MONDAY MAD MUSER - EMILY PIKASSO

Hi folks,

I am writing this from sunny ye olde England. I quick four days oif family time - which basically means non stop eating. Anyweay, have to get back to planning today's food fest so without firther ado, I will hand the floor over to Miss Emily Picasso. Her question was...

If you had to choose three things to take with you in the event of aliens landing and hide in a safe cave, what would you select? {no family or pets asd this is a given}.


I would select:
A source of fire and fuel- matches, lighter, blow torch
Non-perishable food
Blankets

The above are if I was being sensible, now if I chose NOT to be sensible I would take:
My laptop and a solar powered battery
My music
Mead/methglin/melomel
This is taking for granted the cave has a source of water already. Also handy to have would be strong young men to do the heavy work, protect me and of course be candy for the eyes.

Thanks, Emily. Agree with the strong men. Here is a little bit about Emily..

Bio for Emily Pikkasso
Emily Pikkasso is proud Albertan, and horsewoman. She lives on a farm near Balzac, Alberta with three horses, one pony, twenty-four chickens, various dogs, cats and whatever else happens to wander into the yard. Emily’s first poems and short stories were published while still in grade school. She enjoys writing poetry and stories, both long and short. Emily welcomes feedback from her readers and can be contacted at

emilypikkasso@gmail.com
Please visit her webpage http://www.emilypikkassoauthor.ca


Emily's The Oak King's Daughter is avaiklable from MuseItUp Publishing.
Here is a blurb...

The Oak King's Daughter is a romance Fantasy. Dara, the Oak King's daughter, is in love with someone who her father deems unsuitable for her. Tinne, the court mage, is not worthy of his daughter in the eyes of the Oak King. And Tinne, well he seems to have an agenda all his own, or is he merely a pawn in a larger plan?

Dara decides to risk everything, including her father’s wrath, to run away with her lover, they succeed and Dara surrenders herself to Tinne, only to discover that the mage is more than what he seems.

Excerpt....

“Soon, Oak King’s daughter, soon,” Tinne promised her.
Before Dara had time to think or change her mind, she was astride her fastest horse and racing through the forest with Tinne hot on her heels. Her father wouldn’t discover her missing until late tomorrow morning or early afternoon if she was lucky, they must be on the ship and away by then. Despite the urgency of their flight, Dara smiled as the heat in her belly rekindled and her breasts tingled at the memory of Tinne’s touch. Yes, the sooner we reach the ship the better.
Behind her Tinne grinned and pushed the horses faster. This was even better than kidnapping the Oak King’s daughter. Making her an accomplice in her own disappearance was a stroke of genius on his part and if it included pleasuring her young body, well that was a bonus too, wasn’t it? His master would be very pleased with him when he delivered the Oak King’s daughter. The only hitch in the plan was that Tinne had grown very fond of Dara for her own sake, not just a prize to be ransomed.
The dark ribbon of road cut across the rolling hills that shone palely in the fading moonlight. Dara smothered a yawn and concentrated on staying upright in the saddle of the racing horse beneath her. I think we should have made Oak Landing by now. Dara tried to force her brain to make some sense of her surroundings and then gave up. Let Tinne worry about where we are. I just want to get there and get him in bed.
Tinne allowed his stallion to come abreast of Dara’s gelding as they crested the top of the last row of hills. The lamps of Oak Landing shimmered in the hollow below them and the last light of the moon silvered the waters of the high tide. The vessel Tinne had arranged for bobbed gently at anchor on the gently rolling swells. He reached over and took Dara’s reins, drawing her horse to halt beside his. Tinne leaned toward Dara and ran his cold hand gently down her cheek and into the hollow of her throat. Dara’s breath caught in her throat and she swallowed thickly.
“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Tinne’s voice hung in the darkness between them. It was better to find out here, away from anyone who might feel obligated to help her, if Dara should decide to make a scene about getting on the ship.
“Yes, I want to go away with you, where my father can’t interfere in my life.” Dara smiled against the hand that now cupped her cheek. “I want to make love to you,” Dara rubbed her face into his hand and purred like a kitten.
“Very well, then Dara, the Oak King’s daughter. Let us go.” Tinne released the gelding’s reins but stayed close by Dara’s side as they rode into town and made their way to the docks.

