Thursday, July 18, 2013

Here's tonight's gift

Blog Blitz with Author L William Gibbons





Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog blitz, welcomes L William Gibbons




With a supernatural undercurrent, The Fourth Marker is the story of an elderly man, Gabriel Townsend, whose spirit is being crushed between the metaphoric anvil of his pragmatic views and the falling hammer of his wife's pending death.

While a child on the family farm during the Great Depression, Gabe rejected legends of his Native American ancestors and ignored miraculous cures of three family members. Gabe's half-breed paternal grandfather, Noopah, tried to teach him tribal legends and the old ways, explaining that, after most Indians had been killed or driven from their lands by the Army and settlers, tribal elders returned to their lands in spirit form after their deaths. They dwelled at a sacred hill on the family's land and protected their descendants from early death and white man's diseases.

During those years, three family members were cured of life-threatening diseases, but Gabe's pragmatic mother, not of Native American blood, blindly credited their recoveries to the nascent field of modern medicine. After each recovery, a person of evil character and not of tribal blood disappeared, followed by the mysterious appearance of a wood marker on the sacred tribal hill. Yet, despite those events and Noopah's words, Gabe adhered to his mother's intractable views.

Now facing the loss of his wife, he relives his childhood memories, guided by the spirit of his grandfather from beyond – well beyond – the grave. Finally understanding the truth of long ago, he decides to beg the tribal spirits to take his life in exchange for his wife's, aware that a fourth marker would signify his own life – and death.

As Gabe's father noted, "some understand only what they see; others see only what they understand." The Fourth Marker highlights this most human of vices against the backdrop of Native American legends with ample helpings of farm life during the Great Depression.

Some thoughts from Bill:

BEFORE COWBOYS AND INDIANS

A highly successful genre for generations of novels, television, and film has been the Western. For many of those generations, "cowboys and Indians" has been a common theme, popular not only in
the United States but, based on this writer's personal experience, in Japan, England, and France and surely in many other countries.

Except for a few examples, chiefly James Fenimore Cooper's, The Last of the Mohicans, most settings for the theme, and variations thereof, have been west of the Appalachian and Allegheny Mountain
ranges and the majority of those west of the Mississippi River. However, the relationships between the relatively new arrivals to North America's eastern shores and the indigenous people in those areas were established long before the time periods represented in most novels and film. Further, those beginnings
impacted all later relationships between the two groups down through the centuries, even to the present day.

In 1608, English soldier and intrepid adventurer, Captain John Smith, explored the Chesapeake Bay, the United States' largest estuary, and its far reaching tributaries under the auspices of the Virginia Company of London. His maps and intelligence regarding the Native American populations, philosophies, and practices served the English well for the next century in their quests to establish a Virginia colony and to further their commercial interests.

Through the centuries, Native American populations in eastern North America were wooed, threatened,
and manipulated, at various times, into serving the interests of the English, Dutch, Swedes, Spanish, and French in various wars and skirmishes, including The French and Indian War (Seven Years' War), United States' Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the United States' Civil War.

The land mass defined by the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean is the Delmarva Peninsula which includes the whole of Delaware (Del), the Eastern Shore of Maryland (Mar), and
two counties of Virginia (Va). Contemporary place names such as Chesapeake, Nanticoke,
Pocomoke, Quantico (Maryland), Chicamocomico, Wicomico, Manokin, Accohannock,
Assateague, and many others on the peninsula reflect the names of tribes, subtribes, and native place names used long before first contact with Europeans.

The United States' Indian Removal Act of 1830, which resulted in the Trail of Tears episode in American history, required all indigenous people, with few exceptions, to leave their tribal lands in the
southeast and east, along the eastern seaboard. Some tribal members on the Delmarva Peninsula as well as other areas in the east, defied the government and remained on their ancestral lands, hiding from authorities in the Great Pocomoke Forest, outlying islands, and swamps on the southern peninsula.

