Sometimes life can get in the way of love. A novel about enduring friendships, and second chances at love and life.

Vanessa had it all: handsome husband, two beautiful children, a lovely home, and a successful career. She was living the dream life she and her friends fantasized about as girls over hot fudge sundaes…until her husband miss-dials a call and throws her plans for the perfect life off track.

Now recently divorced, Vanessa attempts to re-kindle a love interest from her past but lets down her walls too late.  Her well-meaning friends decide an intervention is in order, soon discovering dating post-40 is harder than it seems. The dating pool they all once knew has become a puddle, with each blind date being crazier than the one before.

Will she ever be able to live a life that makes her happy? Or will she regret her decisions and go running back to the world that she once knew?

Excerpt

The late afternoon sun was still warm that day as Vanessa crossed the parking lot; swinging her trendy brown recycled grocery bag and clicking her high heels on the pavement. She had skipped out of work early hoping to have time to stop at the market, pick up her two daughters from her parents house in the Flats, and be home before her husband, Scott, returned from a three day business trip. It promised to be a perfect spring night for grilling the steaks she just bought and there was a special bottle of red wine waiting at home. 

Checking her phone for the time as she approached her SUV, she noticed a missed call. If the woman in front of her with eleven items in the eight items or less line had played by the rules she wouldn’t have missed her husband’s call. Cursing the supermarket with its spotty reception, Vanessa dropped the bag down on the passenger side and slid in across the sun-warmed seat. 

Dialing her voicemail, she listened to Scott’s familiar deep, yet road-weary, voice telling her the meeting didn’t go as planned and he had to stay another night. She listened with a frown as he said he missed her and the girls and couldn’t wait to get home tomorrow. Vanessa felt for him and thought the girls would be disappointed – but wasn’t that the life of a regional salesman? It had been harder to close deals lately and his

time away from home had been increasing, like it did a few years ago. Automatically she shook her head to force those thoughts from her mind.

They had shared nine years of marriage. Most were okay, the last few not so good. But what marriage doesn’t have some ups and downs? They were in their prime, had two beautiful children, good health, great jobs, and lived in an affluent community with friends close by. What happened a year ago had just been her own insecurities, or so she was told – constantly.

The phone chirped again as she was listening to the end of his message, alerting her to another call that must have just come in. Hitting delete, she moved on to the new message. In less than ten seconds, she realized her husband was the no-good, lying snake she had suspected all along. 

Listening to the second message she heard Scott’s voice again. Stronger and happier this time, if not slightly distracted by traffic, saying, ‘hey honey, it’s me. I told my wife I had to stay in New York tonight but I’m heading back to Boston now. I should be able to pick you up by six. Oh shit’ Click. Silence. The coward wasn’t even smart enough to wait and go through the prompts to delete his own message but, being flustered, hung up saving his lie for her to hear. 

Vanessa stared blindly at her dashboard before her stunned brain turned to anger and she realized she was very hot either from the rage coursing through her veins or the simple fact that she had not started the car to lower the windows. Her hand forcefully turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life, all the windows racing downward. Anger quickly slid that slippery slope into a deep blackness of utter fury. Fury was good. Vanessa’s typically controlled and refined ways gave out to her hot-blooded Italian nature. She would finally do something about this troubled marriage. 

Quickly she swung the SUV out of the supermarket’s lot onto Main Street, cutting off a car in the process. Her foot pushed down on the gas pedal, speeding through her quiet little town north of Boston, heading to her house on west side hill. 

Punching her speed dial, Vanessa’s first call was to her father. Struggling to keep her voice calm she asked him to keep the girls overnight and promised she would explain later. Let him think it was a work emergency for now, if he knew what was going on he would be at the house when Scott got there and she wanted a piece of him first.

Her neighbors were next on her list. Darcy was her first call and the second was to her next door neighbor Barbara. Although she would prefer to call her close friends, she knew her neighbors were a better choice at the moment given their proximity.

Expertly maneuvering her SUV up the winding cul-de-sac, tires squealing, she saw Darcy up ahead jogging across her front yard. Barbara was already waiting on Vanessa’s front porch, her arms crossed in front of her tall, thin frame like she was the one waiting for Scott. Vanessa pulled into the driveway like a crazy woman, slamming the car into park and jumping out; adrenaline running through her veins.

“How much time do we have?” asked Darcy, or it might have been Barbara, she didn’t know or care at the moment.

“My guess is an hour.” Not knowing who ‘honey’ was or where she lived, she only knew he would be in the Boston area by six o’clock. From the many past accusations of infidelity, she expected Scott would rush in with a plausible explanation, words of love, and looks of indignation, as soon as possible. 

Immediately the three women took action. “I’ll call a locksmith.” Darcy yelled out. She was sure it was Darcy this time as her brain registered her neighbor with a phonebook in hand. 

“OK, Barbara, come with me – we are going to get rid of everything of his from this house!” The two women raced up the stairs to start in the bedroom. 

Darcy stood at the bottom of the stairs, still holding the phone and peering through the window next to the front door keeping a lookout. 

“Where does he keep his clubs?” Darcy yelled up the stairs. In the bedroom, Barbara was opening the two front windows as Vanessa grabbed clothing from his bureau drawers. They turned to each other and both women smiled. It was the first smile since discovering he was cheating and it felt good on her face. Vanessa yelled back, “Great idea, Darcy! In the garage!” 

Two hours after that fateful voicemail error, Scott’s black Audi raced up the curved, tree lined street. The car immediately slowed as the disaster on his front lawn came into view and he pulled the car to a stop at an angle to the curb. Jumping out, Scott jogged around the car to the lawn, looking shocked at the mess and screaming for Vanessa. 

The front yard looked like a marital war zone. Clothes, shoes, golf clubs and everything else Scott owned covered their well manicured

lawn. With every door and window locked and dead-bolted on the first floor, Vanessa watched from an open second floor window as he ran across the lawn and tried to enter the front door. 

“Vanessa!” Bang, bang, bang. Scott’s fist pounded on the midnight blue front door. “Let me in!” Bang, bang. “This is ridiculous and you know it! I can explain everything, honey!!”

Vanessa remained quiet in her perch, watching as he stepped back off the front porch and looked up. Still in his white shirt and tie from his business meeting, the shirt accentuated his typically handsome face as it turned from red to purple with frustration. Watching him bend down to grab red striped boxers off the lawn she smiled with some satisfaction of what they were able to accomplish in a short period of time.

