Wednesday, May 24, 2017

June Lundgren and her Books




http://mysticconnections.org/
June Lundgren is  a psychic medium, animal communicator, healer, nurse and international author with over forty years of experience in the paranormal field.
As a young child she communicated with spirits, animals and angels while living in a secure home with her grandparents. She comes from a long line of women with special gifts. Her grandmother was a psychic medium and helped to tutor her in the use of her gifts.During her early years she spent 5 years in the military where she trained as a nurse.
She lives on a small farm in Oregon City, Oregon with her son and husband for the last 27 years. She has been in nursing for over 30 years, and has been a psychic medium all her life. Some people would call it a curse, but she prefers to think of it as a blessing. Granted there are times when it can be a pain in more than one, but overall she would never change it for anything.
Over the last twenty-five years she has held my many conversations with those on the other side. I am constantly learning and taking notes and putting some of the information in her book. Through all of the challenges in her life, her faith in God and in the love she received from her grandparents has sustained her and kept her sane. She decided that people need to know that God does hear us. He knows what we need, which is not necessarily what we want.

I have written five books:



Thursday, April 13, 2017

FINDING YOUR CENTER by Deborah A. Morrison


☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ★ ☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ★☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆


EXCERPT
FINDING YOUR CENTER:
EXPLORATIONS IN PHILOSOPHY, NEW PHYSICS AND EASTERN MYSTICISM
- Deborah A. Morrison
A PERSON’S ONE AND ONLY FREEDOM WHEN AFFLICTED
In conclusion, and from my own perspective, Simone Weil is successful in presenting her ideas on the love of God and affliction.  Affliction is defined as distinct from suffering.  The element of chance brings the descent of affliction on innocent people. When afflicted, a person is at an infinite distance from God.  Weil effectively continues her argument with the next forward, progressive movement.  The movement is from this pivotal point of infinite distance from God.  God is love.  Infinite distance and infinite nearness comprise the totality of God as love.  Weil next asserts that if this is so, then what proceeds is the understanding of affliction as a necessary aspect of Divine Love.  A person is left with only one freedom, only one choice.  The choice is whether or not to keep one’s eyes turned toward God.  Interestingly, by following the progression of the argument on becomes ever more conscious of the paradoxical and yet illuminating presence of affliction in the context of Divine Love.
- page 110



Philosophy ~ Epistemology
Physics ~ Quantum Theory
Date Published:   01/14/2017
Publisher: Cygnet Media Group Inc.

Finding Your Center: Explorations In Philosophy, New Physics, And Eastern Mysticism is a fascinating compilation which highlights many important aspects of life. The knowledge contained therein is reflective of the ever changing world in which we live. Each page is overflowing with a diverse spectrum of philosophies, theologies, and more, together with perspectives from sociological to western thought, eastern mysticism and new physics. You will learn how your life will be enriched when you come to know the importance of finding your center.
In life we journey on, our explorations taking us into adventurous travels of everyday experience, new realizations, and on into the vast realm of the great unknown. We discover that the process of Creation is, perhaps, ongoing. And, we are a holistic part of it! We are in wonder and awe at the magnificence of it all! At times we have gratitude for unexpected sychronicities and miracles, and at other times we're brought into a wondrous silence and stillness. But, one thing we know for certain - no matter what happens, life goes on! And, we are bound to carry on with our explorations into life, Truth, joy, peace, and more. Finding You Center: Explorations In Philosophy, New Physics, And Eastern Mysticism is a rare treasure and brings you a unique collection of knowledge, insight, and wisdom. Yours to discover


Purchase Links


Deborah A. Morrison is an internationally recognized author and master life coach from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. She is inspired by the healing power of the written word, nature and people, expressing her abilities to foster inspiration, growth and learning.

She holds an Hons. B.A. Social Sciences, from McMaster University, and has undergone extensive research in eastern and western thought within the framework of contemporary and comparative studies. She has achieved M.A. certification in Counseling Science, from the Counselor Training Institute, Vancouver, B.C., Canada, as recognized by the A.A.M.F.T., American Association of Marriage and Family Therapists.

As a certified Yoga and Meditation Instructor Deborah had the good fortune to receive her training directly from world renowned Yoga and Meditation Master, Swami Vishnudevananda. Deborah has taught yoga and meditation to all ages from preschool children to seniors.

Deborah previously worked professionally for many years as a preschool teacher, preschool therapist and parent consultant, having also completed E.C.E diploma early on in her career.

