Kindle Promotion for Let it Go…

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Starting on Thursday, 30th November, and for five days, Anita’s family adventure drama Let it Go, will be free on Amazon…

For some reason this book has always been the black sheep on our book list, so it has to be time to show it some love, don’t you think?

Pretty please?

Amazon Universal Link:  (but not until Thursday!)  myBook.to/LetGo   

 

 

Excerpt

Ruth whispered for me to be still, she had only come to make sure those darn fools didn’t harm Martha. From the way the men were waving their lighted torches around, it didn’t seem as though they only meant to scare her. Martha was awake now and I could see her face. Her cheeks billowed and sank with each frightened scream that backed up against the filthy rag in her mouth. Dark eyes shone like coal in the moonlight, filled with fear, pleading for her unborn child.

Ruth pointed a gnarled finger at the scene below, saying Martha was in labour. Said she would have to go down and see what she could do about putting a stop to it.

I watched as she stumbled and fell on her short legs, rolled over and managed to get herself down to the cove. She was about two feet away from the wheel when the men turned on her; the flames from their torches lighting her face red, like blood. As Ruth stepped forward, the rush of silence almost hurt my ears. Sam stepped in time with her, saying she had no business there. Ruth looked him square in the face, saying her business was the baby about to be born. Couldn’t they see the woman was in labour?

Sam spun around to Kenny in horror. As he did, his torch fell from his hand, not caring where it landed. Ruth tried to kick the torch away from the wheel where Martha lay, but the flames bit into the fish oil and crept around the wheel, taking hold before Ruth could free her. The baby was coming fast and the men fled. As Ruth cut through the ropes one by one, Martha pulled the gag from her mouth and her scream tore at my heart. She knew Ruth was trying to save her and the baby, but they were the screams of someone who knows she is dying and giving birth at the same time.

No words can tell how the sound of those screams hurt. Ruth’s hair and clothes had caught alight from the dancing flames. The knife she used to cut the ropes must be hot in her hand, but still she tried in vain to set Martha free.

The flames had nearly completed the circle, but she was able to tear with her knife at Martha’s undergarments. One last scream and the child lay in Ruth’s arms. Somehow, as though sleepwalking, I had made my way down to Ruth and I gave her my coat to wrap the baby. She would need help to bring him up, at least until the burns on her face and arms had healed. She asked me to stay with her and say nothing of what happened that night. They wouldn’t want this child in the village, and I knew how that felt.

I had no words; there were none available to me. I barely managed to nod my head, seeing clearly the flames had completed the circle and were burning fiercely. Martha was not moving.”

 

I closed the diary slowly, hardly believing what I had read. It couldn’t be real; people didn’t do this kind of thing. Even years ago, we were more civilised than that. At least I thought we were. Maybe it was Morgan’s attempt at fiction.

Touching the soft leather cover of the diary, I wondered why I had found it. If it was a true story, what could I do about it now?  I decided to finish reading it; maybe the story resolved itself.

 

 

 

Our Cornish Book…

Let it Go_Haiku

An excerpt from Let it Go…

My footsteps felt lighter once we were inside. I was surprised by what I saw. The room was small but clean and tidy. Dried herbs hung over the fireplace, and there were several pieces of strong wooden furniture. One soft armchair stood next to the hearth. There were no ornaments, and no dust or cobwebs to be seen. I had the feeling they wouldn’t be allowed in here. The air itself didn’t seem to move as if time stood still.

Samuel asked us to sit down. ‘I have been expecting you.’

I chose one of the wooden chairs that stood around the table, and as I sat down, a strong feeling of peace enveloped me, like being inside an empty church. My romantic side would describe it as a feeling of coming home. Mark, with his Sixties kind of mind, probably noticed it before we came in.

He sat down at the table, on the chair nearest to me. Samuel reappeared with a tray. He hadn’t asked if we wanted tea and I hadn’t even noticed him move to make it. I was too busy looking around the place like a local tourist. He put bone china cups and saucers in front of us. The orange liquid smelled slightly perfumed, a pleasant smell.

Mark noticed me wrinkling my nose.

‘Cinnamon,’ he said. ‘Drink it, it’s good.’

I took a sip, and it was spicy on my tongue. I put it down, rather too quickly.

‘No thanks.’

Samuel had sat himself down in the armchair. It was strange, but seeing him sitting down, I noticed how long his legs were. His clothes were almost threadbare, but his large black boots had a shine on them. When he spoke again all the fear in me slipped away. There was no harm in this man, this man born of fire. He must have heard the stories as he grew up but they hadn’t left their mark on him. Was it Ruth who had done such a good job of mothering, or was it Martha’s genes he carried into the Despite the fact, she had been playing with the fire, which eventually took her life.

