It's a muggy and rainy day here in Auckland. Phew!

I was scrolling through my emails today, and found some posts from Terry Odell and Sharon Horton, some of my fellow Cerridwen Press authors. Apparently, CP is having a big sale at the moment.

I checked on my books, and sure enough, the paperback copies of Gilded Folly are less than the ebooks (only $3.50!). This is a scary - and funny - fantasy. Very suspenseful at times, too. I've posted 3 excerpts below.

I don't know how long this sale will last, so forgive me if it's run its course before you have a chance to get there.

Regards, and best wishes,

Norah/ND/Melody

Review

1 - "Fantastic imagery, suspenseful plot, tension to beat all tension, incites the reader to sit on the edge of the seat and read until the last letter, the last dot, until THE END. ND Hansen-Hill weaves a tale of the battle of good versus evil that seems so real the reader will look askance at his/her neighbor and wonder. ND does a great job balancing the story elements and creating a story worth reading. Unexpected statements are written and/or made throughout the whole story instilling humor and a bit of surprised delight. Great for the fantasy lover, the sci-fi lover, or even the romantic one. What can be more romantic than a woman being protected from an
assassin? Loved this story!" Reviewer: Lucille PRobinson

http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors" title="http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors" target="_blank"http://tjbook-list.blogspot.c...:%20H

Excerpts

It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.

Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn’t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren’t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless—like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.

Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...

Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.

She ran for the steps—for where she hoped they’d be. You fell down them—landed on your knees.

Get it right, Girl...last chance...

The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn’t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.

Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.

The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.

The walls were losing integrity, as man-size pieces detached and dropped limply to the stone floor. Rustle-thud, rustle-thunk. Now, the pieces shivered and shook, then arose, finding their whole within the fallen tangle of limbs. Skeletally thin beings, with a near-human cast...

...arising out of rock.

Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps—only to find they’d beat her there.

They’ve been in the dark so long...

It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.

...but mostly, they wanted food.

Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.

AND

Humans! he thought, with a sigh. It had been a long time since he’d made any distinction between himself and these others he called friend. Today, it seemed, he was destined to call attention to it, if he were to be of any help to Rom...or the woman.

At that moment, in the middle of Wick’s dire reflections, Fitz sat down in a chair, his eyes drooping. Wick held off maybe ten seconds, then slipped one foot out of bed, his toes touching the cold floor.

Fitz didn’t stir. Hopeful now, Wick passed a shaking hand over the top of the monitor, effectively silencing it. He was grinning triumphantly at his own success when he twisted his head, and met Fitz’ eyes.

Uh-oh...

Humans could be truly intimidating at times...

Fitz was so angry his face was set, in a way Wick had never seen before. It would appear that however determined Wick was to leave, Fitz was equally determined to keep him here.

Plikva!

When Fitz turned his back, to fiddle with the machine in a furious, frustrated, what-the-hell-did-you-do- to-it, I-refuse-to-look-at-you way, Wick decided it was time to make amends. He was undervaluing Fitz’ efforts—something he’d never intended.

I’m destined to cause trouble wherever I go...

Regretful now, Wick reached past Fitz and snapped his fingers. The monitor took up where it had left off.

Wick, for his part, was exhausted by the small effort. Shivering, he leaned back on the pillows, desperate to retain any dignity he had left.

Fitz was still refusing to look at him. He was watching the monitor angrily, adjusting it with stiff fingers, and ignoring Wick completely. It wasn’t until he noticed something in the readings, though, which alarmed him, that he hastily turned back, and grabbed a glass by the bed. “Drink,” he ordered sternly.

Vinegar water!

Wick was too weak to argue. He drank deeply, unable to control a shudder which started somewhere in his centre. “Th-Thank you, F-Fitz,” he whispered. “F-For everything.”

Fitz continued to watch both him and the monitors. “You’re a damn fool, Wick,” he grumbled, a note of concern in his voice that Wick was certain he must have misheard.

This human friend was more right than he knew. As Wick’s eyes drooped closed, he murmured mockingly, “Both a fool, and damned. There was never such a kavlklakt as I...”

AND

The idea sent a shudder down his spine.

A lone bat strayed through the low branches and Wick jumped. Any movement was suspect. Had something chased the bat from its perch? He squatted down, his back pressed against the coarse bark of a Monterey pine. The solidity of it gave him an illusion of safety. The night remained still, as though holding its breath.

Sucking in the sound and holding it hostage...

It was like a black hole in his surroundings: sucking in sound, and light, and life.

When the night quickened once more, and the insect chorus returned to clicked and chirped mating signals, Wick moved on, nesting his feet in the thick needle beds so he wouldn’t accidentally tread upon a branch.

He never saw It come. It was camouflaged in the nightsound clutter, which took him by surprise. The night suddenly darkened, and the stars were blotted out.

He was slammed back, against a tree. Slammed and pounded to centre the blood beneath the skin. Wick kicked and punched and pounded back, but he was blinded by smoke. It rose around him, while bony fingers raked at his clothes. His eyes ran, his lungs screamed, and a howl was choked off in his throat.

He was falling now, dimly aware of pine needles jabbing his skin. Awareness faded quickly, displaced by the lassitude which was filling him. He knew he should fight the feeling; knew what it signified, but all he wanted to do was sleep.

It was the Hambre Muerte, the Death Gorge.

No!

Tradition demanded he lie here and die now, grateful for the mercy of last-moment oblivion. It was the way these things were done...

No! Not here! Wick’s fingers were already growing numb. He gritted his teeth, forcing the digits to close on a pointed branch. Then he jabbed it, into the bony head. There was a satisfying crunch and thud.

The Mictlampa ripped back, with an audible slurp, its jagged teeth torn away from Wick’s muscle. Its moment was past, and instead of a wily predator, it was confused and disoriented—flailin g and blind.

Tastes of a leech, and eating habits to match...

Wick lay there limply, worried about the demon’s reputation for persistence, and worrying more about its companions. Was it alone?

