Welcome to “THE BUTTON” Blog Tour! @DLFinnAuthor #4WillsPub #RWISA #RRBC

It is my honor to host D.L. Finn today. She is a wonderful friend and member of Rave Reviews Book Club. Please give her a warm welcome and support.

D.L. Finn Reading “The Button.”

I did my first video book reading thanks to an #RRBC event, Holiday Pop-up Books. I wanted to improve on that. So, after finding the right shirt, fixing my make-up, and hair–I got started. Four hours later after two catfights, barking dogs, the phone ringing, a book dropping, forgotten words, and other assorted issues I finally ended up with a recording that I didn’t completely hate.  I deleted all my mistakes, but I kind of wish I hadn’t–some were amusing. Maybe it’s time to start an author blooper video?

Note this video isn’t perfect, but it’s much better than my first attempt. In this new recording, I’m reading two excerpts from “The Button.” The first excerpt is from the beginning of the prologue and the second is from the end of chapter one:

D.L.FinnReadingTheButton

D.L. Finn is an independent California local, who encourages everyone to embrace their inner child. She was born and raised in the foggy Bay Area, but in 1990 relocated with her husband, kids, dogs and cats to the Sierra foothills in Nevada City, CA.  She immersed herself in reading all types of books, but especially loved romance, horror and fantasy. She always treasured creating her own reality on paper. Finally, being surrounded by towering pines, oaks and cedars, her creativity was cradled until it bloomed. Her creations vary from children’s books, young adult fantasy, adult paranormal romance to an autobiography with poetry. She continues on her adventure with an open invitation to her readers to join her.

D.L. Finn Links:

Twitter

Facebook

Instagram

Pinterest

D.L. Finn blog

Amazon

Purchase Links:

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  

Lastly, D.L. is a member of the best book club ever – RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB {#RRBC} and she’s also a member of the very elite, RAVE WRITERS -INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS {RWISA}! If you’re looking for amazing support as an author, or if you simply love books, JOIN US! We’d love to have you!

Thanks for supporting this author and her work!  

The Button Tour Giveaway:

2- “The Button” Kindle Format

$5 Amazon Gift Card

1-“The Button” Signed Paperback and Book Marker

Posted in 4WillsBlogTour, THE BUTTON" Blog Tour | Tagged , , , , | 22 Comments

Welcome to “SONGS OF HEARTSTRINGS” Blog Tour! @MHurdle112 #4WillsPub #RRBC

Welcome, Miriam Hurdle, to my blog! It is so exciting getting to know you on your “Songs of Heartstrings” Blog Tour.

From the Author

This is Day 2 of “Songs of Heartstrings” Blog Tour. I want to thank 4WillsPublishing for setting up the tour and my host to have me here.

This poetry collection includes nine themes: Songs of Nature, Songs of Dissonance, Songs of Physical Healing, Songs of Marriage, Songs of Parenthood, Songs of Tribute, Songs of Reflections, Songs of Challenge, and Songs of Inspiration. Each of these themes covers various aspects of my life experience. Many poems are illustrated with my photos and watercolor paintings.

Songs of Heartstrings received a 5-Star review from Songs of Heartstrings received a 5-Star review from Readers’ Favorite: https://readersfavorite.com/book-review/songs-of-heartstrings?fbclid=IwAR092vCKbtTdbUea6kW90qdVvrvxYHpUdkpCueW7XtcUzKNMzukisBgVBfs

Other book reviews are available on Amazon: http://wwAmazon.com/dp/B07K1S47W9 

One Recent Amazon Review

“Songs of Heartstrings – Poems of Gratitude and Beatitude” is a most enjoyable book of poetry. Told in the first person, Miriam Hurdle takes you along on her many journeys, in the ups and downs, of life. I particularly enjoyed the photos, placed before many of the poems. It brought me closer to what Miriam was relaying in her words.

My favorite poem is “Life’s Currents”. Here, the author reminds us we are never alone, no matter the hardships we might face in our time here on Earth. There is no doubt Miriam has a strong faith and relies on it for many of life’s obstacles.

The book is broken up into eight different sections, making it a very pleasant read. Miriam uses different styles of poetry, so you’re never just reading. She easily gets and keeps your attention throughout. If you are looking for a poetry book filled with inspiration, and thought-provoking passages, this is the book for you. I highly recommend this to any and everyone as I thoroughly enjoyed reading “Songs of Heartstrings – Poems of Gratitude and Beatitude.”

– Dorinda Duclos

Highlighted poems from Songs of Dissonance: Life’s Currents and Punctured Wounds

Being trapped in a mentally and emotionally draining relationship, I felt anguished and powerless. My consideration of family value, cultural orientation and church expectation didn’t allow me to entertain the thought of dissolving the marriage. I bore the pain and held the false hope of improvement and a brighter future. As a wise man said, “It takes two to make a marriage.” After ten years of struggle, I concluded that only severance could keep my sanity.

Life’s Currents  

Life’s currents keep pushing,

I feel much like drowning.

One wave after another,

I can hardly keep my head

from going under.

A little kick with

my frantic feet,

Catch the thin air

with a squeak.

Overwhelming waves

give no hope.

