Halloween Flash Fiction: The Bush Indian #amwriting #amreading #Halloween2022 #shortstory #flashfiction #fiction #witches #ghosts #monsters

One more Halloween flash fiction for you all! In honor of Halloween, Poised Pen Productions is hosting a flash fiction giveaway with a prize filled with books, gift cards, and swag. Don’t forget to enter the giveaway simply by signing up with your email, and you’ll be given options for earning additional entries. Good luck!

If you missed it, I already shared my short story, Haunting Beauty. If you missed the others, check out The Hunt and A Simple Mistake, Ghostly Contact and The Witch’s Wand, and Samhain Surprise and Tall, Dark, and Handsome.  And now for the last but definitely not least of the Halloween flash fiction stories!


The Bush Indian

Copyright (c) Cherime MacFarlane

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCherimeMacFarlane

Author’s Note: There is a tale in that country of a “Bush Indian.” What little I’ve heard of it, people don’t say much, I’ve taken license with. But people do disappear in Alaska and are never seen or heard of again. A few thousand so far. Don’t go out in the bush alone.

Dedicated to: The elders I once knew.

Gunrik sat in one of the old office chairs. The two old men sat in their favorites, each one much the worse for wear. The wood stove warmed the interior of the building the men, hunting partners for years, called their shop. Built into the hillside of the property they had called home for over eighty years, it had one door and one window. He hoped the two Athabaskan elders would flesh out the information on a tale he’d run across while gathering stories for his employer, the Native Corporation.

He’d asked politely if the old men would tell him about the Bush Indian after church several months ago. They had exchanged glances. Some communication had passed between them.

Erik looked past Gunrik’s shoulder, staring at the mountains on the far side of the lake. David sighed. “Maybe. Him and me.” He waved a hand between them. “We’ll talk, send word if it feels right.”

Eventually, he’d had a call from Lila Jones, the great-grands granddaughter. The old men had decided it would be alright to discuss the legend. But they must do it on a Sunday afternoon, after church and when the moon was full.

Erik struck a match and lit a decrepit old pipe. The smoke didn’t smell like tobacco. Gunrik waited.

“Chelth-en-ee.” The word came out of the blue cloud around Erik. “Spell it how ya please. Him and me ain’t gonna say it again. Naw…”

“Once is enough.” David finished Erik’s thought. Gunrik had seen the two old hunters do that often enough. “Ya see spirit’s smoke coming from Wrangell? Tha kay-you-nee-thled-eh? That’s what we was waitin for. We’re thinking maybe we can get clear o trouble now. But we ain’t gonna speak o this again. Get it all now cause it’s askin for trouble to be too loud about that.”

“Yes, sir. Can I record you both?”

“Naw. Ya write this down.” Erik said.

David nodded. “Ya record it an that wrong spirit could hear it. They come after us. Can’t have that trash after DeDe, Alva Mae and the young ones.”

“Trash?”

“Yep.” David spat on the ground while Erik took another puff and blue smoke filled the air. “Evil as evil can be. They stole children. Took ‘em right out of their beds.” David said.

“Ya. Hunters go looking and find bones. Chewed.” Erik shook his white head. “Lost a few to that goo.”

He knew ‘goo’ meant monster. “They ate the children?” Gunrik leaned forward. He understood why no one wanted to talk about the thing he’d been trying to clarify.

Neither old man spoke, but they did nod in agreement. Erik blew another puff of smoke into the air. They exchanged another glance.

“They ain’t above taking a lone hunter, neither.” David said.

“Yup. Never go without ah huntin partner.” Erik took another draw on the pipe.

“Uh huh. They hung out in caves in the cliffs above tha river.” David leaned forward. “Ya know there’s still hunters, hikers go missin and nothing’s found.”

Gunrik nodded. He knew that. “Like that show about the Alaska Triangle.”

Both old men laughed. “They don’t know much. And ain’t no one going to tell them more. Tha only reason you’re hearing about it from us is we know we can trust ya. You’ve seen things here. Stuff ya can’t talk about cause ain’t any of em gonna believe ya.” David grinned at him.

“Ya. His great-great grandpa and his huntin partner followed em and traced tha evil back to their hole.” Erik gestured with the stem of the pipe.

“Uh huh and ran back and got every man, woman, and child in tha camp.” David grinned at him. “Since it was summer, they built fires on the land above the entrance, rolled bundles of brush down to keep tha lot trapped.”

“Collapsed the stuff above. Sealed tha goo in.” Erik said.

“Ya. That time they got most o them.” David looked at his hunting partner. “But we must have missed a few.”

Gunrik understood the ‘we’ to be the village collectively. “You think there are some still out there?”

“We do. Don’t ya be traipsing out there alone. Take our advice and always take a huntin partner. Keep each other safe.” Erik put the pipe stem to his lips.

“Now, we’s done talking. Said enough.” David touched Erik’s shoulder. “Look. Ya see that?”

“Yup.” David pointed out the window. “Wrangell is smoking up a storm. Tha wind’s rising. Storm comin up from tha gulf. Get on home, Gunrik. Stick close ta home for tha next few days.”

The entire drive down the Edgerton Highway to the cabin he shared with his wife, he felt off somehow. But he would call Jay Leighton as soon as he got home. The moose hunt he’d thought to do alone would be put off until he could get a hunting partner. He hoped Jay would go with him.

The old men were right. He’d seen too much in this country to not pay attention. And the hair on the back of his neck rose every time he looked at the big volcano with the plume of smoke above it. Cannibals had once terrorized the people here. As the old men said, evil had once roamed this vast valley and might still be waiting to snatch a lone hunter.


What a great story to wrap up the Halloween flash fiction series! Never go out hunting alone, my friends, whether for moose or candy!

Happy Halloween!

Betty

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An unsuspecting Southern town. Ghosts. Witchcraft. Skeletons in the closet. Discover the Secrets of Roseville in this five book series… Undying Love, Haunted Melody, The Touchstone of Raven Hollow, Veiled Visions of Love, and Charmed Against All Odds!

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Her love puts a song in his heart…

Paulette O’Connell is determined to provide for her unborn child. She has few skills and nowhere to call home except Twin Oaks plantation. Paulette accidentally summons her grandfather’s annoying ghost but he won’t leave until she figures out why she needs him.

Zak Markel is desperate to create an alchemical elixir to save his brother’s eyesight. Only, captivating Paulette distracts him at the worst possible time. While Zak longs for Paulette to give him a chance, she is determined to stand on her own, even before her child’s father returns. Can Zak convince Paulette to follow her heart before it’s too late?

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Getting to know Steven Mayfield #author #satire #smalltownfiction #historicalmystery #amreading

Buckle up, folks! And help me welcome self-proclaimed smart…guy Steven Mayfield to the guest author interview hot seat! Let’s dive right in, shall we?

Steven Mayfield is the award-winning author of Howling at the Moon, Treasure of the Blue Whale, and the upcoming Delphic Oracle, U.S.A. He lives and writes in Oregon.

Author Social Links: Facebook * Twitter

Betty: What inspired you to write the story you’re sharing with us today?

Steven: I was working on two short stories and realized that the protagonists lived in the same town. I then searched my “Ideas” file and found several other characters in search of a home. The result was Delphic Oracle, U.S.A., a small town in Nebraska that is home to some oddballs.

Betty: What, if any, new writing skill did you develop while working on this story?

Steven: I finally, at long last, stopped going off on tangents with minor characters.

Betty: Did you struggle with any part of this story? What and how?

Steven: There are two timelines, separated by nearly ninety years. Keeping the reader in two moments was a challenge that I addressed by allowing a first-person narrator to tell the story from both his own observations and experiences and those gleaned from his great-grandmother’s memories.

Betty: Which character(s) were the easiest to get to know?

Steven: Probably July and Maggie, the star-crossed lovers of the 1920s time setting. I knew who they were from the start and neither changed much.

Betty: What kind of research did you need to do to write this story?

Steven: I researched the oracles of Delphi and Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. I read a lot of Shakespeare, searching for quotes, and used A Midsummer Night’s Dream as a basis for the last chapter of the book.

Betty: How many drafts of the story did you write before you felt the story was complete?

Steven: Umptygazillion. The original draft was 185,000 words. With the help of novelist and editor, Mary Rakow and my Regal House editor, Jaynie Royal, it was trimmed down to a tidy 89,000. There was a lot of fat on the bone. Did I mention tangents and minor characters? You get the idea.

Betty: How long did it take for you to write the story you’re sharing with us? Is that a typical length of time for you? Why or why not?

Steven: I began the book in 2008, but because the structure (two timelines) was so challenging I frequently had to set it aside and published two other books before finally completing an acceptable draft in 2020. That is not typical for me. Treasure of the Blue Whale (Regal House 2020) and “The Penny Mansions” (Regal House 2023) both took about a year. I have another book, tentatively entitled “Sixty Seconds,” which is half done four months into the project.

Betty: What rituals or habits do you have while writing?

Steven: I try to write every day, even if it’s just a few words. I begin by revising what I wrote the day before, which often results in significant expansion. Then, I write new words for the next day.

Betty: Every author has a tendency to overuse certain words or phrases in drafts, such as just, once, smile, nod, etc. What are yours?

Steven: This is a better question for my editor, although in first drafts, I invariably overuse “that.” When I go to a second draft, I first do a “Find” for “that” and delete about 80% of them.

Betty: Do you have any role models? If so, why do you look up to them?

Steven: I’m too old to have role models. As a young man in medicine, I had some wonderful mentors, Ed Bell and Ed Clark at the University of Iowa among them. One man stands out: William Oh, my Neonatology fellowship director at Brown. I’ve dedicated “The Penny Mansions” to him. Among writers, I’ve been influenced by Mark Twain, O. Henry, Charles Dickens, Sinclair Lewis, John Steinbeck, John Cheever, Muriel Spark, Agatha Christie, John Irving, and Jean Shepherd. My work is about 10% an effort to be them and 90% smartass.

Betty: Do you have a special place to write? Revise? Read?

Steven: I have a study where my guitar and piano are nearby.

Betty: Many authors have a day job. Do you? If so, what is it and do you enjoy it?

Steven: I did have day job. I was a neonatologist for twenty-five years and enjoyed it, although the sleep deprivation caught up with me, forcing an early retirement.

Betty: As an author, what do you feel is your greatest achievement?

