CAW! CAW! Chapter A Week

When the Soul Mends
book #3 in the best-selling "Sisters of the Quilt" series
by Cindy Woodsmall

. . . . When the Soul Mends, the brilliantly written third story in the "Sisters of the Quilt" series . . . Kathleen Y'Barbo, author of Beloved Castaway

Returning to the home she fled in disgrace, will Hannah find healing for the wounds of the past?

With her heart now in the hands of a new love as well as the two children left in their care, Hannah Lapp finds her Englischer life more than she'd ever hoped for and is actively pursuing a future with Martin and in medicine. When she receives a call from her sister Sarah, desperate for help, Hannah reluctantly returns to the Old Order Amish community that ostracized her. Once home, she must face her disapproving father and her former fiance, Paul Waddell, and it seems only Paul holds the key to her sister's mental health. When Hannah dares to speak her mind to him, she realizes that a lie separated them--one Paul knows nothing about. As they work together for Sarah's sake, her feelings for Paul become too strong to ignore.

Will Hannah choose the Englischer world and the man who restored her hope, or will she return to the Plain life-and perhaps to her first love?


Available September 16, 2008

http://www.cindywoodsmall.com/

Preorder your copy through http://www.cbd.com/ or it will be available at your favorite bookstore starting September 16th.

Bayou Paradox
by Robin Caroll
Steeple Hill Love Inspired Suspense

It can cure you. Or it can kill you . . .

Tara LeBlanc and Sheriff Theriot lay it all on the line as they stand to lose everything as a killer gets ready to pounce in the untamed Louisiana bayou.

"Romantic suspense south of the Mason-Dixon line--the genre belongs to Robin Caroll"
Colleen Coble, author of Anathema and the Rock Harbor series

To read an excerpt of these new titles go to Chapter-a-Week and to join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together.
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CAW! CAW! Chapter A Week

Single Sashimi
By Camy Tang

Drake Yu. Why would Drake call her after . what, five years? Six?

Venus heard in his voice that resonance that was almost a growl, that titanium-hard determination to get what he wanted. And he usually got what he wanted. The voice said: "I want you to work for me."
Not this time. If it was a choice between Drake and McDonald's-she'd choose french fries. She'd never work for him again. It would take an act of God.

Venus Chau is determined to start her own game development company and launch the next Super Mario-sized phenomenon. However, she needs an investor to back her idea. When Drake Yu, an old nemesis, approaches Venus with a contracting opportunity at his sister's startup, the offer to become Chief Operating Officer tempts Venus to think the unthinkable.

Venus would rather throw away her PS3 than work for Drake again . except Grandma bribes Venus to do this favor for Drake's wealthy family with a coveted introduction to the most respected investor in the game industry. It's also a short job-only a few months-so Venus won't have to stand Drake's presence for very long.

But one wild youth group, a two-faced assistant, and Grandma's determined match-making threaten to make them both fail-or go insane. With the encouragement of her three cousins, Lex, Trish, and Jennifer, Venus discovers that even a wounded heart can undergo a beautiful transformation .

HEALING PROMISES
Defenders of Hope, book two
by AMY WALLACE
Multnomah Fiction April, 2008

Faith Under Fire

When FBI Agent Clint Rollins takes a bullet during a standoff, it might just save his life. But not even the ugly things he's seen during his years working in the Crimes Against Children Unit could prepare him for the beast of cancer. As he continues to track down a serial kidnapper despite his illness, former investigations haunt his nightmares, pushing him beyond solving the case into risking his life and career. Clint struggles to believe God is still the God of miracles. Especially when he needs not one, but two. Everything in his life is reduced to one all-important question: Can God be trusted?


"Once again, Amy weaves a suspenseful tale of intrigue that will leave you begging for more. Healing Promises is heart-wrenching and powerful. The chase to stop a killer kept me turning the pages, and Clint and Sara's story broke my heart and kept me cheering for them right to the last page. Whether you want an emotional story straight from the heart or a suspense full of twists and turns, Healing Promises delivers it all."
- Wanda Dyson, author of Intimidation and Why I Jumped

"In Healing Promises Amy Wallace does what so few writers are willing to do: She looks down the gun barrel of reality, and she does it without flinching. This novel was so real, it nearly breathes on its own. I highly recommend it."
-Brandt Dodson, author of the Colton Parker Mystery series and White Soul


"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
Job 1:21


To read an excerpt of these new titles go to Chapter-a-Week and to join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together.

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Simply send an email with "Chapter-a-Week Summer Reading Giveaway" in the subject line to cawcontest@gmail.com and you'll be entered in the drawing. The deadline for signing up is September 5th and the winner will be announced September 12th. Get your entries in and be sure to tell your friends to sign up for Chapter-a-Week!
To qualify, the return email address must be on the Chapter-a-Week membership list. Continental U. S. residents only, please. Industry professionals should refrain from entering, and though we'd love you to share our books with your friends, these books are not for resale.
Thanks and happy reading!
Your friends at Chapter-a-Week

Teen First - The Book of Names

It's the 21st, time for the Teen FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 21st, we will feature an author and his/her latest Teen fiction book's FIRST chapter!

