Rave Reviews Book Club “Springtime Book and Block Party!

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Welcome to my blog on this wonderful Rave Reviews Book Club ‘Springtime’ Book and Blog Block party tour! Coming to you today from my latest location; the beautiful rural township of Bathurst, in New South Wales: Australia.

BLOG IMAGES FOR CITY GIRL

Please leave a comment below today, April 21st, to be entered in the drawing to win one of these prizes!

1 (Ebook copy) of “Empty Chairs” (Standing Tall and Fighting Back) Book 1. #Memoir

1 (Ebook copy) of “Faint Echoes Of Laughter” (Standing Tall and Fighting Back) Book 2. #Memoir

1 (Ebook copy) of “Acts Beyond Redemption” (Unintended Consequences) Book 1 #Thriller #Suspense.

1 (Ebook copy) of “Acts Of Betrayal” (Unintended Consequences) Book 2. #Thriller #Suspense.

Total Prizes I’m gifting today = 4.

I do love a party! So, let’s have some party-time fun! I know just the woman to add a little ‘spice’ to the proceedings.  Meet Sheila Harrington one of the pivotal characters in my Thriller Suspense Novels “Acts Beyond Redemption” and “Acts Of Betrayal”

Lets’ dress my little monster for the party … and we’ll make it formal, shall we?

Sheila ballgown by Michael costello

 

Ah, yes of course, we need a stunning location. What better setting than this  ballroom?  The occasion? The highly publicized Charity event of the season …The ‘Governors’ Black and White Ball’. Thrown with his accustomed panache by New York Governor (And Presidential Candidate) Damon Henderson. Sheila Harrington is as always his date.

Blog Black and White Ball 2

Sheila is tall for a woman, and the elegant Jimmi Choo shoes boost her height to just over six feet. She is both beautiful … and deadly. She adds more than just a mans’ heart to her little bag of collectables … she evicerates his spirit, and destroys his soul without hesitation, or remorse.

Love her or loathe her? Now that is the question. Whatever the decision, you may not forget her in a hurry.

Now relax,  kick your shoes off, and listen in to an (imaginary) conversation between the beautiful Sheila and her unseen ‘guest’… Let me see, what shall we name him? Ah, yes … Mr D Evil, will do nicely.

***

“You look bored, Mon bebe.” The voice was husky, inviting, deeply-timbered. Sheila shivered delightedly, then smiled.

” To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” She whispered.

“I grew bored, and there are brief moments when you actually manage to entertain me, Mon bébé. I’m loving the dress. Black becomes you.”

“Yes … it does.”

“Have you chosen your plaything for this evening as yet?”

Plaything? An interesting choice of word. That implies that I would gain some sort of pleasure from any interaction I pursue.”

“Do you not?”

“Only the fleeting recognition that any predator enjoys. It’s all in the game. Pleasure in and of itself is not something I actively seek.”

“Only because you have yet to experience it, Mon bebe. You have had ample time to select.  Does nothing here interest you?”

Sheila  surveyed the glittering, brittle, breakable, crowd, before answering. “There may be one that could conceivably brighten up my evening for a brief while.”

Her companion followed her gaze, “The overdressed woman with the irritatingly piercing voice, now holding court with your date?”

Sheila laughed, well aware that heads would turn, drawn by the infectious warmth of the sound. “Too easy! Clarissa Mainwearing was born ugly, and no matter what amount of her ‘old’ money she throws at it, or how distinguished her pedigree; that type of ugly just won’t go away. My beauty would make her a lap dog inside ten-minutes. Besides, Damon is undeniably mine to control.” She sighed,  “So … no. Guess again.”

Her companion settled back, smiling contentedly to himself.

“I could of course force you to choose the one I desire.”

“That would rob you of surprise.”

 He favored her with his cold smile, “Who then?”

Sheila again surveyed the room. Then having made her decision, and without needing to point, she began, “Tall, well defined muscles, even the Armani threads can’t disguise the fact that he has a wonderful body. He has the confidence to wear his hair long and in a ponytail. He has not had his back to a door or window all evening. His stance is loose, and non-threatening. He surveys the crowd without making eye contact, or conversing with anyone. He is trained. How well trained remains to be seen.”

“Hm … interesting choice. I’m pleased. How will you proceed?”

“I’ll dismantle his detachment.”

Her unseen companion surveyed the subject of the discussion again, more slowly. “I don’t believe you can do it as easily as you may think, ma petite.”

