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Desert Rain
Wallace Dorian
Rain Publishing Inc.
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Excerpt. Emma's Choice
Emma’s Choice
Wallinger-Reed, P.L.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781257-5-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
I
The day was hot and humid, heavy with the promise of rain. Emma, however, was in no mood to appreciate the need for that moisture in this backwoods farming community. She already missed the hustle and bustle of the city, the people, the excitement, the constant movement and noise. Most of all, she missed the Pacific Ocean rolling onto a sandy expanse of open beach.
Los Angeles, California, was a long way from Wymore, Nebraska. A long, long way!
The real estate woman spoke with feigned cheerfulness. “It isn’t much, and rather small for four people.”
Wallinger-Reed, P.L.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781257-5-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
I
The day was hot and humid, heavy with the promise of rain. Emma, however, was in no mood to appreciate the need for that moisture in this backwoods farming community. She already missed the hustle and bustle of the city, the people, the excitement, the constant movement and noise. Most of all, she missed the Pacific Ocean rolling onto a sandy expanse of open beach.
Los Angeles, California, was a long way from Wymore, Nebraska. A long, long way!
The real estate woman spoke with feigned cheerfulness. “It isn’t much, and rather small for four people.”
Understatement of the year, Emma thought as she curled her lip in disgust. She hated every moment of this farce. Being sixteen just plain sucked! Nobody asked your opinion. Nobody cared what you wanted. Nobody gave you a choice. It was just not fair!
The mobile home sat on a large, corner lot that was devoid of any trees or shrubs, at least in the front. It was a plain, dingy-white singlewide, with one step leading up to the front door. A glaring June sun beat down on them, not leaving even the tiniest of shadows to soften the look of the place.
Freshly mown grass testified to the fact that someone kept the property up, but there was nothing else to add visual appeal or temper the harshness of that setting. Directly to the east, bordering the gravel driveway, a huge hedge of lilac separated their property from the ranch-style house next door.
Emma inhaled deeply, letting her breath slip out between pursed lips as she followed her mother, sister, and brother into the dark interior of the…what? The place was—damn! Dump was the only descriptor that came to mind. A wall of hot, stifling air hit her as she moved inside, and she blinked to adjust to the sudden change of lighting. Well, it was definitely–a mobile home.
Her mother, Anne, followed closely on the real estate woman’s heels, obviously trying to keep her expression from reflecting dismay. Her smile looked like she had pasted it on, and there was a familiar nervous tic near her right eye—a sure sign, Emma knew, that her mother was under stress.
“Well,” Emma’s mother closed her eyes for the briefest of moments before continuing. “It has…possibilities.”
Emma found herself wondering just what possibilities her mother was seeing in this pathetic excuse for a home, that she could not. She knew they had to have somewhere to live—their own place. They’d been staying with her grandparents, Walt and Betty Smith, but the house was small. Despite the fact that she loved her grandparents dearly, Emma was ready to leave the cramped little house. Her mother had already explained that nothing else she had been able to find came remotely close to what she could afford.
The real estate woman was babbling on, her features frozen under a heavy layer of make-up that looked like well-oiled, flesh-colored paste. Emma wondered if the ostentatious diamond glittering on her left ring finger was real or synthetic. Then again, she asked herself derisively, why did she even care? Ms. Hoity-Toity could flaunt all the expensive glitz she wanted—big deal.
The woman was talking again. “The kitchen and dining room are to your right,” she said with cheerful enthusiasm, waving her jewel-bedecked hand.
Like what, Emma thought with unwarranted scorn, I could friggin’ miss it? She noted the factory issue pressed wood cabinets and cream-colored counters. They were old but clean.
Wrinkling her nose, she tried to decide what it was she smelled. A faint mustiness permeated the room, as if the place had been closed up for a long time without fresh air. Emma decided the staleness definitely competed with a pungent odor of ammonia. It was a toss up, in her mind, as to which was the more revolting.
The dining room took up the west end of the trailer. Large windows stretched from one edge of the room to the other, looking out onto a barren expanse of treeless grass, and a utility pole at the end of their road. The kitchen area was small but serviceable, and the counter extended out into a small bar with three stools pushed neatly under the overhang.
Ms. Hoity-Toity continued her monologue, motioning to the room they were standing in. “And, of course, this,” she waved her hand as if introducing them to the upper ballroom in a palace, “is the living room.”
Windows on the north and south walls made the room feel open, but even the sunlight streaming in did little to brighten Emma’s spirits. She felt herself groaning clear down to her toes, but she kept her mouth shut.
Her younger sister, Mary, acted as if the same optimism-infected organism that had nailed the Hoity-Toity, had bitten her as well. Considering the circumstances, her face and voice were entirely too cheerful. “The carpet’s nice,” Mary said with enthusiasm.
Emma grunted in disgust, wiping at a drop of perspiration that trickled down her cheek. Mary was always looking on the bright side of things. She seldom made waves or dared to complain. There had been so many times in the past, Emma had wished she could be more like Mary—the child everyone adored. Right now, however, she felt nothing but irritation with her sister.
The real estate woman was rambling on again. “There are two bedrooms and a bath down here,” she said, leading the way down a narrow hallway. Opening a pressed wood door, she smiled with feigned pleasure. “This is the second bedroom.” Her voice was sugar sweet. It grated on Emma’s nerves.
The room boasted two windows set next to each other that looked out to the back yard. The large expanse of glass let in enough light to brighten the melancholy darkness of the paneled walls, but Emma ached to open one of the windows. The stuffiness of the place made it hard to breathe.
Eyeing the room critically, she decided there would be plenty of room for twin beds, but not much else. Then again, she thought, it is not as if we actually HAVE much else. Emma knew she would share this room with Mary. Their mother had already told them Ian would have to sleep with her. He was barely four, so it would probably work. Besides, he usually managed to end up in their mom’s bed at night anyway.
Anne’s voice was unnaturally bright as she commented, “Well, this bedroom isn’t too bad.”
Emma noticed the underlying note of desperation in her mother’s tone and experienced a sudden surge of guilt. Mom had not asked for any of this, she reminded herself. Picking up stakes and moving halfway across the country was a frightening thing, especially with three kids in tow—and no money.
Catching her mother’s eye, she nodded reassurance, trying to discipline her expression to hide her true feelings. She smiled, hoping it didn’t look as bogus as the Hoity-Toity real estate woman’s did.
Emma would have given almost anything to be home—in L.A.—with everything the way it had been before. She wondered where her father was right now, at this very moment. What was he doing? Did he miss them? Her thoughts triggered the ever-present anger. Probably not, she told herself with acidity. After all, he had Erica now!
Next to the bedroom, Emma poked her head into a narrow bathroom. A tub ran the width of the room directly across from the doorway. To her right, nestled behind the door, was a closet with sliding doors. There was no shower curtain on the tub. She could only hope there was a shower attachment. The thought of being able to take only baths was—no way, it just wasn’t happening!..........
Author Profile. Mary C White
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Tales of a Half Shell
Mary C White
Rain Publishing Inc.
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The Count BY: Mary C. White
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Tales of a Half Shell
Mary C White
Rain Publishing Inc.
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The Count BY: Mary C. White
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Excerpt. Tales of a Half Shell
Tales of a Half Shell
White, Mary C
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-41-0
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
White, Mary C
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-41-0
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
He
Dear Friends,
Hey gang… here we go with chapter one, my tales have just begun….
Here’s a tale that will make you quiver, as deep in your soul you shall shiver.
Don’t freeze please he is still out there.
Unfortunately this poor soul is condemned forever.
Kiss, Kiss…..
Murtle
The sun was just coming up over my castle’s rooftop. I could imagine how its colors of red, orange, and yellow would dance against my windowpanes, had they not been encased by shutters outside and red velvet curtains inside. My mind envisioned how its hues would fill the horizon and shimmer off an ocean’s wave dancing in an iridescent pattern. Its brightness would bring morning and the warmth would invade the cold chill of my castle walls; a chill I loved to revel in. Soon I would have to flee. It was like this every day, over and over again. Once my enemy replaced my love the moon, I had to retreat quickly. Hidden in this mighty castle I am “unlived”. I am but a prisoner of lustful desire, made to heed the call of another.
I have not always been like this. Once I loved it when daylight woke up the world. I worshipped the sun, basking in its warmth, allowing its rays to colour my skin in a rich honey colored tan. My brunette hair shone glazed with auburn highlights, courtesy of its glow.
I looked like a goddess, and felt like one. My 38-24-36 silhouette stood magnificently on my long shapely legs. My blue eyes sparkled, attracting men with their flirtatious twinkle. My moist pink lined lips were inviting, their shape well defined and enticing. I knew how to enhance all my attributes and did so without shame. I dated only the richest and most handsome men.
I would sit on the beach in a yellow string bikini, its color showing off my tan, picking my mark. I wanted for nothing. I was an heiress, for me money was no object. I had no parents. I came and went as I pleased. I stayed in the best of hotels, drove the best cars, and wore only the finest clothing and jewelry. Escorted to the best of places, I lived life to the fullest. In my eyes, I was the belle of the ball.
I met a man; he captured my heart and soul. I worshipped him, I saw him every night and thought of him every day. I am not allowed to tell you his name, for it is whatever he wants it to be.
How can I explain what he did to me? I am still his love, still his desire. I am also lost.
He was handsome, his raven colored hair enhanced by his bronzed skin. His dark eyes held me in their gaze, enraptured me, lured me into his heart. He showered me in jewels and furs. He made sure my room was filled daily with the finest of roses. He took me to the best restaurants and plays every night, before finally inviting me to his home. His home was a castle on the mountaintop above {“my beach”.} Its furnishings and ambiance made me feel like a queen.
Under the starlit sky of his courtyard we embraced. Music began to play a sweet romantic melody. I could see no orchestra or hi-fi; it seemed to drift from nowhere. Joined in dance, his passion filled my soul. I could feel his manhood harden against my pulsating body. Entwined in the heat of passion he raised me up in a whirlwind spin. He was lifting me higher and higher into the air. Beneath the moon he claimed me as his own.
Surprisingly, instead of the fires of passion, I felt the coldness of ice. My body was frozen. The blood in my veins was chilling, yet it filled me with an ecstasy I will never forget. I was enchanted.
Gliding back to earth, he lifted me and carried me inside. Looking into his eyes I felt secure in his arms. I was laid on a soft bed of coldness. My fingers began to roam and I grasped something moist. My god, it was a clump of dirt. Where was I?
He held me in his eyes, my reflection invisible in his stare. He spoke as I listened, shocked by the words that bound me to this castle:
{“You are my wife of ice. Your treatment of man and material things has joined you to me. I have taken your life. You will walk the halls of my castle only at night. You will come to me whenever I call. The ice water in your veins will nourish me. You are now lady of this castle. Don’t worry, you won’t be alone for long, there are many others like you in this world”}
Before he left he whispered :{ [“Beware, you can no longer bathe in the sunlight for its rays are now fatal to you. Live for the night, for the day will boil you away. As soon as you feel the first warning of warmth run to your bed and hide.”]
Goodnight “Ice Queen”……….
Excerpt. Veracity
Veracity
Lavorato, Mark
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-21-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 2
If I think back as far as I can, I don’t remember faces. There was always an Elder there, but as we could only spend a day with them before being handed over to another, and then another, one of them doesn’t really stick out in my mind. Instead, my earliest memory is one of sensations. The sound of waves is everywhere, its low frothing noise never letting up, tirelessly rolling on. I can also hear the sound of the breeze blowing through the palms, but it’s impossible to tell where their rustling begins and the churning of the waves ends, the sounds meld into each other and become the same. And just above this cohesive sighing, I can hear the distant moan of a wood flute; though, I don’t know where it’s coming from, as if it’s being played from around a corner, behind a boulder, or hidden in some dark place beneath the trees. The air is sodden with moisture, and the colour of the sky hazy. My feet are bare, and there is sand perpetually stuck between my toes.
