Helpful hint: Please don't add your book to another author's thread. It's not very courteous to hijack theirs and they won't be happy. It also makes discussion of the excerpt difficult if there's more than one book in the thread.

Please create a new discussion for each of your own books you want to share to keep it simple. 

To create a new discussion in the Group, hit the orange "+Add a Discussion" link just above the Comment Wall. 

Book Excerpts discussion Groups work great - if they are all kept separate. :)

Hi there, just recently found this site and just joined this group.  I'm in agreement with WJ, this is a great idea for new authors like myself.

Welcome to the family Merita.

Thank you Anna

POSEIDON'S TRIDENT by Patricia Fenn

PROLOGUE

Blood dripped from his slashed hand and spattered the teak deck of Sunseeker One. George Lambrakis ignored his injuries, gripped the controls, and slammed the accelerator lever forward. The bow lifted with a great surge of power, the wheel spinning with hydraulic ease.

“Revenge time!” he yelled into the night, his voice seething with hate.

He thrust an entanglement of fishing hooks and line from around his half-naked body. The night air raced passed him, fluttering small flaps of his skin, torn and shredded by dozens of needle-sharp fishing barbs. The wind drove trickling blood into horizontal tracts across his arms and chest as he sped towards his quarry.

He took aim at the pregnant Irish b**** thrashing in the water; she would go first; then his pathetic brother. They were about to become fish food.

A sudden whiteout of blinding light flashed with an ear-splitting explosion. The night vibrated and instantly two thousand horsepower of technical precision and aesthetic beauty disintegrated. Propelled by the blast, Lambrakis flew through the air at what had to be a terrifying speed - yet for an aeon of time it seemed to happen in slow motion. For a fraction of a second he was held, frozen in time and space, suspended above the burning yacht and gazing down on the Mediterranean like Zeus from Mount Olympus.

A second explosion snapped everything into fast forward. He raced through the night air, aware, as the sea rushed up to meet him that a fuel consuming red and orange fireball pursued with terrifying velocity. Before he met the water’s surface the inferno enveloped and suckered from him.

Fire and man travelled the last meter as one and the blaze partook of its last meal: clothes, hair, skin, and for dessert a fair portion of subcutaneous fat.

United for less than an instant, the elements of fire and water battled for supremacy, hissing and spitting like tomcats in the night. However, the fires of hell had visited George Lambrakis prematurely and he plunged into the cold wet sea.

The devil would not have him yet.

CHAPTER 1

ONE MONTH LATER

Hurled into a bottomless chasm with all the terror of certain death, Bridget Gallagher’s body jerked her awake. She gripped the top of the duvet and panted quietly in the darkness while her pounding heart slowed. The damn nightmare again. She rolled over, slipped an arm over Stefan’s warm body and waited for sleep to return.

Four hours later she opened one eye and glanced at the old cream Westclock that she had owned for all her twenty-three years. Eight o’clock. Bridget turned onto her side and wrapped herself around the man she loved, Stefan Lambrakis. They fitted together perfectly, her knees in the back of his, her face against his shoulder.

He stirred and mumbled, “Agapi mou, is Sunday, sleep a little longer.”

Joy and happiness fizzed inside her like gas in a pop bottle. She couldn’t keep the lid on it.

“Stefan, I can’t sleep now, I’m too excited.” She gave him a little squeeze. “I just can’t believe you agreed to have our

wedding in Dublin; and you’ll meet all my friends.” She

squeezed him again, a little harder this time, willing him to

wake and share her elation. “I know you met some of them in

The Shamrock that first day, when you dragged me from my work

behind the bar and got me to model for Now Catalogue…”

“Bridget.”

“What?” She kissed his back.

“Shut up.” He stole a few extra inches of duvet and

drew his knees up a little higher.

“And so much has happened since. Our baby should start kicking soon. And what about the contract with Rimaltier’s fashion house, it’s so fantastic, them being happy I’m pregnant so I can show off their maternity range. Stefan, we are so exceedingly lucky, don't you think?”

“I no feel lucky. I feel tired.” He pulled the covers over their heads.