“Is that the sound of a gauntlet hitting the floor?”

“Consider it so.”

“Wonderful! Watch me.”

“Always.”

Sheila missed the comment, already walking slowly across the crowded room, and as always parting the crowd in her wake. The women not graced with beauty of their own gazed at her retreating back with envy, the men, with unbridled lust.

She approached, glancing at the handsome, disinterested face; then shuddered briefly as his gaze met her own. She stood next to him now, still silent, sipping her cocktail and observing the room. She waited for longer than most would find comfortable, before, finally, he spoke.

“Is there something you require?”

She slid her eyes slowly over his body; it was more the studied look of an artist recognizing a fine piece of artwork, than a simple flicker of flirtation, “Require? That’s doubtful. Perhaps I’m simply curious as to what type of gun is tucked into your waist band?”

His reaction pleased her, for only the momentary dilation of his pupils gave any indication that her remark had even been heard.

“Probably the same type you are carrying in your clutch-purse, Miss Harrington.” He smiled, gave a brief dismissive nod and turning his back on her, he walked away.

Sheila smiled, and her blue eyes flashed fire. ‘Touche.’

Mr D Evil smiled at the exchange. ‘You have now entered the eye of the cyclone, mes enfants. Now … do you enjoy … or destroy? The evening ahead took on a new color … and the color was red. ‘Game on.’  He was well pleased.

***

Now that was fun. Sheila Harrington is a complex woman. This little interaction barely touches on that complexity. But I sure hope that you enjoyed it.

Acts Beyond Redemption (Unintended Consequences Book 1)

ABR MADE BY SATAN new for JANUARY 2017 HIRED ASSASSIN

BLURB

Acts Beyond Redemption takes you on a twisted, deadly, journey.

Mike Matheson is head of a Special Task Force set up by the F.B.I to track down and apprehend the serial killers responsible for 18 brutal murders.

His team are exhausted, frustrated, and ready to burn out after almost five years and no leads.
Their nightmares are stripping them to the bone.

Finally, a break in the case hands them a suspect!

Sheila Harrington appears to have confessed to the horrific murders.

Sheila Harrington also looks set to become the wife of The Governor of New York, Damon Henderson; the man strongly favored to become the next President of The United States of America.

Eminent forensic psychologist Nigel Cantrell is called in to assist the team.

Yet nothing and no one could prepare them for what is to come.
Someone on the inside is deflecting their weary eyes away from an incomprehensible and shattering truth.

Who will be buried in the shattered remains of a country where freedom and honor are treasured above all things?

Just how far will those elected to protect and defend go, to keep the American dream alive?

Purchase ‘Acts Beyond Redemption’ on Amazon.com

 

Acts of Betrayal (Unintended Consequences Book 2)

 

ACTS OF BETRAYAL HENRY KISSINGER

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In this powerful sequel to Acts Beyond Redemption Nigel Cantrell is back, and he’s out for blood.

One of his team holds on precariously to life, with no guarantees of recovery.

Can those responsible drag him into a nightmare he will struggle to contain?

In a complex dual where oaths taken are forsaken, and promises made are broken beyond repair; he must seek the help of the only people he can trust, people who revere him … and, those that despise him.

Cantrell is efficient and deadly, but even he has ghosts in his past, demons that must be exorcised. And nothing is more demonic than the peril he must now face, as a one man’s maniacal thirst for revenge is uncovered.
A man so enormously powerful, with a hatred so intense, so extreme, that the possible demise of his own species means nothing to him.

He will dispense his revenge as his diseased mind sees fit.

Nigel Cantrell and his team do not have failure as an option.
The fate of their country and beyond now rests in their hands.
Can they prevent the final acts of betrayal?

Purchase ‘Acts Of Betrayal’ on Amazon.com

My non-fiction books are available as follows.

“Empty Chairs” (Standing Tall and Fighting Back) Book 1.

Empty Chairs available on Amazon.com

“Faint Echoes of Laughter” (Standing Tall and Fighting Back) Book 2.

“Faint Echoes of Laughter” on Amazon.com

“Still Sassy at Sixty” (Standing Tall and Fighting Back) Book 3. DUE FOR RELEASE OCTOBER 2017.

