Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine by Cocktails Fiction and Gossip Magazine

Graphic Design by Suzannah Safi Book Trailer Design

Welcome to Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Like suspense, thriller, horror, erotic, spiritual, paranormal and woman fiction. It’s a great place for authors and reads to learn about new book releases, writing tips, and to enjoy all the wonderful reads.

Hi! My name is Suzannah Safi; I’m a romance author, a promoter, a graphic designer, and the creator of Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine. I have many novels and short stories that are published and tons are in process to be published with different publishers, and some I published on my own. As a promoter I created the new Magazine Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine for everyone to participate in it, no limit to who will be in the magazine or what we will gossip about. It’s for all types of readers who like fiction and gossip lol. Also I’ve created Romance Alley and you can check it at www.romancealley.suzannahsafi.com this site is for authors who write romance in its all genre.

My other passion, being a freelance designer; I created my own Book Trailer Company, you can visit my book trailer design company’s website at www.design.suzannahsafi.com I have created many trailers and book covers for authors to boost their book promo in an intriguing artistic way with affordable prices. I wanted to do something that I enjoy, have passion for, and I found that writing, promoting, and designing book trailers and covers are my real passion so I’m doing that and proud of what I’ve accomplished. Can’t have enough sleep, hick who needs it anyway LOL. Welcome and I hope you enjoy this issue.

What’s inside of this issue A Season for Redemption -Author Ronald S. Barak—————————————Page 4-5 Interview ‘Get to Know the Author’ Scott M. Baker—–—–———–—————— Page 6 - 7 Author Raven West —————- ———————————–———————— Page 8-9 The Devil’s Chair by Karen Michelle Nutt———————————–————– page 10 Author Lilly Gayle——————————————————————————Page 11 Author Blessings Maz—Psychic Attacks———————–————–—–——–—Page 12-14 Author Barbara Edwards -Free Short Story—————————————-———Page 15-21 Author Victoria Gray——————————–——————————————–Page 22-23 Using your ethnic heritage in your writing by Cara Marsi —–—–——–——-——Page 24 Article and short story by Joan Hall Hovey——————–————–————-Page 26-34 Author Joyce Elson Moore————–—-——–—–——————————–—-Page 35

Entertaining and fun magazine, Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine is for all readers to enjoy and learn about authors and their adventures. Interviews, gossip, travels, recipes, dreams, books and more please join us and learn about new authors, their life, and their hard work to bring you beautiful entertaining stories. Every issue will have different authors, stories, articles and gossip. Have fun and ask the authors anything on my blog www.suzannahsafi.blogspot.com Readers do you want to be a guest on Cocktails Magazine, email me at admin(at)suzannahsafi(dot) com and join the party with us and let authors and the world know what you like to read and learn about you as well. Authors do you want to gossip and talk about anything and let readers know you and your books in a fun way, contact me. Hope you all enjoy this issue and the ones to come every month. Love. Peace. And be safe.

The name of Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Copyright © to Suzannah Safi, all rights reserved. The stories and graphics are the property of their creators. The contents of this publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without consent of the copyright holder. The cover art of the magazine created by Book Trailer Design owned by Suzannah Safi and is not permitted to be used in any form without the permeation from the artist. This a free magazine to readers. All participants agreed on granting their articles/stories/pictures only to be published for free on Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine .

A Season for Redemption

By Author Ronald S. Barak Sunday, December 19, 2010 Washington, D.C. Quite a journey, these past four months. Waking up to find myself on trial for one of several murders I had no idea I had committed. How was I going to get through it? Did I get through it? “That’s a wrap, folks, as they say in Hollywood. First year-end meeting of the board of directors of NoPoli.org is concluded. Lunch is now being served in the dining room across the hall. I’ve invited a special guest to break bread with us, and to facilitate a reunion discussion of sorts.” Only two persons knew who would be joining them, NoPoli publisher, Steven Kessler, and, of course, the guest himself, attorney and author Ronald S. Barak. The others in attendance, NoPoli directors, Leah Klein, Arnold Lambert, Cliff Norman and Paige Norman, were caught off guard. Outsiders had not previously been included at board luncheons. Paige whispered to Cliff, “Leave it to Steve to come up with some kind of a surprise.” Cliff just nodded. The only practicing lawyer on the board, Leah intuitively glanced over at Chairman Emeritus Judge Arnold Lambert to see if he was any the wiser. Typical of Judge Arnold, as they endearingly called him, if he had any sense of what was up, he wasn’t showing it. Nor was he showing that he wasn’t fully in command, as was usually the case.

An exciting fantasy thriller novel combining murder, mayhem, mystery, intrigue and suspense with dry humor, wit and comedy as if John Grisham, Dan Brown or Agatha They meandered across the hallway to find Christie Ron already sitting at the table scrolling through his got together with Jerry Seinfeld, Ray Romano iPhone. Standing and putting the phone away, he said or Jon Stewart to none of them in particular as they filed in, “Hey, guys, nice to see you all again. Thanks for the invite.” “Don’t be so sure, Ron,” Steve replied. “We intend to make you work for your lunch.”

“Really! How so?” “Oh, it’ll keep a few minutes. Why don’t we fill our plates and glasses and get comfortable first. There’s sandwiches, salad, fruit, cookies and drinks off to the side there. Help yourselves.”

In most instances, the dividing lines between fantasy and reality are bound by the four corners of the book. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be that way. I like to think of myself, and my approach, as being just a little…different. So, I like to blur those lines of fanSteve seemed to be enjoying himself. Judge tasy and reality. Arnold didn’t care to be in the dark. This assembly What do I mean? Well, take the characters was a bit odd. I’m the one who usually controls the mentioned above: Steve Kessler, Cliff Norman, Leah agenda. Don’t particularly like it when I’m not steer- Klein, Page Norman, Judge Arnold Lambert. All fictional characters in a season for redemption. Right? ing the show. NoPoli.org. Just a make believe do-good organization * * * in my novel. Right? Just read the book, and you’ll Hi, I’m Ron Barak. Have I got your attention figure it out. Won’t you? But check out http:// yet? Hope so. Mean to. Who are all these people just NoPoli.org, and see who is there, blogging real time been jabbering away? What’s going on? about real political scandals in need of outing and at. Well I’m the author of a novel by the name of a sea- tention, week in and week out. Fantasy? Reality? son for redemption. About a serial killer in modern Just where are those dividing lines? day Washington, D.C. who methodically takes it upon Hope you like it. After all, I’m writing for himself—or herself—to murder, in cold blood, several you, not for me. I already know what I think. I prominent political leaders. Why? For abandoning think:). Let me know what you think. You can reach their public trust in favor of their own personal agen- me at rbarak@rsb-law.com. das and, in the course, all but destroying the economic * * * and social fiber of our country. Someone is arrested After a nice meal and a bunch of friendly conand tried. Along the way, what is hopefully a very realistic murder trial becomes as much a referendum versation, Steve interjected, “Okay, Ron, time to pay of our political system as a trial of the alleged killer. for your lunch.” “Not sure I like the sound of that, Oh yeah, a couple more people die too. Steve,” Ron responded. Is the alleged killer guilty? Was he or she insane, or clever as a fox? What did the jury conclude about the accused—and about our political system? What did those marching across our nation, speaking out and taking sides, as the trial proceeds have to say about all of this?

“Well, Ron, here’s the way I see it. Very methodically, you’ve managed and controlled each one of us, and intimately so. I figure its payback, time for each of us to get back at you. Here’s what we’re gonna do…” Hmm, my first case of writer’s block! You’ll have to come back and give me some help—after you’ve finished a season for redemption and studied NoPoli.org and figured out just what they decided to do to get back at Ron:).

Wanna know? Hmm, I’m not gonna tell. You’ll have to get the book and figure it out for yourself. If you do:). You can learn more about the book at http://aseasonforredemption.com and about me at http://ronaldsbarak.com. Oh, there is one more little piece of information I will share. During all the trial protests, a non-profit organization by the name of “The National Organization For Political Integrity” surfaces in the book, “NoPoli” for short. Which just also happens to stand for “No Politicians.”

On “Get to Know the author” “The Vampire Hunters” By Author Scott M. Baker However, unlike a lot of novels and movies where the undead are depicted as two-dimensional monsters, my Let’s meet the author and get to know his book. Wel- vampires are integral to the plot. They have their own come to ‘Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine’ and personalities, their own motivations behind their dethank you for being here with us today pravities, and their own back stories that I relate throughout the trilogy in a series of flashbacks. You can’t really enjoy hating my vampires until you really get to know them and to understand what drives them. Suzannah: What other creatures that go thump in the night you have written about? And are you going to combine those creatures in one novel? Scott: Most of my other writing has involved zombierelated short stories ranging from Romero-like horror (“Cruise of the Living Dead” [http:// www.amazon.com/Dead-Worlds-Undead-StoriesAnthology/dp/1935458264/ref=sr_1_5? s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1289257523&sr=1-5] and “Dead Water” [http://www.dinkwell.com/ product_info.php? products_id=36&osCsid=20ea239829b04fea01c8cbe23096 2583]) to more tongue-in-cheek fare (“Rednecks Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things” [http:// www.necrotictissue.com/issue004/0101020081001/ Necrotic_Tissue_Issue004_HR.pdf] and “Deck the Malls with Bowels of Holly” [http:// www.amazon.com/Christmas-Dead-AnthologyAnthony-Giangregorio/dp/1935458345/ref=sr_1_1? s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1289257384&sr=1-1]). I also wrote “Denizens [http://www.amazon.com/BookHorror-Anthony-Giangregorio/dp/1935458558/ ref=sr_1_2? s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1289257734&sr=1-2],” a short story about monsters lurking in the sewers underneath Washington D.C.

