PARTY IN A GLASS HOUSE

 

 

Snow falls.

Music floats in the air.

Inside the glass house,

the guests dance.

Their images reflect on the

sparkling walls.

Champagne flows

and so does the blood.

The clock strikes midnight.

The dance floor empties.

We are alone.

The games have begun.

THE DEAD GAME

 

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An Interview of Susanne Leist by Ndeye Labadens

Welcome to 1K Book Promotion event 2018!

Enjoy the promotion event and meet new wonderful authors of all genre. Don’t forget to comment like and share. If you feel like asking questions feel free to do so here and on the website. The author might respond to you! Invite friends that might like to read.

The more we are the more fun we get! Here is the link http://lannconsultings.com/1k-promotion/

Happy 1K book promotion party 2018!

I would like to introduce you to these amazing authors. I enjoyed their books and I am pretty sure you will love them too! 

http://lannconsultings.com/1k-promotion/

**********

Meet Susanne Leist

Thank you for being with us. Please Introduce yourself.

Hi. My name is Susanne Leist. I am the author of The Dead Game series.

What’s the story behind the title?

The Dead Game series takes place in the fictional setting of Oasis, Florida. Oasis is nestled on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean with white sand and picturesque homes. Tourists visit for the warm weather and the fancy Oasis Hotel, which caters to the rich and famous. The nights bring another story. Dark shadows roam the streets while mysterious parties are held in the woods behind the town.

Why did you write this book?

My recent interest in the paranormal enticed me to write paranormal suspense in an exotic location. I wanted to combine suspense, mystery, and romance.

How do you keep the reader’s attention?

Readers won’t have time to let their attention wander. The action is non-stop. The twists and turns will keep them guessing to the bitter end.

How did you come up with this book idea?

My idea began with a deserted house. Lured to this mansion with a promise of a party, my main character, Linda, and her friends are confronted with traps and illusions. The story takes a supernatural turn once the residents who keep hidden during the day appear after dark and a dead body washes ashore. I didn’t know I would be entering the paranormal realm until my characters did.

What publishing elements do you most enjoy and most like to avoid, and why? (e.g., design, marketing, formatting, etc.)

I love writing and marketing. Editing is done along the way. I am always making changes and editing. After the book is completed, I use professional help for further editing and formatting.

What’s next on your writing journey?

I finished writing the second book in the series. I’m still editing. Soon I will forward it to an editor.

Where would my audience find your book?

My book is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble in e-book and paperback.

AMAZON     http://amzn.to/1lKvMrP     

GOODBYE TO OASIS

 

THE DEAD GAME – Goodbye to Oasis

 

Big waves crashing to shore.
Can’t take anything more.
Water hitting my face.
I can’t keep this fast pace.

Creatures at my back.
My world turning black.
Fear filling me with dread.
It’s them – the walking dead.

Fleeing the streets of the town,
Sidewalks turn a muddy brown.
The horrors follow me,
Nowhere safe left for me.

I can see the church’s tower.
It used to be the town’s power.
Now it stands defeated and dark.
I must cut through the shadowed park.

What future holds for this poor town?
Where everything is upside down.
The Dead have come for us at last.
We will soon be part of its past.

THE DEAD GAME

Kindle
http://amzn.to/1lKvMrP

Nook
http://bit.ly/1lFdqNj

A BOOK IS A TREASURE

 

 

A long journey to become an author,
Days of soul searching and hard work.
The words need to be enticing and clear,
A bridge to the reader’s heart.

A movie camera sweeps across scenes,
So does a book’s point of view.
One point of view shows one angle
While changing points of view reveal more.

To be lost in a book is indeed a gift,
An escape from the mundane and boring.
A visit to far away places can be
An adventure to open your mind’s eye.

Once completed, a book is a treasure,
A symbol of the author’s hopes and dreams.
A confectioner’s delight to be tasted and savored,
To be remembered by the many or just a few.

