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Cover Art Inspirations: Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour

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Mystery at the Fair New Cover2

Mystery at the Fair, New Cover!

Cover art is such a personal thing, isn’t it? For me, cover art that screams SciFi will draw me in any time. Spaceships seeming to scream through space, exploding planets, people adrift in space in space suits. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff. But what about other genre’s. I read widely, what attracts me to those other stories?

I’m not sure I can answer that. I’d off-handedly say the covers have nothing to do with it but marketers will statistically prove me wrong. I like adventure, spy stories, mysteries, even the odd western will catch my eye. Was it the cover or the back cover blurb? Many will say I was drawn in by the cover art.

But cover art, now that’s an arcane wizardry. Last year I wrote my first cozy mystery. I mostly do my own covers so I did a search on Amazon for cozy mysteries and found a mix of cartoon characters and English cottage gardens as covers. I shrugged. Neither of those were what I wanted for a cover that evoked Arizona, serious, or murder. The book was called Mystery at the Fair.

Not surprisingly, I decided on a fair ride picture hubby had taken years ago. I cut it out of the picture, pixilated it a bit to make it “cartoonish” and placed it, stand alone, against an Arizona yellow background. This year I hear from a trusted author friend, that the cover is killing me. While I trust this friend’s judgment, she is a much better author than I am, I reached out to another author, even more powerful.

Now this second author isn’t a personal friend. I frequent her blog site. I’ve been responding to her posts for a few years now. I did not expect an answer but this author is so nice, she actually responded to my question (and with associated links so she could see what I was talking about). Yep, you guessed it. She confirmed my first friend’s assessment. My cover sucked for the genre.

Now I hate those cutsie cartoon covers for cozy mysteries. No matter it’s a cozy, it’s a mystery. A death is involved. I think the cover should be more serious but I will defer to those smarter and savvier than I am.

Here’s the best part. My first author friend, out of the kindness of her heart, found some time in her overwhelming schedule and made me not only one cover for my existing book but one for my upcoming follow-on book as well. Am I blessed or what!?!?

The new covers rock! She even sent me all of the elements so I can recreate the ebook covers she made into wrap-around covers for my print books. I have everything I need to create a branded series because I’ve already started outlining the third book in the series. I’m not even going to address how she turned what I already in the way of blurbs and log lines into a fantastic tag line for the whole series.

I’m excited to recover/rebrand my first book and the subsequent books. You can tell me covers don’t matter but I’ve been up close and personal with my covers and I’m a new convert. Yes, covers DO matter.

How about you? Do you remember a cover that just sucked you right into the book? Please share!

Kindred Spirits released March 14th! I’m so excited about it. You can buy it and my other books at: Apple, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Smashwords, Gumroads  or Chatebooks today!  You can also see all of my books on https://conniesrandomthoughts.com/my-books-and-other-published-work/. If you’ve read any of my books, please drop a review on the site where you bought it. It’s a big help to me in the book rankings each vendor uses to promote the books on their sites. Thanks in advance.

 

The Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour is sponsored by the website Forward Motion (http://www.fmwriters.com). The tour is you, the reader, traveling the world from author’s blog to author’s blog. There are all sorts of writers at all stages in their writing career, so there’s always something new and different to enjoy. If you want to get to know the nearly twenty other writers check out the rest of the tour at http://merrygoroundtour.blogspot.com! Up next: L.C. Aisling.

Happy Anniversary: Flash Fiction Friday Post

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Green Velvet Gift Box 1 by http://fantasystock.deviantart.com/

Green Velvet Gift Box 1 by http://fantasystock.deviantart.com/

He was in his usual spot. I had dropped the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and went into the living room. I don’t know why I expected something else. Hope? I sighed. “You’re home early.”

He popped the top on another beer. Three empties littered the side table next to his recliner. “I was let go.”

My heart sank. Things were already tight. I walked around to stand between him and the history channel documentary on the black plague, arms crossed against my chest. “What happened?”

“Told me things were tough and they had to let someone go.” He took a sip and belched. “It happens.”

I nodded. It happened a lot to him. “You were drinking on the job.”

“I had a couple of beers at lunch. No big deal.”

I closed my eyes. I knew better. “And the whiskey shots at break?”

“A pick-me-up is all.”

I could feel the tears beginning to form so I went back to the kitchen to put the groceries away. A fast inventory of the fridge and cupboards made my stomach churn. There wasn’t much on hand. I’d been planning a big shopping expedition this weekend. Now that wouldn’t happen. I made tea and sat down at the table with a legal pad.

He came in, tossed his empties in the recycling bin and got four more beers from the fridge. For some reason, there was always money for beer. He didn’t even look at me before he went back to the living room. I started the list, mortgage, car payment, electricity, water, those were the most important. Then TV, phone, and internet, a combined payment that was lower than doing them separately. The phone and internet were important, that’s how he’d look for work. Groceries, ’cause we had to eat, but I knew how to pinch that particular penny. I knew to the last cent how much each of those bills cost; I was the one that paid the bills every month. The only bill with any give was the grocery bill. I drank the last of my tea, gone cold. My pay wouldn’t cover the bottom line.

He’d been so sweet back in college. Not scary aggressive like the rest of the boys. He played me soft love songs on the quad in the shade of a giant, ancient oak on his guitar. He read my tarot cards, each of us on opposite sides of his dorm room bed, the cards spread out in front of us. Sure, other guys vied for my attention. But I always came back to him. We married right out of college.

