tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58513497287292325392024-02-18T23:23:15.864-05:00Cathi's Chattercathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.comBlogger279125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-1825004537109091472011-12-09T11:03:00.000-05:002011-12-09T16:50:37.947-05:00F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: A FIRST Look at the Book<a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480264388542368882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jTbUMbJjD-mVKXD_sWZNMTmAraEpi8gFW_8bB2p0VGsjiHv0CyX2D-OrlffmoiFRf5C1cnFy_lyLKru-2XoYL3UTUZIhbnXeQW0oPHAvoYOQ8Ez8Q4TuizG5-pxETY6F_z6qbvcVZjw/s200/FIRSTWildCardTours2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 145px;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><strong><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></strong></span> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><strong>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</strong></span><br />
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<em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em><br />
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<strong><span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">Today's Wild Card author & illustrator is: </span></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://mimispixiecorner.blogspot.com/">M. C. Pearson</a></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0615530222">F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire</a></span></strong></div>
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FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)</div>
***Special thanks to M. C. Pearson of FIRST Wild Card Press for sending me a review copy.***<br />
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<strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjOGG_SlrC0CJ60fKXkc4V2Sjej9PVeP5a0O4WYH8m494dXwFOtXLSlYJBq-c4tZ9XETQhVLvEnfdGomuqUh1dUXwFZqJ-_giMQtVHrfR5lSHDjn0PPXeWejEa5Pae1sGYvZpDQd_ok4/s1600/Mimi+Army+300+DPI.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680639111174403122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhjOGG_SlrC0CJ60fKXkc4V2Sjej9PVeP5a0O4WYH8m494dXwFOtXLSlYJBq-c4tZ9XETQhVLvEnfdGomuqUh1dUXwFZqJ-_giMQtVHrfR5lSHDjn0PPXeWejEa5Pae1sGYvZpDQd_ok4/s200/Mimi+Army+300+DPI.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 159px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
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M. C. Pearson graduated from San Jose State University with a B. A. in art, served as a multi-media illustrator in the United States Army, earning the rank of sergeant, and spent four years as a house parent for at-risk youth. Now married over 20 years, she homeschools her two children, volunteers with her church youth group, and runs a book review blog alliance (<a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tours</a>) while writing and drawing. <span style="font-style: italic;">F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Baptism by Fire</span> is her first novel.</div>
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Visit the author's <a href="http://www.fantasticalsquads.blogspot.com/">website</a>.<br />
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<strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:</span> </span></strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1BX4pS5XlLgZOPW-Ri7GWKyTcBDCc2_DEz8MpkZ9wST9DjjRayG2x6-l4B5264TNkoeO0N0D5RhqtKRoay04ObzAT-WRk-MPTHkzRKrIJGG_0wSNAiW4z_5s4iKpozFi3acyonE4gWs/s1600/9780615530222-frontcover.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680639116928210994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1BX4pS5XlLgZOPW-Ri7GWKyTcBDCc2_DEz8MpkZ9wST9DjjRayG2x6-l4B5264TNkoeO0N0D5RhqtKRoay04ObzAT-WRk-MPTHkzRKrIJGG_0wSNAiW4z_5s4iKpozFi3acyonE4gWs/s200/9780615530222-frontcover.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a><br />
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Unwittingly chosen to join an army of fairies, who fight for the Light of the One, a teenaged girl learns about spiritual warfare as she attends a military academy with fantastical beings.</div>
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<strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">FROM THE BACK COVER:</span></span></strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpSeq0Y-XCLCDhS3-tqjLuDIDGsnWePV3k8MYi7KeQVZv54TQcL7-rrqHUja3C1eC3C0l6b6dxAyY6lxxr1FOBRmBkgeHYicqlXvjKkLYMyFAWUk6MzLq78xf3tbK7S9KvXvC7RXT-EE/s1600/9780615530222-backcover.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680639395246445538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpSeq0Y-XCLCDhS3-tqjLuDIDGsnWePV3k8MYi7KeQVZv54TQcL7-rrqHUja3C1eC3C0l6b6dxAyY6lxxr1FOBRmBkgeHYicqlXvjKkLYMyFAWUk6MzLq78xf3tbK7S9KvXvC7RXT-EE/s200/9780615530222-backcover.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 132px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Here lies a most precious treasure,</div>
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Awaiting one Chosen to deliver.</div>
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Seek out the red cousins in the East,</div>
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For on this your greed mustn't feast.</div>
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The wealth of a species now in your hands,</div>
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Do with it as the light demands.</div>
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Give them your gift to unite,</div>
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For it is the darkness we all must fight.</div>
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<strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">EDITORIAL REVIEWS:</span></span></strong><br />
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<blockquote>
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"Imagination runs wild in <span style="font-style: italic;">F.A.I.R.I.E.S.</span> Pearson brings young readers through a looking glass and into a world bursting with adventure, heroism, and fascinating creatures. Readers will be inspired to be true to the One and left with anticipation of more to come."</div>
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--Jill Williamson, award-winning author of </div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">By Darkness Hid</span>, and other books</div>
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"Sprinkled with delightful illustrations, and brimming with a full bestiary of magical creatures, <span style="font-style: italic;">F.A.I.R.I.E.S.</span> is a fun, clever romp through the alternate landscape of the most magical world of all, our own. Read, and take up the call: 'Defend and Emancipate!'"</div>
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-- D. Barkley Briggs, author of </div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">The Book of Names</span>, and other books</div>
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"<span style="font-style: italic;">F.A.I.R.I.E.S.</span> will appeal to readers who love the interplay of fantasy and reality. A rich cast of eccentric characters and exotic settings make this a fun addition to the folklore of the battle between good and evil."</div>
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--Mike Hamel, author of </div>
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YA fantasy series: MATTERHORN THE BRAVE</div>
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"<span style="font-style: italic;">F.A.I.R.I.E.S.</span> is one of those rare gems I want to tell everyone about. It's highly imaginative, packed with adventure, and full of hope. A must read for kids and for kids at heart. Even better than Narnia! I was thinking about Pearson's wonderfully memorable characters for days."</div>
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--C.J. Darlington, author of </div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Thicker than Blood</span></div>
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"Ms. Pearson's extravagant and imaginative F.A.I.R.I.E. kingdom will surely delight the young and the young-at-heart in this tale of good and evil, light vs. darkness. The fantasy-loving reader will not be disappointed!"</div>
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--Linore Rose Burkard, award winning author of </div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Before the Season Ends</span>, and other books</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="301" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/aOprLZ7keE8" width="400"></iframe><br />
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Product Details:<br />
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List Price: $17.99<br />
Paperback: 482 pages<br />
Publisher: FIRST Wild Card Press (December 5, 2011)<br />
Language: English<br />
ISBN-10: 0615530222<br />
ISBN-13: 978-0615530222<br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi922Pv5LRSihN0XnVRDPy2Mcj8wSCwEeLvc70v9a1FickrBqGNfd9OxL9egGoRYi5NJrqLMVvPyEgZiNUw-5yhxtvwXILhxBTiUozX5ObypM-owYxhcbde8nTPJ4OP_k0QVXEJyOn7P-E/s1600/Chapter+00+Image+Lilith+Eyes.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675450826624670674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi922Pv5LRSihN0XnVRDPy2Mcj8wSCwEeLvc70v9a1FickrBqGNfd9OxL9egGoRYi5NJrqLMVvPyEgZiNUw-5yhxtvwXILhxBTiUozX5ObypM-owYxhcbde8nTPJ4OP_k0QVXEJyOn7P-E/s320/Chapter+00+Image+Lilith+Eyes.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 90px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Four thousand seasons shall pass while our swords grow rusty.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Where once one chose to divide, another shall be chosen to unite.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>One changed the past, the other shall change the future. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>One must emancipate the other to allow the light its dominion.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>The realm, now torn, allows the shadow to abide, as humanity lies blind to its peril. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>The bond of friendship must endure, for the army of shadows awaits another tear.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Dust off your swords. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Unite the realm. </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Destroy the strongholds.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Foretelling of Didasko Gnome Digdeep</span></div>
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†<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">PART ONE</span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSAbpxVmEXodPZ6fMunDtAGHa46TZLtN5a5mMPgI8q4R9Ch1guEiIFDmD_gZZShk9JJOR_PwHkTJX-uLOWCbZ8M7dhi594u9yucIhskgp4pY3_r0HJvpSEdlmuYt4nNDT2TOKLUUV53w/s1600/490.TIF"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675443705710302642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXSAbpxVmEXodPZ6fMunDtAGHa46TZLtN5a5mMPgI8q4R9Ch1guEiIFDmD_gZZShk9JJOR_PwHkTJX-uLOWCbZ8M7dhi594u9yucIhskgp4pY3_r0HJvpSEdlmuYt4nNDT2TOKLUUV53w/s200/490.TIF" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 100px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 47px;" /></a> <br />
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t was an accident!” Mellie yelled, not caring who heard or stared. Tears streaked her face as she fled down the Santa Cruz coastline, away from her family.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">You don’t need them</span>, a voice hissed in her ear, <span style="font-style: italic;">Escape. Run away.</span><br />
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Scorching sand burned at her feet and bitterness ate at her heart. Mellie pumped her legs as fast as they would go. Her feet pounded with the rhythm of her emotions, beating a tempo with the crashing waves. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Run-a-way. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins, quickening her step.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Why did I have to be the youngest? Only 12 years old. Never smart enough. Never athletic enough. I just wish they loved me.</span><br />
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Once, just once, she wanted to do something that would make her sisters see that she wasn’t the stupid, awkward, ugly, little baby sister.<br />
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As she ran, she wiped away some tears with the palm of her hand. Her fingers settled on her large nose, a gift from her dad’s Hungarian ancestry.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Chelsea got the ski-slope shaped nose. I had to get Half-Dome. It just isn’t fair.</span><br />
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Her hand dropped to her side and she pinched at her stomach. It still had some of its baby fat.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Ugh, why are my sisters so perfect? What happened to me?</span><br />
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Pushing her short bangs from her forehead in disgust, she mumbled, “Maybe I’ll find treasure. I’ll be the rich one, and then they’ll have to accept me.” But she knew better. California didn’t hold any more undiscovered treasures.<br />
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The sand, hot and coarse, cut at her feet. <span style="font-style: italic;">I wish I had remembered my shoes. </span>She wore only a black, one-piece swimsuit and a San Jose Sharks sweatshirt tied tightly around her waist.<br />
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Breathing rapidly, she began to tire. She slowed her pace to a walk and looked back across the beach. The sand was so hot that waves of heat rose from it and blurred her view. A lone seagull screeched overhead.<br />
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Her sisters were nowhere in sight.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Man, I thought for sure that Chelsea was going to chase me down and kill me.</span><br />
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She had to admit that it was a little gratifying to see the sand fly from her foot, covering Chelsea’s sub-sandwich and freshly oiled stomach. Grinning slightly, the tears stopped flowing. She rubbed her eyes.<br />
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Mellie looked in the direction of her sisters. “You guys can never take a joke.” Flipping her golden hair, she turned her head back toward her chosen path. She no longer smiled as she stomped her feet in the cold surf, remembering the hateful words that had been said.<br />
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“Oh, waa waa, you stupid cry baby! Go tell mommy! Maybe she’ll feel sorry for her ugly, fat baby. Why don’t you grow up? We don’t want you near us. Can’t you understand English? You are so dumb. Look at her mouth open. Oh wait, here she goes…come on, baby…cry!”<br />
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Mellie knew she couldn’t go back. They would only ridicule and torment her further. Her mom would never believe it was Chelsea’s fault. No, the evidence was on Chelsea’s side. Who was the one with the sand all over her oily, coconut-smelling body? Who was the one who had a sandwich full of sand? Mellie walked on.<br />
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After her temper finally cooled, it occurred to her that she had never walked so far alone.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">How far have I gone?</span><br />
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A shadow passed over her, and she looked up. Nothing was there. A cool breeze from the ocean created a stark contrast to the scalding sand. She shivered but kept walking, lost in her loneliness.<br />
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Not until she stubbed her toe on a large broken clamshell did she look at the beach. A chill snaked up her back. Nothing appeared familiar. The sounds of the surf were still there, yet something was decidedly different. She felt dizzy. Looking around, she could not quite pinpoint the change. Then it struck her.<br />
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No people.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Where did everybody go?</span><br />
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Even though she could see no one, Mellie could swear that she felt eyes staring at her.<br />
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She looked inland across the sand, saw movement near some eucalyptus trees, but decided that the wind must have caused it.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Trees? So close to the beach?</span><br />
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Something shook the trees again, causing goosebumps to stand out on Mellie’s arms. Alarmed, she checked the skyline. The sun was close to setting. She hoped that the police weren’t out looking for her.<br />
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Suddenly cold, she pulled at the arms of the sweatshirt still tied around her waist. It fell to the sand. Bending to pick it up, she once again saw a blur of movement, except this time it came from a rocky outcrop by the waves. She shook the sand out of the sweatshirt and hurriedly tugged it over her head.<br />
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“Okay, I’m seeing things.” Mellie yanked at her hair, pulling it out of the sweatshirt. She stared at the sinister rocks. “Hel-lo?” Her voice cracked as she spoke louder. “Is someone the-ere? Hello?” No answer. The shadowy rocks seemed to quiver with excitement, beckoning her closer.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Hmm…probably just a seagull.</span><br />
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Even if it was a bird, she did not want to see it.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">There’s no way I’m going over there.</span><br />
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The wind picked up and blew her hair into her eyes. The sand spun with the wind.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, definitely time to move. I need to find a road.</span><br />
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She turned back toward the sweet smelling, oddly placed trees.<br />
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Mellie arrived at the base of the first, colossal eucalyptus tree. Without warning, one of the branches fell in front of her, then seemed to get up from the ground and pose its bottom stems in a military-like stance.<br />
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Mellie screamed and jumped back. “Branches don’t stand.”<br />
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“They do if they are walking sticks.” The eucalyptus branch chuckled, stretching to its full height, considerably taller than Mellie’s meager five feet.<br />
She gasped, grabbed the branch, and threw it like a javelin, as hard as she could.<br />
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As she took off running, she heard a bark and halted. Turning, she saw a golden retriever bounding toward her with the stick in his mouth. The dog dropped it at her feet. She watched the dog run into the grove of trees and disappear before she fearfully turned back to the possessed stick.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcdOopTq90__w_U4yu98ohYo2QckW2hDNzIM5tj-bTh2exX1dw_iG6PK14K-hdFkQd7uSMsFchg9ltxlRimiq7E-wQkGbIrbSClcb955Pg2GBGS4aqgdhf60y0Jwd1FPy3_wdgI20f8g/s1600/Chapter+01+Image+Regnans.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675454941583784434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcdOopTq90__w_U4yu98ohYo2QckW2hDNzIM5tj-bTh2exX1dw_iG6PK14K-hdFkQd7uSMsFchg9ltxlRimiq7E-wQkGbIrbSClcb955Pg2GBGS4aqgdhf60y0Jwd1FPy3_wdgI20f8g/s320/Chapter+01+Image+Regnans.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 233px;" /></a>It had already gained its footing again and stood over her. Mellie was too frightened to move this time.<br />
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A face emerged from the skinny twig and took on the characteristics of a male human, but none like Mellie had ever seen. He had hair made up in rolls as if it were a powdered, green-silver wig, the same color as the leaves that grew all around his skinny body. His face was long and his forehead high. The twiggy man smiled and said in a distinctly British, albeit breezy, accent, “Do not worry, you are safe.”<br />
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Mellie couldn’t answer.<br />
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“Ahh…I love new recruits. They are so easily addled.”<br />
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Feeling more confused than threatened, Mellie found her voice. “What? What do you mean, new recruits?” She rubbed her eyes, shaking her head. “Okay, I’m talking to a stick now. Yes, I have lost it. I have gone totally mental.”<br />
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“Oh, I say, am I to understand that I am the first to be revealed to you?” With round, leathery leaves, the branch resembled a toddler toy with rings stacked on one another.<br />
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She dropped open her mouth and nodded.<br />
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“Well, let me do this properly, then. Ahem. Mortal, made of clay, you have been Chosen to join the Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads.”<br />
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“What? What are you? You look like a stick…but you can talk.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, child,” the stick replied with a sigh. “But, I think we are quite past that by now. Have you not heard me? You have been Chosen.”<br />
<br />
Mellie opened her mouth wider, closed it, frowned, and opened it once more. “Chosen? For what?”<br />
<br />
“You did wish to be different? To change who you were? ’Twas an especially strong desire, yes?” The branch crossed its arms and tapped its twiggy foot.<br />
<br />
“Umm…”<br />
<br />
“Dear me, this is highly unusual. You made a choice to run away from a miserable life and asked to be set free? Correct?”<br />
<br />
“Well, I, ah…yeah. I guess so. What did you say about recruit for some squad?”<br />
<br />
“Humph. I see that I was not understood. Yes? Let me elucidate. The Fantastical, Aerial, International, Reasonably Inconspicuous, Emancipation Squads , or shall I say F.A.I.R.I.E.S.? have accepted you into their organization. You asked. You were answered.” The branch attempted a smile, but looked impatient instead.<br />
<br />
“Fairies? I don’t believe in fairies.” Mellie winced, half expecting him to fall down and writhe in pain until she clapped her hands.<br />
<br />
“Quite right. You are not supposed to. If humans truly believed we existed, we would never get anything accomplished.”<br />
<br />
Mellie laughed and looked around for a hidden camera, thinking this must be a joke. “Right. Ah…heh…okay, bud, brilliant costume,” she said, imitating the branch’s accent. “Where’s the zipper?” She reached toward him and touched a soft leaf.<br />
<br />
The branch slapped her hand away and stamped its foot with a loud cracking noise. “I beg your pardon. I have not been a bud for over 800 springs!” He paced, his leaves crumpling, mumbling to himself about humans and why, in the One’s name, did he listen to that confounded gnome who told him that he needed to stand gate duty. With his rank!<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry I upset you. Please, I’m very confused. I’m lost, and I just want to go home.” Mellie bit her lip.<br />
<br />
The branch stopped mid-pace. “Home? Earlier, did you not wish for a new life? And riches? I know you wished for treasure, hmm?”<br />
<br />
“How do you know that?” Mellie furrowed her brow. “Have you been reading my mind?”<br />
<br />
The twig man didn’t answer her questions, asking his own instead. “Ahh, so, you admit this, yes?”<br />
<br />
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but…well, this really isn’t what I had in mind.”<br />
<br />
The branch threw up its twiggy fingers. “Oh, well, of course you did not have this in mind. After all, we are reasonably inconspicuous, especially to humans. How could you have this in mind? However, is it not superior of the One to think that this is what you would have chosen had you known about us? Anyway, ’tis irrevocable now. So, if you would just follow me, we shall get you signed in and enrolled for training.”<br />
<br />
The branch marched off between the trunks of two large eucalyptus trees.<br />
<br />
Mellie slid uncontrollably after the walking stick. She planted her feet firmly, refusing to budge, but she slid after him anyway. Grasping at branches of nearby trees, she panted heavily as she struggled to resist following the branch. Some kind of invisible tie connected her to him. He seemed to pull her along with his every step.<br />
<br />
Mellie thought about her sisters and how mad they were at her. <span style="font-style: italic;">I’m dead meat if they find me.</span> Mellie quickly gave up her battle and ran after the eucalyptus branch, barely keeping up with his stride.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
†</div>
<br />
<br />
The sand changed to coarse dirt, with pebbles and sticks. More and more trees filled Mellie’s vision. Bushes scraped against her bare legs and slapped her face as she moved deeper inside a forest of eucalyptus and redwood trees. She winced in pain as a razor-sharp rock sliced her foot. Stopping to nurse it, she wished once again for her forgotten shoes.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me, sir?” Mellie looked around. She could not see the branch anywhere.<br />
<br />
“Do not call me ‘sir’, I work for a living.” The branch peeked out from around one of the gigantic trees. “And please, try to keep up. We need to reach the gateway.”<br />
<br />
Mellie limped up to him. “Sorry, sir…I mean…umm, what should I call you then?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, well, we did skip that. Did we not? Yes, all right, an introduction then.” The branch man seemed to enjoy formal etiquette for he gave an elaborate wave and bowed. “My name is Regnans, family of Myrtaceae, born member of the F.A.I.R.I.E.S., Britannia Wing, rank of Master Nymph Dryad.”<br />
<br />
“Nice to meet you, Reg…Reg?” Mellie chewed on the inside of her mouth. Never good at remembering names, she knew she would offend him with her lack of manners.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, the dryad raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Regnans.” He gave a hurt sniff, then drolly sneered. “If you find that a difficult name, you should meet the rest of my family, all seven-hundred thirty-four of them.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry, I just…well, it is a lot to remember. It’s a nice name, though. My name is Maryellen Goodwin of Bret Harte Middle School, San Jose, California. But everyone calls me Mellie.” She stuck out her hand, intending to shake. Regnans stared at her.<br />
<br />
“That is a strange curtsy. However, I guess ’twill do. We must get moving now. The shadows abound, you know.” Regnans made an about face and marched off faster than before.<br />
<br />
Another hour passed, and still they strode along the forest floor. Mellie’s feet were now cut, blistered, and bleeding. She kept up as best she could with Regnans’s long stride. Whenever she tried to stop, he would pull her on with that invisible force of his.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Stupid, pompous, magical Star Wars freak.</span><br />
<br />
She whimpered as she limped. Darkness and mist now covered the woods. As she was about to plead for a break, Regnans stopped. Except for her heavy gulps of air, all seemed quiet.<br />
<br />
Regnans stiffened even more than usual. Nothing on him moved, apart from his eyes, which darted around quickly.<br />
<br />
