From all of us at MB4, thank you for sharing 2014 with us.
See you next year!
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Happy New Year and Best Wishes for 2015!
From all of us at MB4, thank you for sharing 2014 with us.
See you next year!
Friday, December 26, 2014
FREE Dec. 26-28th - THE SEACREST: a love story
From Aaron Lazar, a post-Christmas gift to you! Free Kindle eBook from Amazon, Friday through Sunday, 12/26 - 12/28, 2014. Pick up your copy today!
With 100 5 star reviews on Amazon, The Seacrest has also won some nice awards this year:
Hope you enjoy this excerpt from chapter 4.
Oh, Sassy. You’re the one for me.
LEGARDE MYSTERIES
DOUBLE FORTÉ
UPSTAGED
TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON
MAZURKA
FIRESONG
DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU
THE LIARS’ GALLERY
SPIRIT ME AWAY
UNDER THE ICE (coming soon)
LADY BLUES
MOORE MYSTERIES
HEALEY'S CAVE
TERROR COMES KNOCKING
FOR KEEPS
TALL PINES MYSTERIES
FOR THE BIRDS
ESSENTIALLY YOURS
SANCTUARY
BETRAYAL
STANDALONES
THE SEACREST
DEVIL’S LAKE
DEVIL’S CREEK (coming soon)
WRITING ADVICE
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volumes 1, 2, 3
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, writing books, and a new love story, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, UNDER THE ICE(2015) and DEVIL’S CREEK(2015). Contact him at aaron dot lazar at yahoo dot com.
With 100 5 star reviews on Amazon, The Seacrest has also won some nice awards this year: 2014 Best Beach Book Festival WINNER, Romance category 2013
ForeWord Book Awards, Romance, FINALIST
***
Hope you enjoy this excerpt from chapter 4.
July
2nd, 1997
We played with the beach
ball for about an hour, laughing and churning up sand three hundred yards up
the beach, away from the sunbathers and family picnics. After the first few
nervous minutes, the whole thing felt very natural, as if we were just kids and
there were no boy-girl elements to be embarrassed about.
But there certainly were boy-girl elements.
I watched her tawny arms as they flailed and whapped the
ball and marveled at her long, delicate legs when she ran back and forth along
the quiet stretch of sand we’d chosen. Her eyes had a way of widening in mock
horror when I tossed it too high and she missed it, quickly followed by a wide
smile that dizzied me.
She had a nice figure, with slim legs, a narrow waist, and
pretty shoulders. Her one-piece black suit covered areas I tried not to stare
at, but couldn’t help wanting to. I wondered how it would feel to touch her.
Probably softer than silk. Her hair cascaded along her back, bouncing dark
against her summer brown skin.
We collapsed on the sand with the ball between us, breathing
hard and laughing.
“You’re pretty good at this,” she said.
I leaned back on my arms and chuckled. “So are you. For a
girl.”
She sat up and hit my arm. “What? For a girl?”
Afraid she’d storm off, I took her hand and pulled her close
to me. “I’m just kidding! Really, you’re good, even for a guy.”
She smiled that lazy, sweet grin again and I felt my heart
melt.
“Okay. That’s better.”
“I haven’t seen you at my school. Are you from around here?”
I asked.
“I just came back for the summer.”
“Back from where?” I said. “Reform school?”
She hit me again and I knew I deserved it.
“Just for that, I’m not telling you. You’re horrible!” Her
smile belied her words.
I grinned back at her. “So, what’s your name?”
“Guess.”
“What?”
“Guess.”
“Okay.” I sat up, furrowed my brow, and placed fingertips
against my temples, staring at her. “I’m getting something. It’s coming.”
She laughed and poked my chest. “Oh, really? What do you
see?”
I gave it a shot. “Jennifer?”
She snorted. “No!”
I tried again. “Sarah?”
She giggled. “Heck, no.”
I tried to think of the most popular names of our
generation, hoping it was one of them. “Allison?”
“Uhnt-uh.” She shook her head.
“Give me a hint.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on!” I frowned. “How can I guess?”
“You have to.”
“Okay. Hannah? Jessica? Carly? Jenna? Lisa?”
“No, no, no, no, and no.”
“Hey. How ‘bout if I tell you my name?”
“What is it?”
I hesitated. “It’s a weird one.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay. It’s Finn.”
She tilted her head. “That’s not weird. I like it. Finn.”
She seemed to taste the letters on her tongue, enjoying the feel of it. “It’s
different. But nice.”
“Okay. Your turn.” I sat forward expectantly.
“Nope. I’m not telling. You have to keep guessing.”
I ran through all the names I could imagine, and didn’t hit
on it. Frustrated now, I flopped back on the sand. “Okay. Then I’m gonna make
up a name for you.”
She made a face. “Really?” Quickly, she leaned over me, her
face blocking the sun.
In a sudden rush of feeling, I wanted to pull her to me, to
smother her in kisses, to taste the salt on her skin.
“Okay, what’s it gonna be? What’s my new name?”
“Let me think.”
Her hair danced over my bare chest. I caught it and played
with it. “You are sweet. I could call you Honey.”
“Boring,” she said.
“How about Candy?”
“Sexist,” she pouted.
“Bambi?”
“Even worse! I’m not a playboy bunny!”
“Okay, Well, you look delicious. How about Cupcake?”
She hissed. “That sounds like a chubby girl. Or a pony.”
“Okay, okay. Let me think. Maybe I need some inspiration.
How about a kiss?”
At first I thought she’d reel back and hit me. But to my
surprise, she lowered her lips to mine, stopping just an inch apart. “Okay.
Just a little one, though.”
I reached my arms up to her neck and pulled her toward me.
At the last minute, just as I felt the soft sweetness of her mouth brushing
mine, she pulled back.
“Nope. Too soon.” She got up and laughed, twirling around
with the ball. “Come on. What’s my nickname?”
I sat up, trying to control the heat surging beneath my
bathing suit. “Okay. I’ve got it.”
“What? What is it?”
“Sassy.”
She pranced toward me. “I love that! Okay. From now on, I’m
Sassy to you.”
Her father appeared out of nowhere, his face a study in
disapproval. I think he hated me from the moment I’d asked her to toss the ball
around. I also figured he’d probably seen us lying near each other, and got
nervous.
He glared at me. “Time for lunch. Let’s go.”
There was no arguing with his stern tone. She tossed him the
ball and wiggled her fingers at me. “See ya ‘round, Finn.”
