Wednesday s Child by Laura Thomas

Wednesday’s Child

by Laura Thomas

Wednesday's Child

By Laura Thomas

Published by Olympia Publishers

25-02-2021, Paperback, 395 pages A captivating and moving story, set during the Second World War, portraying the extremely harsh living conditions endured by those on the home front. The story follows the life and loves of Violet, and some very tragic events that beset her young life. She lost her parents at a very young age and was taken in and brought up by an elderly neighbour. At age fourteen, she obtained work at a factory and forged some lifelong friendships, which played an important role in her future. Violet joined the army at the age of seventeen, where she was exposed to the many horrors of war on the beaches of Dunkirk. She married Stephen, a Regimental Sergeant Major in the army, but his many deployments to North Africa meant important family milestones were missed. His family supported Violet during his absence, but the question was, would he return from the war and would Violet finally find happiness?

About the Author

I was born and raised in Manchester before studying for a Forensic Science degree at Staffordshire University. I eventually moved to South Wales where I met my husband and became a full time mum to my three children, Emilie, Morgan and Osian. Health issues forced me to rethink my path in life and reawakened my long, lost passion for writing.

The Story Behind the Story

Wednesday’s Child, a work of historical fiction, is largely the story of my late grandmother, Dorothy Violet Massey. Abandoned as a child and brought up by an elderly neighbour, this was a common occurrence in post Great War Britain, with few men returning from the front lines and the perils of child birth, not to mention the poor state of the fractured economy. Violet’s harsh upbringing was also typical of the time, and it was only after her passing in 2001 that we, her family, found out that she had six aunties, none of whom knew of her existence and neither did she know of them. My grandmother had very few happy memories to speak of from her younger years, and, just like Violet in the book, only found her first real taste of friendship when she left school to work at a factory.

With the formation of the Auxillary Territorial Services in 1938, or ATS as it was known, my grandmother saw this as the taste of freedom that she had so desperately longed for, an escape from the gruelling mundane routine that she, and many others like her at the time endured on a daily basis to merely survive. For Violet, this would be her freedom. So, like many others, she lied about her age and left to join the army with her only possessions being the clothes that she was wearing. Being the youngest of all of her grandchildren, I spent a great deal of my teenage years with my grandmother in her later stages of Parkinsons Disease, and for the first time since the war years, she was able to speak to me not just of her own memories and experience, but also my grandfather’s war duties and experiences during the war, something that he was never able to do.

It was the experiences portrayed in the book, particularly those of my Grandfather’s and the loss of so many of his friends and comrades, that led to both of my grandparents dedicating their entire lives to the Royal British Legion, to raising money to support those affected by war. My grandmother attended her last remembrance day parade in her wheelchair with three of her fellow ATS friends, whilst my grandfather marched the mile and a half as Parade Marshall every year until he was ninety years of age. He always said that the day he couldn’t do the parade would be his time to go. He passed away four weeks after his last parade.

I wanted to write this book from my grandmother’s perspective as little is said of the women that fought alongside the men, yet my grandmother’s experiences were synonymous of the time in which she lived.

I was born in Manchester and lived there until I left to attend Staffordshire University where I obtained my BSc Forensic Science. In 2006 I moved to the South Wales valleys where I worked until health dictated otherwise after the birth of my second child.

I still reside in the beautiful valleys with my husband and three children, and am now lucky enough to be able to devote my time to writing, around family commitments and health issues.

Under the Emerald Sky

by Juliane Weber Travel back to 19th century Ireland in this gripping tale

If you enjoy historical fiction with a dash of romance and a pinch of intrigue, then Under the Emerald Sky is for you. Set in 19th century Ireland among the stark contrasts that separate the rich few from the plentiful poor, Under the Emerald Sky is a tale of love and betrayal in a land teetering on the brink of disaster – the Great Famine that would forever change the course of Irish history.

About the book

Ireland, 1843. Alannah O’Neill is feeling trapped. Under the thumb of her controlling brother, she finds herself contemplating the meaninglessness of her existence. Her life takes an abrupt turn with the arrival of the Englishman Quinton Williams on the neighbouring estate. Alannah feels drawn to Quin but knows that her brother hates the English and all they stand for. So she keeps her growing relationship with Quin a secret. Can Alannah and Quin find happiness amid those who dream of ridding Ireland of her English oppressors?

How the book came about

The first time I ever thought about writing a book was during my studies. Not much was to happen with my hypothetical novel for several years, though, as I waited for inspiration to come. I knew only that if ever I were actually to write a book, it would be a historical fiction novel, but not when or where the story would take place. Several years later my husband and I decided to move with our children from South Africa, where I had lived for most of my life, to Germany, where I was born. And suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to write that book! Looking for inspiration for the historical setting, I stumbled upon the Irish Potato Famine, a subject that I dimly recognised from a long-distant history lesson. Well, I thought, why not? I liked the idea of the 19th century; I liked the idea of Ireland, with its luscious green hills and its myths and legends; and I liked the idea of writing about something that – as far as I knew – hadn’t been written about a thousand times before.

