Title: The Peruke Maker: The Salem Witch Hunt Curse
Author: Ruby Dominguez
Publisher: Outskirts Press
Genre: Horror
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

THE PERUKE MAKER – The Salem Witch Hunt Curse is a compelling and suspenseful story that focuses on the infamous Salem Witch Hunt Curse, an ancient and evil practice which is unearthed from necromancy and violates the course of natural events in a modern day world.

Inspired by true events, The Peruke Maker is a well researched screenplay about the spiritual and emotional journeys of Bridget Cane, a stunning 17th century red haired beauty, and Sarah, a thoroughly 21st century woman. Their paths become inextricably bound across time and space as Thomas Cane’s vengeful curse continues to threaten the virtuous during this relentless quest for an avenger of innocent blood.

Like the book’s 21st century time traveler, Sarah, the author’s readers are introduced to this earlier, frightening world by the startling image of Bridget Cane, scantily clad, frozen in fear, her own imminent death portended by the Banshee’s bloodcurdling cries, set against the background of a witch hunt that has reached a feverish pitch in a society where the fear of sorcery and the devil is as real as God.

The story builds with heightened tension and conflict and fittingly ends in present day New York City when Sarah’s journey ultimately comes full circle as Michael’s love for her triumphs over the evil she must face in 17th century Salem. The suspense leading to her final redemption climaxes in a dramatic and magical act of rebirth which transcends the grave at the exact stroke of midnight on the Autumnal Equinox.

This is a beautiful illustration which captures the very essence of what this story is all about: love and forgiveness.

Prologue

The wig advertisement on a website cuaght my attention, and it read: “Wigs made from 100% hand tied human hair, grown, and harvested from reliable and youthful donors.”
An eerie sense crawls up my spine. But I ordered one anyway, and it came in a beautiful golden box, to my delight. Excitedly, I positioned the wig on my head and applied red lipstick on, while Mudd my pet dachshund curiously spies from under the bed. Appreciating my reflection in the mirror, I somehow lost track of time, have fallen into a deep slumber and dreamed…

The pale moon peeks at the seams of dark foreboding clouds. My long red hair flowing in the wind. Clad in a bloodstained sheer white lingerie, running barefoot after Mudd across the field. Mudd is running farther away, streaked with blood stains.

I ended before a big arch wooden door and knocked frantically, calling out for my father’s help. The door opens and I find Mudd next to him. Breathlessly I asked, “Father, what’s wrong with Mudd?” Mystifyingly I hear his mind speak, “It’s not blood, it’s ink.”

The author, Ruby Dominguez, is challenged by the conflicting complexities of the past and future. Undeterred, she strokes with pen the somber and bright hues of her visions.

THE PERUKE MAKER, inspired by true events, is a meticulously researched screenplay that is laced with relevance and substance. We follow the unforgettable spiritual and emotional journey of BRIDGET CANE, a stunning 17th Century woman and SARAH, a product of the 21st Century who are inextricably bound together in a tenuous journey that comes full circle.

The banality of evil which pervades 17th Century Salem, Massachusetts is captured by the screenwriter with penetrating insight as we follow one young woman’s deadly encounter with the forces of Good and Evil. This compelling journey is deftly played against a storyline that has meaningful things to say about the inherent vulnerability of the human condition.

You can visit Ruby’s blog at www.salemcurse.wordpress.com.

Author: Kathleen Crawley
Title: Colonel Trash Truck
Publisher: Big Tent Books
Genre: Children’s Picture Book
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

Kids love trucks and are most familiar with the truck that visits their house every week – the garbage truck.  So, there is no better way to teach them to respect the environment than to introduce them to Colonel Trash Truck – a likable, fun-loving hero who is extremely focused about his mission to win the garbage war.  He sees the world and nature as a beautiful gift that we all need to appreciate and protect.  Colonel Trash Truck believes cleaning up trash and recycling is something we all must do and he wants nothing more than to have kids join him in his quest. Now’s the time to become a member of his Clean and Green Team! KARUNCH!

“He may be loud, but he is proud. Colonel Trash Truck is his name. He’s here to defeat the enemies of neat and clean up without blame. From street to street, he sweeps and sweeps to keep our neighborhood clean. From dawn to dusk, clean up he must to make our world stay green.”

Kathleen Crawley has been an advertising executive for over fifteen years.  She resides with her husband Ronald Thomson in Redondo Beach, California.  She is a native Californian having graduated from UCLA with a B.A in sociology.  Colonel Trash Truck is her first book.  About writing for children, Kathy says, “I have a number of books I want to write for kids because I think children are fascinating.  They are open, creative, and interested in everything; they bring out the kid in me.” 

You can visit Kathleen online at www.coloneltrashtruck.com

 Author: Joan Hochstetler
Title: One Holy Night
Publisher: Sheaf House
Genre: Contemporary fiction/Women’s fiction
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

An unforgettable story of forgiveness and reconciliation, One Holy Night retells the Christmas story in a strikingly original way—through the discovery of a baby abandoned in the manger of a church’s nativity scene. Destined to become a classic for all seasons, One Holy Night deals compassionately with the gritty issues of life—war and violence, devastating illness, intergenerational conflict, addictions, and broken relationships. This moving, inspirational story will warm readers’ hearts with hope and joy long after they finish reading.

Prologue
November 19, 1966

Mike McRae dropped his battered duffel bag on the concrete floor and glanced through the bank of windows to where the wide-bodied army transport sat waiting on the snow-dusted tarmac. Waiting to take him and his buddies halfway around the world to war.

Viet Nam.

The name hung between him and his family as they gathered in the spare, unadorned military terminal, trying to pretend that this trip was nothing out of the ordinary. But it seemed to Mike almost as if he were gone already, that he had moved beyond the point where he could reach out to touch them. Their faces, loved and familiar, blurred before his eyes as though he looked at them through a mist.

His father cleared his throat before shoving a dog-eared, plain, tan paperback book into Mike’s hands. “Thought you might be able to use this sometime,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You and Julie used to like to sing some of these old songs when you were kids. Remember?”

Mike looked down at the book he held. It was his father’s old service hymnbook that he’d gotten as a young Marine at Sunday worship aboard a ship headed out to the South Pacific during World War II. Frank McRae wasn’t much of one to attend church, and the gift surprised Mike. Maybe spiritual things meant more to his father than he had thought.

It evidently surprised his mother too. “Oh, Frank, I didn’t think you paid any attention. Julie taught you those songs when you were just a toddler,” she added, lightly touching Mike’s shoulder. “The two of you sounded like little angels” She stopped, her voice choking.

Mike could feel the heat rising to his face. To cover his embarrassment, he flipped open the worn cover and stared down at the inscription on the title page. No date, just the owner’s name: Frank McRae.

It was Mike’s turn to clear his throat. There was suddenly a lump in it despite his skepticism about anything that had to do with faith or religion.

“Well . . . cool. Thanks.”

Blinking back an unexpected prickle of tears, he glanced over at his mother, Maggie, who was thin and wan from surgery and chemotherapy for ovarian cancer. His sister, Julie, hovered near her, still in her white nurse’s uniform after coming straight to the airport from the hospital where she worked. Behind her stood her husband, Dan, holding their daughter, Amy.

“I know you’ve got a lot to carry already, but”

Mike waved his father’s words away. “It isn’t heavy, Dad, and who knows. You lugged it through all those battlefields, and you made it home. Maybe it’ll bring me good luck too.”

On impulse, he pulled a pen out of the breast pocket of his fatigues, clicked it open and added his name below his father’s, added the date too. Squatting down, he zipped open his bag and squeezed the hymnal in among his clothing.

When he straightened, his mother stepped forward to give him a fierce hug. “When you get there let us know you’re okay and what unit you’re assigned to. Write as often as you can.”

“I will, Mom.” He struggled to keep his voice from choking up. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“You get well, okay?” he whispered in her ear.

“I will. I’m going to beat this cancer, God willing.”

Inwardly Mike sighed, though for her sake he managed not to grimace. He and his mom had always been close, but he got awfully tired of all this God talk. On the other hand, if there really was a benign force somewhere out there in the universe, he supposed prayers couldn’t hurt.

Julie crowded in to put her arms around him as well. “I’m sure going to miss you, little brother.” She was crying openly, not making any attempt to brush away her tears.

“Aw, you’re going to be too busy with this little princess to think about me,” Mike returned awkwardly, reaching over to tickle three-year-old Amy under the chin.

She leaned out from her father’s arms, reaching for him. Dan surrendered the child, and she wound her arms around Mike’s neck, nestled her golden head against his shoulder, giggling, as he tugged on her braid.

Mike was relieved to see that Amy, at least, seemed not to comprehend the dangers he was heading toward or the length of the separation that lay before them. He turned to clasp Dan’s hand in a handshake he hoped would say everything he couldn’t.

Dan pushed his hand away and embraced him without speaking, pounding him on the back at the same time. Only Frank held back, frowning, as he stared through the windows at the plane.

