Summer Paths. The wait is finally over!

 

This, the fourth and final selection of stories, completes the Seasonal Paths series created by a consortium of best-selling and award-winning North
Atlantic writers.

In this anthology you will encounter unintentioned consequences, love in later life, the pull of family dynamics, misguided assumptions and murderous soulmates.

These yarns will take you to new worlds, into a ghostly abyss, across an ocean in pursuit of truth and into the darkness of ancient beliefs.
Make yourself comfortable and surrender to these multi-styled tales, all linked by the theme of summer, within the covers of this book. You will be surprised
and entertained by what you find.

 

 

Clean Laundry by Sandra Bunting.

It only takes one. What happens if someone moves in and tries to change everything? A good thing? Or not?

 Meet Sandra HERE.

 

The Year of the Goat by Pierre C. Arseneault.

A pregnant Esmerelda has gone missing, and Gus must find her before something bad happens.

Meet Pierre HERE.

 

 

Family Ties by Chuck Bowie.

Lucas glanced at the handsome aviator glasses on his hotel room table. “I wonder where they came from.”

Meet Chuck HERE.

 

 

The Huntress by S. C. Eston.

An injured woman is found on the side of the road…

Meet S.C. HERE.

 

 

Alice by Angela Wren.

A ship, a missing passenger and a mystery.

Meet Angela HERE.

Fakes on a Plane by Gianetta Murray.

Flying can be dangerous. But maybe not for the reason you think.

Meet Gianetta HERE.

Foul Play by Eden Monroe.

Never underestimate the children.

Meet Eden HERE.

 

Into the Abyss by Allan Hudson

In moments of curiosity, perhaps there are some paths we are not meant to follow.

More about me HERE.

 

The Last Resort by Angella Cormier.

Everything Sienna Noori had dreamed about was coming true, until she settled in an idyllic mountain resort, where her nightmares forged a dangerous path.

Meet Angella HERE.

 

 This anthology is dedicated to running through meadows full of wildflowers, watching bees, hummingbirds and butterflies grace the air, to building sandcastles, and to lazing in a hammock with a good book. It is for cooling off in the sea or finding shade on a swing under an old tree. It is a hope that summer will continue to take us on adventures and lead us down intriguing paths.

S. Bunting

 

 

 

 

Collect the whole Series. Please go HERE.

 

Thank you for visiting the Scribbler.

The Story Behind the Story with Bea Waters of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Say hello to Bea!

This week we have the pleasure of featuring Ms. Waters and she is going to share the good news of her debut novel.

Plus, she treats us (teases us?) to an excerpt of  Book Two in the series.

Read on my friends

 

 

Bea Waters has been writing stories since childhood. Back then it was her way to escape the bullies, but today she strives to provide an escape into adventure for all who need one, while fostering a sense of belonging and cooperation. Her favourite characters are the weirdos, those who have been downcast by the status quo, because the future is never created by the status quo. Her favourite themes centre around the secrets we keep and the quest to find our tribe, our community.

Project Human is Bea's first published novel, and the first in a series that fuses Ancient Mythology from around the world with the genres of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

 

Title: Project Human

 

Synopsis:

Olivia Carpenter hates her life. The kids at school bully her; even her dad treats her like a disease. When Olivia runs away, she doesn't expect to be beamed up by telepathic aliens and transported halfway across the galaxy, where she discovers a universe teeming with intelligent life - including twelve alien tribes who have engineered human DNA to suit their needs. Caught in the crosshairs of a galactic tug of war, she's sworn to secrecy about her "Terran" origins until an attempt on her life forces her to trust her new alien friends with her identity. Will Olivia be able to unravel the mystery of Project Human before she's permanently silenced?

The Story Behind the Story:

I’m insanely fascinated with cultures from around the world. In my studies, I began seeing repetition between cultures that I could not ignore. For example, the Mi’kmaq people of Atlantic Canada had a written language before colonizers arrived with English and French. Their alphabet of glyphs, written on birch bark, were recorded by a priest. Hundreds of years later, when the Rosetta Stone enabled the translation of hieroglyphs from Ancient Egypt, the glyphs and their meanings were almost identical to that of the Mi’kmaq people. Clearly, a cultural exchanged happened between these people, or they both had a common origin.

Also, when I learned about the Annunaki, the Creator-Gods of the ancient Sumerian people, they claimed that they were genetically engineered by the Annunaki to mine gold for them. (Some have discounted that translation, without offering a better one, so I digress..) Coupled with humanity’s obsession with amassing as much gold as we can, I began to wonder. This is the oldest human created record that we have, so it’s also likely the closest to the truth.

