Afterthoughts, Lynn Tincher

Afterthoughts, Mind Bending Book One: Detective Paige Aldridge’s sister Sarah was there for her when she was found beaten and without any memories of the previous few months. When her nephew is found dead a year later, she begins to have terrifying flashbacks: visions of the murders of her own family! As her loved ones begin falling prey to a serial killer Paige believes that she’s going mad. Then a mysterious woman shows up to help her. With her family dying around her and dark suspicions forming in her mind, Paige has to pull the pieces together before it’s too late.


Excerpt from AFTERTHOUGHTS by Lynn Tincher

Chapter 1

It was all Detective Paige Aldridge could do to not throw up. She leaned against the tree trunk of a huge oak that stood in her adopted sister's front yard. Her hands shook violently as she tried to cover her mouth. Her stomach gave another turn. Taking a deep breath, she stood up straight and squared her shoulders. Gathering up any strength she had left, she walked back toward the garage.
Unusually cold for a late August evening in Louisville, Kentucky, a soft breeze swirled around her raising the hair on the back of her neck as she slowly, numbly glanced up. Suicide. It's never easy to see, even harder when it's the seventeen-year-old son of her adopted sister. A boy she felt was as much her very own son. She clutched her hands to her chest. Her heart ripped right out as she walked around the body that hung lifelessly in front of her. His face was already swollen and blue. The smell of death filled the garage. Fighting back another urge to throw up, she swallowed hard, forcing the lump down. Her knees were weak as she cautiously stepped over the small stepladder that was kicked aside to accomplish the task and steadied herself by grabbing the elbow of a fellow officer. She maneuvered between the other detectives in the garage. Silence swept through the room as everyone watched her. She could feel their eyes moving along with her. Tony’s camera flashed while tears filled Paige's eyes. She fought back the urge to run home screaming as she slowly backed away and turned toward the garage door where her partner stood.
Jay Vittidini didn’t try to force a smile when she walked toward him but instead offered her his handkerchief. “Hey, Paige,” he said slowly. “You ok?”
“No. I am never ready for anything like this,” she replied as she took a deep breath not noticing the light mist she left in front of her as she exhaled in the cool air. It was difficult to draw another breath in, like trying to blow up a new balloon. Hugging herself tightly to try to fend off the nausea and chills that were taking over her entire body, she tried to steady herself against the garage doorframe beside Jay. “Have you talked with Sarah? Is she ok?”
“Yes, she’s inside, poor thing. Tom’s with her,” Jay sighed; scuffing his feet on the driveway as he mindlessly glanced at what was left of the sunset. “She’s had to deal with so much lately,” he said as he gently put his hand on Paige’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “She needs you and if you need me, I’m right here. I mean it.”
Paige couldn’t feel his touch. “I know,” she drew in another deep breath while she covered his hand with hers trying to reach for some sort of reality. “I’ll go on in and talk to her,” she could only whisper as she walked around the front of the red BMW parked in the driveway. Pausing when she reached the end of the gray stone sidewalk that she walked on so many times over the last several years, she leaned against the railing.
Paige and Sarah had planted all the shrubs and flowers that were now growing beautifully along the sidewalk. She absentmindedly ran her hand across the top of the shrubs. Paige’s parents died when she was three and Sarah’s mother and father had adopted her. They passed away several years later while both Paige and Sarah were in college. They were not only sisters but best friends as well. How could she help her now? Again, she felt helpless. “If only I had come out to see Sarah when I wanted to earlier, Richie may have been ok,” she thought to herself. Tears burned the back of her eyelids again as she thought that maybe - just maybe - she could have prevented Richie from killing himself. She remembered Richie playing in the back yard and picking dandy lions for her. He would run up to her with handfuls of the bright yellow flowers along with the grass and clover that had happened to grow along side them. She remembered his red hair and freckled nose. How he would smile up at her and shower her with the big hugs and kisses.
Paige remembered the panic-stricken phone call from Sarah only thirty minutes earlier. “He’s… dead… oh God… he’s dead!” was all that Paige could make out between Sarah’s sobs.
“Who? Anthony?” Paige tried to ask calmly. Senator Anthony Steckler was Sarah’s late husband and the love of her life. They had met in college and were inseparable. After marrying just after graduation, Anthony and Sarah immediately tried to start a family. They were elated when Sarah became pregnant right away. Everything was perfect until Sarah found Anthony in their bedroom strangled to death not even a week ago. Devastation had taken over Sarah’s life.
During the investigation, Paige determined that all roads were leading to the Steckler’s teenage son, Richard. Richie had been home at the time of Anthony’s murder but claimed to be passed out in his bedroom from his usual alcohol binge. Richie had become a troubled teen over the last year. He was rarely home. When he happened to be, it was usually in the middle of the night. He would stumble up the stairs and pass out until far past noon the next day. Unable to be objective any longer, she asked to be removed from the case and turned it over to Jay, with the promise of helping him every step of the way.
“No… oh, God Paige… its Richie… he’s in the…” Sarah’s frantic words became impossible to understand between the sobs.
“Have you called 911? I’m on my way!” Paige threw the phone down and ran out of the door. When her car squealed onto Sarah’s street in Gellendale Estates, the police were already there, lights flashing in unison with an ambulance that was pulled into the yard. The shadow of someone hanging from the garage ceiling made her stop in her tracks. She felt like she had been smacked in the face with a baseball bat.
Paige snapped back to reality when another detective brushed her arm as he passed. She realized she was still standing at the foot of the sidewalk, gripping the railing with her knuckles that were already white. Taking another deep breath, she moved toward the door. She could hear a voice in the back of her mind saying, “Be calm Paige. Everything will be fine. Just relax.”
As she opened one of the large double glass storm doors, she could hear Sarah’s sobs echoing from the parlor. What was left of her heart shattered into a million pieces as she ran into the room. Sarah’s face was as pallid as death itself. As she tried to stand and run to Paige, Sarah stumbled and fell back onto the couch, knocking the throw pillows from the sofa as she fell.
“Sarah…” breathless, Paige ran to her. Their arms closed around each other as if hanging on for their very lives. “Sarah, I’m so sorry!” she tried to comfort her. Not knowing what to say, Paige sobbed along with her, rocking her back and forth, letting Sarah rest completely in her arms like she was her own child. She stroked Sarah’s long blonde hair, desperate to comfort her. Paige tried to embrace the pain that Sarah was feeling, but she only felt numb. How could anyone understand such grief? The tears fell down Paige’s cheeks as if a faucet had been turned on inside her, but she didn’t feel the tears. She wished she could feel the pain. How could she relieve some of it for Sarah? What could she possible say to make things better? Paige again felt fragile and helpless. Doing the only thing she could do, she held onto Sarah with all her strength and let Sarah release some of the pain herself.
“Sarah, I don’t know what to say or do. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
Sarah nodded as if she understood and hugged her tightly. Paige could feel her relax a little as Sarah’s breathing slowed down and she realized how much her just being there helped Sarah. Hope, Paige had hope.
Finally, Paige opened her eyes, her lashes heavy with tears. Glancing up, she found Tom Miller, one of the policemen on the scene, standing over them. She hugged Sarah once more. “I’m going outside to talk with Tom for a minute. I’ll be right back.” Sarah’s swollen eyes looked at her blankly. She nodded her head as Paige squeezed her hand. When Paige stood up to walk with Tom, she asked another police officer to look after Sarah for a few minutes and she and Tom headed for the door.
When they stepped out onto the front porch, Tom looked out at the scene in the front yard. The news vans and reporters were swarming the investigators even as they were taping off the scene. This was the second time in the same week there had been a tragedy at Senator Steckler’s estate and the reporters were determined to have answers. A crowd of spectators was also gathering around, shouting questions without concern.
“She found him… she came home tonight, opened the garage door and saw him there,” Tom whispered to Paige. “I’m surprised the poor woman has any sanity left. She was at the station earlier asking questions about her husband’s murder. She swears Richard was innocent. Now I’m not so sure.” Tom sat down on the step, shielding himself from the crowd with the shrubs that lined the porch.
“If Richie was guilty, we need to find out why,” Paige sighed as she sat beside him. “Did he need money? Drugs? Did he hate his father enough to kill him? Was it an accident in the state he was in that night? I have to find the answers somehow. For Sarah’s sake.” Paige’s eyes filled with tears again. She wouldn’t let them fall. Not anymore. She had to be strong. That was the only way she could help Sarah. Biting her lip, she stood up gracefully with what precious little strength remained and walked back into the house with Tom behind her.
Before she could enter the parlor, Tom pulled her aside. “They are going to be removing the body any minute now. Maybe you should take Mrs. Steckler somewhere else in the house so that she doesn’t see.”
“Thanks Tom. I will,” she said as she laid her hand on Tom’s arm with a light touch that appeared to be out of concern but was more of trying to keep from falling down. She slowly turned and walked into the parlor to where Sarah was now laying on the sofa.
“Come on, Sarah. Let’s go upstairs and clean you up a bit.” Paige offered her hand to help Sarah stand. She nodded and walked with Paige toward the stairs. As they entered the bedroom, Paige suddenly felt ill again. Breaking into a sweat as nausea swept over her, she fought the urge to rush into the bathroom. “I need to be strong for Sarah. She really needs me now.” she told herself.
As Sarah was changing clothes and drying her face with a hand towel, Paige walked to the window and looked outside through the blinds. The EMT’s were pushing Richie’s body, covered in a white sheet, into the ambulance. The memory of the same scene with Anthony’s body caused Paige’s stomach to lurch, yet again. As she watched the scenes unfold in the front yard, she saw someone in the shadows behind the trees that lined the front yard. Watching him as he moved from tree to tree along the back of the crowd, a suspicious feeling came over her. “Relax Paige,” a voice whispered. “It’s just a curious neighbor or a member of the press.” Rubbing the back of her neck, she turned her back to the window. As she glanced around the room, she noticed the pictures on the desk and dresser. She walked over and picked up a picture of Sarah and Anthony. They had their arms around each other and they were both smiling happily. As far as Paige knew, they had a nearly perfect marriage. Fighting off a little twinge of jealousy, Paige placed the picture carefully back on the dresser. She wondered if she would ever find happiness like that.
She made her way to the guest bathroom and splashed cold water on her face until she felt better. As she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered what to do next. “I have to figure out if Richie was guilty or if there is someone else. Did Richie kill himself for another reason?” Then it hit her. The obvious question, “Has anyone found a suicide note?” she asked the reflection in the mirror.
Sarah was back in the bedroom when Paige came back in. Paige put her arm around her and led her back downstairs to face more detectives, suspicions, doubts, and tears. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she assured her and hugged her tightly. Leaving Sarah with Tom as they reached the parlor, she ran back outside to find Jay.
Before she could even ask the question, Jay had the answer. “We found a note. It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s all we have,” he said as he handed her a note that had already been sealed in an evidence bag. Paige’s hands shook as she took it from Jay and held it up to the porch light. She could barely make out the words on the letter through the plastic in the dim light of the garage.
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused you and Dad. I need help. I love you.
Richie
“I don’t understand. This letter sounds like someone who is reaching out, not someone who is… about to…” Paige was trembling.
“Exactly,” Jay cut her off. They looked at each other with complete understanding. They had been partners long enough to develop a sense of what each other was thinking. Paige likened it to a marriage where the couple could speak to each other without saying a word. Jay was not only her partner, but also her friend. One she argued with frequently but completely understood - even if she didn’t agree.
The rest of the investigation of the scene went quickly; perhaps it was because Paige was numb and couldn’t concentrate. After taking Sarah to stay at her cousin Aileen’s, farm, she decided to go home. She poured herself a large gin and tonic with the juice of a large lime, crawled into bed and opened her journal.
“It’s amazing how quickly things can change. You think everything is normal, fine, routine. I mean, one minute I’m running bath water, ready to relax and the next, I’m staring death in the face. Why Richie? Why did he have to kill himself?”
She sighed and continued to write in her journal as suggested by her psychiatrist.
“I feel as if my world is caving in on me. I’m getting smaller and smaller. I have no control anymore. I want to reach out and help but I can’t. I’m helpless, alone, insignificant.”
She toyed with the corner of the page as she put her pen in her mouth, tears steaming down her face. She wiped them on her sleeve and decided to write more of exactly how she was feeling.
“I feel like I’m going crazy. I can’t remember things, days even. Something is happening to me. I thought I was better. I thought I had made progress. Today, I started to visit my sister, Sarah, to check up on her and it was like a voice was telling me to leave her alone. So, I didn’t call. I didn’t call!”
She drew several underlines.
“I’m going out of my mind. I should have been there. If I had, Richie would still be alive!”
She gave up, slammed her journal closed, and turned off her light. Sobbing into her pillow, she lay there remembering the few hours before.

