Corpse Whisperer by Chris Redding

Corpse Whisperer

Chris Redding


Chapter One

The corpse grabbed her arm with cool fingers.

Grace Harmony took a deep breath, the antiseptic hospital smell filling her nostrils. “What?”

The lifeless woman's eyes flipped open. “Help.” Her voice came out as hollow and raspy, a lone word uttered in a subway underpass. Grace cringed as the chill moved along her skeleton, settling in the marrow.

She glanced at the door. No one would come to save her.

“Let me guess. You've been murdered.”

“Yes,” the corpse said, the last part sounding like a snake.

The noise sent a shudder through Grace's body, but only briefly. Talking to dead bodies had ceased to scare her.

Dragging in a ragged breath, Grace braced herself for the time slip, the trek down the dark tunnel. “What's your name?”

“Dolores Holten.”

Colors danced and flashed before Grace's eyes as if they were a precursor to a migraine. Numbness deadened her limbs. She catapulted down a black shaft; only the passing of lights indicated movement. Her breath caught in her throat as her nose filled with a burning electrical scent. A sneeze that would have relieved her didn't come.

Something squeezed her body, but not for long. Then she slammed into a wall and she was back in time.

Grace's skin warmed, her eyes tearing from the bright sun, the tunnel gone. Blinded for a moment she looked around for any clues to her location, the day and date.

Sunny day. Driveway of some house. Maybe a week or so before Dolores died she estimated. That had been the last time the rain hadn't fallen.

She'd been down this street, twice. The first time looking for an address in her pursuit of a new apartment. Something had distracted her and she'd never made contact with the landlady. Was that where she was now?

She'd been here during the fire that supposedly killed Dolores.

“Miss?”

Grace turned to the voice and found the dead woman, very much alive. There was no evidence of the fatal fire that had charred her skin and taken the breath from her lungs. Grace schooled her face not to show surprise. Usually she didn't come face to face with the victim as soon as she rewound.

Coughing, Grace wiped her eyes. “Sorry, got something in my eye and I missed what you just said.”

“You pay rent and utilities. My ex-husband can fix most things so I'll give you his number, if anything goes wrong. Shouldn't, I just put new appliances in there.”

“Can I call you Dolores?”

The woman cocked her head and a lock of auburn hair fell into her face. Her brown eyes narrowed, and one hand found her hip. “That's my name, but I don't remember telling you.”

Grace smiled, which put most people at ease. “You introduced yourself right off.”

Dolores nodded. “I guess I did.” She patted her flat stomach. “I'm pregnant so I think I'm losing my memory already.”

She'd said ex-husband, but mentioned nothing about her current husband. No one at the fire scene had told Grace about Dolores' pregnancy. Maybe the neighbors hadn't realized.

“Rent and utilities. I can handle that.”

“You got a job?” Dolores asked.

“Yes, I do. I'm a paramedic for Centre Community Hospital.”

“You new in town?”

Tension stabbed her muscles.

She stole a glance at her watch which sported the date and time in five countries. Grace only needed to know about this moment, standing in Glen Hills, New Jersey. “I've been here a month. When can I move in?”

“I'd like to get some references first, but.” Dolores eyed her then swept her gaze up and down the short length of Grace. “You look like a trustworthy sort. I need two months' rent for security. You can move in when you get me that check.”

“I can write it now.”

“Yeah? No hitting up the parents for money?” Dolores cackled, but the sound didn't annoy Grace.

She laughed with her. “No, I've been on my own for quite some time, now.”

Dolores stopped laughing. “Yeah? You older than I think?”

“Yes, I look younger than I really am. Still get carded.”

“No parties.”

“I don't party. I do work odd hours so I will be in and out at strange times.”

Dolores looked at a bird lazily circling in the sky. “I was married to a cop. Might as well still be married to him, so your car in and out of the driveway will not disturb me.”

She rubbed her hands down her worn jean shorts then held one out for Grace. “Sorry about the mess, I've been gardening.”

Her green T-shirt sported many dirt spots and flower pots littered the sidewalk.

Grace looked over at the colorful plants. The warmth of the sun sneaked into her bones. She could do this, one more time. Her shoulders shifted back. “Yes, I see that. Your flowers look lovely.”

“Thank you. So you're Grace Harmony. That's quite a moniker to go through life with.”

Grace chuckled. “My parents had a sense of humor,” she said over her shoulder. “Let me get you that check.”

***

Zach Holten pulled into the driveway of his ex-wife as a red two-door sports car pulled away. He glanced at the license plate out of habit, having it memorized before the car drove out of sight.

Not that he could track down the owner as easily as he once did. The bitterness of his forced career change swirled bile into his mouth.

Dolores, clothed in messy shorts and a T-shirt, knelt over a box of flowers. She didn't look up when he disembarked. Good, he didn't want her thinking this was a social call. She'd thought of excuses daily for him to be here. This time she sounded serious so he used his lunch break to pay her a visit.

Lunch break. He stifled a chuckle. Now that he ran his own private investigating business he could lunch whenever he wanted. He possessed no radio. His phone had an answering machine so he could leave his office anytime.

He took a deep breath as he walked across the lawn that needed a mow. “Hey,” he said.

She smiled up at him, but didn't touch him, to his surprise. “Hey yourself. Beautiful day.”

“You seem to be taking full advantage of it.”

“Like the flowers?” she asked pointing to some red and blue things.

He didn't know anything about flowers except that women loved them. He could only pick out roses; the rest were a mystery to him. “Nice.”

Dolores continued digging and humming.

He knelt down, careful not to get his work pants dirty. “Lors, I'd offer to help, but . . .” He indicated his outfit.

“No problem. I never liked how you planted flowers.”

He smiled. “That was honest.”

She eyed him. “Yes, it's my new policy. Especially where you're concerned. I'm going to tell you what I think.”

