Salut, Earthlings ( or whatever greeting you people use). I've been asked to tell you a little about an adventure I had during the Albegensi-Terran War, but quite frankly, I really had to be talked into doing so. Why? Because...I don't like Terrans! Oh, there are a couple of individuals I find...compatible...like Jake, the bartender at the Asteroid Cantina in the Thieves Quarter--great hacker, is Jake--and one Andrea Talltrees, a blonde-haired, adopted Navajo...and the most hard-headed, opinionated, stubborn, and...desirable female I've ever met! And that's the problem....

Introduction? Oh, yeah...my name's Sinbad sh'en Singh--at least, that's the name on the Federation Wanted holoposter. I was christened Andrew Malcolm McAllister, and I'm a Terro-Felidan hybrid, the only one of my kind, smuggler par excellence, if the reward they posted for me is any indication. Wanted on five planets, for 100,000 Credits. Pretty good for an orphaned kid who started plundering at age 15...an American success story!

Back to my problem. You see, I hate the Federation and its inhabitants with as much emotion as the passion I feel for Andi, and there--as Shakespeare once said--is the rub: I love one of the enemy...no, more than that, I worship that little woman!

A little background here: My father was a soldier captured in the Terro-Felidan War, a prisoner of war who fell in love with his jailer's daughter. When Felida surrendered, his fellow Terrans framed him for treason. My mother killed herself, and I-- I was the only witness at my father's trial, a child of three, helping to condemn his parent to a living Hell at Fort Joy--whoever named that place certainly had a midnight-black sense of humor! Well, the Federation didn't know what to do with a half-orphaned hybrid, so they sent me with my father--and forgot about both of us!

The Toxic Zone stretches through Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Wyoming, and the Dakotas, a now-deserted plain inhabited by men the Federation wants to forget. In the 21st Century, it was a gigantic asbestos waste dump. but years of blowing wind released its contents into the air. The guards at Fort Joy wore protective suits. We had none. It was like a thousand pieces of glass piercing the skin. Three men a day died at Fort Joy....

...and my 23-year-old father was one of them. That's the place where I grew up, where, at the age of 15, I earned the dubious fame of being the only man ever to escape the Toxic Zone.

However, my story really begins when those fool Albegensi blasted a Terran deep space freighter into micromolecules and started a war they couldn't possibly win. (Personally, I didn't care. War's always profitable for a smuggler!) SOP forced the arrest of any Alien National in residence, and Andi's husband, Tran, was one of them. If only the Federation had known who he really was....

Anyway, Andi's godfather, George Windrider--we have a history that old Spirit Leader and me--sent her to me. God, she was so beautiful--and frightened. I'll admit I'm physically imposing--six-feet-eight, weighing 300 pounds--and I use it! I played it extra tough with Andi--the Big Bad Felidan--snarled, smoked the smelliest cigar I could find, tried to force her to drink beer (her people don't believe in imbibing), then told her the only way she'd get my help was to go to bed with me!

She surprised me by agreeing. Still can't believe a woman could love her husband that much! Made me re-evaluated my opinion of female Terrans...a little.

Nothing didn't happen, of course. She fainted before I could unbuckle my belt, and I let her off the hook, agreed to help her--didn't know I was the one who was hooked!

That sheltered little lady and I had an adventure that took us from Terra to the jungles of Serapis where we had a confrontation neither of us expected. At one point, she even saved my life. Somewhere along the way, she resurrected some gentle emotions I thought were long dead, and when Tran and I at last came face-to-face....

When it was all over, we thought we'd be together forever, but the spectre of Fort Joy reared its ugly head. I've got the same thing that killed my Dad, and I refuse to let her see me die. I sent Andi away, told her I didn't love her.

So now I'm sitting in my ship, the Dream Mariner, getting snocked on Talesian ale, flying high on a roll of Puff mixed with Glow, and it isn't helping a bit....All I can think about is how the sun shone on her hair as we pushed through the Serapian jungle, and how blue her eyes were the morning after we....

Damn it, Andi, that's what killing me--not this disease!

My ship's fueled and ready to go. I can slip past the Coast Guard easily. I've done it a hundred times....

You'll have to excuse me. I've got somewhere to go.

Andi, I'm coming back for you!

(Sinbad's Last Voyage is the first novel in the series The Adventures of Sinbad, published by Double Dragon Publications as an e-book and paperback. It has also been made into an audio book by Books in Motion. The sequel, Sinbad's Wife, is scheduled for release in June, 2008.)

Hi all,

I'll be signing my 2008 EPPIE Award winning mystery UNDERDEAD this Saturday, April 26, from 2-4 at the LA Times Festival of Books. Look for me in the Sisters In Crime booth. (Booth 355, next to Royce Hall.) If you're one of the tens of thousands going to the festival this weekend, please stop by and say hi! I'd love to see you.

In UNDERDEAD, Science teacher Jo Gartner thinks teaching geology to hormonal pre-teens is deadly... until she is bitten by an inept vampire and becomes UNDERDEAD--all the problems of being a vampire, none of the perks.

When she finds a body on her classroom floor with teeth marks in his neck, she must figure out "whodunit" before her Underdead secret gets out. But she's running out of time. The detective in charge of the case is dogging her every move, her vampire traits are evolving in new and embarrassing ways, and someone wants Jo dead...the traditional way!

“UNDERDEAD is certainly not your typical vampire story, it’s better…. I guarantee UNDERDEAD will have you laughing out loud, while keeping you in suspense right up until the end.”~~ Two Lips Reviews

Hope to see some of you there!

Liz, ready to get a sunburn and heatstroke for her art. (Forecast for LA tomorrow is sunny and HOT!)

http://www.lizjasper.com/

The New York Times Obituaries 2005:
SULTANOV -- Alexei. The House of Steinway & Sons notes with sadness the passing of the pianist Alexei Sultanov on June 30 in Fort Worth, Texas, at the age of 35.




I first heard this Russian-American classical pianist on KUHF, Houston's PBS station, playing Beethoven's Appassionata. At the end of the breathtaking piece, the DJ related Sultanov's tragic story. Captivated by his music and intrigued by the artist, I researched him on the internet.

Alexai Sultanov was born August 7, 1969. His father, Faizul Sultanov, was a cellist, his mother, Natalia Pogorelova was a violinist, and his grandmother was a well-known Uzbek actress. At the age of six, he began piano lessons in Tashkent with Tamara Popovich. Alexai made his formal debut at age seven.

