Chronicle Books 2nd Annual Happy Haul-idays Giveaway at TC&TBC

Visit my children's and teens' book blog, The Children's and Teens' Book Connection for details on how you, a lucky commenter, and your favorite charity can win up to $500 worth of FREE books from Chronicle Books in their 2nd Annual Happy Haul-idays event.

You can find my post at http://childrensandteensbookconnection.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/chronicle-books-2nd-annual-happy-haulidays-giveaway/

Good luck to all who enter!

Women's Fiction Month: Feisty Family Values by B.D. Tharp

When Annabelle Hubbard appears on her cousin Regina’s doorstep covered in bruises, the chaos begins. Within an idyllic neighborhood of stolid, family values and century-old houses, the cousins come to grips with family secrets, the ghosts of painful memories, unruly grandchildren, a life-threatening illness, and sexual temptation. Riding through the storm in their lives, the two cousins find that faith, family, and friends are really all that matters.


Read an excerpt!

The grinding of the brakes jolted her back to the present and the smell of dirty socks and stale cigarette smoke.


“Is this the place, ma’am?” the driver asked.

She looked at the three-story house; pristine white paint glowed in the sun. “Yes,” she said.

“That’ll be five seventy-five,” he said and hung his open palm over his shoulder into the back seat. His knuckles bulged, and his fingers were crooked, and the skin cracked.

“I’m sorry, how much?” She held her breath for a moment, hoping she had enough for the fare.

“Five seventy-five,” he flipped the meter handle down and put the car in park. Turning, he looked over the seat with his grizzled chin and rheumy eyes. “You okay?”

“Yes, fine . . . sorry . . .” Annabelle stuffed her handkerchief back up the sleeve of her cardigan and opened her cracked vinyl pocketbook. She pulled out four crumpled ones, two quarters, and an assortment of dimes and pennies from her coin purse. She dropped the wadded bills in his palm and proceeded to count the coins. “Ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two . . .”

“It’s five seventy-five, lady,” he said. The radio squawked, but he didn’t answer.

“That makes five, forty-two,” she said. “Just a minute, I always have coins in the bottom of my bag. They fall out sometimes . . .” She found another thirty cents in change and dropped it in his palm. The money she’d placed there had already disappeared into his pocket.

“You’re three cents short,” he said, and she jumped at the growl in his voice. “Why’d you call a cab if you didn’t have the money? Geez, short and no tip besides . . .”

“I’m sorry, I’ll go up to the house and see if my cousin has some change.” Her eyes filled with tears and her throat constricted.

He snorted, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. The microphone squawked, so he picked it up and spoke. “I got that one. I’m in Riverside now.”

He had no idea how hard it had been to come here. She didn’t mean to cheat him, but it was all she had. A lone tear escaped down her wrinkled cheek. Annabelle lowered her head and pulled the threadbare hankie from her sleeve.

As she dabbed her eye she noticed two pennies on the floorboard. Reaching down she picked up the coins. “Here you go,” she said, a stiff smile on her face. “I found two more.”

“Good enough, I got to go, lady,” he said. “Got another fare a couple blocks from here.”

“Oh, okay. Well, thank you. If you’ll give me your name, I’ll send you the tip and the penny.” She opened the door. The sidewalk appeared a mile long to the porch.

“Forget it,” he said and revved the engine. “I suppose you want help with your bag now, too,” he spoke to the rear view mirror.

“No, I can . . . manage,” she said. She scooted the battered Pullman across the seat and stepped onto the walk. Bracing her hand on the rim of the door she pulled it onto the curb with a thud, then dragged it upright.

He leaned over the back of the seat, eager to close the door, but she beat him to it.

“Thanks,” she said, coughing from the exhaust fumes. She watched him zip around the corner, feeling her courage go with him.

Straightening her shoulders she faced the house and an uncertain welcome. It didn’t appear to have changed a bit since she’d last seen it. But she had. Oh, how Annabelle Hubbard had changed.

Read the reviews!

"Thank you for the autographed copy of your book [Feisty Family Values]! I started reading it last night and am HOOKED! I can’t wait to pick it up again tonight!"

– Sierra P. Scott, TV Host, “It’s ALL Good!”, KSCW Ch. 5 Sun. Nights at 7:30pm

“I just finished your book (Feisty Family Values) about a month ago. I loved it so much I’m getting ready to read it again. I also have that little “Feisty” button you gave me, clipped to the inside of my makeup case. Thanks so much!”

-Felicia, Wichita, KS

“Feisty Family Values” is quite a gripping story. Not too long to read in a weekend, and captivating enough you don’t want to put it down. Realistic people in realistic situations.”

-Kathy P., Pratt, KS

PURCHASE FEISTY FAMILY VALUES AT BARNESANDNOBLE.COM OR AMAZON!

