Author Profile Research and Reviews
Roots, Wings and Other Things
A Mothers True Stories on Transracial Adoptions
Spalding Gillis, Dr. Donna
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.parentingexpress.com/Words/Stories/0021.htm
www.orientaltales.com/issues/004/page07.html
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=11
www.breadnmolasses.com/2005_07/atlanticarts/culture.html
www.bookcatcher.com/bookreleases/ezineready.php?id=189
www.adoption.on.ca/ARE Conference - April 2007 FINAL.doc
www.familyhelper.net/events.html
www.townofhampton.ca/category/4180
pwac2007.blogspot.com/2006/12/november-achievements.html
www.adoption.ca/publications.htm
www.thedistrict.ca/calendar.cfm?month=4&year=2007
media.podhoster.com/thatradio/liquid_lunch_2007-11n-13_-_author_dr._donna_gillis_spalding...
thatradio.podhoster.com/index.php?sid=1210&pid=4467
fredkid.com/index.php?...&d=15&m=11&y=2007&vcat=&Itemid=&v=d
alumni.unb.ca/publications/alumninews/2007WinterOnline.pdf
dailygleaner.canadaeast.com/liveit/article/122284
justfred.ca/justfred.forums/calendar.php?do=getinfo&day=2007-11-15&...
www.blogcatalog.com/posts/adoptions
www.gnb.ca/legis/leglibbib/Special_Projects/Sept2007.pdf
www.adoption.on.ca/ARE Conference - April 2007 FINAL.doc
canadaadopts.com/cgi-bin/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic&f=23&t=000782
www.prweb.com/releases/2006/10/prweb449723.htm
Excerpt. Roots, Wings and Other Things
Roots, Wings and Other Things.
A Mother’s True Story on Transracial Adoptions.
Gillis Spalding, Dr. Donna
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-00-7
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
1
The idea of adopting a family was a dream I’d had since I was a teenager, when I did volunteer work in an orphanage. Most of the children in the orphanage were older and of mixed race. As a teenager, I could not imagine what it would be like to live without a family. Every year I would bring home a child from the orphanage to spend Christmas with my family. I would beg my mother and father to adopt these visitors, but of course that didn’t happen. I never forgot the children in the orphanage and decided I would adopt children when I married.
Anytime I got interested in a man I would make sure I knew his views on adoption, and fortunately, I found Howard. We were married in 1964, and now have eight children. This is the story of our family and how it developed.
Our family could best be described as “unplanned.” We have one biological child, six adopted children, and one child who was old enough when she came to us that we did not have to go through the legal process of adoption. Our children come from different racial backgrounds, and their ages at adoption ranged from three months to fifteen years.
Most parents do not know what problems their children will face in life, but because we were a transracial family, we had the advantage of being able to identify at least some of them in advance. Some of our children had little knowledge of their biological background, and consequently had difficulty developing a sense of identity. Others had lived with their parents, but for one reason or another had been placed in foster homes.
After years of going from one foster home another, these children had no concept of family. All but one of them had experienced physical and/or mental abuse. For all these reasons, I felt it was of paramount importance to provide the children with new roots. It was equally important to give them the confidence to take on the world and build their own lives.
Before getting on with our family story, I would like to express my feelings regarding our family. An awkward situation we often had to deal with was having people tell us how wonderful we were for adopting children—especially older, interracial children. Many people think that choosing to adopt is unnatural and somehow deserving of praise. We believe we were the lucky ones, because we experienced the love of these children.
Adoptive families can be as real, loving, and permanent as other forms of families.
My roots are in Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. My maternal great-grandfather came from Scotland and settled in Rocky Boston, on Cape Breton Island. By the time his son (my grandfather) was old enough to work, Rocky Boston was a thriving community, and most of the people were subsistence farmers.
Over time, my uncles moved to Sydney to work in the coalmines. They boarded at a home during the week and went back to Rocky Boston on weekends. By the time I was a child, there were only two houses in the area: one belonged to my grandfather and the other to his son, my uncle. Today Rocky Boston is uninhabited.
My grandparents had six sons and four daughters. My grandmother died giving birth to my mother, and my grandfather could not take care of a baby. Another Scottish family who spoke Gaelic raised her, but her position in the new family was ambiguous; on one hand she was accepted, but on the other, she was not considered to be a real member of the family.
Consequently, my mother never met her biological family until she was married and had her own children. You can imagine her surprise when she found out she had so many brothers and sisters. Five of my uncles (her brothers) and one aunt (her sister) continued to live at home with Grandpa at Rocky Boston. My aunt did not marry because she had to look after the men.
Only one of my uncles—Norman—married. Uncle Norman and his wife had one child, who was killed in a car/pedestrian accident when he was sixteen. My grandfather lived until he was one hundred and five, but never got over the fact that there was no one to carry on the family name.
Gaelic was the only language that Grandpa spoke, so the rest of the family spoke Gaelic whenever they were at the farm. My mom also spoke some Gaelic at home when she did not want us children to understand what she was saying.
She was not very happy when she heard me repeating her Gaelic words to Grandpa. I don’t know what he said to Mom, but he sure seemed upset with her……….
A Mother’s True Story on Transracial Adoptions.
Gillis Spalding, Dr. Donna
ISBN 13: 978-1-897381-00-7
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
1
The idea of adopting a family was a dream I’d had since I was a teenager, when I did volunteer work in an orphanage. Most of the children in the orphanage were older and of mixed race. As a teenager, I could not imagine what it would be like to live without a family. Every year I would bring home a child from the orphanage to spend Christmas with my family. I would beg my mother and father to adopt these visitors, but of course that didn’t happen. I never forgot the children in the orphanage and decided I would adopt children when I married.
Anytime I got interested in a man I would make sure I knew his views on adoption, and fortunately, I found Howard. We were married in 1964, and now have eight children. This is the story of our family and how it developed.
Our family could best be described as “unplanned.” We have one biological child, six adopted children, and one child who was old enough when she came to us that we did not have to go through the legal process of adoption. Our children come from different racial backgrounds, and their ages at adoption ranged from three months to fifteen years.
Most parents do not know what problems their children will face in life, but because we were a transracial family, we had the advantage of being able to identify at least some of them in advance. Some of our children had little knowledge of their biological background, and consequently had difficulty developing a sense of identity. Others had lived with their parents, but for one reason or another had been placed in foster homes.
After years of going from one foster home another, these children had no concept of family. All but one of them had experienced physical and/or mental abuse. For all these reasons, I felt it was of paramount importance to provide the children with new roots. It was equally important to give them the confidence to take on the world and build their own lives.
Before getting on with our family story, I would like to express my feelings regarding our family. An awkward situation we often had to deal with was having people tell us how wonderful we were for adopting children—especially older, interracial children. Many people think that choosing to adopt is unnatural and somehow deserving of praise. We believe we were the lucky ones, because we experienced the love of these children.
Adoptive families can be as real, loving, and permanent as other forms of families.
My roots are in Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. My maternal great-grandfather came from Scotland and settled in Rocky Boston, on Cape Breton Island. By the time his son (my grandfather) was old enough to work, Rocky Boston was a thriving community, and most of the people were subsistence farmers.
Over time, my uncles moved to Sydney to work in the coalmines. They boarded at a home during the week and went back to Rocky Boston on weekends. By the time I was a child, there were only two houses in the area: one belonged to my grandfather and the other to his son, my uncle. Today Rocky Boston is uninhabited.
My grandparents had six sons and four daughters. My grandmother died giving birth to my mother, and my grandfather could not take care of a baby. Another Scottish family who spoke Gaelic raised her, but her position in the new family was ambiguous; on one hand she was accepted, but on the other, she was not considered to be a real member of the family.
Consequently, my mother never met her biological family until she was married and had her own children. You can imagine her surprise when she found out she had so many brothers and sisters. Five of my uncles (her brothers) and one aunt (her sister) continued to live at home with Grandpa at Rocky Boston. My aunt did not marry because she had to look after the men.
Only one of my uncles—Norman—married. Uncle Norman and his wife had one child, who was killed in a car/pedestrian accident when he was sixteen. My grandfather lived until he was one hundred and five, but never got over the fact that there was no one to carry on the family name.
Gaelic was the only language that Grandpa spoke, so the rest of the family spoke Gaelic whenever they were at the farm. My mom also spoke some Gaelic at home when she did not want us children to understand what she was saying.
She was not very happy when she heard me repeating her Gaelic words to Grandpa. I don’t know what he said to Mom, but he sure seemed upset with her……….
Are You Left or Right Brained?
P.L Reed-Wallinger answers--
Are you right-brained or left-brained, and how does that factor into your writing? Do you get writer’s block, and if so, how do you cope?
None of my books have been made into movies. However, when I first penned Dark Secrets, I envisioned Dwayne Johnson (The Rock), as the main character. I actually thought the storyline was a perfect fit for that actor’s personality and acting abilities. Forbidden Fantasies, too, had several characters modeled after celebrities, and like Dark Secrets, the storyline would make an awesome movie.
I have only one book that was written with the express intent of writing a trilogy. It is, in fact, one of the first things I really put serious writing effort into. Prophesy Stones—Book I, The Quest. It’s a sword and sorcery fantasy fiction, complete with its own world, cultures, deities, language, and conflicts. It is, in fact, my passion. I love losing myself in that world, and truly hope to see those books published someday.
I really have not contemplated sequels to any great extent, although I’ve had reader requests for another story around the Dark Secrets’ characters. Actually, Forbidden Fantasies has another story in it—Angie’s story. As I was writing, I would constantly have flashes of that other storyline coming through, and pondered the idea of pursuing it someday. I pour so much of myself into every book, that by the time I’m done I’m totally exhausted. I’m really nowhere near ready to start back into that storyline again. And, for the most part, by the time I reach the end of a story, it’s as if the characters are done talking. They wave goodbye and leave. They don’t stick around to tell any more tales, and I’m not clever enough to make that shit up all by myself.
P.L. Reed-Wallinger
Dark Secrets, Forbidden Fantasies, Emma's Choice and coming in '08- Obscene Obsessions
Are you right-brained or left-brained, and how does that factor into your writing? Do you get writer’s block, and if so, how do you cope?
None of my books have been made into movies. However, when I first penned Dark Secrets, I envisioned Dwayne Johnson (The Rock), as the main character. I actually thought the storyline was a perfect fit for that actor’s personality and acting abilities. Forbidden Fantasies, too, had several characters modeled after celebrities, and like Dark Secrets, the storyline would make an awesome movie.
I have only one book that was written with the express intent of writing a trilogy. It is, in fact, one of the first things I really put serious writing effort into. Prophesy Stones—Book I, The Quest. It’s a sword and sorcery fantasy fiction, complete with its own world, cultures, deities, language, and conflicts. It is, in fact, my passion. I love losing myself in that world, and truly hope to see those books published someday.
I really have not contemplated sequels to any great extent, although I’ve had reader requests for another story around the Dark Secrets’ characters. Actually, Forbidden Fantasies has another story in it—Angie’s story. As I was writing, I would constantly have flashes of that other storyline coming through, and pondered the idea of pursuing it someday. I pour so much of myself into every book, that by the time I’m done I’m totally exhausted. I’m really nowhere near ready to start back into that storyline again. And, for the most part, by the time I reach the end of a story, it’s as if the characters are done talking. They wave goodbye and leave. They don’t stick around to tell any more tales, and I’m not clever enough to make that shit up all by myself.
P.L. Reed-Wallinger
Dark Secrets, Forbidden Fantasies, Emma's Choice and coming in '08- Obscene Obsessions
Review: Tilly Rivers
HEADLINE:
Read Sex as it was meant to be. Raw. Real and Hungry!
We are proud to present award winning author: Tilly Rivers’- Sex Pistols-United Kingdom
Tilly Rivers is a maverick in the erotica prose world. She defies any easy pigeonhole. By turns, her prose is a witty combination about modern sex lives and sweet secret cravings of desire, her explicit tales of sexual fantasy touch the hidden beast within each of us so skillfully blended into a seamless escape tansporting you as the lover.
“If I had a choice between reading Tilly’s creations of fantasy illusion and others in the erotica industry…she would and does win every time. Tilly is sexuality at its highest peak.”
- Kelly Lucas – Sex Pistols Magazine, United Kingdom
A core link in the erotica circuit Rivers will amaze you!
Read Sex as it was meant to be. Raw. Real and Hungry!
We are proud to present award winning author: Tilly Rivers’- Sex Pistols-United Kingdom
Tilly Rivers is a maverick in the erotica prose world. She defies any easy pigeonhole. By turns, her prose is a witty combination about modern sex lives and sweet secret cravings of desire, her explicit tales of sexual fantasy touch the hidden beast within each of us so skillfully blended into a seamless escape tansporting you as the lover.
“If I had a choice between reading Tilly’s creations of fantasy illusion and others in the erotica industry…she would and does win every time. Tilly is sexuality at its highest peak.”
- Kelly Lucas – Sex Pistols Magazine, United Kingdom
A core link in the erotica circuit Rivers will amaze you!
Meet the Author: Christine Cristiano
Meet the Author: Christine Cristiano
From a very young age, Christine felt compelled to put pen to paper and weave tales of make believe. Her first real attempt at fiction took place at the age of nine when she accompanied her mother to work. With nothing to occupy her time, Christine sat down at one of the typewriters and pumped out her first fable. During her summer break in her tenth year, Christine spent hours sitting on her front porch chronicling the adventures of a fictitious character named Jenny.
Through her elementary school years, Christine continued to practice her prose and delight her teachers and classmates with her stories.
“Throughout the years, something my eighth grade teacher said always stuck in my mind,” recalls Christine. “After reading one of my stories to the class, Mrs. B complimented me on my story and remarked that if I didn’t become a writer - she didn’t know what I would be become.”
In 2000, after the purchase of a brand new computer, Christine was introduced to the Internet and took her first steps along her path towards a writing career. Her compulsion to write has taken her along a remarkable journey of inspiration, perseverance and wisdom. To date, her work has appeared in hundreds of publications throughout Canada and the United States.
Christine Cristiano hangs her hat in Ontario, Canada and shares her world with her husband, two boys, and a beagle named Tessie.
