Kitty’s War by Barbara Whitaker


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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Barbara Whitaker will be awarding a $20 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Seeking adventure, shy Kitty Greenlee joins the Women’s Army Corps. In 1944 England, as secretarial support to the 8th Air Force, she encounters her dream man, a handsome lieutenant who only has eyes for her blonde friend. Uncomfortable around men, Kitty doesn’t think the handsome officer could want someone like her.

Recovering from wounds, Ted Kruger wants to forget about losing his closest friends and have fun before returning to danger as a bomber navigator. When Ted recognizes Kitty as the girl who rescued him two years before, he must choose between dating the sexy blonde or pursuing quiet, serious-minded Kitty even though he knows he’s not nearly good enough for her.

As the war gears up with the D-Day invasion, will Kitty and Ted risk their hearts as well as their lives?

Read an Excerpt

It’s all part of the adventure.

Corporal Katherine Ilene Greenlee had reminded herself all the way across the Atlantic. The thrill of exciting voyages to exotic locations had spurred her to volunteer for overseas duty. After fourteen days on a rolling ship with her stomach churning like the waves in a storm, she wasn’t so sure about her decision.

She stumbled onto the gangplank. The heavy duffle bag, balanced precariously on her shoulder, toppled forward and bumped the girl in front of her. One hand went instinctively to her head to keep the steel helmet from falling as she regained her equilibrium.

“Watch it,” the girl complained.

Katherine drew a deep, fortifying breath and straightened under the weight of the bag plus all her other gear. She held tighter, determined to carry it all despite her screaming muscles and roiling stomach.

If she had learned anything in this woman’s army, it was to carry her own load and not ask for help. There had been times when she hadn’t thought she was strong enough to make the grade, but stubborn determination kept her going. She had to prove to herself and everyone else that she could do it.

By rights she shouldn’t be here at all, shouldn’t even be in the Women’s Army Corps. No one knew the truth, no one except her brother, who wouldn’t dare tell, and her father, who’d been so certain she’d fail that he’d let her go without a word of objection.

About the Author:

Barbara grew up in a small town in Tennessee where the repeated stories of local and family history became embedded in her psyche. Fascinating tales of wartime, from her parents and her in-laws, instilled an insatiable curiosity about World War II. After retiring from her sensible career in accounting, she began full time pursuit of her lifelong love of historical romantic fiction. Enjoying every minute of research, Barbara spends hours reading, watching old, black-and-white movies and listening to big band music.
Although Barbara and her husband have been longtime residents of Florida, they both still think of Tennessee as “home.” Visit Barbara’s website at Or find her on Facebook at

Buy Links and Other Links:

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On the Eighteenth of May by Jordan R. Samuel


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GENRE: Romance

Jordan R. Samuel will be awarding a $30 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. – Stay tuned for the details.

Let’s welcome Jordan V. Samuel:

On the Eighteenth of May

How did you come up with the title to Eighteenth of May?

I knew , as I was creating and writing the novel, that this singular date, the eighteenth of May, was going to be key, not only to the events that are shared throughout the story, but also to the decisions characters were making or anticipating in real time as the story unfolded. Even as the reader approaches the end of the book, this particular date will be one that will be ever-present, on the characters’ minds as well as on the reader’s mind. One of our main characters in the novel is first seen -on page one of Chapter 1 – on this very date: May 18th. And her plan, to stay in this town for only one year, certainly places this date front and center to the dialogue and events surrounding her.

I was so pleased, by the time I concluded writing the book, that the “date” of Math 18th blended so nicely with the overall theme and imagery of time . . . , years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. I hope you’ll let me know what you think of how well these elements of time worked together to drive and enhance the story!


On the evening of the eighteenth of May, a young woman named Cass walks alone into a small village with the intent to stay for exactly one year. Cass soon meets two precocious children, a caring and generous business owner, and the Chief of Police from the neighboring town. Family and loss are parts of many of their stories, and while these people, as well as others, attempt to know and help her, the history and troubled memories of what led Cass to this place begin to gradually unfold. As the potential for love and the pathway for healing become clearer, the date of departure approaches. Cass and those around her will be forced to decide how forcefully they are willing to hold on: to the past, to the pain, and to the person.

On the Eighteenth of May is the story of the people and events that are interwoven throughout Cass’s journey and her life.  It is a story that examines the true test of strength in the deepest depths of sorrow, as felt by the human heart. It is a story that explores the perceived helplessness of those within the support structure, and the extent to which those we love can hinder or accelerate the healing process.  Finally, it is a story that reminds us of the overwhelming power of comforting influences in all of our lives, as our human souls struggle, against all odds, to survive.


