Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Wreading Wednesday’ Category

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 29 November 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

 

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books!

 

I wandered the passage abovestairs, looking for Mamá’s rooms. Always I had been welcomed there. Always Mamá would sing to me and put a pretty necklace or brooch or bracelet on me and twirl me around to a silent symphony. Papá would take her hand, and they would waltz while I sat on the bed watching, enraptured by the movement and the love in their eyes.

Mamá was gone, though, and I missed her terribly. I sought something of her to cling to, something to bring her to me, if only for a moment.

The door was ajar, neither opened as it always had been, nor was it closed. I pushed gently on the massive wood door and peeked inside. Morning sun filtered through drawn drapes not fully closed, dust motes dancing on the sunbeam. The room was eerily still but Mamá’s scent lingered and drew me in.

I went to her jewel box and caressed my finger across it, drawing no dust. Glancing over my shoulder I hoisted myself up to her velvet padded bench. I picked up her hair brush and ran it through my own unruly locks. I sniffed at her perfume and tears welled in my eyes.

Oh, when I lifted the lid of the silver box! The hazy sunlight made the gems there to sparkle and glow, and I could almost see her smile. I lifted one piece then another, remembering.

“GET OUT!” Papá jerked me so hard I knocked the box on the floor, spilling all the brilliant memories. “Never touch those things.”

His indecision to return Mamá’s box to its place or to give me a sound beating was my escape. In my terror, I was confused and ran the wrong way down the corridor. I was quickly turned around and found myself in an unfamiliar, narrow passage with doors at both ends. Pressing forward, I pulled open the door at the far end.

The burgundy carpet. I had seen that before. I had heard Serella’s name here.

Holding my shoulder against the pain that ravaged it, I made my way down the dark hallway to an open door. I was where I had heard Serella being reprimanded for not doing her lessons.

“Hello.” A girl who looked just like me, only older, tilted her head and stared at me. “Who are you?”

“Scarlett!” Papá’s voice bellowed.

The door slammed shut and I pounded my way to the end of the corridor. There was a window but no door. No escape. It was the first time he beat me.

And the last time he was my papá.

 

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, Peppermint Drops, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 22 November 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books!

 

These past days had been most busy. A different busyness to what I was used to. Up at dawn—or before—cleaning and scrubbing all the day long. Tending my children in the midst of drudgery. Wearing myself ragged to uphold Fontaine’s standards.

And of course, being ready at a moment’s notice to magically transform into a companion fit for his… associates.

This had been a different busy. A whirlwind, but enjoyable. Teasing me closer to the dream. Unraveling the sense of impossibility.

Still, I reveled in moments alone, and today I walked aimlessly in the brisk gray day. I paused at the gazebo, breathing in the pungent odor of the loamy earth beyond. A foul smell, it was comforting to me in its familiarity.

Versailles was the logical destination. But by virtue of its familiarity, I did not want to go there. Besides, Simone was often there and I needed solitude. The boardwalk split off, though, in the direction of Quexo. The village was well hidden, and to the unsuspecting eye, the trail simply led into the woods.

Saisons Plantation was at the far end of the boardwalk, but surely I could not go there. Not for solitude. There was never a time when there wasn’t some commotion, even if a ladies tea, proper in form; it was busy.

I turned on Pierpont Street, one street shy of Congaree Street. Congaree, the short street that ran the border of the Dubois property. The street where Pearl’s townhouse stood. Had I not been in such need of solitude, I might have tried Pearl’s door again. It was tempting even so, knowing she’d not grant me admittance. But I was halfway along Pierpont, nearing the Charleston Highway, and the small path to the canal.

The canal had always been my place of refuge. High ground running between pastures on one side and murky water on the other. And beyond the canal, wide open fields and woods.

I hadn’t gone far when I came to ‘The Falls.’ Nothing more than several large stones in the water, but the current swirled and gurgled, and to our childish minds as girls, it was a grand waterfall. The stones made an easy crossing.

Loose in the expanse before me I breathed deep. A cleansing, I felt nearly as though gossamer wings lifted me. Light as air, I made my way across the raw untamed land. There was no path here, no one had existed here before. No one but me.

And yet I did not feel alone. I felt no threat of danger, only a safety and comfort. I breathed deep, a sweet aroma filling my nostrils and lungs. I plucked some Queen Anne’s Lace, it’s pungent spicy scent tickling my nose. On a whim I loosed my hair and wove the flowers into my curls.

