tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35712149260092906182024-03-05T19:48:33.598-06:00Always to the Unknown FriendSharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-71366179403786287172019-10-30T10:28:00.003-05:002019-10-30T10:28:37.347-05:00Release Day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWBpObuka24lXxnVCwPEvy_67eoqAuqreUti0U-1XvnFKNrmz8-30Wv6cMP_U6RXLH__enJkjMk2YuXGNpRXFyZ-IIshUZngQIAcqR5qGao4CwpMtmw-dIN9xjeI-gj_71rmhYX_rAwI/s1600/SeleneFBBanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="850" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkWBpObuka24lXxnVCwPEvy_67eoqAuqreUti0U-1XvnFKNrmz8-30Wv6cMP_U6RXLH__enJkjMk2YuXGNpRXFyZ-IIshUZngQIAcqR5qGao4CwpMtmw-dIN9xjeI-gj_71rmhYX_rAwI/s320/SeleneFBBanner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Daylight
tells its stories easily showing all to everyone, </span></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">but
for those who know to look and listen, </span></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">the
night is so very much more than boisterous day.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Dr. Sophia
Katsaros had a nice orderly life. Cold hard facts and science were her treasured
companions. That was until her brothers went missing and magic was no longer just
for fairytales. Since then she has learned that the world holds far more than
she could ever have dreamed and that nightmares aren’t just for sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">They
ancient myths said that the goddess Selene leveraged everything to be with the
man she loved, Prince Endymion of Ellis. But every story has a kernel of truth.
The trick is figuring out what is real and what is fantasy in a world that no
longer follows the rules that Sophia once knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">With the
help of Arthur and the Lykanos pack they hunt a serial killer who has begun to
terrorize the area. Will they be able to find the monster before it finds its
next victim? Will Sophia be able to marry science and magic and forge something
new? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">There will
be new friends and even older enemies as the Sophia Katsaros series continues.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Selene-Book-3-Sophia-Katsaros/dp/1703447522/ref=sr_1_6?keywords=sharon+van+orman&qid=1572449053&s=digital-text&sr=1-6-catcorr" target="_blank">Selene - Print - US</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07ZPL6G8C?pf_rd_p=183f5289-9dc0-416f-942e-e8f213ef368b&pf_rd_r=3DHEVS32HRMVMVG9HFTS" target="_blank">Selene: Ebook - US</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07ZPL6G8C/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=sharon+van+orman&qid=1572449197&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Selene - ebook - UK</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Selene-Book-3-Sophia-Katsaros/dp/1703447522/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=sharon+van+orman&qid=1572449247&sr=8-2" target="_blank">Selene- Print - UK</a></span></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-90274524904776632682019-10-23T17:52:00.001-05:002019-10-23T17:52:14.582-05:00Sample chapter #3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCw8nIK97OCZtXghozUz-c-f5mjqrPOmoXoD-FA5ubsZ4_X7RaJbUV7g-XIR1K055rDSvxcp43KXxEKEzzS4Fo8T6i9bXVNrIpBssdTLMElcRstE2IdaB7Bb8XKuvhSqu1drtKxptVIQ/s1600/SeleneFBBanner2%255B781%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="850" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCw8nIK97OCZtXghozUz-c-f5mjqrPOmoXoD-FA5ubsZ4_X7RaJbUV7g-XIR1K055rDSvxcp43KXxEKEzzS4Fo8T6i9bXVNrIpBssdTLMElcRstE2IdaB7Bb8XKuvhSqu1drtKxptVIQ/s320/SeleneFBBanner2%255B781%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To
Bear Witness</i></b></div>
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“So, it is your belief that Timothy
Monroe was murdered?”</div>
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I gazed out from the witness stand
towards Mr. Monroe and his haunted eyes. I sighed, wishing I had a better
answer. “The autopsy showed that the cause of death was drowning. But I cannot
classify that as murder.” I had seen animals take human form. As I looked at
the smug expression on the defense attorney’s face, I would not be shocked to
learn that he occasionally scurried around on four feet with a long bare tale.
“Judging by the many breaks and spiral fractures I found, I think it’s clear
this little boy had been abused.”</div>
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“But that is not what we are here
to determine.” Elias Quinn, attorney at law and perpetuator of stereotypes paced
before me. “We are here to determine if my client, Timothy’s mother, killed
him. Which is what the state is alleging and what you, Dr. Katsaros, said you
could prove.”</div>
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“I never said I could prove that she
killed Timothy.” I frowned. “I said that I could determine the cause of death.
Which I did. You asked for my expert opinion. Which I gave. It is not up to me
to either convict or exonerate your client.” I was getting annoyed. A sizzle of
energy danced down my spine. It had been happening a lot lately. I would be a
fool to pretend that nothing had changed and that my life would carry on. I was
many things. But I wasn’t a fool. Taking a deep breath I forced myself to calm
down. “Timothy Monroe had clearly suffered multiple breaks, including a recent
concussion. There was a spiral fracture to his arm. Those types of fractures do
not just occur, they are inflicted.”</div>
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“Are you saying that my client abused
her son?” Mr. Quinn asked. “She is a Sunday school teacher and a member of the
PTA.” He gestured towards the petite brunet. She was gazing at her ex-husband
with desperation in her eyes. Mr. Monroe was too grief stricken to see the
obsession burning there, but I saw it. I was willing to bet Mr. Quinn did too. </div>
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“As I said, it is not my job to
determine guilt. I performed the autopsy. These are the facts.”</div>
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“You seem rather aloof.” Mr. Quinn
squinted at me. “We are talking about the death of a four-year-old boy. I
should think you would be a little more affected by that.”</div>
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And just like that, I was pissed.
“Mr. Quinn, I realize you are trying to bait me. I’m not sure why. I’ve told
you several times now it’s not my job to determine who is guilty and who isn’t.
The facts tell me that this little boy drowned. They also tell me that he was
mistreated frequently during his very short life. I can’t tell you who did that
to him. I’ll leave that to the police and the judge to decide.” I inclined my
head towards Judge Anderson. I had testified before her many times. I liked her;
she had a no-nonsense air about her. “In many cases I am the last advocate for
those who show up on my table. I speak for them when they can no longer speak
for themselves. Timothy’s little body has a story to tell. It’s not my job to
interpret that story, but simply to relay it in the form of medical evidence.
Which I have done. And yet, considering all that the thing you find most
interesting is that I’m not sitting here crying while I testify. But that Mr.
Quinn is your problem. Not mine.”</div>
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“If you have a point, counselor,”
Judge Anderson said, “I suggest you make it.”</div>
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“No, your honor.” He smirked at me.
“I just wanted to make it clear that Dr. Katsaros, in her expert opinion, does
not classify this as murder.”</div>
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Sadly, I had to admit that I
couldn’t. I answered a few more questions, the judge released me, and I left
the courtroom feeling more than a little annoyed. Mr. Monroe was convinced his
ex-wife was hurting their son so that she could take him to the hospital.
Officially it was called Munchausen by Proxy. Caregivers would exaggerate a
child’s illness for attention. In this case, I was convinced that Heather
Monroe wanted attention from her ex-husband, and this was how she was getting
it. Did she drown Timothy? I couldn’t prove that. I wouldn’t be surprised if
she did but there wasn’t any proof that she had. That small voice in the back
of my head was whispering to me. I was missing something. </div>
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I wandered across the street,
ordered a coffee and a bagel from the corner shop and made my way towards the
park. I could feel the calming effect as soon as I passed under the shade of a
weeping willow. The long fronds danced in the breeze like a maiden’s hair. </div>
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I sat down on a wrought iron bench,
the coolness of the metal seeping through the thin material of my professional
suit. Kicking off my shoes, I closed my eyes and exhaled. I had been
practicing, yet I was still unprepared for the wave that crashed over me. </div>
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I spent most of my days trying to
concentrate on the here and now. And not on the symphony of sound that followed
me around. I tried to tone it down so that I could focus. Erato had taught me
some techniques but what came naturally for her, didn’t come so easily for me. </div>
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I could hear conversations from
across the park, rodents scurrying in a nearby alley. The sap as it moved
through the nearby pine tree. It was sensory overload. I had tried to
tell myself that this was all new. But if I was being honest, I’d admit that
this chorus had been with me my entire life. It had been a constant hum in the
background. White noise. Something had turned up the volume. I was trying
desperately to figure out how to turn it back down. I couldn’t live this way. </div>
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With a sigh I opened my eyes,
forcing the chaos back into a dark corner in my mind. A shimmer, like heat off
a summer baked road, detached itself from the willow tree. Dryad was really
just a general term. Different types of trees had different spirits. The flowering trees were tended by the Kraneiai. Meliai inhabited ash trees and so on.
</div>
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Erato had explained this when I
referred to her as a dryad. She thought it was funny. “Not all humans are the
same.” She laughed. “Some are male, some are female. Human is a very broad
stroke to paint one with. As is dryad.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I couldn’t call her on the phone to
ask her questions. Instead I dreamed. I would lay down to sleep and wake in some
prehistoric garden that no human had ever seen. Those times were peaceful. The
noise in my head would fade. I didn’t have to concentrate to dampen it. “You
fight too hard, Sophia.” She smiled at me. “It will go much easier if you flow
with it instead of against it.” I had no idea what<i> it</i> was. I sighed and
rubbed my temples. I just wanted to get rid of my constant headache.</div>
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The spirit of the willow across from me smiled. I glanced around to see if anyone else noticed. A woman jogged by. A man
stopped to watch her. His phone rang, he grinned before answering it and then
wandered off down the path. An older woman was walking a decrepit bulldog. The
ancient hound paused to look at the willow and the spirit there. His tongue
lolled out of his mouth in a doggy grin. He gave a happy bark and sat down with
a huff of exhaustion. </div>
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She had not
taken a corporeal form yet. I could see the tree through her. Even though she
was diaphanous I could still see her plainly and it amazed me that no one else
could. Clearly, the dog saw her and was enchanted. No matter how much the old
woman tugged and pulled on the leash the dog wasn’t moving. </div>
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“Chandler.” The old woman scolded
“You are going to make me miss my shows. Get up right now!”</div>
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The dryad danced before the dog,
winked at me and took off in a run. The dog barked merrily and ran off after
her dragging his owner behind him who now screamed at him to slow down. </div>
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I laughed and let the tensions of
the morning slip away. If I was missing something with Timothy’s case, I’d find
it. I owed him that much. In the meantime, I needed to get back to work. </div>
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Tossing my empty coffee cup in the
bin I swallowed my last bite of bagel and walked back towards the hospital.
Spring was in the air. It had rained the night before and everything smelled
wet. I knew if I listened, I’d hear the water droplets sliding along the leaves
on the trees. And even the worms burrowing through the soil. But I couldn’t
afford to be distracted. </div>
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The scent of disinfectant assaulted
me as the doors to the hospital whooshed open. I allowed it to wash over me.
This was familiar. This was home. I raised an eyebrow. Interesting I thought.
Erato had been right. It was easier to go with it instead of fighting it. As I
walked down the hallway, I saw the glint off the newly scrubbed tile floors.
Heard the snap of a crisp sheet as a nurse made the bed. </div>
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The whimper of a patient as the
needle pierced the skin and the moan of something… other. That gave me pause. I
shivered as a dozen different thoughts swirled in my head. I was comfortable
with the dead but as the hair on my arms stood up, I decided that I had had
enough. Forcing the volume down I entered the morgue to find Arthur perched on
the edge of an examination table watching TV. A long rope of licorice trailed
from his mouth. </div>
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“Hey Dr. Kat.” He grinned. “How was
court?” I gave him a look. “Oh, that good huh?”</div>
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“Quinn was the defense lawyer.” </div>
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“That guy is a rat,” Arthur said. </div>
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I grinned having thought the same
thing not too long ago. “How does the day look?” I stripped off my jacket and
reached for a pair of scrubs.</div>
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“Sloooow.” Arthur turned back to
the TV. “Have you seen this?”</div>
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“What?” I smoothed my hair back
into a ponytail.</div>
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“This lady says she is a psychic
and plans to film her new TV show here”</div>
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I paused to stare at the screen as
a news crew interviewed a pretty dark-haired lady. She certainly had the
mysterious look going for her. Long dark hair and almond shaped brown eyes. Her
voice held the hint of an accent though I couldn’t place it. </div>
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“She says her name is Erica.”
Arthur snorted. “Shouldn’t a psychic have cool name or something?”</div>
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“What is wrong with Erica?” I sat
down to slip off my high heels in favor of my comfortable sneakers.</div>
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“I dunno know… how about Clara
Voyant?” </div>
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“Really?” I asked tying my shoes.
“That’s the best you can do?” I was laughing when I answered the phone. “Dr.
Katsaros speaking.” </div>
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“Hello, this is special agent
Hawthorne,” an authoritative male voice said. “Would it be possible for you
visit a crime scene tomorrow?”</div>
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I listened as he gave me the
details, making notes on a yellow pad that I kept on my desk. “Yes, I can meet
you there.” I gently placed the phone back in its cradle. </div>
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“What was that about?” Arthur asked
seeing the expression on my face.</div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
I could feel the pull of a new case. A story
waiting to be told. “It seems we have serial killer in the area.” </div>
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<i><b>Watch for Selene: Book 3 of the Sophia Katsaros series on sale in hard copy or digital download Halloween 2019!</b></i></div>
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-60727421204906816802019-10-14T19:02:00.002-05:002019-10-23T19:23:42.786-05:00Sample chapter #2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mist</i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m cold!”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Sarah.” Janie cast an exasperated
look at her friend. “I told you to be quiet. We will be there soon.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Don’t growl at me. You never said
we’d be tromping through the woods in the middle of the damn night.” Sarah shoved
a pine bough out of the way and squealed as it swung back spraying her with
droplets of cold water. It had been a usually warm day for April. But now that
the sun had set, the sudden change in temperature created a layer of mist so
thick it made conspirators of all those who wandered lost within the fog. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Come on!” Janie grabbed her
friend’s hand. “Erica said I could bring a guest. Don’t make me regret my
choice.” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah made a face at Janie’s back and
trudged along behind her. The heels of her designer shoes aerating the soil as
she walked. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The small group of girls, twelve in
all, walked along the obscure trail that had been worn down by things that
moved on four legs, not two. And certainly not those wearing stilettos. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Small puddles of light ebbed and
flowed as those carrying the lanterns moved through the mist. Off in the
distance an owl hooted. His wings barely disturbed the air as he flew silently
searching for a meal among the detritus of the forest floor. A lone howl drifted
through the hills, high and lonesome, it sent goosebumps down Sarah’s arms. It
had been rumored that a wolf pack had moved into the area. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s probably just a coyote</i> she thought as the ground changed from
thick soil to hard granite. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Come on.” Janie materialized out
of the mist like a wraith. Sarah squeaked like a mouse and fell, slipping on
the slick granite, her ankle twisting painfully. She reached forward skinning
her palms on a rocky outcrop. Janie sighed and bent down and removed Sarah’s
expensive leather sandals. “The cave is just ahead.” She pitched the shoes out
into the dark.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah gasped in outrage as splash
told her where the shoes had landed. “The leather is going to be ruined! I am
so bringing this up at the next sorority meeting.” Janie rolled her eyes and
walked away. Casting a longing glace toward the direction of her lost shoe
Sarah heaved a martyred sigh. Her toes were going numb from the cold ground.
Grumbling she followed Janie into the cave that beckoned with the warm glow of
a fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The group of girls filed into the
cave. Metal sconces set into the rocks held blazing torches. Wax trailed down
from candle filled niches, their light cast a golden glow. The stone of the
cavern still bore the chisel marks from its creation long ago by the hands of
the first settlers. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Coal Grove Ohio was just down the
hill and like its name the area was littered with coal mines. This had been a
mine once. But judging by how shallow it was, Sarah could see the end, the vein
must have died out, forcing the miners to abandon it. The sweet smell of coal
hung in the air mixing with the incense that was burning in braziers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah blinked, her vision going
blurry. It reminded her of the time she had gone to one of the frat parties. There
had been a sweet smell then too, but it hadn’t been coal. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Running a hand over her face she
stilled as she sensed a change in the room. “She’s here.” The girls whispered.
Sarah was trying to remember where she was. Her mind moved sluggishly. That
small voice in the back of her head urged her to run, but she couldn’t seem to
care. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
She turned to see a woman moving
through the crowd. Instantly, Sarah was captivated by her. Long dark hair
curled gently, falling to her waist. Large almond eyes with irises so deep the
pupils were lost, gazed intently at Sarah. Her diaphanous gown revealed that
she was naked beneath giving subtle hints of alabaster skin. As she walked, the
flames flickered, casting the woman in shadow and then illuminating her in
their turn. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
She stopped before Sarah, a
calculating smile curling the edges of her full lips. Strong Fingers grasped
Sarah’s chin turning her head from side to side. “Oh, you are a strong one,”
she said. Her voice held a strange accent that hinted at Greek.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah blinked, unable to look away.
“Strong?” She frowned in confusion. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh yes,” the woman replied. “Very.
I can feel it pulsing within you. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it
yourself.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Noticed what?” Sarah asked.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Do odd things happen around you?”
she asked. “Do you know when the phone is going to ring moments before it does?
Do you… dream?”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah frowned. How did this woman
know? Sarah had moved from Kentucky to Ohio when her mom re-married. Ohio was
such a nice normal place. But deep in the heart of the Kentucky Appalachians,
ghost stories and rumors of the supernatural were not uncommon. In fact, as a
child Sarah was convinced that a young girl would visit her every night. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
That girl was named Mary and Sarah
loved her as the sister she never had. Mary was her constant companion through
those long lonely years she spent hiding in her room from her dad who took his
frustration out on her mother. “Your father is home, Sarah.” Her mother would whisper.
