‘Watch RWISA Write: Month-long-blog-tour. Featuring author D.L.Finn #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

RWISA D.L.Finn TOUR

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** D.L.Finn.

Let’s learn a little more about author D.L.Finn

The Author’s Story – @DLFinnAuthor – #RRBC

Hi, I’m D.L. Finn, an independent California local that encourages everyone to embrace their inner child. I was born and raised in the foggy Bay Area, but in 1990 my husband and I packed up our belongings, two kids, two dogs, and cat and moved to the Sierra foothills in Nevada City, CA. Being surrounded by towering pines, oaks and cedars, my creativity was cradled until it bloomed. It was a cold winter’s night when the author flower bloomed on the writing tree.

This night wasn’t just any night—it was Friday the 13th. Involved in this incident was a black cat named Coco, a rushed trip to the bathroom, and a loud snap. Spending the next day in ER (on Valentine’s day) with a broken foot may seem like my black cat was bad luck, but it was completely the opposite. I finally had time. With this unexpected gift of freedom, I found I could only watch so many TV shows. My daughter suggested (as she had been doing) that I finally put my work out there—or try self-publishing. Up to this point, I had received many nice, even encouraging, rejections from publishers. So, I started researching, and indie author D.L. Finn emerged.

I have always best expressed myself in the written word. As D.L. Finn, I explore what is going on inside myself and my characters–how things aren’t always what they seem. I learned that lesson a long time ago with a difficult childhood … that taught me a lot. I apply this to my work. I know there’s darkness, but there’s an equal amount of light. I express this in my children’s stories, poetry, memoir, adult fiction, blogs, and newsletters. I feel this message of courage, hope, and wonder is needed in a world where there seems to be less acceptance of it; when it’s easier to embrace fear, hate, and anger, instead.

So, with my love of many different genres, my writing will always take you some place where there’s love and hate existing at the same time. This is where opposite feelings merge, until one side becomes the victor. For me, this place is where love (almost) always wins, and hope emerges once again. My belief that kids are more capable of doing this than adults, is one of the reasons I ask people to embrace their inner child.

A selection of poetry by D.L.Finn

EXPANSION

Flowing out before me – while approaching –

In the sweeping motion of a grand gesture

Presenting its soulful sweetness.

Behind me is a small desert I’ve crossed – shoeless

While carefully stepping over the littered offerings.

Salt saturates my senses

As the gentle-wind styles my hair,

With the latest sea breeze fashion.

My eyes are opened to new possibilities

With a window into its wonders,

With every wave that greets my feet,

The sun soaks into my skin

Cradling me in its warmth and completing the moment.

I stand in awe before the substantial sea

Observing its vast expansion of life-

That I’m humbly a part of.

SOARING

I soar above it all

In a human-made machine

Taking me places

Only my soul has dared to venture.

Up into the heavens,

Higher than the loftiest of birds,

I soar above my life

Going from one place to another.

The clouds which usually blanket me

Are perched like a safety net below,

Holding me above the sea.

Lives seem so small

As our group is thrust forward

Some sleep-

Some read-

Some watch movies-

While others drink.

It’s a long trip with strangers

All going to the same destination

But right now, we are…

Above it all in our metal bird—soaring!

DOORWAY

Through the trees

The sky is orange, red, and grey

Covering the fleeing blue stratosphere

As the night suppresses the day.

The birds fill the trees

Singing their goodnights

As I pull on a sweater

In a shiver from the receding light.

The setting sun is a time of reflection

Of the night and of the day

A balance of both places

In the sunset’s doorway.

Contact via:

Twitter: @dlfinnauthor

Blog/Website:

Embrace Your Inner Child

Titles:

“NO FAIRY TALE”

“ELIZABETH’S WAR”

***

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Author D.L.Finn RWISA page.

‘Watch RWISA Write: Month-long-blog-tour!’ Featured author today is Rhani D’Chae. #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** Rhani D’Chae.

Let’s learn a little more about Rhani D’Chae.

I am a visually disabled writer who was born and raised in Tacoma, WA. “SHADOW OF THE DRILL” is my first published novel and is the first in a series that revolves around and unrepentant enforcer and the violent life that he leads.

The characters in the following story are from my novel, Shadow of the Drill. After a moderately grueling assignment, they take a day off to enjoy a Sunday barbecue.

A Break in the Battle

BY RHANI D’CHAE

Charlene squealed, leaning to the side to avoid an airborne hot dog. She need not have worried, for the meaty missile bounced neatly against the chest of JT, who was seated next to her.

