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Friday, December 20, 2013

A Taste of Friday, with Martin Roth and The Maria Kannon


Welcome, Martin Roth!
By Martin Roth




Prologue

Yamagata, Japan 

Anjiro knew what they did to Christians, and he was not going to let it happen to him. But first he had to evade the two samurai who had been tracking him for the past four days.

“Move it, you old sack of beans.” He urged on his steed, but in the driving rain and the mud she was rapidly tiring. His lead over his pursuers, once half a day at least, was probably now no more than half an hour.

Since the shogun Tokugawa began the great persecution, militias had been hunting down Christians mercilessly. Now the shogun’s bloodthirsty grandson Iemitsu was in charge, and he had shown himself to be even more ruthless in his determination to eradicate the foreign religion of Christianity from Japanese soil. Already many hundreds of believers had been tortured and executed. Thousands more were in hiding. 

The downpour was cutting through Anjiro’s straw cloak, biting him to the bone, as finally he reached the grassy incline and the forest of towering pines. It was the foot of the mountains. Not much further to go now.

“Won’t need you any more,” he muttered. The stolen mare had served him well, despite her age. But from now it would be on foot all the way, through the trees and up the steep slope.

He dismounted. His bag of possessions - cooked rice, a few pickles, a water bottle and his precious holy cross, carved from wood and costing him a month’s wages - were in a cotton bag that he had slung over his shoulder.

He slapped the horse. “Get out of here.” But the animal was fatigued and clearly wished to rest. She bent her neck to chew at some grass.

“I know how you feel,” growled the youth. “But you can’t stay here. They’ll find you. And me.”
Over to one side stood a grove of maples. He suspected a stream might be there. He led the horse forwards, and then moved behind and shoved her on the rump. Then he slapped her again, hard. This time the beast kept walking.

He turned and tried to peer through the rainstorm for any sign of the enemy, but little was visible.

Precious Jesus have mercy on my soul, he prayed inwardly as he began making his way up the steep hillside. Holy Mary, protect your servant.A flash of lightning flared above him and once again he was filled with a chill dread. He did not relish trekking up through the towering pines in the middle of a thunderstorm. But he knew this was his only chance.

The samurai were charged with capturing him, and they would fight to the death - his or theirs - to achieve this. Failure was not an option for them. They might even be required to commit seppuku - harakiri, ritual self-disembowelment - should they not return with his head.

Anjiro was a powerful swordsman. But he was a commoner, and was only permitted to own a shikomizue, a cane with a hidden blade. This would be no match for the steel katana of the samurai, forged by the finest swordsmiths of the land. He knew that despite his skills they would eventually prevail, and would surely cut him to ribbons.

Water was rushing down the hillside in rivulets, and he cursed as he stepped into a stream of mud that sent him skidding face forward to the ground. He grabbed a low-hanging branch and pulled himself to his feet, then resumed his odyssey.

What if he surrendered? Gave himself up without a fight? The samurai might choose to keep him alive, in order to carry him back with them to Edo. Torturing the Christians, forcing them to recant their beliefs, was a spectator sport there, as it was throughout Japan. Their reward for bringing him back alive might be more than simply returning with his head.

And if that happened, could he withstand the torture? Might he too eventually give in and tell the Buddhist interrogators that he no longer believed?

Father Lopez, the gentle Spanish missionary priest with the white beard and red face, had whispered to him the horror stories.

“You need to know, Anjiro-san,” he had said. “You must prepare yourself. But my son, you are blessed with youth and strength, and you are single. You can escape.”

Father Lopez told him about the first martyrs, twenty-six of them, way down south in Nagasaki, who had been roughly crucified on makeshift crosses. One of them was a twelve-year-old boy, Ibaragi Kun. An official urged him to recant his faith. Instead the youngster replied that it would be better for the official to become a Christian, so he too could go to heaven. Then looking the man in the eye he asked, “Sir, which is my cross?”

When directed to the smallest of the crosses on the hill the young man knelt in front of it and embraced it. He sang praises to God as the jeering soldiers trussed him to the cross and then lanced him to death.