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www.lynntincher.com

The World Behind It, Chaos, Michael Dickel

Michael Dickel’s poetry has appeared in small-press literary magazines for over twenty years. His photography and artwork have been published in art books, literary / arts journals, and online journals for over five years. Most recently, two of his poems received recognition through the international 2008 Reuben Rose Poetry Competition. This unique collection brings together the best of his poetry with visual art that both complements and complicates the reading. Artistically laid out, The World behind it, Chaos provides both visual and intellectual provocations towards sensing both the wonders of our world and the chaos that lies just beneath our lives. Beginning with a sharp intake of breath (“Leaping Deer”) and ending with the crumbling of the present into sand (“Return of the Sea”), the poetry arcs through life, politics, nature, mysticism, and human relationships. The images spark from that arc, creating moments of reflection to absorb the words, or creating their own visual poem to enhance the “text” of the book.

From the Foreword (written by the editors of why vandalism?):

“Michael Dickel, in The World behind it, Chaos…, reveals life’s chaos in all the dark, hidden places, as well as often unacknowledged order that stares us right in the face: the pastoral beauty of nature; the alarming and sometimes ugly; the knowing; the quiet yearnings of the human soul; memory, nostalgia, love; the stagnation or inability of humanity to see clearly or grow.”

The poems themselves range from the quiet lyric to experimental prose poems to surrealistic-imagistic explorations. One long poem near the center of the book (“The Morning News”) collapses time while chanting TV news, interspersing quotidian activity, joining events across decades, all the time swimming in the chaotic insanity of megalomania in cult and government leaders. We emerge, as readers, on the other side into a theoretical world of materiality and ideas (“Materiality,” “electronic transfer,” and “language you/me”) that merges into a spiritual and sensual world (as in “Theosophical Summer Evening, 1972”) that eventually encounters a pragmatic world of clipping coupons and raising children (“Still Kalamazoo, Mother’s Day at the Airport”). Yet, this pragmatic world still contains wonderment and chaos side by side, even as the voice of the poet grounds itself in nature (“Renewal”).