I set out on a mental journey to understand our hidden past, humanity’s true origin story. I created it as a tv series, meant for an adult audience. The pitch was good: Thirteen alien species are fighting to control planet Earth, because we are their science project...

I pitched Project Human at the Banff Media Festival to Matt Loze, VP of Development at Fox Studios. He loved the pitch, he loved the worlds I had built and how each one was connected to a different culture around the world. And he couldn’t sign my show without giving the power to someone else who would run this big budget behemoth and make it their own thing. He wanted this to be my thing. He gave me the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten. He told me to look at The Walking Dead, at Game of Thrones, and write this as a series of books. He said that once I had the stories on paper and an audience behind it, people like him would be in a bidding war for Project Human.

I returned home and got to work, but I decided to write the entire story from the point of view of a teenager, because a teen is still open to new experiences, to the possibility of aliens. Having a teen protagonist allowed me to begin laying out my grand unifying origin story for the human race without the resistance that an adult protagonist would bring to this massive revelation. I wanted this to be a non-stop adventure, full of twists and surprises, anchored in the common connections we share as a global species.

I’m also on a mission to infuse my books with ancient knowledge about the world that has been lost or hidden. Book one begins with Olivia practising a grounding technique taught to her by her grandmother. This later feeds into the story, but it’s also meant to show readers how to do an actual grounding practice, if they want that in their lives.

I’m really proud of book one, and I am currently editing book two.

 

Website: Go HERE.

***I’m getting ready to start a newsletter called “Occulted World” which actually just means “Hidden World”. It will be all about things that have been hidden from us by those who hold power. So if any of what you’ve read is interesting, please go to my website and sign up today!

 

 

 

A question before you go, Bea:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?

Bea:

I write at my dining room table when the house is quiet. Often a mug of purified water sits at my side, but sometimes black coffee or peppermint tea sneak their way in. I don’t generally write with music, unless I’m really craving Chopin piano nocturnes recorded at 432Hz. My workspace is messy to the right of my daily organizer, but the rest of the table has to be clutter free. When the words don’t flow, I get up and pace around, talking to myself and answering in the voices of my characters to get things going. I could never do that in a coffee shop, which is why I always write in private. Now you know one of my secrets!

 

 

 

 

This is an excerpt from Book 2 of the Project Human series, Atlantis Rising. This book is still under construction, so this passage may have some grammar errors. Apologies if that is the case.

Retchen was correct about the rural nature of route 785. Beyond Lake Utopia, all traces of human civilization vanished. The paved road gave way to a wide path of compacted gravel, and soon, even the power lines stopped. Anyone living this far from town would have to be a survivalist. Retchen salivated. Tonight’s menu would be a challenge.

The red van pulled over next to a lone driveway that disappeared into a stretch of deep forest. Retchen locked up the van and leaned a tire pump against one of the back tires. If anyone actually passed his van on this desolate stretch of road, it would look like he’d had troubles and had gone for help. Nobody would suspect the van itself meant trouble.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the early scents of rotting leaves and fungal decay that had begun to take hold. The warm weather had stretched fully into mid-September; the only real indication that summer was coming to a close were the vibrant colours overtaking the green of the maples, oaks, and birch trees. Thankfully, half of the leaves were still attached to their branches, providing a decent amount of cover. He crept through the woods as if he was the wind itself. Eight thousand years of practice had given him the ability to be practically imperceptible. Nobody would have sensed his approach at all, if it hadn’t been for a murder of crows that cawed loudly and flew away.

Why did the crows always have to make such a ruckus?

The squeal of rusty hinges followed the cacophony of the crows.

“Who’s there? I ain’t ‘specting no one. Show yourself before I unload this here shotgun at ya.”

Perfect. If he wasn’t expecting company, Retchen’s meal would be undisturbed. Retchen dropped to a crouch and leapt into the air, grabbing a branch high up in a white pine. He swung around the branch like a gymnast and landed on it with barely a crackle from the bark betraying his lookout.

From high up, Retchen could see the entire property, including a post with a husky dog on a chain and a well worn path all around. The poor beast had been confined to three metres of this yard for most of his life. He’d stopped caring about intruders long ago.

“Show yourself!”

With his shotgun snugged into his shoulder and his finger tapping on the trigger guard, the homesteader looked down the barrel to his left, then his right.

“I know you’re out there. I can smell your stench. Gutted one of your kind a few years back and I’m gon’ do it again.”

Retchen was used to a lot of things, but he was not used to being recognized by scent. He was even less prepared to hear that one of his siblings had fallen prey to its own dinner. He twitched, snapping a twig.

