It's been some time since I've posted anything, so I thought I'd share a quick excerpt from the book. Coming soon!

Enjoy!


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....He inspects his gun, then places it in the back of his pants, before covering the black metal with his shirt. “So, why are we doing this again? What does this boy mean to you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I paid you, and that should be enough.”

Pete starts the SUV. “Whatever. I just thought since I’m risking years in jail for you, I could at least get some answers. But money is money.” Pete’s concerned I’m changing, that I’m not actually just like him.

I don’t respond. This is probably the worst thing I’ve done to this point. Sure, it’s for someone else, but to threaten a man’s life goes far beyond threatening my own with drugs and alcohol. I’m not sure Jessica would even recognize the man I am right now.

Pete speeds through town, and we’re in front of Ritchie’s house in about five minutes. It’s just about dark, and I hope that Ritchie’s practice is longer than a couple of hours. I’m not sure what I’ll do if Ritchie is home.

My phone buzzes. Two missed calls from Tessa. The newest buzz a text from Joseph. She must have called him. They suspect I’m crazy enough to do something like this. They suspect right. I place the phone back into my pocket.

“Are you sure about this?” Pete asks.

​“Why? Are you afraid?”

Pete fakes a laugh. “This is just another day for me.” He turns the Blazer off and gets out.

“Let’s just do this quickly,” I say.

Pete bows and points to the porch. “After you, fearless leader.”

My heart’s beating out of my chest, but I force myself to approach the front door. The rotten steps squeak under my feet, causing my body to tremble, nerves rattling. Before I allow myself the opportunity to forget that any of this happened, and run away, I’m knocking on the door. I don’t turn around, but I can feel Pete’s presence behind me.

We wait a few seconds, although it feels like an eternity. Maybe he’s not home. I’m beginning to hope so, but then I hear the telltale sound of the door handle turning.

I don’t even have time to react. I see the man’s face, horror written all over it. Pete is in front of me, the gun pointed at the man’s face. Pete grabs the fat man by his tattered shirt and pushes him inside as if he’s done this a million times. He probably has.

I feel numb. He’s done this to me. I know how this man must feel right now. I shake the thought away and force myself inside.

“Get down on your knees!” Pete yells.

Ritchie’s uncle is sobbing as he lowers himself onto the stained carpet. The house is dark and disgusting, trash everywhere—it’s just filthy. It looks like my house, except this one has had years of mistreatment.

“Don’t kill me!” the man pleads.

“What’s your name?” Pete asks, pushing the gun into the crying man’s forehead.

“Bill,” he mutters. “Please, please don’t kill me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s hardly any furniture in the house, but there’s a mattress in the middle of the main living area. I’m pretty sure I see cockroaches walking across it, which makes my stomach churn. I can’t imagine Ritchie living in this dump. The boy who has so much potential, stuck in a place like this. I’m convinced that even if everything about this is wrong, it’s worth the risk to help him. I can’t let him do this to himself. I can’t let him be like me, forcing himself into a life that is a waste.

I’m drawn out of my thoughts by a loud crack, followed by Bill’s sobbing. I turn just in time to see the man double over, clenching his face.

“I think I broke his nose,” Pete says maniacally.......



Brody Lane Gregg

As a freelance editor, I get to see a lot of different manuscripts in many different genres. Through my editing, I’ve noticed a few mistakes that new writers (and some old) often make. Some of them, a simple copy-edit can take care of. Others, a much deeper developmental edit is needed, which many authors refuse to undertake. If you want readers to take your writing serious, you'll need to avoid these common writing mistakes.

Although there are other common errors in writing, these are the five I see the most. 

1)Quotation Usage

One of the most common errors I see comes with the usage of quotation marks and end punctuation. I get a lot of this:

“Hello”, she said.
“What’s up”? he asked.
“Hey”! Brandon yelled.

Quotation marks should come after the punctuation. The above phrases should look like this.

“Hello,” she said.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Hey!” Brandon yelled.

2)Switching Between Character Perspectives Mid-Scene

 Switching between two character perspectives (or seeing in the mind of two characters—God’s point of view) is both distracting and confusing. This is especially true if the entire book is from one character’s perspective, but shifts out of nowhere to the feelings/desires of a random character. If you do want to move between perspectives of characters, start a new scene with each shift. Your readers will thank you for it.

