Who needs to lie about their age when they can just actually look younger? A practicing physician of 30 years, Dr. James L. Hardeman is giving people all the information needed to both look and feel better in his new book Appears Younger Than Stated Age: A Doctor’s Secrets on the Art of Staying Young (Intensivist Press, Fall 2012).

Dr. Hardeman’s philosophy to look younger is quite simple, not some gimmick that yields false results. “No such magical formula exists,” he explains.

Titled for what generations of doctors call the occasional patient who looks good for his or her age, the book reveals the strategies developed after thousands of patient interviews and exams. And Dr. Hardeman’s goal is the same as the “smoker’s face” phenomenon – which described that smoking causes premature facial wrinkles – to successfully create a desire in people to care for their bodies in order to maintain a youthful, attractive appearance.

“There was a surge of smokers who were interested in quitting as a consequence,” Dr. Hardeman said. “They were basically saying that they knew smoking could kill them, but they wanted to quit so they didn’t look wrinkled. It helped inspire my book title. It doesn’t matter if people read the book to be healthy or to look younger; the end result is the same.”

And with over 60 percent of Americans being overweight or obese, Dr. Hardeman said it’s ultimately patriotic to be healthy.

“If every American assumed personal responsibility for his or her good health, not only would social programs like Medicaid and Medicare be more solvent, but there would less of a transfer of wealth from those who take good care of themselves to those who don’t,” he said. “Thus, the notion of health care patriotism should appeal to both sides of the political spectrum.”

What readers will learn from Dr. Hardeman’s book:

• Simple tips and methods to maintain your ideal body weight
• The human characteristics that promote weight gain and poor health and how to combat them
• Fitness habits that will last a lifetime
• Dietary strategies to preserve balance of the all important intake and output of calories
• How to keep from developing degenerative arthritis that so often leads to the vicious cycle of weight gain, inactivity, and deterioration of health

Techniques and motivation to transform yourself into someone who looks, feels and is younger than stated age.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Introduction

I entered the hospital room and did a double-take. Ada Jones was an eighty-nine-year-old female who needed to see me for a pulmonary consultation because of pneumonia. But this patient did not look eighty-nine. As she rested quietly with eyes closed, I quickly thumbed through her medical record. A phrase caught my eye: “Appears younger than stated age.” Evidently I wasn’t the only one who had noted her youthful appearance.

I gently woke her and introduced myself, unobtrusively glancing at her hospital identification bracelet to confirm that she was, indeed, Ada Jones. “You look very young for your age,” I told her during the course of our conversation. She gave a half-smile and replied, “Well, the pneumonia is sure making me feel older. But soon enough, I’ll be back on the tennis court…”

“Appears younger than stated age” is actual medical terminology occasionally placed in the History and Physical (H&P), a document that records an interview and physical exam of every patient admitted to the hospital. Some of the descriptions in the H&P use language that might be undecipherable to non-medical readers. However, general appearance is always commented upon and is more self- explanatory and understandable to all. For example, “alert, awake, and in no acute distress” is a common entry. Although certain factors, such as attractiveness, are not included (one should not compare me to George Clooney on the basis of an H&P, for instance), there is probably no more complimentary a general description than “appears younger than stated age” (AYTSA). The term means what it says: The patient looks good for her age. And it is certainly much better than some of the other terms I’ve seen and used in an H&P, including: disheveled, disoriented, obese, comatose, or, perhaps worst of all, appears older than stated age.

Why is it then that one ninety-year-old looks seventy-five, lives with his wife self-sufficiently, drives, shops, and even plays a little golf once a week while a seventy-five-year-old looks ninety, resides in a nursing home in a persistent vegetative state, and is fed Ensure through a gastric tube? Or how does one woman at forty-eight have the demeanor of a thirty-five-year-old, run marathons, and ski black diamonds while her younger sister has gained an additional thirty-five pounds, complains of knee pain, has been diagnosed with new-onset diabetes, and could pass for the way older sibling?

Obviously, luck plays a big role in health and often trumps all other factors. Genetics, which falls into the category of luck, is the ultimate uncontrollable aspect of health. Yet there are so many things that we do have control over, and AYTSA patients seem to fit a pattern of self- determination, self-discipline, and self-respect.

They are close to their ideal body weights. They don’t smoke. They either don’t drink alcohol or limit it to one or two drinks per day. They exercise regularly and do not overeat. They seem to be more optimistic than average, and they often are involved in long-term marriages. They take their medications regularly and have periodic checkups. In essence, they are healthy, and healthy people look younger. That’s pretty much it. Simple, right? But unfortunately they are more often the exception than the rule.

I can hear the skeptics among you at this juncture. “Sure, simple … in theory.” Well, I agree with you … in theory. But the purpose of this book is to demonstrate the relative ease and simplicity of implementing the common-sense principles that will make you look younger and, more importantly, feel younger, whether you are in your twenties or your eighties. And let me be clear that I am not just promoting appearance over substance. We are not talking about the faux youth of plastic surgery or Botox here. People who appear younger than their stated ages are usually physiologically younger than their chronologic peers, often simply because they have decided to take better care of them- selves. In other words, healthy people not only look younger, but their bodies function at a more youthful level, and protective changes may possibly even occur in their bodies’ chromosomes as a result of proper diet and exercise. This adds both quantity and quality to their lives.

My father was a college history professor, and like most good teachers, he occasionally sprinkled his lectures with life lessons. This analogy is one of my favorites, and I have repeated it countless times to my patients. Imagine that once you learned to drive, you were given a free car of your choosing. But there is a catch: It would be the only car you would own in your entire lifetime. Likely, you would take fanatically good care of your car, washing and waxing it often, changing the oil on schedule, and getting regular maintenance work. Well, this is the only body you’ll ever have, so you’d better take very good care of it.

Who is likely to benefit from this book?

• The twenty-year-old who can cement in good health habits that 
will last a lifetime.
• The thirty-something who is starting to see for the first time 
the inevitable changes that aging brings.
• The forty-year-old who has been told that life begins in the fifth 
decade but whose youth seems to be disappearing faster than an object in the rearview.
• The sixty and above crowd who truly can do anything they want 
if they stay physically fit.

• And, finally, the elderly (whatever age that is) who can participate in more activities and enjoy life to a fuller extent than they ever thought possible.

Although the principles in this book would ideally be started in childhood, people of any age can benefit by becoming more fit in both body and mind starting today. There is truly no better time to start than now.

This introduction would not be complete without a more detailed analysis of the expression appears younger than stated age. Its origins are unknown. An Internet search reveals very little. A 1993 letter to the editor of The New England Journal of Medicine remarks, “An assessment of whether a patient appears younger or older than ‘stated age’ has long been taught and recorded as a component of the physical exam.”3 The term has been verbally passed from generation to generation of doctors who are particularly suited to make this observation since they are nearly always aware of their patients’ ages. My 1976 copy of DeGowin and DeGowin, 4 the medical school textbook of how to do a history and physical exam, does not even mention it.

If I were coining the phrase, I might have used “chronologic” instead of “stated” age, because the latter somehow seems to imply that the patient is being less than forthcoming. However, I suspect that the description originated in a simpler time when our culture was less infatuated with youth. It is obviously a subjective assessment, and I am not even certain how relevant it is to the medical record, though the description of the physical exam is intended to convey a medical portrait of the patient—and the phrase certainly does. Regardless of its origins, “appears younger than stated age” is the perfect introduction to a handbook on the art of aging well.