Steven: Accepting what I am: a yarn-spinner.

Betty: What is your favorite genre to read?

Steven: I don’t have a favorite. I like to read different things, which I is why I enjoy the Regal House catalog. There’s so much diversity in content and style among their authors; e.g. I just finished In Search of the Magic Theater by Karla Huebner, which is about two young women on parallel courses that eventually converge. Before that, I read Barbara Quick’s What Disappears, which is about ballet and fashion in Russia and Paris of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century and Michael Bourne’s Blithedale Canyon where a recovering addict can’t seem to go straight. Right now, I’m on Phillip Hurst’s Regent’s of Paris. Like me, Phillip writes about small towns and is a bit of a smartass. I feel right at home.

Betty: Success looks different to different people. It could be wealth, or fame, or an inner joy at reaching a certain level. How do you define success in terms of your writing career?

Steven: Being traditionally published has been gratifying. It’s nice to know that someone other than one’s friends and family has found value in my work. Because, let’s face it, your friends will never tell you that your butt looks big in EVERYTHING! Editors are less bashful, making me a shameless supplicant for their approval.

It is 1925 when a love affair between enchantress Maggie Westinghouse and con man July Pennybaker upends the small town of Miagrammesto Station, tumbles it about, and sets it back down as Delphic Oracle, Nebraska. Will their love fulfill its destiny? The narrator of this wry, entertaining novel, Father Peter Goodfellow, weaves back and forth in time to answer that question. Along the way, he introduces the Goodfellows, the Penrods, and the Thorntons—families whose members include a perpetual runaway, a man with religion but no faith, a man with faith but no religion, a boy known as Samson the Methodist, a know-it-all librarian who seems to actually know everything, a quartet of confused midsummer lovers, and a skeleton unearthed in a vacant lot. Funny, poignant, and occasionally tragic, their histories are part of how a place at the confluence of the Platte, Loup, and Missouri River Valleys became home to the long-lost Oracle of Delphi.

Buy Links: Regal House Publishing  *  Annie Bloom’s BooksBarnes & Noble

Sounds like a rollicking read, Steven! Thanks for sharing it with us.

Happy reading!

Betty

Award-winning Author of Historical Fiction with Heart, and Haunting, Bewitching Love Stories

Visit www.bettybolte.com for a complete list of my books and appearances.

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Halloween Flash Fiction: Samhain Surprise and Tall, Dark, and Handsome #amwriting #amreading #Halloween2022 #shortstory #flashfiction #fiction #witches #ghosts

I’m continuing sharing more flash fiction with you all! In honor of Halloween, Poised Pen Productions is hosting a flash fiction giveaway with a prize filled with books, gift cards, and swag. Don’t forget to enter the giveaway simply by signing up with your email, and you’ll be given options for earning additional entries. Good luck!

If you missed it, I already shared my short story, Haunting Beauty. If you missed the others, check out The Hunt and A Simple Mistake and Ghostly Contact and The Witch’s Wand.  Two more today, and then one last one next week!


Samhain Surprise

© Teresa Keefer

https://www.teresakeeferromance.com/

The black crow started tapping on her window at the butt crack of dawn, just like it had every day since Mabon drew to an end. Right before she pulled the colorful hand stitched quilt back over her head, Fiona McCann grumbled at the feathered annoyance. “Go away, Demetrius. I’m not ready to get up.”

The bird just cackled at her and continued to tap on the window with his beak. Just like every morning before this one. Fiona didn’t even know why she bothered to try to go back to sleep once his incessant noise making started. And it didn’t matter that she filled his feeder at night because it wasn’t food he was after. And most of the time his food got eaten by Bandit, the fat ass raccoon who lives in the oak tree out back.

“Fine. Fine. I’m getting up, you black feathered jerk.” She looked out the window and watched as he jumped up and down on the branch outside her window. “But I’m not going to do any magick today, either. Or any other day. My magick is broken and my spells do more harm than good.”

That was the truth. The first night of Mabon a storm had come through when she was offering the contents of her simmer pot to the oak tree in the backyard. A shard of lightning struck the ground where she had just emptied the pot of fruit and spices. Smoke spiraled up and she watched in awe as the fruit followed the smoke, turned black, and fell back to the ground. And the stench of rotten egg permeated the air around her. Since then, every spell she attempted ended up having catastrophic results.

First, there was the flat tire on her car she tried to fix. She ended up with the other three tires flat and the one fixed. So, she had to ride her bicycle to work at her mother’s bakery. There, she tried to put away stock in her usual manner of standing back and letting her fingers do the walking. A fifty pound bag of sugar fell out of its midair journey to the shelf and burst all over the floor. After she accidentally burned an entire oven full of scones, both her mother and her aunt shooed her out with their besoms and told her she should use hers to sweep out whatever shadows had infiltrated her magick field.

Well, here she was, a month later with Samhain two days away and she couldn’t even light a candle with her powers. Well, that wasn’t true either. She turned candles into blow torches and couldn’t get the fireplace to do anything but smolder. Fiona groaned and trudged toward the kitchen in the same flannel pajama pants she had been wearing for three days. Maybe four.

After she had a cup of her favorite tea and ate a stale scone, she looked around her quaint little house and shook her head. Not the first pumpkin carved or the first decoration put up. The only food in the house was what her mother or Aunt Agatha brought over in between their own tasks. And they were super busy baking up confectioneries for the various Halloween parties, not to mention preparing for their own family Samhain observance. Which Fiona was going to have to skip this year.

Her cell phone beeped at her. Her mother. Fiona hit the speaker button. “Hey Ma.”

“Fiona, my love, are you still plodding around in those old pajamas with your hair tangled up so bad mice could make a nice home in it?”

As she tried to run her fingers through her hair, Fiona had to admit Margret McCann pretty much hit the nail on the head. “I’m going to take a shower and comb my hair today. I promise.”

“Did you put your crystals out to charge last night?”

“The full moon is tonight. I’ll get them out.”

There was a long pause, then Margret sighed. “I’ve searched high and low for answers to your little difficulty. I keep coming up empty handed. Perhaps if we all joined together this evening our combined powers could bring up a vision in your sphere that could give us a clue how to fix this. We need you back in time for Samhain.”

“I’ve tried the gazing ball and all I see is a fog. And right now, it doesn’t look like I need to be around for Samhain. I think I’ll stay home and hand out candy to the children.” She rolled her eyes when she saw Demetrius prancing in front of the patio door. At least he wasn’t pecking on it. “Which means I definitely have to get around and go buy Halloween candy for the trick or treaters. I’ll talk to you later, Ma.”

Samhain blew in on a west wind that knocked over trash cans and sent a kaleidoscope of color through the air. By the time the sun fell and the moon rose, Fiona was perched on her front steps in a colorful set of skirts, long sleeved black blouse, and a conical hat adorned with flowers and feathers. Her handmade besom was leaned against the porch post and an arrangement of carved jack-o-lanterns were arranged on her steps with battery operated candles in each.

It was a different sort of night not spending it with her mother and aunt making offerings to the goddess and dancing in the shadows of the sky high pines in her aunt’s woods. They invited her but with the way everything she touched went to shit, Fiona felt it best to not spoil their evening with certain mishap.

She wasn’t sure how much longer she could take not having her magick. For as long as she could remember, it had been part of her and she was lost without it. Of course, over the years she wondered what it would be to not have the responsibility which accompanied her powers. To be normal. Normal wasn’t much fun at all.

As the groups of children grew smaller and farther between and her bowl of candy got lighter. The wind died down a little bit and the moon gave an otherworld glow to her front lawn. She couldn’t help but laugh at the children as they played in the leaves. Goblins, spacemen, cowboys and witches throwing the leaves at each other and falling down into the piles like they were jumping into a sea of water. Not a care in the world. And watching them frolic took her mind off her own predicament.

It was getting late and Fiona watched as porch lights started going off. The signal that another year of trick-or-treating was coming to an end. She sat there for a few minutes, looking up at the glorious moon and felt the emptiness of not being with her mother and aunt celebrating Samhain the way they normally did. The street had grown quiet when Demetrius flew down from a tree and started prancing and squawking in front of her.

“There’s nothing stopping you from flying out to enjoy the Samhain festivities in the woods. Go right ahead.”

He strutted for a few more minutes and flew away. Apparently, her company was not what her familiar wanted tonight. All the more power to him. She stood and picked up the almost empty basket of candy and turned toward the door when the crow returned. Only this time, he had a companion. Another crow, but it was wearing a purple bow around its neck.

“Good grief, where did you find this one?” Fiona sighed. “Have you gone and stolen someone’s pet away for your own entertainment?”

A dark shadow fell across the moonlight and closed in on her. A deep chuckle followed. Then the man appeared. Tall, dark, and with the brightest purple eyes she had ever seen. He smiled and held out his arm. “Come along, Drucilla. You’ve done well tonight.”

“Who are you?” Fiona knew only those like herself would have a crow they referred to by name.

“Let me introduce myself.” He made an exaggerated bow and the crow with the purple bow flew up to settle on his shoulder. “I am Derick Sobeinne. I believe you have something of mine.”

“And what would that be?”

“The tip of my wand. A piece of amethyst given to me by my grandfather when I was but a child learning how to turn my cousins into frogs.” He glanced over at Demetrius who had tucked his beak under his wing and was pretending to sleep. “I believe your rascal here swiped it.”

Fiona had to admit, there were times Demetrius came home with various baubles and pranced around to show them to her. But she hadn’t seen an amethyst just laying around the house or yard. “Why do you think that?”

“Let me ask you this…around the time of Mabon, did anything unusual happen around here?”

Fiona snorted. “Other than my powers going haywire?”

Derick lifted a dark eyebrow sardonically. “Around Mabon? Because that’s when this rascal was poking around my window trying to get the attention of Drucilla. Tell me what happened on Mabon.”

“I was out in the yard offering the contents of my simmer pot to the oak tree out back when a storm came up out of nowhere. Then a flash of lightning hit the ground and sent sparks flying. And there was this ghastly odor. The following day, when I tried to use my magick, it didn’t work right. I’ve done nothing but create havoc.”

Derick reached for her hand. “Come. Show me where this happened.”

Fiona led him around the house to the back gate and opened it. The oak tree was the center point of the yard. He tugged at her hand. “See that black charred area right there to the right of the tree?”

