An Offer from Ginger Simpson

The blurb says it all about this short, but intriguing story:

Can you consider a necklace a gift if it makes you angry enough to kill?

A simple trinket left in a confessional begins a path of destruction throughout the years.

The silver pendant, left behind by a woman who killed her boyfriend, is supposedly cursed; at least that's what she claimed before she raced out of the church.  Any woman who dares fasten the locket around her neck suffers severe and uncontrollable anger.  Woe be it to anyone who gets in the path of the wearer.

Is the piece cursed, or are the deaths totally unrelated?  Detective Clarence O'Day is unable to make the connection...until forty years after the first case.  

Meet Harlee from Lost in his Eyes by Ginger Simpson.

Hi, I’m Harlee Williams, the heroine in Ginger Simpson’s, Lost in His Eyes, just released by Books We Love.  I’m about to marry Logan Carruthers, the man
who rescued me from the darned ol’ well I fell into at the beginning of the story.

I’d like to invite you to share a tidbit to see if this
story is something that tickles your fancy:

  She positioned herself firmly against the wall, bending her knees and planting her feet against the opposite wall. Drowning wasn’t a preference and there was enough water if she passed out or fell over while sleeping. With any luck, she’d just nod off and wake up in the beautiful garden Ma read about in the Bible one Sunday. 

 The pictures the hallowed words painted colored Harlee’s mind, and her muscles relaxed. Her head lulled to her shoulder. If her time had come, she was ready. Anything had to be
better than the wet, damp hell that claimed her. Her eyes closed, then squinted
tighter against a light much brighter than she’d ever seen. Was it the door to
heaven?

The bucket banged her atop her head. “Ouch!” The pain brought back her voice.

“Holy Shit ” A deep voice sounded above. Surely, God didn’t curse. Then who?

Harlee tried to adjust to the daylight filtering down the well by holding a shielding hand to her forehead. She looked up, but the dank and dark prison had stolen her vision as well as her voice. Weakness robbed her of the ability to stand. Despite being able to focus on the owner of the voice, she continued to peer up and pray. Finally, she managed to see her rescuer’s outline.

He learned farther over the opening. “Are you alive?” 

Seemed like a silly question since dead people didn’t speak, but she stifled her sarcasm, not wishing to risk her rescue. “I-I think so.” Harlee barely had the strength to respond, but at the idea of being set free, she found the ability to speak…or croak.

“Hold on, Let me see if I can find something to help get you
out.”

Out? The word sounded more beautiful than any other she’d ever heard, but when he disappeared from her site, panic seized her heart. Was she hallucinating?

The blue sky loomed overhead and the smell of freshness drifted down to replace the wet, musty smell she’d endured for so long. She released a pent-up breath when a fuzzy silhouette reappeared.

“This place is deserted, but I did manage to find a good, hearty rope. The one attached to this old bucket is so rotten, it wouldn’t hold up a feather. Do you think you could manage to tie this one around your waist and climb out while I pull?”

Tying something around her waist wasn’t the problem. Her legs had grown weak and she doubted she could stand. Still, the idea of living appealed more than dying. “I-I can try.” She braced herself with the sides of the well and forced herself to her feet. Her head spun and she feared she might faint. The rope unfurled as he released it. His comment about the place being deserted didn’t make sense, but then nothing did at the moment.

With shriveled and weak hands, Harlee secured the braided horsehair around her waist, and gripped the lifeline with all the strength she mustered. “Okay, I’m ready, I think,” she called up to her rescuer.

“I’ll pull and you use your feet to walk up the wall.”

“I’m not sure I can. I have no feeling in my feet.

“Well, if I have to come down there and get you, there’ll be no one here to pull us both out. You’ve got to try.”

“I’ll try my hardest.” She made a first step and a second. Water dripped from her

body and splattered into what remained in the well. Her limbs trembled and the
coarseness of the rope nipped through the thin material of her dress and chafed
her skin. On her third step, her left leg gave out and she slammed against the
wall, knocking the air from her lungs and scraping her cheek against the rough
stones. The stranger slackened the rope, allowing her to collapse back into the
water. Harlee massaged her burning face and even in the dim light saw blood on
her fingers. She used the wet hem of her dress to soothe the burning and dab
the wound.

“Are you all right?” His deep voice resonated and brought her to her senses.

Wouldn’t anyone who’d been trapped in a well for days be just fine? She took a deep breath and resisted asking him if he was serious.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He yelled louder.