He recalled another sorry fact from his past. Micts never travel alone...

He wriggled his fingers, clenched his fists, bent his toes, and jiggled his limbs—determined to lose the lassitude. The blood scent would bring the others in.

No way! He crunched the bloodsucker with his foot, right in the face. The creature flopped back, writhing in agony, all the while making a low-pitched grunting sound.

Wick pushed himself up to a sitting position, grabbed another branch, and whopped the thing again.

The beast was knocked back, onto the pine needle carpet. Silent now, it did what tradition claimed: melted away, into the undergrowth. At least, Wick was sure that was what it had intended. Its actual disappearance looked a lot more like a wobbling retreat.

Wick sat there, in bloodied triumph, listening to the crunch and thud as it ran into branches, shrubs, trees. He wondered if, ten years ago, he would’ve had the balls to offer a challenge.

Too indoctrinated.

He savoured his victory a few minutes longer. That’s what he told himself, anyway, but himself knew he was actually waiting for his heart to stop that erratic flopping in his chest. He leaned back, impatient, but unwilling to risk his life on a quick escape.

If I pass out here, I’ll never get up again...

When the stars reappeared in the sky, he tugged himself up the rest of the way, using the trunk for support. Cursing and swearing, he staggered back the way he’d come.

Hi! This month has been terribly hectic! Eleven book edits, with little else being accomplished, other than work and editing (oh, and the gym! I joined a gym and have actually been going, if only to get away from my computer).

These edits are brought on by a very lucky 2008. In Flames, Of Dragons, The Hollowing, GlassWorks, ErRatic, and Emerald City were all released last year.

The sequel to ~In Trysts~

Lettetia Elasser, Affaire de Coeur July/August 2008

Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.

“Marco!”

He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.

Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.

“Marco!”

He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.

Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.

“Marco!”

He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.

Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air.

“Marco!”

He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.

A death’s head grin. It was Gerald Beaumont.

“Sophie!” he cried, clawing at her head, her shoulders, climbing her like a bobbing tree. She was going under, down, when Marco snatched her out of Gerald’s grasp and flung him aside.

But Marco’s hold on her was tenuous, and Beaumont’s frantic antics cost him. Scratch, tear, rip, fling, but in the wildly swirling muddle, of dirt and bone, ash and wood, filthy foam and churning backwash, Sophie was jarred loose from Marco’s grasp once more, out of his reach. He heard her choked off “Marc-!” as she vanished beneath the rising waters. http://www.lindenbayromance.com/product-inflames-144- 149.html" title="http://www.lindenbayromance.com/product-inflames-144- 149.html" target="_blank"http://www.lindenbayromance.c...

Of Dragons

It'll eat you alive...

Nominated for Best SF/Fantasy Book of 2008 by LRC

Nominated for the Sir Julius Vogel Award 2008

REVIEWS

1 - "The story is filled with adventure, danger, and conflict. Now that Ryon and his friend know about Glynt's world can they just ignore it or should they get involved? Is Ryon really human as he believes or something more as Glynt believes? If you are looking for an unusual tale of adventure, the strength of the human spirit, and love all rolled into a fantasy story about other dimensions, then you will enjoy Of Dragons.

Reviewed by: Stephanie B." http://www.fallenangelreviews.com/2008/April/StephanieB -OfDragons.htm" title="http://www.fallenangelreviews.com/2008/April/StephanieB -OfDragons.htm" target="_blank"http://www.fallenangelreviews...

"Of Dragons is a story that tells of how worlds are connected to each other and how love can become a reality for those who want it. " Literary Nymphs http://literarynymphsrevi ewso...

EXCERPT

She was nearly dressed when she heard them. The vibration rattled the shiny Christmas ornaments on her dressing table, making the glass ping harshly against the table top.

No!

Her fingers clasped the adamantine dragonfly encircling her neck, as terror quickened her heartbeat. Chills raced down her limbs in spiky little arrays. That sound—that horrifying, buzzing thunder—was one she recognized, deep inside. The fear of them—and their appetites—had been bred into her through a hundred generations.

Glynt ran. Panicked, she fled the bedroom with its flimsy-looking glass and raced for the balcony doors. They were thick fire doors—surely, they could resist the impact?

Ten thousand dragonfly wings…

The daylight went. The thickness of the horde—the sheer mass—was blotting out the sun. Desperate, near-petrified, she yanked the curtains closed.

The ramming slam of ten thousand exoskeletonned bodies splintered the glass, but it didn’t stop the beating—that horrific, mechanical swish of their wings. They were driving themselves at the doors, at the glass, frenzied. Day sounds were lost in the ceaseless roar of overlying wing beats.

In the bedroom, the glass imploded. Shatters of refracted light caught her eye, as they showered the door jamb.

As they blasted through, onto the carpet.

I didn’t close the door.

Her eyes widened in horror, and she raced for the exit. She was nearly to the front door when it began vibrating. They were in the hall, in hunting mode, and desperate to get to her.

Hide.

Where?! Frantic, she ran back to the curtained windows, in hopes of fooling Them. She was out of her element, and hidey holes were nowhere to be found. She cowered down, wrapped herself in curtain fabric, and scrunched into her smallest form. Already, she knew it wouldn’t help—couldn’t help. They were lured. Starving. Driven. Those multifaceted eyes would find her.

Ever hungry, they’d hunt her…on the wing.

http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/index.php?manufacturers_id=83" title="http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/index.php?manufacturers_id=83" target="_blank"http://redrosepublishing.com/...

 

The Hollowing

Nominated for the 2008 Sir Julius Vogel Award

REVIEW

1 - "This is an exceptionally, spine-tingling, gut wrenching thriller that takes you by the seat of your pants and have you gripping your chair while you turn each page. From ghosts to time-traveling you are always entertained by the adventure and excitement of this plot excellent dialogue and fabulous description gives you a great seat up front to all that is happening. This is a phenomenal read, and I recommend it highly. Wateena" http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/Thehollow ing.html" title="http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/Thehollow ing.html" target="_blank"http://www.coffeetimeromance....

