Online Magazine

Do people still read magazines?

Recent trends suggest that while many readers still enjoy physical magazines, the shift toward digital formats is undeniable. Digital magazines are particularly popular among younger audiences and those who value instant access and eco-friendly options. However, physical magazines continue to hold a special place for readers who appreciate the sensory experience and deeper engagement they offer.

The preference for reading formats varies widely among individuals, but physical books still hold a special place in many readers' hearts. Studies suggest that a significant portion of people prefer physical books due to their tactile experience, emotional connection, and better comprehension. E-books, on the other hand, are favored for their convenience, portability, and environmental benefits. Online magazines cater to those who enjoy quick, accessible, and often interactive content.

After reading some studies about people's reading habits, I've found a new site where you can publish online flip-page magazines, so I created one. I hope you will enjoy it, and let me know about your reading preferences.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Famous Authors at #OurAuthorGang Jean M. Auel

 Jean M. Auel

Jean M. Auel has made a significant impact on the genre of historical fiction, particularly with her Earth's Children series. Her meticulous research and vivid storytelling have brought prehistoric times to life, blending factual information with imaginative narratives. Here are a few ways she has influenced the genre:

Detailed Research: Auel's dedication to research set a high standard for historical fiction authors. She learned primitive survival skills, traveled to prehistoric sites, and consulted with experts in various fields to ensure the accuracy of her depictions.

Humanizing Prehistory: By focusing on the daily lives, emotions, and relationships of her characters, Auel humanized prehistoric people, making them relatable to modern readers. This approach has inspired other authors to explore ancient times with a similar depth of character development.

Interdisciplinary Approach: Auel's work incorporates elements of anthropology, archaeology, botany, and herbal medicine, providing readers with a comprehensive understanding of prehistoric life. This interdisciplinary approach has encouraged other writers to blend multiple fields of study in their historical fiction.

Popularizing Prehistoric Fiction: Before Auel, prehistoric fiction was a niche genre. Her success with the Earth's Children series brought it into the mainstream, paving the way for other authors to explore similar themes.

Cultural Impact: Auel's books have been translated into multiple languages and have sold millions of copies worldwide. Her work has not only entertained readers but also sparked interest in prehistoric cultures and inspired further research and exploration.

Jean M. Auel's influence on historical fiction is undeniable, and her legacy continues to inspire both readers and writers alike.

https://www.bookseriesinorder.com/jean-m-auel/

The Clan of the Cave Bear audiobook

Not the best narration, but enjoyable

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Flash Fiction Challenge 7 at #OurAuthorGang

 Challenge accepted by Eva Bielby

Flash fiction is a concise form of prose storytelling consisting of self-contained stories that may also be referred to as sudden fiction, short-short stories, micro-fiction, or micro-stories. This particular genre is highly regarded by renowned English writers for its ability to convey profound insights and timeless human emotions within a few short paragraphs.

Eva's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of less than 500 words, based on this picture:

THISTLEDENT MANOR 

Isaac Dent moved Dilys, his bride of ten months, into Thistledent Manor in 1742. The rambling old house was bequeathed to Isaac by Alfred Dent, his grandfather. A once healthy and active landowner, Alfred had succumbed to viral pneumonia prior to Isaac’s wedding. He’d always cherished the special bond with his grandson. Isaac enjoyed fishing, hunting and shooting, where he excelled. Venison was frequently served at the table during the dinner parties held at the Dent house, courtesy of Isaac and his prowess with a rifle. Alfred had loved to boast about Isaac’s skills.

During four hopeful years, a complicated miscarriage left Dilys unable to bear children. Isaac saw her despair; the haunted look and guilt in her eyes. He was broken. He was unsure what to do to make Dilys smile again. Late one night as his wife slept beside him, Isaac was awake and an idea formed in his head. He was going to fill the house with orphaned children.

The Battle of Culloden had been fought and many local men were killed in the bloodthirsty clash. Some of their widows were dying of malnutrition as they struggled and kept food mainly for their children. Within weeks, Isaac and Dilys had filled their home with eleven youngsters - two babies and the remainder were between three and eleven years old. Dilys was ecstatic and quickly grew to love each one of them, but she struggled despite the help from the servants. Responding to their advertisement, an older lady, Agatha McTavish, was soon taken into the fold as nanny and teacher.

After several months, Dilys noticed four or five of the children had become withdrawn and sullen. She discussed the matter with Agatha, who suggested it was the trauma of losing their parents. Dilys acknowledged that there could be some truth in Agatha’s suggestion, but continued to dwell on the matter, after all, the children had seemed happy at first during Dilys’ love and nurturing.