He spoke without looking at us. Mark reached across the table and laid his hand over mine. I didn’t need the reassurance he offered, but I didn’t move my hand or look at him. My eyes were on Samuel, ears at attention.

‘You found Morgan’s diary, been letting the writing get to you. Asking too many questions and spending long hours in the house of books. There’s nothing in there to help, should have come to see me sooner. Save time and a lot of mixed up feelings.’

I found enough air in my lungs to speak and said I had plenty of time to spare, that my feelings were fine. ‘But I do believe someone should be held accountable for what happened to Martha,’

The sound of her name didn’t seem to mean anything to him. I saw no change in his face or voice.

‘Why?’ He said. It didn’t appear to be a question. ‘Keep pain alive, when living is pain enough for far too many people? I know the story of my birth and the things they have said about the mother who bore me. Of Ruth, who fed and clothed me and taught me how to help even when help was not asked for.’

Mark had told me all about the herbs being left on people’s doorsteps when they were needed. About one young girl who might have died had Samuel not helped her. They actually used these herbs while speaking so ill of him, yet leaving food outside his door as payment.

‘There are many good stories in the Bible. I will tell you something from it. Look to the living, leave the dead to take care of the dead.’

As he spoke these words, looking directly at me for the first time, I felt strange, all empty inside, as if some part of me had been scooped out. I knew what it was without him saying it. My need to punish them had simply left me. But what did ‘look to the living’ mean?

He looked at me with those pale grey eyes that darkened with the words he spoke next.

‘You have a sister, a small part of yourself.’

God, I had never thought of Sally like that, nor would she like me to. He was right though, she was a part of me.

‘You need to watch over her, keep her close to you.’

I told him then this wasn’t something Sally would let me do.

‘No matter. It’s to her you need to give your concern.’

Then I asked him why to say what was in his mind in plain English.

‘Sally appears to have been marked by an early death, one of her own making.’

This reminded me of something Nan had said, about Sally drowning in a storm of her own making.

Samuel couldn’t explain what he felt. ‘The visions are too vague as yet. They will come, and then I will find a way to let you know.’

It didn’t help me much. He had just told me Sally would die as if the Mafia had a contract out on her, and I had to wait?

I was getting more than a little annoyed at his Bible prophecies, as good as double Dutch when there was nothing you could do about them. My initial instinct had been right. I should have walked away. I shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have let Mark lead me through the door.

I knew Martha and the diary would all take a back seat now. That my stupid mind would play tricks on me, waking and sleeping about Sally. The hands of death reaching far too early for her immortal soul.

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

People often ask us if we have a competitive partnership, and to be honest, I don’t think we do. So far, our achievements have been pretty equal, although I will always admit that Anita is the far better writer.

So, it came as a bit of a surprise, that when I mentioned how many hits my book The Last Life had just received on Amazon’s KDP, (137 plus one print copy) Anita came back with “I don’t usually get that many, do I?”

Not really a question I could answer, but it will really be interesting to see how many Let it Go gets as it is now #Free on Amazon for the next five days.

Will you make her day and prove my theory?

Universal Amazon Link:      myBook.to/LetGo

 

 

 

Excerpt from Let it Go…

Anita’s sixth book, and one we have neglected to promote for some reason. My routine as editor/publisher has proved to be totally inadequate and it had to change. So many things kept getting in the way last year, but I have a new system in place now to keep track of what I am doing. Organisation has finally arrived at our house!

 

 

Excerpt from Let it Go…

We hadn’t seen dad for nearly a week, and that was a long time, even for him.

Mum was going spare, ranting on about what she’d do to him when he finally came home. Poor dad, it could mean another black eye, or a nose which wouldn’t stop bleeding for hours after mum landed one of her punches. Pretty normal behaviour for my parents and had been going on for years. Considering my mother’s temper, you would think he would stop rolling home drunk and penniless, but he never did.

It was late Friday night when he finally came home. We knew it was him, even though it sounded as if something had been thrown at the front door. We listened to him fumbling with the key for ages; mum with arms folded, waiting for him to fall through it. How she controlled her temper and didn’t rush at the door and tear it from its hinges, I will never know. I think I would have done; it would have been quicker.

I heard the lock turn and dad swung in like a gust of storm wind, holding on to the key that was stuck in the lock. His dark, shaggy hair hadn’t seen a comb in days and his clothes appeared to have been slept in. He stood there swaying, grinning at mum like an idiot.

She slapped his hand from the key, sending him flying across the hall, skidding on the mat that never seemed to want to stay in one place. I had a ringside seat at the top of the stairs and watched as she calmly removed the key and slammed the door…