In 1989, he competed in the Eighth Van Cliburn International Piano Competition. At the age of nineteen, he was the youngest in a field of thirty-eight. The prestigious Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, created by Fort Worth teachers in honor of Texan Van Cliburn, was first held in 1962 in Fort Worth. Four years earlier, during the height of the Cold War, Van Cliburn had won the International Tchaikovsky Competition held in Russia.

During the performance, a piano string snapped but Alexai finished his volcanic performance of selections from Liszt, Prokofiev and Chopin. But his critics were divided. In a newspaper interview, Denise Mullins, the Cliburn Foundation's artistic administrator, said, "He took things to the absolute edge of the cliff, and it was very exciting to hear. He wasn't afraid to take a chance on stage, and there aren't a lot of pianists who do that."

Sultanov was awarded First Prize--$15,000 in cash, a recital at Carnegie Hall, a recording contract, and sponsored tours in the U.S. and Europe—in one of the wealthiest competitions in the world. His career was launched.

However, his originality and daring expression worked both for him and against him.
(Continued 4/26/07)

A video of Alexei playing the Appassionata is available on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xI4qFLfVmR8.

Thanks to my dear critique partner Mona for posting the news of my American Title win. I've been travelling and sleeping the last few days!

Pittsburgh was my first Romantic Times Convention but it won't be the last. I took my daughter with me and we had so much fun. The themed parties were a laugh. What great costumes some of the people had. Even I managed to don some wings for the Under the Sea Fairy Ball. The RT staff were wonderful--what a feat of organisation--they all work so hard. The Dorchester people were all so friendly and helpful. I'm looking forward to working with them.

And WOW!! Don't you just love the book cover Dorchester have done for The Magic Knot and they produced it so fast as well.

Here are my daughter and I with the new Mr. Romance 2008 Chris Winters.

I was also lucky enough to meet Kathryn Falk the power behind Romantic Times and one of the strongest supporters of the Romance genre over the past twenty-five years. Here I am with my book poster after the American Title announcement, with Kathryn Falk and Chris Keesler from Dorchester.

Thanks to the wonderful Erin Galloway and Diane Stacy from Dorchester, I was lucky enough to have some excerpts of the first two chapters from The Magic Knot and some pics of the cover to sign at the huge book signing event on Saturday. I sat with Jenny Gardiner who won American Title III last year with her book Sleeping With Ward Cleaver. Here we are with Luke, one of the Mr. Romance contestents.

Thank you so much to everyone who voted for The Magic Knot during the five rounds of the American Title contest and made this possible.

By Beth Trissel

She risks a traitor's death if she fights for the man she loves.

Step into the elegant parlor of Pleasant Grove, an eighteenth century Georgian plantation built on the bluff above the Santee River. Admire the elegant lines of this gracious brick home and its exquisite décor. Stroll out into the expansive garden between fragrant borders of lavender and rosemary. Bask beneath the moss-hung branches of an enormous live oak, then saunter back indoors to dress for a candlelight dinner in the sumptuous dining room. But don’t plan on a lengthy stay, you’re about to be snatched away for a wild ride into Carolina back country.

Hooves echo on the cobbles beneath Loyalist Meriwether Steele’s bedroom window and rouse her from a restless sleep. What business can anyone possibly have to conduct at this unearthly hour?

Meriwether peers down through moss-draped branches to see two men standing in the yard. One man in a dark coat and a black tricorn hat holds the reins of a roan horse. He isn't familiar, but she knows the other gentleman well. Several inches taller than the stranger, he is simply dressed in a white shirt tucked into breeches that fit his long legs and meet his riding boots. Shadows hide his face and chestnut hair pulled back at his neck, but there’s no mistaking Jeremiah Jordan, master of Pleasant Grove and her guardian these past few months. Elegance cloaks him like a mantle.

Her heart quickens at the sight of Jeremiah and she strains to snatch a word of the men’s hushed exchange. Jeremiah glances around guardedly, then passes what looks like a leather pouch into the stranger’s hand. Her stomach knots in apprehension. Is this nocturnal visit prearranged? Or worse, has Jeremiah joined the Patriots?

Jeremiah knows Meriwether is a dangerous presence in his home, a Tory who could betray him whether she means to or not. If only he hadn't noticed how fetching she looked in that shift with her bare toes peeking out from beneath the hem. Her soft cheek was so smooth beneath his fingers and she smelled deliciously of violets. He couldn't see her eyes in the dark but he knows the beguiling shape and the tenderness that warms their brown depths whenever he’s near, but he doesn't know what, if anything, she might be willing to sacrifice for the cause of freedom so sacred to his heart.

The year is 1780, one of the bloodiest of the American Revolution. The entire Southern garrison has been captured and Lord Cornwallis is marching his forces deep into South Carolina. ‘Bloody Ban’ Lieutenant Major Banestre Tarleton and his infamous Legion are sweeping through the countryside. Revenge is the order of the day on both sides and rugged bands of militia are all that stand between crown forces and utter defeat.

Enemy of the King, a multi-contest finalist, is coming to the Wild Rose Press later in 2008

Helen Scott Taylor delivers her acceptance speech. Notice, she's wearing her tiara. She also received a wand and a poster with her book cover. Standing beside her is Chris Keesler, senior editor at Dorchester.

Helen signing her bookcover. Notice the poster with her bookcover. I am so proud of my critique partner.

Having fun: Mona Risk, James Gaskin (Jimmy) 2nd runner up in Mr. Romance competition,

Joan Leacott and Helen Scott Taylor,

We Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers are thrilled for our own Helen Scott Taylor and her amazing win!

Stay tuned for more on her winning American Title entry, The Magic Knot!
Hoo Dah! Go Helen!



contributed by Beth Trissel

Feel free to back up and read the previous blog before or after you read this one. Imagine a twelve-year old girl in a cult like that one in the news about to marry an older man. What must she be thinking?

She’s writing in a journal she hides from everyone, least she incur the wrath of the women or the elders.

Mother Amanda says I shall marry elder James tomorrow. She says I will be blessed to marry such a good man, but I don’t see how. He has always been kind to me but so stern and old enough to be my grandfather. I begged to be allowed to wait until I reach my womanhood or even until I am fourteen, but Mother Beth said I must not mention this to him or to anyone else. It is not my place to question my elders. I will be wife number seven to him and have been welcomed into the family already by all but his youngest wife.

