Friday, October 20, 2017

J.Q. Rose Shares Her Favorite Poem for Halloween

Deadly Undertaking by J.Q. Rose
BWL Publishing believes Deadly Undertaking is the perfect read for Halloween
because the setting is in the Staab-Blood Funeral Home 
haunted by a shadow man, Henry.
Find J.Q.'s books at BWL Publishing.

Click here to listen to J.Q. Rose read James Whitcomb Riley's poem, Little Orphant Annie.

At this special time of the year, I'm  sharing my favorite Halloween poem below.
Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley. BOO!!
Happy Halloween from J.Q. Rose
I loved reading this poem to my third grade class every year. You know how experts tell us not to write too much dialect in our stories? I guess in the 1800's Riley didn't care. The language makes the poem, I'd say. But what's even more fun is to read it out loud. Your tongue needs to twist and turn to negotiate through the words, so read it a few times to train it. Try it. Can you do it without laughing? Enjoy!

 Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley

Poem found at All Poetry Website


.  Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, 
    An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, 
    An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, 
    An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; 
    An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done, 
    We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun 
    A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, 
    An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you 
      Ef you 
        Don't 
          Watch 
            Out! 
    Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, — 
    An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, 
    His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, 
    An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all! 
    An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, 
    An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; 
    But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: — 
    An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you 
      Ef you 
        Don't 
          Watch 
            Out! 
    An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, 
    An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; 
    An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there, 
    She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! 
    An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, 
    They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, 
    An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! 
    An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you 
      Ef you 
        Don't 
          Watch 
            Out! 
    An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, 
    An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! 
    An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, 
    An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, — 
    You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear, 
    An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, 
    An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, 
    Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you 
      Ef you 
        Don't 
          Watch 
            Out!

First Publication Date: Indianapolis Journal (Nov. 15, 1885), originally published as The Elf Child.

Wishing you a safe and Happy Halloween!! from J.Q. Rose
Click here to connect online with J.Q. Rose.

Thursday, October 19, 2017

Ghosts of Gannaway by Stuart R. West

Click for Stuart R. West's BWL author page!
Gather round the pumpkin patch, boys and ghouls! It's time to tell a lil' Halloween ghost story.

Can you hear 'em? The ghosts of old miners clambering down the road? Don't believe me? Go take a look at the local mining museum. Just make sure you visit in the daytime. And don't give no never mind to those moving pictures on the wall. And just what in the world's goin' on down in those mines anyway?

Ghosts of Gannaway. The perfect ghost story for Halloween reading.
Ghost whispers echo through the mines of Gannaway. They have a story to tell. It’s the story of a town torn apart by greed, pollution and vanity, by racial discord between the Native Americans and the invading miners, by the Great Depression, by the violent union strikes of the 1930’s. That’s not all that brought Gannaway to its knees, though. Not by a long shot. Because something—else—lives in the deserted tunnels of the mine, something dark and evil. Something that breathes life into the Ghosts of Gannaway.

'Ghosts of Gannaway takes the reader on a journey they won’t forget.' ~ Paranormal suspensewriter Gail Roughton

'Filled with tension, excellent characterization, suspense, ghostly presences and enough twists and turns to keep you glued to the last page.'   ~ Thriller author Catherine Cavendish

'Captivating...a ghost story full of surprises.' ~ Mystery writer Joan C. Curtis

(Psst...for more Halloween reading, try Peculiar County, a more gentle YA approach to the ghost story...)
CLICK FOR GHOSTS, THRILLS, CHILLS, AND MYSTERY!


*Stuart R. West’s brand-spanking new website!
*BWL Publishing author page.
*Stuart R. West's (totally inconsequential) blog: Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley
*And the rest: Facebook, Twitter

The Show-Stealing Sleuth by Stuart R. West

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE!
Due to popular demand (at least in my household), book #3 in the acclaimed (mostly), cozy (kinda), hilarious (totally subjective), classy (a lie!) Zach and Zora series about a no-nonsense female sleuth with four kids and a dim-witted, big-hearted stripper brother has just been released to much fanfare (well...more like a raspberry or two).

