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Monthly Archives: August 2017

Racing The Sun — New Release!

31 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Looks like an awesome read

Mary Clark, Writer

BOOK LAUNCH!

Racing The Sun Book Cover SmallLeila and her friends are back with more adventures in Racing The Sun, a sequel to Miami Morning: A Leila Payson Novel. Leila must decide whether to continue as a high school teacher, or quit her job to run a new group that brings together people of varying abilities. She meets Doug, a paraplegic and former student, who wants to design and build better wheelchairs. With her help he prepares for a wheelchair race. 

Her relationship with Mark, the attractive “man with a book” evolves, and she discovers her mother and father both have secret lives. Raoul, Leila’s former hearing-impaired student, is back, along with the quixotic Maria Picot, and the combative guidance counselor Mrs. Grisjun. Then there’s lunch with Leila’s oldest friend, Caroline, who always speaks her mind. And what do those mysterious stones in the local park mean?

Told from multiple points of view, Leila’s…

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Welsh Wednesdays: “The Keys of Babylon” by Robert Minhinnick

30 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

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Robert has been suggested to me as possible performer at the Llandeilo Lit Fest. We haven’t progressed on that front, yet, but I managed to pick up one of his books at the Dragon Garden’s Fair Trade Shop in Llandeilo.

“The Keys of Babylon”is a selection of short stories, following a series of characters, from Babylon to London, the US and a few more exotic locations, such as Eastern Europe. The stories aren’t always easily accessible, they have connections but while you’re reading the book they are very loose. Common themes wash up and disappear.

Although a few years old, some stories, for example Mexcan Maria in the US, have a huge relevance to the world as it is today and our shared issues. We all need to see life from other persepctives to understand and to humanise nationalities and ‘otherness’.

This is a fully loaded read that requires sometimes time to digest and reflect. The characters are unique and defined b ytheir location as much as they are by other aspects. It made me think a lot about what defines us.

The prose is beautiful and the voice compelling, the tone moody and thoughtful and I think everyone will be able to find themselves in one or the other of the many characters, who bring together the different experiences of human existence, immigration and how to succeed.

The title is brilliant, reminding us of the multitude of languages, human hybris and ambition, that what unites us and what makes us different from each other. Some of the characters stayed with me for a long time. Minhinnick manages to bring them to life and makes them distinguishable and relatable with sometimes only a few poignant words or situations. He truly is a gifted story teller and wordsmith, albeit I’m sure I missed some of the references and symbolism. I can see why the book has achieved so many accolades, although this strength could be its weakness with other audiences.
A very memorable and accomplished read.

Shortlisted for the Wales Book of the Year Award 2012 and long-listed for the Edge Hill Short Story Prize 2012

A story from this collection ‘El Aziz: some pages from his notebooks’ was shortlisted for the Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award 2012

People are on the move In Albania, Mexico, China, Iraq, Israel, Wales, the US, London … migration and immigration are key issues of the twentieth and twenty-first century.

The Keys of Babylon is a collection of 15 linked stories by award-wining poet and author Robert Minhinnick, giving voices to migrants around the globe. Both a fictional record of, and an exploration into their lives, the migrants and the people with whom they interact reflect a comprehensive mix of hope, success, failure, fear, indifference and passion. And the stories of each of the main characters are drawn together in a final narrative which surveys their situation on a particular day.

Biography from Wikipedia:

Minhinnick was born in Neath, and now lives in Porthcawl. He studied at University of Wales, Aberystwyth, and University of Wales, Cardiff. An environmental campaigner, he co-founded the charities Friends of the Earth (Cymru) and Sustainable Wales. His work deals with both Welsh and international themes.[1]

He has published seven poetry collections and several volumes of essays. He edited the magazine, Poetry Wales from 1997 until 2008. He has also translated poems from contemporary Welsh poets for an anthology, The Adulterer’s Tongue. His first novel, Sea Holly, was published in autumn 2007.[2]

Awards[edit]
Minhinnick won the Forward Prize for Best Individual Poem in 1999 for ‘Twenty-five Laments for Iraq’, and again in 2003 for ‘The Fox in the National Museum of Wales’.[3] His poem ‘The Castaway’ was also shortlisted in 2004. He has also won an Eric Gregory Award (1980) and a Cholmondeley Award (1998), both awarded by the Society of Authors to British poets.[4][5]

In 2006, Minhinnick’s book To Babel and Back, describing a journey in the Middle East, won the English-language Wales Book of the Year Award, which he had previously won in 1993 for Watching the Fire Eater.

 

New Release: “The Curse of Time: Book 1: Bloodstone” by M. J. Mallon

29 Tuesday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 37 Comments

Tags

anxiety, Cambridge, crystals, curse, deception, depression, eating disorders, Fantasy, magic, mystery, self-harm, teen relationships, ya, Young adult

Today I’m delighted to share a new release with excerpt by the wonderful M.J. Mallon. I’ve been a fan of her blog for sometime and am delighted to announce her debut novel. Scroll down for the excerpt, bio and links.

Blurb:

On Amelina Scott’s thirteenth birthday, her father disappears under mysterious circumstances. Saddened by this traumatic event, she pieces together details of a curse that has stricken the heart and soul of her family.

Amelina longs for someone to confide in. Her once carefree mother has become angry and despondent. One day a strange black cat and a young girl, named Esme appear. Immediately, Esme becomes the sister Amelina never had. The only catch is that Esme must remain a prisoner, living within the mirrors of Amelina’s house.

Dreams and a puzzling invitation convince Amelina the answer to her family’s troubles lies within the walls of the illusive Crystal Cottage. Undaunted by her mother’s warnings, Amelina searches for the cottage on an isolated Cambridgeshire pathway where she encounters a charismatic young man, named Ryder. At the right moment, he steps out of the shadows, rescuing her from the unwanted attention of two male troublemakers.