3)Dialogue that is Too Simple or Too Complex

I don’t know how many times I’ve seen a main character try to ride his way through a book by answering questions with some one-word answer. “Great.”    “Right.”      “Okay.” In the end, this character lacks development and sounds like he has nothing intelligent to say. I’ve seen characters with so much depth, oozing emotion and a deep outlook on life, only to follow up with a “Gotcha” when told that the world is about to be destroyed by a bomb and only he/she can stop it.

This can also go the other way with too much dialogue. We don’t want to read two pages of the main character talking about how he/she is going to disarm the bomb either.

4)Telling, Not Showing

Okay, so you’re setting up a scene and you want to describe every little detail of what is occurring or where the character is at, or you want to describe the very miniscule steps of opening a door or putting on clothes. Don’t. Show character action that is brief and to the point. Better yet, just say…”so and so opened the door.”

This is also true of dialogue. You don’t have to say, “Don’t do it,” John said excitedly, raising his voice. Instead, show us. “Don’t do it!” John yelled. Even excluding the end description and leaving it at the exclamation point shows the rise in John’s voice. Always try to show. Don’t tell. I personally make this mistake in my own writing, and have been reminded of it by Beta readers.

5)Lack of Character Development

This one is easy to do. You take your main character and you do a good job of showing us what he/she is doing. But, we never get to see what is going on inside. What emotions does this character have? What is he thinking when he just shot that criminal? What memories haunt him? If the reader doesn’t connect emotionally to the main character, you’ve lost all hope of making the reader sympathize with that character.

Hopefully, these little tips will be helpful in your writing.

~Brody

It's with a profound pleasure that I get to interview author Rachael Stapleton, one of the first authors to reach out to me as I released my first book in January. Rachael is currently on her blog tour promoting her new book, and luckily for us, has graced us with her presence on this cold Friday. So let's talk book releases, bestsellers, and breaking into the business!


Tell us about your book, Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire. This is the second book of a series. What is the series about?

Correct. Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire is book two of the TEMPLE OF INDRA SERIES which centers around Sophia Marcil, a young librarian who inherits a sapphire from her Great Grandmother and is bestowed with the gift of time travel only to discover it’s a curse and she is now the object of a madman’s obsession.

In the second book, she’s returned from the harrowing yet wondrous journey into her past life—that of Princess Sapphira of Monaco with the regret that she was unable to protect her past self. She’s keeping a low profile, living in a cottage outside of Dublin, but she knows the man obsessed with her cursed gem is also out there somewhere. And really it’s only a matter of time before she realizes just how close—when Cullen proposes with the very sapphire that’s cursed her. As soon as it touches her skin, she feels herself being wrenched back in time.

That sounds intriguing. Oh and Congratulations on making the Amazon Bestsellers List.

Thank you! Yes. I was pretty excited. It hit around #38 on Tuesday when it released and then flew to #8 yesterday on the Kindle list. I was on two different lists in the Time travel Romance category. Last time I checked it had dropped to #62 but that’s the nature of the beast. I’m just happy to have been in the top 100 at all.
www.amazon.ca/gp/bestsellers/digital-text/5792818011/ref=pd_zg_hrsr_kinc_1_4_last

 
What is some advice you would give new authors trying to break into the publishing world?

 Well the first thing I’d suggest is that your heart be one-hundred percent invested. If nothing else makes you happier than honing that perfect sentence or creating that imaginary world then you’re on the right track. Writing is an investment. Just like no one becomes an athlete overnight, no one becomes a bestselling author overnight. It takes practice and determination. I’m not rolling in cash YET but I see everything I’m doing as an investment in a long term career. The same way a doctor goes to school and does rotations for most of his young life, I write for peanuts because it’s improving my skill level, it’s flexing my brain muscle and I’m growing a fan base. Everyone wants an agent and wants to be mainstream but the odds of getting there right off the bat are fluky at best. Rejection is inevitably a large part of the process, so you have to be doing it for you, not for “them.” I personally don’t see the value in banging my head against a wall solely querying agents. Don’t get me wrong, I want to be mainstream and I did query agents but I also queried small presses and entered pitch contests which is how I got published. Eventually I WILL be a household name but life is a journey and this is just part of it. Enjoy the ride! And finally, if you can, join a writer’s group or organization. It can be a lonely climb at times, and creating a community can make all the difference when drowning in rejection letters! It’s also nice to have people to pop champagne with when the good news rolls in. I’m part of the B7 writers group as well as the WCDR and I wouldn't be here without them.