 

 

 

 

 

 

2 - "The Hollowing is a well-written novel involving the modern day conclusions drawn from a long history of paranormal events coupled with the age-old theories of time travel. Here is an old idea presented in a new and spell-binding story that will surely be of interest to fans of any genre." Reviewer: Lucille P Robinson http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors" title="http://tjbook-list.blogspot.com/search/label/Authors" target="_blank"http://tjbook-list.blogspot.c...:%20H

 

 

 

 

 

 

EXCERPT

Open the door.

But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.

And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.

Safe. Stay where you’re safe…

There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.

Breaking down the barriers.

Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.

Rats. Only rats.

Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

Someone was ascending the stairs.

Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.

The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.

The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.

The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.

It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.

He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.

Phone.

He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.

Like me.

Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.

Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.

There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.

At the top he slammed back the door and dove…

Onto a pyre of flame.

 

 

Open the door.

But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.

And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.

Safe. Stay where you’re safe…

There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.

Breaking down the barriers.

Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.

Rats. Only rats.

Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

Someone was ascending the stairs.

Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.

The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.

The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.

The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.

It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.

He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.

Phone.

He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.

Like me.

Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.

Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.

There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.

At the top he slammed back the door and dove…

Onto a pyre of flame.

 

 

Open the door.

But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.

And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.

Safe. Stay where you’re safe…

There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.

Breaking down the barriers.

Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.

Rats. Only rats.

Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

Someone was ascending the stairs.

Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.

The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.

The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.

The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.

It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.

He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.

Phone.

He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.

Like me.

Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.

Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.

There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.

At the top he slammed back the door and dove…

Onto a pyre of flame.

 

 

Open the door.

But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.

And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.

Safe. Stay where you’re safe…

There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.

Breaking down the barriers.

Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.

Rats. Only rats.

Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

Someone was ascending the stairs.

Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.

The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.

The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.

The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.

It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.

He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.

Phone.

He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.

Like me.

Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.

Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.

There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.

At the top he slammed back the door and dove…

Onto a pyre of flame.

 

 

http://www.jasminejade.com/pm-4355-223-the-hollo wing.aspx" title="http://www.jasminejade.com/pm-4355-223-the-hollo wing.aspx" target="_blank"http://www.jasminejade.com/pm...

Reflected Moments...Refracted Terror

REVIEW

"I have to say I've read this one and LOVED it. "

Debbie

Author of Infidelity (www.deborahgould.com )

EXCERPT

Cate picked up the slab of glass from its tilted resting spot. It had dropped nearly intact. Her fingers shook as the first tracings of shimmery silica began to move beneath the surface. All those crystalline lattices somehow rearranging themselves…

 

 

 

 

She froze, her breath frosting the glass from the sudden chill. Gooseflesh rose on her skin as the air around her grew cold.

 

 

 

 

It had never happened this way before.

 

 

 

 

The man was lying there, in the glass, his body sprawled with the indignity of all things dead and unburied. Cate's breath caught in her throat, the unspent fog almost choking her. Oh, God!

 

 

 

 

It wasn't here—hadn't happened here—but it was happening now.

 

 

 

 

There was an argument lingering, on the air. She couldn't see the moment of confrontation, or the altercation, but it had been about the mutilated body on the ground. About how to deal with it, to cast off blame with as much ease as they'd cast away his life.

 

 

 

 

Only, they didn't realize he could hear them still. Hear them and hate them.

 

 

 

 

Because it had always been about his looks. His looks, and justifying what he was. The grave they were giving him, the twisted notoriety they were planning, would leave him neither looks nor justice.

 

 

 

 

Cate's eyes focused on his face. What they'd done, what they were doing to the rest of him didn't bear watching.

 

 

 

 

But, apparently, she did. Bear watching, that is.

 

 

 

 

The corpse's eyes opened, to stare straight at her.

 

 

 

 

Cate flinched, twitched, recoiled, but she couldn't let go. Some part of her was screaming, but she was no longer sure whether it was her...or him.

 

 

 

 

She clung to the pane, trapped. When, a forever it seemed, later, she freed her fingers enough to fling it, she remained there rigid, staring, as the moonglow image shattered in a hundred spiky shards.

 

 

 

 

Some part of her was still recoiling, as if in reflex to a striking snake.

 

 

 

 

God help me!

 

 

 

 

In those instants of metaphysical contact, she felt as though one shriveled digit had touched her. Spanned the gap between life and death—

 

 

 

 

I'm not a medium!

 

 

 

 

She'd never been a medium—never even come close. It had been the one blessing, in an otherwise twisted gift, that however conversant she might have become with a dead person's past, she was never conversant with the dead!

 

 

 

 

Until now, it seemed. Cate backed away, panted white puffs coiling and twisting in the otherwise still air.

 

 

 

 

I'm not alone.

 

 

 

 

It should have been comforting, that there was a taxi driver waiting just outside, but somehow, it came out differently. That "I'm not alone" was filled with horror. The taxi driver might be outside, but something else moved within. In a dreadful moment, she knew she'd brought this on herself—that by coming here she'd been willing, demanding almost, a contact with his person—had wanted so badly to save him, that she'd drawn in a soul barely severed from its body.

 

 

 

 

Cate backed, tripped, twisted, and ran. She tore the length of the room as though the Devil were at her heels, and slammed open the end door with a loud squawking thunk. Using two hands, Cate wrenched the door closed again, locking evil within. She stumbled back, the small door pane fixing her into its framed panel.

 

 

 

 

He wasn't within. Behind her, his hatred ever so much more pronounced in proximity, was the mutilated visage of the recently deceased.

 

 

 

 

***

http://redrosepublishing.com/booksto" title="http://redrosepublishing.com/booksto" target="_blank"http://redrosepublishing.com/... re/product_info.php?products_id=161Reviews

 

1- "I just finished reading ErRatic and must tell you I enjoyed it IMMENSELY!" Ruth

 

 

2 - "A thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining tale that offers as much thrill as it does amusement, ERRATIC is not to be missed.