Dilys continued to feed and settle the two babies after dinner each evening, leaving nanny to bathe the older children and tuck them into their beds. On leaving the nursery one night, she heard shouts and screams coming from along the passageway. There was an almighty crash and Dilys arrived at the open doorway in time to witness nine-year-old Angus McArthur’s spirit leave his body. His broken body lay naked and crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head. Deep red welts covered the skin on his back. Agatha stood over him. The whip in her hand dropped to the floor when she saw Dilys.

Isaac and Dilys moved away with their ‘family’ the following morning.

Thistledent Manor remains abandoned. The villagers often hear shouts and screams, those of Agatha and poor Angus, and the crack of a whip coming from the derelict, forbidding house.

Sadly, Dilys Dent never slept much after the events at Thistledent Manor. Her disturbing dreams always ended with Agatha’s face, a deep, bloodied gash across her throat.

Eva Bielby

https://www.evabielby.co.uk

Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.

Campfire Stories 11 at #OurAuthorGang

 The Moon Bears Witness by Dawn Treacher

The rucksack was far heavier than she'd anticipated, the air fare exceeded her budget, just, but Frances had already booked time off work, boasted about it to her friends and bought a full colour guidebook.

It was happening and she wasn't going to let her niggling lack of confidence stop her this time, nor the reservations of her work colleague.

"You're seriously going hiking with someone you met online?"

"It's not like that, Tasmin, it's a reputable guide, with fellow hikers."

"But it's off grid, right, as in, wild camping, carrying your own water, no toilet, that kind of off grid?"

"Look, Tasmin, I'll be thirty next month and I haven't even been on holiday abroad, not once. You know what I said about this year, it's time to stretch those horizons, seek out new experiences."

"Yes, I get that, but I was thinking along the lines of trying the new Malaysian restaurant, enrolling in a language course, looking for a better job, not using behind a bush for a toilet in front of strangers and making one pair of knickers last three days.”

Frances couldn’t wait to tell Tasmin just how wrong she’d been. Having arrived in her destination, they’d been walking three days. She’d been expecting to meet the guide, Anya, plus two more hikers but when she got off the plane there was only Anya to meet her. Her fellow would be hikers had cried off; a medical emergency, a family funeral. Those things happen. But immediately Frances took a liking to Anya. Her appearance was striking, her enthusiasm contagious. After only a hour’s hiking across the windswept landscape, the air hot and dry, Frances had easily forgotten the fresh blisters that formed, the weight of her pack, the insects which bit her exposed arms.

On their third evening, Anya chose a site next to a deep blue lake.

“We’ll set camp here”, she said. “Make a fire.”

Frances had surprised herself by quickly picking up skills she’d never dreamed of, collecting wood, getting a campfire to spark, and nurturing the flames. The smell of smoke heralded the chance to massage her feet, absorb the stillness of the air, enjoy the rugged landscape of boulders, the fragrant spruce, the water before her a pool of the deepest blues. But most of all, Frances relished listening to Anya, who would talk until the moon was their light, the air filled with the sounds of the night. Frances had never sat by a campfire before; she loved the smell of it, the sound, the sound of Anya’s voice, deep and rich at times, haunting. The light of the fire warmed the colour of Anya’s skin. Anya’s tales had been of her adventures, the people she’d met, the legends which ran through the regions like seams of precious metal through rock. Like a small child listening to a mother, Frances had been entranced by her words, words which brought alive places she’d never been, people that seemed so real they could have been sitting with them, sharing the hot tea they’d brewed, laughing together. But that evening something had shifted, in the way Anya had moved closer to the fire letting the heat of its flames glow on her face, glint in her eyes. Her voice took on an edge of chill which made the skin on Frances’ arms inadvertently shiver.

“They say the water here holds a secret,” said Anya, sitting crossed legged beside the fire, her eyes never leaving those of Frances.

“What kind of secret?”

“The water bears the souls of the dead.”

Frances shifted her position on the ground. “You mean, someone died here?”

Anya looked out across the water. She picked up a small stone that sat near her feet and skimmed it across the lake; it skipped several times before disappearing into the inky depths.

“Not everyone who has walked this land leaves it. It is said the souls of three campers remain here .The missing are not always found.”

“What happened to them?” asked Frances.

“Their stories have never been told,” said Anya “But their absence is still felt, appeals from

their families still ardent, despite the years which have passed.”

Something moved in the shadows beside them. A wisp of cloud moved across the face of the moon.

“But you shouldn’t fear the wilds,” continued Anya. “We are born from the earth, we encompass it, we are part of it and one day we will return to it.”

