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~Beyond the Barricades~



A place where poets, writers and those who are interested in literature can exchange views and swap information about the writing scene.  They can also feel free to plug their publications.  There will be a number of guest bloggers appearing here.  If you would like to submit a guest blog you can contact me via the contact form on the home page.
~John Holland~


Book trailer: Left of the Rising Sun, there is a place.  It is called home.

http://youtu.be/18zqDzPmZ7k



Old Year's Day

7/3/2017

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My new book Old Year’s Day is now live at Amazon and Smashwords.
 
This book is set in the distant future, but also reflects the experiences of the entity Jones and the collapse of present day civilisation.
 
Much of this story revolves around the dual being that is Dowling and Jones. Dowling’s mind has been numbed and bent by the drugs the all powerful Corporation feeds everyone. Jones’ mind is twisted out of shape by the memory of the horrors he witnessed on Earth, as our present society crumbled.
 
Old Year’s Day touches on subjects such as religion, society, philosophy, economics and the questions of existence as perceived by the individual.
 
 
Note from the author:
 
I started writing this book a while back, so the concepts explored in Old Year’s Day had their genesis over a year ago. Since then real life has been catching up fast.
 
Back then the Trump presidency in the US had not even been imagined by the vast majority of people around the world. Meanwhile the situation in Syria and the rest of the middle-east has gone from bad to worse. People in Africa are dying in droves and the tension in the Korean peninsula threatens all of humanity.
 
It seems to me that the world has taken another stumbling step closer to the kind of tipping point that might bring about a situation such as is described in Old Year’s Day.
 
John Holland.

 
Amazon:  http://a.co/0KaHHbV
 
Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/725244


Synopsis:
 
Old Year’s Day is a work of speculative fiction. 
 
In 2199 the Corporation that at that time controls all aspects of human life, decide they have reached the pinnacle of their powers. So they stop time, in a way. 2199 keeps repeating over and over again.
 
Dowling is a prisoner on the prison planet of Renod. There Dowling meets a Mind Nurse called Wilson. She is a rebel at heart and part of a mysterious group who perceive humanity to be stagnating in time and space and who seek change.
 
All humans receive mind altering drugs in their food and drink, to help keep them servile and content. However for the Maladjusted prisoners, the dosage is much higher. It is after receiving the higher dosages of drugs that Dowling realises he is not alone within his mind. The entity called Jones appears in his consciousness.
 
Jones is a man from the early 21st century whose memories and self awareness has been carried forward in the genes of his descendants.
 
The influences of Jones and Wilson slowly change Dowling into the man who will be the focal point of a peaceful rebellion against the Corporation.
 
A number of staff and prisoners escape from the 44 prisons on Renod and venture into the green jungle.
 
Contrary to Corporation teachings, Dowling learns about ancient alien ruins and how simple life was found on Mars and more complex life forms on the ice moons Europa and Enceladus. He learns too about The Flock, rainbow travellers who roam the universe.
 
Then into the mix appears the Scarbi. Primates who have evolved unbelievably quickly from primates “seeded” on Renod after the terra-forming. They are very intelligent and a strange mix of savagery and gentleness.
 
Old Year’s Day touches on subjects such as religion, society, philosophy, economics and the questions of existence, as perceived by the individual.
 
 
John Holland
Australia
holjohn49@bigpond.com

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Heartland: First chapter of Somewhere far from Iris

11/18/2015

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Somewhere Far from Iris is book one in John Holland’s Heartland collection which is linked by the theme of life in the Australian Outback. Each of the four novellas is a complete story in itself.

