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The Cull Of Lions by Mark Iles: @welcometoearth #ScienceFiction @SolsticeShadows

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PLEASE WELCOME MY FRIEND, A MAN WITH A THOUSAND ARMS

SCIENCE FICTION AUTHOR

MARK ILESS

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I’m thrilled that my friend Kathleen has joined in with the blog tour. As another Solstice author she and I have chatted often and she also helped to promote my first novel, A Pride of Lions. Author of September Wind Kathleen is a wonderful writer and someone with incredible potential, so keep your eyes open for works by Kathleen Janz Anderson!

Author Bio

Mark works for Southampton University, and also as a freelance writer in many fields including copywriting. His short stories have been published in Back Brain Recluse, Dream, New Moon, Auguries, Haunts, Kalkion, Screaming Dreams, and the anthologies Right To Fight, Escape Velocity, Auguries and Monk Punk. With an 8th Degree Black Belt in Taekwondo he’s also written non-fiction for Combat, Taekwondo & Korean Martial Arts, Fighters, Junk, Martial Arts Illustrated, profwritingacademy.com and calmzone.net.

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Serious Book Reviews presents: In Our House by Marala Scott @Maralascott @jgHankins22 #amwriting

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WELCOME BOOK LOVERS!

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Today’s book is by author

MARALA SCOTT

IN OUR HOUSE

Reading In Our House was a heartbreaking, painful, shocking, maddening, torturous journey of misery, and yet this book is one of the most riveting, thought-provoking books I’ll ever read.

Marala shares a number of the horrific instances of physical abuse, but not as many as one might expect. She goes into detail regarding her mother’s downfall, and the frightening & chilling results of what happens when she turns her soul over to a devil-worshiping cult (you’ll want to pray before you read this and probably all the way through.) The importance I found in this was that it shows how years of abuse can dismantle the core of a person’s being and turn them into someone they never would’ve been otherwise.

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Breaking the silence with Joy Redmond author of Give Me Wings. @authorjoy @katjanzanderson #amwriting

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 It’s been said that first novels are oftentimes drawn from real life experiences.  We write from what we know whether it’s pieces of real life, or inspirations from what we read, hear, or see, so it would make perfect sense that in part novels have at least a little of the author in them.

But how much real life is too much, and should a person worry about offending someone? Is it the healing process that’s more important, do we blame it on the art of expression, or just say, “Ya, should’ve been nicer.”

Today I’m putting these questions to one of the most delightful authors you’ll ever meet, Joy Redmond. She’s opinionated, funny as heck, sassy, and smart as a whip. I see her coming up the walkway now. It couldn’t be a more perfect day for this with a light breeze sending whiffs of heaven from the flower garden.

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(1958) Emily boards a plane with her sister, Rose. A trip of leisure? If only… @SummerSolstice6 #amwriting #literature

Note from Kathleen: I give you permission to skip this part and go directly to the excerpt, if you like. 🙂

Soon my contract with the publisher will end and I’ll be on my own again. Reminds me of the song: On My Own Again, by Gilbert O’Sullivan. Okay, it’s not exactly the same situation, but the title fits. Just incase you want to listen to it later,  or while you’re reading my post, here it is. I think you’ll love it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_P-v1BVQn8&noredirect=1.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but I’m moving on and working on other projects, one being a novel called Big Town Secrets or (Claire) I named it BTS first, but when I saw that one of my favorite books Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani http://www.amazon.com/Big-Stone-Gap-Adriana-Trigiani-ebook/dp/B000FBFMS4 is coming out with a movie and  because I want to promote it, I thought maybe I should change the name. I read the book a number of years ago and it wasn’t on my mind when I named my book beginning with the word “Big’, it was just coincidence, anyway still thinking about it. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

I posted the first page under, Project. I don’t know if other writers feel this way, but when I read a book and see something that reminds me of my book I sort of cringe because I don’t want anyone to think I got the idea from another book.

I’ve decided to do a full outline which will include interviews with all the characters. I’ll have some of them at the end of the book, and maybe all, who knows. One of the reasons I decided to do this is that there have been times while reading a book I long to know more about a character or have a deeper understanding of the story-line.  Another reason is that a couple of years ago after reading a book I was so disappointed it was over that I thumbed through the back of the book in search of anything that would keep me in the story. There I found an interview and I was not only thrilled, but I loved it. After that I always knew i wanted to do that.

With September Wind I sat down and wrote the story in six months. I won second place in a contest, and then I started my edits, adding chapters and taking others out, self-publishing once, and pulling it back. I sent it to two other publishers, and then it was picked up my Solstice Publishing, now under Summer Solstice: http://solsticepublishing.com/summer-solstice-young-adult-romance/?sort=featured&page=2. Thanks for publishing my book Solstice.

