About Once Upon a Word: We're a large group of multi-talented authors working together, to bring you the best romances.

Monday, March 28, 2016


       by Linda Swift
                  Tales that Touch the Heart           

A recent blog presented here by Celia Yeary discussed books published in a series, as opposed to sequels. I have recently written three connected books which seem to have characteristics of both. So what should these short novels be called? I welcome your opinions.

In late 2014, I decided to enter a story in our PbRJV Christmas Anthology. My Civil War novel, This Time Forever, had recently been published, and in my head I was already living in Chattanooga in 1865 so I developed a plot that kept me there. A Season of Miracles was set during the last year of the war. Caroline Ross, a young Confederate widow, sought help from John Oldham, a Union doctor, when her little son became very ill with diphtheria. She was drawn to this shy man who kept a bedside vigil with her but his presence threatened everything she stood for. Could she face the censure of society and follow her heart?

Caroline had a sister, Elizabeth, wife of Clyde Harper, a despicable man. Their son died from the dreaded disease. Elizabeth deserved better than an unsuitable husband and the loss of one of her two beloved children. When an invitation for Valentine stories came from PbRJV a few months later, I took the opportunity to make amends to Elizabeth. In A Season for Love, Elizabeth had become a widow, and was trying to save her farm from being taken by her deceased husband's equally despicable brother. In that time period, women could not own property in most states and only marriage to a man who would share the homeplace with her was a viable solution. Matthew Sutton, a homeless veteran, crippled in the war, was Elizabeth's only option but he was reluctant to oblige her. Could  she risk losing everything and convince him to help her try to save what was rightfully hers?

Although this novella had a satisfactory conclusion, Matt Sutton's story seemed incomplete. He had a sister who shared his estranged father's home and I kept wishing for a reconciliation now that the war was over. When another PbRJV invitation came for a summer anthology, I decided to make it happen. Enid Sutton worked for her father, Judge Sutton, and when he suffered a heart attack, a chance visitor to his office was able to offer assistance. Ben Taylor, a Yankee had come to Chattanooga to claim his aunt's inheritance but was mistaken by the judge as a carpetbagger. Enid sent word to her brother about their father's condition, and with misgiving he came home and brought his new family. The judge refused to accept either of his children's choices until a surprising development forced him to acknowledge the truth about himself.

In December, I was able to combine these three novellas into one collection titled Seasons of the Heart. Now, during our Spring Sale, you can download A Season of Miracles free at Smashwords. Book 2 and Book 3 are also available for 99cents each. Or you can get the three stories combined in the collection titled Seasons of the Heart for $1.99.

* * *

Here is an excerpt from A Season of Miracles, Book 1 in my stories about the Ross-Sutton families. I hope you will enjoy it and check this link for your free download.
The woman lay with her arm across her son's small frame in a gesture of
protection. Though God knows, she couldn't protect him from the disease
now in control of his body. John stood for a long moment looking at her.
She was completely covered by the quilt but he'd bet his wages she was
fully dressed beneath it. Her long wheat-colored hair curled loose about
her face, and for the first time he saw what delicate features she had.
There'd been no talk about her soldier husband, but he was a lucky man to
have a son and a woman like her to come home to. At least, he had a son
now, but whether that would be the case when the man returned remained
in God's hands.

John banked the fire. It seemed strange being in a real house again, and he
longed for the war to end and life to be the way it was before. Life will
never be the same as it was before for me, he silently reminded himself,
war or no war. He had burned all his bridges behind him when he decided
to join the Union Forces. Now he had no home to go back to – but sadder
still, no family.

Unfolding his bedroll, John placed it as near the fire as he could, and slid
his long length inside. His leg ached something fierce since the ride from
camp in the cold. It had been almost two years since the Christmas at
Stones River. Three days of fighting and then getting hit with a minie-ball
had been hell. If it hadn't been for the skill of Major Burke – Captain
Burke then – he would have lost his leg. It was lucky Burke found him in
that muddy cornfield and stopped the bleeding. The man was probably
glad to render aid to one of his own, even though he risked censure from
his Rebel captors. Maybe getting wounded had been lucky too. At least it
gained him an assignment to the camp in Chattanooga when the able
doctors moved on with General Thomas.