As he continued his climb, Anjiro silently prayed that he too might have strength to be a powerful witness to God’s love.

He knew that, if captured alive, he would be ordered to undertake fumie - demonstrate his apostasy by stepping onto a picture of Jesus or Mary.

But once he refused, as surely he would - well, then the torture would commence. He knew that the torture methods had become increasingly refined.

Simple crucifixion was no longer enough. Sometimes the soldiers would crucify people upside-down, or at sea, where the rising tide steadily engulfed the martyrs over many hours. Others were chopped into pieces, or slowly burned - the fire deliberately lit some distance away so it engulfed them only slowly - or scalded to death in one of Japan’s many hot springs.

Worst of all, according to Father Lopez, was being left to dangle upside-down over a pit filled with excrement. For those who were strong and healthy, like Anjiro, blessed death might take a week to arrive.

His thoughts were interrupted as suddenly Anjiro found himself in a clearing, a small plateau with bushes and some red and yellow mountain flowers, and with a view through the downpour, down the mountainside. He was weary from the pursuit and from the climb, but when he peered down he realized to his shock that the two samurai had already arrived. They had tethered their steeds with his, and were surely even now climbing up after him. He could not afford to pause for a rest.

He had memorized his route, and his arrival at this plateau told him he was on the right path. Now he veered off to the right, along a narrow track of soggy pine needles that led to a stream. He jumped over, and then the path once more headed straight up the mountain.

For at least another thirty minutes he trudged upwards, the rain pounding down on him in an unrelenting torrent, as if trying to crush him like an ant. And then, once more, he emerged at some kind of plateau.
It was like entering another world. Perhaps this was heaven. The rain still thundered down. But instead of the darkness of the forest he was now standing on the edge of an idyllic landscape. Over to one side stood a minka, a large wooden homestead with a high thatched roof, capable of housing several families. Land had been cleared around it and crops planted. A small lake over to the other side ran into a rice paddy.

He had arrived.

A couple of children playing under a covered verandah at the front of the minka had spotted him, and cried out. Quickly two men appeared. Anjiro approached.

“I am a believer,” he panted. “Father Lopez has sent me.” He pulled out the tiny metallic crucifix that he wore around his neck and held it up.

The men both appeared to be in their thirties, and were almost certainly brothers. They looked at him. More kids had appeared, and they too were staring.

“I am being followed,” said Anjiro. “Two of them. Tell me if you want me to keep running.”

“Come inside, brother,” said one of the men. “You are safe with us.”

He beckoned for the youth to follow him inside. “Take off your clothes.”

Anjiro stripped to his cotton undergarment. The man shouted to a lady, who came with a quilted gown. She helped him into it.

Then they led him across tatami mats to a large central room. At least a dozen people were sitting around the irori, a hearth in the center of the room with a soft-burning fire. Smoke rose to a makeshift vent, high up in the roof. The room was dark and hazy.

The people around the room nodded their heads in greeting at Anjiro, almost as if they were responding to the return of a family member, rather than the abrupt arrival of a bedraggled and exhausted fugitive.

“You are safe with us,” said an old lady. She took a worn pottery cup, and from an iron kettle she poured him a hot drink.

Anjiro spoke. “What if the men try to enter the house? What if they bring reinforcements?”

“We have many hiding places,” said one of the men.

“But you are believers too. They will find evidence.”

“We are a simple family who worship the Kannon,” replied the man, a grin on his face. He pointed to one side of the room. A carved wooden statue of the Kannon - the Buddhist goddess of mercy - rested against a wall. She was standing, dressed in flowing Japanese robes and wearing an ornate, jeweled headdress. Her soft eyes were almost closed and her thin lips were curved in a beatific smile. In her arms she cradled a small baby.

Now Anjiro also smiled. He recognized this. “Maria Kannon,” he murmured.

 It was at this moment that loud shouting could be heard from outside. Anjiro stood and walked to the side of the room, near the Kannon. A hole in the wall allowed him to spy on the scene outside.

It was his first close look at his pursuers. They were young men, both drenched. One was tall and skinny, and he was doing the talking.