“Hide in your room until I come for you. Don’t come out no matter what you
hear.” And she had heard a lot. She and Mary had sat together and listened to
the screaming, the begging and with the dawn, blessed silence.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
One night her father didn’t come
home. Instead there was an officer at the door who said that there had been an
accident. It was the first night Sarah didn’t have to hide in her room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Years later, while doing some
research on her hometown Sarah found some old newspapers. One story caught her
attention. It told of a young girl named Mary Francis Corday who had lived in
that very house one hundred years before Sarah lived there. That newspaper clip
also told of how Mary had died. The sepia photo of the young girl was the same
child who had visited her every night. So, yes, Sarah knew things. But she was
taught never to discuss them. And she hadn’t, but one look into the woman’s
deep eyes and she confessed everything. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“When did you stop seeing Mary?”
the woman asked. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“The night after my father died, we
left Kentucky,” Sarah said, unable to stop herself. “My mother knocked over my
dad’s moonshine still. ‘Go get in the car, baby,’ she said. Then she threw a
match into the house, climbed into the car and we drove away.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Interesting.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Who are you?” Sarah asked. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I have had many names, but you may
call me Erica.” The woman shrugged. “It suits me for the moment.” Something
about that sounded odd to Sarah, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. Erica
smiled and turned away to speak with another girl and Sarah let out a
shuddering breath. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“When I was a little girl, my
mother told me stories,” Erica said. “Some people call them myths and dismiss
them. But the wise know that there is always a kernel of truth in every story
along with a tiny bit of the author’s soul. And for those willing to look,
there is magic.” She moved slowly her steps leaving tiny prints in the fine
dust of the cave’s floor. Her gown floated about her as though it had a will of
its own. The silk hugged her body and then moved away as though it was a
temperamental lover. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The girls who had gathered
whispered of magic and wondered would they see it this night. The moon was
dark, and the air felt pregnant. Full of promise and purpose. Erica moved among
them, whispering ancient words that drew on the spark they each harbored. Fanning
it, coaxing it to life until the torches flicked and then bloomed. Great
fingers of fire reached for the darkness of the cave ceiling. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“My favorite story was of the moon
goddess Selene.” Erica stood in the center of the cave. The girls gathered in a
circle about her. She cast an appraising eye and nodded to Janie. Joining
hands, the girls watched as the woman wove her story. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Selene, exceeding in beauty
amongst the deathless gods, she drove her chariot each night, whilst her
brother, Helios, drove his during the day. The darkness was her providence and
the shadows obeyed her. Cloaking her as she moved about the land, hiding her
body from the bold eyes of mortals.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Once, while dancing with Ocean’s
daughter she beheld a youth of such perfection that her cold heart was touched.
Weeping she begged him to see her, but he only had eyes for the stars.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, fair Moon,” he cried. ‘Why
douth thou conceal thyself from me? I seek but to worship thee.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Immediately Selene ran to her chariot,
but Zeus stopped her. “Tonight is the dark of the moon, Selene. And well you
know it. The beasts that pull your chariot must rest. Else they will falter.
Such a misstep would be disastrous.” Erica turned to face each girl in turn as
she spoke.” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But the youth wanted to worship
her, the moon, and Selene would not be dissuaded. Once Zeus left, she took to
her chariot and forced them to the sky. Her brother Helios had already begun
his course. The team of oxen that pulled her across the sky balked at the sight
of the fiery chariot that approached. They stopped as Helios reached his
zenith. The two chariots passed before one another, night warring with day. For
a moment, the fires of day were extinguished, and the land was cast into
darkness. Noon became deepest night. Shrieks rose from the mortals. They cried
to the heavens and implored Zeus to save them from this calamity. In a rage, he
struck Selene and cast her into the Ocean. Zeus commanded Helios to finish his
course. But once he was done, he left his team and went in search of his
sister.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He found her sobbing on the beach,
holding the broken body of the youth who had captivated her. The boy had taken
his own life when he saw the moon cast into the sea. Zeus took pity on the
despondent goddess and granted her a boon. He would restore the boy to life but
to a span of no more than one hundred years. Well, you can imagine that such a
finite amount of time would seem but a blink of an eye to an immortal goddess. Selene
begged and pleaded for her lover to live longer.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Zeus, who tended to be crafty and
cruel agreed to let the boy live. But the span of time would remain the same.
However, only his waking hours would detract from his lifetime. During the
hours he slept, he would not age, nor would death claim him. With a chuckle the
king of the gods allowed Selene to decide how many hours each day he would
wake.” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The girls that were gathered
watched Erica with tears in their eyes, heartbroken over the plight of the
lovers. With a flick of her wrist, the girls broke the circle, allowing Erica
to step farther into the cave. She took a torch, dipped it into the fire and
lit the dry brush. A crown of fire erupted from the grasses. “Many scholars
believe this to be a fine tale indeed. But as I said, to each story there is a
bit of truth. And the author of this story gave a fair more than a kernel of
their soul to craft it.” She stood before a dais, draped in heavy damask
painted with mesmerizing shapes. With a grand gesture she whipped the fabric
away revealing the body of a beautiful man. He appeared dead, cut down in the
prime of his life. Thick lashes lay like crescents upon his sculpted cheeks.
The hard contours of his body cast in harsh relief by the flickering flames. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah moved closer to the man upon
the table. He was so perfect he appeared to be carved from stone by the hand of
a master. She reached for him, but bony fingers encircled her wrist. She tried
to run but couldn’t. Looking up, she met the knowing eyes of Erica. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“In the stories the youth is none
other than the prince Endymion. Known for his beauty and his love of the stars.
Once Zeus retrieved his soul from the Underworld, the prince’s body was laid in
a Latmian Cave. There, each night, in the moments just before dawn and dusk he
would wake, and Selene would rush to him. They would have but seconds to
embrace each other. Selene had a duty to drive her chariot each night. And the
day hours were hostile towards her. For an immortal being who had been
unanswerable to time, she found herself a slave to it.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah sobbed. She had seen a movie
once where two lovers, always together, but ever apart were tormented with only
a glance of the face of the other at dusk and dawn. She had loved the movie as
a young girl and watched it over and over. Erica chuckled. “Yes girls, not all
stories are make-believe. Behold!” Erica shouted. “The prince Endymion in his
eternal sleep. Join with me this night, and let’s summon his lover, the moon!”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Hurriedly, they rushed to form a
circle once more. Clasping hands in eager anticipation. Erica chanted in a
strange language. The fires grew. Sweat poured down their bodies. The air
pressure changed. Sarah’s ears popped, forcing a cry from her lips. A cool mist
danced around their ankles before forming a column in the center of their
circle. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah gasped as the column of mist
solidified. A pair of midnight eyes blinked at her from the mist. And then
suddenly, where there had been only mist, there was now a woman. Long silver
hair was interwoven with strands of jet that glinted in the fire light. Pale
skin like marble was quickly hidden as the shadows swirled about her, forming a
long robe. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
With a grimace the woman pulled the
cowl up, covering her magnificent hair. She sneered when she saw Erica. “I tire
of you.” She growled. Her words filtered through the room in a hundred
different languages. “Be careful, witch. Lest you suffer the same fate you
deal.” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Erica laughed, loud and long. To
Sarah’s ears there was more than a tinge of mockery in it. The silver-haired
woman seemed to think the same thing. Her long elegant fingers curled into
fists. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“A beast may be brought to heal,
but only a fool would think it tame.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Again, Erica laughed. “I care not
if it is tame, so long as it does as commanded. Kneel Selene and do as you are
told if you wish to gaze upon your lover this night.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Selene screamed in outrage as her
knees hit the dirt floor. Dutifully, she offered up her wrist. The sleeve of
the shadow cloak slid down, showing the blue veins beneath the surface. Sarah
watched as a glint of steel flashed. A line of crimson appeared along Selene’s
arm. She hissed in pain, her eyes promising death to the woman who dared
command her. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Erica pressed her lips to the
wound, drinking long and deep. The air around her shimmered. Erica’s skin
glowed with the vigor of youth. The few strands of gray among her ebony hair
faded. When she looked up, her lips were stained with the blood of the goddess,
her eyes sparked with power. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Janie handed her a chalice.
Squeezing Selene’s arm, Erica forced a few drops of blood into it. With a nod,
Janie took the chalice; dipping her fingers into the blood she smeared them
across the lips of each girl. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
When Janie stepped before Sarah,
she smiled maliciously. “This is the gift I promised you.” And then she coated
Sarah’s trembling lips with blood. The world exploded, driving Sarah to her
knees. Suddenly there were colors that had never been imagined. She could hear
the sounds of the forest below. The scurry of the rodent that was blissfully
unaware of the owl that hunted it. The sighs of the lovers who took their
pleasures in homes and shadows miles away. Insects working tirelessly at their
ancient industry.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Her heart beat so loudly she was
sure all could hear it. And then it slowed, time stalled in its tracks. She
spied Mary standing at the entrance to the cave. Mary beckoned for Sarah to
come out. To leave the cave. Sarah wanted to go to her, but she couldn’t. The
girl gestured urgently, tears of frustration gleamed in her eyes and still
Sarah could not move. With a cry Sarah met the knowing eyes of Erica. The raven-haired
woman shook her head once. When Sarah looked back towards the entrance of the
cave, Mary was gone.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Suddenly Janie was there. “Come on,
you idiot. Selene and Endymion are to have their time. We mortals are not to
interfere. Don’t embarrass me again.” Janie hissed. Sarah was finally able to
rise, wanting to ask when she had embarrassed Janie the first time. But the
words would not form. Numbly she stumbled out into the night. Dawn was not far
off. The promise of day flirted with the horizon, chasing back the spectrum of
night and heralding the return of color. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Come on.” Janie pulled her along.
“We need to get back to the dorms before we are noticed.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No.” Sarah finally found her
voice. “I want my shoes.” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Janie stopped and blinked at her in
amazement. “Fine, go get them.” She huffed. “You can find your own way home.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sarah watched as the last girl
faded from sight. Slowly she turned back to the cave. She had to see Endymion.
Was he real? Would he really rise? Would the lovers be reunited for a moment
like they were in the movie?</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The cave was cold, the fires
banked, and the dais empty. “Was it real?” She whispered to the dark. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes.” A voice whispered behind
her. A gurgling cry rose as blood filled her lungs. She blinked at the sight of
her heart beating slowly in the hand before her. As she fell to the ground and
death danced for her, Sarah smiled. It had been real.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://greekgoddesses.fandom.com/wiki/File:Selene.jpg" target="_blank">https://greekgoddesses.fandom.com/wiki/File:Selene.jpg</a></div>
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-92017378724751162862019-10-07T14:10:00.000-05:002019-10-23T19:24:09.846-05:00Sample Chapter #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i>Selene</i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i>Book 3 of the Sophia Katsaros Series</i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Prologue</i></b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The blissful misty moments of dawn
were violently ripped away and replaced with the sounds of battle. Steel swords
clashed as the weary peasants fought to defend the small village against the
invaders. A chant began to rise from a meager hut. Soft at first, uttered by a
terrified but determined heart. As resolve grew so did the skin prickling
feeling of power. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
For a long-agonized moment, it
seemed as though the chaos would never end. And then, with a white-hot lance of
pain, it did. It was a sudden change. Followed by a vast stillness, dark and
blessedly silent. Life drifted away for mere moments or centuries, impossible
to decipher. Until that too, changed.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The sea salt scent of the ocean
permeated the air as the water crashed against rocks that had grown smooth from
centuries of this dance. The moon hid her face, denying the world her light and
casting the land in eerie darkness. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The deep blanket of night was
relieved by a small glimmer that drifted through the woods. An impoverished
light that went all but unnoticed except for those beings who are not counted
amongst humankind. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
A dryad blinked a weary eye as the
light found her. “Do not bother me. You do not belong here.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Where do I belong?” the glimmer
asked. “What am I?” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know not what you are,” the
dryad replied. “As for where you belong, you will know when you find it.” And
with that the spirit of the wood closed her eyes. Her thoughts borne away on
the sap coursing through the tree she inhabited. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The glimmer paused, confused. There
was something important that lay in the other direction. But it was frightening
and so the glimmer hurried on. Not knowing what it was running from, but
knowing it needed to get away. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
An owl drifted past, barely sparing
a glance as it hunted that which scurried on the forest floor. “What am I?” The
glimmer asked of the owl, but no response was given. Just a beat of silent wings
and the cry of a rodent, quickly ended.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The ocean crashed against the shore
sending droplets of mist that caught the simple light of the glimmer and made
it more. Drawn toward the depths the glimmer sank beneath the waves to the
world that knows no sound. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
An oceanid saw the glimmer and swam
over, her sea grass hair trailed behind her. Gently she ran her fingers around
the orb, entranced. What are you?” she asked, bubbles leaking from her mouth. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I do not know,” the glimmer
replied. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But you are something,” said Ocean’s
daughter. “And that is a grand thing to be.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I used to be…” The glimmer began
and then the thought drifted away. There had been the taste of iron, but now
there was only salt and water. There had been pain and love. At least the
glimmer thought that there had been. But then, like all else, that too was
forgotten. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You must choose a form,” the
oceanid said. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But how?” the glimmer asked. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I do not know how, you simply
do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Like you?” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No. I am me.” She smiled. “You
must be you.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But I do not know what I am.” the
glimmer replied, frustrated. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Your soul knows. Just listen. It
will tell you.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I have a soul?” The glimmer blinked,
it’s light fluttering. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course.” The oceanid laughed as
her sisters joined her. “All things do. From the trees to the worms that crawl.
All live and all are important.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How pretty.” Another swam up.
“Sister, where did you find it?”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“It found me,” the first said. “It
thinks it is lost. It is not. It just doesn’t know where it is going yet.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh yes, most wise,” a third sister
said. “You can be only lost when you know where you are going. If you do not
know, how can you be lost?”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The glimmer floated amongst the
sisters of the deep. They were frightfully beautiful. Long hair floated about
them. Gills on the side of their necks opened and closed as the tides swirled
over them. Silver scales danced down their backs reflecting the cool fire of
the moon that struggled to penetrate the deep waters.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“How do I choose a shape?” </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Choose.” They sang in chorus.
“Choose. Listen to your soul.”</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Had the glimmer been able it would
have sighed in frustration. But then something caught the glimmer’s attention.
It was song. Instantly known, though its refrain had never been heard before.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh. He sings.” The sisters
cheered. “Come. We must go listen.” With a swirl of water and glistening scales
the sisters swam away leaving the glimmer to tumble amongst the waves in their
wake. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The sisters hid among the rocks,
partially submerged, to watch the boy who sang sweetly to the moon. “Why do you
deny me?” He implored. “Please show me your beauty, cast your light upon me.”
Picking up a reed he began to play. The sisters wept briny tears as they
listened. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The glimmer paused. The soul that
had been spoken of took notice of the boy. Slowly the glimmer hovered about him.
His eyes were closed as he played. The glimmer’s light illuminated the features
of a boy, showing the promise of the man he would become. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
He wore clothes that had been dyed
a deep color though the night hid their hue. About his neck were chains of
gold. All these things the glimmer saw. And all were fascinating. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Come back to us, little spark.” The
oceanid whispered. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes.” Her sisters sang.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
Slowly the glimmer left the boy and
his haunting melody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He is beautiful,” the glimmer
whispered. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“He is a prince.” The oceanid cast a
knowing look at the boy. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, a prince.” That word sounded
familiar, but pain followed hard on the heels of the memory. And so, it was
pushed aside. Fleeing from the echo of blood the glimmer floated once more
about the boy as he continued his song. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
The sisters giggled amongst
themselves as the glimmer danced about the boy. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“I know what you are, little
spark,” the oceanid said.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
That was enough to draw the
glimmer’s attention from the boy. “What?” the glimmer asked.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“A woman,” the oceanid said. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, indeed. A woman.” Her sisters
echoed. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What is that?” the glimmer asked. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“A most frightful thing,” Ocean’s
daughter said. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Indeed.” Her sisters sang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<br />
<a href="http://chrisgiz12.deviantart.com/art/Oceanid-328485373" target="_blank">http://chrisgiz12.deviantart.com/art/Oceanid-328485373</a></div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-16322581657218457142019-08-03T12:07:00.003-05:002019-10-23T19:24:34.538-05:00Selene<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
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Selene</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Book 3 of the Sophia Katsaros series</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Release date: October 31st, 2019</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It would be an understatement to say that Dr. Sophia Katsaros has had a lot of change recently. But nothing is ever simple, and time waits for no dryad. With the help of Arthur and the Lykanos pack they take on an immortal witch and hunt a serial killer who has begun to terrorize the area. Will they be able to find the monster before it finds its next victim? Wrapped up in the myth of Selene, the moon goddess who fell in love with Prince Endymion, she leveraged everything to be with him. There will be new friends and even older enemies as the Dr. Katsaros series continues.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Watch this space. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I will post a few sample chapters as well as the link when the book goes live for presale. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Enjoy what's left of your Summer because Autumn just got real. </div>
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-28355683303953783502017-11-15T10:00:00.000-06:002017-11-15T10:00:03.358-06:00Thanksgiving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Entry #4</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Thanksgiving</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">by Paul Freeman</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Whore!
Harlot! Look! see there! Look at the fallen woman, see how she parades her
shame in the face of God and all honest folk,” the old preacher screamed his
tirade from a plinth set up in the town square so that he could preach to the
God fearin’ folk of the frontier town.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Don’t
listen to him, Abigail, you know he only hates you because you spurned his
advances and refused to marry him.”<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“I know,
but his barbs find their mark all the same,” Abigail said to her sister, tears
glistening in her eyes. The two girls hurried, arms linked, from the square
with the hems of their dresses dragging in the mud and the preacher’s taunts
ringing in their ears, unable to avoid the scornful eyes of the townsfolk on
their backs.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Let he… or
she who has forsaken God feel the heat of Hell’s fiery flames. Let her burn.