Taking his keys from his pocket and unlocking the back porch door, Lucas returned to the present. He was well aware that this was his mother’s favored napping time, a time she lovingly referred to as her “pre-supper beauty sleep”, so he was careful to open the back door quietly. After entering, he softly stepped through the kitchen and headed straight for his old bedroom.

The bedroom door was closed, which seemed odd. He quickly shrugged it off and proceeded to walk towards it, intending to find the croquet set and leave the home so quietly his mother would never even know he had been there.

As he turned the doorknob, the bedroom door slid slowly open, offering him a small and then ever-increasing slice of vision. As the opening grew wider, Lucas suddenly saw. There was a stranger in his bedroom.

The stranger was looking out his window. Her face was fully turned away. However, he did not need to see her face to realize the stranger was the drifter. The very same drifter he had seen earlier in the day. The same clothes, the same sweat, the same hair.

He thought back to the questions he had considered earlier in regards to her age. Whatever her age, she was old enough. Old enough to know how to break into an older woman’s home and steal her blind.

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Jordan R. Samuel is a former public school teacher and administrator who enjoys her current work as an Assistant Professor of Education. She spends her days with her husband and her three children as she teaches, studies and writes. She immensely enjoys travelling, and penned many parts of this particular story while relaxing in the beautiful mountains of North Carolina.



Amazon Author Page:

Giveaway and Rafflecopter:

Jordan R. Samuel will be awarding a $30 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

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Follow the tour for more fun and chances to win!

Letters and Lies By Colleen L Donnelly


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Colleen, you have the Com!  How did you settle on the title Letters and Lies?

If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?

If a lie is told for a good cause, is it wrong?

If the tree creates sound waves, would the lie create moral waves?

We hope not if we’re the liar or the one lied to or about. But we hope so if we’re the fly on the wall and eager for a good story at someone else’s expense. Everyone loves a red face when it’s not their own. Some, because they like to judge. And others as a reference for those past and future moments when deception would seem kinder than walking away with a regretful, “If only I would have thought of that sooner.”

Refusing to write nonfiction where I air my own dirty laundry, I wrote “Letters and Lies” instead, the antics of a historical fictional character, Louise Archer, who supplies those of us in the second category above with a plethora of reasons to toss honor aside and lie. I smiled at my own temptations as I wrote her, and I hope you smile at yourself as you read the following paraphrased excerpts of incidents Louise deemed justifiable for bending the truth.

  • Your parents expect more of you: Mama’s hands cupped my shoulders. She pinned me in a spotlight of such admiration I knew I’d made the right choice—stick with my lie.
  • Your parents believe your future is rosy: Mama admired me once again. “My little Louise, here you are, all grown up and on your way to Kansas to become Mrs. Jim Baylis.” Jim’s last-minute telegram burned within my glove—Don’t come. I can’t marry you.
  • You ensnare yourself by your own foolishness: Jim Baylis had truly penned everything I’d ever wanted in a husband, months of letters I’d foolishly carted from family to friend to blather every word like a desperate spinster. Drat.
  • Legal constraints lock you in: My father had so trusted and anticipated my marriage to Jim, he had built it into his will before he passed.
  • Your way is the best way: Neither Mama nor I would be happy if the ruse I’d devised to get me to Jim without him or anyone else knowing I was Louise Archer, jilted spinster, didn’t work. I gripped my bag with a train ticket under the assumed name of the widowed Mrs. Penelope Strong.
  • There is no time for the truth: “I’ll wire you in two weeks, Mama.” I’d allowed myself that much time to find Jim, fix whatever had gone wrong, and arrange our wedding before Mama ever knew the truth. “Oh, no need to wire me, dear,” Mama enthused. “I’m coming early to help you prepare everything.”
  • The first lie doesn’t work so you tell another: This man didn’t do what I’d intended every person to do in the face of a widow—stammer, shy away, and leave me as a poor grieving soul be. “I’m on my way to Larned, Kansas, to finish my late husband’s business.” I further spouted the name of some little dot on the map that had caught my eye as I’d plotted my way to Jim, a town I had no intention of getting off at or staying in.
  • The truth comes with a cost: I could confess that I’d lied and stay on the train and travel red-faced all the way to Dodge City to Jim…who might hear what I’d done and be glad he refused to marry me.
  • Ill planned deception is risky: “I’m Mrs. Penelope Strong,” I said to the couple at Larned’s train station. “I’m here on behalf of my late husband…” I stopped. My fictitious husband needed a first name. Drat. Living husbands had better be a lot less trouble than dead ones.
  • The law is sniffing around: “I presume these are your late husband’s business partners.” The marshal stepped forward, a lawman far too close to the near fraud I contemplated.
  • When a challenge to your lie calls for embellishment: “I need proof you’re who you say you are,” Mr. Brandt blustered. “And I consider my late husband’s money plenty of proof of who I am and why I’m here,” I blustered back. “Unless Larned happens to be a town frequently victimized by widows who try to lend aid to struggling businesses.”
  • Someone’s got a gun: A flash of silver caught my eye, a gleam from the butt of a pistol his apron hitched over. I saw my body dragged out the door and left where no one would care. Jim would never know I’d come for him but been killed at gunpoint before I got there.