 
Well, now that all of the heavy questions are out of the way, let’s lighten things up. Of all of the Gilligan's Island characters, who are you most like and tell us why:

 
Funny you should ask that because I just took a Facebook quiz. (What else would I do when I’m trying to avoid writing content for my book marketing tour. :o LOL!) It turns out I’m Ginger, the movie star! Truthfully I’m probably equal parts Mary-Ann but Ginger was my fave. Who doesn’t love a good seductress?

 
Can you fake any accents?

G'day, mate. What do you say we get together later and throw a few shrimp on the barbie. (Channeling Dumb & Dumber) Not bad huh? Okay no. That would be a no.  I have researched many other languages though for my series. Cullen and his family are Irish and Monaco Palace from the first book was a bit of a melting pot. I love accents especially brogue but I only write them.

What else have you written?

Of course there is the first book in the series THE TEMPLE OF INDRA’S JEWEL which is available on Amazon. Aside from that, I have a short story—a prequel to how Sophia and Cullen really met—DINNER IN THE DARK being published in a Solstice Publishing Valentine’s Day Anthology. It comes out next week! There’s even a recipe for Dill Pickle soup in it. Yum!

What’s up next for you?

I’m taking the weekend off to sip hot chocolate and play in the snow with my kids. I’ll be back at it bright and early Monday morning—answering all of your questions on Penny’s Tales. www.pennyestelle.blogspot.ca. There will also be a review of my book Paranormal Romance and Authors That Rock www.pratr.wordpress.com. The tour will run until the 23rd. All stops are listed and linked on the media page of my website www.rachaelstapleton.com  The rafflecopter contest begins Monday on the Paranormal Blog. Hit the tour stops along the way to win 1 of 10 prizes.

Can we get a little teaser from the book?

Sure. I’ll give you something that I haven’t shared before—a scene from chapter seventeen involving Sophia and her best-friend Leslie. This was one of my editor’s favourites because she loves the duo’s dynamics.

Lightning lit the sky, revealing the outline of tree limbs through the kitchen window. It was followed so closely by a crack of thunder, which shook the house, that I thought the storm must be directly overhead. Leslie cleaned off her plate and placed it in the dishwasher. “Wow, it’s getting bad out there.”


My stomach tightened. Another thunderclap rattled the house as if on cue and I shivered. “Was it supposed to rain?”

Leslie smiled. “This is Dublin—it always rains, although when I lived here there wasn’t a lot of thunder. Let’s go watch the movie. I’ll protect you.”

“Yeah, you’d put the fear of God into a burglar.” I laughed, draining my wineglass for emphasis while staring at her petite five-foot frame.

“Hey! I’m tough! Although I do plan to be pretty inebriated tonight, so scratch that. You’re on your own, sister.”

I rolled my eyes and grinned. “Why did I let you talk me into a supernatural thriller?”

“It’s not that scary. I promise.”

“Yeah, well, now with the storm, it will be.”

“It’s just a little rain.”

“I know—I’m just jumpy ’cause of the Betty thing.”

Leslie’s eyes were shining. “You mean the fact that the poor woman was killed by your ex who is now stalking you?”

“Honestly, Leslie, you’re not helping.”

“What? I’m just trying to make you laugh. Where’s your sense of humor tonight?”

“It’s gone…much like Betty.”

“There you go,” she said, laughing.

I grabbed the bottle off the counter and double-checked the bolt on the door as I followed her into Cullen’s living room. A huge fireplace took up most of one wall. Cullen’s house was small but cozy. Once upon a time, it had been his family’s cottage. Most of the properties the O’Kelley family owned had been passed down through the generations.

My eyes focused on Leslie as she sat on the couch and pulled a book from her purse.

“If you don’t want to watch the movie, we could always use this?” She held it in front of her with both hands.