Deborah is an Honorary Life Member of the ALL Ladies League - ALL, the world's largest ALL - inclusive international women's chamber for the Welfare, Wealth, and Well-Being of ALL.

She previously served as an Executive Member of the Tower Poetry Society as Social Convener, and Vice President.

Along with her published non-fiction, fiction, and poetry books, Deborah has written numerous published articles on natural therapies, yoga, meditation, psychology, and metaphysics.

Deborah is a proud mother and grandmother who encourages compassion and creativity in her family.






Contact Information
Website:     deborahamorrison.com
Facebook:  Deborah Morrison
Linkedin:   Deborah A. Morrison
Goodreads:  Deborah A Morrison




Tuesday, April 11, 2017

THE RAWLEY FAMILY ROMANCES by OLIVIA HARDIN



From USA Today Bestselling Author Olivia Hardin, for the first time ever, three Rawley Family Romances plus a bonus short all in one collection... and it's just 99cents for a short time! Start the continuing saga of love, life, family & friends... All for Hope Sometimes the safest distance between two hearts is no distance at all... Kidnapping a baby wasn’t something Hope ever dreamed she would do. But she’s been burned by the legal system before, so when the court places her friend’s child into the custody of an abuser, she takes matters into her own hands. She steals the baby and fakes her death, hoping to make a clean getaway. She planned every detail, except one. Her high school sweetheart and best friend, who left her years before, sees her at a gas station. Hope thinks all is lost, until he offers to help them. Brennan had always been the love of Hope’s life, but he never wanted to be. She knows she cannot depend on him for long. However, as each day passes, it becomes painfully obvious that she is in way over her head. She goes with him, intending to keep him always an arm’s length away to protect her heart. But being on the run together sparks the old flames that once burned between Brennan and Hope. Families, friends, and lovers must band together to save an innocent baby and a daring woman or both of their lives will be destroyed.  Together, they'll do it all for Hope. Justice for All Kay Rawley has plans. She might be the second child of an earl, but she wants a life away from her father’s estate in New Durma. She wants a life apart from her family’s name. Becoming a lawyer was a bright, shiny object she just couldn’t resist grabbing. Her classes are complete, and all she has to do is pass the bar to get permanent employment at the Dallas law firm where she’s been interning for the past year. Kay's been on Audrick Van Buren's radar since the day she walked into his classroom two years ago. That admiration only grew when she came to work for his firm. But if there's anything he recognizes, it's a woman who's driven--and Kay is definitely one. It's all he can do to keep his distance and allow her the chance to come into her own. What Van doesn't know is that someone else is watching Kay, too, and if he doesn't step between them, that person might not only derail her career but threaten her very life. Things aren’t always what they seem, and Kay’s about to learn that the best laid plans are so much better when they go astray... All for Family Wedding bells will soon be ringing in the Rawley family, but gearing up for Van and Kay’s nuptials revives old insecurities for Kay’s sister-in-law Meg. When she learns that her ex-husband is asking for her from his hospital bed, Meg must confront the painful memories of her past. Family is everything for Jeremy Rawley. Most important is the one he and Meg created together. But their beginning was tangled in memories he wishes his wife could forget for good. A call from her past brings them back to a place he thought they’d never have to be again. Forgiveness may be the key, but the first step is finding the locked heart that needs it... Plus, get All for a Little Christmas Former police officer Robert Guillory's life has changed since he arrested Hope Rawley for kidnapping.  Only his closest friends knows about his last case before leaving the force.  Eva Lipton is one of those close friends, but she's been trying to get even closer ever since his retirement.  When the chance to work with him on a church theft drops into her lap, she doesn't hesitate to call on him. Can a little holiday miracle give Eva the Christmas gift she's been hoping for?

Amazon  | iBooks  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Kobo | Other retailers

About the Author

When Olivia Hardin began having strange movie-like dreams in her teens, she had no choice but to begin putting them to paper. Before long the writing bug had her and she knew she wanted to be a published author. Several rejections plus a little bit of life later, and she was temporarily “cured” of the urge to write. That is until she met a group of talented and fabulous writers who gave her the direction and encouragement she needed to get lost in the words again. Olivia’s attended three different universities over the years and toyed with majors in Computer Technology, English, History and Geology. Then one day she heard the term road scholar and she knew that was what she wanted to be. Now she “studies” anything and everything just for the joy of learning. She's also an insatiable crafter who only completes about 1 out of 5 projects, a jogger who hates to run, and she’s sometimes accused of being artistic. A native Texas girl, Olivia lives in the beautiful Lone Star state with her husband, Danny and their puppy, Bonnie. Get a free gift just for signing up for Olivia's Newsletter ! Follow Olivia: Newsletter /Facebook/< a href="https://twitter.com/ OliviaH_Writer" target="_blank">Twitter/Pinterest/ Website Amazon/BookBub
And if you love her books, join Team OH!