A conscious decision to "hide in plain sight" or not, they eventually intermarried and bred with local whites, African-Americans, and mulattoes. Many families whose ties to Delmarva date back a generation or more share a heritage with those aboriginal people; however, the prejudice and racial bias of a bygone era caused many to ignore – even deny to this day, witnessed by this writer – their lineage.

Determination of one's "Indian-ness," usually based on persistent family lore and legend and aided by convenient and wide-ranging research resources available on the internet, has resulted in an upsurge of interest in Native American DNA that still exists on the Delmarva Peninsula. Although less concentrated among the peninsula's population than during America's Great Depression, Native American blood still courses through the veins of many of Delmarva's residents.



Author Bio:

Born the first of three children to Charles and Lydia Gibbons in 1946 in Wilmington, Delaware, Bill's
young family moved back to their homeland of Maryland’s lower Eastern Shore, part of the Delmarva Peninsula, shortly after his birth. There, he attended school and worked on the family farm in a community of farmers from whom he gained much of the knowledge of farm life that would show up in his writing decades later.

Following graduation from Wicomico Senior High School, Bill enlisted for four years in the U.S. Air
Force, serving in Texas, Mississippi, Japan and Washington, D.C. Upon completion of military service, he attended University of Delaware while working full-time as a laboratory technician and later as a computer programmer for a large, international chemical company in Wilmington, DE. While attending
college, he augmented his G.I. Bill tuition benefits with sales of his art, e.g. oils, pastels, and ink.

He was transferred to Atlanta, GA and Tampa, FL, working in industrial chemical sales, and eventually
back to Wilmington, DE. Taking early retirement from that company, Bill moved back to his childhood home of Salisbury, MD and entered the real estate sales, home improvement contracting and real estate investment fields.  While involved in real estate sales, he was a contributing columnist in the local Salisbury newspaper, writing about real estate sales, purchases, and investment. Later, he was a political cartoonist for the same newspaper.

Bill entered college again at Salisbury University, a campus of the University of Maryland System, at the age of sixty-three with a double major in physics and philosophy. As a result of academic successes in his writing at SU, paired with his experience with a newspaper column and political cartoon publications, Bill pursued his life-long ambition to write in the fiction genres.

Always a devotee to travel, all languages, and experiencing other cultures, Bill has lived and
traveled in Asia, traveled throughout Europe and in most U.S. states and Canada. He speaks, reads and writes Japanese, although not as fluently as he would wish, is a light airplane pilot, is currently studying Spanish, and is a member of Eastern Shore Writers Associationand American Mensa®. He has also been published in Mensa® Bulletin, the organization's national monthly magazine.

On October 6, 2011, Bill's wife, Sharon, gave birth to their first child.

Find Bill here:

FaceBook

Web Site

Blog

Buy his Books here:

Amazon

B&N

Please visit these other sites and leave a comment to win a $10 GFC to Wild
Child Publishing.

Critters at the Keyboard . . .

Blog by Imagine

D.A.Bell

William Gibbons

Highland Rogue Writing

There is no Spoon

Dear Reader

Shadows of the Past

Audrey Cuff

Shanbreen

Richard Uhilg

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Go Dorothy!

Blog Blitz with
Author Dorothy A. Bell


Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog
blitz, welcomes Dorothy A. Bell



An
Oregon Historical Romance

Fiddle playing, hard drinking
Royce O’Bannon believes he’s worthless like his old man, no woman should have
anything to do with him.
Music teacher Cleantha Arnaud,
her virtue long spent, believes her life is over; crippled and barren, no man
would want her.
When the two outcasts become
lovers, hopes and dreams blossom within their parched souls.
Royce’s vengeful daddy begins a
campaign of retaliation against his traitorous sons and the town that gave them
a second chance. Now Royce, feeling the weight of responsibility thrust upon
him, follows his daddy into the dark tunnels beneath Pendleton’s streets to
stop his old man from his path of destruction. With a swift crack on the head,
all of Royce’s newly found hopes and dreams could be shattered like candied
glass.

Some thoughts from Dorothy:


Where do I find inspiration to write?

