Saturday, April 15, 2017
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
FINDING YOUR CENTER by DEBORAH A. MORRISON
This is a great reference book to keep handy in the spiritual and emotional section. It is indexed beautifully for easy access to specific subjects and the information is detailed and easy to understand.
Finding Your Center uses the tools of Philosophy, New Physics, And Eastern Mysticism. The variety is bound to help individuals and to make us all ponder on so much that this life entails. As the description says;
“At times we have gratitude for unexpected synchronicities and miracles, and at other times we're brought into a wondrous silence and stillness.”
This is the perfect book to keep by your nightstand and look at often.
☆☆☆☆☆ FIVE STARS ~ Wide-ranging In-depth look through Philosophy, New Physics, And Eastern Mysticism
☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ★ ☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ★☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆
Physics ~ Quantum Theory
Date Published: 01/14/2017
Publisher: Cygnet Media Group Inc.
Finding Your Center: Explorations In Philosophy, New Physics, And Eastern Mysticism is a fascinating compilation which highlights many important aspects of life. The knowledge contained therein is reflective of the ever changing world in which we live. Each page is overflowing with a diverse spectrum of philosophies, theologies, and more, together with perspectives from sociological to western thought, eastern mysticism and new physics. You will learn how your life will be enriched when you come to know the importance of finding your center.
In life we journey on, our explorations taking us into adventurous travels of everyday experience, new realizations, and on into the vast realm of the great unknown. We discover that the process of Creation is, perhaps, ongoing. And, we are a holistic part of it! We are in wonder and awe at the magnificence of it all! At times we have gratitude for unexpected sychronicities and miracles, and at other times we're brought into a wondrous silence and stillness. But, one thing we know for certain - no matter what happens, life goes on! And, we are bound to carry on with our explorations into life, Truth, joy, peace, and more. Finding You Center: Explorations In Philosophy, New Physics, And Eastern Mysticism is a rare treasure and brings you a unique collection of knowledge, insight, and wisdom. Yours to discover
She holds an Hons. B.A. Social Sciences, from McMaster University, and has undergone extensive research in eastern and western thought within the framework of contemporary and comparative studies. She has achieved M.A. certification in Counseling Science, from the Counselor Training Institute, Vancouver, B.C., Canada, as recognized by the A.A.M.F.T., American Association of Marriage and Family Therapists.
As a certified Yoga and Meditation Instructor Deborah had the good fortune to receive her training directly from world renowned Yoga and Meditation Master, Swami Vishnudevananda. Deborah has taught yoga and meditation to all ages from preschool children to seniors.
Deborah previously worked professionally for many years as a preschool teacher, preschool therapist and parent consultant, having also completed E.C.E diploma early on in her career.
Deborah is an Honorary Life Member of the ALL Ladies League - ALL, the world's largest ALL - inclusive international women's chamber for the Welfare, Wealth, and Well-Being of ALL.
She previously served as an Executive Member of the Tower Poetry Society as Social Convener, and Vice President.
Along with her published non-fiction, fiction, and poetry books, Deborah has written numerous published articles on natural therapies, yoga, meditation, psychology, and metaphysics.
Deborah is a proud mother and grandmother who encourages compassion and creativity in her family.