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time - Rochelle Webber

Good morning all from a glorious May Corfu,

It is official; Corfu summer tourist season is underway and the first charter flights have already landed. Oh what joys await we humble souls that work in tourism. It seems Kate {sorry - Cathrine}and Will have postponed their honeymoon. Bloody cheek. I spent hours baking them cakes. Oh well, I will just have to share them with Rafa.
I digress. Without further ado, I hand the show over to Ms. Rochelle Webber who has kindly agreed to be in the hot seat this week. Before I do so, I would like to thank her and applaud her bravery. Her answer, as you will see, is straight from the heart. Take it away, Rochelle....

Is there anyone you’ve ever wanted to go “Kill Bill” on and why?

The only person I’ve ever wanted to have permanently out of my life is the woman my ex-husband married after me. I was not impressed by her when I met her (before he did). We hung out at the same singles bar in a fairly small town and I’d seen her dancing with a man I sort of liked. We happened to be in the ladies’ room together and being friendly, I made the ironic statement, “We seem to have the same taste in men.” She acted as though I’d insulted her. I tried to continue the conversation, asking what kind of work she did and she snapped, “I’m a nurse.”
Mind you, I was a Navy medic. My skill level was somewhere between that of an LPN and an RN in a civilian hospital, but I’ve never called myself a nurse. I never graduated from nursing school or took any boards. Later, after she married my ex, I saw her diploma. She’s a Certified Nurse’s Aide. I doubt she ever suctioned a tracheotomy, assisted with an IV cut-down, or did anything more complex than moving patients from bed to the toilet or a geriatric chair and shoveling gruel into their mouths. At any rate, after that encounter I avoided her. Until she married my ex and I could no longer do so.
My real reason for disliking her, however, is the way she treated my kids. She abused them. And my ex was so unhappy in the marriage, he avoided her by getting active at church and staying as far away from home as he could. You know there’s something radically wrong when a woman who has half the priests in the archdiocese of Dubuque among the guests every time she throws a party tells her son he needs to get a divorce, and his parish priest says the same thing. My ex refused because he already divorced me and had our marriage annulled. He didn’t want to be “a two-time loser” and didn’t think he could get a second annulment. Meanwhile, he was totally oblivious to how unhappy our kids were and what she was doing to them. In fact, he blamed the problems in the house on them not adjusting, or being rebellious teenagers.
If I’d known a teacher called DCFS on them when it happened, I could have gotten custody. His wife called my daughter a profane name in front of the social worker and when I tracked the social worker down three days later, she told me that if she’d known the kids had a mother, she’d have removed them from the house and called me that night. Unfortunately, since they were honor students, she couldn’t go back until they flunked out of school, ran away, etc.—which is what finally happened to my younger daughter.
Why did I let him have custody and expose them to that woman? I am bi-polar and I fly into rages with very little provocation. I have injured myself on occasion, but fortunately have never injured anyone else. I’ve had the police and even the fire department called on me and I’ve called the police on myself. Most of the time, I’m a rational person and people usually describe me as “sweet.” So how does a “sweet” person find herself in front of a karaoke bar surrounded by cops, paramedics and other fire fighters being restrained by two of her best friends while she tries to pummel first a very imposing, muscular doorman, and second a (fortunately) thick window? I’ve been wondering that most of my adult life.
I rate these episodes on the Fugita scale because they resemble tornados. They seem to come out of nowhere, do a lot of damage and leave a wake of debris that needs to be cleaned up once the shock wears off.
Usually something triggers it—some person or issue. It starts with a temper tantrum in which I yell obscenities, throw things, break things, and rage around. That gives way to what I call “the screaming heebie-geebies”—primal screaming until I lose my voice. During this phase it’s as though my brain splits in two. Doctors always ask if I “hear voices” and I always say no, but the truth is that I know what the phrase “she was beside herself” means, as there is a voice that sounds as though it’s on my left side telling me things like, “this is inappropriate behavior,” “ladies don’t use that kind of language,” “you’ll lose your voice,” and “you’ll never be able to sing again.” I count this noisy out-of-control/split personality thing as phase one even though it seems to have two parts: verbal and non-verbal. The Voice is there throughout.
The second phase is crying and apologizing, and usually lasts until I become dehydrated and have no tears, or exhausted and can barely keep my eyes open. The final phase is of course, is sleeping it off—unless you count all of the amends I have to make later, or how long I had to keep the cast on when I broke my wrist during an F-Four. The cops and paramedics one was an F-Five, and I’ve been barred from that establishment (not that I blame them). Oddly enough, I’ve never gone postal on my kids’ step-monster. Not even when she un-invited me to my daughter’s graduation party and my mother-in-law put her foot down and hauled me over there because “Rochelle is Elizabeth’s mother and she belongs here!”
I’ve run the gamut of medications—Prozac, Depakote, Tegretol, Celexa, Neurontin and now Topamax. The only thing they haven’t put me on is lithium and that’s because I’m diabetic and they haven’t wanted to risk the kidney or liver side effects. I gained weight on the Prozac and Depakote. Between the two of them, they took me up to almost three hundred pounds. The fact that I am a food addict and started over two hundred pounds didn’t help, I know. I probably would have gotten to three hundred on my own, but I’m convinced the meds contributed to or accelerated my weight gain. These days I seem to be doing pretty well on Celexa and Topamax. I’ve addressed my food addiction and given up sugar. I found out I have celiac disease and given up all foods that contain glutens—no wheat, flour or barley, and I’m very careful about where any oat products are milled. I read labels very carefully. And I haven’t gone into screaming heebie-jeebies in over a year. I’m not sure whether it’s the Topamax or dietary changes, but I’ll take it. I really am a gentle soul. I’m Wiccan and I try to live by the Rede “An it harm none, do as ye will.” I really don’t need any of that “Kill Bill” karma.
I’m doing this blog tour to promote Rock Bound. Jake saved Annie’s life. Now slaves on that God-forsaken rock, the Moon, how will they survive? You can buy it at Amazon in both paperback and Kindle versions, B&N for Nook, CreateSpace in paperback, and Smashwords in various e-book formats.
But, since we’re talking about anger issues and my bi-polar disorder, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from my upcoming book, Rock Crazy, which is due out from MuseItUp Publishing, Inc. in October, 2011. Abandoned, pregnant and bi-polar, Katie’s going CRAZY on that God-forsaken rock the Moon!
For all of my buy links, check out my website: www.rochelleweber.com

