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The Spot Writers – “Bye, Little One” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is “trolley,” and today’s post comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Check out the youth horror anthology, OUT OF THE CAVE, recently published under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. Available on Amazon and Smashwords

***

Bye, Little One

Phoebe watched the departing trolley from which a small hand appeared. “Bye, little one,” she mumbled, waving back.

She scanned the area before sauntering back to her car, sinking into the driver’s seat of her 1988 Honda Civic, relieved yet mildly upset she’d gotten away with the deed. Wasn’t anyone watching for unsavory characters or strange incidents? One was supposed to be on guard these days, what with the world going batshit crazy with terrorists and muggers and rapists.

Was she too sure of herself? She was still in the parking lot and not yet out of the thicket—or whatever that phrase was. The trolley would return within minutes, and if she didn’t soon leave, she’d be stuck. Suddenly feeling like a criminal, she turned the key and backed onto Devonport Road. She stepped on the gas a little too hard and screeched around the corner, where she pulled to the curb.

She pictured his face: her little boy, four-year-old Andrew, who wore a perpetual grin revealing gleaming white teeth. Everyone smiled back at him, but no one could shine like he did. Even at her lowest, he caused her to smile. Her stomach somersaulted as if she were on one end of a teeter-totter with a crazy person on the other. And then it was as if she’d swallowed a bucket of feathers that tickled her insides.

Except it wasn’t in fun.

Her body hurt. Her insides ached. There was no way to prevent the pain and no remedy to alleviate it. “Calm down,” she muttered. Everything would turn out okay. Someone would find him and he’d be placed into foster care and a good family would adopt him. She was certain of that, wasn’t she? She had to be. She couldn’t keep going if she thought he’d be abused or neglected. If she did, she’d be forced to return. She had time; the trolley travelled fifteen minutes around the open field. Most parents accompanied their children, at least the younger ones.

But Andrew would be fine.

***

The trolley rocks side-to-side. Andrew stares out the window, watching trees roll by. Though the sun brightly shines, he shivers sitting alone on the open bench. Most of the other seats are occupied.

“Just a short trip,” his mother said. “Have fun.” He stuck his head out and waved, and she waved back. And then the trolley took off, full of excited kids.

Why didn’t his mother accompany him? Every screaming kid but him is seated with an adult. He blocks his ears. His head throbs.

“Only a few minutes,” she said. “A break for me. A short ride for you. It’ll be fun.”

“But, Mommy, can’t you come?”

“No, dear, just for kids. I’ll wait here.”

And she waited while he craned his head until she grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared as if she had abandoned him. But she wouldn’t do that.

He rubs his eyes, wanting the ride to be over. Someone behind jostles the seatback. He holds his breath, restraining himself from turning. Instead, he eyes the open field and the swings and the life-size wooden choo-choo train that he had played in. His eyes water. Minutes pass slowly. “Only a few minutes,” his mother said. But how much is a few? Even at four going on five, Andrew knows a few can mean whatever one wants it to mean. Three or four? Ten? Maybe ten, but not twenty. Twenty’s too many for a few. Twenty is a lot.

Tiring of green grass and the path ahead, he more carefully examines his surroundings. Mothers clench children’s hands as if scared they’ll jump over the sides or be snatched by the boogeyman. But no, the boogeyman doesn’t appear during the day.

He peers around a mother and a tall child in front of him. The trolley driver converses with three children sitting directly behind the driver, but Andrew is too far away to hear their words. And then, one of the kids bounces up from his seat and the driver takes his hands off the steering wheel to hoist the boy onto his lap. Andrew suppresses a scream. How come the driver didn’t pick him?

***

Phoebe pulled to the curb though voices rumbled, “Keep going. Leave.” She rubbed her throbbing temples. “You leave,” she moaned. “Go. Leave.”

But the voices persisted.

She stepped out of the car and fell to the ground. The pavement scratched her knees and drew blood. Blood scared Andrew. Whenever he had a bleeding cut, he thought death was imminent. He’d cry and point to the red, tears cascading down his cheeks. She’d comfort him the best she could, but at night, after seeing blood during the day, he’d suffer nightmares. “It’s the boogeyman coming to take me away.” “No, it’s not. There’s no such thing as the boogeyman.” “Yes, there is, Mama. I see him in the middle of the night.” His tears would stop for a few minutes before restarting. By the time  Phoebe had settled him, her chest would be soaked.