In the end, the seas overtake even the Midwest ordinariness of life, a city collapses into ruin, and we are reminded that history moves on, “…the foundation collapses, pieces of brick grind into sand” (“Return of the Sea”). Yet, somehow, it is not a pessimistic message. Overall, the poems and images suggest the place of the individual, the importance of choosing a direction (any direction) even in the face of collapse, and the mystery of life as revelation: “…all simmering, composting toward a distilled memory / to sip against the coming chill” (“After the Frost”).

Michael Dickel is a poet and photographer with degrees in psychology, creative writing, and English literature from the University of Minnesota. He taught writing at various U.S. colleges and Universities for nearly 20 years, and now teaches at The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

About Michael Dickel’s Poetry

“I love the way Michael Dickel’s poetry mixes eros and kabbalah with politics…beautiful, disturbing, soaring.” —Adeena Karasick, poet, cultural theorist and performance artist, and the award-winning author of six books of poetry and poetic theory, most recently The House That Hijack Built (Talon Books 2004).

Dickel’s poem “…is at once a poem of erotic love addressed to the beloved; a celebration of landscape, nature and fertility; an implicit reverencing of Jewish tradition; and, above all, a universally human beckoning towards peace and joy. My personal reading of [“Oasis”] yields hints of a mystical interpretation; the invocation of Tikkun, in the tradition of Isaac Luria and other Kabbalistic masters.” —Richard (Berengarten) Burns, judge of the international 2008 Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, poet, founder and organizer of the Cambridge Literary Festival, Bye-Fellow at Downing College, Cambridge and Preceptor at Corpus Christi College, and author of more than 20 books.

Excerpt From THE WORLD BEHIND IT, CHAOS

CL O U D S
The moon throws dice with shadows
and the winds toss hexagrams in dust,
revealing a lust for self, while
a sculptor’s eye roves across the sea.
He never answered the post card she sent
of the mask; her celebration went uninterrupted
by chance or by the occasional glimpse
of sands which drain through small fingers.
The winds cannot apologize, sweeping away
the remnant of day in the evening rocks.

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Angel's Fire, Demon's Blood, Tamela Quijas

What do you get when you involve a television reporter, a paranormal investigative team, an opinionated ghost, a secretive best selling author and a demon?

Lucien D’Angel.

Excerpt from ANGEL'S FIRE, DEMON'S BLOOD by Tamela Quijas.

“Do you truly believe in what you investigate, Mr. Angeles?” She persisted, even as a slight dizziness caused a wave of nausea to strike her. In the far distance of her hearing, she heard his softly issued response over the muttered and undecipherable complaints of her sound technicians.
“Do you, Miss Keyes?”
“I don’t believe in phantoms.” The words had been an effort for her to pronounce, the letters thick within her throat.
“Not even in the slightest sense?”
“No.” The camera had panned in her direction, revealing her discomfort. She kept her features calm, even as a wave of embarrassment washed over her and heated her chilled flesh.
Luke’s expression was placid, the slightest of smiles touching the thin line of his lips.
“I dare you, Miss Keyes, to join my team for an investigation.”
“You dare me?” She was astounded, even as his words sent another chill of cold over her flushed skin.
“Oh, yes, I dare you.” He reaffirmed sedately, his words silkily smooth. “I dare you to join me.”
The camera had not moved from her face. Eva’s stunned expression was visible to every single person who had happened to tune into tonight’s broadcast.
“I don’t believe in the existence of the spiritual world.” She whispered, the brightness of her gaze dropping as her producer signaled the beginning of a commercial break.
“You don’t even believe in that voice?” He persisted, the sound of his words a simple whisper in the air that was nearly undetectable, even to the highly sensitive lav mike.
…having trouble, Noah. Mike seems to be on the fritz…
“What voice?”
…Eva, there’s a problem with your mike. We keep getting some sort of feedback….
“The one that is whispering in your ear.”
…Ignore it, there’s only the wrap up of the show left….
It was impossible he could have been knowledgeable of the strange and incessant buzzing that had become a throaty whispering in her inner ear. Eva shuddered, an increasing frisson of cold washing over her as she faintly heard the voices shouting across the set. She was unaware her reaction had been captured by the television camera with a chilling clarity.
“Believe in me, Evangeline.” Luke Angeles whispered throatily. She felt a quiver assail her and she raised bright eyes to him. She blinked in bewilderment at the name that had fallen easily from his lips.
How could he have known? There wasn’t anyone in society, besides a select few close associates and her immediate family, that knew of her true identity.
“How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you, Evangeline Keegan. I know more than you would ever be capable of understanding in this lifetime or the next.” Luke Angeles lips curved into a semblance of a cryptic smile. Her eyes flew from his face to the set hand flashing raised fingers at her, signaling the end of the commercial break.
“I don’t know how you found….” She began to sputter in outrage.
“Listen to the voice, Evangeline.” He coaxed, blatantly ignoring her, the delivery of his words nearly hypnotic. Her eyes widened and she realized that his lips had never moved. “Take heed, Evangeline. He, alone, will tell you my true identity.”
She focused blindly on the man seated before her, a shiver of cold washing over her again. The hum that had resounded repetitively in her ears had vanished during the course of the interview. The noise had been replaced with the unmistakable sound of an ever persistent and throaty series of whispers. The whisper fine softness of the voices gradually became clearer.
Eva closed her eyes wearily, her mind aching, striving to breathe deeply as she focused on the whisper soft enunciations. There was a single word that formed, one that spiraled within the confusion of her dazed mind and leapt to the tip of her tongue.
“Do you believe in the presence of disembodied spirits?” Luke Angeles was persistent in his questioning. She was close enough to realize that, although it appeared he was looking at her, his attention was riveted to a point just beyond her. The word that had settled upon the tip of her tongue tingled, longing to be released, the faintest sound of laughter invading the multitude of whispering tones filling her mind.
Dimly, Eva realized a change had overtaken the man she was interviewing. The alteration had not been detected by the camera, for he had deliberately kept his face in profile. The cold grayness of his eyes had slowly vanished and, instead, the color had become the most unsettling shade of sable that had hungrily consumed the clarity of the orbs.
“If you believe, Evangeline, he’ll provide you my name.”
Lucien…

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Hear All Creatures! The Journey of An Animal Communicator, Karen Anderson

"The truer we are to ourselves, the more God-like we become." spoken by Shamrock, a red-fronted macaw...an excerpt from Karen's book, "Hear All Creatures"


"Hear All Creatures! The Journey Of An Animal Communicator" by Karen Anderson takes you into the hearts and minds of the animals we love.

If you have ever loved an animal or had to say goodbye to a dear and devoted friend then this book is for you.

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Visit Karen Anderson's Website:

www.KarenAnderson.net

The Writer's Chronicle

The Writer's Chronicle is a fun and enthusiastic place for writers to come, meet up and discuss everything and anything across a wide scope of topics. The forum deals with all aspects of different types of writing, so whether you're a journalist, poet or Novelist - there is a place here for you! Currently we have a wide variety of writers across all ages and countries including two debut authors, a former newspaper editor now freelance writer and a POD author.