D. Barkley Briggs

and his book:

The Book of Names (Legends of Karac Tor)

NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Dean Barkley Briggs is an author, father of eight, and prone to twisting his ankle playing basketball. He grew up reading J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Patricia McKillip, Guy Gavriel Kay, Stephen R. Donaldson, Ursila K. Leguin, Susan Cooper, Madeline L'Engle, Terry Brooks, Andre Norton and Lloyd Alexander (just to name a few)...and generally thinks most fantasy fiction pales in comparison. (Yes, he dabbled in sci-fi, too. Most notably Bradbury, Burroughs and Heinlein).

After losing his wife of 16 years, Briggs decided to tell a tale his four sons could relate to in their own journey through loss. Thus was born The Legends of Karac Tor, a sweeping adventure of four brothers who, while struggling to adjust to life without mom, become enmeshed in the crisis of another world. Along the way they must find their courage, face their pain, and never quit searching for home.

Briggs is remarried to a lovely woman, who previously lost her husband. Together with her four children, their hands are full.

Product Details

List Price: $12.99
Reading level: Young Adult
Paperback: 397 pages
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (July 15, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 160006227X
ISBN-13: 978-1600062278

Watch the Trailer:




Enter the Contest:




AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

In final days / Come final woes

Doors shall open / Doors shall close

Forgotten curse / Blight the land

Four names, one blood / Fall or stand


If lost the great one / Fallen low

Rises new / Ancient foe

Darkest path / River black

Blade which breaks / Anoint, attack


If once and future / Lord of war,

Queen la Faye / Mighty sword,

Rises ‘gain / As warrior king,

Prepare / For day of reckoning


If Aion’s breath / For music cursed

Sings making things / Made perverse,

Fate shall split / Road in twain

One shall lose / One shall gain


If secret lore / Then be found

Eight plus one / All unbound

Beast shall come / Six must go

Doors shall open / Doors shall close


If buried deep / Hidden seen

Ancient tomb / Midst crimson green

Nine shall bow / Nine more rise

Nine horns blow / Nine stars shine


If falling flame / Burning pure

Ten thousand cries / For mercy heard

Then plagues, peril / Horns of dread

End of days / Land be red


When final days / Bring final woes

Doors shall open / Doors shall close

Fate for one / For all unleashed

Come the Prince / Slay the beast


Cross the water / Isgurd’s way

White horse / Top the waves

Aion, fierce! / Aion, brave!

Aion rides / To save the day


— The Ravna’s Last Riddle



Chapter 1

BLACK BIRDS


The day was gray and cold, mildly damp. Perfect for magic. Strange clouds overhead teased the senses with a fragrance of storm wind and lightning and the faint, clean smell of ozone. Invisible energy sparkled like morning dew on blades of grass.

Standing alone in an empty field on the back end of their new acreage, Hadyn Barlow only saw the clouds. By definition, you can't see what's invisible, and as for smelling magic? Well, let's just say, unlikely. Hadyn saw what was obvious for late November, rural Missouri: leafless trees, dead grass, winter coming on strong. Most of all he saw (and despised) the humongous briar patch in front of him, feeling anew each and every blister and callous earned hacking through its branches.

Making room for cattle next spring, or so he was told; this, even though his dad had never owned a cow in his life. He was a history teacher for crying out loud. A college professor. Hadyn's shoulders slumped. It didn't matter. Everything was different now. Mr. Barlow didn't let his boys curse, but low under his breath, Hadyn did, mildly, just to prove the point. Life stunk. That was the brutal truth.

All true for the most part. Yet standing alone in the field, bundled in flannel, something else prickled his skin—something hidden in the rhythm of the day, at its core—and it wasn't just the chill wind. He couldn't shake it. A sense of something. Out-of-placeness. Faced with a friendless sophomore year, Hadyn knew that feeling all too well. It attacked him every morning, right before school.

But this was something more, more than the usual nervousness and name-calling stuff. His intuition was maddeningly vague. Hadyn sniffed the air, eyeing the field. A fox scampered in the distance. Bobwhites whistled softly. This had been his routine for weeks. Go to school, come home, do chores. Today was no different. Except for the clouds.

He looked upwards, struck again by the strange hues. The colors were still there; kinda creepy. They had lingered since the bus ride home. He had seen it happen with his own eyes, though he didn’t think much of it at the time. Right about the time school let out and the yellow buses began winding home, the skies had opened and spilled. Low banks of clouds came tumbling from the horizon like old woolen blankets. Like that scene from Independence Day, when the alien ships first appeared. Hues of purple, cobalt and charcoal smeared together. Not sky blue. Not normal. Riding on the bus, face pressed against the cold window, he didn’t know what to think. Only that it looked…otherworldly. Like God had put Van Gogh in charge for the day.

Strange.