I know we’re supposed to let our books go, but I’m looking to change a few things, rework the cover and release it again.

So far, the reviews on Amazon for SEPTEMBER WIND have been great. I’ve had numerous well-written comments, which I appreciate, although as I’m finding samples to post I see little things here and there I want to change, which I have done here:

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Emily and Rose walked into the terminal at the San Francisco airport just as their flight to the Midway in Chicago was announced. Officer Douglas escorted them out to where the plane sat on the tarmac and ordered them to stay back until all the other passengers were onboard.

Emily looked the plane over amazed at its size and frightened by what was about to happen to her. She tightened the grip on her bag feeling the notebook through the cloth comforted by the bird on the cover with its beautiful white wings like soft pillows waiting, always waiting, to carry her from her troubles.

As the last passenger headed up the steps, Emily felt the officer beside her. “Let’s go,” he said. “We don’t have all day.”

Rose took her hand, and Emily felt the tension and the sweat in her palm. It warmed her and yet made her feel sad to see how hard her sister was trying to help keep her spirits up.

“You know, Rose,” she said, looking up at the white plane with its red and blue strips. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to ride on one of those.” Her throat was so dry it didn’t come out as cheerful as she intended.

Rose looked over, raising her brows. “Oh, me too, me too.” She gave Emily’s hand a squeeze, and they smiled at one another stretching their lips out as far as they would go.

The officer motioned Rose to go first, and then followed Emily up the steps. Inside, the plane was like a tunnel, not exactly cozy, leaning toward cramped, everyone already seated, staring at the trio as they passed. The tension was overwhelming, and Emily figured Rose must have felt it too because all of a sudden she whipped around and grabbed her by the elbow.

“This won’t be so bad,” she whispered happily. “I hear there’s a snack once we’re up in the air.”

“That’ll be nice,” Emily said, trying to sound even more excited. “And it’s free… well for me anyway.” Another big smile between the girls.

“The important thing is that we’re sharing the experience together, don’t you think?” Rose bent to get a better look out the window. “And on such a beautiful day.”

Emily cringed to think how she would be reacting if Rose hadn’t come along. She cracked another smile when she realized how much they were alike trying to make the best of things, and joking around pretending they didn’t want to cry.

“All right you two, all the way to the back,” the officer said.

They exchanged a what-a-grouch look and kept walking.

When they reached the last row, Rose offered Emily the window seat, and Officer Douglas sat across the aisle.

As a stewardess laid out safety procedures, the engines rumbled to a start. The cabin fell silent except for the whine of motors and the purr of fans as they taxied from the building. They slowed, turned into position, and then stopped.

Emily leaned toward the window as they began to move again, quickly picking up speed, the world passing in streaks and flickers.  With a breath-catching sweep, the plane lifted moving swiftly from the earth as buildings and cars became miniature toys. It seemed they would never stop and then they leveled and finally the roar of the engines faded to a hum.

The stewardesses began to move carts up the aisle. “Emily?” Rose nudged her. “You okay?”

Emily stared out the window a moment longer then leaned back in her seat. “I’m going to jail.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I don’t know, Rose. On the way up, I realized they must really want me bad.” She looked over at Officer Douglas. “Him, and then this plane ride almost all the way across the entire country. Would they go to all this trouble if they didn’t want me there?”

“Oh, come now, you can’t think that way. Listen, let’s talk about something nice. I know. Why don’t you tell me about the guy you met on the train?”

They began to talk then, and laugh a little too, until Emily almost forgot what was waiting for her at the other end.

As they neared their destination, they succumbed to lack of sleep and dozed.

When the plane took a sudden descent, Emily opened her eyes and leaned to the window as they careened over the landscape, closer and closer to the ground until the wheels hit the runway. The earth passed in a blur, and gravity set her up in her seat. The engines groaned as they slowed and made a turn and began to taxi toward the buildings.

Officer Douglas stood and motioned for Emily to stay seated.

When the engines died, an eerie calm filled the cabin as everyone stood and quietly gathered their belongings.

Emily clinched her bag to her chest, taking a deep breath . “Rose? There’s a storm coming. I can feel it in my bones.”

Rose put a hand over Emily’s. “Don’t say that. It’ll be all right.” But Emily heard the uneasiness in her voice.

 

 

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Hi everyone. I just posted CHAPTER NINETEEN on my blog. Also, check out the new project I’m working on. :)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Next stop, Sacramento, forty-five minutes!”