At The Writer's Chronicle, we also understand how hard it is a] get an honest opinion/critique on your work and b] promote your book once you're published. So at our forum, we now have both the 'published ones' forum - which allows published authors to post a thread promoting their work, providing excerpts and answering questions etc. and a private members only 'Critique forum' where writers can set up their own thread for their work and have it critiqued by other members on the board.

Our Forum is a fun, relaxed place to discuss your writing with other like minded individuals and we are always open to new ideas and suggestions.

So, please drop by and have a look. We'd love to have you join!

http://thewriterschronicle.forumotion.net

The Control Freak's Guide to Living Lightly: Manifesting a Life of Total Trust, Gail Barker and Gail Nielsen

Endorsed by Susan Jeffers, best-selling author of Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, The Control Freak's Guide to Living Lightly: Manifesting a Life of Total Trust (by Gail Barker and Gail Nielsen) is a light-hearted read that delivers life-altering punch. The perfect resource for anyone striving to find an authentic way to let go on this journey of life, this book provides insight, strategies, exercises and tools that are easy to implement on a day-to-day basis.

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To Learn More About Gail Barker and Gail Nielsen visit:

http://www.stellarcc.com/blog/

Soul Stealer, Kimberley Troutte

When Death falls in love with a saint, there’s holy hell to pay.

Sara Lane expects to die young, but when the time comes, she’s not ready. She needs two more weeks to finish a homeless shelter before winter sets in and people die on the streets. Who does a girl have to sleep with to live a few extra days?

How about the sexiest, most dangerous of all bad boys—Death himself?

Cain’s job as a designated death dealer is clear. Kill and move on. Don’t get attached. Don’t feel. But when Sara pleads to cut a deal for more time, Cain is tempted by an unexpected craving for this beautiful, courageous woman. As their lips meet, her life force shakes him to his bones, seals the bargain—and breaks all the rules.

Keeping Sara alive is a dangerous proposition. The Powers That Be are furious and unleash bloodthirsty demons to steal Sara’s soul from Death—the one man who’s hell-bent on saving her life.

Warning: This book contains the sexiest of all bad boys, a woman desperate to get what she wants, deadly soul-sucking demons, surprise visits by Biblical characters, frog grenades, very bad dogs, sacrifice, redemption and eternal love.

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The List, Carmen Shirkey

People make lists for a variety of reasons. There are grocery lists, errand lists and to-do lists. Candace Sanders is a 30-something with her own list – a list of almost 50 qualities she wants in her future husband. She's excited when she finds her Mr. Right, as he earns check after check on her love itinerary. However, when she starts to fall for another man that's the opposite of what she thinks she wants, she wonders: can perfect be put on paper?

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To Learn More About THE LIST and Author Carmen Shirkey, please visit:

http://thelistbook.blogspot.com

Excerpt from THE LIST by Carmen Shirkey:

Why was I here? I knew this guy was so far from being right for me that he was in another time zone. What a total waste of time – that's an hour of my life that I'd never get back. I was too nice to just get up and leave, but there was the added incentive of not having to listen to my friend Monica's pestering if she found out I bailed on the date. I really didn't want to go to start with, but when I made the mistake of mentioning the invitation for said date while on the phone with my best friend, she had gotten all giddy with excitement. When I said I didn't want to go, you could almost hear her thought balloon pop over the landline.
"You're too picky," she had said, and I could hear her sigh. "You'll be an old maid if you keep up these shenanigans."
"First," I said, "Who uses the word shenanigans anymore, and second, I don't consider it being 'picky.' I considered it being 'discerning' or 'not settling' for what was best for me."
"You've got your expectations too high with that damn list of yours," She told me, yet again.
The list that she was referring to is a set of 50-or-so criteria for what I want in a man that I just happened to write down. I'm a type-A personality, I have lists for everything, but I've set down these, um, guidelines, in an ordered manner so that I can easily see whether a man would be perfect for me.
There were your standard items, which any self-respecting woman would consider necessities.

1. Chemistry – which is not definable by it's nature
2. Attractive – See #1
3. Has a steady income (not rich, just not a moocher who expects me to pay his way)
4. Animal-friendly (Hey, the cat was here first)
5. Good sense of humor (Yes, all women really do want that.)


These are the basics. You can't argue with the basics.
Then there are the other 45 items that serves as more of a filter for the bad eggs than anything else. (Don't make that face – that surprised face when I tell you this. All the women I've talked to have a list of some sort. I'm just more – thorough.)
Some items on the list are absolute deal-breakers (white collar job, #7), while others are more nice-to-haves (not tone-deaf, #31). Come on, I'm not that strict with the list. I mean, I don't expect that Mr. Right will have a perfect score with a check in each box.
A lot of the items on the list were added thanks to the bad date experiences of my past. I don't have baggage; I've got a whole baggage department.
How did I manage to find such non-quality men? To quote Mr. Kenny Rogers, I was definitely looking for love in all the wrong places. Mostly the "wrong places" could be summed up as online dating.
I must've had a momentary lapse of judgment that led me into the online world, but it was hard to meet quality, single, not-crazy people. I lived in the 'burbs of Washington DC, which was always listed as one of the best places for singles to live. I don't know what criteria that survey used, but clearly no one on that panel had actually ever tried dating all those single people in DC. Yes, there were plenty of things for single people to do, but the singles were usually working 18-hour days to afford the $300,000, 700-square-foot condo they were living in and didn't have time to date, or they were too self-absorbed in their "I-work-on-the-Hill-for-an-Important-Person" attitude to enjoy them.
Plus, I just felt that I needed to do something – help Fate out if you will. My dad is always telling me that Mr. Perfect was not going to jump out of my closet. And if he did, there would be bigger issues to deal with. So rather than just wait – which I'm not particularly good at anyway – I thought I'd give Cupid a shove.
Let me tell you about some of these Internet dates of mine. The first guy had a nice photo (I learned the hard way that these are often fake or old). He wrote literate emails (where he used capital letters when needed, appropriate punctuation, limited emoticons and none of those ROFL acronyms) and he had a pleasant phone voice when he called. However, when we arrived at my favorite little Mexican hole-in-the-wall restaurant, I thought I was being directed to the wrong table. This man couldn't be the one whose picture had been so clean-cut. He looked like something out of a bad episode of I Love the 70s on VH1. He reeked of polyester. He was wearing a shirt with lapels bigger than my arms opened mid-chest to reveal a pile of hair that would've made Austin Powers take notice. (Hair in the right places in the right amounts is #6 on the list). On top of that fur patch lay several gold chains (Doesn't wear more jewelry than me is #36). When he wasn't impersonating Saturday Night Fever characters, he told me that he dressed up in chain mail and went on fake medieval battles. Believe me, the waiter couldn't serve dinner fast enough. I'd never eaten a burrito so fast in all my life. When he offered to walk me to my car after dinner, I politely declined and tried not to run while trying to get my keys ready as fast as possible.
Monica, who never calls any man we've ever dated by their actual name (as a matter of fact, I don't know if I can remember any of their real names), dubbed this fine specimen "The Pimp," and we have referred to him as this ever since.