With the help of an enchanted paint set, Amelina meets the eccentric owner of the cottage, Leanne, who instructs her in the art of crystal magic. In time, she earns the right to use three wizard stones. The first awakens her spirit to discover a time of legends, and later, leads her to the Bloodstone, the supreme cleansing crystal which has the power to restore the balance of time. Will Amelina find the power to set her family free?

A YA/middle grade fantasy set in Cambridge, England exploring various themes/aspects: Light, darkness, time, shadows, a curse, magic, deception, crystals, art, poetry, friendships, teen relationships, eating disorders, self-harm, anxiety, depression, family, puzzles, mystery, a black cat, music, a mix of sadness, counterbalanced by a touch of humour.

A short bio before we get to the excerpt: 

I am a debut author who has been blogging for three years: https://mjmallon.com. My interests include writing, photography, poetry, and alternative therapies. I write Fantasy YA, middle grade fiction and micro poetry – haiku and tanka. I love to read and have written over 100 reviews: https://mjmallon.com/2015/09/28/a-z-of-my-book-reviews/

My alter ego is MJ – Mary Jane from Spiderman. I love superheros! I was born on the 17th of November in Lion City: Singapore, (a passionate Scorpio, with the Chinese Zodiac sign a lucky rabbit,) second child and only daughter to my proud parents Paula and Ronald. I grew up in a mountainous court in the Peak District in Hong Kong with my elder brother Donald. My parents dragged me away from my exotic childhood and my much loved dog Topsy to the frozen wastelands of Scotland. In bonnie Edinburgh I mastered Scottish country dancing, and a whole new Och Aye lingo.

As a teenager I travelled to many far-flung destinations to visit my abacus wielding wayfarer dad. It’s rumoured that I now live in the Venice of Cambridge, with my six foot hunk of a Rock God husband, and my two enchanted daughters. After such an upbringing my author’s mind has taken total leave of its senses! When I’m not writing, I eat exotic delicacies while belly dancing, or surf to the far reaches of the moon. To chill out, I practise Tai Chi. If the mood takes me I snorkel with mermaids, or sign up for idyllic holidays with the Chinese Unicorn, whose magnificent voice sings like a thousand wind chimes.

Links:

My Amazon UK Author Page

My Amazon US Author Page

My Amazon Canada Author Page

My blog – for information about new releases, photos of main characters/character interviews, book reviews and inspiration: https://mjmallon.com

My New Facebook Group #ABRSC: Authors/Bloggers Rainbow Support Club on Facebook:

Instagram:

Twitter: @Marjorie_Mallon and Twitter: @curseof_time

Facebook: Facebook: m j mallon author

Tumblr: Tumblr: mjmallonauthor

I have devoted the past few years to writing over 100 reviews on My Goodreads Review Account, and on my blog to help support traditional and indie writers.

EXCERPT:

Puzzle Piece 1: The Invitation

Opportunity,

An unexpected invite,

Such a mystery,

To explore and discover,

A hidden cottage of light.

I found it to be a mystifying situation. An unnatural stillness seemed to linger after many days of storms. Today, the sky reminded me of a painting. It appeared too perfect, too bright, too still, a picture landscape with no beginning or end. Instead, the vault of heaven spread out toward an endless grey forever, as if seeping around the edges of an untamed watercolour bleeding into the rest of the day. Even so, the sight filled my heart with promise, a ray of hope in an otherwise dull morning.

The quietness of my contemplation came to an abrupt end. I heard the sound of an envelope crashing through the mail box. I jumped at the clatter. The letter landed on the floor as the sound of a thousand crystal chandeliers echoed throughout the house. I rushed to retrieve the envelope and turned it this way and that. I couldn’t find an address label and wondered if the note had been hand-delivered. Who could this message be for?

I stood puzzling over this peculiar circumstance when out of nowhere my name: Amelina Scott appeared in bold writing. I watched wide-eyed as the final character of my surname was spelled out in a delicate font. I tore the dispatch open and inside I discovered a card printed on the finest paper with gilt edges and embossed calligraphy. There were few details, just an instruction to visit:

Crystal Cottage, River Walk, Cambridge, and the following added at the bottom as an afterthought: R.S.V.P – Not required. We promise to be welcoming when you arrive. When you’re ready, you’ll discover us…..

I shook my head in disbelief.  Nothing good ever happens to the Scott’s so this invitation might look magical, but surely it must be nonsense. Weird messages from unknown sources count as dubious junk mail, the way I look at it.

I grabbed the envelope and attempted to rip it into pieces, but it wouldn’t tear. With a mind of its own the envelope curled its edges in protest. I searched in a drawer until I found scissors and tried to cut the invite. That didn’t work either. My hand ached, but the invitation endured intact as if mocking me.

Frustrated, I tried to cut the invitation again. A sputtered cursing sound filled the room even though I was alone. On my third attempt, I tore into the card with success. (I think it let me.) And once again, I perceived a noise, an angry murmur, and then nothing. Quiet descended in the room, so I threw the torn parts into the bin.

Finally satisfied that the annoying issue with the strange invite would no longer plague me, I brushed my hands together, and picked an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen counter, polished it on my jumper and then took a bite. In no time my hunger had abated, and as I chucked the core towards the bin, I registered a chuckle. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground as a feeling of certainty filled my soul. I knew what to expect. I have no idea how I did, but I could see the image in my mind, the invitation had reformed. The invitation was playing games with me! I peered in the rubbish, and there I saw the envelope, connected in one perfect, unblemished piece. What the heck?