She eased another log in place. A new spark ignited, a flare in the dark. The shadows deepened across the lake. A cry of an animal rang out, its echo blown across the water. A larger drift of cloud shrouded the moon. Frances wrapped a small blanket around her shoulders.

“Do you know who these campers were?” asked Frances.

“I’ve heard their names. They weren’t much older than you. They came seeking adventure. But some adventurers are misguided. I believe the youngest made the mistake of coming alone.”

An uneasiness tingled in Frances’ legs, rising up into her whole being. “Are you saying they may be around somewhere?”

“They were reported to have walked these mountains, these hills, trodden the ground we walked today, yes. They too looked at these waters, smelt this air. These rocks heard their voices, that moon looked down upon their faces. This land knows their stories.”

“But haven’t they been looked for, has this area been searched?” asked Frances, staring into the lake before her.

“Why of course. But no trace was found. Rain cleanses the rocks, time erodes details.”

“But what about the lake?” Frances tucked the blanket up around her chin and shifted a little further from the water’s edge.

“Oh, the lake will never give up its secrets. Its waters run deep, too deep. This place is too remote. You know yourself the gradient you’ve climbed, the twists of the paths, the density of the trees, in places so close there is barely air between them to breathe. No, the water will hold their souls, their truth.

Anya inched nearer to where Frances huddled. Her mind flew to Tasmin, their banter about wild camping. Frances wished she’d stuck to learning a foreign language. The very ground beneath her seamed to tremble.

“Do you really believe their bodies are in this lake?” Frances’ words seemed to shiver as they left her lips.

“I know they are,” said Anya. “But don’t worry, I see fear in your eyes. I am your guide. I know this place better than anyone. I’ve swam in these waters, slept peacefully beside it. Listened to its sounds, its whispers.”

Frances relaxed her shoulders a little. The fire released a spark as Anya poked it. The embers glowed white with heat.

“Soon you will be joining them. You will become part of their story, part of the richness of this land.”

Anya leaned closer still. “But don’t worry, the water will hold you close, hold your secret closer still. No one will hear you. Only the rocks. Only the moon will bear witness and I will never tell.”

Only Anya heard Frances scream. The clouds slipped in front of the moon and the surface of the waters shivered.

Dawn Treacher

www.dawntreacher.com

Dawn Treacher is based in North Yorkshire, England. She writes in both adult crime fiction and children's middle grade fantasy adventures. She is also an illustrator of children's fiction, an artist and plush artist. She runs both a writing critique group and a creative writing group and goes into schools to promote storytelling.

Book Sunday at #OurAuthorGang

 Featured books today is an Anthology Series

The What If? Anthology Series

When a collective of talented authors merge their literary skills and unleash their imaginations, a series is born to delight readers who crave thought-provoking stories and aren't afraid to ask the question, "What if?"

With each turn of the page, readers are transported to fantastic worlds where anything is possible, and every twist and turn leaves them eagerly anticipating what will happen next.

This collaboration of creative minds brings to life a captivating journey for those who dare to question the boundaries of reality and embrace the possibilities of the unknown. Each story is a treasure trove of imagination and creativity, showcasing the authors' diverse voices and talents.

https://books2read.com/u/b5wDEA	https://books2read.com/u/mv9Pxj
https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd	https://books2read.com/u/mq5qNO

Author Erika M Szabo at #OurAuthorGang

 Meet the author

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika M Szabo, a prolific and talented author with a fierce intellect and a penchant for exploring uncharted territories, is a woman of many skills and passions. She is known for her diverse range of writings that span historical fantasy, magical realism, cozy mysteries, sweet romance, and children's literature. Her writing style often reminded readers of Hemingway’s, which is both evocative and visceral, transporting readers into the depths of the characters' emotions with a few deft strokes of their pens.

Born in a small town nestled among the rolling hills of Hungary, Erika grew up with a deep love for literature and storytelling. She devoured books from a young age and soon began creating her own intricate worlds and characters. Her gift for storytelling is evident to all those who know her, and she is encouraged to pursue her passion.

As she grew older, Erika's thirst for adventure and new experiences led her to travel the world. She lived in various countries, soaking up their cultures and traditions, and incorporating them into her writing. Her travels also allowed her to meet a diverse array of people, whose stories and perspectives she wove into her novels.

Despite her literary success and acclaim, Erika remains a humble and down-to-earth person. She often speaks of her belief in the power of words to connect and heal, and her writing reflects this deep empathy and understanding of human experience.

After negative experiences with publishers, she started her own company Golden Box Books Publishing to help authors with book formatting, cover design, and navigating the complexities of publishing.

Erika is also the founder of #OurAuthorGang, a group of writers blogging together. This diverse group showcases the power of collaboration and the potential it has to elevate individuals and create something truly special.