About the Author

Dr. James L. Hardeman has been a practicing physician for 30 years.

Triple board certified in Internal Medicine, Pulmonary Disease, and Critical Care Medicine, Dr. Hardeman has maintained the demanding schedule of both hospital-based medicine and a busy office practice. After graduating Summa Cum Laude from University of California at Irvine he attended Baylor College of Medicine where he was elected to the Alpha Omega Alpha Honor Medical Society. Postgraduate training in Internal Medicine and Pulmonary/Critical Care Medicine took place at USC and UCI, and he has been given numerous awards for excellence in patient care from St. Jude Medical Center in Fullerton, California where he lives and works.

Over many decades and thousands of patient interviews and examinations, Dr. Hardeman has developed numerous strategies and recommendations for sustaining good health. He applies these methods personally, in patient care and through his debut book Appears Younger Than Stated Age (Intensivist Press, Fall 2012).

A vegetarian of 30 years, whose hobbies include exercising, snowboarding, surfing and mountain biking, he likes to be able to say he’s maintained the same weight and hairstyle since age 18. But his greatest source of pride is his two children and his 37-year marriage to his original wife.

For more on Dr. Hardeman, visit JamesLHardeman.com

Follow Dr. Hardeman on Twitter @J_Hardeman and on Facebook at Dr. JamesL. Hardeman 

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With a mind for crime solving and headstrong about protecting her family –

Liv Bergen finds herself trailing a vengeful killer with a crooked sense of justice

The third Liv Bergen mystery picks up right where the second one left off: the murder of Liv’s future sister-in-law has been solved, but an older rancher has been bludgeoned to death in a style eerily reminiscent of a long-inactive killer known only as the Crooked Man. FBI agent Streeter Pierce, still on assignment in Sturgis, South Dakota, must now turn his sights on tracking down the killer—his nemesis from ten years earlier. Pierce doesn’t complain, though; he’s falling in love with Liv and sets in motion an unconventional plan to recruit her for the FBI’s training camp in Quantico as they work the case together. But is Liv falling for the brilliant, exotic agent Jack Linwood instead?

Once again, Liv’s vast knowledge of the Black Hills of South Dakota—territory made famous by the gold rush that followed General George Custer’s expedition—and the novel folk who live there leads her to unearth critical clues about the Crooked Man. But are facts enough to safeguard Liv’s sister Elizabeth and her friend, an elderly woman battling cancer who was attacked just days after her husband was murdered? Will the frail yet feisty widow recover her strength in time to help Liv thwart the Crooked Man’s murderous plans and fatal blows?

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Wednesday, August 7, 2:57 am

Her bones were as delicate as Belleek china, her skin like ancient parchment stretched thin over aged, sinewy muscles formed during a life working the ranch.

The shape of her body under the blanket was like that of a grade-school girl whose height had outraced her weight. So thin. In the dark, he felt the faintly familiar warmth of arousal as he stared at her, imagining the ease with which he could wrap just one hand around her throat. How effortless it would be to squeeze the balance of her short life out of her insignificant body. But he wouldn’t do that. Of course not. That would leave a mark, make her eyes bulge from her emaciated skull. Not a symptom of a woman who would die from the cancer that had eroded her from the inside out.

Instead, he would quietly slip a pillow over her face, covering those eyes that had always judged him. Her husband had warned her to be nicer to him, to mind her manners and be more hospitable. Ernif Hanson may have been known as a mountain of a man, but he knew differently. When Ernif so willingly flopped onto his belly on that rock, he proved he was nothing more than a mouse. Ernif laid down his life for his wife, a woman he couldn’t control. A woman who refused to see his vision, to support the cause. His cause.

And now the all-powerful Helma Hanson lay here in the dark. Alone. Unable even to muster enough strength to roll her tiny frame over in her hospital bed. Struggling for every breath. Clinging to life instead of the pride that had caused her world to crumble only days ago.

Glancing at the glow of the numbers on her bedside clock that read 2:57 AM, he wondered if she was even aware that her husband’s funeral was scheduled to take place in a short thirty-two hours. On Thursday. He wondered if she would even notice that her husband wouldn’t be with her during her weekly oncologist’s appointment later today. A doctor’s appointment that Ernif had been so adamant about attending.

No matter—now, after thirteen long years of careful planning, the date had come. He would finally be vindicated, knowing that the Hansons, the final obstacle, would be extinguished as of today. August 7. The day he had originally intended for Ernif’s glorious demise.

The bed next to Helma’s was empty. Lucky him.

He poked his head around the door and glanced down the dimly lit hall to make sure the night nurse was nowhere to be seen. He strained to hear her heavy footfalls nearby in case she had varied from her scheduled rounds. But he saw nothing, heard nothing. And he knew the night nurse was probably leaning back in that soft easy chair at her desk, the volume on the television turned low, her head lolling forward with her chins resting on her massive chest as she snoozed.

He stepped quietly over to the edge of Helma’s bed. Anchoring his resolve to the stillness, he reached over toward the empty bed and hooked his fingers around a pillow. Afraid the sound of his awkward movements would wake her, he stood motionless above her for a moment before slowly positioning the pillow over her face.

He hesitated briefly, wondering if he’d waited long enough, if Helma was indeed too weak to fight back. A sadness washed over him as he wondered if he’d waited too long, if Helma was so far gone she wouldn’t even be aware of what was about to happen. He longed for her to be aware. He needed for her to be aware. He had something to tell her.

There was only one way to find out.

Just as he placed the pillow down on her thin nose and small mouth, he cooed, “Helma.”

Her eyes snapped open, too late to let out a scream.

“You know what I told him, Helma? The last words Ernif ever heard?”

He pressed the pillow down hard on her face, feeling her struggle against him.

“There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile.”

With images from Sunday of Ernif’s final moments of life on this earth flashing in his mind, the strength in him surged, as did the pure joy from feeling Helma’s fight intensify beneath him.

It was not too late after all.

“He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,” he said, pressing his hands against the pillow.

He was yet again experiencing the thrill. And the nursery rhyme seemed to further infuriate Helma Hanson.

She kicked and flailed, her deathbed creaking and groaning. Afraid the noise might attract the nurse’s attention, he threw himself against her, a bony knee connecting with his ribs, his grip loosening on the pillow. A muffled croak sounded in the stillness and he pushed harder on the pillow, feeling her tiny frame buck against him, her brittle fingers clawing at his hands.

“And they all lived together . . .”

He could no longer see her eyes, but he imagined they were widening with the realization that her life was nearly over. Those eyes. The piercing accusation they had made the instant before he covered them with the pillow. It was anger he saw in those wide eyes, not fright as he expected. Her eyes bore through him, her will strong and resilient.

Surprised by her resistance, he leaned into her ear. “In a crooked. Little. House.”