A very quick personal note. I have been hospitalized this week and just wanted to say a big thank you to the lovely folks that have taken a moment of their precious time and sent me such kind wishes for a speedy recovery. It endorses everything I’ve said about Rave Reviews Book Club being a family. Don’t be concerned my friends, it is a known health issue that caused my trip to ICU. I’m home now and will be back to my cantankerous ol’ self in no time. Hugs to you all. Soooz xo

 Don’t forget to stop in and check out the other tour stops at https://ravereviewsbynonniejules.wordpress.com/rrbc-2017-springtime-book-blog-block-party/as the party goes on all month long!

Kangaroo they went thataway

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Glimpses Across The Barricades” A Poetry collection in progress. “Unspoken” by S.Burke.

Sword of Damocles

Glimpses Across The Barricades

Unspoken

By

Suzanne Burke.

I thought of you today

When I was least prepared.

I thought I heard you say

Those precious words we’d never shared.

We had no need for talk

When our souls were intertwined.

We shared sweet laughter as we walked

Deep kisses, drugged, like wine…

Distance seemed to matter not,

For time was ours to own.

I recalled … and then forgot

That love should never breathe alone.

The safe harbor of your arms,

Where I could finally, safely, sleep

Led me to believe … that this precious time

Was forever ours to keep.

When did those church bells cease ringing

And spring flowers cease to bloom

When did The Sword of Damocles

Hang waiting in the room.

All those words we’d heard before

Recalled and distrusted …  by their deeds.

We were so wise, we knew, we swore …

Even as we began to bleed.

If those hands of fate should bring you again

Dressed in your armor to my door

Then ‘my knight’ I’ll hold you

and whisper words, I should’ve said before.

‘ti amo’

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BOOK REVIEW: “Panama” By C.S Boyack.

BOOK REVIEW: Panama by C.S Boyack.

MEET THE AUTHOR:

BOOK REVIEW BIO PICTURE OF C S BOYACK

I was born in a town called Elko, Nevada. I like to tell everyone I was born in a small town in the 1940s. I’m not quite that old, but Elko has always been a little behind the times. This gives me a unique perspective of earlier times, and other ways of getting by. Some of this bleeds through into my fiction.

I moved to Idaho right after the turn of the century, and never looked back. My writing career was born here, with access to other writers and critique groups I jumped in with both feet.

I like to write about things that have something unusual. My works are in the realm of science fiction, paranormal, and fantasy. The goal is to entertain you for a few hours. I hope you enjoy the ride.

BOOK REVIEW COVER PANAMA BY CS BOYACK

BLURB:

Ethan and Coop are sent to the construction zone along the Panama Canal. They have some experience with strange phenomenon, but nothing prepared them for this.

They are faced with civil war, Carlist pretenders to the thrones of France and Spain, an invading Spanish army, and another from Hell itself. They’ll be lucky to survive, let alone take care of anything while they’re down there.

This story is based upon the construction of the canal, Panamanian independence, international cooperation, and a few celebrity cameos. Even the magic takes on an international flavor.

Ghosts and Voodoo are one thing, but they have no idea what waits along the isthmus.

MY REVIEW: 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟An utterly Captivating reading experience!

I have read and reviewed another book by this talented author, and was consequently eager to begin this work. This is a marvelous blend of genres. Author C.S Boyack possesses that rare talent of seamlessly blending Historical fact and entertaining fiction together to create a story that is as informative as it is entertaining. I ask no more than that from an author. I was most assuredly captured by rich and divergent characters, so skillfully crafted that they breathed on the page.

Author Boyack has a unique style. He captured me immediately with the introduction of the Ghost whisperer, Ethan, and his delightfully different cohort,  witchdoctor in the making that is Coop.

Many reviewers have covered the basis of the plot, which to say the least is threaded together with the skill of a spider spinning a sparkling web.

This authors’ ability to write wonderful dialogue, combined with a depth of characterization that brings the sounds, scents and imagery into the readers mind, is inspired. There is humor here, and it appears throughout this book, with a deft and certain touch that made me smile and take these diverse characters to my heart.

A stunning combination of fact, mystery, and the supernatural, ensure that this work will linger in my memory and have me seeking more of Author C.S Boyacks’ work.

I can’t recommend this book highly enough.

talent-spotter-images-links-for-liza-oconnor

PURCHASE “PANAMA” ON AMAZON.COM

C.S BOYACK AUTHOR PAGE on AMAZON.COM

Find C S BOYACK ON TWITTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“Arrival” Excerpt 2. My work-‘Under Construction’. A Paranormal Thriller.

