Backstop: A Baseball Love Story in Nine Innings by J. Conrad Guest

Michigan writer J. Conrad Guest scores with his second novel. Backstop: A Baseball Love Story in Nine Innings, from Second Wind Publishing, is told from the perspective of the protagonist known only as Backstop, the nickname he earned during his first year playing catcher for his ability to block pitches in the dirt. You know Backstop. He plays for any team in any city in America with a major league ball club. You cheer him when he delivers, and boo him when he doesn’t. In what could be his last game after 14 years in the major leagues—the seventh game of the World Series—Backstop chronicles his rookie season, takes the reader to Chicago where he finds romance, and reveals the heartbreak he endured in the aftermath of an adulterous affair. 

Guest builds the story around a fictional ballplayer who makes his dream to play in the major leagues come true. Backstop is driven to succeed, to prove himself to his father, who passed away the year before the Tigers drafted him. In his first season in the big leagues, he meets and falls in love with Darlene, a former lawyer turned business owner in Chicago. After a season-long courtship, they wed, and 12 years of happy marriage ensue. However, when the Tigers make the playoffs for the first time in Backstop’s career, he goes out on the town to celebrate with team mates and falls prey to the seductive overtures of a predatory younger woman. Thereafter, his world comes crashing down when Darlene asks for time apart to consider their future together. The following season, Backstop leads the Tigers to the World Series, while trying to win back both Darlene’s trust as well as her heart. 

Reviews: 

Fellow Michigan writer and author of Landscape with Fragmented Figures Jeff Vande Zande writes of Backstop: “J. Conrad Guest offers an entertaining and instructive journey into both major league baseball and major league matters of the heart.” 

While Rachael Perry, also a Michigan writer, says, “Baseball, like love, is a game of errors and regrets. Pop-outs, ground-outs, strike-outs. A bad swing, a bad throw, a bad hop. But what captivates us most is the possibility of the next at-bat, of the chance for a rally, of an unlikely clutch play that suddenly changes the stakes. This is where J. Conrad Guest meets us in Backstop: in this beautiful, hopeful place closest to our hearts, where we play for the love of the game, and we love with everything we have.” 

For this, his second published novel, Guest combines his love and knowledge of baseball with romance and the heartbreak of betrayal. Not your typical romance novel, Backstop can perhaps best be described as a literary Bull Durham, sure to appeal to purists of the game as well as those who enjoy a good love story. 

Bio

A resident of Northville, Guest is the author of January’s Paradigm, first published in 1998 by Minerva Press. He is working on a new novel, Cobb’s Conscience, a murder mystery written around baseball legend Ty Cobb and the shooting death of his father by his mother. His short fiction, non-fiction and sports writing can be found at a number of Web sites and in print publications. Available for author readings and writer workshops, Guest also provides editorial services. 

 

 

Excerpt (Prologue) 

“Baseball is a game where a curve is an optical illusion, a screwball can be a pitch or a person, stealing is legal and you can spit anywhere you like except in the umpire’s eye or on the ball.” — Jim Murray (1919-1998), sportswriter and 1990 Pulitzer Prize winner  

“Life is a ballgame, but you’ve got to play it fair.” — Sister Wynona Carr (The Ballgame) 

“Got a beat-up glove, a homemade bat and a brand-new pair of shoes. You know I think it’s time to give this game a ride. Just to hit the ball and touch ’em all—a moment in the sun. It’s gone and you can tell that one goodbye.” — John Fogarty (Centerfield) 

Pregame 

October 27, 1996, Detroit, Michigan

I’ve played 14 years in the big leagues, 12 behind the plate and, when my knees started to wear, the last two alternating at first base. You know me. I play for any team in any city in America with a major league ball club. You cheer me when I deliver—and I boast my share of late inning theatrics—and boo me when I don’t. The sportswriters in this town have called for me to be traded nearly as often as they come to me for a colorful quote in the aftermath of a tough loss or in the afterglow of a hard-fought win. I don’t think of myself as outspoken, but I say what’s on my mind; sometimes, when something I say makes it into the morning edition, they somehow manage to make me sound erudite. Most of the time I find it amusing. I learned long ago not to pay attention to what the press writes or says about me, for good or bad. This game is filled with ups and downs—no other career or avocation, save for maybe your local television weatherman, forgives failure three out of four times in exchange for that one in four accomplishment in starting or extending a rally, or driving in the winning run—and I’m hard enough on myself without trying to please a prejudiced press or fickle fans.

War is hell. I don’t speak from personal experience, but I imagine when the bullets start to fly and the bombs drop, no kid in a trench fights for his country. Thoughts of honor, glory and duty are replaced by the survival instinct. Baseball is like that, not in the sense that we lay our lives on the line, but we’re a close-knit fraternity, a pretty exclusive membership. We’re driven to excel the result of competition—not only against the opposition, but also with our teammates. I can strike out with a runner in scoring position, but when the next hitter goes out and brings the runner home I’m all grins. That’s part of the beauty of baseball—that a teammate lifts you up when you fall short. Next time it’ll be my turn.

Yogi Berra said that baseball is 90 percent mental and the other half is physical. As a catcher, I love getting inside the heads of unsuspecting batters, especially the young ones. I think nothing of telling a batter a fastball is on the way and then calling for it. Always amazes me the number of batters who can’t catch up to it even when I tell them it’s coming. One rookie was so frustrated he turned around to question my ancestry and then asked me why I’d told him I was calling for a fastball. I only laughed and said, “Did it do you any good?” His next trip to the plate I told him to look for the change and he was so far out in front looking for the heat I nearly fell over laughing. I got so far inside that kid’s head he went oh-fer the weekend. And the Splendid Splinter called pitchers the dumbest sons of bitches he ever saw.

