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Is She or Isn’t She?

Ever wonder if that reclusive neighbor is something….different? Read on and get the real scoop!DSC09897

From the Archives of the Matriarchs

At the beginning, Great Goddess was. She is the Alpha and the Omega. She is Creative Force of all that Was, Is and Ever Will Be.

From Her Very Soul, she ripped pieces and formed the Goddesses in her own image. In blood and pain and sacrifice she gave birth to them. Their names are Mother of Magick who came to be called Hekate, Athena who was first known as Mother of Wisdom and Learning, Warrior Woman and Protector who came to be called Artemis, Woman of the Sun who refused any other name, and Woman of Fierce Darkness once called Amanirenas. These were the first five. Companions and co-creators with Great Goddess.

When their souls demanded them to create, she warned them that creation must come from ripping pieces of their own souls loose and implanting those pieces in the new creation. She told them that Creation could only be done amidst blood and pain and sacrifice for such is the nature of creation. Still their souls demanded for them to create and so they did.

Together they created all the universes, all the worlds, and all that lives within them. Except the Earth. Mother Earth was endowed with a strip of the soul of Great Goddess. From different parts of that strip of soul came the mountains, the valleys, the lakes, the oceans, the plains, the volcanoes, and all that make the body of Mother Earth.

Woman of the Sun took a piece of her soul and Created Father Sun then set him in the sky to warm the Mother. Amanirenas placed Grandmother Moon to shine when Mother Earth needed a rest from the strong rays and the warmth of Father Sun. Grandmother Moon fostered the quiet, the time for contemplation and feeling. Father Sun fostered action and growth.

Then Great Goddess took pieces of her soul and made the trees, the grasses, the flowers, and all that clothe Mother Earth.

Hekate, Athena and Artemis took pieces of their souls and made the animals, the creatures of air, of water, of earth. And because each piece of soul was unique, each creation–be it tree or be it tiger–was unique.

Great Goddess called together her companions and co-creators and they shared the worlds and universes they had created–each beautiful in its own way. Yet, when they gazed upon Mother Earth, in spite of all they had Created, they felt something was missing. Some essential element still needed to be brought forth. They Dreamed long and finally decided. This was a world where they could place small images of themselves, to watch each one grow and develop; to watch as they came into their creative powers. And so it was that Woman was Created. They let their Creative Powers rejoice and out of this celebration came the many colors and shapes and sizes of these replicas of Great Goddess and the Goddesses that Great Goddess named Woman. In a great burst of joy, they also created almost-replicas of themselves that Great Goddess named Man, for he was not fully a woman.

They Gifted Woman with a small bit of their own Creative Power. In her, new life could grow, but only in the image of the female. So it was that tigers gave birth to tigers and humans gave birth to humans.

Man begged to feel closer to Great Goddess and the Goddesses, begged to become more like them. And so, it came to pass that Great Goddess Gifted man with a seed that could assist in the creation of new life. Man rejoiced to be so close to Great Goddess, to be a part of creation.

Great Goddess created almost-replicas of the Goddesses and called them gods. They, like the almost-replicas on Mother Earth, could not create as the Goddesses did.

For millennia, all grew and prospered both in the Heavens and on Mother Earth. Woman and Man took only what they needed to live and they gave back as much as they took. So the balance continued.

After many millennia, the gods became restless. Unbeknownst to Great Goddess, they incited human males to anger and envy of the human females’ ability to create life. They filled the weaker male minds with thoughts that were subversive to all that Was and Ever Had Been.

Eventually, human males who followed the gods enticements were named Caine by the gods to distinguish them from the ones that followed the Way of Great Goddess. They named those Abella, as the leaders were always females.

During the Dark of the Moon, the followers of Caine rose up and slaughtered the unsuspecting followers of Abella, those who held tight to the Teachings of Great Goddess and the Goddesses. Millions died. That period of time came to be known as The Great War.

Because each living being held a piece of Great Goddess’ soul or a piece of the souls of the Goddesses, and therefore were given freewill, Great Goddess could not allow interference in The Great War, could not allow the usurpation of Freewill.

There came a time, however, when Artemis wept and threw herself at the feet of Great Goddess. Those the Goddesses loved had been reduced to small groups and even then the Children of Caine hunted them. She begged Great Goddess to allow her to save the remnants of their people, those who were known as the Children of Abella.

And so it came to pass that Artemis bestowed upon the Children of Abella certain powers. Among those powers were enhanced senses, enhanced strength, and near-immortality. The other Goddesses gathered close and they, too, bestowed certain powers upon the Children of Abella. In return for the many powers, Artemis demanded that the Children of Abella adher to the Purpose set by Great Goddess Herself.

The Children of Abella must never kill without reason, and must seek to help the Children of Caine overcome their blood that had been poisoned by envy, greed, hate, and needless violence.