Louise Archer boards a westbound train in St. Louis to find the Kansas homesteader who wooed and proposed to her by correspondence, then jilted her by telegram – Don’t come, I can’t marry you. Giving a false name to hide her humiliation, her lie backfires when a marshal interferes and offers her his seat.

Marshal Everett McCloud intends to verify the woman coming to marry his homesteading friend is suitable. At the St. Louis train station, his plan detours when he offers his seat to a captivating woman whose name thankfully isn’t Louise Archer.

Everett’s plans thwart hers, until he begins to resemble the man she came west to find, and she the woman meant to marry his friend.


“He wrote and changed your plans? Why didn’t you tell me? You know I love hearing his letters.”

Everyone loved hearing his letters. Or at least they’d pretended to. I glanced at my friends, especially the one who’d first suggested I correspond with her husband’s homesteading friend in Kansas who was ready to look for a wife. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief while she flicked the fingers of her other hand in a weak wave. I dredged my soul in search of a smile. The man she’d introduced me to truly had penned everything I’d ever wanted in a husband, months of letters which convinced Mama Jim was my open door. Letters I’d foolishly carted from family to friend to blather every word like a desperate spinster. Drat.

“He didn’t send his change of plans in a letter, Mama. He sent them in a telegram.” Don’t come, I can’t marry you. The only words I never shared.

“Well I imagine your Jim has a surprise for you and didn’t have time to send a letter before you left for Crooked Creek. How thoughtful to wire you instead.”

Thoughtful…I felt poisoned and Mama would too if she ever found out Jim had shut my open door. Which she wouldn’t, since as soon as I got out there and found him, I’d wedge it back open again.


For a limited time, “Letters and Lies” is 99 cents on the following sites:


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Born and raised in the Midwest, Colleen studied and worked in science, using that career to travel and explore other parts of the country. An avid fan of literature, both reading and writing, she loves tales involving moral dilemmas and the choices people come up against. A lover of the outdoors as well as a comfy living room, Colleen is always searching inside and out for the next good story.



Sinners’ Opera in Semi-Finals!


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I just learned that Sinners’ Opera is in the semi-finals of the Raven Awards. I’d certainly like for the book of my heart to win. Please, please vote at

Here’s a tweet if you would share:

Dwarf Story by Professor W.W. Marplot


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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Professor W. W. Marplot will be awarding a $10 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

For Arty to miss a day of school, either he is very, very sick or a fairytale-character turf-war has begun in his backyard — such as what begins this particular Wednesday. First, he finds an ax-swinging, bearded, sweaty warrior Dwarf scaring his dogs. Soon enough, Emma, Cry and other middle-school friends also find fairy creatures — Elves, Spriggans, Pixies, and a hoped-for Dragon — crashing into their normal homework-doing, backpack-carrying, phone-charging schooldays.

Why are these magical beings here? What should be done? Is that axe sharp? Can Pixies be given aspirin?
Arty with his friends — and spying jerks, and questionable strangers with long names — follow the clues and try to find out, even as things turn dark and dangerous.

The mythical beings are taking sides. The Gwyllion, that legendary Old Woman of the Mountains, has a sinister plan, turning the neighborhood into a fantasy battleground. One that awaits young heroes.

Read an Excerpt

Some can picture the battle in their mind’s eye, or in others’ eyes, or by using magic to help them see. For the rest, I can tell them what I know.

The Old Woman of the Mountains, a Gwyllion of great and strange powers, made herself stronger by taking one of each kind of fairy: to start a new kingdom in heaven, to steal the ancient place of rest, and to make new creatures and rule over all them and their world. And then, perhaps, ours.

More folktale legends joined the war, and on both sides. Some came to rescue their friends from the foul Gwyllion and her armies of Wights, Trolls, and dark spirits.

All who fight have their own special energies and enchanted abilities; some humans believe in them, most do not. But that does not always matter.

Now the battle rages, using nature, and the earth, and the sky.

In and out of the fight, many struggle to find their way back to Eastward Manor, knowing it as the path home. Some captives that can escape the Old Woman seek and find children and hide. This is a strange occurrence, the strangest of the whole story, for me. The fairies’ connection to these young people, all friends, can only be guessed, and is personal, so should not be guessed.