I will miss living with Mother Amanda and Mother Beth who taught me to cook and sew and plant vegetables.

Sarah seems content enough with her marriage to Ben but he is twenty-two and has only one other wife, Judith, Sarah’s best friend. Sarah grows heavy with child after seven months of marriage. She will become a mother before her fifteenth birthday. Mother Beth and Ben’s mother help Judith and Sarah.

I don’t want to be a wife yet. What will Elder James expect of me? Everything the women say about marriage makes me sure I don’t want it yet. I am wicked to wish for a husband like Ben, young and handsome. If I must serve a man, why couldn’t I serve one who doesn’t frighten me?

(Following is a highly-edited excerpt from the first chapter of the first book from my vampire series in progress, The Second Species. High in the Carpathians lies the Decebral Valley where the aventurieri--the Second Species of Mankind--lives. Avoiding humans as much as possible, because of the fears and myths which have grown up about them, they have their own culture and religion, and their own brand of justice for those who disobey the Domnitor's Law.)

CHAPTER ONE

They felt safer when night fell.

It was only as morning came, and the sunlight cast barred shadows upon the dungeon floor, that they cringed into the safety of what little darkness remained, huddling against the stone walls far away from the bright and deadly light. Fear kept them from succumbing to sleep. Clinging to the damp granite, they watched the image of the crossed metal rods as it moved across the stone floor, becoming fainter until it faded away as the sun set.

It had been a long time now--they weren't certain how much had passed--since Ravagui's winged soldiers attacked their father's castel, killing all who resisted, gardi and servants alike. It was too soon after the sun went down, most were still heavy from slumber, and even the humans who served them were caught so unaware as to be totally helpless.

Their parents were killed with a viciousness that bespoke old grudges and long- nursed vengeance. The children saw their father wielding sword and fangs, and taking several of Ravagiu's minions with him as he went down before their onslaught. Their mother herded them into a bedchamber, thrusting their little sister into one twin's arms before locking them in, then turned to face the soldati who launched himself at her, wings flapping.

What followed was a confusion of images and sounds all drowned in the smell of blood as the door was smashed open and the four dragged out, Vlad hindered by the screaming baby in his arms, little Karoly calling for his mother, his voice rising in a shriek as he saw her bloodied body lying in a twisted heap beside the splintered door.

They hadn't been given any explanation as to why they were spared, nor did they ever see the one who had given the orders. They were simply dropped into the dark hole and left.

For ten days and eleven nights.

Eleven nights of unrelieved fear, and hunger.

On the fifth night, Andreas opened his wrist by scrubbing it against a sharp edge protruding from the dungeon wall and shared his blood with his brothers, holding Ruxanda while the child nursed at his pulse.

By the seventh night, with the hunger pangs taking continuous hold, Karoly began to cry, refusing the twins' efforts to comfort him. As the days passed, he lay on the floor, legs curled, hands fisted, moaning quietly.

When the wineskin appeared, suspended through the grate, Karoly was the first to see it.

Before the others could stop him, he scrambled to his feet, staggering toward the sunshine-filled square. Arms reaching for the wine bag, he stepped into the brightness.

"Karoly! Come back!" Andreas shouted.

A rope appeared through the bars, dropping over the child's body, lifting him off his feet.

Legs kicking, Karoly struggled to escape, while the sun shone mercilessly upon him.

His entire body became a living flame, his shrieks blending with the crackle of roasting skin, flesh along his arms bursting and splitting under the heat, amid a liquid bubbling as the blood in his veins began to boil.

The fire rushed upward, and it was over.

Only a blackened skeleton hung from the rope, twisting slowly around and around and around. Softly, it crumbled, rapidly reduced to dust.

The rope was withdrawn. A small box dropped through the bars, rolling into the shadows where it struck Andreas' foot.

He picked it up.

Cut into the underside were the words Strigoi Karoly. Below them in elegant script had been written Dormit in Infern. Rest in Hell.

Slamming the box against the wall, he began to scream, rushing toward the bright square. Vlad's grasp stopped him from dashing directly into the sunshine.

"Murderers! He was just a baby! Why did you do it? Why?"

Later, when the sun went down, Andreas gathered all that remained of his little brother, the dust and the fragments of bone and the little malachite knuckle stones, and placed them in the chest, sobbing quietly the entire time. Holding it against his heart, he crept away to huddle beside Vlad.

...then, it was over.

They heard shouts, the rapid beating of wings, the sound of swords clashing, a repeat of the nightmare that brought them to this place.

A soldati fell across the grate. There was the muffled sound of metal striking flesh and his head rolled away, the severed neck dripping into the pit.

The body was kicked away and someone knelt to peer into the darkness before rising and disappearing.

With a creaking so sharp it was almost a scream, the dungeon door swung open. An armored figure stood there, silhouetted against the torchlight, his wings casting a shadow like those of a giant raptor upon the floor.

In his right hand was a sword wet with blood. His head was unhelmed, black hair coming loose from its club, a patch covering one eye.

"Frate?" Peering into the darkness, he held out his free hand to Andreas. "Brother?"

"Marek!" Seizing the box, Andreas launched himself at his older brother, was enveloped in a hug that also included Vlad as he stumbled toward them, Vlad as he stumbled toward them clutching Ruxanda in his arms.

"Where's Karoly?" Marek turned his head, his one eye searching the dungeon's shadows.

Andreas pulled away from his brother's embrace to hold up the little box.

"Here."

He'd never seen such a look on any one's face.

"Ravagiu will die the slowest death possible when I find him!" Marek pushed the twins
toward the dungeon steps and freedom.

(The Shadow Lord is the first in the series The Second Species, following titles are Shadow Play, Shadow Passion, and Shadow Law. Shadow Law is a work in progress, Shadow Lord currently being submitted to publishers.)

If I wrote a book about a cult led by a man who persuaded his followers to commit mass suicide, would you need tons of motivation to make it believable? Would you believe me if I told you a society exists that marries children to each other and raises little girls to be sexual in their behavior?

In today's world could societies or sects of men and women who would destroy our world as we know it exist without our knowledge?

We know of societies that reject modern conveniences and isolate themselves from the world outside their bounders but don't break laws of the country surrounding them .

