Everything is 30% off at Dreamspinner this week, including my books! Sounds like a great time to treat yourself to a new book or two.
Everything is 30% off at Dreamspinner this week, including my books! Sounds like a great time to treat yourself to a new book or two.
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Title: The Moth and Moon Author: Glenn Quigley Publisher: NineStar Press Release Date: March 19, 2018 Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex Pairing: Male/Male Length: 63000 Genre: Alternate Universe, Historical, LGBT, historical, gay, friends to lovers, sailor, baker, pirates, family drama Add to GoodreadsSynopsisIn the summer of 1780, on the tiny island of Merryapple, burly fisherman Robin Shipp lives a simple, quiet life in a bustling harbour town where most of the residents dislike him due to the actions of his father. With a hurricane approaching, he nonetheless convinces the villagers to take shelter in the one place big enough to hold them all—the ancient, labyrinthine tavern named the Moth & Moon. While trapped with his neighbours during the raging storm, Robin inadvertently confronts more than the weather, and the results could change everything.ExcerptThe Moth and Moon Glenn Quigley © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One Mr. Robin Shipp pulled his cap lower as he took a deep breath of salty morning air and watched the sun emerge from behind the headland. Stepping from the pier into his little boat, he ran his heavy hand across the prow, catching his coarse fingers on the loose, chipped paintwork. He picked a jagged flake off the wooden frame and held it up to the light, the vivid scarlet catching the pinks and oranges of daybreak. He let go and it drifted through the air, carried away on the gentle breeze, before settling on the soft, lapping tide. Most of the paintwork was in some state of distress. Deep cracks marbled the entire hull, belying the fisherman’s profound affection for his vessel. Bucca’s Call had seen better days. “I’ll paint you tomorrow, Bucca, I promise,” he said. He made this very same promise every morning, but every day, he found some reason to put it off. Before too long, he was humming to himself and hauling his well-worn oyster dredge over the stern of Bucca’s Call. “Beautiful!” he said as he emptied the net into a nearby tub. The shells clattered against one another as they fell. The boat bobbed about gently on the waves while gulls screeched and circled overhead. Her nameplate was missing a couple of letters and her white sails were truthfully more of a grimy beige these days, but she was as reliable as ever. He was close to the shore and could see the whole bay—from the headland to the east, down to the harbour, past the pale blue-and-white-striped lighthouse that sat out at sea on its desolate little clump of rocks and scrub, and over to the beautiful sandy beach curving around and out of sight to the west. The little fishing village of Blashy Cove sloped up the hills beyond the harbour, and with his gaze, he traced the low, stone walls lining each cobbled road. It was the only significant settlement on the tiny island of Merryapple, the southernmost point of a little cluster of islands nestled off the Cornish coast. The village had everything one would expect to find, except a place of worship. No lofty cathedral had ever been built there, no church of granite and glass, not even the smallest wooden chapel. When the empire of the Romans had fallen a thousand years earlier, its church had fallen alongside it. The invaders hadn’t lingered long on the mainland, and had never set foot on these islands. Once they were gone, the people picked through the remains, seeing the value in certain aspects and thoroughly disregarding the rest, scouring the regime clean from the face the world and consigning it meekly to the tomes of scholars and students. In its absence, the old gods returned to their forests and deserts, their mountains and streams, their homes and hearths. Spirits of air and land and sea. Woden and Frig, The Wild Hunt and the Bucca, piskies and mermaids, the Green Man and the wights, all were changed, made kinder and gentler by their brief exile. On these islands, the old ways had been the only ways, but even these had mostly died out, sloping into traditions, superstitions, and habits. It was now August in the year 1780, and people believed in themselves. At this time of morning, sunlight hit the brightly painted houses and sparkled on the gentle, rolling waves. The village’s livelihood mainly revolved around the sea, but there was more to life than just luggers and lines and lobster pots. The Cove had long been a haven to those of a more creative bent. Painters and sculptors, engineers and inventors, they all found their home there. Some of them had come from the nearby Blackrabbit Island, which wasn’t known for its love of the finer arts. This abundance of skill, and the nurturing of it, meant Blashy Cove had adopted some innovations not yet common in the rest of the world. Robin had been out for some time by now and, as usual, had already eaten his packed lunch. Soon, his substantial belly rumbled and he decided it was time to head back to port. Packing away his nets, he heaved in his empty lobster