Facebook: Deborah Morrison
Linkedin: Deborah A. Morrison
Goodreads: Deborah A Morrison
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
From USA Today Bestselling Author Olivia Hardin, for the first time ever, three Rawley Family Romances plus a bonus short all in one collection... and it's just 99cents for a short time! Start the continuing saga of love, life, family & friends... All for Hope Sometimes the safest distance between two hearts is no distance at all... Kidnapping a baby wasn’t something Hope ever dreamed she would do. But she’s been burned by the legal system before, so when the court places her friend’s child into the custody of an abuser, she takes matters into her own hands. She steals the baby and fakes her death, hoping to make a clean getaway. She planned every detail, except one. Her high school sweetheart and best friend, who left her years before, sees her at a gas station. Hope thinks all is lost, until he offers to help them. Brennan had always been the love of Hope’s life, but he never wanted to be. She knows she cannot depend on him for long. However, as each day passes, it becomes painfully obvious that she is in way over her head. She goes with him, intending to keep him always an arm’s length away to protect her heart. But being on the run together sparks the old flames that once burned between Brennan and Hope. Families, friends, and lovers must band together to save an innocent baby and a daring woman or both of their lives will be destroyed. Together, they'll do it all for Hope. Justice for All Kay Rawley has plans. She might be the second child of an earl, but she wants a life away from her father’s estate in New Durma. She wants a life apart from her family’s name. Becoming a lawyer was a bright, shiny object she just couldn’t resist grabbing. Her classes are complete, and all she has to do is pass the bar to get permanent employment at the Dallas law firm where she’s been interning for the past year. Kay's been on Audrick Van Buren's radar since the day she walked into his classroom two years ago. That admiration only grew when she came to work for his firm. But if there's anything he recognizes, it's a woman who's driven--and Kay is definitely one. It's all he can do to keep his distance and allow her the chance to come into her own. What Van doesn't know is that someone else is watching Kay, too, and if he doesn't step between them, that person might not only derail her career but threaten her very life. Things aren’t always what they seem, and Kay’s about to learn that the best laid plans are so much better when they go astray... All for Family Wedding bells will soon be ringing in the Rawley family, but gearing up for Van and Kay’s nuptials revives old insecurities for Kay’s sister-in-law Meg. When she learns that her ex-husband is asking for her from his hospital bed, Meg must confront the painful memories of her past. Family is everything for Jeremy Rawley. Most important is the one he and Meg created together. But their beginning was tangled in memories he wishes his wife could forget for good. A call from her past brings them back to a place he thought they’d never have to be again. Forgiveness may be the key, but the first step is finding the locked heart that needs it... Plus, get All for a Little Christmas Former police officer Robert Guillory's life has changed since he arrested Hope Rawley for kidnapping. Only his closest friends knows about his last case before leaving the force. Eva Lipton is one of those close friends, but she's been trying to get even closer ever since his retirement. When the chance to work with him on a church theft drops into her lap, she doesn't hesitate to call on him. Can a little holiday miracle give Eva the Christmas gift she's been hoping for?
Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Other retailers
About the AuthorWhen Olivia Hardin began having strange movie-like dreams in her teens, she had no choice but to begin putting them to paper. Before long the writing bug had her and she knew she wanted to be a published author. Several rejections plus a little bit of life later, and she was temporarily “cured” of the urge to write. That is until she met a group of talented and fabulous writers who gave her the direction and encouragement she needed to get lost in the words again. Olivia’s attended three different universities over the years and toyed with majors in Computer Technology, English, History and Geology. Then one day she heard the term road scholar and she knew that was what she wanted to be. Now she “studies” anything and everything just for the joy of learning. She's also an insatiable crafter who only completes about 1 out of 5 projects, a jogger who hates to run, and she’s sometimes accused of being artistic. A native Texas girl, Olivia lives in the beautiful Lone Star state with her husband, Danny and their puppy, Bonnie. Get a free gift just for signing up for Olivia's Newsletter ! Follow Olivia: Newsletter /Facebook/< a href="https://twitter.com/ OliviaH_Writer" target="_blank">Twitter/Pinterest/ Website Amazon/BookBub
And if you love her books, join Team OH!
Monday, April 10, 2017
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Publisher – City Lights Press
From the day that the powerful, brave and merciless Vlad III Basarab, a descendant of the Draculesti family—better known to most people as the infamous vampire Dracula—ascends the throne, he knows only battles, betrayal and intrigue.
Evil grips the town of Targoviste, capital residence of Walachia. The secrets behind the stone walls of the palace are as dark and violent as a winter’s night, as terrifying as the prince’s deeds. Dead bodies, drained of blood and missing their little finger keep appearing in the streets at night.