 

Historical Saturday Review: “Death in Shanghai” by M J Lee

26 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 14 Comments

I absolutely loved “Death in Shanghai” . This is a fantastic thriller / murder mystery. Quite dark and definitely atmospheric it brings two odd detective characters together, one of which is Russian. That is particularly interesting as he provides an unusual and very interesting focal point to portray world politics of the times (1928) as well as a unique perspective of the location, Shanghai.

The body of a blonde is washed up on the Beach of Dead Babies, in the heart of the smog-filled city. Seemingly a suicide, a closer inspection reveals a darker motive: the corpse has been weighed down, it’s lower half mutilated…and the Chinese character for ‘justice’ carved into the chest.

The moment Inspector Danilov lays eyes on the dismembered body, he realises that he has an exceptional case on his hands. And when the first body is followed by another, and another, each displaying a new, bloody message, he has no option but face the truth. He is dealing with the worst kind of criminal; someone determined, twisted…and vengeful.

Death in Shanghai is the first novel in M J Lee’s Inspector Danilov series, perfect for fans of Philip Kerr.

Historical details are woven into the plot, adding historical interest. A great plot and smooth writing make for a great reading pleasure. A writer to watch.

Website
http://www.writermjlee.com/
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00WKMG54G


Martin has spent most of his adult life writing in one form or another. As a University researcher in history, he wrote pages of notes on reams of obscure topics. As a social worker with Vietnamese refugees, he wrote memoranda. And, as the creative director of an advertising agency, he has written print and press ads, tv commercials, short films and innumerable backs of cornflake packets and hotel websites.
He has spent 25 years of his life working outside the North of England. In London, Hong Kong, Taipei, Singapore, Bangkok and Shanghai, winning awards from Cannes, One Show, D&AD, New York and London Festivals, and the United Nations.
Whilst working in Shanghai, he loved walking through the old quarter of that amazing city, developing the idea behind a series of crime novels featuring Inspector Pyotr Danilov, set in 1920s and 30s.
When he’s not writing, he splits his time between the UK and Asia, taking pleasure in playing with his daughter, practicing downhill ironing, single-handedly solving the problem of the French wine lake and wishing he were George Clooney.

Reviewed for the Historical Novel Society: “Runaway” by Edwin Page

25 Friday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

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Runaway

BY EDWIN PAGE

Runaway by Edwin Page
Find & buy on

This moving book about slavery is set in 1863 on a farmstead in Missouri. It focuses on six-year-old Clara and her mother, Lizbet, who, through the last days of slavery, hide Joshua, a runaway slave, in their barn.

The child’s presence brings an innocent perspective on the matter that highlights the cruelty of slavery yet also allows for some of the more refreshing elements in this novel.

While the plot and outline are not overly original, the book shines with its likeable and endearing characters, and its ultimately upbeat tone.

I was gripped by the suspense and deeply touched, and would recommend this book to others.

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Details

Indie

PUBLISHER
Curved Brick

PUBLISHED
2016

PERIOD
US Civil War

CENTURY
19th Century

PRICE
(UK) £6.99

ISBN
(UK) 9781533258441

FORMAT
Paperback

PAGES
214

Edwin Page

 


With over fifty books published since 2005, British writer Edwin Page (or Ed Page as he’s known to readers of his comedy fiction) is one of the most prolific authors of the early 21st Century. Having written in at least four non-fiction genres and eight fiction genres, he is also one of the most diverse.

His novels range from the widely acclaimed historical novel Where Seagulls Fly to the popular apocalyptic tale Sub-Zero, which is set in Britain after the Gulf Stream stops flowing. They also include the crazy science fiction comedy Brian the Vampire, in which you’ll find the Rabbit Mafia and the spineless hellhound called Sven, and The Red Brick Road, a delightful and uplifting story about Dorothy’s great granddaughter returning to Oz.

His non-fiction books include works on the films of Quentin Tarantino, Tim Burton and Slumdog Millionaire director Danny Boyle. The latter led to Mr. Page being interviewed by the British Press Association in relation to Boyle’s opening ceremony for the London 2012 Olympics and he was quoted in over 50 publications along with social commentators such as Billy Bragg. He has also written Everyday Magic, the only book to prove and explain Oneness (God/The Source/Tao) and its ramifications in relation to what we believe and the way we live.

Edwin Page has a 1st Class degree in Film & Literary Studies and has had numerous short stories, articles and poems published in a variety of publications. Born and bred near Cambridge, he went to university in Plymouth and Carlisle, and now lives in western Cornwall.

Welsh Wednesdays Reblog: Cardinal Wolsey Visits A Convent – Guest Post by, Ian Hutson…

23 Wednesday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

I know this reblog about the adventures of Cardinal Wolsey isn’t exactly set in the heartland of Wales but in its borderlands at best, but let’s be generous and inclusive. Here’s to Ian Hutson and his UK waterways adventures:

‘Stolen’ from Source: Cardinal Wolsey Visits A Convent – Guest Post by, Ian Hutson…

The Cardinal, the Dragon, the Hailstorm, the Engineer and the Convent.

Stop me if you’ve already heard this one…

No, but seriously, at the moment the Cardinal and I are still on the Llangollen Canal, enjoying a slow mooch away from the World Heritage terrors of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct. It is August – high season and school holidays – and yet I find that I can get almost any mooring that I want simply by dancing up and down on the roof, shouting gibberish and brandishing Mother’s shrunken head on a stick.

I should perhaps clarify that I refer to it as “Mother’s” shrunken head because it is virtually all that I have to remember her by, bequeathed to me in a codicil (and in a particularly grubby jam-jar among many such) as she lay in her cot in the Special Air Service’s Regimental Rest Home in Belize, fighting malaria, an indifferent chef and the apparent inability of the bar to serve a cold gin. “Son,” she said, “son, I want you to have my shrunken head collection”. “Because you love me, Mummy?” replied I “Hardly, son, I can’t stand the sight of you, as you know, but I do think that you ought to have a little something to remind you of your Father. I’m fairly certain that I got all of the possibilities, he’s bound to be in there somewhere.”