See, see how she turns from the words of our Saviour. See how she scurries when
I brandish the good book.” He held aloft a tattered, leather covered bible. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I name thee Satan’s child, witch! She has
cursed us and damned her own soul.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he worked
himself into a frenzy, jabbing a finger at the girls retreating backs. <span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Our
Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name…” he roared the words after
them.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“He’s gone
too far this time, don’t listen to his lies, Abigail. We’ll have father speak with
him. He can’t do that to you, not on this day of all days, a day of
celebration, a day to give thanks….” Abigail suddenly felt the absence of her
sister’s arm as her words were cut short.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Catherine!
Catherine, what is it?” she cried, staring in shock at her sister who was lying
on her back in the mud. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the rock
beside her and a crimson pool swelling by her head. Catherine groaned but
didn’t move.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Witch! I
live in the farm next to her and all the milk turned sour over night,” a hard
faced woman shouted.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“She cursed
my Timmy and the poor lad has been abed sick these past three weeks,” another accused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Abigail was
crying openly now, shaking her head at the madness of it all, she was no witch.
She bent down to her sister, wondering how they were going to explain
Catherine’s ruined dress to their mother. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How
can people be so cruel – so vicious?</i> She looked to the gathering crowd, seeking
help and mercy in their cold, hard stares.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Grab her!
Hold her!” Rough hands manhandled her away from her stricken sister. <span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">“Burn her!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cry was taken up by the entire mob.<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Abigail
sobbed as she was taken to the centre of the town and tied to a stake. She
pleaded and screamed to no avail. “I’m not a witch, I’m not a witch.” <span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Through the
flames she could see the preacher, watching with his dark malevolent eyes, a
barely concealed smirk twitched at the side of his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-76105957374691626842017-11-14T19:59:00.000-06:002017-11-14T20:13:58.390-06:00The Magic of Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Entry #3 </i></b></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Magic of Stories</i></b></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">by Sharon Van Orman </i></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">People always complain about Thanksgiving being forgotten
between Halloween and Christmas. They grumble and post silly memes on social
media for a bit but they always move on. They don’t remember, we made sure of
that. It was the only way to keep everyone from going mad. But there are only
seven of us left and the spell is weakening. If this continues they will
remember soon, God help us.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">23 November 1823</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Boston Massachusetts, USA</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">“Moore!,” the man yelled, shaking his friend. “You’ve got to
pull it together! This will take all of our strength.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">“How are we do to do this, Livingston?’ Moore asked, taking
his wire rimmed glasses from his face. He wiped them on his shirt front without
thinking. The moment he popped them back on his face the scarlet smear of blood
on the white linen was so shocking that once again, all he could do was stand
there and blink in confusion.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">“I thought you said your friend was powerful, Livingston,”
Martha said, as she entered the room with candles . </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">“He is,”<b><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></b><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">Henry Livingston Jr,
lately of Poughkeepsie New York, insisted. Though he had to admit that after
the events of the day, he couldn’t attest to being certain about anything.
Livingston reached out to pat his friend Clement Clark Moore on the shoulder.
He noticed absently that his hand trembled like dry leaves in the wind. He had
wiped the blood away, but it was still there. It would always be there. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“The other’s will be here soon.” A large women known
as Ramona walked though the front door. She had a bag thrown over her shoulder which
was filled to the brim. There was a pitiful cry when she dropped the sack to
the ground. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">Livingston took a step back from her out of
instinct. She was smiling around the pipe clutched between her teeth, but it
wasn’t a pleasant smile. Within her dark eyes a deep malevolence swirled. She
knew he was afraid and it pleased her.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“Time has been stopped but that won’t last long;”
She loosened the rope from around the sack and quickly set about her work. A
bundle of dry herbs went into the fire. The flames erupted, not red like normal,
or even blue like fire’s heart. But white and then a sickly green. Eventually
the fire settled down into a deep black. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“Black,” Moore whispered. “How can that be?”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“The half hour before midnight is the time of good
magic, Ramona said, the pipe bobbing as she spoke. “But the half hour after,
well that’s another thing entirely.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“We are not meant to do black magic,” Livingston protested.
“We just banished…”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“Do not say their names!” Martha shouted quickly
slapping her hand over his mouth. “The portal is only newly closed. If you
speak their names it will give them strength and all our work will have been for
naught. Too many have died this night. I’ll not have it undone by your
foolishness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">He nodded and sat down on a nearby barrel. Moore
continued to stare into the flames as the rest of the coven filtered into the
room. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“We have enough strength in this room alone to twist
the spell,” said one of the women. She was so old that her face was lined with wrinkles.
All the smiles and heartbreaks were laid bare on her face. Once upon a time her
hair would have been a vibrant red. Now it had faded to a buttery yellow though
no hint of silver touched it. “If the spell is to last, it has to be given a life
of its own. Under no circumstances can the events of this night be allowed to
be revealed. That will give the things on the other side of the portal strength.
The most powerful among us have died in the effort to close the portal. You’ve
seen evil take form and walk the earth and yet you live. We’ll not get a second
chance.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">She moved before the window, the moonlight shone in,
glinting of the silver buckle of her shoe and giving it back a thousand times.
The fresh snow reflected the same light. It seemed as though the darkest hour
was given the luster of midday. A herd of deer paused at the edge of the woods,
frozen mid-step. Time had indeed stopped, even the snow was suspended mid fall,
twinkling like tiny diamonds. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“I don’t understand my role in this,” Livingston
asked. “My friend Moore is a biblical scholar and I but a poet. What would you
have from us?”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“There is much strength in you,” the old woman
replied. “I felt it while were fighting…” she paused unwilling to name their
opponent. “But this night your skill with words will serve us well.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“I write poetry, not spells.” He stuttered. “I have
no magic.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">“That is not true at all,” she said, her eyes
crinkling at the corners. “All stories are magic. When they are read, be that
aloud or silently, they take on life. That is truly the strongest magic of all.”</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto; font-size: 11pt;">Livingston had no words to argue and clearly the old
woman felt that she made her point. They set to work, building the fire,
setting oils to boil until the room was heavily steeped in the dueling aromas
of incense and myrrh. He made himself comfortable on the barrel and began to
write. They needed to make sure that the time between Samham and the Winter Solstice
were cloaked in forgetfulness. Yet the spell needed to be something that would
be repeated year after year. As the woman said, the more it was believed the stronger
it would be. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">You’re done then,” the old woman asked as she took
the parchment from him. “Oh this will do just fine.” She said, smiling as she
read “</span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;">Twas the Night before Christmas…”</span></span> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-47587367746960183902017-11-14T17:30:00.003-06:002017-11-14T19:59:28.900-06:00Extracts from the diary of James Cooper, 1816.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span lang="EN-CA">Entry #2 </span></b></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span lang="EN-CA">Extracts
from the diary of James Cooper, 1816.</span></b></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><b><span lang="EN-CA">by Scott Butcher </span></b></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Being the 1<sup>st</sup> of June, 1816</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">It be that I have heard news that the
Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, Major Francis Gore, has declared a
Thanksgiving to be the date of Our Lord the 6<sup>th</sup> day of this June.
The celebration is for the termination of the war that had raged hereabouts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">This event has injured me. I feel so that I
am compelled to write these diary words, not having done so before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I press the rose, as proof herein. For
instead of Thanksgiving, which no man greater than I should wont, I feel an
illness, a trepidation approach. I write these words as witness, for I should
be thankful. Did not I stand by my brothers, both heathen and militia, to fight
back the invaders in bloody skirmishes most awful in the region of Niagara?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">This ball that I carry, that had pierced my
chest – I should give Thanksgiving of that. On that day as we fought against
others most foul, who invaded our lands, pillaging and burning, my blood did
roughly boil as we shouted our cries ‘Remember York’ and beat against them we
did, till the pain ripped through my chest and my neutered body fell. Left I
was as the battle in woodland was pressed against us. I am told that day ended
well. Having sent the offenders crying for home, my own militia came back in
search of we wounded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">They found me there, already roughly
tended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My bloodied chest was
unnaturally bared to heaven, and sewn was the hole where the musket bolt should
have seen my end. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">On me they found lying the leaden ball,
and… a single, small, black rose. A native one, no bigger be the bud than my
finger width. I have pressed it here. It is not aged to blackness as one may think.
It was fresh and black when they found it on me. With the ball it was kept for
me during my recovery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Being the 3<sup>rd</sup> of June, 1816.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">And on this day, should I be most thankful.
For I walk through streets of York rebuilt where buildings had once been burned.
I will shortly see my sweetheart, Emily, who is promised me this summer and on
the morrow I will visit her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Then as I stand overcome on a corner there,
wondering that such rebuilding be glorious in the sunshine, a small thing is
pressed in my hand, I barely notice by whom, though a figure a good foot
shorter than I did scurry through the crowd. Of native extract, I saw braided
black tresses on her back, but only through a fleeting glimpse. Most strange.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">In my hand did prick my palm for there did
I find… a single, small, black rose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Being the 4<sup>th</sup> of Jun 1816.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Oh calamity, dismay! For what have I done?
On seeing my Emily, she did turn me away. For thinking it a thing of beauty,
and so unique a thing as ever I did see, I gave my Emily… a single, small, black
rose, the one most recently pressed in my hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Her eyes were so hollow, hurt to her core
was she. I see her still, the rose in her hand, and the tears that they did
bring. What had I done?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Being the 5<sup>th</sup> of June 1816.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">The soldiers did come, and roughly handle
me, but knowing the officer, I recalled to him my militia days and my lowly
once title of Sergeant, and the officer recognising me ordered me unhanded.
They took me so, for sorrow has befallen York as my sweetheart Emily was found
dead in her father’s house. Her bones were pitifully splintered, and bloody
marks did cover her, and on her broken body… a single, small, black rose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I protested my time, being as it was at the
tavern, where the owner and many others besides had seen me take my kit and sleep
beneath the benches where the other travellers did! It was not I that did this
thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Though… could I have done so? For having
drunk so much, I have no memory of things of that night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">My poor Emily. They left me there for my
innocence, but I felt no tears. For my Emily, I feel naught.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Being of the 18<sup>th</sup> of August,
1817.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I had not been convinced of myself for
writing for over this year, but have drifted afar from my previous abode.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I am here, of all places, in Fort William,
where the Northwest Trading Company does ply the richness of beaver fur – for
hats, I am told, in Europe. I have come this far to forget my unthankfulness,
and so that the stillness of my heart is not an insult to God. For I am assured
that God does not roam here, though when I walk these forests I cannot help but
think that God is only here, and that I offend him still.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I write this with wonder in my eyes, as I
hold a freshly sprout sister of the petals once I pressed here. From where it
came, I do not know. But found it on my person on my waking. So curious am I
that I will show the serving girl whose bed I sometimes keep, for somewhere
hereabouts must bloom others of these, small, black rose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Being of the 21<sup>st</sup> of August,
1817.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I cannot assume myself for what I am. I
stand here, my heart is still, no blood rushes my veins, nor pounds my pulse.
It has been so since the ball of shot was taken from me. I fear my secret is
known, for a <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>native man hissed a new name for me…
Wendigo.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">The serving girl at Boucher’s house and
canteen was found. On her blood soaked body… a single, small, black rose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I am finished this, I know not what my
curse… but must end myself, I will do so.</span></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-66002100394350102012017-11-09T22:51:00.002-06:002017-11-14T20:01:06.783-06:00Death Cap - A Thanksgiving Horror Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span class="_3oh- _58nk" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: white;"> Flash Fiction 11-10-17</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span class="_3oh- _58nk" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: white;">Entry #1 </span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span class="_3oh- _58nk" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: white;"> Death Cap - A Thanksgiving Horror Story</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span class="_3oh- _58nk" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: white;"> By Dean Sault </span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black;"><span class="_3oh- _58nk" style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "segoe ui" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: white;">“Daddy. Is this a good one?”
“Hang on Elsie, I’ll be right there. Don’t touch it. It might be poison.”
The young father arrived at his daughter’s side to examine her mushroom.
“Oh, Elsie, that one looks great. Good eyes. You can add it to your sack.”
The child slid a small spatula-like knife under the base of the mushroom, just as she had been taught, and delivered it to the canvas bag in her wicker basket.
After a morning of hunting wild mushrooms in the wilderness of Northwest California, the family of four returned to their remote cabin to take stock of their good fortune. They each dumped their mushrooms into a large bowl at the center of the table.
“Good job, kids. Wash up while mom and I select some for dinner.”
As soon as the children were out of earshot, their mother began her familiar complaints.
“Jacob, this is a waste of time. You know as well as I do, I’m not going to change my mind. I want the divorce, and that’s final.”
“You’re right, Cara, I don’t want a divorce. I was hoping this trip might give you reason to reconsider. When we spent our honeymoon here, you said this place was magical.”
“That was back when we were two immature kids," she snapped. "We had no business getting married so young, much less, starting a family right away.”
Jacob tapped his index finger on the table without commenting.
The children ran back into the kitchen, hands still dripping wet.
“Who got the most, daddy?” Elsie asked, always competing with her little brother who did not even seem to realize they were in a competition.
“It doesn’t matter,” Cara said, ignoring her daughter’s question. “There’s something your father and I need to tell you kids.”
“Cara, please! Not now,” Jacob pleaded, “Let the kids enjoy this vacation. We can discuss it on the trip home.”
His wife reluctantly agreed.
Cara and the kids entered the living room while Jacob washed mushrooms and prepared salads for dinner.
“What kind of salad dressing do you guys want?” he called into the other room.
“I want Caesar, Daddy.” Elsie was first to answer, as always.
“Me too!” Charlie, her little brother chimed in.
“Do we have any dried tomato and spices?” Cara asked politely.
“Yep,” Jacob answered. “You want it on your salad, or separate?”
“Separate, please.”
Jacob reached into the pocket of his coat, hanging on a wall hook by the mudroom. He retrieved a small plastic bag containing two off-white mushrooms. He cut them into four halves. Three of those pieces, he then chopped up and added to his wife’s salad while placing the forth section into the community basket.
Jacob’s teriyaki chicken meal was delicious featuring fresh salad with mushrooms found by the kids. This was their traditional Thanksgiving meal, enjoyed every fall since their first child was born. After the kids grew old enough to pass judgment on varieties of fungi, Cara and Jacob encouraged them to participate in the mushroom hunts but checked every one for edibility.
Later in the evening, Cara complained of stomach cramps, soon followed by violent diarrhea and vomiting. She spent the evening in the bathroom while her husband dutifully attended to her needs, holding her long black hair back as she retched into the toilet.
“Oh my God, I feel terrible.” Cara spoke between breaths.
“You’ll be okay in the morning, honey. There’s a twenty-four flu going around at the university.”
Jacob offered false hope, well aware of the symptoms of death cap mushroom poisoning. After a few hours, her initial illness would pass, but the toxins would silently destroy her major organs.
As Jacob promised, Cara felt much better in the morning.
“I wonder what that was.” She pondered her sudden onset illness. “Maybe I got a bad mushroom.”
“I doubt it. I inspected every one the kids picked. Did you pick any that you weren’t sure about?”
“No...,” Cara suddenly became suspicious. “Jacob, you wouldn’t?”
“Are you accusing me of what I think you are?” Her husband acted offended.
“I’m sorry, Jacob. You may be a lousy husband, but you would never do anything to hurt the children. Maybe you’re right. It felt like a twenty-four-hour flu.”
During the next two days, the family played as if there was nothing wrong. Both parents attempted to make the last-ever family vacation pleasant.
Cara began to grow tired and weak on day three. Her skin showed slight jaundice of early liver failure. Soon, she lay in bed shivering from a sense of cold that only became worse despite ample blankets.
Jacob watched with myriad emotional conflicts as his wife slipped into the end stages of death cap poisoning. When the children expressed concern about their sick mother, he assured them she would be okay after the flu passed.
“Jacob! Jacob, where are you?” Cara called out weakly from the bedroom.
He excused himself from eating popcorn with the children in front of the fire, promising to be right back.
“What Cara?”
“You did it! Didn’t you?” She struggled to push up on one elbow but fell back. “You son-of-a-bitch, you did it!”
Jacob leaned close to her face.
“I told you Cara. You will never take my children from me.”
He left the room, closing the door so he could enjoy the kids in peace while she passed into inevitable coma.
The next morning, Cara was unresponsive. Jacob acted upset as he loaded his children and limp wife into the car for the long drive to the nearest hospital. After two hours, he pulled into the Emergency Room parking lot and ran through the ambulance entrance, calling desperately for help.
