Holiday Memories: Memories of an Austrian Christmas by Victoria Simcox

Holiday Memories is a month long series of heartwarming holiday stories from authors all over the world.  We at As the Pages Turn hope you will enjoy and have a happy holiday full of good and happy memories!

Memories of an Austrian Christmas
by Victoria Simcox

When I was six years old, I was fortunate enough to be able to spend a Christmas with my relatives in Austria—my Oma and Opa (grandmother and grandfather) on my mother’s side of the family and my uncle Christian, my mother’s younger brother. Unlike the Americans whose main celebration of Christmas is on the twenty fifth of December, the Austrians is on the twenty fourth, on Christmas Eve. There is a long tradition they hold to that says that the Christkindl (The Christ Child) comes to Earth on the twenty fourth of December and that is the reason they celebrate on that Eve. Saint Nicholas or as they call him in Austria, Niklaus, actually comes before Christmas, either on the fifth or the sixth of December with his opponent the devil, known as Krampus. Together they come to the villager’s doors and ask the children whether they have been good or bad during the year. If the child says they were good, Niklaus may reward them with a small token such as an apple, orange, cookie or some nuts. If the child says that they were bad, Krampus will try to catch and spank him or her. This may sound politically incorrect, but to the Austrians its all in good fun and Niklaus will send the child running before Krampus has a chance to get them. Unfortunately I missed this part of the holiday event because I didn’t arrive in Austria until the week before Christmas. Even so my mother has filled me in on how fun this tradition was for her as a child.

Waking up Christmas Eve morn, I can still faintly remember the sounds and the smells in the air. Oma and my mother clanking around in the small kitchen down stairs preparing the food for the day and the smell of marzipan mingled together with ginger, allspice, and cinnamon filled my senses. Full of joyful wonder I got up and headed down the narrow old squeaky staircase of my grandparent’s small Vienna flat. Half way down I could see the living room, and with great bewilderment, I looked for the Christmas tree, but it was nowhere to be found. Even a few days earlier I had wondered why there wasn’t one up, but with all the excitement of being somewhere different for the holidays, I had forgotten to bring it up. I went into the kitchen and asked my mother why there was no Christmas tree?

If you like this story, click on cover to purchase an even better story by Victoria Simcox!

My mother conversed with my Oma in German, and then in English said to me, “Go now and get dressed. We could use your help in here.” I decided not to pursue asking about the tree seeing how busy they were making marzipan and ginger cookies and a very strong brandy soaked ladyfinger and whip cream cake. Later on that day I was glad that I didn’t, because after coming home in the evening from doing some last minute shopping with my uncle Christian, my sister and I were pleasantly surprised to see, standing in the small dark living room, a beautiful Christmas tree set aglow with real candles on its branches and under it toys for my sister and I. I never questioned my mother about why the tree was put up so late in the holiday until I was an adult and that is when I found out that it is tradition for the Austrians to put the tree up without the children knowing as late as possible on Christmas Eve. The children are sent out to play or do errands and then when they return in the evening they are surprised with a tree and unwrapped presents under it.

Today, my Oma and Opa are no longer with us, but I will never forget the special cozy Christmas I was able to spend with them. As a matter of fact, I still have a gift, a cute, cuddly, stuffed, little yellow lion with a red and white ribbon (the Austrian flag colors) tied in a bow around its neck, a present that my Oma had hand made and gave to me that Christmas Eve more then thirty something years ago.

Victoria, known as Vicki, was born in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada, to an Austrian immigrant mother, and a Dutch immigrant father. She has one older sister. When she was 7, Vicki moved with her family to British Columbia. Then in her early twenties to Western Washington, where she now resides in Marysville WA. She has been married for almost 20 years, and has 3 children. For the past 10 years, she has home schooled her children, and she also teaches elementary school art. Her other family members are, a Chihuahua, named Pipsy, 2 cats, named Frodo and Fritz, and 1 parakeet, named Pauly. She did have a pet rat named Raymond; when she started writing The Magic Warble, but sad to say, he has since passed away of old age. Vicki enjoys writing, reading, painting watercolors, good movies and just hanging out with friends and family. Her favorite author is C.S. Lewis, and one of her fondest memories is when she was 12. She would sit at the kitchen table, and read the Chronicles of Narnia to her mother while she cooked dinner. These magical stories were very dear to Vicki, and she remembers wishing, If only I could go to Narnia like Lucy and Susan. Vicki hopes that maybe she can touch someone with her story in a similar way.

Website: www.themagicwarble.com

Blog: www.victoriasimcox.blogspot.com

Facebook: Victoria Simcox

youtube book trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cax8Pbpa7E

Christmas and Cousins by Joy DeKok

Holiday Memories is a month long series of heartwarming holiday stories from authors all over the world. We at As the Pages Turn hope you will enjoy and have a happy holiday full of good and happy memories!

Christmas and Cousins

by Joy DeKok

I got a small doll with a high chair and other extras. My brother got a car race track. As much as we enjoyed the presents, it was the cousins that mattered most.