From a very young age, Christine felt compelled to put pen to paper and weave tales of make believe. Her first real attempt at fiction took place at the age of nine when she accompanied her mother to work. With nothing to occupy her time, Christine sat down at one of the typewriters and pumped out her first fable. During her summer break in her tenth year, Christine spent hours sitting on her front porch chronicling the adventures of a fictitious character named Jenny.
Through her elementary school years, Christine continued to practice her prose and delight her teachers and classmates with her stories.
“Throughout the years, something my eighth grade teacher said always stuck in my mind,” recalls Christine. “After reading one of my stories to the class, Mrs. B complimented me on my story and remarked that if I didn’t become a writer - she didn’t know what I would be become.”
In 2000, after the purchase of a brand new computer, Christine was introduced to the Internet and took her first steps along her path towards a writing career. Her compulsion to write has taken her along a remarkable journey of inspiration, perseverance and wisdom. To date, her work has appeared in hundreds of publications throughout Canada and the United States.
Christine Cristiano hangs her hat in Ontario, Canada and shares her world with her husband, two boys, and a beagle named Tessie.
Church Mouse Poor
Thomas the mouse lives with his mother and grandmother in the old church at the end of town. He likes to listen to the choir sing and watch the parishioners during the Sunday sermon. One Sunday morning, he overhears Charlie Smith and his mother talking. Their words send Thomas on a journey of discovery. Along the way, he meets some unforgettable friends who try their best to help Thomas on his quest to discover if he is as poor as a church mouse!
Church Mouse Poor
The Brampton Guardian Press
Brampton author signs her latest children's book
The Brampton Guardian
Friday November 16 2007
Print this articleEmail this article
BRAMPTON - Christine Cristiano, a Brampton author, is holding a signing for her children's picture book, Church Mouse Poor, at Chapters, 52 Quarry Edge Dr.
For information, contact Chapters at 905-456-7177 .
The Actors Studio
The Actors Studio, a joint partnership between The Peel Heritage Complex and DYT Productions, is presenting a number of events to showcase the talents of its members. For information, call 416-712-2749 or visit www.dytproductions.com.
The Brampton Guardian
Friday November 16 2007
Print this articleEmail this article
BRAMPTON - Christine Cristiano, a Brampton author, is holding a signing for her children's picture book, Church Mouse Poor, at Chapters, 52 Quarry Edge Dr.
For information, contact Chapters at 905-456-7177 .
The Actors Studio
The Actors Studio, a joint partnership between The Peel Heritage Complex and DYT Productions, is presenting a number of events to showcase the talents of its members. For information, call 416-712-2749 or visit www.dytproductions.com.
Author Profile: Christine Cristiano
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Church Mouse Poor
Christine Cristiano
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.writersweekly.com/this_weeks_article/000512_08132003.html
www.brampton.com/calendar/calendar.php?op=view&id=9580
www.thebramptonguardian.com/entertainment/article/37998
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
inkspotter.com/.../newsletters/inkspotternews/InkSpotter News 5.06.pdf
www.webspawner.com/users/wordwizardry/index.html
rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=&sort=&...&page=2
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/home.php?cat=265
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16186&cat=265&page=1
canadianartsnet.com/component/.../task,userProfile/user,91
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
writersontherise.wordpress.com/2007/09/13/september-2007-roar-board
www.amazon.com/Church-Mouse-Poor-Christine-Cristiano/dp/1897381441
archives.zinester.com/54495/141108.html
www.stratfordgazette.com/wheels/article/33760
caledon.library.on.ca/index.php?...&month=09&day=22&Itemid=69
www.ticketcyclone.com/cityguides/ON/Brampton
www.jamespot.com/news/en/tag-mozart+imax.html
Church Mouse Poor
Christine Cristiano
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.writersweekly.com/this_weeks_article/000512_08132003.html
www.brampton.com/calendar/calendar.php?op=view&id=9580
www.thebramptonguardian.com/entertainment/article/37998
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
inkspotter.com/.../newsletters/inkspotternews/InkSpotter News 5.06.pdf
www.webspawner.com/users/wordwizardry/index.html
rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=&sort=&...&page=2
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/home.php?cat=265
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16186&cat=265&page=1
canadianartsnet.com/component/.../task,userProfile/user,91
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
writersontherise.wordpress.com/2007/09/13/september-2007-roar-board
www.amazon.com/Church-Mouse-Poor-Christine-Cristiano/dp/1897381441
archives.zinester.com/54495/141108.html
www.stratfordgazette.com/wheels/article/33760
caledon.library.on.ca/index.php?...&month=09&day=22&Itemid=69
www.ticketcyclone.com/cityguides/ON/Brampton
www.jamespot.com/news/en/tag-mozart+imax.html
Creation
CREATION
Written by P.L.Reed-Wallinger
There’s only one at first, but there’s always more. In the beginning, they come at night, invading my sleep and making sure I know who they are—what they want. It isn’t long until they’ve taken over my world. They slip into my day, filling my head and demanding my attention.
So alive! So real! I see their faces—watch their eyes. I note every gesture; study the expressions on increasingly familiar countenances. Much like a video playing in my head their story unfolds— I can’t wrench myself away! I watch them laugh and cry, love and struggle. I learn of their strengths and weaknesses, their feelings and thoughts. I immerse myself in them—live and breathe them. They become a part of me—flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, growing inside my skull, anxious for legitimate existence and their first breath of life.
Suddenly it’s there! The incredible drive, the all-consuming compulsion! The words thrash inside my head like roiling, churning water. They crash in wild recklessness toward release—toward the moment they can leave the confining banks of the mind that nurtured them and leap out—dancing through the air in fierce, excited, breathtaking abandon. Cascading with brilliant, vibrant life onto the screen of my computer—full of color and depth and vitality.
Reality outside their world ceases to exist. I’m consumed—driven! Nothing else has meaning. I have to write! I feel soaring elation in the moments when the words tumble over themselves in their eagerness to find life, and desperate agitation when they damn up, refusing my efforts to dislodge them before they are ready.
Every moment becomes an emotional struggle, step-by-step, hour-by-hour, day-by-day. Write! Sleep is elusive, food turns oddly tasteless, and relationships are meaningless. Write! There is no peace. Write! No escape. Write! They won’t let me rest until I’ve penned their words, captured the essence of their lives into the sentences that will fan themselves across the pages rolling out of the computer before me.
And then it’s over! No more struggle. No more anguish. The lives that found their existence in my mind are real and whole. Born at last into a world that will come to know them as the inimitable, striking creatures they are. What an incredible feeling of elation and accomplishment, yet the euphoria is tinged with weariness and relief. Wrenched from somewhere deep in my gut, a sigh tumbles forth, and I wearily seek out my bed. I could sleep for hours—days—years!
The throes of creation have given birth to something that amazes me---did I really do that? How could I create something so unique, so perfect, and so beautiful? The answer is simple, I didn’t! God’s hand is clearly visible in the shadows of this work, and I am only the vassal. My role in this is manifest and I am ecstatic and humbled at one-and-the-same time. The weariness lifts, and my soul fills with joy, peace, and contentment. What a beautiful thing---creation!
Written by P.L.Reed-Wallinger
There’s only one at first, but there’s always more. In the beginning, they come at night, invading my sleep and making sure I know who they are—what they want. It isn’t long until they’ve taken over my world. They slip into my day, filling my head and demanding my attention.
So alive! So real! I see their faces—watch their eyes. I note every gesture; study the expressions on increasingly familiar countenances. Much like a video playing in my head their story unfolds— I can’t wrench myself away! I watch them laugh and cry, love and struggle. I learn of their strengths and weaknesses, their feelings and thoughts. I immerse myself in them—live and breathe them. They become a part of me—flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, growing inside my skull, anxious for legitimate existence and their first breath of life.
Suddenly it’s there! The incredible drive, the all-consuming compulsion! The words thrash inside my head like roiling, churning water. They crash in wild recklessness toward release—toward the moment they can leave the confining banks of the mind that nurtured them and leap out—dancing through the air in fierce, excited, breathtaking abandon. Cascading with brilliant, vibrant life onto the screen of my computer—full of color and depth and vitality.
Reality outside their world ceases to exist. I’m consumed—driven! Nothing else has meaning. I have to write! I feel soaring elation in the moments when the words tumble over themselves in their eagerness to find life, and desperate agitation when they damn up, refusing my efforts to dislodge them before they are ready.
Every moment becomes an emotional struggle, step-by-step, hour-by-hour, day-by-day. Write! Sleep is elusive, food turns oddly tasteless, and relationships are meaningless. Write! There is no peace. Write! No escape. Write! They won’t let me rest until I’ve penned their words, captured the essence of their lives into the sentences that will fan themselves across the pages rolling out of the computer before me.
And then it’s over! No more struggle. No more anguish. The lives that found their existence in my mind are real and whole. Born at last into a world that will come to know them as the inimitable, striking creatures they are. What an incredible feeling of elation and accomplishment, yet the euphoria is tinged with weariness and relief. Wrenched from somewhere deep in my gut, a sigh tumbles forth, and I wearily seek out my bed. I could sleep for hours—days—years!
The throes of creation have given birth to something that amazes me---did I really do that? How could I create something so unique, so perfect, and so beautiful? The answer is simple, I didn’t! God’s hand is clearly visible in the shadows of this work, and I am only the vassal. My role in this is manifest and I am ecstatic and humbled at one-and-the-same time. The weariness lifts, and my soul fills with joy, peace, and contentment. What a beautiful thing---creation!
Caribbean People with Colin Rickards
Caribbean People with Colin Rickards
New novel from Bernadette Gabay Dyer
By Colin Rickards
Bernadette Gabay Dyer is a graduate of The Jamaica School of Art, which gave her the opportunity -- very rare for an author -- to create the illustration for the cover of Waltzes I Have Not Forgotten, her first novel.
Now she has been able to do so again with the cover of her second novel, Abductors, just released by the Burlington-based Rain Publishing, and given a public send-off at a book launch on Tuesday evening.
The book is Gabay Dyer’s first major venture into what most of us would call Science Fiction, but which -- to the cognoscenti -- is also known as Fantasy, Speculative or Fabulist Fiction.
A Fabulist, as defined by the Concise Oxford Dictionary, is “a composer of fables or apologues” -- meaning “moral fables.”
Gabay Dyer’s story takes place in Toronto and in Sussex, England, where her sister -- to whom the book is dedicated -- lives.
In a nutshell -- which is all a Reviewer should do with Fiction -- it is a story about three young friends: English immigrant Graeme Hulis, his Jamaica-born school friend, Norman, and Allison, “a Regular Canadian.”
Graeme’s father disappears in Toronto, and strange clues are found in writings by and about his long dead mother, who seemingly vanished off the face of the earth many years before.
This leads the three friends into some eerie detective work, where they are confronted by the unexplainable, and it seems to them that entities from alien lore and folklore have united to prevent them from learning the truth.
The book has been some time in the making.
“From the time I started it, until the time Rain decided to publish, I have written three novels,” Gabay Dyer told those attending her book launch.
She was born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica, and attended Immaculate Conception High School and The Jamaica School of Art, where she specialized in Painting and Design, then migrated to Toronto in 1968.
Following training as a teacher, Gabay Dyer joined the Toronto Public Library in 1973. She is currently at the Parliament Street branch, but has worked at the High Park and College/Shaw branches.
She says that her “familial roots in Africa, India and Europe” have led her to “develop a keen literary interest in racial blending” and Multicultural storytelling.
She has published three chapbooks and Villa Fair, a collection of multi-ethnic short stories, was published by Beach Holme Press in 2000. Women’s Press published her novel Waltzes I Have Not Forgotten in 2004
The hero, John Moneague, child of a Black Jamaican country girl and a White sailor -- nationality unknown -- is raised by an old Hakka Chinese woman in impoverished Kingston in the years following World War One.
Befriended by a wealthy American woman, he loses track of her and becomes the adopted son of a Jewish couple involved in helping their co-religionists to escape from Second World War Hitler-dominated Europe.
Gabay Dyer is also a poet and storyteller. She has read from her own work at Harbourfront, among other places, and did so -- from Villa Fair -- at an event connected with last month’s Caribbean Canadian Literary Expo.
Some of her work has appeared in anthologies, and she has had stories published by magazines in Canada, England, the United States and France.
There aren’t too many Caribbean writers working in the Science Fiction --
in its widest sense -- genre.
Nalo Hopkinson, born in Jamaica, raised in Guyana and Trinidad, and now living in Toronto, is preeminent, the best known multi-award-winning author of four novels and a collection of short stories in the past nine years.
She has also edited two anthologies -- one called Whispers From the Cotton Tree Root: Caribbean Fabulist Fiction -- and her latest novel, The New Moon’s Arms, set on a mythical Caribbean island, came out this year.
Tobias S. Bucknell -- “a Caribbean-born speculative fiction writer who grew up in Grenada, the United States and the British Virgin Islands,” now lives in Ohio. His first novel, Crystal Rain, was published last year.
Marcia Douglas, born in England to Jamaican parents, raised in the island, and now living in Colorado, is also a Fabulist. Her novels Madam Fate and Notes from a Writer’s Book of Cures and Spells appeared in 1999 and 2005.
Gabay Dyer spoke interestingly to Montreal-based H. Nigel Thomas for his book Why WE Write -- subtitled “Conversations with African Canadian Poets and Novelists” released by TSAR Publications last year.
With Abductors, she bids fair for a place among the elite Caribbean-born SciFi coterie, making connections with fairies and space travellers, and providing an exciting and surprising read.
Rain Publishing describes the book as Young Adult Fiction, though I personally found it engrossing -- and I’ve not been a Young Adult for quite some years! -30-
New novel from Bernadette Gabay Dyer
By Colin Rickards
Bernadette Gabay Dyer is a graduate of The Jamaica School of Art, which gave her the opportunity -- very rare for an author -- to create the illustration for the cover of Waltzes I Have Not Forgotten, her first novel.
Now she has been able to do so again with the cover of her second novel, Abductors, just released by the Burlington-based Rain Publishing, and given a public send-off at a book launch on Tuesday evening.
The book is Gabay Dyer’s first major venture into what most of us would call Science Fiction, but which -- to the cognoscenti -- is also known as Fantasy, Speculative or Fabulist Fiction.
