Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Choosing my menu to say goodbey to the OLD YEAR 2015 and NEW YEAR 2016

I try to eat Twelve Grapes wear yellow underwear and sometimes to insure added benefits in the GOOD LUCK department I wear two pairs of underwear, (A different color of course). Superstitious? Who me? ABSOLUTELY YES! I love superstitions, Folklore and traditions; (not necessarily my own)... A few years ago I entered a small shop in Boca Raton, Florida. It was owned by a Danish man, it was New Year's eve; he knew me well I was a god customer. and my superstitious rituals that year included lighting candles of different colors; ( a bit like the underwear) to symbolize my wishes. As I said I was a good customer and the shop owner liked me; he even sold Chinese Money Candles,(which is admittedly a very superstitious thing to sell) but my superstitious nature that day seemed to offend him somehow. He was not himself at all; he decided to explain;

"In my native Denmark we have delicious fish dishes on New Year's Eve. My wife is Hungarian and she will not allow the Danish traditions because she says that in Hungary eating fish on New Year's eve means your luck will swim away."
I have nothing for our against Hungarians and I have never visited Budapest, but it is on my wish list. That being said, I did avoid eating fish on New Year's just in case the Hungarians were privy to something I needed to know! (I do believe that Denmark has had historically far better luck than Hungary). I also sometimes wonder if their marriage worked... A few months later he had to close his store and there was a lingering doubt in my mind... Did he win the argument? Did they eat fish? 2016 is going to be a BIG year in our home and as such I want to add to the LUCK factor, so I find myself wondering if I should avoid tempting fate and nix fish from our menu. I decided to Google what else I should do or avoid; what do people around the world know that I may have missed? Should I Throw furniture out the window? (South Africa) Bang Bread Against the wall? (Ireland) Talk to my pets? (Romania)... The dog might answer but I am certain Mordecai the turtle will remain silent