"Murder most dumb" is probably the best way to put it.

Honestly, I never thought this series would make it this far (and still have some legs to go on for some time). Don't get me wrong...I love the characters and they're lotsa fun to write. But the series almost didn't happen.

True confession time: I wrote the first book as a dare. I was yakking with another author and I just threw out what I considered a ludicrous lead character: a vapid, vain, dense male stripper. So Bad Day in a Banana Hammock was born.

Five pages in, I nearly buried the book. I said to myself (because writing's a very lonely and at times scary business), "Stuart, you can't do this. This guy, Zach, is way too dumb to carry a book."

I answered, "You're right as always (because that's something my wife never tells me). Let's give Zach a sister. A detective. A very pregnant, very irritable sister sleuth."

Boom
CLICK FOR THE FIRST BOOK IN THE SERIES
Little did I realize when Zora first entered Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, she'd steal the show. She wasn't meant to. This was her brother's book. But many readers commented how Zora took over the book and was a riot. She struck a chord in many readers, particularly women readers.

I'm not sure why. I could postulate and pontificate 'til I'm stupid blue in the face as to why and most assuredly, I'd be wrong. I usually am. My best guess regarding Zora's popularity is due to her being a strong, smart, take-charge, no-nonsense kinda' sleuth. Even though she's  eight months pregnant with her fourth kid, has the other three in tow, and is trying to save her stupid brother from going to jail for a murder he didn't commit, she never loses sight of her goals.

Maybe readers like her because of the snappy, noiresque dialogue I stick her with. It's a lotta fun to write. If I had my way, I'd have all my characters speaking that way. But, alas, the world's not a Damon Runyon newsroom.

Or maybe the readers like Zora's crankiness. After all, with Zach as a brother, four out-of-control kids, and bodies dropping everywhere, I imagine the patience of Job would be sorely tested.

So. Here we are at book #3, Nightmare of Nannies. Some things have changed. I've tried to mature Zach (gasp!) a bit. Just a bit. But don't worry. He's still dumb. Still the yin to Zora's yang. And as much as Zach drives his sister crazy, there's a natural, comfortable love between the siblings, the heart of the books.

Plus there's a chapter long chase scene involving Zach, a kid on a skateboard, a serial killer van, a mariachi band, an irritated bus driver, and a very, very special pair of tear-away pants.
CLICK FOR MORE EXCITEMENT AND STUPIDITY!

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Another Short Story _ Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #short story


Romancing The Nurse

 

 

Continuing with sharing short stories. This story is one that could only have written in 1968 since much has changed. The story was triggered by an article I read in one of my husband’s medical journals. The story also is one that sounds like the synopsis for a story rather than a story. The amount of passive writing surprised me when I re-typed the words. The urge to re-write became strong but I refrained.

 

No “Good Samaritan” I

 

Dr. Thomas Brand held the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles of his hands were white. As he drove along, he stared at the road without seeing it. Why had he decided to go to that meeting? He had known what Judge Sloan was going to talk about. It would have been better if he had stayed at home. The meeting had brought back bitter memories.

It was a rainy night in early November and the moon remained hidden. The blacktop glistened in the beams from the car’s headlights. The road twisted and turned past scattered farm houses, most of them were dark but I few still had porch lights visible.

Dr. Brand let out a deep sign. Judge Sloan had spoken of the physician’s responsibility when stopping to give aid at the scene of an accident. He felt that a doctor was obligated to stop. Dr. Brand had felt a wave of resentment pass over him. During the discussion that had followed, he had given his views.

Of course, his views were bitter but what else could they expect? If any of his fellow doctors had agreed with him, they hadn’t spoken out. Many had disagreed with him but they didn’t know what it was like to have given up something for which you had worked so hard. He didn’t know any of them who had to sit in an empty office waiting for patients who didn’t come or watching people’s embarrassment when they met him on the street. Not many of them knew what it was like to leave your home and friends, not because you wanted to but because you were forced to.

