Saturday, 9 April 2011


It's Six Sentence Sunday time again and, once again, I am posting a six from my reworking of an old m.s. I have been tossing titles around in my head for this one. It is rather an angsty tale so I want to come up with the right one. Meanwhile, I leave you with my six, literally just hot off the press and another raw excerpt....

A silent laugh dragged at her throat. How ironic. After all she’d suffered, all she’d triumphed over, here she was, destroyed by a broken heart. Her hand closed around her father’s sleeping pills.Her hands shook as she tipped two of the white tablets into her hand.Swallowing them without water, she crept back to her room and locking out the world, she prayed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

Check out more wonderful sixes at this link

The surreal scene that met his eyes made dread crawl over his skin like a dose of shingles. Alerted by screams, a crowd had gathered, cheering and laughing in that cruel manner adopted the world over by blood-lust hungry teenagers. Yelling at them to move out of his way, he pushed through. Brendan Hanna lay on the ground, curled up in a foetal position, blood-streaked hands holding his head in an attempt to ward off Rebecca’s brutal attack. He cried; he actually cried in fear and Max didn’t blame him.
Screaming at him with Exorcist-style obscenities, Rebecca kicked out at him again and again, her hair in disarray, her features contorted with pure rage and hate.
“Rebecca!” His command didn’t penetrate the frenzied assault. “Rebecca, stop.” She left him no choice. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her off the ground and dragged her away. Turning in his arms, she lashed out at him, her eyes wide and crazed, screaming and screaming. Her torment broke his heart in two. “Rebecca.”
No response.
“Rebecca, stop!” In his arms, she grew less stiff. “It’s okay.” He lowered his tone to a bare whisper so only she could hear him. “It’s me. I’ve got you, sweetheart. It’s over. Rebecca, look at me.” Tentatively, he relaxed his tight grip. “Look at me.” Hands on her face, he tilted her face up, forcing her to focus and look into his eyes. “Forget about everything else. I just want you to concentrate on me. That’s it. Take a deep breath.” He coaxed her down from the near-hyperventilation, thumb stroking her chin.”
“Oh my, God, what the hell happened, here.” Tom materialised at his side whilst Fiona rushed to Brendon’s aid. The boy remained in a ball, whimpering like a frightened child. “Get back, you morbid bunch of idiots. Show’s over. Will, help me get him to my car. We can get him to a hospital quicker. God, what a bloody mess. What the hell did she do to him?”
Max didn’t know and he didn’t care; he focused all his attention on the near-catatonic girl in his arms. Whatever punishment she’d inflicted on Brendon, intuition told him the boy deserved it. “Here.” He pulled his keys from his pocket. “Go and wait in my car.” Rebecca didn’t move. She swayed against him and for one terrifying moment he thought he was losing her. “Rebecca, Go! For once in your life do as you’re bloody told.” His feigned anger jolted her out of her trance. For a split second, she looked at him as if she hated him but she took the keys and, head held high, she walked to his car.
“What’s going on, Max?” Will looked dazed, as they all did. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She an animal.”


Monday, 4 April 2011

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time

Good day, happy little Musers. Starting off the Muse Monday happy blog is my dear friend, critique partner and fellow Gerard Butler fancier, Christine London. Her question is…

Knowing your penchant for all things and persons British, if you had to chose one British woman, historical or contemporary, whom you most admire, who would you choose and why?
Take it away, Chris....

Thanks for hosting me today Viv and for your fresh approach. Viva the questions that don't focus on our path to publication or writing style!

My first proclivity was to choose a contemporary woman that might spark recognition in everyone's eye. Lady Di and her tireless campaigning to rid third world nations of landmines, the Queen mum and her one hundred years living in both spotlight and shadow of royalty, or even Margaret Thatcher as she parried with some of the world's most powerful men.

And then my choice became as suddenly clear as this woman's meteoric rise to fame. On April 11, 2009 a plain middle-aged woman from Blackburn East Lothian Scotland took the stage on one of the United Kingdom's most popular reality television shows. The juxtaposition of the audience's first impression of her, with the standing ovation she received during and after her performance, led to an international media and internet tsunami. Within nine days of the audition, videos of her from the show, and various interviews had been watched over 100 million times. Since that time, her audition video has been viewed on the internet several hundred million times.

So unpretentious, unguarded and fresh was her rendition of I Dreamed A Dream, such an icon of everyday woman, Ms Susan Boyle brushed the gates of heaven. If she could grasp her brass ring, then so could we all. Frumpiness, unibrow and graceless appeal washed away as she sang into the blinding lights of Britain's Got Talent. Even Simon stood, smiling broadly, and applauded.

In years past such moments have been witnessed by the lucky few who might be in their presence. In the spring of 2009, the world paused to touch the face of God with her.
In September 2010, Boyle was officially recognized by Guinness World Records as having had the best selling debut album of a female artist, the most successful first week sales of a debut album in the UK, and was also awarded the record for being the oldest person to reach number one with a debut album in the UK.
Thanks for allowing us to dream with you, Susan, and to believe that just maybe anything is possible.