Tuesday, December 29, 2015

LOVE CHILD by Ana Torres

41fSP7iOUgL._SX330_BO1,204,203,200_Tommy Hulette never asked to be born. Everyone wants to make him regret it even so. Tommy Hulette hates his ghetto Brooklyn neighborhood. He's content living with his beautiful mother, his loyal caring father, his little sister Greta. He enjoys playing stick ball with neighborhood friends then really perks up when he meets beautiful and interesting Stephanie from Starrett City. But Tommy's world is shattered forever. His mother becomes terribly unhappy and commits suicide. Things go downhill completely when his father decides he needs time to cope with the tragedy, sending Tommy and his sister to live with a brother Tommy never heard about. He promises that it will be for a short spell until he can come back for them. He doesn't and it doesn't take long for Tommy to discover how this brother hates him and has since birth. He wants to punish Tommy for events occurred long before Tommy's birth...Then it gets worse as he wants Tommy to end his life just like his mother...and to this Tommy is pushed and pushed and pushed... Pushed to the limit, and with no one to turn to, Tommy takes solace in his sister's company and letters he receives from Stephanie. Will he be able to cling to life, and not succumb like his mother?
  1. What is your book about?
Love Child is the story of Tommy Hulette a boy who loves his family, but hates the poverty in the crime ridden projects they live in. However he’s content to play stickball with the neighborhood kids while watching over his sister Greta. Things really look up when he meets the lovely Stephanie Mandan who lives on the other side in the more lucrative area of Starrett City. Unfortunately for Tommy his mother sinks into depression and makes a drastic decision that changes Tommy’s and Greta’s life forever. The following series of books will continue to deal with the consequences of these decisions. Those books are Child No More and Child Scorned.
  1. What inspired you to write this particular novel (series)?
It took me a few years to write this story which has become a series of books. The story itself was inspired by a couple of things. My upbringing in the projects, though we didn’t live with the kind of poverty Tommy lived in. We did live in poverty however just not as bad. It was also inspired by things I experienced in real life that were not easy to deal with, but through this fiction writing I was able to put some of these things into writing. It wasn’t the exact same situation. A lot of things are different, but overall I was inspired through those things I experienced while growing up, as I entered the adult years as well.
  1. Describe your writing in three words.
Exciting, Chilling and gripping.
  1. What authors inspire or influence your work?
V.C Andrews was and still is a big influence. I love her kind of fast paced, suspenseful writing. Her early books the ones written by her especially are the ones that influenced me especially the Dollanganger series which very much influenced my own Child series. I also enjoyed her Casteel series, and found it just as suspenseful. I followed her formula because I loved the way these books had hooked me. I didn’t want to put these books down from the moment I began reading them, and I wanted to write in that similar way with Love Child and the series of books that followed it with the hopes that I could hook my readers the same way. Susan E Hinton was another influence. She penned “The Outsiders” when she was only sixteen, and I first read that book when I was fourteen. That book was probably the first real book that made me want to write. Other authors that deserve special mention who have influenced me over the years have been Stephen King, Anne Rice, and Patricia Cornwell.
  1. Once your character is fully developed do you set them free or do they still dance around your mind?
My character certainly dances around my mind. I’m not sure if the character of Thomas Hulette (the protagonist of the Child Series) is fully developed since he’s been in a few stories, and he’s still growing and developing for likely future stories. But when I say he dances in my mind perhaps the best way to explain that is to say that he’s never far away when I’m writing. Since his story has been told in a series of books (right now three books, and one recently new released Christmas short story) this could be one reason why this character dances in my mind. But honestly I think of him a lot even when I’m not writing. I could be listening to certain songs, and I picture him in certain scenes like for example he could be fighting with his antagonist. I see it all in my mind as if watching a movie. The music I’m listening to adds drama to the whole scene. I guess it’s safe to say that this character has become part of me, but then most characters are already a part of the author from the moment they create their character. 6 Share your biggest hurdles in the marketing process. While concentrating can be a big hurdle in the writing process for me there are many hurdles in the marketing process. Naturally marketing is important for any author, in fact one of the most important. For me the biggest hurdles there is going out and reaching out to people. I can be very shy about promoting myself. I am also shy and sometimes afraid of getting out of my comfort zone, and trying new ideas for promotion. For example if I spend days promoting my books on social media like I have with Facebook and Twitter, I may become somewhat complacent there, and not push myself to go beyond that, and step out of that comfort zone. I keep promoting there instead of trying something else even if I am stagnating with sales in that area. The thought of trying something new every day appeals to me constantly. I have ideas, but I need to overcome the hurdle of being shy, and I need to work on stepping out of my comfort zone. Every day I need to take steps to do that even if just one step at a time. It helps to have money, but if money is scarce then we have to be our own promoters. Challenging as it may be, but we can put up our own hurdles when we allow our own shyness, and unintentional complacency to get in the way of our own success.
  1. Where can readers find you and your books online?
My books can be found on Amazon, but I do have a website where the links to my Amazon and social media pages are all together. The list of my books, and their descriptions are there as well. Here is the link to my website: ANA TORRES AND FACEBOOK








A.M Torres is the author of five books. The first of these books Love Child was first published in 2011 and was given a good review by Midwest Book Review who described it as "A fine and very much recommended read." Following Love Child is its sequel Child No More. Following those books are the holiday themed books J and K Christmas, and J and K Christmas 2013 which was given four stars by Readers Favorite. J and K Valentine was released earlier this year and Ana is currently working on Child Scorned and all poetry book.


Book 3 of the Small Gods Series AUTHOR: Bruce Blake

To raise the Small Gods, a Small God must die, When stars go out, the end is nigh. One must die to raise them all, Should Small Gods rise, man will fall, One can stop them, on darken’d wing, The firstborn child of the rightful king.
The moment Teryk and Danya, the royal siblings, spoke the words inscribed on the long-forgotten scroll, they foolishly set in motion events destined to bring about the prophecy’s predictions. Teryk is the firstborn, but why do the words only make sense to his sister?
As they each launch themselves recklessly into a heroic mission to save mankind, it seems inevitable that key elements in this game of the gods would be drawn to one another and collide with frightful and yet-unfathomable consequences.
With a Small God already captured and being dragged to his death by a colossal, bloodthirsty golem, is it too late to turn back fate? Can any of them find a way to resist their destinies?
Intrigue in the court, an impenetrable veil between two worlds, escape, sacrifice, retribution and magic pull the strings of these puppets of destiny on a massive, creation-spanning chessboard hidden in shadow, veiled in darkness, lost in the night.