A lifetime resident of the Midwest, B.D. Tharp graduated Magna Cum Laude from Wichita State University with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Communications, Women/Minority Studies and Fine Arts.  Her award winning women’s fiction novel, Feisty Family Values, is available in bookstores, Amazon.com and Barnesandnoble.com. Feisty Family Values was chosen one of the 150 Kansas Best Books, a finalist for the USA News Best Books of 2010, and winner of the J. Coffin Memorial Book Award for 2011. Additional publishing credits include magazine articles, essays, and short stories for the following publications: Women’s Focus Magazine, Active Aging, the Wichita Register Magazine, East Wichita News, Sheridan Edwards Review, A Waist Is A Terrible Thing To Mind Anthology, National Association of Women Writers Weekly and the Kansas Writers Association Newsletter. Accomplishments include: local, state, and national award winner for short stories, children’s stories, articles, playwriting, novels and prose. 

Visit B.D. Tharp online at http://bdtharp.com.

Women's Fiction Month: The Pub Across The Pond by Mary Carter

“Sometimes leaving home is the only way to find where you belong….”

Carlene Rivers is many things. Dutiful, reliable, kind. Lucky? Not so much. At thirty, she’s living a stifling existence in Cleveland, Ohio. Then one day, Carlene buys a raffle ticket. The prize: a pub on the west coast of Ireland. Carlene is stunned when she wins. Everyone else is stunned when she actually goes.

As soon as she arrives in Ballybeog, Carlene is smitten, not just by the town’s beguiling mix of ancient and modern but by the welcome she receives. In this small town near Galway Bay, strife is no stranger, strangers are family, and no one is ever too busy for a cup of tea or a pint. And though her new job presents challenges–from a meddling neighbor to the pub’s colorful regulars–there are compensations galore. Like the freedom to sing, joke, and tell stories and, in doing so, find her own voice. And in her flirtation with Ronan McBride, the pub’s charming, reckless former owner, she just may find the freedom to follow where impulse leads and trust her heart–and her luck–for the very first time.

Read an excerpt!

Prologue

Declan

The Greatest Love Story Ever told in Ballybeog

It was the greatest love story ever told in Ballybeog when everyone was drunk, but nobody wanted to go home, and all other great love stories had been told.

Name’s Declan, but I’ll answer to most anything as long as yer thirsty and polite, and in that order. Ah, say nothin’ until you hear more. I’ve been a publican at Uncle Jimmy’s going on twenty years now. Most days it’s good ole craic, but sometimes when you’re a publican, you’ve gotta be a bags. I wasn’t sure Carlene Rivers, the Yankee Doodle Dandee who won the pub, had that in her. She had sweet written all over her, and I hate to say it, but girls like that always seem to attract the wrong kind of lads. I’ve seen many a sweet lass get the guy of their dreams, only to watch them turn into their worst nightmares. Over time their men belly up to the bar more than they do the bedroom. Because the Irishmen who “do”, usually don’t hang around here. And Ronan McBride was no exception.

Nobody thought the lad would ever settle down. There are three kinds of Irish men. Those who do, those who don’t, and those who say they might but probably won’t. Ronan McBride was the latter. He was thirty-three years of age but still hadn’t worked out his boyish ways. I don’t know why nature makes those marriage-phobic-men so alluring to the women, a course, no one would disagree that he was the best looking man in the family, and I’m not just saying that because he was the only man in the family. His father James McBride (or Uncle Jimmy as he was known around here), had passed, God rest his soul, leaving Ronan, his mother, and six sisters to run the McBride family pub. In heavenly retrospect, I bet James wishes he would’ve just left the pub to the girls; it would have been an insult to his only and eldest son all right, but as I said, sometimes when you’re a publican, you’ve gotta be a bags.

As the song goes, Ronan was a rambler and a gambler, although he was never a long way from home. I can’t tell you what it was that made the birds go absolutely mental over him, except he was over six feet and had all his hair. Let’s just say he had his pick of chickens in our little town, not to mention a hen or two who would’ve liked to sink their beaks into him.

But it was Carlene who got folks to whispering that maybe, just maybe, our terminal bachelor might mend his wayward ways. There was something in the air whenever those two were in the same room. A bit of a spark you might say, especially when they were arguing. Yep, things certainly hummed when they lit into each other, and for anyone watching it was great craic. Although we worried about Sally Collins, of course, she’d been absolutely lovesick over that boy her entire life. Still, it did me good to see that beautiful Yankee bird come into town and shake up his world, and my money was on her from the beginning.

But despite cheering the lass on, I understood Ronan’s terror. For some, there’s nothing more frightening than love, except maybe running out of ale. I was like him meself, one of the Irishman who don’t. And let me tell you, many are the nights when I’ve regretted it. Cold, long, rainy nights when I’m lying in bed and I close my eyes and some skirt that I chased when I was a younger lad comes skipping into my dream, all pretty, and bouncy, and smelling nice, only to start giving me shit for letting her go. Worse than the terrors, those dreams. I’ve known Ronan since he was a squaller, and I didn’t want him to make the same mistakes I did. I used to say, ‘What’s for you, won’t pass you’, but I know it’s a lie. I let them pass me. I always thought there’d be more time.