That baseball is a humbling game is an understatement. The mental part of the game comes in letting go of my last at-bat, whether I struck out or hit a homerun. Step into the box thinking mechanics—keep my head down and my hands back—or about my previous at-bat and chances are I’ll head back to the dugout in short order. I work on mechanics during batting practice, and I do my thinking in the dugout, watching what the pitcher throws under certain circumstances; I think about the situation, how many outs, runners on, while I’m on-deck. But once I step in to face the pitcher and I note the defensive alignment, which can tip me off on how they plan to pitch to me, I look for the pitch I want to hit and trust that my mechanics are sound. Of course that can change should I fall behind in the count and I have to shorten my swing to protect the plate as the pitcher expands the strike zone, but the onus is on the pitcher to make me swing at the pitch he wants to throw. Focus on anything other than the pitch I want to hit and more than likely I’ll record an out.

I spent a year in the minors; I hit well enough, for average and with above average power, and caught well and threw out enough runners to earn a good look the following year at spring training. I was fortunate that I had a good preseason, so the team took me north. I worked my ass off to stay in the majors. I might not have Hall of Fame numbers, but I’ve rarely been cheated at the plate. Sure I’ve had my share of oh-fers, but I’ve also accumulated some three-for-fours and four-for-fours along the way, too, and five Gold Gloves to boot. I was voted to the All Star team six times during my prime. I haven’t won a World Series, but this could be the year as I get ready to take the field at home in game seven of the Fall Classic. I’m proud of my career. I’ve played the game the way it was meant to be played, with adolescent joy, and have been paid well for playing this kid’s game I love so much. I’ve put up numbers good enough to have played my entire career for the same team, a rarity in this modern era, and I’m thankful each and every day I take the field, which isn’t as often as it once was, even with the Designated Hitter rule.

But hey, it’s time. I’ve got on my catcher’s gear and I can hear the crowd outside the clubhouse, through the tunnel that leads to the dugout … 

Book launch promo 

Second Wind is having a launch party on January 29 and 30, which will include Backstop. J. Conrad invites readers to submit a personal account, between 200 and 400 words, of their most memorable baseball date. It could be disastrous; it might’ve led to marriage. It can be fictional or factual (fact is sometimes stranger than fiction!). The outcome of the game is really unimportant; what is important is what happens between the couple. In addition to a signed copy of Backstop: A Baseball Love Story in Nine Innings, the winning submission will receive a signed baseball from Backstop himself! 

Please submit your entry to secondwindpublishing@gmail.com. J. Conrad will select a winning entry, which will be announced the following Saturday, February 6.

Daughter Am I Review

I made a new friend on Facebook yesterday — Patty Andersen.  Turns out she’s a fan, someone who bought Daughter Am I because it had been recommended to her. Wow! My fame is spreading! Okay, one recommendation isn’t fame, but it’s a beginning, especially considering the wonderful review Patty Andersen wrote:

This was an awesome book. At age 23 Mary Stuart finds out that she has inherited a farm from her grandparents. Her father had told her that her grandparents were dead, so the inheritance is a shock but when she finds out that her grandparents were murdered she determines that she needs to know more about them. Thus, Mary sets off on a quest in which she collects an amazing array of elderly people, all of whom knew her grandfather or knew someone who knew him. 

This is a tale of growing. Mary is growing up, the elderly are growing older, and love is growing between Mary and all of her group. There are some marvelous life stories here, the elders have all lead amazing lives most not on the “right” side of the law. The most important lesson is that it is so important to allow the elderly to live and die with dignity. Mary manages to learn this in time to help this group and she also learns that they will live longer if they feel useful.

All in all, an amazing story and I’m so glad that someone on DorothyL recommended this book. It blew me away from beginning to end.   –Patty Andersen

When I asked Patty if I could post the review on my blog, she said: Sure, the more people who hear about this book, the happier I’ll be!

How cool is that! Even better, she’s a librarian, and librarians are not easy to impress.

Click here to buy Daughter Am I from Second Wind Publishing, LLC. 

Click here to buy Daughter Am I from Amazon.

Click here to download 30% of Daughter Am I free from Smashwords.

Click here to read the first chapter of Daughter Am I.

The Last Surgeon by Michael Palmer — Sneak Preview

About The Last Surgeon

Michael Palmer’s latest novel pits a flawed doctor against a ruthless psychopath, who has made murder his art form. Dr. Nick Garrity, a vet suffering from PTSD—post traumatic stress disorder—spends his days and nights dispensing medical treatment from a mobile clinic to the homeless and disenfranchised in D.C. and Baltimore. In addition, he is constantly on the lookout for his war buddy Umberto Vasquez, who was plucked from the streets by the military four years ago for a secret mission and has not been seen since.

Psych nurse Jillian Coates wants to find her sister’s killer. She does not believe that Belle Coates, an ICU nurse, took her own life, even though every bit of evidence indicates that she did—every bit save one. Belle has left Jillian a subtle clue that connects her with Nick Garrity.

Together, Nick and Gillian determine that one-by-one, each of those in the operating room for a fatally botched case is dying. Their discoveries pit them against genius Franz Koller–the highly-paid master of the “non-kill”—the art of murder that does not look like murder. As Doctor and nurse move closer to finding the terrifying secret behind these killings, Koller has been given a new directive: his mission will not be complete until Gillian Coates and Garrity, the last surgeon, are dead.

This sneak preview of The Last Surgeon is a thank you gift from Michael to all of his faithful readers. The Last Surgeon is coming to bookstores everywhere February 16, 2010. Released by St. Martin’s Press.

About the Author

MICHAEL PALMER is the author of fourteen previous novels of medical suspense, all international bestsellers. In addition to his writing, Palmer is an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society Physician Health Services, devoted to helping physicians troubled by mental illness, physical illness, behavioral issues, and chemical dependency. He lives in eastern Massachusetts.

The Last Surgeon — Prologue

“I know you can’t believe this is happening, Ms. Coates, but I assure you it is. I have been paid and paid very well to kill you.”

Belle Coates looked up at the intruder through a glaze of tears. “Please. Just tell me what you want,” she said. “Just tell me what you want and you can have it. Anything. Anything at all.”

The man sighed. “You’re not paying attention, Ms. Coates,” he said with the accentuated patience of a third grade teacher. “I am not here to bargain. I told you that. I’m here because this is what I get paid to do.”