The gunman swung his shotgun up towards the trees and fired, spraying the pine with pellets. The aim was a bit low, but the upper radius of the spray still managed to pepper Retchen’s legs. Dozens upon dozens of pellets punctured his clothing, shattering the scales underneath. Small dots of violet soaked through the flimsy fabric of his cable guy outfit. He had to act quickly. He had precious few moments before a second shot would land, better aimed. Wincing, he lunged from the tree, aiming himself directly at this puny human who had somehow injured him.

The gunman saw him coming and jumped sideways, swinging his shotgun around, but the gun was too long, and Retchen was too fast. He snatched the barrel, his scaly palm unaffected by the scorching heat of the metal. He twisted the barrel sideways and snatched at the man’s throat, choking him up off the ground.

“What was it you were gon’ do?” Retchen mocked, as the man kicked and thrashed his free hand in mid air. Normally, Retchen would play with his prey for a while, savouring the moments as true fear settled in. But now that he was injured, he needed to repair his wounds quickly, before another problem popped out of the bushes.

He squeezed the man’s throat until the struggle ebbed out of him. The man thrashed for a good thirty seconds, gurgling to the dog who whimpered but refused to move. He’d been taught that his place was chained to the pole, and that’s where he planned to stay.

After a few minutes of struggle, the gunman stopped thrashing. Retchen lowered the bruised neck onto his razor sharp teeth and the flesh gave way, adrenaline-rich human blood gushing forth, like a balloon losing its air. He gulped it back, barely spilling a drop, having not eaten properly in weeks. He drank until the human was dry and when he was done, he unceremoniously dropped the body on the ground, nodded at the dog, and went inside the cabin.

 

 

 

Book two sounds as fascinating as the first, Bea.

We wish you continued success with your stories and thank you for being our guest this week.

And thank you to all our readers and visitors.

The Story Behind the Story with Gianetta Murray of Great Britain.

 

Let’s welcome Gianetta to the Scribbler.

This is not her first visit. You may remember her from an earlier post when she shared the inspiration for her short story in the Spring Path anthology. If you missed it, please go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 

 

Gianetta Murray has worked as a technical writer and librarian for over 40 years in the US and the UK. She grew up in California and moved to South Yorkshire in 2005 after marrying a Brit. Netta enjoys Hollywood musicals, touring stately homes, and playing the ukelele. She is owned by two cats.

 

Title: Moved to Murder: A Vivien Brandt Mystery

                                                                            



Synopsis: Vivien has spent decades dreaming about a life in England as an interior designer. Thanks to her marriage to second husband Geoffrey, her dreams are finally coming true and she and her cat Sydney are the newest inhabitants of a cozy South Yorkshire village.

But as Vivien meets the locals, she finds she has a lot to learn about her new home. Especially after she discovers a body in it.

Now she must work with neighbor Hayley and a mistrustful police inspector to uncover the village’s secrets and find a killer. It seems when the chips (crisps?) are down, the only common language between America and Britain…is murder.

The Story Behind the Story:

I’ve always loved mysteries, and read all the classics—Christie, Tey, Marsh—as I was growing up. I gravitated toward the cozy genre because (a) no animals are harmed; (b) I don’t have to know a whole lot about police procedure; (c) I get to add some humor; and (d) there’s a sense of fair play and justice about them.

As a California expat living in Yorkshire myself, it only seemed natural to give my protagonist the same challenges and experiences I’d already faced and knew very well. One of the advantages to starting a writing career later in life and is that you have a lot of life experience to write about!

So two years ago I packed in my job managing a university library and sat down to write. In addition to Moved to Murder, I’ve also published a collection of humorous paranormal stories and contributed to multiple literary anthologies, including the Paths series so well known to your readers. 😊

I’m currently working on the second book in the Vivien Brandt series, Dug to Death, and I already have a cracking plot in mind for the third, Shipped to Slaughter.

Website: Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Gianetta:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?

Gianetta: My husband still has a paying job, so he usually gets the home office and I’m relegated to the dining room table. He’s taken a bit of a sabbatical, though, so I’ve tossed him out of the office! I work in silence and like a neat space, but I do have a view of the back garden and the various neighborhood cats stalking birds (or each other). And I love to start the afternoon with a hot cup of chai tea.



An Excerpt from Moved to Murder, Chapter 1.

Wordsworth, Mary Queen of Scots, Churchill, Jack the Ripper.

Vivien Brandt simply adored all things British. The love affair started when she saw Upstairs, Downstairs at the impressionable age of ten and blossomed steadily over the years, fueled by daydreams about what her life would be like in the country she cherished.