Kathy Samuels

 

 

Romance Reviews Today" http://www.romrevtoday.com/" title="http://www.romrevtoday.com/" target="_blank"http://www.romrevtoday.com/

 

EXCERPT

 

Emma glanced blearily at the clock. Three a.m., and Studley obviously needed to go out. He was whimpering, deep in his throat, and his cold nose kept nudging her arm.

 

 

Damn dog! She reached out and gave the silky coat a pat. Zombie-like, she stumbled across the room, to the front door, and unfastened the lock. “Out!” she commanded, punctuating it with a squeaky yawn.

 

 

When she opened her eyes again, the man was standing on the grass, just off the porch.

 

 

It was a very small porch.

 

 

She slammed the door and locked it, then raced through the house. She kept picturing Him running, trying to beat her to the back door.

 

 

It’s locked. It’s got to be locked.

 

 

It was, but she didn’t feel any better. No one had any business standing there, on her property, at three in the morning. He was up to no good.

 

 

She ran for the kitchen and picked up a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. The knife shook in her frozen fingers. Not a good thing. He’ll use it on me.

 

 

He damn well better not try. Her shadowy reflection in the window glass was that of a madwoman, brandishing a blade. Her staccato movements glinted across the toaster face, and she jumped, slashing the air.

 

 

Hysteria burbled up, like an unwanted belch, before sense clunked in with a nearly audible jolt. Window. Nightlight. He’ll see me. Frantic, she dropped onto the floor, and punched in a fumbling “911”.

If he saw me, I hope he saw the knife, too.

 

 

She shouted into the phone, “There was—!”, realized she was shouting, and quickly

AUTHOR: N. D. Hansen-Hill
GENRE: Fantasy/Time Travel
PUBLISHER: Cerridwen Press
ISBN: 978-1-60202-061-0
RATING: PG

BLURB: Shawn Walsh's problems don't arise from his own troubled past but from someone else's. Fires, floods, battles, bone-rattling quakes — he's frequently an unwilling and horrified participant in events long gone. For when The Hollowing claims him, his present dissolves.

Unfortunately, his problems have everything to do with family and his rather questionable heritage — with a birthright he'd rather know nothing about. Lost and tossed about by destiny, trapped and extorted by those long deceased, he's tired of playing a victim.

And he refuses to give up hope. There is still a chance he'll be able to resolve his issues without dying, given the right place… And enough time.

BOOK LINK:>>;http://www.cerridwenpress.com...;< 

AUTHOR WEBSITES: N. D. Hansen-Hill  | Melody Knight 

EXCERPT:

Open the door.

But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.

And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.

Safe. Stay where you’re safe…

There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.

Breaking down the barriers.

Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.

Rats. Only rats.

Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

Someone was ascending the stairs.

Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.

The door’s unlocked. An invitation if ever there was one.

The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.

The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.

It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.

He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.

Phone.

He yanked out his cell phone. It was dead.

Like me.

Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.

Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.

There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.

At the top he slammed back the door and dove…

Onto a pyre of flame.

News & Networking

It's been a busy week as usual. Of Dragons was released by Red Rose last Thursday, and it's been full on ever since. I have to admit I've learned a fair bit about promotion this week, and networking with other authors and author sites. Some of the romance sites, like Simply Romance , are extremely generous with both their time and their space. I finished the first round of edits on Gray Beginnings, and will be hastily contriving a suitable blurb. The edits for GlassWorks should be in the Inbox shortly, too. In a few minutes I'll be posting on Tales of the Trade. My blog post is due there today.

WIP & Other Things: Only a thousand words added this week to my "Nocturne Bites" effort, but I did submit a blurb for Art & Soul to the open call at Nocturne. This is a quick in effort, with decisions being made by April 16th. I love these mini subs and competitions because they spur me on either to try new genres or venues or to finish what I began months ago. The Nocturne "call" only lasts until the 8th, I believe, so it's time for a quick decision if you're a paranormal pennist.

A new, and quite exciting, Yahoo loop opened this week called "Paranormal Monday". Enthusiasm by authors, with excerpts being greeted enthusiastically by readers.

Oh, wrote an interesting poem this week entitled, "Fragile". I'm in the finals for the Poetry.com Editors' Choice competition, and to qualify, I needed another poem. It was the second poem for the week—the first being the one for Gray Beginnings. I was waxing poetic all over the place, LOL!

Authors of Note: Today's Author of Note is Rose Marie Wolf. Why does Rose enjoy writing? In her own words:

"I began writing on the day I first learned to spell the simplest words. It was in crayon, and the jumbled words made little sense, but that didn't matter. I was going to write.

Over time, the words began to form sentences and make sense. I was writing stories right and left. My second grade teacher, Mrs. White, loved my work and she was the first one to encourage me. She told me one day I was going to be a writer.

Well, I guess she was right about that.

People from all over have asked me when I began writing, or how I got started, but very few have asked me WHY.

Now that's a question I have to think on for a few minutes.

Why do I write? Well, it could be because writing is a release for me. It's how I convey my emotions when I might not be able to do so otherwise. I write to have fun, to create worlds. I write to let the world know I can do something, that I am something. I write to feel.

I write because it's who I am. I write because it's in my blood, it's my passion.

I write because I want to.

I think those are all pretty good reasons.

Here is an excerpt from my latest release from Samhain Publishing. Hunter's Moon, book Three of the Moon Series, is about Rose and Jason Barnett—two werewolves who have tried to put the past behind them, only to discover that there's something else waiting to disrupt their lives."

Excerpt:

"I don't want to hear about Simon any more. That's behind us, love. Even if there's some slim chance he is alive," Jason shot her a look but she didn't see it. "I don't think he would come after us again. I mean, we completely ruined him."

"Rose, I know what it is I feel, and I know Simon is out there. I can't rest until I find him."

Rose took a deep breath and finally looked up at him. Her blue eyes were wide, almost fearful, but there was a touch of anger there. Jason thought he could almost smell it.