Cara's passing became just another statistic of Death Cap mushroom poison</span>ing.</span></span></span></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-17218944676661868332017-07-23T18:39:00.003-05:002017-07-23T18:39:44.735-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8RiGiBH0DdCMT56Fk_cdV00TF_1enElJlcQptCrcYHBGZzB9DZZ14-BpyxrIIuTuXFXLaplcYMf9zd79xqx6sWfUIVCmSFcIlE9cEYxCJ6TQt2fOI9JLMpKxvqG3g1mDUdBFYxKK6JmE/s1600/eve+banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="850" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8RiGiBH0DdCMT56Fk_cdV00TF_1enElJlcQptCrcYHBGZzB9DZZ14-BpyxrIIuTuXFXLaplcYMf9zd79xqx6sWfUIVCmSFcIlE9cEYxCJ6TQt2fOI9JLMpKxvqG3g1mDUdBFYxKK6JmE/s640/eve+banner.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Eve: Book One of Eden's Exiles - Release date August 1st, 2017</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Links will be posted when they become available </b></i></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-44411752632092423172016-01-18T20:20:00.002-06:002016-01-18T20:20:20.175-06:00Has Mr. Gray killed Mr. Darcy?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
My mother once told me that I
should write romance novels. She said they sell really well and if I want to
become rich and famous, that would be the way to do it. I informed her that I
tend to kill my characters off which would make for a very short love story. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
While I don't write love stories I
do truly believe in the fairy tale. I love every ounce of cheesy goodness to
the point where if it was a literal thing I have orange residue on my
fingertips. The flowers, the poems, the goofy texts...all of it...sign me up. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Tonight while making dinner I had the sad cause to wonder if Mr. Gray may
have killed Mr. Darcy. One of my daughters was sitting at the table with her
girlfriends talking. I was only halfway listening when the friend began to
describe a movie. Words like submissive and dom caught my attention. These
girls are 13 & 14. When I was that age the only dom I had knowledge of was
Dom...inos Pizza. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2p1_JlTl2pDMNZ7Q19zGLykshaLcpqc9M9pAY8sziq3QL3il9mSbsRkM1aq72EE8x5nIf-cz083nBmRhiAhyphenhyphenyI6E4t7oqUOs-mrnjQYGOO2E-SOCEvBy9a4ni8n83q9mruuofG4-2i0/s1600/Christian-Grey-christian-grey-E1-83-A6-38073132-640-640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2p1_JlTl2pDMNZ7Q19zGLykshaLcpqc9M9pAY8sziq3QL3il9mSbsRkM1aq72EE8x5nIf-cz083nBmRhiAhyphenhyphenyI6E4t7oqUOs-mrnjQYGOO2E-SOCEvBy9a4ni8n83q9mruuofG4-2i0/s200/Christian-Grey-christian-grey-E1-83-A6-38073132-640-640.jpg" width="200" /></a>I stopped what I was doing and had
a conversation about what is appropriate for their age group. There was a lot
of crying and gnashing of teeth....from me. But I
hope I managed to convey that this was not a normal example of a relationship. Christian is a handsome billionaire. However, I am convinced that if this was George Constanza in his mother's basement or
Bubba down in the hollars in his mobile home with banjos playing in the
background that there would have been an entirely different conversation. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I believe that a story is supposed
to evoke emotion in its reader. Which this book clearly has. For that reason
alone I refused to jump on the bandwagon of bashing the book. Nor am I bashing
it now. But what I haven't thought of until just now, after hearing my
daughter's friend gush over how romantic it was, is this the new standard of
romance?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Where is Mr. Darcy declaring his
most ardent love in the middle of a rain storm? Or Jack Nicholson saying to
Helen Hunt<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“…<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I might be the only one who
appreciates how amazing you are in every single thing that you do, and … I
watch them, wondering how they can watch you bring their food, and clear their
tables and never get that they just met the greatest woman alive. And the fact
that I get it makes me feel good, about me.”</i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Or Julia Roberts saying to Hugh
Grant <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Don’t forget I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him
to love her.”</i></b> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I
love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an
hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle in
your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend
day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you
are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s
not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here
tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with
somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”—</i></b>Harry
(Billy Crystal) to Sally (Meg Ryan)<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="tpxlistextra25mostromanticmoviequotes217709-section-body"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“…If, however, your feelings have changed, I
will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love … I
love … I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="tpxlistextra25mostromanticmoviequotes217709-section-body">Long live Mr.
Darcy.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-36423282231320339432015-04-21T22:08:00.000-05:002015-04-21T22:54:39.063-05:00Lazarus Code<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div align="center" class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-align: center; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I am Ryder of the Pentimalli, a member of
the first families and Captain of the deep space exploration vessel,
Serendipity.”</i></b></div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
In the centuries since our forefathers tamed an
uncivilized land and revolted from a King we had grown complacent. When our
government waged cyber war on us the spirit of those long dead patriots was
ignited, sparking a second revolutionary war. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
It was then that the First Families were born.
Genetically enhanced humans who carried within our blood stream nano-bots that
repair and regenerate. We were meant to be the record keepers. The vanguard of
our species as we spread across time and space. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
I have returned home after a decades long mission
to find Earth devastated by the Weeping Death. A disease that has made it
possible for the dead to rise. With the help of my brothers and my crew we will
find who is responsible. They expected us to be complacent. They were wrong. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>Coming May 8th from Lir Press. </b></i></div>
<div class="Standard" style="mso-vertical-align-alt: auto; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-69398139048372436692014-03-02T15:25:00.000-06:002014-03-02T15:25:20.309-06:00The Sophia Katsaros Series<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUk81F51Q0yBlbZOvZnV7HJ_mArjUtbkMS5We8AUHf8LDrPjSbR5UD19Hii0PKBHzeaUYDOiGxT9kc1yGmEpiLrtqkIWSLMEU0KeZHt2xsZ33QD2znDTENTNXmeKCPS72lzqVBWeALmE/s1600/erato+banner.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUk81F51Q0yBlbZOvZnV7HJ_mArjUtbkMS5We8AUHf8LDrPjSbR5UD19Hii0PKBHzeaUYDOiGxT9kc1yGmEpiLrtqkIWSLMEU0KeZHt2xsZ33QD2znDTENTNXmeKCPS72lzqVBWeALmE/s1600/erato+banner.png" height="118" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lykaia-THE-SOPHIA-KATSAROS-SERIES-ebook/dp/B0094GCQFS/ref=pd_sim_sbs_kstore_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=0C1Z2F7F0SNCR4TRZYQH" target="_blank">Lykaia: Book 1</a><br />
<br />
<i><b>“We are the terrors that hunt the night. And we have never been human” </b></i><br />In
Greek mythology there’s a story of King Lykaonas of Arcadia and his
fifty sons who were cursed by the father of the gods, Zeus, to become
wolves. The very first Lycanthropes. <br /><br />Forensic pathologist,
Sophia Katsaros, receives a cryptic phone call from Greece telling her
that her brothers are missing and leaves to search for them. With the
help of Illyanna, her brother’s girlfriend, Sophia examines the evidence
but cannot accept a bizarre possibility: Has one or both of her
brothers been transformed during the Lykaia, the ceremony where Man is
said to become Wolf? <br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Erato-THE-SOPHIA-KATSAROS-SERIES-ebook/dp/B00HJB3FWS/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=0ATT8EN1XJC7M36XEGGS" target="_blank">Erato: Book 2</a><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><b>"A wolf knows nothing of revenge, but a man does."</b></i><br /><br />When
the smoldering remains of werewolves are discovered the alpha of the
Lykaonas Pack has one suspect, Dr. Sophia Katsaros, the only human to
learn their secret and live.<br /><br />The Efarmostís, a trio of
cinder colored werewolves. A law unto themselves, they have done the
dirty work of the pack for thousands of years. Once dispatched, they
won't stop until they catch their prey.<br /><br />As the body count
rises, Sophia fights for her life and the lives of those she loves. Out
of desperation Sophia strikes a dangerous bargain. Will she discover
the truth of the dryad? What is the ancient evil that has risen? Will
she find the killer before the Efarmostís find her?<br />
<br />
Selene: Book 3<br />
<br />
Coming later this year!</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-39452852058466371192014-01-16T20:37:00.000-06:002014-01-16T20:37:12.194-06:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">a<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwfrmsog6_Xzm1QuWDX1N3XEmf4y032l92pQGc4Cg97LeJydRluRQC7OO6UHJjfIIINff2_VX-kid6qDNy4bFb_FGij7gHO1CAWkB8-hE5gNDzJKazdVkz12xQ2HyEPvK7ty6UlRODL0/s1600/1504201_10153609856265375_1106688531_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwfrmsog6_Xzm1QuWDX1N3XEmf4y032l92pQGc4Cg97LeJydRluRQC7OO6UHJjfIIINff2_VX-kid6qDNy4bFb_FGij7gHO1CAWkB8-hE5gNDzJKazdVkz12xQ2HyEPvK7ty6UlRODL0/s1600/1504201_10153609856265375_1106688531_o.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 16pt;"><span style="color: white;">THE BINDING (Chronicles of Azaria #1)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 16pt;"><span style="color: white;">by<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 16pt;"><span style="color: white;">SAM DOGRA<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">BLURB<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">What do you do when you can't trust your heart?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">All seventeen year-old Eliza Bryant wants is to avoid a
Binding— the ancient spell that forces couples into a lifelong bond. It cursed
her sister, and for the last two years it’s tried to claim her, too. Her
monthly hiding ritual worked brilliantly, until the night she ran into Ryan, a
mysterious bounty-hunter. Now Bound to him, Eliza must spend every moment at
his side, else she’ll transform into an Unbound; a lifeless husk without mind
or soul.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">Unfortunately, Ryan’s not looking to settle, and Eliza is dragged
into his crazy life on the run. Still, she’s not going to take this lying down.
Between grappling with the false feelings conjured by the spell and fleeing an
unseen enemy, she plans to find a way to break her Binding; a feat nobody’s
achieved in two thousand years. The key to her freedom lies closer than she
thinks, and it’s deeply connected to Ryan’s past.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/151763005/The-Binding-Chronicles-of-Azaria-1-preview"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Read an excerpt</span></b></a><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: white;">REVIEWS<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">What an interesting concept, just seeing
someone by chance and then provided the timing is right, you find yourself
bound to them forever. Sounds a bit like a "love at first sight" only
the two people have no choice in the matter due to a "Binding Curse."
Eliza hoping to outwit the curse escaped into the forest only to be thwarted by
a wild bear so was it fate or circumstance? I liked Eliza though I sometimes
felt that honesty would have been the best policy. I did understand why she was
reluctant to own up to the binding as she barely knew Ryan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Ryan was actually a good guy and he
seemed genuine though he was on the run himself and had secrets of his own that
he was keeping from her. Desperate to hide the truth from her family, she flees
her home with Ryan making up a sordid past for herself. A love triangle of
sorts ensues when her childhood friend Adam finds out about the binding as he
yearns for something more and sets out to find her.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">When all the secrets have been revealed,
will Eliza be able to distinguish how she really feels. If there is a chance
that the curse can be reversed, who would Eliza pick if she was free to choose?
Her childhood friend Adam that she shares a history with or Ryan who claims to
love her now despite his binding to another. I can't wait to read the next book
to find out more about this triangle and will true love eventually prevail? –
Nereid, Amazon<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;">4.5 Stars. This exciting tale for New
Adult/Older YA crosses genres making it difficult to categorise in any one
area. Set in another world it has elements of sci-fi, fantasy and a just touch
of steampunk. The characters are magnetic and quickly draw you into this
exciting world where curses and magic become real. This passionate tale becomes
unstoppable leaving you devastated that the second instalment is yet to be
published - not a cliff-hanger, just totally addictive writing. – Tracie,
Goodreads<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><i><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Awesome! Can't wait for the next one!!!
– Molly Bonville, Goodreads</span></i><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><i><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">The Binding, by Sam Dogra, is an
excellent read, with superb settings and characterisation. I really cared what
happened to the main protagonist and the first person point of view, really
helped me to become immersed in the story. Only one minor criticism. The, use
of the word "to" instead of "at". For example: "Ryan
looked to the moon", or "I looked to my lap". This jarred me a
little, but apart from this nitpick, this is an almost perfect story and one
readers of all ages will enjoy. Highly recommended. –Kate Jack, Amazon</span></i><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: white;">ANIMATIONS<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="http://indigolightning.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/encyclopaedia-azaria-1-iasometer.html"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Encyclopaedia Azaria #1-
The Iasometer</span></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="http://indigolightning.blogspot.co.uk/2013/12/encyclopaedia-azaria-2-tale-of-binding.html"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Encyclopaedia Azaria #2-
The Tale of The Binding</span></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: white;">AUTHOR BIO<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Sam Dogra is a
junior doctor working in the UK, and is currently training to become a General
Practitioner. Between reviewing drug charts and X-rays, taking blood, saving
lives and getting grilled by consultants, she also writes fantasy fiction and
is a fantasy artist. She has co-written 'Fated: A Timeless Series Companion
Novel' with author Lisa Wiedmeier, and has also published her first novel The
Binding, and its sequel, The Parting, with a third book in progress. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">She's widely traveled, and has enjoyed her
visits to France, Germany, Norway, Greece, Egypt, Israel, Rhodes, Turkey,
Cyprus, Lesvos, India, Dubai, Australia, Canada and Idaho, Washington, New York,
Seattle and Alaska, USA.</span> <span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">Her other main
interest is fantasy art.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">In what little spare time she has, Sam also
enjoys reading, baking, shopping, watching movies and anime, astrology, video
games, collecting cuddly toy animals, and photography.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: white;">LINKS<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><b><u>Websi<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>te/ blog</u></b>: <a href="http://indigolightning.blogspot.co.uk/">http://indigolightning.blogspot.co.uk</a><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><b><u>Facebook</u></b>: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Chronicles-of-Azaria-Series/229718793739428">https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Chronicles-of-Azaria-Series/229718793739428</a><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><b><u>Twitter</u></b>: <a href="https://twitter.com/MadDoctorArtist">https://twitter.com/MadDoctorArtist</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><b><u>Artwork</u></b>: <a href="http://sam241.deviantart.com/">http://sam241.deviantart.com</a> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: white;">PURCHASE LINKS for BINDING<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Binding-Chronicles-Azaria-ebook/dp/B00D4AV7UU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1370080572&sr=8-1&keywords=chronicles+of+azaria"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">UK ebook</span></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Binding-Chronicles-Azaria-ebook/dp/B00D4AV7UU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1370080883&sr=8-1&keywords=chronicles+of+azaria"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">US ebook</span></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Binding-Chronicles-Azaria-Book/dp/1484920449/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1370368689&sr=8-1&keywords=chronicles+of+azaria"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">UK paperback</span></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Binding-Chronicles-Azaria-Book-One/dp/1484920449/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372966728&sr=1-2&keywords=chronicles+of+azaria"><span style="background-color: #660000; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: white;">US paperback</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-10354726635552684112013-12-15T13:09:00.003-06:002013-12-15T13:09:59.527-06:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPGqTN_5dfMDQiZqtVtTZNPsg39w2MU64pGRxiNSpuH90zrOxcClW4MN1Gc9H3MJ3a90FXR4hU0JgNzHipHtuPpZf76_Aotipz7brOersGW6t0UKXd9FSofzH6UE_B78D8f2pxGWz0mU/s1600/erato+cover+final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPGqTN_5dfMDQiZqtVtTZNPsg39w2MU64pGRxiNSpuH90zrOxcClW4MN1Gc9H3MJ3a90FXR4hU0JgNzHipHtuPpZf76_Aotipz7brOersGW6t0UKXd9FSofzH6UE_B78D8f2pxGWz0mU/s320/erato+cover+final.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Erato: Book Two in the Sophia Katsaros Series</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>due out December 20th. </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>"A Wolf knows nothing of revenge, but a Man does."</i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
When the smoldering remains of werewolves are discovered the Alpha of the Lykaonas pack has one suspect, Dr. Sophia Katsaros, the only human to learn their secret and live.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Efarmostis, a trio of cinder colored werewolves. They have done the dirty work of the pack for thousands of years. A law unto themselves, once dispatched they wont stop until they catch their prey. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
As the body count rises Sophia fights for her life and the lives of those she loves. Out of desperation Sophia strikes a dangerous bargain. Along the way, will she discover the truth of the Dryad? What is the ancient evil that has risen? Will she find the killer before the Efarmostis find her?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
****</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To learn how Sophia's adventures began, don't forget to pick up a copy of </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_6?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=lykaia%20the%20sophia%20katsaros%20series&sprefix=lykaia%2Caps%2C241&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Alykaia%20the%20sophia%20katsaros%20series" target="_blank">Lykaia: Book one in the Sophia Katsaros Series</a></div>
<br /></div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-72666141654690881412013-07-18T10:00:00.006-05:002013-07-18T10:33:49.191-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-bsd6e1Py5QkZOnXkH__dJrFIUHrVQCG2k7o38ODezSNBVvAf_SUdCnecoYPv8nWICVS68Bcz_RIp5QxeDPUKNOiR4YyXOA2A3Eilbx5NAAicw1alu7atcwnifIH_Ee9XGqYT2bGVsk/s1600/sotd+banner.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-bsd6e1Py5QkZOnXkH__dJrFIUHrVQCG2k7o38ODezSNBVvAf_SUdCnecoYPv8nWICVS68Bcz_RIp5QxeDPUKNOiR4YyXOA2A3Eilbx5NAAicw1alu7atcwnifIH_Ee9XGqYT2bGVsk/s320/sotd+banner.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Season-of-the-Dead-ebook/dp/B00DYIUB4U/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1374119586&sr=1-1&keywords=season+of+the+dead+kindle" target="_blank">Season of the Dead</a></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> Released July 18th by Spore Press</b></div>
<br />
<b><i>"It is said that unto everything there is a season...these are the stories of a group of survivors during the season of the dead."</i></b><br />
<br />
Four individuals fight to survive as the zombie apocalypse crashes over the world in a wave of terror and destruction. Color, creed, social standing mean nothing as the virus infects millions across the planet.<br />
<br />
Sharon: a zoologist from Nebraska, USA, has worked with the virus and has seen the effects on the human mind. She knows more about the virus than nearly anybody alive, and far more than she wants to.<br />
<br />
Gerry: from Ontario, Canada gets his first taste of the virus from inside a prison cell. Locked up after an anti-government riot, his prison guard transforms before his eyes into a flesh-craving zombie.<br />
<br />
Lucia: A chemist from Pittsburgh, USA, flees a furry convention dressed as a giant squirrel, and escapes from the city in a Fed-Ex van. She's a girl who knows when to run and when to fight.<br />
<br />
Paul: thinks he can sit out the apocalypse in his apartment block in Dublin, Ireland, until the virus comes to visit bursting his bubble and leaving him with no choice but to face reality or perish.<br />
<br />
All four begin perilous journeys in mind and body as they face daily trials to survive: Four threads, four different parts of the world, one apocalypse!<br />
<br /></div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-22997375848267268112013-05-09T09:09:00.001-05:002013-05-09T09:09:40.627-05:00Be Careful What You Wish For<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_dyjSGiFtYb8nUD8VQGTFsl8rSKvE3OK9FrrQUMqdc1a0JpNUse0Fp0uNPkdjNgF9BQtVzKrQLRkbV-Ya5SNqPdnZmt1GbAWel56uAJHCbkS5tRATAe0_YpxZp8wW0scAWvdMxNwEo0/s1600/bable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_dyjSGiFtYb8nUD8VQGTFsl8rSKvE3OK9FrrQUMqdc1a0JpNUse0Fp0uNPkdjNgF9BQtVzKrQLRkbV-Ya5SNqPdnZmt1GbAWel56uAJHCbkS5tRATAe0_YpxZp8wW0scAWvdMxNwEo0/s320/bable.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i>Interesting….<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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They found it. I thought that it had been hidden so well by
the sands of time that such an event was impossible. You would think that by
now I would have learned that the impossible is not only possible, but a
guaranteed, eventuality. </div>
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I had been dreaming about my childhood. Of days when I
played in the sun, running through scorching sands and dancing along sparkling
rivers. I had been born beautiful. Or so I was told. Because everyone told me
it was true I never questioned it. And because I was beautiful nothing else was
required of me. When I was three, the king came for me. I was to be his wife.