They spoke from their ideals and their dreams. They didn’t know. They’d never had to be “Good Samaritan.”

Dr. Brand knew and he knew he was one doctor who would never again play that role. He would close his eyes to suffering and see patients by appointment only.

Those idealistic doctors didn’t have that night vividly etched in their memories. He would remember it as long as he lived.

After his evening office hours, he had driven out to the Howard farm. Mr. Howard had broken his leg and it had swollen. Now the cast seemed too tight.

 

* * *

The July night was hot and humid. Everyone was hoping for signs of rain. When Dr. Brand had finished loosening Mr. Howard’s cast. He said, “If you have any more trouble with the cast, let me know and I’ll make arrangements to put a new one on.” As he spoke, he closed his medical bag and got up to leave.

There was a loud crash outside. “Thunder?” asked Dr. Brand.

“I hope so,” replied Mr. Howard. “It’s been a hot, dry summer. My crops are dying in the fields and I can’t do a thing about them.”

They were interrupted by the steady blare of a car horn. “There go those darn kids again,” said Mr. Howard. “They come down this road almost every night blaring that horn.”

As Dr. Brand walked to his car, the horn’s blare continued, not fading a bit. A nagging thought began to forming Dr. Brand’s mind and he stopped to peer into the darkness.

The Howard farm was bordered along the road edge by a brown stone wall. An elm grew near the gate. As Dr. Brand peered into the darkness, he could make out the shadowy outline of a car among the scattered stones. Someone in that car must be honking for help, he thought.

Dr. Brant turned and dashed back to the house. “Mrs. Howard, call Memorial and have them send an ambulance right now. There’s a wreck at the end of your lane. Tell them I’m here.”

He drove down the lane as fast as he dared. When he reached the road, he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a girl with red hair who lay in a grotesque heap on the road. Wandering aimlessly was another girl. And the horn continued to blare.

As Dr. Brand stared at the wreck, he knew how a battle surgeon must feel when he looked at the chaotic scenes of war. He controlled his panic and tried to decide what to do first. While thinking, he pulled nervously at his right earlobe. From beside him he grabbed his medical bag and hurried to where the red-haired girl lay. He knelt beside her and felt for a pulse. He stood up slowly. She was dead.

He walked slowly over to the twisted wreckage of the car. What had once been a bright, shiny convertible was now covered with a thick coat of dust and bits of stone. The front end was smashed in.

Then he saw the blonde boy wedged behind the steering wheel with his head and chest lying across it. A sudden feeling of panic overcame Dr. Brand when he saw the boy was Allen Randel, son of Circle’s leading lawyer and one of its most influential citizens.

Allen had played football for Circle High School.  He outweighs me by at least thirty pounds, thought Dr. Brand. I’ll never be able to move him by myself. I’ll have to wait until the ambulance arrives. He put his hands to his ears. Oh, God, is there no way to stop that horn.

The girl who was wandering in the road began to call out. “Watch out! Allen! Stop!”

Dr. Brand left Allen’s side and half-carried her to the side of the road. Blood oozed from scrapes and cuts on her hands and face. She cried hysterically.

Dr. Brand searched through his bag and gave her a sedative. Then he dressed her wounds. Some of them would have to be sutured when they got to the hospital. Her face would scar, he thought. Gently, he helped her to his car.

At the sight of her friend, the girl began to scream again. Dr. Brand covered as much of the dead girl as he could with his jacket. He soothed the young girl and then hurried to Allen again. Would this nightmare ever end?

He checked his nausea and tried to figure a way to move Allen, even though he knew it was impossible without help. I wish the ambulance would hurry, thought Dr. Brand as he felt the boy’s pulse. The boy needs to get to a hospital. I can’t do a thing for him here.

A low, whimpering puppy-like sound drew his attention from Allen. He turned to see a boy huddled against the broken stone wall, near the front of the car. The boy held his hands to his face. He continued to whimper while Dr. Brand examined him.