“Yes. My cheek is bleeding and my hands are raw, but I’m ready to try again.” Determination drove her.

“Okay, I’m going to start pulling again, so stand up and
hold on tight.”

Her mind whirred with questions she hoped to ask. Harlee struggled to her feet and took a firm grip on her lifeline. “I’m ready; pull. ” Despite the pain, she concentrated on each step, unwilling to waiver until she reached freedom. Her palms burned and the top of the wellappeared miles away. Still, she made sure she kept one foot anchoring her in

place before she moved the other. Many times she wanted to surrender, but
looking up into the blurred face of her hero gave her the strength she needed
to continue.

After what seemed forever, sunlight warmed Harlee’s face and a breeze caressed her soggy skin. The stranger grasped her beneath her arms and hauled her over the well’s edge. Her feet touched the ground, but overcome by weakness, she sagged against her hero. He swept her into his arms as if she was nothing more than a feather and cradled her like a mother would her babe.
“There, there, you’re going to be fine now.”

Somehow, she believed his soothing words...especially because of the sincerity shining in his sky blue eyes.

If you like what you read, you can find all my books availabe on my Amazon page.  Check them out.

Happy birthday, Ginger Simpson

Today is my dear friend,, Ginger Simpson's birthday. I first met Ginger when I joined the MuseItUp Publishing House. She was quick to welcome me to the Muse family. Her quick wit and humor often has us in stitches. We had a lot in common and quickly became friends. I've read several of her books and enjoyed all of them. I think my favorite was First Degree of Innocence. 

I had the pleasure of meeting Ginger  in person last year, and she was everything I expected and more. She's as warm and friendly in person as she is on the internet, not to mention her sense of humor. I wish I had more time to spend with her, but we were just passing through on our way home from Florida.
Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Ginger. Happy birthday to you.
So, my dear friend, I wish you the happiest birthday ever!
Love ya, girl.

A Few Things That Drive Readers Crazy by Ginger Simpson

A Few Things that Drive Reader’s Crazy
I love to find humor in every aspect of life. I truly believe medical reports that laughter reduces stress, lengthens your life, and of course, gives you a much better outlook.
I have tons of material...just based on my own life experiences, but when you factor in all the things learned in the writing and editing process, boy can I share stuff you've never even dreamed of. Like that...I just ended that sentence in a preposition...on purpose....to be defiant.

One passage in Hurricane Warning reminded me of a writing rule. A chaise lounge flying across the yard in a storm is logical, but try launching a hand or an eye. Flying body parts, "ing" words improperly used, head-hopping (isn't that a flying body part?)

When I read a passage where the hero "threw up his hands", I never pictured only that part of his body flying in the air. Nor did I think he stood over a toilet, hurled, and saw hands floating in the water. Evidently there are some who read more into that little passage, hence the new ruling.
If you read, "her eyes followed him across the room," do you actually picture two eyeballs scooting across the carpet in pursuit of a handsome man? No! But, it's okay for her gaze to follow him. Her eyes need to stay put!
How about those "ing" words that I so love to use because they smooth the flow of the sentences in some places? Editors have driven this point so hard that people are totally trying to avoid using them at all. I refuse. I just re-read what I wrote and make sure it is a sensible statement.
Here's a wrong one: "Searching for him in the darkness, her hands reached..."
If her hands are searching for him...where is the rest of her...and doing what? Better to say, "Searching for him in the darkness, she....
Now it's evident that she is searching...not just her disjointed hands. *lol* Those "ing" words get you into trouble when you forget to use a subject with them. Searching through the fog, the ground grew damp. Okay...now the ground is searching. Make sense? An easy fix but something as easy to forget.


See, these are the things that drive writers crazy.



Bio – Ginger has been writing as long as she can recall, whether it be Christmas newsletters to family to share the year’s events or creating silly poems or skits for office celebrations. Her first novel experience seemed almost like someone telling me a story, and she couldn’t wait to see how it ended. That’s when she discovered she's a pantser, not a plotter. Shje never plotted a story. Hertales are character driven and unless they talk to her, she can’t write. Luckily, she seems to have a revolving door in herbrain, because she's yet to run out of people with stories to share. Once she  has the story down, then it’s her job as the author to go back and turn it into a novel by adding all the emotions, smells, and conflict. She turns the “telling” into “showing.”


