Author feature from ‘With love, Ella’ by Alexa Randolph

With Love, Ella  is a contemporary women's fiction novel.

“Wow El, you look stunning.”
She got down to the last step and jumped into his arms and never wanted to let go. They got into the car and drove off to the surprise location.
Daniel could sense that something was going on because Ella didn’t seem like herself. He saw right through her façade.
“Hey El, is everything okay? You seem kind of distracted.”
“Yeah everything is good. It’s just been a rough week with being sick. I guess my energy isn’t fully back to where it should be yet, but I’m all yours tonight I don’t want to think about the past week. I am so proud of you. I saw the highlights from the game. You guys are doing amazing,” Ella said.
“It has been one hell of a preseason so far. But enough about football. I want to just be in the moment with you.” Daniel leaned over to give her a kiss before getting out of the car and opening her door.
Ella looked around at the surprise location.
“The beach? I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
Daniel laughed. “Don’t worry babe, you won’t need one. We aren’t going swimming.”
They walked from the car to beach laughing and stealing kisses the whole time. Ella had stopped in her tracks suddenly with Daniel right behind her.
“Oh Daniel, this is beautiful. I can’t believe you did this for me.”
Ella look around to see a beautifully set table with a light pink tablecloth, and pink and white rose petals scattered on the table and on the sand by their table. There were little floating candles on the table. It looked magical. Ella had tears in her eyes. Daniel was always thinking about her and going out of his way for her. She couldn’t believe how lucky she was. She was blown away, but still In the back of her mind she was nervous of his reaction to her news.
“You are truly one of a kind, Daniel Collins. This means so much to me,” Ella said through the tears.
Daniel pulled her into him and kissed her before pulling out her seat and pushing her in. He took off the tops of the food containers at their seat and poured the wine.
“This food smells and looks amazing,” Ella said.
“Well it’s your favorite meal from the club.”
“Who can resist Scott’s spaghetti and meatballs?”
“No one with taste.”
They spent the rest of dinner catching up and enjoying each other’s company. Ella noticed that Daniel was starting to get fidgety and had a nervous energy. She held his hand and smiled at him. He kissed her hand and held them tight.
“Ella, you have always been my best friend and for the past six years I have been lucky enough to call you the love of my life. We may fight at times, but I know that I could never be without you by my side. Words could never describe how much you mean to me. You are the reason I wake up in the morning and the reason I never want to go to sleep at night. When I think about my future the only thing that I know for sure is how much I need you in it. You are my everything.” He grabbed a box out of his pocket and got down on knee. He looked her right in the eyes and said, “Will you do the honor of making me the happiest guy in the world and be my wife?”
Ella was shocked. She shouldn’t have been surprised, as this had been a long time coming. But still she didn’t think it would happen now when her life had just fallen apart. Tears formed in Ella’s eyes.
“I…uh…I need a minute.” Ella said before slipping her heels off and taking off down the beach.

You can find out more about the book and its author, Alexa Randolph, on her website.

A Bite of… Alexa Randolph

Alexa Randolph is the author of With Love, Ella  a contemporary women's fiction novel.

Question one: As a writer, what or who would you say were your biggest literary influences?

I would say my biggest literary influences are John Greene’s The Fault in Our Stars and Nicholas Sparks’s A Walk to Remember for this novel. In general I love romance novels especially pop star meets average person and royalty meets average.

Question two: Cake, candy or cheese? Which is your biggest downfall?

I would say that cake would be my biggest downfall out of the three of those 🙂 especially if it is a cookie cake.

Question three: If you could make one unbreakable law to improve the lot of humanity, what would that law be?

This was a tough one, but my law would be to keep bookstores in business because I think it is so important for children to grow up reading actual books and going to these types of places. They need to get their heads out of the computer and experience going to a bookstore and participating in the programs they would have for kids. Now a days and who knows how much worse it will be in the future kids are reading on kindles, iPhones, iPads. It also wouldn’t be too bad for authors either.

Alexa is a graduate of Michigan State University with a BA in Communications. She loves to read, write, travel, binge watch Netflix for days, make up stories about random people she sees, and drink lots of coffee. You can catch up with her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest and Linkedin or find out more about her on her own website.

