When you get a new tech, what's the first thing you do?

So I got a new toy for Christmas. My parents gave me an original iPad mini. Now I do love my android phone, my windows convertible, my crazy gear watch, but I'm not set in any particular camp. So yes, I now have an iPad to use as well. I like to write on my windows computer, to edit on a tablet with a stylus, and to blog etc on all the rest. So which will I use the most? I don't know yet!
And the first thing I do one them all is personalization. I change the wallpaper, the keyboard, the app order, and pretty much anything else that I can!

What is your favorite tech to use?

A happy treat for the holidays

I was celebrating Christmas with my in laws on Sunday when one of my mother-in-law's good friends called her and told her that my book was in the Louisville Courier Journal.  I was surprised, to say the very least.  I hadn't heard anything about it.  I watched as my family dug into the paper to pull out the Arts section.  There was the article, Favorite Reads From Local Book Connoisseurs.  And there was my book, the Parrot Told Me, placed in the same list as Sue Monk Kidd and other esteemed authors.  I just stared at it.  I was so excited, so thrilled to learn that my book had inspired such a wonderful review.  It is such an honor to be given this place on the list, and I am so grateful to all that have supported me, most especially Karen Eldridge.  This was one Christmas gift that I will treasure throughout the year!


Favorite Reads From Local Book Connoisseurs

Christmas traditions

I am, with no possible doubt, extremely sentimental.  I love the Christmas season in part because of all the lovely traditions that our family has developed over the years.  It started with my grandparents, Anise cookies cut out, baked and iced, or elaborate Christmas trees dripping with tinsel and angel hair.  It continued with my own parents and in laws, Christmas Breakfast with all the cousins, watching Christmas movies, going to Mass, and eating pretty much all day long.  Now with my own kids, we blend all of these precious times together.  I can't give up a single one of them.  For me, it is the heart of the season, the family, the memories, the celebration of what God has given us.  May we all remember the real reason behind the traditions, and value this time for what it means to our souls.

Christmas gifts, anyone?

I do love a good book.  The only gifts I love more than electronics, on which I can read books, are actual books (oh, and gift certificates for books)!
I think it's fair to say that every writer is a reader first.  We began reading early, then started thinking of our own stories.  We started sharing our stories with friends, and it became a necessity to write them down.
Finally we got them published.  But by then, it was just a small part of our whole reading/writing experience.  Then came the sharing.  We wanted others to read our stories, to enjoy them! 

We love a good book, a library, a bookstore, a coffee shop, a stack of magazines, anywhere that we can immerse ourselves in our favorite story.
Give a book for Christmas!  Make a writer happy!

Hydra Haunting Halloween

http://www.hydrapublications.com/

Join the authors at Hydra Publications celebrating a Haunting Hydra Halloween!  Our party gift to you, books....at 99 cents!! 
Have a howling good time!

Excerpt of my mystery The Parrot Told Me, where the witness is a talking bird!

“Are you my baby bird?”  The question was pronounced in a silky smooth Southern voice.  The voice made a ripple of unease slip down her spine.

              Camille turned a page and concentrated on the printed words.

              “Hey, Bud.”  The voice insisted, this time deeper and masculine, accompanied by a loud ringing and the discordant sound of metal against metal.  “Where are you?” he demanded.

              “Hey, Simon,” Camille called back, closing her book.  Camille stood and slowly stretched.  Through the kitchen door, she could see her newest roommate pacing.  Simon was a trifle scruffy, his silver gray feathers ruffled and battered, but improving.  His red tail feathers would stay stubby and bent until he went through a molt and grew back new plumage to replace the old, but he had begun to gain weight, and he no longer flared with alarm when someone passed through the doorway.

              Camille shook her head and slipped across the room.

              “How about a little music?” she asked, switching on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.  The sound filtered from the speakers, crystal clear, lovely. 

              The pacing stopped; the clang of the bell was silenced as the sensitive creature bent his head to absorb the comfort of the sound, his figure reflected in the dark glass of the window.  A bird that loved classical music.  How unique.

              Camille took her seat again, choosing a magazine from the stack on the top of the trunk.  She flipped open the glossy pages, too distracted to concentrate on her novel.  There was something inherently splendid about sitting in the half-light, the vanilla scented air rushing on warm drafts, the music washing over her like a salve.

              “What the hell?”  This time the voice was different, feminine, an edge of fear, spooky. The voice of a dead woman.

              Camille caught her breath and froze.

              “Just here for a visit.”  The voice returned an octave lower, a man with no accent, smooth.

              “Look, I don’t want to discuss it.”  The first voice again, but different.  She didn’t sound scared anymore, but cautious maybe.

              “Baby.”  The man’s voice almost crooned.

              Then there was a long pause, a pregnant silence filled only by the music. 

              “Let me go! Get away from me!”  It was the female voice again, but higher and edgier, now really afraid.  “No, stop!” Wild panic in that tone.

              The cacophony of sounds that followed showed signs of the furious struggle: pounding steps, slamming doors, an unearthly howl, a bird voice of fury as the music shut off, then a few seconds of silence before the next track began.