With a fainting voice,

I softly cry,

Oh God, I’m tired.

This is the end of

my effort to try.

Am I going to die?

Peace be still,

my precious child!

I’m always here

when your tears

blinded your eyes.

You will not die.

I know how much

you can endure.

I have never been late to

come to your rescue.

Cease your struggle,

cease your fear.

Just remember that

I am here.

Relax your body and

let it float,

I will guide you where

you should go.

Punctured Wounds

Inconsiderate, merciless words that

rang around my ears,

punctured through

the mind, the heart

beyond what I could bear.

Insulted the intact intelligence,

the confidence I held so familiarly.

They bruised the inner emotion that

once was pleasant and joyous;

pierced through the flesh with a twist

worse than any knives that sheared.

Scars on the flesh faded as

the sound of clash

absorbed by the air.

Wounds in the heart buried so deep

inside the subconscious mind,

I needed the miracle to

lift the deceiving mask.

With courage and strength provided,

I accepted the graceful healing,

the unconditional love from above to

piece the brokenness together.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Miriam Hurdle is a multi-genre writer. She writes poetry, flash fiction, and short stories and memoir. Her poems are included in Letters to Gaia, Whispers and Echoes Issue 2, Whispers and Echoes Issue 3, and Outcast and More Words.

She is passionate about poetry and her favorite poets are Robert Frost with his poems “The Road Not Taken,” and Linda Pastan with her poem “To a Daughter Leaving Home.”

She is a member of PoemHunter.com, and her poetry may be read on the websites.


Music has rooted in her life. Being a soloist as a teenager led her to taking voice lessons and to have ongoing singing engagements. She continues to sing soprano in choral groups. Lyrics have a major influence in the natural flow of her melodic writing. She writes memoir in the form of poetry.

Along with her brother, she took photos when the films were black and white. Photography is still her enjoyable hobby. Drawing and painting were fun activities as a child. Her favorite was to draw a Japanese girl with big eyes, long hair, small lips and chin. She resumed drawing and watercolor painting several years ago. In her poetry collection, photos and paintings are included to illustrate the poems.

She earned a Doctorate of Education from the University of La Verne in California. After two years of rehabilitation counseling, fifteen years of public-school teaching and ten years in school district administration, she retired and enjoys life with her husband in southern California.

Links to Purchase the Book:

Amazon Universal Link: http://smarturl.it/SongsofHeartstrings 

Amazon UK Link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07K1S47W9  

Amazon.com Link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B07K1S47W9 

Contact the Author:

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Miriam-Hurdle/e/B07K2MCSVW?ref=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000

Website: https://theshowersofblessings.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/mhurdle112

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/miriam.hurdle.1

***

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  
Lastly, Miriam is a member of the best book club ever – RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB {#RRBC}! If you’re looking for amazing support as an author, or if you simply love books, JOIN US! We’d love to have you!

Thanks for supporting this author and her work!  

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Welcome to the SEASONS Blog Tour @ErnestineRose25 #4WillsPub #RRBC

Please welcome #RRBC Member Ernestine Rose!

Let’ get her take on Black History Month and how it came to be.

What Shall We Do with Black History Month?

It’s February and I could not let this month end without recognizing the importance of Black History Month and why we should continue to celebrate it. In case you didn’t know, Black History Week was founded by noted Harvard-trained historian, Carter G. Woodson. In 1925, he founded the Association for the Study of Negro Life and Culture (ASNLC), an organization devoted to raising awareness of the contributions of African Americans to world civilization. The first Black History Week was observed during the second week of February in 1926, covering the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass, (No, we were not assigned February because it was the shortest month!)

The observance was met with overwhelming response by schools and churches. Around the same time, James Weldon Johnson and his brother Rosamond wrote “Lift Every Voice and Sing” for a school program, and as former students continued to come back and revive the song and it eventually became the Negro National Anthem. It is still sung at Black History events today.

Fifty years later, schools and universities had broadened the celebration so that it could not be contained in seven days. So in 1976, it was expanded to Black History Month and recognized by the federal government. Many schools and churches use this month as a time to hold commemorative programs, promote speaking and writing contests for youth, disseminate important Black facts, and highlight African Americans from all walks of life, from entertainments, to scientists and authors. 1976 was also the Bicentennial, the celebration of America’s 200th birthday as a nation. The Smithsonian Institute celebrated the contributions of hundreds of nationalities that year with festivals, plays, and touring artists of every medium.

Now, there are some celebrities and professors who feel that Black history should be celebrated every day, not confined to one month of the year, like popular DJ Tom Joyner. There are others, like actor Morgan Freeman, who feel that Black history no longer needs to be addressed separately from other races, since Black History is American history. Whatever your position or your race, take some time to examine the contributions of people who were long ignored in history books and classrooms. You will find some fascinating stories from real life.

