Rachel Thompson

DV Berkom – Writing From The Opposite Sex

Writing From The Opposite Sex

by DV Berkom

“I can’t believe a woman wrote this!”

There I am, minding my own business, pounding away on my keyboard, trying to get a little quality writing time in, when my sister calls to tell me someone she barely knew told her the above after she’d read a book I’d written. At first I was a tad miffed. How could someone even question my womanliness? I mean, I shower daily and apply eye liner. I enjoy foo-foo stuff like candles and perfume. I even like watching historical romances and the occasional rom-com.

But then I realized what she said was a compliment. It meant the male point of view (POV) was well represented. And that’s exactly what I intended. I like to write romantic thrillers and mysteries; the kind that keep you on the edge of your seat and waiting for the next exciting scene. I like to blow things up and kill people in the most unusual manner. I also try to have my characters’ dialogue ring true. That means making each person sound like who or what they are.

The book she was referring to is Serial Date, which has characters like Leine Basso, a retired female assassin, and various male and female players, some of whom are pretty bad apples. One of the characters, Peter, is a sociopath. He uses people, including women, and there’s a scene in the book where he is, uh, having a conversation with a contestant and isn’t real interested in reciprocating. There just ain’t no love with someone like that, and I wrote him accordingly.

Of course, my sister’s acquaintance could have been referring to the scene where Leine has to fight off another assassin sent to kill her, or when she has to procure something from the Russian mafia and they’re not interested in giving it to her without a fight. Or, possibly it could have been the scenes from Santiago’s point of view, Leine’s love interest. I always try to write from the POV of the character who has the most to lose in a scene, male or female, and use language and detail appropriate to the personality.

The majority of writers I know are first and foremost observers. We watch things; sometimes from the sidelines, sometimes from the middle of the action. I know growing up I always felt like I was on the outside looking in, even when I was ‘in’. It’s a great perspective. I constantly find myself mentally filing away expressions, snippets of conversation, mannerisms, etc. It’s not something I have to do consciously. It’s instinctive.

I once read a passage where the author had the male POV character notice a pale-goldenrod satin duvet and matching pillow shams. In those words. I don’t know about you, but my husband thinks a duvet is a communicable disease, and pale goldenrod? Please. It’s yellow, or tan at best, if he even notices the color. Yes, I get that there are men who love fabric and colors and all things décor, but the majority just don’t care. If you’re gonna have ‘em notice, you gotta set their personality up beforehand.

So, back to writing from the opposite sex’s POV. To be a good writer, I believe you need to be able to nail the differences between the sexes, as well as to not be afraid of expressing what you’ve observed. We’re pushed by society to fit into the gender box and act accordingly. Well, I’m here to tell you, it’s way more fun to write from a different perspective than what is considered ‘correct’. There are some great male writers who have their female characters down, and vice-versa. There are also a few who just don’t get it and when I read them, I want to throw their book against a wall (which sucks when it’s an iPad).

What about you? What do you do to make the opposite sex ring true in your dialogue or narrative? And, which writers do you know who write great characters who are the opposite sex?

Buy Now @ Amazon & Barnes and Noble

Genre – Romantic Suspense

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with DV Berkom on FacebookTwitter

Blog http://dvberkom.wordpress.com/

Website http://www.dvberkom.com/

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Orangeberry Free Alert - HORSES AND HEROIN by Bev Pettersen

Horses and Heroin - Bev Pettersen

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating - PG

4.6 (153 reviews)

Free until 4th June 2013

JOCKEY SCHOOL IS NOT WHAT IT SEEMS.
A talented rider disappears without a trace.
His frantic sister poses as a student.
A private investigator's plans for quiet recuperation are shattered.

Megan is determined to find her missing brother even though no one else at the illustrious California Jockey School seems to care. Her only ally is a recuperating PI who unfortunately is the owner's best friend. Soon she is caught between a blossoming romance and a far-reaching conspiracy...where misplaced trust can be deadly.

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Lynn Osterkamp – Are Book Award Contests Worth It?

Are Book Award Contests Worth It for Self-Published Authors?

by Lynn Osterkamp

A website called Reader Views http://www.readerviews.com/ gives out annual literary awards in a contest open only to writers who self-publish or have their books published by a small press, university press, or independent book publisher. Works published by major book publishers, their subsidiaries, or their imprints are not eligible. This seems more than fair, given that there are so many award contests that are not open to those of us whose books are self-published, subsidy-published, or published by small, indie publishers.

But does an award set up for the likes of us mean anything?

A few years ago, I was unpleasantly surprised when one of the list gurus on a self-publishing discussion group I belong to posted a comment calling the Reader Views Awards a Special Olympics for subsidy-published books—based on the fact that none of the award winners were books published by large publishers, which the guru took to mean the contest hadn’t attracted any real competition. (Since books from major publishers are not eligible to enter the contest, it’s not surprising that no winners were from major publishers.) This post went on to criticize the contest for having too many award categories and too many winners, and dubbed it primarily a moneymaker for the sponsor because it charges an entry fee. The guru concluded that the award is hardly of the quality of a Pulitzer Prize or National Book Award (duh!) and that being the “best of the worst” is hardly impressive.

I am familiar with this view of book awards that are open to self-published or indie-published authors like me. My first novel, Too Near The Edge, won an IPPY award, which I discovered is also considered second-rate when I tried to use it to get “author status” at the Left Coast Crime (LLC) Convention. I wrote them a very polite email asking if my award would qualify me to be an author at their conference. They replied that awards like the IPPY are not on their list, “since they are primarily awarded to authors from non-traditional publishing houses.”

Given these attitudes, is it worth sending off our books and entry fees to competitions designed to honor the best among self-published books or those published by small, independent presses? Yes. In my opinion the awards have meaning. For me the IPPY was an acknowledgement that a reader or readers selected to judge a book contest decided my book was of a high enough level of quality to win an award. And, although the contest had many categories, it also had thousands of entries, most of which did not win. I don’t know the statistics for these other contests, but it seems likely that there are more losers than winners, and that awards are only given to books that meet certain criteria.

The IPPY helped me get my book into local independent bookstores, where I believe the award stickers give it credibility that leads to sales. And the mention of the award on the book’s Amazon page and other eBook sites reassures potential readers who have never heard of me that a group of judges found my novel worthwhile. Awards help books stand out from the pack. And most potential readers will give a book a second look if it has won an award—even if the award is a minor one.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre - Mystery

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Lynn Osterkamp on Twitter

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Trouble in Paradise by Deborah Brown

A Brand-New Madison Westin Novel, with More Craziness in Tarpon Cove…

Remember Madison? What she had to go through… inheriting her aunt’s cottages was peanuts compared to what awaits her in TROUBLE IN PARADISE, the latest addition to the Paradise Series.

What is big news in small town Tarpon Cove? An accidental drowning or maybe even a ruthless murder? When a dead fisherman rolls up on the shore of Tarpon Cove, Madison cannot resist but to jump into her new role as Private Investigator, with only one goal in mind: to solve this intriguing mystery of the dead guy. But things do not go as Madison wants as she discovers that people in small towns are usually tight lipped, and that is certainly the case for the residents of Tarpon Cove. Although a hot bed for gossip, in a town where everyone knows everyone’s business, what is safer than keeping your mouth shut?

But that is not all…

With Madison’s tenant assessment skills not shaping up, her cottages are still full of riffraff, and it has become Tarpon Cove’s hotbed for illegal affairs. Madison teams up with her best friend and Glock-carrying Fabiana… Together they take on cases no other investigators would ever dare to touch in Tarpon Cove or anywhere else. Sometimes a girl needs a bubble bath and a fun book. So draw your bath and dive into Madison’s adventures!

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Mystery

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Connect with Deborah Brown on Facebook & Twitter

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK by Lee Evans

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What’s in This Book?

Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK, has 160 NEW jobs, 200 jobs from Killer Work from Home Jobs 1, and 100 jobs from Killer Work from Home Jobs 2. There’s no story. No lessons. Just jobs! Economical too – it’s three books in one. SUPER BOOK identifies Fortune 500 & Legitimate Work at Home Jobs from global, national, mid-sized and start-ups with wings.

Why You Need This Book!

Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK will help you accomplish your dream.

  • Is it finally time to find a job so that you can work from home?
  • Do you really want to trudge hours to work every day?
  • Are you looking for an honest work from home opportunity?

The idea for the Killer Work from Home Jobs Series came from the fact that I trudged to my job, as manager of someone else’s business, wondering why I wasn’t happy. I was good at what I did, achieved the company’s goals, made good money, received accolades, but something wasn’t right, there was no sense of fulfillment.