Some of her notable works include: "Protected by the Falcon": The first book in "The Ancestors' Secrets" series. This urban fantasy/magical realism novel introduces readers to a world of clan mysteries and ancient traditions.

The "Unbroken Curse": A historical fantasy that explores an ancient curse cast by a powerful witch sixteen hundred years ago, affecting families across generations. “The Seven Cozy Shorts” includes seven novellas ranging from paranormal fantasy and unconventional relationships to futuristic love stories.

Some of Erika’s books are also published in Spanish, Hungarian, and German as well as in audiobooks.

In addition to her novels, Erika has authored several children's books that emphasize moral values, acceptance, and friendship. Titles such as "Pico the Pesky Parrot" and "Look, I Can Talk With My Fingers" aim to educate and inspire young readers.

Erika's multifaceted career reflects her passion for storytelling, art, and supporting fellow authors in bringing their creative visions to life."

A Trip to the Dump #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by David W. Thompson

OK, we’ve gotten fancy these days, so “dump” isn’t correct anymore—politically or otherwise. Nowadays, we take journeys to the “Convenience Center,” so named because we’ve added a couple of recycling bins. The vast mountain ranges of cast-away rubbish are now compressed into a ginormous dumpster. After crushing, our kitchen trash, along with many forgotten keepsakes, are hauled away to parts unknown. Sad, but we humans are a wasteful lot.

Behind our local convenience center is a large acreage comprised of our old and now defunct “dump.” It is tons of trash covered with mounds of dirt.  It will be many years before people deem it anything other than a wasteland. But is it? In the evenings, before closing time there, I’ve seen herds of deer chasing each other and foraging in the wild grass that has sprouted despite our meddlesome intrusion.  Our “dump” has become a sanctuary for them. No houses will be built there, and no shopping malls or parking lots will disturb its unlikely tranquility. Nature is reclaiming its own. It gives recycling a whole new meaning.

A cottage industry has grown around garbage. Those without the requisite pickup truck essential for rural life hire others to haul away their weekly cast-offs. It seems trash is good for the economy.

I remember when my kids were small. My youngest loved going on ride-a-longs to the dump—yes, it was still a dump back then. As the youngest of three, she and I had a rare opportunity to spend some “us” time together. At least, I think that is why, although the occasional tossed aside and outgrown toy might also have been a draw for her also. But as she is now a military spouse and too often stationed many miles away, I treasure those memories of then.

Maybe we lost something when the dump became a convenience center. Many treasures were once found among the piles of forgotten gems. Today’s dumpster divers don’t have the same positive connotation as pickers, the ultimate recyclers.

While disposing of several bags today, I noticed people are friendlier at the “convenience center.” Total strangers take a moment to share pleasantries while completing the shared, if unpleasant, task. It’s as if we realize we can let down our protective masks here. There are no false facades at the dump—everyone is equal when their trash is exposed for everyone to see. Our world can be divisive, but our similarities are never more apparent than when accomplishing the mundane.

My parents kept many of my feeble attempts at art and a story or two that I penned over the years. I did the same for my once little ones—boxes full. How do you decide what stays and what goes? I even have several baby teeth bagged up that the tooth fairy passed along as mementos… Strange to modern ears, I guess, as we are a throwaway society. I worry that that mentality might go beyond material things to our moral code and our faith in each other…? Out with the old and in with the new?  I pray not as I weigh what is important to keep and what is past its usefulness to me.  

I’ll ponder it some more…on my next trip to the dump.   

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Famous Authors at #OurAuthorGang Sir Author Conan Doyle

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Picture credit https://www.arthur-conan-doyle.com/index.php/Biography

Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle was a British writer and physician, born on May 22, 1859, in Edinburgh, Scotland. He is best known for creating the iconic detective Sherlock Holmes, who first appeared in the novel "A Study in Scarlet" in 18871. Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories are considered milestones in the field of crime fiction.

In addition to the Holmes stories, Doyle wrote a variety of other works, including fantasy and science fiction stories about Professor Challenger, humorous stories about the Napoleonic soldier Brigadier Gerard, plays, romances, poetry, non-fiction, and historical novels. One of his early short stories, "J. Habakuk Jephson's Statement" (1884), helped to popularize the mystery of the brigantine Mary Celeste.

Doyle was also a physician and received his medical degree from the University of Edinburgh in 1881. His medical background influenced his writing, and he often incorporated elements of his medical knowledge into his stories1.

Throughout his life, Doyle was involved in various pursuits, including sports, politics, and spiritualism. He passed away on July 7, 1930, in Crowborough, Sussex, England.