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Dracula’s Mistress by Carmen Stefanescu a Paranormal historical/light romance


Publisher – City Lights Press
From the day that the powerful, brave and merciless Vlad III Basarab, a descendant of the Draculesti family—better known to most people as the infamous vampire Dracula—ascends the throne, he knows only battles, betrayal and intrigue.
Evil grips the town of Targoviste, capital residence of Walachia. The secrets behind the stone walls of the palace are as dark and violent as a winter’s night, as terrifying as the prince’s deeds. Dead bodies, drained of blood and missing their little finger keep appearing in the streets at night.
Lovely, smart, determined, Angela Oltenescu ignores all the aggressive rumors and her mother’s warning regarding Vlad. Will she suffer the consequences of falling in love with a man nicknamed Dracula by his enemies—an infamous creature of the night?
Rich, sly, treacherous,  Marin Craioveanu, a powerful landlord, craves the same woman loved by Vlad. Marin's hatred toward the prince will make him an ally to Handsome Radu, Vlad’s brother and Sultan’s friend, ready to sell the country to the Ottomans to get rid of his rival.
Dracula’s Mistress will awe legions of fans of Gothic literature, paranormal and historical fiction.



Dracula’s Mistress
Angela smiled with fond indulgence and looked at her father. “Prepare for mother’s. . .” She stopped as the words passed her lips, looked over her father’s shoulder, and started violently. The image behind her father made her words freeze on her lips. A sickening sense of dread overpowered her.
The pale light of the moon fell on a man’s face. A man dressed in torn clothes. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to his arms, stretched towards them in begging.
His face, all covered in blood. His eyes were closed. His bluish lips mumbled something Angela couldn’t clearly understand. Slurred words reached her. She thought she heard, “Candle. . . candle. . . pleaaaase. . .” A sickening odor reached Angela’s nostrils. Slowly, the closed eyelids opened revealing two empty sockets instead of eyes.
A low moan of horror escaped her.
“What? What’s wrong?” Grigore asked.
But before he turned his head to see what triggered Angela’s reaction the apparition melted into the darkness.
Angela staggered a little, and then found her balance.
“Nothing,” she answered in a shaken voice. “I thought . . . Nothing, Father.” She pushed the horrible apparition from her mind. Perhaps all the stories about the souls of the young noblemen killed so cruelly here were not just stories.
Grigore shook his head and shrugged. Then reaching out his hand, he helped her climb into the carriage. She was barely able to move as she trembled from head to foot. She shrank back on the bear skin spread inside.
Grigore sat facing her, but looked absorbed by the things that had happened that night.
The neighing of the horses sounded strange to her ears. The sound of a tree branch scraping the roof of the carriage sent Angela’s heart into her mouth.
She leaned forward until her nose was touching the glass of the carriage window. Outside, on the side of the road, she glimpsed again the silhouette of the horrible man, dressed in tattered clothes. She peered into the darkness to see better. There was no doubt. The same specter. With begging hands stretched towards her. She covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a cry. And then she shook her head and passed a hand over her eyes and dared to look out again.
There was nobody in sight. A dark cloud had settled over the moon. All that met her eyes was the deep darkness. Her heart hammered as she gripped her fan harder, almost crushing the fragile spikes. Sweat collected at the base of her neck despite the cool evening. With a trembling hand, she covered the window of the carriage with the small curtain and leaned back on the carriage pillow. To fight the panic yammering in her head, Angela forced Vlad’s face back into her mind.
All through the rest of the journey home, the thought of Vlad’s enthralling smile and dark, intent eyes never left her.

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&text=Carmen+Stefanescu&search-alias=digital-text&field-author=Carmen+Stefanescu&sort=relevancerankCarmen Stefanescu resides in Romania, the native country of the infamous vampire  Count Dracula  where, for about 50 years of communist dictatorship, just speaking about God, faith, reincarnation or paranormal phenomena could have led someone to great trouble - the psychiatric hospital if not to prison.
High-school teacher of English and German in her native country, and mother of two daughters, Carmen Stefanescu survived the grim years of oppression  by escaping in a parallel world, that of the books. Reading was, is and will always be her greatest hobby.
She has dreamed since childhood to become a writer, but many of the things she wrote remained just drawer projects. The fall of the Ceausescu’s regime in 1989, and the opening of the country to the world meant a new beginning for her. She started publishing. Poems first, and then prose. Both in English.
She likes to blend genres and thus she writes paranormal stories with a smidgen of mystery, history and romance. The reader will find suspense, dark themes, adventure, danger as well as sweet revenge. She calls her stories  “gothic” romance. Her writing focuses on rebirth, past life regression, karmic retribution.