I grinned like an idiot. God, she was cute. “Okay, Sassy.
See ya.”
I watched her link arms with her father and sashay away from
me. The sun winked on the brilliant sand, almost blinding me. As if hypnotized,
I stared with slack jaw until I could barely make out her figure among the
crowded, colorful throng of beach-lovers.
Sassy. Oh, Sassy. You’re the one for me.
***
Books by multi-award winning author, Aaron Lazar:
LEGARDE MYSTERIES
DOUBLE FORTÉ
UPSTAGED
TREMOLO: CRY OF THE LOON
MAZURKA
FIRESONG
DON’T LET THE WIND CATCH YOU
THE LIARS’ GALLERY
SPIRIT ME AWAY
UNDER THE ICE (coming soon)
LADY BLUES
MOORE MYSTERIES
HEALEY'S CAVE
TERROR COMES KNOCKING
FOR KEEPS
TALL PINES MYSTERIES
FOR THE BIRDS
ESSENTIALLY YOURS
SANCTUARY
BETRAYAL
STANDALONES
THE SEACREST
DEVIL’S LAKE
DEVIL’S CREEK (coming soon)
WRITING ADVICE
WRITE LIKE THE WIND, volumes 1, 2, 3
Aaron Paul Lazar writes to soothe his soul. An award-winning, bestselling Kindle author of three addictive mystery series, writing books, and a new love story, Aaron enjoys the Genesee Valley countryside in upstate New York, where his characters embrace life, play with their dogs and grandkids, grow sumptuous gardens, and chase bad guys. Visit his website at http://www.lazarbooks.com and watch for his upcoming releases, UNDER THE ICE(2015) and DEVIL’S CREEK(2015). Contact him at aaron dot lazar at yahoo dot com.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Have a Wonderful Holiday!
From all of us at MB4, may your holidays be filled with joy and peace, and may the New Year bring you and your loved ones health, love and happiness.
Hugs,
Dora.
Hugs,
Dora.
Friday, December 19, 2014
This is not your father's Sherlock Holmes...by Stephanie Osborn
Hello, folks!
Please help me welcome my good friend and outstanding author, Stephanie Osborn, to MB4 today. I adore her Sherlock Holmes books (there are four in the series) and highly recommend them to all mystery and science lovers. Give them a try!
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
copyright 2014, Stephanie Osborn
This is not your father's Sherlock Holmes...
The Case of the Displaced Detective: The Arrival is
a science fiction mystery in which brilliant hyperspatial physicist,
Dr. Skye Chadwick, discovers there are alternate realities, often
populated by those we consider only literary characters. Her pet
research, Project: Tesseract, hidden deep under Schriever AFB, finds
Continuum 114, where Sherlock Holmes was to have died along with
Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. In a Knee-jerk reaction, Skye rescues
Holmes, who inadvertently flies through the wormhole to our universe,
while his enemy plunges to his death. Unable to go back without causing
devastating continuum collapse, Holmes must stay in our world and adapt.
Meanwhile, the Schriever AFB Dept of Security discovers a spy ring
working to dig out the details of - and possibly sabotage - Project:
Tesseract. Can Chadwick help Holmes come up to speed in modern
investigative techniques in time to stop the spies? Will Holmes be able
to thrive in our modern world? Is Chadwick now Holmes' new "Watson" - or
more? And what happens next?
~~~
"...This is a really bad time for me to leave console at the moment, hon.”
Caitlin shot her a hard, annoyed look.
“You
can’t be considering it,” she said flatly. “All hell is breaking loose
here. I don’t care if the President needed you five minutes ago! You
have to stay here!”
“Chill,
Cait,” Skye tossed an aside to her friend, phone held absently to the
side of her face with her shoulder as she tried to read the scribbled
note Timelines handed her, around annotating her clipboard. “I’ve got
more to do than I can shake a stick at now. I’m…what?” she said, staring
at the note. “Software! Check the focus subroutine! Make sure it’s
initiating at the correct point in the program! The last thing we need
now is a software glitch causing a delay in timing. If that’s happening,
no wonder the induction element’s hosed! Hardware, make sure the
circuit’s clear! Holmes, I’m sorry, I can’t make it right now. I don’t
have time to catch my breath down here.”
* * *
Holmes
listened closely, not only to Skye’s direct comments, but also to her
asides and commands, and to what he could hear of the remarks made to
her. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and informed Jones and
Smith.
“It
appears matters are not going well in the Chamber.” He punched the
speaker button on the phone so the other men could hear. Then he
returned his attention to the sounds coming from the phone. “Skye, what
is happening?”
* * *
Skye
watched as her teammates fought with the recalcitrant apparatus. One of
the Hardware console members, Chad Swann by name and a longstanding
friend of Skye’s, moved into the center of the room to check the
circuitry of the monoliths. Skye grabbed her clipboard, flipping to the
malfunction shutdown checklist, where she scanned the list, trying to
determine the seriousness of their
situation.
Vaguely
she heard Holmes’ query, but didn’t have time to devote to it. Still,
she managed to find two spare brain cells to rub together, and replied
abstractedly, “We’re having a malfunction in the induction element
system. We can’t keep it focused…”
“Skye,
we need you to make a call! Shut down, or put it in a holding pattern
and troubleshoot?” Caitlin interrupted. Skye juggled phone and
clipboard, trying to assess the checklist for priority red malfunction
modes.
“Holmes, I’ve gotta go,” she said into the phone. “I need to figure out how serious this is—”
“DR. CHADWICK! We’ve got a GRAVITON SPIKE!” Sequencing shouted.
* * *
Smith
and Jones watched as Holmes’ expression grew more and more grave as he
listened to the sounds on the other end of the line. They heard Skye’s
attempt to break the conversation, and Holmes was about to answer in the
affirmative when they overheard the exclamation from Sequencing.
Holmes paled as they heard Skye shout, “Chad!! Get out of there! NO! EMERGENCY SHUTDO—”
The line went dead.
Instantly
the entire building shuddered hard enough to knock books off shelves
and send Skye’s chalk tumbling from its rack on the blackboard, smashing
into dusty white shards on the tile. The three men grabbed for heavy
furniture to avoid being flung to the floor.
* * *
When the quake subsided, the three men sat staring at each other, shaken. Holmes felt almost lightheaded, his grey eyes wide.
“What happened?” Jones demanded. “Did that earthquake have anything to do with Project: Tesser—”
“Emergency
shutdown,” Holmes snapped out, leaping to his feet. “Graviton spike.”