[Should any of my readers cry “favouritism” at hearing of this generous bequest, you should know that my sister inherited dear Mother’s throwing-knife, knuckle-duster and garrotting wire collection, while my brother benefitted from Letters of Personal Introduction to Mr Castro, items that have allowed both siblings to build up significant specialist professional business interests in one way or another. Mother was nothing if not fair.]

Anyway, back to me. So useful is this aforementioned mooring technique that when I approached Ellesmere in the county of Shropshire, (website HERE), cautiously, as advised in the Guide Books, I was able to secure prime moorings thusly slap bang in Ellesmere Junction Basin itself. Two brandishes of the shrunken-head, one short gibber, half a caper and the spot I desired immediately became rather conveniently vacant. But I get ahead of myself…

Before settling into these fresh moorings we (the Cardinal and I) perforce called at the official “services” area, and a splendid services provision it is too. The Cardinal’s five-hundred litre water tank was refilled, the gazunders (Thunderbirds I to IV) were emptied and household rubbish and recycling distributed about the various wheelie-bins and lorry-containers. That was the work, then came the fun. My mooring of first-choice lay some fifty yards back from the service area, in the direction that I’d come, and on the opposite side of the canal. Boats move in reverse about as well as cats march en masse in step to a drum-beat. For this manoeuvre I would also have a critical audience, because the Canal & River Trust’s local marshalling yard was by then open for business, with brutish workmen gathering to be about their brutish boating tasks.

The manoeuvre, purely incidentally it must be said, went like a dream. As I slipped the Cardinal into “astern; dead slow” someone in the marshalling yard out of sight began to reverse a lorry, so much to the amusement of civilian folk on the towpath the Cardinal appeared to have a reversing beeper fitted. Backwards we went for about seventy-five yards and all in an orderly straight line with no drama in spite of the usual crosswinds; a feat almost unheard of. Then forwards and into the “mooring of choice” for a couple of nights. I even remembered to look utterly casual, as though I always somehow manoeuvred with such perfection! It was, again, Nanny who taught me to “take credit first, and wonder how the heck it happened later”.

Ellesmere’s stretch of canal is mostly function and junction, with a marina, a narrow bridge, a tight turn, the Canal & River Trust’s dry-dock, offices and marshalling yard, the services area, a meeting of three branches that also serves as a winding (turning) hole and with one of the branches leading right into the centre of town and the shops. Quite the most respectable aspect of the ensemble is the pied-a-Shropshire of Thomas Telford, the remarkable chap who designed and oversaw, among many, many other civil engineering works, the construction of what was then known as the Ellesmere Canal – including the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct and the tunnels.[Website info on Mr Telford HERE] Beech House sits right on the corner of the canal junction, the better not to waste time getting to and fro work…

Little did Mr Telford think what fun he would be laying on for a chap living in his far-flung future. The Ellesmere Basin is, as I had hoped it would be, a veritable circus of human activity. From my position safe behind the Cardinal’s one-way glass portholes and windows (and with a thick row of fenders deployed) I was treated to the sight of every manoeuvring technique known to man, and to some that have yet to be defined and documented. Hire-boats came and went, sometimes intentionally, sometimes it seemed just because the throttles had jammed wide open and the horizon beckoned.

As Confucius used to remark; the family that screams in terror on holiday together, stays together. I heard families screaming in English, Australian, German, Dutch, Hindi and something that I think was “Evangelical Tongues” from the deep south of the North American ex-colony. The edges of the basin are ringed with concrete, and they are splendidly unforgiving. Messrs Crash, Bang and Apocalyptic-Wallop were much in evidence.

One wholly unexpected treat was the sight of a real Welsh Dragon being constructed and then obedience-trained in the CaRT marshalling yard – a genuine, smoke-snorting beastie of proportions to make even St George take a deep breath and consider a change of vocation. Apparently, this following weekend, there is to be a festival of something here in Ellesmere, with music, processions, a classic car show and a melee of floating traders (floating on boats that is; they rarely float independently, being too weighed down with tat to trade).

This being England though, and moreover, England quite close to the Welsh border, the clemency of the weather cannot be guaranteed, dragon breath or no dragon breath. The one consistency in English meteorology is inconsistency, and here we do not refer to annual seasons, but to from hour to hour. To wit, at one point during my August stay it was warm, dry and sunny enough for me to wander into town in shirtsleeves, to purchase fresh comestibles. Within no more than two minutes of my regaining the shelter of the Cardinal we were treated to thunder, lightning and monsoon-style rain combined with ruddy-great hailstones being flung left, right and centre. A close call indeed. Others were not so lucky, and I swear that I saw the ghost of Gene Kelly folding his umbrella away and breaking his cobbler’s heart in the puddles.

But enough of this voyeuristic enjoyment of schadenfreude, exothermic animals and festivals. The time eventually came, as time always does, to leave those 72-hour maximum moorings and find somewhere else to lurk. The Cardinal and I mooched on, all of another half a mile, to the other side of town. Confusion, I say, confusion to both Robespierre and to the Canal & River Trust’s [Boat Movement] Enforcement Officers, or Huggy-Wuggy Park Ranger Experience-Facilitators, or whatever it is that they’re called this year.

We are currently (re)moored on free-for-all towpath moorings with open country on one side and the walled back garden of the Poor Clares Convent on the other, just beyond the hedgerow.

From the open country comes the distant call of the Hoodwink’s Web-Footed Peribungle, or some such bird, calling phee! phee! phee! and accompanied at all times of day and night by pair-bonding Sodbucket’s Mouse-Eviscerators calling scawk! scawk! scawk! – while from the convent side of the mooring comes a multitude of noises mellifluous, noises amusing and noises nun.