“That's good. Then I don't have to guess.”

She laughed, putting her gloved hand on his. “You can read suspects, but not me.”

His gaze took in her hand. She'd left a smudge of dirt that he wiped off. “Guess it's tough when the printing is too close to your face.”

“You want some lunch?” she asked.

“If you have some. If not I can pick some up on the way back to the office.”

She pulled off her flowered gloves then stood. “I'm hungry, too. Starved in fact.”

“You have a tape worm?”

He followed her into her house. His house since he still made the mortgage payments. His residence until he'd walked out three years ago.

Her hips swayed as she walked in front of him. Once her movements made him hot; now her attempts at seduction annoyed him. There'd been that one night, but he'd made the situation clear to Dolores.

“Sit,” she commanded before she crossed to the refrigerator.

“I'm sure I can find stuff.”

She shook her head. “It'll give me something to do while I think of how I tell you my news.”

Her being nice meant she wanted something. His defenses slammed closed, his teeth clenched. She wasn't getting anything from him.

He sat at the scarred Formica table on a chair with ripped upholstery. She hadn't replaced it yet and he had some hot memories from this piece of furniture. “What news?” Would she get to it already?

Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he slid it onto the back of what had been his chair. The same cat clock's tail twitched the seconds. The place even smelled the same, a mixture of grease and cologne.

She stopped in the middle of making a sandwich. Her tired gaze came to him. “I'm pregnant.”


www.chrisreddingauthor.com

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CJ Maxx - Coming Back a Virgin (Rating PG-13)

Coming Back a Virgin is an erotic novel. Excerpts from Chapter 1 are posted here to maintain a PG-13 ratings.

COMING BACK A VIRGIN

Excerpts from Chapter 1

Walter Riggins moved the cursor to Send and clicked the left mouse button just as the doorbell rang. Frowning at the interruption, he walked to the front door and opened it.

A woman stood there in a black sequined dress; its most notable feature a mesh-covered cutout around the waist. The dress displayed her ample cleavage, accentuated her large breasts, small waist and prefect hips.

His mouth fell open as he stared at her.

She looked at him, frowned, and said, “Move, Walter!” and she pushed by him to enter his apartment.

Startled, he turned and continued to stare at her. “Who are you?” he stammered.

She ignored him and continued to look around his living room. What a mess! The residue of numerous fast food meals was everywhere. Piles of books and magazines had fallen from] the coffee table and the entertainment center onto the adjacent floor. The rug hadn’t been vacuumed in months. A thick layer of dust coated the untouched flat surfaces of his furniture.

“Clear off a chair, Walter. I want to sit down,” she demanded.

He quickly moved to his best chair and swept the pizza box and empty soda cans to the floor. “Here, sit down.”

“Thank you.”

Walter pushed aside the empty chip bags and dip containers then sat on the sofa “Now, who are you?”

“You know. I’m Lorraine .”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know any Lorraine . What’s your last name?”

She looked at the Playboy centerfolds on the walls. “Don’t know. You never gave me one.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

She gestured towards the glossy pinups. “What’s with the walls?’

He looked up at the centerfolds and grinned. “I didn’t have anything else to put up. Looks good for a bachelor pad, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t,” Lorraine said. “It looks like some teenager’s idea of a bachelor pad.”

Not liking the rebuke, he asked again, “Who are you?”

“I’ve been in four of your books. I’m probably in the one you’re working on now.”

He studied her for a few seconds. “No. No you’re not. Lorraine ’s fictional—I made her up. I didn’t base her on you, whoever you are.”

“Oh, I’m not real. I’m the character in your books.”

Walter didn’t do drugs and rarely drank which made it hard to believe what he was hearing. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Even in the unlikely event one of my characters was sitting in this room, in that chair, I would recognize them. Don’t you think?”

“You know why you don’t recognize me?”

Walter hesitated. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. But you can’t be Lorraine , because—she’s not real.”

“You never describe my face, Walter. Not my hair, my eyes, my nose, nothing above the neck. The only time you mention my lips is--well, we won’t get into that. The only thing you describe is my body,...”

He stared at her, a stunned look on his face.

Lorraine stood and told him to do the same. “Come here!”

He moved warily toward her, stopping in front of her.

“Put your hand on my breast. No, both hands, both breasts, that’s what happens in your books.”

*****

Well, he didn’t take that too well, but it should convince him. She looked around while he lay there. I wonder if he has a girl friend? If he does, she doesn’t come here much.

Lorraine walked around the apartment and shook her head. No, no woman has been here. The bedroom floor was covered with dirty clothes. The nightstand was covered with cans and moldy cups. Yuck, men are such pigs. She couldn’t identify the original color of the bedsheets. They couldn’t be white. They must have been gray to start with. There was no discernable color to them now. My God, who would sleep in that? She carefully stepped over to the dresser and opened the drawers, one after another. They were all empty. Shaking her head she said aloud, “Well that doesn’t surprise me—it’s all on the floor.”

Walter was beginning to stir when she confronted the disaster in the kitchen. Dirty dishes were stacked on every possible surface. It looked like nothing had been washed for months and she doubted they could be cleaned now. She stared in amazement, wondering about his diet. Does he live on fast food?

She looked up as he walked in and stopped near the doorway, eyeing her suspiciously. “Okay, who are you? What are you?” he asked.

She smiled sweetly, “ Lorraine , I’m Lorraine .”

Walter couldn’t say her name. “Okay, what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come here to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Yep, that’s my mission. I don’t know what I got myself into though. What a mess.

You’re a mess, this place is a mess, your writing’s a mess, everything’s a mess. If I had known things were this bad I would have stayed up there.”

Walter didn’t understand. “Stayed up where?”

“Oh, up there, where we live, I don’t think it has a name.”

“You’re not talking about heaven, are you?”

