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A number of Lee’s books are now available as e-books…through Smashwords, All Romance eBooks (though her books aren’t really romances except in the sense that all fiction is romance), for Kindle, Nook, and others. The e-books so far are Blood Games, Wilding Nights, Killer Karma, The Leopard’s Daughter, and this month, Blood Hunt. Blood Hunt has new scenes, material that didn’t occur to me until after the print versions came out. Others of my Out of Print books are still in the re-editing process. Bloodlinks, the sequel to Blood Hunt. The three Brill/Maxwell SF myteries

Fall is a wonderful time of year with fresh blue skies, brisk breezes, and early darkness. It’s the perfect time for ghost stories and tales of the weird and strange—favorite reading for me. It’s also fun to write uncanny tales. Recently I’ve released through BooksWeLove Publishing Partners (BWLPP) my original short story for e-readers, “Serafina.” In this old-fashioned ghost story, an artist and his friend learn the truth about the power of love over death.

I’m a collector of true ghost stories and love reading about other peoples’ experiences with the paranormal. My collection of true ghost story books numbers over 200. It includes volumes from England, Scotland, Norway, Canada, and across the US. To be honest, I’m a coward. I prefer experiencing the paranormal vicariously through stories. But that hasn’t kept me from expressing what is creepy and spine-chilling about the supernatural. Go to the BWLPP website or Kindle or Smashword for your copy of “Serafina.”

http://www.bookswelove.net/publisher.php

or

http://www.amazon.com/Linda-Madl/e/B001KI5M18/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_9?qid=1286980728&sr=1-9

Visit Jerri's new Facebook fan page at:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jerri-Garretson/41797309607 

As summer slowly ebbs, and fall looms, I find myself once again musing about beginnings and ends, life and death, and the mystery of it all. In fact, for the last few years, death has never been far from my thoughts. It sneaks into my musings when least expected; it haunts me. It could be the time of year that makes it sharper as September and October are months that remind me of my own personal losses.

I lost my dad in September 2005 to natural aging, and my only brother/sibling in October 2007 to cancer. For me, there was barely enough time to come to terms with one loss when another occurred. Dealing with my own beliefs, sadness, and loss, has forced me to face many of my hidden or unfaced fears about death. Thus, death haunts me.

In my mind, death is the ultimate journey, a step into the unknown, a journey that the living cannot follow. Many claim to know what lies beyond, some, actually from dying, if only for a moment, some because they have the ability to look beyond that mysterious veil that separates the living from the dead. Still others claim to have had loved ones return to reassure them that all was well. For most of us, there are no assurances.

Religious beliefs, I feel, ease some of the worry for their loved ones as they travel beyond this realm. Faith that they are in a better place helps the living accept their loss without trepidation. They still feel the grief, but they accept death with far better grace than those who hold the belief that it is, in truth, the end.

Many, confused and afraid of that loss, seek others who claim to be able to contact the departed, the living desperately needing to know that a loved one is fine, before the living can move on.

I recall worrying about my dad after he died. Was he okay? Comfortable? Happy? Did his mom and dad and all his siblings come to meet him? Did they embrace, shedding tears of joy even as the living shed their own tears of loss? Would he be reborn into a better life than the one he left behind? And my brother? Did the family once again gather to embrace him? Shed their tears? I hope so, I certainly want to believe it is true, but I don't know.

Death still scares me; it is a thief in the night, an unknown that defies answers, regardless of my personal beliefs. I recall as a child being carted off to some family member's funeral, where the departed actually was laid out in the family parlor and they had a wake. It was probably my earliest memory of death, and one that has never faded. I stood there, my eyes barely level with the table the departed had been laid out on, and as I pondered the whole notion of death through youthful curiosity, the man on the table actually sat up! No one in the room seemed to worry to awfully much about it, the man's wife just pushed him back down and the wake continued. At the cemetery, as they lowered him into the ground, I recall the horror I felt that they were burying this man alive though the adults in my life assured me they were not. Now that I am grown, I understand why he sat up, but it was that single moment in my young life that started my own quest for understanding knowing there would be no certainties until the day I myself must take that journey.

One thing I've learned and come to accept through my own personal losses is that death requires, no demands, your attention. You have to deal with it, come to terms with it, and face the reality of it regardless of your uncertainties and fears. I've learned that, in time, you do come to accept death, even though you never truly get over the pain of the loss.

You have to give death time, for the grieving, the sadness, the emptiness, and eventually the emergence of fond and even happy memories. And memories come, hitting you in waves of nostalgia easily summoned by a song, a smell, or a whispered word said just the right way. When this happens, the memory of the loss returns, in force, and you are swept up in emotions you thought you had finally laid to rest. No warning. It just happens. And for a time there, as the memories overcome you, both good and bad, those who have left us, live again.

~:.*.:~~:.*.:~May the magic always brighten your world~:.*.:~~:.*.:~
http://www.sherilmcgathy.com

This month I've been musing about robins. Yes, I said robins. In particular the pair of robins who have decided to "adopt" us. Well, in reality they tolerate us since they decided rather stubbornly to build their nest on my back porch.

When the robins first started to build on the crossbar within an arms length of our back door, neither my husband nor I thought it a very good idea. We use the back door far more than the front, we are in and out with the dogs, going to and from the garage, etc. and worried that once their babies arrived, the birds would turn aggressive. I didn't relish the idea of walking out my back door and being dive bombed by a mother robin.

So, when the first long strands of dry grass began to appear, we swept them down, along with the mud drops they deposited for the mortar. This went on for days, actually a week or more. We'd knock it down, and they would rebuild.