I felt dangerous. I felt daring. I felt at peace.

And I did not feel alone.

There was no sense I was being watched. My skin didn’t prickle and my breath didn’t quicken, as though I were being followed. No. I felt wrapped in a safe presence, angelic perhaps, gossamer wings leading me, guiding me.

I came to the edge of the woods, and still I did not turn back. It was early afternoon; I had hours yet of sunlight.

The trees were thick, a carpet of brown and gold at my feet, a canopy of green fronds above,  gray strands of Spanish moss dangling on the cool breeze. Undergrowth was thin, but it tugged on my gray twill skirt. I felt as though I were being led, though by whom or what I didn’t know. I knew only the urging within my soul to press on.

A small ridge, hidden at first, appeared, rising away from the trees. I could see farmland beyond, houses and barns speckling the brown land. The ridge was rocky but smooth, a footpath evident along its way. I turned north and it rose further still. No great height, but sufficient to see above the trees, across the distance I had just come.

I could see all of Saisons from her. Bastille House and Vineyards, withered and choking as they were. I could make out the shapes of homes and buildings of Saisons, and beyond the grand elegant house of Ashley Santee Plantation. The great oak trees that welcomed all to Saison House obscured all beyond, but they rose in greeting as if waving to me from a distance.

The pinnacle of the ridge was a large rock, smoothed by rain and wind. I sat on it and breathed the sweet pine tingled air. My lungs cleared of all maliforous vapors, my senses undulled. My thoughts both spun and calmed.

And still, I was not alone.

I didn’t stir. I didn’t seek who was with me. I didn’t question.

I rested. I basked. I healed.

Chief Winyah’s words had been my constant companion since that day with Simone in the village. I had written them, but they were engraved in my mind.

 

           You have many questions and many dark secrets. But you have much fear also. The fear, it rules over you and steals from you any hope for the future. You have dreams but you have let the fear take them from you.

           You must find your answers to be truly free. You have your questions yet you know where to seek your answers. You know where to find your answers.

           What you seek is where you have left it.

 

The fear dissipated in the presence of my… company. Questions that had roiled through my mind settled, taking obedient form like school children called to attention. My secrets even seemed less heavy, less dark.

And I felt for the first time I could embrace this future Donal now clung to. I felt I could stand by his side not only as his wife, but as his partner and the lady of his house. Lady of my own home.

I rose, my head high, my posture carrying me. The pride I had seen in Tante, not of arrogance but of confidence, now settled over me as… as the gossamer wings.

 

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, Peppermint Drops, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Read Full Post »

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 15 November 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books!

 

 

“Mamá got me some licorice sticks.” Mercedes had come skipping all the way to Versailles. “And lemon drops and butterscotch and peppermints.” She clutched a brown bag in her hand.

And we all clamored around, waiting for her to distribute the sugary wealth.

“Well.” Pearl alone stamped her foot, scuffing up a small pinecone and sending it skittering. “What are you waiting for? I want my peppermint.”

Mercedes was unruffled, sitting calmly on the bench, and took out a butterscotch drop, popped it in her mouth, and made a great show of enjoying it. “Scarlett, dear, what would you like?”

“Do you have any chocolate drops?” She always had chocolate drops.

“Of course I do.” Mercedes reached in her bag and drew out not one but two chocolate drops. She turned to Simone, who was waiting patiently for her ginger drops. Mercedes drew out two of Simone’s favorite candy and handed them to her.

Then she set the bag on the bench, nestled between me and her, and asked how my mamá was feeling. She had been ill lately, and listless.

“Docteur Gilles has been to Bastille. He says she’s fine and she must rest.” I popped another chocolate drop in my mouth, which marbled my words, “I wanwa go to wah shorh.”

“I’m sure she’ll—”

“Mercedes Townsend, you can be so cruel.” Tears welled in Pearl’s gray eyes but she wouldn’t let them flow. She turned and stormed off, stomping her narrow little feet for good measure.

“Do come here, Pearl.” Even then Mercedes had a motherly tone. “Of course I have peppermints for you.”

“Why must you torment me so?”

“Torment you? I don’t torment you.”

“You most certainly do.”

Mercedes didn’t say a word. Neither did she retrieve the peppermints for Pearl.

“How can you sit there and ask about Scarlett’s mamá when I don’t even have a peppermint?”