Here are ten books I recommend as authorities on Black history:

1. The Destruction of Black Civilization, by Chancellor Williams

2. Before the Mayflower, Lerone Bennett,

3. Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, Frederick Douglass

4. The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B. DuBois

5. From Slavery to Freedom, John Hope Franklin

6. The Miseducation of the Negro, Carter G. Woodson

7. The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Malcolm X with Alex Haley

8. Roots, the Saga of an American Family, Alex Haley

9. The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement, Aldon Morris

10.The African American Century, Henry Louis Gates & Cornell West

Author Bio: 

Ernestine Rose grew up on the west side of Chicago during the turbulent 50’s and 60’s. Adopted by an older couple, she spent a great deal of time as a child reading and participating in dance and drama club activities in school. Bradley University and the University of Dallas prepared her for a successful career as a teacher of English, speech and theater in Peoria and Fort Worth, where she earned numerous educator awards.

As a retired public school teacher and mother of four sons, she made her debut as an author with the publication of three books: 7 Tips for A Successful Marriage, Raising the Roses, and Tales from the Family Tree, all in 2012.  She later produced a romance novel, Monday Morning Blues. Her most recent work reflects her experience as a caretaker and widow, Seasons: My Journey through Grief. Inspired by Toni Morrison and Alice Walker, her focus in both writing and theater is on the power of language, love, and family. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and her website.

BONUS!!! The Author is also hosting a giveaway during each day of her blog tour. Simply comment on each stop to be entered. You can win a copy of one of her e-books or even a $10 Amazon Gift Card!! (There will be a total of 13 giveaways!!)

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  Thanks for supporting this author and her work!  

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Welcome to “THE SLEEPING ONE” Blog Tour! @KarlJMorgan #4WillsPub #RRBC

To my followers. Today I’d like to give a huge welcome to #RRBC Karl J. Morgan.

THE SLEEPING ONE BLOG TOUR!



Excerpt from Gadson’s Talent Checklist

Our hero discovers this book in a hidden storage area in the Gratia Dei Hall. The author was one of the first to chronicle the special abilities of the students at the two schools:

Carl opened the cover. The title sheet listed the name of the author as Antoine Marie Gadson. The year of publication was 1811. The next page was a table of contents. There were one hundred talents listed in alphabetic order. The last entry was Index. He turned there. The talents were now listed under the abilities. There was no listing for Sleeping One, awakening, hibernation, or sleep. He did find a listing for resurrection to be found on page 88. He turned to that page and read:

“Resurrection (Fantasy Level): True resurrection of the dead is a talent limited to God. Ancient texts reference a condition known as Viszreaagh, or The Sleeping One, but that has never been witnessed and is therefore likely a myth. The author does not intend to imply that the following is either true or untrue and lists only what has been previously written. It is said that the Sleeping One condition can only be imposed on another by either a person with the Sage Hand or Invisible Hand talents. The Sleeping One appears to be dead, with no sign of respiration, pulse, or heartbeat. The thought is that the spirit or soul of the afflicted is located away from the body. That spirit lives, but cannot move to recover its body because it is non-corporeal. Only a person with equal and opposite talents can reverse the effects by bringing the spirit back to the body.

“At this point, the translation of the texts begins to break down due to the inclusion of untranslatable phrases. This author’s best guess is that the one to afflict or cure the condition can do it only once in their lifetime. The text also implies that people of lesser talent who attempts to cure the afflicted will lose their talents permanently and may die as a result of their action. Without evidence of a Sleeping One or someone with that level of talent, no further discussion is warranted. The author has no reason to believe the foregoing is more than propaganda written to astound the masses.”

Carl closed the book and his eyes. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes again, and looked around the room. He peered out the window and saw Grace walking toward the door to the dormitory.  Opening the book at random, he read:

“Linguist (Highly Advanced Level): First verified and documented in 1127AD. Present at some level in 15% of students. Advanced in 2% of students.

“Low level: Students can read, speak, and write languages similar to their native tongue which they have never studied. Example 1: Student can speak, read, and write Spanish, French, and Portuguese. Example 2: Student and speak, read and write German, English, and Danish.

“Advanced level: Students can read, speak, and write any language, although the talent may emerge gradually. Exceptions remain for forgotten languages that cannot be linked to existing ones.

“Author’s note: The author possesses this talent at the lowest end of the advanced level, which has greatly aided the development of this tome and others.”

Karl Morgan Bio

With a long career in finance and as author of almost twenty books, I like to say that words and numbers are my life.

I have had a lifelong fascination with stories in the science fiction and fantasy genres, whether it was the Tom Swift novels by Victor Appleton I read as a young boy, or television like Lost in Space and Star Trek. More recently, I have devoured film series like Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings. That fascination is combined with a keen interest in cosmology, astrophysics, quantum physics, and spirituality.

That quirky combination along with the fantasy genre allows me to craft stories that reinforce the importance of family, friendship, and love. The protagonists must overcome incredible danger and challenges to survive their journeys, but eventually end up on top. It goes without saying that as a finance guy, my life has been less action-packed than my characters (thank goodness).

With Carl Prescott and The Sleeping One, I ventured back to comfortable territory. Many of my stories reinforce our direct connection to the Divine. While that is an element of this story, the sequels feature that relationship to a much greater extent. That element in my stories is an homage to what I believe really matters in this life.

I am the son of an Air Force pilot and as such, I have lived in many places, never for more than four years at a time. Thankfully, as an adult, I have lived in Chula Vista, CA for the past thirty-seven years. I met and married Aida, the love of my life, thirty years ago. Our grown children have made us grandparents four times over. It is a blessing to be around such wonderful parents and children.