"You are letting Simon continue to destroy us," She said in a whisper. "I'm scared, love. I'm afraid that, if you go on like this, he will tear us apart."

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   Instead of reaching out to comfort her, as he might've done in the past, he turned from her and looked toward the window. The sun was up and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   "You have to listen to me, Jason. I'm sorry I hit you." She touched his face and her hand was warm, as he expected. His jaw no longer throbbed, but he wouldn't have been surprised if her hand had left a large red print. "I was just so angry with you."

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   "I know. I don't blame you," he drew away from her and walked across the floor. He began to work the coffee maker, putting in a new filter and filling it with coffee. He poured the water in, switched it on. Rose still stood where she was.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   "Can't you just forget about him, and move on with your life, our lives?"

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   "Is that why you came here, to argue with me, to change my mind?" He reached for a mug in the cabinet. When Rose didn't say anything, he turned to look at her.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   Her cheeks were red and wet from tears freshly fallen. He made a move forward, but Rose signaled for him to stop and he came no closer.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   "I didn't come here to argue with you," She began in a soft voice. She wiped at her eyes with the palm of her hand. "I came because I want you to come home and forget about Simon. Put the past behind you and focus on our future, our family, our pack. We all need you."

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   Jason could only stare at her. He breathed in deeply, caught a whiff of that strong scent once more. This time he recognized it. It was the scent of female arousal, musty and strong. It was almost maddening, this scent, now that he was aware of it. She was in heat.

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   &nb sp;   He took a deep breath before he could say anything. "Rose," He said softly. Once he recognized her scent for what it was, it was overwhelming. He had to look away, as if that would help. "Rose, I can't do that."

Much Love Always,

Rose Marie Wolf

www.rosemariewolf.com

rosemariewolf.blogspot.com

www.myspace.com/rose_marie_wolf

BUY LINK  

Teasers (interesting facts that might stir a story some day soon): Those shiny and reflective fish which so draw our eyes, and frequently take a starring role in our aquariums? A new study has determined that the unique shape of the skin's guanine crystals is what provides that intense reflectivity. This is an anti-predator camouflage response, for fish which swim near the water's surface. There's no point denying that these are flashy fish! I went to the zoo last weekend, and in the penguin enclosure, where wee penguins were swooping after their food, it was the food—flashy fish—which kept catching my eye! It should have been birds that fly underwater, instead! For more information, visit http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/01/0801 14100008.htm" title="http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/01/0801 14100008.htm" target="_blank"http://www.sciencedaily.com/r.... 

Save Your World: Free rice (learn new words and donate rice as you do it! Always a favorite!) http://www.freerice.com/index.php" title="http://www.freerice.com/index.php" target="_blank"http://www.freerice.com/index...

Excerpts: From ErRatic 

Emma glanced blearily at the clock. Three a.m., and Studley obviously needed to go out. He was whimpering, deep in his throat, and his cold nose kept nudging her arm.

Damn dog! She reached out and gave the silky coat a pat. Zombie-like, she stumbled across the room, to the front door, and unfastened the lock. “Out!” she commanded, punctuating it with a squeaky yawn.

When she opened her eyes again, the man was standing on the grass, just off the porch.

It was a very small porch.

She slammed the door and locked it, then raced through the house. She kept picturing Him running, trying to beat her to the back door.

It’s locked. It’s got to be locked.

It was, but she didn’t feel any better. No one had any business standing there, on her property, at three in the morning. He was up to no good.

She ran for the kitchen and picked up a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. The knife shook in her frozen fingers. Not a good thing. He’ll use it on me.

He damn well better not try. Her shadowy reflection in the window glass was that of a madwoman, brandishing a blade. Her staccato movements glinted across the toaster face, and she jumped, slashing the air.

Hysteria burbled up, like an unwanted belch, before sense clunked in with a nearly audible jolt. Window. Nightlight. He’ll see me. Frantic, she dropped onto the floor, and punched in a fumbling “911”.

If he saw me, I hope he saw the knife, too.

She shouted into the phone, “There was—!”, realized she was shouting, and quickly hissed, “There was a man!”

Why the hell hadn’t Studley barked?! The damned dog had practically dumped her in the killer’s lap!

The Police Operator was offering instructions now, and Emma listened to them blankly. She’d just recalled something very pertinent to her case.

“N-Never mind,” she said, replacing the receiver with shaking hands.

A dream. It had to be a dream.

But it wasn’t and she knew it. It was what she’d tell them, though, when they asked.

She sat there, huddled, too scared to challenge the near-dark. Her eyes were already scrunched closed, but now she drew up her knees and buried her face in her arms.

Shielded. Safer.

Not really.

She couldn’t afford to move now, even if it meant lighting the house. She was too afraid of what she might see.

She nestled her head deeper, to block her ears.

Too afraid of what she might hear.

She hummed a little whimper, deep in her throat the way Studley had. Just enough noise to challenge any other whimpers in the room.

When they came with the squad car to check out her call, she’d have to get up—but not till then. Then, it’d be okay—maybe even safe.

Why hadn’t Studley barked? That one was easy—now that she’d remembered.

About Studley.

He’d been dead—for almost a week.

  

www.NDHansen-Hill.com
www.MelodyKnight.com
www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts
www.lulu.com/ndhansen-hill
Thanks to www.mikesfreegifs.com and www.wilsoninfo.com for the use of the animated gifs!

AUTHOR: Melody Knight

GENRE: Mainstream Romance Sci-Fi/Fantasy

PUBLISHER: Red Rose Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-60435-077-7

RATING: Explicit sexual content

BLURB: Ryon Colley can't understand what's happening to his life. This morning, he was a policeman investigating a potential hazard: a sparking, flashing, rainbow-spitting light show in the sky overhead. The source of the odd light appeared to be an unruly-haired blonde hellion, who couldn't figure out what normal was. Her radiant display scared him, but his physical reaction to it scares him more. By lunchtime he's gone from having coarse brown hair, to sporting a head full of blond locks—and from facing felons, to fending off thousands of voracious dragonflies.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Glynt has been sent to Earth to guard the dimensional gateways, but her arrival spawns nothing but trouble. Quite accidentally, she's summoned swarms of dragonflies, and lured in captors determined to return her—clearly a mischief maker—to her own world. Only Ryon—her gilded hero and the object of her newfound dreams—can rescue her from certain death.

