tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16956052142913406152024-03-26T21:30:33.138-07:00L. A. KelleyL. A. KELLEY...Fantasy, adventure, humor, and romance with a touch of sass.L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-7349923081066324172024-03-26T21:30:00.000-07:002024-03-26T21:30:00.157-07:00One Enchanted Evening: Free on Amazon <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFyATuJP7IAEQmvJv2Q0sJUKyQkGSezj7aV0_B04qcyolgDfXx4l_LlmiRgiObmBLveUbo_sznE0Iix2uASiAe6gIKUeVHHmlZZrkFQEUrs7XTfQ7cGZ9d81CmN04LzaY_HqdHNYGwsVDblgRQE9warp3KeUBFAr7PgnhJABGIOXJ_M0JF5Nx0Lh9Kiqg/s2000/OEE%20lakelley-72dpi-1500x2000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFyATuJP7IAEQmvJv2Q0sJUKyQkGSezj7aV0_B04qcyolgDfXx4l_LlmiRgiObmBLveUbo_sznE0Iix2uASiAe6gIKUeVHHmlZZrkFQEUrs7XTfQ7cGZ9d81CmN04LzaY_HqdHNYGwsVDblgRQE9warp3KeUBFAr7PgnhJABGIOXJ_M0JF5Nx0Lh9Kiqg/s320/OEE%20lakelley-72dpi-1500x2000.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><b style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: xx-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/One-Enchanted-Evening-L-Kelley-ebook/dp/B0CC6MCRKQ/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=Bng2M&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=135-0409236-5032118&pd_rd_wg=os79J&pd_rd_r=f07df154-56f3-4369-860d-a3d2f40212b7&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">One Enchanted Evening</a></b><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large;"><b>by L. A. Kelley</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: helvetica;">Free on Amazon</span></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: helvetica;">March 27, 28, 29, 30, 31</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Enchanted clothing has a mind of its own.</span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Restlessness plagued Charlotte Becker. Unable to settle down, she moved from place to place searching for an elusive something. A sudden invitation from her sister sends her across country to Sentinel Landing, North Carolina. Anchors abound by the sea, but surely nothing would keep her rooted in place in a pokey resort town during the off-season.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Drawn into a consignment shop named One Enchanted Evening, Charlotte is confronted by a mysterious article of clothing requesting her help to stop a killer in a wolf mask. To protect the citizens of Sentinel Landing, she must find the hunter before an innocent is slain.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">Luke Maddox’s hunting days are over. Wounded in action, he left the Marines to return to Sentinel Landing and start a new life. Then he meets a singular young woman wearing an unusual cloak. She tells an incredible story of a wolf that walks on two legs.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;">And the hunt begins…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"> </span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/One-Enchanted-Evening-L-Kelley-ebook/dp/B0CC6MCRKQ/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=Bng2M&content-id=amzn1.sym.cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_p=cf86ec3a-68a6-43e9-8115-04171136930a&pf_rd_r=135-0409236-5032118&pd_rd_wg=os79J&pd_rd_r=f07df154-56f3-4369-860d-a3d2f40212b7&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">AMAZON LINK</a></span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-81668559463823883202024-02-26T21:30:00.000-08:002024-02-26T21:30:00.139-08:00<p><b style="font-family: Lato; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"></span></b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Lato; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFlG1O3QQag-3obLMwfuBUYQlBuhVreh8o2BLQu3FAC95hSqmCP-7KOpCjRq3Z78IFPDJlPT4gNo6-bdXWSNhZqaBR1-ucpfvqllWbs1XoB7-wjDd8DkqLDyQEFLlu64TGj_HtgwkmYZ6TW-pHRlUy32s_qZbyhH9DJasCsGKom0U1lVBmgUxeRamzbE/s2000/A%20Reflection%20of%20Evil-72dpi-1500x2000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFlG1O3QQag-3obLMwfuBUYQlBuhVreh8o2BLQu3FAC95hSqmCP-7KOpCjRq3Z78IFPDJlPT4gNo6-bdXWSNhZqaBR1-ucpfvqllWbs1XoB7-wjDd8DkqLDyQEFLlu64TGj_HtgwkmYZ6TW-pHRlUy32s_qZbyhH9DJasCsGKom0U1lVBmgUxeRamzbE/s320/A%20Reflection%20of%20Evil-72dpi-1500x2000.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></b></b></div><b style="font-family: Lato; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><br />A Reflection of Evil</span></b></b><p></p><p><b style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large; text-align: center;">Book 4 in the The Naughty List Series</b></p><p><b style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: #fcff01;">Now on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CV15PQKC?ref_=dbs_m_mng_rwt_calw_tkin_3&storeType=ebooks" target="_blank">Amazon</a></i></b></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><b style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Engaged to be married, Rosalie and David are happily preparing for their wedding. Nothing distracts them from the excitement of organizing a gala reception, complete with ritual and raiment. Then the curious behavior of The Book sends them on a hunt for information about a recently deceased archeologist and a seemingly worthless urn. How are they related to a murder and an eerie pile of sand, and where does the appearance of a mysterious Mr. Mott fit into this?</b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>As Rosalie and David’s big day approaches old enemies unite and plot revenge, and danger materializes in another form—an ancient evil lurking in reflections. Here and then gone, watching and waiting, ready to emerge and wreak havoc on the world of humans and Integrals when the time is right. Only Rosalie, David, their friends, and unexpected allies stand in the way. Can chaos can be averted before the wedding guests arrive?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0CV15PQKC?ref_=dbs_m_mng_rwt_calw_tkin_3&storeType=ebooks" target="_blank">AMAZON LINK</a></b></span></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-59078760824708545782024-01-26T21:30:00.000-08:002024-01-26T21:30:00.129-08:00Weird Stuff Sent into Space<p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUlqoNIndIM1mvoB8cUQeZddtU10X2cVrrCsEe877fNtrZ0aDemw_ksXx2fOgLwt_77Kxn771pe7lRgr7CxW-7dNDDlnd2Wye5ulJMiL1uCnRlZKyJB31cAI_lJyuGMnbQ0bhK1ccllw_0v7dOv7M9IFeLdB15_H9SmQppSTyCgboZaO-Ksv2R0hyphenhyphenBhljL/s1280/rocket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="853" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUlqoNIndIM1mvoB8cUQeZddtU10X2cVrrCsEe877fNtrZ0aDemw_ksXx2fOgLwt_77Kxn771pe7lRgr7CxW-7dNDDlnd2Wye5ulJMiL1uCnRlZKyJB31cAI_lJyuGMnbQ0bhK1ccllw_0v7dOv7M9IFeLdB15_H9SmQppSTyCgboZaO-Ksv2R0hyphenhyphenBhljL/s320/rocket.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></b></div><p><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><br />Weird Stuff Sent into Space</span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">January is traditionally a month for out with the old and in with the new. Clean the closets, toss that old Tupperware container in the back of the refrigerator that appears to have a science experiment growing inside. You’re not alone. Even government agencies have to deal with an overload of junk, some harder to get rid of than that Tupperware container. One agency with a big problem is NASA.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Space is vast and at the same time crowded with garbage. Humans have been sending items into orbit for half a century and some of it stays there. Currently there are nearly 7,700 satellites within a few hundred miles of the Earth. That number could grow to several hundred thousand by 2027. A lot of trash is already on the Moon right, including nearly 100 bags of human waste. Junk in orbit includes spent spacecraft, rocket boosters, and stuff lost by astronauts including a glove, a wrench, and a toothbrush.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">But that’s not the weirdest stuff shot into space.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Light saber</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The force was with them. In 2007, the lightsaber prop belonging to Luke Skywalker was taken on a mission to the International Space Station. Star Wars fans gave it a solemn escort to an airport in California, and from there, it went to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. The lightsaber spent two weeks in orbit, and was later returned to Industrial Light and Magic.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Moon tree seeds</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">What’s that growing in my backyard? During the Apollo 14 NASA mission to the moon in 1971, astronauts packed hundreds of tree seeds in their personal kits. Upon returning to Earth, the seeds were germinated by the Forest Service and planted throughout the U.S. in 1976 to celebrate the country’s bicentennial. Unfortunately, the location of the trees was lost and, except for a few, no one knows for sure where they were planted.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Man hole cover</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Duck. Between May 28 and Oct. 7, 1957, the U.S. military carried out Operation Plumbbob, a series of nuclear tests in the Nevada desert. Two of the nuclear detonations, were carried out underground, to test if nuclear fallout could be contained. The first was on July 26, 1957. An atomic bomb detonated at the bottom of a 500-foot-deep hole, covered by a 4-inch-thick iron cover, launching it into space. Scientist expected that the cover would land back on Earth, but it didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Andy Warhol’s penis</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I'll bet that got your attention. The artist Andy Warhol doodled a sketch of a penis that may or may not have ended up on the moon. It was one of six on a tiny ceramic tile dubbed the Moon Museum. Sculptor Forrest Myers petitioned NASA to place the tile on the Moon. His request was denied, but he supposedly contacted scientists from Bell Laboratories, who secretly attached the tile to the Apollo 12 lunar lander. Since the lander sits on the Moon, this story can’t be confirmed, but the first astronauts who return may be getting an unexpected eyeful.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Sperm</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Speaking of penises…One NASA mission included a sample of bull sperm. The result was the tiny cells moved faster than usual. Phosphorylation, the process of regulating cellular cycles and growth stopped in sea urchin sperm. Rat’s testes shrank along with their sperm count. Cockroaches, on the other hand, were unaffected by spaceflight or exposure to radiation.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Klingon Night at the Opera</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Revenge is a dish best served along a side of aria. In 2010 the producers of “u” (the opera's title) sent a message by radio telescope to the Klingon home star, Arcturus, to invite them to attend the opening night performance in the Netherlands. In the Klingon tongue, “u” means universe and it was the first opera performed entirely in Klingon. The 90-minute production tells the story of Kahless the Unforgettable. After betrayal by his brother and witnessing his father’s murder, Kahless fights to regain his honor by traveling into the underworld. He wages epic battles, reunites with his true love, Lukar, and eventually faces his bitter enemy, the tyrant Molor.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">P. S. The Klingons did not RSVP.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">An Ad for Doritos</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Would aliens like junk food? The makers of Doritos thought so. In 2008, for six hours the EISCAT European space station on the Norwegian island of Svalbard sent an advertisement for Doritos with a radar array, normally used to study the Earth’s upper atmosphere. The ad went to Ursa Major which contains a possible habitable zone. EISCAT received an undisclosed donation for the use of their facilities. There’s no report on whether aliens preferred Nacho Cheese, Cool Ranch, or Flaming Hot.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-75305740306921749462023-12-26T21:30:00.000-08:002023-12-26T21:30:00.130-08:00New Years: The Stupidest Holiday<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8mOTvF7u75kmg6SpeEZFq1haOzF8c9W1CWXC6A3o7naTD4W1AtWIhBm3oznPiLGJdtlqgbRuTm2p596xbPoXkBkrGKE2m3AFPU3oaWek4pwQB_kYgpITzh_-JSuoZtUcbg6Z15RUP8gNDK7HN_7lfZz6MxzYR1Rs4LCv6QRtNROZU3lquEAwrU3hSQOni/s6507/pexels-karolina-grabowska-5725977.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6507" data-original-width="4338" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8mOTvF7u75kmg6SpeEZFq1haOzF8c9W1CWXC6A3o7naTD4W1AtWIhBm3oznPiLGJdtlqgbRuTm2p596xbPoXkBkrGKE2m3AFPU3oaWek4pwQB_kYgpITzh_-JSuoZtUcbg6Z15RUP8gNDK7HN_7lfZz6MxzYR1Rs4LCv6QRtNROZU3lquEAwrU3hSQOni/s320/pexels-karolina-grabowska-5725977.jpg" width="213" /></a></p><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">New Years is a stupid celebration</span><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></b></div></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Even as a child I never saw the point of staying up to midnight to see some dumb disco ball drop and then watch drunken revelers shouting “Happy New Year!” I’m mean, seriously. What’s the big deal? It isn’t even a candy holiday like Halloween, Christmas or Easter. Those were, at least, associated with special once-a-year treats. New Years had bupkis except if you lived in the South and were supposed to eat Hopping John which has absolutely no candy in it. Or drugs, which the name implies.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">If you insist on being a reveler on New Years Eve, here are several oddball hangover cures to try on New Years Day. I’m not a drinker, so can’t confirm they work, but they’ll give the sober ones among us a belly laugh at your misery.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Drink pickle juice</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">It’s supposed to have lots of electrolytes or some junk like that to make the pounding headache go away. Yeah, right.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Rub slices of lemon under your armpits</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A Puerto Rican cure, it’s touted to relieve dehydration, but honestly when was the last time you drank anything through your armpits?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: red;"><i>Chug a Bull’s-eye</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A Bull’s-eye is a concoction made from a raw egg broken into a glass of orange juice. Yum. After a night of heavy drinking I can imagine what your stomach will say to that one. It isn’t pretty. Speaking of not pretty, try a Prairie Oyster.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Prairie Oyster</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">If you’ve ever lived out West you’ll know a Prairie Oyster isn’t an oyster. Let’s just say, it’s the part of the bull that, well, makes it clear you ain’t gonna be milking this one. This Prairie Oyster is a cocktail and contains one raw egg (What is it with raw eggs?), Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, and Tabasco. You probably won’t be sober after drinking this. You’ll probably just wish you were dead.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: red;"><i>Activated Charcoal</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">It’s recommended you take it in pill form or you could stick your head in the fireplace and lick up the ashes. After the night you had, no one will try to stop you.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div><o:p><br /></o:p></div>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-74600280347870449422023-11-14T22:00:00.001-08:002023-11-14T22:00:00.130-08:00The Naughty List Free on Amazon November 15, 16, 17, 18, 19<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgy72yzVfWXcL4gHqrP7YpgxamSSgqntGTBloo_f3wvGjn0q_4JntorpLhyphenhyphen8X938zbnjfmtonz3BaDYAVjKYrKS22qCqhK30Jkr-xnpWDZM1dpE9klzmu_Tq1sYixxXLgiiAINO1sVDXFrvxx4EfsiY7pGzofNNXD09qRCVC244yg6Ao_tf8IfbbMRReSW/s4167/TheNaughtyList-300dpTN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-family: Lato; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4167" data-original-width="3125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgy72yzVfWXcL4gHqrP7YpgxamSSgqntGTBloo_f3wvGjn0q_4JntorpLhyphenhyphen8X938zbnjfmtonz3BaDYAVjKYrKS22qCqhK30Jkr-xnpWDZM1dpE9klzmu_Tq1sYixxXLgiiAINO1sVDXFrvxx4EfsiY7pGzofNNXD09qRCVC244yg6Ao_tf8IfbbMRReSW/w300-h400/TheNaughtyList-300dpTN.jpg" width="300" /></a></p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: x-large;"><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Naughty-List-Book-ebook/dp/B08BS28W1Q" target="_blank">The Naughty List</a></span></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Free on Amazon: November 15, 16, 17, 18, 19</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i>This isn't a typical Yuletide tale.</i></span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Murder, mystical artifacts, an invisible demon with anger management issues, and an overbearing cupid—not what Rosalie Thatcher wished for on her Christmas list.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">The holidays had always been a magical time for Rosalie, but not this year. Her new manager at Penrose’s is determined to make this season the most profitable in the department store’s history, even if it sucks the life from every employee. Enforcing arbitrary rules and forcing Rosalie into the stupid elf hat was the worst until she meets a real E.L.F. (Elemental Life Form) named David and gets lassoed into a desperate hunt for the stolen Naughty and Nice List. Now Rosalie and David must dodge a murderous invisible demon and recover the missing artifact before hellhounds track them down. The couple race against time for without the guidance of the Naughty and Nice List the world will tumble into chaos.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="background-color: #04ff00; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">EXCERPT</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">A knock sounded at the door. Rosalie groaned. She was not in the mood for company. Maybe if she stayed quiet, the person would go away. Someone knocked again.</span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Rosalie?” A man cleared his throat. “May I have a word, please?”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">She wrinkled her brow, not recognizing the voice. Sliding the chain across, she cracked open the door.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Hi. I’m David. I’m not a stalker—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">She slammed the door in his face. How dare he show up at her home! Rosalie’s fingers clenched.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Please,” he begged. “I really need to talk to you.” She glanced around for her purse.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">David rapped again. “Rosalie, give me five minutes…one minute?”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">She reached inside and pulled out an aerosol can and her phone. He would so regret this.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“You don’t understand.” David pounded on the door. “You’re in danger.