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Friday, February 7, 2014

A Taste of Friday with Cheryl Colwell and The Secrets of the Montebellis

Cheryl Colwell












Passionately interested in all things creative, I thrive in Ashland, Oregon. My stories are filled with heart- 
stunning suspense, as ordinary people find supernatural help when plunged into insurmountable circumstances.





The Secrets of the Montebellis
Cheryl Colwell
Inspired Fiction Books
August 30, 2013


Chapter 1

Tension permeated the elegant living room and solidified between them like a rock wall. Smoldering anger darkened Thomas’ expression. Heart pounding, Lisa Richards forced herself to ignore the familiar warning signs and lifted her chin. “Thomas, I need this. I need to do something that’s important to me.”
He rushed at her. She stumbled back, bumping against the wall. The scornful words he spat burned with intimidation. “I provide all of this.” He backhanded the air, just missing her face. “And this is how you repay me?”

She flinched. Repay you? She wanted to scream the words but his glare withered her courage. Dropping her tearing eyes to the plush carpet, she pretended acquiescence. Why? She wondered if her question was why he acted this way or why she put up with his threats.

A quick glance upward caught a smug smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this? Heat advanced up her neck and something snapped. She sensed a deep, internal shift in a place she rarely went. Enough. Her hands clenched in unspoken determination. Right or wrong, she would build her dreams. Secretly. Away from his scrutiny.
##
After six years, echoes of that encounter still gripped Lisa’s emotions. A power struggle polluted their life together, invisible as long as she complied. Or appeared to comply. Her fingers absently massaged the tightness behind her breastbone. Even now, this time in the mountain town of Mont Castello should be enjoyable to a married couple, but her heart harbored twenty-nine years of resentment.

She studied the architecture of the restaurant they were approaching as she and Thomas walked in silence. A thin smile of appreciation softened her lips, relaxing the relentless tension. Hand-chiseled stonework gave the building the authentic look of Italy. She climbed the stairs and touched one of the rough timbers that had supported the structure for a century of winters. Embedded in the earth, it claimed as much permanence as the surrounding fir trees, whose roots stretched deep into the rich, dark soil.

A crowd hovered on the porch. Thomas grabbed her hand, pushed in past the waiting customers, and jerked the heavy wooden door open. Avoiding the sea of indignant frowns, Lisa tried to focus on the massive tapestries of Italian street scenes that adorned the amber-toned plaster of the walls.

“I’m Dr. Richards,” Thomas announced, loud enough to turn heads. “I have a reservation. Now.” The distracted young hostess recoiled from his expression, checked her list, and rushed them through the dining room.

As she followed Thomas, an unexpected sight caught Lisa off-guard. Ahead of her sat an extraordinarily attractive man with dark hair and eyes. Intelligent lines distinguished his confident face. He set his glass down and turned to look in her direction. Embarrassed, she closed her mouth and flitted her eyes away.
The hostess seated them at a table situated three feet from the booth of the striking man. Thomas sat down in the chair on the far side, leaving Lisa with the intriguing stranger to her left. Suddenly self-conscious, she was glad when the waitress arrived at their table.

“Would you like to order a drink while you decide?” A lazy southern drawl tinged the woman’s voice.
Lisa opened her mouth to decline, but Thomas cut in. “Sweetheart, bring us a bottle of your best Merlot.”

After watching her husband’s attention follow the curvy waitress, Lisa’s lips tightened and she fixated on the menu. Only once had she expressed her anger at his wandering eyes. He’d twisted her words, leaving her humiliated for imagining he would be unfaithful. She refused to repeat her mistake.
##
Steven Taylor was waiting in a comfortable booth when a loud voice jerked his attention toward the front door of Varano’s restaurant. A pompous man announced himself as Dr. Richards and demanded his table. A lovely woman followed him, looking extremely uncomfortable. Her striking blue eyes caught Taylor’s and darted away. 

He studied her. The summer sun had darkened her olive skin, creating a contrast to the white and orange flowers of her sleeveless blouse. Soft black hair, cut short, accentuated the brightness of her lips. He watched the hostess lead them to a near table. After years of covering news stories and writing investigative reports, Taylor possessed an uncanny insight for reading people. These two seemed at opposite ends of the spectrum.

From his seat, he observed the woman’s profile and the couple’s peculiar interactions. Their waitress asked for a drink order. The woman was about to reply, but the doctor interrupted. Her lips closed without protest and she worked to cover a frown as he gawked at the waitress.

Was this her husband? They appeared to be of similar age—fiftyish. He was clean-cut with salt and pepper hair and an angular jaw. From his sleeveless bicycle jersey, it was obvious he was in town for the three-day bike ride. His small, lean stature and muscled thighs resembled the European riders in the Tour de France.

The doctor downed his first glass of wine and became talkative. He refilled his glass and raised it, “To a great day, Lisa.” She gave him a thin smile, clinked his glass, and sat hers down. Untouched.