Outside Mike could hear the engines revving up, signaling that it was time to board. The last of his buddies were heading outside. Hastily handing Amy back to Dan, Mike kissed his sister and mother, shook his father’s hand, then zipped up his parka and grabbed his duffel bag.

“Thirteen months,” he said, forcing a grin. “See you all back here next Christmas.”

“Don’t forget to tell Terry hello from all of us. Remind him Angie and the kids want him to stay safe and to hurry home. Give him a kiss from Angie,” Julie added with a wicked grin.

“Yeah, right!” Mike chuckled in spite of himself, then hefted his bag. “It sure will be good to see a friendly face when I get there. With luck, I’ll end up in Terry’s platoon.”

“It’ll be more than luck,” his mother said. “I’m going to pray about it. And we’ll be praying every minute until you’re home safe with us again.”

Mike gave her a crooked smile, then with a quick wave to all of them, turned and strode out the door and across the tarmac. By sheer willpower he kept his stride steady, refusing to let himself turn to look back at them. He knew that if he did, he’d never make it to the plane.

Every step of the way he could sense their eyes following him, and their love. When he reached the stairs, he ran up them, not letting himself think about what he was leaving behind or what lay before him.

Hurriedly he moved through the open door into the plane’s dim interior, feeling, like the severing of an embrace, the moment when he disappeared from their sight.

J. M. Hochstetler writes stories that always involve some element of the past and of finding home. Born in central Indiana, the daughter of Mennonite farmers, she graduated from Indiana University with a degree in Germanic languages. She was an editor with Abingdon Press for twelve years and has published four novels. Daughter of Liberty (2004), Native Son (2005), and Wind of the Spirit (March 2009), the first three books of the critically acclaimed American Patriot Series, are set during the American Revolution. One Holy Night, a retelling of the Christmas story set in modern times, is the 2009 Christian Small Publishers Fiction Book of the Year and a finalist for the 2009 American Christian Fiction Writers Long Contemporary Book of the Year.

Hochstetler is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Advanced Writers and Speakers Association, Christian Authors Network, Middle Tennessee Christian Writers, Nashville Christian Writers Association, and Historical Novels Society. She and her husband live near Nashville, Tennessee. 

You can find Joan online at www.jmhochstetler.com or at this book’s blog http://oneholynight.blogspot.com

 Author: Garasamo Maccagnone
Title: For the Love of St. Nick
Publisher: BookSurge
Genre: Fiction/Christmas Fiction
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

Two California boys, coping with the loss of their mother, find themselves uprooted when their father, a Navy Commander, is transferred to a base in Northern Michigan. With the youngest boy continuously sick, the family must survive military life and the northern elements as they dwell in their little hunter’s cabin on Lake Huron. When the boys’ father must leave prior to Christmas to fulfill his secret mission for the United States Military, the boys are surprised by a chance encounter that saves a life, and reunites a family.

Typically, when Johnny wasn’t feeling well, I tried to lift his spirits by telling him stories about mom and dad. The commander, vigilant in his hope to preserve mother’s memory, told many of the tales to me. In our old home, I sat on his lap on many nights while he showed old photographs of their courtship days or read me letters mother had written when the two were briefly apart.

Johnny’s favorite story was about the little game mom and the commander played on me on Saturday mornings – the mornings I knew cartoons were on. Since the television sat up high on top of a dresser, they were the only two who could turn it on. To wake them, I stood at the end of their bed and tickled their feet with a wild turkey feather. When I tickled the commander’s big ugly calloused foot my mother laughed. When I tickled my mother’s smooth petite foot the commander laughed. Every time I told Johnny that story he smiled, even if he had a high temperature.

Before falling asleep, Johnny often asked me about our mother. One time, using my nickname, he said, “Tiger, tell me how purdy mommy was.”

Our favorite photograph of mother was placed on the fireplace mantel. We called it the “Big Rock Picture” since she was standing on a giant rock while taking a break from a hiking expedition in New England. From my viewpoint, Mother was looking directly into my soul. The autumn wind played with her long blonde hair and she was smiling, smiling like she was so sure of herself, so confident, so healthy and vibrant. It was a smile I kissed a thousand times during the tender moments of my dreams.

“See Johnny, see how pretty she was?” Johnny took the picture from me and kissed and held it to his chest.

“Mommy will protect me tonight,” he said to me. Then he added, “Love you Tiger.”

“I love you more ya big dope,” I retorted back.

“You think mommy got on that big rock with a hoptacopter?”

By the time I got around to explaining how mother ended up on the giant rock, Johnny was fast asleep.

Garasamo Maccagnone studied creative writing and literature under noted American writers Sam Astrachan and Stuart Dybek at Wayne State University and Western Michigan University. A college baseball player as well, Maccagnone met his wife Vicki as a junior at WMU. The following year, after injuring his throwing arm, Maccagnone left school and his baseball ambitions to marry Vicki. After a two year stint at both W.B. Doner and BBDO advertising agencies, Maccagnone left the industry to apply his knowledge of marketing in a new venture in an up-and-coming industry. Maccagnone created a company called, “Crate and Fly,” and turned it from a store front in 1984 to a world-wide multi-million dollar shipping corporation by 1994.  

In the mid 90’s Maccagnone decided to fulfill the promise of his writing career, by first penning the children’s book, The Suburban Dragon and then following up with a collection of short stories and poetry entitled, The Affliction of Dreams. His literary novel, St. John of the Midfield was published in 2007, followed by his For the Love of St. Nick, which was released in 2008.  Maccagnone expanded the original version of For the Love of St. Nick and had the book illustrated for a new release in June 2009.

Garasamo “Gary” Maccagnone lives today in Shelby Township, Michigan, with his wife Vicki and three children. You can visit Gary online at www.garasamomaccagnone.com.

 Author: Mary Balogh
Title: A Precious Jewel
Publisher: Dell
Genre: Regency Romance
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

She was unlike any woman he’d ever met in the ton or the demimonde. But Sir Gerald Stapleton frequented Mrs. Blyth’s euphemistically dubbed “finishing school” for pure, uncomplicated pleasure—and nothing else. So why was this confirmed bachelor so thoroughly captivated by one woman in particular? Why did he find himself wondering how such a rare jewel of grace, beauty, and refinement as Priss had ended up a courtesan? And when she needed protection, why did Gerald, who’d sworn he’d never get entangled in affairs of the heart, hasten to set her up as his own pampered mistress to ensure her safety—and have her all to himself?

For Priscilla Wentworth, the path leading to Sir Gerald’s bed had been as filled with misfortune as it suddenly seemed charmed. But Priss couldn’t allow herself to believe she’d ever be more to a man like Sir Gerald than a well-cared-for object of pleasure. Now, despite Gerald’s deep distrust of marriage, neither scandal nor society’s censure can keep them apart—only the fear of trusting their hearts.

Chapter One

 “I am afraid Sonia is indisposed today, Sir Gerald,” Miss Katherine Blythe told the young man when he was shown into her private sitting room instead of being admitted to one of the downstairs salons, as usual. “She has taken a chill from walking in the park yesterday without adequate protection from the cold wind. I would scold her roundly if she were not feeling so miserable, poor girl.” 

“It was a chilly day yesterday,” Sir Gerald Stapleton agreed. “I am sorry to hear that Sonia is not well, ma’am. Will you give her my regards? May I see her three days from now if she is recovered?” 

Miss Blythe sat back in her chair and looked assessingly at the young man who stood before her. He was of average height, slim and well-formed, fashionably dressed. His face was pleasant even if not startlingly handsome. His fair hair curled into no particular style, but it was soft and clean. She appeared to come to a decision. 

“I have one girl who is unexpectedly free for the next hour,” she said. “Prissy has been with me for almost two months and is proving to be very satisfactory. Would you care to see her instead of Sonia for this evening, Sir Gerald?”

The young gentleman pursed his lips and considered for a moment. “I am afraid I am a creature of habit, ma’am,” he said. “I have been seeing Sonia for three months.” 

“As you wish, sir,” she said. “I am sure Sonia will be recovered in three days’ time. I shall make the appointment for your usual time?” 

He bowed. But he hesitated as he turned to leave. “Of course,” he said, “I have no other plans for this evening.” 

Miss Blythe smiled at him. “Why don’t you go down to the blue salon, Sir Gerald?” she said. “I shall send Prissy to you there and you may talk with her for a while. If you do not wish to stay after seeing her, you need not feel obliged to do so. If you do, well then, she is free.” 

He bowed again after nodding an assent, left the sitting room, and went downstairs to the blue salon, where a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth and took the chill from the March evening. He held his hands out to the blaze. 

Perhaps it was time he tried someone new, he thought. He was indeed a creature of habit—he had told the truth in saying that. But he was also a man who feared commitment or obligation. He had avoided long-term relationships for all of his twenty-nine years and intended to do so for the rest of his life. Even his family relationships had never lasted long. Self-reliance was the only safe way to live, he had concluded long ago. 

