author, Cereal Authors, Excerpts, Fantasy, Fiction, Life, paranormal, Romance, Ruth Davis Hays, Sci-Fi, Uncategorized, YA

So New, It Doesn’t Even Have a Title

A work in progress:

The juice box was definitely against me. Its resistance was punctuated by a taunting titter.  My efforts to open it were futile, it mocked.

 

WIP copyNo, wait. The snickering was not the juice box. It came from down the lunch table.  I didn’t even have to look their way. I knew who was laughing, and I didn’t want to see if it was me they were laughing at.  In my heart, I knew it was.

 

I continued to stab at the little cellophane covered hole with the sadly beveled end of the hard plastic straw like Van Helsing at the climax of a bad B movie. The final strike bent my straw, but rewarded me with a squirt of lukewarm apple juice in the face. An arterial explosion worthy of the best special effects artist in the business.

 

The laughter from the perfectly coifed girls at the other end of the table could not be ignored this time.  My life was not a bad horror movie; it was a comedy and I was the hapless victim of a situational shtick.

 

Staring down at the lunch tray, I watched the juice drown my stale, rectangular pizza slice.  At least, I wasn’t hungry anymore anyway.  My appetite was ruined by the whispered jokes about me destroying the little paper box with my brute strength.

 

I closed my eyes and swore that if I heard one more comment from those four makeup-slathered, social media celeb wannabes about me being a “she-male”, I’d flip this table on their heads.

 

Not that I hold any direct animosity for She-males, or what have you, but I do resent lies being spread about me.  And, I resent those who start the lies.  Namely, Brittany.  My mom says I spend way too much time worrying about Brittany, her crew, and what they think or say about me.

 

Mom says it doesn’t matter what others think, only what I know about myself.  Yeah, she’s full of inspirational poster stuff like that.

 

Sorry, Mom.  But, it’s hard not to see myself reflected in the eyes and jeers of my fellow students.  My peers.  What a joke.  I have so very little in common with them that I hesitate to call them peers of any sort.  Alas, for the next year or so, I must.

 

Of course, using the word ‘alas’ in casual conversation is one of the things these girls would tease me about.  Can I help it if my grandfather read Shakespeare to me for the last fifteen years of his life?

 

The siren-like bell blared from the hall to announce the next class would begin in five.  I gathered my sloshing tray and stood, never glancing at Brittany once.  Fifth period was next.  Gym class, right after lunch.  Brilliant scheduling.

 

When was this nightmare going to end?

*****************************************************************************

I woke up the other day recounting my dream several times as I did to try and remember it. The sights, the feelings, the familiar trappings of high school. I often dream that I’m back in school, but never had I wanted to write them into a story. This one was fun.  Well, to me, running for my life and fighting creatures while possessing an unnatural strength in a dream is fun.  Others may call it a nightmare.  Either way, it spawned this new character. This is a little beginning snippet from what I will call my first Urban Paranormal Young Adult story.

It is such an infant at the moment that it has no name.  Heck, I just came up with the protagonist’s name this morning.  I hope you enjoy!

Cereal Authors, Excerpts, Fantasy, Fiction, Literary, Ramblings, Romance, Ruth Davis Hays, Uncategorized, YA

Realms of Light — a fanfic continues

Again, a disclaimer:  I do not own, nor did I create, these characters. I wrote this as homage to my favorite writers, J. R. R. Tolkien as well as Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. — Ruth Davis Hays

 

After an exhausting and confusing time of “follow the leader”, the two found the front door and had gone inside.  The house seemed to unfold, with each room larger than the last and offering more doors that led to more and more rooms.  Each one stranger and filled with more interesting little things than the one before it.  Indeed, it could take an eternity to wander and explore the whole place.

In one tall library that had a fireplace larger than they were high and a long polished wood table, they had come across the kender, Gintilli Dibbertill.  She was a slender and muscular girl with a long, blonde topknot tied in the same fashion as Tasslehoff’s.  She looked much like Tas, only feminine in all the right ways.  Her manner was very similar to Tas’s as well.  She talked excitedly, moved around almost constantly and was intensely interested in anything new.  Frodo guessed that this was just the way kender acted and made the best of it.

Tasslehoff had scolded her for changing the entrance to the tree house while he had been away, though he had complemented her on the “merry chase” she had led them on while trying to find the way in.

“I thought you might like it,” She had simply said.  She was evidently undaunted by his first reaction.

Frodo explored part of their house with them.  The fascination that they showed in many of the twists and turns made him wonder if it was the first time that they had seen some parts as well.  Then he remembered how kender like to find new things and realized that they must change the house constantly so that it can always be new to them.   At times, they bickered like siblings and at other times they seemed to titter and giggle like ‘tweens in love.   He was curious as to what their relationship actually was, but thought it improper to ask.