Now her dreams were finally coming true.

Vivien wiped the last streaks off the front window and stepped back to enjoy the sight of her new home, a two-story redbrick situated in the South Yorkshire village of Nether Chatby. It was absolutely perfect and she sighed with happiness.

No one had been surprised when she announced she was moving to England. They only wondered that it had taken her so long. But a moderately successful career, marriage, and the love of friends and family had all provided valid excuses for her inertia.

Instead, she survived for decades on mere glimpses of Britain, making the long flight over whenever she could save up enough money and vacation time, starting with her first trip after college graduation. She’d been thrilled to find the country exceeded the promise of her beloved Victorian dramas. The gardens were stunning, the food wasn’t nearly as bad as rumored, and she suspected plumbing had greatly improved since the nineteenth century. She enjoyed being called “ginger” instead of “redhead”, although she considered herself more titian-haired, like Nancy Drew.

When Charlie, her charmingly irresponsible first husband, arrived in her life, the dream came dangerously close to being suffocated. But after his gambling addiction finally put an end to their twelve-year marriage, Vivien began to rebuild her bank account and revived thoughts of moving to London, where she hoped her Silicon Valley tech-writing experience might snag her a job. She’d been exploring interior design—even taking night classes—but knew there wasn’t a living to be made as a novice in a brand-new country.

So she continued to work at increasingly unfulfilling jobs, saving and planning for the future, and relied on visits across The Pond to keep the dream alive.

Pulling her thoughts back to the present, Vivien noted the ivy growing up the left corner of the house to curl ever so gracefully around an upstairs window frame. She’d either need a very tall ladder or a regular gardener to keep it in check, but it looked so lovely and…well…British. Visiting Americans would be impressed by the house, especially the ones naive enough to believe Geoffrey’s sardonic assurances that Shakespeare once slept there. Vivien found most of her friends couldn’t name the countries that made up the United Kingdom, much less which century gave birth to the greatest-ever English playwright. She’d given up trying to explain devolved parliaments, or why Andy Murray was British when he won a tennis grand slam and Scottish when he lost.

She shivered in her short-sleeved shirt and black jeans, clothing that would have been appropriate at this time of year in her native California, but which was unequal to the chill of northern England in October. A few houses up the road a door slammed and she watched a tow-headed teenager dressed entirely in black stalk away from her toward the village center, his body stiff and his fists clenched. Probably disgusted with his parents, she mused with a wry smile. Some rites of passage were universal and she suspected teen rebellion was one of them.

Her gaze landed on the house next door, with its dark windows and empty driveway. No one had come or gone since she and Geoffrey had moved in a couple of days ago, but there was no To Let or For Sale sign, so she assumed the owners were simply on vacation. Or holiday, as they said here.

Or maybe they’re all lying dead inside and we won’t know until the smell escapes. Vivien chuckled at her overactive imagination. She really needed to stop reading so many murder mysteries.

Thank you for being our guest this week, Gianetta. We wish you continued success with your stories.

And another special thank you to all our visitors and readers.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Chantal MacDonald of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome Chantal back to the Scribbler.

She is no stranger to the blog and we are thrilled to have her return to share the news of her latest novel.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

Read on my friends.

Teacher by trade, Chantal has a Master of Arts in English Literature from the University of Ottawa. She loves writing stories that will both entertain and encourage a variety of audiences. When she’s not writing or teaching, Chantal enjoys baking and traveling with her family. Chantal resides in Moncton, New Brunswick, with her husband and three young children.

Title: Peace on a New Horizon

 

Synopsis:

Could heading in a new direction unlock the peace Sadie has always craved?

In the coastal city of Halifax, Nova Scotia, university student Sadie Jones seems to have it all—top grades, great friends, and a boyfriend who adores her. But beneath the surface, doubts about her future and a lingering sense of unrest gnaw at her well-laid plans.

As Sadie battles indecision, a spark of hope ignites when a humanitarian organization piques her interest in travelling abroad. She wonders if this trip just might give her the clarity she seeks.

But when challenges arise, Sadie finds herself in unexpected territory. She must navigate the unwelcome flirting from Damien Santos, the organization’s charismatic recruitment officer, in addition to the resulting emotional turmoil of her usually steady boyfriend, Tom. She also faces a series of strides and setbacks in her academic life. Her emotions are conflicted, not only about Tom, but about the direction of her future. Will God give the courage to pursue her servant heart’s true calling, even if it means letting go of the life she thought she wanted?