Yes, perhaps it was as well that Sonia was ill. Three months was quite long enough. Too long, perhaps. And when he thought carefully about the girl, he had to admit that there was nothing about her that he would miss. 

He turned when the salon door opened. The young lady who stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind her seemed strangely out of place in Kit’s house. She was small and dainty and dressed in a pretty green muslin dress, the neckline in a high frill beneath her chin, the sleeves puffed at the shoulders and then extending straight to the wrists. Her face beneath her short dark brown curls was pleasant and smiling, her gray eyes candid. She was pretty in a wholesome way. Her skin was creamy with a blush of color high on her cheekbones. She wore no cosmetics. 

“Sir Gerald Stapleton?” she said. Her voice was light and musical, another discordant detail in the house. “I am sorry for your disappointment, sir, but Sonia really is dreadfully ill. Would you like me to entertain you for this evening?” 

“Prissy?” he said, bowing to her. He did not usually think of bowing to any of Kit’s girls. “It seems like a good idea, since I do not have any other plans for the evening.” 

She smiled, revealing to him white and even teeth. The smile extended all the way to her eyes, so that he was given the feeling that she really was pleased. 

“I am glad,” she said. “Will you come up to my room, sir? There is a fire there, too. It is a chilly evening, is it not?” 

“Deuced depressing weather for March,” he said, following her from the room and up the stairs, and wishing for some unfathomable reason that he had omitted the “deuced.” The top of her head reached barely above his shoulders, he noticed. 

“But how lovely to know that it is March,” she said, “and that summer is to come. And how lovely it is to see all the spring flowers in bloom when one steps out of doors. Daffodils are my very favorites. We used to pick them by the armful when I was a girl.” 

She looked scarcely more than a girl now, he thought. She spoke in refined accents. But then all of Kit’s girls did. She trained them to lose their regional accents and coarse vocabulary and to give the illusion of being ladies. Kit’s house had a reputation for refinement. 

The girl’s room suited her, Sir Gerald thought when she opened the door and preceded him inside. It was decorated all in shades of blue. It was pretty and comfortable without in any way being either fussy or oversensuous. Plain mid-blue curtains were looped back from the bed, which was turned down neatly, ready for use, to reveal crisp white bedsheets and pillowcases. 

She closed the door as quietly as she had the salon door earlier. She turned to him with a warm smile. 

“How may I please you, sir?” she asked. 

Her breasts looked small beneath the high bodice of her dress. So did her waist. Her hips looked as if they might be shapely enough, though it was difficult to know what exactly lay beneath the loose skirt of her dress, which fell from a fashionably high waistline. 

“Would you like me to undress?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. 

She turned her back on him, presenting him with the long line of buttons that extended from the neck of her dress to the hips. “Will you, please?” she said. 

As he opened the buttons, he could see that she wore nothing beneath. She turned when he had completed his task, drew the dress off her shoulders and down her arms, let it fall to the floor, and stepped out of it. 

Yes. Small breasts, but they were firm and uptilted. As he had suspected, her waist was small, her hips shapely. Her legs were slim, her stomach flat. There was none of the voluptuousness he normally expected of a whore. And none of the wiles, either—at least, not yet. She stood quietly for his inspection, her arms at her sides. 

“Do you wish me to unclothe you, sir?” she asked. 

He shook his head. “No.” He shrugged out of his coat and raised his hands to his neckcloth. “Lie down on the bed.” 

She did so and lay quietly on her back there, watching him as he undressed. She did not cover herself. 

“I don’t like any tricks,” he told her when he was almost ready to join her. “None of the little arts you girls know to make things proceed faster. I like to take it slowly at my own speed. All I want you to do is lie still.”

Of course, none of them ever did. They seemed to feel that they were not doing their job if they did not use at least some of their considerable arsenal of arts until his control deserted him. Or perhaps it was in their own interests to make their encounters as brief as possible. 

She smiled that warm smile again as he climbed onto the bed and on top of her, reaching up her arms for him, accommodating her body to fit comfortably around his, easing up her hips so that he could slide his hands beneath her. 

“It shall be exactly as you wish, sir,” she said. “I am here to give you pleasure.” 

He pushed himself inside her, and she raised her knees to hug his hips. 

And she was as good as her word. Blessedly, during all the minutes that followed, she kept herself still, though she was relaxed and warm and yielding, very softly feminine. There were no tricks either with hands or hips or inner muscles. She allowed him to satisfy his appetite in the way he most liked to do it. 

He sighed against her soft curls eventually and relaxed his full weight onto her. After a few minutes, when he was still hovering in the blissful state between waking and sleeping, he felt her lift one foot and reach down with one hand. A smooth sheet and warm blankets were drawn up about his shoulders. He sighed again and slept. 

Fingers smoothing through his hair woke him. He did not know how long he had slept. He was warm and comfortable. Her hair smelled good. She smelled good and felt good beneath him. 

“My time is up?” he said. 

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Almost.” 

When he turned to her after dressing, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a modest pale blue dressing gown. She smiled at him. 

“You are good, Prissy,” he said. “There are not many . . . girls who are willing to do exactly as I ask.”

“But it is my job and my pleasure to please you, sir,” she said. 

“I will be visiting you again,” he said, one hand on the knob of the door. 

“I shall look forward to it,” she said. 

He almost believed her as he let himself out of the room, so warm was her smile. She was a good actress as well as being very good at her profession. 

He tapped on Kit’s door. 

“Ah,” she said after summoning him inside. She set aside her book and removed the spectacles she was wearing. “You decided to stay, then, Sir Gerald? I thought you would once you had seen Prissy.” 

“I want her again,” he said, “in three days’ time. Is she much in demand?” 

“Indeed she is,” Miss Blythe said. “Almost all of her clients return and become regulars. You were fortunate that one of them was out of town this evening.” 

“Yes,” he said. “Three days’ time?” 

She drew an appointment book toward her from a table at her elbow. “Four is the best I can do, I am afraid, Sir Gerald,” she said. “Of course, Sonia will be free.” 

“Four days will do,” he said. “The usual time?” 

“I shall record it,” she said. “I am glad that Prissy pleased you so well, Sir Gerald.” 

“Good night, ma’am,” he said. He nodded to her and took his leave. 

He did not, as he usually did when he left Kit’s, go to White’s in search of a card game and congenial company. He returned to his bachelor rooms and was in bed before midnight. He had a relaxed feeling of well-being and thought he would sleep well without the drugs of liquor and cards and male conversation until the early hours of the morning. He was not normally a good sleeper.

MARY BALOGH is the New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed Slightly series and Simply quartet of novels set at Miss Martin’s School for Girls, as well as many other beloved novels. She is also the author of First Comes Marriage, Then Comes Seduction, At Last Comes Love, and Seducing An Angel, all featuring the Huxtable family. A former teacher, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada. To learn more, visit the author’s website at http://www.marybalogh.com/.

 Author: Gina Browning
Title: Moonbeam Dreams
Publisher: Eloquent Books
Genre: Children’s Fantasy Picture Book
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

Moonbeam Dreams is an intricately rhyming bed-time story written and illustrated by Gina C. Browning. It takes the reader and listeners on a magical, Dr. Seuss-like romp to the Land of Beddie-byes, where they meet all sorts of wonderful and interesting creatures. There are butterflies with gems dripping from their wings, dragons riding in red wagons, Lycra-wearing newts skating on moonbeams, unicorns, a frog climbing a kite-string, extra large snails and cats with fish-tails, and many, many more fun creatures to meet. It’s a positive, up-lifting  and fun story that encourages children that almost anything is possible if you can dream it and believe in it strongly enough. It also encourages children to not be afraid of the dark, and that they have the ability to take control of their dreams. It also encourages children to welcome the weird and wonderful things that they might see in their dreams.

“I once spied way up high a bright butterfly

 looking lustrous from even that height.

It was covered in gems that dripped from the hems

of its wings- then they’d brightly ignite.

The ‘fly gave a quiver, then off with a shiver

flew all around, much like a sprite.

It flew down to my finger where there it did linger,

and then at last, did alight.”

Writer and illustrator, Gina C. Browning, says some of the verses in her poetry book first came to her in her dreams as she was recovering from surgery years ago. 

The poems and illustrations in Moonbeam Dreams gradually evolved into “a keenly rhymed, fantastical romp through a fantasy land, with weird and wonderful characters for readers of any age to enjoy.” Her poetry truly is for the young at heart. 

Browning thinks her dreams are fun and adventurous, as she always looks for the positive side to everything. Her book encourages children not to be afraid of the dark, and to believe in themselves and their abilities so that almost anything is possible. Browning says dreams can come true “either in daylight or night” if you believe in them strongly enough.

You can visit Gina online @ http://www.eloquentbooks.com/MoonbeamDreams.html.