She brushed her arm across her cheeks and stood, thankful she was alone. It would be embarrassing to be seen weak. That’s why she had to let him go. The voices were right. He needed stronger parents—a mother and a father—to lead him on the right path. Andrew had never asked about his father—or any father—but he hadn’t started school. When he did, questions would come too fast, and she wouldn’t be strong enough to handle them.

But could she desert him? Leave him to be raised by strangers?

Her eyes flashed. She frowned. What had she been thinking? Forgetting about the car, she raced back to the playground. The trolley should be about done. She wouldn’t be too late, would she? No matter if she were. Andrew was her son, and she had suffered an accident. Her bleeding knees proved it. She had every reason to be late.

She slowed when the trolley whistled. “All aboard,” the fake conductor shouted, and her heart thumped when a new set of kids and mothers boarded. She slipped behind a large oak. Where was Andrew? “Andrew,” she screamed. Andrew. The words echoed. No….

The voices returned. “Go. He’s in better hands.

“No,” she muttered. And then in the distance she saw him, led away by a heavyset woman, his slight frame shrinking with every step.  Phoebe ran, chasing them down the dirt path. She stopped and glanced around; no one had seen her running like a madwoman.

The woman and the boy disappeared into the building, and the door closed behind them.

Gone.

When one door closes, another opens flashed through her. God was telling her everything was okay. A new door for Andrew and a new door for her; both would be open, both opening to new beginnings, new lives, new opportunities. But as much as she knew that to be true, she needed Andrew. She couldn’t exist alone. She headed toward the office.

“No, go back. Go away. He’s better off without you.” The voices returned at the most inopportune moments, but she always obeyed in the end.

“Bye, Andrew.” She waved, turned in the opposite direction, and ran, needing to get as far away as possible.

She stopped and turned. The door opened. She held her breath. But the figure exiting wasn’t Andrew.

The voices didn’t return again until she entered her studio apartment. “You did the right thing. Now go.”

She jammed clothing into a bag. She didn’t have much. Andrew didn’t have much either, but she didn’t need to take his clothing and toys. She’d obtain new items once she found another child.

She smiled, a great big grin that lit up her face.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com

***

Have you read The Spot Writers’ first book? Check out the just-released Remy’s Choice, a novella based on a story we wrote a while back. It’s available at Amazon for only $1.99 e-book and $5.99 print.

Remy, just out of a relationship gone wrong, meets handsome Jeremy, the boy next door. Jeremy exudes an air of mystery, and he seems to be everything she’s looking for. While Remy allows herself to indulge in the idea of love at first site, she realizes she’s the girl next door according to her boss, Dr. Samuel Kendrick.

 

 

 

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Give Anthologies a Chance!

(This post first appeared on Val Muller’s Blog on August 31, 2016.)

Give Anthologies a Chance!

I’ll be honest: anthologies aren’t a great sell, perhaps rated just above poetry collections, yet I think shorts are wonderful to read.

On August 1, 2016, I published (under my imprint, MacKenzie Publishing) my first anthology, a book of 21 short stories by 21 authors, titled OUT OF THE CAVE.

  

 

OUT OF THE CAVE is packed to the brim with horror-themed stories suitable for teens and youth. And, despite anthologies not being the rage, I plan to publish another anthology next year, titled TWO EYES OPEN, this time for adults.

Two Eyes Open FB

People don’t have long attention spans anymore, so readers should be clamouring for short stories. I love shorts—both to read and to write. I’ve published several collections of my own stories and am always on the lookout for anthologies to purchase and read.

On August 2, Hope Clark, a successful author, was gracious enough to write a guest post on my blog that she titled “The Short Reality of Shorts.” She stated:

As a writer, short pieces scare me. As a six-time novelist and one-time nonfiction book author, I find comfort in longer prose. But I have to admit . . . there’s no writing more profound than a short that snaps in its delivery. Short fiction, flash fiction, memoir, and essays. It takes intense craft to make those pieces zing.