A Fabulist, as defined by the Concise Oxford Dictionary, is “a composer of fables or apologues” -- meaning “moral fables.”
Gabay Dyer’s story takes place in Toronto and in Sussex, England, where her sister -- to whom the book is dedicated -- lives.
In a nutshell -- which is all a Reviewer should do with Fiction -- it is a story about three young friends: English immigrant Graeme Hulis, his Jamaica-born school friend, Norman, and Allison, “a Regular Canadian.”
Graeme’s father disappears in Toronto, and strange clues are found in writings by and about his long dead mother, who seemingly vanished off the face of the earth many years before.
This leads the three friends into some eerie detective work, where they are confronted by the unexplainable, and it seems to them that entities from alien lore and folklore have united to prevent them from learning the truth.
The book has been some time in the making.
“From the time I started it, until the time Rain decided to publish, I have written three novels,” Gabay Dyer told those attending her book launch.
She was born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica, and attended Immaculate Conception High School and The Jamaica School of Art, where she specialized in Painting and Design, then migrated to Toronto in 1968.
Following training as a teacher, Gabay Dyer joined the Toronto Public Library in 1973. She is currently at the Parliament Street branch, but has worked at the High Park and College/Shaw branches.
She says that her “familial roots in Africa, India and Europe” have led her to “develop a keen literary interest in racial blending” and Multicultural storytelling.
She has published three chapbooks and Villa Fair, a collection of multi-ethnic short stories, was published by Beach Holme Press in 2000. Women’s Press published her novel Waltzes I Have Not Forgotten in 2004
The hero, John Moneague, child of a Black Jamaican country girl and a White sailor -- nationality unknown -- is raised by an old Hakka Chinese woman in impoverished Kingston in the years following World War One.
Befriended by a wealthy American woman, he loses track of her and becomes the adopted son of a Jewish couple involved in helping their co-religionists to escape from Second World War Hitler-dominated Europe.
Gabay Dyer is also a poet and storyteller. She has read from her own work at Harbourfront, among other places, and did so -- from Villa Fair -- at an event connected with last month’s Caribbean Canadian Literary Expo.
Some of her work has appeared in anthologies, and she has had stories published by magazines in Canada, England, the United States and France.
There aren’t too many Caribbean writers working in the Science Fiction --
in its widest sense -- genre.
Nalo Hopkinson, born in Jamaica, raised in Guyana and Trinidad, and now living in Toronto, is preeminent, the best known multi-award-winning author of four novels and a collection of short stories in the past nine years.
She has also edited two anthologies -- one called Whispers From the Cotton Tree Root: Caribbean Fabulist Fiction -- and her latest novel, The New Moon’s Arms, set on a mythical Caribbean island, came out this year.
Tobias S. Bucknell -- “a Caribbean-born speculative fiction writer who grew up in Grenada, the United States and the British Virgin Islands,” now lives in Ohio. His first novel, Crystal Rain, was published last year.
Marcia Douglas, born in England to Jamaican parents, raised in the island, and now living in Colorado, is also a Fabulist. Her novels Madam Fate and Notes from a Writer’s Book of Cures and Spells appeared in 1999 and 2005.
Gabay Dyer spoke interestingly to Montreal-based H. Nigel Thomas for his book Why WE Write -- subtitled “Conversations with African Canadian Poets and Novelists” released by TSAR Publications last year.
With Abductors, she bids fair for a place among the elite Caribbean-born SciFi coterie, making connections with fairies and space travellers, and providing an exciting and surprising read.
Rain Publishing describes the book as Young Adult Fiction, though I personally found it engrossing -- and I’ve not been a Young Adult for quite some years! -30-
Abductors
Abductors
When thirteen year old Graeme Hulis and his father immigrated to Toronto Canada from England, it was because Allison, a Canadian girl and her mother encouraged the immigration. But Graeme is totally unprepared for the unusual challenges that await him in Toronto.
A heart stopping eerie experience in a Toronto rooming house changes his life and arouses his interest in the unknown.
Without prior warning his father disappears, leaving behind a note that suggests abduction; and Graeme realizes that he himself might be stalked.
At school he befriends Norman, a Jamaican boy with whom he confides his concerns regarding his missing father, and also some explosive information he recently discovered in the diary of his long dead mother.
As a result of these findings, the two boys, and Allison soon find themselves in confrontation with the unexplained. It seems to them that entities from alien lore and folklore are united in a conspiracy to prevent them from finding out the truth about Abductors.
When thirteen year old Graeme Hulis and his father immigrated to Toronto Canada from England, it was because Allison, a Canadian girl and her mother encouraged the immigration. But Graeme is totally unprepared for the unusual challenges that await him in Toronto.
A heart stopping eerie experience in a Toronto rooming house changes his life and arouses his interest in the unknown.
Without prior warning his father disappears, leaving behind a note that suggests abduction; and Graeme realizes that he himself might be stalked.
At school he befriends Norman, a Jamaican boy with whom he confides his concerns regarding his missing father, and also some explosive information he recently discovered in the diary of his long dead mother.
As a result of these findings, the two boys, and Allison soon find themselves in confrontation with the unexplained. It seems to them that entities from alien lore and folklore are united in a conspiracy to prevent them from finding out the truth about Abductors.
Meet the Author: Bernadette Gabay Dyer
Bernadette Dyer was born in Kingston Jamaica, where she graduated from The Immaculate Conception High School, as well as The Jamaica School Of Art, having specialized in Painting and Design.
She was trained as a teacher at Toronto’s Lakeshore Teacher’s College, before becoming a novelist, a poet, a storyteller, a short story writer and a playwright.
Bernadette has told stories on CBC Radio, as well as a variety of Toronto venues, that include the popular 1001 Nights Storytelling Series, and festivals at Nathan Phillips Square.
She has read from her own work at Harbor Front, Lees Palace, the University Of Toronto, and numerous other locations.
Her work has been anthologized in several collections and appeared in Canadian literary magazines as well as literary magazines from the University of London England, a journal from France, and a literary magazine from the University of Miami Florida.
“Villa Fair” her multiethnic collection of short stories was published in 2000 by Beach Holme Publishers in Vancouver.
Her historical novel, “Waltzes I Have Not Forgotten” set between the World Wars was published in 2004 by Women’s Press, adding her maiden name Bernadette Gabay Dyer. Bernadette is one of the authors interviewed in the 2006 collection of author interviews entitled Why We Write, edited by H. Nigel Thomas and published by TSAR Publications. She lives and works in Toronto.
Two more releases by Dyer are scheduled. Spring ’08 brings “My Grandma Summer” followed by “My Grandma Winter” in the fall of the same year.
She was trained as a teacher at Toronto’s Lakeshore Teacher’s College, before becoming a novelist, a poet, a storyteller, a short story writer and a playwright.
Bernadette has told stories on CBC Radio, as well as a variety of Toronto venues, that include the popular 1001 Nights Storytelling Series, and festivals at Nathan Phillips Square.
She has read from her own work at Harbor Front, Lees Palace, the University Of Toronto, and numerous other locations.
Her work has been anthologized in several collections and appeared in Canadian literary magazines as well as literary magazines from the University of London England, a journal from France, and a literary magazine from the University of Miami Florida.
“Villa Fair” her multiethnic collection of short stories was published in 2000 by Beach Holme Publishers in Vancouver.
Her historical novel, “Waltzes I Have Not Forgotten” set between the World Wars was published in 2004 by Women’s Press, adding her maiden name Bernadette Gabay Dyer. Bernadette is one of the authors interviewed in the 2006 collection of author interviews entitled Why We Write, edited by H. Nigel Thomas and published by TSAR Publications. She lives and works in Toronto.
Two more releases by Dyer are scheduled. Spring ’08 brings “My Grandma Summer” followed by “My Grandma Winter” in the fall of the same year.
MudMen Special Guests at "Abductors"
Mudmen Special Guests at "Abductors" Book Signing
Rain Publishing Inc. celebrated the release of
Bernadette Gaby Dyer’s “Abductors” at Bar Italia on College Street in
Toronto with special guest appearances from the Mudmen.
Toronto (ON)-Three members of the MUDMEN, Rob and Sandy Campbell and Zoy Nicole came to wish Author-Bernadette Gaby Dyer great success with her book.
The six member rock band the “MudMen” whose song
“Lost” played on NBC’s The Black Donnelly’s visited because in Dyer's fantasy fiction novel the main character Graeme Hulis listens to the “MudMen” on several occasions. The band
presented Bernadette with copies of their newest CD release, while Bernadette
was only too happy to autograph copies of Abductors for the band members.
Bernadette greeted young and old to the launch.
Rain Publishing Inc. or known as RPI- wishes to send a special thank you to the musical talents of Stevie G, who entertained the guests, and Master of Ceremonies Jennifer Monteith.
Colin Richards of the Caribbean Camera was also in attendance.
Dryer has two more books to be released in 2008- this time picture books-as an artist the pictures are Bernadette's own creations, and the books "My Grandma Summer is scheduled to be released in April of '08 and My Grandma Winter in September '08" These colorful stories talk about blended families and the different cultures of each of the Grandmothers.
To contact Bernadette Gabay Dyer for a reading, please email authors at rainbooks dot com.
Rain Publishing Inc. celebrated the release of
Bernadette Gaby Dyer’s “Abductors” at Bar Italia on College Street in
Toronto with special guest appearances from the Mudmen.
Toronto (ON)-Three members of the MUDMEN, Rob and Sandy Campbell and Zoy Nicole came to wish Author-Bernadette Gaby Dyer great success with her book.
The six member rock band the “MudMen” whose song
“Lost” played on NBC’s The Black Donnelly’s visited because in Dyer's fantasy fiction novel the main character Graeme Hulis listens to the “MudMen” on several occasions. The band
presented Bernadette with copies of their newest CD release, while Bernadette
was only too happy to autograph copies of Abductors for the band members.
Bernadette greeted young and old to the launch.
Rain Publishing Inc. or known as RPI- wishes to send a special thank you to the musical talents of Stevie G, who entertained the guests, and Master of Ceremonies Jennifer Monteith.
Colin Richards of the Caribbean Camera was also in attendance.
Dryer has two more books to be released in 2008- this time picture books-as an artist the pictures are Bernadette's own creations, and the books "My Grandma Summer is scheduled to be released in April of '08 and My Grandma Winter in September '08" These colorful stories talk about blended families and the different cultures of each of the Grandmothers.
To contact Bernadette Gabay Dyer for a reading, please email authors at rainbooks dot com.
Promote, Promote, Promote
Self Promotion
By Tilly Rivers
I have been often asked how did you do it? How did you sale 100,000 copies of your last novel?
Of course, me being me, I smile and tell them I am extremely talented!
Reality is though, my old publishing copy did not sell the novels, we did it together, because I knew the secret to success, for you see a publisher can sing your praises, a publisher will promote, promote and promote, they invest not only the money into your novel your promotion and your marketing but into you. The time and finance to make you, to make your novel shine.
At least this is Rain Publishing’ working ethics.
However the ‘best’ advocate for my novels was me.
No one will be as passionate and excited about my accomplishments as I am. No one will be able to promote that passion, that driving desire, no matter how good they are, as well as I can.
My secret:
“Do something to promote your book and yourself everyday!”
So I am challenging you…are you doing something to promote yourself today?
First rule of promotion is to talk about your work to anyone and everyone. ALL THE TIME!
Use msn? Tell them about you’re an author
On chat lines? Belong to on line groups? Tell them you’re an author
Member of a club, organization or volunteer? Spread the good word; tell them that you are an author!
Shy? Time to get over it. While sitting in the doctors office or waiting for a bus, an easy opener in small talk is simply “What do you do for a living?”
Listen to their answer
What do you think will happen next?
You guessed it, they will ask you.
While you are shopping for groceries, shoes or undies ask the staff how long they have been working at the establishment.
Listen to their answer.
Ask them if they like their career.
Listen to their answer.
What do you think will happen next?
You guessed it, they will ask you.
Do you have business cards made up?
The business cards should clearly state your name, AUTHOR, and contact information. For privacy protection, please use the authors@rainbooks.com email and the RP telephone number.
Please for your own safety: NEVER give out personal information on business cards!
Because you have business cards made up and ALWAYS on you (from pockets to cases), you can give them your card.
The result, they will ‘check you out” on the website, I call this the curiosity factor.
Do not be surprised the next time you see that same person they approach you and tell you they have either purchased your novel, or went on the website to see your bio.
How many people do they know? How many people do you think they have told?
This is the beginning of market demand!
Word of mouth marketing. Easy hmmm?
Remember the rule of seven. Seven exposures results in a 95% rate of 1 sale.
The key is consistency.
Make it easy for people to find you. Every email sent out to friends and family should have a small tag on the bottom, letting them know about your book and where it can be found.
We all get, and have passed on those annoying chain emails that say we need to pass this on to ten people or else. Why not use them to promote you?
Do not be scared that people will be saying you are ‘bragging’ there is a big difference between ‘vanity’ and self promotion and branding.
I am proud of my accomplishments. If a mom can brag about baby George until she is pink in the cheeks, I can brag about baby book “X” until my cheeks are pink too!
By Tilly Rivers
I have been often asked how did you do it? How did you sale 100,000 copies of your last novel?
Of course, me being me, I smile and tell them I am extremely talented!
Reality is though, my old publishing copy did not sell the novels, we did it together, because I knew the secret to success, for you see a publisher can sing your praises, a publisher will promote, promote and promote, they invest not only the money into your novel your promotion and your marketing but into you. The time and finance to make you, to make your novel shine.
At least this is Rain Publishing’ working ethics.
However the ‘best’ advocate for my novels was me.
No one will be as passionate and excited about my accomplishments as I am. No one will be able to promote that passion, that driving desire, no matter how good they are, as well as I can.
My secret:
“Do something to promote your book and yourself everyday!”
So I am challenging you…are you doing something to promote yourself today?
First rule of promotion is to talk about your work to anyone and everyone. ALL THE TIME!
Use msn? Tell them about you’re an author
On chat lines? Belong to on line groups? Tell them you’re an author
Member of a club, organization or volunteer? Spread the good word; tell them that you are an author!
Shy? Time to get over it. While sitting in the doctors office or waiting for a bus, an easy opener in small talk is simply “What do you do for a living?”