At length, they all settled in the tall library again to eat.  That was when Gintilli introduced her half-sister, Glorianthea.  They had overlooked her the first time through the room as she had been sitting in a far corner silently.  Now, she was sitting at the long table, silently.

She was very different from the other two kender.  Though she had the same size and features, she was thinner and paler than Gintilli.  Her dark brown hair was braided in a single long braid down her back and her slanted, chestnut eyes stared vacantly before her.  She also did not seem to move, nor register that they were present in any way.  She just stared.

Tasslehoff called her unnerving.  Gintilli called her annoying.  But, Frodo simply found himself staring at her curiously, almost as if he was waiting for her to move or look up at him.

Dinner was a bit odd, as Tasslehoff and Gintilli seemed quite used to ignoring Glorianthea, but Frodo felt it rude leaving her out of the conversation or not acknowledging her presence in the least.   After he had offered her something to eat for the third time, Gintilli finally said not to bother.

“She won’t take it even if she can hear you.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  She will eat but, only when no one else is around.  She must feed herself because I leave food with her and when I come back, it’s gone.  I just never have the patience to sit around long enough to see her eat it.  It gets too boring,” She said in her soft, high, almost sing-song voice.

“Why is she like this?” Frodo asked.  He looked at her wide, almost sad eyes.  Her face was smoother than Gintilli’s with the small pointed ears making her look as if she were a tiny, petite elf maid. He felt his pulse race and remembered a similar feeling long ago in the presence of another elf maiden.

“She’s been like that as long as I can remember,” Gintilli began.  “I think she saw a dragon once and this is what happened.  I don’t know why, though.  I’ve seen a dragon or two myself and I was never scared stupid.”

“Dragons do tend to make one’s stomach feel funny,” chimed in Tas,  “But, I’ve been around a ton of them.  I got used to the feeling.  Maybe it tried to eat her.  That might make her not want to go outside.  But, we keep telling her that there are no dragons here.  At least none that I’ve seen yet.”

“Perhaps there is more to it,”  pondered Frodo.

They talked late into the evening around the fire in the huge hearth, but Frodo’s eyes kept straying back to Glorianthea’s still form in the tall chair at the end of the table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Article, author, books, Cereal Authors, childrens stories, Fiction, JD Holiday

MY Work in Progress for my children’s chapter book: The Great Snowball Escapade!

The Great Snowball Escapade, by me, JD Holiday  is a chapter book for children 6 to 9 years of age. I first completed the drawings and then inked them with waterproof Indian ink artist pen. There are 3 of the 25 drawings from the process.

This is the first page.

Page 5

Page 6

In the story, Wilhemena Brooks,’ cousin, Bud Dumphy come to live with her family. Wil, as she likes to be called, finds her pink pencil sharpener is missing after Christmas. Wil knows Bud has it! Who else would have taken it?

Bud doesn’t like girls! In fact, Bud doesn’t like anybody. Wil tries to ignore him but he pulls her friends hair, taken over games, and when Bud is in trouble he making his “you’re going to got it” face at her.

After a snowstorm closes school, Wil and her friends go sled riding. Bud shows up and starts a snowball fight which lands Wil in her room for the rest of the day for fighting.

When her pencil sharpener is found, Right where she left it, Wil decides she has to try harder to understand her cousin and stay out of trouble. Her mother told her to be nice to Bud and to treat him like she would like to be treated. But where will that get Wil?

This is the image for the cover.

                                                       Finished cover. 9780981861425-The Great SB COVER PIC

Find At: https://www.amazon.com/Great-Snowball-Escapade-J-Holiday/dp/0981861423

Find me at:  http://jdholiday.blogspot.com

Amanda Thrasher, Article, author, books, Cereal Authors, Fiction, Life, Literary, Musings, publishing, Ramblings, review, Sharing, Social media, Uncategorized, writer's life

A Time To Write

I wear dual hats, writer, author, and publisher. It’s not always easy, but I’ve learned and continue to acquire new knowledge in this ever-changing industry of publishing. When I write, I can’t wear my ‘work’ hat, it ruins creativity. And when I work, I can’t write. It’s not unusual for hundreds of manuscripts to end up in my inbox. If I choose to send them out for review, that will be the deciding factor if we take them on. I see a lot of pieces, and we have talented award-winning authors on our label, but I can honestly say few pieces are written as beautifully as 50 HOURS by Loree Lough, and that is the truth.