So, her name is Lisa and she doesn’t like Merlot, Taylor mused. The name, smart and feminine, fit her looks. The doctor started to describe his ride earlier that day. She nodded at all the right times, but her eyes wandered elsewhere and her delicate fingers toyed with the condensation fogging the outside of her water glass. Taylor shook his head. Relationships were trouble. It was a mystery why people endured them in the first place.

He glanced at a text message on his phone. “First story is where???” His new owner/editor couldn’t resist the opportunity to needle him. They’d tangled on the man’s first day, when he ranted for twenty minutes that Taylor was late for their meeting. By two minutes.

Taking another drink, Taylor lowered his glass and swirled the liquid, replicating the circular motion of bicycle tires. He frowned. Sportswriting for USA Cycle Magazine was his dream job, but with the change in ownership he wasn’t certain what the future held. So far, his manager took the brunt of the insults, encouraging their team of writers that things would eventually settle down. It would be a shame to see the magazine deteriorate.

Since the fiasco with his ex-wife, his job had afforded the diversion he needed, providing great backdrops of cities and towns from which to compose his articles. His first assignment had been the New York Tour. It had been fascinating to watch the cyclists fly past landmark buildings, through streets that were normally jammed with cars.

There had also been trips to the New England countryside when autumn brandished its fiery foliage, and far to the northwest for the Portland Bridge Ride in Oregon. He always took a photographer from the magazine to capture the zest of the events. The portraits of the colorful cyclists crossing the bridges in Portland were extraordinary.

He bit into a piece of garlic bread and glimpsed the pine trees through the front window. Holed up here for the last two days had given him time to explore Mont Castello. He knew that the photographs taken of this area would be even more dramatic.

“No, no, no!” A stern female voice caught Taylor’s attention. By the front door, two red-faced cyclists worked to remove their clipped shoes. Holding onto each other’s shoulders for support, they laughed and swayed precariously until they accomplished their task and walked in socks through the restaurant on the oak floor.

“Hope you have better balance in the saddle,” a friend shouted and slapped one man’s hand with a high five. Laughter rose again while they seated themselves.

Taylor began a draft of his article while he waited at his table:

The Summit Challenge comprises three steep ascents, climbing a total of 22,000 feet. The cyclists will reach heights packed with snow, even in August.

He thumped his pen and recounted the day’s ride, then scribbled:

On day one, riders streaked down, reaching speeds above 40 miles per hour as they navigated the curving road on their descent to the verdant valley below. The sharp, majestic crags rising above the trees were breathtaking, while wide spans of concrete bridges lunged out over whitewater rapids in the giant rivers. The green of the pine forest and red bark of the madrone trees hung behind the circus of colors emblazoned on the rider’s jerseys.

Rereading his notes, he grinned. Not bad.

Varano’s Italian Restaurant was packed. Taylor watched the hungry cyclists devouring pasta, salad, bread—anything to help replace the 3,000 or so calories burned since 5:30 this morning.

His eyes followed Signora Varano, the owner of the restaurant. She stood like an anchor amid the teaming bustle and clanging of heavy china and glass. She had dark but graying hair, thick and wiry. Her straight back exuded authority, but her graciousness extended to her guests. Even now, a frown on her lips deepened while her ebony eyes watched the youthful hostess ignoring new customers and rushing others in an attempt to get her job done.

“Maria,” the signora whispered at the frantic girl. “Slow down. Smile. Be courteous.”

The young woman halted and exhaled. “Thank you, Grand Anna.” Then she moved toward the new guests at a slower pace. Giving them a welcoming smile, she invited them to follow her past Taylor’s table to the back of the room. He recognized the pride in the woman’s eyes as she watched her granddaughter learn the ways of the family.

“Taylor.” An auburn-haired beauty waved a hand in front of his face in an attempt to capture his attention. He spun his head back around and focused on the young woman’s perfectly formed features.
A broad grin covered his face and he stood to embrace his most precious treasure. He covered her hands with his. “Asia, you look beautiful.” He continued to hold her hand as she sat opposite him in the red leather booth. “When did you get in?”

“My plane landed on time, but there was a wait at the car-rental agency.” She leaned over the table and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you.” She smiled and sat back, tucking a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear.

Taylor gazed at her. Asia was 26, beautiful and brilliant. She had achieved her master’s degree in architecture and worked for a major architectural firm in Portland. “Who would have thought our careers would land us in the same area,” he said.

“I know. You are usually on the other side of the world. Now we get to spend a few days together.” 
She grinned with pleasure.

“What are you working on?” he asked.

“An urban renewal program. It’s a great career boost.”
##
Lisa followed her husband’s stare to the attractive young woman who had just arrived and now spoke with the equally arresting man standing to greet her. She called him Taylor.

A quick glance upward revealed that he was a massive man, nearing 6'4", with silver-streaked dark hair and a vibrant grin. Glimpsing their affectionate embrace, Lisa’s heart caught in her throat. Why should that bother me? The answer pierced her. Life was a constant reminder that Thomas’ interest had faded years ago, along with any tenderness he might have had. Pleasing him was impossible.