He dozed. The harsh coughing of the boy woke him.

* * *

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Friday, March 25, 2016

Appalachia Witch Series by Gerald Costlow @RebeccaJVickery #paranormalromance #witches

Anna was having a bad day. The goat gave only half the milk it usually did that morning, a crow flew from left to right across her path as she walked down to the stream, and she tripped on the way back, spilling one of the buckets and bruising her knee. On top of that, the bees were also having a bad day and she was stung several times while gathering honey, in spite of singing the proper calming charm.
 (A Distant Call, 1st in Appalachia Witch series)

And thus begins my first story in the Appalachia Witch series, set in the 1920s somewhere in East Tennessee in the ridges and hollers of the Appalachia foothills. The imaginary town of Smithville is nearby, and it's a long train ride from there to Knoxville. But to go by the slice of daily life above, it could have been set in any pre-industrial society or frontier. Life for people scraping out a living from marginal land has not changed in millennia.

As the twentieth century began, paved roads and electric lines and telephone wires passed by the folks on the ridges and hollers of Appalachia.   The stereotype of the lazy, clannish, uneducated moonshiner took hold. The word "Hillbilly" began to reflect this. The mountain clans became social outcasts from proper society. A boy from back on the ridge would face huge barriers to courting the daughter of a rich store owner in town.

She sighed. "You don't know what bouquet means, do you? It's a French word I learned at the finishing school. It means 'a bunch of'. I'm just suggesting that maybe if you showed father you were trying to earn more of an income, he'd give you permission to court me."
He let go of her and went over to sit on the bench they'd dragged into the shed. She wondered if she'd hurt his feelings. That was the last thing she'd ever want to do.
            "Jo, honey," he said, "if having a steady income would get your Pa to let me marry you, why I'd work two jobs and be a happy man. Trouble is, he's set on you moving up in the world. You're all he has left since your Ma died, so I don't blame him one bit. He's not about to let some hillbilly with an eighth grade education court his daughter."
(Deal with the Devil, 2nd in the Appalachia Witch series)

My family came from back on the ridge. I only know it from stories and family reunion visits, since my Grandparents moved North after the Great Depression along what was known as the "Hillbilly Highway" into Columbus, Ohio, to work the steel mills. When I decided to place a series of stories in this world, I had the tales told by my family to go by.

And when I decided to add a touch of the supernatural, I had other family tales to draw upon. People back on the ridge plant by the phases of the moon. Their medicine chest contains roots and herbs and home remedies. A bad omen is taken seriously. There are places and creatures back in those mountains they still talk about in whispers. But mostly, no matter how spooky or magical it got, these remain stories about special people struggling to make a life for themselves.

She did have the honor of watching him learn his first lesson about the limits of their Talent when he got tired of mind-shouting to the birds and squirrels and tried it on a bee working a field of flowers. Billie came yelling and running toward her, waving his arms while several angry bees chased this rude upstart down the road.
Liz stifled her laughter and began humming the soothing charm spell she'd been taught while using her Talent to project peaceful thoughts of a hive going about its business. Mollified, the little stinging warriors buzzed off.
            She turned to address Billie, hiding behind her skirts. "You're lucky they weren't yellow-jackets. Wasps will send the entire hive after you. The next time I tell you to be careful, you bee careful…get it?"
            He groaned at the pun.
 (Crazy Jack, 3rd in the Appalachia Witch series)

The thing I enjoyed most about writing this series was being able to create characters that came to life, and over the course of time we watch them grow and learn and produce a new generation to carry on. I'll leave you with a picture of my Grandma when she was a pretty young teenager, sitting on the front porch of their cabin back on the ridge and a link to the VTP books on Amazon. 



Thursday, March 24, 2016

Have You Ever Lost Something of Value?

