Tag Archives: Nova Scotia

WOLVES DON’T KNOCK – a novel

Wolves Don't Knock FINAL PRINT COVER

My debut novel is finally finished and ready for the dreaded promotion.

Promotion? What is that? I’m a writer, not a seller. But that’s what we authors have to do in order to sell our books. We have to promote. And spam. And bug our friends and family and strangers. (But not too much; we don’t want to alienate anyone over a few bucks!)

This book is a blend of thriller, suspense, mystery, romance, and family dynamics/relationships. It’s suitable for mature teens and up. Though it deals with sensitive issues (the aftermath of a six-year kidnapping), there are no graphic scenes.

The e-book is now available on Kindle and Draft2Digital (D2D). The print book, of course, is more expensive (available on Amazon and soon on IngramSpark), but I feel it gives a better reading experience. At 104,000 words, the book is a bit longer than most, thus the higher price tag.

The book is set in Halifax and vicinity, Nova Scotia, with a scene set in Peggys Cove.

It’s always available from me, the author, locally at $15 Canadian (no tax, no shipping).

I’ve had excellent pre-publication reviews, but it’s still a nerve-wracking experience to put yourself “out there” with your work. I don’t want unwarranted praise, of course, but I hope readers enjoy it. The book was over five years in the making (off and on, with one year totally untouched). I’ve read and re-read it numerous times (too many times to count and so many times all I wanted to do was trash the darn thing!). I’ve had several beta readers and two editors. If there are any glaring errors, I will scream!

So, here it is. Available for purchase. Or contact me locally. I’d be glad to hand-deliver.

Purchase here.

Wolves Don't Knock 1 FINAL back cover

 

 

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WOLVES DON’T KNOCK

In honour of Canada Day (July 1) and the U.S. July 4: WOLVES DON’T KNOCK is on sale for $10.99 U.S. until July 6. Amazon.com
Also available in Canada for approx. $14.50 on Amazon.ca
Available locally from the author for $15.00.
Wolves Don't Knock FINAL PRINT COVER

Twenty-two-year-old Miranda escapes from her abductor and the wolves that have tormented her soul for six long years. She returns to her childhood home where her mother, Sharon, caring for Miranda’s son, Kevin, has feared for her daughter’s fate. Uncertainty and distrust taint the first year after Miranda’s return. Miranda and Sharon hide secrets they dare not reveal while constantly wondering when Miranda’s kidnapper will reappear. Can mother and daughter bury their demons and repair their strained relationship? Can Miranda bond with the baby she never knew and find the love she so desperately wants? Will Kevin’s father play a role? Will Sharon find the answers she needs to recover from her own troubled past?

Set in Halifax and vicinity, Nova Scotia.

Although this book deals with sensitive issues, there are no graphic sexual scenes.

 

PRE-PUBLICATION REVIEWS:

What a story! What a read! It reminded me a bit of The Room and, of course, a couple other stories like this one. It is engaging though it has difficult themes and elements. —ML

I love the parallel mother/daughter relationship and once the grandmother gets involved, it truly turns into a generational problem. The knock-knock jokes are a stroke of genius. You have wonderful symbolism and use it well throughout. And all the “wolf” connections and descriptions are soooo perfect this should be in a lit course to teach symbolism! —PL

A 5-star novel. Buy it. So many elements of suspense weaved through Wolves Don’t Knock that you feel you can’t read and turn the pages fast enough to get to the end…a real page-turner, holding this reader’s attention from opening to the end. The many threads woven throughout this novel left me exhausted by the end. That is a very good thing…. A lot of the introspections were the best passages in the novel. Often beautifully written… Joyce Carol Oates uses intensive character introspections in a lot of her work. She can get away with it because she has the skills to make those introspections fascinating. So does this author…  —RA

Wolves Don’t Knock is a spell-binding novel that delves into the mysteries of a traumatized young woman’s psyche, as she fights to regain a sense of worth. As the story progresses, the variety of well-developed characters will keep the reader turning the pages. Thumbs up and five stars to this talented author. —KA

 

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The Spot Writers – “On the Edge, the Story of Peggy and Sam” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The June prompt is to update a legend or legendary character/beast: bring it into the modern world, or add a twist that isn’t consistent with the original legend.