“Oh no, heaven’s where God is, angels, Mother Teresa. No, not up there. I live with the other fictional characters.”

He sat and cleared away the remains of his last fast food meal from in front of him.
He put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. “I need some coffee to wake up. I’m having a bad dream.”

Lorraine stared at the unknown substance growing in the carafe of his coffeemaker. “Not in this. You drink anything from this you’re going to die. If I were a Genie I’d get you some, but I’m not. You’ll have to go get it.”

He wearily got up from the table. “I’m going to get something to eat, too. You want something?”

“Nope, don’t eat. Go ahead, I’ll be here when you get back.”

He gave her a puzzled look, then turned and headed out the door.

Lorraine went into the bathroom where she found piles of moldy towels on the floor. She picked up a washcloth off the counter and saw it was stuck together. Oh God, she thought, I hope he’s not using this for what I think he is. She dropped it and opened the medicine cabinet. Surprisingly, it was neat. Cold medicines, aspirin, cough drops, Visine, box of band-aids, several tubes of KY Jelly. Hmm, wonder what the KY is for? Looking in the bathtub she could only shake her head. Disgusting.

Lorraine left the bathroom and headed into the living room. The mess had distracted her from the furniture when she first entered the apartment. Now she took a close look. He must be color-blind. This color scheme was a decorator’s nightmare. She stared in horror at the blue chair, an orange sofa, a black recliner, a colonial coffee table, and two modern chrome and glass end tables. She supposed it was the décor of a bachelor pad. The centerpiece seemed to be the sixty–five inch High
Definition TV with surround sound. This is better than what we have up there. She picked up the remote and deftly hit the right buttons bringing up his favorite listings. Just what I thought, he has all the porno channels. She opened the cabinet and found a row of XXX rated videos. She shook her head. “He’s hopeless.”

The front door opened as she headed back to the kitchen. Walter came in carrying a bag from Subway, a container of coffee and two Cokes.

“You still here?” he asked, disappointment in his voice.

“Yes, unfortunately, my mission keeps me here.”

They went into the living room and sat down at the table, Walter pushed aside some litter and took his sandwich from the bag and unwrapped it. “Sure you don’t want anything, I’ll share.”

“No, don’t need food, or sleep, for that matter. I’ll just sit here and watch. Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

Thinking for a second, he said, “I’m an engineer, an electrical engineer. Work for a computer company.” Knowing he was an electronics technician, she wondered why he was lying. Probably trying to impress me, she thought. “That’s interesting,” she said. “Why don’t you live in a house instead of this place?”

He bit into the sandwich and gave the question a few seconds’ thought. “Houses have yards. More work. I need all my spare time for writing. That’s why this place is a little messy. I don’t spend much time keeping it clean.”

“I can see. So how’s your latest book?” she asked.

He smiled proud of himself. “At the publisher. Sent it off right before you rang the bell.”

Lorraine got up walked over to the computer, woke it and quickly found the outgoing e-mail. Spending a minute or so, she wrote an e-mail and sent it to his publisher. Then she made a few more keystrokes and returned to the table.

“What’d you just do?” he asked.

“It’s coming back. That book doesn’t leave here until I’m satisfied with it.”

“What, you can’t do that?”

“Oh, I just did,” she said with a slight smile

Walter was exasperated. “What do you want?”

“Just want to make you a better writer. You have some problems. How many times were you turned down on your first book?”

“I don’t know, about ten, I guess.”

“Twenty-three! The only feedback you received was one cryptic note on a rejection slip, ‘strong start; went off the cliff’.”

He finished his sandwich. “I never could figure out what that meant. Since then I found this publisher that likes my books. They’re happy to print them. I’ve got four published.”

Lorraine went over to his bookcase, and picked up Wild Time in Vegas. Pointing to the publisher, she said, “Walter, you pay for the printing. Your publisher is a vanity press. Don’t you understand the difference? You pay money, they print.
That’s the definition of vanity press. Mainline publishers pay you royalties for each book sold. No money upfront from you. Get it?”

He looked embarrassed and mumbled, “Yeah, I know. It just wasn’t worth the hassle. It was easier to pay to get it printed.”

“The Big Guy said you have potential. That’s one reason I’m here.”

“What?”

“The Big Guy was passing through Dallas and he found your book Love and Betrayal in a Fishing Village in the waiting area for his connecting flight. Probably a copy you gave to one of your friends. He likes sea stories so he picked it up. It was interesting, up to page eighteen. You know what happened on that page?”

He lowered his eyes and spoke quietly. “I think it was a sex scene with you.”

“A slut scene is more like it,” Lorraine said. “Let me quote what you wrote, I know them all by heart:”

****

Feeling foolish now, he said, “I don’t know, I thought it was clever.”

“That trashy writing is what got me here. He was impressed with you up to that point. Good beginning, effective hook, clear narrative, well written dialogue and strong characters. Something happened when you got to me.”

He picked up he book and glanced at the text. “If books are going to sell, they’ve got to have sex in them.”

“He wasn’t objecting to sex, he was objecting to your total inability to put sex on paper in any meaningful or entertaining way.”

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he said defensively. “I thought it was pretty good.”

She frowned, “That’s the other reason I’m here. I’m known as the ‘slam, bam, not even a thank-you, ma’am’ character up there. It’s affecting my love life. The next sex scene you write with me in it will be romantic, not erotic. Do you have a girl friend, Walter?”

“Well, not right now,” he replied with a disgusted look on his face as he rubbed his head.

“You’re how old now, thirty-five? How many girl friends have you had, literally and figuratively?”

“Hey, I like that line,” he said, smiling. “I’ve got to remember it.”

“Answer the question!”

Again rubbing his head, he said, “Uh, well, not many, really. Uh, a few.”

“You have sex with any of them?”

“Yeah, two of them,” he replied, smiling now.

“Well, did they like it?”

“They sure did, said I was a stud!”