By: Celia Yeary
    "Valuable" is in the eye of the beholder and subject to interpretation. We've all lost something we considered valuable; however those were almost always something we could live without. In other words, losing a loved one in death shouldn't fall into this discussion, because at times the death of someone we loved can seem almost too much to bear.
     In the 1950s, my mother lost the beaters to her Kenmore electric mixer, the big kind that sits on a stand. She'd had the mixer for several years, and she used it almost every day. She had all three of us girls searching everywhere we could think of. One of us said, "You threw them in the trash by accident. That's the only explanation left." She would never, ever accept that. She'd say, "No, I would never do that." And even twenty years later, she'd wonder, "What happened to those beaters?"
     My husband and I--at separate times--have lost our matching wedding rings. I wrote an entire blog about that once. I remember how we felt, thinking we'd never find them, but we did. In retrospect, though, we could have lived without them. Our marriage wouldn't tarnish, nothing in our life would change, and we'd manage just fine. We might have even bought new rings if we hadn't found them.
     Last Christmas, my husband bought a beautiful Cross pen and pencil set for me. Really, this set is special, very beautiful, as well as practical. I keep them on top of my desk, to the left, at the base of my little blue lamp. One day I noticed the automatic pencil to the set was not there. I began to search. Did it fall into the nearby trashcan? Did it roll off the desk and under my dresser? Is it in a drawer? A pocket? I went through every single thing in the room to no avail. When had I used it last? Could I have taken it to the hall desk where I have two built-in bookshelves? Could it be anywhere in the desk? I consulted my husband. Did you borrow my pencil? Is it anywhere in your office, on your desk, in your closet?
     He and I searched the entire house, opening everything that could be opened. Bottom line, we scoured the house--and the vehicles--until we could not think of any other possible place to look.
I searched off and on for days. He told me he'd buy a whole new set for me.
     No, I said, I want this set—just like my mother wouldn't accept the fact those beaters were gone.
     But he began searching for another set on the internet anyway. When he found one he thought I'd like, and before he ordered the set, he sat down with me and said: "That pencil did not disappear into thin air. It's in this house somewhere. Now, think. What were you doing when you last used it?" I couldn't remember, of course, but I kept thinking about the hall desk. "I think I looked up a phone number, and the book is on the first bookshelf."
     He said, open it—see if you left it in there. Nope. No pencil. While we stood in the hallway where this little desk is built into the wall, he reached up and pulled down a hardback book, one I use often in research. He said, "Look." Sticking out at the top, between the pages, was about an inch of that mechanical pencil. Then I remembered having the book on my other desk, open, and using the pencil to take notes. I have a habit of laying a pen or pencil in the groove of the open book. He's much taller and saw it, but I couldn't unless I stood on tiptoes.
     Would you believe I cried? But really, would the loss of the pencil have changed my life? No.
Sometimes I think we waste too much time remembering and regretting something we've lost.
---A rejected manuscript.
---A friendship.
---A connection with a family member.
---An opportunity.
---An entire unproductive morning.
---A chance for success.
---A visit with someone before it's too late.
---An unfinished project.
---Our youth.
    I hope you and I will evaluate our lives, accept that which we cannot regain, clear our hearts and minds, and move on.
    But suppose we do mention someone we loved and believed had died…but he returns? What you believed was lost forever is now standing before you?
    In TEXAS PROMISE, Jo Cameron marries her childhood sweetheart Dalton King. Soon after the marriage, Dalton joins the Texas Rangers without consulting her at all. He leaves and after a long lonely year, she receives a startling letter from the Texas Rangers headquarters in Waco, Texas announcing his “probable” death in far West Texas.
    After a period of mourning and a family service to remember Dalton, Jo moves to Austin and begins a dress shop business.
    But Dalton returns, tarnished, broken and bitter, and filled with rage at his wife.
Jo's words:
    Her sister True said, "Oh, Jo, I wish… What's wrong?"
    Jo gasped at the envelope she'd picked up, stared, and turned pale. She held the letter in a trembling hand.
    "It's from the Headquarters of the Texas Rangers in Waco." She sat back, shaken, staring at the piece of mail. "I know what this is. I'm sure of it. Oh, True, I'm not ready." She held it to her breast for a moment, took a deep breath, and opened it.
    Dear Mrs. King:
I regret to inform you that upon a thorough search of the Chisos Mountains of West Texas, our investigative unit was unsuccessful at locating your husband, his body, or anyone who might have seen him. The entire force of the Texas Rangers of this great state extends condolences on the loss of your loved one. We also grieve for the loss of a brother in arms.
We advise you to apply for Widow's Benefits as soon as you wish.
Sincerely, Captain Louis Lancaster, Texas Ranger Headquarters, Waco, Texas
     Jo finished the letter, held it out to True, dropped her head in her arms on the table, and sobbed. Her shoulders shook with emotion while she cried her heart out; releasing all the sorrow she'd felt for more than a year. The sadness had begun three weeks after their beautiful wedding, when he had announced his departure.
***~~***~~Dalton's words:
Dalton King had landed in hell, but if he hadn't, the pain and horror couldn't be any worse. His head throbbed dully, fiercely, as if someone hammered railroad spikes through his skull, and the rest of his body didn't feel much better. The excruciating stabs and jolts kept him frozen, with no energy to moan or writhe. Surely, he would die.
But someone stood near in this place. Close, but where?
TEXAS PROMISE: The Camerons of Texas-Book II
Now through April 15—full length novel.
Celia Yeary-Romance...and a little bit 'o Texas

