"The Maze Effect: Finding Mr Right". Contemporary Romance by Majel Jay

The Maze Effect: Finding Mr. Right
by Majel Jay 

Every woman wants the perfect man... or at the very least, a decent man.

“Mr. Right”
How do you find him?
What does he look like?
Is there a formula to know who he is?

Just ask Kimberly Kay Nezda, a successful young diva with a budding career in a big city. She had it all or so she thought. She had many encounters and was confident she had finally found Mr. Right.
A rich, handsome, suitor, the mark of perfection, but did she let him walk “The Maze?”
Was it the perfect love story or the perfect storm?

The Maze Effect is a steamy, riveting, short story about dating, sex and falling in love. You’ll be captivated as you read Kimberly’s story of an epic life-changing journey into love and finding Mr. Right.

Excerpt:

“Yes, yes, very sweet and endearing, now please leave, the dog is drinking up all the milk and I gotta go!” I began pushing the door close with him on the other side. Damn, it wouldn’t move. Did he have his damn foot stuck in it or what? That’s a serial killer move!! Shit, what did I get myself into now and where is my damn rape whistle!!

 

The Maze Effect: Finding Mr. Right
by Majel Jay 

Link: http://a.co/fzMRUV5 

ASIN: B0792656KC

Now Available ~ Santa Baby, Several Stars Away

Consumed by curiosity, Kaily gives herself to a mystery man for Christmas.

Will Dylan be able to resist her waiting naked, but gift-wrapped beneath his tree?

~ A Short Shapeshifter Erotic Romance ~

Santa Baby, Several Stars Away

by Savanna Kougar


Excerpt ~


Chapter One:

Santa Baby, Waitin' Just for You

Rarely reckless, Kaily flung off the negligee she'd first thought to wear. It landed in a red ephemeral heap beside the tastefully trimmed Christmas tree.

So what if she'd just broken into his house...well, she hadn't exactly broken in...more like she spied on him until she found out where he hid the extra key...lodged in a crack of the frame above the door of the Victorian mansion he'd resurrected from certain crumbling death, and now obviously treasured.

There was only one thing Kaily could see amiss in the traditional holiday atmosphere he'd created with the help of the town's local historical club -- a garish red ribbon. The long sash had a simple bow attached to one end, and practically shone despite the low lighting.

Kaily stared at the unexpected invitation.

Certainly, the river of red ribbon didn't belong on the floor as a decoration, and she couldn't see anywhere else it belonged...except wrapped around her.

Since she was giving herself to him as a gift for Christmas...well, why not?

~~~~~~

Blurb:

Kaily has been consumed by curiosity ever since Dylan suddenly appears in her small town. Surreptitiously, she watches the mystery man restore a rundown Victorian mansion, all while his charm and sincerity gain him the good will of most everyone. This is especially true when he volunteers to become the annual Santa Claus for the children at the town's park.

The problem for Kaily: No one really knows anything about Dylan's past or where he came from. With her attraction to him growing day by day, she becomes a driven woman. On a desperate whim, she gives herself to him as a Christmas present. Will Dylan be able to resist her waiting naked, but gift-wrapped beneath his tree?

