Category Archives: BOOKS

Eat Your Worth Virtual Book Tour

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Self Help, Body Image, Personal Transformation, Spirituality

Date Published: 03-21-2021

Publisher: Wyrd & Wyld Publishing

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Eat Your Words, my first book, looks at the power of not only how we talk
to ourselves but, even more profoundly, the messages we’ve
internalized… the ones we might not even be aware of that we’re
speaking to ourselves. Thought forms and belief systems are like prebiotics,
they set the stage for how we’re digesting—and not only our
food, but how we’re digesting the whole of our lives.

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EXCERPT

Over the years, I’ve found it better to keep my dietary tendencies to myself  rather than get a sore neck from nodding absently in response to others’ clichéd  insights, suggestions bulleted into easy adages. It’s simple, professed books,  diet gurus, workshop giants, my sister, my mom, and even an occasional  girlfriend I’d confided in. Just eat in moderation. Chew. Just abstain from  eating at night. Always stop when you’re full. Pause between bites. Put your  fork down. (People, what fork?)  

I have a whole programming language of eating vernacular. My Eating Words  are anything but easeful—and definitely not enviable. They arrive curtly,  bluntly, front and center. Without question, they are the star of the show, but  they are more than just the star. My Eating Words infect the stage, stain the  curtain, consume the cast, shred the playbill, and undermine the script.  

Bitch, you’re going to eat the whole thing anyway, so just eat it. Eat it all fast.  You can’t stop. You can’t put it down. You have to buy it all. I want it all, as  much as I can have. I can’t do anything else until I get it. And get both kinds  because who are you to choose? You don’t choose. I don’t care. You don’t  care. There’s nothing else. Go to the store, then go home catatonically, watch  a Hallmark movie, and pass out. That’s what I want to do. 

For two-thirds of my life, I’ve returned to this ceremony, living out the yin and  yang of being cognizant, ambitious, committed to the exercise plan, the  workshop, the healing path, the therapist certification and then camouflaging in  cookies, checking out in chocolate, turning off with tuna. I know I pushed it to  the limit; I learned in the last years of that existence that the time had come. I  took it to the very end, like a drag race, right to the edge of the cliff. I’d lived  out this body response too long. I had no choice but to attempt to gain real  insight, to make actual change.” 

(excerpt from Isabel Chiara’s new memoir-meets-novel “Eat Your Words”)

 

About the Author

Isabel Chiara

Isabel Chiara, creator of “The Life Actualization Process,” has
been a guide, mentor, and leader throughout her entire life. Over the last
thirty years, she has honed her expertise in extensive studies and practices
of transformational energy modalities. As a professional intuitive guide,
Isabel activates unlimited potential for her clients, helping them to ignite
their most liberated, passionate and empowered life path, full of
prosperity, miracles, and magic. For more information about Isabel’s
“Life Actualization” processes, as well as her previous
top-selling book, Eat Your Words, visit her website below!

 

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The Body Politic Teaser Tuesday

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Book II of The Tribal Wars

Science Fiction

Date Published: 1/8/2022

 

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BookLife Editor’s Pick

 

Brianna Miller returns to Dolvia where tribal women protest the oppressive
rule of Rabbenu Ely by self-torchings in the Cylay Square.  Brianna
re-establishes her tribal schools and takes on assistant Kelly Osborn who is
mixed blood and also a poet.

Kelly visits a neighboring planet Cicero where her aunt Carline Bryant
takes over her education. While returning to Dolvia, Kelly meets the
Australian adventurer Hershel Henry who has signed on for a tour of Dolvia
as a photo-journalist.  Henry takes an opportunity to interview the
khalif on the opposing side of the tribal wars.

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Book I of The Tribal Wars is AVAILABLE NOW!

Fantasy

Date Published: 10-08-2022

 

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BookLife Editor’s Pick

On Dolvia, Lt. Mike Shaw demands Dr. Greensboro’s doctoring skills at
the hospital, forcing the closure of her bush clinic. She witnesses forced
labor, forced migration, and the threat of an epidemic from bad water. She
sees how tribal women–often wearing burkas–find solutions for
saving the children in a conflict zone, and she commits to the their cause
for Home Rule.