I can’t convey the melancholy I felt, I worked hard to achieve success, earned every academic credential, had a resume to swoon over. But I wasn’t a happy camper. Was this all there was?

Once I decided to work at home, it was amazing, I jumped in the air and clicked my feet! Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK is dedicated to all those who just can’t go back to work. In addition to the “I can’t take it any mores” of the world, this book will help many who have other compelling reasons, as well. The need to work from home runs deep. Taking the first step to working at home will make you jump for joy.

How is This Book Different?

How is Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK different from other work from home books? It is the largest compilation of home-based jobs available on Amazon today.

  • Is the company financially healthy?
  • Has the company been around for awhile?
  • Does the company have a global footprint?
  • Does the company have “money in the bank?”

My months of research answered these questions, to provide you with key company data.

My Promise to You

I verified all links in Killer Work from Home Jobs: 460 Jobs SUPER BOOK at publication. Since companies change web pages, and job needs, if any of the links don’t work, simply contact me at Free-Job-Search-Websites.com, I’ll provide you with revised link info & you can get notice of new books, too.

You’re not just buying a book, you’re buying my promise that I’ll tirelessly provide you with the most up to date info at my disposal. I want to help you make your dream come true!

Learn how to find Killer Work from Home Jobs

Genre – NonFiction / Business / Job Hunting

Buy Now @ Amazon

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Lee Evans on her

Website http://www.free-job-search-websites.com/

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Still Fine at Forty - Dakota Madison

Still Fine at Forty - Dakota Madison

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Contemporary Romance

Rating - R

4.6 (7 reviews)

Free until 1st June 2013

It all started with a Girl's Getaway Weekend in Sedona, Arizona...
It's been a year since Jennifer Ellis's ex-husband left her for a much younger woman and Jennifer still hasn't dated. Now turning 40, Jennifer wonders if she'll ever find love again. So Jennifer's best-friend, Melanie Malone, books them on a Girl's Getaway in picturesque Sedona, Arizona in hopes of inspiring Jennifer to have a vacation fling.
Jennifer gets more than she bargained for when she meets the ruggedly handsome 29-year old tour Jeep guide, Cody Miller, and the two begin a passionate romance. What Jennifer doesn't know is that Cody has a secret past that not only threatens to destroy their new love but also expose a tragic event from Jennifer's past that she has tried desperately to forget.

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Orangeberry Free Alert - How I Wrote 2 eBooks in 21 Days by Glen Stanford

 

How I Wrote 2 eBooks in 21 Days - Glen Stanford

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Non Fiction

Rating - PG

4.6 (55 reviews)

Free until 2 June 2013

Ride a hilarious roller coaster with Glen Stanford as he follows Steve
Scott's plan in "How to Write a Nonfiction e-Book in 21 Days!"
Not one to let the writing process cramp his style, this ukulele-playing,
bluegrass-singing YouTube sensation (32 views and counting) juggles his
new-found fame with astonishing persistence to produce not one, but two
works of genius. This is the true story.
FIVE CRITICAL Reasons you MUST read this book
1. America's Funniest Recipes want you to read this book
The (secret) recipe for success:
Writer's buzz - 1 oz
Sleepless nights - 2 oz
Tenacity (and beer) - 7 (units left deliberately vague)
Irreverence and political incorrectness - to taste
Espresso - administered intravenously - 55 gal
Pizza (1/2 pepperoni, 1/2 mushroom) - 37 slices
Humility - a whole bunch
Blend and enjoy.
2. Chuck Noris wants you to read this book
You gonna argue with Chuck? I'm not! He is a huge believer in the power of
laughter because it leads to the lowering of stress hormones. This is
the carrot AND the stick - lower your stress by laughing and you won't
have to worry about Chuck getting angry with you at the same time.
P.S.
Chuck Noris is from Dubuque, Iowa and is in no way related to Chuck
Norris, the consummate actor karate-guy who would probably kick my ass
if I used his name without permission.
3. The Bible wants you to read this book
The Good Book says "A joyful heart is good medicine" (Proverbs 17:22).
Then again, it also says "Judas hanged himself" (Matthew 27:5) and "Go
and do likewise" (Luke 10:37) so you gotta be kind of selective when you
pick your quotes from this 1700-year-old classic.
4. It's flipping funny and Rated PG, too
While I might dance around some edgy subjects, I never want my readers to squirm. I leave that to the Ben Stilers of the world.
P.S.
Ben Stiler is in no way related to the incredibly funny Ben Stiller,
whose masturbatory comedic genius (when he's not meeting some Fokker)
always leaves you with a chuckle.
All of my books are swear-word-free. I tire of today's "comics" who resort to f-bombing
their material as if dirty words are the main ingredient instead of an
occasional spice.
The worst word you'll ever hear from me is "crap." Feel free to substitute something stinkier if it makes you feel
better, but honest humor shouldn't have to rely on shock jock laziness.
Then again, Howard Stearn made $100 million with his lesbian obsession and I
sell my books for the price of a cup of coffee, so what do I know?
When you see the word "flipping," you are also free to substitute something
racier, like "freaking." It's your theater of the mind, and you are the
only one taking the tickets.
That is, unless you object to me using the word "Damn" in the subtitle. That's just too funny to pass up,
and I'm #%$#&! using it.
P.S. Howard Stearn is in no way related to the radio professional Howard Stern, for whom I have only the
greatest respect. Baba Booey. Oh, and "lesbian" isn't a dirty word
anyway, nana.
5. For Writers only
You will uncover nuggets of resources that will be incredibly helpful on your journey to write
and publish your own book. You'll just have to suffer through the fun
stuff to uncover them. Think of it as a treasure hunt.
IN SUMMARY
God,
Chuck, America's Funniest Recipes and the movie Rating Board all want
you to read this book (and probably Ben and Howard, too). I wouldn't
mess with any of them. So it's no coffee for you today -  you have a
hormone level to lower.

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Surrender by Melody Anne

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Raffaello (Rafe) Palazzo takes what he wants with no regrets. Arianna (Ari) Lynn Harlow has led a charmed life until tragedy strikes her family. He’s looking for a no-emotions attached mistress, she’s looking for redemption.

They are not a pair that should ever work, but undeniable attraction and devastating tragedies bring them together in the city by the bay where he fights to keep their relationship nothing more than an enjoyable way to meet his needs, and she battles to not lose herself in him. Spending time with Ari starts cracking the hard shell that Rafe has built around his heart, but he denies the affect she has on him until it’s too late to stop the inevitable conclusion that their relationship is headed for.

Rafe once believed in happily ever after, coming from a large Italian family. He’s got the Midas touch, since every endeavor he tries turns to gold. That all ends when his wife walks out the door and leaves him blindsided. His devastation quickly turns to steel when he decides no woman will fool him again. From that point on he treats relationships as nothing more than business transactions where both party’s come out mutually benefited.

Just when Ari has sunk to the lowest she’s ever been she finds an ad in the paper announcing a job that’s too good to be true. It turns out she’s right. She makes it through the intense rounds of interviews only to find out the job is for a mistress to the powerful Rafe Palazzo, owner of Palazzo Enterprises. Rafe gives her a day to think about whether she wants the position or not, and she’s sent on her way, only to find out her mother’s near-terminal position has taken a turn for the worse. Her mom’s only in the hospital because Ari messed up, and her mother’s the one who paid the price. Is Rafe her savior, or will he take her with him straight to the depths of hell?

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Romance

Rating – 18+

More details about the author

Connect with Melody Anne on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.melodyanne.com/

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Orangeberry Book of the Day - Too Many Secrets (Cleo Sims Mysteries) by Lynn Osterkamp

Chapter 1

December 11

Waves of nausea overwhelmed me as I rushed into Turley’s Restaurant at noon that icy December day. A blast of hot air smelling of fish, burgers, onions and such sent me careening to the ladies room to avoid puking on the dining room floor. Amazingly, once I was inside the safety of the stall, I managed to avert the worst, containing my sickness to dry heaves. I hurried out to the sinks to make myself presentable for my lunch meeting with Bruce, the local dot-com millionaire who funds an experimental project that is a major part of my grief-therapy practice. I was a wreck. I'd had a miserable morning, I was late to a meeting with Bruce who prizes promptness, and my shaky queasiness exacerbated my anxiety about why Bruce had summoned me.

As I calmed my breathing and dabbed at my face with a wet paper towel, the ladies room door flew open, letting in a tall blond woman wearing designer jeans and a red ribbed turtleneck, topped with a necklace of multicolored glass beads. My best friend Elisa, looking stunning as always. We both jumped in surprise, then she darted over and enveloped me in a welcome hug. “Cleo? Honey, you look under the weather. Is the morning sickness getting worse?”

