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Tuesday, November 26, 2024

If I’d never heard of me would I read my book? #Poetry #Stories #Giveaway

These Are Not My Words tour banner

By Donavan Hufnagle (Guest Blogger)

I tend to discover new books through word of mouth by my students, colleagues, wife, or other writers. The books I appreciate the most are by those “unknown” authors. I am one of those “unknown” authors with mostly unknown books. With that stated, I find that authors like me, take more risks with their writing, challenging readers in a positive way.

Poetry, of course, is automatically going to present a challenge to readers. In most cases I would argue that poetry requires more participation from the reader than fiction, for example, so without even describing my books, I am already at a disadvantage. Reader don’t like to work that hard. However, poetry could win over more people if they just give it a chance. From a practical stance, most poetry is short, and we can live in the poem longer and move away from the poem with more without having to read 300 pages or whatever. I never can understand that in a culture where our attention spans are constantly being reduced, how 700-page books keep showing up. Why not read poetry? In most cases, you can read one or two poems, allow those poems to puncture your senses and thoughts, close the book, and come back later to different poems for a different experience.

In my poetry, I want to challenge readers while, also, stimulating them with more experiences in a shorter frame. More importantly, I want the reader to take away multiple experiences from the same poem. In this way, I try to have poems that speak on many different levels. For one instance, in the poem “The Spirit of Deep Ellum,” I may be referring to the blues musician Blind Lemon Jefferson, but that aspect of the poem is only an additional layer and those unfamiliar with Blind Lemon Jefferson will still move away from the poem understanding the narrative about a person struggling to make it in life—a coming of age story in a way, which everyone can relate to. In other words, I want my poems to relate to a larger audience while pleasing those looking for more depth. You can read my current book These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) and appreciate the intricate layering of identity being showcased and resonate with the many pop cultural references and their connection to our culture and ourselves….

But I want you to, overall, enjoy the basic human stories that are being told.

Blurb

Echoing Chuck Palahniuk’s statement. “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known,” this collection explores identity. These poems drift down rivers of old, using histories private and public and visit people that I love and loathe. Through heroes and villains, music and cartoons, literature and comics, science and wonder, and shadow and light, each poem canals the various channels of self and invention. As in the poem, “Credentials,” “I am a collage of memories and unicorn stickers…[by] those that have witnessed and been witnessed.”

These Are Not My Words book cover

Excerpt

Grandma, If Only These Walls…

 

Do you sleep naked beneath

a popcorn sky riddled with residue

of the past and clues to asbestos?

I remember


when I clawed the ceiling,

the putty knife scraped away

the yellowing kernels and it snowed

for the rest of the day. For the rest

of my life.


They popped. And from the ceiling,

down, eventually,

yellow falls asleep on the bed.

I am a child in a snow globe,

making snow angels the same

yellowish tint as her nubs, her alley-cat

eyes, these walls.


I know little of her:

her modeling days—her costume

jewelry displays throughout

the house, but where did she wear this

ruby ring? When did this

emerald rest around her neck?

An albatross?


I imagine her strut

on the runway, such

power. They stare at her, wait

for her everything. A look. A twist.

A wink. Was she always on

display?


Did the flash of cameras blind her

marriage—rumors of others,

into another?


How the hell could she let

the next in? He stole her

money, molested her

children and grands. He smoldered her

like the tip of her cigarette,

And from the tip, down,

eventually, the ash snow fell

gray to yellow.

 

About the Author

Donavan Hufnagle author photo

Donovan Hufnagle is a husband, a father of three, and a professor of English and Humanities. He moved from Southern California to Prescott, Arizona to Fort Worth, Texas. He has five poetry collections: These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them), Raw Flesh Flash: The Incomplete, Unfinished Documenting Of, The Sunshine Special, Shoebox, and 30 Days of 19. Other recent writings have appeared in Tempered Runes Press, Solum Literary Press, Poetry Box, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, Subprimal Poetry Art, Americana Popular Culture Magazine, Shufpoetry, Kitty Litter Press, Carbon Culture, Amarillo Bay, Borderlands, Tattoo Highway, The New York Quarterly, Rougarou, and others.