“Where are my girls? Are they in there, Vanessa? Let me in!” 

Leaning her chin on her folded hands, she stared down nonchalantly which just enraged him. Scott stamped his foot on the stone walkway like a child having a temper tantrum.

“I just want to talk to you!” He yelled, tightly clenching his striped boxers in his hand. “This is MY house, do you hear me?” His Italian loafer kicked at the wooden box that held his watches and cufflinks; contents flying up in the air and settling into the deep, lush grass. He bent over to retrieve what he could and losing all control he screamed, “You are being a complete bitch!”

The floodgates opened and Scott only stopped screaming when he finally grasped that Vanessa was not going to respond. Looking around, he realized a group of neighbors had gathered across the street to watch the show; all finding the need to walk their dogs at the same time. Scott picked up his golf clubs, replaced them into the Nike golf bag and lovingly placed the bag in the trunk. 

Thousand dollar suits were stuck in the trees and hanging on bushes like some deranged fashion designer’s decorating scheme. Boxer shorts dangled from the lamp post at the end of the walkway and his cashmere sweaters were lying in puddles in the driveway that came mostly from the sprinkler, with some assistance from Darcy and a handy garden hose. 

Muttering to himself, he gathered his clothes as quickly as possible under the scrutiny of Barbara and Darcy standing at the end of the driveway with looks to kill. Darcy encouraged Champ, their prized Great Dane, to lift his leg and relieve himself copiously on the hood and grill of Scott’s car.

“Jesus Christ! Darcy? Control that beast!” He yelled, pointing at her dog. Darcy waved with a triumphant smile on her face, seemingly oblivious to her dog. Barbara laughed which provoked him even more.

Scott shoved everything he could into the duffle bag and carry-on he had found in the bushes, and what he couldn’t fit he threw into the trunk and backseat. 

Vanessa smiled as the locksmith truck arrived. Scott paused only for a second to tell off the portly locksmith as the poor fellow hustled towards Darcy who was waving him over. Vanessa was fairly sure the locksmith had seen this crazy scene played out before. 

About the Author

Lynn Ricci was born and raised in the Boston area. Her professional background is in financial communications and she pursues her artistic endeavors of writing and painting while enjoying an active family life with her two children and dog, Fenway. In the summer, she enjoys relaxing in Chatham, on Cape Cod.

A writer of several published short stories including Daydreams which was picked up for an anthology collection through Outskirts Press, The Dating Intervention is her debut novel. More information on novels available and underway can be found at www.lynnricci.com.

Connect with Lynn Ricci on Facebook & Twitter

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A story about a little person in a very big world.

Magnus Mandalora never thought he would leave the safe confines of the small homely village of Lower Kertoob. He certainly never expected to end up in the middle of a long-running war between the saintly Cherines and the beastly Glurgs. But when circumstance places him in such a dubious position, he finds himself on a rollicking adventure where nothing is quite as it seems.

Magnus Opum is an epic fantasy that’s slightly skewed – Tolkien with a twist. 

Excerpt

One Friday afternoon, about three months after Magnus had last received news of his brother, some travellers passed through Lower Kertoob.

This was not an unusual occurrence. The road that passed through the village was long established, having once served as a trade route linking Sweet Harmody with the old grop mines to the east. However, as the mines had been exhausted many years ago, the road was not heavily used, and so it wasn’t every day that passers-by entered the village. Still, with the infrequent travellers and the occasional tour parties, the Kertoobis were not totally isolated from the outside world.

These particular travellers were a couple of Doosies. As they strolled leisurely down the main street, it didn’t take long for a sizable crowd to build up in their wake, eager for stories.

Being Doosies, the travellers were only too happy to give the Kertoobis exactly what they wanted. Of all the races, Doosies were the biggest storytellers and gossips you could ever meet. They had three ears – two in the normal places and another on the back of their heads – so they could hear absolutely everything that was said by anyone in the vicinity. In addition, they had long, prehensile noses, perfect for sticking into other people’s business. Unfortunately, they only had one eye and not a very good one at that, so there were often substantial discrepancies between what they heard and what had actually happened. Not that this ever got in the way of a Doosie telling a good story. In fact, Doosies were so efficient at passing news from one to another that they were the primary source of information for pretty much all other races. As soon as one Doosie heard something, it was usually only a matter of hours before pretty much every other Doosie in the land also knew about it, which explained the popular Kertoobi rhyme:

If you’re after the newsy,
Then speak to a Doosie.

Not a particularly good rhyme, but it did neatly sum up the way Doosies always seemed to know absolutely everything about everyone. It also summed up the great appeal of having a couple of Doosies in the village.

When the two short, but sturdily built, figures reached the village square, they sat down and began recounting a tale to their enraptured audience. The story involved the Geruntings, a fearsomely shy folk who had spent the last twenty years building the tiniest city ever, so they could live their lives without being noticed by passers-by. The city, truly one of the great marvels of its age, was filled with intricately designed palaces, shops and dwellings, none of which was higher than a few inches tall. Unfortunately, upon its completion, the Geruntings, who happened to be a race of fifteen-foot tall giants, quickly discovered that there was no way they could actually reside in the city they had so painstakingly created and were forced to remain out in the open, painfully exposed to all who passed.

The Kertoobis all giggled with delight at the completion of the story.

“Please tell us another story,” cried several members of the audience.

“I have another story,” proclaimed one of the Doosies in his rich, deep storyteller’s voice. “And this one will be extra special. I believe it involves somebody from this very village.”

An excited gasp went through the village square. It was rare indeed for a Kertoobi to be featured in a Doosie’s story.

“Is there anybody in this village named Magnus Mandalora?” boomed the other Doosie.

Magnus was not in the square at the time, but it didn’t take long for a host of Kertoobis to summon him out of isolation. Suddenly, he found himself in the rather uncomfortable position of being something of a celebrity again.

“What is this?” he demanded of the Doosies. “I haven’t done anything. How could I be in one of your stories?” As he spoke, Magnus began to get a feeling that he knew what this was going to be about. It was not a good feeling at all.

“Calm yourself, my good Kertoobi,” said the first Doosie. “You are not the one I was referring to.”

“But you do have a brother known as Jangos, if I’m not mistaken,” said the second.