A DARK DESTINY

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marcha-fox

The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon

by Marcha Fox

Charlie Whitehorse caressed the soft texture of the wool blanket as he gathered its folds around himself against the evening chill. He savored it’s earthy scent, unlocking an onslaught of memories. This wasn’t just any blanket. Over three decades before, he’d watched his ama’sa’ni create this one from scratch. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his log cabin, gazing into the roaring fire, he recalled how he’d longed to hunt deer with his father and the other elders. But he was a child of seven, his job to help his grandmother, one of the tribe’s weavers. The process of making blankets was long and tedious, one far too boring for a young Navajo boy who felt embarrassed and demeaned performing chores assigned to squaws.

Even now, he remembered every step. First, she’d shown him how to separate the shoulder sections of the fleece, which were the cleanest with the longest staple. After that, she’d instructed him how to prepare the raw wool for spinning. This involved teasing a few locks with his fingers to separate the fibers. Next came combing them with a pair of carders that looked like large, flat dog brushes, manmade imitations of the prickly teasel. Then he’d place the resulting bats in a reed basket, miniature clouds of fluff awaiting her skilled hand. Pure lanolin coated his fingers, making them squeak when rubbed together, its odor one he’d never forget. Nor how it softened callouses earned practicing with his bow. Often he couldn’t work fast enough to keep up with her spinning, accomplished using a spindle to twist the prepared fibers into yarn.

Fortunately, once she spun enough yarn, his part became more interesting. Then he no longer had to sit for hours on end, arms aching from carding. Now he could explore a bit as he gathered the materials she needed to dye the yarn into a variety of warm colors.

The collection process for some substances required a knife or ax, which contributed to the feeling of it being a worthy task for a young brave. Bloodroot, hickory twigs, pokeweed berries, and oak bark were some of the things she requested. Among the most challenging were cochineal beetles which, when dried and ground into powder, would yield crimson. It could take an entire day to gather enough bugs for a single batch, but to both him and his ama’sa’ni, it was a day well-spent.

In fall, goldenrod blossoms were gathered to produce vibrant yellow, though color and intensity depended on various factors. When ama’sa’ni was ready to start the dye process, he’d haul water from either the iron-rich spring to the north side of their village for reds or the alum-rich one to the east for the yellows, the resident minerals necessary for the fiber to permanently retain its color.

When she’d prepared sufficient yarn, Charlie helped her warp the loom constructed from tree trunks, then wrap the different color yarns on separate sticks that served as shuttles. Then, the best part–weaving–began. He marveled as she’d skillfully alternated shuttles, colorful geometric patterns emerging with each row of weft until at long last their collective labors produced a finished blanket that was not only functional but a work of art.

Only now, as a grown man, did the wisdom of that experience impress itself upon his mind. Not only the work itself but what it taught him about nature, going full circle from the vegetation the sheep ate to dyeing the yarn with some of those same plants. Yes, the process was tedious and long; yet the result was well worth it. It taught him patience, perseverance, and appreciation. For simple things. Like a blanket that felt softer to the touch each year, improving with use, unlike so many things that didn’t last. Analogous to life itself. And old friends. A cherished cover that had kept him warm for what would soon be thirty winters, many of which were spent in the frigid Colorado Rockies.

His cultural roots demonstrated man was intended to be an integral part of nature; stewards, not conquerors. Unlike those who’d invaded their land, forced the Indigenous population to settle in inferior regions, then even drive them from there, when a wealth of silver, gold, copper, and other minerals were discovered beneath what they considered sacred ground.

Rather than extracting and processing it in a way that honored the earth and showed gratitude for its abundance, they’d virtually raped the land, leaving gaping holes and tunnels behind. Some hundred-fifty years before, his people had sadly admitted defeat and had no choice but to tolerate such behavior.

Yet, their misfortune didn’t end there. It was harvest time in 1869 when a band of drunken Whitemen raided the village, waiting until the tribesmen were away for the final hunt in preparation for winter. The invaders not only ravaged the women and burned their homes, but stampeded the horses that remained in camp. A few young braves, not yet old enough to join the hunt, had attempted to save the steeds, only to be driven by a hoard of deranged miners over the edge of a cliff to be decimated in the ravine a hundred yards below. Charlie recalled when he’d first heard the story as a youth and how he’d imagined himself as one of them.