Once again, thank you, Rochelle and good luck with your release.

Champaign, Illinois
June, 2063

Here is a taste of Rochelle's up and coming release

She didn’t remember, later, what the woman said that triggered her. She didn’t remember deciding to react. She just remembered the hot, red rage—and the split. She watched herself do it, and the Voice kicked in.
You can’t do this, It said. This is inappropriate behavior.
Katie tried to stop herself, but she couldn’t. Her arm rose, as if of its own accord, and poured the pop on the woman’s bleach-blonde, over-processed head. The woman came off the stool and shoved Katie. She flew across the room, seemingly in slow motion. Of course she threw her right arm out to break the fall, and she still hit her head on the floor. But the pain in her wrist was worse than the headache.
I told you not to do it, The Voice said. Now, at least stay down. Don’t try to fight her. You’ve already lost.
Katie lay there gasping for breath, smelling the old, stale, spilled beer that had seeped into the floor. Someone helped her up. It was Scott, her husband, and she was in his arms, holding her wrist. The woman wanted to come after her again, but people restrained her.
The screaming started. Katie cowered in Scott’s arms screaming and screaming and screaming, while The Voice told her to stop acting this way, and people tried to restrain the angry woman with pop dripping from her soggy bangs.
“Get her out of here!” the manager demanded.
Scott half-carried her outside. She was hysterical and still screaming. The other woman followed them out to the car.
“What the f*** is wrong with you, you crazy b****?”
Katie couldn’t answer. All she could do was scream. Just scream. No words, just that high-pitched wail that was a good octave above any note she ever managed to reach when she sang.
Now why can’t you reach this pitch when you sing? The Voice asked. Stop it or you won’t be able to sing at all. Ever again.
The rage was gone and the remorse and regret and depression were overwhelming. She threw herself across the hood of the sky-car, feeling its warmth. She continued to sob, and the pain flared in her wrist again. Katie kept screaming. Her voice was going. It was gone. The screaming subsided and she began sobbing, hoarsely. Damn it. Her physical voice really was gone! The Voice was merging into the background and her mother was there. Linda Snodgrass had been dead for over five years, but she still appeared and yelled at Katie.
You stupid bitch! I told you ladies don’t fight. What the hell did you think you were doing?
“I don’t know why I did it, Mama. I think I broke my wrist,” she mumbled.
Serves you right.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry.”
Quit whining or I’ll give you something to be sorry for.
She started hearing what was going on around her.
Scott was there, and the manager and the woman and several bystanders but all she could do was cry and say “I’m sorry,” over and over.
“Who’s she talking to?” the woman asked. “She really is fucking crazy!”
“Katie is bi-polar,” she heard Scott explain.
“Get her out of here!” the manager yelled.
“I’m so sorrrrrreeeeeee,” Katie wailed hoarsely. Someone stayed with her while Scott went back inside to get her sweater and his keys. The sobbing and apologizing would go on for another hour or so. It was part of the pattern. She would apologize to everyone she met. And she would cry until she dehydrated herself and ran out of tears.
Rochelle Weber Rock Crazy Author Page at MuseItUp Publishing, Inc.

