The First Page is one of Beyond the Book’s newest features. Here we get a glimpse into an author’s work and what better place to begin than the first page? Authors share their first pages and answer a few questions about why they started their books off the way they did. Today we welcome Greg Messel, author of Cable Car Mystery.
About the Book:
Title: Cable Car Mystery
Author: Greg Messel
Publisher: Sunbreaks Publishing
On the hottest day of the year in San Francisco in 1959, Private Detectives Sam and Amelia Slater are contemplating fleeing the city for their Stinson Beach house. However, when Sam decides to take a cable car ride to run some errands on the lazy summer day, he’s suddenly thrust into the spotlight when he rescues a woman who fell onto the busy street. Sam pulls the mysterious red haired woman out of the path of an oncoming cable car in the nick of time. The entire incident is captured by a newspaper photographer who splashes Sam’s heroics all over the front page. Sam is troubled not only by his new status as a city hero, but by the rescued woman’s plea for help. She whispers to Sam that she didn’t fall from the cable car but was pushed. She is frightened and disappears into the crowd before Sam can get more details. A San Francisco newspaper launches a campaign to find the mystery woman and Sam hopes to cross paths with her again.
Meanwhile, Amelia is troubled by the sudden disappearance of her elderly neighbor. Two thuggish younger men who now occupy the house next door say he took a sudden trip. One night when she’s alone Amelia grabs a flashlight and finds some disturbing clues in her neighbor’s garage. What really happened to her neighbor? Amelia is determined to find out.
Award winning author Greg Messel spins a new tale of intrigue in Cable Car Mystery, the sixth book in the Sam Slater Mystery series set in at the 1950s in San Francisco.
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The First Page
It had been a beautiful early summer day in San Francisco but the evening fog
was rolling in, seemingly pulling a cozy blanket over the sparkling city as
28-year-old Debra Norton returned from her Friday night date with John D’Angelo,
a tall, handsome, dark-haired man she had met at work.
It was their first date. He was so unlike the men who had been part of her life
in recent years. He seemed kind and gentle. John seemed like just what she wanted
in a companion but she reminded herself it was too early to make such an assessment.
It could be the beginning of something good for Debra who, at the urging of her sister,
had fled Seattle to make a new start in San Francisco.
John was truly an artist and Debra’s job had been the most unusual experience of
her life. She began working at the wax museum on Fisherman’s Wharf at the beginning
of May, where she performed a variety of tasks. Debra had secretarial and clerical duties
but at times she was a ticket taker. Over the four weeks she had been at the museum,
she had learned enough about various exhibits that she directed patrons and answered
their questions. That part was really fun.
John, on the other hand, was the creative talent behind many of the museum’s
famous wax figures. He actually created the figures which attracted tourists who
visited Fisherman’s Wharf. She’d met John on the first day at her new job, but
initially their paths didn’t cross because he was always in the upstairs studio.
Nevertheless, recently, John had been finding excuses to leave his work studio and
chat up Debra. A few times she looked up and noticed him watching her.
Now on their first date, John had taken Debra out to dinner. He was very
attentive. There were nice little touches many women would probably take for
granted, such as pulling out her chair to seat her at the table and opening the car
door for her.
After the dinner, they went to the late show at the Embassy Theatre on Market
Street and saw “A Summer Place” with Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue. It was just
the kind of romantic movie Debra loved but had never seen.
She shared a popcorn with her handsome co-worker. About halfway through the
movie, he took her hand. His hands were manly but soft. He held her hand as if it
were some delicate object of art which might break if treated carelessly.
They continued to hold hands until he gave her a good night kiss on the steps
by the front door stoop near the entrance of her San Francisco-style townhouse
apartment building. She seemed euphoric as she began to descend the steps to
her second floor apartment. Debra stopped halfway up the steps and turned to look
at the front door. She could see John standing outside the glass door watching her
ascend the steps. She smiled and waved before resuming her climb up the stairs.
She smiled to herself knowing John was watching her.
Debra’s lighthearted contentment was shattered when she slowly walked
towards the door of her apartment. Her sixth sense kicked in. Something just didn’t
look right. A little voice in her head told her to bolt and go retrieve John, but instead
she pushed ahead.
Welcome Greg. Can you tell us what your book is about?
Private detective Sam Slater is riding a cable car in San Francisco in 1959 when a beautiful red-haired woman suddenly plunges to the pavement. Sam jumps off the cable car and saves the woman from being hit by the oncoming traffic. By chance a reporter and photographer are at the scene and Sam’s heroics are splashed all over the front page. The woman whispers to Sam that she was pushed from the car and that someone was trying to kill her. She then bolts, disappearing into the crowd on a busy downtown street. Sam and the press launch a campaign to find the woman and Sam wonders why she left so suddenly.
The first page is perhaps one of the most important pages in the whole book. It’s what draws the reader into the story. Why did you choose to begin your book this way?