“We are looking for a runaway,” he said. “A Christian. He came this way. You must have seen him.”

“We have not seen anyone. But please come inside. We will serve you a hot meal.”

“There is only one path. He must have come this way. You are lying.”

“There are many paths on this mountain. We have not seen anyone.”

“You are lying. You are trying to help him. We are going to search this house.”

“We are farmers. We…”

“You are lying,” screamed the man, and he drew his sword. His companion did the same. “Are you Christians too? Bring forward this man now.”

Now a woman spoke. “We are just farmers,” she said. “Please let us serve you dinner. You are so wet. You can sleep here tonight.”

“You are Christians,” shouted one of the men, thrusting his sword forward. “You know what happens to Christians. We are going to search this house and then we shall put you all to the sword.”

Anjiro felt the first pangs of alarm. He had brought this upon the household. Father Lopez had told him he would find sanctuary here. But he should not have come until he knew that he had thrown off his pursuers. Now they were all in danger.

His hand reached out to the Maria Kannon beside him and he said a silent prayer. Mother Mary, save me. Save us. Protect this home. I beg it of you. In the name of the Holy Father.

Outside, the shouting continued, the words drowned by the roar of thunder. One of the samurai was pointing his sword at the throat of a man from the house.

Mother Mary protect us. Anjiro maintained his silent prayer, watching with horror as the men advanced.

“We shall destroy this house and we shall kill everyone inside,” shouted the skinny man.

It was at that instant that another loud thunderclap rent the sky, rocking the house. At the same instant a blinding flare of lightning illuminated the entire plateau in a vivid white glow.

Then came another noise, an eerie grating sound like the rasping babble of a thousand angry ghosts, and without warning one of the giant pines toppled downwards.

The two men realized too late what was happening. They did not even have time to scream before the tree crushed them both.

Anjiro still had his hand on the wooden statue

Now he looked at it. His eyes were teary. He stroked the head of the statue.

“Maria Kannon. You have saved me.”




 About the Author:

Martin Roth is a veteran journalist and foreign correspondent whose reports from Asia have appeared in leading publications around the world. He is the author of many books.





Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The Christian Author and the Art of Writing


by Lorilyn Roberts
 
 
 

When do we realize, if ever, we aren’t as good as we think we are? The best of us need critiquing, teaching, input from others, and wise advice from those who have gone before. Rare is the writer who comes along and is so gifted he sweeps anyone off his feet. More than likely, the author will land on his buttocks when an editor points out all the flaws in his “Nobel prize-winning piece.” Or worse, his book or article may not even be fit to be fetched to the dogs (I know, too much hyperbole, but you get my point).

 
I thought I knew how to write a children’s picture book. I didn’t. I attended the Florida Christian Writer’s Conference several years ago with my manuscript The Donkey and the King. I anticipated an editor might gasp with delight at the wonderful story and beg me to sign a contract right on the spot. I imagined floating out of the conference in storybook land and racing home in my red firebird, patting myself on the shoulder for my creativity and talent. Yawn. We’ve all had visions of grandeur.



 

The truth is writing is hard. Rules need to be followed until you learn them. You can decide which ones you want to break once you have mastered the techniques. I was a graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature at the time, but I was very much a newbie. For starters, I needed a critique group. There wasn’t one in my city, so I formed one.

 

Fortunately, a kind author at the conference went over my book and gave me valuable input. I took her advice to heart. I went home and wrote and rewrote. What were some of my mistakes?  I used big words—three-year-olds don’t know big words. The story was too long. Little kids have short attention spans. I had some concepts out of order—I needed a fresh set of eyes, someone who didn’t know my story, to point these out to me.

 
Since I published The Donkey and the King, I’ve received my Master of Arts in Creative Writing. I’ve learned more about writing than I ever thought possible. I cringe now when I receive emails about “how to create content” or “how to outsource content” or “how to write a book in a weekend.”  Writing is an art. If you don’t have the fire in your gut to write good content, don’t expect a reader to have the fire in his gut to read your outsourced book. Whatever happened to passion and creativity and sacrifice and hard work? What about the desire to learn how to write better?
 