“Come on, son. Stand up. I’m here to help you,” said Dr. Brand. The boy’s cries continued as Dr. Brand led him to his car.

As Dr. Brand hurried back to Allen, he heard the wail of an ambulance in the distance. He breathed a sigh of relief.

When the ambulance reached the scene, the driver and attendant helped Dr. Brand move Allen into the ambulance and they went to take the red-haired girl. The cessation of the horn’s blare made Dr. Brand almost as nervous as its steady blare had.

“Horrible accident,” said the attendant. “I wonder what they were trying to probe. Must have been going very fast.”

Dr. Brand finished checking the extent of Allen’s injuries and tossed his car keys to the attendant. “There’s another couple in my car. The girl’s face and arms are lacerated and the boy’s in shock. He has no evident injuries. I’d better go in the ambulance. I’m not sure young Randel’s going to make it.” He placed a tourniquet around the blond boy’s arm.

The fifteen minute ride to the hospital seemed endless to Dr. Brand. Allen’s condition grew progressively worse. Dr. Brand started an intravenous and administered stimulants but nothing seemed to help.

Allen died shortly after they reached the hospital before he could be taken to the operating room. A feeling of helplessness engulfed Dr. Brand. How do you tell the parents of an only child that he was dead? Slowly, he left the room and went to find Allen’s parents.

He saw the Randels in the waiting room. Mrs. Randel was leafing through a magazine. She was an imposing woman who wore her gray hair in a chignon. Her sharp aristocratic features suited the long mink coat and the jeweled hands.

Mr. Randel stood in the doorway, talking to a nurse, gesticulating wildly. His portly face was red and he ran his fingers through his balding blonde hair.

As Dr. Brand approached, he heard Mr. Randel say, “I want to see my son. That was an expensive car he wrecked and I want an explanation. I don’t care if the doctor is with him. My wife and I were called away from an important party and would like to return as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Randel,” interrupted Dr. Brand. “I’ve just come from your son.”

“Can I see him now?”

“I would like to talk to you and yoru wife first.”

As they entered the waiting room, Dr. Brand cleared his throat. He still didn’t know how he was going to tell the Randels. He looked at them and began pulling at his right earlobe.

“I’m sorry… Allen just died. We did everything possible for him but we couldn’t;’ get him here in time. One girl was killed and another couple injured.”

Mr. Randel sat down heavily. His face was ashen. Mrs. Randel looked at Dr. Brand with cold blue eyes.

“How did you let this happen?” she demanded. “You’re a doctor. Why did you let my son die?”

Dr. Brand motioned to the nurse. “Get Mrs. Randel a sedative, please.”

Mrs. Randel’s voice rose to a high pitch. “I don’t want anything from you. You’re responsible for Allen’s death. I know it.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Brand said as he turned away. He didn’t want Mrs. Randel to see the anger on his face. There were things he could have said, her son’s recklessness had killed a girl and injured two others but Allen was dead and those things were petty. His anger changed to pity as he walked to where his other two patients were waiting.

When the Randels sued him for malpractice, Dr. Brand was taken by surprise. Surely by now, they must realize he had done everything he could for their son.

His practice began to decline before the trial. Appointments were cancelled and only a few new ones were made. He had known this would happen but he hadn’t expected it.

Dr. Brand won the suit and his heard was full of pity for the Randels. They looked so old.

He was stunned and then angered when his patients didn’t return. Wasn’t he the same doctor he had been before the whole mess began? He knew he was but he wasn’t being giving a chance to prove it. When he heard John Howard had gone to another doctor to have his cast removed, he knew he would have to leave Circle.

The decision was a hard one to make. He would have to throw away five years of hard work that it had taken to build his practice. Si, he left and moved to Stonedge to start over again.