https://museituppublishing.com/musepub/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=163&Itemid=82

http://rochelleweber.blogspot.com/

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - PAST UNDONE

Afternoon to you all.

A good week, a romantic week. William and Kate gave the world a day in which, for a brief moment, we could leave our troubled lives behind and share in their joy and revel in the majesty of a Royal occasion. No one does it quite like the Brits.
It was also a good week for me as I finally settled on a title for my recently finished ms. It is now officialy A Private Place. Also, for services to the British crown, my agent, received a knighthood. He is now known as Sir Maximus Rabbitus but, of course, still goes by the name of Rafa to his friends. You may have all seen him at the wedding, hiding behind Beatrice and Eugene's hats.

So on to my six of the week.....
I thought today, I would choose a six from my work, Past Undone. This m.s is doing the rounds as well a A Private Place so fingers crossed....

“Miss Jamison, there is a vast difference between being in love and loving someone. The first is often mere infatuation, a manic desire to possess the subject of one’s affection, mind, body and soul but it is a selfish love. On the other hand, loving someone, truly loving someone means giving them a part of you. It means promising to cherish and protect them for as long as you may live. It requires total unselfishness. This love needn’t be sexual but it’s a love that breathes life into your soul; a love you would willingly die for.

I leave you with a blurb and excerpt from Past Undone...

Blurb:

Sometimes Sofie Jamison wishes her father were a plumber. Her life certainly would be less complicated. At nearly twenty-one, she is a little tired of paying the price for her Director father’s caped crusader routine. She wouldn’t mind so much but the bodyguards he periodically hires to protect her possess as much charm and wit as Colonel Kaddafi.
Nik Lloyd is no exception. Mr. Lloyd has one simple set of rules: do as I say and don’t speak unless spoken to. Sofie wants to hate him on sight but it’s a little difficult when every time she looks at him, her feet leave the ground and she spins on an emotional roller coaster. Hidden away together in his beautiful Greek island home, Sofie soon realizes Mr. Lloyd is an ‘international man of mystery’, and a man, if his housekeeper is to be believed, who is hiding dark secrets. The housekeeper claims he is a tortured soul. The livid scar on his back convinces Sofie she may be right. Who does he cry for at night? It looks as if it will turn out to be one helluva weird summer. And just who is the mysterious young girl, Bella, who turns up out of nowhere, latching on to Sofie with all the tenacity of a limpet?

Excerpt:


“So, you took the job.”
Nik Lloyd closed the door and expelled a life-weary sigh. “Lily, you can’t keep barging in like this.” Ducking his head to avoid the scarred and pitted wooden door beam, he stepped down into the sitting room. The room was small, with a gentile shabbiness that betrayed its age. Nik loved it. The unsophisticated, rustic lines appealed to him. Disordered – like his psyche.
“Sorry.” Lily followed his every move, her eyes wide, innocent – too trusting.
“I would have lit the fire but…. You know how it is.”
Her smile dazzled him, turning his dark world into a place filled with love and - if not exactly joi de vivre - something close.
Not trusting himself to respond to her initial question, he crouched in front of the cast-iron grate and put a match to the already laid logs. Apple-scented wood spat and hissed into life, filling the room with their pleasing fragrance.
“It’s cold.” Wrapping arms around her wraithlike form, Lily shivered.
Nik smiled; Lily was always cold. Straightening up, he stretched his arms high above his head. His chin itched from two-day stubble. More than anything, he craved a long, hot soak, accompanied by a stiff measure of bourbon – or make that two. He’d cut down, his drinking now under control, but he knew Lily watched him like a hawk. That’s why he loved soaking in the tub. As audacious as she was, she abstained from sharing his bath time.
“So aren’t you going to tell me?” Graceful as a swan, she followed him into the tiny annex masquerading as a kitchen.
“Nothing to tell.” Avoiding her probing, he opened the fridge. Not much greeted him. Oh well, so be it. He was becoming pretty nifty at flipping omelets.
“You should shop more.” Lily sniffed in that irritatingly superior way of hers. “Your cholesterol must be sky high.”
“Lily,” Nik banged the frying pan down onto the unhealthy looking stove, “you should go. I need to be alone. I have to think this through and I can’t do that with you around.”
Silence brushed the back of his neck; a silence pregnant with hurt and rejection. Would he ever stop hurting her? He loved her. He always would but sometimes…. “I’m sorry, Lily.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I’m so tired of you doing that. I’m leaving. I know I am a pain but I worry about you. You know how much I care.”
Nik closed his eyes, her essence flooding his soul. Her warm breath caused the hairs on his arms to rise. Two years on and she still held him captive under her spell. Emptiness replaced the warmth in his heart. He knew she’d left him. Appetite gone, he turned off the gas and made for the tiny staircase tucked away in the corner of the cottage. He needed that bath – and drink – more than ever.
Negotiating the uneven steps, he pondered on his future. Was he doing the right thing? Common sense told him yes. It was time to pick up the reins of his damaged life and move on. If only he could shed the cruel mantle of guilt torturing his every waking moment, rendering sleep a distant memory.
Lily. Cranking up the thermostat dial on the upper landing wall, his old friend, sadness, crawled over him. Would he ever be free of her? Would guilt allow him to cut the fragile thread binding them together?

For more great Sunday Sixes check out this link http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/
Enjoy
Viviane Brentanos

http://corfu-author.tripod.com
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Viviane-Brentanos-Author-of-Womens-contemporary-Romantic-fiction/78109311746
http://myspace.com/chicholina
http://viviane-brentanos.blogspot.com
http://museithotpublishing.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=68&Itemid=82

WANT TO BE AN AUTHOR? YOU MUST BE NUTS

Morning all, from the glorious island of Corfu. Yes, even here, wedding fever has struck. I did receive my invitation but, I decided not to go as there is a good movie on the box that day and I look stupid in hats.
so, on to the blog hop question of today Becoming an author, being a new author, and aspiring to be one is a confusing time. What is the most “difficult” hurdle you’ve encountered on your journey to fame and fortune.


Mmm - let me see. I think my biggest hurdle was sorting out all the paper work involved in setting up my Caymen islands bank account.

I mean, the assistent I hired to held me deal with the trials and trubulations of literary fame and fortune turned out to be useless. She ran off with the local pita shop man.

Of course, when I first put pen to paper, I never imagined it was so difficult to get published. The writing is the easy part - that is , if you have a pc and a working knowledge word and formatting etc. I didn't. It was something I had to teach myself.

I was also under the impression that agents and publishers alike would be falling over each other in the desperate race to snap up my first manuscript. I believed more was the name of the game.

My intitial effort stood at a grand total of 170,000 words of messy, pov and head hop mistakes. I loved it. It is the tale to which I have most conennection. Now, as I have grown as a writer {ha ha ha}, I have dug out this wondrous epic tale and slashed it down to 80k and fixed, I hope, all the glaring faults.

I digress, [as usual}. Back to my hurdles. I soon learned it is almost, if not more, difficult to find an agent than a publisher. Simple; I hired my rabbit, Maximus Rabbitus, to be mine. He is wonderful. Always loves everything I write and takes no cut of my amassed fortune. Initially, I was going to keep him on a private retainer but I believe he is now open to submissions. He is only looking at works from all herbivours but will consider unusual material from dogs and cats.

Okay, so I have my agent and, bless his little white paws, he has managed to land me contracts with MuseItHot Publishing.