After this memory comes a cloud of learning. It, too, is indistinct; but maybe none of us can recall when our education begins, it’s just suddenly there, everywhere, and in everything we do. We’re being shown how to do things, guided through the steps of processes, people moving our hands to trace the lines on a page, helping our clumsy fingers tie a knot, squaring our shoulders to a slate with some symbols scratched onto it and leaning over us, the reverberations being felt on our backs as their voices drawl out the sound of a letter with slow, deliberate intonation.
And this primary learning, of course, gave way to secondary learning; and I think I loved most all of it. The Elders and I complemented each other perfectly. I was interested, curious, and they wanted to explain everything. Indeed, it seemed there was nothing that they couldn’t do, no contraption they couldn’t build, no function in nature they couldn’t make clear, no animal they didn’t know the name or habits of. As a resource they were almost limitless. Almost.
I remember, and at a very early age, being frustrated that they seemed so puzzled by one of the simplest concepts in life: boyhood. Whereas, at the time, for me, it was as easy to understand as walking. I knew that an integral part of being a boy was the act of destroying things – it was that simple. We ripped apart plants, squished insects, threw rocks at the ground to smash them in half, or better, in three, or in ten, or in hundreds of pieces. We rolled boulders down hills and into the water to see how large a splash we could make, or sometimes into trees, watching with wide eyes as the impact shook the branches, undulating out to the leaves, and then running down to inspect the damage, fingering the torn bark, fascinated. I understood that this was normal. Yet, for some reason, it never ceased to baffle them, and then enrage them, until they felt impelled to scold us for our ‘random devastation’, as they often called it. (Consequently, we grew to be quite secretive about our entertainment; and, generally speaking, the more fun it was, the more secretive we had to be.)
But in spite of keeping as many of our activities hidden from them as we could, they sometimes still managed to catch us doing things we shouldn’t. Often this was in moments when our guard was down, when we were sure we had nothing to hide. For instance, three of us might be chatting in the forest – which was the largest number we were allowed to gather in without an Elder present – and one of them would pass by anyway, just to make sure we were behaving ourselves.
At first, it would look like he or she was just going to saunter past, but then they would stop dead, looking at the ground near our feet, horrified. We would also look down and see that one of us, without even having noticed, had yanked out the arcing branch of a fern, or some other plant that had been within reach, and had systematically plucked every one of its leaves off, from one end to the other. And so there lay the proof, a scattering of pitiful green teeth on the ground between us, wilting in the heat. Our postures would slump. Great. We would look up at the Elder, who would point a rigid arm at the leaves, and we would follow his or her finger back down to the ground again and look at the leaves more intently this time, trying to adopt gestures that also seemed appalled, but not really succeeding.
Then a stern voice would ask: ‘Why did you destroy this plant for no reason?’ And we would look around at each other, because, frankly, it was a tricky question to answer; apparently, we’d done it for no reason. So the only response left was to gape up at them with sorry, if stupid expressions on our faces, and wait for them to reprimand us.
Which they would.
After shaking their heads they would scoot us into one of the community buildings where we would have to sit at one of the long wooden tables and think about what we’d done.
Though, truth be told, we wouldn’t really think. Instead we would make faces at one another, smear earwax on our neighbors’ arms, kick each other’s shins until someone yelped, which was sometimes all that was needed to be dismissed.
The Elder who had ushered us into the building would stand suddenly, exasperated, pointing at the door and telling us to leave at once, maybe demanding that we go to another Elder, who was sure be more strict or consequent, and explain to them what we’d done.
Whenever this happened, I would purposefully be the last one to leave as we scurried through the doorway, because I’d discovered, quite by accident, that if one turned around and peeked back inside once the Elder was alone and unaware that he or she was being watched, occasionally, there was a mysterious thing that took place.
I knew that adults behaved differently in front of children; I knew that there was a kind of drama where they acted a part that wasn’t really who they were, but who they should be. Because, for some reason, children aren’t supposed to know that adults are as flawed as they are, instead, they ought to see them as an ideal being that they should strive to become……….
Lavorato, Mark
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-21-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 2
If I think back as far as I can, I don’t remember faces. There was always an Elder there, but as we could only spend a day with them before being handed over to another, and then another, one of them doesn’t really stick out in my mind. Instead, my earliest memory is one of sensations. The sound of waves is everywhere, its low frothing noise never letting up, tirelessly rolling on. I can also hear the sound of the breeze blowing through the palms, but it’s impossible to tell where their rustling begins and the churning of the waves ends, the sounds meld into each other and become the same. And just above this cohesive sighing, I can hear the distant moan of a wood flute; though, I don’t know where it’s coming from, as if it’s being played from around a corner, behind a boulder, or hidden in some dark place beneath the trees. The air is sodden with moisture, and the colour of the sky hazy. My feet are bare, and there is sand perpetually stuck between my toes.
After this memory comes a cloud of learning. It, too, is indistinct; but maybe none of us can recall when our education begins, it’s just suddenly there, everywhere, and in everything we do. We’re being shown how to do things, guided through the steps of processes, people moving our hands to trace the lines on a page, helping our clumsy fingers tie a knot, squaring our shoulders to a slate with some symbols scratched onto it and leaning over us, the reverberations being felt on our backs as their voices drawl out the sound of a letter with slow, deliberate intonation.
And this primary learning, of course, gave way to secondary learning; and I think I loved most all of it. The Elders and I complemented each other perfectly. I was interested, curious, and they wanted to explain everything. Indeed, it seemed there was nothing that they couldn’t do, no contraption they couldn’t build, no function in nature they couldn’t make clear, no animal they didn’t know the name or habits of. As a resource they were almost limitless. Almost.
I remember, and at a very early age, being frustrated that they seemed so puzzled by one of the simplest concepts in life: boyhood. Whereas, at the time, for me, it was as easy to understand as walking. I knew that an integral part of being a boy was the act of destroying things – it was that simple. We ripped apart plants, squished insects, threw rocks at the ground to smash them in half, or better, in three, or in ten, or in hundreds of pieces. We rolled boulders down hills and into the water to see how large a splash we could make, or sometimes into trees, watching with wide eyes as the impact shook the branches, undulating out to the leaves, and then running down to inspect the damage, fingering the torn bark, fascinated. I understood that this was normal. Yet, for some reason, it never ceased to baffle them, and then enrage them, until they felt impelled to scold us for our ‘random devastation’, as they often called it. (Consequently, we grew to be quite secretive about our entertainment; and, generally speaking, the more fun it was, the more secretive we had to be.)
But in spite of keeping as many of our activities hidden from them as we could, they sometimes still managed to catch us doing things we shouldn’t. Often this was in moments when our guard was down, when we were sure we had nothing to hide. For instance, three of us might be chatting in the forest – which was the largest number we were allowed to gather in without an Elder present – and one of them would pass by anyway, just to make sure we were behaving ourselves.
At first, it would look like he or she was just going to saunter past, but then they would stop dead, looking at the ground near our feet, horrified. We would also look down and see that one of us, without even having noticed, had yanked out the arcing branch of a fern, or some other plant that had been within reach, and had systematically plucked every one of its leaves off, from one end to the other. And so there lay the proof, a scattering of pitiful green teeth on the ground between us, wilting in the heat. Our postures would slump. Great. We would look up at the Elder, who would point a rigid arm at the leaves, and we would follow his or her finger back down to the ground again and look at the leaves more intently this time, trying to adopt gestures that also seemed appalled, but not really succeeding.
Then a stern voice would ask: ‘Why did you destroy this plant for no reason?’ And we would look around at each other, because, frankly, it was a tricky question to answer; apparently, we’d done it for no reason. So the only response left was to gape up at them with sorry, if stupid expressions on our faces, and wait for them to reprimand us.
Which they would.
After shaking their heads they would scoot us into one of the community buildings where we would have to sit at one of the long wooden tables and think about what we’d done.
Though, truth be told, we wouldn’t really think. Instead we would make faces at one another, smear earwax on our neighbors’ arms, kick each other’s shins until someone yelped, which was sometimes all that was needed to be dismissed.
The Elder who had ushered us into the building would stand suddenly, exasperated, pointing at the door and telling us to leave at once, maybe demanding that we go to another Elder, who was sure be more strict or consequent, and explain to them what we’d done.
Whenever this happened, I would purposefully be the last one to leave as we scurried through the doorway, because I’d discovered, quite by accident, that if one turned around and peeked back inside once the Elder was alone and unaware that he or she was being watched, occasionally, there was a mysterious thing that took place.
I knew that adults behaved differently in front of children; I knew that there was a kind of drama where they acted a part that wasn’t really who they were, but who they should be. Because, for some reason, children aren’t supposed to know that adults are as flawed as they are, instead, they ought to see them as an ideal being that they should strive to become……….
Excerpt. Blokes With Stoves
Blokes With Stoves
Hot as you like it
Watson, Margaret
ISBN 13: 978-1897381-11-3
Paperback; spiral bound; 7 x 10
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 1
Introduction
I may be wrong, there may be exceptions, but as far as kitchens go men tend to fall into 4 groups – First - those who never cook. For them the kitchen is just the room at the back that they go through in order to reach the back door. Then there are the specialists – they cook one dish really well – often a spicy one, but hardly ever venture to cook anything else. Thirdly there are the professionals - paid or not. Their kitchens are full of gadgets from blow torches to electric juicers they are innovative and adventurous and know all about the latest ingredients and food fashions. Finally there are those who cook because they have to – there is no one else to do it.
But we never know what is going to befall us. Life goes along and then suddenly, whichever of these groups we started out in we suddenly find ourselves in the last group. We have to cook because there is no one else to do it. If that is you this book will help – honestly – so don’t panic. There are recipes for all occasions and situations – from Saturday Brunch to a party to impress. Most of the recipes that I have included are very versatile – you can use what you have. They tend to be recipes to start off with – basics, that can be built on and adapted as you gain experience and skill.
So turn the pages and enjoy.
Chapter 2
First Things First
It may be that you are taking over someone else’s kitchen. In that case there will be pots and pans, a store of ingredients. But if not here are some things that you really can’t do without. But don’t worry – you don’t have to get them all at once. Also in the list are things that it would be nice to have, but which aren’t essential.
Knifes – these must be sharp. You definitely need a small knife for cutting up smaller things. It can double as a vegetable peeler. A blade of about 4 inches, 10 cm works well.
Secondly a kitchen knife has a longer blade 6 – 8 inches, 16 – 20 cms. Buy one with a smooth rather than a serrated edge. It will do for chopping as well as carving.
Sharpener – my father always used the back step, but get one if you want.
Chopping Boards – the wooden ones look nice, but plastic is more hygienic. You can buy these in sets so that there is one for vegetables, one for fruit, one for fish and one for meat. You must wash chopping boards every time they are used. If you only have one board chop fruit first and then vegetables - to avoid the smell of onions in the pudding. Then meat or fish, which could otherwise spread bugs into the veg.
Sometimes recipes call for ingredients to be weighed. At other times measured. One teaspoonful should equal 5 mls, one tablespoonful 15mls, though they do vary. In the recipes given it usually doesn’t make a lot of difference.-A cup is taken as 250 mls, about 9 fl oz. ½ cup 125 mls 4 fl oz 1/3 cup 80 mls 3 fl oz ¼ cup 60 mls 2 fl oz.
You will see that these measures don’t exactly correspond. Don’t worry about it. Cooking is an art rather than an exact science. I can only advise sticking to either imperial or metric measures in a recipe rather than swapping form one to the other.
Spoons and Spatulas - You will remember from school days that metal transfers heat efficiently. Using a wooden spoon to stir pots means that the handle doesn’t get hot. It is also less likely to scratch your pot. A spatula is useful for smoothing things e.g. the cake mixture in a tin. It also can be used to turn things in a pan. A large spoon with slots or holes to get things out of pans. Another large spoon to lift more liquid items. A fish slice to turn and lift flatter items.