I didn’t notice the drinking at first. We all drank in college. After, it was get-togethers with people from work—kegs, now that we all had jobs and money to spare. Those friends dropped out after the babies started coming. Soon, it was just the two of us, uncomfortable with our friends since we didn’t have children. My heart constricted as I sat at the table, turning my tea mug around and around in front of me.

His drinking became a nightly thing. I didn’t realize there was a problem until he came home, fired, five years ago. One of his co-workers told me why when I saw him and his wife in the grocery one day. Drinking on the job. They were so sorry, they said. I nodded, the blush making my face hot. We had a three-hour screaming match when I got home. He promised he’d change. It worked, for awhile.

Now, this was the fifth job in as many years. I turned the kettle on for another cup of tea. Should I go in and confront him? Would it make any more difference than it had the last four times? I put a fresh tea bag in my cup and poured the boiling water over it and sat back down. The pad in front of me sat accusing, the bottom-line figure taunting me. Could I get a second job? My current job was nine-to-five and not very stressful. Maybe I could do something from home.

I was so tired of this fight. I went into the living room and pulled a footstool in front of him. “Do you want to change?”

He blinked at me; already a six-pack into the night’s drinking.

“Do you care at all?”

“Yes.”

“Do something.”

He muted the TV. “I tried.”

“Not hard enough.” He looked tired. No, beaten. My words made his face fall even more. “I can’t pay all of the bills on my salary. You have to get another job.”

“No one will hire me. Word is out.”

Rage washed through me. “Then DO something! Go into rehab! Quit cold turkey. I cannot do this anymore.”

He sat forward in the recliner and took my hand. “I can’t help it.”

I could feel something inside of me snap. He was pathetic. A loser. Why was I struggling with this man? I stood up. “You can move into the spare room.”

He blinked at me again. “What?”

“I’ve had enough. You can move into the spare room. I can’t afford to leave. I’m still responsible for the house and the bills. You get yourself together or get the hell out.”

I stood up and went into the kitchen. My hand shook as I picked up my tea mug. Did I just do that?

He shuffled into the kitchen, shoulders slumped. He handed me a small box of my favorite chocolate truffles. “Happy anniversary.”

I automatically took them, staring at him. An icy wave washed over me. Was he for real? I took the two steps to the trash can and dropped the box in.  I took my tea, went to my bedroom, and locked the door. There was no going back.

 

Thank You!

970 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Letters Home: Flash Fiction Friday

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“Time to eat, Marie.”

“Be right there.” I hit the record button. “I just want to tell you how much I love you and miss you, Vera. I know your Aunt Lucy is taking good care of you. Your mom, out.” I hit the stop button and lightly stroked the data cube with the picture of my daughter. With a sigh, I got up and went into the ship’s small dining space.

“Sorry,” I slid into the chair. I was the last one at the table.

“You know she’s grown, dead and gone, right?”

I stared at Burt Aston, navigator for our research vessel, The Albatross. “I know, Burt. Telling me every meal isn’t helpful.” The man was on my last nerve. What was it to him if I wanted to send messages to my long dead daughter? To me, it had only been two years. I saw her as a smiling ten-year-old, hair in pigtails and knees skinned. I clenched my teeth together and turned to the Captain, John Marsh. The ship’s pilot, John was the picture of the laconic, southern pilot from the twentieth century.

John raised an eyebrow at Burt but gave me a tiny nod of understanding. I was good. I wouldn’t try to kill Burt today, at any rate. Arabella brought the food to the table. As our biologist, Arabella had set up a hydroponics garden in half of a storage bay. The casserole smelled wonderful and my mouth began to water as my stomach growled.

Wendy Fernald, astrophysicist and her husband Roy, leaned forward to enjoy the aroma. “I think you’ve outdone yourself again, Ary.” Roy grinned at her as she sat down. Plates and spoons were already on the table. John nodded to Ary and picked up the serving spoon. With the precision of an engineer, John scooped the casserole in six identically sized servings onto the six plates. Burt eyed everyone else’s food.

I had to bite my tongue. We were all hungry. His overt checking of portion sizes ticked me off. “Wendy, have you found anything today?” John sipped some water then took a tiny bite of food.

That was the way to do it. Eat slowly, give your stomach a chance to feel full. Not the way Burt shoveled it in. Then he sat, watching every bite each of us took. I took a breath and sipped some water. I needed to calm down and enjoy my only meal of the day. Stressing over Burt Aston wasn’t going to get me anywhere.

“Burt and I have been studying the debris field. We can see the eddies where some debris is sucked into our black hole neighbor faster than in other spots. The Albatross seems to be in a dead spot. We’re not drifting into the hole but we still can’t seem to get out, either. If I had to guess, I’d say a tiny bit of anti-matter is holding us.”

The Captain nodded. How about you, Roy, any good samples today?” He took another tiny bite of food.

Roy wiped his mouth with his napkin and nodded. “Sucked in some manganese, phosphorous and the usual amount of iron. I gave the first two to Arabella for the hydroponics. I’m storing the iron for future use.”

“What future use?” Burt snarled. He threw his napkin on his plate. Arabella can keep on stretching our rations with the Swiss Chard and tomatoes, you can keep on storing iron but we’re stuck here and never getting out. We should face facts. All of this studying and planting is getting us nowhere. We’ve been here a year and food is running out. We’re going to die here.”