My new goal is life is my stories. I hope you can follow me on this new adventure.

Social Media and Contact Links:

Book on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07L7HHNB3

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/karlmorganauthor

Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Karl-Morgan/e/B00A57RWPO

Website/Blog: http://www.karljmorgan.com

Twitter handle: @karljmorgan

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE

Lastly, Karl is a member of the best book club ever – RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB #RRBC! If you’re looking for amazing support as an author, or if you simply love books, JOIN US! We’d love to have you!
Thanks for supporting this author and his work! 

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#RRBCSpotlightAuthor #RRBC Mary Adler (@MAAdlerwrites)

It is my pleasure to welcome Mary Adler to my blog. Check out Mary’s book Shadowed By Death.” Lets give her our full support by following her tour.

PUPPIES AND COMPASSION AND WRITING

Follow your heart. See where it leads you. And start right there, wherever that may be. Set your compassion ablaze. Christi Camblor, DVM

I met Christi almost two years ago, when I accidentally adopted a puppy from Mexico through her rescue, Compassion without Borders. I didn’t want to raise a puppy and I really didn’t want a dog with issues, but life happened and our home that was filled with grief because of the loss of our AndyPandy suddenly knew moments of joy and laughter again.

I hoped that since Charlie was only weeks old when brought to the shelter, that she would have escaped the harshness of life on the streets in Mexico; that the warm supportive environment I would raise her in would result in an emotionally stable dog. I was wrong.

Charlie came out of the womb—literally out of the womb—terrified of the world. I learned from an animal behaviorist that a pregnant dog who lives in fear of human beings and other animals and has to scrounge for food and water and shelter will pass her stress on to her puppies in utero in varying degrees.

Compassion Without Borders brings dogs from poorer communities—Mexico and California’s central valley—to places where they have a better chance of being adopted.  They even ship small dogs east where they are desired and in short supply. In 2017, they rescued nearly 500 animals in the U.S. and provided access to veterinary care and spay/neuter to over 2,000 more.

Even so, the rescue has been criticized for going to Mexico to save dogs when there are so many dogs here that need help. Christi explains:

“The homeless dog here in the U.S. will, at the very least, have the chance of a humane death if there is no chance of rescue or adoption. In turn, the animal south of the border does not have that same guaranteed fate. He or she will either languish, starve, or suffer on the streets or, if they are rounded up and captured by animal control, they will be electrocuted—the most common method of killing unwanted animals in Mexico. The need is so great. The resources so few. The animals so precious. Why wouldn’t we help? The life of every dog is every bit as valuable as the life of any other. Plain and simple.”

And that brings me to the writing part. My stories are set against real issues of racial, ethnic, and gender inequality. I care about the stories of the people who lived during the war and suffered its social injustice. To care about what happens to others, one must first accept that, to paraphrase Christi, “The life of every human being is every bit as valuable as the life of any other. Plain and simple.”

Follow Mary online:

Twitter – https://twitter.com/MAAdlerWrites

Facebook – https://maryadlerwrites.com/

Author Bio:

Mary Adler was an attorney and dean at CWRU School of Medicine. She escaped the ivory tower for the much gentler world of World War II and the adventures of homicide detective Oliver Wright and his German shepherd, Harley. She lives with her family in Sebastopol, California, where she creates garden habitats for birds and bees and butterflies. She is active in dog rescue and does canine scent work with her brilliant dogs — the brains of the team — and loves all things Italian.

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The Birth of a Wonder – The Short History of #RaveReviewsBookClub #RRBC

RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB IS 5 YEARS OLD!

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Welcome to #RRBC #BooksBudzPopUp BOOK SHOP

BROUGHT TO YOU BY OUR #BooksBudzPopUp EVENT SPONSORS!
https://booksbudzpopup.wordpress.com/rrbc-event-sponsors/

Take a moment to check out the entire website to avail yourself of all the fabulous reads you will find by scrolling down the #RRBC Book Zone tab at the top of the page.  Just hover over the tab and choose by genre or by price.

It is shaping up to be an exciting offer from Rave Reviews Book Club. There is The #RRBC #BooksBudzPopUp Reading Room…

…where you get to view authors actually reading snippets from their books. Including yours truly. So come on in and enjoy.

I can’t wait to see you!


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Welcome to the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RRBCWRW @NonnieJules

It is with great pleasure that I introduce to you…

Author Nonnie Jules

___________________________________________________________________________________

Welcome to the final stop of the 2018 WATCH “RWISA” WRITE SHOWCASE!  I’d like to begin by apologizing to those who are hosting me today as they were sent the incorrect (draft) copy instead of the finalized copy, which needed to be posted to their blogs.  But, instead of sending the post out to all of those who are hosting, as I don’t know who is for sure, I decided to post the correct copy here, on my own blog, and those who wish to switch out the post on their sites, may do so by simply copying and pasting from here. (If you would like the correct copy emailed to you, please leave me a comment below).  I do appreciate all your support and my deepest apology for the mix-up.  ~ NJ

For those of you who read my first novel, “DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER, NIGHTMARE’S FRIEND,” you might recall the struggles that Maiya/Marisa had to endure.  In the upcoming (untitled) sequel, there is a huge new twist to her story.  Here is a snippet of what’s to come…

(For those interested in reading “DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER…” please wait for the announcement of it’s re-release as it’s going thru a new round of edits.  I PROMISE IT WILL BE MUCH BETTER THAN THE FIRST TIME AROUND!)