So the Children of Abella would never forget their connection to the Children of Caine, Artemis decreed that in order to live, the Children of Abella must drink the blood of the Children of Caine. To remind the Children of Abella that none are free of fault, they were afflicted by sexual lust. The only way to be free of the Lust was to find their True Mate, be that mate a Child of Caine or a Child of Abella. Not all would find a True Mate.

Because the root of human male envy was the human females’ ability to create life, among the Children of Abella only the female could create life. To more tightly bind the Children of Abella to the Children of Caine, only a liaison with a human male would result in a child.

Because males brought about destruction, only females could hold power over the Children of Abella. Born females received Powers upon their 24th birthday. Before the receiving of power, they were brought to the House of the Head of their Family and watched over as the Power Came Upon them. Not all survived the Coming of Power. Born males never received powers nor were they able to impregnate females of either species.

Both Born male and female could Create new Children of Abella through a controlled bite and sharing of blood. Only females were allowed to do so without explicit permission of the Head of the Family. Created males were a lower caste than Born males. They could aspire to the Born male caste through accomplishments.

Huvams–those children born to a Vampire mother with a human father–became the leaders of the Children of Abella. Created females could aspire to leadership through their accomplishments.

A World Council of Five Matriarchs ruled all the Children of Abella.

The world was divided into regions and each region was headed by a Matriarch. Within the regions, First Councilwomen ruled the Heads of Family. The Heads of Family were responsible for all Children within their extended Family.

Over time, the Children of Abella came to be called Vampire. The Children of Caine came to be called Human and mostly forgot that the Children of Abella still lived.

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THE CHAMELEON’S LEGACY

Chapter 1

By age 5, I–Cas Redner–had seen a number of flying saucers…sometimes, they even landed…on my stepfather’s head. My mother’s aim was very good, whether the object was a saucer, a Vick’s jar or a butcher knife. It wasn’t her fault that my stepfather moved so quickly.

Our family fit into our dead end—on so many levels—neighborhood. The cops rarely appeared with fewer than two units and four cops. Mostly they didn’t show up at all—probably hoped we would kill each other off. Sometimes, we did.

When Mom went into a rage the only person who could, without fail, calm her down was Miss Allen. Miss Allen lived in the house next door. Her yard adjoined ours. My mother called her Miss Allen with great respect and I knew better than not to be respectful to Miss Allen. If my mom didn’t knock me into next week, Miss Allen surely would.

Miss Allen, a big ebony woman with white teeth that showed often in a smile, black, kinky hair, huge pillowy breasts and a solid right hook, didn’t tolerate being dissed. I’d seen her knock a full grown man on his ass. She laughed loud, talked louder, hugged big and had a slow burn temper; you just better not keep on until it boiled!

Mom didn’t trust men alone with me, except for Daddy Reese, a short term stepfather, and my step-grandfather, Mom’s stepfather who I called Paw-Paw. I have lots of memories A.P., After Paw-Paw, but none B.P., Before Paw-Paw. There weren’t any B.P. He knew me before I ever knew about him, but then you can’t blame a two and some year old in an orphanage for not knowing her grandfather. Born while my mother was serving time for killing a man, the only person present during my birth, besides the medical staff and my mother, was Mom’s friend, a prostitute named Sue. I went straight from the hospital to the orphanage.

I grew up knowing my mother couldn’t keep me—no nurseries in prisons—and neither could my grandma. My grandfather set his foot down saying, “I’m not going to take care of the kids your daughter whores out.” End of discussion. Grandma cried but she couldn’t afford to take me if she left her husband and she wouldn’t leave for less than that kind of good reason. I’m told that a well-known attorney wanted Grandma to bring me home, leave me on her couch while my grandfather was at work and leave the door unlocked. He said, “When you return the baby will be gone to a good home and there’ll be a little something to help you out financially in an envelope.” Sort of like a puppy. I heard that Grandma drew herself up rigid and stared at the attorney. “I don’ sell my granbaby.”

I grew up hearing that story along with the story about the young couple who wanted to adopt me. They took me home, but when I got sick with a high fever and had a convulsion, they returned me. Nope, don’t want this one. It’s broke.

Mom served her time and hit the streets, in more ways than one. Prostitution paid better than any other job my unskilled mother could find. When Reese Hannah paid the young blond woman for a date, he didn’t know it would go so much farther. An older man with a strong sense of where he fit in the world, and where women fit—in the house taking care of kids and husband—he quickly fell under my mother’s spell. Mom could charm a polar bear out of its fur. Couldn’t blame her. Daddy Reese worked hard, had simple wants and loved my mother beyond all reason. The only condition he put on their marriage: mom had to bring me home from the orphanage.

I’ve never been able to decide if Daddy Reese did me a favor or not. Maybe Grandma should’ve sold me to that attorney?

Paw-Paw said when I came home I would go into a screaming terror if I saw a rubber doll and I was likewise terrified of thin switch-like tree limbs. Except for that, he said he’d never see a child not yet three years old stay as still and silent as I did.