pots, secured the tub filled with this morning’s catch, and sailed the small craft homeward. As he did, he noticed a thin, grey line on the horizon. “Looks like some bad weather on the way, Bucca,” he muttered to the little boat. The stern of the curious little craft sat low in the water, due equally to the weight of the morning’s catch and the significant heft of Robin himself. While at first it appeared to be a traditional lugger, the kind of boat used by most fishermen in this part of the world, Bucca’s Call was actually much smaller and faster, a one-of-a-kind built many years previously. Huge ships from the mainland drifted past, their enormous sails billowing in the breeze. Merryapple was part of a small group of southerly islands, and the last sight of land some of the mighty vessels would see for weeks, or even months. Merryapple Pier was the oldest one anybody knew of. The brainstorm of a local fisherman many years earlier and copied by many other villages since, it might well have been the first of its kind. This clever fisherman realised if there was a way for larger boats to offload their cargo directly, rather than having to put it onto smaller vessels to ferry back and forth between harbour and ship, it would increase the traffic through the little port. The pier stretched out past the shallower waters near the coastline. Little sailboats like Bucca’s Call could dock right up close to the beach or even on the sand, if need be, while bigger fishing vessels could use the far end, in deeper waters. The pier was constructed from huge boulders hewn from the island’s cliff face and supported by a framework of long wooden poles from the woodlands. In the evening, bigger boats from the village fleet usually dropped anchor in the bay, while smaller vessels stayed moored to the pier. At the shore, some children were chasing each other around a pile of crab pots, hooting and hollering while May Bell finished her deliveries for the bakery. May was around the same age as the other children, but she was of a more industrious bent. She saw Bucca’s Call approaching and ran to help Robin secure his mooring line as he lugged the tub of oysters onto the pier. When he clambered up the weathered stone steps, he steadied himself with a hand against the wall. The steps were wet and slippery, with dark green mould threatening to envelope his heavy boots should he linger too long. “Morning, Mr. Shipp,” the girl called as she finished tying the worn rope around an old, pitted stone bitt. “Mornin’, May! Thanks for your ’elp,” he called back, waving to the girl as he lumbered past. Taller than any man on the island, he dwarfed the little girl, drowning her in his shadow. “Time for food already?” she asked. “Oh yes,” replied Robin, “an’ I know just the place to get some!” His legs were stiff from sitting in the boat all morning. He knew he was supposed to get up and move around a bit every once in a while, but when he was out on the water, the chatter of the gulls, the lap of the waves, the smell of the sea air, it was all so relaxing he just didn’t notice the time going by. Only his stomach growls marked the hours. Mrs. Greenaway, wife of the village doctor and a friend of May’s parents, happened to be passing by on her way home from the market. Seeing their exchange, she scrunched up her face, adjusted the bow on her bonnet, and seized the little girl by the arm, leading her away from the pier and avoiding Robin’s disappointed gaze. He knew May from the bakery, as the master baker was one of his very few friends, but it wasn’t uncommon for people to avoid him. Robin heaved the awkward tub full of oysters up and marched towards the bustling market, which was a collection of simple wooden stalls selling everything from food to clothes to ornaments. He edged his way through the crowd, past various stallholders and shoppers as he struggled with the heavy container. Finally, he reached the largest stall, which sold all manner of fresh seafood, all caught in that very cove. Robin specialised in inshore fishing, whereas the other boats concentrated their efforts farther out to sea. He was one of only two oyster fishermen in the village. The other, Mr. Hirst, was ill and hadn’t been out in his craft for almost two weeks. He was married, with a young family to feed, and the village had rallied around to help and make sure they didn’t go hungry. The lack of competition, however, meant Robin was securing a bumper crop. A tall, thin man in a white coat was scribbling notes onto a wad of yellow paper. In front of him lay a collection of various local fish, in everything from buckets to barrels to battered old copper pots. “Got a nice batch for you this mornin’, Mr. Blackwall.” Robin beamed, holding up the tub so the fishmonger could get a good look. “Yes, these will do fine, I suppose, Mr. Shipp. Put them down at the front.” Mr. Blackwall was notorious for not getting too hands-on with the product or with much of anything, really. He kept his distance from the beach and fairly resented having to be even this close. Wet sand upset him greatly, as it had a tendency to cling to his shiny boots and sometimes it even marked his pristine coat. He didn’t do any of the actual work with the fish, instead leaving it to his