EXCERPT FROM THE SEQUEL TO “DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER…”

(I’ve decided not to preface this piece with any details.  I’d like for the readers to try and “figure” out the direction this piece is going in.  Have fun!)

***

LEEZA

“Are you gonna buy me a drink or, are you just gonna sit there and stare at me?” Leeza asked the stranger at the bar.

“Uh, sure.  What are you drinking, pretty lady?”  Swirling to and fro, the man gripped the ridges of the bar to keep from falling from the bar stool.  “Hey, bartend, give this pretty lady what ‘er she wants and put it on my tab.”

Leeza looked him up and down.  Although not bad on the eyes, he didn’t strike her as a man with deep enough pockets to have a “tab” anywhere, but, who was she to judge?

“Vodka on the rocks,” she said, gesturing to the bartender.  When her suitor heard her request, his eyebrows shot up.

“Sure you can handle that strong of a drink, pretty lady?” he asked, still teetering.

“That’s not all I can handle.” Her suggestive wink was all the invitation the stranger needed to move a little closer, in spite of the fact that he could barely stand.

“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?” he slurred.

“Anything you want it to be, honey,” she replied.

“Really?  Well, I want your name to be Available.  So, are you?”

As he sat waiting for her response, she was reminded of her puppy, Scratches, paws perched on the windowsill, awaiting her return home from work.

“You gotta pay to play with me,” she nudged.

“Well, honey, you finish up that there drink of yours, and let’s head up to my room.  I’m in town on business and I would love the company of a beautiful woman going by the name…Available.”

In one fell swoop, she turned the glass up and the vodka was gone. The stranger’s eyes bulged again.  Clearly, he’d never seen a woman down a drink like that before.

Turning away from the bar and grabbing hold of his tie, Leeza led the way to the elevator of the hotel…the stranger following close behind, like a leashed dog.

“What’s your curfew, pretty lady?”

The elevator doors had only partially closed, when she took her hand and grabbed his penis through his pants.

“I’m a big girl, single with no kids…does that sound like someone with a curfew?” she asked, as the beep of the elevator signaled their arrival to their destination.

Stumbling ahead of her, the stranger swiped his key and pushed opened the door.  Leeza walked past him, falling backwards onto the bed.

“C’mon over here and let’s finish the party we started downstairs,” she said, kicking off her heels and propping her legs up on the bed…spread-eagle.

Balancing as he walked, the stranger stood over the bed with a huge grin plastered across his face.  Judging from the growing bulge inside of his pants, it was easy to discern that a grin awaited her there, too.

“C’mere.  You look as if you’re really happy to see me.” Leeza forcefully took him by the tie once again and pulled him on top of her.  When she began frantically unzipping his pants, he held her by the wrists to stop her.

“Whoa, filly…what’s your hurry?  You said you didn’t have a curfew so why the rush?  Don’t you even wanna know my name?” he quizzed.

“Well, I thought your name was Ready since that’s the way you came across downstairs.”  Leeza was no longer smiling – feeling a bit toyed with; and that was the feeling she hated most.

“You’re a funny one, aren’t cha?” he chuckled.  “Ok, well let’s ‘git to what we came here for!  By the way, my real name’s Jim.  Now tell me yours…”

“Nothing’s changed,” she whispered in his ear.  “I’m still…Available.”

Switching off the lamp, she proceeded to undress him by the orange glow of moonlight trickling through the window.   This was a typical night for Leeza.  Raunchy sex with yet another man she didn’t know, nor cared to.  After a while, she just lay there and let him have his way.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the party was over…at least, for her. The banging inside her head warned of the onslaught of another massive headache and there was no getting away from it.

Her enjoyment of the night’s events came to a screeching halt as the next one started to take over.

CHRISTY

Jim opened his eyes to a blonde pointing a gun in his face.  Startled, he scanned the room for the brunette he’d brought back with him the night before, but, she was nowhere to be found.

“Give me your wallet!” the blonde demanded.

“Who are you?  And, where is Available?” he asked, his eyes still searching.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t want to know what you’re talking about, capiche?  My name is Christy and I’m not going to ask you again.  Give me…your wallet.”

Jim pointed to his clothes that he’d been stripped of the night before, strewn across the floor.  “You didn’t ask me the first time,” he said“My wallet’s in there. Take whatever you want, just get outta my damn room.”

Christy stooped to pick up the pants, throwing them at him; the gun, nor her eyes, hardly ever leaving the target as she moved.

“Hey, I don’t take orders from you. Remember that. Now give me everything in there that’s spendable.”

Jim snatched the bills from his wallet and threw them at her.  “Here, this is all I have,” he muttered, his tone laced with anger.

“I saw plastic.  I want those, too.  And don’t make the mistake again of throwing anything at me,” she warned, raising the gun to remind him who was in charge.