I don’t recall much about Daddy Reese. I remember him coming up the hill from his job in the evening, black rounded top lunch pail swinging from one big hand. I’d run as fast as my legs would carry me down the hill, screaming, “Daddy Reese!” Just before I reached him, he’d put down the lunch pail and spread his arms wide. I’d race into him, and he’d scoop me up and we’d twirl around and around. Then he’d give me a kiss on the cheek and put me down. I’d insist on carrying his lunch pail though it hung nearly to the ground, I was so small. He’d take my hand and I’d skip-walk back home with him. That’s the only memory I have.

My fourth birthday came and Daddy Reese left. Mom had gotten pregnant by another man and divorced Daddy Reese.

My new stepfather, Andrew, was not permitted to be in the same room alone with me, and he wasn’t permitted to speak to me. Nor I to him. I’ve never understood how Mom could control people the way she did, but they did whatever she demanded. Until my mother died when I was nineteen, Andrew spoke to me only three times, and those times remained my and his secret.

A couple weeks after my younger half-sister, Helena, was born Mom had me sit on the frayed couch and taught me how to hold, bottle feed, burb and change an infant. A few weeks later, after I’d had a bit of practice, one day after Andrew left for work, she handed the baby over to me. “You have to take care of her, Sis. Andrew has to work and I have to go find a job, too.” I am sure I nodded because any other answer would not have been acceptable to Mom. Unlike some four year olds, I was mature for my age, and I understood how to live with my mother with the least amount of pain—literal pain as she despised being back talked or disobeyed.

People have heard me relate these things about my mother and they have said, “Oh, God, she was so mean to you!”

No, Mom wasn’t mean. Our world was harsh. To be female in our world demanded a toughness that even men didn’t have to don. And a vigilance beyond what any boy or man had to maintain. It was years after I’d left home that I finally comprehended my mother’s actions.

 

The Chameleon’s Legacy is a new, coming-of-age novel I am working on. This is a VERY rough first draft of Chapter 1. Leave a comment! I appreciate all comments.

For other books I’ve written, go to: http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

Stop by and say hi at: http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

NEW BOOK RATING SYSTEM–BETTER THAN 5 STARS

AYA’S BOOK RATING SYSTEM (1 to 10 Stars with 1 Star the highest rating–so busy reading can’t take time to hit more than one star!)

  1. ( no response to a four-alarm fire in the trash can next to reader)
  2. (distracted, barely mumbles) Hmm? Did you say something? Okay, whatever, now go away
  3. (picks up head, blankly stares at interruptor then resumes reading with a wave) Go away. You’re disturbing my reading
  4. (picks up head, momentary alertness in eyes that says reader is in the present) Did you say Godiva chocolate and a venti mocha? I’ll take some. (promptly returns to book)
  5. (shuts book with a bookmark to hold place and sets it next to favorite chair before going into the kitchen to fix cup of coffee and retrieve chocolate. Returns and resumes reading)
  6. (shuts book, tosses it on the couch, goes out to have supper at Italian Restaurant. Resumes reading late that night)
  7. (tosses book on end table, resumes reading a couple of days later)
  8. (Looks at book, leafs through it) Yeah, I’ll read this when I run out of other books.
  9. (picks up book and opens it to read. Sighs) Guess it beats reading the back of a cereal box
  10. Pass me the cereal box

I HIT BESTSELLER STATUS!

Allison Bruning

Allison Bruning 4:36am Feb 23
Congratulations to Aya Walksfar!

Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #85,432 Paid in Kindle Store
#48 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Mystery, Thriller & Suspense > Crime Fiction >Kidnapping

What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men?
Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up sexually abused and manually strangled.
Psychic and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team.
Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more missing children, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?

Street Harvest (Special Crimes Team)

www.amazon.com
What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men? Eleanor H…

FINDING THE GOLD!

There are literally millions of #books in the world, but it is ALWAYS a thrill to find those extra special ones. It’s like finding gold when you’re panning your backyard creek! Kelly Miller is a wonderful find!

Dead Like Me by Kelly Miller ( a #murder #mystery)
Detective Springer has just returned to work from an administrative leave after a righteous shooting, and is called out when a dog finds a young girl in the yard of an abandoned house. The girl has been strangled. As they brush the leaves away from the girl’s face, Detective Springer is looking at her own face at the age of thirteen!
Is the likeness a macabre coincidence, or is there a far more sinister meaning behind it?
The twists and turns of this plot as the author interweaves a past case with the present one will keep you reading well into the night.
I enjoyed the well developed characters. By the end of the book, I wanted to hand Detective Springer a can of Coke. And, if I ever need a therapist, I am definitely getting Dr. Grace’s phone number.
Dead Like Me is available on Amazon. For more information about the author, Kelly Miller, visit Aya’s blog the week of January 27th when she will be hosting Ms. Miller. http://www.ayawalksfar.com/