“Yes I do,” said Magnus. “Do you know where he is? Can you tell me if he’s all right?”

The Doosies exchanged knowing glances. The first one puffed up his shoulders, a sure sign that he was returning to storyteller mode.

“Three bodies were recently discovered on the road leading to the rim of the fabled Whounga Canyon, famous for its iridescent cliffs,” he declared solemnly, before signaling for his companion to take up the story.

“Two of those discovered were members of the mighty Cherine race, resident of the noble city of Sweet Harmody. The third was a member of that most charming and good-natured, although occasionally distressingly unworldly race, referred to by themselves, and coincidentally most others as well, as Kertoobis.”

“Upon close examination,” continued the first, “a letter was found on this body. A letter addressed to a certain Magnus and signed, ‘Your loving brother, Jangos Mandalora’.”

At these words, a second gasp filled the square, but this time it was a gasp of shock.

“Perhaps you would like to hear the contents of this letter?” enquired the second Doosie.

“Yes, tell us please,” the Kertoobis called out in horrified fascination.

“No!” cried one voice over the top.

Everyone in the square turned to face the speaker. Magnus Mandalora was shaking. When he finally managed to speak again, his voice was as cold as the frozen wastelands of Vardoom.

“I do not wish for you to tell me the contents of my brother’s final correspondence.”

“Don’t blame you in the least,” rumbled the first Doosie. “If it was my brother who had been murdered, I wouldn’t want the whole world to know.”

 “Did you say murdered?” said Magnus, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“Undoubtedly murdered,” confirmed the second Doosie. “From all the signs, it was clear that the party had been ambushed and slaughtered by a roving band of Glurgs.”

A final gasp reverberated through the square. This was not a gasp of excitement. It was not even a gasp of shock. It was a gasp of outright terror.

The Doosies grinned with satisfaction. They were always chuffed to get a reaction to a story, no matter what sort of reaction that might be.

“And that, my Kertoobi friends, is the end of our tale,” said the first. “Thank you so much for your kind hospitality.”

“We’d love to chat some more but we must be on our way,” said the other. “For such intrepid newshounds as we, there can be little rest.”

With that, the two Doosies stood up, hoisted their packs onto their broad backs, and strode importantly out of the village square and down to the road that led to Sweet Harmody, leaving Magnus to endure the stares of his fellow villagers.

For a long minute nobody said a word. Silence enveloped the town square. Then, at last, Magnus turned and began walking slowly away. Suddenly, his whole world was different. The village was blurry and unclear, as if it had been enshrouded by the mists from the dreaded Plergle Swamp. Eventually he managed to stagger back to his kertottage. He reached out, groping blindly for one of the front door handles, opened the door, and then collapsed onto the front mat.

Nobody followed.

After about half an hour, Magnus came to. He crawled into the lounge room and sat himself down. The whole time, his mind was racing around in circles like an untethered borse.

It had to be a story. It couldn’t be true.

Magnus tried to persuade himself that the whole thing was just an invention of the Doosies. It was well known that most of the stories told by those incorrigible gossip-mongers were wholly, or at least seventy-five percent, fabricated. Like that first story. Everyone knew that the Geruntings were not really shy, fifteen-foot tall giants, but a race of tall but canny tourist operators who ran a large and extremely well-frequented miniature village-based theme park. That was the fun part of listening to Doosie stories: trying to figure out which bit was real and which bit was made up.

Try as he might, Magnus could not convince himself that this news was the fanciful imaginings of the Doosies. Everything about the story fitted; the fact that Magnus had not heard from Jangos in months; the location the bodies were discovered, on the way to the Whounga Canyon; the letter, especially the way it had been signed, exactly like all of the other letters Jangos had sent. There could be no doubt about it. This had to be one of those rare occasions when the Doosies had actually gotten their story correct. Jangos was almost certainly dead.

A tear slowly dripped down Magnus’s face.

“Jangos, why did you let this happen to you?” he sobbed. “Why did you ever leave the village? Why did you have to get the cursed Grompets?”

Magnus still struggled to comprehend the urgings that had led Jangos to his doom. What was there in the outside world that you couldn’t find here in Lower Kertoob? Sure there was excitement, and adventure, and amazingly marvellous sights to see. What was that against the safety and surety that village life offered? If Jangos had only been content to stay at home, there was no way he would ever have been ambushed by a murderous band of…

Magnus found it difficult to even think the word, let alone say it. It was one that was not often uttered in the village. The Glurgs. The most horrifyingly revolting, detestably repugnant creatures ever to have defiled the world. Vicious and savage and ruthless and cruel. The Glurgs were the scourge of all other races, the enemy in a great struggle that had gone on for as long as history had been recorded.

A great wave of fury swept over Magnus. He hated the Glurgs for what they had done to his brother, hated them like he had never hated anything before. He wanted to hurt them like they had hurt Jangos. He wanted to kick them and beat them and bash them and mash them till nothing was left of the whole accursed race but the slimy, squalid mulch they had been born from.

About the Author

Jonathan Gould has lived in Melbourne, Australia all his life, except when he hasn’t. He has written comedy sketches for both the theatre and radio, as well as several published children’s books for the educational market.

He likes to refer to his stories as dag-lit because they don’t easily fit into recognisable genres (dag is Australian slang for a person who is unfashionable and doesn’t follow the crowd – but in an amusing and fun way). You might think of them as comic fantasies, or modern fairytales for the young and the young-at-heart.

Over the years, his writing has been compared to Douglas Adams, Monty Python, A.A. Milne, Lewis Carroll, the Goons, Dr Seuss and even Enid Blyton (in a good way).

To order Magnus Opum, go to http://www.amazon.com/Magnus-Opum-ebook/dp/B007QGNO1I/

For more on Jonathan, visit http://daglit.blogspot.com

Follow Jonathan on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/jonathangouldwriter

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Ethan Jones is the author of Arctic Wargame—the first spy thriller in the Justin Hall series, released in May 2012, and Tripoli’s Target—the second book in this series, released on October 4, 2012. He has also published several short stories. Ethan is a lawyer by trade. He lives in Canada with his wife and son.

Justin Hall and Carrie O’Connor, Canadian Intelligence Service Agents, find themselves in lawless North Africa on the trail of an assassination plot. The target is the US President, and the hit is scheduled to take place during a G-20 summit in Libya’s capital, Tripoli. But the source of their information is the deceitful leader of one of the deadliest terrorist groups in the area. Ambushes and questionable loyalties turn an already difficult mission into a dark maze of betrayal and misdirection.