Emily opened her eyes, knowing at once that she had slept in. She was out of bed in a flash, expecting Michael to show up at any moment. Her clothes were a mess and as she pulled everything together, she noticed that a button on her blouse was missing. Checking the bedcovers, she found the acorn, dropped it in her pocket, and continued searching the floor, the garbage, and even the closet for the button. Finally, she had to admit she could’ve lost it anywhere. She did her best to look presentable and then went next door.

“Michael?” she said, knocking.

It was obvious he wasn’t there, and she headed up the corridor searching for him. She stopped to freshen up and was grateful when a woman gave her a safety pin to replace the missing button on her blouse. It was a little too big but she had no other choice.

When she reached the dining car, he wasn’t there, so she took a seat, certain he’d turn up at any moment. She placed an order, keeping an eye on the entryway.

By the time breakfast arrived, she decided the oats and fruit didn’t look so good after all. It was apparent he wasn’t going to show. It was just as well. At least she would never have to tell him about Claude. Only that didn’t stop her from looking around the diner once more before she left to check the lounge. He wasn’t there, either.

When she returned to her seat, she was disappointed to find that Sophie and her family were gone. She sat, hoping Michael would come to her. If he wanted to see her, he knew where her seat was.

Tears stung her eyes as she pulled the acorn from her pocket and looked at the familiar memento. It was such a small thing, yet a comforting essence of her mother, rising from the very dirt she had walked on. Though years apart, this little nugget was at least something real they shared. She held it to her lips, rolling it back and forth, wondering if her parents had loved their daughter, had loved each other. Love…that elusive word so many had taken to their graves. She reached into her bag for her grandmother’s scarf, draped it around her neck, and curled up. “Perseverance, little girl, that’s all you need. Perseverance.” Her grandmother’s words gave her courage.

She put the acorn into her bag for safekeeping. It wouldn’t last, she knew that, but for now it was what she needed. She gazed out the window as the train rumbled across what she learned was the Carquines Strait Bridge.

They pulled into the Sacramento station, and she leaned forward to study the departing passengers. All at once, she gasped and swung back from the window. What was Michael doing, getting off here? He told her he was going to Oakland. She looked again. He stood just a few feet beyond where she peered down at him from her car. He could have been a million miles away because he didn’t notice her. His attention was on the beautiful raven-haired woman who rushed into his arms. They hugged before wandering off through the crowd, arm-in-arm.

She sank back in her seat as the train began to move. Just hours ago she had felt so close to him, and now it was apparent she meant nothing to him at all. Tears welled up again and she forced them back. This probably served her right for starting something so soon after what happened. Claude probably wasn’t buried yet, and here she was, falling in love. What a fool she’d made of herself!

After they made a stop at Berkeley, the train never picked up much speed, and when they arrived at the Oakland pier, a man announced that the train would turn around and head back east. He added that those intending to go to San Francisco would take the ferryboat across the bay.

Emily slipped on her jacket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and made her way towards the exit, stooping with curiosity to look out the windows on her way down the aisle.

Salty sea air filled her lungs as she stepped from the train and followed the other passengers to the cavernous shed where the ferry waited.

The engines hummed and the floor vibrated beneath her feet as she climbed onboard. Men brought on carts of luggage, and soon the vessel inched from its binding, screeching and hawing like an old building. The foghorn blared a warning as they set off across the Bay.

She wandered the bottom deck furnished with rows of long dark benches and white pillars that ran from one end to the other. The floor above had an eating area and was much the same except for the way beams of light filtered down through stained-glass windows.
Not wanting to miss a thing, she buttoned her jacket and walked out onto the open deck. She pulled up her collar, then tucked her arms in as she watched the morning fog silently shift and roll about, creating the illusion that the Bay Bridge was suspended within its roving mist. Below, waves billowed forward and collapsed against the hull of the vessel. The scene was mysterious, beautiful – and a little frightening at the same time.

When the mournful wail of the foghorn sounded again she made her way to the front of the ferry, squeezing in between two passengers to claim a spot at the railing.

The fog was beginning to lift, and the sun pushed its way through the haze glistening across the churning swells of water. In the distance, with tall elegant buildings rising out of a silvery fog, she got her first glimpse of San Francisco.

As the ferry pressed on toward its destination, the fog dissipated, leaving the warmth of sunlight and blue skies over the Bay. Seagulls swooped down beside them in a spectacular race to shore where men threw out lines and quickly secured the vessel to the dock.

The buzz of activity, the sounds, and scents of the waterway, and the command of the towering city had Emily in a state of exhilaration as she made her way down the gangway. She leaned over the railing to watch pigeons scamper about the pier and snatch up crackers, dry breadcrumbs, and other bits of food.

