Today, I’m delighted to welcome Jaye Marie to my blog. Jaye is awesome at supporting other authors and is a talented writer. She’s dropped by to share her latest release, SilentPayback. If you like mysteries and suspense, this is a book you’re going to want to check out!
A city on edge – a detective on shaky ground…
A serial killer roams the streets of Brighton, hunting for his next victim.
When the case lands on detective David Mallory’s desk, will his personal demon prevent him from bringing this vicious monster to justice?
As the body count rises, Mallory finds himself sinking under the weight of his heavy secret – one that could jeopardise his job and his reputation.
With the pressure building, can the troubled detective reconcile his issues and solve the case, before more women die?
Jaye Marie is affectionately known as the giant…
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The beginning times,
When the stars were younger
And the portal stood open
That dreams and possibilities
Might travel freely between the worlds.
The children of Earth still knew magic then.”
“I will play, but they can no longer hear.
They have closed the doors against our song,
Consigning us to fairytales
And casting us as evil…
Or worse, a fantasy.
With ancient lore.”
Double etheree for Colleen’s poetry challenge.
Image: Pixabay, by Michael Seibt, chosen by Diana Wallace Peach from Myths of the Mirror.
Hello, SeERs. Mae here today to talk about something I never tire of discussing—regional dialect. I love books wherein an author paints their characters with distinctive speech patterns, colloquialisms, and accents. By the same token, a little goes a long way. I recall reading a novel set in Scotland where the constant use of brogue became such a distraction I couldn’t focus on the plot. It’s great to be authentic, but also important not to become so caught up in regional inflections and expressions that they bury the scene.
I’ve lived in south-central Pennsylvania my entire life. Surprisingly—unbeknownst to me—people from my region have an accent. Who knew? Apparently, the well-travelled can recognize a south-central Pennsylvania accent along with many of our favorite colloquialisms.
As an example . . .
We’re famous for tagging “a while” on expressions.
I’m going to ride my bike, awhile.
I’ll feed the cat, awhile.
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Full Hunter’s Moon
Copyright: Katie Theule
…hanging there in her fullness; already rising so far north since her brief flirting with the equinoctial horizon. Then today, past full but still ripe, high overhead; a ghostly image against the brightest blue of mid morning’s cloudless sky.
How many notice her in her daylit garb?
I have a clear memory of the first time she caught me out; I must have been 8 or 9. I wasn’t really aware of stopping in my tracks and staring, slack-jawed at the unexpectedness of it.
The moon was meant to be out at night. What was it doing up there in the middle of the day? It was my father who shook me out of the reverie, “What are you doing?” He looked up, laughed, “Oh!”, and carried on with whatever it was he was doing.
She still catches me unawares, occasionally. Somewhere in between…
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The heavy snow deadened the sound of the forest. Despite the swirling snowfall, there was a stillness.
Cal lay on the soft ground, his eye press to the sight, his ungloved finger around the trigger, the rifle caressed against his shoulder.
His father lay next to him. A hundred yards away the stag raised his head, the imperious antlers like a crown. He looked straight at Cal.
‘That’s it,’ Cal’s father whispered into his ear, ‘give him his moment. Give him respect. Look into those eyes. It’s important you see the spirit and understand him.’
Time stood still. Cal’s pulse quickened, his breath grew shallow, casting puffs of frozen moisture across his sight.
‘Relax,’ his father advised, ‘this is your calling. Take a deep breath. Feel your way towards him. Then gently squeeze the trigger.’
Cal blinked, despite the cold he could feel sweat running down from the the brim…
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“Cross the bridge.” The crone points her staff to a log spanning a luminous pool.
I squint at the strange collection of creatures impeding my way. I’ve been lost for days in the swamp’s wet greenness, breathing the emerald dew. So many moons that knobby horns sprout from my skull. Vines weave through the fibers of my clothes, and my skin grows iridescent scales in myriad hues of moss. I am hungry despite a bellyful of beetles.
Upon the bridge, a naiad plays her flute, the sound hypnotic though the melody unfurls backward. “Wayward magic,” mutter I, one wary soul who’s encountered these tricksters before. Does this one revel in opposites, mirrored reflections? Which is real, the opposite of whom? Is there any way to know what’s true? My ears droop at the bothersome riddle.
The pipe’s dulcet sound charms a viper, its crescent…
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William Smith opened the door a crack, letting the howling wind sweep through the small room carrying a drift of snow with it.
Only the storm answered with its continued roar, sometimes louder, sometimes softer.
William slammed the door shut. Snow settled around the room.
William started at the door a moment, shaking his head
There had been a knock and a voice calling his name. He heard it. It was real. He knew it wasn’t his imagination.
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Photo: Sue Vincent
They didn’t tell him he’d be seeing things.
They didn’t tell him how cold he’d be, or how alone, or how desperately he’d miss even the smallest comforts. Like a hue that wasn’t on the scale of dirty-white to sort-of-gray.
Maybe he was dying.
Was this how it would be?
If he could.
They didn’t tell him he’d be unable to speak. Or that the voice he’d make would go unheard, unseen, unnoticed.
The stag was still there.
Perhaps real, perhaps conjured by the wish to flee combined with the worry about antlers being helplessly tangled as one tried to get away.
“You watch out,” he mouthed. Or said. Or yelled. “Don’t be fooled. Don’t be like me.”
The stag stood still. A statue. Another tree?
Then in one split second it bounded, disappeared.
Come back, he whispered. He’d never been so…
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There is something evil up Bergamot Holler, and it’s been targeting the Hall family for generations.
Patty Hall is fifteen years old. She loves stargazing, science fiction, and all things related to space exploration. This leaves her perfectly prepared for the wrong problem.
Patty is afraid her mother will send her to a care facility if she tells her what she’s seen. If she doesn’t figure things out soon, she’s going to join her father in the Hall family cemetery plot.
Patty has to come to grips with her own physical handicap, face the wilderness, and an ancient evil all alone if she’s going to survive.
Will O’ the Wisp is suitable for young adults. It involves elements of suspense, and is set in the mid 1970s.
My Review: I got into this story right away. It’s a wonderful 70’s coming of age tale with all that you…
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