Hello, Jenna Storm

Thank you so much for being here, Jenna Storm.

1: First up the obligatory question: What genre do you write?

I write paranormal romantic suspense.

2: Tell us, how long have you been writing?

I don’t remember the year I started but I know it’s been several and it took many rejections before I had my first story published. So, those who are unpublished don’t give up...keep plugging away. 

3: A question I'm often asked do you like the most and least about writing?

I love creating the plot and characters, the actual writing and even the editing. What I don’t enjoy, or rather what I don’t excel at is managing my time so I can get more done in a shorter amount of time. Can you say, disorganized? Also described as scatterbrained, or dreamy! I prefer dreamy.

4: What do you do for fun and relaxation when not writing?

I read, hang out with my two daughters (14 and 9)and when I’m not watching the Disney Channel which I usually am, I watch crime shows and movies...action, suspense and comedy. No tear jerkers for me. I like a happy ending in my books and movies.

5: A girl after my own heart. So which authors do you like to read?

I enjoy several authors from the paranormal and suspense genres. Just a few that come to mind are Lisa Gardner, Lisa Jackson, Gena Showalter and Nalini Singh.

6: What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you?

I’m grateful for my two girls who make me laugh and give me so many reasons to love my crazy, hectic life! I consider myself very lucky to have met so many wonderful people through my writing career especially my Muse It Up family.

7: I can relate to that. Muse is a great place and wonderful family. Tell me about your current novel, where I can find it?

The Burning Seal will be available from Muse It Up Publishing in March 2012. This is a paranormal romance with I’m hoping, plenty of suspense. There are several paranormal/supernatural elements...a demon, psychic and witch to name a few. I’ve included an excerpt after the interview if you’d like to read a little about it.

8: It sounds intriguing. I know you mentioned something earlier,  but do you have any tips for aspiring authors?

Don’t quit. Keep writing. Learn the craft but in the end follow your heart and your instincts. Love what you’re writing--the story and characters--and that depth of feeling will come through in your story.

9: Great advice. Another question I'm often asked, do you base your characters on real-life people?

Not really. In both the physical and the emotional creation of the character, I’m inspired by several sources, i.e. a movie, song, news story, people watching...whatever strikes me.

10: I know what you mean, I even find my characters in magazine ads. How did you come up with the idea for this book?

It started with a question...what would it be like if major events in our lives repeated and we were given a chance to correct a failure? The story blossomed from there. I added the Elements, Hierarchy demons, struggles for domination, magic, an ancient grimoire thought to be a myth and a character with psychic abilities.

11: It's amazing how we come up with ideas. So tell us, what are you currently working on?

Right now, I’m finishing the edits for this book and then I will get back to book two in the series.

12. Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you?

Aside from writing and being a mom, I’m also going to school for Web and Graphic Design.

13. Wow, busy lady. Tell us where we can we find you? Website? Blog?

Her Last Kiss paranormal romance (novella), now available at http://www.wickedinkpress.com

The Burning Seal (March 2012) http://museituppublishing.com/musepub/

Website: http://www.jennastormauthor.com/

Blog: http://jennastorm.blogspot.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jenna-Storm/111299362263109

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

The Burning Seal, the first book in the Element Series is due out March 2012.

Detective Danni Keegan is plunged into a dark, demonic world where survival depends on deciphering the connection between ritual killings, and a demon terrorizing her for a ‘gift’ she wasn’t even aware she possessed. She must unravel her dreams of another woman who lived during ancient times and battled a bloodthirsty demon. The same demon who now hunts Danni. The loss of her body and soul looms imminent as her only chance to destroy the demon depends on changing her new partner’s convictions. A sinfully sexy man, who exudes power and self-assurance with the ease of breathing and has an iron willed determination not to believe in the paranormal.

Unedited Excerpt:

New Orleans

Six weeks ago

          Danni Keegan pulled back the wispy curtain to peer through the thick rivulets of rain and search the swaying trees and bushes. She put her fingers to the glass and welcomed the chill as it traveled through her body. Maybe the cold would paralyze her tragic thoughts, end the dreaded feeling, the vengeful rising tide that sought to drown her.

          Her hand came off the glass and went back to the curtain. Her nimble fingers fidgeted with the lace. For weeks now, the doomed feeling had fed on her, no better than raging piranhas that hungered for fresh meat. She was the fresh meat. 