Stifling a sigh, she grasped for gratitude. Her dreams were coming true, her vision taking shape. Yet, every inch of forward movement had cost her. For years, she’d endured heated disputes with Thomas to let her take a part-time job. Only his vanity allowed her to succeed. After a colleague remarked about his control problem, Thomas began to flaunt her, “freedom do whatever she pleases.”

Working as a receptionist at the Verina Fields Real Estate Agency had given her a start. Soon, an opportunity had presented itself, allowing her to participate in a much grander scheme than she could have imagined. However, it was a high-risk proposition and the businessman she dealt with caused her stomach to twist in knots. Hoping for the best, she continued to ignore the red flags. 

She gulped her water, eyes darting toward Thomas. Like a mother bear hiding her cub from its murderous father, she remained vigilant in keeping her activities concealed. He monitored her time, scrutinized her comments. Across the table, his eyes studied her. She hid a nervous swallow and smiled at the waitress heading their way.

Their server placed Varano’s famous pasta in front of her, creating the diversion she needed to push away her dark thoughts. She dipped into the lasagna, bringing the hot, stringy cheese to her mouth. The scent of warm garlic butter wafted up from the breadbasket and filled the air.

While Thomas recapped his day, Lisa caught glimpses of Taylor holding the hand of the beautiful woman. Thomas’ voice hindered Lisa from hearing the whole of the conversation drifting from the next table, but her heart quickened when she heard fragments of Asia talking about the work she was doing. This young professional enjoyed the liberty to share her inspiring work with no pretense. Envy gripped Lisa.

So what? I’m doing what I want. Still, frustration tugged at her lips. She acted behind the scenes, away from the opportunity for others to know her mind and talents. Through the years, Thomas had painted a demeaning portrait of her with their friends. His comments chipped at her self-confidence, but she was proving her worth, week by week.

The blond waitress refilled their water glasses while Thomas related the vivid details of a crash. “We were streaking down the mountain, hit a hairpin turn and, bang, right in front of us lay a downed rider. The guy must have skidded on the gravel. He was in a world of hurt. Our whole group braked, slid our tails back and dodged any way we could.”

Lisa’s head jerked upward as Taylor stepped to their table. “Please excuse my interruption. I’m Steven Taylor from USA Cycle Magazine.” He held out his hand to Thomas.

Lisa studied the face of the stranger. He was attractive—not pretty like a GQ guy, but strong and solid. His manner suggested sophistication, yet he was casual and disarming. Dark lashes highlighted his deep brown eyes, while his large bone structure accentuated his broad nose and ample lips. He glanced at her and she concealed her eyes with a tilt of her head.

Taylor continued. “I overheard your reference to the crash today and am very interested in interviewing you. Could we set up a time to talk?”

Thomas was exuberant as he shook the big man’s hand. “I am Dr. Thomas Richard. I’ll be riding during the day, but we’ll be back here tomorrow night for dinner. Will that work for you?”
“Tomorrow night would be great, if it’s not too imposing on your company.” Taylor’s eyes moved to Lisa.

Her mouth opened to respond, but Thomas cut in. “Not at all. This is my wife, she’ll be fine with it.”
Taylor didn’t acknowledge him. Realizing he was waiting for her response, Lisa answered with a hasty smile, “I’d be pleased to have you and your guest join us.” She glanced over at Asia.


“I’m sorry,” Asia spoke to the group, “but tomorrow I have business to manage, so he’s on his own.”
Thomas looked back at Taylor, “Well then, does 6:00 suit you, Steven?”

“I’ll be here and, please, call me Taylor.” He sat back down with Asia and continued their conversation.
Thomas finished his meal and headed outside to recount the day’s events with his friend and two flirtatious women riders. Lisa glared at him and finished eating alone.

Twenty minutes later, the server brought the check to the table. Lisa glanced out the front window, took out her credit card, and paid the bill. Catching Taylor’s stare, her face reddened. None of this had missed his notice. His eyes searched her face, threatening to expose the mixture of emotions lodged there.

She bristled. What was he looking for? She didn’t need anyone exploring the complexities of her life. Jerking her eyes downward, she left the restaurant, but could feel his gaze follow her. Instantly, she regretted tomorrow’s dinner arrangements.

She drove their tan truck the twenty miles down to the valley with Thomas’ expensive road bike anchored in the back. His animated talk died down as the effects of an eighty-mile ride at altitude drained his body of its last bit of energy.

The curving mountain road soothed her tension. In the distance beyond Bella Vista, she recognized the small cluster of lights that belonged to the town of Tangle Grove. Her heart lifted.

Her thoughts were her own now and she reflected on how far her dream had come. Her family had helped settle this area and played a major part in the history of Tangle Grove. She wanted to be a part of the town’s development into the charming place that befitted its heritage. Thanks to the involvement of the Montebelli Corporation, she could participate in an important way—if the corporation lived up to its promises.

Thomas snorted in his sleep and she jumped. Resentment swelled. He hated anything to do with her family heritage or Tangle Grove. “Just wait,” she whispered under her breath. Tomorrow would be a landmark day in her career. At 9:00 a.m., she would see a miniature model of her dreams—the embodiment of six years of hard work.