“Were they beating down your door to get more?”

He frowned. “Of course… well, no, we broke up after that.”

“Okay,” Lorraine said, “I see the problem. You’re not getting your sexual scenes from experience. Where are you getting them?”

“Well, I guess I get them from TV. I watch a lot of TV when I’m not writing.”

“What kind of TV shows were you watching when you dreamed me up?”

“I guess it was a combination of shows, I don’t remember any particular one.” He appeared embarrassed.

“Well, I can guess. How about ‘Horny Housewives’, or maybe ‘Sluts on the Loose’, something along those lines?”

“I’m kind of embarrassed to say this, but it was probably from some X-Rated movie.”

“Twenty-two people in your first four books, Walter. That’s the count. I wonder how many in your latest book. You’ve made me out to be the biggest slut in the world. I can’t get a boyfriend up there.”

“You can have boyfriends up there?”

She ignored his question. “And another thing. Your darling little Samantha, that sweet little teenager I’m always seducing? Well, I’m not a lesbian and she’s not a lesbian. She wanted to come down here to smack you. Papa H. wouldn’t let her.”

“Papa H.?”

“Yeah, the Big Guy.”

Taken aback somewhat, he asked, “Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway is the Big Guy?”

“Yeah. Samantha’s got something going with him. They’re always in his office.”

“The Big Guy is Ernest Hemingway!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe it.”

“He got elected or something. He’s the boss.”

“He liked my writing. Wow, I’ve got talent, I can’t believe it, Hemingway.”

“Calm down. You being selected was a fluke, you’re the first vanity press writer that’s ever got a visit. After my report, probably the last, too.”

“I still can’t get over him thinking I’ve got talent. Wow!”

“Well, get over it. You’ve got problems to fix before anything else happens.”

The revelation made him giddy. “Okay, Lorraine , start helping me.”

“Let me explain something to you. Your idea of sexual situations is more suited for Penthouse or one of the Hounds of Hell magazines. Your stories require romantic settings and scenes that lead to sex. Not this garbage you write: ‘A fish sucking in the bait’. I still can’t get over that one.”

“Okay, I see your point. Let’s get started.”

“The scene, Walter. That’s what we fix first. Know what setting the scene means?”

“We go to a motel? My bedroom? I need to change the sheets, what?”

“This pigsty you live in. That’s the scene.”

“Can’t you just blink your eyes or something and clean it up?”

She stood and pulled him up by the hand. “Let’s look around the living room here.
First the good news, the ceiling’s okay—now the bad news, everything else sucks. The pictures go. The walls need painting—a neutral color, please, not this green. You need matching furniture. The carpet needs shampooing. Probably better to replace it.”

Looking hurt, he said, “All that?”

“Yes, if you’re going to bring me to your place for romance, this room starts the process. I’ve got to feel comfortable, amiable, wanting to see where this goes. Get it?”

A small speck of light began to form in his brain. “I think so. This sets the mood, your mood, right?”

Lorraine took him by the hand, squeezed it, and led him into the kitchen. “How do you think this should look if I happen to wander in here?”

“Like something out of Good Housekeeping?”

“Exactly. Let’s go to the next room.”

Entering the bathroom, she said, “You were in the service, right?”

“Damn right, I was a Marine.”

“Good. You’ll understand what I’m saying. This place must be spotless, remember what the Drill Sergeant said about eating off the floor?”

Snapping to attention, he yelled, “YES, DRILL SERGEANT!”

She smiled at his response and they headed into the bedroom. “You couldn’t get a twenty dollar hooker to come in here. You know that?”

He shook his head. “You’re right, this is pretty bad.”

She picked up a corner of the bottom sheet with two fingers, paused, and pulled it off the bed. “I don’t see how you can sleep on this.” She tossed it aside. “Well, at least the mattress is clean, you won’t have to replace it.”

Frowning, he said, “I don’t know about this. This sure seems like a lot of work for a piece of…”

Lorraine cut him off, “A lot of work to make you a successful writer, you’re right.”
He had has doubts. “I don’t know.”

She smiled. “The Big Guy thinks you have talent, remember?”

“You’re right. I’ve got to do this, this is my shot at making the big time.”

“It’s after eleven, you’ve got to work tomorrow. Go to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“I don’t sleep, remember? I might clean up a bit, probably watch some movies, read some.”

She smiled and vanished, reappearing in the living room.

Judi Moreo Author of You Are More Than Enough

Join motivational speaker Judi Moreo, author of the self-help and motivational book, You Are More Than Enough: Every Woman's Guide to Purpose, Passion, and Power, as she virtually tours the blogosphere in July on her first virtual book tour! Judi Moreo is a leading authority in the areas of communication and motivation. She has conducted consulting assignments, training workshops, seminars and keynote speeches in 26 countries on 4 continents. She has coached countless business leaders worldwide on issues of corporate change, cultural diversity and conflict management.

This is the first chapter of her book -

Realize who you are.

“No man can know where he is going unless he knows exactly where he has been and exactly how he has arrived at his present place.” Maya Angelou Poet, Educator, Historian.

Why is it that having confidence in ourselves and our abilities is so hard? Why do many of us have the tendency to over estimate other people's abilities and power and under estimate our own? Why are we so concerned with what other people will think about us?

If we are to understand these things, we need to understand first why we think, feel and act the way we do. We need to understand why and how we have become who we are as well as why we react or respond in certain ways. When we understand ourselves, we can either accept the way we are or make changes so we will be able to accept ourselves.

What we believe and accept about ourselves determines our behavior and performance. These, in turn, create our results and our results affect our confidence levels.

We behave in accordance with our beliefs about ourselves. If we have self-limiting beliefs, we will have self-limiting behaviors. If we have self-empowering beliefs, we will have self-empowering behaviors. In other words, if you think you can, you can and if you think you can't, you can't. If you think you can, you will find a way. We perform as well as we believe we are capable of performing.