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">The door whipped open. Rosalie stood tight-jawed with a small aerosol can in one hand and her cell phone in the other. “Either cops or pepper spray. You have five seconds.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Rosalie, please—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Four.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"> “If you just—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Three.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Please, listen—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Two.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"> “Um…I know Santa.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“One.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">David vanished. An instant later two hands behind her yanked both the can and cell phone away. She spun around and stared dumfounded as he threw the pepper spray on the floor and put the cell phone in his pocket. How did he move so fast?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Rosalie, if you only—ow!”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"> She kicked him in the shin.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“Quit it! I won’t hurt you. I only want to talk.” He motioned to the bag on the floor. “I brought dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">“I don’t care if you brought your own personal chef!” she yelled. “Get the hell out of my apartment. You…you…snitch.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"> He looked completely perplexed. “I think we have a misunderstanding—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"> “That’s it—I’m making some noise.” Rosalie took a deep breath as if to scream. David’s hand shot out and grabbed her. The apartment dissolved into nothingness.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Naughty-List-Book-ebook/dp/B08BS28W1Q" target="_blank">AMAZON BUY LINK</a></span></b></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-61758661958821083522023-10-26T21:30:00.001-07:002023-10-26T21:30:00.149-07:00Fortunetelling with Food<p> </p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiN31Gp8iq5jSrfc-kh1YxTFzxkM5_QMDmipKY4Nud-G-IMUuSDOeqPuzarnC4064gMGYqzANVc2K6BURI561p0X-P6j8CwogeXfne285EPDP6r_e34Nnrylgk33yi2b0rWHZ2GvQlTVq5kkh2mmgNwxaev3oHvP6Bco-ZUm0ogX3EH98ZeJ25pdoKkeA4U" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="901" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiN31Gp8iq5jSrfc-kh1YxTFzxkM5_QMDmipKY4Nud-G-IMUuSDOeqPuzarnC4064gMGYqzANVc2K6BURI561p0X-P6j8CwogeXfne285EPDP6r_e34Nnrylgk33yi2b0rWHZ2GvQlTVq5kkh2mmgNwxaev3oHvP6Bco-ZUm0ogX3EH98ZeJ25pdoKkeA4U=w267-h400" style="cursor: move;" width="267" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #001435; font-family: PayPalOpen-Regular, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">rodintsow.presets@gmail.com</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Lato;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;">Fortune Telling with Food</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>I hate surprises. I want to know exactly what’s going to happen, with whom, and how can I keep the cops from finding out? While I don’t have a crystal ball, my kitchen happens to have a few food items traditionally used to predict the future.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Cabbage</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Halloween is associated with pumpkins but it used to be the perfect time to kick off a grand old cabbage theft to see if love was in your future. A blindfolded participant enters the cabbage patch at midnight when the barrier between the world of the living and dead thins, yanks up a cabbage, and then analyze the roots for clues. Are the roots thick? A big beefy person was in your future. Weedy or withered? Look out for a pasty-faced wimp. Why anyone would settle for a love interest that resembles cabbage roots is beyond me.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Eggs</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Forget scrambled, boiled, fired or an ultrasound. If pregnant, grab an egg like the ancient Roman Empress Livia Drusilla and incubate it between your breasts. The chick’s sex predict the baby’s. In the Ozarks, girls hollowed out a hard-boiled egg, filled it with salt, and ate it. That night, she’d either die of high blood pressure or dream of her true love bringing her a pail of water to drink. People in Colonial times used a Venus glass, egg whites suspended in warm water. The shape of the egg white predicted the occupation of the future spouse. For instance, if the whites kind of looked like a cow, you’re true love would be a farmer (or a cow.) No telling what would show up at the door if the squiggly egg whites only looked like squiggle egg whites.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Nuts</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>This pretty much describes those who rely on fortune telling. One popular method was to take two chestnuts and roast them side-by-side in the fire; if they stayed in place without rolling away, it was a good omen for a happy marriage. Alternatively, you could take a hazelnut, representing your lover, and throw it into the fire. If it burst into flame, it was a sign of trouble to come.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Apples</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Peel in one single peel. Throw over the shoulder and the initial it formed was future husband/wife. Sometimes the apples would be labeled or marked by young men and women before they were put in a tub of water: the person who caught your apple could be your mate. In another version of snap apple, a hoop is suspended from the ceiling, and different treats and tricks, including cake, candies, bread, apples, and peppers, are stationed along its rim. The one a player caught with their teeth would foretell the nature of their love—would it be sweet, spicy, too hot? Would it nourish or burn them?<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Onions</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Not all food items reflect affairs of the heart. Germans had an onion calendar called a <i>zwiebelkalender</i>. Set out twelve pieces of onion, one for each month. Sprinkle them with salt and the amount of moisture that appears indicates the amount of rainfall in its corresponding month. Unless you selected particularly sweaty onions.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Cheese</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Young women in the European countryside would predict future husbands by writing the names of suitors on pieces of cheese. The first to mold was believed to be the ideal mate. Frankly, I think the last man to get moldy is the best of the bunch.</b></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-47877408188018455632023-09-20T21:30:00.003-07:002023-09-20T21:30:00.137-07:00The Rules for Lying is Free on Amazon<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmFeyFDeP28KppDHUjQQfM0Vh4sip6GQWJyXadjBnKyvDOGMRYrfqaxKpcDI94bdzTPA5EIicEITcFWZE9GoIAD2px99NjKVsTYZRM_r9d0SBBYHc1YvauLOGNWrijOPF224cDKol384Wv22la-r_8lvU_NpOgvoF3WCQPT2XJV8nNplm61uVOc49ajI/s4167/RFL%20HI%20Res%20EbookCover%20lakelley-300dpi-3125x4167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4167" data-original-width="3125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmFeyFDeP28KppDHUjQQfM0Vh4sip6GQWJyXadjBnKyvDOGMRYrfqaxKpcDI94bdzTPA5EIicEITcFWZE9GoIAD2px99NjKVsTYZRM_r9d0SBBYHc1YvauLOGNWrijOPF224cDKol384Wv22la-r_8lvU_NpOgvoF3WCQPT2XJV8nNplm61uVOc49ajI/s320/RFL%20HI%20Res%20EbookCover%20lakelley-300dpi-3125x4167.jpg" width="240" /></span></b></a></div><b><span style="font-family: Lato;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Rules-Lying-Easy-Shaman-Book-ebook/dp/B075THN41Y/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=hAzsV&content-id=amzn1.sym.579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_p=579192ca-1482-4409-abe7-9e14f17ac827&pf_rd_r=147-5272165-4713813&pd_rd_wg=7ru9J&pd_rd_r=b31b11c7-d772-43c2-bcb4-e36a4a27501c&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">The Rules for Lying</a></span></span></b><p></p><p><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Free on Amazon September 21, 22, 23, 24, 25</span></b></p><p><a name="_Hlk46985787"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Magic isn't for sissies.</i></span></b></a></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">WARNING: No good comes
from a book with magic, mayhem, theft, murder, sass talk, demons, animals
committing felonies, gleeful revenge, and bad things happening to good people
for no particular reason. This story won’t encourage good habits and probably
fine tune bad ones. The only lesson learned is don’t lie until you know the
rules.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 1.0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Life in New Jersey
is tough in the Great Depression, but teenager Peter Whistler has an
exceptional ability to lie. He hones his talent, convinced it’s the ticket to easy
fortune. He certainly doesn’t foresee the arrival of a murderous conjuror with
mysterious designs on a little blind girl named Esther. Drawn into a nefarious
plot to unleash a demon, Peter leads Esther and an enchanted terrier on a desperate
escape to New Orleans and meets Amelie Marchand. Like all well-bred Louisiana
gals she’s trained in deadly martial arts, but with a murderous stepmother,
Amelie has troubles of her own. Peter and Amelie’s one chance for survival is to
head deep into the bayou and seek help from a mad shaman known as the Frog King.</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Welcome to an
alternate 1930s where both jazz and magic fill New Orleans’ air. Can a little
luck, mystical lies, and a dash of Cajun crazy help Peter harness the power to
kill an immortal demon? If not, the Depression will be a picnic by comparison
when Hell arrives on Earth.</span></b></p><br /><p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-73259941187543106462023-09-13T21:30:00.001-07:002023-09-13T21:30:00.143-07:0099 Cent Sale: Shadow of the Eclipse<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXL1IYEvrPogq_nuzUfHaELbuTfdPDkHqB4SndCNlczVmieSmdbfcxxeHaekbNzIt4rP8ccA4HdeZbwWTYUZgwLRM5owQXU29OFPlcfZ34DyTK5kWSX2FVKrWmKUi3Hxhsj01BuHpzLmML4_TrNcLrt07jxAHOlYJ0PcaYtIsVPnWHgWyb9-QX_Eo8HDp/s750/ShadowoftheEclipse_w14044_750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-family: Lato; font-size: large; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuXL1IYEvrPogq_nuzUfHaELbuTfdPDkHqB4SndCNlczVmieSmdbfcxxeHaekbNzIt4rP8ccA4HdeZbwWTYUZgwLRM5owQXU29OFPlcfZ34DyTK5kWSX2FVKrWmKUi3Hxhsj01BuHpzLmML4_TrNcLrt07jxAHOlYJ0PcaYtIsVPnWHgWyb9-QX_Eo8HDp/s320/ShadowoftheEclipse_w14044_750.jpg" width="213" /></a></p><p><b><span style="font-family: Lato;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></b></p><b><span style="font-family: Lato;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08635CHWS/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i12" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Shadow of the Eclipse</span></a></span></b><p></p><p><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">99 Cents until October 4</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>The past is written, but the future is an open door.</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a name="_Hlk125993541"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Excitement brews in Crossroads for everyone but lawyer, Callum MacGregor. This year, the town harvest festival coincides with a total eclipse. With a recent breakup, Cal has no desire to attend until a visit from his old law partner, Isaac Bingham, drops a bombshell. Twenty years before Cal’s birth, his grandfather, Phillip Bingham, extracted a promise. Isaac must get Cal to the harvest festival or the world would face unparalleled disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></b></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> Cal is stunned. How could a long dead man know Cal would be born and live in Crossroads? Why this nonsensical warning? The mystery deepens when Isaac tells him he’s not the only one to receive a mysterious summons.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Accountant Meg Adler’s day started badly when her boss fired her for refusing to cook the books, but then a letter arrives from a man named Bingham with a lucrative job offer—details to follow. All she has to do is attend the Crossroads Harvest Festival on opening day and meet his representative to discuss details. Meg <span style="background: white; color: #222222;">is leery, but it’s not the end of the world if this doesn’t pan out. Right?</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Ancient evil prowls the shadow of the eclipse, but the key to saving the present can only be found in the past. In a time-traveling adventure, Cal and Meg enter a mystic maze and journey to Babylon, the Dark Ages, and 1906 San Francisco hot on the trail of two magic artifacts lost in the recesses of time. Can they dodge demonic forces, fulfill a dead man’s mission, and discover a new future with each other?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Excerpt</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p><o:p style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0.3in;">“So, Cal,” Meg said. “Why meet here? What does this festival have to do with a job?” She flashed a cheeky grin. “I should warn you I don’t work the carny circuit.”</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>A job?</i> An uneasy sensation settled in his gut. “I’ve no idea. I thought you knew why we were here.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Me?” Meg pulled back her hand and color rose to her cheeks. “What is this? Some kind of sick joke? Who does this Phillip Bingham think he is, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Cal gaped at her. “Phillip Bingham contacted you? Not Isaac?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I got a letter from him with a vague employment offer from the Lux Foundation along with an invitation to attend the Crossroads Harvest Festival.” She wrinkled her brow. “It was a funny kind of letter on really old paper. The room at the inn was paid for by a man named Isaac Bingham, and I needed a job, so I figured what the hell. The instructions said a person would find me here to discuss the details. I assume that is you.” Her voice tightened in anger. “Is Phillip Bingham the town lunatic?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“No, but I’m sorry to tell you he’s very much dead.” Cal gave her a recap of his meeting with Isaac.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">As Meg listened, her eyes widened in astonishment. “Phillip Bingham died decades ago? How could he know I’d lose my job this week and be desperate enough to jump at this crazy offer?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Cal ran a hand through his hair. “How did he know either of us would even be born?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Meg took a wary step back. “I’m not sure I believe you.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’m not sure I believe it myself. Listen, do you want to go somewhere and talk? Try to figure this out? I’ll call Isaac, tell him we found each other, and demand an explanation.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Meg cocked her head toward the entrance of the corn maze. “Do you hear that? Someone called for help.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Probably lost in the maze. George made it extra challenging this year.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“No, it’s different.” She sucked in a breath. “M-my name—I swear I heard my name.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A gust of wind rippled the stalks. They bent toward the entrance, fluttery hands beckoning them inside. Cal strained to hear past the whispery rustle of the leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Almost as if they were voices…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’ll check it out,” he said. “Maybe someone fell and got hurt. Wait here—”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Not a chance.” Meg bolted into the maze, and Cal ran after her. They came to the first intersection, and she skidded to a halt. “Which way?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Left,” Cal said without hesitation.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">They dashed deeper into the field, now left, now right, now straight ahead. With each step, Cal’s path became surer as if something pulled him with an invisible cord.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Meg puffed beside him. “How do you know which way to go?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I-I can’t explain it.” With every breath, the air around Cal became hotter and more oppressive, pressing on his shoulders like a stifling blanket. Humidity dropped to nothing. Beads of sweat on his brow evaporated. Cal licked his dry, cracked lips and grimaced at the gritty feel of sand on his tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Sand in a corn maze?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">They turned a corner and stumbled into a clearing. In the center was an arbor that arched over a circle of flagstones on the ground. A glowing flame hovered above the stones, suspended in midair. Meg and Cal exchanged dumbfounded looks and stepped forward. The clarion note of a distant horn sounded a soldier’s call to action. A surge of adrenaline flooded Cal’s veins. He hadn’t felt like this since his days on patrol with the Army. Unconsciously, Cal’s hand went to his hip, reaching for the sword. He stared at his empty hand. Sword?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The flame grew larger and brighter, shooting through the arbor into the heavens.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Cal!” Meg’s voice sounded very far away.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’m here!” Cal reached for her, but the flame blinded him, blotting out the maze, blotting out the sun, blotting out the world.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Nothing remained but the roar of the cheering crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="background-color: #01ffff; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">BUY LINKS</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="color: #222222; text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08635CHWS/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i12" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">AMAZON</span></b></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="color: #222222; text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/shadow-of-the-eclipse-l-a-kelley/1136672558?ean=2940163063659" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">BARNES & NOBLE</span></b></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> <a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/shadow-of-the-eclipse/id1505092665" target="_blank">ITUNES</a></span></b></p><div><b><br /></b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-70745723583336689542023-08-26T21:30:00.001-07:002023-08-26T21:30:00.133-07:00A New Release: One Enchanted Evening<p> <b style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFoY9V4EFpdJTgJf73QE8Y9vCOP0YLVwGMhEQBIb-acG19RkVYk4uuv-2S8r3lMKK19-0-ktMEi9bN0nNTzxEOAtlpzJuNbN8PMBw77YScOhy8ACNwoQV4D9zOun0ZeX95wwy82wUTXzBHQXO-Tp_c60diNuuqNlgyXMS3-EACJgTl4tlTTXheYgWfPZS/s4167/OEE%20lakelley-300dpi-3125x4167.