Listen to Sherlock Holmes stories

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Flash Fiction Challenge 6 at #OurAuthorGang

 Challenge accepted by Erika M Szabo

Pepper

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision for the man to visit the animal shelter that day. He had been feeling particularly low and thought that spending some time with animals might help lift his spirits. As soon as he walked into the shelter, he was greeted by a cacophony of barks and meows.

But then he saw the dog, sitting quietly in its kennel, looking up at him with soulful eyes, he felt an instant connection with the dog but he was hesitant. He didn't know much about caring for dogs and he wasn't sure if he would be able to handle the responsibility. But the shelter staff assured him that Pepper was gentle and easygoing dog, perfect for someone who lives alone.

So, after filling out all the necessary paperwork and undergoing a brief home check, the man brought home his new best friend. In the beginning, it was a bit of an adjustment for both of them. The dog, who had spent most of its days in a shelter, was now being introduced to a warm and loving home for the first time in his life. And the man was learning how to take care of this beautiful creature who seemed to sense his every emotion.

As days went by, their bond grew stronger as they got used to each other's routines and habits. Pepper quickly became attuned to the man's mood, sensing when he needed comfort or when he just wanted some space. Whenever the man felt overwhelmed with his depression or anxiety, he would turn to his dog for support. Pepper would rest its head on his lap or nuzzle against him until he calmed down. It was like having a constant source of love and understanding by his side. The man also found himself opening up more to the dog than anyone else in his life. He would tell Pepper all his fears, worries, and doubts without any fear of being judged or pitied.

He remembered the time when he had lost his job and felt like his whole world was crashing down. He had sat on the couch, feeling defeated and hopeless, when the dog came and curled up next to him. Its warmth and presence were enough to make him feel better.

Then there was the time when his doctor tried to find the right medication to control his panic attacks, he had gone through a tough time. He cried himself to sleep every night, but the dog would lie next to him, offering silent support until he fell asleep. The man realized that Pepper's natural instinct to offer comfort and love was exactly what he needed during those difficult times.

The bond between them only grew stronger with each passing day. The man found himself relying on the dog more than ever, not just for emotional support but also as a source of joy and happiness. Together they would go for walks in the park, play fetch in their backyard, or simply cuddle up on the couch watching TV. The man couldn't imagine his life without this furry friend who had brought so much love into it. And as they continued their journey together, both man and dog knew that they had found something special in each other - a bond that could never be broken.

Twelve years flew by but now, as he sobbed into Pepper’s fur, he knew that their time together was limited. The vet had just given him the heartbreaking news that the dog's condition was terminal, and it would only be a matter of weeks before he passed away.

Through tears and sobs, the man whispered words of love and gratitude to the dog, thanking him for being there when no one else was. As he wiped away his tears, the man made a promise to always be there for this loyal companion who had never left his side. And with that thought in mind, he hugged the dog tightly once again.

The man knew that no matter what happened in life, this dog would always hold a special place in his heart for being more than just a pet - but a true emotional support companion who had changed his life forever.

Erika M Szabo

https://authorerikamszabo.com

Erika loves to dance to her own tunes and follow her dreams, introducing her story-writing skills and her books that are based on creative imagination with themes such as magical realism, alternate history, urban fantasy, cozy mystery, sweet romance, and supernatural stories. Her children’s stories are informative and educational and deliver moral values in a non-preachy way.

Campfire Stories 10 at #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by Guest Author Sara Sartagne

You can’t tell a book by its cover

Dan threw another log on the fire, and a plume of smoke rose from the flames. With a sigh, he sank onto the ground, picked up his coffee and raised an eyebrow at Carla and Joe, sprawled on a rug. Carla smiled lazily through the haze of the fire and then gazed at the darkening heavens.

“The stars out here are amazing,” she said. “Isn’t that the Orion constellation?”

Joe grinned at his wife of ten years. “How did I end up with such a brainy missus?”

“You fell in love with my arse, didn’t you? I don’t recall you looking at my brain when we met,” Carla teased him.

Dan chuckled, his eyes fixed on the leaping flames. “A pretty face isn’t everything. There’s a legend told round these parts about a man who won his heart’s desire by seeing past a woman’s looks.”

“Oh? Isn’t attraction based on what we look like?” Joe said, sceptical.

“Not for those who are wise,” replied Dan.

“What’s the story?” Carla asked, sitting up and leaning forward eagerly. Dan’s grey eyes narrowed against the glare of the firelight, and he began to speak.