Forced to return to Tripoli, Justin and Carrie dig up new intelligence pointing to a powerful Saudi prince bankrolling the assassination plan. What’s worse, Justin and Carrie realize something crucial is very, very wrong with their plan. The summit is only forty-eight hours away and they still have to stop the Saudi prince, dismantle the assassination plot, and save the life of Tripoli’s target.

Tripoli’s Target promises to take the reader through a great story as it becomes the next international bestseller. Fans of David Baldacci, Vince Flynn, and Daniel Silva will love this high-octane spy thriller.

About the Author

Ethan Jones is the author of Arctic Wargame—the first spy thriller in the Justin Hall series, released in May 2012, and Tripoli’s Target—the second book in this series, released on October 4, 2012. He has also published several short stories. Ethan is a lawyer by trade. He lives in Canada with his wife and son.

Follow Ethan on Twitter at https://twitter.com/EthanJonesBooks and on Facebook at  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ethan-Jones/329693267050697

For more on Ethan, visit http://ethanjonesbooks.wordpress.com

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Pasta! Vino! Hill Towns! Coins in the Fountain will transport you to Italy where you can find out what it’s really like to live the expatriate life. It’s all here in the story of a couple who said “NO!” to middle age boredom and made a dash from a small-town in Oregon to cosmopolitan Rome when the author went to work for the United Nations.  In between actually working there were Italian weddings to attend, music to be heard, a close-up with the Pope, travel with the wine club and country weekends in Umbria where the Etruscans still seem to be lurking about. A brush with the Italian medical system, an auto accident with the military police, a fall in the subway, interactions with their excitable landlord and helping pick grapes at harvest time all became part of their daily adventures. And of course there were many new friends like the countess with her butt-reducing machine and the count who served as a model for statues of naked horsemen.

Taking up early retirement unexpectedly the author’s husband met strange vegetables in his valiant efforts to learn to cook Italian-style. When not struggling in the kitchen he played golf on a course where the rough featured snakes and unexploded bombs and crewed on a sailboat that came close to disaster on the way to Greece.

Part memoir, part travelogue to off-beat sites in Rome and elsewhere, you will be amused and intrigued with the stories of food, friends and adventures. You, too, will want to run away to join the Circus (the Circus Maximus, that is). And before you depart Rome, you will never forget to throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain to ensure a return to beautiful Rome and enchanting Italy.

Excerpt

It was time to leave Rome.

Glenn and I sat on the sofa while the movers carefully packed our final purchases and remaining clothes in layer upon layer of white paper. The rest of our material goods were already in a shipping container waiting to be transported “home,” a concept that after so many years in Italy had taken on a somewhat uncertain meaning. Geographically it was to be a small town near Seattle but in my heart I knew home would always remain Rome. We now favored pasta over potatoes, stylish clothes and strappy sandals (for me, anyway) instead of gray fleece and tennis shoes, and Vino Nobile di Montepulciano rather than beer. Our conversation was peppered with Italian words when we couldn’t recall the English equivalent, and visits to our once and future Pacific Northwest home were remembered for the dreary weather and excruciatingly slow drivers.

My work contract was completed and family beckoned.  Glenn was content to give up the charms and challenges of Italy for a more settled life but I was anxious. Losing my friends, work and country, however temporary it had all been, was a large dose of change to manage at one time. Already starting the transition, we moved out of our home for the last six years when the rental contract expired. We were now perched in an apartment on the Aventine Hill, house sitting while the regular renters were on leave in Quebec.

When the movers departed they presented us with a bottle of prosecco in thanks for the business. While we sipped we tried to look into a cloudy crystal ball (in reality our smudged wine glasses) in a vain attempt to see the future. We soon gave up, turning back instead to thoughts of the events that had shaped our lives. Immediately coming to mind were those of the first months in the Eternal City on our initial Italian sojourn. It began on the same Aventine Hill.

“Do you remember?” Glenn said.

“How could I forget?” I answered.

* * *

“Hey! What are you doing? STOP that!!”

I sprang up from the floor where I was lounging on a deflated air mattress and rushed into what was supposed to be our dining room in the echoing, still-empty apartment. Why was Glenn shouting? I found the answer when I saw my normally mild mannered husband hanging out the window yelling at a group of nuns in their crisp black and white habits as they dumped wheelbarrows filled with garbage onto the open space behind our building. They looked up briefly. Then, paying no further attention to the outraged foreigner, they finished their work and swished off toward an unseen convent.

It was Saturday morning. To our great surprise, I had gone to work for a branch of the United Nations a month earlier. We stayed in a hotel on the Aventine Hill for the first two weeks after our arrival in Rome and then in a new colleague’s apartment for another two weeks while he was back in California. Now, at the unsettled beginning of the second month of a planned four-year stay we were tired and cranky from sleeping on the living room floor on a bed of flattened cardboard cartons that originally held an air mattress, a few dishes, pots and pans, two folding chairs, an old card table and some clothes. These items comprised our air shipment, meant to tide us over until the shipping container arrived by sea a couple of months later. The air mattress we hoped to use over the cardboard had slowly and irreparably deflated, paralleling our naïve enthusiasm for the whole adventure of a move to romantic Italy.

We had been desperate to find a home. The hotel was expensive and my settlement allowance was running out. The American Embassy located apartments for its staff, but my new office offered no assistance. The rental agents we contacted from newspaper ads had nothing satisfactory to offer, nor did the few ads on an office bulletin board. Word of mouth eventually led us to another agent, a disagreeable American who made her living finding apartments for greenhorns like us with minimum effort on her part. She insisted that we take the bus to the apartments she suggested, leaving us scrambling to find buildings in unfamiliar locations and waiting until she drove up at her leisure and parked her car on the sidewalk. Worse, after she signed us up we began to hear stories that circulated in the gossipy expatriate community that was welcoming us. One story in particular made us especially cautious about the woman: Several years before our arrival Marge invited a client for lunch at her own apartment that was filled with cats and their untended litter boxes. After a microwaved meal of Fettuccine Alfredo, she announced that she had an appointment and left, locking him inside. He was trapped with the cats. After waiting an hour, he managed to signal a neighbor on an adjoining balcony who reluctantly let him climb over the railings to escape an unknown fate.

