A Slice of Orange

Home

Sing to Me of Rain Book Tour and Giveaway

May 25, 2021 by in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Rabt Book Tours tagged as , , , ,
 
 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Middle-Grade Fantasy
 

 

Date Published: 5/22/21

 

 

 

 

 

 

An innocent naiad. A wounded boy. An adventure that will change their lives forever.

 

Plip is a naiad of the Great Waterfall, destined to one day sing the songs that send rain out into the world.

 

Akino isn’t destined for anything but trouble. His father long gone, his mother working on a plantation far away, he doesn’t really belong in the village below the Waterfall. And the villagers don’t let him forget it.

 

When Akino convinces Plip to travel down the mountain with him, for his own selfish purposes, he launches them into a world more dangerous than either of them could imagine. A world where people are not always what they seem and the rain does not fall evenly across the land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

 

 


E.B. Dawson was born out of time. Raised in the remote regions of a developing nation, traveling to America was as good as traveling thirty years into the future. Now she writes science fiction and fantasy to make sense of her unusual perspectives on life. Her stories acknowledge darkness, but empower and encourage people to keep on fighting, no matter how difficult their circumstances may be. She currently lives in Idaho with her family and her cat Maximus.

 

 

Contact Links

Website

Twitter

Blog

Goodreads

Pinterest

Instagram

 

 

Buy from Amazon
Buy from Apple Books
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Kobo

A Rafflecopter Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

RABT Book Tours & PR

Sing to Me of Rain

by E.B. Dawson

Captured

Plip shook herself and looked about tentatively. Out the opening of the globe, the caravan of kempelas strode on tirelessly over an endless sea of yellow sand. The bright blue sky hung low and thick all about them, almost tangible. Plip had the sensation for a moment that they were actually walking along the bottom of a great river, surrounded not by sky, but water.

Strange gray outcroppings began to emerge out of the blue. Porous rock which had been carved by the wind into sharp, jagged formations, like the teeth of some great monster.

But the illusion of water only reminded her how very far she was from the clear streams of the Mountain. She turned her attention to the orange sphere which housed her.

It seemed to be made of thick skin, stretched taut over a strong wooden frame. All about her were sacks of spices, piles of soft carpets, and various objects of fine metal, plus a plethora of items she could not identify. But just to her right was a cage with a very frightened looking bird inside. He was rather small and black, with a tuft of brilliant blue on his breast and matching blue rings around his eyes.

He kept tilting his head back and forth as he watched Plip and hopping left and right every few seconds.

“Poor thing. You’re as frightened as I am.”

The bird shrieked in alarm. His feathers puffed out all around his head and breast, forming a great black oval and revealing a larger stripe of bright blue. He shuffled back and forth in a funny little dance. His head seemed to have disappeared entirely.

Plip watched silently, thoroughly impressed but a bit confused, until the dance ended, and the little bird’s feathers settled back into place, revealing his head once more.

“Amazing!” Plip whispered.

The bird hopped backwards, lowered its head towards the floor and tilted its beak up suspiciously. “You did speak!” he cried, in a shrill voice. “Oh, this is terrible. What kind of a demon are you?”

“But you’re talking too,” Plip protested.

“I’m a shangrila bird, of course I can talk.”

“I never knew any birds that could talk,” Plip said.

The shangrila bird ruffled his feathers. “And how many birds have you known?”

“Well, none really.”

“Hmph. I thought as much. Birds are wildly misunderstood by bottom dwellers.”

“Bottom dwellers?”

“That’s what I said. Most of the world is made up of sky. Or do you never bother to look up?”

“I never thought of it that way,” Plip admitted, though she didn’t particularly like the bird’s tone.

“What am I thinking, trying to explain things to a sprite?” The bird straightened his neck.

“Who’s a sprite?”

“You are!” He flapped his wings impatiently.

“I’m not a sprite, I’m a naiad!”

“What’s the difference?”

Plip frowned. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know. What’s a sprite, exactly?”

“They live in the clouds,” the shangrila said. “They’re the ones who make it rain…or not rain, as the case may be.” He began pruning himself absentmindedly.

“They’re not the ones who make rain,” Plip protested. “The naiads and Weather Masters do that.”