He didn’t fully understand the significance of the graviton spike, but
from his reading of Skye’s quantum mechanics text, which perforce
contained a significant amount of particle physics, he knew what a
graviton was, and strongly suspected it was connected to the quake. “I
am going down to the Chamber,” he declared in a tone brooking no
argument. “The two of you may come, or stay.”
* * *
“Is your authorization in?” Jones turned to Smith.
“Your duty officer entered it into the system when I arrived this morning,” Smith observed.
“Good. We’re coming, Holmes,” Jones declared.
But Holmes was already out the door and down the hall, headed for the elevators at a dead run.
Jones and Smith sprinted behind.
~~~
The Case of the Displaced Detective: The Arrival is available in print and ebook (all formats), and the first four books of the series have been released in a collected ebook edition, The Case of the Displaced Detective Omnibus. Book 5, A Case of Spontaneous Combustion, is a 2014 new release. All of them are suitable for gift-giving!
-Stephanie Osborn
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Merry Christmas from South Lake
It's been a long time since I wrote any new Shannon and Dwayne stories. Get ready my murderers, there are NEW TALES COMING!!!
Merry Christmas from South Lake is just a snippet of a tale that I dreamed up this morning. I hope you will make plans to get the reissue of the first Shannon Wallace Mystery re-titled Deadly Array coming in 2015.
And Merry Christmas to you and yours this holiday season. I hope it is a good one
_________________________________________________
Merry Christmas from South Lake by Kim Smith
"What is that on your head?" I asked. A gust of wind from the front door disturbed papers on the front desk.
"It's a hat, Wall-ass," Dwayne answered, tapping the black monstrosity. It sat on his head like it would fall if he did anything close to a tilt of his neck. "I found it."
"Well, you better take it back to whatever homeless shelter you found it at."
He took it off and brushed at the brim. "It's made of silk, I think. Probably really expensive. I found it just sitting in the middle of the path around the lake at the park. It needed me to pick it up. It kinda called to me."
I shook my head. "And you had to answer? Ugh."
"I get that you don't like it. But I do. It's Christmas, and my head is cold. I need this hat." And he plopped it back onto his head and turned into his office.
I followed him, not really wanting to continue this tirade but curious over his choice of park in the early morning. "What were you doing at South Lake Park so early?"
He shrugged. "Getting some fitness in. You'd do well to do that too, Ms. I-eat-at-buffets."
I sniffed. "I am not getting fat, Dee. I have to jog after you. Let me see that hat."
He handed it to me, and I looked at it closely. It was a stovepipe style, like Abe Lincoln wore. It had the remains of a red feather in the hatband. "Not bad." I handed it back to him. "But don't wear it indoors. It's bad manners."
He snatched it from me and growled. I turned and walked out. My buddy, Dwayne Brown, the hat aficionado. Who woulda thunk it?
We worked at Video Angels, a video production company that had been Dwayne's brainchild. In the last few months we'd kept ourselves alive by shooting plays, but with summer coming, I longed to do a wedding. I booted up my laptop and scoured sites where other people had their webpages filled with wedding images.
Dwayne interrupted my drooling. He stood in my doorway, his silly hat in hand. "Hey, I'm going downtown to get something to eat. You wanna come with?"
My stomach growled. The oatmeal I'd consumed was long gone. "Do I have to sit with you wearing that hat?"
He stuck it on his head and grinned.
I sighed. "Fine. But if anyone calls you Frosty the Snowman, I'm going to laugh."
I pulled on my hooded coat. He wrapped a Christmas red scarf around his neck. If he'd stuck a pipe in his mouth, he really would look like a black version of the jolly snowman.
He held the door open for me as we left. "Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas."
I grinned. "That's what I love about you Dee, you say the sweetest things."
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Divide By Zero, by Sheila Deeth
Hello, MB4 fans and friends!
Please help me welcome my friend and author Sheila Deeth to Murderby4 today. I read her book, Divide by Zero, and truly enjoyed the tapestry of characters and scenes she so expertly wove together. Give it a try!
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
copyright 2014, Sheila Deeth
In a recent post on this site, Aaron Paul Lazar
asked about “writing the tough stuff, or killing the one you love.” I thought
straight away of a scene where someone dies in my newly re-released novel, DIVIDE
BY ZERO. But I can’t give you the scene. I can’t even tell you who dies
because... well, then I might have to kill you, or something.
There are lots of characters threading through
the tapestry of DIVIDE BY ZERO. Even if you know someone’s going to die, I’d
rather you didn’t warn them when you first see them smile. So meet Troy, the
garage mechanic; he’s falling in love with a rich man’s daughter—a match made
on the ice cream aisle of the local supermarket perhaps; and both their
families will be drawn into revealing disparate opinions. Of course, Lydia’s
little sister Sylvia doesn’t have much of an opinion; she just wishes her big
sister wouldn’t head off to university, because who will she talk to when she’s
gone? Big brother Jason just wants a job.
Then there’s young Steve being drawn into love
and bridge on the quiet street where Troy and Lydia will come to live. He meets
a cat and... well, the cat’s really important. It’s fluffy and white, has a
rhinestone collar with a garnet glowing in the center like a mystical eye; and
it keeps watch as if it knows more about the world than anyone else. The cat is
there while the world goes by, and there to help when everything falls apart.
Rumor has it a predator (human, not feline)
lurks under the trees of Paradise Park. But, other than that, Paradise seems a
pleasant little suburb of a pleasant little town, until someone dies. The
question, I suppose, is did I kill someone I loved. And the answer? I sort of
loved the whole tapestry of characters. After all, there’s that other question
that people always ask authors—“How much of yourself is hidden in the people
you write?” There are bits of me scattered all through DIVIDE BY ZERO (ah, what
a fractured personality I must be), so killing someone off is like, well...
definitely worse than cutting toenails.
Of course, the other phrase authors often hear
is the advice to “Kill off your darlings.” But they don’t mean characters when
they say this; they mean beloved scenes that don’t advance the plot; intricate
details that hang like pearls from a piglet; or glorious triumphs set at
inglorious tangents to everything else. My editor helped me kill those darlings
very kindly and effectively, but the blame for killing characters is all my
own, unless I choose to blame that one who set this whole sorry sequence of
events in motion. But instead I feel sorry for him—the most evil character I’ve
ever written, and here I am trying to redeem him! He had his hurts—don’t we
all?—and in the end forgiveness might be a gift my characters can only receive,
not theirs to give. You might have to
read the book to see what you think.