Sherna Khambatta Literary Agency

Sherna Khambatta Literary Agency

Gold Croft, 39. B. Desai Road. Bombay 400 026. India

E-mail: sherna_khambatta@yahoo.co.uk www.shernakhambatta.com

The Sherna Khambatta Literary Agency founded by Sherna Khambatta in 2007, handles fiction and non-fiction, including children's books. Literary Agents are a new concept in Indian publishing but a vital link between writers and publishers.
Writers writing in English based in India as well as overseas, can contact us for representation to be published within India.
Sherna Khambatta, completed her Msc. Publishing in 2007 from the Robert Gordon University, Aberdeen in the UK upon which she felt that she could fill a void in the publishing process. Publishers overseas rarely accept unsolicited manuscripts from authors. Instead, they use reliable agents who assess the manuscripts they present, thereby ensuring that they are publishable and of good quality.
Though the concept is new to India, Sherna felt that there is a growing need for professional agents.
She has had her work published, has a Diploma in Creative Writing and a Masters in Publishing, giving her confidence to set up as an agent and using her invaluable experience from an author's point of view.
Sherna acts as the Indian representative of the U.K. based Wade & Doherty Literary Agency.
She is actively looking for new writers both general and genre fiction / non-fiction including children's books (but excluding plays, screenplays). She seeks manuscripts that are well written, with strong characters and an original plot.
The priority being possible service to the authors she chooses to represent and to maintaining a relationship with them while assisting them in realising their dreams.
Her client Gopika Kapoor’s first book, ‘Spiritual Parenting: wisdom (and wit) for raising your child in a stress-free environment’ in a series on parenting published by Hay House India has been well received and debuted on a local best-seller list at number 8.

Spiritual Parenting, Gopika Kapoor

THE parenting handbook : compassionate, practical, and deeply wise ...
A child is possibly life's greatest miracle; raising one is possibly life's greatest challenge. But fear not – help is at hand!
From conception to early childhood, Spiritual Parenting, the first in a series by Hay House India will steer you through this life-altering journey. Marrying spirituality with tried-and-true advice, it offers simple but enormously effective strategies on bringing up children in this crazy world that we live in – and staying positive and sane through it.
In this indispensable guide, Gopika Kapoor, a writer and mother of twins, shares with you all that she has learned both as a parent herself and as a close observer of other parents. From managing your toddler's tantrums to advice on kiddie birthday parties, and from suggestions on positive discipline to ideas on how to connect with your child, she provides not just solutions, but also useful tips on pre-empting the common problems that every parent encounters in bringing up Baby. However, this book is much more than a primer on how to raise happy kids; it is also about how to be happy parents. In her typically reassuring, compassionate tone, she shows us how to tackle the physical and emotional difficulties we face as parenting adults – post-partum depression, sleeplessness, strains on spousal relationships, and much more – with suggestions for body and soul based on practical experience and spiritual lessons.
This book will not tell you how to deal with colic or cold sores; it will not give you recipes for kiddie snacks, nor will it tell you when your baby's shots are due. Kapoor shares what she has learned with other parents like herself, as who collectively struggle to create an atmosphere of normalcy for their children in this world of greed and materialism, competition and commercialism. She does not advocate any religion or practice, nor does she claim to be a child-development specialist or psychiatrist. She is a writer and a mother, and what she offers are simple solutions that have worked for her, and are guaranteed to work for parents today.
Focused on both parent and child, Spiritual Parenting is an invaluable compendium of common sense and spiritual wisdom. Read this one book and you'll see how one of life's greatest challenges can also be one of its greatest joys ...

The book has debuted at #8 on the Bestseller Chart. http://www.thehindu.com/mp/2009/02/03/stories/2009020350160400.htm


About the Author
Gopika Kapoor is a writer and communications consultant. She has written for a number of leading publications, including The Times of India, The Indian Express, Elle, Seventeen India, and Andpersand Magazine, and has been consulted on various communications initiatives with Child Relief and You (CRY), Point of View, CREA, and Save the Children, Sweden. Gopika lives in Mumbai with her husband Mohit, a corporate lawyer and life coach, and her twins, Vir and Gayatri.
ISBN: 978-8189988531 Price: Rs.200/- Format: Paperback

Sherna Khambatta Literary Agency, the Indian representative of the Wade & Doherty Literary Agency UK is proud to launch Gopika Kapoor’s first in a series of books on parenting. Literary Agents are a new concept to Indian publishing but a vital link between authors and publishers.
Sherna Khambatta Literary Agency
www.shernakhambatta.com

My Diva Diet, Christine Lakatos

The MY DIVA DIET Mission is to empower women so that they can get into great shape, to challenge them to be better women, and to ensure a legacy of good health for the next generation!
“MY DIVA DIET: A Woman’s Last Diet Book” is a diet book unlike
you have ever seen before!

• IT IS FOR WOMEN ONLY – A more precise method of
dieting.
• IT WORKS – A proven fat loss system that improves
health.
• IT’S NOT A QUICK FIX – It is healthy, safe and life-long
• IT’S A WORKBOOK – Highly interactive
• IT ADDRESSES THE ROOT CAUSES of high body fat
and poor health
• IT GIVES ALL THE TOOLS to ensure your fat loss
success
• IT USES SUPERHEROES to expose, attack, and help
you defeat the true “diet villains”

MY DIVA DIET is power-packed with a complete, practical and proven fat-loss system that improves your health and makes you fit for life. MY DIVA DIET presents its message using animated "fitness superheroes" and "diet villains" to make it easy to digest and fun to follow!

MY DIVA DIET was created and written by an expert in the field of fitness, is based on sound nutrition, and it truly works. Since the author of MY DIVA DIET is a private fitness trainer (for over 28 years) and has helped thousands get into great shape, it has a more personal approach to dieting and addresses the obstacles and triumphs of all women on their fat-loss journey. It provides all the tools women need (tools that can be used in every day
life) to ensure they attain and maintain their fat loss goals;
including

• Workbook format
o Diet quiz
o Worksheets for goal setting and progress tracking
o Food diary and analysis
o Weekly diet and exercise rating
o Journaling and more
• Special designs, important quotes, guides, tips, and charts
• Tasty and quick fat-reduction meal options and recipes
• Four practical “MY DIVA DIET Guides”
1. Meal Preparation, Cooking, and Meal Planning Guide
2. Grocery Shopping Guide
3. Restaurant Eating Guide
4. Society Guide
• Valuable Information about
o Exercise
o Nutrition
o Foods
o Calories
o Body fat
o Why Restricted and Unbalanced Diets Don’t Work
• And much more!

Christine Lakatos, the creator of MY DIVA DIET, is a mother of two daughters, an ACE Certified
Fitness Trainer, and has been an athlete since the young age of five.
Christine is a retired bodybuilder and fitness competitor including Ms.Fitness San Diego 1993, Ms. Fitness USA finalist 1990, Ms. San Luis Obispo 1989, an American Gladiator contestant and more.
During her competition days, Christine competed with a body-fat percentage as low as 6% and now in her late forties maintains between 12 to 14% body fat year round.
She finally sat down long enough to share her “secrets to fat loss and great health” in this 413-page book.
MY DIVA DIET created by a woman JUST FOR WOMEN (of all ages)–those who want to lose a few pounds or 50+, get healthier, learn more about health and fitness, or experience a major transformation!
Whatever your goals are, MY DIVA DIET is the book for YOU!

Buy MY DIVA DIET

To Learn More About MY DIVA DIET Please Visit:

www.MyDivaDiet.com

I Only Flunk My Brightest Students, Michael N. Marcus

In 1958, when Michael N. Marcus was in the sixth grade, he didn’t like his teacher. Lots of kids don’t like their teachers, but few write books about them, and few writers take 50 years to complete their books.