assistants. He’d often said he didn’t see the point of having a stall at all when he had a perfectly good shop on Hill Road. But the market was a tradition in Blashy Cove, and so he had no choice but to participate or lose out. He jotted some numbers down on his paper and then chewed the end of his pencil as he tried to add them up. He always did this, and he never did it quickly. Robin stooped and laid the tub on the ground as instructed, grunting as he straightened. “Joints sore again?” the fishmonger asked out of sheer politeness, not looking up from his calculations. “No more’n usual,” Robin replied, rubbing the small of his back and rotating his shoulder. Working the sea wasn’t easy, and it had taken its toll over the years. Ben Blackwall reached into his inside pocket and produced a fistful of polished coins, which he delivered into Robin’s large, callused hands. Robin nodded appreciatively and stuffed them into the pockets of his calf-length, navy-coloured overcoat. Tipping his floppy, well-worn cap to his long-time buyer, he turned and headed away from the dock. He passed by other villagers going about their morning routine and jumped out of the way of a horse and cart loaded with apples from the orchard over the hills as he headed straight for the immense building dead ahead. It was a massive, ungainly lump, set in the centre of a spacious courtyard, all crooked wooden beams and slanting lead-paned windows. Every now and then, a shabby bay window or wonky dormer jutted out at funny angles. It was hard to tell exactly how many floors it had. Five, at least, the topmost of which sat like a box that had been dropped from a great height onto the rest of the structure. Rumpled, uneven, and crooked, this odd addition had one large, circular window on each of its four walls. On the ground outside, wooden tables and chairs were arranged, and heavy planters overflowed with hardy, perennial shrubbery. A couple of fat seagulls noisily argued over a few crumbs dropped near the windbreakers. This pair were here so often, they seemed to be part of the building itself. The locals named them Captain Tom and the Admiral. Captain Tom was the leader of a particularly noisy and troublesome band of gulls, and the Admiral was his main rival. They would often fight over even the tiniest scraps left on the ground, and both were marked with more than one battle scar. As he pulled on the heavy oak door, the sign hanging overhead creaked and groaned in the wind. Painted on chestnut from the nearby wood, the bulk of the sign was older than the village itself, but it had been modified many times. Formed of several expertly carved layers, it now looked more like a child’s pop-up book rather than the simple plank of wood it had once been. The overall effect was of peering through a forest, out over the cove at night. The outermost tier resembled a ring of tree branches, gently moving up and down. Behind that layer were the turbulent waves, which clicked from side to side. Finally, there was the static crescent moon with a single cerulean moth flying slowly around, completing one revolution every hour. The whole sign ticked and whirred endlessly as its springs and cogs went about their work, and had to be wound up twice a day using a long, metal key kept tucked behind the tavern’s main door. The name of the establishment was weaved around and through the artwork in gold. This wasn’t simply a place to drink or gather with friends; it was a place to conduct business, a place where people married, and a place where people mourned. It was a refuge from bad weather and jilted lovers. This was the heart and soul of the little village. This was the Moth & Moon.PurchaseNineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | KoboMeet the AuthorGlenn Quigley is a graphic designer originally from Dublin and now living in Lisburn, Northern Ireland. He creates bear designs for www.themoodybear.com. He has been interested in writing since he was a child, as essay writing was the one and only thing he was ever any good at in school. When not writing or designing, he enjoys photography and has recently taken up watercolour painting.Website | TwitterGiveawaya Rafflecopter giveawayIt's weekend, and time for more Rainbow Snippets. The Rainbow Snippets group on Facebook asks its members to share six sentence snippets from their work each weekend. Check out the group's Facebook page to read all the snippets and add lots of great books to your tbr. You'll find all sorts of books with the common thread that the main character identifies as LGBTQ+. This week's snippet is from The Sorcerer's Guardian. “More wine?” Loriot asked. “No.” He walked forward and set his glass down on the table. Loriot’s grin was more than a little wicked. “Good.” They stood staring at each other for one breath, two. And then they lunged. They came together in a kiss every bit as explosive as their first, and Savarin had his answer. The kiss wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet, but Savarin didn’t want gentle or sweet. Tonight he craved the power of this. As the storm raged outside, he and Loriot came together with what felt like the same force. If you'd like to know more about The Sorcerer's Guardian, you can find it here. Thanks for reading!
