Showing posts with label coming of age story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coming of age story. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 23, 2024

Exiles by L.J. Ambrosio (VET, excerpt, and GIVEAWAY) GFT


 


EXILES

by

L.J. Ambrosio

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

GENRE:  Literary Fiction/Coming of Age

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

BLURB:

 

In this final chapter, Ron's story concludes from Reflections on the Boulevard (2023). Michael's wish was for Ron to exile himself in the heart of Paris with its beautiful culture and citizens as they protest and fight for the soul of the city. Ron's journey is met with life-affirming friendships and lessons along the way. The final book in the Reflections of Michael Trilogy, which started with A Reservoir Man (2022).

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 



EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT

 

The morning arrived, and Ron and Julia anxiously awaited Lily. A knock on the door and there was Lily with Louie. They began to move the baggage out when Julia loudly said Rhonda needed to be walked.

 

Louie volunteered to walk Rhonda, his new friend. Ron told him he had to pick her up and take her to the park and then put her down.

 

“Why?” asked Louie.

 

“She cannot walk on all those cigarette butts on the sidewalk. She cries as if she is walking through fire. Just take her downstairs, and we will put her into the car. Hey, watch out, she is blind in one eye.”

 

Buy links:

Palace Marketplace

Hoopla digital

Barnesandnoble

Apple.com

Everand

Vivlio

Smashwords

Kobo

Amazon

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

 

Louis J. Ambrosio ran one of the most nurturing bi-coastal talent agencies in Los Angeles and New York. He started his career as a theatrical producer, running two major regional theaters for eight seasons. Ambrosio taught at 7 Universities. Ambrosio also distinguished himself as an award-winning film producer and novelist over the course of his impressive career.

 

IInstagram

Twitter

Facebook

Tumblr

Blog

YouTube

 

*************************


GIVEAWAY 

a Rafflecopter giveaway


The tour dates can be found here

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

The Other Magic by Derrick Smythe (Release blitz, excerpt, and GIVEAWAY) PTPR







 by 
Derrick Smythe

Passage to Dawn series




Genres:  Epic fantasy, Coming of age
Publisher:  Dorean Press
Publication Date:  December 1, 2019



Just $0.99!
(please check price before purchase)
Amazon





About the Book

 
Darkness stirs in a world that is ill-equipped to confront it.
A prophesied king is born, but not all will benefit from his foretold conquests.In a realm where only clerics are permitted to practice magic, Kibure, a mere slave, draws the attention of much more than just his master after wielding an unknown force in a moment of desperation. In a twist of fate, Sindri, the priestess hired to strip Kibure of his power, defies the law, revealing designs of her own. But trust is in short supply in a land ripe with deceit. This wayward pair will have to work together if they hope to evade capture at the hands of the Empire’s most potent wielders.


Halfway around the known world, Prince Aynward’s knack for discovering trouble drives him deep into conspiracies within which he does not belong. Too arrogant to accept counsel, he will have to learn the hard way that some actions have consequences that cannot be undone…





 **********************




 Excerpt:



THE OTHER MAGIC
A Passage of Dawn Novel
© 2019 Derrick Smythe



“How dare you! I am your—”
Another blast of energy split the air. Grobennar used his own powers to deflect the blow, but the sheer volume of energy was too great and he was still thrown back into the wall. He landed with a thud, then groaned.
“You are my servant!” Magog’s voice became a growl. “I am not yours to command. You have forgotten your place.”
Never before had Magog lashed out like this. His powers were as of yet still manifesting, still growing, but already he commanded strength unknown to any mortal man. Magog could easily kill him if he wished, and Grobennar now feared that in his anger, he just might. He forgot the physical pain of the attack on his body, and the great blow to his ego.
“I—I am sorry, My Lord.”
The voice in Grobennar’s mind interrupted his already strained thoughts. “You’re not alone with the God-king. I sense the life-essence of another; a wielder.”
Grobennar collected himself and rose, forgetting the danger posed by the unpredictably obstinate God-king. It was still Grobennar’s duty to serve and protect. Perhaps the God-king was right about the coming of the Dark Lord’s agent. Grobennar drew in Klerós’s power. Then he spotted movement to his right. He summoned more, ready to strike—
“What are—how dare you!” Magog yelled.
Grobennar ignored the oblivious Emperor as a form materialized from the shadows cast by ceiling-high drapes in the corner of the room. Grobennar shouted, “Get down!”
Grobennar extended a hand, readying to strike. Just before he released a bolt of searing energy, the shadowy shape stepped into the light and spoke. Grobennar recognized the voice with revulsion, relaxing his magic with reluctance.
Mazi Rajuban. A member of the High Council and long-standing opponent of both Grobennar and his more conservative faction within the Council. “Peace, brother. I was asked by the God-king to be in attendance for today’s meeting.”
Jaween spoke into Grobennar’s mind, “Have I mentioned that I do not care for this man?”
Nor do I, thought Grobennar wryly to himself.
His own anger reignited. That’s what Rajuban wishes. Grobennar forced himself to relent. “Of course. The God-king is wise to seek the wisdom of a member of the High Council. Yet perhaps this is a matter for the collective wisdom of the High Council to discuss in its entirety.”
The God-king bellowed, “The High Council is fickle, paralytic, and incapable of action!” Lowering his voice, he added, “You are right about assembling the Council. But it will not be to initiate discourse. You will inform them.” He raised his voice once more. “You will inform them that the time has at long last come to begin preparations for the Purge. The enemy stirs! We too must shed our idle position.”
Grobennar knew better than to disagree. He had somehow lost favor with the God-king, and Rajuban’s attendance here served as an answer to the question of how.
“Yes, Lord. It shall be done.”
Rajuban smiled. “You are wise to see the wisdom of the God-king’s words. He has been tightly leashed for far too long. The time has come for him to realize his true destiny as avatar to Klerós, praise be his name.”
“Oh he’s good. I can’t help but hate him, but his politics are praiseworthy. Perhaps we might torture and kill him later?”
Grobennar ignored Jaween, instead looking to Magog, nodding. The decision had been made. Rajuban had defeated him in this bout.
“Of course. This is well. Klerós guide the both of you.”
That snake had maneuvered behind his back to gain the ear of the God-king. He would need to tread very carefully.
Grobennar bade the God-king farewell, refusing to acknowledge Rajuban, then stalked out of the room as quickly as possible. He considered his next course of action, though there wasn’t much to consider. He had no choice but to call a full assembly as instructed.
Grobennar entered his own chambers and melted into the chair beside his bed, mentally exhausted.
“So. This purge. That means war, right? I will be able to persuade our enemies?”
Grobennar picked up a quill and ink from the small table to his left to begin writing out a list of preparations. “Yes, the Purge means war. I suspect you’ll have plenty of chances to persuade, you might even see some killing.”
“Ooh-ooh-ooh. Yes, persuading and killing! I know your mood is a touch soured from earlier, but this really does call for celebration. A small feast, perhaps? That might lighten your mood, as well.”
Grobennar ignored Jaween.
“Did you write that down?”
Grobennar continued to work on his list.
“Are you ignoring me again? You know it hurts my feelings when you ignore me.”
Grobennar reached up and removed the pendant from his neck and tossed it onto his bed a few paces away, limiting the strength of the spirit’s connection to him. “I need to think,” he said through clenched teeth.
He wondered if perhaps secreting the forbidden spirit from the debris all those years ago had resulted in more trouble than it was worth. He heard a sound in his head that was disturbingly not like weeping, yet he knew from his time with Jaween that this was precisely what the spirit was intending to communicate.
He sighed. “I’m not ignoring you, Jaween. You can stop the crying. I just need it quiet in order to think.”
Jaween’s mood elevated. “So that sounded like real crying this time, didn’t it?”
Grobennar rolled his eyes. “Closer than ever before.”
It was going to be a very long day.




Just $0.99!
(please check price before purchase)
Amazon



 **********************

GIVEAWAY

 

To celebrate the release of THE OTHER MAGIC by Derrick Smythe, we're giving away signed paper copies to three lucky winners!




GIVEAWAY TERMS & CONDITIONS:  Open to US shipping addresses only. 
Three winners will each receive a signed paperback copy of The Other Magic

This giveaway is administered by Pure Textuality PR on behalf of Derrick Smythe. 
Giveaway ends 12/31/2019 @ 11:59pm EST.  





 **************************

About Derrick Smythe




DERRICK SMYTHE resides near his hometown in Upstate New York with his wife, two daughters, and their dog, Magnus. When he is not working on his next novel, he enjoys finding any and all reasons to be outdoors. Listening to audiobooks while seated upon the throne of his riding lawn mower is a favorite and when the snow falls, Derrick eagerly transitions to snow-blowing his driveway with the same dual-purpose in mind.

Derrick's debut novel, The Other Magic, is the first installment of his Passage to Dawn series, an epic fantasy set in the World of Doréa.




Website  |  Facebook  |  Goodreads  |  Amazon




















Tuesday, September 26, 2017

The Last Gambit by Om Swami (Spotlight, excerpt, review, and GIVEAWAY) GFT




by Om Swami

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GENRE:   General Fiction-> Coming of Age

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BLURB:

Success by design is infinitely better than a win by chance. Vasu Bhatt is fourteen years old when a mysterious old man spots him at a chess tournament and offers to coach him, on two simple but strange conditions: he would not accompany his student to tournaments, and there was to be no digging into his past. Initially resentful, Vasu begins to gradually understand his master’s mettle.