The convent of the Poor Clares Colettines is both a delight and a disappointment. [WebsiteHERE] The nuns are quite authentic and sport the full habit. There is occasionally music, of sorts. Well, musical instrument practice, and I could not on oath swear for or against this being “a large nun with oversized lungs learning the nose-flute” or else “a small nun with terrible cough doing something to the business end of a trombone”. The only thing that I could say under oath is that the sound is… surprising. Whatever it is, nuns do occasionally have fun, apparently, although I have yet to overhear the sisters playing the didgeridoo, the drums or the electric guitar. I’m here for a few days yet though, and I have high hopes (even without an ant or a rubber-tree plant).

It must be said that even for a serious non-theist such as myself, it is quite pleasant hearing the mellifluous ting-ting-ting of the convent bell calling the nuns to the events of the convent day: Midnight Matins (midnight, ish); rising (05:30hrs); Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament (05:50); Angelus Lauds (06:20); Breakfast (07:15) &etc on throughout the day with barely a moment free in the horarium to scratch an itch, cuss a cuss or utter a purple blasphemy.

One convent sound that I have, safely on my side of the hedgerow, allowed myself a belly-laugh at, has been the two-stroke symphony of a ride-on lawnmower buzzing around the convent grounds. I can’t help but wonder whether the nuns, in full habit, draw lots to drive the lawnmower, take it in turns on a rota or if the Abbess, Mother Superior or equivalent reserves motor-sports to herself. Doubtless the task gets the wind blowing nicely through the vestments, especially if they, as I hope that they do, pepper the lawn with wheelies, “doughnuts” and J-turns. It is not possible to photograph inside a convent, for one thing I don’t have the necessary telephoto lens and I already have far too many Peeping Tom convictions to risk adding another. A photograph of the statuary in the front approach is all that I can offer.

The disappointment of Poor Clares comes in the form of the convent building itself. It has all of the charm and grace of a nineteen-seventies estate, brick-built bungalow with PVC double-glazing. Not for the Poor Clares Colettines the delights of anything ancient, stone-built or even very impressive in any way. Still, as Nanny always used to remind me whenever the kitchen sent up that day’s menu for the nursery inmates to choose from (usually a decision between larks’ tongues, roast suckling elephant or monkey brains, to be followed by marchpanes, piddled figs and a half-bottle of something from the lesser-vintage end of the wine cellar) – you can’t have everything. Not even if you’re a nun.

The Cardinal and I shall reste ici for a few days on these new moorings, tormented by the calls of the winged wild and the various sounds of the convent. I may even wander back with one of my best walking sticks to prod and poke at people and things in the Ellesmere festival, should the desire seize me with sufficient force to loosen the grip of my favourite chair. Then I feel we ought to mooch on again, perhaps through the short Ellesmere canal tunnel and mayhap another half-mile, to these moorings overlooking one of the local meres, where it’s even morerural and a chap’s only worry is that he can, occasionally, hear banjos playing in the woods… and I don’t think it’s the nuns at practice.

Ian Hutson

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Mystery Monday: “Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I” by Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene

21 Monday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 18 Comments

It gives me greatest pleasure to announce 
the Launch of
Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I
by Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene

This is the second “three things” serial, in novel form — Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I. by the fabulous Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene.

Bijou front only 2

Yes, that’s the cover. (She loves making covers!) Teagan kept it similar to the one for the first serial, The Three Things Serial Story, but with different 1920s photos.

For those of you who are not familiar with her blog serials, here is Teagan introducing it:

Ages ago I developed a writing exercise. I asked friends to give me three completely random things. Then I would write until I had mentioned all the things. I brought that exercise to my blog (Teagan’s Books), but I had the readers send me their things. I let the random things drive every detail of a serial story, setting, plot, and characters. That resulted in The Three Things Serial Story, which gave birth to this culinary mystery. However, this time the “things” are food related — or ingredients.

About the Book

As with the first serial, Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is a spontaneously written, pantser story. I wrote by the seat of my pants and let the “ingredients” readers sent each week drive a new serial story. This is the “bookized” version of that serial.

This time the Jazz Age setting is Savannah, Georgia where our flapper, Pip, is “sentenced” to live with her grandmother and learn to cook. Pip gets caught up in a layered mystery that includes bootleggers, G-men, and the varied challenges of being a young woman in changing times. She meets new friends, including some animal characters.

If you have not read The Three Things Serial Story, be warned. This adventure contains a bit of a spoiler, but does not go into detail about it.

Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I is available through and Amazon and Create Space. If you don’t have a Kindle, Amazon also offers a free app that will let you read Kindle books on your computer or other device. The purchase links are below. But first, here’s a snippet.

Blue Lucille Ball Stage Door Trailer

In my imagination, a young Lucille Ball would play Pip.

Excerpt

Rutabaga Limbo

Either I woke up feeling horribly nauseated, or the queasiness woke me. I’m not sure which. I opened my eyes to complete darkness. There was no light, no sound. The way my stomach tossed reminded me of a small boat on the ocean. It was as if I sailed in a lightless limbo.

Oh… that was a bad train of thought to have with an unsettled belly.

Think of something else! Anything else, I told myself.

I stood unsteadily. The sound of a cricket came to me. Good. The utter silence had been very disturbing. I became aware of the cool moist earth beneath my palms.

Where the Sam Hill was I?

I sat back on my heels, focusing all my senses. My eyes might as well have been closed — it was that dark. Bare ground was beneath me. The air had a musty odor. A sickly sweet scent clung to my bobbed hair.

The cricket’s chirping was the only sound. Still sitting, I turned. My eyes widened and strained, trying to see in that heavy darkness. When I looked up I was rewarded with the sight of a thin line of pink light.