Hello, and thanks for joining me again. I will be sharing one of my latest projects here with you each week. The installments are brief. I do hope you enjoy them.

If you like what you read, you can catch up with all previous excerpts here:

PREVIOUS EXCERPTS FROM ARRIVAL … HERE

 

ARRIVAL

By

S. Burke

Chapter 1 … Excerpt 2.

MIND CONTROL FOR TO BE CONTINUED PAGE ARRIVAL.

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Chapter 1 … Excerpt 2.

 

 

Diego rested his hand on the Glock, seeking comfort in the unrelentingly cold hardness of the metal.

He checked the CCTV image; uncertain if it were a trick of his mind that permitted him to visualize the shapes that waited there, as friend, and not foe.

Two people stood unmoving, both concealed by the dark hoodies that covered their heads and faces so successfully. The stance of one was tantalizingly familiar; yet Diego’s brain recognized it as an impossibility, even as the thought formed. ‘No … impossible!  No, no, no,  you’re dead’

He clicked the intercom open, and was not surprised when his voice quavered as he spoke, “What?”

“That’s no way to greet an old friend, Chicano!

“Santa Madre de Dios! No! I saw you die.”

The one who had spoken, raised both hands, then, slowly and with long-tapered fingers’, pushed back the hoodie. The perfect features worked themselves into a high-powered smile. “I decided that death was supremely overrated, Chicano! You know how I am when I make up my mind. Now open the fucking door, I need a drink!”

Diego Ortega made his choice, and with a hand that shook, he deactivated the explosive charge, his first-line of defense.  He opened the door; even as he clicked off the safety on the Glock, and stood ready to use it at point blank range if necessary.

“Weapons on the table. Both of you, now!” He said, surprising himself that he could speak at all.

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said.” The un-hooded one replied, placing another Glock on the table.

“You!” Diego pointed his weapon at the shorter of the two, “The weapon, now!”

The second person slowly moved their right hand, and pulled a gun from beneath the hoodie. It was carefully laid alongside his companions.

Diego placed his gun barely inches from the face of the one he recognized, “The back-up. On the table. Make it fast.”

“Good call! So you do remember?” The left ankle was quickly revealed and a lethal knife was quickly removed from its sheath, to join the guns on the table.

“Hands behind you. Kneel on the floor.”

“You,” he pointed the gun at the second one, “Down.”

The two threats to his sanity were now cuffed. “Tell me what you want. Make it fast.”

“I want a drink, Chicano. You know what I like.”

“Still drinking Buds?” Diego smiled stiffly as he asked.

“I’ve never touched beer in my life. Nice try, Chicano. But no cigar! You disappoint me; I expected your wits to have remained sharper than this. I have my preferred drink of choice in my backpack; unless you happen to have a Twelve-year-old single malt scotch available?”

Diego heard clearly, “That is hardly a secret. You’ll need much more to convince me that you are who you appear to be. Much, more.”

“You whisper ‘Ti Amo’ when you orgasm.”

“I do that with anyone that satisfies me.”

“I’m tired of this bullshit, Chicano! You ask the damned questions. I want a drink while I wait.”

Diego was wavering, but held the gun ready. He racked his memory banks for something unique to his tormentor. “What did your mother say to you just before she died?”

The tormentor glared at him, not speaking, for a long, cold, moment. Then the words erupted like poisonous sores spewing puss.  “She said, ‘You were always the waste of a perfectly good fuck!’ Just before I shot her.”

Diego stood motionless for what felt an eternity, then, with tears pouring from his still disbelieving eyes, he moved behind the visitors and removed the cuffs.

“Querida. Mi amor preciouso!” He pulled the woman into his arms.

She laughed delightedly and kissed him. “Your accent thickens whenever you are passionate or afraid. Which is it now? ”

Diego looked in her green eyes, as his memories threatened to spiral out of control, “A mixture of both, Elizabeth. We need to talk. I have company coming, soon now. We will talk later.”

He turned his attention to her companion once more, “Your name?”

“His name is Javier.”

“Can he not speak for himself, Elizabeth?”

“No … he cannot. The Breed removed his tongue.”

Diego looked at the younger man, “I’m so sorry.”

” Why did they allow him to live? They usually complete the butchering process.”

The woman looked across at the young man. They shared an unspoken moment.

“It will take time to explain, Diego.”The woman looked into his eyes for a long moment. “These people you are expecting … . Do you trust them with our lives, Diego?”