“But why? Why me?”

Belle made yet another futile attempt to stand. Her wrists and ankles were lashed to her kitchen chair by the sort of Velcro restraints she and other hospital nurses used so often on difficult patients.

“Those restraints look amazingly simple,” the intruder said, “but I tell you they are a marvel of engineering and ergonomics. No pain, no marks. None at all. That’s why I have a dozen or so sets of them in the drawer at home.”

The man, six feet tall and wiry, had been hidden inside Belle’s apartment, probably behind the couch in the living room, when she arrived home at nearly midnight. Her nursing shift—three-to-eleven in the cardiac surgery ICU at the Central Charlotte Medical Center–had been a tough one, and she had relished every stair of the trudge that brought her closer to her apartment, a cup of tea, and a steamy shower.

She was just choosing a tea when he appeared in the doorway of her kitchen, an apparition in sky blue surgical hair and feet covers, and latex gloves, black jeans, black long-sleeved T. She was so fixated on his appearance that it was several seconds before she noticed the huge, gleaming knife dangling at his side. Her hesitation was more than enough. In two quick strides he was beside her, seizing a handful of her hair, snapping her head back, and pressing the blade against her throat. With just enough restraint to keep from drawing blood, he forced her down onto one of the oak chairs she had recently refinished, and in moments, the restraints were on her. It had happened that fast.

A dozen or so sets in my drawer.

The statement was as terrifying as the knife.

Was he a serial rapist? A psychotic killer? Desperately, searching for even the smallest inroad to understanding the intruder, Belle tried to remain calm and remember if she had read about such a man in the papers, or heard about him on the news.

“What do you want?” she said. “My fiancé will be home any minute.”

He fixed her with pale, translucent blue eyes, that were devoid of even the slightest spark of humanity.

“I don’t think so. We both know about your failed engagement. Celebrate Belle and Doug’s love. I’m very sorry about that,”

Belle froze at the words, quoted from her wedding invitation.

“Who are you?” she managed again. “What do you want from me?”

“Now we’re getting someplace.” The man produced a vial from his pocket and set it on the table. “I want you to swallow these sleeping pills I found in your medicine cabinet the last time I was here. I have augmented what was there with some that I brought with me tonight, so there will be more than enough to achieve our goal. But before you take these pills, I want you to copy and sign a brief note I have composed explaining your despondency and your desire not to live anymore. And finally, I want you to undress, step into your tub, and go to sleep. See? Simple and absolutely painless.”

Belle felt her breathing stop. This couldn’t be happening. She wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be able to pry her jaws apart with a crowbar. She began to hyperventilate and shake, grabbing and releasing the arms of her chair.

“I won’t do it.”

“You will.”

“I won’t!” she began screaming. “I won’t! I won’t! Help! Someone help m–!“

Her words were cut off by exquisite pressure around her throat. A hard rubber ball was forced expertly between her teeth and into her mouth. The killer remained absolutely calm during the insertion.

“That was stupid, Ms. Coates. Do anything stupid again, and you will be responsible for causing both yourself and your sister a great deal of pain.”

Belle stared up at him, wide-eyed. The mention of her sister was a dagger. Hyperventilating through her nose, she still could not seem to get in enough air.

“That’s right,” the man said. “I know all about Jillian. Just like I know all about you. Now, refuse to do exactly as I say, try anything stupid again, and I promise, both you and Jillian will die prolonged and painful deaths. Understand? I said, do you understand?” Belle nodded vigorously. “I’m still not certain you do. Now listen, Ms. Coates, and for your sister’s sake, believe me. I have no contract to kill Jillian—only you. And with very rare exceptions, those I am not paid to kill, I don’t kill.”

He took out his mobile phone, made a gentle tap on the screen’s touch display, and held it up for Belle to see.

“I assume you recognize your sister’s condo in Virginia—Arlington, to be exact, four-eighty-nine Bristol Court to be even more exact. Nod if you agree that is the case. Good. I know how close you two are. You see, I read your journal, or diary, including entries from the trip to Nassau that Jillian took you on after you learned about Doug’s how shall I say, dalliance with your friend Margo. Surgeons. They are just so full of themselves, aren’t they. I see you are having a little trouble breathing. Okay, here’s the deal: I’ll remove that ball if I get your assurance you will stay quiet and still.”

Belle grunted her agreement and again nodded. The man pulled the ball out keeping his fingers clear of her teeth, and dropped it into his pocket.

“Now,” he said, “what you are about to watch is a live video feed—live, as in it’s happening in four-eighty-nine Bristol Court right this very instant.”

Belle stared in disbelief at the full-color projection. The footage was unquestionably taken from her sister’s tastefully and lovingly decorated condominium. She was certain that the woman sleeping alone in the queen-size bed, was Jillian, also a nurse, and one of the main reasons Belle, herself had chosen the profession. Upon the automobile deaths of their parents, Jillian had stepped in to raise her fourteen-year-old sister, often making major sacrifices in her personal life. Belle considered her to be the kindest, brightest, most centered person she had ever known. The camera had been placed above the valance in the bedroom. At the sight of Jillian, rolling languidly from her left side to her back, Belle began to hyperventilate again.

“Easy,” the man warned. “Slow down. That’s it. . . . That’s it.

“Please. Please don’t hurt her.”

The apparition holding the phone leaned forward. Belle cringed as his empty eyes came level with her own. His pale white skin was tinted blue, a ghoulish illusion cast by her ecologically friendly halogen lights.

“You must calm down your breathing and listen, Ms. Coates. To save your sister’s life, and yourself from a great deal of pain, it is essential that you believe I will do as I say.”

“I believe. I believe. Turn it off. Turn that camera off and leave her alone.”

“I’m going to make you a promise Ms. Coates,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “I promise that if you fail to follow my instructions, Jillian will die, and die quite horribly. Do as I say and she lives. Want proof? Look here.”

He held the phone at eye-level.

“Enough,” Belle pleaded. “Don’t hurt her.”