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GOVERNOR MARLETON CHOOSES HEAD OF #SPECIALCRIMESTEAM

Washington_State_Governor's_Mansion

#Governor Andrea Marleton crossed her shapely legs and rested her long, elegant fingers in her lap. She cocked her head to one side and her long, auburn hair swung over her shoulder, framing one side of her oval face. Large, expressive dark eyes studied Lieutenant Michael Williams as he sat on the spindly-legged, antique chair. The only thing in the expensively decorated governor’s library that looked congruent with Mike’s rugged face was the books crowded together on the bookshelves behind him. She glanced at her wristwatch. 8 PM. Her choice of the library in the governor’s mansion was not be accident. The room radiated serious purpose. Mike was a serious man. In her opinion, too serious since his wife Emily died of cancer eight years ago and his police daughter was killed while saving a young girl’s life.

governor's mansion library

“Mike, let’s be reasonable. You are the logical person to head my Special Crimes Team. You’re a lieutenant and you have maintained the best clearance rate of any homicide #detective in the state of Washington, bar none.”

He carefully shifted in the chair as if afraid that any sudden movement might cause it to shatter. “I am being reasonable, Andrea. I’ve put in my years in law enforcement and it’s time to quit. I’m tired of butting heads with my superiors.”

She chuckled. “As I’m sure they are tired of butting heads with you since you have a knack for doing exactly what you planned to in the first place.” She uncrossed her legs, clasped her hands between her knees and leaned forward. “That’s why this is perfect for you. You answer to no one, except me.” She sat up straight and put her hands out, palms up. “What could be more perfect?”

“Time at home with my son.”

All joviality faded from her face, leaving only the look of determination that her political opponents so dreaded. “I need you to head the team, Mike. Harvey Realto was not only the wealthiest landowner in #Washington State, he was also a big contributor to my last campaign.” She held up a delicate hand when he started to interrupt. “That isn’t the real problem.” She bit her lip, a habit she’d been trying to break. “It’s come out that several months ago he beat a young man who worked on his ranch so badly that the boy will carry several facial scars for the rest of his life. The boy was gay. I didn’t know he was like that, Mike.  You know I don’t hold with that kind of bigotry.”

Mike grunted and glared at her. “Told you that you needed to vet your contributors, Andrea.”

“Gregory…”

“Gregory Whitehall is an incompetent ass.”

“Yes, well.” She sighed and settled against the uncomfortable back of the settee. “He’s a necessary evil. Mike, I’ve gone to bat for you….”

“That was because you owed Eleanor Hastings, big time.”

She threw her hands up in the air. “What will it take to get you to accept? Yes, so far this monster has only murdered two men, both who arguably deserved what they got and worse, both wealthy men who used their positions, power and money to sidestep justice for crimes we all know they committed. But, Mike, what happens when this vigilante doesn’t get the full story before he strikes; what happens when he goes after someone who was perhaps falsely accused? Do you really want an innocent man’s death on your conscience when we both know the best hope we have is for you to head a team whose only goal is to stop this maniac?”

She knew she’d scored when he began rubbing one hand over his hair. Like her lip chewing, it was a telling gesture.

He stood and paced over to the bookshelves, ran a thick finger along the books’ spines. When he turned back to face her, his heavy features were set and she knew whatever he demanded she would have to concede or he would walk away.

“I’ll head your Special Crimes Team, Andrea, but there are conditions. It’s my team. I don’t care who you pick, but they answer to me; not you. No jurisdictional boundaries to stall my investigations. When a case meets the criteria for my team, the other jurisdictions hand over the case; I head it and let them know how they can assist. One crime scene unit on-call for us. If they’re at another scene, too bad. Put it on hold for a different unit. Lab work we need goes to the head of the queue. No special considerations for politicians or wealthy people. Even if I decide I want to investigate you, no one will try to strait-jacket me, got it?”

She nodded, sensing that he wasn’t quite finished.

“Top of the line equipment. Computers, cell phones, digital cameras, whatever we need in technology. You can scrimp on the office furniture.”

When he jammed his hands in his front pockets, she knew he’d finished with his list of demands, nothing she didn’t expect. “I can agree to all of that, Mike. The only thing I want in my control is the media. Let Gregory handle the media. The man is an ass, but he’s the best PR person I’ve ever seen. I swear he could make people believe it’s the dead of night at high noon.”

Mike narrowed his eyes, and for a moment she thought he might balk. “Whitehall can have the media,” he held up one blunt-nailed finger, “unless I feel that it interferes with my investigation. At that point, I will do whatever I feel is necessary, understood?’’

A smile slowly spread across her lips as she stood. He met her in the center of the conversation area and they shook hands over the antique rosewood table. “Understood.”

As he put his hand on the doorknob, he twisted his head and peered over his shoulder. “Andrea, I don’t doubt that you’re sincere about wanting to catch this killer before someone dies who shouldn’t, but I also know if he can’t be caught in a timely fashion that you won’t hesitate to throw me, and my team, to the media wolves.”