So, perhaps I wrote my villain’s crime in hopes
of placing my own unseen transgressions on the same collection plate. We all
have our hurts, like him, and all of us need forgiveness, one way or another,
sometime or another (or all the time). If pain should become our “singular
point,” dividing us by zero, perhaps forgiveness is the number (numerator) that
we divide, a gift that saves us from being torn apart. And perhaps that’s the
message I’m hiding in my book, as I kill the ones I love, even when they stay
living, demanding sequels, in my head.
Author: Sheila Deeth
Website: http://www.sheiladeeth.com
Divide by
Zero is available from the publisher at: http://www.secondwindpublishing.com/#!product/prd15/2955791331/divide-by-zero
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Holiday Deals and FREEBIES!
Happy Holidays!
Blessings,
Aaron
DEALl #2: The audiobook was released yesterday! I have FREE coupons which I'll give to the first three readers who want to LISTEN to this story via Audible.com. Our narrator, Gwendolyn Druyor, is Hollywood perfect! She will astound you with her talent.
Yesterday I received print copies of my new book, Sanctuary: A Tall
Pines Mystery. The book including shipping is $18.00 (signed to whomever
you wish). The audio version is also available now, so you can listen while you drive, work, or play. ;o)DEAL #4: If you buy Sanctuary (print book) from me, I'll take 50% off any of these print books:
For the Birds
Mazurka
Healey's Cave
See all Aaron's books at http://www.lazarbooks.com
Friday, December 12, 2014
Excerpt from Kindred Rights (Night Calls) by Cat Kimbriel
Hi, folks.
This holiday season we are featuring guest blogs from a number of authors. We want to offer you cool books to check out for yourself or gifts, and also give these great authors a chance to crow a little about their works!
Please help me welcome prolific author, Cat Kimbriel, who shares an excerpt from Kindred Rights.
Welcome, Cat!
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
"...we are all Death’s pupils, we practitioners—students of the
great healer."
“Ready for a lesson?” Marta said suddenly.
I blinked, surprised by the question. “Tonight?”
Marta lifted her head to meet my gaze; a half smile flitted across her lips. “No time like the present,” she offered, tugging her thread back through. “Between fetches and poltergeists, I think it is time for you to learn the first of the major arcana.”
Suddenly I was wide awake, and there was an ache in my chest, like I couldn’t catch my breath. Between fetches and poltergeists, I’d been feeling a bit ragged, truth to tell. I wasn’t sure I was ready just then for any more surprises.
“Christmas Eve?” I clarified. Marta had conducted a ritual on the solstice a few days past, but as a neophyte, I had not actively participated. Christmas was also a good time for ceremonies?
Marta looked amused. “’Tis said that ghosts walk on Christmas Eve. Can you think of a more appropriate—or safer—time to look beyond the borders of our world?”
“Ghosts?” Well, now...spirits were interesting. I straightened up.
“Actually,” Marta began, pinning her needle in place and setting aside her square, “the first major arcana you must learn is how to call upon Death.” Turning to smile at me, she added, “Nothing else is truly frightening after you have faced Death.”
I just stared at her, a sinking feeling in the hollow of my stomach. “Death isn’t really a person, is it? I thought that was just poetry, in the Bible....”
“Death is a spirit,” Marta said softly, her hands folding in her lap. “Some claim it is Azrael, the angel of death. Most people never see Death—or never know it is Death they see at the last. Death can wear many faces—Death can be anyone you have ever loved or known who has gone beyond. The face chosen is usually whomever the failing person wants most to see. And so the dying are comforted as they step over into the next life.”
The angel of death. Lord and Lady, these were deep waters, now. “Do we find those people over there?” I finally whispered.
“We may. Death is ambiguous when answering questions about the other side of life.” Marta looked a little evasive herself.
“Death will answer questions?”
Marta nodded as she stood up. “That is why a practitioner calls upon Death, to ask questions. But it is not done lightly. You do not ask Death anything that can be answered by anyone or anything else. You have to work at the answers—Death does not make things simple.”
As she started for the kitchen, Marta added, “And you never, ever ask about your own death. That is the one question Death will not answer.”
Rising to my feet, I threw the big pillow over on the pile and started after her. “What are you going to ask Death?”
“This is the only time that you call upon Death when you have no questions. When you begin learning the major arcana, you must introduce yourself to Death.” Looking back at me as she lit a single taper from the kitchen fire, Marta went on: “All apprentices learn this spell first. Once you have cast it, Death will know your call, and may choose to answer it.”
I thought about it, and shivered. “May choose?”
Marta smiled and went into the stillroom. “When Death is invited, Death may choose whether to come.” Her voice grew lower as she continued. “The only way to guarantee Death’s arrival is to kill something. Soldiers do it all the time, and rarely see Death passing by. But if a practitioner kills to demand Death’s presence, it changes the relationship.”
“Changes?” I hesitated at the doorway of the stillroom. Relationship?
Marta returned to the kitchen holding the candle and her carpetbag of wands, wards and beeswax candles. “Death is a friend to a practitioner, Allie,” she said solemnly. “Death is the last, great healer, who takes away the pain we cannot ease. It’s not Death people really fear—it is suffering. Death will answer specific questions concerning healing.” She stopped before me, her expression grave. “Once you shed innocent blood to summon Death, you are no longer perceived as a healer. You become...something else. You become an enigma to watch, and perhaps a danger, a black sorcerer.”
“Death no longer trusts you?” I asked slowly, watching her eyes.
Her brows lifted slightly, and she said, “Perhaps. I try not to attach emotions or attributes to Death. Death is not human, and helps us for obscure motives. Death never volunteers information—but Death always answers.” Setting down the bag on the table, she began to take out things. “Sometimes the answer is no,” she added.
“Is Death male or female?” I asked quickly, more to hear someone speak than to know the answer...which was a good thing, because Marta was done answering questions.
“Both, and neither. Get your coat.” As I looked at her in surprise, she said, “We do not need ritual robes for this ceremony. Just fire and water, tobacco, blood, and honesty.”
I was halfway into my coat before I realized Marta had said blood.
Might as well have not bothered with the coat. No mere sheepskin was going to warm my body, much less my soul.
Not this Christmas Eve.
About the author:
This holiday season we are featuring guest blogs from a number of authors. We want to offer you cool books to check out for yourself or gifts, and also give these great authors a chance to crow a little about their works!