“All is safe, we may proceed.” He held up a twiggy finger to his woody mouth. “Please do not speak, and try not to breathe so abominably loud.”<br />
<br />
Mellie nodded with a disgusted frown. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She tried to calm her breathing, even though her vision blurred, and her legs wobbled. Her blisters had popped by now and oozed wetness.<br />
<br />
Regnans moved again, yet this time he took slow, deliberate steps, all the while scanning his surroundings. He walked up to a massive redwood tree and stroked its bark.<br />
<br />
A breeze stirred up, rattling the leaves, sounding almost like spoken words. Mellie thought herself crazy again. However, the longer she stood there, the more she sensed that it really was the tree’s language, as if she had never listened to trees properly before. It said, “If you love, you will say the one true love that leads the way.”<br />
<br />
Regnans whispered in a leaf rustling voice, “Ah-gaw-pay.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjOz-TBgSV8MXpBEA2De1NTpnCzyZr07wK52C0jvGcvRp3ui-9kUuC6m2o36kuzyj2LfdXV2rstSrPIo2L-tfyTjnjr2KEGUqsEAKCxnJAeXJcGx0bwZ3tvujTqBdlhl7ikqT1ZwkWBE/s1600/Chapter+01+Image+Hamadryad.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675454932986737090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjOz-TBgSV8MXpBEA2De1NTpnCzyZr07wK52C0jvGcvRp3ui-9kUuC6m2o36kuzyj2LfdXV2rstSrPIo2L-tfyTjnjr2KEGUqsEAKCxnJAeXJcGx0bwZ3tvujTqBdlhl7ikqT1ZwkWBE/s320/Chapter+01+Image+Hamadryad.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 238px;" /></a>A loud grumbling sound, as if someone awakened after a long sleep, shook the grove. The redwood tree opened two eyes, each the size of Mellie’s head, and blinked. A great fissure erupted below the eyes in the shape of a crescent, and redish-brown wooden teeth emerged. A long, knobby branch pushed its way out above the mouth and inhaled deeply.<br />
<br />
The tree chuckled. Instead of the whispering leaves, a low, rumbling utterance of human speech came from the redwood tree. “Regnans? What brings you to my neck of the woods?” He blinked again. “And who is this? A new recruit? A human? A Chosen?”<br />
<br />
Mellie knew she looked silly, standing there with her mouth in an ‘O’ shape, but she couldn’t move. This was simply impossible. <span style="font-style: italic;">There is no such thing as fairies!</span><br />
<br />
“Yes, yes. Please open the gate, we must not dawdle here…they may be watching.” Regnans looked agitated.<br />
<br />
A deep laugh resounded from the redwood. “Oh, Regnans. There are none who watch here.”<br />
<br />
Regnans mumbled something about hamadryads and their pride, then proclaimed in a slightly louder voice to the tree, “We must be sober, be vigilant, because the shadow walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom it may devour.”<br />
<br />
The hamadryad looked chagrined. “You speak true, dryad. Forgive me for acting like an arrogant seedling.” He glanced at Mellie, and with a lowered voice asked, “And what is your name, little human?”<br />
<br />
Mellie managed to squeak out, “Mellie Goodwin.”<br />
<br />
“Ah, ’tis always nice to have a Good Wind.” The hamadryad laughed heartily.<br />
<br />
“Sorry to interrupt this lovely tete-a-tete,” Regnans said, “but would you please open the gate? I left Westside completely unguarded.”<br />
<br />
An annoyed creak came from the base of the redwood, followed by a sigh. “Yes, Regnans. Agape you said, and agape it is. Go with the light, my friends.” The large, joyous eyes closed, and the hamadryad whispered in his leaf rustling voice, “Until we meet again, Good Wind.” His face disappeared, and his roots lifted and pulled apart, exposing a tunnel within his trunk.<br />
<br />
Regnans grabbed Mellie’s hand with his rough, wooden one, and pulled her inside the opening. The tree closed itself abruptly and left them in total darkness.<br />
<br />
Regnans cleared his throat and said, “Let there be light.”<br />
<br />
A burst of dazzling brightness sparkled from the tunnel’s wall. Mellie glanced around and noticed a long, winding stairwell leading down into the ground.<br />
<br />
“Shall we, then?” Not waiting for a reply, Regnans started down the steps.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Rs19_UDnntkdnsAbEpaBRvfjZ3GtElCSkRcCvgKLiTAQhdvAhe9IWKEE32tGzsQbqibSWB_qcVzsG3XYKYTZYLS9NOq78QjhcRJhjaqr5mmSACWjh8FXZ1QTE7FnI3LGCW0aSKu0hGk/s1600/Part+One+Image+Mellie+on+Beach.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675450833504891858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Rs19_UDnntkdnsAbEpaBRvfjZ3GtElCSkRcCvgKLiTAQhdvAhe9IWKEE32tGzsQbqibSWB_qcVzsG3XYKYTZYLS9NOq78QjhcRJhjaqr5mmSACWjh8FXZ1QTE7FnI3LGCW0aSKu0hGk/s320/Part+One+Image+Mellie+on+Beach.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 313px;" /></a> <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">MANY ARE CALLED</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">BUT</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">FEW ARE CHOSEN</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
†</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">CHAPTER ONE</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEBnlPFahhW1ghsGVDTWYU0XFhHJof8IZt3d8R21wsz2jQhif5dEE0p08ZYpWhHnzgifsCS4KAWCEmK4hr-t8C9-HpL4HgWh_A-gmblQNC7eoj6c3heoRTwZbY_hyphenhyphenw4_DuOrWqxXoo1g/s1600/Chapter+01+Image+Mellie+Runs+Away.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675450839847451730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEBnlPFahhW1ghsGVDTWYU0XFhHJof8IZt3d8R21wsz2jQhif5dEE0p08ZYpWhHnzgifsCS4KAWCEmK4hr-t8C9-HpL4HgWh_A-gmblQNC7eoj6c3heoRTwZbY_hyphenhyphenw4_DuOrWqxXoo1g/s320/Chapter+01+Image+Mellie+Runs+Away.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 235px;" /></a> <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Off and Running<span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">Available at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/F-I-R-I-S-Baptism-Fire/dp/0615530222/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1">Amazon.com</a> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/fairies-marianne-christina-pearson/1107148338?ean=9780615530222&itm=7&usri=baptism+by+fire">Barnes & Noble.com</a>.</span></div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-1923134506489846172010-08-25T03:05:00.001-04:002010-08-25T03:09:14.475-04:00A FIRST Look at STARLIGHTERThe bloggers at FIRST Wild Card ran this standard post about Bryan Davis and his book <em>Starlighter </em>on May 19th, but since I was in the hospital and unable to get on the internet at the time, I didn't join them. So, I am trying to make up for lost time now. In a day or two I will leave my review on this remarkable novel. I am reading it over again since it was such a long time ago. And I'm really glad, because I see so much more than I did when I rushed through the first time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong>Today's author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.daviscrossing.com/">Bryan Davis</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0310718368">Starlighter </a></span></strong></div><div align="center">Zondervan (March 19, 2010) </div><br />
<strong><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">SUMMARY:</span></strong><br />
Dragons are enslaving humankind and a black egg signals the end of the world. Jason Masters must journey to another realm and join forces with a slave girl named Koren to rescue the captives and save two worlds from destruction. What if the Legends Are True? Jason Masters doubted the myths: people taken through a portal to another realm and enslaved by dragons. But when his brother is taken, he must uncover the truth and find the portal before it's too late. Once he's through the portal, he meets Koren, a slave in the dragons’ realm, who struggles to destroy a black egg prophesied to doom all mankind. Jason and Koren must work together to save their two worlds before the dragons learn that their secrets have been discovered. In Starlighter, bestselling author Bryan Davis masterfully weaves fantasy and inspiration into a captivating novel for young adults. <br />
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<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMOCqLBmnDKGpu5oZUj7MaPenqBGdaBIf6iP3_aSXOXuj6qNRIYtdchs5V7MU3cbo54UYJeUdVFGRlPH0ZqtjsBLC3kkzkJMYiiTTs3ZXtJoB-dtyaAm3j7HjXTP-T1ASGmXaeWHiRoM/s1600/BryanDavis_bio_pic.jpeg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471977309627118578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMOCqLBmnDKGpu5oZUj7MaPenqBGdaBIf6iP3_aSXOXuj6qNRIYtdchs5V7MU3cbo54UYJeUdVFGRlPH0ZqtjsBLC3kkzkJMYiiTTs3ZXtJoB-dtyaAm3j7HjXTP-T1ASGmXaeWHiRoM/s200/BryanDavis_bio_pic.jpeg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 143px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Bryan Davis is the author of the bestselling fantasy series <em>Dragons in Our Midst, Oracles of Fire</em> and <em>Echoes from the Edge</em>. He and his wife, Susie, have seven children and live in western Tennessee where he continues to cook up his imaginative blend of fantasy and inspiration.<br />
<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.daviscrossing.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $9.99<br />
Reading level: Young Adult<br />
Paperback: 400 pages <br />
Publisher: Zondervan (March 19, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 0310718368 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-0310718369 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">TO BROWSE THE BOOK, CLICK ON THE BUTTON BELOW: </span></strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XyN9w2HPRxrT0apRRNqNgx67_u4Hv-VG5Qb4ax2fL7vQU861tmbnXtgAXA9anL-_77EoDu_jaZhL5-zlw-y9rehxFnud11wu1IgXZ_zCh5wVos1MptXZShHmMQDPhCgf0yKljJBdrrM/s1600/starlighter"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471977246761767026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XyN9w2HPRxrT0apRRNqNgx67_u4Hv-VG5Qb4ax2fL7vQU861tmbnXtgAXA9anL-_77EoDu_jaZhL5-zlw-y9rehxFnud11wu1IgXZ_zCh5wVos1MptXZShHmMQDPhCgf0yKljJBdrrM/s200/starlighter" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;"><a href="http://zndr.vn/bMYpht" target="_blank"><img alt="Browse Inside" border="0" hspace="5" src="http://www.zondervan.com/m/kidz/images/browse_inside.png" vspace="5" /></a></div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-24074972799487291102010-08-17T08:34:00.002-04:002010-08-25T02:46:19.269-04:00FIRST Wild Card: Solitary by Travis Thrasher<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jTbUMbJjD-mVKXD_sWZNMTmAraEpi8gFW_8bB2p0VGsjiHv0CyX2D-OrlffmoiFRf5C1cnFy_lyLKru-2XoYL3UTUZIhbnXeQW0oPHAvoYOQ8Ez8Q4TuizG5-pxETY6F_z6qbvcVZjw/s1600/FIRSTWildCardTours2.jpg"></a><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480264388542368882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_jTbUMbJjD-mVKXD_sWZNMTmAraEpi8gFW_8bB2p0VGsjiHv0CyX2D-OrlffmoiFRf5C1cnFy_lyLKru-2XoYL3UTUZIhbnXeQW0oPHAvoYOQ8Ez8Q4TuizG5-pxETY6F_z6qbvcVZjw/s200/FIRSTWildCardTours2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 145px;" /></a>It is time for a <span style="color: #990000;"><strong><a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/">FIRST Wild Card Tour</a></strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! <span style="color: #990000;"><strong>Enjoy your free peek into the book!</strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.travisthrasher.com/">Travis Thrasher</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1434764214">Solitary </a></span></strong></div><div align="center">David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2010) </div><br />
<em>Note: This is the first FIRST novel that I have featured since the hospital stay. I didn't get a copy to read, but the sample chapter caught my attention. Obviously a book aimed at teens; lots of mysterious hints.</em><br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lGKpWZVDWwHAt3cKRRuZuoBcYvJYhr9jfKFGKLB5_bV2FweOsW-MRy84Um-Hneu5gL5mCwgcNmm3bbeXDFDwEwWDx49Q-4fgdmTSKLSbNsIATGV5Y7f3UsRkf58JzbiU_sIqzKZtnLk/s1600/travis+thrasher.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505858657097948530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lGKpWZVDWwHAt3cKRRuZuoBcYvJYhr9jfKFGKLB5_bV2FweOsW-MRy84Um-Hneu5gL5mCwgcNmm3bbeXDFDwEwWDx49Q-4fgdmTSKLSbNsIATGV5Y7f3UsRkf58JzbiU_sIqzKZtnLk/s200/travis+thrasher.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 143px;" /></a>Travis Thrasher is an author of diverse talents with more than twelve published novels including romance, suspense, adventure, and supernatural horror tales. At the core of each of his stories lie flawed characters in search of redemption. Thrasher weaves hope within all of his tales, and he loves surprising his readers with amazing plot twists and unexpected variety in his writing. Travis lives with his wife and daughter in a suburb of Chicago. Solitary is his first young adult novel.<br />
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<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.travisthrasher.com/">website</a>.<br />
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<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $14.99<br />
Paperback: 400 pages <br />
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1434764214 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1434764218 <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-size: large;"><strong>SUMMARY:</strong></span><br />
When Chris Buckley moves to Solitary, North Carolina, he faces the reality of his parents’ divorce, a school full of nameless faces—and Jocelyn Evans. Jocelyn is beautiful and mysterious enough to leave Chris speechless. But the more Jocelyn resists him, the more the two are drawn together.<br />
Chris soon learns that Jocelyn has secrets as deep as the town itself. Secrets more terrifying than the bullies he faces in the locker room or his mother’s unexplained nightmares. He slowly begins to understand the horrific answers. The question is whether he can save Jocelyn in time.<br />
<br />
This first book in the Solitary Tales series will take you from the cold halls of high school to the dark rooms of an abandoned cabin—and remind you what it means to believe in what you cannot see.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnC5uTZMR5X1IRKCxn57L9qTKFm7YOsNTkgShiLVL7bVoj0ZC2jff7GbdxNNQ8zlVFqznz_AUaWMmPI9Ky3rYOhQlFDqQmLghnQnQghePmospjA-h134t13b7KJB3iXMRxEXdNehV3HI/s1600/Solitary.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505858749840054818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnC5uTZMR5X1IRKCxn57L9qTKFm7YOsNTkgShiLVL7bVoj0ZC2jff7GbdxNNQ8zlVFqznz_AUaWMmPI9Ky3rYOhQlFDqQmLghnQnQghePmospjA-h134t13b7KJB3iXMRxEXdNehV3HI/s200/Solitary.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">1 . Half a Person <br />
<br />
<br />
She’s beautiful.<br />
<br />
She stands behind two other girls, one a goth coated in black and the other a blonde with wild hair and an even wilder smile. She’s waiting, looking off the other way, but I’ve already memorized her face.<br />
<br />
I’ve never seen such a gorgeous girl in my life.<br />
<br />
“You really like them?”<br />
<br />
The goth girl is the one talking; maybe she’s the leader of their pack. I’ve noticed them twice already today because of her, the one standing behind. The beautiful girl from my second-period English class, the one with the short skirt and long legs and endless brown hair, the one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s hard not to notice.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorites,” I say.<br />
<br />
We’re talking about my T-shirt. It’s my first day at this school, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think carefully about what I was going to wear. It’s about making a statement. I would have bet that 99 percent of the seven hundred kids at this high school wouldn’t know what Strangeways, Here We Come refers to.<br />
<br />
Guess I found the other 1 percent. <br />
<br />
I was killing time after lunch by wandering aimlessly when the threesome stopped me. Goth Girl didn’t even say hi; she just pointed at the murky photograph of a face on my shirt and asked where I got it. She made it sound like I stole it.<br />
<br />
In a way, I did.<br />
<br />
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Goth Girl asks. Her sparkling blue eyes are almost hidden by her dark eyeliner.<br />
<br />
“Did the shirt give it away?”<br />
<br />
“Nobody in this school listens to The Smiths.”<br />
<br />
I can tell her that I stole the shirt, or in a sense borrowed it, but then she’d ask me from where.<br />
<br />
I don’t want to tell her I found it in a drawer in the house we’re staying at. A cabin that belongs to my uncle. A cabin that used to belong to my uncle when he was around.<br />
<br />
“I just moved here from a suburb of Chicago.”<br />
<br />
“What suburb?” the blonde asks.<br />
<br />
“Libertyville. Ever hear of it?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
I see the beauty shift her gaze around to see who’s watching. Which is surprising, because most attractive girls don’t have to do that. They know that they’re being watched.<br />
<br />
This is different. Her glance is more suspicious. Or anxious.<br />
<br />
“What’s your name?”<br />
<br />
“Chris Buckley.”<br />
<br />
“Good taste in music, Chris,” Goth Girl says. “I’m Poe. This is Rachel. And she’s Jocelyn.”<br />
<br />
That’s right. Her name’s Jocelyn. I remember now from class.<br />
<br />
“What else do you like?”<br />
<br />
“I got a wide taste in music.”<br />
<br />
“Do you like country?” Poe asks.<br />
<br />
“No, not really.”<br />
<br />
“Good. I can’t stand it. Nobody who wears a T-shirt like that would ever like country.”<br />
<br />
“I like country,” Rachel says.<br />
<br />
“Don’t admit it. So why’d you move here?”<br />
<br />
“Parents got a divorce. My mom decided to move, and I came with her.”<br />
<br />
“Did you have a choice?”<br />
<br />
“Not really. But if I had I would’ve chosen to move with her.”<br />
<br />
“Why here?”<br />
<br />
“Some of our family lives in Solitary. Or used to. I have a couple relatives in the area.” I choose not to say anything about Uncle Robert. “My mother grew up around here.”<br />
<br />
“That sucks,” Poe says.<br />
<br />
“Solitary is a strange town,” Rachel says with a grin that doesn’t seem to ever go away. “Anybody tell you that?”<br />
<br />
I shake my head.<br />
<br />
“Joss lives here; we don’t,” Poe says. “I’m in Groveton; Rach lives on the border to South Carolina. Joss tries to hide out at our places because Solitary fits its name.”<br />
<br />
Jocelyn looks like she’s late for something, her body language screaming that she wants to leave this conversation she’s not a part of. She still hasn’t acknowledged me.<br />
<br />
“What year are you guys?”<br />
<br />
“Juniors. I’m from New York—can’t you tell? Rachel is from Colorado, and Jocelyn grew up here, though she wants to get out as soon as she can. You can join our club if you like.”<br />
<br />
Part of me wonders if I’d have to wear eyeliner and lipstick.<br />
<br />
“Club?”<br />
<br />
“The misfits. The outcasts. Whatever you want to call it.”<br />
<br />
“Not sure if I want to join that.”<br />
<br />
“You think you fit in?”<br />
<br />
“No,” I say.<br />
<br />
“Good. We’ll take you. You fit with us. Plus … you’re cute.”<br />
<br />
Poe and her friends walk away.<br />
<br />
Jocelyn finally glances at me and smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified.<br />
<br />
I might look cool and nonchalant and act cool and nonchalant, but inside I’m quaking.<br />
<br />
I spent the first sixteen years of my life around the same people, going to the same school, living in the same town with the same two parents.<br />
<br />
Now everything is different.<br />
<br />
The students who pass me are nameless, faceless, expressionless. We are part of a herd that jumps to life like Pavlov’s dog at the sound of the bell, which really is a low drone that sounds like it comes from some really bad sci-fi movie. It’s hard to keep the cool and nonchalant thing going while staring in confusion at my school map. I probably look pathetic.<br />
<br />
I dig out the computer printout of my class list and look at it again. I swear there’s not a room called C305.<br />
<br />
I must be looking pathetic, because she comes up to me and asks if I’m lost.<br />
<br />
Jocelyn can actually talk.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, kinda.”<br />
<br />
“Where are you going?”<br />
<br />
“Some room—C305. Does that even exist?”<br />
<br />
“Of course it does. I’m actually heading there right now.” There’s an attitude in her voice, as if she’s ready for a fight even if one’s not coming.<br />
<br />
“History?”<br />
<br />
She nods.<br />
<br />
“Second class together,” I say, which elicits a polite and slightly annoyed smile.<br />
<br />
She explains to me how the rooms are organized, with C stuck between A and B for some crazy reason. But I don’t really hear the words she’s saying. I look at her and wonder if she can see me blushing. Other kids are staring at me now for the first time today. They look at Jocelyn and look at me—curious, critical, cutting. I wonder if I’m imagining it.<br />
<br />
After a minute of this, I stare off a kid who looks like I threw manure in his face.<br />
<br />
“Not the friendliest bunch of people, are they?” I ask.<br />
<br />
“People here don’t like outsiders.”<br />
<br />
“They didn’t even notice me until now.”<br />
<br />
She nods and looks away, as if this is her fault. Her hair, so thick and straight, shimmers all the way past her shoulders. I could stare at her all day long.<br />
<br />
“Glad you’re in some of my classes.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sure you are,” she says.<br />
<br />
We reach the room.<br />
<br />
“Well, thanks.”<br />
<br />
“No problem.”<br />
<br />
She says it the way an upperclassmen might answer a freshman. Or an older sister, her bratty brother. I want to say something witty, but nothing comes to mind.<br />
<br />
I’m sure I’m not the first guy she’s left speechless. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Every class I’m introduced to seems more and more unimpressed.<br />
<br />
“This is Christopher Buckley from Chicago, Illinois,” the teachers say, in case anybody doesn’t know where Chicago is.<br />
<br />
In case anybody wonders who the new breathing slab of human is, stuck in the middle of the room.<br />
<br />
A redheaded girl with a giant nose stares at me, then glances at my shirt as if I have food smeared all over it. She rolls her eyes and then looks away.<br />
<br />
Glancing down at my shirt makes me think of a song by The Smiths, “Half a Person.”<br />
<br />
That’s how I feel.<br />
<br />
I’ve never been the most popular kid in school. I’m a soccer player in a football world. My parents never had an abundance of money. I’m not overly good looking or overly smart or overly anything, to be honest. Just decent looking and decent at sports and decent at school. But decent doesn’t get you far. Most of the time you need to be the best at one thing and stick to it.<br />
<br />
I think about this as I notice more unfamiliar faces. A kid who looks like he hasn’t bathed for a week. An oily-faced girl who looks miserable. A guy with tattoos who isn’t even pretending to listen. <br />
<br />
I never really fit in back in Libertyville, so how in the world am I going to fit in here?<br />
<br />
Two more years of high school.<br />
<br />
I don’t want to think about it.<br />
<br />
As the teacher drones on about American history and I reflect on my own history, my eyes find her.<br />
<br />
I see her glancing my way.<br />
<br />
For a long moment, neither of us look away.<br />
<br />
For that long moment, it’s just the two of us in the room.<br />
<br />
Her glance is strong and tough. It’s almost as if she’s telling me to remain the same, as if she’s saying, Don’t let them get you down.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I have this amazingly crazy thought: I’m glad I’m here. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have to fight to get out of the room to catch up to Jocelyn.<br />
<br />
I’ve had forty minutes to think of exactly what I want to say, but by the time I catch up to her, all that comes out is “hey.”<br />
<br />
She nods.<br />
<br />
Those eyes cripple me. I’m not trying to sound cheesy—they do. They bind my tongue.<br />
<br />
For an awkward sixty seconds, the longest minute of my sixteen years, I walk the hallway beside her. We reach the girls’ room, and she opens the door and goes inside. I stand there for a second, wondering<br />
<br />
if I should wait for her, then feeling stupid and ridiculous, wondering why I’m turning into a head of lettuce around a stranger I just met.<br />
<br />
But I know exactly why.<br />
<br />
As I head down the hallway, toward some other room with some other teacher unveiling some other plan to educate us, I feel someone grab my arm.<br />
<br />
“You don’t want to mess with that.”<br />
<br />
I wonder if I heard him right. Did he say that or her?<br />
<br />
I turn and see a short kid with messy brown hair and a pimply face. I gotta be honest—it’s been a while since I’d seen a kid with this many pimples. Doctors have things you can do for that. The word pus comes to mind.<br />
<br />
“Mess with what?”<br />
<br />
“Jocelyn. If I were you, I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts.”<br />
<br />
Who is this kid, and what’s he talking about?<br />
<br />
And what teenager says, “I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts”?<br />
<br />
“What thoughts would those be?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t be a wise guy.”<br />
<br />
Pimple Boy sounds like the wise guy, with a weaselly voice that seems like it’s going to deliver a punch line any second.<br />
<br />
“What are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
“Look, I’m just warning you. I’ve seen it happen before. I’m nobody, okay, and nobodies can get away with some things. And you look like a decent guy, so I’m just telling you.”<br />
<br />
“Telling me what?”<br />
<br />
“Not to take a fancy with the lady.”<br />
<br />
Did he just say that in an accent that sounded British, or is it my imagination?<br />
<br />
“I was just walking with her down the hallway.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. Okay. Then I’ll see you later.”<br />
<br />
“Wait. Hold on,” I say. “Is she taken or something?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. She’s spoken for. And has been for sometime.”<br />
<br />
Pimple Boy says this the way he might tell me that my mother is dying.<br />
<br />
It’s bizarre.<br />
<br />
And a bit spooky.<br />
<br />
I realize that Harrington County High in Solitary, North Carolina, is a long way away from Libertyville.<br />
<br />
I think about what the odd kid just told me.<br />
<br />
This is probably bad.<br />
<br />
Because one thing in my life has been a constant. You can ask my mother or father, and they’d agree.<br />
<br />
I don’t like being told what to do.</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-21960797563766021622010-08-14T10:13:00.001-04:002010-08-14T18:34:42.638-04:00Best of CFRB, Day 6: Gentle Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqZlW0xkmp-leQ1FUK6QD_oSGwPJKuoIcFR4Kh3wEyMoHN9eMO9s9yS7wPgmZQKuuEfpMiiq7m06TYEZZ-Ff5I6TVnS_gQcgQISPwpB4rpt2bIZC7Pu0RiQvYFpA6Ocgxvc3hHxDbioBQ/s1600/cfrbbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqZlW0xkmp-leQ1FUK6QD_oSGwPJKuoIcFR4Kh3wEyMoHN9eMO9s9yS7wPgmZQKuuEfpMiiq7m06TYEZZ-Ff5I6TVnS_gQcgQISPwpB4rpt2bIZC7Pu0RiQvYFpA6Ocgxvc3hHxDbioBQ/s320/cfrbbanner.jpg" /></a></div>Last day; no time left for wavering and indecision. It's been a pleasant trip for me as I revisited books and authors that the Christian Fiction Review Blog has featured over the years. There are many other books that were well-written and good examples of their various genres, but one that kept returning to my mind was a rather unassuming little Regency historical by Elaine Lyons Bach--<i>Gentle Journey.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXhYlYIncfTK15Jz1EJ1oLURQcGInHy61yFc2sPIS1YWOi3VPk3QvIZH1BKUofHGYEpdG1Xgf7AqUxXNrENa3dKwhvI2noDm89iwTQGVNeDGcmNnGANgrUZ6-Vfiy6hXHxw9vSjf5PfA/s1600-h/cover.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207138222173331074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXhYlYIncfTK15Jz1EJ1oLURQcGInHy61yFc2sPIS1YWOi3VPk3QvIZH1BKUofHGYEpdG1Xgf7AqUxXNrENa3dKwhvI2noDm89iwTQGVNeDGcmNnGANgrUZ6-Vfiy6hXHxw9vSjf5PfA/s320/cover.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