Author: Stella Mazzucchelli
Title: Silk Flowers Never Die
Publisher: Dynasty Press
Genre: Biography/Psychology
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

Silk Flowers Never Die is an important and intensely personal memoir, powerfully showing with humanity and humor, the difficulties that exist for any family trying to cope with schizophrenia and mental distress. In a compelling story that reveals how much stranger than fiction fact is, Stella Mazzucchelli describes her determination to preserve her son from the worst effects of mental illness, while his young wife is dying of cancer. 

In the process of trying to rise to these challenges, Stella is transformed from a beautiful, over-protected Society woman with alcohol issues, to an impressive, courageous earth-mother who now campaigns to reduce the stigma attached to mental illness by using her privileged position to positive effect. This moving book is informative on a host of subjects, ranging from the lifestyle of the International Super-Rich  to the profundities of facing terminal illness and mental disease. Due to its intelligence, insight, and compassion the appeal of this amazing story and struggle should be universal.

London’s winter air was crisp and warm as rays of sunshine burst through the clouds with rare generosity.That morning everything seemed positive; even the gloomiest expressions seemed to be smiling. My son, Fedele was no exception as he headed towards the Thames for a brisk morning walk.

As he recounted the very first time he set eyes on Naomi, my imagination went rampant as I lived the moment hanging on to his every word. I could almost follow his gaze as it swept the murky waters coming alive with tugboats and barges going about their business. For no particular reason he was feeling elated as his mind dwelt on all the wonderful things he was planning to do with his future. His spirits were so high he assured me, that if embarrassment hadn’t gotten the better of him, he would have skipped and jumped, clicking his heels in the air. He was positive that something good was about to happen. Gesticulations accompanied his novella as he recounted the scene.

In the distance, a lonely figure sitting on a bench caught his attention. As he approached his heart skipped a beat. She was the most delicate and beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. He instantly noted how her long black hair framed her oriental beauty to perfection. Her full and sensual lips triggered feelings of desire while, at the same time, he wanted to protect her from the world. Her slender legs, with knees pressed together and hands resting delicately on her lap, suggested that she was shy and lonely. ‘Mum, I just had to get to know her. I couldn’t let her slip out of my life.’

Fedele’s obsession with the East had been initiated by Mitzi, his high school sweetheart, who happened to be Chinese. She was a scion of a wealthy entrepreneurial family residing in Hong Kong. While boarding at an exclusive British school in Somerset, their relationship flourished into a roller coaster of passion. Although Mitzi was by no means religious or typical of her oriental background, Fedele became captivated by Chinese
philosophy and went as far as converting to Buddhism. Although their romance came to a shattering end, Fedele remained faithful to Asian women for the rest of his life.

In London, although a cosmopolitan capital, it was not easy to make the acquaintance of Asian girls, especially as they were famed for being introverted and possessing an almost medieval prudishness. Nevertheless, Fedele had devised a cunning ploy to overcome these obstacles. All it necessitated was sufficient knowledge of Japanese and Chinese, enough to handle simple dialogue and a canny eye to pinpoint the girl’s country of origin. Fortunately for him, he possessed both those assets and used them with infallible dexterity.

Having concluded that the lonely girl sitting on the bench happened to be Japanese, he offered her a casual ‘konnichiwa’ – hello – as he passed her by. He did not need to look back; he was certain that her eyes had followed him, very likely bursting with curiosity. By not pausing to offer her the lustful glance of a predator, he had ensured that her guard would automatically have been dropped.With meticulous timing Fedele then did a U-turn, returning to his, now intrigued, beauty with a charismatic smile on his face. His strategy had never failed him in the past, and it had worked with Naomi. He was, however, unaware that he had just initiated a lifelong bond that was destined to be filled with immense love, tenderness – and heartbreaking grief.

Fedele and Naomi formed a bond that was deep and meaningful. Initially they were grateful that her career with Japanese fashion designer Issey Miyaki entailed constant trips between London and Tokyo. But in time it worked against them, and her frequent absences put a strain on their relationship. Fedele, being in the prime of his manhood, found it difficult to resist the Asian beauties that every now and then tantalized his senses, leading him astray. During those extremely bumpy periods of their relationship Naomi withdrew to the sidelines, hoping that Fedele would eventually tire and settle down with her. Her unwavering patience paid off: their on-off relationship matured over a decade, forming a solid foundation that was difficult to break.

Once Fedele finished his degree in economics, he was offered a junior position with an Italian bank operating in Hong Kong. Needless to say, he immediately accepted the challenge. Throughout his education, Fedele had battled dyslexia: a learning disorder they say is hereditary and tends to target individuals with an elevated IQ. As Fedele’s headmaster repeatedly warned us that he would never achieve a respectable academic career, this prestigious job offer not only defied his condemning assumption, but gave us hope that he was treading the path of a lucrative future.

If asked to describe my son, I would portray him as a sensitive and loving human being who was always ready to help and take care of whoever needed a shoulder to cry on. I suppose being an only child encouraged Fedele to adopt the world as his brother. His boyish blond hair was beguiling, and his amber-coloured eyes projected kindness, even when angered. His spontaneous smile had the capacity to brighten his surroundings. If destiny had been kinder, he would most probably have whistled his way through life, finding ways of shedding light onto the darkness. He possessed an endearing aura and was loved by all.

My emotionally charged marriage to Fedele’s father, Riccardo disintegrated around the time Fedele celebrated his eighteenth birthday. I recall my son’s words as he staggered through the front door the day he received the news: ‘My world is over, my family is finished!’ His smile darkened as his universe rumbled with anger. Nevertheless, time spent in his beloved Hong Kong helped heal the pain, and our divorce slowly became nothing more than a bad memory.

Although Fedele’s interest in Buddhism had been initiated by Mr Tan, his martial arts teacher in London, in Hong Kong he began showing a great deal of interest in Taoism. When Chiu Ling, his new spiritual mentor, began cropping up all too frequently in our conversations. I soon realized that he was slipping deeper into the world of the supernatural as his career faded into the background. Words such as power, energy and eternal life dominated his every sentence as Fedele fell under the spell of his newfound faith. It was a mistake that would cause him a great deal of suffering in the future.

Throughout his early youth, I couldn’t help noticing Fedele’s extraordinary sixth sense. He seemed to tune into people’s thoughts with uncanny precision, and his touch generated miraculous warmth that had the ability to ease pain. Of course, I had never made an issue of these strange phenomena. In fact, I tried to dismiss them as coincidences or products of my imagination. Little did I know that Taoism stimulated these energies by drawing them to the surface, creating a situation that could be extremely dangerous. It was easy for Chiu Ling to convince Fedele that Buddha had singled him out and to offer, for a fee (or ‘donation’ as they preferred calling it) to teach Fedele how to utilize his powers so as to heal the world and achieve immortality.

My uneasiness increased as Fedele’s telephone calls ranted endlessly on about Taoism, while his career at the bank sank very much into the background. I realized that his life had spiralled out of control the day he announced: ‘Mum! I heard bells! They came from the heavens! You should have heard how beautiful they sounded!’

Although his words caused me to jump to attention, it was the following phone call that convinced me that I had to fly to Hong Kong: ‘Mum, I have just seen Buddha sitting amidst an aura of light. I died today and he brought me back to life. I have now become immortal!’

It was obvious my son had lost touch with reality.

My flight to Hong Kong seemed to take forever. Apart from my usual nervousness when flying, my thoughts were occupied with the situation I was about to encounter. Did Taoists hear bells and see Buddha? Would my son be dressed in robes, head shaven and chanting like the weird Krishna sect that roamed the streets of London, looking totally out of place? I clung to my whisky-filled glass.While nervously swirling the ice cubes, I tried to blot out the frightening visions that kept jumping before me. When the pilot announced ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to land in Hong Kong’ I instinctively peered out my window. Skyscrapers began appearing through the scattered clouds, giving the impression of Lego pieces thrown closely together.

Having passed through Customs, I entered the Arrivals lounge. Disappointment hit me as I searched the crowds. Where was he? Had he altered his appearance to the point where I no longer recognized him? Fear caused my stomach to flutter. There must be something extremely wrong! I felt a sudden hatred towards this country and its people: I held them responsible for transforming my son into a freak that heard bells and hobnobbed with Buddha. I climbed into one of the many cabs forming a queue outside the terminal. When the driver asked for my destination I realized that I had forgotten to book a hotel.

‘Take me to a good hotel,’ I replied. ‘I don’t have an address. Just take me to a good hotel! You know…the Hilton or the Marriott!’

The driver gave me a blank look. I had not yet realized that I would be doomed to encounter a lot of those blank looks in Hong Kong, as very few Chinese understood English.

The Hilton was a tower of glass, impeccably clean and the view from my room was breathtaking. Under different circumstances I would have reveled in the excitement; now all I could think of was getting to a phone. Fedele’s mobile answered with a Chinese recording.

‘I’m here!’ I responded with an audible sigh. ‘Where are you? I’m at the Hilton. Please call me, I’m sick with worry!’