We were gathered at Dorothy and Lee’s house where they lived with their three boys. My cousin Sheila was there and so was our Grandma. My uncle and dad enjoyed the race track and played with it more than the boys. My brother was a cowboy that year and our cousin Scott an army guy. Sheila and I were pretend mommies and best friends.

We were allowed to stay up late and while that sounded good, I tend to get a little on the goofy side when over tired.  I was nearing exhaustion, but nowhere near ready to give up unless required to do so.

 

 

As adults do when watching the kids they love, the noticed how we’d grown – we were like stair steps– Randy the oldest to Scott the youngest. Tallest to shortest.

Lining us up for a picture was a bit of a challenge. We were all agreeable and obedient, but one of us had a problem. Me. I could not stop laughing and nothing funny had happened. I was alive and happy and tired and out of control.

For a moment driven by the need to take a deep breath (and after a stern parental look) I’d been able to stop giggling. Then, it happened. I heard Randy laugh. Then Steve. Then Sheila. Well, then it was my turn again and I was worse off than before – I now had back up! 

We enjoyed our family, our gifts, and the yummy food, but the best part was the line-up of laughing cousins.

Joy DeKok and her husband, Jon, live in Minnesota on thirty-five acres of woods and fields. Joy has been writing most of her life and as a popular speaker shares her heart and passion for God with women. In addition to writing novels, she has also published a devotional and several children’s books.

Visit Joy online at: www.joydekok.com, www.raindancebook.com, www.believe4kids.com and www.gettingitwrite.net. 

 

Christmas in a Box by Humorist Pat Snyder

Holiday Memories is a month long series of heartwarming holiday stories from authors all over the world.  We at As the Pages Turn hope you will enjoy and have a happy holiday full of good and happy memories!

Christmas In a Box
by Pat Snyder

Hallmark tells us what Christmas should be like, and I’ve tried my darndest to replicate it. But try as I might, the memories I create are not always the ones I intend.
Take, for example, the Christmas breakfast box.  The idea was a timesaver, I thought, an easy way to feed the family on Christmas morning.

“Box breakfasts this year!” I announced to my boys, who at 2 and 6 had no idea what I was talking about., and headed off to a bakery to purchase empty white boxes – the kind puffy glazed doughnuts and iced pink cupcakes come in.

If you liked this story, click on cover to purchase an even better story by Pat Snyder!

One would think that the bakery boxes would have spoken to me before I even left the store.

“Fill us right here!” they should have said. “Just go with the doughnuts.”

But no. I was young, still navigating Marriage #1 (there were ultimately two) and intent on creating clever traditions unique to our little brood.

Instead, I took the flat paper creatures home, fit Tab A into Tab B and proceeded not only to fill them but to personalize each one with homemade felt cut-outs reminiscent of the recipient’s interests.  It was a laborious process involving eight boxes, enough for ourselves and two sets of eager grandparents who could not be dissuaded from watching the opening ceremonies on Christmas morning.

“This will be so much simpler than cooking,” I cooed, as I scissored golf clubs, golf balls, American flags, flowers, hamsters, bicycles and roller skates and glued them on the boxtops.  No need to repeat the process, I told myself.  I would simply re-use the boxes.

Inside would go hardboiled eggs, oranges, candy canes, and sausage biscuits wrapped in foil.

The kitchen counter, piled high with the boxes on Christmas morning was, to be sure, an impressive sight, and the first year everyone raved about my cleverness.  The second year, I recycled them – same boxes, new breakfasts – and so on, until the boxes were finally lost in a move. Mysteriously.

It touched me last Christmas when one of my boys, now grown, asked the other, “Whatever happened to the breakfast boxes?”

“Aw, they miss them,” I thought.

But when the two of them looked at each other and started doubling up, laughing like crazy, I knew something was up.

“How long were you going to keep using those boxes?” they howled, and went on to paint a vivid picture of boxes lined in foil to cover up grease stains and other ghosts of Christmases past.

“It’s a wonder we didn’t all die!”

Then they asked if I’d do it again, resurrect those breakfast boxes after almost 30 years.  Of course, I said yes.

Pat Snyder is a recovering lawyer and mother of three from Columbus, OH, whose new book, The Dog Ate My Planner: Tales and Tips from an Overbooked Life, includes the Frantic-Simplifier story and other light takes on the too-busy life. Find her online at www.PatSnyderOnline.com.

How to Light Up the Heart of a Three-Year-Old Boy by Dr. Barbara Becker Holstein

 Holiday Memories is a month long series of heartwarming holiday stories from authors all over the world.  We at As the Pages Turn hope you will enjoy and have a happy holiday full of good and happy memories!

 

How to Light Up the Heart of a Three-Year-Old Boy

 by Dr. Barbara Becker Holstein

Parents and grandparents always wonder what will most delight their kids and grandkids.  What should they get them for Birthdays?  For the Holidays?  Should we buy what delighted us as children?  Should we really cater to their Santa or Chanukah lists?  Should we go with what is ‘in’ this year? 

