The Book Connection...: Giveaway: Born Under a Lucky Moon: A Novel by Dana...: "Born Under a Lucky Moon: A Novel is the tale of two very important (but distant) years in the lives of Jeannie Thompson and her (embarr..."
Giveaway ends at 11:59 PM on Sunday, April 3, 2011. Enter today!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Linda Weaver Clarke: Interview with Author Liz Parrish and Book Giveaway
Linda Weaver Clarke: Interview with Author Liz Parrish and Book Giveawa...: "Book Give-Away March 14 - 21: We have two books to give away this week. Be The Lead Dog is a self-help book and Crimp! On-By!! is a children's book."
Visit the link above and leave a comment by March 21st for your chance to win these books from Linda Weaver Clarke's blog.
Visit the link above and leave a comment by March 21st for your chance to win these books from Linda Weaver Clarke's blog.
Book Spotlight: The Heart's Lone Desire by Nicolai Due-Gundersen
Aaron Carlson delivers the rare, the impossible, to the highest bidder. This promise is challenged, however, when he is asked to find a legend; an artefact that even time wants to forget.
For the right price, he agrees to assist the sultry Miss Worthing in her quest for eternity’s gift. He will deliver where those before him have failed.
The heart is what she craves. The ivory legend from 18th Century France; now no more than a cold whisper.
Aaron follows the trail of Trenton, his predecessor, and the heart’s latest victim. A man left empty, broken, by the heart’s perennial chill.
Aaron’s journey takes him through light, darkness and fire, opening old wounds and exposing him to new ones.
And all the while the heart watches. All the while the heart awaits.
Read an excerpt!
Chapter One
They had prepared the room as instructed. Tall candles littered the chamber, their light inviting shadows, and at the centre, the tub stood waiting, its deep brass polished until gold shone from its depth. Wisps of steam snaked from the water within. Hot, thick twists joining scattered shadows, playing among the bitter light.
Monsieur Lilac sipped his wine with deliberate slowness. His tired eyes went to the windows, longing for escape. Outside, the first fall of snow had begun. As Paris slept, dots dropped down from the heavens, the flakes of stars gracing the earth of mortals. He finished the wine in one slow gulp, savouring the burn of its taste. His hand trembled. Today he truly felt the pain of his years. It was the weakness in him; the weakness in all men. Mortality pulsed through his veins like a plague. It wrinkled his skin. Tightened his chest. Tonight, he would escape it all.
He disrobed, his servants taking firm hold of his frame. Water bubbled as his body met its warmth.
“The curtains,” he gestured with a weak hand.
Winter disappeared from view.
He breathed, and leaned further into the tub’s warmth. There was no further need for him to speak. His loyal servants knew what was to be done. Cold hands were upon his chest, nails marking his flesh with thick dots…something sharper. The chill of metal, of medical instruments. The skin underneath curled against the cold whispers of steel.
He closed his eyes, wheezed his last sigh. One by one, the candles were extinguished. He prayed for the comfort of nothingness.
The hands were upon his own, holding him down. Thick cloth closed the charm of his mouth. The aristocratic mouth that had argued, threatened, loved. The pain in his chest was sharp, as expected, his flesh folding to metal wielded by loyal hands. Old blood spilled from fresh wounds. His weakness was being ripped open.
He forced his eyes to remain closed. The sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones.
And underneath it all, the weakest form. His poor heart, still thumping, not knowing when to stop, not knowing when life had become a patient death. Hands dug into the redness of his chest, and with twists and tugs, the heart of old was finally disconnected.
A gasp escaped from his still suppressed lips. It was enough to make him open his eyes. He watched it fall to the floor, and waited for the gift of light.
* * * *
Miss Worthing returned the cognac bottle to the table. Her manicured fingers nudged it forward, ensuring it stood between them. “So ends our story,” she smiled. “The first known tragedy of the ivory heart.”
Across from her, Aaron Carlson sank further into his seat, careful not to appear too disinterested, or too credulous.
“So, he ripped his own heart out,” he smiled. “He got that far, at least?”