“I’ve placed small canisters of a potent nerve gas above the door frame inside the closet. From this phone, I can control how much of the gas is released simply by tapping my finger. Incredible, yes? I am a virtuoso operating this setup. I put another camera in Jillian’s bathroom because I want you to see what happens when just a smidge of this gas is inhaled.”

“No, please. Please stop this. I believe you.”

The intruder paid no attention. It was as if he had planned this demonstration all along. Belle’s brain was spinning. How could she believe him? How could she not? What choice did she have? Would he really spare Jillian as he promised? Why would he? Why wouldn’t he? The unanswerable questions roiled on and on.

“If I wanted to,” he said as if reading her thoughts, “I could kill your sister—I could kill anyone–any time, any place, and in any way I wish. But the point is I don’t have to. I don’t even want to. She seems like a nice woman. And as I said, there is nothing in her death for me.”

He made two gentle taps on the phone’s display, and Jillian’s quaint bathroom came into focus, illuminated by a night light beside the sink, and small a diamond-shaped window above the tub.

“There are four levels of gas I can administer. The first three will cause increasing pain and the symptoms you are about to see. The fourth will kill . . . slowly. This is level one.”

Within seconds, Jillian, wearing flannel pajamas Belle had bought for her, burst into the frame, fell onto her knees, and began retching violently into the toilet. Between bouts, she lay clenched in a fetal position on the tiled floor, shivering uncontrollably.

“Can you believe that’s only level one?” the man asked. “I think I should patent this delivery system.”

“Stop it! Stop doing this to her,” Belle cried.

“Keep it down or I’ll cut your larynx out and set it on the table. I’m sensing you need a bit more motivation Ms. Coates. Allow me to oblige by upping Jillian’s misery to level two. I’ll keep it on level two until you start copying this note. Audio is really a must to get the full effect.”

He tapped his phone’s display again and now Belle could hear Jillian’s grunting, labored breathing, interrupted by fits of gut-wrenching vomiting and sobs of pain.

“Please…stop…I believe you. I believe you.”

He loosened her left hand and pushed the note she was to copy in front of her.

“Start writing your farewell letter, Ms. Coates. When you do, I’ll stop killing your sister,” he said.

Belle’s face contorted in agony at the sound of Jillian’s unrelenting anguish.

“Please…”

“Do you need more volume? Write the damn note!” the monster barked, pounding the table with each word. “You’re dead regardless. But you can still save your sister’s life, that is if you have the courage to do the right thing.”

The man shut off the gas as soon as Belle began to write. In just a minute, Jillian’s moaning stopped. Belle managed to pen the first four words before she began to sob.

“Finish,” he said, “or, I’ll fire it up again.”

“Why me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t even know you. Why do you want me to die?”

“Not my call. Somebody in this great big world of ours has decided you have to go. And that somebody is paying me to make it happen. I can do it to you alone or to both of you.”

“This is insane,” she said, as much to herself as to the man who was about to murder her. “This is absolutely insane.”

“I guess you enjoy listening to your sister scream. Allow me to show you level three.”

The tormented retching Belle heard could scarcely be described as human. On the tiny video display, Jillian’s body convulsed more violently than before. Soon as Belle lifted up the pen again, the man pressed a button on his phone and her sister’s screaming stopped. Belle found the strength to finish copying the note.

“I’m a man of my word, Ms. Coates. I’m also very good with handwriting and I have a large sample of yours from your journal. Mess with this and I’ll dismember you joint by joint with that ball stuck back in your mouth. You’ll still be alive to watch when I finally jack up the gas in Jillian’s pad to level four.”

“I did as you asked. Let her go.”

“Sign it.” The man studied the note with great care. “Okay, now the pills.”

He shook the pills onto the table, motioning her to take one.

“Please,” Belle begged, still trying to make inroads into the utter helplessness she was feeling. “Who’s paying you? Why do they want to kill me?”

“I’m running out of time and patience.”

The man pressed a button on his phone like a puppet master pulling on invisible strings. Jillian’s body again twitched with violent spasms.

“No! You promised!” Belle cried.

“You have the power to make this easier on Jillian. Think of all your sister has done for you. You owe it to her, don’t you? Make me stop. I want you to stop me, Ms. Coates.”

She could not listen to her sister’s cries anymore. Her only thought was of the man’s chilling proclamation.

You’re dead regardless.

As though in a trance, her hand shakily reached out. Jillian’s moaning abated soon as Belle swallowed the first pill.

“Please…don’t. No more.”

“Keep swallowing and that’s the last time you have to hear that nasty

sound, Ms. Coates.

Belle tightened her jaw and nodded that she understood.

“Promise?” Her voice sounded like a child’s. “I said, do you promise?”

“Ms. Coates, I might be a killer, but I’m a professional. You have my word. But I’m going to resume torturing your beloved sister unless all these pills are down the hatch.”

It was too much to take. Belle raced to swallow the pills.

What else can I do? her mind kept asking. What else can I do? . . . What else can I do?

The action, in a way, was liberating. Her heart rate slowed and her tears stopped. In minutes, she no longer felt agitated or even frightened. The man’s eyes, once haunting, now made her feel nothing at all.

“Good girl. You are simply going to close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Her tongue already felt heavy. “You promised,” Belle managed.

“You have my word.”

After a while, he filled the tub, then undid her restraints.

“Clothes,” he said.

Feeling the wooziness of the drug take further hold, Belle stepped out of her scrubs and dropped her bra and panties onto the floor.

Then she stepped into the tub.

“I love you Jillian,” she murmured. “I love you.”

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Staccato by Deborah J Ledford — Excerpt #2

Three world-class pianists.
Two possible killers.
One dead woman.
Who is her murderer?
Who will be next? 

When acclaimed pianist Nicholas Kalman discovers his lover’s dead body, he sets out alone to find her killer. During his journey, he meets an unwitting female accomplice who soon becomes determined to help Nicholas wield his retaliation. Following a parallel path for justice, Steven Hawk, the deputy of a sleepy Southern county, is assigned to the case. Pursuing the investigation, Hawk finds himself entangled in a world of vengeance, greed and manipulation.