Jim mumbled something as he gently placed three credit cards on the bed.  Christy snatched the cards up and backed slowly towards the door.  Her hands had barely touched the door handle when she heard Jim yell, “Get out, you bitch!”

Pushing herself away from the door and calmly walking back over to the bed, she could see the fear which had quickly taken up residence in his eyes…the moment when he knew he had pushed too hard.

The growing smirk across her lips catapulted into a full-blown sneer as she lifted the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

“Don’t you ever call me a bitch again.  I told you my name was Christy.”

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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH RWISAWRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you have enjoyed this showcase of our amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Nonnie Jules  RWISA Author Page

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Welcome to the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC Beem Weeks (@BeemWeeks) #RRBCWRW

Today I am proud to present…

AuthorBeem Weeks

Nightly Traipsing

There might’ve been adream. Or maybe not. Violet Glass really couldn’t recall. Probably, though. A dream concerning some stupid boy—or even a girl.

Whatever.

Can’t control what creeps through your sleep.

Her body stirred awake as the blackest part of night splashed its inky resolve across that part of Alabama.

Violet stared at the ceiling, tried like the dickens to recall a face, perhaps a voice—anything belonging to the one responsible for this latest agitation.

Nothing came through, though.

Even dead of night did little to lay low that sticky heat. Old-timers in town swore oaths affirming this, the summer of 1910, to be more oppressive than any other summer since before the war between the states.

Violet eased her body from her bed; the soles of her feet found cool the touch of creaking floorboards.

There’d be nobody to catch her—not at this hour.

Nobody, but Ruthie.

And Ruthie Sender?—she’d never let on of these doings.

Violet scampered through the kitchen, flung her blue-eyed gaze against the darkened parlor. Only shadows and silence bore witness to her planned escape, a girl’s nightly traipsing.

The back door gave up with only minor provocation.

Dripping moonlight splashed the yard with a silvery sheen; promising secrets lingered among the gathered glow.

Around the rear of the house she skulked, careful to hold close to the shadows, to remain hidden from the ones who’d blab, those others who’d hold it over her head for gain.

Back behind the barn she found her crouching spot, fell low to the ground, fixed sight on the direction of Ruthie Sender’s place a few hundred yards away. Traipsing just didn’t hold its fun without Ruthie tagging along.

Violet rushed her granddad’s cotton field without that hesitation she’d known only a summer earlier.

Shadows stirred and wiggled in the distance. Figures formed, made shapes around a low-burning fire. Even at the center of all that cotton, Violet could pick out words of songs sung by the coloreds, those kin to Ruthie Sender.

They sang about standing on wood, an old slave’s saying, drawing up recollections of a time they themselves belonged to someone else.

Belonged to Violet’s kin.

Wood smoke fogged the night air.

Violet hunched low, skirted the yard where those coloreds took up with their fire and song and whiskey. Friendly sorts, all of them. Always first with a kind word, an interest in Violet’s family, how the girl’s folks were getting on—even if that interest leaned toward pretend. But that’s the nature of the matter. It’s Violet’s great-granddad who’d once owned all those souls that gave creation to the very ones now singing and drinking.

She broke through shadows collected beneath an ancient willow tree, found respite behind the Sender family’s privy, and waited for the girl to either show or not show.

The colored girl’s legs appeared first, dangling from the pantry window, bare feet scrabbling at the air, searching for a solid thing to set down upon. The thud of her sudden drop wouldn’t wake anybody.

A dingy gray nightshirt clung to Ruthie’s body. Her dark-eyed gaze landed out where she knew to find Violet. If the girl offered a smile, it couldn’t be seen—not from this distance.

“Go out back of Tussel’s, maybe?” Ruthie asked, finding space in Violet’s shadow.

“Catch a strap across my butt, I get found by that saloon again,” Violet promised. “Daddy don’t say things twice.”

Ruthie said, “Chicken liver.”

Violet backed down a notch, weighed her options. “Who’s gonna be there?”

“Fella named Ferdinand something. Plays piano.” Ruthie tossed a nod toward those others out by the fire. “They won’t share us no whiskey.”

“Won’t share up to Tussel’s, neither—unless you got some money.”

*      *      *

They were born the same night, Violet and Ruthie, back during spring of 1895. Only a few measly hours managed to wedge in between them, separated the girls from being twins of a sort.

Close enough, though.

Ruthie came first—if her folks were to be believed.

 “Where we going?” Violet asked, following after Ruthie’s lead.

“Lena Canu’s place,” said Ruthie.

“How come?”

“She got stuff to drink, mostly.”

Droplets of sweat ran relays along Violet’s spine, leaving the girl’s skin wet, clammy. “Awful hot, it is.”

“She a conjure woman,” Ruthie announced, laying her tone low, protected. “—Lena Canu, I mean.”

Midnight’s high ceiling lent sparse light to the path splitting the two properties. Violet’s kin, they’d once owned the entire lot. Her great-granddad, he’s the one took notion to make things right, gave half of his land to the slaves he turned loose after the war.

Ruthie’s kin, mostly.

Senders and Canus.

Couldn’t ever really make a thing like that right, though.

