and is comfortable in his own skin. I want him to be able to protect me, keep me safe and yet not be afraid to wrap me up and comfort me. Oops, did I say me all of those times?

Oliver winks. You did, but that’s quite all right. Allow me to fill your goblet so that your cup runneth over. Now, if you had to pick one pet peeve, something that turns you off in a heartbeat when reviewing a manuscript, name it, grin.

Lori: “See Spot Run” writing. I want to see a variety of sentence structures, along with depth (creating many levels).

Oliver: On the flip side of the coin, what makes you shout with glee enough to offer a contract?

Lori: Writing that makes me tingle. Again, that control factor. I want to “feel” those kisses, “feel” the need to run from the villain.

Oliver plants a kiss on Lori’s lips with a wicked grin. Speaking of winners, I understand that you are offering a smashing prize for the grand drawing tonight when the clock strikes midnight. Before I sweep you into my arms for a spin around the dance floor to Henry Mancini’s The Waltz, do share, my sweet.

Lori: I would love to offer a free critique to an aspiring author. What phase are you at? If you only have a synopsis, I would be glad to tell you what I think and give you some pointers for fleshing it out. If you have the full manuscript done, I would be glad to review the first six chapters. I won’t do an edit, mind you, because that is what line edits are for but I will give you some suggestions and a short question/answer time. J I would also like to offer a challenge. It is one thing to write a full-length romantic suspense novel, but can you write a shorter length? As Oliver can attest, Sharon is a master of both lengths.

Ah, Oliver, it is getting really dark outside, will you maybe light a few more candles…that’s it, darling, you are the sweetest thing…

Sharon slinks out from behind the bar with a bottle of bubbly. Oliver smoothly plucks up the bouquet of crimson roses and a box of wrapped chocolates from the coffin coffee table. Together they present them to Lori with a sweeping bow.

In honor of Editor Appreciation Day at TWRP, we salute Lori Graham as NUMBER ONE EDITOR SUPREME. We love you, Lori!

Oliver Presents: The Visitor

2011-10-30T01:04:00.000-07:00

A full moon cast the cemetery looming high above the haunted mansion in an eerie glow. The dark woods surrounding the estate whispered with a danger so palpable, screech owls flapped their wings in fright. On Hallow’s Eve, the spookiest of nights, the visitor felt a presence as he scurried through the leaves and up the stone steps. A werewolf howled, its keening wail echoing through the thicket. Looking over his shoulder, certain he heard footsteps, the visitor yanked the hangman’s noose, the clanking of the dome in the bell tower so loud it rattled the windows.

Dressed in flowing black cape, the butler opened the door. You rang?

The visitor followed the butler to the parlor in silence. Blood-curdling screams rang from the walls. A funeral dirge played on the organ where no one sat. With a screech, a bat soared from the rafters and landed on the visitor’s shoulder. The butler beckoned his guest to be seated in one of the wing back chairs in front of the coffin table where goblets of deep red wine await. When the raven announced the thirteenth hour, the butler introduced the visitor.

Good Evening. On this most thrilling of nights, allow me to present Tony-Paul De Vissage. Tony has a chilling ghost tale to tell, followed by a sample of his work. Take it away, Tony.

ShortStory: Identity Theft (included in my anthology Sweet Sips of Blood, released this month by Vamptasy Publishing (

) http://www.vamptasypublishing.co.uk/#/sweet-sips/4552635837:

Identity Theft

What was that? Everett Stead glanced furtively over his shoulder as he heard a rustle behind him.

Nothing.

He forced himself to relax. His imagination was getting the best of him. For days now, he’d had the eerie sensation of being watched, was certain someone was following him though so far, he hadn’t been able to prove it. No one lurking outside his flat. No faces seen too many times to be a coincidence.

It started the evening he picked that toff’s pocket. The gent had stumbled out of an alley and blundered right into him, practically begging to be robbed, so Ev obliged. He didn’t wonder what a gentleman was doing in an alley. From the cut of his suit, he was well-off, so Ev figured he’d been getting a piece. Since Ev hadn’t had any in quite a while, he took the hand-tooled leather billcase out of spite, relieving Mr. Alexander Kuprin of five hundred quid in cash, his driver’s permit and one Visa Platinum credit card.

The last was more than he’d expected and in the coming weeks, with the expertise of the career-hacker, he’d taken the information he had and gotten a lot more on Mr. Kuprin and put it to good use.

Ev was an identity thief, one of the best, never caught and never even suspected. He stole information, used it to advantage, then dropped it and went on to bigger and better prey, and that was why he’d never gotten caught…until now. Because he was convinced somehow, he’d slipped up and that feeling he kept getting was a certainty someone was on his trail.

Maybe it was a good time to use his own credit card and take a trip to regions having no extradition to the UK.

He never got the chance. As he walked past yet another alley, hands reached out, encircled his neck and jerked him into the darkness.

“Got you now, Kuprin!”

Fear sent adrenalin splashing. He flung his attacker over his head, dashing him against the wall but the man recovered and whirled, raising something defensively.

A stake? No! Ev had one moment of scalding horror as it descended…

“Finally.” The thief’s murderer sighed as he looked at his companion who’d stood by watching the entire episode.

“Get his head off, set the body on fire, and Lexei Kuprin’ll be the history he should’ve been five hundred years ago.”

The deed was accomplished with the swiftness of experts in doing just that. Then, they strolled back onto the thoroughfare, blending into the crowd. It would be several minutes before anyone saw flames or smoke and they’d be long gone by then.

Someone had noticed, however. He’d been following Everett Stead for a fortnight, ever since he realized his wallet had been lifted, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. Berating himself for being so careless, he’d seen the others after the thief and stood back to let Nature take its course. Gliding like a shadow into the alley to view the damage, he allowed himself gloating satisfaction as he watched the body burn, its severed head a flaming briquet a few feet away.

“Serves you right, you little bastard, for stealing a vampire’s identity.”

Hurrying to keep his appointment with the expert forger working on his new identity, Mr. Alexander Kuprin wafted into mist and left the alley, blending with London’s fog.

EXCERPT: (The Night Man Cometh, Class Act Books, http://www.classactbooks.com/The-Night-Man-Cometh-by-Tony-Paul-de-Vissage-Trade_p_305.html)

His mind was so befuddled with his blasphemous thoughts, Damien hadn’t paid attention to where he rode. Just let the horse have its head. Now they broke from the forest and found themselves in a man-made clearing, butts and limbless poles of trees stacked clumsily about. At that moment, his horse stopped and the wind shifted, bringing a scent of decay and burnt flesh…and Damien knew where their location.

The plague pits.

In his distraction, he’d unconsciously guided his mount directly to the last place he ever wished to be. Not that he could see much of it at the moment. While he was riding alone in a self-induced fugue, the sun’s last rays had long ago winked out through the trees’ shielding branches.

Now he was alone. In the dark. At the edge of a charnel pit.

Got to get out of here. Damien pressed a rein against the horse’s neck, urging him to turn. The animal balked, instead giving a chest-muffled nicker. He touched ribs with his heels, pulled on the reins now. The creature refused to move, legs stiffening. This time, the sound it made was a protest, sounding almost…frightened?

’Tis the scent of death here. How could anything living not be affected? Nothing to do but lead it, then. Damien slid from the saddle, walking to the horse’s head. He gripped the bridle at the bit, stroking the fine Barbary muzzle and whispering some soothing nonsense. And then, he raised his head, and did something he hadn’t intended. He looked out across the pit.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for that sight. Not the woodcuts of Hell in the family Bible. Nor the threats of Damnation Pere Gervaise heaped upon them at services. Not even his own most secret nightmares.

The hole was nearly fifteen feet deep. It must have taken laborers a goodly time to dig it. Dirt lay in high heaps around the sides, silhouetted like low mountains in the dimness. It extended a fair fifty feet, more a gorge than a pit but to Damien’s horror-struck eyes, it appeared a valley into Hell. How many bodies can this hold? A good number of la Croix’s population, to be sure, for beyond it was a mound of the same size, piled high with tamped dirt and beyond that another, testimony to how many were already buried here.

The bodies in this one were still uncovered, a fresh layer, though the wagoneer and his helper would be back soon, pouring lamp oil over the corpses and tossing lighted faggots to send these unfortunates to their Reward. Sometimes the flames would leap so high, they could see them at the chateau, tinting the sky a lurid red. Like the flames of Hell, Maman would say and cross herself. Damien pushed thoughts of his mother out of his mind. He didn’t want to think of her right now.

As the bodies burned, those under them, already reduced to human charcoal and cinders, would burn again, transformed into even finer ashes rising with the smoke to float away on the winds. And when the pit could hold no more, it would be covered over by that waiting dirt.

The horse snuffled again, an odd little choking deep in its chest. That brought Damien out of his grisly regard. He reached up, patting the dark neck. “Quiet, now. ’Tis all—”

What’s that? Whatever else he was going to say died away as he saw something move. At the far side of the pit. It seemed to have simply appeared. He’d swear it wasn’t there a moment ago. Hunched over, a dark, unwieldly shape, picking its clumsy way among the bodies.

A survivor? Some poor soul not yet dead, awakening to find himself covered by his friends and neighbors’ corpses. Now stumbling over them in half-mad terror?

The shape halted, bent as if peering at one of the bodies, and reached out. The hand dropped and the dark form moved on. It went a few more feet, then hesitated again. This time, it seized a body, wrenching it from under another. For a moment, it seemed to embrace the corpse it held.

Is it actually kissing its neck? Damien felt his throat clog in revulsion.

The body was tossed aside, disgust in the movement. It fell with a liquid thud. The thing moved on, peering this way and that, searching for something it didn’t find, coming closer to where Damien stood.

The horse threw back its head, short, sharp squeals bursting from its throat. It began to back away, pulling the reins from Damien’s hands. He reached out to catch them, and the creature below him raised its head.

Holy Mother! It eyes were glowing. Red as coals. And they were looking straight at him. At that moment, the wind swirled into the pit. It stirred the thing’s cloak, making it flutter away from the thin body. For a moment, it looked like…

Wings.

Lord God, save us! They are wings! Now unfurling, great dark sails dwarfing the creature’s body. Flapping as if preparing to take it airborne.

The horse was moving again. Backing frantically, Damien following. It reared, and he felt the burn of leather across his fingers as the reins were jerked out of his hand. He turned to make a futile grab for the flying straps but the animal whirled on hind legs, galloping wildly back into the safety of the trees.

There was a sound behind him. Something landing with a thump. Damien spun around.

The creature stood before him, eyes still glowing. He could swear he saw flames flickering within them. It collapsed its wings; once more they were merely clumsy shreds of cloth. Then, it took a step toward him. Hand curved into claws reached out.

Damien didn’t run. He knew now what the creature was and also there was no chance he could escape. The priests told of such night-demons and of their incredible speed and powers greater than any mortal’s. What had they said of ways to overcome them? He couldn’t remember.

He could see the thing gathering itself for a leap. It would be on him before he could run.

And was.

He barely had time to reach into the pouch at his waist, fingers scrabbling for the rosary tucked there. Thank God I didn’t toss it away! He thought of that irony as the creature launched itself. Damien thrust out his arm, crucifix dangling from the string of beads wrapped around his hand.

The creature ran directly into it. With a scream it recoiled, falling backward so quickly it appeared to have been tossed by the holy object. Perhaps it had. It fell on its back in the dirt and Damien was upon it, pressing the cross into its chest through the filthy rags, one knee on its belly to hold it down.

It gasped and struggled and a smell of rot and filth floated upward from the rags. Blackened flesh appeared under the edges of the crucifix. Damien swallowed and fought the urge to gag. He forced himself to touch the creature, catching one flailing wrist and pinning it to the ground. He was surprised at how light it felt, at the frailty of the body beneath his. He thought if he pressed harder with his knee, it might actually crush the bony chest and go through.

Suddenly, it stopped fighting. Blinking, the red glow faded and it lay still. For a moment, he thought it had died. When it spoke, he was startled.

“If you’re going to destroy me, go ahead. Oblivion is better than the existence I now suffer.” The sound was deep and hoarse. Rusty, like a gate hinge grown solid with age suddenly being wrenched open.

“What can you know of Oblivion?” Damien asked. “You’re le sansmort, aren’t you?”

There was a faint nod. Another wafting of that frightful smell. Damien swallowed, gulping back his disgust.

“Oui, I’m le sansmort but what good does immortality do me?” Damien couldn’t believe the whine in the creature’s voice. It sounded so…human. So full of self-pity. “What pleasure is there in feeding on corpses?”

“Why bother?” Damien surprised himself by laughing at that. “There’s an entire village only a short distance…”

“A dying village. No one has strength to invite me in. I can’t get to them, so I hunt among the dead, disgusting as that may be. Bah!” He made a spitting motion. Damien shrank back without releasing his hold upon the bony wrist. “Blood thick and drying…solid in their veins…and if I find one still holding a spark of life… ’Tis too mixed with pus to be palatable.” He shook his head. “Go ahead. Destroy me. I no longer care.”

Author Bio:

A writer of French Huguenot extraction, one of Tony-Paul de Vissage's first movie memories is of viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula's Daughter, on television, and being scared sleepless--and that may explain a lifelong interest in vampires.

This was further inspired when the author was kidnapped by a band of transplanted Romanian vampires who were sightseeing in the South. Having never seen a human who wasn’t frightened of them, they offered to pay his way through college if he would become an author and write about vampires in a positive manner. He agreed, and continued to keep in touch with his supernatural mentors.

Though the author didn't begin writing horror--or any other genre--until after graduating with a Bachelor's degree in Fine Arts from a well-known Southern University (and a second in Graphic Art), that one particular interest--and the promise made to his mentors--survived a liberal arts' education and the scorn of friends and family.

Eventually that first story--a short story about the hapless vampire Clan Andriescu--was published. A voracious reader whose personal library has been shipped more than 3,000 miles, Tony-Paul has read hundreds of vampire tales and viewed more than as many movies.

Contact Info:

Website: http://www.tony-paul.com/

Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/505918625

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000424452760

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/tpvissage

Oliver Presents a Halloween movie

2011-10-29T02:24:00.000-07:00

Sharon scurries up the stone steps to the DeVeccio mansion to watch the Halloween movie on Chiller Theater. A hunter’s moon hangs low in the dark desert sky. In the distance, a wolf howls, its eerie wail echoing through the night. The wind whistles through the Ponderosa pines, sounding like the wise old whispers of the Paiute Indians buried thousands of feet below in the windblown sand. Reaching the door, she yanks on the hangman’s noose. The dome in the bell tower rattles the mansion.

Oliver answers, holding a candlestick. You rang?

As they walk through the long corridor to the parlor, ghostly footsteps echoing in their wake, organ music grinds off the wall. Candles flicker in the parlor, illuminating the swords above the bar. Hot buttered popcorn and chilled chardonnay are laid out on the coffin table. Masks from Uncle Carlow’s chamber line the wall, a werewolf with glowing red eyes, the bloody head of Frankenstein and the Evil Jester with a demented smile. Sharon takes a seat on the burgundy settee. When the raven clock announces the thirteenth hour, Oliver takes a sweeping bow.