Potato Masher – not absolutely necessary, but it takes ages with a fork. Trying to mash potatoes in a food processor just makes glue.
Bowls – A large one to give you elbow room when mixing dough. A couple of smaller ones for mixing smaller amounts, holding yolks etc. All these should be in materials suitable for the microwave.
Colander and Sieve - Useful for draining vegetables after cooking. The sieve can be used for such things as sauces and soups that need solids removing or lumps taking out. Some colanders have bases, which make them a little easier to use as you can stand them in the sink and just pour in whatever you have.
Grater – these come in all sorts of different types, with different surfaces for different items.
Whisk – the professionals tend to use a balloon whisk, but for most of us a good rotary whisk is best, though of course you can just use a fork. It just takes longer……….
Hot as you like it
Watson, Margaret
ISBN 13: 978-1897381-11-3
Paperback; spiral bound; 7 x 10
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 1
Introduction
I may be wrong, there may be exceptions, but as far as kitchens go men tend to fall into 4 groups – First - those who never cook. For them the kitchen is just the room at the back that they go through in order to reach the back door. Then there are the specialists – they cook one dish really well – often a spicy one, but hardly ever venture to cook anything else. Thirdly there are the professionals - paid or not. Their kitchens are full of gadgets from blow torches to electric juicers they are innovative and adventurous and know all about the latest ingredients and food fashions. Finally there are those who cook because they have to – there is no one else to do it.
But we never know what is going to befall us. Life goes along and then suddenly, whichever of these groups we started out in we suddenly find ourselves in the last group. We have to cook because there is no one else to do it. If that is you this book will help – honestly – so don’t panic. There are recipes for all occasions and situations – from Saturday Brunch to a party to impress. Most of the recipes that I have included are very versatile – you can use what you have. They tend to be recipes to start off with – basics, that can be built on and adapted as you gain experience and skill.
So turn the pages and enjoy.
Chapter 2
First Things First
It may be that you are taking over someone else’s kitchen. In that case there will be pots and pans, a store of ingredients. But if not here are some things that you really can’t do without. But don’t worry – you don’t have to get them all at once. Also in the list are things that it would be nice to have, but which aren’t essential.
Knifes – these must be sharp. You definitely need a small knife for cutting up smaller things. It can double as a vegetable peeler. A blade of about 4 inches, 10 cm works well.
Secondly a kitchen knife has a longer blade 6 – 8 inches, 16 – 20 cms. Buy one with a smooth rather than a serrated edge. It will do for chopping as well as carving.
Sharpener – my father always used the back step, but get one if you want.
Chopping Boards – the wooden ones look nice, but plastic is more hygienic. You can buy these in sets so that there is one for vegetables, one for fruit, one for fish and one for meat. You must wash chopping boards every time they are used. If you only have one board chop fruit first and then vegetables - to avoid the smell of onions in the pudding. Then meat or fish, which could otherwise spread bugs into the veg.
Sometimes recipes call for ingredients to be weighed. At other times measured. One teaspoonful should equal 5 mls, one tablespoonful 15mls, though they do vary. In the recipes given it usually doesn’t make a lot of difference.-A cup is taken as 250 mls, about 9 fl oz. ½ cup 125 mls 4 fl oz 1/3 cup 80 mls 3 fl oz ¼ cup 60 mls 2 fl oz.
You will see that these measures don’t exactly correspond. Don’t worry about it. Cooking is an art rather than an exact science. I can only advise sticking to either imperial or metric measures in a recipe rather than swapping form one to the other.
Spoons and Spatulas - You will remember from school days that metal transfers heat efficiently. Using a wooden spoon to stir pots means that the handle doesn’t get hot. It is also less likely to scratch your pot. A spatula is useful for smoothing things e.g. the cake mixture in a tin. It also can be used to turn things in a pan. A large spoon with slots or holes to get things out of pans. Another large spoon to lift more liquid items. A fish slice to turn and lift flatter items.
Potato Masher – not absolutely necessary, but it takes ages with a fork. Trying to mash potatoes in a food processor just makes glue.
Bowls – A large one to give you elbow room when mixing dough. A couple of smaller ones for mixing smaller amounts, holding yolks etc. All these should be in materials suitable for the microwave.
Colander and Sieve - Useful for draining vegetables after cooking. The sieve can be used for such things as sauces and soups that need solids removing or lumps taking out. Some colanders have bases, which make them a little easier to use as you can stand them in the sink and just pour in whatever you have.
Grater – these come in all sorts of different types, with different surfaces for different items.
Whisk – the professionals tend to use a balloon whisk, but for most of us a good rotary whisk is best, though of course you can just use a fork. It just takes longer……….
Author Profile. Margaret Watson
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Blokes With Stoves
Margaret Watson
Rain Publishing Inc.
theglobeandmail.com
www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/Writemaggie
Rain Publishing: Home :: Non Fiction :: Blokes With Stoves
www.writesight.com/writers/writemaggie
blokes with stoves by margaret watson
blokes with stoves - as hot as you like
http://comeplayintherain.blogspot.com/
www.rainbooks.com
www.thatradio.com
Blokes With Stoves
Margaret Watson
Rain Publishing Inc.
theglobeandmail.com
www.blogit.com/Blogs/Blog.aspx/Writemaggie
Rain Publishing: Home :: Non Fiction :: Blokes With Stoves
www.writesight.com/writers/writemaggie
blokes with stoves by margaret watson
blokes with stoves - as hot as you like
http://comeplayintherain.blogspot.com/
www.rainbooks.com
www.thatradio.com
Author Profile. L.P. Chase
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Alien Mom
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Backyard Treasure
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Sea Monster (2008)
Silly Spoon (2008)
I’m Not Sticky (2008)
L.P. Chase
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.lpchase.com
www.bradymagazine.com/gallery/lpchasebooks
Rain Publishing: Home :: Books by Author :: L.P. Chase
castroller.com/episode/825050
thatradio.podhoster.com
www.amazon.com/Elliot-Stone-Mystery-Alien-Mom/dp/0741422794
www.booksamillion.com
bookcatcher.com
www.abilogic.com
www.discoverlongisland.com
www.ecampus.com
www.imnotobsessed.com
www.literatureclassics.com
www.bluemarlinpubs.com
www.writersdigest.com
http://comeplayintherain.com/
http://tillyriversletstalkaboutit.com/
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Alien Mom
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Backyard Treasure
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Sea Monster (2008)
Silly Spoon (2008)
I’m Not Sticky (2008)
L.P. Chase
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.lpchase.com
www.bradymagazine.com/gallery/lpchasebooks
Rain Publishing: Home :: Books by Author :: L.P. Chase
castroller.com/episode/825050
thatradio.podhoster.com
www.amazon.com/Elliot-Stone-Mystery-Alien-Mom/dp/0741422794
www.booksamillion.com
bookcatcher.com
www.abilogic.com
www.discoverlongisland.com
www.ecampus.com
www.imnotobsessed.com
www.literatureclassics.com
www.bluemarlinpubs.com
www.writersdigest.com
http://comeplayintherain.com/
http://tillyriversletstalkaboutit.com/
Excerpt. Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Alien Mom
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Alien Mom
Chase, L.P.
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-10-6
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The Green
My name is Elliot H. Stone. The “H” stands for Hubert, after my father, but I don’t admit that to too many people. Strange middle names can cause lots of trouble when you’re in third grade. I’m your average, ordinary kid—at least I think I am. Most of my friends think I’m pretty cool, except for Cassie Hawthorne, a girl in my class. She says I’m a geek, and she doesn’t even know my middle name. The truth is I think she just likes me. You know . . . likes me likes me, not just likes me. Yuucckk!
She’s okay to be friends with, since she is sort-a like a guy anyway, but that’s all. The last thing I need right now is a case of the cooties. Being in third grade is hard enough. Anyway, back to important business.
You see, the problem is my mom and I’m not sure if it really is a problem yet. Her name is Elizabeth, but most people call her Liz. Most of the time she seems like a normal mom, the kind of mom who yells when my room is a mess (which is mostly all the time) and makes me eat vegetables at dinner almost every night. I can always tell when she makes frozen broccoli and tries to pass it off as the real thing. It’s hard enough to eat broccoli. I hate that frozen stuff.
She does the usual things like bug out her eyes and talk through her teeth to me and my sister Samantha when we’re in public and she can’t yell at us. Don’t get me wrong, she’s kind of cool too. Occasionally she’ll set out on a mission to slay the boogieman for my sister—he sometimes hangs out in her room—or make sure no space aliens are in my closet at bedtime.
I can never sleep with the closet door open. She’s almost always in search of the resident house ghost who keeps leaving clothes on the floor or shoes in the middle of the room. But we also spend lots of time doing neat things like playing board games or doing science experiments. She’s really cool about making messes. Then there are the times we bake cookies and brownies and stuff. She isn’t always spinning her head around yelling, but when she does, watch out! Her explanations can potentially go on for days. And don’t dare get caught not listening, oh boy, trust me. If you do, plan on putting on your pajamas and going up to bed at lunchtime with no food for the rest of the day. I hate when my stomach growls, so I try not to make that mistake too often. Anyway, mostly everyone I know has a mom who’s sort of the same. But then there’s my friend Jacob Weber. I call him Jake. He’s my very best friend. We’ve known each other since pre-school.
His mom is like, well, like a glamour doll. She always has this electric blue paste on her eyes and shiny stuff on her lips and her hair is completely pointy—I mean like sharp. Once I bumped into her when she was bending down to pick up my rocket launcher. I bent down at the same time and her hair nearly poked my eye out. She should wear a warning sign that reads: Caution, Hazardous Hair. Ever since that day, I call her Spike. I wouldn’t call her Spike when I’m talking to Jake though. It might hurt his feelings.
She always dresses in funny clothes like a rock singer or something. I think she looks like a kid, not a mom. She’s always rubbing Jake’s hair and kissing him on the head while us guys are hanging out. She gushes all over him. I have to say, it’s not good for his tough-guy image. Between you and
me, I think Jake is embarrassed; I would never tell him that because I kind of feel sorry for him. She’s nice and all, but I’m glad she’s not my mom.
I keep getting off the track though. It was a few months ago when I noticed it. The most peculiar thing happened. It was a Saturday morning and I was standing just outside my parents’ bedroom door and overheard my mom talking on the phone. I guess you could say I was eavesdropping. . . a little, if there is such a thing, when I heard her say to the person on the other end of the phone, “I’m afraid I’m beginning to turn green already.”
My eyes flew open wide and my eyebrows practically jumped into my hair.
Why would she be turning green? I wondered. Was she turning into an alien?
A million questions went running through my head. Maybe when she was checking for space aliens in my closet, one was actually in there and started taking over her body. Maybe she’s not actually my mother anymore. I quickly tried to tiptoe away from the door when suddenly she opened it with a crash.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Elliot, what are you doing outside my door?” she asked.
“Uh, I was wondering, if . . . um, my um . . . green socks were in here?” I blurted out. Oh brother, I could have come up with something better than that.
“No they’re not. Did you hear me talking?” she replied (in a little snippy tone, I might add).
“Nope, uh, why? Were you, uh, saying something?” I answered as calmly and coolly as I could. I think I was virtually undetectable.
“No,” she answered very quickly and closed the door again.
What is she hiding from me? I wondered. I ran downstairs and called Jake. “You have to meet me in the clubhouse pronto,” I told him. I slammed the phone down, grabbed my torn green windbreaker and black top-secret backpack, and yelled up the stairs: “Mom, I’m going to the clubhouse with Jake. I’ll be home in an hour!” I ran as fast as I could down my block and into the empty field. I could feel my heart beating in my ears as I approached our secret area. I moved over some loose bushes that Jake and I had dug out so they could camouflage our entrance and pushed my way in through the branches.