“Shhh,” I said. “Let’s not spread the news all over Boulder.” I wasn't ready to tell the world about my pregnancy, since I was only three months along, and Pablo and I aren’t married. So far Elisa and Pablo are the only ones who know.

Elisa pulled back, looking up and down the room. “Sorry for the blabbing, but you know me. Sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain. The good news is it looks like we’re alone in here. Now let’s fix you up a little,” she said, straightening my sweater. She grabbed a comb out of her bag and worked some magic on my hair.

I felt better right away. Elisa is like a big sister to me. The kind of sister who knows how to do stuff you don't, but never makes fun of you. She just helps.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I said, “but I have to run. I’m already late for my lunch meeting with Bruce.” I headed for the door.

Elisa waved me on. “Oh—you’re meeting Bruce! Well hang in there, honey, and call me later with the scoop.”

Back in the dining area, I scanned the room a couple of times. Didn’t see Bruce. Deep breath. Maybe I’m not as late as I thought? But no, there he is sitting with a petite dark-haired woman in a booth next to a brick wall. Unexpected. Bruce is a brilliant guy who works all the time. Divorced. No social life. Who is this woman and why did he bring her?

I hustled over to their table and slid into the booth across from them, my mind on autopilot running through possible menu choices that my gut would be willing to tolerate. “Sorry to be late,” I muttered, hoping my winning smile would distract from my tardiness. “Good to see you, Bruce.”

“Hi, Cleo, I thought you forgot. This is my sister, Gayle. She needs your help.”

Whew! A relief on that score. Good to know he hadn’t summoned me to talk about problems with the funding for my Contact Project.

Gayle gave Bruce a poke. “Whoa, Bruce. This isn’t a computer-programming job. It’s personal. Let’s take a few minutes before we dive in.”

“Okay, let’s order first, then talk,” he said, burying his face in the menu.

As we perused our menus, Gayle’s cell phone rang. She answered, and jumped up. “No,” she said sharply into the phone. “That’s not acceptable.” She turned to us. “I have to take this,” she said. “Be right back.” She dashed toward the door, talking intently into the phone with her hand over her other ear to block the restaurant noise.

“Gayle’s a real estate agent,” Bruce explained. “Her phone is her life.”

We sat quietly looking at our menus. Bruce isn’t much of a talker. He’s a techie. Brainy, but basically shy. Even though he’s forty-five and a self-made multi-millionaire, his social skills aren’t well developed. He’s one of those guys who goes around looking at the floor or off into the distance so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. Small talk is definitely not his forte.

Gayle darted back across the room to our booth. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m ready to order if you two are.”

I took a last look at the menu. Turley’s trademark is its healthy food, and in addition to more traditional lunch and dinner entrees, they serve breakfast all day. Knowing I needed protein for the baby, I decided on a garden omelet with mushrooms, spinach, and tomato with toast on the side. Hoped I could get it down with the help of a ginger ale. Bruce ordered a buffalo burger with a side of fresh fruit, and Gayle ordered the sesame spinach salad with the dressing on the side.

“So like I was saying,” Bruce began as the waitress left to turn our orders in, “Gayle needs some help from you.”

I turned to her. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

She took a deep breath and launched in to her story. “You’ve probably heard about the woman who went missing from the Rainbow Lakes Campground in the Indian Peaks Wilderness area a few weeks ago.”

“I did,” I said. “Do you know her?”

Gayle looked down at the table silently for a couple of minutes, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of her problem was a burden too heavy to lift. When she finally looked up, tears streamed down her face. “She’s my best friend, Sabrina—or maybe I should say she was my best friend. She’s probably dead. But they can’t find her and we don’t know what happened to her and that’s even worse.” She wiped her face with a tissue, but her tears continued to flow.

Bruce put his arm around Gayle’s shoulders and hugged her. More empathy than I would have expected from him, but then again until today I didn’t even know he had a sister. All I know about Bruce is what he told me in his grief therapy sessions after his eighteen-year-old daughter died from a drug overdose. He’s such a private person, he would have never come for grief counseling except that his business partner—who saw how paralyzed Bruce was after his daughter’s death—insisted. Bruce’s relationship with his daughter had been stormy for several years before she died, and his deep regrets that they hadn’t made peace had intensified his grief.

Gayle continued wiping her face as she struggled to regain her composure. But I could see grief winning out. "Take your time," I said gently. "I know it's hard to talk about."

Her face crumpled. “I’ve cried so much in the past few weeks that I’ve made myself sick,” she sobbed. “I’m totally devastated about Sabrina.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and collected herself. “Okay. I’m ready to tell you the story,” she said quietly. “I was part of the group at the campground—there were six of us who’ve been friends for years. We each went off separately on our personal journeys and Sabrina never came back. We searched, the rescue groups searched, the dogs searched, the helicopter searched. But no one has found her. And now they’re calling off the search.” She closed her eyes and leaned back in her seat.

The waitress showed up with our lunch. I took a quick bite, which actually tasted good. Bruce spread mustard on his burger and bit in.

Gayle picked at her salad. “I was blown away when Bruce told me about your Contact Project—that he actually talked to his daughter Charlene after she died and how he resolved things with her,” she said, her voice perking up a little. “At first I didn’t believe him when he said you put him in your apparition chamber. It’s so unlike Bruce to have anything to do with the paranormal. He debunks everything. When he told me he reached Charlene, and they forgave each other and said goodbye, I knew it was real for him.”

Bruce put his burger down. “I don’t debunk everything,” he said.

“Ha!” Gayle said. “Remember when I played the DVD of that movie, What the Bleep Do We Know? for you last year? You went on and on about how it misrepresented science, that it was pseudoscience, and quantum mysticism. You weren’t open to it at all, even though so many people liked it that it’s made over $16 million.”

Bruce scowled. “Gayle, the science was unsupported and incorrect. New Age hogwash. One of their so-called experts turned out to be a 35,000 year-old spirit from Atlantis.” Bruce gave her a self-satisfied grin as he speared a chunk of pineapple with his fork and returned to eating.

She laughed and gave him another poke. “Bruce, I’ve told you before, you totally missed the point. The movie is supposed to blow your mind, not engage it in an analysis. It’s about learning to become the creative force in your own life, instead of being a victim of circumstances. My friends and I have watched it over and over. We know group consciousness can change reality. If you looked up from your computer now and then, you’d see.”

They were off the track here, but I hesitated to break into habitual brother-sister banter. Also, I figured Gayle needed a few minutes to relax before we talked more about her missing friend. I focused on my lunch, thankful I could eat without gagging.

Bruce ignored Gayle’s jeers and turned to me. “Here’s the thing, Cleo,” he said. “Gayle needs to go into your apparition chamber and try to contact Sabrina to find out if she’s dead or alive. She needs to know and the sooner the better.”

Uh oh. As soon as Gayle said they didn't know whether or not Sabrina was dead, I should have guessed this was what Bruce wanted. But my apparition chamber is for grief-therapy clients who want to reach a loved one to resolve an issue, not for solving missing-person cases. I didn't want to refuse Bruce's request, but I had concerns about Gayle. “I understand that it’s hard not knowing what happened to your friend,” I said. “But the contact process may not make you feel any better.”

Gayle looked straight into my eyes. “It’s not about how I feel,” she said intensely. “It’s about how Sabrina’s sister Brandi has taken over Sabrina’s house and her son Ian. Sabrina would be furious. She expressly didn’t want that to ever happen. If she’s dead, everything is in trust for Ian, and I’m Ian’s guardian. But Brandi jumped in as soon as Sabrina went missing, and right now she has control. So I need to know if Sabrina is dead or alive.”

“I’m not sure the contact process can answer that question,” I said. “You could try to reach her, but if you do, it wouldn't constitute legal proof of her death, and if you don’t, that doesn’t mean she’s alive.”

Bruce broke in. “Actually I’d already thought of that,” he said. “I want you to do a thorough job. If Gayle can’t reach Sabrina, then the other women who were up there should try. In fact, why not start by meeting with all of them and telling them about the process. Get some of that group consciousness going. I’ll pay for your time—whatever it takes.”

Before I had a chance to think about how else to voice my reservations, Bruce slid out of the booth, stood up, and picked up his coat. “I have to go. You two can go on from here. Gayle can keep me updated.” He nodded at us and headed for the door.

“Oof!” Gayle said. “That’s my brother. Makes his point, and ducks out before the discussion gets complicated. But I suppose you’re used to his tactics.”