Once off the boat, she walked the few blocks into town, exploring the streets and buildings and looking in shop windows. On a whim, she walked into a store, bought a pair of brown lace-up shoes, and then tossed her old pair into the trash outside.

She stood next to the store entryway and leaned against the building. Bells began to ring and she looked up the hill where a cable car chugged along. When it disappeared around a bend, her eyes dropped to a phone booth she noticed earlier.

It was time to find Samuel, yet now that the moment had arrived, she realized saying was easier than doing. What if she didn’t find him? That had never been an option before now. She looked over her shoulder, where slivers of water glistened between buildings toward the melancholy sounds of ships blasting their horns.

Before she knew it, she was at the waterfront on a rock looking out over the harbor. She scanned the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of the ocean she knew wasn’t far away by the cool salty mist that tempted her nostrils.

The Bay Bridge, parading full and bright now, was a sight to see. It was astonishing how it held up under all the weight of the trucks and cars. She studied its length to where it ended at Oakland, wondering if Michael was there back in school, or if he was spending time with that woman. How dumb she’d been to think she knew him in just those few hours.

She pulled herself from his memory and looked up and down the bay taking it all in with the wonder of something never experienced. A group of fishermen wearing knee-high boots waited for a nibble. Finally, one of them reeled a line in, extracted the hook and then placed the fish in a bucket.

Just up the boardwalk, two women strolled along the waterfront, discussing things that made them howl with laughter, arms flinging, heads back or down at their knees. Emily couldn’t help but laugh herself.

Several people stood on a platform about twenty or so feet high. They gazed out over the water, and then headed down the steps and up the walk. Something caught her eye, and she looked back to the platform where a man in a gray baggy suit stood beneath the steps. He glanced in either direction, then pulled something from a pocket and stuffed it into a crack under one of the steps. He stared out across the bay for a few moments, and then turned and looked straight up at her.

All at once, she had a feeling that whatever fascination this town held for her, when nightfall came, things would look much different. She slid from the rock and hurried up the walk toward the city that sat like a fortress against an ever-changing bay.

“See what stalling gets you?” she said with a self-mocking laugh.

She headed straight for a phone booth, opened the book to the name Dimsmoore, and began to dial any number with a name that resembled Samuel, but each call ended in disappointment. Her last try was a number with the initial ‘S’.

“First of all,” the lady said curtly, “the initial ‘S’ stands for Scott. And secondly, I doubt that he’s this friend of your mother’s, not unless she was about two years old when this friendship took place.”

“Well then by any chance do you know a Samuel P. Dimsmoore?”

“I sure don’t. Who is this anyway?”

“No one important,” Emily said, replacing the receiver.

With all of the Dimsmoore numbers called, she stepped from the phone booth and walked up the street. She longed for the excitement and confidence she experienced the day she first made plans to find Samuel.

A group of people stepping from a building cut her off. She waited for them to pass, noticing a sign overhead that read Mack’s House of Food.

When the walk was clear, she saw that the hours were posted on the window. Open from 6 a.m. – 10 p.m.

She stepped through the door into a long narrow room with a number of dirty tables, a handful of customers – three to be exact – but no waitress in sight. The place was silent until a racket came from the kitchen. It sounded as if pots and pans were being thrown about, along with profanities she might’ve heard from the men back home.

She considered leaving until she took note of the lone man at the counter drinking coffee and looking the picture of contentment. At the far end of the room was a young couple sharing a plate of french-fries, staring into each other’s eyes like this was the best moment of their lives. All of this considered, she decided the place wasn’t so bad after all.

Picking a window booth, she dropped her bag onto the tabletop, plucked a menu from its holder, and glanced over the list of items.

The kitchen door swung open and a lank woman with a ruffled blonde up-do and a bright pink uniform sashayed into the room. She set a piece of pie in front of the man at the counter.

“Here’s your pie, sir,” she said. “Chocolate’s a little frozen in the middle though, but I just now whipped up the cream.” Her southern drawl was as shrill as the clanging pots and pans in the back room. She leaned toward the metal part of the dessert compartment, applied a red coat of lipstick, and then turned back to the man.

“Can you believe ole Mack’s got me workin’ alone the last hour’n half of this shift?” She pushed his glass of water aside, leaned on the counter, and poked a long-nailed thumb toward the kitchen. “Just between you’n me, I’ve seen pig-sties that look better’n that kitchen looks.”

“Maxine, you complain too much,” the man said. He emptied his cup and shoved it across the counter. “But I have to say you make a killer pot of coffee.”