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4167" data-original-width="3125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFoY9V4EFpdJTgJf73QE8Y9vCOP0YLVwGMhEQBIb-acG19RkVYk4uuv-2S8r3lMKK19-0-ktMEi9bN0nNTzxEOAtlpzJuNbN8PMBw77YScOhy8ACNwoQV4D9zOun0ZeX95wwy82wUTXzBHQXO-Tp_c60diNuuqNlgyXMS3-EACJgTl4tlTTXheYgWfPZS/w300-h400/OEE%20lakelley-300dpi-3125x4167.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/One-Enchanted-Evening-L-Kelley-ebook/dp/B0CC6MCRKQ?ref_=ast_author_dp" target="_blank"><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">One </span></b><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Enchanted </span></b><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Lato;"><span style="font-size: large;">Evening</span></span></b></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Enchanted clothing has a mind of its own.</span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Charlotte Becker had a restless spirit. Unable to settle down, she moved from place to place searching for an elusive something. A sudden invitation from her sister sends her across country to Sentinel Landing, North Carolina. Anchors abound by the sea, but surely nothing would keep her rooted in place in a pokey resort town during the off-season.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Drawn into a consignment shop named One Enchanted Evening, Charlotte is confronted by a mysterious article of clothing requesting her help to stop a man in a wolf mask from killing women. To protect the citizens of Sentinel Landing, she must find the hunter before an innocent is slain.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Luke Maddox’s hunting days are over. Wounded in action, he left the Marines to return to Sentinel Landing and start a quiet life. Then he meets a singular young woman wearing an unusual cloak. She tells an incredible story of a wolf that walks on two legs.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></span><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">And the hunt begins…</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Excerpt</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Annabel stopped short and stared at a weathered bungalow set back from the path and surrounded by vegetation. A hand-lettered sign in bright colors over the front door read One Enchanted Evening.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“That’s strange,” she said. “I don’t remember this here before. It’s not the best location. The front doors of other shops face Periwinkle, but this faces the path. The owner needs to do heavy landscaping. Why, a potential customer can barely see the building thru the trees and shrubbery. With foot traffic nearly nonexistent, tourists will only discover it accidentally, and that’s where places like this make most of their money.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“If it’s new, maybe the owner hasn’t gotten around to clearing the brush yet,” said Charlotte.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Annabel’s eyes lit up with the same feral gleam of a lion stalking a clueless antelope grazing on the savannah. “It might be an antiques store. Let’s go inside and check it out.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Charlotte regarded the drawn curtains in the windows with doubt. “I don’t think it’s open yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I see a sign on the door,” said Annabel. “Maybe it posts the hours.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Charlotte followed her to the porch. “By appointment only,” she read aloud. Without hesitation, Annabel lifted her hand to knock.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“You’re awfully nervy for a pregnant woman,” sputtered Charlotte. “Need I say, neither one of us has an appointment.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Oh, zip it. I’ll simply ask for one when they open the door. Meanwhile you and I will sneak a peek inside. I’m always searching for new places with unusual stuff to keep me one jump ahead of the competition.” She jabbed her in the shoulder. “Where’s that baby sister of mine who used to have the monopoly on gumption in the family?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Sorry,” said Charlotte with a tinge of regret. “I’m fresh out.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Annabel knocked. From inside came a faint shuffling sound and then the click of a key turning in a lock. The door swung open. Charlotte gaped at the elderly woman on the threshold. Small and plump with a wizened face, she wore a brightly printed muslin skirt and peasant blouse. Her wrinkled face resembled the old-timey dried apple dolls found at craft fairs. The purple bandana on her head was rimmed with burnished gold coins that jingled when she moved. The only light inside appeared to come from the open door. Behind her, barely visible in the dim interior, were several large armoires and bureaus. Annabel squinted. Charlotte practically heard the whirling gears in her sister’s mind calculating the wholesale price of each piece.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Annabel dug into her purse and offered a business card. “Hello. I’m Annabel Fisher of Fisher Designs. Welcome to Sentinel Landing. My husband, Sean, and I run a local interior design and renovation company and I’m always in the market for new items.” She peered over the woman’s shoulder at a piece of furniture standing by the door and gasped. “Is that a rosewood armoire? I swear it’s 1880s French, but I’ve never seen one in such exceptional condition.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’m very sorry,” said the woman pleasantly, ignoring the card. “This store deals in used clothing by appointment only. The furniture is for storage.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’ll offer a very good price.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“No, thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The woman’s gaze raked across Charlotte. Sharp brown eyes, bright as a ferret’s, caught her in an unblinking stare.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Um, hi,” said Charlotte, suddenly feeling as if she had walked out of her apartment without pants. Unconsciously, she ran her hand down her sides, relieved to touch denim.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Oh? A consignment shop?” chirped Annabel. “May we poke around? My sister and I love vintage wear,” she added with her winning smile.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Charlotte rolled her eyes. Annabel never gave up easily. She’d have that woman arm-wrestling over a price for that armoire before she spit out, “interior designer discount.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Your life is complete, Mrs. Fisher,” said the shop owner pleasantly. “Nothing in here will fit.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Amused, Charlotte noted for once Annabel was at a complete loss for words. The coins on the woman’s scarf jangled as her head swung toward her. Charlotte swallowed hard as the pants-less feeling crept up her legs again.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“You, however, have definite possibilities,” the woman said. “The path traveled can be diverted. Come back when you’re ready to accept the consequences. I warn you, though; the steps to fulfilling one’s destiny can be unexpected and dangerous. Good day.” She shut the door in their faces.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Annabel stared in disbelief. “Heck of a way to run a business. She’s not going to last long in Sentinel Landing with that attitude.” She took Charlotte’s arm. “Come on, I know a fabulous little boutique around the corner that sells dynamite shoes. It’s right on the way.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">As Charlotte allowed herself to be led down the street, she glanced over her shoulder at One Enchanted Evening. The curtains remain closed. It appeared as vacant as before. But an eerie suspicion crept through Charlotte that on the other side of those obscured windows a mysterious old woman in a jangly kerchief peered intently in her direction.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/One-Enchanted-Evening-L-Kelley-ebook/dp/B0CC6MCRKQ?ref_=ast_author_dp" target="_blank"> AMAZON BUY LINK</a></span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-32288174369201548822023-07-19T21:30:00.002-07:002023-07-19T21:30:00.141-07:00Rimrider is Free on Amazon July 20, 21, 22, 23, 24<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia59c2_Wi7KzaSSawRmBAtxqiQPxKRzQiM_8bnBGA0rNP3RTzbadRj2bCMeeucFSyqwCPpT7PyYZAO_Cn-m2Wnb7OERP9k-mIOCJ9KlFwaCdeyQ9pvhD_k2ZUmPtNLPc74X3ieBr-gRWHDxOtwvzVfbj4iQ4IvFnNK166SvH88ec0bQ_LbHCtocf5TgTZf/s2000/Rimrider%20Cover%20lakelley-72dpi-1500x2000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia59c2_Wi7KzaSSawRmBAtxqiQPxKRzQiM_8bnBGA0rNP3RTzbadRj2bCMeeucFSyqwCPpT7PyYZAO_Cn-m2Wnb7OERP9k-mIOCJ9KlFwaCdeyQ9pvhD_k2ZUmPtNLPc74X3ieBr-gRWHDxOtwvzVfbj4iQ4IvFnNK166SvH88ec0bQ_LbHCtocf5TgTZf/w311-h414/Rimrider%20Cover%20lakelley-72dpi-1500x2000.jpg" width="311" /></a></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large;"><b></b></span></p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Rimrider</b></div></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: #04ff00;">Free on Amazon July 20, 21, 22, 23, 24</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: #04ff00;"><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b> A real space pirate fights like a girl.</b></span></i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Teenager Jane Benedict is wakened by her father and ordered to memorize a mysterious code. Within hours Mathias Benedict is dead and Jane and her brother, Will, are wards of United Earth Corporation (UEC). To escape the company’s clutches and uncover the meaning of her father’s last message, Jane leads her brother on a desperate flight from Earth to the galactic rim.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Aboard the Freetrader smuggler ship, Solar Vortex, Jane and Will become tangled in the crew’s fight for liberty, and drawn to their cause, swear allegiance to the crew. During a contraband run, Jane saves the life of young smuggler Mac Sawyer and learns her father’s code identifies a UEC cargo shipment. On route to a deep space station, the Solar Vortex answers a desperate SOS from a Freetrader ship under attack. Jane, Mac, and Will survive an ambush on the damaged vessel and unearth a deadly threat to the Freetraders and a clue to the location of the shipment. The trail leads to Rimrock and the massive prison complex of Golgotha. Undercover as a spy, Jane stumbles into a conspiracy that can spell doom for the entire Freetrader cause and the extinction of an alien race. Can she escape the prison confines and deliver a warning before it’s too late?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Piracy, intrigue, romance, space battles, and a daring rebellion from Earth wait on the galactic rim. Will Jane answer the call to adventure or is death for high treason her fate?</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Rimrider-Adventures-Book-1-ebook/dp/B01JF1BQHU/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=i3sve&content-id=amzn1.sym.ed85217c-14c9-4aa0-b248-e47393e2ce12&pf_rd_p=ed85217c-14c9-4aa0-b248-e47393e2ce12&pf_rd_r=141-5576423-1193238&pd_rd_wg=MPslv&pd_rd_r=06ac8c27-50e7-4e3f-bc10-f41d0113bee0&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank">AMAZON BUY LINK</a></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-2413378836047468662023-06-26T21:30:00.006-07:002023-06-27T04:43:16.920-07:00AI: Are You Ready for Ebooks by the Borg Queen?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuIjWA-el1XUoE7FTs9IRH0aiTRc22Fy5Azc2Cz4Xl0hIUD1EW8xofwBMp7leFh4rmhI0DNGrTY9sMuIH72o5IxvmOGBWFGF2Dp3DKLaVqv4PD4sDaP3YXs2k2M9ujCKaqEM8ngbiq-SsZG-2XPIzyDjsSKr9LbRl4sakQR91a5Xp2pUvgN2WheWzdkeG/s6000/pexels-cottonbro-studio-4631062.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuIjWA-el1XUoE7FTs9IRH0aiTRc22Fy5Azc2Cz4Xl0hIUD1EW8xofwBMp7leFh4rmhI0DNGrTY9sMuIH72o5IxvmOGBWFGF2Dp3DKLaVqv4PD4sDaP3YXs2k2M9ujCKaqEM8ngbiq-SsZG-2XPIzyDjsSKr9LbRl4sakQR91a5Xp2pUvgN2WheWzdkeG/s320/pexels-cottonbro-studio-4631062.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face="PlusJakartaSans, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", Ubuntu, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; text-align: start;">photo by cottonbro studio</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b> </b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br />Recently, I did a blog on AI narrated audiobooks, but that’s not the only place AI is showing up. ChatGPT is one of the big producers where content is created by AI. What kind of content? Any old thing you can think of; essays, blogs, book blurbs, fiction. In February of this year, ChatGPT announced over 200 self-published ebooks in Amazon with ChatGPT as, at least, one of the authors. It’s suspected countless others were published under a human’s name. How did Amazon react to the news? It didn’t. Unless it’s self-reported, Amazon has no method to detect if a book is written by an AI. Nor does Amazon have any rules in place to prevent or encourage AI publications. In effect, it closes its algorithmic eyes and hopes the problem resolves itself. Unfortunately, the more accomplished AI becomes, the more difficult it will be to detect their content or enforce any rules, if and when they become available. To put it simply. Nobody knows if this will be a problem and nobody is willing to do anything about it or even be sure that they should.</span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Another issue is only a small number of companies have the smarts to deal with the exponential increase in processing power. Google, Meta, OpenAI, and Microsoft, among a few others exercise near-total control of AI technology. It’s an exclusive club that few understand. Even those who write the code, have admitted they don’t have a perfect understanding of certain AI functions. Who will write the rules to protect the rest of us? What happens if AI’s goals don’t align with our own? If you don’t have a clue, watch or read more science fiction. It never ends well.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">It isn’t just wild-eyes authors like myself expressing concern. Important people in the field are jumping on the bandwagon. Until recently, Dr. Geoffrey Hinton was the AI expert at Google. He quit his job to speak freely about his concerns, specifically AI can already disperse misinformation. When the internet is flooded with false photos, videos and text how will anyone be able to detect the truth anymore? There is also the fear of AI’s effect on the job market. Better AI interface means it can eventually replace paralegals, personal assistants, and translators among others. As Dr. Hinton says, “I don’t think they should scale this up more until they have understood whether they can control it.” The more sophisticated AI-authors become, the more difficult it also becomes to pinpoint content written by programs like ChatGPT – which ultimately means that any limitations set by Amazon might already be unenforceable.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>Will AI take over the self-publishing biz? Should authors be worried?</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Maybe yes. Maybe no.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">First, you need to understand how AI content is created. Information must be given to a system such as ChatGPT. For instance, say you needed a book blurb. One way to start is by feeding ChatGPT a synopsis. Then the AI grabs content from the internet finding examples and scouring similarities. The more detail in the synopsis, the more accurate and understandable the blurb will be. The problem is there is no way to know where it pulled its data. The internet is open and ChatGPT can “create” a synopsis using language from another similar one. It can even “create” a book by pulling content from anywhere. It doesn’t look for permission. It doesn’t accredit. The worst case scenario is a chunk of content taken from other works and there’s no way to know. The idea of my book plots stolen by others doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>It's a scary thought, but we’re not there yet.</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Very few AI books are on the marketplace and they aren’t well-written. AI’s can’t feel human emotions and their writing is flat and not emotionally engaging. However, every author knows, the bottom line for success is the almighty dollar. For an AI book to pose a real threat to authors, they have to be marketed to become a best-seller. No artificial intelligence tool can do that (at least not yet.) However, it’s a sad fact the marketplace only cares about success. If even one AI-written ebook makes the best-seller lists, it’s down the toilet for the rest of us, and all hail the Borg Queen.</span><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Open Sans; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-72679500656775615872023-05-26T21:30:00.001-07:002023-05-26T21:30:00.136-07:00Nothing to Fear Day<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4HUKguKYwv3dvYykK0Df0zNFYj8nZp1Dl4LqDwotsCfILfph3GFrKVrosQjWWMqxOlInq6mZIlmn7PO0zU0CyTXz43yCNjeWVBoz0dt6CPA9yq4VuXWX56FWCj9SaNgrDNXBnNgvOzmF_Gg-n--RspPI6ZcTFG8BEvlbD2BfFA-U9GQE95qI7HhZ7g/s3888/pexels-pixabay-262103.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4HUKguKYwv3dvYykK0Df0zNFYj8nZp1Dl4LqDwotsCfILfph3GFrKVrosQjWWMqxOlInq6mZIlmn7PO0zU0CyTXz43yCNjeWVBoz0dt6CPA9yq4VuXWX56FWCj9SaNgrDNXBnNgvOzmF_Gg-n--RspPI6ZcTFG8BEvlbD2BfFA-U9GQE95qI7HhZ7g/w367-h266/pexels-pixabay-262103.jpg" width="367" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: xx-small;">photo by Pixabay</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b style="color: #2b00fe; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></b></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large;">Nothing</span></b></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large;">to Fear</span></b></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-large;">Day</span></b></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><o:p>T</o:p>oday is Nothing to Fear Day. Start that novel. Finish that novel. Do that laundry that’s been sitting in the basket for a month with the stain you can’t identify. It’s not going to smell any better. If you don’t have a specific fear, perhaps you’d like to adopt one of those below:</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Arachibutyrophobia</span>: Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Who hasn’t had this at least once and lunged for the chocolate milk? I won’t tell anyone you drank right from the carton, if you don’t rat on me. It’s a rare phobia that can stem from a greater phobia of sticky or from a traumatic incident with peanut butter. (Use your imagination.)<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Nomophobia</span>: Fear of being without your mobile phone</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Cell phone addiction is fairly common. People with nomophobia also experience excessive anxiety with a low battery or phone out of service. They obsessively check their phones throughout the day and worry they will miss a call. I admit I get a little armpit sweat with a battery below 50%. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Xanthophobia</span>: Fear of the color yellow</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Do bananas send you screaming from the room? People with this rare phobia are usually afraid of any yellow object, and you may find them running in the opposite direction of a school bus.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Octophobia</span>: Fear of the number eight</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Numbers seem to cause untold distress. Octophobia is a fear of the number eight. Why eight has such a bad rap I don’t know. These people are easy to spot as they goggle in terror at the packs of hot dogs and bun at picnics.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Optophobia</span>: Fear of opening one’s eyes</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>I get it. There are days I have no good reason to stay in bed, but wanna anyway.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia</span>: Fear of long words</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia is one of the longest words in the dictionary. How ironic.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Amathophobia</span>: Fear of dust</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Amathophobiacs should not look under my couch<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Chaetophobia</span>: Fear of hair</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Chaetophobiacs have a fear of one’s own hair, other people’s hair, animal hair, or a hairball on the ground. Again, they should avoid looking under my couch. Don’t judge me. I don’t sweep there often.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Ergophobia</span>: Fear of work</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Okay, fine. I don’t sweep under the couch. I also avoid other housework involved with floors such as mopping and vacuuming. I used ergophobia as an excuse with my family. Sue me.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #ff00fe;">Eisoptrophobia</span>: Fear of mirrors</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Only after eating a big meal or trying to squeeze into last year’s dress that I swear still fits.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b>Now, get off that couch, swallow your fear, and do something constructive. Don’t let decidophobia (the fear of making decisions) keep you from having fun today. And be careful with that peanut butter.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-75115191558700935952023-04-26T21:30:00.001-07:002023-04-26T21:30:00.135-07:00What is the Public Domain?<p> <b><span style="font-family: Roboto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkE4UXZXSwiEeJJ_0lA0ZP-dzbM4krSyIk3Nh_wIVaCY1uzzfxVQNMX9guaI7_XHiuCiMaocxqUNhNrPPRuITAv37wOmiwMge7rkaaNVD2n_EEZPwQKWwgj4b9FS6mtfTR9AuBo28cl0BCfin1l2eFkT55fpmOd6EzN3Y2ka-_4KVZpSlmZTQJYshpw/s401/public%20domain.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="126" data-original-width="401" height="101" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkE4UXZXSwiEeJJ_0lA0ZP-dzbM4krSyIk3Nh_wIVaCY1uzzfxVQNMX9guaI7_XHiuCiMaocxqUNhNrPPRuITAv37wOmiwMge7rkaaNVD2n_EEZPwQKWwgj4b9FS6mtfTR9AuBo28cl0BCfin1l2eFkT55fpmOd6EzN3Y2ka-_4KVZpSlmZTQJYshpw/s320/public%20domain.png" width="320" /></a></span></span></b></p><b><span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">What is the Public Domain?</span></span></b></div></span></span></b><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">January 1<sup>st</sup> was Public Domain Day. Did you bake a cake and celebrate? Why not? Probably because you weren’t sure what public domain means and how it applies to writers.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">What is the public domain? (Note this only applies to U.S. law)</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Creative works that are in the public domain may be used freely, without obtaining permission from or compensating the copyright owner. This year, orchestras can perform <i>Puttin’ on the Ritz</i> by Irving Berlin for free. If you’ve been singing <i>Ice Scream, You Scream we all Scream for Ice Scream</i> all these years without compensating Howard Johnson, Billy Moll, and Robert A. King, shame on you. It only entered the public domain this year. Nor do you need permission from Arthur Conan Doyle’s descendants to quote swaths verbatim of <i>The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes</i>. It’s now in the public domain.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Public domain works can be used with abandon. Content that isn't protected by copyright law, may not be protected for a variety of reasons, including the following:</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">1. The duration of copyright in the work has expired. In the U.S., a book’s copyright expires 70 years after the death of the author.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">2. Works produced by the federal government don't have copyright protection. However, a work produced by a government consultant may have protection or the original copyright may have been transferred to the government.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">3. A work not fixed in a tangible form, such as a speech, lecture or improvisational comedy act that hasn't been previously written or recorded in any manner isn’t protected. Sorry, stand-up comedians. If you don’t have an HBO special or a recording on social media your jokes are up for grabs.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">4. Prior to March 1, 1989, a copyright notice was necessary on published works or they went into the public domain. After that date, it wasn’t necessary. Note: if you are a self-published author, you don’t need the © with a date on a front piece. You’re already protected by copyright law.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Some things are always in the public domain.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">1. Titles of books or movies, short phrases and slogans, lettering or coloring. (Yes, navy blue I’m looking at you.)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">2. News, history, facts, or ideas, but a description of an idea in text or images may be protected by copyright. You don’t need to cite anyone if you describe December 7, 1942 as a date that will live in infamy.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">3. Plots, characters and themes from works of fiction. (Well, thank God for that or the seven bajillion versions of <i>Emma</i>, <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, or <i>Cinderella</i> would be illegal.)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Here’s sampling from the 2023 list of items now in the public domain.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i style="background-color: #01ffff;">Books</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Virginia Woolf, <i>To the Lighthouse</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Arthur Conan Doyle, <i>The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Willa Cather, <i>Death Comes for the Archbishop</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A. A. Milne, <i>Now We Are Six</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Thornton Wilder, <i>The Bridge of San Luis Rey</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Ernest Hemingway, <i>Men Without Women</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">William Faulkner, <i>Mosquitoes</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Agatha Christie, <i>The Big Four</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Edith Wharton, <i>Twilight Sleep</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Franklin W. Dixon (pseudonym), <i>The Tower Treasure</i> (the first Hardy Boys book)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Hermann Hesse, <i>Der Steppenwolf</i> (in the original German)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i style="background-color: #01ffff;">Movies</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Metropolis</i> (directed by Fritz Lang)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>The Jazz Singer</i> (the first feature-length film)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Wings</i> (winner of the first Academy Award for outstanding picture)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>The Kid Brother</i> (starring Harold Lloyd; directed by Ted Wilde)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>The Battle of the Century</i> (starring Laurel and Hardy)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Oswald the Lucky Rabbit</i> (animated shorts; Ub Iwerks, Walt Disney)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="background-color: #01ffff; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Music</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>The Best Things in Life Are Free</i> (George Gard De Sylva, Lew Brown, Ray Henderson)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>I Scream You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream</i> (H. Johnson, B. Moll, R. A. King)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Puttin’ on the Ritz</i> (Irving Berlin)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Funny Face</i> and <i>’S Wonderful</i> (Ira and George Gershwin)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man</i> and <i>Ol’ Man River</i> (Oscar Hammerstein II, Jerome Kern)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Back Water Blues, Preaching the Blues, Foolish Man Blues</i> (Bessie Smith)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Black and Tan Fantasy</i> and <i>East St. Louis Toodle-O</i> (Bub Miley, Duke Ellington)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>My Blue Heaven</i> (George Whiting, Walter Donaldson)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-33889006683779004942023-03-19T13:03:00.002-07:002023-03-19T13:03:25.420-07:00Amazon 99 Cent Sale: Shadow of the Eclipse<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitayByTl8Xavv4jX2LOw-noxIt7qc00Qv9f607BBP_LGlqVuvxS7qsD60tyi0hoeWF-qDM0rzF7KQLe-1WSZZA1qOgkMqLwPuqgN7riDMIsYcDCgcl963LHmzJ_VPWrDsHJCM1RvtWUFf4sCeIrQOITOkpiACMpTfaA0hdDx9Lol39BCcjvIlbSZsQIg/s750/ShadowoftheEclipse_w14044_750.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; font-family: Lato; font-size: large; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitayByTl8Xavv4jX2LOw-noxIt7qc00Qv9f607BBP_LGlqVuvxS7qsD60tyi0hoeWF-qDM0rzF7KQLe-1WSZZA1qOgkMqLwPuqgN7riDMIsYcDCgcl963LHmzJ_VPWrDsHJCM1RvtWUFf4sCeIrQOITOkpiACMpTfaA0hdDx9Lol39BCcjvIlbSZsQIg/s320/ShadowoftheEclipse_w14044_750.jpg" width="213" /></a> </p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Shadow of the Eclipse</span></b></div></span></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">by L. A. Kelley</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">99 Cent Amazon Sale</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: #fcff01;">Ends March 31</b></span></p><p><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Excitement brews in Crossroads for everyone but lawyer, Callum MacGregor. The harvest festival coincides with an eclipse, but a recent breakup leaves him no desire to attend until a visit from his old law partner, Isaac Bingham, drops a bombshell. Twenty years before Cal’s birth, his grandfather, Phillip, extracted a promise. Isaac must get Cal to the festival or the world faces unparalleled disaster. The mystery deepens when Cal learns another person received the same mysterious summons.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After being fired for refusing to cook the books, accountant Meg Adler gets a letter with a job offer from a man named Bingham. She must attend the Crossroads Harvest Festival and meet his representative to discuss details. Meg is leery, but it’s not the end of the world if this doesn’t pan out. Right?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ancient evil prowls the shadow of the eclipse, and the key to saving the present is in the past. Cal and Meg enter a mystic maze and journey to Babylon, the Dark Ages, and 1906 San Francisco on the trail of magic artifacts lost in the recesses of time. Can they dodge demonic forces, fulfill a dead man’s mission, and discover a new future with each other?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Excerpt<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“So, Cal,” Meg said. “Why meet here? What does this festival have to do with a job?” She flashed a cheeky grin. “I should warn you I don’t work the carny circuit.”</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>A job?</i> An uneasy sensation settled in his gut. “I’ve no idea. I thought you knew why we were here.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Me?” Meg pulled back her hand and color rose to her cheeks. “What is this? Some kind of sick joke? Who does this Phillip Bingham think he is, anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Cal gaped at her. “Phillip Bingham contacted you? Not Isaac?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I got a letter from him with a vague employment offer from the Lux Foundation along with an invitation to attend the Crossroads Harvest Festival.” She wrinkled her brow. “It was a funny kind of letter on really old paper. The room at the inn was paid for by a man named Isaac Bingham, and I needed a job, so I figured what the hell. The instructions said a person would find me here to discuss the details. I assume that is you.” Her voice tightened in anger. “Is Phillip Bingham the town lunatic?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“No, but I’m sorry to tell you he’s very much dead.” Cal gave her a recap of his meeting with Isaac.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">As Meg listened, her eyes widened in astonishment. “Phillip Bingham died decades ago? How could he know I’d lose my job this week and be desperate enough to jump at this crazy offer?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Cal ran a hand through his hair. “How did he know either of us would even be born?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Meg took a wary step back. “I’m not sure I believe you.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’m not sure I believe it myself. Listen, do you want to go somewhere and talk? Try to figure this out? I’ll call Isaac, tell him we found each other, and demand an explanation.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Meg cocked her head toward the entrance of the corn maze. “Do you hear that? Someone called for help.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Probably lost in the maze. George made it extra challenging this year.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“No, it’s different.” She sucked in a breath. “M-my name—I swear I heard my name.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A gust of wind rippled the stalks. They bent toward the entrance, fluttery hands beckoning them inside. Cal strained to hear past the whispery rustle of the leaves.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Almost as if they were voices…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’ll check it out,” he said. “Maybe someone fell and got hurt. Wait here—”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Not a chance.” Meg bolted into the maze, and Cal ran after her. They came to the first intersection, and she skidded to a halt. “Which way?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Left,” Cal said without hesitation.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">They dashed deeper into the field, now left, now right, now straight ahead. With each step, Cal’s path became surer as if something pulled him with an invisible cord.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Meg puffed beside him. “How do you know which way to go?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I-I can’t explain it.” With every breath, the air around Cal became hotter and more oppressive, pressing on his shoulders like a stifling blanket. Humidity dropped to nothing. Beads of sweat on his brow evaporated. Cal licked his dry, cracked lips and grimaced at the gritty feel of sand on his tongue.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Sand in a corn maze?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">They turned a corner and stumbled into a clearing. In the center was an arbor that arched over a circle of flagstones on the ground. A glowing flame hovered above the stones, suspended in midair. Meg and Cal exchanged dumbfounded looks and stepped forward. The clarion note of a distant horn sounded a soldier’s call to action. A surge of adrenaline flooded Cal’s veins. He hadn’t felt like this since his days on patrol with the Army. Unconsciously, Cal’s hand went to his hip, reaching for the sword. He stared at his empty hand. Sword?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The flame grew larger and brighter, shooting through the arbor into the heavens.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Cal!” Meg’s voice sounded very far away.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“I’m here!” Cal reached for her, but the flame blinded him, blotting out the maze, blotting out the sun, blotting out the world.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Nothing remained but the roar of the cheering crowd.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Eclipse-L-Kelley-ebook/dp/B08635CHWS/?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=3S6Dy&content-id=amzn1.sym.22f5776b-4878-4918-9222-7bb79ff649f4&pf_rd_p=22f5776b-4878-4918-9222-7bb79ff649f4&pf_rd_r=131-1566710-5547609&pd_rd_wg=WmDLB&pd_rd_r=c26fb87f-fcd2-471a-881a-f4feee31b8a0&ref_=aufs_ap_sc_dsk" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Amazon Link</span></b></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></span></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-62150748632655402072023-02-26T21:30:00.002-08:002023-02-27T04:46:28.331-08:00Apple AI Audiobook Narrators<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlWd7QiiypytaG_nSkVRumT40IVdWQRQM5biEAZL8OOFaYz-4y1CGuRN8GGQgJfvzm8eAdMgpi2g7K5RrIuMEksBFxHbJ97w-dds1rqUtElENRWHTomSieUEXAFwrxXKfbM4R7dGa2Lh0ALMbbCj7XsDAZhfDkQU2sl4_m2mKFTtnxucW6EPV4aFptw/s5472/pexels-karolina-grabowska-4475526.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: 13pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlWd7QiiypytaG_nSkVRumT40IVdWQRQM5biEAZL8OOFaYz-4y1CGuRN8GGQgJfvzm8eAdMgpi2g7K5RrIuMEksBFxHbJ97w-dds1rqUtElENRWHTomSieUEXAFwrxXKfbM4R7dGa2Lh0ALMbbCj7XsDAZhfDkQU2sl4_m2mKFTtnxucW6EPV4aFptw/s320/pexels-karolina-grabowska-4475526.jpg" width="213" /></span></a><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><span><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Audiobooks are nerve-wracking to produce by yourself. Sure, you can offer a shared royalty route with the narrator and hope to find a good one. But a narrator search can be difficult, frustrating, and time-consuming. Not to mention, the entire production process is daunting and expensive. Where to begin?<o:p></o:p></span></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">According to Apple, not with a human. Apple started production of digital audiobooks using artificial intelligence, specifically two AI narrators named Madison, a female soprano, and Jackson, a baritone. The platform uses advanced speech synthesis technology combined with input from linguists, quality control specialists, and audio engineers. Currently Madison and Jackson are used for fiction and romance only. In the near future, Apple will have two additional digital voices, Helena and Mitchell, for nonfiction and self-development audiobooks.