Bridget tried to relax but it was no good, her excitement was in overdrive. She pulled the duvet down from her face.

“It’s incredible how many magazines want to follow my pregnancy.” She rubbed his back with the flat of her hand. “Everything is fine but I must see the doctor again next week.”

“Why?”

“Just the usual checks.” She couldn’t resist giving him another hug.

“Me too, I see doctor yesterday.” His voice so thick with drowsiness, his Greek accent was almost undetectable. Bridget’s stomach knotted.

“Why? What’s the matter, Stefan?” She raised herself on one elbow.

“I tell doctor I have much trouble with the sleep, not enough hours. Always I am tired.” He went silent.

Bridget wondered if he’d nodded off and, concerned, gave his body a little shake. “What did he say, angel?” His ribs expanded beneath her arm as he took in a deep breath.

“He ask if I sleep with beautiful green-eyed, red-haired Irish woman who is top model. I say yes. He say that is my problem, they are all the same, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!”

She pulled her hand away and delivered a hefty slap to his bare arse.

“Stefan Lambrakis you’re such a liar, I could slaughter you. I was really worried there for a moment.”

He twisted his head around and grinned over his shoulder. She peered into his enormous brown eyes, how lucky she was. How lucky they were to be alive after the terrible explosion on his brother’s yacht and all that went before. She knew how much he wanted to get married at his father’s luxury hotel in Elounda, Crete.

Now that George, his brother, was officially declared dead and lost at sea, they could set the date for their Greek wedding - a year after the memorial service. In Crete, it is unthinkable to celebrate anything within the twelve months of a family bereavement. So they would have two weddings, one Catholic in Dublin next month and one Greek Orthodox in Crete next year.

She screwed up her eyes to shut out the nightmare of a month ago when they almost died at the hands of Stefan’s brother. It seemed impossible that brothers could be so different. A more evil man than George Lambrakis, Bridget had never known, and now he was officially dead, perhaps she could sleep a little easier.

Stefan’s shoulder jerked against her. “Turn over, is my turn to give cuddles.” They turned in sync. His short beard scraped into the nape of her neck. She squirmed happily in his arms and the bad memories dissolved.

“The thing is, it will be nice to have a small wedding in the church; and before the baby is born too. I’m thinking to ask Jack, The Shamrock’s landlord, to give me away.”

“Scasse!”

“What does scasse mean?”

“Bridget, it means ‘shut up’. Sleep now.”

“And I thought Siobhan could be bridesmaid.”

“You is looking for the binger trouble Bridget.”

“Stefan, I’ve told you before, it’s ‘big’.”

He growled, “Yes Bridget, I know,” and pulled her against him.

“Ooh!” He couldn’t see her smile.

***

Mid morning they sat at the kitchen table and Bridget wondered if Stefan was listening. She had her half pint mug of tea and a thick slice of toast dripping with Irish butter. Stefan had his tiny Greek coffee cup and a chunk of farmhouse bread dribbled with extra virgin olive oil. Stefan’s back was to the window and the morning sun shone a halo of light from behind his long dark hair.

“Or perhaps Tracy and Miranda, the first two models I worked with, could be bridesmaids, what do you think, Stefan?”

“Bridget!” She knew he was only pretending anger, even though his black eyes flashed menacingly. “I think we should make deal, now,” he said.

“Okay, angel, what sort of deal is it you want to make?”

“Every day, you only talk for half hour about wedding; then scasse! And I talk for half-hour about things I want, and you listen. Is all right, you agree?”

“Sure, that’s just a grand plan. What do you want to talk about?”

He put down the piece of bread that was halfway to his mouth, thought for a moment, and said, “Nothing.”

“Great, can I use your half an hour up then?”

He slapped his forehead and turned his face to the ceiling. “Only if you promise no talk of the wedding.”

Wasn’t he just such a love? “I go to Paris tomorrow, you haven’t forgotten?” She fingered the rim of her empty mug and considered making another brew.

“No I do not forget, and I go to Crete…”

Their eyes met, she saw the pain flicker, a mask of normality glued to his face. Her hand went across the table; their fingers touched, squeezed, and broke apart. They never talked about it, couldn’t, not yet.