For some reason the beliefs of the Mormon church can be so twisted to serve men who gain power through controlling their families in ways our society doesn't permit. The ideas seem to work well for men who would take some ideas from the Old Testament and distort them to allow a few men to rule through mind control, through conditioning. No, I'm not saying that the Mormon church approves of these renegades.

Polygamists are breaking the laws of the United States, but how many more laws are being broken
by the men and women in these societies? News reports show these people live counter to the laws of nature, according to our nurturing society.

Did you know these people aren't independent of the modern world, that they take money from the very government at which they thumb their noses? They even have cell phones and modern vehicles? What do you believe will happen to the children? What will happen to the women and the men this time? Will we learn of more atrocities wrought on children and young women?

The current story in Texas shows the truth is indeed stranger than fiction.

Okay folks how about another contest? This one is quick and easy. It starts today and runs through Monday. For a chance to win a Mandy Brigg's, of Rogues and Romance, garnet and rose quartz beaded bracelet finish this line, "Sugar, you....." and place it in the header of an email to sandracox1@gmail.com. The entrants with the correct phrase will go into a random drawing. Here's a hint. The sentence I am looking for can be found on my blog.
sandracox.blogspot.com

It's the first month of a war between Earth and the Albegensi, and all aliens in residence are "detained" at the Federation's leisure. Navajo Andrea Talltrees' husband is one of the unlucky ones--until he manages to escape.

When Andi hires the catlike smuggler Sinbad sh'en Singh to find her fugitive-from-justice husband, she runs full force into an immediate clash of personalities--plus a megadose of instant attraction which both try to ignore.

The survivor of a different war with Earth, Sinbad hates Terrans with a passion only the defeated can experience, yet he reluctantly agrees to help the feisty little woman who piques his curiosity, as well as engendering other emotions in his heart. As he takes Andi on a journey halfway across the galaxy, the part-feline smuggler will call on former partners-in-crime for help, and face a deadly enemy with an old score to settle. In his search for Andi's husband, he'll uncover a secret invasion that threatens to destroy the war-torn Terran Federation, and admit certain truths which he's kept himdden, even from himself.

As he fights his desire for a woman who belongs to someone else, Sinbad will learn that it's not how long a person loves that's important but that he has the courage to love at all.

This story was vaguely inspired by the old TV series Beauty and the Beast. I was fascinated by Vincent, the cat-like hero of that show and patterned Sinbad, whose ancestors, the Felidans, evolved from flines, after him in some ways--he's brave, strong, ruthless when he has to be, gentle when necessary, has a wicked sense of humor, and is totally faithful to the woman he loves, even when she's married to someone else--yet he never steps out of line. He never lets her know how he feels about her until she confesses that she loves him, too.

Sinbad is my favorite character, so favorite in fact that I've written four books about him with two more hovering in the wings

Sinbad's Last Voyage is the first book in the series, The Adventures of Sinbad, available as an e-book from Double Dragon Publications as an e-book. The Kindle version can be downloaded from Amazon.com, and the paperback may be purchased at lulu.com. It has also been recorded as an audio book by Books in Motion.

The second book in the series, Sinbad's Wife, is tentatively scheduled for release in June of this year.

We're delighted to have Shelley Munroe here today--even if she is standing over us with a whip and a bullhorn. Um, perhaps I'd better let her explain:



What they don’t tell you when you start writing…

One of the most common questions people ask me during an interview situation is about my advice for aspiring writers. What tips would I give to anyone starting out writing?

Aside from the advice to read, read and read some more and to sit down and write, my best tip is to exercise on a regular basis, because writing and all the sitting involved during the writing of a book, leads to bottom spread.

Yes, sadly true….take it from one who knows. It even bears repeating. Beware the dratted bottom spread.

“Exercise?” you cry. “I don’t have time to exercise.”

Yes, I can hear your words of disbelief echoing around the globe now.

The thing is, bottom spread is insidious. It creeps up on a writer and suddenly…wham! Shaking head. It’s not a pretty sight.

Luckily I have a solution to halt bottom spread. One word, and no, it’s not a dirty one.

Exercise.

I’m all about multi-tasking whenever possible so here are some ways to add exercise to your routine without too many radical changes.

Take the stairs instead of the elevator.
Park your vehicle in one central place and walk to different shops/destinations to complete your chores.
Walk your children to school instead of driving them.
Go for a walk after dinner. Take your children and husband with you and make it into family time.
Explore some of the National and State parks during weekends and holidays.
Walk barefoot on the beach.
Take the dog for a walk.
Do the housework – not my personal favorite, but I’m just laying out all the options!
Go dancing or put on some music at home and shake your groove thing.
Use that gym membership.
Drag the old bike out of storage.
Take up a new sport.
Try gardening – grow your own flowers and vegetables.
Fancy a swim? My local pool has water aerobics, which actually turned out to be a lot of fun. Swim or walk up and down the pool.

As well as a great way to combat weight gain, regular exercise helps with concentration. It gives you time to think about your characters and plot. Yes, it’s that multi-tasking thing again. Exercising is me-time and although you mightn’t think so at first, it’s also fun. So get to it! Sweat those toxins out and you’ll find you’ll feel better. You might even live longer and gain in self-confidence. And above all, you’ll stop that nasty bottom spread!

What do you think about exercise? Do you like it or hate it? Do you exercise? Pssst – do you suffer from the dreaded bottom spread?


Liz Jasper here again, and for the record, Shelley, I like exercise (I also like chocolate, a lot, so you do the math). A little about Shelley:


Shelley Munroe lives in New Zealand and loves to write. She was horrified to discover the truth about bottom spread and has worked hard to combat said problem ever since. Shelley likes walking the dog and cycling but hates housework. Her most recent release--it came out yesterday! Congrats, Shelley, from all of us here at the Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers!--is Wanderlust, a contemporary tale of travel through India. It combines all of Shelley’s favorite things: exotic location, love, and lashings of intrigue and murder. Wanderlust is available from Cerridwen Press. You can visit Shelley's website at http://www.shelleymunro.com/

A page from a companion short story starring the main character of my WIP:

I, Azazel, of the Order of Grigori, am fallen.

I am not evil.

Look for me. Sitting at the bar beside you. You will know me by my long, fair hair and charismatic smile. My countenance hints at mystery.

My art is, and has always been, the science of seduction.

