"BORDERS SAID "YES!"

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 . . . . .


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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 AuthorHouse.com 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.

Cynde

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

"What's-Up-Wednesday Book Review and Other Things!"

While I was out visiting the blogs on my Bloglist, I came across the following blog (logo below) which is called Today's Flowers:



It is loaded with photos of gorgeous, breathtaking flowers that you really must see. Here is a photo that is comparable to the ones on that site:




After visiting that site, I visited another site and noticed that the site owner had posted a photo of a new reading lamp that she had just purchased for her bedroom. I bought one for myself and hadn't even thought of posting a photo. What a fantastic idea! So...here's the photo of our new reading lamp. It's nothing expensive or spectacular, but we really do love it because it has made such a big difference in our lives. Well...what do you think?

In case you're wondering what the story behind the horse with the spidery-looking thing on its head is, here goes: About ten years ago, when our son Jon was about seven and our other son Josh was around 11 years old, they gave me that stuffed horse (together) as a present. I stood it up behind the headboard of the queensize bed that my mother gave my husband and I for a wedding gift and I put my hairclip on it (that's the spidery-looking thing!)so my clip would always be handy. I love that little horse!

My husband and I bought a new (to us) car last week, and while it was definitely a thrill for me that we got it, I was mostly thrilled for Dion because he will be the one to get the most use out of it, by driving it back and forth to work, etc. In addition to that, it will save on gas money because the truck really "eats that gas", plus it will be easier for me to get in and out of. But the thing that tickled me the most was that when we were checking the car over, Dion found a brand new book hidden in the recess area where the back seat arm rests tuck in! It was "The Choice" by Nicholas Sparks. We asked the man that was selling us the car if I could read the book and then return it when I was done and he said that since I had been honest about it that he wanted me to have the book as a gift. How sweet of him. What a blessing that was to me! Here's my review of that awesome book:

This novel entitled "The Choice" by Nicholas Sparks, which is available from Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble, ultimately confronts us with the most heartwrenching question of all: "How far would you go to keep the hope of love alive?"

Travis Parker had everything. He was successful; handsome; healthy; he had a great career; he had loyal friends; a loving family; a faithful dog; and a nice, water-front home in his small hometown in North Carolina. He lived an active life; he loved skiing; waterboarding; boating; swimming; and barbequeing with his friends. Sometimes he'd even try to include a woman in the fun, but none ever measured up to the wives of his friends, so he decided that he was fine without one in his life.

But that was until Gabby Holland moved into the house next door. He knew she had a long-time boyfriend and that meant she was "off limits", but there was something special about her that he couldn't resist. He tried to be a good neighbor, but she's not having it. He's very patient, and this intrigues her. Their back and forth "dance" is so captivating that you won't want to put the book down.

The characters are so "real" that you automatically identify with them. When the characters experience the range of feelings that they are going through—confusion; guilt; excitement; anger; happiness; exhilaration; sadness; peace and love—you feel as if you are experiencing them for yourself.

The entire story centers around the choices that are made during their lifetimes, and then, in answering the question that was asked at the beginning of this review. This is definitely a "must-read" book. If I were asked how many stars out of five I would like to give the book based on its readability, quality, content and plot, I would give it a five out of five. Nicholas Sparks never disappoints us!

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

Cynde

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

"Cynde's Saturday Evening Book Review!"

In this story we have eleven-year-old Charlie and his faithful companion, a beautiful golden retriever named "Taffy." Charlie's father, Frank, has a terrible drinking problem, and as a result, he is very mean to the boy and makes life so unbearable that Charlie feels that the only choice he has is to run away from home.

During Charlie's travels, he runs into at least two very rough characters, one whom his father had a run-in with a few days earlier when he was drunk, who also carried a grudge from their high school/college days because Frank was a local football legend and this creep could never measure up to Charlie's father, so he was always trying to get even. The other was a hired gun on assignment to obtain Charlie's extremely valuable coin collection from him, no matter what the cost.