Listen to their answer
What do you think will happen next?
You guessed it, they will ask you.
While you are shopping for groceries, shoes or undies ask the staff how long they have been working at the establishment.
Listen to their answer.
Ask them if they like their career.
Listen to their answer.
What do you think will happen next?
You guessed it, they will ask you.
Do you have business cards made up?
The business cards should clearly state your name, AUTHOR, and contact information. For privacy protection, please use the authors@rainbooks.com email and the RP telephone number.
Please for your own safety: NEVER give out personal information on business cards!
Because you have business cards made up and ALWAYS on you (from pockets to cases), you can give them your card.
The result, they will ‘check you out” on the website, I call this the curiosity factor.
Do not be surprised the next time you see that same person they approach you and tell you they have either purchased your novel, or went on the website to see your bio.
How many people do they know? How many people do you think they have told?
This is the beginning of market demand!
Word of mouth marketing. Easy hmmm?
Remember the rule of seven. Seven exposures results in a 95% rate of 1 sale.
The key is consistency.
Make it easy for people to find you. Every email sent out to friends and family should have a small tag on the bottom, letting them know about your book and where it can be found.
We all get, and have passed on those annoying chain emails that say we need to pass this on to ten people or else. Why not use them to promote you?
Do not be scared that people will be saying you are ‘bragging’ there is a big difference between ‘vanity’ and self promotion and branding.
I am proud of my accomplishments. If a mom can brag about baby George until she is pink in the cheeks, I can brag about baby book “X” until my cheeks are pink too!
Book Stores
Look for Rain Publishing titles at the following bookstores / retail outlets:
Canex Retail Store 19 Wing COMOX Lazo, BC 250-339-8147
Canex Retail Store CFB Base, Canex MallShilo, MB 204-765-3000 x3323
Canex Retail StoreCTC Gagetown BaseOromocto, NB 506-422-2000 x2271
Chapters – Regent Mall1381 Regent Street Fredericton, NB 506-459-2616
Coles – Lancaster Mall621 Fairville Boulevard St. John, NB 506-672-7670
Hampton Pharmacy 599 Main Street Hampton, NB 506-832-5564
Coles Bookstore-Truro Mall -245 Robie Street -Truro, NS
902-895-4929
Books for Business
120 Adelaide St. W
Toronto, ON
416-362-7822
Bookers
172 Lakeshore Road
Oakville, ON
905-844-5501
Book Stop
1 Jockvale Road, Unit #5
Ottawa, ON
613-823-7455
Book Stop-2
1224 Place d’Orleans Drive
Ottawa, ON
613-841-7897
Bryan Prince Bookstore
1060 King St. West
Hamilton, ON
905-528-4508
Canadian Book Depot
566 Young St.Unit 2
Barrie, ON
705-728-2864
Canex Retail Store
8 Wing,
Trenton Base RCAF Road
Astra, ON
613-392-2811
Canex Retail Store
Bldg R-102
CFB Petawawa
Petawawa, ON
613-687-5595
Carl's Pharmacy
1207 Hurontario Street
Mississauga, ON
905-278-7041
Coles – First Canadian Place
100 King Street West
Toronto, ON
416-869-1079
Collected Works Bookstore
1242 Wellington Street West
Ottawa, ON
613-722-1265
Different Drummer Bookstore
513 Locust St.
Burlington, ON
905-639-0925
Flipping Pages
239 Main Street
Port Dover, ON
519-583-9991
Gravenhurst Book Store
120 Muskoka Rd. South
Gravenhurst, ON
705-687-0555
Oxford Book Shop
740 Richmond Street
London, ON
519-438-8336
New World Market Bookstore
514 Davis Dr.
Newmarket, ON
905-953-8602
Roxanne’s Reflections Book & Card Shop
152 St. Andrew’s St. W
Fergus, ON
519-843-4391
Toronto Women’s Bookstore
73 Harbord Street
Toronto, ON
416-397-1357
Wikwemikong Unceded Indian Reserve
19A Complex Drive
PO Box 112 Wikwemikong, ON
705-859-3001
U.S.A.
Bookshop Santa Cruz 1520 Pacific AvenueSanta Cruz, CA831-423-0900
Capitola Book Café 1475 41st Avenue Capitola, CA 831-462-4415
Books Inc. 2251 Chestnut StreetSan Francisco, CA415-931-3633
Books Inc. 2275 Market StreetSan Francisco, CA415-864-6777
Books Inc. 3515 California StreetSan Francisco, CA415-221-3666
Jan's Place at Mount Carmel St. Ann'sP. O. Box 13106Columbus, OH614-898-8800
Jan's Place is a cancer support center offering a single source for access to cancer support from various professionals, medical products, information, classes, support groups and therapy to comfort patients from diagnosis through treatment and into recovery. Our on-site library offers a wide array of books and information for reference and for purchase to enhance the journey for our patients and support their families and caregivers. Our retail space offers numerous products designed to ease discomfort and provide physical and emotional support during treatment.
For more information call: 614-898-8517.
Canex Retail Store 19 Wing COMOX Lazo, BC 250-339-8147
Canex Retail Store CFB Base, Canex MallShilo, MB 204-765-3000 x3323
Canex Retail StoreCTC Gagetown BaseOromocto, NB 506-422-2000 x2271
Chapters – Regent Mall1381 Regent Street Fredericton, NB 506-459-2616
Coles – Lancaster Mall621 Fairville Boulevard St. John, NB 506-672-7670
Hampton Pharmacy 599 Main Street Hampton, NB 506-832-5564
Coles Bookstore-Truro Mall -245 Robie Street -Truro, NS
902-895-4929
Books for Business
120 Adelaide St. W
Toronto, ON
416-362-7822
Bookers
172 Lakeshore Road
Oakville, ON
905-844-5501
Book Stop
1 Jockvale Road, Unit #5
Ottawa, ON
613-823-7455
Book Stop-2
1224 Place d’Orleans Drive
Ottawa, ON
613-841-7897
Bryan Prince Bookstore
1060 King St. West
Hamilton, ON
905-528-4508
Canadian Book Depot
566 Young St.Unit 2
Barrie, ON
705-728-2864
Canex Retail Store
8 Wing,
Trenton Base RCAF Road
Astra, ON
613-392-2811
Canex Retail Store
Bldg R-102
CFB Petawawa
Petawawa, ON
613-687-5595
Carl's Pharmacy
1207 Hurontario Street
Mississauga, ON
905-278-7041
Coles – First Canadian Place
100 King Street West
Toronto, ON
416-869-1079
Collected Works Bookstore
1242 Wellington Street West
Ottawa, ON
613-722-1265
Different Drummer Bookstore
513 Locust St.
Burlington, ON
905-639-0925
Flipping Pages
239 Main Street
Port Dover, ON
519-583-9991
Gravenhurst Book Store
120 Muskoka Rd. South
Gravenhurst, ON
705-687-0555
Oxford Book Shop
740 Richmond Street
London, ON
519-438-8336
New World Market Bookstore
514 Davis Dr.
Newmarket, ON
905-953-8602
Roxanne’s Reflections Book & Card Shop
152 St. Andrew’s St. W
Fergus, ON
519-843-4391
Toronto Women’s Bookstore
73 Harbord Street
Toronto, ON
416-397-1357
Wikwemikong Unceded Indian Reserve
19A Complex Drive
PO Box 112 Wikwemikong, ON
705-859-3001
U.S.A.
Bookshop Santa Cruz 1520 Pacific AvenueSanta Cruz, CA831-423-0900
Capitola Book Café 1475 41st Avenue Capitola, CA 831-462-4415
Books Inc. 2251 Chestnut StreetSan Francisco, CA415-931-3633
Books Inc. 2275 Market StreetSan Francisco, CA415-864-6777
Books Inc. 3515 California StreetSan Francisco, CA415-221-3666
Jan's Place at Mount Carmel St. Ann'sP. O. Box 13106Columbus, OH614-898-8800
Jan's Place is a cancer support center offering a single source for access to cancer support from various professionals, medical products, information, classes, support groups and therapy to comfort patients from diagnosis through treatment and into recovery. Our on-site library offers a wide array of books and information for reference and for purchase to enhance the journey for our patients and support their families and caregivers. Our retail space offers numerous products designed to ease discomfort and provide physical and emotional support during treatment.
For more information call: 614-898-8517.
David Stevenson and Andy Halmay
David Stevenson & Andy Halmay
David Stevenson and Andy Halmay are the oddest writing couple. They don’t even look like writers. But since they have both had acting careers, they could put on an act to look like writers, if they ever figure out what writers should look like. David is black, born in Trinidad, 6’3” and slender which makes him look even taller. Andy says he used to be 5’9” but senior citizenship has shrunk him a couple of inches. He also has Canadian and U.S. citizenship but was born in Romania.
Andy has two sons who are older than David but when David and Andy work together, they become a couple of enthusiastic teenagers who constantly find themselves in excited agreement, leading to high-fives and outbursts of loud laughter.
David has worked as an actor, dancer, singer, musician, martial artist, stunt man and stunt coordinator. Andy did that fifty years ago but he never got into stunts. As a pre-teenager he once fell out of a tall tree he was climbing and then he fell off a horse he was riding. That cured him of pursuing physical adventures. “Twice bitten, thrice shy,“ he coins a phrase.
Together David and Andy present a resume that sprinkles dozens of celebrity names with whom they’ve worked. Zsa Zsa Gabor, Lorne Greene, Leslie Nielsen, John Huston, Jackie Gleason, Art Carney, Arthur Hiller, Bob Clark, Carl Perkins, Samuel Jackson, William Shatner, Lou Gossett, Jr., James Garner, Chris Rock, John Candy, Dan Aykroyd, Halle Berry, John Goodman, David Caradine, Hugh Jackman, etc.
David studied psychology and managing aggressive behaviour which often has him working with young offenders. Andy usually works on three projects at the same time. He has sold TV scripts all the way back to the pioneer days of live Television and spent twenty years on Madison Avenue winning six awards for creative excellence in commercials, documentaries and sponsored films.
In the summer and fall of 2006 Andy spent four weeks in Mumbai and Hyderabad, India, to scout locations and studios and to meet with Bollywood producers for some co-productions of film projects that he and David are developing. Their first collaboration, Dangerous Days for Dragon Dancer Vigilantes, as a book and film, may get so many sequels it may be thought of as a series.
David Stevenson and Andy Halmay are the oddest writing couple. They don’t even look like writers. But since they have both had acting careers, they could put on an act to look like writers, if they ever figure out what writers should look like. David is black, born in Trinidad, 6’3” and slender which makes him look even taller. Andy says he used to be 5’9” but senior citizenship has shrunk him a couple of inches. He also has Canadian and U.S. citizenship but was born in Romania.
Andy has two sons who are older than David but when David and Andy work together, they become a couple of enthusiastic teenagers who constantly find themselves in excited agreement, leading to high-fives and outbursts of loud laughter.
David has worked as an actor, dancer, singer, musician, martial artist, stunt man and stunt coordinator. Andy did that fifty years ago but he never got into stunts. As a pre-teenager he once fell out of a tall tree he was climbing and then he fell off a horse he was riding. That cured him of pursuing physical adventures. “Twice bitten, thrice shy,“ he coins a phrase.
Together David and Andy present a resume that sprinkles dozens of celebrity names with whom they’ve worked. Zsa Zsa Gabor, Lorne Greene, Leslie Nielsen, John Huston, Jackie Gleason, Art Carney, Arthur Hiller, Bob Clark, Carl Perkins, Samuel Jackson, William Shatner, Lou Gossett, Jr., James Garner, Chris Rock, John Candy, Dan Aykroyd, Halle Berry, John Goodman, David Caradine, Hugh Jackman, etc.
David studied psychology and managing aggressive behaviour which often has him working with young offenders. Andy usually works on three projects at the same time. He has sold TV scripts all the way back to the pioneer days of live Television and spent twenty years on Madison Avenue winning six awards for creative excellence in commercials, documentaries and sponsored films.
In the summer and fall of 2006 Andy spent four weeks in Mumbai and Hyderabad, India, to scout locations and studios and to meet with Bollywood producers for some co-productions of film projects that he and David are developing. Their first collaboration, Dangerous Days for Dragon Dancer Vigilantes, as a book and film, may get so many sequels it may be thought of as a series.
Visiting 2007: Dangerous Days a Huge Hit!
Actor and Stunt Man David Stevenson and Play Wright Andy Halmay Launch Their Book “Dangerous Days” in Toronto
Actor and Playwright pen what promises to be the action novel of the decade
Toronto (ON) – David Stevenson actor and stuntman (X-Men, F/X: The Series, I Come
In Peace) and veteran multi award winning film producer and President of Veni Vici
Entertainment Inc. Andy Halmay enjoy their first collaboration, Dangerous Days, as a
book and film this has been an adventure that they are happy to add to their long list of
accomplishments.
Together David and Andy present a resume that sprinkles dozens of celebrity names with
whom they’ve worked in the acting/film world. David studied psychology and managing
aggressive behavior which often has him working with young offenders. Andy usually
works on three projects at the same time. He has sold TV scripts all the way back to the
pioneer days of live Television and spent twenty years on Madison Avenue winning six
awards for creative excellence in commercials, documentaries and sponsored films.
Dangerous Days, the book, was released in July 2007 by Rain Publishing Inc. out of
Burlington Ontario. The first official RSVP event for the book launch was in August at "The Harleam" in downtown Toronto, whom's guest list was filled with the who's who of the acting, production, stuntman and music worlds.
######
To contact David Stevenson visit www.davidstevensonactor.com
Actor and Playwright pen what promises to be the action novel of the decade
Toronto (ON) – David Stevenson actor and stuntman (X-Men, F/X: The Series, I Come
In Peace) and veteran multi award winning film producer and President of Veni Vici
Entertainment Inc. Andy Halmay enjoy their first collaboration, Dangerous Days, as a
book and film this has been an adventure that they are happy to add to their long list of
accomplishments.
Together David and Andy present a resume that sprinkles dozens of celebrity names with
whom they’ve worked in the acting/film world. David studied psychology and managing
aggressive behavior which often has him working with young offenders. Andy usually
works on three projects at the same time. He has sold TV scripts all the way back to the
pioneer days of live Television and spent twenty years on Madison Avenue winning six
awards for creative excellence in commercials, documentaries and sponsored films.