“Long ago, a traveller was riding this land when he was set upon by robbers. As the blows hit his body, he feared he would die. But then, with screams of terror, the robbers fled as a shadowy figure armed with a staff began to rain blows on them, and a huge dog sank its jaws into their unprotected arms and legs. The traveller, whose name was Gareth, lifted his head to see a tall woman in a cloak. When she looked at him, he gasped. She was the ugliest woman he had ever seen, with a huge jaw, misshapen nose and sunken eyes, her skin puckered and marked.”

“I think there’s a moral coming here,” Joe murmured, and Carla jabbed her elbow into his ribs. Dan, unperturbed, continued.

“Gareth saw her eyes swivel away, and with an effort, he called out to her. She said nothing, but began to tend his wounds, gently and carefully. Afterwards, she washed her hands in a nearby spring and brought him water.

“Ashamed of his reaction to her appearance, Gareth offered his eternal thanks. She laughed, a harsh sound, and he winced.

‘Tell me your name,’ he said. She told him her name was Charis. ‘You saved my life. How can I repay you?’ There was a long silence before the woman fixed him with her eyes. They were clear, deep blue, and their loveliness, in the ravages of her face, surprised him.

‘You truly want to repay me?’ He nodded, trying to ignore the ugliness of her countenance. ‘Then I have one desire,’ she said. ‘Will you grant it in recompense for your life?’

‘Anything!’ he declared, feeling he owed her his life.

‘Marry me,’ she said, and his jaw dropped in dismay. Charis watched him carefully and just as he was about to refuse, he saw the intense pain in her amazing eyes. He recalled how brave she was, her courage and determination and her care for him, a stranger.

Before he realised, he had agreed.

A flash of joy crossed her features and then she nodded shortly. ‘You must rest a while and then we will seek a parson to marry us.’

Gareth went through the ceremony in a daze, barely believing that this woman, who was so ugly it defied description, was now his wife. He had sent a message home that he was married, but in his heart, he dreaded the reception Charis would receive. He knew his mother had wanted a happy marriage for him – but not to a woman who looked like Charis. He was troubled.

Charis said little on the ride and Gareth wondered what she was thinking. His heart sinking, he saw the flags and the townspeople lining the streets, cheering. As they drew near, the cheers died away and soon there was just the sound of their horses’ hooves ringing on the streets in the silence.”

Dan paused and took a swig of his coffee.

“Oh, do go on! What happened?” cried Carla. “I don’t know who I feel most for – poor Charis, or Gareth!”

Dan continued. “That night, Gareth’s family threw a feast as a celebration, but it was a tense, unhappy occasion. Charis gorged herself on food and cackled loudly. Gareth’s head began to ache. The food was tasteless and the lights of the hall too bright.

Finally, Charis stood and held out her hand. ‘Come and claim me as your wife, husband,’ she said loudly to Gareth and the whole room went silent. Without a word, Gareth took her hand and led her to his room. Neither spoke as they undressed.

‘Kiss me,’ Charis wheezed and Gareth, steeling himself, saw the terror in her eyes that he would reject her. She had saved him, risked her life to save his. He closed his eyes and kissed her. Then he swung away, not knowing what to do.

‘Gareth!’ said a soft sweet voice. ‘Gareth, look at me.’

He spun around and there stood the loveliest woman he had ever seen. His eyes darted around the room.

‘Where is my wife? Where is Charis? Who are you?’

Her laughter was like the tinkling of bells. ‘You ask about Charis before asking about me. I am Charis. I was bewitched by a sorcerer because I would not marry him. His curse ensured if I would not marry him, no-one else would.’

Gareth took her hands, and he thought fleetingly, that they had always been soft, he had just not noticed. ‘Have I broken the spell?’

She looked sad. ‘Alas no. I can only remain in my true form for half the day. The other half I will be the disfigured creature you met at first.’ She gazed at him. ‘So choose wisely. Can you bear to look on me in the light of day, when your family and friends gaze on me and despair for you? Or will I be a hag that disturbs your rest and who you cannot bear to touch?’

He was silent for a long time, and he could feel her tense as she waited. ‘But this is not my choice. You bear the curse, not I. What do you want?’

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she put her face in her hands, weeping. Gareth, alarmed, pulled her into his arms, feeling her slender body shake. When she quietened, she smiled tremulously at him.

‘By offering me the choice, you have released the spell! I am returned to my true form.’

Gareth kissed her again but said seriously to her. ‘You have so many beautiful things in your character, I could have loved you in time anyway. Your courage and bravery, your truthfulness and determination.’ She kissed him again.

The next morning, Gareth told the story to his family and the whole town celebrated with them. But while Gareth rejoiced in his lovely new wife, he never forgot her actions towards him, which shone as brightly as diamonds – and lasted longer in his mind than her beauty.”