Not his only wife, the twenty-seventh, to be exact. But my family did not care
what number I was. As for me, well, I was never asked. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The sound of their digging woke me from my sleep, thousands
of miles away. </div>
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The sands of my homeland were being disturbed. The parts of
me that resided there still cried out. The call cleared the cobwebs from my
sleep fogged brain and demanded that I wake. And because I had nothing else of
note to distract me, I went.</div>
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I flew to the other side of the globe where an excavation
site had been constructed. A grid pattern had been plotted making neat squares
of the dig. Laborers dressed in flowing robes dug through layers of sediment
that had seen Romans and Mongols alike come and go. I watched, curious and more
excited than I would have thought possible. Had they really found it? And if so,
how much of it was left?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had become adept at watching mankind. Humans, content in
their place on the food chain, never look up. I discovered long ago all I had
to do was move above their line of sight and I could watch. Undisturbed and
unnoticed. </div>
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The grating of metal on stone sounded in the stillness. They
worked during the coolness of night. The desert sun baked the life out of
anything that dared to brave it’s scorching rays. Dawn was still a few hours
off and yet the huge flood lights illuminating the dig created a false day.</div>
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I was watching closely now. Focusing my eyes upon the shovel
that found what had been lost to legend. They said it was a tower. But such
descriptions conjured images of a drunken structure in Pisa. This was never a
tower. It was a ziggurat, stair stepping itself towards the heavens. But not
just a ziggurat, a temple.</div>
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A temple to a king that thought he needed twenty seven
wives. A king that, like most men, wanted something bigger and better than
others had. </div>
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The blood of thousands was shed to build it. Slaves who were
not given the luxury of working at night, toiled endlessly. They worked until
they dropped. When life left them, they were thrown into a pile. If their
family came for them, fine. If not, the fires would receive them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember watching the construction throughout my
childhood. “When it is complete we will be married,” he told me. And because it
was what I was raised for, I smiled and nodded. But deep inside me, the part
that hated the fat king and his greasy hands, hated that temple just as much. I
prayed daily that it would never be completed. Which just goes to show you, be
careful what you ask for. Or at least
have a care for how you word your requests.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the day the last brick was laid, the day the golden doors
were hung in the temple that sat at the highest part, I was pulled from my bed and
prepared for my wedding. I was fourteen. A woman grown by the standards of the
day. And yet I cried a child’s tears. Deep gut wrenching sobs for all that had
been lost and all that would never be, though my eyes were dry. It would not do
for me to show anything but a smile. And so I smiled my false smile to the
attendants that dressed me. But that didn’t make my tears any less real. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prayed once more that I would not have to be married to
the king. I wanted to have a life. A life like no one had ever had. An
interesting life. As I ended my prayer a mighty storm arose. I can’t recall
what happened. I know only that I found myself wandering in the dessert,
scorched, bruised and unmarried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spoke to everyone I saw as the days went on. Not one of them
understood me. Nor I them. Even the ones that looked familiar, the ones that
wore the colors of my homeland spoke in a language that I could not name.
Giving each other confused glances we went on our separate ways. Eventually, I
stumbled upon a cave. In the darkness sat an old crone. She was staring at me
expectantly, as if she had been waiting for me. She was not well pleased. Apparently,
I was late. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She offered me a drink. I took it. Silly girl that I was. As
the last drop of liquid slid down my throat she smiled. Then she stood up and
walked out into the sunrise. When the first fingers of dawn touched her skin she
cried out. And then, like a fire well stoked, she ignited. Orange flames danced
around her, but she made no effort to extinguish them. I screamed and tried to put out the flames but
my skin began to blister as the light hit me. In terror I ran back into the
cave. I watched as she was reduced to ash. An ash so fine the dessert winds
carried it away, along with my old life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No more would I play in the sun. I had given up light for
life. A life I have lived well. Nearly 12,000 years if my estimation is
correct. The uncovering of the temple seemed like a fitting end to such a life.
And so for the last time I watched as the sun rose, painting the sky crimson
and then blush before blue settled in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stood in the shadows and stretched my fingers out
expecting to feel pain. But none came. I took a cautious step forward. As the
sun bathed me in golden light I waited for the flames. Nothing happened. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, this is interesting.” </div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-32018141603275305022013-03-27T15:33:00.001-05:002013-03-27T15:33:07.070-05:00Succubus Kiss<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBOYnRTiH37NzDCQqfd7l_SHbIr2sDGuEkEQC7Gambx7VfKwYs3Zp904shqxdjC9QJbrU5R2XCZPxp-yQ20-UET4vFEDbul2siVe4nrLIhYCMB4cE10prKmvsm2SzbJPnK9Eqxd7_GJo/s1600/malleus-maleficarum-9788496449190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBOYnRTiH37NzDCQqfd7l_SHbIr2sDGuEkEQC7Gambx7VfKwYs3Zp904shqxdjC9QJbrU5R2XCZPxp-yQ20-UET4vFEDbul2siVe4nrLIhYCMB4cE10prKmvsm2SzbJPnK9Eqxd7_GJo/s320/malleus-maleficarum-9788496449190.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Succubus Kiss<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He lay upon the bed. His frail chest rising and falling
rapidly. It seemed strange to me that a man who had been responsible for taking
so many lives would soon loose his. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On his nightstand sat a book. <b><i>Malleus Maleficarum</i></b>. “The Hammer of
the Witches.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The light of the moon shown in through the window placed
high on the wall. I crossed my legs, the buckle on my shoe caught that cold light
and gave it back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That I loved him was never the question. That he loved me
was also never cause for doubt. That he had me tried for witchcraft and
summarily executed was equally factual. That I died. Well, therein lay the crux
of our story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rose from the old rocker that had seen a constant presence
for the past several months. It amused me to think what their reaction would be
to find me sitting there. “They would likely use it for kindling. Throw it into
the hungry flames just as I had been,” I said aloud not caring who heard, if
anyone should care to hear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wake up, Heinrich, ” I whispered against his lips. It was
my gift, this kiss. I knew it would rouse his mind just as it had his body when
life had coursed vigorously through his veins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyelids fluttered and I smiled. They opened. The grey
film that had obscured his vision for so long cleared. I smiled again. It
wasn’t a genuine smile. More a demonstration that I had teeth. He flinched when
he saw me. The real me. The me that lived in this body. The me that had survived
when he put me to death. The me that mothered his children through that body.
And the mother that mourned when he had those children killed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Meridiana,” he croaked, his voice unused to speech. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled again. “Yes, my love.” I pushed the frail white
hair back from his forehead watching it turn the fine chestnut color that his
youth had known. “So much began with a kiss,” I said as my lips caressed his
again. This kiss was long and slow. I relished the feeling of the magic as it
encircled him. His breath evened out. His heart remembered the rhythm of long
ago and settled into it like a well worn coat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What have you made of me?” he asked his voice now strong
and confident. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Incubus,” I said, my
laughter echoing in the small cell while he screamed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Author’s Notes<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>The Malleus Maleficarum</i></b> (Latin for "Hammer of the
Witches", or "Der Hexenhammer" in German) is an infamous
treatise on witches, written in 1486 by Heinrich Kramer, an Inquisitor of the
Catholic Church, and was first published in Germany in 1487</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is said that Pope Sylvester II (999–1003) was involved
with a succubus named <b><i>Meridiana</i></b>, who helped him achieve
his high rank in the Catholic Church. Before his death, he confessed of his
sins and died repentant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-24861139209321353542013-03-01T12:32:00.001-06:002013-03-01T12:32:19.099-06:00Apophos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPc00lCZlUAdmpPCX7jKC5b0ir0hasaxgZ-VCYhn8SuGQivHt1uACxNup_cJcmXB6FWv9spk8CuSqt8la5ulpRBjPSte8yzwmwVF8JYDDoh6e-F9kfDhnQtlka0U0CIUGSZQLAtP35v8A/s1600/Lunar+base.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPc00lCZlUAdmpPCX7jKC5b0ir0hasaxgZ-VCYhn8SuGQivHt1uACxNup_cJcmXB6FWv9spk8CuSqt8la5ulpRBjPSte8yzwmwVF8JYDDoh6e-F9kfDhnQtlka0U0CIUGSZQLAtP35v8A/s320/Lunar+base.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Apophos<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good morning, ma’am,” Hiro said as the base commander entered
the control room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, it’s morning,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “We shall
see if it proves to be good or not.” He grinned and placed her favorite mug in her hands,
filled to the brim with steaming hot coffee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sighed enjoying the aroma. Out of all the people on
Lunar Outpost Lobos, Hiro was her favorite to work with. When she reported to duty in
the morning the command center was always well organized and running along without a
hitch. She never worried when he had the watch. And he made coffee. Damn good
coffee at that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Anything, I need to know?” she asked as she walked over to
the sliding doors that separated the command center from the “outside”. The
lunar base was situated under a dome made out of a synthetic carbon lattice. It
perfectly mimicked the hardness and clarity of diamond. She remembered standing
on earth as it was being constructed. Whenever the sun’s light struck the dome
it looked very much like the man in the moon was crying. One single, crystalline
tear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around the base of the dome was a opaque wall several
stories high. Upon that wall a hologram was projected. Today, it was the ocean. They even
piped in the sounds and smells associated with each scene. And so it was, as
she walked out onto the lunar soil, the glowing blue magnificence of Earth hung
above an azure Caribbean sea. She could even hear gulls crying, signing soprano to the
deeper voice of the ocean waves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the command center she heard the triple chime that heralded
a call from Jupiter Space station. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ma’am, I think you need to come in here.” Hiro was never
agitated, that his voice quavered concerned her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With one last glance at the cerulean waters she strode back
inside, closing the door behind her, silencing the surf. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A spate of Mandarin flowed freely over the intercom. When she took this assignment three
years ago she was required to learn no less than 5 languages. Mandarin was not
included in her packet. She looked at Hiro inquiringly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m Japanese. I don’t speak Mandarin,” he said with a
shrug. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is commander Daniels. I don’t speak Mandarin.
Please use the common tongue.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry, we have a situation, ma’am.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I gathered that. Are you going to tell me? Or must I
guess?” she asked downing the last dregs of her coffee. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s Apophos,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The meteor? What about it? We have been watching it. Its
not supposed to pass by Earth’s orbit for 105 days. We estimated it would come
no closer than 2.5 LD’s. I don’t see why that’s a problem.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s been a miscalculation.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Elaborate,” she commanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It passed closer to Jupiter than we expected. It was caught
in the gravity well… and…Jupiter launched it like a shot put.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She did her level best not to curse. It was a habit that did
not suit a commander. Or at least that’s what her father drilled into her from
the time she could walk. The only problem was that she now knew several more
languages. All of which had a vast array of swear words, tailor made for
situations like this. “What’s it’s new trajectory, speed?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We don’t know”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What do you mean you don’t know?” And this time she
indulged herself, swearing under her breath in fluent Japanese. The corner of
Hiro’s mouth curled up. But, being a lifelong military man, he new that discretion
was the better part of valor, and left. She would need more coffee, he was
bound to find it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We had it clocked at approximately 250,000 kph. It’s
current speed has taken it out of range. Mars station should be picking it up
on long range sensors soon. They should be able to get a read.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hiro…” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mars Space Station on the vid, ma’am,” he said as he placed
another cup of coffee in her hands and opened the channel to Mars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Tell me what you’ve got, Commander Fedorov,” she demanded
in lieu of greeting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We just spotted it. At first I thought we had missed
something important. I could not believe that this was Apophos.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She grunted, imagining his surprise when his long range
sensors started squawking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We have it traveling at a speed of approximately 442,000
kph.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She cursed again, this time in Italian. “What’s the impact probability?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Impact is assured,” he said quietly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A quick glance at the solar system
simulation on the wall showed that Jupiter was currently at it’s closest to
Earth. “That is just perfect,” she hissed. The urge to throw the mug across the
room was hard to resist. But the waste of good coffee and the destruction of
millions of dollars of equipment stayed her hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The details were beamed to her, as Hiro dialed up a
connection with Earth. Normally, she would put on her dress uniform when she
spoke with Earth’s President. There simply was no time today. “How long?” He
asked coming straight to the point after she briefed him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“59 days.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What can we expect?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Apophos is 0.270 kilometers in diameter. If its a land
impact you can expect earthquakes of 13 on the Richter scale. If its a water
impact there will be Tsunamis between 1-2 kilometers high.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What is your advice?” he asked running a hand over his
face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get to higher ground, and get under ground.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We have 9 Billion people on this planet commander. What do you propose I do with them?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, sir. Lobos is self-sufficient for 72 people.
Those of us who took this assignment have been chemically sterilized as a means
to stabilize our population. The base is balanced for those exact numbers. We
cannot handle even one extra person. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The space stations were similarly balanced. Manning and maintaining space stations was a delicate and expensive undertaking. There was simply no margin for extra people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sir?” she asked, hating what she was about to say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, Commander,” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We expect a 70-80% world-wide extinction rate.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The president, being ex-marine, looked at her like one old
soldier to another. “It’s been a pleasure serving with you, Commander.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And you, Sir,” she said, as she ended the video connection.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two months later as cool Himalayan air greeted her, she
stood and watched, along with mankind’s remnant as Apophos slammed into the
middle of the Atlantic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whose bright idea was it to name a meteor after a demon?”
she asked.</div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-62220214927824806362013-01-10T10:47:00.000-06:002013-02-24T11:51:41.567-06:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Erato:<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>Book Two in the Sophia Katsaros
Series<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDX9LSgNtnMNba8A9vM9uadePRYFLL6VJeiRi8Z141pkUqIUCWLKtmqh9Zc6ktW3xz7fa8qZMYbSG48uB_1AO-E81ZghSEq_0IqF4h-R_Yueh5KpRprNVol79yu_HgivjYdyeetDM27HA/s1600/293937_401708496572105_972387521_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDX9LSgNtnMNba8A9vM9uadePRYFLL6VJeiRi8Z141pkUqIUCWLKtmqh9Zc6ktW3xz7fa8qZMYbSG48uB_1AO-E81ZghSEq_0IqF4h-R_Yueh5KpRprNVol79yu_HgivjYdyeetDM27HA/s320/293937_401708496572105_972387521_n.jpg" width="226" /></a>Hello everyone, I thought I would post an update on the series.