~~~~~~

Now Available ~ SMASHWORDS & AMAZON

Coming Soon to other ebook vendors.

~~~~~~

Have the merriest of holidays!

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~

Peter Alan Orchard: the pleasure of keeping the writing short.

I've now produced three publications: a full-length historical mystery (A Pig in the Roses), a 10,000-word adventure for children (The House on Athene Street) and a collection of previously-blogged historical short stories (Voices from the Past).  So what exactly is the particular pleasure of writing short stuff?

First, the obvious. It's shorter. There's no need to develop the long plot strands, no need for the complex building of tension and interest over a long story arc. But is it easier to write? I'm not so sure. There still has to be the same care in developing character and atmosphere, perhaps more because of the shorter space available to create the effects. I tend to think in scenes, often deriving from a single image or character, and usually find short stories arriving in my head mostly complete bar the actual writing, which which is handy for someone who hates plotting as much as I do.

The stories in Voices from the Past are a varied lot, some very short, some humorous, a ghost story or two. One story, Hoard, set in Roman Britain, has already appeared on this blog and here's a bit from Hallveig, a brief sketch set in medieval Iceland :

Below her the farmhouse sat comfortably into the fellside, thick turf walls on a timber frame buried in the earth, the floor inside lower than the grass cropped outside by Gelli’s sheep. Inside Hallveig’s sullen daughter Rannveig, fifteen and ripe for marriage, would be taking bread from the oven, practising for her husband. Red Gelli and his sons had been out after the fish all day on the breathing sea to the south, opposite to the thunder.

Hallveig smiled and picked up her spade. She remembered Gelli in his young days, burning with the stories brought back by the companions of Leif Eriksson, tales of the seas beyond Greenland, of the vine-country, of the skraelings with their skin boats and red hair and furs. They had taken ship together, sturdy young man and wife and baby sons going a-viking, sailing west late in the season to find new lands unknown to Leif Eriksson. Several days out at sea they hit seas like mountains, seething and roaring, sucking at the keel of the ship, winds that tore the sail and lifted the waves inboard. Back they came through icebergs striped like the jaws of whales, wallowing in the tide with nothing to show for it, and never sailed out of sight of land again unless it was after the fish.

The House on Athene Street, like my whodunnit A Pig in the Roses, is a kidnap-and-chase plot set in Athens in the fifth century BC. Since it's aimed at the 9-12s, the main aim was to keep the story moving, the tone light and the dialogue perky. In this scene from the subplot the parents, Helene and Lysikles, have arranged a social visit to a family whose unprepossessing son may make a serviceable husband for the hero's sister, Xanthippe, when she's of age (around the mid-teens in ancient Greece). Helene is determined but Xanthippe is just eleven and less than enchanted, so Hermippos, the thirteen-year-old hero, decides to make mischief:

Oh, wonderful, Xanthippe thought. The great get-Xanthippe-married-off-to-the-Nose conspiracy is up and running. And here he comes, the great one himself.

Sophilos appeared in the doorway, a gangling youth of nearly seventeen with a vague smile lighting up those parts of his face not occupied by nose. He rubbed hands on his tunic, leaving soil stains, and nodded shyly to the visitors.

‘I’ve been chasing the pig out of the vegetable patch,’ he said. ‘It likes onions.’

Xanthippe felt a giggle rising up her body and threw her brother an imploring look. Save me, it said. Please don’t let me laugh at him!

Hermippos marched over to Sophilos and grabbed him by the arm. ’Tell me about the pig, Sophilos,’ he said firmly. ’And have you started cadet training yet? It starts at your age, doesn’t it? I can’t wait to start, but I’m too young.’ Together the boys sauntered out into the sunlight. ’Is that the pig over there,’ Hermippos went on happily, ’digging up turnips with its nose?’

Her fingers clasped over her mouth and tears of silent laughter in her eyes, Xanthippe heard her mother say, ‘There, Lysikles, I said the boys always got on well together.’

The House in Athene Street is $2.99, Voices from the Past is $1.99 and A Pig in the Roses is $3.99. All are Smashwords premium titles and available in all the usual ebook formats. Details are on my Smashwords page and at http://www.peteralanorchard.net/, where you'll also find a short story, Starlight, for $0.99.

Peter
http://www.peteralanorchard.net/
http://www.twitter.com/peteraorchard
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/PeterAlanOrchard

Wishing you Holiday Happiness

It's the time of year to wish all of my friends

both near and far

all of the joys of the season

...just a little gift,
a simple short story to spread some holiday cheer

Holiday Happiness
by Chelle Cordero

It seemed like only a few days ago when we were all packing away the Menorah and Christmas ornaments – and here we were again, buying toys that we really couldn’t afford.

Dan and I agreed that the kids wouldn’t suffer because business had been so poor. We knew how lucky we were, the Johnson’s down the street lost their home this past year and they had to move away – I miss them, Joy was a fun person.

Still, we had to cut down, we couldn’t spend like we had in years past. There were so many things we saw in the store that we knew the kids would like and it was so difficult to restrain ourselves. They needed new clothing, socks and underwear, those make up most of the packages. The gaily wrapped boxes made it look exciting anyway. Just one real frivolous toy each; lucky for us they are little and the expensive stuff doesn’t have any more glitter in their eyes. We settled for a new baby doll for Laurie, a set of plastic building blocks for Donny, and a catcher’s mitt and plastic bat for Billy.