Good Evening! On this ghoulish Saturday night on Hallow’s Eve it is my great pleasure to present

MASK OF THE BETRAYER

Produced by TRIAD PRODUCTIONS and written by SHARON ANN DONOVAN. Grab yourself a big tub of buttered popcorn and get ready to scream.

When the whispers in the night, the whispers of her lover, are the whispers of a killer, will Margot escape before she becomes the next victim?

Deep in the foothills of Red Rock Canyon, a serial killer stalks. He leaves his signature—a skull mask on the corpse. But when the homicide cop realizes the crimes are the reenactment of a case never solved ten years ago--all fingers point to Michael DeVeccio. And when Margot realizes she is married to the killer, her life becomes a living nightmare.

MASK OF THE BETRAYER VIDEO TRIAD PRODUCTIONS

Second place winner YOU GOTTA READ CONTEST

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KzpiRni7R0

Mask of the Betrayer
Book one in the Mask series
Filled with so many twists, turns and surprises, you’ll be
hooked from the first chapter.
ISBN: 978-1-936167-06-7

BUY MASK OF THE BETRAYER
http://www.whimsicalpublications.com/sharon_donovan/mask_of_the_betrayer.html

BARNES & NOBLE | Mask of the Betrayer by Sharon Donovan | NOOK ...

www.barnesandnoble.com/.../mask-of-the-betrayer-sharon-donovan

AMAZON KINDLE

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-

Sharon DonovanRomantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith

My website

www.sharonadonovan.com

Write to me

sharonad@comcast.net

Oliver Presents Hywela Lyn

2011-10-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

A full moon glints through the barren branches of the trees in the haunted cemetery. On Hallow’s Eve, the spookiest night of the year, she rises from the coffin in search of her missing jewels. Tormented shrieks ring through the cemetery. Shrouded in a long, flowing gown, she drifts toward the mansion where she once lived. Passing the pet cemetery adjacent to the family graveyard where centuries of horses are buried, a colony of screech owls peer down from the willowy branches, green eyes glowing in the dark. Scurrying up the thickly wooded path to the mansion, the sound of ghostly hooves galloping past echo her footsteps.

Wandering up the stone steps, she walks straight through the closed mahogany door. Oliver stands in the corridor, holding a strange looking candlestick. He bows and bids the striking woman a good evening. She doesn’t answer but drifts into the parlor as if she didn’t see him. Oliver thinks it strange but follows her and finds her seated on the deep purple settee. Long tapers flicker on the coffin table, casting an eerie glow on silver goblets of mead. Staring accusingly at Oliver, the woman holds up a ruby necklace.

When the screech owls shriek, Oliver announces his guest.

Good Evening. With great pleasure, I present the one and only Hywela Lyn. She has risen on this most sacred of nights to tell a ghostly tale, followed by an excerpt of her latest book. He kisses her on both cheeks and presents her with a goblet of mead. Take it away, my lovely.

Nanteos Mansion

THE GHOSTS OF NANTEOS
One of my favourite places is Nanteos Mansion, near where I used to live in Wales. The name means 'Valley of the Nightingale'. I used to keep my horses at the stables and spent many a happy hour soaking up the atmosphere of this historic house, built in 1738.The Mansion has its share of ghosts and an interesting history. Late at night the stables would ring with unearthly screeches, like souls in torment. Actually it was nothing more sinister than a colony of screech owls nesting nearby. (Or so I was told.)

A short distance from the house itself is a little copse used to bury the Powell family’s pets. Some of the inscriptions are quite touching and the owner of the stables, which, when I was there, had been sold as a separate entity from the Mansion, swore he’d heard ghostly hooves galloping past, late at night.

Many legends name Nanteos as the one-time resting place of the Holy Grail, the chalice that Jesus and his disciples are believed to have drunk from at the Last Supper. The cup, known as ‘the Nanteos Cup’ was apparently brought back from the Middle East in AD 63 by Joseph of Arimathea, who settled at Glastonbury Monastery in the west of England. When the monastery was dissolved in 1539, a number of monks fled with the Holy Grail to Strata Florida Abbey, in the Aberystwyth area, and from there to Nanteos, where the cup passed into the hands of the Powell family. The Grail was famous for its supposed healing powers, and water poured from it was highly sought after as a cure for various diseases.

I’ve actually seen the ‘grail’, or what was left of it The owner of the house (and the cup) a Major Merrilees, eventually moved to Herefordshire, taking the Nanteos Cup with him. It is understood that it currently resides in a bank vault somewhere. It is a small wooden vessel (5″ diameter, 3″ deep) in a very poor state today, due to pilgrims’ biting large chunks out of it, over the years, in order to aid recovery from their ills. Although the Holy Cup is not at Nanteos anymore, there are still ghosts to be found in the many rooms of the mansion.

The old stables at Nanteos

Horses and voices were heard in the stable yard at Nanteos on two consecutive nights at about 4.00am, but as soon as the listener peered into the yard the noise abruptly stopped. (The picture above is the arched entrance to the cobbled stable yard.)

One of the ghosts said to haunt the mansion is the spirit of Elizabeth Powell, the late wife of William Powell, who wanders the hallways looking for her lost jewellery. The story goes that her husband William Powell dearly loved her and showered her with jewels. She could not bear to be parted from her treasured jewellery and dreaded to think what would happen to them after her death. Knowing that she was dying, she rose from her death-bed and hid her jewels. Later that night she died. Today her ghost, shrouded in a long flowing gown, still wanders like a lost soul searching for her hidden jewels. It is said she will haunt anyone that dares look for her treasure.

Parties were often held at Nanteos. One evening the house was full of guests, an army officer present went to dress for dinner. Climbing the stairs to his room he met a striking woman in evening dress, holding a strange looking candle stick. Thinking she was one of the guests he bowed and bade her good evening. The lady did not answer but carried on down the stairs as if she had not seen him. He thought it strange but continued up to his room.

On returning to the party he gazed around looking for the lady. Eventually he asked if anyone has seen this woman. Immediately, he was taken to one side and told never to speak of the lady with the candle stick or there would be a death in the family. That night, the Lord of Nanteos died... and the strange candle the lady had carried was found a week later in a dusty shelf in a corner of the Silver Vault Room.

A phantom horse and carriage is also said to pull up to the front entrance in the middle of the as a forewarning of a death.

The most eerie sighting was from the front door, and was that of what was thought to be smoke in the inner hall. The witness stared in disbelief as the smoke transformed in a figure dressed in a long flowing dress. She began coming towards the front door, terrifying the onlooker so much that he ran to Aberystwyth, not daring to look back.

The highlight for 69 Christmases at Nanteos, was Gruffydd Evans's beautiful harp playing every year in the Music Room. He was a relative of the Powell family and lived to a grand age of 92. He is buried at Llanbadarn Fawr a small village near Aberystwyth. On a still, peaceful night he can be heard playing his beloved harp deep in the Nanteos wood.

My favourite story is a rather sad one. One of the windows on the bottom storey has been boarded up for many, many years. The story goes that the lady of the house was watching her husband ride up the drive towards her, when the horse spooked and threw him, killing him instantly. She could not bear to look out of that window again and ordered it to be boarded over and so it remains to this day. She mourned for him the rest of her life and they say his ghost still rides up the drive at night. I like to think she rides with him now.

I have just re-released my story about Terpsichore, the Greek Muse of Dance. It's actually quite a light fantasy tale, but it has its dark moments, like this one, which features the 'Ellylldan' nasty little goblin like creatures of Welsh folklore.

EXCERPT FROM DANCING WITH FATE

The glowing red sparks appeared a few hours before dawn. Terpsichore looked across to where she could just make out Myrddin, lying close to the fire, apparently asleep. She stood and wrapped her brat around her shoulders. What unearthly lights were these? In the name of Hades, she had never seen anything like this before. She watched them as they advanced and retreated, advanced and retreated. They seemed to beckon to her. She walked forward a few steps. This was not natural. She sensed evil, but of a kind she had never come across before.

She tried to turn her head, to look away and move back to the fire. Some force compelled her to keep staring at them, to move forward. Further and further from the campfire she wandered. The air grew chill and she pulled her brat more closely around her. The flickering lights gyrated in a wild dance, inviting her to follow them. Dawn was approaching. In the dim early morning light, she could make out demon faces, red glowing eyes, hands outstretched, with flames at their fingertips.

She recoiled in horror. Somewhere in her subconscious, she knew she was in deadly danger, but still she moved forward. They summoned her to follow and she could not help but obey. She tried to call to Apollo, and her father, but her mind was numb. She could reach no one on Olympus.

“Myrddin!” No sound came from her lips. Still, a strange unearthly power obliged her to walk forward toward those eerie, mesmerizing points of light.

The ground grew soft beneath her feet. Cold mud oozed between her bare toes. The further she walked, the deeper the mud became; eventually, she realized she was up to her waist in chill, muddy water, and she was powerless to turn back, or even to move any more.

“Zeus, oh, Father, please help me...don’t desert me now.”

For the first time in her eternal life, she knew fear. These creatures of nameless evil had her trapped. They would drag her down to the underworld and she would never see Olympus or her family again.

Then strong arms encircled her, swung her round.

“Cora, look at me.” She gazed into two pools of azure blue, filled with concern, and a pale face set in resolve. Still she had an irresistible urge to look at those weird, flickering lights. She turned her head, and at the same moment, there was a flash like lightning. The ground behind her burst into a wall of blue flame. It blotted out everything, engulfing the demon lights and the hideous forms that a moment before had lured her onward.

“Look at me. Look at me...don’t look back again.”

Before she could reply, he swept her up and carried her back toward the campfire.

Eos in her chariot had started her journey across the sky and the pearly light showed their camp and the two horses grazing nearby. Never had anything looked so welcome. Never had Terpsichore felt so safe in a man’s arms.

Available from Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53249

Also available from Amazon in Kindle Version

http://www.amazon.com/DANCING-WITH-FATE-ebook/dp/B005MGU31I/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_ke?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319580185&sr=1-1

and in Print

http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-Fate-Hywela-Lyn/dp/1463500556/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319580185&sr=1-1

Hywela Lyn lives in a small village in England, with her long suffering husband Dave, although her heart remains in her native rural Wales, which inspired so much of her writing.

A keen animal lover, she has two horses. a rescued Jack Russell and two 'ferel' cats.

Her first novel, a futuristic romance released by the Wild Rose Press was followed by a sequel 'Children Of The Mist'. Lyn is working on a third story in the series.
She is a member of The Romance Novelists' Association (UK)

Website: www.hywelalyn.co.uk

Blog: www.Hywelalyn.blogspot.com
Author Page at The Wild Rose Press

Oliver Presents P. L. Parker

2011-10-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

A full moon pulsates in the midnight black sky. Shutters bang against the decaying 300 year old mansion where evil lurks behind every door. Looming high above the manor where murder and mayhem took place, witches lurk in Salem’s Lot. An owl screeches in the woods, its warbling slicing through the night. The medium scurries up the cracked steps to the mansion and knocks three times.

Donned in black satin and an evil smile, Oliver opens the heavy chamber door. It creaks on its rusty hinges. Kissing the medium on each cheek, he escorts her into the parlor.

In the flickering candlelight, willowy spider webs hang from the four corners. Mold and rot seep from cracks. Piano music escalates to a heart-pounding crescendo, followed by blood—curdling screams. Oliver gestures to the dusty and ripped black satin settee, beckoning the medium to be seated. Silver goblets filled with deep red wine are laid out on the coffin table. When the door bangs, Oliver introduces his guest.

Good Evening. With grand pleasure, I present the lovely and mysterious P. L. Parker. She is here to tell the legend of this manor, followed by an excerpt of her latest work. Take it away, my dear.

The Returning

As she neared the front door, prickles of awareness raced up her spine. She could sense the ancient evil lurking behind the shuttered windows, oozing through the cracks and holes, tainting the air with its putrid emanations.

The edifice was old, three hundred years or more, and decayed beyond repair. The new owners of the property wanted to rebuild—something modern and fun, and the old building was scheduled for demolition. But whatever was in this place kept the workers from beginning.

Why did I agree to this! It was said that the house had once been the residence of a malevolent witch or hoodoo woman who’d practiced her trade with vengeance on the surrounding population. The history of the house seethed with tales of murder and mayhem and few were brave enough to venture too near.

She drew a deep breath, steeling herself for the next step. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. I’m here to force the entity to leave! A medium with some following, she’d agreed and took the new owner’s money before she’d researched the place. I needed the money, she mentally defended herself. And now it was gone and her only recourse was to do the job she’d been paid to do.

Sweat ran in rivulets from her forehead, palms grew slick with moisture. Heart pounding in her breast, she reached for the door handle, twisting it before she had a chance to change her mind.

The door grated open with a rusty moan. Stepping into the shadowy interior, she waited as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Huge spider webs hung from the ceiling fluttering in the slight breeze generated by the open entryway. Dust covered the rotted furnishings spiraling in small whirlwinds as the dust motes caught in the puff of circulating air. But it was the knowledge the entity was very near that caused her heart to freeze. Foul secretions permeated everything. Her tongue swiped lips suddenly dry. Already afraid, sheer terror surged in a blinding rush.

She felt rather than heard the entity’s wicked laughter, thrilled by her rush of emotion. It lives for terror! She opened her senses, seeking the source of the being. Not upstairs. Not in the rooms leading off from the foyer. Below…in the basement.

I can’t do this! Bitter bile rose in her throat causing her to gag. Again, the entity drew from her fear! Hideous howls of pure glee raged through her mind.

It’s just stupid stuff made up by lazy workers, the new owners said. Just a bunch of old wives’ tales stirring the pot!

She knew better. She’d been in the presence of evil before, but nothing had prepared her for that which lurked in this dreadful place. Compelled by a force not her own, she stumbled down the long hallway, drawn to a small door at the far end.

This is the entrance to hell! For long moments she stared at the door, every fiber of her being quaking with fright. I wish Maman were here! Maman was so much stronger that she would ever be. Maman would not have been so foolish.

With shaking hands, she gripped the handle, gasping as the door banged open. Broken and rotted stairs led down into the darkness below. She stepped on the first step. It groaned beneath her weight. Then another step.

Don’t go down there or you’ll never return, the voice of her long dead Maman hissed.

Blood pounded in her veins loud enough to hear. I have no other choice, Maman!

You do! Run before you are lost!

She reached the bottom of the stairs. The darkness seethed with the entity’s evil presence. Rage, hate, murder, corruption hit her with full force, destroying the last reserves of strength and will.

Too long have you been away, the entity’s words slithered through her brain.

She bowed low. “I am here, Master.”

Taking a deep breath, Gemma offered in a trembling voice. “Food sickens her and

sunlight burns her skin. She stays abed most days and only ventures out in the eve.”