Unfazed by his bluntness, Maxine filled his cup. “I could threaten to find another job. Hmm… Maybe not such a smart move at my age, you think?” She looked up as if to contemplate her situation. That’s when she noticed Emily. “Gosh darn. I’ve got a customer!”

Carrying a glass of ice water, she headed across the room.

“What’s the matter?” she said, slapping the coaster down, placing the glass on top, “lose your best friend or something?”

“No. Not exactly.”
“What do you mean… not exactly?”
Emily pulled the glass over and took a drink. “Well. It’s just that, uhm…I just got into town and I’m trying to find an old friend of my mother’s. I couldn’t find his name in the phonebook.” She looked up, hopefully. “But I have his Post Office Box number.”

Maxine gaped at Emily’s bag. “You traveling alone?”

“…Yes.”

“So, if your mother and this guy are friends, how come she didn’t give you his home address?”

“My mother died when I was a baby. I-I grew up with my … my aunt. When she died, I found a letter from him up in her attic.” She gave her bag a pat. “I’ve written him a letter.”

“In the attic, huh? You notice the date on that thing?”

“1941.”

Maxine chuckled. “Let’s see. That’s seventeen years ago. You actually think he’s gonna have the same P.O. Box?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You know how many times I’ve moved in the last seventeen years?”

“Well, no, but I…”

“Ten, maybe eleven times, I’ll have you know. Across country and back, and a number of towns in between. Now there may be your answer as to why the fella don’t have a number in the phonebook. Maybe he ain’t got a phone. And then again, maybe he’s in prison, or hiding from the police. You ever think of that? Say, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Emily. But I don’t think it’ll hurt to send out a letter.”

“Listen here, young lady. You ever consider that maybe the man got himself a P.O. Box so’s not to be bothered?”

“People do that?”

“Well, would you give out your home address when you didn’t want anyone to find you? For-instance, the police?”

Emily snatched her drink off the table and took a big gulp.

“So, uhm, Emily. Do you know anyone else in the area?”

“No.”

“Where you from?”

Emily set her glass down, using her thumb to rub moister off the rim. “Down south.”

“Bet you’ve never even had a job.”

This was beginning to feel like one of Grandfather’s interrogations. She glanced at her bag, thinking it might be time to leave.

“Well, have you? Have you ever had a job?”

“No.”

“I’ll bet you’re planning to mooch off your dead mother’s friend.”

“No. Of course not. And soon as I get done here, I’m headed out to look for a job.”

“You know how naive that sounds? Coming to a city of this size like a-a-a lost soul, expecting to find some fly-by-night stranger with a P.O. Box from, what was it, 1941? And then, you expect a job to just drop from the sky without even a day’s experience. Ha! From the looks of it, you haven’t seen much else than a mop and bucket. You need to prove yourself first.”

“But I have. I’ve cooked and baked a-and I’ve sewn my own clothes for years. In fact, back at the farm I canned shelves-full of fruits and vegetables. A number of times they held us through a bad winter.” Emily thought that would show her.

“Y’all can brag about your homemaking skills,” Maxine said, making a point of looking down at Emily’s blouse, “but you still need experience.”

Emily touched the safety pin that had worked its way through the buttonhole. “Well, I’ve done enough cooking that it should count for something.”

Maxine pulled a pencil from above her ear and jabbed it against the table several times. “A job’s not just throwing meat and potatoes into a pan. My grandma used to cook up a storm back on the farm too, but that’s not the same as workin’ a real job.” She tucked the pencil back over her ear. “Even here, you have to know how to count out change. You ever done that?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are. I mean, you could send the profits home with someone.”

Emily toyed with her glass of water, took a drink and set in down. “So then, how do I get experience if I can’t get a job?”

“You’ve gotta earn it, that’s how.” Maxine thought for a moment, eyes scouring the ceiling, her lips twisting into a pucker. Then she leaned with her knuckles on the table. “I’ll tell you what. I just might have something for you. Why don’t you give me your order, get your tummy filled and I’ll get back to you.” She whisked the pencil from its cradle, lifting a pad from her apron pocket. “Now, what can I get you?”

Maxine reminded her of one of the crabs at the bottom of a creek waiting to latch onto the first thing that moved. The moment just before the strike was the worst, and the best thing to do was not get too close.

“I’ll have a grilled cheese, and some french-fries. Oh, and a coke. I hardly ever had coke back home.”

Maxine rolled her eyes, scribbled the order, and sauntered off to the kitchen.

