Saturday, 20 August 2016

4Q Interview with Author Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, New Brunswick.

Chuck Bowie is the welcome guest this week for the 4Q Interview on the Scribbler. This is Chuck’s third visit. Previously he shared excerpts from his international thriller novels featuring the dashing and clever sleuth Sean Donovan. Chuck lives in Fredericton, New Brunswick with his wife Lois. His love for music, fine wines and delicious food are passions he brings to his novels. Terrific plots, great dialogue and plain good storytelling will keep you turning the pages of his books. If you missed his previous visit, please go here. 


4Q:  Thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts Chuck. Was becoming an author something you dreamed about when you were younger or did it just happen one day?

CB: I’ve always considered myself a writer, and began writing to entertain others when I was in grade school. After several years of selling tourism articles, short stories and then essays as a young adult, I tried to write a romance novel. I was about eighty pages in when I discovered I didn’t really have the heart—no pun intended—to write in that particular genre. I then wrote a wonderful (to me!) speculative fiction manuscript about the near-future. I’ll re-write it, one day, as the idea still ‘has legs’, as they say in the movie business.

4Q: We all know that Sean Donovan is the central figure in your thriller series. How did he materialize? Did he come first or did the story come first?

CB: Donovan magically appeared to me one night while I was sleeping, but in fact, it was the story that came first. I was in Romania on business and the concept of a thief for hire came to me. The notion of a fellow—and a Canadian guy at that—with the skill set to separate people from their possessions, was an interesting idea. An incident at that time caused me to develop a character I’d dreamed of; a guy who wasn’t too big, wasn’t too young or old, and who carried around his own version of right and wrong. I put the character with the plot and the first novel began to write itself. He’s a complex guy, so I still find him interesting in the fourth novel.

4Q: Please share a childhood anecdote or memory.

CB: As a teenager in a small New Brunswick hamlet, I was a bit of a loner. One fall afternoon just before dusk I went hunting for partridge. I headed across a long field where the farmer had missed the second cut of hay, and was quite a ways from home when I noticed my cat had been following me through the tall, yellow grass. So I let him come along.

I sought out an opening in the forest and followed a road that had grown over, until I came to an ancient house that had caved in upon itself. I was almost there when I spied a ruffed grouse in the apple tree growing beside the ruin. I dropped it with one shot from my .22, but it took flight. It had got four feet from the ground when I saw a grey flash leap into the air, taking it down. Then I had to have a chat with my cat to determine whose, exactly, it was. But my mom was waiting for supper meat, so I asserted myself and we brought it home to eat. My cat never forgave me for that.


4Q: Now tell us about your latest work. What is Donovan up to?

CB: My third novel in the series is called Steal It All, so you can perhaps guess what happens. It occurs to me that readers can often guess who my bad guy is, long before the climax, but I pride myself on pleasing the reader with all kinds of hooks, tricks and twists as the book pulls the narrative arcs together.

Steal It All takes place for the most part in the rougher neighbourhoods of Manchester, England, although there are scenes in Niagara, New York City, London, Bucharest, Constanta and The Lake District. So I indulge in my usual jet-setting travels! The book opens with a murder in the Canadian Embassy in London, and from there we follow a thief, an RCMP detective and a Scotland Yard inspector as they try to solve a murder. But things get complicated, and Donovan is a tough fellow to keep focused. There are many twists and turns, and we come to care deeply what happens to each of the characters in the book. I think the ending is a barn-burner! I hope the reader will as well.

Steal It All is available now as an eBook. It will be available in paperback early this fall. You can order it, as well as Three Wrongs and AMACAT, from Chapters-Indigo, Amazon, and from my publisher: MuseItUp Publications.


Thank you Chuck for being our guest today.  Having read the first two stories of your series, I’m looking forward to catching up with Donovan’s antics in Steal It All

Find out more about Chuck and his books here.
I am so thankful for the many readers that visit the Scribbler. If you look below and see the small red print that says "No comments", click on that and you can leave a note. Tell us what you think!



Saturday, 13 August 2016

A Work-In-Progress by Allan Hudson

Historical fiction has always appealed to me when looking for a new book to read. I think that Bryce Courtenay does it the best as well as James Michener or Edward Rutherford, all great story tellers. These terrific authors are an inspiration and I hope to emulate their style of writing.

The main character in my first two novels is Drake Alexander. He lives in New Brunswick Canada and his grandfather on the Alexander side comes from the United Kingdom. His grandmother is an Acadian from a small village on the east coast of Canada.

My third novel tells the story of the Alexander family, beginning in 1911 in Govan, Scotland and spanning the next 24 years. It is an unedited work-in-progress.