Long ago, blood and anger colored his dreams red every night until the night she came to him.
In his sleep, steel glinted through the haze of crimson, pain flashed. A coppery scent stirred him in his bed, rank bile soured his tongue, and Trenan woke with sweat on his brow and agony tearing through him from an arm no longer there. Every time he awakened, he reached out with a phantom hand, expecting—hoping—for fingers to brush the rough wool blanket or touch his face. But they found nothing because they remained attached to an arm rotting in the bottom of a ditch with the rest of the dead.
“At least the rest of you isn’t down there,” Erral had said with a chuckle one day as he sat beside his bunk, struggling to articulate his appreciation.
Trenan thought lying in the ditch with the dead might be better than losing the arm meant to wield his sword.
What good is a soldier with no hand to hold his weapon?
The one-armed swordsman stared up at the dark ceiling, the muscles in his jaw clenched hard against the throb in his shoulder and the knot clogging his throat. Since the days of his childhood, his life had been based on what that arm could do with a sword. It performed feats others couldn’t, moved in ways and with speed beyond the abilities of but a few men. It took lives, saved lives, helped to put down a rebellion.
But no more. Off it came, a sacrifice to save the king from a blow meant to separate his royal head from his regal body. A more than fair trade in the kingdom’s mind, but a bitter mouthful to a master swordsman left with the wrong arm.
Trenan closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, filling his lungs to capacity and using the air to squash regret from his chest. Sacrificing himself for the king was expected of him and an honor. But it wasn’t he who’d been sacrificed but his arm, with the rest of him left behind to cope without it.
I’d rather have died.
And they knew it; it was the reason his chambers were devoid of sharp weapons.
The whispered word didn’t startle him, but he was surprised by the timbre of the voice speaking it. The doctor assigned to his bedside like a hairy-chested wet nurse would return soon to touch his forehead to gauge his temperature, or give him more of the acrid herbs to hide a pain that would never leave, but the man charged with caring for him didn’t speak with a woman’s voice.
Trenan dragged his lids open, cocked his head. The woman perched on the chair set beside his bunk was the last person he’d have expected to find.
Her hair, which he’d only ever seen her wear up, hung loose past her shoulders in waves the color of honey tinted with a few drops of blood. Her eyes sparkled with the dim light of the taper flickering in the far corner of the swordsman’s chamber, worry plain in their set. Concern tilted the corners of the full lips of her exquisite mouth.
“My queen.”
Trenan scrambled to push himself up on his elbows, forgot he had but one, and tumbled onto his side on the mattress, jarring his wound. He gritted his teeth and pressed his lips together to keep from crying out, but when he found the queen’s hand upon him, he forgot the pain.
“Are you all right?”
He looked into the eyes of the young woman who’d seen the seasons turn eighteen times since her birth and once since she’d become wife to the king. The knot of despair that had choked him dissipated, the pain in his shoulder faded. He nodded.
“Yes, my queen.”
“Ishla,” she said and brushed his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “You poor man.”
She settled back on the edge of the chair, removing her touch from his face, but the feel of it remained with him. He struggled himself up to sitting, the wool blanket falling from his bare chest as he stretched to see past the wife of his friend. Behind her, the chamber lay empty.
“Where is Gollard?” He looked to her face, found her still gazing at him, so diverted his eyes. “Where is the doctor?”
“Do you need him?”
She stood, took a half-step toward the door and stopped, awaiting his reply. He’d have answered at once but, when she stood, he saw she’d chosen not to wear one of the elaborate dresses he’d seen her wear every other time he’d been in her presence. Instead, she wore white bed clothes with sleeve cuffs that clung to her wrists and a hem that brushed her ankles.
“ I’m fine, just wondering where he’d gone.”
Ishla clasped her hands in front of her, lowered her chin to regard her intertwined fingers.
“I had him called away.”
Trenan stared at the young woman. Now her eyes weren’t upon him, he let his gaze linger, saw that the taper burning behind her cast her outline in the fine cloth. Trenan swallowed hard.
“Called away? For what?”
She raised her head, making him slip his gaze back to her face, then gestured toward the side of the bed.
“May I?”
Trenan looked from her to the bed and back, uncertain what she meant, at first. He cleared his throat and nodded.
“Of course, my quee...Ishla.”
She alighted on the edge of the mattress close enough Trenan felt her warmth. Her perfume filled his nose—not a cologne she’d put on, but the smell of her hair, the scent of her skin. Apprehension stirred in the swordsman’s chest, excitement, confusion.