I’m in me seventies now, and it’s probably too late for me. I’m a scrawny looking thing with black wire glasses and I’ve a tuft of silver bird nest sitting on me head, but I’ve been told I still have a right nice smile, (even if they’re not all me original teeth), and believe it when I tell ye I got me share of tiddly-winks back in the day. I’m not much over 5’5 which I read in some touristy-type book is average for an Irishman. The average Irishman, according to this book, is 5’5, drinks four cups of tea a day, has 1.85 kids, and spends three euros a day on alcohol. I don’t know where the writer of these so-called facts was getting his information, but it sure t’wasn’t here, cuz some of our lads spend five euros an hour on the black stuff. That’s a pint of Guinness for you blow-ins.

To make a long story short, I’m just your average Joe Soap. I make up for it in other departments if you know what I mean. Ah, but this story isn’t about me or my regrets, so I hope you can put away all lurid thoughts of my national endowments. If you want to take that matter up on a one-to-one basis, and it goes without saying that you have to be a good-looking bird, then you can Facebook me. I didn’t join the fecking thing until the pub went up for raffle in America, but now that I’m on it, I reckon I might as well make the most of it. On that note, if anyone has an extra goat to give away, I’m on that farming game and I can’t seem to get a fecking goat no matter what I do, so send me one, so, if you please.

To make a long story short, we were a nice, quiet town until that fecking raffle went viral. That means a lot of people on the internet saw it. The tickets were sold in Irish festivals all over America, and they went for twenty-dollars apiece. Everyone and their mother wanted to win a pub in Ireland. And if Carlene’s mother looks anything like her daughter, I would’ve gone for a mother-daughter combo, but the Young Yank came on her own. And in the wink of an eye, our quiet little town weren’t so quiet n’more.

Situated on the West Coast of Ireland, we’re nestled on the edge of Galway Bay. We might be small, but we’re mighty. Close enough to Galway City we only need to follow the scent of heather and lager along the coast to lay our fingers on her thriving pulse, but tucked far enough away that until that fecking raffle, we didn’t get too many blow-ins.

We’ll call our little village, Ballybeog, or in Irish, Baile Béag, which means “Little Center”. I picked it because it sounds pleasant and Irish-y and because nobody in their right minds wants me to use its real name. Not out of shame, mind you, but for fear of being over-run by Americans like what happened in Dingle when the dolphin showed up. Nothing can ruin a sweet little village faster than a gaggle of Americans tracking down their “Irish roots” with their iPhones and dodgy laminated diagrams of supposed family trees.

Regardless, everyone will be treated as if they’re welcome at the McBride family pub. This is the place to be. Drink away your troubles, catch up with the locals, watch a horse race, listen to traditional Irish music, play a game of pool, or darts, or cards, and see how much better life treats ye after a nice pint. Or two. Or twelve. Nobody keeps count except the Americans. Right now the place is jammers. We’re waiting on a bride. So let me tend to my other customers now, but doncha worry. I’ll check back to see how you’re doing, or freshen your pint. And if you get half a mind to be neighborly, don’t forget to send me a fecking goat.

Read the reviews!

After the McBride sisters’ Uncle Joe wins the family pub from their gambling-addict brother Ronan in a poker match, the sisters create a sweepstakes as a way of keeping their scheming uncle from turning the pub into a tanning salon. When adrift 30-year-old Cleveland, Oh. resident Carlene Rivers wins, creating a local media storm, no one expects her to actually accept ownership. But she does, leaving the Midwest and heading to Ballybeog, a small fictional town “out in the bogs” of Ireland off Galway. Carlene feels an intense attachment to Ireland–”Welcome home” says the voice in her head as she descends into Shannon–and the Irish accent makes her swoon. Though she’s a “people-pleaser,” she’s drawn to bad boys, and finds herself immediately attracted to black sheep Ronan, and he to her. But circumstances conspire to keep them apart, perhaps so that Carlene can deal with a few demons of her own. Carter cleverly urges the reader to root for Carlene to hook up with bad catch Ronan, but this story is most deeply rooted in Carlene’s own self-discovery. As Carlene to Irish accents, so goes Carter to Irish clichés, but beyond them lies a fun, quirky read.

– Publishers Weekly

When Carter tells a story readers cannot help but sit with a smile on their face. When you’re reading The Pub Across the Pond the smile shows up almost instantly and it stays in place for the duration. Superb storytelling and fun and fantastic characters make this a story not soon forgotten.


Carlene Rivers is the unluckiest girl in the world. She’s never won anything. Yet at the Irish Festival in Dublin, Ohio, she still forks over $20 for the chance to win a pub in Ireland. And she wins! Now, much to the surprise of her friends and family, she’s off to Ireland.