<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">If you’d like to hear a sample of Madison </span><a href="https://books.apple.com/us/audiobook/id1636546592"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">click here</span></a><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">.</span></span></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">According to Apple, these are the benefits:</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">The audiobooks will be easy to produce and delivered via preferred partners. The original ebook must be created in either Draft2Digital or Ingram CoreSource.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Audiobooks have wholesale price limits. (The website isn’t clear on what they’ll be.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Distribution will be solely via Apple Books and to public/academic libraries.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Publisher/author retains audiobook rights, and there are no restrictions on producing and distributing other versions of the audiobook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: helvetica; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">How do you make an Apple audiobook?</span></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The ebook must be created with either Draft2Digital or Ingram CoreSouce. Then the author selects the title. Apple has a review process and acceptance isn’t guaranteed. The general requirements are as follows:<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Ebook must be available on Apple Books.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Author must own the audio production rights.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Primary category must be romance or fiction. The only subcategories currently accepted are literary, historical, or women’s fiction.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.8in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">Book must be in English.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><i><b><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><o:p>H</o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt; text-indent: 0in;">ow good are AI narrators?</span></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Frankly, Madison is fine. A lousy narrator can ruin a good audiobook and I stop listening when any set my teeth on edge. Madison has a pleasant voice with good tone, if a trifle unemotional. If you listen to her, you understand why Apple limits the AI to audiobooks without an exciting chase scene or hilarious denouement. An AI can’t make handle extreme ranges of emotion. Other things AIs can’t do:<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><i>A multitude of characters in the same book. </i>Their voice is typical of a national newscaster; nothing to determine a regional accents. Nor can an AI handle a stutter, quirky word pronunciations, foreign words and phrases, or fictional words. (Sorry, Samuel Clemens, J. R. R. Tolkien, and me. Our work doesn't qualify.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><i> </i></span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><i>Difference in ages.</i> All the characters sound roughly the same age.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><i> </i></span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><i>Difference in genders</i>. Male and female characters speak with a similar tone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><i><b><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;">So what’s the big problem with AI?</span></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Even if an AI sounds okay, I have issues. A top-drawer narrator makes an audiobook memorable, and AI has a long way to go to reach that level. Audiobooks are also an art, and frankly, I’m not crazy about the idea of a soulless digital character taking a job from a human who spent years honing a craft. Not to mention, a human narrator adds emotional nuance to every page, something an AI can’t do. AI narrators are still few and far between and until I have no choice, I’ll opt for a human every time.</span></b><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; font-size: 13pt; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; font-size: 13pt; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d1d1f; font-size: 13pt; letter-spacing: -0.3pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></span></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-70095757911288177752023-01-20T10:26:00.002-08:002023-01-20T10:26:00.169-08:00The Rose Stone is on Sale for 99 Cents<p><span style="font-family: Lato;"><b> </b></span></p><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Lato; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09THRJ24K/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0" target="_blank"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09THRJ24K/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFBnNRXCdMXEgsKL0X16o-4119PJIWfWK-01eCHAW--1keH0kudZjTRMKr9JPVKxAFDpZw2tXmzWGj6Mt5x9KSyoMCX8BXiPUiIN8FTVrz4w5y_NUxarAgaomj5te_3K6KZumYl6O9L8ZpcA3McWNsqnrd4DUqIz2ONqnPYCWQcYERZhgQANOrO4fbQ/s750/TheRoseStone_w16151_750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFBnNRXCdMXEgsKL0X16o-4119PJIWfWK-01eCHAW--1keH0kudZjTRMKr9JPVKxAFDpZw2tXmzWGj6Mt5x9KSyoMCX8BXiPUiIN8FTVrz4w5y_NUxarAgaomj5te_3K6KZumYl6O9L8ZpcA3McWNsqnrd4DUqIz2ONqnPYCWQcYERZhgQANOrO4fbQ/s320/TheRoseStone_w16151_750.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09THRJ24K" target="_blank">The Rose Stone</a></span></b></div></span></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">by L. A. Kelley</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Amazon 99 cent sale</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">January 20-February 3</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Jessica Rose Stone has a death sentence, an inoperable brain tumor. As the muscle tremors and pain intensify, an alarming new symptom develops, a rose-colored haze invades her vision. With it, comes the captivating hallucination of a world under a dire threat, protected by a magic crystal called the Rose Stone. Her doctor warned vision changes signaled the beginning of the end, but this Commonwealth of the Rose issues a compelling call. Jess dares to answer and finds a warrior named Griffin engaged in a struggle with an enemy called the darkling, a mysterious being who takes a chilling interest in Jess. With the help of Griffin and his warbird, she evades the darkling’s assassins and discovers her connection to the Commonwealth of the Rose runs deeper than mere illusion.</span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Tossed back and forth between two worlds, Jess battles the darkling in one reality and a tumor in the other. Her struggle to determine her true place grows as does her attraction to Griffin. Is the call of the Rose Stone a dream, a hallucination, or will it set her heart on the path to something greater?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Excerpt </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The sunlight from the window shifted. Color surrounded me, vibrant pink hues deepening to brilliant crimson, spilling across the painting, brightening the rose. Not so much a haze, but a glowing aura, blocking out everything but the rose, setting the petals ablaze with color.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Perfect,” I whispered. Drawn by the extraordinary effect, I clasped the palette knife tight to my chest and with my other hand touched the canvas. Spinning, whirling, falling into the depths of the crimson light, I lost feeling in my body but wasn’t afraid. If this was death, it was kinda fun. My eyes closed.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Oof!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I hit with a thump, whooshing the air from my lungs, then sucked in a breath and groaned. I was no expert but assumed death didn’t come with a hard landing. I must have passed out and hit the floor and cursed my stupidity. If I were bleeding, I’d have to clean the mess before Melanie arrived or I’d never hear the end of it. I rubbed a hand across the floor, hoping for the touch of concrete and not a pool of something warm and sticky. Instead, my fingers entwined in a soft, springy mass.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“What the…” My floor had no carpet, and this felt like grass. My artistic air freshener had disappeared, too. Lush floral notes replaced the omnipresent smell of paint and turpentine in the loft.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I opened my eyes. My jaw dropped. “Not possible,” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The loft had vanished. I lay face up in a glade, surrounded by thick piney woods, one hand clutching the palette knife. Faint pink tinted the foliage, but it vanished as I scrambled to sit. Overhead, a sky with ominous gray clouds was barely visible between the heavy overhanging branches. A stiff breeze, rife with earthy forest scent, batted my cheek. My heart skipped a beat at soft chittering overhead. Leaves rustled as furry creatures scurried across tree limbs as if my sudden appearance startled them.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I staggered to my feet, gulping in a lungful of clean, fresh air, and gawked at the unfamiliar surroundings. This was deep woods and not the local park with manicured walkways. The weather report predicted clear blue skies today, but the gathering clouds overhead hinted at a coming storm. Brush and trees ringed the small clearing. Big trees. Not the local pines, but massive conifers with flat needles that looked as if they had stood for hundreds of years. I’d never seen such trees near my home. I’d never seen such trees ever. Nothing was familiar. I touched a trunk. The dream tree was eerily solid.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">My mouth dried. “How can this be real? Where am I?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Did hallucinations have clear scents and sounds? Shoot, why didn’t I ask Melanie more questions or grill the pharmacist about the side effects from those stupid pills?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Because you were afraid of the answers. How do you feel now about using denial as a treatment for a terminal illness?<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I rubbed the back of my neck. “Kinda dumb, actually.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I took a step and grimaced as a painful muscle spasm shot through my leg. I flexed my fingers and winced. They hurt, too. That much hadn’t changed. I still had the palette knife, so dropped it in the smock’s pocket. Convinced I had completely lost my mind, I placed a finger on my neck and didn’t know whether to be happy or rattled at the steady pulse.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Okay. I choose to believe I’m alive, but something is very wrong with this scenario. Maybe it’s not a normal hallucination. I-I must have fainted and gotten a hard knock on the head. This might be a coma.” Panic flared inside me. “Calm down. Try to wake up.” I took a deep breath and shouted, “I’m awake now.” The vision of the primeval woods remained stubbornly in place.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A rumbling growl reverberated through the trees, and my heart raced. “All righty. Attracting attention might not be the brightest idea until I figure out what’s going on.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The little animals overhead chittered again, but this time their conversation had a frenzied aspect. My arrival gave them jitters, but that sound caused wild-eyed terror. Branches shook as they dove for cover, knocking bits of leaves and twigs to the forest floor. In an instant, stillness reigned. Even the stiff breeze had dropped.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Cold sweat trickled down my spine. “Okay, Jess. I really mean it this time. Wake up now.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Dried vegetation on the forest floor crunched under the weight of a large, heavy something lumbering through the woods. No more than fifty feet away came rustling brush and a low, rumbling snarl. Branches ripped apart as the ominous sound forged a beeline in my direction. Then the noise stopped, but the eerie stillness of the forest offered no comfort. The silence lengthened as if that something was waiting, listening.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Breath caught in my throat.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I took a stumbling step back and froze at the snap of a twig underfoot. “It’s a hallucination,” I whispered. “It can’t hurt me.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Without warning, the heavy body pounded across the forest floor, rapidly closing the gap between us. Through the brush, I glimpsed a scaly hide. “Screw it. I’m out of here.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I did an about-face and shambled in the opposite direction, cursing my legs. Why didn’t I remember to bring the cane into the dream world? The lurker in the trees followed, thumping steps drawing closer. I could almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck. Blind panic urged me faster, but I was slowed by a stumbling gait and thick foliage that snatched at my clothing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Thud!<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A heavy body landed right behind me, shaking the ground. Claws clamped my waist, dragging me to a halt and lifting me in the air. The self-defense class Melanie talked me into one summer rushed back. I struck out blindly with my fists and connected with something squishy. I grabbed it and yanked hard. There was a tearing sound and an inhuman bellow. The claws<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">opened. I tumbled to the ground and got the first good look at my attacker. A scream froze in my throat as I came face to face with a walking horror.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">In point of fact, face wasn’t the right word.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">BUY LINKS</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09THRJ24K" target="_blank">AMAZON</a></b></span></p><div><b><br /></b></div>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-86122248997185126572022-12-26T21:30:00.012-08:002022-12-26T21:30:00.169-08:00I Hate Your Stupid Book<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Lato;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLA6swX5S7F-2utOktSPVM2o0Sp557YxbXSQk1bmx91eyEGoVIh6B0QRczB8Epx_6HhsqkXnowew2SABOUwOQwNPH5MVmsJdtXn562Ta-7VwVHgslvvWdX9QMer2HRoM5rG9XYbTyiscC-FP4VVsW4iLXUbPqh_AeGv2nec9ukVoLAL7QWLm8N6Zof/s4898/pexels-serena-koi-1576193.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3265" data-original-width="4898" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLA6swX5S7F-2utOktSPVM2o0Sp557YxbXSQk1bmx91eyEGoVIh6B0QRczB8Epx_6HhsqkXnowew2SABOUwOQwNPH5MVmsJdtXn562Ta-7VwVHgslvvWdX9QMer2HRoM5rG9XYbTyiscC-FP4VVsW4iLXUbPqh_AeGv2nec9ukVoLAL7QWLm8N6Zof/w387-h258/pexels-serena-koi-1576193.jpg" width="387" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: 700;">Photo by </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Koi.McKoiver" style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: 700;" target="_blank">Selena Koi</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">End of the Year Rant:</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">I hate your stupid book.</span></b></div></span></div></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>My spouse and I have an agreement. When either of us has a rotten day, we’re entitled to a five minute rant. It can be over anything, no matter how important or trivial. The boss must be an alien testing earth defenses or why would he have me redo that report five times? The children’s behavior can't come from my side of the family; I never sprinkled glitter on the dog. Why has that cloud been following me all day? The other person must sit still, listening attentively, saying nothing other than nodding encouragement and making appropriately sympathetic sounds. At the end of the five minutes, the ranter is done and feels much better, and the rantee can’t comment on the lunacy of the rant.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>I’ve decided you’ve all earned an end of the year rant from me about the things in books as a reader that drive me bat nuts.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">1.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Cliffhangers in an unfinished series.</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.55in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>I like series. I do. I don’t mind when a book hints at the continuation of the story. But don’t get me interested in a book and the final page has the death of the hero or heroine and expect me to wait until you get off your lazy butt and finish the next volume where the person has been miraculously saved. (Yes, this has happened to me—twice.) Not only will I shoot daggers of dark thoughts in your direction, I will never ever read anything else written by you ever again. Not even a shopping list. So there.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Unnecessary deaths<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Speaking of deaths, the only reason to kill off a character is to advance the story. That’s it. That’s the ONLY reason. (I’m shouting, in case you didn’t know.) If you kill off a character because, “I have to make the reader <i>feel</i> something” or “It’s an action book and someone has to die” you’re a rotten writer. And what I <i>feel</i> is that I won’t read another of your stupid books again.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Surprise! You’re a daddy.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>This works in novels set in the past before social media when a love interest could show up ten years after the fact stupefied to find the ex-girlfriend is his baby momma. Nowadays, you occasionally read of abandoned babies or women with hidden or surprise pregnancies, but it’s rare. Let’s face it, in the electronic age everybody knows everybody’s business. The trope is old and worn out. Consign it to the “Only in Historical Novels" bin.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Names that are wrong for the time period<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>I don’t care if you love the name Madison, your favorite daughter, aunt, cousin, nephew (I don’t judge) or niece is named Madison and you swore to them all you’d dub the heroine in your historical novel Madison. No one in 1880’s Gilded Age New York City ever had a daughter named Madison. The name didn’t become trendy until after the movie Splash hit the screen a century later. I once started reading a book, came across Gilded Age Madison immediately tossed it aside and struck this author off my reading list forever. Blech. This is just plain laziness. It only takes a few seconds to Google appropriate names.