Why is she here?
“I’ve come to thank you for saving the king, Trenan.”
It might have surprised him that she read his thoughts, but what else might he have been thinking? Trenan shifted away, trying to quell his excited discomfort.
“There’s no need. The king has conveyed his appreciation with the best surgeons the kingdom can offer and his promise to take care of me as long as I need.”
The words were Erral’s, but this marked the first time Trenan had spoken them aloud. They tasted of vinegar on his tongue, but the queen’s sweetness was enough to overpower the bitter morsel.
Ishla wiggled nearer, closing the distance he’d created, her lithe body making little impression on the mattress. His eyes strayed from hers, fell to her curves beneath the bed clothes before returning to find a smile beginning on her lips.
“That is Erral’s way of thanking you, not mine. And I suspect his method may be more hurtful than fulfilling.”
She lifted a hand and touched her palm to his cheek. Trenan nearly jerked away out of sense of duty to king and kingdom but didn’t for fear of offending the queen. And because he liked the way her warm flesh felt against his.
Ishla moved closer and leaned in, leaving a hand's-breadth between the tips of their noses. Her breath touched his lips, her gaze found its way inside him.
“It is my thanks I bring tonight.”
“And Gollard?”
“Won’t be back until morning.”
“Who else knows you had him called away?”
She shook her head. “A queen can be discreet.”
Trenan licked his lips, resisted the urge to close the space between them. A plethora of furtive smiles returned to his memory. From the first time he’d seen his friend’s wife—the queen of the kingdom—they’d been there, finding their way to her lips whenever their eyes met. As much as he wanted them to be for him, about him, he’d convinced himself her nature and her youth brought them forth, convinced himself the tingle-inspiring smiles and gentle blushes weren’t meant for him.
Now he didn’t know if he should be elated he’d been wrong, or fearful.
His gaze slipped form her eyes to her mouth. He imagined his lips pressing against hers, their tongues finding each other, until the king’s angry visage intruded on his thoughts.
“Is your friend,” she finished for him. “And my husband, but he isn’t here. There is you and me, and no one else knows I’m here.”
Her hand left his face, fell to rest on his upper chest. The tight thrill swirling beneath his ribs expanded, flowing into his stomach, lower, stirring other things. Ishla held his gaze but moved no more, staring into his eyes with her lips parted, her head tilted.
This is wrong.
Trenan’s mind continued to resist even as he leaned forward and their mouths came together.
Ishla ran the tip of her finger along the swordsman’s breast bone, tracing a line through the cooling perspiration. The ache in Trenan’s shoulder he’d forgotten as the queen expressed her appreciation crept back as though someone pressed the tip of a stick into his wound.
The queen peered at him and he held her gaze. Though neither spoke, words swam through his mind—things to say, plans never to be executed, the vision of an impossible life. He thought he saw the same shining in her eyes, hidden behind a mix of nurturing care and sadness.
After a moment, the breathtaking young woman climbed off him, her weight lifting from his hips as another palpable one settled into his chest.
“I must go before I am missed,” she said, one corner of her mouth lifting in a lopsided smile.
She bent and retrieved her nightgown from the floor. Trenan watched as she shook it out, revelling in the way her muscles moved beneath her porcelain skin, the tremor shaking her breasts. She stretched her arms toward the ceiling and slipped her hands into the sleeves, let the nightshirt fall around her like the curtain falling at the end of a masterful play.
A performance Trenan never wanted to end.
The gown fell into place and she smoothed the front with her palms. The swordsman reached out, a jolt of pain shooting along the right side of his chest, and grasped her wrist, coaxed her back toward the bed.
“When will I see you again?”
She looked at him, the smile still on her face, but he watched the sliver of sadness in her eyes overtake it. The queen said nothing in response; she didn’t need to. He’d already known the answer before his lips spoke the words—this was a dangerous game they shouldn’t play again.
Dangerous, but worth the risk.
Ishla leaned over and put her lips to his, the passion and longing of their earlier kisses usurped by regret, mourning. The touch lingered, and he thought to grab her, pull her to him, but the moment passed and she moved away. Trenan released his hold on her wrist and watched her stride across the room to the chamber door.
She let herself out without a backward glance.
“I’ve seen the seasons pass nearly fifteen times,” Dansil mumbled under his breath as he stalked through the castle halls. “I’ll be a man soon enough; bitch can’t tell me what to do.”