Marcus says this teacher had a system that let student “group leaders” prevent other children from asking the teacher for permission to go to the bathroom, demanded lavish gifts from parents, and gave spelling tests where a whole group of children would fail if one of them said a word out of alphabetical order. A child who made an error in school, according to Marcus, was often beaten up after school.

Back in 1958, Marcus and his pre-teen classmates thought they had legitimate complaints, but most parents of that era insisted that teachers should be respected because of their position, and the parents were not interested in what bothered their kids. Then 12 years old, Marcus decided that some day he would write a book, “to tell the world what the parents refused to listen to.” After half a century of pondering, planning, writing and editing, the book is now a reality.

He says, “In 1963, when a guidance counselor asked what I most wanted to get out of high school, I shouted, “ME!” I’ve had a few wonderful teachers, but they’re not much fun to read about. My strongest memories are of the bad ones and nutty ones. Some were amusingly inept. But others hurt. In the 1950s and 60s, there was no notion of student rights and no place a kid could go for help. Principals were unapproachable. Guidance counselors said, ‘Don’t make trouble.’ Parents insisted that teachers should never be criticized.”

The book is called “I Only Flunk My Brightest Students — stories from school and real life.” The title is based on a quote from a high school English teacher. Marcus says, “She was nuts.” According to Marcus, this teacher poked students with pins while they took tests, made them talk to and wave to a tree in the school courtyard, and was obsessed with cats, Elvis and the Battle of Chickamauga. One student who seemed to favor Pat Boone over Elvis was given “double F’s” on a homework assignment. This teacher of English also talked baby-talk and purred like a cat in the classroom, and announced, “An F is the mark of true genius.” Unfortunately, Marcus says, “Few college admissions officers understood that this teacher’s F was the equivalent of another teacher’s A.”

The 308-page illustrated book includes much more than school stories.

Marcus says, “It could be viewed as a ‘coming-of-age’ book, with young male silliness and horniness in the tradition of Animal House and Porky’s. It is that, but there’s more to it. It’s a collection of more than 100 stories that span 55 years. They’re mostly short and funny. One is long and funny, and serious and chilling. They occurred in my early childhood, while in public school and college, and while working in advertising, journalism, telecommunications, and as an amateur attorney. Culture clash is a frequent theme. So are food, phoniness and incompetence. There’s lots of sex, drugs and rock & roll. Even the sex and drug stories are funny."

Buy I ONLY FLUNK MY BRIGHTEST STUDENTS: STORIES FROM SCHOOL AND REAL LIFE

Visit MICHAEL N. MARCUS' WEBSITE

The Blessedness of Believing, Linda Mose Meadows

Revel in the knowledge that you are secure in God’s hands.
The Blessedness of Believing A Devotional Journey of Life’s Lesson’s and God’s Promises by Linda Mose Meadows (Tate Publishing 2007) is expressly written with a heart that seeks after the righteousness of God with uplifting personal sentiments and prayers, referencing Holy Scripture , encouraging lyrics and deep expressions of faith. These reflections are written for your daily devotional time and to compliment your bible study.

“There are occasions when you have the opportunity to stop for a moment, read a heartfelt devotional, ponder over the words, then reflect on your own personal spiritual and emotional journey, no matter how rugged and connect with the writer’s sentiments; that all along God never abandons his own! Linda Mose Meadows has written a series of devotionals: The Blessedness of Believing A Devotional Journey of Life’s Lesson’s and God’s Promises which allows you to embrace and own your life’s lessons and connect to the truth of God’s promises, as your soul relishes that you are fearfully and wonderfully made.”

-Bishop Vashti Murphy McKenzie, The African Methodist Episcopal Church; Acclaimed Author


To learn more about The Blessedness of Believing A Devotional Journey of Life's Lesson's and God's Promises and Author Linda Mose Meadows visit:

http://blessednessofbelieving.blogspot.com/

Blessed Are The Meddlers, Christa Ann Banister

What happens after the girl gets the happy-ever-after ending that everyone had been rooting for? Well you'll get to find out when travel writer and former serial dater Sydney Alexander returns for Blessed Are the Meddlers. Now a modern-day Emma, she'll do anything it takes to ensure her single family members and friends are as crazy in love as she is. But sadly, meddling in people's love lives proves to be far more complicated than even Sydney ever imagined in this humorous tale of love gone awry.

Buy BLESSED ARE THE MEDDLERS

Visit Christa Banister's Website

Excerpt from BLESSED ARE THE MEDDLERS by CHRISTA BANISTER

C h a p t e r 1

Paging Mr. Knightley

It’s like that book I read in the 9th grade that said “’tis a far
better thing doing stuff for other people.”
— C her Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone) in Clueless, 1995

People tell me I’m a modern-day Emma.

Of course, I’ve never worn a corset (thank goodness) or
particularly cared for taking tea with those cute little cucumber
sandwiches. I’m actually more like the Emma that Alicia
Silverstone played in Clueless: a relatively well-dressed, modern
girl with a sunny disposition and a weakness for wanting to help
make people happy — especially in love.

Now that I am happily hitched, I take it as my solemn duty
to make sure all my girlfriends are paired up too. After all, when
I was hopelessly single, there were times when I could’ve used a
major relationship intervention. So that’s where I come in. I’m
like eHarmony without the pesky questionnaire and quarterly
payments. Or that persistent aunt who’s always trying to fix
you up with, oh, her tennis instructor. And unlike either of the
aforementioned, I offer the personal insight of a trusted friend.

Who can argue with that?

My most recent adventures in matchmaking started a couple
of months after I married the love of my life, Gavin, and officially
became Mrs. Sydney Williams (née Alexander). I was sipping
strawberry shortcake smoothies with my friend Jane after our
weekly Pilates class. New to the Twin Cities after accepting a
job as an on-air reporter at KARE-11, Jane and I had bonded
immediately. Not only do we both work in journalism (I’m a
full-time freelance writer and aspiring novelist), but we also
attend the same church and share a mutual dislike for Pilates,
despite its obvious benefits.

On the surface, Jane is one of those enviable women who
seems to have everything going for her. She has flawless skin that
glows without a single drop of Clinique, and her silky blonde
hair is cut in an effortlessly chic, Victoria Beckham (aka Posh
Spice) bob. Her workout clothes are even impeccably selected,
black-and-white Juicy Couture sweats with robin’s egg blue
accents that bring out the unusual color of her eyes. Despite her
exquisite taste in, well, just about everything, Jane hasn’t been
as lucky in love. And with my past experience of having gone on
every bad date imaginable before meeting Gavin — unfortunate
stories to which Jane could relate all too well — I desperately
wanted to help. So after her initial uneasiness about yet another
blind date, I set her up with Weston, the lone single guy in my
hubby’s touring band.

From what I could tell, Weston seemed normal enough.
Sure, he only owned three T-shirts that he wore in a predictable
rotation (the Police reunion tour shirt always came first, then
his vintage Led Zeppelin, followed by a fading, slightly torn
Foo Fighters tank top circa 1997). Another red flag was the
winsome flakiness that often goes hand in hand with his choice
of occupation. But what Weston did have going for him was
a great deal of charm, a killer smile, and enviable chops as
a drummer. In fact, Gavin says he’s one of the best that he’s
ever worked with — and trust me, Gavin is particular about
his drummers, very particular. Unfortunately Weston wasn’t
nearly as adept at keeping time with his own life. He was always
running at least twenty minutes late. But as far as truly heinous
flaws go (i.e., the crucial deal breakers that Jane and I agreed
upon, including long stretches of unemployment, bad manners,
extreme commitment phobia, issues with cleanliness, severe
Mommy attachment, or a surplus of chest hair), Weston was in
the clear. Or so we thought.