I would like to share the beginning and get some feedback. Any comments would be appreciated.



Autumn                                                                      Govan, Scotland.


Lucretia Alexander is about abandon her middle child, Dominic.  Where she is going, she cannot bring him. She is poised on the wide front stoop of her brother-in-law’s house, draped in sorrow.  Her father waits in the cairt which he has pulled to the side of the street. Her hand is raised to rap on the faded wooden door but she lingers. Looking at her eleven year old son Dominic, at her side, almost as tall as her, she sees the uncertainty in his eyes. Like her heart, her will is almost broken. She yearns to hold him, to cling to him, to carry him away from the sadness they both feel. Biting her lower lip, the need for him to survive strengthens her resolve. She knocks firmly upon the door.

The sun is setting over the roofs along the street, detail is lost to silhouettes. A cool breeze whispers around the corners, it carries the scent of iron and oil from the shipyards Govan is famous for. The two horses pulling the cairt prance, unfamiliar with city sounds and the odd automobile on Govan Road where they turned on to Waterville Row. The street dead ends a short distance from River Clyde.  The river is deep and hosts an abundance of shipyards. It separates the municipality from its bigger brother Glasgow. Ibrox is to the east and the borough of Renfrew is to the west. 

Robert Alexander, Duff to his buddies, is leaning one-handed against the back of the house, staring bleary eyed at the vomit on his new shoes, Florsheims that he paid 2 pounds sterling for yesterday. He has to work a whole day for these. The pansies at his feet are covered with the frothy remains of a once damn-tasty haggis. It failed the taste test miserably coming back up.

He wobbles but stiffens when he hears a rapping at the front door. Straightening up he guesses its Jacky Boy and Tubs, come to see if he has anything to drink. Pulling a wrinkled, stained hanky from left front pocket of his trousers, he swipes the spittle from his bearded chin, flips the fabric over and honks his nose. He bellows with a raspy slurry voice.
“Hold yur peckers you dumb lads. I’ll be along in a shake.” 

Lucretia stops rapping, a frown scrunches up her narrow face. Placing a hand on her hip she turns to Dominic.
“The bugger is drunk.”
Dominic is snickering, he only heard “pecker”. His brother Tommy told him what a pecker is last summer.  Tommy didn’t know why they call it that but is certain his big brother wouldn’t tell him a fib.  Lucretia pokes her son on the shoulder with her free arm.
“Behave! “
Tugging on the fabric of his coarse shirt, she starts towards the walkway.
“Come along, I think we should forget this and…”
Her directive is interrupted by Duff staggering along the dirt driveway, coming from behind the house. He’s trying to tuck his loose shirt in but can’t get the edge around his ridiculously red suspenders. He stops two tentative steps towards the front walk of fieldstone sunken in the neatly clipped lawn. Forgetting the shirt he closes one eye to focus on the two bodies on his stoop. They’re about twenty-five feet away. Expecting a rotund Jacky Boy and taller Tubs he is surprised when the image clears. The porch is in shadow with the sun behind the houses across the street. He only sees the outlines. Both are thin, one is wearing a dress. The other is a step or two behind the dress. The dress has one hand on a hip. Why does he feel like he’s going to be scolded?

“Robert Alexander! You should be ashamed of yourself. I know you’re a man of an odd drink, but as long as I’ve been related to you, I’ve never seen you this drunk. Look at you. You can hardly stand up.”

Duff perks up, the lilt of his favorite sister-in–law is warmly recognized. He opens his eye, spreads his burly arms open.
“Lucretia, my dear, did you finally leave that no good brother of mine. Duff is here to rescue you…”

Motioning for Dominic to remain, Lucretia walks down the two steps to the walkway watching Duff shuffle along the flat stones. When he is halfway he stumbles on the edge of a larger stone that frost has lifted and yet to be fixed. The unbalance causes his arms to cartwheel, like one of those lawn ornaments of a man in a boat.  His forward drunken momentum, powered by enthusiasm propels him, head down, directly at Lucretia’s feet. His temple and right ear are the first to connect with the stone in front of her. He is unconscious upon impact. The thud of his bulky body causes the horses to stir. Old man Watson, tugs on their reins and whistles a melancholy tune he made up for them. The familiar trill calms the pair. Lucretia, steps back one pace in shock, both hands on her face and exclaims with a high, alarmed voice.
“Oh goodness, he can’t be dead too?” 