50 HOURS

FRANCO ALLESSI is a broken, lonely man who wants nothing more than to outrun the ghosts of his past. For years, he tries to numb the pain of his wife’s death with cheap beer and whiskey. When he’s convicted of drunk driving, the judge revokes his license for six months and orders him to serve fifty hours of community service. Franco chooses Savannah Falls Hospice for his community service, for no reason other than it’s walking distance from his dilapidated house trailer.

On his first day on the job, he meets AUBREY BREWER, a woman whose time on earth is quickly ticking to a stop. Their unusual connection teaches powerful, life-changing lessons about friendship, acceptance, and the importance of appreciating that precious treasure called life.

Now, the endorsements (we have too many to list) for this book speak for themselves; I get it, it deserves every one of them. Catherine Lanigan, Author of Romancing the Stone, The Jewel of the Nile, and over forty-five novels and non-fiction, said, “I defy anyone to start the beautifully written 50 Hours and to put it down or to go on with their own lives as they had before reading about the remarkable, emotional and insightful relationship between dying Aubrey and the lost Franco. As a recent widow myself, the strength, humor and respect between the main characters shot close to home, but delivered so much hope and love that even as I march forward to tomorrow, my perspective has altered—all to the positive. In her last days in this life, Aubrey finally lives out the dreams she’s been too browbeaten by her mother and ex-husband to accomplish. She can only do this with help from Franco, who risks imprisonment to see her wish come true. Emerson said, “To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived, this is to have succeeded.” Aubrey and Franco succeeded. Believe me when I say, THIS IS THE KIND OF BOOK THAT WINS PULITZER PRIZES. “

The main character, Aubrey, is ill, that silent killer, cancer. Cancer destroys or touches too many families in the world, let alone our country. My mom died of cancer, too young, but once diagnosed she didn’t last long. When I read the book 50 HOURS it was inevitable, I was reminded of what she went through and what we went through as a family. But I’ve always wondered what she was thinking, secretly, when she wasn’t trying to put our minds at ease.

Aubrey, a character of strength, hope, determination and sharp wit, dares you to take her journey with her and see and feel what she’s feeling through her eyes. But not in an emotional roller-coaster draining sort of way. She is the perfect definition of courage. Fearless at times, vulnerable at others, but always positive and selfless. She helps Franco, the recovering alcoholic serving time in the form of community service, who inadvertently helps her. Together, they’re the perfect team. Knowing what I know, about cancer, having experienced it with my family, it was touching to read it through Aubrey’s point of view. To take her walk with her, the walk. Knowing the diagnosis and how Aubrey really felt at times, was insightful. I think my mom, like many sufferers, think of those around them most. I was able to ‘see and feel’ things through Aubrey’s eyes.

It is undeniable that authors often bond with their characters while creating them; after all, it takes time and energy to develop fictional beings that a mass audience can relate to in the novels. When they tackle subjects that affect millions of people daily, be it illness, death, addiction, poverty, etc., it’s not unusual for authors to conduct extensive research to ensure the accuracy of the details that they write. Back stories, depth, facts, characteristics, and ultimately the feelings that bounce of the paper and touch people, emotions, must be believable. However, it is shocking when life unexpectantly imitates art. I was stunned, but can’t even begin to imagine what Loree must have felt, when I found out that the she, the author, was diagnosed with the illness that her character had while writing the novel.

The research that she was conducting to develop her character, Loree was suddenly applying to herself. Aubrey, the character terminally ill, and now the author, Loree Lough, found themselves in the same position. Healthy when commissioned to write; diagnosed while half-way through the novel. She was living out Aubrey’s nightmare. Surely it was impossible to divide the two emotionally at times. How did that happen and why? I can’t even begin to fathom it.

Multiple Myeloma, incurable bone/marrow cancer. I can barely say the words, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine completing the novel as beautifully as she did, knowing what all she had endured. Talk about a time to write. How did she do it?! A time to write. Writing from within; seamlessly, and beautifully as one with Aubrey at times.

It is no wonder that Aubrey leaps off the pages and into your heart. Loree’s heart and soul can be found in between the lines. This novel will touch people not just because of the terminal illness, but because of the life-lessons that Aubrey teaches Franco and Franco inadvertently teaches Aubrey. Inspiring hope in the midst of despair, reminding us of what is truly important in life. I honestly believe that this novel was meant to be written and meant to be written by Loree and shared. The screenplay had been stashed for years. Pulled out. Re-filed. Why now?

Loree Lough’s 50 HOURS is a poignant story that reminds us how precious life is, especially if our world has been turned upside down by cancer. But don’t be fooled: This novel will leave readers feeling hopeful, no matter how hard the dreaded disease has hit them. ~Jack Watts, award-winning author of 16 books, including “The Moon” series and Creating Trump Nation.