The Story Behind the Story:

I was always interested in writing. I spent a lot of time studying literature and writing reports during my Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts degrees. However, while writing a book had always interested me, I never dreamed about being a writer in the same way that I dreamed about being a teacher. When I decided to pursue writing intentionally at the beginning of 2020, I approached it as a different medium for teaching. I could use the stories that I wrote to entertain, but also encourage and teach values that I believe to be important.

The first book that I began to write, I knew I envisioned it as a series—there was so much story to share! Although I was doubtful if I would be able to successfully write one book let alone several. But now that I have just published book three and have begun to write book four, I know better than to doubt myself.

When I began compiling my ideas, there were a few important details that I knew I wanted to include: the main character needed to be entering life outside of high school; the setting needed to be an Atlantic Canadian fishing town (a nod to my Miramichi upbringing); and there needed to be themes of hope while facing some of the harsh realities of life.

From there I just began to write. There are two kinds of writers—planners and pantsers (those who write by the seat of their pants). I am the latter. I knew where I wanted to start and I knew where I wanted to end, the in-between was a bit of a mystery at times. The characters and circumstances unfolded as I wrote, several of them surprising even me.

This novel, Peace on a New Horizon, held some lovely surprises for me as I wrote. I love the way that the characters and their world have a voice all their own now. I can’t wait to see what the fourth book holds!

Website: Go HERE.

A question before you go, Chantal:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?

Chantal: My ideal writing space and my actual writing space are, in fact, worlds apart. I think that if I were to create the perfect environment to craft my stories, I would be in a secluded beachside cabana sipping an iced coffee. Reality, however, has me writing wherever time and space allows. I write in the margins of life as a stay-at-home mom to three young children, so it fluctuates. Most often I find myself in a cluttered office, sipping lukewarm coffee, and listening to our hamster rustle in his crate. I’m happy with that reality though, because even though it isn’t a beachside cabana, the stories still get written.



An Excerpt from Peace on a New Horizon

Chapter One

“Well, that’s no better than two farts in a windstorm.” The old man grunted and threw his cards on the table so hard he almost tipped his wheelchair.

“Now Eugene, it’s just a game. A game that I am clearly going to win.” Sadie Jones laid her cards on the table and then advanced her crib peg far ahead of her opponent. “You have won the last three times we played. Don’t you think it’s only fair that I win once in a while?”

Eugene crossed his arms and shook his head, looking much like a sullen child. “No. Beating you in crib is the only joy that I have in this dark, miserable existence. If I don’t have that, what do I have?”

Sadie rolled her eyes at him over top of the cards fanned out in her hand. “Nice try, but we both know you are perfectly content with your life. Except for maybe the banana bread pudding.”

“Fine, you got me. But I still like to beat you.” He laid down his last cards and tallied his score which brought his peg close to Sadie’s but not enough to surpass her.

“Looks like I’m going to take this one whether you like it or not.” Sadie laid her final card, which put her score a full six places ahead of Eugene’s peg. She pumped her arms in victory. “Do you hear that, Eugene?”

“Hear what? I’m half-deaf, you know.”

“The sound of victory. Isn’t it sweet?” It was Eugene’s turn to roll his eyes, but Sadie could not help taking a moment to gloat. He beat her so often that she rarely got the opportunity to savour a win. “Shall we go get some celebratory dessert? I think it’s banana pudding day.”

Eugene groaned as Sadie rolled his wheelchair from the activity room to the dining room.

Mandy, one of the full-time RNs came up to Sadie after Eugene had been set up with a banana-free treat and a rerun of Jeopardy. “You are really great with the residents Miss Jones. We love having you as a volunteer.”

Sadie smiled her thanks at the compliment. “It’s fun. I really enjoy my time with them, especially when they tell stories.”

“Oh yes, they do love having a captive audience, even if some of those stories are a bit more fiction than fact at this point. It’s almost as though—”

“Nurse! Hey, nurse!” Mandy was interrupted by one of the other residents who was seated next to Eugene. “I want to be moved. This guy is hacking and spitting and it’s disgusting. I can’t eat with him doing that.”

Even from where Sadie was standing, it was obvious that Eugene was turning a deep shade of purple. Mandy rushed to Eugene as the rest of the residents around him started to shuffle and chaos began to erupt. Sadie could feel her own panic rising. Her pulse quickened, her breathing came in short gasps, and her feet were frozen in place. Help‐ less, she watched as Mandy struck Eugene’s back repeatedly. When that didn’t work, Mandy wrapped her arms around the small man’s rib cage and pulled hard until the airway was unblocked and he was breathing again.

****

Make sure you visit Chantal's website.

Thank you for being our guest this week, Chantal. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And a special thank you to our precious readers and visitors.