Dangerous Days, the book, was released in July 2007 by Rain Publishing Inc. out of
Burlington Ontario. The first official RSVP event for the book launch was in August at "The Harleam" in downtown Toronto, whom's guest list was filled with the who's who of the acting, production, stuntman and music worlds.
######
To contact David Stevenson visit www.davidstevensonactor.com
Excerpt. Church Mouse Poor
Church Mouse Poor
Cristiano, Christine
ISBN 13: 9781897381441
Paperback; Perfect Bind; 8 x 8
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Thomas the Mouse lived in the old stone church at the far end of town. He had lived in the church all of his life. His mother had lived in the church all of her life and his grandmother had lived there too.
Thomas liked to watch the preacher's Sunday morning sermon from his hiding spot. He liked to hear the choir sing and he liked to watch the people too.
One day when everyone was leaving the church after the sermon, Thomas overheard Charlie Smith asking his mother if they could stop for ice cream on their way home.
"No, Charlie. We can't stop for ice-cream today." Charlie's mother said. "My car broke down yesterday and I had to pay to get it fixed. This week we are as poor as a church mouse."
Thomas's ears twitched. Thomas's ears quivered. He was shocked. He was stunned. He couldn't believe his ears. Was he as poor as a church mouse? But how could that be - he was the church mouse!
Thomas looked around his small home. He didn't think he was poor. He had lots to eat. There was always food in the people's kitchen at the back of the church. He had even stored some crumbs away for the long winter.
The home that he shared with his mother and grandmother wasn't very big, but it was cozy. Thomas had his own bed made out of a matchbox from the local general store. He had warm blankets made out of cotton batten, and he had a comfortable chair to sit on. Thomas, his mother, and his grandmother sat at the wooden table every night and ate dinner together. After dinner, his grandmother would read him a story from a big book. He would curl up on her lap and fall asleep. Then, his mother would pick him up gently and tuck him into his warm bed.
Charlie's mother must have been talking about some other church and some other mouse. Thomas wasn't poor at all. He had his mother and his grandmother who loved him and took care of him. Four other mice families lived in the church too, so there was always someone to play with…
Cristiano, Christine
ISBN 13: 9781897381441
Paperback; Perfect Bind; 8 x 8
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Thomas the Mouse lived in the old stone church at the far end of town. He had lived in the church all of his life. His mother had lived in the church all of her life and his grandmother had lived there too.
Thomas liked to watch the preacher's Sunday morning sermon from his hiding spot. He liked to hear the choir sing and he liked to watch the people too.
One day when everyone was leaving the church after the sermon, Thomas overheard Charlie Smith asking his mother if they could stop for ice cream on their way home.
"No, Charlie. We can't stop for ice-cream today." Charlie's mother said. "My car broke down yesterday and I had to pay to get it fixed. This week we are as poor as a church mouse."
Thomas's ears twitched. Thomas's ears quivered. He was shocked. He was stunned. He couldn't believe his ears. Was he as poor as a church mouse? But how could that be - he was the church mouse!
Thomas looked around his small home. He didn't think he was poor. He had lots to eat. There was always food in the people's kitchen at the back of the church. He had even stored some crumbs away for the long winter.
The home that he shared with his mother and grandmother wasn't very big, but it was cozy. Thomas had his own bed made out of a matchbox from the local general store. He had warm blankets made out of cotton batten, and he had a comfortable chair to sit on. Thomas, his mother, and his grandmother sat at the wooden table every night and ate dinner together. After dinner, his grandmother would read him a story from a big book. He would curl up on her lap and fall asleep. Then, his mother would pick him up gently and tuck him into his warm bed.
Charlie's mother must have been talking about some other church and some other mouse. Thomas wasn't poor at all. He had his mother and his grandmother who loved him and took care of him. Four other mice families lived in the church too, so there was always someone to play with…
Author Profile: Christine Cristiano
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Church Mouse Poor
Christine Cristiano
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.writersweekly.com/this_weeks_article/000512_08132003.html
www.brampton.com/calendar/calendar.php?op=view&id=9580
www.thebramptonguardian.com/entertainment/article/37998
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
inkspotter.com/.../newsletters/inkspotternews/InkSpotter News 5.06.pdf
www.webspawner.com/users/wordwizardry/index.html
rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=&sort=&...&page=2
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/home.php?cat=265
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16186&cat=265&page=1
canadianartsnet.com/component/.../task,userProfile/user,91
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
writersontherise.wordpress.com/2007/09/13/september-2007-roar-board
www.amazon.com/Church-Mouse-Poor-Christine-Cristiano/dp/1897381441
archives.zinester.com/54495/141108.html
www.stratfordgazette.com/wheels/article/33760
caledon.library.on.ca/index.php?...&month=09&day=22&Itemid=69
www.ticketcyclone.com/cityguides/ON/Brampton
www.jamespot.com/news/en/tag-mozart+imax.html
Church Mouse Poor
Christine Cristiano
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.writersweekly.com/this_weeks_article/000512_08132003.html
www.brampton.com/calendar/calendar.php?op=view&id=9580
www.thebramptonguardian.com/entertainment/article/37998
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
inkspotter.com/.../newsletters/inkspotternews/InkSpotter News 5.06.pdf
www.webspawner.com/users/wordwizardry/index.html
rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=&sort=&...&page=2
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/home.php?cat=265
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16186&cat=265&page=1
canadianartsnet.com/component/.../task,userProfile/user,91
www.mycaledon.ca/lifestyle/article/33760
writersontherise.wordpress.com/2007/09/13/september-2007-roar-board
www.amazon.com/Church-Mouse-Poor-Christine-Cristiano/dp/1897381441
archives.zinester.com/54495/141108.html
www.stratfordgazette.com/wheels/article/33760
caledon.library.on.ca/index.php?...&month=09&day=22&Itemid=69
www.ticketcyclone.com/cityguides/ON/Brampton
www.jamespot.com/news/en/tag-mozart+imax.html
Excerpt. Word Wars
Word Wars
Stevenson, Chris
ISBN 13: 9781897381298
Paperback, perfect bind, 5.5 x 8.5
Excerpt Word Wars © Rain Publishing Inc.
ONE
Mikus Harold Markus slicked his moist palms over his tuxedo pants and drew his shoulders back. He cupped his breath to test for that tell-tale sour, but the odor was lost in cheap aftershave wafting from his neck. He noted irritably that his pant cuffs dragged; Joanne had tailored the scratch-made suit but the alterations weren’t finished. He looked at the tips of his shoes and could count his teeth in the shine. So far so good.
He’d just walked down the gentle rise of Cathedral Hill and stopped before the overhead glidewalk. From there he could just make out the half-mile spires of Opal City over the residential complex, consisting of blocks and spheres that held mostly single family and bachelor residents. The only things that broke up the monotony of the gray and cream-colored geometric hovels were the imported elms and spruce trees that had been meticulously planted along the plasticine surface roads. There were very few shops and privately owned businesses in the Green sector – up-city was reserved for the collision and clutter of commerce. The sun dawned in the east, and the birds started whistling tunes. Puffy clouds walked in a windy sky. The air was sweet and day was making promises it looked like it would keep. Mikus felt entirely pleased about the start of a new day.
He pumped his legs up the ramp, silently assessing his suit and wondering if he looked 20th century. Joanne had insisted that it was common for “gentlemen” to adorn themselves in such a fashion; however, he suspected it was her feeble attempt at capturing some semblance of the past. What was the meaning of flared cuffs and a fluffy blouse? To blow one’s nose on them out of convenience? And the tie around his neck -- it felt like an animal tether.
This was a prime interview, the second most important evaluation to date, succeeding his vocational placement at the San Temecula Girl’s College. This is the proper attire for a first impression, he reminded himself again, even if it is a slice out of the past.
As Mikus neared the top of the ramp he checked his identifier bracelet (also known as the ‘wrist snitch’), just as a reminder. He was nobody, lost in a sea of humanity without the federally mandated bauble. The bracelet held everything in data storage from his criminal history to his credit allotment. He had to do nothing more than shove the bracelet pin into one of the many thousands of receptacles located in the city to make a transaction. As a primary source of his identity, he wouldn’t be Mikus Harold Markus, Citizen Patriot of the United Western Enterprise without it. As he anxiously checked his navigator, he wondered if Joanne was already on her way to rendezvous with him.
Mikus stopped just short of the glidewalk and observed the conveyor speed and pedestrian traffic. Somehow the gate had been left open and a green boarding light welcomed him to enter. A few standing riders, gripping the handrails, nodded to him as they glided by – some offered salutations, and a few sneered -- for they had come up from the south, the “upper poverty” class. Mikus was low middle income from the Green and wondered why they felt such a yawning chasm between his social standing and theirs. Browns and Blues didn’t care much for the Greens. Mikus lived in a chopper-gun-shot foam geodome just like seventy percent of the populace.
Watching the glidewalk speed near his feet, he decided he wouldn’t stop the conveyor via the hand post dial. The other Citizen Patriots had schedules to meet so he would time his leap onto the walk and catch himself along with all the rest of the flowing traffic. That would show that he was considerate, not to mention agile enough to perform the maneuver. It wasn’t his fault that the timer gate was open and showing green. Normally a rider would have to wait for a five-minute red light interval before the tram stopped to allow boarding.
Mikus inched forward to judge the jump speed. A passing face said, “Hoy, Citizen Patriot! Grand day!”
Mikus looked up. “Yes, it’s the grandest day.”
“It’s against the law to walk a red,” said someone harshly.
Mikus hesitated and stuck his foot out, his shoe toe testing the speed of the conveyor tram with a scraping hiss. He looked up feeling embarrassed, smiling wanly, trying to show he was a good sport but not afraid of public transportation.
“It’s against the law!” someone warned again.
“Hoy, my darling…it’s…me!”
Mikus heard the familiar voice pass by. He looked up and caught a glimpse of his girl-mate flowing down the glidewalk. It was Joanne, and so stunning and impeccably dressed in that gorgeous…
Mikus lost his footing and twisted awkwardly, falling forward. He caught himself but the fringe of his baggy cuff sucked down into the service crack between the frame and the moving conveyor. There came a wrenching tear followed by a tug of such force that Mikus flailed backward and hit the ramp landing. His pants and shorts were shorn from his body with one stark yank and sped down the glidewalk flapping like little flags.
Mikus got to his feet and threw himself on the conveyer tram with a thud-smack, making swimming motions, groping for the guardrail. He felt a strong hand reach down to assist him, just as he was getting to his knees and flashing his naked cheeks to the rear pedestrian traffic.
“Mama, look at that man,” said a small female waif, who might have been nine-years-old and on her way to a fashionable children’s school in the uptown Red or Yellow.
“Ho, my God.”
“Will somebody help that Citizen Patriot up, please?”
“I wouldn’t go near the druggard.” …
Stevenson, Chris
ISBN 13: 9781897381298
Paperback, perfect bind, 5.5 x 8.5
Excerpt Word Wars © Rain Publishing Inc.
ONE
Mikus Harold Markus slicked his moist palms over his tuxedo pants and drew his shoulders back. He cupped his breath to test for that tell-tale sour, but the odor was lost in cheap aftershave wafting from his neck. He noted irritably that his pant cuffs dragged; Joanne had tailored the scratch-made suit but the alterations weren’t finished. He looked at the tips of his shoes and could count his teeth in the shine. So far so good.
He’d just walked down the gentle rise of Cathedral Hill and stopped before the overhead glidewalk. From there he could just make out the half-mile spires of Opal City over the residential complex, consisting of blocks and spheres that held mostly single family and bachelor residents. The only things that broke up the monotony of the gray and cream-colored geometric hovels were the imported elms and spruce trees that had been meticulously planted along the plasticine surface roads. There were very few shops and privately owned businesses in the Green sector – up-city was reserved for the collision and clutter of commerce. The sun dawned in the east, and the birds started whistling tunes. Puffy clouds walked in a windy sky. The air was sweet and day was making promises it looked like it would keep. Mikus felt entirely pleased about the start of a new day.
He pumped his legs up the ramp, silently assessing his suit and wondering if he looked 20th century. Joanne had insisted that it was common for “gentlemen” to adorn themselves in such a fashion; however, he suspected it was her feeble attempt at capturing some semblance of the past. What was the meaning of flared cuffs and a fluffy blouse? To blow one’s nose on them out of convenience? And the tie around his neck -- it felt like an animal tether.
This was a prime interview, the second most important evaluation to date, succeeding his vocational placement at the San Temecula Girl’s College. This is the proper attire for a first impression, he reminded himself again, even if it is a slice out of the past.
As Mikus neared the top of the ramp he checked his identifier bracelet (also known as the ‘wrist snitch’), just as a reminder. He was nobody, lost in a sea of humanity without the federally mandated bauble. The bracelet held everything in data storage from his criminal history to his credit allotment. He had to do nothing more than shove the bracelet pin into one of the many thousands of receptacles located in the city to make a transaction. As a primary source of his identity, he wouldn’t be Mikus Harold Markus, Citizen Patriot of the United Western Enterprise without it. As he anxiously checked his navigator, he wondered if Joanne was already on her way to rendezvous with him.
Mikus stopped just short of the glidewalk and observed the conveyor speed and pedestrian traffic. Somehow the gate had been left open and a green boarding light welcomed him to enter. A few standing riders, gripping the handrails, nodded to him as they glided by – some offered salutations, and a few sneered -- for they had come up from the south, the “upper poverty” class. Mikus was low middle income from the Green and wondered why they felt such a yawning chasm between his social standing and theirs. Browns and Blues didn’t care much for the Greens. Mikus lived in a chopper-gun-shot foam geodome just like seventy percent of the populace.
Watching the glidewalk speed near his feet, he decided he wouldn’t stop the conveyor via the hand post dial. The other Citizen Patriots had schedules to meet so he would time his leap onto the walk and catch himself along with all the rest of the flowing traffic. That would show that he was considerate, not to mention agile enough to perform the maneuver. It wasn’t his fault that the timer gate was open and showing green. Normally a rider would have to wait for a five-minute red light interval before the tram stopped to allow boarding.