“Do you not care about her mamá?”

Pearl harrumphed and turned again to leave.

“Pearl.”

“Of course I do. I like Scarlett’s mamá as good as anybody.”

Mercedes waited still.

Pearl turned to me. “I’m sorry your mamá is ill, Scarlett.” She turned back to Mercedes. “Now may I please have my peppermints?”

Without so much as a breath or another word, Mercedes reached in the bag and drew out three peppermint drops and handed them to Pearl.

 

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, Peppermint Drops, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Read Full Post »

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 25 October 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE TILTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books! Today I give you Scarlett’s mère et père.

 

* note: not the final cover.

 

 

He wasn’t a tall man, but Papá had been bigger than life. He sang and laughed, and swept Mamá into dance at the drop of a hat. He didn’t even need music. Of course, he twirled me and Ava ‘round and ‘round, too, our feet flailing like kite strings.

Papá had a moustache that tickled when he kissed me goodnight, and wavy hair as black as coal. His eyes were dark, too, but they were blue like Ava’s. Mamá’s eyes were blue, but hers were pale blue, like the water when the sun shines on it.

Only mine were brown. Papá said it was because I was special, my brown eyes. Like cocoa shortbread cookies, which were his favorite.

Mamá taught us reading and piano and needlework, lady things she called them, although we were too little to do much. I remember pricking my finger time and again as I tried to sew on a button or fix a ribbon in place. Ava didn’t care much for stitching and embroidery but I was most intrigued by it. Mamá gave me leftover fabric scraps and I’d make dresses and gowns for our dollies.

Papá was adventuresome. He took us for walks along the creek and through the vineyards. He boosted us on his shoulders and onto tree branches. Ava enjoyed riding on Papá’s shoulders but never liked being high up in a tree, not even low branches.

I did. I would scrabble from Papá’s strong arms to a low branch. I would hug the tree and stand up, reaching for the next branch up. Mamá scolded him time and again, but he just laughed and somehow his laughter made her laugh too.

Mamá was nervous, though, and never seemed fully relaxed. She was always busy, cleaning, doing something, fixing something. Even though she was married to the heir of the estate and was not supposed to go belowstairs or really do any manual labor, she frequently did so to fix her own tea or bring cookies to me and Ava. More than once, we followed her down the narrow stairs. And every time, Cook would reprimand her and shoo us away.

I remember once when Grandmére Marguerite caught her carrying a tray into the sitting room. Ava and I were shooed out of the room. Ava cried, trying to cling to Mamá’s blue satin skirts. But I sat by the door listening. I was just three at the time and the memory was a hazy one. But I do remember Grandmére’s raised voice, and Mamá’s quiet one, meek and servile in her mother-in-law’s presence.

The memories were tucked away like a flower pressed in the leaves of a Bible, treasured and preserved because its beauty had faded and wilted away.

I had lived the nightmare mon pére had created, but I clung to the pressed memories because they gave me joy. And sometimes, I could even smell the fragrance of them.

 

Papá—Fontaine—had not always been the monster he had become.

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Read Full Post »

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 11 October 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books! Today I give you a short little scene with a silly little bit.

 

With Christmas in December, and Violet’s debutante ball in June, it was determined—Madame Eléanore determined—that Mademoiselle Suzette’s wedding should be in March.

“But, Vivi,” she wailed. “March is so far away.”

“And so dreary,” Violet signed.

The pursed expression on Eléanore’s face was most entertaining. Clearly she viewed Violet’s mute tongue as a deficiency, and her ability to communicate using her hands as some sort of sacrilege.

Violet looked to Vivienne, who signed back to her that all was well, and to dismiss the vieille vache. The old cow.

Vivienne smiled quite demurely, laughing most gaily with her amber eyes. Violet smiled large and satisfied.

I, however, let out a loud hiccough-snicker.

“Are you ill?” The look on Madame’s face would have melted another of lesser mettle.

I quickly clutched my belly and claimed indigestion.

With a wave of her wrinkled hand, I was dismissed. And quite succinctly so.

Vivi again, shrugged and silently apologized. I winked at her and she suppressed a snicker of her own.

“Is it contagious? Zis American indigestion?” Madame harrumphed and stormed from the room, her boots clattering on the polished floors and thudding none too softly on the stair runner as she headed to her suite.