While Emily waited for her sandwich, she opened the letter to Samuel, deciding that whether or not Maxine was right about him, she was willing to take the chance. At the bottom, she added that she would like to meet him at Mack’s House of Food. She gave a date a couple weeks out, and then if he couldn’t make that, she set up another meeting for a month away, on November 19th between noon and two p.m. She described what she looked like, where she would sit, and if he couldn’t make it that day, she would be there again on December 19, same time. At the bottom, she added that a waitress told her she might be able to help her, although she wasn’t sure if it was with a job or a place to stay. She sealed the letter and took it to a mailbox she noticed up the street. When she returned, her food was on the table, and Maxine was taking an order a couple of booths down.

Several customers came in as she ate, along with another waitress arriving for the next shift.

“Well, kid,” Maxine said as she stepped to her table. She unwrapped and folded a piece of gum into her mouth. “It wasn’t easy, but I managed to pull some strings.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you wait here while I grab my things, I’ll take you to a place that’s looking to hire. If the woman decides to take you in, it won’t cost you a dime. And you can make money to boot.”

“You’re saying, just like that, there’s a job, and a place to stay?”

“That’s right.” Maxine stood with her hands on her hips, chomping her gum, looking like she had a lot more on her mind than what she was saying. “You know, if I were you, I’d forget about that friend of your mother’s. If he’s not in jail, the guy’s probably a kook at best. Either way, it sounds suspicious to me.” She stuck a hand out. “Why don’t you hand the letter over? I’ll toss it for you.”

Emily had no desire to argue with her. “It’s done. I already dropped it in the garbage.”

“Good decision. No use clouding your mind with false hope.”

****

“I take the bus,” Maxine said as they headed out the door. She looked at Emily’s clothes. “Once you get rid of those rags you’re wearing, you’ll feel much better.”

Emily’s cheeks flushed with anger, thinking of the effort she put into sewing her skirt and blouse.

“Come along now,” Maxine urged when Emily fell behind. “I want to tell you something.” She reached around and nudged her forward, digging her long fingernails into her back. “If you keep in mind what I’ve told you and don’t make any waves, you’ll do just fine.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Emily wondered as they got on the bus. She thought of asking, but decided whatever it was, it couldn’t be half as bad as the mess she was already in.

The bus wound through the streets, up and down hills making stops on the way, and then finally pulled over next to a row of trees to let them off.

“Well, there it is,” Maxine said when they were alone. She pointed to a three-story white house visible through the branches of trees that circled the property. It sat a half a block up a side street, had green shutters, a brick chimney, and was surrounded by a tall white picket fence.

They walked through a gate into a sprawling yard filled with a variety of plants and flowers that followed walkways and hedged the perimeter of the house. Tiny pink trailing roses wound around a wooden archway above the steps.

The two walked beneath the arbor of roses and up onto a large porch enclosed with hanging plants and potted ferns. Emily stopped to cup a sweet-smelling flower in her hand while Maxine stepped to the stained glass door and pressed the buzzer.

A woman of about fifty, clad in scarlet red, peeped the door open. Her dress was taut over cleavage that swelled like two mountains. Her bright red hair was stacked up into neat layers and sprayed to a freeze. On first glance at her fiery green eyes and pointed nose, Emily might’ve considered her brazen, although her voice was sweet as pie as she swung the door open all the way. “Oh my. I guess you were serious.”

“Hello, Beatrice,” Maxine said, her voice trilling with pleasure.

Beatrice gave Emily’s rumpled appearance a thorough once over. “So this is the gal. My, my. Emily, you say?”

“This is her,” Maxine crowed. She put a hand on Emily’s back and pushed her forward.

There were those fingernails again. Emily moved out of reach and tried not to make too much of the way the women talked as if she wasn’t here.

“And soon as I heard she was new in town with no place to stay, well I thought of you right way.”

Beatrice stepped out onto the porch, took Emily by the wrist, and pulled her from side to side. “Well, young lady, we’ll just have to see if we can do something about this dilemma of yours, how about it?”

“Well, I…”

“It’s terrible to be all alone in a strange town, isn’t it, dearie?” Maxine cooed. She leaned forward and stretched her long neck in order to look into Emily’s face.

Emily glanced over, wondering why the sweet change in her voice, and why she was suddenly calling her “dearie”.

A bus rumbled in the distance, and Maxine positioned herself for a better view up the street. Then she turned back and moved her head from side to side, peering inside the house. “Uhuh… Bea, don’t you have something for me?”

Beatrice reached inside the doorway and took an envelope off a stand. Maxine snatched it away before she had a chance to hand it over and made a quick exit down the steps. “Well, see ya’ll.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, and then stepped inside. “Come in, Emily. We’ll have us a nice chat in the parlor.”