Through careful plotting, secrecy, and, unfortunately, lies, she had succeeded in concealing her involvement from Thomas. She gripped the wheel tighter. Even thinking about her ventures this close to him felt precarious. This project was all she had. At any moment, his discovery could lead to her emotional, and financial, sabotage.


Friday, January 31, 2014

A Taste of Friday with Paulette Harper Johnson and Living Separate Lives

Paulette Harper is an award-winning and best-selling author. She is the owner of Write Now Literary Virtual Book Tours and is passionate about helping authors succeed in publishing and marketing their books. Paulette has been writing and publishing books since 2008.  Paulette is the author of That Was Then, This is Now, Completely Whole and The Sanctuary. Her articles have appeared on-line and in print.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

How Do I Customize a Bitly Link, by Lorilyn Roberts






A link that is customized looks more professional than one that isn't, and people are more likely to click on it than a link with weird combinations of letters and numbers. Check out this video on the link below for how to do it. It's very simple.


http://bit.ly/customize_bitly_link




Friday, January 24, 2014

A Taste of Friday with Eliza Earsman and Days of Elijah


Days of Elijah: A True Story

Eliza Earsman

Publisher: Eliza Earsman

Date of Publication: 2011 updated 2013



Scottish author Eliza Earsman is a committed Christian who enjoys family, clean air, and fresh people. Her autobiographical—sometimes brutally honest—depictions have helped to raise international awareness about Freemasonry.


1


One Day at a Time

The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds

blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.

(Matthew 7:25)


Looking, as some might say, as if I’ve just hopped in from a turnip field, it’s always best not to confuse decency with stupidity.
I used to live with my husband and two daughters in a pleasant and reasonably sized sandstone Victorian semi-detached house at 42 New Abbey Road, Dumfries, Scotland. Four bedrooms, lounge, dining room, fully fitted kitchen, and bathroom—it was clean, bright, cheerful, and comfortably lived in. The dwelling was furnished with bunks, books, cats, plants, and children. The door to our cosy home was seldom closed for long for it was a welcoming place.
At the back was the garden—an expanse of earth, grass, and flagstones, sixty feet by forty feet, and mature. Vegetables thrived there, and honeysuckle and roses bloomed in profusion, sharing their fragrance in decency, daintiness, and delicacy with anyone who passed by. Our daughters tended their own small patch. The garden swing took up one small corner, and the rope from the tree swung low. In earlier days we’d used the sandpit often, and the children scattered toys about the lush green grass.

All in all, it was a safe place for children to play.

We parked our car at the end of the garden next to the large shed that bordered the greenhouse. The parking facility was good; it allowed for easy access. The forests were nearby, and beyond them sandy beaches hosted seashell-festooned shores, alive with picnics, driftwood, and campfires.

It was home.

What more can I say?

It was a peaceful home and a garden of solitude, sunshine, shade, and quiet. Sheltered from the main road at the front of the house, we spent tranquil evenings working in the garden or sitting in a companionable quietude, accepting the warmth and silence outside the home walls. Many a winter’s night I stood beneath the stars as I brought in frostbitten clothes from the drying line. November air was crisp! Life was serene but not dull—two growing children made sure of that.
That was before.
Now, in this unadulterated story, I show how I necessarily went from being a peaceful wife and mother to an older, and wiser, (but still peaceful) writer and pro-activist.