Lovely, smart, determined, Angela Oltenescu ignores all the aggressive rumors and her mother’s warning regarding Vlad. Will she suffer the consequences of falling in love with a man nicknamed Dracula by his enemies—an infamous creature of the night?
Rich, sly, treacherous, Marin Craioveanu, a powerful landlord, craves the same woman loved by Vlad. Marin's hatred toward the prince will make him an ally to Handsome Radu, Vlad’s brother and Sultan’s friend, ready to sell the country to the Ottomans to get rid of his rival.
Dracula’s Mistress will awe legions of fans of Gothic literature, paranormal and historical fiction.
Angela smiled with fond indulgence and looked at her father. “Prepare for mother’s. . .” She stopped as the words passed her lips, looked over her father’s shoulder, and started violently. The image behind her father made her words freeze on her lips. A sickening sense of dread overpowered her.
The pale light of the moon fell on a man’s face. A man dressed in torn clothes. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to his arms, stretched towards them in begging.
His face, all covered in blood. His eyes were closed. His bluish lips mumbled something Angela couldn’t clearly understand. Slurred words reached her. She thought she heard, “Candle. . . candle. . . pleaaaase. . .” A sickening odor reached Angela’s nostrils. Slowly, the closed eyelids opened revealing two empty sockets instead of eyes.
A low moan of horror escaped her.
“What? What’s wrong?” Grigore asked.
But before he turned his head to see what triggered Angela’s reaction the apparition melted into the darkness.
Angela staggered a little, and then found her balance.
“Nothing,” she answered in a shaken voice. “I thought . . . Nothing, Father.” She pushed the horrible apparition from her mind. Perhaps all the stories about the souls of the young noblemen killed so cruelly here were not just stories.
Grigore shook his head and shrugged. Then reaching out his hand, he helped her climb into the carriage. She was barely able to move as she trembled from head to foot. She shrank back on the bear skin spread inside.
Grigore sat facing her, but looked absorbed by the things that had happened that night.
The neighing of the horses sounded strange to her ears. The sound of a tree branch scraping the roof of the carriage sent Angela’s heart into her mouth.
She leaned forward until her nose was touching the glass of the carriage window. Outside, on the side of the road, she glimpsed again the silhouette of the horrible man, dressed in tattered clothes. She peered into the darkness to see better. There was no doubt. The same specter. With begging hands stretched towards her. She covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a cry. And then she shook her head and passed a hand over her eyes and dared to look out again.
There was nobody in sight. A dark cloud had settled over the moon. All that met her eyes was the deep darkness. Her heart hammered as she gripped her fan harder, almost crushing the fragile spikes. Sweat collected at the base of her neck despite the cool evening. With a trembling hand, she covered the window of the carriage with the small curtain and leaned back on the carriage pillow. To fight the panic yammering in her head, Angela forced Vlad’s face back into her mind.
All through the rest of the journey home, the thought of Vlad’s enthralling smile and dark, intent eyes never left her.
Carmen Stefanescu resides in Romania, the native country of the infamous vampire Count Dracula where, for about 50 years of communist dictatorship, just speaking about God, faith, reincarnation or paranormal phenomena could have led someone to great trouble - the psychiatric hospital if not to prison.
High-school teacher of English and German in her native country, and mother of two daughters, Carmen Stefanescu survived the grim years of oppression by escaping in a parallel world, that of the books. Reading was, is and will always be her greatest hobby.
She has dreamed since childhood to become a writer, but many of the things she wrote remained just drawer projects. The fall of the Ceausescu’s regime in 1989, and the opening of the country to the world meant a new beginning for her. She started publishing. Poems first, and then prose. Both in English.
She likes to blend genres and thus she writes paranormal stories with a smidgen of mystery, history and romance. The reader will find suspense, dark themes, adventure, danger as well as sweet revenge. She calls her stories “gothic” romance. Her writing focuses on rebirth, past life regression, karmic retribution.
Carmen joined the volunteer staff at Marketing For Romance Writers Author blog and is the coordinator of #Thursday13 posts.