We weren’t subjected to such dramatic events but then Marge hadn’t shown us anything livable either with her numerous dark and dilapidated suggestions. At the point when we were getting agitated she finally produced an attractive solution that we later heard was yet another apartment where she had resided. Our proposed new home had large windows on both long sides of one wing of a small building. It also came with a telephone, a bonus as it often took a year to have one installed at that time just before cell phones became available. Best of all, there were two balconies on one side and a sunny terrace opening off the master bedroom and living room on the other. The outdoor spaces were the real attraction for migrants from our cloudy home near Portland, Oregon.

We nodded to Marge in agreement. The next day she and the owner came to my office after work to present two contracts, both in Italian. The only part Glenn and I could read was the rental rate. The first document showed the low, legally allowable, amount. The second was for the remaining, exorbitant, amount. I signed as the breadwinner, handed over a pile of cash to our new landlord and another to our agent. After we shook hands, we were given a bunch of huge keys, the type one would expect to be used in an old monastery or castle dungeon. The place was ours. Before Marge walked off fondling her commission she offered some advice: “Always buy De Cecco pasta.”

Early fall, it was still hot. I tried to focus on a remark by the ancient Roman orator Seneca: “Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.” Well, I always wanted to have a change of place, and now my wish came true. But sometimes mental exhaustion was a more common sensation than new vigor as my brain tried to get organized to meet the dramatic change in my life.

Our nights were spent lying awake on the floor contemplating my job, the antics of the nuns and the difficulties of getting settled. Packs of incessantly barking dogs left behind when their owners went on vacation provided a background to our thoughts. Adding to the noise, eerie sirens like those in World War II movies split the night air. We squirmed on the flat, sweaty air mattress while considering our decision-making skills – deciding to leave secure jobs for a flight into fantasy. Mamma mia! What had we done to ourselves?

About the Author

Life was routine until mid-life when the author decided to get a law degree. After graduation from Lewis & Clark Law School in Portland, Oregon a chance meeting led her to run away to the Circus (Maximus) – actually to the United Nations office next door – where she worked as an attorney in the HR department and entered the world of expat life in Rome. After four years she and her husband returned to the U.S. But they missed life in Italy with its wonderful food and wine, endless history and their numerous friends. The gods smiled and another opportunity came along. Six more years in Rome, again working for the UN, followed. The many happy and sometimes fraught experiences are the subject of her memoir, Coins in the Fountain, published as an e-book. She continues to travel, having fitted in over 100 countries in between many journeys to Italy where she always tosses a coin in the Trevi Fountain to ensure another visit. While her suitcase is cooling off she writes for Travel Belles, an on-line travel magazine, blogs, works on her novel set in Rome and volunteers for arts and literary organizations.

Follow Judith on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/CoinsintheFountain

For more on Judith, go to http://aLittleLightExercise.blogspot.com and http://www.coinsinthefountain.com

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Nothing is as it seems anymore.

Leery from the horrifying incident at the end of her first year at Guilder Boarding School, Rae Kerrigan is determined to learn more about her new tattoo. looks Her expectations are high, an easy senior year and a happy reunion with Devon— the boy she’s not supposed to date. All hopes of happiness fade into shattered dreams the moment she steps back on campus.

Lies and secrets are everywhere, and a betrayal cuts Rae deeply. Among her conflicts and enemies, it appears as if her father is reaching out from beyond the grave to ruin her life. With no one to trust, Rae doesn’t know where or who to turn to for help.

Has her destiny been written? Or will she becomes the one thing she hates the most– her father’s prodigy.

About the Author

Wanita May grew up in the fruit belt of Ontario – St.Catharines. With a crazy-happy childhood, she has always had a vivid imagination and way too much energy.

The youngest of six — four older brothers, and a sister — taught her at a young age to be competitive in all aspects of life.

At sixteen, she began competing in athletics (track and field) and before she turned seventeen, she was representing Canada in high jump. She continued to compete, breaking Canada’s JR High Jump record (1.92m – 6′ 3 1/2″ for those metric-ly challenged). She attented University of Toronto, and Kansas State University – winning CIAU’s and becoming All-American 6x – NCAA Indoors Runner Up + more.

But you’re not interested in her athletic career – unless of course you’re curious to know she stands 1.70m (5’7″) and has jumped 20cm over her head on more than one occasion. She’s represented Canada at the World Championships, World Jrs., won Francophone Games, and loved every minute of every competition. From the grueling workouts, the crazy weights she lifted on her back, the days she thought her lungs were going to spit out of her mouth for lack of oxygen, the traveling around the world and the opportunity to read – her favorite past time.

Life continued with her husband (a distance runner from Liverpool, UK, who she met at KSU) and then their first, then second and finally third child. Their house became full of more imagination and stories. Wanita and her husband run an online business, dealing in antiques and collectables – particularly jewelry and porcelain

After her father passed away in 2009, from a six-year battle with cancer (which she still believes he won the fight against), she began to write again. A passion she’d loved for years, but realized life was too short to keep putting it off.

Her first book, Rae of Hope – from the Chronicles of Kerrigan, published by Mitchell Morris Publishing debuted Oct 2011. Dark Nebula is available December 15th, 2012.

She is represented by Dawn Dowdle of Blue Ridge Literary Agency. Wanita is a writer of Young Adult, Fantasy Fiction and where ever else her little muses take her.

Follow Wanita on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-WJ-May-FAN-PAGE/141170442608149 and on Twitter @wanitajump

For more on Wanita, visit www.wanitamay.yolasite.com

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Romance, from the ashes of an Australian underworld street war centred in Sydney Australia grows the most unlikely marriage created by natural attraction and pure love elevated by a news hungry media to celebrity status. Newspaper reporter Jodi Stanton crosses paths with young parliamentarian Sandra Lovington after her husband Vigilante John Stanton saves her from the clutches of death during a bitter street war. Franticly placed in the care of an outlaw motorcycle club by Stantonthrough pure convenience, Lovington finds her destiny previously shielded from her by protective parents and an alternate lifestyle. Driven by the deepest of love and a dark past she turns on autocratic influence.