I wrote the story and then decided to start the book this way, so I reordered the chapters. A woman returns from a date and discovers there is someone in her apartment. The intruder has also removed all the light bulbs which means the woman must face him alone in the dark. I choose this incident in the story as a first page because it makes the reader want to find out why and if the woman will be escape.
In the course of writing your book, how many times would you say that first page changed and for what reasons?
If by changes you mean polishing the writing and adding layers of detail—I reworked it several times. I tried to think of additional ways this situation could be made more suspenseful and scary. Grabbing the reader on the first page or first chapter is really a necessity with modern readers. The old style of writing would spend several chapters setting the stage for the story. An example is in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Tender Is The Night.” It’s a classic book and a great author. However, “Tender Is The Night” spends most of the first three chapters giving an excruciating amount of details describing the hotel and beach where the story will occur. F. Scott Fitzgerald needs no writing tips from me but I was starting to wonder if anything was going to happen during the early chapters.
Was there ever a time after the book was published that you wished you had changed something on the first page?
No. I was pretty satisfied with how the story begins. I feel like I’ve learned the skill of pulling the reader into the story right away. In some of my earlier books I wish I had done a better job of starting with a suspenseful chapter. Once an effective first chapter grabs the reader then the background of the characters can be filled in. You need to make the readers care first.
What advice can you give to aspiring authors to stress how important the first page is?
A good editor taught me about adding “hooks” to your book. That applies not just to the first page or chapter but to the other chapters. This means ending the chapter with some suspense or uncertainty where the reader will be compelled to read the next chapter to see what happens. In my book “Cable Car Mystery,” the main female protagonist, Amelia, looks out of her upstairs window in the middle of the night and sees some suspicious goings on at her neighbor’s house. I end the chapter with her watching two strange men loading something wrapped in blankets into the trunk of their car. Hopefully, the reader will now want to read on and find out what is going to happen.
About the Author
Greg Messel has spent most of his adult life interested in writing, including a career in the newspaper business. He won a Wyoming Press Association Award as a columnist and has contributed articles to various magazines. Greg lives in Edmonds, Washington on Puget Sound with his wife Jean DeFond.
Greg has written nine novels. His latest is “Cable Car Mystery” which is the sixth in a series of mysteries set in 1959 San Francisco. “Shadows In The Fog,” ”Fog City Strangler,” “San Francisco Secrets,” “Deadly Plunge” are sequels to the first book in the series “Last of the Seals.” His other three novels are “Sunbreaks,” “Expiation” and “The Illusion of Certainty.”
For More Information
Title: The Wolf of Brittania, Part 1
Author: Jess Steven Hughes
Publisher: Sunbury Press
Genre: Historical Fiction
First Century AD Britain is a fragmented land of warring Celtic tribes, ripe for invasion by the juggernaut of imperial Rome. Knowing this, a young warrior, soon-to-be-legendary, Prince Caratacus, must unite the southern tribes if they are to survive. This is an enemy more cunning and powerful then either he or Britain has ever faced.
Standing by him is his wife, Rhian, a warrior princess who takes no prisoners. She is the first woman he has truly loved. With her support and that of other allies, Caratacus must outsmart a traitorous brother who is determined to take the throne, aided by a conniving Roman diplomat and a tribal king in the pockets of the Romans.
Caratacus must save his country not only from the pending Roman onslaught but from his own peoples treachery.
Or else die trying.
For More Information
- The Wolf of Brittania is available at Amazon.
- Pick up your copy at Barnes & Noble.
- Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
SOUTHERN BRITANNIA, AUGUST, A.D. 26
Caratacus’s wicker chariot bucked and hurtled across every dip and rise in the track. Two lathering ponies strained at their harness as the young prince urged them ahead. Man-sized wooden targets sprinkled the course. Caratacus struck each through the heart with his casting spears. Now he raced for the finish line in a swirl of chalky dust, blue eyes ablaze with excitement.
Tawny hair whipped about his sunburned face. He sweated profusely in a woolen short-sleeved tunic and tartan breeches, dust muting their colors. A gold collar burned his neck, but to rip it off would bring bad luck. The earthy musk of horse sweat blotted out all other odors.
Behind him clattering wheels and thudding hooves roared in his ears. Four other chariots steadily gained on him. His horses responded to the stinging touch as he slapped the reins. Caratacus leaped from the flimsy cart onto the center drawbar between his team when another chariot nosed into the lead. He struggled for a foothold and looped the dragging reins about his wrists. Barefooted, he deftly edged his way forward on the jouncing bar and catapulted onto the back of his favorite beast. Kneeling on the bay pony, he bellowed encouragement, calling for even greater speed.
Sucking dust and screaming, urging the racers to ever greater strides, throngs of men, women, and children circled the large rutted, oval which served as a race track below the great hill fortress of Camulodunum.