Was it any wonder that when the tribesmen returned and found the resulting devastation that their medicine man, likewise a shaman, cursed that canyon?  So far, however, the Whiteman had continued to benefit from exploiting and abusing the entire area. Perhaps the dawn of the curse resided in the aftermath of the leaching and other processing methods used to extract the precious metals. These involved noxious substances such as arsenic and mercury. Their residue poisoned the ground and eventually migrated to nearby streams when abandoned mines filled with rain and snow melt. The toxic drainage eventually killed all aquatic creatures and drove away wildlife that depended upon such channels for drinking water.

The mines were mostly exhausted, yet water continued to accumulate in their cavities. The latest bitter irony that they were using the excavations’ polluted aftermath to further devastate the ground. The acid mine water was being used for hydraulic fracturing, commonly known as fracking, again dishonoring the earth while stealing from its depths.

It was easy for Charlie to question whether or not the curse was real. So far it was questionable, no apparent consequences answered upon those who had wreaked so much destruction for the sake of greed. Only the earth and local wildlife had suffered.

Local tradition dictated that the curse would manifest in its entirety when their actions reached the pinnacle of evil. After that, it would dissipate, but only when the Whiteman and his Indigenous brothers mended their ways; when they closed the persistent rift between them in friendship and cooperation. Unlike many, he was one of the few who had tasted of such sweetness with his friend, Bryan Reynolds. They’d met in their teens when Charlie had moved north to live with his father in his male parent’s native Cheyenne country. Oddly enough, the two boys even shared the same birthday, spending dozens of adventurous summers together, exploring, hunting, fishing, and growing up in separate cultures, yet being of one heart.

But now Bryan was dead. His life terminated in that very ravine known to his people as Dead Horse Canyon. Charlie suspected his friend’s tragic accident had been orchestrated by those to whom the curse had been directed. Yet so far, no guilty party had been identified, much less suffered due consequences. It didn’t make sense. Seven generations have passed. Surely it was time. And intuition assured him fulfillment was in progress.

But why Bryan? Why now? And what, if anything, was Charlie’s role?

The blanket’s warmth enjoined him to patience. From that first bat of carded wool to its liberation from the loom, it had comforted and instructed him in the ways of life. Legend assured him that the curse would end. Soon. And in some way, currently unknown to him, he would be part of it.

 

******

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

 

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

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rhani-dchae

 

 

THE WEEK MY FATHER DIED

I was at work when my mother called to tell me that dad had been rushed to the hospital the night before, suffering from excruciating pain in his abdomen.  

Dad had been diagnosed with prostate cancer about fifteen years earlier and it had spread to other parts of his body, but he had been doing fairly well so there was no reason to anticipate something like this.

Mom told me that dad had spent quite a bit of time at the hospital while they ran numerous tests to discover the cause of his pain. Long story short, his kidneys were failing and there was nothing that could be done. He was sent home with a hospice nurse so that he could be with his family in comfortable surroundings when the end came.

We rented a hospital bed and put it next to the front window so that he could see outside into the yard. We kept instrumental hymns playing on the stereo and moved mom’s chair closer to the bed so that she could be nearer to him.

And that’s when things started to get a little crazy.

James, my seeing eye son, was living with mom and dad at the time, and my sister, who I was living with at the time, drove out with me every day.  Gail, my other sister, also came out daily, as did her husband, her four children and their collection of young ones.

Gail’s grandkids were all under ten and did not really understand the severity of the situation. They knew that Papa was going home to see Jesus, but that was about as far as it went. Gail’s family had never lived close to mom and dad, so their kids only saw my parents three or four times a year. None of them had a close relationship with dad, so the thought of losing him did not rate overly high on their radar.

For five days, the kids ran through the house, slamming the doors and yelling to each other. Even when they were sent outside, the noise was loud enough to be heard everywhere in the house. Their respective parents would occasionally tell them to tone it down, but they were kids and that’s what kids do.