Part aboriginal police officer The Cadiche Man cuts a swath of intimidation and dead bodies through the Australian criminal world. With critical information supplied by x MI6 operative and Vigilante John Stanton Cadiche begins to eradicate the clan and they don’t know which way to turn.
The war is initiated by a new generation of mobster, born of the refuge influx and unchecked by unstable government fighting to stay in power and close to a hung parliament. The new breed begins to gun down anyone that stands in their way subject to no ones law but their own and they don’t have any. They enlist support of radical parliamentary members that hold the balance of power and pay powerful lawyers to play the system. The new clan is intoxicated with its power and lack knowledge of the Vigilante John Stanton looming in the background and his relationship with sidekick Cadiche. Middle Eastern clan members attempt to assassinate Cadiche rendering him close to death in an effort to curb the authoritarian onslaught and win back control.

Waring factions of the mob for year’s enemies convene an unprecedented meeting to discuss the problem. They pull together in an effort to preserve their existence threatened by the expanding clandestine cancer trashing their creed.Chinatown underworld head Wu Far an acquaintance of John Stanton drives the alliance that includes Mafia, Stonemason and Outlaw Motorcycle Club participation. Wu Far assures the unlikely allianceStanton will not cross the line and avenge a civilian namely the Cadiche man should he fall victim to the blood bath. How wrong could somebody be, between the linesStanton finds a little bit more than power and greed among the new clan.

Excerpt

Cadiche had less than a few seconds to decide, will I have to pull the trigger or not. His suspect’s were just different so he hesitated. They took hardly any notice of his demands and paid him no mind, then one produced a hand gun from inside his vehicle, a black Nissan Skyline GT. Parked on the side of the road the vehicle had both doors wide open and rap music blaring from the speakers, the young men of Middle Eastern appearance spoke a foreign tongue as they shouted at each other and Cadiche couldn’t understand them. Two young men were on the kerb side of the vehicle and he could see only the top of their torso and faces looking towards him, the other was in full view on the road side of the black Nissan and the protagonist began to laugh as he swung his weapon around towards Cadiche. Cadiche had his automatic 44 magnum pistol levelled at his assailants head at arms length as he held his ground standing on the white line in the middle of the roadway in his state police uniform. There was no one else around,ParramattaPark, Westmead, Sydney New South Wales Australia, joggers and cyclist had passed but at this particular moment the area was clear, still and warm. The sun caught the face of Cadiche’s assailant as it peeked over the gum trees and lit the area where they had met, for the first and last time. The gun wielding assailant began to put a second hand on the handle of the gun as he swung it up and around towards Cadiche. For the first time Cadiche could understand what was being said as the young Middle Eastern assailant screamed out with a pretentious grin and eyes of fire. “Die you fucking pig bastard!”

A shot broke the background drone of cars, busses and trains bustlingSydneycommuters around and the head of the young man disintegrated as the 44 magnum projectile from Cadiche’s weapon found its mark, his hands went limp and the gun and his body fell to the ground next to each other. Cadiche saw everything in slow motion as terror gripped the face of the remaining two young men, blood and brain fragments spotted around their faces, an ear landed on the centre of the cars roof in front of them. The two remaining young men began to raise their hands with blank looks etched with fear. “Open the fucking boot”! yelled Cadiche. They both looked at each other momentarily then shook their heads. Cadiche discharged another round removing the head of the assailant to his right and sending his body crashing to the ground a couple of meters backwards. He levelled his weapon at the remaining young man and again yelled the command. “Open the fucking boot shit head, it’ll be your arm not your head, very fucking nasty wound now move for fucks sake.”

“You killed my brother, what the fuck your a cop!” yelled the young man holding his hands on top of his head.

“Brother smother other makes no fucking odds to me arsehole, enough!” Another shot rang out and whistled past the young mans ear just nicking the edge and blood ran down the young mans neck. “Open the fucking boot orIllkill you and do it myself, is that to much to ask in exchange for your life!” The young man walked slowly around the front of the vehicle stepping over his dead friend lying beside his gun, he began to weep as he pulled the lever on the driver’s side floor and the boot clicked open. “Walk around the back stand couple of metres back where you can see inside the boot!” yelled Cadiche. The young man complied, Cadiche joined him holding his weapon to the young mans temple, he wept as he looked at the young Asian girls body lifeless in the boot, a look of innocence on her pale face her blue eyes still open, her body still warm and supple. “Bit late now, crying wont save you. I’ll ask questions the first one you don’t answer and I’ll decapitate you, I think you’ll understand that.” The young man swallowed and chocked to compose himself. “This girl is Lee Chan, Chinese from one of Wu Far’s brothels am I right.” The young man nodded. “You brought her here, fucked her and strangled her, don’t fuck me around. I’m pissed off; I was five minutes late, fuckingSydneytraffic, I watched you put her in there when I rolled up.” Cadiche briefly looked at the lifeless body lying in the boot on top of an array of packaged narcotics, automatic weapons and cash. He could hear the sirens in the background, the attending police cars were having the same problem as he trying to get to the spot in the morning traffic. “Wu Far, I know all about it, what I don’t know is who gives you your orders and encourages you to do shit like this. Are you insane, Wu Far will have your arse. Now your boss his name or you die.”

The young man gulped and coughed the muzzle of Cadiche’s weapon poised at this temple. “Idris Nasih.” he muttered.

“Idris Nasih, are you sure.”

“Fucking come on man!”

“Your name? Remember if it’s wrong I’ll find you anyway and won’t make the same mistake.

“Hakim Busri.”

“Originally from?

“Israel.”

“Idris Nasih, Lebanese, now there’s a name I haven’t heard for a while.Stantonsaid he’d come in handy I’m puzzled. Go, go on fuck off. Follow the river north to the weir, cross the river and find all your mates. Tell ‘em what you’ve seen; tell them the Cadiche man’s coming and he’s fucking had enough.” Cadiche pistol whipped the side of the young mans head he fell gained his feet and ran off towards the river one hundred meters away across the grassy park under the muzzle of Cadiche’s weapon, he reached the gum trees spooking a flock of sulphur crested cockatoos, they took to the wing with deafening cries and the young man faded from site amongst the undergrowth along the river.

A squad car drifted offO’Connell StreetParramattaontoByrnes Avenuealong theParramattaRiverwithin the park grounds and skidded to a halt adjacent to the black Nissan and parallel to Cadiche’s plain police ford. A burly officer leapt from the driver’s seat and viewed the scene. “What the fuck.”