A small boy chasing a dog darted from the crowd and crossed in the front of Caratacus’s path. A woman screamed. He sucked in his breath─Damn! In a flash he kicked the pony’s side, sharply swerving the team, barely missing the child. The chariot bounced, arcing one wheel off the ground and back to the earth with a thud. Violently wrenched from the beast’s back, Caratacus grabbed its yoke collar and yanked himself up on the withers. A throbbing pain shot through his loins from where he caught the horse’s knotty backbone between his legs.
For an instant, Caratacus glanced at the jostling throng. He caught sight of flaxen-haired Rhian, daughter of the king’s champion. The young woman screamed encouragement. His team leaped ahead and stampeded towards the finish.
Caratacus heard a pop and then a rumbling noise. He turned and saw the left trace rein on his other pony had snapped loose from an iron holding lug. It whipped back and forth along the animal’s side. The mare squealed, terrified by the bridle’s lashing. She strained at leather bands around her girth and neck, trying to lurch free of the yoke collar.
Upset by the squealing of the frightened, chestnut mare, the little bay bucked and kicked at the weaving cross-bar. Holding all the reins in his right hand, Caratacus jumped to the mare and gripped the animal’s sides with powerful legs. Other riders gained on him. He grabbed the trace rein and steadied his mounts.
Hanging by his legs, Caratacus reached down his pony’s side and stabbed his free hand towards the flying bridle. It snapped across his face, sending a painful shot through his eyes. For the length of a heartbeat he recoiled, trying to shake off the blinding pain that blurred his vision. Again he attempted to retrieve the other rein. The chariots rounded the last turn of the wheel-plowed course. Fist-sized clods pelted the cheering crowd. Another rider was almost upon him. Caratacus held onto the primary reins as he lunged again and snagged the end of the strap between the fingers of his perspiring left hand. As his sight cleared, he reeled in the rest of the reins. He tightened them around his left hand and held the primary reins of both animals in his right.
Caratacus guided the lathering mare back towards the center of the yoke pole and steadied her galloping to a smooth, flowing rhythm. As if on command, his bay settled down and matched the chestnut mare stride-for-stride. He kicked the side of the chestnut, exhorting the ponies to greater speed. They raced away from the other charioteers.
He crossed the finish line between two hardwood poles topped by bleached human skulls, at least six lengths ahead of his closest competitor. Horns blew. His brother, Tog, led a tremendous cheer. The riotous crowd rushed toward his chariot. A dusty, sweating Caratacus leapt from the car and tossed the reins to an awaiting groom. Grinning at one another, he and Tog clasped each other’s wrists and vigorously shook them.
“Well done, brother, victory is yours!” Tog exclaimed, “Well done! Here, take a drink,” Tog urged. He thrust a large earthen bowl of corma beer into Caratacus’s hands. Gratefully, he gulped it down. Hundreds of tribesmen surrounded them. It was the Harvest of Lughnasa, the first week of August. The chariot races culminated five days of celebration for the Catuvellaunian and Trinovantian Celts, at their capital on Britannia’s southeastern coast, Camulodunum.
When King Cunobelinos appeared, a hush fell over the crowd, which immediately opened a pathway for Caratacus’s thick-chested father. Long, gray hair swept down the king’s powerful back over his purple linen cloak. Cunobelinos wore a scarlet-and gold- threaded tartan tunic with matching breeches and a gold torc around his vein-corded neck. Bracelets of copper and gold circled his biceps and wrists. Sunlight danced off his long sword, made of rare and costly Damascus steel encased in a jeweled scabbard hanging from his waist.
Caratacus’s uncle, King Epaticcos, tribal leaders, and members of the Druid priesthood followed. Behind them ambled Caratacus’s older brother, Adminios. Tall, ebony hair falling down to his shoulders, his pocked-marked face was flushed, dark eyes watery. He had his arm around the waist of a well-known, round-face trollop, dressed in bright-green, plaid long tunic, girdled around the midriff with a gold-fringed sash. Adminios turned and pulled her close, and with his sensuous lips gave her a moist kiss. A few seconds later, she pushed him away and giggled. He laughed. The two staggered to a halt by the edge of the throng, a mixture of nobility, warriors, craftsmen, and peasants, dressed in their best tartan clothing or threadbare homespun.
All of them silently watched the King stop before Caratacus. Tog stepped behind his brother.
“You do us great honor,” Cunobelinos said, addressing his son. “Your victory pleases us.”
“Yes, it does,” Adminios said in a loud, slurring voice behind him. A vacuous grin widened on his thick lips. He stepped towards the king, leaving the woman’s side.
Cunobelinos gave the eldest son a withering look. “It is not your place to speak for the king.”
Adminios, his eyes going wide, looked about. His female companion shot a hand to her mouth. He bowed his large head and stepped back to the woman’s side. A low murmur spread through the crowd.