When she arrives in Ballybeog, she falls in love with the town, the country, the way of life and her new neighbors, who welcome her with open arms. As she settles into her new life and its intoxicating freedom, it seems like her luck may have changed, especially when it comes to Ronan McBride, the pub’s former owner. (KENSINGTON, Oct., 336 pp., $15.00)

– Annette Elton, Romantic Times

PURCHASE THE PUB ACROSS THE POND AT AMAZON!

MARY CARTER is a freelance writer and novelist. The Pub Across the Pond is her fifth novel with Kensington. Her other works include: My Sister’s Voice, Sunnyside Blues, She’ll Take It, and Accidentally Engaged. In addition to her novels she has written two novellas: A Very Maui Christmas in the best selling anthology Holiday Magic, and The Honeymoon House in the best selling anthology Almost Home. She is currently working on a new novel for Kensington.


Readers are welcome to visit her at www.marycarterbooks.com.


Visit her at Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mary-Carter-Books/248226365259

Women's Fiction Month: Space by Emily Sue Harvey

In Space, Emily Sue Harvey delivers us a deeply moving story of a family on the brink. Dan and Deede Stowe have worked for years, planning and saving for their idyllic retirement years. Just when they finally are about to realize their dream, their adult, recovering drug-addict daughter, Faith, moves back in with them and everything changes. Their “miracle child”, complete with druggie baggage, upsets the tranquil balance of the Stowe’s existence. Private romantic moments evaporate. Faith’s endless needs intrude hour by hour, devouring both their finances, their emotions, and most crucially, their space. In turn, Faith finds herself bereft of everything she cherished most, her health, her marriage, her child, her family, her reputation and, most of all, a space to call her own.

Amid chaotic challenges, all three battle to find peace with each other, a harmony that doggedly eludes them. For the sake of family solidarity, each is forced to sacrifice elemental components of self, until desperation turns them one against the other. Will love be enough to turn the tide? Is it strong enough to warm again hearts grown cold?

Space is a vivid, candid, and life-affirming story from a masterful storyteller of the heart.

Read an excerpt!

As we moved to the music, Dan whispered in my ear, scattering goosebumps all over me. “Just when I think it’s impossible to love you any more, you prove me wrong.”


“Mmm. I know what you mean,” I murmured.

A few moments later, he whispered, “How did I do it?”

“What?” I rubbed my cheek against his.

“How did I get you? The prettiest girl to come out of Brattsville, South Carolina?”

I looked into his eyes. “It was meant to be.”

“Destiny, huh?”

“Divine destiny.”

“You bet.”

He reached down and kissed me then. And a round of applause and whoops of delight rent the air.

That was when Dan’s cell phone vibrated against me as it jangled into Latin strains of Girl from Ipanema. “Yes?” Dan held it to his ear, straining to hear.

I watched him turn pale, then ashen.

“What?” I leaned close, fear gripping me. “What is it?”

“We’ll be right there.” He snapped his phone shut. “It’s Faith.”

I felt the blood leave my head. “W-what? Has something happened to her?” Oh God, no! Please.

He saw my panic, took my hand and squeezed reassurance. His eyes conveyed, everything will be all right. But I’d glimpsed the flash of fear a second before he covered it.

“She’s in the Greenville ICU. Let’s go.”

Priss was there in a heartbeat. “It’s Faith,” I told her as we moved through the crowd, her trailing anxiously along. “I don’t know the details yet.”

“Keep me informed, sis,” Priss called after us as we rushed out the door, leaving behind more stunned faces.

I asked Dan, “What’s wrong with Faith?”

“I didn’t want to say anything with the whole world listening. She’s unconscious.” He looked at me then, his eyes tortured as he swept me along with his long strides. “She’s ODed on drugs, honey. Our Faith is on drugs.”

“No,” I cried out, feeling my legs beneath me turn numb. I nearly stumbled.

Dan’s strong arm went around me and he propelled me to the car.

We didn’t know it in that moment. We glimpsed only through a cracked door into the immediate. But our perfect world, as we knew it, our togetherness-dream, was beginning to shatter into a million tiny pieces.
 
Read the reviews!
 
"Space is a realistic look at what life could be like with a person who is addicted to drugs and out of control. It shows the devastating effects that drug addiction has on families. It also shows us the everlasting love of family and God. Space is another good read from Emily Sue Harvey. If you like novels that are emotional and Christian based then Space may just be one you'd enjoy. I did!"
 
--Peeking Between the Pages
 
"Space takes you on the journey that Dan and Deede take to save their daughter. It's a wonderful story and a must read for anyone who believes in the power of faith."
 
--ToniWI, Amazon reviewer
 

PURCHASE SPACE AT AMAZON!

Emily Sue Harvey, author and speaker, writes to make a difference. Dozens of her upbeat stories and articles appear in Chocolate for Women, Chicken Soup for the Soul, women’s magazines, websites, and other anthologies.