Brianna Miller is an isolated girl–a mixed-blood orphan–among
the Dolviet tribes. With the lessons from Dr. Greensboro, the abuse from
soldiers, the sisterhood among victims, Brianna prepares for a future she
will choose for herself. But first she must travel offworld.

FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME – 12/27 – 1/16

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Excerpt from The Body Politic

We entered China through Xinjiang province and traversed the high Takli
Makan Desert overnight. In the morning, the train stood for several hours in
Dunhuang, changing personnel from Russian to Chinese and taking on supplies.
I watched from the window while porters in tunics and baggy pants loaded
goods from a cart. They stopped suddenly, and the noise subsided, so I
craned my neck to glimpse the source of the interruption. Some Blackshirts
were hustling a group of peasant families, tied together with ropes and
shuffling in obvious fear, across the tracks and down the causeway toward a
holding area. Laborers returned to their work with measured gestures,
careful not to attract unwanted attention, and the way closed behind the new
arrivals.

I told myself that this repression was not my problem; I was just passing
through.

Presently, a detachment of Russian soldiers wearing blue uniforms with red
tooling took up positions outside our VIP car at the end of the train. The
officer entered with authority and tucked his hat under one arm. Rufus stood
squarely in the aisle with his knees bent and a hand on his knife hilt. The
officer stopped.

After a moment, he looked past Rufus’s shoulder to me. “You are
Brianna Miller of Arim?” he asked in English. “We are
assigned.”

“I have security already, as you can see.”

“These, uh, warriors are included in our detail. The train now enters
a province with some, uh, social unrest. Daniel Chin is concerned that your
group experiences no, uh, in-con-ven-nience.” His hesitant words and
rounded accent made me think his English was newly learned, perhaps his
third language.

“Nu delaya,” I said, and Rufus relaxed his posture. Kyros
placed a big hand on the officer’s shoulder from behind and led him to
a seat several paces from me.

“What do you propose?” I asked.

“We will take the adjacent car and establish a presence around your
group.”

“The adjacent car is for the students.”

“They may have to move forward.”

“How many in your squad?”

“Twelve.”

“I cannot provide for twelve. Six only.”

“We brought provisions, and you will be glad for twelve before we
reach Beijing. I am Captain Chandliss, and you may direct any questions to
me.”

“Captain Chandliss, I assume you are Lithuanian by birth, and your
real name has two ‘z’s and three ‘k’s.”

He only smirked.

“Are the soldiers from your same province?” I asked.

“Most of them.”

“Why not provide a Han Chinese detachment to manage our
security?”

“My orders were brief,” he said as he twisted to see where
Kyros had stationed himself. “I gathered that your Dolviet escort
would resent Blackshirts as security.”

I grinned. At least he had the sense to acknowledge what anyone could see.
“And what else did Daniel Chin say in conversation?”

The captain didn’t react to the mention of Daniel Chin’s name.
“Orders from Paris didn’t mention a bevy of students. You do
have accommodations for them on the shuttle and the Company
yacht?”

“My arrangements are made,” I said tolerantly. “Thank you
for your interest. The students will remain where they are, and you will
take the next car. Since you have twelve men and provisions, I expect that
the students will remain as safe as I am safe.”

Captain Chandliss watched me for a moment. “Well. The train leaves in
twenty minutes, so I’ll excuse myself to put all in good order.”
He stood and nodded, unable to break military training. “Ah, how may I
address these warriors?”

“Rufus, the son of Cyrus the ketiwhelp killer,” I said with a
hand gesture. “And behind you is Kyros rabbe Sudl of Southeast
Arrivi.”

He nodded to each warrior. “Ma’am,” he said and
left.

Kyros looked at Rufus and mouthed “ma’am” with humor.
Rufus covered his mouth with one hand to hide his response.