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Read Full Post »

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 4 October 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER

 

#WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books! Today I give you a list of clues Mercedes had come upon in her quest to discover why Simone had disappeared.

 

Mademoiselle Fontaine,

My dear girl, you must marry my nephew, and make our alliance. If you do not, I shall bring you back and return you back to service. After, of course, a long term in [prison] for thievery and con artistry.

I shall expect news of your engagement and marriage.

Madame Adélaide Marchand

 

Monsieur Fontaine’s pocket watch

Cold chills, feeling that someone is watching

 

  1. Simone had not died as we had thought.
  2. She had been kidnapped, and suffered amnesia.
  3. Lissette had posed as her mother, and was now dead.
  4. Lissette was a criminal.
  5. Lissette was a
  6. Sympathy from the Chicora Indian
  7. Simone knows the Indian.
  8. He has watched us always
  9. Simone is not telling me something.
  10. Pearl saw Simone. (She is not telling me something, too.)
  11. Simone knows of the village.
  12. I was forbidden to go there.
  13. There is a portrait and bust of Pearl as a young woman in the gallery.
  14. Marchand’s mistress (Pearl’s mother) was a lady not a servant.
  15. Was the adjoining room hers? If not, then whose?
  16. Where had the mistress gone? Was she dismissed?
  17. Who is Madame Adélaide? And why did she seek alliance with Fontaine?
  18. Did she send for Lissette? Why? When?
  19. How did she know Lissette?
  20. Why did Lissette marry Monsieur Rowan and not Pearl’s Oncle Phillipe?
  21. What consequence for going against Madame Adélaide?
  22. Simone has Monsieur Fontaine’s pocket watch.

 

I now wondered what scheme Lissette had been concocting. Why had she not aligned herself—and the House of Fontaine—with the Marchand family as expected? Why would she risk being sent back to Nimes and the fate that awaited her? What intrigue had run through her mind?

What crime had she committed? And most importantly, why was Madame Adélaide Marchand demanding an alliance with the Fontaine family?

 

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Read Full Post »

BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 27 September 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER

WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER

 

#WreadingWednesday is back! But with a change to the format—because I post reviews almost every week and participate in First Line Fridays, #FLF, #WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excerpts from my books!

Mon cher.” I hadn’t heard Elle come in the room. “You had us all so worried.”

I laid le bebe in her cradle—Elle did not reach for her—and sat again in the Queen Anne chair.

“I rang for tea.” She seemed… reticent, which was highly out of character.

I tilted my head and puckered my brows. She had something to say, I knew she did. And I waited.

“Violet and her friends came to visit with you yesterday.”

I hung my head. My absence had alarmed everyone—it alarmed me. “Tante…”

She stopped me with her hand, upraised, then patted my knee before tucking her delicate wrinkled fingers under my chin. She lifted my head.

Je connais.” She caught my gaze with her own sparkling eyes. “I know.”

Did she mean…

“Violet, the dear, didn’t notice your letters.” Her gaze shifted to the other side of the room. There on the table sat the trunk.

I heaved a great sigh of relief as tears of squeezed from my eyes. “Mon Dieu.”

“She bolted from the room, crying out, ‘She’s gone! She’s missing!’” Elle rose and retrieved the chest, set it on the small table between the chairs.  “I knew, of course, this was your cherished possession. And while the rest of them were all in arms—near hysteria I might add—I came quietly to your room to hide the chest.”

“You knew what was in it?”

Madame shook her head. “Non, mon chèrie. I did not. But I knew what Monsieur Gouin said to me.”

I leaned forward, spilling my tea, my eyes pleading with her to tell me.

“He told me the Marquis was a sad old man. He had come to his repentance and gave his life to serve the church. But the most sad thing was his children had all abandoned him and his dying wish was to see them again.”

“But he…”

“Oui. He died without ever hearing from them again.” Elle was shaken by the story. “The Marquis, Monsieur Jacques, his last wish was to restore his son—ton pére—to his title.”

Words scattered about my brain like leaves in a storm. The poor man. The wealthy dying poor man.

Except that now he was gone and his wealth belonged to… me.

“You understand what this means?”

I met the question in her eyes. I grasped the concept, oui, but what it meant to my life, to my family—that I could not comprehend.

“You are no longer a servant, Madame.” Tante’s blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “You are a lady, a Marquise.”

Except that such titles held no meaning in this country—would I have to go to Alés? Leave all I knew and loved here, in Saisons?