Website: http://www.donovanhufnagle.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/donovanhufnagle

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/dhufnaglepoetry

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/These-Are-Not-My-Words/dp/B0DBMN46M4/ref=sr_1_1

One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $25 Amazon/BN.com gift card.


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Monday, November 25, 2024

Swearing off romance - #ContemporaryRomance #SouthernCharm #Giveaway

Away with Shadows tour banner

Blurb

Sharon Gable, a seasoned interior designer in Columbia, South Carolina, swears off love after ending a relationship filled with deceit. She focuses on expanding her business with her best friend and avoiding romance until she's unexpectedly set up with architect Bradley DuPont at an engagement party. Despite her resistance, Sharon finds herself drawn to Bradley's undeniable charm and rugged allure.

Bradley, back in town to care for his ailing grandfather and manage the family business, is burdened by his West Coast job and familial obligations. Yet, Sharon captivates him like no other, offering a respite from his tumultuous family dynamics.

As their connection deepens, they must confront external forces bent on sabotaging their happiness. Will Bradley persuade Sharon that their attraction is worth exploring, or will malicious schemes tear them apart?

For fans of contemporary romance dipped in southern charm, Away with Shadows delivers a captivating tale of love and loss, resilience of spirit in the face of adversity, and familial complexities against the backdrop of Columbia, South Carolina, and Paris, France.

Away with Shadows book cover

Excerpt

When Bradley and his brothers returned to Gramps’ house from the funeral, friends and family warmly greeted them. Kera and Gregg arrived shortly after, but Sharon was nowhere to be seen.

Was she in another part of the house?

With so many people walking around him and blocking his way, he grew more impatient by the minute. His search was momentarily interrupted when he entered the kitchen to find Sara and some of the other women preparing the food for everyone.

Hi, baby,” Sara said as she walked around the island to hug him. “Where are your brothers?”

They’re in the living room, mixing with the guests.”

Sara stood back to look at him. “I know this is a stupid question, but I’m going to ask anyway. How are you guys holding up?”

We’re good, Mrs. Sara. It’s just going to take some time to adjust to Gramps not being here. I think we’re going to be all right.”

Just know that if there’s anything you need, you can call me. You know we got you.”

I know, Mrs. Sara. We appreciate that.”

Well, I made food for you all for the week, and I’ve already put it up for you in the refrigerator, so all you need to do is put it in the microwave and heat it up.” She beckoned for him to follow her to the pantry and pointed to the top shelf. “I made your favorite lemon sour cream pound cake and a Sprite upside-down cake as well.”

Rubbing his hands together in excitement, he thanked her and gave her a hug. As they closed the door to the pantry, he turned to see a familiar face at the other end of the vast kitchen. One he had been waiting to see all day. It was her. She was finally here. His heart leaped, and he couldn’t help the big smile came across his face.

About the Author

Author Logo

M.M. Skye is an entrepreneur and contemporary romance writer. A native of South Carolina. M.M. Skye has a diverse background in education and business. With her passion for storytelling and a love for cultural diversity, M. M. Skye’s books offer a unique blend of romance and cultural immersion.

You can find her with a book or a pen and paper somewhere ready to create unique characters and stories the reader can relate to. Her passion for writing began in middle school when she read her first novel. It wasn’t until high school when her tenth-grade honors English teacher encouraged her to major in English, that she began weaving tales.

Her time at Voorhees University gave her the extra knowledge she needed to hone her craft.

Away with Shadows is her debut novel.

You may follow Author M.M. Skye at the following social media sites.

Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61566866913441

Pinterest

https://www.pinterest.com/authormmskye/

Instagram

https://www.instagram.com/mmskye1/

Website

https://www.mmskye.com

Amazon Author Page

https://www.amazon.com/stores/M.M.-Skye/author/B0DJX444XV

The author will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner.


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Sunday, November 24, 2024

Charity Sunday: For Human Rights Everywhere – #HumanRightsWatch #Homophobia #CharitySunday

Charity Sunday banner

Regardless of your political affiliation, you can’t deny that the results of the U.S. election earlier this month will create significant threats to many groups, including immigrants, people of color, LGBTQ individuals, and women seeking reproductive health care. The platform and policies of the winning party state outline quite clearly their intentions to introduce draconian legislation, roll back existing protections and target groups considered to be “undesirable”. There’s no secret about this.