She is the author of the novel Song of Renewal and Homefires and the novella Flavors. Her new novel, Space, will be followed by another novel (Unto these Hills) later in 2011.


To find out more about Emily visit www.renewalstories.com  or www.emilysueharvey.com.

Women's Fiction Month: A Summer in Oakville by Lisa Lickel and Shellie Neumeier

Tessa Hasmer Murphy has a secret. Estranged from her husband, will she let a past love and a fight to save the family farm destroy her marriage and daughter Lindsay's happiness?

Lindsay Murphy plans to live on her grandparents' farm until she can find a job, but developer Brandon Calloway has other plans for the property. As she wages war against him, will she lose her heart and the farm both?

Widower Arthur Hasmer's life and that of his son, Andy, spiral out of control. When old friend, Dana London, reenters the picture, God might work through her to help them all back to love, joy and faith.

Andy Hasmer has the ultimate bummer life. No mom, not much of a dad, no future. When he's sent to the farm and wrecks the truck, nothing could be worse than the lousy job he takes to pay Grampa back-except maybe putting up with the pastor's daughter, Ella.

Read an excerpt!
Contessa Marie Hasmer Murphy closed her eyes and inhaled the scents of her summer kingdom. First hay cutting—sweet and fragrant alfalfa from Janssen’s across the road—cress, and mint that she had just walked on. A cardinal’s peculiar trilling keen and artesian water bubbling from the spring a yard in front of her rock throne seemed magnified in the leafy glen. Tessa wiggled against her backrest, the channeled bark of the century oak a solid comfort behind her.
Whiny mosquito! Tessa scrunched her brows and batted the insect from her ear. She sighed and sat up. Where’s a good slave with a palm fan when you need one?

Who was she trying to kid? At age forty-eight all she’d been her whole life was a slave to her family, to Oakville. And unappreciated went her efforts to keep the family together. First, Robin. Married and moved so far away. Having grandbabies Tessa couldn’t hop in the Land Rover to visit. Skype was just not the same. Phil. Good riddance. He hadn’t thanked her for anything in the past decade anyway. Lindsay … her baby girl coming home after earning her master’s degree. But not home to mom. Home to grandma.

Tessa leaned over and plucked a small white lady slipper. Everything seemed to bloom earlier each spring. Even though she knew the flower, a member of the orchid family, had no fragrance, she brought it to her nose, always hoping something might have changed.

Something shimmied the leaves. A muffled step? Tessa stayed still, hoping to see a doe and maybe a fawn. When a large human hand thrust aside the leaves of her willow curtain, she stiffened.

Read the reviews!

"A Summer in Oakville is the vivid portrait of a fragmented family finding the faith to unite in an effort to save the land and life they thought they had lost. A wonderful story you might find a bit of yourself in."

--Allan E. Ansorge, author of the Bay Harbour stories

"A Summer in Oakville transports readers deep into the soul of family. Lisa and Shellie have woven four unique stories into one heart-tugging narrative of reconciliation, love, forgiveness, and hope. It's hard to say who inspires me more. Tessa, Lindsay, Andy, and Art each bring their longings and unravel their secrets in a situation that ultimately ties them together as tightly as your family or mine. A very uplifting read!"

--Naomi Musch - author of the Empire in Pine series and Heart Not Taken

"Summer in Oakville is a cleverly-composed novel that addresses issues from the past, affecting four characters' present-day lives. Shellie Neumeier and Lisa Lickel are a dynamic writing duo!"

--Andrea Boeshaar - author of the acclaimed series, Seasons of Redemption
http://www.andreaboeshaar.com/

PURCHASE A SUMMER IN OAKVILLE AT BLACK LYON PUBLISHING!

Lisa J. Lickel is a graduate of the Christian Writers Guild Apprentice Program and top ten finisher of the first Operation: First Novel contest. Her novels include The Gold Standard, a cozy mystery from Barbour Publishing (February 2009), and a romance from Black Lyon, Meander Scar (February 2010). Her short stories have appeared in Harpstring Magazine, and her other published material includes radio theater with FreeQuincy Radio Theater, Writer's Digest, You Can Write for Children, numerous newspaper features and blogs including http://favoritepastimes.blogspot/, and http://www.thebarndoor.net/. She and her husband live in a 150-year-old house and have two grown sons. Lisa is actively involved in her community and state historical society organizations. A graduate the University of Wisconsin, Stevens Point, with a Bachelor of Science degree in history and Russian Studies, and a former church secretary and desk top publisher, Lisa enjoys working with and mentoring new writers, teaching Telling Your Story workshops and anything historical.