There was our top-secret hideout. Just up a few feet was the perfect tree, with the perfect ladder, leading to the perfect top-secret clubhouse. I always feel so safe there. We built that clubhouse piece by piece with our bare hands. I got some extra pieces of plywood from my dad, a few two-by-fours, and some rope to help us climb up the ladder. We used real hammers and nails. I only hammered my fingers a few times. After a while, it didn’t hurt that bad but the bluish, purple color stood out a bit. It adds character………..
Chase, L.P.
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-10-6
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The Green
My name is Elliot H. Stone. The “H” stands for Hubert, after my father, but I don’t admit that to too many people. Strange middle names can cause lots of trouble when you’re in third grade. I’m your average, ordinary kid—at least I think I am. Most of my friends think I’m pretty cool, except for Cassie Hawthorne, a girl in my class. She says I’m a geek, and she doesn’t even know my middle name. The truth is I think she just likes me. You know . . . likes me likes me, not just likes me. Yuucckk!
She’s okay to be friends with, since she is sort-a like a guy anyway, but that’s all. The last thing I need right now is a case of the cooties. Being in third grade is hard enough. Anyway, back to important business.
You see, the problem is my mom and I’m not sure if it really is a problem yet. Her name is Elizabeth, but most people call her Liz. Most of the time she seems like a normal mom, the kind of mom who yells when my room is a mess (which is mostly all the time) and makes me eat vegetables at dinner almost every night. I can always tell when she makes frozen broccoli and tries to pass it off as the real thing. It’s hard enough to eat broccoli. I hate that frozen stuff.
She does the usual things like bug out her eyes and talk through her teeth to me and my sister Samantha when we’re in public and she can’t yell at us. Don’t get me wrong, she’s kind of cool too. Occasionally she’ll set out on a mission to slay the boogieman for my sister—he sometimes hangs out in her room—or make sure no space aliens are in my closet at bedtime.
I can never sleep with the closet door open. She’s almost always in search of the resident house ghost who keeps leaving clothes on the floor or shoes in the middle of the room. But we also spend lots of time doing neat things like playing board games or doing science experiments. She’s really cool about making messes. Then there are the times we bake cookies and brownies and stuff. She isn’t always spinning her head around yelling, but when she does, watch out! Her explanations can potentially go on for days. And don’t dare get caught not listening, oh boy, trust me. If you do, plan on putting on your pajamas and going up to bed at lunchtime with no food for the rest of the day. I hate when my stomach growls, so I try not to make that mistake too often. Anyway, mostly everyone I know has a mom who’s sort of the same. But then there’s my friend Jacob Weber. I call him Jake. He’s my very best friend. We’ve known each other since pre-school.
His mom is like, well, like a glamour doll. She always has this electric blue paste on her eyes and shiny stuff on her lips and her hair is completely pointy—I mean like sharp. Once I bumped into her when she was bending down to pick up my rocket launcher. I bent down at the same time and her hair nearly poked my eye out. She should wear a warning sign that reads: Caution, Hazardous Hair. Ever since that day, I call her Spike. I wouldn’t call her Spike when I’m talking to Jake though. It might hurt his feelings.
She always dresses in funny clothes like a rock singer or something. I think she looks like a kid, not a mom. She’s always rubbing Jake’s hair and kissing him on the head while us guys are hanging out. She gushes all over him. I have to say, it’s not good for his tough-guy image. Between you and
me, I think Jake is embarrassed; I would never tell him that because I kind of feel sorry for him. She’s nice and all, but I’m glad she’s not my mom.
I keep getting off the track though. It was a few months ago when I noticed it. The most peculiar thing happened. It was a Saturday morning and I was standing just outside my parents’ bedroom door and overheard my mom talking on the phone. I guess you could say I was eavesdropping. . . a little, if there is such a thing, when I heard her say to the person on the other end of the phone, “I’m afraid I’m beginning to turn green already.”
My eyes flew open wide and my eyebrows practically jumped into my hair.
Why would she be turning green? I wondered. Was she turning into an alien?
A million questions went running through my head. Maybe when she was checking for space aliens in my closet, one was actually in there and started taking over her body. Maybe she’s not actually my mother anymore. I quickly tried to tiptoe away from the door when suddenly she opened it with a crash.
“Ahhhhhh!”
“Elliot, what are you doing outside my door?” she asked.
“Uh, I was wondering, if . . . um, my um . . . green socks were in here?” I blurted out. Oh brother, I could have come up with something better than that.
“No they’re not. Did you hear me talking?” she replied (in a little snippy tone, I might add).
“Nope, uh, why? Were you, uh, saying something?” I answered as calmly and coolly as I could. I think I was virtually undetectable.
“No,” she answered very quickly and closed the door again.
What is she hiding from me? I wondered. I ran downstairs and called Jake. “You have to meet me in the clubhouse pronto,” I told him. I slammed the phone down, grabbed my torn green windbreaker and black top-secret backpack, and yelled up the stairs: “Mom, I’m going to the clubhouse with Jake. I’ll be home in an hour!” I ran as fast as I could down my block and into the empty field. I could feel my heart beating in my ears as I approached our secret area. I moved over some loose bushes that Jake and I had dug out so they could camouflage our entrance and pushed my way in through the branches.
There was our top-secret hideout. Just up a few feet was the perfect tree, with the perfect ladder, leading to the perfect top-secret clubhouse. I always feel so safe there. We built that clubhouse piece by piece with our bare hands. I got some extra pieces of plywood from my dad, a few two-by-fours, and some rope to help us climb up the ladder. We used real hammers and nails. I only hammered my fingers a few times. After a while, it didn’t hurt that bad but the bluish, purple color stood out a bit. It adds character………..
Excerpt. Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Backyard Treasure
Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Backyard Treasure
Chase, LP
ISBN 13: 9781897381458
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The Dreaded Black Bag
Hi, remember me? My name is Elliot Stone, and I’m in the fourth grade. The last time we met, I was in a real pickle. Thanks to my best friends, Jake Weber and Cassie Hawthorne, I was able to solve the biggest mystery of my life. You know, the one where my mom was turning into an alien. Well, I’m really glad that’s over. But not long after that happened, we stumbled on another baffling mystery. Jake, Cassie, and I were about to embark on our next mission.
The rain was crashing down, making weird drum sounds on the air conditioner in my window. I could have sworn it sounded like someone’s fingers tapping. My bedroom is on the second floor, so unless the guy was about twenty feet tall, I doubt anyone was out there. But, I peeked out through the slats of my mini-blinds anyway—just to make sure.
I was so hung up on the sound the rain was making, I almost forgot how freaked out I was about the creepy statue I had seen when I was at my grandparents’ house the night before. My grandparents live around the corner from us, so we go there all the time. Well, as soon as I walked into the living room there, in plain sight on the bookshelf, was the most evil-looking statue I had ever seen. It was a dark and shriveled little head with its eyes and mouth sewn shut. I shuddered at the look of it. My grandfather said it wasn’t real—that it was just a souvenir from an old friend. But I wasn’t sure I believed him. I couldn’t even look at it long enough to decide if it was real or fake. The thing was so eerie, I had to get out of the room. All I could think about the whole time was calling Jake and telling him what I saw, but we got home too late.
The rain pounded my air conditioner even harder. I wasn’t allowed to call Jake until I was finished cleaning. Saturday mornings at my house are for dusting, vacuuming, and putting tons of clothes away. It’s the worst day of the week—at least until the rooms are done. I hate cleaning my room! I think I hate cleaning my room more than anything else in the entire world, well, anything else in the world except touching the kitchen sponge—that totally grosses me out. But I’ll save that story for another time.
Anyway, I think I must’ve walked back and forth from the window to my closet to my desk about a hundred times. I needed to produce some results fast or my mother would be coming up with the dreaded black bag.
Do you know what the dreaded black bag is? Well, if I don’t keep my room neat, my mother will come whizzing through my door like a vicious tornado sucking up everything in her path in about five seconds and then toss all of it in her black garbage bag—the bag that sucks up every cool thing you ever wanted to save, or every treasure you’d ever found. It’s more like a black hole if you ask me. I would do almost anything to avoid that scene.
The problem is I have to make my room look like I cleaned it, but I’m not good at that because I like to save everything.
“Elliot,” she called up the stairs. “Are you working on that room of yours?”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, almost done,” I answered quickly so she wouldn’t make the loud, stomping trek up the stairs. I called it the “Trek of Doom.” You can hear every footstep getting louder and coming closer until you know you’re doomed.
“Almost done?” I asked myself. “I’m not even close.” One by one, I picked little things that I loved out of my junk drawer, like old rusty nails, pieces of electronic pc boards, broken shells from the beach, bird feathers, or screws that I might need for something some day. As I carefully evaluated each piece, I made the decision that these were all very important and I had to keep them. Back in the drawer they went. I obviously wasn’t getting anywhere with this cleaning thing. I needed a bigger room. Every kid needs at least five junk drawers. Don’t ya think?
I was dying to tell Jake about the creepy statue I had seen, so I started to hurry up. I grabbed at a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It was the overflow pile from my hamper. As I pulled the clothes toward me, I noticed an old tin treasure box taking a ride on my jeans. I must’ve tossed it in the corner and forgotten all about it, which isn’t too hard to believe since it was behind the clothes hamper. Who looks back there? Anyway, it was some old box that my grandfather had given my dad when he was a kid. Even though it was a little dented and didn’t close the way it was supposed to, it was still pretty neat. The blue and silver designs and metal latch made it look like a real treasure chest.
Then, I came up with a plan. I decided I would put all my favorite things in that box so my mom wouldn’t throw them out. I started across the room when I stepped on a board game and crushed the corner of the box. “Ow, ow, ow,” I yelled, grabbing my foot. I cringed as all the pieces shot around the room like little torpedoes. “Oh, crud!” I mumbled, looking at the new, improved mess.
Well, at that point, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that my room was a complete disaster. I picked up the tin box and began imagining what I could put in it. That’s when I came up with an even better idea. Jake and I could bury the box in the backyard somewhere, like a real treasure. I’m brilliant! I thought. I can’t wait to tell Jake.
“What’s that, Elliot?” interrupted the annoying voice of my little sister through the crack in my door.
“What do you want, Sammy? Shouldn’t you be cleaning YOUR room or something?” I grumbled, rolling my eyes.
Sammy pushed her way into the room and sat on my rug.
“Get out of here. You’re wrecking everything.”
“I’m just watching,” she said………..
Chase, LP
ISBN 13: 9781897381458
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
CHAPTER ONE
The Dreaded Black Bag
Hi, remember me? My name is Elliot Stone, and I’m in the fourth grade. The last time we met, I was in a real pickle. Thanks to my best friends, Jake Weber and Cassie Hawthorne, I was able to solve the biggest mystery of my life. You know, the one where my mom was turning into an alien. Well, I’m really glad that’s over. But not long after that happened, we stumbled on another baffling mystery. Jake, Cassie, and I were about to embark on our next mission.
The rain was crashing down, making weird drum sounds on the air conditioner in my window. I could have sworn it sounded like someone’s fingers tapping. My bedroom is on the second floor, so unless the guy was about twenty feet tall, I doubt anyone was out there. But, I peeked out through the slats of my mini-blinds anyway—just to make sure.
I was so hung up on the sound the rain was making, I almost forgot how freaked out I was about the creepy statue I had seen when I was at my grandparents’ house the night before. My grandparents live around the corner from us, so we go there all the time. Well, as soon as I walked into the living room there, in plain sight on the bookshelf, was the most evil-looking statue I had ever seen. It was a dark and shriveled little head with its eyes and mouth sewn shut. I shuddered at the look of it. My grandfather said it wasn’t real—that it was just a souvenir from an old friend. But I wasn’t sure I believed him. I couldn’t even look at it long enough to decide if it was real or fake. The thing was so eerie, I had to get out of the room. All I could think about the whole time was calling Jake and telling him what I saw, but we got home too late.