Lord Alric’s face grew grave. “How long?”

“A week, perhaps more.”

“And ye didst not think to advise me?”

Gemma twisted her hands in agitation. “Lady Chloe forbade me. She said it was a passing thing. I knew not what else to do!”

Gruesome memories long denied flooded Lord Alric. The last hours of Lady Isabet’s life had been horrific and he was want to forget any remembrances of that night.

Striding from the hall and running up the wide stairway, he paused at the entrance to Chloe’s chambers.

“Find Gavin!” he roared. Throwing open the door, he marched in, not knowing what to expect.

Bathed by the soft light of a single flickering candle, the room was a myriad of dancing shadows and dark corners and only the logs snapping in the fireplace broke the blanketing silence.

A lump formed in Alric’s throat. Willing his feet to move, he approached the bed, fearing what he would find. Chloe reclined on the bed, hands crossed on her chest, looking like nothing more than a newly dead corpse. Cast in the flickering light, her countenance was angelic and virginal, not the face of evil as he’d imagined. As he watched, she stirred and, yawning, opened her eyes. For a brief moment, red shimmered in their depths, but just as quickly, it was gone. Startled, she jerked upright, eyes wide with shock.

“Papa!” she gasped. “Ye frightened me.”

Smoothing her soft cheek, Alric murmured. “Gemma said ye be unwell. I came to see.”

“‘Tis nothing.” She smiled, swinging her feet over the side of her bed.

“Ailments never affect ye. I’ve yet to see a child so healthy.”

Chloe stood up, gripping the bedpost as she swayed. “I’ve not been myself,” she admitted, shivering in the drafty room.

Bio:

I love paranormal and as a result, it's the perfect genre for me. I started seriously writing about 5 years ago and have since published five novels, Fiona, Riley's Journey, Aimee's Locket, Absolution and Into the Savage Dawn, one short, Heart of the Sorcerer, and two free reads, Prophecy's Bride and Songbird. I am currently working on a sequel to Into the Savage Dawn and have another manuscript, The Chalice, a SciFi story, which is on the merry-go-round of finding a publisher. Recently, I contracted with Willow Moon Publishing for another short story, Will-o'-the-Wisp. I am a mother of grown sons, a grandmother to my darling Tannis, and wife to my best friend and soul mate, Jack.

Patsy

P. L. Parker

Romantic Adventure at its Best

www.plparker.com

www.plparker.blogspot.com

www.myspace.com/mrsplparker

Oliver Presents Mary Ricksen

2011-10-24T22:28:00.000-07:00

Thunder and lightning crash and collide in the blood-red sky, splintering the night into brilliant white light.

A werewolf howls, its keening wail slicing through the cemetery looming high above the haunted mansion. Spooked by the pounding echo of her own footsteps, a Veiled Lady races up the stone steps to the mansion and taps on the heavy mahogany door.

Oliver, dressed in black tails and top hat, flings the door open. It creaks open on rusty hinges. Smiling manically, he extends his arm.

Right this way, mademoiselle.

The Veiled Lady and Oliver enter the parlor. The doors that have parted disappear into the wall. Dark, flowing drapes shroud odd shaped windows, and black tapers in sterling silver holders flicker in the dark paneled room. Oliver seats his guest on the black rose settee. Frozen concoctions swimming with strawberries in crystal flutes await on the coffin table. When tapping hammers out a tune on the wall, Oliver kisses the Veiled Lady with a wink and a smile.

Good Evening. It is my great pleasure to introduce the lovely and enchanted Mary Ricksen. Mary has a ghostly tale that will send shivers skating down your spine. Take it away, my pretty.

Many years ago my sister and I used to play this game. We would lie in bed late at night and play when we couldn’t sleep. The old, Gothic, Victorian house, my great grandmother lived in creaked and groaned all over and we never knew what was house or what could possibly be ghost. The odd shaped windows and doors that opened into walls added the mystique. You had to be sure both feet were well away from the edge of the bed. Better safe then sorry.

The idea of the game was to guess the tune. We would tap out the music on the bed while hearing it in your head. I don’t know how we did it, but we always guessed right!

I really hated the room we stayed in. It was all dark corners and deep closets. Shadows were so dark; one had to feel your way out of the room. But every time we visited we ended up in the same room.

Dark, thick, heavy curtains lined the windows. Not a speck of light got in when they closed. Wood pineapples were on each of four posts on the old cherry wood furniture.

We stayed on the third floor. I don’t know why because there were four bedrooms on the second floor. And we were the only ones visiting her. The only ones up there. Alone. My cousin used to tease us telling us how great Uncle Snidely had died up there and he watched his heirs all the time. She told us about him and showed us his picture. We were primed!

No night lights allowed, we were big girls.

One very stormy night at Great Gram’s place we lay there tapping out songs. Thunder boomed and lightning knocked out all the street lights. After one particularly loud boom I realized I had to take a pee. My sister ran to the window to look and I jumped outta bed and ran. The tile floor chilled my feet as I walked on little squares. I picked up the seat and quickly did what I had to. Flushing the toilet I ran back down the dark hallway to our room.

My sister was talking. “I still can’t understand what you’re trying to have me guess.” She sounded flustered.

“What are you talking about?” I jumped on my bed closest to the door.

“Very funny, I’ve been trying to guess the song, but you keep tapping out nonsense. I told you I give up and still you keep tapping. What was the song you were trying to have me guess?” She asked.

“I just got back from the bathroom, I haven’t been tapping anything.” I chuckled. “What you been playing our game with a ghost or something?”

Her voice quivered. “Did you just say you just came back from the bathroom?”

“Yes.” Now I was getting scared.

“Well I have been trying to guess what song and you, well I thought it was you, were tapping away like crazy. I had no idea what you wanted me to guess.” She jumped on my bed as a loud peel of thunder ripped the skies.

“Someone was here, something, oh man, something was playing our game with me.” She shivered against my side.

Just then we heard it. In the silence between lightning strikes. Tapping. Tap, tap, tap…

“AAAAAHHHHHH!!” We screamed in unison. Both of us jumped up and ran outta that room so fast our feet flew! Screaming the whole way we yelled. “AAAHHHHH!!”

My great grandmother appeared at the end of the hall. “Girls, what’s wrong?” She hugged us close.

“Ghosts.” We wailed in unison. She calmed us down and urged us into her huge high bed. Between breaths we told Gram what happened.

“Oh that wasn’t Uncle Snidely. We have no one in the family by that name.” She laughed and we laughed.

We got under the covers with her and snuggled. Warm and secure we felt foolish. Until she closed her eyes and sighed.

“The only person it could be is Uncle Frankie, he loved music.”

Mary Ricksen

Mary loves Vermont and North Carolina in the mountains. Rows of corn and cherry trees

were playgrounds in the summer. She loves animals, horses, cows, and critters who live in the wild. Small town life is her future haven after big city madness. She made up her mind that someday she'd be back in the country, even in just in her books.

Love, happiness, a little bit of magic, and a hunky hero with a happily-ever-after

ending is her favorite thing to read or to write. Especially if they are time travel!

MARY'S BLOG

maryricksen.blogspot.com/

MARY'S WEBSITE
www.maryricksen.com

Purchase her books from her Publisher's

SITE

The Wild Rose Press

www.thewildrosepress.com

Mary M. Ricksen
"Know that love is truly timeless"

Secretary - Chapter: Florida Romance Writers

Tripping Through Time ISBN#1-60154-392-1

You Gotta Read Reviews-Absolutely wonderful! An excellent

first novel. Rated:You Gotta Read!

Oliver Presents Stephanie Burkhart

2011-10-24T00:06:00.000-07:00

A werewolf howls, its keening wail slicing through the fog-misted night. With a flap of wings, a bat takes flight into the thicket. Shrouded in the eerie light of the full moon looming over the cemetery, a woman dashes up the stone steps to the haunted mansion and yanks on the chain.

Oliver, looking wolfishly handsome in flowing black cape, answers the door and grins, displaying his dazzling white fangs. His eyes gleam with male appreciation. Taking his guest by the hand, he escorts her into the parlor. Sinfully dark music plays on the organ where no one sits. Rose-scented candles flicker on the coffin coffee table, illuminating silver goblets of blood-red wine. Oliver gestures to a plum satin settee and his guest takes a seat. When the raven clock announces the witching hour, Oliver takes a sweeping bow.

Good Evening. It is my great pleasure to introduce the lovely and enchanting Stephanie Burkhart. While we indulge in this delicious deep red, Stephanie will intrigue us with a ghostly tale, followed by a teaser of her latest endeavor. Take it away, my dear.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

Audrina knocked on the wooden door. "Mr. Edwards?"

Nothing. A cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic Ocean and Audrina tugged on the shawl around her shoulders. Where was Mr. Edwards?

She twisted the knob to the lighthouse door. It turned, but stuck. Glancing up, she noticed rust on the hinges. Leaning her shoulder against the door, she pushed it open. Built in the early 1800's, the lighthouse captured the ambience of the past, standing proud against the Maine coastline.

"Mr. Edwards?" Her voice rattled throughout the lighthouse. Audrina tucked a stray tendril of her auburn hair behind her ear, pausing near the entrance. He had to be here. Her aunt's diary related that he rarely ventured from the antiquated lighthouse. Fishermen and cruise liners depended on the light and audible signals from this building – especially when the weather became foggy.

Looking around, she spied a set of metallic steps in the middle of the building which led up to the Frenzel lens and fog signal. Across the entrance, to the right, was another door partially opened.

The autumn wind whipped around the windows, making a high pitched whistle. A wave of uncertainty coursed through her bones. Was Mr. Edwards in that room? What would she find? She crossed the floor, hesitating next to the opening. Oh, she was being ridiculous. What did she expect to find? A ghost?

Audrina eased the door open, revealing a compact room. A single bed rested next to the curved wall. A young man lay clasping a picture frame next to his chest.

She ran to his side. Sweat dripped down his temples. Gently, she removed the frame, putting it on the nightstand, and placed her hand on his forehead. Hot. He had a fever. How long had he been sick?

"Mr. Edwards?" She shook his shoulders.

The young man's lids snapped open, but his eyes were glazed over from fever. "Esther?"

"No, I'm Audrina, Esther's niece. You're sick."

"Esther – where's Esther?"

"She passed away two weeks ago."

"No." The man's voice faded away. Had he lost hope? Her heart went out to him. She squeezed one of his hands between hers, studying him. His hair was thick and curly, framing his ruggedly handsome face. His square jaw and broad shoulders exuded a raw masculinity and vitality, despite his fever. Audrina found him appealing. Despite his illness, his muscles were hard. Stubble grew around his chin. God, there was no denying the attractiveness of his feral looks.

Departing the room, she discovered a kitchen, but the food was bad. She needed to make a trip to the grocery store. She also needed to treat the fever. Turning her attention to the sink, she found a washrag and dampened it. Who knew how long he'd been ill. She returned to his bedside and wiped the rag over his face.

"I think I should call for the paramedics."

"No!" His eyes snapped open, fierce and adamant none be sent. His voice was rough with anxiety.

"A paramedic can treat you better than I—"

"No. I don't want doctors. I hate them. None of them can help me."

Audrina crossed her arms. Her expression stilled and grew serious. Mixed feelings surged within her. He had to know that a doctor could help him? Why didn't he want to see one? What was he hiding? Should she be worried?

He grasped her wrist, staring at her. She couldn't look away, spellbound by his expression. He possessed such unusual eyes – deep malachite green surrounded by a golden ring hugging his irises.

"No…you're not Esther. You smell different," he rasped.

"You need medicine."

"No doctors." His voice was firm. "Esther's dead, you said?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Why did you come?"

"She left me her manor in her will. I arrived a few days ago, but only found her diary today."

He struggled to sit up in the bed, his expression a mix of pain and pleasant surprise. "You're beautiful."

"Mr.—"

"My name is Damian."

"Damian." She squeezed his hand again and paused, deciding to help him against her better judgment. "Lie back down. I'll return shortly."

He returned the pressure from her grasp, then collapsed onto the bed. "Please…"

"I promise." Audrina stood.

He nodded and closed his eyes.

Audrina drove her car up the dirt access road and parked next to the lighthouse. Twilight darkened the clouds over the ocean, casting deep orange and red shadows over the horizon. A waxing gibbous moon crested over the stormy waves. She hadn't explored her aunt's manor to the extent she would have liked and had only partially read her aunt's diary – specifically the last couple of pages which expressed concern for Mr. Edwards – Damian.

Her aunt knew she was dying, she had cancer, but she believed Mr. Edwards would become inconsolable and possibly lose his mind if she revealed the nature of her illness and therefore she hadn't confided in him. Audrina believed her aunt didn't want to break Damian's heart. What Audrina found odd was that Damian was a young man. Her aunt was eighty-two when she passed.

Grabbing her bag with the food and medication, she walked through the brisk New England chill and entered the lighthouse. Quickly, she prepared a bowl of soup and a light meal.

Damian still lay in the bed, clutching the washcloth. God, he looked so vulnerable – and oh, so handsome. Her heart constricted in her chest, yet anxiety thread through her bones knowing he was adamant about refusing medical care. She crossed her arms and rubbed her biceps.

"Damian?"

He mustered a smile. "You returned." His voice ached with longing.

"Take these." She handed him the antibiotics and a glass of water. He swallowed them and sat up. Audrina spoon fed him the soup. A knot tightened in her stomach. He ate the crackers, never taking his eyes off her.

"Thank you. I was hungry."

"You need to rest."

"I'm cold, then hot, then cold."

"It's the fever. Do you have any extra blankets?"

"No. Can you lay beside me?" His gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck.

Audrina bit her lower lip with her teeth. Her heart ached under her breast. His eyes mesmerized her. Something intense flared between them – a spark. Desire? Mutual attraction? Fascination? His eyes drew her to him, despite only having just met him. If only the tension in her shoulders would go away. His eyes softened and she relented, not sure of anything when she was near him.

Remaining quiet, she lay down next to him, resting her head against his chest.

He kissed her temple. "Thank you."

Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.

The rain struck the window in a rhythmic fashion, waking Audrina. She left the bed, found a candle on the nightstand, and lit it. The inky shadows faded away and the candle cast a soft light over the bed. The picture frame she'd taken from his hand earlier rested next to the pewter candleholder. Curious, she picked it up and turned it over.

The photo was black and white. Damian appeared the same with a head full of curls. A vibrant grin curved his lips. He stood next to a young woman who possessed long brown hair and a passionate smile. Audrina wrinkled her brow, confused. From the clothes she would date the photo in the late forties or early fifties. Who was the woman? Why did her features look familiar? She clenched her hand until her nails entered her palm.

"Audrina?"

With her other hand, she held the frame to her breast and looked at Damian, uncertainty splayed across her face.

He pointed toward the picture. "That's Esther and I years ago. I loved her very much, but…" his voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"She didn't want to be my lover, choosing to remain my friend."

"Lover?" Audrina arched an eyebrow.

