A Chance Meeting, a Friendship, and a Life-Changing Phone Call by Naguib Kerba

 A Chance Meeting, Friendship & Life-Changing Call | Naguib Kerba — Naguib Sami Kerba Photography

Creative Insults by J.S. Marlo

 

Wide of the Mark

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J. S. Marlo's Books

I'm an avid reader, but frequent swearing turns me off. I will not stop reading a good novel if the a character uses the f-word a few times in the right context, but I will put one down, and never pick it up again, if it's the protagonist's favourite adjective. To me, it just shows a lack of depth in the character, and I don't like two-dimensional characters.

Now, if you want to insult someone without swearing at them, you may want to try some of these creative examples:

- You have a unique ability to misunderstand the most simple thing.

- Everyone has the right to be stupid, but you’re abusing the privilege.

- I’d agree with you but then we’d both be wrong.

- The closest you’ll come to a brainstorm is a light drizzle.

- You look smart in pictures.

- Were you dropped a lot as a baby?

- I’m still debating whether you’re the weakest link or the missing link.

- I don't have any crayons to explain this to you.

- If ignorance is bliss, you must be ecstatic at all times.

- Did you sniff a lot of glue as a kid?

- There really is one born every minute.

- You’re completely right, except for everything you just said.

- Your gene pool needs more chlorine.

- I will not have a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.

- It’s impossible to underestimate you.

- I’ll never forget the day we met, but I'll keep trying.

- You’re not stupid. You just have bad luck thinking.

- You’re like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

- Somewhere, somehow, you are robbing a village of their idiot.

 - Stupidity isn’t a crime. You’re free to go.

- You’re about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

- I’m busy right now, can I ignore you another time?

- It's hard to get the big picture when you have such a small screen.

- Please just tell me you don’t plan to home-school your kids.

- Don’t feel bad. A lot of people have no talent.

I may just use one or two in my next book.

Happy reading!

JS

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Lunch with a Paranormal Investigator by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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           Purchase directly from BWL Publishing

It's not every day I have lunch with a paranormal investigator, but recently I did just that. I am working on my contribution to BWL Publishing's upcoming Paranormal Americana Collection, The Haunting of Blackberry Hill. I've decided that my characters need to call in a paranormal investigator. The only problem is I had no idea what they do or how they do it. As I am a stickler for research and accuracy, I decided the best way to find out was to talk to one. So, I did an online search and was delighted to find a woman living in a nearby town who has been doing investigations for the past 13 years. I contacted her and she agreed to meet with me.

Jo and I clicked almost immediately. That's not surprising considering that I mainly write historical fiction, have a degree in history, have worked in a living history museum, and devour history books both fiction and non-fiction. Jo has a Ph.D. in medieval history, has published a book on medieval Irish history, and is the Chair of the Board of Trustees at her town's library.

One more thing we share is a fascination with the paranormal. Once I told her that The Haunting of Blackberry Hill is based on a house my family lived in when I was very young, she was hooked. We dove right in and talked for at least an hour and a half. It was like we had known each other for years.

Jo gave me some great information on what a paranormal investigator does and what kind of equipment they use. She let me know that she will be doing an investigation for Preservation Worcester at the Salisbury House in Worcester, Massachusetts on September 18th. The house is Preservation Worcester's headquarters. They'd probably like to know with whom they are sharing it. 

She will be using her infrared cameras, EVP (electronic voice phenomena) recorder, and a spirit box. I'm looking forward to seeing her in action, though I'm not sure if I'm looking forward to seeing or hearing any ghosts! In any case, it should be an interesting evening.

 

 

Sing Down Summer: Yacht Rock & Porch Pants

                                    

Soft and slow, the summer winds down. Warm breezes carry the essence of autumn. These last few weeks are always bittersweet. Those cozy "BER" months are on their way. Every season brings its own special something always worth looking forward to, but for now, let's relish end-of-summer days.

Sing Down Summer

Seed heads sway, taking bow after bow for 

    feeding the birds 

        through dry spells,

            soggy spells,

                windy spells,

                    and calm.

    Nature's pantry.

Crisp grass underfoot tells staccato tales of drought

    with each brittle 

         crunch,

              crunch.

    It will survive.

Goldfinches snack greedily on a slow-mo metronome 

    purple-petaled coneflower,

        plucking, 

            cracking, 

                flinging seeds

    Cookie Monster-style.

Ruby-throated hummingbirds swarm,

    and fight,

        and scramble

            for every last 

                drop of nectar.

                    Frenzied orchestra string wings.

They have a long flight ahead.

Long shadows inch their way into our day,

    crowding us from the sun,

        reminding us to 

            settle down,

                simmer down,

Sing down the summer.

I watch it all transpire from the comfort of an iron swing

    sipping coffee or wine

        in my breezy linen porch pants.

Listening to the easy tones of soothing yacht rock

    melodies from my yesteryears.

        LPs. 45s.

            Mixed tapes.

                Burnt CDs.

A little Ambrosia to start things off.

    They know just How Much I Feel.

        Some Bee Gees, Steely Dan, and 

            Jefferson Starship 

                serenade the Winds of Change.

As the sun slips down, a delightful chill

    spurs me 

        to wrap into a ratty zip-up

            And just like that,

                afternoon turns into evening.

I linger longer.

        

Good Things Recipe

    A pinch of Seager. 

        A dash of Don Henley. 

            A handful of Fleetwood

And a Little River Band.

Some one-hit wonders I somehow know

    all the words.

        LP jacket still crisp in my mind.        

            Must sing along

                Must move my body.