Earlier, the day hadn’t felt weird. If anything, he had felt relief. Two days until Friday...until Thanksgiving Break. Only two days. He could make it. Standing by the mailbox with his three brothers, waiting for the bus—he couldn’t wait to get his own car—mild winds had stirred from the south, scampering through row after row of brittle stalks in the neighbor’s cornfield across the road. He heard them in the leafless oak and elm of his own yard, hissing with a high, dry laughter. Warm winds, not cold. But about noon, the wind shifted. Again, no big deal for Missouri, always caught in the middle between the gulf streams of Mexico and Canada’s bitter cold. Temperamental weather was normal in these parts.

Yet there it was. From the winding ride home to this very moment, he couldn’t rid himself of that dry-mouthed, queasy feeling. It was more than a shift in wind. It was a shift in energy. Yes, the dark clouds and strange colors reminded him of the thickening air before a big, cracking Midwestern storm, but that wasn’t it. This was different.

Hadyn being Hadyn, more than anything else, wanted to identify the moment. To name it.

Though he didn’t actually verbalize until age three, Hadyn was born with a question mark wrinkled into his brows. Always searching, always studying something. He couldn’t speak a word before then—refused to, his dad always said—yet he knew the letters of the alphabet at a precocious 12 months. When he finally did decide to talk, words gushed. Full sentences. Big vocabulary. Not surprisingly, it was clear early on that Hadyn was one of those types bent toward structure, patterns. He hated incongruities, hated not knowing how to pinpoint the strange twist in sky and mood right in the middle of an otherwise typically dreary day. If it was just nasty weather, name it! What did it feel like? Wet fish guts? Not quite. A full wet diaper? He remembered those well enough from when the twins were little, but no. A three day old slice of cheese?

Yes, that was it. Cold, damp, moldy.

Velveeta, actually, he decided, feeling a small measure of satisfaction. He fumbled for the zipper of his coat as another icy breeze prickled his skin. Yep, another lousy Velveeta day in the life of Hadyn Barlow.

He thought of the roaring wood stove back home. Hot cocoa. Little consolation. Until dusk, the oldest Barlow boy was stuck outside in a field with hatchet and hedge shears. Stuck in a foul mood, stuck with a knot in his throat. Just plain stuck. His task, his life, seemed endless and pointless.

“Just a little bit every day, however much you can manage after school,” his father would remind him. “And don’t look so grumpy. The days are shorter and shorter.”

But not any warmer.

“Grr!” Hadyn grumbled aloud, snapping at the cold in his thoughts. He had chosen to “clear” the massive beast by carving tunnels in it, not just hacking mindlessly. Probably not exactly what Dad had in mind, but, well, to be honest, he didn’t really care. He was the one stuck out here in the cold. He had already carved several tunnels, and reentered the biggest one now, loping and clicking his shears at the endless mess of thorns and branches, alternated by halfhearted swings of the hatchet. The briar patch sprawled a couple hundred feet in every direction, comprised of dense, overgrown nettles, blackberry bushes and cottonweed. Untended for generations, the underbrush was so thick and tall a person could easily get lost in it, especially toward the center, where the land formed a shallow ravine that channeled wet weather rains toward the pond on the lower field. Hadyn guessed the height at the center point would be a good 12 feet or more. Enormous.

Really, it was a ridiculous task. Dad had to know that.

“Why not just burn the thing?” Hadyn had asked him. Burn it, then brush-hog it. Throw a hand grenade in and run.

Mr. Barlow never really answered, just said he wanted him to clear it by hand. After the first day of grumbling and complaining (which proved none too popular with his father), Hadyn started carving tunnels. His plan was to craft a maze out of it, maybe create a place to escape...at least have some fun before his dad made him level the whole thing

Fun? He caught himself, tasting the word like a spoonful of Nyquil. Fun is soccer with the guys back home.

He paused for a moment to wipe his brow. Home was no longer a city, not for four months now. It was a cow pasture. Home had been Independence, the suburb of Kansas City whose chief claim to fame (other than being the birthplace of Harry S. Truman) was that Jesus would return there, at least according to one of numerous Mormon splinter groups. For Hadyn, it was all about skateboards and traffic and rows of houses. Noise. Friends. Now, all that—everything familiar and good—was exactly three hours and nineteen minutes straight across I-70 on the opposite end of the state. Might as well have been on the opposite side of the planet. Home now: three hundred acres in the middle of nowhere, away from all he had ever known.

The town was called Newland. The name seemed like a smack in the face.

New town. New school. New faces. New troubles to deal with. New disappointments. His dad had tried to make a big deal of the “new” thing. This would be a new start for their family, a new chapter, blah, blah, blah. A change, from sadness to hope, he said. Hadyn hated change.

He didn’t want new. He wanted it how it used to be.

How it used to be was happy. Normal. Right. Fair. How it used to be meant they were a family of six, not five. Hadyn felt a familiar pang slice across his chest. He would have traded all the unknown magic in the world for five more minutes with—

Mom...