 

 

Sunday Serial – XXVII

Much later, Anna turned in his arms and laid her head against his chest.

“Will it always be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like fire and ice in my blood. Like a thunderstorm  overhead. Primal.”

“I don’t know babe. I don’t know if intensity like this is built to last. But it will always be an expression of our deepening love. And good. So good.”

 

For a while they dozed, then Anna got up to see to Bonnie for the night. Sam followed her to the kitchen to find her standing in the doorway watching her dog check the garden for feline incursions.

“Pinch me, please. I never thought I could have this kind of happiness.”

“Only if you’ll pinch me too.”

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and they stood together breathing in each other’s smell. Finally, Anna laughed a bit shakily.

“Come on doc. Bed. Or you will nod off in theatre tomorrow.’

 

The week passed quickly, and Sam almost got used to a welcome home kiss and a hot meal at the end of the day. He learned that Anna was briskly efficient in any task she set herself, while remaining a kind, sweet human being. She fascinated him; so hot under a cool exterior, so funny under a bland face, and so loving all the time.

 

Friday night, and Sam went to the gym after work. He got home and, kissing Anna hurriedly, headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he walked out of the shower to find clean clothes laid out on the bed.

“How do you do it?” he asked almost plaintively.

“Do what?”

“Sort my life out seamlessly, while remaining so calm and serene on the surface.”

“Managing a dementia patient for a lot of years. The calmer you can appear the easier they are to handle. And it seems men are much like the demented in that respect.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

He grinned.

“But you seem to have taken it to the nth degree. Or was that part of the camouflage?”

“Initially. Although I’m naturally calm, I think.”

“Serene is a better word: an ice maiden with a banked fire under the ice. So sexy…”

She blushed, then grinned and leapt across the room into his arms.

“Never mind me. Here’s you, all warm and wet and naked. What say we build up this fire you are going on about?”

He groaned and bit her neck.

“Hard and fast?”

She growled deep in her throat, and Sam took that as assent.

 

Hard and fast it was, and it left them sprawled like limp dish-rags across the bed.

“I now need another shower, and in about two hours I’ll be able to get up and do something about it.’

Anna levered herself into a sitting position, and ran her fingers through her disordered hair. She sniffed.

“I smell of sex, and your shampoo. Maybe I need a shower too. I’ll race you.”

Sam opened one eye.

“Only if you give me six hours’ start. If you remember I went to the gym. Did an hour of kick boxing, then half an hour on the running machine. Came home for a quiet evening and some insatiable woman had her wicked way with me.”

Anna tickled his ribs mercilessly until he held up his hands in defeat.

“Okay you poor tired old man. I’ll shower first, then rustle up some food.”

She headed for the bathroom and he watched her go, amazed by how comfortable she was in her own nakedness.  I am, he thought, a very lucky man. I should never forget that.

 

Later, as they sat over supper, he told her what he had been thinking and she blushed.

“Oh Sam. I’m nothing special. Just a computer geek, who got lucky for the first time in her life.”

He snorted.

“Well then. We both got lucky. Let’s swear to never take it for granted. But tell me about computer geek. I have so much respect for anybody who can do anything with computers. I can barely make my laptop work.’

“You and about ninety-five per cent of the population, love. Which makes it very easy for the bad guys. You know I worked in the fraud department of an accountancy firm, but what you don’t know is that my job involved what is called forensic examination of computers. I got sent on courses to learn how to do it, and very quickly became better at it than my teachers. There was some talk of moving me to Los Angeles, where the parent company is based, but I said no. They weren’t best pleased, but they wanted to keep me, so I was allowed to work from a little back room in the Brighton office. And I became more and more skilled, and I trapped a lot of naughty boys. But nobody ever knew it was me. I didn’t want to wind up on some gangster’s list of people to liquidate. So I worked quietly, anonymously, and safely. I let the big mouth boys swan around taking the credit. I just got the satisfaction.”

“Blimey. Real cloak and dagger stuff.”

‘I guess you could say that. Even the moron who was, nominally, my boss had no idea what I actually did.’

“And will he know now you have gone?”

“Nope. As far as anybody in Brighton will ever know. Miss Marshall was just another colourless accountant.”

“So. If you are so good at computers why don’t you have more than an iPhone and iPad?”