This week’s story comes from Cathy MacKenzie. Her first novel, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, will be available for purchase by the end of June. “Follow” her website www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for updates and/or “like” her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/WolvesDontKnock/.

***

“On the Edge, the Story of Peggy and Sam” by Cathy MacKenzie

Peggys Cove, a small rural community on the eastern shore of St. Margarets Bay, is one of Nova Scotia’s most visited landmarks, picturesque with its lighthouse and deadly waves crashing against the huge boulders. According to local legend, a young girl named Margaret was the only survivor of a shipwreck off Halibut Rock, near the cove. (Peggy, of course, is the nickname for Margaret, hence the name of the cove.) Margaret/Peggy was found by a fisherman who took her to his home, and she was adopted by this man and his wife. No doubt, they all lived “happily ever after.”

In this fictionalized story, I’ve brought Peggy of the Cove into the modern world, where we find her floundering in the Atlantic Ocean…

When Peggy spat out salty water, it was as if she were in the throes of a nightmare, for why was she in the water? But her predicament was real—too real.

She gasped for breath and tread water. She scanned the vast waters. What—a lighthouse?

She was a fan of lighthouses and immediately recognized this one as the lighthouse at Peggys Cove. Peggys Cove, the place where legends began and ended. An abundance of lobster chowder and buttery biscuits. All varieties of fresh seafood. Tourists who disregarded the dangers of the rocks.

She’d been there several years previously and had even admonished several carefree teens who bounded over the boulders as if they were invincible. “Watch for the black,” she had shouted. “Don’t go near the edge. If you tumble, you’ll disappear forever.” They ignored her, of course, so she let them be, and they were fine in the end, thank God. She wasn’t certain what she would have done had one of them toppled into the sea. Would she have jumped in? Nope, not her. Be reckless in your life; suffer the consequences.

Consequences. Was she suffering consequences? What had she done to deserve this?

Her head ached, and the shark-infested waters didn’t calm her nerves. It was a wonder a shark hadn’t shown its face yet. If it did, she wouldn’t fare well.

She made an effort to swim toward shore, where relentless waves slapped against a wall of boulders. Would the waves crash her to the rocks? Wet rocks were slippery and dangerous, and she wouldn’t manage to get on shore even if she reached land. Barefoot, she would slip and slide on the rocks, and if she slid back into the water, she wouldn’t make it a second time. She had amazed herself she’d made it thus far, not that she knew where her journey had begun.

How the hell had she ended up in the water? Why the hell couldn’t she remember? What the Sam Hill—her father’s favourite expression.

Sam!

Samuel Reid, her fiancé.

She shivered and swallowed more water. She found it ironic the more she drank, the thirstier she became.

She was slowly losing strength. She must get to shore.

What had happened to her? Journey—a boat! A cruise boat. They had been on a cruise. A seven-day cruise out of Manhattan. Her memory was returning, albeit slowly. They had boarded the ship at Manhattan, with ports of call at Portland, Bar Harbour, Saint John, and Halifax, ending with two days of cruising from Halifax back to New York.

What “leg” of the cruise was she mired in? Did she “disembark” on the way to Halifax or on the return journey to Manhattan?

More nerve-wracking, how had she ended up in the ocean? No one could accidentally fall over the forty-eight-inch railings. No amount of booze would cause her to be drunk enough to jump into the sea. Someone had to have pushed her.

Horror stories assaulted her. Husbands and boyfriends who wanted to be rid of their partners. Someone had pushed her, and who else but Sam? But why? They loved each other, didn’t they? She did, at any rate, and had always thought herself to be a good judge of character.

They were to marry in December, two weeks before Christmas. The wedding had been planned—by her, of course—and invites mailed. Two months from now. A big wedding, too. Gifts had already poured in. They were both popular, having graduated Dalhousie in June. No jobs yet, but such was life. The jobs would come, though, and they’d end up happily married, forever after, with the proverbial white picket fence and two-point-five kids—if that stat was still correct. She hadn’t checked recently. And who’d have half a kid, anyhow?

They’d taken out life insurance policies four months previously. Sam’s idea, wasn’t it? She hadn’t thought much about it—until this moment. “Might as well get coverage now,” she remembered him saying. “One less thing to do after we’re married.”