 

# # #

 

Later, I was called into the student car, I assumed due to the presence of
soldiers. But the issue was trivial; something about a stolen item and whom
to punish. The boys waited in a silent row, cynical and without gestures.
The oldest girl Bernice was in tears, as were two eight-year-olds. I sighed,
regretting my decision to include them in my travel plans.

Leah approached with submissive gestures. “These ones need daily
lessons to keep their minds off homesickness. They need a common
goal.”

I immediately thought of an old method Hakulupe Le had used in the Somule
schools to bind students as a group, a method she had learned in prison, in
fact. I spoke to the group. “Not all of you will board the shuttle to
engage in space travel. I have accommodations for only seven, including the
boys, so I must choose who is most worthy. To make this choice, we will
devise a test. You will each share your history with the others, and at
track’s end in three days’ time, you will each write the
biographies of all the others, including the boys. After reading those
papers, I will decide who remains with the clutch and who will return to
their province. That is all.”

Leah quickly spoke. “May we have writing paper?”

“I will ask Captain Chandliss.”

“May we take our meals in the dining car?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Please.”

“Captain Chandliss manages your safety now. I’ll ask
him.”

“Thank you, Rularim. Thanks again.” Leah knew when to
flatter.

“I am not Rularim. I’m Brianna Miller.”

“We all thank you.”

“Yes, well. No more complaining and no crying.” I left before
she could make another request.

Less than an hour later, Captain Chandliss came into my car. Kyros stopped
him at the door but let him pass after a tense moment. “The students
want their meals in the dining car. I have no authority for
this.”

“Negotiate with the porters,” I instructed, “so the group
can take a meal after the other diners have left, twice a day. Ask for a set
menu with bland dishes because they have to board the shuttle soon. No
sweets from the dessert tray but maybe rice pudding for each.”

His posture emphasized his disbelief. “Do you understand the
expense?”

“Rufus will pay from the treasure of Kyle Rula.”

The disbelieving look on the captain’s face wandered to the warrior
who was seated at a laptop with his back to us. Rufus turned slowly to fix
me with a level stare. He opened the pouch at his belt and extracted a
single uncut emerald as big as my thumb knuckle and placed it next to me.
The gem was opaque with a sandpaper texture. Without glancing at the
captain, Rufus turned back to the computer screen.

I saw the eyes of Captain Chandliss grow large at the sight of the gem.
“Have it assayed at the next stop,” I said. “Then pay the
porters for their trouble and distribute the remainder among your
soldiers.”

The captain stood tall and looked at each of us, perhaps taking a moment to
assess the opportunity. “My detachment will bear the current expense.
I will have the gem appraised in Beijing where its value is far greater. I
will subtract a commission for our service with the students and return the
remainder to Rufus before your party boards the shuttle. We will take eight
percent.”

“Four percent,” I said.

“Six percent.”

“Four point five percent, and no gratuity.”

“Done.” The captain scooped up the gem and turned on his heel.
He left hurriedly, passing through the door that Kyros was holding open,
just as though he needed to escape before I changed my mind.

Kyros said, “Much is learned about a man when he resists
temptation.”

 

About the Author

Stella Atrium

Stella Atrium is an award-winning writer who presents otherworld stories
about female protagonists of diverse ethnicity who encounter obstacles
relatable to our lives today. How do women in a war zone gain voice in the
marketplace using the few tools available to women?

Stella Atrium teaches at university in addition to online writing courses.
She lives in Chicago, Illinois.

 

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Twitter: @SAtriumWrites

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Blood of the Hunted Blitz

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Fantasy

Date Published: December 15th 2022

 

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Weylyn, Olwen, and other members of the marginalized and subjugated group
known as the Tóráin are trying every day to gain equality and
freedom. Their enemies, which consist of vile human monarchs, their
soldiers, and a masked witch assassin known only as The Dove, continue to
tighten their grip around the necks of the Tóráin.