Saturday morning, seven o’clock, I woke up horny with no remedy in the house but relief was only a phone call away. By ten, I'd gotten laid, kissed sweet Maggie goodbye and stood gazing out the glass wall overlooking the neon splendor of Las Vegas. My white-on-white home built on a hill outside the city was angular, ultra-modern but the furnishings antique.

Young on the outside, old on the inside—like me.

I’d lived in this neoteric garden long enough to imitate the livestock. Sin City suited me. Normally, I'm an easy-going, cheerful even loving fellow. At the moment, however, absolutely nothing suited me. I wished I’d asked Maggie to stay instead of hurrying her on her way. If this ungodly restlessness survived a day in bed with Maggie, I’d require the help of my old friend Bombay Sterling, grinning at me from the liquor cabinet. Another of their habits I'd adopted—
when memories came creeping back. I was wondering if I wanted a martini or a gin-and-tonic when a sharp pain cramped my hand into a fist. Never one for profanity, I exhaled an archaic curse, opened my hand and forgot all about Bombay, Maggie and the heebie-jeebies.

The symbol in my palm bulged blood-red.... as it had on the day my punishment began. The strange symbol had been the subject of many short discussions with mortals who asked if it was a birthmark. I'd nod, smile and change the subject. If only they knew....

At creation, each angel was given an individual sigil. For millennia my heavenly tattoo had been merely a silvery-white scar in my right palm, a sad reminder of what I’d given up. Another razor of pain sliced along the ulner nerve to my elbow, sending a thousand bells ringing in my ears as my vibration soared from the slower corporeal hum to the high pitch of pure Spirit. My hand paled to transparent. Any moment, my mortal pretense was going to dissolve. Then what? Poof...gone...MIA angel?

Something was desperately wrong and I feared I knew what it was, at long last, Retribution coming to call. The night before, I’d succumbed to insanity—voluntary reckless self-endangerment—but for a short time I'd known the perfect joy of Spirit.

In that sparkling time before darkness lost its hold on the world, I took an ivory box from the top shelf of my closet. The small treasure chest had accompanied me on all my many journeys. With reverent, trembling hands, I lifted luminescent fabric from its casket and wrapped myself in sin. Amazing. The garment felt so right when my very touch profaned.

Before the beginning of Recorded Time in a grand show of Old Testament justice, Raphael had stripped the holy robes from my shoulders, and with it, my divinity.

My daughter and I just returned from a cruise to Cozumel as part of a destination wedding. I loved that everything was on the ship! Glitz and glitter included gambling and stage shows.

Meals and snacks beckoned pretty much 24/7 to please almost the most finicky eater. Desserts tempted dieters to sin big time.The good thing for me was that I could order any meals I wanted. I'd already paid for them.

The cleaning crews kept the rooms/cabins and the rest of the ship polished. Everyone offered smiles and services, making passengers feel like royalty.

Did I mention the wonderful food?

The good thing was that we were in our own little self-contained world, away from the real world. The bad thing was we were away from the real world, unless we wanted to spend bunches of money for international calling cards and expensive Internet connections. I'm cheap!

There were places to play, work, or just chill out.

The wedding, the reason we took the cruise, used with the ocean as a backdrop for the ceremony. The elegant bride and groom dazzled in white.

As much as I loved the attention from the waitstaff and ship's employees, I was ready to return home.

TWO OF MY FAVORITE STANZAS:

He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red,And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead,The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed.

And all men kill the thing they love, By all let this be heard,Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word,The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!

Ballad of Reading Gaol

Oscar Wilde, 1898

Through the Fire also finaled in the 2008 Golden Heart ® Contest

Through the Fire~by Beth Trissel

Will love inflame these two natural born enemies in fiery destruction?

Hear the primal howl of a wolf, the liquid spill of a mountain stream. Welcome to the colonial frontier where the men fire muskets and wield tomahawks and the women are wildcats when threatened. The year is 1758, the height of the French and Indian War. Passions run deep in the raging battle to possess a continent, its wealth and furs. Both the French and English count powerful Indian tribes as their allies. The Iroquois League, Shawnee, and others bring age-old rivalries to the conflict—above all the ardent desire to hold onto what is theirs. Who will live, and who will fall?

Rebecca Elliot is an English lady, Shoka a half-Shawnee, half-French warrior. Rebecca fled an abusive father in London to elope to America with her young British captain. Shoka was a guide for English traders, befriended by an itinerant priest and betrayed by his wife. Rebecca left Philadelphia a widow, courtesy of the French and Indian War, to seek a beloved uncle in the Virginia colonial frontier. She has unwittingly entered a dangerous world of rugged mountains, wild animals, and even wilder men. The rules are different here and she doesn't know them.

Shoka is the hawk, swift and sure, and silent as the moon. He knows all about survival in this untamed land and how deadly distraction can be. He makes Rebecca his prisoner, but the last thing he wants is to lose his head and already shredded heart to another impossibly beautiful woman...this one with blindingly blue eyes and a blistering temper.

Rebecca wants Shoka to guide her to Fort Warden where her uncle and cousins may be sheltering. Shoka wants to sell this furious Englishwoman to a Frenchman before she draws him under her spell, but if he lets her go he can no longer protect her. If he holds onto her can he safeguard his heart? Rebecca is torn between a growing attraction to her magnetic captor and loyalty to her people. With dark forces gathering against them, will Rebecca and Shoka fight together or be destroyed?

Through the Fire is "meticulously researched...a cascade of bold action and passion." ~ Film consultant and author Jim Great Elk Waters (View from the Medicine Lodge, Seven Locks Press), a retired Shawnee URB sub-chief

...there was a sound behind it like the beat of ominous wings, like the whir of a hard-spun wheel: Furies's wings, Fate's wheel. But none knew it then. Mere mortals never do.
The Goat Song.

Ever wonder what authors: Amarinda Jones, Anny Cook, Kelly Kirch, Mona Risk, Brynn Paul, Bronwyn Green or Sandra Cox looked like as a child? Can you figure out who’s who? If you have an opportunity, stop by sandracox.blogspot.com and see if you recognize Saturday’s Children. Since it’s the last day of the contest, there will be two drawings for today.Leave a comment and you will automatically be entered.

Please leave an email address with your comment or a way to contact you, in case you’re the winner!

Rose Quartz

“Are you changing the subject?” He frowned, confused.