Shellie Neumeier holds a degree in Secondary Education from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, with a minor in Psychology, Sociology and Social Studies. A devoted mother of four, Shellie previously worked on staff with Northbrook Church as the King’s Kids ministry assistant (serving children in grades 2nd through 5th). Shellie’s YA novel, Driven, is available from Risen Fiction and her middle grade chapter book The Wishing Ring will release February 2012. She is an active member of SCBWI and ACFW as well as a contributing author for various blogs. Shellie is located in southeastern Wisconsin.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lisalickel?ref=ts or https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001729933656 or https://www.facebook.com/pages/A-Summer-in-Oakville/200940583288468


Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/shellie_c

Website: http://lisalickel.com/  or http://shellieneumeier.com/  

Women's Fiction Month: Meander Scar by Lisa Lickel

We're starting off Women's Fiction Month with this wonderful novel by Lisa J. Lickel.

Ann Ballard’s husband, Gene, has to be dead. After seven years of no word, no clues, she is more than ready to get her stagnant life flowing again in a positive direction. When former neighbor Mark Roth, now a respected attorney, shows up and wants to help with the legal aspects, she wonders if she can accept his attractive offer.

Mark has loved Ann forever. She was the only one who supported him when his own family was unavailable. Through gentle wooing, Mark convinces Ann that his dream of happiness for them can come true. Together they face disapproving family members and the legal maneuverings of Gene’s elite family. In a bizarre twist of fate, Ann learns what happened to her husband. How can she tell the truth when it may ruin more lives--hers included?

Just when Ann and Mark overcome the last hurdle, their lives hit the hardest rock of all. Now it's Mark's turn to be truthful to Ann, himself, and the faith he professes.

Read the reviews!

"Lisa Lickel’s Meander Scar challenges us to rethink our ideas of love–to venture past the superficial so that we can focus on the heart, regardless of its packaging. This novel has a little bit of everything: conspiracy, a glimpse of high-society, romance, hatred, passion, mercy–practically the entire gamut of human emotions all wrapped up in about two hundred and thirty pages...Lisa Lickel turns our ideas of 'Romeo and Juliet Romances' on their ears in a story that will keep you turning the pages long into the night."

--Christian Book Reviews 
"I truly loved and appreciated this book. Every bit of it -- story, plot, writing, setting, and characters! Everything about it was unique."

--Shawna K. Williams on The New Book Review as blogged by Carolyn Howard-Johnson

Lisa’s book has got to be one of the most tender, touching, romantic love stories I’ve ever read.  The intensity of the characters’ feelings and relationships are intricately developed and oh so real-to-life, warts and all.  That intensity follows through to the very end of the book...A great read!"

--Onedesertrose, Amazon.com

PURCHASE MEANDER SCAR AT AMAZON.COM IN PAPERBACK AND KINDLE EDITIONS. ALSO AVAILABLE AT BARNESANDNOBLE.COM!

Lisa is a Wisconsin writer who lives with her husband in a hundred and sixty-year-old house built by a Great Lakes ship captain. Surrounded by books and dragons, she writes inspiring fiction. Her novels include mystery and romance, all with a twist of grace. She has penned dozens of feature newspaper stories, short stories, magazine articles and radio theater. She is the editor in chief of Creative Wisconsin Magazine and of OtherSheep, a Christian sci fi/fantasy magazine. She loves to encourage new authors. Her next books releases soon: A Summer in Oakville, with Shellie Neumeier, is the story of saving the family farm, with a lot of love and faith mixed in, coming in September from BlackLyon books. Find her at LisaLickel.com.

Book Spotlight: Empire of Light by Gregory Earls

Jason Tisse is in over his head. As a young black cinematography student at LA’s notoriously tough American Film Institute, he’s got the vision, but not the balls to battle the ruthlessness that is Hollywood. After a failed year at AFI, which includes nearly electrocuting a fellow classmate, Jason embarks on a trip to Europe to hunt down the works of his favorite painter. Armed with an enchanted camera gifted to him by an eccentric film professor, Jason is prepared to master the art of light and shadow as depicted in the infamous baroque artwork of the original Emperor of Light known to the rest of the world as Caravaggio.

What Jason doesn’t expect, however, is that the innocent-looking Kodak Brownie camera he’s been given holds remarkable powers, capable of miraculously bringing his idol’s artwork alive with each snapshot. Caravaggio’s work, packed full of sex, religion, violence and some outrageous hilarity, explodes to life and sends Jason spiraling from one escapade to the next. Spanning the bright lights of Paris, the grand churches of Rome and the cutthroat alleys of Naples, Jason must overcome his inhibitions—even at the risk of life and limb—if he is to one day rule his own Empire of Light.

Read an excerpt!

Chapter 1


The Gospel of Light

I CAN ONLY STARE at Pan’s cigarette, inexplicably dangling from his thin bottom lip, as I wait for his arms to explode away from his body. I’m pretty convinced that at any second now a bolt of lightning is going to punch through his skinny chest and burn his organs to shit before making a mad escape into the ground.

I stand a safe distance away and watch and wait.