“I will stay at our hotel in Elounda,” he said. “Papa wants me to help with new hotel at Istron. Is half ready now. I like very much.”

“I know. I hope you’re not going to use all your half hours talking about it.” She enjoyed his grin of threatened wedding-talk revenge. “What happened to the Minoan excavation site next to it?” she asked.

“I do not know. I will find out and talk about it for hours and hours.”

“And I’ll say scasse!” She laughed at the idea.

“No you cannot say that, Bridget.” His shoulders squared with authority.

“Why not? You said it, Stefan.”

“Ah, but I am a man, is okay. Is not nice for woman to say these things.”

“B*******!”

In the prologue - very very nice by the way - however since I know very little about yachts, I can't help but think that he should have had a windshield in the way. All I have to go by is what I see on TV and nearly all those have some sort of covered cabin, or at the very least a tall windshield. And the fishhooks and tangled line - makes me wonder what kind of boat this was - was it a yacht or was it a comercial fishing boat?

Chapter 1: It sounds a little strange to have her body wake her. It's quite alright to have her wake with a jerk. 

Ooh - nice teaser. Makes me totally wonder what happened both before the prologue and between that and the first chapter. Good luck with this.

Thanks Anna:-)

I've written from personal experience.

The yacht is a Sunseeker and like all big motor yachts it has both an inside (protected) and outside (open) console. I had my own motor sailor until five years ago, and also I often skippered for one of the local hotel  yachts, so I know the layout and actually went through the motions of the drama that I've written, (mostly in book one) apart from exploding the thing, of course, LOL! On the sundeck, where the outside console is, the bench-seats have hinged tops and inside these lockers the owner usually stores the fishing rods, diving paraphernalia, warps, and life jackets, including the parragathi, a woven basket with up to fifty meters of hooked line coiled inside. It is a luxury recreational boat, common here in Greece.

(Chapter one) interesting comment. If I have a nightmare it's  the physical jerk of my body that wakes me, and I did ask several friends of their experience.

This, Poseidon't Trident, is book two of a trilogy, so although each story stands alone, Greeks Bearing Gifts, book one, leads the players to this point.

Thanks very much for taking the time to comment. I'm thrilled that you sound a little intrigued. The novels are published by AUK and available on Amazon.

Patricia. 

There's one rule I follow - basically it's the first rule of writing I learned.

"If there's ever anything you need to explain ->put it in the book<-

In other words, you might know a lot about this boat and therefore the name will tell you all you need to know, but though I work at a fishing lodge and drive a boat to work (during the summer) the boats I'm familiar with are all 14', 16' and 18' open boats run by a tiller handle motor of various sizes and brands. Of course, if your previous book goes through all this description only a small reminder would be necessary here. Just keep in mind, it's possible that a reader will find book 2 before bood 1.

"If there's ever anything you need to explain ->put it in the book<-

This, of course, is true, but I do feel some authors go over the top showing off their knowledge and sometimes it takes away from the pace of the novel. And pace is very important in an entertaining read.

Kathy Reichs, for example. After reading a couple of her books I find myself skipping the lengthy medical descriptions. I'm a great fan of hers, but sometimes her display of knowledge halts the story, and I don't feel she has to explain every minute detail. I trust that she knows what she is talking about.

Thanks again for taking the time.

Patricia.

Oh sure, you're right there. I go with visual; if your reader needs to see something in order to understand the scene, then they need to see it. I too would (and have) skipped lengthy description. Such things are risky to include in your story for that very reason. Once a reader gets bogged down in a description, they could simply put the book down and never pick it up again, as a new more interesting read comes along. The Wheel of Time Compendium is a prime example. Chocked full of beautifully detailed descriptions of everything, it's very well written but way too detailed. I'm usually like 'get on with the story already'.

Ta, Anna.