Excerpt from Chapter 1

Shane

I’m on a bus that’s half full of strangers. Encaged in the quiet comfort of the air-conditioned cabin, we hurtle at breakneck speed down a pot-holed highway that leads into the dark guts of an old continent.
The night is tar paper and silver sparks. The huge bus is all glass and speed—too much glass. If we crash, there will be a bloodbath. 
I huddle in the window seat of the third row, left. The cloying artificial wildflower scent of air freshener competes with the nicotine smell on the clothes and breath of seasoned smokers. The headlights chew up the black asphalt and hurl it back into the cloud of darkness we drag along behind us. The darkness clings to the back of the bus like bulldust on the tailgate of a ute travelling hard on a dirt road.
The night is surreal and some might find it magical. But I don’t. This night is too much like depression—another kind of blackness that swallows you up. But that one replaces you with a hollow replica holding little of yourself you can still recognize.
Night just spits you out wherever it ends. Night can’t end fast enough for me. The fires of dawn can burn it to oblivion and maybe even throw a bit of light into the face of the mind-born darkness.
I’ve been sick in the mind for a long time—probably always. I can’t remember many times when my mind wasn’t heavy with bad thoughts and my heart wasn’t a lead weight in my chest. “They” tell me it’s chemical. “They” can go and root their boot. I know enough to know this sickness is as individual as the people who have it, which is why it is so hard to treat.
We stop at a small town just as dawn breaks. I emerge from the bus and take a deep gulp of fresh air. The air is cleaner and sweeter than the city air I’ve been used to these past few years.
Breakfast for me is two bacon-and-egg McMuffins and a cup of lukewarm coffee. The coffee could be hotter, and it has a funny taste to it that is most likely dishwashing detergent.  It is wet though, so I drink it down without complaint. When I finish eating, the craving for nicotine hits hard. It’s been two months since I quit, and mostly I’m okay, unless I eat something or drink a beer. I’ve always found it hard to give up bad habits. I’m good at giving up good habits though, or maybe the good ones give me up? Doesn’t matter. It’s all much of a muchness and the end result is the same. Funny how the sickness makes you give up the things good for you but embrace the things that are bad.
Back on the bus, passengers straggle past me. We’ve lost a couple of last night’s passengers and picked up three new ones. One is a young woman who hesitantly takes the seat beside me, throwing me a nervous half-smile as she does so. She’s slim, with longish dark hair, and she wears jeans and a pullover. She’s not pretty in the accepted way. Nothing Hollywood about her—not even much Woman’s Day. But there is something in her face that draws the eye. She’s what people used to call striking. I turn my head and pretend I’m interested in what is happening outside the window. We are probably going to be sitting together for many hours, so I know I should make polite recognition of her and maybe say hello. Such things are hard for me. I am not normal.
The bus grunts and groans back into positive motion. The small town slides away until we are past the last of the scattered houses. The dry open “downs country” rushes along beside the bus. The hills in the distance look like islands in a sea of yellow Mitchell grass. Then I remember we are driving over the bed of an ancient inland sea and the hills actually were islands once—islands dotting warm shallow seas.
My face stays turned towards the windows, but my eyes roll back and my gaze shifts inward. What the heck am I doing? I’m heading back out to the mining town where I was born. I know that much. But why? I think I’m going back to see if I’m still there. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s how I feel. I know I’m not here, and I know I’m not “back there” behind me. So I have to be somewhere…right?
I must doze off for a while. I’m a kid again. I am standing in a doorway looking into a bedroom. There’s a woman in bed with a man. When they notice me looking at them, the man shouts at me. Then the woman gets up from the bed and chases me away. She doesn’t have on any clothes. I can’t see her face, but I know she must be my mother. She slams the bedroom door in my face. I run out of the house and down the street. I want to go and play in the park, but the park is full of men dressed as clowns. They look evil and scary. One in a suit striped with red and yellow tries to catch me. His teeth are white and huge. I run from him, and his big funny boots slap the footpath behind me. He’s just about caught up with me when I wake up. I’m back on the bus.
“Would you like a chocolate?” says the girl. She’s holding out an opened bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. The pleasant fragrance mingles with her features. Sweetness and her face will always be linked now in my mind.
I have to meet her eyes. There’s no way out of it. I raise my eyes quickly and my eyes meet her gypsy-brown ones. I shake my head, try for a smile, and feel my lips twist, so maybe I manage it. She puts a piece of chocolate in her mouth. Her tanned cheeks hollow around the morsel. I can taste the milky sweetness from here. It’s plain to see she enjoys chocolate a lot.
Then she tries again. “Where are you headed for? Iris?”
Bugger! She’s not going to give up easily. I hesitate, then answer. “Yes, I’m going to Iris.”
“Me too!” she says and smiles.  Her dark brows arch over those lovely gypsy eyes and her teeth are white and even.  Her lips form the smile easily. She is someone who smiles a lot, I think. “I’ve got a job out there. Working in a chemist shop.”
I guess I keep up my side of the conversation because I find out her name is Beverley, and she has never travelled away from her hometown before. I can feel her nervousness, but I can also sense the hope within her. She is excited and afraid at the same time. Her friendliness is hard to ignore, so I try to be genial and appear interested in her story. Her mother has just remarried, and she doesn’t get on with her new stepfather or his family. It is time to move along and try to find a new life. She asks about me, but I don’t tell her much. She wouldn’t be interested. I wonder what it would be like to be 25, scared, and excited. Instead I’m twelve years older and mostly emotionless. There’s enough of a man left in me to see how smart and attractive she is though. That only makes me hate myself more. I like her, but I’m too old for her, too tired, too ugly, and too messed up in the head.
Lunch is a burger in another small town that I wash down with lemonade. Beverley has hot chips and a coke. She hangs around near my table then sits down with me without asking. We eat our food in silence, but she’s studying my face as she chews. I feel like curling up into myself and vanishing. People who look at me closely can see through my skin and to the ugliness inside. I don’t like people doing that.
After a few minutes she speaks. “You look very unhappy. Want to talk about it?”
Bloody hell! Not another one who thinks if you tell them what’s wrong they’ll be able to fix you. I don’t need another shrink. I just need to be able to find out who I was before I became sick, and then pour all that knowing into myself—fill up the great hollow space inside me and feel human.
I’m saved by the driver calling everyone back onto the bus. A few more hours, and we’ll be in Iris. I haven’t got a place to stay there, and no one will remember me, but that’s okay. I’ve slept in plenty of parks and alleys before. Plus I have some money. I won’t starve.
As we take up our seats on the bus again, I do a quick inventory. I’m wearing jeans, a clean shirt, and pretty good sneakers. I’m only about twelve hours past the last shave and two weeks past a haircut, so I probably don’t scare her too badly. I’m glad of that. I haven’t been as close to another human being for this amount of time in years. I usually avoid places where I can’t get up and leave quickly when I feel uncomfortable.
Beverley dozes, her chest rising and falling beneath her pale pink pullover. I take the time to study her from head to toe, committing her to memory. She is so bloody attractive and so nice! An ache presses the underside of my ribs. If only I were normal.
This yearning is new for me—like a tight hollow I can’t fill.
I shake my head and turn away, staring out the window at the monotonous sameness of the great inland plains of Western Queensland. I’m too much of too many bad things to think a woman would find me attractive. With a bit of luck, Beverley will find a nice bloke in Iris, get married, have kids—all that kind of stuff. That’s if all those things are what she wants, of course. Maybe she just wants a good life by herself. Either way I hope she finds it.
It is dark when we get to Iris. I wait near the bus for my duffle bag to be unloaded. Beverley waits below the amber station light until the driver unloads her blue suitcase. When her girlfriend arrives I watch the reunion between the two old friends with envy. Beverley grabs her suitcase, and they hurry off together, giggling like school girls.
I find my way down to the dry shallow bed of the river that splits the town in two. It’s too early in the summer for the flash floods that every now and then claim a life, so I’m safe from that. The river bed has long been a place of refuge for the homeless. This night is no different. Little knots of people huddle over small fires. They drink and argue. Sometimes a fight breaks out. Navigating through scrub, I pick my way as far as I can from other people, finding a space near a small tree where I lie in a sandy hollow using my duffel bag as a pillow.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. I lie watching the stars through the scattered cover of the leaves and branches above me. The smoke of the fires my homeless neighbours have lit to see by, and if they are lucky, cook by, hangs in the air. Tonight’s aroma carries no cooking smells though. There is probably a lot more cheap wine being consumed along the river bed than food.
The sand under me is not too uncomfortable for sleep. I’ve slept on harder ground. In fact I feel somehow more at home here in the river bed than I’ve felt on many a hard lonely bed in the concrete and glass caves of the city.
 It must be the early hours of the morning when I finally doze off, drifting into the dreams that torment my nights. Sometimes my dreams make sense to me. Sometimes they don’t.