She didn’t respond as he stepped out and quietly closed the door. Above everything, she was a political animal, and sometimes that called for distasteful sacrifices. He understood her too well, and sometimes, she hated him for it.

To learn more about the SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM read: SKETCH OF A MURDER, NOW AVAILABLE at http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ

or visit Author AYA WALKSFAR at:

http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

The above photos of the Governor’s Mansion in Olympia, Washington and the Library in the Governor’s Mansion in Olympia, Washington are from the Washington Governor’s Mansion Foundation at http://www.wagovmansion.org/photogallery/  Many thanks to this great non-profit, non-political organization for all of its efforts toward preservation of Washington State’s heritage.

HIS LAST WALK IN THE PARK

SKETCH OF A MURDER  (excerpt from Book 1 Special Crimes Team)

#murdermystery by #AyaWalksfar

PROLOGUE

Dr. James Benning sat at his usual table near the west wall of O’Toole’s Bar and Eatery on Fifteenth. It was eight o’clock on the evening of April 29th. He forked up the last of his New York cheesecake, topped with real strawberries and hand-whipped cream, then leaned back in the brown, padded leather booth, and sighed contentedly as he sipped his coffee. Pure Kona coffee flown in from Hawaii.

It’s over. Ding-dong the bitch is dead, and I’m finally free! He smiled, stood up, tossed some bills on the table, and strutted out of the restaurant. He took a deep breath of the warm night air and strode toward the lot where he’d parked his BMW.

Now to shut up that bitch, Christina Ryan. Really burned her ass that no one could prove I was anywhere near Carkeek Park when Rebecca was beaten. Stupid bitch would still be alive if she’d gotten the abortion, like I told her.   

He spotted the white paper stuck under his windshield wiper while still four stalls from his vehicle. “Damn solicitors. Should be a law to keep them from sticking papers on other people’s cars,” he muttered. When he got to his car, though, he realized the white paper was a business-size envelope. Frowning, he pulled it from beneath the wiper blade.

Meet me at Carkeek Park. You know the place. The same place that you left Rebecca bleeding and dying. Alone. At midnight. I have something that belongs to you. How much do you think the tabloids would pay for the scoop of the year? Mayoral Candidate Murders Ex-Wife.

CR

***   

The half moon threw watery, silver light on the black ribbon of the packed dirt path. Head up, shoulders back, Benning entered a tunnel formed by newly leaved trees.

Snap!

His steps dragged to a halt. Head tilted, he listened. A twig. That was just a twig breaking. But…. Brows furrowed, he turned in a slow circle.

Big-leaf maples loomed overhead, shaggy with small ferns sprouting like wayward clumps of hair in the bends of moss-covered tree arms. Tall bushes grew profusely along the path. More ferns, some three feet tall, grew in wild profusion among the trees.

Nothing. Probably a dog stepping on a dry twig. Enough dogs and twigs around here! 

Pace a little faster, he walked a few feet when he heard it. A rustling. Like someone sneaking through the bushes next to the trail. He stopped, peering from one side to the other along the pathway. “Okay, bitch, come on out. Quit playing your fucking head games.”

The pale green needles of a conifer entwined with the darker green needles of Douglas firs. He stared for a long minute, trying to see through clumps of wiry-limbed bushes heavy with white berries.

Nothing. He gave a half-hearted shrug and then spun with military sharpness, quickly moving out again. A squirrel. It’s only the rustling of a gray squirrel.

“Bitch probably won’t show. Wait until I get a hold of her, she’s going to wish she’d never gotten involved,” he threatened in an undertone.

A breeze soughed through the trees, young leaves whispered to each other. Somewhere a truck roared to life. The rumbling of its engine, muted by the thick vegetation, sounded far away. A shiver ran down his spine.

Alone.

ID-10017831

He’d never felt quite so isolated. “Almost there. Just around that curve then I’ll see if she shows. I want this done. Fucking bitch better show.”  Unconsciously he hunched his shoulders. Embarrassed by his own weakness, he began to turn to look behind him.

Out of the shroud of night, a solid piece of maple limb slammed into the side of his head.


Every Tuesday at six am, personal headlamp firmly strapped in place, Professor Lucy Holliswood jogged through Carkeek Park on one of the lesser-used paths. On this day, her pale cone of light flashed over something…something at the side of the path.

She had jogged this same route every morning for ten years on her way to The Happy Bean, her favorite coffee shop, just up the street from Art’s Supermarket. In all that time she had never seen so much as a discarded paper cup. She slowed to a near stop, peering at the dark object. What the…? A black leather loafer, toe perfectly aligned with the edge of the packed dirt of the path. Although the thickness of the salmonberry and Oso berry bushes obstructed her line of sight, she thought she saw…a pair of light-colored pants?

She crept forward. The second shoe, a long stride behind the first one, looked as if the owner had vanished mid-stride. A half-step farther along on the ground she found a pair of beige slacks neatly laid out. The dirt around them had been carefully brushed free of twigs and leaves. Crease still perfect, but ruined by the dirt on one knee as if the wearer had fallen.