Performed against the backdrop of the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, Staccato transports readers to a behind-the-scenes glimpse of professional musicians, the psychological twists and turns of its characters, and in the end, retribution that crashes in a crescendo of notes played at the literary pace of a maestro’s staccato. 

Staccato is the first novel of the Steven Hawk/Inola Walela thriller trilogy.

Excerpt:

Nicholas’s gaze fixed on the open door of the cement block building.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Hawk said. “Let her identification be left to her mother.”

Studying his shoes, he said to himself more than to Hawk, “No. I’ve caused enough pain to Aranka.”

Hawk nodded, took off his hat off and clutched its brim.

Nicholas gathered his courage and stepped to the door. After a few nervous breaths he crossed the threshold. The frigid, pungent room spooked him. He shuddered, drawing his jacket tight around his body.

Fully inside the cold, uninviting space, Nicholas’s eyes locked on Elaine’s lifeless body, laid out on an aluminum table in the middle of the room. Taking tentative steps, he reached out. He wanted to rest his trembling fingers on her cheek, smooth the hair from her forehead, but Hawk stopped him with a shake of his head.

Nicholas clasped his hands behind his back to resist the urge to ignore the deputy. He stared at the ashen, waxy, colorless face that barely resembled his lover. “Have you ever been in love, Deputy Hawk?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean the sweaty palm, heart pounding, gasp at the sight of her when she enters the room, love.”

Hawk shuffled from one foot to the other. “No. I’m still lookin’ for that.”

“That’s what we had.”

“I’m sorry, Nicholas,” Hawk said. “I really am.” Then the deputy gently pulled the coverlet over Elaine’s body and head.

Nicholas straightened his posture and said, “Take me to Alexander Kalman.”

Clamping his hat back on his head, Hawk led Nicholas from the morgue.

He searched the group of officers and spotted Sampte right away—a foot wider and a head taller than any of the others, even as he leaned on a police car. Nicholas ran to him, grabbed the man he once considered a friend, and swung him around.

“Why?” Nicholas shouted. “Tell me, you bastard. Why did this happen?”

Sampte kept his chin tucked to his chest, refusing to look at Nicholas.

A flash of lightning lit the area, halting all action for a moment. A deafening crack, followed by a train-like rumble, resounded through the trees.

When Sampte raised his head, Nicholas searched the man’s eyes for any clues. Instead, he recognized the flat, resolved gaze, rivaling a look only Alexander could brandish.

To Nicholas, Sampte’s silence seemed louder than the thunder.

Deborah J Ledford is a three-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize. Her award-winning short stories appear in the print publications Arizona Literary Magazine, Forge Journal, Twisted Dreams Magazine, AnthologyBuilder, and two Red Coyote Press mystery anthologies. Her latest stories appear in the Gulf Coast Writers Association anthology “Sweet Tea and Afternoon Tales” and the Sisters in Crime anthology, “How Not to Survive the Holidays.” A flash fiction piece is presented via podcast at Sniplits.

Click here  to read the first chapter: Staccato

Staccato by Deborah J Ledford — Excerpt #1

Three world-class pianists.
Two possible killers.
One dead woman.
Who is her murderer?
Who will be next? 

When acclaimed pianist Nicholas Kalman discovers his lover’s dead body, he sets out alone to find her killer. During his journey, he meets an unwitting female accomplice who soon becomes determined to help Nicholas wield his retaliation. Following a parallel path for justice, Steven Hawk, the deputy of a sleepy Southern county, is assigned to the case. Pursuing the investigation, Hawk finds himself entangled in a world of vengeance, greed and manipulation.

Performed against the backdrop of the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, Staccato transports readers to a behind-the-scenes glimpse of professional musicians, the psychological twists and turns of its characters, and in the end, retribution that crashes in a crescendo of notes played at the literary pace of a maestro’s staccato. 

Staccato is the first novel of the Steven Hawk/Inola Walela thriller trilogy.

Excerpt:

No. It can’t be . . .

He didn’t have the courage to look at her closely, so he repositioned the body, then dragged the cloth sack beyond her shoulders.

The sweet scent of gardenias and rosewater hit him with blunt force. His gut churned, a lump formed in his throat, strangling his whimper.

Mind racing, he swept the hair from the corpse’s face. He cupped her head in his hands and bent inches from her. Blood slammed to his brain, ringing in his ears deafened him. He managed to utter a guttural growl.

God, no, not Elaine. The one person he trusted completely. She, who had unselfishly relished his triumphs and filled his days and nights with excitement and passion.

He could do nothing but stare at her beautiful, porcelain face, now turned ashen, expressionless. She had been his salvation. He mourned every time they were apart, rejoiced once they reunited. He would never see her again, be with her, love her.

Nicholas wrapped his shaking arms around Elaine’s body and rocked her. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He mumbled her name again and again. After a long time, he lifted her from the tumble on the floor, swept the bag from her body and crumpled the cloth into a ball at her feet. Placing her carefully in a seated position on the passenger seat, he smoothed her hair and took her limp head in his hands. He kissed his lover’s waxen forehead and released her limp body. Pulling the seat belt tight, he snapped her securely in place.

His entire body shook as he shut the door, then paced in front of the car and raked his hands through his hair. Thoughts of retribution filled his raging mind. Vows of revenge rocked the core of his being. He opened his arms and lifted his head to the misty sky. A wail of anguish emitted from deep inside him, rising in intensity until he expelled no more sound. He thrust himself forward and crashed his fists down on the hood of the Porsche.

The cacophony of sound echoed throughout the parking lot, mixing with his strangled sobs.

Deborah J Ledford is a three-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize. Her award-winning short stories appear in the print publications Arizona Literary Magazine, Forge Journal, Twisted Dreams Magazine, AnthologyBuilder, and two Red Coyote Press mystery anthologies. Her latest stories appear in the Gulf Coast Writers Association anthology “Sweet Tea and Afternoon Tales” and the Sisters in Crime anthology, “How Not to Survive the Holidays.” A flash fiction piece is presented via podcast at Sniplits.