Loree has graciously discussed her treatments, some experimental, some traditional, and is willing to visit openly about her diagnosis, treatment, and the development of Aubrey (character), and this novel. She can be contacted via social media, her website or right here: contact@progressiverisingphoenix.com

A portion of Loree’s royalties from her 100’s of best-selling novels, go toward cancer research and other charitable organizations.

 

Amanda M. Thrasher

50 HOURS 

Loree Lough

 

author, books, Cereal Authors, Fiction, JD Holiday, Truth, As Strange As Fiction

Truth, As Strange As Fiction: Man With A Gun

   Truth, As Strange As Fiction: Man With A Gun496515016

    by JD Holiday

 

              Back in the mid 70’s, I was the sole provider for my family. It was me and three year daughter named Jennifer while my husband, Angelo, interned in a hospital for a job in the Nuclear Medicine field.

              Up until this time I was a cashier in a supermarket but I could not make enough money to pay the bills. Not knowing what else to do to find a job where I would make enough, (I knew at the time, your months rent should be the same as your weekly salary,) I bought the newspaper every day.

              Looking back it seemed it wasn’t long, and only about five job interviews, until the right job came along that I thought could make what I needed to make ends meet. It was $40 short of the rent but I would get a raise after a trail point to make this happen.

              My new job was as a sample girl for a cosmetic factory. My jpb would be making samples for the customers and taking bacteria samples and sending them for quality control. I haven’t a clue how I was to be a success as a sample girl, but they wanted me and I went for it. Part of my job was to get to know all the likes and dislikes, and the dos and don’ts of make-up for each and every one of their customers, which included many cosmetic companies world wide. You would have been surprise to know which ones, especially when one very famous company was suppose to have its make-up made in France and not in a rural town in New Jersey.

              I joined the chemical lab techs (a place ripe for stories and some I will pass along here as well!) and soon, I must say proudly, I had all the customers products down to memory. Mind you, I was not to deal with the customers directly but make the two bosses, who were also brothers and had inherited half of the cosmetic factory, look like they care for each and every one of these moguls of the make-up industry. It wasn’t long before I stepped into a position equal to that of the lab manager, a pill popping woman named Bromilda, where I bypassed her and making any conversation with her exposive, and dealt only with the two bosses.

              The lab itself was really just cheap kitchen cabinets along the four walls of the room with two rows of the same cabinets occuping the center back to back. My station in the lab was in the far corner against a wall and behind the make-up formulas filing cabinet that hid me from sight and blocked anyone from seeing me from the company office door on the other side of the filing cabinet.

              About four months into the job a young man about my own age was hired to join the other lab techs and was given the station next to me. He was tall and attractive and seemed sociable. He laughed alot. And he found he could find something funny in everything. I did not like him. To me not everything is funny or amusing. I have found people who do, just might lack empathy and even sympathy for others.

              On his third day he came in and stood at my station looking down at me. He stated, “I want your station.”

              Not even hello or a smile. He placed his coat on the back of my chair. “I need my back to the wall,” he added and reached to his coat pulling open one side still staring at me.

              My stare went from his face following his arm to the inside of his coat to see an extremely large gun. At the time I had no knowledge of guns other than they are used to kill.

              Without a word, I opened my stations drawers and cabinets and removed everything. We silencely moved together as in a strange dance of sorts to changed stations, my thoughts in a turmoiI. What was to happen with this strange and dangerous guy. I had to work this job everyday with him right next to me, were my thoughts.

              I found the whole thing surreal. A nightmare really. And stranger still that no one ever ask me way the change! Afraid, I never said. The only time I knew someone notice was the first time one of the bosses came in, looked at my station with a startled look. I put up my hand, his smiled and stepping toward me without a word about it.

              For two months I wondered what others thought about this man.Did he seem normal to the others? I guess he was not theatening to anyone else. Could that be? The only thing he did wrong that was noticeable, in my opinion, was to be late almost every day. And then one day the factory manager, Manny, who I did all the bacteria sample for and I knew well, came running through the lab and straight into the office. Later, he was to tell me the ‘man with the gun’ was selling drugs in the parking lot to factory personal.

              The next day, we were all told the those who are late three time within a two weeks would be fired.

              You can guess what happened. And two weeks later, I moved back to my

station   ~JD Holiday

You can find out more about me on Cereal Authors at:

https://cerealauthors.wordpress.com/category/jd-holiday-2/

My site: http://JDHoliday.blogspot.com

Excerpts, Fiction, Rachel Rueben

Miss Mary Mack

Miss Mary Mack Cereal Authors.jpg
Image via Pixabay

The sound of little girls giggling and playing a hand clapping game could be heard all the way up to Old Man Oscar’s porch: “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack…All dressed in black, black, black….She wore her buttons all down her back, back, back…”

“Whacha know ‘bout Miss Mary?” said the old man rocking while the children clapped along. Looking at him one of the little girls answered, “It’s just a song, there’s no Miss Mary!”