“Yes, that’s where the lightning hit.”

Releasing her hand, he knelt down in the damp grass and dug his fingers around in the charred soil. “Ah, here it is.” He held up a glowing piece of amethyst and smiled. Then he snapped his fingers and a shiny black wand with a silver crow on the handle appeared. “Come on over here. I’ll fix your magick.”

“I’m not going to…” Before the sentence was completely out of her mouth, she was standing near the warlock with the purple eyes. He touched the wand to the top of her head and she felt a rush of power go through her entire body. Then he stepped away from her. “Give it a try. You should be good as new. Maybe even better with a little of my own magick in you now.”

Not convinced, she did as he requested anyway and turned toward the fire pit in the patio area. Pointing her hands at the fresh logs, she closed her eyes and imagined the fire roaring to life. When she opened them, the wood was crackling as a normal fire would do.

Derick smiled and touched her shoulder. “No sense in letting a good fire go to waste. I just happen to have a nice bottle of French wine right here.” He held out the bottle.

Fiona grinned and clapped her hands. Two wine glasses appeared on the patio by the fire. “And I just happen to have a pair of crystal glasses to put the said wine in.”

Together, they walked toward the fire and the two crows flew up to the lowest branch on the oak tree. Out of the sight of the two witches, they gave each other the crow version of a high five, Their work was done.


Tall, Dark, and Handsome

© Tina Susedik

https://www.tina-susedik.com/

“Your future looks bright.” Fortune teller, Madam Silver, ran her hand over Kate Sullivan’s palm then eyed the Oracle deck Kate had shuffled and drawn three cards from. “You’ll meet and fall in love with a tall, dark, and handsome man.”

Yeah, right. How many times had the old woman uttered those words? Kate held back a sigh. Why had she listened to her best friend, Bernie? Why had she wasted her time and money?

“How exciting. When and where will I meet this man?”

Dressed in typical gypsy garb with dozens of jangling bracelets, a colorful bandana covering her hair, wide loop earrings, and long, flowing dress, the old crone turned over the third card. “At a hall.”

Well, that was stupid. “Could you be a bit more specific?”

“That’s not how readings work.”

Of course not. Kate bit her bottom lip to keep from calling the woman a charlatan. Instead, she gathered her purse and rose.

“Wait!” Madam Silver called out. “Beware of ladders and black paint.”

Ladders? Black paint? “Yeah. Sure thing. Whatever you say.”

Kate left the quiet interior of the tent to the raucous noise of carnival rides, game hawkers, screaming kids, yelling parents, and the ghoulish screams of costume wearers. Apple Springs’ annual Halloween festival was in full swing. Last night had been the children’s costume party. Tonight, the community center had to be transformed for tomorrow night’s adult Halloween, masked ball. She checked her watch. Only a few minutes before she and Bernie needed to show up for their assigned duties—whatever they would be.

Bernie grabbed Kate’s arm. “So. What did she say? Anything exciting?”

“The usual.” Kate gave her friend the rundown. “Blah, blah, blah.”

“What if she’s right?”

“Huh.” With Bernie at her side, Kate wove her way through the throng of people. “I bet she said the same thing to you. Didn’t she?”

“Well . . .” Bernie blushed. “Not exactly. My man is tall, blond, and handsome.”

Kate laughed. “See? Totally bogus. C’mon. We need to hurry, or we’ll be late.”

***

As much as she didn’t care for the hoopla of Halloween, she had to admit the mural of witches, ghosts, goblins, pumpkins, headstones, and zombies was rather well done. Whoever had drawn it on the community hall’s wall was quite talented. Although it seemed a waste of time and money to paint something for just one holiday. Would it be redone for Christmas?

At the top rung of the ladder, she dipped her paintbrush into the gallon of black paint and reached to the tip of the witch’s hat. The ladder wobbled. Kate grabbed the sides, smearing black paint on a pumpkin and letting out a relieved breath when the ladder stilled.

“Remember, tall, dark, and handsome,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Your future awaits you.”

“What the hell?” She glanced around. Of course, at twenty feet above the ground, there was no one here but her.

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” the crackling voice, sounding a bit like Madam Silver, hissed again as the ladder trembled.

Okay. Maybe the paint fumes were getting to her. Plus, it was getting late, and she was hungry.

“How’s it going up there?”

A man stood below her, shading his eyes with his hand as if the sun were glaring in his eyes. From her height, she couldn’t tell how tall he was, and he wore a baseball hat hiding the color of his eyes and hair. Was he handsome? She shook her head. The old crone’s words were getting to her.

“Fine.”

“He’s the one.”

“What did you say?”

The man removed his hat revealing a shock of red hair and frowned. Tall, dark, and handsome indeed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Look, lady, I didn’t utter one word except to ask how it was going up there.”

Kate dipped her brush in the paint. “Whatever.”

The ladder jiggled.

“You’d better stay still.” The man’s deep voice sent shivers down her spine.

“I’m not moving.”

“Well, your ladder is.”

The ladder wiggled harder. “No kidding. Are we having an earthquake or something?” The ladder shook. “Hey, stop it. It’s going to tip over.”

“Lady, I’m not touching it.”

The right legs lifted, tipping the ladder to the left. Kate dropped the paintbrush and grabbed the bucket of paint to keep it from sliding off with one hand and the side of the ladder with the other.

“You need to get down from there. I can’t hold this thing in place.”

Was this a joke Bernie was playing on her? Were there hidden wires making the ladder move like a puppet on a string? “I’m coming down.” Before she put one foot on the next rung, the ladder lifted to the right. Who was doing this?”

“I am,” the voice laughed in her ear. “Enjoy the ride.”

The swaying grew stronger. Side to side, each time tipping a little further.

“Let go!” the stranger yelled. “I’ll catch you.”

Was he kidding? No way was she letting go. The ladder tipped backward. Her hands, now covered in black paint, slipped from the ladder. She closed her eyes, screamed, and fell backward.

“I’ve got you.”

What seemed like an eternity was only a matter of seconds before she landed in the redhead’s strong arms.

“Umph. I said I’d catch you.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.” Not anxious to leave the safety of his hold, she wrapped her arms around his neck and glanced up at the ladder. “It was as if the darn thing was possessed.”

“I know. I’ve never seen anything like it. And I swear, I wasn’t touching the ladder.”

“I believe you.” She stared at his freckled face. While not conventionally handsome, he was certainly good looking. His eyes were green. Her heart skipped a beat. The voice had to be wrong. This man was certainly not dark.

A shuffling sound above them drew their attention upward. The bucket slid first to one side of the ladder, then the other, each time coming closer to the edge. Before they realized what was happening, the bucket tipped over, raining black paint over them.

The man set her on the floor and wiped his face with his T-shirt. “What the hell?”

Kate swiped her blonde/now black hair from her eyes. At least he was tall. Well over six feet. And dark. She giggled. Well, covered in black paint, he certainly now was dark. Very funny, Madam Silver. Very funny.

“I told you so. Tall, dark, and handsome. I just didn’t say how he’d be dark.” The voice laughed. “Enjoy.”


That’s your two for this week, Samhain Surprise, and Tall, Dark, and Handsome. The final story comes next week, on Halloween itself!

Happy Halloween!

Betty

P.S. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up for my newsletter, which I send out most every month, including news like new covers, new releases, and upcoming appearances where I love to meet my readers, along with recipes and writing progress. Thanks and happy reading!

Visit www.bettybolte.com for more on my books and upcoming events.

Did you know… You can order signed paperbacks of any of my books at The Snail on the Wall   book store!

An unsuspecting Southern town. Ghosts. Witchcraft. Skeletons in the closet. Discover the Secrets of Roseville in this five book series… Undying Love, Haunted Melody, The Touchstone of Raven Hollow, Veiled Visions of Love, and Charmed Against All Odds!

Haunted Melody is discounted for the month of October!

Her love puts a song in his heart…

Paulette O’Connell is determined to provide for her unborn child. She has few skills and nowhere to call home except Twin Oaks plantation. Paulette accidentally summons her grandfather’s annoying ghost but he won’t leave until she figures out why she needs him.

Zak Markel is desperate to create an alchemical elixir to save his brother’s eyesight. Only, captivating Paulette distracts him at the worst possible time. While Zak longs for Paulette to give him a chance, she is determined to stand on her own, even before her child’s father returns. Can Zak convince Paulette to follow her heart before it’s too late?

Barnes and Noble     Kobo     Amazon     Apple     Books2Read     Google Books     Bookshop

Getting to know Elles Lohuis #author #HisFic #novels #traveler #amreading

One thing I love about historical fiction is the vast diversity in times and locales that it encompasses. Including my guest author’s stories! Please help me welcome author Elles Lohuis! After a glance at her amazing background, let’s dive in and find out about her, shall we?

Elles Lohuis is a historical fiction author based in The Netherlands. A voracious reader and ever inquisitive explorer of far-away lands and foreign cultures, she holds an MA in History, an MA in Business, and a PhD in Social Sciences.

Elles writes novels that enthrall, engage, and enrich you, to sweep away to distant places and times gone by, opening a window to a world and its people that nowadays seems wondrous, foreign, and fascinating—but was once typically ours.

At the moment, Elles is back on base to complete her first historical fiction series Nordun’s Way, a Tibetan epic about a young woman blazing her own trail through the turbulent times of thirteenth-century Tibet with its royal clans, Mongolian invaders, smugglers and SilkRoad traders, to the places where demons lurk, and through the trials which afflict every family and human life—courage and cowardice, love and lust, loyalty and treachery, and cruel endings which do not always sprout into the new beginnings we desire them to be.

Author Social Links: Website * Instagram * Twitter

Betty: What inspired you to write the story you’re sharing with us today?

Elles: In 2018, my husband and I were fortunate to get a visa to visit his family in Tibet. My husband had fled his country in 2004 and hadn’t seen his family in all those years. We spent three months with the family in Kham, visiting all the relatives (and there are many!) and also some of the beautiful places around. 

One day we were at the horse races, and I realized there were no women riding. My niece Nordun had told me before she’d wanted a horse forever, but her father wouldn’t let her have one.

I told my brother-in-law it surprised me to hear that no women took part in the races. “Of course not,” he replied. “Horses and girls don’t go together, never have, never will.” Yes, that’s what he said. Right there and then, the character of Nordun formed in my mind.