                   Carmen joined the volunteer staff at Marketing For Romance Writers Author blog and is the coordinator of #Thursday13 posts.


Quirky, Private Investigator, Sage McGuire, solves missing person cases. Sergeant Carter Morgan of the Portland Police Department solves violet crimes.




Sage McGuire has a great job she loves. All that changes in the blink of an eye when her long-time boss, Mr. Smithfield, has an accident involving an over-sized rubber band. Mr. Smithfield’s semi-worthless son, Daniel, takes over Smithfield Laboratories and Sage rethinks her career choice.

Sergeant Carter Morgan of the Portland Police Department solves violent crimes and sexy pinecone scent and black leather pants rev Sage’s engine.

 Sage’s wild spirit, crazy red hair, and sense of humor take Carter for the ride of his life.

Available here:
Amazon

Excerpt:

Bridget leaned toward me and nodded in that direction. “He’s been sitting by himself for a while. A dance with that fine man could take your mind off just about anything.”

Ophelia winked. “You should give him a try.”

“You think?” We laughed until we about peed our pants. I noticed he was watching us with a grin that spread across his sexy face. “Oh shit. I think he heard us.”

“Good. You deserve a little fun after the week you’ve had,” Bridget insisted.

“Well, I’ve seen my share of gorgeous men, but that guy is smok’n hot.” I looked heavenward and giggled.

“Oh boy, is he ever,” Bridget and Ophelia said in unison and fanned their faces.

“I’m going to give him my, ‘you can buy me a drink’ look and see what he does.”

All of a sudden Bridget rolled her eyes toward the bar. “Holy moly, he’s coming this way. That worked fast. I should try that maneuver,” Bridget whispered.

“Me too.” Ophelia got out a pen and small notepad from her purse and wrote down what I had done and then tucked her notes into her purse.

Bridget and I stared at her. Her face turned crimson.

“We always come up with great ideas over margaritas, but I can never remember what they are in the morning. From now on, I’m writing them down. Hopefully they’ll make sense in the morning.”

Sharon Kleve's Bio:


Sharon Kleve was born and raised in Washington and currently lives on the Olympic Peninsula with her husband.

Sharon is a multi-published author of contemporary romance. She loves romance. She loves reading romance, living romance, and especially loves writing about romance. She gets no greater feeling than watching her characters come alive in each other's arms. Most of all, she loves giving her characters the happily ever after they deserve—with a few bumps and bruises along the way.

One of her favorite things to do is pick up a new book and sink into the story, immersing herself in the emotions between the characters. She hopes to inspire her readers the same way her favorite authors have inspired her.

When not writing, she can usually be found either curled up in her recliner with her cat and a good book, or in the kitchen baking sourdough bread or bagels.


Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Death of a Sculptor in Hue, Shape, and Color by M.C.V. Egan

Cool New review for DEATH of a SCULPTOR; in Hue, Shape, and Color

Just found the coolest review for my latest. I love it, especially the first line, I will quote the reviewer often:


"What a bizarrely functional dysfunctional family this is now that Bruce is gone."
❤❤❤❤  4.0 out of 5 starsThis story is so worth the read.

on April 2, 2017
Format: Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase











Color coded love stories and revealing female anatomies lead to the murder of world renowned sculptor, Bruce Jones.
In life, the artist loved women, almost as much as women loved him. Adored for his art and colorful personality, Bruce is mourned by the world at large. The tale is launched with the multifaceted perspectives of four ex-wives, the current wife, and his new love interest and their children.
Mary , Bruce’s wealthy first love, is always in perfect pink; the color of love. Mother of Clair the famous actress and Aaron the corporate lawyer.
Leslie The Second’s color is yellow for her sunny nature as much as for her fears and insecurities. Her only son Bobby is vulnerable and lost. Mourning his father’s death, he finds himself.
Petra The Third, is outstanding in orange, representing not only her native Holland but also her love of the fruit. Cherished her freedom and had no children of her own.
Toni The Fourth is a vibrant passionate Italian red and part of the eventual glue that creates and solidifies this dysfunctional Jones family. Her teenage daughters Tina and Isa are as different as night and day.
Brooke The Fifth a gold-digger. Green, her color, reflects the color of money and envy. Her young son’s Kyle and Caleb are too young to understand why their world has been turned upside-down.
Mara, as blue as the ocean was the last woman to steal Bruce’s heart. Mother to newborn Baby Peter is the unexpected gift and surprise.
Bruce Jones’ eight children speak out, too. They are as distinctive as the women he loved, their mothers.
Loose ends are tied up by the insights of Sylvia, Aaron’s wife and a trusted keeper of secrets; Scott, the private investigator and family friend; Nona, the quintessential grandmother everyone loves but to whom few are truly related; and Detective Jim Miller who will not rest until he discovers Bruce Jones’ murderer.