Lucretia bends over the inert form of her brother-in-law that is lying on his side, arms outstretched. She gently pushes him onto his back and places a hand on his chest.  Finding the even rise and fall of his lungs she sighs. Looking up at her son, she points at the front door.
“Check and see if it’s open.”
Dominic turns to twist the knob and the door swings inward on silent hinges.
“Aye, ‘tis.”
“Get yourself down here then and give me a hand with this sorry sight.”
Dominic joins his mother on the pathway and when he slides his hands under the shoulders of his uncle’s supine form, Duff stirs and bats his hands away. Momentarily disoriented Duff sits up rubbing his scalp where flesh met stone. Lucretia backs off a little and Dominic stands beside her facing the stunned man, their backs to the house.  A welt grows on his forehead. His hand comes away with a drop of blood on the index finger.
“Damn, me head hurts. What did you hit me with Lucretia?”
Clasping her hands in front of her, chin up as if insulted, she regards him with distaste.
“I didn’t do a thing you silly fool. You slipped on that cobblestone and landed on your face. You scared the life from me man. Can you get up?”
Eyeing the boy in front of him he scratches his head.
“Who’s this lad? Can that be wee Dom?”
“He’s not wee anymore Duff. Now c’mon, let’s get you into the house and I’ll tend to that scratch on your head.”

Waving to Dominic, the two get their hands under Duff’s arms and wrestle him to his feet.  He wobbles like an infant that’s just learned to stand up. Dom holds him under one arm, a smirk on his face, knowing better than to laugh. Straightening out his loose shirt, Lucretia helps him tuck the errant edges in when she catches a whiff of Duff’s liquor laden breath. She scrunches her nose. Turning him towards the front door she comments on it.
“You’ll be wanting to gargle with something sweet and I’ll be getting some tea in ya.”
The two steps up to the porch and entering the house requires Duff’s full attention. Shrugging off his assistants, he uses the wall of the hallway that leads to the kitchen in back. 
“Why would I be needing tea? S’better to have another tot of that whiskey inside.”
Following him closely, she urges Dominic along with a wave to get behind his uncle in case he loses his balance. Pausing while her middle child, the quietest and most obedient of her seven children, helps the man into a two armed wooden chair at the table, she dreads what she must do. Trying not to cry, she clears her throat.
“You’ll want to be sober when you hear what I have to ask you?”

Thank you for dropping by the Scribbler today. As I mentioned above, any comments would be welcome.

Next week, we are happy to have returning author Chuck Bowie of Fredericton, New Brunswick for the 4Q Interview. A world traveller, an interesting gentleman and a talented author.

Saturday, 6 August 2016

Guest Author Marcia Weber Martins of Germany.

Marcia Cristina Martins Weber was born in Petropolis, Brazil in 1964. She graduated in physiotherapy by Catholic University of Petropolis. In 1983 participated in the Anthology "Our Poets II" with the poem "If I could" and in 1986 in the anthology "Brazilian Poets" with the poem “On any given day.” In 2005 she moved to Germany and wrote her first novel, "Perfect Match". Her links are listed below.

Following is an excerpt from her novel.

Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission

                                                        Chapter 7


Mary regained consciousness and opened her eyes, but the blindfold kept her in the dark. Her parched mouth made impossible to swallow and the gag hurt the side of her mouth. Every muscle of her body protesting from being in the same position for a long time, she moved to a more comfortable position, which proved to be difficult, with her hands tied behind her back and her ankles tied together.

Dizziness clouded her mind. She didn’t remember what had happened to her. Her heart started beating fast and loud against her ribs and her breath became irregular.

Mary Walker, you are in big trouble but it isn’t time to panic! Breathe, Mary, deep and slowly, she ordered herself. Again, breathe.

She took several long and deep breaths, in an attempt to calm down her heart. She was quite sure that if it continued to pound in that crazy rhythm it would break her ribs. It slowed down and she concentrated on the recent events. Where I was and what happened? A noise startled her and her heart started to gallop again. She listened carefully in an effort to identify it. A door was open. She would say it was very close to her, and heavy footsteps came in her direction. Her body stiffened and cold sweat rolled down her face.

She shivered as strong hands grabbed her arm to help her sit, and took off the gag. He, she supposed it was a man, gave her water. The cold liquid was a relief for her dry mouth. The relief didn’t last long, the gag covered her mouth again and she was left alone in the darkness.

Bit by bit she put together what she had done the day or hours before, she didn’t know.

I was at the library. I was late but have to stop to buy dinner. Yes, a man asked for directions and the other man had a gun. And then it went dark. Questions started to pop up. How long I was unconscious? Where am I? And she realized that whoever had done it might know that she hated to be in the dark, that not having anything to do was enough to drive her crazy.