At one point, one of my nephews-in-law decided to commemorate the occasion by putting it on film. He videotaped everyone going to my father’s side and saying goodbye. Maybe it was the stress of the situation, but I didn’t like what he was doing. My father’s death was not a photo-op, and I resented anything that made it seem that way.

I remember being called into the living room and told to say something to dad. I had already spoken to him several times, telling him that I loved him and assuring him that mom would be taken care of. Having my niece’s husband dictate to me where to stand and how long to talk so that he could get it on film, was infuriating.

As six families moved through the house each day, my mother spent most of her time sitting with dad, reading the Bible to him and making the most of the time that remained. She loved having her family close, but as the days passed, I could see that the noise and constant disruption was getting to her. I did speak to my nieces individually on several occasions, asking if they could please keep the kids quiet, at least in the house. They always said they would, and I know that they meant it at the time, but it never happened. The noise, the chasing from room to room, and the constant interruptions into my parents’ private space, continued. I could see that it was upsetting my mother, and I finally decided to put my foot down.

I took my mom and Gail into the bedroom and asked mom what she wanted or needed. She thought about it for a long moment and then said, very simply, that she wanted to answer the phone. Either Gail or one of her daughters had been taking the phone calls and making a list of the callers. Mom wanted to speak to those people, most of them from her church and was upset that she was not being allowed to do so. And she wanted the volume around her to be turned down to a much less disruptive level.

Gail said that she would take care of it, and she did. Within hours, her grandkids had been taken by their fathers to another location. I didn’t know where they went, and I didn’t much care. They were gone, the house was quiet, and that was all that mattered to me.

Later in the day, James, my other sister Sharon and I,

took mom to Cold Stone for some ice cream. Dad was fairly unresponsive by then, so she felt that it was okay to take a little break.

We were gone for about an hour, and by the time we got back, everyone else was back as well. But at least mom had a few hours of uninterrupted time with dad, and I’m so grateful that the girls understood and were willing to do what was needed to give her that.

My father passed that night, surrounded by family and carried home on the sound of our voices singing his favorite hymns. Standing in a semi-circle around the bed, we held hands as we sang, while my brother-in-law, a minister, laid his hands on my father’s head and prayed him home.

As cancer deaths go, my father’s was fairly quick. He had been fully functional up until the night he went to the emergency room, enjoying his life without much discomfort. He avoided the long hospital stays and horrific pain that are so often a part of that kind of death. My aunt Gloria died of lung cancer when I was eighteen or so. I went to see her in the hospital, and I remember a shrunken figure in the bed, hooked up to monitors and numerous IV lines. Her time of dying took several long and torturous weeks, and I will always be thankful that my father was spared a similar end. I would have hated to have my last memory of this strong and vital man, be that of a wasted shadow of the man that he had always been.

I thank the Lord that it didn’t go that way.

                                                                       ******

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

 

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

(Rhani D’Chae) RWISA Author Page

How would you like to become an RWISA Member so that you’re able to receive this same awesome FREE support? Simply click HERE to make an application!

A DEMENTED DANCE

PRELUDE TO BOOK II – THE DEAD GAME SERIES

house in woods

 

 

Has End House returned to Oasis?

Our chanting had cast it to sea.
 
It can’t be back.
 
We can’t be under attack.

 

Silence fills the forest.

A cold breeze tickles my arms.

I follow the path through

a thick copse of trees.

 

The sky darkens.

A shadow looms in the distance.

I enter the clearing.

Seagulls cry and swoop low.

 

I halt by a deep hole.

The spot where End House had stood.

A hard shove

And I’m falling.

 

Laughter follows my descent.

I hit rock bottom. 

A tunnel stretches before me.

Light at its end.

 

THE DEAD GAME CONTINUES

PRELUDE TO BOOK II

THE HOUSE STANDS ALONE

unefemmediscrete Deactivated

Cliff House and Seal Rocks by Moonlight, San Francisco, c 1900.

 

 

The waves dance in fury,

hitting the sharp rocks.

The house towers above,

glaring at intruders.

Death to anyone

who dare to violate its shores.

THE DEAD GAME