BUY LINK

AUTHOR WEBSITES: N. D. Hansen-Hill  | Melody Knight 

EXCERPT: She was nearly dressed when she heard them. The vibration rattled the shiny Christmas ornaments on her dressing table, making the glass ping harshly against the table top.

No!

Her fingers clasped the adamantine dragonfly encircling her neck, as terror quickened her heartbeat. Chills raced down her limbs in spiky little arrays. That sound—that horrifying, buzzing thunder—was one she recognized, deep inside. The fear of them—and their appetites—had been bred into her through a hundred generations.

Glynt ran. Panicked, she fled the bedroom with its flimsy-looking glass and raced for the balcony doors. They were thick fire doors—surely, they could resist the impact?

Ten thousand dragonfly wings…

The daylight went. The thickness of the horde—the sheer mass—was blotting out the sun. Desperate, near-petrified, she yanked the curtains closed.

The ramming slam of ten thousand exoskeletonned bodies splintered the glass, but it didn’t stop the beating—that horrific, mechanical swish of their wings. They were driving themselves at the doors, at the glass, frenzied. Day sounds were lost in the ceaseless roar of overlying wing beats.

In the bedroom, the glass imploded. Shatters of refracted light caught her eye, as they showered the door jamb.

As they blasted through, onto the carpet.

I didn’t close the door.

Her eyes widened in horror, and she raced for the exit. She was nearly to the front door when it began vibrating. They were in the hall, in hunting mode, and desperate to get to her.

Hide.

Where?! Frantic, she ran back to the curtained windows, in hopes of fooling Them. She was out of her element, and hidey holes were nowhere to be found. She cowered down, wrapped herself in curtain fabric, and scrunched into her smallest form. Already, she knew it wouldn’t help—couldn’t help. They were lured. Starving. Driven. Those multifaceted eyes would find her.

Ever hungry, they’d hunt her…on the wing.

Teasers (interesting facts that might stir a story some day soon): Plasmons may provide the key to making objects invisible—if not to the naked eye, at least to longer wavelengths. Plasmons are "tiny electronic excitations" found on "the surfaces of some metals". Unless objects are very tiny, they cannot be completely cloaked, and the technology behind this technology is still under development. Complex objects would require more working knowledge, but the idea of eventually being able to become "invisible" is fascinating stuff. To read more, visit: http://www.livescience.com/technology/050228_inv isible_shield.html" title="http://www.livescience.com/technology/050228_inv isible_shield.html" target="_blank"http://www.livescience.com/te...

Save Your World: Free rice (learn new words and donate rice as you do it! http://www.freerice.com/index.php" title="http://www.freerice.com/index.php" target="_blank"http://www.freerice.com/index... and FAQS about donating blood (I want to thank all of you personally! You saved my life! How many other lives can you save this year?) http://www.givelife2.org/donor/faq.asp" title="http://www.givelife2.org/donor/faq.asp" target="_blank"http://www.givelife2.org/dono...

Excerpts: From Gilded Folly

    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn’t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren’t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless"like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   She ran for the steps"for where she hoped they’d be. You fell down them"landed on your knees.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Get it right, Girl...last chance...
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn’t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   The walls were losing integrity, as man-size pieces detached and dropped limply to the stone floor. Rustle-thud, rustle-thunk. Now, the pieces shivered and shook, then arose, finding their whole within the fallen tangle of limbs. Skeletally thin beings, with a near-human cast...
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   ...arising out of rock.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps"only to find they’d beat her there.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   They’ve been in the dark so long...
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   ...but mostly, they wanted food.
    & nbsp;   &n bsp;   Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.

News & Networking

Phew!

Only BloodWorks is waiting in the works. If I have any time left, I'd like to get Art & Soul, Artifact, and Sqweams rewritten and out to publishers this month, but the month is going quickly...

WIP: my haunted house story is sitting at 38,400 words, and I only plan on bringing it up to just over 50K. You'd think I'd be able to just whip that out, wouldn't ya? It's going veeeerrry slowly.

Other things: I have interviews this week on both Crystal Adkins' new interview site, and the Fallen Angels Review Blog (scroll down until you find my work). The FAR blog has numerous excerpts from my books, so if you'd like a sample of my writing, please pop over there in thanks to Cindy for doing such a nice job. Crystal is also working hard to develop her two sites (interview and review), so please consider paying her a visit.

Friends of Note: Yvonne Eve Walus has made the grade! She's one of the Amazon Finalists. A bit about her, and her book, Substitute Wives (in Yvonne's own words):

"I'm one of those women who are unable to have one night stands. Sex is a very intimate thing for me. So the idea of selling it to strangers has always puzzled me: what circumstances would make a woman go through with it on a regular basis? That's how "Substitute wives" was born, a literary novel that claims marriage is prostitution dressed up. Joy is a twenty-three year old sex worker who has over a million dollars of inherited money in her bank account. She donates all her earnings to charity, goes to church and is counting the days she has left as a sex worker before she can return home to reconcile with her family. When a married client declares his love for her, Joy tries to let him down gently, and falls for his clichés in the process. Joy's friend and co-worker, Caro, refuses to take her stalker seriously, even though she knows that her past is bound to catch up with her and endanger the safe haven Caro has created for her daughter. Theirs is not the world of drugs or pimps or backstreet quickies. They charge top dollar, they are in control of their lives and of the choices they've made and they realise that the glitter that surrounds them is only skin-deep. Based in Auckland, New Zealand, the book delivers emotional punch by telling the story of everyday ever-important relationships: between a father and a daughter, between a daughter and a mother, between husbands and wives and substitute wives. You can find my entry on Amazon.com via the following link:

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001200CFK" title="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001200CFK" target="_blank"http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001..."

