Wednesday, August 12, 2009


I'm happy to announce that after only a few short weeks of waiting (because the manager was busy with the remodeling of her store and didn't have the time to devote to making the decision at the time), Borders of Ithaca, NY will be carrying my brother's book. The book is: "Blood Kin" by John S. Bond.

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*About The Author:

John S. Bond began writing stories at a very young age and he finished his first book at the age of 14. Although encouraged by many to seek publication of his writings over the years, he chose to share them only with those he was close to.

Sadly, on September 12, 1999, John died tragically at the age of 52. He was a big man with an even bigger heart. He always had a helping hand to lend and, though possessing a rugged appearance and demeanor, was extremely gentle with animals and adored by children.

John’s greatest gift was a magnificent mastery of the English language, and the creative genius to draw his readers inside the action. Reading this book, you will experience anger (indeed rage) and satisfaction; find romance and revenge; yield to laughter and tears.

What more could an author of fiction possibly offer? In the author’s own words, "For, after all, what is a writer? Other than a man or woman who enjoys seeing others angry or content, making them cry or making them laugh, arousing their emotions and thus giving them a chance to live . . . A storyteller . . . . ."

This is John’s legacy to all of us. Read Blood Kin and surrender to all the emotions that remind us we are truly alive.

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*About The Book:

Blood Kin is the story of a modern-day refueling of the latent passions of a long-dormant blood feud. Set in the mid-1980’s in and around the small city of Devereaux Forks in an unnamed southern Blue Ridge state, the book outlines the history and the hatred between two mountain families, following the lives, loves, and relationships within and between the families and detailing the chain of events which will reignite the ‘bad blood’ and must ultimately culminate in one final, primitive explosion.

As this profound drama unfolds against the grandeur of the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains, every aspect is verbally painted for you with a visual clarity that rivals the artist’s brush.

Packed with love and romance, hate and vengeance, realistic language and violence, Blood Kin is neither for the faint of heart nor the reserved of spirit. Enter the world of Blood Kin and run the gamut of human emotions as you find yourself caught up in this realistic, raw, and spirited adventure.

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An Excerpt:

So, here it was. This, then, would be the night.

The Blazer trailed a rising mist behind its rear tires, geysering little sheets of standing water to its flanks. Lance Bradford’s grip was sweaty on the leather-covered steering wheel behind the monotonous thwack of windshield wipers on low against a persistent drizzle; his gaze steady over the twin beams of both foglights and headlamps slashing futilely into the pea soup of the night. Grant Corbett was at Darlene’s.

The rage within Bradford had been growing, nurturing upon itself like some cancerous sore, festering just below the surface, waiting to explode its evil malignancy in a torrent of hate.

Past the initial shock, he wondered how this ogre - - this hate - - could have taken such a grip upon him. He had always pictured himself a steady, level-headed person. He should have been able to accept the fact that a man had struck his son, and it should have been as simple as that. Reason for enmity but not this!

But Lance Bradford saw it as a lot more. It was a Corbett who had struck his son - - a man with a name synonymous with grief over the past few months. He knew in his heart that a Corbett had killed his wife’s father and that, somehow, the murder had taken his own mother. How? He didn’t know. But he thought he was sure.

The deed, too, had gone beyond a mere blow. It had been a savage, brutal, merciless sucker-punch, designed to do the optimum of damage, delivered by an experienced, powerful, full-grown mountain of a man with malice aforethought. Delivered on a stripling youth, hurt and blinded by his own blood, blood that had been put there by this very man.

Grant Corbett. Such had become his hatred that the very sound of the name almost made him ill. And he was at Darlene’s.

Bradford silently cursed the fog as an icy resolve began to assume control of his actions.

Gone were considerations of family, friends, his business, the law. Gone, too, for this moment, was what he had once called his common sense. In essence, his very sanity. For there was only his lust for vengeance.

Darlene’s Tavern was awhirl with activity, rock music pulsed and crashed, smoke hung on the air like a stifling blanket, nearly as thick as the fog outside.

Lance Bradford had been in his share of fights in his younger days but they had been mostly spontaneous, heat-of-the-moment affairs. This, however, was completely different - - thought out, planned, premeditated. He viewed the situation almost as a man detached; coldly calculating, sure of his next move.