              Camille stumbled to her feet, the magazine sliding to the floor unheeded.  Her heart was hammering in her ears as the noise ceased, an insistent clanging melting into silence.  She reached back to the sofa for support and forced herself to breathe slowly.

              “Oh, poor bird,” the lonely creature crooned, once again in his raspy parrot voice.  “Poor Simon.”

              With her hand at her chest, sheltering her stuttering heart, she leaned forward and looked in the dining room again.  Simon was in the back of his cage, perched at his favorite spot, huddled against the walls.  His left foot was raised, his long parrot claws gently massaging his own neck.  A parrot’s self comfort.

 

The Parrot Told Me

 

 

Check out my wonderful cover for Dearly Remembered

Introducing Dearly Remembered, Book 2 in the Grave Reminders Series

I am pleased to invite my readers to take a quick glimpse of my newest published novel, Dearly Remembered.  This is the second in a series, but may also be read alone.  The book is a paranormal mystery romance set in a little town in Kentucky. 

Enjoy a nice spooky story, perfect for Halloween!

http://www.amazon.com/Dearly-Remembered-Grave-Reminders-Book-ebook/dp/B00OQINPEU/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1413938276&sr=8-2&keywords=rachael+rawlings

 

A hot splash of panic hit my system half a second before my heartbeat drove out the foreign sound.   It was just too freaking dark to see anything beyond my nose, and the streetlights out the windows were almost nonexistent.  I was left in the dark, so dark that the shadows of furniture had melted into an inky stain against the white walls.  I sat up in my bed and threw the covers back, swinging my bare legs over the side of the bed and grabbing the tennis racquet resting against the bedframe.  My pounding heart had lessened slightly, and I strained to hear the sound, the sound that had driven me from my mundane dreams of home.  Again I heard it.  It wasn’t the sigh of the door, the click of the knob as it turned.  Not that.  And it wasn’t the footfalls of someone creeping outside my door.  It was more terrifying than that.  It was a whisper, softer than the breeze, begging and straining, wanting and beckoning me to do something and go somewhere that I had never been and never wished to be.  I was pretty sure Death  had come calling, and I was trying to face him off with sports equipment.

            At the doorway I stopped my hand on the cool metal of the knob.  I didn’t want to open it.  Out in the hall there was more dark, more silence, and more empty doorways.  The house wasn’t huge, but it was bigger than our own little downtown apartment had been, and most of the rooms were echo empty with warped wooden floors that would give beneath my feet, alerting anyone who cared that I was out and about with my racquet.

            I turned the knob anyway, peeking first from the crack between the door and the frame, and when I saw nothing, looking out into the wider gloom.  The hall spread out right and left, ending in a turning staircase at one end of the corridor.  At the dead end, a window leaked spare light onto the floor, moonlight that seemed to suck the color from everything around me until my own skin looked like smooth grey stone.  At the other end of that hall, at the head of the stairs, one door stood slightly ajar, my sister’s room.  I didn’t worry that she might catch me in my black rose tee shirt and bare feet, and black painted toenails looking like drops of blood pooled on the wooden floor.  She slept the heavy sleep of the exhausted and fulfilled, the sleep of someone thrown into adulthood with a brutal shove.

            I finally forced myself to move, sliding the soles of my bare feet over the cool floors.  The doors on either side of the hall were closed but for my sister’s.  Behind the heavy panels were the other bedrooms, two for my sister and me, two that sheltered dust bunnies and boogie men under the old bedframes and abandoned dressers, and one that my sister had made up into a makeshift office complete with cardboard desk.  I wouldn’t go in those.  Whoever had come into my house wasn’t some incorporeal spirit.  He wasn’t wafting through the heavy doors or seeping under the door jam.  He was real, and he had real footfalls and real hands that would need to open those doors to hide inside.  And that I would have heard.  This antique house was eerily quiet at rest, but put a living body in it, and it squealed, squeaked, groaned, and protested as though inconvenienced by our presence.  I would have heard any of the doors opening.

            I was speeding up now.  I raced down the steps, the racquet held in front of me, my hand skimming the wooden rail.  All I could hear now were my own footsteps and the house responding to my weight.  My breathing was unnaturally loud in my ears, and my heart was a more subtle thunder.  At the bottom of the stairs I paused at the landing.  To the right was the dining room, empty but for a towering stack of boxes still unpacked since the move and some forgotten pieces of furniture we hadn’t decided what to do with yet.  Behind that was the kitchen, the only slightly updated room in the place, with its eighties wallpaper and Formica countertops.  To my left was the parlor, perfect for greeting gentlemen callers a hundred years ago, but now a little bit of wasted space until we could figure out what to do with the room.  The living room behind that was generous for the age of the house, but the piece of carpet we had thrown on the floor would hide any sounds of footsteps if the intruder went there.  Could that be why it was silent now?  Was he waiting in the gloom, still enough to cover his presence with silence?