Damian stood and held out his hand. "I've lived for over one hundred and fifty years, but Esther's loss almost destroyed me."

The flame flickered, casting stark eerie shadows over his cheekbones, giving him a wolverine appearance.

"What are you?"

He snared her eyes with his intense gaze. "I am a werewolf. Stay with me."

Attraction tumbled next to apprehension. "Why?"

"Because you feel the attraction between us, like I do." He paused. "I've been waiting lifetimes for you. I thought Esther might be my mate, but she was not."

"I don't understand."

"Esther's scent was close, but you, your scent, it's driving me wild, giving me hope. No one else has ever made me feel like this. You're my soulmate. Please stay."

Audrina couldn't deny the ache that thrummed throughout her body, despite the tension that coursed through her. What should she do? Dare she believe his claim? Decision made, she remained in her seat.

www.elftown.com

Stephanie's upcoming release, Danube In Candlelight releases on 1 NOV. Here's a short bio,
blurb and excerpt:

BLURB FOR: DANUBE IN CANDLELIGHT
Morgan Duma has always known she's different. Her eyes have unusual gold rings around her irises, a trait she's inherited from her father. She's faster and stronger than most. Her endurance and stamina allow her to complete tasks in a quick and efficient fashion. Since she was a little girl, she knew there was only one man for her – Adam Varga.

Morgan learned to dance in Adam's arms. They grew up playing the piano together.

Adam's calm, soothing presence was the perfect complement to her restless soul. Not only that, he shared her differences down to his feral eyes.

Enter Zoltan Kristos, Hungary's Minister of Reconstruction. He shares those same golden eyes that Morgan possesses. After Zoltan carries her mother's injured body out of a blazing fire, Morgan's life takes a turn she doesn't expect. Morgan discovers the reasons for her differences, and questions her very identity. Is Adam strong enough to be the man she needs him to be?

EXCERPT:

The set up: Morgan talks to her mother, Katherine, about being a werewolf.

Morgan played a piece from Liszt as her mother lay on the couch listening to her.
The music flowed, fast and furious, like a river that couldn't be tamed. As Morgan pounded out the dramatic ending, her mother sat up and clutched her hand to her breast.

Morgan finished and peered at her mother. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. The ending winded me."
Morgan's lips curved into a smile. "Winded you?"

"It was pulse-pounding. It's been quite a while since I was moved like that. You are a wonderful pianist like your father."

"Thank you, Mama." Morgan left the bench and sat next to her mother on the couch. A tea service sat on the table before them.

"How's your leg?" Morgan asked.

"Stronger. I'm hoping to do away with the cane in the next couple of days."

"Are you reconciled to what happened to you?"

"I'm growing an acceptance of it." Katherine's expression grew serious.

"Growing?" Morgan asked.

"My injuries were painful and serious, and my recovery was going to be long and involve morphine." Her mother paused and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "I know what morphine does. It's terrible how it ruins a person's life."

Morgan nodded.

"Your father did what he did out of love for me. I know that. I'm not angry with him. Not anymore, now that I've been able to consider his actions and choices with a clear head -- and I do appreciate having a clear head."

"You're very forgiving."

Katherine gently patted Morgan's hand. "I love him, and he loves me. Love can do
anything."

Morgan pursed her lips. Just how powerful was love? She turned her head and stared out the window. Did love conquer time? Distance? Did it stay in one's heart despite a four-year separation? Had love drawn her thoughts to Adam Varga time and again?

"Morgan, what are you thinking? You look so lost."

Morgan snapped her attention back to her mother. She wasn't ready to confide her feelings about Adam just yet, so she decided to change the subject.

"Are you used to your heightened senses?" She stood and walked over to the piano, wanting to tame the growing restlessness inside her.

"They're amazing. Especially my sense of smell. Everything is so acute. Then there's..."
she drifted off.

"What, Mama?"

Her mother's cheeks colored. "Being near your father is different."

"How so?"
"My body reacts to him instinctively -- powerfully. My feelings are raw and primal, and every touch, every caress, every kiss is amplified."

"Do you mean, ah, that the attraction you share is intense?" Morgan sensed the same things near Adam, and while she was a bit apprehensive talking about her parents' intimacy, she was interested in her mother's reply. Was her attraction to Adam based on this instinct only, or was it heightened because of her deep feelings for him?

Dare she think the word love?

Author's Bio:

Stephanie writes paranormal, contemporary, fantasy, and steampunk romance as well as children's books. She works for LAPD as a 911 Dispatcher, loves chocolate and coffee. She's married with two young sons. Find her on the web at: http://www.stephanieburkhart.com

Romance Under the Moonlight
Victorian Scoundrel
Book 1, The Windsor Diaries
Steampunk Romance at its finest
Visit me at:
http://sgcardin.blogspot.com

http://www.stephanieburkhart.com

TWO AWESOME REVIEWS

2011-10-22T05:23:00.000-07:00

I am thrilled to post links to my two latest reviews for Charade of Hearts, our very own Oliver’s story, and Her Biggest Fan, a spooky read for Halloween. I’m proud to announce both books were nominees for book of the week at LASR. A big thank you to Snapdragon for the fabulous reviews! Here’s why.

Charade of Hearts by Sharon A Donovan

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

Genre: Contemporary, Suspense/Mystery

Length: Short Story (122 pgs)

Heat: Sensual

Rated: 4.5 books

Reviewed by Snapdragon

BLURB

While scuba diving off the coast of Diamond Head with her diving partner on a quest

to find a family heirloom, underwater photographer Dominique St. John witnesses his

brutal murder and photographs it, ensnaring her in a deadly jewel ring. Then when

the investigating officer turns out to be her partner’s identical twin, a man she

knew nothing about, her life becomes a Charade of Hearts.

Welcome to the world of greed, intrigue, deception and murder. At its core is a blue

diamond worth millions.

As honest as his twin was corrupt, Honolulu Homicide Detective Oliver Carvalho must

convince Dominique that her diving partner and best friend was a crook. In a race

against time, Oliver must rescue her from a ruthless killer, but his biggest challenge

proves to be Dominique herself. Her heart has been torn by betrayal and can only

be redeemed with love.

REVIEW

Charade of Hearts is every bit the adventure the wonderfully suitable cover suggests!

Dominique St. John and her partner, the utterly wonderful Roberto, set off to photograph a shipwreck, but also to locate a very specific treasure. They are not far from the stunningly beautiful island of Oahu, Hawaii. For long moments at the start, we are distracted with the “wild and exotic beauty…of …majestic mountains … pristine beaches…butterfly and reef fish…” and even the contrast of light at the horizon. Then Roberto

is murdered.

It’s a shocking event; and perhaps a spoiler to mention here, but that event happens early and seems the true start of this dramatic, suspenseful tale. Roberto was targeted, through the very eyes of the man who ordered

it: the Dragon. We see and understand just that hint more than Dominique does, and so sense the growing danger she faces.

The beauty of the backdrop for this tale is so well described, fans of Hawaii will be thrilled to read, and those who aren’t, will be fans by the time they finish. Descriptions are truly almost poetically enchanting, often in sharpcontrast to the actual activity in any scene.

READ FULL REVIEW

http://longandshortreviews.blogspot.com/2011/10/charade-of-hearts-by-sharon-donovan.html

BUY

Charade of Hearts
Oliver’s story!
AVAILABLE NOW!
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/charade-of-hearts-p-4346.html

Her Biggest Fan by Sharon A Donovan

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

Genre: Contemporary, Suspense/Mystery

Length: Full Length (278 pgs)

Heat: Sensual

Rated: 5 books

Reviewed by Snapdragon

BLURB

From the shadows of the woods, he keeps vigil. The stage is set to drive the pretty

little princess insane. He’s coming for her. And when he catches her, he’ll pounce

on her like the big bad wolf.

After receiving a disturbing fan letter, New York Times best-selling author Tess Kincaid flees to the New England home she’s inherited following her father’s death.

The manor has been tainted, every room staged to resemble the way it was in its glory days. However when Tess calls the police, the chilling props vanish into thin air.

Ruggedly handsome Sheriff Mike Andretti is called to investigate the reported burning candles, dancing gargoyles and otherworldly events. When he discovers no trace of the eerie setting, he finds himself caught between duty and desire. Is the woman with the bewitching green eyes delusional or is this a trap of twisted wit set by a demented fan?

REVIEW

Award-winning author Tess Kincaid doesn’t want to know her biggest fan. He’s gotten way too close. Somehow. She can’t know he’s a particularly predatory photographer.

She does know he’s been in her home. What he doesn't know is she’s leaving: leaving New York and her stylish condo, and returning to her charming coastal-Maine roots.

The tense drive, the dramatic storm all amount to nothing, compared to what she’s escaping. Only – will she escape? For in her Dad’s old home, another chilling scene awaits…or then again, does it? Donovan cleverly plays with believability in this chilling tale.

Our main character sees and hears things no one else does. When she arrives, Tess wastes no time getting help, and the local sheriff, Mike Andretti seems so sympathetic…yet even he cannot find the hint of a stalker.

Donovan has a wonderful ability to ratchet up the suspense from a creepy feeling all the way up to terror (and everywhere in between.)

Her Biggest Fan will appeal to fans of the classic suspense/thriller for sure!

This is an exceptional combination of suspense and romance. Make this one a ‘Must read.’

READ FULL REVIEW

http://longandshortreviews.blogspot.com/2011/10/her-biggest-fan-by-sharon-donovan.html

BUY

Her Biggest Fan
An edge of your seat chilling suspense
ISBN: 1-60154-813-3

AVAILABLE NOW!
http://www.TheWildRosePress.com/Her-Biggest-Fan-P-4234.HTML

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Oliver Presents Cate Masters

2011-10-17T00:31:00.000-07:00

A bat screeches and flaps its wings, taking flight into the deep dark woods. Oliver, donned in black satin, keeps vigil at the window of the haunted mansion. A full moon floats eerily across the blood-red sky. Lightning streaks across the horizon, casting the cemetery in ghoulish light. Spying his guest dashing through the foliage and up the stone steps, Oliver answers the door and extends a hairy hand.

A funeral dirge vibrates off the tombstone walls of the corridor, adding to the eerie draft creeping up from the woodwork. Hand in hairy hand, they enter the haunted parlor and take a seat on the burgundy settee. Candles flicker on the coffin coffee table where black roses, Bloody Marys and Buffalo wings are laid out. When the raven clock announces the thirteenth hour, Oliver announces his guest.

Good Evening! With great pleasure, I present the lovely Cate Masters to tell a ghost tale, along with a teaser of her work. Rubs a hairy hand along her cheek. Take it away, my sweet. Smiling, Cate begins her tale of woe.

So many legends and myths surround Halloween, it’s hard to pick only one! I’ll share a funny story instead, one from my hubby’s youth. Gary and his three brothers loved to torment their only sister, Debbie. I think they were really jealous she had her own room, lol. One thing terrified Debbie: the legend of the Hairy Hand. Devious brothers that they were, Gary and his brothers fastened a walkie talkie on a fishing rod and lowered it near poor Debbie’s bedroom window. When she heard a deep, eerie voice telling her, “Beware the Hairy Hand!” she ran screaming from her bedroom. Ah, the ways youngsters use creativity, for all the wrong reasons!

I’d never heard of the Hairy Hand, but found the legend originates in the United Kingdom, near Dartmoor. On one stretch of unlit road near the bridge pictured, so many accidents occurred that killed travelers. One man of local notoreity swore to another that a pair of hairy hands gripped his steering wheel in an attempt to force him off the road, but he managed to regain control and the hands disappeared. The man never told anyone else, and swore the others to secrecy until after his death for fear of ridicule. But it certainly makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Funnily enough, a local fall festival features a Hairy Hand hayride. Think I can convince my sister-in-law to go with us? *grins*

Here’s a peek at Soul for Sale, one of my Halloween tales and a 2011 EPIC finalist!

Madelyn gazed out the window, adrift as a leaf. “Everything’s on a downhill slide. Work, dating, all of it. Sometimes I think I have to sell my soul to get what I really want in life.”

“Well, that’s easy. Put it on uBuy.” Gwen shook her cup to stir up sugar from the bottom.

“See, that’s why you’re the comedian.” Madelyn reinforced Gwen’s dream at every opportunity. Her friend reciprocated by being Madelyn’s best cheerleader for her art, though lately, her sketches were as uninspired as the rest of her life.

Wistful, Gwen said, “I try my best.”

Their meager salaries didn’t allow for luxury, so neither was a stranger to the allure of uBuy. Besides supplementing their wardrobes, Madelyn and Gwen loved uBuy for its oddities. The odder an item, the greater its appeal. Madelyn’s desktop swaying, ukele-strumming hula-skirted Gumby was testament to this. Gwen collected memorabilia of famous comedians; Groucho Marx was a favorite.

On that level, Gwen’s offhand suggestion appealed to Madelyn. “Maybe you’re right. I should list my soul, just for kicks. To see what response I’d get.” Maybe some cute guy would buy it.

The notion vanished from Madelyn’s mind at the sight of a stunning man outside. Standing by the newspaper vending box, he checked his watch. His black shirt, black sport coat and black slacks set off his dark features. So perfect, he looked out of context with his surroundings. When he glanced up at her, shock waves rumbled through her nervous system like an oncoming storm. A rush of heat engulfed her.

“Madelyn? Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Gwen’s voice sounded distant, as if it traveled through a tunnel.

She snapped her attention back to her friend. “Nothing.” In truth, Madelyn knew her universe had just shifted.

I’d love for you to view the book video, Casting Call, Story Elements, read the wonderful reviews and more on my blog at http://catemasters.blogspot.com/2007/12/one-soul-for-sale-contemporary.html.

Thanks so much for having me as a guest Sharon! Happy Halloween! And beware the Hairy Hand, mwahahaha!

And as an extra treat, I joined four other authors in making a paranormal anthology available for free! You can download Love Bites from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91282

Bio:

Multipublished, award-winning author Cate Masters loves stories with a dash of magic, mayhem and romance! Reviewers have described her stories as “so compelling, I did not want to put it down,” and “such romantic tales that really touch your soul.”

When not spending time with her family, she can be found in her lair, concocting a magical brew of contemporary, historical, and fantasy/paranormal stories with her cat Chairman Maiow and dog Lily as company. Look for her at http://catemasters.blogspot.com and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.

Oliver Presents Sharon Donovan

2011-10-14T02:31:00.000-07:00

From the cemetery looming high above the haunted mansion, Bloody Mary’s screams echo through the parlor. Organ music plays louder and louder as the image of Bloody Mary appears in the mirror. Sharon and Count Oliver sit on the blood-red settee, casually sipping on Bloody Mary cocktails. The candles flicker, the raven screeches thirteen times and Count Oliver makes the introduction.

Good Evening! The lovely Sharon Donovan has a chilling tale on this most enchanted night. My dear, let us begin with a toast.

The glasses clink.

Who was Bloody Mary?