“Damn it, Rudy!” JT grabbed a napkin from the table and scrubbed at his shirt. “That wasn’t funny!”

“Really?” Rudy flashed an innocent grin over the top of barbecue grill. “I thought it was hilarious.” He flipped a pair of hamburgers, then added a dash of seasoning to each.

“You got hot dog grease on my shirt,” JT said crossly. “Next time, warn me so I can duck.”

“Don’t run your mouth, and there won’t be a next time.” Rudy raised his right arm, pointing at the cast that encased it from wrist to elbow. “Even with this, I can hit what I’m aiming at.”

JT shot a glare in Rudy’s general direction. “Can you believe him?”

“You shouldn’t have said he was getting old, and you definitely shouldn’t have said he was losing his touch.” Charlene refilled her glass from the pitcher of lemonade on the table. Lemonade, and just the right amount of tequila.

“Who’s getting old?” Decker stepped from the dining room onto the deck, leaning on a cane with one hand and holding a bowl of potato salad in the other. “You best not be talking about me!”

“Don’t worry, Peter Pan, we weren’t.” Charlene pulled the chair to her left away from the table so that Decker could sit. “JT said it about Rudy.”

“Well, that was stupid.” Decker set the bowl onto the table, then dropped into the chair, leaning the cane against the table before reaching for the pitcher.

JT pointed to the stain on his shirt. “You’re not kidding! Good arm, bad arm, it don’t matter. He’s dead on.”

He shifted in his chair, muttering a soft curse when his broken ribs objected.

Decker smiled sympathetically, knowing from firsthand experience how he felt. “Give it a couple of weeks,” he advised. “You’ll feel better before you know it.”

“I know,” JT replied. “But in the meantime, it really hurts!”

“Your face looks better.” Decker reached across the table, tilting JT’s head to the right. “At least, the swelling’s gone down. You’ll have the color for a while, yet.”

Charlene leaned back, tuning out the conversation while she thought back over the last six days.

It had started as just another job, but it had quickly become so much more. Hired to find and retrieve a stolen Shelby Daytona Coupe, Decker and his team had landed in the middle of an auto theft ring that stretched from Bellevue to Portland. Finding the missing car had been difficult – retrieving it had been damn near impossible.

The car had been located in Vancouver and liberated in the dark of night with considerable damage to all concerned. By the time the Shelby was safely in a truck headed north, Decker had calculated how much of a wear and tear fee he was going to charge his employer before the car was offloaded at its destination.

Bruised and broken, Decker’s team had limped back to Tacoma and gone their separate ways. After checking on the Shelby, Decker had contacted the owner and arranged a time to meet.

Charlene had greeted him at the door when he arrived home, the sight of his battered body bringing tears to her eyes. He had assured her that he was not seriously hurt, so there was no discussion of seeking medical help. He knew his body – and its injuries – better than any doctor, so she did not question his analysis of the situation.

Injured and exhausted, he had needed rest. A great deal of rest. But, after only a day and a half, he was limping restlessly from room to room, and she knew that something needed to be done.

The barbecue had been her idea, and he had willingly agreed. Though they often entertained, they had never invited more than two or three people over at once. The fact that it was JT’s first social visit to the house contributed to the uniqueness of the event, as did the presence of Decker’s old friend and occasional teammate, Hunter Grae.

The side gate rattled, and Charlene jumped up to open it before Davis dropped his armload of Tupperware containers. The investigator gave her a warm smile, thanking her for her assistance.

Charlene looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Bert?”

“She’ll be along soon,” Davis told her. “She had to run her mother to the grocery store, so she’s a little behind schedule. But don’t worry, she’s not far behind me.”

He handed over three of the containers. “Pasta salad, deviled eggs, and some sort of asparagus thing.” He shrugged apologetically. “Personally, I don’t think asparagus has any business being at a barbecue, but you know how Bert is.”

Charlene laughed, then sobered when she noticed the manila envelope beneath the remaining two containers. “That better not be what I think it is.”

“It’s everything I could find for the Palmer job. I promised I’d bring it by today.” He waved at Decker and JT, then slid the envelope from beneath the Tupperware to show he’d brought it.

Charlene put her hand on his wrist, stopping him. “Not today, please. He’ll open it up, they’ll spend the rest of the day plotting and planning, and that’ll be it for the day off. You know it as well as I do. They just can’t help themselves.”

Davis thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Okay, I’ll toss this back in the car and give it to him tomorrow. I can’t stall any longer than that, but at least it won’t ruin today.”

“Thank you,” Charlene said gratefully, then headed for the kitchen to unpack the Tupperware while Davis returned to his car.