Suzannah: Scott, tell us about your writing style? Scott: My writing style is brisk and concise. I try to keep my exposition and background as tight as possible so the story doesn’t drag, offering just enough information to keep my readers enticed and interested. I also include numerous action scenes. My favorite novels are those that are so compelling they keep me up to the late hours of the morning. I tried to achieve the same results with The Vampire Hunters [http:// www.pillhillpress.com/books.html] series, with each of the books having a blockbuster ending that goes on for pages. Suzannah: Vampires can be bad, or good. In your novel “The Vampire Hunters” how bad are they? Scott: My vampires are pure evil and completely devoid of humanity. They lack compassion, inhibitions, and any sense of morality. To them, humans are little more than blood cattle to feed off of, or to be used for their carnal pleasures. 6

me where they want to go. The Vampire Hunters started out as a single novel; however, by the time I completed it I had so much more I wanted to do with the plot and characters that I couldn’t tell the story in anything less than a trilogy. In total, I spent six years on these books, living day and night with the characters. When I finished typing the last chapter of the Suzannah: What research did you do with your novel final book, I felt like I was leaving old friends behind. “The Vampire Hunters”? Currently, I’m working on a novel about something monstrous stalking the deserts of northern New Mexico. My next project, which I’m in the process of researching, will deal with a small band of OSS officers in World War II trying to stop the Nazis from opening a portal to hell.

Suzannah: Where can readers find Scott M. Backer and your books, and anything else you would like to tell your readers?

Scott: I conducted several months of research before writing The Vampire Hunters, learning all I could about the undead and their legends, some of which stretch back to the pre-Christian era. Then I sat down and decided which strengths and vulnerabilities to give my vampires. And I admit, some of those choices were arbitrary. A couple of my readers have asked why my vampires are scarred by holy water while other religious symbols have no effect. The answer is simple: I had some awesome plot ideas involving holy water-based weapons, so I made my vampire vulnerable to it.

Scott: The best place to find me is on my blog: http:// scottmbakerauthor.blogspot.com. I update that several times a week, including an entry called Sunday Bunnies where I show off photos of my six house rabbits. It also contains links to where readers can find my books and short stories. I can also be found on Facebook at as Scott M. Baker (author) [http:// www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/profile.php? id=100000252439528] and on Twitter as vampire_hunters.

Where my novels stand out from others is in the mythos I created for the vampires’ existence. The attempts by the hunters to discover that mythos, and by connection unlock the secret to destroying the vampires once and for all, is the central theme of the second and third books in the trilogy.

Suzannah: Thank you Scott for being here with us, wishing you the best of success. Hope to see more of your news, till then, take care all—and I hope you enjoyed the interview with author Scott M. Backer. Scott: Thank you, and good luck with Cocktails. Merry Christmas.

Suzannah: As an author I do live in my stories while writing. Does Scott live the events while writing a story, and how do you feel when you come out of a scene? Scott: When I write, I become engrossed in the story until it takes on a life on its own. I usually start with a basic outline, and during the course of writing let the characters take

Author Raven West Each athlete has personal stories to tell about coaches, teammates, family, friends and sometimes entire towns cheering them on. When they had doubts, when they fell, numerous supporters were ready at a moments notice to help them back on their feet. And when they were finally in the arena, thousands of spectators watched, cheered and applauded their every achievement as well as felt their anguish when they didn't quite make it to the finish line. Yet, in our own "Wide Wide World of Writing", the only "applause" we hear is from our fingers hitting the keyboard. Our biggest motivator is the blinking cursor on a blank screen "screaming" at us to KEEP GOING. Writing is a passion unlike any other. It comes from deep within, and has few rewards on the other side. The road is laden with obstacles, and laden with the hazzards of rejection. Most of our friends and family members can't possibly understand that our burning desire to create the "perfect" sentence is just as strong as any gymnast's quest to nail the "perfect" vault. Yet, we press on. Alone.

The book is "Red Wine For Breakfast" available in ebook digital format on smashwords.com The name of my column is "The Road to Publishing Riches" A monthly series on the writing world, not just the nuts and bolts of publishing, but the blood, sweat and tears it take to make it in this ever changing, ever challenging industry.

We watch an athlete practice for the great event and can feel their struggle. We see the "thrill of victory" and "the agony of defeat" as the camera zooms in on their faces at the end of a competition. The "team" hugs each other in triumph, or consoles each other through tragedy. It is a magnificent show of physical ability, strength and endurance, as they go for the gold, the trophy, the championship ring.

First in the series: The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Writer Having just completed my second National Novel Writing Month challenge where the goal is to write 50,000 word novel during the month of November, it struck me just how lonely the life of a writer is. While all three of my daughters compete in either a halfmarathon run, or a 100k bike ride where there are thousands of cheering supporters lining the route and cheers galore waiting for them at the finish line, when I hit that final word count verification button, there was no one here by myself. Watching any competitive sporting event, especially the Olympics or the annual SuperBowl, and seeing the profiles of all the athletes who were compete, makes me realize how very much alone we, as writers are in own field of dreams.

No one can "feel" the enormous weight of a writer's block, or the pressure of a looming deadline. And no one but a writer knows the absolute, total thrill when, after hours of mental aguish, we find that one word, that perfect sentence, that makes us literally jump up from our chair and yell "YES!" Usually, to an empty room. The world revolves around athletes. From the youngest to the professional, families work their schedules around practices and games.

Laundry, dishes and other household chores are for the "less talented" members of the family. If one of them happens to be a writer, it's their world that constantly gets interrupted. (Pause here while I take the laundry out of the dryer). Team pictures line the walls in an athlete's home along with trophies, medals and other awards of achievement. And while it is true that the writing profession does have its own established awards, you won't find many trophies for writers displayed inside glass cases in local high schools or colleges. Writing is not a competitive sport, (although I know some writers who would disagree, unfortunately). For most of us who started down this road, either by choice or by chance, we chose to walk it, initially, alone. But on the way, something miraculous occurred. We met other writers who wore similar scars of repeated rejections, and bruises from scathing reviews, and yet somehow found the strength to continue the journey. We stop to chat, usually on-line, and offer support and encouragement before continuing on our way. And with each new writer we meet, we begin to feel not quite so alone as we did when we started. Not everyone can be an Olympic Athlete, or complete a full or even a half-marathon and not everyone can be a writer. We may never be on the pitcher's mound in Yankee Stadium, but we can write a great story about an athlete who is. We may never sign a multi-million dollar product endorsement contract, but we can create a dynamite thirty second commercial spot. We may never stand on a podium and receive a gold medal, but we will always be there writing the script for the announcer who tells the world of their achievement. Even if we don't perform for thousands of cheering fans, we will always have this one fact to keep us going: Civilization will still exist without the Olympics, the Super Bowl and yes, even the World Series. The world will continue to evolve without theater, television, movies, radio and yes, even athletes. But without writers...

Raven West http://ravenwest.net 9

The Devil’s Chair by Karen Michelle Nutt The Devil’s Chair or haunted chair is actually a memorial carved effigy. Graveyards included these chairs for comfort. They were meant for mourning chairs, a place for a person to sit in comfort while they visited their love one’s grave. Once the custom of these chairs fell into disuse, superstitions began, tripping a new legend into existence. The urban legend of the Devil’s Chair varies, but one legend states: if you wander into the cemetery at midnight and sit in the chair something bad will happen to you. Other legends believe it’s how many times you sit in the Devil’s Chair, three being the magic number for doom. Sit in the chair once and you’ll have bad luck. Sit in it for a second time and you’ll be cursed. If you’re foolish enough to sit in it for a third time, death will claim you. Still another legend believes if the person is brave enough to sit in the chair at midnight on Halloween night, he or she will be punished for impudence or rewarded for courage. In my tale, The Curse of Tempest Gate, the Devil’s Chair measures good and evil, evil fueling the chair’s strength. Samael and Michael are two men, cursed by a witch for a duel that ended her niece’s life. Samael, who teetered between good and evil in life, is bound to the Devil’s Chair. Michael is bound to the statue of the archangel Michael for his failure to keep the witch’s niece safe. The men awaken every Halloween to relive the fatal duel, both fighting for a chance to break the curse and end their torment. Through the years, the legend surrounding Tempest Gate Cemetery, fuels people’s curiosity, making it a tradition to test fate. If a person sits upon the Devil’s chair on Halloween night, where the veil between the living and the dead are thinned, Samael will determine who is worthy of reward or punishment. Samael is able to embrace the person’s energy, making him stronger and a more dangerous as he embraces his darker side. Michael holds onto his humanity and is determined to stop Samael from hurting more innocent people. When Clarity Shaw, a reporter and the descendant of the witch enters the cemetery to investigate the legend, both entities realize she could be their salvation. Both will try to use her for their own personal agenda, but only one will demand her heart. I hope you enjoyed the behind the scenes of The Curse of Tempest Gate. The tale is available in the anthology, A Halloween Collection-Stimulating in both print and ebook formats. For more information on my Time Travel, Fallen Angels and Otherworldly tales, please visit me at: http://www.kmnbooks.com or http:// kmnbooks.blogspot.com 10

Author Lilly Gayle So, I started doing research on vampire myths but never actually wrote a story. A few years later, I watched a re-run of the cult classic movie Universal Soldier starring Dolph Lundgren and Jean-Claude Van Damme. In the movie, a black ops military operation re-animates dead Vietnam Vets, giving them super-human powers and turning them into unstoppable soldiers. And as I was watching the movie, that vampire book kept niggling at the back of my brain, begging me to write it.