All the rest, of the living fairy creatures, struggle in the War. The dead only the earth can help.

To conquer the Gwyllion, I will use the spells, and counter-spells, and the ancient symbols that secretly kept the story alive for hundreds of years, waiting for this part of the tale. They complete a mystical alchemy of words and magic. I am here, I was born to be here, to help the armies of folkies, as Arty and Emma and the adopted human children call them: the Spriggans and the Dwarves and the Elves, with any birds and trees who have taken sides.

It was those human children that the Gwyllion did not count on. When Arty sent the counters-spell out to his friends of friends, as he says, the words were read, and spoken out loud, and contemplated. And passed to others, to friends, and to friends of friends, along and along. That is turning the tide—help unlooked for!

And Ted doesn’t know it yet, but our side has a dragon. My dragon.

About the Author: Professor Welkin Westicotter Marplot, of Coillemuir, Scotland, is a collector of esoteric tales of global wisdom and curator of ancient manuscripts. He is a recluse and, as he claims, has been collecting and collating adventure and fantasy stories for over a century.

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Follow Dr. Marplot on tour:

June 9: Unabridged Andra’s

June 10: Andi’s Middle Grade and Chapter Books

June 11: Long and Short Reviews

June 12: Woodpecker Books – review

June 12: Books in the Hall

June 15: One House Schoolroom

June 16: Rogue’s Angels

June 17: Natural bri – review

June 18: Author C.A.Milson

June 19: All the Ups and Downs

June 22: Crowvus Book Blog – review

June 23: Linda Nightingale, Author…Musings

June 24: Rainy Day Reviews

June 25: Locks, Hooks and Books

June 26: T’s Stuff

July 6: Gimme The Scoop Reviews

July 7: Hurn Publications

July 8: Kit ‘N Kabookle – review

July 9: Our Town Book Reviews

July 10: Welcome to My World of Dreams

Beyond the Surface by Trisha Ridinger McKee


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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Trisha Ridinger McKee will be awarding a $15 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other tours on the stop.

Ella is a middle-aged woman with a stagnant career, an exasperated teenage daughter, and a husband that has left to make a new life with another woman. Her first attempt at dating is a disaster, and in an attempt to refocus her life and rediscover her joy, Ella goes fishing. It is here that she meets Dennis, the older, captivating man that ends up saving her life and stealing her heart. But Dennis has a history, and Ella might just be in for the biggest heartbreak of her life if she can not get her emotions under control and face the demons from her own past.

Enjoy an Excerpt


“Tell me one thing, Ella. When I messed up, and I pushed you away… did you feel just a little bit victorious because that was what you’d been expecting? You wanted me to mess up to prove your point that you couldn’t trust any man. You wanted me to mess up, so you didn’t have to take that chance on falling in love.” She started to shake her head and speak, but he interrupted, “Before you tell me that I’m being ridiculous, just stop and think. Okay? I’m not looking for assurances, I’m looking for the truth. You were waiting for me to mess up. Right?”

There were a few seconds of silence, before Ella sighed through her tears. “Fine. I was. I was waiting.”

“Right. We were both just waiting for that other shoe to drop. For a reason to push away before we were pushed. So, we were doomed from day one. I can’t do this, Ella. I can’t keep chasing after a woman that doesn’t want a relationship with me.” He paused and in a softer tone, added, “I went through that once already, and once is enough in a lifetime.” Then he got into his car and was gone, even as the tears streamed down her face. Even as she struggled to call him back. Even as she realized that she might have made a mistake in chasing away the best man she had ever known.

About the Author:

Trisha Ridinger McKee resides in a small town in Pennsylvania where there is not much to do … except write. When she is not twisting words into stories, she enjoys fishing, reading, binge-watching true crime or cheesy horror, hanging out with her bulldogs, and finding new hobbies. She shares her world with a patient hubby and an amazing daughter. She finally gained enough courage to send out her writing in April 2019. Since then, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in over 50 publications, including Tablet Magazine, The Oddville Press, Crab Fat Magazine, Kzine, Commuterlit, J.J. Outre Review, ParABnormal Magazine, 4Star Stories, Black Hare Press, Thirteen Press, and more. She won Story of the Month from 50-Word Stories. Her short story Where We Meet has been nominated for Best of the Net Anthology 2019. Her debut novel Beyond the Surface is now available on Amazon.