Cadiche stood up; he was searching the dead assailant on the other side of the Nissan. “Where the fuck have you blokes been, I nearly got my fucking arse blown of here, thanks for fuck all.”

The burly cop looked at his partner, another heavily built officer whom had alighted and was looking over the roof of the squad car. “Fucking Cadiche, what a fucking mess, what the fuck you doing here you’re off your patch,Newcastle’s a hundred and twenty ks north of here.”

“Shut up and secure the scene Nick, if you blokes got here earlier we might have been able to ask these guys a few questions.”

“Well you certainly fucked that idea up a Rod,” he chuckled as he looked at his partner. “Pretty difficult to give evidence with no fucking head.”

Cadiche walked to the rear of black Nissan and called the officers over. There faces changed to stern disgust when they saw the young girl. “Prostitute works for Wu Far. They were bundling her into the boot, they raped and straggled her, I was too late. Fuck it.” Nick and Rod responded to Cadiche’s tone.

“Who the fuck are these mongrels, Wu Far, they must bemad.” said Rod.

“Something’s wrong guys, things are getting out of hand; even Wu Far’s having trouble controlling some of the mob. Drive bys, indiscriminate shootings are a daily occurrence, these fucking arseholes are hiding behind the law.”

“You better have a good story Cadiche here comes CI Stokes, he was on his way to work close by.” added Nick.

A plain white Holden pulled up with two more squad cars, people had begun to gather near by and officers moved to secure the scene. Chief Inspector David Stokes inspected the carnage then spoke to Cadiche Nick and Rod. “What the fuck’s this mess and what are you doing here Cadiche?’”

“It’s nothing to do with Rod or Nick sir; they were the first to attend post incident sir. I was attending Westmead hospital to interview a witness to a murder as part of homicide investigations. I thought I’d have breakfast in the park here by the river prepared last night by my wife, lovely pastrami on rye. Upon accessingPark Avenuefrom Railway parade I noticed a women struggling on the bonnet of this black Nissan car with two men. I was to far away to see exactly what was going on so I stopped and observed with my binoculars across the width of the park. It was evident that one of these young men was raping the young women on the bonnet and the other was strangling her at the same time. I took me six minutes to get here through the traffic sir, sorry I was too late.”

Stokes folded his arms. “How did the suspects become deceased?” he asked.

“The suspect on the drivers side of the vehicle drew a weapon and when warned attempted to shot at me sir.”

Stokes hesitated with a stern look for a few seconds. “What exactly did you shot them with Cadiche; their heads are missing makes identification rather difficult.”

Cadiche pulled his 44 magnum auto from his holster. “This sir, gas powered auto 44 magnum, very effective stopping power, can penetrate the block of a vehicle at over two hundred meters.”

“That thing should have wheels Cadiche, far as I can remember that’s the thingStantongave you. I hope you have the paper work though the necessary official channels to be able to use such a weapon in the line of duty.”

“Absolutely sir, I’ll make a report atParramattacentral before returning to the Hunter.”

“Know anything about the drugs, automatic weapons and cash under the young lady.”

“No sir just happened to stumble on things indirectly. I’m sure your department will benefit from what’s been found sir, get lucky sometimes.”

Stokes coughed under his breath. “What did these persons look like Cadiche, having no head is proving to be an initial ID problem.”

They were Middle Eastern. I couldn’t understand the language they used whilst conversing with each other.”

“Well I suppose congratulations are in order, appears of late you’ve been stumbling on things all over the place,” said Stokes. “Got anything to do withStantonpassing on information?”

“I haven’t seen John Stanton for quite some time sir.”

“There’s a satellite phone on the seat of your car Cadiche, belong to you.”

“Yes sir got sick of Telstra and the rest of them and got something that can pick up anywhere.”

Stokes stocky frame lumbered around in a circle while he kicked the ground. “Something’s not right, the framework and attitude of the mob has changed. I hope to god that isStanton’s phone and you know what you’re doing. Things are getting way out of hand especially in the west here, more like the wild fucking west, we’ll be strapping colt forty fives and hip holsters on at this rate. We have some people making a mockery of justice and the free world. We’re trained and equipped to control law abiding citizens, these bastards are fucking evil. I’m sick of jerking the public off in front of a camera. Find the rest of them and make sure it’s as clean as this. The press are here, I can at least give the public some hope. We need a different system, or a miracle. Good day gentlemen.” Stokes walked off towards a throng of gathered media held back by a now massive police presence.

“Fuck me you scored points with the CI,” said Rod.

Cadiche looked sternly at his partners. “He’s right, what kind of shit are we dealing with here. Things are like a pressure cooker; this just may blow the whistle.”

“Who’s gonna know about this, people can only go on what the press are given,” quipped Nick.

“The river has eyes, just wait and see,” replied Cadiche.

“You’re fucking weird man.”

About the Author

Brian Cain was born in theUKin 1953 one of six boys to a military family and migrated toAustraliain 1969 alone at the age of 15 ending up on the streets. His battle to survive and become part of mainstream Australian society is a story of ten books in itself. He writes novels of many topics drawing from a natural ability and colourful life. He has indulged in many professions and holds post graduate mining management qualifications working in the industry for forty years starting as a kitchen hand in a remote Australian mine in 1970, when on route to the outback location on foot he nearly died of thirst in 45 degree heat. He has travelled extensively inAustraliatouching places only few get to see. He plays drums, guitar and is an accomplished blues harmonica player, vocalist and songwriter, fronting his own bands singing blues rock and has a classically trained voice through operatic participation. He has been a member of an outlaw motorcycle club in the early 70s, raced motorcycles in the late 70s and 80s, restores antiques and is currently indulging in federal politics. He lives in the central highlands of New South Wales Australia with his third wife and family.

To order Australia, visit http://www.amazon.com/ONCE-UPON-TIME-AUSTRALIA-ebook/dp/B009EIB9UY/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1348740053&sr=1-1&keywords=once+upon+a+time+in+Australia

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Megan Black, small town farmer from Illinois just arrived in the scenic and upscale city of Santa Barbara. The prestigious city can be overwhelming for a lonely girl, running from her past.

Landing a job as temporary cook for an influential family, she settles into her new life. However, changing geographic locations has done little to ease her heartache. The unforgiving ghosts from her past are always present. Work is the only solace for keeping them at bay.   