It had been a year since she died. His mental images of her remained vivid, of a beautiful woman with porcelain smooth skin, naturally blonde, witty, vivacious. All four Barlow brothers shared her spunky attitude, as well as an even mix of their parents’ coloring: mom’s fairness, dad’s darker hair and complexion, the boys somewhere in between. Hadyn, rapidly entering his adult body, was tall for his age, muscular, lean, possessed of a sometimes uncomfortably aristocratic air. Some days his eyes were smoky jade, others, iron gray. But he had Anna’s cleverness.

His parents had been saving money for several years, studying the land all around Newland. Hadyn could not fathom why. What was so special about Podunk, America? But he knew his mom had been happy to think about life in the country. Once upon a time, that was enough. But now? Without her, what was the point? Why couldn’t they have just stayed in Independence? Moving wasn’t going to bring her back. Didn’t Dad know that?

For the second time that afternoon, a tidal wave of loneliness nearly drowned him, left him in a goo of self-pity, the sort of sticky feeling he didn’t want anyone to spoil by cheering him up. He took one more angry swing. Done or not, he was done for the day. Work could wait. Dad would just have to deal with it. Already, he had built a pretty impressive maze, though. Six unconnected tunnels so far.

Like I give a rip about these stupid tunnels, he thought as he crawled from the center toward the mouth of the largest, longest shaft. Or this stupid land, or town, or patch of—his knee jammed against a thorn protruding from the soil—thorny! ridiculous!...

He clenched his jaw, flashing through dozens of choice words, using none. Honoring his dad. Pain streamed as tears down his cheek, and it wasn’t just the thorn in his knee. It was life. Crawling forty more feet, he emerged to face the slowly westering sun melting down the sky. The otherworldly colors he had seen earlier were gone. Only the cold remained. And now, a bleeding, sore knee.

Behind him, he heard heard rustling grass and the high pitched, lilting notes of his brother’s tin whistle. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and grimaced. Ewan, like his mother, was musical. Even more like her, he was sentimental. He often carried the whistle she had brought him as a gift from Ireland. It would, no doubt, have seemed humorous to some, to see him wandering the field, playing a spritely little tune. It only annoyed Hadyn. Thankfully, as Ewan drew closer, the song trailed away.

“Hey, Hadyn.”

Hadyn grunted. “What do you want?”

Ewan shrugged, tucking the flute into his back pocket. He wore blue jeans, and a blue embroidered ball cap, initialed ‘ECB’.

“Wondered how things were going.”

“Dad sent you to help, didn’t he?”

Ewan frowned. “Yep. Got done with my chores sooner than planned.”

“Bummer.”

“Major bummer,” Ewan emphasized. “Looks like you’re near the center, though. That’s pretty cool.”

Hadyn didn’t reply. With only two years between them, the two brothers had always been the closest of friends, the fiercest competitors, the quickest of combatants. They understood each other’s rhythms like no one else in the family. Whereas Hadyn was studied, wise and cautious, Ewan was quick, fearless and comfortable with long odds. No one could make Ewan laugh—gasping-for-air, fall-on-the-ground-cackling—like Hadyn. Likewise, Ewan could frustrate Hadyn to no end, or, with the sheer power of silliness, cheer him up when a sullen moment was about to strike. Not much wanting to be rescued from his mood at the moment, however, Hadyn let his silent response wrap around him like a barrier against further penetration. He didn’t notice that Ewan’s gaze had drifted from the briar patch to the low sky and paused there.

“What do you make of that?” he dimly heard his brother say, distracted, curious. Through the haze of his own thoughts, Hadyn followed Ewan’s line of sight, his pointing finger, straight into the sunset. At first, he saw nothing. Then it was obvious. Several large, black birds were swooping low on the horizon. Even at a distance, it appeared they were headed straight for the two boys, unveering over the slope of the ground, drawing swiftly nearer, a hundred yards or so away. From the sound of their raucous cry, they were like ravens, only larger, throatier, and if possible, blacker.

“Cawl-cawl,” they cried.

Hadyn counted four total, wings outstretched, unflapping, like stealth bombers in formation. There was something organized and determined about their flight. It lacked animal randomness.

“Do they look strange to you?” Ewan asked, cocking his head.

Hadyn pretended to be uninterested. It didn’t last. “What is that in their claws? What’re they carrying?”

“Yeah, I see it. Sticks?”

“Too thick. It would be too heavy. Wouldn’t it?”

“Hard to tell at this angle. Are they heading for us?” Ewan held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Man, they’re fast. What are they?”

“I don’t know, but they’re still—”

“Look out!” Ewan dove to the side, tripping Hadyn in the process. Both boys hit the ground on a roll, turning just in time to see the birds swoop suddenly upward, arcing high into the sky, turn, then turn again. The lead bird, larger than the others, croaked loudly; the other three responded. Over and over, the same phrase, like a demand: “Cawl!”

All four were pitch black, having none of the deep blue sheen of a crow’s feathers, or so it seemed in the failing light. They flew as black slashes in the sky, all wing and beak, not elegant in the air, but fast. Disappearing completely against the lightless eastern expanse, they reappeared again as silhouettes skimming the western horizon. At first it seemed to Hadyn the birds would fly away, as they swept up and out in a wide arc. But the curve of their path soon came full circle. They were attempting another pass. Both boys nervously scooted further outside the angle of the birds’ approach.