Music and names—names of
people, first and last names, the names of roads and creeks. I love to look at
old photos. Do I constantly write, no, there’s a movie going on
in my head almost all the time. In my head, I am all my characters on the
screen. I become them one by one. I speak as they would, I move as they would and
I know how they would respond. I know where to begin the story and how to tell
it as the scenes unfold, and I know where it will lead. I don’t believe that
sitting, doing nothing and going into my story a waste of time, it is the
beginning. The hard part is transferring what is in my mind to paper or my
computer. I have to allow the story to unfold, wrinkles and all and organize it
later.
 

Author Bio: 

Dorothy
grew up in southern Iowa, moved to Oregon’s Willamette Valley at the age of eleven.
she picked strawberries and beans in the summer to earn money for school
clothes. In high school, she loved history, geography, speech class and school
plays. She made the honor roll because she didn’t take geometry or trig; Dorothy
stuck to art and literature courses. Dorothy played the snare drums in the high
school band.
At the
age of sixteen, the boy that had pestered her from the moment he saw her that
first day of school in the sixth grade, asked her, one wintry, November day to go
for a scooter ride up into the coastal range. After that, they became
inseparable, and here they are, fifty years later, very close partners in
everything we do.
Dorothy
started to write Regency Romances to entertain myself. Dorothy sent them off to
publishers now and then. She facilitated a writer’s critique group for several
years and learned a lot from fellow writers. She took writing courses at a
community college. But, she thought she learned the most by submitting her work
to publishers, editors and agents, and getting feedback.
Laid
low for nearly twenty-five years with arthritis, forced to use a battery-powered
cart, Dorothy took up aquatic exercise and became an instructor. she retired
after eighteen years of instructing, and now goes to the pool and do her own
thing. After two surgeries to replace her knees, Dorothy went to work on herself
and lost eighty-five pounds, which she has kept off. With renewed energy, Dorothy
put more into her writing, submitted her work, then rewrote and kept
submitting, which she will continue to do.
Her
husband and she live in Central Oregon with two West Highland White terriers
and one big, angora tuxedo cat. Dorothy enjoys gardening and landscaping.
 

Find Dorothy here: 


Buy her Books here: 



Please visit these other
sites and leave a comment to win a $10 GFC to Wild Child Publishing.





Monday, July 15, 2013

Another gift under the Christmas-in-July tree

Blog Blitz with Author RobRoy McCandless



Christmas in July, unwrap a summer ebook blog blitz,
welcomes RobRoy McCandless



Pain.

Pain that deserves a capital letter when it’s in the middle of
a sentence like it’s the proper name of metaphorical being.

Like Death.

Like Lust.

This was Pain who had not come for a pleasant visit of
chatting over beers and boneless chicken wings dipped into discolored ranch
sauce.  He had shown up to do his job,
clocked in on time, sat down at his desk, and went to work on my gut.

I’ve been in pain before.
I’ve had two knee surgeries, an appendectomy and a bowel resection.  Each experience was more painful than the
previous, each requiring an increasing amount of time and medication to
recover.

Looking back, it’s as if Pain had set out a series of
milestones, goals in preparation for today.

“I need you to drive me to the hospital,” I gasped out into
my cell phone as my wife listened.

“It’s that bad?”

I was in too much pain to respond.  The abdominal cramping had started the night
before, and none of the usual suspects had done any good in relieving it.  I’d managed to get to work, but the cramping
had increased, and I’d asked my boss if I could go home.  Two hours later I had tried to take some Milk
of Magnesia, my last line of defense in these circumstances.

Instead of relieving me, the cramping had suddenly shot up,
and I’d found myself bent over the toilet, vomiting.

I hadn’t stopped vomiting.

I vomited the Milk of Magnesia.  Then I vomited the water I had drunk.  Finally, I had started dry heaving, a bit of
bile flecked with blood.

That’s when I knew it was serious.

“I can’t leave right now,” my wife responded.  “Can you wait 30 minutes.”