He almost missed the warning. The hurried steps down the hall were not heavy, not those of the night nurse, Hester Moore. Instead, they sounded like army boots, quick and stealthy. He glanced over his shoulder at the fish-eye mirror hung over the door and saw a form racing down the hall toward the room. Toward him. It was most certainly not Nurse Hester, whose six-foot, 250- pound frame would have been unmistakable, even in the dim glow of orange. This person was not much more than five feet, weighing a fraction of Hester. And from her silhouette she appeared to be carrying a weapon and wearing a hedgehog as a helmet. He blinked, thinking it was he who had been deprived of oxygen, who was now delusional and conjuring up impish apparitions. But the figure kept coming, quickly and surely toward him.

Although Helma’s bucking had slowed, her fingernails retracting from his wrists, he found himself out of time. He released his grip and pushed himself off the bed. He tossed the pillow aside and darted quickly for the door, ducking behind it just as the waif reached Helma’s room.

“Helma?” a woman’s voice whispered in the dark.

At first Helma lay still, giving no answer. He smiled in the shadows, thrilled to mark August 7^th indelibly as his fondest memory to date.

That is, until Helma gasped. She choked to catch the breath he had stolen from her. The tiny figure rushed to the old woman’s bedside and cradled her like a child against her chest, cooing and comforting the very-much-alive Helma Hanson.

“Are you okay? Helma?”

As Helma hacked and coughed, he studied the small woman, trying to make out details in the stingy light that touched her face. She was beautiful in an unreal way, like a fairy, her eyes disproportionately large, set within a heart-shaped face. But something about the way she carried herself reminded him more of a leprechaun, quicker and stronger than her beauty and size would otherwise suggest. She handled and manipulated Helma Hanson effortlessly, as if the imp were an ant able to carry ten or even fifty times her weight. Freakishly strong, and with hair that was every color of the rainbow. Spikes of bright blue, lemon yellow, cherry red, and the greenest green he had ever seen. Leprechaun green.

Who was this woman?

She rocked Helma in her arms until the sputtering and spewing turned to wheezing and whispering, harsh and hurried. He couldn’t make out what Helma was saying to her through the shushing noise the fairy creature was making. He stood graveyard still, fixated as if under the woman’s spell, wondering why he had never heard of this nurse before now. And he worried that Hester wouldn’t be far behind, eager to snap on all the lights, his discovery inevitable. He began to work a plan out in his head, one that involved force, if necessary, and one that required calmness, patience, and careful consideration of timing that would allow him to disappear like a shadow in the night should Hester pad into the room.

Just as he was cursing himself for not considering that Hester may be training a new nurse, the woman added, “I came as soon as I got the call about Ernif. I am so, so sorry Helma. I’m here now. Shh. I’m here.”

He stiffened, confused by the proclamation, watching as she stroked the old woman’s twiggy back and shoulder blades. Ernif and Helma were childless; he had made sure of that. Checked the records thoroughly and accumulated information from several sources. They had no nieces, no nephews. No one. So who the hell was this?

He found the simple act of swallowing difficult, an unfamiliar feeling creeping up his spine. He stood watching, still as the night, and studied her, introspection clouding his thoughts. It didn’t take him long to finger the cause for his symptoms. It was doubt. And the mischief-maker who came out of nowhere to take up a bedside vigil by Helma Hanson was the deliveryman. Or woman. Women were always trouble, his father used to say. Father was always right.

His ruminations abruptly scattered as the imp shouted, “Nurse!”

His mind froze as he went rigid behind the door. Hester Moore was waddling down the hall, her footsteps so heavy and hurried he could feel the vibrations through the soles of his sensitive feet. He braced for action. Three women. Should he take out Hester first, then the waif, or vice versa? Either would be formidable, and both would be nearly impossible to take down easily. Just as he landed on a plan, Hester snapped on the light and bustled toward the bed, both she and the imp with their backs to the door.

Again his plans changed. He opted for stealth and slipped from behind the door, unseen, and down the hall.

Not, however, before he heard Helma cry out the imp’s name, “Elizabeth!”

About the Author

Sandra Brannan debuted as an author in 2010 with In the Belly of Jonah, the first installment of her acclaimed Liv Bergen mystery series. The novel was chosen as an Indie Next List Notable by independent bookstores and librarians across the country and went into a second printing just one month after its release.

Sandra’s success in the literary world led to her being named one of the top 25 most fabulous women by BlackHillsMagazine.

Much like her character Liv Bergen, Sandra has spent her career in the mining industry. Working her way up from day laborer in the company her grandfather founded to a top executive in the family business wasn’t easy, as Sandra often received threats from those opposed to mining. These life experiences gave her a first-person perspective into the high-stakes scenarios of which she writes.

Sandra was raised the seventh of nine children in loving home not far from Rapid City, South Dakota. After living in Colorado (the setting for In the Belly of Jonah), Wyoming, Washington D.C. and Washington state, Sandra returned to her hometown where she lives with her husband. Their budding family consists of four boys and three grandchildren.

The second book in her mystery-thriller series, Lot’s Return to Sodom, releases June 1 and revolves around the legendary Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota. Sandra’s forthcoming titles include Widow’s Might and Noah’s Rainy Day.

For more on Sandra, visit www.SandraBrannan.com

Follow Sandra on Twitter at Twitter.com/SandraBrannan and on Facebook at Facebook.com/AuthorSandraBrannan

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The Four

A Series 

They do exist and they always have. They live, love, and work amongst us and they are part of us. But they are different too, they are stronger and they live longer. They are the topic of many books, movies and myths, but their existence remains a secret, not everyone would accept them. And like us, they have those that are simply evil. Keeping these evil ones under control is the price they must pay to continue the lives they love. They must protect their human brethren from the Dark Ones, those that would rather kill than preserve.

Century after century the good battled the Dark Ones, always prevailing and preserving the lives of their beloved humans. In the 17^th century, two powerful Dark leaders emerged, they organized their forces and a bitter war ensued. It was a fight to the death and the good thought they’d won. Four warriors led the battle, four warriors whose strength was beyond anything they knew, four warriors whose legacy had to be protected…

The good formed a consortium and with the help of a powerful sorcerer, a spell was cast; a spell that would follow the warriors’ lineage in case their power was needed again. The warriors are long dead, but their heirs are not, and now they must fight. The Dark Ones have re-emerged, they are more powerful, more resourceful and they want to control mankind and the world.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Beginning

Book I 

Clare had an ideal life. She lived in the perfect little town, had a great family and four of the best friends in the world.  She also had nightmares, nightmares that plagued her for almost a decade. But these are not ordinary nightmares; they are premonitions, warnings of what is to come and what she will become.

She discovers that she isn’t alone in these vile dreams; her friends are having them too. They are dreaming of their ancestors and their own future…  The discovery of their destiny and the future they must embrace is shocking and terrifying.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Clare 

George S. Patton wrote, “Courage is fear holding on a minute longer.” I was twelve years old when I read that. It had come from a book of quotes my mother gave me. I didn’t know much about Patton back then, and honestly didn’t care too much, either. What I did know was that my parents had decided to move to the little town of Lakeville—just north of San Francisco, where I had lived all my life—uprooting me from all I’d ever known, and I was scared of that. Had I only known that the fear I felt then was only a drop in the bucket compared to the fear I would encounter later in my life.