These are important questions and all I can say, is listen to the kid even if it seems strange!  We did when our grandson was three.  We knew he loved to help his mother vacuum.  We had noticed that many times when we visited.  But it still surprised us when he asked for a vacuum.  A vacuum?  Who ever would want one?  I would love to give mine up if someone else would just magically appear and vacuum.  Why would a tiny kid want one?  Wouldn’t he rather have some trucks or a train set?  “No.”

All he kept asking for was a vacuum.  Did toy stores even have vacuum’s for kids? 

We decided we had no choice.  Off we went to look.  And indeed we found a vacuum that looked just like his mom’s except it was half the size. We were amazed.  It was a little pricey, but hey, he is our grandson! 

So we bought it and wrapped the box and appeared on Chanukah.  He didn’t have a clue what we were bringing. 

After lighting the candles and singing, we brought out the presents.  There were a few other presents first and of course some for his baby sister who was happy to just rip off the paper.  Finally the big box was brought out by his parents and handed to him.  I will never forget his face when he ripped off the paper and saw a picture of a stand-up vacuum on the box.  There was such joy in his eyes and his grin was as wide as could be.  He looked at us with love and recognition that said that even as a three-year-old, he realized that sometimes only grandparents, not parents can really get it right. Then the magical second passed and he ripped open the box. 

Soon the vacuum was plugged in and he was busy.  Off in a dream world of cleaning and pushing and doing what only a kid could experience.  We were so happy that we had hit it right.  We kept looking at him and loving every second of his eager pretend cleaning, even though he no longer had eyes for us. He was sweet though and did turn and look at us and smile every once in awhile.  Even the noise didn’t bother us-because of course, no good mechanical toy, is without its sound effects! 

That was a great Chanakah!

Dr. Barbara Becker Holstein is the originator of The Enchanted Self(R). She has been a positive psychologist in private practice and licensed in the states of New Jersey and Massachusetts since 1981. She is currently in private practice in Long Branch, New Jersey with her husband, Dr. Russell M. Holstein.  

She is the author of The Enchanted Self, A Positive Therapy, Recipes for Enchantment, The Secret Ingredient is YOU! and There Comes A Time In Every Woman’s Life for DELIGHT.   

Her newest book, The Truth, I’m Ten, I’m Smart and I Know Everything! is another first in positive psychology. Written by a ten year old girl as a diary, Dr. Barbara has been able to imbed lots of positive truths that we all need to remember and live by, regardless of our age.  

The girl’s edition, titled: The Truth, (I’m a girl, I’m smart and I know everything) debuted February 2008 in bookstores nationwide. You can get your copy now at www.enchantedself.com.

I’ll Be Home for Christmas by Barbora Knobova

Holiday Memories is a month long series of heartwarming holiday stories from authors all over the world.  We at As the Pages Turn hope you will enjoy and have a happy holiday full of good and happy memories!

I’ll Be Home For Christmas
by Barbara Knobova

My great-grandparents came to former Czechoslovakia at the beginning of the 20^th century from Italy. They arrived as poor but determined immigrants looking for new life. Their new country accepted them with open arms and their hard work soon paid off. However, the first Christmas my great-grandparents spent in Czechoslovakia was affected by the outbreak of World War I. The army officials came to confiscate my great-grandfather’s horse but he loved the animal too much and couldn’t imagine parting with it. He enlisted, leaving his wife and newborn baby alone. At Christmas four years later, he and his horse returned home, alive, unharmed, having saved each other’s life several times on the Serbian battlefield.

My grandma, my great-grandparent’s daughter, got married in 1931, two years after her parents had lost everything due to the Great Depression. They worked hard and they never gave up. My dad was born in September 1932 and the family moved into their new house just before Christmas, only three years after the crisis, having built their company once again from scratch.

In 1948 when communists came to power, my family, just like all families of business owners, became a public enemy. The communist government confiscated everything they owned. My dad could have stayed in Britain where he studied, which would have saved him. Instead, he came home for Christmas and was never allowed to leave the country again. As a son of an entrepreneur, he was arrested and imprisoned on Christmas two years later.

If you like this story, click on cover to purchase an even better story by Barbora Knobova!

In November 1989, the communist regime came crashing down, after long forty years. It was the Christmas of liberty and hope. A year later we celebrated Christmas in my great-grandparents’ house, after it had been returned to my family and after my dad had followed in my great-grandfather’s footsteps and built the company again, for the third time.

My dad died of a sudden heart attack in July 1997. The months that followed were marked by struggle for me and my mum. We had to liquidate my dad’s business in order to pay the creditors and greedy relatives who circled around us like vultures wanting their share. At Christmas we were alone and had nothing left. But we were at home. We had saved our house. We came home for Christmas, determined not to give up. In the year that followed, the family business rose like Phoenix from the ashes for the fourth time and it proudly carries my great-grandfather’s name until today.

Life has been good to me ever since. Yes, I had to struggle and fight and give up on many things. But I also received many things in return. I became strong-willed, wise and courageous. I learned to live with gratitude, generosity and joy. I follow my dreams without fear and I cherish every moment spent with my dear ones. I live for today, knowing that I am strong enough to deal with anything that may come tomorrow. And no matter where in the world I am, I always remember to come home for Christmas. It runs in the family.