In one I see the girl from the bus. She’s in earnest conversation with a young version of my mother. They shake their heads at a shared sadness or puzzlement. Are they talking about me? In my dream I decide they are. I call out to tell them I’m okay, but I have no voice. I try to go to them, but I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the ground. Then black jets fly overhead, round black eggs falling from their bellies. Bombs! I have to hide. But of course I can’t move to hide. The bombs explode in rows of two that creep towards me.
The sunrise breaks my sleep. My neighbours are quiet lumps of blankets spread along the sand. A couple haven’t even bothered with blankets and lie like corpses. Maybe they passed out before they made it to their blankets. Perhaps one or two of the figures actually are dead!  Life is hard here for the homeless. Quite a few probably never wake up after a big night, particularly if they have sunken to the ultimate level of becoming methylated spirits drinkers.
This line of thought isn’t pleasant. I shake the thoughts from my head and decide to see if I can find a place to clean up a bit. Throwing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I climb the ragged red soil embankment to the sidewalks of the drowsy town. There’s a public toilet in a small park with a hand basin but no mirror. Good. I hate mirrors like I hate photographs of myself. I wash my face and finger-comb my unruly hair. My clothes still look okay. I’ll leave them on. What’s the point in putting clean clothes on a dirty body?
A concrete bench in the park provides a place to wait for the town to wake up properly. A bright good-morning voice blares from a radio. The early morning smells of real people cooking breakfast drift on a breeze coming from town. A couple joggers trot by. They ignore me.
A bush cafe is just down the road. When I can no longer ignore my empty belly, I leave the park and walk down the row of shops that line the opposite side of the street to the river, past the post-office, a real estate office, and hairdresser’s salon. I’m trying to make my money last as long as possible, so I just get a half-litre carton of iced coffee. The milk will do me good, and the sugar will give me an energy lift. At least I hope it will. I also get the local paper. I need to find a bed. That’s priority number one. Priority two is finding work. Priority three is hazy and veiled in my mind, but it has something to do with finding out something about my origins.
There are a few rooms for rent in the paper, but they are expensive. There’s one offering just a bed. That sounds closer to what I want.
The man behind the counter at the cafe gives me directions on how to find the place, and I head off carrying my bag. The address is a sprawling old timber house of the type common in Iris. It sits heavily on low wooden stumps. It is probably about a five bedroom house with gauzed-in verandas covering all four sides. The old house seems to glower at me from under its corrugated iron roof that had been too long without a lick of paint, an old lady who had probably once been home to a large family. She had fallen upon hard times lately, it seemed to me. I stiffen my back and take the three steps up to the door. There is an old cow bell hanging from a bracket, just off to the right of the door. I give it a soft push, let it go, and gentle chimes ring in my ears.
A large woman with curly blond hair opens the door. I don’t think she likes the look of me too much, judging by the way her eyes narrow and her mouth pinches as she scans me head-to-toe, but she leads me around to a gauzed-in side veranda and points to a bunk bed with a short chubby finger. The place is some sort of guest house. All the rooms are full, but she must have figured she might as well rent some space on the verandas as well. The steel-framed and chain-wire-slung bunk, which I’m sure will be hard as a miser’s heart, is uninviting. Even the mattress looks thin and hard. However it is made up with clean sheets and a thin grey wool blanket, and there’s a single pillow. There is also a dressing table I can use for my stuff.
She shows me the shared bathroom and shared kitchen. The verandas have wooden slats that can be closed to ward off rain, or the worst of the sun. The accommodation is rough, but better than the river bed. I pay for a week. She doesn’t give me a receipt. I don’t think the taxman will learn of our transaction.
I wait, sitting on the bed and thinking until I get a chance to use the shower. Finally the male bathroom is vacant. I grimace at my reflection in the fly-stained mirror above the porcelain wash basin. I look like someone who has lived hard and has spent last night sleeping in the bed of a dry river, no surprise there. I also see how my unkempt appearance helps highlight my ugliness. My attempt at hand-combing my hair at the park toilets early this morning hasn’t worked very well. The rash of dark whisker stubble across my face looks bad, too. I can’t do much about my looks, but at least I can tidy up my appearance a bit. I wash, shave, and put on clean clothes.
Back on the bed I pull the zip-up folder of papers from my duffel bag. Inside the folder is a piece of note paper with an address scrawled in pencil. I think I can find the address okay. I was only eight when I left here, but my memories are coming back. The piece of paper has my mother’s name on it, too. Not that I needed to write it down to remember my mother’s name. I’m not sure why I wrote it down.
Judy Morris. As I read the name, her image forms in my head—a good-looking woman, curvy and fair. Men must have liked her a lot because even now I can remember there were a lot of men. Lots of beer too—and vodkas and lemonade. My mother didn’t have a husband. She didn’t have a full-time man either. I guess she must have believed in the old saying, “Why make one man miserable when you can make hundreds happy!”
When I was born she didn’t name a father on the birth certificate. Maybe she didn’t know who my father was for sure, or maybe she didn’t want to know. She never did tell me anything about who he was or might have been. I asked her about him when I was twelve, but she wouldn’t say anything. She was angry with me for asking. She died not long after, so my father’s identity was a closed subject.
I lived with an aunt after my mother died. She was a kindly enough woman, but her husband was a vicious drunk. He used to beat her up often—me too if he could catch me. I ran away when I was 15 and never went back. They still could be alive, I guess, but I’ve never felt the inclination to go back to find out.
My birth certificate is in the folder, too. I take it out, unfold it for the millionth time, and read it. There’s the name my mother gave me. Shane Elwyn Morris. I wonder where she picked the names. Maybe there’s a clue in there about who sired me. Maybe not.
So here I sit, a 37-year-old useless excuse for a man on a hard bed on some stranger’s veranda. It has been a long road from 15 to here, but I’m here now, and I think I’m meant to be. Maybe it’s the end of the road, or…the start of a new one? Buggers me!
There’s no way of locking the flimsy brown particle board dresser. I want to leave my stuff there, but I’m paranoid someone will take it or just rummage through it. The less you have the more important it becomes to you. The truth is no one would want my shit, but truth and logic are two things I don’t always use. I don’t unpack my bag. Instead I push it out of sight under the bed. My bag will be as safe there as anywhere else on this veranda.
The house where my mother and I lived stands three streets over from the guest house. I walk there in the mid-morning. Already there is a hard haze to the sky from the chimney stack at the mine. The air is dry and dusty with an unidentifiable smell—something metallic and unnatural. At least the gardens in front of the homes lining the streets are lush and pretty, and the lawns are mostly well-kept and green. I don’t remember it being that way when I was a kid. But your memory can get tainted over the years. Bad memories seldom feature nice lawns and gardens.
A police car slows as it approaches me, and I see the two coppers inside the car study me. I’m doing nothing wrong, but I feel guilty. But it isn’t a crime to walk down a road, not even if you are ugly and useless and messed up. They throw me a last hard look and move past. I guess they couldn’t think of a reason to give me a hard time.
The old house is still there. It has only changed in superficial ways. Fresh cream paint coats the fibro cement cladding, and the small front lawn and garden are neat and tidy. A tiny ornamental windmill spins noiselessly near a bird bath. A pair of peewees use the water to wash the dust from their pied plumage. I stop and stand near the chain-wire front fence as a tidal wave of memories sweeps over me.
I must have been spaced out for a few minutes because, when my mind clears up a bit, I can see a boy playing with toy cars near a tree in the yard. He looks about eight—the same age I was when I last played in this yard. He looks a bit like me, too. I open my mouth to speak to the boy then clamp it shut. A weird-looking man trying to strike up a conversation with a young boy would be frowned upon. Questions would be asked.
I’m about to turn away and head back towards the main-street area of town when a woman comes out of the house. She’s maybe 35 and looks nice and motherly in her floral dress. She looks at me with concern in her eyes.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
I don’t want to talk, but it will raise even more concern if I don’t, so I try to look normal. In as even a voice as I can muster, I say, “Sorry. I was just looking at your house. I used to live here years ago.”
Curiosity replaces the concern in her eyes, thankfully. “How long ago?”
“Must be nearly thirty years, I think.”
“That’s a long time. Do you have family here? I might know them. I was born here in Iris.” This time she even smiles. Her smile is attractive and friendly.
I don’t often trust people who smile at me, but I can tell she’s genuine and small-town friendly. “No, I don’t have any family here. I was just curious to see if the house was still here.” I give a half-hearted wave of the hand and make my escape. She probably thinks I’m a bit strange for hurrying off.
The interaction worries me as I walk back to Main Street. I don’t like to be noticed. People want to know about you if they notice you, and everyone who knows you takes a little piece of you away with them. I haven’t got a lot of pieces of me left, and I need what I have.