Lakeville was a picturesque, small town that did a nice tourist trade in the summer months due to the lake that bordered it on one side. When I think back to my late childhood and early adulthood in Lakeville I’m reminded of movie scenes where the kid is riding his bike down a tree lined street with well-manicured homes on either side. Pleasant music is playing in the background and the whole thing gives you a feeling of serenity and happiness. In retrospect, that is how my life was, serene and happy.

My first new friend upon my arrival in Lakeville was Sal Asiro. He was a short kid with dark hair and dark skin. He was then—and still is—outgoing, a smartass, an eternal optimist and almost always in a good mood. Those attributes tended to make his personality hard to resist. But he was mischievous too, something you almost immediately detected in his dark eyes. Without knowing a thing about me, aside from me being his new neighbor, he invited me to play baseball the day after I arrived. I liked baseball, wasn’t a bad player, and couldn’t really see any reason to say no.

My second night there, after dinner, I heard kids laughing and screaming outside. I looked out the window and saw Sal running around like a madman; he and a bunch of kids were playing kickball in the street. Sal was smaller than the rest of the kids, but fast, really fast. My mom caught me peaking around the curtains like a scared animal, and asked if I wanted to go out and meet the neighbor kids. I looked at her in pure terror. Who was this woman? My “city” mom would never have made that offer without making sure she knew the kids and their parents.

She’d said with enthusiasm, “Go ahead, Clare. Some of those kids are probably going to be in your school. It will be good to know them before the school year starts.” I knew she would bug me until I couldn’t stand it anymore, so out the door I went.

Sal greeted me with enthusiasm and proceeded to introduce me to a whole slew of kids, whose names and faces would take me weeks to remember and connect. We played until dark, when we began to hear singsong voices of mothers calling their kids in for the night; one by one they waved and went home.

Sal walked me to my front door and said, “Glad you could join us, Red”…a reference to my red hair, and one I hated. That red hair darkened into a deep brown by my teenage years, but Sal still uses the moniker, much to my chagrin.

“See you tomorrow at one, don’t forget!” Then he ran off to his own home.

I learned later that Sal was an only child, like me, and had grown up in Lakeville. His dad owned the largest hardware store in town, which he’d purchased from Sal’s grandfather on his mother’s side in the 1990s. We became fast friends and he introduced me to just about every kid within a ten-block radius of our house.

The next day I went to Locust Park and played ball; it was a blast. I met almost every kid in town, including a girl named Kate Parks. Kate had also grown up in Lakeville, but she didn’t attend the local school. Instead she was in a private school, one for smart kids. I liked her right away, but I also realized she was a bit of an outsider. She didn’t appear to have any athletic ability, unless you counted reading as a sport. But she still came to all the games and cheered us on from the bleachers.

Kate lived at the end of our block, and she and Sal had known each other since infancy. She was my height but skinnier, and she had the most beautiful chestnut colored hair and blue eyes. Her only brother was several years older than her and had moved out of the house already, making her life seem like that of an only child. Her dad owned a small real estate agency in town and her mother was a stay at home mom like Sal’s and mine.

That’s how my first few weeks in my new home and town began. I’d made two friends that would be like the siblings I never had. They’d also be by my side when the worst of things began, and hopefully all the years that followed; assuming I made it that far.

Chapter 2

Sal and I hung out almost every day, and Kate joined us at least two days a week after school and on the weekends. We did our homework together and when we got stuck, we called on Kate. She was just short of brilliant as a tutor. By December, we were gearing up for winter break, excited to be out of school for two weeks and to have the chance to play outdoors. Daylight savings had robbed us of several hours of playtime every day…so had homework. Kate was off to New Hampshire to visit her grandparents for the holidays, so Sal and I began to plan our outdoor activities without her.

The week before the Christmas break, Sal and I were headed to the cafeteria when he pointed out a light haired kid sitting on a bench. Sal said he was from England and had just started at the school that week. You could tell he was shy and he was small for his age, like Sal.

The kid was digging into his brown paper lunch bag when three kids (our school bullies, no less) approached him and started to harass him. They started making fun of his pale skin and his accent, calling him a leprechaun.

Sal said, “Idiots! He’s English, not Irish.” He stomped over and asked the biggest kid (Billy Smite, aka Billy the Bully), “Hey Billy, you do know this kid’s English, right, and leprechauns are Irish?”

Billy turned around and glared at Sal. “Stay out of this Sal,” Billy said without too much enthusiasm. Sal was the sort of guy that even the bullies liked, and you could see defeat begin to dawn on Billy’s face.

Sal stepped closer and said, “Sorry Billy, Sam here is one of my friends and he’s supposed to have lunch with us in the cafeteria.” Sal turned to Sam and said, “Did you forget?”

Sam looked up at Sal, his mouth hanging open, a befuddled look on his face, and I stifled a laugh. Sam stuttered for a moment and then caught on. “Oh, oh right, sorry. I didn’t see you in there so I thought I had the day wrong,” he said in a strong British accent.

Sal responded smoothly, “Well let’s go. I’m starving.”

Sam had just moved to Lakeville from London, England via a stay in San Francisco. His dad was a surgeon and had just transferred to our local hospital after a two-year stint at its sister hospital in the city. Sam too was an only child, and lived one block over from Sal and me. From that point on, Sam was part of our little group of friends.

That same day, Sal and I went to my house after school looking for a snack. My mother was baking cookies, a quick indication that something was up. She informed Sal and me, in an entirely too enthusiastic manner, that my bratty little cousin Collin would be coming to stay with us for Christmas break. My last encounter with him had been a few years back, and the visit had left a bad taste in my mouth. Mom protested against my protest as only a mother can do, and managed to get a promise out of both Sal and myself that we would make Collin feel at home and welcome while he was there.

Chapter 3

Collin arrived with much fanfare from my parents and little enthusiasm from me, but I was in for a surprise. The bratty little kid was anything but a brat, or little for that matter. He was tall—at least for an eleven year old—and his flaming curly red hair had toned down to a rather pleasant strawberry blond. He looked a lot older than eleven, and when he spoke he sounded a lot older too.

By the end of the Christmas break, Collin had won not just my heart but that of my friends. He loved baseball, the lake, hiking and just hanging out. He was a bit of computer geek like Sam, and a bookworm like Kate. We were all sad to see him go, but he didn’t stay gone for long, which was good…and bad.

Collin’s mother was my father’s twin sister. My aunt and her husband were very wealthy and very selfish. After years of dragging Collin around the world with his nanny in tow, they got tired of it and plopped him in a boarding school in Seattle. He didn’t see them much and they didn’t call him much, just made sure he had money and a roof over his head. It turned out it had been my dad’s idea to bring him to us for Christmas, and I thought it was a good one.

The following June, Collin’s parents were killed in an auto accident in Germany. My dad flew to Seattle and brought Collin back with him, this time to stay for good.

Summer began on a sad note, but one we were determined to make the best of it. We all turned thirteen within six weeks of each other (except Collin; he turned twelve, but oddly his birthday was still in that same six week period) and we all were looking forward to 8th grade, our last year before high school. Collin was a brainiac like Kate and would be skipping 7th grade and joining us in the 8th.

That year seemed to fly by. The five of us were thick as thieves, hanging out together as much as possible. Sam and Collin were so into video games that they even tried their hand at designing them. Kate continued to love her books and even managed to get Sal and I interested in a few.