Please consider visiting Yvonne's entry and voting. Every opinion counts!

Tempter (I may want to stick this in a book some time): functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging scans indicate that culture has a physiological impact on the brain, that can be seen in brain activity patterns. Culture has long been thought to affect development in terms of eating patterns, environmental influences, and tastes, but it can now be seen to affect perspective and judgment. Alterations to brain activity occur in exposure to other cultures for as little as six months. Read more. Sounds like an excellent reason to travel, and definitely contradicts the "old dogs can't learn new tricks". It may never be too late to change our outlook!

Save Your World: learn and donate at the same time. Free rice is donated for every correct word. I LOVE this charity!

Now, an excerpt from one of my books - Static (paperback), methinks. Enjoy!

This month has been one of the most thrilling in my writing career. Not only was In Flames released on January 1st, but that same day I received a contract offer for both Relic and BoneSong! Now, in the dozen days since, I've also been offered a contract for one of my Melody Knight titles, Of Dragons, and a contract for a short story for All Romance eBooks, Cut and Polish. The only one with a release date so far is Cut and Polish, which will go live March 14th.

I'll wait for all the contracts to arrive before I post the detail s here. Still... 

Yay!

Author Friend: A Few Words from Lonnie Cruse, author of Fifty-Seven Heaven

"I began writing Fifty-Seven Heaven after hubby bought a '57 Chevy to restore and joined a car club.  I wondered what would happen if a club member found a dead body in the trunk of a pristine, trophy winning car.  Knowing how car club members feel about their babies, writing the book was great fun.  I love my character Kitty because she's who I'd like to be when I grow up.  Never mind that she's younger.  She gets to do a lot of things I'd like to do, and a few I've
already done.

The setting for the first book which just came out in December is Metropolis, IL, the small town where I live.  It's a fun place to live and write about.  The next book, which is finished but not yet contracted
for, is set at a car show in Pigeon Forge, TN. I love that area and enjoyed spending time there again, even if only inside my head, writing the book. I'd had the idea for a long time, and even took pictures to inspire me on a visit. I'm writing the third book now, set in Metropolis again, where a new character is wreaking havoc on my lead characters, driving them to consider murdering her. Muwhahaha!

For more information, please check out my website:
http://www.lonniecruse.com/" title="http://www.lonniecruse.com/" target="_blank"http://www.lonniecruse.com/ and you'll find links to my blogs and websites where I hang out. http://www.lonniecruse.blogspot.com/" title="http://www.lonniecruse.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"http://www.lonniecruse.blogsp... and
http://www.poesdeadlydaughters.com/" title="http://www.poesdeadlydaughters.com/" target="_blank"http://www.poesdeadlydaughter...)"

Thanks for this, Lonnie! Lonnie's one of my fellow Five Star authors.

***

Tempter (I may want to stick this in a book some time): CT scans are being used to study ancient tumours in dinosaur bones. Palaeontologists and med students are working together to gain a better understanding of tumour origins and growth patterns. Amazing!

Save Your World Stuff: If you're looking to give world-saving a "personal touch", why not your bone marrow to someone who needs it? Check to see whether you're compatible with a simple blood test. More info is available at The American Bone Marrow Donor Registry.

Now, an excerpt from one of mine - ErRatic, methinks. Enjoy!

Cheers,

ND|Melody

HAPPY NEW YEAR & THE BEST OF 2008!  

I was just reading about terrestrial crocodiles which used to live in the Bahamas, until the advent of humans. This isn't that unusual. On some of the Pacific islands, remains from species of birds and reptiles have been found in ancient ovens. Apparently, on many islands, besides the plants and animals the people brought with them, the newcomers took advantage of game already abundant on the island.

In the West Indies, human bones were found in a sinkhole among bones of the crocodiles, lizards, snakes, birds, and bats.

Other things:
The Hollowing has a cover, and will join Gray Beginnings in Cerridwen Press's 2008 lineup. In Flames, the sequel to In Trysts, is now looking at a January 1st release date, so we're in countdown mode. I received a big box of ARCs for ErRatic (Feb release), which is absolutely thrilling for me! Sending them out to the local newspapers this week.
Oh, and Red Rose Publishing has signed GlassWorks!

I'll leave you with an excerpt, this one from Gilded Folly, from Cerridwen Press.

They were all overlain with the prints of a predator. Judging from the depth and clarity, Glys guessed the marks were nearly as recent as her own.

And she’d studied too many casts of ancient beasts to err on the identity of this one.

These were the deep prints of a Snotzil. The pattern was easy to detect: not only were Snotzil seven-toed, but their tracks were interrupted frequently by the impression of a flared rostrum, sniffing eagerly at the ground. Like the Derytzvoz, the Snotzil relied largely on its smell-brain to track its prey.

Gooseflesh rose again on Glys’ arms, defying the heat. Apparently, at least one Snotzil was alive and well, somewhere on this plateau. She tilted her head to listen, but all she could hear was a repetitious crackle.

She sat there, as cast in stone as the statues at her side. There was a theory that the Snotzil’s nasty incisors clacked and rattled as it hunted. The sound chased the prey, cornering it and rendering it more tasty. The Snotzil enjoyed the proteins stimulated by adrenaline surges. Terrified prey made the tastiest meals.

Glys hastily crept backwards, out of the cave, reluctant to stop until her feet hung over the edge. She huddled there, one leg over the drop, and tried to control her breathing enough to listen.

I need time to think this through. If a Snotzil was the guardian for the Gilded Folly, she had big trouble.

Worse than having an assassin at your back?

Clatter…crack&hell ip;clatter.

Most definitely...yes.

Unconsciously, Glys wiped dried blood from her face. Her nose had stopped leaking, but the traces were there.

Bloodlust…slaughte r.

Yaz help her! The Snotzil was tracking something. It was too much to hope it had nothing to do with her.