Against this background, I found it hard to pick a cause for this month’s Charity Sunday. Organizations I considered included Kids In Need of Defense (KIND) for immigration rights, GLAD for LGBTQ advocacy and Planned Parenthood. Then I realized that underlying all these individual missions is the fundamental concept of human rights. While some forces work hard to divide us into groups, camps and sides, in fact we are all human beings – and despite claims to the contrary, all human beings deserve the same opportunities to live in peace and dignity, to be free from fear, to raise families and build communities, to love and to create. So I decided to step back and support the principle of human rights for all.

My chosen charity today is Human Rights Watch. HRW is an international organization that investigates and documents human rights abuses around the globe. They use techniques ranging from personal interviews to satellite imagery to high-tech data science in order to publish irrefutable evidence of situations where human beings are being deprived of life, liberty and security.


HRW Logo

HRW is controversial, at least partly because it tells stories some people, organizations and governments do not want to have heard. To guarantee their independence, they do not accept donations from any governmental body. Of course, merely exposing cases of atrocities, genocide, injustice and discrimination will not by itself improve the situation. However, it’s a first step.

I urge you to spend some time on the HRW website, reading their reports and familiarizing yourself with their methods.

Today, I’m pledging to donate two dollars to HRW for each comment I receive on this post.

For today’s excerpt, I have a sequence from my dystopian MM romance The H-Gene. This near-future speculative novel imagines a United States splintered by natural disasters, civil strife and the devastating effects of a plague, supposedly spread by gay men. The authoritarian government has rounded up anyone testing positive for the H-gene and interned them in remote “quarantine” camps, patrolled by robot guards and surrounded by moats of toxic waste.

I wrote this novel more than ten years ago, strongly influenced by the homophobic trends in the U.S. along with memories of the AIDS epidemic. Alas, it feels all too timely now now.

The H-Gene cover

Blurb

When love is forbidden, the whole world’s a prison.

Dylan Moore will do anything for freedom. Seven years ago, a gay plague spread to heterosexuals, killing millions and sparking brutal anti-gay riots. The Guardians rounded up men who tested positive for the homogene and imprisoned them in remote quarantine centers like desolate Camp Malheur. Since then, Dylan has hacked the camp's security systems and hoarded spare bits of electronics, seeking some way to escape. He has concluded the human guards are the only weakness in the facility's defenses.

Camp guard Rafe Cowell is H-negative. He figures the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 masturbate on the surveillance cameras must be due to his loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, he discovers that Dylan is brilliant, brave, sexy as hell — and claims to be in love with Rafe. Despite his qualms, Rafe finds he can't resist the other man's charm. By the time Dylan asks for his help in escaping, Rafe cares too much for Dylan to refuse.

Dylan's plan goes awry and Rafe comes to his rescue. Soon they're both fugitives, fleeing from militant survivalists, murderous androids, homophobic ideologues and a powerful man who wants Dylan as his sexual toy. Hiding in the Plague-ravaged city of Sanfran, Dylan and Rafe learn there's far more than their own safety at stake. Can they help prevent the deaths of millions more people? And can Rafe trust the love of a man who deliberately seduced him in order to escape from quarantine?

Excerpt

Something tickled his ear. “Private message,” his earpiece announced in a voice that was neither male nor female. He tapped his fingertip on the embedded bud, the signal for it to proceed.

Meet me today at 1700 in the generator building.” Something took flight in Rafe’s stomach, then landed with a thud. The voice remained neutral, but he recognized the sender. “We need to talk. I have changed the security code so that we won’t be interrupted. 22A4J.” Without really trying, Rafe memorized the code. But he wouldn’t go to the meeting. Of course he wouldn’t. “Please,” whispered the earplug. “It’s important.”

The message ended. Rafe tapped at the device again, but it did not repeat. He flopped back onto his bed, sending his ereader crashing to the floor. Damn him! Who did the queer think he was, ordering Rafe around? Tempting him?

How the fuck had the guy routed a message to his private channel?

That was it. He had to tell the Guardians.