“At first everything was going reasonably well,” Jane said as
we settled in at Jamba Juice the morning after her disastrous
date. “He was twenty minutes late and wearing the Led Zeppelin
T-shirt just like you predicted, but I planned for that. What I
didn’t plan for was when he asked if I’d like to see his feet. He
kept insisting they were really, really cute.”

“What? He wanted to show you his feet?” I asked, feeling
slightly nauseated. Feet aren’t exactly my favorite body
feature — especially guys’ feet, which tend to be far more
unkempt. In my opinion, a good pedicure could benefit anyone,
especially a nonmetrosexual male.

“We were eating guac and chips. I nearly lost my appetite,”
Jane said. “I said no at least three times, and he took off his socks
and shoes anyway — right there in the restaurant! Apparently he’s
rather proud of his hairy hobbit feet.”

“Ewww,” I said. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re telling me,” Jane said with the dramatic tone she
typically uses in her news clips. “It only went downhill from
there. He started talking about his pets.”

“Really?” I asked curiously. “But I thought you loved
animals.”

“Well, I do,” Jane began. “But apparently not the way Weston
does. He has five dogs and three cats, and they all sleep in the
same bed as him.”

“Gross!” I said, wondering how in the world Gavin hadn’t
picked up on Weston’s peculiar lifestyle. I mean, it’s great that
Weston is responsible enough to take care of eight pets and play
the occasional out-of-town show. But he’s definitely headed
toward wacko zookeeper territory, not exactly an aphrodisiac.

“Yeah, and he told me precisely where each animal sleeps.
Boo Boo, his calico cat, sleeps right by his head just like a
human. His golden retriever, Pesto, lies next to Rosemary, his
cocker spaniel, at the foot of his bed. And Nacho — ”
“Nacho?” I asked quizzically.
“Yeah, Nacho, is another one of his dogs,” she said matterof-
factly. “Bottom line: I can’t deal with that many pets.”
“So did the night get any better?” I asked sympathetically. I
mean, how much worse could it get?

“A little. But only because I told him I needed to head home
and feed my fish,” Jane added with her trademark cackle. For the
record: Jane’s laugh is an interesting cross between Chandler’s
ex, Janice, from Friends and Cameron Diaz’s California girl
giggle that can be heard in any number of her movies. It’s loud
and distinct, but somehow Jane manages to make it endearing.

“Oooooh, that’s cold!” I replied. “Guess you won’t be seeing
him again.”

“Well, he still asked for my number,” Jane said. “Can you
believe that? He didn’t sense that things weren’t going well.”

“That’s unfortunate.” I sighed. “Well, at least we can cross
Weston off your list of potential boyfriends.”

“Yeah.” She sighed back. “Who else can you set me up with,
Syd?”

And that’s the funny thing about matchmaking. No matter how
terrible a job I’ve done in the past, my friends (and even a few of my
clients) just keep coming back for more. It’s practically my second
job, even though my success rate is highly suspect, probably in
the neighborhood of, oh, one for forty. It’s a good thing I’m not
matchmaking on commission or I’d be poor — really poor.
Just when I thought I’d be taking an extended break from
setting up my girlfriends with their most recent Mr. Wrong,
one of them would quickly remind me of my greatest success as
Cupid: the day I introduced my friend Rain to Stinky Nate, who
is now her husband.

At first blush, it probably seems a little rude to call someone,
let alone a friend, Stinky Nate. But Nate, a barista at my favorite
downtown Minneapolis coffee shop, Moose & Sadie’s, is stinky
and couldn’t care less. Much like Matthew McConaughey, he
prefers the au naturel approach to personal hygiene. Basically,
Nate’s the guy who’d make any environmental activist’s attempts
to go green seem paltry in comparison. Nate showers only on
special occasions (thank goodness he did on his wedding day, one
of his few nonstinky moments) and doesn’t wear cologne — or
even deodorant for that matter. Inspired by the way cats, his
calico in particular, clean up by licking themselves, he’s been in
constant pursuit of a more felinelike way to keep himself fresh.

He hasn’t succeeded, though, which makes him smell less than
desirable. Especially in the sweat-soaked summer months, which
were rapidly approaching.

But I knew Rain, a strict vegetarian who sews her own smock
tops and only wears jewelry woven from hemp, would find someone
like Stinky Nate simply irresistible. Of course, Rain maintained
she wasn’t looking for love. Whenever I’d suggest a setup, she’d
remind me that she was a feminist who was more than happy to
spend the majority of her free time in the company of her two
favorite musicians, Billy Joel and Helen “I Am Woman” Reddy.
She needed a man like a fish needs a bicycle, she said.
So I did it the old-fashioned way: I slyly introduced them
when Rain and I met at Moose & Sadie’s for breakfast before
church one Sunday morning.

I’m pretty sure it was love at first sight, even though I’m not
naturally inclined to believe in that sort of thing. Nonetheless,
Rain and Nate totally hit it off and went out two days later (so
much for swearing off men, huh?). And from the first wheat germ
smoothie, their chemistry was palpable. Nate proposed a couple
of years later (with an engagement ring made from hemp, natch),
even though Rain had vowed she’d never marry.

Now that the stinky/hippie couple is married — and happily
so — I’ll admit that I can’t help but feel pleased whenever I see
them together. Same goes for my best friend, Kristin, and her
current beau, Justin. Even though I went out with Justin first (and
trust me, it’s far less complicated in hindsight than it sounds), I
encouraged Kristin to be patient with Justin when he was having
trouble making up his mind early on, and it’s paid off big-time.

They’re not only sublimely happy, but they’re talking about
getting engaged soon. Thinking about Kristin getting engaged
makes me think of how much I miss her. Ever since she accepted
a teaching job in Duluth, which is a little more than two hours
away, I hardly ever see her, save for the occasional weekend visit.
Despite my successes and the ever-growing number of singles
in my social circle, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m destined for the
soul mate–finding business, no matter how many of my girlfriends
try to convince me that it’s my gift. But in the name of love, I’ll
always give it my best shot.

Chronicles of the Undead, A.F. Stewart

Family Secrets.
Three generations of one family share their intimacies with the world of the vampire.

Inside the personal journals of the Harrington family a dark and dangerous odyssey unfolds.
Three members of this tormented family, Samuel, his son Edmund, and Edmund’s daughter Charlotte, struggle during the 18th and 19th century in London, England, as the lives of this family intersects with supernatural forces. Two intriguing vampires befriend, manipulate and play with all three souls, altering their lives forever.
Their fears, private confidences, and weaknesses are revealed on the pages as one selfish act ends in horrific tragedy, with far-reaching consequences.

Find out who succumbs to the seduction and danger of the vampire, and who grapples to combat the evil influence that permeates their lives.