His tools are laid neatly on a cart, like surgical gear in a Swiss operating room. And for once, he doesn’t have an iPod plugged into his ears, pushing 160 gigs of noise into his vibrating skull. Today he is focused and serious. I’ve never seen him act so responsibly, and this is a very big reason why I’m beginning to freak the fuck out.

When Pan isn’t wrangling electricity for me, he’s a beach bum who gets off on surfing through the pier pylons at Venice Beach. He doesn’t believe in condoms, and he screws girls who look as if they gargle with tepid mugs of whorehouse Jacuzzi water. If you ever see someone as reckless as Pan acting this cautious, run, because something incredibly stupid is going down.

The energy flowing through this junction box is raw, a constant flow of lightning, harnessed to run this warehouse. I didn’t have the dough to rent a generator to light my set, so I hired Pan as my gaffer to crack open the box and siphon away a dollop of electricity. It’s free power, if you survive the tap. However, if Pan slips and allows his body to complete a circuit, he’ll be dead before his shaved head bounces off the concrete floor.

And it would be my fault.

Me. A first year Cinematography Fellow at the American Film Institute and, just maybe, future manslaughter defendant.

Pan moves cautiously as he attaches the final unstable lead. I catch myself squinting in anticipation of detonation.

Screw this.

This is way too dangerous. I need to be an adult and figure another way to power the set.

“Pan. I’m thinking we should just—”



PHOOM!



Pan spasms at an inhuman speed.

His wrench explodes from his hand and skips wildly across the floor. His fist flies towards me and punches me in the chest. Before I know it, we’re both on the ground and all is quiet again.

“Pan, are you okay?” I ask, hoping he’s alive to answer.

“Yep, bro. I’m good,” he says, lying as stiff as a board.

I look around, still trying to figure out just what the hell happened, when I notice the wrench impaled in the wall on the far side of the room.

“Whoa…”

Pan follows my gaze and spots the wrench.

“WOOOOH! Outstanding!” he screams as he leaps up from the ground in joy like he had just gone for a ride in an F-16.

“I did the dance, bro! Did you fucking see that?”

“Dance?” I ask in shock. “You were almost killed!”

“WHOOO!” is his only response.

Enough of this nonsense.

I put on my gloves.

I’m going to finish this job.

I’m in fight or flight mode, and I can already feel the adrenalin flowing into my body. I snatch the wrench out of the damn wall and march back to the power-box. However, to my surprise, I find myself stopping in front of Pan and holding the wrench out to him. I suddenly realize that my adrenalin wasn’t pumping so I could fight the power-box, but so I could run the hell away from it.

How ‘bout that?

Pan stares at me and lights up a new cigarette. He pops a drag of smoke as he looks down at my gloved hand. He reads the evidence and chuckles out loud. I put the gloves on to finish the job, but then I went coward before getting within five feet of the box. He blows the smoke into the air before gently taking the tool out of my shaking hand.

“S’okay,” he says as he turns his back on me and goes about finishing the tap. “It’s all good here.”

If I watch anymore of this, I’m going to vomit.

“If you’re good, I’m going to the set—”

“You go do what you must do, boss man,” he interrupts. “I’ll come find you when we’re hot.”

Boss man? Screw you, Pan.

As I head down the hall, I hear him begin to whistle, happily. I stop and look back at him working away like one of the goddamn seven dwarfs. Now that the taps are in place, the rest of his job is cake. He survived and now he has a bitchin’ story to tell the rest of the crew. I’ll be nothing but a stupid punch line.

Of course I don’t even make it back to the set. After helping unload the grip truck and sorting out a last minute Certificate of Insurance for my dolly rental, half the day is already gone. Pan completed the tap without killing himself, and at first I didn’t want to see it, but curiosity is getting the best of me. I’ll just take a peek before making my way to the set.

“Oh, Christ.”

You don’t have to be an electrician to know that this just ain’t right. It’s a rape. The power-box mounted on the wall like a prisoner, hanging helplessly with massive black cables clamped to its studs. It’s an unstable hot mess. I had the crew link 100 foot stingers from the power-box and out to the production set so that the violation can stay hidden. In my mind, the stingers are nothing more than my mom’s holiday extension cords that lead back to an ordinary wall plug where a Glade PlugIn is on the top socket, churning out puffs of Apple Cinnamon scent.

I meander back onto the set and realize that I’ve been so worried about the power and stupid insurance that I’ve neglected my lighting. It looks like hell. And learning to light is why I’m here in the first place!

Two weeks ago I wasn’t even really sure just what the hell cinematographers did. I knew they were responsible for pumping enough light onto the set so that the camera could record a healthy image, but a monkey could do that. What I’m clueless about is how to tell a story with light, how to move people with it.

The director is nowhere to be seen. Cool! I have time to maybe tweak one light. Maybe I can do something… artsy? I put my gloves back on and head for the Key Light, jumping onto an apple box and reaching for the barn door.