Leading The Resistance, Weylyn and Olwen endure many trials that test them
physically and mentally, relying on their loved ones to keep them from
losing hope. They both wish to see a time of equality and peace, but to
achieve that requires more than what they have. Desperation leads The
Resistance to find new allies all across the continent of Kosavros with the
goal of finally defeating their oppressive overseers.

Their fight for freedom and respect leads Weylyn and Olwen down paths that
open their eyes to new dangers, both involving themselves and the rest of
the world. However, they do not waiver. For the Tóráin are
known for their resilience, and they have already endured much. What comes
next will be hard, but they’re ready to fight for their lives.
Together.

 

Prologue

 

Weylyn

Cloque, Fleuris  |  November 1789

I tried to ignore the hateful screams coming from the crowd. The insults
were shouted in both the common language and Fleuran, with someone even
yelling a curse in the old language priests used. Things had already been
thrown onto the stage by people who hoped to strike the lycan that was tied
up for all to see. I kept my hood high so that I could remain as hidden as
possible. I tried to slouch to hide my height while being sure to avoid eye
contact with those around me. I had always been proud to be a lycan, and the
lack of horns or colored skin was doing wonders for me right now. My satyr
friends — as well as the sprites I knew — would have a much
harder time blending in with the crowd today than I would. That was if
anyone had taken the risk to come. Uncle Benen had refused to allow Brina
and me to leave the house, but I snuck out the window late last night and
hid in an alley until afternoon came. I could have gone to Ossian’s
house, but the satyr would have just tried to keep me inside like Uncle
Benen had. I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t hide. I needed to be
here for him. Even if the smartest and safest thing for the
Tóráin in the city was to stay inside, I had to be where I
was. Deep down, I knew all of the Tóráin felt the same way. We
couldn’t abandon him now, not when he needed us the most.

Tears started to fill my eyes as I watched the soldiers bark out
instructions to the witches, the women casting spells to torment the brave
lycan they had restrained. I was mad at myself for doing so, but I looked
away. I looked up, blinking away the water from my eyes as I stared at the
looming image of the Sainte Mère Cathedral. I inspected the spires
and the stained-glass window high above us as I tried to gather myself. The
gothic church’s shadow stretched over nearly the entirety of Dame
Square, swallowing the crowd in darkness despite the sun shining brightly in
the afternoon sky. After taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look back
down at the stage. The image I saw would give every single
Tórán who had braved the crowds today a great pain in their
heart. The lycan before me meant a lot to our community. He was always
empowering those who were deemed devils simply because they were different.
We all knew we were hated, but that lycan made us feel like we were worth
something. He made me who I am today, and now I had to watch someone take
him from me. Today, they were executing the most important person in my
life: my father.

The pain I felt was not
only the anticipation of loss, but also the knowledge that I could do
nothing to stop it. All I could do was stand there, at the front of the
crowd, and stare up at my father. He was tied up to two poles and spread
uncomfortably. The witches had forced him into his feral shape, no doubt to
make him appear to be the monster they would portray him to be. Humans
continued to throw food at him, some even threw stones. No one stopped them.
The officers and witches weren’t focused on the wrong doings of humans
today. Their eyes were fixed on our kind. ‘Diables’, they called
us. Beings from another world that many would see eradicated if it were up
to them. Today was about sending a certain message to our kind, while
sending a completely different one to their own. We were to be humbled and
defeated, while humans would be propped up and celebrated. A story would be
told on that stage, and none of my kind were supposed to enjoy it. I stared
at my father’s face, hoping he would look up and lock eyes with me.
For a moment it seemed like it would happen, but I was shoved from behind
and forced to turn around.

“I knew I smelled a
stray chien. You salauds aren’t allowed to mingle with us up here.
Back of the crowd, Diable.”

I looked back over my
shoulder at my father to catch him looking right at me. I refused to show
weakness. “I’m staying right where I am.”

One of the young men who
had confronted me raised a fire poker in the air, but he never got around to
actually hitting me with it. A slender hand attached to a lean arm grasped
his wrist and he grew red in the face.

“Rosey!” he whined. “What are you doing? He started
it!”