When she passed Rudy, he handed her a plate loaded with hotdogs and hamburger patties.

“Here’s a first round. Is everything on the food table?”

Charlene glanced over the long fold-up table that Decker had set on the grass. It held assorted buns and condiments, as well as paper plates and plastic silverware.

“Just about. Hunter’s in the kitchen slicing cheese, and I have to put Bert’s stuff on plates, but it won’t take long. So yes, it’s pretty much ready. ”

“That’s a good thing.” Rudy pressed his fingers against the pieces of tape that held a long strip of gauze to the side of his face, checking that they were still secure. “So we’re just waiting on the cheese.”

As if on cue, Hunter appeared on the deck, carrying a serving tray that had been loaded down with small plates of pickles, slices of cheese, and crisp lettuce leaves. He called out a greeting to Davis and Roberta, who were coming through the gate together, then headed for the picnic table to unload the tray.

He was clad in shorts and a tank top, and Charlene could clearly see the stitches where the blade of a knife had cut into his calf, and the colorful section of bruising that a heavy object of some sort had left along his collarbone.

She joined him at the picnic table, calling to the others as she set the plate down. She was able to get her hamburger onto a plate, along with potato salad and baked beans, before the table was surrounded by hungry people.

Glad that she had escaped the swarm, Charlene returned to her place at the oversized table on the deck. Taking her seat, she enjoyed a moment of silence, knowing that a moment was all she would probably get.

A light breeze brought the scent of roses, and Charlene closed her eyes, inhaling with pleasure. So far, the day had been wonderful, and she knew that the evening would be just as fine.

Opening her eyes, she looked around at the people who mattered in her life. It couldn’t be more perfect, she thought with a contented smile. Fun, food, and the very best of friends combined to make a day that she would long remember. Especially since, for a few short hours, it was a fairly safe bet that no one was going to die.

***

Contact Via:

Email: RhaniDChae@gmail.com

Twitter: @RhaniDChae & @RhaniDChaeBooks

Facebook: https://m.facebook.com/rhanidchaeauthor/

Blog/Website:

Rhani D. Chae

Titles:

“SHADOW OF THE DRILL”

Shadow Of The Drill Book Trailer

“A PERILOUS THIRST”

Author Page RWISA for RHANI D’CHAE

‘Watch RWISA Write: Month-long-blog-tour’ Featured author today Nonnie Jules. #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** Nonnie Jules.

Let’s learn a little more about Nonnie Jules.

The Author’s Story – @Nonnie Jules #RRBC #RWISA

Hi, my name is NONNIE JULES. I was born in Texas, although am now, and have been a resident of the great state of Louisiana since I was a toddler, therefore, no one can tag me as a transplant…I am a true child of all things creole and Cajun.

I’ve been writing all my life. I know, we hear people say that all the time, but with me, ’tis true. I began to write because I wanted to be apart of that beautiful world of words.

Remember being forced by mom to turn off the lights at 10 PM so you could rest for school the next day? Remember the flashlight under your bed covers so that you could finish those last few pages of LITTLE WOMEN by Louisa May Alcott or TOM SAWYER and HUCKLEBERRY FINN? Yes, I was that girl. I was so madly in love with the amazing world of words, it’s all I wanted to do! Literally, all the time!

I remember loving books so much, that each time I would pull one from a library shelf, I would close my eyes and sniff the pages, inhaling the scent of what was once a beautiful, living tree… and it would feel, almost as good as the feeling I get now, when my loving husband wraps his arms around me. Today, each time I purchase a new book, the first thing I do when I sit down to read, is open it up and sniff the pages. I fall deeper in love at the performance of this simple ritual.

Poetry was my first love. I could listen for hours to my mom and her friends swap stories about “life,” and then I would scurry off to my little writing room (which at that time was a mini student desk inside of my closet) to write, in poetic form, about those lives..those stories. That’s how it all began.

As a young adult, I would find that still, upon hearing stories of the experiences of others, I had to write about them, all in poetic form. It was my way of sometimes enhancing the beauty of something as miraculous as the birth of a child, as well as turning something as ugly as the abuse of a child, into a positive, moving and uplifting collage of beautifully spun words, meant to inspire and encourage. If you believe it so, something good can come out of something bad.

The poetry that I write usually stems from the experiences of those around me, those I hear about in the news, or even, in the glow of being mother to my wonderful daughters, I find words for those moments, too. I hope, that when reading my work, you will enjoy it enough to share it with others…others who might be uplifted by it, who might be touched and encouraged, and others who may find strength in my simple words.