Arabella cocked an eyebrow. “Well. Aren’t you Mister Rainbows and Unicorns today?” She stared over the rim of her water glass at him.

The two of them had been sniping at each other for the last month. They’d been lovers up until then but my personal opinion was that she was as sick of his attitude as I was.

“Let’s keep it civil, everyone,” John said in a low voice. “We keep looking for a way out.” He looked around the table, catching each person’s eye. “We stay busy. We use what we find, find new uses for old stuff and keep doing our best to save ourselves.” He looked at Arabella. “Nice dinner. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Ary picked up her fork and stared at Burt as she deliberately ate a tiny bit of food.

“Marie? Anything?”

I brought my attention back to John. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to Wendy’s eddies. If we think of those eddies like currents in the ocean, maybe we can push the ship into one that’s heading away from the black hole.”

“We’ve tried moving the ship before, Marie.” Burt slapped his hand on the table. “All we did was stir up the debris field.”

“Maybe. That was a year ago before we knew about the eddies.”

“We don’t know what’s holding us in place.” The Captain leaned forward. “You have a plan?”

“I think we can deploy one of the shuttles on an arm, look around and see what’s actually around the ship. Then develop a plan to release ourselves.”

John nodded. “I like it. First thing in the morning.”

The Captain insisted on sitting in the shuttle’s pilot seat while Wendy and I were glued to the window and the monitors. Wendy pointed to the shuttle’s right. “That’s a black hole, right there.” I pointed at the monitors. “See the waves? Electro-magnetic.” I grinned.

“What?” John said.

“We make the ship the opposite magnetic charge. We’ll get shoved out of here so fast we won’t know what happened.”

John and Wendy started laughing. Tears ran down our faces. We were going home.

 

Thank You!

966 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Wake Snakes: Friday Flash Fiction Post

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Port harbour by Kagita ar via DeviantArt.com

Port harbour by Kagita ar via DeviantArt.com

Wake snakes — get into mischief. “So I went on a regular wake snakes sort of a spree, and I went here and there turnin’, twistin’ and doublin’ about until I didn’t know where or who I was,” a man testified in court as to why he was intoxicated, according to the New Orleans, La., Times Picayune of Aug. 15, 1842.  Link to the rest at NPR.

 

Capella jumped from her small boat and tied it off before she scurried down the quay.

Her best friend, Phoebe, was set up for a shell game in the mouth of a tiny alley. “Hey! Where you goin’?” She scooped her cups and the ball into her jacket pocket and folded the tiny table.

In four steps Phoebe’d caught up. “In a hurry?”

“Yep.” If her friend wanted come that was fine but she’d better keep up.

“Who’s the mark?” Phoebe brushed by a sailor staggering along the quay. She slid his wallet into her pocket without missing a stride.

“No one you know.” Capella clenched her teeth.

Phoebe arched an eyebrow. “Personal then. What’s the plan?”

Phoebe was always ready to help. She’d want a cut of whatever could be taken but that was fair. “Some jerk beat ma to snot. I’m gonna find him and make him pay.” Capella accepted that women, especially in a port town and without prospects, sold what they had to whoever would buy. No skin off her nose.

“Last seen?” Pheobe fingered the haft of the knife she kept in the belt at her waist. Capella knew Phoebe had another at her back and a third in her boot. Capella had checked her knives before she left the hovel she and her mother called home.

“Turner’s. Jerk and his shipmates have camped there for the last two days.”

Phoebe spat on the quay. “How many?”

“Six. You’re thinkin’ we need back-up?”

“Yep.” Phoebe eyed her. “Unless you know how to separate him from his mates?”

“I planned to get friendly and get him out into the alley, then deal with him.”

“He ever see you before?”

“Nope. Ma gave me a description. The jack didn’t even pay her the fee. There’s no call for that.”

“Agreed. He needs a correction. We could get a couple of the boys.”

Capella thought about it. It was tempting to call in the boys but things could go sideway’s too easy. She looked at her friend and eyed the table tucked under Phoebe’s arm. “You set up a game on the quay just outside the door. I’ll tell Turner you’ll give him a cut so he won’t bother you. Let them win once in awhile to keep them interested. I’ll chat up the jerk and get him to come out back.”

“I can do that. What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I’d feel better if a couple of the boys were there to help.”

“Me, too, but they get side-tracked and next thing they’re robbin’ and beatin’ and…hmmm, maybe that would be the better plan.” She slowed to a stop. “They can keep everything the guy has but my ma’s fee. Where are they?”

“Over at Mally’s.”

“Let’s go.”

It took an hour to get to Mally’s, talk to the boys, get two to come along, and get back to Turner’s. The boys, Zen and Lecki, hid in the alley while Capella and Phoebe started things out front.

The sailors tumbled out of the tavern door and lay their bets. Phoebe smiled and flirted while Turner watched from the door. Capella spotted the jerk and gave him a smile. As soon as he noticed her, she oozed up beside him. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” He slid an arm around her shoulders.

A glance at his knuckles, freshly broken open, convinced her she had her mother’s attacker. “You new in town?”

“Off the Octavia Jones for a few days.”

Capella simpered. “You lookin’ for a good time?”

He leered down her shirt at her breasts. “All the time, sweet thing. What do you have in mind?”

“Three credits. There’s a spot in the alley where we can get some privacy.”

He grinned. “Back in a minute, boys.”

As he turned with her in his grasp, Capella caught Phoebe’s eye. Phoebe nodded and allowed one of the sailors to win. They never noticed the jerk leave.