I shrugged. I'd have to go along, at least for a while. Not only had Bruce been very generous in funding my Contact Project, all he’d asked of me was that I operate professionally and that he remain anonymous as a funder. So even though the timing wasn’t ideal for me to get involved in a situation that smelled like trouble, I didn’t see any other options. “No problem,” I said. “Here’s my card. Call me and we can set up a time to talk more.”

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre - Mystery

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

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Orangeberry Blast Off – Sam’s Top Secret Journal: We Spy (Book 1)

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Sam’s Top Secret Journal – Book 1: Sam Spies by Sean Adelman. Join Sam as she embarks on her first big adventure in this middle-grade mystery full of fun, suspense…and just the right amount of spying! Sam is a middle school girl living a normal life-except when she is occasionally bullied for the differences kids perceive in her. Sam has Down syndrome. See how she and her brother John work together to find some stolen money, help a new friend and escape real danger in this exciting adventure!

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Middle Grade Mystery

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Sean Adelman on Facebook

Website http://www.raiseexpectations.com/

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Jack Templar and the Monster Hunter Academy: The Templar Chronicles: Book 2 by Jeff Gunhus

Jack Templar and the Monster Hunter Academy: The Templar chronicles: Book 2 - Jeff Gunhus

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - YA, Fantasy

Rating - PG

4.6 (14 reviews)

Free until 30 May 2013

After barely surviving the onslaught of monsters that tried to kill him the day before his fourteenth birthday, Jack Templar leaves his hometown on a quest to rescue his father and discover the truth about his past. Joined by his friends Will and T-Rex, and led by Eva, the mysterious one-handed monster hunter, Jack sets out for the Monster Hunter Academy where he hopes to find answers to his questions. Little does he suspect that the Academy is filled with dangers of its own, many of them more terrifying than anything he’s faced so far.

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Violent Season – Maj. Ray Gleason Ph.D. (Excerpt)

Chapter Two: “Soldiers of Christ”

By the time they had gotten to the eighth grade, Joey and Mick were no longer a duo, there was a third member of their entourage, Johnny Toussaint, or as he was sometimes called, Johnny Two Saints or Johnny T.

Johnny wasn’t one of the original gang. He had suddenly appeared among them in the fall of their sixth grade year. Now, having to integrate oneself into a group where the factions have already formed is difficult at best, but in Our Lady of Lourdes school yard, there was no place to hide. Without a gang, without someone to watch your back, Johnny had as much chance for long-term survival as a canary in a room full of starving cats.

Johnny T’s second problem was he was dark in a sea of pale Irish faces—even darker than the southern Italians and Sicilians. So, he stood out which, when you got no one to back you up, is never a good thing in Our Lady of Lourdes school yard.

Then, there was the English problem—Johnny didn’t speak it very well—in fact, he didn’t speak it at all.

Cast adrift in a sea of first, second and even third generation immigrant kids, speaking unaccented English—unaccented, that is, to a working-class New Yorker’s standard—was a necessary pedigree. Even the Irish kids right off the boat lost their brogues by the second grade. But, Johnny T didn’t just speak accented English; he really didn’t speak anything much resembling English at all.

The final blow came his first day in the sixth grade at roll call.

In Parochial school, the good sisters insist on using “formal” Catholic names, not street names. So, Joey Simon was “Joseph Simon,” because Joseph was a saint and the foster father of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Mickey Dwyer was “Michael Dwyer,” because Michael was an Archangel, beloved by God. So the entire sixth-grade class quickly learned that Johnny T’s formal, catholic name, pronounced according to the good sister’s south-end Boston accent, sounded like “Jean Mary Baptist Two Saint.”

This was seemingly the final nail in Johnny’s coffin. Not only was he a boy with two girl’s names, he was named “Two Saint.”

Then, as if matters couldn’t possibly have been made worse, the nun announced that Johnny and his family came from a place in the Caribbean called Haiti.

Now, the sixth-grade scholars of Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school, despite having studied geography since the fourth grade, had only a dim understanding about the Caribbean and had no idea about a place called Haiti. Some of them knew that at one time, and maybe still, the Caribbean had been infested with pirates. But, Johnny “Girl Names,” who was kind of dark, skinny and runty, didn’t look like no pirate to them.

Some of them knew that the Caribbean was a place where rich people went on vacation. But, Johnny “Two Saint” obviously wasn’t rich; rich people didn’t live in the parish. And, they certainly didn’t send their kids to Our Lady of Lourdes parochial school.

What they did know was the Puerto Ricans, who were moving into the upper west side of Manhattan by the thousands, came from somewhere in the Caribbean. And, the Cubans, who were buying up houses and apartment buildings all over Corona, were from somewhere in the Caribbean. They also knew that both Puerto Ricans and Cubans tended to be dark… some were actually Negroes… they had strange sounding names, and they didn’t speak English very well, if at all. They had heard their fathers and uncles refer to these people as “spics.”

Therefore, by the inescapable logic of the Our Lady of Lourdes school yard, the new kid, the outsider, was at least a spic, maybe a nigger, as their fathers and uncles had also said.

All this took less than an hour to process and spread throughout the school. Johnny T didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it through his first week in the school yard.

Except for Mickey Dwyer, and by necessary association, his best friend, Joey “the Jew” Simon, intervening.

THE VIOLENT SEASON is an epic, expansive collection of heroic short stories centered on the gripping experiences of three young men and their families during the Vietnam War. The book presents a ‘coming-of-age’ narrative that begins in the lush river valleys of upstate New York and on the streets of New York City and provides an insightful perspective of youth and innocence plunged into the crucible of war.

As well, it transcends the “good guys, bad guys” portrayal of human conflict by presenting its readers with a depiction of good people, Americans and Vietnamese, caught up in unthinkably grim and difficult circumstances. THE VIOLENT SEASON celebrates the resilience of the human spirit and its ability to triumph over the horror and tragedy of war.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Literary / Historical Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Orangeberry Book of the Day - Intoxicated by Alicia Renee Kline (Excerpt)

Prologue

“So you are really going ahead with the roommate thing?”  Matthew’s voice crackled over the telephone.

Blake wasn’t sure if her brother’s words were garbled due to her faulty cell reception or if they were laced with emotion.  She had, of course, announced with a flourish approximately six months ago that it had been the appropriate time in her life to purchase her own place.  Up until then, they had been roommates themselves.  But her wildly independent streak as well as a buyer’s market had persuaded her to take the leap into homeownership.  That and the fact that Matthew was still best friends with her ex.

She just never expected to feel so alone.

“Yes, I guess I am,” she replied as she paced her floor.

“And you’re sure about this?” he pressed.

Blake sighed.  No, not really.  But posting a room for rent online and actually having someone sign a lease for it were two entirely different things.  So what if someone was coming to look at the place tomorrow morning?  If things didn’t feel right, she could always lie and say that she had been fielding a lot of calls and that, unfortunately, she had chosen someone else.

“You’re not having money problems, are you?” he continued.

“No,” she responded quickly.  Now that had upset her a little bit.

“Just be careful.” Matthew warned.

Despite herself, Blake chuckled.  If anyone should be giving that advice, it should be the other way around.  Matthew’s indiscretions had been the whole reason that they themselves had been roommates.  Although it had been a terrible, uncomfortable time in both their lives, it had been the beginning of their beautiful friendship.  There was no one else that she trusted as wholly and completely as her brother.  Their past had forced them to lean on each other in a way she never would have imagined when she was younger, and they had ended up on the other side as better people for it.

Matthew either chose to ignore the giggle or he found the irony in the situation.  There was silence on the other end of the line until Blake whispered her response.

“Always am.”

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Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Romance / Chick Lit

Rating – PG13

More details about the book

Connect with Alicia Renee Kline on Twitter

Website http://aliciareneekline.com/

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Orangeberry Book Tours – The Woodpecker Menace by Ted Olinger

The Key Peninsula floats quietly through time in Puget Sound but exists more like an island in the hearts of her residents. Descendants of the first peoples and pioneers mingle with newcomers washed ashore from distant cities in these stories of small town life in a community too small to have a town.

Young homeowners grapple with the depredations of heartsick woodpeckers. Anarchist loggers nail indignant poems to roadside trees. Shamanic gardeners work to heal a damaged world one lawn at a time. Deceptively simple stories with deep feeling.