“Yes, Mr Carlson. Indeed he did.” She leaned forward, her shadow flowing toward him, touching him. “He was not worthy,” she whispered. “Not worthy for the gift of light. And so he failed.”
Aaron nodded, gripping his glass. “I see. So, the ivory heart—”
“Oh, he did try, Mr Carlson. Indeed, he tried.
Aaron suppressed a grin.
“The heart did not glow,” she sighed. . “No light came forth from its shape, nor did it fill his veins with its whiteness, as he’d so hoped.”
Aaron uncrossed his legs. His own shadow leaned forward to meet hers.
“Miss Worthing, so far you’ve given me a fairy tale. A sick story of an ivory heart; of its supposed immortality.”
“And one man’s attempt to use it,” she added.
“Right.” He breathed sharply. “May I be blunt, Miss Worthing?”
The thick lips of her beauty drained her glass before answering.
“Of course, Mr Carlson. Do be honest.”
So he was. Despite the wealth of her home, despite her erudite accent, he let his impatience fuel his words.
“What’s the damn point? Surely, you’re aware of my profession?”
“Of course,” Miss Worthing laughed. “You deliver that which is not for sale—”
“Only at the right price,” he declared firmly. He set down his glass, pushing it away. “Enough stories. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give you my price.”
Her blue eyes turned cold. Only a flicker, yet enough to detract from her charm. There was bitterness underneath it all, a determined rage, and he felt anxiety soften the tone of his voice.
“Tell me,” he said again.
She refilled his glass, pushed it roughly back to him. The marble table groaned.
“I want the heart, Mr Carlson,” she said. The smile had grown sour. “It should be obvious, from my story.”
Aaron shook his head.
“You really believe all this...”
Her chilled eyes blinked.
“You’ll have your price,” she said. “Whatever it may be. For I assure you, my request is serious. You see, I have the benefit of my fortune to assist me. Over the years I have found information pertaining to the heart. Information I have paid dearly for. Oh, and for the record, Mr Carlson, I make sure such information belongs to no one else.”
Aaron was startled by her intensity, the fire in her voice matching the chill of her eyes.
“Why me?” he asked. He sat back now, as if comfortable.
“Believe me, my dear, I have tried others.” She glanced at her nails, at the deep red of their manicured tips.
“They failed?”
“So to speak, Mr Carlson. Their efforts, however, have yielded opportunities, brought me closer to my goal.”
A deep laugh escaped her lips, as if she were victim of her own fantastic mind.
“I have no reason to believe all this,” Aaron sighed. He made to leave.
They had prepared the room as instructed. Tall candles littered the chamber, their light inviting shadows, and at the centre, the tub stood waiting, its deep brass polished until gold shone from its depth. Wisps of steam snaked from the water within. Hot, thick twists joining scattered shadows, playing among the bitter light.
Monsieur Lilac sipped his wine with deliberate slowness. His tired eyes went to the windows, longing for escape. Outside, the first fall of snow had begun. As Paris slept, dots dropped down from the heavens, the flakes of stars gracing the earth of mortals. He finished the wine in one slow gulp, savouring the burn of its taste. His hand trembled. Today he truly felt the pain of his years. It was the weakness in him; the weakness in all men. Mortality pulsed through his veins like a plague. It wrinkled his skin. Tightened his chest. Tonight, he would escape it all.
He disrobed, his servants taking firm hold of his frame. Water bubbled as his body met its warmth.
“The curtains,” he gestured with a weak hand.
Winter disappeared from view.
He breathed, and leaned further into the tub’s warmth. There was no further need for him to speak. His loyal servants knew what was to be done. Cold hands were upon his chest, nails marking his flesh with thick dots…something sharper. The chill of metal, of medical instruments. The skin underneath curled against the cold whispers of steel.
He closed his eyes, wheezed his last sigh. One by one, the candles were extinguished. He prayed for the comfort of nothingness.
The hands were upon his own, holding him down. Thick cloth closed the charm of his mouth. The aristocratic mouth that had argued, threatened, loved. The pain in his chest was sharp, as expected, his flesh folding to metal wielded by loyal hands. Old blood spilled from fresh wounds. His weakness was being ripped open.