Coming home after three magical months, I put pen to paper, and wrote The Horse Master’s Daughter, a story about a girl riding a horse, just for Nordun. However, in the unguarded moments between writing Nordun’s story and living in the mundane world, my mind was already flying ahead, spinning new tales, new adventures for Nordun, weaving a tapestry with all the stories I had already in my mind for so long.

You see, I finished a PhD in Social Sciences a few years before, researching the daily lives of Tibetan nuns in the Himalayas. For six years, I spent long periods (up to eight months at the time) living with the nuns in their tiny monasteries on the most remote mountaintops, collecting their stories of courage and resilience. I had literally hundreds of narratives, and somehow it all connected in my mind—my earlier training as a historian, my academic research in the Himalayas, my visit to Tibet, and of course my own Buddhist practice, and suddenly there was so much more happening on the page than I’d foreseen. The little tale I had in mind, my first novel, grew into the full-fledged historical fiction series Nordun’s Way, a heartfelt heroine’s journey, sprinkled with nuggets of Buddhist wisdom.

The book I’m sharing with you today is A Pilgrim’s Heart, Book Two in the series, in which Nordun, the protagonist goes on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, which seems like a noble quest at first, but turns out into a daring adventure.

Pilgrimages have long been an essential part of the Tibetan Buddhist way of life. Buddhists from across Tibet have travelled to sacred sites in Tibet, Nepal, and India for over 1,300 years, and although travel is restricted for Tibetans these days, pilgrimage is still going strong within Tibet. In fact, while visiting my in-laws in Tibet, I came across pilgrims every day, and talking to people about pilgrimage it seemed like there was no adult—monastic or layperson—who had not undertaken at least one pilgrimage in his/her life.

I—and with me many others I know—would love to make this journey across Tibet to Lhasa. Unfortunately due to visa-restrictions this is not possible, but researching the historical way and the folklore about this magnificent, sacred landscape, reading the accounts and interviewing those who have gone in present days, and so retracing the way Nordun would have travelled, at times, it really felt I was on the pilgrimage myself and hope the reader feels that too.

Betty: What, if any, new writing skill did you develop while working on this story?

Elles: To be honest, the biggest development for me writing this novel was sifting through all the fantastic finds from my research, making a careful selection, and then being able to leave most of it out of the novel. I think a lot of historical fiction writers will recognize themselves in this. We gather so many amazing stories, facts, and artifacts, and often we want to put it all in, ending up with a history textbook instead of a novel. This for me was—and still is—the real challenge writing my novels.  

Betty: Did you struggle with any part of this story? What and how?

Elles: Yes, I struggled with the big clash at the end, the solution to the conflict, as to me it had to be a solution without violence, death or destruction. My heroine Nordun is true to her Buddhist faith. She believes in the innate goodness of all humans and embraces it with all that’s within her. She’s compassionate and humble, pure and persevering, and embodies the true tender spirit of the warrior heart. Even though she lives in a society where men reign through force, violence and fear, she stands with her unshakable faith that the power of love will always prevail over the love of power. But I couldn’t mistake her meekness for weakness, so I had to come up with a way to deal with the conflict that’s bold and fierce, but tender-hearted at the same time. That was quite a challenge—and so it is for all the books in this series.

Betty: Which character (s) were the easiest to get to know? Why do you think?

Elles: For me, it was Nordun, as she came to me, emerging out of all the many tales I was told. Funnily enough for many readers, it’s Lanying, Nordun’s rather audacious friend who’s her opposite in every sense. Lanying’s a strong-headed, fabulous sword fighter who runs her own empire and tells it like is. Lanying reigns in her world by copying men’s behavior and outshining them in every way, and for some reason, people love that. I’ve already had readers asking me to write Lanying’s story, which I’m tempted to do. 😉

Betty: What kind of research did you need to do to write this story?

Elles: As a historian, I always want to do justice to the times and the people inhabiting the times, so I did extensive desk research and consulted experts on the history of Tibet and Tibetan Buddhism. Besides desk research, I also wanted to do in-depth field research. It was my big wish to go to Lhasa myself, but due to visa restrictions, it was—and still to date is—not possible for me to travel the road Nordun took to Lhasa. Fortunately, I spent three magical months in Kham with my Tibetan in-laws and their friends who have travelled the roads to Lhasa through the mountains and shared their many tales and anecdotes with me. 

Betty: How many drafts of the story did you write before you felt the story was complete?

Elles: It only took 2 drafts.

Betty: How long did it take for you to write the story you’re sharing with us? Is that a typical length of time for you? Why or why not?

Elles: This book was the fastest I’ve ever written. I’m a slow writer, and usually take about a year for a novel, but one ‘only’ took six months from start to finish.

Betty: What rituals or habits do you have while writing?

Elles: I don’t have any rituals, but I do drink lots of tea, preferably Lipton Orange Jaipur while writing. I have a big two liter thermos flask with hot water beside me with two cups and fresh tea bags on the side at the beginning of the day. At the end of the writing day, the flask is empty, the cups half full and there’s used tea bags everywhere!

Betty: Every author has a tendency to overuse certain words or phrases in drafts, such as just, once, smile, nod, etc. What are yours?

Elles: Oh, that’s a tricky one 😊 it changes with every novel I write, but when I first started writing, I overused ‘nod’ and ‘hands’ way too much! At the moment, writing my fifth novel, it’s ‘so’ and ‘too’—thank goodness for ProWritingAid!

Betty: Do you have any role models? If so, why do you look up to them?

Elles: I’ve had the good fortune of meeting many people in my life who showed me what it is to live an authentic life, so yes, I have many role models. The one I would like to mention here is my mother who passed in 2003. The funny thing is that my mother was a woman of few words. While my friends would always complain about the dreaded ‘motherly advice’ they received at home, my mother only gave me one advice: “Dreams come in different packages.” She told me early on that we all have our hopes and dreams in life and they all come in different packages. Don’t compare your dreams with anyone else’s and don’t confuse somebody else’s dreams for your own. Make sure to unwrap your packages early and enjoy them to the fullest!” She made sure she lived her dreams, often against all odds as my father passed too early and she was crippled with disease for the last twenty years of her life, and that’s still an enormous inspiration to me.
Betty: Do you have a special place to write? Revise? Read?

Elles: I have a small workroom, with an ergonomic chair and big screen set up, but I tend to do my best writing on the couch with my feet up, and my laptop squished into a large pillow.

Betty: Many authors have a day job. Do you? If so, what is it and do you enjoy it?

Elles: While working for almost 30 years in international business, research, and education, I had always felt very fulfilled in my work, supporting others in realizing their dreams and ambitions, but deep down I knew I was neglecting my own personal aspirations—writing all those stories smoldering inside of me. It was after my magical visit to Tibet when it all came together for me—coincidentally around the time I turned 50—and I finally faced my fears and took up the courage to write full time. So when the academic year ended in summer 2019, I handed in my notice, closed my private coaching business, started writing, and I haven’t looked back since.

Betty: As an author, what do you feel is your greatest achievement?

Elles: For me, it was taking up the courage to write the novels I love to read myself, novels that entertain and engage, but also make you pause and reflect about your own life and the times we live in. Novels that bring a great story, opening a window to other places and times, but at the same time challenge you to really appreciate the opportunities of the privileged times we live in now—which is not always easy, I know—and encourage you to once again be and do our best—every moment of our precious life. To novels that do that, to me is my greatest achievement, because it also means as a self-published writer, I’m willing to risk writing for a ‘niche’ audience, an audience that values a slower pace in the novel so they can really digest the ideas and questions the story brings to them, and that’s an audience that’s often not large enough for real commercial success.   

Betty: What is your favorite genre to read?

Elles: Historical fiction in the broadest sense of the word.

Betty: Success looks different to different people. It could be wealth, or fame, or an inner joy at reaching a certain level. How do you define success in terms of your writing career?

Elles: I think I answered that earlier—Success for me is a reader who emails me that reading my novel gave her—beside the enjoyment of a great story—a different viewpoint, encouraged her to think about her own life, challenged her to re-examine her own perception of the world in some way, and maybe even triggered her to try or do something new, something different, something that before might have been way out of her comfort zone. Yes, it’s a huge ambition, but that’s really a success to me—writing novels that enthrall, enrich, and enliven us.

Tibet 1285, the wild and unchartered rooftop of the world. Nordun is ready to forgive her uncle for his sins, despite knowing he murdered her mother long ago. But her family is set on revenge—they’ve ordered Karma, the man Nordun is falling for, to hunt her uncle down and kill him.
Desperate to avoid more bloodshed, and determined to stand by her Buddhist beliefs, Nordun joins Karma on his journey under the false pretense of going on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, the place her uncle is hiding.

As they cross raging rivers, traverse vast grasslands, and conquer the mighty mountain ranges of the Cho-La, Nordun realizes the man she loves is indeed a kindred spirit—but he is also a merciless warrior, who believes compassion has no place in a family blood feud.

When faced with the inevitable, will Nordun risk losing her love, and her life, to save the man who killed her mother?

We follow Nordun on her crusade across the rooftop of the world, to the lands of Gods, where the fickle fate of men is in the hands of the ones who reign through force and fear, and the unshakable faith of a woman in the innate goodness of humankind proves to be the very thing that can set a man free.

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Thanks so much for stopping by, Elles! I’m intrigued by your storyline and hope you find the right readers to appreciate them.

Happy reading!

Betty

Award-winning Author of Historical Fiction with Heart, and Haunting, Bewitching Love Stories

Visit www.bettybolte.com for a complete list of my books and appearances.

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Halloween Flash Fiction: Ghostly Contact, and The Witch’s Wand #amwriting #amreading #Halloween #Halloween2022 #shortstory #flashfiction #fiction #witches #ghosts

I’m continuing sharing more flash fiction with you all! In honor of Halloween, Poised Pen Productions is hosting a flash fiction giveaway with a prize filled with books, gift cards, and swag. If you missed it, I already shared my short story, Haunting Beauty. Last week, I shared both The Hunt and A Simple Mistake. Over the next few weeks, I’ll share a few more stories, all less than 700 words, with you for your Halloween enjoyment! Look for two each week with the final story posting on Halloween itself.

You can enter the giveaway simply by signing up with your email, and you’ll be given options for earning additional entries. Good luck!