I just finished book 2 and am now in the editing process. Yay! Once I've read through
it and made some changes I’ll send that off to my editors. I’m hoping the book
will be out in March or April. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Book 2 picks up at exactly where book 1 ends. Obviously, as
there is a book 2, Sophia manages to survive the encounter with the wolf in her
apartment. I don’t want to ruin it for you, so I won’t tell you how. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I began this book, I thought I knew how it was going to
end. And while that ending stayed true, I had characters still living that I
expected to be dead. Which just goes to show that I don’t have any real control
over my characters. I just take dictation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what’s this book about? Well, as with the last book,
there are several threads that are woven together as the story progresses. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With this book there is a wolf story-line. The wolves are being
hunted. No one knows who is doing it, or why and the wolves bodies are left burnt and smoldering. This is not how the wolves tend to their dead and they find it incredibly
offensive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there is Sophia’s story line. Her story is the tent
pole that all the other ribbons twine around. So, as I said the wolves are being hunted and based
on the events of the last book, Sophia is their main suspect. The <i>Efarmostís</i>,
the enforcers for the pack, are sent to eliminate what is perceived as a threat
to them. That would be Sophia. But America is not Europe and giant wolves in Cincinnati
Ohio create quite a news sensation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, there are some innocent people that are
killed. In an effort to protect those she loves Sophia makes a deal with the Alpha of the pack to help him find the killer. The problem with that is the
<i>Efarmostís </i>are a law unto themselves, and once they are dispatched they are not
so easily recalled. So, what remains to
be seen is if Sophia can find the real killer before the Enforcers find her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And lastly, there is the story of the Dryad. If you stop and
think her story is the reason for all of the others. In her quest to find love
she had a child, Accalia. That child became queen and was betrayed. That
betrayal was the cause for the curse that created the Lykaonas pack. In this
book we learn more about the dryad. Her loves, and losses and about her decision
to interact with humans. Her relationship with her grandchild Illyanna is
developed. And we learn what role, if any, she is to play in Sophia’s life. </div>
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This series hinges on the notion that the Greeks gods are
only myths. But that within those myths lay truth. And those truths include
dryads, naiads, oceanids and wolves that take human form. In this book, I take
the myth of the Satyr god Pan and explain that. The image above is of Pan playing his pipes for the dryads to dance to. </div>
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I had a lot of fun writing this book. It took me on a journey
of twists and turns. There are some new characters as well as the return of
some old favorites. The rise of ancient evil and explanation of dryad magic
round out the book. </div>
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I look forward to sharing this with you, and hope that you
enjoy it as much I did. </div>
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~Sharon </div>
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Lykaia: Book 1 of the Sophia Katsaros series can be found in all formats</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lykaia-SOPHIA-KATSAROS-SERIES-ebook/dp/B0094GCQFS/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1357836265&sr=8-1" target="_blank">E-book</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lykaia-Volume-Sharon-Van-Orman/dp/0988192349/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1357836265&sr=8-2&keywords=lykaia" target="_blank">Paperback</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lykaia-Sophia-Katsaros-Series-Book/dp/B00ARE8OJI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1357836265&sr=8-1&keywords=lykaia" target="_blank">Audio</a></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-41902018293550283812012-12-11T09:12:00.001-06:002012-12-11T09:14:22.132-06:00Zombie Outbreak in Venice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWEcHjsoIKir8r5sglvo4Wg4eSTuvDyL8gIkGojtCujSbL2RjIuOSzf97fHq31jDJNMxufzhXr_a97yW6optGohIVI66X9TYVnxDC8-YvEXLoQwlZ-8NbftiYZehtDTPSqNHVxtXGeW0/s1600/The+Bridge+of+Sighs+Venice+Italy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWEcHjsoIKir8r5sglvo4Wg4eSTuvDyL8gIkGojtCujSbL2RjIuOSzf97fHq31jDJNMxufzhXr_a97yW6optGohIVI66X9TYVnxDC8-YvEXLoQwlZ-8NbftiYZehtDTPSqNHVxtXGeW0/s320/The+Bridge+of+Sighs+Venice+Italy.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
“Venice sits on a group of 118 small islands separated by canals and linked by bridges. Located in the Venetian Lagoon it stretches between the Po and the Piave Rivers. Known for its beauty of setting, its architecture and artwork, it is listed as a World Heritage Site, along with the lagoon,” I intoned to the group of tourist that followed along behind me, my heels tapping smartly on the pavers as their cameras snapped away.<br />
<br />
I was taking them through the <i>Piazza San Marco</i> on the way to the basilica. “If you will come with me I will show you the <i>Basilica Cattedrale Patriarcale di San Marco,”</i> I said, pausing to make sure no one from my group had wandered off.<br />
<br />
I stood there for a moment allowing them to digitally record whatever they found interesting.A bead of sweat trickled down my neck inching towards my shoulders blades. Across the square I saw Giovanna and waved to her as she led her group of Japanese tourists. She waved, smiled and turned back to her group. The sound of her rapid fire speech drifting on the slight breeze coming off the canals.<br />
<br />
I adjusted my uniform and once more lamented silently about how uncomfortable it was in this heat. I grimaced in resignation. I waved to my group. They followed after me, sighing in relief over the blessed coolness as we stepped into the basilica. “The first St Mark's was constructed in 828 A.D and then burned in a rebellion in 976. It was rebuilt in 978 and consecrated in 1094. Within the first half of the 13th century the narthex and the new façade were constructed. That is also when most of the mosaics were completed,” I paused to direct their attention to the mosaics.<br />
<br />
Just then the hushed stillness of the basilica was shattered as a scream rent the air stalling the clicking of cameras. “<i>Madre di Dio</i>,” I whispered my hand going instantly to my throat to still my racing heart. My group was starting to move towards the door. I didn’t know what was going on outside, but I needed to keep them safe. “Please, everyone,” I said, waving my hands at the group so that they would gather around me. “Please, stay here. I will go see what is happening. Do not leave the basilica.” They nodded and gave me wide eyes. I walked quickly to the door, trying not to break into a run at the sound of more screaming.<br />
<br />
The wail of police sirens, raised voices and shrill whistles added to the mayhem I beheld when I stepped outside. Several of the Piazza Security were gathered around a man. They were trying to force him to the ground as he thrashed and yelled. He groaned, the sound of it sending shivers down my spine. I gasped as he tried to bite one of the officers. The officer panicked and let go of the man who took that opportunity to latch his jaws onto the throat of another officer. Blood spurted into the air, landing like scarlet rain on the ancient pavers of the square.<br />
<br />
“Holy shit,” said a man from my group. He and his wife were on their second honeymoon now that the kids were grown. His thick Texas accent made him pronounce the word ‘sheeit’. He was standing just behind me. I should have turned and made them all go back into the church, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the scene before me. There had been rumors all over the internet about a virus that made the dead walk and the living act like monsters. I had dismissed them all as nonsense. Now, as I watched, I struggled to remember what I had read.<br />
<br />
The police showed up en force and cleared the tourists from the area. I took a step forward and held a hand up to my eyes to ward off the late day sun.<br />
<br />
“Ofelia!” I turned at the sound of my name to see Giovanna walking swiftly towards me with her group in tow. They followed her like frightened children. The clicking of their cameras chorused behind her, echoing her steps.<br />
<br />
“Giovanna,” I said, hugging her tight. She was my flat mate and I was glad that she was ok. “Did you see what happened?” I asked, making sure to speak in Italian so that our groups would not understand.<br />
<br />
“<i>Si</i>,” she said. I could see that she had grown pale under her summer tan before she turned to her group to speak in Japanese. I presumed she told them to go into the basilica because they filed in obediently. I turned to my group and tried to do the same. But my American group was far less cooperative than her group. They had gathered around the entrance, peering through binoculars at the carnage.<br />
<br />
“Zombies,” I heard a whisper bleed through the crowd. The sound of it plucked at my spine like a harp cord. My blood ran cold and my breath left me in a rush. I didn’t believe the rumors but I had to put a stop to this before things got out of control and they panicked.<br />
<br />
“Giovanna,” I said catching her arm. She turned towards me once more. I could see the fear in her eyes and knew that she had heard the word too. “We have to get this under control. Help me get everyone inside so that we can close the doors.” She nodded and took my hand.<br />
<br />
“Come please,” I said to my group. “We need to stay out of the way until we have been told we can leave. Everyone inside.” I used my best tour guide voice and tried to imbue it with as much authority as I could muster hoping that none of them would notice the slight tremor.<br />
<br />
A woman screamed high and shrill startling the pigeons who took to the wing by the hundreds. For a moment the sky looked gray with the flutter of feathers. Frightened whispers came from behind me. “Hurry,” I said to Giovanna as we grabbed the heavy doors. It would take us both to close just one.<br />
<br />
People panicked, running through the square, screaming in a myriad of languages. It sounded like a bird aviary had erupted in a harsh cacophony. The guard that had been bitten lay still on the ground. I swallowed and pushed the doors as hard as I could.<br />
<br />
Movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention. She had been laying on the stones. The red soles of her designer shoes blended with the pool of blood she lay in. I couldn’t tell where the blood had come from, or if it was all hers. Her black dress was wet and shiny. Her lovely hat lay next to her trampled and ruined, just like she was. As I watched, her hand twitched, then she sat up. Her head bobbed forward, the ruin of her neck unable to support its weight. Giovanna whimpered, biting her lip to keep from screaming. I watched, numb with shock as a woman who should not alive stood up.<br />
<br />
“Shut the doors,” I whispered. And then yelled more urgently. “Help me shut the doors!” The Texan and his wife ran over along with a couple of the Japanese men. Together we pushed on the massive doors shutting each one with a resounding thud. Through the crack, just before they closed, I saw the woman turn and look at me. Her lips drew back in a snarl as she grabbed the medic that came to attend her. Yanking his head back by the hair she bit into his throat. The sounds of his pain-filled scream rang in my ears long after the doors shut them out.<br />
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***<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<br />
Three days later we were still hiding in the basilica as the world outside descended into chaos. Those that had been injured had risen from mortal wounds and infected others, who in turn took that virus home to infect their loved ones. We had been lied to. The news reports, unable to deliver the truth, had told us falsehoods in the effort to forestall panic. All it did was make sure we died just like the sheep they thought us all to be.<br />
<br />
Evidentially, the virus had been in Italy for weeks, but no one had said anything. We were all in denial, unable to fathom such atrocity we hid our heads in the sand and pretended that life was just fine, and that this too, would pass.<br />
<br />
There was a cafeteria in the back of the cathedral for the clergy so we had some food, but it was meager and running low. An air of desperation and fear hung in space that normally saw only the awestruck voices of the reverent.<br />
<br />
I had my cell phone and had tried to call my boyfriend Marco the first night, but there had been no answer. By mid-morning of the following day cell service went down and the power failed.<br />
<br />
The emergency lights flickered on, harsh and red casting a morbid glow on all that they touched. As the hours passed a family from Giovanna’s group had decided that they would brave the world outside in an effort to get back to their hotel and then home. I argued, begged and pleaded for them not to go. In the end, I cracked open a side door and whispered a prayer for their safe passage. I watched as the man, his wife and their two young daughters were run down under a horde of the infected. They fell on them like a pack of wolves and ripped them limb from limb.<br />
<br />
More and more of our group decided to leave. I let them. Who was I to stop them? They could see as well as I what was happening. If they thought they could get home safely I wished them the best and added their names to the growing litany of my prayers. Not one of them lived, but most of them walked. <br />
<br />
I lay on a pew looking up at the beautiful ceiling of the basilica wondering if today I would die. It was my birthday. I was 23.<br />
<br />
“Ofelia,” Giovanna said kneeling beside me. “Mr. Watkins said he can get us out of the city. He has a boat docked not far away.” Watkins was the Texan I thought as I lay there blinking at her. He had not flown in, but chose to sail to Italy and then tour the Mediterranean. It seemed like a pretty idea. Pity they had been met with death.<br />
<br />
We had been unable to leave due to the police presence, but now as most of them were dead or gone there was nothing to keep us here. They wanted to leave, I wished them well and continued my perusal of the ceiling. <br />
<br />
“Ofelia,” she said again shaking me, trying to rouse me from my stupor.<br />
<br />
“If’n you are just gonna lay down an die, I ‘spect I can’t stop you, but it seems a terrible shame. And a bit yellow if you ask me,” Mr. Watkins said, his head suddenly appearing over the edge of the pew. His big cream colored cowboy hat was hallowed in red from the lights. I swallowed and tried to rouse the urge to care. I couldn’t seem to find any.<br />
<br />
Giovanna reached over and twisted the sensitive skin of my underarm painfully. I screamed and sat up with a stream of Italian curses. Mr. Watkins chuckled and stepped back. “I knew you had it in you girl. Now come on, I don’t plan on dying today,” I glared at Giovanna as I rubbed away the crescent marks her nails had made. She grinned at me like a loon and then leaned in to hug me tight.<br />
<br />
“We have to survive this, I don’t think I’d look good as a zombie,” she said solemnly. For some reason that made me laugh. I swallowed a sob at the end as that laughter turned a bit hysterical, but it got me up and moving.<br />
<br />
There were seven of us. The Watkins, me and Giovanna and three young Japanese students that had been part of Giovanna’s group. Two boys and one girl with long dark gossamer hair. She blinked at me with solemn eyes. I blinked back. We understood each other perfectly, we were terrified.<br />
<br />
Together we packed everything that looked like it might be useful. All the food, medical supplies, anything that might be used as a weapon. I was trying to decide if I wanted to take the sacramental wine when I heard Mr. Watkins yell. I jumped and dropped the bottle. The glass shattered on the stone floor, a sea of burgundy spread as the aroma of fermented grapes filled the air.<br />
<br />
The girl gasped and took off in a run. I stepped over the puddle of wine and ran after her. As we drew closer I realized that it didn’t sound like anyone had been hurt, instead they sounded happy. In the back of the church was a small garage. And sitting there was shuttle bus that was used to ferry supplies or tourists. I said a quick prayer and then smiled when the engine rumbled to life. We had been wondering how to get down to the pier and then to the boat without being killed or bitten. The van increased our chances significantly.<br />
<br />
There was room for the seven of us and supplies. Now that we had transportation we could take some things we had planned to leave behind. Things like pillows and blankets. Nice things to have, but not worth weighing you down when you needed to be fast.<br />
<br />
We decided to leave in the middle of the night. Their dead eyes couldn’t see very well. I imagined that they could detect movement, but not much else.<br />
<br />
As night fell the groans of the dead softened. The living screamed in pain and frustration. Helicopters that flew by day, shooting those that walked were quiet now. The city was eerily dark, even the canal lights were out.<br />
<br />
The two Japanese boys pulled the garage doors opened and then quickly climbed in the van. Mr. Watkins drove, I would tell him where to go. I was born and raised in Venice. I knew every street, every bridge and every canal and I knew I could get us to the pier even in the dark. We kept the lights off hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible.<br />
<br />
It was late August in Venice and hot. I could barely smell the sea over the stench of the dead that filled my nostrils and turned my stomach. I saw a man run towards us. His joint gave out and his leg came off. He fell to the ground with a meaty slap and proceeded to use his hands to claw his way towards us.<br />
<br />
Other’s groped for the van leaving behind slimy trails of putrescent skin and hair and other unnamable bits. “Fuck this shit,” Mr. Watkins said. He flicked on the lights and pressed on the gas. The van was new and happy to move. We sped through the city as fast as we dared go, plowing through crowds of infected and over bodies of the dead.<br />
<br />
It only took us fifteen minutes to reach the docks, but they were the longest minutes of my life. Our drive through town had stirred up the zombies. They knew we were there and they wanted us. Driven by whatever made them possible they pursued us relentlessly and with a hunger that could not be described.<br />
<br />
Skidding to a halt beside a beautiful yacht. Mr. Watkins didn’t even bother to turn the van off. “If y’all all want to live, you’d better hurry before that horde gets here.” We didn’t need to be told twice. There was no one to let the rope ladder down, so we stood on the top of the van and jumped aboard. Unsure if we would be greeted by an undead crew we paused, the sound of our breathing harsh in the night.<br />
<br />
I heard a scream and saw a group of living running towards us. They must have heard our engines as well and ran towards the sound of escape. A women ran ahead of her group. The stragglers fell under the herd that soon feasted on their flesh. I watched her hoping she would get to us. In her arms she held a blanket. I could see a tiny fist sticking out.<br />
<br />
“Hurry,” I screamed, though I don’t recall if I said it in English or Italian. She ran towards the van and then stopped. There was a ladder on the back of the van, she climbed up, and shoved her child at me chattering away. I glanced at Giovanna who stood next to me. She shrugged, unable to understand the woman either.<br />
<br />
"I don’t understand,” I said as she forced the child in to my arms. She stepped back then and yanked the shirt from her shoulder. A hunk of meat and muscle was missing. The blood had tried to clot but was still oozing. With no light, save the stars, it looked like a stream of black ink trailing down her arm.<br />
<br />
I groaned in despair and clutched the child too me. Once she was content that I had her child, she jumped down off the van and dove into the water. Breaking into a swimmer’s rhythm she headed out towards the sea. I doubted she intended to find safety. She was infected and knew she was dying. I suspected that she intended to wear herself out and then drown. Morbidly I wondered what would happen when she resurrected. Could zombies swim or would the denizens of the Mediterranean Sea find her first?<br />
<br />
I heard a woman crying and then I realized it was me. “C’mon now, girl,” Mr. Watkins said taking my hand and leading me aboard. I followed his wife below decks and laid down in a bunk like she told me to, holding the baby close to me. The rumble of the engines soothed me and I slept.<br />
<br />
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***<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<br />
Dawn trailed liquid gold fingers through the small window above my bed, but that is not what woke me, though I could not say what had. Just a sense of unease. The notion that something was wrong and sleep was no longer a good idea.<br />
<br />
I sat up. Giovanna slept across from me, her arm flung out. The gentle rise and fall of her chest assured me she was among the living. I glanced down at the baby. Her skin had a bluish cast, and unlike Giovanna she was very much dead.<br />
<br />
I shoved my fist in my mouth to stifle an animal groan of pain and injustice. Her mother had done all she could to keep her safe, and still her baby had died. I sat there for I don’t know how long crying silently into the blanket. A ray of sunshine found me and warmed me, reminding me of what needed to be done.<br />
<br />
Quietly, I grabbed a blanket and wrapped the little girl up. Her mouth was closed, full lips and long eyelashes hinted at the beauty she would have become. Life is so cruel I thought as I covered her face.<br />
<br />
Slowly, I made my way on deck. One of the Japanese boys was in the control room. I could see Mr. Watkins asleep on the floor behind him. I nodded to the boy. He glanced at the child in my arms and nodded back.<br />
<br />
I walked to the railing and sat down, letting my feet hang over the edge. We had come so far that Italy was nothing but a haze on the horizon. We sailed towards America with no idea what we would find there.<br />
<br />
I held the baby in my arms and wondered if the virus that was inside her was even now working its magic. She held death inside her tiny body, and for the sake of the rest of us, I could not hesitate.<br />
<br />
It seemed wrong to just throw her in like a stone. So, I tied a rope around her and gently lowered her into the water. She bobbed like a cork in the wake of the yacht. As I watched a tiny fist moved, fingers so small they were translucent, unclenched just before they sank beneath the waves.<br />
<br />
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***</div>
<br />
<b><i> This story is set in the universe of The Season of the Dead. A Zombie Apocalypse novel due out in Spring 2013 from Spore Press</i></b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://seasonofthedeadbook.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Season of the Dead Blog</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/SeasonOfTheDead" target="_blank">Season of the Dead Facebook Page</a><br />
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-73520153931726309042012-12-04T07:05:00.000-06:002012-12-04T07:05:29.016-06:00Author Interview: Rob Holliday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As some of you may know I hosted a Flash Fiction contest in October. Rob Holliday won round 1 and went on to be the contest winner. I had the chance to interview Rob about his win and what he's working on.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI9g172Uz7RTm-tVFYH5npPCLI5OMXnNm8EaZxLYzu2lh3N8UylHfNboJE7oeF5biDj62O_rkt4KuQGLFa7oonRC6GjpW-LCys4338uqOVqemVOvXN95Ff7-ApevbGpCQgwj9YRZhBKo/s1600/headshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPI9g172Uz7RTm-tVFYH5npPCLI5OMXnNm8EaZxLYzu2lh3N8UylHfNboJE7oeF5biDj62O_rkt4KuQGLFa7oonRC6GjpW-LCys4338uqOVqemVOvXN95Ff7-ApevbGpCQgwj9YRZhBKo/s320/headshot.jpg" width="166" /></a><br />