The next hurdle in my journey to superstardom is the promotion - the bane of most authors. Newbies out there - you can't get out of it. It will take up of your time but it can be fun and I quite enjoy it. My problem is I also hold down a full time job during the summer months and this can oft frazzle my writing brain. Oh but please don't think I work because I need the money {remember Cayman islands}. It is purely for research purposes that I put up with four months of abuse from irate tourists who complain that they haven't a jacuzzi in their room even though they paid a grand total of 10 euros a night half-board.

Back to being a writer. I suppose I ought to stick to the question and answer what I believe to be my biggest hurdle. I suppose, I would have to say trying to educate people. It's a hard task convincing folk the that era of the ereader is upon us and that authors published with smaller presses are just as talented as those who have contracts with the big boys. And then, of course, up goes the cry - are you going to be rich? Why can't folk understand that we write because.... well....we can and we love it. Anything on top is just frosting. Nice frosting, yes, but it isn't what drives us. Yes, Mrs Harry Potter hit the big time, as did Mrs Twilight and Mr. Davinci Code but, as well as having talent and damn good stories {a must} they were in the right place at the right time. Publishing is a highly subjective field. I once wrote a blog thst likened it to dog showing.It went something like this....

Basically the pub game reminds me so much of dog showing.
She has gone mad, I hear you all say; too much Greek sun and retsina. What do I mean about dog showing? Let me explain, my children.
Back in the 80’s, I showed Afghan Hounds and rather successfully. We had 3 dogs in the ring but our high flyer was a silver blue brindle that did extremely well at championship level, making it to Crufts two years running. {well I have to brag} He was a beautiful specimen of Afghan, adhering to the breed standard. He became known on the circuit for having the perfect head.
In a championship level show, there can be as many as 50 dogs in each class - all equally of a very high standard. How does the judge pick a winner? At the end of the day, when faced with a sea of breed perfection, it all comes down to showmanship, presentation and the judges’ personal preference for a certain line. I soon learned this.
William was always groomed to perfection. Daily road work ensured he possessed Spartan muscle tone. I made sure his lead’s colour accentuated his coat colour. I made sure I wore dark trousers to show off his silver coat. I spent hours lead training him so that when he strode out the crowd gasped. I dtudied the judges past record and didn’t bother entering under a judge who I knew didn’t like my dog’s particular breed line.
Is submitting not the same? Its all about catching an agents or readers eye, I have read many extracts on the various promo loops and while some of the story lines are not to my taste, all have one thing in common. All these authors can write. It is a matter of finding that magical ingredient that will catch an editor’s eye. This is something, I believe, can be learned. I know it took me a while.
When I think of the initial query letters and synopsis I sent out, I cringe. But I learnt from my mistakes. I learnt about showmanship and now I have found 'judges' who appreciate my " pedigree".
See? I am not loopy after all - well not much.

The point of this rant - writing is not for the faint hearted. Are you ready for the long, often demoralising road? Do you write because you love it. If you want instant fame, well...I'd give Simon Cowell a call.Not a bad idea; I shall write to him and ask him to setme up
Have fun.
Join in the blog hop here http://bit.ly/mCySEi
Viviane

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time

So, I am a tad embarrassed. My guest for this week did not show. Rather than upset my question schedule, I am opening the question as a free for all. Anyone who wishes to post an answer to this week's wacky question, go for it. Prize for best answer will be a free download of my Dreamweek.

Here goes....

You have just landed the job of Simon Cowell's assistent. His new project is to form a boy band. Your goal - to find him five contenders to take a spot in the band. Easy? Here is the catch. You must choose from the world's most important leaders to find your five. Have fun

Viviane

SIX SENTENCE SUNDAY - A PRIVATE PLACE

Time again for Six Sentence Sunday. I was remiss last week but I plead being too immersed in my wip which, I am now proud to say, is no longer wip but complete. I have posted from this m.s before - usually an angst ridden six but I thought I would go with something more light hearted today....

He stood, leaning against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded in the stance she knew so well. The navy suit was businessman efficient. He’d always looked good in dark colours. But some things never change. Rebecca bit back a nervous giggle. Mr. J was still crap at ties.