My name is Lilly Gayle and I write historical and paranormal romance. My first novel, a paranormal vampire romance--Out of the Darkness--was released by The Wild Rose Press in May 2010. But how did a historical writer switch to paranormal? Well, it started back in 1998 when I read the first book in Dean Koontz's Fear Nothing Trilogy. The main character in the series is Chris Snow, a young man with xeroderma Pigmentosum, a rare light sensitivity disorder. XP patients must avoid sunlight and strong UV lights (as in florescent lighting) or risk severe sunburns, skin lesions, and even fatal melanomas. I'd never even heard of the disease but found the idea intriquing. I read all three books and the entire time, I kept thinking: what if some disease like XP was responsible for the original vampire myths?

I started writing Out of the Darkness in October 2005. Ironically, that's about the same time the first novel in The Twighlight Series was released. I refused to read the book. I didn't want anything to influence or change my original idea for Out of the Darkness. I completed the first draft of Out of the Darkness in 2006. And began submitting. And getting rejected. Then a major New York publisher asked for the full. The editor loved the story and sent a revision letter. I made the changes and resubmitted. She sent a second revision letter. I made those changes and re-submitted. This process took a little over a year. Then, the editor was moved to another line and my manuscript was passed on to a second editor. She sent a third revision letter. Unfortuanately, she wanted completely different revisions from the first editor. I made those changes but the story no longer flowed like it once had. And six months after that, she rejected the story. I thought all was lost, but I revised Out of the Darkness one more time, to suit myself. Something good had come out of all those revision letters. I'd learned a lot more about writing. But I put Out of the Darkness away, believing it would never see the light of day. Then my critique partner, regency and paranormal romance writer, Amy Corwin, suggested I send the manuscript to The Wild Rose Press. I did. And almost a year to the date after submission, and thriteen years after I first started writing, Out of the Darkness was published. It's available from http://www.thewildrosepress.com/out-of-the-darkness-p4039.html and http://www.amazon.com/Out-Darkness-Lilly-Gayle/ dp/1601547307/ref=sr_1_1? ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1282255694&sr=8-1 Lilly Gayle OUT OF THE DARKNESS: Available now from The Wild Rose Press-- Her research could cure his dark hunger if a covert government agent doesn't get to her first. www.lillygayle.com www.lillygayleromance.blogspot.com 11

Author Blessings Maz Psychic Attacks

Have you ever given any thought to how you can protect yourself against being attacked? Perhaps you have taken training in one of the martial arts, such as Karate, Tae Kwon Do, or Judo? Or maybe you are skilled in boxing or wrestling? Although I hold an intense dislike of aggression and violence, I can understand the merit of being able to defend oneself and to subdue an attacker. However, my focus in this article is not centered on a physical assault, but rather on that which comes from another level. Sometimes known as a psychic attack, it can either be caused by the ill wishes and negative energy directed at you by someone else or be emanating from unseen forces. This may sound a little ‘off the wall,’ but bear with me. No one was, or is, more sceptical than me, but over the years I have had to accept that paranormal events do happen even though my logical thinking tells me they cannot. First, I shall address the harm that comes from another person. Within the human experience it is quite possible to gain enemies or those who feel unkindly toward you. A former friend may have become an opponent; a neighbor may have issues with you over something. Such people are harboring negative thoughts about you and some could even be hoping bad luck will occur in your life. They may verbalize to others their dislike of you or tell you, face-to-face, that you deserve misfortune. Their thoughts and words are directing negativity toward you. Other folk might be jealous because in their perception you have something they do not possess. They may not express to you or others their feelings of envy, but they exist in their thoughts and, therefore, are generating negativity in your direction.

Although this is less likely to happen, you might fall victim to the destructive intentions of an adversary who is well-able to focus and inflict their harmful desires. This type of person is skilled in sending injurious energy to whomsoever they choose. They know “form follows thought” and that the ill will they propel will manifest as some type of adversity in their target’s life. They will usually incorporate the use of ritual, incantations and/or a helper. The latter may come in the form of a crystal, a symbol, an herb or wild plant, or an item that was originally a part of physical life, such as a bone, a tooth, or a feather. They might also call upon the help of what they believe is a powerful ally. This will possibly be a dark entity, an ancient god or goddess, or even an ancestor. Whatever aides they employ adds enhancement to their purpose. How will you know if you are under attack from another person? The symptoms might be similar to those experienced when unwell. Sudden pains in the body, severe headaches, or feeling repeatedly nauseous are some examples.

Of course, such problems should always be brought to the attention of your doctor, but when a physical cause has been ruled out, give consideration to negative energy being aimed at you. Another indication could be a sudden fall. You did not trip over anything and it felt as though someone pushed you. The personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unkind thoughts are assaulting you. Now to the second form of psychic attack that might bombard you. Do you work in some area of metaphysics? Are you a healer, a therapist, a medium, or are you delving into esoteric studies? Then you are opening up to levels other than the earthly plane and you may be vulnerable to an onslaught from forces that are less than positive. Similarly, if your work gives help to others, e.g. offering shelter to battered women or counseling teenage runaways, you may also be at risk. In terms of spirituality you are working for the Light and, just as a lit candle contrasts against darkness, you are opposing the malevolent shadows. What are the indicators of this malicious harassment? You may experience a feeling of literally being pinned down, where you are sitting or lying, by something extremely heavy and unyielding. In addition, there could be a sense of heat or cold surrounding you. An unpleasant odor might fill your nostrils. You may hear weird noises or a babble of voices that seem to drain all resistance from you. If you have caught the attention of lesser adversaries, such as negative elementals, they will, like the proverbial moths to a flame, hover around you and create difficulties. The following are a few examples of what you might experience: Important items, including clothing, go missing from your home or workplace; other objects will be moved to a place where you would never put them; overhead lights and lamps are switched on and off by themselves. If you can accept that a psychic attack is possible, how do you combat it? The most successful method to use is creating a shield around your auric space. If you do this, you are prepared to repel whatever negative energy is now, or in the future, directed at you. In everyday life your aura encases your body within roughly the space of 3 ft. This includes in front and behind you, as well as above your head and below your feet. Under certain circumstances your aura can expand or contract at will. When you give healing, meditate, or channel, it expands If you are under attack or feel threatened in any way, it contracts. 13

Auric space consists of the seven subtle levels, or bodies, but for this article I am only pinpointing the first three. These are the Etheric, which is like a second skin to the physical body, then the Emotional and followed by the Lower Mental. Sometimes these three levels are referred to as the Astral Plane. Try to envisage your aura. Get a sense of it surrounding you. Use your imagination if your inner vision or perception is not strong. Think of it as the shape of a bubble or an egg that is all around you. Once you have grasped this concept and with the power of your mind, place a thickness at the circumference of your auric space. It is like an eggshell that covers and protects. At the beginning of each day and just before going to sleep, reaffirm that this barrier is in place and standing guard over you. It is protecting your seven subtle levels and in particular the inner three through which psychic attacks can reach you. They aim for the Lower Mental and Emotional levels and, once there, they cascade down to the physical body via the Etheric, but cannot do this if your auraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s barricade is in place. Some people, who use this form of protection, create mirrored barriers so that whatever untoward energy is sent to them is reflected back to the sender. However, a caution is necessary here. Mirroring back negative energy to a person adds double the strength to it, making your action become a karmic issue for you. Your aura and its barrier can be given added protection in various ways. A few drops of Rosemary or Lavender Essential Oil that are mixed in a base of Sweet Almond Oil become a protective fluid. Place a small quantity in the palms of the hands daily and spread throughout your auric space. Chicory, Lavender, Mallow, Mugwort, Rosemary and Sage are highly protective herbs. After drying cuttings of them, gather together and set alight for a moment. Once the flame is extinguished, you can smudge your aura and surroundings with the smoking bundle. If you are familiar with the Bach Flower Remedies, then utilize the amazing properties of these flower essences. Take Walnut to protect you at all times and Crab Apple will help remove any negative elementals that may be attempting to attach themselves to one of your three inner subtle levels. Also, Rescue Remedy will help alleviate the trauma of a sudden psychic attack that has managed to reach you.

If you carry or keep in close proximity to you a talisman or religious object, your aura is strengthened and protected. Such items as a Goddess symbol, an ankh, a cross, or a Star-of-David will serve you well. Wearing a Clear Quartz or Obsidian pendant both day and night is another option. Or carry a tumblestone in the pocket during the day and place it under your pillow at night. One of the following would also be a suitable choice because they are considered to be very protective against the negative forces: Amber, Carnelian, Citrine, Garnet, Gold, Silver, Jade, Malachite, Marble, Peridot, Salt, Tigereye, and Turquoise. Minerals/crystals need to be cleansed and dedicated before being asked to shield you and your aura so be sure to learn about these processes before the pendant is worn or the tumblestone is carried. I do hope my suggestions for combating psychic attacks prove helpful to you. They are by no means exhaustive, but the constraints of written space in this magazine do not allow further elaboration. Stay positive and vigilant, and remain safe. Come and visit me at www.marionwebb-desisto.com to see which books I have written and what interests I have, like collecting crystal skulls.

Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Owner: Author Suzannah Safi www.suzannahsafi.com Author of sizzling Romance Stories for the Soul

Author Barbara Edwards Free Short Story His familiar weight, the powerful rhythm of his

Joey went into the shed. I was shivering when my husband Sam threw

lovemaking drew me into the happy present and a

the blanket aside and joined me at the window. I loved promising future. Our apartment perched on the top floor of a

the view from our high-rise and the lack of that old building smell, the musty reminder of past lives and

recently completed ten story building. Our move to the

unhappy memories. As his warm hands slid down my

West Coast had freed me. I wouldn’t live in an old

arms, I relaxed against his muscular body. A nightlight house ever again. After Sam fell asleep, I stared at the cast a soft glow from behind the partially-open bath-

ceiling for hours. It was time for me to make a deci-

room door.

sion. Did I love Sam enough to give him a child? Was

“Bad dreams?’ he murmured. His breath tickled my ear before I nodded.

I strong enough to face my childhood fear and let it go? I wasn’t being fair to either him or myself. The next morning my eyes felt like they’d been

“I don’t remember what it was about,” I an-

swered his next question before he asked. This routine rolled in sand and stuffed back into my head as I made had become familiar to us. Sam was so patient. He ac- coffee, poached eggs and toasted English muffins for tually loved me: a miracle I couldn’t grasp. I couldn’t

breakfast. I was glad it was Saturday and I didn’t need

tell him that his gentle need for a child launched old

to work. I spent enough hours during the week at the

fears to the surface. My throat clicked over a dry swal- computer doing claims adjustment. “I’ve been thinking,” I started and he glanced

low. I couldn’t tell him. Not tonight, maybe not ever. We returned to the bed, cuddling under the warm blankets. The details always faded after a few

up from the newspaper. His expectant smile choked off the words like a tightening noose. He waited a minute before he verbally nudged

hours, but not my dry mouth or the need to turn on the light. His reassuring touch heated my skin and I drew

me. “About?”

him closer. 15

“Growing up,” I said. I slipped into the chair

Another month on the pill had me juggling

next to him and grasped his hand with both of mine.

the dispenser as I decided to get another refill. One

Warm as melted chocolate his brown eyes softened as

more I whispered to the mirror. The woman who

his fingers closed around mine. “When we talked

stared back didn’t smile. Her bleak hazel eyes held

about a baby, I started thinking about being a child. I

dark secrets. Her tight mouth curved down at haunt-

guess I never really said much about that.”

ing memories. When I blinked, the frightened child I

“You didn’t?” His thick eyebrows inched up. I

had been appeared with her hands outstretched. The

loved Sam’s face. His nose would be called Roman in

container slipped from my nerveless fingers and

another age and his high cheekbones hinted at a touch

shattered in the sink. The tiny pills spun like the

of Indian heritage. “We talk all the time. You grew up

balls on a roulette wheel before disappearing down

in a small town called Rhodes End. Your parents died

the drain. Was it fate? Tears ran down my flushed

after you left home for college. You’re a sweet, welladjusted normal woman with the sexiest body I ever

cheeks. I wanted a child. The only thing stopping me

knew.”

was a nightmare. After all these years I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a child’s imagination. A scary story

“I’ll agree with the sexy,” I said with a soft laugh. God, this was hard. I wanted to share my fears,

I’d heard and forgotten. That night I whispered to

but wondered if my solid, rational man would under-

Sam that the pills were gone. The hours we spent

stand and believe me. “Maybe we should go back to

enjoying each other exhausted me. I feel asleep with

bed and check out all those sexy parts.” He drew me

a contented smile and woke screaming. “Who the hell is Joey?” Sam demanded as he

into his arms and pressed a deep kiss to my mouth. I strained closer as relief made me dizzy. I didn’t need

held my sweaty, shaking body. My hands petted his

to tell him now. It could wait another day. Or two.

chest as I fought to calm my breathing, slow my racing pulse.

Time both dragged and flew in the following weeks.

“Joey? I don’t know…” I brushed my tangled

“All of us have bad childhood memories:

hair from my face with a shaking hand. “The only

the bully who hounded us; a teacher who made life

Joey I can think of was a kid from my neighborhood.”

miserable; a dead pet; things we forget because it hurts to remember.” Sam’s reassurance helped. He

“These nightmares are getting more vivid, aren’t they? Don’t try to placate me,” he grumbled.

pressed a kiss to my temple and gently asked,

When Sam sounded stern, I didn’t argue. He had a

“Were you molested?”

backbone of stubborn I couldn’t bend. “Maybe its time to get professional help.”

“Oh no! Nothing like that! My parents loved me. And I loved them.” I clutched his forearms and gazed into his concerned face until he

My heart went cold. I’d had a few sessions with a counselor before my parents decided it wasn’t

accepted I told the truth. His comfort reached a

worth the money. They never said they didn’t believe

part of me that clung to his strength. For a few

me. They just didn’t want to hear what I had to say,

weeks I found peace.

didn’t want to sort out the truth. Deep in their hearts, it scared them, too.

It was the day I realized I missed my period that another nightmare woke me in a drenching sweat. I rolled over, careful not to wake Sam.

I eased from his arms and slid from the bed. My legs shook but I managed to make my way to the

I’d stuffed the positive pregnancy test in

window. He silently followed, drawing open the heavy

the bottom of the trash. I planned a surprise dinner,

drapes to allow the brilliant starlight a path. My finger

with wine for him and juice for me. Candlelight

traced the outline of Orion then the Big Dipper on the

and a lace tablecloth, with all the fancy trimmings

cold glass.

I usually saved for his birthday and our anniver-

“I suppose you want to know,” I mumbled. “So do I. Each time I dream a little more becomes clear.

sary. My palm pressed to my abdomen. I had a

I’m so frightened my teeth hurt from clenching them.

reason for facing my fear.

It happened in Rhodes End. And I buried it deep inside.” 17

To my relief, Sam hadn’t mentioned a therapist

I’m not a dithery person. My job as a claims

again. Maybe the pleasant chore of planting a baby

adjuster for a large insurance agency demands an

had distracted him. Maybe he thought the bad dreams

attention to detail. After my employers offered the

were over. I know I hoped they were. My fingers

opportunity to work from home three days a week,

curled into tight fists. It was too late to rethink my de-

I’d begun planning a nursery.

cision. Baby cells happily grew and split and gathered

A wicker bassinet became the first item we

into a human being in my uterus.

bought. A trifle old-fashioned with a ribbon-trimmed

Sam was suitably surprised. The candlelight

lace skirt, it reminded me of my childhood doll bed.

glinted golden sparks in this brown eyes as I slipped

I ran my hand over the soft fabric. I’d loved my col-

into my chair.

lection of dolls. They’d be lined up around my room. Some of them were big enough to wear real baby

“We had so many things to talk about. I want

clothes my mother saved. A frown tightened my

to stay home with our child,” I murmured. His wide grin lightened my heart. He raised his

forehead. I couldn’t remember what my parents had done with them.

wine glass in a salute as I sipped my fruit juice. “That

Having a baby had me wishing I’d asked my

would be best for ‘our’ family.”

parents more questions. I had all the family records. “Family. That is what we are, aren’t we?” I

I could research my grandparents if I wished. I could

rested my chin on my folded hands. “Makes me think

go on the web and find all kinds of information.

about my parents’ home. We had a big yard. Buster,

There was a stack of photo albums in a closet if I

our clumsy black dog was constantly shedding and

wanted to see it all again.

Mom had a bird feeder outside the kitchen window.” I’d be able to note if our child had my Our hands met and he pulled me onto his lap.

mother’s chin or my dad’s ears. Maybe even trace

As his caresses turned hotter, I wondered if it was bet-

his resemblance to grandparents, aunts and uncles. I

ter to be safely in a bustling city. Did I owe it to my

mentally made a note to ask Sam if his family had

child to take a step back? My insides felt coated with

similar records. It sounded like fun.

ice. 18

beheaded a field mouse. I remember its

When I was young, so many things were different. Every kid in the neighborhood played with the

beady brown eyes staring at me as I protested. Shut

others. The age range was six or seven years older

up or I’ll build a big one and do you he shouted and

than me to a couple years younger. It was a loose rela-

dropped the blade. I didn’t like Joey.

tionship. We didn’t plan on playing baseball, but if

That didn’t mean he was left out of the gang.

there were enough players and someone had a ball and

I don’t think we were tolerant as its taught in schools

bat, the game could last all day.

today. He was just one of us and different. It was hot that summer. The cows didn’t move out of the shade

The cemetery next door was our favorite playground. In the winter it was the best hill to slide if you

and the road tar melted. My mother wouldn’t buy a

had the guts to steer between the headstones. During

new pair of sneakers for me although mine were

long summer evenings, the gang would play hide-n-

ragged. They’d be ruined in a day on the soft asphalt

seek until dark. The idea was not to be the last ‘it’

she said.

since you often got left behind.