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When I first saw the title of this novel by Elaine Lyons Bach, I was expecting something kind of dull. I was wrong. Very wrong.<br />
<br />
<i>Gentle Journey</i> is set in England during the time of the Napoleonic Wars. It is filled with details to fit that time period and the culture of the day. This third-person narrative follows a young daughter of a vicar, Eden Barret, who is seeking employment that can help her large family (her father has died), give her fulfillment, and lead her to a place where she can help the unfortunate on a large scale. And England at the time is full of unfortunates. Orphans, widows and the poor weren’t taken care of very well as a whole, and tender-hearted Eden had seen a lot of misery as she assisted her father with the sick, the dying, and the poverty-stricken in his parish. Eden herself has a strong faith in God and high moral values.<br />
<br />
When she applies for a job as a governess/tutor for 12-year-old Diana, only daughter of the Earl of Edmund, Eden doesn’t really know what she’s getting herself into. She finds an estate much greater than she ever imagined with comforts extended even to herself that make it a very cozy position. She enjoys teaching the bright young lady, but is constantly on the edge of trouble with the current Lord Edmund, Diana’s brother Colin. Colin has a great deal of resentment built up against God and forbids Eden from ‘preaching’ to Diana. Eden has a difficult time with her temper and her tongue, so the two of them end up in sparring matches quite often. They drive each other crazy, yet are strangely attracted to each other at the same time.<br />
<br />
So far it doesn’t sound very exciting, but the turmoil is brewing in several quarters. From the beginning of her employment, Eden makes a bitter enemy with a chimney sweep when she insists that he stop abusing the two small children that he has bought to work for him. He festers over the loss of his crew and plans revenge that takes some very dark turns. She also needs to contend with the cavalier dandy who is an old acquaintance of Colin’s, brother to a lady that everyone expects Colin to marry. And then there’s Diana, who adores Eden but fears that she and Colin will become too interested in each other, leaving her out of the picture. Her scheming doesn’t involve the danger that some of the others did, but indirectly it causes a great deal of trouble.<br />
<br />
Integral to the story is the whole situation of orphans and the poor at this time. Eden has plenty of opportunities to share her kindness and comfort others in ways she would have never imagined, but to say more gives away a good deal of the later events in the story. Some very real situations are dealt with, such as rape, murder, infidelity, death, poor medical conditions, sufferings of war, and abuse; these situations are presented honestly, but without gratuitous violence or grit.<br />
<br />
I really loved the style of <i>Gentle Journey</i>, so reminiscent of Jane Austen, and intentionally so. A couple of Miss Austen’s books are even mentioned as being popular at the time. For anyone else who is a fan of Jane Austen, I can readily recommend <i>Gentle Journey</i> for you reading pleasure. I think it would be an excellent choice for summer reading .</div><div></div><div><br />
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<br />
</div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Elaine Lyons Bach has a page at </span><a href="http://shoutlife.com/gentlejourney"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://shoutlife.com/gentlejourney</span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><br />
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<div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Information for <em>Gentle Journey</em>, including an audio excerpt, a written sample, and links for buying the book (including email download copy) are </span><a href="http://outskirtspress.com/webpage.php?ISBN=1598008862"><span style="font-family: verdana;">here</span></a><span style="font-family: verdana;">.</span></div><div></div><div></div><br />
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<br />
<strong>Book Details:<br />
<br />
<em>Gentle Journey</em><br />
Elaine Lyons Bach<br />
Fiction, Romance<br />
Outskirts Press (February 9, 2007) 248 pgs<br />
ISBN: 978-1598009040</strong>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-21572643982631731442010-08-13T09:41:00.002-04:002010-08-13T13:01:17.253-04:00Best of CFRB Day 5: Canadian Authors<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4KxXVpQqPhBoFU0rdu6dcy56NxmlgWYpjpW37rr-rBoXPQE8TpjhQBWgehqKAoVpHnSgxTfzhYl1v5f087FENdPERyJIsE07kiNgDHtVA7sLSDq-20AejMb1tZGoiT72M4a3R24Z7tQ/s1600-h/cfrblogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4KxXVpQqPhBoFU0rdu6dcy56NxmlgWYpjpW37rr-rBoXPQE8TpjhQBWgehqKAoVpHnSgxTfzhYl1v5f087FENdPERyJIsE07kiNgDHtVA7sLSDq-20AejMb1tZGoiT72M4a3R24Z7tQ/s320/cfrblogo.jpg" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmstobWkcES3MlAqR7Ab4KafrIMBJTHP7chiW4cFB6wj5q4-XS8rZUgeuMNewLV8jF5iPpLt-5UFnvU23n90o9wr7XuqGbgSAA1r96YYAOMId3S_n8NldfGGRIMKZjgml8iav1S5inxu4/s1600-h/onesmoothstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmstobWkcES3MlAqR7Ab4KafrIMBJTHP7chiW4cFB6wj5q4-XS8rZUgeuMNewLV8jF5iPpLt-5UFnvU23n90o9wr7XuqGbgSAA1r96YYAOMId3S_n8NldfGGRIMKZjgml8iav1S5inxu4/s320/onesmoothstone.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
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With only two days left for the "Best of CFRB" Tour,<em> </em>I am having difficulty choosing the books that I consider the elite. Sorry folks, but I know I'm going to miss some gems. Today is Canadian day. Thanks to Laura Davis, I was introduced to some great authors from up north. There were four in particular: Marcia Laycock, Laura Davis, Mags Storey, and Keith Clemons.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>One Smooth Stone </em>by Marcia Lee Laycock</strong><br />
Two men are running from the law, from their pasts, from society, from themselves, and from God. The thing is, no one can hide from God. As is written in Psalm 130 (NKJV):<br />
<blockquote><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>7 Where can I go from Your Spirit?</i></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
<i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Or where can I flee from Your presence?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
<i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>8 If I ascend into heaven, You are there;</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
<i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there.</i></span></blockquote>Even in the wild and danger-laden northern frontiers of the Yukon, Alex and Gil must face themselves and the pursuing God who will not let them go. Their paths cross unexpectedly as "coincidences" lead them in ways they never wanted.<br />
<br />
The story shifts back and forth from Alex Donnelly to Gil, focusing mostly on Alex's story. Just a few weeks after Alex's twenty-first birthday, a lawyer from Seattle found him living the hermit's life in the Canadian wilderness. It seems that the orphaned man had a million dollar inheritance just waiting for him to pick it up. Alex is suspicious, certain there's been a mistake, but he warily agrees to go back to civilization with the lawyer. In Seattle, he meets the sweet young researcher who had worked for so long searching for him, and they form an odd connection. He spends the weekend with her and her parents (her father is a senior partner in the law firm), and comes face-to-face with a family model unknown to him. The close relationships they have with each other and with God beckon to an empty place within him, but in the same time they intensify his dark memories of his own past, a past full of dark secrets and abuse. In agony and fearful of the police, he leaves without getting his money. Back in the Yukon, with winter coming on, he takes a caretaker job in an empty mining camp for the season. n the isolated camp, his only companion is a husky. Oh, and the grizzly. Oh, and a mysterious "ghost" who barely leaves a trace of his existence.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, Kenni, the young researcher, is compelled by God to persevere in pursuit of the troubled Alex. And remember the grizzly and the winter coming on? And that other guy, Gil? Everything comes together in tense adventurous ways.<br />
<br />
The dark truths are eventually revealed as Mrs. Laycock skillfully laid them out piecemeal, drawing us in and making us care about a rough character like Alex Donnelly. When we see through the eyes of Kenni and her parents, we see how God loves even the most wretched and how His forgiveness, love and grace can work all things together.<br />
<br />
This suspense and action-packed novel really held my attention from the very beginning.Marcia Laycock doles out little parcels of information (some of which I've spoiled) so dexterously, kind of like the carrot-on-the-string ploy. It kept me guessing about all sorts of details, some extremely important, right up to the end. It was a very satisfying story, but not all pie-in-the-sky. <i>One Smooth Stone</i> is definitely an adult suspense, although I am sure many teens would enjoy it as well. Once again, the timing for this tour was interesting to me, coming between the Olympics in Canada and the Iditarod (started March 7). Those who enjoy adventure, suspense and mystery should be captivated by <i>One Smooth Stone</i>. <br />
<br />
Marcia Lee Laycock is an award-winning Canadian author known for her devotional writings. She received the Best New Canadian Christian Author Award for <i>One Smooth Stone</i>, her debut in fiction.<br />
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For more information, you can visit the author's website,<a href="http://www.vinemarc.com/"> vinemarc.com</a> .<br />
<br />
<br />
Purchase <i>One Smooth Stone</i> from<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1894860349?ie=UTF8&tag=welctolato-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1894860349">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/One-Smooth-Stone/Marcia-Lee-Laycock/e/9781894860345/?itm=1&USRI=one+smooth+stone+laycock">Barnes and Noble</a>, or <a href="http://castlequaybooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=32">the publisher</a>.<br />
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<br />
If I copy all three of the others, this will be much too long. So please follow the links for the titles to read my reviews. Author websites are given as links under the author names.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://magsstorey.com/"><strong>Mags Storey</strong></a><strong>'s Story: </strong><a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/2009/10/mags-storeys-story-if-you-only-knew.html"><em><strong>IF ONLY YOU KNEW</strong></em></a><em> </em> (Since I originally wrote this review, Ms. Storey has won some well-deserved awards for her novel. The Word Guild's Canadian Christian Writing Awards bestowed three honors: Best Romance, Best Youth Novel, and the prestigious Grace Irwin Award for Best Book of 2009.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.keithclemons.com/">Keith Clemons</a>: <em><a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/2009/09/meet-man-behind-moon.html">Mohamed's Moon</a> </em>(interview) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEWl2vKsG5WXR61Yrnu_NJXSEwoAXWDHg1XfOWIUnYMKapEQ7musVlEAZeLwNY0lj_CCx_PjvNe-1pK9g18oRcoBfT5AtNlM-xI82_GQj8ZlTks7oSOHv5H-sxOlbCXiWmB_3YXA-pqf0/s1600/Mo+moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEWl2vKsG5WXR61Yrnu_NJXSEwoAXWDHg1XfOWIUnYMKapEQ7musVlEAZeLwNY0lj_CCx_PjvNe-1pK9g18oRcoBfT5AtNlM-xI82_GQj8ZlTks7oSOHv5H-sxOlbCXiWmB_3YXA-pqf0/s320/Mo+moon.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.authorlauradavis.com/">Laura Davis</a>: <em><a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/2008/09/come-to-me.html">Come to Me</a></em> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ivVtedWYPcSSy5V4s5Q-IBzeQ1eYzEGMSah5kl2bABCfGyNPo_Pa1Lj2e0yPY-KJBEtaJuN4s9X3mbOZ5NIozATnBHwAEuV3wNHbTQ3Fi2Tk3XdbWAH9kR0H25FF3dADIrNa6tx-_Sc/s1600/cometome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ivVtedWYPcSSy5V4s5Q-IBzeQ1eYzEGMSah5kl2bABCfGyNPo_Pa1Lj2e0yPY-KJBEtaJuN4s9X3mbOZ5NIozATnBHwAEuV3wNHbTQ3Fi2Tk3XdbWAH9kR0H25FF3dADIrNa6tx-_Sc/s320/cometome.jpg" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-28686104299819633042010-08-12T03:36:00.000-04:002010-08-12T03:36:26.734-04:00Best of CFRB Day 4: League Of Superheroes<div class="MsoNormal">The world is full of turmoil and evil. There are scheming powers that want to destroy humanity and take control of the world. <span style="font-size: 0px;"></span>Where can the people of the world turn for help? Look! Up in the sky! It’s . . . geeks!?! Make that Teenage mutant ninja geeks. Okay, so they are neither mutants nor ninjas. But they are teenage geeks, and they are definitely pretty cool once they get their super suits. <span style="font-size: 0px;"></span>Suits that are designed and created by a seven year old genius that they met online, no less. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;"><a href="http://s160.photobucket.com/albums/t181/cathikin/authors%20book%20covers/?action=view&current=coverLOS.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i160.photobucket.com/albums/t181/cathikin/authors%20book%20covers/coverLOS.jpg" /></a><i>League of Supe</i><i>rhe</i><i>roes</i> is the book that many a geek (teenage or older) and many a comic book aficionado has been waiting for, whether you knew it or not. I know this from the reaction of several self-proclaimed geeks and comic maniacs when I described the book to them, a reaction that has been further promoted after said geeks and fans read the story. Myself included. <span style="font-size: 0px;"></span>Oh, and by the way, this has a really important added dimension: the League is made up of extraordinarily committed Christians who desire to live according to the way that Jesus would want them to. <span style="font-size: 0px;"></span>I know: that’s the hardest to swallow of all in this story, right? But Stephen Rice makes it all work, and he does so in a most entertaining way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;">Briefly, there are four teenage boys who call themselves the Mad Scientists. They each have certain special talents and gifts; each is extremely intelligent. And, as I mentioned, each is unapologetically Christian. They all attend different denominations (except Tom, who is part of a nondenominational church), they tease each other about their differences, but they really respect each other and share a love for certain comic superheroes. One day Allen’s chatty sister Clarice introduces them to her new online friend, Genie. It appears that Genie isn’t in any bottle, but she is able to grant wishes. One by one, super suits start arriving for the guys that equip them with unheard-of technological means to “become” their favorite superheroes. First is Titan for Rod; he’s kind of like a human tank. His strength is incredible, but Rod’s first attempts at controlling his powers and ability to fly are hilarious. As are his first efforts to thwart crime. Within a short time Allen becomes Tachyon, apparently reaching super speeds by distorting time,<span style="font-size: 0px;"> </span>Tom turns into Darklight with invisible tendencies, and Charlie shrinks into the role of Micromegas (for you DC Comic fans, think the Atom). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;">The guys are on cloud nine, but to whom much is given, much is required, and life as crime fighters isn’t all fun and games. There’s the kidnapping which ends rather unhappily and alerts the guys to something very sinister behind the people that have Genie under their thumb. Her whole story is strange, and as they all get more acquainted, it becomes all too clear that she is involved with really dangerous people. Is Rod correct in his belief that this corporation has to do with the antichrist and the mysterious Troika? And what about Genie herself? Is she using the guys for her own purposes, revenge and some definitely unchristian activities? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;">This book is just the introduction to a whole series that Stephen Rice is developing using his characters, but for my vote it is a great beginning. Lots of action, lots of fun and humor, and some deep issues to ponder. Stephen says there is a lot more action and adventure in subsequent tales, leading me to expect a dynamite series! </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><br />
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Visit Stephen Rice's blog: <a href="http://ansric.blogspot.com/">Back to the Mountains</a> and his League of Superheroes Series wiki at <a href="http://ansric.pbwiki.com/LoSseries">ansric.pbwiki.com</a>.<br />
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Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $ 9.95<br />
Paperback: 200 pages<br />
Publisher: Writers Cafe Press, The (October 1, 2008)<br />
Language: English<br />
ISBN-10: 193428405X<br />
ISBN-13: 978-1934284056<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">League of Superheroes</span> is available through the publisher, <a href="http://www.thewriterscafe.com/los.html">The Writer's Café Press</a> (can be autographed), Barnes and Noble, and Amazon.com.cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-6491619619127080462010-08-11T01:08:00.001-04:002010-08-12T03:37:46.968-04:00Best of CFRB, Day 3: Time Masters Book One, The Call<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9Ok6X586JlbU5W86vSgq1lFXGLbSwzj50BaPb95EEgYjQ5TpVyDBE3Yr_1HnHQtUzgISQIoMAY84nd8ugmh8IJFHzEI0h8a4AqLVezCmrY_fyddT4jPe53NayVg9t_3umzj7i9QWwb0/s1600-h/TimeMasters.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149380737592653906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9Ok6X586JlbU5W86vSgq1lFXGLbSwzj50BaPb95EEgYjQ5TpVyDBE3Yr_1HnHQtUzgISQIoMAY84nd8ugmh8IJFHzEI0h8a4AqLVezCmrY_fyddT4jPe53NayVg9t_3umzj7i9QWwb0/s320/TimeMasters.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><br />
<div><em>The Call</em> is a tale of shifting time, shifting shapes, and of love and purpose that stretches beyond normal boundaries. Time travel, romance, and fantasy all rolled together, the story begins in 1692 in the midst of Scotland's historical Glencoe Massacre. Dallan MacDonald, unable to save the ones he loves, is snatched away just as a murderous villain holds a knife over his young brother. When the next chapter begins we find Dallan in a small village defending a young boy from the current Time Master, Kwaku Awahnee, in the year 3698. We soon learn that Dallan has been in this place for ten years, ten very long years and every day has had to fight grueling battles with Kwaku. Dallan hates every minute of it and is consumed with not only going home to Scotland, but with anger because he could not save his brother, not to mention being held against his will in a place he hasn't a clue is in a time far from his own. Little by little the reader learns the facts and reasons for this brutal treatment. The truth is, Dallan MacDonald is the one man who can save the world and all humanity. But first he must be ready to fight the worst of evils and come to believe the truth of the Creator. More than that, he has to find the one girl in the world who is destined to join with him, to love and marry him and thus save all mankind from total destruction. Oh, and did I mention she was kidnapped as a baby and hidden in another time? She's been blissfully living in the USA in 1995. Oh, and did I mention she is oblivious to her destiny? That she thinks she is human, but she really isn't? She's Muiraran, and she has special traits that she is ignorant of, although the manifestation of these traits has just begun to take place. A sure sign it's time for her to meet her one true love, to join with him and create a supernatural force that can only happen when the two of them are together. So, a simple task for Dallan to perform. Right? Find and rescue the Maiden, convince her she's not human then get her to fall in love with, and marry him? Only one problem. Dallan doesn't beleive any of it. Enter those chosen to help Dallan accept his role, which is to become the new Time Master, to control his temper and use his strengths well, to believe the truth about splitting and traveling through time and the will of the Creator, to accept the need to find the Maiden, and then get her to love him and agree to marry him. But they are running out of time. Even worse, there is a villain in the wings who intends to take the girl for himself. </div><br />
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<div>Whew! This is the shortest summary I could come up with that still held the essence of the story. <em>Time</em> <em>Masters Book One: The Call</em> is a lengthy book at 566 pages, but it is fairly easy to read with lots of action. It's a long ride full of twists and turns, hills and long drop-offs. The characters are strong and well developed, even the minor ones. Written in a third-person omniscient point-of-view, the novel opens up all the thoughts of different characters so that the reader is aware of what each one is thinking and doing most of the time, except when the author wants to surprise us. For this story, I think this was a good choice. Some of the characters, such as Kitty, the Maiden's talkative and klutzy friend, are added mainly for comic relief. Geralyn Beauchamp has included a great deal of humor, from Kitty's slapstick to Dallan's wry wit in his speech. </div><br />
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<div>While <em>Time Masters</em> is a very entertaining adventure story, it is also chock full of spiritual themes. What struck me in particular was the emphasis on the sanctity of marriage and the special 'power' in the joining of man and wife as two become one. The strength of commitment and true vows, purity before marriage, are so well demonstrated even if it is fiction. Other themes include yielding to the will of God, faith, living out your salvation, and submitting to God are also included. The tale is never preachy or heavy, however. </div><br />
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<div>If you are too impatient to read a long story, you may not care for Time Masters. It will take a while to peruse, even though the action makes the time pass quickly. If you are willing to try it, I think you will enjoy the tale, especially if you enjoy speculative fiction with lots of romance and action/adventure. For those of you who like a lengthy tome, you'll be in Heaven.</div><br />
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<div><strong><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>Time Masters Book One: The Call</em> by Geralyn Beauchamp</span></span></strong></div><br />
<div><strong><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 85%;">2007; 566 pages in paperback. Also available in hardcover</span></strong></div><br />
<div><strong><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 85%;">ISBN 978-1-58385-198-2published by Cold Tree Press, Nashville TN</span></strong></div><br />
<div><strong><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: 85%;">Available at amazon.com, Barnes and Noble stores and barnesandnoble.com</span></strong> </div><div></div><div></div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-25272134768088574512010-08-10T12:34:00.000-04:002010-08-10T12:34:43.177-04:00Best of CFRB: Nor Iron Bars a Cage<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dEqM718cCopIRFpNVHDRLfino3ziHTOwK5vpgSCYFBzAISXHj3dBRLraC1kRTbfpd46v7FkTMMBGP9lmEE6yIJ01FaKQr_lwjmX2iY4uZQZTsgY1OrqqeN0lty0waFf4EbP7OxsHIB8/s1600-h/NorIronBars.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131848623530321234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5dEqM718cCopIRFpNVHDRLfino3ziHTOwK5vpgSCYFBzAISXHj3dBRLraC1kRTbfpd46v7FkTMMBGP9lmEE6yIJ01FaKQr_lwjmX2iY4uZQZTsgY1OrqqeN0lty0waFf4EbP7OxsHIB8/s200/NorIronBars.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a></div><div align="left"><br />
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</div><blockquote><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-size: 85%;"><strong>Stone walls do not a prison make,</strong></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc;"><strong> </strong></span></span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: courier new;"><strong><span style="color: #663366;">Nor iron bars a cage</span>;</strong></span></span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: courier new;"><strong>Minds innocent and quiet take t</strong></span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: courier new;"><strong>hat for an hermitage;</strong></span></span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: courier new;"><strong>If I have freedom in my love, </strong></span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: courier new;"><strong>And in my soul am free,</strong></span></span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: courier new;"><strong>Angels alone that soar above </strong></span></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: times new roman;"><strong><span style="font-family: courier new;">Enjoy such liberty.</span>( “To Althea From Prison,” Richard<br />
Lovelace 1618-1658)</strong></span></span></div></blockquote><div align="left"><br />
</div><span style="color: #6600cc; font-family: times new roman; font-size: 85%;"><strong></strong></span><span style="font-size: 85%;"></span>For her second novel in the Ascendancy trilogy, Caprice Hokstad chose an appropriate title, <em>Nor Iron Bars a Cage, </em>alluding to themes in the above poem as well as referring to events in the novel itself. In a fantasy world where slavery is a normal part of a culture, one of the big questions is, “what is true freedom?”<br />
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Events take up right where they left off in <em>The Duke’s Handmaid</em>. In case you haven’t read the first book, there are enough details that you can easily follow the story, although it would be preferable to read both books. <em>Nor Iron Bars a Cage</em> is set in the imaginary country of Latoph. (You can find some cool details about Latoph, including a map, at <a href="http://www.latoph.com/">http://www.latoph.com/</a>) In this world there is a duality to everything: two suns, two moons, two races of people. Even twin brothers who were supposed to reign together as kings, but only one was given the throne. The other one, our hero Duke Vahn, has only his duchy at his control. This is a cause of major sibling tension.<br />
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The story starts up a while after the Duke’s former wife had taken off with their son, fleeing with her lover back to her father’s kingdom of Ganluc. Prince Duke Vahn has searched in vain to discover where his former wife Saerula had hidden Dauntère in Ganluc. Finally, kee, his secret wife and handmaiden extraordinaire, devises a plan enter Ganluc as a recaptured runaway slave, reasoning that a slave will not be suspect and may get information that others could not. The plan is dangerous for all of them, but especially kee, who must be kept locked in a cage as they transport her through the country. There are some very serious misadventures, but I won’t spoil that here.<br />
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Meanwhile, while kee is gone, the Duke finds himself in hot water due to a hasty bet with an angry duchess who tried in vain to snatch the Duke as a groom. The loser has to act as slave to the winner for eight weeks. As the saying goes, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”<br />