His cheek still stung in precisely the shape of his mother’s hand, but her punishments didn’t hurt like they did in his youth. Then, they’d caused him more than physical pain; it was as though she’d struck his soul.
But if something gets beaten enough times, it toughens.
He came to a corner and slowed his pace, peeked around before continuing. Getting caught wandering the halls wouldn’t get him killed, but none of the king’s men would be impressed should they discover him. Even with the red haze of anger at his mother hanging around him, he knew better than to be careless—he’d crept these halls enough times.
Dansil followed the hall and went up the next staircase, avoiding the routes the guards followed when patrolling in the evening. At the top of the stairs, he paused a second time, checking both ways along the corridor. Thick carpet in a shade of deep red covered the floor in both directions; portraits of people he neither recognized nor cared to recognize lined the walls.
On a whim, he took a right and maintained a slow but steady pace, the muscles in his thighs tight and ready to hie him away should one of the many doors lining the hall open and a visiting noble step out. He figured none would this late at night, but better ready than caught.
The end of the hall intersected another; here he stopped again and found himself rewarded for his care. Halfway along the corridor, a door opened. A woman clothed in white bedclothes emerged, the wall sconces behind her illuminating the outline of her body through the cloth.
Dansil sucked a sharp breath at the sight and his hand darted to his groin. The woman stood for a short time, hand on the door’s handle, her head hung. Her long hair caressed her arms and shoulders, the light highlighted the shape of her breasts, the curve at the small of her back. After a moment, she raised her head, glanced along the hall away from where Dansil peered around the corner, then swivelled her head toward him. The young man faded back from the corner before she saw him, a silent curse on his lips.
He waited, breath held, resisting the urge to peep around the corner again. If he did, and she was walking away, the wall sconce’s light might shine between her legs, outlining the most secret of places. But if she headed toward him, he’d be discovered.
The whisper of footsteps padding on the rug interrupted his thought.
She’s coming this way.
No time to hurry back the way he’d come; if he tried, she’d see him, even if she didn’t turn his direction. Lips squeezed hard together, he pressed himself against the wall and hoped she’d continue straight along the corridor.
A moment later, she passed by and Dansil saw her face. His eyes widened and his grip on his half-swollen man thing released.
The queen!
As she hurried down the corridor, Dansil stepped out from his hiding spot to watch her go, forgetting the possibility she might glance back and see him. She didn’t and, instead of admiring the swing of her hips, the shape of her body hidden beneath the bedclothes, the young man wondered why she’d be out alone at this time of night. When she disappeared around the far corner, he peered back toward the door she’d exited.
The curiosity was too much for Dansil. He crept along the corridor in the direction from which the queen had come, his hand extended and fingertips dragging along the rough stone wall. Every door appeared the same as the others, but he’d noted the one from which she’d emerged: the third on the left. A moment later, he stood in front of the plain wood slab, staring at the handle. After a quick survey of the empty hall, he leaned close, pressed his ear to the door, but heard no sounds within.
Excited saliva filled his mouth. He swallowed hard, raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
The knock garnered no immediate response so Dansil assumed the chamber empty until a man’s voice spoke a single word.
The curiosity burning in his brain tingled into his chest and along his limbs. The hand he still held raised after knocking fell to the door handle, gripped it. He didn’t recognize the voice or know who might reside within, but was aware he shouldn’t enter any room in the castle without invitation. He also knew no invitation would come if he waited for one, and he’d never discover who the door concealed.
Dansil set his jaw and pushed the door open.
A musky odor filled the air in the room, one he recognized from the occasions when his mother came home with a man and sent him off to his chambers. The furnishings were sparse and a man lay upon a bed to the left, one shoulder wrapped with a pink-tinged bandage where his arm was missing. The tender expression on his face went stony when he spied the lad.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Beg your pardon, m’lord swordsman. Wrong chamber.”
Dansil backed out of the room and closed the door behind him, a wicked grin creeping onto his lips as he went. The door clicked shut; he hurried away along the hall lest the man rise and come after him.
Trenan and the queen. The king’s friend and his wife. Together.
He rounded the corner and hastened to the staircase, the path of his future falling into view.
Sometimes, one unexpected turn of events can change a boy’s life.