Turner arched an eyebrow at Capella who gave her head a tiny shake. He wouldn’t tell, but she’d have to pay him off. After wake snaking all over the city in the hot sun, the cool, shaded alley leading to the back of the building, was a relief. At the back of Turner’s she said, “Over here.” She pulled him into a corner of a small storage shed and the building. She backed into the corner and unbuttoned the next button on her shirt. “This what you lookin’ for?” She peered up at him through her eyelashes.

He moved in and grabbed her around the waist. Over his shoulder she watched Zen and Lecki come up behind him. They clobbered him over the head and as he went down, beat him with their fists and kicked him, stomach and back, as he tried to protect his head. Once unconscious, they went through his pockets.

“Ma’s fee and money to pay off Turner.” She held out her hand.

Zen handed her the coins while Lecki took the rest. “Nice doin’ business wit ya.” They tipped their hats and ran off along the back alley. Capella buttoned her shirt and went out front. She nodded to Turner and eased down the quay. She’d come back later to give him his cut.

Phoebe closed the game to the moans and groans of the sailors. “Time for me to move on, boys. Safe journey.”

The girls ducked into a side alley. “You all right?” Phoebe asked.

“Fine. He never touched me. How’d you do?”

“Fifty credits for me, fifty for Turner.”

Capella peeked around the corner. “Time to go. Gotta get ma some meds.”

Phoebe thrust twenty credits at her friend. “Take ’em. For your ma.”

Capella hesitated then sighed. “For the meds. That’s all. You took a risk, too.”

“Thirty credits in a morning is a good day for me. Take Turner’s share.”

Capella nodded. “Safe journey, Phoebe.” She hurried out onto the quay and to her boat. Time to help her ma.

 

Thank You!

999 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Ragged Weeping: Friday Flash Fiction Post

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Misery by fuuuran via DeviantArt.com

Misery by fuuuran via DeviantArt.com

I woke again to ragged weeping and groaned. I had to get up at five and drive an hour and a half to work. Every night this week the weeping had woken me. I got up, threw on my robe and opened the bedroom door. Just like every other night, it sounded as if it was coming from my left, down the hall toward the stairs. I sighed and padded barefoot along the polished wood floors.

My best friend Mandy thought it was a ghost when I told her about it two days ago.

I snorted. “There’re no such things as ghosts.”

“Seriously, Bridget, haven’t you ever watched Ghost Finders on TV? They find ghosts all the time.”

Mandy believed everything she saw on the internet or saw ragged weeping. “I’ll figure it out.” I wish I felt as confident at two in the morning as I had at lunch in broad daylight. The sound quieted. I stared around the hall, faint moonlight coming in the window at the end. I went back to my bedroom and got the mini-flashlight and the wooden bat I kept handy by the bed. I opened every door on the hallway. Spare room, closets, bathroom, guest room, all were quiet. Downstairs I did the same, opened every door, listening, shining the light inside. No ghosts revealed themselves.

In the kitchen I listened to the appliances. There was just quiet humming, no ragged weeping sounds. I turned on the kitchen light and started the water in the kettle for a cup of tea. Some chamomile would help me get back to sleep. Two-fifteen in the morning, I sighed as I checked the clock over the door to the dining room. The house was so quiet I could hear the gas feeding the flame on the stove.

Maybe the noise was coming from the basement, the water heater or furnace or something. I shoved myself to my feet and opened the basement door. As basements in old houses go, this one was pretty clean and not too scary. In the daylight, anyway. I went down the creaky wooden stairs and walked around. The washer and dryer were silent. The water heater was quiet under its insulated blanket. The furnace made no noise but I noticed the fuel oil gage read a quarter full. I made a mental note to have the furnace guy come and do a service and to get the oil delivery guy to fill the tank before September.

I stopped at the end wall. Built-in rough wooden shelves stretched across three-quarters of the wall and held a variety of things I didn’t know what to do with and some things left over from the previous residents. I stared at the contents of the shelves. I should just have a yard sale and get rid of this stuff. The sound of weeping made me jump. What the hell! Where is that coming from? I backed away from the wall, swallowing hard. There was nothing on the other side of the wall. That was an end wall, just dirt on the other side. The weeping grew louder. I could see a furnace duct running along the ceiling right over the shelves. That’s why I could hear it up in my bedroom. The duct work carried the sound.

The kettle in the kitchen started screaming. I ran up the stairs, turned it off and dialed 911. It was going to be tough to explain.

Long past time for me to get up the police finished demolishing the shelves and uncovered a secret door. I watched from the steps. The cops didn’t want me in the way. I didn’t want to get too close.

Four officers in SWAT gear opened the door and went into the room I could only just glimpse. The men called out and others went in. “Clear, Clear, Clear,” I could hear them calling out. The officer in charge listened to the comms in his ear. He turned to a sergeant nearby. “Call an ambulance. Someone’s alive in there.”

I went back up to the kitchen and made a cup of Earl Grey tea. I was going to need the caffeine. An hour later they brought the stretcher up the stairs, through to kitchen and out the back door. I saw a woman, hair wild around a pasty-white, emaciated face, covered with a blanket. The lieutenant came up after the stretcher.

“What, who?” I babbled incoherently.

He sighed. “Strangest thing I’ve ever seen. She was a research assistant and lover, thirty years ago, to a Doctor Spark. He convinced her to stay with him in the secret room where they were doing experiments. There’s enough LSD down there to stone New York City. There are crates and crates of MRE’s. They’re tapped into the house electricity and water and sanitation.”