“I do. At Ted’s. And when I get my laptop I fully intend to sort out your system here. It looks as full of holes as a colander. And you need a new laptop. Yours was a piece of shite when you bought it, and now it’s just a liability.”

“Yes ma’am. You tell me what to buy. On the condition that you can set it up and transfer all my files.”

“Piece of piss. That’s a bargain.”

He laughed delightedly.

“Any more surprises?”

She wrinkled her forehead.

“I don’t think so.”

 

One week together grew into two, then three, then four. Sam and Anna grew closer and closer, and he woke each morning with a smile on his face. However, there was one tiny thing bothering him – Anna’s possessions stored at Ted’s house. Almost daily he expected her to announce she was going to fetch them, but she never did. He knew he should ask. Just mention it casually. But he was afraid. Afraid to know why she wouldn’t take the ultimate step of moving all her things into their home.

 

He came home one Tuesday evening to find Anna on her phone in the kitchen. She blew him a kiss and then ended the call with a casual ‘see you sometime, then’.

“What’s up Sam? You look half pleased and half pissed off. You wanna tell me?”

“I do. Pleased first. I’m not working weekends any more. I’ll still be on call one weekend in four, but I won’t be hanging around in the hospital in case I’m needed. That’s a junior doctor’s job, and I ain’t a junior doctor. I only did it for so long because I was lonely. But I’m not lonely any more.”

“Good. Me neither. And if you are not working weekends any more do you fancy a trip to Brighton to collect my stuff?’

Then the timer buzzed on the cooker and she turned to attend to it. When she looked back, Sam was standing in the same position with slow tears running down his face.

“What is it, love? What is it?”

“Relief, I think.”

“Relief?”

“You are finally fetching your stuff from Ted’s house.”

“How’s that a relief, Sam?”

“I worried. I thought you might be keeping stuff at Ted’s as a fall back for when you got fed up with me. I was so scared.”

“Oh Sam. I’m sorry. I should’ve explained. I should’ve told you. Ted’s been working in Aberdeen for the past few weeks. We couldn’t get my stuff until he returned home. I’m so sorry you worried. I didn’t even think to tell you. Comes of not having had anybody to tell things to before.”

She hugged him tightly and he buried his face in her neck. “Stoopid,” she said lovingly. “I’m going nowhere.”

He lifted his head and his eyes searched her face. Whatever he saw there seemed to reassure him as he smiled down at her.

“I am a fool, aren’t I? I should have just asked.”

“Yeah. You’d have saved yourself a lot of worry. Now. How about a nice glass of wine?”

He grinned and picked her up in his arms.

“I have a better idea. Anything need your attention here?”

“No. Not now.”

“I need your attention upstairs.”

She sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes, before spoiling the effect by sinking her teeth into his neck.

Jane Jago

You are old…

You are old you should find sex a bore
Or an underpaid marital chore
You shouldn’t enjoy
A naughty young boy
On a rug on a campervan floor

© jane jago 2017

Weekend Wind Down – The Longest Night

It was the longest night, and the cold was such that standing still would be a death sentence. There was no snow, but the frost was so deep that the world shone coldly white in the moonlight.

A procession of dark-clad figures marched through the forest, moving in and out of patches of moonlight so they seemed to appear and disappear like demons or frikii. Nothing could be seen of the figures except their silhouettes, as each was clad from head to foot in dark coloured fur, and had a deeply cowled hood obscuring his or her face, and they kept their hands tucked inside the wide sleeves of their robes. Their pace was a measured one, taking into consideration, one has to assume, the smallness of some of the party and the consequent shortness of their legs.

Nobody spoke, and it wasn’t until a dog fox coughed somewhere in the undergrowth that the solemn processional progress of the group was interrupted. A small figure in the centre of the line jumped, and gave voice to an undignified squeak. The figure behind her, reached out a hand and briefly touched her shoulder, for this was surely a young girl by the voice,.

“‘Twas naught but a fox,” the voice was deeply masculine and amused, though not unkindly so.

They fell silent again, and the only sound was the crunching of booted feet on frozen loam. As they came out of the shadow of the trees, the air behind them was rent by a scream. It was the sort of a sound one might associate with an animal in a trap so desolate and fearful was the sound. Only this was not an animal in torment, this voice was human. Each figure in the procession bowed his or her head a little lower, and the leader made a sound of disgust deep in his chest.