            I went toward the living room.  The kitchen had a doorway to the backyard through a mudroom, and since the kitchen and living room shared a wall and a doorway, it was the easiest way out of the house besides the front door straight ahead of me.  If he was still in the house, I could only hope that he was seeking an exit and was moving toward it.  I slipped into the parlor, keeping my back to the wall and my eyes so wide that I felt blind.  I followed the plaster wall, skimming my fingertips over the uneven surface that we still meant to paint, and moved toward the living room.  A stingy glow of light came from the back where a neighbor had an outdoor light hung on the rear of his garage.  It cast uneven shadows across the dark floors and lighter carpet.  I stopped in the living room door and stood for a long moment in the silence.

            “Give it up, little girl,” the whisper moved in the darkness, so close but not.  A brush of something on my arm, the distinct feeling of warmth of another human so close, and then gone.  I spun like a dancer that I would never be, racquet held out with both hands, feet set apart and firm for my stance.  But I knew before I finished my turn that the room was empty.  There was no one there.  And the door never opened.

 

---

 

Dearly Departed - the new cover reveal

I have debated about my covers for my books extensively, but have adopted a new cover for Dearly Departed in order to have a matching set for the trilogy of Grave Reminders.  Let me know what you all think!!

Best Android Wear Apps - September Edition (Part 1)

Redesigned blog!!

I have also redesigned the look of my blog...take a moment and tell me what you think!!

Dearly Departed.....Celebrating my book signing

I am thrilled to have two local opportunities to sign my newly released print book this coming weekend.  To celebrate, I am going to put a short sample of my book for everyone to read and enjoy.

Today is Dearly Departed, the first in the Grave Reminders series.

I traced a single finger down the windowpane and watched as a mark of clear glass appeared in the fog, beads of moisture clinging to the glass.  The silence of the house was broken by the creak of time in the old timbers of the pitched roof, and the steady drip, drip, drip of the bathroom faucet down the hall.  The night outside was rapidly cooling; inconsistent fall weather going from a pleasant mid-seventies to the forties in a matter of hours.  My breath made another oval of misty white against the night’s darkness.  I pressed slightly closer to the glass, the window's mirror image of my room disappearing as I focused beyond the glass.

Outside, the graveyard was largely unlit, partially to dissuade more timid visitors after sunset, but more out of respect for the neighborhood homes crowded like concerned aunts around the parameter of the grounds.  The regular inhabitants of the yard, under their snug carpet of soil and lawn, cared little for light or dark.  Under the protective limbs of oaks and maples, their leaves burned gold, orange, and rosy red, the grave stones cast moonlit shadows on the ground.  Amid the steady swaying of the trees, a pale figure passed silently.

            “You’re here again,” I said.  I pulled the thick material of my sweatshirt over the heel of my hand and wiped a wide swath of moisture from the pane.  The view cleared, snatching reality from the ghostly blur. My second story window gave me an excellent view over the four foot creek stone wall into the adjoining cemetery.  This was my opportunity for the nightly viewing of assorted activities that took place in one of the county’s oldest monuments.

            Visitors, even late night ones, were not so unusual.  I’d been the silent guardian for a long time, spying through my curtains for almost 15 years, after my parents had chosen to move to the historic little town when I was just two.  Since then, I had knelt in childhood curiosity, my knees padded with the skirts of my long flannel gowns, and all that time I had felt somehow privileged to be the protector of those even more vulnerable than myself.  But this visitor was different.  He made me watch.  For two weeks straight I had seen him here, walking slowly and deliberately through the grounds like an unsettled spirit.  His pattern was always the same, starting at the gated entrance where he appeared after vaulting over the stone wall and moving into the center circle.  From there he moved either right or left, sometimes disappearing into the damp shade of the oaks, sometimes behind the shelter of the chapel.  He was always in darkness, always clinging in the shadows as they caressed his figure, blending him and shielding him from probing eyes.  This was the first time he had stilled, and my breath caught as I watched through the damp glass.

            The window was fogging again as I leaned closer to watch the tall figure pause.  For a moment, I saw the pale oval of his face framed by paler hair worn too long.

            My indecision melted when I saw him raise one hand in a casual wave.  He had seen me.

            “Alright,” I muttered to myself.  “Time to face up.”

 

http://ow.ly/CHOla

 

Writing for Fun

I started writing my story, Talitha, when I was a young mother living in J-Town, on the outskirts of Louisville, Kentucky.  Close by my house was a street named Talitha, and although I never knew why, I really liked that name.  I adopted it as the name of a haunted house and started to craft the story.  Fast forward years later.  I have started serious editing of my original novel, beefing up the characters, pouring over the plot, and bringing it more up to date.  And although that may sound kind of boring, I have surprised myself how much I have enjoyed reading the story.  Its October, Halloween is coming, and spooky is in the air.  What better time to read a scary story!  Especially one that you can make as scary as you want it, pull out and put in bits, change characters, challenge characters, and like a grand puppet master, make them all bow to your evil whims.....
Oh, sorry, got a little carried away there.
But in truth, writing can be very fun.  It's like writing a movie in your mind, one that you can start, stop, and alter at any moment.
Take a moment, write a story, and share!
Boo!