The rain pounded my air conditioner even harder. I wasn’t allowed to call Jake until I was finished cleaning. Saturday mornings at my house are for dusting, vacuuming, and putting tons of clothes away. It’s the worst day of the week—at least until the rooms are done. I hate cleaning my room! I think I hate cleaning my room more than anything else in the entire world, well, anything else in the world except touching the kitchen sponge—that totally grosses me out. But I’ll save that story for another time.
Anyway, I think I must’ve walked back and forth from the window to my closet to my desk about a hundred times. I needed to produce some results fast or my mother would be coming up with the dreaded black bag.
Do you know what the dreaded black bag is? Well, if I don’t keep my room neat, my mother will come whizzing through my door like a vicious tornado sucking up everything in her path in about five seconds and then toss all of it in her black garbage bag—the bag that sucks up every cool thing you ever wanted to save, or every treasure you’d ever found. It’s more like a black hole if you ask me. I would do almost anything to avoid that scene.
The problem is I have to make my room look like I cleaned it, but I’m not good at that because I like to save everything.
“Elliot,” she called up the stairs. “Are you working on that room of yours?”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, almost done,” I answered quickly so she wouldn’t make the loud, stomping trek up the stairs. I called it the “Trek of Doom.” You can hear every footstep getting louder and coming closer until you know you’re doomed.
“Almost done?” I asked myself. “I’m not even close.” One by one, I picked little things that I loved out of my junk drawer, like old rusty nails, pieces of electronic pc boards, broken shells from the beach, bird feathers, or screws that I might need for something some day. As I carefully evaluated each piece, I made the decision that these were all very important and I had to keep them. Back in the drawer they went. I obviously wasn’t getting anywhere with this cleaning thing. I needed a bigger room. Every kid needs at least five junk drawers. Don’t ya think?
I was dying to tell Jake about the creepy statue I had seen, so I started to hurry up. I grabbed at a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It was the overflow pile from my hamper. As I pulled the clothes toward me, I noticed an old tin treasure box taking a ride on my jeans. I must’ve tossed it in the corner and forgotten all about it, which isn’t too hard to believe since it was behind the clothes hamper. Who looks back there? Anyway, it was some old box that my grandfather had given my dad when he was a kid. Even though it was a little dented and didn’t close the way it was supposed to, it was still pretty neat. The blue and silver designs and metal latch made it look like a real treasure chest.
Then, I came up with a plan. I decided I would put all my favorite things in that box so my mom wouldn’t throw them out. I started across the room when I stepped on a board game and crushed the corner of the box. “Ow, ow, ow,” I yelled, grabbing my foot. I cringed as all the pieces shot around the room like little torpedoes. “Oh, crud!” I mumbled, looking at the new, improved mess.
Well, at that point, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that my room was a complete disaster. I picked up the tin box and began imagining what I could put in it. That’s when I came up with an even better idea. Jake and I could bury the box in the backyard somewhere, like a real treasure. I’m brilliant! I thought. I can’t wait to tell Jake.
“What’s that, Elliot?” interrupted the annoying voice of my little sister through the crack in my door.
“What do you want, Sammy? Shouldn’t you be cleaning YOUR room or something?” I grumbled, rolling my eyes.
Sammy pushed her way into the room and sat on my rug.
“Get out of here. You’re wrecking everything.”
“I’m just watching,” she said………..
Excerpt. King of the Maitre'D's
King of the Maitre’D’s
My Life Among the Stars
Jannetta, Louis
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-06-9
Case bound; Hardcover; 9 x 10
Tony Bennett
As an Italian and as a wannabe singer, I always had the greatest respect for Tony Bennett. I remember seeing him at the Casino Theatre on Queen Street in Toronto when I was a kid. He was just a teenaged Anthony Benedetto himself then, but had already attracted some attention, especially among Italians, when he performed beside New York’s Mayor Fiorello La Guardia at the opening of the Tri-borough Bridge in 1936. When he came to town in those early days, he came to my old stomping grounds—the district around St. Agnes Church where all the Italians lived—not to sing, but just to hang around and feel at home.
He made even more of an impression on me, as he did on so many others, in the early 1950’s. He became a hit parade sensation with songs like “Because of You,” “Rags to Riches,” “Stranger in Paradise,” and so many others. I loved them all. He had the greatest voice for popular standards I had ever heard, a lovely tenor that gradually deepened over the years. When rock ‘n roll came in and he didn’t get on the charts as often, I bought all his albums. I was never too much of a jazz fan, but I loved his work with Count Basie and other artists in the late fifties and early sixties.
It was just around the time I took over the Imperial Room that Tony made a big comeback on the pop charts with “I Left My Heart in San Francisco, the beautiful ballad that became his signature tune.
I knew he was having a terrific career on the concert circuit and on recordings at the time, but I was so happy he had returned to the mainstream prominence I thought he deserved. Another Italian boy made good. I was even happier when he followed that up with hits like “I Wanna Be Around,” “The Good Life,” “Who Can I Turn To,” and “If I Ruled the World.”
We first had him at the Imperial Room in December 1971, and he inadvertently did me a great service. This was the time when my policy of booking the stars was under attack. We were then featuring the Follies Royale, the tacky show some people at Canadian Pacific’s head office thought we should have after it had been a success at the Chateau Champlain. I had been arguing, supported by Gordon Cardy most of the time, that the Imperial Room was not for revues. But we didn’t have any choice or any control in the matter. The Follies was dictated by Montreal….
My Life Among the Stars
Jannetta, Louis
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-06-9
Case bound; Hardcover; 9 x 10
Tony Bennett
As an Italian and as a wannabe singer, I always had the greatest respect for Tony Bennett. I remember seeing him at the Casino Theatre on Queen Street in Toronto when I was a kid. He was just a teenaged Anthony Benedetto himself then, but had already attracted some attention, especially among Italians, when he performed beside New York’s Mayor Fiorello La Guardia at the opening of the Tri-borough Bridge in 1936. When he came to town in those early days, he came to my old stomping grounds—the district around St. Agnes Church where all the Italians lived—not to sing, but just to hang around and feel at home.
He made even more of an impression on me, as he did on so many others, in the early 1950’s. He became a hit parade sensation with songs like “Because of You,” “Rags to Riches,” “Stranger in Paradise,” and so many others. I loved them all. He had the greatest voice for popular standards I had ever heard, a lovely tenor that gradually deepened over the years. When rock ‘n roll came in and he didn’t get on the charts as often, I bought all his albums. I was never too much of a jazz fan, but I loved his work with Count Basie and other artists in the late fifties and early sixties.
It was just around the time I took over the Imperial Room that Tony made a big comeback on the pop charts with “I Left My Heart in San Francisco, the beautiful ballad that became his signature tune.
I knew he was having a terrific career on the concert circuit and on recordings at the time, but I was so happy he had returned to the mainstream prominence I thought he deserved. Another Italian boy made good. I was even happier when he followed that up with hits like “I Wanna Be Around,” “The Good Life,” “Who Can I Turn To,” and “If I Ruled the World.”
We first had him at the Imperial Room in December 1971, and he inadvertently did me a great service. This was the time when my policy of booking the stars was under attack. We were then featuring the Follies Royale, the tacky show some people at Canadian Pacific’s head office thought we should have after it had been a success at the Chateau Champlain. I had been arguing, supported by Gordon Cardy most of the time, that the Imperial Room was not for revues. But we didn’t have any choice or any control in the matter. The Follies was dictated by Montreal….
Excerpt. On Having Power
On Having Power
The Source of Power
Smith, Les
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-51-9
Paperback; perfect bound; 7 x 10
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Introduction
The book to follow can be described in a number of ways.
Some might say this is a self help business book designed for people who are frustrated with, or curious about, the concept and practice of power between people in the workplace and at home. It will appeal to leaders and followers, Actors and Subjects, in any private or public sector work environment. Young fresh business people need to understand this process to survive it. Business leaders need to understand this process so they do not abuse it. So in these pages I offer an explanation of what power is, how power works and how you can overcome it to have your own true power
Some might say this is a disguised normative theory of power with a revised taxonomy offered within the context of the modern free market work environment. It will appeal to young thinkers and activists who are interested in having influence and sway. In these pages I attempt to explain how power works and why it works when it works and fails when it fails.
Some might say it is a disguised new age relationship book for people who want to understand the human condition and rise above it. It will appeal to those who are seeking some intellectual but practical step along the road to understanding who and what they are. In these pages I have offered the simple explanation I have discovered as to why we pursue power.
To me however, though all of the above are true, this book is my attempt to address the question that has plagued me all of my life: Is Power a good thing or a bad thing? ………
The Source of Power
Smith, Les
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-51-9
Paperback; perfect bound; 7 x 10
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Introduction
The book to follow can be described in a number of ways.
Some might say this is a self help business book designed for people who are frustrated with, or curious about, the concept and practice of power between people in the workplace and at home. It will appeal to leaders and followers, Actors and Subjects, in any private or public sector work environment. Young fresh business people need to understand this process to survive it. Business leaders need to understand this process so they do not abuse it. So in these pages I offer an explanation of what power is, how power works and how you can overcome it to have your own true power
Some might say this is a disguised normative theory of power with a revised taxonomy offered within the context of the modern free market work environment. It will appeal to young thinkers and activists who are interested in having influence and sway. In these pages I attempt to explain how power works and why it works when it works and fails when it fails.
Some might say it is a disguised new age relationship book for people who want to understand the human condition and rise above it. It will appeal to those who are seeking some intellectual but practical step along the road to understanding who and what they are. In these pages I have offered the simple explanation I have discovered as to why we pursue power.
To me however, though all of the above are true, this book is my attempt to address the question that has plagued me all of my life: Is Power a good thing or a bad thing? ………
Excerpt. Tidal Wave
Tidal Wave
Brady, Krissy
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781947-8-9
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
DAY IN,
DAY OUT
How surreal it is to wake up to the same view every morning,
Knowing it will be like this
Day in, day out.
Your memories are held tightly in your secret vault.
Knowing you cannot hide causes a volcano to erupt
As you continue down the forgotten path.
It does exist.
You’re not being punished.
You will begin and end in innocence.
I want to be more like you
So I’m less like myself.
I long to live with different flesh, different ideas,
Different voices,
Day in, day out.
I am just like you
TRADITION
Brady, Krissy
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781947-8-9
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
DAY IN,
DAY OUT
How surreal it is to wake up to the same view every morning,
Knowing it will be like this
Day in, day out.
Your memories are held tightly in your secret vault.
Knowing you cannot hide causes a volcano to erupt
As you continue down the forgotten path.
It does exist.
You’re not being punished.
You will begin and end in innocence.
I want to be more like you
So I’m less like myself.
I long to live with different flesh, different ideas,
Different voices,
Day in, day out.
I am just like you
TRADITION
A metaphysical mind
would ask whom you were, this person who has
faded into stone.
The music that plays
is a time machine.
Others easily remember you,
and discuss your poses
stamped on film.
They are evidence that you were here.
Would you have become more
had you not turned into clay?
Because of your sudden disappearance, you are looked for
in your offspring and their every trait.
Although my knowledge of you is in shards, it is comforting to know
that you’ll no longer change.
Excerpt. Dakota Wind
Dakota Wind
Jones, Gray
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781947-4-1
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
BADLANDS
1
Cruising down the freeway at eighty miles an hour, headed east across the flat prairie, I was thinking of Teddy Roosevelt. The scenery through a windshield out there is not impressive, unless one is particularly fond of endless vistas of tall grass laid sideways by the chronic wind, a few cattle and a tumbleweed-strewn fence now and then. I suppose some are, like those that live out here. The wind seems always to blow in the Dakotas, usually crosswise to your path.