Rosalie — my very
best friend and one of the few people I knew I could trust outside of my
father — was a human. Not even a witch. She was just a regular,
wonderful, human. Her parents had helped mine for years since I was a pup.
We grew up together, and despite my clear edge in strength, she was always
rescuing me from ignorant assholes. The teen harassing me dropped his weapon
and used his other hand to reach for Rosalie’s shoulder.

 “Don’t call
me Rosey, “ she said as she grabbed his outstretched hand and twisted
his fingers roughly. “And I highly doubt Weylyn started anything.
Leave us alone or your father will find out just how much of a petit con
you’ve been.”

The boy’s face
scrunched up before he left through the crowd, massaging his injured hand.
His friends followed him, prompting Rosalie to let out a deep sigh before
fixing her dress. She grabbed a hold of my arm, laced her fingers through
mine, and looked up at my father. The two of us stood there, trying to send
him our strength for what felt like hours until trumpets sounded. Up the
steps came King Louis, soaking in all the praise the majority of the crowd
was giving him. He eventually waved at them to quiet down so he could speak,
and I knew that what came next would make my blood boil.

“Gens de
Cloque!” King Louis shouted with a pompous grin on his face. “I
have been a just king, have I not? I have been a gracious, and bountiful
king, have I not? Under my rule, all have prospered! Yet we still
have…ordures…that want to see that lovely life tarnished. This monstre
murdered ten officers. Dix protecteurs! For that heinous crime, the only
plausible sentence is death! But first, we will make an example out of
him!”

The crowd roared. The
group of witches and officers stood ready now, surrounding the stage as
torturers began whipping my father. He kept his fur covered head held high,
defiant despite his pain. The people whipping him moved on to more forms of
torture, dragging on the inevitable much to the enjoyment of the crowd. They
cut at his ears, pulled his teeth, removed his fingertips, and even branded
him with the royal sigil of Fleuris. Not once did my father cry out in pain.
Not once did he give them the satisfaction they wanted. What they were doing
to him had brought tears to my eyes yet again, but I also felt a sense of
pride in seeing the strength my father was showing. The torturers looked at
the king with lost expressions on their faces, prompting King Louis to rise
from his chair and draw the saber at his waist. He began carving his
prisoner. He sliced at his arms, and then his legs, then his back, and then
his chest. All that and yet, still, there were no cries out for mercy or
even a grunt from the pain. Now visibly angry, King Louis grabbed my father
by the snout and shouted at him.

“Why must you defy
me? You’re dead, Diable, there’s nothing to fight for anymore!
Scream like I know you want to! Show everyone the lâche we know you to
be!”

His face was bloodied and
swollen, but at that moment I knew that he was looking at me. Our eyes
finally locked, and I squeezed Rosalie’s hand. I took a small step
forward, but Rosalie held me back. I looked down to see her crying as she
shook her head. Bringing my attention back to my father, I found my eyes to
be drowning in tears so much that it was hard to see. It all felt so
hopeless…until he howled. Right in the face of the bastard that had
committed so many wrongs to him and his kind, my father howled to the sky.
Howls broke out from the crowd, followed by screeches and whistles from the
harpies and other creatures who had come. King Louis was beside himself from
this display. He drew his pistol from its holder, placed the barrel between
my father’s eyes, and fired.

The world around me evaporated into nothing until all I could see was my
father’s body limp on the stage, held up only by the ropes around his
wrists and ankles. My eyes were locked on the horrid sight until Rosalie
began pulling me through the crowd as more whistles, and screeches, and
howls flooded the city. I barely paid attention to the chaos that was
erupting as Rosalie and I pushed our way through the crowd. We eventually
escaped the large mass and slipped into an alley.

“We need to get clear of here. My house is close enough, and
we’ll be safe there.” Rosalie tried to pull me, but I stood my
ground.

“My father is…he’s…” Rosalie came forward
and put her hands on my face. The contact had me snapping to attention.
“Uncle Benen. Ossian. Darby. They…I have to tell them what
happened.”