Caratacus broke the tension. “The honor is mine, Great King.”
The king nodded approval that his son had referred to him correctly.
Behind a sober face and clenched teeth, Caratacus hid his hatred for their forced formality and the humiliating way his father treated Adminios. Then again, his older brother had been drinking and womanizing as usual. Adminios tossed his head, shrugged, and tossed a hand as if he thought the entire scene was trivial. You should have waited until later to celebrate, brother.
Cunobelinos motioned a servant forward to present Caratacus with a large, silver drinking cauldron. The cup was inlaid with intricate carvings of boar heads, wolves, and deer. The prominent relief depicted the braided head of the warrior-goddess Andraste.
Caratacus refrained from smiling as he watched his father’s expressionless, ruddy face and searched the old, lined eyes for signs of approval. As expected he found none. “This is much more than I expected, Great King.”
A voice bellowed from the crowd, “Give him a drink! Let him drink from the cup!” The crowd joined the shouting, “Aye, let him!”
The king nodded. A servant hustled forward holding high a silver cup filled with Samian wine from Greece. Caratacus grasped the two handles and held high the trophy with both hands. “Although I am son of the Great King, I am still his loyal subject,” he called out loudly. “I am victorious today only because he did not race against me. For surely he would be drinking from this cup of glory rather than I.”
The crowd cheered wildly. The king nodded to his son, his mouth a thin line. Tog shook clasped hands above his head in approval. Holding the heavy cup, Caratacus tilted his head backwards and drained it, as custom demanded. Uncut by water, the wine dizzied him, but he finished without reeling or stumbling.
Caratacus handed the cup to the servant and wiped his mouth on his forearm. He noticed his father glaring at him. I know that look. Da expects more out of me. I’m only seventeen summers, what else does he want?
Inside the Book:
Human Resources (DHHR) announced today recommendations made to federal and
state legislatures to suspend all laws and regulations related to the issuing
of marriage licenses, effectively ending a practice which had been in steep
decline over the previous two decades. DHHR Executive Director David Berkeley
said, “The psychological, economic, and legal weight of marriage places a
significant burden upon the health and well-being of individuals and society as
health concerns and declining participation by the general populace, the DHHR
is recommending that federal and state lawmakers suspend all policies related
to marriage. Additionally, we ask that any binding legal restrictions to those
currently married, especially as pertains to divorce and separation, be
federal and state levels, which enter sessions next month, plan to review the
measure. Several states already have resolutions on the docket in support of
the DHHR recommendation.
grimaced. After a full minute, he dropped his eyes then pulled off his shirt,
bending, contorting, folding and unfolding his arms and elbows like a giant
insect; standing as tall as his thin, slight frame would allow. He stopped,
then let his arms fall and dangle at his side. He closed his eyes and then
looked again, hoping that perhaps things would appear more to his liking. They
did not. He rubbed his chest, the part over his heart, with his right hand. It
felt warm to the touch.
was only partially successful. The left side laid flat, unflinching in spite of
his effort. His ears started to turn red with effort. He held his breath and
hoped that might inflate the muscle. He started to get dizzy and so he let go;
his lips broke their seal and released an enormous, blubbering gust of wind and
slouched, paused for a moment, his eyes moved up and down his body. He rubbed
his chest again. The scar was still there, only it seemed to have grown larger,
like a knotty rope of flesh and scar-tissue. He first noticed it the week he
moved into the Academy. It was small then, a string at best. Now thicker,
harder, like a heavy rope, it extended from just under his shoulder down at an
angle and ended near his sternum. He felt it tighten and pull as he moved and
lifted his arm over his head. He grimaced, put his shirt back on and yanked
down on the sleeve. A knock sounded at the door.
of it they’re in a bad mood.”
the common room. Adon stood in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the
collar of his Academy jacket. He was tall, taller than Sol and bigger. His
chest and arms pushed menacingly against the fabric
grinned. Sol reddened. “Don’t worry about it,” Adon continued, “the women they
put us with don’t care about that kind of stuff. At least that’s what they tell us.” He smiled as if he
didn’t really believe himself what he had just said. He ran his fingers through
his black, coarse hair and, somewhat satisfied with what he saw, turned to his
I don’t want to end up in the Tank because of that idiot.”
running. Heavy fists landed against doors at the far end of the hall. They
needed to be quick. Pietr’s door was closed, so Adon knocked, “Hey, it’s time
to go. You ready?” He spoke loudly and with conviction. No answer. Sol reached
down and pulled on the handle. It clicked. Unlocked. They pushed the door and
stepped inside. It was dark.
unmade bed along the near wall. A small desk was at the far end of the room
facing a large window that looked out into the City. It was night, but the glow
from the lights in the facing buildings was sufficient to illuminate the room.