OUT OF THE CAVE is my “pride and joy” (to use a cliché). It’s my baby, and I don’t hesitate spamming and publicizing wherever and whenever (versus promoting my own writings). Sales have been “okay” though not as great as I had hoped. But, hey, I’m not dead yet; OUT OF THE CAVE can still be a best seller!

I created the cover for the book from a photo of one of the many caves on Phia Beach in New Zealand. Until I had completed the cover, I hadn’t realized a ghostly image peeked through the sunlight between the rocks. I first thought the “ghost” was Hubby and then, suddenly, recognized myself. Funny, because I have no recollection posing for that shot.

I lucked out when I snagged Steve Vernon, a prolific local (Nova Scotia, Canada) writer of ghost stories and such, to write the foreword to OUT OF THE CAVE. Part of his awesome foreword reads:

Kids of all ages CONSTANTLY live in the shadow of fear. Am I going to be good enough? Are my parents going to get divorced? Am I going to be popular enough? Will Dad lose his job? Can I pass that darned math test? Will those bullies leave me alone?

Fear—kids live in it constantly—and a good scary story teaches a kid how to deal with fear. And THAT, more than anything else, is why you ought to let your kids read all of the scary stories that they can get their hands on.

So let’s do that today.

Pick up this book and buy it and give it to your kid.

Let’s drag scary stories out of the darkness of the cave.

Several stories in OUT OF THE CAVE were written by local authors; others are from writers living in Japan, Mexico, the U.S. and other parts of Canada. The stories are a mix of horror, supernatural, suspense, mystery, and thriller—but totally PG13, suitable for teens 13 and up. Adults, too, would enjoy them, though those readers might want to wait for TWO EYES OPEN.

And speaking of my next anthology, TWO EYES OPEN, I need to snare a famous horror writer to write that foreword. I do have an individual in mind (perhaps another “Steve”?). We shall see….

Though I enjoyed the process of publishing OUT OF THE CAVE, the book was more work than I had anticipated. I gathered the stories, which resulted from a submissions call I widely publicized, and weeded the best from the bunch. I read each story several times, corresponded with the authors, edited the stories, formatted the book, and published it.

Whew! But all that effort pales in comparison to promotion and garnering sales.

Writers need sales. What’s the good of publishing a book if no one purchases and/or reads it?

My purpose for OUT OF THE CAVE was to encourage teens/youth to read. And who doesn’t enjoy an excellent ghost story?

Shirley, an adult reader/local purchaser, stated:

Good mix of disturbing stories. Some of the stories keep coming back to haunt my dreams. Not sure if I’d want to deal with kids in my house who might want Mommy reassurance after they experienced similar nightmares. All the stories are well-written and/or well-edited.

So, hey, give anthologies a chance—whether mine or another! OUT OF THE CAVE would make an excellent birthday, Christmas, or all-occasion gift for a son/daughter, grandchild, or other deserving youth. Purchase here!

Please leave a review, whether good or bad. Reviews help us indie authors capture sales.

OUT OF THE CAVE Facebook Page

TWO EYES OPEN Facebook Page

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The Spot Writers – “The Grey Fedora,” by Cathy MacKenzie

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story including the words bird, roof, egg, war, hay. This week’s contribution comes from Cathy MacKenzie.

Give Cathy’s new Facebook page, “Granny MacKenzie’s Children’s Books,” a “like” and a comment perhaps?

Like and comment here: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Granny-MacKenzies-Childrens-Books/482398755246309

 

The Grey Fedora

A sudden noise caused Robin to peer down. At first he pondered the blur of grey until he realized Harry stood beneath him. The worn fedora, propped precariously on the elderly man’s head, looked as if a fly could knock it to the ground. Perched as it was, the hat reminded Robin of a weathered nest, similar to Robin’s home cuddled in the knuckles of tree branches.

Robin couldn’t help but notice white stippling the hat. For some reason, the sight struck him funny, and he would have giggled but birds couldn’t laugh, at least not the way humans do. The bird wasn’t sure what humans had to laugh about. Then again, what did he, Robin, have to laugh about? Compared to man, Robin was a mere speck hatched from an egg, a life that mainly existed roosting on tree limbs or flying over roof tops. No, Robin didn’t enjoy a life of laughter. Unlike birds, humans made war; perhaps that’s why Robin wondered what Harry laughed about. After much thought, Robin decided he preferred life as a bird, getting along with feathered folk, free to fly at whim.