“Yes. But not right now. Right now, we need to get you off the
streets.” The general noise of a boisterous crowd turned into loud
screams and gunshots. “Weylyn!”

I nodded furiously. “Yes. Right. Okay. Your house first
then.”

The two of us ran off into the city, but the sounds of the riot that had
broken out in Dame Square followed us for some time. I barely saw what was
in front of me, Rosalie holding my hand and guiding me most of the way. I
couldn’t shake the image of my father, torn apart, with a bullet wound
leaking from his head. I still couldn’t believe it. My father was
dead.

 

About the Author

Marc R. Micciola

Marc R. Micciola lives in Ontario Canada with his two dogs Ace and Rielly.
He tries to get to the gym when he can in the week, and when he isn’t there,
he’s working on his next project. Writing is a big part of Marc R.
Micciola’s life, but things such as hockey, video games, and spending time
with friends and family are also passions of his. Despite being a fantasy
author, Marc R. Micciola prides himself on his ability to create a great mix
of realism and fantasy, blending the two together in just the right amounts
to provide worlds you can escape to while also having real characters that
are relatable.

 

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The Very Dead of Winter Virtual Book Tour

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A Sinner’s Cross Novel, Book 2

Historical Fiction

Date Published: 07-04-2022

Publisher: One Nine Books

 

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On the eve of what will be known as The Battle of the Bulge, the survivors
of Sinner’s Cross are scattered all over Europe. Halleck, the tough Texan
who drives men like cattle, finds himself surrounded in the snow-blanketed
forests of the Eifel Mountains riding herd on greenhorn soldiers; Breese,
the phony hero with a chip on his shoulder the size of Rushmore, embarks on
a bloody mission of redemption behind enemy lines; Cramm, the one-eyed,
one-armed German staff officer, tries to balance duty against his lust for
vengeance against those who crippled him. Three men separated by war will
once again converge… in The Very Dead of Winter.

Winner of the Literary Titan Gold Medal and the Pinnacle Book Achievement
Award.

The Very Dead of Winter tablet

EXCERPT

…he headed back the way he’d come, but with each step his tread became heavier and heavier still, until at last he felt he could go no further and sat down on the first object that presented itself—in this case, an empty fuel drum that had rolled clear of the stricken American tank. The last of Genschler’s howitzers rolled past, driven by muscle and blasphemy, their wheels cutting like circular saws into the slush, and Cramm found himself almost alone on the battlefield, with nothing but his pipe for company. He was still sitting there, listening to the sound of his heart over the ringing in his ears, when the distinctive sound of horses moving at canter through the trees caught his attention. This in itself was not unusual, for the German army moved literally on horsepower, but the hoofbeats were not rhythmic, and there was no accompanying sound of wagon wheels. Half-curious beneath the weight of his exhaustion, he looked up and saw Colonel Bix approaching through the gently falling snow on a huge broad-chested stallion, leading a second, riderless horse that clopped close behind. Bix sat perfectly erect in the saddle, his gold-spurred jackboots firmly in the stirrups, a figure out of the past. 

All that’s missing is a sword.

The colonel rode close enough that the steam that billowed from his mount tickled Cramm’s face. For a long moment, Bix simply stared, either in wonderment or disgust—it was impossible to say. “I ought to have you put under arrest.”

Cramm, puffing stolidly on his pipe, did not immediately reply. Instead he remained seated on the oil drum and watched the Sherman burn. 

“Come to your feet when I’m addressing you!” Bix roared.

Cramm took another puff. He had removed the ill-fitting helmet, and snowflakes had settled into his hair and scarf and into the creases and folds of his greatcoat. Keeping the stem of the pipe between his teeth, he removed the Colt from its holster and weighed it on his palm. “I fired this today. All six rounds. Didn’t hit anyone though. I don’t suppose I’ll ever hit what I’m aiming at again.”