To Be Continued …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Black Dog of Depression … Biting it back! In loving memory of Jamie. He deserves to be remembered.

April 1st 2017:

I have re-posted this to honor the memory of my dear friend ‘Jamie’. The anniversary of his passing is tomorrow. He finally gave up his struggle with life.  The pain is still raw, and all the ‘if only’s’ in this world add to that tally.  This post is confronting … because it needs to be.

depression 1

2016:

I find it hard to believe that 3 years have gone by since I wrote the post that follows.

Can it really have been that long?

Three years to the very day and hour. So much has happened in that time. Yet the same wonderful folks that offered me love and support back then are still in my life. How damned lucky I am.

If the reposting of this helps just one person understand the long term problems of living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) then it’s well worth the time.

Here is the original post …

I will update my current situation at its end.

The “Black Dog” of Depression! Biting it Back.

2013:

Fighting back … and biting the ‘Black Dog’ of depression on the Ass. Great title for a blog post. Too easy.

If only it were that simple.

Most of you who have given me the honor of following my life through my books have commented on my strength. I have looked at those comments again and again recently, and I wonder … where is she, that feisty female?

Where did it go, that ‘strength’? Have I lost it? Or was it not strength at all?

Was it more likely my pig-headed determination after all, and not that inner resilience that one can draw on in times of great distress?

You know me well enough by now to know, that rightly or wrongly I have always been my most devastating when threatened.

What the hell happened to that?

There would be no point in even attempting to write this blog entry if I hadn’t decided at the outset to be honest.

Honesty does not always bathe us in an aura of golden light. It can be, and at times must be, clinically cold. It is, and I must be hypercritical of self if the point of the article is to make any sense at all.

So … let’s take a walk together, you and I. Hold my hand, (for I need it) and I’ll guide you through the past five months of my crazy life, in the hope that when we reach today, not only you, but I, will have a greater understanding of depression … and…the self destructive behavior that perpetuates the cycles of darkness when they begin.

This is not a prettied up version of events.

I live in a small two-bedroom apartment with my daughter and 11 month old Grandson.

I have not walked out the door of the apartment for 18 weeks.

Where did the Summer go? When did the crisp green leaves of Summer change to the golden hues of Autumn and fall to the fast growing coldness of the ground beneath? When did the neighbor’s children stop playing ball in the parking lot, and shouting delighted cries of challenge from the pool in the warmth and never ending daylight of our Australian Summer? Where the hell did that time go? It’s lost to me now, I can’t recapture it or relive it, I can only mourn its passing.

When did my darling daughter’s face begin to carry that look of worry?

When did I cease to notice or even care that I hadn’t bathed or even brushed my hair in weeks? When did a few glasses of wine once a week or so become anesthesia to wash away my fear?

Blaming my deteriorating health would be convenient. And yes … my health is bad, very bad in fact. BUT … it has been heading this way for a very long time.

I had a choice to take preventative measures, not to cure, because it is not curable, but at the very least to have given me some sense of control over time spans and a measure of comfort. I refused to do so.

Am I weary of being on guard all the time?…Damned straight!

Am I weary of always being perceived as the tough woman that survived so much? Sure I am. But that is the person I chose to be.
I recognize the presence of fear again.

I have tasted the bitterness of it like bile in my mouth many times in my life.

Why now has it’s presence become so devastatingly present? Why at almost 60years of age am I like the small child I once was with no control of her life in a world gone mad?
Fear is a devastating task master, make no mistake. If you allow it the upper hand it will strip the flesh off your bones with no apologies. I am afraid to look in any mirror, for the ravages of time and ill health show me a face that should be serene … but is not.

I am afraid if the food in the cupboard runs down.

I am petrified if the bills mount up and I simply have to wait a week or two to begin clearing them.I am aware of the vulnerability of relying on a pension payable by a government that has no insight into what it feels like to be at their disposal.

I began to isolate.

Again.

I am comfortable in my isolation. That is the deadliness of it. I sit in the early hours of the morning, when my body craves sleep; I sit on the balcony, comforted by the darkness and the lack of necessity to communicate with neighbors who in the daylight hours may have looked up and smiled, or even raised a hand in friendly acknowledgement.

How dare they intrude. How dare they even notice me there? For surely if I sat still and unmoving I ceased to be visible to them … didn’t I?