Well hidden behind thick summer leaves and tough branches, Robin observed Harry puttering about. Harry ambled here and there, yanking weeds and tossing them into the wheelbarrow. Though the man occasionally scanned the tree, Robin felt safe; the man couldn’t attack him, not high in the sky.

The bird wondered why the thought that Harry might harm him entered his mind. No reason existed—none except for the glaring white stains upon the grey felt.

Soon, Harry disappeared and Robin heard the slam of the door.

Alone again, thought Robin, glancing around to see if his feathered friends were available. Piss on you, he chirped, when he saw no kin about. Maybe being a bird wasn’t so great, after all. The others had forgotten him, just as humans sometimes don’t care about their friends.

Robin eyed his nest, which needed padding. Though Robin felt lazy, he flitted to a low-lying branch. He’d have to fly to the country for perfect nesting hay, and he didn’t have the ambition to stray too far. He fluttered to the lawn and pecked at sturdy grass. He could gather enough grass for his nest if he kept at it long enough.

What was that? Robin cocked his head toward the sound of the screen door.

Harry was back.

Robin hid beneath a bushy bush. Harry strode into the garden and plopped to the concrete bench. The sun danced on the man’s shiny head. Had the lowly fly succeeded? Then Robin spied the hat clutched in Harry’s gnarled hands.

Harry’s face looked as sweaty as his hairless head. Robin regretted pooping on Harry’s hat. He hadn’t meant to, but he had had an accident. No doubt something he had eaten. He had likely left white stuff on the windowsills, as well, but that’s what birds did. They flew and pooped.

Several days previously, when Robin deposited the slimy treasure on Harry’s hat, the irate man had brandished a fist in the bird’s direction and spewed wild words Robin had never heard previously.

Despite Harry’s recent rude actions, Robin felt possessed to make amends. Harry seemed oblivious when Robin flew to a shrub by the bench. What did Robin have to do to get his attention? A song, Robin thought, and so the bird burst out in tune, cheeping as birds do. Harry remained motionless. Was he deaf?

Just before Robin was about to dart away in defeat, he noticed a worm crawling on the grass. A tasty morsel, Robin thought. When the bird swooped down for the prey, Harry, still clutching his old hat, jumped up as if the bench were about to collapse.

The situation unfolded as if time had stopped for Robin, as if his matchstick legs had formed roots that delved deep underground. Harry moved in slow motion. So did the worm. Robin, distracted by too many events, understood Harry’s purpose when the man raised his hat. The hat whacked Robin on his left wing. The bird squalled. Feathers flew as if pillows had been involved in a fight.

“Take that you dratted bird, pooping on my favourite hat. It stinks now, hear me. Stinks. I hate birds. Always have.”

Harry scooped up the shivering bird and glared into dazed eyes. Robin attempted to open his beak, to protest Harry’s handling of him—to try to save himself—but couldn’t.

Robin felt himself hurled into the air but, with a mangled wing, was unable to fly. As the air uplifted him for several seconds, he closed his eyes, awaiting the final descent. He landed, hearing the deafening crunch of his right wing.

A tornado of air swirled over Robin when Harry lifted his right foot. Robin closed his eyes.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitzhttp://www.rcbonitz.com

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

Catherine A. MacKenziehttps://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Deborah Marie Dera:  www.deborahdera.com

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The Spot Writers – “Demon Spawn,” by Deborah Dera.

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This week’s prompt is to use “he threw open the door” in the writing. Today’s story comes from Deborah Dera. Deborah is traditionally a non-fiction writer and blogger but she also enjoys exploring her more creative side from time to time.

Next week’s story will be from RC Bonitz, author of A BLANKET FOR HER HEART. His latest book, DANGEROUS DECISIONS, has just been accepted for publication by REBEL INK PRESS.

***

Demon Spawn

The howling from the back seat unnerved me. Brandy, for the most part, would strike you as the most docile cat you’d ever met. Until you tried to take her to the vet, anyway.