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Genre – Fiction / Short Stories

Rating – PG13

More details about the author

Connect with Ted Olinger on Facebook

Website http://www.woodpeckermenace.com/

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Review: Gabriela and The Widow by Jack Remick

Gabriela and The WidowGabriela and The Widow by Jack Remick
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

What were the main relationships explored in this book? Gabriela and Nando's relationship was interesting in so many ways. It wasn't a good relationship and it reflected the worst side of a human being but the way Remick uses this relationship to introduce and maintain the toads in the story, wow. The female relationships - Gabriela and Liah / Gabriela & La Viuda - were less hurting, a bit more complicated but were also filled with emotions and lessons that would make you think of the women in your life.

Are the characters rich and developed? When you read some books, you start to think about it should be like this or this character should have done that. This is one of the few books you won't be doing that. The characters are that good.

What is the time period in which the book happens? Doesn't give an exact time but it starts when Gabriela is 14. Despite the symbolism and somewhat ceremonius lives of Gabriela and La Viuda, this is a compelling story that must be read by anyone who likes drama.

Disclosure - As a Quality Reads Book Club member, I received a free copy of this book from the author via Orangeberry Book Tours in exchange for my honest review.


View all my reviews

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Orangeberry Book of the Day - For the Future Generations (For a Generation) by Anastasia Faith (Excerpt)

For the Future Generations

[Book 1 of the "For a Generation" series]
3.4.2113

Alamogordo, New Mexico

The sun set over Alamogordo, New Mexico and night fell in the desert. Thick black clouds shifted over the horizon, contrasting the orange sky above, and casting shadows on the barren landscape.

In one mound of sand and rock sat an underground house with a tan roof protruding from the top of the hill. The residents had built a door in the side of the roof. This remained locked during daylight hours. Inside this house, the Channing family had just finished their evening meal. The women in the family cleaned the last of the dishes, the father worked in his office, and a ten-year-old boy grew restless. The boy had a head of strawberry curls, a round face, and deep blue eyes.

He scampered down the hall and pounded on his father’s office chamber door. His father, Kelvin Channing, a college professor, would be grading the day’s homework or preparing assignments for the next school day.

“It’s Declan,” he called.

“Yes, Declan?” Kelvin answered through the door. “What do you want?”

“Laken, Chaslyn, and I want to go outside.” Declan said. “Is it safe?”

“It’s 8:00,” Kelvin said. “I don’t see why not. Remember to wear your coat.”

Declan glanced at the clock on his touch screen music device. He and his two sisters had to stay indoors until after dark because his sisters, being conjoined twins, were frowned upon in the eyes of the culture.

In Declan’s day, “handicapped” individuals were those who could not contribute financially. They required government assistance and were considered a burden to society. These handicaps could be something as simple as inseparable conjoined twins, or as severe as major cerebral palsy or quadriplegia. Benevolent medical professionals would simply deny them healthcare, while the majority would euthanize them, with or without a caretaker’s permission. At their doctor’s warning seven years before, Kelvin and Ayla Channing had relocated with their three-year-old triplets—Declan, Laken, and Chaslyn—from Kansas City, Missouri to a desert in New Mexico, hoping it would be safer. Several families who were close friends with the Channings had also come to ease the adjustment. They had scheduled their days so the triplets would be able to spend time with their friends at night.

Removing his coat from a hook near the front door, Declan slipped into it. His sisters came into the living room after they had finished cleaning the kitchen. They too were becoming restless, and the Alamogordo evening beckoned them.

“Did Dad give us permission?” Chaslyn asked.

Declan nodded and assisted Laken and Chaslyn into a special joining coat tailored for them, since they joined at one of their forearms. They piled into an elevator that led to the roof. The elevator opened, and Declan unlocked the door. They stepped out onto the sand and raced down the side of the hill to their “fort”, a crude structure constructed of logs stacked so they overlapped each other. As the evening progressed, the children’s friends arrived and joined in the imagination games.

Over their playing and laughter, Declan could hear a transporter door slam shut and then footsteps approaching. As they grew louder and came closer, Declan became increasingly concerned. All of their friends were with them, and others rarely visited the deserted area.

“Wait here,” he cautioned his sisters. “I’m going to see where that noise is coming from. Guys, keep your guard over them for just a minute.”

Fearing the worst, he left them in the fort and stole away to track the source of the footsteps. He scampered a few feet down the path behind their house. He saw a silhouette several feet in front of him, standing in the glow of a transporter’s headlights. As it came closer, he perceived a middle-aged man holding a flat nylon case.

“Who are you?” Declan demanded. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Declan, I can’t tell you much,” the man replied hurriedly, as if in a rush. “You need to trust me. My name is Mr. Wilcox; I’m a time traveler.”

Mr. Wilcox handed Declan the case. He unzipped it and found an electronic notepad. Opening a side compartment, he pulled out an automatically recharging payment card or ARPC for short. Declan searched his face for an explanation, both of the contents and of the fact this stranger knew his name.

“Keep this book a secret.” Wilcox instructed. “When the time comes, you’ll know who it’s for.”

“What about the ARPC?” He questioned. “Dad opened an account for my sisters and me, but only because he has a job; they’re linked to his. This card’s number isn’t the one on mine.”

“It will be in about thirteen years.” Mr. Wilcox said, “Remember, I’m a time traveler.”

Declan powered up the book so he could read the content, only to find it blank. He flipped it over in his hands and toyed with it, trying to discern why it would not grant him access. He pressed the bottom of the device. It squawked and a negating red light flashed.

“What happened?” He asked the man.

“I set the privacy so only the future recipient can open it. Underneath the electronic device is a fingerprint reader. It’s programmed for only my fingerprints and the person who will receive it.” Mr. Wilcox explained. “There’s an unlocked note at the beginning that I addressed to you.”

With these words, Mr. Wilcox vanished into the night and Declan focused his attention on the unlocked message.

“Declan Channing,” it instructed, “return to the place where you met me at 7 in the morning on May 1st, 2130, when you are twenty-seven. Bring this book with you. On June 30th of 2130, leave the ARPC I gave you—and your FBI badge—at the Indianapolis, Indiana branch of the bank where your account is.”

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Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Christian YA Fiction

Rating – PG

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Killer Abs: A Body (Pump) Horror Comedy by DR O’Brien

Twenty-something accountant Matt Warner enrols at an exclusive weight loss resort with his career on the line should he fail to shed the pounds from his paunchy frame.

Before long the accountant realises that his girth is the least of his problems as there is something deeply wrong with the Phoenix Resort where it’s no gain and all pain.

It’s a serving of full fat fear for the guests who must fight for their lives to survive the week.

Matt Warner is going to lose weight, or die trying.

Killer Abs is an 11,403 word short body (pump) horror comedy, with content for mature audiences.

Previous praise for the Author’s work:

“I think that you will enjoy the way Mr. O’Brien ties everything together and pits some of, if not the most famous characters in literature against each other. The story is fast paced with lots of action and adventure: a very enjoyable read and I wholeheartedly recommend it”
FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND

“Luckily for is it seems that D R O’Brien is tainted with just enough craziness to pull this task off. O’Brien has breathed new life into these well known and well loved characters. Thrilling, horrific, and funny at the same time which is no mean feat… O’Brien is a talented writer.”
GINGERNUTS OF HORROR BLOG

“Shakespeare’s characters duking it out with Lovecraft’s creatures? Sign us up immediately!
DREAD CENTRAL

“All very inventive, clever and ghoulishly entertaining… Bizarre, baroque and amusing…”
CONTAINS MODERATE PERIL

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Horror

Rating – 18+

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Orangeberry Book Tours – Gabriela and The Widow by Jack Remick

The Widow (La Viuda) is ninety-two years old. She lives in a house filled with photos and coins, jewels and a sable coat. Aware that her memory is failing but burning with desire to record the story of her life on paper, she hires Gabriela, a nineteen-year-old Mixteca from Mexico. Gabriela is one of the few survivors of a massacre and treacherous journey to El Norte. Gabriela and the Widow is a story of chaos, revenge, and change: death and love, love and sex, and sex and death. Gabriela seeks revenge for the destruction of her village. The Widow craves balance for the betrayals in her life. In the end, the Widow gives Gabriela the secret of immortality.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Women’s Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Jack Remick on Twitter

Website http://jackremick.com/

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Betty’s Child by Donald Dempsey

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“Heartrending and humorous.” Kirkus Reviews

“Highly recommended.” Dr. Alan Gettis, Ph.D., author of The Happiness Solution

“An unforgettable memoir.” San Francisco Book Review

In the tradition of Frank McCourt and Angela’s Ashes, Don Dempsey uses Betty’s Child to tell the story of life with his cruel and neglectful mother, his mother’s abusive boyfriends, and hypocritical church leaders who want to save twelve-year-old Donny’s soul but ignore threats to his physical well-being. Meanwhile, Donny’s best friend is trying to recruit Donny to do petty theft and deal drugs for a dangerous local thug.