“Oh, you brought the book, that’s right. I need to put it in some sort of safe.”

“Why don’t you try using it—using the magic?”

“No way.”

“Come on, Sophia, it’s not like you to pass on a challenge. Throw yourself into it. Read through it at least, and see if there’s anything that can help you.”

“Last time I looked in it, I wound up with killer nightmares and I mean that quite literally. I dreamt about the crimes that my uncle Velte committed and, unfortunately, at times from his sick and twisted perspective. And I do not ever want to go back inside that pycho’s head.”

“That sucks. But what if there was a different spell that could help.” She gave me a look that oozed guilt. “Don’t be mad, but I had a look through it on my way here, and there’s a way to contact Rochus.”

“Leslie, what were you thinking?” I snapped, grabbing it out of her arms and setting it down.

Her face was guarded and careful. “What? Nothing happened.”

“Lucky for you. Who knows what happens when that book is opened? You could have wound up cursed like me.”

“Why do you see this as a curse, Sophia?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you?”

“No. You’re living every librarian’s dream. Experiencing the past when the rest of us can only read about it.”

“Yes, but as you so lovingly reminded me, Nick is trying to kill me.”

 

Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire
Temple of Indra Series
Book Two
Rachael Stapleton

Genre: Mystery, Adventure, Romance
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Date of Publication: February 3rd, 2015
ASIN: B00SNAF018
Print Length: 215 pages
Word Count: 66, 400
Cover Artist: Rebecca Boyd

 
Book Description:


As a librarian, Sophia Marcil loved reading, especially books about ancient curses and reincarnation, but she never imagined the legend of the Purple Delhi Sapphire was true until she inherited it and was transported back to a past life where she was murdered. Now she knows that not only is reincarnation real, but so is the devil’s magic locked inside the precious gem. Just as she’s about to tell her boyfriend Cullen about it, he proposes with an engagement ring made from a piece of the very sapphire that’s cursed her. Reeling from the shock and surrounded by his family, she allows him to place it on her ring finger. As soon as it touches her skin, she feels herself being wrenched back in time.

 Before she knows it, she’s wandering the hallway of an old Victorian house in the body of her great aunt. Unfortunately, her nemesis has also reincarnated in 1920—as one of her family members. Sophia struggles to locate the Purple Delhi Sapphire in time to prevent the deaths of those she loves, but she fails and returns to her present-day life, to the precise moment she left, with a deep understanding that her killer’s soul is also tied to the sapphire and every life she has, he is resurrected as someone close to her.

 Her stalker ex-boyfriend Nick seems like a prime candidate this time but she’s convinced she’s a step ahead of him, thanks to a tip from a medium, she knows that if she uses the magic of the stone correctly she can trap Nick’s soul in the sapphire and save herself. But when Nick is murdered, she finds evidence that has her questioning everything she thought she knew.

Is Cullen husband material or is history doomed to repeat itself?

Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/VCeG9eA09Fg

My family has always been interested in our ancestry, especially the evolution of our family from the Scottish McGregors to American Greggs. We often boast our Scottish roots, and are quick to converse about our "plan" to revive McGregor as our last name.


Luckily for us, one of our cousins decided to research down the line of Gregg, and has compiled some of our history in a small book titled Family Histories of the Gregg and Woodworth Families. In the book, there are a lot of interesting facts about the McGregors.

Here are a few quick ones:

1)    “Royalty is Our Race” was our family motto (we occupied the throne of Scotland for some time).
2)    By 1563, the McGregors were a hated clan and were persecuted by Queen Mary. Our name was completely abolished by King James I.
3)   It wasn’t until 1661 that our clan was allowed to resume our family name, due to our help in battle.
4)    In the early 1600’s, part of our clan, now Gregg, moved to Ireland. It is here that we became Quakers and were friends of William Penn. It was with Penn that we came to the U.S. in 1682.



As interesting as that all is, as a writer, I find another one of my relatives to be the most fascinating. In the early 1800’s, Josiah Gregg was part of a group that traveled the West and established the “Gregg Trail,” better known as the Santa Fe Trail. Josiah would go on to write one of the most popular books regarding the Santa Fe Trail called the Commerce of the Prairies. To this day, it is popular among early U.S. historians.