The minutes rolled sluggishly into hours. The view beyond my glass encased room no longer held the same fascination. The skyscrapers scintillating in the sun seemed to enhance my loneliness and deepen my fears.The messages I kept leaving on Fedele’s voicemail became more and more desperate. CNN news was turned on and off as I scoured the television channels. It was only the mini-bar with its variety of miniatures that seemed to ease my frustration. As the empties cluttered up my bedside table, fatigue spread over me like a veil of comfort, causing my mind to blur. A welcoming numbness transfused my body, and I sank into darkness.

A repeated knocking penetrated my unconsciousness. I sprang off the bed as my heart quickened. Please God! Let it be him! Holding my breath I opened the door. Fedele stood tall with a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. I leaned against the doorframe, torn between anger and relief; it was relief finally that tipped the scales as I opened my arms to him. I held him in my embrace for as long as it took to blink away my tears. Having taken stock of my emotions, I scrutinized his face, searching deep into his eyes. Had anything changed? I did not detect any sign of abnormality. But I was wrong. Nothing would be normal again.

‘Mum! I’ m so happy to see you!’ Fedele enthused. ‘How was your flight?’ His eyes clouded with a sheepish expression as he continued: ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you…I was held up with my Master. He was performing an important ceremony I couldn’t miss!’

Fedele must have caught the odour of whisky on my breath.

‘Oh, Mum!’ he declared ‘You haven’t been drinking, have you?’

I shrank back. Somehow the tables had suddenly turned, and I had to explain myself. ‘I couldn’t help it, I was sick with worry…. waiting and waiting, not knowing what had happened to you!’

I could have prolonged my defence with a self-pitying sermon, but I preferred to hold my breath in an attempt to minimize the fumes.

Fedele’s disappointment was evident as he made his way towards the mini-bar. After investigating its contents, he retrieved a handful of chocolates. Holding onto his loot, he sunk into the numerous cushions scattered on the king-size bed. Having composed my appearance, I decided to join him. While Fedele devoured his candy, we sat huddled together, gazing at the magnificent skyscrapers as they sprang to life with multicoloured lights. Soon the whole city twinkled in the darkness.

With a pang of jealousy I felt like an outsider peering at a metropolis full of vibrant energy that I was somehow banned from joining. Memories of Fedele’s boarding-school days came flooding back. At that time the family was residing in Zambia, a country land-locked in the heart of Africa and I would fly thousands of miles to be with him in England during his half-term exeats. We would often cuddle up in hotel rooms with boxes of chocolate between us on the king-sized bed as I listened to his gossip about the ‘mean old maths teacher’ or his current flirt. Fedele abhorred boarding school, even more so after enjoying breaks filled with motherly pampering. He found it difficult adapting to an environment that lacked warmth and focused mainly on rules and regulations.

Returning my focus back to the present which was plagued by Buddhas, ringing bells and eternal powers, I knew that I was now faced with a very different kind of problem, a problem I wasn’t sure that I could handle.

Disregarding the empty candy box, Fedele sprang off the bed as his body quivered with excitement and his words ignited with passion.‘Mum! You have to meet my Master! He’s soo powerful. Believe it or not, he’s performed a special ceremony that has given me special protection. Nothing can kill me… not even a car running over me! A bullet from a gun will just bounce off me!’

Observing my dropped jaw, he added urgency to his voice, ‘If somebody stabs me with a knife, nothing will happen. Look! I will prove it to you if you don’t believe me. I’ll take you to meet him so that he can demonstrate how he can strike me with a sword and absolutely nothing will happen to me.’

After pausing for a breather, he stated with an expression of grandeur, ‘Mum, I’m immortal! Your son is immortal!’

Fedele’s senseless words confirmed my worst suspicions and I wanted him to stop. I needed to clear my head, yet he continued like a boxer pounding a punching bag. ‘I’ve already told my Master that you would like to meet him!’ before concluding with, ‘Oh, by the way, did I mention that I can eat glass?’

This bit of information was the knockout blow.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’ I cried, putting my hands to my head and willing the Master, the glass eating and sword tricks to disappear.

‘We’ll see, OK? Now just let me relax! I’m exhausted!’ I rubbed my forehead, aching for a drink.

‘All right, I’ll stop,’ he said, ‘but only after I tell you one more thing.’ He stretched his torso for the finale. ‘You know, Mum, I have actually died and seen Buddha! He showed me a beautiful bright light before bringing me back to life!’

I woke up with a feeling of urgency. The hands on my watch indicated it was 5.00 am. I propped myself up on my cushions and let my gaze linger on the horizon. I followed the sun’s gentle rays as they sneaked between the tall glass buildings spreading a pink aura of tranquillity. The fairytale image didn’t last for long: within minutes the crisp sunlight dampened the softness, bringing forth the harshness of reality.

I looked at Fedele lying peacefully beside me. His face was so young and angelic. My heart tightened as I pictured the future. Was his relaxed and contented face just a facade? What was going on in his mind? It would not take long for the demons and phobias that were hiding there to reveal themselves. They were festering, thrashing about ready to torture him for the rest of his life.

Stella Metaxa Mazzucchelli was born in Athens, Greece and married, aged eighteen, Riccardo Mazzucchelli, the famous Italian businessman. During their twenty-two year marriage, they lived in Zambia and London, where she became a well-known figure on the social scene, and had a brief and successful modeling career at the unusual age of 28. Fedele is their only child.  After their divorce, Riccardo married Ivana Trump in 1995, though the marriage was short lived. Stella now lives in Athens where she brings up her granddaughter Katerina. As well as being involved in the property and renovation business, which ensures she maintains connections with London, she is also a tireless campaigner for the better understanding of schizophrenia and mental illness. Silk Flowers Never Die is her first book. 

You can find Stella online at www.dynastypress.co.uk and at her blog www.dynastypress.co.uk/news.html

Author: Emily Arsenault
Title: The Broken Teaglass
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Genre: Fiction
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

The dusty files of a venerable dictionary publisher . . . a hidden cache of coded clues . . . a story written by a phantom author . . . an unsolved murder in a gritty urban park–all collide memorably in Emily Arsenault’s magnificent debut, at once a teasing literary puzzle, an ingenious suspense novel, and an exploration of definitions: of words, of who we are, and of the stories we choose to define us. 

In the maze of cubicles at Samuelson Company, editors toil away in silence, studying the English language, poring over new expressions and freshly coined words–all in preparation for the next new edition of the Samuelson Dictionary. Among them is editorial assistant Billy Webb, just out of college, struggling to stay awake and appear competent. But there are a few distractions. His intriguing coworker Mona Minot may or may not be flirting with him. And he’s starting to sense something suspicious going on beneath this company’s academic facade.

Mona has just made a startling discovery: a trove of puzzling citations, all taken from the same book, The Broken Teaglass. Billy and Mona soon learn that no such book exists. And the quotations from it are far too long, twisting, and bizarre for any dictionary. They read like a confessional, coyly hinting at a hidden identity, a secret liaison, a crime. As Billy and Mona ransack the office files, a chilling story begins to emerge: a story about a lonely young woman, a long-unsolved mystery, a moment of shattering violence. And as they piece together its fragments, the puzzle begins to take on bigger personal meaning for both of them, compelling them to redefine their notions of themselves and each other. 

Charged with wit and intelligence, set against a sweetly cautious love story, The Broken Teaglass is a tale that will delight lovers of words, lovers of mysteries, and fans of smart, funny, brilliantly inventive fiction.

Chapter One 

How did a guy like me end up in a place like this? 

Excellent question. It’s the very question that ran through my mind on my first day on the job, and for many weeks hence. How the hell did I get a job at the offices of Samuelson Company, the oldest and most revered name in American dictionaries? In the end, this might strike you as the greater mystery—greater than the one I’d later find in the company’s dusty files: How does a clod like me end up in training to be a lexicographer?

Now that you’ve paused to look up lexicographer, are you impressed? Are you imagining lexicographers as a council of cloaked, wizened men rubbing their snowy-white beards while they consult their dusty folios? I’m afraid you might have to adjust your thinking just a little. Imagine instead a guy right out of college—a guy who says yup, and watches too much Conan O’Brien. Imagine this guy sitting in a cubicle, shuffling through little bits of magazine articles, hoping for words like boink and tatas to cross his desk and spice up his afternoons. 

Don’t get me wrong. When I first got the job, I was pretty excited. I’d been starting to doubt my employability, since I’d majored in philosophy. Admittedly, I’d applied for publishing jobs on a whim, having heard some English majors talk about it. No one at the big New York companies bit at my résumé, but someone at Samuelson must have liked all the A’s on my transcript in heady-seeming topics like Kant and Kierkegaard, and they called me just in time—just as I was starting to thumb through pamphlets about the Peace Corps and teaching English in Japan. My interview was with one Dan Wood, a pale, bearded middle-aged guy who didn’t really seem to know how to conduct an interview. He mostly just described the defining process quietly, peering at me occasionally as if trying to gauge my reaction. I guess I didn’t make any funny faces, because two days later Dan called me to offer the job. 