He forced his eyes to remain closed. The sound of tearing flesh, breaking bones.
And underneath it all, the weakest form. His poor heart, still thumping, not knowing when to stop, not knowing when life had become a patient death. Hands dug into the redness of his chest, and with twists and tugs, the heart of old was finally disconnected.
A gasp escaped from his still suppressed lips. It was enough to make him open his eyes. He watched it fall to the floor, and waited for the gift of light.
* * * *
Miss Worthing returned the cognac bottle to the table. Her manicured fingers nudged it forward, ensuring it stood between them. “So ends our story,” she smiled. “The first known tragedy of the ivory heart.”
Across from her, Aaron Carlson sank further into his seat, careful not to appear too disinterested, or too credulous.
“So, he ripped his own heart out,” he smiled. “He got that far, at least?”
“Yes, Mr Carlson. Indeed he did.” She leaned forward, her shadow flowing toward him, touching him. “He was not worthy,” she whispered. “Not worthy for the gift of light. And so he failed.”
Aaron nodded, gripping his glass. “I see. So, the ivory heart—”
“Oh, he did try, Mr Carlson. Indeed, he tried.
Aaron suppressed a grin.
“The heart did not glow,” she sighed. . “No light came forth from its shape, nor did it fill his veins with its whiteness, as he’d so hoped.”
Aaron uncrossed his legs. His own shadow leaned forward to meet hers.
“Miss Worthing, so far you’ve given me a fairy tale. A sick story of an ivory heart; of its supposed immortality.”
“And one man’s attempt to use it,” she added.
“Right.” He breathed sharply. “May I be blunt, Miss Worthing?”
The thick lips of her beauty drained her glass before answering.
“Of course, Mr Carlson. Do be honest.”
So he was. Despite the wealth of her home, despite her erudite accent, he let his impatience fuel his words.
“What’s the damn point? Surely, you’re aware of my profession?”
“Of course,” Miss Worthing laughed. “You deliver that which is not for sale—”
“Only at the right price,” he declared firmly. He set down his glass, pushing it away. “Enough stories. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give you my price.”
Her blue eyes turned cold. Only a flicker, yet enough to detract from her charm. There was bitterness underneath it all, a determined rage, and he felt anxiety soften the tone of his voice.
“Tell me,” he said again.
She refilled his glass, pushed it roughly back to him. The marble table groaned.
“I want the heart, Mr Carlson,” she said. The smile had grown sour. “It should be obvious, from my story.”
Aaron shook his head.
“You really believe all this...”
Her chilled eyes blinked.
“You’ll have your price,” she said. “Whatever it may be. For I assure you, my request is serious. You see, I have the benefit of my fortune to assist me. Over the years I have found information pertaining to the heart. Information I have paid dearly for. Oh, and for the record, Mr Carlson, I make sure such information belongs to no one else.”
Aaron was startled by her intensity, the fire in her voice matching the chill of her eyes.
“Why me?” he asked. He sat back now, as if comfortable.
“Believe me, my dear, I have tried others.” She glanced at her nails, at the deep red of their manicured tips.
“They failed?”
“So to speak, Mr Carlson. Their efforts, however, have yielded opportunities, brought me closer to my goal.”
A deep laugh escaped her lips, as if she were victim of her own fantastic mind.
“I have no reason to believe all this,” Aaron sighed. He made to leave.
THE HEART'S LONE DESIRE IS COMING IN MAY 2011 FROM MUSEITUP PUBLISHING!Nicolai De-Gundersen is an author of dark fiction currently studying Literature at the University of Oslo. Having been raised in England and having attended an international school in Norway, his work often finds inspiration from diverse cultures. He has been writing for circa 3 years, penning various tales that explore the human condition under supernatural circumstances, thus merging the rational and the real with the hidden world of the fantastic and macabre.
Join The Heart's Lone Desire Facebook Group page!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Is Olive Garden Becoming the Disney of Restaurants?
