…And time to gather your copy of Feast or Famine (The Sharecropper’s Son)
Thank you to my husband and the Hill family for sharing their history and graciously allowing me artistic liberties.
Here’s a morsel of Roses from Ishmael, a snack of a story you can read on a potty break, yeah it’s that short. There are links below if it appeals to you.
…Ishmael yanked the eighteen pack of Bud Light from the counter and strolled to his truck.
Just outside of the city limits he reached across the seat and twisted the first cap off of a tepid bottle. The clanking of the glass was comforting and the warm beer eased the queasiness in his stomach. He downshifted and let the black Chevy pull itself along the narrow country lane as he sipped the Bud and drank in the scenery.
The summer heat had taken a toll on the coastal Bermuda that waved its browned tops as he drove past. Ishmael nodded and gestured back, feeling a kinship. But relief was on the way, the weatherman said as much when he interrupted the radio host to announce tornado warnings in effect until eight o’clock this evening.
As he pulled into the drive he sucked the last bit of suds from the third bottle, took a deep breath and sighed. Her car was parked in the usual place. He felt hopeful, nervously adjusting the flowers and dusting the fallen petals to the floorboard before popping a wintergreen disc into his mouth.
The mint clung to his cheek like paste as he gagged, the stench of evergreen causing him to heave with panic. A mouth full of juniper berries was an unpleasant memory to say the least. His tongue darted and swept in search of spit and after several sweeps he managed to be rid of it. When the candy landed Ishmael kicked at the dusty drive covering it and his boot in a fine white powder.
“Honey I’m home.” He called from the kitchen. “Arianna? Sweetheart? Are you still here?” he spoke gently as he made is way toward the guest bedroom.
The squishing of his boots on wet carpet went unnoticed as did her silent cries. “You’re in there aren’t you?” He asked pressing his hand to the door. “Speak to me, please?” Ishmael ran his fingers across the buckled paint and continued, “Ari- I’m sorry…
Get the rest of the story [free for realz] at these stores.
Tell Amazon about a lower price here (where Roses from Ismael is .99 ¢ because I’m not exclusive. Well you know, I ain’t married to none of `em. ) Just scroll down on the left and share a free link. Thanks.
And yesterday was the summer solstice (aka 1st day of summer) so HaPpY summer y’all!
From his seat in the rear he could see the entire café and a portion of the adjoining store, the same store he was determined to visit and purchase a decent bill of groceries before the day was up.
** Liam studied the room; watched as men felt blindly for cups and sopped dry biscuits in air while soaking up the news of investors going broke. All eyes were on Wall Street but truth be told, the market crash paled in comparison to the Navarro county drought.
**He watched as a billion dust particles danced overhead, swaying recklessly in rays of smoke stained sunshine until the weight of grease and nicotine and worry forced them to settle. The grimy mist settled on everything – on everyone. It covered every field cap and fedora. Without prejudice it landed on burnt necks and white collars alike and no one, other than Liam appeared to notice. He listened to the moans and grunts that followed each turning page. Some lingered on the specifics, others on the gruesome photographs but at the end of breakfast they all shrugged their shoulders and went back to waiting.
Excerpt provided byBooks2Read & Janna Hill
I had a story in mind to go with the pictures (me and my good intentions) but I didn’t allot enough time for this Friday’s free-for-all. (I know, the road to hell is paved with such… good intentions, that is.)
The story idea sprung up while I was watching the new kittens at play. Merlin (Merlin Samuel Salem Saberhagen who is such a hoot) was playing hide and seek with a Milk-Bone box as Maddie (Maddie Matilda Sabrina Goodwitch who is very practical) observed. I think Merlin felt threatened by the box so he destroyed it after hiding in a tree for half an hour.
Ahh, [giggling to self] the the thought of these cats talking still amuses me but Y’all will have to make up your own story today. Or… just enjoy the photos.
*Our poor animals end up with lengthy peculiar names when we are at a crossroad on what to call them. It eventually gets narrowed down, I.e. Maddie & Merlin. Remember Pretty Kitty Puddin’ Jam? Now we all call him Jimmy. That was nearly a year ago.
An elevator pitch is a quick description of the crux of your novel. It’s called that because you’re to picture yourself in an elevator with an agent, editor, or publisher. You have only three floors to wow them.
What do you say?
Hurry on over to AIW and get the full story.