He rolled over and buried his face in his crossed arms. He kept hearing the electronic voice. Please. Please…

His alarm clock read 1618.

The generator room was at the north end of the camp, nearly two miles from the main entrance to the inmate precincts. He’d have to take a velocart, one of the small electric trucks the robo-guards used to move heavy equipment around. He could pick up a biohazard suit from the lockers just outside the gate…

What was he thinking? Rafe rubbed his throbbing temples.

Please.”

In eighteen months at Malheur Camp, Rafe had never once set foot inside the electrified fence that separated the resident precincts from the guard quarters and the control station. It wasn’t forbidden, strictly speaking. He’d studied the procedures in case there was ever a need for human intervention. He knew the layout from the digital maps. He certainly knew what things were like inside, after all his hours staring at the monitors.

It had simply never been necessary. He shook his head, trying to banish his wayward thoughts. It wasn’t necessary now.

Suddenly the overhead light went out. Simultaneously an alarm began to ring in the corridor. The small window above his bed provided enough light for him to find his shoes. He stepped from his quarters into the darkened hallway. A red emergency beacon flashed in the corner.

His earpiece vibrated once again. “Sorry to bother you, man.” Rafe recognized Turk’s ghetto intonations in the bland synthesized voice. “Something’s blown in the generator room. For some fucking reason, the droids can’t get in. Will you check it out?”

And how did you manage this, Dylan? Rafe thought, torn between fury and wonder. “I’m on my way,” he told the air as he strode towards the main gate.

It was late afternoon in September. The floppy biohazard suit was hot. Designed to keep microbes out, it obviously didn’t let any air in. Rafe summoned two robo-guards to accompany him through the gate. A third met him with a velo. “Dismissed,” Rafe told them, his voice sounding hollow through the ventilator. “I’ll drive myself.”

The cart made its stately way down the central artery from the gate to the northern section of the camp. In the mid twentieth century, Malheur Camp had been a field station for geologists studying the volcanic origins of the eastern Oregon plain. Some of the dorms dated from that period. Those wood-shingled huts had been bleached to a uniform grey by decades of harsh weather. The more modern buildings were plain plastifoam rectangles with vertical slits for windows. Originally white, they were now a dingy yellow, spotted here and there with patches of black mold.

There were no trees. The flat ground was mostly bare, strewn with sharp basalt pebbles. The inhabitants of one or two dorms had tried to cultivate some ornamental plants, but the vegetation had just withered and turned gray like everything else. Probably the toxic chemicals in the moat had leached into the soil over the years. Rafe had heard someone joke about that once, maybe one of the drivers who brought supplies. “Double use,” the guy had commented. “Keep the pervs from escaping and get a waste dump at the same time.”

Fresh fruit and vegetables were cultivated in hydroponic greenhouses in the southeast quadrant. The warehouse was in the southwest. Rafe rolled past the workshops and the rec halls—like the dorms only larger—a basketball court and a baseball field, and row after row of bleak barracks. Side roads branched off to the left and right, leading between the dorms towards the concrete walls and the first electrified fence beyond. Floodlights mounted on three-story-high steel towers loomed over the cramped clusters of low-rise buildings.

Robo-guards strode along the paths or herded groups of inmates to their assigned duties. A few figures in neon pink came out of the buildings to watch Rafe pass. He was, for some reason, glad that the biohazard mask hid his face.

He arrived at the generator room at 1652. Why the fuck should I care what time it is? he scolded himself as he parked the velocart. Unlike most of the structures in the camp, the generator building was reinforced concrete with a steel door. The Guardians had foreseen the possibility of sabotage.

Of course, that hadn’t made any difference to Dylan.

Rafe took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing pulse. He had to remove his glove to punch in the security code. The lock clicked. He pulled the heavy door open.

It was pitch black inside, and silent. Normally, the hums and whines of the generators would have filled the windowless, two-story building.

Dylan?” Rafe’s voice had a quaver that was not due to the respirator. This evidence of his own weakness made him angry. He pulled a penlight out of the chest pocket of the suit and flashed it around the apparently empty space. “3218! Show yourself. You’re in big trouble.”

The door clanged shut behind him. He took a step forwards, still not seeing any sign of the devil he knew must be there.