Claxton, Massachusetts, was a far cry from Manhattan, but I wasn’t in a position to complain. In fact, I was pretty pleased with myself. The shitty location at least allowed me to get a nice big apartment—on the second floor of a run-down Victorian house near downtown Claxton. Once I’d moved all my stuff out of my parents’ house and bought a few cheap pieces of furniture on credit, I had a week left to prepare for my first day on the job. I bought a couple of corduroy sport jackets with elbow patches. I wondered what kind of sharp-witted young ladies I’d meet at the office, and what topics we might discuss by the company coffee machine. I read and reread Strunk and White’s Elements of Style. I worried about sounding like an ignoramus. 

Dan Wood met me downstairs on the first day, and led me up to the editorial office and its expanse of cubicles. After parking me at my new cubicle, he set a dictionary in front of me. 

“I’d like you to read the front matter.” He lowered his voice as if the request embarrassed him. “That’s the section at the beginning of the book. The front matter explains most of the conventions of how our dictionaries are organized. Why senses and variants are ordered as they are, what sort of abbreviations are used, and so on. It’s a tradition for our brand-new editors—reading the front matter on the first day.”

He paused, watching me open my dictionary to the first page. 

“Alrighty,” I said. I was trying to convey some of the enthusiasm I hadn’t had an opportunity to display in the interview. “Great.” 

The corners of Dan’s mouth twitched a little. “Yes. You might find parts of it surprisingly engaging.” 

I nodded, feeling somehow I’d already said too much. 

Dan gave an encouraging little nod before disappearing into his office. 

The front matter wasn’t so bad. There were, admittedly, a few things about the basic arrangement of a dictionary that I’d never considered before. That different senses of words are arranged from oldest use to newest use, for example. Or that when there are two equally accepted spelling variations on a single word, they are simply listed alphabetically. 

Dan appeared again about an hour into my reading, this time holding a giant blue-bound book. The unabridged edition. Its wide spine barely fit in Dan’s long fingers. The way he slapped it into my hands reminded me of someone palming a basketball. 

“The front matter in this one repeats a great deal of the same information.” Dan sighed heavily before continuing. “But it’s also much more comprehensive, as the book itself is more comprehensive. You see?”

I nodded. 

“Unless you’re some kind of speed reader,” he said, “this will take you the rest of the day.” 

When he left, I looked at the clock. It was nine forty-five. I loosened my tie and started in on the section about “Guide Words,” those little words at the top of a dictionary page that tell you what’s on that page. “Variants” was fairly interesting, as were “Inflected Forms” and the very long section on “Etymology.” But it started to get a little stodgy at “Capitaliza?tion.” I wanted to look at the clock again, but knew it would only depress me. “Synonyms” was no better, and I tried to skip ahead to something more interesting. “Guide to Pronunciation,” perhaps? 

I decided some refreshment might revive my enthusiasm. I poked around in the maze of cubicles for a few minutes, trying to look good-natured but academic. A nice petite middle-aged lady came up to me eventually, introduced herself as Grace, showed me to the water cooler, and disappeared. But there were no paper cups. Back at my desk, I started to read about the different pronunciation symbols in the dictionary. The slashes and hyphens and vowels ceased to have any meaning after about twenty minutes. 

I sat up straight and stretched before starting a section on schwas. The schwa—the upside-down e—essentially stands for a grunt. A nondescript uh sound. A fun, if undignified, role in language study. This was a pronunciation symbol I could relate to. Standing on its head and grunting. Like me the first time I tried tequila, when I was sixteen. It was the same night that the whole varsity team drank beer out of one another’s shoes—the night after our first game of the season. We probably never could’ve imagined that one of us would end up in an office like this, poring over a dictionary, thinking of that night. I didn’t miss those days, but there was an odd satisfaction in conjuring those guys here, in this scholarly little institution. I stared into the pronunciation symbols and thought of Todd Kurtz lying flat on his back, trying to get his basset hound to drink White Russians out of his open mouth. 

But that was a long time ago, and now I had to focus on umlauts and accent marks. I stared resolutely at the page. 

A loud buzz sounded from somewhere. A phone was ringing in the cubicle next to mine.

I heard a chair squeak, and then an older man’s voice: 

“Hello? Okay . . . all right, Sheila. I’ll put you out of your misery. You’re welcome. Which line? Okay.” 

The man clicked a couple of buttons. 

“Good morning, Editorial. I’m one of the editors here. I’m told you have a question about one of our definitions?” 

A slight pause. 

“Okay. I’m looking it up. You’re talking about the noun entry for ‘boil,’ correct?” 

Another pause. 

“Okay. Okay. Well, I don’t remember our exact definition for ‘pimple,’ but there is certainly a difference. ‘Pimple’ is generally applied to smaller inflammations, and the application is perhaps a little broader as well.” 

The man’s voice was louder now than when he was talking to “Sheila,” but maintained a sort of good-natured mono-tone. 

“No. No. There’s no size limit for calling something a boil. At least from a lexicographical point of view. If you were to consult a physician’s manual, on the other hand—” 

A long pause, then a quiet sucking-in of breath. 

“Ohhh. I see. That does sound unpleasant. Is it painful? 

“. . . Uh-huh. Well, I’m a dictionary editor, sir. I think maybe you should call a physician. In fact, I hope you do. 

“. . . I understand. But our college dictionary isn’t meant to be a diagnostic manual. 

“. . . Right. But even if you aren’t sure of the right word for it, a trained physician only needs to look at it, and he should be able to tell you exactly what you should be calling it. And with a doctor, there’s also the possible advantage of treatment. 

“. . . Yes. Yes, sir. That’s what I’m saying. That’s what I think you should do. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful . . . Sure. No problem. Let us know how it goes. If you like. 

“. . . All right, then. Good luck to you. Take care.” 

The chair squeaked again as the guy hung up the phone. No more sounds came from that cubicle for the rest of the morning. 

After lunch, Dan took me into his tiny book-lined office. 

“I hope you’re not finding the front-matter tradition too much of a trial.” He rolled up the sleeves of his Oxford shirt as he spoke, still avoiding my eyes. 

“Nope,” I said, and immediately felt dumb and caveman-like. Nope. Yup. Duh. To avoid looking at him, I stared at the twisted little cactus on Dan’s desk. 

“Pretty interesting, actually,” I lied. 

“You have a green thumb?” Dan asked. 

“What?” 

“Are you interested in plants?” 

“Uh . . . not really. No more than average, I guess—” 

“Because I don’t know what keeps this thing alive. I’ve had it for at least four years. I haven’t any idea how to care for a cactus. But still it grows here on my desk.” 

“Do you water it?” 

“Very sparingly.” 

“That sounds about right,” I said, perhaps too enthusiastically. “For a cactus.” 

Dan handed me a sheet of paper that had Training Schedule typed at the top. 

“You’ll be happy to know you won’t be doing this every day. Tomorrow your real training begins.” 

I nodded. 

“It’s not meant to be an endurance test, even if it might feel that way. Quite simply, front matter can train you more succinctly than most training sessions can.” 

I nodded again. 

“As the schedule specifies, I’ll be doing most of your sessions. Here in this office. Just knock on my door at the scheduled times. For the other sessions—like cross-reference with Frank, or thesauri with Grace—they’ll come to you. Do you have any questions about the process? Or anything you’ve read today?”

When I said no, Dan told me I needed to be introduced to Mr. Needham, the editor in chief. Dan led me to Mr. Needham’s office and smiled wanly as he held the door for me. He didn’t go in with me. 

Mr. Needham’s office was pretty Spartan. Unlike some of the cubicles I’d seen earlier in the day, his space contained none of the usual comforting reminders of a slightly rosier existence outside of this office—pictures of smiling children, Nerf basketball hoop, dish of toffee candies. Even on Dan’s desk there was at least a framed snapshot of himself holding a large trout, in addition to that sad little cactus. The only sign of nonacademic humanity in Mr. Needham’s office was a shiny new roll of Tums resting on the corner of his blotter. 

Excerpted from The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault Copyright © 2009 by Emily Arsenault. Excerpted by permission of Delacorte Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Emily Arsenault has worked as a lexicographer, an English teacher, a children’s librarian, and a Peace Corps volunteer. She wrote The Broken Teaglass to pass the long, quiet evenings in her mud brick house while living in rural South Africa. She now lives in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, with her husband. You can visit Emily Arsenault’s website at www.emilyarsenault.com.

Author: Joy DeKok
Title: Rain Dance
Publisher: Sheaf House
Genre: Contemporary fiction/Women’s fiction
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

Jonica is infertile. Stacie chooses an abortion. One is prolife the other prochoice. Both are suddenly alone in misunderstanding, facing hypocrisies in their belief systems, and grieving – one the death of a dream and the other the death of her child. As their hearts break where in the world will they find healing and grace?  Can shattered dreams be part of the plan?