For the Love of Poptarts

For those of you who don't know this, or are not as refined as to know the nuances of fine cuisine, Poptarts are the most perfect food. They are, in all their gooey crusty goodness, the yardstick by which every other pastry, nay, every dessert and sweet breakfast food, must be measured. As a breakfast staple, Brown Sugar Cinnamon must be toasted; Chocolate versions may be eaten raw or heated. Once the crinkly shiny wrapper is opened, both pastries must be consumed within the week, err, day, perhaps hour. The important part is that it must be consumed, although a slightly stale Poptart is still completely edible. Did I say edible? I meant delicious. Those that know me, know of my Poptart diet. Not, alas, that I eat only Poptarts. It is just that Poptarts are the yardstick by which every other food is measured. The lovely Frosted Chocolate Vanilla Crème is 190 calories and 5 grams of fat. Potato chips are 160 calories and 10 grams of fat. No brainer, people! The brown sugar cinnamon has a scandalous 7 grams of fat, but still beats most fried foods. When I gaze at a Big Mac, or worse, the Whopper, I can think back to the Frosted Pumpkin Pie Poptart, a lovely Autumn delight, and resist. At 5 grams of fat and 200 calories, it is still a dietary bargain.
I am a realistic woman. I cannot exist on Poptarts alone, nor would I want to. However, it does allow me to see that good things come in small packages, can be bought cheaply, and to completely renew my faith in humankind.

Imaginarium......a writer's good time

Okay, so one day later I'm looking back at my first writer's conference, and let me tell you, it was great!!  I have lots of hats I wear these days: wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend, Speech/Language Pathologist, high school employee, and too often last on my list, writer.  It was so refreshing to see a whole group of people in my situation.  We are all struggling the constant pull on our time, juggling priorities like lead balls.  But we write because we love it, and when you need to write, you do.

I discovered that writers are like snowflakes, no two are the same.  Pretty great simile, right?  Oh, and they stick together to make a fabulous snowman. But they love to laugh, to mix and mingle, to share ideas, and to learn.  How cool is that!

This conference was a great opportunity to network.  I got to meet authors, editors, publishers, book cover artists, and other artists.  I got to shop for bunches of books, buy a few, write down the titles of others that I plan to buy in ebook form, and talk in panels.  Subjects ranged from Young Adult/New Adult and an author's responsibility when writing for kids, to mythical beasts/demons/angels that can add some originality and fun in your writing.

And I got to talk to people about my own interests, my dogs, my talking parrots, my family, and my work with special needs kids.  In the end, I realized that while we all are different, we all are the same in our love of the printed word.

Write on, my friends, write on!

Check out my Goodreads giveaway!!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19416440-the-parrot-told-me

Your chance to win a print copy of The Parrot Told Me!

For the love of a dog....

I adopted Stanley, a standard poodle puppy, when he was just 10 weeks old.  He was already a good sized puppy, bred in a backyard, belly full of worms, when I took him to the vet.  He was a bargain puppy at 150 bucks, but the vet bill soon made him as pricey as any full bred pup would have been.  I knew better.  I honestly did, but if I had to do it over again, I would have.  He had an excellent temperament. 
Stanley grew up to be 70 pounds of love.  People scoff at standard poodles with their dressy haircuts and fluffed fur.  But the truth is, under the fancy is a reliable, intelligent, and protective hunting dog.  Stanley was great with the kids, a little silly, often making me laugh.  He was my therapy assistant when kids would come to my house for speech/language therapy.  He was great for a reinforcement for good works.  He was a good companion, an overgrown lapdog, and a good friend.
When Stanley was five years old, he got into a trash can after we had hosted a cookout and, unbeknownst to us, swallow a corn cob.  He began vomiting and after some time with no relief, I rushed him to the all night vet hospital.  Thousands of dollars later, we brought him home, stitches and all.  It wasn't a great time in my life, stressful is not even the word for it, but when you love dogs like family members, you do what you must.  He recovered from the surgery and was back to his normal self by the fall.
One year later, Stanley ate something else and the symptoms repeated.  Unfortunately, surgery wasn't an option this time, and he didn't make it.
I have had losses in my life, but the loss of a dog is a very real grief.  In some ways, you feel even worse because you want to believe it's just a dog.  But in your heart, it's more than that.
It's been five years since I lost my Stanley.  I write this in encouragement for people to be so cautious about what they give their dogs to play with.  No stuffed animals, no rawhide, no stringy bones, no anything that can form a blockage in the stomach or bowels.
We take pleasure in the things that God has given us.  I look forward to the day that I get to see Stanley in heaven because I truly believe that he will be there.  For me, that is what heaven is.

Free book, really, free!

For those who have enjoyed listening to my rambling, and those who just notice the word free, I wanted to give you a chance to walk away with a copy of my newly released print version of  The Parrot Told Me!  I will happily sign it, and gratefully send it for the lucky winners on the Goodreads giveaway.
Just visit and enter to win!!
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/103660-the-parrot-told-me

It's finally ready!!

I am so excited about my new book finally being in print.  There is something so special about holding the work in your hands, flipping through the pages, and feeling the glossy cover.  I want to thank everyone, especially my family, friends, and readers, for their support in helping me achieve my goal.

See the book at:
http://www.amazon.com/Parrot-Told-Me-Rachael-Rawlings/dp/0996086757/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_pap?ie=UTF8&qid=1407683456&sr=8-1&keywords=rachael+rawlings

For one week only!