A small cabin squatted in the brush; the orange glow of a lamp shined in the window. Used to be a slave’s shack, this one here.

Moonlight dripped on the colored girl’s face, showed it round and smooth, lips full and perfect, eyes alive with life and mischief. “Gonna see does she have any drink.”

Violet leaned closer, her bare arms feeling the other girl’s heat. She asked, “Can she tell fortunes?”

“Like reading a book.”

That dark door yawned wide; Lena Canu peered into the night. “I’ll tell your fortune, white girl,” she said.

Ruthie gave a nudge, guided Violet up the walk and into the shack.

A table and four chairs congregated at the center of the bare space. Kerosene fed a flame dancing like the devil atop the glass lamp. A pallet in a corner threw in its lot with the scene.

Lena Canu tossed a nod toward her rickety table. “Have you a seat, now,” she ordered, “—both of you.”

Violet sat first. Ruthie found perch across from her friend. Beneath the table naked feet bumped and rubbed, each girl assuring the other this would be a good turn.

“You one of them Glass girls, ain’t you?” Lena asked, dropping onto a chair of her own.

Violet said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Lena waved her off. “Ain’t no ma’am. Call me Lena, is all. You the one runs wild.” A pronouncement rather than a question.

Ruthie asked, “You got any liquor?”

A clear pint bottle came into the moment; its bitter amber liquid promised that sort of burn a person won’t mind.

Each girl drew off a long pull, let the heat mingle with their blood. Neither girl had ever gone full-on drunk; only a swig or two is all they ever dared.

Lena Canu, conjuring woman, spread a pile of bones over the table and commenced to ciphering future happenings a girl might need to know.

Things about boys and marriage didn’t come up. Neither did mention of babies and such. All Violet heard portended mainly to trouble.

“Quit you runnin’ wild,” Lena proclaimed, “and you be just fine.” She took up her narrow gaze again, aimed to settle matters. “But you keep doin’ what you been doin’, things gonna go bad.”

The suddenness of gunfire echoed through that sticky air. Three quick shots chased by a lazy fourth that staggered along a moment later.

Lena jumped first, ran for the door. Ruthie followed after, peering into the dark, no doubt expecting to put a face to the one pulled that trigger.

Violet remained stuck to her chair, attentions tugging between the matters outside and those sayings left to her by that conjuring woman. Did she really believe in such things, or was it all just a mess of nonsense?

“What am I gonna do to make things go bad?” she asked, supposing it wouldn’t hurt to know—just in case.

But Lena had other notions to work over. “Sounds like they come from over to your place,” she said to Ruthie.

Ruthie tipped a nod, said, “Could be they gettin’ liquored up too much, huh?”

“Might could,” answered Lena.

It happens that way, boys and their whiskey, wandering along crooked paths of discontent, blabbing things not really meant for harm—just boasting, is all.

But boasting to a drunken fella is as good as a punch on his nose.

“Gonna go see,” said Ruthie, pushing past the threshold, pressing on toward home.

Violet held her ground, let the colored girl disappear in the night. Attentions ceased their tugging, settled on the one making proclamations concerning bad manners and trouble to come.

Lena came loose of her thoughts, brought one to words, said, “Go on home now, white girl. Nighttime belongs to devils.”

*      *      *

Clouds laid a brief smudge against the moon, stripped its shine right off the night, left Violet to wonder if it really might be footsteps stumbling along behind her, following that same narrow path toward home.

“Fool boys,” she muttered, tossing nervous glances over either shoulder.

Footfalls fell heavy—like boots hammering the earth. An eager thing born of desperation.

Violet bolted left, squatted low behind a pile of brush that had the makings of a snake shelter. She held her breath and waited for the one at her back to pass on by.

A piece of tree limb came to her hand, a long and heavy thing, able to put a soul right should he come at her with wrong intentions.

That smudged moon went shiny again, dripped light across the path, showed off the shape of a man loping toward home. Tall and thin, this one; he moved quick with purpose.

Going the wrong way, though, Violet thought, waiting for the man to pass.

She gained her feet, charged his retreat, swung that heavy piece of wood and caught that interloper straight between his shoulders.

“Jay-zus!” the man hollered, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“This is private property!” Violet informed him, fixing up for a second swing.

The fella pulled up on his knees, tried to reach for that spot on his back no doubt gone swollen. He said, “It’s private property only ’cause I say so.”

Foolishness seeped into the girl. She squinted against the dark, drew recollection of his face. “Granddad?” she said, hoping her recollections proved wrong.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he demanded, giving his legs a try.

“Came out to use the privy,” she fibbed. “Heard gunshots, came to see, is all.”

“Liar!” the old man spat. “You been gallivanting again, ain’t you?” He moved closer to the girl, sized her up, made a big fuss over her running around in only a nightshirt and nothing else. “Your daddy’s gonna hit ya where the good Lord split ya—then he’s gonna move you to your sister’s room upstairs. Won’t be no sneaking out from there.”

Her gaze caught that glint at his waistband, a familiar hunk of blued steel. “Don’t matter,” she said. “Daddy’s gonna put you in the county home.”

“On account of what?”