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Glossaries<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0.55in; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>I hate to break it to you, but you’re not J. R. R. Tolkien. He’s allowed to have glossaries because he was a master linguist and actually invented languages that made sense. You can’t. You’re not that smart. I’m not that smart. However, if you write fantasy or science fiction a few invented words are allowed. That’s part of the fun of writing, but if your book requires a glossary, you’ve just written a rotten book. Nobody wants to go flipping back and forth trying to find what the heck a skylxy is and why it gamborth the flooz nords. Edit that hot mess immediately.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">There. That’s it. My five minutes are done. Your turn. I won’t judge even if you sound nuts.</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-52408564618276157782022-11-16T23:00:00.001-08:002022-11-16T23:00:00.155-08:00The Naughty List: Free on Amazon<p> <b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: x-large;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlC4u7BkcpgAiPABWU2PfdtqcAknVy3GMTjAFuDdbfzsC1fJYb-cGy5f_ViQLVynvliNqe-UIgM0i1xHHac_xu19XYNfVDnibqEY7qDaUnMiHb8qrFuDZOK5oeu47CBW7Xb9E7PwgsgeutTOEs6IAzPXUojAuQePy1H67vDRPcJQQDfLTHYcIXoUVRiw/s4167/TheNaughtyList-300dpTN.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4167" data-original-width="3125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlC4u7BkcpgAiPABWU2PfdtqcAknVy3GMTjAFuDdbfzsC1fJYb-cGy5f_ViQLVynvliNqe-UIgM0i1xHHac_xu19XYNfVDnibqEY7qDaUnMiHb8qrFuDZOK5oeu47CBW7Xb9E7PwgsgeutTOEs6IAzPXUojAuQePy1H67vDRPcJQQDfLTHYcIXoUVRiw/s320/TheNaughtyList-300dpTN.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: x-large;"><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Naughty-List-Book-ebook/dp/B08BS28W1Q" target="_blank">The Naughty List</a></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">by L. A. Kelley</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="background-color: #04ff00; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Amazon Free Days: November 17, 18, 19, 20, 21</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>This isn't a typical Yuletide tale.</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Murder, mystical artifacts, an invisible demon with anger management issues, and an overbearing cupid—not what Rosalie Thatcher put on her Christmas list.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The holidays had always been a magical time for Rosalie, but not this year. The new manager at Penrose’s Department Store is determined to make this season the most profitable in the store’s history. Introducing arbitrary rules was bad enough, but forcing Rosalie into the stupid elf hat was the worst. The worst, that is, until she meets a real E.L.F. (Elemental Life Form) named David and gets lassoed into a desperate hunt for the stolen Naughty and Nice List. Now Rosalie and David must dodge a murderous invisible demon and recover the missing artifact before hellhounds track them down. The couple race against time for without the influence of the Naughty and Nice List the world will tumble into eternal chaos.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Excerpt:</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> A knock sounded at the door. Rosalie groaned. She was not in the mood for company. Maybe if she stayed quiet, the person would go away. Someone knocked again.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Rosalie?” A man cleared his throat. “May I have a word, please?”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> She wrinkled her brow, not recognizing the voice. Sliding the chain across, she cracked open the door.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Hi. I’m David. I’m not a stalker—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> She slammed the door in his face. How dare he show up at her home! Rosalie’s fingers clenched.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Please,” he begged. “I really need to talk to you.” She glanced around for her purse.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> David rapped again. “Rosalie, give me five minutes…one minute?”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">She reached inside and pulled out an aerosol can and her phone. He would so regret this.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“You don’t understand.” David pounded on the door. “You’re in danger.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The door whipped open. Rosalie stood tight-jawed with a small aerosol can in one hand and her cellphone in the other. “Either cops or pepper spray. You have five seconds.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Rosalie, please—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Four.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “If you just—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Three.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Please, listen—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Two.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Um, I know Santa.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “One.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">David vanished. An instant later two hands behind her yanked both the can and cellphone away. She spun around and stared dumfounded as he threw the pepper spray on the floor and put the cellphone in his pocket. How did he move so fast?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Rosalie, if you only—ow!”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> She kicked him in the shin.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Quit it! I won’t hurt you. I only want to talk.” He motioned to the bag on the floor. “I brought dinner.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “I don’t care if you brought your own personal chef!” she yelled. “Get the hell out of my apartment. You…you…snitch.”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> He looked completely perplexed. “I think we have a misunderstanding—”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “That’s it—I’m making some noise.” Rosalie took a deep breath as if to scream. David’s hand shot out and grabbed her. The apartment dissolved into nothingness.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> “Aaaaa—” Rosalie cut off mid-yell. Her head whipped back and forth in stunned amazement. “W-Where am I? What did you do?” Her heart thumped wildly as she gulped in a deep lungful of air.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“We’re on top of Penrose’s.” David leaned over and rubbed his shin. “Man, that’s gonna leave a bruise.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Penrose’s? Penrose’s?” Impossible, but they were suddenly four stories above the parking lot down below. “How did we get here?” she demanded, fear tinging her voice. “I don’t remember anything—” Fear turned to rage as the only logical explanation hit her. “You slipped me a roofie.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Of all the… I would never…” he protested with an indignant sputter. “I’m sorry I scared you. If you listen for a moment, I’ll explain everything.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Forget it. You have nothing I need to hear.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Glaring, Rosalie backed up, not realizing she was dangerously close to the edge of the building.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Rosalie, wait!” David leaped forward to stop her.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Startled by his sudden movement, she stumbled, hit the low curb around the roofline, and lost her balance. Flailing wildly, Rosalie screamed as she toppled over the side.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">David snagged her hand. “I have you!” He clung to her with a grimace, bracing his feet against the low wall.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Her fingers inched out of his grasp. “Help me,” she choked out, panic-stricken. “I can’t hold on.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">David strained with the effort to pull her up. “I…won’t…let…you…fall.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Her fingers slipped. Rosalie screamed and suddenly the world went black again.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Naughty-List-Book-ebook/dp/B08BS28W1Q" target="_blank">BUY LINK</a></span></b></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-1480430656952621072022-10-26T21:30:00.013-07:002022-10-26T21:30:00.156-07:00Halloween Candy: The Good, the Bad, and the Just Plain Awful<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #ed7d31; font-family: Chiller;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Halloween Candy: The Good, The Bad, and the Just Plain Awful</span><span style="font-size: 22pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Halloween is around the corner. For many, that brings to mind ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. For me, Halloween has always meant snack nirvana. Halloween is the only American holiday that isn’t associated with a nutritious meal. Who needs that when you have candy? When I was kid, my siblings and I would sit around after trick-or-treating salivating over delightful piles of Almond Joys, Snickers, Butterfingers, and Hershey Bars. Woe betide any house that doled out one small Tootsie Roll. They were obviously cheap child-hating SOBs who should have their house TPed. (I plead Not Guilty.)</b></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Some Halloween treats have been around for a while. </b></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #ed7d31; font-family: Chiller;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Candy Corn</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Candy Corn was supposedly invented by George Renninger in the late 1800s. It was designed to look like chicken feed since half of Americans worked on farms. By 1900, it was mass produced by the The Wunderle Candy Company of Philadelphia. There are no niblets in candy corn, but there is corn in the form of corn syrup. Nowadays, different colored candy corn can be found at Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July. I consider them a sacrilege. There are also a plethora of candy corn flavored ales on the market. If you drink enough you can forget the entire candy corn debacle. </b></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #ed7d31; font-family: Chiller;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Apples</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><b>Although not technically a treat (let’s face it, they’re too healthy), they’re also associated with Halloween. Celtic folk used them for divination, so did early Americans bobbing for apples. Whoever snagged an apple from a big bucket filled with water, hands tied behind the back, would wed soonest. Whoever didn’t, drowned, and got his candy stolen. If you didn’t die from apple bobbing, there were Snap Apple Night parties. An apple was jammed into one end of a suspended stick with a lit candle at the other end. Participants tried to take a bite of the apple while the stick was spun around. Winners got a bite of apple, losers set their hair on fire. A forgotten hero of Halloween is Kraft Foods employee Dan Walker or as I refer to him, Saint Dan. In the 1950s he elevated the mundane apple to candy nirvana. While experimenting with excess caramels from Halloween sales, he melted them down and added apples. Ta-da. Vito Raimondi of Chicago, Illinois also deserves an honorable mention. He patented the first automated caramel apple machine in 1960.</b></span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Chiller;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The worst Halloween candies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Chiller;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">(Doling out these is tantamount to child abuse.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Twizzlers: Technically, they aren’t a candy, but solidified wallpaper paste.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Hot Tamales: Wallpaper paste flavored with cinnamon.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Necco Wafers: Wallpaper paste scraped from the shoes of employees at the wallpaper factory and pressed into disks to punish children.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Life Savers: The worlds most boring candy, also dangerous to your mental health because they prompted the Aussies to make a flavor called <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nestle-Musk-Lifesavers-Amazon-6-Pack/dp/B004EHX2NM">musk</a>, not to be confused with musk sticks which, apparently they also savor. Both are equally disturbing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Dots: The only thing they’re good for is to freeze them and use them as ammo in blow pipes.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Circus Peanuts: Seriously, who eats these? I once owned a dog that ate everything including cat poop from the litter box and he buried Circus Peanuts in the backyard.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Tootsie Rolls: Only if you want to be known as the cheapskate of the neighborhood and have your house TPed. (I plead Not Guilty again.) </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Serious about trick-or-treating and want to make tracks to the state that doles out the best candy? </span></b><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Check out this interactive map from <a href="https://www.candystore.com/blogs/facts-trivia/halloween-candy-map-popular?y=2022" target="_blank">CandyStore.com</a></span></b></p><div><b style="text-align: center;"><br /></b></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p> </p><div><br /></div>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-66155932361548747532022-09-15T03:00:00.011-07:002022-09-15T03:00:00.151-07:00Free on Amazon: The Rules for Lying, Big Easy Shaman Series Book 1<p><span style="font-family: Lato;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Lato;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4tsjpoMlPWWtH_aJQa62j6mf919ogkeTDEyVXGxcUAwGFCQ8iSp4-lo9ilPGVUo3GUpB9AdJxH29IiDTGGeNG6xbCAhb8Qjq4n3RLCyOTSVh6MG8sasQ6LDG8N60tfNYnKDb_LEnuVUgqp3-zOd0HrszNnlh0sVCsmlUDMh0CfSfXbeFmpFpenczg/s2000/RFL%20ebookcover%20lo%20res%20lakelley-72dpi-1500x2000%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4tsjpoMlPWWtH_aJQa62j6mf919ogkeTDEyVXGxcUAwGFCQ8iSp4-lo9ilPGVUo3GUpB9AdJxH29IiDTGGeNG6xbCAhb8Qjq4n3RLCyOTSVh6MG8sasQ6LDG8N60tfNYnKDb_LEnuVUgqp3-zOd0HrszNnlh0sVCsmlUDMh0CfSfXbeFmpFpenczg/s320/RFL%20ebookcover%20lo%20res%20lakelley-72dpi-1500x2000%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Lato;"><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075THN41Y?notRedirectToSDP=1&ref_=dbs_mng_calw_0&storeType=ebooks" target="_blank">The Rules for Lying</a> </span></b></span><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Big Easy Shaman Book 1</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">by L. A. Kelley</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="background-color: #fcff01; color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">FREE Sept. 15, 16, 17, 18, 19</span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><a name="_Hlk46985787"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>Magic isn't for sissies</i></span></b></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: red;">WARNING:</span> No good comes from a book with magic, mayhem, theft, murder, sass talk, demons, animals committing felonies, gleeful revenge, and bad things happening to good people for no particular reason. This story won’t encourage good habits and probably fine tune bad ones. The only lesson learned is don’t lie until you know the rules.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Life in New Jersey is tough in the Great Depression, but teenager Peter Whistler has an exceptional ability to lie. He hones his talent, convinced it’s the ticket to easy fortune. He certainly doesn’t foresee the arrival of a murderous conjuror with mysterious designs on a little blind girl named Esther. Drawn into a nefarious plot to unleash a demon, Peter leads Esther and an enchanted terrier on a desperate escape to New Orleans and meets Amelie Marchand. Like all well-bred Louisiana gals she’s trained in deadly martial arts, but with a murderous stepmother, Amelie has troubles of her own. Peter and Amelie’s one chance for survival is to head deep into the bayou and seek help from a mad shaman known as the Frog King.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Welcome to an alternate 1930s where both jazz and magic fill New Orleans’ air. Can a little luck, mystical lies, and a dash of Cajun crazy help Peter harness the power to kill an immortal demon? If not, the Depression will be a picnic by comparison when hell arrives on Earth.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Excerpt</span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The Grimaldis huddled over a piece of paper. Mr. Grimaldi looked up and cleared his throat. “Everything is in order. The carriage house suited you?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Pike slid an envelope stuffed with cash across the tabletop. “Yes. It was private and exactly as described. We have a deal.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Mrs. Grimaldi snatched at the bills with undisguised greed. “We wouldn’t do this, you understand, but the Feds raided all the local speakeasies. Our best clients shut down. Times are tough.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Mr. Grimaldi scrawled a signature on the paper and handed the pen to his wife. She added hers, and then Pike tucked the paper in his pocket. “You needn’t be concerned about the girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">My ears pricked up. Girl? What girl? If Pike meant Mrs. Hart, the doctor needed to get his own eyes checked.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Mr. Grimaldi shifted in his seat, a flush tinting his fat cheeks. “People might get the wrong impression if the arrangement is discovered. You understand—they don’t realize our actions are for her own good.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I sucked in my breath. Mr. Grimaldi lied big time.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Don’t worry. No one will ever find out.” Pike’s voice was as cold as midwinter ice.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A teensy doubt jabbed at my mind that this had to do with gangsters, but I brushed it roughly away. Pike and the Grimaldis rose from the table. I darted from the window and ducked behind a tree right before the kitchen door opened.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Mrs. Grimaldi beamed at Pike. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to stop by.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The dark man set the fedora on his head and snapped the brim over his eyes. “I’m quite satisfied. You won’t see me again.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><i>True</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">For some reason, the truth shook me more than a lie. Mr. Grimaldi closed the door, but Pike remained on the stoop. The kitchen went dark and then a light switched on in an upstairs bedroom window.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I peered from behind the tree. Why did Pike wait? To rob the joint after they fell asleep? If so, I had no plan to stop him. I had half a mind to help.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The bedroom light flicked off and the yard went pitch black. One second…two seconds…three seconds…<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A yellow beam danced across the door, and my throat nearly closed in terror. That was no flashlight.