Barbora Knobova is a writer, relationship coach and expert in Delicious Life. A world traveler, she is one of those rare world citizens who live everywhere and nowhere. Barbora is a firm believer in female friendship, loyalty and bonding. She writes hilarious, sharp-witted, caustically apt, ironic, moving, true books for strong, independent, smart, fearless women. Barbora has also written several self-improvement books and teaches women about the importance of self-love in relationships and life in general. Barbora speaks eight languages and has found her home away from home in New York, London and Milan. She is always on the move, accompanied by her beagle Brinkley, the nasty dog from her new book, Tales for Delicious Girls.

http://www.barboraknobova.com

Tales for Delicious Girls on Amazon.com – http://cli.gs/TalesForDeliciousGirls

Interview with Mystery Suspense Author Gale Laure

Gale Laure, a native Texan, is the international selling author of Evolution of a Sad Woman, a mystery, suspense, thriller and romance novel .   She resides in a small suburban town in the Houston area with her husband and family.  Laure’s hobbies include genealogical research, movies, creating stories for the children around her, involvement in her church and people watching. She is busy at work editing her second novel, The Bunkhouse, and writing the sequel to Evolution of a Sad Woman. It is entitled Alana – Evolution of a Woman.  As mysterious as her  book, Laure writes under a pseudonym.  Adamant about maintaining her privacy and the privacy of her family, she keeps her identity a mystery!

For more information about Gale Laure or her novel, Evolution of a Sad Woman,  visit www.galelaure.com or her blog  www.evolutionofasadwoman , do an Internet search or the following:

• www.twitter.com/wwwgalelaurecom

• www.authorsden.com/galelaure

• www.facebook.com/Author.GaleLaure

• www.goodreads.com/galelaureauthor

• www.myspace.com/galelaure-author

Thank you for this interview, Gale. Can you tell us what your latest book, Evolution of a Sad Woman, is all about?

Gale:  Evolution of a Sad Woman is a mystery, suspense, thriller and romance book.  It is about a beautiful, mysterious woman named Keziah – also known as Kizzy.  She is brutally murdered.  When five men who have all loved her are brought together to solve the crime there is pandemonium.  These men, strangers, must share their pasts with Kizzy to find clues to solve her murder.  Personalities get in the way on the adventure to resolve this murder.   They are taken on into episode of deceit, crime and cruelty. Be prepared for a surprise ending you will not see coming!

Evolution of a Sad Woman by Gale Laure (click on cover to purchase)

Is this your first novel?  If not, how has writing this novel different from writing your first?

Gale:  This is my first debut novel.

How difficult was it writing your book?  Did you ever experience writer’s block and, if so, what did you do?

Gale:  No.  I never had writer’s block until I started writing the guest posts for my virtual blog book tour.   To overcome this,  I did not give up.  I kept thinking and praying.  Ideas popped into my head.

How have your fans embraced your latest novel?  Do you have any funny or unusual experiences to share?

Gale:  Some of my fans have been angry that one of my characters dies.  One fan said she cried when she read my novel and not because of the death.  Many of my fans cannot wait for my next book.  Some are waiting with anxiety for the sequel to Evolution of a Sad Woman.  The unexpected surprise ending has fascinated all my fans.

What is your daily writing routine?

Gale:  I try to work on the edit of my next novel due out in 2010, The Bunkhouse, daily.   I write on the sequel to Evolution of a Sad Woman entitled Alana – Evolution of a Woman at least once a week.  The times of day that I work on my writing varies.  It usually happens when I am alone in the house.  I write better in quiet.

When you put the pen or mouse down, what do you do to relax?

Gale:  I go to a movie.  My husband and I have date night on Fridays.  This usually includes dinner out and a movie.  I also play with the children in my family.  Children relax me.  I read or take a nice, long, hot bath.

What book changed your life?

Gale:   I am a big Agatha Christie fan.  I suppose she is the one who influenced me to write mystery.  I love all of her novels.  I also liked Little Women by Louisa May Alcott as a child.  I liked it before I knew I wanted to be an author.  It is ironic it is about an author.

If someone were to write a book on your life, what would the title be?

Gale:     The Mystery of a Complicated Woman

Finish this sentence: “The one thing that I wish people would understand about me is…”

Gale: . . . I am a very private person.  This is why I write under a pseudonym.  I want to keep it that way.

Thank you for this interview Gale.  I wish you much success on your latest release, Evolution of a Sad Woman!

Gale:   You are very welcome.  I enjoyed very minute.

Book Excerpt: Evolution of a Sad Woman by Gale Laure

The Saturday Night Murder -1996

Kizzy lies nude on her bed as she listens to the music. Briefly, her mind reviews the upsetting visitors of this day. She has tried her best to phone him. He never answered. Quickly, she erases the thoughts from her mind. She tries to relax her twitching body. The music is soft, soothing, the kind that would make you want to sleep. Yet, she cannot unwind enough to sleep. She is significantly nervous. The least small sound makes her jump.