“What nonsense are you babbling?”

Plip crossed her arms in irritation. “It isn’t nonsense, and I should think I know more about it than you, anyway.”

“Oh, really? You didn’t even know what a sprite was!” The shangrila crossed his wings comically.

Plip did a quick somersault inside her jar. “Well, I’ve never been inside a cloud.”

“My point exactly.” The shangrila would not look at her.

Curiosity softened Plip’s temper. “So, what is a sprite, exactly? Do they look like me?”

“A great deal…though now that I come to think of it, there are significant differences. You wouldn’t last long in the clouds; you are entirely too solid.”

Plip was beginning to suspect that there was no real ill will behind the shangrila’s insults. “And they don’t talk?”

“Certainly not. They haven’t the capacity for it. They aren’t really sentient, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Plip said somberly.

“Well,” said the bird in a satisfied tone, “you are young.”

“I wonder if the Weather Masters know about the sprites,” Plip said softly to herself. “Please, Mr. Bird—”

“Mr. Burung, if you please.”

“Please, Mr. Burung, do you know how they make it rain?”

Burung stuck his chest out and cleared his throat. “Ah, well you see, it’s all rather involved and multifaceted and one might even say interdimensional.”

Plip’s eyes grew wide.

“It would take an expert to explain the process thoroughly, which I am not—though I understand why you may think I am. But I do think even the experts would agree that it could all be summed up by the word evaporation.”

Plip frowned.

“Yes, evaporation is that complicated process by which a cloud sheds its water and rain falls to the earth.”

“And the sprites help with this process?”

“Just so. And it must be quite a messy business, too. For they seem to always be squabbling among themselves.”

“This is all so much more complicated than I ever understood,” Plip sighed.

“As is life,” Burung said with a dramatic sigh, “as is life.”

“I wish Akino were here.”

“Who’s Akino?” Burung asked.

“He’s my friend. He’s clever and brave and used to being on his own.” She sighed again. “Do you know where they’re taking us?”

“Somewhere terrible, I expect.” Burung sunk his head into his shoulders. “The Sand Plains are not known for their spiritual enlightenment. They stopped visiting the White Temple decades ago.”

“What is the White Temple?” Plip asked.

“Bless me,” Burung cawed, “it’s sentient, but it’s a heathen. The White Temple is only the holiest place in all the lands. It is where the physical world and the spirit world connect. All those seeking enlightenment find their way there eventually.”

“Have you been there?”

Burung rocked back and forth in a self-satisfied manner. “Many times. The White Temple is located in the center of the forest which I call home. The White Monks are kind to my people and often choose us as companions for their lifelong journey toward enlightenment.”

“I had no idea!” Plip was duly impressed, even if she didn’t fully understand what it was she was impressed by. “What does enlightenment mean?”

Burung sighed. “Spiritual knowledge and understanding of Maha.”

“What is maha?”

“Maha is the ultimate being, the origin and sustainer of life. The sun rises by his decree.”

“Oh, you mean the Creator!” Plip gasped. “He taught the first naiads to sing and gave the Weather Masters their skill.”

“I suppose so,” Burung looked a little puzzled, “though I have never heard of you or your weather masters.”

Just then a man entered the globe, momentarily blocking out the dazzling sunlight and casting a shadow directly over Burung.


0 0 Read more

Good Lookin’ Book Tour and Giveaway

May 24, 2021 by in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Rabt Book Tours tagged as , , ,
 
 

Good Lookin’ 

A Joe Turner Mystery

by

T.L. Bequette

 

Mystery, Legal Thriller

Date Published: May 24, 2021

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

From the gang-ravaged streets of inner-city Oakland to the rolling hills of Berkeley, California, attorney Joe Turner defends the most hardened criminals. Confronted with an unlikely murderer in a modern-day whodunnit, Turner’s latest case seems impossible to unravel. At its heart is a decade-old murder and a tangled web of family, loyalty, and devotion that has the trial hanging in the balance. Viewed through the prism of the unique bond of twins, Good Lookin’ asks how far each of us will go to protect the ones we love.