Monday, April 3, 2017

GUESTPOST ~ SONSPOT

Guest post

Inception is an idea that gets to me. Ideas getting planted beyond the person s awareness. It s so wonderful how it really is a seed, and this seed grows. Why does that picture g o creepy in my head? Anyways, I can remember what I think was the inception of the idea for the plot line. Years before, one of my friends was seeing . He said that I had to walk through hell. I thought that was fortunate. He was also drawling patterns he saw on the wall with colored pencils. I also thought that was fortunate. Switching gears; six months into the apartment years , a couple friends of mine, two girls that were giddy witches together, had some insights for me. We grew close going to a music festival and everything that happens there. I became Tarzan that summer and they told me that Jane was somewhere out there. That was a gnarly summer, one of those summers where you learn a lot about yourself, an d wish you could draw those moments out for the rest of your life. Something like that anyways. Decisions were made that year. I laugh manically. What am I talking about here? I m kind a an all over the place guy . Now what about the idea for the ... This is the creative process ... I promise, it'll make sense. What about reading it? OR the style? I remember trying to read Dante s Inferno. My brain ... I read a few cantos and was like fuck, where s the spark notes? And then Andy came to my head. Mac was at a café, drinking coffee and spacing out through the window. He come to, and Andy is sitting right across from him. That s the part with the magic gum. Boom. A flood of images, the plot in clear fashion zooms forward to the poi nt where Mac and Ryan chew the magic gum and a zipper appears in the air. It unzips the fabric of our realm an d revealed the real world behind it. Mac walks into it and instantly the story took off from th ere. And then a whole lot of implications came through my mind that reset what even I was thinkin g about the fabric of our own reality. Do you think anything is real? Is there one thing, one thing at all that s real? That look in her eyes. That might be the only real thing is anything ever. That one last look before she was became separated and plunged into deepest darkest tiniest corner in existence. Shit like t hat ripples through lifetimes . Especially if your soul is made to sit and tumble around in the middle of the sun, watching the ripple of the first sin committed and the pulses of agony that seep up from Jane s cage. Numbers freak me out. After watching Number 23 with Jim Carey, I was like. . fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Expressions on both frequencies. Fuck s awesome like that. A large theme for the book was self-realization. But it always comes back to t hat. So in which case I ll say that a big theme for this book is metal music. It s like the back noise that sometimes explodes in your face; like anxiety.






Monday, March 13, 2017

EXCERPT of DEATH of a SCULPTOR; In Hue, Shape and color © M.C.V. EGAN Mary: Wife No. 1






EXCERPT of DEATH of a SCULPTOR;

In Hue, Shape and color © M.C.V. EGAN

Mary: Wife No. 1





Thunder, lightning, and rain, that was what we had at our wedding. However, on the day of his funeral, the Florida heat and humidity made my face shiny with perspiration. My hair looked like a dark Brillo pad. My children requested I attend the funeral of my first husband. Bruce Jones, the world-renowned sculptor.

     The parking lot was already packed with an unexpected variety of cars. I then realized that it was not peak season. The South Florida snowbirds are attached to their cars and they migrate with them back and forth each year.

     I noticed a police car and a uniformed man by the entrance. Even for Bruce a bit much; however, since 9/11, security has been tight everywhere.

     The valet attendant opened my rental car door. “Welcome ma’am. Your daughter is waiting for you.”

     “Thank you. Please make sure you keep the car in the shade. August Florida heat and sun are not my friends.”  I pulled a five-dollar bill from my purse to tip him, but he shook his head and mumbled, “No, thank you.”  After all It was Palm Beach. I probably should have pulled out a twenty.

     I was surprised that the building looked like an actual church, at least from the outside. The church had a long name. It was Universal something or other; apparently, a place of worship with neither affiliation nor strictures. Bruce’s life had, after all, been too outré to pretend he followed any conventional religious norm.