Ghostly Contact

© CJ Bennet

https://www.facebook.com/AuthCJB

Years ago, I had a best friend who kept telling me that he had a ghost in his carriage house efficiency apartment. The apartment was connected to a screened-in porch that was as big as the apartment itself.

Even though I had experience with that, I chose to tease him about it because I knew he had a great sense of humor. My friend told me that he believed the ghost was a former slave named Fred. He told me he had seen the ghost while shaving. “I almost cut my own throat when I saw him behind me in the mirror.” He had talked to the ghost when he woke up one night to find it standing on his chest. He told the ghost he couldn’t breathe, so would the ghost please get off his chest. He felt the boots when the ghost moved to step off the bed. He said he could actually see the boots and saw the mattress move as it stepped off his chest and got down on the floor. I still told him I didn’t believe him. That was until I had my own experience with the ghost.

My friend was going to a three-week conference in California, and had asked me to get his mail and water his plants while he was gone. I was happy to help, until the second week in. I’d gotten the mail, and went inside to water his plants. I’d left his mahogany front door open and turned on his radio while I was working. Suddenly… The radio cut off, which was not unusual in the seventies. I turned around in time to see the 200-pound door close all by itself. That was when I realized what was happening. I was terrified, but I knew it was my friend’s ghost, and I needed to talk with it.

I said, “Okay. I know you’re here. I am very sorry that I told Ted I didn’t believe you were here. Ted believes you were a slave. If so, I am very sorry you had such a hard life. I swear that from now on I will never say you don’t exist, if you let me out of here.”

The radio came back on, and the door opened back up. I grabbed my purse, the mail and my keys, then left that place like a bat out of hell.

When I picked up my friend at the airport 10 days later, he asked me how things had gone. I told him I had all of his mail, but his plants might be dead. When he asked me why, I told him what happened. He laughed for the next fifteen minutes.

After that, we had quite a few things happen when I was there, but we knew who it was, and it never bothered us. The ghost would frequently knock on the windows, or pound on the front door, which wasn’t possible because the carriage house was on the second floor above the garage, and the screen door to the porch was always locked, so no one could have come up the stairs, and through the screen door without us hearing them

I learned to never question the presence of a ghost or entity. If you feel or see something out of the ordinary, take it seriously. That belief has served me well over the years.


The Witch’s Wand

© Tessa Russ

https://www.poisedpenpro.com/blog-1

While Jess was shopping at her favorite thrift store, she noticed the old witch statue in the corner. It sat by itself, surrounded by dust and cobwebs. The witch’s eyes were closed, and her mouth hinged open in an anguished expression. Jess thought maybe it could be just a prop for a Halloween display, but there was something about it that felt off. It looked real—like it had been made from flesh-like material and exquisitely painted. But despite the creepiness of it, she was somehow drawn to the thing. She bought it and brought it home to add to her Halloween decorations.

A few days later, as she decorated for her favorite season, words broke the silence. “He’s coming for you.”

Startled, she jumped back and screamed. “What? Who said that? Who is he?” Jess had no man in her life.

The statue she had named Helga answered: “Beware, my darling, you rescued me, now I’m going to save you.”

Surely Jess must be hallucinating. Maybe she needed to quit watching all those creepy movies before bedtime. A statue couldn’t speak, could it? But then again, some pretty strange things had happened to her lately…

***

Jess woke up in a cold sweat. He had invaded her dreams.

Was it really a dream?

“My darling, I am coming for you soon.” Who was this man? She shuddered, she had been seeing him almost nightly in her dreams since she brought Helga home. He seemed so real to her. In her far too realistic dreams, he stood outside her door in a raging thunderstorm with the rain pelting down and illuminated by the lightning piercing the turbulent sky. Even though he appeared as a shadow in the fog, she could see his handsome chiseled features clearly. She had no clue how that was possible. Could this be the man Helga tried to warn her about?

With a shake of her head, Jess laughed at herself. What a crazy thought. She shook the remaining sleep-induced fog from her head and stumbled out of bed to get her morning coffee started. Hopefully, a shot of caffeine would help erase the tumultuous nightmare from her mind.

After finishing up her freelance marketing projects for the day, Jess took a quick trip to the store and ran a few other errands. When she arrived back home later that evening, all was still silent from Helga. Thank goodness. Time to cozy up with a cup of tea and the new mystery novel she had been wanting to read before calling it a night. After all, tomorrow was her favorite day of the year and she wanted to be ready.

***

Jess woke with an uneasiness that she couldn’t explain. She should feel great. After all, this was her favorite time of the year. Her decorations were up and ready to enchant the little trick or treaters that always lined up outside her door. She loved seeing their costumes and remarked on every one of them which put a smile on their faces before they trotted off down the street to the next house.

Somehow, she had a feeling this night would be different. Was it Helga’s warnings that caused her feelings of anxiety? No, it couldn’t be. She didn’t really believe any of it could possibly be true. And who would believe in a talking witch statue. Maybe she was just losing her mind. Maybe that had been a dream too.

Jess sat down at her desk to begin her workday. She took a glance over at Helga, who had been quiet for a few days. Almost like she could read Jess’s thoughts, Helga spoke; “Tonight’s the night, my dear. Please don’t be afraid. I will protect you from his evil magic.”

“Please tell me what’s going to happen,” Jess pleaded, feeling a little desperate.

“You will know what to do when the time is at hand,” Helga responded, then fell silent just as abruptly.

Okay, now that was no dream.

At this point, Jess began doubting her sanity. She tried to put her thoughts back into her work, but it was no use. She couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she paced for a while. Studied Helga. Walked around her, hoping the witch might speak again but she didn’t. Probably because you are losing your mind.

Enough. She had to focus on something else. She decided to check out her Halloween decorations one last time. Before long it would be dark and the little ghosts and ghouls would be out and about. She had a display in her office as well as one outside on the front porch. Her office display held Helga, pumpkins, ghosts, goblins, and other things she had picked up over the years.

Her gaze snapped back to Helga. There was something different at her feet. It looked like a wand of some sort, kinda Harry Potter-ish. Where the heck did that come from? She didn’t recall purchasing it. As she stepped closer to pick it up, she felt an electricity in the air. Sparks started radiating from it. Jess jumped away.

Helga’s red eyes opened again. “Not now, my dear. You will know when the time is right.” Then her eyes closed, and she appeared lifeless once more.

Jess decided maybe work was safer for the moment. She really, really had to figure out if she was losing it or…what? She just didn’t know.

As the day wound down, Jess looked forward to the activities ahead. She dressed in her Halloween costume to await the arrival of the trick or treaters. She studied her reflection in the mirror. What a coincidence that she chose to be a good witch this year.

But it was not to be. As the sun waned on the western horizon and night approached, the sky opened up. It was a storm she had never seen the likes of before.

She had been avoiding Helga in fear of more spooky predictions. But now it was time for answers. Bummed that her well planned Halloween wouldn’t happen, she made her way down the stairs to her office.

“Helga, talk to me. No more of your vague, dire predictions. I want to know what’s happening.”

Helga sprang to life and answered, “Tonight is the night I’ve been warning you about. Listen to me closely.”

Helga spoke with Jess for quite a while, telling her all about how she had been cursed by an evil sorcerer because he was afraid of her powers. The witch had been stuck inside this statue ever since, unable to move or talk until someone found her who had the power to help break the curse. She also told Jess about how her lover, HE remained stuck just on the other side of the veil until the curse lifted. Jess was at a loss. Why would Helga think she could help break the ancient curse? What part did she play in all of this? She had no magical powers.

 ***

The witch and the sorcerer stood face to face; their eyes locked. Thunder rolled in the distance as lightning lashed down from the sky. The witch took a deep breath, her body shaking with anticipation. She could feel her magic coursing through her veins like a raging river. She was ready for this fight—and knew she would be victorious! She had to be.

Jess watched in silent horror as the fight raged on for what seemed like hours, the old witch became weak. She must continue the fight, mustn’t allow him to win this time. With the vestiges of her strength, she attempted one final time to banish the sorcerer back to dust. If she could just hold out for a minute longer, but no, she couldn’t muster the strength needed…. “It is time, my dear.” With that, the wand flew from Helga’s hand into Jess’s. She didn’t know why or how, but she was ready for battle. She took the wand and wielded it high. One push, two… she felt the sorcerer grow weaker. An otherworldly power coursed through her veins, and with a final push of the wand, the sorcerer disappeared into a cloud of dust.

Lying on the rain-soaked ground, a weakened Helga looked to Jess and pointed into the mist. “We must get him; we must get HE while the veil is still thin enough to reach him.”

Looking in that direction, Jess could see him standing in front of her. It was like looking through a fog. Helga reached and stretched, but she didn’t have the strength to pull him through. Without a thought as to what she was doing, Jess grabbed Helga’s hand in one of hers and with the other, using the last of the power remaining in the wand, she tapped the veil, cracking it. Still grasping Helga’s hand, Jess dropped the wand and reached through the broken veil. Grabbing HE’s hand, she somehow pulled him through to their side.

Terrified and exhausted, Jess kept trying to wake up from this hellish nightmare she was caught in. But no, there was no waking up. It was real. As she tried to put everything together in her mind, she glanced at Helga. Right before Jess’s eyes, Helga transformed. Instead of the old broken witch standing there a moment ago, a beautiful goddess stood strong and tall. Her long red hair streamed down her shoulders and the tired red eyes had turned a vibrant shade of green. As HE walked toward Helga, he took her hands and kissed her softly on the lips.

Then HE slowly turned toward Jess. “We know you have questions and some of them we can answer. The rest will come to you in time.”

Helga smiled and said, “You won’t remember this now, but you are one of us. When the time is right, all that you need to know will be revealed. Until then, keep living your life. The time will soon come that you must make a decision that will change your life forever.”

***

With a final goodbye Helga and HE faded away into the mist. In the night’s stillness, Jess could hear them faintly whisper; “We will see you again soon, my dear.”


That’s your two for this week, Ghostly Contact and The Witch’s Wand. Two more coming next week, before the final installment on Halloween itself!

Happy Halloween!

Betty

P.S. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up for my newsletter, which I send out most every month, including news like new covers, new releases, and upcoming appearances where I love to meet my readers, along with recipes and writing progress. Thanks and happy reading!

Visit www.bettybolte.com for more on my books and upcoming events.