For those of you in search of some easy reading, a little summer fun, check out my novels on sale now for .99!

http://tinyurl.com/pbqwer3  my website!

http://tinyurl.com/k2gtrtf   The parrot told me: a mystery story about murder, unsolved crime, and a most unusual witness

http://tinyurl.com/q5nukp9  Dearly departed: a spooky tale about love gained, just this side of reality

Some like'em hot

Please welcome great author and all around talanted gal Amy Leigh McCorkle.  She is treating us to an excerpt from her book, a work in progress..... Land of Fire & Ash

Abagail Michaels had been drifting since being discharged from the army a year ago. Her past was what it was. A decorated veteran. Her family killed by rebels early on in the second civil war. She was a loner. The only thing that brought her solace was her guitar. She was too young to feel so damned old. She was twenty-eight years young and felt like she’d lived three lifetimes. She’d served like a good soldier girl for the eight years the war had waged. And at twenty-seven a cease fire was called and she was given her medals and a discharge paper. No money as the country was now a band of city-states.

            Having no desire to return home to the scene of her worst memories she had drifted. And now, in the hardest winter that she could remember since her first months on the frontlines she found it odd the cold weather had followed her to San Antonio, Texas. She knew the stories that surrounded the city. Filled with outlaws and cowboys it was run by two men, one a fat, and bloated former rebel general known simply as Rob, she knew like the back of her hand. He ran the largest ranch in the southwest, he paid shit wages, treated his women even worse, and let his son bully whoever he chose and paid off the sheriff anytime he broke the law. Abagail had no desire to see him ever again.

            It was the second man she was intrigued by. And hoped to gain help from. But Sam Jackson was known as the Quiet Man by those who worked for him. He owned a small ranch. Paid his workers a decent wage. And while he was a womanizer, he was a soft touch to a damsel in distress. Even though he never bedded down with any one woman for too long they didn’t seem to mind so much.

 About the author:

Amy McCorkle, who also writes as Kate Lynd is the author of 13 published works. She is the bestselling author of Letters to Daniel, Bounty Hunter, Gemini’s War, GLADIATOR:The Gladiator Chronicles, and BLACKOUT: AN AURORA BLACK NOVEL. She has won several Preditors & Editors awards, the recipient of back to back Moondance International Film Festival awards, the co-writer of the 2013 Fright Night Film Festival SciFi Screenplay award for the adaptation her book Bounty Hunter, and is currently a double finalist with her scripts City of the Damned and Bella Morte with her co-screenwriter Melissa Goodman. And her documentary based on the blog and the memoir of the same name, Letters to Daniel is the premiere event at Imaginarium. She loves to hear from her readers, she can be contacted via her site, http://letters-todaniel.blogspot.com .

http://letters-todaniel.blogspot.com

http://twitter.com/kate_lynd

https://www.facebook.com/amy.l.mccorkle.5

https://www.facebook.com/letterstodaniel?ref_type=bookmark

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Amy-McCorkle/173811662670780?ref_type=bookmark

A little steampunk anyone?

Our next Hydra book is Reality Check, which is a dimension-hopping science fiction / steampunk adventure by Eric Garrison.

The talented author is taking us for a little adventure outside of our world!

Information on the book, including the book trailer, Amazon link, can be found here:

http://sillyhatbooks.com/fiction/reality-check/

----------

This game was beyond immersive. I kept forgetting that it was only a game. I actually cared about these simulated people. The Q-T really must have learned a lot about the human experience, to create all this.

Come to think about it, how did Q-T know what creek water shouldtaste like? How'd it understand pain enough to make me feel it? I'd only been here a little while, and I'd hit highs and lows beyond all my years of experience in the real world.

I found strength returning to me, my breathing slowing and my head clearing. I sat up, and when that worked out well, I made a careful effort to stand. I was impressed with my success. Small victories are still victories.

I saw the column of smoke emitting from a stand of trees not far away, so for lack of any better ideas, I clawed up the bank and out onto some scraggly grass. I kept my pace slow and easy, nursing aches and deep bruises I didn't realize I had. My upper arm had swollen to cantaloupe size from the whack the spinning wing had given it. My poor shin screamed with every step. I didn't even want to check my head for bumps. I could already feel the throbbing.

Maybe that nap wouldn't have been a good idea after all. Staying awake, in case of concussion, seemed like the best thing.

I limped along toward the smoking wreck of my plane. The fuselage was now a frail metal skeleton enclosing black, twisted pipes and tanks that used to be the rocket engines. No trace remained of the wings. The smoke slackened its pace as all the wood and most of the fuel had been consumed. The heat coming from the wreck made it too difficult to approach very close. The trees on all sides had blackened trunks and stank of chemical residue from the burnt fuel.

I heard chittering and turned around. I couldn't believe my eyes. It had started life as a squirrel. It was missing fur in great patches, exposing greyish skin. The thing wore, or had implanted, a steel cap from which wires ran. The wires extended along its four limbs and partway down its bare, rat-like tail, strapped on with metal bands that reminded me of hose clamps.

Its eyes glowed red, and it stared at me, twitching with random jerks, like a cartoon robot.