You can find out more about Ginger at
Links – http://www.gingersimpson.com/
or http://mizging.blogspot.com/


Here's an Excert from Ginger's just released book Hurricane Warning


“Batten down the hatches, folks.” The radio weatherman’s half-hearted chuckle did little to lighten the mood. His earlier forecast about an approaching storm proved true.

Linda Morrison peered through the picture window of her new Florida home and watched the whitecaps churning in Sleepy Reef’s inlet. Although the word hurricane had yet to be uttered, the sky grew darker by the minute and rain fell in torrents. Raging wind carried the spray from the crashing tide high into the air and whipped the colored flags atop the boathouse into a frantic dance. She chewed her bottom lip.

A few months ago, she’d lived in the Midwest and feared tornadoes. Moving here had simply switched one of Mother Nature’s furies for another. Why hadn’t she considered that?

She backed away from the shimmying window. If things worsened, she’d have to cover the glass panes to keep them from shattering, but she wasn’t sure she could do it alone.

This was supposed to be her new start, not a nightmare. She’d purchased the home from an older couple who wanted to move closer to their children. The real estate agent had laughed when Linda asked what the sheets of plywood in the garage were used for. After Katrina, the woman found it hard to believe anyone wasn’t versed in hurricane history.

Ginger's book is available from Muse It Up Publishing  http://tinyurl.com/2dvcfpb

Ginger Simpson's Christmas Memory

Sleigh Bells and Reindeer

“I think I hear sleigh bells,” my dad would say every Christmas. We’d scurry to our bedrooms and pretend to be fast asleep. Being the oldest of four, I knew Dad was the one who went outside and attempted to make reindeer tracks in the dirt. We didn’t have a fireplace, so Santa had to come in through the door. The important thing was that he came.

How my mom and dad managed to give us such joy and the very thing we wanted when the raft shop where my dad worked at the local air force base paid ninety cents an hour.
We thought we were in hog heaven when he brought home the canned rations every now and then. Each one had a candy inside, and the crackers weren’t bad either. I can’t recall a Christmas that didn’t put a permanent smile on my face and joy in my heart.

Although Dad was Jewish and didn’t believe in the reason for the season, he was always the first to shake the presents beneath the tree. We always vowed to wait until Christmas morning to open gifts, but he was the culprit behind the “let’s open just one.”

Sure, one turned into two, and before we knew it, we sat amongst opened boxes and a landslide of wrapping paper, happy with what we’d received, but disappointed that once again we’d failed to wait until morning. So the tradition continues. Christmas eve is our time to celebrate, and I’m always urged on by my father’s voice in my head, telling me now from heaven, “just open one. What harm can it do?” Oh, we still have our Christmas dinner on the day of, and as a Christian, I celebrate the birth of Jesus, and I will be forever thankful for the parents he gave me.

We weren’t rich in the financial sense, but in love we were millionaires. I’d give anything to have one of those Christmas Eves over again, and hear my Dad’s sweet voice talking to me for real. He’s been gone for over twenty years now, but if you’re listening Daddy, your little girl loves you with all her heart, and I miss you still. You’ll always be in my heart.

I wish all a "let's just open one," Christmas. Happy New Year, too.

Welcome, Ginger Simpson

Career Choices

Most of you who know me, only know me as Ginger Simpson, the author. I doubt many of you realize that I drove a school bus for five years and many brain cells ago. I thought I might share some of what I learned with you. Every experience in our lives impacts us in some way, and I think driving a bus gave me some insight and inspiration for my upcoming young adult release, Shortcomings.

Driving bus seemed like the perfect job for a working mom…morning rounds, a kindergarten pick-up at noon, and then afternoon rounds. In between I dashed home, cleaned house, grocery shopped, ran errands then returned to the transportation yard to finish up for the day. I actually got to spend time with my son who was only two at the time. But I discovered later how clueless I was.

The bummer part was learning. All the seasoned drivers had the big, fancy crown diesels with dual wheels in the back…the ones that held ninety-one screaming children. The new people had to drive the old conventional ones…the ones with power steering in only one direction, and holes in the seats. I guess I should also mention the one with the spring that fell off the accelerator and stuck full throttle. Luckily I was alone at the time so no one saw me panic. Did you know that even if the engine is running full boar you can still stop by using the brakes, you don’t have to run off into a ditch?