Every day the fear escalated, chewed off more of her flesh; exposed more of her vulnerability.

          Get control of yourself. You didn’t make it as a cop by fearing the dark, or letting a feeling rule your head. Yet, her uneasiness gnawed, the cause elusive, unsupported by any evidence. Were the unsolved homicides of Lucy Brighton and Chelsea Marlin warping her sanity?

          No matter how tough she acted, it was impossible to look at ravished remains and not mourn the loss of life. Question your own mortality and blame yourself for not stopping the killer. Was she confusing her edginess with guilt that the killer remained free to hunt new victims?

          Her fingers beat the glass in a staccato tempo which matched her heart’s unsettled rhythm. 

          No. This evil feeling, it’s blacker.

          More menacing. More...enduring.

          She cast a wishful glance at the wide-cushioned sofa, television, her bagel and cream cheese neglected on the coffee-table along with the horror novel she had been reading. She remained anchored to the window and scanned the looming trees and thick darkness for a shadow that didn’t fit. A forceful wind slammed the encroaching tree limbs against the condo's roof and the windows wept from the torrential downpour.

          She leaned forward and focused, as if she could frisk the shadow with her eyes. The bushes along the sidewalk shook in a way that was at odds with the direction of the wind. A clump of white bolted from the tangled branches and frost burned leaves. Realization dawned and the sight of the familiar lithe body made her smile. Partly from relief, mainly from her foolishness.

          The porch was clear except for her very drenched, very vexed cat. 

          Danni hurried to the door and twisted the bottom lock. But when it came to the deadbolt she wavered.

          Don’t. Open. The. Door.

          The warning slithered through her body, stroked her apprehension and added high-octane fuel to her fears. She stared at the top of her fluffy-socked feet and scrunched her toes against the hardwood floor.

           "This is stupid. Letting poor Independence drown in this storm because of a feeling."

          She flexed her hands, thought of her gun tucked in the nightstand drawer; thought about getting it. To what, shoot at trees and darkness? Since when do you let emotions rule your head?

          Danni twisted the lock and stepped out, playing hopscotch with the growing puddles on the small cement slab of her porch. She sucked in a breath, pulled her robe tighter. The sensation of standing on solid ice seeped through her socks. Before she could cajole Independence inside, the cat darted to the right, into the heart of the storm.

          “I’m not chasing you!” Danni called out, shoved her hands into her robe’s pockets, and shuffled side to side on cold, wet feet.

          Damn. Now she’d have to change her socks, throw her damp robe into the dryer--

          The wall of overgrown bushes at her left rustled. Branches snapped. The unexpected noise halted her breath, seized her thoughts. Everything froze. Except time.

          A masked figure vaulted through the deluge of rain, gloved hands outstretched. The intruder moved faster than the lightning streaking across the night sky.      

Hello, Rosalie Skinner

 Thank you so much for being here, Lady Rosalie Skinner.

1: What genre do you write?

I write Science fiction Fantasy.

2: How long have you been writing?

Since 1988. When I found I had exhausted the local libraries and my favorite authors didn’t write fast enough. I decided I would write my own story.

3: What do you like the most and least about writing?

When I write I tend to become obsessive, that’s the least desirable trait. The best, well hearing back from readers who want you to write more, is the biggest thrill of all.

4: What do you for fun and relaxation when not writing?

When not writing obsessively, you mean? Then I am happiest being a grandmother.

5: Which authors do you like to read?

I tend to avoid reading Fantasy authors while I am writing, but I will indulge in crime, Michael Connolly, Harlan Coban, and for a little history I read Bernard Cornwall.

6: What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you?

Hmm, that I am about to become a published author with Museitup Publishing and I am to host a Fantasy writing workshop at the Museonline Free Writer’s conference.

7: Tell me about your current novel, where I can find it?

This month will see the second book in the series The Chronicles of Caleath released. Exiled: Winter’s Curse can be found on the Museitup Publishing website or a link is also on my website at www.Rosalieskinner.com

8: Do you have any tips for aspiring authors?

Never give up. Keep writing. Keep reading. Listen to advice, grasp the concepts and apply them as you feel they enhance your writing. Let the advice that doesn’t seem to apply stand and simmer. One day it may be helpful.

9: Do you base your characters on real-life people?