What the hell is that? Franken-squirrel?

It raised its head and lowered it, panning its nasty, creepy little eyes back and forth, reminding me of an old document scanner.

Was it scanning me?

I decided nothing good could come from being scanned by a cybernetic zombie squirrel. 

And now for a little romance!

 

Amazon Link:  http://amzn.com/B00J2ESR14

Author Bio: Melissa Goodman was born and raised in the Louisville, Kentucky. She currently resides in Mount Washington, Kentucky. An avid reader, she read her first romance novel at the age of ten and wrote her first novel at the age of 20. She is a proud member of the University of Kentucky's Big Blue Nation and loves all things NASCAR.

Gunpowder and Lead: Outlaw

Sera stood behind the sheet and listened. Vance’s words chilled her spine. She called herself myriad names for being so stupid as to come to Matthew’s alone. The talking stopped, and she heard footsteps, and things being dropped on the floor. She glanced around the room. There wasn’t much to the place. A desk piled high with papers, and a leather chair. A full size bed rested against one wall with a nightstand. A dresser and a rocking chair were the only other items of furniture. A room off to her left led to what looked like a kitchenette, but she couldn’t see anything else.

After waiting for what seemed an eternity Sera went to the window. There wasn’t much of a view, since it led out to the alley. Soot, garbage and blackened snow were all she saw. Vance and his men had unloaded the wagon. When the boys jumped onto their horses and the rickety contraption began to move she heaved a sigh of relief.

“Sera,” Matthew pulled back the sheet and leaned against the doorframe.

It was one of those moments that Sera dreamed about, but never believed really happened. The room grew smaller, warmer, and her heart began to beat faster. All because he walked into the room and said her name. All because he looked at her as a man did a woman. She tried to break the spell by blinking and looking back out the window.

That was when she saw it. A man was peeking from around the corner. His eyes met Sera’s briefly before he jerked back out of sight. “He left one behind.”

“I figured as much. You made quite an impression on him.”

Her focus remained transfixed on the spot where the man had been.  Matthew moved to stand behind her and rested his hands on her waist.

“Do you see him?” she asked, feeling his breath on her neck.

“He’s probably going to report back to Vance and let him know that I escorted you home.”

“He thinks you’ll take me home? He doesn’t know you very well, does he?”

“Neither do you,” he said whispering in her ear before kissing her neck.  

“Ma-Matthew…what are you doing?”

“Guess.” he teased her, nuzzling against her.

“The man…” she said struggling to stay focused, failing dismally when Matthew turned her around and pulled her closer. She could feel the entire length of him against her. His scent of soap, drink, and everything enticingly male assaulted her senses. As Sera’s eyes drifted close, she didn’t know what had come over her and frankly, she just didn’t care.

A Space adventure with a most unusual hero!

Today I'd like to welcome another talented author providing great adventure and entertainment for some younger readers!
Thanks  to Steven Donahue for the glimpse into his book!

Astronaut and the Flight for Freedom page:  http://amytheastronaut.yolasite.com/

Get your copy at http://www.amazon.com/Astronaut-Flight-Freedom-Steven-Donahue/dp/0615931952/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1394907212&sr=1-1&keywords=amy+the+astronaut  

  In this scene, Amy and her robot friend, Madison, steal a spaceship called the Liberty Bell in an attempt to rescue her father from alien captors called the Crownaxians.

The duo boarded the craft and hurried to the bridge. The layout of the bridge matched the simulator program that Amy hadn’t quite mastered. They began the prelaunch sequence together before Madison exited to find the terminal that operated the hangar doors. Amy watched the robot locate the terminal and set a timer to open the doors in two minutes. Madison ran back aboard and sat in the co-pilot’s chair. While the engines warmed up, Amy opened a supply locker door and found a helmet and flight suit. “Turn around for a minute,” she said to Madison. The robot did and Amy quickly put on the suit, which was a little too big for her. She put on the helmet and saw that the engines were ready.

Red lights inside the hangar flashed as an alarm screeched. Amy took a deep breath then grabbed hold of the yoke. She stepped on the accelerator and steered the ship through the doors and out into the darkness. As the ship sped up, she saw the Union soldiers aiming their weapons at the craft. “Turn on the shields!” she yelled. The robot typed in a command on the keyboard in front of it just before the soldiers opened fire. The laser blasts ricocheted off the shields and landed harmlessly on the ground.

Amy flipped the switch for the thrusters and the ship began to lift off of the ground. She saw some soldiers hurrying toward the smaller, fighter ships. “C’mon, C’mon,” she said, tapping the console in front of her. Amy then caught of glimpse of Yale’s angry face as the Liberty Bell rose higher and she felt some regret for having to do this to her friend.

The Liberty Bell roared through the night sky toward the planet’s atmosphere. Six small Union fighter crafts pursued the ship, firing their laser cannons. Amy held tightly onto the yoke as the shields took a pounding. She steered the ship into a controlled roll to avoid as many laser blasts as she could. She read the shield gauge and realized that the rear deflectors wouldn’t stand too many more direct hits. Taking a chance, she fired the reverse thrusters and the ship came to a jarring halt, sending Madison crashing into the console in front of the robot. “Sorry,” said Amy, shrugging.