The room smelled dank; a stale cheese sandwich lay in the corner, covered in
unmoving. It smelled of sweat. “Ow!” Adon yelled and crumpled to the floor. Sol
heard a weight bar roll and crash into the wall. Adon cursed and murmured as
Sol moved deeper into the room.
lights appeared in the in the corner, next to the desk. They blinked off, then
on, then off again.
come out,” Sol said. “We’ll get in a lot of trouble if we’re not ready. None of
us want the Tank again.” Pietr’s eyes reappeared for a moment, and looked at
Sol. Then, they clicked off a second time.
“You can’t stay holed up in here all day. You know that. We have to go,
so get dressed or I am going to beat you like the useless piece of trash you
are.” Adon was suddenly angry and could feel the blood rushing up his back
along his spine to the back of his neck, the tiny hairs standing erect. His
hand pulled tight into a fist. Pietr was strong, and easily as big as Adon, but
he was soft. He did not have the malice of his roommate. Adon stood up slowly
and repeated his threat. “Get dressed or I’ll beat you bloody. Be out in two
minutes. I’ll get some Meds ready for you. That’ll help.”
“Something’s going on,” Sol said to Adon, stepping over him and making his way
to the door. “Hurry, Pietr. Please!” He yelled over his shoulder as he
left the room.
black-clad officers ran past. They were carrying weapons: long, black
lightweight batons. Sol watched them run down the hall, but did not see the
group behind them. An extended hand at the end of a locked arm slammed into the
small of his back and sent him hurtling, face first into the doorframe. He fell
back immediately and crack, the back of his head rang with a second
impact. He heard Adon grunt loudly. Sol felt the blood almost immediately begin
to trickle down his face. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. It was
red. He could feel a lump start to grow on the back of his head.
moaned. He rubbed his face then stood up, “What’s going on out there?” Another
four officers ran past the open door, followed closely by two medics dressed in
white. Sol looked at Adon, his fingers pinching his bloody nose and slowly
shook his head. An officer, face shield covering her eyes, stopped and stepped
halfway into the room. “Keep your doors closed,” she barked “All rooms on
lockdown until further notice!” She slammed the door and was gone.
what’s going on everywhere else,” said Adon. “I heard that most Academies
average one a day.”
into the night. The lights in the yard below seemed distant, the weight of the
moonless sky holding them down. He took a deep breath and looked out towards
the City. Buildings and lights rose from the earth as far as he could see. He
looked at his hands, small and pale. He tried to remember a time he had not
been at the Academy. He had lived out in the City once, when he was a child,
but that was before his father had left and his mother died. I’ve never
known anything else, he thought. They brought me here when they needed
me and they will send me where they please when they’re done. What choice do I
have? He stepped away from the window and turned to look at his roommate.
Adon sat still on the couch, rubbing his chin.
among the largest in the United Cities. Built in concentric circles, it
consisted of twenty-four identical towers housing two thousand one hundred
residents each: seven hundred rooms on thirty-five floors; twenty rooms per floors.
Three boys per room. Sol stood looking out of Room 3415, House 22.
stretched himself out on the couch, gingerly; his chin that had taken on a
slightly purple hue.
high-wire.” He paused, thinking aloud, “I wonder who it was.”
pulled out a small earpiece and awkwardly jammed it into his ear. A small red
light turned on, went yellow, then green. He closed his eyes and listened, then
looked up to see Adon watching him from the couch.
gestured with his eyes to Sol’s ear.
Sounds began to fill his ear, distant and garbled, as if he were underwater,
the muffled tones drifted in and out, softer, then louder. He tried to focus,
concentrating on an especially high frequency. Brain waves from an adolescent,
from other boys, resonated at a higher frequency than adults, much like their
speech, and at times, when the situation dictated, high frequencies, what they
called “high-wires” could be accessed out of reach of anyone who might be
listening. Sol closed his eyes tighter, trying to understand what was being
said. It wouldn’t be long before the System detected the network anomaly and
disrupted the pattern.
in the doorway to his room. He was undressed, out of uniform, wearing shorts
and a white tank top, a large white blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It
hung three feet from the floor off his huge frame. It was covered, like his shirt,
with grey grease stains. He had on one sock, a huge toe poking out, the nail
opposite Adon. Sol sat down and pushed the earpiece deeper into his ear. He
closed his eyes again. Pietr and Adon watched, waiting.
out of his room in days. They’d put him in the Tank to try to shake him out of it,
but it didn’t work.” He pulled the piece from his ear and tossed it roughly on
the table. “Obviously.”
of doors opening. They heard a loud voice, someone yelling. Sol ran to the door
and cracked it open. He felt Adon behind him; his breath smelled like mint.