“Girl hush! I tell y’all it’s true, there was a Miss Mary and she used to run that ol’ orphanage near LaGrange road.”

Thinking these were just the ramblings of an old man, the girls continued to play on. Meanwhile a skeptical little boy asked, “Oh yeah, how come I ain’t never heard of no Miss Mary?” Seeing a little bit of himself in the boy, the old man answered, “Befo’ yo time boy.” As he slowly rocked back and forth in his chair, the memories began flooding back. Having caught their attention the children came closer to the porch. Noticing he had an audience, the old man took a knife to an scar on his arm and pointed, “You see that there, those is boins (burns) I got fo eating befo’ sayin’ Grace. She grabbed a lit candle stick and just pressed it into my arm like it whattin nuthin’.” The children gasped in horror and now that the old man had their undivided attention, he felt obligated to finish what he had started.

Chocking up as he remembered the dust from old dirt road that led up to the ancient manor. Old man Oscar pulled on his collar feeling the blazing Alabama sun as he recalled the hard labor he was forced to do for the demanding matron, Miss Mary. Finding it hard to breathe, he began to take deep breaths as his hands shook, from the trauma at the hands of that unforgiving serpent. Hearing the sound of her leather strap as it whipped in the air before making contact with his skin, he had no choice but to take another sip of gin from his flask so he wouldn’t lose his composure in front of the children who were now demanding to know who this Miss Mary was.

Unlike most people Old Man Oscar considered the memory loss that old age had bestowed upon him a blessing for a hard and sorrowful life. He had lost so many friends, and family over his 70 years, but it seemed God himself would not allow Oscar to completely forget Miss Mary, so reluctantly, he began the tale…

He was around 4 years old when his mother brought him to the orphanage ran by the First Apostle Church of Morecliff Hills. As she led him up the stairs Oscar’s mother promised, “Now, don’t fret I’ll be back for ya. This is only for a little while.” When they reached the top of the final step of the porch, she hugged him. Holding on tightly Oscar pulled on her blue cotton shawl, tears streamed down his mother’s eyes as she instructed him, “Now you be good for Miss Mary, she’s gonna take care of ya.” As on cue, a woman appeared from the porch door, as though summoned by all the sadness.  Clad in a black dress covering all her flesh, the woman looked like a ghost emerging from the shadows. Peering down at Oscar she asked, “The people ‘roun here call me Miss Mary, what’s your name?” as though she didn’t already know. What little Oscar didn’t understand was that this arrangement had been in the works for almost a year. Though Oscar’s mother promised to be back, Miss Mary knew she wouldn’t, most parents never returned. A few guilty ones might write a few letters but eventually, all contact would cease. This was why Miss Mary felt it was important to build a rapport with the children in the beginning to make the transition easier so she smiled and spoke sweetly to the young boy to keep him calm as his mother walked out of his life.

Bio: Rachel Rueben is author of YA, supernatural as well as romance books.  Her work can be found her on the Cereal Authors blog as well as Wattpad.  She is also a blogger at Writing By The Seat Of My Pants where she discusses self-publishing and rarely refers to herself in the third person.  😉

Cereal Authors, Excerpts, Fantasy, Fiction, Ramblings, Ruth Davis Hays, Uncategorized, YA

Realms of Light — A fanfic continued

Again, a disclaimer:  I do not own, nor did I create, these characters. I wrote this as homage to my favorite writers, J. R. R. Tolkien as well as Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. — Ruth Davis Hays

 

Chapter 2

 

Days came and went more merrily for Frodo.  He had met with Tasslehoff every day since the kender had left his hobbit hole.  Together they talked of adventures and times long passed.  They shared favorite paths and favorite habits such as pipeweed and ale.  Frodo introduced Tasslehoff to all his old friends, some the kender had met on his own and some he had simply seen from afar.  Sam joined them occasionally for a long walk and a good talk, though to be honest with himself Sam found the kender rather tiring and he would often make the excuse that Rosie would miss him if he stayed too long.   He was amazed by Frodo’s ability to listen to the kender’s almost continuous chatter.

“He’s a stronger soul than I.” He would say as he would make his way back home to his wife.