My head, filled with a light sheen of red Pain, started
doing the math.  Thirty minutes of
waiting, doubled over, and gasping for air.
Five minutes of struggling to get out of the house and into the
car.  Fifteen minutes to reach the
hospital if there was only light traffic, or thirty minutes if the traffic was
heavy and we had to slog through or find a surface street.  Five minutes to find a parking place.  Five minutes to walk into the hospital.

That meant, at best, one more hour with Pain.

“I’ll drive myself,” I replied.

I don’t remember what was said after that.  Pain has gripped my intestinal tract and
refused to let go.  Even now, my stomach
is giving me little echoes of Pain, like the afterimage of an incredibly bright
light burned into the cornea of my eye.
It gives me pause, makes me conduct a full body check to see if this
time it will be like last time, and I need to start reaching for the car keys.

The moment passes, unlike the Pain of that day.

I didn’t hang up on my wife.
She said something about trying to get to me as soon as possible, and I
grunted out responses while I struggled to move around the house.

I put on loose fitting clothing: sweat pants and a
t-shirt.  Then I thought better of the
t-shirt and threw a Disney-themed hockey jersey over it.  Hospitals are always cold, and I’m always
cold, which means I freeze.  I couldn’t
bend over to put on socks or shoes, so I suffered with the knowledge that my
feet would be ice as I slipped on my flip-flops.

I found my keys.  I
found my wallet.  I made sure I had my
insurance card.

I doubled over with Pain, my left arm wrapped around my
middle as if I had been cut open and only my fingers could keep my loose,
slippery, bloody intestines inside me.
My right hand gripped with painful fingers the back of a kitchen chair,
as if I could offset one Pain for the other by squeezing hard enough.

I could not.

You should not drive drunk.
You should not drive tired.  You
should not answer a cell phone or text while driving
.

You should not drive with Pain.

He won’t take the wheel from you, steer you gently to the side
of the road and apply the brake.  He
doesn’t pat you on the back, or place a warm washcloth against your
forehead.  In the car, he sits with you,
closer and more intimate than any lover, and he does his work.  No position, no shifting, no mindset can free
you from his grasp.  He holds you and
holds you and holds you.  You can’t push
Pain aside, once he’s paid you a visit.
He just continues, doggedly, like a cubicle-lackey pounding away at his
keyboard, watching the workday clock that never moves past 9:13.

I drive in the far right lane, the “slow lane” because I
don’t trust myself.  I know I’m a
distracted driver.  I know I present a
potential danger to myself and everyone around me.  I also know Pain.  As Jim Morrison sung, I keep my eyes on the
road.  I keep my hand upon the
wheel.  I focus on breathing.  I scream in sudden, twisted bouts of
abdominal cramping.  In my head, fists
twist my intestines, my guts, and tie them into the Gordian Knot.

Pain is intractable and untenable.

I make my exit and am at once relieved and struggling.  I’m in a bad way, and I know it.  I can barely sit up, and I still have lights
and other cars to navigate through.

I offer a prayer that there will be a close parking stall.

Pain must have intercepted that particular request.  He rejects it out of hand.

The furthest stall from the entrance is the only one
open.  I’ve already spent several minutes
in fruitless search.  My body is covered
in a light sheen of Pain-induced sweat.
I assume my skin is ashen, my eyes red-rimmed and haunted.  I assume this, but I have no time to look at
my reflection.

I start the long, Pain-filled shuffle from my car to the ER
entrance.

A security guard on a bicycle sees me, and I think he’s
going to ask if I’m ok, if I need help  I
can’t even wish for him to do something; anything.  I’m clutching at my middle, trying to keep my
innards from exploding.  I’m trying to
press Pain back inside my stomach.
Trying to keep from screaming as the next bout of twisting,
iron-strapped Pain bounds around me and holds on tight.

The guard turns on his bike and cycles away.  I struggle through some shrubs where a path
wasn’t intended, but has been created by the passage of thousands of feet each
day.  People like me who were seeking the
straightest, most direct line.

The doors to the ER are automatic.  They swing open as if pulled by over-eager
children, desperate to please.  They are
noisy and I stagger through.

My hand reaches into my pocket and I pull out my wallet,
then I grab onto the counter for support.
I try to pull my insurance card out, but the nurse stops me.

