Butterfly on a Broomstick

Tuesday, 11 February 2014

Guest Post: The Battle for Time by Natalie Rivener

As a stay-at-home mom (of a toddler), it’s really a serious challenge to find the time to write. If my (adorable) little girl isn’t awake and demanding time/food/love/a change of diaper, I need to do the laundry, make dinner, pack away toys and projects, feed the cat, feed myself, prepare my dance classes for the week (I teach), get in some exercise…or at least a little yoga, spend a few minutes with my husband (usually, we just lie semi-comatose in front of the TV) and then catch a few winks before the next day comes around.

You’re probably thinking that it can’t be that bad. You do a lot of these things after a full day at work. But, let me tell you this, trying to do everything on that list in the few moments that your little bundle of love actually takes that one golden nap in the afternoon is no picnic. When your child is awake, you have to stop the little monster from maiming themself, you have to get food into them, get them clean, supervise as they eat some dirt in the garden, keep the cat from mauling them, get in some educational time (learning words and all that), play with them and battle with the little squirt to get them down for a nap.

So, how do I get anything done? It’s all about learning how to use the time you’re already using for something else.

While my little toddling disaster is actually playing on her own, I get out my notepad (no, not a little laptop, I mean old school paper and pen – toddlers just love insisting that typing aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa is much more important than whatever you had in mind). I plot, I plan and I try and think through all the brain-twisting logistics of my stories. If I can concentrate for long enough, I even start full on writing. If you use this time effectively, you’re ready to make some serious progress during nap time.

During the golden (aka silent) hour that toddlekins is napping, I have to decide whether I’m doing what I’m supposed to in order to keep the house functional or whether I’m sneaking off to my computer to type as fast as my fingers can go. Right now, I’m not preparing dinner…or watering my garden or taking out that nappy that’s brewing up a smell storm by the front door or tidying up the living room.

At the end of the day, when I put my little girl down for the night, it’s prioritizing, round two. Do I get in some decent sleep for once? Or do I “quickly” update my various social platform statuses/tweets/posts and try and get my word count over 500 for the day? “Quickly” tends to take around two hours. But you’ve got to keep your fans interested, right?

About the author

Natalie Rivener is a member of the Pretoris Writers' Group. She is taking part in the STORM anthology project. Her fantasy story, BEYOND, will be published as part of STORM Vol I in June 2014.

Twitter @NatalieRivener
Natalie's Facebook Page

Saturday, 8 February 2014

Fantastic February Blog Tour - Velvet Rain

Remember to enter the give-away! Click here

HE WAS BORN A MIRACLE. IT WILL TAKE ONE TO SAVE THE WORLD.

Velvet Rain is a dark thriller of suspense, horror, and drama.
[Contains graphic violence and profanity.]

Amazon

Kain Richards is the last of his kind--and a man on the run. So when this mysterious drifter falls for a

beautiful and sensible Iowa farmwoman, he knows full well the perils of getting too close. And yet, for the first time in his miserable existence, life feels normal ... feels real. But as those around him soon realize, reality is not what it seems. For when a tragic accident forces Kain's hand, his astonishing secret--and godlike power--changes their lives, and the world, forever.

Excerpt

Now the cheating prick had drawn a knife.

Probably shouldn’t have kicked him in the balls, the drifter thought. Especially since his large friend here had him tied up in the stranglehold of a full nelson. It hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to that spike of static driving right through that splitting headache he had. It felt as if it were cutting into his brain like some impossible electric blade.

“Hold him, Cal.”

It wasn’t the fat man. One of Cal’s buddies had piped up. All of a sudden, the place was just crawling with rats.

The fat man met him squarely, still wincing from the throb in his jewels. The heady mix of bar smoke and brew had him swaying a little, and just when you thought he might rethink this madness, he returned the favor with one solid shot from his steel-toed boot. Pain rippled through the drifter’s groin and into his skull. Still, he’d endured far worse than these boys could dish out, and he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. He swallowed the agony. His lips slid into a cockeyed grin.

Outside the packed roadhouse—this stinking pisshole that stank like all the others—the thunderstorm raged. Somewhere down that cold and lonely road that had brought them here, lightning struck a power line, and the lights flickered.

“No more tricks,” the trucker told him, uncertain as the lamps. Clearly he was rethinking this; trying to get a grip on just what the hell had happened here tonight. Trying not to lose that grip.

An attractive redhead, sculpted nicely in a white top and a flirty black skirt, sat in a booth beside the coin-op pool table. All by her lonesome, the forty-something was ashen, her head down, a hand cupped to her abdomen. She’d been drinking heavily, and while it was possible her bouts of nausea were a result of overindulgence, the drifter knew better; how well he did. She’d fought the good fight twice in the last thirty minutes, first throwing up in the ladies’ room, only to go down in the second round, right here at the edge of her seat. A waitress was on her knees cleaning the mess. The fat man had slipped in it, his cue almost, but not quite, breaking his fall, and when he had hit the floor in that little spiral the way he had, looking like some overweight stripper round a pole, half the place had exploded in drunken laughter. His big butt was slick with vomit. He was ripe.

Sweat beaded the man’s forehead. One tiny bead broke rank and slipped along his sunburned skin. Skin that had, until tonight, been utterly pasty. His puzzled eyes—yellowed and bloodshot, like so many of the others now—lingered on the strange thin scars on the drifter’s temples. You could almost hear the wheels of confusion spinning in his head.

“Cut him,” someone said. It wasn’t Cal, but what did it matter.