Nothing. Rafe seethed. He couldn’t stand to be played for a fool. He tore the mask off his face and pushed back the hood, then strained his ears for some indication that he was not alone. All he could hear was his own breathing.

Rafe played his light over the black coils and silver casings of the generators to his right. They ran the length of the building, flanked by an aisle to allow access for maintenance. Control panels lined the left wall. Normally they’d be populated by blinking lights and gauges, Rafe guessed, but they were dark now. Halfway up the aisle, between the power equipment and the controls, was a sturdy looking bench several feet wide. Rafe sat and swept the light along the bottom of the silent generators, in case someone had squirmed underneath.

He held his breath and listened to absolute silence. “Dylan,” he said finally, struggling to keep his voice even. “You asked me to come. I’m here. Come out and tell me what you want.”

A snap. A hiss. The smell of melting wax. Dylan stepped into view, apparently out of nowhere, holding a candle. The warm light illumined the curved shells of the machines, making them look like antique mechanisms of forgotten purpose. It flickered across the floor like fairies dancing in the woods. It made Dylan’s skin glow like polished ivory.

https://www.lisabetsarai.com/thehgenebook.html

Don’t forget to leave me a comment. Every one is a small but significant contribution to universal human rights.



Thursday, November 21, 2024

A seven-headed horse and a quest for unity – #EpicFantasy #WritersBlock #Giveaway

The Fate of Our Union tour banner

Lisabet: Welcome to Beyond Romance! I hope your tour is going really well. So, here’s a question for you: Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? If so, what do you do about it?

Hildebrandt: I’ve experienced short periods of writer’s block. This was a result of trying to write a book without a map. Instead of beginning at chapter one and trekking to chapter twenty-four, I gave tentative names that express a theme to every possible chapter, then wrote ideas of what could happen in each. This was my plot map before I knew about plot maps. The sense of control and direction that a plot map provides, knowing what would happen in later chapters, made it easier to write the earlier chapters.

As a historical fantasy writer, my ideas often stem from primary sources and scholarly works on history, mythology, and philosophy. However, novels have also played a significant role in shaping my writing. They have provided me with a clear understanding of what genre readers expect and how I can innovate to stand out. But perhaps the most crucial aspect of my writing process is understanding the characters I write about. This understanding is what moves the plot forward, as it allows me to know what motivates their actions or inaction. Sharing my ideas with others and hearing their thoughts has been invaluable, as has the practice of writing without overthinking, letting the words flow, and editing later.

Answering blog tour questions has helped me with blog writer’s block. Many of the questions I have responded to are not things I would have written about unless someone else had asked me.

Blurb

A mountainous thundering bull breaks up battling tribesmen, summoning three struggling youths, as an insidious unseen enemy turns tribes against tribes—pitting rich against poor, sons against fathers, and men against gods. Its insatiable hunger for division threatens to plunge mankind into a dystopian realm ruled by man-eating wolves.

A miraculous seven-headed horse, a symbol of unity, assembles the struggling youths of extraordinary origin into a journey of self-discovery. There Sunu the Saxon Poet, Rufus the Roman Stoic, and Keresaspa the Sarmatian Priestess must overcome pride, aversion, and unforgiveness; there they must learn from historical heroes, philosophers, and amazingly similar gods to battle the unseen monster and its rising wolfmen.

Fated to part ways to face the demons at home, Sunu, Rufus, and Keresaspa must reunite as they bring divided peoples together to fight the source tearing everyone apart. They must heed the divine wisdom of the seven-headed horse and justly wield the seven magic weapons they’ve mysteriously been given to overcome the unseen enemy and understand the higher purpose of the mountainous thundering bull.

The Fate of Our Union book cover

Excerpt

Sunu the Saxon and Rufus the Roman compare their gods (CH 6 of The Fate of Our Union).

Jupiter is right reason, chief regulator,” Rufus praised he who permeates the air as moisture, knowing he sounded more interesting the way he appeared in poems. “Through the clouds, the Thunderer rides his horse-drawn chariot, followed by power, strength, and victory. With his bolts, he famously slew godless giants and the water serpent Typhoeus.”