In his time with Frodo and Tasslehoff, Sam wondered at the fact that Frodo never mentioned to his new friend about his own great adventure and the important part that Frodo had played in the saving of his own world.  The Ring had been mentioned, but Frodo skimmed over it and talked of others’ adventures and dealings.  The missing finger was never mentioned at all.  Sam tried to tell Tasslehoff once or twice about Mr. Frodo’s amazing journey, knowing that it would rival the kender’s many tales of heroism, but Frodo would quickly switch the topic to either Sam’s bravery or someone else’s part.  This worried Sam.  He felt that Frodo was doing himself a discredit by not telling of how he had destroyed the Ring and saved Middle-earth.

“To be honest, it was Gollum that actually got the ring into the fire, Sam.” Frodo would remind him each time Sam brought the subject up between them afterwards.  Then he would give Sam that knowing look as if to say, “You know this, you were there too.”

Reluctantly, Sam would drop the subject.

 

One afternoon, Tasslehoff popped his head into Frodo’s front window and invited the hobbit to come to meet his cousins.  Frodo, who had been on the verge of dark thoughts, readily agreed.

As they walked under an overcast sky, Tas explained, “I don’t really know if they’re my cousins or not.  We kender rarely keep track of such things as family trees or distant relations.  But, Uncle Trapspringer is Gintilli’s uncle too, so we must be related somehow.”

Frodo simply smiled.  He was growing quite fond of the strange habits and quirks that kenders seemed to have.  They were refreshingly different from his fellow hobbits.  Normally he would have questioned the kender further, but today he was a little distracted.

Earlier that morning, Frodo had accidentally slammed his right hand in the wardrobe door.  The pain had been sudden and over with quickly, but it had succeeded in bringing his attention to his missing digit again.  For a few minutes after it had happened, Frodo felt the ache in the four fingers on his hand, but at the instant that it had occurred he could have sworn that the absent finger had been in pain as well.  He had pondered this for hours.  He had been trying experiments with his fingers to find out if he could really feel anything from that maimed spot or if it had been his imagination.  He had concluded that it was his imagination and this had put him into a sullen mood.

Tasslehoff’s invitation could not have come at a better time.

Though the weather was gloomy looking, it was cooling to the skin and held a certain crispness to the air that reminded Frodo of autumn days in the Shire.  He breathed deeply and emptied his mind of frustrating thoughts.  Half listening to Tas’s chatter, he watched the landscape around them change.

They approached a small, cottage with a thatched roof and a tall, heavy limbed tree towering over it.  Frodo stopped and gaped at the size and sheer beauty of the tree.  Tas stopped as well and noticing the hobbit’s reaction looked rather pleased with himself.

“It’s a Vallenwood tree.” Tas said proudly.  “I made it myself.  It’s a little bigger than the ones back home, but I thought, ‘if I’m going to think up a Vallenwood tree, why not think up the biggest one I can?’ so, Tah-Dah!”

“It’s beautiful.  Do you live in that cottage?”

“That!?” Tas shook his head.  “No, what fun would that be?  That’s where Flint stays.  I stay up there.”  The kender pointed to the branches of the towering tree.  Nestled among the leaves was a sprawling tree house with wandering catwalks zigzagging through the branches.

Frodo gasped in astonishment.

“I always wanted to live in a house like the ones in Solace.” Tas chirped merrily. “I told Gintilli about them once and she thought ‘Why not make one?’  So, we did.  Don’t worry, it’s bigger on the inside than it looks.”

With that, Tasslehoff bounded towards a ladder made of wood and rope.  He stopped only to make sure that Frodo was following him and then scurried to the lowest walkway and waited.

****

Cereal Authors, Character Quotes, childrens stories, Fiction, JD Holiday

Character Quotes: Janoose And The Fall Feather Fair

9e076-janoose-fff2bcover2bimage2bjpeg
Janoose And The Fall Feather Fair

The Fox Is Back! What Does He Want Now?

JANOOSE & the FALL FEATHER FAIR

Margie whispered to Janoose and Mallard. “You know the painter who has been painting the factory? He is by the truck now. Is his going to paint the delivery truck, too?”

        3bcdd-janoose2b22b2bpage2b32bsigned2bfor2bonline      Janoose looked toward the truck. The painter quickly looked away, pulling his cap down over his eyes.

              Mallard said with a laugh, “No, he’s not,” before Mallard hurried over to the painter calling, “Oh, Mr. Painter!”

https://www.amazon.com/J.-D.-Holiday/e/B002G1GOKQ/

#storytelling #parents #kidliterature

Amanda Thrasher, author, books, Cereal Authors, Character Quotes, Excerpts, Fiction, Life, Literary, Sharing, YA

BITTER BETRAYAL

5 Stars – Reviewed By Ankita Shula for Readers’ Favorite

Bitter Betrayal by Amanda M. Thrasher is a book with a purpose. She aims at educating teenagers about how their idea of “just having fun” can actually spoil their future. Payton, a sixteen-year-old teenager, is head-over-heels in love with Reece, a senior at a different school. In her head, she can see herself marrying Reece and spending the rest of her life with him. As romantic as it sounds, their teenage love — like any other love — has its own share of problems. Although Reece keeps trying to go all the way with Payton, she respectfully declines him every time. She is not ready to go down that road, just yet. She second guesses her decision every now and then, but is determined to wait until she is ready. Trouble knocks on their door when the coach’s daughter, Stacie, enters their lives. The green eyed monster is blinding Payton with jealousy and this is affecting her romantic life with Reece.