“What in the world?” Hadyn said, hatchet raised and ready. It was clearer now in silhouette form. Each bird carried the form of a long, thick tube in their talons.

The brothers hunched on the ground, motionless, muscles tensed, watching as the birds continued their second approach. Hadyn held his breath. The birds didn’t veer, nor aim again for the boys. Instead, they formed a precise, single-file line, a black arrow shooting toward the main tunnel of the thicket. With a final loud croak—“Cawl!”—and not a single flap of wing, all four swooped straight into the hole, one after the other. As they did, each released the object clutched in its talons. The tubes clattered together with a light, tinny sound at the mouth of the tunnel, literally at the boys’ feet. The birds were already beyond sight. Their throaty noise echoed for a moment, evaporating into an obvious silence marked only by the faint breeze of wings passing over broken grass.

Hadyn and Ewan stared first at the tunnel, then at the objects. Then at each other. Then back at the tunnel. In the same instant, each of them leaped toward what the birds had left behind: four thin, black metallic tubes, trimmed with milky white bands at top and bottom.

Hadyn slowly stretched out his hand and picked up a tube. He rolled it between his fingers. It was about the length of Ewan’s Irish whistle, but thicker, maybe the circumference of a quarter. Not heavy at all. In the middle of each tube, finely wrought in scripted gold filigree, the letter ‘A’ appeared.

Ewan lightly shook his tube, listening for clues to its contents. It sounded hollow.

“They didn’t even have us sign for delivery,” he deadpanned. “What do we do with these? They look important.”

“How should I know?” Hadyn said contemptuously, flicking his eyes cautiously toward the tunnel. “Where’d they even go? I mean, really. Are they just hiding back there until we leave?”

“Who cares!” Ewan said. His disgust was obvious. Hadyn’s was being an analyst again. “This isn’t hard, Hadyn. Some big birds dive bombed us. They dropped these cool tubes. It makes no sense. It’s awesome. Totally, factor 10 cool.”

Hadyn mulled it over. “Maybe they’re some sort of carrier pigeon, but...do carrier pigeons even fly anymore?

“Only on Gilligan’s Island. TV Land. Listen to me, you’re just guessing.”

“Have you got a better idea?” Hadyn demanded.

Ewan waited, considered. Hadyn knew he hated being put on the spot like that, in the inferior position. Now it was Ewan’s turn to think.

“Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe those birds really are carriers of some sort?—” Ewan held up a tube, “—obviously they are. What if they need to carry these things farther still? What if they’re just resting? What if they are trained to do this when they need to rest? Drop their packages, find a hole, rest, then grab their stuff and carry on?”

“So...are you suggesting we flush them out? Cause there is no way I’m going to crawl back there. They can get out later on their own.”

Ewan didn’t reply. Instead he dug into his pocket, pulled out a small flashlight, and scuttled into the tunnel the birds had entered. “Wait here,” he ordered.

“Hey, watch it back there!” Hadyn cautioned. Secretly, he wanted him to go, knew how to punch his brother’s buttons to make it happen. “Those claws looked sharp!”

While he waited for Ewan to return, Hadyn examined the tubes further. He shook one tube, flicked it, smelled another; picked up and twirled the third and fourth tubes. His efforts yielded the same muffled sensation of something barely shifting inside. Maybe a rolled up piece of paper? If the ravens (or crows, or whatever they were) were carriers of some sort, a written message did make the most sense. But who in the world still sent paper messages...by bird? By raven, no less. Hello, email anyone?

Presently, Ewan reappeared, breathing hard.

“They’re gone,” he said simply. “Must have flown out one of the other tunnels.”

Hadyn creased his brow. “No way. None of the tunnels connect yet.”

“They don’t?” Ewan’s eyes widened as it dawned on him that he hadn’t seen any other tunnels. “No...they don’t.”

The two boys stared at one another in silence. Evening enfolded them; soon, darkness. “They must have crawled through the branches,” Hadyn surmised, but he hardly sounded convinced. “Are you sure you didn’t see them?”

Ewan rolled his eyes. “Hello? Big, black flappy things. Yes, I’m sure.” He grabbed one of the tubes, shook it again. “This band looks like ivory, but it’s hard to tell in this light.”

“Reminds me of one of mom’s necklaces.”

Ewan grabbed the end and twisted. “Only one way to find out.”

This time Hadyn didn’t argue or analyze. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. The lid twisted off with surprising ease, followed by a thin hiss of sealed air. Ewan wrinkled his face. “Smells old. Yuck. Turn on your flashlight. Mine is getting weak.”