Bix continued to glare. In those rheumy eyes and heavy, judge-like features, all the more impressive because of the upturned leather collar behind them, there resided neither pity nor patience, so Cramm stood up, reholstered the pistol, and reluctantly lowered his pipe. “I was once the best shot in the Eleventh Cavalry Regiment, you know. I could hit a bullseye from horseback at a full gallop.”

“I’m not interested in what you could do, Cramm. What I want to know—”

“Respectfully, Herr Oberst: I already know what you want to know. I’m your intelligence chief. It’s my job.”

“To gather intelligence! Not go gallivanting into battle like a green lieutenant looking for an Iron Cross!”

“I don’t want an Iron Cross, Herr Oberst, and I came forward with the troops under the direct orders of General Reinscheid.”

“General Reinscheid certainly did not intend for you to participate in the actual fighting.”

“The commander of this battalion was out of action. As senior officer present, it was necessary for me to take over. It is imperative we capture Auw before the Amis dig in there.”

“Don’t lecture me on tactics!”

“I apologize. But the urgency is real.” 

“So it is. But if you were to be captured—”

“An officer of the General Staff does not surrender.” 

Bix leaned low in the saddle and thrust his considerable nose to within a foot and a half of Cramm’s; at that distance, Cramm could see each overstrained pore. He wondered, fleetingly, about the colonel’s ancestry. Some Frankish blood in that family tree, perhaps. Frankish or Italian. Certainly no pure-bred German ever boasted a conk like that. “Oh? And just how do you intend to shoot yourself with an empty pistol? Will you ask the Amis to help you reload it?”

Cramm opened his mouth and then slowly closed it. The ghost of a defeated smile haunted one corner of his mouth.

“Ah!” Bix said, baring enormous cigar-yellowed teeth. “It seems you don’t know everything after all!”

I know what you had for breakfast, and you should have had a mint afterward. “Indeed, Herr Oberst, I have much to learn.”

“And your first lesson, Cramm, is that those purple stripes on your trousers do not bestow either infallibility or omniscience!”

The colonel pointed his riding crop at the second horse, a roan-colored mare whose shy and remarkably feminine-looking eyes gleamed from within an ungroomed mane. Cramm, who hadn’t ridden since before the bomb had taken his arm, hesitated for a moment; then, using his left hand, swung defiantly into the saddle. Bix turned his stallion about, and the two men rode side by side through the falling snow. A machine-gun platoon marched past them Indian file, bipods braced over their shoulders, ammunition boxes swinging; the scar-faced sergeant at the head of the column took his hand from the butt of his machine pistol and touched the rim of his battered helmet in salute. Returning the salute with a nod, Cramm said, “Herr Oberst, if I may pose a question so as to improve my understanding, why is the divisional chief of staff in the forward battle area himself? Certainly not to collect me. That really is a job for a green lieutenant.”

 “Because I know you, Cramm. You spent too much time with Rommel and picked up his bad habits. Arrogance. Indiscipline. Vainglory. You expect obedience from your subordinates, but you do not offer it to your superiors. It must be exacted from you. Well, I have dealt with your kind before. If dragging you around by the collar like a misbehaving child is what is required to make you perform your duties correctly, then that is exactly what I will do.”

Cramm replaced the pipe between his teeth. “My governess never had much luck in that department, Herr Oberst, but I wish you better luck.” 

 

About the Author

Miles Watson

Miles Watson is the x15 award-winning author of the CAGE LIFE and SINNER’S
CROSS book series as well as the short story collection DEVIL’S YOU KNOW. A
veteran of both Hollywood and law enforcement, his first and last passion is
writing, and he intends to publish in every genre before he cashes in his
chips.

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Twitter

Blog

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Amazon

 

 

 

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Mahalo Does Not Mean Trash Blitz

Mahalo Does Not Mean Trash banner

 

Mahalo Does Not Mean Trash cover

Paki Perkins, Hiwalani Perkins, Puniaikeao Perkins & Alapaki
Perkins

Children’s Book (Illustrated)

Date Published: 11/22/22

 

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MAHALO DOES NOT MEAN TRASH: A Journey of Learning, Fun, and Gratitude

Discover the significance of Mahalo, the sacred Hawaiian word for thanks,
through the perspectives of three remarkable young authors!