The one natural feature of this landscape that punctuates the seamless flat boredom of the terrain is the national park that bears Teddy’s name. It is comprised of deep chalky textured washes and ravines that cut the prairie away dramatically into a kind of miniature northern Grand Canyon.
Jones, Gray
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781947-4-1
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
BADLANDS
1
Cruising down the freeway at eighty miles an hour, headed east across the flat prairie, I was thinking of Teddy Roosevelt. The scenery through a windshield out there is not impressive, unless one is particularly fond of endless vistas of tall grass laid sideways by the chronic wind, a few cattle and a tumbleweed-strewn fence now and then. I suppose some are, like those that live out here. The wind seems always to blow in the Dakotas, usually crosswise to your path.
The one natural feature of this landscape that punctuates the seamless flat boredom of the terrain is the national park that bears Teddy’s name. It is comprised of deep chalky textured washes and ravines that cut the prairie away dramatically into a kind of miniature northern Grand Canyon.
The colors are different of course, being shades of alkali white, cream and beige, but the overall effect of the place is in stunning contrast to the surrounding region. I had just passed an exit to the Roosevelt Museum and as I scanned the stark, bright erosions biting into the earth for miles into the distance the image of the bespectacled adventurer came to mind. I imagined him on horseback wearing leather chaps and gloves, field glasses in one hand, reins in the other, a party of several equestrians accompanying him to the rear. Rifle butts protruded from embossed scabbards above well-worn stirrups and saddlebags bulged with gear and supplies. Perhaps they were hunting elk, which still inhabited the flatlands of North America then.
Or perhaps they were merely returning from the nearest town loaded down with flour and salt pork to the Roosevelt Ranch. The Rough Rider and future president was on a sabbatical at this point in his life, ranching and hunting, pursuing outdoor adventure as a therapy to forget the simultaneous death of his wife and mother.
Or perhaps they were merely returning from the nearest town loaded down with flour and salt pork to the Roosevelt Ranch. The Rough Rider and future president was on a sabbatical at this point in his life, ranching and hunting, pursuing outdoor adventure as a therapy to forget the simultaneous death of his wife and mother.
What was once hastily scrawled across the maps of the General Land Office as Badlands and given a wide berth by explorers, homesteaders and sodbusters alike is now a protected national park. In the nineteenth century Midwest the priority was arable land and farming the kingpin of life; beautiful draws and washes weren’t worth the price of their existence.
Now it is a place to recreate.
The image of the Rough Rider evaporated into an approaching green exit sign twisting in the wind, and I realized that, with the exception of the Park, I had driven the last fifty miles or so visually oblivious to the vast windswept plains sedately passing by. A result of constant driving; one develops a sub-visual autopilot that allows the rest of the brain not involved with the operation of the machine free-ranging imagery. In fact sometimes, when I was very tired after a long day out on some remote stretch of line and the sun was setting, I would experience something entirely different. The fatigue would settle over me like a cotton shroud along those late afternoon miles returning to yet another small town—along with the velvety smothering urge to fall sleep at the wheel. But I had stumbled upon a technique to deal with this. As the desire to nod off enveloped me I would drift into a kind of trance-like state, walking the fence between consciousness and sleep, and this state was mildly reminiscent of that induced by psychotropic drugs, without the nasty side effects. I would cruise down the road in a subtly euphoric twilight overcoming the need to doze.
Many times have I returned from the field before dusk in just such condition, enough that I almost actually look forward to it in some demented way—like a seasoned traveler’s old friend when traveling is all there is, or a dog, or a religion.
This afternoon however, sleep was the furthest thing from mind as I slowed for the exit to Dixon, a not-so-small town on a very big prairie. Even out here the diamond-shaped interchange built well north of town was landscaped with the familiar cluster of motels, quick-stops and fast-food American icons. I turned south onto the old concrete U. S. highway that led into Dixon along a gradually sweeping southeasterly curve of about two miles in length. When it crossed the city limits it became the main drag and decried any surviving rumors that the creation of Eisenhower’s continental freeway system and its circuitous bypass of small-town America foreshadowed the doom of micro urban communities.
It was springtime in the Dakotas, late May, and the street was bustling with activity. There were pickup trucks everywhere with wizened ranchers and farmers at the wheel hauling loads of bagged feed and seed. Customers with broad-brimmed hats stood under the hot sun on the asphalt lot of a farm equipment dealership eyeing brand new green tractors and combines polished to fire engine sheen. The curbs were lined from one corner of a block to the other with cars and trucks whose owners were patronizing local shops, cafes and lounges. Horse trailers and cattle trucks rolled slowly along the thoroughfare in directions, calves bawling and ponies snorting.
The short growing season at this latitude was about to begin and the locals were out in force.
The old highway with signs that marked it as the business route of the interstate ran about a mile and a half through the heart of Dixon east to a crossroad with a state route. Turn north onto that highway and you would find yourself traveling through the outskirts of town approximately another mile or so back to the freeway. This boulevard was lined with plenty of businesses however, including an auto dealer, three self-service gas stations, two liquor stores, a large modern super market and a couple of lounges—one of them a prominent brick building with a giant martini glass atop the roof. I had passed through Dixon once before a few years back on my way to one job or another and did not recall any of this; apparently the community had been thriving, even growing you might say—a rare thing in the hinterlands of the prairie.
The old highway with signs that marked it as the business route of the interstate ran about a mile and a half through the heart of Dixon east to a crossroad with a state route. Turn north onto that highway and you would find yourself traveling through the outskirts of town approximately another mile or so back to the freeway. This boulevard was lined with plenty of businesses however, including an auto dealer, three self-service gas stations, two liquor stores, a large modern super market and a couple of lounges—one of them a prominent brick building with a giant martini glass atop the roof. I had passed through Dixon once before a few years back on my way to one job or another and did not recall any of this; apparently the community had been thriving, even growing you might say—a rare thing in the hinterlands of the prairie.
All this new development along the state highway (which appeared to have been recently widened) was of a distinctly different flavor from that of the old town; all glossy newness and twenty first century—as opposed to the retro fifties/sixties character of Main Street Dixon.
I stopped the truck at the Interstate overpass and made a u-turn back to the south. My taste, as always, ran toward the old, the retro, a time in the past that I thought, or at least fantasized was a better era—probably not true, but an illusion that I prize……….
Author profile. Krissy Brady
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Tidal Wave
Krissy Brady
Rain Publishing Inc.
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Contemporary Poet Krissy Brady is on the Lookout for Identity
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Brady Magazine- Putting Writers on the Map
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Tidal Wave
Krissy Brady
Rain Publishing Inc.
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Contemporary Poet Krissy Brady is on the Lookout for Identity
Local Writer Krissy Brady Added to Marathon Roster
Brady Magazine- Putting Writers on the Map
www.bradymagazine.com
Brady Magazine - Interview with the Editor - Canadian Culture
www.prleap.com/pr/50234
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Amazon.com: krissy: Books
Author Profile. K. Gray Jones
Author Profile Research and Reviews
The Canyon Chronicles, Volume One
Dakota Wind
Gray Jones
Rain Publishing Inc.
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The Canyon Chronicles, Volume One
Dakota Wind
Gray Jones
Rain Publishing Inc.
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Excerpt. The Canyon Chronicles Volume One
The Canyon Chronicles Volume OneJones, Gray
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-28-1
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
1
FREMONT
1845
The transition to Indian summer in these mountains was usually his favorite time of year. It brought a welcome change to the long hard spring and summer months of ceaseless trapping and skinning. The weather was mild and the crisp mountain air filling the gorges and canyons below pure blue skies filled him with vitality. The highlands were ablaze with yellow aspen and the scent of fir and pine was strong throughout the lingering afternoons. Summer fattened deer and elk grazed in abundance through the tall grass at the edges of vast stands of timber. Alexis could even move about on horseback with relative impunity for the Ute’s were preoccupied in this season with laying up jerky in preparation for the coming winter. For a trapper this was a rare period of peace and tranquility, a time to lash up bundles of fur packets destined for trading, and put up caches of victuals in the ravines as larders against starvation when the snows came…
But not this year. On this unseasonably cold September day, Alexis Nicollet sat astride the Indian Paint and was disenchanted. Perhaps the weather had stolen his enthusiasm; the early autumn had been lackluster, the skies continuously overcast and two snows had already fallen. Or maybe it was the void in the life of a trapper hollowed out by the cessation of the rendezvous up Wind River way three years now ended. He missed winding his way down the streams and canyons trailing pack mules laden with beaver pelts on his way to the annual trading extravaganza. What a celebration it had been! For enough furs or beads one could have anything under the sun: food, liquor, squawsor horses. And if one had trapped well during the summer and acquired a great quantity of pelts, what was left over after the purchase of necessities just might turn a profit.
But that had all ended with the passing of the market. The eastern dandy’s lust for the beaver’s hide had cooled to frigidity in just a few short years. A bundle of the furs once considered as valuable as a peck of gold dust had depreciated to nothing more than a moldering rawhide bound burden, worth possibly a pinch of tobacco or a horn of gunpowder. We had all planned to get rich off of those ripe hides, Alexis mused, and in a few years go east ourselves and become landed gentlemen married to pretty women with fine houses and farms.
That is, those of us who were still alive.
The pair of wolves fifty yards or so up the trail snarled viciously, then lashed out at each other in an outbreak of rivalry over the spoils of the moose carcass. Their noses were blood red to the eyes and steam billowed up into the cold mountain air out of the exposed entrails of the downed beast. Alexis was impressed with the horseflesh beneath him, for even though the pony’s muscles rippled tremulously around the saddle and its head tossed in obvious fear, the stallion did not bolt.
He had bought the horse from a Ute for the price of two sacks of flour and an ancient musket that was so old no one in the party would dare fire it. Fremont’s perpetually complaining cartographer, Preuss, had grudgingly brokered the deal, since he spoke some of the language of that tribe, and then of course insisted that he receive a commission for his efforts. Alexis had been forced to give the man a five dollar gold piece, his last one, sewn into the band of his trousers. He did not care for the whining, near insubordinate German at all, neither on this expedition nor the last, and wondered once again, as he had many times, why the Pathfinder put up with the man’s insolence. Were there not other draughtsmen available back east that would jump at the chance to accompany Fremont? Perhaps. Preuss was good. Alexis had seen his finished maps and they were elegant and detailed, carefully delineating the courses of trails, rivers, lakes and traces. Water holes, cut-offs and villages were clearly marked as well as places to avoid or circumnavigate.
Alexis removed one of a pair of his five-shot Colt Paterson revolvers from a trouser pocket. He had attached a buckskin tether to the butt of the gun some time ago, and now looped the thong around his neck so that the revolver hung free at the level of the saddle with the muzzle pointed at the ground. He then very slowly extracted the fifty-four caliber buffalo rifle from its buckskin scabbard, folded out the rod at the base of the gun to support it on the saddle, and carefully leveled the heavy octagonal barrel on one of the wolves.
The two predators had reached an uneasy alliance and were tearing away at the flesh of the moose carcass on opposite ends. Alexis knew there were more of them around waiting in deference to the pack leader and his mate to fill their bellies. When they had finished, the others would move in. The moose had been downed squarely in the middle of the trail at a particularly narrow passage next to the rapidly flowing white creek waters of this steep rocky canyon. Alexis was not really interested in shooting timber wolves. The problem was that the slabs of rock to one side of the trail and the little roaring stream on the other barred passage further up the canyon, except along the trail. He did not wish to return to camp with such a lame excuse for not completing his assignment of exploring this box canyon, thus incurring Fremont’s disdain throughout the remainder of the expedition. No, that would not do. And from the scrawniness of the wolf’s rib cages he figured they were damn hungry and not about to let him pass unchallenged.