A Private Place is as yet unpubbed but I am hoping to find a home for it soon. This tale holds a very special place in my heart. Here is a blurb and short excerpt:

Blurb:

Rebecca Harding is intelligent, witty and sometimes downright annoying. She is also damaged. To the outside world, she presents an image of a young woman in control, confident and cynical but no one knows her torment. In her nightmare, she is alone.
But then, Max Jackson enters her life when it is teetering on the brink. Despite a rocky start to their relationship, he becomes her salvation.
Max is the only person who knows the truth. He understands her fears and wants to protect her fragile heart. In Rebecca, he recognizes a kindred spirit. He would give anything to take away her pain but he comes to realize Rebecca has read more into his concern. He would rather die than hurt her but life throws him a curve ball, leaving him no choice but to walk away.

Excerpt:

Chapter One


Max Jackson rested his head against the mullion window, watching the rain drum out its incessant beat. He wondered if he would ever get used to England’s capricious climate. A mundane deliberation. The weather was the least of his worries. What did he know about teaching? So, he wasn’t a total novice but an honors degree was no substitute for experience.
Tom, ever loyal, had faith in him – which was more than could be said for Max’s father. If he had, Max wouldn’t even be here, so no point heading down that long, sorry road, especially two days before the start of term and especially when he hadn’t even downed his first beer.
Raising the bottle to his lips, his gaze fixed on the photograph on top of the cast-iron fireplace. Kate’s cool beauty failed to invoke a gut-wrenching reaction. That spoke volumes. Max lobbed the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket. He wouldn’t think about Kate. What was done was done.
He supposed he ought to go shopping. His stomach couldn’t handle another greasy take-away. Beans on toast it was. If he hurried, he’d make the tiny corner shop there and back in time for the rugby match. Besides, a walk in the rain just might clear the dusty cobwebs from his head.
Grabbing a black brolly from the stand, Max smiled at his reflection in the hall mirror. So English gentleman.
* * * *
Max slammed his beans onto the shop counter feeling anything but gentlemanly. His free-with- two- gallons- of- petrol umbrella had taken one look at the vigorous wind and had flown away with it. Water ran in cold rivulets down his neck and under his collar. Oh to be back in Sydney.
“Good afternoon. Just this, please and –”
“Hi, Mary.”
A riot of dark hair breezed in front of him.
“Sorry…”
The young voice was breathless, arrogant and not in the least bit sorry.
“Bloody pervert dog.” She threw down some coins and grabbed a Mars Bar from the chocolate stand. “Vicky left the front door open again and Wally made a break for it and I know he’s heading for Mrs. Blair’s poodle. The only way I can entice him home is with one of these.” She waved the chocolate bar precariously close to Max’s nose. “Stupid old bat. Why doesn’t she get her done? She really ought to pay me stud fees. I –”
“Excuse me but I do believe I was before you.” Patience on rice paper thin, Max attacked her with his best Aussie tough guy glint.
It didn’t have much effect. Eyes, the colour of velvet chocolate homed in and speared him with a look of such disdain that he squirmed. By the expression on her haughty face, he knew he’d been judged and definitely found wanting. Obviously deciding he’d taken up enough of her time, she turned back to the awaiting Mary.
“Thanks.” She picked up her change. Grabbing her Mars Bars, she spun on her Converse heels. “Bloody Colonials”
Max stared after her, speechless. “What.....” he turned to the smiling Mary. “….was that?”

Enjoy and a Happy Easter to all
Viviane

For more great six's, go to http://sixsunday.blogspot.com/

Monday Muser's Mad Question Time - Marsha Moore

Kalimera from a warm, sunny Corfu,

It is Easter weak - a huge event in the Greek Orthodox calender and Corfu is the place to be. The island is world famous for its spectacular celebrations and throughout the week, I will be posting pics and snippets of information. But on to todays Mad Muser question.

In the Hot seat, we have Marsha Moore, Muse It's very own 'mermaid' so who better than to answer my fun question...

Walt Disney comes back from the dead and is disgusted with the movies being produced in his name. He appoints you the task of revamping…yes, you guess it….The little Mermaid and making it a real-life movie as opposed to animated. What present day movie stars would you use to play a} Ariel b} Prince Eric and {have fun with this one} c}Ursela the sea witch.

Over to you Marsha...