Amazon Author Page:

To Purchase:

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June 15:

1: Iron Canuck Reviews & More

2: Our Town Book Reviews

3: Words of Wisdom from The Scarf Princess

4: Long and Short Reviews

5: Nicolie-Olie’s Meanderings

6: Edgar’s Books

7: Christine Young


June 16:

1: Shelleen’s Musings

2: Nickie’s Views and Interviews

3: Wake Up Your Wild Side

4: Welcome to My World of Dreams

5: Harlie’s Books

6: The Phantom Paragrapher

7: Sea’s Nod

8: Rainy Day Reviews


June 17:

1: Locks, Hooks and Books

2: tory richards


4: Linda Nightingale, Author…Musings

5: So Many Books

6: The Avid Reader

7: It’s Raining Books


June 18:

1: Aubrey Wynne: Timeless Love

2: Straight From the Library

3: Beyond Romance

4: Independent Authors

5: kristaldawnharris

6: Stormy Nights Reviewing & Bloggin’

7: Author Deborah A Bailey


June 19:

1: All the Ups and Downs

2: Jazzy Book Reviews

3: Hope. Dreams. Life… Love

4: Fabulous and Brunette

5: Romance Novel Giveaways

6: Let Me tell You a Story

7: Musings From An Addicted Reader


The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes


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The Highwayman, along with The White Cliffs of Dover by Alice Duer Miller, are my favorite poems.  I’ve included the entirety of the poem. I wrote a story in humble homage to this epic, and have sent it to my editor for a new anthology of the unearthly.  My story Gypsy Ribbons is a ghost story about a lady and a highwayman.

Here is a bit of Gypsy Ribbons:

Hooves clattered in the darkened courtyard. Sparks shot from the stallion’s iron shoes as he slid to a halt, climbing the air in a full rear. Aidan leapt from the saddle, his red velvet cloak billowing in a bitter gust. The flamboyant cape was a slap in the face of the authorities. His smile faded as a dark premonition crawled down his backbone. He squared his jaw, ignoring superstition and the chilling call of his Irish blood. Silence ebbed and flowed like the tide of clouds washing over the moon.

Darby Manor was shuttered and barred, but Aidan knew who waited alone in a big, soft bed. His heart quickened as a bolt of desire shot through him. His love would be in her pristine white nightdress, often sacrificed to their passion along with his clothes. The thought heated him, but he had an assignation with a royal coach before dawn. Excitement glazed his skin as the scent of heather blew on him. Bloody cold night. Yet he was glad clouds hid the moon. Darkness made his job easier. He rested his whip on the cobbles and leaned on the hilt. Wind screamed around the corner of the house, whistling a lament.  He hated this place. The house itself seemed to resent any intrusion.

Even the recent return of Lady Victoria Darby.

A month ago, she’d arrived in a handsome carriage on a sunny November Sunday. Since the house had been deserted for some time, Aidan was in the parkland grazing his horse before returning to the inn that was his home. He robbed the King’s Highway and lived with other brigands, but he didn’t liken himself to those cutthroats and thieves. Still, when he glanced at Darby Manor, even in daylight, shivers chased down his spine. The beautiful Lady Darby disembarked in all her finery. A blue satin dress caught the golden afternoon sun, flashing a myriad of iridescent colors. She turned, and his breath caught, but his heart leapt into a gallop. Why was there no battery of servants? Had she hurried to the country unaccompanied except for the woman bustling along in front of her?

He’d heard rumors that Lady Darby was willful and reckless. Perhaps, she’d given society the slip and escaped to the Manor with only her lady’s maid for company. The servants summoned from the village were long gone by nightfall. Darby Manor had a reputation for being haunted. Most locals believed that when the ghost sighed at the door, someone close to you was going to die. Personally, he didn’t hold with these old wives’ tales, but he had to admit the manor was a forbidding place.

A light snow began to fall, snapping Aidan’s attention back to the present. He turned up his collar against the silken mist and dusted a few flakes off his red velvet shoulders. As Lady Luck would have it, Virginia Darby had escaped the London Season and her husband. She was reckless and willful, and here he was on a winter’s night whistling a whippoorwill call beneath the Lady’s window  If he were William Darby, he wouldn’t let his wife run wild on the wilder Yorkshire moors.

Goliath snorted, dancing on the slick stones. Gooseflesh prickled Aidan’s arms. The hair at his nape quivered. He tensed, his hand on his sword. I’m being watched. The feeling shuddered over him so hard he felt his insides shake. Whipping his weapon from the scabbard, he whirled. Naught but shadows fleeing from a shaft of moonlight. He shrugged deeper in his cloak and whispered a laugh.