#

In 2002, as that older, wiser, and reasonably good-looking fifty-four-year-old, I lived—easily, I may say—in a shoddy and shabby Salvation Army hostel for the homeless. Food was kept in the cupboard under the sink and—brightened by effort—the ten-by-six-foot bedroom-cum-washroom/cum-anything-else room was reasonable for anyone not wanting or needing a home or family life.
In common with many, I’m not one.
“Hope House”, or “Hopeless House”, as it is known by those of us who have stayed there, serves also as a busy annex for those in transit from the “Riddrie Hilton”, the Victorian and (by all accounts) barbaric, Barlinnie Jail in Glasgow. Decent folk live in Hope House, Clyde Street, Glasgow, and so do many others. None of them has caused me any problems … so far.
For several years I have followed a direct and Almighty calling to stand against and expose the delusionary and unsustainable criminal practices of Freemasonry, commonly known as the Masonic fraternity.
I have no option.
If I don’t, we—as a family—go under. If I do, we go on.
If ever anyone wants to know why Britain is in the mess it’s in—brimming with corrupt leaders and maxed out on grime and crime—look at the size of the nation, and then look at the concentration of the malpractices within that nation.
The church is at fault, yes, but don’t disturb them. Oh, no, their walk is in tandem with the word, and the work, of the world.
Swimming against the tide of deliberate Masonic maliciousness and oppression, I have been shackled and held, filled full of anti-psychotic drug cocktails, and forced to slum/sleep in central London’s mucky shop doorways. I’ve been illegally detained and imprisoned. I have traveled far and wide, faced British Law Societies toe-to-toe—where naivety was shoved out the window—and I continued to speak the truth.
The cost has been great, but the privilege is greater. Life savings, home, family life, pension rights, and a number of work and educational opportunities have been sucked dry, but despite the warring factions, I will press on. There is too much involved to stop now, as I firmly pronounce in Chapter 15—“No Surrender!” Subsistence living in this situation only means that God-given talents have been suppressed, but they are not extinguished.
My message will not be extinguished. History and records are proving why.
The more I have had to deal with, the more has been brought to light. In opposition to having the details dealt with privately, Freemasons—and church leaders who have shown strong Masonic affiliations—have hindered that approach.
With an ultimate aim of establishing a “new world order”/one-world government and—via World War Three—another attempt at “the final solution” (remember Hitler?), Freemasons have forced an urgent and heightened global awareness. Days of Elijah: A True Story is certainly going a long way to providing that awareness as I recount gritty details that spurred my pen to paper!
Why Elijah? The figure Elijah plays an essential role in several prominent religions. As revered by the monotheistic faiths, the work of the Old Testament prophet Elijah is identifiable by Christians worldwide and also by Jews and Muslims. Elijah is known as Ilyas in the Koran. In 1 Kings 18 of The Holy Bible, Elijah’s tussle with the priests of Baal is recorded, and it is in context that he can easily identify, clarify, and discredit man’s polytheistic strategies. By Christian witness, I can vouchsafe that he is right.
Eschatological and historical evidence shows that the “end age” days of Elijah are in context and on time! Freemasonry is the loosely disguised cult of the Canaanite god Baal and the female branch of Freemasonry, the Eastern Star, is identical to the cult of Jezebel, wife of the Old Testament’s King Ahab.
Freemasonry—as the institutions, rites, and practices of Scottish Ritual Freemasons is known—is an international fraternity of deists housed in Lodges. It maintains a smokescreen of misinformation and engages in extensive criminal and speculative interconnections. It contains ambiguities that feed on the need for social prestige, brotherhood, and self-importance. Freemasonry employs occultism and symbolic forms of idolatry, borrowed principally from the stone and cathedral mason’s trade.
The “Grand Lodge of Scotland of Ancient, Free and Accepted Freemasons” (criminals) has its headquarters at 96 George Street, Edinburgh http://www.grandlodgescotland.com. In this book I emphasise the word “Ritual” as an expansion of the word “Rite”—and of the devious practices of “Rite” Freemasons. The word will be used throughout this book as a point of easy reference.It is noteworthy that this same Grand Lodge is the one at the seat of Scottish Ritual Freemasonry, which has spread its tentacles throughout the world. Satan’s desire is for world domination. It is no wonder that Scottish Ritual Freemasonry’s satanic intentions regarding “New World DISorder/scripted World War III” are now evident and becoming increasing public. It is no wonder also that there is and will continue to be accruing international dissidence.
For too long, the British Masonic empirical stock exchange has been aiming to oust the good old Scots’ customs of honesty and integrity. My grandfather knew that very well, along with his immediate line … such as myself. So do many others.
However, dim-witted as British Freemasons (of the cult of Baal) may be when brain cells are arrayed in all their glory, and satiated in the snake venom (poison) that tries to give corruption a different face, the “fiddlers rally” (gathering of thieves) is really not adept enough to keep their “knocking shop” (occult practices, séances, den of thieves) criminal activities hidden.

Scottish Ritual Freemasonry’s roots burrow deep near my hometown of Moffat, Scotland. Freemasonry has been very active in that small tourist town and the surrounding sheep farming areas of Dumfries and Lockerbie in southern Scotland. Hence the reasons for this book—to set the record and to further protect the innocent from their influence.
And hence the reason my great-great-grandfather, John Gibb Campbell, who was a master stonemason and sculptor in Glasgow, left in stewardship a financial legacy—and God-given teaching—quite specifically to the fourth generation of his female line.
That trust was to come to fruition in the fortieth year of that person.
I am that person. See Appendix D—there is no other in that generational line—and this is the true story of why.

#

Note: this information is expanded upon later in this book, but it is right that readers be aware, from the outset, of:

  • The concentrated 1987 (my fortieth year) Masonic movement/“reshuffling” of properties in the Moffat, Lockerbie, and Dumfries areas, of Scotland, and the reasons for that movement. Details/names/addresses can be checked via for example a consolidated local reference point—the Dumfries Solicitors Property Centre—and via local newspaper property pages/archives.
  • How easily the Masonic fraternity is pandered and catered to by those within the British police and legal systems, who are paid to withhold law and order.



Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Am I Okay, God, by Lorilyn Roberts - Six Print Copies Being Given Away


Goodreads Book Giveaway

Am I Okay, God? by Lorilyn Roberts

Am I Okay, God?

by Lorilyn Roberts

Giveaway ends February 28, 2014.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Enter to win

Friday, January 17, 2014

A Taste of Friday with Carole Brown and The Redemption of Caralynne Hayman


Carole Brown loves to weave suspense, tough topics, a touch of romance and whimsy in her books. Together, she and her husband enjoy their grandsons, traveling, gardening, good food, the simple life, and did she mention their grandsons?