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There are some very deep issues in this novel, much deeper than they may appear on the surface. Quite honestly, I had to come to terms with the slavery, which is nothing like the slavery that existed in the United States, but there is a natural repulsion to the whole idea. This is a totally different culture, but even more than that is the Biblical example that kee in particular was following. We serve either God or Mammon, as it says in the King James Version, so while we do have free will, we will end up serving someone. True freedom is found when we willingly submit to the will of God and allow Him to be the Lord of our lives. One of the gems that this novel contains is coming to terms with what Lordship means. When God is truly Lord, He is also our Father. He takes care of us, feeds us, protects us, and has our welfare in mind even when He corrects us. Vahn learns to be more of a Christ figure in the second novel. Hebrews 2:18 reads, “Because he himself suffered when he was tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.” You will have to read the book to discover how he suffered. There are several other Christian values and world views expressed: loyalty, friendship, faithfulness, a desire to bring honor and glory to the Lord, a willingness to accept blame and not find fault with others, respect for all people, and substitution and sacrifice. The virtue is not so much in getting our rights as being submissive to God and others.<br />
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One point I wish to make clear: just because this is fantasy, do not expect it to be a Young Adult or children’s book. It is quite definitely written for adults and describes adult issues. Mrs. Hokstad has said that since she couldn’t find the kind of book she wanted to read, she decided to write it herself. Adult scenes are worded carefully, with no vulgarity or cheapness, but it is suggested that parents read the novel first before handing it to any teenagers. You won’t find anything more graphic than is depicted in the Bible, in fact many passages in the Old Testament are a great deal more violent and graphic.<br />
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By and large, this was a very entertaining and insightful, richly detailed story. Caprice Hokstad has painstakingly laid out a new world with luxurious descriptions, from the topography and weather to the racial and cultural differences to the events and décor of the homes. The duality theme is carried out in so many levels. Her descriptions made me wince with pain, smile at the sweetness of kee, and feel the thirst in the desert. It was not a book with action packing every paragraph, since a great deal of the action was internal. Nevertheless, there were plenty of exciting scenes along the way, and quite a few truths to ponder as we impatiently wait for the third book in the series.<br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: arial;"><em>Nor Iron Bars a Cage</em> by Caprice Hokstad<br />
348 pages<br />
Publisher: Vici Publishing<br />
Copyright: © 2007 Caprice Hokstad </span></strong><a href="http://www.copyright.gov/title17/"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">Standard Copyright License</span></strong></a><strong><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
Language: English<br />
Country: United States<br />
Available in hardcover, paperback, and download.<br />
If you would like to read a preview of the first three chapters, you can find it at </span></strong><a href="http://www.latoph.com/NIBAC.html"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">http://www.latoph.com/NIBAC.html</span></strong></a><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: arial;">Caprice Hokstad’s website: </span></strong><a href="http://www.latoph.com/"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">http://www.latoph.com</span></strong></a><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: arial;">Available through her website and </span></strong><a href="http://www.lulu.com/caprice"><strong><span style="font-family: arial;">http://www.lulu.com/caprice</span></strong></a><br />
Should be available very soon at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/">http://www.amazon.com/</a>, but the price is better at lulu.com.<br />
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</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-44203308462504668252010-08-09T04:49:00.000-04:002010-08-09T04:49:48.965-04:00"BEST OF CFRB" Tour; Day One--FLASHPOINT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8f3MdXFIPlYisDKWBG3PKypq-akyQ5T038myKVTprRGH5S3OurcLmfchd1M-I22ESy4KHQR6k5YYwvaz5J049bCmJY9I2-qOglIrPH8j40T9YfWJSaQIAMWkcG98azpbsO6Ye0SMQPk/s1600/cfrblogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8f3MdXFIPlYisDKWBG3PKypq-akyQ5T038myKVTprRGH5S3OurcLmfchd1M-I22ESy4KHQR6k5YYwvaz5J049bCmJY9I2-qOglIrPH8j40T9YfWJSaQIAMWkcG98azpbsO6Ye0SMQPk/s320/cfrblogo.jpg" /></a></div><em>Flashpoint--Book One of the Underground</em> by Frank Creed was the first book that<em> </em>I wrote a review for. When I reread it now, I see lots of things that I would change. At the time, however, I was woefully unaware of what was going on in Christian literature and the publishing business. The original CFRB tour was in October, 2007. Here's a reprise of that early review:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxSTVI8SkTLwPVxlb8HDIFn8mGn5V-VsQtVk3OpqaNADNVlQJ6fTwm83joOhz6NQuTlRusyr_V8lxS5_C1zp3lbIuXaAqCLxMfw3cbxDuy4Xhyvu489F6KgyV4Lox-YSL9Nt1GXqpSTg/s1600/flashpt+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxSTVI8SkTLwPVxlb8HDIFn8mGn5V-VsQtVk3OpqaNADNVlQJ6fTwm83joOhz6NQuTlRusyr_V8lxS5_C1zp3lbIuXaAqCLxMfw3cbxDuy4Xhyvu489F6KgyV4Lox-YSL9Nt1GXqpSTg/s320/flashpt+cover.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Flashpoint</em> by Frank Creed</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Imagine a book that combines the super-cool action of <em>The Matrix</em> with a big portion of <em>Left</em> <em>Behind</em>, and then mix in a few tablespoons of Frank Peretti’s <em>This Present Darkness</em> and the powers of all the superheroes you know. This only begins to give you an idea of what to expect in Frank Creed’s futuristic Speculative Fiction book, <em>Flashpoint</em>.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This tale of Good (The Body of Christ and God) versus Evil (the Devil and his crowd) takes place in Chicago in 2036, a time when Fundamentalist Christians are considered dangerous terrorists who need to be taken to insane asylums and reprogrammed in order to serve society. The true believers meet secretly in house churches which are always in danger of being discovered and raided by “Peacekeepers.” The life-or-death action begins as Dave and Jen Williams are traveling home with their dad, only to find Peacekeepers have stormed the neighborhood and arrested the members of their house church, including their mother and older brother. Their father hurriedly takes Dave and Jen to hide where he thinks they’ll be safe until one of the members of the BOC (Body of Christ) can get them underground. Their rescuer, Legacy, makes a last minute appearance as the Peacekeepers are ready to take them. With super strength, super speed and some high-tech toys, Legacy knocks out the Bad Guys. From this point on, the action REALLY gets hot and heavy!</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What is most remarkable about this book is how Frank Creed laces the book with scripture, important Christian values, and humor without ever slowing down the pace. The mindware that has been developed works in conjunction with the Holy Spirit, and Dave (who chooses Calamity Kid as his street name) must learn to surrender his own will and let God’s will be done. The humor is everywhere, and sometimes I had to reread portions because I missed it.</span><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The only point that some readers may have a problem with is that this is not written with a rapture taking place, as in <em>Left Behind</em>, before the One World Government starts to take over. However, this book is not taking a stand on one view of the Tribulation or another; it is a speculative look at what the church may face if current trends continue. As such, I think it handles situations and scripture nicely.</span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys action-adventure, cyberpunk, science fiction, or end-times speculation. It is particularly geared for young adult guys, but we older folks--even ladies-- will enjoy it as well! There isn’t a dull moment, yet it gives you some truths to chew on at the same time.</span></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2JixrwKmAZL1Ez1XC8ufeKyLmKP4qUgH9ZOIE-I6g4HZLvBwM_iZXI2q7Rd0oV41zbdzHl-gHiPOxi1Tl3jjCQ1vsKID9QGRidUqJjB5fFfadNyY3e8VxWBRJ1nJLY0E_GBjcmnbPuA/s1600/frank.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2JixrwKmAZL1Ez1XC8ufeKyLmKP4qUgH9ZOIE-I6g4HZLvBwM_iZXI2q7Rd0oV41zbdzHl-gHiPOxi1Tl3jjCQ1vsKID9QGRidUqJjB5fFfadNyY3e8VxWBRJ1nJLY0E_GBjcmnbPuA/s200/frank.jpeg" width="133" /></a><strong><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><em>Flashpoint: Book One of the UndergroundAuthor</em>: Frank Creed<br />
Publisher: The Writers’ Café Press, Lafayette, IN<br />
Pub. Date: September, 2007<br />
ISBN: 978-1-934284-01-8<br />
Biblical speculative fiction<br />
200 pages<br />
Retail Price: $9.95, softcover<br />
Contact Frank Creed at </span></strong><a href="http://www.frankcreed.com/"><strong><span style="font-family: times new roman;">www.FrankCreed.com</span></strong></a></div><br />
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Since I wrote this, I have read quite a bit of sci-fi and fantasy, as well as other speculative fiction. I've learned a lot more about cyberpunk, <em>film noir</em> dialog and style, and I've come to a better understanding of how futuristic fiction with can be written with Christian values and yet <em>not </em>line up with your--or my--interpretation of Revelation. As a result, my original impression of <em>Flashpoint</em> and Frank Creed stands. Back then I declared Frank as the best living Christian author. Well, kay, I hadn't read much then, so a few others are on the podium with him, but his style is still exemplary. Smart, succinct, unapologetically Christian and yet honest non-Christians enjoy the story. I'm not sure, but I think he's the first in this sub-sub-genre of Christian cyberpunk (one other I saw recently was <em>Eternity Falls</em> by Kirk Outerbridge). In any case, Frank Creed is an important author in the speculative realm. The long-awaited sequel, <em>War of Attrition</em>, should make its appearance very soon. I recommend getting cozy with <em>Flashpoint</em> before diving into book two.cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-39977352009766392222010-08-09T03:34:00.002-04:002010-08-10T12:35:30.266-04:00CFRB Book Tour for August: "Best of CFRB"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pL7V911ElTSx5NiqdgJ9V87eUB4TsGQi5jay0C3ZVqCcGTxEbro42a-kpAOdYZP31fj9ctsoe7XdSOH6yemAQT0nvym1pznqhmfmuW1qNyp6ZXv6RHQ0XP7k67zIB6W4LGNU3VRFZP8/s1600/cfrblogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pL7V911ElTSx5NiqdgJ9V87eUB4TsGQi5jay0C3ZVqCcGTxEbro42a-kpAOdYZP31fj9ctsoe7XdSOH6yemAQT0nvym1pznqhmfmuW1qNyp6ZXv6RHQ0XP7k67zIB6W4LGNU3VRFZP8/s320/cfrblogo.jpg" /></a></div>The Christian Fiction Review Blog (CFRB) has been in operation since January 1, 2007, when the first book toured was <i>Arms of Deliverance</i> by Tricia Goyer. 43 novels have been spotlighted since that time, and there was a feeling that it would be good to recap some of the better titles. Most of the CFRB members weren't there at the beginning; but it's my understanding that quality writing was evident from the outset. This week various members will be reaching into their individual archives to revisit titles that each of them considers top-notch. Since I am not sure just who will be contributing this time, I ask you to look at the scrolling bar--CFRB--on the right side. Current and recent members are listed there, many of whom should be reviewing this week. As for me personally, I have had great difficulty choosing, so I'll be rerunning one review per day. Six still wasn't enough, but choices had to be made.cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-5191411082748484712010-07-30T18:57:00.000-04:002010-07-30T18:57:17.509-04:00SPLASHDOWN BOOKS Takes On Growing Speculative MarketA few months back, a new publisher started up rather quietly, filling a need in an area with high interest but limited representation in Christian circles. Splashdown Books landed with <em>The Muse</em> by Fred Warren, a quirky fantasy that is attracting accolades and attention, even award nominations. Since then three more books have been published with more to come within the year. Grace Bridges, the publisher, has produced this nice little video (narrated by author Adam Graham) which introduces the publisher and current books well.<br />
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<object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qDtQ8sYqAgk&hl=en_US&fs=1?color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qDtQ8sYqAgk&hl=en_US&fs=1?color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-15799567596774174352010-07-24T02:39:00.001-04:002010-07-25T02:51:47.507-04:00Unexpected Long Dry Spell; Hopefully Ending Very SoonIt's been an incredibly long time since I posted anything on this blog. As they say, "due to circumstances beyond my control." Not to go into the boring details, but increasing health issues mixed with a string of computer problems (I'm beginning to think computers are allergic to me) prevented me from writing for several months. In that time I managed to do only short, unoriginal entries for a couple of books that deserve much more attention, attention I intend to give them soon. From May 12 until July 15 I was totally out of commission, in the hospital and a convalescent center. Home has never looked as good as it does now. I'm still a bit slow about writing, partly because I'm still not running on all four cylinders, but there's a huge backlog of books that I need to review. My apologies to all the authors and publishers who rightfully expected a post on the books sent to me. Now I have to find them all again before I can begin, since some of my incredible friends straightened up my apartment while I was gone. <br />
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I also want to take a moment to thank my friends who knew about my problems, who lifted me up in their thoughts and prayers. The prayers kept me going, I know. Your concern and care has overwhelmed me; I feel so very blessed!<br />
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So, God willing and a computer is working, I should get started next week. I may not get the reviews out in the proper order, but they will be forthcoming!cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-69394233574430417272010-05-03T07:01:00.000-04:002010-05-03T07:01:20.634-04:00CFRB May Blog Tour--RABBIT: Chasing Beth Rider<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkBdnanIP2ax00O40EJMyjXq2THRtNk6tWIdZgEvRdJTtQXGiuZ2dDba5MKjguPmZ6bgWFAmAhtwa_6Pjip8byvql0-BYNLFdO4piPdU_Zx2tgK2QMLadbGXmI0trLnGULrzLLR3zDzs/s1600/cfrbbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkBdnanIP2ax00O40EJMyjXq2THRtNk6tWIdZgEvRdJTtQXGiuZ2dDba5MKjguPmZ6bgWFAmAhtwa_6Pjip8byvql0-BYNLFdO4piPdU_Zx2tgK2QMLadbGXmI0trLnGULrzLLR3zDzs/s1600/cfrbbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkBdnanIP2ax00O40EJMyjXq2THRtNk6tWIdZgEvRdJTtQXGiuZ2dDba5MKjguPmZ6bgWFAmAhtwa_6Pjip8byvql0-BYNLFdO4piPdU_Zx2tgK2QMLadbGXmI0trLnGULrzLLR3zDzs/s320/cfrbbanner.jpg" /></a></div><right style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider<br />
by Ellen C. Maze</b></span></right><b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;">This month, CFRB </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">presents <i>Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider</i> by Ellen </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;">C. Maze.<br />
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<u>About the Book:</u><br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;">Bestselling author Beth Rider enjoys her fame as the South’s newest literary star.<br />
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That is until Jack Dawn, a real-life vampire, vows to kill her because of the vile redemptive message her book is bringing his people. The ancient race of bloodthirsty immortals to which Jack belongs, known as the Rakum, have spread evil among mankind since the Beginning. But Jack alone recognizes the novel’s destructive potential and she must die. <br />
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Jack’s proselyte Michael Stone was brought up from his youth to be strong, sensible and brutal. But at one hundred and thirty, Michael is old enough to appreciate his quiet and ordered life. When he stumbles upon the beautiful and apparently innocent Beth Rider, he is puzzled by his Elder’s unreasonable actions against her. Instantly smitten, Michael takes it upon himself to protect her from the limitless lust of his brethren.<br />
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Facing the most terrifying trial of her life against creatures known only in fables, one simple woman will threaten the existence of a powerful and accursed people. In the climactic final battle, it is a race to the death, or if Beth has her way, a race to the life—of every Rakum who makes the choice.</span><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<u>About the Author:</u><br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: medium;">A recovering vampire fanatic, Ellen uses her experience in that subculture to bring the Light into this burgeoning genre. Addicting and delicious, Ellen’s brand of story-telling is rife with deep character study and honest emotion. Ellen lives in Historic Montgomery, Alabama with her husband, daughter, four cats and one spoiled dog. This is her first novel and Ellen has no holes in her neck.</span><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<center><b><span style="font-size: large;">Visit the <a href="http://www.rabbitnovel.com/">book website</a>.<br />
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Preview the first 171 pages (that's almost HALF of the book!)<br />
free at <a href="http://www.freado.com/read/6754/rabbit-chasing-beth-rider">FREADO.com</a>.<br />
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Watch the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDXTyk3uSOI">book trailer</a>.<br />
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Purchase <i>Rabbit: Chasing Beth Rider</i> from<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1432751018?ie=UTF8&tag=welctolato-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1432751018">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbninquiry.asp?r=1&ISBN=1432751018">Barnes and Noble,</a><br />
or the PDF eBook from <a href="http://outskirtspress.com/webpage.php?ISBN=9781432751012">Outskirts Press</a>.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.</span></b><br />
<a href="http://gracebridges.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/grace.jpg" /></a><a href="http://readingforchrist.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/leroy.jpg" /></a><a href="http://cfrblog.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/cfrb.jpg" /></a><a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/cathi.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.davidbrollier.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/david.jpg" /></a></center>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-75519123207989864312010-04-09T21:02:00.001-04:002010-04-09T21:11:28.532-04:00THE MUSE--Excerpt, Intro,and Free Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lT018CWJCrYHRz7S67Tw_QiuBvpB7J4Pyu3gCKwxCd1Hb_moLvBwF07iTaEfaa0LkPV1sW7lllb7QVVn_PD-llp8jfam27rMnK_1p1dz0duxONyZCUSM1YG0_hdvTG3u8HvpDIeZhKw/s1600/cfrblogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lT018CWJCrYHRz7S67Tw_QiuBvpB7J4Pyu3gCKwxCd1Hb_moLvBwF07iTaEfaa0LkPV1sW7lllb7QVVn_PD-llp8jfam27rMnK_1p1dz0duxONyZCUSM1YG0_hdvTG3u8HvpDIeZhKw/s320/cfrblogo.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm a bit slow in getting a review out for The Muse by Fred Warren for several reasons beyond my control. Although I plan to put up a whole review tomorrow, today you can read my blurb that's in the front of the book and the first chapter. AND...(drum roll) announcing a GIVEAWAY to one specal reader!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANHWj_9G1yjvwbKmNnm45sarkD7lIfPqc86c7eAPPvC-rF31XbEYd8hgO2HFGbPvh3wM3SIdwjH8E2v-rtPbE4h899imP1e2QloQMwJ7_XrVXTXyHHAFUlikXIZEZeho-9aDpCt9khJU/s1600/themuse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANHWj_9G1yjvwbKmNnm45sarkD7lIfPqc86c7eAPPvC-rF31XbEYd8hgO2HFGbPvh3wM3SIdwjH8E2v-rtPbE4h899imP1e2QloQMwJ7_XrVXTXyHHAFUlikXIZEZeho-9aDpCt9khJU/s200/themuse.jpg" width="132" wt="true" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I will have drawing a week from today, on Friday, April 16, for a copy of The Muse. I have such a high opinion of this book that this one is on me, not the author or the publisher. I really believe it should be read be scads of people, and I hope it will. <strong>TO ENTER this drawing</strong>: simply leave a comment (with your email address included) on one of the CFRB blogs about The Muse. That includes the whole week at CFRB's main site and all three of my posts. I'll also have posts at Shoutlife and Gather to include.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>Here's the blurb I wrote (and was honored to find incuded in the front of the book):</strong></span><br />
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<br />
<blockquote>This is an engaging, slightly twisted tale of a trio of aspiring speculative fiction authors who do battle with that most dreaded foe--writer's block. Although this may sound like something to appeal only to authors, that is far from the truth. Fred Warren's deftly-designed characters and well-developed scenes will draw in a variety of readers and carry them along for the ride. I laughed and cried out loud and found myself wishing for certain denouements, most of which were different than the actual outcomes. Reality and fantasy blur then clear in this kaleidoscope of action. </blockquote><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>This is a portion of Fred Warren's introduction explaining his book:</strong></span><br />
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHZW_cpOV7gsJI19V34oBvEUlna8ZSrVQGY_6L90qfZHkltB7NqMKe1-hwSYOE1oDwqxz-7RV-ZW_XhZdnIMy4mw_6uXPeVVJpxaYt1tRfxvU9HCHwNrbW5vPSdJ32iDCfSQTjB4Umfg/s1600/fredwarren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYHZW_cpOV7gsJI19V34oBvEUlna8ZSrVQGY_6L90qfZHkltB7NqMKe1-hwSYOE1oDwqxz-7RV-ZW_XhZdnIMy4mw_6uXPeVVJpxaYt1tRfxvU9HCHwNrbW5vPSdJ32iDCfSQTjB4Umfg/s200/fredwarren.jpg" width="199" wt="true" /></a></div><blockquote>This story is about inspiration--its meaning, origins, and purpose. It also explores the idea that there's more than one kind of inspiration, and it's important to understand the source, nature, and ultimate effects of the creative energy we're using.</blockquote><blockquote>Creation is perhaps the most human activity of all, for in the act of creating, whether it's producing a work of art, telling a story, building a business, or raising a family, we express in microcosm the nature of the Creator, who gave us life and made us in His image with the intent that we, in our small, clumsy way, attempt the sorts of things He does with perfect excellence. </blockquote><blockquote>I didn't start out writing The Muse with the intent of producing a "Christian" novel, though my own faith can't help but emerge somehow in anything I write. References to the spiritual world unseen to human eyes are pure speculation. I know the power of love, loyalty, truth, courage, and self-sacrifice beyond any shadow of doubt, and I am likewise certain that God works purposefully in our lives, for our good, though we often don't recognize His hand except in retrospect. <br />
<br />
I enjoyed writing The Muse, and I hope you'll find it interesting, entertaining, and maybe even a little inspiring.</blockquote><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">AND NOW for the first chapter:</span></strong><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">TARON</span> surveyed the enemy lines, row upon row of grotesque, iron-sinewed goblins rhythmically scraping swords on shields, filling the air with the soul-melting screech of metal carving bone. It was hopeless. The Alliance Army was outnumbered twenty to one in an indefensible position, their escape blocked by the sheer precipices of the Glass Mountains. He sighed. This would be the end. So much blood to be spilled today, for so little purpose.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Siri pulled up beside him, struggling to rein in her spirited chestnut mount. The horse, at least, was eager for battle, but Siri’s face was a picture of despair. She knew the odds, what the outcome must be.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>“My Lord, the troops await your orders.”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Taron nodded, raising his sword, Illustrion, on high as he wheeled his destrier about to face the haggard ranks of the Alliance. He opened his mouth to shout the order that would send them all to certain death.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Silence.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>“My Lord?” Siri whispered, “The order?”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Silence.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Behind them, the goblin army roared and scraped, roared and scraped, roared and scraped.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>“My Lord! What is your order?”</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>The general’s mouth was a gaping cavern from which no sound emerged.</em><br />
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“Aaagh!” Stan shoved himself away from his desk, pounding his head in frustration. It was no use. He’d written himself into a corner... again.<br />
<br />
Charity’s voice wafted down the cellar stairs. “Honey, are you okay?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah,” he hollered back. “It’s nothing. I’m stuck again. Blasted writer’s block.”<br />
<br />
“I thought so. Give it a break. Come upstairs for a while.”<br />
<br />
“In a minute.” He rolled his chair back to the desk and tapped the keyboard. The printer whirred and spooled out the current page of Stan’s manuscript. He snatched it up and read the last paragraph, then he read it again. Maybe seeing the words on paper would trigger a new insight that would allow him to move ahead.<br />
<br />
No such luck. He wadded the paper into a ball and flung it at the wall, where it bounced off a poster advertising last year’s Renaissance Festival. Across the room, a scruffy little terrier whined softly and leapt from his perch on the futon to retrieve the errant scrap.<br />
<br />
“Don’t even think about it, Squick.” The vet bill for the little dumpster-diver’s last digestive misadventure was still a painfully fresh memory. Squick bounced back onto the futon. At least he was obedient, unlike Stan’s imagination. There had to be an original way to get his story past this latest roadblock. He could taste it, smell it, feel it on the edge of his consciousness, mocking him...<br />
<br />
“It’s getting cold, Stan!”<br />
<br />
<br />
“Coming, coming.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Read more about Fred Warren and his work at his website and Splashdown Books.<br />
<br />
<b>Purchase <i>The Muse</i> from<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0986451711?ie=UTF8&tag=welctolato-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0986451711">Amazon</a> and <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Muse/Fred-Warren/e/9780986451713/?itm=1&USRI=the+muse+fred+warren">Barnes and Noble</a>.<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.</span></b><br />