Mikus inched forward to judge the jump speed. A passing face said, “Hoy, Citizen Patriot! Grand day!”
Mikus looked up. “Yes, it’s the grandest day.”
“It’s against the law to walk a red,” said someone harshly.
Mikus hesitated and stuck his foot out, his shoe toe testing the speed of the conveyor tram with a scraping hiss. He looked up feeling embarrassed, smiling wanly, trying to show he was a good sport but not afraid of public transportation.
“It’s against the law!” someone warned again.
“Hoy, my darling…it’s…me!”
Mikus heard the familiar voice pass by. He looked up and caught a glimpse of his girl-mate flowing down the glidewalk. It was Joanne, and so stunning and impeccably dressed in that gorgeous…
Mikus lost his footing and twisted awkwardly, falling forward. He caught himself but the fringe of his baggy cuff sucked down into the service crack between the frame and the moving conveyor. There came a wrenching tear followed by a tug of such force that Mikus flailed backward and hit the ramp landing. His pants and shorts were shorn from his body with one stark yank and sped down the glidewalk flapping like little flags.
Mikus got to his feet and threw himself on the conveyer tram with a thud-smack, making swimming motions, groping for the guardrail. He felt a strong hand reach down to assist him, just as he was getting to his knees and flashing his naked cheeks to the rear pedestrian traffic.
“Mama, look at that man,” said a small female waif, who might have been nine-years-old and on her way to a fashionable children’s school in the uptown Red or Yellow.
“Ho, my God.”
“Will somebody help that Citizen Patriot up, please?”
“I wouldn’t go near the druggard.” …
Author Profile: Chris Stevenson
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Word Wars
Once Upon A Goddess
Chris Stevenson
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.freewebs.com/uncle1
www.published.com/published/5068_Word Wars.aspx
www.writers.net/writers/54800
morganmandelbooks.ning.com/profiles/blog/list?user=2hp0dej0dv2ht
www.freewebs.com/uncle1/blogblabber.htm
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16177&cat=259&page=1
www.shelfari.com/HemetChris
www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&keywords=Word+Wars&index=books&page=1
morganmandelbooks.ning.com/profiles/blog/show?id=700682:BlogPost:55124
www.writingforums.com/members/chris-stevenson-21553.html
www.amazon.com/Once-Upon-Goddess-Chris-Stevenson/dp/1897381573
www.writers.net/writers/54800
Word Wars
Once Upon A Goddess
Chris Stevenson
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.freewebs.com/uncle1
www.published.com/published/5068_Word Wars.aspx
www.writers.net/writers/54800
morganmandelbooks.ning.com/profiles/blog/list?user=2hp0dej0dv2ht
www.freewebs.com/uncle1/blogblabber.htm
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16177&cat=259&page=1
www.shelfari.com/HemetChris
www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&keywords=Word+Wars&index=books&page=1
morganmandelbooks.ning.com/profiles/blog/show?id=700682:BlogPost:55124
www.writingforums.com/members/chris-stevenson-21553.html
www.amazon.com/Once-Upon-Goddess-Chris-Stevenson/dp/1897381573
www.writers.net/writers/54800
Excerpt. Once Upon A Goddess
Once Upon A Goddess
Stevenson, Chris
ISBN 13: 9781897381571
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter One
Mason Hart felt a searing pain as he tried to move his eyes under closed lids. When he attempted to open them, they wrenched up like rusty garage doors and throbbed against his brows. He couldn’t hold them open. His mother used to ask where it hurt in his head when he had a migraine, and he would tell her that it was the top of the overhead camper. That was the overhang part of the brain, and it was exactly where he felt such a terrible thrombosis now. The two-headed boy in the circus never had such a headache.
Mason attempted to speak but his lips were stuck together, so he grimaced and felt a tear and a stream of spittle over his chin. He pushed some wind up through his throat and a sound escaped. “Haaaagh.”
He tried again. “Halp guh!”
Struggling, Mason swallowed a small puddle of saliva. He tried once more.
“Help ma,” he finally uttered.
He raised his eyelids again and they managed to stay open, but he only saw dappled light juxtaposed behind a milky film that he supposed was his vision trying to clear. Blinking several times to wash away the glue-like residue, he could eventually make out the familiar box-like shape of an object that sat perched high up in the corner of a room. Mason realized the object was a television set, but it was hanging on the ceiling, which seemed terribly wrong. Televisions always sat on the floor or at eye level.
He became very frightened and believed that he had ended up topsy-turvy in an 8.5 earthquake and was now on the ceiling looking up at the floor.
“Halp,” he called weakly, certain that the rescue workers would bring their chainsaws and axes.
His eyes not yet in focus, he saw something that looked like a small snowstorm with red stripes appear from a hole in the wall. It drew closer, moving swiftly around him, and turned a light shade of pink. In the next moment, the conflagration came at him and he could see the static outline of a human being in the blur of colors. A face as big as a truck came over him to look down into his eyes, and then he felt a cool mop on his forehead. A warm breath washed over his cheek with some words.
“There, there, you’re going to be just fine. Try to relax. I’m Wendy, and I’m a candy striper here at Juliet hospital. You’ve had an accident and we’re taking care of you. Do you understand?”
“Assident?”
“Yes, you had a little problem in incarceration. But that was after your car was stolen. They transferred you here from the main jail. That’s all over now. What you need to do is rest. How is your head feeling?”
“Tellible.”
“Do you have pain anywhere else?”
He made the extra effort to formulate words and spoke slowly. “If I have … pain … I don’t … feel it.”
“Ah, then that might be a good sign.” She furrowed her brows. “I think. Try to stay awake before you fall asleep. Okay? You wait right here and I’ll get you a real nurse.” With a flourish, she was out the door.
“Okay.” Mason realized he had been abandoned by the candy striper girl and tried to gather his thoughts, but his eyelids grew heavy again and he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
A while passed until Mason regained responsive-ness, and felt the sensation of a pinch in his left arm. He opened his eyes to see another woman glaring down at him with a very sad expression. She had a horse-like face and long teeth, and if his body could have convulsed in fright, it would have. In the next moment, he felt a warm rush come over him like he was being defrosted in a microwave.
“I’ve given you an injection to make you feel better and it will help with your coherency,” said the horse face. “Just relax and go with it. Do you know where you are?”
He saw a thin metal tube click on with a bright shaft of light; it passed in front of his face. Searing beams stabbed into eyes, momentarily blinding him.
“Well, they’re not fixed and dilated,” she said half-jokingly. “It looks like we’ve got another one that’s going to live. I’m Nurse Esmeralda, and you’re on my roster right now. You’ve suffered a head impact injury that resulted in a concussion. You had an altercation at the police station, where you received this injury. You are not in trouble as a result. The guilty party, the instigator, has been removed to county.” She put a thermometer in his mouth and went on. “You’ve had several concerned visitors, but you were not in any condition to receive them.”
He felt a little better — clearly from the heavy pain-killer coursing through him — and arched his eyebrows in response to her last statement.
“Well, they didn’t stay long, but they left some get well letters on your night table, here.” She picked them up and showed them to him. He recognized the dramatic swirl of one of the handwritten salutations on the envelope and made an imploring gesture, accompanied by a noise from the back of his throat.
“Well, it is highly irregular to open personal mail. But I’ll read it to you if you want me to.”
Mason nodded and his neck vertebrae popped.
The nurse tore open the envelope and shook out the letter. She began to read:
Mr. Hart,
I was distressed to hear of your unfortunate arrest and accident today and hope that you are recovering. But it is also for this very reason that I must call off our communications and future plans. Your current behavior is not conducive to the proper image I wish to maintain, especially when considering the vows of matrimony. I’m afraid my parents are in full agreement and we have all prayed on the matter.
I hope you find what you are looking for and recover from this wayward and unholy trek. I know that my search must continue, with my head held high.
Yours in sympathy,
Miss. Prindy Baker.
“Well,” said the nurse and those big horse teeth clacked. “Let’s see what’s in this other post, shall we?” She cleaved another envelope in two and shook out the letter. She glanced at it and frowned. “There is nothing really significant here that we need to—“
He waggled his head and groaned.
“Okay, I’m sorry … it just says that you’re fired … in big block letters and it’s signed by Denny Chewy.”
Mason bit down on the thermometer, cracking it. Nurse Esmeralda, startled, wrenched his head to the side and fingered his mouth with harsh swabs to remove the broken shards and toxic mercury. Once she had his mouth cleaned, she stood over him and mopped his brow soothingly. “That was a terrible thing to do to you … and certainly not fair at all.” She lifted his head and spanked his pillow. “Now, you are not to worry about any of this. Your job … I’m sorry … I mean, your directive is to heal and forget about all of this for now. Mr. Booboo has his nasty little mittens on you and it’s time that we said hello to Mr. Heal.”
“How long has Mr. Booboo had me here?” he asked, and could feel a laceration across his tongue.
“You’ve been incapacitated for five days — it’s Wednesday, and that is perfectly normal for the injury you sustained.”
He asked her for a mirror and she produced a small pocket variety so that he could see the extent of the bandage on his head. But when he looked into the reflection he saw a pair of bloated cheeks and two eyes that looked like point blank shotgun wounds. His eyes were so full of blood that he could only see slivers of blue and wondered why he was not totally blind. The mirror fell limply from his hand.
Stevenson, Chris
ISBN 13: 9781897381571
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter One
Mason Hart felt a searing pain as he tried to move his eyes under closed lids. When he attempted to open them, they wrenched up like rusty garage doors and throbbed against his brows. He couldn’t hold them open. His mother used to ask where it hurt in his head when he had a migraine, and he would tell her that it was the top of the overhead camper. That was the overhang part of the brain, and it was exactly where he felt such a terrible thrombosis now. The two-headed boy in the circus never had such a headache.
Mason attempted to speak but his lips were stuck together, so he grimaced and felt a tear and a stream of spittle over his chin. He pushed some wind up through his throat and a sound escaped. “Haaaagh.”
He tried again. “Halp guh!”
Struggling, Mason swallowed a small puddle of saliva. He tried once more.
“Help ma,” he finally uttered.
He raised his eyelids again and they managed to stay open, but he only saw dappled light juxtaposed behind a milky film that he supposed was his vision trying to clear. Blinking several times to wash away the glue-like residue, he could eventually make out the familiar box-like shape of an object that sat perched high up in the corner of a room. Mason realized the object was a television set, but it was hanging on the ceiling, which seemed terribly wrong. Televisions always sat on the floor or at eye level.
He became very frightened and believed that he had ended up topsy-turvy in an 8.5 earthquake and was now on the ceiling looking up at the floor.
“Halp,” he called weakly, certain that the rescue workers would bring their chainsaws and axes.
His eyes not yet in focus, he saw something that looked like a small snowstorm with red stripes appear from a hole in the wall. It drew closer, moving swiftly around him, and turned a light shade of pink. In the next moment, the conflagration came at him and he could see the static outline of a human being in the blur of colors. A face as big as a truck came over him to look down into his eyes, and then he felt a cool mop on his forehead. A warm breath washed over his cheek with some words.
“There, there, you’re going to be just fine. Try to relax. I’m Wendy, and I’m a candy striper here at Juliet hospital. You’ve had an accident and we’re taking care of you. Do you understand?”
“Assident?”
“Yes, you had a little problem in incarceration. But that was after your car was stolen. They transferred you here from the main jail. That’s all over now. What you need to do is rest. How is your head feeling?”
“Tellible.”
“Do you have pain anywhere else?”
He made the extra effort to formulate words and spoke slowly. “If I have … pain … I don’t … feel it.”
“Ah, then that might be a good sign.” She furrowed her brows. “I think. Try to stay awake before you fall asleep. Okay? You wait right here and I’ll get you a real nurse.” With a flourish, she was out the door.
“Okay.” Mason realized he had been abandoned by the candy striper girl and tried to gather his thoughts, but his eyelids grew heavy again and he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
A while passed until Mason regained responsive-ness, and felt the sensation of a pinch in his left arm. He opened his eyes to see another woman glaring down at him with a very sad expression. She had a horse-like face and long teeth, and if his body could have convulsed in fright, it would have. In the next moment, he felt a warm rush come over him like he was being defrosted in a microwave.
“I’ve given you an injection to make you feel better and it will help with your coherency,” said the horse face. “Just relax and go with it. Do you know where you are?”
He saw a thin metal tube click on with a bright shaft of light; it passed in front of his face. Searing beams stabbed into eyes, momentarily blinding him.
“Well, they’re not fixed and dilated,” she said half-jokingly. “It looks like we’ve got another one that’s going to live. I’m Nurse Esmeralda, and you’re on my roster right now. You’ve suffered a head impact injury that resulted in a concussion. You had an altercation at the police station, where you received this injury. You are not in trouble as a result. The guilty party, the instigator, has been removed to county.” She put a thermometer in his mouth and went on. “You’ve had several concerned visitors, but you were not in any condition to receive them.”
He felt a little better — clearly from the heavy pain-killer coursing through him — and arched his eyebrows in response to her last statement.
“Well, they didn’t stay long, but they left some get well letters on your night table, here.” She picked them up and showed them to him. He recognized the dramatic swirl of one of the handwritten salutations on the envelope and made an imploring gesture, accompanied by a noise from the back of his throat.
“Well, it is highly irregular to open personal mail. But I’ll read it to you if you want me to.”
Mason nodded and his neck vertebrae popped.
The nurse tore open the envelope and shook out the letter. She began to read:
Mr. Hart,
I was distressed to hear of your unfortunate arrest and accident today and hope that you are recovering. But it is also for this very reason that I must call off our communications and future plans. Your current behavior is not conducive to the proper image I wish to maintain, especially when considering the vows of matrimony. I’m afraid my parents are in full agreement and we have all prayed on the matter.
I hope you find what you are looking for and recover from this wayward and unholy trek. I know that my search must continue, with my head held high.
Yours in sympathy,
Miss. Prindy Baker.
“Well,” said the nurse and those big horse teeth clacked. “Let’s see what’s in this other post, shall we?” She cleaved another envelope in two and shook out the letter. She glanced at it and frowned. “There is nothing really significant here that we need to—“
He waggled his head and groaned.
“Okay, I’m sorry … it just says that you’re fired … in big block letters and it’s signed by Denny Chewy.”