According to legend, some say Mary Worth was a woman who was horribly disfigured in a car crash. Others believe she was a witch that was burned at the stake and has risen from the grave to seek revenge. Still others say she is the devil incarnate coming to claim your soul.

Over the years, Bloody Mary’s spirit remains a mystery. The legend claims that the evil woman can be summoned by standing in front of a mirror in a dark room lit by one candle and chanting her name thirteen times. When her spirit appears in the mirror, beware! She may claw your eyes out, draw you into the mirror never to be seen again or kill you.

Loosely based on the legend of Bloody Mary, the 1992 horror film Candyman was released. By reciting his name in the mirror five times, his spirit would appear and kill you with his hooked hand.

I remember playing with myths and legends as a child. A few weeks before Halloween, my brother, sister and I were at a friend’s house playing games in her basement. We decided to conduct a séance. Quite honestly, I don’t recall who we tried to bring back. But I’ll never forget what happened. The four of us were sitting around a candle-lit card table in the dark holding hands beneath a window. After chanting the deceased’s name several times, there was a loud knocking on the window. We all screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Our friend leaned down and hurriedly blew out the candle. To our horror, she caught her hair on fire! Fortunately, no one was hurt but we never called upon the spirits again.

Have a spooky tale to share? The Count and I are hungry to hear them!

HALLOWEEN CONTEST

For a chance to win an autographed copy of MASK OF THE BETRAYER: Send your spookiest tale to me by Hallow’s Eve!

Sharonad@comcast.net

Sharon Donovan lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with her family. Prior to the loss of her vision, she was a legal secretary for the Court of Common Pleas where she prepared cases for judges in Domestic Relations. Painting was her passion. When she could no longer paint, she began attending creative writing classes and memoir workshops. After a long and winding road, a new dream arose. Today, instead of painting her pictures on canvas, Sharon paints her pictures with words.

Sharon writes stories of inspiration and suspense. She has certificates in business and medical transcription. Echo of a Raven, a narrative non-fiction about her struggles with diabetic retinopathy, received a CTRR award for outstanding writing, and The Claddagh Ring is a 2009 CAPA nominee for best inspirational of the year. Mask of the Betrayer was voted book of the week at LASR and its video by Triad Productions was a second place winner at You Gotta Read. Other books by Sharon Donovan are Touched by an Angel, Lasting Love, Her Biggest Fan and Charade of Hearts. You can visit Sharon at

http://www.sharonadonovan.comm/

or write to her at:

sharonad@comcast.net

All my books are available on my website

www.sharonadonovan.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/

AMAZON KINDLE

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Pat Dale Presents

2011-10-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

Manning the bar dressed as a ghostly apparition, Oliver mixes up a pitcher of Mint Juleps. Spying his good buddy Pat Dale squeaking through the swinging doors to the Haunted Pub, he breaks out in a huge grin. When the candles flicker and the raven clock announces the thirteenth hour, Oliver introduces his guest.

Good evening! It is my great pleasure to present my good buddy Pat Dale. For your listening pleasure, Pat has a ghostly tale followed by a sample of Crossed Lines. Take it away, Pat!

Here’s a little story of a boy’s excursion into the woods. It may not seem like much of a spooky tale, but wait until you read the end before coming to that conclusion.
Happy Halloween!
Pat Dale

Strange Day in the Woods

Louie swung the shiny gallon bucket merrily around, grasping the wire handle firmly in his grip. Another wonderful warm fall day ushered his way up the side of Shepherd Mountain

As gaily colored leaves whipped and whirled in the late September breeze, he followed the path he’d taken so many times in the past.

On his way to the lush berry patches high above his Missouri Ozark village, little Louie hadn’t a care in the world. Usually, on a week day this time of year, he’d have found himself deep into his sixth grade studies at school. But not today. Because a local hero had died, the town had declared this a holiday, a grave one, so all could take part in memorial services.

Louie’s mom and dad were there. His little brother and sister were there. But he’d begged off, because he had a morbid fear of death and being buried under a pile of dirt. They’d agreed to let him go up the mountain to pick berries.

His prime goal was to reach the gooseberry vines a quarter of a mile up the steep, heavily wooded slope. Along the way, he’d pass lots of blackberry vines, loaded down with the deep wine colored berries that tasted sweet right off the vine. He’d eat those to give him energy, but his favorite pie in all the world was the concoction his grandmother made when he supplied her with enough gooseberries to fill the crust.

Salivating at the image of one of Maw-maw’s steaming pies sitting in the windowsill to cool, he had not a care in the world. Granted, the gooseberries required lots of sugar to mediate their tartness, similar to improperly rendered rhubarb. Strawberry rhubarb pie was Louie’s second favorite, but it was well past the peak of strawberry season.

Halloween was approaching, which meant it was time for gooseberries. “Yay!” he hollered, enjoying the slight echo from the rocky outcroppings of granite half-way up the hill. Now high enough to look back at his town, he gazed at the roof-tops and off to the east edge of town. He could see the funeral procession making its black-vehicled way onto cemetery grounds.

Shuddering at the thought of putting a hero into a hole in the ground and covering him up, Louie shook his head. “We’re not like berry vines. We don’t grow new bodies and come back from the grave. Do we?”

As if expecting a reply, he stopped and held his free hand up to his ear. Hearing only the chirping of the birds, he said, “I didn’t think so.” Resuming his journey, he quickened his pace, unaware of the clouds that were gathering at the peak of the mountain.

By the time he’d got to the first blackberries, the sun had been blotted out by a heavy cloud bank. The wind had picked up, silencing the birds and squirrels that normally inhabited the branches of the trees. The leaves kept blowing, swirling around his legs as he continued to climb, their bright colors not nearly as cheering asthey’d been at the edge of town.

Then he saw them; bright green little marbles sprouting all over the vines on either side of the narrow path. Gooseberry Heaven, he liked to call it. He wasted no time beginning to fill his pail, taking care to avoid getting his fingers stuck by the little spines on the stems.

Wishing he’d worn a sweater or a light jacket, he picked faster and faster, until his fingers began to ache. His bucket was nearly full when a sudden blast of wind ripped it right out of his hand. He watched helplessly as the pail emptied flying over the vines and into the edge of the huge oak and walnut forest on the upside of the hill.

“Oh, no. There goes my gooseberry pie!” Not one to admit defeat easily, he tore through the thick vines, chasing after the pail he’d lost sight of. “I’ll get that pail and fill it again. No way I’m going down the hill empty-handed.”

This time the echo seemed to mock him. He was so intent on finding the pail, he didn’t notice when it started to rain. Just a sprinkle at first, he was well into the forest by the time he realized he was wet. Looking up into what had become a steady rain, he growled in protest. But he kept going.

Once, he was sure he saw a reflection from the tin pail when a bolt of lightning split a huge walnut tree not a quarter mile away. His ears rang from the frighteningboom, and his skin crawled as he felt the frizzons of electricity in the air. Low fog-like clouds had made the forest dark as midnight, though the trees gave scant
shelter from the downpour.

Realizing he was lost in the heavy underbrush, and blinded by the combination of forest scenery, obscured and then punctuated by thunder as bolt after bolt of electricity pounded the area. Flashes of light, then blackness before his eyes adjusted to theviolent rapid change of illumination.

Louie sagged against the trunk of a large elm tree, like him an outsider in this grove of oak, pine, and walnut. He’d joined the scouts a few months before but had received no training yet in survival techniques. He was bright enough to realize he was in a world of hurt. No shelter, no food, insufficient clothing; he had only his intelligence to rely on now.

“Why didn’t I go to that doggone funeral? Being there couldn’t possibly be worse than being here.”

Like the wind blowing in his ear, a voice said, “Oh, really?”

Where had that come from? Totally spooked, he stared at the darkness surrounding him. After three more rapid flashes of lightning, he could see nobody. Assuming it to be his imagination, acknowledged by his teachers as extremely active, he relaxed.

Assuming an air of bravado, he yelled, “Yeah, really!” There was total silence for long seconds. Just when he’d taken a deep breath and relaxed, he heard the voice again.

“You’re wrong about that.”

This was too much. “I don’t know who you are, but I’d rather you kept your opinionto yourself. Just shut up, will you?”

“Okay. But you’re going to be sorry. I can get you out of here.”

“Like I need help going back down the mountain?”

“You will. Believe me, you will.”

He began to shake when he realized it could be his own inner voice he was arguing with. “Have I gone crazy?”

“No. Not yet. That comes after you wander around up here until nightfall and can’t find your way home. Then you’ll panic. You’ll cry. And then you will go stark raving crazy.”

“For a guy who doesn’t exist, you take a lot for granted.”

“Who says I don’t exist? You wouldn’t come to the cemetery today because you’re afraid of dying. And that is exactly what will happen to you before your folks find you. They’ll come up the hill, searching without success for days. By the time they find your body, you’ll be long dead. Then you’ll get your own funeral, your own little hole in the ground, and you’ll find yourself right where they planted me today.”

“You today? Who are you?”

“I’m the so-called hero they buried. You were right, you know. Once in the grave,we never come back.”

If it was his imagination, he’d just gone over the top. He lost the shakes, instead finding himself angry that this ‘whatever it was’ could scare him. “Look, whoever or whatever you are, I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be. Now that I no longer have a body, I’m as close as the wind on your face. Want a sample of what I can do?”
“Not really. Why don’t you go spook somebody else and leave me alone? I can find my own way out of here.”

There was a sudden rush of wind and Louie felt a distinct slap on his right cheek. Not a love tap. His face stung from whatever had hit him. He reached up and rubbed it. “Hey!”

“I told you.”

“You didn’t have to make it hurt.”

“Would you rather I give you a kiss?”
“Yuck! I’d rather you just got the heck out of here.”

“Hey, kid. Lighten up. I’m here because your spirit called out to me. You see, we’re related to each other. Why do you think your folks came to the funeral today?”

“Everybody was going.”

“You didn’t.”

“I hate funerals.”

“So does your dad. He hates them worse than you. But he was my nephew and felt he should go pay his final respects.”

Louie thought about that for a moment. “Do you feel respected now?”

“Yes. In a way. Oh, there were a few hypocrites there, but generally I got the impression folks were really sorry I’m not with them now.”

“What will it take for me to make you understand I won’t be sorry if you’re not with me now?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. You know, Louie, I bet you’re going to be a famous writer someday. If you survive the next few hours, that is.”
“What do you mean?”

“If I don’t help you, you’ll be with me in the spirit world for eternity.”

“Yuck!”
“You say that a lot. Want to get rid of me? Let me tell you what you have to do to get out of the mess you got yourself into.

“Okay, mister bright spirit. What do I have to do?”

“Now you’re talking. First, you have to let go of that poor tree. You’ve been squeezing it so hard, I half expected it to come down on your head.”

“Okay.” He let go of the tree just as a blast of wind whipped through the forest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him bodily into a bramble bush.

He yelled at the sudden pain flashing through his arms from the cuts the branches had wielded on them. So dark he couldn’t see, he felt for them and brought back fingers he knew were covered in blood.

“Yeah. That was smart. What’s your name? If I’m going to keep talking to you, I’d like to know your name at least.”

“My last name is the same as yours. Olsen. Just call me Olsen.”

“Olsen, huh? I thought I knew all of my family.”

“All but me. I was in the Marines, ran away from home to fight the war.”

“You were the guy they were talking about? The one that took out a dozen bad guys while saving your patrol?”

“That was me. They made it, I didn’t, but no hard feelings. Just the luck of the draw.”

“Doesn’t sound like the kind of luck I want. Maybe I should ignore you.”
“Not a good idea. Look, kid, I walked these hills when I was your age. You didn’t think Maw-maw waited for you to make those luscious pies, did you?”

“No, but-”

“No buts, little man. Now listen to me and I’ll get you home safe and sound. But no more arguing. We’re almost out of time. There’s a huge storm brewing and if you don’t get down now, you’ll die under a fallen tree and nothing I can do about that.”

“How come you know all this?”

“I said, no arguing. Now, pick yourself up and move straight out from the direction you’re standing. Ten paces and stop.”

Louie was confused. He was angry. He was scared, but he wasn’t stupid. He marched ten steps and stopped.

“Okay, what now?”

“Turn to your right, take one step, and feel for two small trees on your left side. Go between them and keep going four paces. Then stop again.”

He did as told, finding the two saplings and squeezing between them. When he’d gone the appointed distance, he stopped.

“Okay. Now this is the hard part. You have to be very careful here. You’re just a couple of paces from a rocky ledge that is so slick, you’ll go over the side of the bluff if you misstep. You ready?”
“Yes. I wish it wasn’t so black, though. I’d like to see where I am.”

He heard a strange laugh of derision. “I don’t think so. If you saw it, you’d die of fright. Just keep steady and feel your way with your feet. One pace at a time,then wait for me to guide you.”

Louie took one pace. When he stopped and stuck his other foot out, it found nothing under it. “Hey, where are you leading me?”

“Don’t worry about it. The worst that can happen is you’ll end up with me. Now move your right foot to the side a good step and put your weight on it.”

“Okay. Now what?”

“Pivot to your right ninety degrees and take three paces, then stop and don’t move.”

Louie took the three paces, but he felt a soft spot with his right foot just as he stopped. “What the heck am I standing on?”

“You don’t want to know, trust me. Now turn left and gingerly take five paces, putting each foot down and testing it to be solid before shifting your weight. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”

“You’d better know so, son. This is the last critical part. Now, step, test, step, test, five times and no more. Ready?”

“I’m ready.” He began the torturous task of checking each step. The third one felt kind of shifty, so he hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t feel solid.”

After a hesitation, the voice continued, “It’s okay. The last steps are going to be like that, but you have to take them. No way back now. Just do not stop until the fifth step.”

“Okay.” He went on, his body swaying like he was on a swing or something equally unstable. But he found solid rock under him after the fifth step. “I did what you said. What now?”

The voice chuckled.

“Take a deep breath and relax. You’re back on the bluff now.”

“What do you mean, I’m back on the bluff. What bluff?”

“Have you ever seen it up here in daylight?”

“Sure. Lots of times.”

“Remember the bluff overlooking the granite cutout that is filled with eighty feet of water?”

“Yeah.” It hit him then. If this apparition or whatever the heck it was had not told him, he’d have fallen into the pond in the dark of a fierce lightning storm. He’d have drowned for sure.

“Holy-moly! Am I where I think I am?”

More laughter.

“You sure are. Maybe I’d better get you a few feet further away in case another blast of wind comes your way.”

“Yeah, maybe you’d better.”

The voice guided him through the thick bramble and overgrowth for fifteen minutes before telling him he could rest. His arms were a mass of cuts and bruises from pushing through all those sharp branches, but he’d found the path. As the rain let up and the clouds drifted higher, the light of early dusk illuminated his pathway home.

Just before going onto the paved stretch that led to the town street, he stopped.

“Thanks for the help. When I get to Heaven, I’ll look you up.” All he heard in exchange was a sudden rush of wind, then stillness. His dad, Raymond, had been watching the path and came hurrying out onto the street.