“How I know I’m a writer: When I sleep, I wake to write; when I dream, I rouse to write; when I eat, I hunger to write; when I drink, it’s my thirst to write; and when I write, I write and write and write…until my Muse grows weary of the beating it takes from every keystroke of my hand.” ~ NJ

***

PRISON WIVES

I am an unlikely character to tell these stories, but, I do know that each day that we are blessed to open our eyes, we never know what surprises, good or bad, that day will bring. No matter how much and how well we plan, the universe always steps in to show us just how much, we are not as in control of things as we thought we were.

These are real stories of moms, wives, spouses…those significant others who are left behind; those innocent, and maybe even not-so-innocents, who are left to pick up all the pieces that are shattered when their husbands walk out the door and don’t return in the time frame in which they are expected to.

No, he didn’t run off with another woman…he was apprehended somewhere between here and there by a law enforcement officer, and, for whatever reason, he’s now being held behind bars…property of the city until the state steps in to claim ownership. And, although these men are the ones incarcerated, it is the entire family that serves the time.

These are not sob stories to drum up sympathy for the accused. But, this book will serve as a doorway into an open dialogue, so that we are all aware of just how much children suffer when their dads are taken away.

These stories are but small ways to shine light on the effects of imprisoning low-level offenders for long periods of time, ripping them from their children’s lives, and the negative imprints left behind. This is a plea for reform of a justice system that will quickly parole a drug dealer, murderer, rapist or child molester, who will more than likely repeat-offend, yet hangs on to low-level offenders who may have made a one-time mistake or even worse, was forced to take a plea for a crime which he is innocent of, simply because he was too poor and couldn’t afford top-of-the-line defense. We do know that this happens, don’t we?

Lastly, this is so that we don’t forget those that are forced to soldier up and walk into battle each and every day, standing on the front lines of a war that they have been shielded from for far too long. These soldiers fight daily just to keep a roof over the heads, food in the mouths, and hope in the spirits of the children who are also being penalized in this war.

These are the stories of PRISON WIVES.

“From one of her upcoming releases, Nonnie Jules presents…PRISON WIVES.”

CHAPTER ONE – SAMMIE

Sammie was so excited about their upcoming road trip. Not for the travel element, but, because their son Jeremy, was about to lead his team to another high school championship for a third straight year. Jeremy was a senior and also big man on campus, as Rozdale High’s, 6’3, All-American Quarterback. The one drawback to Sammie’s excitement, was they had to travel cross country to play. Sammie hated to travel, she also hated to fly, so road trips were always the name of the game for her family. This year, she was especially apprehensive about their road trip and yet, she had no idea why.

The drive would take them 21 hours and 32 min to reach their destination of Clearwater, FL. from Lubbock, TX. And, since Jeremy had to be there on Friday, this would mean a full day and a half of travel prior to. Sammie, mother of three daughters and one son, knew that her husband Josh had a suspended driver’s license, yet, he would have to share the drive time with her anyway. This was not an option as none of their children were of legal driving age, and Jeremy, the oldest, would not get his license until he turned 18 in the following year.

On that hot July morning as they backed out of their driveway, Sammie sat in the passenger seat and prayed. “Dear Lord, guide my family safely from this place to the next and back again. Return us all safely to our home…together. Amen.” Sammie wasn’t what you’d call a deeply religious woman, but she embraced her spiritual side and she strongly believed in the power of prayer.

The family drove along Interstate 20, then passing through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, they finally entered into the state of Florida. There were many stops along the way, but it was the last one that they would never forget. With almost seven hours left in their journey, they heard the sounds of a police siren behind them. When Sammie looked over her shoulder from the backseat, which she’d retired to hours before to stretch her legs, her heart sank so low, she could almost hear it hit the floor of the rental van.

Pulling over into the gas station they were headed to for their next potty-break, Sammie’s mind raced wildly. Not only did Josh have a suspended license, but he also had an outstanding warrant back home for a false probation violation, which they were aware of.

“I know I wasn’t speeding, officer,” Josh offered as the policeman approached his door.

“Yes, you were, sir,” the officer responded, surprisingly with a smile. A lie, I thought. “License and registration, please.”

Knowing all too well that it was going to take a miracle to keep him from being arrested right there, Josh, ever-protective of his children and family, asked the officer if they could get out of the van to use the restrooms. If the worse happened, he didn’t want his children to see him in handcuffs or in the back of a police car. The officer said “Sure,” again, with the same smile on his face.