#

You can get Heartland as an ebook from Amazon and Smashwords. The print option is coming to Amazon soon.
 
Amazon:  http://amzn.com/B017SNKT0C
 
Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/591821




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Margaret R Blake ~ Queensland based Author

4/17/2015

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Excerpt:

Merlin’s School for Ordinary Children – The Ring of Curses #1
‘You’re joking,’ Bridget gushed, causing the girl at the next table to turn in her direction. She stared at the girl until she shrugged her shoulders, only to turn away again. Bridget was very grateful for the other girl’s indifference, hoping that Orion wasn’t going to be angry with her for her blunder. ‘Sorry,’ she said softly, ‘but I wasn’t expecting you to say something like that.’

         ‘Tha–that’s okay,’ Orion responded. ‘I fa–find it hard to believe myself.’

         ‘I reckon,’ Bridget said, a little more delicately this time. She took another sip of her now cold drink, then another before asking, ‘Did he get expelled?’

         ‘Na–na –no,’ Orion declared, debating again about how much he should tell Bridget. He watched the girl closely for a moment, deciding that he liked her. Keeping his voice low he continued, ‘Ca–ca–can you keep a secret?’

         Bridget nodded quickly. She was so overwhelmed that she was beginning to feel a bit sick.

         Orion was so relieved to be offloading his dark confidence that he didn’t notice Bridget’s discomfort. He lent a little closer. The seemingly intimate movement made Bridget’s eyes fair shine with delight.

         ‘Tha–tha–the ring is magic, ja–just like Professor Flounder said it was.’

         ‘No way,’ Bridget breathed, her eyes widening with awe. She waited expectantly for Orion’s next words, which came slowly and hesitantly.

         ‘Tha–tha–the night we returned from tha–the pyramids we tried it out. The other boys were in ba–bed so we had the common room to ourselves. It ta–ta–took a while, but eventually we conjured up a pa–plate of sweets. After tha– that there was no stopping him! The wishes got bigger and ba–better, you know … watches, jewellery, and one na–night even a small motorbike. But we couldn’t get out of tha–the castle to give it a test run. Eventually, Terrie and I ga–got fed up with Neville’s wa–want, want, want sa–so we let him get on with it. After about a week he just vanished.’

 

Back page blurb –

A reclusive old man had to die before something of major proportions happened in the small seaside town of Calder Cove. Over a long and extended period, a series of weird and rather extraordinary events occur, most of which are hidden from view behind a construction of tall screens. Then, with a very grand and bizarre opening ceremony, a strange and mysterious castle is revealed, a castle that seemed to have appeared out of the darkness and silence of nowhere.

         Was it magic? The townsfolk wondered.

         Or was it something more sinister.

         In time it is made known that the massive grey edifice is nothing beyond a school. But when the exclusively invited children finally step inside, the huge doors are locked securely behind them, creating a strict division between the world of their families and the castle. Everything that was once part of everyday life becomes a thing of the past and the new students are thrown - without warning - into the unknown. It is with great trepidation that they begin to question these changes and ask … is this place really a school?

         Merlin’s School for Ordinary Children – The Ring of Curses is jam-packed with magic and adventure – a timely cross between Enid Blyton’s, Famous Five with a hint of JK Rowling’s, Harry Potter.

 

Link - http://www.amazon.com/Ring-Curses-Merlins-Ordinary-Children/dp/0992509548/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1424573701&sr=8-1&keywords=merlin%27s+school+for+ordinary+children+-+the+ring+of+curses (print version but is available in ebook format)

 

Excerpt – RIVERBEND; A Collection of Fairy Tales and Other Stories.  Tumbledown Witch

It was while they took turns dancing with a handsome dark-haired fellow, with eyes like a stormy ocean, that both Maree and Cecelia had their souls filled with golden words of love, swooning into the young man’s arms with each twirl of the dance floor. Each sister was unaware of the other’s emotions, however, until this very moment when they spoke together of their pledges and passions.

What were they to do?

In a fog of confusion each ran to their mother, who pulled them into a soothing embrace. ‘Do not worry, my lovelies,’ she said after some thought, ‘for I know of a witch who lives in Tumbledown Woods. She can fix these things of the heart. One of you shall run to her and gain a spell. I will find a gold coin for we must always pay our dues.’

Cecelia’s eyes shone as her mother went off to find the required monies, but Maree studied her sister’s face with a look of contempt. She had a ready idea of who would do the running as she knew that Cecelia was the favourite. It had been that way throughout their childhood. But … this time it would be different. Maree would make sure that Cecelia would be the one to go the witch while Maree stayed at home and prepared her seduction. She had no intentions of coming off second best this time.

Both girls now felt confident that all would be well and they did not worry their mother any more. But they might have worried greatly if they had known how their mother knew about the witch.

The next day, as the sun shone down, Cecelia and Maree stood with their mother at the door of their home. ‘You shall go to Tumbledown and meet the witch, Maree,’ the mother said, handing her the gold coin for payment. ‘Wait until sunset … she will come to you. Do not fear her for she cannot cause you grief.’

‘But why must I go?’ Maree asked, a frown dancing across her lovely face.