Dan stopped and there was a pause, before Carla applauded. Thoughtfully, Joe took Carla’s hand.

“You know, I’d seen you first when you were nice to Jane in your class,” he said. “She was being bullied. You marched up to her and invited her to sit with you. Jane’s face lit up. I’ve never forgotten it. Then I looked at your arse.”

She smiled and then kissed him. “Good to know you think something else about me is beautiful. Because my arse won’t always be this perky.”

Dan chuckled and suggested they turn in. 

Sara Sartagne

https://sarasartagne.com

Sara Sartagne writes women’s fiction featuring brave women, often weaving love stories through the narrative. Her English Garden Romance series reflects her passion for gardening. The novellas are downloadable from her website. The Duality books combine contemporary and historical plots into award-winning standalone dual timelines. She lives in East Yorkshire, moving from London to a HUGE garden in 2019.

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Book Sunday at #OurAuthorGang

 Today's recommendation

A sleuth mystery by Dawn Treacher

ON AMAZON

Extract from The Seeds Of Murder

Cedric was a village vicar until his wife packed a small case and left on the bus and didn’t return. There was gossip and speculation. The loss was hard for Cedric to bear. He took to gardening and writing but he soon discovered that lies grow thickly like weeds in a garden and the villagers had secrets of their own.

*** 

Dead heading the roses was always the first job of the day, Cedric’s early morning mug of tea balanced on the fence post beside him. The robin who followed him around the garden as if overseeing his progress, sat a few feet away, a worm wriggling in her beak. Each year the rose bush had grown stronger, its leaves a rich glossy green. Nimbly he snipped the dead blooms, dropping them one by one into his bucket. He’d followed the instructions for propagating a rose to the letter and had marvelled as the limp stick of rose grew roots and sprouted tiny shoots of new life. He’d chosen the spot in his new garden carefully, ensuring it had plenty of sun and room to spread. Now it had grown almost as large as the bush that had spawned its rebirth. He may not have been able to bring his wife’s favourite rose bush with him when he moved that bleak day in early March, but she would have been proud of what he’d achieved, not just in that corner of the garden, with its neat flower border alongside a manicured lawn, but in the multitude of tubs that erupted colour in the form of fuchsias and marigolds and early petunias.

Scarlett had been more supportive than he could have hoped and had even bought him an edging tool for his birthday.

“You should start a blog, Dad,” she’d joked, wheeling a barrow of ripe manure and tipping it over the base of the rose bush.

“Vicar turned gardener, you’d have all the housewives hooked.” Her pony tail of thick auburn hair glinted in the sunlight. Cedric looked away. From the back view, his daughter looked so much like Carolina as she’d looked then, the year took on the vicarage, with its garden so thick with nettles he’d doubted she’d ever tame it. But he’d been wrong to doubt her and indeed had learnt more than he dared to admit from her determination to build a garden from a wasteland loved by bees and thistles alike.

“I’ll set it up for you,” called Scarlett, abandoning the wheelbarrow and slumping herself down on the lawn, kicking off her boots to wriggle her toes. “You just need to provide the words, and we know how good you are with those.”

Cedric joined her, but blogging wasn’t his style at all. It was far too personal, intrusive, letting people comment on what he held dear, mock him for his failings; as insidious as ground elder under the bushes.

Vicar leaves parish under cloud of scandal

Cedric never did discover who the journalist had been talking to, but as with all local papers, gossip sold much better than news and even a vicar made the occasional enemy. He’d left such rumours behind him when he moved ten miles to a new village outside the parish boundaries. No, a blog was far too public and his garden was his and his alone. Amongst the flowers in summer and the fallen leaves in winter, he felt his wife was near in spirit if not in body.

Now, Cedric stood and looked at the pebbled drive which extended down the side of the small bungalow which he and Rubens called home. His new office, as that was what he’d decided to call it, would fit nicely just below the window of his bedroom. He’d be able to sit inside and look out upon the roses; hear the birds singing in the trees. And Scarlett had promised him the WIFI would reach and the whole thing could be plugged into the electrics. He could even make tea.

He heard the crunch on the drive, the sound of an engine stopping, followed by footsteps on the path. Stage one of his plan had arrived in the form of a shabby 1970’s Buccaneer caravan, rather green upon its roof, its windows yellowed in the sun but to him, it was perfect.

Scarlett took charge to dress that caravan as if it were a house in need of a makeover. She may have dropped out of college, claiming fashion design had no future and that lifestyle YouTubing was where all the money was, but she certainly had the flare and the skill. Using Carolina’s old sewing machine at full pelt, Scarlett had soon replaced the faded poppy upholstery on the sofa cushions with smart new green velvet covers and added thick curtains with a tweed finish at all the windows with cord curtain tie backs and matching tweed cushions.