He tapped the open end against the palm of his left hand. The coiled edge of a piece of thick, cream-colored parchment slipped out. Hadyn leaned in closer. Ewan gingerly teased the scroll out. It had a heavy grain of woven cotton, with rough edges trimmed in gold foil. Both boys let out a long slow breath. Neither the silver moon hung off the treeline, nor the winking stars, provided light enough to clearly see. Hadyn turned on his flashlight as his brother unrolled the parchment. The paper was larger than normal, rich to the touch. Pinning both ends to the ground, both boys read at once the simple message beautifully scripted on the inside in golden ink: “You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”

“Dude!” Ewan whistled softly. “Looks like something from King Arthur. What in the world are the Hidden Lands?”

Hadyn, who actually loved the lore of King Arthur—and Ewan knew it—was already reaching for another tube. Ewan followed his lead. Within twenty seconds, all four tubes were opened, and four identical parchments lay spread on the ground in the dark, illuminated only by flashlights. Golden ink glimmered, subtly shifting hues. Each bore the exact same message.

“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”

Hadyn grabbed the four sheets, quickly rolled them up, and inserted each back into its thin metal sleeve. “We need to head home before Dad gets worried,” he said. “You take two and I’ll take two. Stick them under your shirt and act cool. I have no idea what these are. But for now, they’re our little secret.”

He puffed up for a moment, the older brother. Still out of sorts with the world.

“And none of your games, either, Ewan. I mean it. I’m not in the mood.”

Beach Dreams by Trish Perry AND II!

Beach Dreams
by Trish Perry

Tiffany LeBoeuf seriously needs to get away. She has just lost her mother to cancer, and she returns home to find herself fired for devoting the past three months to her mother's care. Grieving and stressed, Tiffany seeks rest for her body and soul at a cozy beach house in San Diego.
A scheduling mix-up causes a double booking, and Tiffany ends up sharing the house with a woman named Eve. When Eve's boyfriend, Jeremy Beckett, arrives to surprise Eve, he surprises Tiffany as well. Jeremy and Tiffany share a brief history, and it's not a pretty one. They also share a mutual attraction, and it's not a comfortable one.
Jeremy settles in at the beach house next door, intent on making his love life right. What happens after that surprises them all.

MY TAKE: This is chick-lit complete with the broken shoe causing the heroine to hobble, stumble, and land in a heap with the hero. But, don't get me wrong. This is chick-lit well done.

Trish Perry has done an admirable job of full characterization. No flat characters here. One of the signs of good writing shows up in details. I'm not going to give any plot points away, but read this book with an eye out for a necklace. The way the author introduces and reintroduces the necklace might seem casual to the unaware reader, but a fellow author recognizes the subtle weaving of a crafty writer.

Our interview with Trish is unusual.

Not your normal questions, and lots of fun answers.

If you went to a restaurant with your main character what restaurant would it be? Trish: Tiffany would take me with her to one of her favorite French bistros in Northwest Washington. She grew up diabetic and has consequently learned to eat (and cook) fresh, healthy food. Café La Ruche on 31st Street has been around since the seventies. We’d go there. Mmm, can’t wait until the dessert course.

Are you a nibbler or a sipper while you write? What food or drink is beside your computer?
Trish: What, doesn’t everyone keep a fifth of Jack Daniels and a hand-rolled Cuban cigar right next to the computer? Actually, I have a glass of ice water constantly at the ready, and I always know when 3:00 strikes, because my body craves its afternoon cup of coffee. I don’t tend to nibble while I write, but that’s not as disciplined as it sounds. I get up and do something other than writing when I want to nibble. Bad Trish.

Which atmosphere would you like best to write in?
a) At your office desk?
b) In a comfy sofa?
c) Out in the garden?
d) In a very dark cave?
Trish: Definitely at my office desk. When I’m crunched under a crazy deadline, I’ll write anywhere (well, maybe not in a cave, dark or otherwise), but I won’t necessarily enjoy it. I think much better through my fingers (typing) than through a pen or my mouth (dictating). And I like the familiarity of my office chair and cluttered desk. Anything else is distracting. I’m not lofty enough to have a muse, but if I did, he or she wouldn’t get out much.

You’ve been given a week in a secluded mountain cabin, what books would you take with you?
Trish: Besides Fodor’s Guide to Mountain-Delivery Restaurants, I’d bring something to make me laugh (James Hamilton-Paterson or Sophie Kinsella), something to inspire me (Francine Rivers or C.S. Lewis), and something to move me (Markus Zusak or Charles Frazier). But I’m a slow reader, so I’d probably only get through one of them and rue the day I packed so many books, just to have to cart them all back down the mountain.

A fan sees you in the grocery store and begins to faun over you. How would you react?
Trish: I’d try to help them figure out whom they had mistaken me for. If they truly knew me as me, not someone actually famous, I’d commend them for their impressive research skills and perhaps back away slowly while rooting in my purse for my can of mace.

You’re on a hike up a mountain. The pathways are right next to many various sizes of cliffs. When you are close to the top you look down and see a man holding onto a ledge calling for help. What would you do?
a) Pull out your camera and take a picture?
b) Grab your note pad and ask him questions as to how he
feels and what he’s thinking about? Hey, it’s good
planning for a character in a book!
c) Scream and call the police? This man is stalking me!
d) Valiantly grab a ‘conveniently’ placed vine and lower
it to the man who is ‘conveniently’ within reach, and
you ‘conveniently’ have enough strength to pull him
up.
e) Say good day and continue your stroll.
Trish: How come you keep making me go to the mountains, Donita?