Young Donny is a real-life cross between Huckleberry Finn and Holden Caulfield as he tells his story, with only his street smarts and sense of humor to guide him. Donny does everything he can to take care of himself and his younger brothers, but with each new development, the present becomes more fraught with peril–and the future more uncertain.

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG13

Connect with Donald Dempsey on Facebook

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Orangeberry Free Alert - Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) by Nageeba Davis

Artful Dodger - Nageeba Davis

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating - PG13

5 (4 reviews)

Free until 26 May 2013

Take one funny, wise-cracking artist, one gorgeous, sexy detective, throw in a grizzly murder, a little amateur sleuthing, and you have the makings of a wild, romantic, mis-adventure.
Art teacher and sculptor Maggie Kean thought she was having a rotten day, burning her toast, stubbing her toe, and all before eight in the morning. Things just couldn't get any worse. At least, until the dead body clogs up her toilet. To make matters worse, Maggie becomes the prime suspect. Now all she has to do is evade the police, clear her name, trap a killer...and deal with one mouth-watering, hunky detective who drives her crazy while making her hormones do the happy dance.

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The Tortoise Shell Code by V Frank Asaro (Excerpt)

The Tortoise Shell Code by V Frank Asaro (Excerpt 2)

Anthony stretched out on his beach towel and squinted out at the surf line. The breakers seemed unusually big today, even scary, shouldering in against an east wind, a desert wind, a Santa Ana. Three of his friends sprawled about him as if they’d been deposited there by a tidal wave: Joe Cruz, lanky and tan, resembling the great Portuguese bullfighter Carlos Arusa; John Parkins, chunky and already getting burnt, wearing the pathetic mustache he’d nursed along for six months; and Nate Adams, pale as the sand. They recharged themselves like solar panels in the rays of the sun.

A hundred yards offshore the green translucent tubes of seawater grew and fell over, smashing themselves into frothing heads that raced and collapsed toward Anthony in overlapping lines. As he shaded his eyes he noticed dark stains on the heel of his hand—blotted ink from the pages of his final exam blue book.

He and his friends had jogged to Black’s Beach from the UCSD campus, descending hundreds of steps carved into the sandstone cliffs before plunking themselves down on the sand north of La Jolla. He let his muscles absorb the warmth of the sun-struck Southern California air. The beach was almost deserted today: a weekday before tourist season. Within shouting range he saw only one small boy and his mother. The child played happily in the sand. Anthony had noticed that children instinctively started to draw pictures or build sand castles the moment they were turned loose on the shore. Man, the Great Modifier, always changing his physical surroundings to serve his needs or whims. Something seems to drive us to compete with nature, he thought. Or maybe we think we’re enhancing nature, cooperating with it.

John reached for their sandy Nerf football and bounced it off Nate’s head amidst a halo of sprayed grains. “Oooh,” he said, “The field goal hits the upright!”

Nate clutched the ball and jumped to his feet. “Go out, go out!”

He and John tore off down the beach, tossing passes back and forth against the wind.

“Not even playing with a real football,” Joe Cruz muttered into his beach towel.

Anthony chuckled and eased onto his back. The surf thundered and died, thundered and died, as rhythmic as breathing. We deserve this day—and the big party Joe’s throwing tomorrow night, too. Yet he couldn’t entirely relax. Couldn’t quite crowd out a certain uneasiness.

As if reading his mind, Joe said, “So are you going to take the scholarship or not?”

Anthony sighed. “I’d be a fool not to. Law school’s not cheap anywhere, but Berkeley? I’d be stupid not to accept.”

Joe sat up, his dark eyes pensive. “I thought Dr. Smith had you all lined up to stay here and get your Ph.D. in Poli Sci.”

“Yeah. He went out of his way for me. But the law appeals to me, too.”

“What about those published papers of yours in the school library? Or the book you were going to write about our trip to Costallegre last year?”

Anthony laughed. “Yeah. My Summer Vacation; or, How to Get Caught in a Failed Military Coup Without Really Trying. I don’t know; I might still write about that someday.”

“You wouldn’t have the time, judging from the young lawyers I’ve met”

“Hey, I’m not going to be just a lawyer any more than you’re going to be just a…what is it you’re going to be again?”

“Ha, ha. A tuna fishing mogul, even bigger than my dad.” Joe brushed sand off his arms. “Okay, what about the other little problem with going to Berkeley?”

“I knew you were going to get to that.” Anthony sat up. “I know Berkeley’s a long way off. I know it means Cheryl and I will have to split up for a while.” He pried a chalky clam shell up with his toes, grabbed it and spun it toward the water. “And she’s talking about marriage.”

Joe’s head turned. “Already? She doesn’t want to finish college first?”

“I guess not. She’s intelligent, but it looks like we have different goals right now. Not like you and Sylvia.”

“Well, I got lucky.”

“Lucky, hell. You knew what you wanted and went after it every step of the way.” Unlike the rest of the gang, Joe had already made his toughest decisions and done his hardest labor: worked nights so he could spend his days in school; put in his military time; got a job; got Sylvia; even got little Mikey. All he had to do now was relax and live his family life.

“True,” Joe said. “I am an incredible human being. But some of that planning was forced be circumstances beyond my total control.”

Anthony sighed. “The problem is, I think I’m seriously hung up on that girl.”

“If you let her out of your sight for long, you know who’s going to try to make a play for her.”

“No. No, she wants nothing to do with Egan. And besides…a while ago Egan started parking in front of Nelson’s Department Store when Cheryl got off work, trying to give her a ride even though she kept turning him down.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She didn’t want me to worry, so she didn’t tell me about it until last Saturday night, when we found something strange on her front porch.”

“What?”

“A red lantern—you know, the construction kind.”

“Wait. A red light? Are you kidding?”

“Egan seems to have some jealous fantasy going.” Or it just drives him crazy thinking Cheryl and I may be getting it on.

“Jealous fantasy? He’s sick, man. The guy needs to be taught a lesson.”

“No. I’m not stooping to his level, but I do intend to talk to him, face to face.”

“When?”

Anthony shrugged. “Egan hangs out at Oscar’s Drive-In. I’ll probably just stop by there some night.”

“Well, let me know if you’d like some company. I’ll never forget who got me and the guys through some tough classes over the last four years.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I can handle myself.”

“Not to belittle the NCAA wrestling you did, but Egan’s a gutter fighter. Plus he’s got a four-inch reach advantage and must outweigh you by twenty or thirty pounds.”

Anthony shook his head. “Look, I only want to talk to him. That’s all. I think he’ll talk.”

Joe grunted.

Suddenly Anthony was burning up. Nate and John were running back toward them, sand flinging off their bare feet. Anthony leaped up and raced toward them, Joe on his heels, and the four friends charged whooping into the surf. The abrupt cold zinged through Anthony as he dove over a series of incoming waves, then set off toward deeper water with powerful strokes. Far beyond the surf line he stopped, treading water and looking around for his friends.

A slimy blob slapped the back of his head. Whirling, he saw John, grinning as he reached for another bulb of giant kelp. Anthony beat him to it, whirled the brown tube over his head and let John have it across the back of the neck.

An arms raced ensued as the four friends battled over ever-larger pieces of kelp, forming first one alliance and then another. From shore they must look like a thrashing sea monster, Anthony thought.

That was when he noticed that the strip of beach had become nothing but a white line against the high sandstone cliffs. It wavered in the sun, inviting, like a mirage. We’ve really drifted out. “Last one in buys the beer!” he shouted.

He took the lead, stroking shoreward steadily and smoothly, ignoring the increasing tightening of his muscles, those of a grappler, too compact for swimming. He was relieved when he felt the first shore-bound swell pass beneath him; he’d catch the next one and body-surf the rest of the way in.

Suddenly he heard something, a faint cry. Then again: a pleading sound, not loud, but desperate. He stopped and raised his head, looking around as a wave rose beneath him. He saw John and Nate straggling along ten and fifteen yards behind him, their faces contorted, straining. And they were silent.

Where’s Joe?

The cry stretched across the water again. Anthony scissored his burning legs as hard as he could and scanned the incoming swells. A hundred feet out, an arm splashed and a dark glistening head briefly broke the surface.

“Joe!” Anthony put his head down and began swimming out again, powered by a blast of adrenaline. As he passed John and Nate he shouted, “Go back out! Help him!” But they continued thrashing toward shore as if they didn’t hear. Perhaps they hadn’t. Anthony realized they weren’t making much headway, and realized what was happening. They were in the grip of a rip current, a surge of water following sand channels outward against the surge, dragging everything within it toward the open ocean. This was a big one.