Surrounded by huge pine trees the cemetery was cooler by twenty degrees. The grass had a funny

Mom thought nothing of sending me out to play all day. If I didn’t come home for lunch it was

sour smell, full of weeds. Some of the older white

because I forgot. I climbed every tree in the woods. I

stones had only a smear of scratches left where the

rode my old, second-hand bike all over town or sat

writing was worn away. A huge pillar on the hill had

next to the old spring and watched the frogs. I started

an eagle at the top and lists of names on the sides

the third grade that fall.

from an earlier war. No one came to visit any more. There was a wide patch of field between our

Joey was one of us, but he had a queer kick to his gallop. Smart enough to build anything; he made a

house and the gravel road large enough to play base-

working miniature guillotine from a knife blade and

ball. A nest of yellow jackets took up residence un-

balsa wood. He cut the heads off crickets and grass-

der third base. Not much of a problem since most of

hoppers to make us gag. Then he added a weight and

us never reached that far and a homerun sent the older kids winging by before they took to the air. 19

With a kid’s logic, we played ball in the sun

We played King of the Hill on an up-thrust boulder at the back of the cemetery. The steep sides

that day. I think it was because we had the right

had no hand-holds and the top was a ridge impossible

number. Sweaty and over-heated, we broke at lunch,

to stand on. You could straddle it, but that made it eas-

but no-one came back. Joey dragged me under the

ier to push you off. That ten foot fall really hurt. And

pine trees where the shadows made goose-bumps

you had to be careful not to fall backwards because of

race over my skin.

the tool shed.

He didn’t let me talk, but I knew what he intended.

Painted dark green, it hunkered against the rock like it sought shelter. I doubt if it was much big-

When he didn’t go home that night, the po-

ger than our bathroom, but kids don’t think about stuff

lice came around. They asked about Joey. I hated the

like that. It had a plank door with a single pane of

flashing lights and Mom kept pulling my finger out

glass painted black from the inside and an old, rusty

of my mouth. I chewed my nails when I was upset. I

padlock.

told them he went into the shed.

The older kids said when the ground was fro-

I got to ride in the police car and in typical

zen, this was the place they stored bodies that couldn’t

small town fashion, the whole gang and their parents

be buried. I didn’t believe them, but I didn’t explore

gathered at the cemetery before I did. The police

here when the snow was deep.

man wore a Smokey the Bear hat that shadowed his eyes. I didn’t want to get out, but I pointed at the

Joey said there was good stuff inside the shed

shed.

or it wouldn’t be locked. He checked that lock every day for a week. I didn’t say much. There was no point. I could tell by the way he acted, Joey had a plan.

He took a big flashlight with him. I wanted to warn him but figured he had a gun. He wasn’t a scared little girl like me. He came back after a few minutes, shaking his head. I heard him tell the adults the lock was rusted shut and hadn’t been opened.

The pine trees still shaded the ground, the

The other kids caught my eye and one by one

boulder thrust into the air, but the shed was gone.

slipped away.

The baby kicked energetically when I hesi-

They didn’t find Joey. I never played there again. The policeman didn’t ask me about Joey again.

tated. He was right. I had to look. Sam held my hand

I guess they believed I repeated what he told me. I

and I felt his love surround me.

could have told them more.

The back of the rock was covered with moss. The ground was even and undisturbed. A sense of

Joey had dragged at my arm, but I waited at this spot. He swore at me. I wanted to scream, but he

peace filled me as I realized whatever evil had been

ran to the shed. The door was open. Joey went into the

here was gone.

shed.

Maybe it had been satisfied when Joey went into the shed. Barbara Edwards

The next morning I made airline reservations to Hartford with a return the next day. Sam held my

Riveting Romance With an Edge

hand the entire trip, his thumb caressing my skin. www.barbaraedwards.net “We moved a few years later,” I explained.

http://barbaraedwards.net/blog/blog.asp for Barb'Ed Comments

“I’ve never gone back, but I need to see the truth.”

http://twitter.com/barb_ed http://Facebook.com/BarbaraEdwards

“And I’ll be with you all the way. A childhood fear is the worst kind since a child can’t comprehend the bigger world.” It was like I’d never been away. Summer heat shimmered the air like rippling water. I directed Sam to the cemetery drive. It was blocked with a heavy chain and we walked to the rear. Across the open field I could see a police car parked in our old drive.

Author Victoria Gray

I'm so excited that Angel

I was inspired to write Angel in My Arms by the true

in My Arms is now offi-

story of Elizabeth Van Lew. The oldest daughter of a

cially released in print

prominent Richmond businessman, she spent thousands

and eBook from by The

of dollars of her own money buying and freeing slaves

Wild Rose Press. The

before the war. During the war, she spied for the Union,

novel is the story of

supplying information to Union generals; she also vis-

Amanda Emerson, a Union spy undercover in Rich- ited the Confederate prison in Richmond, bringing food mond, who enlists Union officer Steve Dunham in

and books for the imprisoned Federal soldiers and much

her scheme to rescue her cousin, a double agent,

desired treats for the guards. Her visits had a motive

from a Confederate prison and imminent execution.

other than mercy: Miss Van Lew used the opportunity to

Amanda’s drawn to the rugged soldier whose cour-

glean information she could funnel to Union officers.

age and tenderness touch her heart. As the dan-

Using her reputation as an eccentric to her best advan-

ger surrounding them thickens, every moment he’s

tage, adopting the persona of “Crazy Bet” to further

with her jeopardizes their lives, but they discover a

avoid suspicion of her activities.

passionate love that’s worth the risk.

Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Owner: Author Suzannah Safi www.suzannahsafi.com Author of sizzling Romance Stories for the Soul

Elizabeth Van Lew’s story was my inspiration for the

There's a catch - she needs him to break into Libby

spy ring in Angel in My Arms and its leader, Betsy Kin-

Prison to rescue her cousin, a notorious double

caid. A shrewd strategist, Crazy Betsy uses the talents

agent who may or may not be on the side of the Un-

of the beauties in her spy ring to their best advantage.

ion. Steve puts his neck on the line for Amanda,

Amanda’s cooking never fails to win over the prison

and suddenly, he craves her and her alone

warden and his officers, while Kate Sinclair’s skill as a

Throw in a gang of gun-runners who specialize in

seamstress allows her to create the uniforms and cloth-

stolen military weapons, a nest of beautiful spies, a

ing needed for their missions. Kate’s also a consum-

heroic Confederate officer whose ties with Steve go

mate flirt, a talent that proves quite useful when they

back to their Army service in the western territo-

need to charm their way into the prison or distract sol-

ries, and a villain with a thirst for revenge, and

diers who’ve come to investigate them. Steve Dunham,

you've got a plot that isn't your mother's Civil War

the hero of Angel in My Arms, was introduced in an

romance.

earlier novel, Destiny. When I wrote Destiny, I knew I’d have to give Steve his own love story. A rake with a

To learn more about Angel in My Arms and read an excerpt, please visit my website,

girl in every town and a twinkle in his eye, he's undercover in Richmond, facing a noose himself, when a sa-

www.victoriagrayromance.com and my blog, www.victoriagrayromance.blogspot.com . Angel in

ble-haired beauty and a crazy matron engineer his es-

My Arms is now available in print and as an eBook

cape from jail.

from The Wild Rose Press, www.thewildrosepress.com .

USING YOUR ETHNIC HERITAGE IN YOUR WRITING By Cara Marsi

You’ve all heard the old adage, “Write what you know.” Of course, we do research to write about places we’ve never visited, or we make up our own worlds. But regardless of what type worlds we writers imagine, we put a little bit of ourselves into everything we write. I hadn’t thought of using my ethnic heritage in my writing until my third book. In my first two books, my heroes and heroines had Irish/English names, as do most characters in American books. Face it, we Americans have an easier time pronouncing English, Irish, Scottish and German names than we do Italian, Polish, French, etc. When I decided to write my third book, I had an epiphany. Why not make at least one of my protagonists of Italian descent, as I am? Thus, Doriana Callahan, the heroine of my romantic suspense, Logan’s Redemption, originally from The Wild Rose Press and now available on Amazon Kindle. Doriana, named after a woman I know who is an immigrant from Rome, Italy, is half Italian, half Irish. Doriana has the quintessential Italian mother, loving, but intrusive, named after one of my favorite aunts. Doriana’s Nana lives in South Philadelphia and is a sweet, tiny elderly Italian woman who is a terrific cook, modeled after my husband’s grandmother and mine. I had such fun writing these people because they are so familiar and dear to me. I put in a scene where Doriana, her mother, her cousin, and Nana are making Italian wedding soup. My cousins make wedding soup together every year. I used my ethnic heritage again in my romantic suspense novella, Murder, Mi Amore, set almost entirely in Rome, Italy, with an Italian hero and an Italian-American heroine. This story is scheduled for release December 15, 2010, from The Wild Rose Press. I even included a whole chapter set in the small town in Abruzzo where my grandparents were raised. Writing Murder, Mi Amore brought back memories of my trip to Italy in 2006. All the scenes in that book, even the food my heroine eats, are authentic, based on my own experiences. In the past year I’ve sold eight short stories to the confession magazines. I’ve used Italian and Polish names for many of my short story characters too. You have to be careful when using ethnic last names. The names must be easy to pronounce--like Russo, DiMarco, Novak, Morelli, Brioni, Cortese. You don’t want readers tripping over the names. But then there’s my werewolf paranormal, Cursed Mates, scheduled for release December 13, 2010, from Noble Romance Publishing. No ethnic names there. My hero is an English nobleman who happens to be over 500 years old. I’d originally given my heroine an Eastern European first and last name, but that didn’t work for various reasons. Now she has a more generic name. Writing characters who are familiar, who might have a shared background with you, can make for stronger stories. But the name has to fit the character. I used an English name for the hero of Cursed Mates because being a tortured English nobleman is a big part of my story and of this character. I’ll use an ethnic name whenever it fits, but I know that, regardless of ethnicity, the characters’ names must tell the readers a little bit about them. Carolyn Matkowsky/Cara Marsi Cursed Mates-12/13/10 www.nobleromance.com Murder, Mi Amore-12/15/10 www.thewildrosepress.com Logan's Redemption http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0040JI3PG www.caramarsi.com http://twitter.com/caramarsi www.facebook.com/ carolynmatkowsky 24