Please help me welcome prolific author, Cat Kimbriel, who shares an excerpt from Kindred Rights.
Welcome, Cat!
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
When magic broke free in my blood, I chose to
follow our ancient family path and become a practitioner. I'm learning to heal,
and to protect innocents. I dip into minds, stalk vampires, and set wards by
the light of the moon. I can hear the children of the night calling.
But there are other families...and other paths. Families with twisted ambitions and frightening powers. On the frontier, folk whisper that one clan is the most dangerous of all.
But there are other families...and other paths. Families with twisted ambitions and frightening powers. On the frontier, folk whisper that one clan is the most dangerous of all.
Chief among those dark sorcerers is a man known
as the Keeper of Souls.
And now he wants to keep mine.
* *
* * * * * * *
“Ready for a lesson?” Marta said suddenly.
I blinked, surprised by the question. “Tonight?”
Marta lifted her head to meet my gaze; a half smile flitted across her lips. “No time like the present,” she offered, tugging her thread back through. “Between fetches and poltergeists, I think it is time for you to learn the first of the major arcana.”
Suddenly I was wide awake, and there was an ache in my chest, like I couldn’t catch my breath. Between fetches and poltergeists, I’d been feeling a bit ragged, truth to tell. I wasn’t sure I was ready just then for any more surprises.
“Christmas Eve?” I clarified. Marta had conducted a ritual on the solstice a few days past, but as a neophyte, I had not actively participated. Christmas was also a good time for ceremonies?
Marta looked amused. “’Tis said that ghosts walk on Christmas Eve. Can you think of a more appropriate—or safer—time to look beyond the borders of our world?”
“Ghosts?” Well, now...spirits were interesting. I straightened up.
“Actually,” Marta began, pinning her needle in place and setting aside her square, “the first major arcana you must learn is how to call upon Death.” Turning to smile at me, she added, “Nothing else is truly frightening after you have faced Death.”
I just stared at her, a sinking feeling in the hollow of my stomach. “Death isn’t really a person, is it? I thought that was just poetry, in the Bible....”
“Death is a spirit,” Marta said softly, her hands folding in her lap. “Some claim it is Azrael, the angel of death. Most people never see Death—or never know it is Death they see at the last. Death can wear many faces—Death can be anyone you have ever loved or known who has gone beyond. The face chosen is usually whomever the failing person wants most to see. And so the dying are comforted as they step over into the next life.”
The angel of death. Lord and Lady, these were deep waters, now. “Do we find those people over there?” I finally whispered.
“We may. Death is ambiguous when answering questions about the other side of life.” Marta looked a little evasive herself.
“Death will answer questions?”
Marta nodded as she stood up. “That is why a practitioner calls upon Death, to ask questions. But it is not done lightly. You do not ask Death anything that can be answered by anyone or anything else. You have to work at the answers—Death does not make things simple.”
As she started for the kitchen, Marta added, “And you never, ever ask about your own death. That is the one question Death will not answer.”
Rising to my feet, I threw the big pillow over on the pile and started after her. “What are you going to ask Death?”
“This is the only time that you call upon Death when you have no questions. When you begin learning the major arcana, you must introduce yourself to Death.” Looking back at me as she lit a single taper from the kitchen fire, Marta went on: “All apprentices learn this spell first. Once you have cast it, Death will know your call, and may choose to answer it.”
I thought about it, and shivered. “May choose?”
Marta smiled and went into the stillroom. “When Death is invited, Death may choose whether to come.” Her voice grew lower as she continued. “The only way to guarantee Death’s arrival is to kill something. Soldiers do it all the time, and rarely see Death passing by. But if a practitioner kills to demand Death’s presence, it changes the relationship.”
“Changes?” I hesitated at the doorway of the stillroom. Relationship?
Marta returned to the kitchen holding the candle and her carpetbag of wands, wards and beeswax candles. “Death is a friend to a practitioner, Allie,” she said solemnly. “Death is the last, great healer, who takes away the pain we cannot ease. It’s not Death people really fear—it is suffering. Death will answer specific questions concerning healing.” She stopped before me, her expression grave. “Once you shed innocent blood to summon Death, you are no longer perceived as a healer. You become...something else. You become an enigma to watch, and perhaps a danger, a black sorcerer.”
“Death no longer trusts you?” I asked slowly, watching her eyes.
Her brows lifted slightly, and she said, “Perhaps. I try not to attach emotions or attributes to Death. Death is not human, and helps us for obscure motives. Death never volunteers information—but Death always answers.” Setting down the bag on the table, she began to take out things. “Sometimes the answer is no,” she added.
“Is Death male or female?” I asked quickly, more to hear someone speak than to know the answer...which was a good thing, because Marta was done answering questions.
“Both, and neither. Get your coat.” As I looked at her in surprise, she said, “We do not need ritual robes for this ceremony. Just fire and water, tobacco, blood, and honesty.”
I was halfway into my coat before I realized Marta had said blood.
Might as well have not bothered with the coat. No mere sheepskin was going to warm my body, much less my soul.
Not this Christmas Eve.
* * * * * * * *
About the author:
Katharine Eliska Kimbriel reinvents herself every decade or so. The one
constant she has reached for in life is telling stories. “I’m
interested in how people respond to choice. What is the metaphor for
power, for choice? In SF it tends to be technology (good, bad and
balanced) while in Fantasy the metaphor is magic – who has it, who wants
or does not want it, what is done with it, and who/what the person or
culture is after the dust has settled. A second metaphor, both grace
note and foundation, is the need for and art of healing. Forthcoming
stories will talk about new things that I’ve learned, and still hope to
learn … with grace notes about betrayal, forgiveness, healing and second
chances.” A Campbell Award nominee.
Saturday, December 6, 2014
Christmas Stories and other things
When Aaron suggested that I post about my latest release, I thought it was a great idea. I haven’t done a “mememe” post in quite some time. And since today is the end of the giveaway for my Christmas book, A Sweet and Spicy Christmas, I thought I would talk about how it all came to be. By the way, you can see how to enter RIGHT NOW AT THE LAST MINUTE here: at my website
Boy, have I been busy!
I created the little novelette, A Sweet and Spicy Christmas, from several Christmas short stories that I have had for some time. I wanted to make a sort of sampler of them all, so that is what I did. One of the stories is a spicy romance, and one is a sweet romance. The last story is a sort of horror thing that is a twist on the old Christmas story, "The Gift of the Magi," by O. Henry, pseudonym for William Sidney Porter.