I’m not the only writer in the family!


Today, Commerce of the Prairies is still sold in various editions. Once I found out that I had a famous author in the family, of course I had to have a copy.


And one last interesting fact. Currently, on Highway 66 just east of Albequerque, is a road marker that reads:
“Josiah Gregg frontiersman and trail blazer established a trade route between Ft. Smith, Arkansas and Santa Fe in 1839. The return trail from Santa Fe in 1840 passed just south of here roughly paralleling this highway. The route was little used until 1849 when the California Gold Rush drew immigrants from the East.”


It’s intriguing having a famous author in my distant family—at least for me. I may never be a famous author like Josiah Gregg, but I hope that my writing speaks well for the Gregg name in the coming years. And now, as I plan on welcoming my twin babies in the next week or so, I can only hope that someday they will be as interested in their heritage as I am. 



~Brody

The explosions are deafening. The panic is all-consuming.

But I am not afraid. There is no time for fear, only movement. I step over a barricade on the side of the busy street. No one tries to stop me. I move confidently, raising no question as to my status, of my right to be among the soldiers.

Before me stands the community center, an old factory converted over to the people within the city. It still bears the name of the manufacturing plant on the side of the worn down, stone wall. Directly beside the faded sign is painted Arabic, which translated to English says something like “center for the community,” granted my educated translation is actually as educated as I suppose it to be. I walk through the double doors with no resistance.

Inside, I see the people. Terrified people.

The reports are ambiguous in their narrative, but at the core share a common fact. The radicals are taking over the city. Terrorists. Explosions and gunfire have filled the air for hours. People are dying everywhere. It is only a matter of time before these people will die too, that is, if they stay.

But they don’t have to stay.

The community center is large, one massive room separated into a basketball court, several open classrooms, and a pitiful library. A large group of children sit on the cement court, huddled together in a tight group. Staff workers manically roam the area, yelling and screaming directions. Others sit in chairs, mumbling to each other, some elderly, some middle-aged, some clearly family.

I move to the children first. They are the most easily persuaded.

“We need to leave,” I tell them. There are at least twenty kids, mixed ages. Tears are a plenty, especially from a small group of girls that can be no older than ten. They look like sisters, but I am not one to judge accurately. To me, they are just dark faces in a dark crowd.

Some of the children move instantly to their feet. Others remain seated, unsure if they should be listening to the community center staff or the giant stranger before them. I repeat my command more sternly and a few more of the children comply by raising to their feet.

And then I see my brother, walking swiftly through the library. He yells commands more savagely, cursing beneath his breath with each refusal. He is the mirrored image of myself. Shaved head, tall, garbed in military attire. His skin is even paler than mine. Amongst the olive-skinned, Arab children, we are giant ghosts, oddities.

But our oddities demand attention. To some of them, we are their saviors.

I nod to my brother as he steps behind the large group. Together we corral them like cattle on a Texas farm. They listen intently and follow, completely ignoring the disgusted staff workers who try to persuade them that the community center is a safe haven.

I know the staff are trying to do what they believe is right, but this isn’t it. They are completely and utterly wrong. I push two of them out of my way, and by the third, a young gentleman with a mustache and white turban, I am angry enough to punch him squarely across the face. The rest of the staff are immediately deflated, and in turn, begin to evacuate the building along with us.

We filter the children through the double doors and allow them to flood the street. They are the military’s problem now. Not ours. There are more people to evacuate inside.

“The older ones next,” my brother says. He points toward the library. “They’ll take the most time.”

I nod.

I turn back into the room, before feeling a tug on my pants. I am quick to feel for my weapon, but when I turn around I find it’s only a boy. A thin, frail boy.

I point my head toward the elderly, signaling my brother to continue. I’m not sure he even sees me. He is single-minded in his mission.

Lowered to one knee, I rest my hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Thank you. Save me,” the boy says in broken English. I give him my best smile. He bares his white teeth in return.

“My hero,” he adds.

My smile is immediately wiped away. I am not a hero. But I nod anyways, if only to allow the boy the satisfaction of sharing his thankfulness. I grab his shoulders, tearing the rotting fabric of his cloak while doing so. I turn him toward the rest of the children, who are now nearing the other side of the street, where a military detail is collecting them.