This, at last, is The Highwayman:

The Highwayma

Pin on Highwaymen...
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
         His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
         Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
         Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
         Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
         Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
.       .       .
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Stormed by Paula Quinene


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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Paula Quinene will award a randomly drawn winner a $15 Amazon/BN GC. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

A medical doctor educated in the United States, passionate and fierce Liz Taimanglo must now fulfill her promise and return to her island home. Liz makes the long flight across the US and the North Pacific Ocean to Guam, uncertain of what her future holds. Heading into the epicenter of her family and prime typhoon season for the Mariana Islands chain, the disquiet of her heart threatens to do more damage than any typhoon might inflict on Guam. Little does Liz know, the man featured in the newspaper would indeed unleash delicious torment rivaling even a Category 5 super typhoon.

Manny Artero is adamant about fighting for his island, his culture, and the rights of Guam’s Chamorro people, after having been fired from his teaching job. That is, until Liz walks up to him with her machete-wielding eyes and her undying respect for the American military. Manny had vowed never to risk his heart again and to become a more vocal activist, but this woman threatens to challenge all his intentions about love and life on Guam. Brushing off the safer choice, he plots a series of surprises to change her mind.

For Liz, becoming a doctor of medicine was supposed to be the right path, but her universe imploded when her training failed to save the life of the most important person in her world. Though a former US Marine, Manny could no longer accept the loss of land, rights, and freedom that Chamorros continue to suffer in their own homeland. Helpless against the strengthening attraction between them, Liz and Manny must face not only their opposing political views, but the storms stirring in their hearts and the very land upon which they stand.

Read an Excerpt

Liz stood still, blindfolded. Rearranging furniture? We haven’t gone in the house yet. Water tumbled against rock perhaps, not too far from her. The striking of a match. A whiff of smoke brushed by her nose. Soft music filled the air, but Liz couldn’t make out the words because she was on edge. His surprise must be out here.

“Almost done.”

She bit her lip and swayed side to side. I might regurgitate my lunch if he doesn’t hurry up. The sun had already set so whatever he was planning, he needed to be quick. “You have about killed me with all this secrecy.” After another minute, Liz felt Manny standing behind her.

“I hope you’ll think it was worth it. Ready?”

“Very.” Liz bit her bottom lip.

“Ai, nangga hit. Wait sa’ I need to close the light.”

Oh my God I’m going to burst. It took a moment for Manny to return to her side. Liz shivered even though it wasn’t cold. It was warmer where she stood. Wood crackled. A stronger scent of burning tångantångan wood filled the air. If she bit her bottom lip any harder her teeth would puncture the gum.

The blindfold fell away. She opened her eyes and her jaw hung open; not a word came out. Liz looked at Manny then back at the firepit in front of her, a low orange flame dancing. The sound of cascading water caught her attention again. A small statue of Sirena, Guam’s mermaid, sat atop a rock. It was set off to the far-right corner with water flowing around her in a waterscape. Liz looked up. Only dusk hung over them.

About the Author:

Born and raised on Guam, Paula Quinene continues to take pride in her Chamorro heritage. The Chamorros are the native people of Guam and the Mariana Islands. Paula, like many of her fellow islanders, left home to pursue a higher education. A resident of North Carolina since 2000, Paula’s homesickness has resulted in her Guam cookbooks, A Taste of Guam and Remember Guam, and her Guam romance novels, Conquered and Stormed.

Follow Paula’s Guam food and romance novel antics here:


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Wired by the FBI by Glenn Painter


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Hello Readers!         

Welcome to my 15-week book tour which starts on April 14th and concludes on July 30th.

This tour was planned before the onset of this terrible covid-19 virus which has invaded our world.  I want to extend my deepest sympathy to everyone, especially those who have lost loved ones. 

A donation from me will be going out immediately to the charity I have listed below and I will also be donating 25% of any royalties from the book which is featured on this tour, to the covid-19 Response Fund.  This fund gives support to preparedness, containment, response and recovery activities. The 25% of royalties will be donated when I receive the final notification of number of books sold. I am also encouraging all authors to make some sort of donation to help with the recovery efforts.  WE ARE ALL IN THIS FIGHT TOGETHER!

We all are wondering what the long-term impact this covid-19 virus will be to our communities and our livelihoods, Every American, as well as the companies that have worked very hard for every author have been affected, but I have faith that we will recover from this terrible pandemic if we all stick together and we all do our part – no matter how small.

I will also be donating, (over and above what Goddess Fish is offering):

 $100 Amazon Gift certificate to one randomly drawn commentator

This drawings will be done via Rafflecopter, created by Goddess Fish Promotions at the end of the tour.  To all of my fellow-authors – please don’t forget our marketing representatives, book agents, reviewers,commentator’s, hosts, etc..who are probably working from home and trying to help us.

I will be posting all pertinent information on my web site

once the tour is over.  The Gift Certificates will be mailed immediately after the tour is completed and the 25% will be posted once I receive Royalties resulting in the sale of all electronic and print versions of WIRED By The FBI.