Traveling with the current, Anthony surged through the water like a kayak. He glimpsed a hand breaking the cresting surface several feet away, then dropping out of sight. Ducking underwater, blinking in the stinging gloom, Anthony breast-stroked downward. The surf’s thunder resonated around him, and through clouds of sweeping sand suspended in green he saw Joe, his dark eyes saucered, arms outstretched, his body five feet down and sinking in a stream of bubbles.

Anthony pulled down through the roaring turbulence and grabbed Joe’s arms; searched for and found a new flow of strength, and kicked hard to pull his buddy toward the surface. Into the light and air they burst, coughing and thrashing. “Just dog paddle,” Anthony croaked into Joe’s ear. “Don’t try to swim. Just dog paddle, Joe!” Joe choked up sea water, then an eruption of vomit.

“Don’t worry,” Anthony said. “I have you; I won’t let you go. Just relax and float.”

He knew the rule about rip currents: do not fight them; go with them, or go across them. But Joe’s face seemed blue and his breathing desperate. Anthony felt his own limbs tightening again as the adrenaline left his system. He could barely keep his head above water as it was; if his legs cramped they were both in big trouble. So he headed diagonally toward shore, swimming desperately with one arm dragging Joe along, lungs heaving, and salt burning inside his nose.

After a minute he cast an anxious look toward shore: was it any closer? Any closer at all? He couldn’t tell. Maybe not. A dark thought flickered through his mind: let Joe go and save yourself? He blocked it out. At that moment, failing Joe frightened him even more than dying. A split-second thought of Joe’s mother’s tragic face if Joe died, hit him.

Ignoring the shore, he kept kicking the egg-beater motion, and pulling. Kicking and pulling.

A wave crashed over them; Anthony struggled to keep his grip on his friend. Then another wave, bigger than the first. And then, to his bafflement, Joe became unaccountably light in his arms, a slight bounce up—and he felt his toes kick against hard-packed sand. The bottom; the bottom! Joe was taller. He released Joe, pushing him toward the beach but with the recoil he found himself surging back out to sea, the current stronger than ever, his body now tied up in a steel knot. His arms and legs simply no longer worked. Saltwater continuously seared his sinuses and a green translucent curtain enveloped him, closing out the sun.

Another breaker, pounding and thundering. Anthony felt trapped, caged in water. He found no up or down, just turbulence and the continuous rumbling. His body tumbled, flailed, and he felt his feet stub the bottom again. Now he thought of his mother. What tragedy would she bear if he drowned. With his last parcel of strength he bent his knees, pushed off against the sand and shot up, bursting through the surface, lungs opening in welcome relief to the air. Then down again. He pumped his arms and legs and managed to stay with the arching crest, bodysurfing or at least being propelled shoreward by the mass of incoming water. At last his feet caught the bottom again, firmly this time, and with all his muscles gathered and locked, he stood and staggered beachward. Slowly, agonizingly, he slogged the remaining fifty paces, up to warmth, and flopped onto the beach.

Joe lay coughing and gagging nearby. Farther up the beach, John and Nate did the same.

For a long time Anthony lay curled on the sand, too exhausted to talk or even think. Eventually he noticed Joe’s eyes fixed on him, black slits in the sun. Through brine-caked lips Joe croaked, “You saved my—”

“Forget it,” Anthony cut him off, as John and Nate were staggering toward them, faces sheepish. He had acted involuntarily, instinctively, he felt. Anthony couldn’t explain it. A fleeting flash of the story of the friend of his father came to him. The friend had been in the lead, competing in the Trans-Pac sailing race to Hawaii, when he heard the radio call of a boat in distress. The friend had selflessly turned his huge racer around, found the foundering boat, and rescued its entire crew—at the cost of sacrificing his win. It seemed as though it all came from nature’s bidding—perhaps an instinctive answer to a call for help.

“You would do the same for me,” he told Joe in a salt-roughened voice.

Nate and John threw themselves down nearby. For a moment nobody spoke, then John blew sand out of his drooping moustache. “Well, what do you say we go get those beers? Anthony has to pay; he was the last one in.”

To his astonishment, Anthony had enough strength left to laugh.

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Genre – Legal Drama

Rating – PG13

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Orangeberry Free Alert - American Ghoul by Walt Morton

American Ghoul - Walt Morton

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre - Horror

Rating - PG13

5 (12 reviews)

Free until 24 May 2013

AMERICAN GHOUL tells the story of seventeen-year-old Howard Pickman, a boy with odd problems. He just got dumped into the worst high school in the state of New Jersey, but that's nothing compared to his secret family history of digging up corpses for dinner. This is a novel filled with the creepy funkiness of the 1970s, a bygone age of punk rock, bad disco and muscle cars roaring through hot summer nights. AMERICAN GHOUL explores the good times of teenage friendships and the darkness at the heart of American youth. It's a fun, scary, and zany look at a time when being a teenager was so dangerous you just might have to be a monster in order to survive.

AMERICAN GHOUL is recommended for readers from age 13+ on up. If you lived through the 1970s, a few flashbacks are guaranteed, both pleasant and shocking.

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Author Interview – Keira Michelle Telford

Who is your favorite author and why? I have several, but Oscar Wilde features prominently. The Happy Prince was one of the first stories I remember reading as a child. It was certainly the story from my childhood that stuck with me the most.

Can we expect any more books from you in the future? I hope so! There are 3 more books yet to come in the SILVER Series. The 7 books already released are collectively called The Amaranthe Chronicles, and the series completes with The Outlier Trilogy, coming later this year.

Have you started another book yet? I’m currently working on a new trilogy. The Prisonworld Trilogy – comprised of The Magistrate, The Procuress, and The Grifters – is something new for me. Set in neo-Victorian London several hundred years in the future, this dystopian, steampunk-esque romp through the streets of London’s East End centers on the complicated relationship between two women who desperately want to be with one another, even though homosexuality is strictly outlawed. To find out more about this new trilogy as details are released, visit: www.carmenwild.com

Where do you see yourself in five years? Hopefully much the same as now, except maybe writing at a proper desk instead of a footstool in the living room. It’s where I see myself in thirty years that’s really scary, ‘cause by then, I’ll be a crazy recluse living with a hundreds of guinea pigs and only leaving the house at night.

Do you have any advice for writers? Write what you love. Don’t compromise for anybody, and don’t be afraid to tell it like it is. If graphic language suits the text, don’t water it down to make it more palatable for the masses. If the story gets gruesome, then so be it – don’t tame it for fear of offending a potential reader or two. The trick is knowing what’s appropriate for the work, and that’ll start to come naturally with practice.

What do you do to unwind and relax? Writing and relaxing are one and the same to me, but petting a guinea pig can also be pretty soothing. That’s why I have 9 of them.

When you wish to end your career, stop writing, and look back on your life, what thoughts would you like to have? End my career? Stop writing? What? These words are foreign to me.

 

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Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – 18A

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Orangeberry Book of the Day - The Hunter’s Son by BE Jewell

Chapter 2

“You know who I am and you know what he is, so you better start talking. I saw him come in here earlier.” The stocky man slams his hand down on the table. He keeps his eyes locked forward and squeezes his hand, making the veins in his forearm pop.

This elicits the desired response, and James has to fight back a smile. The owner of the grungy little shop nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the hand slamming on the dirty laminate counter top. It’s the typical type of place a sympathizer might own. Funneling black market goods might pay the bills, but this guy certainly isn’t getting rich off this line of work.

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. So you better buy something or…” James’s hand shoots out and grabs the shop owner’s neck. A slight squeeze cuts off his voice with a gargle.

“Don’t you lie to me. The smell in here is enough to make me puke. One warlock doesn’t smell up a joint like this,” James says through gritted teeth. “I saw him leave here earlier and have been chasing him since. I lost him when he jumped off the fifth floor of the parking garage over on Beaubien Street and took off toward the river. Tell me where he stays and maybe I’ll let you live.”

He squeezes just a bit tighter and the shop owner’s eyes bulge just slightly from his now-purple face. A noise squeaks from his collapsing throat that sounds enough like agreement to allow James to release his grip. The shop owner rubs the red area where the incredibly strong hand was affixed and clears his throat loudly.

“He’s gonna kill me. Ya know it’s true, hunter,” the shop owner says in his new, gravelly voice.

“Either him or me.” James opens his jacket and taps the gun sticking out of his waist band. Surprisingly, this doesn’t get a rise out of the man behind the counter.