 

 
I hear from time to time writers say, “I don’t like to write, I just like the finished book.” If you don’t like to write, why are you writing? If you aren’t willing to invest in the process to make your writing better, like attending writers’ conferences, joining a critique group, taking writing classes, and reading books on writing, how can you become the writer God gifted you to be? If you don’t have the passion to write, you won’t push yourself to reach a higher level in your writing. Will God bless your half-hearted efforts?

 
Don’t let the “roaches” out there eat holes in your bank account either. Flee from those sharks who promise wannabes they can produce content without a sweat and make a million. Where is the roach spray when you need it? I zap those emails in a heartbeat and hope people aren’t gullible enough to believe them.

 


Writing is an art—not just the artwork that is drawn or written on the pages of a book, but the art that is etched in the reader’s heart. Have you, the reader, been changed by the author’s message? Encouraged in your walk with God? Convicted of sin in your life? Art should add meaning and culture—and good art should represent some aspect of our Creator. Our words should convey that deep down; otherwise, for who or what are we writing? To glorify ourselves? God forbid.

 
The Donkey and the King grew out of my visit to Israel in 1991. The story is an allegory to the book of Philemon in the New Testament. The slave, Onesimus, ran away from his master. Along the way he met Saul who witnessed to him and urged him to return home. On every page in The Donkey and the King is the hidden word “good.” The lesson in The Donkey and the King speaks to all of us:  There is good in the world if we look for it and listen to God’s voice.

 
One of my fondest memories in my writing journey is when I read The Donkey and the King to a young Sunday school class. The kids stayed afterwards to find the “good” hidden on every page. Now available in Kindle, the drawings can be enlarged to search for the hidden word, and the font can be made bigger for easier reading.

 
The Donkey and the King


Creativity and the passion to share is what all authors should embrace—and strive to perfect. I want to believe I give my all for the reader’s enjoyment. And then, just maybe, I might get an Amazon review praising my well-written book. God rewards those who are diligent and faithful in His service—and I remind myself of that when my feelings don’t match reality or someone criticizes my book unfairly. It happens too often. Spiritual warfare is part of the Christian’s world and writers are not immune. In the end, we know who wins.
 

My advice:  Learn all you can and enjoy the writing journey. Share your story, conquer evil with good, be passionate always, and leave your mark on the lives of others. Through your words, you can influence future generations with the art of writing, and that’s worth striving for.
 

 

 

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The Kindle version of  The Donkey and the King is all new and updated. The artwork has been rescanned from the original drawings, and the text can be resized for young readers. Click on the artwork on each page, and enlarge the drawing to look for the hidden word “good.” The Donkey and the King will entertain young ones and help them to become lifelong lovers of books and reading, all while teaching them about Jesus and redemption.




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Lorilyn graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Alabama in 1991. Her studies included spending two weeks in Israel at the start of the Gulf War and touring England, Australia, New Zealand, and several countries in Europe. She later attended the Institute of Children’s Literature and earned her Master of Arts in Creative Writing from Perelandra College.

When Lorilyn was in fifth grade, a teacher accused her of plagiarism in front of her classmates. Little did Lorilyn know the humiliation of that would later lead her to a writing career. When not writing books, Lorilyn provides closed captioning for television.
 
 

Lorilyn says, “When I start to doubt that anyone is reading my books, I remind myself of the millions of people who have read my captions, even all of my mistakes. The best thing about creative writing is you can make your words perfect. With captioning, it's live and you only get one chance to get it right.”

Lorilyn has two daughters whom she adopted from Nepal and Vietnam as a single mother. She homeschooled both of them, the older one through high school, and believes that the hope of the United States may rest on the conservative values homeschooling families instill in their offspring.

“If we fail to teach our children how to live out their Christian faith practically, we will have lost an opportunity to impact the world for good. It only takes one generation to forget the past. As JRR Tolkien said, ‘There is some good in this world and it’s worth fighting for.’”

To learn more about Lorilyn, you can visit her website at http://LorilynRoberts.com  and http://LorilynRoberts.blogspot.com

You can follow her on twitter at http://twitter.com/LorilynRoberts and Facebook at http://bit.ly/Lorilyn_Fan_Page.