With his entire family inside, Josh tried to convince the officer to please let him get his family to safety and then he would return home to deal with the issue. His wife had no idea how to make the rest of the long journey without him, he shared. But, still being kind, the officer said that he just couldn’t do that. He had to take him in.

Sammie’s phone rang from inside the gas station. “He is arresting me,” came Josh’s shaky voice through the phone. Her heart sank again. “You are going to have to make the rest of this trip without me. Sam, you can do it.” His voice quickly changed and now held a firmness to it. He knew he had to appear strong or she would quickly become unraveled.

Tears filled Sammie’s eyes. She’d been married to this man for 15 years and for 15 years he’d taken care of her, done everything for her…made her life so easy. Now, he was telling her she had to continue on this long journey without him. OK, but when they arrived, what then? Josh had shielded her from the real world for so long, she wasn’t sure if she could take a breath without him. But, she had to…for their kids. If she had been alone, she might have given up right then and there.

Sammie stood in the parking lot and watched the officer drive away with her husband in the back seat of the car, while she had asked the kids to stay inside and away from the windows.

When she realized that she wasn’t dreaming, she wiped her tear-stained face with the tissue in her hand. Composed and in brave face, she walked back inside to collect her children, as they were now both her reason and her strength to get them through this long, arduous journey – a weekend without their father and then back to Texas, safe and sound.

Sammie had no idea how hard it would be once they headed back home five days later with the questions and comments from the kids about their father. “We can’t leave here without him,” said 8-year-old Vanessa. “How is he going to get home?” asked 12-year-old Maggie. “Why can’t we just stay here until this is straightened out? It can’t take that long,” added 16-year-old Zandra, the sassy one of the bunch. Sammie was thankful at that moment that Jeremy had chosen to remain silent. His un-asked question was one less stab to her heart.

Not knowing the severity of the situation, Sammie drove along, oblivious to all those words that could cut deep into her heart. How would she find the words to tell these kids, who had never gone more than 7 hours without seeing the dad they worshipped, that she didn’t know when he’d be coming home again?

***

Contact via:

Email: nonniejules@gmail.com

Twitter: @nonniejules & @AskTheGoodMommy

Facebook: BooksByNonnie

Blog/Websites:

Books By Nonnie

Watch Nonnie Write!

Ask The Good Mommy

4WillsPublishing

Titles:

“THE GOOD MOMMIES’ GUIDE TO RAISING (ALMOST) PERFECT DAUGHTERS” 100 Tips n Raising Daughters Everyone Can’t Help But Love!

TRAILER

“DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER, NIGHTMARE’S FRIEND” (A NOVEL)

TRAILER

“SUGARCOATIN’ IS FOR CANDY & PACIFYIN’ IS FOR KIDS”

“IF ONLY THERE WAS MUSIC…” THE POETRY OF FORBIDDEN LOVE

TRAILER

Nonnie Jules Author Page RWISA

Book Review: “Dance Of The Lights” by Stephen Geez. @StephenGeez

Meet author Stephen Geez

Stephen Geez BIO

Stephen Geez earned his undergrad and grad degrees at the University of Michigan. A composer, TV producer, publisher, graphic artist, and writer, he focuses now on novels, essay collections, short fiction, authors’ how-to under the GeezWriter brand, and scripts. Founding member of the publisher Fresh Ink Group, he works with a wide variety of authors to produce their best possible work. Watch for his essays, stories, books, and blog posts at www.StephenGeez.com Find him and his author friends at www.FreshInkGroup.com. Send him a note from his member page or the Contact Form.

The author on TWITTER

BOOK REVIEW DANCE OF THE LIGHTS BY STEPHEN GEEZ.

Stephen Geez Dance of the lights cover

BLURB

Frank relishes fast success and early retirement, but struggling to preserve his life’s work thrusts him into a desperate battle to protect the people he cares about most.

Beverly seeks a new beginning in Tarpon Springs—until those she trusts steal control of her destiny, forcing a fight for her very survival.

All twelve-year-old Kevin wants is attention from the only man he respects, yet murder and the wrenching indifference of a callous legal system toward one vulnerable child proves even friendship might never be enough.

Riven by tragedy, consumed by grief, all three must confront the wondrous possibility that our indelible bonds may somehow transcend even death, that a cherished soul truly can find the way back.

Only together might this improbable family dare embrace their own brand of unexpected love, that infinite potential to achieve more than any one person can alone. Through it all, they are teased by the mystery of those dancing lights, a million pinpoints in every imaginable color swirling to form brilliant images of extraordinary lives.

MY REVIEW 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 An unforgettable reading experience.