Most of our beliefs about ourselves have come from outside sources: people, education and experiences. Many of us have allowed the opinions of others to become our opinions of ourselves. We've listened to people tell us we are incompetent, inadequate, unworthy, bad or stupid. We've internalized, processed and often believed what others have told us.

There is a direct correlation between the quality of your relationships and your levels of self-esteem and self-confidence. If you're like most people, how you feel about yourself, good or bad, is largely dependant upon the degree of acceptance you have felt from the influential people in your life.

In the beginning, we learned our beliefs and values from our parents. If our parents' self-esteem levels were low or they had poor concepts, values and beliefs, then that's what we learned. If they felt inferior, inadequate or unworthy, we probably adopted those qualities. When we are children, we go through an “imprint period” where we formulate our behavior patterns based on what is impressed upon our thought patterns by the adults who are instrumental in our growth.

If we were told “you are a bad girl”, it really meant our behavior was unacceptable, but most of us didn't hear it that way. We internalized it to mean that WE were unacceptable. Most parents don't realize how important it is to separate the act from the individual. Instead of saying, “You're usually so graceful…I'm surprised you tripped and fell. Are you okay?” they will say, “You're so clumsy!” They don't understand the deep, negative impact this has on a child.

If we were compared negatively to other children, especially children outside of our immediate family, we might have come to believe those children had more abilities and were more popular than we were. That is when feelings of inferiority start to set in. If we didn't receive appreciation or recognition for our achievements, we may believe others are smarter, stronger or better than we are.

If my grandmother told me once, she told me a hundred times that my cousin, Bobbie, was smarter, cuter and more popular than I was. After the first 10 times, she really didn't have to tell me any more. I already believed it! So if Bobbie took dance classes, I didn't want to take dance classes because I knew before I started I would never be as good as she was. If Bobbie tried out for a part in the school play, I wouldn't try out because I could never be as good as Bobbie. If Bobbie ran for student council, I certainly wouldn't be able to achieve what she achieved, so why bother? I knew for sure I'd never be Homecoming Queen, because Bobbie had already worn that crown.

If we had parents who tried to realize their unfulfilled dreams through us and our accomplishments, they may have pushed us beyond our abilities or our desires in particular areas making us feel “less than” we could have been or should have been. Or maybe they even instilled such a drive in us to be what they wanted us to be, that we didn't learn how to be assertive and stand up for what WE want.

My friend, Sue, didn't want to play softball, but her father was the girl's softball coach and a jock to boot, so he insisted Sue become a pitcher and a home run hitter. He pushed and pushed until she was in tears after every game and she quit before the end of the season! When she was in Girl Scouts and they went on a hike, Sue somehow wandered away from the others and became lost. Once found, her father said to her, “Don't tell anyone you couldn't find your way out of the woods.” When they would go fishing, he would say to her before they ever got to the dock, “I know you are going to be sick, so just deal with it!” Today Sue works at a job she doesn't really enjoy because she still hopes to win her father's approval and when she faces challenges in life, she sometimes cries, has a tendency to get sick, often quits things before learning to do them well and most of all tries to “just deal with it.” In other instances, she takes on risky assignments in an attempt to get her father to see how brave and strong she has become! Occasionally, I hear her reference how well she has done for a girl who can't find her way out of the woods. Is it as obvious to you as it is to me where these coping mechanisms were learned? And isn't it sad that her father's early harsh criticism has stayed with her all of her life?

If our parents or peers are obsessed with physical appearance, they may also push us into a life that devalues us. Jeanette was a beautiful teenager. Her parents pushed her into every beauty contest they could find. They were determined because she was so beautiful; she should have only the best of everything. They moved to the most exclusive neighborhood in the city, so she could go to the right school with a “higher class” of students. They joined the country club at great expense so she could mingle with the “right” people. Then they worked around the clock to pay for it. When she had the opportunity to meet young men, her mother would say, “Stand up and meet the boy.” So Jeanette would stand up, stick out her breasts, suck in her stomach and put on her most seductive smile, so the boy could look her over and see what a good catch she would be. She married the man they chose for her who didn't appreciate her “standing up” to meet all his friends and business associates. She lived a miserable life until she got divorced. Then she found herself back in the limelight standing up for the “right” men to meet her again. Unfortunately, as she grew older, her looks faded and she was no longer the beauty she had been. Because she relied completely on her beauty, she never developed any of the other interests, virtues or qualities one might seek in a mate. She died bitter and alone -- surrounded by her beauty pageant trophies.

Children of parents who are obsessed with physical appearance usually develop a major case of low self-esteem. In addition, the media puts so much emphasis on beauty and being thin that many girls, and even supposedly intelligent grown women, develop eating disorders and poor health in an effort to keep up their appearances.

If our parents placed a very high value on possessions and having money in the bank, whether they had it or not, the emphasis on materialism we learned could lead us to a life of overachievement and striving for wealth and material goods. We may even marry someone because of the possessions, wealth or stature of that person.

Mary's occupation is marrying wealthy men. I say “men” because she has married four men of considerable means and found out after each wedding ceremony that she didn't even like the person. Eventually each “wonderful” marriage ended up in a bitter, nasty divorce. How many of these do you think she'll go through before she realizes what she is doing? My father used to say,
“If you marry someone, be sure you like the person and you can love him even if he loses everything he has, because that's the person you'll be stuck with.” Times have changed since my father's day, and in today's world where two out of three marriages end in divorce, you no longer need to stay stuck in a bad relationship.

You can get a divorce without the stigma it carried in my father's time, but why would you want to put yourself through all that turmoil and emotional drama? It's certainly hard on one's self-esteem. We shouldn't use up even one moment of our lives dealing with negative emotional feelings that we can avoid by making better choices in the first place.

http://www.judimoreo.com/
"You Are More Than Enough: Every Woman's Guide to Purpose, Passion, and Power" is available in bookstores everywhere. ISBN #1-932173-72-2 or call Charlotte at (702) 896-2228.