Caring for my baby Grandson during the day is probably the only thing that gives me any semblance of normality. He demands as much love as I can give.
For my daughter and the little guy that love is and will remain unconditional, but how long can I expect her to watch me slowly self destructing? How long can she tolerate the worry?

My grandson and I spend our days laughing and interacting in play. I am not well enough to take him for walks in the park, or walks anywhere for that matter. Simply walking from my room to the kitchen robs me of breath. Physically I am simply unable to walk far at all. Convenient? Perhaps. Can that change? No. I can’t regain the loss of lung function. But I can and must regain the beginnings of life function.

Other events over the past six months have taken their toll.

Perhaps if everything had not come crashing down at once I would have dealt with it a little better.
Perhaps.
But everything did come at me at once and seemingly out of nowhere and all within a very short space of time.

A long term relationship that I treasured, ended. I hadn’t seen the signs, too caught up with everything else that needed my attention I guess. A poor excuse really, I could and should have seen the warning signs.

I didn’t.

Reason can’t substitute for feeling.

I now have a dear friend still, but no longer my lover.

It took me a while to recognize that the visits were less and less frequent, the phone calls that had once come every day just for the comfort of hearing my voice, suddenly became weekly, and then not at all.

Did I ever tell him that the only time I ever felt truly safe were those times in his arms? The times when I would simply lay there, listening to his breathing and know with absolute certainty that I could fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that he would awaken instantly if I moved. Safe in the knowledge that he would give his own life to protect me if I were under threat.

I miss him.
I shall always miss him.

My writing? What have I written in the past 10 months? Hah! I finished a work of fiction that had been hanging in the back roads of my consciousness for a long time. But it was only one chapter that needed doing.

I wrote 65,000 words of another piece that for reasons that don’t really matter a damn anymore have been relegated to the trash heap. Apart from that… zilch!

Until today.

I need to get this down, I need those of you that have suffered from depression to understand that whilst it is a lonely street you walk…many of us share that same welcome darkness.

Will I come out the other side of this hideous fog? Only time will tell.  Being here cloaked in the darkness of thought, feels safer than coming out of the damned fog and needing to deal with basic day to day necessities, I don’t want to shower for I would then need to look at my body and accept the deterioration.  Even recognizing intellectually what is happening  gives no guarantee that I can act on that recognition and do something about it.

Counseling … thanks but no thanks. It works wonderfully well for many many people and I am thankful for that. It just isn’t for me. I just don’t trust folks enough to go that road again.

I haven’t written a blog piece in six months. Today that stops. I realize that the only way back from the darkness is for me to switch on my inner pilot.
Consider it switched on.

Comment and kick me in the ass if you choose. This is going to take quite some time my friends. The damage runs deep. Hold me in your thoughts, comment as and how you will.

Soooz ain’t dead yet! She just smells that way.

Thanks for reading.

Now an update …

Today is June 29th 2016. I am still here! Color me amazed.

sunrise

I guess I always seem to find some muddle headed way of bouncing back. I think it likely that I am just too pig-headed and stubborn not to.

So where am I at now, where is my life as I sit  in my small office writing this?

I have restructured my life piece by piece in the last few years. I have taken the precious moments and lovingly moved them to the safe place in my mind, and there they remain unsullied by the external world.

I have rejoiced with my child and my grandson.  I have laughed more than I remember doing for such a long time.

I still isolate but not for as long or as often … baby steps.

I pulled my head out of my ass and re-published my books as an indie author after the publishing house that carried my books closed its doors.

I now use a wheelchair and it affords me the opportunity to get out into the daylight and suck in the air, with my loving daughter steering me determinedly from behind.

I have written two new books and have three more in progress.

All positive things.

I dragged myself back from the alcoholic haze and have been dry (Again) for over two years.

I have ceased to have contact with those that would relegate me to the easily dismissed pile in their lives.

I have lost two dear friends to suicide.

I have allowed myself to cry and to mourn.

I consider myself fortunate to have friends who stand by me.

For now … for today … I am happy.

If you know someone that suffers depression, if you suffer it yourself, reach out to those that can inform and assist you and hold true the belief that you are a human being worthy of being loved and respected.

April 1st 2017.

Thank you for making the time to read this post. Jamie deserves to be remembered,

Here are links that may assist you when the darkness threatens…

Beyond Blue Australia. Information and help

Depression Alliance U.K

Anxiety and Depression Assistance America

Thank you for being here.

Welcome to my new work ‘under construction’ “Arrival” A Paranormal Thriller. An excerpt will be featured each week.