Book Trailer Design for all your promotional needs. Visit www.suzannahsafi.com

Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Owner: Author Suzannah Safi www.suzannahsafi.com Author of sizzling Romance Stories for the Soul

WRITING CHILL WATERS By Joan Hall Hovey According to author Willa Cather, “Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.” I believe that’s true. Writers do tend to write again and again about certain subjects, regardless of the genre they’re working in. My own books deal with betrayal and loss. Although I didn’t realize this until I was in the middle of writing Chill Waters, my third suspense novel. Emotional abandonment seems to be an issue I feel compelled to revisit in my writing. I think all good books can’t help but tell you something about their author. In Chill Waters, following the breakup of her marriage after learning of her husband’s infidelity, 45 year old Rachael Warren retreats to the old beachhouse in Jenny's Cove, where as a young girl she lived with her grandmother. It is the one place where she had always felt safe and loved. But she is about to learn that ‘a safe place’ is mostly an illusion. And that evil can find us no matter where we go. When I sat down to write Chill Waters, I had already thought about my story for a long time. Now I needed a title to hang it on. Some writers can write an entire novel without a title; I’m not one of them. I’d abandoned a dozen possibilities, before I came up with Chill Waters. It felt right, on several levels, both literally and symbolically. Jenny’s Cove is located in St. Clair, a fictional St. Andrews, a small town in New Brunswick, Canada, where I live. St. Andrews lies on the Passamoquoddy Bay, and is close to the American border. A place of charm and beauty, St. Andrews/St. Clair is a magnet for tourists and artists alike. But the beachhouse in Jenny’s cove is isolated. Waves crashing against the rocks, and the sudden summer storms that visit Jenny’s Cove add to that sense of isolation. As a child, Rachael had found the violence of the storms and the sound of the sea comforting. As a woman stalked and terrorized, that will change. I especially like writing about women who struggle against great odds and triumph, or at least change in some fundamental way. But, as in life, it’s 26

never easy. In books, it must be even harder, damn near impossible. And in the suspense novel, there are always unseen dangers. It is the unseen dangers that spark my imagination. Growing up, I lived a good deal inside my head and in the pages of wonderful books. From the time I could find my way to the Saint John Library, I was a constant visitor. For me, the library was a magical place - a hushed, warm haven where, through the pages of a book I could travel to far off exotic places in my imagination. I could experience vicariously all the joy, romance, terror, tragedy and triumph of the characters in the stories. From the first, I was naturally drawn to the shelves of darker stories, mystery and horror novels. My favorite authors were Mark Twain (who’s scarier than Injun Joe?) Shirley Jackson, Phyllis Whitney, Charlotte Bronte, Edgar Allan Poe, Charlotte Bronte. So many more. I loved the gothic novels with their secret passageways, creaking doors, cobwebby attics - stories that featured moors and spooky old houses. I think that gothic influence is reflected in my own novels. Influences go back even earlier. Like many of you, I started out as a story listener. Both my mom and dad were great storytellers, and I needed only to hear the words: ‘I remember the time when…’ to feel that rare and exquisite pleasure in the anticipation of a new story. The dark, scary ones were best. My father told of a man with a cloven foot who showed up at a card game … a young girl’s body found in the woods behind the school… (murder was not so commonplace back then). Then there was the town drunk who was found dead in the cemetery, his face as granite-white with frost as the tombstones surrounding him. It was whispered that something had scared him to death. My mother had a ouija board that she and her friends took quite seriously. And we had a neighbor who visited us – a fortune teller named Mrs. Fortune. It’s true. Everyone was poor in money, but not in the abundance of inner life, of imagination. So my background also dictated the kind of stuff I would find delicious to write about. Like Listen to the Shadows, Nowhere to Hide and

now - Chill Waters. Jenny’s Cove has been anything but peaceful of late. Unknown to Rachael, the week before school started, and before her arrival, vandals crawled through a basement window and trashed computers, kicked in walls and upturned desks. A house was broken into, and a seventeen-year-old girl beaten nearly to death. Rachael wants only to be left alone, to heal, and try to find her way back to herself. But even that is denied her as psychic and potter, Iris Brandt shows up on her doorstep. Iris senses a malevolent energy that follows Rachael, and feels compelled to warn her. Rachael is, by turns, warned, threatened, charmed - and hunted. Whom can she trust? Who is friend and who is foe? All these years later, there is no comfort to be had in Jenny's Cove. For instead of the haven she so desperately seeks, Rachael becomes a target for a vicious predator whose own dark and twisted past forms a deadly bond between them.

Dark Reunion By Joan Hall Hovey Laurie arrived at the reunion alone. David had begged off, saying he didn't even plan on going to his own reunion, but encouraging her to go and have a good time. "Those things can dredge up a lot of adolescent garbage," he'd said. Later, his words would come back to haunt her. When she was dressed, she did a little whirl in front of him, and was rewarded with a whistle. "Hey, I'm not so sure I should let you go alone. You look too damn good."

And sets her on a collision course with a crazed killer. And becomes, what I intended to be, a thrilling roller-coaster ride for the reader.

"You don't think it's too short." "Yeah, actually I do. Why don't you wear your old plaid nightshirt over it? It's in your drawer. I'll get it."

Chill Waters ISBN –978--4502-1271-7 Available at amazon.com and other online bookstores. Or download at smashwords.com

She laughed and kissed him goodbye.

Chill Waters - ebook: ISBN 978-0-9867514-62 (Holiday Special 3 for $9.50 http://www.amazon.com/s/

It was an hour's flight from Halifax to Saint John. She took a cab from her mother's. And now that she was here, she wasn't sure why. She'd never been in the clique, part of the "in-crowd." Still, there were a few people she was looking forward to seeing again. Dodie, her best friend, wouldn't be here; she'd gotten her nursing degree and moved to the states.

ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&fieldkeywords=Joan+Hall+Hovey

As well as penning suspense novels, Joan Hall Hovey's articles and short stories have appeared in such diverse publications as The Reader, Atlantic Advocate, The Toronto Star, Mystery Scene, True Confessions, Home Life magazine, Seek and various other magazines and newspapers. Her short story, Dark Reunion was selected for the Anthology, Investigating Women, published by Simon & Pierre, edited by David Skene-Melvin. Joan Hall Hovey’s second passion is acting, and she enjoys narrating books and scripts, her own and other people’s. Visit Joan’s website at .joanhallhovey.com

The gym was bright and noisy, festive with red and blue balloons (the school colors), streamers and flowers. A mingling of perfumes and good food wafted to her as she scanned the crowd for a familiar face. She spotted Harold Thomas across the room, doing a slow move to the beat of Barry Manilou's Mandy blaring from the sound system. He held a glass of

Joan with Stephen King in Writer’s Conference

"I never did find Mr. Right. What with the job and taking care of Mom there hasn't been much time for socializing."

When she returned to the table to refill her glass, the good doctor was just pocketing his pager, apologizing for having to rush off, leaving Jillian with a long-suffering smile on her face. Laurie thought he looked secretly relieved, and wondered if maybe he hadn't arranged to be called away.

"Oh," Laurie said, nodding, wondering why they were just sitting here with the motor running. When she felt something hard pressing into her ribs, she looked down, thinking it was probably the buckle of an errant seatbelt. Seeing the gun in Margaret's hand, she felt only bewilderment. And then she thought maybe it was some kind of weird "reunion" joke. Until she looked up, into Margaret's eyes. "Margaret, what are...?"

You have such a devious mind, Laurie Stevens Dobson. Laurie didn't see Margaret again until she was leaving. A few taxis were lined up in front of the building. Margaret caught up with her as she was going down the wide cement steps.

"Just be calm, Laurie. It's not you I want to hurt. You were always nice to me. I didn't know quite how I was going to manage to get Jillian into the car, but it's all worked out well. Her husband being called away like that was a stroke of luck.

"Hi, Laurie. I have my car here. Can I give you a ride?" "Well, thanks, but I don't know if it's on your way..."

Yes, there she is now, just coming out of the building. Call her, Laurie. Tell her we'll give her a ride wherever she's going."

"It doesn't matter. I don't have anywhere special to go. I guess you're staying with your mom while you're here, huh? Is she still on Visart?"

"Margaret, don't do this. This is crazy..."

"Yes, I'm surprised you remem..."

"Call her, Laurie." The gun jabbed her ribs, making her wince. "Call her before she gets into that taxi or you'll be sorry."

"I remember a lot of things, Laurie. It's that blue station-wagon right there." She unlocked and opened the door. "Hop in."

Past the tightness in her throat, Laurie called to Jillian out the passenger window. The smell of the Atlantic and the oil refinery east of the city came in the window on the warm May air. Say no, JIllian. Be the snooty bitch you always were and say no. But she didn't say no. In fact, after peering in the window she smiled her cheerleader smile and hopped into the back seat. "This is great. Thanks a million. I thought I'd be able to get a lift with Aaron, but he's got someone coming to pick him up.

"Well, thanks, Margaret, this is great." Laurie slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled faintly of dry-cleaning, leather and Vick's cough drops. "This is really sweet of you. I appreciate it. And it will give us a chance to get caught up." "You have two boys," Margaret said, smiling, surprising Laurie yet again. "Your husband's into computers." She switched on the ignition, and the car purred to life.