I guess, to cut it short, I strove to write more of a holiday read than a masterpiece :-) 

My original concept was to produce an entertaining novel that brought the thrill of Greek archaeology to the hordes of sun-worshipers that arrive here, in Crete, every summer. Most of them are hardly aware of the exciting historical treasures of this country. Now, with the flourish of all-inclusive holidays, so many never even leave their hotel to discover the rich and exciting ancient history of Greece. 

To many people look on archaeology as a boring pile of old stones, so I spliced it with love, lust, and murder.

Ooh awesome, Maybe someday I can come visit. But in reality, I'll likely never make it. I guess I'll just have to buy your books and live there vicariously. haha

Going to write them down on my wish list now.

Merry Christmas by the way.

Bless you, thanks!

Have a wonderful holiday, Anna.

Comment by Randal Agostini

To be a Pilot by Randal Agostini

THE DEVILS TRIANGLE

Th e name applies to an area of ocean that roughly falls within a

triangle made from joining the points of Cape Canaveral, Bermuda

and Puerto Rico. For several years I fl ew through the area about four

times per week and it was during that time that it once again made

news headlines. I found most of the stories diffi cult to believe but over

a period of ten years, there were two occasions, when caused me to

believe that the name might have been well earned through a natural

explanation.

If you view a national weather report on television you will notice

that during wintertime all the fronts disappear off the screen to the

right into an area that is known as Th e Devils Triangle. In summertime,

most of the hurricanes that approach the east coast turn north and east

away from land and pass into the same area. Over the years the winter

storms and summer hurricanes have caused much consternation to

those who have sailed the seas of the Devils Triangle.

Th ere are other contributing ingredients such as the Gulf Stream,

which begins life off the West coast of South Africa as a cold current. As

it fl ows North towards the Equator it starts to warm and when it meets

that huge bulge of the African continent made up of the countries

of Ghana, the Ivory Coast, and Liberia, it is forced to turn west. It’s

journey across the Atlantic at the Equator takes over two years during

which time the water temperature rises to over eighty degrees. It is in

this region that Hurricanes are spawned.

Eventually the Gulf Stream winds its way through the Caribbean

and heats up even more, which is why the surf temperature in Miami

during December is still nearly 80 degrees. As it moves up the East

To Be a Pilot  109

coast of Florida the current is turned North East and once more heads

out over the Atlantic bound for Ireland and England. From the air the

Gulf Stream is very evident as its boundaries resemble the banks of

an enormous river and are easily seen from altitude. I have observed

violent and sudden changes in weather, which are the result of an

unstable cool continental air mass meeting and moving across the

warm waters of the Gulf Stream.

One morning we were fl ying North through the Devils Triangle, in

a cloudless sky, on our way to New York. About eighty miles distant we

observed a small line of clouds stretching across our path. Th is posed

no problem, as none of the clouds were more than 10,000 ft high

and we were cruising at 35,000 ft . Eighty miles is about ten minutes

fl ying time in a jet aircraft . Five minutes later at about 40 miles the

clouds had grown suffi ciently so as to appear on our Radar screen.

Within another two minutes we were actually able to see the vertical

movement of the developing storms. Within two more minutes we

were forced to alter course in order to avoid entering any of the vicious

storms that were by then punching through our cruising altitude. It

was a remarkable and vivid demonstration of nature in action.

In less than ten minutes a peaceful sky had turned into a dark and

violent maelstrom. I could only imagine what this must have looked

like at sea level. Th is event took place exactly at the Northern edge of

the Gulf Stream as it passed through the Devils Triangle.

On another occasion three of us were positioning an empty

707 from Toronto to Trinidad late at night. Without the weight of

passengers and their baggage we were able to climb up to a cruising

altitude of 41,000 ft . On such a trip there was little to do except give

position reports about every twenty minutes. As the fi rst offi cer I had

the least work to do, and so the dinner duty fell to me. I was to warm

up the prepared meals in the forward galley oven and serve them to

the rest of the crew. When we had all fi nished eating our dinner, we

exchanged small talk to keep ourselves awake and alert.

Suddenly there was a loud bang and the aircraft lurched violently.