I wish that I could do more, however, with every-one’s support, WE WILL BEAT THIS TERRIBLE SETBACK.

Thank you, god bless all of you and the United States of America.

Glenn Painter


 Q / What is something you’ve lied about:

Can’t think of anything right now

Q/Who is the last person you hugged/

My Mother

Q/What are you reading now?

Who has time to read?????

Q/How do you come up with the titles to your book?

Mostly from the content of the story, except the one I am now working on is original. RAILROADED

By a small-town Judge and Jury

Q/Share your dream cast for your book

or title character, Leonardo DiCaprio

For his mail Girl, Jennifer Lopez

For the nympho Jail guard, Bebe Rexha, she reminds me of a younger version of Heather Locklear

For Scott Mason, Duane Johnson



GENRE: Suspense, Thriller



Christian Romano lives his life as a con-artist, burglar, drug dealer, and a ladies’ man, using his good looks to con wealthy women out of jewels and money. When he is arrested and jailed in one of the most violent jails in the U.S. (Cook County in Chicago), a steamy affair begins with a nympho female jail guard. When he loses control of the romance, Christian must end the affair by reporting her to Internal Affairs. It turns out that she is already under suspicion for supplying drugs to various gang members inside the jail. He has to decide if he is “”rogue”” enough to help set her up for arrest. Meanwhile, the FBI wants to recruit Christian to gather information against a sadist ex-cop, Scott Mason, who has been arrested for murder. The risk? Christian must wear a wire and testify. The reward? Witness protection for Christian and his girlfriend and a modification of his prison sentence. Will Christian risk his life for a chance at freedom? Will the female sheriff “”get even”” with him? Or will his life end at the hands of the jail’s drug lords or a lunatic former cop?



Something’s wrong, my intuition told me, as I stepped out of the stairwell and into the chaotic frenzy of the main hallway running under Division One of the Cook County jail.

Sergeant Ricky Walsh opened the heavy, rusted steel door leading to the death trap—that is A-B stairwell—then turned to me. “Romano, take the stairs down four flights to the bottom, I will meet you there.”

There are four sets of stairs that lead to the main boulevard on the first floor. They are legendary for the infamous men who have been butchered there, the bloodstained walls are a testament to the violence that is the norm in this building. As I begin my descent down the narrow and poorly lit stairwell, the thought hits me: At least half a dozen men have been stabbed in this exact place. The words taunt me as I step slowly down the stairs so that Walsh will have time to beat me to the first floor in the old, decrepit elevator.

When I finally make it down, I breathe a sigh of relief. But it is not Walsh waiting at the huge, steel door I am to exit. Instead of the old mick—who looked and walked like a bulldog with his perfectly groomed hair and mustache—it was one of the lackey guards. They would often hang out on the main floor waiting to proposition some poor woman coming to visit her man. I open the door and step through quickly, not wanting to arouse suspicion. But my heart hangs in my throat.

During my trip down the stairwell, the heavy steel recorder slid down my pant leg, stopping on top of my right foot. The ACE bandage, meant to hold it in place, was also dangling and ready to pop out for everyone to see. Panic set in as my mind processed a million thoughts, but I couldn’t break my stride.

It was common knowledge that this is where inmates often came out stabbing when sent to attack a guard by one of the gang bosses. Looking past the guard, I saw Sergeant Walsh bearing down on us as fast as his stubby legs would carry him.

“Hey Walsh,” I said, “the food poisoning is getting worse, I’m gonna puke all over this guy.”ng around to see what was going on. These guards tolerated zero bull, especially from a smart-ass like me.

I decided that it was quicker and easier to shove the recorder under the waistband of my jail pants and pray it would stay. After splashing water on my face, I poked my head out.

Walsh fell right in line with my cover. “We’re going to the hospital, come with me!” he bellowed.

I exited the closet, pushing the recorder into my torso as we walked past another guard. We traveled down the long hallway. Once we were far enough out of earshot, Walsh found an unoccupied attorney visiting room. As he opened the door, I scurried to the far corner.

“The hallway is clear!” Walsh yelled.

I pulled the recorder from my waistband and looked at it with disdain. Then I wrapped it tight with the ACE bandage. Although the long recording wires had to be reconnected and it only took a few moments, it felt like forever.

Then it hit me: I’m wearing a wire against one of the most violent hitmen Chicago has ever known, and this prick had been a Chicago cop. He probably knows every person who works in this jail. Getting whacked in a place like this costs less than a carton of cigarettes. What the hell have I gotten myself into? But there was no backing out, and I still had to get back to my tier.