<a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/cathi.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.davidbrollier.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/david.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.buuklvr81.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/molly.jpg" /></a><a href="http://gracebridges.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/grace.jpg" /></a><a href="http://cfvici.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/queen.jpg" /></a><a href="http://readingforchrist.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/leroy.jpg" /></a><a href="http://cfrblog.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/cfrb.jpg" /></a> <br />
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<center></center>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-49652501754734367672010-04-07T13:37:00.001-04:002010-04-09T21:26:12.466-04:00THE MUSE--CFRB Book for April<center style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="http://images.barnesandnoble.com/images/45440000/45440682.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.barnesandnoble.com/images/45440000/45440682.JPG" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Muse<br />
by Fred Warren</b></span></center><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflIa5jUenh7Bs4uglymRBmSjhG6ktVKlPmlNbxoHqK7yfJiX7jlK_MU7BoDqUQtG8goAAsx8sYL8oZXswiILbpzs5BflRRy4DeFpCEEYo9RM1YRwF4VQB3YNcv35BAR6rtbEksJxLI1M/s1600/cfrblogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflIa5jUenh7Bs4uglymRBmSjhG6ktVKlPmlNbxoHqK7yfJiX7jlK_MU7BoDqUQtG8goAAsx8sYL8oZXswiILbpzs5BflRRy4DeFpCEEYo9RM1YRwF4VQB3YNcv35BAR6rtbEksJxLI1M/s320/cfrblogo.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">This month, CFRB presents <i>The Muse</i> by Fred Warren.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
<u>About the Book:</u><br />
Stan Marino needs a muse. He's written himself into a corner...again. A shot of inspiration is all he needs to finish his story ...where is he going to find it? What Stan doesn't know: Inspiration has found him. And it's about to take over his life. Ripped from reality, he must lead a band of lost souls in a life-or-death battle with a merciless enemy. Stan has found his muse, but will he survive it?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
<u>About the Author:</u><br />
Fred Warren hails from the merry old land of Kansas, and his short stories have appeared in a variety of online and print magazines, such as A Fly in Amber, Beyond Centauri, Every Day Fiction, Mindflights, and Residential Aliens. <i>The Muse</i> is his first novel. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
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<ul><li><b>Paperback:</b> 196 pages</li>
<li><b>Publisher:</b> Splashdown Books (November 1, 2009)</li>
<li><b>ISBN-10:</b> 0986451711</li>
<li><b>ISBN-13:</b> 978-0986451713</li>
</ul><b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<center><b><span style="font-size: large;">Visit the <a href="http://frederation.wordpress.com/">author's website</a>.<br />
Read the <a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/18949981/TheMuseChapter1">FREE first chapter</a>.<br />
Watch the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEavc_YqyIw">book trailer</a>.<br />
Purchase <i>The Muse</i> from<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0986451711?ie=UTF8&tag=welctolato-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0986451711">Amazon</a> and <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Muse/Fred-Warren/e/9780986451713/?itm=1&USRI=the+muse+fred+warren">Barnes and Noble</a>.</span></b></center><center><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b></center><center><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> <br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">Check out these other member blogs this week for more info.</span></b><br />
<a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/cathi.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.davidbrollier.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/david.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.buuklvr81.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/molly.jpg" /></a><a href="http://gracebridges.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/grace.jpg" /></a><a href="http://cfvici.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/queen.jpg" /></a><a href="http://readingforchrist.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/leroy.jpg" /></a><a href="http://cfrblog.blogspot.com/"><img src="http://i280.photobucket.com/albums/kk166/cfvici/cfrb.jpg" /></a></center>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-43687884866781806752010-04-04T09:15:00.002-04:002010-04-04T09:34:57.937-04:00Love Crucified Arose!! Why?Two more music videos with songs that say so much more than I ever could, lyrics so enthralling that I am certain God gave them to Michael Card. First, the haunting question "Why?" Following it is one of my favorite songs of all time, "Love Crucified Arose." In this concert tour, Michael was joined by Sarah Groves, John Catchings (cello) and Phil Keaggy. May you draw closer to our Lord today as you praise and remember His great gift and sacrifice.<br />
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<object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3T74qnBqip8&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3T74qnBqip8&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object><br />
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Why did it have to be a friend<br />
Who chose to betray the Lord?<br />
Why did he use a kiss to show them?<br />
That's not what a kiss is for.<br />
Only a friend can betray a friend<br />
A stranger has nothing to gain;<br />
And only a friend comes close enough<br />
To ever cause so much pain.<br />
And why did there have to be thorny<br />
Crown pressed upon His head?<br />
It should have been a royal one<br />
Made of jewels and gold instead.<br />
It had to be a crown of thorns<br />
Because in this life that we live,<br />
For all who seek to love<br />
A thorn is all the world has to give.<br />
And why did it have to be<br />
A heavy cross He was made to bare?<br />
And why did they nail His feet and hands<br />
His love would have held Him there?<br />
It was a cross for on a cross<br />
A thief was supposed to pay,<br />
And Jesus had come into the world<br />
To steal every heart away.<br />
Yes, Jesus had come into the world<br />
To steal every heart away.<br />
(copyright Michael Card, Mole End Music, 1984)<br />
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<br />
Long ago He blessed the earth<br />
Born older than the years<br />
And in the stall a cross He saw <br />
Through the first of many tears.<br />
A life of homeless wandering<br />
Cast out in sorrow's way<br />
The Shepherd seeking for the lost<br />
His life, the price He paid.<br />
<br />
Love crucified, arose<br />
The Risen One in splendor<br />
Jehovah's sole Defender<br />
Has won the victory.<br />
Love crucified, arose<br />
And the grave became a place of hope<br />
For the heart that sin and sorrow broke<br />
Is beating once again.<br />
<br />
Throughout Your life You felt the weight<br />
Of what You'd come to give<br />
To drink for us that crimson cup<br />
So we might really live.<br />
At last the time to love and die<br />
The dark appointed day<br />
That one forsaken moment<br />
When Your Father turned His face away.<br />
<br />
Love crucified, arose<br />
The One who lived the died for me<br />
Was Satan's nail-pierced casualty<br />
Now He's breathing once again.<br />
<br />
Love crucified, arose<br />
And the grave became a place of hope<br />
For the heart that sin and sorrow broke<br />
Is beating once again.<br />
(copyright Michael Card, Mole End Music, 1983)cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-6451571369589715222010-04-03T18:42:00.001-04:002010-04-03T22:50:52.503-04:00He's Alive!!--Don FranciscoThere are many differences between Jesus Christ and others who have had faithful followers through the ages. As far as I know, the greatest is this--we serve a risen Savior. The tomb is empty and "He's Alive!" <br />
<br />
Many years ago, Don Francisco wrote this inspired narrative of the Resurrection from Peter's viewpoint. Many others have recorded it since, but I prefer that raw emotion and energy when Don sings it. This video was recorded in South Africa in 2008.<br />
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If you don't feel a chill at the end, someone needs to check your pulse. Hallelujah! He's alive!!<br />
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<object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5TvBdqyGjZA&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5TvBdqyGjZA&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-78458837164140419702010-04-02T03:29:00.002-04:002010-04-02T03:42:58.016-04:00Too Small A Price/JoyToday we remember the day when Jesus paid the highest price that we could not pay for ourselves. The day He wore my crown. Several years ago Don Francisco wrote a powerful song that took the viewpoint of one of the thieves on the cross beside Jesus--the one who believed. I found it on Youtube and still felt the same deep anguish, chill and joy that I did when I first heard it. May it affect all who watch and listen to "Too Small a Price."<br />
<br />
<object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PlY_rcKXkGk&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PlY_rcKXkGk&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-10360246781970584952010-03-30T23:29:00.001-04:002010-03-30T23:45:50.546-04:00FINDING INNER PEACE DURING TROUBLED TIMES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDXzNBuDnXptAHaKrD1Hi9BPvQ6Nm4Ja9_wKw5nn4MlAK_3gWWZFqBglJ5oBqCViCdj7_7RiIhUO0gidO9j52tWzU64db39BUnEoc-1M_hewFsOdGL76phPUYgkM_wGZfjDghf9yZusk/s1600/wild_card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" nt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaDXzNBuDnXptAHaKrD1Hi9BPvQ6Nm4Ja9_wKw5nn4MlAK_3gWWZFqBglJ5oBqCViCdj7_7RiIhUO0gidO9j52tWzU64db39BUnEoc-1M_hewFsOdGL76phPUYgkM_wGZfjDghf9yZusk/s320/wild_card.jpg" /></a></div><span style="color: #990000;"></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.williammoss.org/">William Moss</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0578042444"><em>Finding Inner Peace During Troubled Times</em></a></span></strong></div><div align="center">The Barnabas Agency (December 4, 2009)</div>***<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, of The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><strong>My Two Cents' Worth:</strong> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">This little book is a concise guide full of scripture dealing with true inner peace and how to find it. The author, William Moss, writes from his own journey to fill the spiritual void and turmoil in his own life, a very distinguished life full of public service and accolades, yet with a missing chunk until his later years. Now 90 years old, Mr. Moss only came to know Jesus in a personal way in the 1990's, and ever since he has been researching and practicing real Christian meditation. This is the subject of <em>Finding Inner Peace During Troubled Times</em>. It certainly is timely: no one would argue whether or not these are troubled times. For many of us, the verses and the points that Mr. Moss makes may be familiar, but it is handy to have it gathered together in one slim volume. You can use it for quick reference or choose verses from it for your own meditation. It's surprising just how much the Bible has to say about meditation and peace. In this rushed, busy, worry-filled life, we all could take a little time to read through this book and reflect upon the truths of scripture. It makes a world of difference. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New;"><em>(For an interview with William Moss, see an earlier post on </em><a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/search/label/Finding%20Peace%20During%20Troubled%20Times"><em>February 24, 2010</em></a><em>.)</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTk5PnOOtrEAo3WjwNcfosz3VoympBTsmj6AVEIItKm7Z_ueKVDWy8egXFq8gZK8xOkT6fnV1hFB3qkWRJlG8SIK0lajMZhs0yVOHej7NdSYryBKBe5q7cXlzotjtzHRtBlTXFxzz-bFI/s1600-h/Bill+Moss+photo.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452043814522646162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTk5PnOOtrEAo3WjwNcfosz3VoympBTsmj6AVEIItKm7Z_ueKVDWy8egXFq8gZK8xOkT6fnV1hFB3qkWRJlG8SIK0lajMZhs0yVOHej7NdSYryBKBe5q7cXlzotjtzHRtBlTXFxzz-bFI/s200/Bill+Moss+photo.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 135px;" /></a>Moss has become an important figure in the Republican Party and has been entrusted with several key responsibilities. In 1988 he served as Vice Chairman for the George H. W. Bush the President’s National Finance Committee. He also served on the George H. W. Bush for President National Steering Committee, was founder of Team 100, and also a member of the National Republican Senatorial Trust Committee. <br />
<br />
In 1989, at the request of President George H. W. Bush, Moss organized and was chairman of the President’s Drug Advisory Council, which functioned as part of the Executive Branch of the White House. The Council was formed to advise the President on ways to involve the private sector in the war on drugs, ultimately resulting in the “Community Anti-Drug Coalitions of America,” which is currently operating in approximately 40 states and communities across the nation. Having worked closely on several occasions with pollster George Gallup, Moss continues to research moral and ethical trends among voters—particularly young voters. <br />
<br />
William Moss counts presidents, prime ministers, and other world influencers among his many friends. His career has been an unqualified success. But neither the friends nor the achievements could fill the spiritual void in Moss’s life. In recent years, he has found true inner peace in Christ and through the practice of Christian meditation. Moss joined Alcoholics Anonymous at the age of 85 and will soon celebrate 5 years of sobriety.<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.williammoss.org/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $5.99<br />
Paperback: 64 pages <br />
Publisher: The Barnabas Agency (December 4, 2009) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 0578042444 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-0578042442 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtYrxac_i-sql0RdH0o5C98_R7RD1BHHTlwiCQpsnDODARe1eUduBwoqG-diJsBX-NwdcO3WOnPKwRXdKXpQAcvKY1LS-Cb1oBTlQNCK-jfSSlB5197Bp3ySVHASVY43_WSkxlyX0KCLw/s1600-h/InnerPeace_front_cover.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452043972484192066" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtYrxac_i-sql0RdH0o5C98_R7RD1BHHTlwiCQpsnDODARe1eUduBwoqG-diJsBX-NwdcO3WOnPKwRXdKXpQAcvKY1LS-Cb1oBTlQNCK-jfSSlB5197Bp3ySVHASVY43_WSkxlyX0KCLw/s200/InnerPeace_front_cover.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">The Biblical Writers <br />
<br />
<br />
It is evident that the biblical writers want us to find peace because the Psalmist says,<br />
<br />
“Turn from sin and do good; seek peace and pursue it.”1 In Romans Paul says, “Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”2 In Ephesians the author says, “For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility.”3 In Colossians it says, “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.”4 In John Jesus says, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”5 <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
However, there are many difficulties, distractions and hardships that stand in the way of our inner peace. As Paul said to the Galatians, “So I say, live by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature. For the sinful nature desires what is contrary to the Spirit and the Spirit what is contrary to the sinful nature. They are in conflict with each other, so that you do not do what you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under laws of Moses.” <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Paul says “that the acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like.” Today there are some<br />
<br />
distractions Paul did not include such as: worry, self preservation, hunger, lack of money,<br />
<br />
arrogance, competitiveness, criticism and illness, to name a few. <br />
<br />
<br />
Paul continues. “I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God. But the fruit of the Spirit is by practicing love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the sinful nature with its passions and desires. Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking<br />
<br />
and envying each other.”6 <br />
<br />
<br />
Through prayer and meditation we can transcend all these distractions and difficulties<br />
<br />
if we live by the Spirit and put God’s love and presence first. <br />
<br />
<br />
1 Psalm 34:14; 2 Romans 5:1; 3 Ephesians 2:14; 4 Colossians 3:15; 5 John 16:33 6 Galatians 5:15-26</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-23392379110480528032010-03-19T09:14:00.001-04:002010-03-19T09:16:54.277-04:00CHOSEN--Ginger Garrett<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9jIn46-smJ6GrmKFO9zhwxXZJWi478icW1pFqjfptDZw840Ui5gS6hT2n6iIvZY9t07DYOUY5EL6j77jI8Y4HnepY01SmmzMT09fWLQJgeI9qOh7lPHGe7HgHjet_2oZdsCmxYGifpg/s1600-h/wild_card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9jIn46-smJ6GrmKFO9zhwxXZJWi478icW1pFqjfptDZw840Ui5gS6hT2n6iIvZY9t07DYOUY5EL6j77jI8Y4HnepY01SmmzMT09fWLQJgeI9qOh7lPHGe7HgHjet_2oZdsCmxYGifpg/s320/wild_card.jpg" vt="true" /></a></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.gingergarrett.com/">Ginger Garrett </a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1434768015">Chosen</a></span></strong></div><div align="center">David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010) </div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgamcc92vIPEZy6ZvmDY81_CaJzKtkvtQF1WieQlC2cHhKMlPNvoyNKGPz-tDBUoJkRdefXUhRriLYH8Y0sMKhwJky2MCaCrQhCasmh77tZLie6Nz6JTxGahc33OFsobD2YVkwekQyExRc/s1600-h/Garrett,_Ginger_for_email.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449455330860323714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgamcc92vIPEZy6ZvmDY81_CaJzKtkvtQF1WieQlC2cHhKMlPNvoyNKGPz-tDBUoJkRdefXUhRriLYH8Y0sMKhwJky2MCaCrQhCasmh77tZLie6Nz6JTxGahc33OFsobD2YVkwekQyExRc/s200/Garrett,_Ginger_for_email.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
Focusing on ancient women’s history, critically acclaimed author Ginger Garrett creates novels and nonfiction resources that explore the lives of historical women. In addition to her writing, Garrett is a frequent radio and television guest. A native Texan, she now resides in Georgia with her husband and three children. <br />
<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.gingergarrett.com/">website</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<object height="225" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9359739&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=9359739&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="225"></embed></object><br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/9359739">Chosen, by Ginger Garrett</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user1251909">David C. Cook</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $14.99<br />
Paperback: 304 pages <br />
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (March 1, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1434768015 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1434768018 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyutRkjXJ2GnRCUk0z5DtSHL_2LoklgU594ZET_5XPWZp_9Xd1jzNyAE9QAZAPuAamydeSPLUPU6tJOu2CJMtRwx5uxUkXXt0y4KAu_fyk1dlu1wxsYoV8p4Fgu4HTs_RGUfX1YT9IrhE/s1600-h/Chosen_cover-Ginger_Garrett_for_printing"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449455197092580242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyutRkjXJ2GnRCUk0z5DtSHL_2LoklgU594ZET_5XPWZp_9Xd1jzNyAE9QAZAPuAamydeSPLUPU6tJOu2CJMtRwx5uxUkXXt0y4KAu_fyk1dlu1wxsYoV8p4Fgu4HTs_RGUfX1YT9IrhE/s200/Chosen_cover-Ginger_Garrett_for_printing" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 132px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Prologue <br />
<br />
Fourth Day of the Month of Av<br />
<br />
Year 3414 after Creation <br />
<br />
If you have opened this, you are the chosen one.<br />
<br />
For this book has been sealed in the tomb of the ancients of Persia, never to be opened, I pray, until G-d1 has put His finger on a new woman of destiny, a woman who will rise up and change her nation. But we will not talk of your circumstances, and the many reasons this book may have fallen into your hands. There are no mistakes with prayer. You have indeed been called. If this sounds too strange, if you must look around your room and question whether G-d’s finger has perhaps slipped, if you are not a woman with the means to change a nation, then join me on a journey. You must return with me now to a place without hope, a nation that had lost sight of G-d, a girl with nothing to offer, and no one to give it to. <br />
<br />
I must introduce myself first as I truly am: an exiled Jew, and an orphan. My given name was Hadassah, but the oppression of exile has stripped that too from me: I am now called Esther,2 so that I may blend in with my captors. My people, the Hebrew nation, had been sent out of our homeland after a bitter defeat in battle. We were allowed to settle in the kingdom of Persia, but we were not allowed to truly prosper there. We blended in, our lives preserved, but our heritage and customs were forced underground. Our hearts, once set only on returning to Jerusalem, were set out to wither in the heat<br />
<br />
of the Arabian sun. My cousin Mordecai rescued me when I was orphaned and we lived in the capital city of Susa, under the reign of King Xerxes.3 Mordecai had a small flock of sheep that I helped tend, and we sold their fleece in the market. If times were good, we would sell a lamb for someone’s celebration. It was always for others to celebrate. We merely survived. But Mordecai was kind and good, and I was not forced into dishonor like the other orphans I had once known. This is how my story begins, and I give you these details not for sympathy, but so you will know that I am a girl well acquainted with bitter reality. I am not given to the freedom in flights of fantasy. But how can I explain to you the setting of my story? It is most certainly far removed from your experience. For I suspect that in the future, women will know freedom. And freedom is not an easy thing to forget, even if only to entertain an orphan’s story. <br />
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But you must forget now. I was born into a world, and into this story, where even the bravest women were faceless specters. Once married, they could venture out of their homes only with veils and escorts. No one yet had freed our souls. Passion and pleasure, like freedom, were the domain of men, and even young girls knew the wishes of their hearts would always be subject to a man’s desire for wealth. A man named Pericles summed up my time so well in his famed oration: “The greatest glory of a woman is to be least talked about by men, whether they are praising you or criticizing you.” Our role was clear: We were to be objects of passion, to receive a man’s attention mutely, and to respond only with children for the estate. Even the most powerful woman of our time, the beautiful Queen Vashti, was powerless. That was my future as a girl and I dared not lift my eyes above its horizon. That is how I enter this story. But give me your hand and let us walk back now, past the crumbling walls of history, to this world forgotten but a time yet remembered. Let me tell you the story of a girl unspared, plunged into heartache and chaos, who would save a nation. My name is Esther, and I will be queen. <br />
<br />
1 Out of respect for God, Jews write the name of God without the vowels, believing that the name of God is too holy to be written out completely by a human. God is referred to as either “G-d” or “YHVH.”<br />
<br />
2 The name Esther is related to the Persian name of Ishtar, a pagan goddess of the stars.<br />
<br />
3 Esther refers to the king by his Persian name. In the Hebrew texts of antiquity, he is also referred to as Ahasuerus. <br />
<br />
<br />
1<br />
<br />
Eleventh Day of Shevat<br />
<br />
Third Year of the Reign of Xerxes<br />
<br />
Year 3394 after Creation <br />
<br />
<br />
Was it today that I became fully awake, or have I only now begun to dream? Today Cyrus saw me in the marketplace haggling gently with my favorite shopkeeper, Shethana, over the price of a fleece. Shethana makes the loveliest rugs—I think they are even more lovely than the ones imported from the East—and her husband is known for his skill in crafting metals of all kinds. When I turned fifteen last year, he fashioned for me a necklace with several links in the center, painted various shades of blue. He says it is an art practiced in Egypt, this inlaying of colors into metal shapes. I feel so exotic with it on and wear it almost daily. I know it is as close to adventure as Mordecai will ever allow. <br />
<br />
But as Shethana and I haggled over the fleece, both of us smiling because she knew I would as soon give it to her, Cyrus walked by eating a flatbread he had purchased from another vendor. He grimaced when he took a bite—I think he might have gotten a very strong taste of shallot—and I laughed. He laughed back, wiping his eyes with his jacket and fanning his mouth, and then, oh then, his gaze held my eyes for a moment. Everything in my body seemed to come alive suddenly and I felt afraid, for my legs couldn’t stand as straight and steady and I couldn’t get my mouth to work. Shethana noticed right away and didn’t conceal her grin as she glanced between Cyrus and me. I should have doubled the price of her fleece right then! <br />
<br />
Cyrus turned to walk away, and I tried to focus again on my transaction. I could not meet Shethana’s eyes now—I didn’t want to be questioned about men and marriage, for everyone knows I have no dowry. To dream of winning Cyrus would be as foolish as to run my own heart straight through. I cannot dream, for it will surely crush me. And yet I can’t stop this warm flood that sweeps over me when he is near. <br />
<br />
I haven’t told you the best part—when Shethana bought her fleece and left, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a moment in the heat of the day, and when I opened them again, there was a little stack of flatbread in my booth. I looked in every direction but could see no one. Taking a bite, I had to spit it out and started laughing. Cyrus was right—the vendor used many bitter shallots. The flatbread was a disaster. <br />
<br />
©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Chosen by Ginger Garrett. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-19191307700912811912010-03-16T23:49:00.003-04:002010-03-17T00:08:49.680-04:00The Confession of Saint Patrick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEv-HrBWcvklAEcgSMnto1zm94xl46fqkw-OUOXFBkbh_f43Iyrx1UJGVYpbAomCploTLUsZBt0BaVs4bOd1cP5XrR_t2RKemI89URfAYY75VX8h4W3MqAWEZsbN8tfoJs2nxWVmMS8Ps/s1600-h/StPatrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEv-HrBWcvklAEcgSMnto1zm94xl46fqkw-OUOXFBkbh_f43Iyrx1UJGVYpbAomCploTLUsZBt0BaVs4bOd1cP5XrR_t2RKemI89URfAYY75VX8h4W3MqAWEZsbN8tfoJs2nxWVmMS8Ps/s320/StPatrick.jpg" vt="true" width="248" /></a></div>Happy Saint Patrick's Day! For some that means green beer, pins with the message "kiss me, I'm Irish," jigs, happy Celtic music, and the wearin' o' the green. And what do you think of when you think of Saint Patrick? Ireland, without a doubt. He gets credit for chasing the snakes out of the Emerald Isle, but it is unlikely that snakes ever lived there. Some people know about the story of him using the shamrock to explain the Trinity, but not much more.<br />