Outside, she hears the clicking of light hot humid rain, not the soothing kind that cools the earth, as it beats upon the window glass. An occasional crack of lightning typical for a summer in Houston, Texas, startles her, jolting her nerves even more.

The pills will take effect at any time. She looks slowly around the room. As she takes the last sip of wine from the glass and rolls it around inside her mouth, she savors the taste, in retrospect to her first glass of wine . . . .

All these years later, she loves the pungent taste. She collects the clock from the floor and places it on the bedside table. The clock says ten forty-five p.m. While sighing, Kizzy welcomes the feeling of rest as it overwhelms her body. Filled with lightheadedness, nausea and weakness, she knows the pills are the reason for these feelings. Maybe she should not have taken so many. Yet she knows she needs the pills. She wants to fall sound asleep. She lies in the bed, barely able to see the ceiling from the dim lamplight beside her bed. Briefly, she observes the empty wine glass sitting on the bedside table, tasting the wine as she runs her tongue around the inside cheeks of her mouth. How she loves the pungent taste of wine.

When she lies on her back, tears run from her eyes, down to her ears and into the back of her hair. Yet she is not crying. She will not sob. Therefore, from where are these tears coming? Her nose is stuffy from the increased mucous caused by the tears. She tries to breathe through her nose, which is not possible. Gently, she parts her full lips to breathe and sucks in the air. She is not sad because she is finally in control.

Kizzy jumps as the CD player in the living room clicks off indicating the music is over. Only the sound of the rain pervades the air. As she looks around the room again, she listens to hear the silence. She is waiting for the pills to take effect, hoping they will establish unconsciousness. The pills are taking forever. Maybe the hot bubble bath will help. In the bathroom, she has the tub drawn and ready. Barely, she can sniff the vanilla candle as it perfumes the bathroom, the wonderful soothing smell overflowing into the bedroom through the open bathroom door. Briefly, the smell reminds her of a bowl of vanilla ice cream. She tries to take a deep breath of the scent, but cannot.

Suddenly, she hears the rattle of a doorknob turning, coming from the living room. Someone has entered her apartment through the locked door. As she musters the energy she has left, she stands beside the bed with terror filling her very being. Her legs are shaking. As she staggers and sways, she stiffens her legs, standing still. Her vision is becoming blurry. With overwhelming weakness, her paramount instinct is to call for help. Except for the intruder, she knows she is in the apartment alone. She wants to scream and talk this intruder out of doing this. Maybe she could stop this from happening. She tries, but she does not have the strength to call out. Her body is limp from the pills. Trepidation pervades her rapidly beating heart. Her heart flutters, making her even more lightheaded and dizzy. She tries to walk, to run, to move—something! She is frozen and cannot move. The telephone is in the living room. Kizzy has
always meant to have an extension phone installed in the bedroom. Whom would she call? Why is she thinking about this now? She cannot run to the phone in the living room. The intruder is in the living room. The pills have made her too weak. Besides, she knows the intruder will stop her before she can get to the telephone. She knows this intruder has come to kill her. She tries to speak, hoping to plead to stop this, but cannot utter a word. She looks toward the open bedroom door, her heart throbbing with the anticipation of the intruder’s entrance.

She can barely see him as he enters. She is afraid, really deep down afraid. Death has not seemed frightening, earlier, but now the actuality of death is terrifying to her. She tries to speak and cannot. She cannot form the words on her lips or in her throat. Clenched tightly shut, she cannot separate her teeth. The pills have left her defenseless. He towers over her. Kizzy’s green, emerald eyes stare upward, deeply, into his large, dark eyes. His eyes are cold, vacant. For a moment there is another sound. Kizzy moves her eyes focusing to look slightly around him. Behind him stands a woman. With her blurred vision, Kizzy cannot identify her. She does not seem familiar. Kizzy looks back in his eyes, trying to communicate with him through her eyes. He does not try to understand. Horror fills her eyes. He stares stolidly, looming over her, looking down in her eyes. She wants to run, but she knows she has nowhere to
run.

While he grabs her with one mighty arm, clenching her arm tightly beneath his large, gloved hand, he leans close to her, whispering, “I’m sorry.” In his large dark eyes, she can see the dread. With a deep grunt, he plunges the knife, with all his mighty force, deeply into her upper abdomen.

Desperately, Kizzy’s shaking hand clutches onto his gloved hand. Beneath their two hands, the knife pushes deeply into her flesh. She can feel the blade against her rib bone. By pushing toward him on his hand with her hand, she tries to inhibit the knife from plunging deeper. However, she is too weak to fight, and he is too strong for her to overcome. Beneath her hand, she can feel the handle of the knife under his hand. The pain is sharp, tearing, burning. Too late to stop death, a painful frown covers her face. She whimpers softly, but she cannot cry out or even speak. With tightly clenched teeth, she breathes rapidly from the desolation, sucking the air through her parted lips. Electricity from her silent suffering permeates the air, charging it with her pain. Looking deeper in her eyes, he twists the knife inside her, tearing and ripping her insides. The sharp pain travels straight through into her back. The misery intensifies, spreading throughout her back from her neck to her buttocks.