High school was a fast moving blur of studies, sports, and socializing. Kate had talked her parents into letting her go to our public school as long as she was enrolled in AP classes. That worked out well for her, since both Collin and Sam were in those classes with her. Sal and I weren’t stupid…just not academic like them…but we could blow them away when it came to baseball stats.

* * *  

In retrospect, our high school lives would have been perfectly normal except for three things. With the exception of Kate, we all grew much taller than anyone expected. We had nightmares that turned out to be very similar. And, as we learned sometime later, we were all being watched very carefully and our every move documented.

By the end of our senior year Sam and Collin were well over 6’3”, Sal was at least 6’1” (very tall for his family) and I was almost 5’10”. This may not seem unusual, but none of us came from tall genes, and most kids didn’t grow to those heights in less than a year. Kate, on the other hand stopped growing at a nice, normal 5’5”, and as it turned out, she didn’t have nightmares either. But she later confessed that she did notice something wasn’t quite right with the rest of us.

I asked her once how she noticed something was amiss, and why she never mentioned it. It was simple. Somewhere along the line she figured out she wasn’t quite like us. She knew she was, and always would be, part of our group, and one of our closest and dearest friends, but also different somehow.

About the Author

I was born and raised in Southern California and moved to San Francisco in 1991. I currently reside there with my husband.  I am the grandniece of Irish author Benedict Kiely and the second cousin of Irish author Sharon Owens. My first novel, Doppelganger Experiment was published via World Castle Publishing in September 2011 (revised/re-edited February 2012). My second novel, The Beginning – Book I (The Four series) via World Castle Publishing released August 2012 and is part one in a four part series (release dates for books II through IV are expected in October 2012 through January 2013).  

For more on Margaret, visit www.margaretmillmore.com

To order The Beginning, go to http://www.amazon.com/The-Beginning-Four-Volume/dp/1938961099

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In TROLL OR DERBY, fifteen year old Roller Deb is singled out by town bullies for both her skates, and for being different.  When her popular homecoming queen of a sister is kidnapped by a scuzzy drug dealer, Deb must flee the trailer park in which she’s grown up, and rescue her.  Along the way, Deb becomes enmeshed in the magical realm of trolls and fairies, and the blood-thirsty version of roller derby at which these beings excel.  But spending too much time among the fairies comes with a price.  Will Deb choose to save her sister, with the aid of a mysterious troll?  Or will she be lost to the lures of roller derby, and the blonde temptress April, forever?

Excerpt

About the Author

Red Tash is a journalist-turned-novelist of dark fantasy for readers of all ages. Monsters, SciFi, wizards, trolls, fairies, and roller derby lightly sautéed in a Southern/Midwestern sauce hand-canned from her mama’s recipes await you in her pantry of readerly delights. Y’all come, anytime.

To purchase Troll or Derby, visit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Sony

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Ex-beauty contestant Lauren McDonald is thrust into the spy world when her boyfriend’s job seeps into his personal life, making her the conduit for the transfer of information between enemies. She agrees to marry her boyfriend and become an agent, just to save her life and the U.S. Those dreams of a peaceful married life go right out the window when she finds out the true mission of the enemy.

Excerpt

“There’s a mime convention in town,” Mitch said to me.  “That’ll be fun to watch.  I bet if you tell them you were a beauty queen, they’ll put on fake crowns and wave.”

My ex-husband was turned in the seat in front of me on the Metro while we rode from Northern Virginia to work in Washington, D.C., on a Monday morning in May.  Mitch was gay, announcing it the minute after we said ‘I do,’ seven months earlier.  The marriage was annulled the day after my ‘new best girlfriend’ and I shopped till we dropped in Vegas, so it wasn’t a total loss.  However, he did get better deals on women’s bikini underwear than I did, and I’ll never forgive him for it.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading, staring behind me.  “Hey, someone’s watching you.”

“Who?”  I started to turn, but Mitch touched my arm, still staring behind me.

“Don’t look,” he whispered.  “You’re such a typical blonde.  It’s an older military guy, with dark hair and dark eyes.  He’s wearing business casual, an upper end dark red polo and stone colored pants.”  He studied the man for a while.  “He’s wearing a wedding ring, or I’d be over there chatting him up.”  Mitch licked his lips and winked, making me scoot down in my seat.

“Any response?” I asked.

“Yeah.  I’m feeling the heat, and it’s in a good place.”

“In him,” I whispered.  Mitch was so ready for a homosexual relationship; it was scary.  He’d date anything.

“Oh, right.”  He studied the man for a moment.  “He knows I’m watching.”  Mitch looked out the window.  “I’m close to my stop.  What will you do if the guy follows you?”

The subway slowed.  “Ask him out, just to make you jealous.”

“He’s married.”

“So?  I’d be the kept mistress.”  I smiled.  “Then I’d date Shawn on the side, keeping me very happy.”

“Did you ever notice how much Shawn and I are alike?  We both have dark brown hair, very blue eyes and are both adorable and very sexy.”

“He’s straight.  That’s a major difference.”

He stood up.  “Yeah, or I’d ask him out.”  He chuckled as he walked off the subway. 

I was afraid to turn around, concerned because the seat beside me was empty.   However, if the man wanted to talk to me, he certainly could’ve moved next to me at any time.

My stop to change trains came, and I figured I’d lose the guy as soon as I got off the first train.  But, as I waited on the platform, I felt his eyes watching me while I tried to ignore him.  After a few minutes, my next train came, and I got on, heading east.  I wanted to lose him, so I found a seat next to a very pleasant woman.  Because she was reading, I acted like I was studying my calendar.  If I didn’t make eye contact with the man, he didn’t exist, in my mind.  Beauty queen training didn’t prepare me for anything like this.  Darned beauty queen training.  World peace my foot.  This was one guy I didn’t want to meet or make world peace with.

The trained slowed, the driver yelling out the stop for Union Station, near my work.  I stood up, walked out the doors and happened to glance around me.  The stalker stood two people back, watching as I stepped closer to the door.  The color red lit up in my head from the terror I was experiencing.  I suddenly wished my beauty queen talent had been self-defense so many years before, instead of singing Jingle Bells while throwing fake snow into the air and wearing a parka in the middle of August.

Just as I got into the station and headed up the stairs, my cell phone rang.  Checking the identification, I realized it was Mitch, so I answered it with a smile.  “Did you miss me already, or are you having a pseudo-male ego crisis?”

“Very funny,” he said.  “Is he still following you?”

I glanced behind me.  “Yes.  Even after changing from the yellow to the red lines on the Metro.”

“Don’t take any back alleys to work to meet with your drug contacts.”

I laughed at his attempt at humor.  He knew beauty queens didn’t do drugs.  It would ruin their complexion.  “Like I’d do that.  Do you think I should worry?”

“Yep.  I didn’t like how he was watching you.  Be careful and call the cops if he tries anything.”

“Got it.”  We said goodbye and ended the call.

I suddenly felt very alone with someone following me to work.  I didn’t have to just feel it, because it was true, terrifying me.

I snapped back to reality.  It was possible the guy worked in the same area where I worked and I just hadn’t seen him before.  I was probably over-reacting and it was all Mitch’s fault, because beauty queens could be naïve, according to Mitch.