<br />
Most of what we know about Patrick comes from second or third-hand reports and legends that grew up over the years, but there are <a href="http://www.irishchristian.net/history/stpatrick/index.html">two important writings</a> that are directly attributed to him. One is "<a href="http://www.irishchristian.net/history/stpatrick/coroticus.html">A Letter to Coroticus</a>," addressing the soldiers under this man who raided some of Patrick's converts, a scathing complaint lodged against such raids. The other is "<a href="http://www.episcopalnet.org/READINGS/PatrickConfesson.html">The Confession of Patrick</a>," an autobiography that he wrote in Latin near the time of his death. Most of what we actually know about Patrick comes from his confession. What is remarkable is his humility, devotion, love for God, desire to serve God and the Irish people. To commemorate this day of Saint Patrick, I feel like the best words are those of the man himself; well, a translation from Latin to English thanks to <a href="http://www.episcopalnet.org/READINGS/PatrickConfesson.html">Ludwig Bieler</a>. The following is just a small portion from the beginning, but hopefully it will inspire you as you read it. I chose it not so much for the historical content, but for insight into the beliefs and faith of a true servant of God. <br />
<blockquote><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">...I was then about sixteen years of age. I did not know the true God. I was taken into captivity to Ireland with many thousands of people---and deservedly so, because we turned away from God, and did not keep His commandments, and did not obey our priests, who used to remind us of our salvation. And the Lord brought over us the wrath of his anger and scattered us among many nations, even unto the utmost part of the earth, where now my littleness is placed among strangers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And there the Lord opened the sense of my unbelief that I might at last remember my sins and be converted with all my heart to the Lord my God, who had regard for my abjection, and mercy on my youth and ignorance, and watched over me before I knew Him, and before I was able to distinguish between good and evil, and guarded me, and comforted me as would a father his son.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hence I cannot be silent---nor, indeed, is it expedient---about the great benefits and the great grace which the lord has deigned to bestow upon me in the land of my captivity; for this we can give to God in return after having been chastened by Him, to exalt and praise His wonders before every nation that is anywhere under the heaven.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because there is no other God, nor ever was, nor will be, than God the Father unbegotten, without beginning, from whom is all beginning, the Lord of the universe, as we have been taught; and His son Jesus Christ, whom we declare to have always been with the Father, spiritually and ineffably begotten by the Father before the beginning of the world, before all beginning; and by Him are made all things visible and invisible. He was made man, and, having defeated death, was received into heaven by the Father; and He hath given Him all power over all names in heaven, on earth, and under the earth, and every tongue shall confess to Him that Jesus Christ is Lord and God, in whom we believe, and whose advent we expect soon to be, judge of the living and of the dead, who will render to every man according to his deeds; and He has poured forth upon us abundantly the Holy Spirit, the gift and pledge of immortality, who makes those who believe and obey sons of God and joint heirs with Christ; and Him do we confess and adore, one God in the Trinity of the Holy Name.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For He Himself has said through the Prophet: Call upon me in the day of thy trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. And again He says: It is honourable to reveal and confess the works of God.</span></blockquote><br />
<em>{I invite you to read the whole translation at <a href="http://www.episcopalnet.org/READINGS/PatrickConfesson.html">Episcopalnet</a> or at <a href="http://www.celtic-twilight.com/otherworld/saints/patrick/confession_of_st_patrick.htm">Celtic Twilight</a>, which contains both the Bieler translation and an older one (1905) by Rev. Dr. White of the Royal Irish Academy.}</em>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-42136352976603369672010-03-16T08:24:00.001-04:002010-03-16T08:24:00.208-04:00Ronie Kendig's DEAD RECKONING: A FIRST Look<a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nrWudCRCWcIG4wZIFDkd3UoMvQwaqkZ62PQLrkN_F8X9FHJXI3BmckjCRUBvduWvA2Ve8Rf6JKHKDYDmSWyPSRgr4wIvD4PpR9HSJ4rtbkV_c34Dh4BcmQ-EuNI29cSK28SPLjo4imsf/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nrWudCRCWcIG4wZIFDkd3UoMvQwaqkZ62PQLrkN_F8X9FHJXI3BmckjCRUBvduWvA2Ve8Rf6JKHKDYDmSWyPSRgr4wIvD4PpR9HSJ4rtbkV_c34Dh4BcmQ-EuNI29cSK28SPLjo4imsf/s1600-h/wild+card.jpg"></a><em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.roniekendig.com/">Ronie Kendig</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/142670058X">Dead Reckoning</a></span></strong><br />
Abingdon Press (March 1, 2010)<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><strong>NOTE:</strong> Unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to read this one yet, but it sounds like one I will really enjoy, and I'm planning on getting a copy very soon.</span></div><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOP4zpLCbcr24wPh_b5IbdeDDaGPkogpdo3-vjk9Fe99O7wnCjCRJ6_6hynXhyphenhyphenv4e9TZpph442ngJC4Va1HTTYogCmwgCNs7ys7pDEeCMtHsxW2l5PwzZFXDzHSwKuhqW28PjShG35TA/s1600-h/Kendig+9+color+copy+compressed.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448311994108428194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOP4zpLCbcr24wPh_b5IbdeDDaGPkogpdo3-vjk9Fe99O7wnCjCRJ6_6hynXhyphenhyphenv4e9TZpph442ngJC4Va1HTTYogCmwgCNs7ys7pDEeCMtHsxW2l5PwzZFXDzHSwKuhqW28PjShG35TA/s200/Kendig+9+color+copy+compressed.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 134px;" /></a>Ronie Kendig has a BS in Psychology and is a wife, mother of four, and avid writer. In addition to speaking engagements, Ronie volunteers with the American Christian Fiction Writers and contributes monthly to the highly acclaimed Novel Journey blog, and is a columnist for the International Christian Fiction Writers blog. Her espionage thriller, Dead Reckoning, releases March 01, 2010 through Abingdon Press and the first in a military thriller series, Nightshade, will release July 2010 from Barbour Publishing. Ronie can be found online at or at Facebook. <br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.roniekendig.com/">website</a>.<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ronie.kendig/">Facebook</a>.<br />
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<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $13.99<br />
Paperback: 400 pages <br />
Publisher: Abingdon Press (March 1, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 142670058X <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1426700583 <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrs8fFKqlDrHnkxOhENtZcIg0diIo_RRsQgnKv5tjOrjuuhtM9_BsIwuUw9i1j_0dMb4i54jBqMyPaCZIkzcCS5cBCb5uF9KBHNwGq7zsxLwcmSbkEMYBsKxa3U8PUv8RUZZNcYA1ee4/s1600-h/DeadReckoning_LO-RES_2_2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448311720155348354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQrs8fFKqlDrHnkxOhENtZcIg0diIo_RRsQgnKv5tjOrjuuhtM9_BsIwuUw9i1j_0dMb4i54jBqMyPaCZIkzcCS5cBCb5uF9KBHNwGq7zsxLwcmSbkEMYBsKxa3U8PUv8RUZZNcYA1ee4/s200/DeadReckoning_LO-RES_2_2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 129px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Mumbai Harbor, India<br />
<br />
Shafts of yellow light pierced the blue-green waters, silhouetting the dive rig that hovered on the surface of the Arabian Sea. Shiloh Blake stopped and watched a wrasse scuttle past, its tiny fins working hard to ferry the brightly striped fish to safety. <br />
<br />
Clad in her wetsuit, Shiloh squinted through her goggles and tucked the underwater camera into her leg pocket. Gripping a small stone artifact in her gloved hand, she propelled herself toward the surface. Ten meters and she would reveal her historic discovery to long-time rival Mikhail Drovosky. <br />
<br />
Shiloh smiled. The guy would go ballistic. Score one for the girls. Between her and her new dive partner Edie Valliant, they had surged ahead in finds. Not that this was a competition. Not technically. But everyone with the University of California-San Diego dig team knew it was make or break time. <br />
<br />
Shiloh broke the surface. As the warm sun bathed her face, she slid off her mask and tugged out her air regulator before hauling herself onto the iron dive flat. She squeezed the saltwater from her hair, the auburn glints catching in the sunlight. Her long auburn hair glowed in the sunlight.<br />
<br />
“What did you find?” Khalid Khan knelt next to her. <br />
<br />
With a smirk, she peeked at her best friend. Her own excitement was mirrored in his dark eyes. Then she noticed Edie’s absence.<br />
<br />
“Where’d she go this time? And Dr. Kuntz?”<br />
<br />
“She wasn’t feeling well.” <br />
<br />
“More like she had another date.” Irritation seeped through her pores like the hot sun, boiling her to frustration. She couldn’t believe her dive partner kept cutting digs to flirt with locals. <br />
<br />
Khalid reached over to remove her dive tanks. <br />
<br />
With a hand held up, she shifted away. “No, I’m going back down.” <br />
<br />
Footsteps thudded on the deck. “It’s my turn.” Mikhail’s glower fanned her competitive streak. <br />
<br />
“Sorry.” Shiloh grinned. “Not for another ten minutes. You’re not going to stop me from qualifying for the Pacific Rim Challenge.” She nearly sighed, thinking about racking up enough dive hours for the deep-sea assignment—her dream. <br />
<br />
On his haunches, Khalid swiveled toward her, cutting off her view of Mikhail. “What’d you find?” he whispered. Damp from his last dive, Khalid’s jet black hair hung into his face. “Please tell me you aren’t playing games.”<br />
<br />
From a pouch hanging at her waist, she produced the lamp. “This for starters.” <br />
<br />
He took the piece and traced the contours. “Soapstone.” His gaze darted back to hers. “You mapped it on the grid, right? And photographed it?” <br />
<br />
Any first-year grad student would know to take a picture to verify its location and record it on the mapped grid of the site. “Of course.” She patted the camera in the pouch. <br />
<br />
Not so many years ago a sunken city had been found in the area. Would she find another? Her heart thumped at the prospect. Tools. She would need better tools to safely remove the vase waiting at the bottom of the sea. Shiloh stood and hurried to the chest to remove an air pipe to suction the silt and sediment away and grabbed an airlift bag. As she plotted how to excavate the piece, she tucked the tools into holsters strapped around her legs and waist. <br />
<br />
“I’m coming down there whether you’re done or not.” Mikhail bumped his shoulder against hers and pursed his lips. “If you find it in my time, I get to log it.” <br />
<br />
Eyebrow quirked, she swept around him to the stern and sat on the ledge. <br />
<br />
“I mean it, Blake!” Mikhail’s face reddened. <br />
<br />
She slipped the regulator back in her mouth, nearly smiling. With a thumbs-up to Khalid, she nudged herself into the water. Glee rippled through her. The look of incredulity on Mikhail’s mug buoyed her spirits. Finding the lamp had been exhilarating, but one-upmanship had its own thrill. Besides, how many divers worked this dig in the last year? Like them, she found a piece of history. Divers and researchers had scoured this area and other sites along the coast of India. <br />
<br />
Dr. Kuntz would have insisted on diving with her if not for ferrying Edie around Mumbai. Irritation at her new dive partner swelled. Why they had ever agreed to take on that useless woman, she’d never know. How could partying compare with the discovery of the past? <br />
<br />
Although the silt and sand shrouded the lip of the vase, Shiloh spotted its outline easily where she had marked the place with a flag. She lifted the red vinyl square from the sandy floor and worked quickly, refusing to relinquish this relic to the overblown ego of Mikhail Drovosky. He’d beaten her out of top honors for her bachelor’s degree, relegating her to magna cum laude, lessening her scholarship. Enough was enough. <br />
<br />
Why hadn’t anyone else found this vase? As she brushed away the sediment, confusion drifted through her like the cool waters. A spot in the clay smeared. Her heart rapid fired. Had she ruined the relic? Yet something . . . Shiloh stilled, staring in disbelief. What on earth? <br />
<br />
She rubbed the piece. Metal gleamed beneath the clay. The lip and handle floated away. This wasn’t ancient pottery. She turned it over in her hand. What was it? It almost reminded her of a thermos. About eighteen inches long, the cylinder’s weight surprised her. What was it doing here, buried like treasure? Just as she freed the object, her white watch face flashed, snapping her attention to the competition. Time was up. <br />
<br />
Joy ebbed like the tide. Whatever this thing was, she wouldn’t leave it down here for Mikhail. Holding the bag open, she tried to ease in the metal tube. The piece teetered on the edge, nearly falling out, so she slipped it under her arm and started toward the surface. Light again directed her to the rig. Suddenly, thrashing ripples fractured the luminescent water, stirring particulates beneath the wake of a powerful motor.<br />
<br />
A speedboat? Why were they so close to the dive area? Didn’t they see the warning beacon, the one that announced divers below? What kind of idiot would put someone’s life in danger for a thrill ride?<br />
<br />
A torrent of waves rattled her, threatening her grip on the vase. What . . .? A half-dozen bicolor parrotfish shot past. Shiloh paused, watching their incredible color—like a psychedelic underwater show.<br />
<br />
Thwat. Thwat. <br />
<br />
A sound vibrated against her chest. She searched for the source but found nothing.<br />
<br />
She continued upward, and then someone dropped into the water. Could Mikhail not wait? Sticking to the schedule ensured everyone’s safety. He wasn’t supposed to enter the water until she climbed out. He was in such a hurry to win that he would risk injury to her and anyone who got in his way. She’d throttle him. Only, it wasn’t Mikhail.<br />
<br />
Khalid! <br />
<br />
A plume of red swirled around his dark form like some freakish science experiment. Blood? Was he bleeding? Her heart skipped a beat—he wasn’t swimming.<br />
<br />
Shiloh launched toward him as adrenaline spiraled through her. She struggled to breathe, threatening the nitrox mixture in her tank. Why wasn’t he swimming? He’d drown if it he didn’t paddle back up. <br />
<br />
She pushed into his path, and he thudded against her. Hooking her arm under his, she aimed toward the surface, scissoring her legs. <br />
<br />
A shadow loomed over the water. Another body plunged toward her, sinking deep and fast. Mikhail’s open, unseeing eyes stared back at her, a shocked expression plastered on his face. Reminding her of an Egyptian plague, the water turned red.<br />
<br />
Watery tubes pursued him. Bullets!<br />
<br />
What’s happening? <br />
<br />
Khalid. He needed oxygen. She wrangled him toward her so she could share her air. The metal cylinder fumbled from her grasp and sunk back into the oblivion where she’d found it. Whatever the thing was, it couldn’t be worth a life—especially not her best friend’s. She removed her air regulator and stuffed it into his mouth.<br />
<br />
Khalid jerked. Pain hooded his eyes. His dark brows knitted as he gazed at her. He gripped his side and grimaced. That’s when she saw the source of the red plumes. He’d been shot too. Her gaze flew to the rig. What about the captain and his son?<br />
<br />
Khalid caught her arm. With a firm shake of his head, he pointed away from the rig. Escape.<br />
<br />
Shiloh linked her harness to his and swam from the rig. Uncertain where they could find safety if someone was determined to kill them, she barreled away from the nightmare. If she could make it to an island—she remembered seeing a small one in the east—they might be safe. Khalid tried to pump his legs, but not successfully. At least he hadn’t passed out. Or died. <br />
<br />
Her stomach seized. No way would she let Khalid Khan die. Shiloh wagged her fins faster, thrusting both of them farther from the boat. Seconds lengthened, stretching into what felt like hours. With each stroke, her limbs grew heavier, dragging her down to the ocean floor. She pushed upward, refusing to become a victim. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, she was drawn backward, pulled out to sea by the strong natural current hugging the Indian coast. Battling the forces of nature, she did her best to keep herself and Khalid aimed in the right direction. Her chest burned from oxygen deprivation. <br />
<br />
The mouthpiece appeared before her. Surprised at Khalid’s attentiveness, she stuffed it in her mouth and inhaled deeply, savoring the strength it gave her. Another twenty meters, and the water collided with mangroves. Shiloh struggled around the roots to a small, shallow inlet. On her knees, she tore out the regulator, dragging Khalid as she clawed her way to safety. He attempted to crawl, but collapsed. She yanked off her goggles and released their d-rings. <br />
<br />
Khalid coughed, gagged, and vomited sea water. <br />
<br />
Warm sand mired Shiloh’s trembling limbs as she laid there, panting and gasping. The swim had been harder and much longer than she’d expected. They both could have drowned.<br />
<br />
She squeezed her eyes shut. Thoughts of what was lost . . . Mikhail! Was he truly dead? Who would attack grad students on a dig? Why?<br />
<br />
Shiloh pressed her hand to her forehead, tiny grains of sand digging into her flesh. She rubbed her temples and tried to make sense of the chaos. <br />
<br />
“What happened back there, Khalid?” She flipped onto her back, the sun blazing against her pounding skull. “Who was it? Did you see?” <br />
<br />
Silence. <br />
<br />
Shifting, she rolled her head to peek at him. He wasn’t moving. On all fours, Shiloh scrambled and shook him. <br />
<br />
“Khalid!” His gray wetsuit glistened red from the blood that poured from his side. She clamped a hand over his wound, the warmth sickening. “Khalid, talk to me.” <br />
<br />
He groaned. <br />
<br />
“No!” Fire flashed through her. “You aren’t chickening out. Not now.” Again, she shook him, but this time he didn’t respond. “Please!”<br />
<br />
Shiloh examined his chest. Not breathing. With two fingers pressed to his neck, she tried to feel past the hammering of her own heart to detect his pulse. Nothing! She started compressions and breaths, counting between each to keep a steady rhythm. His blood stained her hands. While she pumped his chest, she took a cursory glance around the thick vegetation. It was so thick, she’d never know if someone stood five meters off. <br />
<br />
They needed help—now! She activated the emergency beacon on her watch as she again searched—hoped—for help. Her heart caught when she spotted a “mechanical giraffe” staggering in the shifting fog. Jawahar Dweep. <br />
<br />
“Butcher Island,” she mumbled, as she tried to revive her friend. The isolated spot only offered isolation and oil. No help. They were alone. <br />
<br />
“At least we’re safe,” she said. But would Khalid die? “Don’t you dare!” <br />
<br />
She pounded his chest. More blood dribbled from the wound that seemed too close to his lungs.<br />
<br />
A rasp grated the air. His ribs rose. <br />
<br />
“Khalid?” <br />
He moaned. <br />
<br />
Tears stung her eyes as she slumped next to him. “Khalid, stay with me. I’ve activated the beacon.” <br />
<br />
His blue lips trembled against his chalky skin. “C-cold.” <br />
<br />
She’d always admired his dark olive complexion, but the pallor coating his rugged face worried her. Would she ever see his dark eyes ignite when she made some snide, inappropriate remark? Who would help her through her episodes? She’d told only him about her rare disorder. <br />
<br />
“We should move you closer to the rocks to stay warm until help arrives.” Shiloh once again hooked her arms under his and drew him to the side. Blood stained the sandy beach. <br />
<br />
A wave rolled in, then out. Red streaks reached toward the warm waters. She nestled him against a large boulder and lay close to keep him warm. <br />
<br />
“Stay with me, Khalid. No naps. This is the ultimate test, got it?” She looked to where the ocean kissed the horizon. Mumbai sparkled in the distance. So close, yet so far away it might as well be a million miles. She could only hope they would be found in time. <br />
<br />
“You just wanted to kiss me,” Khalid mumbled. <br />
<br />
Shiloh jerked toward him, frowning. “What?” <br />
“CPR. I didn’t need it . . .” He coughed. “You just wanted to kiss me.” <br />
<br />
With her hand pressed to his forehead, she smiled. “Ah. Just as I expected—delirious with fever.” <br />
<br />
A half-cocked grin split his lips. <br />
<br />
She tried to swallow. He had been her rock for the last four years. Despite the tight-knit relationship between their parents, Khalid and Shiloh had forged their own friendship in the fires of college life. They’d been inseparable since he came to America to study. <br />
<br />
How long would it take Search and Rescue to locate her signal? What if the SAR team didn’t make it in time? If this were American waters, it would only be a matter of minutes, but in the Arabian Sea . . . <br />
<br />
Shiloh’s head dropped to her chest. She had to believe everything would be fine. They’d be found, a doctor would tend Khalid’s wounds, he’d recover, and then they’d be off to the Pacific Rim Challenge. She had worked so hard for it. They both had. For the last two years, they had prodded each other toward their common goal. Their requisite dive hours were nearly complete. No, nobody would die, especially not Khalid.<br />
<br />
Mikhail died. She clenched her eyes shut and blotted out the image of her rival slipping through the water, sinking lower and lower. <br />
<br />
Biting her lip, she groped for something to refocus her attention. Naming the scientific classification for the sun star. Animalia. Echinodermata. Asteroidea. Spinulosida. Solasteridae. Solaster dawsoni.<br />
<br />
“Miss . . . Amer . . . ca . . .” Khalid’s words, though broken, speared her heart. <br />
<br />
She scooted closer. “I’m here. Be still, Khalid. They’re coming.” <br />
<br />
“Marry me.” <br />
<br />
“You dork.” She let out a shaky laugh as a shudder tore through her, threatening to unleash tears. Lips pulled taut, she forced herself to remain calm and look at him. “Rest.” <br />
<br />
His fingers twitched. She lifted his hand and cradled it in hers. <br />
<br />
A gurgling noise bubbled up his throat. “I love . . .” <br />
<br />
“No, shh.” He couldn’t love her. Not her. <br />
<br />
“Shil . . .” <br />
<br />
When he didn’t finish, she knitted her brow. His eyes closed, and his mouth remained open. <br />
<br />
“Khalid?” <br />
<br />
His arm went slack. <br />
<br />
“Khalid!” Tears blurred her vision, making it impossible to see if he was breathing.<br />
<br />
A horn blared in the distance. She whipped around and spotted the massive white Indian Coast Guard rig racing toward them with its lights swirling. <br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<br />
Reece Jaxon straightened and watched the woman without watching. Seeing without being seen. She batted her auburn hair, thick and tangled with ocean water, away from her face. Hiding in plain sight on the rescue boat, he tracked her movement with ease. She hadn’t noticed him yet, even though he was less than a dozen feet away. <br />
<br />
Wrapped in a gray thermal blanket Shiloh Blake stared at the injured Pakistani on the medical stretcher as the local authorities churned across the water toward Mumbai. She hadn’t left the man’s side since the rescue.<br />
<br />
Another man in his early fifties hooked an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Dr. Kuntz, according to the file, was fifty-three. Married. Three grown children. An unfaithful wife and a divorce later he’d partnered with a local Indian museum to arrange underwater excavations with U.C. San Diego. Something about the man didn’t sit right with Reece.<br />
<br />
“Noor Hospital,” Dr. Kuntz insisted to the Coast Guard captain.<br />
<br />
An hour earlier Kuntz had stormed into the Coast Guard station and interrupted Reece’s conversation with the officer. Surprised at the man’s intrusion, Reece feigned disinterest, although Kuntz’s story corroborated what Reece had relayed to the authorities after witnessing the attack. Then? The emergency transponder signal erupted. <br />
<br />
Reece noticed Shiloh stiffen under the professor’s protective touch. Kuntz spoke soothingly to her, reassuring her that Noor Hospital would give Khalid the best care. Bent to shield his face, Reece tightened the laces on his boots while memorizing everything that took place in the boat’s small cabin. Now if he had judged her character right, in about twenty seconds she’d pull away from Kuntz. <br />
<br />
Shiloh took a step out of the man’s reach.<br />
<br />
Bingo. <br />
<br />
“I need something to drink.” Reece watched her cross through the hatch. “They said they had coffee up front.” <br />
<br />
Dr. Kuntz laughed, his arms outstretched. “But you don’t drink coffee.” <br />
<br />
“It’s chilly,” she called without looking back. <br />
<br />
Chilly. Interesting. It was a mild sixty-five degrees on the Arabian Sea, and she was chilly. <br />
<br />
Shiloh Blake strode straight toward him with her head held high. Calm. Relaxed. Confident. <br />
<br />
Come on, look at me, Reece silently dared her. <br />
<br />
Blue-grey eyes collided with his. He scratched his beard, wishing he had more than two weeks’ growth, but it was enough to conceal his identity. With an acknowledging nod, he stayed in position. Now if she would only hold his gaze. <br />
<br />
Oh, what he wouldn’t give to smile his pleasure as she stared at him. She only tore her eyes from his when it became impractical not to. Reece guessed she would never show any weakness. <br />
<br />
Atta, girl. <br />
<br />
Although he’d already skimmed the preliminary data on the American students, Shiloh’s impressive character made him want to know more. She had a higher confidence level than most of the people he had monitored in the region. What gave her that unshakable demeanor? Reece determined to get a DNA sample and run her through the system. Was she working undercover?<br />
<br />
As the ship bumped Victoria dock, he leaped off and lassoed the pylons. Heavy thuds sounded against the weathered planks as the emergency crew transferred the young woman and her Pakistani friend to a waiting ambulance. Dr. Kuntz doted on her once again, but with no room in the narrow mobile unit, the professor was relegated to a rickshaw. <br />
<br />
Shiloh huddled on a small bench in the ambulance, her glassy gaze locked on her friend as the emergency personnel worked on him. Just as the doors swung closed, she glanced toward Reece. A load of steel partially blocked his line of sight. Yet, despite the stenciling on the rear window, he saw her tilt her chin just enough to look for him over the emblem. The ambulance bumped over the sandy path, and then settled on PD Mello Road. Sirens wailed. Lights whirled. <br />
<br />
Reece strolled down the boardwalk toward the beach, retrieving the cell from his pocket. He hit autodial. Having to report one American dead was bad enough. But having to tell Ryan Nielsen that another sat neck deep in an ocean of chaos—<br />
<br />
“We’ve got trouble.”<br />
<br />