The fat man hesitated. He didn’t want to do it, that much was clear. Some guys had it in them. This one didn’t. Returning serve on that swift kick to the nuts was one thing. Any one of these fine gents would have reacted that way. But this? This was lunacy. If Cal hadn’t egged him to pull it, the knife would still be tucked away in his back pocket. No, the poor bastard wasn’t thinking about cutting him. He was all messed up, wondering how things had gotten so crazy, so quickly. Wondering what was real anymore. What was real.

“Do it,” Cal said.

Despite the nelson driving his head down at an insufferable angle, the drifter could see Cal’s bulging forearms plainly enough. Sunburned. Like the fat man’s face; like the fat man’s hands. Like most of the others. He supposed he should have been thankful for dim lights and drink. Either no one noticed, or no one cared.

Still, he should have known better. The bitch of it was, he did.

The fat man looked to Cal and considered his play. Cal, a man of few grunts, drove him to the edge with another Do it. It would take but a nudge to push him over.

The man drew closer. Close enough to suffer the fist of his stale beer-breath. He was breathing laboriously. Trembling. He looked like he might have a heart attack.

Slowly, most unwillingly, he brought the tip of the blade to the drifter’s chin.

The fat man swallowed. “. . . I want what’s mine, sir.”

Author Bio

David C. Cassidy--author, photographer, half-decent juggler--spends his writing life creating dark and touching stories where Bad Things Happen To Good People. Raised by wolves, he grew up with a love of nature, music, science, and history, with thrillers and horror novels feeding the dark side of his seriously disturbed imagination. He talks to his characters, talks often, and most times they listen. But the real fun starts when they tell him to take a hike, and they Open That Door anyway. Idiots.

David lives in Ontario, Canada. From Mozart to Vivaldi, classic jazz to classic rock, he feels naked without his iPod. Suffering from MAD--Multiple Activity Disorder--he divides his time between writing and blogging, photography and photoshop, reading and rollerblading. An avid amateur astronomer, he loves the night sky, chasing the stars with his telescope. Sometimes he eats.

To learn more and connect with David, you can follow him on Twitter and Facebook, or visit his blog:

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Wednesday, 5 February 2014

Fantastic February Blog Tour - Canvas Skies

Remember to enter the give-away! Click here

Find it on Amazon

Greed. Power. Class division. Resistance.

The Terenian government has worked hard to divide the haves from the have-nots. Guy Bensen, Elite

bachelor of the year, wants a better life for everyone. Thief/hired killer, Keira Maddock, hungers for equality.
Together, they might be able to change society.
Meanwhile, due to tragic events caused by the Divide, Keira's younger sister, April, has left her baby in the realm across the sea. Now she returns to Terene. With the arrival of two very different men, her life becomes complicated. In order to be safe, April must hide her identity. In order to live, she must open her heart.
In book two of the Reliance on Citizens trilogy, S.L. Wallace delves deeper into political intrigue as we examine the bonds that make us human, blending the genres of action, sci-fi, romance and political

The Hunt for Xanadu recommended for readers 17+

Excerpt
As Eberhardt maneuvered back into traffic, Keira's stomach grumbled loudly.
“Thunderstorm's approaching,” Eberhardt said. He caught my eye in the rear view mirror. I'd returned to the backseat when we dropped off Brody.
I smiled and draped my arm around Keira's shoulders. “Anyone still care for dessert?”
The Coffee Shoppe no longer looked overly crowded, but I was relieved when Keira said, “Can't we take it home?” Eberhardt graciously offered to run in. Keira sighed and leaned against me. I shifted so she could rest her head on my shoulder. It brought back a memory of the night we'd first met; she'd leaned against me in just this way.
“What's on your mind?” I asked.
“Just wondering.”
“About what?”
“Are they after me or us?”
“We're back to that?”
“The last time we thought they were trying to bring down the Resistance, we were wrong. What if we're wrong again?”
I sighed. “Well, we know someone is after you, and we know many oppose the Resistance. We would have to be naive to assume otherwise.”
“Paranoia, what a way to live!” she said as Eberhardt climbed back into the car.
The glow from a streetlamp briefly illuminated the scar on his left cheek. Then it was gone, hidden in shadows.
“Paranoia, I can tell you a thing or two about that,” he said.
Since his wife's death a couple of months ago, Eberhardt had thrown himself into his work. Training sessions for various groups of Raiders now took place on a daily basis, and as a result, Eberhardt got two, and sometimes three, workouts a day.
Back at the apartment, I balanced the box of tiramisu with one hand and unlocked the front door with the other. Using my right foot and shoulder, I held the door open for Keira. She hurried inside and entered the security code. Eberhardt had already returned to his own smaller apartment downstairs. I set the tiramisu on the dining table while Keira retrieved dessert plates and forks from the kitchen. I watched as she took her first bite.
Keira closed her eyes. “Mmm, this is delicious!”
I smiled. “Happy anniversary.”
She opened her eyes and smiled too. Then she took another bite.
“You did really well tonight.”
She didn't respond. I took her cue, and we ate in silence, enjoying the creamy decadence. When she'd finished her last bite and had pushed her plate away, Keira was finally ready to talk.

About the Author
S.L. Wallace is a teacher and life long writer who is a descendant of the famous William Wallace. Like him, she believes in freedom and independence. Unlike him, she fights her battles with the pen. In addition to being a writer, Wallace is an upper elementary Montessori teacher. She believes in guiding each student toward his or her full potential and in respecting people for the unique individuals they are.