 

The Redemption of Caralynne Hayman
Carole Brown
The Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas  September 2013




 

The Redemption of Caralynne Hayman

Chapter One

Twenty years earlier

 

The shadow creatures on the wall shook their wings and legs. Heads with horns nodded.   Scary, dark faces watched.

The little girl clasped her floppy-eared rabbit against her chest and stared into the dark.

“Mmm …” Mommy’s murmur reached to her through the walls, and the giggles from her mother tiptoed in, shooing away the fear.

Whoosh. She blew out a breath and squeezed her rabbit tighter. “Mommy has a friend with her, Ramsey. She loves me just like I love you and will give me hugs in the morning after the man leaves.”

Ramsey said nothing. She ran her fingers over his face and could feel his black button eyes staring at her, trusting her to protect him.

“And she’ll read to us, and I’ll sit on her lap and we’ll snuggle—all of us together.” She nodded and tugged on Ramsey’s left ear.

She rolled over.

Real live whispers and laughter floated into the room.

Opening her mouth in a wide yawn, she patted Ramsey’s tummy and whispered again, “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.”

“Please. That hurts.”

“Mommy?” The little girl frowned but her eyes wouldn’t open. Just like when she and Mommy put cucumbers slices on their eyes. 

“Stop it—”

Rubbing at her eyes, the little girl sat up. Mommy had never sounded like this before, and neither had any of the men—the men who brought flowers and candy and money. What were they doing? Maybe Mommy was angry at the man and had sent him away.

She slid her feet to the floor and hesitated. Mommy didn’t like her to leave her room whenever any man visited.

“Come on, Ramsey. We have to go check on Mommy.” She tucked her rabbit under her arm then padded barefoot to her door and edged it open. Mommy’s room was the next one, and a second later she’d tiptoed to it and pressed an ear to the crack. Someone grunted and whispered in an angry voice.

“Serves you right, whore.”

Horse? The little girl frowned. That wasn’t Mommy’s name. Was the man calling Mommy a bad name? She touched the door, and it swung open wider.

The man was on top of mommy, leaning over, his hands wrapped around—her neck.

The big eye on his arm glared at her, scaring her, making her want to run back to bed. But she had to help Mommy. Tiptoeing closer—behind the man—she peeked around him at her mother.

Mommy’s mouth was open as if she was screaming, but she wasn’t. Mommy stared at the man, her eyes wide and blank. Every once in a while he jerked her and said words Mommy always told her not to say.

She whimpered. “Mommy?”

The man’s head turned, his eyes scary and mean, and not at all like Mommy’s laughing ones. His lips twisted into a snarl. “Who are you? Are you this—is she your mother?”

His hands released their grip on Mommy’s neck. He crawled out of the bed, grabbed for a pair of pants, and slid into them, turning his back to her. Then he straightened.

She backed away and raised a fist to her mouth.

“Come here, girl.” His voice had softened, but not his eyes.

She backed another two steps and whispered. “Mommy?”

“Your mommy can’t talk right now.” The man flipped a glance at the still figure in the bed. “You have a pretty barrette in your hair. Come let me see.”

She lifted a hand to the barrette. Mommy always let her wear it when she was with a man ’cause it was a special treat for a special girl. “No.” She shook her head. “Go away. I don’t like you.”

The man growled and sprang at her. Ramsey dropped to the floor as she sobbed and dodged the groping hands. “I want my mommy.”

The man said a bad word and stopped chasing her. “Come here and let’s talk about your mother.” 

Her mother hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. “Did you hurt her?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Your mother’s sick.”

“You hurt Mommy.”

Bad words spilled from his mouth in a steady stream.

She wanted to clap both hands over her ears. Mommy told her over and over she shouldn’t say those kinds of words.

He folded his arms across his chest, the big eye rippling on his arm, never blinking, only staring. “You keep your mouth shut. Do you hear me?”

She closed her eyes and opened them—fast. The eye still stared.

“If you talk, your mommy will die. Do you want to kill her? Do you?” His lips spread into a clown’s grin.

Her stomach hurt. Her eyes burned.

Go away, you.

All she wanted was to climb on Mommy’s lap and have this bad man go away.

“Remember, it’ll be your fault if she dies, and everyone will know you killed your mother.”

No. She didn’t want to kill Mommy.

He eased forward, crept closer, capturing her, holding her tight with his eyes. Like the snake that’d almost bitten her last summer. 

Closer.

Closer.

His hand shot out and touched her shoulder.

She screamed.


Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Why Authors Should Make Their Own Audiobooks—and How Do You Do That Anyway? by Lorilyn Roberts


 

 
 
 
 

Making an audiobook is not as daunting as it sounds. All you need is a computer and an IC recorder. After installing the editing software onto your computer (that comes on a disc when you buy your hand-held IC recorder), you can narrate your own audiobook. Basically, the only expense involved was the purchase of the IC recorder from Best Buy, which also included the software to edit the audio-files. The total cost was about $39.  