She supposed it was hours later, she heard the door open and footsteps coming in her direction again. It wasn’t the same person, this one had light footsteps. It was incredible how sharp she could hear with her vision blocked.

He took off the gag and the blindfold, and the rope from around her wrists and ankles. The room was poorly lit; the light came from a single lamp dropping from the ceiling. Still Mary blinked several times for her eyes to get used to it.

She slowly flexed her muscles. Every inch of her body ached. He let her go to the toilet and gave her something to eat and to drink. Her annoyance increased.

If he uses a hood to hide his face why do I have to be blindfolded all the time?  she thought. She didn’t dare to ask anything, his hoarse voice and aggressive tone told her not to. She did what she was told. While she ate, she looked at where she was. It was a small room, with one window painted black not letting the day light in. She couldn’t know if it was day or night. The place had seen better days. It was dirty; a dick layer of dust covered the floor and the walls, except one that was made of wood and was new. The place was stuffy and smelled moldy. Mary felt bad, the smell was nauseating and the tiny room was claustrophobic.

There were two doors, one that led to the lavatory and one that meant her freedom. She stared at them. You don’t have any chance to escape from here even if you weren’t tied up, she concluded sadly.

This ritual was repeated three times a day by two different men. The rest of the time she was alone with her thoughts. She forced herself to believe that soon she would be out of the dark and claustrophobic room. To keep her strength she had to believe that soon she would be with her family again. Sometimes the fear and the agony were stronger and negative thoughts assaulted her mind, but she made herself ban them away. She forced herself to eat although she wasn’t hungry and the food’s taste was dubious. She needed to keep strong.

She had lost track of the time completely, but she supposed it was the third day she was there. The man with the hoarse voice came with a telephone and a sheet of paper. He dialed a number and waited. Mary was sure that he had called her family. Her pulse went crazy; a mix of emotions invaded her heart. Determined to make her family believe that despite everything she was alright, she held back tears. After a few rings someone answered. The man held the sheet of paper in front of her and ordered her to say exactly what was written, not a word more.

It was enough to hear Mark’s voice for her fragile control to slip. Tears streamed down her face blinding her.

“Read,” he demanded impatiently.

She brushed the tears with the back of her hand and looked at the words. But the words that came out of her mouth were not the words that were written. Furious, the man slapped her face twice.

Mark heard her low cry and his pulse began to pulse erratically.

“Mary, what is going on? Are you hurt?” Mark shouted desperately.

After three long days of agony and uncertainty it was a relief for Mark, for George and for her parents, to hear Mary’s voice. She was shaken but alive. But her low cry and the abrupt end of the call brought the fear back and gnawed at their confidence. What had happened to her? The question hung in the air. Afraid to say out loud what they feared, they preferred to keep their thoughts and worries to themselves.  No one wanted to talk about Mary.

He came in and watched her in her sleep for a while. He kneeled beside her and pulled her to a sitting position. She woke up frightened and didn’t scream because she was gagged.

Amused by her scared face, he brushed his fingertips over her face and smoothed her disheveled hair, straightening it a little. A jolt of panic ran through Mary. She turned her head from side to side in an attempt to avoid the hand that was touching her. He put one hand behind her neck, immobilizing her. Immediately her stomach tightened anticipating the outcome. He kissed her cheek, and with his free hand pulled the gag and kissed her lips gently.

I know this scent, this way to kiss and touch. It’s the way it
used to be. No, please God, don’t let be him, she begged in
silence as recognition and shock raced through her. She
would like to forget every minute she had spent with him, but
the memories were there, the good and the bad ones. 




Thank you Marcia for sharing a portion of your exciting novel. I definitely want to read more.

Find out more about Marcia and her writing by visiting the links below.

twitter @marcia_w_ m

Feel free to leave a comment below. Would love to know what's on your mind.

Saturday, 30 July 2016

Guest Author Jennifer Withers of Pretoria, South Africa

Jennifer Withers has been writing since she was seven years old, banging out stories about dragons and damsels in distress on an ancient typewriter. She went on to earn a BA in English Studies at the University of Pretoria. Since then, she has taken writing courses through Writer’s Write, and Allaboutwriting. Jennifer lives in Pretoria, with her husband, two dogs, and an ageing cat. The War Between is her first novel.