At first, she leans against him, using him to support her as she stands beside the bed. Her legs feel weaker. He stands against her strongly, not objecting, supporting her weight. Then, she collapses back upon the bed, lying on her back. She can barely see him in the dim lamplight. He stands over her holding the knife in his hand. Kizzy’s blood exudes from the knife onto the floor. Kizzy can feel the blood draining from her body. She can feel herself lying in her own blood. Through her stuffed nose, she can smell the strange freshness of her own blood. She feels colder.

Her eyes can barely see the ceiling above her bed through her truly blurred sight. She can feel the tears once again run from her eyes onto her cheeks and into her hair. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, as she fights to keep the breath inside her. She feels tired, weaker and weaker. She cannot move at all. He continues to stand over her, staring down at her. It becomes even harder to breathe, soon impossible. Gasping desperately for air as though to cheat death, she holds on to the last moment of life. She does not want to die. Kizzy wants to live. Her life starts flashing before her eyes.

Memories flood across her mind like the fast flicker of a movie projector. Briefly, she clears her mind of the memories. She clinches the sheets between her fingers and palms. Wetness from her own blood causes the sheets to stick to her hands. Opening her eyes widely, she tries to clear her blurred vision, grasping at the last sight of him—the last sight of her life. The killer does not move. He stares down at her, silently and shows limited remorse or emotion. Holding the knife in his gloved hand, it still drips with blood. He watches the increasing redness of the sheets and the wideness of her green eyes. Kizzy takes her last breath, a deep breath. With her green eyes wide open and her teeth still tightly clenched, she dies. Kizzy goes toward the light.

He lays the knife on the sheet beside her statuesque nude body. He grabs her body by the legs and pulls it off the bed onto the floor, face down. He stands over Kizzy, pausing briefly and admits that even in death, she is beautiful. Yes, she is so genuinely tantalizing. Enjoyably, he sucks in a deep breath of Kizzy’s fresh blood. He looks down at her drained body. He has forgotten about the woman standing quietly behind him. After opening the small pouch around his neck, he places the bloody knife inside.

From the pouch, he pulls out a large meat cleaver.

–Book Excerpt from Evolution of a Sad Woman by Gale Laure.  You can visit the author’s website at www.galelaure.com or purchase her book here.

Book Excerpt: The Magic Warble by Victoria Simcox

The Magic Warble (click on cover to purchase)

Bernovem

Afraid to make a move, Kristina lay curled up in the place where she had been dumped out. The laundry sack was gone. The pile of laundry had been replaced by a pile of leaves, and instead of the basement floor, it seemed to be grass. She cautiously poked her head out the pile of leaves and saw a lovely manicured garden. In the middle of it sat a small cottage made of stones and with a thatched roof. The garden itself was circular and along its perimeter was a dense forest. The weather was slightly cold, and the sky was overcast. A cold breeze blew by her and made her shiver. She felt very strange, being in the garden, and wondered if she was simply dreaming. If this is a dream, I sure hope it’s more exciting than yesterday, she thought.She suddenly heard the sound of whistling again, and when she poked her head out of the pile of leaves, she saw a man—or at least she thought it might be a man—coming around the corner of the cottage. He looked old, and he seemed to be even shorter than herself. He had a stout stature, distinctly sharp facial features, icy blue eyes, pointy ears, a long white beard, and silver hair. Upon his left shoulder he carried a large sack, and in his right hand he held a rake. He walked toward the pile of leaves, and Kristina ducked back down so he wouldn’t see her. He dumped out the large sack onto the pile of leaves, which brought another pile of leaves upon her head. Kristina tried not to move or make a sound.

Then the little man struck a match and was about to throw it on the pile of leaves, right where she was hiding, but she jumped out just before he did so yelling, “Wait! Please don’t throw that
match!”

The little man almost fell backwards. “What in our lady’s name is this?” he said, steadying himself.

“I didn’t mean to end up in your leaf pile,” Kristina said nervously, while backing away. “As a matter of fact, I have no idea how I got here.”

The little man walked closer to her, leaning forward slightly and holding the rake in front of him, as if to protect himself. He stared at Kristina as though he’d never seen anyone like her before.

“You may find this hard to believe,” Kristina said, “but I was only trying to retrieve a little silver ball.”

The little man’s eyes grew wide. “A little silver ball, you say.”

“Yes, Sir I…”

The little man seemed impatient. “Well, go on. Go on, spit it out.”

“My teacher, Miss Hensley, gave it to me on the last day of school. It was a Christmas gift,” Kristina continued.

The little man twirled his beard around one finger as he thought for a moment. Then he looked up at her and, seeming relieved, said, “Why, yes, of course! How soon I lose my memory.” He dropped his rake on the ground.

“I’m very sorry if I upset you,” Kristina said.