Friday, April 7, 2017
Genre: Urban Fantasy
If we're good, we go to Heaven; if we're bad we go to Hell. No one wants to go to Hell.
Except one man who wishes people would just remember to call him Ric.
In the aftermath of a serial killer's murderous spree, souls who didn't deserve damnation went to Hell. The archangel Michael doesn't seem concerned, but Icarus Fell can't bear the guilt of knowing it's his fault they ended up there.
But how can he save them when the archangel forbids him from going and his guardian angel refuses to help?
The answer comes in the form of another beautiful, bewitching guardian angel who offers to be his guide. They travel to Hell to rescue the unjustly damned one by one, but salvation comes at a cost and the economy of Hell demands souls.
Is it a price Icarus is willing to pay?
When your guardian angel and her friend, the archangel Gabriel, tell you to stay put, it’s probably a good idea to listen.
I should have, but I have inexplicable difficulty with authority figures. It gets me in trouble. A lot.
An old Buick sat to the right of my motel room door looking like it hadn’t moved in a decade or so, and it certainly hadn’t budged since I checked in; a few other cars were parked in the motel’s lot but there were no people. I stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind me, the click of the lock firecracker-loud in the winter night.
I paused. Still no one around. I breathed deep and stepped away from the door, the first time I’d been outside the dingy, musty-smelling room in weeks.
A month ago, the police found a tranny prostitute named Dante Frank dead on a bed in a five-star hotel, hairy chest and hairless vagina exposed for the world to see along with the biblical references his killer carved in his flesh. Dante, whom I’d known as Danielle Francis, was the last victim of the serial killer dubbed the Revelations Reaper by the media. The police had a suspect in the string of killings: me.
I didn’t kill any of them but, if the truth be told, their deaths were on me.
Forget the angels telling me to stay indoors, the fact the local news had been flashing an unflattering picture of my face on the screen every night until a week ago should have kept me inside my seedy room. But you know what they say about common sense...it ain’t so common.
Icarus Fell: living proof.
I didn’t think that because they finally stopped plastering my face all over the six o’clock news they’d stopped looking for me. Every cop in the city likely still carried my picture like they were at war and I was their girl waiting for them back home, but after four weeks in my motel-room-prison, the prospect of remaining inside held as little appeal as being girlfriend to a bunch of cops. I’d spent every moment of the last month thinking about my role in the deaths, wishing things were different. Another minute trapped alone with my guilt might prove one too many.
I slipped away from the motel and down a side street, disappearing in shadows and down alleys wherever I could. The taste of impending snow in the early December air fortified my lungs.
As I ranged farther from the motel, the garbage strewn on the streets and graffiti tags spray-painted on walls -- ‘Big Turk Wuz Hear’ and other poetic gems -- became less frequent until they disappeared completely. I’d made my way to a neighborhood where people cared, a fact which should have rang alarm bells in my head and made me more careful, but the lack of hookers and drug dealers lifted my spirits and my worry ebbed taking caution along with it.
I paused at the intersection, the lights of an approaching car reflecting on the frost-rimed pavement as I waited to be sure it would obey the stop sign. Without the fresh air loosening my wits, I’d have waved him through, but freedom made my head light in the way of a non-smoker after a few drags on a cigarette. The car’s brakes squeaked as it rolled to a halt. I stepped off the curb and raised a hand in thanks, squinting against the lights, but couldn’t see the driver. Hand replaced in pocket, I continued on my way, thinking nothing of it until I heard the hum and chatter of a power window in need of repair.
The words weren’t spoken with the timbre of someone in need of directions. The caution and worry the beautiful night had leeched from me flooded back; I quickened my pace.
I broke into a run before his engine roared and tires chirped. Cutting across a well-manicured lawn, I hopped a fence, ran through a back yard dominated by an inter-locking brick patio and an in-ground pool emptied for the winter, then vaulted another fence into a rear lane, cursing my stupidity with every step.