Following is an excerpt.  Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.
Raven raised her hands. The marking on the back of her left hand glowed and waned in a rhythmic wave. Light pulsed from both her palms. I felt the heat of it from where I stood. Raven pushed the light away from her, striking Emery in the chest, knocking her to the dirt floor of the ring. Emery sprang to her feet immediately, her expression twisting into a mask of fury. She threw herself at Raven, who stepped aside. Emery flew right out of the ring, barely saving herself from landing on her face. She let out a scream of frustration, her face scarlet as titters of barely suppressed laughter filled the room.
Raven crossed to Emery and helped her up. ‘If you let your rage get the better of you, if you lose your focus, you’ll never win. You can beat me, but only if you keep it together.’
She pulled Emery back into the centre. ‘Let’s do it again. Concentrate this time. Don’t lose your cool.’
Raven raised her hands again. Before she could do anything else, a spark shot from Emery’s right hand, slamming into Raven’s shoulder and unbalancing her. She fell to the floor in an ungraceful heap, laughing. ‘Good! That’s what I’m talking about.’ Emery’s face shone with pride, her grin so wide it threatened to spill off her face.
I turned to Draiken. ‘She’s improving.’
He slung an arm across my shoulders and pushed me to the smaller ring where several teenagers stood waiting.
‘Yes she is. But Emery’s not who I wanted you to see.’
He motioned to Trey, a lanky boy who was the one and only Converted of our kind. His presence still unnerved me, even though there had been no signs of instability in his behaviour. The conversion seemed to suit him, but I worried all the same.
‘Trey. Demonstrate for Syra.’
Trey stepped forward silently. His brow furrowed, and his gaze centred on a line of tin cans propped on a table several metres away. One of the tins wobbled, threatening to tip off the edge. Then it rose, as if pulled up by an invisible string. It jerked towards Trey in fitful starts, occasionally pausing and hovering, then resuming its journey through thin air until finally, it landed neatly in Trey’s palm. His smile of triumph was directed at me. I smiled in return. It felt strained.
‘Isn’t it remarkable?’ Draiken asked. Without waiting for a reply he turned back to Trey. ‘Watch again. He’s a Physical too.’
I felt my alarm levels spike. ‘He’s a Dual?’
Draiken nodded, his excitement palpable. ‘Trey. Show Syra.’
Trey took off towards the opposite wall, moving so fast my eyes could barely track him. Halfway across the room he leaped, his feet leaving the floor in a blur of speed. He landed gracefully against the wall and seemed to hover there, his hands and feet flat against the brick. Despite myself, I was entranced. He remained facing the wall, his hands and feet braced against it, for another moment or two before sliding to the floor again.
Draiken grinned at me. ‘I think he’s nearly as fast as you.’
‘Amazing,’ Ray murmured. ‘And he’s a Convert. Imagine the possibilities.’
Draiken shot me a triumphant look. ‘Exactly.’
Trey sauntered back to us, arrogance creasing his face, his eyes burning with excitement. He looked at me expectantly, and suddenly all I wanted was to wipe that overconfidence from his face.
‘Very impressive,’ I said flatly. Disappointment flashed briefly over his face before he managed to arrange his features into a neutral expression.
I could feel the heat of Draiken’s questioning stare searing into my temple.
I avoided his gaze. ‘We need to talk.’
I turned around and made my way down the stairs, heading to the small room off to the right side of the front door. Draiken followed me and shut the door behind him, but not before I caught a glimpse of Ray talking animatedly with Trey, his face lit with excitement.
‘What was that all about?’
I shrugged. ‘You know the boy gives me the creeps. I told you from the beginning I wasn’t comfortable with a conversion. And you went and trained him anyway. We’re supposed to be making these kind of decisions together.’
Draiken snorted. ‘I knew you wouldn’t agree. I was hoping to win you over with his demonstrations. We’re Converts, Sy. And look at us. We’re perfectly normal. We’re not hacking anyone to death with a dinner knife. Besides, the boy came to us. He risked his life to cross The Waste, on the off-chance we’d allow him to become one of us. We need more like him.’
The smile in his voice irritated me. ‘The Creator converted us. He had more of a clue than we do. Do you think President Crane will be pleased if he hears we’re doing conversions on humans?’ I paced the tight corners of the room. ‘You shouldn’t be so flippant about this. You normally take my feelings seriously. Especially when they involve people.’
‘This isn’t one of your sixth sense feelings, Sy. This is you not taking to Trey, which isn’t unusual for you. You’re not exactly the warm and cuddly type. As for Crane – what does it matter? He’ll never find out. At least not until it’s too late.’ He smirked. ‘Anyway the boy could be from any of the human cities. No one knows for sure if Toria is the only one left.’
