Historical Fiction
Date Published: 08-01-1021
Publisher: BQB Publishing
England, 1609. Matthew did not trust his friend, Richard’s stories of Paradise in the Jamestown settlement, but nothing could have equipped him for the privation and terror that awaited him in this savage land.
Once ashore in the fledgling settlement, Matthew experiences the unimaginable beauty of this pristine land and learns the meaning of hope, but it all turns into a nightmare as gold mania infests the community and Indians become an increasing threat. The nightmare only gets worse as the harsh winter brings on “the starving time” and all the grizzly horrors of a desperate and dying community that come with it.
Driven to the depths of despair by the guilt of his sins against Richard and his lust for that man’s wife, Matthew seeks death, but instead finds hope in the most unexpected of places, with the Powatan Indians.
In this compelling and extensively researched historical novel, the reader is transported into a little-known time in early America where he is asked to explore the real meanings of loyalty, faith, and freedom.
About The Author
A retired Aviation Safety Inspector for the FAA, Daniel V. Meier, Jr. has always had a passion for writing. During his college years, he studied History at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington (UNCW) and American Literature at The University of Maryland Graduate School. In 1980 he published an action/thriller with Leisure Books under the pen name of Vince Daniels.
He also worked briefly for the Washington Business Journal as a journalist and has been a contributing writer/editor for several aviation magazines. In addition to Bloodroot, he is the author of the award-winning historical novel, The Dung Beetles of Liberia that was released in September 2019 and the highly acclaimed literary novel, No Birds Sing Here in April 2021.
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Daniel Meier
Chapter 8
MONOCANS
The night slowly yielded, as it always does, to happy daylight. Never was I so happy to see it come. The dark, strange shapes slowly became bushes, or the trunks of trees covered with vines, or they disappeared altogether—mere night shadows. All manner of birds awoke and greeted the day with their particular songs. The sun warmed and dried the ground which yielded a sweet, wild scent.
The Lieutenant himself came to fetch us from our post, saying to me that we were less than a day’s march from the land of the Saponi, and there we might expect to bargain for fresh victuals and peaceful relations. So, after breakfasting on more dried beef, we continued our march along King James River, going further into the interior of this strange land.
The men had begun to grumble about the value of our undertaking and openly doubting that any of us would return alive. Lieutenant Webster did his best to appease them but, as the day wore on, their complaints grew stronger. The Lieutenant ordered a halt. He reckoned that we were well out of the land of the Monacans and ordered camp to be made on a height next to the river. There were many hours of daylight left, and he ordered our best marksmen, of which I was not one, to go into the woods and kill the fattest deer they could find.
The Lieutenant himself went in search for whatever fruits the land would provide. He soon returned with his hat and shirt full of berries which looked similar to English strawberries but with a sweeter, juicer taste. We heard a musket report not too far off and, in less than half an hour the marksmen returned, bearing a large male deer strung on a carrying pole.
Every man in the camp, including myself, was most happy over the prospect of fresh meat. We set about dressing the deer and constructing several roasting pits. In a short while we had the best cuts of the venison sizzling over glowing wood coals. The unusable parts of the animal we buried away from our campsite. To clean ourselves of the blood and animal fat, we bathed and frolicked, like schoolboys, in the running cool waters of the river.
When the meat was done, we sat around the fire, naked as Indians except for a loincloth which the Lieutenant demanded that we wear. We feasted on well cooked meat until we could not force another mouthful down. We then lay by the fires, gorged as the most gluttonous of Romans, and instantly fell asleep. I hardly gave a thought to whatever Indians might be lurking about.
Romantic Comedy, Royal Romance, Romantic Suspense
Date Published: July 9, 2021
What if your boss was a prince?…
The week I got fired, I landed a government job in Paris.
Go, Lucie!
The bad news? My boss, Max Delaroche, looks like a remastered Greek god, as dazzling as the alarm in my head.
Whoop, whoop, whoop! Run while you can!
But the man intrigues me.
Wildly charismatic, he has no office savvy. He skips important staff meetings because they bore him to death. He won’t even say where he’s from!
Instead, he keeps staring at me like he’s on a treasure hunt and I have the map.
Who is this guy, and what exactly does he do here?
Could he be an undercover cop investigating government agencies?
Haha. I’m très hilarious.
If a cop can afford bespoke suits, then I’m a princess. You shall call me Your Royal Highness, Lucie la Magnifique!
Looking for a romantic comedy that’s laugh-out-loud funny, steamy, and full of thrills? Look no further than The Boss Prince, book 1 in Alix Nichols’s new IT’S RAINING ROYALS series!
About the Author
Alix Nichols is a caffeine addict, a fan of Mr. Darcy and an award-winning author. She pens sexy romantic comedies and sci-fi romances that “keep you hanging off the edge of your seat” (RT Book Reviews). At the age of six, she released her first book. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper. Decades later, she still writes. Her spelling has improved (somewhat). Currently she has one complete romance series “wide” and three in Kindle Unlimited. She lives in France with her family, including an almost-human dog.
**To read a rom-com and a sci-fi novelette FREE, visit: alixnichols.com/freebies (just copy and paste into your browser).**
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She opens her reticule, whips out her smartphone, and pulls up what looks like a still frame from some CCTV footage.
To my quizzical look, she says, “Watch,” and taps Play.
A young woman stalks out of an ugly concrete building, banging the door behind her. About twenty meters down the street, she halts, spins around and barrels back toward the building. Baying, “You, jerk! You, miserable nincompoop!” she kicks the graffitied wall. Way too hard, by the looks of it. With a grimace of pain distorting her reddened face, she grabs the foot that had connected with the wall and spends the next few seconds stroking it through the flimsy sneaker while jumping on her other foot.
“You think you hurt me?” she yells at the closed door, still wincing. “You think you broke my heart? I despise you!”
Whoever is inside doesn’t respond in any audible or visible manner.
“I believed in you!” the woman shouts, letting go of her foot. “I thought you were a good person, a decent man. I thought you could handle criticism. But you’re just another douchebag!”
Balling her hands into fists, she swings as if intending to punch the door, hesitates and glances at her knuckles. It’s a low-res video but good enough to determine that it’s a security door, steel most likely. In her place, I’d be having second thoughts about punching it, too.
“Grrr!” Shaking with frustration, she kicks the door instead.
Perhaps because she’d braced herself for impact, she seems to better control the resulting pain, which emboldens her to kick again, and again until she does it at an angle too awkward to keep her balance. She lands on her bum. Cursing, she gets up and gives the door a few more angry kicks.
The “douchebag” inside makes no perceptible move.
Despite the wild inappropriateness and the involuntarily comical effect of her public display, I find myself sympathizing with this crazy chick. Which is weird, because, having broken up with my fair share of ladies, I should relate more to the man she’s besieging than to her. Yet, instead of cringing, I’m smiling at her spunk.
Also, I’m ogling her slender, perfectly proportioned figure that cancels out her ridiculous actions and dull outfit. Those lovely, firm tits give her worn, badly cut tee a shot at glory. As for that round high-perched ass, it lifts her trashy jeans all the way to the Cannes red carpet.
It’s hard to make out the individual features of her face, but the overall form of her face framed by wavy glossy hair looks exceedingly pleasing.
The video ends.
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