Halfway down the hall, he saw a group of officers, their backs to him, huddled,
working vigorously close to the ground.
clicked firmly into place. They turned and pushed the bed towards Sol and the
elevators that would take them to the roof and a waiting transport. As they
moved, they tapped open doors with the ends of their batons, yelling at the
curious to get back inside. “Coupling will be delayed by thirty minutes only,”
an officer yelled, “and anyone not ready will get the Tank.”
approached. The thump of heavy boots and harsh click of batons against doors
sent chills through his spine: he looked at the black bag as it passed, zipped
down the middle, resting silently on the cart. Who will it be tomorrow?
he wondered. Suddenly, he felt a sharp crack across his hands, the sting of a
baton on his knuckles.
shut. He leaned against it, facing into the room. (There is another way.)
Sol closed his eyes again, listening.
another way.) He opened his eyes.
pulling his blanket up around his shoulders.
afraid,” Sol said. “We hide in our rooms, but they root us out, drug us up, set
us up, push us out. And if that isn’t enough, if that doesn’t work, if it all
gets to be too much, then you just crack and you find another way out. Salo
found the only way out I know of.”
eyes fell to the floor, then he pulled the blanket up again around his huge
shoulders. He looked like a child, even though he was larger than any man Sol
had ever seen. The blanket struggled to hide him, but beneath it Pietr huddled,
afraid, shaking. He pulled the cloth over his head and then he started to sob,
quietly, his shoulders rolling.
Academy is trying to help us, to bring us back, all of us, the thousands of us
that live here and in the other Cities. But sometimes guys like Salo fall
through the cracks. They don’t make it.”
should have told someone so they could have helped him. He needed help, but
they didn’t do anything. No one did anything.” Deep, violent sobs rolled out
from under the blanket. Pietr pulled himself tight into a ball, trying to make
Adon said. “But the reality is there are fifty thousand guys just like him in
this place. And tomorrow someone else will move in right down the hall. And in
a week, everything will be back to normal. The whole City can’t just stop for
one person. You’d better get used to that. He’s gone, but there are a thousand
more just like him. And we’re still here. We have to keep on or we’ll end up
just like him.”
back: “Take this,” he said holding a glass filled with creamy white liquid in
front of his friend. “It’ll make you feel better.” He felt Pietr’s labored,
up. He knocked the glass from Sol’s hand and it shattered as it hit the floor,
white cream exploding everywhere. “There was only one Salo,” Pietr said
angrily. He looked up, red eyes glaring at Adon, face streaked with dirt and
tears. He walked quickly to his room and slammed the door behind him.
Sol bent down and picked up a piece of broken glass. “Leave that for the
maids,” Adon said. “We’d better get ready. They’ll be here soon.” He turned and
walked into his room.
Meet the Author
Virtual Book Tour
Inside the Book
Title: You Must Only To Love Them: Lessons Learned in Turkey
Author: Ann Marie Mershon
Publisher: Maple Hill Publications
Living overseas is the best way to understand the world and its varied cultures. Recently divorced, Ann Marie decided to pursue her life dream of living overseas and accepted a position as a prep school English teacher in Istanbul. Ann Marie battled loneliness as she tried to make the most of her ex-pat existence, and her forays into the Muslim culture and the stunning landscape of Turkey brought them both close to her heart. This memoir is part travelogue, part adventure, and part romance. Now is your chance to vicariously experience life overseas, glimpse Islam from the inside, and perhaps explore Turkey on your own.
For More Information
- You Must Only To Love Them: Lessons Learned in Turkey is available at Amazon.
At Harem my stomach lurched as I scanned the scene: hundreds of busses –green, blue, long, short. How would I ever find the one to Koç? I approached a man in a chauffer’s cap. “Do you speak English?”
“Hayir, ama giteceğim,” he answered, then disappeared. Did he want me to wait? I gave it an optimistic try. Soon he returned with a bushy-browed man in a plaid shirt. “How can I help you, Lady?”
Ah, hope! “I need to find the bus to the Koç School.”
“The Koç University?” he asked.
“No, the high school. Near Pendik.”
“There is no bus to Pendik here,” he said. “You must take ferry to Eminönü, then take Kadiköy ferry and train.”
My heart sank. The man at Eminönü must have thought I meant Koç University. I didn’t even know there was one! It would take all day to get home if I had to backtrack. And I wouldn’t have enough lira! Frantic tears filled my eyes.
“Maybe I can help. One minute, please.” Once more I waited, heart pounding. My hair was sizzling, my blouse glued to my back. I’d never felt so alone. Libby cowered beside me in the midst of bus-station chaos as I prayed this man would find me a way home. He returned smiling. “I found bus driver who knows Koç Lisesi. He will help you. Come.”
He led me through a sea of busses to a blue mini-bus similar to those I’d used with Jana. I settled behind the driver with my purple backpack on the floor and Libby’s case in my lap. It was tight, but I felt safe. The driver nodded at me knowingly. “Do you speak English?” I asked. He shook his head.
“Koç Lisesi,” he said.