“Not at all, I’m used to dealing with the ruggedly handsome man of few words, Hank McHenry. I’m not used to dealing with a stud muffin.”

She gave him a long, appraising look that made him squirm. “Sugar, I always thought you were good looking but now you look as handsome as sin and twice as dangerous.”

“Well, for god’s sake.” Hank jerked. A rush of blood flooded his face, coloring it brick red. He turned away from her and stared at the road. Pressing against the seat with his back, he lifted his hips, dug the amulet out of his front pocket and tossed it at her.

She cl

amped it on her forearm and then sighed in pleasure. “Ah, I felt half dressed without it.”

“Maybe ‘cause you are half dressed,” he said dryly, glancing at her.

She shook her head. “You’re a caution.”

“Is that a step up or back from a stud muffin?”

She laughed. She’d never felt a link like this with a man before. Attraction as sharp and heated as lightning coursed between them. That aside, she loved his dry wit. And the way he considered what she said before he responded as if he really listened.

She respected him as a man. And he was a man, more so than anyone she knew, a real man in a world where heroes were no longer easy to find. A man who believed that a handshake was his word and that his word was his bond. A man who would lay dow

n his life to protect those he loved. She’d never known a man like Hank McHenry and she had a strong feeling she never would again.

Quote of the day: "Do you forget she had you killed?" Shardai, wings-press.com, available in e or paper.

Tender shoots of poke are beginning to emerge. The time of poke salad is at hand. Only the new green shoots may be harvested in spring. Once the shoots take on a reddish hue that resembles the toxic root, they are too mature to consume safely. The green shoots should be cooked in two changes of water and eaten like asparagus.

Despite poke’s potential toxicity, the medicinal value of the plant was highly valued in times past and used by Indians and colonists, though with much care. A very little bit of the dried root was steeped in several cups of boiling water and the concoction sipped sparingly.

Poke, more than any other plant, was regarded as having the power to dramatically alter the course of an ailment. Death is also a dramatic altering and that could happen if too much was administered. I suppose the healer then made a mental note to use less next time. If self-medicating, the patient didn’t have to worry about next time.

Last summer I found an extremely vigorous pokeberry bush thriving among the buddleia. I actually like poke with its deep purple berries (one of the first inks of the New World) if I don’t think about it reseeding everywhere, which it did. But I respect poke, so much more than simply a weed. New research has shown that the root may be valuable in curing some of our most challenging diseases. Just don’t experiment on your own. Consult an expert.

Contributed by Beth Trissel

Baby Pic Contest: Friday’s Child

Ever wonder what authors: Amarinda Jones, Anny Cook, Kelly Kirch, Mona Risk, Brynn Paul, Bronwyn Green or Sandra Cox looked like as a child? Can you figure out who’s who? Leave a comment at sandracox.blogspot.com and you will automatically be placed in a random drawing for a book download. A random drawing of the day’s comments will be held each day this week. If you have an opportunity, stop by and see if you recognize Thursday’s Child.

Please leave an email address, with your comment or a way to contact you, in case you’re the winner!

“I trust you will make the right decision, Lord Colchester, and settle our departure. I have missed Wales all these years, and ’tis your birthplace. You must be anxious to return.” Sir Geoffrey tugged off his worn gloves and avoided James’s eyes. “The time is perfect to move Lord Jeremy far from England and the memories of his sister and mother.”

“Do not mention my beautiful daughter and . . . Alyce in the same breath.” James bit out the words in a jagged tone.

“Whereas a dangerous threat may lurk---”

“’Tis not easy to travel with all the castle servants and their baggage in tow, especially when I have a son who is not healthy. He has been ill all summer, and might not be able to withstand such an arduous journey.” James lowered his voice, parted his lips to say more, and thought better of it. He absently stroked Jeremy’s pale cheek with his thumb and hugged him closer to his chest.

Baby Pic Contest: Thursday’s Child

Ever wonder what authors: Amarinda Jones, Anny Cook, Kelly Kirch, Mona Risk, Brynn Paul, Bronwyn Green or Sandra Cox looked like as a child? Can you figure out who’s who? Leave a comment at sandracox.blogspot.com and you will automatically be placed in a random drawing for a book download. A random drawing of the day’s comments will be held each day this week. If you have an opportunity, stop by and see if you recognize Thursday’s Child.

Please leave an email address, with your comment or a way to contact you, in case you’re the winner!

Once again, new life is swelling all around us. Baby calves appear overnight in the meadow, and as we drive along the back roads we see fleecy lambs trotting behind their mothers and baby goats playing King of the Mountain. The kids leap gleefully off an old stump and scamper back up again. Babies come wired for play, as instinctive as eating.

Why do we seem to lose the knack for fun as we grow older? More play and reinstating nap time would turn this rum old world around. And chocolate, I think, to sweeten the deal. Those people intolerant to chocolate will have to make other arrangements.

I have sometimes considered writing the President with my ideas for world peace which involve airlifting in chocolate chip cookies, the really good double chunk kind, to quarrelsome countries as a reward for playing nicely. Bubble stuff would be a good, too. Folks can eat cookies and blow bubbles after their naps. And smell the flowers. We should plant flowers and herbs everywhere. Americans could do with far more beauty in their lives. Is beauty vain and frivolous, or as essential as breathing?

“Yes, in a poor man’s garden grow
Far more than herbs and flowers –
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,
And joy for weary hours.” Mary Howitt

Posted by Beth Trissel
Photograph by Pat Churchman, shot along a back road a few miles from our farm

Walgreen's is offering free photo developing today only. (Wednesday.) One per customer.

Check their website for a downloadable coupon.

Free coffee at Starbucks!
Visit Starbucks today at noon Eastern time, and 9:00 a.m. Pacific for a free 8 oz. cup of brewed coffee. Check to see if your store is participating.

Baby Pic Contest: Tuesday’s Child

Ever wonder what authors: Amarinda Jones, Anny Cook, Kelly Kirch, Mona Risk, Brynn Paul, Bronwyn Green or Sandra Cox looked like as a child? Stop by sandracox.blogspot.com and see if you can put a name with the face. Leave a comment and you will automatically be placed in a random drawing for a book download. This contest will be running all week. A random drawing of the day’s comments will be held each day this week. If you have an opportunity, stop by and see if you recognize Tuesday’s Child.