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Check out interview with Patricia Salamone author of The Italian Thing @Pattisalamone

~ PATRICIA SALAMONE ~

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Today I’m thrilled to have Patricia Salamone author of The Italian Thing as my guest. Since Spring is just around the corner, we’re sitting out here on the patio, ice tea, in hand. (glasses tinkle as we toast)

KATHLEEN: Thanks for stopping by, Patricia.

PATRICIA: It’s my pleasure.

KATHLEEN: Before we talk about your book and writing career, would you mind telling us a little about yourself?

PATRICIA: First I would like to say how much I enjoyed reading your book “September Wind.”

KATHLEEN: Well thank you. You and I’ve been friends for, what is it, about two years now?

PATRICIA: It has been two years hasn’t it. Wow time flies when you’re having fun.

KATHLEEN: We do know how to have fun, don’t we. (toast) Okay, so I’m sure everyone is dying to know more about you.

PATRICIA:  Well, I was born and raised in Queens, New York. Our family consisted of
six children. Five girls and one boy. My parents were born in the U.S.. My father was of German decent, and my mother was of Italian decent. My childhood was a happy one for the most part. I was a tomboy until I was about 14. I was a middle child and the one to dare to do just about anything I was told I couldn’t or shouldn’t do. The street that I lived on 52nd. Ave. was my playground and we had plenty of friends.

KATHLEEN: Sounds like a very nice upbringing. I think most of us have heard of Queens New York. I think the name brings us images of what we see in the movies, at least for me it does. As you were running around being a tomboy, did you ever think you might become an author one day?

PATRICIA: I thought I would write stories and poems. I did not think in terms of being an author. I loved to make up stories and made my siblings sit and listen to them. My parents encouraged this, but I think it was only because it gave them time to sit and have a cup of coffee and a cigarette together. My stories would last at least a half hour, if I was still rambling past that my siblings would start complaining to end it already.

KATHLEEN: What have you written besides “The Italian Thing,” and what are you working on?

PATRICIA: I have had a poem published “Angel Dear,” by Gerl Publishing, the book is “Shades of Expression.”
I am currently working on three other books. None of them are near completion yet. I have written a short story “The Shoe Left In The Snow” it can be viewed at   http://www.salpa58.wordpress.com along with some of my daily thoughts, and adventures. Although I have not won the Pulitzer Prize yet I continue to strive for it. My web site for my book is http://www.TheItalianThing.com. The book is for sale on Amazon.com in paperback and Amazon Kindle. It also contains 26 photographs depicting my adventures and misadventures, the family and lifestyle of the hilarious trip to Naro, Sicily. I am working on a Mystery right now. The main character is Samantha Cole. Right now the plot resembles a map, with many side roads and twists and turns. I also started a humorous book about what it is like to own and work like a friggin dog in a deli. The third one is still a working progress, with bits and pieces of notes and thoughts. It has no structure right now and is on a back burner.

KATHLEEN: Well, I read your book and I loved it. Your relatives are such an interesting crew, so funny. Their culture was very interesting to witness in your writing.

PATRICIA: Yes interesting to say the least. Originally I had a picture in my head of what it would be like and that picture rapidly disintegrated. What took it’s place a wonderful, loving, generous, giving amazing and hilarious true adventure. They are a great part of my life now and thanks to the internet we are constantly in touch.

KATHLEEN: Your description is just how the book read. It was just marvelous. And it was true, which made it even more interesting. What genre is your favorite?

PATRICIA: I tend to lean toward humorous non-fiction memoirs, but do not limit myself to that genre. I also like to read and write poetry. Mind you I am not a poet, but I do like to dabble in it. Your readers can read some of it on my Blog.

KATHLEEN: I’ve read some of your poems and they’re very good. Have you ever thought of which actor or actress you’d like to see playing the lead character in the Italian Thing?

PATRICIA: Since my book is a non fiction memoir my husband Mike and I are the main characters. I think John Goodman and Kathy Bates would make a excellent couple. As for the rest of the family I would really have to think about that. They were quite a group.

KATHLEEN: (Chuckle) I love John Goodman. From what I’ve read and seen I think that would be a great choice. And Kathy Bates, great actress, love her too. Very interesting choice. Before I met you in person I don’t know if I would’ve picked her, but I think she can play anyone.

PATRICIA: I truly think Kathy Bates would be perfect. She is a wonderfully talented actress and very versatile. I can see her playing me, I laugh just thinking about her playing that part.