“Yvet,” I answered. Yes.
It took fifteen minutes for the bus to fill, and we were finally off. We drove and we drove and we drove. Body odor permeated the bus as it filled and emptied numerous times, mostly with men. A few smiled at me, while most avoided my gaze. I wasn’t alone, just caught in the isolation of the wrong language. We drove forever. “Don’t worry, Libby,” I whispered. “We’ll get home.” I hoped so, anyway.
An hour later the driver pulled over under a bridge and signaled me to get out. He wasn’t going to abandon me there, was he? He said something to the other passengers, then motioned me to follow him up a stairway to the overpass.
He crossed the bridge, jay-walked through traffic, and led me to a crowded bus stop. When he paused to light a cigarette, I said, “Teşekkur ederim” (Thank you) and handed him five of my remaining lira. He pushed my hand away, indicating that I should wait. I shook my head and pointed to his bus. He looked back at his stranded passengers and nodded, then strode over to some men standing nearby. I heard “Koç Lisesi” and “Tepeören” (a town near the school). He returned and indicated that I should follow these men; he would go back to his bus. I tried again to tip him, but he shook his head resolutely.
A grizzled man with a crocheted scull cap strode over and asked me something in Turkish. “Anlamadım,” I said. I don’t understand. He repeated himself, more loudly this time. “Anlamadım!” I repeated. He tried a third time, even louder. “Anlamadım!!!” I boomed. Was he deaf? He nodded, nonplussed, then stood silently beside me, my aged protector.
Meet the Author
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Ann Marie Mershon is a retired English teacher living with her husband near the Boundary Waters of NE Minnesota. She writes every day but also finds time to enjoy the outdoors, whether it’s hiking, biking, skiing, kayaking, or just sipping a cup of coffee as the sun rises.
She always enjoyed writing but didn’t start writing in earnest until about twenty years ago. She began with an enthusiastic effort at a YA novel, only to realize it was little better than recylable material. She took a series of writing courses and workshops before she began writing a weekly newspaper column then graduated to freelancing, writing articles for newspapers and magazines.
Her first published book was a middle-grade historical novel, Britta’s Journey ~ An Emigration Saga. It was based on a local family’s emigration from Finland to Minnesota. After teaching a few years in Istanbul, she met a woman who guided small tours of the city and talked her into collaborating on a guidebook of her tours, Istanbul’s Bazaar Quarter, Backstreet Walking Tours. This book is in its third printing, soon to be released as an e-book and as a phone app.
For More Information
- Visit Ann Marie Mershon’s website.
- Connect with Ann on Facebook and Twitter.
- Visit her blog.
- Find out more about Ann at Goodreads.
Inside the Book:
Meet the Author
Virtual Book Tour
Pump Up Your Book is pleased to bring you Russel Little’s MURDER FOR ME Cover Reveal! Please stop at the blogs who will be hosting him on May 13!
Inside the Book
Title: MURDER FOR ME
Author: Russell Little
Larry Lamb is a mediocre attorney. His last client committed suicide.
Larry Lamb is a mediocre husband. His wife divorced him because she thinks he’s crazy.
But Larry Lamb’s luck is about to turn around. Oil tycoon Don Stonek needs an attorney good enough to be convincing—but bad enough to lose his case.
Stonek’s wife Ava is the victim of multiple murder attempts, and his lover Marilyn is a suspect. Stonek offers Lamb a six-figure retainer to represent Marilyn, and Lamb accepts, with a secret plan to dump the case and keep the money.
But Marilyn has a certain power of persuasion, and the meeting leaves Larry convinced he must please her every desire. She also tugs at a part of him he prefers to keep locked away deep inside—a part of him that’s desperate for release.
The trees surrounding the clearing looked like jungle to him, and he inhaled the smell of cut grass and heavy tree pollen through his cigarette smoke. This was way better than the stacked old garbage smell in the beaten-down park up the street from Colinas. The trash cans were empty here, and they had black plastic bags on them. Alex never saw that before, park cans with trash bags; these people were treated right.
He flicked his butt at the trash can again as he watched a wuss in blue sweats slowly run into the clearing, look at Alex and the butt as it hit the grass, and speed up as he passed by. Alex laughed at it, the thought of a man giving up sleep to run in a park. “Dumbass,” he thought. He was glad the pussy hurried, and he hoped the guy got far enough away before he popped the bitch.
He had to stay ready. Once he shot her, he’d get some breakfast tacos. There’s a truck a couple of blocks from his room that he bought tacos from late at night. They were good, too, especially the green salsa they made, and he wondered if they were open this early. Of course they were. He hoped that guy was far enough away. He checked the time on his phone again. He’d waited too long for the bitch, and he worried he’d missed her. He might go to Colinas after lunch for a beer to celebrate. He’d have some money coming in so they’d probably give him credit; they’d have to since he’d already spent everything she’d advanced him. If he did this woman well enough, he might get some of Miss Melody, too, and stop having to call her that Miss shit.