Not intentionally. The courage though, to face life’s adversity came from watching someone close face the changes that came from coping and learning to live with a chronic debilitating disease. One character is named after, if not based on a real person. A dear friend who asked to be in the books, the last time I saw her, is now a character and appears in several of the books in The Chronicles of Caleath. She will also appear in the next series.

10: How did you come up with the idea for this book?

I have always loved the fantasy genre and science fiction too. So that was a base to work on. Then I have taken aspects of life around us and applied them to Caleath’s world. We live in a strange environment, I guess that’s where I found most of my ideas. In Caleath’s world people are learning to live with virtual reality games, real life TV shows, big brother watching for entertainment, drugs, environmental problems, relationships that don’t follow Hollywood parameters and the hiccups life throws down as challenges to living. Then I add a lot of imagination and fantasy ideas too. Pirates, dragons, whales, magic, damsels with attitude and heroes on horseback.

11: What are you currently working on?

I have a WIP. The second book in a new series that follows the Chronicles of Caleath. It is on standby at present as I work toward the release of the eight books in the first series. With editing and promoting I am kept pretty busy.

12. Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you?

I can be contacted through my website, or blog. I love to hear from readers and other authors.

13. Where can we find you? Website? Blog?

Website: Rosalieskinner.com

Blog: Ramblings from Lady Rosalie http://rosalieskinner.blogspot.com

Thank you Roseanne for hosting me today.

EXCERPT: Exiled: Winter’s Curse

Unedited

Despite the unexpected appearance of a threat in their midst, the experienced bandits reacted with lightning reflexes. Men swarmed from the cave, drawing bows and steel. They took no chances once they identified their quarry.

Caleath spent precious moments removing bowmen from the fray.

With the instinct of a Rampartian cat, he leapt to the ground, before he drew steel. His Karadorian blade ran red with firelight and dark blood as he brandished the weapon.

The encounter raged unhampered by convention. A bloodthirsty melee ensued where drawn blood drew savage reprisal. Caleath thrust and parried. Striking high, blocking low he lunged forward to take out one adversary while blocking another.

He withdrew his sword to counter-thrust past a badly executed onslaught. Relentless, desperate attacks, driven by anger and fear, caused lethal misjudgment. Another antagonist fell before Caleath’s tireless blade. When the sword snagged under the dying man’s weight Caleath feinted. He snatched the wrist of an unguarded arm flailing toward him.

With a wicked twist, he snapped the arm back. The sound of fracturing bone echoed with the scream while Caleath hefted free his sword and silenced the bandit’s agony.

Two brigands maintained their assault. Caleath caught a fleeting image of a third, somehow lost from sight. His adversaries worked as a team, moving with experience and care to engage him.

From nowhere a silent missile struck Caleath, missing his temple by a hair’s breadth. He tried to turn but black pain exploded in his skull. The young survivor from the village, safely out of reach of Caleath’s sword, smiled and lowered a slingshot.

Caleath staggered against the bole of the fig. Fighting to stay conscious, he watched two brigands step forward to finish the fight.

Unable to raise his sword, Caleath closed his eyes and waited for death. He heard the unforgettable whistle of arrows. He didn’t feel the quarrels strike. Darkness caressed him. The abyss offered sweet oblivion and he sank onto his haunches.  

Hello, Heather Haven

The Pickled Percussions of Penning

 For the past thirty years I have been, more or less, Mrs. Norman Meister. Even though I held a job, actually ran my own department at Stanford University, Norman was the hotshot performer, with a rock and roll band, a jazz duo, and other musical skills that left people always asking me, “what’s it like to be married to Norman? It must be heaven to hear his singing all the time.” Occasionally, I would step down from the perceived cloud, sit in the background, smile, ever charming and demure, ever appreciative of his many talents. And if I could help a little with the load-out after the gig, so much the better. Simply put, being Norman’s wife was pretty much my raison d’être.

It has changed. Now I am a published author. I am a cause célèbre. I use French words. True, I am a very minor cause, but I think you take what you can get in this life. Many people have gathered around, bought Murder is a Family Business and A Wedding to Die For, in either print or ebook form, and proceeded to read them. I was impressed with this outpouring of support. They were impressed with my work. All was good.