Flipping my hair back from my shoulders, I walked upstairs from the subway through Union Station, passing shops and out to the street, a little over a block from my office.  My phone vibrated and rang in my pocket, so I grabbed it and opened the thing.  Glancing at the caller id, I saw the name of my true love, Shawn, and pushed the talk button.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said.  “How’s work going?”

“I’ve been here since three this morning and nothing’s working.  Tell me you’re beautiful and wearing a sexy red dress with your diamond tiara from your beauty queen days?  You are meeting me for lunch, right?”

I glanced around behind me, walking toward my office building.  “Yeah, but no red dress.  I left the tiara at home.  Try black slacks and a light blue blouse.”

“Close enough.”  He listened for a moment.  “You’re out of breath.  What’s going on?”

“I seem to have an issue.”

“Issue?”  I heard him take a bite of something, probably a breakfast bar.  He loved breakfast bars, but, to me, they tasted like cardboard and bark.  He really needed someone to cook for him, and I really wanted to be that one.

I lowered my voice.  “Someone’s following me.”

“Where are you?”  His voice sounded serious.

“I have about a block to go.  I just left Union Station.”

“Keep walking.  I’ll take care of it.”  He ended the call and I stared at my phone.  What could he possibly do?  He worked as a computer analyst in a governmental contracting firm closer to Dupont Circle.  Lately, his hours were horrible, working seventy or more hours a week with one day to completely crash, usually at my place so I could take care of him.  I knew how to cook well, so he’d relax and I’d wait on him.  It was kind of fun, because he was really a nice guy.

I headed toward the building where my job as a mathematical statistician for the Bureau of Labor Statistics was located.  I may have been blonde and an airhead, but I wasn’t stupid. 

As I walked, I saw my building within running distance.  However, I also saw the mime group heading toward me—white faced, gloved, and all wearing black and white striped outfits with black hats.  Of all times for the tourists to interfere.  There were at least fifty of the beasts heading my way, making believe they were pulling on ropes, stuck in a room, or walking across a tightrope.  My life could be on the line and these people were acting stupid.  I could run out into the street, but I’d learned that the fastest way from one point to another was in a straight line.  Besides, there were so many mimes; they were also walking in the street, winding between stopped cars at the red light.  I had to get past the mimes.  Not a fun thing to do.

Quickening my pace and dodging mimes, I was certain the scary man was following me, because every time I glanced back, he was getting closer and closer.  As I made my way through imaginary ropes and balancing sticks, I realized these people were just weird.  I hated mimes, now more than ever.  They weren’t on my ‘world peace’ list, either.  But I kept my mind on the prize—getting away from the man stalking me.

Glancing behind me, I saw the stalker getting closer.  I kept walking as fast as I could, stopped suddenly by a stupid mime with some sort of weird fetish.  His face met mine as I ran into him, turning my head.  He acted extremely surprised, overacting, as usual.  He embraced me, and as I tried to get out of his grasp, he planted one right on my lips.

“Watch it, buddy!”  I pulled away and glanced backward.  The man on my tail was mere inches from me, his arm outstretched to touch me, being held back by a tickling mime.  I took off running, glad I was wearing my required governmental sneakers every female employee wore, to save their good shoes from wear and tear on the sidewalks.

When I was about ten feet from my office door, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  “Lauren McDonald.”  He spun me around and reached for my earlobe.  Just as I tried to back away from his scary dark eyes, a black unmarked car screeched to the curb and two men in black suits jumped out.  They grabbed the stalker, threw him into the back seat and sped away.

Every single one of the mimes put their hands to their mouths, overacting their surprise, while the rest of the crowd, mainly governmental workers, began clapping for the mimes.  The crowd cheered them on, not realizing my stalker had just been kidnapped.

I stared, not sure what to think.  The man knew my name, he touched my shoulder and he looked driven—scary driven. 

My cell phone rang the familiar tone of Shawn’s call, the talent song of ‘Jingle Bells’ from my beauty queen days.  I reached down and opened my phone, still looking around to make sure I was safe.  “Hello?”

“How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.  There were these stupid mimes—”  One of them passed me, lifted his nose and crossed his arms as if offended, but I continued talking.  “This man just touched my shoulder, and now—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shawn said.  “I’ve got your back and saved you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about.  I want you to do me a favor.”

I looked up into the sky and at the streetlights, trying to figure out how he had my back.  “How did you know to save me?  No, how did you save me at all?  Did you know those guys who stopped and grabbed the stalker?”

He ignored me.  “Go to the brewery and restaurant on the next corner.  I’ll be right there to make sure you’re okay.”

I was suddenly surrounded by mimes making fun of me.  I guess if you tick off one mime, they have this psychic link to let you know you’re in trouble. 

I kept talking to Shawn on the phone.  “I’m fine, I think, other than these stupid mimes mimicking me.”  One wagged his finger at me, while another mimicked paddling me.  If I didn’t have this sense of style, thanks to the beauty contest, I’d be kicking their butts.

“I’ll meet you in about thirty seconds.”  Shawn ended the call and I checked my watch.  I had ten minutes to get to my desk.  It was weird, to say the least, but I had to meet him or some other unmarked black car might hunt me down.  For some reason, I had to think he was linked to the black car, but had no real way of knowing.

About the Author

Andie Alexander (a mystery/adventure pen name) makes her home with her husband and three teenagers in Wisconsin. She’s been writing for many years, and writes as other pen names, all listed at www.sweettalebooks.com. See www.andiealexander.com for more of her titles.

To order Dating a Spy, go to http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0040ZNRVK

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Check out the latest from Front Row Monthly at www.frontrowmonthly.com

Written with passionate conviction, this story is being told by two of its characters: Ben, a twenty-seven years old student, and Anita, a plain-spoken, spunky, uneducated redhead, freshly married to Lenny, his aging father. Behind his back, Ben and Anita find themselves increasingly drawn to each other. They take turns using an old tape recorder to express their most intimate thoughts, not realizing at first that their voices are being captured by him. 

Meanwhile, Lenny is trying to keep a secret from both of them: his ex-wife, Ben’s mother, a talented pianist, has been stricken with an early-onset alzheimer. Taking care of her gradually weighs him down. What emerges in these characters is a struggle, a desperate, daring struggle to find a path out of conflicts, out of isolation, from guilt to forgiveness. 

The title Apart From Love comes from a phrase used in the story:

After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word apart from Love, ’cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway.
Anita to Lenny, in Apart From Love

Why, why can’t you say nothing? Say any word–but that one, ’cause you don’t really mean it. Nobody does. Say anything, apart from Love.
Anita to Ben, in The Entertainer

For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now–even in her absence–I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded–and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.
Ben, in Nothing Surrendered

Excerpt

At night I lay there, wide awake, annoyed by my misfortune, having to listen to the creaking of their bed. I cannot help thinking, Oh no, not again; not like last night! 

Well, what do you expect? The walls are so thin here, in this apartment building, that you can easily hear snores and sighs—not only of the old man, but also of the next door neighbors. The pipes are gurgling inside the walls. And if not for the wind outside my window, which is sucking the blinds in, sucking them out, you could probably hear what some kid—out there, in the next building down the street—mumbles in his dream.