We were dumbfounded and worried, as something must have hit the

 110 Randal Agostini

aircraft . Th e wing lights were switched on and the Flight Engineer was

sent to make a visual check. In the meantime Sonny Steel and I made

a thorough check of the cockpit instruments and waited for the next

foot to fall, but there was nothing.

Some minutes later the Flight Engineer returned and reported

nothing unusual. I was then asked to take a look. With no moon and

the cabin lights switched off , the only light in the cabin was from the

refl ection of the lights off the wings. I went to the aft of the cabin to

have a look at the stabilizer. Th ere was little one could see except the

tips so I studied them with the aid of my fl ashlight but found nothing.

I then moved up the cabin to get a view of the wings. We had lights

in the fuselage that point out along the tops of the wings to the wing

tips, mainly for icing purposes. Th ey are quite bright and it is possible

to see most of the top of the wing surface and the leading edges of

the engine nacelles. I spent a long time looking. We could not have

shaken so much without some visual confi rmation of an impact. But

there was nothing. Sonny was not convinced so when I returned he

left the cockpit with a fl ashlight. Aft er about ten minutes he returned

with a bewildered expression and nothing further to report. As all the

instruments gave normal readings we continued on our journey.

Upon arrival at Piarco we all once more inspected the exterior of

the aircraft , but found no damage. Just in case, a report was entered in

the Aircraft Log.

A couple of years later I had a similar experience at night when

en route from Trinidad to London. We had burned off suffi cient fuel

so we were able to carry out a step climb up to 37,000 ft . Aft er we

had leveled off and set the cruise power, there was a loud bang, which

shook the airplane violently. I had simultaneously noticed a red fl ash

out of the corner of my right eye. Soon it happened again, but I was

looking out the window and saw the red tongues of fl ame fl ash out of

the front of the engine. Th is indicated that the engine was suff ering

from compressor stall. We had two choices, either to throttle back on

that engine or descend again to our previous altitude. Esmond chose

the latter, and we continued to London in this manner.

To Be a Pilot  111

Th ough the experience and fi ndings were similar. I still don’t believe

that my experience over the Devils Triangle was the same problem

because of the following reasons. Maintenance did not confi rm that

the rigging (control cables) to the engines was improperly set. Nor did

we receive any other cockpit indication that there was a problem with

any engine. It remains just another unsolved Devils Triangle mystery.

Interesting. I've always found tales of the Devil's Triangle fascinating.

My books are what I call " bathroom breaks"..they are written for the person who wants the priviledge of stating I read a book this week. You will find my books to be contagious without harsh side effects, like psychological trauma or skin rashes. No animal or children were ever harmed in the process.Look forward to hearing some feed-back on my words of thought.

http://www.scribd.com/doc/70351168/Whatever-I-m-Still-Here

Hi to all!

My book "Affairs of The Heart" now is $2.24 only:

http://www.amazon.com/Affairs-Heart-Borislava-Borissova/dp/09834885...

Two love stories, two affairs of the heart in one book. In them lives all passion I have for history and adventures, time-traveling and thrillers, mysteries and great love.

Here are two excerpts from it:

From "The Last Secrets of The Ancient Island"
“I wanted to see the face, to look into the eyes of the dangerous driver who scared us with his crazy driving, caused a series of collisions and accidents on our streets and placing the life of each of us in danger and uncertainty. I still remember the squeal of the high-speed tires and the sense of an evil menace and I wanted to rage at him, to strike him. I expected…” Michael sighed sadly and, forgetting everything and everyone around him, he lapsed into the memory of that time.

“In the hospital, I ran up the stairs and I looked in the room to peer over medic’s shoulder. There were a multitude of tubes and wires. The intravenous system and respirator were attached to the body in the bed, to keep the driver alive. I saw the ashen skin, dark rings around the eyes, fragile hands—they were already powerless to hold the wheel. The body was worn, similar to a shadow. It was a young woman who wanted to die, who searched for death on the road as fast as the car would go. And to take another life with hers so she wouldn’t be alone when she drew her last breath.” 