‘Why … you are the youngest, my dear; if only by minutes. And you do run as swift as a gazelle and will surely be back from Tumbledown in no time.’

But Maree was prepared for this, saying, ‘Oh … mother dear, alas I understand your reasoning, but unfortunately I cannot run today.  My feet still pain me from our night of dancing. Maybe Cecelia would consider going in my stead.’ She smiled sweetly at her sister, offering her the coin.

‘Oh … yes … I’ll go, Cecelia said, grinning from ear to ear. It was wonderful that Maree did not grump and grouch this day as she usually did. Cecelia took the gold coin from her sister’s outstretched hand.

But the girls’ mother seemed extremely hesitant about this turn of events. It was almost as if she was reluctant to let Cecelia go. ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘Maybe we can leave it ‘til another day … one where you are better suited to the journey, Maree.’

‘No, no, mother,’ Maree argued, ‘surely it would be better to resolve this matter as soon as possible otherwise we will both be broken-hearted.’

 

Back page blurb –

Riverbend is a real place, 12 kilometres west of Tiaro in Queensland, Australia. It is 28 acres of beautiful bushland, with a winding seasonal creek; an enchanted place where once a dragon came. He lies there still, infusing the land with his magic. Because of this Riverbend is now a locale where fairies dwell and leprechauns visit, where trolls take an evening stroll and a witch once lived, casting spells and curses! A Read To Me or Read Alone book.

 

Link -  http://www.amazon.com/Riverbend-Collection-Fairy-Tales-Stories/dp/1508493855/ref=sr_1_1_twi_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1429244142&sr=1-1&keywords=margaret+r+blake (print version but is available in ebook format)

 

Bio –

I was born in the northern hemisphere, immigrating to Australia with my family when I was almost ten years old. I’m a jack of all trades when it comes to my work-life, trying my hand at car detailing, machining, commercial artist, fabric designer, waitressing and have even been a farm hand. I’ve had a go at playing piano and guitar, done some time on stage, was a co-founder of a Camp Quality group, raising money for children living with cancer. I love reading and have written book reviews for a local newsletter, as well as been a teacher’s aide with kindergarten and grade one/two children. In between all that I was married for a while and have two grown-up children. After spending thirty three years living in Tasmania I now reside in Queensland. I’m retired and spend a lot of my time writing … though I do like to read a good book as well as doing some needlework when I can get to it.

I have recently released a children’s ‘read alone or read to me’ book of short stories entitled, RIVERBEND; A Collection of Fairy Tales and Other Short Stories - the writing of this book was inspired by a property that I bought together with my brother, Terence and his new wife, Tonya. This book is to be followed very soon by the release of Sword of Stone, the second book in my ‘Merlins’s School for Ordinary Children’ series. The first book The Ring of Curses.

Margaret R Blake @

www.merlins-school.com

www.facebook.com/margaretroseblake

www.jacketflap.com/margaret20

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Love Caters All ~ Nicci Carrera

2/21/2015

1 Comment

 
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We all need some love in our lives. Here's a saucy story from the pen of American writer Nicci Carrera.  Enjoy!

Excerpt:

“Doc made me unplug. Ordered me to read books. Even went so far as to write out a prescription.” Rick reached in his pocket.

She took the paper he’d retrieved and read it. Sure enough, their website and the words, No electronics, read a book were scrawled on an Rx sheet in Doc’s handwriting. She handed back the note. “I’d recognize Doc’s penmanship anywhere.”

“Penmanship!” Rick grinned. “You can see from Doc’s chicken scratch, if I had to rely on the Internet for entertainment I’d be out of luck. It’s old-fashioned bound-paper for me this week.”

“I love books. In our library, you’ll find the classics, westerns, and some spicy romance.” Maya thought she’d just toss the last genre in there to see how he’d react. He grinned. Her stomach fluttered. This man was nothing like the conceited ass she’d dated last summer. Both men might be rich, but they were so different. “History, biography, and a Bible.”

“Will there be a quiz?”

“Only on the romance.” His laugh was so sensuous she could roll in it.

“I really need to dry the floor. I’ll get a rag. Excuse me.”

Mama passed her at the hall closet. “We should invite Mr. Nordan to our party tomorrow.”

Oh no. Rick was going to meet the gorgeous twins before Maya even had a single date with him.

“Mama,” Maya whispered, “he’s a guest. I mean a customer. Not a guest.” Would he be half-naked when Mama walked into his room? He certainly wasn’t very modest. What about his tattoo? Oh, that would be perfect. If she saw the ink Mama probably wouldn’t invite him to the party. Mama barged past Maya.

Maya hurried after in time to hear Rick say, “Hi, Mrs. Cruz. Sorry about the water.”

Had he put on a shirt? She peeked around Mama. No. He was half naked on his knees wiping up the water with one of the towels from the bathroom. There was another tattoo on his back. Some kind of massive bird, not realistic, more stylized.

“I’ll do that.” Mama bustled toward Rick.

With Mama’s knees, she definitely shouldn’t bend down to wipe the floor. Rick had finished the clean-up. Gratitude filled Maya.

Now Rick stared at the expensive periwinkle blue towel in his hand. “I’m sorry I used this. I’ll just use this one.” He liberated the rag from Maya’s fingers.

He was going to dry himself with that ratty old thing? He wore an expensive looking jacket, designer shoes, and a button-down shirt to fly all the way across the country. He knew the difference between a good towel and a rag. He was a CEO of a major corporation, yet he had tattoos. This man was a paradox.

Blurb:

When hard-driving CEO Rick Nordan arrives in Lobster Cove under strict orders from the family doctor to take a break, he discovers the rental house comes with a family attached, including one sexy dynamo of a caterer. She's nothing like his ex-fiancée who wouldn't sign a pre-nup, but maybe that means she's the real deal and not a gold digger.

Maya Cruz wants life for her widowed mother to get easier by renting out her house during the summer. But teaching Mama business means explaining Rick isn't a "guest," he's a "customer." And the first thing Mama does is invite Rick to join their family activities. Having Rick around wouldn't be so bad if Maya didn't find him so attractive. The last time she fell for a vacationing millionaire, she had her heart broken.

She swore off his type, and he's not looking, but this might be a recipe for love.