I shot him a look. ‘This is absolutely not personal. He’s a Convert, and a Dual. What if he becomes unstable?’
‘Then we kill him. The only thing we’ll have lost is time. I’ve had a look at the numbers and we need a drastic increase if we’re going to manage the takeover. You already know this.’
I folded my arms. ‘What does this have to do with Trey?’
‘Converts are the way to get those numbers.’
‘Draiken! You haven’t discussed this with me.’
He held up a hand. ‘I’m discussing it with you now.’ He motioned to a nearby chair. ‘Sit, will you? You’re making me edgy.’
I glared at him but dropped into the chair anyway.
‘We agreed that we would try something other than populating the natural way. There have been increasing reports of more and more couples having trouble conceiving. And when they do, some of the children have been born – ‘
‘Deformed. I know.’
‘Exactly. If more families have deformed kids then we may as well welcome humans into Jozenburg. Those kids are exactly like them. No skills. At least no useful ones.
‘Those that are healthy grow quickly, yes, but it still isn’t fast enough. Not if we’re going to mobilise against the humans soon. I’ve already spoken to the Elders –‘
I half rose out of my chair. ‘Without consulting me? You had a gathering without me there? What the hell, Drake! You said we would lead together.’ His face remained impassive, except for one raised eyebrow, admonishing me without a word. I sank back down, feeling his condescension in every pore of my skin.
‘We agreed that I would oversee the training, didn’t we? That’s what I’m doing. We’ve got to play to our strengths. If you want to change the arrangement then say so, otherwise stop being a prophet of doom and let me get on with things.’
‘Why did the Elders allow you to meet them without me?’
‘They asked me the same thing. I told them I wanted to run it by them first, because you would need some convincing. They agree with me. We can’t convince the humans we need another city, without the numbers to justify it.’
‘I doubt we’ll convince President Crane anyway… Wait. What numbers?’
‘Don’t act stupid, Sy. You know the humans have no knowledge of our problems with procreation.’
‘So the Elders agreed to this ridiculous plan of yours? To convert humans? What about the loss of life?’
Draiken grimaced and shook his head. ‘Honestly Sy. Why do you even think human life is worth preserving? Look what they did to this country – this world - with their greed.’
‘Regardless, the Elders said a hostile take-over was out of the question. We do it peacefully, or not at all.’
Draiken rolled his eyes. ‘Yes – the Elders are quite the idealists. I told them that converting would benefit us all. We won’t take any humans forcibly. We’ll offer them the choice.’
I rose, preparing to leave before my temper made a fool of me. Draiken’s voice pulled me back. ‘I need your blessing on this. The Elders don’t want to force you into it. You know how they are – freedom of choice and all that sentimental crap.’
‘Will they go ahead and do it if I refuse to be a part of this?’
Draiken gave me a look. ‘Yes. But if the Elders decide we can no longer work together then both our positions are in danger.’
‘I can’t agree to this. I think it’s a terrible mistake. We don’t know the exact science of conversion. We don’t know what will happen if one of the humans reacts badly to the change. You could be putting all of us in danger.’
Draiken reached for my hands and squeezed them. ‘I need you on my team. Please. Trust me. I know I can make this work. And if I can’t, if anything goes wrong, I’ll stop. The Elders will never allow bloodshed among our own kind. I need your help with the conversions. Your gifts are too great not to pass on.’
My sixth sense screamed at me not to agree. The warning heat of going against my feeling flooded my cheeks, pulsed like a living thing behind my eyes, throbbed in the hastened beat of my blood. I couldn’t refuse him. I had never been able to, even when we were kids. I owed him too much. Without him, I wouldn’t be here at all. The memories of that night rushed through me, reeking of fear and blood. The screams echoing in the cavernous space of the laboratory. I clamped down hard on them. They went silent. Still I felt them, hovering in the darkest places of my mind, waiting to take flight again.
‘Fine.’ I ignored the drop of my stomach, the sudden film of sweat on my palms. ‘But from now on I want to know everything that’s going on, and I want to be present at all the conversions.’
Draiken hugged me tightly, his excitement enveloping me like an ominous cloud.
‘Thanks Sy. I promise you won’t regret it.’
I nodded and extricated myself from his grasp. I left the room, dread clotting my throat and filling my mouth with the bitter snap of regret.
Thank you Jennifer for sharing an excerpt from your tantalizing novel.