She spat out more water. Was she getting the bends? No, from the little she knew about the condition, the bends were when you were deep underwater, your brain exploding within your skull. She was above the sea, but still dangerous and brutal. The sea claimed whatever and whomever at will.

She must reach the rocks. She was confident she could grasp hold and haul herself up no matter the eel-like surface. And someone would be there to rescue her.

Please, God, let someone be there.

Figures and distances weren’t her forte. How much farther? How much longer could she last? Not that it mattered. She must keep swimming. Move her arms, kick her legs. Nothing to it, right?

Her life depended upon it.

Sam. Had he really done this? Why? Why, oh why?

They’d been drinking; they always drank. Who didn’t? “One more glass of wine?” he had asked. “Sure, just one,” she had replied. Booze was free onboard. They’d purchased the beverage package.

Wait! Who had purchased it? Him or her?

No matter. Didn’t matter. Gotta reach shore. “Please, God,” she mumbled. “I’ll never drink again if you save me.”

Didn’t everyone bargain when death neared?

No, death wouldn’t come for her. And when she found Sam, well, she didn’t want to think what she would do.

She forced her arms to dig deep into the water, inch by inch. Where was the splash of her feet? Shouldn’t she hear the splash? Wasn’t she kicking?

Forget it. Keep going. She was moving. The rocks were closer. Black rocks, but she’d manage. Just get me there. I’ll handle the rest.

She pretended she was a mermaid. Mermaids existed in the water. She’d live if she were a mermaid. Who knows, maybe she was one.

Kick! Kick, kick.

Her feet were numb, so maybe she had developed a mermaid tail. Flap! Flap, flap.

Nearer. Almost there. A few more kicks. A few more flails of her arms.

The water was warmer. She was warmer. Another sign of death?

She was close. So close. So close…

“Please, God, don’t let this be a mirage.”

She touched the sharp edge of a rock. A big rock. A boulder.

“I’m safe,” she muttered.

She looked up. A cliff. Too high. She’d never scale that.

She latched hold, her hand slipped, she swallowed water.

She reached again.

She managed to hoist herself onto a low-lying surface, where she lay, panting. The October sun shone across her. Warm. No breeze, no dastardly wind. No crash of the waves against the rocks.

Anyone there? she wanted to shout, but she possessed no strength.

Let me rest. Just let me rest.

 

Note:

My story “Margaret of the Sea” (perhaps a bit too dark, but that’s what the guidelines wanted!), another fictionalized account of Peggy/Margaret, will be published in an upcoming anthology titled Creatures in Canada – A Darkling Around the World Anthology, by Lycan Valley Press. This anthology consists of one “legend” story per province in Canada, a story that could have only happened in that particular province. My story was selected for Nova Scotia. Book will be available on Amazon.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

 

 

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It Only Takes One

Check out the March issue of  Open Heart Forgery, a free local publication in Halifax, Nova Scotia. I’ve had several poems published in this pamphlet of a magazine. It’s actually not hard; if there’s room and one’s poem is reasonably okay, it’ll be published. (At least, that’s my understanding.) Poems must be a maximum of 28  lines long and a max of 43 letters wide. Only one submission per author per month and a max of four poems per year. One must be a resident of HRM (Halifax Regional Municipality).

Here is my poem, “It Only Takes One”:

The night is hollow and cold,
and I’m alone in blackness;
I’ve never liked the dark,
don’t like what I can’t see.

Stars are funny creatures,
resting and hiding by day;
They emerge at night to party,
when their florid faces glow.

They glare at us, those stars,
spying upon us in the quiet;
And we stare back at them,
seeking fruitless fantasies.

I’ve never liked the dark,
Don’t like what I can’t see;
I beg I beg upon one star,
Please let my wish come true.

New post on Open Heart Forgery

March 2018

by ohforgery

cropped-ohflogo2r.jpg

View Issue vol. 9, no. 2
ISSN 2369-6516 (Print)
ISSN 2369-6524 (Online)

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INDIE AUTHOR EXTRAVAGANZA

 

 

indie-author-extravaganza

 

Indie Author Extravaganza, this Saturday, August 20, Halifax, Nova Scotia!

I’ll be there selling three books: OUT OF THE MIST (local writers group anthology); my personal anthology, OUT OF THE CAVE; and Tom Robson’s memoir, WRITTEN WHILE I STILL REMEMBER.