Mason bit down on the thermometer, cracking it. Nurse Esmeralda, startled, wrenched his head to the side and fingered his mouth with harsh swabs to remove the broken shards and toxic mercury. Once she had his mouth cleaned, she stood over him and mopped his brow soothingly. “That was a terrible thing to do to you … and certainly not fair at all.” She lifted his head and spanked his pillow. “Now, you are not to worry about any of this. Your job … I’m sorry … I mean, your directive is to heal and forget about all of this for now. Mr. Booboo has his nasty little mittens on you and it’s time that we said hello to Mr. Heal.”
“How long has Mr. Booboo had me here?” he asked, and could feel a laceration across his tongue.
“You’ve been incapacitated for five days — it’s Wednesday, and that is perfectly normal for the injury you sustained.”
He asked her for a mirror and she produced a small pocket variety so that he could see the extent of the bandage on his head. But when he looked into the reflection he saw a pair of bloated cheeks and two eyes that looked like point blank shotgun wounds. His eyes were so full of blood that he could only see slivers of blue and wondered why he was not totally blind. The mirror fell limply from his hand.
Excerpt. Abductors by Bernadette Gabay Dyer
Abductors
Dyer, Bernadette Gabay
ISBN 13: 9781897381311
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 1
Encounter on the Downs
It is said in some secret circles that the chalky expanse of the Sussex Downs in England is haunted by fairy folk. There are days there, when the wind blows just so, and if you listen carefully you can hear oak trees in the copse on surrounding hills, whispering strange babblings.
In that leafy glade, where the land rises, occasional fluttering noises might startle you; for people say the melancholy sound is like that of lonely wings beating, and surely is the sound of fairies.
If you were to follow well-worn paths, carved out over time in the underbrush by the incessant passage of dogs and walkers, you would surely find places where the air, heavy with strange nostalgia, will fill you with loneliness. Loneliness lives in the shy grey coloring of stones that dot the pathways. It thrives in their purposeful distancing, and even in the heart of sallow green mosses that delight with occasional pearl-like flowers, reminiscent of tears.
There is no mistaking the pungency of the sea in the salt laden air. In its fury it roars and moans pitifully against the jagged cliffs, not far from where the land dips.
It is an ideal setting for brave fairy men, who for generations have cast their flimsy boats upon that torrid sea, in quest of a barely remembered homeland.
The fairy women folk left ashore haunt the woodlands by daylight, and roam the Downs by night searching out human captives, even as they weep pitifully over the inevitable loss of their brave fairy men, and for them, there is no respite.
****
One dew drenched morning, a lone starling was witness, when a raven-haired human boy stumbled unsteadily across the chalk-encrusted soil on the Downs. But the starling soon lost sight of him, for the boy entered the copse, and the ancient bird was not to know that the boy had fallen unnoticed amongst the cool foliage. Neither did the starling know that no living person had seen the boy, or heard his moans, as he lapsed into unconsciousness. It was only fairy women, with their watchful eyes and silver fishing nets, who were up and about and ready after a long night of grieving, and cursing their confinement to this alien land called England. They felt that the land was never truly their home, though many years had passed since their fairy ancestors had made an uncharted landing on those very Downs. The impact had resulted in the loss of their strange airborne transport in a horrific crash. Dozens of fairy lives were terminated in that instant, leaving behind a mere handful of survivors to pass on their legacy and the memory of their true homeland.
****
The raven-haired boy, who was called Graeme, slumbered deeply in the auspicious setting as soft leaves and gentle moss cradled and comforted him like a warm quilt. No wonder there was a half smile on his sleeping face, for the sound of the distant sea kept him company, and sang a soft lullaby in his ear.
If by chance he were to have awoken, he would have heard a strange soothing piping, and he would have thought it not unlike the timbre of a melody he had heard in his childhood.
Though unbeknown to him, his sleeping form was met with many admiring glances from two fairy women, who looked no older than himself, since he was only seventeen.
Boldly, the two fairy women emerged from the thick foliage and drew closer. They had somehow managed to become separated from the rest of their accustomed swarm, and had been attempting to signal their exact location to the others by playing upon their tiny silver flutes.
Even in the half light they could see that the boy’s complexion appeared pale and almost translucent against his thick lashes, which were as dark as the starling’s wing. How surprising they thought, that his locks of hair were so unfathomably dark against such milky white skin. They stood over him for the longest time, absorbed in admiration.
Had the boy awoken, he would have been surprised; for the fairy women stood no taller than at his waist in height, and all their faces glowed with a strange inner beauty. Surely he would have noticed that their silver nets were at a ready, and that a mischievous eagerness danced in their smiles.
“Leave him be!” said one, as she suddenly pulled her net aside. “Let’s not bag this one just yet. Gibraltar will want to see to him. We should let her decide what to do with him, for she is the wisest of us all.”
“I dare say Marbid, why shouldn’t I have first dibs? He’s asleep in my bower, isn’t he?”
“Gibraltar knows the old ways, Penilop. I dare say she will know what to do with this kind of human.”
“What’s so different about this one, Marbid? He’s better looking than some I’ve seen, but in the end he’s still one of them, isn’t he?”
“Hush, I dare say. I just heard that starling on the Downs singing, and what he has to say is rather peculiar. Listen, Penilop! The starling’s song is saying that he saw this very human arrive here through a hole in the air!”
“Well, well, what a clever lad this one is! Imagine him finding an air tunnel! Our folk have been searching for one for centuries!! Now how do you suppose he came by it? Yes, you are right indeed, Gibraltar will want to see this one.”
****
Even as the fairies whispered conspiratorially, the air around them became ripe for a storm. Clouds heavy with moisture rolled threateningly across the heavens, and a purple haze painted the sky from one corner to the other. And oddly enough, the whole atmosphere was permeated with a peculiar buzzing sound, not unlike that of bees. A bolt of white lightning lit up the entire surroundings, as tremendous thunder crashes shook the very earth.
The two fairy women were strangely unmoved by the dissonance, for they paid no heed to the sudden calamity, nor to sheltering against the driving rain, or even the treacherous tree limbs and branches that flailed violently in the strong whooshing winds. Their eyes were fixed only on the boy asleep in the bower.
But the boy in his exhaustion was quite unaware of the storm, or that the copse trembled with violent rumblings around him. He did not know that sunlight had deteriorated, and it inevitably had brought a swarm of fairy folk, who fell out of the sooty darkness like locusts.
One by one the fairies stealthily approached the bower, irresistibly drawn, not only by the previous piping, but by the presence of the sleeping boy. As they drew closer, they too admired him. Surely there was something different about this boy, they thought. Though he wore pale denim jeans and a jacket, not unlike local human boys, it did not escape their scrutiny that this boy’s clothing were made in a far away country called Canada.
“What have we here?” cried the tallest fairy woman, whose long dark hair flowed like rivulets at her side.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he? I think I’ll claim him for my own. It would be so easy to slip my silver bracelet on his wrist. Wouldn’t you agree that he could be the one for me?”
“Suit yourself Gibraltar, but we mustn’t forget the old ways. His family too must be fairy chosen.”
“Hush Penilop, I’d swear you’d have him for yourself, old rules or not. But there are things revealed to me, and me alone in the eye of this vicious storm that even at this moment surrounds us. There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that this human boy has had a history of contact.”
****
The skies grew increasingly darker and just as suddenly the fairies disappeared. It was as though they were never even there, and not a moment too soon, or else they might have been menaced by a Border collie dog. The dog had wandered into the foliage sniffing roughly as it barged about, attracted by the recent fairy presence that surely was invisible to its owner’s eyes.
But the curious animal was soon to be followed by its master Doctor Owen Carlton, a practitioner of psychology.
“Hey boy! Hey boy!” he shouted in exasperation. “Get back here you silly sod; thunder’s not going to hurt you.”
But the dog paid him no heed, bolting here and there as though playing tag. In his playfulness he tugged at his master’s trousers, never stopping until he managed to drag the doctor towards the exact spot where the young man lay hidden.
The dog’s barking and yelping was so urgent that the doctor approached cautiously, eyes darting……….
Dyer, Bernadette Gabay
ISBN 13: 9781897381311
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 1
Encounter on the Downs
It is said in some secret circles that the chalky expanse of the Sussex Downs in England is haunted by fairy folk. There are days there, when the wind blows just so, and if you listen carefully you can hear oak trees in the copse on surrounding hills, whispering strange babblings.
In that leafy glade, where the land rises, occasional fluttering noises might startle you; for people say the melancholy sound is like that of lonely wings beating, and surely is the sound of fairies.
If you were to follow well-worn paths, carved out over time in the underbrush by the incessant passage of dogs and walkers, you would surely find places where the air, heavy with strange nostalgia, will fill you with loneliness. Loneliness lives in the shy grey coloring of stones that dot the pathways. It thrives in their purposeful distancing, and even in the heart of sallow green mosses that delight with occasional pearl-like flowers, reminiscent of tears.
There is no mistaking the pungency of the sea in the salt laden air. In its fury it roars and moans pitifully against the jagged cliffs, not far from where the land dips.
It is an ideal setting for brave fairy men, who for generations have cast their flimsy boats upon that torrid sea, in quest of a barely remembered homeland.
The fairy women folk left ashore haunt the woodlands by daylight, and roam the Downs by night searching out human captives, even as they weep pitifully over the inevitable loss of their brave fairy men, and for them, there is no respite.
****
One dew drenched morning, a lone starling was witness, when a raven-haired human boy stumbled unsteadily across the chalk-encrusted soil on the Downs. But the starling soon lost sight of him, for the boy entered the copse, and the ancient bird was not to know that the boy had fallen unnoticed amongst the cool foliage. Neither did the starling know that no living person had seen the boy, or heard his moans, as he lapsed into unconsciousness. It was only fairy women, with their watchful eyes and silver fishing nets, who were up and about and ready after a long night of grieving, and cursing their confinement to this alien land called England. They felt that the land was never truly their home, though many years had passed since their fairy ancestors had made an uncharted landing on those very Downs. The impact had resulted in the loss of their strange airborne transport in a horrific crash. Dozens of fairy lives were terminated in that instant, leaving behind a mere handful of survivors to pass on their legacy and the memory of their true homeland.
****
The raven-haired boy, who was called Graeme, slumbered deeply in the auspicious setting as soft leaves and gentle moss cradled and comforted him like a warm quilt. No wonder there was a half smile on his sleeping face, for the sound of the distant sea kept him company, and sang a soft lullaby in his ear.
If by chance he were to have awoken, he would have heard a strange soothing piping, and he would have thought it not unlike the timbre of a melody he had heard in his childhood.
Though unbeknown to him, his sleeping form was met with many admiring glances from two fairy women, who looked no older than himself, since he was only seventeen.
Boldly, the two fairy women emerged from the thick foliage and drew closer. They had somehow managed to become separated from the rest of their accustomed swarm, and had been attempting to signal their exact location to the others by playing upon their tiny silver flutes.
Even in the half light they could see that the boy’s complexion appeared pale and almost translucent against his thick lashes, which were as dark as the starling’s wing. How surprising they thought, that his locks of hair were so unfathomably dark against such milky white skin. They stood over him for the longest time, absorbed in admiration.
Had the boy awoken, he would have been surprised; for the fairy women stood no taller than at his waist in height, and all their faces glowed with a strange inner beauty. Surely he would have noticed that their silver nets were at a ready, and that a mischievous eagerness danced in their smiles.
“Leave him be!” said one, as she suddenly pulled her net aside. “Let’s not bag this one just yet. Gibraltar will want to see to him. We should let her decide what to do with him, for she is the wisest of us all.”
“I dare say Marbid, why shouldn’t I have first dibs? He’s asleep in my bower, isn’t he?”
“Gibraltar knows the old ways, Penilop. I dare say she will know what to do with this kind of human.”
“What’s so different about this one, Marbid? He’s better looking than some I’ve seen, but in the end he’s still one of them, isn’t he?”
“Hush, I dare say. I just heard that starling on the Downs singing, and what he has to say is rather peculiar. Listen, Penilop! The starling’s song is saying that he saw this very human arrive here through a hole in the air!”
“Well, well, what a clever lad this one is! Imagine him finding an air tunnel! Our folk have been searching for one for centuries!! Now how do you suppose he came by it? Yes, you are right indeed, Gibraltar will want to see this one.”
****
Even as the fairies whispered conspiratorially, the air around them became ripe for a storm. Clouds heavy with moisture rolled threateningly across the heavens, and a purple haze painted the sky from one corner to the other. And oddly enough, the whole atmosphere was permeated with a peculiar buzzing sound, not unlike that of bees. A bolt of white lightning lit up the entire surroundings, as tremendous thunder crashes shook the very earth.
The two fairy women were strangely unmoved by the dissonance, for they paid no heed to the sudden calamity, nor to sheltering against the driving rain, or even the treacherous tree limbs and branches that flailed violently in the strong whooshing winds. Their eyes were fixed only on the boy asleep in the bower.
But the boy in his exhaustion was quite unaware of the storm, or that the copse trembled with violent rumblings around him. He did not know that sunlight had deteriorated, and it inevitably had brought a swarm of fairy folk, who fell out of the sooty darkness like locusts.
One by one the fairies stealthily approached the bower, irresistibly drawn, not only by the previous piping, but by the presence of the sleeping boy. As they drew closer, they too admired him. Surely there was something different about this boy, they thought. Though he wore pale denim jeans and a jacket, not unlike local human boys, it did not escape their scrutiny that this boy’s clothing were made in a far away country called Canada.
“What have we here?” cried the tallest fairy woman, whose long dark hair flowed like rivulets at her side.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he? I think I’ll claim him for my own. It would be so easy to slip my silver bracelet on his wrist. Wouldn’t you agree that he could be the one for me?”
“Suit yourself Gibraltar, but we mustn’t forget the old ways. His family too must be fairy chosen.”
“Hush Penilop, I’d swear you’d have him for yourself, old rules or not. But there are things revealed to me, and me alone in the eye of this vicious storm that even at this moment surrounds us. There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that this human boy has had a history of contact.”
****
The skies grew increasingly darker and just as suddenly the fairies disappeared. It was as though they were never even there, and not a moment too soon, or else they might have been menaced by a Border collie dog. The dog had wandered into the foliage sniffing roughly as it barged about, attracted by the recent fairy presence that surely was invisible to its owner’s eyes.