Discover more about Jennifer by visiting her website.


Saturday, 23 July 2016

Guest Author Joshua Harding of Illinois.

Joshua Harding is a novelist and award-winning short story writer and poet.  His work is currently featured on Acidic Fiction, The Loose Leaf Press, and QuarterReads.  He’s been a nuclear missile mechanic and a suspected member of Sinn Féin.  Before that he was an environmental lobbyist, a cemetery restorer, freelance artist, puppet master, set designer, actor, carpenter, mortuary officer, scrimshander, garbage man, you name it.  The only thing he’s done longer than any of them is write.  He lives in a four-person artists’ colony in the woods north of Chicago. 
You can check out Joshua’s website: or follow him on Twitter: @jharding71.  His short story I Dated Mother Nature is available in the anthology Acidic Fiction #2: Toxic Tales on Amazon.  His debut science fiction novel, Red Lakes is also available on Amazon:
Below is an excerpt from his short story Invoking Ganesh, which won first place in the Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards for the Horror category. 
Copyright is held by the author. Used by permission.
Sandeep was cleaning the Slushie machine when his first customer committed suicide. The gunshot popped like a Diwali firework and shattered the rear windshield of the girl’s Camry. At first Sandeep thought she’d had a backfire until he saw the spider web of cracks in the glass and the spray of blood.
It was 2:34 am.
The young woman had just bought a pack of cigarettes—”Merits in a box,” she’d said—and proceeded to light one up right in front of the register.
“You can’t do that here,” Sandeep said. He knew it was going to be a long night.
The girl responded to his scolding by blowing a cloud of blue, mentholated smoke toward the hotdog rollers. She was in her early twenties. Brunette with blue eyes and an aquiline nose through which she deftly French-inhaled her smoke. She was wearing a scoop front, leopard print tank top, distressed jeans, and high heels. Her makeup and jewelry looked as if she’d just left a nightclub, though the nearest venue was over four hours away in Albuquerque. “You gonna stop me, Hajji?” she asked.
“Miss, I don’t want any trouble.”
“You think I’m trouble?” She trailed her fingers along the Hostess display, knocking several fruit pies to the floor. She let out a high, barking laugh that rang loudly in the empty store. “That’s awesome! I’m trouble….troublesome…double-trouble. The girl your mother warned you about!”
“Please leave. Now,” Sandeep said.
“All right, there, Gandhi, don’t get your diaper in a twist.” She turned on her heel and pushed through the door.
Sandeep emerged from behind the counter and peered around the O-P-E-N sign to watch her cross the parking lot to her Toyota. The scent of her cigarette and perfume lingered. He stooped and restored the fruit pies to their rack and threw out five hotdogs.
The young woman climbed into her car but remained parked beside the pump. A tiny, blue cloud escaped through her window.
“You can’t smoke near the pumps,” Sandeep said to himself. He shook his head and bent to retrieve a rag out of a red bucket below the beverage station. He began wiping the Slushie nozzles when the shot fired.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“A girl just shot herself in the parking lot!”
“Ok. Just stay on the line with me, sir. Where are you located?”
“On Route 70 east of Roswell. At the Kum & Go!”
“We’re sending someone now. Are you with the girl?”
“No! I’m calling you!”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s still in her car.”
“What is her condition?”
“Good God, woman! The back of her head is gone! She’s dead!”
“Please remain calm, sir. We’re sending someone out right now. Stay where you are.”
“All right.” The line disconnected and Sandeep thumbed the number for his manager, Dick Bliefnick. The call went immediately to voicemail.
“Boss, there’s been a shot, man! A woman shot herself! In the parking lot! I called 9-1-1 but you really need to get out here, man!”
Just then the door chimed and swung open. A large, hairy man dressed all in denim stepped inside. Sandeep hung up the phone and stared dumbfounded at the new customer and wondered if he’d seen the dead girl. “Busy night, huh?” the man said.
“Yeah…” said Sandeep, “…busy night.”
The man strolled up and down the aisles, idly taking his time with his selections. He had a full beard and an earring and black rigger’s boots. He had a blue bandana tied around his head, buccaneer style and whistled as he shopped—Three Dog Night’s Shambala, if Sandeep guessed right.
Sandeep glanced outside and saw a Kenworth parked on the far side of the parking lot. No trailer was attached to the rig and it looked like it was still running. The trucker would’ve walked right past the dead girl’s car to enter the store. It was a miracle he hadn’t noticed her—or had he?
When he’d made his selections, the trucker approached Sandeep and meticulously laid a package of Good ‘n’ Plenty, some Twizzlers, Corn Nuts, and a Red Bull before him.