The author, Amanda M. Thrasher, has highlighted one very important problem that follows when teenagers consume alcohol. Being a teenager is difficult enough as it is, but adding alcohol doesn’t make it any easier. The book is not just about the after effects of consuming alcohol; it also focuses on how it might impact the teenagers and their families. With the social media boom, can any secret remain buried for long? Bitter Betrayal is written in a very impressive style. Payton’s conflicting thoughts and inner struggles would seem relatable to every teenage girl who is in love. There are so many emotions to deal with that Payton finds herself mostly overwhelmed. Reece, like any other teenage boy, finds his girlfriend’s emotions annoying and irrational. He is, however, not a negative character. He respects Payton’s decision to wait until she is ready. He doesn’t push her to give in to his desires. There is a lot to learn from this book. I wish that parents would encourage their teenagers to read Bitter Betrayal and learn from it. An impressive plot, excellent story-telling, and smooth development of the story make this very readable.

Chapter 9

She’s One of Us

Several of them met at their usual Mexican restaurant for lunch. It was good, but more importantly, it was cheap. Trevor was the only guy who brought his girl, the new girl, Stacie. The boys gave him a hard time at first, but after a few minutes no one seemed to care, and she didn’t mind that they were harassing her boyfriend. She just kept eating; everyone noticed that, refreshing. She ate like them; she didn’t pick at her food, she actually ate it. And she didn’t turn up her nose at how much or what they ate. She even slouched just a bit. Most girls Reece knew, including Payton, were hesitant about eating in front of the guys. This girl couldn’t care less. He hadn’t counted them all, but he’d seen her put away four tacos while they were sitting there. She also contributed to their conversation. Real stuff. Trevor hadn’t mentioned she was the outdoor type, but she talked football, deer season opener and, of all things, trucks. She held her own when they talked about their last game, and even bitched about Trevor’s truck for all the right reasons! Clearly she had brothers, or her dad wanted a boy and got stuck with her. Witty, hot, ate like a horse but didn’t look like one, liked sports, had a great laugh, and didn’t seem to notice that she was way out of Trevor’s league. Damn! That girl was a keeper. She had all the boys mesmerized, not just Reese, but part of her charm was that she didn’t know it, nor care. Her mannerisms reminded Reece of Royce’s girl, Jenna; she was hot. A text brought him back to his girlfriend, Payton.

 

Payton: TOY 143

(Thinking of you, I love you)

Reece: love ya babe

 

         Straight to the words he knew she wanted him to say. Cut it short so he could finish eating and listening to everyone else. Just as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, the table erupted into laughter. Everyone was staring at Stacie’s screen, a clip she’d been describing, and she’d pulled it up.

“I know, right? Who would’ve believed it?” She laughed.

“I’m trying to get it to go viral, see how many hits it’s got already?” Her face beamed.

“Damn!” Duncan screeched. “No freaking way! How’d you capture that?”

Trevor replayed the video again, realizing his friends were stunned. Reece reached out his hand and took the phone. Trevor didn’t object.

“What is it?” Reece asked.

“Dude, check this pass out and who caught it.” Trevor pointed to the phone. “It’s freaking awesome!’

They weren’t kidding. Reece had the same reaction they did.

“Whoa! Seriously!”

“Hell yeah,” Stacie hollered. “That’s exactly who you think it is!” She laughed. “That’s my boy, right there, doing it!”

“How’d you capture that?” Reece asked. “Looks like you’re right there, on the side lines.” Puzzled, he asked, “Why are you there?”

Stacie took a bite out of her taco and did something Payton would never do: spoke with her mouth full, kinda gross, but funny.

“Cause I was, there, hanging with my dad.”

“Wait, what?” Reece looked shocked. “Hanging with your dad. How’s that possible, what does he do?”

Stacie swallowed her food and started to laugh. “Fool, how may people in this town do you think have the name Wiggins?”

“You’re kidding me! You’re the kid of the new defense coach they brought in?” Reece asked, and then stared at Trevor. “Trev! C’mon man!”

“Dude, she didn’t want me to say anything. Figured ya’ll would figure it out.”