The first thing was to get rid of Wesley. He wasn’t at all positive that he could handle Grant alone, but there was no questioning the outcome if he must contend with both brothers. Lance reached into the right hand pocket of his down vest and fingered the reassuring lump of weight there. It was a five-dollar roll of dimes, wrapped black and tight with electrical tape.

Bradford provoked a few raised eyebrows as he elbowed his way into a position directly behind Wes Corbett. That individual sat spraddle-legged over a reversed chair jammed in between two of the card players, his elbows resting on the back of the chair. On the far side of the table, back to the corner, sat Grant.

Grant Corbett reached past an ashtray full to overflowing, grinning and starting to rake in a trick. Then he saw Bradford and his hand froze over the table. His eyes slitted, suddenly wary; he remained motionless and the smoke wreathed around his head. It became quiet in that corner.

"‘Lo, Bradford", he said when it became clear that the other wouldn’t be the first to break the silence.

"‘Lo, Corbett." At this, Wesley, realizing something was coming off, started to get up but Lance had a commanding position above him. Using his free left hand, he vised down hard on that spot where neck junctioned with collarbone and leaned forward into Wes’ back, using his weight to keep him seated. It need be but for a few more seconds.

Across the table, Grant digested this and tensed, like a big, bearded cat, ready to spring. "You want something?" he demanded.

"Yeah, mother-f------. I want you!"

Instinctively, Grant Corbett lunged backward from the glowing cigarette butt that came arcing harmlessly at his face and, in the same instant, Lance Bradford brought the bottom of his nearly full beer bottle crunching down with all the force he could muster right on the point of Wes’ shaved skull.

He threw a hip and shoulder into a man who was standing too closely as he jerked his dazed victim savagely, by the collar of his shirt, to his feet and spun him around. The bottle had been jarred from his hand by the force of the blow and now his fingers closed on the roll of dimes in his pocket.

Bradford had his back to the table now and was only vaguely aware of falling chairs, muffled curses, a glass breaking, milling bodies, a stunned scream. Then all that was lost as he sent a looping right smashing hard into the middle of Wes’ face. Blood slatted, Bradford felt the tingle to his elbow as Corbett went backward in a long, stumbling fall behind the bar, bringing a whole row of liquor bottles cascading and shattering down around him. And now, the playing field leveled, he set his sights on Grant Corbett . . . . .


Mallory managed to shower Ward purposely as her naked body emerged from the water and she threw herself down on a spread towel, wrapping her arms around bent knees, her back to him. He traced a finger down her lower back into the cleavage of her buttocks. He felt her stiffen.

"Don’t touch", she demanded imperiously.

He sighed wearily, lay back with a grunt. "Christ, you’re a spoiled, stubborn little broad. I pity the poor bastard who gets stuck with you."

She looked over her shoulder at him icily. "Well, apparently you don’t want it to be you."

"Humph", he grunted again, pretending to be looking at the stars but really studying her out of the corner of an eye, liking the way her hair hung wet alongside the oval of her face; the way tiny silver droplets of water beaded against the silken lines of her skin; the way her firm, pink nipples, stimulated by the cool of the lake, stood straight from the soft beckoning of her lovely young breasts.

"--that there are plenty of men who might appreciate me for something other than an old doormat to kick around", she was saying archly.

"Spare me -- Mallory, the answer is no. En-God-damnit-oh. Not until I say it’s safe – and that isn’t now. There’s a killer on the loose, somebody out after me and the best way for the son-of-a-bitch to get at me is through you." It was dangerous, he presumed, even with the precautions he’d been taking of late, for him to be living at his family home, let alone this girl -- Well, it was just out of the question, that was all.

There was a long, pregnant silence.

"Ward?" she said at length, no longer pouting or cajoling, but seriously. "How long must this go on?"

He tried to keep the topic light. "Oh, we’re not doing so badly, are we? I mean, we’re together every day. You couldn’t drive me away with a stick - -"

"That’s not what I mean and you know it. Don’t you see? I’m afraid, Ward - - dreadfully afraid - - that someday, someplace, you’re going to do something that gets you thrown back into jail - - or - - or killed!" Her voice broke and he could see her eyes glistening in the moonlight.

He pulled her supple, wet body down atop his, possessively enveloped her in the strength of his arms, softly kissed away her tears. Indeed, how long must this go on? he wondered. He thought about how much he adored this girl-woman and how much she had done to re-acquaint him with the sweetnesses of life. But he thought, too, of an old man, one who’d never hurt anybody in his life, one who’d had that life brutally blasted away in a shower of blood. And the hate wasn’t gone - - wouldn’t be gone until this had reached some sort of conclusion.