The last time we visited our local Olive Garden, it was just the hubby and me. This rarely happens, but it was school vacation week and the girls were sleeping over at their grandparents' house. It was after normal dinner hours--probably close to 7:30 PM by the time we arrived, but the place was still fairly busy. The hostess greeted us within moments of our arrival, took our name, and gave us a pager.
We probably waited about 5 minutes, and a gentleman, who appeared to be the manager on staff, apologized for our wait as the hostess guided us to our table. Our waiter, I think his name was Owen, arrived moments later.
We had a wonderful time. Owen took our drink order first. When he returned with our drinks he took our meal order. If I remember correctly, I had the Mixed Grill, which is, "skewers of grilled marinated steak and chicken with a rosemary demi-glace, served with grilled vegetables and Tuscan potatoes." The hubby had the Venetian Apricot Chicken. This dish featured, "grilled chicken breasts in an apricot citrus sauce" and served with broccoli, asparagus and diced tomatoes. We rounded our entrees out with a house salad and breadsticks.
The food, as always, was absolutely amazing. It arrived in record time, and Owen checked on us from time to time to see if we needed anything. We decided to forgo dessert, but after we paid the bill and several members of the staff wished us goodnight, I got to wondering if Olive Garden was quickly becoming the Disney of restaurants.
The training program at Disney is unmatched, from my understanding. One of my college classmates gave a presentation for our public speaking course on their training program, which she had attended when she worked there.
If you've ever been to Disney, you'll know just what I mean. They have been trained to excel at customer service; to anticipate your needs before you even realize you need anything; to fix any problem that could possibly arise--and do it all with a smile.
That's how I felt that evening as we strolled out of Olive Garden, my belly full of great food after a relaxing and enjoyable dinner out with my better half. I don't know anything about their training program, but I know we'll keep going back to visit as long as they keep up the great work.
Blogger's note: These are my honest opinions. I was not compensated in any way for sharing these thoughts.
Book Spotlight: The MS Project Compiled by Dr. Laina Turner-Molaski
The MS Project is a collection of stories written by people afflicted by MS or who have loved ones afflicted. This book is meant to be informational regarding the disease as experienced by real people and to showcase the amazing strength people find when facing adversity.
Read an excerpt!
Chair-Dancing and Other MS Adventures by October Clarke Craig
“How do you keep such a positive attitude?” It’s a question I’m often asked, and it deserves an answer. Depending on the occasion and audience, my answer is either simple (“Being a grump isn’t a whole lot of fun”) or quite a bit more complex. Here’s how I came to be diagnosed with MS (now secondary progressive)… and some tools that help me stay out of emotional quicksand – most of the time.
PURCHASE A COPY OF THE MS PROJECT HERE!
Laina’s mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) in 1985. She passed away in 2000 from an indirect cause after years of suffering from effects of the illness. Laina is committed to bringing more awareness to the disease.
Visit Dr. Turner-Molaski online at http://www.themsproject.com/.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Book Spotlight: Stilettos & Scoundrels by Laina Turner-Molaski
Not looking back on corporate America, Presley decided to follow her dream. With her feisty nature and a spirit to not “sweat the small stuff,” she was ready to tackle any challenge (even if she had no idea how she would pay the bills). When her friend Trevor offered her a job with his online magazine to interview public figures, she jumped at the chance.
However, the new job turned into something unexpected when the U.S. Senator she was slated to write about was murdered – in her home town! Presley was excited – she hadn’t seen so much buzz since the spring sample sale at Saks. She was ready for this adventure, even if it didn’t seem to fit neatly into her life. She couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be in the middle of the buzz.
Presley was determined (not to mention curious) to find the killer and write her story. After all, she couldn’t afford her shoe habit without a job and she was certainly not one to shy away from danger. The only thing standing in her way was an old high school fling, Cooper Sands, head of the Senator’s security. He was not actually standing in her way, but because of his good looks, he was the biggest distraction and one she was having the hardest time overcoming. Cooper felt it was too dangerous for Presley to look for a killer and tried to distract her with reliving the past; which Presley found more dangerous than any killer. While she attempted to resist Cooper’s good looks and charm, Presley was able to discover the Senator’s wife, Helen, had been having an affair… with her best friend’s boyfriend! Did Helen kill the Senator? Or was it the Senator’s love of gambling that got him killed? And what was Cooper’s secret tie to the mob boss Garrison Palazzo?