What is the advantage of you, the author, recording your own audiobook? You save the money of paying a narrator. However, it’s more than just financial. Recently I was talking about my YA Christian fantasy book Seventh Dimension – The Door to a friend. I asked him if he would read it and give me some feedback before I published it. He said, “If you give me the book as an audiobook, I will listen to it in the car when I drive to work.”

Did I want to narrate my own book? It’s time-consuming for one thing, and would anyone want to listen to me anyway? When I told him how I felt, he said, “I much prefer to listen to an author narrate his own book.” He continued, “In fact, almost all of the books I’ve listened to have been narrated by the author, including John MacArthur and Richard Stearns (Hole in the Gospel).”

I paused when he said those two names—suddenly the idea of narrating Seventh Dimension – The Door seemed more appealing. I didn’t have to have the voice of an actress to make an audiobook.

My friend continued, “The author is just sitting in a chair reading his book—nothing fancy.”

I went home and gave it some thought. I had narrated one chapter from my Children of Dreams book and posted it on my website, but I would cringe every time I listened to the recording. I’d pick it apart mercilessly—after all, I am not a trained narrator; but I had to agree with my friend, if I were to listen to an audiobook, I would rather listen to the author narrate his or her own book than even an excellent narrator.

I hunted around to find my long, lost IC recorder in my closet, eventually found the disc, and shoved it into my computer. Surprisingly, everything worked—even the IC recorder with the three-year-old batteries.

I had picked up a few tips about how to record an audiobook and I tried dictating the first chapter.  Yuck—I sounded like I was dying—I was too nervous. The hardest part was getting used to hearing my own voice. After a few more false starts, I finished one chapter that didn’t seem too bad. I told myself, with a little more practice, I would get better at it

If you are willing to try, let me share with you how I did it. I now have an audiobook of Seventh Dimension – The Door listed at http://audible.com, http://amazon.com, http://itunes.com, and https://www.acx.com/ . My audiobook became available a couple of days ago and yesterday my first sale was posted. If you are ready to get started, here is what I did.

First, go to Best Buy or another similar store and buy a handheld recording device. I bought a Sony IC Recorder for $39.99 (that is now three years old). Then you will need to look at the instructions and learn how to turn it on and off. The hardest part is figuring out how to use the thing. At least it was for me. I get frustrated with technical gadgets that have more than one button to push.

Here are two important hints. First, find a set of earplugs similar to what you would use to listen to music on an iPhone. It doesn’t have to be one of those bulky ones. The earphones will allow you to hear your voice and the sound quality of the recording. You will be able to detect any outside noise that might be picked up as you are narrating. Turn off your computer, an overhead fan, or anything nearby that might make any noise (even a purring cat). The closet works quite well. Make sure you tell your kids what you are doing so they won’t disturb you. It’s not much fun to have to start over because your child’s voice has been included in your book narration.

Don’t narrate your book off a computer screen. The recorder will pick up the humming from the computer. Mine sounds like a jet engine sometimes, so I had to turn it off. I had my book printed and bound in a three-ring binder so I could easily turn the pages without making a sound. That cost me about $25. You can squeeze a lot of lines front and back on an 8-by-11 sheet of paper, thus reducing the number of page turns.

You want to split up your chapters by recording session. In other words, between each chapter, stop and make an audio “chapter break” or “file break.” Later, these chapters will be merged into one or two or three files, depending on the length, but you need to break down the book into chapters as you are narrating. At http://acx.com, the site will ask you to upload each chapter individually. So to make it easier later, split up your files by chapter. You will also need to make a separate file for the opening credits and the closing credits. In the opening credits, you will say the name of your book, the ISBN number, and some other identifying information that ACX will ask that you provide. In the closing credits, you can say something like, “This is the end of my book and thank you for listening.”

Now, there is a wee bit of technical information I need to cover, but don’t let it deter you. If I can do this, anybody can. In order to meet the audio quality for ACX, you will need to make sure your audio recording meets professional standards. Here is a quote from the ACX website.

Audiobooks should be recorded in 16 bit / 44.1 kHz wav file format, which is considered CD quality and is best for archiving. Once you have fully produced your audio file it should be saved as a 192kbps mp3. This is the format that you will upload to ACX. Generally, audiobooks are recorded by one of two methods.

It’s not as bad as it sounds. First, if you have bought a new device for recording that is not the cheapest thing hanging on the Best Buy sales rack, chances are it will record at 16 bit / 44.1 kHz or better, so you won’t need to worry about what all that jargon means. How can you determine if yours does?

On the editor software that came with your IC recorder, you should be able to tell. Once you upload your audio-files (chapters) from the IC recorder to your computer via the cord included in the box (assuming you have inserted the disc into the computer and installed the editing software already), you should see your files listed similar to how mine are listed: file name, mode, user/artist, message name and recording date. You want to look under the mode, and it should tell you something that looks like this: SP (44.1kHz …) If you have that, you can keep going. Give yourself a pat on the back.

Unfortunately, I discovered that while I had no issue with the 16 bit / 44.1 kHz, I did have an issue with the 192 kbps (the number that follows the 44.1 kHz). 192 kbps is the minimum standard for CD sound quality. I exhaled deeply when I read this because Seventh Dimension – The Door was not recorded at 192 kbps. What could I do besides re-narrate my whole book? If this is an issue for you also, be patient. You can fix this, and I will tell you how.