Available at:

Amazon Kindle:

http://amzn.to/12RSEUi

Amazon Print:

http://amzn.to/12RSEUi

Kobo:

http://bit.ly/1upOIRl

ITunes:

http://bit.ly/1BleGL4

The Wild Rose Press (Note: WRP links only work from a computer, not a mobile device, due to a temporary bug that is being worked on.)

http://bit.ly/13gR2E8

The Wild Rose Press ebook:

http://bit.ly/1yXCl3W

The Wild Rose Press Print:

http://bit.ly/1vKsTjo


Bio

Nicci Carrera lives to write contemporary and spicy love stories with sassy heroines and sexy heroes. Nicci believes the perfect man makes lots of bread…the kind you eat hot from the oven with butter. She lives in Silicon Valley with her husband, and yes, he bakes all their bread. When not at her keyboard writing a romance, in the kitchen, or curled up with a book, Nicci enjoys photography and long walks.

www.facebook.com/pages/Nicci-Carrera/283127365218441

www.niccicarrera.com

http://www.niccicarreraromance.com (daily blog)

@niccicarrera1

www.amazon.com/author/niccicarrera

www.pinterest.com/niccicarrera/lobster-cove-romances/


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1 Comment

 The Professor and the poet of beatlemania ~ Michael O'Leary

2/14/2015

0 Comments

 
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The book sells for $35 a copy (incl postage) and can be ordered from -

Michael O'Leary
PO Box 42

Paekakariki 5034
Wellington
New Zealand

or by e-mail at - pukapuka@paradise.net.nz

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Love Comes Later ~ Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar

2/9/2015

2 Comments

 
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Love Comes Later By Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar


Winner of Best Indie Book Award, Romance, 2013

Semi Finalist, Best Novel, eFestival of Words, 2013

Finalist, New Talent Award, Festival of Romance, 2013

"...a deliciously tangled plot and insight into life on the Persian Gulf."  Kirkus Review

 
Book description:


When newlywed Abdulla loses his wife and unborn child in a car accident, the world seems to crumble beneath his feet. Thrust back into living in the family compound, he goes through the motions—work, eat, sleep, repeat. Blaming himself for their deaths, he decides to never marry again but knows that culturally, this is not an option. Three years later, he’s faced with an arranged marriage to his cousin Hind, whom he hasn’t seen in years. Hard-pressed to find a way out, he consents to a yearlong engagement and tries to find a way to end it. What he doesn’t count on, and is unaware of, is Hind’s own reluctance to marry.  

Longing for independence, she insists on being allowed to complete a master’s degree in England, a condition Abdulla readily accepts. When she finds an unlikely friend in Indian-American Sangita, she starts down a path that will ultimately place her future in jeopardy.

The greatest success of Rajakumar’s novel is the emotional journey the reader takes via her rich characters. One cannot help but feel the pressure of the culturally mandated marriage set before Hind and Abdulla. He’s not a real Muslim man if he remains single, and she will never be allowed freedoms without the bondage of a potentially loveless marriage. It’s an impossible situation dictated by a culture that they still deeply respect.

Rajakumar pulls back the veil on life in Qatar to reveal a glimpse of Muslim life rarely seen by Westerners.

 
Bio:

Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar is a South Asian American who has lived in Qatar since 2005. Moving to the Arabian Desert was fortuitous in many ways since this is where she met her husband, had two sons, and became a writer.  She has since published eight e-books, including a momoir for first time mothers, Mommy But Still Me; a guide for aspiring writers, So You Want to Sell a Million Copies; a short story collection, Coloured and Other Stories; and a novel about women’s friendships, Saving Peace.

Her coming of age novel, An Unlikely Goddess, won the SheWrites New Novelist competition in 2011.

Her recent books have focused on various aspects of life in Qatar. From Dunes to Dior, named as a Best Indie book in 2013, is a collection of essays related to her experiences as a female South Asian American living in the Arabian Gulf. Love Comes Later was the winner of the Best Indie Book Award for Romance in 2013 and is a literary romance set in Qatar and London. The Dohmestics is an inside look into compound life, the day-to-day dynamics between housemaids and their employers.

After she joined the e-book revolution, Mohana dreams in plotlines. Learn more about her work on her website at www.mohadoha.com or follow her latest on Twitter: @moha_doha.

 

 Being Banned Ain’t What it Used to Be By Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar

When he came into my office and said “Put it up here!” expecting a high-five, I knew sentiments about having a banned book in the Middle East had changed.

I gave my colleague a weak smile and turned back to the student sitting at my desk.

“I’m super excited for you,” he said, bouncing out into the hallway. “I’m going to read your book now.”

He was referring to the news story that had posted the night before, on the national blog. Same online daily that everyone, expat and national, reads like the rest of the world peruses the Huffington Post. The breaking news around dinner time was that my novel, the one without any sex, atheism or politics, had been banned for sale in the country in which it was set because it was about the country and her citizens.

Not everyone was as convinced as my enthusiastic colleague that the ban was a good idea. A quick scan of the comments section on the blog revealed a deep suspicion the quality of the book and its author:

“The Author should thank the Ministry of Culture for the free publicity this book is receiving now. Otherwise it doesn't really deserve any mention.”

I published Love Comes Later, the book in question, in summer of 2012 as an e-book, funded by as an independent author. American literary agents told me it was too foreign, too male and therefore completely unsellable.

After two years of reaching out to book bloggers, 72 Amazon.com reviews, and several paperback editions, the Ministry of Culture in Qatar was telling me it was too racy to sell in bookshops.

This was clearly a book without a home; a literary identity crisis.

“Virginia Commonwealth U. Professor’s Novel Is Banned in Qatar” read the headline in the “ticker” section of that bastion of tertiary education, The Chronicle of Higher Education. Only if you clicked on the link did you discover that said professor was on the Qatar branch campus of the university. Despite the mention of professor in the headline, the writer kept referring to me as “Ms.” a title conjured a version of me as Harlequin romance writer, churning out bodice rippers at a desk in some moldy basement.

But was any or all of this helping your sales, is your question.

Well, that’s not a straightforward story either. The night that the news daily posted their piece, the Amazon.com ranking rose swiftly, climbing for about a week, peaking in the low 80s of top 100 paid listings for Family Sagas and Literary Fiction.

When I logged into my Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) sales report, however, I had yet another surprise. Yes, the notorious Love Comes Later, was selling steadily.

But also in equal measure was An Unlikely Goddess, my fourth novel that had nothing to do with Qatar. This was Sita’s story, an immigrant coming of age narrative about a South Asian girl growing up in the United States.

I’d done next to no publicity for this book, besides a small blog tour, but it was also an award winner plus it was a fourth of the price of said banned title.

A rising tide does lift all boats. Or in this case, some media attention does expose readers to all titles by an author. 

I’m pleased not be in jail or to have lost my job due to the decision by authorities not to sell my book in the country where it was set. Both of these, and far worse would have been the consequences – and still could be – in parts of the Middle East region even five years ago. The congratulatory vibes from Arabs and Americans, the lowered voices asking where, by the way, can they get the book, are all indications of a changing ethos.