“If only we had time…”

“But we do not.” The voice was female and authoritative. “We must keep moving. The lady is almost at her time and she must be somewhere warm.”

The leader shrugged his heavy shoulders and the column moved on.

 

Far ahead of them, a light appeared on the edge of the next patch of forest. It blinked twice, then was extinguished. The leader of the column looked and his shoulders dropped.

“We have to leave the path. There are soldiers in the forest.”

“The lady will never make it over rough ground.”

“I will make whatever I have to. Lead and I will follow.” The voice was low, and cultured and beautiful.

There being no proper response to such courage except to carry on, the column left the relative smoothness of the forest path and struck out uphill.

It was bad going, and steep, and even the strongest had all they could do not to founder. However, the smallest figure of all remained ramrod straight and even though all her companions felt the effort each step cost her, she gave no sign of her travail. The bulky-shouldered leader, who had been reluctant to set out on such a mission on such a night began to admit in the darkest recesses of his soul that this woman might just be worth the effort.

There was movement in the undergrowth and for a second he thought them betrayed, then the face resolved itself in the brutal moonlight. It was a wide, plain face with strangely green eyes and a bedraggled beard, and it belonged to the hermit whose forest chapel they were aiming for.

“This way,” the man hissed, “the chapel is surrounded”.

The column turned wearily and the hermit led them down a scree-littered slope and along the margins of a frozen river to where a goat track wound its way up the valley. The leader’s heart sunk to his boots at the thought of leading his weary folk up that black thread of track, but their guide made no attempt to climb, turning instead up a steeply cut valley that led, if memory served, to what was a crashing waterfall in most weathers.

Now, of course, the forest was silent save for the laboured breathing of the column of weary walkers.

Just as the leader of the column was beginning to fear at least one of their number would soon founder and have to be left to perish in the cold, the hermit stopped and indicated a narrow crack in the rock wall. Too cold to do anything but trust the big man bent his head and wriggled through. As he popped out of the short narrow passage he felt hands guiding him, passing him from one person to another in the darkness. He seemed to be heading for a patch of less blackness, but not by any direct route. It was not quite so cold in the vowels of the earth, and the air was fresh and sweet. The feeling of guiding hands was reassuring so he just went where they directed. He might have been moving through the dark for ten minutes when a voice spoke quietly.

“Head down seigneur.”

He ducked obligingly and when he could stand again found himself on a dimly lit sandy walkway with rocks on his left and a wall of solid ice on his right. It came to him with a sense of wonder that he was behind the great waterfall and that perhaps his party was even safe.

He came out of the ice passage onto a ledge where a skin-clad figure awaited the figure lifted a perfect curtain of mossy frondy vegetation, and pointed to an arched opening in the hill through which he could dimly discern  the glow of firelight.

He went inside, but instead of following the siren call of the warmth he waited for his people to file in. Next to last came the lady, almost being carried by the young man who had insisted on accompanying her from the castle. Her hood had been thrown back and the bones in her face were standing out against the skin as she struggled for breath.

“How long have you been in labour, my lady?”

“Since just before we branched off the forest path.”

As that had been more than two hours by his estimation the leader bent and picked her up in his great arms.

“Come then, let us take you where there is warmth and light.”

In the end there was more than warmth and light, there was food and safety as well.

But as the lady’s pains came swifter, the forest dwellers withdrew leaving only his column around the silently suffering woman. The one other adult female wrung her hands together.

“I know naught of birthing, save that women die of it daily,” she sounded on the very edge of panic.

The young girl who had jumped and squeaked at the bark of a fox stepped forward.

“Don’t be silly. The reason we are here is to make sure nobody dies.”

The older woman was about to round on her when the lady spoke.

“The pains are coming thick and fast now.”

After that the young girl took charge with a calm competence that inspired both admiration and trust, and there, beside a charcoal brazier and on a bed of straw the king’s leman gave birth to the child his lady wife had sworn would never be born. It was a lusty boy, and both mother and child bore the birth well.

Once they were comfortable with the babe asleep in his mother’s arms, the young midwife stepped back.

“How do you come to know so much about childbirth?” the column leader’s question was idle but still demanded an answer.