An explosion, which can’t be any more than a few blocks away, shakes the ground beneath us. The small boy loses his balance. I shove him, forcing him into a run. He quickly regains his gait and is into the street before he can protest my force.

A long line of elderly citizens walk toward me. My brother yells orders behind them. In their condition, these people cannot go far, but anywhere is safer than this public stage.

“Across the street,” my brother says as they reach the doors.

Over his shoulder, I see some of the staff encouraging others through a different side door. Beyond the line of elderly individuals, there are few others left in the building. The strongest-willed. The expected few who will not take orders from light-skinned men, especially ones in military garb.

It takes an excruciatingly long time for the elder population to exit the building. We wait patiently, though inside, I feel as if I’m about to explode. I know my brother feels the same way. I can see it on his face, the anxious expression.

When the last individual is outside, we each grab one of the large metal doors and slam them shut. There is a chain tangled in a pile next to the center’s check-in desk. It is made for the doors. Together, we wrap the heavy links around the handles. And I secure the chain with a padlock that I find on the desk above where the iron once lay. We are locked inside.

Now, we are almost alone, save the one group of younger gentleman sitting in one of the make-shift classrooms.

My brother shakes his head, staring at the group. He then looks at me and smiles. He knows that they will not leave. They are the stubborn. The rebels I saw earlier. The ones who will never trust us.

“Hey white man,” one of the men calls to us. The rest of them laugh, even though the explosions, and the gunfire, are clearly edging closer. “Come over here.”

“Why are you not leaving?” I ask, as my brother and I comply with the man’s request. “This place is not safe.”

“Says who?” Another one asks. He wears a white robe and has a short, dark beard. He is Arab, but his English is perfect. No accent.

“Would you rather die here?” My brother asks smartly. We now stand in the middle of the sprawled out group. They lounge about as if nothing is happening around us.

“Would you?” the first man asks. “You’re the one that locked us in here. I think you know something that we don’t. And you sacrificed all of those others to keep this secret.”

An explosion shakes the entire building. The terrorists are close.

But the men remain calm.

“Or maybe,” my brother says, “we are keeping them out so they don’t make the same mistake twice.”

The group laughs together. “Stupid American,” the unaccented man responds. “Do you think that you can lie to our faces? For all we know, the terrorists outside could be American soldiers. More likely, for all you know, we could be the very terrorists that you are claiming to be saving the others from.”

The man pulls a black pistol from his robe and raises it above his head. His friends continue to laugh at him.

My brother and I remain steadfast, showing no ounce of emotion at their games. They do not see the danger they are in.

He lowers the gun to his lap, as another explosion shakes the walls around us. It sounds like mortar fire. “Isn’t it true that we all look like terrorists to you?” he says. “To you Americans?”

“Maybe,” my brother replies. He is not serious, but I can see the annoyance on his face.

“Well, in that case,” another man—a short, stalky fellow in a green robe—says. “Then my friend is right. We very well could be the people you are trying to save yourselves from. The Radicals.”

To the average person, his words could possibly be convincing. But not to us. These men are nothing more than traitors, American sympathizers, rats. They trade secrets to our country for the false hope that they will be protected. Protected by people like us. But they are not terrorists.

We are.

My brother’s gun fires before I can even grab mine. I see the blood spray from the back of the stalky man’s head. The others fumble for their own weapons, but it is too late.

I shoot the unaccented man squarely in the face before putting a bullet into the chest of the man beside him. Another bullet takes the second man’s life.

By the time I shoot the third man, the one in white—the initial speaker—my brother has killed the rest.

Around us lies a bloody mess.

My brother laughs, an ominous gesture. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. As he places a cigarette into his mouth he shoots one of the men who is still struggling for life, writhing in a pool of his comrade’s blood.

I, on the other hand, pull my cell phone out of my pocket, while placing my pistol into the back of my pants. I dial 1 and wait for an answer.

On the second ring, a woman’s voice comes through the other end. “Status?” she asks.

“Hello to you too,” I say.

“Hmmph,” she manages at my joke. “Status please.”

I roll my eyes. “Targets acquired.”