     “Thanks for coming, Mom.” Clair’s voice shouldn’t have surprised me, but I stood still, focused on carefully dabbing my shiny nose. I clicked the compact shut, smiled, and answered, “Anything for you and Aaron, sweetheart.” She nodded as she guided me where to sit. It was toward the back of the church—the ex-wives’ pew.

     “Please Mom, don’t look at me that way. This funeral is a time for forgiveness and closure.”

     Clair always found a way to get me to do whatever she wanted. The last thing I wanted was to be in the company of the women sitting there. I touched my frizzy hair, regretting my rejection of the keratin treatment.

     Wife number two, Leslie, was the first to say hello. “Mary, you look lovely. It’s been years.”

     “It has, thankfully,” I replied. The other two simply nodded, and I nodded back. Leslie, the one Bruce left me for, handed me a packet of tissues and winked. Forcing a smile, I took them. The idea that she assumed I planned to cry had not crossed my mind. I pulled the compact out of my purse again to check my makeup; it looked fine. Through the mirror I saw the reflection of the fifth and last Mrs. Bruce Jones, the widow. She was standing waiting for the ushers. I shook my head in disbelief. There next to Brooke was the coffin. The ushers waited with the coffin for the minister’s signal. It had images of Bruce’s artwork. Digital photography makes it possible to decorate anything in living color. Some of the images were blocked from my view by the ushers, but not mine. There I was paraded as a nude sketch. Each one of Bruce’s loves had a color and mine was pink. It was kitsch…even worse, it was downright tasteless.

     Bruce had a type. We all had brown hair and pretty faces with full lips and straight noses. The eye color varied as did our size and build. His type was limited to our physiognomy.   I clicked the compact shut, and the other ex-wives faced me, startled by the sound. I shrugged with a coy apologetic smile. Look at the five of us; he had a type.

     Bruce’s love also had a shelf life. He took the seven-year-itch need to scratch very literally. Some marriages were shorter because sometimes the divorces got complicated and his new loves always overlapped with the old. Public or private, his relationships always lasted seven years.

     I was nineteen when I first walked into his classroom. He was tall and muscular. I felt a tingle at the base of my neck when I saw his back, as if somehow I already knew. When he turned to face me, I was gone and completely in love. I fell in love with Bruce and the sculpture next to him all at once.  I soon learned he made love in a way no other man did (not that I was very experienced then),Bruce traced every inch of my body with every part of his. At twenty-four, he already made a good living from his sculptures, but teaching remained his passion. As he grew older and wealthier, he taught short workshops in different parts of the world. His last one had been just a few months before his untimely death. He was after all, only sixty-two.

     It was clear by the careful shape of his sculptures that he knew the shape of my legs, ankles, feet, and every other part of my body. His sculpture venues varied; his talent knew no boundaries. Bruce loved and sculpted as instinctively as the rest of us breathe. Whoever inherited the rights to his art would be wise to market his sketches as limited edition lithographs. Bruce liked to keep those private, but he always added color to the sketches in a way that made them works of art unto themselves. Bruce was as gifted with hue and color as he was with shapes. Those were the sketches that someone had the poor taste to use for the coffin. As the ushers moved around, I heard the reactions of the other ex-wives, a blend of gasps and giggles. We recognized all the shapes and colors.

     Focused on raising our children, I had not noticed when the sculptures started to change. That was when Leslie entered the picture. Bruce may not have planned to divorce me, or at least for years I tried to believe that, but then Leslie got pregnant.

     Our marriage, his first as well, was the longest marriage: it lasted ten years. Three of those, Bruce had spent loving Leslie, but playing house with me. His marriage to Leslie was far shorter. I could tell by the sculptures he had loved her for seven years. We all met him through his art in one way or another. Wife number three, Petra, worked in an art gallery. Although not an artist she was very involved with his work. I derived great pleasure from the public scandal when he hurt Leslie that way, leaving her for a mere merchant. By then Bruce had a name, an art, and a face that was recognized everywhere. Leslie had ended my marriage, so curiosity as to who had ended hers interrupted my life for a time. Hers was the only one of Bruce’s love stories I followed carefully, aside from my own.

     Aside from relishing in Leslie’s pain, his personal life did not pique my interest. I knew my children were always respected and old enough to voice concern if anyone mistreated them.  I could not remember if it was the third or fourth wife who was the only one of us who did not have children with Bruce.

