TITLE: Mechanic
GENRE: YA Fantasy
When the dragonstones, her frozen world’s only source of heat, start failing, a young dragonstone mechanic must discover the cause and fix them, before the cold murders everyone she loves.
The heat charred every inch of my exposed skin and scorched my throat with each breath. Out. Now. Please. I reached the turn wheel at the end of the tunnel. It glowed red. I grabbed it and scathing heat bit into my fingers through my gloves, like some vicious little creature was chewing them off. Gritting my teeth I cranked it around and the door popped open.
I slid out of the stone and the wonderful coolness of the outside air hit me. Finally. I yanked off my hood. There’d be a rat’s nest on my head for sure, but the only things around were a couple of plants. They’d hardly judge. I took a deep breath, savouring the crispness in the air that was already banishing the horrible memory of that heat.
“You fixed it.”
I jolted. Darm stood right at the edge of the garden plots, his expression tight with pain. It was obvious despite the smile he’d plastered onto his face.
“Darm, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be this close to the stone.” I grabbed my jacket from where I’d abandoned it and jogged over to him.
“Just suffering in solidarity.” He looked up at the stone, his smile faltering for the first time. “But it’s okay now, right?”
I glanced over my shoulder. The panel I’d fixed was glowing once more. Not as strong as I wanted, but at least it was lit.
“Yes.” My throat tightened around the lie. “Of course it is.”
Miss Snark's First Victim
Friday, November 28, 2014
(25) Cozy Mystery: GRANDMA HAS MURDER ON HER MIND
TITLE: GRANDMA HAS MURDER ON HER MIND
GENRE: Cozy Mystery
Mama Meatballs – Mona's been murdered! Can her best friend Rose, a sassy septuagenarian and manicotti-aficionado, put her fork down and enlist the help of her big-city attorney granddaughter Anna to solve the case? Navigating a veritable buffet of suspects, small town characters, and age-old feuds will take all the courage and cunning these ladies can cook up.
Whenever Grandma Rose called, Anna went running. Not because Rose was about to die, or because her furnace was acting up again, or because Rose thought she saw a mouse and spent four hours circling the block to avoid a rodent showdown. Anna went running because if she didn't, she would never hear the end of it. If there is an afterlife, Anna will have a chubby little Italian lady dishing her meatballs dripping in red sauce from a bottomless pot saying, "Would it have killed you to call?" On a loop. For eternity.
Anna assumed it was another false alarm when Rose left her a wild voicemail one night in late October. She still dragged herself onto a bus when she woke the next afternoon and headed upstate from Manhattan to Milton, her Hudson Valley hometown.
Ringing Rose's door bell, Anna heard a familiar "coming, coming, coming" chant followed by a symphony of lock clicks and clangs that would make the fellas at Fort Knox beam with pride. Anna flicked her menthol into the neighbor's birdbath just before the door flung open to reveal her grandmother.
"What are you doing here?" Rose said.
"Are you kidding? Your message said 'Get here immediately.' What's going on?" Anna said.
Rose rubbed her hands together and looked at the ground. When she faced Anna again, tears streamed down her cheeks.
"It's nothing really, nothing you need to worry about at least. Just my friend Mona. She's dead. Murdered. End of story."
GENRE: Cozy Mystery
Mama Meatballs – Mona's been murdered! Can her best friend Rose, a sassy septuagenarian and manicotti-aficionado, put her fork down and enlist the help of her big-city attorney granddaughter Anna to solve the case? Navigating a veritable buffet of suspects, small town characters, and age-old feuds will take all the courage and cunning these ladies can cook up.
Whenever Grandma Rose called, Anna went running. Not because Rose was about to die, or because her furnace was acting up again, or because Rose thought she saw a mouse and spent four hours circling the block to avoid a rodent showdown. Anna went running because if she didn't, she would never hear the end of it. If there is an afterlife, Anna will have a chubby little Italian lady dishing her meatballs dripping in red sauce from a bottomless pot saying, "Would it have killed you to call?" On a loop. For eternity.
Anna assumed it was another false alarm when Rose left her a wild voicemail one night in late October. She still dragged herself onto a bus when she woke the next afternoon and headed upstate from Manhattan to Milton, her Hudson Valley hometown.
Ringing Rose's door bell, Anna heard a familiar "coming, coming, coming" chant followed by a symphony of lock clicks and clangs that would make the fellas at Fort Knox beam with pride. Anna flicked her menthol into the neighbor's birdbath just before the door flung open to reveal her grandmother.