But I’ve also noticed there’s a price to be paid for stepping into the spotlight. People feel compelled to tell you every grain of what they don’t like in one of your books, even if it’s only from their own frame of reference. For instance, my upstairs neighbor, a lovely lady of around 80 years old, read both my books, loved them she said, and passed them on to her daughter. Of course, it would have been nice if she encouraged her daughter to buy them, but as I’ve mentioned, you take what you can get in this life.

Where was I? Oh yes, lovely upstairs neighbor. She called to tell me she didn’t think anybody would cut up a bridesmaid dress at a wedding the way the protagonist did in A Wedding to Die For. As it was based on personal experience - I did just that, myself – I thanked her for her insight, threw in some small talk, and hung up.

Recently at a dinner party, someone had some thoughts and feelings to lay on me about my books. Trapped at the table without a drink in sight, I listened to this:

“Okay, Heather, I read your first book and I’m two-thirds of the way through the second, and because it’s a mindless read, I go back and forth from that to my more serious books. As I say, it’s pretty mindless, but I wanted you to know I am enjoying it very much, just like I enjoyed the first book. They’re mindless but very good.”

Now, I don’t know what any of you would have said, but I found myself stymied for a reply to the ‘mindless’ side of the comments. A part of me wanted to say, “Well then, as you have no mind, they are a perfect read for you” or “It took a mind to write them, toots” or “I think the word you’re going for is ‘lightweight,’ not ‘mindless.’” But I merely smiled and said, “Thank you.”

Not done, she blathered on, “Now that all your friends and family have bought them, how do you plan to get anybody else to read them?”

Squelching the desire to tell her to never to consider a field in Diplomacy should she seek employment, I said, “Other people are buying them, but I blog, Twitter, Facebook, promotional stuff like that --”

“What’s a blog?” She interrupted. “And Twitter? What’s that?”

 “There’re online sites--”

“Right,” she waved me off. “But you’re not famous and nobody knows you, so how does that make anybody buy your book?”

“You know,” I said rising, “I can see Norman needs a little help with his load-in. Will you excuse me, please?”

All I can say is, sacré bleu!  Thank God for husbands.

Murder is a Family Business, book one

by

Heather Haven

Just because a man cheats on his wife and makes Danny DeVito look tall, dark and handsome, is that any reason to kill him? The reluctant and quirky PI, Lee Alvarez, doesn't think so. The 34-year old ½ Latina, ½ WASP and 100% detective has her work cut out for her when the man is murdered on her watch.  Of all the nerve.

A Wedding To Die For, book two

by

Heather Haven

A groom arrested for murder can put a crimp in anybody’s nuptials, no matter who designed the wedding gown. So when the wedding of Lee’s best friend is threatened by such a problem, thirty-four-year old Lee Alvarez heads to Mexico in search of the real killer.

Heather Haven, writer

San Jose, California 95135

408-270-6064

Heather@HeatherHavenStories.com

http://www.heatherhavenstories.com/

Heather's blog at: http://tinyurl.com/4nensnp

http://www.facebook.com

Twitter@HeatherHaven

Twitter@PILeeAlvarez

Hello, Vicki Batman

1: Thank you so much for being here, Vicki Batman.

First up is the obligatory question. When did you first begin writing? 

I began writing fiction about seven-ish years ago.

2: What inspired you to write?

On a road trip home with girlfriends, one wanted to play a question game. She asked, "Write the opening paragraph of a book using the word window." I had nothing and if I said something, I was paranoid it would be sh***y because deep down inside I'd never told anyone I wanted to write.

They gave me a reprieve to go home and send something out the following week. When I sat down, I wrote eight chapters. My friend said to keep going and so I have!

3: What do you like the most and least about writing? 

I LOVE playing "What If???" I dislike the promotional stuff we have to do now.

4: What do you for fun and relaxation when not writing? 

I'm a crafty gal J I needlepoint. Learning to crochet and tatting. I like long walks while listening to classical guitar. Go to movies. Watch tv. I read and read. Mmmmmm.

5: Which authors do you like to read?

My all-time fav is mystery author, Dick Francis. Linda Howard, Janet E, Sue Grafton, Elizabeth George, Luanne Rice, and my friend, Lori Wilde.

6: What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you? My sons say I'm a pretty cool mom.

7: Tell me about your current novel, where I can find it and your website/blog. 