It wasn’t the cat carrier that set Brandy off.  She actually enjoyed the confined space, as she did any other box, and she didn’t seem unnerved by short car rides. Just a few minutes, though, and she was done. Longer and she knew she was in for something unpleasant.

The howling got louder. My heart was racing and my palms were sweating as I finally found the vet’s office and turned into the lot. Lugging the carrier into the office was no small feat, as Shadow was thrashing around, moving from side to side, front to back – trying to assess his surroundings and plot his escape at the same time.

Inside, the receptionist gave me a sideways glance as I set the carrier by my feet.

“This is Brandy. I… uh… I mentioned on the phone that he generally doesn’t like going to the vet. He sort of turns into… well… demon spawn.”

She nodded with a smile, as if she knew something about handling my cat that I did not. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll take good care of him. You look rattled. Would you like to sit down in the waiting area for a bit? I’ll take him back to be examined.”

“You… don’t want me to go with him?” I felt a mixture of guilt and relief.

“No, no. We’ll be just fine. You take a few minutes and we’ll let you know when the vet is ready to speak to you.” She smiled confidently as she came around the desk and reached for the carrier. Brandy mewled and howled from the inside, but was still.

I moved to the waiting area and waited for the games to begin. The howling grew louder and I could hear the voices of the vet and at least one tech, maybe two, in the exam room; the shuffling of quick feet moving around as the howling turned into a screeching.

I wondered if any of them had thought to put on heavy leather gloves.

Taking a deep breath, I waited for the inevitable. From the sound of the hushed but hurried voices, I imagined there were probably four people in the room now, attempting to give him a simple exam and draw the blood work 6 vets before them had not been able to. I was assured this office was the one.

The howling and screeching became absolutely blood curdling. I heard a groan of frustration and what I was sure was a string of profanity.

Finally, I looked up just as he threw open the door. The scratches on both of the doctor’s arms were fresh, oozing. The doctor stood in the entry to the exam room, his dark eyes boring holes into me. “You. Come and get your cat. Now.”

I rose slowly, calmly, with calculated movements. Confidence oozed from my pores as I moved past him into the tiny room where there were, as I’d imagined, four techs still in the room, all standing along the walls as Brandy pressed herself up against the underside of the exam table, hissing. This was the easy part.

I quickly pulled the carrier down and placed it on the floor in front of her. I opened the door. “Ready to go home?” I cooed at her. “Come on, sweetie…”

Brandy’s body visibly relaxed as she watched me toss a treat into the back of the carrier. She pushed herself off the wall and dove into the carrier, not caring that I’d shut the door and trapped her inside once again.

Standing, I placed the carrier on the table and turned calmly to the doctor. “I assume you were not able to do the exam. There will be no charge today, correct?”

“Just go. Get that thing out of here.”

Heaving the carrier back off of the table, I exited the room and walked calmly past the receptionist, who no longer had the smug, confident smile she’d sported earlier. This time, I smiled. “Thank you, anyway.”

Brandy didn’t make a sound the entire ride home.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitzhttp://www.rcbonitz.com

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

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

Deborah Marie Dera:  www.deborahdera.com

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More Used Books!

Hubby and I just returned from the used bookstore, one of my favourite places here in Ajijic, Mexico, IF I can wrap my head around the book lice (see an earlier posting of mine)—either pretend none exist, even if I don’t see any, or do preventative treatments just in case. I’m taking the latter road.

So, my “new” books are basking in the sun. I did wipe and shake them when I first got them home. I threw away one dust jacket—what an apropos name—since it was extremely dusty, torn, and dirty. I haven’t seen a bug yet. Keeping my fingers and toes crossed.

Want to know what treasures I found? My most precious find was “The Love of a Good Woman” by Alice Munro (a collection of short stories). Also in my bag were: “The Short Stories of John Cleever” (the book with the discarded dust cover), “The Best Loved Poems of American People,” and the “Kiss in the Hotel Joseph Conrad and Other Stories” by Howard Norman.

To be honest, I haven’t read all the previous ones I had purchased. Sometimes I think I’m simply a book collector, not a reader. But, I will read them, and some I will take home to Canada with me to add to my library there.

Why short stories you ask? I have a short attention span lately—more than “lately,” seems like for the past few years. Besides which, I write short stories; ergo, I like to read them.