"What are you doing here?" Rose said.
"Are you kidding? Your message said 'Get here immediately.' What's going on?" Anna said.
Rose rubbed her hands together and looked at the ground. When she faced Anna again, tears streamed down her cheeks.
"It's nothing really, nothing you need to worry about at least. Just my friend Mona. She's dead. Murdered. End of story."
(24) Memoir: NURSE!
TITLE: NURSE!
GENRE: Memoir
A young woman enters nursing school in the early 70's, just as the feminist movement is gaining momentum and changing all the rules. Her nursing career takes her on a forty year journey from New York to Austalia, challenging her both personally and professionally in ways she never expected and introducing her to some of the most intriguing characters who ever entered a hospital.
The young man's limp body is dead weight. His teammates in the pool struggle to hoist him up as two lifeguards reach down to drag him onto the pool deck. He's pale, but breathing normally. The guards seem to have everything under control. Maybe I should at least offer to lend a hand?
"Need any help? I'm a nurse."
"No, we're okay," replies one of the young guards. "The paramedics are on the way."
"How's his pulse?" I ask.
"It's good."
Relieved, I turn away to join my class which is already warming up on the other side of the indoor pool. That's when I hear his breathing change. Turning back, I take a step closer.
I'm wondering if he could be postictal - unresponsive following a seizure. If that's the case, all we need to do is keep his airway open until the paramedics arrive. In the ER where I work, this would be just another routine day. But I'm not in the ER with the support of doctors, my fellow nurses and the high tech equipment I rely on. I'm at my neighborhood rec center, trying to guess why this teenager is unconscious.
Suddenly, the boy's color changes to dusky, faintly blue. I no longer see any rise and fall in his chest.
GENRE: Memoir
A young woman enters nursing school in the early 70's, just as the feminist movement is gaining momentum and changing all the rules. Her nursing career takes her on a forty year journey from New York to Austalia, challenging her both personally and professionally in ways she never expected and introducing her to some of the most intriguing characters who ever entered a hospital.
The young man's limp body is dead weight. His teammates in the pool struggle to hoist him up as two lifeguards reach down to drag him onto the pool deck. He's pale, but breathing normally. The guards seem to have everything under control. Maybe I should at least offer to lend a hand?
"Need any help? I'm a nurse."
"No, we're okay," replies one of the young guards. "The paramedics are on the way."
"How's his pulse?" I ask.
"It's good."
Relieved, I turn away to join my class which is already warming up on the other side of the indoor pool. That's when I hear his breathing change. Turning back, I take a step closer.
I'm wondering if he could be postictal - unresponsive following a seizure. If that's the case, all we need to do is keep his airway open until the paramedics arrive. In the ER where I work, this would be just another routine day. But I'm not in the ER with the support of doctors, my fellow nurses and the high tech equipment I rely on. I'm at my neighborhood rec center, trying to guess why this teenager is unconscious.
Suddenly, the boy's color changes to dusky, faintly blue. I no longer see any rise and fall in his chest.
(23) Adult Thriller/mystery: TIMBER POINT
TITLE: TIMBER POINT
GENRE: Adult Thriller/mystery
Cat burglar Shawny Daniels’ latest break-in leads her to a serial killer’s lair. She inadvertently steals his trophy box. He wants it back and hunts her down, but she can’t find it. Now she’s juggling evading a madman and not losing her own heart to the case’s lead detective. Unless she coughs up the box, she’ll be the killer’s prey. If she does, more will die and she’ll lose the only man she’s ever loved.
I eyed the perfect house, a two-story contemporary in an upscale neighborhood in Revere, Massachusetts. Cased it night after night to learn the occupant's schedule. Shattered a street light out front with a rock to cloak me in darkness, and then returned tonight for the heist. I left nothing to chance.
Learning the target's habits is essential in good prowling. The last thing I need is an unannounced arrival or a half-asleep homeowner surprising me in the dark. I get in and get out. That's my specialty. Simple. Smooth. Stealth. Homeowner's insurance covers the stolen goods anyway. It's a victimless crime. And the only way I know to survive.
I waited for just the right moment to strike. The ideal opportunity when the neighbors' homes blackened and all movement stopped inside the target property. To me, it's like a dance. The music starts slow as the first house-light extinguishes, enhances as the second home darkens, and then elevates into a vibrant symphony once the last glimmer vanishes from sight.
This contemporary house, fronted with glass and stucco and a stone-columned carport on the left side, had no swing-set or signs of children in the home.
A perfect mark.