CJ Maxx - In The Arms of a Warrior

Excerpt from In The Arms of a Warrior by CJ Maxx

Susan Ambrose walked into the Design Engineering Department and stopped in front of the admin assistant’s desk. She stared at Mary Jane Winter’s provocative black jumpsuit and a smile slowly formed on her face. "What? You were out partying last night and didn’t have time to go home and change?"

"You don’t remember, do you?" MJ asked. "The new guy starts today."

Susan chuckled, "Oh no! How could I forget? How could I come in here dressed like a bag lady?"

MJ smiled, "Hey, this guy is single, twenty-eight years old, and from what I hear, good looking! I’m going to dazzle him when he gets here. Once the boss is done with him, he’ll be spending time with me. He’s going to think he went to heaven and I’m one of the angels."

"Angel? I don’t think so. Devil in the black jumpsuit is more descriptive."

She wrinkled her nose at Susan, "You may not care about your first impression, but I do, I’m not getting any younger."

"If you’re dressed like that, I wonder what the desperate duo are wearing? It’ll be like a fashion show around here for the next week." The two female design engineers, Cassie Hunter and Katherine Gillian, practically threw themselves at any unmarried man. Susan shook her head and said, "The poor guy doesn’t know what he’s getting into, this is like ‘Desperate Women in the Work Place’. It could be a TV show."

"You’re not getting any younger either, you know. What are you, thirty now?"

Susan faked a hurt look. "Hey, I don’t see the big 3-0 for two more years."

MJ laughed. "Anyway, one bad marriage shouldn’t turn you against men forever. It’s been three years now, you should be over that jerk."

Susan stepped over to her distribution box, took out the contents and glanced through the documents. As she turned to leave, she said, "Oh, I’m over him. I’m just waiting for Mister Right to come along."

"Those guys on the white horses are all gone; you’ve got to start sorting through those Mister Maybes looking for Mister Almost Right."

"I’m sure you’ll give me a full report on your first encounter with Mr. David Wilson," Susan said as she walked to her office.

MJ smiled, "I’ll be in your office as soon as I escort him to Human Resources."

The man approaching MJ’s desk was tall, maybe 6’1", about 200 pounds or so. His off the rack suit didn’t hide the fact that he spent time in the gym. His broad chest and slim waist made him look like an athlete.

He stopped in front of her desk and said, "I’m here to see Tony Holiday."

MJ looked into his eyes. They were jade green. "You must be David Wilson."

He nodded, "Yes, I am."

She stood and extended her hand, "Welcome, David, I’m Mary Jane Winters, the department Admin Assistant. Just call me MJ."

He shook her hand firmly before releasing it. Looking past her at the name on Tony’s door, he replied, "Nice to meet you, M.J. Is Tony in?"

He was as handsome as she’d heard from her friend at Grumman, his last place of employment.

Strong chin, gorgeous green eyes, dark brown hair and full sensual lips.

David was still looking at the door behind her, "Is he in?"

MJ put her hands on her waist and thrust out her chest, "Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, he’s expecting you. Go on in."

He didn’t respond, just walked to the door.

MJ watched him until he was in Tony’s office and out of sight.

As promised, MJ walked into Susan’s office twenty minutes after she escorted the new employee to HR.

"Damn," she said as she plopped down in Susan’s guest chair. "I don’t know about him. I spent fifteen minutes with him, just the two of us, and, I swear, he never once looked at my 38Ds. I had to hang around Purchasing after I dropped him off, just to let those guys leer. I needed a morale boost after him."

Susan sat back in her chair and laughed, "You know, he’s probably just not used to hussies coming on to him first thing at his new job."

"I’m not a hussy," MJ replied with a smile on her a face.

"No, of course not. You’re wearing this seductive cat suit, your boobs are about popping out, nipples almost showing, probably staring at his crotch the whole time. No, you’re not a hussy."

"I wasn’t staring at his crotch," MJ said, smiling, "But I did check out his ass when he went into

Tony’s office. Umm, nice, tight, I’d like to have both hands on it."

"Oh no, you’re not a hussy. I can tell by the lady-like way you talk."
MJ got up to leave. "You’re going to meet him this afternoon. I want a full report from you. Miss Iron Panties."

"Iron panties? Where did you come up with that?" Susan laughed. "I’ll give you a report. I’ll bet he’s just a guy who wants to do a good job." She was looking forward to meeting him. It was time to move on. MJ was right; she wasn’t getting any younger.

"He’s a guy. If he didn’t notice me, his interests are somewhere else and I’m not talking about work."

Susan shook her head at MJ and chuckled. "I’ll tell you what I think about him before the day’s over."

Judi Moreo and Kim Baccelia - Virtual Tour Stops

Promotional Interview with Judi Moreo

This is the first author promotional interview that I've posted on my Self Promotion blog on the Inspired Author site. This is the first interview in a series that I'm doing with Kathleen Gage. She is posting some on her blog and I'll be posting all of the interviews on my site. To read about Judi Moreo's promotion - visit http://inspiredauthor.com/v3/promotional-interview-judi-moreo-0

~ and ~

Kim Baccellia - Young Adult Author - Earrings of Ixtumea

Join Nikki Leigh and Muze as they interview young adult author Kim Baccelia about her book - Earrings of Ixtumea. This is the opening question of the interview -

Nikki & Muze – I was reading the synopsis for your book and was intrigued by the inner struggle that your character faces. It’s also interesting that she is confronted by the same cultural problems in the fantasy world. Can you give us some information about how you came up with this idea and what sort of problems she deals with in the story?