KATHLEEN: Well, I hope it happens. Now as far as your writing, do you outline before you begin a story?

PATRICIA: I do but not entirely. I will take notes on scraps of paper, or if I am near my computer I will jot thoughts down and save them, because I know I will not remember it later. After all I am 70 and taking notes and writing lists has become a necessity.

KATHLEEN: Taking notes at any age, is good habit to start. As we read back it can lead us in many different directions, besides helping us to remember. What about research? How much research have you done?

PATRICIA: For “The Italian Thing” it started out as a journal while I was in Naro. I would get up early and type on my laptop the events of the prior day. I would add bits and pieces of thoughts as well. I lived that story and did very little research.

KATHLEEN: Do you have a favorite time to write?

PATRICIA: Mostly I write very early in the morning, at times I start about 2:30am., and before I realize it, it can be past noon. I will write any time of the day or night, but my favorite time is early, really early morning.

KATHLEEN: What was the hardest thing about writing?

PATRICIA: I don’t think I had the self-confidence and I certainly did not have the formal education required to be an author, but I didn’t let that stop me. I’ve been writing stories since I am 8years old and I have no intention of stopping now.

KATHLEEN: How much time do you devote to marketing?

PATRICIA: Boy you would have to ask that question :o)…Not enough, I hate marketing. I know it is a very important part of being an author, but I am not proficient at marketing. The problem is I can not afford to hire someone to do it for me. I use social networking mostly. I have done a few book signings and have been highlighted in the local newspaper. I have given my book to several libraries and other organizations, but that is about all. I was told by many that my book would make a great movie, and I would love to have it made into a movie script, and I will, as soon as I win the Power Ball…..

KATHLEEN: I’d love to see your book in a movie. It would be well received. Let’s cross our fingers. Do you have a favorite writer’s quote?

PATRICIA: Yes, I do Kat, Leo Rosten wrote: “A writer writes not because he is educated but because he is driven by the need to communicate. Behind the need to communicate is the need to share. Behind the need to share is the need to be understood.” 

KATHLEEN: Love that, and I think it’s very true. If you could talk to your younger self, what would you say?

PATRICIA: Probably the same things that my parents said to me. “Get off that roof, get down from that tree, stop the writing it’s time for dinner. Stop fighting with your sisters and stop picking on your brother he is not your slave. The most important thing and one that stayed with me that I always repeat to myself is: You can accomplish anything, nothing is impossible, improbable maybe, but never impossible. It depends on how bad you want it. My dad told us that almost on a daily basis.

KATHLEEN: What advise would you give to aspiring writers?

PATRICIA: If you feel it in your heart and soul, then write it down, and keep writing and writing and writing. It might turn into a novel one day. :o)

KATHLEEN: What was the hardest part of writing your book?

PATRICIA: I didn’t have a hard time writing my book, I really enjoyed it. I laughed as I remembered my adventures, the wonderful crazy people I met and enjoyment and fun I had. I felt this book from my soul and had to put my pen to paper. The hard part came when I was finished. I thought what the hell do I do now?

KATHLEEN: (Chuckle) Isn’t that just the way it goes. So, would you ever consider stepping out of your comfort zone and writing out of your genre?

PATRICIA: Yes, I would and have. One of my works is fiction and I find that more difficult than non-fiction, and humor.

KATHLEEN: Do you have a writing schedule, rituals, or habits?

PATRICIA: Mm. Well, I don’t know if it’s a ritual, but once I start writing I tune out the rest of the world, I hate it if the phone rings or the doorbell and most times I will not pay attention to it. My husband knows if he sees me at the computer when he wakes up not to talk to me or even say good morning. That will break my concentration and I will not be a happy camper.

KATHLEEN: I think it may be that way with most writers. It does take concentration to keep those thoughts and visions coming.

PATRICIA: Yes, I enter my own world and I am control of everyone and every event. I can actually see my characters and talk to them and they talk to me as well. If that is disturbed it all disappears in an instant.

I would like to thank you Kathleen for having me here today. And for the tea.

(Smiles and another toast)

I am honored that you have chosen me for this interview. I hope to be as successful as you one day. You are a great author and a wonderful person with a beautiful heart and soul.

KATHLEEN: Awe thank you. It’s meant the world to have you as a friend. I’m so happy that you came today. And as far as the success status, we’re in the same boat if you didn’t already know it. Please everyone check out her website and her book on Amazon. I promise that you’ll love it.

Website:  http://www.TheItalianThing.com

Blog:  http://www.salpa58.wordpress.com

Facebook: The Italian Thing
Twitter: @Pattisalamone

Amazon Author Page: Patricia Salamone