We all reach a place in our timeline of life when we call into question everything we hold to be truths. I have recently found myself in that space and place in my own life. Reading this book therefore was both an unnerving and emotional journey to take.

Author Stephen Geez doesn’t invite you softly into the raw emotion that colors this his first book. I found myself catapulted and thrown headlong by the wonderful lyricism of his writing.

The characters became the people I’ve known throughout my own life, the broken and tarnished loved ones, those left spiritually bereft by the harsh hand of fate. I could see them clearly, I could hear their voices, such is the power of the gut level empathy that shines through in this book.

I felt bereft when I’d finished reading “Dance Of The Lights.” Much as I feel when a dearly loved friend leaves me to head on home. I took pleasure in the knowledge that I can now read this whenever that need to reconnect arises again. Powerful does not even begin to cover what this book holds between it covers. My thanks to this author for sharing his talent.

Celebrating the newly edited edition of “Empty Chairs: (Standing Tall & Fighting Back Book 1) #Memoir On sale now at $0.99.

The following trailer and the contents of my memoir are very confronting. Because they absolutely must be. Child abuse will never cease if we continue to turn away, seeing nothing … doing nothing.

HERE IS THE TRAILER Created by my dear friend Sessha Batto.

PREVIEW EMPTY CHAIRS BELOW.

Contact me Contact me on TWITTER!

Find me on FACEBOOK

My BLOG

“Watch RWISA Write Month-long-blog-tour! Featured author today is Amy Reece. #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

RWISA AMY REECE

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author Amy Reece.**

Let’s learn a little more about Amy Reece

Hi! My name is Amy Reece and I live in Albuquerque, NM with my incredible husband and two ridiculous mutts, Greta and Sodapop. When I’m not writing, I teach high school English and social studies. I’m a voracious reader and dream of becoming a world traveler. I’m hoping to need many research trips for future writing projects. I write YA and have a 4 book series published with Limitless Publishing.

CRAZY CAT LADY

by Amy Reece

CAT SITTER NEEDED

$50 CASH—-One Night ONLY

Apply in Person

653 Silverwood Ln Apt B

Rita looked from the folded newspaper to the small adobe duplex in front of her. Well, here goes. My chances of getting murdered or sold into a sex trafficking ring are pretty good, but I need the fifty bucks. Need might be overstating it, but she wanted to go to the concert and she didn’t have the money for the tickets. Her meager paycheck from her work-study job didn’t stretch much farther than covering the bare essentials. If she wanted any fun money, she had to find other ways to acquire it. She’d done it all: research studies, selling her plasma, modeling for art studio classes. Answering a jinky ad in the college newspaper was nothing. She had left a note in her dorm room telling her slumbering roommate where she was, so at the very least maybe they’d be able to recover her body. She shook off the dark thoughts and approached the house.

A tall, thin elderly woman answered the door. ‘‘Yes? How can I help you?’’

Rita held up the ad. ‘‘I’m here about the cat sitting job.’’

‘‘Oh, my dear, yes. Well, come in.’’ She opened the screen door and stood back to allow Rita to enter.

The living room smelled musty but looked tidy, with sagging, old-fashioned furniture covered with bright, hand-crocheted afghans and doilies. Several cats raised their heads from where they snoozed on the cushions, then lowered them disinterestedly. A tray with a flowered china teapot and matching cups was set on the coffee table.

‘‘Have a seat and I’ll pour you a cup of nice hot tea. It’s so chilly out this evening, isn’t it?’’

Rita sat and accepted the cup of steaming tea while she frowned at the woman. ‘‘Were you expecting someone else?’’

‘‘Oh, no,’’ the woman said breezily. ‘‘I was expecting you.’’ She smiled as she sipped her tea. ‘‘Or someone like you. I put the ad in the paper and I knew someone would be along presently.’’ More cats of every color had wandered into the room. There had to be nearly fifteen cats winding their way around her feet, perching on the back of her chair, and leaping into her lap.

‘‘Oh.’’ Rita nodded dumbly and fumbled with the handle of the delicate cup, spilling tea into the saucer. ‘‘So, when exactly do you need the cat sitter?’’

‘‘Well, tonight, of course. I need to go visit my sister in Santa Fe. I’ll be back soon after breakfast tomorrow. Now, let me show you where I keep their food.’’ She reached forward to set her cup on the table.

‘‘But, but,’’ sputtered Rita, ‘‘don’t you want to know about me? About my qualifications?’’