“I don’t really sir. But the way I saw it it couldn’t be much different from lambing. And nobody else was going to take responsibility.”

The stunned silence was broken by the sound of laughter from the makeshift pallet where the lady lay.

“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “we should call him lamb”.

 

Forty years later, when the babe born on the longest night ascended to his father’s throne and the priest called out his names to those who would swear fealty the assembled lords and ladies learned that their royal master was to be known as King Rollo Antonius Lamb the First.

Jane Jago

The Thinking Quill

Buenos Dias!

It is indeed I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, writer, agony aunt and astrologer to the famously credulous.  The renowned author of the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

One had been racking one’s cranium for a topic for this week’s tutorial (yes, even I sometimes find inspiration needs to pursued vigorously), when a question from Claire prompted one to consider the vital importance of symbols and symbolism to those who would create literature.

Even that bastion of unthinking vulgarity, that outpost of alien mindset, that epitome of hard-handed hard-headedness, that creature one calls Mater has in the recesses of her underused and underdeveloped brain a vestigial understanding of the importance of symbols. Only last week, she was watching some interminably boring panel programme sur le téléviseur, upon which the current Archbishop of somewhere was being castigated about yet another cover-up of ecclesiastical child abuse. Mater looked across the room at me and smiled a twisted smile.

“Moons,” she said a thought sadly. “Moons. If that churchman was to have worn his episcopal regalia, instead of sitting there like a mouse in a poorly fitting lounge suit, I reckon most of them oiks would’ve been a lot more respectful. It’s the symbols of office doncha know.” Then she refilled her gin and Guinness and no more was said.

But that brief moment of lucidity is proof, if proof were needed that the power of symbols reaches deep into the psyche – even of those as sunk into alcoholism and depravity as one’s unlovely parent.

However. En avant.

Lesson 30: The Write Symbols

When one seeks to create literary magic one needs many tools at one’s disposal. Not the least of which is the noble quest. A device by which your hero may be dispatched wherever your imagination chooses in search of some artefact or some creature without which the story can progress no further. But what does that have to do with symbols, do I hear you cry? Yes, of course, I do as your tiny crania cannot hope to make the leaps of understanding that come to one’s mind as easily and gently as a bluebottle lands on a plate of rotting meat.

Of course, the noble quest is to do with symbolism. It is one of the most symbolic of all the storylines.

First. The quest itself is a metaphor (or symbol) for the struggles that beset all humans from cradle to grave.

Second. Your hero’s solid helpmeet – uplifted from the lower orders to become his right hand – is symbolic of the common clay’s need for a god to worship and of the need gods have for worshippers.

Third. Whatever or whoever is searched for, the vicissitudes of the search are the symbolic harbingers of events in human life which must be overcome with stoicism and bravery. Tempting though hysteria and Tia Maria may be.

And finally. That which is sought is the most powerful symbol of all. It symbolises human love and human endeavour. It shows us the beauty that may be found in the depths of the human soul as we try ever harder and climb ever higher in our quest for perfect beauty.

Some common symbols explained
The dragon. Strength, coldness, avarice, and sex.
The virgin. Unattainability, truth, and the desire for sex.  
Water to cross. The struggle to be loved, and the desire for sex.
A cup or grail. The thirst for knowledge, and the desire for sex.
A dove. Hope and sex.
A raven. Despair and sex.
A knife. Cutting the thread that binds a child to its mother, or sex.

One could continue almost infinitely, but I am sure you are following by now.

So, my bambinos, choose your symbols with care and write them with delicacy.

Until next. Do not have nightmares and ecrit bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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Author Feature from ‘A Space Girl from Earth’ but Christina McMullen