Welcome to my new work in progress! “Arrival” A Paranormal Thriller.

MIND CONTROL FOR TO BE CONTINUED PAGE ARRIVAL.

I will be featuring an excerpt from “ARRIVAL” my latest work (In progress)  each week. I have listed this as a paranormal/thriller. I have yet to decide if I should add Dystopian to that genre list.

Your thoughts and comments would be greatly appreciated.

Here we go! (No synopsis)

CHAPTER 1 Excerpt 1.

“Arrival” by Suzanne Burke

The blood was pooling now; the pools becoming rapidly drying rivers in the oppressive heat of early morning.

It caked the whitewashed walls in grotesque patterns, like Picasso on a bender.

The team moved softy, unaffected by the stench of death. As ordered, they were sending  ‘activation’ messages to those of the ‘Breed’ that stood  watching the carnage without expression.

The other onlookers, the ‘Nontells’ were deemed irrelevant. As always they would do as instructed; unaware, unafraid, robbed of free thought.

Diago Ortega was a Nontell. He watched the Breed team carefully, fascinated as always with the teamwork without words that they excelled at. The poetry of movement between them was a beautiful thing to behold. His brain took a snapshot of the moment, storing it in his photographic memory along with the rest of the horror.

It was only when his own part in this nightmarish scenario was played out that he would stop long enough to reflect. For now the bodies were still warm to the touch; death had not yet visited for long. Dismemberment was carried out in routine order. Diago had a fleeting gratitude that his team did not need to decapitate the body. Taking the limbs was sickening enough.

His face reflected no horror. For he had witnessed far worse.

Why did the the Breed insist that all Nontells leave the room once forensics were underway? Why did the Breed always clean the gore themselves, when they had an army of Nontells to do it? It made no sense.

Why indeed were the ‘Breed’ at all times,the last ones to remain on the scene, and the first to arrive?

Diago tried unsuccessfully to stem the tide of his suspicions. The ‘Breed’ could read his thoughts, he was certain of it; all that kept him safe was their egomaniacal assumption that a ‘Nontell’ would have no thoughts worthy of reading.

He sat. He pulled a beer from the ice-box and drank it down fast; it cleared the bitterness from his palate … for a time. Alcoholism was rampant within the Nontell enclaves; it had been since the ‘Arrival’; in fact, the Breed encouraged it. It was the one thing that the Nontells were permitted to excel at.

Diago remembered well the days before ‘Arrival’. Those days before were forbidden to recall, never to be spoken of. The Breed had succeeded overwhelmingly well in quelling their humanity. But not for all. Not for him.

The memory played out in the theater of his mind,  sweet, sweet, memory … of the days when laughter was spontaneous, tears were permitted, and joy was anticipated with delight. Days of sunshine and superman, dogs and children, doughnuts and coffee.

Years of striving to attain a place. Working, long, discouraging, deadly hours; holding on desperately for those times of returning home, to the love of a partner who valued your contribution to their world.

‘Arrival’ had irreversibly altered that sacred pattern.

The ‘Breed-Master’ had declared the days before “Arrival” as a pestilence to be diminished and swept from memory.

It was so ordered.

Diago Ortega chose to disobey.

As did the others …  they would arrive soon.

The other Nontells, the ones with enough humanity remaining to dare to be different; to question, to seek the truth … and. perhaps more importantly, to locate within themselves the courage it would take to act on what they discovered. Small pockets of them had begun forming, always alert and always at risk.

Diago waited,  allowing his thoughts to drift, permitting visions of yesterdays to enter once more.  They blazed with unfettered passion, he could feel the heat as he suffered again in the light.

The loud pounding on the door, startled him. He jumped up, spilling the contents of his beer over an already dirty shirt. He glanced around quickly as if a method of escape would magically appear, it did not … . He located and grabbed his old gun, tucking the Glock firmly in the waistband of his jeans. The pounding continued and his heartbeat accelerated, all his focus now on that door.

They others had a prearranged signal and this wasn’t it.

To be continued….

I do hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Those that read this, will be the first to do so.

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Book Review: ‘Hurricane Kretschman’ by Jeff Lee. Book 4 of the ‘Adventures in La-La Land’ Series.

 

Meet the author.

Jeff Lee image for review
Jeff Lee.

Born in New York State, Jeff Lee was raised in the San Francisco Bay Area and has spent his entire writing career in Los Angeles.