“That supposed to scare me? You know what that warlock can do. He’s not normal. The things he will do to me will hurt far worse than getting shot. Maybe I should just let you shoot me and get it over with.”

James looks at the mousey man and puts his hand on the butt of his gun. The man might be afraid of the warlock but he is clearly more afraid of dying. He can barely stop the words from spewing from his mouth.

“Alright, alright. Ya better get him though, or we’ll both be dead. He hangs out in Milliken Park down on the river. It’s off Atwater Street. Not that I care if you live, but you better be careful, hunter. Like I said, this warlock is different. Got some powers I haven’t seen in a long time.”

“Oh, dontcha worry about me. Believe it or not I know what I’m doing.” James walks to the door. “And if he isn’t there, I’ll be back. No need to worry.”

The air outside the shop is cool, even for September in Michigan. James regrets not dressing warmer. His body shivers, partly from the cold but mostly from frustration. He does not usually have this much trouble and rarely has to run like he has today. The air burns his lungs like he is breathing boiling coffee. The money he was paid isn’t worth all the trouble this warlock has given him and the thing doesn’t look much older than JC. Should have asked for hazard pay, he thinks to himself.

James heads down the street toward the area he believes is the park. His mind is preoccupied with thoughts of JC and his first day at yet another high school. He bumps into an older couple walking with bags of groceries. Cans and boxes scatter all over the sidewalk. He scrambles to help the folks clean up their food and moves on quickly. He can’t let anyone get a good look at him. If things get ugly with the warlock, he can’t have the local news putting his description on TV.

He generally prides himself on staying anonymous. No one will mistake him for a body builder, but James is sure that most people would not want to run into him hiding in an alley unless they have some sort of power. Despite his stocky frame, there is nothing particularly striking about James. Most would say he looks fairly ordinary. Not strikingly handsome but not ugly either. He could be an accountant when he isn’t wearing army cargos and a black hooded sweatshirt. Hopefully the old couple was so startled they forget everything about him.

It’s nearly dark when James reaches the park. The acidic stench of the warlock hangs on the air and almost ruins the beautiful park set inside the city. The park is completely out of place. Trails lead in every direction and trees line numerous lush green clearings. It would be easy to forget about being in the city altogether.

James heads toward a raised walkway at the edge of the river, letting his nose show him the way. This would be the perfect place for a warlock to hide out. Plenty of space to watch potential victims. It would be easy to snatch someone, drag them into the woods and perform a spell without anyone seeing. Wouldn’t matter how elaborate the ritual, the trees would provide ample cover. One day having a nice picnic in the park, the next kidnapped and waking up to a nightmare–a warlock having stolen their identity or, worse, having made them do terrible things all while they were completely unaware.

This sentiment makes James shudder. He shakes his head and moves further up the river walk. The cold has driven most people out of the park. Only a few people stroll down the walkway, fighting the strengthening breeze. About fifty yards ahead, James sees someone that sparks his interest.

Sitting alone on a bench is a young-looking man wearing an oversized coat. James stops and breathes deeply, but the wind at his back makes it hard to tell if the warlock is close. He takes a step forward and the man bolts off the bench. James rips the gun from his waist and levels it at the young man.

He begins to squeeze the trigger but feels a rumble under his feet. Before he knows it, his shoes are no longer touching the ground. The river walk crumbles into the water below. He hits the water with arms and legs still trying to find steady ground. He surfaces as quickly as possible, gasping for air.

Thankfully, the water is still warm from the summer. James looks up and sees a huge hole in the walkway twenty feet above him. He looks around, sees a ladder 100 yards down the river and lets the slight current drag him toward it.

The wind bites at him as he reaches the top rung and pulls himself onto the walkway. He strips off his soaked hooded sweatshirt and scans the area. He sees movement in the distance between some trees and reaches instinctually toward his waist for his gun but comes up empty. He stares into the river knowing his favorite piece is long gone.

He turns and walks away from the tree line, back toward the city. He doesn’t know what to do without his gun. Hunting has evolved in the last 200 years or so to the point that he has become reliant on shooting as an answer to his problems. It’s no longer necessary to burn a witch, and using a pail of water always had its problems, anyway. Fire does a fine job just like it would with any animal, but a bullet does the trick a lot easier. It takes a hunter a long time to realize they do not need to stock up on garlic and wolfsbane to ward off evil spirits. Silver bullets do work a bit better than the junk from the sporting goods store and nothing beats a wooden stake up close, but who really wants to get that close? Plus, there isn’t always time to drive a stake in the ground or spread a salt ring to protect yourself.

The problem is everyone thinks witches and warlocks are busy running around a castle in England fighting bad wizards with wands, but that just isn’t true. If people knew how heartless these creatures are, they wouldn’t let their kids dress up like them on Halloween or stand in line to see movies glorifying them.

James moves quickly away from the park, putting as much distance between himself and the warlock as possible. After ten blocks, he sees an alley and ducks in to rest and get his bearings. This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. It’s just a young warlock, he thinks to himself as he crouches next to a dumpster.

A few smaller trashcans help hide his position but are too small to hide his broad shoulders. He sits down on the dirty ground and takes in his surroundings. He could not have picked a worse place. This is the kind of alley even a bum wouldn’t sleep in. Whoever is dumping trash here doesn’t care if it ends up in a dumpster or not. At least the smell of rotten fish is a welcome change from the warlock.

Something crashes off to his left and James shakes his head to clear the cobwebs. He glances down the alley but nothing appears out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of kids horsing around out on the street. A boy picks his grimy body up off the ground and starts after his friend. James’s heart beats way too fast and he takes a deep breath. It rolls out of his mouth like smoke and he pats the area where his gun should be again.

“Getting way too old for this. I guess this will have to do,” he whispers as he slowly pulls the six inch blade from his boot.

Suddenly, his nostrils fill with a depressingly familiar smell. Even the rotting fish in the dumpster can’t cover it up. He looks around but sees no one in the alley. His body tenses at the eerie lack of movement out on the street. People should be moving about at this time night, especially in a busy town like this. Maybe they are all down the street a bit. Daylight is gone now and he cannot see much beyond the edge of the buildings. That smell is strong. It seems to come from all around him. He inches slowly around the trashcan and into the alley. He turns toward the main street at the end of the buildings and takes one step forward, quickly glancing over his shoulder.

A blinding pain shoots through James’s throat as a thin, but incredibly strong, forearm slides around it. He lets out a terrified yelp for the first time in years as he loses the grip on his knife. It clanks on the concrete like a church bell ringing. James struggles to get out of the warlock’s grasp. He can feel its hot breath on the back of his head and the smell begins to burn his nostrils. If he could breathe, he would puke. James’s head whips back and he can see an old, broken fire escape above him. He did not notice it before. Such an obvious hiding spot, he can’t help but think.

“What do you want with me, hunter?” The warlock hisses in his ear.

Rancid breath fills his nose, and he can feel heat radiating off of the warlock’s body. He does not understand why the warlock would have a conversation at this point. He has been shooting at it all day. He did not hesitate to try to kill, why would this creature give him this type of courtesy? If he could get to his knife he would stab straight through the thing’s heart. Instead of killing him, the warlock is more concerned with James’s job description. Compassion is not their strong suit. No negotiating with a hunter or with a monster. The rules of war are being broken. The forearm begins to release a little pressure in anticipation of his answer and he gasps for air. His lungs are really on fire now.

“It’s nothing personal. Just a job,” he chokes before the blinding pressure returns to his throat.

James sees the witch’s mark on the creature’s forearm move as the muscles strain to block air from his lungs. Curious things, those marks. Often they look like any ordinary tattoo, with criss-crossing in varying patterns depending on the clan. This particular one is in the shape of the letter “Y” with two lines running through the curved stem. It is the only way to be certain that you have a witch or warlock on your hands and not just an extraordinarily smelly person. Every one of these creatures is born with the little symbol. It really would be fitting if this mark is the last thing he ever sees.

“JUST A JOB,” the warlock snarls. “IT’S NOT A JOB, THIS IS MY LIFE! You hunters seem to think you are the only things on the planet with a life. I did nothing to no one. Understand that? You need to learn that things bigger than you are going on all the time. Maybe in the future you won’t be so quick to shoot at someone who isn’t bothering you or your family. Next time the consequences might be far worse than today. Next time I will rip your heart from your chest. Believe me, I better not see you ever again.”

Everything goes black as something thuds against James’s head.

image

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Genre – YA Supernatural Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Connect with BE Jewell on Twitter

Website http://www.jewellbe.com/

Blog http://jewellbe.blogspot.com/

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