Title: The Witch Stone Series: Court of Ash and Thorn, Book One Author: Jasmine Hong Publisher: NineStar Press Release Date: March 12, 2018 Heat Level: 1 - No Sex Pairing: Male/Male Length: 33800 Genre: Fantasy, action, demons, magic users, urban fantasy Add to GoodreadsSynopsisOne of the unfortunate truths in life is that if someone dumps a war on your doorstep in the small hours of the morning, well, you’re kind of stuck with it. Especially if that war comes in the form of a mostly naked man and he just happens to be one of the most powerful beings in the city. And your ex. Another unfortunate truth: No matter how poorly things ended, you’re going to wind up scraping him up off the cement and dragging him in off your doorstep. And, of course, that’s when the real trouble begins.ExcerptThe Witch Stone Jasmine Hong © 2018 All Rights Reserved Chapter One: The Ex The day started out normal. The dawn sky had been clear; I had my study’s window cracked open while I worked because of the heat. The glass warding chimes my mother gave me sat in the kitchen throwing colored shapes all over the floor while I reviewed schematics at my desk. Outside, there was nothing but the orange glow of the streetlamp and the lightening horizon. Not ten minutes before six, clouds rolled in, blotting out the moon, leaving me in the anemic light of the candles guttering from the wind. That was when my wards started screaming bloody murder, shooting bright yellow lines of alarm along my walls, ceiling, and floor. The chimes spun violently even though there was no wind. Drama queens. Although considering who they told me was at my doorstep, pounding on the door—well. I thought I knew what to expect when I opened the door, and I dragged my feet as much as I could. I paused to disentangle my leg from the blanket that fell off my half-collapsed couch instead of just kicking it off, and even went so far as to ball it up and throw it on the armchair. I considered watering the dried hunk of fern that rested on the table. I had no desire to see my ex any time soon, much less at six in the morning. I slammed the door open. “What do you want?” What I did not expect, however, was for him to fall forward as soon as I opened the door, hitting the foyer floor with a thud and splattering my bare feet with what looked like blood. Lucky the landlord was too cheap to buy carpet—much easier to clean questionable fluids off concrete. My entire living room blazed with yellow, making him look even more sickly. He sat up and snarled, “We have to get out of here.” Most of the blood wasn’t his, but he was hurt worse than I’d thought, bruises already forming on his torso and limbs. A giant handprint wrapped around his neck. There was something else, though, in my home. Something that didn’t quite belong there, though it wasn’t malicious or it would have been expelled. No, it was powerful but passive enough to go through my wards and not set off any alarms. Its presence felt like a strong pulse. Warm. “What did you do, Salim?” “What do you mean, what did I do?” Something slammed against the wards on my doorway. Claws groped through the opening, piercing the thinner webbing but catching on the main lines. The wards screeched, flaring purple and sparking. I could feel everything my wards touched in a way. It wasn’t precisely the same as touching it myself, just sort of a muted sensation depending on how much magic the thing had. But Salim was almost bursting with magic. And so was the thing fighting against my wards now. For a moment, I froze. It wasn’t like I was accustomed to seeing demons on a regular basis and this was one ugly motherfucker. Some demons can look human—better than human—but this…was not one of them. “Cal!” Salim grabbed hold of my shoulders, shaking me. With a twist of my hand, I tightened the wards on its claws, managing to sever one of its fingers in the process. Immediately, my wards absorbed its blood, lines of runes shooting back and forth between them as they started breaking the material down to find a weakness. Losing that bit of itself didn’t even give the demon pause. It threw itself against the entrance again, this time using its teeth. I spread the net of the ward lines apart this time, forcing its jaw wide. Too late I realized that it was preparing to spit venom at us. The liquid writhed against my wards, hissing and finally oozing—hurtling forward as it ate through the gaps. In a last-ditch effort, I pulled my wards back like a slingshot and sent the entire glob back at the gaping maw with one huge heave. The wards finally finished processing and started wrapping around the demon, immobilizing limb after limb, and set to absorbing it, which was a bit like eating fiery shards of glass, only less pleasant. They were, after all, an extension of my power, so I felt every second of the absorption process. Sidestepping spots of the venom where they had gotten past the wards, I went to go grab my staff. Without a conduit, using magic was like trying to grapple with lightning. Kind of like talking to Salim. He was a lot more pleasant to be around when he was passed out. Several lines of the wards gathered along my staff as I picked it up from beside