Charlie was lucky enough to run across another man who had run away from home himself, years earlier, for completely different reasons, and was now in need of a friend himself because he was ill and making his way back home to mend fences before it was too late. When Charlie and his new friend, Quill, reach his home there are lots of unexpected surprises awaiting them and they have arrived just in the knick of time. Watch and see what happens as Quill and Charlie not only become closer to each other, but Charlie also helps Quill and his son, Cort, to repair their damaged relationship, and also to forgive each other.

Peter Rennebohm wrote this magnificent page-turner and I hope that none of you plans to miss it as it is filled with family conflict; mystery; adventure; greed; hatred; and love. Throughout this complex story, it is layered with conflict, seasoned with with loyalty, filled with adventure and it ends happily, just the way you would want it to.
In my opinion, it's an excellent story, and you won't want to miss this one!

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

Cynde

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

"What's-Up-Wednesday Guest Interview!"

First, I would like to say “Good morning” to everyone! Then I would like to welcome you all to another segment of the “What’s-Up-Wednesday” Guest Interview. Our special guest for today is my friend and fellow writer, Leona G. Shankle, otherwise known as “Dellgirl”. Leona is the author of the book, "At The Starting Gate" (a collection of assorted poetry and short stories ranging from humorous to serious and inspirational) and the author of the blog by the same name, located here. Please help me to welcome Leona to my blog.

Welcome to my blog, Leona. I am so honored that you would be my guest today. Please make yourself comfortable and I’ll get right down to asking you some questions. I know that my readers are very anxious to learn all about you, so I’ll begin with something easy.

Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself, including how long you have been writing?
























I am the mother of three grown kids; two boys with a girl in the middle; I've been married to the same man for 40 years this past July 12th; I'm a retired teacher; and I'm a lover of life in “La-la-land” (which I only experienced for a very short time while the kids were young).

I have been writing since the first grade. However, I started my writing life as a plagiarist. Let me explain: after I learned to write, I copied everything I saw. I copied every single thing that Miss Hawkins, my teacher, wrote. I copied the stories straight from our first reading book and made tiny books of my own. Later, after I learned to read and to put words together into meaningful sentences, I made up my own stories and made books, complete with traced illustrations.

By fifth and sixth grade I became disillusioned with the inaccuracies of my tracings and ventured out into free-hand drawings. Writing took a back seat, and drawing was my new passion.

I didn’t get back to writing until after I was married and had two little ones. It was then that I started writing articles and short stories, only to put them in folders and store them away. When the kids reached junior high school, I braved the bold new world of submitting some of my articles, jokes, and short stories to magazines. But then, life took over the reins and it was football games; cheerleading practice; chaperoning this or that trip; proms; and PTA meetings. Writing was again put on hold.

In early December of 2007, my daughter, Jordyn, urged me to get started writing that book I always talked about. I started writing it in January 2008. The rest is history because I am now a published writer.


Was there a light bulb moment that inspired you into becoming a writer?

My “light bulb moment” happened on my first day of school, September 1953. I watched, mesmerized, as my teacher wrote on the cover of my “Big Chief Tablet”. The “moment”, still frozen in time, is the inspiration for the poem in my book, “At The Starting Gate”, that pays tribute to my first grade teacher.

Here is the excerpt from my poem:

“The Agony of Waiting”

Miss Hawkins calls us
one by one
to her desk with our things.

I watch
eager with excitement
waiting.
On the front cover
of my tablet,
she neatly prints
my name, my grade,
her name —
Miss Mattie L. Hawkins.









Transfixed, I stare
as her hand flows
gracefully
across the page,
letter by letter until
my information is complete.

From that moment on, I was hooked on writing.

What genre would you say is your favorite?

When it comes to my reading preferences, I have no favorite genre; I love them all. In earlier years, before computers and the Internet, I avidly read everything from historical novels to trade publications, all the way to the ingredients on the back of cereal boxes.