From "A Love In Time of War"

After a while, the older white-haired man repeated in amazement, “Let’s clear this up. You fought to the death in the Balkan War against her father, her brother and her country. And she served as a nurse to Bulgarian soldiers, among blood, wounded, dead, and the smell of formaldehyde on the opposite side of the borderline. Does it mean you are coming to ask for the hand of your enemy’s daughter? The Bulgarian general, who personally led his army from the front line against the Ottoman divisions?”
“Yes. First there was the war… the love followed later. Peace was somewhere in between.”
“Yesterday, you could have killed her on the other side of the front, today you are in love and what about tomorrow?”
“She feels the same way. All our efforts to remain enemies appeared to be in vain. The border line between our ability to hate or to love appears a thin one.”
His fellow traveler shook his head distrustfully. “Your story sounds crazy. Most probably, her father will not allow her to marry you. Hmm... Kidnap her instead. Escape together as others have done many times on the Balkans.”
“Who would easily marry a Muslim man and a Christian woman in secret? If not, what would she be in my life without a legal marriage? A mistress? The woman who was born to be my wife? I cannot make a political scandal between our countries. The general is respectful and popular.”

Borislava, are those stories in the same book? They are so very different, and so very awesome. I wish you all the luck.

Thank you very much, Anna. There are two different love novellas in one book. Each of them is 35 000 words. Honestly, novellas are not very popular, readers prefer long fictions. However, I put tremendous efforts to write and find home for my work. I hope people would feel my stories. 

I'm one of those people who don't care for shorts, but mostly that's real shorts - a book of short stories. Go figure though, I have a collection of shorts that would fill a book. They all follow the theme of 'are you brave enough'. Someday, I'll get them published somewhere, either as a book of shorts or singly. Good luck with yours. After reading these samples, I'd buy it.

Dear Anna,

I would like to encourage you in all possible ways to collect and publish your short stories. It needs much more marketing efforts but our writing deserves it. I think the important is the story to be strong than wordy and perhaps it would meet readers appreciating it. About the theme, at first it seems everything is said by the great classic authors but everybody has his/her unique experience with love and there is what to be written, yet. I try to describe it as masterfully so I can.

I so hope you will enjoy my works!

Happy reading! 

wow, seriously? I wasn't trying to self promote. It took me 4 1/2 years to get my own book published, so I feel for the un-published author, which is the reason that I want to do spotlights. I swear, only in America do people think that someone can't just help because they want to and it makes them feel good to do it.

I'll delete them and this acct. I just feel bad for the people who wanted to be. If you already contacted me about a guest spot, no worries ur on anyway.

Alie out!

Excerpt from Once Upon a Decade: Tales of the Fifties

Here's an excerpt from my mystery novel, Mixed Messages.

She heard the sirens the second she stepped onto the porch. She hated the sound; it evoked too many bad memories. As she hurried down the steps and into the yard, anxious to see what was going on, the wails got progressively louder, coming closer and closer. She couldn’t tell which direction the cries were coming from but she was sure that something bad had happened to someone.

She looked up and down the tree-lined street but couldn’t see any flashing lights or emergency vehicles. Abruptly, the screams stopped. It was almost as if they’d never existed, as if she’d imagined hearing them. Everything seemed normal again.

http://www.amazon.com/Mixed-Messages-Patricia-Gligor/dp/0615603815/...

She couldn’t breathe. He was twisting the cord around her neck, choking her, and he was pulling it tighter and tighter. She tried to swallow and her mouth filled with a bitter, metallic liquid: blood, her blood. She gasped for air and clawed at the cord that was strangling her. She tried to kick him but she couldn’t move her legs. Her head throbbed with an almost unbearable pain and she felt light-headed.

She fought as hard as she could to stay conscious but she knew that her strength was almost gone. She squeezed her eyes shut and saw white lines that looked like flashes of lightning zigzagging back and forth, on and off. She gritted her teeth in pain. Death was closing in on her; she knew it. Was this it? Was this how her life was going to end? Please God, no, she silently prayed. Please God, help me!

http://www.amazon.com/Mixed-Messages-Patricia-Gligor/dp/0615603815/...

Ack - you left it there??? How could you??? hahaha nice sample.