Click here  to read the first chapter: Staccato

Stormy Weather by Sherrie Hansen

An ill wind is brewing up a storm and as usual, Rachael Jones is in the middle of the fray. If the local banker succeeds in bulldozing the Victorian houses she’s trying to save, she’s in for yet another rough time before the skies clear. The only bright spots on the horizon are her friendship with Luke… and her secret rendezvous with Mac…Is Rachael meant to weather the storm with Luke, who touches her heart and soul so intimately, or with Mac, who knows each sweet secret of her body?

Stormy Weather excerpt: 

Mac lay beside Rachael without moving, feeling the swell of her rib cage moving up and down, hearing her soft sighs. Her lashes lay against her cheek, her hair in wisps at the side of her face. The tension between her brows had disappeared. A sweet tenderness like he had never known welled up in Mac’s heart.

His photographer’s eye saw the two of them from an overhead angle; shot in black and white for heightened contrast save Rae’s rosy cheeks. Black and white with a blush of color on her face, so soft that an unsolicited viewer would look and look again, thinking, Am I imagining that hint of color? There, on her cheeks. Do you see it? Is it there, or am I dreaming?

In his mind’s eye Mac could see the two of them as clearly as if he were shooting a layout and not posed beside her, spread out on the sheets in effortless disarray, their limbs entwined, the bedding falling around them in soft, tangled folds. How he wished he could be two places at once, here in her arms, and capturing this sweetness for all time through the body of his camera.

“I love you, Rae,” Mac whispered, snuggling her from behind.

“I love you, too, Luke.” Rae responded from her semi-sleep, never even realizing that she had thrust daggers into his heart.

To read the first chapter of Stormy Weather: click here 

By day, Sherrie Hansen operates a Victorian bed & breakfast and tea house called The Blue Belle Inn. By night, she enjoys writing novels, quilting, playing the piano, renovating old houses and traveling. Sherrie and her husband live in Northern Iowa.

 

Cataclysm Children by Paul Nemeth

Cataclysm Children is fiction, but was inspired by some curious, tragic, and very real events.

During the early 1990’s, as many as fifty historic Norwegian churches were burned to the ground. These actions were eventually traced to a coalition of ‘black’ (Satanic) metal musicians.

Paul Nemeth asked, “could it happen here?” and then set to work.

Description of Cataclysm Children by Paul Nemeth:

The brutal slaying of Father Dermott Cavanaugh tore apart the sleepy town of Hadley, Colorado.

More shocking still was the revelation that a cult of satanic metal musicians calling themselves the “Brotherhood of the Wolf” was behind the murder, as well as the arson that left Father Cavanaugh’s parish in charred ruins.

Now, ten years later, the Wolf is rising from the ashes to terrorize Hadley once again, recruiting troubled teens to carry out a reign of terror involving music, mayhem and murder. Exiled Brotherhood founder Ian Andrews has learned that his nephew Danny is about to fall victim to the evil that he helped create. Ian must stop the resurrected Brotherhood before they launch open war against society, and the streets run red with blood…

Excerpt from Cataclysm Children:

It was going to be a busy day for Rabbi Avram Levin. There was extra work to be done at the synagogue, so he left his house at 6:30 a.m., thirty minutes early.

The Temple Beth-El was a small synagogue in suburban Colorado. The area had a community of Jews, but it was nothing like New York City, where the rabbi was born and raised. He had never thought he’d settle down in the country, and compared to where he had grown up, this was the country.

Years ago, he’d been on a flight to California, and his plane had been diverted here. He’d been stuck in the area for a day, done some quick sightseeing, and decided he wanted to stay. He loved the high, dry climate, so different than the humid summers and brutal winters he’d grown up with. He loved the breathtaking vista of the mountains in the Western sky, and the rolling prairies to the east. He loved the expansive, uncluttered feel of the roadways and towns. Most of all, he loved the people. They were friendly and polite; so different than the famed casual hostility of New Yorkers. There were few Jews here at the time, but the people respected him and the work that he was doing. Besides, his congregation was growing. As people left the huge cities, they moved out to places like this, like the children of Israel wandering in the desert. And there were many people here who were the descendants of Jewish immigrants, who were interested in rediscovering their faith.

The sun peeked over the horizon, stabbing daggers of light through the thin air. There was a bad pollution problem here due to the temperature inversion caused by the dry climate and the mountains, but it looked like today wasn’t going to be a bad day for the air.

The rabbi drove, humming along to Thelonious Monk playing “Straight, No Chaser ” on KJAZ. Avram adored jazz. His father had favored it in New York, and it brought back memories of home and warmth and family.

He pulled into the parking lot in front of the synagogue. It was hidden from the main street, and many people, even those who’d lived here for years, weren’t aware of it. He saw an old car (a Buick maybe, or an Oldsmobile) parked in front of the temple. Two figures sat in the front seat.

At first he thought they were women: they had long hair, and white skin. The rabbi blinked, and then tried to get a better look at them. Their long hair wasn’t necessarily unusual, but the faces…

They’re wearing makeup, he realized. Not transvestite makeup: they didn’t seem to be trying to look like women at all. There were large, dark circles around their eyes, and sinister, rune-like patterns ran down the cheeks of one of the strangers. The other one had black blood flowing from the eyes, down the cheeks until it pooled around his chin. Avram wondered if he was dreaming. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and decided he was still awake. The interlopers were still there.

He got out of his car and walked over to the two strangers, still sitting inside the front seat of the aging Oldsmobile. They were dressed in black, with odd symbols adorning their clothes.

“Good morning,” he said. “Can I help you find something?”

“We just found it,” the one in the driver’s seat said. His voice was low, and it held a hunger that Avram didn’t like.

To Learn More:

Read more about Paul Nemeth’s heart-stopping debut novel Cataclysm Children by reading reviews and visiting his author page at www.amazon.com.