"I Believe," is my sexy novella with a touch of magic. "Twinkle Lights," a holiday story, will be available thru Muse It Up Publishing. Find out about me at: http://vickibatman.blogspot.com OR http://plottingprincesses.blogspot.com

8: Do you have any tips for aspiring authors? 

Persevere. Write. Read.

9: Do you base your characters on real-life people? 

Handsome, my hubby, says and does some crazy things--I know, who would have thought, lol--which have made it into my stories.

10: Where do you get your ideas and what inspired you to write this book? 

If Handsome keeps saying and doing the crazy things, I'm set. I've been inspired by a tie, my grandmother's tomato cake recipe, lots of traffic tickets (okay, that was a story I heard), bad Valentine dates (yep, I did get a Dear John letter).

11: What are you currently working on? It's sorta a secret. I do have a bunch of short pieces I haven't sold and I am exploring.

12. Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you? 

Is this where I put in I was in a music video? Or was Miss Oak Lawn Moped? Or asked seven guys to a dance in high school? Ooops, that's a lot of secrets. LOLOL

Here's a bit from an unedited "Twinkle Lights":

            "I don't believe it." Hands on hips, I stood in front of the large, white tent. No happy shoppers bustled in and out. No "All I Want For Christmas is You" blasted from a boom box. No holiday cheer at all.

            Instead, a notice, which looked to be hastily scribbled, had been stuck on the flap with gray duct tape: Axel's Christmas Trees Closed. Heart attack. Pray.

            I shook my head, saying to the nippy wind whipping my hair and unbuttoned jacket, "Poor Axel. This is horrible. Where will the funds for the Sommerville Hospital come from?"

            My stomach kinked into a hard knot as I tucked my tote to my waist. I'd been buying my tree here since...forever. Definitely, since I was a blossoming idea in my parents' mind. Mom and Dad brought my brother and me the first Saturday in December every year for the family tree. Who could forget the ensuing arguments over the perfect one (Mom usually won), and the joy of trimming it.

            All grown up, I continued the tradition. Axel had the most beautiful trees. The stand benefited the hospital, this year the children's cancer wing where his grandson had undergone treatment for leukemia. He always-always-always stashed aside a seven-foot Fraser fir for me. Nothing spelled Christmas better than a fresh, North Carolina Fraser fir.

            Now what do I do? Where do I go? Should I call Axel's son and see if he needs any help?

            I stared into the December sky. A blast of cold air hit my arms. Unprepared for the rapidly declining temperatures, shivers skittered on my body. I overlapped my arms.

            Did I even want to go somewhere else? There were limited options.

            Or should I take the plunge like the rest of America and get a fake one?

            Ick. The very suggestion of an artificial tree sent pea-green queasies to my stomach. Simply, they weren't nature made, nor had the mind-blowing scent. Who'd choose phony?

            Not me. Never, ever.

            Returning to the flap, I lifted my hair off my neck and shook it out while considering what next?? for the bazillionth time. Unexpectedly, a light brush grazed my upper arm. A glance to my right told me a dark-haired man close to my age had stooped alongside me to read the sign. I tilted away, massaging the spot.

            He straightened to an attractive, towering height and looked at me. "What happened?"

Thanks so much, Roseanne, for having me and happy writing!!!

Hello, Mindy Hardwick

Thank you so much for being here, Mindy Hardwick

1: What genre do you write?

 I write young adult, tween and contemporary adult romance.  

2: I envy people who write young adult. I tried and I just can’t seem to do it. So tell us, how long have you been writing?

 I’ve been writing since I was in seventh grade, but I’ve been calling myself a professional writer for seven years.

3: That’s terrific. And what do you like the most and least about writing?

 I love making up stories and characters. I love seeing how my characters interact on the page and what they do when I toss obstacles on them. I’m easily bored and I find that writing is never boring! There is always some new challenge to overcome or something to learn!

I think the thing I like least about writing is the submission and rejection process. It’s always hard to get that e-mail or rejection letter for something that I’ve worked hard on.

4: Oh I know that feeling. I think I can wallpaper my room with all my rejections. What do you for fun and relaxation when not writing?

I love to cook, travel, and do collage art. I keep an art journal, and find that, many times, when I am stuck writing, if I sit down and do some art journaling, the writing will unstick itself! I also love to visit the Oregon Coast and have two or three days of a reading vacation where I do nothing but take a big bag of books and read and take walks on the beach!