As a writer, I am not established in a particular genre – yet. My first and only published book, “At The Starting Gate”, is a collection of my poetry and short inspirational pieces. In the future, I plan to try my hand at fantasy, mystery, and romance novels; short stories; and maybe even a thriller.

When you write, do you use outlines?

Not an outline per se, but I will at some point. What I do use are bulleted lists, which consist of my title, main idea, and some supporting details.

What are you currently working on?

Right now, when life is not dictating the terms by dragging me in a direction other than the one I want to travel in, I am working on my second book. It is taking on a life of its own, in the form of another collection of poetry, inspirational pieces, and short stories. This is a far cry from the 900-page novel that I proclaimed I would write many, many years ago. But, it’s all good. At least now I am writing, instead of “talking about” writing.

I also have a Daily Devotional Book in the works. This will be a group project with the ladies of my Wednesday morning Bible class. I proposed the idea that we each share an inspirational story to include in the book. The ladies were receptive and really excited about having our very own devotional book. At the moment, it remains in the “idea” stage, and will remain there until September, when everyone returns from summer vacations and other summer obligations.


I really love the sound of your “Daily Devotional Book”. That sounds like a wonderful idea. What other hobbies/interests do you have?

I love to read, anything and everything. I enjoy word games and puzzles. Again, before computers and the Internet, my passions were sewing, crafts, as well as teaching and tutoring.

In addition to that, I love jewelry-making, quilting, antiquing, and upholstery.


Do you have someone special that you look up to or a hero in your life?

There are teachers and leaders I respect, admire, and view as an influential source of inspiration.

However, my number one hero is my daddy. When I look back at where my dad came from, at the challenges he faced on a daily basis, the obstacles he had to overcome, and the difficulties he must have encountered, teaching himself to function at a higher level, I am amazed.

It was not until I was grown, married and had children of my own that I realized he was “a man ahead of his time”. Who is my hero? My daddy —
Hermise Mason Wilkins (July 25, 1918 — September 3, 1988).

"Rest in peace, Daddy!"

What is the story behind the adorable name of “Dellgirl”?

I am the oldest of four children, with three younger brothers. I was “Daddy’s girl” and, although he is gone, I am still “Daddy’s girl”.

Daddy was an extraordinary man, a self-taught carpenter beyond compare, an uneducated man who had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Dell is part of my middle name, Glendell, and everyone else simply called me Dell. Daddy called me "DellGirl", but sometimes he shortened it to DG.



Who are your favorite authors?

Due to the fact that I love so many different types and styles of writing, it would be impossible to name them all. However, for starters, the following names come to mind: Edgar Allen Poe, Spencer Johnson, Maya Angelou, Alice walker, Emily Dickinson, Jane Austen, and Ernest Hemingway.


What are your favorite writing links and your favorite writing resources?

A few of my favorite writing links and writing resources are:
 Write Better at Writer’s Digest
 A Book Inside — How to Write and Publish A Book
 Sharing With Writers and Readers
 Daily Writing Tips
 Grammar Book.com


If you could only share one thing, what is the best advice that you would want to share with a fellow writer?

The one piece of advice I would impart to a writer sounds naively simple. At first glance, one would think I am being condescending. I am not. The one thing a would-be-writer must do is …

Just WRITE! Whatever it is you think you want to write, write it. Write until you have a nice stack, then and only then, edit and revise.



Your first order of business is to — WRITE!

That advice is not condescending at all. It’s excellent advice. In fact, I make it a practice to wait until I’ve written several chapters before I even think about editing, so you are right on track.

I want to thank you so much for joining us here today, Leona. We have really enjoyed the interview and I'm sure that my readers will be visiting you at your blog here and your website here from now on. I hope you'll come back for a return visit when you publish your next book. God bless you and all the best to you, Leona!