“But this is my home…”

“Oh, mon chèrie.” She patted my knee again and took a sip of her tea. “You would not have to leave. It is your money to do as you wish, n’est-ce pas?”

“Oh, Tante, I don’t know… I don’t know how to be a lady. All I’ve ever been is a servant. I run the household, I take care of… of… others. I… I…”

Absurdité.” She set her tea cup firmly on the table and took my hands in hers. “You are the lady you believe yourself to be. You have seen Vivienne, n’est-ce pas? You have observed her and you know how she carries herself.”

I took in the room, seeing the elegance of it with different eyes. Not as surfaces to be dusted, or linens to be stripped and cleaned, carpets to be beaten—or vacuumed with the new machine.

Now I saw the beauty of it, the carvings of the bedposts, the simple pattern of the wallpaper, the luxury of the green and ivory carpet beneath our feet. I wiggled my toes against the plush fibers and felt the softness, and smiled at the tickle I felt.

“You see, don’t you?” Tante waved her hand across the room. “You see it? The beauty of the room.”

How did she know?

“The design, the care in creating the place for rest, for sleep.” She winked at me. “For intimité.”

My cheeks bloomed with color that Eléanore François Bouvier would say such a thing. That she should think such a thing.

“I am old, mon jeune femme, but I am not so innocent as you might think.” She poured tea, for herself and me, took two biscuits and bit into one. “I have had the lovers, oh oui, Jean Albert when I was a young woman. He was killed and his brother took me as his wife. I loved him, truly, and he was good to me. We had our children together. I was a good wife to him, and a good lover.”

Elle paused to eat her biscuits, delighted at my stunned reaction.

I didn’t like to think of others—anyone, being a lover. I thought of Simone, naturally, and I knew she and Enyeto were… happy lovers. I thought of poor Scarlett, I knew she and Donal were happy, and surely they must be—

I could not think this way. I did not like to think of Tante—Madame—as anyone’s lover. It was too personal, too private.

“Do not be ashamed, jeune femme.” The teacup made a soft clink as she set it on the saucer. “Does not even the Holy Scripture speak of love of a man and wife?”

I had never thought about it. Certainly I had read passages, and heard sermons on fidelity. But never had I thought of Holy Scripture speaking to physical love.

“And do you not think this is a dear room, a place that beckons the intimité?”

Images of Vivi and Henry, exchanging glances, whispering as they passed in the hallway, laughs at the breakfast table. More than once I had witnessed their affection as surely as I had my own parents—and as surely as Mikal and I shared a passing gesture of love.

“You do see it, n’es pas. You see the importance of the beauty, of the cleaning.” She set the cup and saucer on the table. “And you know.” She tapped a bony finger to my head. “You know how to make it so.”

“But to act as a lady?” Surely I had been pampered these past weeks. But in every moment I had known I would return to my station. Even now, I felt the time was near to go back to the cottage. Except that now…. “I’m no lady, Tante. A piece of paper does not make it so.”

Non, the paper, non. But notre Dieu, He does. He sees you as a lady, indeed as royalty. Did not He make the way for you to belong to Him? If notre Dieu believes you are royalty, who can say otherwise?”

 

 

 

 

#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

Carol Moncado

My Ramblings as I Journey Through Life – as a Child of the King, Wife, Mother, Teacher, and Indie Author

Sarah Loudin Thomas - Author

Appalachian Blessings

dsbutlerauthor

D. S. Butler's author site

Novel PASTimes

"If history were told in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten." ~ Rudyard Kipling.

April McGowan

Stories of hope, courage, and inspiration

Alicia G. Ruggieri

Grace-filled, Christ-centered Fiction

Roxanne Barbour, Author

Adventures in Speculative Fiction and Poetry

The Christian Fiction Girl

Christian Fiction Reviews by Nicole

The Main Idea

For your consideration: Some modest ideas for changing the world.

Quills & Inkblotts

Because the world needs good stories

Nadine Brandes

Fusing authentic faith and bold imagination

Toni Shiloh

Soulfully Romantic

Jennifer Hallmark

Alabama Inspired Fiction

The Dream Book Blog

On writing, creativity, psychological reality, and dreams

Traveling Bookworm

Book reviews & travel pictures mostly

Margaret Kazmierczak

Simply sharing the seeds of love through writing

Today in HisStory

History from a Christian Perspective