5: I love cooking too. Wish I could travel, but finances don’t allow it.  Okay, tell us which authors do you like to read?

Everyone! Seriously. I read a lot of romance (all subgenres), young adult, and memoir! My favorite author is Jennifer Donnelly. I first read her young adult historical fiction, Northern Lights, and then I found her adult historical fiction series, Tea Rose, Winter Rose, and Wild Rose.

6: What’s the one thing you’d most like people to know about you?

I work really hard. Writing successes don’t come easy, and behind each success, there is always at least one moment when I almost threw in the towel and gave up on that story!

7: Well I’m glad you didn’t, but I understand your frustration. Tell us about your current novel, where we can find it?

I’m very happy that my first full length young adult romance novel, Weaving Magic, will be published by Muse It Up in April 2012!

Story Blurb: He loves magic and she loves romance. But the biggest illusion is the one Shantel and Christopher are telling each other. Sixteen-year-old Shantel and Christopher are falling in love, while failing to deal with some serious issues. Christopher's feelings about his father’s imprisonment and Shantel's feelings about her mother’s suicide are smothered beneath blankets of denial and addiction. Even though Christopher attends AA, and is trying to stay sober, the unacknowledged roots of their problems refuse to stay buried, and soon, the two are headed toward a disastrous magic trick which sends Christopher to juvenile detention and forces both of them to move beyond magical illusions to find true love.

8: Wow, serious stuff. It sounds great. So, do you have any tips for aspiring authors?

Explore multiple genres and stay open to where the story leads you.

9: Great advice. Tell us, do you base your characters on real-life people?

Yes. In my young adult novel, Weaving Magic the story is based on some of the young teens that I work with in the poetry workshop at Denney Juvenile Justice Center. (You can read their poetry at: www.denneypoetry.com and see their art at: www.denneyart.com)

10: Wow, that’s some great poetry and awesome artwork. Sounds like interesting work. How did you come up with the idea for this book?

See above.

11: What are you currently working on?

I’m working on a spin-off novella from two of the minor characters in Weaving Magic. I love the novella form and think it’s perfect for e-books. I’ve never thought that the two minor characters, Marissa and Michael, have a book length story, but I do think they have a novella!

12. Where can we find you? Website? Blog?

Stop by my blog/website at: www.mindyhardwick.com

Also, I am on Twitter at: @mindyhardwick

And please visit Weaving Magic’s Facebook Fan Page at:

https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Weaving-Magic-by-Mindy-Hardwick/152393661499561

Hello, Ginger Simpson

I'm pleased to join the MUSE authors this month on Ro's blog, and I'd like to thank her for inviting me.  When I think about October, I always think of Halloween and scary stories.  I'd like to share one with you today.  Okay, so it's my version of scary.

The Empty Chair

Several years back, my neighbor, Hilda, had just returned from her brother-in-law's funeral. She and husband, Troy, had traveled from California to somewhere mid-US and the week had left both of them drained. They were a large family, and the sudden death of her sister's husband came as a shock to all.

I didn't see Hilda for a while, while she recuperated and rested, and I figured I should give her time to grieve her loss. When we finally did get together for coffee, she greeted me at the front door with a puzzled look while holding a photograph.

"What's wrong?" I asked, her confusion apparent in a raised brow.

"This. It can't be real." She handed me the photo, her hand trembling.

I stared at the images, but noticed nothing uncanny. A woman sat in a recliner, a rather sad smile on her face, while family surrounded her.

"It's a nice picture, but..." I handed the snapshot back.

She shoved it back at me. "You don't understand. My sister bought that recliner for her husband. It's practically new. All weekend, no one sat in it out of respect for him. When we got ready to leave, I wanted a picture of everyone, and I insisted she sit in the center.

"So," I held up my palms, waiting for the rest of the story.

"Look at my sister's face...the one sitting in the chair." Hilda's face paled.

I inspected the images a little more closely. Sure enough, superimposed, but oh so faintly, over the woman's face was that of a man's. I shrugged. "A quirk of development," I said, unfazed.

"B-but...that's my brother-in-law."

Not getting the inference, I continued with my uneducated guess. "Probably from another picture you took on the same roll. It happens often, or so I hear."

