Friday, 5 February 2016

Murder & Obsession Cover Reveal

I am pleased to have the fascinating murder-mystery writer Yolanda Renee here today. She has just completed the last book in her trilogy, and is here with the cover reveal:


Flames burn between a hardboiled cop and a gifted artist, but soon extinguish as another man’s obsession ignites into an inferno of desire, driving him to destroy the object of his madness.

To be Released March 2016

As wedding bells echo like the ring of toasting champagne glasses in the ice carved mountains of Anchorage Alaska, detective Steven Quaid rehabs his grandfather’s cabin into a honeymoon cottage for his new bride.

When he returns from a hunting trip, Steven’s faced with five police officers, who “Want to talk.” Plagued by two unsolved murders, the Department is searching for answers.

The conversation comes to a deafening halt as the team finds a bloody crime scene in the bridal suite. "Where's her body?" is a question Steven cannot fathom. 

Steven’s jaw clenches and his heart races. Images of Sarah streak through his mind.

The silence breaks as an explosion of accusations vibrate through every fiber of his being.

Steven bolts…

Although running is never the smart thing to do, Steven’s not thinking clearly and his escape into the wilderness of the Brooks Range proves almost fatal.

This Steven Quaid mystery is both personal and heartbreaking.

   Yolanda Renee
At one time Alaska called to me and I answered. I learned to sleep under the midnight sun, survive in below zero temperatures, and hike the Mountain Ranges. I've traveled from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, and the memories are some of my most valued. The wonders, mysteries, and incredible beauty that is Alaska has never left me and thus now influence my writing.

Despite my adventurous spirit, I achieved my educational goals, married, and I have two wonderful sons. Writing is now my focus, my newest adventure!

You can find Yolanda at:


New Covers:
After a gritty detective becomes involved with a beautiful widow suspected of murder, rumor and obsession obstruct his quest for justice.
World damnation is a psychotic man’s goal, but two obstacles stand in his way, greed and a dedicated detective. 

They do look ubercool, don't they, all three? Congrats, Yolanda! and looking forward to reading more.

Monday, 1 February 2016

Lost & Found Valentine's Edition

Today I am participating in the Lost & Found Valentine's Edition, a special blogging event inspired by a collaboration between Arlee Bird and Guilie Castillo-Oriard, co-hosted by Elizabeth Seckman, Yolanda Renee, Denise Covey and Alex J. Cavanaugh

The guidelines for participating in the event are:

Do you remember that special feeling of love found? And who hasn't experienced the emotional experience of love lost? Some of you might have even lost a love only to find that person later for another go around.

Tell your story about love lost or found in our special Valentine's blogfest.   Your post can be a short fiction, an essay, poetry, or even a song--let your imagination run free. Any genre is fair game, be it romance, historical fiction, memoir, or even science fiction. After all there are no limitations when it comes to love.

My post consists of a two part poem.  



The tobacco shop where you bought your first -
soft eighties music tinkles from somewhere,
but the rest’s changed, we’re not so well-versed
any more with the buildings in this square.

Monday, 25 January 2016

Another way to return

You still go back panicked, groping the old songs,
blinded in tunnels, to soothe your roughed-up
spirit. The muddy river comes along
in broken down wooden barges, loved up

smooth old piers, worn rusted cranes dipping
their necks into the water, and no-one
comes to greet you, and no-one is gripping
fingers tight in comfort, lifting your burden.

You can hear the sunlight playing, somewhere
on the waters, a cowherd with cattle;
but here it’s just four small, chocolate squares
of light on blank concrete, and static crackle.

The news comes on in the evening, and it’s
floating seaweed, there’s gunfire in the distance
mushrooms of smoke and dust on wizened targets
and faces still lean out, clenched in resistance,

and refugees are portioned, as if we’re
barbecue nations. You don’t know if Suzanne
will show you her harbours, if she’ll let you near
the river’s wavelength, or if she at all, can.

A lot of things top-of-mind today.  First off, I'll be returning to the  A-Z, and no two ways about that. The sign up is today. Not only will I be participating, I am in deeper than previously this year because I am a Ninja Minion on Ninja Captain Alex J Cavanaugh's team. (If I knew the exact emoticon to express the yayness I would totally insert it here. But since I don't, just fill it in yourself)  I am also all signed up to participate in the Colours of Life Poetry Festival scheduled for mid-April, which is a(n offline) poetry event in my local community.

It's the fifth anniversary of the Egyptian Revolution today, so my friends there are very much on my mind too. Hope it goes safe and smooth and that they each get what they wish for in 2016, politically and otherwise.

Anyways, the upshot is - April is going to be a superbly amazing month! Can't-wait-but-also-love-the-waiting-and-working-writing-researching-rehearsing-part emoticon here. 

Have a great week!

Monday, 18 January 2016

Just one face

Time wrings the beauty out of everything -
the morning now just shattered shards of light,
the depth of darkness sucked off from the night,
the moon crushed, forlorn, like a crumpled mothwing.

The road’s shell shocked, the world’s a drunken camp,
the heart of workdays stifling, oppressive,
the weekends frazzled with no rest to give,
the days hamster wheels, the sun a rubber stamp.

Just one face in the crowd means breathe and dream;
just one glance, one word can forge a connect.
Just one face missing and decades are wrecked
and years become an angsty high-pitched scream.

We either speak too soon or speak too late;
the chance knocks once and does not know to wait.

Thursday, 14 January 2016

The trick of a clothes horse

There’s a full length mirror, and a clothes horse
and as I look up suddenly, it seems
someone’s standing next to me, but of course
there’s no one there. A trick of light. A dream.

There’s no-one standing here, just empty sleeves
stirring as if they’d still go around me;
it’s only a short-lived spasm of half-sleep
an image conjured by solitude, a leap
of faith and air, transient, imaginary.

It’s only an empty coat, and the one
who wore it is never going to walk in.
A throb of air and light, a reflection
behind a silvered glass. Soon the dark will thin
dispersing the solace of illusion
as if it’s nothing; nor has ever been.

Sunday, 10 January 2016

Bearing witness

I’m not at that bedside when life ebbs from it,
I’m not at the riverbank when the pyre’s lit.
But I’m lessened all the same wherever I am,
and I bear witness in the way my life permits.

And I bear witness to each of those lonely trips,
to the vast, unending silence of silent lips.
I hold it cradled within the heart of my life
through every throb of happiness and all hardships.

A close and a favourite relative has passed away back home and I do not have the heart today to craft and polish fancy metaphors.  Writing it as it comes, the good (and there was much good, he was such a lively and fun person that just hearing his voice was a mood-lift! Really, he could give the term joie-de-vivre an inferiority complex!), the bad, and the ugly.  His daughter is making a lonely trip today, the loneliest possible, starting out from USA to India, the longest and the most terrible of journeys for anybody, and although I can't be with her as I want to be, I am there in spirit. Remembering, honouring, celebrating and mourning him every step of the way.

Monday, 4 January 2016

Back at the tavern

Because I might face hardship ahead, should I stop?
my loved ones cannot come always alongside me;
forget the tavern, not even to the corner shop,
but the tavern doesn’t yet know how to be empty.

The winemakers distil the wine, slow drop by drop,
each glass is filled to its level by the saki
and each patron comes to claim his usual spot -
an empty tavern seat’s still a rarity.

I may dither all day whether to go or not -
the spaces shrink or expand as the need may be;
the tables are few, but the benches find space, allot
each one a place, squeeze them in or seat them easy.

The saki too serves the same level, the same wine
whether I drink with strangers; or friends of mine.