He’s like Thunor!” Sunu lit up with intrigue. “Except Thunor slew giants and a giant water serpent, Jörmungand, with a hammer, and his chariot is drawn by goats.”

The goat is also sacred to Jupiter, along with the oak, rock, and bull.” Rufus glanced from oak to rock for Amalthaea but only saw Tanngnjóstr. “Still, many think Thunor is more like Hercules, as they are both chariot-riding, cudgel-swinging warriors with a lengthy list of deeds.”

Sunu’s ears perked. “And they are?”

Hercules slew the Hydra, an enormous water serpent, like Jörmungand, and took oxen from a giant, Cacus in the cave, like Hymir in the mountain; both Hercules and Thunor fought and slew them with club and hammer.”

Sunu imagined the deeds side by side. “Are you telling me the truth?”

In truth, the parallels are quite striking.” Rufus chuckled as he pretended to swing a cudgel. “For they also have a heavenly father and an earthly mother, who produced a quick-tempered, far-traveling son who can out-eat and out-drink anyone in the cosmos!”

Sunu hoisted a golden brow. “Interesting.”

Unfortunately,” Rufus’s tone was no laughing matter, “they were also fated to die by the serpents’ poison.”

About the Author

Author Image

Hildebrand Hengest Hermannson’s deep-rooted fire for Indo-European culture and Western Philosophy ignites his first novel, The Fate of Our Union, the inaugural piece in a planned series. His work draws inspiration from the national epics The Saga of the Volsungs (Norse), Mahabharata (Indian), Aenid (Roman), Odyssey (Greek), Táin Bó Cúailnge (Celtic), and Shahnameh (Iranian), weaving these rich cultures into original stories featuring fantasy world-building, dynamic characters, and intricate plots and themes. His Wild Hunt of thought breathes life into his spiritual, ethical, and cultural interests, inspiring us all to strive for imperishable virtue.

Website: https://www.hhhermannson.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HHHermannson

Twitter: https://x.com/HHHermannson

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/hhhermannson77/

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/hhhermannson/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/214514568-the-fate-of-our-union

Buy Link on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CZS7TD5V?ref_=pe_93986420_775043100

One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $25 Amazon/BN.com gift card.


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Wednesday, November 20, 2024

Adventures in Asia – #Singapore #Romance #Giveaway #MFRWHooks

Asian Adventures Banner

For today’s MFRW Book Hooks blog, I’m featuring my multicultural romance Singapore Fling. This story is part of my Asian Adventures series. Like the other books I’m featuring this month, these tales are pretty realistic, though they may seem exotic
to some of my readers .

Anyway, if you like my hook, leave me a comment. I’ll choose one commenter to receive a free copy in the ebook format of your choice.

Blurb

In the cleanest city in Asia, things can still get messy.

Thai entrepreneur Ploy Kaewkornwattanasakul has come to Singapore to close a deal. Ploy needs to convince tech whiz Jason Chow to license his ground-breaking innovation to her company on favorable terms. The future of her startup depends on her negotiating skill. When she meets Jason, though, she realizes she wants not just the invention, but the inventor, too.

Jason Chow is a brilliant engineer, a successful businessman and a bit of a rebel. He’s attracted to Ploy from the moment he sets eyes on her. However, he doesn’t dare respond to her advances, for fear she’ll discover his secret vice.

Ploy doesn’t understand why the sexy CEO has rejected her. She figures she’ll have to content herself with the cold comfort of a signed contract—unless the strength of Jason’s desire overwhelms his shame.

Singapore Fling book cover

The Hook

As she threaded her way among the mobile phone kiosks and discount clothing shops on the ground floor of People’s Park, Ploy felt at home for the first time since she’d stepped off the plane. This wasn’t that different from Bangkok. While the gleaming airport, spotless public transit, towering sky scrapers and precise, robotic officials reminded her of something from a video game, the food court she found on the lower level deepened the sense of familiarity. Sure, the signs were in English and the prices were four times what she was used to, but hawkers were hawkers, all over Asia.

The stocky noodle vendor in the yellow apron grinned when Ploy addressed her in the Hokkien she’d learned from her parents.

Gum xia,” the middle aged woman said, handing back her change. “Thank you.”