Chapter 1

Jonica

Life as I knew it ended. 

In the waiting room I sat in the front row, hoping the chair next to me would remain empty. A year ago, when we first came to the clinic, hope ruled. The receptionists smiled and welcomed me with friendly small talk. 

It didn’t bother me that the infertility department was in the same section of the clinic as OB/GYN. I loved watching new moms cradle their little ones wrapped in soft blankets, toddlers by their sides. 

Once, while a woman nursed her fussy newborn daughter, I sat on the floor and played Hot Wheels with her three-year-old son. When the nurse called his mom, he grinned at me and said, “Tanks!” as we collected his cars from the floor and put them in his bag. He grabbed his mom’s outstretched hand, curling his fingers around two of hers. The reach pulled up his red Pooh T-shirt, and his little belly button peeked out. I yearned to feel my child’s hand hold fast to mine. 

Painful tests, frequent invasive exams, nauseating drugs, terrible periods, and embarrassing questions became my reality. 

The gals at the desk no longer chatted with me. Instead, they accepted my appointment card and directed me to sit down. The air filled with baby sounds and smells now made me sick. Bile burned my aching throat. 

I clenched my jaws and begged the Almighty silently, Please don’t let anyone ask, “How far along are you?” I’m tired of telling women with swollen stomachs that I’m here for infertility testing. 

I buried my nose in a magazine that Ben, my husband, had received in the mail and wanted me to read. As I browsed the first few pages, my mind wandered. 

I’d made this appointment to tell Dr. Steele we no longer wanted medical intervention to help us conceive. It cost too much in every way. Our health insurance didn’t cover any of the testing, and we’d paid more than ten thousand dollars with no end in sight. Putting a dollar amount on the changes inside our marriage proved impossible. Our intimate life revolved around my temperature. Charts and a thermometer took the place of candles on the nightstand. 

Each month when my flow started, our failure to conceive was once more confirmed. Every cramp slammed the truth home. No success again. Will you always betray me? I accused my body. I chastised myself: You keep messing up. I defended myself to my internal tormentor: It isn’t my fault.

Then the cycle started again with the silent hope . . . maybe next month . . . easing its way back into position. 

I didn’t want to disappoint Dr. Steele. His raw passion for the work inspired respect and his stern demeanor intimidated me. I longed to be one of his success stories instead of admitting defeat. A high voltage man specializing in in vitro fertilization, he focused his energy on finding an answer. He didn’t consider quitting an option. 

I lifted a silent cry to God. Infertility is harsh and relentless. Where are You in all of this? 

I stiffened my spine and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I ordered my tears to stay put. This wasn’t the time or the place. 

I regretted not calling his assistant and leaving a message. Why did I have to see his furrowed brow and hear his certain criticism? 

A still small voice said, “Do not be afraid, but speak, and do not keep silent; for I am with you.”  

I knew the Voice but was in the mood to argue. I was so fragile and broken I was sure that nothing I said could possibly help anyone. 

Pick someone else! My heart screamed. 

He didn’t. 

A couple of chairs down, two women talking interrupted my internal babbling. “This blotchy upholstery makes me dizzy. Of course, it could be the morning sickness.” 

The other huffed as she pushed on her side. “This one won’t keep his foot out from under my ribs!” 

When a nurse called the woman with the rib tickler, she stood up with a soft grunt and followed the nurse, one hand on her back, the other resting on the mound of unborn baby under her maternity top. 

I had dressed in comfortable clothes for the appointment: jeans and my favorite soft pink sweatshirt. The loose fit sometimes hid my flat stomach. In this room I was an oddity—a true outsider. 

In a flurry of color and energy, a woman stood in front of the chair next to me. Shiny, jaw-length, jet-black hair and jade green eyes sparkled in the clinic lights. Her flat stomach caught my attention and I wondered if she was like me. 

“Hi! Is anyone sitting here?” she asked. 

“No.” 

She sat down and crossed her jeans-clad legs. Her purple silk blouse and short, clear-lacquered nails glistened. The scent of jasmine swirled by, then seemed to waft back to her as if unable to bear the separation. 

She pushed her hair behind her ears, and dangly silver earrings twinkled. “I’m Stacie.” 

“My name’s Jonica.” 

“Pretty name.”

“Thanks.” 

She pulled a book out of her bag and asked, “So, how far along are you?” 

I gave my new answer, “I can’t have children.” 

The statement sounded clipped and whiny, so I added, “We’ve been coming to the infertility clinic for months, but now I’m here to terminate medical intervention.” Instead of confident, the words sounded defensive. 

“Can’t, but still want to, huh?” 

“Yes. But not this way.” 

She raised a sculpted eyebrow. “I’m here to terminate something too—a pregnancy.”

She rushed on. “I’m new in a local law practice. My goal is to be a partner one day, representing women and children damaged or wronged by men. A pregnancy right now could hold me back or even halt my advancement. I need to establish myself first. There’s time for a family later—much later. I’m glad we can choose if or when to complete a pregnancy.” 

She took a deep breath and exhaled, then tightened her lips and turned to her book, flipping it open. The light danced off a silver-trimmed boot as her foot began to swing slightly. 

Tingles of shock pricked my fingertips and toes. My lips went numb, and my throat constricted. I took a deep breath and looked down. Her offensive made me want to defend life, but I didn’t have the strength. I needed to conserve my energy for my meeting with Dr. Steele.

I turned a page in my magazine and stopped. Every muscle in my already stressed body tensed. The photo in front of me showed the tiny hand of an unborn baby resting on a surgeon’s finger. The doctor had performed corrective surgery in vitro when pre-natal tests confirmed spina bifida. 

God, give me the courage to show this to Stacie.  

The nurse stepped up to the microphone and called my name. I closed the magazine, offered it to Stacie and said, “I’m done with this. You might find it interesting.” 

She looked up briefly, took the magazine, and tucked it into the outside pocket of her purse. “Thanks. Nice to meet you.” 

“Same here.” 

I followed the nurse down the hall, watching her waist-length auburn braid swish against her straight back and thinking I’d just lied. It wasn’t nice to meet Stacie. I could have lived my whole life never having heard her pro-abortion dissertation. 

The nurse indicated the examination table. “Dr. Steele will be right in for your consultation. Just have a seat.” 

While I waited for the doctor, my dread increased. Dr. Steele was confident we could conceive with a little help from a friend: him. Photographs and thank you letters lined the walls. Smiling parents held babies and celebrated birthday parties. Happy faces beamed from family pictures. 

I remembered the questionnaires we had filled out about our health, motives, and ability to pay. The doctor invited us to add a page about anything we wanted. Ben and I wrote about our faith. 

Dr. Steele read it and commented, “I feel much like a creator myself.” 

Ben said, “We believe in only one Creator.” 

Our physician shrugged and diverted our attention to the first test. He kept all conversations professional from then on despite the intimacy involved in our circumstances, even when disappointment moved me to tears in front of him. I guess that made it easier for all of us. 

I gripped my damp, cold hands in my lap, while my thoughts tip-toed back to the woman in the waiting room. I decided it was time for a pity party. 

How could this happen today of all days? I’m saying goodbye to a dream and she sits next to me? There’s nothing wrong with her goals. All the things she wants to do are good, but she is willingly sacrificing her baby on the altar of achievement. Does she think that because abortion is legal all women agree with her? Who was she trying to convince—herself or me? It’s not fair. Why can she conceive and I can’t? 

Before I could battle the subject out further, the door swung open on silent hinges and Dr. Steele entered. His short, bristly gray hair stood straight up. Hazel eyes with amber flecks smiled from behind gold-framed glasses. His yellow smiley-face tie softened his starched shirt, creased trousers, and shiny shoes. A stethoscope hung around his neck. 

“Hello, Jonica.” 

We shook hands, and he sat in his desk chair. 

“Where’s Ben?” he asked, as he slid a brochure on in vitro fertilization toward me. 

His chair creaked when he leaned forward. “We can start anytime you’re ready.” He paused for a moment anticipating an affirmative answer. 

A Godzilla-sized cramp squeezed my stomach. 

I heard myself say, “Ben and I are done. Our insurance doesn’t cover the financial end of it, and the emotional costs are far too expensive. We don’t want to face the moral and ethical dilemmas that heroic medical methods involve.” 

All my practice in front of the mirror at home hadn’t improved my verbal delivery here either. 

He snapped his chair into the upright position. His eyes lit with a golden fire, and his lips drew a straight line across his face. He ran his hand through his hair, and let out a loud, slow breath. 

“I can’t believe an educated and intelligent couple like you and Ben can’t see the future in medical science. Why let some outdated religious beliefs keep you from realizing your dreams?” 

“God is the Creator of science. He knew you before your conception and gave you life as well as your incredible abilities as a doctor. He is the One who leads Ben and me in all areas of our lives. We’re uncomfortable with frozen sperm, harvested eggs, and test-tube babies. We don’t want to deal with three to six microscopic embryos—which we believe are human beings—inserted into my body and possibly losing them all. Each time we lost one, we’d grieve. We’ve decided to focus our love on the children already in our lives.” 