He would just have to shoot his way through. Moving slowly, he pulled the stout hammer of the Sharps back to full cock and reached into the buckskin pouch at his belly to find the tin of percussion caps. He extracted one of the caps from the tin with thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed it onto the nipple below the hammer. Putting the tin back in the pouch, he wrapped his right arm around the heavy rifle and, pressing the stock firmly against his shoulder, dug his moccasins tightly into the pony’s ribs through the stirrups. The Paint snorted, and his neck muscles rippled again, but the horse held its ground. Alexis muttered soothingly as he gently placed his cheek against the stock and sighted down the flat top of the barrel at one of the wolves.
The male snapped its head up in the pony’s direction, lips curled back from its canines, snarling and growling. Blood, viscera and white froth dripped from its mouth and its eyes stared black and sunken. Alexis struggled to hold the sight bar of the rifle on its head, countering the nervous movement of the horse—then pulled the trigger.
The buffalo gun kicked him hard in the shoulder, the sharp explosion pummeling his ears and filling the still air with an enormous cloud of bluish smoke. The Paint reared and Alexis hung on, keeping his eyes on the carcass. The report of the rifle echoed against the steep walls of the canyon and Alexis could see that most of the wolf’s head was now missing and the lean carnivore lay on its side atop the moose carcass, twitching. The bitch had jumped straight up in the air in response to the shot and run off to the side of the trail some, but now returned to the carcass, growling deep in her throat and sniffing timidly around her mate’s convulsing torso. In seconds she returned to tearing meat out of the moose with not the least interest in the pack leader’s corpse. Alexis reined the pony under control returning the rifle to the scabbard. Speaking softly to the horse he slowly dismounted, holding on to the saddle horn with his left hand and wrapping his right around the butt of the revolver. When he stood on the ground and cocked the pistol the female crouched over the kill with her lips drawn back over her teeth, snarling, tearing away at the meat and keeping her hollow eyes on horse and man.
Yes, they were indeed hungry, he thought, and harbored little fear of men. He’d expected this and as he held the thirty-six caliber Colt in both hands, carefully aiming the muzzle at the agitated wolf, he was glad that he and Kit had spent many an afternoon off duty target practicing with these repeating pistols. He would have preferred to have been closer because the snarling bitch was at the limits of the Paterson’s range, but he dared not move in now, for she just might rush him and the advantage that was his would be lost. Easy now he thought, yes, aim about six inches over the target, don’t worry about the wind, there is none-- and squeeze. . ……..
Auhtor Profile. Joyce Gilmour / L.P. Chase
Author Profile Research and Reviews
The Ultimate Purple Notebook
Joyce Gilmour / L.P. Chase
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Co Authors LP Chase and Joyce Gilmour
The Ultimate Purple Notebook
Joyce Gilmour / L.P. Chase
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Co Authors LP Chase and Joyce Gilmour
Excerpt. The Ultimate Purple Notebook
The Ultimate Purple Notebook
Gilmour, Joyce
Chase, L.P.
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-09-0
Paperback; spiral bound; 7 x 10
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Gilmour, Joyce
Chase, L.P.
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-09-0
Paperback; spiral bound; 7 x 10
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
The Ultimate Purple Notebook
Educator’s Resource Guide
By: Joyce Gilmour
and L.P. Chase
PART I
Activities for writing assignments and discussion
are based on the educational concepts of
Benjamin Bloom and Bloom’s Taxonomy.
Part One: Introduction to Bloom’s Taxonomy
Using Bloom’s Taxonomy to Make Literature Connections
The first section of The Ultimate Purple Notebook is based on Bloom’s Taxonomy. In 1956, Benjamin Bloom (1913-1999), an educational psychologist, developed a six level classification for intellectual development. This has been put into a system of questioning from the simple recall or recognition of facts, as the lowest level, to the highest order which is classified as evaluation. Bloom found that over 95% of the test questions students encountered required them to think only at the lowest possible level, that of the recall of information. By using these Literature Connections you will be assured of increasing your students’ thinking way beyond the knowledge level.
Of course there are many possibilities for ways to use these Literature Connections with your students. Choice of questions could be given to the students, choosing one question from each level. Students could also work cooperatively to get more interaction and discussion. Teachers could choose activities according to the individual or class needs. Some questions could be optional while teachers assign others. The possibilities are endless. We are providing the questions and activities knowing that teachers can find a variety of ways to incorporate them into their lesson plans. Our hope is that children will find literature (Elliot Stone and the Mystery of the Alien Mom) more rewarding when they are given many opportunities to experience personal connections………..
Author Profile. Joanna Shawana
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Voice of an Eagle
Joanna Shawana
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.prweb.com/tag/joanna+shawana
mediaserver.prweb.com/pdfdownload/429524/6/pr.pdf
cfmnews.com/pressreleases/voiceeagle.htm
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=5
www.oaith.ca/pdf/OAITH%202005.pdf
www.turning-point.ca/?q=node/3764
thatradio.podhoster.com/rss/1070/
profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=41044682
www.brocku.ca/sdc/aboriginal/AbSSEventsWinterTerm2006.doc
torontoist.com/2007/07/well_continue_t.php
dl.lib.brown.edu/newtitles/harris_poetry.php
www.emediawire.com/releases/2006/8/emw429524.htm
Dayton Daily News
www.target.com/Voice-Eagle-Joanna-Shawana/dp/097812572X
www.bookfinder4u.com/search/Voice_of_Eagle.html
Voice of an Eagle
Joanna Shawana
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.prweb.com/tag/joanna+shawana
mediaserver.prweb.com/pdfdownload/429524/6/pr.pdf
cfmnews.com/pressreleases/voiceeagle.htm
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=5
www.oaith.ca/pdf/OAITH%202005.pdf
www.turning-point.ca/?q=node/3764
thatradio.podhoster.com/rss/1070/
profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=41044682
www.brocku.ca/sdc/aboriginal/AbSSEventsWinterTerm2006.doc
torontoist.com/2007/07/well_continue_t.php
dl.lib.brown.edu/newtitles/harris_poetry.php
www.emediawire.com/releases/2006/8/emw429524.htm
Dayton Daily News
www.target.com/Voice-Eagle-Joanna-Shawana/dp/097812572X
www.bookfinder4u.com/search/Voice_of_Eagle.html
Excerpt. Voice of an Eagle
Voice of an Eagle
Shawana, Joanna
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781257-1-4
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Message from the Author
My book is about encouraging women to have a voice-- letting people know that together as one voice we can stand up and be heard--delivering a bold message to each abuser: we will not allow violence to thrive!
If we allow this abuse to grow we are telling our children it is okay to live this life, or worse, we are breeding another generation of abusers! We need to break the cycle of mistreatment for the generations to come.
Remember—not only women go through abuse but also men in our society, they too have been abused or are still living in the silent shame of abuse from their partner, be it a female abusing them or a same sex relationship.
The greatest enemy of abuse is silence. Our silence—for we are ashamed of telling anyone our pain and sit in the cold.
“Voice of an Eagle” is an expression my feelings, struggles, and finally having the courage to speak-to say ENOUGH!
My Voice was silent when I was a child-My Voice was silent when I was a teenager-My voice even remained silent while I was a mother and became a grandmother—
Inside these pages you will find poems, teachings and inspriataion for now is the time to find your voice…as I have found mine
Shawana, Joanna
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781257-1-4
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Message from the Author
My book is about encouraging women to have a voice-- letting people know that together as one voice we can stand up and be heard--delivering a bold message to each abuser: we will not allow violence to thrive!
If we allow this abuse to grow we are telling our children it is okay to live this life, or worse, we are breeding another generation of abusers! We need to break the cycle of mistreatment for the generations to come.
Remember—not only women go through abuse but also men in our society, they too have been abused or are still living in the silent shame of abuse from their partner, be it a female abusing them or a same sex relationship.
The greatest enemy of abuse is silence. Our silence—for we are ashamed of telling anyone our pain and sit in the cold.
“Voice of an Eagle” is an expression my feelings, struggles, and finally having the courage to speak-to say ENOUGH!
My Voice was silent when I was a child-My Voice was silent when I was a teenager-My voice even remained silent while I was a mother and became a grandmother—
Inside these pages you will find poems, teachings and inspriataion for now is the time to find your voice…as I have found mine
Author Profile. Jim Melvin
Author Profile Research and Reviews
The Death Wizard Chronicles
Six Book Epic Fantasy Series
Jim Melvin
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.deathwizardchronicles.blogspot.com/
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=42
leicesterreviewofbooks.wordpress.com/2007/12/07/interview-jim-melvin-author-of-the-pit
bookmarketingbuzz.wordpress.com/2007/12/03/jim-melvin-author-of-the-death-wizard-chronicles-coming-tomorrow/ -
thebookconnectionccm.blogspot.com/2007/12/jim-melvin-and-death-wizard-chronicles.html
www.mrmedia.com/2007/10/jim-melvin-001-death-wizard-chronicles.html
tailrank.com/4419881/Jim-Melvin-s-The-Death-Wizard-Chronicles
thewriterslife.blogspot.com/2007/12/book-spotlight-death-wizard-chronicles.html
books.propeller.com/story/2007/10/20/jim-melvin-the-death-wizard-chronicles-author-mr-media-interview/
odeo.com/audio/17553703/view
blog.voiceoftheangels.com/2007/12/02/clairvoyance-psychic-ability-intuitiveness.aspx
buzzthebook.blogspot.com/2007/12/death-wizard-chronicles-by-jim-melvin.html
bigblog.com/arts_culture/j
www.fictionscribe.com/
pumpupyouronlinebookpromotion.blogspot.com/
www.thebookstacks.com
virtualwordsmith.blogspot.com
www.digiratidad.com
beyondthebooks.wordpress.com
The Death Wizard Chronicles
Six Book Epic Fantasy Series
Jim Melvin
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.deathwizardchronicles.blogspot.com/
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=42
leicesterreviewofbooks.wordpress.com/2007/12/07/interview-jim-melvin-author-of-the-pit
bookmarketingbuzz.wordpress.com/2007/12/03/jim-melvin-author-of-the-death-wizard-chronicles-coming-tomorrow/ -
thebookconnectionccm.blogspot.com/2007/12/jim-melvin-and-death-wizard-chronicles.html
www.mrmedia.com/2007/10/jim-melvin-001-death-wizard-chronicles.html
tailrank.com/4419881/Jim-Melvin-s-The-Death-Wizard-Chronicles
thewriterslife.blogspot.com/2007/12/book-spotlight-death-wizard-chronicles.html
books.propeller.com/story/2007/10/20/jim-melvin-the-death-wizard-chronicles-author-mr-media-interview/
odeo.com/audio/17553703/view
blog.voiceoftheangels.com/2007/12/02/clairvoyance-psychic-ability-intuitiveness.aspx
buzzthebook.blogspot.com/2007/12/death-wizard-chronicles-by-jim-melvin.html
bigblog.com/arts_culture/j
www.fictionscribe.com/
pumpupyouronlinebookpromotion.blogspot.com/
www.thebookstacks.com
virtualwordsmith.blogspot.com
www.digiratidad.com
beyondthebooks.wordpress.com
Excerpt. The Death Wizard Chronicles. Book One
The Death Wizard Chronicles
Book One
The Pit
Melvin, Jim
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-47-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Prologue
Such darkness, he had never known. In all the centuries of his long life, the wizard had never felt anything as loathsome as this. Torturous days and weeks lay behind, endless horror ahead. He was helpless in the grip of an eternal doom.
For a millennium, he had freely roamed the planet Triken, using his prodigious powers to unite the forces of good. But now a sorcerer held him captive in a pit bored into the solid rock of a frozen mountain. Beyond the walls of his prison, a war soon would take place that would dwarf all others. An evil had arisen that threatened not just Triken but the fabric that held together the universe. Only the wizard could stop it. But first, he had to survive.
The pit was two hundred cubits deep but only three cubits in diameter. The prisoner lay curled at its bottom like a snake in a well. Fetid dankness swirled about him, creeping in and out of his nostrils as he breathed. A chill like no other clung to his body, freezing his heart.