Tuesday, March 22, 2016

A short story just for you.....

First of all, I'd like to say that I am very grateful for those at Victory Tales Press who allow me to tell the stories of Rebel's Crossroads. It is a wonderful thing to see these luscious characters come to life. The stories of Rebel's Crossroads are figments of my imagination and do not resemble anyone living. So, as the spring holidays begin, I am leaving you with a short little story for your enjoyment.

                                                                                                                         by Nan O'Berry

Miss Muriel Lowe took a tighter grip of the Bible, tucked deep under her arm, and mounted the brick steps that led up to the First Methodist Church of Rebel’s Crossroads. She was late. Something that didn’t happen often, however today was important. Palm Sunday began the week leading up to Easter and everyone who was anyone came out on these two particular Sundays.
Muriel took her cues from her mother and her mother from her mother. Everything had to look just right. She’d badgered her nephew, Hubert, to take the afternoon off from the Treasurer’s office and drive her up to that new mall. There, she’d managed to wrangle two new outfits. Today’s ensemble consisted of a sheath dress of deep Kelley green, topped off with a cream colored coat embroidered around the edges with an array of flowers sure to make Monet jealous.
Why, she’d even spent an extra twenty dollars so that Eva Green could put a bit of color, a shimmer of Champagne gold, in her hair, just like in her youth. She reached up and fingered the back of the highly trained curls wondering if it all been in vain. Few would see the change beneath the splendid bonnet with the wide brim. She’d seen it first in passing. Sitting at a jaunty angle in the store window, it called to her. Unable to resist its siren call, she’d walked in and purchased the straw creation and to her delight, it matched the color of her dress. The wide satin ribbon and bow clutched a handful of shamrocks and mirrored the cream of the jacket. Yes, it was a spectacular outfit, fit for Palm Sunday.
“Morning, Miss Muriel.” Dan Rodger’s smiled as he handed her the bulletin. “Running a bit late, I see.”
“Yes.” She said as heat crawled into her cheeks. “Just a bit.” “She took time to look around. “Where is your lovely wife?”
He gazed past her to the corner of the church building. “She’s lining up the children and waiting for her cue.”
“Then I must hurry to sit down. I don’t want to keep them waiting.”
The warmth of the sunlight faded as she moved into the sanctuary. The early spring sunlight broke and splintered by the stain glass, showered the worshipers with all the colors of the rainbow. To her delight, every pew was filled. The heels of her sandals tapped against the tile that lined the sanctuary floor as she made her way to the third bench on the right where her family had always occupied. The right side is the one on God’s good graces; her father was fond of saying. Miss Muriel slid into place.
Setting her pocketbook down, she gazed at the altar. A profusion of pastel colors represented the offering from Doris’ garden. Gladiolas, always a favorite, dominated the white wicker basket in shades of pale pink, blue, and yellow. Yes, Doris had done herself proud. It was a shame she had to go down to her daughter’s in Virginia Beach and miss the splendor.
Precisely at eleven, the air inside and out filled with the ringing of church bells across town. Baptist, Presbyterians, Lutherans, even the Catholic Church, rang in unison. Feet skidded on the floor as the congregation rose and the doors flew open. At first, the sound was minimal.
Soft voices.
Tiny voices.
 Yet, as they marched in the words to the child’s hymn, Jesus Loves Me, became loud and clear. Even though they were too small to be seen over the heads of adults, the palm leaves cut from green construction paper waved with conviction back and forth. When they reached the first pew, the children stopped, lining the inside of the center aisle. Behind them a single line took up the center. The adult choir joined in with the children. Their voices in harmony echoed and filled the rafters of the structure until the windows vibrated. This was all that is should be. Muriel’s heart expanded and to her surprise, tears glistened at the corner of her eyes.
She watched as the minister, Reverend Finlay, walked passed. Later, after the service, they would all gather at the fellowship hall for a pot luck dinner. Plates of golden brown fried chicken, a staple of any southern gathering from weddings to funerals would dominate the table. To be sure not a chicken would be left alive within a fifty mile radius.  Other offerings included bowls of creamy southern potato salad, and baked beans sprinkled with dark ground sugar would wait to be plundered. All would be washed away with sweet ice tea.
Then, one by one, mothers and fathers would grasp their children’s hands as they cross the streets to gather at the central park. Under the watchful gaze of General Archibald Saunders, Mayor Moore would preside in the one-hundred thirty-fourth Easter Egg Hunt. It happened this way, generation after generation. Grandmothers and grandfathers handed down the tradition to their children, then mothers and fathers passed it on to their offspring, and to Muriel, it was a glorious rite of spring.  In small towns, traditions and families ran deep.
Yes, Miss Muriel mused. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
“Blessings to all who enter here today,” Reverend Finlay’s voice boomed. “May the Lord grant you peace.”