First off, I would make sure this wasn’t the person who accosted me in the grocery store. Then I would pull out my Fodor’s Guide to Mountain-Delivery Restaurants. I’d determine the closest Swiss restaurant and ask them to send two of their burliest, mountain-savvy delivery boys forthwith, armed with a stealth assault ladder and a thermos of their finest coffee (I’m assuming it’s about 3:00 in the afternoon—it’s time).

What would you do if you saw the spitting image of your villain in real life?
a) Walk up to him and shake his hand, not introducing
yourself, because you know all about his dealings.
b) Scream and point, “It’s him! Run for your lives!”
c) Hold your hand in front of your face and walk away from, him, hoping he doesn’t recognize you.
d) Drool at the sight of your well-crafted bad guy.
Trish: My bad guys/gals are usually verbally or psychologically bad. They’re mean. But they don’t kill people or blow up buildings. So I’d probably skulk away, because I can’t match wits with people like that unless I have time to sit here and think of really good comebacks.

You’re going on vacation and all your characters want to come along. But you only have room in the car the three of them. Which three would you choose to accompany you?
Trish: No question -Aunt Addie is coming (she’s from The Guy I’m Not Dating—an elderly little spitfire). And Jeremy Beckett (from all three books) gets to come, too, because he’s a total sweetie pie and looks like Jude Law. And the third person would have to be Ren Young (from all three books). She was my first romantic comedy heroine, she has a sense of humor similar to mine, and she holds a special place in my heart.

But if this so-called vacation has anything to do with the mountains, honey, it’s me, Addie, and those burly Swiss delivery boys.
You can visit Trish Perry's website at http://www.trishperrybooks.com/index.html

CAW! CAW! Chapter a Week

The Black Cloister
By Melanie Dobson

Trapped inside an abusive cult, one woman is dying to break free.

After her mother commits suicide, Elise Friedman travels to Germany to search for answers and discovers her mother's dark secret inside the walls of a medieval abbey. When the man who destroyed her mother threatens to destroy her as well, Elise fights for a way out of the darkness before she is consumed.

"From the moment I opened up to the first page of The Black Cloister, I was hooked. This intense, well-crafted story about a modern day cult will have you wondering long into the night." --Linda Hall, Shadows in the Mirror

FOR PETE'S SAKE
#2 in the Piper Cove Chronicles
by Linda Windsor

Avon Inspire ISBN 978-0-06-117138-3 $12.95

Ellen isn't sure true love exists.until she landscapes the estate of the widower next door. Adrian has it all-at least on the surface. He's engaged to a beautiful woman and he'll soon have a stepmom for his troubled son, Pete. Yet from the moment Ellen rescues him on her Harley, his well-ordered world turns upside down. With his business under investigation for espionage and his son pushing for the tomboy-next-door as his new mom, Adrian's façade of happiness shatters. As Ellen's three best friends step in to help her navigate the uncharted waters of love, she must ask herself if she's ready to risk her heart and trust that God has brought this family into her life for a reason. [Available at local and online bookstores.]

Non-FIRST Entry

It's the 15th, time for the Non~FIRST blog tour!(Join our alliance! Click the button!) Every 15th, we will featuring an author and his/her latest non~fiction book's FIRST chapter!

The feature author is:

Charles Marshall

and his book:

I’m Not Crazy, But I Might be a Carrier

Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Charles Marshall began his career onstage as a singer/songwriter. When his singing voice gave out, he turned to stand-up comedy and was much more successful. He is now a nationally syndicated Christian humor columnist and has contributed to Focus on the Family magazine. He is the author of Shattering the Glass Slipper: Destroying Fairy Tale Thinking Before It Destroys You and has filmed two stand-up comedy videos, I'm Just Sayin' and Fully Animated.

Product Details

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 144 pages
Publisher: Kregel Publications (April 17, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 082543419X
ISBN-13: 978-0825434198

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter 1 Going to the Dogs



My wife and I have been thinking about getting a dog, lately, and discussing what type we might get. For me, there is really only one possibility—and that, of course, is a real dog.

For the uninitiated, there are three basic types of dogs:

1] Real dogs. These are dogs as God originally made them—monstrous, made-for-the-outdoors hunting machines that are perfect for intimidating neighbors and attracting lawsuits.

The ownership rule for guys and dogs is simple: the bigger the dog, the cooler you look. Walk down the street with a Pekingese and you might as well be wearing a tutu.

When you observe a man walking down the street with a massive real-dog, his message to you is clear. “Yes, I’m overcompensating for my insecurities and lack of masculinity but I’ve got a really big dog.”

Now that’s the kind of attitude I can get behind.