The woman begins to laugh, nearly hysterical, even though my answer was not a joke at all. “Not yet,” she finally says.

I am confused by her response, as I see the bloody bodies all around me. They are dead, all of them. We were successful.

But then I see it.

My brother’s gun is pointed at me. I cannot defend myself. I’m not sure I would have, even if I had the opportunity. He is my brother. Why?

He fires.

And I am on the ground before I realize what is actually happening. Immense pain surges through my head, but I still grasp for life, what little is left of it.

Though I’m sure it is only seconds, it seems like minutes of pure agony pass, as I hear my brother move above me. I hear her voice coming through my phone. It lies directly beside my face.

My brother’s hand picks it up from the pool of blood. “Targets acquired,” he says. “Wait, not quite.”

I do not see him, but I feel his presence hovering over me.

I take one more breath.

I hear the gun shot.

All goes black.

When I’m not writing or editing, I often find myself in front of a good fiction book. I know it’s hard to wade through all of the books that come out every second, so I thought I’d give you some reviews from my 2014 reading list.



The Enchanted Life of Adam Hope by Rhonda Riley
Genre-Literary Fiction/General Fiction
-If you are looking for a book that is beautifully written, then Rhonda Riley’s debut novel is a must read. Her writing style is like beautiful music, and it’s hard not to get drawn in. The story is about a man that appears in the mud and has supernatural powers. Set in the 50’s/60’s, we follow Adam as he falls in love with the protagonist, and learns what it is to be human. The only downside is the focus on sex as a key element of this love story. The novel is not graphic, but I feel like the emphasis on sexuality is just too much.

The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
Genre-Fantasy
-This is probably the greatest fantasy novel I’ve ever read.  It is the first book in the Kingkiller Chronicles. The writing is superb. Thank, Harry Potter (without the wizards) for adults and you get this amazing story about the life of a hero. Only downside is the book is quite long.

The Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss
Genre-Fantasy
-This is the second book in the Kingkiller Chronicles. Not quite as good as the first, but still a worthwhile read. And it will take a while, as this book is 1,100 pages long.

Divergent, Insurgent, Allegiant by Veronica Roth
Genre-Teen, Sci-fi, Dystopian
-These books are all they are cracked up to be. They are quick reads filled with an amazing world and an all-star cast of characters. The first two books are hard to put down, and the third, though not as good, ties up the series well. It’s surprising how much you feel for the characters, and it’s hard to leave the world once the series is over.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
Genre-Teen, Sci-fi, Dystopian
-I was not impressed with this book, and therefore could not finish the series. It was an alright read, but I honestly thought the movie was better. I know this isn’t a very popular opinion, but I just couldn’t get into it.

The Fault in our Stars by John Green
Genre-Teen, General Fiction
-This is a very quick read. Storyline is great, but the characters are not so lovable. In fact, the dialogue is very strange—they do not sound like teenagers at all. That being said, if you want a sappy love story with a very sad ending, this book will do that for you. Not my favorite, but worth a read.

The Giver by Lois Lowry
Genre-Teen, Dystopian
-I like this book, but not enough to continue the series. I felt like the story moved too fast for me to get to know the characters and feel for them.

Red Rising by Pierce Brown
Genre-Sci-fi, Dystopian
-This is a man’s sci-fi book, filled with testosterone and grit. Set on Mars under a strange class system, you get a very “Hunger Games” feel without the boring aspects. I can’t wait for the second book to come out. Downside is that the language can get strong at times.


Untouchable by Scott O’Connor
Genre-General Fiction, Psychological
-Found this book in the bargain bin at B&N. That being said, I was pleasantly surprised. This book deals with a father and son, and the lasting effects after the death of their mother/wife. Not only do you get to see the dark aspects of loss, but the author paints a detailed picture of what it’s like to be a clean-up crew for murder sites (the dad works for the crew). Overall, this dark novel really sucks you in. If you are looking for action, though, this book is not for you.

~Brody

For the last month or so--give or take a few weeks--I've mulled over the thought of self-publishing  A Trip Down Brody Lane once the publishing rights are reverted back to me this coming July. It seems like a great way to delve into the self-publishing world.  So, I decided to look through some of my old poetry, saved on old disks and stored away almost 7 years ago.