Happy Easter to everyone from my home and the folks at Rebel’s Crossroads.
Nan O’Berry

Other stories set in Rebel's Crossroads can be found on Amazon, Barnes and Nobles, Smashwords, and other fine retailers....


Friday, March 18, 2016

The Importance of “Setting” in A Novel by Vicki Crum @RebeccaJVickery #werewolves #paranormal

            The setting of a book, or a movie, can be a very important aspect of the story you’re trying to tell. Settings that are especially vivid or out of the ordinary in some way often become an important character in the story.
When I first sat down to write Once in a Blue Moon, I hadn’t given much thought to where the story would be set. In the original version, hot-guy-Jake wasn’t even a werewolf. He was just a regular old run-of-the-mill Harley-riding, denim and leather clad, too-gorgeous-for-words rebel, who roared into town one day on a whim. And knocked my heroine for a loop the moment she laid eyes on him.
            Casey is on the sidewalk in front of the clothing boutique she co-owns with her best friend when the growl of the Harley snags her attention. When I wrote that, I immediately pictured a street in the heart of the small beach town where I live, and that’s how Manhattan Beach became the setting for the book.
            Manhattan Beach is a wonderful place to call home. It’s a lovely town with quaint shops and great restaurants, bordered on the west by two miles of golden sand beaches and blue, blue ocean. It’s a place where residents often run into people they know around town, at the library, the bank, out to breakfast on a Saturday morning, and at summer concerts in the park. It’s a small, close-knit community only ten minutes from the Los Angeles International Airport, and seventeen miles from downtown L.A. Manhattan Beach is a city that offers the best of both worlds, a small town environment with all the benefits of big city life close at hand.
            It was great fun to set my novel, Once in a Blue Moon, right in the middle of my own personal stomping grounds, making our little beach town a minor character in the book. It also made doing research on my setting a breeze, always a plus for a writer! Having my story take place in a beach community also sets up an interesting conflict for my hero, Jake. You can imagine how difficult it is for a hot-blooded werewolf to be confined in an urban area for a prolonged period of time. What if he needs to resort to his alter ego and run wild and free for a time, without the risk of being discovered?
            It becomes a bit of a quandary for Jake, especially when he comes up with a plan for revealing to Casey who she really is, a rare species of werewolf with a stubborn case of latent genes. His plan, by necessity, may include jolting the woman he loves into making her very first transition by revealing himself in his most organic form.
Try to find a secluded spot in a busy seaside community to introduce a werewolf who doesn’t know she’s a werewolf to her feral side!
            If you were Jake, what would you do?          