 

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Instagram

Purchase Link

Amazon

a Rafflecopter giveaway

RABT Book Tours & PR

Good Lookin’ 
A Joe Turner Mystery
by
T.L. Bequette

Excerpt

For a split second I thought about running, but Dunigan filled the doorway as he picked up the deputy with his handcuffed meat hooks and effortlessly tossed him into the hallway. I’ll never forget the hollow clang of the metal door when he shut it, locking us inside the tiny room.

I smashed a red alarm button on the wall behind me just before Dunigan slid the heavy metal table across the room as if it were made of plastic, pinning me against the wall. The behemoth leaned on the table and stared at me, eyes wild and grinning maniacally. He took a couple deep breaths and forcefully blew the air and spittle out through his yellowed teeth.

He stood up straight, keeping me pinned to the wall, leaning his girth against the table. I tried to push it away with both hands, twisting frantically but it was useless against his weight and strength. His grin widened and his breathing intensified—as did the production of spit— as if aroused by my fear. Then he reached towards my head with his two hands the size of catcher’s mitts, holding them there a few inches from my head. I turned sideways and pressed my cheek against the wall, keeping sight of his hands with one eye that pulsed with panic. He kept his hands there, close to my face, reveling in the anticipation. I pictured his hands squeezing my head, his thumbs entering my brain through my eye-sockets.


0 0 Read more

FOUR CUTS TOO MANY: A Sarah Blair Mystery by DEBRA H. GOLDSTEIN—A REVIEW BY VERONICA JORGE

May 22, 2021 by in category Book Reviews by Veronica Jorge, Write From the Heart by Veronica Jorge tagged as , , , ,

Four Cuts Too Many: A Sarah Blair Mystery By Debra H. Goldstein

Kensington Publishing Corp.  2021   ISBN 978-1-4967-3221-7

It started out as a regular day. Sarah Blair sat outside of the Carleton Junior Community College waiting for her friend Grace Winston, a cutlery teacher in the culinary arts department. And if you’ve read the previous Sarah Blair mysteries, you know that nothing is ever ordinary in Sarah’s life.

In Four Cuts Too Many, Debra H. Goldstein’s new Sarah Blair cozy mystery, Dr. Douglas Martin, the chairman of the culinary arts program gets stabbed in the back…literally. Sarah dons her sleuthing cap once again to find the real killer, but she finds herself hard pressed to figure out who had the best motive because the entire staff referred to Dr. Martin as the ‘Malevolent Monster.’

When the police target Grace as the prime suspect, even Sarah cannot explain away her friend’s argument with the chairman and her bloody apron. Or the fact that the knife in his back belonged to Grace!

Like searching for a hidden object embedded in a painting, Debra is a master at hiding the true killer in plain sight within the story. Filled with a motley crew of characters and a tangle of secret lives, and ambitious hearts where no one is exactly what they seem, Four Cuts Too Many is an engaging page turner and a delightful read.

I can’t wait to read what Debra cooks up in her next mystery.  Five __ Too Many?  Whatever it is, I am certain that with her creativity and story skills she will create another recipe for success.

And if you want to ramp up your kitchen skills, the recipes at the end of the book are a tasty ending to a great story so make sure to treat yourself. 

Veronica Jorge

See you next time on June 22nd!

Buy from Amazon
Buy from Apple Books
Buy from Barnes and Noble
Buy from Books-A-Million
Buy from Google Play
Buy from Kobo
Buy from IndieBound

The Sarah Blair Mystery Series

(Hover over covers for buy links. Click covers for more information.)

ONE TASTE TOO MANY

Buy now!
ONE TASTE TOO MANY

TWO BITES TOO MANY

Buy now!
TWO BITES TOO MANY

THREE TREATS TOO MANY

Buy now!
THREE TREATS TOO MANY

FOUR CUTS TOO MANY

Buy now!
FOUR CUTS TOO MANY

FIVE BELLES TOO MANY

Buy now!
FIVE BELLES TOO MANY
2 0 Read more

May Featured Author: Neetu Malik

May 21, 2021 by in category Featured Author of the Month tagged as , , ,

Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived. She has contributed to The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, October Hill Magazine, Prachya Review, among others. Her poems have appeared in The Poetic Bond Anthology V and VI published by Willowdown Books, UK,  NY Literary Magazine’s Tears Anthology  and Poetic Imagination Anthology (Canada).