NOTE TO MY READERS:
I just received my own, personal copy of Leona's book and I'm in the process of reading it now. So far, I can tell you that I'm glad that I bought the book. It's filled with delightful little stories and poems that obviously bring back vivid memories to the writer and conjure up sweet pictures for the reader. I especially like "The Joys of Being A Mechanic's Wife", "The Last Cookie", "The Friday Afternoon Storyteller", "The Bench By The Back Door", and "It's Time To Fly." Actually, I have just hunted and pecked throughout the book because I don't want to finish it all at once. It's really a very cute little book.

If you would like to know more about Leona and her publishing company, or where you can purchase her book, please feel free to visit her website, here.

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I hope you enjoyed the interview and be sure to come back next Wednesday for my interview with the mysterious fiction writer, "Aylerion".

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

Cynde

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

"Writer's Image Prompt!"

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There are a lot of great writers out there that tune in to this blog, but never chime in. I'm going to post a little story to go with this image prompt and hopefully some of you will feel comfortable enough to critique it. I know it's missing a lot, so please feel free to flex your "editing muscles." I don't take criticisms as personal attacks--I see them as learning tools. Have fun!

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One day a girlfriend of mine from school told me that she thought my parents looked like they must have come from Hollywood, and I cried my eyes out. However, as I watched them with their arms around each other that morning, I could see what she was talking about.

My father was a well-muscled man who stood six feet four inches tall, with an olive-colored complexion, and a head full of thick, wavy, dark brown hair. He had hooded, dark brown eyes; deep dimples on both cheeks; and a cleft chin that finished off his classic movie star looks to a tee.

By contrast, my mother was like a porcelain-skinned doll, with thick masses of golden-blonde locks that hung down past her slender waist. Her heavily-lashed, big blue eyes were a perfect compliment to her rose-colored, heart-shaped lips that were drawn into an inevitable smile whenever my father entered the room.

"It's a beautiful day for a picnic, honey," my mother had said, smiling up into my father's twinkling eyes. "Want to pack a lunch and take the kids somewhere special?"

"I think that would be a great idea, sweetheart”, he had answered. "Ruth can help you get Amanda and Miranda ready while I call the office and tell them that I won't be in today. Then we'll head out for Moon Rock Park."

I could not believe my ears! Daddy was going to play hooky from the corporate law firm that he worked in and spend the day with Mommy, my twin and me. That also meant that my mother was taking time off from writing her next book, which was something she almost never did. My heart was racing so fast that I felt dizzy as I ran up the stairs to tell my sister. The horrible butterflies that I always got in my stomach at the mention of Moon Rock Park had returned, but I had decided that it was best to keep that to myself.

"Miranda! Hurry up and get dressed! Daddy is taking us on a picnic," I said, pulling her bedcovers down to the bottom of the bed, which in turn caused her to shiver and dive back under the covers again.

Miranda always liked to stay in bed until Ruth, our mother's office assistant, came and helped her to get dressed. Ruth was quite a bit younger than our mother, but she was still too old to play with us, so we just settled for thinking of her as our aunt or maybe even an honorary older sister, because she was part of the family now. I didn't let her help me get dressed anymore. I thought it was high time we should be getting ready by ourselves! After all, we were seven years old; we weren't babies anymore!

Presently, there was a knock at our bedroom door. "Come on in” I said.

Ruth entered and smiled sweetly at me. "Good morning, Mandy," she said, as she kissed me on the cheek. She always smelled of vanilla, and her happiness to see us appeared to be genuine. "Is Randy awake yet?"

"Yes, and the little mole has been waiting for you," I answered in a sing-songy voice. Ruth smiled as her ritual with Randy began.

An hour later, we were well on our way, having left Ruth in charge of our home, while she also finished editing and typing rewrites, the station wagon was loaded with goodies, and as Randy colored in her coloring book, I contented myself by looking out the window, watching the world fly by.

My butterflies were gradually getting stronger the closer we got to the park. The doctor they had sent me to for counselling said that, even though I had always loved picnics, I must resent all the attention that Miranda was getting during our family get-togethers, to the point that it made me anxious, but that wasn't it at all! I tried to tell him that it had something to do with Moon Rock Park. He wouldn't listen to me, but I know I'm right!