A blond woman with headphones ran past him. Who was that? He panicked. Was that her? Blond chick, like in the picture—it had to be. He jumped off the table, jerked his gun out of his pants, and ran after her.
Meet the Author
About the Author
Russell G. Little is a writer and practicing divorce attorney. Murder for Me is a fictionalized compilation of the many people he’s encountered over his lifetime and thirty-two-year career.
He lives in Houston, Texas, with his wife of thirty-two years, Melinda.
Visit Russell Little’s website.
Sean Dow is a pulmonary and critical care physician in Great Falls, Montana. He started writing thriller novels in 2011, and has three titles, one of which, Debridement, is in its second printing and is being made into a feature film.
Sean was born in Iowa City, but was raised on a small farm in Kansas before leaving for medical school, and the adventures beyond. His career was largely in Klamath Falls, Oregon, a town that still feels like home. He did a brief stent in Las Vegas before moving to the paradise of Montana. When not working or writing, Sean can be found in the kitchen perfecting his New York cheesecake, or on the mountain streams with Bailey, his beloved (and perfectly behaved) Mastiff and his favorite 2 weight fly rod-a parting gift from a dear friend and patient.
For More Information
About the Book:
Title: A Leafy Green World
Author: Sean Dow
Publisher: Two Harbors Press
A Leafy Green World is a fast paced, action packed thriller set in the Pacific Northwest. Dr. Brent Holcomb has moved to Portland in hopes of resurrecting his life and his career. There, he meets Robyn-the girl from his dreams. All is going smoothly until he realizes Robyn and her friends are not what they seem. Now, wrapped up in the murder of an innocent man, and with nowhere to turn, Brent forms a bold plan-a plan that will put him on a dangerous course, aligning himself with domestic terrorists and ultimately, a deeply hidden cell of Islamic terrorists.
For More Information
- A Leafy Green World is available at Amazon.
- Pick up your copy at Barnes & Noble.
- Discuss this book at PUYB Virtual Book Club at Goodreads.
In Al-thar, (Arabic:revenge) Brent is living a tranquil life on the peaceful Philippine island of Masbate. But the FBI’s witness protection plan is not enough when you have destroyed the plans of the world’s most feared terrorist group-an assassin is on the way, and his plans are far worse than a simple bullet in the head.
With the violent destruction of his new island home, Dr. Holcomb is once again thrust into danger, this time on an international level. There are only two outcomes in this new high-stakes match, Brent’s painful and public death and the destruction of America’s, or the death of Saadullah Abul Ka-beir, and his council.
Brent brings together his cast of memorable friends from A Leafy Green World as he devises the greatest deception ever imagined. The action goes at a break-neck pace from the Philippines to Washington, D.C., and from a remote valley in Pakistan to the jungles of Sierra Leone in this novel that has been described as almost too real, and too timely.
For More Information
Q: Welcome to Beyond the Books, Sean. Can we start out by telling us whether you are published for the first time or are you multi-published?
Multi-published. A Leafy Green World is my second novel, and Al-thar, the third.
Q: When you were published for the first time, which route did you go – mainstream, small press, vanity published or self-published and why or how did you choose this route?
I self-published. Having read horror stories of the lengths other authors had gone through trying to find a traditional publisher, I decided to go with the self-publishing route, at least until I had a chance to see if I could establish myself with a few stories.
Q: How long did it take you to get published once you signed the contract?
It seemed like two lifetimes from the time I submitted my first manuscript until I had a chance to hold it in my hands, but it was probably about 6 months.
Q: How did it make you feel to become published for the first time and how did you celebrate?
It was a terrific feeling-jubilation, accomplishment, and relief that it was finally done. Not very exciting, but I celebrated by starting another story.
Q: What was the first thing you did as for as promotion when you were published for the first time?
I made a lot of marketing mistakes. My first was to engage an expensive company to promote my story. Big cash outlay, with little result-lesson learned.
Q: Since you’ve been published, how have you grown as a writer and now a published author?
I have gone back to my first books and tried to put myself in the shoes of the reader. This has been most beneficial in learning how to fine tune my style.
Q: What has surprised or amazed you about the publishing industry as a whole?
Tough question. I would have to say the biggest thing is the number of people and companies making outrageous promises on their ability to market independent authors. There are good ones out there, but the old adage, Let the buyer beware could be no more true than it is in the book marketing world.
Q: What is the most rewarding thing about being a published author?
The joy of hearing back from happy readers, there is nothing else like it!
Q: Any final words for writers who dream of being published one day?
Start writing! As a side note, I find that when I am actively writing a story, my mind responds just like my body does when I occasionally relent and take it to the gym-everything becomes sharper, and I take in so much more of the world around me. Maybe it’s time I start that next one?