He leaned on the counter with his arms slightly akimbo. The front of his denim jacket opened and Sandeep saw a 9mm in a leather holster under the man’s left arm.
“Will that be all?” Sandeep asked.
“And this,” he said. He plucked a pink, stuffed elephant from a rack. “He’s gonna look out for roadblocks and obstacles for me. Sit him right on the dashboard for good luck.”
Sandeep rang up his purchase while the trucker cradled the elephant to his cheek. His salt and pepper beard crinkled against the tag which read: “Webkins.” The elephant looked at Sandeep from the man’s shoulder with an accusatory stare.
“Wait. Give me a Mega Millions,” said the trucker. He laid a rumpled single on the counter. “I want these numbers: 33 84 22 10 37 71 and 9.”
“All right,” Sandeep replied. He took the bill and pulled up the numbers while the trucker cuddled the elephant some more. Sandeep reached subtly below the counter and fingered the knob of a cricket bat he kept there just for reassurance while he handed over the lottery ticket.
“Can I get the keys to your john?”
Sandeep reached above the cigarettes and retrieved a brass key chained to a broken broom handle. The trucker gathered his purchase in both arms, strode to the door, and pushed it open with his backside.
Sandeep went out the empty the trash by the pumps. (He needed to keep busy, but figured the can nearest the dead girl’s car could wait until they came for her.) The wind gusted from the southeast like a dusty hairdryer. The Milky Way stretched from the north horizon over the roof of the store. The neon sign that said, “Lotto” winked seductively on and off. A meteor traced a white line to the west and was gone.
A Mercedes had pulled up ten minutes before and still sat outside the carwash. The driver’s silhouette moved slightly in the sodium lights. As Sandeep was hauling a bag of paper towels and greasy Karl’s Jr. wrappers to the dumpster when he noticed the blood trickling out from under the restroom door.
He dropped the trash and banged on the door. “Hello?!” he cried. “Sir?! Are you all right in there?” He shook the handle. “Hello?!” Sandeep stood back and tried to avoid stepping in the puddle. Helplessly he took in the tableau: the dilapidated outbuilding, the grimy, locked door, the sublime darkness of the desert, and the blood. “God damn, Dick! I told you we needed another key!”
Red and blue lights cut through the darkness on the horizon. Sandeep turned and could see the cruiser still about two miles away across the flat skillet of the plain. “About time!” he said.
The cop broke down the restroom door first.
Inside, the trucker had eaten all of the Good ‘n’ Plenty, Twizzlers, half the Corn Nuts, and finished the Red Bull before he’d smashed the mirror and slit his wrists with a shard of glass.
“Good God, man!” whispered Sandeep. The cop rummaged through some papers on the floor in front of the dead trucker. He plucked up correspondence from a divorce lawyer and something from Teamsters Local 74 detailing severance benefits.
The cop whistled as he read the documents. “Christ, my union would give me so much more payout if I were to get the axe.” The lottery ticket fluttered from the cop’s hand to the edge of the sink. He picked it up, considered it, and turned to Sandeep. “Here,” he said and tucked the ticket into Sandeep’s shirt pocket right below the embroidered Kum & Go logo. He peered at Sandeep’s nametag. “You keep that, Sand…Deep. Maybe you’ll have better luck than he did.”
They searched the girl’s car next. The cop took in her outfit: the tight jeans, the high heels, the makeup. He made a show of peering down the front of her tank top to where one of her small breasts lay partially exposed. “She’s dressed to kill, ain’t she?” he asked Sandeep with a leer. The backseat was drenched in blood and the head restraint had been blasted apart by the gunshot. It looked like a boll of cotton or a cloud of powder thrown in a Holi festival.
The cop turned the key in the ignition. The speakers came alive and Katy Perry blasted out mid-roar. The cop snapped off the radio. “I hate that song,” he said. The young woman’s cell phone, which had been charging in the power jack, blinked on.
The cop retrieved it and scrolled through a recent series of texts. “Where u at fatty?” he read aloud.
“Still crying? LOL!”“Why don u just die? Everyone hates u!”
“Ur clothes suck! Wherd u get them walmart?”
“Dumb slut.”
“Fat bitch!”
He tossed the phone back on the passenger seat. “Guess we know who she dressed to kill, huh?”
“How awful…” said Sandeep.
The cop straightened. “All right. Let me call the coroner and I’ll meet you inside.” The cop flicked a piece of headrest foam from his sleeve as he sauntered over to his cruiser. The carwash started up and the Mercedes rolled slowly inside. Steam rose and floated away on the wind eastward towards Clovis and the Texas Panhandle.
Back inside the store, the cop made himself a cup of coffee. He shook three packets of Dixie Crystals into it then topped it off with the powdered bone dry creamer. He didn’t offer to pay for it.
Thank you Josh for sharing an excerpt from your entertaining story.
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