 

 

 
 

 

 

Friday, December 6, 2013

A Taste of Friday with Michael Webb and Infernal Gates


Welcome, Michael J. Webb! 
 
Michael J. Webb
 
 
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound
Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus.  She opened, but to shut
Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood
 
                                                                        Paradise Lost, John Milton
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 Less than ten minutes before we’re all dead, thought Ethan Freeman, and there is nothing I can do about it!
The stricken A320 Airbus--originally bound for St. Thomas and now limping back to Charlotte, North Carolina—shuddered like a bird suffering a mortal wound, then shook violently.  Shouting and screaming from the rear of the plane drowned out the prayer of the older couple seated in front of them, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come—”
Lisa, Ethan’s wife, sobbed beside him.  Across the aisle his eighteen year-old son, Josh, yelled, “Dad--are we going to crash?”
“No, son,” he lied.  “We-are-not-going-to-crash.”
Megan, his sixteen year-old daughter, seated next to her brother, screamed, “The engine is on FIRE!”
Lisa clung to the seat arms so hard her fingers turned white and whimpered, “We’re all going to die--just like Greg,” then moaned, “I don’t want to die—”
Ethan reached for his wife’s hand as a thunderous explosion shook the plane and slammed him against the window, knocking breath out of him.  He cried out in agony as the palm of his right hand was sliced open by a jagged metal clasp sticking up on the arm rest between him and Lisa.  Blood gushed out of the ugly-looking wound and splattered the back of the seat in front of him.
The plane banked hard to the right and the nose suddenly pointed toward the ground, six miles below, as if the commercial airliner was being plucked from the cloudless, crystal blue heavens by a giant unseen hand.  Ethan glanced toward the rear of the aircraft.  A gaping hole replaced the emergency exit.  Loose debris disappeared violently out of the plane—and there were at least two rows of seats missing!
Swinging his gaze back to the First Class Cabin, Ethan noticed that ice crystals now clung to the windows.  His ears popped as oxygen masks dropped from overhead.  Shivering, he reached for the oxygen mask dangling in front of him like a puppet on a string and struggled to place it over his mouth and nose.  He took several deep breaths, ignoring his bleeding hand, then yelled out to his family, “Put your masks on!” 
In the next instant, he was pressed so hard into his seat it seemed as if he weighed four to five times his normal weight.  Black spots danced before his eyes and he fought for breath. 
All he could think about was that he had failed his family—that he had not been able to save them.  He cried out in desperation, “GOD HELP US—” 
Moments later, a flash of blinding white light enveloped him as a blast of fiery heat washed over him.
Then everything went black.
Sam Weaver, lying on a towel in the hot sand, thirty feet from the edge of the blue-green ocean, daydreamed about what it might be like to lead a normal life, when her pager went off. 
She opened her eyes and fought rising resentment. 
It was her first vacation in over eighteen months.  Her boss, E. “Mac” Macready--the Chief of the Major Investigations Division of the National Transportation Safety Board, or the AS-10 in Board nomenclature had promised he’d page her only if it was absolutely necessary. 
She stared at her bright pink beach bag, one that matched her swimsuit, for several
seconds, tempted to ignore the pager.  Then she remembered that when she’d signed up to be an investigator for the NTSB she’d literally signed the rights to her life away.  She sat up, brushed several errant strands of thick black hair from off her face, and reached inside the bag.
Her heart beat rapidly as she read the text:  Call Mac immediately.  Major accident involving Quest Airways A320 your neck of the woods.  Go Team notified. 