A hundred hundred seasons have turned since the Goddess banished the Small Gods to the sky, leaving the land to mankind alone. 
For Prince Teryk, life behind the castle walls is boring and uneventful until he stumbles upon an arcane scroll in a long-forgotten chamber. The parchment speaks of Small Gods, the fall of man, and the kingdom's savior—the firstborn child of the rightful king. It's his opportunity to prove himself to his father, the king, and assure his place in history. All he needs to do is find the man from across the sea—a man who can't possibly exist—and save mankind. 
But ancient magic has been put in motion by a mysterious cult determined to see the Small Gods reborn. Powerful forces clash, uncaring for the lives of mortals in their struggle to prevent the return of the banished ones, or aid in their rebirth. 
Named in a prophecy or not, what chance does a cocky prince who barely understands the task laid before him stand in a battle with the gods?

When shadows fall, the darkness comes... 
A disgraced Goddess Mother wanders blind and alone, praying for her agony to end. When a helpful apostle finds her, could it truly be salvation, or does worse torment lie ahead? 
A sister struggles to understand a prophecy that may not be meant for her while her brother fights for his life. If the firstborn child of the rightful king dies, will it spell the end for everyone? 
Darkness and shadow creep across the land in the form of a fierce clay golem animated by its sculptor's blood. It seeks a mythical creature whose sacrifice portends the return of ancient evil banished from the world long ago. With its return will come the fall of man. 
As the game unfolds, the Small Gods watch from the sky, waiting for their time to come and their chance to rise again. They wait for the fall of shadows, the coming of the darkness. 
They wait for night to descend.
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don't take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn't really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the "u" out of words like "colour" and "neighbour" than he does shovelling (and watch out for those pesky double l's). The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of a burlesque diva.
Bruce's first short story, "Another Man's Shoes" was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon. Another short, "Yardwork," was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod. Bruce's first Icarus Fell novel, "On Unfaithful Wings", was published in Dec., 2011 while the follow up, "All Who Wander Are Lost", came out in July, 2012. The third in the series, "Secrets of the Hanged Man", came out in July, 2013. The first part of his Khirro's Journey epic fantasy trilogy, "Blood of the King", was released Sept., 2012, book 2, "Spirit of the King," in Dec., 2012, and book 3, "Heart of the King," in Feb., 2013.
The two books in the Small Gods series, "When Shadows Fall" and "The Darkness Comes", were released in 2013, after which Bruce took a year out to concentrate on his family and career. Book three in the Small Gods series is Bruce Blake's current project.