 

* * *

 

A road sign indicating a double curve ahead roused him from his bitter memories. He slowed down and as he rounded the first curve, he gasped. A blue coupe had crashed into a large oak tree. Nearby, a gray sedan was parked and two people stood helplessly by the wreck.

Dr. Brand continued around the bend. Why did this have to happen to him? Why God, why? His questions echoed in his head as he pulled his car off the road. He left the headlights on. A find misting of rain rapidly covered the windshield. Groping shadows reached out from the trees as though they were pleading for help.

I’ve got to drive on. I don’t want to be involved. He began pulling at his right earlobe. What should I do?

He opened the door of the car and stepped out. I can send those people to go call for an ambulance. At least I can do that much. No one has to know I’m a doctor. His hand unconsciously grasped the medical bag.

As he walked through the chilling November drizzle, his thoughts raced. Why am I doing this? Why did I pick up my bag? He controlled an impulse to return to the car and drive away.

Je walked over to the couple. “Would you call an ambulance? There’s a farm house down the road a little way.” As an after thought, he added. “I’m Dr. Brand.”

The couple got into their car and drove away. Dr. Brand knelt in the road beside the patient and began to examine him.

 

The End

 


 


 


 

 http://wwweclecticwriter.blogspot.com

 

http://www.bwlpublishing.ca/authors/lane-walters-janet-romance-fantasy-usa/

Haunted Canada by Diane Scott Lewis

Monday, October 16, 2017

Prepping for a book signing, by J.C. Kavanagh

Award-winning book, The Twisted Climb
BEST Young Adult Book 2016, P&E Award
The Twisted Climb
Just imagine being face-to-face with countless strangers who have come to check out your book. And you. What to say? What to wear? What to do? 
I have three book signings this month and the thought of each one brings on the fears - what if no one comes - what if no one buys my book - what if my tongue turns to mush and gibberish pops out in the middle of a conversation. Oh boy, I hate it when I get a case of the 'what-ifs.' Gah!
Me before a book signing
Me putting on a bit of sass during a book signing
 
Me after every book signing :)


The Twisted Climb sequel: Darkness Descends

I've been busy working on the sequel to my book and enjoying the story as it unfolds in the playground that is my mind. Here's a sneak preview:

DRAFT IN PROGRESS:
The darkness descended around her, its blackness sliding against her bare arms like the cold clammy fingers of a corpse. Georgia shivered with fear, her lips trembling.

“CONNOR,” her mind screamed. “I NEED YOU.”

But her big brother was not in this frightening, unfamiliar place. Six-year-old Georgia was alone in the darkness, surrounded by giant pine trees on one side and a grassy meadow on the other. A yellowish full moon shone brightly from the heavens, ghoulishly displaying its pock-marked face while illuminating a narrow path between the pines. Georgia squinted ahead.

Where am I?

She crossed one arm over the other and gave herself a hug. She was not only missing her big brother, she was craving the solace that Foleydota, her stuffed-toy baby pangolin, brought her during the night. She whimpered as a sob built up in her throat. She gulped it down. The prospect of being alone in the dark was making her panic.

“I’m a big girl n-n-now,” Georgia said with feigned confidence, pushing her tongue in the space where two baby teeth used to be. A moment later, the sound of an owl hooting in the distance made her screech in terror.  

“Please,” she whispered to the darkness, crouching low to the grassy earth. “Why am I here? I don’t want to be here… is this a dream?” Georgia turned her face to the glowing moon. A single, hot salty tear trickled down her right cheek and she buried her face on her knees.

“Wake up,” she told herself.

A light wind rustled the trees and bushes. They rubbed and shifted together, creaking and moaning, first in soprano notes, then bass. The high-to-low-to-high notes continued, like a wind instrument tuning up and down the musical scale. It was an eerie, whistling sound and Georgia’s terror escalated in keeping with the amplified volume. She was breathing in shallow pants. The intensity and number of high-low notes slowly changed – from a duet to a multi-instrument, full-blown orchestra. Every tree and every bush surrounding Georgia joined the thrashing, whistling, wailing band. The soprano pitch descended just as the bass note moved up the scale. Georgia covered her ears but it did not reduce the cacophony of notes as they raged in opposite directions. It sounded like dozens of cats simultaneously and ferociously brawling as they slid, claws out, down an old school blackboard. Suddenly, the high-low screeches met in the middle of the scale, howling and hissing with an urgency that made Georgia’s skin crawl. Then, in a thunderous clash much like the slam of cymbals coming together, the notes spoke in unison, screeching a single-syllable command.