Walsh looked at me, his brow furrowed. He quietly asked, “You alright, kid?”

“I better be. I signed a deal with the devil, and it’s time to pay up.”

I drew in a deep breath as we headed to the hospital, so we could sign in and make it look legit.

How did my life get to this point? I wondered as I followed Walsh. Growing up in Chicago, I was exposed to police corruption, murder, drugs, gangsters, and sex, oh yes, lots and lots of sex.

I had no clue of what awaited me, but my unsavory legacy was about to go down in history like crap down a toilet.


AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Glenn Painter is single and lives in Central Florida. He became interested in writing at an early age but did not make it his career until 2014 when he published his first book, Beyond the Sentence.

Glenn has written this story from the notes by the man who actually lived it. However, extensive research was also require in order to make the story factual.

Glenn has also founded a company, ‘Prisoner Civil Right Services.’ He is an advocate for incarcerated individuals who have had their rights violated. He is in constant contact with these individuals, their families and the council. Most of his stories are inspired by ‘factual events’ that have happened to these individuals. This makes his stories both fiction and non-fiction.

Glenn says that writing is very challenging, and you must love the trials and tribulations that come with it. He believes that patience, perseverance and determination are required essentials to see a book through to being published. The journey is just as important as the destination.


Amazon Author Page:

Buy links:

The eBook will be on sale for $2.99 and the print book will be discounted 40% on Amazon.



One randomly chosen winner via rafflecopter will win a $50 Amazon/ gift card. The author has added some significant prizes to his tour — including an additional $100 Amazon GC to a randomly drawn commenter (in addition to the current $50 prize)

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April 14: Full Moon Dreaming

April 16: Fabulous and Brunette

April 21: Rogue’s Angels

April 23: Locks, Hooks and Books

April 28: Viviana MacKade

April 30: All the Ups and Downs

May 5: Mythical Books

May 7: The Avid Reader

May 12: Wake Up Your Wild Side

May 14: Archaeolibrarian – I Dig Good Books!

May 19: Rainy Day Reviews

May 21: Two Ends of the Pen

May 26: Danita Minnis

May 28: The Reading Addict

June 2: Linda Nightingale, Author…Musings

June 4: Hope. Dreams. Life… Love

June 9: Author C.A.Milson

June 11: fundinmental

June 16: Our Town Book Reviews

June 18: Jazzy Book Reviews

June 23: Iron Canuck Reviews and More

June 25: Becoming Extraordinary

July 7: Sea’s Nod

July 9: Long and Short Reviews

July 14: Readeropolis

July 16: Musings From An Addicted Reader

July 21: It’s Raining Books

July 23: Gimme The Scoop Reviews

July 28: Stormy Nights Reviewing and Bloggin’

July 30: Independent Authors

The Name of Red by Beena Khan


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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will award a $10 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner and a digital copy of the book to 3 randomly drawn winners via Rafflecopter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Two strangers on the same path.
Survivors. Companions.
They will be each other’s salvation.

On a rainy, winter night, a mysterious woman in a red dress seeking shelter comes inside the restaurant Kabir was busy working in —primarily the bar— and night after night, drink after drink, she comes back to the same spot. That is where he sees her for the first time.

Hundreds of patrons around her try to speak with her daily, but she dismisses them. It appears she wants to remain in a blissful peace alone with her booze and books. After seeing the mysterious woman reading a book, and because of his shy nature, Kabir gains entrance into her life by anonymously leaving books with notes for her.

The Name of Red is the story of two strangers, two different personalities who meet on a winter, rainy night who challenge each other. They have a connection which blossoms into a friendship due to their fondness of books. But they both have secrets that can bind them together or threaten their newfound relationship forever.

Read an Excerpt

The bartender placed her drink, in front of her.

She eyed the amber liquid and the golden glow of the glass-like cubes in her cocktail. Sometimes, she ordered whiskey mixed with vodka because she liked the amber color, otherwise she preferred vodka. The bartender called it New York Whisk. She was entranced by the mini icebergs in the glass. She reached for her drink with her slim, long fingers.


The elixir of her life.

The strong tonic was the only cure to her life. She lifted the drink to her lips, and the taste burned her tongue and throat.

About the Author:

Beena Khan lives in a suburb in Queens, New York in her apartment. She is 27 years old from Azad Kashmir, Pakistan. She is an immigrant who moved to New York when she was five years old. She currently holds a Masters Degree in Developmental Psychology from Cuny School of Professional Sciences. She enjoys reading, writing, and netflixing. This is her debut novel.

Website: Sign up for her newsletter where you can subscribe for book news, writing tips, upcoming releases, and exclusive content!



Book will be on sale for $0.99 for a limited time.


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