 

 

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Sheep Thieves and Murderers?

Sheep Thieves and Murderers?

 

My Dad, despite being proud of his Scottish heritage, had always said our MacKenzies were descended from sheep thieves (murderers, too, though I hope he had said that in jest) who were expelled from Scotland and came to Canada on the Hector Ship.

I became interested in genealogy late in 1998. At the time of my father’s passing in February 1999, I had just started gathering facts. The little I had gleaned up till then I would relay to my mother to pass to him. After he died, she told me he had been so sick that he really had no interest.

Had Dad been well, he would have been eager to hear of his roots since he obviously had no clue. Dad was an only child, and his father had only two brothers, one of whom died before my father was born, the other was childless, so there weren’t many relatives on his paternal side. As I later would discover, our MacKenzies are few. As with my grandfather’s siblings, many of our line died young or were childless. Dad would have relished hearing that we weren’t sheep thieves, that we have a small town in Nova Scotia named after us, and that the main profession of our ancestors was engineering, a tradition carried into present day. We also did not cross over on the Hector.

As well, I discovered my father’s parents were second cousins; whether he knew that or not will remain a mystery. I don’t believe that fact was hidden, but since this was news to my mother after his passing, he either did not know or my mother had forgotten.

Though I spent almost ten years researching my MacKenzies, I didn’t discover anything too exciting other than an early divorce, a family feud, and babies dying.

Dad had always said his uncle was the first in our family to switch to the “Mac” spelling because he, my great-uncle, felt “Mac” was more upper class than “Mc.” My research showed our name as far back as 1771 was spelled “Mc.” However, records back then are unreliable; many record keepers couldn’t read or write, so whoever wrote the information could have written names as he had wanted. Today, we all spell our names “Mac.”

In case you are confused, since I am married: my surname by birth is MacKenzie; I just happened to marry a MacKenzie. And no, I kept my MacKenzie name and did not adopt his. Hubby’s ancestors came from Ullapool in Cromarty County, on the east coast of Scotland, and relocated to the Salt Springs area of Pictou County. Mine were from the west coast, in Clyne, Sutherland County, and made their home in the Barney’s River area of Pictou County. Kenzieville, which is adjacent to or part of Barney’s River, is named after my MacKenzies, mostly I think, because the first MacKenzie in our line to come to Canada and his six sons were all surveyors and surveyed most of the roads back then in that area. Dad would have gotten a kick that my third husband carried our name, not to mention the fact “Kenzieville” is named for us!

In 2000, shortly after my marriage, Hubby and I travelled to Scotland for three weeks, a trip that came about due to a gathering of the Clan MacKenzie in Strathpeffer. A trip of my dreams! I felt an unbelievable thrill travelling through Clyne, seeing ancient stone walls that my ancestors could have sat upon or, I suppose, even built, and walking through fields where my relatives could have trod. I swear those people called out to me. I think Hubby felt the same when he travelled through his ancestral home, but of course, he’d never admit it. We had plans to spend a few days in London before flying home. When we drove across the Scotland/England border, I weeped for families lost. And I did not want to leave Scotland.

As a result of that trip, we both had our DNA tested, a project initiated by the Clan MacKenzie to see if any attendees were connected to renowned Clan Chiefs from eons ago. Unfortunately, thus far, we’ve had no luck proving we were descended from anyone important though I felt positive vibes while traipsing through the MacKenzie Castle and the Sutherland Castle. (My GGG MacKenzie grandfather, who was the first to come to Canada, was married to a Sutherland.)

Though Hubby and I aren’t, thus far, related to anyone famous, neither are hubby and I blood-related, although we were quite certain of that when we married. We weren’t about to have children at our age, so I guess it didn’t really matter.

Ironically, I was the one pushing the DNA testing and the one frantically interested in genealogy. As my luck goes, it is Hubby who receives the daily emails telling him he has yet another DNA match. Me: I have yet to receive one notification. My ancestors, as I had discovered through genealogy, are slim pickings. I think, through my research, I’ve found every last one of them.

One of my regrets is that I didn’t start my genealogy request sooner than I had. My father, more than anyone else, would have gone crazy over my research. There’s so much I’d love to share with him.

 

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