“I was wrong.” She laughed.

That wasn’t a small deal. No one thought to mention that crap?! Hell, if Reece didn’t want to leave Texas as badly as he wanted to, he’d consider playing for them. The guy, evidently her dad, had been all over the media for months. Recruited for the university when they didn’t renew the contract of their last defensive coordinator. They had high expectations for Coach Wiggins; his reputation preceded him, he had an exceptional record.

“Wow! That’s cool!” Reece stated and he really meant it. “Really cool!”

“Hey Stacie, can we meet him, Coach? I guess your dad,” Shane asked, grinned and added, “you don’t know if you don’t ask, right?”

“Yes, I’ll introduce you morons to him.” She grinned. “No, he won’t care, and yes he’ll let you hang at the field with me sometime.”

Trevor had just elevated his position to a level he couldn’t begin to imagine with his friends. He was proud of his new girl. No wonder she was so confident around guys; she’d been around him her whole life, not to mention all the players over the years she must’ve hung out with. Everyone knew the coach was coming, but they didn’t know much about his family. Now his daughter was their new best friend, at least to them. Hanging with the coach’s kid. Trevor, of all people—now she was one of them!

Half in fun and half dead serious, Shane playfully shoved his friend, Trevor, knocked his cap off his head and asked Stacie a question.

“How come you’re with this joker right here? I’m available!”

Trevor placed his ball cap back on his head and waited to see what she’d say. He was as surprised as they were that this girl had actually said yes and gone out with him, let alone stuck around. Reece’s ear perked up. Why was a girl like that with Trevor? He liked Trevor, but seriously. Stacie had their attention as they walked back to the truck. The ridiculous seriousness of the question they were trying to get an answer to caused her to burst out laughing.

“OMG, you idiots. What do you expect me to say? He’s Trevor.” She grabbed his arm. “He’s nice, why not?”

“Well hell, you’re not gonna hear me complain!” Trevor said, throwing up his arms.

“Hail Trevor!” Chase laughed.

“Will you let us know when we can go to practice, then?” Shane asked. “I can’t wait to meet Dustin Miller.”

She nodded. “But I think I should have everyone over first, like a meet-and-greet of my new friends.” She laughed. “I swear, you better be on your best behavior. All of you!”

Reece couldn’t wait to tell his dad and Royce he was going to Coach’s house. She’d even said Payton could go. He wasn’t sure how thrilled Payton would be, but she’d have to deal. The question was, how quickly could she plan it? They were all ready!

 

BITTER BETRAYAL

Amanda M. Thrasher

 

Article, author, Fiction, JD Holiday, Writing Process

The Write Dream by J.D. Holiday

Permit your dreams to see the daylight. ~ by Bernard Kelvin Clive

   

           So you don’t think you can write but you have thoughts that could be a story. You can imagine how a scene or two would work. Come on, we all have those times when a story could start with a thought. An imagining. A daydream or even a nightmare. So what’s holding you back?

              Is it your horrible spelling, grammar and maybe it’s you lack of understanding of writing techiques.

              I believe the best tool at your disposal is reading. Read what interest you. Read what you enjoy and especially read the genres you think you would like to write in.

              While reading other author’s books or ones written by your favorite authors, pay attention to how the book is written. From good books you can see what you should do and what you shouldn’t. Learning the skill of writing is in the soaking up of techiques and putting that and your imagined story all into your own words. You want to learn how to show your readers your story using scenes you write so they can feel like they are there in the story with your characters.

              Writers write to express who they are and to tell what they know, to teach and share the stories they see clearly in their imagination. Some write to purge unhappiness or injustices for themselves and others, to entertain themselves first, and then, those readers who find their works. Writing takes you away from your own reality, to places you create. You can forget your immeditate problem taking a brake from it when you write, or read. Use what you know from your life in your stories. If you are writing for children use your childhood and think back to it. Think like you did when you were a kid. I write out my scenes as I see them in my minds eye, and make an outline that I update as I go along.

              You can always get help with spelling, punctuation and grammar. You can always pay someone to edit for you. You should invest in a good dictionary, thesaurus, and books on grammar and writing whether you find them on online sites or books that sit on your desk along side of you, or both.

              So if you have a story to tell, invest some, and read a lot. Give it a go and write it. If you haven’t tried before, the whole experience might take you places you might like.

The best book I’ve read about writing is:

HOW TO WRITE SHORT STORIES by Sharon Sorenson

This book is amount the most valuable books I own. Even if you think you will not be writing short stories you might find that writing chapters is like writing short stories.

The Only Grammar Book You’ll Ever Need: A One-Stop Source for Every Writing Assignment https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1580628559/ 

 

 ~  © 2016 JD Holiday