"I love you", he murmured, smoothing her hair back from her face as she pressed her body fiercely against his.

They made love under the stars - - and, for a time, he forgot . . . . .

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(*The About The Author and the About The Book segments were written by Carol Lee Harris, who is also a sister of the author, John S. Bond. Mrs. Harris edited the entire book by herself, then published the book through for our brother, posthumously, as a gift of love. I am proudly a sister to both Carol Lee Harris and John S. Bond.)

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In addition to being able to buy the book directly from my sister, Carol Lee Harris, through Author House, and now also through the Ithaca Borders, I have discovered that it is also available through eBay, Barnes & Noble, and it's in India and Africa! It's amazing how far and wide his book has traveled, and this was all before we knew anything about how to advertise through Twitter and blogs, etc.

It really is a fantastic book and I wish that you would give it a try. Please check it out and let me know what you think.

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Until next time...stay safe, stay well, and may God bless you all.


Please check out my other blogs:
Cynde's Daybook ~and~ Usurper Exposed. Thank you!

Monday, August 10, 2009

"Announcing the Winner of the Contest for a FREE Book!"

"Announcing the

Contest Winner"

of the FREE copy of

"Aylerion's" autographed-novel:

"Daughter of

New York"

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The Winner Is:

Angie Lofthouse



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To win, you must have answered the following question correctly:

"What kind of gun is mentioned in Chapter I, Sonata?"

The Correct Answer Was:

".45 caliber "

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

"GEEKTASTIC Giveaway!"


Acclaimed authors Holly Black(Ironside) and Cecil Castellucci(Boy Proof) have united in geekdom to edit short stories from some of the best selling and most promising geeks in young adult literature: M.T. Anderson, Libba Bray, Cassandra Clare, Tracy Lynn, Cynthia and Greg Leitich Smith, David Levithan, Kelly Link, Barry Lyga, Wendy Mass, Garth Nix, Scott Westerfeld, Lisa Yee, and Sara Zarr.

With illustrated interstitials from comic book artists Hope Larson and Bryan Lee O'Malley, Geektastic covers all things geeky, from Klingons and Jedi Knights to fan fiction, theater geeks, and cosplayers. Whether you're a former, current, or future geek, or if you just want to get in touch with your inner geek, Geektastic will help you get your geek on! you want your chance to win ONE out of FIVE possible copies? Just leave a comment here, telling me all about your "geektastic" story. It can be either real or made up, but it has to be "geektastic". There are no length requirements; it can be as long (or short) as you like.

The tenth and twenty-third commenters are instant winners. (already filled)

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Extra entries:

+1 If you become a follower/google reader
+1 If you blog about this giveaway
+2 If you're a follower/google reader

The contest ends: August 17.

US & Canada only!! No P.O. Boxes accepted—sorry.

Best of luck to everyone!

Monday, August 3, 2009

"FREE Autographed Books--Don't Miss Out!"

This is just a reminder so that you don't miss out on your chance to win one of THREE FREE autographed copies, of the book written by fantasy/fiction author "Aylerion", entitled "Daughter of New York".


To win a chance for one of THREE FREE copies of Aylerion's novel entitled:

"Daughter of New York"

all that you need to do is

answer the following question correctly:

"What kind of gun is mentioned in Chapter I, Sonata?"

(TO FIND THE ANSWER: visit Aylerion's website, here. Once there, you will see that you will be able to read "Daughter of New York" in its entirety. can find the answer below, in this excerpt from "Daughter of New York"

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"Daughter of New York"

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Through a doorless entranceway, on a damp
floor, a dark figure leans against a cold wall. The
rumbling and screeching echoes of trains in the
vicinity surround a silhouette barely noticeable, while
a weak overhead bulb illuminates it.
In between the momentary sounds, a sweet, yet
sullen voice is heard as it speaks to something
unknown beside it. Upon closer inspection in the
minimal light, a girl, perhaps seventeen years old, can
be made out.
Filth and grime clothe her. Her wavy, greasy
hair droops down and a few strands curtain her dirty
face. As the busy morning trains lessen and fade, more
of what she is saying becomes audible and