The faint glow allowed me to see vague outlines a few feet away. I stumbled over something and stooped down to let my hands figure out what it was. I felt a burlap bag and round lumps. Rutabagas? I felt around and found another bag. That one felt like potatoes. I moved closer to the wall and a tall shape. Yes, a ladder, my questing hands confirmed for my still foggy brain.

Gazing up at the line of pinkish light I realized I was in a root cellar.

But how did I get there?

***

Purchase Links

Amazon USA

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/dp/1974544273/ref=la_B00HHDXHVM_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806322&sr=1-4

Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=la_B00HHDXHVM_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806322&sr=1-3

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806519&sr=1-1&keywords=murder+at+the+bijou

And https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Bijou-Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/dp/1974544273/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502806519&sr=1-2&keywords=murder+at+the+bijou

Amazon Japan: https://www.amazon.co.jp/Murder-Bijou-Three-Ingredients-English-ebook/dp/B074S5ZK7L/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1502806623&sr=8-1&keywords=teagan+geneviene

Author Bio

Visual for Teagan_2017 Chris

Image by Chris Graham

Teagan Ríordáin Geneviene, a southerner by birth, was “enchanted” by the desert southwest of the USA when she moved there. Now a resident of a major east coast city, she longs to return to those enchanting lands.

Teagan had always devoured fantasy novels of every type. Then one day there was no new book readily at hand for reading — so she decided to write one. And she hasn’t stopped writing since.

Her work is colored by her experiences in both the southern states and the southwest. Teagan most often writes in the fantasy genre, but she also writes 1920s stories and Steampunk. Her blog “Teagan’s Books” contains serial stories written according to “things” from viewers.

You can also visit me at:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Teagan-Riordain-Geneviene/e/B00HHDXHVM
Twitter: https://twitter.com/teagangeneviene
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TeagansBooks
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/teagangeneviene/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCoM-z7_iH5t2_7aNpy3vG-Q
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/teagangeneviene

New Release: “Traitor’s Niece: The Complications of Being Lucy Book 3” by Gus Kenney

20 Sunday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Today I’m introducing  Gus Kenney and his Sci Fi/Fantasy / Action & Adventure / Folklore & Legend / Fantasy & Magic series “The Complications of Being Lucy” (what a fabulous title!) with an excerpt from book 3 “Traitor’s Niece”

The blurb:

Sever all ties.

Lucy is a pawn. A dark means to a deadly end.

An enemy, burning with centuries of betrayal, has made the opening move to shatter an already divided empire. His first step, the slaying of one of Lucy’s guardians. Broken with grief and compelled by rage, Lucy embarks on a journey of vengeance to the shadowed and forgotten corners of the five lands. With those she has left by her side, sacrifices will be made to bring her closer to retribution but only if she doesn’t succumb to the manipulations of a ruthless enemy first.

Buy Link: http://smarturl.it/traitorsNieceb3

Author Bio 

Gus lives in western New York with his amazing wife and five four legged children. He decided he wanted to be a writer when he realized that he could never be a spy as good as Timothy Dalton’s Bond and that Hired Sword was not part of any growth industry. When he is not semi-busy writing, he spends his time pretending he knows what he is doing at a nine-to-five job and the rest of it complaining that it is taking way too long for them to start showing new episodes of his favorite cartoons. If you’re bored, or just a creeper, you can check out the insanity that doesn’t make it into his books on his social media outlets.

Author Links

https://www.facebook.com/gus.kenney

https://www.facebook.com/Lucybison/

https://www.twitter.com/LucyBison

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/telleroftalesoflucy

https://www.instagram.com/lucybison/

http://linkedin.com/in/gus-kenney-3599a2138

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13628983.Gus_Kenney

https://www.amazon.com/Gus-Kenney/e/B00UPGZ7SY/

http://bit.ly/ComplicationsOfBeingLucySeries

Website: https://www.guskenney.com/

Email: guskenney@yahoo.com

Other Books In the series:

The Changeling and The Cupboard (The Complications of Being Lucy Book 1)

http://smarturl.it/CompOfLucyBk1

The Changeling and the Borrowed Family (The Complications of Being Lucy Book 2)

http://smarturl.it/CompOfLucyBk2

 

Excerpts Traitor’s Niece: 

“Can I help you,” Felix paused and I felt my pulse quicken, bracing my nerves for Vienna’s familiar, brash tone, “gentlemen?”

A sigh rushed out of me and I melted into my chair in relief.

“I don’t see how a seed head can be much help to anyone but for getting strung out for the washerwoman to hang her kit on.”

With those words, any relief I had experienced reversed and my heart climbed my ribs and took up residence in my esophagus. I felt my face burn with fear and try to quench itself with a cold sweat. Worst of all, I found myself unable to move, unless you counted shivering in fright. The man’s slanderous reference to Felix’s existence as a Dru Elf, and not a mere employee of the library, indicated that he had the vision of a Herald. The accent was similar to the Troll’s who had accosted me at the zoo, and by his petulant tone, it was obvious he was one of the ones who hadn’t let old animosities toward the Elves go.

“And yet you had the decency to speak to me.” Felix responded in the snarky tone that he reserved for teenagers who gave him problems with their time online or making too much noise. “How kind.”

“You got a smart mouth on you, boy.” A different voice, same accent so clearly a Troll, spoke up and it dawned on me that Felix had said gentlemen, not gentleman. I felt my limbs start to come back under my control when I reminded them of the trouble they had given me dealing with the last Troll; and it had only been one Troll. I slid from the chair and stood in the middle of the room, still outside the line of sight from Felix’s desk, fighting with myself whether I should just start running now or wait and see how many I would have to run from.

“If you think my mouth is smart you should see my–.”