"Are you positive that it's safe for us to go to the park, David?" Mother had whispered to my father.

"According to the newspapers, those disappearances were hoaxes”, he answered.

"Yes, but you know how our Government is. They cannot be trusted to give the full story, can they? she asked.

"It's so hard to tell. The Government's findings are so thorough and believable, yet that family's story about their loved ones' vanishing was so compelling. I'm just not sure what to believe, Cathy," he said, frowning.

"Maybe we should take them somewhere else, and then we won't have to worry if the reports were truthful or not", she replied.

"And disappoint the twins when that's their favorite place to go in the entire world?" he asked. "We've taken the girls to that park dozens of times and nothing bad has ever happened. But, hey, if you want some headline-seeking news hound who sees aliens behind every tree to run our lives, then..." His voice trailed off, and then he glared at my mother. I was shocked at how mean he could be sometimes.

"I didn't mean it in that way, David," my mother said, as she retrieved her embroidered handkerchief from her purse. With small, dainty motions, she dabbed at the tears that had stolen their way down her flawless cheeks, plus the ones that were threatening to spill from her huge, azure eyes, while my father fought hard to keep his gaze on the road instead of on her exquisite profile, like he had wanted.

"I'm sorry, honey," he pleaded. "I knew exactly what you meant. It's just that it's so seldom that I have a day off with you and the girls, and I wanted to make it memorable, if we can." He reached over, squeezed her hand, and then they smiled at each other as if in some kind of secret agreement.

I listened closely while they talked some more because I did not want to miss a thing, when all of a sudden, I had to blink my eyes, then rub them for good measure. My mother and father were fading in and out of view, right before my eyes! I held my breath, then grabbed for Randy's hand out of fear. When Randy turned to look up at me, I let out the breath I wasn't aware that I had still been holding and asked, "Can you see me alright?"

"Sure I can, why?" she asked, perplexed.

"I was just checking, that's all”, I answered, with my heart beating so fast I thought it would explode right out of my chest. My butterflies were doing somersaults, and I knew something wasn't right, but I was afraid if I mentioned it to Mommy or Daddy, they might call off the picnic. I closed my eyes to calm myself.

Within minutes, we had arrived at the park. My mother turned to look at us from her place in the front seat and said, "We're here, girls."

While everyone else chitchatted happily, I looked around to see if anything else looked odd or seemed out of place. I felt a cold chill run up and down my spine as I turned to look back at my family who were all seated on the picnic blanket, setting out our lunch fixings. It was as if I were looking at a snapshot of from our album that I had never seen before; it was hard to tear my eyes away. I had thought that I was feeling strange because I was so hungry, so I mistakenly dismissed the warning signals that I had been getting throughout the day, and when I thought back on it later, I regretted not listening to my instincts.

"Don't wander too far off, Amanda”, my mother had called to me. "Lunch is almost ready."

"I won't, Mother”, I had answered. Then as I turned, I saw the most beautiful wild flowers imaginable, off in the distance, across the road that lead into the park. All of the sudden, I was overcome with an overwhelming sense that I had to have those flowers right then!

I scurried across the pavement, with the sole thought of grabbing those pretty posies and the joy of being able to present them to my mother as a gift. When I bent over to pick them for her, I realized, just as it did at Christmastime, that each breath I took looked like a puffy smoke-cloud in the air, yet the sun still shone brightly. What was happening?

The butterflies in my stomach were instantly replaced by a low humming that frightened me, and that I did not understand. I quickly turned back around, because I wanted my mommy. I started to run, and when I at long last looked up, I saw that everyone had disappeared!