“It’s masculine, yet chic,” she said, as she plumped the cushions and laid down a brown striped rug between the two sofas. She’d found a perfect high coffee table in a charity shop which would hold Cedric’s laptop and notebooks, painted all the cupboards a deep gloss maroon and even bought him a little whistling kettle for the stove top. “You’ll get your novel finished in no time in here,” she’d said, settling herself down on one of the sofas next to Rubens, who’d decided it was better than any armchair in the bungalow. He purred loudly in his sleep.

Yes, it would do nicely as a place to write, but though his manuscript, handwritten in a set of matching notebooks was sitting beside his laptop, that wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he’d bought the caravan from a scrap dealer for a measly three hundred pounds. No, it was an office but not just any office. Now was not the moment to tell Scarlett, or anyone else for that matter. As Scarlett was intent on potting up some plants to decorate the gravel around the entrance to the caravan, Cedric settled down with a mug of tea and bourbon biscuit, notebook open and pen in hand. Rubens, who always took the opening of a notebook as a sign that he had to help out in the art of writing, stretched and then jumped up off the sofa cushion, leapt up onto the coffee table and sprawled out, one paw draped over the edge of Cedric’s work of the day before. Cedric gave the cat’s tummy a tickle and began writing.

“...Pushing open the door, Inspector Barnabus found himself in a room in which he doubted another single object could have been wedged onto the shelves which crowded the damp stained walls or  crammed into drawers so stuffed full several failed to close at all. It never failed to surprise him that no matter how heinous the crime or objectionable the perpetrator first appeared, inside each house he searched, hoping to find clues and blame, he found threads of a life, woven tightly together, portraying on the outside the normal existence of a blameless soul. Rooms full of memories and mementoes that the perpetrators never believed would one day be carefully sifted through, catalogued and photographed. This room was no different but as he removed each layer and veneer of deception, just maybe beneath he would find the tiniest fragment of a clue. And here, inside a drawer full of what would appear to be old utility bills and final reminders, was a ticket for a dry cleaners and a quick check on his phone confirmed his suspicions, that it wasn’t one from the city, not even the neighbouring town, but one two hundred miles away.”

It was late afternoon by the time Cedric put down his pen and closed his notebook. He started up his laptop and opened a file on the desktop. Rubens had long since decided his assistance was no longer required and had taken to the floor of the caravan where he’d begun the ritual of washing first his belly then in between his toes.

“Rubens,” said Cedric, typing now. “There’s more to searching for clues than looking in obvious places.” He proceeded to add to a list he’d been compiling in a file entitled: Finding the missing. Look for the mundane in hidden places.

Dawn Treacher

www.dawntreacher.com

Dawn Treacher is based in North Yorkshire, England. She writes in both adult crime fiction and children's middle grade fantasy adventures. She is also an illustrator of children's fiction, an artist and plush artist. She runs both a writing critique group and a creative writing group and goes into schools to promote storytelling.

Author Lorraine Carey at #OurAuthorGang

 Meet the Author

Lorraine Carey

https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/

Lorraine Carey is a passionate storyteller, paranormal enthusiast, and seasoned author who has turned her real-life encounters with the unexplained into the heart of her fiction.

Having experienced many supernatural events firsthand, she masterfully infuses these eerie and mysterious elements into her novels, captivating readers with tales that blur the line between reality and the unknown.

Her love for travel has taken her to diverse locations, each steeped in unique histories and rich local legends. These journeys provide the perfect backdrop for her stories, weaving in authentic folklore and atmospheric settings that bring her narratives to life.

During her nine years in Grand Cayman with her husband, Lorraine found endless inspiration in the island’s history, culture, and enigmatic energy. Many of her books were born from this tropical paradise, where whispers of the past seemed to beckon her to pen these novels.

A dedicated educator and veteran Reading Specialist, Lorraine initially wrote for Young Adults, hoping to spark a love of reading in her students, who always delighted in her spine-chilling tales. Her YA novel, Jonathan’s Locket, was a finalist in the Wind Dancer Film Contest in 2014. Over the years, her literary portfolio has expanded to include fifteen self-published books, three co-authored works, and contributions to four anthologies as a member of the Golden Box Book Pub Writers team.

Now residing in St. Petersburg, Florida, Lorraine continues to write in retirement, drawing inspiration from her deep connection to the supernatural. Her empathic abilities ensure that the spirits never stray too far, fueling her passion for storytelling and keeping the ghostly whispers alive on the page.