Despite a house between us, I heard the car’s engine rev and labor as the driver gave chase. I dove through a line of tall shrubs, their branches scratching my face, and into another yard, keeping my flight to places the car couldn’t go. Ten minutes of fence-jumping and shrub-diving later, I emerged on a sporadically lit street. Familiar graffiti scrolled across the side of a building; Big Turk and his poor spelling were back. Close to my motel. My lungs labored, the cold air hurting my chest instead of refreshing it as a stitch in my side dug in and grabbed hold. I stopped to catch my breath, bent at the waist, hands grasping knees like the world’s worst marathoner run out of steam, but rest didn’t last long. A siren wailed behind me and I forced my legs back into action.
I darted into an alley and the all-too-familiar stink of garbage and piss, depression and decay hit me immediately. I’d lost so many days and nights of my youth in alleys like this, sleeping off a bottle of vodka or poking a needle in my arm. I forced the thought from my mind. This was no time to self-analyze by way of shitty memories.
Tires screeched at the mouth of the alley. I didn’t look back, my attention taken by a figure stepping out of the shadows into my path. A Carrion, I assumed--a human-shaped demon sent to collect souls and make my life difficult--but I quickly realized the silhouette was smaller and more feminine, leaving two possible people. Angels, really. I halted a few paces beyond arm’s-reach in case I was wrong.
“Hey, mister. Long time, no see.”
I recognized the voice immediately. The angel stepped into the light and I saw her gingerbread hair, glimpsed the freckled skin of her cheek.
The Archangel Gabriel is the messenger. She brings scrolls with my assignments inscribed on them: who’s scheduled to pass, where, when, and where to take them when it’s done.
I couldn’t think of a worse time for her to show up.
“Did you miss me?”
Her pure voice echoed off the alley walls and a chorus of swallows which always accompanied her, but that I couldn’t see in the dark, chirped and chittered on a fire escape overhead.
“Don’t have time right now, Gabe,” I said breathlessly and glanced over my shoulder. The alley remained empty, but it wouldn’t for much longer.
She offered a scroll which hadn’t been in her hand a second before.
“Really, Gabe? I don’t--” I gestured toward the alley at my back, offered a pleading look. She shook the scroll at me and raised an eyebrow.
I’d learned the hard way that harvesting wasn’t the kind of job you could slack off at; the hard way seems to be how I learn pretty much everything. I gave in without any real fight.
My finger brushed hers as I grasped the rolled parchment and an electric charge prickled the hairs on my arm, bringing with it a longing to spend time with her, to be in her presence as long as possible. I nearly forgot the man chasing me.
She smiled and shrugged. “You don’t have time, remember?”
Swallow wings beat the air above my head as she walked away. I stared after her for a second before pulling myself from the angel-induced stupor to look at the scroll in my hand. This was my second assignment since everything went down: the deaths, the media frenzy, the explosion at the church. What happened to souls during my seclusion? Did they make other arrangements or were they okay with everyone going to Hell for a few weeks while I got my wits about me? Great vacation for me, but kind of sucked for everyone else.
Unrolling the scroll unnerved me. After being given one inscribed with my son’s name, I couldn’t help but hold my breath. Probably would every time I did it.
I set my captive breath free. Didn’t know him. The address scrawled on the yellowed parchment wasn’t familiar either, but I knew the city well enough to recognize it was close. I read the time of death, then checked my watch.
Two minutes from now.
The sound of shoes hammering pavement reverberated off the alley’s brick walls. I got my legs moving again and took a corner, feet tangling in a pile of garbage bags and spilling me to the pavement. My shoulder hit hard and I skidded a couple of feet along the damp ground, filth snow-plowing onto my jacket. I scrambled to my feet, glanced ahead and behind as the footsteps grew louder, and realized the futility of my flight. Facing my pursuer seemed the only option. Maybe I could talk my way out of it before my appointment came and went.
Bad things happen to good people when I miss appointments. And to bad people; also, the Swiss.