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The ray from Pike’s eyes narrowed and focused pencil-thin. The smell of burning wood drifted across the lawn as he etched a smoldering hieroglyphic of a flame in the middle of the door. The outline of glowing embers flared and then snuffed out. Pike stepped back from the stoop. He paused for a moment as if to admire his handiwork and then sprinted down the alley.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Heart thumping, I darted to the door. My fingers stroked the spot where I last saw the little flame. The wood was still warm.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I snatched back my hand. The wood now blazed hot, more scorching by the second. The glowing outline flared to life again. A spark shot out, soared overhead, and landed near the chimney. Patches of shingles exploded in flames.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A long thin spark slithered from the symbol, a fiery snake writhing toward the keyhole. Without thinking, I reached to sweep it away only to jerk my fingers from the scalding heat. The spark slid into the opening. With a roar, a curtain of fire engulfed the downstairs windows.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">In a panic, I banged on the door. “Wake up! The house is on fire!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A thick choking cloud of smoke billowed under the doorframe, and I staggered back in a coughing fit. In a blink, the first floor was an inferno. How did the fire spread so fast? Mrs. Grimaldi’s terrified screams cut through the crackling fusillade of flames.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Blistering heat drove me across the yard. The panic-stricken face of Nico Grimaldi appeared at the bedroom window struggling to open the sash.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Crrrack.<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The wooden supports inside the house splintered and gave way. Mr. Grimaldi vanished in a thunderous crash as the second floor collapsed on the first. His wife’s screams cut off.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Multiple sirens wailed in the distance. I stumbled down the alley as hot cinders rained from above. Embers lit on my clothing, and I slapped them away. The Grimaldi house was now a nightmare of hellfire. I flinched as the outside walls caved in with a deafening roar.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The first of the fire trucks screeched around the corner. Cops would surely follow asking questions I couldn’t answer. As I ran across the street, the glare of a headlight caught me for an instant.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Tires squealed, and a man yelled, “You there, stop!”</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075THN41Y?notRedirectToSDP=1&ref_=dbs_mng_calw_0&storeType=ebooks" target="_blank">AMAZON LINK</a></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Lato;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-80766166959253661232022-08-26T21:30:00.005-07:002022-08-26T21:30:00.148-07:00Black Panther was a Wuss Compared to Real African Women Warriors<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Black Panther was a Wuss compared to Real African Women Warriors</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7Fbcj697SGlCacyi_OmAwnRzJ_CSMydH82gGxsEsYqlMqiKE6xmj-4jC86KsDMCys5c-sHohaUZ9spFHfnNvtj-t-_vsxs1-QN8m28g-XP2bud_R3CUF0mtLW7DtUeWN6ghvn0fCJdkyXtk1uznQZMTU2JSzsn_H757yiY3SKxVBHRfsWTJXU5pFQzw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="150" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7Fbcj697SGlCacyi_OmAwnRzJ_CSMydH82gGxsEsYqlMqiKE6xmj-4jC86KsDMCys5c-sHohaUZ9spFHfnNvtj-t-_vsxs1-QN8m28g-XP2bud_R3CUF0mtLW7DtUeWN6ghvn0fCJdkyXtk1uznQZMTU2JSzsn_H757yiY3SKxVBHRfsWTJXU5pFQzw" width="240" /></span></b></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Dora Milaje, the special forces of the fictional Kingdom of Wakanda in the Black Panther movie, were based on a real group of women warriors called Dahomey Amazons. Known for their fearlessness, they were frontline soldiers in the army of the Kingdom of Dahomey, a West African empire that existed from 1625 to 1894. Europeans who visited the kingdom in the 19th Century dubbed them Amazons after the ruthless warriors of Greek mythology.</div></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">The women of Dahomey played important roles in all aspects of kingdom life. Although the king had ultimate leadership, royal women made their mark in the world of politics, religion, and the military. According to legend, when King Akaba died in 1716, his twin sister Hangbe took the throne. Dahomey women were respected as hunters, so she recruited a female guard to protect her and the palace and the tradition of female soldiers began.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Each king would build a new palace next to his predecessor’s, leaving the former as a mausoleum. Although the last king of the Dahomey Empire burnt the palaces before the French conquered the territory, a section stands in Abomey. The bas reliefs show the Amazons used clubs, as well as muskets and machetes. There is also a horse’s tail attached to a human skull, a trophy brought by an Amazon for her monarch to use as a fly swatter.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">A Catholic missionary named Father Borghero, a guest of the king, witnessed a mock assault on an enemy fortress. Three thousand heavily armed soldiers, barefoot and bristling with clubs attacked a series of defenses. A few, known as Reapers, were armed with gleaming three-foot-long straight razors, capable of slicing a man clean in two. The Amazons advanced in silence. Their first obstacle was a wall of acacia branches bristling with needle-sharp thorns forming a barricade 440 yards long. Ignoring wounds, troops scrambled to the top and mimed hand-to-hand combat with imaginary defenders. Then they stormed huts and dragged out a group of cringing “prisoners.” The king assessed their performance and the bravest received belts made from acacia thorns which the warriors strapped around their waists.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Recruiting Amazons wasn’t difficult. Most West African women lived miserable lives of forced drudgery. Amazons lived in the royal compound and were kept well supplied with tobacco, alcohol and slaves, as many as 50 to each warrior. When Amazons left the palace, they were preceded by a slave girl with a bell warning every male to get out of their path and look the other way. To touch an Amazon meant death. I’ve had mornings like that myself.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">In the end, they were no match for French forces. In the course of four major campaigns in the latter half of the 19th century, conservative estimates are the Amazons lost at least 6,000 dead, and perhaps as many as 15,000. In their last battles against French troops, equipped with vastly superior weaponry, about 1,500 women took the field, and roughly 50 survived. The women were the last to surrender. According to a rumor in the French occupation army, the survivors took their revenge by covertly substituting themselves for Dahomeyan women taken into the enemy stockade. Each allowed herself to be seduced by a French officer, and after he fell asleep cut his throat with his own bayonet.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Most sources suggest the last of Dahomey’s women warriors died by the 1940s, but historians think it’s possible some survived long enough to see their country regain its independence in 1960. I like to think a few were in the crowd, giving one final war cry.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p><b><span style="color: red; font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0in;"><o:p><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Roboto; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></b></o:p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-29120914058134540352022-07-14T04:00:00.002-07:002022-07-14T04:00:00.181-07:00Rimrider is Free <p><span style="font-family: arial;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KOh-rGnuer668k3vCQUjKhTrNtAxVXk88XsTKOQuvanWEagJbcgdV2YfiSFFzBbNlawaJUNEjT3hPYJCriAXW2lcImzYySKW2Nqm-_9CMoQ7Y4LVM06uRUvkaSKPOuhF2Yw2039LKN6vpkuW5Yptp-lKcHtK9GcFMTMummHxZxUTlgYOaOWvJMChnQ/s4167/Rimrider%20cover%20lakelley-300dpi-3125x4167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4167" data-original-width="3125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KOh-rGnuer668k3vCQUjKhTrNtAxVXk88XsTKOQuvanWEagJbcgdV2YfiSFFzBbNlawaJUNEjT3hPYJCriAXW2lcImzYySKW2Nqm-_9CMoQ7Y4LVM06uRUvkaSKPOuhF2Yw2039LKN6vpkuW5Yptp-lKcHtK9GcFMTMummHxZxUTlgYOaOWvJMChnQ/w300-h400/Rimrider%20cover%20lakelley-300dpi-3125x4167.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></p><p><b style="color: red; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">The First Book in the Rimrider Adventure Series is <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01JF1BQHU/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p2_i3" target="_blank">Free on Amazon </a><span style="background-color: #fcff01;">July 14, 15, 16, 17, 18</span></b></p><p></p><p><i><span style="color: red; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b style="background-color: #fcff01;"><br /></b></span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Orphan, pirate, spy.</b></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Jane Benedict’s father orders her to memorize a mysterious code. Hours later, he’s murdered and Jane and her brother, Will, become wards of United Earth Corporation. To evade the company’s brutal clutches and uncover the meaning of her father’s last message, Jane leads Will on a desperate escape across the galaxy aboard the Freetrader smuggler ship, Solar Vortex. After swearing allegiance and joining the crew’s fight for freedom, Jane saves the life of young smuggler, Mac Sawyer, and learns her father’s code identifies a secret cargo shipment. The trail leads to the planet Rimrock and the massive prison complex of Golgotha. Undercover as a spy, Jane stumbles into a conspiracy that can spell doom for the entire Freetrader cause and the extinction of an alien race. Can she escape the prison confines and deliver a warning before it’s too late?<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial;">Piracy, intrigue, romance, space battles, and a daring rebellion from Earth wait on the galactic rim. Will Jane answer the call to adventure or is death for high treason her fate?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Excerpt</span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“We’re trapped in cargo bay Delta-120 with a sweeper. Do you read?” The only response was a hiss of static. Jane peered at them with anxious eyes. “My line is dead. Anyone have a signal?” Neither Mac nor Will’s com had reception.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Jane swallowed. “I don’t know if Doc got the message.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mac scowled. “We’re out maneuvered and outgunned and can’t wait around to find out. The smoke is getting thicker by the second.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Hack emitted a muted tinny whine. “What’s his problem now?” hissed Jane.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Will yanked off the tarp and checked the readouts. “The weird signal’s back, stronger this time. Hack has a lock. It’s definitely coming from that thing on the catwalk with the sweeper.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mac’s gaze narrowed. “His rifle beats the cutter for long-range shooting. If the sweeper were at ground level, the odds would be more to my liking. I can sneak up on him.” He blew out his cheeks in frustration. “How to draw him out without getting shot is the problem.” He turned to Jane and Will. “You two wait here. When the shooting starts, make for the hatch.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Jane grabbed his arm. “Mac, this is crazy. You’ll never get close enough. We need a better plan.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mac shook off her grip. “There’s no time. One of us has to make it out of here and go for help. Now run!” He broke from cover and darted around a loader.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>The sweeper instantly spotted him. Jane watched in horror as the laser rifle fired a spread of explosive charges. A direct hit to the loader’s engine mushroomed debris into the air. Mac dove behind a cargo container abutting a rack of mech suits. He was unharmed for now, but had no safe way to advance any farther.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“What do we do?” said Will. “Run for help?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Jane’s focus returned to the sweeper. With his laser rifle at the ready, he used his other hand to hurriedly work on the object at his feet, acting as if time weighed hard against him. Jane’s gaze narrowed. A person so consumed by a task would hate to be interrupted. As a matter of fact, the right interruption might make him boiling mad. Mad enough to drop his guard and take his attention off Mac.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Her expression hardened. “Will, I have a plan.” She explained in a rush.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Will chuckled. “I like it.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“How much time will you need to get into position?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“Thirty seconds ought to do it.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“I’ll keep the sweeper busy.” Jane drew the cutter from her holster. With shaking fingers, she reset the controls for a tight beam. At this distance, hitting the sweeper would be a miracle, but the glow from the cutter made her a fine target for him in the dark. “Ready?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Will’s face turned pale. “Are you positive Mac will be in position?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“He’ll understand as soon as I start running. He knows how to shoot.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“Yeah, but you don’t. Be careful, Jane. Promise.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“I’ll make it back, Will. I swear. On three…one, two, go!” Jane dashed from cover aiming straight for the sweeper’s position.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jane fired wildly, mentally counting the seconds. Her shots went way out of range. Although none landed anywhere near the catwalk, they drew the sweeper’s immediate attention.</span></b></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Crackles of lightning ripped through the air as he returned fire. An energy blast hit near her feet, bubbling the metal deck plate. Jane dodged in panic, adrenaline pumping through her veins.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Close—too close. Don’t think! Run! Run! Run! Twenty more seconds</i>…<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Jane tore across the bay, darting through smoke, dodging flames. She veered toward the bulkhead aiming for the safety of a storage container. The back of her neck burned as if she could feel the laser sight zero in on her. A beam sliced the dark to her left. Jane sidestepped in a panic. She was in the open, no place to hide. The sweeper had her in his sights. A red dot centered on the middle of her chest. She looked into the face of death.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“Now, Will!” Jane shouted.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>So intent on Jane, the sweeper didn’t notice a dark blob shoot up behind him. Hack’s claws clamped on the device at the sweeper’s feet.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Bllllleeeeeehhhhhh!<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Will had raised Hack’s alarm to full volume, and an ear-splitting shriek echoed in the air. Startled, the sweeper spun in a half-circle in time to watch Hack disappear with the unit, diving into the smoky haze of the cargo bay.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Jane rammed the cutter into the holster and sprinted toward the rack of mech suits where Mac hid. Heavy footsteps ran across the catwalk and then pounded down the stairs. With a soft whir and an urgent <i>bleh-bleh</i>, Hack flew over her head and then dropped the device into Jane’s outstretched hands. She grunted with the sudden weight and struggled to hold on. It was much heavier than she expected. Within a few meters, her breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled across the deck.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Footsteps drew closer as Jane cleared the last of the storage containers. An agonizing ache shot though her side. Her legs moved as if strung by lead weights. Muscles in her arms burned with the effort to carry the device. Dead ahead was the rack of mech suits.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Mac was gone.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01JF1BQHU/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p2_i3" target="_blank">Amazon Link</a></b></span></p><p class="SmashwordsStyle" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br /></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-67907462407980952452022-06-26T21:30:00.001-07:002022-06-26T21:30:00.164-07:00<p> <b style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Roboto Condensed; font-size: large;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Roboto Condensed;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Roboto Condensed;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizU3gzfHIdZseXtNh6wMQHbrwXJrxpJfOkMJ1y4P30LzXoky8yVLF2aJfqTySCPbmTBtiQoNvGcZkn5l_RlmQa-mSbcjNAjug2ytwav2lPIF1XIb3UsiURRb7ZFHvFK5W9QyYxgIQdg3FZ1gDAJ781rQxJuNCyeNj0Cwbc8XgfMj3Qo2lQ9VWHhu7HDw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="150" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizU3gzfHIdZseXtNh6wMQHbrwXJrxpJfOkMJ1y4P30LzXoky8yVLF2aJfqTySCPbmTBtiQoNvGcZkn5l_RlmQa-mSbcjNAjug2ytwav2lPIF1XIb3UsiURRb7ZFHvFK5W9QyYxgIQdg3FZ1gDAJ781rQxJuNCyeNj0Cwbc8XgfMj3Qo2lQ9VWHhu7HDw" width="240" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: Lato;"><br /><span style="color: #674ea7; font-size: x-large;">Twisted Fairytales</span></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Covid, inflation, gasoline more expensive than champagne? Wouldn’t it be nice if life was like a fairytale? The heck it would, not if you know the real stories.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i>Cinderella</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Cinderella’s tale has been around for over 2000 years. There are hundreds of versions dating back to ancient Greece and China. The Disney cartoon is the fluffiest of all with Cinderella barely able do anything except smile idiotically no matter how badly she’s treated. In the Grimm version, her name is Aschenputtel and her slippers are made of gold, not glass. In the original French, Cinderella’s slippers were fur which may not be fashionable, but a heck of a lot more comfortable. In both versions, she’s not helpless and weepy like the cartoon, but rather a self-sufficient girl with witch-like powers. She creates a magic tree and has the ability to turn invisible and control birds. The wicked stepsisters allow toe and heel to be cut off to force their feet into the glass slipper. The self-mutilation doesn’t work, and Cinderella marries the prince. During the wedding ceremony, Cinderella commands doves to peck out her stepsisters’ eyes. Talk about Bridezilla.