The cover is also one of my creations. I thought that the ladies might appreciate a little holiday eye-candy and so the cover was born. Why do we write romance and then put a woman on the cover when we KNOW men rarely read them? (Aaron you are the exception!) I love creating covers and think this one is a hit.
I switched over from writing my beloved caper mysteries to writing romance as a little change in scenery. Sort of what I did when I wrote the YA fantasy, An Unexpected Performance. Sometimes you just gotta write what your heart wants to write, and never mind the market. Least, that’s what I think. I am actually thinking of writing a CHRISTIAN fiction novel, so what does that tell ya?
By the way, I talk about my upcoming promo for An Unexpected Performance on my latest podcast, and you can have a listen here: Writer Groupie Podcast Episode 15 there are other archived podcasts on the site as well, just look under the Writer Groupie tab.
Now, as to what’s coming up from me, there is the next episode in The Case of the Missing Body--my YA mystery series; and the soon-to-be-released, Deadly Array, which is the first in my caper mysteries featuring Shannon Wallace. If you have read my “Angel” series in the past you know what fun these books are. They are all being re-released with new names, new titles, and new covers. I might add, new and improved editing, too!
There is never a dull moment at my writing table and you never know what I might come up with next. I do so love input from fans and friends, so please tell me what you would like to read!
Boy, have I been busy!
I created the little novelette, A Sweet and Spicy Christmas, from several Christmas short stories that I have had for some time. I wanted to make a sort of sampler of them all, so that is what I did. One of the stories is a spicy romance, and one is a sweet romance. The last story is a sort of horror thing that is a twist on the old Christmas story, "The Gift of the Magi," by O. Henry, pseudonym for William Sidney Porter.
Sweet/SpicyThe cover is also one of my creations. I thought that the ladies might appreciate a little holiday eye-candy and so the cover was born. Why do we write romance and then put a woman on the cover when we KNOW men rarely read them? (Aaron you are the exception!) I love creating covers and think this one is a hit.
I switched over from writing my beloved caper mysteries to writing romance as a little change in scenery. Sort of what I did when I wrote the YA fantasy, An Unexpected Performance. Sometimes you just gotta write what your heart wants to write, and never mind the market. Least, that’s what I think. I am actually thinking of writing a CHRISTIAN fiction novel, so what does that tell ya?
By the way, I talk about my upcoming promo for An Unexpected Performance on my latest podcast, and you can have a listen here: Writer Groupie Podcast Episode 15 there are other archived podcasts on the site as well, just look under the Writer Groupie tab.
Now, as to what’s coming up from me, there is the next episode in The Case of the Missing Body--my YA mystery series; and the soon-to-be-released, Deadly Array, which is the first in my caper mysteries featuring Shannon Wallace. If you have read my “Angel” series in the past you know what fun these books are. They are all being re-released with new names, new titles, and new covers. I might add, new and improved editing, too!
There is never a dull moment at my writing table and you never know what I might come up with next. I do so love input from fans and friends, so please tell me what you would like to read!
Friday, December 5, 2014
Excerpt from ISLANDS by Sara Stamey
Hi, folks!
This holiday season we are featuring guest blogs from a number of authors. We want to offer you cool books to check out for yourself or gifts, and also give these great authors a chance to crow a little about their works!
Please help me welcome Sara Stamey today, who generously shares the first chapter of her book, ISLANDS.
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
“Arrogant jerk.” I was rooted on the dark path among shadowed trees, staring into the night, hands fisted as I recalled the meeting with my “host.” I shook my head and pushed impatiently on, picking my way along the twists of the narrowing trail in the gloom, ducking under boughs. Laura had given me “the spiel” about the Caribbean plantation’s history and the restoration of the eighteenth-century Great-House by her employer’s grandfather, but not much about Leon Caviness himself. He was a dealer in rare art, who often entertained visiting clients. Laura hadn’t been very informative about her own role as social secretary for the bachelor’s estate.
Pat MacIntyre’s Cheshire Cat grin floated on the darkness.
I thrust past it, through a curtain of sweet-flowering branches. The shrouded path ended in an open expanse of black volcanic rock dropping away over a steep cliff. A nearly-full moon sailed above low cloud drifts, spilling white light and black shadows over the cliff, repainting the night in stark otherworldliness. Darkness seemed to ooze from the rock itself to absorb the moonlight. The narrow point dropped in fissured fault blocks, giant stairsteps down to the surf. To the right, a sheltered bay mirrored the shimmering trail of the moon, and to the left, the open stretch of ocean hurled wind and waves to crash in white foam against black rock.
Something held me motionless in the wild spot, breathing the salt wind, soaking in the night. The place gave me neither welcome nor warning. I was only an insect perching there. The sheer mass of rock, imbedded in water and moonlight, reduced the nearby presence of lights and cars to a fitful dream.
Almost. I belonged to that smaller, civilized world.
In another existence, I might have thrown off my clothes and danced homage to the moon, embraced the stones and flung myself into the cool arms of the sea, seeking their magic release from my grief.
Turning brusquely back to the path, I stopped short, then dropped to my knees near the rocky cliff edge and brushed a vine aside from a flat shelf of the stone.
A glass jar tipped and rolled over the rock with a clatter and the scent of rum. I caught it reflexively, staring down at what looked like a freshly-severed chicken head lying on a mound of grainy flour. Beside it, a crude face stared out of the stone.
The moonlight suddenly rippled in dizzying waves, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. No, it was a drum, beating out an urgent rhythm, overriding my pulse. The stone beneath me throbbed like a tautly-stretched hide, and the beat shuddered through me, demanding, my blood pumping to its rhythm, not my own. An indignant protest rose up in me, but there was something, some blind force in the night, in the echoing rhythm, that brushed this logic aside.
*the pounding beat is a live being. It takes my senses, the pores of my skin, opens them wide to greedily drink in the heat and the moonlight and perfumes of rum and flowers. It dances my feet to the driving rhythm*
I jolted back from the carving, skin crawling with irrational fear. I shook my head and took a deep breath, let it out. “Get a grip, Doctor Dunne,” I muttered.
Leaning forward, I studied one of the carved stones I’d come here to research. Moonlight and shadow highlighted grooves scored into the rock, a very basic petroglyph, one of the common designs found from Australia to Africa to Alaska. Nose and eyes, an elemental watcher looking out to sea. My hand felt oddly detached from my will, reaching down to trace the lines of the carving. The ancient face almost looked ready to find its tongue and speak.