<i>Biography:</i><br />
<br />
Born in Lubbock, Texas, Rob grew up the youngest son of a successful salesman and a part time teacher, full time homemaker. His love of reading grew from an early age as the result of moving frequently and making friends slowly as well as taking long car trips in the backseat of a ’78 Ford LTD with his older brother and an inexhaustible supply of paperbacks. He wrote his first story in 3rd grade, much to the embarrassing acclaim of peers and teachers alike; he’s been a storyteller since, including a 70 page short story in 5th grade. When he’s not writing or reading, he enjoys soccer, running, buying books with reckless abandon and loving his family. He graduated from the University of Texas at Austin as an English major, bleeds orange and answers “Hook ‘Em” or “Tom Landry wouldn’t have done it that way” to most questions. He lives with his wife and five children (four in the home, one in heaven) in Central Texas.<br />
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Rob’s love of writing is influenced by the work of JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, William Gibson and Neal Stephenson, as well as many others too numerous to list. His stories center on the indomitable human spirit. His dream mentor is Cormac McCarthy.<br />
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<i>As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I always wanted to either be a storyteller or an artist of sorts. I’ve loved creating stories and characters ever since I can remember. I loved playing Dungeons and Dragons growing up. Creating characters, visualizing them, drawing family crests for them, sketching out family trees and histories were a favorite part of the game. Then, finding the perfect miniature to represent them, often multiple miniatures if I could find similar enough ones (I was partial to dwarves), and painting them in excruciating detail. I loved it and admire artists who can bring a miniature or other sculpture to life with paint. I think my love of characters is why I often cried if a favorite character was killed during the game or in a story I was reading. It was like losing a dear friend.<br />
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<i>What are you currently working on?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I’m currently working on a dystopian series of stories, centered around two brothers. They live in a future world governed by corporate plutocracies. It’s a story of human will and devotion, love and hate, and selfishness and selflessness. My biggest challenge, which I’m enjoying immensely, is the world building.<br />
Do you have anything published? If so, where can we get our hands on it?<br />
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I recently had a short story published in my graduate school’s literary magazine, The Aviator. It’s a bit tricky to find, but I have all my stories over on my writing page on Facebook, www.facebook.com/rhollidaywrites. The story that was published was called “Machination”. It’s a story about the cost of running from the past.<br />
Your dystopian novel, why did you write it?<br />
<br />
Foremost, I’m a huge fan of dystopian work- Orwell, Huxley, Stephenson, Gibson. They all had different visions of the future and not many of them were bright, which I think is appropriate. I’m not a doomsayer, but I think we often view the world through rose-colored glasses and don’t see the dystopian world in which we live. For me, I wrote it for the sheer sake of exploring how the human spirit can still thrive and refuse to be overcome by oppression and scarcity. I wanted to explore how dark the world may become and how the indomitable human spirit will still shine like a light in the pitch.<br />
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<i>Dystopia is a popular genre at the moment. What sets your work apart from the others?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
In my work, I think it’s just a couple things really. I’m a devotee to comprehensive world building, which I think is essential in dystopian fiction, from the major social structures to the cultural nuances and norms. I enjoy taking the things we know and are familiar with and turning them upside down, creating a world that’s familiar but perhaps alluring and uncomfortable at the same time. Taking expectations, leading them along a known path and then twisting the fundamentals in a radical but realistic way. At the same time, I like to balance my world description with an open vision for the reader to finish and satisfy in his or her mind. I want to guide, not dictate.<br />
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<i>How did you choose your genre?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It’s primarily what I read and want to read, as well as watch on film or television. I’m a visual writer and reader; my mind remembers stories by impression, rather than specific lines. I’m a film and screenplay buff and enjoy a well made film almost as much as a well written book. Dystopian worlds allow me to explore and create realistic and also visionary worlds.<br />
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<i>What inspired you to be a writer?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Looking back on it, even though I was mortified at the time since I was a bit of a shy kid, I loved seeing people’s reactions to my stories. They were fun to tell but the greatest pleasure was in seeing others enjoyment. I’ve lived in books my whole life; my biggest guilty pleasure is to read a great book late into the night and sleep late the next day. I think my writing is a way of paying that enjoyment forward for others.<br />
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<i>Who is your favorite character in your books? Why?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Right now, it’s a couple of my anti-heroes. I have some reluctant, recalcitrant folks in my stories but they’re not without merit. They’re redeemable. They’re flawed in overt ways, but even more so under the skin. I think I like them the best because they’re most like me. I don’t believe in flawless characters; everyone has baggage, heavy baggage. We all have a story consisting of our circumstances and choices, some good, many bad. If I don’t see that or create that in a character, I find them less than human and not engaging.<br />
<br />
<i>Is there anything you find particularly challenging about writing?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
For me, it’s the willingness just to let go and let the story run. When I don’t do that, the words feel contrived. I’m a bit of a control freak- I loathe unsolicited editorial advice and feeling like someone else wants to direct my story. I suppose we all dislike that. For me though, I can become my own worst enemy when I try to direct my own story, rather than just letting it run out. I find that my mind, when I don’t try to guide each step, creates a narrative far more interesting than I ever could have plotted in detail. I enjoy structure, but loose structure.<br />
<br />
<i>What advice would you give to writers just starting out?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Write what you love to read. Be inspired by the greats because they worked hard at the art like we all do, but don’t ever compare your work to anyone else. Learn the craft. Know how to employ story elements so you can meld them creatively to your own vision. Write lots, read lots. Write for your own enjoyment first. And don’t quit your day job.<br />
<br />
<i>Who is your favorite author and why? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That’s a tough one. If I were to pick just one, I’d say Cormac McCarthy. I love his starkness and the beautiful cruelty he can inject into a story followed by gentle and heart wrenching hope. Following him, I’d have to say JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, William Gibson, Neal Stephenson, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Frank Peretti, and Tosca Lee. Mr. Tolkien and Mr. Lewis are tied at #2, the rest are tied for #3. They’re all stunningly good writers for unique reasons. I’d also have to include William Shakespeare. Random, I know and most may not care for him, but his talent remains without peer.<br />
<br />
<i>What books have most influenced your life?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I’d be remiss if I didn’t say the Holy Bible first. It influences every part of my being as well as illuminates the power of words in a way I don’t think any other written work has or will. But that aside, there are a couple that have deeply changed me as a person after reading them. Foremost, The Road by Cormac McCarthy resonated deeply with me, as a father and husband. It’s one of two books that have ever brought me to tears. The other was Five Years to Freedom by Nick Rowe. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia are defining works in my entire writing imaginative process. The Stand and The Dark Tower series by Stephen King are wonderful epic frameworks to follow. All of Dean Koontz’s stuff for his sheer ability to tell good story after good story while always providing a new twisting, turning compelling ride with a subtle underlying theme. The guy is simply a machine and makes it look easy, definitely a modern master. The Oath and This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti for the power of modern allegory and insight into human condition. Lastly, but equally important is Demon: A Memoir by Tosca Lee for her way with prose, her investment in research and her masterful storytelling with subjects that are immensely hard to make relatable and accessible. William Shakespeare’s works showed me that an author can deal with human ugliness in a beautiful way while not diminishing the truth at hand.<br />
<br />
<i>Most writer’s have a very interesting browsing history. What are some of the strangest searches that you done in the name of research?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
HA! Yep, I have some strange stuff in my browser history. Let’s see: nicknames for heroin, Irish faerie legends, omens about black dogs, spatter patterns for close-range chest shot from a 357 magnum, hot house grown pharmaceutical plants and supplies, retrovirus engineering for covert assassination use… I’m pretty sure I’m on a number of watch lists at this point.<br />
<br />
<i>And finally, congratulations on winning the contest! We had loads of great stories and some fierce competition. You walked away with some great prizes. Have you worked your way through any of them yet?</i><br />
<br />
I'm slowly working my way into them. I already had Martin Reaves "Dark Thoughts" in my queue, but since you were the genesis for the Halloween fun, I want to read yours next- love the Greek theming. I'm in the midst of a critical literary analysis course for my master's that's consuming most of my free time, so I'm not getting to read as much as I'd like (probably not prioritizing well AT ALL). I've peeked at a couple others, but gotta focus.<br />
<br />
<i>How can readers connect with you?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I’d love to hear from them- I can be contacted most easily via my Facebook page <a href="http://www.facebook.com/rhollidaywrites" target="_blank">www.facebook.com/rhollidaywrites</a><br />
<br />
or by email, rhollidaywrites@gmail.com.<br />
<br />
I have a blog in the works (it’s a framework only at this point- <a href="http://rhollidaywrites.wordpress.com/">http://rhollidaywrites.wordpress.com</a> that I plan to do more with next year.<br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-73887058947091954172012-11-28T10:06:00.000-06:002012-11-29T16:40:59.024-06:00Author Interview: Paul Freeman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWI1EctbQuF8NkJ9OdyYsz-uUyr_T6_8b-hgd8O_BsBGRkpkLhiqc6CvMb571H4KfPSYPFJDemnzaLe9g29Vt60fpr9vyeYpWC9bL6XO_E297Zt_ctClKz_DKg_LsIb9iHOzrYRMX0a4/s1600/521263_10150946704853622_2101029304_n%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #4c1130;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWI1EctbQuF8NkJ9OdyYsz-uUyr_T6_8b-hgd8O_BsBGRkpkLhiqc6CvMb571H4KfPSYPFJDemnzaLe9g29Vt60fpr9vyeYpWC9bL6XO_E297Zt_ctClKz_DKg_LsIb9iHOzrYRMX0a4/s320/521263_10150946704853622_2101029304_n%5B1%5D.jpg" width="216" /></span></a></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">For those of you that may not know him, I’d like to
introduce Paul Freeman, author of the epic fantasy novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tribesman-ebook/dp/B009K6KU28/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1354116692&sr=8-1&keywords=tribesman" target="_blank">Tribesman</a>. Paul is
from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Dublin</st1:city>, <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region></st1:place>, where he works, plays and
writes. In the past he has lived in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Germany</st1:country-region>
and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region>
but is now content to keep his roaming to the worlds he creates and writes
about.<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">Q: As your bio says, </span>you've</b><span style="font-size: small;"><b> lived a lot of places. Have
you incorporated your travels into your writing?</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> There
haven’t been that many places, but they have been pretty far apart, and very
different. So yeah, I think everything you experience in life is reflected in
your writing. Living in different places and experiencing other cultures is
something I’m really glad I did, I wish I’d done more. It has not only helped
me in writing, but in life in general. It’s a real eye-opener to see how
differently things are done everywhere, and how attitudes can be so different.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: I love the blend of myth and lore in Tribesman. Can
you tell us a bit about the world that you have created and the characters that
inhabit that world?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> A lot of my
characters are based on Celtic Myth, and history. Culainn is a warrior from the
Northern Clans, a land of lush forests and snow-peaked mountains. I think he
would feel quite at home in ancient <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>
or <st1:place w:st="on">Gaul</st1:place>, or any northern European country. I
wanted a Celtic feel to the story, I grew up on the myths of </span></i></strong><i><span lang="EN">Tír
na nÓg, and Fionn MacChumahill and Na Fianna, Cú Chulainn and Queen Maedbh. My
world is full of druids and dark gods. But the story is set to the south, in a
land very different to his own. He has been banished from his homeland, from
his clan, and finds himself in a dry, dusty country. I remember reading about a
band of Viking mercenaries who were employed as elite bodyguards in <st1:place w:st="on">Constantinople</st1:place>, and thought, they must have felt like
they were on a different planet. I tried to capture a little of that in
Tribesman, with Culainn feeling like a fish out of water.</span></i><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: Is Tribesman part of a series? And if so, what are
you plans for it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> I am
currently writing a second book. I think it is something that could go on
further if it is well received. Culainn has some unfinished business from the
first book. After that I haven’t planned anything, but like I said if there is
a call for it, and I’m enjoying it I’ll keep going.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<strong><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;">Q: </span>I've<span style="font-size: small;"> talked to a lot of writers about when they knew
they wanted to write. Most of them will say there was never a time when they didn't want to be a writer. What is the very first thing that you wrote? What
is it about?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> The very
first thing I remember writing of any worth, although I’ve lost it now, was
about a soldier, a warrior. He was paraded through the streets of his city as a
hero, rewarded by his king with titles and riches, all the while the cheering
crowd were oblivious to his insecurities and unhappiness. In the end he fell on
his sword under a cloud of loneliness. </span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? </span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> I could
never make up my mind. My problem was that no one told me you could work at
something you loved, so I spent my time searching for the wrong things.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: What inspires you to write?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> Guilt.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><br /></span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: Who is your favorite character that you have
written. Why?<o:p></o:p></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Oh that’s so
difficult to answer. I wrote a short story about an Irish pirate reminiscing on
his life, and the very poor and abusive background he came from. As a boy he
was press-ganged into the Royal Navy. He felt the sting of the lash on his
first day </span>on-board<span style="font-size: small;"> ship, cowered in the corner during his first battle, but
eventually led a mutiny and became captain of the ship. He was certainly an
interesting character. I’ll pick him, if there can be only one. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: Thinking of all the books you have read, who is your
favorite character and why?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> The
questions don’t get any easier, I should have studied for this. The character
that has stuck with me even twenty years after reading the book is Thomas
Covenant, from The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, The Unbeliever. I like my
heroes flawed, even tainted. Thomas Covenant is deeply flawed, both physically
and mentally, he is a reluctant hero. A sufferer of leprosy, he is transported
to a fantasy world he does not believe exists. Which is sort of unfortunate as
he is the only one who can save it, it’s a great story examining the darker
side of a hero.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: Is there a particular topic or genre that you want
to tackle but haven’t yet?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;">I’ve tried
my hand at a lot of genres while writing short stories, in books I’ve written
fantasy, horror, and general fiction. It’s enough to be getting on with, for
the moment anyway.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: I’ve read several of your short stories. You seem to
have a gift for encapsulating all the elements that pull a reader in. What are
some of your favorite short stories? Have you considered making any of them
full length novels?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> The aging
pirate I discussed earlier I think would be well worth examining in more depth.
I have already expanded a couple of short flash pieces into longer short
stories, though none have made it to novel or even novella length yet. It is
definitely something I would like to do. I enjoy writing short stories, there
is something rewarding in sitting down and finishing an entire story in one
sitting.</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: What are you currently working on?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"> I’m over
halfway through the sequel to Tribesman, and am in the planning stages of the
second Season of the Dead book. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: Tribesman is your first published work. Do you have
any other works that have been published or are about to be?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Yes I have a
short story in the recently published steampunk anthology from Kristell Ink.
And a zombie apocalypse book I wrote with three other really talented writers
will be published by Spore Press in spring 2013, it’s called Season of the
Dead… you may have heard of it…<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<strong><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Q: Woody Allen once said that “80% of life is just
showing up”. Writing is a bit like that, the more you do it, the better you
become. What one piece of advice would you give a writer who has yet to put pen
to paper?<span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000;"><br /></span></div>
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<strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Just do it
for fun, and choose wisely who you listen to.</span></span></i></strong></div>
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<strong><i><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><br /></span></span></i></strong></div>
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<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">To purchase your copy of Tribesman" </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tribesman-ebook/dp/B009K6KU28/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1353351575&sr=1-1&keywords=tribesman" target="_blank">Tribesman : Amazon US</a> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-5392626546281682022012-11-25T18:52:00.003-06:002012-12-02T16:59:26.052-06:00Excerpt from Erato: Book 2 of the Sophia Katsaros Series<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjle1p8pP2vOafz_HZ4GfmwTIuTNaMGw6fHhC1l5pQz9USDlwRGadcaOWEULNsTbcZB0Xc_A62s19XzJ4gzmKd0JQY375u9fOTtELIkJdER1FS-ODGRiqYpzRMh2CBEo__ypUw_FAVmAmc/s1600/Efarmostis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjle1p8pP2vOafz_HZ4GfmwTIuTNaMGw6fHhC1l5pQz9USDlwRGadcaOWEULNsTbcZB0Xc_A62s19XzJ4gzmKd0JQY375u9fOTtELIkJdER1FS-ODGRiqYpzRMh2CBEo__ypUw_FAVmAmc/s1600/Efarmostis.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><i>Revenge<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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Wolves know nothing of revenge. They know love, they know
fear and anger, and they know sorrow. The great black wolf that had been born
as one of three was now alone. And yes, he knew sorrow well. </div>
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For three days he traveled, losing himself to the rhythms of
the wolf. This was the way his life had begun and it was easy to revert. In wolf form the beast ruled. The man was
repressed, relegated to the role of observer. The longer he stayed in wolf form
the more dispassionate that man became, slowly dissolving into the recesses of
the wolf’s mind until humanity was nothing but an elusive dream. </div>
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In 5,000 years this was the first time he had ever been
alone. Oh, he and his brothers had separated for short periods of time, to
hunt, to fight, to mate. But those times were always short-lived and tempered
with the assurance that one or the other would return soon. There was no
assurance this time, and for that, the wolf grieved. </div>
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He traveled north as it seemed the thing to do. Skirting the
Great Lakes to the forests beyond where the stench of mankind lessened. He
hunted, and slept, and ran. His world narrowed to the now, for a wolf did not
ponder the future. The ache of loss began to diminish as the wild called. He
heeded its siren song and joined a pack that had lost its alpha. The female
needed a mate, but did not find the beta favorable and so resisted him. </div>
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When the great black wolf appeared she supplicated herself
and whimpered low in her throat in submission. The grey beta challenged the
black though the cinder beast was twice his size. The battle was soon over. The
grey left bleeding in the snow. </div>
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For the next several days he ran with the pack and mated
with the female. On the seventh day, his third with the pack, he took them out
hunting. They were hungry and winter would soon be upon them. They needed to
eat and store up fat to make it through the lean months when food would be
scarce. </div>
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During his travels he had passed many fields full of fat cows.