                

Brandy, You're A Fine Girl, 

    so says Looking Glass.

Dance with Me, 

    Orleans.

How Sweet It Is, James.

So Come Sail Away with Chris and me

    to Never, Neverland

Believe Loggins and Messina,

    Everything is gonna be alright.

Lean back,

    get your porch pants on,

        revel in these last days of wonder,

            tap a foot,

                and

Sing down the summer.

Sparkslingers                            Nokota Voices                    Echoes of the Nokota

A psychopath celebrates National Courtesy Month by donalee Moulton

 

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September is, wait for it, National Courtesy Month. Who knew. Despite the fact that every month of the year is a celebration of numerous issues, this one resonated with me because I believe it would resonate with the main character in my first book Hung Out to Die. As a psychopath, the four to twelve percent of the population who are CEOs, Riel Brava understands the pressure to fit in – and what it feels like when you don’t. As you’ll see in the excerpt below.

 

 EXCERPT

Tiffany must have called Faye Bedwell to let her know we were coming. The grieving widow greets us at the front door. She’s a mess. Her hair is tousled, her eyes red, and her face blotchy. She waves us inside. “Thank you for coming.”

Tiffany leans in and hugs her. “We are here for you.” The widow weeps. I closely continue to watch how my wife does this. I am always amazed at the ease and naturalness with which Tiffany draws people to her and makes them feel comfortable.

From a bag I didn’t even realize Tiffany had in her hand, she removes a lasagna she purchased from our favorite Italian restaurant. “A little comfort food,” she says, leaning in again. I suspect the touching is likely to go on for a while.

Another woman enters the fray, takes the lasagna, and leads us into the living room. Several people are there, including a child I assume must be Muffin. Dammit, Bran.

I sit down uncomfortably and realize everybody is looking just as uncomfortable. I relax. Tiffany mingles, doing it well. People are responding to her. Perhaps she should run for president. Ha, who knew I had a sense of humor.

I don’t know who these people are, but they all seem to know their surroundings and the Bedwell family. I assume they are relatives and neighbors. I’ll confirm that with Tiffany.

I glance at my watch in what I hope is a nonchalant move. This is a perfunctory visit; I’m hoping we’re in and out in under 30 minutes.

As I look up, I realize Muffin is looking directly at me. Dammit. Bran. I’m hoping he didn’t see my sidelong glance. I smile. It’s a mixture of warmth and sadness. I get a quivery smile in return. This is good. The kid must not know what looking at a watch indicates. I’m in the clear.

Tiffany catches my eye and motions me toward the kitchen. As always, protocol is her forte. I rise and follow her to the adjoining room. It’s warm from the oven and stove, brightly lit, and HGTV comfortable. I struggle to picture Norm here eating, doing dishes, or sipping coffee. I fail. The fact is, I don’t even know if Norm drank coffee. All I seem to know for certain is his fondness for pastry.

Samantha, Norm’s sister, sets our lasagna on a table laden with more lasagna, rolls, salads, soups, and sandwiches. She sees me staring. “People have been kind.”

“As they should. How is Bran doing?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but commonly asked in situations like this.

“He’s shaken. And confused.” Samantha turns, a little uncertainly, I think. Now she looks me in the eye.

Oh, god.

“Can I ask you something?”

I want to point out that she already has asked me something, but I know that would not be appropriate. I nod.

“Did you know Norm well?”

The real answer is, “Well enough to keep him at arm’s length and out of my life.” The suitable answer is more nuanced. Hesitation works well in these situations, I’ve discovered. Psychologists and shrinks like to use indicators like this to demonstrate the presence of psychopathy or sociopathy. It doesn’t always. A delay is acceptable and anticipated for real people grappling to find the appropriate words.

My history with Norm is short. Canadian Cannabis opened in 2015, producing medical marijuana for a global market of patients suffering everything from depression to fibromyalgia to cancer. I arrived 18 months later to prepare the company for the domestic recreational cannabis market as Canada became only the second country in the world to legalize marijuana.

Norm was already in place when I assumed the helm. I got the feeling he would have liked to have been friends, which is the last thing I ever wanted. Distance is a safety valve for me. Get too close, and you are more likely to trip up. In Norm’s case, it was also chemistry. I don’t have friends, but I understand the concept. You must have common ground, mutual respect, and a shared fondness for each other. We didn’t have that. More accurately, I didn’t have that.

I look up at Samantha. “I’ve known Norm since I moved here three years ago. I saw him almost every day. We worked well together, but we were not close.” It’s an honest answer. Shit. Where did that come from?

“Did you expect this?” Samantha asks.

More confusion on my part.

“That he killed himself,” she explains somewhat cautiously.

It’s a great question. The obvious answer is “Yes.” I dig a little deeper. The answer is the same: “Yes.” That’s what I tell Samantha.

“Me too.” Norm’s sister twists a dish towel in her hands tighter and tighter. “I keep going over it in my head. It just doesn’t make sense.”

I remain silent. I’ve learned people will fill the silence, doing the work for me.

“I’m down from Sydney because Norm and Faye were supposed to be going to Cuba for a week’s vacation, a romantic getaway. I was staying with Bran. They had non-refundable tickets. They had plans.”

I agree it doesn’t make sense.

“Do you think he killed himself?”

My bewilderment is obvious even to me. I feel the shockwaves in my bones. “What else could it be?” I simply did not see this question coming even in the long list of possibilities I reviewed on the drive over.

“I don’t know,” Samantha says, looking me directly in the eye. “But I don’t believe my brother killed himself.”

It turns out Samantha’s disbelief was well-founded.