I cooked Dan’s favorite dinner for him. We agreed not to buy gifts for each other, but I wanted to do something, something nice just for him. He loves pot roast so I paid premium price for a few pounds of top round and I simmered it all the way to “melt in your mouth”. He deserves so much more. I am so lucky, he works hard to take care of his family.

We had such wonderful dreams when we were dating – a house, a family, nice cars in the driveway, yearly vacations, jewelry, fun, glamour… We’ve got three beautiful children and a house that we’re struggling to hold onto. We’re down to one car that’s long past even being listed in resale guides. Our vacations consist of backyard barbecues and movie nights are a rented DVD. I wish that I could ignore those bills just for the holiday season, but apparently Scrooge runs the utility department.

~read more~

http://ChelleCordero.com

Cutting my teeth on Short Stories

Cutting my Teeth on Short Stories
by: Stephanie Burkhart

Back in 2005, I discovered Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition. There were 10 categories and basically they were looking for short stories up to 4000. I decided to dive in.

In the late 1800's-1900's, short stories had a lot of appeal. Well known short story authors include F. Scott Fitzgerald, Upton Sinclair, and Washington Irving. The appeal, then, as in now, is that it tells a concise story which you can read in a short period of time. Depending on the topic, the ending resonates with the reader, touching on such emotions such as love, disgust, amazement, and hope, just to name a few.

I participated in the Writer's Digest contests because I wanted to master using an economy of words to tell a story. 4K (4,000) words is not a lot. You have to get in, get out, and leave an impression with the reader. Mastering that is a writing skill I endeavored to learn.

Back in 2005, my horror short story, "The Music Box," was an Honorable Mention winner in genre fiction. In 2006, my horror short story, "Red Paint, Crimson Blood," was another Honorable Mention Winner.

In 2007, "The Watch Tower," another horror short was an Honorable Mention Winner. My mainstream/literary short, "Spontaneous Decision" was 8th place that year in that category. I was stunned. On the average, the WD's competition receives 17,000 entries total. They only award the top 100 stories in each category. An Honorable Mention isn't shabby. 8th place? For me, it was the cherry on top of my Sunday.
There is no set word count for short stories, but I've seen them anywhere between 2K-40K ( I would say 35-40K would be closer to a Novella size.)

Short story writing should focus on one or two characters. There's no room for an extended cast. There should be one driving plot device or theme. Anything else could clutter the story.

My latest story, published in the "Be Mused Anthology" is called "Matchmaking Amusement." It's 14K (one of my longer shorts, as I generally try to stay around 4K.) Tristan and Isolde are muses that fall in love. In order for them to have HEA, they have to get their writers, Jane and Antonio to fall in love.



Here's a small excerpt:

Isolde jumped on top of the monitor, her wings beating fast. "Alexi slides off the cliff. John offers his hand. Alexi spits on him and lets go, falling to his death."

"Perfect!" cried Jane. Isolde grinned with pride. Jane's fingers typed so fast, Isolde thought she was watching a NASCAR race. Jane dramatically paused and then typed the last two words slowly. "The end."

Isolde jumped off the monitor and did a happy dance on the maps. "You did it!"

"I'm going to send it off to Gus and wait for his edits."

Isolde stopped dancing, pointed a finger at her human and winked. "While you edit, I’m taking a vacation."

"A vacation? You can't leave now!"

"Why not? There's a difference between editing and writing."

"But—"

"No buts. I've spent eleven months on this project. I need a vacation."

"Where will you go?" asked Jane.

"Ah, I think I'll check out this Berchtesgaden where the book ends at."

Jane pouted. "You can't wait until I’m done with these edits?"

Isolde touched her shoulders with her fingers. "My job is done."

Jane wrinkled her nose. "I guess. Have fun. Send me a postcard. When are you going to leave?"

"Tomorrow."

Jane sighed and leaned forward, smelling the lilacs.

****

Here's a link to Matchmaking Amusements Book Teaser on You Tube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bxZASQSddfM

Here's a Buy link to Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Be-Mused-Muse-ing-Anthology-ebook/dp/B003EV5SWM/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1271079794&sr=1-1

Here's a Buy link to Desert Breeze:
http://stores.desertbreezepublishing.com/-strse-73/Be-Mused--dsh--%3Ci%3EAn/Detail.bok

Peter Alan Orchard: 'Hoard' - short story

Ahead of publication of my first book, a whodunit set in ancient Greece, I've been writing a few short stories and sticking them on my blog alongside other bits and pieces. This was the first one to appear - it's set towards the end of the Roman occupation of Britain, and Lindsay kindly suggested that I guest blog here with it during short story/novella week because there's a thread of romance entwined in it.

Hoard

His leggings caked with dust and burrs from the ploughed field, his tunic stinking of pigs from the sty behind the house, Messicus trudged into the kitchen and sat heavily at a solid oak table. A spring breeze hustled fruit trees outside in their pots, cuffing one to the ground, and banged a loose shutter on the kitchen window. A brick-red tile lifted from the roof and slid, scraping, to the gutter.