Did you know… You can order signed paperbacks of any of my books at The Snail on the Wall   book store!

An unsuspecting Southern town. Ghosts. Witchcraft. Skeletons in the closet. Discover the Secrets of Roseville in this five book series… Undying Love, Haunted Melody, The Touchstone of Raven Hollow, Veiled Visions of Love, and Charmed Against All Odds!

Haunted Melody is discounted for the month of October!

Her love puts a song in his heart…

Paulette O’Connell is determined to provide for her unborn child. She has few skills and nowhere to call home except Twin Oaks plantation. Paulette accidentally summons her grandfather’s annoying ghost but he won’t leave until she figures out why she needs him.

Zak Markel is desperate to create an alchemical elixir to save his brother’s eyesight. Only, captivating Paulette distracts him at the worst possible time. While Zak longs for Paulette to give him a chance, she is determined to stand on her own, even before her child’s father returns. Can Zak convince Paulette to follow her heart before it’s too late?

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Getting to know Tamar Anolic #author #historicalfiction #HistFic #militaryfiction

My guest today has a unique view of historical fiction writing I think you’ll enjoy. Please welcome author Tamar Anolic! Let’s take a look at her background and writing credentials and then find out more about her and her writing process.

Tamar’s short stories, including several stories that appear in The Lonely Spirit, have been published in Foliate Oak, Frontier Tales, Pen In Hand, Evening Street Review and The Magazine of History and Fiction. Tamar has also had stories published in The Copperfield Review, The Sandy River Review, The Helix and Every Day Fiction. Her full-length books include the nonfiction biography The Russian Riddle and the novels The Last Battle, Triumph of a Tsar, Through the Fire, The Fourth Branch, The Imperial Spy, The Fledgling’s Inferno and Tales of the Romanov Empire. In addition, she has presented on historical fiction and writing at the Historical Novel Society of North America and the Historical Writers of America conferences.

Author Social Links: Website * Facebook

Betty: What inspired you to write the story you’re sharing with us today?

Tamar: A single line in the Coen brothers’ version of the movie True Grit. There’s a scene where the main character, Maddie, is asking the sheriff of Fort Smith who the best Marshal is. The sheriff mentions a half-Comanche Marshal who is good at tracking and brings his prisoners in a lot. I thought, “that sounds like an interesting character!” L.S. Quinn came out of the desire to write about a character with that background and those skills.

Betty: What, if any, new writing skill did you develop while working on this story?

Tamar: With short stories, you don’t have a lot of space to convey your plot, character and emotion. Writing these stories definitely helped me hone my skills of brevity while still conveying a lot.

Betty: Did you struggle with any part of this story? What and how?

Tamar: I struggled with where to start this short story collection. The first story I wrote about Quinn is actually the third story that appears in this book. Also, when I first wrote that story, I thought of it as a one-off. It wasn’t until I finished it that I wanted to write more about the character, and realized that I wanted to write more about his backstory.

Betty: Which character(s) were the easiest to get to know? Why do you think?

Tamar: Colonel Robert Graypool, which was a surprise to me. In this book, he is the head of the Comanche reservation at Fort Sill. I conceived of him as a character not long after I thought of Quinn himself, and from the time that Graypool rescues Quinn on a lonely stretch of road, I knew I wanted to write more about him. There are a couple of stories dedicated to him in this collection, and after the first one, where he loses his wife and child, the rest were easy to write.

Betty: What kind of research did you need to do to write this story?

Tamar: I read quite a few books about the Comanche and got as much information as I could from the tribe’s website. I also belong to the Historical Novel Society, and their North American conference last year had a panel on writing Native characters, which I attended. In addition, there are a number of Native authors and educators, such as Debbie Reese and Sarah Elizabeth Sawyer, who offer materials about writing Native characters which I found particularly helpful. Lastly, I submitted the manuscript for The Lonely Spirit to the company Salt and Sage for a sensitivity read, and the feedback I got from that was insightful.

Betty: How many drafts of the story did you write before you felt the story was complete?

Tamar: Each story in this collection was different. Some took more drafts than others. With the short story called “The Lonely Spirit,” it’s the longest story in the book and probably took the largest number of drafts to write. It was closer to a novella when I first drafted it, so a lot of my work went into getting it down to short story length¾around 7500 words. When it initially did not get picked up by any literary journals, I put it down for a while before going back to it. Then I revised it some more and resubmitted, and it got published in the Magazine of History and Fiction.

Betty: How long did it take for you to write the story you’re sharing with us? Is that a typical length of time for you? Why or why not?

Tamar: It took me close to ten years to write all of the stories in this collection. That’s unusual for me. I usually write a story, finish it and move on. I kept coming back to Quinn’s character because I liked him so much. I also really liked all of the characters he meets on his journey.

Betty: What rituals or habits do you have while writing?

Tamar: I plot out a lot of my work. I have both an overall arc for the character and a plan for the next several scenes I want to write. I note those scenes at the bottom of wherever I leave off for the day. I also do my best writing in the morning. I like to sit down with a mug of hot tea, which helps me focus.

Betty: Every author has a tendency to overuse certain words or phrases in drafts, such as just, once, smile, nod, etc. What are yours?

Tamar: I definitely like my “long moments in silence.” There came a point where I noticed just how often I use that phrase, and I’ve been working on finding different ways of saying it.

Betty: Do you have any role models? If so, why do you look up to them?

Tamar: I don’t know that I have a single role model, but I admire the writers in my beta reading groups and the writers I’ve met in the writers’ associations to which I belong and the conferences I’ve attended. Each person has a different reason for writing, and a different story to tell. I’ve learned so much from interacting with each of these writers and reading their work.

Betty: Do you have a special place to write? Revise? Read?

Tamar: I usually work out of my apartment. It helps me get into the zone. Before the pandemic, though, I sometimes took my laptop to coffee shops when I needed a change in scenery. I’m looking forward to a time when that can happen again.

Betty: Many authors have a day job. Do you? If so, what is it and do you enjoy it?

Tamar: Yes, I’m a lawyer. There’s a lot that’s interesting about it. My research and writing skills come in handy there, too, and I find that helpful.

Betty: As an author, what do you feel is your greatest achievement?

Tamar: Seeing my writing in print. Indie publishing can be an uphill battle in a lot of ways, but it’s a great resource to get my work out there. I feel a sense of accomplishment in seeing a book come to fruition, when it was once just an idea in my head.

Betty: What is your favorite genre to read?

Tamar: Historical, both fiction and nonfiction. I read a lot about the Romanovs, which is the other historical time period I write about.

Betty: Success looks different to different people. It could be wealth, or fame, or an inner joy at reaching a certain level. How do you define success in terms of your writing career?

Tamar: This is a tough question. Writing has always brought me joy¾that’s why I continue to do it. But with indie publishing, it’s so hard to reach an audience. I definitely wish I could connect with readers more and build a broader audience.

The Lonely Spirit is a short story collection of the Old West. L.S. Quinn is a half-Comanche U.S. Marshal who straddles two worlds, searching for peace in both.

Quinn’s adventures pit him against criminals like brothel owner and gunslinger Florence Finnegan, and Jack Mattherson, whose attack on U.S. Senator William Quincy brings out Quinn’s desire for revenge. Quinn isn’t always lucky: when one of his partners turns into his enemy on a lonely stretch of land, Quinn no longer knows whom to trust.

The fight between the Comanche and the United States Army is also never far from Quinn’s mind. When the Army kills his fiancée, Quinn must rebuild his life, even as he finds himself a lasting enemy in Colonel Ranald Mackenzie.

But Quinn’s journeys also bring him into contact with kindness he does not anticipate in such a wild land. Sympathy comes in the form of Colonel Robert Graypool, whose level-headed command of the Comanche reservation at Fort Sill brings out Quinn’s respect when he least expects it. Humanity also resides in Dr. Mary Newcomb, one of the few women physicians of the day. In both of them, Quinn finds some of the community for which he searches.

Buy Links: Amazon

I hope your visit here today will help you with your goal of expanding your reach to readers, Tamar!

Happy reading, everyone!

Betty

Award-winning Author of Historical Fiction with Heart, and Haunting, Bewitching Love Stories

Visit www.bettybolte.com for a complete list of my books and appearances.

Subscribe to My Newsletter to learn the inside scoop about releases and more!

Halloween Flash Fiction: The Hunt, and A Simple Mistake #amwriting #amreading #Halloween #Halloween2022 #shortstory #flashfiction #fiction #zombies #ghosts

I’m so happy that fall and especially that Halloween has arrived! In honor of which, Poised Pen Productions is hosting a flash fiction giveaway with a prize filled with books, gift cards, and swag. Last time I shared my short story, Haunting Beauty. Over the next few weeks, I’ll share the other stories, all less than 700 words, with you for your Halloween enjoyment! Look for two each week with the final story posting on Halloween itself.

You can enter the giveaway simply by signing up with your email, and you’ll be given options for earning additional entries. Good luck!


The Hunt

© Jolie St. Amant

https://www.facebook.com/JolieStAmant

New Orleans

Chateau Rouge Hotel

Alcide sipped a whiskey neat as he watched the brainless creature attack an unfortunate human, tearing out his innards like a kid opening a Christmas present.

“Zombies,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. How they had bastardized the term over the centuries. Oh, there were zombies, the word actually derived from the Haitian word zonbi. A reanimated human corpse.

He pressed a button on the remote, changing the channel. He had seen enough. Brainless? Alcide spoke four languages fluently, including the old language. Latin.

Flesh-eating? Now that part was true. To survive Alcide had to eat flesh. From humans? The thought turned his stomach. Some of his kind did, but he did not. Modern humans put too many chemicals in their bodies these days. Nicotine, prescription drugs, processed foods, the very thought of it turned his stomach.

If he was hard pressed and had to find a human, he preferred a vegetarian. Most times he enjoyed a good rare steak, or sushi. All farm fresh. And organic, of course.

Alcide often strolled the dark streets of the Quarter, watching the underbelly of the town scamper home from late nights of debauchery. However, two weeks ago, he had found a tasty looking morsel. He’d spent several evenings stalking his prey, making sure his potential meal would be everything he was wanting. So he waited. And watched. For the stalking and anticipation was half the fun.

He looked down at his watch. It was time.

He finished his drink and stood, stretching his 6’4” frame. Time to go out and do what he did best. Hunt.