 

Hiwa and Keao are introduced to their relative from California. Although
his interpretation of “Mahalo” is incorrect, it gets them to
ponder the word’s meaning, and it will do the same for you!

 

This critically acclaimed children’s book is a heartwarming story about
gratitude and the true meaning of this treasured Hawaiian tradition taught
by pupu (grandma) to her mo’opuna (grandchildren).

 

Within this beautiful Hawaii book for kids and above, you will find:

Three Adorable Main Characters: Learning about their culture and how to be
better human beings


Written By:
AJ Paki Perkins and his three talented teenage children


Inspired by:
Author’s Home State of Hawaii and its hospitable
Culture

 

Learn Thankfulness with the Beauty of Aloha Islands

Interesting knowledge, amazing penmanship, and fun-filled storyline to
educate your kids and bond with them at the same time.

 

The kindness book for kids “Mahalo Does Not Mean Trash” is here
to be a source of both education and entertainment for your little ones. It
is an inspiring story, brimming with the marvels of beautiful Hawaiian
culture. In the Aloha state, Mahalo means “thank you,” and using
it is a wonderful way to demonstrate to your kids on how to show
appreciation towards friends and loved ones.

 

Kindness, Compassion, and Connection to the Ancestors

“Mahalo Does Not Mean Trash” is not just any book for
4-year-olds
. It is a recipe for kindness to be instilled upon growing
minds.

 

You don’t even need to have ties to the Hawaiian culture to fall in
love with this kid’s book about Hawaii. The uplifting message within,
intertwined with a strong connection to ancestors and pure culture will
appeal to readers of every background or age.

Who knows? You could even pick up a few new Hawaiian words too!

 

A Priceless Literary Treasure and Token of Appreciation

An inspirational book for kids, written with care to distribute affection,
with some hidden lessons for both young and old.

Great Birthday, Christmas, and Thanksgiving gifts for kids, if you are
looking for something special this holiday season. This gratitude gift will
definitely bring some aloha spirit into any home or classroom!

 

Learn About the Culture of the Gorgeous Aloha Islands

A fantastic opportunity to educate your children more about Hawaii!

This thanksgiving book for children delivers a beautiful narrative while
also exposing youngsters to Hawaiian language. If you’re planning a trip to
Hawaii, it is an ideal read on the airplane, hotel room, or beach.

 

MORE ABOUT THE BOOK

Perks Publishing, LLC, was founded and is owned by the three siblings (ages
13, 15, and 17) who created the book with their father. The foreword is
written by Lee Brower of “The Secret” who talks about the
Gratitude Rock.

 About the Author

AJ Paki Perkins

AJ Paki Perkins is a renewable energy and sustainability CEO – turned
award-winning author who best known for his work teaching Hawaiian Values
through story. He and his children (HIwalani – 17, Puniaikeao –
15 and Alapaki – 13) wrote the award-winning children’s book:
Mahalo Does Not Mean Trash, fun story about gratitude and the true meaning
of this treasured Hawaiian value taught by pupu (grandma) to her mo’opuna
(grandchildren) that makes you take pause for the truly important things in
life.

Paki is a semi-finalist on the new TV show: America’s Next Great
Author. He just finished his learning course called “Visit Hawaii Like
A Hawaiian” to help first time visitors to his home in Hawaii. He is
also finishing his first business book which is a parable on how the values
of MAHALOHANA can change your life, family, community and business.

“Our parents are HAWAIIAN and our ancestors go back to the kings and
queens. We’re the non-royal side. Lol

We were born on the Windward side of Oahu. We went to school there for a
little while until our ohana (family) had to move to the California where
our dad lives. We lived there for a while and then moved to Alaska where we
live with our mom.”

Contact Links

Website

Goodreads

LinkedIn

Twitter

Youtube

 

Purchase Link

Amazon

 

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