Relaxed and alone, he poured beer into a mug – his mug, a treasure from his days in the legion before the order came for the fit and able to leave the Britlets to their fog-bound island - and drained half of it in a draught. Retired out of the Twentieth with a theatrical limp now agonised by arthritic joints, Messicus was left behind, widowed, master of his veteran’s allotment, a parcel of land for a family and a small farmhouse with a courtyard, an imitation of Romanness in northwest Britain.

Through the rush of wind across the field came voices like birds: Severa, his daughter, and her young man Gavo, back from who knows where.

‘Father, look!’ Severa piped happily. ‘Look what Gavo found!’

Messicus looked across the kitchen and Gavo looked back, darker-skinned than Severa and heavy in the eyebrows, son of a north African decurion and a local woman. ‘Have you been out in the woods with my daughter, young man?’

‘No, sir.’ Gavo looked shocked at the question. ‘I was foraging for firewood, for my mother.’

And I’m a three-legged goldfish, Messicus thought. ‘Show me,’ he said.

Severa laid their prize clanking on the table: three or four gold coins, a dozen silver ones, a silver bowl with inlaid decoration. ‘There’s more,’ Severa went on, ‘by the edge of the wood, where the stone road goes past on the way to the fort. There’s a rowan tree with a rock tangled in the roots. It’s there.’

Messicus gazed at the tiny hoard, for a moment unable to look away. Then he clasped his hands behind his grizzled head and looked up at the ceiling, counted spiders, measuring cracks, remembering.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Gavo asked. ‘Have we done something we shouldn’t?’

Severa cut him short. ‘Can we have the coins, father? Please? They will help so much towards – ‘

‘I know what towards, Severa,’ Messicus said, still staring at the ceiling. ‘Towards marrying Gavo. Take them, they’re coins. But put the rest back. No, don’t look at me like that. I’ll tell you why. Come with me.’

He picked up his mug and the three of them moved into the next room. Under the dust and muddy boot-marks lay a mosaic floor, the handiwork of a local artisan: key-patterns not quite as crisp as in the better villas, a dog with legs too short, a minor deity with his rapturous expression spoilt by a slight twist in the mouth. On each side stone benches lined the walls, and from beneath one of them Messicus drew a gaming board cross-hatched with lines cut into the wood.

‘A game of robbers? Now?’ Gavo asked. Severa put her finger to her lips, but the boy feigned not to notice. ‘Why?’

‘No, Gavo, not now,’ Messicus said. ‘But I was playing then, before you were born, Severa, against a Sarmatian cavalryman, Julius Valerius. His people came from the wild, cold plains out beyond Gaul, but there had been Sarmatians serving here for generations, all horsemen, and even other Sarmatians reckoned his skill with horses was almost uncanny.

‘We were old companions, in battle and in the hunt, but we met over the gaming board and fought each other like old enemies. Each little glass piece became a living warrior, no holds were barred, no cunning was too low to indulge at the other’s expense.’ Messicus grinned. ‘We had some rare games, and drank a lot. Decent wine, not this stuff.

‘It was in this room, the last game I played with Julius Valerius. We sat on this bench, with the board between us, and went on for hours. It got dark. I had torches lit, and the brazier because it was winter. We were at stalemate, going nowhere. Then he put his wine down on the floor and stood up.

‘”Giving up?” I asked. ”You say you’d rather fall under a horse than lose to me, Sarmatian.” Then I saw his face.

‘”I’m going tomorrow, Messicus,” he said. “With the draft, to Gaul against the Visigoths. Stilicho’s orders. No peace while Alaric’s on the march against Rome. I’ve buried my stuff.”

‘”What stuff?” I said. “Have you got stuff?” I don’t know why. It must have been the wine talking, because everyone’s got stuff they need to keep safe, and better buried here than stolen on the journey south.

‘He sat down again and made one more move, one glass piece one square to the right. I was trapped. My strategy was falling apart, and my most important soldier, squeezed between two of his pieces, was about to be taken – but Julius never saw it. He swept his hand across the board, jumped up and began to pace the room. “Yes, I’ve buried it, all of it, Messicus, and I’m telling no-one! One day I’ll be back and it’ll still be there, still mine.”’

‘You can tell me,” I said. “I can keep it safe. I’m not leaving, not with my wound.” ‘

‘”We’ve fought the same enemies, Messicus, and served the same Rome, but between ourselves all we do is cheat each other. I know it’s just a game, but there it is. I’m telling no-one where my stuff is hidden, not even you. Goodbye.”’

‘He stalked out of the room and I never saw him again. He never came back. As for his “stuff”, Severa is holding some of it. The coins he won from me and men like me, at least the smaller ones. The gold – he must have cheated the camp commander for those.’

Messicus waved his arm at the door and watched Severa lead Gavo through it, out into the sun. He finished his beer, thew the dregs into the yard and busied himself about the farmhouse for the rest of the day.

As evening fell, a brisk red evening with a cutting wind, Messicus took a shovel and a leather bag and went looking for a rowan beside the road into the fort. There he found what was left of Julius Valerius’ treasure, hidden under leaves and damp, grey earth. He put back the silver bowl, laid the gaming board on top and set out the pieces as he remembered them at the moment when the Sarmatian left his house and rode away to fight Alaric’s Visigoths.

He stood up gingerly on stiff legs and started to shovel soil back into the hole. Then he stopped, knelt down again and moved a single glass warrior one square to the left.

http://www.peteralanorchard.net