Thanks, Anna! Well. . . to find out what happens, you'll have to read the book! :)

Hahaha

Gee, I'm glad I could make you laugh.

Great sample.  But I'm confident that she'll be rescued before her heart stops beating, probably by the modern equivalent of Prince Charming (Batman?).  Seriously, the quotation suggests a fascinating, exciting novel.

I'm very inept at technology. I see that the Amazon URL above leads only to my own website, rather than to Amazon's page for The Caucasian Menace.  Let's see what happens when I list the Amazon page alone.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/1448960150

Yes, it works.

Hello everyone...new to the discussion board.

Hello Bud. Welcome to Authors.com

Hot & Spicy, De La Cruz Saga by P.T. Macias

Romance, tantalizing ecstasy, danger, and suspense rocks the bachelor's world. The rage of pasión is running hot and spicy in Jose Enrique’s blood causing him to unchain his alma (soul). Will this fever overpower and capture the bachelor. 
http://tiny.cc/rt7phw

The chica returns and advises Carlos. “Sorry but there were 

only two mujers in el cuarto de mujers.” 

Carlos’s corazon starts to pound harder, making it hard to

breathe. He thanks la chica. “Gracias.” turns to go to advise Jose

Enrique y Greg. 

“No estan en el cuarto de mujers,” said Carlos, taking deep

breaths. “We need to get security to assist us in searching for

them in the club.” 

“Si,” said Greg, starting to turn to locate where the security

is. 

A waiter approaches Jose Enrique with a cerveza and note.

“Señor De La Cruz?” asks the waiter, waiting for a response from

Jose Enrique. 

Jose Enrique looks at the waiter and cerveza, wondering what

is up with this. “Si, soy De La Cruz,” he responds, waiting for the

waiter to enlighten him. 

“Si, this cerveza is sent over by el caballero at the bar with

this note,” said the waiter, turning to indicate which hombre sent

the cerveza y note. 

The waiter cannot see the caballero, turns to Jose Enrique

with a small unsure smile. “El caballero is not there anymore,”

he said, handing over the tray to Jose Enrique. 

Jose Enrique is looking at the bar and cannot see any caballero

and is getting really anxious. He looks at Greg and Carlos that

indicate to take the note. 

“Jose Enrique, read the damn note,” said Carlos with

frustration and anxiety. 

Greg is very scared, anxious, and knows that something

awful has happen to his baby. He quickly starts to ask the waiter

questions on what the guey looks like. 

“Tell us how this guey looks like,” demands Greg with

controlled fury. 

The waiter is getting scared by how furious and frustrated

they look. “He is tall, dark, and looks mean,” said the waiter,

starting to back away from them. 

“Did you ever see him in the club before?” asks Greg, watching

the waiter real close. “How long have you worked here?” 

“Si, I have worked here for over dos años, and no I have never

seen that hombre before,” said the waiter, starting to get pale.

Este hombre looks ready to kill me and I don’t know what’s

going on, thought the waiter. “Señor el hombre asked me to bring

el Señor De La Cruz esta cerveza y nota.” 

Greg can see that the waiter is starting to get scared. He most

likely didn’t know or ever seen the guey, thought Greg. “I need

you to give mi your full name and number,” he requests in an

authoritative voz. Greg wants to have the intel in case they need

to talk to him again. 

“Si,” said the waiter, scared and anxious to get away from

Greg. Estos hombres estan muy enojado’s y no si por qué, thought

the waiter, starting to sweat. 

“Jose Enrique, tell us what the damn nota dice!” demands

Carlos with frustration, looking at Jose Enrique grow pale and

scared. 

Jose Enrique looks up with fear and anger in his ojos. “They

took our mujers!” he shouts out in horror, frustration, and rage,

looking around to see if he can see the guey that sent him the

note. 

Here is a PDF File of my novel "Murder at the Ocean Forest" Enjoy!

Murder_at_the_Ocean_Forest_Excerpt.pdf

 www.diggercartwright.com

on my blog, you can read several fragments of my latest historical fiction A Handful of Blossoms, using links to the book latest reviews

http://revueblanche.blogspot.com/2012/08/from-stories-of-traveler.html

Loved your sample piece Patricia! 