And that was where he led them. Three young males, his female, and her two
daughters. This pack was lean, hunting had been hard for them and they were
hungry. Raised in captivity they had been ‘re-wilded’. But there is a
difference between not being caged and being wild. They were struggling. He knew what it mean to be wild and he would
teach them. </div>
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As the sun set and the moon’s cool fire reflected upon the
blanket of snow he began their first lesson. The females fanned to his left, he
would take the males. They circled the herd looking for the youngest or the
weakest. The bovines huddled together for warmth, their breath misting in the
chill. Content in the illusion of safety afford by fences, they slept.</div>
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Complacency. It was a man’s word, but the wolf knew it well.
In the wild prey slept with one ear twitching, listening for the sound of
predators on the hunt. Even the hunters never truly let their guard down.
Complacency would feed the pack this night. </div>
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At twice the size of the other wolves, his ebony coat made
him stand out against the blazing whiteness of the snow. If this had been a
herd of deer he would never have been able to get so close. As it was, his jaws
were closing around the young cow’s neck before the rest even noticed he was
there. </div>
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She was white with black spots, and young. Her meat would be
tender, and her blood potent. She tried to cry out, a lowing of agony. In the
still of the night the herd erupted. Stampeding. </div>
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The youngest of the male wolves howled when his foot was trampled. His
yelp of pain caused the females to come running. His mother was the alpha, she
cared for him. But if the young male could not walk, even she would leave him
behind. The young wolf knew this and struggled to stand. The black wolf saw his
struggle, the inner man nodded and approved and thought that the pup would make
a good alpha someday if he survived his foolishness. </div>
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With combined effort the small pack dragged the cow into the
forest and fed. Crows gathered in the trees as dawn appeared. Turkey vultures
circled overhead waiting for the pack to disperse. As the sky changed from pink
to blue and the moon hid her face once more, the pack ran together seeking a
safe place to sleep off their feast. </div>
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They awoke covered with a dusting of snow that added an
ethereal incandescence to everything it touched. The black wolf’s fur was
tipped with diamond while his small grey female had been painted with frost. </div>
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The youngest of the pack woke first, bounding through the
snow. He watched them, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth in a wolfish
grin. His female stirred and rubbed her flank against him in greeting. As the
winter sun shared its meager warmth they played and romped, yipping in
happiness and the success of the previous hunt.
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A wolf does not keep time. He notices the days, but does not
count their passing. With each dawn he took them hunting. They found deer,
fleet footed-rabbits along with an unfortunate fox who dared to encroach upon
their territory. </div>
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He taught them to hunt geese, and search for warm places to
sleep. He wrestled with the males and taught them to fight. The youngest with
the injured paw was the most skilled. And, as the black had surmised, he would
make a strong alpha. The black focused on this wolf, teaching him, training
him. Showing him what it meant to be wild. What it meant to be wolf. </div>
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And then one evening when the landscape became a nighttime
spectrum of greys they made their way back to the farm. The cows had been
penned closer to the homestead. The great black wolf did not like this, but
years of experience made him bold. </div>
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The females circled round, and the males advanced on the
herd. The wind shifted, a cow snorted and bellowed, waking the rest. In their
panic they trampled the new fallen snow into the mud, narrowly missing the
wolves that ran among them. </div>
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Suddenly, night was flooded with light and the boom of a
gunshot rent the air. The youngest wolf cried out and fell to the ground. A
grey blot on the pristine snow. The females panicked and ran towards their
Alpha. He barked at them, but they didn't understand the warning through their
fear. Another shot rang out and his mate joined her son in death. </div>
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He snarled low then, and snapped at the remaining females
urging them to run for the trees. The two males ran with them. The black looked
back towards the house and snarled. </div>
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Once more a shot echoed in the night. Pain ripped through
his thigh, splattering the snow with crimson drops. He howled, stumbled and
fell. Rolling to his feet he followed his pack. He glanced back once towards
his mate. She had been a good mate and he would mourn her. </div>
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As he ran his leg burned. That fire awoke the man that
slumbered within. “Shift,” he urged. “The pain will lessen.” He heeded the
advice and ran towards a copse of trees. Where a massive black wolf had been,
now stood a man. The chill of the night met the heat of his body cloaking him
in mist. </div>
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A slug of metal fell from his thigh. The bleeding slowed. He
shifted again, once more Wolf. But this time the beast did not rule. The man
was thinking. Coupled with the strength of the wolf, it was a dangerous
combination. </div>
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Taking his pack far from the farm he found them a secluded
place to sleep and left them there. They would wait for him, but in time they
would forget and move on. He had taught them well, and the young wolf would
become their alpha. They had also learned to be leery of man. Hopefully, they
would be the better for it. </div>
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He shifted once more, standing naked and shivering in the
snow. A pink scar was all that remained of a wound that was barely more than a
day old. He stretched and ran, the snow burning his bare feet. With a powerful
stride he leapt as Man, landing as Wolf. Lifting his muzzle he scented the air,
changed his course and headed back towards the farm. </div>
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His mate had been skinned, her pelt hung on the fence, a
warning. He walked up to it, inhaled her scent, still evident over the reek of
death, and growled. After a moment he sat back on his haunches, threw back his
head, and howled. It was a howl filled with pain, but also a warning. I am
here, be afraid. </div>
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He found the farmer in the barn. The old man lifted his gun
and prepared to shoot. The wolf shifted, rising as man on two legs. The farmer
paused. Unable to believe what he was seeing. </div>
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“You have hundreds of cattle. What would it have cost you to
lose the weakest of those?” The Man asked before he wrapped his hands around
the farmer’s neck. The snap of bone echoed in the barn as loud as any gunshot. </div>
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The farmer’s wife was next, and then the boy that was tending
the herd. When all was quiet save the lowing of cows the Man reminded the Wolf
of his brother and the woman that killed him. With a growl he shifted once more
and ran back towards the city he had fled. </div>
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It took him four days to get back to the city and most of
another to find the stash of clothes he had left so that he could walk into his
hotel room. A naked man would draw attention. This has been true centuries ago.
It was no less true in a day and age when the women often went nearly nude in
their day to day lives. </div>
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He had never been to America before. The only reason being
is that his Alpha never sent him there. The beta claimed America as his
territory, and the Pack was content to leave it so. But the brown beta was the
Alpha now. He had called them, they went. </div>
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It was always strange walking upright after so many days on
four paws. He was exhausted, and hungry. The refrigerator in the expensive
hotel room their Alpha gave them was stocked with food. He diminished those
provisions significantly before falling asleep on the bed, face down. </div>
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37 hours later he woke, rested and once more hungry, but he
would hunt this night and so left the human food alone. A cell phone lay on the
table. Touching the screen he played the message. </div>
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“Physius,” said their alpha. “The hunt is off. There has
been too much attention. Leave the woman to me. We have lost 5 of our brothers.
Do not jeopardize us all for the sake of one.” He ended the message then,
deliberately disobeying his alpha. The 4 other brothers did not concern him. If
asked he would deny he received the message. The woman was his. </div>
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It had begun to snow, a subtle sifting of delicate crystals
that blanketed the landscape in powder. The hospital where she worked was only
one block over. He made his way there, on foot, as man. He would hunt as Wolf. Hiding in the park across the street he
watched as the snow tipped his fur in white. He waited for hours, she never
came, but the pup that she spent time with did. The wolf watched the young man.
He stood in the cold hugging a young woman. She laughed and pushed her blond
hair behind her ear. The wind shifted carrying their conversation to him. </div>
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“Thanks for bringing me dinner, Simone. I really appreciate it.” </div>
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“Sure, Arthur,” she said smiling again. “ I've got to get
back to work. Call me later?”</div>
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“See you later,” the pup said. The woman giggled, kissed the
man on the cheek and left. The wolf that watched would have liked to hunt the
man, but he chose to go after his mate. Just as his mate had been targeted. </div>
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Slinking along the shadows he followed her as she walked.
The city had lots of alleys to conceal himself. A 200 pound wolf is hard to
hide, and easy to see if anyone looked hard enough. No one did. The brain does
not want to see such things, and so it doesn't. </div>
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She turned a corner, going around to the back of the
building where a door said employees only. The light overhead had gone out,
casting the alley in gloom. She knocked on the door. “C’mon guys, let me in.
I’m freezing out here.” Rummaging in her
purse she searched for her keys in the dark, accidentally dropping her purse in the snow
that was accumulating. Cursing softly under her breath she knelt to gather her
things. The snow had softened his footsteps, but some ancient instinct made her
look up. A scream died in her throat as her breath was cut off. He dragged her
behind a dumpster just as the door opened. </div>
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“Hello, Simone?” A man said. “Anyone here?” he called again.
The wolf watched keeping his jaws clamped securely to the woman’s throat. She
was already dead, and couldn't cry out. But the beast had control of him, the
blood called to him, he couldn't release his kill, and growled low around his
prize. </div>
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The guard closed the door with a shrug. The wolf opened his
jaws, letting the woman’s head fall to the ground with a thud. His stomach
rumbled, demanding he eat, so he did. </div>
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No, a Wolf knows nothing of revenge, but a Man does. </div>
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**This is an excerpt from the upcoming novel Erato. Book 2 of the Sophia Katsaros Series. **</div>
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***<b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lykaia-SOPHIA-KATSAROS-SERIES-ebook/dp/B0094GCQFS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1353890650&sr=8-1&keywords=lykaia" target="_blank">Lykaia: Book 1 of the Sophia Katsaros Series</a></i></b> is available in e-book and paperback at all the major online retailers***</div>
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571214926009290618.post-84078470361460985632012-11-17T10:06:00.003-06:002012-11-17T11:24:57.149-06:00Embers At Galdrilene" By A.D. Trosper <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Get The
Re-release Of "Embers At Galdrilene" By A.D. Trosper For Only $1.99 From 11/17/12 Through 11/24/12 - Don't Miss The Dragon's Call!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><i>Embers at Galdrilene</i> has undergone a huge transformation! It
now sports a beautifully redesigned
front cover, spine and back cover. It also has an awesome custom designed
interior and has been professionally edited. All thanks to the incredible team
at <a href="http://www.blueharvestcreative.com/">Blue Harvest Creative</a>. And
as an added bonus, when you read the final page of <i>Embers at Galdrilene</i>, you'll get an exciting sneak peek for the
prologue <i>Tears of War</i>, the second
book in the Dragon’s Call series.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">In celebration
of its re-release, <i>Embers at Galdrilene</i>
will be available for only $1.99! But this price only lasts from November
17<sup>th</sup> to November 24<sup>th</sup>. <i>Embers</i> won’t turn into a pumpkin at the end of its re-release
promotion, but it will return to its regular price of $3.95. Don't miss out on
this bestselling fantasy book. Wrap up the holidays with the gift of reading!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Embers-Galdrilene-Dragons-Call-ebook/dp/B0080R4LPK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1336343993&sr=8-1">HERE</a>
to buy at Amazon<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">Click <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/embers-at-galdrilene-ad-trosper/1110763438?ean=2940014415484">HERE</a>
to buy at Barnes & Noble <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_r58tuKP7Pu5Xuv1dJIUs_3AZRtNIVAMHOBrPo0jxRvQKR1QcV-pZj7JLL3ltmqNTcixq3wIHMuNW8lJGQWdYanegIUxA72lEfdX9900jh0QZ1Zal5aFB4Ih-0I5nJsMfYEZYRGhuhFs/s1600/Embers+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_r58tuKP7Pu5Xuv1dJIUs_3AZRtNIVAMHOBrPo0jxRvQKR1QcV-pZj7JLL3ltmqNTcixq3wIHMuNW8lJGQWdYanegIUxA72lEfdX9900jh0QZ1Zal5aFB4Ih-0I5nJsMfYEZYRGhuhFs/s320/Embers+Cover.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div>
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<b><u><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">BLURB<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">“A ray of
light, a stain of shadow, shall endure to breathe life and death into the
future”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">The
war between the Guardians and the Shadow Riders ended in total devastation. The
final battle killed all the dragons and left nothing but fields of ash. A small
clutch of dragon eggs was all that remained to provide hope for the future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">Five hundred years later, the ability to
use magic is a death sentence and dragons are remembered as a curse. But the
unhatched dragons sing for their riders...and soon six lives will be changed
forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">The elements of magic are drawn together
as the dragons’ call leads them on an epic and dangerous journey of
discovery. They soon learn e<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3571214926009290618" name="_GoBack"></a>verything they’ve been taught to believe about magic and
dragons is wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">With the last of the dragons and the world
at stake, they will risk everything to heed the call.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">But an evil from the past soon threatens
their discovery and newfound joy. Shadow Dragons ride the dawn once more...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT <i>EMBERS AT GALDRILENE</i><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">“Evil lurks at every corner and eventually
bursts, bringing forth a vivid confrontation that kept me at the edge of my
seat, turning page after page.” <i>~
Annamaria Bazzi</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">“The characters are well thought out, and the plot is great.
I loved Galdrilene itself, and the idea of the dragon eggs singing to those who
are meant to hatch them.” <i>~ The Crooked
Word</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">“I was so impressed by this excellent story! The characters
and setting were vividly detailed, and the storyline was unique and enticing. I
loved that the characters had strong bonds and connections to other beings, and
Trosper did a magnificent job with pacing and stringing together the plot.” <i>~ Katie Jennings (author of the Dryad
Quartet and When Empires Fall)</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">“There is something about dragon stories that is truly
captivating and Trosper has certainly encapsulated this in her novel. This
story follows the lives of young men and women as they escape a life of control
and fear to find their true talents and true selves… Expect to be entertained
with dragon fights, romance and witty comebacks in Trosper's creation of an
idyllic world. You are even given a rare insight into the workings of a
dragon's mind.” <i>~ Elizabeth Wright of
Bestchicklit.com</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">“Anne McCaffrey's Legacy… I was
extremely wary when this book was immediately evocative of every story Anne
ever told about dragons, their 'Impression' on their destined riders, and the
immutable bond between the two. Like Asimov's laws of robotics, Pern's dragon
lore is indelibly etched as 'fact' in my psyche and anything markedly different
does not sit very well with me at all.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #660000; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: white;">I am immensely pleased to say that A.D. Trosper
did not let me down. There was enough of Pernish dragon-lore to satisfy my need
for continuity, whilst at the same time enough differences to make this clutch
of dragons her very own. Well done Ms. Trosper!” <i>~ Richard King</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAKCFlu919WC_DDl3mEsM567wTtwg00rJn5GD5OBNmI5oi2emdwIHwHFeam-BFE47a5qupfD5_9KnEwKLa32P31BdAb8FVwUMAslQlMSYE2_QYFdl76zOMuwObpeeG-fDEKiL9zxUHng/s1600/AD+Author+Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAKCFlu919WC_DDl3mEsM567wTtwg00rJn5GD5OBNmI5oi2emdwIHwHFeam-BFE47a5qupfD5_9KnEwKLa32P31BdAb8FVwUMAslQlMSYE2_QYFdl76zOMuwObpeeG-fDEKiL9zxUHng/s320/AD+Author+Pic.jpg" width="179" /></span></a></div>
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<b><u><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span></u></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">Here is where I'm supposed to talk about myself in third person
for whatever reason. But, even though there are a lot of people in my head,
referring to myself in third person still sounds too strange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">Born in Kansas, I spent a lot of my childhood moving around. I
lived in Kansas, Oklahoma, Washington State (around Seattle), and southern
California. I had many great adventures growing up. I'm now settled down in
Kansas with my wonderful husband, three children, my wonderful dog Katie,
assorted cats, and small flock of chickens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">I've been an avid lover of fantasy since I was young child.
Dragons, elves, fairies, dwarves, and other denizens of the fantasy world as
well as magic have always fascinated me. As I grew up, I developed an interest
in vampires, zombies and my interests branched out to take in paranormal and
urban fantasy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">I don't have any special writing credits to my name other than a
wildly active imagination and the ability to form that imagination into written
stories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">Want to know more or connect with me? Follow the links, I promise
there is no wicked witch of the west at the end…most of the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background-color: #660000; color: white; font-size: 11pt;">CONNECT WITH A.D. TROSPER:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><a href="http://adtrosper.wordpress.com/"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Website</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><a href="http://adtrosper.wordpress.com/blog/"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Blog</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/adtrosper"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Facebook</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #660000; color: white;"><a href="https://twitter.com/adtrosper"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Twitter</span></a><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Sharon Van Ormanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01525620360116871421noreply@blogger.com0