No matter how frustrated she got with the government bureaucracy, her pulse always quickened whenever she received a message like this.  Some of her friends back in DC found her reaction a bit gruesome, but her dad understood.  “The thrill of figuring out complex problems others find too challenging, or too painful, to deal with is in your blood, Sam,” he’d told her on more than one occasion.  “You can’t help yourself.  You love Gordian knots.” 
She found her cell phone.  When she reached Mac he said, “Sorry to interrupt your down-time.  I know I promised not to call, but this one is big--and bad.” 
“Tell me—”
He did, and then finished by saying, “I’ve already spoken with Ted, Marissa, Tony--and Frank.  All of them but Frank are on their way to Hanger Six at Reagan International.”
Ted Anson was the human performance specialist, while Marissa Chen was highly regarded as one of the world’s foremost experts on cockpit and flight data recorders.  Tony North was a top notch metallurgist.  Frank Bacon had two Ph.D.’s and was the NTSB’s expert on the A320. 
Frank was obsessed with planes manufactured by the French consortium.  He blamed Airbus for the downsizing that cost him his high-paying job at Boeing.  It was widely known he’d compiled a detailed and extensive computerized list of all suspicious incidents resulting in the crash of planes manufactured by Boeing’s chief competitor.  When it came to fatal crashes involving Airbus, Frank was like a detective tracking down a serial killer he’d pursued for years in his spare time.
“Frank is in Dallas,” continued Mac.  “He’ll meet you and the rest of the Team at the Command Center later this afternoon.  You’ll have to call him and let him know where that’s going to be.”
“Me?”  Was it finally time?
“Yeah--you.”
“But--but,” she stammered.
“Well, well, well.  I’ve always wondered what it would take for the unflappable Sam Weaver to be at a loss for words.”
“I want it official--on the record.”
“Okay.  You’re the Investigator-in-Charge.  After five years of working with you, I know you don’t care about the title, or need the pay raise.  You just want to be in control of your own investigations.  I know the feeling.” 
Sam took two deep breaths and pulled a notepad out of her bag.  “Who’s the Regional on the ground in Georgia?”
“Ed Landers.  He’s the senior IIC out of Atlanta, but he’ll answer to you.  He’s a first-rate investigator, has a calm head on him, and if he has any kind of agenda, I’ve never heard about it.”
“Which translates, he’s smart, soft-spoken, and doesn’t play politics.” 
“Not everyone in government service subscribes to the ‘dog-eat-dog’ mentality, Sam.”
“You could have fooled me.”
Mac snorted and continued.  “Ed is already on his way.  He’ll set up a perimeter, establish security, and get the investigation started.  He’ll also coordinate with local authorities, including police and firefighters, and inform the media the investigation is under our jurisdiction.”
Sam scribbled on her notepad as Mac talked.  “Am I flying on one of the Board’s planes? Or going commercial?”
“The Citation is in Fort Lauderdale.  The pilot can land at Patrick in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“One more thing, Sam.  Watch your back.  Frank has been looking for an excuse to make life miserable for you--” 
“I can handle Frank,” she retorted.  Her male counterparts at the safety board tended to behave with the macho air of men in a locker room.  Frank was one of the biggest proponents of the pervasive attitude.
“I know you can, Sam.  Frank has more time with the Board, but you have the kind of moxie, and the people skills, it takes to handle all the egos involved.  You’ve worked hard for this slot--you deserve it.”
Mac was in rare form.  He’d given her both a promotion and a compliment within a couple of minutes.  “What about the ‘flyaway’?”  She referred to one of two large standby suitcases used by the Board for investigations.  Each contained a video camera and tape, a laptop computer, a printer, a variety of charging devices, film, administrative supplies, as well as several copies of the ubiquitous investigator’s manual.  Both of the flyaways also had programmable combination locks.
“You’ll have everything you need by nine a.m. tomorrow.”  He gave her the combination he’d programmed in.
“Thanks, Mac.  For everything--” she said as she stood up, grabbed her towel and her bag, then headed at a run for her car.