Over eight years, master and student come to love and respect each other, but the two conditions remain unbroken – until Vasu confronts and provokes the old man. Meanwhile, their hard work and strategy pay off: Vasu qualifies for the world chess championship. But can he make it all the way without his master by his side?

Inspiring, moving and mercurial, The Last Gambit is a beautiful coming of age tale in a uniquely Indian context.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~



EXCERPT



‘Do you know who the finest teacher is?’ he asked. ‘You!’

Ignoring my answer, he continued, ‘Experience is the greatest teacher, Vasu. Always replay your own games to see where you went wrong and what made you play the way you did. People don’t lose because they make mistakes, they do so because they repeat their mistakes. The first time, it’s not a loss but a learning.’

‘So, how do I avoid making mistakes?’

 ‘Just don’t repeat them,’ he said after coughing and clearing his throat. ‘Be it life or chess, that’s the only difference between a grandmaster and an amateur. An amateur expects to reach a different destination by walking the same path. He hopes for miracles or serendipities. A grandmaster, on the other hand, relies on his own effort and intelligence. He does not commit the same error twice.’

 ‘But Master,’ I said, curious, ‘I do try my best to not repeat my mistakes. Why do I still lose?’ ‘Because you nourish the body and starve the soul.’ I gave him a blank look because I didn’t have a clue about what he just said. ‘Do you know the soul of chess, Vasu?’





Buy links:
Amazon



~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Om Swami is a monk who lives in a remote place in the Himalayan foothills. He has a bachelor degree in business and an MBA from Sydney, Australia. Swami served in executive roles in large corporations around the world. He founded and led a profitable software company with offices in San Francisco, New York, Toronto, London, Sydney and India. 
Om Swami completely renounced his business interests to pursue a more spiritual life. He is the bestselling author of Kundalini: An Untold Story, A Fistful of Love and If Truth Be Told: A Monk’s Memoir.

His blog is read by millions all over the world.





****************************


GIVEAWAY

a Rafflecopter giveaway


The tour dates can be found here





****************************

My review:


4.25 out of 5 stars


The Last Gambit by Om Swami is, on the surface, the story of a young boy learning how to excel at chess. There are so many other levels that can be appreciated and the author’s voice effortlessly captures that of a youngster as he grows, so it is impossible to be bored even though the game of chess has never held a particular allure for me. I was fascinated to get a glimpse of Indian culture and mores even as I enjoyed the pearls of wisdom imparted to a young child who must learn to convert his passion into a work ethic that will stand him in good stead as he enters adulthood. The dynamics of family and mentorship are fascinating to learn about, even as one discovers how different life is in this country.

Watching Vasu blossom from a self-centered and indulged younger son to a disciplined and respectful adult who learns adages such as “Learn to move at the pace you are comfortable with, learn to alter it effortlessly when necessary.” and “Success by design is infinitely better than a win by chance.” makes me happy I read this story and appreciative of the philosophy that permeates it. There are many great lessons to absorb as one follows the sacrifices that are required to achieve mastery and I think this is a great read for those of all ages.

A copy of this title was provided to me for review

Monday, January 11, 2016

Peace, Love, and a Dead Hippie Chick by N.R. Leigh (VNBtM, guest post, excerpt, and GIVEAWAY) GFT



I have the pleasure of sharing a guest post from author N.R. Leigh...


-->
NRL:  If I’m fortunate enough that you’ve been following the blog tour for my debut novel Peace, Love, and a Dead Hippie Chick, then you may know I’ve been asked: “What do you find the most difficult part of being a writer or writing?” I’ve answered that it’s mainly the publishing and promotional parts that I find the hardest. However, one aspect of the early writing process that almost scared me out of writing my novel was the dialogue. What do people actually say to one another? Is it interesting? So, I started listening to what we say, and most often it’s not so remarkable. “Hi, how are you?” “What do you want for dinner?” “Can you help me with this or that…” Basic inquisitions and replies, mainly.

That revelation made the writing process less daunting, knowing that in the suspenseful action driven sequences of my novel, those casual conversations would be nominal. Write what’s on the character’s mind, with a brief description on how they said it… As a more introverted and empathetic person, I tend to be overly considerate while communicating, in an effort not to offend others. I’ve also shared on this blog tour that writing has helped me to become a more confident speaker, which led me to wonder, “Am I a good conversationalist?” and “What makes for brilliant dinner conversation?”