We filled a large black trash bag with the construction materials and still they continued to try and build in that one spot though they originally had started at the top of the bar and each new attempt saw the nest starting lower down that bar.

Each time the nest was swept away, the pair of robins would double their efforts. One day alone between my husband and I we knocked it down sixteen times. It was actually on that day that they won. And how did they win? Well, the answer to that question is because hubby and I are complete softies under the right circumstances. And that circumstance was just when I was about to knock the strings of dry grass down yet again, I looked over to my back gate and saw Momma Robin standing there proudly displaying a large ribbon of plastic that she intended to place in her nest. I can't even describe how her standing there like that melted my resolve.

I set the broom back where it belonged and walked back into the house. She could stay.

It didn't take the two long to complete the nest once we decided they could move in. And the eggs came next along with long visits with Momma Robin as she sat dutifully on her nest. We began to speak to her, remind her she was a guest, and we did not intend her any harm.

After a while she would leave for extended periods of time while we sat outside. I think she thought we were the babysitters, which I guess in a way we were. All was going well, and she was proving to be a good guest. Yet, in the back of my mind I worried that once the babies arrived, she'd turn aggressive.

The babies apparently arrived without fanfare several days ago. I didn't even realize they were here until the other day when I noticed the change in Momma Robin, and Papa Robin was actually coming in to the nest with worms, which before, aside from helping to build the nest, he had stayed at a distance.

And Momma Robin has pretty much ignored us. So maybe she won't turn mean. I hope not. I'd really like to watch the babies grow and fly away. Who knows, maybe I'll feel a little like my children have left home when it happens.

It's been interesting!

Until next time, Sheri

Linda Madl’s Favorite Story

One of the Frequently Asked Questions asked of me is “Of all your stories, which is your favorite?” Of course, this is hard to answer because when you’re working on a tale, IT is your favorite. I like all my stories, but one of the ones I enjoyed most (and I often hear about from fans) and that I always think of in the spring is “The Orange Tree” in MAGICALLY DELICIOUS KISSES. It’s a medieval tale about the healing nature of gardens—and love. It has to do with my own curiosity about how the British came to enjoy marmalade, which I have developed a taste for since my first visit to the UK many years ago. After much research I came up with this story, which may or may not have happened. But I am certain that some Bristisher, some gardener at heart, made the long journey from east to west with orange trees on the back of pack animals or the deck of a ship so that the British could serve breakfast every morning with tasty bittersweet marmalade. Yum.

Look for “The Orange Tree” in MAGICALLY DELICOUS KISSES. It probably can be found in a used bookstore or online as a preowned copy. Enjoy.

From Zebra, November 2002, ISBN 0-8217-7348-8

Linda Madl

This month I've been musing about dragons. What is it about them that has fascinated us throughout history and continue to fascinate us to this day? And, what exactly is a dragon, and how did their legend get born?
 
There are wingless dragons called wyrms, or wurms, or even worms, great serpents that are said to resemble snakes. There are horned dragons, dragons with wings, those who spew fire, and those whose breath freezes the world. At one time, dragons were associated with the gods, said to be creatures of the elements: water, air, fire, and earth, and endowed with the power to do great good or terrible ill.
 
We have tales of dragon magic and dragon gold, dragon lairs that are sometimes deep within the bowels of the earth, sometimes high upon a mountain peak. We have stories of dragon tears (rain) and dragon's breath (mist), and dragon's that guard the secrets of time. There are dragons that shift to human form and walk amongst us, and dragons that are so old that they have simply lost interest in our world and have lain down and allowed the countless dust of countless ages to cover them whole until they resemble nothing more than hillsides that occasionally rumble and shake, but never truly awake. Dragons fly, they crawl, they burrow and nest, they lounge around on a bed of gold or as some cultures suggest, are the real source of those mysterious fairy rings.
 
The notion of dragons is almost universal in ancient cultures, with stories and depictions of them appearing all over the world. I'm fond of the gallant knight battling the great fire-breathing monster to save the fair damsel in distress. Now mind you, she's only in distress because her village has decided to sacrifice her to an angry beast to save their own hides, but I like the legend anyway.
 
We write of dragons, whisper of them, dream of them, and immortalize them in song and art. Even the Greek historian Herodotus wrote of flying serpents in both ancient Arabia and Egypt. Did he see these beings and record them for all of prosperity? I don't know, but the practical part of me supposes that dragons where born, and then given life in countless song and story as a way for ancient cultures to explain the very real bones they might and probably did encounter. Bones, you say? Dragon bones? Possibly, but I suspect they encountered dinosaur bones and their imaginations filled in the rest.
 
Now, having said that, the child in me says maybe, and maybe not. I think we need dragons, in all their glory, and in all their many forms, because we need the fantastical in our lives, we need to believe in the impossible–we need to dream.
 
Until next time, Sheri

MUSINGS:

This month, in honor of the Winter Solstice, I've spent the day musing or rather reflecting over the past year and how glad I will be to see 2007 fade into the twilight memories of the past. It was a hard year for me. 2007 started with medical issues that plagued me throughout the year and climaxed with the loss of beloved family members and friends to either sickness or old age.
 
No, I won't be sorry to say goodbye to 2007 and hello to 2008.
 
Though, I will admit, out of the pain of enduring one can find unexpected strength and be moved to unexpected actions. From reflection comes renewal. Out of the ashes, rise the flames of the future. Sorrow can give way to joy and an ordinary person can suddenly become a champion of hope.
 
I truly believe this.