For more than thirty years he has been a copywriter and creative director for some of the advertising industry’s most recognizable agencies, winning numerous awards for his creativity. None of those ad agencies are still in business, but Jeff appears to have a solid alibi.

Trained as a cook in the Army, he still enjoys being creative in the kitchen and admits that few things in life compare with the thrill of discovering you have just given a nasty case of food poisoning to 140 heavily armed men.

Jeff lives about halfway between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara, in a house he shares with his two sons and a cat that’s part golden retriever.

 

BOOK COVER HURRICANE KRETSCHMAN BY JEFF LEE JPG

 

HURRICANE KRETSCHMAN:

BLURB

All wisecracking, Harley-riding Repo Man and Bounty Hunter to the Stars Fish Fishbein wants is a cool vacation. It’s just him and his three best buds, potato-potato-potatoing down the highway — along with a force of nature named Shawna Kretschman, a bad-ass blonde with her own full-race hog. Not to mention a short fuse, serious fighting skills and an outfit that leaves zippo to the imagination. All lickety-splitting their way to Sturgis, South Dakota to link up with better than a million hard-drinking, harder partying Harley owners at the town’s annual Motor Cycle Rally.

But a high-powered real estate developer wants all the bikers gone, so he can sell the area as a family-oriented resort town. And he’ll stop at nothing – including murder – to get what he wants. Bikers and locals suddenly start dropping like road racers on a rain-slick GP course. And Fish, his friends and his big mouth are all in the developer’s crosshairs.

They’re on a hysterical collision course that includes phony cops, bar fights, pepper spray-laced paint balls, a no-holds-barred wrestling match in a ring full of chocolate pudding, getting adopted by the entire Sioux nation and manscaping.

The annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally might be an 80 year-old tradition. But it’s going to take all of Fish’s brains and a ton of luck to keep himself and his buds alive long enough to enjoy a few more seasons.

My Review 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 Hands-down, one of THE funniest Books I have read.

Every once in a rare while an author comes along with the comedic timing essential to writing a fast-paced one liner such as ‘Hurricane Kretschman’. Having been totally entertained by the three preceding books in this series, I was both curious and excited to see if this talented author could make me laugh out loud in public yet again. He did. Author Lee’s wonderfully creative touch has given substance to several amazing characters in his journey through the mayhem that is crafted within these pages.

Central character “Fish” Fishbein is more complex than you would suspect at first viewing. The layers of this hilariously funny and deeply caring man are peeled back slowly, and every clever line of dialogue is intertwined with the characters love for his crazy companions, Kenny and Einstein, as they decide to head across the USA to the Motor Cycle Rally to end all Rally’s in Sturgis, South Dakota.

His constant companions and partners in  … well … everything, are cleverly drawn. Well enough in fact, to become clearly visual and as equally lovable as they are chaotic.

To my delight (And Fish’s) a new character explodes into being along the way.

How on earth does a reviewer ever hope to encapsulate the outrageously funny, and often diabolically dangerous persona of Shawna Kretschman aka the Hurricane Kretschman of the books title.

Suffice it say that this beautiful blonde PTSD suffering, Harley riding ex-Military M.P with attitude to ‘die’ from …er … for, adds further dimensions to the reading enjoyment. She sets “Fish’s” pulses racing as fast as a hog on a racetrack. Has our hero found love at last?

Whether they live long enough to find that out remains to be seen.

Enter the villain in the unflattering shape of Dale Kimbrough, a land developer set on making the bikers (All of them) disappear so he can develop a family friendly place. What’s not family friendly about bikers?

Suffice it to say, bodies start appearing, and bad guys start disappearing in rapid succession. The developer badly underestimated just how much mayhem he was unleashing when he chose to take on our heroes.

I laughed out loud so often along the road of this amazing journey, it was indeed a pleasure to become reunited with author Jeff Lee’s superbly talented writing. I simply can’t recommend this book highly enough.

OTHER OUTSTANDING BOOKS BY JEFF LEE.

BOOK COVER JEFF LEE THE LADIES TEMPERANCE CLUB FAREWELL TOURBOOK COVER JEFF LEE CHUMP CHANGE

purchase CHUMP CHANGE on Amazon.com

Purchase The Ladies Temperance Club Farewell Tour on Amazon.com

Purchase Hurricane Kretschman on Amazon.com

Jeff Lee Author Page on Amazon.com