“This should teach you not to pick fights with
big, mean alley cats,” she says softly to a rescued bird
in a homemade nest. “If I hadn’t arrived when I did,
you would be seeing the inner workings of a cat right
now. As ungrateful as they are, those felines.”
She is dressing the bird’s wing with a makeshift
splint of broken pencils when the sound of classical
music emerges. Upon reaching her ears, she pauses to
“Wait, listen.” Staying still as the music
reverberates around her she continues, “Do you hear
it? Sure you do.” She smiles. “Birds have great hearing.
That one is my favorite. I will have to learn what it’s
Finishing up, she leans in closer to the bird. “I
hope this has made you a much wiser bird. Next time
you run into that big ol’ cat, you will be able to soar
right over him. I know birds like to eat early, so don’t
worry about food while you’re here, I will bring plenty.”
She leans her head against the wall and ponders
for a moment. “Actually, I’m getting hungry myself.”
Then, when all is quiet, a light gust of wind
gently moves her hair. She leans protectively over the
bird as a clamorous train rolls right past the doorway
only a few feet away.
A grate rises from the sidewalk off to the side of
traffic and out she climbs with ease. Closing the grate
behind her, she puts her messengertype
crossways on her shoulder and looks up to the sky.
As it is an overcast day, she is now in full view,
but her eyes are difficult to make out under her
dangling hair, and the harsh elements, to which she
has long since become accustomed.

Her secondhand clothes are past worn, and yet,
as disheveled as she is, one could not help but discern
something attractive about her, if one could see her.
She walks down the street slowly, examining her
surroundings quite circumspectly. Her mannerisms
show her uniqueness and youth, as she observes
people and things around her to the point of
As she passes a child arguing with his mother
about finishing a slice of pizza, the mother takes it
from him and throws it on top of the trash. She
immediately picks it up and casually begins eating,
while observing an incident in the making across the
I hear common people relish in the fact that they
can make it on the streets. That they have what it takes,
that they won’t be taken. She observes a man walking
into an ambush of thieves waiting in an alley. They
comfort themselves with this secret called street smarts
as they walk through life.
Stopping for a moment, she reflects on her own
life. I have lived on, off, and under the streets for as long
as I can remember... She sees the man almost at the
ambush. Or want to remember, and only now am I
beginning to understand. I say the smartest thing you
can do is not be somewhere at a certain time.
She spots a police car approaching and stands
in the middle of the street pointing into the alley. The
officer driving doesn’t see her until the last moment
and skids to a stop. He and the other officer in the
vehicle try to find what she’s motioning at, but don’t
see anything out of the ordinary. All of sudden, the
ambush takes place and the officers rush to aid the
citizen, stopping the mugging and chasing away the

She watches as the man regains his composure.
Then, realizing that no one has noticed her, she turns
around and keeps walking.
Oh, and one more thing. I’m invisible.
Later that afternoon, as she approaches a
construction site, she looks up, way to the top of the
tall condolike
building, of which only part of the
framework stands. She enters through her secret
entrance and strolls inside the building carrying her
Construction on this beautiful building began,
and then all of a sudden stopped. It now stands alone
and empty. Only I know the secret entrance, and the
reason I know of it is because this is my new home.
She travels through a labyrinth of mazes and
obstacles to reach the top. Barriers that require
exceptional physical abilities to maneuver.
Arriving at her floor, she walks out to the edge
where no wall stands, just a large windowless space,
and looks out. Standing at the precipice of the cement
floor gazing at the beautiful city, the sunset sweeping
across the tops of buildings, she thinks, All things
considered, I’m not doing too badly. The top floor of an
exclusive apartment building, a great view, running
water, my overhead is low, and no noisy neighbors.
She sits down and takes out her beatup
notebook. “Now, to work on my poem.” She mumbles
as the page shows the beginnings of her work.
“Drawing it near to their face. No, that doesn’t sound
right.” She ponders for a moment until the inspiration
comes, “Their eyes. That’s it, drawing it near to their
eyes.” She continues. “They throw, no! They cast...they
cast it to the hard ground. Wait, wet ground.”