Okay, so good answer from Chris. Tune in next week when Ms. Roseanne Dowell will be in the hot seat. Meanwhile, here is a blurb and excerpt from Ms. London's wonderful
Shadows Steals the Light

Author: Christine London
Genre: Contemporary Romantic Suspense Erotica
Release: February 1, 2011
Editor: Fiona-Young Brown
Line: Antonia Tiranth
Cover artist: Delilah K. Stephans
Word count: 95,863
Pages: 258
ISBN: 978-1-926931-34-0
E-book price: $5.95
Warning: Contains moderate violence and/or sexual

It’s love at first sight for rock star Colin Dunlow when he runs into sultry jazz singer, Jenna Lindstrom, with a few complications. The woman of his dreams hates rockers and there’s someone who wants him dead.
He heard the pop of a gun. Diving behind the mailbox bolted to the edge of the curb, heart racing in his throat, he rolled back into a crouch. The silver coupe had turned and was now coming at him along the sidewalk. He bolted across the street and ran, full tilt into a side street bordered by old twenties houses interspersed with more modern apartment complexes. Craning his neck for a brief backward glance, he spilled over the tire of a bicycle and into a row of similarly parked bikes outside the entrance to an apartment building. Tumbling onto the grass easement between sidewalk and street, he scrambled to his feet, looking for the coupe. It was turning the corner from 32nd Street parallel to the Shrine, onto his side street. Searching frantically for someway, something to slow the vehicle down, he picked up one of the bicycles, now flattened in a domino effect against the others and flung it into the street.
He looked back toward the approaching coupe: a maelstrom of jacaranda blossoms swirled in its wake as it accelerated toward him. He took off down the sidewalk again, this time not looking back. The centrifugal force behind the speed of his flight projected him out into 30th Street as he flew around the corner toward Figueroa. At an all out sprint, he dashed across the major artery, dodging the still clogged traffic exiting the Shrine toward the freeway. Running past Carl’s Junior, he headed for the overpass just the other side of Flower Street.
Shite. Who the hell? His mind raced on ahead of him as he pumped his arms in Olympic exertion. Having the green chain link mesh of the overpass fencing in clear view, he risked a glance back. The coupe was weaving around the cross traffic of Figueroa in perfunctory fashion, nearly clipping the bumper of a black SUV. Only one way out; he bolted toward the fence, leaping in upward propulsion, reaching for the top crossbar, propelling himself over with raw strength, determination and adrenaline.
His body slammed against the freeway overpass sign, dangling like the condemned from the gallows. Hands clamped tightly to the crossbar, teeth gritted, he lowered his chin to look below him. A catwalk of sorts, supporting lights for the sign, was but a few meter drop. He stole one more glance toward the street, just catching a blur of silver going north around the corner on Flower, toward downtown, the freeway flyover and against traffic. The metallic clunk and reverberation up his legs as his feet landed on the catwalk jarred him into a contracted crouch. Looking behind and down, he saw the rooftops of lethargic traffic scooting forward in preemptory battle to get ahead.
The unmistakable sound of large masses of metal being compacted came from the direction of Flower Street. An ivy cover fence screened any view of what had occurred. It wasn’t thirty seconds later, as Colin assessed the distance to the pavement, that he saw the form of a man catapulting over the ivy clad fence, leaping onto the overpass.
Head and face covered with a black ski mask, the identity of his pursuer was impossible to detect. Judging from the agility and muscularity of the man, Colin was in for some serious trouble. Damn! He timed his descent to coincide with the eighteen-wheeler passing under him. Pulling in a resolute lungful of air, he leapt.
The roof of the truck gave slightly with the impact of his weight. Its forward movement was slow enough, that it jolted him from his feet onto his knees, but did not propel him head over heels. Palms flat, he braced himself in anticipation of greater force. Shooting a glance at the receding over pass, he saw the darkly clothed athletic figure of the man in the ski mask land on a truck with a short red trailer, not two lengths behind him. Colin searched three hundred sixty degrees, twisting his crouched body to obtain the widest possible panorama of the rapidly degrading situation. His options were narrowing.
As the red truck moved forward, its driver signaled a lane change toward the left. Traffic was beginning to pick up speed as the effects of the merging onramp were diminishing. Wind now played a factor in not only his stability, but his ability to see as his long hair whipped about his cheeks and eyes. He moved along the roof toward the cab, remaining crouched to preserve what advantage a lower center of gravity might afford.
He felt, rather than saw, his assailant landing on the cold reflective grey of the truck’s roof; vibrating shockwaves caused by the weight of his body striking the rear of the trailer telegraphed through the metal like a seismic shock. Colin turned to see the man leaping across the long surface of the roof. Who is this…f**king Spiderman? Colin’s racing thoughts jumbled in an upset of twisted incomprehension as he tried to force his mind to cooperate through the serge of adrenaline-laced resolve coursing through him.

Reviews: I really liked this one. And maybe it was because some of the plot points hit pretty close to home (no, I don’t think anyone has ever tried to kill me), but I thought that Christine London did a remarkable job with capturing the intricacies of emotional turmoil and struggle. -One Hundred Romances Project 4 stars-READ FULL REVIEW