“Who you talking to, Louie?”

“I, uh…nobody, Dad.”

“Did you get your berries?”

“I did, but the wind whipped the bucket out of my hand, and a rainstorm came up, and it got really dark, and…”

His dad shook his head. “No gooseberry pie then. Too bad.” At that moment he saw the scratches and bruises. “You sure that’s all that happened on the mountain. You look like a refugee from a knockdown, drag-out fight.”

Louie began to tell his dad what had happened, including the voice he’d heard. “Dad, the hero that was buried today, was he your uncle?”

Yes, he would have been, but I wasn’t alive back then. The black sheep of the family, who ran away to fight in the war. Why do you ask?”

“The voice I heard up there said he was Olsen. Just Olsen. Dad, if it hadn’t been for him, I’d have fallen into the big pond under the granite bluff. He got me out of there.”

Raymond shook his head. “That’s impossible. We buried Olsen’s body today after his being missing for over sixty years. He died on a South Pacific island in the Second World War. They finally discovered his body and brought him home for burial. They’d known his story of heroism, but thought he’d been blown to smithereens back then. Olsen died sixty-seven years ago.

“I heard him today, Dad, clear as day, and he’s no black sheep. He’s my hero. I know I heard him. He told me, step for step, how to get myself back from where I’d been blown by a strong gust of wind. As I was following his orders, it felt like I was walking on branches instead of rock. I’d be dead if he hadn’t come to rescue me.”

As he said it, he felt that same brush of wind slap his cheek, this time a love tap, as he’d felt on the mountain. He smiled. It was Olsen, his hero, saying goodbye.

Excerpt: CROSSED LINES
After she went up to change, Bill strolled into the den and found the tall stack of manuscript on her desk. Her newest book. As he lifted the pile and thumbed through to the back pages, she descended the stairs and came to his side.
He said, “Tell me, Jane Delta, does your protagonist always get what she wants?” He turned to her, eyebrows raised at her sensuous appearance.

She’d changed into a translucent flamingo pink negligee, one that left absolutely no doubt about either her body or her intentions. She gave him a naughty grin. “Exactly, Mr. Bill. My girl always gets what she wants. Everything.”
She brushed…against his arm and took the manuscript, laying it face down on the desk.

Now behind her, he pulled the shoulder straps of the negligee up and off, letting the garment fall to the floor. As his arms went around her, his large hands covering her eager breasts and his lips trailing down the back of her silky smooth neck, she picked up the last page and held it up for him. He read the final enigmatic passage aloud.

“I pray thee, fair reader, think not ill of me. Ponder, rather, on what was but is no more; better still, on what was not but now will be.”

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
Confucius

BLURB;

Baby Jane should have been just another statistic in the annals of New Orleans history, but the infant survived abandonment. A few years later she should have been a basket case after years of sexual abuse at the hands of a foster father, but she found a way to get free of him without losing her sanity. Or did she?

A successful author who'd put her unsavory past behind her, she's stayed for years with her philandering husband ; a man who unwittingly unleashes all the disgusting memories she'd kept buried in her psyche. And now, the fool must pay the price for his infidelity; him and his sexy lover.

Set in the charming hospitality of northern Mississippi, CROSSED LINES is a most inhospitable story of seduction, mystery, and revenge

Available at:
http://www.whimsicalpublications.com
go to authors, click on Pat Dale
Dale Thompson
Writing as Pat Dale
Author of mystery, suspense, and romance
http://www.patdale.net
http://www.patdaleromance.weebly.com
www.patdalesblog.blogspot.com
www.downtownya.blogspot.com

Oliver Presents The Nightingale

2011-10-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

A full moon pulsates in the blood-red sky. A werewolf howls, its keening bark echoing through the cemetery looming on the unhallowed grounds of the haunted mansion. Thunder and lightning clash and collide, giving ample warning of the coming storm. Lightning streaks across the night, splintering the sky into forks of brilliant white light.

Trying to beat the storm, The Nightingale dashes up the stone steps leading to the mansion. A raven screeches from the towering oak, its green eyes glowing in the dark. Peering down at the Nightingale, it flaps its wings before taking flight into the cemetery. Cool wind whistles through the leaves of the live oaks, sounding like the whispers of the dearly departed buried deep below in the haunted graveyard. A shiver snakes through The Nightingale as she yanks on the chain doorbell.

Donned in flowing black cape, Oliver answers the door, red eyes gleaming in the pre-dawn light. Showcasing his dazzling fangs, he bites The Nightingale on the neck and escorts her into the parlor. Organ music grinds from hidden wall speakers, the funeral dirge vibrating off the cavernous walls. Standing candelabras flicker on either side of the crimson settee, and a pitcher of gin n tonics is laid out on the coffin coffee table. The raven clock strikes the witching hour and Oliver introduces his guest.

Good Evening! It is my great pleasure to present for your listening pleasure the beautiful and enchanting NIGHTINGALE who will tell a ghostly tale followed by a delicious teaser of her latest work. Oliver sloshes gin n tonic in to glasses. The goblets clink and the tale begins.

The tower clock struck midnight. Ravenwood tensed, glanced over her shoulder at the Sanctuary. No lights shone in the mullioned windows. The Masters mustn’t catch her out alone at night. Her reputation at the school had suffered for her sister’s sin.

She lit the torch, black smoke billowing from the flame. A darkling shiver crawled down her rigid spine. The voices that had roused her from sleep whispered a warning as she crept into the abandoned barn. A lonely owl hooted from the rafters, ruffling its feathers and blinking. Red light winked in the bird’s golden eyes. She swallowed hard, straining her ears for any sound. Like a chill, the eerie stillness oozed over her.

Ravenwood had come to say her last goodbye to her sister. Tonight, Alethea slept the peace of the dead in this old outbuilding. Tomorrow, she would be lowered into unhallowed ground. Then only God knew what the fate of a demon’s consort would be. Her breathing rasped loud, puffing white clouds in the October air. She inched deeper into the gloom, shoved the hood of her robe back so that she could see from the corners of her eyes. A web caught in her hair, clung to her face. Another hard shudder coursed through her, and gooseflesh prickled her limbs. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Frantically, she swiped the crusty fly stuck in the web and the disgusting stickiness from her skin.

A shadow moved along the rotted wood pile. A mouse squeaked, scurried out and scampered away. The shade loomed larger, distorted in the flickering light. She flinched back a step. With a shaking hand, she clutched the crucifix around her neck. The shadow crossed the pitchfork, fell on the coffin.

Darkness coalesced into the figure of a winged man. Two yellow orbs glowed in his leathery gray face. The wings were shiny, rubbery black with spines and points. A sweet smell rose from him, but she knew the fragrance was a glamour masking the reek of the Pit.

"Daakiel," she whispered.

"Well met, Ravenwood." A laugh rumbled from his broad chest. “Such pretty blonde hair and lovely ivory skin, but beneath your rose and gold beauty is a soul as dark as I am.”

As always, her sister’s lover was naked, his grotesque, swollen equipment proudly on display. She shuddered head to toe, glancing around quickly, studying her options.

There were none.

The creature with hellfire eyes passed a hand with long, vicious claws over the coffin. From inside, came a soft scratching then the lid rattled, an urgent pounding echoing in the ruined barn.

Ravenwood's heart caught in her throat. A sudden silence crawled along her nerves. The owl hooted and took flight, a wingtip brushing her cheek. She flinched, clamped a hand to her mouth, but a little cry escaped. The demon flexed his wings, stirring a tornado of moldy straw.

A malicious grin split the monstrous face. "Come my pretty," and with the rasp of claws, he ripped the lid off the pine coffin.

Her dead sister sat bolt upright, empty fish eyes locking to Ravenwood's. A chilling smile spread Alethea’s blue lips. Crimson pinpointed the black irises. Any innocence that might have remained in the once Acolyte had perished. Like a spider, elbows and knees arched at odd angles, she crawled from the casket. Grave clothes clung to her pale, withered body but her breasts were exposed and bloody. She was horrible.

Ravenwood wouldn’t give the monster the satisfaction of screaming. She bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood. The demon turned and stalked toward her, fangs dripping thick, green saliva. Terrified, she backed away, collided with a stack of old cans, sending them clattering to the ground.

"Dear sister." Alethea's corpse spread her arms in invitation. Sharp fangs dented the lower lip of her smile. "Raven, forsake your god. Join me."

Ravenwood ducked, grabbed the pitchfork and brandished the rusted prongs at the demon. Another unholy laugh rumbled from its throat.

"You cannot escape, Ravenwood. Your sister has paid her dues. She is mine. Tonight, Acolyte, you join me in Hell."

Playing for time, she flung the pitchfork at the demon and dropped the torch. Smoke billowed from dry straw. Flames sprang up, reaching for the cracked roof. Laughter boomed in the fire. Engulfed in the holocaust, her sister's horrified face branded the nightmare in memory. The demon's leering smile didn’t falter.

She whirled and fled, her legs pumping, her feet going nowhere. The school seemed hundreds of miles away and her feet leaden. If she reached the Sanctuary—

A claw sliced her shoulder. Pain scalded her arm. Blood oozed warmth down her back. She whirled, staring straight into the demon's burning eyes. Lethal pointed teeth lined the creature’s gaping maw.

A scream ripped the black velvet night, searing her throat. She stumbled a retreat, praying aloud.

“No answer?” Daarkiel cupped a hand to his pointed ear. “Pray to someone who will hear you.”

The ground beneath her feet rolled and tossed. She fell to her knees. Fear lodged in her dry throat, strangling her prayers.

“You have taken my lover from me. Burned her alive, you did.” The creature beckoned with a bloody claw. “You will replace her.”

An image of her sister’s living cadaver blinded her. She shook her head. “Never.”

The earth opened, swallowing her. Down she plunged into a loamy grave, the velocity of her fall sweeping her robe over her head. Her feet scraped something hard. Bones. She didn’t have time to scream. The hole closed over her head, burying her alive.

Insects climbed over her feet. Something slithered up her neck. She swallowed the horror and the bile burning her throat. The black dirt caressed her naked arms and legs and matted her hair. Trapped in the earth and in her robe, unable to claw for the surface, she held her breath until her lungs threatened to implode. Terror gripped her heart in an icy hand.

I’m going to suffocate.

Your soul is as dark as I…Darkiel’s curse reverberated through her being.

A desperate gasp for breath sucked the fatal soil into her mouth and nose. Ravenwood whispered her final prayer. For forgiveness.

About Linda Nightingale:

Born in South Carolina, Linda has lived in England, Canada, Miami, Atlanta and Houston. Somewhat of a gypsy, she's seen a lot of this country through the window of a truck pulling a horse trailer. She bred, trained and showed Andalusian horses, rode sidesaddle and did musical freestyle exhibitions to Phantom of the Opera. Her stallion Bonito, imported from Costa Rica, was twice National Champion at halter. She is a Legal Assistant at a world-renowned cancer center and is a volunteer with the Houston Symphony League. Besides writing, she loves horses, sports cars, books and piano. She is the mother of two wonderful sons, Ian who lives in England, and Simon, web designer/artist extraordinaire.

Linda’s latest release is NIGHT BEFORE DOOMSDAY. A free excerpt is available for download.

Blurb: In Genesis, "The sons of God saw that the daughters of men were fair; and they took wives for themselves from those who were pleasing to them."

Azazel was a leader of the Grigori, the angels sent to Earth to teach Mankind after the oust from Eden, how to survive in a less hospitable environment. Nine-tenths of these powerful angels fell from Grace, but was it love or lust?

This novella presents the Grigori's tale in first person from Azazel's point of view--the temptations, his struggles and the final realization that Heaven doesn't speak to him anymore.

Halloween Blog Day 1

2011-10-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

Sharon, donned in a flowing black gown and pointed black hat, sits in the candle-lit parlor.

Oliver, looking devilishly handsome in black satin, sets a silver tray of stuffed mushrooms and a pitcher of Bloody Marys on the coffin coffee table. Casting his most wicked wink, he joins Sharon on the crimson settee. Standing candelabras gleam in the muted light. With a grinding squeak, Michael Jackson’s Thriller plays from the organ where no one sits. The candles flicker, thunder roars across the sky, rattling the chandelier with a menacing shake. Hand in hand, Sharon and Oliver stand and take a sweeping bow.

Hello and welcome to Day 1 of our Halloween blog. Please join us for an entire month of ghostly tales as we venture toward the spookiest night of the year and a killer drawing!

To set the stage, here are some Halloween superstitions said to be derived from English, Scottish, Irish and Welsh folklore.

If you ring a bell on Halloween, you will scare evil spirits away.

If a candle flame suddenly turns blue, a ghost is near.

If you are out and about on Halloween night and hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around. But if you do, beware! If you meet the gaze of your follower, you will soon be joining the spirits!

If you see a spider on Halloween, it could be the spirit of a loved one who is watching you.

All spirits in Purgatory are released and freed for forty-eight hours to roam the earth on Hallows Eve.

Walk around your house on Halloween three times backward to ward off evil spirits.

Some say if you capture a snail on Halloween and lock it in a flat dish, the following morning you will see the first letter of your sweetheart’s name in the slime.

Some believe if a hoot owl swoops down on you on Hallows Eve, it’s coming to eat your soul. According to Celtic legend, if you turn your pockets inside out, the myth will be broken.

In Britain, people believe the devil was a nut gatherer. At Halloween, nuts were used as magic charms.

If a girl puts the sprig of a rosemary herb and a silver sixpence beneath her pillow on Halloween night, she will see her future husband in a dream.

In North America, it’s bad luck if a black cat crosses your path and good luck if a white cat crosses your path. In Britain, Ireland and Japan, it’s just the opposite!

To prevent evil spirits from entering your house on Halloween, bury animal bones or the picture of an animal near the doorway.

A person born on Halloween can see and chat to spirits.

A rural American superstition states children born on Halloween will be protected from spirits for life and given the gift of second sight.

If you go to a crossroads on Halloween night and listen to the wind, you will learn all the things that will happen to you in the next twelve months.

Peel an apple from top to bottom. The person with the longest peel will be assured the longest life

If you toss the peel of an apple over your right shoulder, the initial it forms when landing will be the initial of your soulmate.

If a bat flies around your home three times, it is a death omen.

In England, you are warned to not go hunting on Halloween night as you will injure a wandering spirit

An English tale warns to not look at your shadow on the eve of Halloween or you will be the next to haunt the graveyard.

If bats come out before dark and fly around playfully, it is a sign of good weather to come.

If a bat flies into your house, it is a sign perhaps a ghost let the bat in!

Have a Halloween superstition? I would love to hear it! Leave a comment.

History of Halloween

Dating back to the ancient Celtic Druids, the festival of Samhain (Festival of the Dead) was celebrated on October 31. The festival was observed by England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales to designate the end of the year.