From Gilded Folly

Cheers,

ND | Melody

It's been a fantastic week! I had a birthday, and everyone's been celebrating with me for the past 4 days! I've been taken to dinner, and out for coffees, plus lovely presents, and greetings from around the world. I'm so happy!

I finished the first lot of edits from Five Star for ErRatic. I'm expecting some for The Hollowing (published by Cerridwen Press) and In Flames (published by Linden Bay Romance - the sequel to In Trysts) any day. I still have 3 essays to finish for Uni. One's due tomorrow, so I shouldn't be blogging, but...

I've managed to get all my books out to publishers, and just have #29 and #30 to finish to wrap everything up (and start again, of course). Still, I promised myself I'd finish and farm out to publishers everything on my desktop in 2007...and I'm DOING it!

I'll leave you with a brief excerpt from Gilded Folly. Cerridwen Press is releasing it in paperback soon, so watch for it on Amazon. In the meanwhile, it's still in e.

Cheers,

ND/Melody

“Find her. Rom’ll be heading her way—” Wick ordered, then froze, listening to something in the distance. It was a series of shrill notes, just barely within the range of human hearing. Gooseflesh danced across his skin and he backed away, shamed by what was about to happen. Phil reached for him, but Wick only shook his head in dismay. “Yaz!” he whispered, his face ashen.
 

The pitch changed, and the peak of it went into rapid oscillations, from subsonic hum to microwave frequencies that vibrated through his brain. Wick slammed his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. His blood was boiling and his brain was on fire...
 

He howled, and his male tones suddenly became a shrill scream of agony. His eyes rolled up in his head, his legs were water, and his insides were about to explode...
 

 He never felt Phil catch him, or Fitz clamp hands over his ears. Never knew that Dacey had opened the trunk and Phil had dropped him in to shield him. Never realised that Phil had hopped into the driver’s seat and torn out of there like hell. 
 

The next time he awoke, Fitz’ worried eyes were peering down at him. “Wick?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”
 

Wick gave a barely perceptible nod. It was the best he could do. He tried lifting his hand but he was too weak.

Fitz noticed. “I’m not surprised,” he said conversationally, but he couldn’t quite hide the tremor in his voice. He continued sponging off Wick’s face, then started in on his chest. “I’ve heard about people sweating blood for a cause, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.”

From Cerridwen Press

The discussion today was on Egypt, mid-Dynasty XVIII. We talking about the obscurity of some archaeological references on stela, and how circuitous the route to understanding can be. Apparently, the only true co-regents of XVIII were T2 and A2 (Thutmose 2 and Amenhotep 2, his son)...and the way of determining this is the mention of A2's second accession day. The accession day usually only happens once in a Pharaoh's life - the day he or she takes the throne. In Amenhotep 2's case, it happened twice.

Easy to explain, really - once someone else has explained it to you. A 2 took the throne while his father was still alive...then took it again when his father died.
What amazed me was the way this could be determined from a few lines carved into two ancient stela, placed far apart.
Fascinating!

It's always interesting to explore the social side of anthropology. This week's topic was about bodily shapes. Interesting that the availability of home scales signalled the beginning of eating disorders like anorexia and bulimia. Before that, people may have worried, but they didn't have evidence of their own weight, or tables of "average weights" to compare themselves to.

On the writing front...
Working on book #25...still! I'm 1/3 finished, which is much more positive than admitting I have 2/3 to go and only 13 days to do it!

I'm sitting here eating an apple with a big grin on my face. Last night, I finished BoneSong!!! My 24th novel! Ecstatic doesn't begin to describe the feeling...

It's been really difficult to keep up my enthusiasm lately. All writers have down time, when you worry whether you're ever going to become a household name. Whether your books will ever have a chance of being found in every library, and every bookstore. For most of us, it's never going to happen.

Novice writers, and non-writers, generally have the wrong idea. They believe that publication is everything! When you begin writing a novel, you never realise that you're signing on to be a website designer, publicist, salesperson - and many times - agent. The reality in today's world of independent publishers is no money upfront, and minor moneys quarterly. Promotion is generally totally via the Net, your book is one of thousands on Amazon, and availability does not equate to sales. Good reviews and contest placements make little difference. If you do get your book into a real bookstore, and your publisher isn't willing to pay $10,000, to have your book in a front display, you'll be lucky if anyone sees it.

An author who was published by one of my former publishers once said she could count on 250 sales from family and friends. She wanted the publisher to tell her where she should go from there, to make sales. Frankly, I wondered what planet she came from! 250 sales??? Most of the time, my friends want to read my books for free, and I haven't the heart to ask these financially tapped-out creatures to buy a book. In fact, most relations/friends actually feel hurt if I hint at such a thing. The reality (painful, yes), is that many of our publishers don't offer us free copies - they make us buy them. My first publisher made us buy 25 at a time, if we wanted any kind of discount! Needless to say, I didn't see my first print books for years! I finally found them at a library, and stood there goggling. It was an incredible moment, to hold my print books in hand! Wonderful!

I suppose writing novels can be compared to purchasing a lotto ticket. During that time your book is under consideration by a publisher, or out there, awaiting sales, you have the potential for being a winner. The dream is alive and well, and hope is ever-present. It is only times like this, when I'm tired and slightly burnt-out, from finishing a book, that I question what I'm doing.

Instead, I suppose, I should be grateful. I'm 18x published, and the people who read my work, generally enjoy it.

And I have enough hope, and enough projects ahead, to keep going. I suppose, if it comes down to it, I'm a writing junkie, with the next fix just around the corner.

Tomorrow, in fact.

Talk to you soon.

Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hille books.htm" title="http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hille books.htm" target="_blank"http://www.fictionwise.com/eb... (all my ebooks...except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill" title="http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill" target="_blank"http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-... (my print books)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com" title="http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com" target="_blank"http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under-construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4" title="http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4" target="_blank"http://www.cerridwenpress.com... (Gilded Folly)

Oh, below is an excerpt (chapter two) from Trolls - to celebrate completion of book#24!

 Trolls (read it all!)