Suzanne, I love the excerpts from your book.  I saw the video and

it is wonderful.  I wish your book all the success.  May God bless your

efforts because you are putting something good out into the universe.

This is something people need to hear.

http://http://www.amazon.com/Through-Eyes-Abuse-Forgiveness-Redempt...  Hello, my name is Deborah Hall-Branch.  The title of my non-fiction book is Through the Eyes of Abuse, A True Story of Forgiveness, Healing, and Redemption which was originally traditionally published in 2009, and now as an E-book available on Kindle.  I've also, co-authored a book Words From the Low Place, and at the present time working on a fiction inspirational romance novel; all at the same time just completed my short inspirational novella which is now in the editing process.  Whew!  I'm looking forward in gleaming from you guys and sharing.  

That's great news. I'm sure your book will be of great help to many people. Good luck.

Through the Eyes of Abuse

Prologue - From South Carolina, he came to live with us at the birth place of our parents and many of our ancestors.  I had never met this cousin before, but inside of me, excitement bubbled.  He was Lillian's twin sister's son.  He and my mother were first cousins.  Mommy said he would be with us until he could find a job and a place of his own.  

Sitting there in my room, I wondered how long it would take him to find a job.  Does he like children?  To me, at eight years old, that was important.  If he liked me, maybe he would play my favorite game, Monopoly, with me.  Mommy never liked playing it because I always won.  She simply would say, "It takes too long to end."

Everything in my life changed on one beautiful summer morning.  The sun shone brightly, but a subtle vileness had entered my bedroom and darkness invaded our loving, Christian home.  Dazed by sleep, the heaviness of his body became lighter as he lifted himself off my body.  Ignoring the tears that moistened my pillow, he had quietly committed his sin and violated me.

Where was my mommy?  In a home that sheltered several adults and children, what made that morning so different from any other?  No one knew what was happening on the third floor.  There were no visible signs of life.  No little cousins were running up and down the stairs with breakfast cooking in the kitchen.

Somewhere during the night, all signs of life had disappeared.  It seemed the only ones left were my abuser and me.  I had been contaminated.  The innocence of my youth was stolen like flowers snatched from a neighbor's garden.  His stench remained in my memory even as I washed away the assault.

Devoid of conscience, he left my room silently, carrying with him something I could never reclaim.  Why did he hate me so?  We were family.  I had never wronged him the way he harmed me.  Who had convinced him to climb those stairs and commit such a crime?  This abomination would remain a secret for years before God's display of vengeance.  My numbed heart plummeted into fear.  How does a child handle fear?  Whom can she turn to when no one is really there?  Most of all, who could make him not do it again?

What happened to me had to be my fault.  Maybe Mommy should've put me away before he came, and then perhaps temptation would not have found him.  As fear began to envelop me, I attempted to resist it.  Despite my efforts, the events played back in my mind and wrenched my torn heart.  While I was hiding under the bed, my hair became tangled in the coils of the box spring mattress.  I prayed that he wouldn't find me again.  That day under the bed, my fingers gripped my skate key.  I was known for being the fastest skater in my neighborhood.  Next to Mommy, my skate key was the most important thing to me.  Had I been skating that morning, he never would've caught me.

Fear is a demon.  It holds you in the belly of a stronghold, determined not to let you go.  Fear steals from you the very breath you breathe, leaving you vulnerable and weakened.  Unable to understand the relationship between cause and effect, the only recourse for me lay in either running away or waiting in fear on the front steps each day until Mommy returned home.

The bedroom I slept in was no longer comfortable for me.  I no longer felt safe within its walls.  A thief of my free will and comfort, he remained with me even in his absence, holding me silently in mental bondage.  Some ask, "Why didn't she tell?"  You may be wondering the same thing right now.  But, after you've finished reading my book, maybe you'll come to understand the fear of a battered child.

Hi all, I'm new here and would like to showcase my book. Not too sure where I should post it or how. Hope you can help,

Chris