As the sun went down an darkness set in, the preparation for Vigil of Samhain (Lord of Darkness) began. It was believed the veil separating the living and the dead was at its thinnest this eve. The Druids firmly believed the spirits of those who had died in the past year would cross over and walk the earth on this night. Magical powers were greatly enhanced and communication with the spirits reigned.

The villagers doused fires in their homes because they feared and believed the walking dead might find their way in and possess the living. Outside, the Druids built great bon fires (bone fires) and there is debate as to whether human or animal sacrifices were used. Some say only sick animals that would not survive the winter were sacrificed where others say criminals possessed by evil spirits were the sacrificial offerings. And once the embers had died down and cooled, the Druids would read the bones to determine the fate of the coming year.

One famous ritual practiced by the Druids was to light torches from the bonfire, march through the village and in turn, use these torches to light the wood in their hearths. This sacrificial fire was thought to ward off evil spirits and invite the spirits of their kin to enter the home. This was done while wearing furs and scary masks (a prelude to present day Halloween costumes). It was believed the evil spirits would mistake them for animals and not attempt to possess their bodies.

Another tradition was for peasants to go from door to door, begging for food. The food was then left outside to appease the spirits, feeding them before they returned to the spirit world. Those that gave food would be assured good fortune for the coming year while those that gave nothing had eggs and rocks thrown at their homes. This legend holds true today with the pranks of Devil’s Night.

Since Samhain marked the end of the year, the power to predict was at its strongest. Fortunes were told through the reading of bones, tea leaves and countless other rituals. In the seventh century, the Romans conquered England and brought many of their own traditions with them. One of these was the celebration of All Saints Day, originally celebrated in May. By the ninth century, All Saints Day was moved to November 1^st and All Souls’ Day, a day to celebrate all dead souls was added to November 2^nd.

The Catholics hoped that by combining the Pagan festival of Samhain with their own holiday, they could convert more people. At this point, Samhain became All Hallow’s Eve, the eve before hallowed days of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. Eventually, All Hallow’s Eve was shortened to Hallow E’en and then to Halloween and has claimed that title ever since.

The Witch of Halloween

What is it about the bewitching witch that makes it the favorite Halloween costume each year for girls and women alike? What is it about the pointed black hat and witch’s broom that females find so intriguing? Is it the notion to cast an evil spell? Turn a handsome prince into a toad? Turn a pumpkin into a horse-driven coach? To find her Glass Slipper and Prince Charming?

The word witch is derived from the old English word “Wicce” meaning wise one. The witch was thought of as a wise woman who lived in harmony with nature and the season. A witch had a vast knowledge of herbs and was often called upon to heal the sick. The witch associated with centuries ago was a homeopathic healer. Being a wise woman and a healer, the witch had a huge assortment of utensils. One such item was her Athame, a double edged witch’s knife with a black handle used in rituals.

We think of the witch’s broom as her mode of transportation, right? This is a myth. The purpose of a real witch’s broom is to cleanse the area where a ritual will be performed. So how did the legend that witches fly through the air on their broomsticks evolve? On All Hallow’s Eve, witches would often anoint themselves with magical oils. These oils would caused the witch’s skin to tingle, making the witch feel light-headed. A real witch would often use her broomstick to help her cross a brook or stream in the woods on her way to the festival, giving the illusion she was flying.

And in the movies, we’ve all seen our favorite witches standing over bubbling cauldrons and drinking out of large silver chalices. The cauldron was a pot used to concoct magical potions and for scrying (the ability to look into the future on the water’s surface). And the chalice was thought to be a reciprocal of magical spirits. These were all rooted from supernatural powers.

The witch’s wand, carved from hazel wood, crystal, ebony, ivory, silver or gold, were thought to be extensions of life forces of the witch. With all these powers that be bestowed on the witch, it didn’t take long for the general populace to stir up a few superstitions of their own. Witches can fly on broomsticks, turn themselves into black cats, and cause a big ugly wort to grow on the tip of the nose.

Halloween is one of the four most celebrated Pagan holidays and was thought to be the greatest of the four, thus earning its name of “The Great Sabbath.” On this day, the Halloween witch observes the supernatural powers of this world and other worlds and takes the time to ponder both. This night is for honoring ancestors, celebrating the harvest and ringing in the New Year.

The Halloween witch is magical, mystical and very powerful. Given all these facts and trivia, is it any wonder she is the most revered of women on Halloween?

Wednesday Spotlight with Hywela Lyn

2011-09-28T00:16:00.000-07:00

Oliver, looking devilishly ethereal in black satin, sits in a halo of soft amber light cast upon him from the moonlight, strumming on a lyre. Beneath a blanket of blue velvet and twinkling stars on this moonlit night, the Nine Muses splash in the lagoon, singing and dancing. A tropical forest of lush evergreens encompass the lagoon as the water nymphs perform. Love Doves quietly coo, their melodic voices floating through the night. A gentle breeze rustles, stirring the sweet scent of roses, orchids and camellias.

Holding a candle, Sharon undulates into the garden, looking elegant as the breeze ripples through the organdy pleats of her plum rose gown. Blowing kisses to the muses, she takes a seat at the gleaming glass table to await her guest. On a tinkering of wind chimes, Oliver swaggers off to greet the guest of honor, stopping to gracefully pluck up a bouquet of yellow roses.

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! My special guest today is my dear friend and soul sister Hywela Lyn. Lyn is here this evening to chat about her fascinating book

DANCING WITH FATE

Let’s give her a warm welcome!

Thunderous applause echoes through the night as Lyn saunters out on Oliver’s arm, looking elegant in a long billowy gown of lavender blue

Sharon rushes to hug her friend. “Welcome, my sweet darling girl. Please, have a seat in the garden and make yourself comfortable. What beautiful roses, so thoughtful of Oliver to arrange them in this water dish where they can float. How are you, my dear?”

Lyn: My dear, sweet friend, I’m so thrilled to be here, and you look so beautiful , that colour suits you so well. And Oliver, (Lyn blushes and lowers her eyes) you must surely be the best butler a hostess could ever have, you could charm the birds out of the trees. Sharon dear one, you are such a lucky lady! How am I? Well I’m fine thank you, apart from a slight trembling of the knees!

Sharon: No need to tremble, my dear. Thank you for the lovely compliment. Might I return it. Lavendar blue is such a flattering color on you.

Oliver materializes with two sparkling goblets of mead, a scalloped platter of juicy red strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and blueberries, a sinfully rich dipping cream and long-stemmed Lady Godiva chocolates. Arranging the treats on the table, he plucks up a strawberry. Dips it in cream and feeds to Lyn, gazing into her eyes, a devilish smile curving his lips.

For you, love. Might I tell you how beautiful you look in the light of the silvery moon.

Lyn: (Blushes again) Oliver dear, you are such a flatterer, and such a handsome devil to boot! If you keep saying things like that and feeding me cream covered strawberries, I’m likely to forget why sweet Sharon invited me here! (Lyn flutters her eyelashes, a dreamy smile hovering on her lips.)

Sharon: This is such a delight to have you here on this lovely evening. I can hardly wait to get the inside scoop on your book. Do share a little heavenly gossip about

DANCING WITH FATE

Lyn: Well, let me see now. The gods of Olympus are a mischievous lot you know, and tend to dabble in all sorts of things, even things that don’t really concern them. Zeus, despite being a loving father to his many children, is a bit of a tyrant, aided and abetted by his handsome son Apollo, they conspire to send Terpsichore to Wales, on the pretext of helping the Celts regain their love of music and dancing. Of course there is a hidden agenda and Terpshichore is unaware that her destiny is about to be entwined with that of another legendary figure.

Sharon: Fascinating, so very intriguing. The cover is stunning. Our good friend Miss Mae designed it, lovely. Tell us about the celestial creation behind the making of this cover.

Lyn: Miss Mae must take all the credit for the cover, which I absolutely love! Terpsichore is not only the muse of dance, she is a water nymph, and can’t resist the lure of water, or the chance to bathe in a Welsh waterfall. Miss Mae read the story and we both knew that a waterfall would have to feature in the cover, and I think she not only found the perfect falls to fit the scene, but also portrayed Terpsichore herself perfectly, hinting at her impishness and her magical gifts, as well as her beauty and seductiveness.

Sharon: Absolutely. I am so in tune with my muse and I know that you are as well. Share with us some intriguing insights about your muse.

Lyn: Well, my personal muse also likes music. She tends to be more active when I have orchestral, moody music playing. She’s also very elusive and hides from me for weeks on end, then when she’s ready to play again, she bombards me with ideas until my mind’s a whirl and I’m completely confused,. Other times she ‘plays nice’ and has even been known to write entire paragraphs for me!

Sharon: Yes, our muses are spirited little rascals, aren’t they just. Terpsichore is the muse of dance, and I dare say, a wee bit mischievous. Tell us about this delightful nymph.

Lyn: Oh, Terpsichore is perpetually young and beautiful, and of course dancing and music are her greatest joys – until she meets Myrddin of course, and then he becomes the main focus of her attention. She tries to be a good muse, to be obedient and to her duty as a goddess of inspiration, but she is strong willed too, and isn’t going to allow anyone to push her around. She’s also sensitive and caring and once she has given her heart she will fight like a lioness to protect the object of her affection, however great the sacrifice.

Sharon: Speak of the angelic devil, look who just danced out of the water to grace our table. Sharon kisses her on the cheek. Such a pleasure, my dear Terpsichore. And here comes Oliver to sprinkle some devilish charm.

Oliver, captivated by the angelic glow emanating from this goddess of the water, kisses her hand, a beguiling smile on his lips.

A pleasure, Terpsichore, you are simply gorgeous. May I offer you a drink, my sweet love angel?

Terpsichore: Oh Oliver, you are quite divine. Are you sure you don’t have Greek blood? You would certainly be at home with any of the gods on Olympus. A little Ambrosia if you please – or some honey mead if you don’t have any Ambrosia.

Sharon: Tell us about your role in Hywela Lyn’s book, Terpsichore. Such a fascinating love story, do share.

Terpsichore: Well naturally I’m the heroine – but you knew that didn’t you! I was sent on a mission by my brother Apollo and my father, the venerable Zeus, to 5^th Century

Wales

. Of course I’d been there before, quite some considerable time before, in fact, but they were so busy fighting off their invaders they’d quite forgotten about the dancing I’d taught them and had become a morose and miserable lot. My task was to re-inspire them, and it didn’t take long. Terpsichore pauses, and rolls her eyes dramatically. Of course, knowing my father and brother as I do, I should have known there was more to it than they let on!

Oliver appears, silver tray of drinks balanced above his head. With a sweeping bow, he sets the Ambrosia down, then uncovers a sinfully delicious Devil’s Food cake. With great pizazz, he slices huge pieces. Winking, eyes twinkling in the moonlight, he feeds a forkful to Terpsichore, then Lyn, overwhelmed by all the beauty.

Sharon: Terpsichore, do share a bit about yourself, the challenges you face in Dancing With Fate.

Terpsichore: I am one of the Muses of Inspiration. I have eight sisters, and we all have a different talent to inspire. Mine is dancing. Humans need to dance, to free themselves of their cares and troubles, if only for a while. Dancing is also often a significant part of the courtship process – so you see my inspiration is very important. However, not all gods are as good and peace- loving as I and my sisters. After I met Myrddin there was great danger lying in wait for us, from my own kin, not to mention the evil creatures that inhabited the dark places of Earth. Terpsichore pouts sensuously before continuing. As if that wasn’t enough, I also had to contend with the irritating fact that my soulmate, the love of my life, was betrothed to another – and Myrddin’s sense of Honour would not allow him to be disloyal to her.

Sharon: Poor darling. I’m sure Hywela worked it all out. Lyn, my dear, tell us how you the writer of song and dance solved this dilemma

Lyn: Well, it wasn’t really my doing, I had to rely on my muse for inspiration! She glances at Terpsichore and winks. Characters can’t have it too easy can they? I can’t give too much away, but I will say that both Terpsichore and Myrddin went through a lot before they finally discovered what the higher gods had plotted and what Myrddin’s real destiny was – and yes, it did involve Terpsichore having to dance with Fate!

Sharon: Question to both of you about the lyre, such a magical and enchanting instrument. As you know, I’m a lover of legend and lore. I know there has to be a myth or two with celestial harp. Ladies, feed my fetish, wink.

Terpsichore: Ah yes, the lyre, I could not be without my lyre. They say the original instrument was invented by the god Hermes, as a child, when he strung a tortoise shell. He traded the lyre to Apollo, who was of course, among other things, the god of song and music, and he in turn eventually gave it to his son, Orpheus, a great poet and musician.

There are many legends about the lyre. One concerns ORPHEUS, A Thracian bard who was torn to pieces by the Bacchantes when they caught him spying on their secret rites. Apollo and I - and my sister muses - placed him among the stars, as a kneeling man with a lyre.

Lyn: This is my favourite legend about the lyre. Once there lived a shepherd. He was an upstanding man, playing the lyre enchantingly. No one knew his name. Then one night the lyre player was caught in a heavy rain storm, and not wanting to wet his lyre, he entered a cave in the mountainside. Immediately, a strange warmth wrapped around him. Out of the pools of water in the cave, rose tall beautiful women who began to dance, in the air - they were flying! The lyre player began to play, accompanying the dance. The hours passed, the dance kept going on, and the lyre player, enchanted by the fairies kept playing.

He never retuned - and on moonless nights he still plays with the fairies in the cave and accompanies their dance, and the mountains echo the sound of his music.

Sharon: Thank you both so much for sharing such lovely legends. I’ll cherish them always. Look who joined us, why it’s Myrddin, blows a kiss. Tell us about yourself, your love for Terpsichore. Was it love at first sight when you saw Terpsichore, what drew you to her?

Myrddin: Absolutely it was love at first sight! She was the most beautiful woman I had ever beheld. Who couldn’t be enchanted by such a lovely creature, emerging from a waterfall, her perfect body aglow with a soft radiance, and dancing as if she was the only woman in the world? For me, from that moment, she was. He puts his arm around Terpsichore and draws her close. Did I mention she was still completely unclothed?

Terpsichore giggles. Not once I spotted you, though.

Myrddin smiles knowingly: Too late - and your swift magical clothing of yourself only made me more intrigued.

Oliver appears: May I offer a drink?

Myrddin: Oh I see you have mead, that will go down really well. My lady Sharon, may I compliment you on your hospitality,

Sharon: Thank you, Myrddin. How sweet you are.

Oliver is back with mead and Ambrosia and a copy of

DANCING WITH FATE

Darling Lyn, my sweet, might I have your autograph, please?

Lyn: Dearest Oliver, of course. Lyn signs with a flourish

“To darling Oliver, who would surely be an inspiration to the muses themselves. With much love and adoration, Hywela Lyn. XXX”

Oliver accepts the book and departs with a sweeping bow.

Sharon: Sadly, our time has nearly reached an end. Lyn, my dear friend, always a pleasure. And such an added delight to meet the enchanted couple. Over Chai tea and dessert, here’s a teaser and links to DANCING WITH FATE

Thank you all for a fabulous interview.