A sickening crack erupted in the near silence of the library and being unfortunately familiar with the sound of a fist meeting a face, I lunged forward to the edge of the room to check on Mr. Page. Capricorn! Four large Trolls stood before the desk, one of them rubbing his knuckles and watching Felix press a shaking hand to a split lip.

“Enough of this.” The Troll who seemed to be in charge grabbed a handful of Mr. Page’s hair and vines. “Where’s the girl?”

I threw myself against the wall and willed myself to turn invisible. It took only a second to realize that was stupid and instead wished that Frankie was there, or would get there very soon. With help.

“What are you talking about?” Felix asked, his words slurred from his damaged lip. “We get girls in here all the time.”

“We were told that she would be here.” The Troll barked, but thankfully didn’t add more violence to his words. “She’s meeting a friend.”

The way he said friend read as anything but friendly.

And who does that remind you of, cool logic spoke up with just a touch of attitude. Vienna. She set me up! I felt my hands clench into fists and my jaw twinged with the pressure of grinding my teeth in a rage. It all seemed stupidly obvious now. Invite me here to meet her and get nabbed by her Troll cohorts. Not bad after her first attempt ended in failure. She probably killed that Troll so he couldn’t talk and tell us who he was working for. Anger was quickly burning away fear and I nearly stepped out to confront the men head on, hoping that they would take me right to that little traitor so I could deal with her betrayal. My arms shook with such furious energy that I couldn’t stop them from thumping the wall at my back.

“What was that?” Another Troll voice called out. Having foolishly exposed my location, fright was quick to remind me that I was still in real danger. I pushed it aside and clung to anything that resembled an intelligent thought. It came to me quickly as I was looking right at a window cracked open to let in the cool breeze of the afternoon. I dashed for it and just got my hands on the frame when I heard the Troll, much closer now, exclaim his discovery. The old wood frame was sticking and I strained my arms to pull the sash up. I felt the floor thud with the heavy footfalls of the Troll as he rushed across the room and I gave the window one last jerk while I tried to resolve myself to the inevitability of the big man grabbing me. Surprise and joy filled me as the window at last yielded and flew open. And something flew in.

A black blur clipped my arm and spun me about to face my Troll pursuer. Primitive reflexes made me throw up my hands as some kind of defense, but no assault came. The man had stopped in his tracks as a low growl made my insides struggle to hold their bodily functions in check. Between the Troll and I Boris stood rigid, his short hair standing on end. I couldn’t blame the man for taking a step backward and keeping his focus completely on my dog. I had trouble looking away from the frightening, protective presence of my pet. The three of us stood stock still, waiting for something to give. Fear or rage. So transfixed were we three on our situation that none of us, well maybe Boris because he crept back a step, noticed Mrs. Darren enter the room. We should have, as she was running full bore with her head down. The Troll turned slightly at the last, and worst possible, second and thick golden horns crashed into his chest. The collision sounded like a felled tree finally crashes to the ground: a ground shaking thump and a lot of cracking and popping. Mrs. Darren seemed to halt her rush a moment after impact and the Troll carried the momentum, horizontally, across the room to smash into a book shelf and slump to the floor.

Slowly Mrs. Darren turned to look at me and then at Boris who was still growling but not nearly as loud.

“No dogs in the library.” Was all she said, and the paralysis I had been experiencing finally broke.

“Sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t enough, but the librarian seemed to accept it as she nodded toward the window. A shout from the other room was the last bit of motivation I needed. I crawled through the opening and after Boris leapt through after me, I ran. Making it to the intersection, I heard the sound of glass breaking behind me and felt the all too familiar sensation of being chased. I cautioned a glance backward and saw a skinny Troll racing to catch up with me, something he was doing with little effort. I was half tempted to sic Boris on him, but the thought left my mind when I looked forward and nearly tripped over the wagon of what was the only destitute person in the town.

Can Lady, as she was called, hardly reacted to my near collision with her overloaded cart of recyclables with anything more than her typical muttering. I didn’t waste energy on an apology because I couldn’t spare it and because she hardly ever took notice of the people or the voices around her. I just raced on and was both grateful and sympathetic when I clearly heard my pursuer fare less fortunately with the woman’s laden wagon. Can Lady’s muttering grew feverish over the rattle of her livelihood being scattered and I let my good fortune spur me for home.

It wasn’t until I could just see the familiar chipped and faded slats of home that I realized my mistake. In my rush to leave I had left my book bag behind. I didn’t care so much about the loss of the text books or the inability to do tonight’s homework assignments, but somewhere in that bag was information that would lead the Trolls straight to the front door I hurried to reach. It dawned on me a moment later how stupid that thought was because if I had been followed from the library, I was leading them straight home anyway.

A bark from Boris had me looking from the front door to the street where my Uncle was quickly pulling into the driveway in his ugly car. I could tell as soon as he got out that he knew exactly what was going on and for a split second I considered running back to the library. The Trolls hadn’t looked nearly as angry as my uncle did.

“What’s going on?” He demanded when I was close enough that he didn’t need to shout to be heard. I tried to answer him while catching my breath. Boris spoke for me by barking frantically down the street. I glanced back to see several Trolls rushing down the street. A lot more than I had heard in the library. “Inside!”

I didn’t argue with my uncle as he ushered me toward the front door. My tired feet hit the first step when a gunshot burst behind me.

 

 

Historical Saturday New Release: “A Hundred Tiny Threads” by Judith Barrow

19 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 51 Comments

HAPPY PUBLICATION DAY – ‘A Hundred Tiny Threads’ by Judith Barrow – the prequel to the Howarth Family Series was published a few days ago. Starting in 1911 over the years we uncover the threads that bind Winifred and Bill together.

“Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds
of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years.”
Simone Signoret.

I had the good fortune to be able to attend the packed launch event of this long awaited book at Waterstones in Carmarthen.