About the Book: Once in a Blue Moon
~ Spring Ebook Sale ~ A Sensual Paranormal Romance ~

Casey Montgomery's lifelong addiction to bad boys has brought her nothing but heartache. Just as she swears off alpha males forever, a brief, torrid encounter with one of the hottest, Harley-riding, leather-jacketed hunks she's ever seen leaves her reeling – and worse, jeopardizes her carefully laid plans to meet and fall in love with a nice, dependable nerd.

Jake Benedict has been around the block enough times to recognize his mate when he meets her, a gorgeous werewolf with a case of latent genes who doesn't have a clue about her true identity. Jake is just the were to teach Casey about her ancient heritage and coax her feral side into revealing itself.
While Casey can't resist the intense physical attraction she feels for Jake, she's determined to freeze him out emotionally. Can Jake break through Casey's defenses and prove to her once and for all that he's one bad boy who's playing for keeps?

Only 99¢ for the Spring Sale!
Barnes and Noble

About the Author:

I can't remember a time when I didn't love to read. Some of my favorite books growing up included Little Women, Black Beauty, Nancy Drew Mysteries, every single book in the Little House on the Prairie series, and as a teenager I devoured every Victoria Holt novel I could get my hands on. In

1972, a friend loaned me her copy of The Flame and the Flower by Kathleen Woodiwiss. It was a roaring adventure from start to finish, daring and exciting and oh-so-romantic. That book was the beginning of the romance genre as we know it today, and I was instantly hooked! I went on to read all of Kathleen Woodiwiss' novels over the years, adding a host of other romance authors to my "must read" list. Amanda Ashley (Madeline Baker), Linda Howard, Nora Roberts, and Julie Garwood are just a few of my favorites. In the late 90's, with both my young daughters in school, I joined Romance Writers of America and sat down to try my hand at crafting my own special tale of love and redemption. I have learned so much since then, made many wonderful friends, and even forged some lasting relationships with a few of the authors who inspired me to embark on the journey that has brought me here. I can't thank them enough.

When I'm not traveling with my husband of 39 years, or playing with our two adorable grandchildren, I'm at home near the ocean in Southern California, letting my imagination run wild. I love to write contemporary romance because of the endless reservoir of plot ideas. I write straight contemporary romance, romance with an other-worldly flair, and look for my next book, in which I will be delving into the paranormal world. 


Wednesday, March 16, 2016

A Wee Bit of Good Luck by Karen Michelle Nutt @KMNbooks @RebeccaJVickery #superstitions #Irishblessings

Luck of the Irish isn't easy to obtain, and you don't have to be Irish to have a wee bit of good luck come your way. Here are some superstitions and bad omens you'd be good to avoid, and more than a few charming ones as well.

1. If you be having an unstoppable itch on your left hand, this means a pot of gold is about to come your way. But if the itch is in your right hand, well you won’t be getting any money, but you may be making a new friend.

2. Leprechauns have the reputation of being deceitful tricksters, and you're best not to try to make friends with one; however, if you catch one, he'll most likely tell you where is treasure is hidden in exchange for his freedom. Don't take your eyes off the little guy, not even for a split second because to be sure, he'll vanish without granting you a thing.

3. The actual day of March 17th holds a bit of magic… Don't drop a dishtowel on this day unless you're wishing for some company.

4. Never under any circumstances accept a lock of hair from your lover or you are in for some bad luck.

5. You've all heard that if a black cat crosses your path you're in for some bad luck. However, the Irish have a sure way to ward this off. Make a triangle with your thumbs and forefinger, and then spit in the direction the black cat took. (Please, don't spit on cats.)

6. Never give a friend a knife for a gift. It will sever your friendship. In fact, don’t ever hand someone a knife. It will bring bad luck. Instead if someone asks for a knife, place it on the table near their plate, and allow them to pick it up.

7. Feeling a bit peaked from all that corned beef and cabbage? Tie a bunch of mint sprigs around your wrist to cure your upset stomach.