“No, no. No worries! Come with me to my cottage, and we’ll have a nice cup of tea. I could use a little break anyway. My back’s about killin’ me,” he said, stretching backwards.

He picked up his rake, and then put it down on top of a wheelbarrow that was nearby. Then he motioned for Kristina to follow him. Kristina wasn’t sure if she should trust him, but he seemed friendly enough, so she walked after him. When they arrived at the cottage, he pushed open the small wooden door, and they went inside. He took a lantern down from a hook on the wall and led the way into the front room. There was a fire burning in a fireplace, and it made the room—probably the living room—feel cozy and warm. Kristina noticed that everything in the room was smaller than normal.

“Come, child, sit down,” the little man said, pointing to a small couch. “Now, how about that cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes, please. I’m a little chilly and that would warm me up,” Kristina said.

The little man picked up a basket filled with tiny red flowers.

Then he took a big handful of them and dropped them into a black kettle that was sitting on top of the fire. As the flowers fell in, the water in the kettle spat out the top.

“Now, then, let’s discuss matters while we wait on our tea,” he said, sitting down in an armchair across from Kristina. “This little silver ball… do you have it with you?” he asked, while lighting a pipe.

“Yes, I have it in my pocket. Would you like to see it?” Kristina asked.

“Yes, but let me get the tea for us first.” He got up and poured tea into two cups and handed one to her. The tea was fluorescent red, and Kristina had to squint because of its brightness.

“I’ve never seen tea like this before. Its color is such a brilliant red,” Kristina said. She took a sip of it. “Yum, this is very good.

I would say it tastes like…” She paused for a moment and then continued. “Well, actually, I can’t describe it at all, but it is very delicious.”

“It’s fairy blossom, very hard to come by nowadays,” the little man said as he sat back down. He took a big puff off his pipe, then stuck out his knuckle-swollen hand and said, “The name’s
Rumalock.”

Kristina took hold of his hand and shook it. “I don’t mean to ask a silly question or seem rude, but are you a human?”

Rumalock chuckled and said, “No, I am what you would call a dwarf.”

“I’ve heard of dwarfs in fairy tales.” She looked a little embarrassed.

“I never thought they… or, I mean, you were real. I mean, no one I know of has ever met one,” she said, getting a little tongue-tied and turning red. “I hope that I’m not saying the wrong things.”

Rumalock chuckled again. “No need to feel bashful, my dear. I’m sure you don’t run into many dwarfs where you come from, and for that matter, I guess, I could say that I don’t get the chance
to meet many of your type either.”

Kristina took another sip of her tea and then said, “My name is Kristina.”

“Pleased to meet you, Kristina,” Rumalock said. “Now, should we take a look at this little ball?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She took it out of her pocket and dropped it onto the palm of his hand. He held his eyeglasses with his other hand and peered down at it. He rolled it around and then clasped his hand tightly shut around it.

“Yup! It is the one,” he said. “This, my dear, is a very special day, to say the least.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Kristina asked, looking a little confused.

“This little ball is called the Magic Warble. It is what everyone in our land has been waiting for, for many years,” Rumalock said excitedly. Then, looking very serious, he narrowed his eyes.

“After it was given to you, did anyone else come into contact with it or even with anything that it was stored in?”

Kristina had to think for a moment and then answered, “Yes, three people, to be exact. Wait a minute, four, actually, if you include my pet rat, Raymond.” She started to count on her fingers.

“So it would be Graham Kepler, Hester Crumeful, Davina Pavey, Raymond, and, of course, me.”

“My, my, that many, and a rat also. I haven’t seen one of those little fellows in years. This could make matters very complicated,” Rumalock said.

“How so?” Kristina asked.

Rumalock placed the Magic Warble back in Kristina’s hand and said, “After the Magic Warble was given to you, whoever touched it or even anything it touched, like a container it may have been resting in, will be brought here.”

“Where is here?” Kristina asked.

“The place you are in, child, is called Bernovem,” Rumalock answered. He took another long drag of his pipe and blew out a large number of perfectly round smoke rings. Then he got out of his
chair, walked to the fireplace, and took a dusty book off the mantel.

“What is that?” Kristina asked.

“This, my dear, is the Book of Prophecy, and it is the only one in the whole land of Bernovem.” He opened it and ran his finger along the page. “Ah ha! Here it is, just as predicted: Kristina
Kingsly,” he said.

“Do you mean I’m in that book?” Kristina asked, getting up off the couch to take a look inside it.

Rumalock pointed his finger on the page. “Is your name Kristina Kingsly?” he asked, while glancing up at her through his round glasses.

“Yes,” she answered, looking puzzled. “But how come I’ve never heard of Bernovem?”

“Bernovem is a land very far from your land, or any other, as a matter of fact. It’s in a totally different galaxy than where you are from. You see, child, you have been brought here by the Magic Warble to deliver it to its resting place.”

Kristina’s face went pale.

“Is something the matter?” Rumalock asked her.

“I’m just worried that I won’t know where to bring it,” Kristina said.