You can read all four books in any order, they are stand alone books but as we discussed this issue with Judith, the consensus was that reading them in the order they were written might be the best option.

I’ve been a fan of Judith’s amazing stories and her lovable persona for years and enjoyed joining her large group of readers and supporters. Here are some images from the night and the plot of the book. 

It’s 1911 and Winifred Duffy is a determined young woman eager for new experiences, for a life beyond the grocer’s shop counter ruled over by her domineering mother.

The scars of Bill Howarth’s troubled childhood linger. The only light in his life comes from a chance encounter with Winifred, the girl he determines to make his wife. 

Meeting her friend Honora’s silver-tongued brother turns Winifred’s heart upside down. But Honora and Conal disappear, after a suffrage rally turns into a riot, and abandoned Winifred has nowhere to turn but home.

The Great War intervenes, sending Bill abroad to be hardened in a furnace of carnage and loss. When he returns his dream is still of Winifred and the life they might have had… Back in Lancashire, worn down by work and the barbed comments of narrow-minded townsfolk, Winifred faces difficult choices in love and life.

All books by Judith Barrow on the Honno website

BUY THIS BOOK at Honno or Amazon

This is her blog tour, if you want to follow the trail of reviews and interviews:

Friday 25th August www.intheplottingshed.com
Saturday 26th August merrynallingham.com/blog/
Sunday 27th August www.lindasbookbag.com
Monday 28th August madalynmorgan.blogspot.co.uk
Tuesday 29th August www.clareflynn.co.uk
Wednesday 30th August www.annemariebrear.com
Thursday 31st August jennylloydwriter.wordpress.com
Friday 1st September rosieamber.wordpress.com
Saturday 2nd September mylife428.wordpress.com
Sunday 3rd September www.adriennemorris.com
Monday 4th September itsallaboutthebooksblog.wordpress.com
Tuesday 5th September julietgreenwoodauthor.wordpress.com

Reblog: MEET LESLEY HAYES

17 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by Christoph Fischer in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

I’m such a big fan of Lesley Hayes, I had to re-blog this post to remind you all of Lesley’s wonderful body of work

Originally published by Lucinda E Clarke here: MEET LESLEY HAYES

MEET LESLEY HAYES

August 10, 2017 Lucinda E Clarke #Thursday blog, authors, books, Guest Blog, Indie author support and discussion, Lesley Hayes, lucinda e clarke, on line interview, Uncategorized

Lesley Hayes

My guest this week lives in Oxford, England and is a psychotherapist by profession and a prolific writer. I enjoy her books which I would describe as deep, leaving lots of room for thought long after you read the last page.  Again, Lesley is one of the earliest virtual friends I met on Facebook and we’re both in the Indie Authors Support and Discussion group. We re-tweet regularly and I do recommend her books they are truly inspiring.

My name is Lesley Hayes and I write… It feels like the opening to a confession at Writer’s Anonymous, and in a way that’s appropriate. Writing is a kind of addiction, a craving that can attack the soul with the sharp bite of a need demanding to be answered in the dead of night, at dawn, or at any unguarded point throughout the day. I began writing stories while I was at school, neglecting every other subject (apart from History, which intrigued me with its many lies and mysteries) and ducked university at the age of 17 to work on Honey magazine, where my first short story was published. It was the beginning of a long and fruitful love affair with writing for publication, which has weaved in and out of everything else I’ve done over the ensuing years.

Oh yes, I should probably mention that I got married and divorced twice, had two children by the time I was 23, moved to Oxford in my late thirties and re-invented myself, fell in and out of love with disregard to gender a number of times, trained and practised as a psychotherapist for twenty years, and adopted a cat. For the past five years I have shed most of my therapy clients and emerged all damp-winged from the chrysalis of one identity into the bright uncertain dawn of another. The muse never really went away all those years as a therapist; she simply bided her time, as muses tend to do. I am impatient when it comes to change, and got quickly bored with knocking on the door of agents this time around, so in 2013 I began self-publishing my newborn novels and their older sibling short stories, many of which had been previously broadcast on BBC Radio Oxford.

lesley book 5
lesley book 4

The first novel to erupt with genie-like eagerness from the unplugged bottle was The Drowned Phoenician Sailor, which begins with the death of a psychotherapist (go figure.) This was swiftly jostled aside by A Field Beyond Time, which I’d actually been in the process of writing for ten years during my years as a therapist before the awakened muse finally goaded me into completing it. Round Robin, Dangerous People, and The Other Twin soon followed, and I have another in the pipeline which is still so top secret I would have to kill Lucinda if I disclosed it.

lesley book 6
lesley book 7
lesley book 1

A writer’s life is often a solitary one (not so different from that of many psychotherapists) and as an introvert I am protective of my personal space and dread it when I’m invited out to show my face in public. You won’t catch me at book signings and literary gigs, parading my authorship and touting my wares, and the best thing about writing this for Lucinda is that I’m invisible. However, I’m no recluse and have a number of close friends and a cherished partner and Oxford is the perfect place to live with mild to moderate invisibility among other writers, eccentrics and people of diverse religions, ethnicity, and sexual preference. If you come across any of my books, read carefully between the lines if you want to find me… I have written clues to my true self into the characters of every one.

lesley book 2 - Copy
lesley book 3

If you want to risk that journey visit my website: www.lesleyhayes.co.uk where you can find links to all my books. If you want to take a faster track follow the links here:

The Drowned Phoenician Sailor   http://bit.ly/1FQ5Vw9

A Field Beyond Time    http://bit.ly/UrraBL

Round Robin     http://bit.ly/1EPqxRh

Dangerous People       http://bit.ly/1OKTNBH

The Other Twin    http://bit.ly/2gzkfEF

Oxford Marmalade        http://bit.ly/1wQ6WN0

Thank you Lesley for being my guest.

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