***

I got home tired after a long day’s work and ready for a relaxing night alone. I reached for the light switch, but another hand was already there. I turned my head slowly to the side.

It was him.

I had seen him at night watching me from the murky shadows of the French Quarter as I walked home from my job as a bartender on Bourbon Street. I had noticed him at first because his long black coat was so out of place for such a humid night. It was old-fashioned and elegant, and something you would see at the fancy restaurants or in dining rooms in the Garden District mansions. I wondered if he was an actor, or a tour guide for one of the many ghost tours that trekked through the Quarter every night. Any of these were possible, it was New Orleans after all.

When he got close enough for me to see his eyes, I was mesmerized.  They were a deep, amber color that seemed to almost glow in the dark. And they were focused on me, boring into me with an intensity that made me feel both exhilarated and uncomfortable at the same time.

I had tried to shake him a few times, but he always seemed to be there, a few steps behind me, watching. It was like he was stalking me.

Two nights ago, he had finally caught up to me. I turned to face him, and he stepped out of the shadows into the dim light of the street lamp. He was tall, at least a head taller than me, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. He was wearing the same black coat, and I could see a white shirt and black pants underneath. He looked like he had stepped out of another time.

“Olivia,” he said in a voice that was both smooth and rough at the same time. It was a voice that sent a shiver down my spine. His accent was soft, and hinted at time spent in Europe. How he knew my name, I had no clue.

“Who are you?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

But he gave me one. “My name is Alcide.” He reached out and brushed a stray hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek for a moment longer than necessary. “And I’m here for you, ma cher.” He had disappeared after that, leaving nothing but the cold feel of his hand on my face.

Now, in my apartment, his hand moved from mine. He covered his lips with one finger, motioning for me to be silent.

I froze.

The hunt was over.


A Simple Mistake

© Sherrie Lea Morgan

http://www.sherrieleamorgan.com/

I made popcorn, whistling a tune from long ago. Setting it aside, I paused as the sky blasted white from a lightning bolt. I grinned and headed down the hall toward the guest room. The sounds of the girl’s giggles interspersed with the storm raging outside. It’s a good night for a movie. I pushed open the door and gasped. What the hell? My twin nieces jumped up and jostled to hide the Ouija board sitting on the floor. My heart pounded against my ribs as I chewed them out for playing with such a thing. Both chimed in simultaneously, saying they’d only started playing. That is before I interrupted them.

With my heart pounding against my ribs, I demanded they tell me what they had done. Both agreed they’d only asked if anyone was around, their name, and got a response. They both promised. Only once did they say hello. Although I never touched a Ouija board, I’d heard the horror stories and shuddered. I scolded both and ordered them to bed. No popcorn movie night now. Grabbing the board and its guide, I rushed downstairs and tossed them into the fireplace. Then I stood watching the flames eat the wicked thing.

As soon as I dropped the girls off at school the next day, I found a local metaphysical shop and asked to see a psychic. We sat in a small room covered in bright-colored scarves and painted pictures of angels. I told her what the girls did last night and asked if there was any reason to worry. Her face paled, and she swallowed several times before responding.

“As long as they didn’t ask the entity’s name,” she said.

“But they did,” I said.

She frowned. “Well, it might still be okay, as long as they didn’t respond.”

“But, they did,” I said, my voice rising along with the speed of my pulse.

She raised her hand and rubbed her temple.

“There’s a good chance they invited the thing into your home by responding. But we could fix it.”

“How? The girls are innocent, and I need to protect them.”

She stood and gathered some herbs from her shelf, along with a small bottle of water. “This is rainwater, she told me. Blend the herbs in the water and pour it on the board within twenty-four hours.” She wrote feverishly on a piece of paper, then handed it to me. “You’ll need to recite these words as you do so. It’ll prevent the spirit from coming—well, staying at your home.”

“After you’re done, you must bury it somewhere. Not on your property,” she warned. “As far away as possible.”

“Can’t I just burn it?” My stomach clenched, waiting on her response.

“No, no,” she whispered. “Don’t burn it, especially in your house.”

“Why not?”

She leaned forward and whispered, “If you burned it, then it would force the entity to remain in the spot of the fire. The board is a portal, and burning it would lock it closed. It couldn’t go home.” She paused a moment, then continued. “That would be the worst thing to do as you’d be trapping it, and entities didn’t like getting trapped. They get angry and search for ways to get revenge. Some even latch onto people for the rest of their lives.”

“I understand.” Boy, did I understand. I didn’t like it one bit, and frowning, I left.

That night, I sat before the fireplace. I’d miss the twins’ monthly visits, but it was too late. I poured a glass of wine and waited. A bubbling laugh forced its way past my lips. As the fire crackled, I laughed…and laughed.


That’s your two for this week, The Hunt and A Simple Mistake. Each week brings a new spooky tale. What will next week bring?

Happy Halloween!

Betty

P.S. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up for my newsletter, which I send out most every month, including news like new covers, new releases, and upcoming appearances where I love to meet my readers, along with recipes and writing progress. Thanks and happy reading!

Visit www.bettybolte.com for more on my books and upcoming events.

Did you know… You can order signed paperbacks of any of my books at The Snail on the Wall   book store!

An unsuspecting Southern town. Ghosts. Witchcraft. Skeletons in the closet. Discover the Secrets of Roseville in this five book series… Undying Love, Haunted Melody, The Touchstone of Raven Hollow, Veiled Visions of Love, and Charmed Against All Odds!

Haunted Melody is discounted for the month of October!

Her love puts a song in his heart…

Paulette O’Connell is determined to provide for her unborn child. She has few skills and nowhere to call home except Twin Oaks plantation. Paulette accidentally summons her grandfather’s annoying ghost but he won’t leave until she figures out why she needs him.

Zak Markel is desperate to create an alchemical elixir to save his brother’s eyesight. Only, captivating Paulette distracts him at the worst possible time. While Zak longs for Paulette to give him a chance, she is determined to stand on her own, even before her child’s father returns. Can Zak convince Paulette to follow her heart before it’s too late?

Barnes and Noble     Kobo     Amazon     Apple     Books2Read     Google Books     Bookshop

Getting to know Mim Eichmann #author #suspense #thriller #womensleuths #amreading #fiction

Inspiration for a story comes from anywhere and everywhere, as my guest author today will make clear. Please help me welcome Mim Eichmann to my interview hot seat! A quick peek at her background and then we’ll find out more about her and her writing process.

A graduate from the Jordan College of Music at Butler University in Indianapolis, IN, Chicago-based author Mim Eichmann has found that her creative journey has taken her down many exciting, interwoven pathways as an award-winning published lyricist, short story author and songwriter, professional folk musician, choreographer, by-lined journalist, and now, author. Her debut historical fiction novel, A Sparrow Alone, published by Living Springs Publishers in April 2020, has met with extremely enthusiastic reviews and was a semi-finalist in the 2020 Illinois Library Association’s Soon-to-be-Famous Project. Its much-anticipated sequel, Muskrat Ramble, was published by LSP in March 2021 and has garnered equally enthusiastic high ratings. Both novels are bestsellers. Her thriller, Whatever Happened to Cathy Martin, was published Aug. 9, 2022.

Author Social Links: Website * Facebook

Betty: What inspired you to write the story you’re sharing with us today?

Mim: When I attended my high school reunion back in Washington, D.C., after many decades of having lived in the Midwest, I had a chance to talk with classmates I hadn’t seen since our graduation. Without the advantage of the internet, most of us had gradually lost touch with one another over the years and drifted far apart. Inevitably, there were those few classmates about whom none of us had heard anything, and for whatever reason, the question crept into my mind: what if they’d met with a foul end? Whatever happened to those friends with whom we’d secretly shared our first breathtaking romantic encounters or complained bitterly about a totally unfair grade on a history midterm by slipping a cryptic note through the slats of one another’s hall lockers? Would we ever know?

Betty: What, if any, new writing skill did you develop while working on this story?

Mim: Since I’d lived through this time period¾1968-78¾and I was not writing about an actual crime or historic characters as was the case in my first two historical fiction novels, this definitely gave me the liberty to develop all the characters in the direction they took themselves, allowing them to play out their idiosyncrasies through the confines of the plot which was a nice breath of fresh air!  This was my first book where I could go back and reorder sequences and/or characterizations as the characters and plot dictated while I moved along.

I can’t say that I ever felt I was writing as a “pantser” (i.e., writing from the seat of my pants), but I was able to step away slightly from being a “plotter” (i.e., writing from a strict plot) as was dictated from my first two books. In reality, I’ve always been something of a “plodder,” which is my own definition of my writing style, lol… I’ve been known to spend an entire day writing one paragraph or dialogue sequence before I think I’ve gotten it right. I’m completely in awe of those authors who diligently fulfill their NaNoWriMo quotas every November¾I’d fail miserably!

Betty: Did you struggle with any part of this story? What and how?

Mim: Yes. There’s a violent rape scene at the end of the book. I felt it definitely needed to be included but was afraid how it would be perceived by the average reader. Thus far, no early reviewers have called me out on it. Also, in general, the story takes a young married woman infuriated by her husband’s infidelity down an ever-darkening, murky rabbit hole as the book progresses. I’ve made every attempt to make my main characters as three-dimensional and interesting as possible keeping within the framework of that era without resorting to obvious stereotypes. Sometimes that was also a struggle and I had to adjust accordingly.

Betty: Which character(s) were the easiest to get to know? Why do you think?

Mim: Well, my main protagonist, Denise Prescott, is very loosely based on me all those years back, since I worked as a journalist at that time for The South Bend Tribune in South Bend, Indiana, and dealt with many of Denise’s same problems. Historically, so much was shaping our world during the decade of ’68-’78 and often we forget how long it took for mainstream society to truly embrace many of these social reforms.

Betty: What kind of research did you need to do to write this story?

Mim: Typically, my h.f. research involves delving into lots of letters, diaries, journals, photographs and non-fiction works from the time period. In this case, however, I enjoyed going back through newspaper archives, reviewing all the Sherlock Holmes movies that featured Basil Rathbone to acquire the quotes at the top of each chapter, streaming all the Columbo and Rockford Files episodes available, as well as watching countless hours of Forensic Files, a show that often discussed murders that had been cold cases for decades. DNA research was still in its infancy back then and had not yet been used for criminal investigations. The extraordinary movie The Conversation (1974) starring Gene Hackman and John Cazale reveals the moral dilemma a surveillance expert faces when his recordings reveal a potential murder. This movie gave me terrific insight into the security surveillance equipment available and its usage at that time.