First, though, in order to remedy this, you need to download your chapter narrations onto CDs. If your book is more than 70 minutes long, you will need multiple CDs. I needed six for Seventh Dimension – The Door. Do this now so you will be set up for the next step. (If your recording was done at 192 kbps, you can skip the next two paragraphs).

After your book is copied onto CDs (make sure you label the CDs in order), reinsert your first CD back into the computer.

Here’s how I found out how to do this. I went to YouTube and did a search for “How do I convert an audio file to 192 kbps?” I found a video recording by a knowledgeable DJ who showed me how to do this using iTunes.  He had to repeat himself a few times because he forgot some steps, and on his third repeat, profusely apologized for his not-so-perfect video. By the third time, though, I actually “got it” and could do it myself.
 
Here is how you can convert an audio file to 192 kbps. Go to iTunes through your computer—everyone has iTunes loaded on their computer that I know of, but if you don’t, now is the time to download it off the Internet and install it. Once you are ready, click the iTunes icon on your computer and you will be taken to a screen that will have iTunes Library in the upper right-hand corner. In the left-hand corner, you will have an option in your library for music, podcasts, books, apps, and audio CD. You want to click on CD. You might need to use the up arrow or down arrow to get to the option for CD.

Now go back to the right-hand corner, and underneath iTunes Store will be a down arrow for import CD. Click on that. A small new screen will open up with some options. For import, choose MP 3 encoder. For the setting, use high quality, 192 kbps. Go ahead and check mark for “error correcting when reading audio CDs” and then click okay. iTunes will now convert and import your audio files from your CD for your book at 192kbps. You will need to do this for each disc.

Now you have all of your audio-files—opening credits, each chapter, and your closing credits—uploaded on your computer at 192 kbps at 44.1 kHz.

You are ready to go to http://acx.com and upload your audiobook one chapter at a time. Initially, of course, you will need to create an account with ACX and enter some other preliminary information, but you are well on your way to creating an audiobook you can sell.

After you upload your audiobook, ACX will review your audiobook and make sure everything is in order. Once ACX approves your recording, they will distribute it for you on several sites including Amazon.
 
Amazon Audio Book
 

One other minor detail I don’t want to forget to mention is that the cover of your audiobook needs to be square and not the traditional book size. ACX will reject any cover that is not sized correctly, so make sure you do that ahead of time. You don’t want to get “stuck” like I did. When my book cover designer does my next book cover, I will ask her to create a square cover also so I will have it when I narrate and upload my audiobook.

More and more people are listening to audiobooks, particularly those in the upper socioeconomic classes. You can listen to audiobooks through iPhones, iPads, Kindles, computers, and CDs. Audiobooks are another way to add to your passive income. As my friend told me after listening to my audiobook, “I feel like you have been with me all week in the car,” there is something intimate about hearing an author’s voice read his book. It’s another way for readers to connect with the author personally and feel like they “know” you through your story.
 
To get in audiobook format on Amazon, go to:  Seventh Dimension - The Door in Audiobook

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Writing for the Soul Conference - Best Writers Conference for Christian Authors

Writing for the Soul Conference

February 13-16, 2014
The Broadmoor Hotel
Colorado Springs CO

 
 
A New Kind of Conference for a New Era in Publishing
The publishing world has changed, so it’s time for a new kind of writers conference. I’m pleased to announce a new format for Writing for the Soul.
We’ve tightened the focus. We’ll concentrate on classes for people writing books. You’ll benefit from deeper courses on crafting powerful fiction and nonfiction.
I’ve also invited experts in platform building who will guide you in promoting yourself and your books. You’ll learn not only about effective speaking and interviews, but also about using the latest techniques with blogs, websites, and social media.
Come prepared to learn. We’ll pack Friday and Saturday with six class times each day. Each hour you’ll have a choice of six courses in four professional tracks-totaling more than 70 individual sessions—taught by an all-star faculty.
Teaching faculty includes:
  • James Scott Bell (fiction)
  • Laura Christianson (promotion & marketing)
  • Brandilyn Collins (fiction)
  • Dennis E. Hensley (nonfiction, craft & career)
  • Bob Hostetler (nonfiction, craft & career)
  • Angela Hunt (fiction)
  • Julie-Allyson Ieron (nonfiction, craft & career, promotion & marketing)
  • Randy Ingermanson (fiction, promotion & marketing)
  • Julie Neils (promotion & marketing)
  • Karen O’Connor (nonfiction, craft & career)
  • Andy Scheer (craft & career)
  • Dave Sheets (promotion & marketing)
  • McNair Wilson (promotion & marketing)


Renew your creativity as your learn new techniques, pursue your dreams, and network with other writers—from beginners to pros.



Come to Writing for the Soul at The Broadmoor! Supercharge your career and spend time with like-minded people. For fresh inspiration and the best writing instruction available, register online or call toll free at 866.495.5177.