Presley’s betting her favorite pair of Manolo’s she will find the killer… but will time run out!
Latest review: "This was a fun, quick read, with a little suspense and romance thrown in." -- Always with a Book
PURCHASE A COPY OF STILETTOS & SCOUNDRELS AT AMAZON! ALSO AVAILABLE IN A KINDLE EDITION!
Laina Turner-Molaski is a businesswoman, mom, author, Professor, and a major supporter of shopping. She has an undying love for shoes and coffee, which is why she created her main character and alter-ego Presley Thurman.
With a lot of letters after her name and a ton of student loan debt, she is always working to pay the bills. While she enjoys her day job, her passion is writing, and she uses a lot of company time writing her fiction or working on her social website for women, Chiczofrenic.com . She is hoping to sell her book before she gets fired from her day job for goofing off.
Laina is currently living in Indiana, with her family, and is always writing something, whether it’s blogs, articles, business journals and books or ideas for her next novel. She is continuously doing what she loves which is writing or drinking coffee.
Visit the author online at www.lainaturner.com/.
Book Spotlight: More Stately Mansions by John B. Rosenman
There’s just one problem: the cities are mysteriously empty. He can’t find even one survivor, which means the planet is off-limits to commercial exploitation and cannot be used to achieve financial profits in any way.
Soon Temple discovers an even greater problem, one that is strange and ominous and threatens his crew’s very survival.
Not only that, it is an incredible cosmic mind-stretcher that strains sanity to the breaking point, not just the characters' sanity but the readers' as well.
Read an excerpt!
After Temple reported the discovery to the ship by comlink, they entered the entrance in the wall to find a tall column rimmed by spiral stairs. Drawing his pulser, he took the lead.
He descended into a stupendous oval chamber whose floor looked at least a hundred meters beneath them. Above, Temple saw a great translucent dome admitting pale light. It pierced the interior in great, shimmering shafts, though there seemed little to see. As far as he could tell, a meters deep gray, featureless ash covered the floor. When they reached the bottom, he found a walled path across it. In places, the ash spilled over the tops in acrid piles, making them cough. Like the others, Temple pressed a handkerchief to his face to relieve the smell.
The path turned and turned again. Then it disappeared. They found themselves in an open area. Before them stood a platform.
“Wait!” Temple shouted. He saw Harper and McBride lower their pistols. Assured no one would fire, he turned back. Like them, he stared at the object before them.
An alien.
There seemed to be no question it was dead, also ugly and repellant. Lizard-like, twice the size of a man, it stood in an arched alcove, frozen into the unnatural rigidity of death. Or was it unnatural, Temple thought. Wasn't death as natural as life, even far more so, given the brevity of the latter? For that matter, how could they be sure the alien was dead, no threat to them? He studied the massive, green, scaly legs, the glittering claws on the poised arms, and the lethal jaws of the head whose long razor teeth would accomplish what the two sharp horns on its forehead did not. Trembling, he felt himself shiver.
“Oh, Baby,” Diana almost crooned. “I'd sure hate to meet him in a dark alley some night.”
Temple glanced at them. Diana's and Caldwell's eyes glistened with excitement. Harper and McBride, older and more experienced, regarded the creature with suspicion, as if half expecting it to spring.
AVAILABLE AT MUSEITUPPUBLISHING.COM!
Visit John on the web at his website, www.johnrosenman.com
He has also posted three dozen blogs on writing at http://storytellersunplugged.com/
at http://home.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=1164323809
https://twitter.com/#!/Writerman1
http://s631.photobucket.com/albums/uu31/jrosenman/
One of his interviews can be found at http://www.milscifi.com/files/inter-JBR-BS.htm
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)