And that was that. The idea for Under the Emerald Sky was born. I thoroughly enjoyed researching and writing the book, and I hope you enjoy reading it! – And learn a little about history too.

Get the book on Amazon now! https://bookgoodies.com/a/B08LSC6HN3

Did you know?

US President Joe Biden is the descendent of Irish emigrants, who fled from Ireland to the USA to escape the devastating effects of the Great Famine.

Juliane is a scientist by training. She holds degrees in physiology and zoology, including a PhD in physiology. During her studies she realised, however, that her passion lay not in conducting scientific research herself, but in writing about it. Thus began her career as a medical writer, where she took on all manner of writing and editing tasks, in the process honing her writing skills, until she finally plucked up the courage to write her first historical novel, Under the Emerald Sky. Juliane was born in Germany but spent most of her life in South Africa. She now lives with her husband and her two sons in Hamelin, Germany, the town made famous by the story of the Pied Piper. www.julianeweber.com

Nobody Here is Actually Real

by Ross G. Homer

Friend Request Accepted: Post comments on Henry Harold’s timeline. He looked interesting so why not give it a try? Henry Harold looked to be in his mid-40’s, tall with a good build. His profile photos showed him on a beach with a nice tan wearing baggy, multi-colored trunks. Additional pictures showed him standing in the snow with cross-country skis and wearing a bright red knit hat. His shoulder length, sandy blonde hair spilled out from under that hat. He had sexy curls, too. I kinda liked that. I hadn’t had a date in ages although I’d been told I was fairly attractive. After my divorce a number of years ago, I tried the on-line dating scene once. I found it a total waste of my time. Maybe on YourPlace.com I could meet someone in an entirely different setting; get to know him and who knows? I’d heard of people meeting like this and actually getting married. Of course, it helped if you lived in the same town. I told him that I worked as a store manager for a chic boutique and loved biking and canoeing. He taught music at the local high school, skied, hiked and kayaked. That wasn’t surprising given the number of creeks and rivers in our part of the state. Turned out he lived in the next town up the valley. They get far more snow and have amazing bike trails. I knew that because I biked there many times. I wasn’t in a hurry to start dating though, having been burned a couple of times before. When he suggested coffee, my children, well two of them, were excited for me. My twin daughters, fifteen, loved the idea of me dating again. My son, seventeen, was busy skateboarding and sort of dismissed mom dating as a waste of his time. We were going to meet at an Evangelina’s Bistro on the north end of town. I dressed for work: short blue skirt, white blouse, black leather jacket, and three-inch heels. During the day I found myself becoming more excited than I’d been in a couple of years. As soon as I closed the store, I drove out to the coffee shop. I was a few minutes early, so I went in and found a table by the window. The view was spectacular with spring in full force. The days were getting warmer, while the nights were still a little chilly. It was one of my favorite times of year. I waited and did a little YourPlacing, chatting with my friends around the country. After a while I realized I was still alone. I checked my watch again and saw that my ‘date’ was now thirty minutes late. This is not a good way to start a relationship. I messaged him and got no answer. I gave him another thirty minutes and if he was still a no show, then screw him. Figuratively, of course. He didn’t and I left angry. When I got home, I kicked off my shoes, poured a glass of wine, and then plopped on the couch. I hadn’t been stood up since high school and it really pissed me off. Because of my red hair, or so I’m told, I have a pretty good temper and at the moment it was running close to full tilt. I jumped up and got my laptop with the intention of unfriending this asshole. As I glanced at the mirror in the living room, a stranger looked back at me and stopped me in my tracks. That woman had honey blonde hair and it was long! What? That certainly wasn’t possible. I’m a blazing red head. Well, I was angry and tired and stood up. Not a great combination to start with and maybe something from part of misspent youth was flashing back on me. Wouldn’t be the first time.

I got my laptop, opened it, and went to my page. Strange, I thought, he wasn’t there. Not even in the Search YourPlace section. Now I was worried. I was only thirty-seven and as far as I knew, too young for dementia or something. I returned to the couch and had a long swallow of my wine. As I thought about it, it occurred to me that maybe I was being played for some reason. Now I was really pissed. Why would anyone want to screw around with me?

I posted a couple of scathing comments about people who did that sort of thing, signed off and had another glass of wine. My girls and I made dinner, then I took a shower and crashed. This was just too weird for words and maybe sleep would help. The next morning, I dressed for work. Something wasn’t right. I know that I’m busty, have a nice butt and excellent legs. Lord knows I work on them enough. To my immense surprise, my bras, all of them, were too small! Now I know my cycles and know that my breasts can go up half a cup once a month. It wasn’t that time yet and they were at least a full cup too large and that was just wrong. But my hair was red. Well, I was pushing forty so maybe hormonal changes were causing me to imagine things? I held that thought until I pulled on my designer panties. They were too big! What? That definitely wasn’t right. The last time I wore them, exactly a week ago, they fit my ass perfectly. Now it was like they’d jumped up about two sizes. Angry, I pinned up the excess, growled at the kids, traffic, and life in general and went to work. I tried not to think about it.