Leaving me with this odd cache of having done something objectionable, but as an artist, which others find admirable. Whether or not this is enough to sustain interest in a story that was three years in the making, however, remains to be seen.

**
Go to the author’s website to find out how to buy her great books. www.mohadoha.com or follow her latest on Twitter: @moha_doha.

Link to book at Amazon:  http://amzn.com/B008I4JJES
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2 Comments

Unveiled Visions ~ Muna Al Shaibani

1/10/2015

4 Comments

 
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BIO:

Muna Al Shaibani is a Saudi who graduated from Taipei American High School. She majored in English literature and foreign languages at Taiwan National University. Al Shaibani obtained a diploma of the French language (DALF) from the French Foreign Ministry. 

Besides writing poetry, Muna Al Shaibani loves to read historical novels. She appreciates art very much and plans to one day learn to paint. She is married with three sons.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Unveiled Visions by author Muna Al Shaibani is a compelling collection of poems about love, peace, hope, freedom, nature, friendships, feelings, death, memories, tributes, experiences and journeys so much more. These passionately written poems are part of her collections since she began to write poetry from 1984 until today.

http://authorwebservices-gem.net/AuthorHouse/636619/buy 
Rhythmic
and pulsating with emotions, these passionately written poems are part of Al Shaibani’s collections since she began to write poetry from 1984 until today. Molded from an artist’s intimate sense of being, the poems reveal a poignant, time-kissed insight on the many facets of love and life. The candid creative pieces also resonate the author’s many thoughts, reflections and musings; thus unveiling an artistic expression as much as the author’s personal revelation.


Order a copy now!  

Contact the author: http://authorwebservices-gem.net/AuthorHouse/636619/contact/

 

Excerpt:
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4 Comments

David McGill ~ Prolific New Zealand Author

12/15/2014

0 Comments

 
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These book memoirs record half a century writing and sometimes publishing 51 Kiwi social histories, some fictional, some best-sellers, some footnotes, reviews from savage to sublime, and strong reactions:

  • Muldoon threatens prison
  • Helen Clark sends warm congratulations
  • Mike Hosking asks who is the clown in the kilt
  • Kim Hill supposes marriage
  • Carmen says thanks and Kiri no thanks
  • Jason Gunn enjoys a joke, John Clarke an imaginary quote
  • All Blacks duck for cover
‘I was so arrested by what is really a history of the author’s writing and publishing life that I couldn’t put it down and read it in one long sitting yesterday.’
Graham Beattie, Beattie’s Book Blog, 7 November
2014

http://davidmcgill.co.nz/books/kingfisher-kingfisher-take-my-luck/

http://www.radionz.co.nz/national/programmes/standing-room-only/audio/20158335/david-mcgill

David McGill is a New Zealand social historian who has published 50 books. Born in Auckland, educated in the Bay of Plenty and at a Christchurch seminary, he trained as a teacher and did a BA at Victoria University of Wellington. He worked as a feature writer for The Listener, Sydney’s The Bulletin, London’s TVTimes, wrote columns for the Evening Post in Wellington and edited a local lifestyle magazine before becoming a full-time writer in 1984. His book subjects include Ghost Towns of New Zealand and the country’s first bushranger, local and national heritage buildings, Kiwi prisoners of war, the history of the NZ Customs Department, a biography of a criminal lawyer, a personal history of rock music, a rail journey around the country, historical and comic novels, several thrillers and six collections of Kiwi slang. He collects owl figurines and reads thrillers.

Certified No 1 Bestsellers

A Dictionary of Kiwi Slang
The Other New Zealanders
Island of Secrets


National AwardsCowan Memorial Prize
Reed Literary Award Environmental Journalism
Jubilee Award Investigative Journalism
Dulux Feature Writing Award
Claude McCarthy Fellowship 1997
2012 CLNZ/NZSA Research Grant
Wellington Civic Trust Life Membership Award 2013




A complete list of books by David McGill:

Cityscapes, Methuen, 1977

Tales of the Terrace, St Andrew’s Church, 1979.

In Praise of Older Buildings, Methuen, 1980

Ghost Towns of New Zealand, Reed, 1980 and 1997

The Other New Zealanders, Mallinson Rendel, 1982; No 1 NZ bestseller.

The Pioneers of Port Nicholson, Reed, 1984

Harbourscapes, Growl Press, 1984

The G’Day Country, Platform Publishing, 1985

My Brilliant Suburb, Platform Publishing, 1985

POW: The Untold Stories of New Zealanders as Prisoners of War, Mills, 1987

The Kid from Matata, Grantham House, 1987

A Dictionary of Kiwi Slang, Mills, 1988; No 1 NZ bestseller.

The Dinkum Kiwi Dictionary, Mills, 1989

I Had a Squashed Banana, Mills, 1989

Kiwi Babyboomers, Mills, 1989

The Lion and the Wolfhound, Grantham House, 1990 

The Guardians at the Gate, Silver Owl Press, 1991

The Adventures of Horace-Thomas the Magic Horse, Silver Owl, 1991

Lower Hutt: The First Garden City, Hutt City Council, 1991

No Right to Strike, Silver Owl/NZ Police Service Organisations 1992

Whakaari, Silver Owl, 1995

Gold in the Creek, Silver Owl, 1995

McGill’s Dictionary of Kiwi Slang, Catchphrases, Characters and Kiwiosities, Silver Owl, 1995

I Almost Tackled Kel Tremain, Silver Owl, 1996

Landmarks, Godwit, 1997 and Phantom House, 2005

David McGill’s Complete Kiwi Slang Dictionary, Reed, 1998

Full Circle: The History of the St James Theatre, Phantom House, 1998

From N to Z, Reed, 1998

The Dolly Lolly Diaries, Silver Owl, 1998

David McGill’s Rude New Zealand Limericks, Grantham House, 1999

Good Old Kiwi Identities, Grantham, 2000

Island of Secrets, History of Matiu/Somes Island, Steele Roberts/Silver Owl, 2001; No 1 bestseller

Wellington — A Capital Century, Transpress, 2003

The Monstrance, Silver Owl, 2003

The Reed Book of New Zealand Quotations, Reed, 2003

In Xtremis, Silver Owl, 2004.

Stacey: The Life, Style and Trials of a Great New Zealand Criminal Lawyer, Silver Owl, 2005.

The Girning of Government House, Silver Owl, 2005.

The First New Zealand Bushranger, Silver Owl, 2006.

From My Cold, Dead Hands, Silver Owl, 2007.