The broth was oilier than in Thailand and three teaspoons of roasted chili sauce barely raised the spice level. Still, Ploy emptied the bowl. She’d had to leave her condo at four AM to catch her seven thirty flight; there had been no time for breakfast.

The sacrifices I make for my business! She grinned to herself, snagging the last bit of pork with her chopsticks. Most Thais would awaken an hour earlier rather than forgo a meal. It would all be worth it, though, if she could convince Interia to sign the joint development agreement.

No sooner had Ploy pushed the dish away than a uniformed staff member rolled up next to her with a plastic bin of dirty utensils. It took no more than a few seconds for the employee to grab the bowl, balance it on top of a pile, wipe the table clean, and disappear.

Ploy glanced around the open space. Every table was full, most with multiple people, eating with single-minded determination. Clearly at the height of lunch hour, available tables were rare. Throughput was critical.

Probably she should vacate her table, but she didn’t like feeling pressured. Anyway, she’d just paid the equivalent of two hundred baht for a single bowl of not-very-exciting noodles. For that price, she could buy a full dinner in Bangkok. She had the right to sit here for a while.

She glanced around at the other customers in the busy, noisy hawker center, a mixture of shoppers and business people judging by their clothing. Most alternated between animated conversation and shoveling food into their mouths. Others sat glued to their phones, swiping away with one hand while manipulating chopsticks in the other. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

Three tables away, though, she noticed an anomaly: a solitary young man, reading a hard cover book. She couldn’t make out the title at that distance—it could have been in Chinese, for all she could tell—but whatever it was, it completely engrossed him. He was oblivious to the bustle around him, including the frequent accusatory looks he received from the cleaning staff.

A real, printed book! Ploy was surprised to see anyone his age opting for dead trees as opposed to a touch screen.

There was nothing remarkable about the man himself. A bit taller than average for a Singaporean, slender but not skinny, he had typical Chinese features. He wore the dark pants and white shirt, sleeves rolled up, that was the common business uniform in the steamy climate. His slightly shaggy black hair fell into his eyes as he bent over the book. A pair of dark-framed glasses and a phone rested on the table next to him.

Something about his utter stillness drew her, though. Attracted her, in fact. She found his focused concentration exciting. This was a man with a powerful will, a person who had no difficulty ignoring what did not concern him. A bit of a rebel, too, given his willingness to flaunt social convention in this aggressively polite city. Like her, he wasn’t about to bow to the unreasonable demands of his inferiors.

Buy links at https://www.lisabetsarai.com/singaporeflingbook.html

Don’t forget to leave me a comment and enter my giveaway!



Tuesday, November 19, 2024

Tarnished origins, bright future – #HistoricalRomance #ReviewTuesday #Giveaway

Loving Lizzie Finn tour banner

Blurb

Lizzie Finn grew up in a brothel, and she’s reminded of that fact every day. She dreams of finding a job and becoming independent. Only then can she be free of her aunt’s disdain. First, she must find an employer who won’t turn her away because of her past.

Byron Greeley is determined to save his family’s business after Lizzie’s uncle falsifies the amount Byron owes on a loan from the bank. Determined to find proof of Teague’s perfidy, Byron slips into the banker’s house and rummages through the study only to be discovered by Lizzie, a red-haired beauty who utterly captivates him.

Byron offers Lizzie a job in exchange for information about her uncle, and because she believes her uncle is innocent, she agrees. When Teague discovers Lizzie and Byron’s growing affection, he threatens to destroy Byron and his family, insisting Byron is exploiting her. Is Teague’s warning well-founded? Are Byron’s feelings for Lizzie true, or is Byron using her for his own gain?

Excerpt

A spring in her step, Emma placed the rose gown on the bed and returned to the wardrobe. “I saw the most handsome man last night.”

Lizzie’s pulse leaped. “You did?” Had Emma seen the drunken stranger in Uncle’s study? The handsome intruder had occupied Lizzie’s thoughts all night long.

Of course I did. He is a sight for sore eyes.” Emma returned with the green skirt and carefully lowed it over Lizzie’s head. “Dark eyes, almost black in color, with a gaze so intense he nearly stole my breath.”