"Mommy? Daddy? Where are you?" Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and it was difficult for me to see. "Randy? Are you here?" But I knew that she was gone, too, because I couldn't feel her presence anymore, in that special way that twins do. Something had come and taken my family from me. As I scanned the area, I noticed that they had also taken our car; our picnic blanket; our goodies; it looked like they had taken just about everything; and they had even taken the trees. And now I was all alone.

I sobbed and sobbed for the longest time, until I swallowed hard over the lump that had formed in my throat. With a tight grip on Mother’s flowers, I walked at a steady pace in the direction from which we had all come earlier that morning, praying as each minute passed, that I would find my family and our home, before it became dark.

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Those of you that would like to comment on or critique my story, or even write a story of your own (I would love that!), please "click" below at the spot indicated for comments, or at this spot here, marked for comments, and enjoy yourself, ok?

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

Cynde

Please visit my other blogs:

Cynde's Daybook ~and~ Usurper Exposed. Thank you!

"Writer's Image Prompt!"

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Randall Lawrence wasn't sure just how long he would be able to continue cupping his hands like that. The tears were running down his face from shear exhaustion. It had probably been close to 6 hours since the spell had been placed on him, so that they could abduct his wife, and take her to King Abdali's fortress.

What would happen to Rebecca if he did let go, and dropped the water into the stream? If only he could be sure, then he would know what to do. How was he to rescue her, if his hands were in a sense "tied," and he could not get help?

Just then, his brother, Aaron came through the clearing. "Hey, what have you got there?"

One look at Randy's face, and he dived to his knees. "How can I help? What in h--l happened?"

"They took Becky," he cried.

Aaron still didn't understand what was happening. "But what's this? How can this be?" he said, as he saw the mosque clearly reflected in the cupped water of Randy's hands.

"A spell--and I can't hold out much longer."
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Let's have some fun here. Maybe someone can add a little to this story, then someone else can add a little more. Or, if you like, you can write your own story, because I must admit, this isn't very good. If no one has added anything to it by the time I get home from the drs., I may just change the story altogether. So...I hope you have some fun!

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

Cynde

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

"Writer's Image Prompt!"

"Picture (no pun intended) This:"
written by: Cynde L. Hammond

It was Thursday night, 02 April 2009, at one of the Lariat Sandridge Energy oil rigs, south of Fort Stockton, Texas. There was an eerie calm outside while the men were busy working on the rig, but they couldn't help but notice the dazzling light display being played out right before them as they worked.

"I don't think I've seen lightning like that before as long as I've worked on these big rigs," Carl said thoughtfully. "Have you, Joe?"

"No, I can't say as I have," he answered, as he watched the thick shafts zig and zag towards the earth. "Somebody got a camera around here?"

"I've got one out in the truck," Bill yelled from the back of the group of about ten men that had formed to watch the show. "I'll go get it."

Just as Bill had turned to trot off and go get the camera, one of the men grabbed him by the arm and whispered in his ear, "Forget it. Get back to work--here comes Red," and with that, Bill went back to his station, never skipping a beat.

Red was a mammoth, barrel-chested man, with a head full of bright red hair, a beard, mustache and lamb-chop sideburns to match. Despite all the face hair, you could still clearly see the cleft chin and deep dimples on both cheeks, which were the perfect compliment to his sparkling, bright blue eyes.

On many occassions, the men had heard the women from the business office talk about what a handsome man Red was, and how they couldn't wait until he was ready to start dating again. They all babied him, brought him cookies, pastries, and all kinds of goodies, ever since his wife had died of uterine cancer two years earlier. Even though they were all jealous of the girls' attention to him, none of them would ever want to trade places with him and have to go through the pain that he had had to endure.

As Red stalked on to the platform, the men quickly scattered in the hopes that he hadn't noticed that they had been goofing off and congregating there, watching the lightning. "Bill!" Red yelled in to the darkness.

Bill swallowed hard, not sure he could answer. He knew he was in trouble now! "Yeah, Red?" he squeaked.

"Go get that camera!" Red commanded.

