Hens Lay Eggs
food for thought
Tiger in the Snow #MFRWhooks
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nHealing from a deserved drubbing at the hands of Atlas Leonidus, Siberian tiger shifter Dmitry Alkaev travels from Cairo to Virginia. The strange compulsion leads him to his mate and a fearsome rival. Faced with a modern woman’s determination to remain independent, Dmitry unleashes charm and ruthlessness to claim her and, he hopes, redeem his honor. n nAvailable In Print or eBook nhttps://www.amazon.com/Tiger-Snow-Sequel-Barbary-Lion-ebook/dp/B01D1Y4O62 n n |
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Excerpt
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nThe bear drew a deep breath. He could feel the woman, smell her. And he knew what followed him. Alyosha Vikronovich hadn’t reached his third century by being stupid or careless. If the tiger wanted to make trouble, he’d have a hard fight against an Asian brown bear. But he needed to reach the female first if he wanted to claim her.
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nAs Dmitry followed the bear, his whiskers quivered, detecting a change in the atmosphere. Although no tiger’s nose was as sensitive as any bear’s, he had other senses to make up for the lack. The great cat’s crystal blue gaze sharpened and focused on his new quarry. He could feel her, he could hear her, he could taste her in the air. This was why he had felt compelled to hike the Appalachian Trail. Leonidus had told him that he had felt the step of his mate’s foot when she landed on Italian soil. Dmitry took that declaration with the proverbial grain of salt; the Barbary lion was known to exaggerate. But it was true nonetheless. He, Dmitry Alkaev, one of the oldest shifters living, could sense the presence of his mate.
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nWith uncanny perception, he knew that the bear could, too. He also knew that the bear would claim her if he did not. Fate did not waste those few females who could be mated to shifter males.
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nTessa heard huffing behind her and halted in her tracks. She slowly turned around. As cold, hungry, and tired as she was, slowly was the only speed of which she was capable. A squeak of fear escaped her mouth, which would have hung open were she able to stop chattering and shivering.
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What’s in a name?
Between client work and my own manuscript, I put in a good 20,000 words last week. My fingers are tired. The bulk of the work is for a single project I was hired to write.
The project gives me some concerns.
It was advertised as a short story. Discussion with the client revealed that “short story” was actually a 20,000-word novella, which then morphed into a 100,000-word novel spread across five installments. Um, folks, anything beyond 10,000 words has long since passed the definition for “short story.”
Anyway, I agreed to do the project and settled on a delivery deadline that the client kept trying to shorten. Um, no, that’s not the way I work. If I agreed to a delivery date, then you’ll have the completed document by that date. I will not and do not promise earlier delivery, even if I make a habit of early delivery, because life happens. That’s all a part of managing client expectations.
I acquired the project through Guru.com, which is yet another freelance platform that caters to low-bid projects. I did not submit a low bid for this project, which also makes me wonder if the client understands that professional quality commands professional rates or if he intends on scamming me, taking my work without any intention of paying the agreed-upon fee. Unfortunately, I’ve become so disillusioned lately that I strongly suspect the latter.
So, the story … I didn’t sign any confidentiality or nondisclosure agreement. However, that doesn’t mean I’ll blab about it either. I will say it’s not in a sub-genre I typically write, although I do believe it’s better written than most of what one finds in that sub-genre. My name will not go on the byline: this is a ghostwriting project.
That said, if this client tries to stiff me (which I expect), I’ll publish the story myself under a new pseudonym. So, let’s have a little fun. I once suggested a pen name to a fellow author who raises chickens: Buffy Orpington. Anyone possessing a light acquaintance with chicken breeds will get the pun. (For those who don’t, there’s a heritage breed of chickens called Buff Orpingtons.) She didn’t take me up on it.
Anyway, that’s just the silly, fluffy type of pen name that I’d use for that type of book. So, join the fun and suggest a pseudonym. Maybe I’ll use it. Maybe not. But that’s all part of the fun, right? You can go searching Amazon for it and then you’ll know who wrote the book.
Speaking of chickens, the two black silkie roosters have settled in nicely.
“The claim rang clearly through his mind”
May Book of the Month:
nThe Dragon Wore A Kilt
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nIn the northern reaches of Scotland rests Loch Saorach, home to an ancient legend—a dragon. The Matasan family has guarded the loch and its dragon for centuries. n Buy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B014N34IU2n |
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Excerpt Pt 1
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n“What have you got there, Connor?” Liam inquired breathlessly, having heard his kinsman’s yell and come running.
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nAt that, the sodden, bedraggled, and bleeding woman coughed and sputtered. Connor rolled her over and held her as she weakly spewed whatever remained of the contents of her belly and lungs.
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n“The roadway crumbled as we warned it would,” Connor explained darkly.
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n“Aye,” Liam acknowledged, casting a critical eye over the dirt and rock shifted by the landslide. A good portion of the hillside was lost beneath the water. “I’ll set up signs to warn drivers.” He paused and looked at Connor with a critical eye. “Are you all right?”
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n“I’m hard to kill,” Connor replied, his tone almost bleak.
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n“You’d be dead if the monster hadn’t taken a fancy to you,” Liam commented acidly. “I saw it push you to the shore.” He paused again and then asked, “Why didn’t the monster eat her?”
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n“Because the Saorach claimed her first.”
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nLiam turned his face toward the glassy, nearly black surface of the water and pursed his lips. The loch was a living thing, something scientists dismissed as fanciful. But many of the old ways still lived that far north, many of the old spirits and gods and magicks had not retreated in the face of Christianity. Indeed, many of them had made their peace with the Roman Catholic Church, which more readily accepted their strangeness than did the less inclusive Protestant traditions.
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n“I’ll send a message to Moira,” Liam said.
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n“She probably knows already,” Connor replied as he made sure his rescue was breathing freely. She was not conscious, something for which she should be grateful. The darkening goose egg above her right eye and the bleeding above and behind her left ear gave silent testimony that she’d been knocked violently about inside that car. He wondered what broken bones she endured.
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nAh, well, it was not to be helped just then, for he needed to get her to the house where his great nephew’s grandmother could care for her until Moira came to work her healing magic. Besides, he was thoroughly chilled and miserable.
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Author
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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Karen (Holly)
Blog Swaps
Looking for a place to swap blogs? Holly Bargo at Hen House Publishing is happy to reciprocate Blog Swaps in 2019.
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