“I thought you might feel that way. I must tell you that I can’t promise you that your journey will be a smooth one, but if you trust that the Magic Warble will lead you to where it needs to go,
you should be fine. And besides, you might even get some help along the way.”

Kristina looked back into the book. “Why are so many of the pages blank?” she asked.

“Oh that’s because the prophecies in this book will only appear on the pages a few minutes before they actually come to pass. Look here—it says, ‘Kristina’s scrape on her arm was healed.’”

“How could that be? The scrape is right here on my arm. It couldn’t possibly heal within a few minutes,” she said, showing him the scrape she had gotten from falling on the icy sidewalk the morning before.

“Ah! But are you sure? Give me your arm.” Rumalock said.

Kristina stretched her arm out, and Rumalock poured a few drops of his tea onto her scrape.

“Ouch! What are you doing? That’s very hot!” she said, shaking her arm to relieve the pain.

“Take a look at your scrape now,” Rumalock said excitedly.

“It’s gone!”

“That’s right! The tea is also magic.”

“This is all so cool,” Kristina said excitedly.

“Yes, yes, I suppose you could say that,” Rumalock said as he placed the Book of Prophecy back on the mantel. “Now, child, you look hungry. How about a nice warm meal?”

“I’d like that very much,” Kristina said.

Kristina ate a delicious meal of cheese, brown bread, boiled potatoes, and the best chocolate cake she had ever tasted. Afterward, while sitting by the crackling fire, she still could hardly believe
where she was or how she had gotten there, but she was much too sleepy to figure it out. She took the Magic Warble out of her pocket to take another look at it, and when she stared down at it; her sleepy eyes suddenly grew two sizes bigger.

“The Magic Warble! Its color has changed. It used to be tarnished silver, but now it is light purple,” she said.

“Yes, of course, Kristina, it is all part of its journey,” Rumalock said. He sat across from her in his armchair, smoking his pipe.

“All part of the journey?” Kristina repeated, yawning. Her eyes grew so heavy that she couldn’t keep them open any longer. Once she fell asleep, Rumalock got up, and placed a warm woolen blanket over her. Then he blew out his lantern and left the room.

–Book excerpt from The Magic Warble by Victoria Simcox. You can visit the author’s website at www.themagicwarble.com

Book Excerpt: Family Plots by Mary Patrick Kavanaugh

Family Plots

Experts claim that the secret to a happy relationship isn’t sex, children, money or even love. It has much more to do with the power of self-deception—a belief that your spouse is wonderful, even when evidence starts pointing to the contrary. Of course, if you happen to learn that Mr. Wonderful is making extracurricular whoopee with a woman who is, say, thinner or more successful than you, you can’t pretend that your love life hasn’t just splattered in your face, like a bug on a windshield. But there are trickier, more elusive marriage malignancies—such as lies of omission, financial infidelity, or a dogged refusal to change anything, be it a behavior, an opinion, or even a zip code. These may be easier to ignore.

The story that follows involves marriage and money, death and deception.

There is also some messy business regarding an unresolved murder. It was the last decade of the twentieth century, when Big Brother wasn’t watching people so closely. I was a budding private investigator and young single mother in love with an attractive criminal attorney who, it turned out, was committing a few crimes of his own. Through much of our marriage, I managed to disregard my better instincts—even as I slid into a world of
pseudonyms, fake weddings, hidden bank accounts, and unexplained cash. It all made perfect sense to me at the time.

Looking back on the bizarre chain of events that changed the course of my life, I’ve concluded that there’s no blaming my husband for what happened.

He never forced me to lie or cheat or to commit ridiculous fiduciary crimes just to keep up with him. He certainly never asked me to stick my nose into the dark business of his past. Being immersed in this drama was like diving into an ice-cold lake—shocking and exciting at first, but then I became used to it. It never occurred to me that this could be dangerous—that hypothermia could lead to incoherent, irrational behavior.

But if happiness is the goal, perhaps denial is underrated. Especially so when you are trying to hang onto something you desperately desire. Though my former life is not one I would ever choose again, I’ll never regret how I let love pull me along the slippery path that eventually landed me a permanent place in this secretive family plot.

–Excerpt from Family Plots by Mary Patrick Kavanaugh.  You can visit Mary’s website at www.marypatrick.com or purchase her newest book, Family Plots, by visiting Amazon!

Book Excerpt: The Cutting by James Hayman

The Cutting

Standing here in a scrap yard in Portland, Maine, McCabe suddenly had the feeling he was back in New York. It wasn’t like he was imagining it. Or remembering it. It was like he was really there. He could hear the rush of the city. He could smell the stink of it. A hundred bloodied corpses paraded before his eyes.

His right hand drew comfort from resting on the handle of his gun. Mike McCabe once again lured to the chase.

He knew with an absolute certainty that this was his calling. That it was here, among the killers and the killed, that he belonged. No matter how far he ran, no matter how well he hid, he’d never leave the violence or his fascination with it behind.

–Excerpt from The Cutting by James Hayman.  Visit his website at www.jameshaymanthrillers.com or purchase his book at Amazon by clicking here!