You didn't have to ask him twice, for Bill was off and running. He was back with his camera in a matter of a couple of minutes. Slowly, the men were gathering back together again at the platform, and watched as Bill handed the camera to Red.

"Well, come on!" Red demanded. "Come on over and gawk if you have to, because I know you won't get anymore work done tonight until these dern pictures have been taken, so let's get it over with!"

Everybody started laughing because they all knew he was just kidding. He was so easy to work for. He was such a fair man, and he'd give them the shirt off his back, if that's what you needed.

"Here, you taken them," Red said, handing the camera back to Bill. "It's your camera!"

So, as Bill prepared for his shot, the men lined up around him and waited in anticipation. "Take a bunch of pictures!" one of the men said, just as Bill was about to click. Now he'd have to get ready all over again. Bill was nervous being watched.

"Give him a little bit of room," Red said, sensing his unease, and Bill flashed him a grin. Now he was ready. This was going to be a great shot. He was going to click right when the lightning flashed! Bill took a deep breath, waited, it was almost time, he could feel it, and then he clicked!

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Now...let's see what you've got! Pick the story up from where I left off, and write how you would finish this little story, just for fun, ok?

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

Cynde

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

"

i I have so many ideas floating around in my head. I always have. I guess that if I could put those ideas to good use, then I could be considered a writer of sorts. First I would have to learn how to put the words in some kind of order, right?

One of the blogs that I follow called Nick's Writing Blog, is written by a man named Nick Daws and for his biography, he writes,

"I am a professional freelance writer and editor living in Burntwood, Staffordshire, England. I am the author of over 80 non-fiction books, mainly published in the UK. I have also written many articles, short stories, training materials, distance learning courses, and so on."

Nick is one of the smartest, friendliest, most helpful people I have ever had the pleasure to "meet" (though we have only met online and via email), and I have purchased a few things from him, but I'm ashamed to say that I haven't really been able to use them yet. I've thoroughly looked over these things and I refused to send them back for a refund because I know that they are going to work. The items are: Write Any Book in 28 Days and Earn Quick Cash Writing. They are both fabulous writing aids, and I suggest that you purchase both of them! Now, since I already have them, what's my excuse? I better get off my bum, as Nick might say, and get busy, because that's just what I've been doing--using excuses! Starting tomorrow: NO MORE EXCUSES!! There you have it, ladies and gentlemen!






Before I close today, I have a story that I think is worth your while to read. It circulated on the internet quite some time ago, but I kept it because it touched my heart so deeply. I thought I'd share it with you today, and if you like it as much as I do, then please, pass it on. It's entitled "The Cab Ride. Here it is:

"THE CAB RIDE


So I walked to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute,' answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing,' I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy,' she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said.. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.'

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued. 'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now.'

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' she asked, reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I said.

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.

'Thank you'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT..... THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.







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

Cynde

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

"Mistaken Identity"

By Cynde L. Hammond



















MY "TOP 5" POEM

He saw me from afar
Then he yelled, "Hey, wait for me!"
He hoped that when I turned
My sister's face he'd see.

When he had seen my face
He had thought she looked too thin.
He took a second look
And saw I was her twin!

He certainly was shocked,
Had he known my sister well?
Not well enough, it seems-
It upset him, I could tell!

He said, "You're so alike
I'd like to sneak some kisses,
If word EVER got back,
I'd catch 'it' from the Mrs.!"






I did something that was very scary, as far as I was concerned: I entered my very first poetry writing contest! It was a contest at the Helium website and the category was entitled “Mistaken Identity.” Guess what! I WAS IN THE TOP 5! I ranked #5 out of 83! Not bad, huh? My husband was so proud of me, and that made me feel great!


The first thing I thought of when I saw that title was my life-long problem of having people mistake me for Sande, simply because we’re twins. It’s a natural mistake. It still happens, in fact. However, sometimes it is so annoying because people think you’re lying! There are those that don’t know that one or the other of us have a twin; then there are those that think we’re fooling with them; and nine times out of ten, when they don’t believe it, it’s when one of us is in a colossal hurry and we don’t have time to explain, so we’re left with being accused of being terribly rude! It’s so unfair.