The woman laughed lightly. ‘‘It’s only feeding a few cats, dear. It’s not rocket science. Come along.’’ She stood, shooing the cats from her lap, and led the way into the kitchen. ‘‘The dishes are here.’’ She pointed to a row of small ceramic bowls lining a dish drain. ‘‘And the food is in this cabinet. They like to eat around nine and then you can wash up.’’

‘‘Okay.’’ Rita nodded and counted the bowls. There were only six. ‘‘Do they take turns eating? Should I refill the bowls after the first group eats?’’

‘‘I think you’ll find one round is more than enough. Most of these are ghost cats, of course. Poor dears.’’

Rita stared at her blankly. ‘‘Ghost cats?’’

‘‘Yes. They seem to be drawn to me. They just can’t move on quite yet. They’re not like dogs, you know.’’

Rita didn’t know. In fact, the only thing she was sure of was that this woman was obviously insane. Ghost cats? What the hell? But fifty bucks was fifty bucks, and if she had to placate a crazy woman to get it, she was glad to. ‘‘Great. No problem.’’

‘‘Now, feel free to help yourself to anything if you get a little peckish.’’ She led the way back to the living room, where she picked up a small, old-fashioned train case Rita hadn’t noticed before. ‘‘Be sure to lock up after me. Have a good night and I’ll see you early tomorrow.’’

Rita stood in the middle of the living room and watched her leave. ‘‘Wait! How do I—-’’ she wrenched the door open to ask her final question, but the woman was gone. She stepped onto the porch and looked upon and down the street, noticing red taillights at the stop sign at the far end. She must have had a cab or an Uber waiting. She shrugged and closed the door, locking it as instructed. Then she turned to address the room. ‘‘Well, cats and kittens, I guess it’s just us for the rest of the night. At least she keeps this place clean. With this many of you it could really reek.’’ She’d eaten an early dinner at the cafeteria so she wasn’t hungry. The remote was on a side table, so she grabbed it up and found a cat-free cushion to sit on. The woman didn’t have cable, but Rita managed to find a rerun of a show she enjoyed and sat back to while away the hours until feeding time. The cats, for the most part, minded their own business and left her alone. A few finally crept close enough to sniff her, but then stalked away. She’d never been much of a cat person, so she took no offense. Feeding time went off without a hitch and the woman had been correct: the six bowls were more than enough. Cats came and nibbled, but none cleaned out their bowls. Many of the cats simply came and stared at the food without touching it. Weird. Maybe they are ghost cats.

She got hungry around midnight, but found nothing but a few stale crackers in the cabinet. She took them with her to the couch, pulled one of the crocheted afghans over her legs, and fell asleep watching an infomercial.

The key in the lock woke her the next morning. She sat, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

‘‘Good morning! I’m sorry I woke you. How did everything go last night?’’ The woman set her train case by the door as she walked in.

‘‘Um, fine. Yeah, everything went great.’’

‘‘Oh, good.’’ She rummaged in her purse for her checkbook and a pen. ‘‘Now, I’ll let you fill in your name. Here you go.’’ She handed her the check.

Rita glanced down at it, noting the spindly handwriting, but satisfied that it was indeed for fifty dollars. Sweet. Easy money. She sat up and folded the afghan and laid it across the back of the sofa. ‘‘Thanks. Well, have a nice day.’’ She waved awkwardly as she let herself out of the apartment. I’ll just swing by the bank and cash this, then stop to buy the concert tickets on my way home.

‘‘Can I help you?’’ The voice came from the house next door. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘Huh?’’ Rita turned as the woman marched down her front path to confront her.

‘‘Were you in that apartment? How did you get in? That door is supposed to be locked! Oh, I’m going to kill my husband! He never checks!’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

‘‘What were you doing in there?’’

‘‘No-nothing! I mean, I was watching that lady’s cats for her.’’ She realized she’d never asked the woman’s name. ‘‘She paid me. See?’’ She held up the check for the other woman.

The woman glanced at the check and frowned. ‘‘I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you better get out of here before I call the cops!’’

‘‘What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything wrong! I answered an ad in the paper to come and watch that lady’s cats for the night. She paid me fifty dollars. See?’’ She showed the check to the woman again.

The woman snatched the check from her hand. ‘‘Nobody lives there! The woman with all the cats died two years ago! We’ve had a heck of a time getting renters to stay because they swear it’s haunted or some nonsense! Now, if you’re not here about renting the place then I’m going to ask you to leave. Now. Before I call the police.’’ She glanced down at the check, laughed briefly, and handed it back to Rita.

Rita took the check and looked at it to see what could have made the woman laugh. Her eyes widened as she saw it was not a check at all; it was nothing more than a piece of torn newsprint. It fluttered to the ground as she ran, the woman’s laughter echoing behind her.