Monday, December 28, 2015



Based on real people and true events. On August 15th, 1939, an English passenger plane from British Airways Ltd. crashed in Danish waters between the towns of Nykøbing Falster and Vordingborg. There were five casualties reported and one survivor. Just two weeks before, Hitler invaded Poland. With the world at the brink of war, the manner in which this incident was investigated left much open to doubt. The jurisdiction battle between the two towns and the newly formed Danish secret police created an atmosphere of intrigue and distrust. The Bridge of Deaths is a love story and a mystery. Fictional characters travel through the world of past life regressions and information acquired from psychics as well as archives and historical sources to solve "one of those mysteries that never get solved." Based on true events and real people, The Bridge of Deaths is the culmination of 18 years of sifting through conventional and unconventional sources in Denmark, England, Mexico and the United States. The story finds a way to help the reader feel that s/he is also sifting through data and forming their own conclusions. Cross The Bridge of Deaths into 1939, and dive into cold Danish waters to uncover the secrets of the G-AESY.

Book Review For “The Bridge Of Deaths” – by M. C. V. Egan 

M.C.V. Egan’s book ‘The Bridge Of Deaths’ is unique because the author is driven by childhood memories, family stories and perhaps the spirit of her grandfather who died when an English aircraft (carrying 5) crashed on August 15, 1939. Her exhaustive research, passion for details and networking abilities brings this fiction (based on real events) to life from archives buried during the chaos of World War ll.

Characters like Bill, Maggie and Catalina draw us into their world with conversations and settings that bring the reader to the table, quenches the thirst for love at first sight romance and delves into a quest for knowledge that reaches into the paranormal realm that few of us would dare venture into.

If you like historical fiction (eliminating dry facts) the time frame and mystery behind this historical plane crash and family tragedy will keep you turning the page. The use of Skype conversations was creative and the historical documentation such as the use of actual Western Union Telegrams validates the truth behind the fiction.

I personally would have loved to read more about the author’s family and especially her grandfather’s life and see more photos. Understandably this book is mystery based on a tragic historical event and is not a biography. After reading this well thought out, painstakingly researched fictional accounting of a historical event that few of us even know about, I only have one question. Where will M.C.V. Egan take us in a sequel and what nugget of information might be unearthed by the publication of this book?

The blending of facts with mysticism to arrive at the truth is a payoff even for a reader who holds a skeptical view of the paranormal, use of hypnosis and past-life regression. Cold Coffee Press endorses M.C.V. Egan’s book ‘The Bridge Of Deaths’ for the author’s nearly two decades of research, thirst for the truth and family bonds.
***** 5.0 out of 5 stars History's Mysteries Through Past-Life Explorations, January 15, 2012
The author, M. C. V. Egan, is very forthright in explaining that she is not any expert on world history of the period she relates; in fact, she says that when she began her quest to discover events she knew very little of that era. So as readers we are reassured that the author is not spouting regurgitated history texts, but fictionalizing her own experiences and discoveries. She has no hidden agenda here, no goals except discovery. Instead she is forthright, sharing her explorations and their results with us, her readers. I enjoyed the manner in which she made of herself a character, sharing her actual quests and discoveries and setbacks, just as the fictional characters express their lives throughout the story.

I fell in love with the characters each from their first introduction. Although Ms. Egan uses quite a bit of narrative in introducing them, it's neither boring nor unsubstantiated, for within the narrative she includes dialogue (running in the background, as it were) and a substantial amount of action. She draws her characters in such a way that they are immediately understandable, and the reader easily relates and empathises. The author also has a very clever mode of relating her characters and their events to a background of actual world history in their particular era, which makes the book seem down-to-earth even in the midst of a metaphysical discussion.

She mentions in one spot "the most extraordinary feeling of comfort in simply being with her," and this is the experience I have of "The Bridge of Deaths." I am reminded of all those wonderful books I've read in which I feel as if I have just settled into a comfy armchair beside a roaring fireplace-I can relax, enjoy, and relate to the adventures in the novel as an "Armchair Traveler." This novel made me feel safe and warm, even while exploring the question of past lives, hypnotic regression, and the effects past life events and encounters have on our present and future.

This novel is fascinating: it has intrigue, romance, love that bridges lifetimes, soul mates, history, mystery, the thrills of the unexpected, philosophy, Spirituality, and metaphysics. It is a warm, cozy, comforting story, with the conviction running throughout that there is an Answer-and answers-if we can just persevere to find out. I eagerly await further novels from this special author. I know in the meantime I will be rereading "The Bridge of Deaths" just for the sheer pleasure it brings me.

Through Life and Death & Through Love and Hate (Prequel & Companion to One Hell of a Romance series)

Through Life and Death & Through Love and Hate (Prequel & Companion to One Hell of a Romance series)
Author: Jennifer Felton OFFICIAL GENRE: Paranormal Romance/Mystery