“Wha you do here?” The harsh voice came from behind me.
I lunged on a burst of adrenaline to my feet, spinning around, startled into clumsiness as I stumbled backwards. A man clutched my arm and yanked me from the verge, a glimpse of boulders pawed by the sea below.
The face revealed by the bright moon was not reassuring. It was broad, black, and scowling. Long woolly hair hung over his brow and down to his shoulders in unkempt dreadlocks. His clothes were patched together from multi-colored rags of shirts and cutoff trousers, and he had thick legs and arms and big hands. A scar ran across his left cheek and pulled his upper lip into a sneer.
“Wha you wan here?” It was a slurred, single-word burst. “You wan trouble?”
Pulse thrumming in my ears, I remembered Pat MacIntyre’s warnings about the violent “Dreads.” There was no place to go except the path the man was blocking. He stepped closer, the whites of his eyes glimmering.
A crooning noise in his throat. “Liddy missy scare?” He chuckled nastily.
“Mr. Caviness is waiting for me at the Great-House.” I cleared my throat, injected some authority. “Now please move.”
“Huh.” A contemptuous thrust of the hand. “You go. Stay way!”
I needed no urging. The man stepped aside and I hurried through the bushes onto the path, fighting the impulse to run, the back of my neck prickling. I managed to retrace the twists and turns in the dark, tripping over roots in my haste. I stopped at the edge of the pool terrace, heart galloping.
Movement and voices inside the Great House, and a muted progression of piano counterpoint. Bach. Intricate harmonies, impossibly cool and civilized amidst the humid air and riotous foliage. Chords spilled through the night, pebbles dropping into a moonlit pond.
About the author:
Sara Stamey's SF novels with Berkley/Ace netted a Locus Best New Novels listing along with positive reviews from Publishers Weekly, SF Chronicle, and others. She is listed in databases as an early Cyberpunk author along with Gibson and Stephenson, which tickles her. More recently, her suspense novel Islands is described by reviewers as "an intellectual thriller" and "a superior suspense novel....a fast read, a stomping vivid ride." Her near-future novel The Ariadne Connection (soon to be released) draws on her travels through the Greek islands and research into geomagnetic reversals.
Sara has indulged her lifelong wanderlust with extended travels in out-of-the-way corners of the globe (inspiring some of her novels); with treasure hunting and teaching scuba in the Caribbean and Honduras; and owning a farm in Southern Chile. Now resettled in her native Northwest Washington, she teaches creative writing at Western Washington University and offers editing services as a "book doctor." She stays grounded with her native-plant restoration project in her sprawling Squalicum Creek backyard, shared with wild critters and her cats, dog, and husband Thor.
This holiday season we are featuring guest blogs from a number of authors. We want to offer you cool books to check out for yourself or gifts, and also give these great authors a chance to crow a little about their works!
Please help me welcome Sara Stamey today, who generously shares the first chapter of her book, ISLANDS.
Aaron Lazar
www.lazarbooks.com
“Arrogant jerk.” I was rooted on the dark path among shadowed trees, staring into the night, hands fisted as I recalled the meeting with my “host.” I shook my head and pushed impatiently on, picking my way along the twists of the narrowing trail in the gloom, ducking under boughs. Laura had given me “the spiel” about the Caribbean plantation’s history and the restoration of the eighteenth-century Great-House by her employer’s grandfather, but not much about Leon Caviness himself. He was a dealer in rare art, who often entertained visiting clients. Laura hadn’t been very informative about her own role as social secretary for the bachelor’s estate.Pat MacIntyre’s Cheshire Cat grin floated on the darkness.
I thrust past it, through a curtain of sweet-flowering branches. The shrouded path ended in an open expanse of black volcanic rock dropping away over a steep cliff. A nearly-full moon sailed above low cloud drifts, spilling white light and black shadows over the cliff, repainting the night in stark otherworldliness. Darkness seemed to ooze from the rock itself to absorb the moonlight. The narrow point dropped in fissured fault blocks, giant stairsteps down to the surf. To the right, a sheltered bay mirrored the shimmering trail of the moon, and to the left, the open stretch of ocean hurled wind and waves to crash in white foam against black rock.
Something held me motionless in the wild spot, breathing the salt wind, soaking in the night. The place gave me neither welcome nor warning. I was only an insect perching there. The sheer mass of rock, imbedded in water and moonlight, reduced the nearby presence of lights and cars to a fitful dream.
Almost. I belonged to that smaller, civilized world.
In another existence, I might have thrown off my clothes and danced homage to the moon, embraced the stones and flung myself into the cool arms of the sea, seeking their magic release from my grief.
Turning brusquely back to the path, I stopped short, then dropped to my knees near the rocky cliff edge and brushed a vine aside from a flat shelf of the stone.
A glass jar tipped and rolled over the rock with a clatter and the scent of rum. I caught it reflexively, staring down at what looked like a freshly-severed chicken head lying on a mound of grainy flour. Beside it, a crude face stared out of the stone.
The moonlight suddenly rippled in dizzying waves, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. No, it was a drum, beating out an urgent rhythm, overriding my pulse. The stone beneath me throbbed like a tautly-stretched hide, and the beat shuddered through me, demanding, my blood pumping to its rhythm, not my own. An indignant protest rose up in me, but there was something, some blind force in the night, in the echoing rhythm, that brushed this logic aside.
*the pounding beat is a live being. It takes my senses, the pores of my skin, opens them wide to greedily drink in the heat and the moonlight and perfumes of rum and flowers. It dances my feet to the driving rhythm*
I jolted back from the carving, skin crawling with irrational fear. I shook my head and took a deep breath, let it out. “Get a grip, Doctor Dunne,” I muttered.
Leaning forward, I studied one of the carved stones I’d come here to research. Moonlight and shadow highlighted grooves scored into the rock, a very basic petroglyph, one of the common designs found from Australia to Africa to Alaska. Nose and eyes, an elemental watcher looking out to sea. My hand felt oddly detached from my will, reaching down to trace the lines of the carving. The ancient face almost looked ready to find its tongue and speak.
“Wha you do here?” The harsh voice came from behind me.
I lunged on a burst of adrenaline to my feet, spinning around, startled into clumsiness as I stumbled backwards. A man clutched my arm and yanked me from the verge, a glimpse of boulders pawed by the sea below.