     Chopin’s somber Marche Funèbre snapped me back to the moment. The elaborate coffin encasing Bruce’s body had been placed on a movable catafalque. The catafalque with squeaky wheels carried Bruce’s body in a guided procession down the aisle. He was always a large man and had managed to become larger as he aged. His appetite for food and drink superseded all his other appetites.

     Leslie whispered in my ear, “She doesn’t look sad.”

     Glancing over at the person in question, I nodded in agreement. The widow could not be described as grieving. Grief is, of course, different in all of us. The body language of grief, though, is universal: the defeated, slumped shoulders, head bowed, tears flowing. Leslie was right. The widow was crying, but they almost looked like tears of relief.

     A montage of Bruce’s works on a screen at the side of the altar shaped in a semicircle created the focal point. The aisle inclined and my pew toward the back provided a good vantage point. The incline was slight but pronounced enough to give those of us in the back a full view. The ushers seemed to be holding back the coffin so it would not speed down the aisle. The wheels continued to squeak. Bruce would have hated this. The minister or priestess─I am not sure what title this universal church gave her─had a very unpleasant voice and thus was difficult to listen to. No voice, even a pleasant one, could compete with Bruce’s art. For all the rotten things I would be happy to tell you about Bruce Jones, his art was not something anyone could criticize. Even the most prestigious critics raved about his talent and his work.

     The slides were in chronological order. The memory and pain from the sting of betrayal flooded me as it had twenty-eight years earlier. I could see Leslie through the corner of my eye and the blush that betrayed her shame.

     As wife number two, she had been party to betrayal because she too had been betrayed. I know Leslie grew to love my children very much. I guess she saw me as an extension of that love in some ways. I felt terrible. I had been so curt.

     My hand reached to her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity and forgiveness when the images on the screen segued to show the shape of ex-wife number three. My heart ached for Leslie because we had similar builds, and many would not have been able to distinguish when Bruce transitioned from sculpting my body to sculpting hers.

     Ex-wife number three, Petra─a very tall woman with long slender limbs─had a body that blatantly displayed the transition from Leslie to her replacement. The unquestionable change in shape left no doubt Bruce’s affections had shifted again.  Leslie, pregnant with her second child at the time, lost the baby to grief, a loss I also knew well.

     At that point, I did need the tissues Leslie had given me, but I was shedding tears for her, not for Bruce. I miscarried a child with my second husband. I understood her pain and sense of loss. Mine, too, was the last child, the child I never had.

     Bruce never sculpted pregnant women. Consequently, wife number three, the one who had never been pregnant had seven years that boasted more sculptures than the rest of us. At the seven-year mark, Bruce transitioned into a new love story, a new model. Petra’s telltale sobs showed her grasp of Bruce’s tell. After all, loving Bruce was a gamble. The change of model in the sculpture showed his change of heart. Petra was from a foreign country; I never paid much attention where. My kids interacted with her, and she welcomed them with kindness. In tandem, Leslie and I passed her the tissues.

     Petra took both tissues we offered and her lips moved in a quiet whisper; the words were obviously meant for Leslie, though I could discern they were, “I am sorry.”

     My daughter, Clair, had always lived up to the dual meanings of her name: clear and famous. Clair could see things with great clarity, and she could convey them as such. I could only assume that she knew the ex-wives belonged together, ‘for closure and forgiveness’ as she had said.

     Clair’s modeling career had started in her teens at her insistence; she was not pushed nor did anyone suggest she should model. She knew she was very attractive, and she knew she could convey her beauty and charm to an audience, a photographer, a camera.

     Her modeling spun into acting. She was as natural on a screen as on a stage. It came to her with ease, though she was happy to take classes and learn. My Aaron is also successful, but he is a behind-the-scenes sort of person. I took great pride in knowing that I had always been a good mother. I had known how to allow my children to forge their own paths.

     Not everything in my life succeeded, but I was a success at being a mother. I recognized Bruce’s love shelf life because I had one of my own, with a trail of the remains of ended marriages or relationships. Mine perhaps more impressive than Bruce’s.

     I guess Bruce might have been the love of my life. But now in my mid-fifties, I questioned whether a spouse or companion had any viable use?  I loved art, my passion, and although my work is not as popular or renowned as Bruce’s, I have achieved a certain level of success.

TO READ MORE BUY BOOK ON AMAZON...