 About the Author:
Michael J. Webb graduated summa cum laude from the University of Florida and obtained his J. D. at the same university.  Over the past forty years he has travelled the world in search of adventure.
 

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Seven Books, Seventh Authors, and Countdown to Christmas





Martin Roth
Brother Half-Angel
99 cents
22 reviews, 4.2 stars
Christian Thriller/Suspense


Brother Half Angel is the leader of a secret new church military order, dedicated to helping Christians under attack around the world. Relentless suspense is the hallmark of this gripping thriller. But it is also a book that raises serious questions – how far can Christians go to defend themselves? When should they turn the other cheek? What happens when a Christian kills in self-defense? And should those who live by the sword really expect to die by the sword?


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Carole Brown
The Redemption of Caralynne Hayman
99 cents
24 reviews, 4.8 stars
Women’s Fiction




How far would YOU go to avenge a daughter’s cruel death?

Cara is considered rebellious and inappropriate to befriend. Dayne is the apple of Elder Simmons’ eye—until he takes a stand against their teachings. Can his prayers and love reach Cara and show her the way to redemption? Will Cara realize God’s love and forgiveness before she goes too far?

The Redemption of Caralynne Hayman is a novel of hope shining through the darkness with strong elements of suspense and romance. This novel was a semifinalist in the Genesis contest and is receiving raving reviews!

Link to Book Trailer: http://bit.ly/1c2RqEI


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Lisa Lickel
The Potawatomi Boy
99 cents
14 reviews, 5 stars
Ages 7-10

Green Leaf’s cousins are all older than he and don’t like to play fair. He longs for a friend his own age he can play with, explore and fish with. When he meets a Luxembourger boy, Henri, Green Leaf is sure they could become friends, but Henri’s words are strange to Green Leaf. How can they play and explore together?

Green Leaf’s mother says, “Friends learn to speak one another’s words.” But will Green Leaf learn to say his friend’s words well enough to save Henri when he falls into danger?


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Michelle Dennis Evans
Spiralling Out of Control (The Spiralling Trilogy)
99 cents
12 reviews, 4.6 stars
YA Fiction, Ages 17 and up

Temptation, depression, seduction, betrayal ... Not what Stephanie was expecting at fifteen years of age. Uprooted from her happy, all-girl high school life with a dream filled future and thrown into an unfriendly co-ed school, Stephanie spirals into depression.

When charismatic high school senior, Jason notices her, Stephanie jumps in feet first and willingly puts all her faith and trust in him, a boy she barely knows.
Every choice she makes and turn she takes leads her towards a dangerous path.
Her best friend is never far away and ready to catch her … but will she push Tabbie too far away when she needs her most?

Set in Australia, this novel contains adult themes.
Recommended reading audiences 17+ 

Link to book trailer: http://youtu.be/pqWESeu0ob4


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 Jill Richardson
Hobbits, You, and the Spiritual World of Middle-Earth
99 cents
Young and Young-at-Heart
No Reviews Yet

Are hobbits, elves, and dragons real?  These creatures are common in fantasy but have you ever met one? Maybe not literally, but J.R.R. Tolkien's famous characters bring to life real character qualities we all can learn from, whether good or bad. What can the bravery of a hobbit, the faith of an elf, or the greed of a dragon teach teens about themselves? How can their stories lead us to the real Kingdom where God is working out way more than a fantasy for his people? Dig into these familiar characters and relevant Bible passages to find out. Understand how to live your own epic story!

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Lorilyn Roberts
The Donkey and the King (A Story of Redemption)
99 cents
25 reviews, 4.8 stars
Ages 2-6


The Donkey and the King is a story of love with Christian symbolism and allegory. Travel to the Bible lands and meet Baruch, a stubborn donkey, and other lovable animals: Lowly, the pig; Much-Afraid, a small, lame dog; Worldly Crow, who isn't as bright as he think he is; and a sheep, Little, sent on a special mission by the King. The ending of the story will delight young readers as they discover “good” exists in the world if they look and listen for it.


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Katy Lee
Warning Signs
$4.61
25 reviews, 5 stars
Christian Inspirational/Suspense

GUILTY UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT:  When a drug-smuggling ring rocks a small coastal town, the DEA sends Agent Owen Matthews to shut it down. A single father with a deaf son, Owen senses that the town's number one suspect—the high school's new principal—doesn't fit the profile. Miriam Hunter hoped to shrug off the stigma of her hearing impairment when she returned to Stepping Stones, Maine. But her recurring nightmares dredge up old memories that could prove her innocence—and uncover the truth behind a decades-old murder. Yet Owen's help may not be enough when someone decides to keep Miriam silenced—permanently.


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