All he had left were his memories, which provided his only relief from the relentless blackness. He immersed himself in them, focusing on the past rather than the present. Doing this went against all that he held true. But it kept him sane.
For a fraction of a moment. And another. And another …
Monster
1
In his mind, the Death-Knower wizard replayed what had led to this hideous imprisonment. He fled from the pit into a land of fresh air and sunlight where courage and hope were real, where he could once again become what he remembered himself to be. He was Torg, king of the Tugars, the mystical warriors of the Great Desert, and he led the free people of Triken against Invictus, a sorcerer who threatened to engulf the world in darkness as terrible as the pit.
Seventy-two days before, Torg and twenty Asēkhas — the Tugars of highest rank — had set out from their encampment on the western edge of Tējo, the Great Desert. As dawn approached, they walked across a dry ravine strewn with crumbled rock, their long strides barely disturbing the loose ground. Few living things were aware of their presence. A tiny elf owl, hopping from stone to stone in search of beetles, never saw them pass, though its yellow eyes were clever and keen.
Many believed that Tugars were magicians capable of invisibility. Others thought them to be gods who were immortal in battle. Tugars believed invisibility was a state of mind: silence the mind and the body became difficult to see. As for their perceived invincibility, Tugars trained under the guidance of Vasi masters for fifty years before becoming a warrior. No greater fighters had ever existed.
In the fiery heat of late summer, the small band continued westward for three days, traveling twenty-five leagues across the rocky wasteland called Barranca, which partially encircled the Great Desert. At dusk of the third day, Torg and the Asēkhas finally passed through the wastes and into lowland choked with scrub. They scrambled over creosote bushes that stank like skunks and strode past giant sagebrush that stood thirty spans tall. If the task before them had not been so crucial, the Tugars would have stopped and collected parts of both plants, which they used for medicines, dyes, and to weave hats and bags.
They camped that night in a remote hollow that was a three-day march from their destination: a city called Dibbu-Loka, the realm of the noble ones. All was quiet and the Asēkhas slept, except for Torg and one other. The pair stood together on a nearby hillock — two imposing figures dressed in black. Curved swords hung at their hips.
“Lord, is your mind set?’’ said Chieftain Asēkha-Kusala, the most powerful Tugar in the world besides Torg. “Must you join us on this mission? Your people need you more than does our small company.”
The wizard stood with his back to Kusala, staring at the golden orb in the night sky. For the past several months the full moon had called to his heart in a confounding manner. He ached when he looked at it, a sensation that was sweet and sour — though he did not understand why he had begun to feel this way; it was so unlike him. Still, he recognized this puzzling development as far too powerful and persistent to be dismissed as mere imagination.
“My mind is set,” said Torg, his black, shoulder-length hair swirling in the breeze. “I am a Death-Knower, Kusala. I have lived for a millennium; yet I have died a thousand times. The paradox makes me wise. Do you doubt it? You have been at my side for centuries. Do you doubt me?”
Book One
The Pit
Melvin, Jim
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-47-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Prologue
Such darkness, he had never known. In all the centuries of his long life, the wizard had never felt anything as loathsome as this. Torturous days and weeks lay behind, endless horror ahead. He was helpless in the grip of an eternal doom.
For a millennium, he had freely roamed the planet Triken, using his prodigious powers to unite the forces of good. But now a sorcerer held him captive in a pit bored into the solid rock of a frozen mountain. Beyond the walls of his prison, a war soon would take place that would dwarf all others. An evil had arisen that threatened not just Triken but the fabric that held together the universe. Only the wizard could stop it. But first, he had to survive.
The pit was two hundred cubits deep but only three cubits in diameter. The prisoner lay curled at its bottom like a snake in a well. Fetid dankness swirled about him, creeping in and out of his nostrils as he breathed. A chill like no other clung to his body, freezing his heart.
All he had left were his memories, which provided his only relief from the relentless blackness. He immersed himself in them, focusing on the past rather than the present. Doing this went against all that he held true. But it kept him sane.
For a fraction of a moment. And another. And another …
Monster
1
In his mind, the Death-Knower wizard replayed what had led to this hideous imprisonment. He fled from the pit into a land of fresh air and sunlight where courage and hope were real, where he could once again become what he remembered himself to be. He was Torg, king of the Tugars, the mystical warriors of the Great Desert, and he led the free people of Triken against Invictus, a sorcerer who threatened to engulf the world in darkness as terrible as the pit.
Seventy-two days before, Torg and twenty Asēkhas — the Tugars of highest rank — had set out from their encampment on the western edge of Tējo, the Great Desert. As dawn approached, they walked across a dry ravine strewn with crumbled rock, their long strides barely disturbing the loose ground. Few living things were aware of their presence. A tiny elf owl, hopping from stone to stone in search of beetles, never saw them pass, though its yellow eyes were clever and keen.
Many believed that Tugars were magicians capable of invisibility. Others thought them to be gods who were immortal in battle. Tugars believed invisibility was a state of mind: silence the mind and the body became difficult to see. As for their perceived invincibility, Tugars trained under the guidance of Vasi masters for fifty years before becoming a warrior. No greater fighters had ever existed.
In the fiery heat of late summer, the small band continued westward for three days, traveling twenty-five leagues across the rocky wasteland called Barranca, which partially encircled the Great Desert. At dusk of the third day, Torg and the Asēkhas finally passed through the wastes and into lowland choked with scrub. They scrambled over creosote bushes that stank like skunks and strode past giant sagebrush that stood thirty spans tall. If the task before them had not been so crucial, the Tugars would have stopped and collected parts of both plants, which they used for medicines, dyes, and to weave hats and bags.
They camped that night in a remote hollow that was a three-day march from their destination: a city called Dibbu-Loka, the realm of the noble ones. All was quiet and the Asēkhas slept, except for Torg and one other. The pair stood together on a nearby hillock — two imposing figures dressed in black. Curved swords hung at their hips.
“Lord, is your mind set?’’ said Chieftain Asēkha-Kusala, the most powerful Tugar in the world besides Torg. “Must you join us on this mission? Your people need you more than does our small company.”
The wizard stood with his back to Kusala, staring at the golden orb in the night sky. For the past several months the full moon had called to his heart in a confounding manner. He ached when he looked at it, a sensation that was sweet and sour — though he did not understand why he had begun to feel this way; it was so unlike him. Still, he recognized this puzzling development as far too powerful and persistent to be dismissed as mere imagination.
“My mind is set,” said Torg, his black, shoulder-length hair swirling in the breeze. “I am a Death-Knower, Kusala. I have lived for a millennium; yet I have died a thousand times. The paradox makes me wise. Do you doubt it? You have been at my side for centuries. Do you doubt me?”
Excerpt. The Death Wizard Chronicles. Book Two
The Death Wizard Chronicles
Book Two
Moon Goddess
Melvin, Jim
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-48-9
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
A reason to live
1
A princess with golden hair stood alone atop a hillock overlooking a secluded valley. A warm breeze stroked her face like a loving hand. Just a short time before, her small village had been as steamy as a sweat lodge. But now the last remnants of the sun had disappeared, signaling the start of her favorite time of day. As always she relished the arrival of dusk.
Book Two
Moon Goddess
Melvin, Jim
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-48-9
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
A reason to live
1
A princess with golden hair stood alone atop a hillock overlooking a secluded valley. A warm breeze stroked her face like a loving hand. Just a short time before, her small village had been as steamy as a sweat lodge. But now the last remnants of the sun had disappeared, signaling the start of her favorite time of day. As always she relished the arrival of dusk.
The Ripe Corn Moon soon would rise above the mountains surrounding the valley. She could hardly wait for the full moon to creep over the peaks in the southeastern sky. The sight would fill her with joy.
The princess’ name was Magena, which meant sacred moon in her language. She was an adopted member of the Ropakans, a tribal people who dwelled in the Mahaggata Mountains. Though she knew their ways and traditions, Magena was unlike the other members of her clan. Her skin was the color of cream, while the Ropakans were deeply tanned. Her hair was thin and golden, in contrast to the dense black of her sisters and brothers. Her eyes were blue-gray; theirs, dark brown. Her body was long and voluptuous; theirs, short and stocky.
One difference far surpassed the physical dissimilarities. Unlike the others of her clan, Magena wielded magical powers — but she didn’t dare display them openly. Eight years before, her adoptive father had rescued her from the wicked currents of the Ogha River. Since then, he had urged her to hide her gifts in order to avoid jealousy and distrust among the villagers.
The moon was Magena’s friend and ally. She reveled in its reflected light. The sun did not scorch her, but neither did it nourish; she could wander freely during the day, but she often felt weak and sick to her stomach. However, when night came she burst with vitality. The moon fueled her strength, and when it rose to fullness her puissance reached maximum potential.
As she stood on the hillock that evening, Magena sensed her father’s presence before actually seeing him. His name was Takoda, which meant friend of all in the language of the Ropakans. Since the early years of their relationship, Takoda had taken rascally pleasure in sneaking up and startling her, often leaping from behind boulders or trees with a wild look in his eyes. When she shrieked, he would laugh until he cried — and then apologize with the insincere remorse of a trickster. At first Magena had resented her father’s strange sense of humor. But eventually she grew to adore his good-natured attention.
Nowadays he rarely succeeded in frightening her. Magena was eighteen years old and in the full bloom of womanhood. She had eyes like an eagle’s, ears like a tyger’s, and a nose like a bear’s. But many of her people made similar claims. What separated her from the others were her supernatural powers, which radiated from her body like heat off a wildfire. No one could enter her invisible aura without her noticing. At nighttime, especially, it was impossible to approach undetected.
“Father, will you never tire of this game?” said Magena, her sweet voice barely audible. “I’ve told you dozens of times: You’ll never surprise me again. Even asleep, I hear you. You make as much noise as a moose!”
Takoda grunted, kicking the grass at his feet.
“I crawled up behind you as slow and silent as a snail,” he whined, “and still you heard me.”
Magena let out an exaggerated sigh. Then she laughed.
“Dear one, if you meant to imitate a snail, you failed. A cave troll is more like it. I heard you before you began your climb.”
“Bah! You’re no fun to be around, anymore.”
But then he hugged her, and she responded lovingly, pressing her cheek against his weathered face. They stood side by side — she a full span taller — and looked down at their small village.
“I love you, Magena,” Takoda whispered. “You were not born from my seed, but I’m as proud as any father could be. None among the Ropakans can boast of a finer child. Having you as a daughter has been a high honor.”
“Dear one, having you as a father has been a far higher honor. You rescued me from a monster and invited me into your family — with arms open wide. I owe you more than my life. Without you, I wouldn’t have my soul.”
“You owe me nothing that you have not repaid a thousand times.”
They hugged again and stood silently, arm in arm. Below them, their village roared to life. Tonight the Ropakans would give thanks to the Great Spirit for the arrival of the year’s first crop of corn. Dancing and feasting would last until morning. Venison, bear, and turkey already were roasting. Potatoes, beans, and nuts simmered in clay pots. Peaches, berries, and figs were spread on long tables. There was black tea brewed from smoked holly leaves, along with apple wine and cornstalk beer — more food and drink than three times their number could consume.
“Come, daughter. We must return to the village before your mother’s side of the family eats everything.”
Just then, the drums began to rumble. The ceremony had begun. A smile spread across Magena’s beautiful face, and she laughed again.
“Race you there!” she said, sprinting down the hill.
Takoda watched her run, but he did not immediately follow. Instead he remained atop the hillock and pressed his hand against his breast. He loved her so much, he feared his heart would burst.
But he worried about her even more. His mind would not rest.
Can I protect her forever? We already have spent so much of our lives hiding from Invictus’ monsters. What will become of her? And us? My brother says we’re safe. But I’m not so sure. We’ve been in the same place too long.
Finally Takoda started down the hillock, as slow and silent as a snail……….
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