His wife. Hey, it's still early, ladies. Why don't we all go for a drink? I know a place that has a terrific little jazz band."

I'm getting out now," Margaret said, with deadly softness. "You get in the passenger seat, Jillian, like I told you."

Jillian sounded as if she'd already dipped into the punch bowl a time too many. "That sounds like a fun idea, doesn't it, Margaret?"

The alley was so narrow there was barely room for them to squeeze through the doors, but at last they were all in their assigned places.

Margaret shot her a look. Laurie fell silent.

Jillian sat beside her, still clutching her face, but she had stopped crying. The clock on the dash said 10:55 p.m. Laurie told her mom she'd be home by eleven, or call if she just happened to be having too good a time. Right.

"Margaret?" Jillian leaned over the back seat to closer scrutinize her driver. "I can't remember any Margaret in our class except for .." She let out a small chuckle and Laurie's stomach sank. "But she's obviously not you, dear. Whose class were you in?"

Back it out slow," Margaret said in her ear. Laurie felt the heat of the gun on the back of her head.

The car bolted forward, nearly striking the taxi in front; the driver made an obscene gesture at them. Margaret didn't slow down until they were halfway up Main Street, then she made a sharp right, pulling into an alley between a barber shop and the Army Surplus. She turned in her seat, trained the gun on Jillian.

Five minutes later they were turning into a paved drive on Douglas Avenue. You couldn't see the colour of the house at night, but Laurie knew it was white, Victorian-style, fronted by a high cedar hedge, ancient elms, like sentinels, on either side. She'd passed it many times on her way to the museum, though she never knew that Margaret lived here.

"You get in the passenger seat, Jillian. Laurie, you drive. I'll get in the back."

Margaret ushered them into the foyer. Even before she switched on the light, Laurie could smell the dark mustiness of the house, the oppressiveness. The smell of Vick's was in the air. And something else - something dark, deeper, that Laurie couldn't discern.

"What is this?" Jillian said, indignant. "Is this some kind of sick jo..." Before she could complete the sentence, Margaret struck out with the gun. At the sickening crack, Laurie instinctively made a grab for the weapon. And in the next instant found herself staring down the barrel.

Limp, yellowing doilies caressed the backs and arms of overstuffed furniture. A dust-covered piano stood against the far wall. The rug Laurie stood on was Oriental, its design barely visible. A grandfather clock stood in the corner beneath the staircase, its pendulum still.

"Don't be stupid, Laurie." "Okay," Laurie whispered, drawing back. She glanced behind her to see Jillian sitting with her hand pressed against her cheek, weeping softly. A rivulet of dark blood ran down between her fingers. "Why?" she whimpered. "Who are you?" " 29

But I've grown to hate this house so much, I can't bear to put a dustcloth to it...I said tight, Laurie," Margaret grabbed the cord from Laurie's hands, gave it a hard yank that made Jillian cry out. "Use a little elbow grease, as my dear Momma use to say." Margaret giggled, and the sound sent chills along Laurie's spine.

Margaret reached for their coats as pleasantly as if this were a social call she and Jillian were making, and Margaret was the welcoming hostess. She's mad, Laurie thought. Margaret is stark, raving mad. As she began to unbutton her beige trench coat she considered whipping it at Margaret in an attempt to knock the gun from her hand. But what if she missed? The gun in her old classmate's hand was as steady as those contact-lens emerald, eyes. The moment when Laurie might have done something came and went. She would wait for a better opportunity, catch her off-guard, she thought, as Margaret paraded them at gunpoint through a small hallway into the kitchen.

With silent apology, averting her eyes from Jillian's, Laurie drew the rope taut around those pale, thin wrists. "Good. Now wind the cord around those two back middle rungs, and knot it double. Then do her ankles." Jillian was trying for her old arrogant expression and failing miserably. You could see she was terrified. She isn't the only one, Laurie thought. Blood seeped from the cut on Jillian's cheekbone. Smears of it had dried on the front of her yellow dress. For the first time ever, Laurie felt sorry for Jillian.

She shoved Jillian into a hard-back chair near an old-fashioned wood burning stove that took up most of one wall. David had an avid interest in antiques; he would have loved this stove - this house, in fact. Margaret handed Laurie a length of white cord from the table which stood in front of the window. A green window blind shut out the world. "Tie her up."

As Laurie was making the final knot, Margaret suddenly stepped forward and grabbed a handful of Jillian's hair and snapped her head back. 'How does it feel? How does it feel to be trapped, Jillian? To feel yourself at someone else's mercy? But you had no mercy, did you, Jillian?"

A light bulb hung from the ceiling by a chain, casting the kitchen in greasy light. Laurie saw the narrow back door; it was bolted. She wondered how long it would take her to release the bolt. What was out there? A shed? Another locked door? Booby traps?

Blood pounded hot in Laurie's own ears at the sound of Jillian's sobs and pleas. "Please, I have money. My husband will..." "Shut up!"

Dishes were piled in a chipped enamel sink. The place smelled.

The room was silent, waiting.

"She was always a lazy, demanding woman," Margaret said, as if reading Laurie's thoughts. "She made me do all the housework when I was in school, and even after I went out to work. You can see I've become quite slovenly myself of late. I apologize for that.

I have to do something. That "just right moment" wasn't going to present itself just for her convenience. If there was to be any opportunity for escape, she would have to create it. Though Margaret's attention was on Jillian, she also kept a wary eye on Laurie. 30

She reached for her coat.

Laurie wondered if she could overtake her. It wasn't likely. Margaret was bigger, certainly taller, and probably a hell of a lot stronger, much of her strength born of rage. Maybe if Jillian hadn't been tied up, the two of them together...

"I'll kill her the minute you close the door after you, Laurie," Margaret called out, as calmly as if she were asking her to pick up a loaf of bread on the way. For one shameful instant Laurie asked herself what Jillian had ever done for her that she should leave her own life in danger. Then she turned and resignedly went up the stairs.

This is a nightmare, isn't it? Any second now I'll wake up and Mom and I will laugh about this dream I'm having. You read about this sort of thing. You saw it played out on the movie screen while you filled your face with popcorn. But it never happened to you, or to anyone connected with you.

Laurie quickly checked the two bedrooms on the right. The second room smelled more strongly of Vick's and just faintly of rosewater. An open Bible lay on the night table. Beside it, nearly hidden by wads of Kleenex, was a phone. Heart racing, Laurie eased the receiver from its cradle and put it to her ear. There was a kind of "whooshing" sound, like you heard when you listened into a seashell. Laurie pressed the button a couple of time, trying to get a dial tone. She'd call her mom. It was the only number she could recall at the moment.

Laurie steeled herself. "Margaret, I have to go to the bathroom. All that punch, you know..." She tried to smile. "Sure, Laurie." She waved the gun in the direction of the living room. "Upstairs, second door on the left." "It's okay then if..."

Suddenly, the "whooshing" stopped, replaced by the terrifying sound of Margaret's voice. "Hang it up, Laurie."

"Of course." Taken aback at having had her request so readily granted, she mumbled her thanks and went through the hallway with tentative steps, half thinking that it was a trick and that any second a bullet would slam into her back. She didn't let out her breath until she was out of Margaret's view.

Laurie's heart shot into her throat. "Margaret. I was just calling my mom. She'll be worr..." "Hang it up. Now. You've got two minutes to get down here. You really disappoint me, Laurie. I thought you understood." The phone clicked off. A green enamelled clawfoot tub dominated the bathroom. A plastic curtain was drawn across it. After the shock of hearing Margaret's voice on the phone, Laurie really did have to go. Seated there, listening to the slow drip, drip, drip of water into the tub, something - something, made her reach out and take an edge of curtain in her hand and draw it back - slowly, very slowly, as if in some part of her mind she already knew what she would find.

The front door seemed a mile away, as if she were looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. She was sure Margaret hadn't locked it. Her coat was draped over the sofaback with Jillian's. She tiptoed toward it, grateful for the silent carpet beneath her feet. She wouldn't stop running until she got to the hotel, then she'd call the police. 31

The woman's splayed feet were revealed to her first. They were swollen, with dark bluish toenails that badly needed cutting. Her mottled flesh was white as bread dough. Laurie did not remember her being such a large woman. Mrs. Dross would not have fit in Laurie's small apartmentsized tub. Pale eyes stared up at her from beneath a skim of water. Her mouth was slightly open, to reveal loose dentures. Tendrils of wispy grey hair floated about her face.

Laurie had a vague recollection of talk surrounding the incident. She wouldn't have been one of the people shown the pictures. She shook her head.

She managed to draw the curtains across. In the hallway she closed her eyes and sagged against the wall. The image of the corpse remained behind her lids. She fought to keep from passing out. Bile rose bitter in her throat. She had to get hold of herself. Margaret musn't know I saw her. Oh, my God, she murdered her mother.

"I didn't mean any harm, Margaret," Jillian said in a small voice. "It was all in fun. We were kids. I never even thought of it again."

"People whispered and laughed behind my back. The boys said ugly, horrible things to me, right out. I told my mother, but she just said I must have done something to deserve it. She said it was punishment from God...No, no tea or coffee, Laurie. Sorry. There won't be time."

Whatever she had to drink, she's sober now. "Fun for you, maybe" Laurie said, turning on a startled Jillian. "You were always one who liked having a laugh at someone else's expense. You need to understand what you did. You need to atone." Please, please let this work.