“That’s quite a sermon.” 

Suddenly short of breath, I couldn’t get a single word out. Cool air crossed over my tongue so I knew my mouth was open. The sensation caused a reflex action, and I pressed my lips shut. 

“I’m sorry you feel this way. My confidence is in human abilities and science. Many Christian couples come to me for help and are grateful for our methods.” He flipped my file shut and continued, “What makes you superior to them?” 

“We’re not better than anyone else—and if it works for others without guilt, I’m happy for them. It just isn’t right for us. I’m sorry I sounded so defensive. I hate it when I get that way. We made this a prayerful decision. I hoped you’d accept our choice. I didn’t want it to end this way.”

“This is goodbye then. I wish you the best in your life.” He rose to leave. 

“Do you ever wonder if you’re wrong and God is real?” I asked, also standing. 

He held the door open for me. “I don’t need to hear about your beliefs. I read your forms, and other Christians come here. I’ve heard it all before.” 

I reached into my purse. “I’d like to give you a small gift as my thanks for your effort to help us.” 

“Clinic policy doesn’t allow us to accept gifts from patients.” 

“Maybe you’d like to borrow this book from me then.” I handed him The Case for Christ. 

“This is a new one,” he muttered, glancing at the back cover. 

“I know you’re disappointed and so are we. Please know we appreciate your knowledge and the time you spent with us. I’d love to be able to send you a photo of a little girl who looks like me or a little boy who looks like Ben celebrating a birthday or Christmas. Without divine intervention, that’s not going to happen.” 

The lump in my throat warned me I was close to tears, but I managed to say, “Goodbye Dr. Steele.” 

The golden flames in his eyes receded. “Good-bye.” 

I watched him walk away. For all his gruffness and disbelief, I would miss him. He wanted to help us conceive and couldn’t. In a way, we’d both just lost. I walked down the hallway in the opposite direction. It was over. 

When I returned to the waiting room, I heard the receptionist call, “Stacie Cutter.” Stacie got up and followed her out of my sight down the other hall. 

I wanted to run and considered finding the stairs. Instead I paced while the elevator made a slow climb to my floor. A man on crutches and a woman in a wheelchair shared my descent and got off on different floors along the way down. 

I dug the keys out of my purse while I speed walked to the parking ramp. Shaking, I missed the lock on my car door and the key scratched the paint. 

I got into the car. Yanking on my seatbelt, I grabbed my payment stub from behind the visor. The tires squealed as I took the tight ramp corners a little faster than usual. 

Hold on until you get home, I commanded my tears. 

I paid the smiling man at the booth, then three red lights and two stop signs later pulled into our driveway. I ran up the sidewalk, unlocked the back door, and threw my purse on the counter. 

I stood in the middle of the kitchen with both fists clenched so tightly that my fingernails gouged my palms. My mind registered the pain, and then I pressed harder. 

I sobbed out loud, “Lord, I’m angry! Why us? We waited for intimacy until marriage. We did what You asked. We love children. We tithe, we pray, we go to church. We believe in You, and we always will. Please tell me why You give children to women who will throw them away. Father, I feel so empty!” 

Only the ticking clock answered my cry. 

God said no. Our dream died, and Ben would always come home to only me.

Joy DeKok and her husband, Jon, live in Minnesota on thirty-five acres of woods and fields. Joy has been writing most of her life and as a popular speaker shares her heart and passion for God with women. In addition to writing novels, she has also published a devotional and several children’s books.

 Visit Joy online at: www.joydekok.com, www.raindancebook.com, www.believe4kids.com and www.gettingitwrite.net.

Author: Kathi Macias
Title: My Son, John
Publisher: Sheaf House
Genre: Contemporary/Women’s fiction
Language: English

PURCHASE HERE

Murder. Could there be a more chilling word? Could it be any more horrible than to have a loved one killed, brutally and heartlessly, without obvious reason or motive? When Liz Peterson’s elderly mother is found viciously beaten to death in her home, Liz and her husband, Charles, along with their grown son, John, and teenage daughter, Sarah, are horrified beyond words. Their previously predictable, respectable lives seem to have vanished without a trace, as they struggle to make sense of a senseless act. 

And then a second blow—more devastating, if possible, than the first—rocks them to their core. John is arrested for his grandmother’s murder. As what’s left of the Peterson family begins to crumble under the weight of loss and accusation, the Petersons’ longstanding Christian faith is put to the test in a way they could never have imagined, and unconditional love is stretched to its limits. Will family ties and relationships withstand such a crushing blow, or will evil succeed in dividing and conquering this once close and inseparable family?

Prologue

“I was in prison and you came to Me…” (Matthew 25:36). 

Tick, damn it, tick! I cried silently, oblivious to the fact that I had just thought a word I would never say out loud. I glared through bloodshot eyes at the large, round, schoolroom-type clock that was the sole decoration on the cold gray wall behind the metal chair where John sat, dressed in an orange jumpsuit and holding a phone to his ear, while gazing at me through a glass partition, no doubt knowing that I was avoiding eye contact because the pain was just too great.

 Still staring at the offensive timepiece on the wall, I demanded silently, Do you think just because you don’t make any noise that I don’t know what you’re doing, that I don’t realize that with every sweeping circle you’re stealing more and more of my son’s life?           

Oh, God, if only there were a window in here! If I could just reach through this glass and touch him…! 

The tears came then, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I pulled my vision from the clock and caught a glimpse of John’s anguished, sweat-beaded face before squeezing my eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out the swell of emotions that threatened to drown me. I had to stop this denial and refocus my efforts and energy on my son. He would never survive this nightmare if I didn’t; none of us would. 

I forced my eyelids open, wiping the tears from my cheeks and wishing I had been allowed to bring my purse in with me. But, of course, everything personal had been left behind before I had been admitted to the visiting area. You’d think those in charge would realize a mother’s need for a tissue in such a situation. 

Slowly, I cracked my lips into what I was sure was a wooden smile. “You look good,” I lied, knowing he knew better but hoping to convince myself. “Are they treating you all right…feeding you, and—” 

Trembling but quite obviously trying hard not to show it, he pressed the palm of his free hand against the glass in what was doubtless an attempt to cut off my pointless questions. “I’m fine, Mom. Honest. I told you that last time. And…please, you don’t have to come here. I don’t want you to come here. Can’t you understand that?” 

How could I understand that my son didn’t want me to visit him and support him when he’d been accused of something so horrific it was beyond comprehension? How could I understand anything anymore? Not only had John been falsely imprisoned, but he was losing weight and I could see he wasn’t well. He needed me…. 

“I want to come,” I answered. “I have to. I’ve never abandoned you before. Why would you think I would now—especially now?” 

The pain and fear in his dark blue eyes flickered before fading to dull. He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I have to go, Mom. Time’s about up anyway. I…hate talking to you like this…seeing you this way.” 

I watched his Adam’s apple bob slightly as he swallowed and then said, “I love you, Mom. You know that. Dad and Sarah, too.” Then, after only a brief hesitation, he removed his palm from the glass, hung up the phone, and stood to his feet. Immediately a corrections officer was at his side, escorting him from the room. 

Still pressing the receiver to my ear, I whispered, “You didn’t even say goodbye, John. You didn’t say goodbye….” 

At the thick metal door, just below and to the right of the silent wall clock, John stopped, turning slightly as his armed escort unlocked the heavy barrier. Glancing backward, his lips spread ever-so-slightly in that frightened, little-boy smile he’d had since he was a little boy, the one he’d worn when he walked on skinny, shaky legs into his kindergarten room on the first day of school, assuring me that he was all right. As I had that day when I stood in the hallway outside his classroom, I now did my best to return his smile. Then he turned his back to me and shuffled on shackled ankles through the passageway.

So little had changed in the eighteen years since that first day of school—and yet the world my husband and I had known since our oldest child was born twenty-three years earlier had exploded and vanished, washed away in tears…and in blood. Nothing would ever be the same again. 

John’s kindergarten smile had been his signal to me that he could handle things and I should leave. With legs of lead and a heart even heavier, I forced myself to honor his wishes.

Kathi Macias is a multi-award winning writer who has authored nearly 30 books and ghostwritten several others. A former newspaper columnist and string reporter, Kathi has taught creative and business writing in various venues and has been a guest on many radio and television programs. Kathi is a popular speaker at churches, women’s clubs and retreats, and writers’ conferences, and recently won the prestigious 2008 member of the year award from AWSA (Advanced Writers and Speakers Association) at the annual Golden Scrolls award banquet. Kathi “Easy Writer” Macias lives in Homeland, CA, with her husband, Al, where the two of them spend their free time riding their Harley.  Look for her new Blog Talk Radio show, coming soon! 

Visit Kathi’s website at www.kathimacias.com.