When you’re a newbie, you have to be a substitute for others when they’re out. Boy that was fun. You found out who had rules and who didn’t. Somehow I always got stuck driving for the same driver…the one who evidently wore ear plugs and blinders. We drivers had just been instructed by the Highway Patrol to make sure we pulled as far to the right as possible when we stopped to cross children. Of course, you have to put on your flashing reds and take your little stop sign and walk the little dears across the street. The high school kids really love that!

The first time I subbed for good ol’ twenty-one, I had no idea what I had gotten into. On the first stop, I pulled just as far over as I could, turned on the lights and opened the door. I got up to lead the departees out the door. Ever stood dominos in a line and pushed the rear one forward? Well, to make a long story shorter, everyone was in a hurry. The back of the bus was in the front long before I stopped. So, add in the domino effect, and I went out the door, but not of my own accord.

I probably would have been hurt much more, if I hadn’t pulled close enough to the right, thus allowing me to fall into an irrigation ditch where the water cushioned my landing. I seem to have a thing for ditches. Thank goodness, I had traffic backed in both directions so I didn’t have to share my embarrassing moment alone. So, no one can say I didn’t do the hard knocks to earn my own bus.

Most of the kids are all right. The good thing is they are only on your bus just long enough for you to want to kill them then they get off. You have a cool-down period between pick-ups, so you can get ready for the next bunch. I think bus driving was the impetus behind the hand gun laws.

You learn a lot driving a bus. Things like, they hold off giving inoculations until right before they board the bus for home. Ever had twenty screamers in the vehicle while you drive? I have. When one kid pukes, it can cause a chain reaction. Gag and the world gags with you.

And high school students will try to smoke just to see if they can getaway with it. At least until I stopped the bus and walked to the back with the fire extinguisher. “Would you like me to put that out or would you like to do it?” It worked. No smoking on my bus, buster!

Oh, and let’s not forget the perks of field trips. I got to drive the HS Marching Band to Disneyland for three consecutive years. I can’t explain why I did it for the second two, but I imagined having a romp roaring time in the park with the kids on the first one. WRONG. The drivers didn’t get to go in. They had an all-night coffee and donut stand where most of the old men that drove tour buses gathered to play poker, but unless your school “kicked down” for a room, you got to sleep in the bus. Imagine trying to sleep on a school bus seat. Now imagine it with “It’s a Small World” playing continuously the entire night. I hate that song now!

Sometimes, your own bus had to be serviced and you were forced to revert back to one of the old conventionals. I had a favorite…number eight! Number seven only had power steering in one direction and sometimes not even that, and six just was too dang ugly. Number eight was the only automatic transmission bus we had. On the morning of my appointed service day, I came in and fueled up number eight and got “her” ready. We had a routine: come in early, wash the windshield, gas it up, sweep it out, check out the lights, let it warm up, and go in the lounge and have coffee while you waited.

The busses were parked in a single line in the middle of a big yard, thus allowing you to drive out of your slot, turn left and go behind the line to the gas pump. Number eight was second from the very end, closest to the exit gate, with the fuel pump being at the other end. In order to get back into line after I fueled, I really had to crank hard to make it.

So, now my bus is ready, warming up, and I’m in for coffee and war stories till my pick-up time. In about five minutes, someone stuck their head in the door and asked who was driving number eight.

“Me, I’ve already fueled it and checked it out.” I possessively announced.

Imagine my surprise when she told me that it was just going out the gate. I was ticked. How dare someone take the bus I’d already checked out? I ran outside prepared to do battle. Someone was about to get a piece of my mind. Taking someone else’s ride that’s road ready is not bus etiquette.

Much to my dismay what I saw was my supervisor chasing a driverless bus through the gate. Now, if I hadn’t already believed in God, this would have cinched his existence for me. I forgot to take the bus out of drive—not used to an automatic—and since I had cranked the wheels so hard to get back into line, they were turned just enough to avoid disaster. When the motor warmed up and overrode the parking break, number eight crept out of line, made a perfect left-hand turn, and went right out the gate. Now mind you, it did this while clearing the busses on both sides AND getting through the gate all on its own. Luckily, the furrows in the field across the street eventually stopped it. You ask why I think God intervened? Because, directly in front of where number eight was parked were six brand new driver’s ed cars. So, yes there is a God, and he does drive a school bus.

I’m going to be sharing more stories like these on my own blog, so please drop by http://mizging.blogspot.com and become a regular at Dishin’ It Out. You can find my books listed there, and on my website, http://www.gingersimpson.com