I backed down the alley and didn’t have to wait long for the man chasing me. He rounded the corner, avoided the garbage bags which had tripped me, and skidded to a halt in a pool of light cast by a security light mounted high overhead. The dress pants he wore looked a year or so beyond their best-before date; a long wool coat covered a rumpled dress shirt which may never have made a dry cleaner’s acquaintance. I might have noticed more but the gun in his hand distracted me.
“Mr. Fell,” he said between panted breaths. “If that’s really your name.”
“It’s the name the bastard gave me,” I muttered glancing from gun to a face I’d met a few times and seen many more on the news. The muscles in my jaw clenched and released as I silently counted the passing seconds in my head. “We seem to meet under awkward circumstances, don’t we, Detective?”
“Sometimes happens between serial killers and cops.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Right.” He leveled the gun, his eternally tired eyes unwavering. “And I’m Serena Williams. Put your hands behind your head.”
A little firework went off in my brain, interrupting my mental countdown. He obviously wasn’t Serena Williams -- wrong sex, wrong skin color, and he didn’t look like much of a tennis player -- so why pick her out of a thousand possible celebrities to use sarcastically? I chanced pissing him off and stole a peek at my watch: t-minus one minute. My gut wrenched one twist to the right.
If I don’t get out of here quick--
The thought cut off half-formed, bullied aside by another. The detective was the lead investigator in the Revelations Reaper case, the guy the newscasts interviewed no matter how uncomfortable he looked on camera, so I’d seen his face a hundred times on TV. And every time they showed him offering his oft-quoted ‘no comment’, they emblazoned his name on the screen in white letters.
How did I miss it?
Detective Shaun Williams.
I raised an eyebrow. “Detective Williams?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, put your fucking hands behind your head before I shoot you.”
I peered past him, then to both sides. With his name on the scroll in my back pocket, there had to be someone waiting to ambush this man scheduled to die in about forty-five seconds.
“You need to get out of here,” I said, eyes still searching the shadows. “You’re in danger.”
“Me?” He stretched his arm toward me, pushing the barrel closer. “If you don’t get your hands up right now, you’ll never walk again.”
The seconds ticked off in my head, echoing down the hallways of my mind. I gritted my teeth, fought the compulsion to try and save him.
Not my job.
They sent me to retrieve his soul after his death, not prevent it. But so many already died because of me and my poor choices. Maybe this was an opportunity to make amends--with myself, if no one else. My eyes found his and held his gaze for a second; I didn’t have much more than that.
“You’ll thank me for this later,” I murmured and darted toward him, moving faster than he expected an out-of-shape-almost-forty guy like me could.
He squeezed the trigger but I was on him before he got the shot off. The gunshot nearly deafened me, the explosion echoing through my head, ringing in my ears. My arms encircled him, pinning his at his sides, and inertia carried me forward, driving him to the ground. Breath whooshed out of his lungs when we hit, but I didn’t let go.
“This is for your own good,” I said into his ear. His body jerked but my grip held. The last few seconds counted down in my head.
When I reached zero, I held on a few seconds longer in case my timing was off or my watch was slow. Nothing happened. No gunshot, no one jumping from the shadows; a grand piano didn’t drop from a balcony. Nothing.
I leaned back, a hand on his gun arm to prevent him from shooting me. Some thanks that would be for saving his life. I gripped his wrist expecting him to squirm away, but he didn’t. His lack of movement should have tipped me something was wrong, but I was too concerned with making sure we weren’t about to be attacked to notice. Nothing moved in the shadows, no one approached down the alley.
Could the scroll have been wrong?
Unlikely, but it happened before, when other forces manipulated events. How did I know the same wasn’t the case this time?
A small movement caught my eye and I looked left to see a figure standing five yards away. Fear forced bitter, electric saliva into my mouth like I’d bitten down on a piece of aluminum foil, and I snatched the gun from Detective Williams’ hand, jerked it toward the silhouette. The man didn’t react, but simply stood watching. His presence made a knot form in my stomach which worked its way quickly into the back of my throat. The figure stepped forward into the light and the muscles in my forearm tensed, my finger brushed the trigger. It only took a second to realize he wasn’t as opaque as he should be.