Bio:

Paul Nemeth was born in 1970 in Wheatridge, Colorado and raised in neighboring Arvada. The son of two music teachers and youngest of four siblings, Paul learned to read by age three and spent much of his childhood writing stories to entertain himself and his family.

A professional musician by trade, Paul maintains a busy schedule playing and teaching bass and lead guitar throughout the San Francisco Bay Area, where he now resides with his wife Tara and son John.

His writing, much of which centers on the power of music to influence spiritual and political thought, has been featured in several publications.

Without a Home: Inspiring Stories of Animal Adoptions by Elaine Marlier

The Without A Home series are a unique collection of short stories about animals that unexpectedly find themselves without a home. Each book takes the reader on a journey, through the animal’s point of view and their own words, of life before the shelter, their stay in the shelter, and then their new live when they are finally given that second chance at life. Each story reminds the reader of some of life’s most important lessons along the way. The stories bring to life the connection that can only form when one adopts and saves the life of an animal.

In Without A Home Inspiring and heartfelt tales of dog adoptions, Spike shows Linda that the shelter can be the perfect place to find the perfect dog. Daisy gives Katerina a gift of her past, Yogi reminds his new master that looks really do not matter, Jackie reminds her owner of the importance of family, and Sal gives Maria an entire new lease on life.

 In Without A Home Inspiring and heartfelt tales of cat adoptions, BT proves to Ashley that love is much more important than looks. The journey for Tasha and her four kittens - Tommy, Snowball, Lily and Smokie – bring to life of the importance of family,while Smokie teaches his new owner Ali, how to overcome her own inadequacies. Jelly and Justin take the reader on a journey of courage and faith that proves to have an immeasurable end.

In Without A Home Inspiring and heartfelt tales of small animal adoptions, Harry the hamster shows Brandon that one boy’s trash is another boy’s treasure. Cindy the chinchilla teaches Gabby that beauty is only skin deep. Reggie the rat drives home the importance of adoption to one young boy named Billy, and Bonnie the bunny finds paradise in the coincidence of her past. Frankie the ferret gives Martha a whole new outlook about animals.

Elaine Marlier works in the pet industry in Colorado, and work with many shelters and rescue groups throughout the state. All of the book signings I do raise money to help the animals. More about Elaine:

http://denver.yourhub.com/Littleton/Stories/Pets-and-Animals/Story~633120.aspx
http://www.examiner.com/examiner/x-677-Dogs-Examiner~y2009m7d26-Author-Elaine-Marlier-writes-books-that-inspire-pet-adoption

Reviews:

I just received the book on Friday and thought I would read it slowly but could not! What wonderful stories! I cried through each one. I love how Elaine incorporated the dog’s point of view into the story. I believe in destiny. My first adopted pet was a cat and I knew she was for me when she put out her paw and touched my hand. If not for a little dog jumping up on his cage he would not have got our attention and we would not have noticed the other dog beside him and gone home from the shelter without a dog rather than adopting two. I especially loved the stories about Yogi and Sal. It is definitely something magical when you adopt a dog. There are dogs meant for special people. Thank you Elaine for such wonderful stories. Definitely a must read. –Carol Ann  Reading, MA

I loved this book. It was so heartfelt and warm. A reminder that we cannot take animals for granted.  They can only “tell” us their needs in so many ways. We have to be mindful to think of what they need and give it to them. Our animals love us unconditionally, we should show them the same respect. This book is a great educational tool as well as it reminds people to adopt their next pet from a shelter. I highly recommend this book to anyone who has a dog.  –Gigi   Edgewater, NJ

This is my second Elaine Marlier book. As with the tales of dog adoptions, this too is a must read. I received my book on Saturday and had it finished by Sunday.  So much for keeping it to a chapter per night which I like to do when reading in bed.  I couldn’t put it down. Author Elaine Marlier did a great job of writing through the eyes of the kittens and cats. You were able to see what they saw. Again, Artist Judith Angell Meyer did a wonderful job of portraying the animals in each chapter, this time it was the felines. You will love the ending… –Maxxie Brown  Mount Morris, NY

You won’t be able to put it down. Simply marvelous, a true work of art. This book is a must read for any animal lover, and when you are done, be sure to pass it on. I brought it to my vet’s office when I was finished reading it, they keep it in the lobby. Highly recommend you read this, it will move you. –Sheryl  J.    Lee, NH

A Romance Forever: The True Story of a Wartime Romance and 66 Amazing Years Together by George Eddy

           A dashing Naval Aviator. A lovely young airline hostess. A worldwide war. Impossible odds. This story has all the elements of a great romance novel, but it’s real life.

            The romance begins in 1943, when a Braniff hostess named Kathryn bumps George Eddy off a commercial flight in Wichita, Kan., for a priority passenger. Smitten, he courts his new love on challenging flights in Navy planes from his base in Corpus Christi, Texas. 

            A Romance Forever: The True Story of a Wartime Romance and 66 Amazing Years Together, recounts their marriage after only four dates, the final months of the war when he ends up a fighter pilot on the Intrepid, and their long and happy marriage as members of the Greatest Generation.

            Along the way, they developed interesting careers—hers as an acclaimed artist and founder of craft galleries, his as a magazine publisher for The New York Times Company. They lived in glamorous New York City, raised three children, traveled widely, and were active sportsmen, hunting, skiing, and racing sailboats.  In 1978, they were the only Americans Fidel Castro ever allowed to sail into Cuba, where they were warmly welcomed! 

            “After retiring,” says George, “writing became a way to share my rather unusual life with family and friends. But I’ve found that many others enjoy relating to the adventures I’ve had.” 

          Now living in an assisted living facility in San Francisco, George is wheelchair-bound after a stroke and Kathryn battles Alzheimer’s Disease.  Always one to live life to the fullest, George is enthusiastic about his new Web site, and at the age of 89, he’s learning to use Facebook and Twitter. 

          “My grandchildren give me pointers on this new technology,” he says. “They think it’s cool that old Poppa has joined their lifestyle.”  