Where in the Sam Hill is the man who owns these clothes?  They certainly aren’t what the homeless men wear. And why would anyone lay them out like this, so neatly? 

She pushed forward, arm held up to deflect the slapping branches. Her mother’s voice whispered in her mind, “Someday, Lucy, that curiosity of yers is gonna gitcha in trouble.”

Above the slacks, a white shirt laid flat, arms crossed neatly over the buttoned up front. An expensive-looking, pale gray tie lay on the ground above the shirt. The tip of the tie, lying an inch above the collar of the shirt, drew her eyes. Her eyes followed the straight line of the stretched out tie.

She barely captured the scream with her knuckles as she scrambled backwards.


SKETCH OF A MURDER: BOOK 1 SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM is available: http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ

The woods image:  Image courtesy of dan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Interview with Award Winning Mohana Rajakumar

Unlikely

Interviewer: No one understands the way culture affects women better than Mohana Rajakumar, an #awardwinningauthor. A #SouthAsianAmerican who now resides in the Arabian Desert, Mohana has a unique perspective which she shares with her readers in this powerful story of a young South Indian #woman.

Mohana, after writing seven other books, what moved you to write this book at this time?

Mohana Rajakumar: In reality I’ve been writing this book for the last 10 years. When I started self- publishing eBooks, I thought I was doing it to share my novel which is set in Qatar. What I realized eventually was that those seven other books that I published were practice for the writing and publishing of An Unlikely Goddess.

You often hear people say the first book by a writer is a working through of powerful experiences. That’s certainly true for this one. I don’t think I would have been ready to write this story then take it all the way to publication without my previous experiences as an #author.

Interviewer: As an author myself I know how demanding the profession is. How do you manage to write, be a wife, a mother, a teacher, (and whatever else you are!)?

Mohana Rajakumar: This is the question so many #women and not enough men are asked. My answer does involve a man: my husband is very supportive. If I need to be away twice a week until 9pm in the office, then he covers the home front. My strategy is simple – don’t procrastinate. Whatever you have to do, whether grade papers or write a blog post, cook dinner, get to it. And cut out TV or Facebook. There’s something in your life that isn’t very important that you can let go of in order to make room for your writing. Can you reuse that towel one more time? Or live with dishes in the sink overnight? Pick your battles.

Interviewer: I can attest that having a supportive spouse is absolutely the best thing that can happen to an author. Your husband and my wife are very similar. Mohana, I can see that you are a very dedicated author, but we all need to relax now and then. What do you do for fun?

Mohana Rajakumar: Sleep! Just kidding. I love, love, love to read. When I’m not writing or revising or preparing for a book launch, I’m reading, often 2 or maybe 3 books at a time. Fiction, non-fiction, academic ones on topics I like; there’s not a genre I won’t read unless it’s horror. And that’s only because I’m a scaredy cat.

Interviewer: I understand that. I, too, love to read. Along with reading, you have, obviously, traveled. Where is the most beautiful place you have ever been?

Mohana Rajakumar: Recently we were in Zanzibar, Tanzania. The water is so clear you can see your feet, the fish, the sea grass. Amazing. But I loved Portugal, too, when I went earlier this fall on a business trip with my husband. Every place I’ve come back from seems spectacular in the light of the everyday.

Interviewer: Like one of you other books, The Dohmestics, you’ve written a powerful book about an explosive topic. Is there anything that bothers you about the public’s response to books such as yours? (Not necessarily yours)

Mohana Rajakumar: Yes, the question: “Did that Really Happen to You?”

I was at a book talk a few weeks ago and someone in the audience asked the author, a survivor of the Khmer Rouge, how much of the book “had happened” to her. She was referring to a novel in which the main character suffers abject abuse and horror while still a child.

I was appalled at the question; it seemed voyeuristic somehow, as if the suffering of the character which represented thousands of unnamed people in real life, didn’t matter as much if the author hadn’t experienced that suffering herself.

The “did that really happen?” is one of the most awkward questions you can ask a writer after reading his/her book. We want the reader to be lost in the narrative, not wondering how much of it is autobiography.

My latest release, An Unlikely Goddess, will no doubt spark a similar set of questions. The story of an Indian girl who immigrates to the United States with her parents, suffers much heartache, and finds solace in academia, is not that different from my own. Sita’s trajectory, however, is a composite of many people’s journeys as immigrants, not only mine. In some ways she is the Everywoman of the female coming-of-age for South Indians.

I found this story important to tell because it shows how the #immigrant experience is not always the “making good on the American dream” that we have come to expect from the “Model Minority” of Asians in the United States. The recent interest in Indian Literature in English which depicts a very specific part of the Indian diaspora – often well-educated Bengalis – did not speak to my experience or those who I knew growing up.

This book tells the “other story”.