Her poem, “Soaring Flames”, was awarded First-Place by the NY Literary Magazine (2017). She has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019 for her poem “Sacred Figs” published by Kallisto Gaia Press in their Ocotillo Review in May, 2018.

Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA.


You can find Neetu’s poetry in these volumes.

Hover on the cover for buy links. Click on the cover for more information.


0 0 Read more

Confessions From Quarantine

May 19, 2021 by in category On writing . . . by Jenny Jensen tagged as , , ,

Confessions From Quarantine

Fourteen months ago, when life became weirdly constricted, I didn’t wonder what to do with all that extra time. I’d read of course. Read, write a bit, and read some more.  I could never tire of reading but by month 7 my eyes could — and did. I was ordered to rest my vision for one month. There’s always audio books, but I hate earbuds.

Daytime TV

I tried daytime TV – in that murky upper cable range.  I found myself in awe of the creativity of producers desperate for material to fill a 24/7 schedule. What obscure subjects! Shows like Storm of Suspicion. “True crime series that examines spellbinding crimes where the weather uncovered or solved crimes.” Wow! How many of those can you dig up? I moved on to an array of paranormal shows that all seemed to feature casually dressed young people filmed by a shaky camera in a deserted house where they would stop in shock and ask in a whisper, “Did you hear that?”  Well, I never heard any thing and Ghost Busters did the hand held ghost meter thing a whole lot better. I conclude that daytime TV is not much of a pasttime.

Cooking

Next — cooking. I’ve said before I’m not much good at it, but I do strive (now and then) to improve. I Googled ‘simple French recipes’ hoping to dazzle Tom and tried a stuffed chicken roulade touted to be “All the French, none of the fussiness.” Tricksy click bait, that. First I needed to pound my butterflied chicken breasts to ½ inch thickness. Pound them? I have hammers, but I wouldn’t eat something I used them on. I settled on whacking them about with a rolling pin. They weren’t all that thick anyway.

I made the simple filling (I’m good with vegies and nuts). It was the roll up part that got me. My breasts just weren’t cooperative. Once I finally got them in the hot pan they refused to stay neatly rolled. In the end it tasted pretty good, but it wasn’t pretty. Enough with cooking.

Back to Reading

By now the eyes felt rested and ready to resume their primary function— reading. It was just a question of what to read. I wanted something entirely new to me. Something I might never in a million years seek out. And I found it by the cover. There is a promise in the lurid illustrations of a hugely muscled man, his clothing torn from battle, his eyes uncompromising. The tales of Doc Savage, the man of bronze were written in the 1930’s and 40’s, all 182 of them.

Lester Dent authored most under the house name Kenneth Robeson and the world and characters he built for the tales hold up beautifully 90 years later. Doc himself was once a victim— his parents were killed by bad guys — and he spent his youth honing his mind and body with lots of mysterious eastern mind techniques, exotic hand to hand fighting methods and grueling discipline — so he could spend a lifetime righting wrongs and punishing evil doers. Doc gathers a group of wonderfully eccentric characters to fight along with him. My favorites are Ham the dandy, and Monk the ape-like chemist.

All successful series books need to work as stand alone stories but need to supply enough background to explain the series characters and setting. It’s a difficult thing to do well without feeling heavy handed. Mr. Dent solved the problem simply: every Doc Savage book uses the exact same one to two paragraph description and character sketch of each supporting actor — and then he gets on with the action. And it works! I read 22 of the 182 Doc Savage adventures and by book 4 I had those set pieces memorized, but they are so good and so funny the tale would have felt empty without them.

It’s hard to decide what’s best about the Doc Savage books. It could be the complete innocence of of the world Doc protects, or the fact that Doc and his team never kill anybody (instead they take them to his Fortress of Solitude in the arctic and give them an operation that ‘cures’ them) or that Doc is a real doctor, he’s stinking rich and uses his money well, has a photographic memory, or that he is very shy around women. I loved it all.

It just goes to show that you can judge a book by its cover.

2 0 Read more

Copyright ©2017 A Slice of Orange. All Rights Reserved. ~PROUDLY POWERED BY WORDPRESS ~ CREATED BY ISHYOBOY.COM

>