Once, I had the clever idea of trying to head one lady off at the pass, but it failed miserably! I recognized “the look,” so I just agreed with everything she said, then to my horror, she burst into tears.

“You’re trying to get rid of me, aren’t you, Sande?” she said, choking back her tears. “Well, it’s fine by me!” Then she stormed off down the street before I could even determine who she might be.

When I moved back home to New York State, after living in Texas and Virginia collectively for a little over ten years, I ran into a friend that I used to work with at the Seneca Army Depot in Romulus, New York.

“Hello, Carlos!” I said, extending my hand to shake his. “How nice to see you. How have you been?”

“Huh, so now you decide you want to talk,” he snarled. “Well, maybe I just don’t have the time for you.” He turned, and then briskly started walking away.

I was totally blindsided. Not quite sure how I should react, I went with my instincts and ran after him. He had been a very good friend to me once, after all, and I felt I owed it to him to at least make an effort to see what had happened to make him act that way.

“Carlos, wait!” I yelled. Thankfully, he stopped and waited for me until I could catch up to him. “What’s going on?” I asked, innocently. “What have I done?”

“I used to think we were friends. Good friends,” he said, the strong emotion clearly audible in his deep voice. “Not any more, though. Not after what you did to me a couple years ago.”

I had been away from home for over ten years, with only one or two short trips home per year, and I knew I hadn’t run in to him, so the picture was beginning to become a little bit clearer.

“When was this?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know!” he answered angrily. “It was two years ago, at the Train Show in Syracuse.”

“Do you happen to remember who I was with?”

“What does it matter?” he asked, annoyed.

“Please, Carlos,” I said. “You’ll understand why in a minute.”

“It was some guy with dark hair and a mustache.” he answered. “And he had a long ponytail.”

I had to laugh. While I felt so terrible that Carlos’ feelings had been hurt, I couldn’t believe that this had happened to me again! I didn’t understand why Sande couldn’t take that extra minute and explain to people that she had a twin that moved out of town, but she didn’t—she just let think that I was rude!

“What’s so darn funny?” he growled.

“I pulled out my wallet, and flipped it open to Sande’s and my senior high school portrait where the two of us were sitting on a special platform, flanking each other, and I was above her. We were dressed in identical navy blue dresses with white leather collars and cuffs. Then I flipped the page to Sande’s wedding photo where she was standing with a guy with dark hair and a mustache, and then once more to a more recent photo of Sande, where she was still with the same guy, but he had added a ponytail.

Carlos was stunned. He grabbed my wallet and looked at each photo closer, then he looked at me and smiled. He returned my wallet and reached for me with both arms and we hugged each other for a long time. “Friends?” he asked.

“You know it!” I replied.







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

Cynde

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

I'm Not Sure Which Way I Should Go!

I can not begin to tell you how many times I have heard people say that they don't know which way to turn or they're not sure which way to go.

When I'm at that point in my story-writing, and I'm quite not sure which way I should go, I usually just go both ways, and then I pick the best of the two when I am finished.

Quite often, by doing so, it changes the entire course of your story. Sometimes it can even give you an idea for a brand new story besides the one that you were currently working on. The most important thing to remember is that you need to keep your mind open to new ideas and new ways of doing things at all times. Keep your avenues wide open!

"A closed mind is like a closed book; just a block of wood."Chinese Proverb

While I've been working on my very first book, my mind has been open and overflowing with fresh, new ideas. In fact, I have so many ideas swirling around in my head, I can't seem to keep my mind quiet enough so that I can concentrate on my book!

There was a time when I would have killed for a decent story idea, and now I have plenty of them. I have had to work on a couple of short story ideas that have been nagging at me--the kind of ideas that won't let you rest until you put them on paper. I do love it, though. My mind is smiling!

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