Hilda swallowed. "You don't understand. This is a new camera, and my brother-in-law was dead before we arrived and started taking pictures."

A chill ran up my spine. I finally got why she was so upset. The grieving wife sat in her deceased husband's chair, and had no idea she shared it with her beloved. Sort of a eerie romance tale, don't you think? True, too! Yep...Ghosts are around us. 

I'd like to write spooky stories, but I think the coward in me keeps those ideas from cropping up.  Although the theory of a dead husband hanging around his wife might be considered romance, I prefer my men real and not see-through.

Do I believe in ghosts?  Yes, I do.  I suppose it stems from when my grandmother passed away.  I spent the evening with my mother, just the two of us in the house...or so we thought.  We were watching TV upstairs in the den and I decided to go to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream.  On the way downstairs, I passed through a vapor of "Bengay" so heavy it made my eyes water. 

 "What are you putting Bengay on?" I called back to my mom.

"I'm not using it on anything," came her response.

My poor, arthritic grandmother used it all the time before she passed.  I knew then it was her way of letting me know she was in the house and watching over us.  I slept in her bed that night, as I had many nights before with her, and I never felt as safe or loved as I did then.  I can still see her in my mind's eye as we played our usual, "Give me a kiss or a dollar."  She'd dig in her pocket and hand me a buck, and we'd laugh.  I made a ton of money the times I spent with her, but I never once doubted how much she loved me or I her.

Hmmm, how romantic do you think a story would be about an arthritic ghost who haunts a woman he loves?  Nah...to corny.  I'll stick to what I know, although at times, that's entirely up to the voices in my head, which is another frightful story in itself.  *smile*

You can find out more about me on my website at http://www.gingersimpson.com or on my blog, http://mizging.blogspot.com.  As they say on let's make a deal, "C'mon on down."

Ginger

Welcome, Larriane Wills

To help celebrate here’s an outtake from White Savage, my first release through MuseItUp Publishing, and old fashion western, packed with action and sprinkle through with a sweet romance. A blurb first, to give you a feel for the story, followed by an extra scene between secondary characters not in the book.

No one knew how long the Indians had the boy only that it had been too long for Jimmy to learn to be white again. After being locked in their jail, beaten, and chained as a child he returns ten years later, to be hunted as a thief, murderer, and kidnapper. His name was Clay. The Hoodys called him, Jimmy, the White Savage. On the run Clay is pushed into proving there’s a savage in all of us, but is the woman a captive? Or did she go of her own free will to help the White Savage?

Sam, the marshal’s Indian tracker, and Joey go to town to send a secret telegraph:

The trip to town seemed be boring to Sam, but Joey was on tender hooks the whole time.  He never believed they’d get in and out without being seen, but with Sam's patient guidance, he learned a passel of new tricks.  More importantly, he learned quite a bit about Sam, the most pleasant being that Sam had a tremendously entertaining sense of humor.

Sam had explained stoically that what he wanted to do was a diversion, so he could go into the telegraph office unseen, but Joey saw through that.  No diversion had to be done that way.  A fire in the barn at the other end of town would have probably gotten just as many folks looking the other way, kept them busy too, putting it out, and making sure none of the horses burnt up, but it wouldn’t have been as funny.  And Sam let him be the one to do it, then stay and watch the fun.

Joey figured they laid there for hours.  Sweat trickled down his back tickling him, flies kept landing on his face, and he was sure ants were crawling up his pant legs.  He wanted to swat flies, rub his shirt on the sweat, and stomp the ants out of his pants, but Sam told him to lie still, so he did.

Sam laid there the whole time they waited as passive as a man carved out of wood.  If a fly crawled into Joey’s eye, he cringed, squeezing his eyes closed till it moved away.  Those flies were the worst.  Half a dozen times, Joey nearly let go and swatted at them.  When he figured he just couldn’t stand it anymore, he stood it just one more time, and it paid off.  Someone finally came out, his pa, following the path to the outhouse.

“You go quiet now.  Meet me here, ten minutes,” Sam told him, rising to his knees then slipping off without a sound.

Joey picked up the staff Sam had picked for the job and slipped off sounding, to his disgust, like a herd of horses compared to the way Sam moved.  But his pa didn’t hear him, not till he slammed the end of the staff he carried under the handle of the outhouse door and rammed the other end tight into the ground with his foot.