Unable to fall asleep I clap my hands over my ears, trying to ignore these sounds; trying to stop thinking. Stop, I say. Stop thinking about that woman, Anita, separated from you by a wall, a space, a wall. 

She is lying there, next to my father, in that large, creaking four poster bed, which used to belong to my mom. Maybe—like me—Anita is tossing off her blankets right this minute, and shivering there, in the dark. I rise up. I lie down. I imagine stepping in, looking into her eyes. Does she close them, so as not to take in the faint, colorless moonlight, which is thrown back from the walls? I imagine touching her curls. In what shade are they glinting there, on the blue pillow? 

And through the wall, the space, the wall, can Anita hear the pounding, the loud pounding of my heart? Can she feel me, breathing her name? Does she whisper back to me, Stop it, stop it right now?

Does Anita, then, turn away from me, to his side of the bed? Is she staring at the dark outline, the outline of his heavy back, his shoulder, set against the crushed sheets? 

Does she move over, and try to cuddle him? And then—having done so—does she feel lost, even more than before, in that place? If not for the roof overhead, for which only he can provide, would she, perhaps, prefer me to him?

I wonder if at this point, Anita is removing her arms and legs from around the old man, thinking, perhaps, that to cling to him is like clinging to a fish, because really, he is much too slick for her. Now that they are married, he may take his affairs elsewhere; which is exactly what he did when mom was here. 

My father may never give up his secrets; never be fully open with a girl like her. Perhaps he thinks her too vivacious, too young, or too simple. Perhaps there is no woman to whom he can truly connect. Here is one thing I hope she knows: she deserves better. 

There it is, that sound again. It starts by squeaking and ends by creaking. My father must have rolled over, out of her reach. Is she closing her eyes, so as not to see, not to take in the light?  

At last I can no longer take it, and get the hell up. I walk in the middle of the shadows, step out of the corridor, into the hall, the living room, around the white piano, heading in the direction of the balcony. I slide open the glass door, cross the threshold. I lean over the railing, breathing, breathing the night air, and no: not really thinking about her. Not at all. 

His desk, taking nearly the entire space of the balcony, is a massive old piece of furniture, which has been beaten by use, and by the weather. My father refuses to bring it in—not only because of the lack of room, but because here, only here in the open, his mind is at peace. It can roam free, he claims, without interruptions, and without clutter. 

A thick glass has been floated on top of his desk, to protect it from the elements. In the center of the surface is a small desk lamp, turned off. The tape recorder is here, on the left side. It is shrouded with a plastic cover, which is reflected, rather faintly, in the glass below. I remove the shroud, and find a tape already loaded. Then, out of an old habit, I press Rewind. Record. 

One day you will hear my voice. You will know me. What can I say, but this—

Reflected on the right side of the desk is a cloud, moving slowly, veiling and unveiling the moon. Under it—I mean, under the shine of the mirrored cloud—I notice something else, lying flat: a bunch of lined, yellow papers stapled together, written in his hand. For a minute I hesitate, because what my father has written, what he has protected here, under the glass, with such care, must be private—but then, I find myself so curious, and the hell with privacy! I am his son, after all… 

So I lift the edge of the glass—just a bit—and take hold of the stapled corner, and slide the papers out. They swish in my hand.

Which is when I hear a soft voice out of the darkness behind me, asking, “Who’s there?”

To which I whisper, “It’s me: Ben.” 

“You shouldn’t do that,” she says.

So I ask, “Do what?”  

And Anita says, “You know: read his stuff.” 

“Oh, that,” I say. “I was just bored.”  

“Bored?” she says, yawning, “I ain’t surprised. His writing will get you that way in a big hurry.”

Anyhow, she can see for herself that the papers are nearly unreadable, because his letters are small, and drawn in blue ink, which seems blurry in the starlight. Leaning closer, she turns the lamp on for me. And as soon as the first sentence becomes clear, I curse him, curse, curse, curse him, because how dare he. 

“Damn it!” I cry. “These words, they—they are not his—but mine! My words—stolen!”

“You sure? This here, it’s his handwriting.”

“It is,” I say, “but this, this is my story, which I recorded long ago, when I was twelve years old, maybe.” 

“Then,” she says, “from now on, be careful. Like, think twice about what you say.”

Somehow, what she means is clear to me, and there is no need to ask for an explanation. I better be careful about the words uttered—or else, they will be spun. 

She presses Stop on the tape recorder, and whispers in my ear—what, I am not going to tell you. 

And I am not going to tell you the smell of her hair, either. 

But then, a moment later I forget all about being on guard. I find myself angry, so angry at my father—but even more than that, surprised. I have told him a thousand times already: my thoughts are mine, and mine alone! How dare he pretend to agree with what I say—and later, ignore it, and invade my privacy, exposing, in the process, some of my most painful, most intimate moments? This is a line he has never crossed before. 

Anita gives me a look, which I take to be a warning. Then she places the shroud back in place, over the tape recorder. 

“The way I picture it is like, this is his desk. He’s always here,” she says, “even when he isn’t. So just, don’t say nothing you don’t want him to hear. You must be careful, Ben. The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more.”

And with that, she turns away. 

I shut the glass door behind her. I murmur, “Good night,” knowing that no one can hear me inside. If she blows me a kiss, I cannot detect it—and so, neither can you. I do not even wish to look at her, because I aim not to see, and not to tell you even a hint of what I see. As I told you before, go! Go away! Or else, if this is where you must stay, just Stop! Stop listening. My thoughts are mine! 

The rage swells in my chest. I want to burst into his bedroom, even before she gets there, and—slap!—punch the unsuspecting, heavy-eyed old man in the face. Instead, I just crumple the papers, and throw them to the floor and stamp, stamp, stamp my feet on them.

Which is when the glass door reopens, just a crack, and she says, “Ben—”

“What? What now?”

“If I was you, I would burn that tape.”

“I cannot,” I say, utterly frustrated. “It has my voice on it.”

And she comes back with, “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless,” she says,”like, you want him to know what you really think. Yes, I bet that’s it! You want to draw blood.” 

About the Author

Uvi Poznansky earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel, and practiced with an innovative Architectural firm. She received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. There, she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan. 

During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she wrote and painted constantly. Her versatile body of work can be seen online at uviart.com. It includes poetry in English and Hebrew, short stories, bronze and ceramic sculptures, oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media. 

Uvi has published a poetry book and two children books, Jess and Wiggle and Now I Am Paper. Apart From Love is her debut novel.

For more on Uvi, visit http://uviart.blogspot.com

To order Apart From Love, go to http://www.amazon.com/Apart-Love-Uvi-Poznansky/dp/0984993207/

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When disasters begin occurring around the world, a widely-dispersed group of people begin to make their way to what they hope is a safe place. At the center of the safe zone lies a family trying to deal with the knowledge that their young daughter is having prophetic dreams of the disasters along with a new found psychic ability. What the family doesn’t realize is these dreams are also being experienced by others. They are the driving force leading them. The dreams may mean the end of the world, or the beginning of something altogether different. As more disasters strike a new form of communication with the world begins to emerge around the dreamers, but will it be too late to listen?