But the curious animal was soon to be followed by its master Doctor Owen Carlton, a practitioner of psychology.
“Hey boy! Hey boy!” he shouted in exasperation. “Get back here you silly sod; thunder’s not going to hurt you.”
But the dog paid him no heed, bolting here and there as though playing tag. In his playfulness he tugged at his master’s trousers, never stopping until he managed to drag the doctor towards the exact spot where the young man lay hidden.
The dog’s barking and yelping was so urgent that the doctor approached cautiously, eyes darting……….
Author Profile and Reviews: Bernadette Gabay Dyer
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Abductors, Bernadette Gabay Dyer
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.writersunion.ca/ww_profile.asp?mem=1225&L=D
news.sfcanada.ca/2007/05/bernadette-dyer-book-launch-july-3.html
chapters.indigo.ca/books/.../9780888784100-item.html
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=34
www.cairnsmedia.com/Archives - bookreview_Abductors_09172007.htm
www.nowtoronto.com/issues/2000-09-28/book_readings.html
www.tpl.toronto.on.ca/rec_clu_acd.jsp
www.amazon.com/Abductors-Bernadette-Gabay-Dyer/dp/189738131X
www.bookideas.com/reviews/index.cfm?fuseaction=displayReview&id=1949
www.umanitoba.ca/outreach/cm/vol14/no7/abductors.html
nwpassages.com/profile_book.asp?ISBN=189477034x
www.iriemusicfestival.com/lit_tent/lit_tent.phtml
www.sfcanada.ca/2004_07_01_archive.html
caribbeantales.ca/ct_newsletter/archives/.../index.html
www.canlit.ca/reviews-review.php?id=13898
www.harbourfrontcentre.com/noflash/mediaDisplay.php?id=82
www.nowtoronto.com/issues/2004-02-26/books_readings.php
www.geocities.com/canlit2002/dyerbg.html
www.cbc.ca/checkup/letters050529.html
Abductors, Bernadette Gabay Dyer
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.writersunion.ca/ww_profile.asp?mem=1225&L=D
news.sfcanada.ca/2007/05/bernadette-dyer-book-launch-july-3.html
chapters.indigo.ca/books/.../9780888784100-item.html
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/manufacturers.php?manufacturerid=34
www.cairnsmedia.com/Archives - bookreview_Abductors_09172007.htm
www.nowtoronto.com/issues/2000-09-28/book_readings.html
www.tpl.toronto.on.ca/rec_clu_acd.jsp
www.amazon.com/Abductors-Bernadette-Gabay-Dyer/dp/189738131X
www.bookideas.com/reviews/index.cfm?fuseaction=displayReview&id=1949
www.umanitoba.ca/outreach/cm/vol14/no7/abductors.html
nwpassages.com/profile_book.asp?ISBN=189477034x
www.iriemusicfestival.com/lit_tent/lit_tent.phtml
www.sfcanada.ca/2004_07_01_archive.html
caribbeantales.ca/ct_newsletter/archives/.../index.html
www.canlit.ca/reviews-review.php?id=13898
www.harbourfrontcentre.com/noflash/mediaDisplay.php?id=82
www.nowtoronto.com/issues/2004-02-26/books_readings.php
www.geocities.com/canlit2002/dyerbg.html
www.cbc.ca/checkup/letters050529.html
Dangerous Days Excerpt
Dangerous Days
Stevenson, David; Almay, Andy
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781947-08-3
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 1
The night air lifts the notes from the banjo and steel drum; a sweet mix of Caribbean and country that is as unique to this San Francisco nightclub as the entertainers delighting the audience.
The club’s sign in the Chinatown district rocks gently in the breeze. Inside your eyes are drawn to stage. Holding a guitar and wearing a cowboy hat is a tall, black singer, as comfortable in his fit body as the hat upon his head. He is confident. Alert.
You can’t help but stare at the woman on the stage with him, she is beautiful. Her oriental complexion is flawless, her dark eyes and hair capture your attention. She moves rhythmically beside the dark skinned man on stage to present an unusual duo.
The poster on the door reads Desmond and Maggie, the brother and sister Dragon Dancers. He is clearly of African descent and she is a mixture of Chinese and Japanese. How could such a pair be siblings?
Des’s baritone voice blends with the strains of the instruments as he begins a country song that segues to Calypso, echoed by the soft but edgy voice of Maggie. Des smiles as he watches the audience sway to the music. Taking his microphone he points it towards the audience inviting them to sing the chorus of the popular song.
Des now gives his sister a slight nod. She knows it is time to go. As was their habit they exit the stage for the night. Maggie hopps unto her brother’s back as if he were a horse, then they gallop off the stage as the audience continues to sing with the music still playing.
In a matter of seconds they stuff costumes into a duffel bag as Maggie and Des run down the club’s back alley. Maggie pulls out scraps of black cloth, stuffing one in her hip pocket. The other she tosses to her brother.
The bag lands in the trunk with a silent click as the engine turns over and the pair drive in silence to their targeted designation.
The elderly man parked in the shadows watches the taillights reflect against the road. He nods with a knowing smile.
The night seems to blanket the building in pools of darkness causing an already eerie feel to the drab exterior. Two men stand on alert beside the golden lions decorating the entrance. Des pulls the car into the back alley before soundlessly vanishing around the side of the building.
“My Uncle Chan sends money and a message for the board of directors” Maggie says in flawless Cantonese to the first guard .
The guard holds out his hand for the bag. “You can’t see anybody.”
Maggie holds unto the bag and refuses to let go. “It is very important. A rival Triad is moving in. My Uncle said I must deliver the message because they plan to blow up your homes.”
The man tugs at the bag but she still refuses to let go as he tries to free it from her hands.
“Stop” the second man approaches as he talks into the radio device. He barks at the other guard to let go of the bag and escort her inside.
www.rainbooks.com
Stevenson, David; Almay, Andy
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781947-08-3
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5
Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.
Chapter 1
The night air lifts the notes from the banjo and steel drum; a sweet mix of Caribbean and country that is as unique to this San Francisco nightclub as the entertainers delighting the audience.
The club’s sign in the Chinatown district rocks gently in the breeze. Inside your eyes are drawn to stage. Holding a guitar and wearing a cowboy hat is a tall, black singer, as comfortable in his fit body as the hat upon his head. He is confident. Alert.
You can’t help but stare at the woman on the stage with him, she is beautiful. Her oriental complexion is flawless, her dark eyes and hair capture your attention. She moves rhythmically beside the dark skinned man on stage to present an unusual duo.
The poster on the door reads Desmond and Maggie, the brother and sister Dragon Dancers. He is clearly of African descent and she is a mixture of Chinese and Japanese. How could such a pair be siblings?
Des’s baritone voice blends with the strains of the instruments as he begins a country song that segues to Calypso, echoed by the soft but edgy voice of Maggie. Des smiles as he watches the audience sway to the music. Taking his microphone he points it towards the audience inviting them to sing the chorus of the popular song.
Des now gives his sister a slight nod. She knows it is time to go. As was their habit they exit the stage for the night. Maggie hopps unto her brother’s back as if he were a horse, then they gallop off the stage as the audience continues to sing with the music still playing.
In a matter of seconds they stuff costumes into a duffel bag as Maggie and Des run down the club’s back alley. Maggie pulls out scraps of black cloth, stuffing one in her hip pocket. The other she tosses to her brother.
The bag lands in the trunk with a silent click as the engine turns over and the pair drive in silence to their targeted designation.
The elderly man parked in the shadows watches the taillights reflect against the road. He nods with a knowing smile.
The night seems to blanket the building in pools of darkness causing an already eerie feel to the drab exterior. Two men stand on alert beside the golden lions decorating the entrance. Des pulls the car into the back alley before soundlessly vanishing around the side of the building.
“My Uncle Chan sends money and a message for the board of directors” Maggie says in flawless Cantonese to the first guard .
The guard holds out his hand for the bag. “You can’t see anybody.”
Maggie holds unto the bag and refuses to let go. “It is very important. A rival Triad is moving in. My Uncle said I must deliver the message because they plan to blow up your homes.”
The man tugs at the bag but she still refuses to let go as he tries to free it from her hands.
“Stop” the second man approaches as he talks into the radio device. He barks at the other guard to let go of the bag and escort her inside.
www.rainbooks.com
David Stevenson and Andy Halmay: Dangerous Days
Author Profile Research and Reviews
Dangerous Days, David Stevenson/Andy Halmay
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Days-David-Stevenson-Halmay/dp/1897381085
www.davidstevensonactor.com
www.stuntstevenson.com/news.htm
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16183&cat=0&page=1
www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A29HR2JBCZBB5H
www.film-makers.com/Actors_and_Actresses/Stunt_Doubles
www.4lafa.org/links/martialarts.htm
www.mtv.com/movies/movie/35500/castcrew.jhtml
www.search.co.tt/trinidad/actors/index.html
www.filmmakers.com/links/member/crew.htm
www.profotos.com/gosslinks/Personal_Exhibit_Photographers/more12.html
www.emediawire.com/releases/2004/7/emw140251.htm
www.prweb.com/releases/2004/7/prweb140252.htm
www.shoutpost.com/read/JamesWFoster/20059/thatradio
www.imdb.com/name/nm0356834
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/pages.php?pageid=49
www.prweb.com/releases/2006/7/prweb406739.htm
cairnsmedia.com/Archives
www.imdb.com/title/tt0225694
pressbox.co.uk/detailed/Entertainment
members.tripod.com/~e-luttrell0/moreletters.html
Dangerous Days, David Stevenson/Andy Halmay
Rain Publishing Inc.
www.amazon.com/Dangerous-Days-David-Stevenson-Halmay/dp/1897381085
www.davidstevensonactor.com
www.stuntstevenson.com/news.htm
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/product.php?productid=16183&cat=0&page=1
www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A29HR2JBCZBB5H
www.film-makers.com/Actors_and_Actresses/Stunt_Doubles
www.4lafa.org/links/martialarts.htm
www.mtv.com/movies/movie/35500/castcrew.jhtml
www.search.co.tt/trinidad/actors/index.html
www.filmmakers.com/links/member/crew.htm
www.profotos.com/gosslinks/Personal_Exhibit_Photographers/more12.html
www.emediawire.com/releases/2004/7/emw140251.htm
www.prweb.com/releases/2004/7/prweb140252.htm
www.shoutpost.com/read/JamesWFoster/20059/thatradio
www.imdb.com/name/nm0356834
www.rainbooks.com/Shop/pages.php?pageid=49
www.prweb.com/releases/2006/7/prweb406739.htm
cairnsmedia.com/Archives
www.imdb.com/title/tt0225694
pressbox.co.uk/detailed/Entertainment
members.tripod.com/~e-luttrell0/moreletters.html
Gift for an Angel
Gift for an Angel
By Tilly Rivers
A Christmas gift has been sent on the wings of the wind
To you from me
I will never forget the laughter
The sweet memories I hold so dear in my heart
Your life lessons I carry on
For you were the guiding light
And now you are an angel
Watching from above
So I am sending you this Christmas gift
It is wrapped with care and placed in the hands of the wind
To be delivered to you Christmas morn
Inside you will find a great treasure
My love, now and forever
Merry Christmas Dad!
Writer of the Year
Tilly Rivers Wins the Erotica Writer of the Year Award
By Luc Debar
Straight Talk Magazine
Erotica Award Winner Tilly Rivers Wins the 2006-Writer of the Year Award
“If I had a choice between reading Tilly’s creations of fantasy illusion and others in the erotica industry…she would and does win every time. Tilly is sexuality at its highest peak.”
- Kelly Lucas – Sex Pistols Magazine, United Kingdom
Chuck Harris, past President of the NAWA, announced that Tilly Rivers was the winner of the Erotica of the Year Award for 2006. Rivers’ Erotica prose includes Wisteria Moon, Erotica Café, Salacious, Master of His Destiny, Seditious and co-author of Sensual Secrets.
Rivers a maverick in the erotica prose world has defied labels blending a witty combination of modern life and humor packaged into explicit tales of fantasy touching secret cravings for both men and women. Within each of us so skillfully that you seamlessly become the lover in her stories.
“Tilly has been a core link in the erotica circuit these past seven years, and this award will only continue her legacy as the Queen of Erotica” Harris quotes “Erotica often is given a bad name and authors are forced to endure comments and jabs from other authors who feel erotica prose is unworthy- Rivers shows that erotica is stimulation at its peek and takes us upon a journey of mental stimulus. Her writing talents, be it erotica or poetry belong and are-among the best award winning authors.”
This award is will be added to the many others for this famous author-her seven year writing career. What will be next? We are all waiting for the answer!
By Luc Debar
Straight Talk Magazine
Erotica Award Winner Tilly Rivers Wins the 2006-Writer of the Year Award
“If I had a choice between reading Tilly’s creations of fantasy illusion and others in the erotica industry…she would and does win every time. Tilly is sexuality at its highest peak.”
- Kelly Lucas – Sex Pistols Magazine, United Kingdom
Chuck Harris, past President of the NAWA, announced that Tilly Rivers was the winner of the Erotica of the Year Award for 2006. Rivers’ Erotica prose includes Wisteria Moon, Erotica Café, Salacious, Master of His Destiny, Seditious and co-author of Sensual Secrets.
Rivers a maverick in the erotica prose world has defied labels blending a witty combination of modern life and humor packaged into explicit tales of fantasy touching secret cravings for both men and women. Within each of us so skillfully that you seamlessly become the lover in her stories.
“Tilly has been a core link in the erotica circuit these past seven years, and this award will only continue her legacy as the Queen of Erotica” Harris quotes “Erotica often is given a bad name and authors are forced to endure comments and jabs from other authors who feel erotica prose is unworthy- Rivers shows that erotica is stimulation at its peek and takes us upon a journey of mental stimulus. Her writing talents, be it erotica or poetry belong and are-among the best award winning authors.”
This award is will be added to the many others for this famous author-her seven year writing career. What will be next? We are all waiting for the answer!
Author Jim Melvin of The Death Wizard Chronicles
This six book epic fantasy series has people talking- and the buzz according to top major reviews is this is the "Harry Potter" series for adults.
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