Please leave an email address, with your comment or a way to contact you, in case you’re the winner!

Fatal Fortune, chapter two, continued

Sir Geoffrey cast an uneasy stare out the window. “The entire village fears another outbreak of the sweating sickness. ’Tis said to be sweeping across England once again. Now that we have found not one, but possibly two gypsy fortunetellers, we must leave. And soon.”
James stroked the stubble on his chin and stretched his legs toward the fire. The knight would never cease reminding him of his obligations until he settled the matter. Despite the number of years since the last outbreak, fear of the sickness persisted, frightening and formidable, creating widespread panic at the mere mention of its name.

The muscles in his back tightened again. He fought down his restlessness and rocked his son instead.

“I am well aware of my responsibilities to my servants.” A cold edge of bitterness threaded his words. “May I remind you, Sir Geoffrey, my late wife . . . died months ago and many miles away. The sickness has not affected anyone here in the east. We are much removed from this latest outbreak.”

"The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes..."
Shakespeare

The heavy rain has given way to a misting drizzle, but streams of water are pouring down from the hills, making new ponds and creeks. This spring is awash in moisture and amazing after last summer’s searing drought. I am struck by the intense beauty around me, and I thought I was already seeing it, but it is so much more somehow. The grass seems to shimmer, yet there is no sun out today, and the meadow is so richly green it’s like seeing heaven. The barnyard geese are enraptured, as much as geese can be, with all the grass. If there is a lovelier place to revel in spring than the Shenandoah Valley and the mountains, I don’t know it. Narnia, maybe.

I’ve been thinking about my favorite places. The pool I like best lies in the woods near a place called Rip Rap Hollow in the Blue Ridge Mountains. A most splendid falls cascades up above, but I like the pool far more. We always meant to go back, but never have. The cold water ripped through me like liquid ice and is as clear as melted crystal. I could see the rocks on the bottom, some slick with moss, others brown-gold in the light where the sun broke through the leafy canopy overhead. Trout hid beneath big rounded stones or ones that formed a cleft, but the men tickled them out to flash over the flat rocks strewn across the bottom like a path. Drifts of hay-scented fern rose around the edges of the pool, warming the air with the fragrance of new mown hay, and made the shady places a rich green.

Now, that’s a good place to go in my mind when I’m troubled. The problem with cities is that people don’t learn what really matters, don't really feel or know the rhythms of the earth. When we are separated from that vital center place, we grow lost. Sadly, most people will never know what they are lost from, or where they can be found.

Posted by Beth Trissel

Baby Pic Contest: Monday’s Child

Ever wonder what authors: Amarinda Jones, Anny Cook, Kelly Kirch, Mona Risk, Brynn Paul, Bronwyn Green or Sandra Cox looked like as a child? Stop by sandracox.blogspot.com and see if you can put a name with the face. Leave a comment and you will automatically be placed in a random drawing for a book download. This contest will be running all week. A random drawing of the day’s comments will be held each day this week. If you have an opportunity, stop by today and see Monday’s Child.

This recipe couldn't be easier. It is low-fat, and perfect for the spring and summer season harvest of fresh fruit.

1 cup skim milk
1 cup cool whip (I use fat-free)
a box sugar free/fat free pudding mix (try chocolate, vanilla, or pistachio---but any flavor can be used)

Slice your favorite fresh fruit, and dip away!

Freedom of speech gives reach of us the right to say what we think, right? But maybe not to employers and bosses. Maybe not to family members and friends who are sensitive. Using tact is self-preservation.

Of course there are the issues of being politically correct. I don't have the right to say things that slander others or that sound prejudicial about a group of people. Do you feel we go too far in our attempts to avoid accidentally offending others? Have you had someone become upset at something you said innocently? Sometimes I feel we work too hard.

At a baby shower we each got a pacifier on a ribbon. We were instructed to avoid the use of the words "baby" and "cute". If we used either word we lost our pacifier to the first person who heard the slip. Of course some of us collected many pacifiers because some people were quick to catch the slips. Frankly, giving up the pacifier was a relief! Telling me not to use a word will bring that one to my mind often.

Humor has often been cut-down humor that relates to people's backgrounds, race, gender, career, religion, hometowns, sports teams, and more. People can go too far, of course. Mel Gibson and Don Imus are prime examples and Mel was drunk. Some insulting comments are made as the result of anger, while others just pop from people with undersized brains. Should we be held accountable for things we say in private and should goofs be made public? Should people be allowed to follow someone around and invade his or her privacy, just because that person is in the public eye? If a teacher is overheard uttering a word in private or away from the classroom that wouldn't be appropriate at school, should that effect her job?

With the popularity of the internet and the ease of setting up blogs and websites, some folks feel they can say whatever they wish, fact or fiction? Should there be more censorship? What should happen to people who lie about others on websites or blogs? Should newspapers and television announcers be allowed to lie in the form of a question? When you hear or read words like "Did Sharon Stone visit to the XXX clinic because of her eating disorder?", do you hear that she has an eating disorder? Will it matter that the article might mention that she's working out to lose weight or that she hasn't actually lost weight but gained muscle? Does it matter that headlines like that sell papers, get people to listen?

Opinions? More to follow tomorrow, if no one else fills the spot.

As with most of my adventures, it all started innocently enough. I'd been feeling a bit lonely, tired of staring at the four walls and decided to go out and about in Sin City--Viva Las Vegas. I took a short cut through a back alley and happened upon a human tragedy in progress. Gun drawn, a street kid had an old man cornered between a dumpster and a brick wall.

“Good evening, Junior-G, my name is Azazel. Drop your weapon, put your hands above your head and turn around slowly.” My voice was calm and gritty, a fair imitation of Clint Eastwood. I was tempted to add or I’ll twitch my nose and your little cock will fall off, but that might get the old man shot.

The kid whirled, gun leveled at my chest and fired. The bullet sped toward me, spun a graceful ninety-degree turn and like a heat-seeking missile honed in on its target, the kid holding the gun. In a freeze-frame instant, Junior's jaw dropped, his eyes stretched wide enough to pop out of his head. At the last moment, the bullet veered right to strike the dumpster with an explosive ring like metallic thunder. He hung there as if suspended from invisible strings attached to the waistband of his jeans.

“Bastard,” he gasped.

“Mind your tongue, Junior.” Cool, confident, I strolled toward him.