Buy Chronicles of the Undead

Visit A.F. Stewart's Website

Excerpt from CHRONICLES OF THE UNDEAD


Chronicles of theUndead
Diaries of the Harrington Family
A. F. Stewart
Samuel Harrington’s Diaries
1793-1795
London, England

April 26, 1793.
A rather uneventful day.
I accomplished some profitable business at the
Exchange; trade was excellent, a rare thing these
days. Owen’s coffeehouse was livelier than usual,
very spirited with political debate and talk of the
war. It was quite enjoyable.
The vicar stopped in for a late afternoon visit.
He was brimming with accounts of our new
neighbours, Henri Forain, and the cousin, Eleanor
de Burgh. The vicar seems to think they are
foreign, of French origin he believes. I do hope
they are not Catholic; the vicar did not seem to
think they were. I know such things are not taken
into much account these days, but one does have to
have standards.
I wearily listened to Eliza at dinner, as she
complained about the household accounts. She
never ceases to beg for more money. I cannot
reason why she has such trouble keeping expenses
to a minimum. She is the one who insisted we hire
a cook, and staff. She must make do on the money
that has been allowed.


April 30, 1793.
Eliza has invited those foreign neighbours to her
card party tomorrow. They are to be her honoured
guests and she plans to make the proper
introductions into our little neighbourhood
community. She is all aflutter over the details, and
the household is in a domestic uproar.
I do wish Eliza would not carry on so about her
parties. It is so tedious and annoying.

May 2, 1793.
Eliza’s little card party was quite the success;
even I enjoyed myself. Our favoured guests were
witty and charming; utterly delightful. Henri was
particularly well versed in all manner of subjects.
It made for fine conversation. He also has good
taste in port, bringing an excellent vintage as a gift.

The cousin, Miss de Burgh, was likewise well
mannered and poised, a proper lady.
Both were excellent whist players; several of the
other guests remarked on their skill. I had the
privilege of being partnered with Henri during the
evening and the fortune to have the winning hands
as a result. I do enjoy a lively card game with a
good partner.
I fear our neighbours may be in slightly ill health,
though, as both were of rather a pale complexion.
And they did not seem to partake much of the
cheese and wine that was served.
I may suggest a good elixir to restore their vigour.


May 7, 1793.
I talked to Henri again this day.
He kindly thanked me for the invitation, and
remarked on the fine time he had enjoyed. I replied
it had been our pleasure to have him as a guest, and
would happily extend another invitation. He
seemed quite pleased.
As such, I informed Eliza to make a point of
inviting both Henri and Eleanor to her next card
party; she was ecstatic. Eliza so lives for her
entertainments and it does keep her quite occupied,
for which I am thankful.

May 9, 1793.
Eliza has arranged for a family outing tomorrow
evening. She insists we take the children to
Vauxhall. I am sure Flora will enjoy it and I am
equally certain Edmund would much rather be
carousing with his friends. I would prefer to stay at
home, but Eliza insists. She says this will be one of
the few times we have together as a family before
Edmund goes off to Oxford.


May 10, 1793.
Vauxhall was tedious, crowded and a wasted
expense. Of course Eliza loved it, and Flora was
swept up in the whole garish entertainment.
Edmund strayed from our little party, no doubt
trysting in the shadows with some gullible young
lady.


May 11, 1793.
I ran into Henri today at the bookshop. It seems
we have similar taste in books; we both take an
interest in the works of William Blake. We shared
the walk back to Holburn Street, and had the most
lively, invigorating discussion.

May 12, 1793.
The vicar was in rare form this morning at
services. He preached soundly on morality and
family, a subject I heartily approve, but I would
have preferred to do without the lecture on the sins
of the brothels. There is nothing wrong with a
gentleman indulging on occasion.
I will say, though, the vicar did hold the
congregation spellbound; even Edmund did not
fidget in the pew. Perhaps that year abroad has
instilled some decorum in the young man. My
darling Flora was the perfect angel, as always. She
has become quite the lady at seventeen, with her
mother’s fair and delicate features. Thank heavens
she has not inherited her disposition. Eliza even
managed some cheer; the vicar had informed her
before services she was on the ladies’ committee to
raise funds for foundlings.
Disappointing that neither Henri, nor Eleanor
came to services. The vicar thinks they may indeed
be Catholic after all; such a pity. I hope I can
overlook that flaw, for Henri is such an interesting
gentleman.

May 15, 1793.
The vicar visited this morning. He was rather
disturbed regarding some neighbourhood
disappearances that have happened recently. It
seems that some vagrants have gone missing. I do
not know why he is so concerned, they were just
hired labourers. Most likely they simply left. That
type is always so ungrateful.


May 17, 1793.
Eliza held another of her soirees last evening. A
dull affair, but at least Henri put in an appearance.
He provided good conversation and pleasant
company; we have a great deal in common.

May 27, 1793.
I must say Henri is becoming rather an agreeable
friend, and I have taken to spending at least one
afternoon a week in his company.
A pity that Eleanor has not fostered quite the
same relationship with Eliza, my wife could use
someone to keep her occupied.

June 4, 1793.
We spent a quiet family evening last night. It was
agreeable to have everyone gathered together.
With Edmund off to school soon, and Flora near to
a marrying age, it will be nice to have such
pleasant memories when they are no longer under
this roof.

June 12, 1793.
The trading went very poorly this morning, good
investments are becoming scarce. This blasted war
with France is still interfering with business, and I
may have to contemplate new ventures.

June 20, 1793.
This morning Eliza was going on about
redecorating the house and I was absolutely
appalled at the proposed cost. I had to be firm and
tell her such expense was not to be borne. Which
caused a terrible argument; she refuses to recognize
the situation.
She simply does not understand how bad the
financial market is of late, with trade being so
depressed because of this damned war. There are
fewer opportunities at the Exchange these days. I
can always hope for some luck at the coffeehouse
this afternoon, a hint of some lucrative holding.
Perhaps I may discuss my problems with Henri,
he has espoused some interesting ideas on finance.

June 27, 1793.
Henri has expressed interest in seeing more of
London. I believe his social circle is still small,
poor man, being he is a foreigner. It is a pity he is
not English.
Still, one cannot judge him too harshly. He is a
good enough fellow, I could make judicious
introductions.

July 8, 1793.
I invited Henri to accompany me to Owen’s this
afternoon. He fit in well with the fellows, as he is a
fair conversationalist and well versed in politics,
the war and business. He can discourse in debate
with the best, and thank heaven he does not hold to
radical views.
Henri left a fine impression.

July 10, 1793.
Henri enjoyed his visit to the coffeehouse, and
expressed interest in returning. I certainly would
enjoy the company.

July 25, 1793.
My associates and friends have taken to Henri
and spoken highly of him. I can say I am glad of
that, for I would dislike having to shun his
friendship. He is a great wit, and well versed in
politics. I dare say that is why they ignore the fact
he is foreign.

August 4, 1793.
Henri has taken to joining me regularly in my
visits to Owen’s coffeehouse. He is astute and I
have benefited well from his sound advice. I may
even make a tidy profit on some of the investments
he advocated, despite the unease in the market this
war with the French has been causing.

August 8, 1793.
Business is better. I managed to invest in a
venture for supplying the Navy. I should make
some fair profit if this war continues for any length.

August 17, 1793.
Eliza had taken to fussing again, with Edmund to
leave soon for school. I caught her weeping this
morning in the back parlour. The fact a
neighbourhood boy smiled at Flora last Sunday has
not helped matters. Why do women get so
emotional?

Chronicles of the Undead
Copyright © 2008 by A. F. Stewart