2] Mutant rat-dogs, otherwise known as Chihuahuas. These poor creatures are the unintentional result of secret experiments conducted by the Mexican army in a failed attempt to create the ultimate weapon by cross-breeding bats and Great Danes. The only surviving result of these experiments is a group of nervous, angry little rat-dogs that decided to take their revenge on humanity by being annoying on just about every level known to mankind.



If you are approached by one of these aberrations of nature, know that it despises you with a hatred rarely seen outside the Middle East, and that it won’t hesitate to tear your ankles to shreds. These dogs are the piranhas of the canine world and would nuke


mankind tomorrow if they thought they could get away with it. Under no circumstance should one of these animals be allowed to run for public office.

3] Kitty-dogs, which is every kind of dog that does not fall into one of the first two categories. I’m all in favor of this type of dog because, hey, girls have to have dogs, too.

The curse of the kitty-dog is that there are those who take a warped delight in dressing them up like people. Most dogs would rather be subjected to Mexican weapons experiments than go through this type of torture.

I cannot say this in strong enough terms: You should never, ever dress up your dog for any reason whatsoever. Take it from me—even if it were thirty below outside, your dog would rather die with dignity in his own fur coat than live while being seen in a little poochie parka.

If you dress your dog, you need to know two things:

1] The rest of us are making fun of you behind your back.

2] Every day your dog prays for a heaven where he gets to dress you up in humiliating costumes while he and his doggie friends point at you and laugh for all eternity.

If you feel you absolutely must dress an animal, go dress one that at least has a chance of defending itself like a cougar or a wolverine or a Chihuahua.



One of the most amazing things about the three dog types is that for every one of them, there is someone that likes that kind of dog. At this very moment, there are people risking the loss of fingers and eyes while they stroke their vicious little rat-dogs, all for the sake of love.

That’s a mysterious kind of love, isn’t it—the kind that embraces the unlovely, that sees through the imperfect and loves without regard?

Let’s face it, the human heart isn’t very attractive either. Every thought we have is consumed with self. If you peel away the layers of even our most noble deeds and acts of kindness, you will find thoughts that circle back to ourselves like homing pigeons. In our hearts, we are all mutant rat-dogs.

And yet God loves us.

In the Bible, you find that same theme of an indefatigable, undefeatable love reaching out to a vicious, ungrateful humanity over and over again. I’ve found it’s a love well worth pursuing.

And so the great dog debate rages in my household, and I think my wife is coming around to my point of view. But, if by chance, you happen to see me in the neighborhood walking a Pekingese that is wearing a teeny hat and sundress, you may safely assume things did not go my way.

CAW! CAW! Chapter A Week

Unbridled Dreams
by Stephanie Grace Whitson

"This new historical novel by a bestselling author entertains with lovable characters, humorous scenes, and the wisdom of faith that Whitson and her characters share in her books."4 stars from Romantic Times

Irmagard Friedrich dreams of becoming "Liberty Belle" in Buffalo Bill's Wild West show. When her doting father orchestrates an audition, she begins to realize that dream. But the Wild West is more mud and manure than applause and acclaim, and Belle's willfulness could ruin everything. . .including her budding romance with Shep Sterling, the King of the Cowboys.

To read an excerpt of this new title go to Chapter-a-Week and to join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://www.blogger.com/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together.

If you enjoy Chapter-a-Week take the time to tell a friend how to sign up. It's easy and free and a great way to find great books that fit each person's particular taste.

CAW! CAW! Chapter A Week

Shadow of Colossus
~A Seven Wonders Novel~
by T.L. Higley
(B&H Publishing, August 2008)

In a world enslaved by money and power,
one woman dares to be free.
Will an explosive secret keep her in chains?

The place is the island of Rhodes; the time, 227 BC. In the ten years that Tessa of Delos has been in bondage as a hetaeira, a high-priced Greek courtesan to a wealthy politician, she has learned to abandon all desire for freedom and love. But when her owner meets a violent death, Tessa is given the chance to be free-if she can hide the truth of his death and maintain a masquerade until escape is possible. Now Tessa must battle for her own freedom and for those she is beginning to love, as forces collide that will shatter the island's peace and bring even its mighty Colossus to its knees.

"Shadow of Colossus is a beautifully told tale, richly detailed, and set beneath one of the great wonders of the world. If you've ever dreamed of traveling in the ancient world, you'll want to be there as a fallen woman rises and the great Colossus falls!"
-Ginger Garrett, author of In the Shadow of Lions

Love Starts With Elle

by Rachel Hauck

The last of five lowcountry sisters to find love, Elle Garvey is willing to give up her home and career for the man she loves. But when life doesn't turn out like she planned, Elle discovers God has a plan for her much better than her own.

Romantic Times, 4.5 Stars, Top Pick.
"Hauck is quickly making a name for herself as an insightful, thoughtful author."
- Melissa Parcel


To read an excerpt of these new titles go to Chapter-a-Week and to join our deeper discussion of these and other titles go to Chapter-a-Week Chat at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CAWChat/ where authors and readers discuss new titles together. If you enjoy Chapter-a-Week take the time to tell a friend how to sign up. It's easy and free and a great way to find great books that fit each person's particular taste.C