Kim –As a bilingual teacher in the later ‘80’s and early ‘90’s, I saw a lot with my second language students. I taught in a LA county school district, close to East LA. I also was researching my own family history at this time. I was bothered how each year my students would draw themselves blond, blue-eyed, and fair skinned.

Click here to learn more about Kim and Earrings of Iztumeahttp://muzesmusings.blogspot.com/

Nikki Leigh – Fiction Author – http://www.nikkileigh.com/
Book Promo 101 – www.nikkileigh.com/book_promo_101.htm
“Coastal Suspense with a Touch of Romance”

Bite the Moon by Diane Fanning

Bite the Moon
By Diane Fanning

Chapter One

MOONLIGHTING A SECURITY GIG AT SOLMS HALLE was as good as it gets for a uniformed cop. I relished every opportunity. There were few fights—even fewer drunks who maintained belligerence once you hustled them out into the open air. It was fun any night, but tonight was plum. Trenton Wolfe was the top bill.

When the management booked Wolfe, he had just finished recording his latest CD, Wolfe Pack, and had not yet released the chart-topping single, “Bite the Moon.” Now that he had, he was riding a meteor into the stratosphere as the hottest new act in country music. The boisterous bodies packed into the old dance hall and stringing out into the street were proof that a legend was being born. The band honored the engagement in this obscure venue in gratitude for all the stage time Solms Halle gave them before anyone knew their name.

Although there was a chill in the air tonight, and all the wooden shutters were raised to let the fresh night breeze drift in through the screens, Solms Halle was hot and sweaty from the overflow crowd. The nightspot was nearly as old as Texas . Its unpainted, rough-hewn plank walls testified to its small-town dance-hall history. The narrow picnic tables—worn smooth from the sliding of cold, wet bottles of beer—and the bench seats—shined to a high gloss by the rubbing of innumerable backsides—stretched out in tight rows perpendicular to the stage. The sitting-in-an-old-barn atmosphere was guarded with zealous neglect. Any attempt to fancy-up Solms Halle was likely to cause its death as a Hill Country institution.

The driving country beat of Wolfe’s music vibrated in the walls and floorboards, slid out the open windows and down the street where it danced on the rushing waters of the Guadalupe River . For half an hour, the band played old favorites for their longtime fans. When they started into a track off the new CD, I was enjoying myself too much to call it work.

Then, I heard the first scream. It echoed with the faintness of an off-mike back-up singer. Curious but not yet concerned, I headed up a crowded side aisle, pushing through the milling, bouncing, dancing gaggle of customers that blocked the way.

I was halfway up the length of the hall when the shriek of multiple female voices rose to a crescendo that overpowered the throbbing of the speakers pouring out a tale of lost love. One by one, the musicians stopped playing. The last to remain oblivious to the nearby panic was the drummer, who pounded out a mindless, manic solo—lost in the rhythm of his own world. I got a few steps forward while everyone else sat frozen in place listening to the eerie harmony of screams blending with the relentless drums like a ghoulish punk concerto. At last the silence of the other musicians disrupted the depths of the drummer’s intense concentration. He lost his rhythm and his drumsticks clattered to the stage floor.

As if that sound were a secret signal, the stillness of the audience broke and they rose to their feet as one. My shouts for order dissolved in the cacophony the moment they passed my lips. Between the women fleeing from the restroom toward me, and the curiosity seekers pushing against my back, an impenetrable bottleneck grew.

I stepped up on a bench and from there to a tabletop. I jumped across from table to table, hoping to reach the stage, commandeer a microphone and calm the crowd. On the way, I flipped out my radio and called for assistance. I needed backup—bad.

I kicked over abandoned beer bottles, spraying foam on my pants legs and shoes, as I sprang across the room. When I reached the midpoint, I had a clear view of Trenton Wolfe. He stood on the stage and glared into the once captivated crowd that had transformed into an unruly mob.

Even in his state of apparent annoyance, the appealing good looks that had graced dozens of magazine covers were still intact. His perfectly sculpted six foot three frame had fueled my fantasies and those of most every other woman I knew. His chestnut brown hair, just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt, appeared as if it had never been fussed over and yet it was always in a perfect state of dishevelment—as if he just rose from a pleasurable encounter in bed. His face had a proportioned symmetry with a chin you could rely on. It was friendly, yet menacing. He had the bad-boy look that drove a lot of us crazy. His full, sensuous lips could part in a smile warm enough to melt a javalina’s heart but, at the moment, they were pursed in disgust.

By his side was his bass player, Stan Crockett. He was a bit taller than Wolfe and leaner than Ichabod Crane. Skin wrapped around his bones like saran wrap clinging to a turkey carcass. His deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks perched on a scrawny neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. That apparatus was balanced on a body so lanky, it appeared as if it might suddenly splinter at the waist. At the end of toothpick arms were hands with skeletal fingers that somehow created magic every time he touched a bass guitar.

Word was that despite his cadaverous appearance, Crockett was a laid-back, happy man who smiled easily and often. Unfortunately, on a face like his, a grin looked like a grimace and a full smile like the mocking of a ghoul. At the moment, he was not smiling. His compressed lips were in constant motion as he whispered to the mute star of the show.

I ran up the length of picnic tables toward the two. I jumped to the floor, battled my way through the dense crowd in the small space between the table and the stage and vaulted up onto the platform.

I grabbed the microphone and ordered the crowd back into their seats. My shouts were as effective as the whispered rebuke of a chaplain during a prison riot. By now, many of the intoxicated in the crowd were taking offense at the pushing and shoving and were throwing punches in response. Oh, man, oh man, where was my backup? I strained my ears but could not hear the sounds of approaching sirens, nor did a look through the windows reveal any flashing lights racing to the scene.