This is an appropriate question since I’m certainly the Muse mermaid expert, having written Tears on a Tranquil Lake, a love triangle/adventure among a mermaid, a merman, and a pirate captain.
My taste in movies, actors, and actresses tends to be rather quirky. While Ariel is a sweet character, I’d likely select an actress capable of some spunk, wittiness, and dimension alongside her caring gentleness. My first choice would be Drew Barrymore. My second choice would be Renee Zellweger.
For Prince Eric it’s an easy choice--Johnny Depp. He’s one actor who can be convincing, charming, and funny in a fantasy setting and plenty sexy at the same time. I write fantasy romance and through five books, I have yet to not find a role for that man’s intriguing personality. The upcoming Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides has mermaids! Yeah! Cannot wait!
For Usela, another no brainer—Helena Bonham Carter. Who else could be crazy, wacky, devilish enough? And to hold her own with Mr. Depp? And to feel totally comfortable in a wild tentacled costume?

Mmm...interesting choices, Marsha. Thank you for your'professional' input.
What to know more about Miss Moore? Read on...
Marsha A. Moore is a romantic and a writer of fantasy romance. She loves being creative and enjoying the creativity of others in all art forms. Her other artistic pursuits include watercolor painting and drawing. She moved from Toledo to Tampa in 2008 and is happily transforming into a Floridian. Crazy about cycling, she usually passes the 1,000 mile mark yearly. She is learning kayaking and loving it. She’s also a yoga enthusiast and never has enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at new stories with toes wiggling in the sand.

Tears on a Tranquil Lake:

What a surprise for a young woman, to find herself suddenly transformed into a mermaid.
Ciel’s first thought – track down the merman who changed her and make him reverse his magic.
Unable to find him, survival in her new world becomes paramount. She eagerly accepts help from a dashing pirate captain who takes a fancy to her, lavishing her with finery. When her merman does show up, he competes for her affection. One look into his eyes makes her life more complex -- he is her soul mate.
Which man will she choose – pirate captain or merman? Which life – human or mermaid? Caribbean adventures and dangers chase Ciel as she searches for decisions and the key to her happiness.

Warning: This book contains Haitian vodou, sultry wenches, foul-mouthed scalliwag pirates, overindulgence of fine Caribbean rum, and amorous encounters on deserted beaches.

ISBN: 978-1-926931-29-6

Hooked? Read a short excerpt...
Excerpt from Chapter 1, Tears on a Tranquil Lake, fantasy romance

The ‘gator wanted to drown me….make me an easier meal. A chill passed through my body and I shivered. Feverish heat built up inside me, spreading from my head and torso down my limbs. Eventually the wild drumbeat of my heart obliterated everything. I panicked and tried to move, but lacked control of my muscles. Immobile and helpless, I could only listen. The throbbing pulse dimmed as the lake’s waters claimed my life. I submitted…mind blank to all except the faint thump. For an immeasurably long time I heard its rhythm fading away. Seconds or dozens of minutes, I didn't know; altered perception foiled my judgment. Then, a touch against my face—shattering my delirium.Fear engulfed my barely conscious mind. What was it? Death seemed welcome compared to experiencing an alligator attack upon my body.
Something soft caressed my lips, not at all like hard reptilian scales. My sense of touch heightened. Encouraged by returning consciousness, I struggled against the darkness. My eyes searched, yet still failed to see.
Soon, I understood the feeling of lips pressing upon mine. Their burning heat made me panic. I tried to jerk back, but had no muscle control, no way to resist. They forced my lips apart, and a fiery tongue thrust inside my mouth.
In short time my limbs tingled with renewed sensation. Attempting to thrash my arms, I found them both secured.The mysterious tongue persisted, searing my own.
Strangely, the warmth moved across my entire body and I calmed, mesmerized by this unusual kiss. In some curious manner it restored my consciousness. Peacefulness spread over me, and I accepted this connection as my life force. Our kiss grew pleasurable and I slipped my tongue along the other. Waves of passion rippled through my body and I desired whatever being touched me. Wanting to know more, I opened my eyes. Light pained my limited vision.
A hazy image flashed in front of me.
I pulled back, ending the kiss and viewed a sweep of dark hair turning away, moving up toward the surface.
Marsha's links..

http://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage-ask.tpl&product_id=124&category_id=2&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1&vmcchk=1&Itemid=1

http://www.marshaamoore.com/

http://www.marshaamoore.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/MarshaAMoore

http://www.facebook.com/marshaamooreauthorpage

So, folks, there you have it; an insight into Marsha's world. Who would you choose to play Areil? Please leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Tranquil and tune in next Monday when Killarney Sheffield will be here to battle with whatever task my devious mind can come up with.
Viv