“Climb.”

Georgia fainted.
 
* * * * *

Stay tuned for more previews of the sequel to The Twisted Climb: Darkness Descends

 
J.C. Kavanagh
The Twisted Climb
A novel for teens, young adults and adults young at heart.
VOTED Best Young Adult Book, P&E Award, 2016
Twitter @JCKavanagh1 (Author J.C. Kavanagh)




Sunday, October 15, 2017

Origins of Non-violent Martial Arts


Kung-Fu in the Forest of Pagodas, Shaolin Temple

In 464 A.D. a Buddhist monk from India, named Buddhabadra, arrived in Henan, China, to spread the teachings of the Buddha. He was part of a great missionary movement that brought the teachings of the Dharma to many parts of Asia, from Afghanistan and Persia in the west to China and Japan in the east.

Known as Batuo in Chinese, he became famous for his erudition and wisdom and gathered many disciples from across the kingdom of Northern Wei.

Thirty-one years later, the Emperor Xiaowen built the now-renowned Shaolin Monastery in Henan for this monk, and from then on, the Monastery became famous for its martial arts practitioners, especially in Kung Fu.

Non-violent martial arts is intimately tied in with two things: the spread of Buddhism and, secondly, the philosophy of ahimsa (non-violence.) Ahimsa is one of the five virtues that form the basis of Buddhist ethics. These five precepts are:

   1)  Abstention from taking life.

   2)   Abstention from stealing.
   3)   Abstention from sexual misconduct
   4)   Abstention from falsehoods, and finally,
   5)   Abstention from intoxicants

As Buddhism spread from its birthplace in India/Nepal, challenges to the wandering monks arose. Specifically, during travels across the land, they would be attacked by hostile persons, whether belonging to different communities or plain thieves and bandits. To injure or kill them would entail breaking one of the cardinal rules of the monks’ faith. Thus, over the years, they developed ways of protecting themselves without seriously injuring their opponents. These forms of non-violent combat they brought with them to China and other places.

Bodhidharma
In 527 A.D., an even more important Buddhist monk, from the Tamil region of South India, named Bodhidharma, simply called Damo in China, arrived at the Shaolin Temple. His influence on Chinese Buddhism and culture cannot be underestimated. He is considered to be the transmitter of Chan (the quintessential Buddhism of China) and its first patriarch, and in Japan, known as Daruma (Dharma.) In Chinese art, he is shown as a dark-skinned, wild-haired, bearded and ill-tempered monk. Traditionally, Chinese date the birth of Shaolin Kung Fu to his arrival.

Both Buddhabhadra and Bodhidharma seemed to have attracted, among others, Chinese military men as their first disciples. Buddhabhadra’s first disciples, Huiguang and Sengchou became well known for their prowess. Bodhidharma’s main disciple, Huike, was also an esteemed warrior.

The Shaolin temple combines two different but complementary traditions: Chan (Buddhist philosophy and ethics) and Quan (martial arts.) The monks there have always pursued the philosophy of unification of these two. In a deeper sense, Quan is considered part of Chan. As late Shaolin monk Suxi said in the last moments of his life, "Shaolin is Chan, not Quan."


In China non-violent martial arts developed to a degree much greater than they did in their home lands of India and Central Asia, and from there, Buddhist monks transmitted the teachings to Japan, South Korea and other parts of the world.


Mohan Ashtakala is the author of "The Yoga Zapper" (www.yogazapper.com)  published by Books We Love (www.bookswelove.com)

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