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i>Pinocchio</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Oh, that silly puppet. Good thing he has the blue fairy to pull his fat from the fire. Hah. Not hardly. At the end of the original story, Pinocchio is being chased by assassins. He runs to a house, screaming for help. In an open window is a little girl with blue hair, instead of a fairy. Her eyes are closed and her arms crossed over her chest. A ghostly voice says everyone is dead in the house. Pinocchio begs her to open up anyway, but the little girl says. “I’m dead, too, and waiting for the coffin to take me away.” Pinocchio starts crying, begging the girl for help, but the window closes. The assassins grab him and hang him from an oak tree. The end. Ha-ha. What a delightful tale. It should be easy to get the little ones to sleep after that.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i>Wizard of Oz: The Tin Woodsman</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">The Tin Woodsman started out as a normal guy named Nick Chopper who made a nice living chopping down trees in the forests of Oz. After his parents die, he’s lonely and falls in love with a Munchkin girl named Nimmie Amee, but she won’t marry him until he builds her a better house. In the original story, his sweetheart worked for a lazy old woman who wasn’t happy about losing a servant. In later editions, the lazy old woman is a witch, who’s still not happy, so she enchants his axe. When he swings the axe, he chops off his leg, so he goes to a tinsmith to build him a new one. Then he chops off another one. Back to the tinsmith. Then an arm. Then another arm, body part after body part. This guy doesn’t give up and the tinsmith is raking in the dough. Eventually, the axe goes through his heart, and the Tin Woodsman can no longer love and forgets about his sweetheart. What a charming children’s tale.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i>Bambi</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">As a child, I loved Bambi, the cartoon. Then I found Bambi, the book, at the local library, and checked it out. Ye gods, that was a mistake. The author, Felix Salten, was an ardent hunter who killed over 200 deer in his lifetime. He cheated on his wife, stole from friends and lost their money. He also believed in appeasing the Nazis and wrote a delightful pornographic book about a child forced into prostitution. What a swell guy. In Disney’s version, nature is idyllic. In Salten’s version a fox tears apart a beloved pheasant, a ferret fatally wounds a squirrel, and a flock of crows attack the young son of Thumper, called in the book Friend Hare. He’s left to die in excruciating pain. Friend Hare’s wife has her leg ripped off and also dies. Bambi nearly batters to death a rival begging for mercy. What does sweet Faline do? She looks on, laughing. Faline has a twin brother, Gobo, who was injured as a fawn and healed by men. He returns to the forest and tells everyone people are swell. Bambi thinks he’s an idiot and mocks him. Turns out he’s right. One day, they spot humans and poor Gobo goes out to say “Hi.” Naturally, he’s shot. The others run away to his wailing death shriek. In the end, Bambi knocks up Faline and then deserts her because stags don’t help with fawns. I wonder why Walt heavily edited the book?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">So, the next time the kids ask to be read a fairytale, suggest a violent video game instead. It will leave them with fewer nightmares.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-23453125024081043822022-05-26T21:30:00.001-07:002022-05-26T21:30:00.164-07:00The Rose Stone: A New Release Now on Amazon<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10AEDF9P4LG6bi3nHMZa_nClSFO_3Edv1S6FkOtDF0EwdmXNemHxynwv7M9XQGiSwdIU5ibB7lnF2nHgimLFO6vJlp9liAjfe5x8OXmYZ1Ey65rcw4UVpv_FeIW4AEIhyQdFyX5hMcTs7D07OCFXVIhzPzlYzSNbaacFEMn2fqK7ZFs1ooeI8JnE9/s750/TheRoseStone_w16151_750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg10AEDF9P4LG6bi3nHMZa_nClSFO_3Edv1S6FkOtDF0EwdmXNemHxynwv7M9XQGiSwdIU5ibB7lnF2nHgimLFO6vJlp9liAjfe5x8OXmYZ1Ey65rcw4UVpv_FeIW4AEIhyQdFyX5hMcTs7D07OCFXVIhzPzlYzSNbaacFEMn2fqK7ZFs1ooeI8JnE9/s320/TheRoseStone_w16151_750.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09THRJ24K/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Lato;">The Rose Stone</span></a></span></b><p></p><p></p><p><b><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">by L. A. Kelley</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Jessica Rose Stone has a death sentence, an inoperable brain tumor. As the muscle tremors and pain intensify, an alarming new symptom develops, a rose-colored haze invades her vision. With it, comes the captivating hallucination of a world under a dire threat, protected by a magic crystal called the Rose Stone. Her doctor warned vision changes signaled the beginning of the end, but this Commonwealth of the Rose issues a compelling call. Jess dares to answer and finds a warrior named Griffin engaged in a struggle with an enemy called the darkling, a mysterious being who takes a chilling interest in Jess. With the help of Griffin and his warbird, she evades the darkling’s assassins and discovers her connection to the Commonwealth of the Rose runs deeper than mere illusion.</span></b></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Tossed back and forth between two worlds, Jess battles the darkling in one reality and a tumor in the other. Her struggle to determine her true place grows as does her attraction to Griffin. Is the call of the Rose Stone a dream, a hallucination, or will it set her heart on the path to something greater?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Lato; font-size: large;">Excerpt </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The sunlight from the window shifted. Color surrounded me, vibrant pink hues deepening to brilliant crimson, spilling across the painting, brightening the rose. Not so much a haze, but a glowing aura, blocking out everything but the rose, setting the petals ablaze with color.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Perfect,” I whispered. Drawn by the extraordinary effect, I clasped the palette knife tight to my chest and with my other hand touched the canvas. Spinning, whirling, falling into the depths of the crimson light, I lost feeling in my body but wasn’t afraid. If this was death, it was kinda fun. My eyes closed.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Oof!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I hit with a thump, whooshing the air from my lungs, then sucked in a breath and groaned. I was no expert but assumed death didn’t come with a hard landing. I must have passed out and hit the floor and cursed my stupidity. If I were bleeding, I’d have to clean the mess before Melanie arrived or I’d never hear the end of it. I rubbed a hand across the floor, hoping for the touch of concrete and not a pool of something warm and sticky. Instead, my fingers entwined in a soft, springy mass.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“What the…” My floor had no carpet, and this felt like grass. My artistic air freshener had disappeared, too. Lush floral notes replaced the omnipresent smell of paint and turpentine in the loft.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I opened my eyes. My jaw dropped. “Not possible,” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The loft had vanished. I lay face up in a glade, surrounded by thick piney woods, one hand clutching the palette knife. Faint pink tinted the foliage, but it vanished as I scrambled to sit. Overhead, a sky with ominous gray clouds was barely visible between the heavy overhanging branches. A stiff breeze, rife with earthy forest scent, batted my cheek. My heart skipped a beat at soft chittering overhead. Leaves rustled as furry creatures scurried across tree limbs as if my sudden appearance startled them.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I staggered to my feet, gulping in a lungful of clean, fresh air, and gawked at the unfamiliar surroundings. This was deep woods and not the local park with manicured walkways. The weather report predicted clear blue skies today, but the gathering clouds overhead hinted at a coming storm. Brush and trees ringed the small clearing. Big trees. Not the local pines, but massive conifers with flat needles that looked as if they had stood for hundreds of years. I’d never seen such trees near my home. I’d never seen such trees ever. Nothing was familiar. I touched a trunk. The dream tree was eerily solid.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">My mouth dried. “How can this be real? Where am I?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Did hallucinations have clear scents and sounds? Shoot, why didn’t I ask Melanie more questions or grill the pharmacist about the side effects from those stupid pills?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Because you were afraid of the answers. How do you feel now about using denial as a treatment for a terminal illness?<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I rubbed the back of my neck. “Kinda dumb, actually.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I took a step and grimaced as a painful muscle spasm shot through my leg. I flexed my fingers and winced. They hurt, too. That much hadn’t changed. I still had the palette knife, so dropped it in the smock’s pocket. Convinced I had completely lost my mind, I placed a finger on my neck and didn’t know whether to be happy or rattled at the steady pulse.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">“Okay. I choose to believe I’m alive, but something is very wrong with this scenario. Maybe it’s not a normal hallucination. I-I must have fainted and gotten a hard knock on the head. This might be a coma.” Panic flared inside me. “Calm down. Try to wake up.” I took a deep breath and shouted, “I’m awake now.” The vision of the primeval woods remained stubbornly in place.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A rumbling growl reverberated through the trees, and my heart raced. “All righty. Attracting attention might not be the brightest idea until I figure out what’s going on.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">The little animals overhead chittered again, but this time their conversation had a frenzied aspect. My arrival gave them jitters, but that sound caused wild-eyed terror. Branches shook as they dove for cover, knocking bits of leaves and twigs to the forest floor. In an instant, stillness reigned. Even the stiff breeze had dropped.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Cold sweat trickled down my spine. “Okay, Jess. I really mean it this time. Wake up now.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Dried vegetation on the forest floor crunched under the weight of a large, heavy something lumbering through the woods. No more than fifty feet away came rustling brush and a low, rumbling snarl. Branches ripped apart as the ominous sound forged a beeline in my direction. Then the noise stopped, but the eerie stillness of the forest offered no comfort. The silence lengthened as if that something was waiting, listening.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Breath caught in my throat.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I took a stumbling step back and froze at the snap of a twig underfoot. “It’s a hallucination,” I whispered. “It can’t hurt me.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Without warning, the heavy body pounded across the forest floor, rapidly closing the gap between us. Through the brush, I glimpsed a scaly hide. “Screw it. I’m out of here.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">I did an about-face and shambled in the opposite direction, cursing my legs. Why didn’t I remember to bring the cane into the dream world? The lurker in the trees followed, thumping steps drawing closer. I could almost feel hot breath on the back of my neck. Blind panic urged me faster, but I was slowed by a stumbling gait and thick foliage that snatched at my clothing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">Thud!<o:p></o:p></span></b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">A heavy body landed right behind me, shaking the ground. Claws clamped my waist, dragging me to a halt and lifting me in the air. The self-defense class Melanie talked me into one summer rushed back. I struck out blindly with my fists and connected with something squishy. I grabbed it and yanked hard. There was a tearing sound and an inhuman bellow. The claws<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-family: Lato; font-size: medium;">opened. I tumbled to the ground and got the first good look at my attacker. A scream froze in my throat as I came face to face with a walking horror.<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Lato;">In point of fact, face wasn’t the right word.</span><span style="font-family: Roboto;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.3in;"><o:p><b><span style="font-family: Roboto; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Roboto; font-size: medium;">BUY LINKS</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Roboto; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Rose-Stone-L-Kelley-ebook/dp/B09THRJ24K/ref=sr_1_1?crid=34EJQRWCAZ7DF&keywords=l.+a.+kelley&qid=1653172569&s=digital-text&sprefix=l.+a.+kelley%2Cdigital-text%2C432&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Roboto; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-rose-stone-l-a-kelley/1141068082?ean=9781509241675" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Roboto; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-rose-stone/id1612092190" target="_blank">ITunes</a></span></b></p><div><b><br /></b></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: Roboto; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695605214291340615.post-14671670531462304902022-04-26T21:30:00.001-07:002022-04-26T21:30:00.160-07:00<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj257UzJSZf39WpDqC-vqYteTwMSNVeRChoFYqVHm_l9qEXP4sLSrLeLgCKnpqSXsp61lCTS-dym7KGvuqJuCv00QWoEZ8za1u4RtshdAPF99q54fta2mV9VkKSs8HDZ6A3YNvb7ZVhjSpa7TNhqXDJ5rdNhAu6_OPjzHjpZFt2HM9VHj0eVuPSZzPd/s262/spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="262" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj257UzJSZf39WpDqC-vqYteTwMSNVeRChoFYqVHm_l9qEXP4sLSrLeLgCKnpqSXsp61lCTS-dym7KGvuqJuCv00QWoEZ8za1u4RtshdAPF99q54fta2mV9VkKSs8HDZ6A3YNvb7ZVhjSpa7TNhqXDJ5rdNhAu6_OPjzHjpZFt2HM9VHj0eVuPSZzPd/s1600/spring.jpg" width="262" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Spring starts with the vernal equinox, but what exactly is it? An equinox is when the sun is positioned directly above the Earth’s equator and the hours of daylight and nighttime are very nearly equal. It happens twice a year, spring and autumn. It’s generally accepted the vernal equinox is March 21 when the sun crosses the equator from south to north, but its iffier than you think. Sometimes it hits on the 20</span></b></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><sup style="text-indent: 0in;">th</sup><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> and, of course, spring only comes to the Northern Hemisphere. The Southern Hemisphere heads toward winter. Earth thinks it’s oh-so-special but every planet in the solar system has an equinox, which occurs when a planet’s orbit and tilt causes hemispheres to receive the same amount of light.</span></b></span><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Although the equinox is thought of as a day, it’s actually only a moment when the Sun passes over the equator. For 2022, the Vernal Equinox happened on Thursday, March 20, 2022, at 11:33 a.m., Eastern Standard Time. This is not to say the first day of spring is set in stone. Bands of rogue climatologists roam the streets arguing the point. For them, meteorological seasons are grouped by months and based on weather and temperature shifts. They’ll argue the first day of spring in the Northern Hemisphere should be March 1. Don’t get in their way or they’ll slap you.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Spring is associated with an array of rituals marking the end of winter, often dealing with death and rebirth. The idea of a deity who perishes and is brought back to life is an ancient theme, predating the Bible. Easter, supposedly, derives its name from Eostre, the ancient Teutonic goddess of fertility, bringing light and renewal to the world. Eggs were hidden in her honor as part of fertility rites and, as she was also a moon goddess, her celebrations were held at the full moon closest to the Equinox. Eostre was symbolized by a hare, and by the 17th century in Protestant Europe hares were also symbolic of Easter.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>Weird stuff about the vernal equinox</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><i>It’s the only day you can stand a raw egg on end.</i></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Presumably, because of the Sun’s position in the sky, the gravitational pull on the Earth means that you can stand an egg up on end during the precise moment of the vernal equinox. Nope. The Earth’s gravity remains unchanged and balancing an egg can be done any day of the year, if you’re really, really, really bored. <o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Egad! There’s no shadow at noon.</i></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Only if you happen to be standing exactly on the equator.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Being outside during the vernal equinox can drive you bonkers.</i></b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>The Sun moving across the equator has no effect on emotions. But Seasonal Affective Disorder plays a part in moods and may have a leftover effect before spring truly kicks in. The warmer days can also bring a touch of spring fever and strengthen the desire to get outdoors. Not to mention being cooped up because of Covid made us all a little nuts.</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Take a trip to the gateway to hell.</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Several myths have certain days in which a portal to hell can open and the devil can enter the earth. One is Halloween, but the other is the vernal equinox. A cemetery in the town of Stull, Kansas, apparently has one of them. Since the 1970s, people visiting the cemetery on the vernal equinox report hearing disembodied growling, being grabbed by unseen arms, and experiencing amnesia. No reports on the number of liquor sales on that day is available.<o:p></o:p></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>So put that garland of flowers in your hair and dance around the maypole before that blooming botanical mess activates your allergies. Spring has sprung.</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="color: red; font-family: "Source Sans Pro"; font-size: small;"><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Source Sans Pro; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Source Sans Pro; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Source Sans Pro;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>L. A. Kelleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07515509779478649797noreply@blogger.com0