What was Shiloh Blake doing at a nuclear arms dead drop?</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-9700973795854674202010-03-15T08:17:00.002-04:002010-03-15T08:20:29.471-04:00FIRST Looks at THE RAVEN SAINT by MaryLu Tyndall<a href="http://firstwildcardtours.blogspot.com/"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190009307003588530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4nrWudCRCWcIG4wZIFDkd3UoMvQwaqkZ62PQLrkN_F8X9FHJXI3BmckjCRUBvduWvA2Ve8Rf6JKHKDYDmSWyPSRgr4wIvD4PpR9HSJ4rtbkV_c34Dh4BcmQ-EuNI29cSK28SPLjo4imsf/s200/wild+card.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: #cc0000;"><em>You never know when I might play a wild card on you!</em></span><br />
<br />
<strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong><br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.mltyndall.com/">M. L. Tyndall</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1602601585"><em>The Raven Saint</em> (Charles Towne Belles) </a></span></strong></div><div align="center">Barbour Books (January 1, 2010)<br />
<br />
</div>***Special thanks to MaryLu Tyndall for sending me a review copy.***<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJFjpCam5Xaaa4LwnSUM3EMmn4gG6_lkWSB16yWNzHUjtbnyfTxBYo3gTP6LlzJRXAVgMDRr_6GGXwEalOTzIQ4xjMXyDTgU3vRiN3W2Y3DM_stlYLXqZCuidtMpBZmd9p5tvSPEEG4M/s1600-h/MaryLuTyndall.JPG" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445366428488904386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJFjpCam5Xaaa4LwnSUM3EMmn4gG6_lkWSB16yWNzHUjtbnyfTxBYo3gTP6LlzJRXAVgMDRr_6GGXwEalOTzIQ4xjMXyDTgU3vRiN3W2Y3DM_stlYLXqZCuidtMpBZmd9p5tvSPEEG4M/s200/MaryLuTyndall.JPG" style="float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a>M.L. Tyndall, a Christy Award Finalist, and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King’s Pirates series is known for her adventurous historical romances filled with deep spiritual themes. She holds a degree in Math and worked as a software engineer for fifteen years before testing the waters as a writer. MaryLu currently writes full time and makes her home on the California coast with her husband, six kids, and four cats. Her passion is to write page-turning, romantic adventures that not only entertain but expose Christians to their full potential in Christ. <br />
<br />
<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://www.mltyndall.com/">website</a>.<br />
Visit the author's <a href="http://crossandcutlass.blogspot.com/">blog</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<object height="265" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2n3vhbN8JGI&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2n3vhbN8JGI&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Product Details:<br />
<br />
List Price: $10.97<br />
Paperback: 320 pages <br />
Publisher: Barbour Books (January 1, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 1602601585 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-1602601581 <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">MY THOUGHTS:</span></strong><br />
<br />
I have already posted a <a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/2010/01/raven-saint-between-devil-and-deep-blue.html">review</a> and an <a href="http://cathischatter.blogspot.com/2010/01/marylu-tyndall-talks-about-raven-saint.html">interview</a> on this marvelous book. M. L. Tyndall uses words and ideas so deftly that I can't even imagine her writing a bad book. Thrilling, romantic, well-researched, action-packed--these are just a few of the words that come to mind when describing her work. While I was reading <em>The Raven Saint</em>, I felt like it was my favorite in the <em>Charles Towne Belles</em> series, but it's really hard to choose a favorite. Each one has its own pull. I can say, however, that this is one of the best books ever!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDxKOqOSECx_9VmK1QlVKX4Fw0Wrg8APGcA1ISUNpEJc-wupsM2_SM783C6jLkISBXR88oN8_oC65yVIFXLPg9Y_G99roXT4d_IaPcs746GUKtBb1hVkLb5-QmfWtC0AThUAG87MUJpU/s1600-h/TheRavenSaint-Cover.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445366559787115554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDxKOqOSECx_9VmK1QlVKX4Fw0Wrg8APGcA1ISUNpEJc-wupsM2_SM783C6jLkISBXR88oN8_oC65yVIFXLPg9Y_G99roXT4d_IaPcs746GUKtBb1hVkLb5-QmfWtC0AThUAG87MUJpU/s200/TheRavenSaint-Cover.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">Outside Charles Towne, Carolina, October, 1718<br />
<br />
Chapter 1<br />
<br />
<br />
Black, menacing clouds snarled a warning from the Carolina skies.<br />
<br />
Clutching her skirts, Grace Westcott trudged down the muddy path. A shard of white light forked across the dark vault, and she glanced up as thunder rumbled in the distance. <br />
<br />
“I hope the rain doesn’t catch us, miss.” Alice’s shaky voice tumbled over Grace from behind.<br />
<br />
“Never fear, Alice, we are almost there.” Grace pushed aside a leafy branch that encroached upon the trail. As the wind picked up and raindrops began to rap on the leaves above them, the wall of greenery arching overhead provided a shelter that brought an odd comfort to Grace.<br />
<br />
“Look, miss. This plant. Isn’t it bloodroot?” Alice squeaked. “To heal afflictions of the skin?”<br />
<br />
Grace huffed. Her legs ached from the mile-long journey from Charles Towne. She could hear the rush of the Ashley River in the distance. They were close to the Roberts’ cabin, to poor little Thomas, sick with a fever and in desperate need of the medicines they brought.<br />
<br />
Whirling around, Grace examined the leaf in her maid’s hands. “Nay. ’Tis not bloodroot, as you well know.” She searched Alice’s eyes but the maid kept her gaze lowered. “Whatever is the matter with you today?”<br />
<br />
The maid cast a quick glance over her shoulder and shrugged. “I am only trying to help, miss.” <br />
<br />
“You can help by hurrying along. Thomas may be failing as we speak.” Grabbing her skirts, Grace turned and forged ahead. A drop of rain splattered on her forehead, and she swiped it away.<br />
<br />
“But the rain, miss. Shouldn’t we return home and don some proper attire?”<br />
<br />
“Mercy me, Alice. We are nearly there. A bit of rain will not harm us. We’ve been in far more dangerous situations.” Grace hoisted the sack stuffed with herbs, fresh fruit, and rice farther up her aching shoulder. “Besides we are going about God’s work. He will take care of us.”<br />
<br />
Grace heard Alice’s shoes squish in the mud “Indeed, miss.”.<br />
<br />
Her maid’s voice quivered—a quiver that set Grace’s nerves on edge, along with the dark tempest brewing above them. Something was bothering the woman, Grace couldn’t guess what.<br />
<br />
Another flash lit up the sky. Releasing her skirts to the sticky mud, Grace pushed aside a tangled vine that seemed to be joining forces with Alice in attempting to keep her from continuing. Musky air, heavy with moisture and laden with scents of earth and life, filled her nostrils. Thunder bellowed, closer this time, and raindrops tapped upon the canopy of leaves overhead. Plowing ahead, Grace ignored the twinge of guilt at her most recent expedition. One of many expeditions she’d been strictly forbidden to embark upon—both by her father, before he set sail for Spain, and more recently, her sister Faith and Faith’s new husband, Dajon. But Grace could not allow anyone or anything to stop her from doing what God had commissioned her to do: feed the poor, tend to the sick, and spread the good news of His Gospel.<br />
<br />
She glanced up at the dark clouds swirling like some vile witch’s brew. Perhaps she should have left a note informing Faith of her whereabouts. No matter. She would drop off the food and herbs, attend to Thomas, and be home before sunset. <br />
<br />
Grace emerged from the green fortress into a clearing. Thunder bellowed, and she shivered as a chill struck her. In the distance, the wide Ashley River tumbled along its course. A cabin perched by the water’s edge, smoke curling from its chimney. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and quickened her pace. “Here at last. And, as you can see, Alice, all is well.”<br />
<br />
A nervous giggle sounded from behind her.<br />
<br />
Hoisting the sack higher up on her shoulders, Grace clutched her skirts and climbed the steps of the cabin, but before she could knock on the door, it swung open. Mr. Roberts, a burly red-faced man with unruly dark hair, stared curiously at her for a moment then cocked his head and smiled. “Miss Grace. A grand pleasure to see you.” His glance took in Alice standing on the steps behind Grace. His forehead wrinkled. “What brings you this far from home on such a rainy day? Helen, Miss Grace has come for a visit,” he yelled over his shoulder. The scent of smoke and some sort of meaty stew wafted over Grace.<br />
<br />
“Why, we’ve come to help Thomas of course.” Lightning flashed, casting a momentary grayish shroud over Mr. Roberts’s normally ruddy face.<br />
<br />
“Thomas needs help?” He scratched his thick, dark mane.<br />
<br />
Alice’s boots thudded on the steps, and Grace turned to see her maid inching away from the cabin, her chin lowered.<br />
<br />
Shaking her head, Grace faced Mr. Roberts. “Yes, you sent Alfred yesterday to inform us of Thomas’s fever and ask for my help, did you not?” The man looked puzzled. Grace slid the sack from her shoulder and set it down on the planks of the porch. “I’ve brought elder root and dogwood bark for his fever and some fresh fruit and rice for you and your family.”<br />
<br />
Mrs. Roberts appeared in the doorway, her infant daughter cradled in her arms. “Grace, what a wonderful surprise. Henry, don’t just stand there. Invite her in out of the rain.”<br />
<br />
“Thomas isn’t sick.” Mr. Roberts’ nose wrinkled. “And Alfred was here with us all day yesterday.”<br />
<br />
Grace swerved about to question Alice, but the girl was nowhere in sight. Descending the stairs, she dashed into the clearing, her heart in her throat as she scanned the foliage for any sign of her maid.<br />
<br />
A swoosh of leaves and stomp of boots reached her ears, then a band of five men materialized from the foliage. Armed with cutlasses and pistols, they stormed toward Grace. She tried to move her feet, but the thick mud clung to them like shackles. Mr. Roberts cursed and ushered his wife inside. The baby began to howl.<br />
<br />
A tall, sinewy man halted before her. A burst of wind struck him, fluttering the green feather atop his cocked hat and the tips of the black hair grazing his shoulders. He shifted his jaw, peppered with black stubble, and gazed at her with eyes the color of the dark clouds churning above them. A slow smile crept across his lips, lifting his thin, rakish mustache. “Mademoiselle Grace Westcott, I presume.” His thick French accent turned her blood to ice.<br />
<br />
Grace met his gaze squarely. “I am, sir.”<br />
<br />
With a snap of his fingers, two of his men flanked her. “You will come with us.”<br />
<br />
“I will not.” The men wrenched her arms behind her back. Pain shot across her shoulders.<br />
<br />
The snap of a rifle sounded, drawing the man’s attention to Mr. Roberts pointing his musket in their direction. “Leave her be.”<br />
<br />
A flicker of relief eased over Grace, quickly fading when she examined the man before her. Instead of fear, amusement sparked in his eyes. The men on either side of Grace chuckled as if Mr. Roberts had told a joke.<br />
<br />
“Quel homme galant, but I fear I cannot do that, monsieur.” The leader crossed his arms over his gray waistcoat and scraped a finger along his lean chin. “With a bit of fortune and a good aim, you may shoot one of us. Mais that would leave you and your family completely at our mercy. Comprenez-vous?”<br />
<br />
Mr. Roberts stared at him for a long moment, obviously measuring the man.<br />
<br />
“Toss your weapon to the ground, monsieur and go into your house. If you come out, we will shoot you. If you fire another weapon at us, we will kill your family. <br />
<br />
A short, barrel-chested man beside the leader drew his pistol and leveled it at Mr. Roberts. The sneer on his face suggested he would love nothing more than to shoot the man where he stood.<br />
<br />
The musket quivered in Mr. Roberts’s hands as he perused the band of ruffians, but still he did not relent. Grace shook her head, sending her friend a silent appeal. She would not allow him to put his family in jeopardy for her.<br />
<br />
Mr. Roberts swallowed, threw his weapon into the mud, and gave her an apologetic look before slipping inside the cabin and closing the door with an ominous thud that echoed Grace’s fate.<br />
<br />
She faced the leader. Thunder roared across the clearing. “What have you done with Alice?”<br />
<br />
“Alice? Hmm.” His eyes lit up. “Votre servante? I merely paid her well for leading you to us.” He grinned.<br />
<br />
The skies opened and released a torrent of rain upon Grace as if God Himself shed the tears that now burned behind her eyes. How could Alice have done such a thing? She had been Grace’s personal maid for the past five years—had traveled with her in the crossing from Portsmouth to Charles Towne.<br />
<br />
The rain bounced off the cocked hat and the broad shoulders of the man before her. Drops streamed down Grace’s face, her neck, soaked into her gown, and befogged the scene before her. If only the fresh water from heaven could wash away these devilish creatures like holy water sprinkled upon evil.<br />
<br />
The black-haired man turned and marched away as though her desperate wish had reached God’s ears. But then his two minions wrenched her arms again and dragged her behind him. Panic seized her. This couldn’t be happening! She dug her heels into the mud but her captors merely lifted her from the ground. Pain scorched across her arms and neck.<br />
<br />
“Please, sir. Please. What do you want with me?”<br />
<br />
But the only reply came from the rain pounding on the leaves and the thunder rumbling across the sky.<br />
<br />
They plunged back into the thick forest. Grace struggled against the men’s meaty grips. Even if she did manage to break free from them, tree trunks rose like prison bars on either side of her holding her captive within the dense thicket. They trudged down the path for what seemed an eternity. Each step dug the knife of fear deeper into Grace’s heart. Silently, she appealed to God for her salvation, begging to hear His comforting voice, but her petitions were met with the same silence her captors afforded her. Finally, they emerged onto a secluded shore, and the men shoved her onto the thwart of a small boat then launched the craft into the rushing river. In the distance Grace saw a two-masted brig swaying with the rolling tide.<br />
<br />
Lord, where are You? She clasped her hands together and tried to catch her breath. <br />
<br />
The black-haired man locked a smoldering gaze upon her. He did not look away as propriety demanded but perused her with alarming audacity. Rain streamed off his hat onto his black breeches, and a smirk creased one corner of his mouth. Averting her gaze to the agitated water, she considered leaping overboard. She couldn’t swim. At least not well enough to fight the strong Ashley current. Besides, surely God would rescue her from these brigands. He was simply testing her faith by waiting until the last minute when things were at their worst. Lifting her chin, she cast a defiant look upon her captor, but it only caused his smirk to widen.<br />
<br />
Within minutes, they reached the ship and thudded against its hull. Shouts pitched upon them from above as faces popped over the bulwarks to peer down at her. Grace glanced about for the rescuer God should have sent by now. The leader pulled her to her feet, and before she could make a move, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and climbed the rope ladder without effort.<br />
<br />
Grace could no longer feel the fear or even the damp chill. Numbness gripped her, born of shock at her predicament. Blood rushed to her head, and she closed her eyes, breathing in the musky scent of the man’s damp wool waistcoat and praying for the nightmare to end.<br />
<br />
Once aboard, he carried her across deck as he issued a string of orders in French, sending his crew scrambling in every direction.<br />
<br />
“Welcome back, Captain,” a deep voice shouted, then a shock of brown hair appeared in Grace’s vision. “I see you found her.”<br />
<br />
“Oui, bien sûr.” His tone carried the haughtiness that excluded any other possibility as he tapped her on the rump.<br />
<br />
“How dare you!” Grace shouted and tried to kick her legs, but the captain’s arm kept them pinned to his chest. The two men shared a chuckle.<br />
<br />
“Weigh anchor, away aloft, and raise the main, Mr. Thorn. We set sail immediately.”<br />
<br />
Raindrops bounced over the wooden planks, pelting her from all directions. Her head bumped against his damp coat. His hard shoulder pressed into her aching stomach as he carried her down a ladder. She stretched her hand to grab the hilt of his rapier, but it taunted her from its sheath at his other side, out of her reach. She pounded her fists against his back. Muscle as unyielding as steel sent pain through her hands. <br />
<br />
With a chuckle, he sauntered down a hallway and kicked open a door. Grace tensed, fearing the man would toss her to the floor. Instead, grasping her waist, he gently set her down inside the tiny cabin.<br />
<br />
Gaining her balance, Grace wiped the matted strands of wet hair from her face and faced him. “Who are you and what do you want with me?” she said in a stalwart tone that surprised her.<br />
<br />
He doffed his feathered hat and banged it against his knee, sending droplets over the floor. Tucking an errant strand of wet hair behind his ear, he bowed. “Captain Rafe Dubois at your service, mademoiselle. I welcome you aboard Le Champion. And regarding what I want with you”—he raised one brow and allowed his gaze to scour over her—“I am to deliver you to Don Miguel De Salazar in Columbia.”<br />
<br />
“Columbia?” Grace took a step back and gripped her throat.<br />
<br />
“Oui, he has promised to pay quite handsomely for you.” <br />
<br />
“For me? But why? I don’t even know the man.” A shudder ran through her.<br />
<br />
“Ah, but your father does apparently. The two men are not…how do you say? Agreeable? Don Miguel holds him responsible for the death of his son in a skirmish with a galleon. He thought you would be adequate payment for the transgression.”<br />
<br />
“Payment!” Grace’s fear gave way to anger. “I am no one’s payment. How can you take part in such a wicked scheme?”<br />
<br />
The captain shrugged as if her words rolled off of him. “Like I said, he’s willing to pay handsomely.” He offered her a devious grin then donned his hat and closed the door with a resounding thud. <br />
<br />
</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-53354976057978055492010-03-13T13:33:00.002-05:002010-03-13T14:10:39.315-05:00A FIRST Look at THE COUNTRY HOUSE COURTSHIP<div align="center"><strong>Today's Wild Card author is: </strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.linoreburkard.com/">Linore Rose Burkard</a></span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 100%;">and the book:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: 180%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0736927999"><em>The Country House Courtship</em></a></span></strong></div><div align="center">Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010)</div><em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">***Special thanks to Linore Rose Burkard and Dave Bartlett (Harvest House Publishers) for sending me a review copy.***</span></em><br />
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<div align="left"><strong><span style="color: #333399; font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span> </span></strong></div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosQalD3rv8spwp1AMQxUln6NNUFs9YB1_njCJancKGyTvQsf54qREQFLrrRhg86I_f12PoW00-aUVRbrM42diNVEJHnwuYUcBd_EbaZw_ICjpBqekc26K5iHz2kwkw9JqerIqW1pIRMw/s1600-h/LB_headshot_small.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447434139642087490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosQalD3rv8spwp1AMQxUln6NNUFs9YB1_njCJancKGyTvQsf54qREQFLrrRhg86I_f12PoW00-aUVRbrM42diNVEJHnwuYUcBd_EbaZw_ICjpBqekc26K5iHz2kwkw9JqerIqW1pIRMw/s200/LB_headshot_small.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 186px;" /></a><br />
Linore Rose Burkard is the creator of "Inspirational Romance for the Jane Austen Soul." Her characters take you back in time to experience life and love during the era of Regency England (circa 1811 - 1820). Fans of classic romances such as Pride & Prejudice, Emma, and Sense & Sensibility, will enjoy Linore's feisty heroines, heart-throb heroes and happy endings. <br />
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Enjoy the free resources on Linore's website: <a href="http://www.linoreburkard.com/resources.html">http://www.LinoreBurkard.com/resources.html</a> <br />
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Visit the author's <a href="http://www.linoreburkard.com/">website</a>.<br />
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Product Details:<br />
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List Price: $13.99<br />
Paperback: 300 pages <br />
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2010) <br />
Language: English <br />
ISBN-10: 0736927999 <br />
ISBN-13: 978-0736927994 <br />
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<span style="color: #660000; font-size: large;"><strong>MY THOUGHTS:</strong></span> <br />
This is the kind of book that I can wander around and get lost in. I have always been a big fan of Jane Austen, and Linore Rose Burkard succeeds in creating a similar style with the same historical and social background. That is not to say that her writing simply mimics Ms. Austen; she most definitely <br />
stamps her own personality in this beautiful tale. I love the witticisms and that cultured banter where words have importance. Mrs. Burkard paints a clear picture of the scene and the action. The characters are so well-developed and defined that we soon know what they are thinking and going to do. Although we are rather sure of certain outcomes in a story such as this, there are still quite a few surprises and unexpected obstacles. Part of the fun is discovering how the wrinkles get ironed out. The battle of self-will against God's will is prominent in the lives and choices of several characters, not all of whom chose wisely in the end. <br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"><strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:</span> </strong></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieCUW46quUgKsUvKKH7f98M_UGsE07OhqU6YQbLz9SLCqFcbXcS3GBMLuPk4ty5FSTADLlItljwlAS3aUUhlLGCSYl5raYZJ5dsZm-4s_1Sex7Myv_55InoS3CcNRm8Nu_6TEnDR3eV78/s1600-h/Country+House+CourtshipB+(2).jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447435043612224258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieCUW46quUgKsUvKKH7f98M_UGsE07OhqU6YQbLz9SLCqFcbXcS3GBMLuPk4ty5FSTADLlItljwlAS3aUUhlLGCSYl5raYZJ5dsZm-4s_1Sex7Myv_55InoS3CcNRm8Nu_6TEnDR3eV78/s200/Country+House+CourtshipB+(2).jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 130px;" /></a><br />
<div style="height: 307px; overflow: auto;">London, England, 1818 <br />
<br />
<br />
Mr. Peter O’Brien felt surely he had a devil plaguing him, and the devil’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay. The paper in his hand should have made him happy. Indeed, it ought to have elicited nothing but joy after two years of holding a curacy that didn’t pay enough to feed a church-mouse. Yet, instead he was staring ahead after reading a letter of recommendation for him as though he’d seen a ghost. <br />
<br />
His previous naval commander, Colonel Sotheby, had recommended Mr. O’Brien to a wealthy landowner whose vicarage had gone vacant. It was the sort of letter that a poor Curate should rejoice over. The man who obtained the vicarage in the parish of Glendover, the Colonel said, in addition to having a decent curate’s salary, would have claim to a large glebe, a generous and well built house, and, in short, would see himself by way of having enough to begin a family. (If he found a wife to marry, first, of course. O’Brien could just hear the Colonel’s good-natured laugh ring out at that remark.)<br />
<br />
But still his own mouth was set in an unpromising hard line: The landowner’s name was Mr. Phillip Mornay, none other than the Paragon, himself. And Mornay, Mr. O’Brien knew, would never grant him the living. To do so would go against everything he knew to be true of him. After all, no man who had once overstepped his bounds with Mr. Mornay’s betrothed, as Mr. O’Brien unfortunately had, would now be presented to the vicarage on the man’s lands. Of all the rotten, devilish luck! To have such a letter of commendation was like gold in the fiercely competitive world of the church, where there were more poor curates looking for a rise in their situations than there were church parishes who could supply them. <br />
<br />
Therefore, instead of the boon from heaven this letter ought to have been, Mr. O’Brien was struck with a gloomy assurance that Mornay would sooner accept a popinjay in cleric’s clothing than himself. Even worse, his mother agreed with his appraisal. <br />
<br />
He had taken the letter into the morning room of their house on Blandford Street, joining his mother while she sat at her breakfast. <br />
<br />
“You do not wish to renew old grievances,” she said. “Mr. Mornay is not, to my knowledge, a forgiving man; shall you be put to the expense and trouble of travelling all the way to Middlesex, only to be turned down in the end? What can you possibly gain in it?” <br />
<br />
Mr. O’Brien nodded; he saw her point. But he said, “I may have to do just that. The Colonel will never recommend me for another parish if he learns that I failed to apply myself to this opportunity.” <br />
<br />
“Write to him,” replied his mama. “See if you can politely decline this honour, with the understanding that any other offer should be most welcome and appreciated!” <br />
<br />
He doubted that any letter , no matter how ‘politely’ written, would be able to manage his desire to avoid this meeting with Mornay, as well as secure the hope of a future recommendation. But he thought about it, put quill to paper and sent the Colonel a reply. He asked (in the humblest terms he could manage) if the man might commend him for a living to be presented by some other landowner, indeed, any other landowner, any other gentleman in England than Phillip Mornay.<br />
<br />
He could not explain the full extent of his past doings with Mr. Mornay without making himself sound like an utter fool; how he had hoped to marry the present Mrs. Mornay himself, some years ago. How presumptuous his hopes seemed to him now! Miss Ariana Forsythe was magnificent as the wife of the Paragon. He’d seen them in town after the marriage, but without ever presenting himself before her. It appalled even him that he had once thought himself worthy or equal to that beautiful lady. <br />
<br />
When the Colonel’s reply came, there was little surprise in it. He assured Mr. O’Brien that his apprehensions were ill-placed; that Mr. Mornay’s past reputation of being a harsh, irascible man was no longer to the purpose. Colonel Sotheby himself held Mornay in the greatest respect, and insisted that the Paragon had as good a heart as any Christian. In short, (and he made this terribly clear) Mr. O’Brien had best get himself off to Middlesex or he would put the Colonel in a deuced uncomfortable spot. He had already written to Aspindon House, which meant that Mr. O’Brien was expected. If he failed to appear for an interview, he could not expect that another recommendation of such merit and generosity would ever come his way again. <br />
<br />