8. If you come across a horseshoe, nail it to the door. Sorry, buying a horseshoe or using a gifted one doesn't work.

9. If you're lucky enough to find a four-leaf clover, you'll have luck with the races and gambling, and for an added bonus, witchcraft will have no power over you. But keep this information to yourself. The luck only last as long as no one knows you possess the four-leaf clover.

10. Don't fret if you can't find a four-leaf clover. There’s another way to aid your gambling luck. A crooked pin in your coat is said to bring good luck at cards.

11. Have you ever wondered about shoes hanging from telephone wires? Well if it's March 18th (the day after St. Patrick's Day), it just may be someone trying for some luck. The Irish say throwing your shoes on the way home from a party brings good luck.

12. Never ever leave your child unattended. The fairies may take him or her and leave a changeling in its place. Irish born Yeats wrote a poem about this, "Come Away O human child".

13. Don't forget to wear green on St. Patrick's Day. If you don't, beware! You just might get pinched. This is an American tradition started in the 1700s. Wearing the green was thought to make the wearer invisible to the fairy creatures that would pinch those who did not wear green. People began pinching those who didn't wear the green as a reminder that these fairy creatures could sneak up on the non-green clothed person and do the honors themselves.
Irish Blessing

For each petal on the shamrock
This brings a wish your way
Good health, good luck, and happiness
For today and every day.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Author Pic _Karen Michelle Nutt_2015_sm

Karen Michelle Nutt resides in California with her husband, three fascinating children, and houseful of demanding pets. Jack, her Chorkie, is her writing buddy and sits long hours with her at the computer.
IMG_2519_2When she’s not time traveling, fighting outlaws, or otherworldly creatures, she creates pre-made book covers to order at Gillian’s Book Covers, “Judge Your Book By Its Cover”. You can also check out her published cover art designs at Western Trail Blazer and Rebecca J. Vickery Publishing.
Whether your reading fancy is paranormal, historical or time travel, all her stories capture the rich array of emotions that accompany the most fabulous human phenomena—falling in love.

FOLLOW the author on the web:

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Spirts, Romance and Murder... Afterlife by Cecilia Corona #ghosts #romance

So happy to be able to let everyone in on how I came up with the idea for my story Afterlife.

My new story Afterlife is featured in a Valentine's Day Anthology: Be My Everything.
Let me start off with the description of my story, then we can get to how I came up with the idea to write it!

About the Book:
Scotlynn Marjun, a psychic medium, is finally turning her life around when she opens up her shop called Afterlife where she helps clients – both living and dead – find peace, but then a past love shows up to shake things up. Marshall Kingston is rich, handsome, and a real charmer, but when his stepmother plans his murder, he seeks his ex-girlfriend’s special talents to bring justice to his family. Murder. Mayhem. Ghosts. Valentine’s Day promises to be an adventure of a lifetime.

Now for how the idea came to be. 
I am a Massage Therapist and I believe in ghosts. Lets just get that out there before I go any further. One day at work, while I was massaging a client, I kept feeling something brush up against my leg and it kept freaking me out. So of course my mind instantly goes to there must be a ghost in the room.

I laugh now at myself for thinking that. I mean why would a ghost be inside the Massage Room? When I get up from my stool, I feel something brush up against my leg again. When I look down, I realize it's the sheet! I couldn't help but silently giggle at myself. At this point my writer's cap goes on and my mind starts racing with ideas.

After leaving the room, I had the idea of a woman who is a Massage Therapist who could not only see ghosts but is also a psychic. The rest of the story fell into place when I started writing. I really enjoyed writing this story. Scotlynn has to be my favorite woman character I've written thus far.

Scotlynn is smart, gorgeous and very strong willed. Everyone loves a strong female heroine and I feel Scotlynn fits that description. 

I plan on writing more stories with Scotlynn and I can't wait to share them with you.

Check out my links below to my social media accounts as well as my website and make sure you join my newsletter mailing list for all the updates! You can find all my other stories I've written there too.

Join me every Friday on my website for my Reading Corner, where I write about my favorite books from some of my favorite authors.

Not sure if you want to read one of my stories? Join me on Sundays for #snippetsunday for snippets of my stories and find out what catches your interest.

Until Next Time.  Thanks for stopping by.

Cecilia Corona Website


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