Noah yelled, demanding to know who was out there.  He shoved the door and yelled again, shaking at it from inside.  Joey giggled as he backed off, then he added a touch of his own.  He struck a match and dropped it in a pile of dried brush nearby.

When Joey got back to the observation spot and dropped back to his belly to watch, he saw he’d started more than he’d intended, but boy, was it funny.

Josh ran out of the house to see what his pa was yelling about.  He saw the fire, ran back to the house, forgetting all about getting Pa out of the outhouse.  He ran into Jeremiah, standing in the way to watch the fire.  Jeremiah got shoved and had a bucket slammed against his chest.  Josh ran back for another bucket, Jeremiah scooped his full of water in the nearby horse trough, threw it on the fire, then collided with Josh on the way for another.  The whole time, Noah was screaming bloody murder, pounding on the outhouse door to be let out.

Everyone in town came running, some grabbing up buckets, and others trying to kick the stick loose that Joey had wedged against the door.  Josh finally took that over and stomped it to snap it in two.  Noah came tumbling out just as the flames reached it and started licking up the side.

The strangest thing happened then.  Joey never knew before that something like that could happen, but he sure would remember it.  The outhouse blew up.  Just plain blew up like someone had tossed a stick of dynamite in it.  Josh and Noah were knocked flat and bits and pieces of wood rained down on them.

“Go,” Sam said, making Joey jump. “Now.”

“Did ya see that?  It blew up, just plain blew up.”

“No think of that.  Good joke,” Sam said before trotting off.

“Yeah, but what made it blow up?” Joey asked, panting as he ran to keep up.

“Gas from stink.  White man dumb, all the time put in same place.  Make stink bad.”

“Yeah, guess…gues…we ought ta…bury it like…a cat.”

“No difference.  All go back to dirt.  You work too hard to run.  Do like this.”

Sam showed him, and Joey learned.  The jog-trot was easier, but he was still winded when they got back to the horses.  That didn’t keep him from talking.

“Never seen anything blow up like that.  Did you see the look on Pa’s face?  Boy, was he mad.”

“Make you happy, see mad?”

“It sure does.  I caught him with his pants down,” he said and giggled.

“How old you?” Sam asked, swinging up on his horse’s back, Indian style with a handful of mane and without use of stirrups.

“I wish I could do that,” Joey said in admiration.  He stepped up in the stirrup to his saddle.  “I’m twenty-three.”

Joe shook his head sadly, kicked his horse forward and said, “You no learn much all that time.”

“Pa wouldn’t let us.  Would ya teach me how to mount like that?”

“You Pa bad man.  Maybe kill him.”

“If you don’t, Jim will,” he said with a shrug.  “Will ya teach me?”

“Maybe.  Right now find where McGee find track.”

“I can show ya where I lost him. That’d help, wouldn’t it?”

So Joey learned some about tracks.  When Sam found where McGee left the posse’s trail, following the tracks he recognized, Clay’s horse, he headed them back to Te’s.  Joey badgered him with questions until he finally said, “Sam tired. Want sleep now.”

“While ya ride?”

“Horse follow yours,” he said, settling himself to a slump of careful balance.

“Sam, how come ya talk ta me like that?  Figure I’m too dumb?”

“Sam too tired think all words.  Sleep now, talk later.”

Joey’s problem, the one causing the incessant rattling, was two-fold.  He had gone without sleep long enough that he was rummy, and like a lot of people, the more tired he got, the more wound up. The second was that never in his life had he asked anyone questions that answered him with more than shut-up.  Seemed like it to him anyway, and not only was Sam willing to answer him, he gave smart answers.

He was silent all of three seconds.  “How’d ya know Jim’d go back the Plotts ranch if ya didn’t know Johns was there?”

“This Indian tired.  You talk now, no teach later.”

“Ah, Sam, I was just wondering.  She seems mighty fond of him, worried like.  I just wondered if he liked her, too.”

“No teach,” Sam warned again without a change in his position.

“Okay, I don’t wanna make ya mad.  I was just wonder—I’ll shut up, promise.”

Sam let his chin fall to his chest with a slight smile on his face.

https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/

Watch for my next western, Tarbet, coming next year, one of many to be released through MuseItUp under both of my pens. Two names, one author, thousands of stories. Read about them all at: http://www.larriane.com