Mr. O’Brien realized it was inevitable: he would have to go to Middlesex and present himself to Mornay. He knew it was a vain cause, that nothing but humiliation could come of it, but he bowed to what he must consider the will of God. He knelt in prayer, begging to be excused from this doomed interview, but his heart and conscience told him he must to it. If he was to face humiliation, had he not brought it upon himself? Had he not earned Mornay’s disregard, with his former obsession with Miss Forsythe, who was now Mrs. Mornay? <br />
<br />
He no longer had feelings for the lady, but it was sure to be blesséd awkward to face her! No less so than her husband. Nevertheless, when he rose from his knees, Peter O’Brien felt equal to doing what both duty and honour required. He only hoped that Mr. Mornay had not already written his own letter of objections to the Colonel; telling him why he would never present the living to Peter O’Brien. The Colonel was his best hope for a way out of St. Pancras . It was a gritty, desperate parish with poverty, crime, and hopelessness aplenty—not the sort of place he hoped to spend his life in, for he wanted a family. A wife. <br />
<br />
Prepared to face the interview come what may, Mr. O’Brien determined not to allow Mornay to make quick work of him. He was no longer the youthful swain, besotted over a Miss Forsythe. A stint in the Army, if nothing else, had hardened him, brought him face to face with deep issues of life, and left him, or so he thought, a better man. <br />
<br />
****** <br />
<br />
<br />
Aspindon House, Glendover, Middlesex <br />
<br />
Ariana Mornay looked for the hundredth time at her younger sister Beatrice, sitting across from her in the elegantly cozy morning room of her country estate, Aspindon. Here in the daylight, Beatrice’s transformation from child to warm and attractive young woman was fully evident . When Mrs. Forsythe and Beatrice had arrived the prior evening, Ariana had seen the change in her sister, of course, but the daylight revealed it in a clarity that neither last night’s flambeaux (lit in honour of their arrival) or the interior candlelight and fire of the drawing room had been able to offer. <br />
<br />
Beatrice’s previously brown hair was now a lovely luminous russet. Ringlets peeked out from a morning cap with ruffled lace, hanging over her brow and hovering about the sides of her face. The reddish brown of her locks emphasized hazel-green eyes, smallish mischievous lips and a healthy glow in her cheeks. Beatrice noticed her elder sister was studying her, and smiled. <br />
<br />
“You still look at me as if you know me not,” she said, not hiding how much it pleased her to find herself an object of admiration. <br />
<br />
“I cannot comprehend how greatly you are altered, in just one year!” <br />
<br />
“I regret that we did not come for so long,” put in Mrs. Forsythe, the girls’ mother. She was still feasting her eyes upon Ariana and the children (though the nurse, Mrs. Perler, had taken four year old Nigel, the Mornay’s firstborn, from the room, after he had spilled a glass of milk all over himself minutes ago). “We wished to come sooner, as you know, but Lucy took ill, and I dared not carry the sickness here to you with your new little baby.” At this, she stopped and cooed to the infant, who was upon her lap at the moment.”No, no, no,” she said, in the exaggerated tone that people use when addressing babies, “we can’t have little Miranda getting sick, now can we?” <br />
<br />
Ariana smiled. “It matters not, mama. You are here, now. I only wish Papa and Lucy could have joined you.” Lucy, the youngest Forsythe sister, and Papa, had been obliged to stay home until the spring planting had been seen to. Mr. Forsythe did not wish to be wholly bereft of his family, so Lucy, who was a great comfort to him, had been enjoined to remain in Chesterton for his sake. <br />
<br />
“I could not bear to wait upon your father a day longer,” she answered with a little smile. “They will come by post chaise after papa has done his service through Easter. And then we will all be together--except for the Norledges. Perhaps when Papa comes, he may bring your older sister and her husband?” <br />
<br />
“I would want Aunt Pellham too, in that case,” murmured the blond-haired young woman. <br />
<br />
“Oh, my! With your Aunt and Uncle Pellham, and the Norledges, even this large house would be filled with guests, I daresay!” said her mother.<br />
<br />
Beatrice was still happily ingesting the thought that Ariana had evidently noticed her womanhood. At seventeen, hers was not a striking sort of beauty—one did not stop in instant admiration upon spying Beatrice in a room, for instance, as had often been the case for Ariana; but the younger girl had no lack of wits, a lively eye and countenance, and, not to be understated, an easy friendliness. Among a group of reserved and proper English young ladies, Beatrice would be the beacon of refuge for the timid; she was welcoming where others were aloof; inquisitive and protective where others looked away. <br />
<br />
Nor was she the sort of young woman to glide across a floor, dignified and elegant. Instead, Beatrice was ever having to keep her energy in check; When rising from a chair (her mama had made her practice doing so countless times) she could appear as elegant as the next young woman. She ate nicely, even daintily. But left unchecked, her natural enthusiasm might propel her through a room with alarming speed. Her shawls were ever hanging from her arms, never staying in place over her shoulder; and her mother forbade her from wearing hair jewellery, as it tended to lose its place upon her head. Bandeaux were her lot; besides bonnets, of course. <br />
<br />
“It is fortunate that I am only seventeen,” she had said to her mama only last week, while the woman was draping a wide bandeau artfully around Beatrice’s head. “Or I believe you would exile every manner of female head attire from this house, saving turbans! Although my hair holds a curl twice as long as Lucy’s!” <br />
<br />
Mrs. Forsythe had paused from her ministrations and met her daughter’s eyes in the looking glass before them. “I daresay you are suited for turbans; perhaps we should shop for some. I believe they are very popular just now.” Since the last thing in the world Beatrice wished to wear upon her head was a turban—no matter how many ladies in the pages of La Belle Assemblée wore them—she simply gave voice to an exasperated huff, evoking a knowing smile upon her mama’s face. <br />
<br />
“I should adore a full house of guests,” she said, now. “Please do invite the Norledges’ Ariana! Only think of the diversions we could have; play-acting with enough people to fill all the roles, for a change! Or charades; or even a dance!” <br />
<br />
Ariana looked at her sister fondly. “Which dances do you like best?” <br />
<br />
“The waltz!” she quickly responded, with a smile to show that she knew it was mischievous to prefer the waltz—the single dance which entailed more contact with the opposite sex than any other ballroom fare. Mrs. Forsythe clucked her tongue, but Beatrice blithely ignored this, taking a peek at her brother-in-law to gauge his reaction, instead. The host of the gathering was reading his morning paper, however, and not listening to the small talk between his wife and her relations. <br />
<br />
And relations were virtually all around him. In addition to Beatrice and Mrs. Forsythe, there was his aunt, Mrs. Royleforst, staying with them at the present, and her companion, skinny, nervous Miss Bluford. These two ladies had not appeared yet for breakfast, which was probably on account of Mrs. Royleforst. She found mornings difficult and either slept in, or took a tray in her room. <br />
<br />
“What do you think, sir?” asked Mrs. Forsythe, of her host. “Shall my daughter invite the Norledges to join Mr. Forsythe and Lucy when they set out for your house? Or is your home already filled enough for your liking?” <br />
<br />
Mr. Mornay looked over his paper enough to acknowledge that he had heard her question. “As it is your and my wife’s family, I think the two of you must decide upon it. As long as there are bed-chambers enough,” he added, looking at Ariana, “you may fill them with guests as you please.” <br />
<br />
“Thank you, darling,” she said, making Beatrice stifle a titter. Her sister and her husband were still inordinately romantic, to her mind. Good thing no one else was present save her mother! She would have been embarrassed for them in company. <br />
<br />
“Shall I take the baby, mama?” said Ariana, for Miranda was beginning to fuss.<br />
<br />
“I suppose she wants to be fed,” agreed her mother. Ariana nodded to a maid who was seated against the wall, who went and received the child from her grandmother and brought her gingerly to her mama. Ariana’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she took her little girl. She murmured to the baby, by turns picking her up and kissing her face, and then just holding her in her arms and gazing at her in loving adoration. “I shan’t feed her yet,” she said. “She isn’t insisting upon it.” <br />
<br />
Beatrice’s thoughts were still upon the diversions that would be possible with a large group staying at the house. “If they all come, can you and Mr. Mornay hold a ball, Ariana? Or, will you take me to London this year for the Season? Then I may go to as many balls as I like, and you will not have the expense of holding them!” <br />
<br />
“If she takes you to London for the Season,” put in her mama, “she will have a great deal more expense than just that of a ball! Besides which, you are too young for such.”<br />
<br />
Beatrice looked at her mama, her enthusiasm temporarily dampened. “But my sister sees I am older, now,” she said, looking at Ariana with a silent plea in her gaze. “And I am not too young for a Season, according to the magazines. Many girls my age do have their coming out, mama!” <br />
<br />
“Many gels,” she returned, instantly, “have little sense, and their parents, no better; your papa and I did not allow either of your sisters to go about in society at your age. You have been already too pampered, if you ask me. London society is out of the question!”<br />
<br />
Beatrice was now thoroughly dampened in her spirits, but she looked about and settled her eyes upon her brother-in-law. “I daresay Mr. Mornay has seen many a girl of my age--and younger—make their debut during the Season. And to no ill effect! Why, I am sure some of them have made the most brilliant matches! Many a man of good standing prefers a younger lady for his wife. You had ought to let me go while I am young enough to enjoy this advantage.” <br />
<br />
Mr. Mornay was frowning behind his newspaper. He knew that his young relation wanted his support in the matter, but Mr. Mornay was assuredly not in the habit of coming to the aid of young women, particularly regarding a London Season. So he said nothing, though an ensuing silence in the room told him the ladies waited for his opinion. <br />
<br />
Ariana, who knew better, offered, “Let us discuss it another time. There are months, yet, before the Season. And with Miranda so young, I cannot decide at this point, in any case.” <br />
<br />
Beatrice, who had no idea she was treading on dangerous ground, said, “Only let Mr. Mornay tell us his thoughts! I know my mother will listen if you tell her, sir,” she said, directly to him.<br />
<br />
He put his paper down reluctantly, and then looked at Beatrice. “I think Ariana was young to face society at nineteen. At your age, you need to be sheltered, not put forth among the wolves.” <br />
<br />
Her face fell so entirely, that he almost chuckled at it. “Why are you so eager for a Season?” <br />
<br />
She smiled a little. This was better; he was inviting her to explain so that her mother could see the good advantage in it. “I have long lived with the memory of my sister’s tales of her experiences in London;” she said. “She met you there! Her coming out is what brought her to marriage, to Aspindon, to a better life! I have had my fill of Chesterton, I assure you! The prospects for marrying well in that region are as dismal as ever, if not worse;” she said. (Ariana closed her eyes at this; she could hardly bear to hear her sister telling all the reasons Phillip would most despise.) “Why does it seem that all the eligible young men in the county are either in a regiment somewhere, or at sea, or in need of a fortune? I must go to London or Bath, where there are more men one can meet!” <br />
<br />
She paused, looking at him earnestly. “I have no fortune, sir, as you are well aware. And with your connexions, I am certain to make very advantageous acquaintances! What could be more certain? I shall end up, no doubt, just as my sister has, with a man like you, sir!” Beatrice evidently thought she was giving him a great compliment. She waited, expecting a gracious answer. <br />
<br />
“Oh, Beatrice!” moaned Mrs. Forsythe. “You foolish gel!” <br />
<br />
Mr. Mornay stood up, after folding his paper to a neat size. He said, “It takes more than wearing a corset to say a young lady is grown up, would you not agree?” He directed his remark to the whole room, and then settled his eyes upon Beatrice for one second too long, before giving a small bow to the women in general, and turning to leave the room. Beatrice considered his words for a moment. He had rested his eyes on her long enough so that she knew exactly what he meant. <br />
<br />
Mr. Frederick met his master at the door, holding out a salver with a letter for Mr. Mornay, who took it but then looked curiously at the butler. <br />
<br />
“It arrived in that condition, sir! I daresay it was lost in the mail or some such thing.” <br />
<br />
“Hmm, very good, Freddie.” He held up a battered and ink-soiled missive for his wife to see, while eyeing it dubiously.<br />
<br />
She looked amused. “Who is it from?”<br />
<br />
He unfolded the paper, as the sealing wax was almost entirely worn off already, and scanned the signature at the bottom. “Colonel Sotheby. I’ll read it in my office.” She nodded, and Mr. Mornay left the room.<br />
<br />
Beatrice was still smarting from his earlier remark, and said, as soon as he’d gone, “How ‘grown up’ can I be, when I am forced to exist in a small country village, with no prospects, and genteel company only upon a Sunday?”<br />
<br />
“You overstate your case! That is not true,” answered her mama, disapprovingly. <br />
<br />
“And as for wearing a corset,” Beatrice continued, after taking a sip of tea, “I do not pretend that wearing one is what makes me of age for a Season. I have formed my principles upon sound reason. I have sat beneath the tutelage of my father and of Mr. Timmons, and of his curate, and I should say my principles are well-founded.” <br />
<br />
“We are glad to hear it,” Ariana said, with great forbearance, “but really, you should not be setting your mind upon seeking a man like my husband; you should be intent upon finding the man that God has chosen for you.” <br />
<br />
“And so I am!” she protested, her eyes wide and laughing. “But look at the advantage He gives me in having you for my sister! Am I to ignore that? When it could be the very means of bringing me and my future husband together?” <br />
<br />
Ariana played absently with little Miranda’s blanket, tucking it in about her chin more snugly. She met her sister’s eyes. “London is not the only place a young woman may meet a husband. And if you want my husband’s approval of your plan, the last thing in the world you should tell him is that you want to meet a man like him! Or that you wish to marry above you in any way!” <br />
“But is it above me? To marry well? When my sister is Mrs. Mornay of Aspindon House?” <br />
<br />
“It is above you,” said her mother, “because you are Miss Forsythe of Chesterton.” <br />
<br />
“I am a gentleman’s daughter,” she replied. <br />
<br />
“With no dowry to speak of,” said her mama.<br />
<br />
Beatrice’s cheeks began to burn. “With a rich and famous brother-in-law!” she said, petulantly. <br />
<br />
“That does not signify!” said her mother. <br />
<br />
“It does, to me!” <br />
<br />
“It should not!” Mrs. Forsythe was quickly growing ashamed of her daughter, and she was relieved that Mr. Mornay had left the room, and was not hearing Beatrice right now. Ariana’s eyebrows were raised and she was doing her best to act as though she had no part in the dialogue. <br />
<br />
“But it does, mama!” <br />
<br />
“Beatrice! You have already said far too much on this topic, which proves to me your great ignorance of the world.” She held up her hand for silence as Beatrice was about to protest; “Not another word! I shan’t have it, not another word.” Mrs. Forsythe turned her attention to her elder daughter. <br />
<br />
“I think I will visit the Nursery to see how Nigel is faring. Do you mind?” <br />
<br />
“Of course not! He will enjoy showing you his toys.” She smiled, while her mother rose to leave the room. “I’ll be up myself, shortly, to feed the baby.” <br />
<br />
“Very good.” She nodded to her daughter, and then her eye fell upon Beatrice. “I think it would be wise if you said nothing more regarding a Season. In fact, I forbid you to mention it to Mr. Mornay again! Do you understand me?”<br />
<br />
“I do, mama.” Beatrice was not happy but she recognized the tone of voice her mother was using. She considered, moreover, that it would be a simple matter to keep from mentioning her hopes to the man, for he evidently would not encourage her in them. But as for herself, she would continue to think of the Season in London. She would continue to hope; and some other day, when Ariana was in a good disposition, she would prevail upon her to sponsor her in London. <br />
<br />
Beatrice did not want to seem disrespectful, but she knew that Mr. Mornay was quite in error regarding her. He did not know, for instance, that she was determined to make a good match, and recognized it as her lot in life. Every inch she saw of Aspindon just confirmed her sense that a rich life awaited her. She was born for it. And now all that was necessary was to meet her future husband—the man who could make it all happen. She had long prayed for just such a meeting, and knew that it was bound to occur. All she had to do was be properly outfitted, and in the proper company, for it to do so.<br />
<br />
All she had to do was change her sister and brother-in-law’s mind on the matter. How difficult could that be? <br />
<br />
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</div>cathikinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12180306267340755443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5851349728729232539.post-57085806264587724492010-03-10T17:44:00.000-05:002010-03-10T17:44:13.794-05:00ONE SMOOTH STONE: First Chapter Excerpt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Lq2KYj79sfY2MoAmk-sA-s5pvzneq0wAgNFkC2BW-8iDXCEqVSiiFmrerypR_Wt5QYBZJ9_v1nVrmEkTcoWU2IH21CauKgj2wWnN90vCflkzlsbWabyJYqw-R1CpF6pAHceL4lCYP4g/s1600-h/cfrblogo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Lq2KYj79sfY2MoAmk-sA-s5pvzneq0wAgNFkC2BW-8iDXCEqVSiiFmrerypR_Wt5QYBZJ9_v1nVrmEkTcoWU2IH21CauKgj2wWnN90vCflkzlsbWabyJYqw-R1CpF6pAHceL4lCYP4g/s320/cfrblogo.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<center style="color: #20124d;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>One Smooth Stone</b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><br />
<div align="center"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Chapter One</b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></center> <br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%;"><span lang="EN-US"> <b> <span style="font-size: medium;">Alex Donnelly was alone. That’s how he wanted it. He told himself that’s how he liked it. That was a lie.</span></b></span></div><br />
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<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">He twisted the throttle on the boat motor to the off position, leaned back, pulled his floppy-brimmed river hat off his head and turned his face toward the sun. The silted water hissed against the bottom and sides of the boat. A breeze tussled his thick black hair. He heard a hawk whistle from a high cliff and squinted to watch it plummet from its perch.</span></b></span></div><br />
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<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b> <span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US"> Closing his eyes, he slumped low. He would let the current take him home. He had all day and there wasn’t anyone waiting for him, except his dogs. </span>At least they would welcome him, if only in anticipation of being fed.</span></b></div></center></center></center></center> <br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%;"><b> <span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US"> The hawk whistled again and Alex opened his eyes, letting them fill with the sweeping green hills and wide brown Yukon River. As the boat caught and circled in a whirlpool he dipped his hand into the cold flow. Two minutes, he’d been told. If he fell in – or jumped – it would take two minutes for this river to kill him. He knew it was true because it had almost happened. He’d been looking for the cabin where he now lived, had beached at the mouth of the wrong creek and decided to wade to the other side to search for a trail. Half way across he realized he was in trouble. It was deeper than he’d thought and his legs were giving out. Then the bottom dropped off completely and he’d had to swim. He barely made it to the shore in time; he couldn’t stand when he got there. His legs were useless for several minutes, even though the sun was high and hot that day. He remembered he’d shivered for two days.</span></span></b></div><br />
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<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b> <span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US"> His eyes caught the gray shifting of mist in the rift of a small valley far ahead as thick clouds spilled their burden of moisture down toward the river. He could smell it as the wind brought the fragrance of poplar toward him. The trees on the banks seemed to turn their leaves toward it. He pulled his hat back on and shrugged into an old slicker. As the rain came toward him he started the motor and steered the boat closer to shore. He knew a wind could come up strong enough to keep him at a stand-still. He snorted as he thought about that. It was the story of his life right now. Standing still. But at least he wasn’t running anymore. He wondered how long it would last.</span></span></b></div></center></center><center style="color: #20124d;"> <br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b> <span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US"> Just before the rain hit him a sudden shifting of light curved over the hills in a faint rainbow. God’s promise. Funny how he always thought that when he saw a rainbow. Someone somewhere must have said it to him. He pulled his hat down and cut the motor again, to listen, as the first softness of rain touched him. Everything around him seemed to whisper. He breathed deeply and almost smiled. Out here a person could almost want to believe in God and promises. Almost. </span></span></b></div></center> <br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%;"><b> <span style="font-size: medium;">****</span></b></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> August 19, 2003, Vancouver, British Columbia</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"> Inspector Stan Sorensen slumped into the driver’s seat of his unmarked car. Another case closed. It was a good feeling, but as his eyes absently scanned the neighborhood he knew it would not last. There was always another case, always more people who’d been hurt, more creeps to chase down. He sighed. There was a time when he’d thrived on it, but retirement was going to feel so good. He flipped open his notebook and wrote one more detail down, then reached for the ignition. His hand froze as his eyes rested on a small house across the street. Much like all the others, it had seen better days. What was it that made him … Sorensen’s eyes narrowed as the memory surfaced. A young girl’s face - dark eyes that held such longing it hurt him to even remember. He sat up straight. That case had never been closed. He reached for his notebook again and made another note. He hated loose ends.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">****</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> August 20th, 2003, twenty miles downstream from Dawson City, on the Yukon River.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> Alex heard the boat but couldn’t see it. He took his binoculars down from a nail on the wall and walked to the bank. Making sure he was screened by the low slung branches of a spruce tree, he scanned upriver. He caught the long outboard, skimming with the current about a mile down. Adjusting the focus, he peered at the two people crouched in the back. He knew the one with his hand on the motor - the son of the mechanic in town. Alex couldn’t remember his name. Probably hired himself out to the man in the suit. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> The suit was hunched into himself, a large leather briefcase clutched in his arms, his knees drawn up, head down. His tie escaped now and then, flapping into the wind with sudden urgency until he caught it and tucked it in again. The sight of a man in a suit on the river was so out of context, Alex kept watching until the boat veered and headed directly toward him. </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> He lowered the binoculars and squinted as it beached just below his cabin. Within seconds the men were out of sight but he knew they were scrambling up the embankment. They’d missed the trail. He considered slipping into the bush and pretending not to be there, but his curiosity got the better of him. He went back into the cabin and waited.</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><b> <span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"> <span style="font-size: medium;"> As the two men breached the top of the slope, Alex's dogs erupted into high-pitched howls. The suit hesitated, peered around and seeing the animals were chained, approached the cabin. Alex stepped back from the window and waited for the knock. When he opened the door, he took in several things at once: the man looked young, no older than Alex himself, but smaller in stature. He was wiping his face with a handkerchief, but wasn't breathing hard from the climb. His hair was the color of sand and short, spiked at the front, reminding Alex of a small porcupine he'd seen that week. The man's eyes weren't visible behind dark sunglasses but Alex had the feeling</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> he was being sized up in return.</span></span></b></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> "Mr. Donnelly? Alexander Donnelly?"</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigZjWTG9f8DZbSYCQOcKzqCw1IqdITSWixOZ-1ENi6RPsY7hVlVAtr9RzsXw6ybBxTS4NTFXwN7ypv4Y_YHbDaRYePJjCZMb9fyoHEh675qZeOV2F29NJl2919gPCEtSBmPNJyOr4H20/s1600-h/onesmoothstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigZjWTG9f8DZbSYCQOcKzqCw1IqdITSWixOZ-1ENi6RPsY7hVlVAtr9RzsXw6ybBxTS4NTFXwN7ypv4Y_YHbDaRYePJjCZMb9fyoHEh675qZeOV2F29NJl2919gPCEtSBmPNJyOr4H20/s320/onesmoothstone.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> Alex kept one hand on the door latch, shoved one hand into his jeans pocket and willed his heart to stop racing. "Who's asking?"</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> The man yelled over the barking. "I'm George Bronsky, of Adams, Ferrington, Lithgow and Bolt, attorneys at law, Seattle." </span> </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span lang="EN-US" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 200%;"> When Alex did not respond, the lawyer slipped his sunglasses off. "You're a hard man to track down, Mr. Donnelly."</span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #20124d; line-height: 200%; margin-left: 0.1in;"><br />
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For more information, you can visit the author's website,<a href="http://www.vinemarc.com/"> vinemarc.com</a> .<br />
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