At lunch I received a message from Henry on my phone app asking if I wanted to try again. I am willing to give most people another chance, so I replied with ‘sure.’ Same place, same time. He didn’t show, again. Knowing about kids trying to act grown up or men pretending to be women or women pretending to be men, ‘catfishing’ I think it’s called, I carefully scanned the cafe. The place was practically empty and nobody was paying the least bit of attention to me. Then I thought about trolls and stalkers. I checked the parking lot. Mine was the only car in front in all directions. Everything in the little mall but this Evangelina’s was closed. I was being jacked around. When I got home, his account was there and a message apologizing for not meeting. Something had come up. Right. His wife, for instance? Next morning, my bras were now too big! My breasts had gotten smaller. No way. My pants were snug but…too short? “What the fu…” I never swore but this time I couldn’t control it. My daughter, Holly, came running in. “Mom! What’s the matter?”

She hugged me and didn’t make any comments about the fact I was two inches taller. I was six feet. My god! To think I’d bitched since the eighth grade about being five-ten. But Holly didn’t say a thing. And my damn hair was brunette now. She didn’t say anything about that, either. Somebody was messing with me and I didn’t like it. Or maybe I was dreaming. Mushroom pizza before bed was always a bad idea.

But I dressed anyway and wondered how it was being done. Work went fine and there were no messages from Henry. Interesting. That night, as I sipped my whiskey neat, I wondered why someone would be doing anything with me. As far as I knew I was honest and nice to the store’s customers, I tipped well and had a smile and kind word for everyone. I took another sip. Then it hit me. Whiskey? I hated whiskey. What? The. Hell? I took a shower and felt better when I got out but was still worried. I considered talking about this with Holly and Lorraine, her sister, about future care for me. Bobby was with friends that night. I decided to pass on discussing this with the twins just now. I felt better after the shower so why scare them when it was obviously something else? What, I hadn’t a clue. But all kinds of terrible things went through my mind as I tried to sleep. Dressing for work the next morning I found that everything fit. My underwear was the right size, my blue denim skirt was exactly right on my butt and I was back to five-ten. Maybe I’d had some kind of

weird reaction to something I’d eaten after all. As my kids would say, I tended to keep things in the refrigerator until they developed intelligence. As I drove to the shop and went in, the smell of all those flowers hit me hard. I puttered around before I realized that I sold expensive clothes to rich women. Not flowers. I worried about it all day but seemed to have no problems at all making floral arrangements. The owner was the right person with the right name as was the name of the shop. That night I sipped my rum-coke and wondered about it. I’d hardly fallen at all in most of my life and the one time I could remember was out of a tree when I was twelve. I’d broken my arm but didn’t hit my head. I’d never been in a car accident and never had a bike crash. Besides, I always wore a helmet. Rum and Coke? I looked at the glass and carefully set it down. I got up and realized my house wasn’t right. Where was that nifty little wine rack I’d had for several years? The one I’d painted brick red? My pot rack that hung over the island…that wasn’t there, either. Now I was becoming very frightened. I ran to the bathroom, just making the toilet…avocado colored? Seriously? And vomited hard until I was into dry heaves. Lorraine ran in and comforted me until I could stand and get into the shower. She helped me undress…all my underwear today was blue. Blue? I distinctly remembered wearing pink to work. This stuff was see-through too. I don’t have anything that transparent because while I may look pretty hot, my underwear was always somewhat conservative. Hell, I was wearing a blue thong! When I was done with the shower, she wrapped me in a towel and led me, like a sick old lady, to the bed. I felt strange. I looked strange. My body was doing some odd things. I felt as if I was being manipulated by some cosmic force. Lorraine stood there, looking at me and crying. For some reason, I could suddenly see through her eyes and I wasn’t there, on the bed.

“Henry, you asshole. Would you please stop screwing around with my characters?” “Bite me Harold,” he said as he looked at the screen. “Mom and Dad won’t let me mess with games like this at home. And I liked her better tall with the big boobs.” “You perv,” Harold replied. “She looked better like she was. Well, I thought she was nice. You didn’t even make her ass look right either. Let’s just delete all of it and start over.” “Sounds like a plan to me. I could never get her right anyway.”

Ross G. Homer was born in Florida some years ago. He grew in locations all across the south and eventually ended up in California. He spent a couple of years going to college before joining the Air Force as a photographer. After spending ten somewhat interesting years in the Air Force, he settled in Alaska where he worked in a variety of occupations before retiring and dedicating his energies to his life-long interest in creating fantasy and fiction. He is the author of a wide range of genres: sexy romantic action-adventure, thrillers, mysteries, science fiction, and fantasy.