Jillian was sitting docilely in the chair, watching Laurie enter the kitchen. She was drawn, and so pale Laurie could see the scars at the corner of her eyes from her eyelift. The tears had washed away the makeup. The cut on her cheekbone was swollen and discolored.

Jillian twisted in the chair. The tears came again. "Why are you ganging up with her?" "Why not? You always travelled with your little gang." Laurie glanced at the owl clock on the wall. Mom will be looking for me by now. She'll be putting on water for tea, wanting to hear all about the evening. Would she get to tell her?

I have to do something. "Could we have tea - or coffee?" Laurie asked, forcing a smile at their captor. "You've been terribly hurt, Margaret. We need to talk about it."

"One thing I did always wonder about," Margaret said, lowering the gun a little. "Why me, Jillian? Why were you so cruel? What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?"

"Talking won't make the dreams go away. You don't know what she did to me, Laurie." "I think I do."

"Nothing. I didn't hate you. I didn't..."

"Did you know she took pictures of me in the gym shower and showed them around the school?"

Laurie thought that was probably true. Margaret had meant nothing to Jillian. She was as insignificant as a fly on the windowsill, except as a target, an 32

around, sobbing, feeling about for her glasses. Laurie picked them up out of the gutter and helped her up. Her knees and hands were bleeding. Jillian and her pals had gone off, laughing.

amusement. "Do you remember daring Jason Belding to ask me to the school dance, Jillian?" "No," she whispered.

"It was twenty years ago, for God's sake, Margaret," Jillian said, to Laurie's utter amazement. "You should be over it by now."

"I thought he really liked me. Oh, at first I couldn't believe he actually wanted to take me out, but he was really nice. He said he couldn't pick me up because he had to work late, but that he'd meet me at the dance. I spent all my baby-sitting money on a new dress. It was the first time I dared to wear lipstick. I had to sneak out of the house. When I got there, he was with someone else, one of your friends. He looked kind of embarrassed, like he felt bad. You had this smirk on your face, so I knew right away you pushed him to do it. Everyone always wanted to please you, Jillian. You had it all. Everything your way."

"Over it?" Margaret said quietly. Jillian strained against the ropes. "Do it then," she cried. "Just go ahead and get it over with. Maybe it will make you feel better to know my life is crap these days. My 15-year old daughter ran away six months ago because she hates me, and I have no idea where the hell she is. My husband is divorcing me to marry some little slut nurse at the hospital. And I'm well on my way to becoming a fullfledged alcoholic. So if you want to kill me, Margaret, then please, please, just do it. The truth be known, you'd be doing me a favor."

"You're wrong, Margaret," Jillian said. "You..." "Do you remember following me one day?" Margaret went on. "Chanting 'here pig here pig, oink, oink'," Margaret hunched over, crossed the floor and back, as she mimicked the ugly words that would never leave her. For an instant, looking at her, Laurie was reminded of Sally Fields in the role of Sybil. "Do you remember that?" Margaret asked, stopping.

Confusion came into Margaret's face. Who would have thought Jillian Thorne's life could be anything but perfect? "You would punish her more by letting her live. Margaret, you don't want to hurt anyone. You'd be no better than your tormentors, then. You'd be no better than Jillian. Don't you see that? Please, give me the gun."

Jillian shifted her eyes. She remembered. As did Laurie. She'd tried to make them stop, but they wouldn't. She could still hear the stomp, stomp, stomp of those feet following behind Margaret's, marking time with the hateful chant. The momentum and volume seemed to take on a life of its own. It was horrible. And then Margaret lost her rhythm, stumbled and fell on the broken sidewalk. She was crawling

"She was all I had. She's gone now." She's talking about her mother. She knows I saw her. "What happened, Margaret? What made you...?"

Margaret looked momentarily bewildered then her eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't do anything, Laurie. I wouldn't hurt my mother. I love her. She had a heart attack. I - found her when I got home from work today. The doctor kept telling her she needed to lose weight, but she wouldn't listen."

squarely at Margaret. Margaret's eyes filled. "I thought you were my friend, Laurie." "I am," she gasped, removing one hand from the gun to rub the fire from her knee. "Believe me, I am." It was after two in the morning when she arrived at her mother's in a taxi. Officer Jason Belding had offered to have someone drive her, but she knew it would frighten her mother to see her pull up in a police car. Jason had assured her that Margaret wouldn't serve any jail time, since no one was interested in pressing charges. True to form, once Jillian knew she was safe she was ready to throw Margaret to the wolves, but Laurie convinced her she owed her a break.

It hadn't occurred to Laurie she'd died of natural causes. Relieved, she said, "We should call an ambulance." "Don't you think it's a little late for that?" "They'd take her to the morgue. Or we could call the police." "Not yet. I'm dead too, you know. So she has to die. Because of her I have nothing. No one." "Margaret, you're not dead. You were a victim of childish cruelty, but it's over now. You could have your pick of men. Take a look at yourself in the mirror, girl. You could be a model."

Margaret would get the help she needed and deserved. Jason thought she would be allowed to attend her mom's funeral, escorted of course. Laurie planned to be there, too. She would call David in the morning and explain.

Margaret smiled thinly. "It's a costume."

"You really must have had a great time," her mother said, busying herself with teapot and cups, despite the hour. "Tell me everything."

Her words hung in the air. "I'm sorry, Margaret," Jillian said. "I didn't know..."

Laurie smelled freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Her favorite. There but for the grace of God -- and Mom." You wouldn't believe it. You just wouldn't believe it."

"Sure you did." She raised the gun. It was now or never. Not daring to give it further thought, Laurie went into a crouch, dove at Margaret, pulling off a tackle Joe Namath would have been proud of. The gun flew out of Margaret's hand and slid across the linoleum floor under the table. Laurie rolled off Margaret, scrambled after it, banged her knee on the table leg. Margaret's hand clamped around her ankle, tried to drag her back, but too late. Flinging herself on her back, Laurie gripped the gun with both hands, aimed it 34

Author Joyce Elson Moore

After a brief teaching career, she turned to her first love, writing.

In doing research for my latest release, The Tapestry Shop, an historical novel based on the life of Adam de la Halle, a French poet/ musician, I came upon an amazing fact. My protagonist, Adam, wrote a play titled Robin and Marion, well before Robin Hood became an English folk hero. I know the English will not easily give up their claim to the popular Robin, but facts are facts. The earliest English ballads came later than Adam’s play, which was written in the 13th century, and many musicologists believe that Robin and Marion was the first penning of the legend. Because Adam was from northern France, and was patronized by royalty, it is very probable that his play was performed in English courts and that the English ballads grew from those performances. Adam’s play takes place in a forest, his cousins help him save Marion from capture, and it’s likely that Adam’s cousins later became the “merry men”. You can read about Adam’s life in my novel, and while it’s not about Robin Hood, it does have excerpts from his work, and a scene where he and Catherine are watching a performance of Robin and Marion.

Her interest in Adam began when she saw a woodcut of the musician in a college textbook. He looked like a monk, but that seemed unlikely, considering his secular compositions. Was he truly a hunchback, as he was called? Thus began a search to uncover the life and times of a court musician, leading to some interesting discoveries along the way, not the least of which was that he penned what may have been the first written version of the Robin Hood legend. Adam’s pastourelle, The Play of Robin and Marion, is an early precursor to later ballads that take place in and around a forest and promote the theme of social justice, as does Adam’s play. The author of The Tapestry Shop has reached a widening audience with her books, beginning with historical nonfiction and later, with historical novels. Along with previous awards and contest wins, she was First Place winner of the 2009 PRLA award for best published romance. Her books continue to draw praise and rave reviews, some of which are posted on her website. Moore won a coveted appointment for summer residency at the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts, and is in demand as a speaker at historical groups, libraries, conferences, and writers' festivals. Other events include the annual Times Festival of Reading, and Book Ends, a television production for Public Broadcasting.

Joyce Elson Moore is an award winning author of historical fiction. In addition to her novels, her work has appeared in major newspapers and national publications, poetry journals, and anthologies of selected writers.

She lives on the west coast of Florida with her rescued boxer dog, rabbits, tree squirrels, a resident coyote, and sevIn writing The Tapestry Shop, the author viseral gopher tortoises that ited France to research Arras, the birthplace of the call her wooded three thirteenth-century musician, Adam de la Halle, on whose life the novel is based. Later, she visited medie- acres their home. Joyce is val ruins to get a feel of how Adam might have lived, an unabashed Francophile who also enjoys ballroom and how the French court, with which Adam associdancing, RVing and overated, affected the musician’s life. Moore’s background in music is evident in The seas travel, book groups, yoga, visiting with her famTapestry Shop. She studied music at Florida State Uni- ily, and taking classes in almost anything she has not versity and Cincinnati Conservatory, later earning her tried. Bachelor’s in Music from St. Leo University, graduat- http://www.joycemoorebooks.com/adam3.htm ing Magna cum Laude. Her Masters in Music Theory was earned at the University of South Florida. 35

Book Trailer Design for all your promotional needs. Visit www.suzannahsafi.com

Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Owner: Author Suzannah Safi www.suzannahsafi.com Author of sizzling Romance Stories for the Soul

Hope you enjoyed issue 2 of Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine. Check the next issue3 in February, you never know what will dwell inside until you read it :). Please share your comments on my blog at www.suzannahsafi.blogspot.com And donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget to visit the authors websites to know what they are up too I hope they are behaving LOL

http://www.wix.com/cocktailsmagazine/fictionandgossip