“Can you walk inside?” she asks me.  She knows Pain.  “Don’t bother with that, just come in.”

Even before I start nodding my head in response, a buzzer
sounds and move toward it like a metaphor to a life-preserver.

“Can you sit down?” the nurse asks.

“Yes,” I croak.

The nurse is incredibly efficient.  She is incredibly kind.  She is incredibly sympathetic and empathetic.  She asks questions, pounds her keyboard with the
speed and diligence of a professional.
She was not trained to be a typist or a computer user.  She was trained to help people.  But to do that, she has also trained to do
this, and she does it.

“We don’t have wheelchairs,” she tells me.  I have no idea where the conversation has
gone, or if there has even been one.  Any
responses I gave her were automatic.
Pain has me fully in his grip and he’s not letting go this time.  He’s not giving up.  This isn’t some trick of mental prowess.  Pain has me completely in his grasp, and this
is no longer cramping; this is a single cramp.

“I . . . can . . . walk,” I tell her, but she grabs one of
my arms, removing it from my middle where I had been holding myself together,
and I nearly collapse against her.  I
can’t even tell you her hair color or her build.  I can’t tell you if she was tall or short or
fat or thin.  I only had eyes filled by
Pain.

She calls to other ER personnel and I’m surrounded.  They ask me questions and I know all the
answers.  They ask if I can take off my
shirt.  They hand me a gown and ask me to
put it on.  They ask me to take off my
flip-flops.  They ask me to lay down.

I relate my medical history, the interesting colorful bits
that I know relate directly to Pain.  My
wife appears and an IV goes into my arm.

“I’m giving you something for the nausea,” a male voice
says.

I don’t care.

I’m crying.

My wife has my hand, and I’m struggling to stay still, but
Pain has filled me completely.  I don’t
even feel the nausea medication.  It
might as well be saline or spit for all the good it does.  I try to breathe and to contain myself, but
my entire world is now Pain, Pain, Pain.

This, then, is zealotry.
This is fanaticism.  This is
obsession.

This is the complete and utter focus on one and only one
element of life to the complete exclusion of everything else.

Pain.

He doesn’t grin at me in victory.  That’s not his way.  He’s “just doing his job” and there is no
glee in it as he sits on my stomach, slowly twisting the crank that has bound
me up, and won’t stop.

“It won’t let go,” I scream out, and I pound my feet against
the ER bed.  “It won’t let go.”

Tears stream down my pinched face, and I slam my clenched
fist against too-thin padding.  My wife
has my other hand, and she tells me I’m hurting her.  I let go.
She strokes my head.  I tell her
over and over and over that I’m sorry for this.
She responds over and over and over that it’s not my fault.

I keep crying and pounding and apologizing.

My attending nurse asks my wife to move, because she’s on
the side with the IV.  I won’t note any
of this until later, because in a moment, after some words that I can’t hear,
the first of many, many, many injections of pain medication are administered.

There is no flood of sudden comfort.  No quick release from Pain’s grasp.

I simply pass out.

Over the next two weeks of my four-week stay in the
hospital, Pain will be a constant companion. 
Then, this major project complete, his work done, the clock now reading
4:55, he will start to gather his things.
He doesn’t ever leave.  No, not my
Pain.  He stays with me, and like a big
brother he will reach out and squeeze every now and then to remind me that we
travel this road of life together.

Siddhartha Buddha said, “Life is pain.”

I don’t hate Pain, or loathe him for a job well done.  I do fear him.  The memory of Pain is like Jason from the Friday the 13th series: a constant,
elemental presence who causes fear with even the hint of appearance.

But I live.

I live with Pain. 


Author Bio:

RobRoy McCandless has been a writer both professionally and
personally for nearly two decades. He was born under a wandering star that led
him to a degree in Communication and English with a focus on creative writing.
He is the author of the many unpublished words (anthropomorphic is a good one)
and continues to research and write historical and genre fiction.

Find RobRoy here:



Please visit these other sites and leave a
comment to win a $10 GFC to Wild Child Publishing.