Terpsichore performs a series of graceful twirls ‘on point’ before draping a beautiful silk himation , sheer as a spider’s web and soft as a whisper around Sharon’s shoulder, while Myrddin kisses her hand and presents her with a single Welsh daffodil. He and Terpsichore disappear into the clouds to the plaintive, musical strains of a lyre.

Thank you for having us here, on your wonderful blog, sweet Sharon – and Oliver too of course. Your hospitality is beyond words. We’ve all had a wonderful time with you. Lyn gives Sharon a huge hug and blows a kiss to Oliver, before accepting yet another slice of Devils Food cake.

BLURB

When Terpsichore, the Greek Muse of Dance, is assigned to revisit 5th Century Wales, and help the people regain their love of dancing, her task seems simple enough. She is unaware there is a hidden agenda. Before she can return to Olympus her path crosses that of the mysterious Myrddin, and her heart is lost.

But Myrddin is promised to another. His mind is set on the dangerous task that lies before him, and the woman he has sworn to save. Nevertheless, he cannot deny the growing attraction between him and the beautiful stranger he meets along the way.

Terpsichore and Myrddin face a deadly force that threatens to part them forever. Is she destined to lose the only man she has ever truly loved? Is there nothing she can do to save him? Finally, when all seems lost, in desperation she finds herself DANCING WITH FATE.

EXCERPT

Shaking her arms free of the silvery drops of water, the muse squeezed the wetness from her long hair, of which she was inordinately proud. Of all her womanly attributes, she loved her hair the best. It was so fine and silky it took hardly any time to dry. She spread her arms and let the warm air vanquish the last of the moisture from her skin. Oh this land was fair! She raised her arm in salute to Helios, knowing he could see whatever his warmth touched.

Terpsichore twirled around on tiptoe, bending back her head and taking in the craggy mountaintops, the trees full leafed and swaying slightly in the warm breeze. On an impulse, she began to dance. She conjured up a silky himation between her fingers and swirled it above her head as she moved to the accompaniment of her own voice. So involved was she in her dancing she failed to realise she was no longer alone.

***

She was the loveliest woman Myrddin had ever seen. Spellbound, he watched her step from the falls. He should have turned away but he found it impossible not to watch her as she dried herself. When she started to dance, he was captivated by her grace and the eloquence of her movements. She seemed unconcerned about her nakedness. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of, such exquisite beauty should not be covered. Long, dark red-brown hair fell like a veil of silk to below her knees. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her breasts firm and high, full but not heavy, above a tiny waist.

Her rounded hips undulated sensuously in time to her singing, while her upper body remained perfectly still. Her legs were slim and very long and she moved on tiptoe, her small feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground. Between her fingers, she held a long piece of silky material, which she swirled around her, until it seemed almost like a living thing.

Myrddin watched enthralled. He’d never known anyone dance as she did. The way she swivelled her hips had him mesmerised. Her voice was soft and clear, with a haunting quality. It reminded him of the musical bells of Maes Gwyddno, the civilisation that now lay drowned beneath the sea: at times of danger the bells were said to ring from beneath the waves.

Moreover, it may have been a trick of the light, but she seemed to radiate a soft glow, pure and shimmering. He shook his head in disbelief. He must be imagining it. He'd eaten nothing since dawn, this was surely a vision brought on by weakness from hunger.

Myrddin crept closer and a twig cracked underfoot. Before he could take cover, the beautiful dancer stood motionless. Her eyes, green as the depths of the ocean, looked directly into his.

BUY LINK

BIO

Hywela Lyn spent most of her life in Wales and the beautiful countryside and legends inspired her to write. Although she now lives in a small village in England, she is very proud of her Welsh heritage and background.
She enjoys weaving romantic tales of the future, and distant, mysterious worlds, stories to truly take you 'out of this world' and beyond. Wherever the muse takes her, one thing remains constant in her writing: The power of love. Love, not only between her hero and heroine, but between friends and siblings, and for their particular world and the creatures that share it.

She is crazy about all animals, especially horses. She lives with her long suffering husband, Dave, and has two horses, two ferrel cats and an adopted Jack Russell terrier called Bouncer. Her pen name is a combination of her first two names. 'Hywela' is Welsh and her first name but it was never used and she has always been called by her second Christian name, Lyn.

Hywela Lyn's first novel, 'Starquest', a futuristic romance, and a sequel, to 'Starquest', 'Children of the Mist' are both available in print or Kindle version. Her fantasy novella 'Dancing With Fate' is also available now as an E-book from Smashwords, Kindle, and in print from Amazon.

Wednesday Spotlight with Rachel Brimble

2011-09-21T04:58:00.000-07:00

Hello and welcome to Wednesday Spotlight! I’m pleased to welcome back Rachel Brimble. Rachel and I are sitting in Oliver’s pub on this lovely fall day, chatting about her latest book. Please come in and join us for a drink.

Standing tall and mighty in a sky of midnight blue velvet, fiery torches gleam like sorcerer’s flames. The interior of Oliver’s Pub gives chase to a marble staircase with an elaborately turned balustrade and high end sculptures behind beveled glass enclosures. Rushing down the corridor to meet Rachel, Sharon fights the urge to kick off her high heels and walk barefoot down the plush, red carpeting.

The beckoning wail of sax drifts out of the piano bar, the bluesy sound of jazz bristling beneath her skin. After spending the better part of the afternoon at a writers conference, unwinding over a chilled chardonnay sounds like utter bliss. Seduced by the sound of sax, she saunters up the three steps leading to the mezzanine and orders up.

As Rachel struts into the pub, She by Elvis Costello softly plays on the piano. Wildly winking, Oliver stands behind the bar, pumping his biceps.

What can I get you, love?

Rachel: Well, hello again, Oliver! You get better looking every time I see you…I’ll have a glass of your best Chenin Blanc, if you don’t mind. Thank you.

Sharon: Hello, Rachel, how are you on this lovely amber day?

Rachel: Absolutely fine, thanks, Sharon. Although I’m sure “fine” is going to up to “great” once I have that glass of wine in my hand, lol!

The glasses clink. Cheers, my friend!

Sharon: While we wait for Oliver to bring out appetizers and cocktails, tell us about the setting of your book. I understand it’s about a pub.

Rachel: The pub is at the center of the story, yes. It is owned by the heroine’s father but was managed by her mother until her untimely death. Upon the mother’s death, her ashes were scattered there. After her funeral, her husband announces he is selling the pub in its entirety. The heroine, their daughter Grace, begs him to give or sell it to her. He refuses. The battle commences…

Oliver materializes, balancing a bottle of Chenin Blanc and a platter of mini bruschettas above his head. Singing along to She, loudly and quite off key, he pours the wine in a glass and sets in front of Rachel, wildly blowing kisses. Plucking up a bite-size bruschetta, he plops it into her mouth, offering a bone-melting smile

Rachel: Mmm…do you want to come home with me, by any chance?

With great ceremony, Oliver arranges cocktail plates and napkins, singing the whole time.

Sharon: Tell us about the hero and heroine

Rachel: Grace Butler is the heroine. She runs one of her father’s many nightclubs and when the story opens she is tough and willing to work for him. However, the shine of the dangerous side of life is tarnishing. Her mother’s death and following argument with him gives her the push she has been waiting for and Grace leaves. And then the hero arrives…

Jimmy Betts is a social worker desperate to re-home four children, with him as their foster father before Christmas. He is racing against the clock or risking these kids being separated. His only option for quick money is to take a job with bad man, Karl Butler. But he actually ends up working for Grace…

Sharon: Ooh do share about these mysterious ashes

Rachel: The mystery is not so much about the ashes but why Grace’s father is so desperate to be rid of the pub that is his wife’s final resting place. And no, I’m not telling you anything. You’ll have to read the book ;)

Sharon: Oh, after such an intriguing build up, it’s a must read! Sounds like a spooky theme for Halloween. I understand there are a few ghostly secrets in this book, do share!

Rachel: The secrets are all Karl’s, Grace’s father. Once we find out what the secret is, it gives Grace the understanding and power of empathy and forgiveness. That’s all I’m saying. Sorry, Sharon as much as I love you, you’re not getting me to spill the beans. Well, unless I have another glass of this lovely wine, of course!

Sharon: Of course do indulge in another glass. And I know I speak for all readers, we can’t wait to purchase this intriguing book! I love to hate the villain. Tell us about the bad guy.

Rachel: The bad guy is most definitely Karl. He is mean, tough and violent. He wants things done his way or no way. He is a man who is used to being in charge and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. His communication is dire and often leads to upset and heartbreak.

Sharon: Ooo…make me shiver!

Oliver appears, pushing a caddy with coffee, tea and a decadent strawberry cheese cake. With the pizzazz of a French chef, he slices a huge hunk and feeds a bite to Rachel.

Rachel: Oh, my lordy lord! Did you make this Oliver? It is just divine.

Oliver graciously accepts the compliment with a sweeping bow. Plucks up a copy of Rachel’s book from the stack on the bar. With his most dazzling smile, he asks. If I might so boldly have the honor of your autograph, love?

Rachel: Of course, To my favorite man in the world, Oliver…all my love, Rachel x

Oliver: A keepsake to treasure always, thank you, my sweet.

Sharon: Sadly, Rachel, this brings us to the end of our interview. Before we part, my hobby is collecting legends and superstitions from my guests. Can you share one with me from this book?

Rachel: Hmm…not sure there are any legends or superstitions in the book. How about a lesson? Would that be okay? I think the lesson to be learned from Grace’s story is the importance of honesty. If people are honest, no matter how much courage it takes to be so, it causes less hurt that the lie ever can. Do you know what I mean? Lying hurts…and scars.

Sharon: Absolutely, my friend. Where can readers buy this book and get in touch with you?

Rachel: Love, love, love hearing from readers and you can contact me here:

http://www.rachelbrimble.com/

http://www.rachelbrimble.blogspot.com/

www.twitter.com/rachelbrimble

rachelbrimble@googlemail.com

Sharon: Thank you, and thank you for a delightful interview. Best of luck with your book. Here’s a teaser

Blurb:

Nightclub manager, Grace Butler is on a mission to buy the pub where her mother’s ashes are scattered – except the vendor wants to sell to anyone but her. And the vendor happens to be her father…with a secret Grace will do anything to uncover.

Social worker and all-round good guy, Jimmy Betts needs cash to buy a house for three special kids before their care home closes. In a desperate bid for cash, he agrees to a one-time ‘job’ for bad-man Karl Butler. But in a sudden turn of events, Jimmy finds himself employed by Karl’s beautiful, funny and incredibly sexy daughter, Grace.

Their lives are so different except for one unifying thread – they are both trying to escape the binds of their tyrannical fathers. But is the key to their liberty each other?

BIO

Rachel lives with her husband and two young daughters in a small town near Bath in the UK. She started writing short stories about eight years ago but once her children were at school, she embarked on her first novel. It was published in 2007. Since then, she’s had several books published with The Wild Rose Press, Eternal Press and Lyrical Press. She recently acquired a US agent with her second Victorian historical. A member of the Romantic Novelists Association and Romance Writers of America, Rachel hopes to have a further two novels, one contemporary and one Victorian published in 2012.

When she isn’t writing, you’ll find Rachel with her head in a book or walking the beautiful English countryside with her family. Her dream place to live is Bourton-on-the-Water. And in the evening? Well, a well-deserved glass of wine is never, ever refused…

Buried Alive

2011-09-17T03:36:00.000-07:00

If you follow my blog at all or receive my newsletter, you know that I’m a huge Alfred Hitchcock fan. I was fairly young when the master’s television show aired for one hour every week

ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS

But the ones I remember left a chilling impression. While doing research for my latest book, I stumbled upon an interesting summary of one of Hitchcock’s weekly shows. I don’t recall this particular episode and am curious if any of my readers remember this one.

Synopsis

When a man is found guilty of murder and is given the death sentence by the judge, the man vows to come back from the dead and kill the judge.

After the hearing, the shackled prisoner is carted off to state penitentiary to await the death penalty. During his incarceration, he forms an alliance with the graveyard digger. After some persuading, the prisoner convinces the grave digger to help him escape and a plan is orchestrated. The graveyard digger instructs the prisoner to go to courtyard the next time there is a death and climb in casket with corpse until it is wheeled to nearby cemetery for great escape.

A few days later, there is a death. As instructed, the prisoner goes out to courtyard after dark for a smoke. When coast is clear, the inmate climbs in coffin with corpse and tightly secures the lid. Soon he hears clomping of footsteps on cobblestone courtyard and the casket is wheeled to cemetery. Hope soars, freedom is minutes away. But when he feels himself being lowered into freshly-dug grave, first pang of panic rises. When the dirt is shoveled on top of coffin, burying him alive, he breaks out in a cold sweat. Desperate, he tries to pry open the lid but to his horror, it’s locked. Curious to whom he is being buried alive with, he strikes a match. The dead man is the grave digger.

Sharon Donovan

Romantic Suspense with a Twist of Faith

My website

www.sharonadonovan.com

sharonad@comcast.net

http://www.sharonadonovan.com/index.html#newsletter

Join me on facebook

http://www.facebook.com/Sharon.A.Donovan

Amazon page

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-

In Loving Memory

2011-09-11T05:10:00.000-07:00

In honor of all the heros and fallen angels of 911. We salute you.

GOD BLESS AMERICA

LAND OF THE FREE

Disturbing the Dead

2011-09-03T09:46:00.000-07:00

Did you feel the earth move last week during the earth quake? Many might have experienced a little rocking and rolling as it affected at least 22 states. I live in Pittsburgh, so you can imagine my shock. As most days, I was seated at my computer, typing away, totally amerced in what I was writing, blocking out the world.

As an author, character development is key in making a story come to life on paper. I spend so much time inside my characters’ heads, working out their personality traits, their likes and dislikes, solving their problems, they become as real to me as dear friends and I get attached to them. When I’m having trouble working out a scene or character flaw, I literally place it in the hands of my muse and wait. Sometimes the problem will be resolved through a dream. I spend so much time with them, they often star in my dreams. Or in the case of Michael DeVeccio from MASK OF THE BETRAYER My nightmares.

Setting the scene is equally as vital to the story. It sets the mood and tone of the book after all. For the last several months, I’ve lost myself in research for a romantic suspense starring Detective Oliver. In this book, he works quite closely with a mediator in trying to catch a killer. So last week, there I was, deep in the throws of a murder scene at a cemetery. My characters were tramping through a creepy cemetery rumored to be haunted. Just when they were running past the tomb of a voodoo queen, my computer chair rolled on its wheels and my screen trembled. The hardwood floor beneath me shook and vibrated for a minute. Not knowing we were in the midst of an earth quake, for a fleeting minute, I was convinced that I’d roused the ghost of Marie Laveau!

Have a ghost story? Did you feel the earth move during an earth quake? Tell me whilst Oliver mixes your favorite drink with a wink and a smile.