Well, I found some old rhymes that I thought I would share. I'm not sure where my mind was when I wrote them (somewhere in never-never land most likely), but nevertheless, I feel like they should at least see the light of day once. Let me know what you think.

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Go Home

What a surprise to wake up dead
With a gun in your hand and a hole in your head

 Completely alert, but totally gone
A bloody old mess on your own front lawn

 You’re in disbelief and you’re in denial
But Death stands on your roof and looks down with a smile

 So what do you do in the midst of the unknown
But get off of your lawn and go into your Home

 What a surprise to wake up dead
With a gun in your hand and a hole in your head

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Looking Through a Schoolroom Window

Two world’s collide
But each to their own side
One comfortably warm and quiet
One loud and in full stride

Inside, four corners
And twenty-four chairs
One voice to fill the gulf
To counter empty stares
That stem from lacking interests
The philosophies, a simple bore
Tick-tock, the clock it turns
Another second--open door

 Outside, expansive stress
The crowded road a mess
A muddy pond so close to sleep
Awakened by mere unrest
The heavens breathing briskly
Chilled to icy dew
The goal of destination
Expectant to push on through

 The looking glass contains to both
The quiet ins and hectic outs
Two worlds so close together
But the window leaves no doubt

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Beauty

For one to truly understand friendship
He must first be alone
And to fully appreciate family
He must first lose his home
Without the clear contrasts in life
Where can one clearly draw a conclusion
Without a yes and no or right and wrong
Is life but a simple illusion
For instance, take the life of a lawyer
Where ethical dilemma lies in every choice
Right and wrong is only replaced
If relativity is given final voice

 But to be “absolutely” relative
Is to give up all sense of absolutes
Yet I can choose to disbelieve relativity
And absolutes become my truth
Philosophy is a feeble thing on such a matter
Logically one can make the claim
That if everything is relative
Then what is there to gain
So with a very abundant confidence
Man can “absolutely” question universal relativity
True is true and truth is truth
The truth is true with all certainty

 Remember this clear fact
When “life” is what we are addressing
We live, we die, we wonder why
Providential means—it’s worth investigating
But time is not always our friend
It can be an enemy in times as such
When belting out the intricacies of life
And these intricacies are much
So clear the mind of presuppositions
And feel the freedom to “get out of sync”
Let this language filter through you
Free the mind to think…

 Life is about finding beauty
Under the breadth of the stars
On a warm summer’s night
Lying on the hood of your car
Holding the hand of another
Not because of lust or passion
But for sharing the constellations
Together, a common confession
Life is about inhaling the warm air
Like steam from a mug of coffee
Filling your senses with sweet aroma
Understanding the delight to breathe
Just for a moment of refreshment
For that one second of euphoria
It may be a tiny glimpse of satisfaction
But it can forever live in memoria
Do we ever see life in such a manner
As to narrow it down to such beauty
It’s not easy for scientific humanity
Unless one makes it a duty

 But this true beauty lies in the smallest of packages
Like a floating speck of dust
That travels for miles in stranger lands
From pink dawn til’ purple dusk
It may begin its journey in warm humid air
Where the sun sets over an ocean
And land in the frost of the South
Unable to travel farther--frozen
To bring one’s mind to such miniscule objects
Is a wonderful, yet simple task
None should never hide themselves from the little miracles
In “grander” or “superior” masks
But so often we do it without knowing
Searching for that which is not a bore
Beauty is not some theory or hypothesis
Not some idea that leaves us begging for more

 Beauty is an absolute
And I can be “absolutely” certain with that
Feel free to debate this Truth
Destroy my argument and I’ll tip my hat
But to question the very motive of this idea
Would be to question Truth itself
Beauty is “NOT” in the eye of the beholder
Beauty is in the beholder himself
As philosophically tedious as it may seem
Concrete evidence may not be so “evident”
Your philosophy is your religion
But where will your eternity be spent
I know not why presupposition steers us away
Or why the life of a man is so “intellectual”
But my calling is not to make an attempt at thinking
My calling is only effectual
And to claim that beauty is…what it is
May seem foolish to some
But if I can “feel” (not see) Beauty just once
Who cares when my life is done

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I hope these were at least enjoyable in some form.

~Brody