Mineran Influence Tour



Sam, an ex-soldier who is trying to rediscover himself after twenty years of service, unwittingly stumbles upon a mysterious alien presence in rural Wales. He is drawn into a tangled web of intrigue, pitting him against forces bent on destruction and putting his life in peril. Feeling mentally eroded by his time in the army and having worked hard to overcome this, he is thrust upon an alien journey that will change his life and beliefs in a profound way.
Claims of benevolence are only the beginning of the mysteries he'll have to unravel as doubt and mistrust haunt him. He will have to form unlikely alliances in order to fathom the mysteries at the secret Mineran enclave, where intrigue, deception and imminent danger reside.
His journey for answers will introduce him to pernicious enemies with hidden agendas, as a heinous plot to kill him unravels. Can he defeat his personal demons to secure justice and discover the truth of who or what is behind the nefarious machinations and why?




CHAPTER 12





Sam could feel the air move around him as bullets whisked past. He knew Reb was covering his retreat and that he must be taking hits. Pumped up on adrenalin, Sam raced up the gantry towards the Dia Kuklos. Part of his mind found it funny that he was running nude towards an alien Dia Kuklos to another world full of aliens and he was making his debut with his manhood swinging about and a 16-inch arrow in his shoulder. ‘You don’t see this in the movies,’ Sam groaned to himself as the jostling shaft sent a cascading wave of pain from his shoulder down throughout his body.

He was at the top and facing the angled surface of the Dia Kuklos. He certainly couldn’t jump through feet first, as the metal pins would burn up his body. It would have been better to come at it from the other side where the angle would work in his favour, but there was no time for that. He leant forward and tried to hit the surface of the Dia Kuklos in a falling walk, turning his head at the last second to look back to see Reb. Reb’s face was grim but had a look of determination. Suddenly Reb’s head violently jerked forward as if he was performing a violent Glasgow Kiss and Sam realised he had just taken a shot to the back of his head. Not having seen Reb apply the hood he thought him surely dead. At that instant, Sam’s face exploded!

He had utterly overlooked a forgotten amalgamation of mercury, silver, tin and copper, which instantly heated up to a liquid state. The sudden increase in size shattered the bottom molar that it had previously protected. The superheated liquid destroyed and cauterised flesh at the same time. Here was where Sam’s luck ran out as the molten metal had to pass through from right to left. If only he had looked the other way! Heat seared and burnt his mouth and throat, and the super-heated air made its way into his lungs, seriously charring the interior surface and making it impossible for him to breathe. The molten metal burnt its way through Sam’s tongue and lower jaw until it finally escaped through the left check. A fraction of a second later, seven micro pins burnt through his fibula, tibia and calf muscle.

Sam fell into a pair of outstretched arms. He couldn’t breathe as the nerves in his lungs screamed that they were on fire. It felt like most of his face was missing and in the haze of pain he was sure he saw part of his tongue fall to the floor. For some reason, the last thought that ran through his mind was ‘mind the porcupine.’ Then blackness enveloped him and the pain went away.





Born in England and raised in Wales, I started my working life on a farm in the glorious rural Welsh countryside.  I retrained to become an IT Consultant and having spent thousands on Microsoft, CompTIA and Cisco qualifications; I also obtained a contract to run and teach at a Cisco Academy in England.  After this, I became a small business IT Advisor for WCBC and the Welsh Government.  As this funding dried up, I retrained as a Business Advisor and have since helped thousands of people start up their own businesses.
In my leisure time, I work my way through a comprehensive bucket list with my Fiancée, Cath. This has caused us great delight as we have attended various courses and fun days out, such as beekeeping, pottery making, stained glass making, painting course, cooking courses, hawk walks, animal experiences, quad biking, gorge walking and much more. Our favourite one is learning to dance. This activity has remained with us and will hopefully do so for the rest of our lives. We can do a reasonable Waltz, collapse in laughter trying the Viennese Waltz, but it is the 1920’s Lindy Hop that we have fallen in love with. After three years of dancing, we still attend regular dance classes and events.
Strangely, for an ex-geek, my favourite gadget is my Italian Marcato pasta machine. I love real, unprocessed food and my freshly made pasta with a home cooked sauce is amazing.
I have always enjoyed reading, and in my early teenage years, I read authors ranging from Harry Harrison to HG Wells. Later in life, I turned to thriller writers such as the 3 C’s; Clancy, Cussler and Child. Also, I will always have a Pratchett book on my phone for light reading. His imagination was and always will be, inspiring. I have wanted to write the Mineran Series for several years prior to actually starting and with the encouragement from Cath, who has suffered my many varied, imaginative pranks over the years, I have begun.

Contact Information
Website: www.pnburrows.com ~ Twitter: @pnburows ~ Goodreads


Purchase Links