the coat rack. The thing let out an ugly roar. “What are you doing, Cal?” Salim asked. “I’m going to destroy it.” “That’s not going to work!” “Isn’t that why you came here? Now shut up!” “The Court is dead!” Salim said. “What?” The wards had started strangling the demon; its blood smelled like battery acid. Its eyes bulged as it fought to let off another roar and struggled against the wards. “You’re as bad as Salim in one of his moods.” It thrashed to let me know just what it thought about that. This time when the blood hit the wards, it was launched back at the demon. The wards might be able to handle it on their own, but it was time to give things a little push. “Batter up, motherfucker.” Swinging my staff with my whole weight, I hit it right on the schnozz. I felt the lines take, ramming into its head like hooks and sending out spines to prevent it from pulling free. “Cal, you fucking dickweed,” Salim said. “Don’t compare me to that thing.” I spun around to look at him, just in time to see the demon’s claws shoot past me toward Salim, who was holding something in his hands. Something that felt like a heartbeat that thrummed through my entire living room. Then everything exploded. I shook my head, trying to get rid of the lights dancing in my vision. The demon was little more than a smudge on my doorstep. I foresaw a great deal of scrubbing the next day. Outside, the sky rumbled and buzzed with electricity. All the hair on my body stood on end. “Salim…was that you?” He was never that strong before. The most he could do was call up a strong wind or two, or a rain. Not call down lightning. “Bastard,” he wheezed, collapsing at my feet. And that was when the storm broke.PurchaseNineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | KoboMeet the AuthorJasmine Hong lives in a sweltering suburb of sunny Southern California. She has a tiny dog with giant ears. Her hobbies include eating and sleeping. When she isn’t doing either, she’s usually writing, drawing, or coding. Jasmine wants you to know that you can, and should, fry cheese. It’s delicious. Try it. As much an omnivore when it comes to reading as eating, she wishes there was more variety in her literary diet. She writes everything from urban fantasy to silkpunk and wishes she could just read her stories instead of having to write them.Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | TumblrGiveawaya Rafflecopter giveawayIt's weekend, and time for more Rainbow Snippets. The Rainbow Snippets group on Facebook asks its members to share six sentence snippets from their work each weekend. Check out the group's Facebook page to read all the snippets and add lots of great books to your tbr. You'll find all sorts of books with the common thread that the main character identifies as LGBTQ+. This week's rainbow snippet is from The Dragon's Devotion. (I went a little over six sentences. Sorry!) They cut across a small, deserted square. Their footsteps were loud on the paving stones, the only other sound the peaceful burble of the fountain in the center. As they came up beside the fountain, Corentin stopped. Bastien took a couple steps before he realized and turned, their arms stretched between them, hands still linked. Corentin’s face was in shadow, and Bastien frowned. “Corentin?” Corentin gave Bastien’s hand a gentle tug, pulling him a step closer, and then another. “Corentin, what—?” He came up against the solid muscle of Corentin’s chest. He let out a little huff of air, and then Corentin’s lips were on his. The Dragon's Devotion is 50% off right now at Smashwords (today is the last day!), and you can find out more about it here. Thanks for reading today!
When I sat down to write this post, I realized that I hardly read at all in February, or, well, for me, since I'm usually constantly reading. But February was a busy month. I had a nasty cold and was trying to write and then do the first set of edits for Tournai and I just couldn't concentrate on reading too much. I reread some of Jordan L Hawk's Whyborne and Griffin series and Megan Derr's Tales of the High Court series. They're both favorite series, and I could get into them easily without too much effort. I also switched between audio and print with W&G while I was sick. Other than those books, I also read Hold Me by Courtney Milan. It's been on my list for ages, and I finally got the paperback at Christmas and sat down to read it. I really enjoyed this book with a Latinx trans heroine and a bisexual Asian hero, both in STEM fields. It manages to be both friends to lovers and enemies to lovers for the same couple. Really good. What have you been reading lately? The Dragon's Devotion is 50% off at Smashwords this week! If you haven't read it yet, this is a great time to buy. Don't miss out on swoony romance, mystery and intrigue, family drama, magic, and a dragon, of course! There are a bunch of other great NineStar Press books on sale too. My book budget is in danger... Title: Take Your Medicine Author: Hannah Carmack Publisher: NineStar Press Release Date: March 5, 2018 Heat Level: 1 - No Sex Pairing: Female/Female Length: 24400 Genre: Contemporary Fantasy, LGBT, YA, chronic illness, coming out, lesbian Add to