 Her mundane routine is interrupted with the entrance of her boss’s son, Steven. Her confrontation with him on the beach a few weeks before ended with angry words.  The irritation of that first meeting disintegrates leaving in its wake an attraction, which Megan fiercely fights, and Steven strongly encourages.   

As they spend more time together, including cooking lessons for Steven, the fascination grows. Finding her reserved and distant demeanor more than challenging he is persistent in pursuing her. 

The last thing Megan needs right now is romance. Her battle with bitter memories of the past consumes most of her energy. When the battle is lost, and the memories forge through her strong resolve, Steven’s friendship comforts her during those tormented hours as she relives the death of her unborn child, confronting the guilt and anger. After sealing off her heart for over a year she now must work through the grief, and find her faith in God again.

 Steven and his parents convince her to move into the estate so they can help. This move plays havoc with her emotions. Trying to keep distance between them will be hard to do living in the same house. She fears the attraction building between her and Steven will only lead to more hurt — as there are still some ghosts from the past to be dealt with.

Steven finds his womanizing days drawing to a close as Megan’s warm, gentle, and sometimes sassy disposition heals his untrusting heart. After suffering the pangs of betrayal fifteen years earlier he’d decided to never get close to anyone again. But Megan has changed his thinking. Now all he has to do is convince her of that.

After Thanksgiving Steven invites her to the beach for a volleyball game with his friends and some sightseeing. The fun-filled day only deepens the intimate feelings between them. With Megan’s defenses weakened he tries again for a date. Unable to resist his romantic, boyish charm any longer she accepts.

The date, which includes dinner at a romantic restaurant and a moonlit stroll along the beach, ends in disaster when a brawny cowboy shows up claiming to be Megan’s husband. Stunned, she faints, hitting her head on the marble floor. The anger and confusion are put on hold while she’s unconscious. However sparks fly the next morning when John and Steven get into a fist-fight.

Returning in a much calmer mood the next morning John visits with Megan. Betrayal is evident in his tone as he accuses her of adultery. Megan believes he tracked her down for a divorce. Neither one is sure of the other’s feelings.  

The only thing more shocking than Steven’s split lip and purple eye, is his accusation that Megan left John because of abuse. Assurances that John never touched her fall on deaf ears, Steven isn’t ready to face the reality of losing her. Angry at the situation and at fate he vents his aggravation on Megan. The agitated conversations with both men strain her already fragile mental state until she slips into her own little world not recognizing anyone.

Worried and distraught John moves into the estate to be closer to her. This causes discord between Steven and his parents, but Megan’s health is foremost. After she recovers both men vow to fight for her love.

John sets his plan in motion by asking Megan to watch the sunrise. They talk about their feelings surrounding the death of their daughter and grieve together for the first time. As the next few weeks pass, Megan is faced with the difficult task of choosing between the two men. Although her and John are working through their problems, she can’t deny the feelings for Steven. The decision is tearing her apart; she doesn’t want to hurt either one.

Realizing the turmoil Megan suffers over the situation Steven backs off. Although he loves her, he doesn’t want to cause any more anguish. John on the other hand, forages full steam ahead. His efforts are rewarded intimately. Megan still finds herself torn between both men. Even though she’d just made love to her husband, she can’t disclaim the emotional bond toward Steven.

In a last ditch effort to win her back, John sets up a picnic on the beach, asking her on bended knee to come home again. Fearing his animosity, but tired of carrying the guilt, she divulges the details of her part in the baby’s death. John doesn’t blame her, claiming it was an accident. He convinces her to go to counseling and to trust God. The couple is reunited just in time for Christmas.

When Megan informs Steven of her decision, he assures her that he’ll never regret their time together. She helped him overcome the past and trust again. Even though his heart is breaking, letting her go is the right thing to do. Steven realizes he can’t handle life by himself and turns to God. 

John and Megan prepare to leave on the Petersons private plane. Steven shakes John’s hand, commanding him to take good care of Megan. A quiet respect has developed between the two. While saying good-bye to Megan he asks, “Could you have loved me?”

“If things had been different, and I hadn’t already made a commitment to John,” she heard her heart breaking, “how could I not.” Tearing herself from his embrace she runs to the plane. Steven watches it take off with tears in his eyes but pride in his heart. For the first time in his life he put someone else’s needs above his own

After reaching home Megan feels peace for the first time. Coming to terms with the situation, she accepts that God is in control. After informing John that she is pregnant, he voices concerns over her decision to reunite because of the baby. She assures him she’d made up her mind before knowing about the pregnancy. Happy and excited John sweeps her up in his arms and carries her inside the house.

About the Author

Candy-Ann Little grew up in a small town in Ohio. She now resides in Michigan with her husband and two adult kids. When she’s not busy writing she enjoys helping with church activities – especially working with children – reading, cooking and baking. 

For more on Candy, go to http://candylittle.wordpress.com/

Follow Candy on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/candy.little.79 and on Twitter at https://twitter.com/candyannlittle 

To order Unforgiving Ghosts, go to http://www.amazon.com/Unforgiving-Ghosts-ebook/dp/B009A0ABAK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1350240532&sr=1-1&keywords=unforgiving+ghosts

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

Kincaid Kingsley returns to the town of his childhood after the death of his twin brother, Xander. Believing the crime to be motivated by hate and prejudice, Kincaid sets out to discover why the police are no longer actively investigating the case and hopefully uncover his brother’s killer in the process.

Things in Wren are not as they seem, however, and the closer that Kincaid gets to an answer, the more danger he encounters. Why are all the townspeople so afraid to share what they know?

As the mystery surrounding Xander’s death unravels, the town becomes increasingly blind to what is actually going on. Can Kincaid discover who killed his brother and save the town from evil?

About the Author

Joshua Skye was born in Jamestown, New York but predominantly grew up in the Texas Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex. He is a graduate of K.D. Studio Actor’s Conservatory of the Southwest and has worked on indie/underground films and on stage. He lives in rural Pennsylvania with his partner Ray of sixteen years and their eight year old son, Syrian. His short stories have appeared in anthologies from STARbooks Press, Knightwatch Press, Sirens Call Publications, Rainstorm Press, JMS Books and periodicals such as Blood and Lullabies.

He is the author of The Singing Wind, Bareback: A Werewolf’s Tale, along with the forthcoming Midnight Rainbows, and The Grigori.

For more from Pink Pepper Press, go to http://www.pinkpepperpress.com

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