***

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Website: Amy Reece Author

Blog: Amy Reece

AMY REECE AUTHOR PAGE RWISA

Book Review: “JAZZ BABY” by BEEM WEEKS.

BOOK REVIEW JAZZ BABY PROMO PIC

BOOK REVIEW: “JAZZ BABY” By BEEM WEEKS.

Beem Weeks is the author of short stories, poems, essays, and novels. Among his literary influences he counts Daniel Woodrell, Barbara Kingsolver, and Stephen Geez. A pop-culture trivia buff, Beem’s passions include indie films, loud music, and a well-told story. He has also penned a collection of short stories entitled Slivers of Life.

JAZZ BABY BOOK COVER

BLURB

While all of Mississippi bakes in the scorching summer of 1925, sudden orphanhood wraps its icy embrace around Emily Ann “Baby” Teegarten, a pretty young teen.

Taken in by an aunt bent on ridding herself of this unexpected burden, Baby Teegarten plots her escape using the only means at her disposal: a voice that brings church ladies to righteous tears, and makes both angels and devils take notice. “I’m going to New York City to sing jazz,” she brags to anybody who’ll listen. But the Big Apple–well, it’s an awful long way from that dry patch of earth she’d always called home.

So when the smoky stages of New Orleans speakeasies give a whistle, offering all sorts of shortcuts, Emily Ann soon learns it’s the whorehouses and opium dens that can sidetrack a girl and dim a spotlight…and knowing the wrong people can snuff it out.

Jazz Baby just wants to sing–not fight to stay alive.

MY BOOK REVIEW: 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 A beautifully written and perfectly captured slice of time.

What happens when an author weaves a timeline with such devotion to detail that the reader can smell, hear, taste and feel the ambience? Jazz Baby is what happens. Author Beem Weeks seduces the reader with the perfection of both the dialogue and the dawning of an age that will live on as long as memory exists.

His characterization of Baby Teegarten is utterly perfect, her determination to succeed in a sleaze filled world is based on her absolute certainty that she has a voice that will move people, a voice that will transform the darkest of nights into glistening, gleaming candles of perfection.

She brazens her way through a life where there will always be those ready to take advantage of her … her understanding of the passions that drive others she transfers into song.

This author hasn’t simply written a novel set in a certain time-frame, he has taken the hopes, dreams and fears of a generation facing great change and transformed all of it into a magical creation of flowing words and scented phrases, set in a dark rich fabric. I am eager now to read much more from this author’s talented pen. Bravo.

Contact via:

Email: nostar67@gmail.com

Twitter: @voiceofindie & @BeemWeeks

Blog/Website:

The Indie Spot!

Welcome to the World of Suzanne Burke.

It's a writers world, a world that seeks to explore and entertain

Category: Books.

‘Watch RWISA Write: Month-long-blog-tour. Featuring author D.L.Finn #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** D.L.Finn.

The Author’s Story – @DLFinnAuthor – #RRBC

A selection of poetry by D.L.Finn

EXPANSION

SOARING

DOORWAY

‘Watch RWISA Write: Month-long-blog-tour!’ Featured author today is Rhani D’Chae. #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** Rhani D’Chae.

A Break in the Battle

BY RHANI D’CHAE

Book Review: “Dance Of The Lights” by Stephen Geez. @StephenGeez

Meet author Stephen Geez

“Watch RWISA Write Month-long-blog-tour! Featured author today is Amy Reece. #RRBC #RRBC_RWISA

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author Amy Reece.**

CRAZY CAT LADY

by Amy Reece

Book Review: “JAZZ BABY” by BEEM WEEKS.

August 2017
M	T	W	T	F	S	S
« Jul
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7	8	9	10	11	12	13
14	15	16	17	18	19	20
21	22	23	24	25	26	27
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It's a writers world, a world that seeks to explore and entertain

Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author D.L.Finn.

A selection of poetry by D.L.Finn

EXPANSION

SOARING

DOORWAY

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Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author Rhani D’Chae.

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Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author Nonnie Jules.

“From one of her upcoming releases, Nonnie Jules presents…PRISON WIVES.”

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Meet author Stephen Geez

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Rave Writers – International Society Of Authors (RWISA)

August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author Amy Reece.

CRAZY CAT LADY

by Amy Reece

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**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** D.L.Finn.

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** Rhani D’Chae.

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author** Nonnie Jules.

**August is Watch RWISA Write month. We will showcase a different author each day. Today, we celebrate author Amy Reece.**