He gave me a tough guy stare but his gun hand shook. Effort pinched his face. He was definitely stretching his intellect to understand what had just happened and fast becoming a nervous kid in street clothes—baggy jeans riding low, showing his underwear, combat boots, black t-shirt sporting a stack of bleached skulls. He was too shocked and I moved too fast, grabbing the gun from his frozen fingers, using it to wave him on his way.

NOTE: I'd like to find the artist who drew this if anyone can point me to him/her.

Do you believe in fate?

I've always thought things work out as they should. If something I want doesn't happen, it's probably because something better is waiting round the corner.

My patience has been tested over the last few years with my writing when despite numerous contest wins, the editor and agent interest in my winning stories didn't translate into offers. Paranormal romance is a difficult market to break into so I've been told numerous times.

Then last June, friends persuaded me to enter The Magic Knot in the American Title contest. To be honest, I thought Dorchester would probably send me a polite note telling me I wasn't eligible as I didn't live in America. (After all, the contest is called American Title.) But well done to Dorchester for their international spirit; they accepted my entry and not only that, liked it enough to choose the story as one of the ten finalists that moved on to the voting rounds.

I was over the moon to be chosen as a finalist by the Dorchester editors and have excerpts of my story published in Romantic Times. I expected to make it through the first couple of rounds, three if I were lucky. Romantic Times magazine isn't sold in the UK, so I doubted I'd make it much further. I underestimated the wonderful support of my friends (thank you fellow fuzzies!), family and obviously a good sized group of Romantic Times readers. Much to my amazement, The Magic Knot has made it all the way through to the final round--the final two. Now I have the fun of attending the Romantic Times convention in Pittsburgh in a few weeks time to find out if I've won the American Title contest and a publishing contract with Dorchester.

To put icing on the cake, last week I heard that The Magic Knot is also a finalist in Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart® contest. I'll also be able to attend the RWA® conference in San Francisco and attend the awards ceremony as a finalist. My patience is paying off. Fate is smiling on me and it looks as though 2008 is going to be my year.

I've always thought 2 and 8 are lucky numbers for me!

So if life seems hard work and it feels like you're taking two steps forward and one step back, hang on in there. Better things could be right around the corner.

When I return from Pittsburgh on April 22nd I'll be sure to post my news on American Title here. So keep an eye open!

Back in the Dark Ages when I began this sacred journey (being younger than some writers who claim they hail from the time of cave dwellers) I wrote by hand on college lined notebook paper with a certain kind of Bic pen--had to be that kind. And I went through bottles of whiteout. Once a page was stiff with whiteout, I'd crumple and throw until I was surrounded by a pile of discarded prose.

My cats collected about me, often sparring with each other for the prime spots, known only to cats. Those furry bodies heightened the summer heat and I had no air conditioning in my bedroom back then where I do most of my writing seated in my bed propped against the headboard with pillows. Only, now I have a laptop.

When my now grown children were small, they snuggled in my roomy bed for story time. We spent happy hours sailing to new realms in our imaginations. Thus, it seemed the apt place to weave my own tales. As it’s also my husband’s bedroom, I often wrote late into the night with dim lights so as not to disturb him. He graciously tolerated the grating of the quill pen and I even favored candles until I caught my hair on fire. Not to worry, I soon beat it out, but now prefer a lower watt bulb. I also went from excellent vision to needing bi-focals…hmmmm.

Back to my digression: In those medieval days, I knew nothing of computers. My long suffering mother typed up all my jottings on hers, after I handed over my latest work in an envelope marked, "Guard with life!" As it was my only copy. If her home caught on fire, I expected that envelope to escape unscathed––and her, of course, and my dad, and the dog, with my envelope clenched in its teeth.

Faithful Mama and I actually made it through multiple revisions of book one, a lengthy epistle, and were well into book two before my dear husband gave me his old desktop computer and I was launched into cyberspace. No internet for me before then either. A whole new world opened up nearly as vast as the universe.

With much floundering, I’m learning how to navigate, although I recently got lost at the Coffee Time Romance website. They ought to have search and rescue. That’s a mighty big café.

Fortunately, I have cyber-savvy friends to whom I frequently turn for direction. A word of advice to newbies, make fast mates of graphic artists. Fellow Pink Fuzzie Pam Roller was already my pal before I hit on her to do my website, but after the superb work she’s done, it’s safe to say I am indebted to her forever. Rather like that Moor, Azeem, who faithfully served Robin Hood after he saved the guy’s life. So, Pam, your wish is my command. Just don’t actually ask for anything. :)

And then, there are the dreams. I knew I had some psychic ability, but have discovered this second sight is more deeply rooted than I realized. From that initial dream twelve years ago, about a warrior taking a young woman captive at a river in the Shenandoah Valley, to the elderly brave shrouded in mist who gave me a warning as I sailed away on a black sea, to the characters who’ve appeared with revelations of their stories, these many visions have guided my journey.

I’ve also been led into a foreknowledge of how I would fare with a certain agent/editor. The dreams were always right, dang it. Like the British agent (I queried the world) who was impressed with one of my colonial frontier stories and was on the verge of signing me when I dreamt I met her at a party where we chatted happily until others came between us and I lost sight of her. I knew before she said that she’d decided to go another route. Thus it was with anyone in the publishing world with whom I had contact. If I didn’t dream of them, then they were not to be. If I did, it didn’t usually go well either.

Ditto for contests. Early on, my hopes were soaring high for a particular contest, when I dreamed my hot air balloon (is that apt, or what?) crashed on the rocks. Yep, so did my entry. But, I recently double finaled in that same contest. Ten years later, but what’s a piffling decade?

Lately, my ‘spidey senses’ have detected a new wind blowing, a change in the direction I should track. Ever mindful of that inner voice, I decided to submit my light paranormal romance, Somewhere My Love, to the Wild Rose Press. Within a week, I received a raving reply from the editor who offered me a contract. And I finally figured out what that old warrior had been warning me about all those years ago, that it would take quite a voyage before I’d find my harbor. But ‘Land Ho!’

Now, the rich icing on the cake is my final in the 2008 Golden Heart with my historical romance novel, Through the Fire, one of the world's most rejected manuscripts! An excerpt of 'Fire' is posted on this blog.

To all my friends and supporters, a hearty thank you!

Posted by Beth Trissel

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.

Oscar Wilde