A Wartime Romance, Against All Odds — Excerpt

In 1943, I was serving as a flight instructor at a naval base in Corpus Christi, Texas. On my way back to Corpus from leave, on Braniff Airways, we made a stop in Wichita, Kansas. The door of the DC-3 opened and this beautiful hostess said, “Ensign Eddy, please hold up your hand. We need your seat for a priority passenger.”

I followed her back to the terminal and asked her if she’d like to sit down for a few minutes in the coffee shop. I was instantly smitten. Kay had huge green eyes, but they were more sincere than flirty. We talked about our families and college experiences, and favorite diversions.

Then she booked me a hotel room and called a cab to drop me off. In the hotel, I thought, this is a girl I would like to spend some serious time with, but she must meet guys like me every day and anyhow, when would I ever get to see her again. Then the phone rang. And, as if in a dream, I hear her soft voice say, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

After I returned to my base, I spent my free time scheming how I could see my dream girl again. Another leave was not an option at this point. Her father would not let her, at age 19, fly to Corpus to visit me.

The solution proved to be getting myself transferred to an outlying field near Kingsville, where they taught advanced training for fighters, and earning enough hours to qualify for an overnight training flight to Wichita.

In Wichita, Kay and I had a great time picnicking and partying at the local dance hall. Our love affair was blooming. Just being with Kay was exciting. She had the talent of making even holding hands an expression of love. When we looked into each other’s eyes, that was the whole world.

Now, back in Kingsville, how do I possibly devise the next chance to be with my new sweetheart, having used up my one allowable distance flight?

For the rest of the story, read A Romance Forever: The True Story of a Wartime Romance and 66 Amazing Years Together, available at Amazon.com and www.GeorgeEddyAuthor.com. Profits from A Romance Forever will go to Alzheimer’s Disease Research.

          A Romance Forever is available from Amazon.com  or www.GeorgeEddyAuthor.com for $12.95.  Profits from A Romance Forever will go to Alzheimer’s Disease Research. 

          George’s first two books are also available on his Web site and on Amazon.com. Fly Boy recounts his adventures as a young Naval Aviator during World War II. Who’s Steering? describes his 20 years of sailboat racing adventures.

           Together, these books paint a vivid picture of life for a member of the Greatest Generation, and they make great gifts for seniors, sailing enthusiasts, and World War II history buffs.

Contact: George  Eddy
Email: edxyz@comcast.net
Phone: 650-952-6644

Notes in a Mirror by Helen Macie Osterman

The year is 1950. The place is Hillside State Mental Hospital, a dark brooding place, located outside of Chicago. At the time, the treatment of the mentally ill is archaic, consisting of hydrotherapy, electroshock and Insulin coma therapies, and, in the extreme, pre-frontal lobotomy. Tranquilizers and anti-psychotic drugs have not yet appeared.

In this atmosphere of hopelessness and despair come student nurses from nearby hospitals for their three-month psychiatric rotation. Mary Lou Hammond and Kate Stephens are two of these young girls.

Mary Lou is extremely sensitive. She begins dreaming about a woman in the early part of the century. The dreams tell a continuing story. Soon Mary Lou finds messages in mirror image writing from Margaret Montague, the woman in her dreams. She claims to have died at Hillside in 1911. If this entity does exist, what does she want from Mary Lou?

As the students go from one terrifying experience to another in the institution, Mary Lou’s dreams intensify, and so do the messages. Kate fears that her friend is losing contact with reality.

Mary Lou becomes obsessed with finding proof that the woman did exist as the story escalates to its life-threatening climax.

Helen Macie Osterman talks about her Notes in a Mirror:

Little did I know as a student nurse doing my psychiatric rotation at a state mental hospital in 1950 that, over half a century later, I would be writing a book about it.

Actually, I wrote the outline of the book twenty years ago and tucked it safely in a drawer. Every few years it would call to me, as words do. I would take it out and read it, enlarge on it, then put it back.

Two years ago I tackled it with renewed energy. I made it into a paranormal/historical, added a bit of mystery a tad of romance, then presented it to my writers group, The Southland Scribes.

A few suggestions by the group and another revision and I was ready to seek a publisher. A big hurdle!

After a number of rejections, I met Sue Durkin of Weaving Dreams Publishing. She loved the story and agreed to publish it.

Then the hard part started—marketing. That is a full time job. I belong to a number of women’s groups and they all buy my books. So far I have mailed 200 post cards, spoken at a number of libraries and bookstores. And we’ve only started.

After the holidays I plan to contact nursing schools and ask for a few minutes to talk to the students about how the profession has changed. There was no technology in 1950: no computers, no critical care, no CPR, and no monitoring devices. And the care of the mentally ill was archaic.

I tried to bring this out in Notes in a Mirror as I wove my story of Mary Lou Hammond, a shy impressive young girl, suddenly finding herself in a madhouse.

Even though the experience happened over fifty years ago, I remember it as if it were yesterday. 

BIO:

Helen Osterman lives in a suburb of Chicago. She has five children and nine grandchildren. 

She received a Bachelor of Nursing degree from Mercy Hospital-St. Xavier College. During her training, she spent three months at Chicago State Mental Hospital for her psychiatric rotation. Years later, she earned a Master’s Degree from Northern Illinois University.  

Throughout her forty-five year nursing career, she wrote articles for both nursing and medical journals, including Geriatric Nursing, Nursing Management, Orthopaedic Nursing and Nursing Spectrum. She wrote a section for Clinics in Podiatric Medicine and Surgery in 1997. 

In 1997 and 1998, she published two short novels about a nurse, The Web and Things Hidden, by

Vista Publishing, a nurse owned publishing company. 

She is also the author of the Emma Winberry Mystery series. The Accidental Sleuth, 2007 and The Stranger in the Opera House, 2009. 

Helen is a member of The American Association of University Women and The Mystery Writers of America. 

Helen can be reached through her publisher Weaving Dreams Publishing or at her website:  Helen Macie Osterman.

See also: Notes in a Mirror by Helen Macie Osterman — Sample Chapter