The other ships flew past them and the Liberty Bell fell in behind them. “Target their weapons systems,” ordered Amy. Madison nodded, and then fired laser shots at the ships, hitting two of them. The damage was minimal but enough to send them back to the planet. However, the four remaining crafts turned around and began firing again. Amy banked hard to her left and tried to fly under the laserfire. The side shields absorbed three hits but Amy was able to put some distance between her and the others.

Amy scanned the radar screen and found something interesting. “There’s a nebula about 120,000 miles ahead,” she reported. “We’re going in.” She steered toward the space cloud as the other four ships continued to follow her. She pushed on the accelerator and the ship began to shake as the engines strained to keep up. Within seconds they reached the edge of the nebula. Their pursuers fired a few last shots that never reached the ship.

Once inside the nebula, Amy steered the Liberty Bell toward the thickest patch of the cloud. Radiation from the nebula scrambled her radar screen. “They’re as blind as we are in here,” she said. “Let’s hope we don’t bump into them.” A half-hour passed before the Liberty Bell’s inertia caused the ship to drift out of the nebula. Amy checked the radar and saw no signs of the other ships. She plotted a course toward the Crownaxian homeworld and hit the accelerator. Then she took a deep breath and looked at her friend. “Here we go,” she said. “God help us.”

So if you met the devil himself. ....

Welcome fabulous author Tony Acree and his best selling book the Hand of God!

http://www.amazon.com/The-Hand-Victor-McCain-Series-ebook/dp/B00GBFZIMS/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1401670199&sr=8-2&keywords=tony+acree

It was 6 p.m. when the Devil walked into my office and had a seat. Now when I say the Devil, I’m not talking figuratively. Lord knows that having spent the last five years as a bounty hunter, I’ve come face to face with every form of evil that walks on this scum-ridden planet: murderers, rapists, even a couple of freakin’ child molesters. So I have more than a passing acquaintance with evil, of both the male and female varieties. But no, in this case, I’m talking in the literal sense. You know, as in Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the goddamned Father of all goddamned Lies. That Devil. You’re probably wondering if he was all red, with horns, a pointed tail and pitchfork. Sorry to disappoint you, but he wasn’t. He looked like any other well-dressed bastard in a snazzy suit and shoes to match. OK, he did have a red tie, but I couldn’t see any tail coming out his ass. He was around six feet tall, blond hair and icy blue eyes. Guess we know where Hitler got his ideas for all that superior race crap. And I bet you’re also wondering just how the hell I knew it was the Fallen Angel himself. I guess it was the same way Moses knew that the burning bush was really God and not just a couple of his buddies lighting the damned thing on fire and then pretending to be God while hiding behind the closest rock laughing. Let’s put it this way, if the Devil walked through your door one day, you won't have any doubts either. Take my word for it. Anyway, I'd had a good week and was just getting ready to leave and lock the place up, looking forward to taking the weekend off from chasing bad guys and heading down to Molly Malone’s, when the

door opened and in waltzed Satan, just as pretty as you please. He pulled up a chair near my desk and sat down flashing a row of pearly whites the Kardashian family would be proud of.

“Victor, you know who I am?” he said, eyebrows all arched and superior, although it was more of a proclamation than a question.

I nodded back and calmly opened the top right drawer of my desk and grabbed my Glock 9 millimeter I keep there in case of emergencies. I figured if this didn't qualify for an emergency then nothing would.

“You know that won’t do you any good,” he said.

He was right. Somehow I knew that. After all, for more than a couple of millennium at a bare minimum, people have wanted to kick Satan’s backside with no success. I just knew it wouldn’t do me any good.

But I pulled the gun out and shot the son-of-a-bitch right between the eyes anyway. Blamo!

A perfect gun powdered entry wound appeared smack dab between his eyes. But I could see no blood and no head explosion out the back, just a big hole and an annoyed look on Satan’s formerly pristine mug. Now you would think that a guy, after being shot in the head, would exhibit some sort of adverse effects, but not this time. And folks, that’s just wrong.

Check out this thriller to see what happens next!

Galaxy gear one!

Live wallpapers!

Galaxy gear the first and best....

Word is out that the original Galaxy Gear is receiving an update to a new OS. I can't say that I am that happy about the change.  I have used a fabulous ROM from XDA and currently can use the play store, play you tube videos, and best yet.....live wallpapers! ! Top that, Samsung!

Summer escapes

The summer has officially started according to the weather forecasters, even if the school calendar doesn't agree.  Summer means hot, slow days, beach vacations, family time, and maybe a few books read that you've been putting off in the rush of the workweek.  For this month, I'd like to take the opportunity to give readers just a nugget, a taste of our writing styles, the sound of our voices, the bits of our characters that live in our minds, and when you join us for a read, will live in your minds as well.

To kick us off, I'm giving you a sample of the first book in my trilogy, Grave Reminders.

 http://www.amazon.com/Dearly-Departed-Reminders-Rachael-Rawlings-ebook/dp/B00GJ6NYH0/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1401635347&sr=8-3&keywords=rachael+rawlings

            "And you?  Where will you go?  You won't stay?"