My favorite feature: the catwalk, made from the same wood as the house with chest-high railings that began at the front gate, traveled over a rocked stream-- a manicured lawn on either side-- and continued straightly to the front door. The baluster rods reminded me of hundreds of nutcrackers standing at attention.
GENRE: Adult Thriller/mystery
Cat burglar Shawny Daniels’ latest break-in leads her to a serial killer’s lair. She inadvertently steals his trophy box. He wants it back and hunts her down, but she can’t find it. Now she’s juggling evading a madman and not losing her own heart to the case’s lead detective. Unless she coughs up the box, she’ll be the killer’s prey. If she does, more will die and she’ll lose the only man she’s ever loved.
I eyed the perfect house, a two-story contemporary in an upscale neighborhood in Revere, Massachusetts. Cased it night after night to learn the occupant's schedule. Shattered a street light out front with a rock to cloak me in darkness, and then returned tonight for the heist. I left nothing to chance.
Learning the target's habits is essential in good prowling. The last thing I need is an unannounced arrival or a half-asleep homeowner surprising me in the dark. I get in and get out. That's my specialty. Simple. Smooth. Stealth. Homeowner's insurance covers the stolen goods anyway. It's a victimless crime. And the only way I know to survive.
I waited for just the right moment to strike. The ideal opportunity when the neighbors' homes blackened and all movement stopped inside the target property. To me, it's like a dance. The music starts slow as the first house-light extinguishes, enhances as the second home darkens, and then elevates into a vibrant symphony once the last glimmer vanishes from sight.
This contemporary house, fronted with glass and stucco and a stone-columned carport on the left side, had no swing-set or signs of children in the home.
A perfect mark.
My favorite feature: the catwalk, made from the same wood as the house with chest-high railings that began at the front gate, traveled over a rocked stream-- a manicured lawn on either side-- and continued straightly to the front door. The baluster rods reminded me of hundreds of nutcrackers standing at attention.
(22) Urban Fantasy: HOT FLASHES FROM HELL
TITLE: Hot Flashes From Hell
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
A woman discovers her hot flashes are opening portals to hell in her kitchen appliances.
I stopped wishing people would go to hell when they actually started going.
Reality went sideways, backward, and upside down on a Monday. It started with the worst job interview in the history of employment.
My resume mainly consisted of running my husband Ty's dental practice for the last 15 years. In fact, I'd changed my college major to business for just that purpose. I'd taken night classes in accounting. I'd driven through snowstorms to sign paychecks. I'd placated patients, vendors, and landlords with a calm yet cheerful demeanor, handing out calendars, pens, and homemade cookies at strategically appropriate occasions. Didn't matter. When Ty decided to divorce me for his assistant, I lost my marriage and my job at the same time.
So Monday morning. Cloudy skies and stiff breeze, unusual for Colorado Springs where we get roughly 370 days of unrelenting sunshine a year. As a new visitor to the land of the hormonal hot flash, I took the cooler weather as a good omen. My mistake.
My friend, Alicia, was retiring from SmileBrite Orthodontics in two weeks. I needed a job. Seemed like a perfect match. But I knew there was trouble as soon as I arrived. Alicia didn't offer me any coffee, wouldn't meet my eyes, and kept fiddling with my hastily assembled resume until she tore a corner off.
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
A woman discovers her hot flashes are opening portals to hell in her kitchen appliances.
I stopped wishing people would go to hell when they actually started going.
Reality went sideways, backward, and upside down on a Monday. It started with the worst job interview in the history of employment.
My resume mainly consisted of running my husband Ty's dental practice for the last 15 years. In fact, I'd changed my college major to business for just that purpose. I'd taken night classes in accounting. I'd driven through snowstorms to sign paychecks. I'd placated patients, vendors, and landlords with a calm yet cheerful demeanor, handing out calendars, pens, and homemade cookies at strategically appropriate occasions. Didn't matter. When Ty decided to divorce me for his assistant, I lost my marriage and my job at the same time.
So Monday morning. Cloudy skies and stiff breeze, unusual for Colorado Springs where we get roughly 370 days of unrelenting sunshine a year. As a new visitor to the land of the hormonal hot flash, I took the cooler weather as a good omen. My mistake.
My friend, Alicia, was retiring from SmileBrite Orthodontics in two weeks. I needed a job. Seemed like a perfect match. But I knew there was trouble as soon as I arrived. Alicia didn't offer me any coffee, wouldn't meet my eyes, and kept fiddling with my hastily assembled resume until she tore a corner off.
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