2013authorphoto

Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar is a South Asian American who has lived in Qatar since 2005. Moving to the Arabian Desert was fortuitous in many ways since this is where she met her husband, had a baby, and made the transition from writing as a hobby to a full time passion.  She has since published seven e-books including a mom-ior for first time mothers, Mommy But Still Me, a guide for aspiring writers, So You Want to Sell a Million Copies, a short story collection, Coloured and Other Stories, and a novel about women’s friendships, Saving Peace.

Her recent books have focused on various aspects of life in Qatar. From Dunes to Dior, named as a Best Indie book in 2013, is a collection of essays related to her experiences as a female South Asian American living in the Arabian Gulf. Love Comes Later was the winner of the Best Indie Book Award for Romance in 2013 and is a literary romance set in Qatar and London. The Dohmestics is an inside look into compound life, the day to day dynamics between housemaids and their employers.

After she joined the e-book revolution, Mohana dreams in plotlines. Learn more about her work on her website at www.mohanalakshmi.com or follow her latest on Twitter: @moha_doha.

Mohana’s other book that I loved! The Dohmestics. Below is my review of it.

5.0 out of 5 stars A MUST Read!, December 24, 2012
This review is from: The Dohmestics (Kindle Edition)

I’m more of the blood and guts kind of reader, but when I was given an opportunity to read The Dohmestics I took it. And, I am glad that I did.

This thought-provoking book hooked me right from the first page. On the surface, it appears to be about six women whose lives intertwine, three are privileged women and three are their servants. But, there is so much more to this book.

It pulled me into a culture and then used that culture as a vehicle to explore the relationships and dynamics between the privileged and the poverty-stricken; between workers and employees; between men and women; between power and corruption. I was taken on a journey that challenged me to not only understand this foreign culture, but to view my own with enlightened eyes.

I loved how it took a small decision and traced the ripples of that decision to its’ tragic end. But even in tragedy there existed an opportunity for people to shine, to rise above all that limits them and to reach out to each other.

This book took me from anger to sadness to strength. Quite the journey, and one I highly recommend.

Stay tuned to this blog for all interesting things write!

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Check out Aya’s books on http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

#Interview with #ChantalBellehumeur, #Horror Novelist

Interviewer:  I am pleased to have the opportunity to interview #ChantalBellehumeur after having read her #horror novel, Just Another Common Killer. Tell me, Chantal, have you always been a Ripperologist?

Chantal Bellehumeur: No, just since coming back from Whitechapel.  I was fascinated by the unsolved mystery of Jack the Ripper’s murders and took the #JacktheRipper walk, feeling very nostalgic for some unknown reason.  Later on, I started doing research and decided that I wanted to create a character based on this mystery man.  I thought it would be interesting to write about his reincarnation and make him more monstrous than in real life.  I thought about all the evil characters from horror stories as well as real life and kind of meshed them into a single being.   

Interviewer: Was there a lot of research in the writing of  Just Another Common Killer?

Chantal Bellehumeur: Yes.

Interviewer: I noticed that you used a style I don’t often see, and I call it a reportorial style for its tight writing. Why did you use the reportorial style of writing?

Chantal Bellehumeur: It wasn’t a conscious decision.    

Interviewer: If Jack had a dog, what breed would it be? Why?

Chantal Bellehumeur: Jack would most likely end up killing his dog.

Interviewer: What is Jack’s favorite color?

Chantal Bellehumeur: Black

Interviewer: Why does Jack believe he is the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper?

Chantal Bellehumeur: As a child he murders his two sisters in the same fashion as two of Jack the Ripper’s victims.  Under hypnosis, he talked about the unsolved murders as thought he was the Ripper himself and draws a man in a top hat as his self-portrait.  Later on in his life, he starts to have flashbacks of his past life and of the murders he committed…

Interviewer: What author inspires you and why?

Chantal Bellehumeur: I try not to let other author’s work inspire me.  There are a lot of great authors out there with different styles and interesting ideas.  I would not want to steal any part of their work.

Interviewer: What was the first thing you ever wrote? (whether or not for publication)

Chantal Bellehumeur: That’s actually a tough question.  I used to make little books when I was a child so I really can’t remember what the first one was about.

Interviewer: What is your strongest motivation for writing?

Chantal Bellehumeur: I have a passion for it and it is like air to me.  My readers give me that extra push. 

Interviewer: In five years from now, where do you see yourself as a writer?

Chantal Bellehumeur: I hope to have written many more stories…

To find out more about this amazing author:

AMAZON

US Amazon Author page

http://www.amazon.com/Chantal-Bellehumeur/e/B008YX5YGK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Canada Amazon page

http://www.amazon.ca/Books/s?ie=UTF8&field-author=Chantal%20Bellehumeur&page=1&rh=n%3A916520%2Cp_27%3AChantal%20Bellehumeur

UK Amazon Author page

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Chantal-Bellehumeur/e/B008YX5YGK

Bookstop Cafe

Just.Another.Common.Killer will be sold in this UK bookstore
www.bookstopcafe.com

 GOODREADS 

Goodreads Author account.  Please post reviews.