When she finally reached the cavern floor, Ellie again stood frozen in awe. The figures were neither men nor statues. They were robots. Androids, she believed was the correct terminology for the humanoids that stood nearly seven feet tall and appeared to have been molded to have the same structural appearance as the Eidyn people. This had to be the army Julian had mentioned. The very thought created a cold lump in Ellie’s stomach. Was that why she was here? Did the Kyroibi make her some sort of military commander?
“Princess Robot Commander reporting for duty, sir,” she said with a wry giggle and haphazard salute to the row nearest her.
The idea was at once laughable and yet so very frightening. The Kyroibi gave her nothing. No indication as to what it was she needed to do or how the mechanical men fit into the plans. A growing sense of dread ate at her. She was certain now that Julian should have been there. He would have known the purpose of coming to the cold, dark world.
An anomaly caught her eye and Ellie paused. The perfect formation was broken by a single empty space, as if one of the androids had stepped out of line for a momentary break. The thought sent a creeping chill down her spine and Ellie spun, as if expecting to see one of the automatons bearing down on her like some sort of horror film jump scare, but much to her relief, she was still very much alone. Still, the empty space was unnerving.
“I wonder…”
With her heart still hammering, Ellie slipped herself into the lineup and stood as still as possible, hoping that perhaps she was the missing piece of the puzzle. When absolutely nothing happened, she felt foolish for attempting video game puzzle logic and blushed, despite being on the opposite side of the galaxy from anyone who might have laughed at her attempt. She stepped back out of line and continued her inspection of the ranks, keeping one eye out for rogue robots.
When at last she reached the other side of the cavern, Ellie found herself at the base of yet another giant staircase, a mirror image of those she had descended, and let out a deep sigh of frustration. The Kyroibi urged her upward and she had to wonder what the Eidyn had against elevators.
Halfway up, a lone figure came into focus and Ellie realized she’d found her missing android, but as she climbed, she noticed something different about this one. He too was just as immobile as those below, but he sat upon the stairs, elbow on knee and chin cupped in contemplation, reminding Ellie of Rodin’s Thinker.
The closer she got, the more she felt drawn to the figure. In some impossible way, he was familiar, despite knowing she’d never seen him or anyone like him before in her life. When she finally reached his resting place, Ellie nearly lost her footing in surprise. This was no machine, and yet, he had to be. Any other explanation was impossible. Surely anyone left on the planet would have been long dead.
Unless he too had only recently traveled to the planet…
Suddenly, she understood. Whether it was her own deduction or the Kyroibi, Ellie knew exactly who he was, though how it was possible remained a mystery. She reached out, without hesitation, and took his stiff, cold hand into hers. At once, the diodes connected and the statue-like man came to life.
Turning, his eyes shone with an inner light and a smile warmed the features of his face.
“El’iadrylline. At last we meet.”

Christina McMullen is the author of ' Space Girl from Earth. ‘The Needs of the Many’ book three of The Kyroibi Trilogy is due out May 1 and will be up for preorder sometime this month.

 

A Bite of… Christina McMullen

Question one: Have you ever thought life might be better lived in one of the worlds you have created? Which one and as which character?

With the exception of my latest series, all of my books take place in our world, however, there is a fantastic element that is known only to a few select folks. My first series, The Eyes of The Sun, takes place in New Orleans (and parts in Paris), but in the shadows, where vampires exist, even though they are not what is commonly thought of as vampires. Since New Orleans and Paris are two of my favourite ‘real’ places, I choose the secret headquarters of the Eclipse Project in the Central Business District of New Orleans. As to who I would be, well, I must confess that Dara’s particular vampiric issues were based on my own health anomalies.

Question two: Vampires or aliens? You have to put one in Room 101. Which can you best do without?

This is an entirely unfair question. So many wildcards to consider. Are the aliens the benevolent sort who are here to fix what we’ve screwed up? And if so, does the elimination of all humans count as fixing? On the other hand, are the vampires the classically rich, powerful, and sexy bloodsuckers who live forever? And if so, how will immortality help them if Stephen Hawking is correct and we’ve only got about 100 years left on this rock? I guess I have to take my chances that I can charm the aliens enough to take me with them to their home world, which is entirely made up of beach front property. Sorry, vampire loves.

Question three: You have one shot at making this world a better place by passing one law that nobody will be able to break. What’s that law going to be?

Ban all manufactured weapons. Not just the guns. You want to fight a war? You’ve got sticks, rocks, and your bare hands. Nothing more.

Christina McMullen is a science fiction and fantasy author who dreams of flying cars and electric sheep. She currently resides in Texas with her wonderfully supportive husband and their dogs. When she isn't writing, Christina enjoys travel, vegan cooking, modern and classical art, and of course, reading. 

You can follow her on her Website, Indie author site, Twitter and Facebook.

 

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