Mike Elliot, manager of Solms Halle, clambered onto the stage and shot me a glance of desperation. I didn’t think it would do much good but I shouted into the microphone again. Mike tried to hustle Trenton Wolfe and his group out of the hall. Trenton was not making his job any easier. I could not hear a word he was saying, but he was yelling at Mike and his arms flailed the air like a windmill run amok. Unlike more modern facilities, there was no backstage entrance at Solms Halle—no easy exit for performers. Mike and a few beefy volunteers formed an arrowhead that struggled to maintain its unity and pierce through the noisy crowd.

I slid off the stage and sidled along the wall to the ladies’ restroom where all the brouhaha had begun. Light slipping through the crack at the bottom of the door illuminated a mishmash of bloody footprints on the floor.

I slammed my back against the wall by the doorframe and drew my gun. The churning chaos around me parted like the Red Sea . I took a deep breath and kicked open the door. I moved into the doorway with my gun extended in a shooter’s stance. “New Braunfels Police Department. Throw down your weapons.” I scanned the barrel of my revolver from one corner of the small bathroom to another.

Nothing moved. But there were four stalls. Any one of them could conceal a perpetrator. If someone in one of those stalls shot at me right now, I doubt the plywood doors would even slow down the bullet. I exhaled a guttural shout and kicked open the first stall door and drew a bead on the vacant toilet. I moved to the next one. I could taste the fear in my mouth. It coated my tongue with a green slime that made my stomach lurch. I kicked open the next door and the sick sensation grew.What was behind the next door? The lady? Or the tiger? Again, I kicked. No victim. No bad guy. Nothing but porcelain.

Now all that was left was the last stall, I could smell my sweat and feel it form a clammy pool on the nape of my neck. I kicked that last door open. Nothing.I breathed again. But it was ragged. What had started as a small spot of tightness in my chest had expanded to embrace my whole upper body in its painful grip. I turned back to the doorway to the hall where the tops of a few foolish heads leaned in to see what was up. When they saw my gaze turn on them, the heads pulled back like turtles retreating into their shells.

With flashlight in hand, I shone the light in the narrow hallway outside the restroom door. I followed the trail of blood to where it led in the other direction. It ended at another door. Through the crack at the bottom, blood still seeped—as thick as glue, as dark as dirty oil—but still it moved.

I grabbed a paper towel from the bathroom dispenser and crossed the hall. In my right hand, my gun was at the ready. With my left hand, I laid the towel on the knob. I tried to turn it. It was locked. From the hinges, I saw that the door opened out. A kick would not do the trick. I needed the key. I reached on top of the doorsill. No luck. I shone the flashlight around looking for a nail that held a key. Nothing there. I needed Mike. Whoever was bleeding in there might still be alive. From the consistency of the blood, I doubted it, but it was possible. I was torn. Guard the door? Go find a key?

Before I could decide my problem was solved—Mike Elliot was by my side, a chunky key ring in his hand. He slid the key in the knob and backed away from the door. I stepped up, turned the key and released the lock. I pulled the door open a crack then slid to the side where I would be shielded as I eased the door open with my foot.

I led with the barrel of the gun, then jerked into position—knees bent, gun pointed straight ahead. One glance and I returned the gun to my holster and traded it for my flashlight—whoever had transformed this ordinary utility closet into an abattoir was no longer there. Sticky blood pooled like a major coke-syrup spill on the floor. Up the wall and across the cleansers lined up on the shelves, runny dime-sized droplets of blood formed a distinctive pattern—a line of streaky spatter rose up in a peak, descended and rose to a second peak—the classic formation of arterial gush, just like the pictures I saw at the seminar. It looked like the chart for an electrocardiogram—very bad news for the body sprawled at my feet in a lake of blood.

A small cardboard box nestled in the small of the victim’s back, arching his body upward. Tossed across the upper half of his torso was an orange plastic rain poncho—the disposable kind Wal-Mart sells for a couple of bucks. It seemed odd that there were smears of blood all over the side of the poncho facing toward me, but I didn’t have time to ponder that puzzle now.

I pushed the poncho aside with the butt of my flashlight to check for a pulse. His neck was sliced through to the spine, throwing his head back into a bucket where his hair floated on the blood that accumulated in the bottom.

I crouched down to check for vital signs. The spot where I should press to check for a pulse was no longer there. I knew it was futile, but still I lifted his limp wrist and held my breath as my fingertips sought any glimmer of life. No throb. No beat. No life.

Embedded in the shredded tissue of his throat, I saw a metallic glint. I focused the beam of the flashlight and discovered the source to be a guitar string. I followed its length and noticed the ends pulled through a block of wood and twisted tight. Death by guitar string—that had to be a first. And Solms Halle was the perfect setting for it. My moment of levity gave way to a sudden and severe bout of nausea—the bile rising at the back of my throat, its acid searing my tongue. I threw a hand to my mouth and squeezed my eyes tight, willing the upsurge to back down. If I lost it here, I would contaminate the crime scene and never hear the end of it.

As soon as I had my internal distress under control, I inched my way up to a standing position. I thought the movement was making my head ring but then realized the sound I heard was the distant, shrill wail of a siren. The posse was coming. In seconds, the spinning, flashing lights outside the windows lit up Solms like Las Vegas . I stood my ground by the door, shooing away a morbid looky-loo or two as I waited for my partners-in-arms.

My website is: http://www.dianefanning.com/

You can buy the book through a link here:
http://www.dianefanning.com/fiction.html

HOW TO SUBMIT

The first chapter of you book is critical. This is a place to share your the opening chapter of your book with others. Please send the following items to me at nikki_leigh22939@yahoo.com.

A document file with the title of your book, your author name, your first chapter, your website address and a link to buy your book. Once this information is compiled in one file, save it as an RTF (rich text file) and email to me along with your cover art, if you want to include the artwork. There seems to be some confusion - there are no questions to be answered on this blog. It is to share the first chapter of your book with others.

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Nikki Leigh
http://www.nikkileigh.com/