Yes. Exactly. As much as she’d tried, she couldn’t get the memory of those eyes out of her head.

Emma secured the skirt and grabbed the bodice. “And his hair, the same as his eyes, black as night.”

Slipping her arms into the sleeves, Lizzie disagreed, “I would hardly call it black, more a dark brown, the color of chestnuts. Which suits him quite well.” With strong, bold features, and a lean frame … She smiled a little when she thought of him. A handsome devil to be sure.

Emma came around to face Lizzie and began to button the gown’s front. “No. I’m quite sure Felix has darker hair than that.”

Felix?” Had that been his name?

Yes, our new footman.”

Footman? Lizzie’s cheeks flamed, and her smile dissipated. The man she’d met last night was no footman. He’d spoken of running his family’s business. How embarrassing to be caught admiring a complete stranger. What was wrong with her?

Loving Lizzie Finn book cover

Review by Lisabet Sarai

Lizzie Finn was born in a brothel to a woman fleeing an abusive relationship and raised in that dubious environment until her mid-teens. After her mother’s death, her mother’s sister offers her shelter in the prosperous Boston home of her banker uncle, but Lizzie pays dearly for that material comfort. Aunt Margaret constantly criticizes and belittles Lizzie, never allowing her to forget her tarnished origins and her mother’s shameful profession. Though her Uncle Eldon treats her more kindly, Lizzie longs for personal and financial independence.

Byron Greeley is struggling to keep his father’s business afloat. With his father ill, the responsibilities of the family clothing and notions factory have fallen on his young shoulders. To make things worse, a debt incurred by his father has been mysteriously inflated by the bank, with the original loan agreement somehow lost. Byron suspects the bank president, Eldon Teague, of dirty dealing and breaks into his house in the middle of the night to look for evidence. There he is caught and confronted by Lizzie. Despite the compromising circumstances, he’s enchanted by the brave, spirited redhead. Meanwhile, even though Lizzie knows she should turn him in to the police, something about the earnest young man persuades her to protect him.

Loving Lizzie Finn offers a satisfying love story with appealing and moderately complex characters. Growing up in a brothel might not have been ideal, but the experience has imbued the heroine with courage and fostered her self-reliance. Lizzie’s determination to make her own way in life clashes with her profound attraction to Byron. Meanwhile, Byron never wavers in his devotion to his “angel”, though circumstances sometimes lead Lizzie to doubt him.

As the book progresses, secrets surrounding Lizzie’s history come to light, gradually enough that the revelations don’t seem contrived. I also liked the fact that the resolution of the primary conflict was the consequence of a character’s growth and change rather than some external agency. Several of the characters must adapt in order for Byron and Lizzie to reach their happy ending. I felt that most of these changes were quite convincing.

The book’s most significant weakness is its very thin veneer of history. It is supposedly set in mid-Victorian-era Boston, a setting and period I know quite well. (I lived in a Victorian-era building in Beacon Hill for more than a year, and I’ve written many stories set in the late nineteenth century.) However, there are few details or descriptions that bring the setting to life. I had no real sense of place or time, which I view as a problem given the supposed genre of historical romance.

In fact I wonder if the relative freedom Lizzie enjoys is consistent with the social conventions of the time. She comes and goes as she pleases, without a chaperone. She works in a public factory, among strangers. She surrenders to her passion for Byron with little or no hesitation, though realistically she does worry about pregnancy afterward.

The book would have benefited from a firmer historical grounding. At present it is a somewhat generic romance that could have unfolded almost anywhere.

Still, this wasn’t enough to stop me from enjoying Loving Lizzie Finn. If you like romance with bold, capable heroines, you’ll probably enjoy it too.

About the Author


A small-town girl with a big imagination, Tamara Hughes had no idea what to do with her life. After graduating from college, she moved to a big city, started a family and a job, and still struggled to find that creative outlet she craved. An avid reader of romance, she gave writing a try and became hooked on the power of exploring characters, envisioning adventures, and creating worlds. She enjoys stories with interesting twists and heroines who have the grit to surmount any obstacle, all without losing the ability to laugh. To learn more, stop by her website: www.tamarahughes.com.

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Buy link for Loving Lizzie Finn: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DFMQ4X1H

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