GoodreadsSynopsisAlice “Al” Liddell is from Echola, Alabama. She leads the life of a normal teen until the day she’s diagnosed with vasovagal syncope – a fainting disorder which causes her to lose consciousness whenever she feels emotions too strongly. Her mother, the “Queen of Hearts,” is the best cardiothoracic surgeon this side of the Mason-Dixon Line and a bit of a local hero. Yet, even with all her skill she is unable to cure her daughter of her ailment, leading Al into the world of backwater witchcraft. Along the way she meets a wacky cast of characters and learns to accept her new normal. Take Your Medicine is a southern gothic retelling of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.ExcerptTake Your Medicine Hannah Carmack © 2018 All Rights Reserved Golden Afternoons I got sick the summer of 2010. At first, it was slow. A little fatigue here, a little light-headedness there, but by the time the scorching heat of July settled in over the little town of Echola, Alabama, I was having one or two fainting spells a day. My mother, bless her heart, was always trying to cure what ailed me, though it never quite worked. She was the best cardiothoracic surgeon this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. She was known for the occasional sarcastic quip, wearing braids down to her belly, and a nearly unscathed OR record. They called her the Queen of Hearts. But, no matter how sick I got, my mother always expected me outside right at seven o’clock, ready to tend the garden. The day I met the witches was no different. We were up and outside a good five minutes early, trying to beat the already record-breaking heat. Barely past six a.m. and we were already pushing ninety. I joined her in the rose bushes, pruning and picking as we talked about our plans for the day. “And I want you to go over The Odyssey one more time. I don’t feel you got the Cyclops as well as you should have.” Ma was sweating more than a tall glass of tea as she worked those beds. “I think I got it just fine,” I answered her. “I just didn’t like it.” I worked my dark hands deep into the soil and pulled out an overgrown dandelion. It seemed like no matter how many I plucked, five would grow back in its place by the next morning. Ma turned to me, her brow finely arched and her lips spread in a smirk. “Give it another read. You’ll appreciate it more the second time ‘round.” “Why don’t I just read Midsummer again?” I asked, sheepishly avoiding her gaze as I busied myself in the roses. “I mean, it is midsummer.” “Because you’ve already read that one five times.” “So?” I kept my expression genial, not wanting to risk my mother thinking I was taking a tone with her. “It’s important you expand your library.” “That’s it?” I raised my gloved hands to the sky and pretended to plead with a higher power in hopes of a better reading assignment. “Well then, fine.” She let out a low hmph and brushed the dirt from her hands. “Let’s just say it’s because I told you to, Al.” “You’ve always said that’s a lazy reason to give.” My mother rolled her eyes to the clouds in the sky. “Lord help me.” She huffed. “Fine, don’t read it. When your teachers give you trouble, don’t you come cryin’ to me, ’cause I did all I could to help you.” Anything sounded better than suffering through Homer again. “Just twenty pages or so then?” “Twenty.” My mother tsk’d. “Arright, arright. Twenty it is, but don’t go runnin’ off today. We’ve got a lot of work to do when I get home. Your auntie is droppin’ in this weekend and I want the place sparklin’, foyer to the chimney. Collect some of the collard greens from the vegetable patch today, would ya? I’m thinkin’ we’ll make a casserole.” I assured her I understood and then turned back to uprooting an especially stubborn creeping vine. She’d just brought over a big old tin water can when a little compact car drove up on our gravel drive. “Guess that’s me.” My mother turned her attention to Jackson. He was a tall man who always looked just a little too big for his ride. He usually struggled to get out of the car in time to get Ma’s door for her. “I’ll be home ‘round supper.” I wiped my palms on my pants before wrapping her into a hug. The smell of her morning coffee still clung to her blouse. “And don’t forget to water out back,” she called to me as they were pulling off. “Those river birches need it!” The car backed out of the driveway, and I waved to them as they left. As soon as she was gone, I tightened my headwrap and turned to my watering duties. I tended to each bush with care and pulled a few stray weeds along the way. Kudzu was coming closer and closer to our little haven, and even if gardening was more Ma’s hobby than mine, I didn’t want to risk losing all our hard work to that tangled-vine devil. After finishing the roses, I went back inside to cool off in front of the fan. I sat there for a little while and let the breeze hit my face. I still had the back bushes to do, but I decided to treat myself to a couple of speckled eggs and toast before hiking it all the way back to the orchard. If Ma had been there to ask, I’d say I wanted a break from the sun so I wouldn’t burn to a crisp before noon. But on the inside, I knew I was