The Treadmill Tapes: Confessions of a Compulsive Pop Picker, Silver Owl, 2007.

The Mock Funeral: A Novel of the Irish Riots on the Goldfields of New Zealand, Silver Owl 2008

The Communion of the Easter Bun-Rabbit: The Food Lives of a Kiwi Here and There, Silver Owl 2008

The G’Day Country Redux: A Rail Journey Back into New Zealand, Silver Owl 2009

Shaking 1960, Silver Owl 2010

A Dictionary of Noughties Kiwi Slang, Silver Owl 2011

Geyser in the Creek, Silver Owl 2011

The Compleat Cityscapes, Silver Owl 2012

The Promised Land, Silver Owl Press 2012

The Slightly Mysterious Little Drummer Boy Who Became Mayor of Auckland, Silver Owl Press 2013

Stamp in the Creek, Silver Owl Press 2014


Links to Books and David McGill's website:
   http://davidmcgill.co.nz/

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Mehreen Ahmed ~ The Blotted Line ~

12/8/2014

0 Comments

 
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The Blotted line contains the following short stories:

The Wager – Set in Granada, Spain, The Wager is an allegory. It deals with the innate nature of evil and how it perpetuates the guile in the human society by coexisting eternally. Disguised in many forms and shapes, evil is portrayed in the form of a traditional belief, in which people seek revenge through blood money. Tradition and evil seem to be revisited across generations.

Charade – Set in Brisbane, Australia, Charade is a hilarious story about three pretentious coffee mates, who construct a facade of lies to deceive one another. They continuously prod each other and it leads to undesirable consequences, revealing intrinsic predicaments such as fear, jealousy and egocentricity.

Eye-Opener – Set in Sydney, Australia, Eye-opener is a psychological drama of deception between two friends who fall out because of a bizarre chain of event, leading to a turning point in their relationship.

The Black Coat – Set in Paris, France, The Black Coat is a story of an artist’s vision. His relationship with this vision inspires him and holds him in a tight emotional knot. It reflects a total dedication for art and his subject to the point that the artist losses himself totally.

The Anomalous Duo – Set in a village in Dhaka, Bangladesh, The Anomalous Duo is a romance that shows religious clashes in society obstructing the union of two lovers. The story explores defiance and strength as the lovers endeavor to undo traditional beliefs.

Melodies Passé – Set in Dhaka, Bangladesh, Melodies Passé is a reflection of an era that witnesses economic transition. It marks a departure from an enchanted tradition as it moves into a cold world of money and materialism.

Of Note – Set in Canada, Of Note is a poignant story of a refugee on the coast of Nova Scotia. Separated from his sole family, his biological daughter, he is reunited with her years later only to be separated again by an awful twist of fate.

BIO:

Queensland writer, Mehreen Ahmed has been publishing since 1987. Her first publications were journalistic in nature which appeared in the Sheaf, a campus newspaper for the university of Saskatchewan Canada. Later on she published fiction and academic non-fiction. Jacaranda Blues is her debut novella. A featured author for The Story Institute, she has published
The Blotted Line, a collection of short stories. More recently, Snapshots, a book of travels was published by PostScript Editions.

Her academic publications include book reviews primarily and research article. They appeared in many notable, peer-reviewed journals of her area of study, such as Computer Assisted Language Learning, Special Issue, Intelligent Call Systems, Lisse, Netherlands Vol 15 Issue 4, 2002. This was republished on Cambridge Journals, Language Teaching by Cambridge University Press, Vol 36 Issue 2,2003.http://journals.cambridge.org/abstract_S0261444803221935 and Taylor and Francis, Routledge, Vol 15 Issue 4, 2002. Software reviews were also published in On-Call, Vol 1 No 2 Sept, 1999 and International Society for Technology in Education,Vol 28 No 4, 2000-2001; a book review on Teaching and Researching Language Learning Strategies by Rebecca L Oxford, was published in Language, Learning and Technology, Special Issue, Vol 15 No 3 Oct, 2011, followed by a reproduction, for Independence Learner Autonomy Special Interest Group, 2012, University of Canterbury, Kent U.K.

She has two MA degrees in English and Computer Assisted Language Learning (Applied Linguistics) from Dhaka university and the university of Queensland, Brisbane Australia.


The blotted line
http://amzn.com/0979445159


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On a trail of relics and ruins, Snapshots is a book of travels delineating my journeys of four major continents. A travel through the ancient, the medieval, the renaissance and the modern, national heritage of each of these continents has been pivotal to this book, showing an evolution of history. Primarily, palaces, mosques, churches, temples and museums, renowned forests and sea beaches have also been depicted.
Musing on peoples’ views and perceptions which they have shared with me, a stream of consciousness technique has been applied in presenting some segment in order to exhibit my internal monologue. With my rendering, these accounts have been compiled as chronicles of motley collection. On rare occasion, culinary descriptions have been noted.
Time is of essence. And on a timeline of this journey, specific dates have been drawn. As great distances have been covered, it has taken a long time for this book to be written. Snapshots started as a diary, but evolved over time into a book. Dynamic in its own right, at the end of each traverse, another begins anew and is recorded in the travelogue.
My journey begins in Europe, then to North America, Australia and ends in the sub-continent.
http://amzn.com/B00MI5VH4S

~

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Jacaranda Bues is Mehreen Ahmed's debut novella.
http://amzn.com/1462640907


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0 Comments

Pat Whitaker ~ New Zealand Author

11/22/2014

1 Comment

 
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Humanity is under attack from an enemy within. An enemy unable to be seen or confronted. Nemesis tells how in a battle with no rules, each individual must find their own answers, their own way in which to protect themselves and those they love.

The book also invites the reader to reconsider the nature of life itself and whether our current definitions are really adequate.

All my books can be ordered by ISBN from any bookshop that deals with Ingrams (which is pretty much all of them) or through any of the channels on my website http://whitakerbooks.com

About the author:


Born in England in 1946, I moved to New Zealand with my parents and older brother at the age of four and, apart from five years in my late twenties spent travelling the globe, have lived here ever since. After a fairly rudimentary education, I found work as an Architectural Designer and this became a life-long occupation. I started writing late in 2006.

The books I write are intended in the first instance to tell a good story and secondly " once the tale is told " to leave the reader with something to ponder. To this end, all my stories attempt to provide an original take on some commonly held belief, be it cultural, social or scientific.

Being a fan of both science fiction and classic murder mysteries, these tend to be common themes, with elements of both often combined in a single story.

As a person who likes to read a book in a single sitting, I limit each work to around forty-five or fifty thousand words. Unfashionable perhaps, but it's what I prefer.

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