“On account of you’re going senile, traipsing off, bothering colored folks again with that pistol of yours.” Violet leaned closer, continued her spiel. “Heard him and Mama talking just last week, saying how you’re a danger to yourself just as much as to others.”

The old man’s jaw fell open and slammed shut; intended words went lost to the night. He couldn’t tell on her now—not without personal risk.

Defeat fogged his eyes. “I won’t tell your business if you don’t tell mine.”

Violet seized the moment with both hands. “That depends,” she informed him.

“On what?”

“Who’d you shoot tonight?”

“Nobody. Just meant to scare, is all.”

“Gonna kill somebody one day—if you ain’t already.”

“Ain’t in my blood, killin’.”

“Don’t have to mean it to do it.”

The old man pulled back, let frustration have its way. “We got a deal or don’t we?”

“You gonna leave Ruthie’s people be?”

“Just want what’s mine,” he complained.

“But it’s their land, Granddad—been so for forty-five years. A hundred guns ain’t gonna make it not so.”

He never did wear misery well.

Violet’s arms went easily around the man. She pulled close to him, breathed in that familiar odor of sweat and tobacco.

He said, “I won’t bother them no more.”

“Then we have us a deal.”

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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH RWISAWRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Beem Weeks RWISA Author Page

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Welcome to the WATCH “#RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC (@gmplano) Gwendolyn Plano #RRBCWRW

Introducing a special guest…

Author Gwen Plano

Here is an introduction to her work…

MOM’S FINAL WORDS

By Gwen M. Plano

Worn out by time, mom lay motionless on the sheets. Life lingered but imperceptibly. At ninety-one, she had experienced the full range of life’s challenges. And, now, she rested her aged shell of a body and waited.

A farmer’s daughter and wife, her life was marked by practicalities and hard work. Always up before daybreak, she prepared the meals, washed the clothes and hung them on the clothesline, and otherwise attended to the needs of the household.

Her garden was a cornucopia of tomatoes and corn, of squashand lettuces. And the refrigerator always had freshly gathered eggs and newly churned butter.    

Mom rarely paused, to catch her breath, to offer a hug, or to sit calmly. Time is not to be wasted, she taught. And so, she was always busy.

Over the years, there were multiple times that she almost died. But, with each surgery or ailment, she emerged from death’s clutches more determined than before – to surmount her difficulties, to forge a path, to care for her family. “Life is a gift,” she would say to us.  

Mom knew poverty and uncertainty. Ration coupons from the war lay on her dresser, a reminder of harsh realities. Nothing ever went to waste in our household, not food, not water, not clothing. “Many have less than us,” she claimed. She would then insist we be conservative and share.

She knew sorrow well, having lost her parents when she was young, and then two of her nine children. As the years passed, she also lost her sisters and many of her friends.

Mom was a woman of faith. Throughout the day, you could hear her quiet entreaties. Prayer was always on her lips. When mom walked from one room to the next, she prayed – for this person or that friend or for our country. She’d stand at the sink washing dishes and invoke help, from the angels, from Mary the mother of our God, and from the Holy Spirit. “Pray always,” she’d remind us.

This busy mother fought death to the end, but when the doctor finally said that nothing more could be done, she simply responded, “I am ready.”

It was then that she met with each of her seven children. Barely managing each breath, she whispered her I love you and offered a few words of guidance.

When I was at mom’s bedside, she told me she loved me, mentioned a few family concerns, and then in a barely audible voice she said, “I don’t know what to expect.”

This precious little woman, who had spent her life busy with raising a family and helping with the farm, now was unsure of what would happen next. I was surprised by the words. 

She taught me to pray when I was quite tiny. “Get on your knees,” she would instruct. “Offer up your pain for the poor souls in purgatory,” she’d suggest. Then, she’d lead us in the Lord’s Prayer. Mom had us pray for family and friends, for anyone suffering, and always for our country. She’d share stories of angels and saints, of miracles and wonders, of midnight visitations and afternoon impressions. This fragile diminutive woman had instructed my siblings and me of the invisible eternal. And, I lived with those images as a child until they became as real to me as the world we see.  

Yes, I was surprised by mom’s words to me. “I don’t know what to expect.” But then I wondered, did she know? Did she know that I had studied near-death experiences? That I had written of the dying process? Had I ever told her?

I don’t know what to expect. Simple words, but a storm of thoughts followed. I held back my tears and took her hands in mine.

“Mom, I will tell you what friends have said and what the research has shown. The angels are coming soon, mom. You will see them in the light. Just follow their lead. Your sisters will join you, as will your mom and dad and your babies. Your whole family is waiting for you. It will be a wonderful reunion. There will be much joy.”

Her breaths grew slower.

I told her of Charles, a friend I met in my prayer group. He had died twice and because of that, he had no fear of his final death. Through his experiences, he saw that life continues. He spoke of celestial beings, of extraordinary love, of boundless joy. And, he told the prayer group that he looked forward to death.  I shared these things and more. And, as I spoke, her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. She had fallen back to sleep, to the middle ground between this world and the next. And I wondered, did she really need to know what to expect or did she want me to remember that life never ends?

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Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH RWISAWRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

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Gwen Plano  RWISA Author Page

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