She pulls the paper away from her face and
reads the line. “Drawing it near to their eyes, they cast
it to the wet ground.” Nodding in approval she mutters,
“That sounds good, next line.” She continues working
and soon quietly drifts off to sleep, as the sun sets
behind her and the night skyline gently forms.
That evening she sits in a deserted alley,
between two dumpsters situated at the back door of a
restaurant, waiting patiently for the leftover food to be
thrown out and working diligently on her poem.
“Maybe they know not the way in, no. How about,
perhaps, yes that’s the word. Perhaps they know not
the way in.” She pauses to think, and catches a whiff
of the rich aroma coming from the kitchen. “That
smells good,” she says aloud, looking over at the
restaurant door, “tonight must be vegetable night.”
She looks back down at her notebook, “Think,
Lauren, know not the way in, ah, got it, as I know not
Suddenly the brightness from a car’s headlights
fills the alley, interrupting her thoughts. Hearing
voices, she rises and peers quietly through the partially
open dumpster lid.
Focusing on a black car about thirty feet away,
she sees four men get out all dressed in dark clothes.
The driver heads to the rear of the vehicle and opens
the trunk and another voice is heard as a man, whose
hands are tied behind his back, is pulled out.
Lauren’s eyes widen as she tries to stay still.
She hears the man’s cries clearly, as they escort him to
the wall and make him kneel before them.
“I have a family. I will keep quiet. I promise to do
anything. I promise, anything!” The man begins to

As Lauren watches this scene unfold, she
mutters, “I don’t believe this is happening.” She looks
at the four men. The first stands strong, carrying with
him a commanding presence. The second is a tall man,
blond and distinguished. The third is the driver, a fat
man who stays quiet and watches.
Then the fourth, he is young, perhaps eighteen.
She looks at him intently, noticing him struggling
inwardly. Not in a nervous manner, but more as if he’s
fighting a battle within himself. Then she turns her
attention back to the man on the ground.
“I have two sons, a wife. I beg of you!”
Lauren’s heart is pounding, her breathing
almost uncontrollable. She begins to tear up as the
first man takes out a shiny nickel .45 and screws a
silencer onto the end. The other three men stand as
strength to the first.
The first man finally speaks. His voice is cold,
raspy, and without remorse. “Do you know how many
times I’ve heard those words? ‘I had to pay my rent,’ or
‘It was a slow month.’” Raising his voice while
motioning with his gun he rasps, “I lent you that
money so you could start your food chain, you should
have had enough respect to put me first.”
Then the pleading man says, “I didn’t know you
were like this when I asked you for the money. I
thought you were an honest businessman.”
“No!” answers the first, “you thought if you
didn’t pay me, I would take you to court. You would
have lost there too.” He grimaces then finishes with,
“I’m a man of my word and you’re out of time.” He
points his weapon at the man’s head. The man closes
his eyes tight while jumbled entreaties flow out of his

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Now that you've finished reading the excerpt:

all that you need to do is

answer the following question correctly:

"What kind of gun is mentioned in Chapter I, Sonata?"

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The contest ends at midnight on Sunday, 09 August 2009. The THREE winning names will be selected from all the correct entries received. (Please be sure to include your email address or the url for your blog with your entry, so that we can get in contact with you in the event that you are the winner.) Best Wishes to you all!

Please submit your entries here

Please take a moment to visit my blog here and check out my interview with "Aylerion" to learn more about him.

Also visit his website, here.

He's a pretty cool guy. I think you'll be glad you got to know him before the rest of the world learns about him and you aren't even able to get close to him.

Until next time...stay safe, stay well, and may God bless you all.


Please visit my other blogs:
Cynde's Daybook ~and~ Usurper Exposed. Thank you!

Saturday, August 1, 2009

"The Premios Dardos Award!"

Yesterday afternoon, when I got online to check out all three of my blogs, I received a very pleasant surprise .

Suzette Saxton, who is the author of the amazing short story entitled "The Bone Setter", and also the co-owner of the Shooting Stars Blog, had awarded this blog with "The Premios Dardos Award".

Needless to say, I was very honored and I would like to take this opportunity to say "Thank you" to Suzette for bestowing this honor upon me and the Cynde's Got The Write Stuff blog.

"The Premios Dardos Award"

Now I'm going to pass this honor along to five of my favorite blogs so that they will know what an inspiration that they have been to me. This has been a very difficult choice for me because I follow and love so many wonderful blogs, but I finally narrowed it down and made my selections.

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I hereby award The Premios Dardos' to:

Congratulations and thank you for being such an inspiration to me!

Attention winners:
1. Accept and post the award on your blog.
2. Link to the person from whom you received the award.
3. Pass the award to 5 other blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgment.
4. Let them know they've been chosen for this award.

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Until next time...stay safe, stay well, and may God bless you all.

Please visit my other blogs:
Cynde's Daybook ~and~ Usurper Exposed. Thank you!