“Why did they do it?”

“She wasn’t clear. But the doc died, probably three years ago.” He looked at her. How long have you been here?”

I shrugged. “A year. But the weeping didn’t start until a week ago.”

“A psychiatrist is going to have to figure this out but people don’t do well all alone. She broke, I’m thinking.”

I could hear a buzzing in his ear. “Roger that,” he said. “They’re bringing the body up now.”

I nodded and moved to the far side of the kitchen, my hands wrapped around my tea mug. The medics pulled the gurney up the stairs and through the kitchen. The body seemed small under the sheet. Desiccated, I assumed. My phone rang. “Bridget, you all right? You’re not here yet.”

“I’m fine but I’m not going to be in today. You will not believe what’s happened here. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Mandy tried to get more details but I told her I was busy and hung up. No, this was going to be very hard to believe.

 

Thank You for reading!

983 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

My Writing Origin: Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour

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Owl_using_Computer_by_RedPigeon via DeviantArt.com

Owl_using_Computer_by_RedPigeon via DeviantArt.com

This month’s topic is an origin story. How did I start writing? I’ve always written. Stories for school, a play when I was 13 that the school actually let me produce, fits and starts at books as an adult. The problem was I never knew how to get past the first couple of chapters.

That all changed in 2011. My daughter Elizabeth had moved in with us while she re-evaluated her life, and made friends with a lovely young woman, Jaime Raintree. Jamie is an author and she told Elizabeth about this writing challenge called National Novel Writing Month. She was going to participate and encouraged Elizabeth to do so as well.

Elizabeth told us about this challenge. “Write every day, 1667 words a day, and you’ll win the challenge. I’m going to do it.”

“How hard can that be,” I asked. I should have realized right then that karma was about to give me a boot.

“Hard, mom. If you think it’s so easy you should do it.”

Well, challenge issued and accepted.

I knew I needed a plan. The problem was still that I had no idea how to go about it. Not a problem. Elizabeth had a book, Story Engineering by Larry Brooks. I sped read the book as it was already the middle of October and following his suggestions, used the back of the closet door and a lot of sticky notes to plot out my first book, The Bad Seed.

It was hard as those of you who write could have told me back in October. Some days I was completely at a loss. Some days I knew exactly what I wanted to say. By the end of November I had my 50,000 words!

That NaNo was where I found the wonderful people of the Forward Motion writing group and a whole new world of writing. They suggested the Holly Lisle How to Revise Your Novel class. One that I was hesitant to spend the money on but was the best thing I could have done for myself.

Since that November of 2011 I’ve gone on to write and publish 13 books, another, Kindred Spirits, due out soon, and numerous short stories. I post a free flash story every week on my blog, ConniesRandomThoughts.com.

So that’s it! That’s how I got started. Do you write? How did you get started?

Mystery at the Fair released July 15th! I’m pretty excited about it. You can buy it and my other books at: Apple, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, or Smashwords today! You can also see all of my books on www.ConniesRandomThoughts.com, Books tab. If you’ve read any of my books, please drop a review on the site where you bought it. It’s a big help to me in the book rankings each vendor uses to promote the books on their sites. Thanks in advance.

The Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour is sponsored by the website Forward Motion (http://www.fmwriters.com). The tour is you, the reader, traveling the world from author’s blog to author’s blog. There are all sorts of writers at all stages in their writing career, so there’s always something new and different to enjoy. If you want to get to know the nearly twenty other writers check out the rest of the tour at http://merrygoroundtour.blogspot.com! Up next: L.C. Aisling.

Birch in the Blade: Flash Fiction Friday Story

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Red Dwart by darthcetus via DeviantArt.com

Red Dwart by darthcetus via DeviantArt.com

“It was your mother’s sword, Charlene.”

Charlene stroked the intricate designs on the blade, and the basket hand guard. “Birch leaves?”

“Your mother’s family symbol. They’d be proud of what a fine young woman you’ve become.”

Char took a few practice swirls. “It’s like it was made for me.” She turned to stare. “Enchanted?”

Her father nodded. “It fits itself to its rightful owner’s hand.”

“What other powers does it have?”

“Your mother told me it depends on the owner. For her, it cast a glamour over her, making her seem bigger, stronger, and more fierce. It pierced whatever she hit, no matter how poor the blow. You’ll have to find out what it will do for you.”

Char gazed at the sword with a mix of eagerness and dread. “The gift of the sword must mean it’s time for my quest.”

“You’re twenty. What will you do?”

Char had been thinking about it since she was eight. “I’m going to find the king who destroyed my mother’s family and kill him.”

“A grim task.”

“Long overdue.” She slid the sword into its new scabbard. “Why didn’t you do it?”

“You mother forbade me.”

Char asked, “Any advice?”

“Stay alive.”

Two weeks later Char left. The tradition held that she was to go alone but for the last four generations, a squire had been allowed to go along. Char’s squire, Holly, trained with her from the first year. Beside Char’s horse she said, “Killing King Dwile isn’t going to be easy. A dwarf is going to be underground more often than not.”

“He’ll come out, probably for hunting and he’ll be a lot less protected than in his stronghold.”

Holly nodded. “Killing the dwarf king will cause trouble.”

“Father believes the revenge-killing will be understood by the dwarves. They follow the custom themselves. Prince Dwale will take the throne and there will be peace.”