Betty: How many drafts of the story did you write before you felt the story was complete?

Mim: Since I tend to move along at a glacial pace as a writer, one of the advantages is that not too much of the manuscript needs major tweaking¾that’s not to say that everything was perfect! There were definitely plot holes that needed serious attention! Also, there were a few scenes I dumped completely, reversed in order and/or expanded or condensed. For example, my protagonist Denise has a romantic encounter with a detective in a trucker’s hotel. When I first wrote this section, Denise was attracted to the man but what might have ensued by way of actual romance was interrupted by a phone call. Later I decided this ‘encounter’ needed to actually occur, otherwise this section seemed too much like some kind of cutesy, cozy mystery device (which this book is not), so I rewrote that entire section, lengthening it considerably, and the phone call¾actually the detective’s pager buzzing¾occurred several hours later.

Betty: How long did it take for you to write the story you’re sharing with us? Is that a typical length of time for you? Why or why not?

Mim: Since the book was written almost entirely throughout the Covid isolation during the winter into spring of 2020-2021, it was something of an escape for me, so not typical of any time frame in my opinion.

Betty: What rituals or habits do you have while writing?

Mim: Even though I’m a morning person, I’ve found that I’m almost always writing from mid to late afternoon until about 9 or 10 p.m. when I’d stop to check in with the local news, then sometimes continue writing. I need a sense of creative space around me¾clutter drives me to distraction¾so dishes, laundry baskets, mail, other random projects, etc., have all been dealt with earlier in the day. Yeah, I’m one of those people … also, I need silence¾no surprise, eh?

Betty: Every author has a tendency to overuse certain words or phrases in drafts, such as just, once, smile, nod, etc. What are yours?

Mim: My short list of offenders would be:  eh? Uh. So. Replied. Commented.

Betty: Do you have any role models? If so, why do you look up to them?

Mim: My blurb includes a comparison of sorts to Kathy Reichs, who is a forensic anthropologist in real life. I’m thoroughly enamored with her in-depth knowledge in forensic crime solving. Sometimes her plots seem to have a lot of coincidence, but overall, they’re unique. She also employs a terrific set of secondary characters sprinkled throughout. Other contemporary mystery authors I enjoy reading include Stieg Larsson, Faye Kellerman, and Elizabeth George along with the non-fiction work of Erik Larson. My favorite fiction authors are Edith Wharton and Kate Chopin.

Betty: Do you have a special place to write? Revise? Read?

Mim: I have a designated office but almost always end up writing on my laptop on my dining room table. If we’re talking about reading books in general, just about anywhere.

Betty: Many authors have a day job. Do you? If so, what is it and do you enjoy it?

Mim: I retired from my full-time job about five years ago but am also a folk musician playing gigs with my acoustic folk quartet Trillium – www.trilliumtheband.com. I play hammered dulcimer and also sing.

Betty: As an author, what do you feel is your greatest achievement?

Mim: I’ve now written and published three books in just over four years… I only expected to write the first one. I guess I’m surprised how much I enjoy this process, even though at times it’s been extremely tedious and frustrating. I look forward to continuing to research and write novels for as long as possible.

Betty: What is your favorite genre to read?

Mim: Historical fiction, literary non-fiction, mysteries, thrillers

Betty: Success looks different to different people. It could be wealth, or fame, or an inner joy at reaching a certain level. How do you define success in terms of your writing career?

Mim: That’s an interesting question. Certainly not wealth or fame and I doubt that I’ll ever reach a measurable level of literary satisfaction. But to quote my protagonist Denise Prescott’s last line in Whatever Happened to Cathy Martin, “wherever we ended up, I was looking forward to the journey.”

Kathy Reichs meets Sherlock Holmes in this Gothic thriller set in rural southern Indiana in 1978 that seeks to unravel a deadly tangled web of lies surrounding three former high school friends, one of whom has been missing for over a decade… but which one? And why?

Buy Links: Amazon * B&N

I love a good Gothic tale! Thanks for sharing yours with us, Mim!

Happy Halloween and happy reading!

Betty

Award-winning Author of Historical Fiction with Heart, and Haunting, Bewitching Love Stories

Visit www.bettybolte.com for a complete list of my books and appearances.

Subscribe to My Newsletter to learn the inside scoop about releases and more!

Halloween Flash Fiction: Haunting Beauty #amwriting #amreading #Halloween #Halloween2022 #shortstory #flashfiction #fiction #haunting #ghosts

October has finally come around bringing fall’s cooler temps and Halloween! In honor of which, Poised Pen Productions is hosting a flash fiction giveaway with a prize filled with books, gift cards, and swag. More on that in a moment, but first I’d like to tell you about my flash fiction written specifically for the occasion.

Last year I challenged myself—okay, my local writers’ group challenged each of us—to write a short story. That story, “The Perfect Birthday Gift,” appears only in the What A Day! Short Stories by Southern Authors anthology which released in April. It’s also linked to the Fury Falls Inn historical fantasy series, so you may want to get your own copy to read that exclusive story. (Hurry! The anthology will only be available through October 5! You can buy your copy here)

This year I was asked to write a flash fiction story for Halloween. Something under 1000 words. Now keep in mind I typically write novels, ranging in word count from 70,000-120,000. So, what the heck? The short story in the anthology was just under 5,000. Could I write a spooky story under 1,000? After some pondering, I drew from two events in my childhood—exploring a haunted building (or so I believed at the time) and having my dad scare us at a Victorian-style rental one fall—to write a 650-word romantic spooky story.

Writing short is much harder than writing long when you’re used to space to delve and explore actions, reactions, and motivations behind the characters. But writing short also hones the ability to cut to the essence of the narrative, sharpening the focus on what is important to the tale being told.

You can enter the giveaway simply by signing up with your email, and you’ll be given options for earning additional entries. Good luck!

My contribution follows:


Haunting Beauty

© 2022 Betty Bolte

A thump sounded overhead, then another. Footsteps? I shuddered. “We should…go.”

The ancient house moaned, wind whispering past like voices of ghosts in the dark.

“Not yet. I want to see where it happened.”  Cam grabbed my hand, and I squeaked in alarm. “Come on, Georgie.”

I planted my feet, but he tugged harder and drew me close. My heart raced so in my chest I could only hear its thundering in my ears. I stumbled along beside my fiancé toward a back room, stepping over a dropped pillow with what looked suspiciously like dried blood on its embroidered front. No, maybe catsup. I swallowed back the fear rising in my throat. Probably blood.

“They say she died in bed. That’s probably the bedroom, don’t you think?” Cam eased us closer to the scarred door, mostly closed as if trying to keep secrets from escaping but failing miserably.

“I…” I swallowed again instead of revealing the depth of my fear. He’d talked about invading the abandoned house for months to satisfy his morbid curiosity about the decades-old mystery surrounding the remotely situated farmhouse like fog. We do everything together, which I’m usually happy about. Even proud. This Halloween night? Not so much.

A thud behind me had me twisting around to stare into the dusky light of the hallway. Cam squeezed my hand and then let go as he strode briskly down the hall and with a flick of his hand told me to stay put. Alone. “Cam?”

“Shh.”

“Cam!”

He disappeared around the corner. I sucked in a shaky breath and tried to keep my knees from knocking together. I folded my arms across my chest as I stared down the empty hall. Suddenly, a light flared at the far end, illuminating a monstrous face floating in the darkness. Floating toward me slowly, inching closer with its open maw and glowing eyes. I screamed and the face vanished.

Cam guffawed. He clicked on his flashlight and swept the light over my face. “Gotcha.”

He sauntered up and I punched him on the shoulder. “Not funny.”

He pulled me into his warm, comforting embrace and held me tight for several moments. Kissing me lightly, he gazed into my eyes. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that ever again.”

I nodded and snuggled into his chest. “Thank you.”

He’s such a good man. Smart. Loving. Playful. His entire family loved to prank each other. If I weren’t so nervous about being in this reportedly haunted house, I would have laughed at myself. But something about the chilly and foreboding atmosphere of the place had every nerve on edge.

“Let’s just take a peek and then we’ll go have pizza. Okay?”

I nodded and squared my shoulders. “With extra cheese and jalapenos.”

“Jalapenos?” He noted the stubborn lift of my chin. “Fine. You win. Come on.”

Gripping his hand, I followed him through the squealing door as he pushed it open. He stopped just as the door bumped into something, sweeping his flashlight over the area. The bed occupied the center of the far wall, its mattress bare and…stained. The broken-out window let the sighing wind breathe through the bedraggled lace curtains.

“Looks like she really did die in bed.” Cam strode closer to the marred mattress, dragging me reluctantly along. He pointed to the largest dark red blotch. “I bet that’s where she bled out, too. It’s terrible to think about it.”

“See enough?” I hoped he had. I was more than ready to leave.

“Yeah.” He swept his light around the room one last time and then froze. “Uh…”

I looked where he aimed the light, shining on a young woman’s otherworldly figure in a white nightgown, blazing gold orbs for eyes, dangling dark tresses shifting in the eerie wind. She summoned us with a mesmerizing sweep of her ghostly fingers.

I screamed then turned and ran without looking back. Cam’s footsteps followed me down the hall and out the door. We tumbled into his Jeep and sped down the driveway, never to forget the haunting beauty.


This was fun to write, but did you enjoy it? What challenges have you made for yourself?

Happy fall! Happy Halloween! Thanks for reading!

Betty

P.S. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up for my newsletter, which I send out most every month, including news like new covers, new releases, and upcoming appearances where I love to meet my readers, along with recipes and writing progress. Thanks and happy reading!

Visit www.bettybolte.com for more on my books and upcoming events.

Did you know… You can order signed paperbacks of any of my books at The Snail on the Wall   book store!

Fury Falls Inn in 1821 Alabama. A place for ghosts, witches, and magic. A place of secrets and hidden dangers.

Amazon Fury Falls Inn Series Page

The Haunting of Fury Falls Inn (#1)

Under Lock and Key (#2)

Desperate Reflections (#3)

Fractured Crystals (#4)

Legends of Wrath (#5)

Homecoming (#6)