This wasn’t a man, but a dislodged soul.
“What--?” I began but the lump in my throat got the better of my voice.
My brain finally registered the detective’s lack of movement and I looked from the soul to the detective’s face. His tired eyes stared up at me blankly; a dark circle of fluid spread across the grungy pavement beneath his head.
The sight of his glazed eyes hit me like a spinning kick to the gut, stealing my breath and energy. My gun arm sagged, the police-issue .38 resting against my thigh, forgotten. I resisted the urge to shake him by the lapel of his wool coat or slap him awake, call out his name. I already knew what the result would be. The overhead light reflected in the pool of liquid around his head making a grisly halo.
I was responsible for another death.
I shook my head in disbelief and looked back at the spirit. There were no black bags under its eyes or worry lines at the corners of its mouth, but there was no mistaking to whom the soul belonged: except for the felt fedora tilted over the soul’s left eye like he’d stepped out of a Mickey Spillane novel, the spirit wore the same clothes.
My words stuck again. Or maybe I didn’t want to complete the sentence because it would make what happened real. No need to worry, the ghost took care of that piece of business for me.
“You killed me.”
To some, death is the end; to others, a beginning. To Icarus Fell, it should have been a relief from a life gone seriously awry.
But death had other plans.
Icarus doesn't believe that the man awaiting him when he wakes up in a cheap motel room is really the archangel Michael, or that God's right hand wants him to help souls on their way to Heaven. Icarus doesn't believe there's a Heaven, so why should they want his help?
But the man claiming to be the archangel tempts him with an offer he can't ignore--harvest enough souls and get back the life he wished he'd had.
It seems Icarus has nothing to lose, until he botches a harvest and the soul that went to Hell instead of Heaven comes back to make him pay by threatening to take away the life he hoped to win back.
To save the wife and son he already lost once, Icarus will have to become the man he never was. Somehow, he will have to learn to believe.
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn't really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the "u" out of words like "colour" and "neighbour" than he does shovelling (and watch out for those pesky double l's). The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of a burlesque diva.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Quirky, Private Investigator, Sage McGuire, solves missing person cases. Sergeant Carter Morgan of the Portland Police Department solves violet crimes.
Sage McGuire has a great job she loves. All that changes in the blink of an eye when her long-time boss, Mr. Smithfield, has an accident involving an over-sized rubber band. Mr. Smithfield’s semi-worthless son, Daniel, takes over Smithfield Laboratories and Sage rethinks her career choice.
Sergeant Carter Morgan of the Portland Police Department solves violent crimes and sexy pinecone scent and black leather pants rev Sage’s engine.
Sage’s wild spirit, crazy red hair, and sense of humor take Carter for the ride of his life.
Bridget leaned toward me and nodded in that direction. “He’s been sitting by himself for a while. A dance with that fine man could take your mind off just about anything.”
Ophelia winked. “You should give him a try.”
“You think?” We laughed until we about peed our pants. I noticed he was watching us with a grin that spread across his sexy face. “Oh shit. I think he heard us.”
“Good. You deserve a little fun after the week you’ve had,” Bridget insisted.
“Well, I’ve seen my share of gorgeous men, but that guy is smok’n hot.” I looked heavenward and giggled.
“Oh boy, is he ever,” Bridget and Ophelia said in unison and fanned their faces.
“I’m going to give him my, ‘you can buy me a drink’ look and see what he does.”
All of a sudden Bridget rolled her eyes toward the bar. “Holy moly, he’s coming this way. That worked fast. I should try that maneuver,” Bridget whispered.
“Me too.” Ophelia got out a pen and small notepad from her purse and wrote down what I had done and then tucked her notes into her purse.
Bridget and I stared at her. Her face turned crimson.
“We always come up with great ideas over margaritas, but I can never remember what they are in the morning. From now on, I’m writing them down. Hopefully they’ll make sense in the morning.”
Sharon Kleve was born and raised in Washington and currently lives on the Olympic Peninsula with her husband.