Short story collections are hard to find, so I scoop them up whenever I can, especially at the prices here. We pay five pesos (less than fifty cents) for soft covers and ten pesos (less than one dollar) for hard-covered books. What a deal! Can’t pass those prices up!

The sun is shining brilliantly this afternoon. I’m heading outdoors to our luscious patio with a glass of wine. I’ll grab one of the sunbathing books, sit in the sun, and read it (and hope I don’t see a bug that I mistake for a period or a comma). Despite the clock showing 2:11, it’s cocktail time somewhere in the world. It might as well be here. Hey…it IS here. I have the glass of wine to prove it.

Happy reading, everyone, wherever you may be!

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Book Lice!

Hubby and I went to the used book store the other day. I was so delighted to find a novel by Joyce Carol Oates that I had wanted to read, as well as The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. (Okay, I fess up: I probably won’t read the Shakespeare book, which is laid out like the Bible, in small print and in columns, but it’s a good book to have.) I ended up buying eight books—hard covers at 10 pesos; soft covers at 5 pesos (less than $1.00 and $0.50 respectively). WOW! I almost spent $20 on a used copy of the Oates book before I left home for Mexico.

Back to the subject matter: So I knew such teeny weeny bugs existed in old books. I’ve even seen them, on occasion, in the past. I guess I had a brain lapse when, last night, and then again tonight, I took one such book to bed to read. I didn’t notice any bugs last night, although I think deep down I might have been conscious of them. Double brain lapse!

Tonight, while in bed reading one of the books I had just purchased, The Library of Great American Writing, Volume 2 (oh how I so wanted Volume 1, but alas it was nowhere to be found!), a thick book with writings by authors such as James Thurber, Mark Twain, and Dorothy Parker, including bios on the authors, I thought I saw a dot on the page I was reading—a dot that moved! Or had it? Were my eyes playing tricks? Was it just a misplaced period?  I looked further and couldn’t see anything. I searched the page twice. Then, when I looked on the opposite page—there it was. Luckily, being a grandma, I had a tissue up my sleeve.

I hopped out of bed and slammed the book on top of the others, which were in the living room. I went back to bed feeling dirty. And upset that I probably wouldn’t read the books. I’m not a bug lover, especially not when they’re on something like books that you’d hold close. For certain the teeny critters would be in my bed, if not from tonight, then last night. Is that why I felt itchy the previous night?

I was sure the bugs could be killed by putting the books in the freezer, but, back in bed, I grabbed my tablet and Googled  “bugs” and “books” and found the name for those pests—book lice. Although not real lice, they feed on mold and damp, old papers. Thus, they’d be in old books. Ergo, they’re in my “new” books. ARGH!  And I’m so disappointed, cause I really want to read those books, and even take some of them back to Canada with me. But I don’t like the thought of those book bugs crawling from between the pages and onto my moist areas, or any areas on my body or clothing.

How to get rid of book lice? Insert the book into a zip-lock freezer bag and put in the freezer for 24 hours. Or, open the book and let it sit in the bright sun for a few hours. Those are the easiest remedies. Repeat if necessary. And repeat. (I’m sure I’ll be repeating several times!)

I’ll try the two methods, but the bugs would still have crawled through the books, and I’ll be holding the books. And where do the dead bugs go? Do they magically disappear? Do they fall out of the books when they’re shaken? Do they hide and disintegrate into the spine? Apparently the spine is where they hibernate and feed.

I wonder if I’ll sleep tonight? Or will I forever itch at some imaginary critter? Perhaps there’s something to be said for e-readers after all; no bugs in them, at least not the creepy crawly type!

Sleep tight! Don’t let the bed bugs bite!

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Truckloads of Books on Amazon

No wonder some of us (our books, that is!) can’t be seen.

Bowaker recently stated the number of books published each day in the US is up to 3,500. And that doesn’t include e-books published without an ISBN, since many e-books don’t have an ISBN.

Read the article here:

http://thefutureofink.com/reviews-on-amazon/

What are we unknown writers to do?

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Fifteen Books That Changed Women Forever

Some great books listed here on this site, if you want to check them out. I’m going to be busy!

http://www.elle.com/pop-culture/reviews/best-books-by-women

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