“Where are we? Are we lit?” Like some demonic wood sprite, the director, Maal, appears out of nowhere just as I reach the light’s barn door.

Shit! I can’t catch a break!

“Hey, Maal,” I say.

He ignores me as he inspects my lighting.

He stands majestically in the middle of the set, like one of his Senegalese warrior ancestors, his head panning and taking in every inch of my lighting set up. He shows no emotion as he speaks down to me with his cool French-African accent.

“Are you happy with this lighting, Jason?” he asks calmly.

“Yeah, but I could tweak—”

“No,” he interrupts and marches toward the monitor. “Let’s get this over with. Where are my actors?”

The Assistant Director runs onto the set just as Maal asks the question. “Sorry, but we need fifteen more minutes for make-up.”

“What are you talking about? They’ve had all morning!”

The set comes to a halt. Nobody has ever heard this very Zen-like artist scream before. The A.D. gathers himself. “I had make-up come in later because I knew we’d be unloading for most of the morning and—”

“Stop,” he interrupts. “I’m going outside for a smoke. Get me when they’re ready.”

Now, I could use these fifteen minutes to have the crew fix my lighting, but I’m not. Why? Because I’m afraid of my own crew. How messed up is that? Here’s the deal, a lot of these people already had professional careers as Camera Assistants or Gaffers before coming to AFI. Me? I just graduated from Central State University, a small black college back in Ohio, three months ago. Ordering around a guy that just pulled focus on the last three Ridley Scott commercials is just not all that easy. So my flight mode kicks in again, and I escape beneath the loading dock where I pop open a can of Coke, sit back and guzzle.

“Fucking disaster!” Maal screams as he storms onto the dock above me with Pan in tow. “How the hell did I get stuck with this fool?”

“The guy’s just green. He’s only twenty-two,” Pan says in my defense.

“I’m all for giving somebody a shot. If AFI wants to save a spot for some kid from the sticks, fine by me. But I didn’t drop twenty-thousand large to babysit some idiot from Iowa.”

“Jason’s from Ohio.”

“Both states have four letters and mean nothing to me.”

Maal and Pan look out towards the Los Angles skyline in thought, as if regretting what has to be done next.

Maal finally says it.

“I need you to take this over.”

Oh, this is just great.

“You’re going to fire him?”

“Can’t do that. He paid his tuition just like we did. You just need to take it over.”

Pan thinks about it. “Naw, Maal. I can’t get down with that,” he finally says. “I’ve got my own projects to light, man. I’m not here to put my work on somebody else’s reel.”

“So I’m just screwed.”

“Calm down, dude. The only reason I didn’t help Jason with the first set-up was because I was too busy gaffing the tie-in. I’ll get him through it all okay and your video will look great. So give us all a break and chill with the Survivor alliance bullshit.”

Way to go, Pan. Tell that jerk, what for.

“I hope you’re right,” says Maal as they both stomp out their cigarettes and head back into the warehouse. “Nice work on that tie-in, by the way. I guess I owe Jason at least that. That’s the only thing he’s done right.”

“I wanna go home,” I mumble to myself.

After five minutes of this mantra, I suddenly notice that the din of noise coming from the set has died down to nothing. Did they really roll camera without me? I scramble up the loading dock and burst onto the set.

“What the hell?”

Empty…

It’s as if the rapture hit just as I was praying to Jesus that Maal die a horrible Ebola death.

I stand in slack-jawed silence, that is, until I hear murmurs coming from the direction of the power tap. I follow the twisting path of the black stingers, which lead me back to my crime scene. All eyes turn on me as I enter the room. There I find the entire cast and crew, including a pissed off Maal, and five grim members of the Los Angeles Fire Department. They’re all staring at the illegal power tap that up until six minutes ago was the only right thing I had done all day.

The dour-faced Captain looks too damn tired to hear any of my excuses. Is it really possible that I screwed up and managed to get us shut down on the first day of the shoot? I mean, come on. It can’t really go there, can it?

The Captain takes off his helmet and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“All of you, get the fuck out!”

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"...Gregory Earls did a fantastic job in drawing me in and making me wish I was there with Jason."

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When Gregory Earls isn’t eating at Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles, he pays the bills by taking up space at 20th Century Fox in the Feature Post Production Department. He’s a proud graduate of Norfolk State University and the American Film Institute, where he studied cinematography. He’s an award-winning director who has amassed a reel of short films, music videos, and (yes) a wedding video or two. Steadfastly butchering the Italian language since 2002, he hopes to someday master the language just enough to inform his in-laws how much he loves their daughter, Stefania, who was born and raised in Milan, Italy. Gregory currently resides in Venice, California where he goes giddy every time he spots that dude who roller skates and plays the electric guitar at the same time. During football season, he can be found at the Stovepiper Lounge, a Cleveland Browns bar in the Valley where he roots for the greatest football team in the history of Cleveland.


Visit his website at www.gregoryearls.com.