Holly sighed. “I don’t like it.”

After a  month to travel to King Dwile’s stronghold, two months were spent hiding and spying on the king. Twice they’d nearly been caught by the dwarf patrols. The fourth month they spied the king leading a small group of hunters from the stronghold’s gates.

“They’re headed for the woods,” Char mounted her horse and traced the king and his party.

An hour later the King had just shot a fine buck. While two men gutted the deer, the King called out that he was going to water a tree. The men laughed and the King moved into the woods alone.

“Here’s our chance.” Char hurried through the woods after the king. She reached him already finished with his business and looking up at the trees. Char drew her sword. “King Dwile. I’m Princess Charlene Longbow. You murdered my grandparents and stole their kingdom. Now you must die.”

King Dwile slowly turned to face Char. “A left-over Arborman? I thought I’d destroyed the lot of you.” He pulled his sword from its scabbard.

“I’ve come to avenge my family.”

“A slip of a girl like you?” he laughed. “You’re quest is to kill me? A great many have tried.”

Char advanced, sword ahead of her. The dwarf was short but stocky and broad of shoulder. She saw that he was light-footed as he crossed the forest floor. It was only a moment before they crossed swords. Char hoped that the sword’s magic, still unrevealed, would work for her now.

Holly stood back, keeping watch. “Kill him and be done.”

King Dwile laughed. “In a hurry little one?”

Char pivoted and struck another blow but the King was quick and the swords clashed again. The two of them circled. Char realized that the magic the sword had for her mother wasn’t for her. She wished the sword would help her.

The swords clashing drew the hunting party. “What’s this?” A young dwarf cried out. He drew his blade.

“Stop,” Holly stood between her princess and the dwarves. “Princess Charlene is avenging her grandparents. You must hold.”

“That’s my father, girl.”

Holly nodded but didn’t take her eyes from the dwarf. “Your majesty. Tradition and custom is clear. This is a fair fight.”

Prince Dwale grimaced and continued to grip his sword but no move to stop Char.

Char tired. The King struck harder than the human men she trained with. She stepped forward and before she knew it, her sword had pierced the King’s chest. As soon as she had stopped planning her strokes, the sword took over.

King Dwile stood, eyes wide, his sword dropped. The prince caught his father just before he sank to the ground. Char stepped back and Holly with her.

The prince sobbed over his father before calling his men to carry the king back to the stronghold.

Char gripped her sword as the prince stood up. “King Dwale.”

The young dwarf sighed. “Does this release my family from your revenge?”

“It is done. I’ll trouble your kingdom no further.”

“My father was wrong to attack the Kingdom of Arbor. The old king wouldn’t grant mining rights.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

“And I for yours, fair maid. May we offer hospitality?”

Char thought that a bad idea. “My thanks, sire, but we have been travelling a long time. We’re ready to go home.”

“Go safely, then, Princess.”

“And you.”

Returned home, Char met with her father.

“You don’t think he’ll start a war?” The King treaded.

“I don’t think so. They may want to open trade negotiations.”

“Good idea. I’ll send emissaries. What did your quest teach you?

Char thought a moment. “I chose a stupid quest. It wasn’t helpful in and could have led to a war. I wonder that you allowed me to go.”

“It was a chance, but you needed that lesson. You’ll be a better queen for having learned it the hard way.”

Char hoped she wouldn’t have to learn too many more that way.

 

Thank You!

985 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Too High For His Nut: Friday Flash Fiction

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Hands

Take These Hands by theblueraja via DeviantArt.com

Too high for his nut — beyond someone’s reach. “That clay-bank hog wants the same pay as a Senator; he’s getting too high for his nut,” according to a grammar-corrected version of the Oakland, Calif., Tribune on Jan. 12, 1885.

Logan stared at the guy sitting next to him at the bar. “You what?”

“I think,” the guy took a long pull from his sixth bottle of beer, “that everyone should get paid the same.” He belched. “I mean, I work hard. Why shouldn’t I get paid enough to buy me a yacht or a fancy vacation house?”

“Taylor, just because you work hard doesn’t mean that you should get paid the same as the CEO of Arizona Banking and Loans.” Logan took a drink from his beer stein.

“Just because you’re a computer programmer doesn’t mean you should get paid more’n me.” Taylor glared at his old high school buddy.

“You’re a laborer, Taylor. I told you in high school you should get on with an electrician or plumber, but no. Digging ditches and hauling cement around a work site paid good, you said. You didn’t want to be bothered with the certifications.”

Taylor flagged the bartender for another round. “That’s still true.” He slid a ten dollar bill across the bar when the drinks arrived.

“That’s why you don’t get paid like someone who took the time to get an education. You can’t have it both ways.”

Taylor turned on the stool to face his friend. “You callin’ me stupid?”

Logan sighed. “Of course not. But you didn’t want to do the extra work, so you don’t get paid as much as I do, let alone a CEO.” He could tell his friend was getting mad. It never did work out well when Taylor was drinking. “Look, why don’t I drive you home.”

“I just got this beer.” Taylor upended the bottle and drank half of it down. He slammed the bottle on the bar. Several customers and the bartender turned at the noise.

“Fine. Finish up then I’ll drive you home.”

“I can drive.”

“Not after six brews, buddy. Better safe than sorry.”

“You’re not smarter’n me,” Taylor slurred.

“Never said so.” Taylor pushed the still full mug of beer back and stood up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The bartender came over. “Everything okay over here?”