            "I'll see you safely inside.  Then I'll go."

            "You'll be back?"

            He nodded wordlessly and I watched, frozen, as he drew close to me.  Closer, I could see that his eyes were a very light color, but could not see the shade.  The scent of him, something like pine and soap, enveloped me momentarily as the wind caressed his figure.  He was tall, and I had to tip my head back to follow his expression.  One long fingered hand caught my elbow and followed my arm down to my wrist where he pulled my hand from my pocket.  He enveloped my freed hand in his gentle grasp, his skin surprisingly warm and dry.

            "Come on," his voice was soft, floating on the breeze, mixed with the waning fog.

            I followed. Did I have a choice?  I walked with him to the gate and through it into the fenced grounds of my home by the window where my parents usually slept, warm and sheltered in their first floor bedroom.

            The back door was still closed, but the screen was fluttering now with the wind that had revived like a slumbering creature.  The stranger paused at the foot of the porch stairs while Baxter anxiously skittered up, suddenly fearful of the coming rain.

            "I'll be seeing you."

            His hand released me, and I felt some emotion that was difficult to name.  Lonely?  Was that me; was it him?  I climbed the steps feeling clumsy without his light touch.  My fingers fumbled with the door latch, and I slipped into the shadowed house, my eyes never leaving his figure.  Baxter pushed in at my feet as I stood still in the doorway.

            He sketched a wave and turned away, the darkness coming eagerly to swallow him.

            I paused to lock the door, although I couldn't say why.  There were days and nights on end that the lock was never engaged.  I wasn't locking him out; maybe I was locking myself in.

            I climbed the steps with speed and entered my room, my jacket hanging loosely from my shoulders.  I went immediately to the window to look out, using my jacket sleeve to clear away the damp.

            He was there.  The rain was coming in fine sheets of cold, dampening his light hair and glittering off his pale skin.  When he tipped his face up to look into the glass, I could see his eyes.  Topaz? 

Abandoned army

Maunsell Sea Forts

In the pursuit of the strange and the antiquated, the Maunsell Army Forts are a pretty good example of something that was once useful and is now just odd.  The forts are located near England, approximately ten miles into the Thames Estuary.  They were built in the early 1940’s in order to protect the Estuary during the World War II.   Three of the towers were built by the army in the Estuary and were heavily armored.  They were also equipped to shoot down enemy aircraft and bombs from the sky.  They were place in Great Nore, Red Sands, and Shivering Sands.

By the 1950’s, the towers were no longer in use and abandoned in 1958.  Earlier in 1953, one of the towers had been damaged when hit by a ship, making it unusable.  It was dismantled in 1960.  In 1963, another tower was struck by a ship, and it fell into the waters.

The remaining towers stayed in place, used temporarily by private radio stations until the 1960’s.  They continued on in silence after these last inhabitants left.
In 2005, a lone artist spent six weeks in one of the towers (Shivering Sands).  Pictures and books record his thoughts.

Which made me think.  Could I do something like that?  Even with a group of people, could I go out in the watery blankness and stay, trapped in place by the sea around me?
It sounds like the perfect set up for a scary movie.  The thoughtful artist goes out to the rusting ruins to search his soul.  He is alone on the suspended metal beasts.  The air is full of sea breezes and whispers.  The wartime soul of the place comes alive in his mind.  The men, soldiers that had inhabited the place, perhaps haunt the place, come out to keep him company.
It’s a spooky thought.  I can’t help but think how isolated that I would feel, how trapped. 

All images  used under Creative Commons Attribution Non Commercial Share Alike 2.0 Generic. Images by Wayne Barry / Flickr.

http://www.abandonedplaygrounds.com/maunsell-army-forts-the-abandoned-world-war-ii-towers-in-the-thames-estuary/

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Entry to hell?

The Door to Hell

The name of the location is a little daunting.  It makes you wonder about human nature when people are more likely to flock to a place with such a title than avoid it.  But apparently we aren’t as wise as we think we are, and thousands of people visit.

The door to hell is actually more of a pit or hole.  And it’s totally man made.  In 1971, a drilling platform was built to seek out natural gas.  It is located in Turkmenistan, and Soviet scientists meant it to allow the use of this valuable energy source.  But the platform collapsed and the gas started to escape.  In an effort to keep the poison from the atmosphere, scientists set the open crater on fire.  The plan was a controlled and limited burn that would cease in a short time.  And that was 40 some years ago.

This scientific attempt to control nature and energy certainly backfired.  The result is a 230 foot wide, 70 foot deep crater burning with incredible heat.  The light from the flames can be seen at a distance and spreads up into the darkened sky.  It is heat in the desert, a sparsely populated place.

I’m not sure that this is actually named appropriately.  Granted, it’s hot and flaming, but the devil made no one do it.  And it wasn’t due to some cruelty of spirit.  No one meant for the fire to burn on, and since it is located away from most towns, it hasn’t really caused any loss of life.  It was a mistake, not an attack, a botched attempt at fixing something. 

Perhaps I’ll go with Fiery Folly. 

And this is one that I might want to visit one day.

Any other ideas for a name? 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/11/20/door-of-hell_n_4311694.html