only eating because I wanted to have a full stomach and energy to burn. There was something I loved about that thick brush. The hum of cicadas and june bugs, the lush green forestry, and the shade from the hundred-year-old oaks. I’d go to water the trees, but I’d stay for a chance to roam the land. Times where I could just wander were few and far between since I’d gotten sick. The chance of being out in the woods and having a bad fainting spell was too risky. You could end up seizing if you didn’t fall just right. Luckily, the orchard wasn’t too far, but getting there was always a trip that you had to respect. It was dangerous terrain. Since the spells started, Ma hadn’t wanted me going that far out, but this was day four in a streak of no fainting attacks. She must have had some kind of hope, or she would have told me to wait for her to come home so we could go water them together. The last trip I took to the river birch, I snuck out our camera to take pictures of the flora and fauna. Between the most beautiful flowers you could find the deadliest of things. Last week, it was a rattler perched in a patch of lilies. Before leaving, I skimmed through The Odyssey. I know Ma said I didn’t have to keep reading it, but her words got me wondering. Of course, she’d been right. I did appreciate the cyclopes more this time. Ma was always right. It drove me a little crazy but made for some sound advice. After finishing my reading for the day, I descended, a bulk of water canteens slung around my arms. Eight jugs for the trees. One for me. The path to the orchard was long, twisty, and confusing if you didn’t know the property. But, we’d been living there our whole lives. Same as my mama’s ma, and her ma before her. For me, it was nothing. This was the air I grew up breathing. The trees I grew up climbing. The tilted rocks that I scraped my knees on and the river I’d caught my first crawdaddy in. So for me, this Southern jungle was nothing.PurchaseNineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | KoboMeet the AuthorHannah Carmack is a writer and spends most of her time connecting reluctant readers and bookworms alike to the world of literature and science. Although living with an auto-immune disease is difficult, she finds power in using her writing as a way to convey the world that people with disabilities live in to people who may not fully comprehend it.Website | Facebook | Twitter | InstagramGiveawaya Rafflecopter giveawayIt's weekend, and time for more Rainbow Snippets. The Rainbow Snippets group on Facebook asks its members to share six sentence snippets from their work each weekend. Check out the group's Facebook page to read all the snippets and add lots of great books to your tbr. You'll find all sorts of books with the common thread that the main character identifies as LGBTQ+. This week's snippet is from The Scholar's Heart. Griffen looked up when Philip called his name. “Yes, Philip?” “Where’s your brother?” “I assume you’re referring to the antisocial one here in the city and not the antisocial one back on the estate?” Griffen grinned as Philip laughed. “I tried to convince him to come along, but he’d rather spend time with his books than with actual people.” “Sounds like someone else I know,” Cathal said and looked pointedly to Etan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Etan had a look of blatantly false innocence on his face. “And books can be far more interesting than people anyway.” If you'd like to know more about The Scholar's Heart, you can find it here. Thanks for stopping by this weekend!
February was a busy month! As I've done over the past several years, I participated in New Jersey Romance Writers JeRoWriMo. This year I continued working on my current project, the sequel to a book that you'll see in September (and I can't tell you too much about what I'm working on yet because of spoilers!). It's usually a really productive month for me, and I add a bunch of words to my current work in progress during the month. I did this month, just not as many as I usually do, but I met the challenge, so yay! My word count wasn't as high as I'd hoped because of a nasty cold at the beginning of the month and then getting Tournai 6 edits middle of the month. The first Tournai 6 edit is finished and turned in to my editor as of yesterday, so I'm back to writing and hoping to get lots of words down before the next edit hits my inbox (fingers crossed, all!). In other news, I found last month that The Sorcerer's Guardian is going to be published in French, which is so exciting! It will be out in ebook and paperback, and as soon as I have information about release dates, I'll let you know. Finally, I'll be at the Liberty States Fiction Writers conference in Iselin, NJ this month (how is it March already? where did time go?). If you're at the conference, come say hi! And if you're not attending the conference, you can still come to the book fair on Saturday March 24th. I'm signing, and I'd love to see you! |
AuthorAntonia is a writer and a reader and a copy editor/proofreader. She loves books, travel, art, photography, baking, pasta, and shoes. Archives
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