“Yeah,” Logan told him. “Me and my buddy are leaving.”

The bartender nodded. “Drive safe.”

Taylor drained his beer and slid off of the barstool. He wobbled when he stood. Logan took his friend’s arm and began to direct him to the door.

“Everybody should get paid the same,” he muttered as they walked by the bar.

“What a load of crap,” one of the customers snorted.

Taylor pulled away from Logan. “What’d you say?” His hands formed fists.

The customer turned around. “I said that was a load of crap. You’re too high for your nut.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Taylor shouted.

“Doesn’t matter.” Logan grabbed Taylor’s arm and shot the customer a sharp look. “We’re leaving.”

Taylor glared at the man but allowed himself to be led away. “What does he know, anyway.”

They reached the door and Logan pulled his friend outside into the darkness. “Not a thing, buddy, not a thing.”

After dropping his friend at his house, Logan drove home. He thought about what the stranger at the bar said. Too high for his nut, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that for the next time one of the other programmers makes a mess of the code.

 

 

 

The End

597 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

The Mighty Five: Friday Flash Story

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Sparks

Sparks

The old woman stirred her fire and dropped another piece of wood on top. The sparks danced up the chimney like demented fireflies.

“Granny, tell the story.”

Elsa wiped her rheumy eyes; of course the grandchildren would want to hear about her adventures. She nodded and hobbled back to her rocker. Shifting the chair so she could face both them and the fire, Elsa’s heart filled with love for the sweet girls cuddled together under a blanket on the bench, ready for a bedtime story.

“It was long ago,” she began, “when my eyes were clear and I moved like a gazelle across the land.”

“You were Elsa the Archer, one of the Mighty Five,” Corrine piped in.

“I was, though you’d never think so to see me today.” Elsa smiled at her oldest grand-daughter. It’s not the children’s fault I’ve grown so old. “It was before your mother was borne when Ragnar the Bold and I took on the evil marshal who was running roughshod over the shire.”

“Then Steven the Red, Dale Strongarm and Jamie the Bull joined you,” Denise, the younger girl added.

“Indeed they did. And we fought Marshal Eggleston with everything we had.” Elsa’s mind flashed to their first fight against the marshal’s men. “The first fight was later called the battle of the ford. The marshal had put a gate on either side of the ford.”

“To collect a tax!” Corrine called out.

“He did. Coming or going, it made no difference to the marshal. While he filled his coffers with our coppers and silvers the people of the Shire grew poorer and poorer. Something had to be done.”

“So Ragnar the Bold devised a plan,” Denise shouted.

Elsa chuckled. “He did. The five of us marched up to the ford, the marshal’s men lounged in their place, calling out that the fee to cross was two coppers. They stood up as we approached, the foul men calling out lewd invitations to me.

“Grandpa Ragnar didn’t like it,” Corrine noted.

“He did not but he kept his temper.” Elsa smiled as she remembered how much she admired her new husband for his control. “Ragnar stepped up to the man in charge as I stood back and the others spread out across the road. Ragnar told the man that we wanted to cross. The soldiers laughed. The head soldier said, ‘When we get the coppers, clod. Two for each of you to cross, though, for the woman, we’ll allow you to pass for free.’ I could see Ragnar grip his stave until his knuckles turned white. I pulled set my arrow and pulled my bow. Ragnar told them he would not pay.”

The girls stared at their grandmother with rapt attention.

“You will pay or turn around, peasant. The soldiers from the other side of the ford were listening to their comrade. Ragnar raised his stave. I’ll give you this if you don’t let us pass. The marshal’s men pulled their swords as the others on the other side began to cross. Ragnar swung back and hit the lead man with his stave. Then it was chaos. I pulled my bow but the men were too close together for me to shoot.”

“You were very brave, Grandma,” little Denise’s eyes shone. Elsa thought about how terrified she’d been. “Perhaps, little one. So your grandfather was in the fight of his life, his stave against swords. Steven, Jamie and Dale were also fighting hard. The five soldiers from the other side of the ford were nearly at the fight. I had to stop them or my friends would be outnumbered two to one and them with swords and armor.”

“You shot them!” Corrine said.

“I did.” Elsa’s stomach churned at the memory of the sound of her arrows slamming into the soldier’s chests but she didn’t stop firing until all five of them were down, screaming and writhing on the ground. She swallowed. “That gave Ragnar and our friends the time they needed to overcome the soldiers.”

“You saved the day, Grandma.” Denise grinned.

“I suppose so. That’s what the people cheered later as we went from town to town.”

“You were a hero,” Corrine nodded.

Elsa never felt like a hero. She had only wanted to raise children and work the farm. “Perhaps. As any man or woman is who fights for what they believe.” She shook off the memories of long ago. Ragnar had been dead these last ten years. “Time for bed, little ones. Enough of ancient stories.”

The girls unwrapped from their blanket, Corrine bringing it with her to their bed in the loft. Elsa tucked them in. “Sleep well.” She kissed each of them on the forehead.

“I’m going to be a hero someday,” Corrine said.

“Me, too,” Denise chimed in.

Elsa shuddered with the memories of all of the battles she’d fought in. “Dream of peace, girls. Being a hero is over-rated.”

Back in her chair she stared into the fire. All of that blood and death and for what? The King sent a new marshal and order was restored but it didn’t last. The old King died and the prince became king. Things became worse than ever.