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4538804.Chantal_Bellehumeur

Book Trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCJj5joeFDE

7 Novels available to purchase on Amazon + short story published in The Suburban Online magazine.

jack cover art 407697_10152195815435262_230225100_n[1]

MEET RONALD ARNEAU, COMPUTER SPECIALIST, SPECIAL CRIMES TEAM

MEET RONALD ARNEAU, COMPUTER SPECIALIST FOR SPECIAL #CRIMES TEAM

Interviewer: Mr. Arneau, thank you for coming to this #interview.

Ronald Arneau: (grins) Just call me Ronald. Everyone except the Special Crimes Team does.

Interviewer: Why don’t they call you Ronald?

Ronald Arneau: (shrugs) Everyone’s too uptight right now.

Interviewer: Why’s that?

Ronald Arneau: (frowns) This case we’re working on…(shakes head) It’s, well, it’s really difficult, but that’s all I can say about it or Lieutenant Williams will skin me.

Interviewer: (smiles) Okay, I won’t ask anything else about the case. I don’t want to get you skinned. May I ask why you wound up on the Special #Crimes Team?

Ronald Arneau: (presses lips together for a moment before answering) Well, the governor wanted me on it. That’s really all I’m allowed to say. I don’t need to piss the governor off. (murmurs very softly: again)

Interviewer: (steeples fingertips together) All right. I don’t want to tick off the governor, either, so we’ll leave that line of questions. Tell me, Ronald, what do you do on the Special Crimes Team? You’re not a #cop, are you?

Ronald Arneau: (Big grin) Not a cop. Don’t want to be a #cop.

I do whatever they need done that involves a #computer. Like the first thing Lieutenant Williams wanted me to do, even before we had our first official team meeting, was to set up everyone’s #laptop and create a Team Room where everything about the case can be posted.

Interviewer: Hmmm… Don’t laptops come pre-installed these days?

Ronald Arneau: (sits up straight and leans toward interviewer. Eyes are sparkling with enthusiasm) Most laptops that the general public would purchase come with a basic operating system and whatever application you order. The laptops for our team require additional software that only the police department has access to, as well as additional security software.

Interviewer: (cocks a brow at Arneau) Hmmm, I get the feeling you are telling me much less than the whole truth with that answer. What is a Team Room?

Ronald Arneau: You can think of a Team Room as a big library where we can securely store all kinds of information about active cases, and even have an archive for closed cases. This allows the team members to share information more easily.

Interviewer: (purses lips, gives a little whistle) Wow, that sounds darn complicated. I’m a technosaur, myself. What else will you be doing once everything is set up?

Ronald Arneau: Well, if they need research, I’ll do that; post #crime scene photos in the Team Room, examine computers or storage devices recovered in raids to extract evidence, trace IP addresses to find where communications or postings originated. If any of the team members have a problem with their laptop I can trouble shoot and help resolve those issues. Like I said before, anything related to a computer is my job.

Interviewer: (widens eyes and rolls them)  Wow! I’m impressed! That’s a brain fry; maybe we can move on to something that I’ll actually understand.

Ronald Arneau: (chuckles)

Interviewer: Do you live in #Seattle?

Ronald Arneau: (face settles into serious look) Yes. I wanted to get my own place, but I’ve kind of put that off for a little while. My dad’s sick.

Interviewer: I’m sorry to hear that. Sounds like you’ve lived here for a while. What are some of your favorite things about Seattle?

Ronald Arneau: I grew up in Seattle. I guess the thing I like most about Seattle is the #Pacific #Science #Center. My parents started taking me there when I was a kid.

Interviewer: What do you like about the Pacific Science Center?

Ronald Arneau: (big grin) I love Science on a Sphere. They use computers and video projectors to display these radical images of the atmosphere, oceans and land on an illuminated sphere about six feet in diameter. And the images are dynamic. There’s datasets that let the system explain complex environmental processes. That exhibit just opened in 2010.

Then there’s the Laser Dome….Man, that is so awesome. These laser artists do live laser art set to music. Really slammin’.

The IMAX Theater is really great, too. The Hunger Games is going to be shown there soon.

But I guess one of the things I’ve loved about the Center for years is the Tropical Butterfly House. You walk into this tropical jungle set up and there’s all these different types of live butterflies, just hanging on the plants and walls, and flying around, and sometimes they even land on you. There’s even a chrysalis viewing window where you can watch a new butterfly emerging.

Interviewer: I’ve gone to the Pacific Science Center years ago, but now I’m going to have to make time to visit it again. I’d forgotten about the Butterfly House, and the Laser Dome.

Well, Ronald, I’m afraid we’re out of time, already. It has been a pleasure talking with you.

For those who would like to know more about the Pacific Science Center:

http://www.pacificsciencecenter.org

To learn more about Ronald Arneau, read Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team   http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ

Sketch of a Murderebook 7 30 2014