The face revealed by the bright moon was not reassuring. It was broad, black, and scowling. Long woolly hair hung over his brow and down to his shoulders in unkempt dreadlocks. His clothes were patched together from multi-colored rags of shirts and cutoff trousers, and he had thick legs and arms and big hands. A scar ran across his left cheek and pulled his upper lip into a sneer.
“Wha you wan here?” It was a slurred, single-word burst. “You wan trouble?”
Pulse thrumming in my ears, I remembered Pat MacIntyre’s warnings about the violent “Dreads.” There was no place to go except the path the man was blocking. He stepped closer, the whites of his eyes glimmering.
A crooning noise in his throat. “Liddy missy scare?” He chuckled nastily.
“Mr. Caviness is waiting for me at the Great-House.” I cleared my throat, injected some authority. “Now please move.”
“Huh.” A contemptuous thrust of the hand. “You go. Stay way!”
I needed no urging. The man stepped aside and I hurried through the bushes onto the path, fighting the impulse to run, the back of my neck prickling. I managed to retrace the twists and turns in the dark, tripping over roots in my haste. I stopped at the edge of the pool terrace, heart galloping.
Movement and voices inside the Great House, and a muted progression of piano counterpoint. Bach. Intricate harmonies, impossibly cool and civilized amidst the humid air and riotous foliage. Chords spilled through the night, pebbles dropping into a moonlit pond.
About the author:
Sara Stamey's SF novels with Berkley/Ace netted a Locus Best New Novels listing along with positive reviews from Publishers Weekly, SF Chronicle, and others. She is listed in databases as an early Cyberpunk author along with Gibson and Stephenson, which tickles her. More recently, her suspense novel Islands is described by reviewers as "an intellectual thriller" and "a superior suspense novel....a fast read, a stomping vivid ride." Her near-future novel The Ariadne Connection (soon to be released) draws on her travels through the Greek islands and research into geomagnetic reversals.
Sara has indulged her lifelong wanderlust with extended travels in out-of-the-way corners of the globe (inspiring some of her novels); with treasure hunting and teaching scuba in the Caribbean and Honduras; and owning a farm in Southern Chile. Now resettled in her native Northwest Washington, she teaches creative writing at Western Washington University and offers editing services as a "book doctor." She stays grounded with her native-plant restoration project in her sprawling Squalicum Creek backyard, shared with wild critters and her cats, dog, and husband Thor.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Never listened to audiobooks before? It's easier than you think! by Uvi Poznansky
Hello, MB4 fans and friends!
Today I'm featuring author and artist extraordinaire, Uvi Poznansky. She wrote the article that I'd been thinking of crafting, and did a much better job than I would have, LOL!
Thank you, Uvi, for sharing this with us.
Aaron Lazar
copyright 2014, Uvi Poznansky
Love the idea of listening to a story? My author friends and I hope you win one of our audiobooks at this upcoming event, December 5th - 7th!
https://www.facebook.com/events/762141977189623/
Now, if you have never listened to audiobooks before, perhaps you find yourself wondering, hmmm... What device do I need? As it turns out, you already have it:
Today I'm featuring author and artist extraordinaire, Uvi Poznansky. She wrote the article that I'd been thinking of crafting, and did a much better job than I would have, LOL!
Thank you, Uvi, for sharing this with us.
Aaron Lazar
Never listened to audiobooks before? It's easier than you think!
copyright 2014, Uvi Poznansky Love the idea of listening to a story? My author friends and I hope you win one of our audiobooks at this upcoming event, December 5th - 7th!
https://www.facebook.com/events/762141977189623/
Now, if you have never listened to audiobooks before, perhaps you find yourself wondering, hmmm... What device do I need? As it turns out, you already have it:
- You can listen to audiobooks on any device that is compatible with the mp3 audio format, including: Sony Walkman, Apple iPad, iPhone, iPod; mp3 players by Sony, Archos, Coby, Creative, SanDisk and many more; Android, BlackBerry, and Windows Phone 7 smartphones and tablets. Here's a good article about the use of your Smartphone for listening: How to Listen to Audio Books on Your Smartphone with Audible
- You can listen to audiobooks on your computer, using iTunes, Windows Media Player, or any other program that plays mp3 files.
- You can listen to audiobooks on your e-reader. Both the Amazon Kindle and the Barnes & Noble Nook can play mp3 files. Here are two good articles about the use of e-readers for listening: How to Listen to Audiobooks on an Amazon Kindle or a Barnes and Noble Nook, and Listening to Audio Books on Kindle 1st Generation.
If you spend a
lot of time driving on long trips, or even sitting around the fireplace,
you can imagine what a great companion audiobooks can be to spin away
the hours. Great narrators make books come alive. Being so close to you,
breathing words into your ear, they make the experience both intimate
and heightened, with every nuance in the story becoming fully expressed.
If you win an audiobook, the author will give you a FREE promo code with the following instructions:
- Visit http://www.audible.com/at/redeem
- Enter the download code into the "Redeem Your Promotional Code" field and click "Redeem".
- If you’re not an Audible customer you’ll need to create a new Audible.com account. Don’t worry, you can use your Amazon account to do this.
- Follow the instructions. You’ll have 1 credit applied to your account.
- Go to the listing of the audiobook you won
- Add it to your cart. When you check out you’ll see an option to apply the free credit.
- Audible will gladly help you--24 hours a day, 7 days a week--to download the audiobook to your preferred device. It is quick and painless... Here is their help line: 1-888-283-5051 (US & Canada) or 1-973-820-0400 (international.)
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Coming Home - win fabulous audio books in this facebook event!
The wind is singing winter blues
Whispering with her is a muse
Let her notes take you away
Swifter than a reindeer sleigh
Home awaits... Before you travel
Take a moment to unravel
Our story, our plot
And the gifts that we have brought
Let me tell you who we are
Come to us from near and far--
Whispering with her is a muse
Let her notes take you away
Swifter than a reindeer sleigh
Home awaits... Before you travel
Take a moment to unravel
Our story, our plot
And the gifts that we have brought
Let me tell you who we are
Come to us from near and far--
***
The days are short, the sun a spark
So faint the shine at the edge of dark
You shiver in the grip of ice
Home seems far, as under glass--
To read more click here:
So faint the shine at the edge of dark
You shiver in the grip of ice
Home seems far, as under glass--
To read more click here:
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2014/11/let-me-introduce-you-to-my-author_28.html
To join this event, click here and hit the "JOIN" button at the top of the page!
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