She tossed another stick on the fire and picked up her knitting. The girls grew so fast new socks were needed every three months. Rumor had it that a new band was fighting back. The Protectors people were calling them. Elsa wished them well. If they lived through it they’d need help to bury the bad memories and live their lives in peace. She hoped they’d find it.

 

 

The End

937 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html

Dinner with the Boss: Friday Flash Fiction Story

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Dinner with the Boss

Dinner with the Boss

Morgan sprayed the counter dividing the kitchen from the dining room with disinfectant, wiping it with a new towel, just removed from its sterile wrapper.

“I don’t know why you invited them,” his wife, Ellen, snapped as she drained the potatoes.

“He’s my boss, E. He just promoted me. It seemed like I should thank him in some way.” He forced the sterile gloves onto his hands and pulled the plates, glasses and silverware from the sterilizer and began to set them on the dining room table.

“You should have a mask on,” Ellen said across the counter.

Morgan could tell his wife was upset by the way she was pounding the potato masher into the pot. “It will be fine, hon.”

“You should have just given him an expensive bottle of wine.”

Morgan sighed. She didn’t get it. He wanted to do something personal to show his appreciation. There were six other people in the company that could have been chosen. The promotion made him a vice-president. Initiative and risk-taking were part of the job. This would show his boss that he’d made the right choice.

He opened the Beaujolais and poured it into a sterilized carafe, setting it on the tray with the glasses, turned upside down.

Ellen finished the potatoes, scooped them into a sterilized serving dish and put them in the oven to keep warm. She removed the standing rib roast and covered it in foil to rest then started the process to make béarnaise sauce for the asparagus.

Morgan leaned over the stove. “That smells wonderful.”

“Get your germy face out of the food!” She shook the whisk at him splattering béarnaise sauce all over the stove and Morgan.

“Ellen!” Hands outstretched he looked down at his shirt. “Now I’m going to have to change.”

“Good. That will get you out of the kitchen.”

He swallowed his annoyance. She had every right to be nervous. It was chancy inviting people over to eat. He went to the bedroom to change. Maybe I should have invited Jack and Margaret to dinner. After Hours would have made the exact same dinner and Ellen wouldn’t be such a wreck. He sighed as he buttoned up his shirt. Casual dress he’d told Jack but that didn’t mean jeans and T-shirt. He’d chosen gray slacks, a dress shirt worn open-collared and the sleeves rolled to three-quarters length. He adjusted the tuck of his shirt and went back to the living room.

While he was gone Ellen had set the hermetically sealed tray of appetizers on the coffee table next to the tray with the wine and glasses. He resisted the urge to uncover the appetizers, deciding to wait until Jack and Margaret were here to see him do it. The individually wrapped, sanitized paper napkins were laid out between the wine and food.  When he looked into the kitchen, Ellen was grilling the asparagus. He checked his watch, six-thirty on the dot. His boss would be here any minute.

“Six-thirty, hon.”

“Thanks.”

He watched her put the asparagus in a serving dish and cover it with foil before sliding it into the oven. The plan was for him to carve the roast at the table, in plain view of the guests. Ellen passed him. “I’m going to change and tidy my hair.”

Morgan kissed her on her flushed cheek. “Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Ellen arched an eyebrow but said, “You’re welcome.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

Morgan checked his watch again. Six-thirty-two. It wasn’t like Jack to be late. It just wasn’t done. Ten seconds later the doorbell rang. Morgan sighed with relief. At the door, he did a fist bump with Jack and the faux-bump and wave with Margaret. Any more would be a huge broach in etiquette.

Ellen came out, greetings were done again. Morgan remembered turning the wine glasses over, popping the cork, pouring wine, unwrapping the appetizers. Then he remembered sitting at the table, carving the roast, pouring more wine. It was going well until it wasn’t. Margaret started to choke. Ellen screamed. He and Jack raced to Margaret, grabbing at her throat, a horrible wheezing whistle coming from her instead of a constant flow of breath.

After Morgan yelled at her, Ellen dialed emergency. They tried everything, the Heimlich maneuver, bending her over the chair back. The EMT’s were heroic though destructive of furniture and the dinner table food.

Six months later he was reading the thin plas-screen in his cell. The trial had been dragging on forever. Rumors were that he’d tried to assassinate his boss and Margaret had gotten the wrong bite. He shook his head as he read the gossip column. It was no such thing. The stupid woman had drunk two bottles of wine before they’d sat at the dinner table. She managed to choke on mashed potatoes. He’d protested to his boss, the paramedics, Ellen. It didn’t matter.

Now here he was, on trial. He should have listened to Ellen. He should have taken his boss to a restaurant. They were insured for this kind of thing.

He scraped his finger across the screen. Liability. That’s what it was all about. Ellen had already divorced him. He didn’t blame her. It was all his idea. She shouldn’t be held accountable financially for the rest of her life for his error. With nothing but time on his hands he read every article. It didn’t make him any happier. The Karshan’s were suing the Westwood’s for infringing on their media time. Of course, everything was in litigation these days, whether it was anyone’s fault or not.

He couldn’t read that drivel and swiped the page. Thank goodness the cow hadn’t died from any bacterial or virus infection. That would have put him in prison for life. Morgan figured the trial would go on another three months. His lawyer would prove Margaret was a suicide. After all, who goes to dinner at someone else’s house?

 

The End

992 Words

Find more of the Forward Motion Flash Friday Group here: http://www.fmwriters.com/flash.html