Excerpt

Kalahari Desert, Africa

The woman, Tiknay, lay flat on the dusty ground, sun baking her dark brown skin in 90 degree heat. Her face was still, hands clenching sandy dirt by her sides. The wailing voice she had heard for months was changing. A new tonality was surging through the vibrations of the music of the earth. The woman trembled as she sensed rage in the defiant tones. What did it mean?

She had heard the music all her life. It was there as she gathered the mongongo nuts and it was there in her dreams. The pulsing constant voice of the earth changed in its tones like the rhythm of seasons, but she had never been afraid. Even when the voice had changed dramatically in the past few months to the eerie keening wail, she had not been afraid. The voice of the earth had told her through the years about animals who were dying, and warned her of poisoned water her people could not drink. So she could understand the music of grief that wound itself around her body and mind day and night. The wail mirrored her feelings as she watched her tribe dwindle in numbers. It accompanied her delivering misshapen babies who lived only for minutes, watching the young men leave the tribe for the new ways of the white man and his paper money. Still, there had been no fear in the old woman of the tribe until today. She had performed the dances and sung the songs meant to heal the earth, but she had no remedy for the rage she heard now.

The old woman rose slowly and began the walk back to her hut. She knew this anger was not directed at her people, but she also knew they were in danger. She must persuade the tribe to travel far away from the ones who caused this. Something terrible was about to happen.

Salmon Creek, Idaho

“I guess you could say I was there at the very beginning. Well, maybe not at the beginning, more like the beginning of the end. But I sure was there on duty at my station the night Miss Maria got the call that sent her flying outta here like all the bats of hell were nipping at her heels. That’s how I knew she was onto the biggest story of her career. Guess it turned out to be the biggest story of all time didn’t it? But how I knew this was she practically threw her keys at me and tore out of that revolving door so fast it just flew around a couple of times after she was gone. And that’s how I knew, cause she never left on a story without a smile at me and saying, “Wish me luck Fred–and water the plants please!”  Even when there was that scare in the Mideast about a nuclear bomb, even then she still smiled and asked for luck. But not this time, no sir, she just ran. And another thing was she looked scared and she never looked scared before that night. She’s got that kind of skin that always looks tan, but that night it was like it had turned white underneath. Yep, it was a scared look and that scared me cause I know she knows things before almost anyone else–she’d have to, being the best damn reporter SNN ever had!  And her so young and pretty. Have you ever seen hair so dark brown and shiny like satin and her eyes, why they’re that kind of brown that is almost black–but it doesn’t matter if she is the prettiest reporter they’ve got, she is still the best and they always call her first when anything big is happening. So when she left, I reached under the counter and turned on my little TV set. I always said, even if a doorman is on duty he still needs to know what’s going on cause people are always asking “Hey Fred, what’s going on?” and I liked to be able to tell them the very latest. So I kept an eye on SNN but sure enough, that night there wasn’t any news right away–it was probably an hour before there was anything about California, which is probably how long it took for Miss Maria to get to the station and get it all figured out for them down there. Of course, it turned out to be an even bigger story than Maria Santiago could handle by herself.”

Sonoran Desert, Arizona

Sometimes Margaret thought that her sole purpose in life was to provide amusement for the cosmos. What she had discovered in the stark, sandy beauty of the Arizona desert was hard for her to believe. It also scared her to death. She had known for a week that a major earthquake was going to hit California–who would want that kind of knowledge? Earlier in the week she had tried to convince various people in positions of authority that the quake was coming. But no one had believed her. She was left with her dreams of the dead, knowing she was powerless to stop the carnage that was coming. The involvement of crop circles added just the right note of insanity. It was so ludicrous and so awful, tears and laughter had caught her unexpectedly all week. Tonight would be the beginning.

Kalahari Desert, Africa

“Did they say why they were leaving?” Alex asked, tossing her waist-length braid over her shoulder.

“No, they won’t talk–it’s maddening,” said Nathan. “A year of research down the drain because they decide to stop talking to us and move away.” 

Alexandra Hobson and Nathan Ames had spent a year, which was the beginning of a five year study,  taking detailed histories of this tribe of Kung. They were following in the footsteps of other anthropology research groups who had come to the Kalahari Desert to study an indigenous people who still lived a true hunter-gatherer lifestyle. Their interactions with this tribe had gone well, in part due to their intense study of the language before arriving in the desert. Alex was thrilled when the oldest woman of the tribe, Tiknay, who appeared to function as a healer, seemed eager to share her knowledge. Nathan’s work with the men of the tribe had not gone as easily, but he felt he was making progress every day. Then today the old woman came to their tents announcing, “We are leaving,” and had walked away. When Alex ran after her, she refused to talk. Nathan had just come back from questioning the men, who told him nothing.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Alex,” said Nathan. “They looked at me like I was the enemy. Definite animosity in their posture toward me.”

    “Well I’m not just going to give up,” said Alex. “Come on. Pack up your gear. We’re going to follow them until they agree to at least talk to us.”

SNN Headquarters, Atlanta Georgia

Under the icy calm that Maria exuded was sheer terror. Please let them live, please let them be alive, she prayed over and over. They’re my parents, always there for me, so strong nothing could hurt them–could it? No way. Impossible. They’re fine, they have to be fine. Please, please, please let them be ok, let them be safe.

“Maria!” yelled Phoebe, “I’ve got you on military transport leaving in 45 minutes with Zack.”

“Phoebes, you’re an angel–I’m voting you secretary of the year,” said Maria. “How did you ever finagle this for me? Never mind, I don’t need to know.”

“Did you eat anything on your way in?” Phoebe asked. “You know how you get airsick if you fly on an empty stomach.” 

Maria smiled ruefully, “Are you kidding Phoebe? What would I have grabbed to eat from my refrigerator? All I have in there are onions and cucumbers–and I don’t even like cucumbers!”

“Don’t worry boss, I’ll have the commissary send up your favorite.”

“Thanks–I’ll be in Bob’s office,” Maria said as she left Phoebe dialing for food. Please, please let them be alive. They have to be ok, they sacrificed so much for me, oh God please let them live.

“It’s coming over the fax now,” Bob Rutherford, her producer, was saying to Zack as she walked into her producer’s office.

“What is?” Maria asked.

“Info on the quake from the USGS about the magnitude–initial estimate only,” replied Bob.

Maria ripped the page from the fax machine, hands shaking. The paper felt like a bomb as she stared at it, unable to comprehend the symbols on its slick surface. “Well?” Bob asked. “What are we looking at? Is it the big one?”

She thrust the paper at Zack Tyler, her cameraman, who looked at her quizzically then began to read, “USGS unofficial estimate, blah, blah, oh here it is, oh my god–9.8? I didn’t think that high a number was even possible!” Maria sank into the black leather chair in front of Bob’s desk. No, no, no, please no, she thought.

About the Author

Pamela Davis received a bachelor’s degree in Anthropology from Smith College. Along with writing, she enjoys cooking, crocheting, and reading. She has worked as a web designer, a life insurance claims analyst, a medical case manager and a funeral home make-up artist. She prefers writing, with music in the headphones and a cup of coffee at her side. She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, and is currently at work on her next novel.

To order Gaia Dreams, go to http://www.amazon.com/Gaia-Dreams-ebook/dp/B005AXVKFG                           

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