Attending many holiday dinners in recent weeks, I listened to conversations to see if I could find a commonality in what lent to fabulous or flopped table talk. 

Here’s what I noticed (with politics and religion barred from the table):

1.     A question posed early on in the meal lent to a lively discussion.
2.     Even with politics and religion off topic, they come up nonetheless.
3.     People typically talk about themselves.
4.     Fewer people are comfortable with cross table conversations, and two guests typically direct the topics with side conversation spinning off from there.
5.     Women speak more than men.

According to an article on LifeHack.org, the seven pointers for becoming a brilliant conversationalist are: Listen, Give compliments, Keep up to date on social issues, Be humorous, Speak clearly, and Enjoy it. In another article on the site I found tips like: Focus on the positives, Converse, not debate (or argue,) and Be true to yourself. All great considerations in a modern world.

With the final season of Downtown Abbey here, I am late, the very latest I’m certain, to the DA party. My mother-in-law recommended the series when she gifted an Amazon Fire Stick for Christmas. So, I started with the PBS Behind the Manor Special, and I took note as the actors discussed proper dinner etiquette during the Edwardian era. I was surprised to hear that speaking one’s mind in a loud pitch was a common and desirable trait among aristocracy. I would have perceived it to be crass or rude. However, their rank denoted their prattling as truth. Interesting as well, during the large formal dinners the host or hostess will determine the physical direction of who is conversing, either to one’s right or left.

In contrast to intimate contemporary dining, during the Edwardian Era just a mere hundred years ago, dinners were more formal—and most interesting to me—a time when social matters were discussed and one’s social rank teetered on the success or failure of your dinner party. Can you imagine if the temperature of your food or the degree of your guest’s conversational skills affected your place in society? Additionally, according to the EdwardianPromenade.com, women did not pour their own wine. If they desired a second glass, a gentleman would oblige.

If nothing else than providing an interesting contrast in customs between two eras, reflecting on communication has inspired me to more clearly (and loudly) speak my mind, and to host more dinner parties with women pouring the wine. 

*****************************


 
by N.R. Leigh

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GENRE: New Adult/Coming of Age

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BLURB:

Peace, Love, and a Dead Hippie Chick follows the intertwining journeys of three young women in the mid-1990s who go on the road and off the grid, and leave their worlds behind. Each woman falls into a dangerous subculture of sex, drugs, and rock and roll in an attempt to attain her own sense of peace, love, and freedom.

KARA, a middle-class Midwestern girl, flees her painful past after a tragic accident claims a loved one, only to learn—after a violent attack—that there’s no safety among friends or strangers. Survival rests in her hands alone as she escapes into the wilderness of New Mexico.

NATASHA, born into privilege, rebels against her family’s expectations as she follows the Grateful Dead concert tour circuit, selling contraband and exploring her sexual freedom.

AMY, an impoverished Southern belle, becomes love-struck when an exotic drifter passes through town, deciding to leave home and follow him.

This intricately interwoven coming-of-age tale delves into the connection between strangers and the premise that the grand orchestration of life goes well beyond chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

EXCERPT

Natasha

Saturday, February 26, 1994

Daddy put a silver spoon in my mouth, and I yanked it out.

Those were his words, not mine, when I called my parents to tell them that Ian and I had returned to the States. A heresy for someone whose first love is money, I know. So, I stood to correct him.

“Yes, I yanked it out, but I sold it on the street for twice its value—to be exact.”

He didn’t appreciate my wit.

“I see nothing but disaster in your actions, Natasha. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s time to come home.” His voice was stern and steady.

That’s the point when I usually hang up the phone, but we hadn’t spoken since December, when I called to wish them a “Happy Hanukah.” Shortly thereafter, Ian and I flew down to Costa Rica during the break between fall and winter Grateful Dead shows.

“Your mother is worried sick. She’s taken out another life insurance policy on you. At this point, you’re worth more to her dead than alive.” He was whispering—Mom must have been hovering. She is an insurance agent, and most of her customers are Daddy’s clients.

“Dad, I’m fine. I promise.”

“We’ve phoned most of the police municipalities on the West Coast and asked them to keep an eye out for you. Since you are twenty years old, they’ve said there is nothing they can do. It’s an embarrassment for us… and a waste of my hard work. If you come home immediately, we will get you your own condo in Boston. We’ll give you whatever money you need to travel. You will have plenty of breaks during semesters. I’ve already spoken to the Dean, and he said we’ll call this whole mess a sabbatical.”





~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR Bio and Links:

N.R. Leigh began her writing career in 2007 as a featured columnist for the guerrilla newspaper The Uncommon Sense. She since has written books as an expert on personal health and wellness under the pseudonym Nicci Leigh.

She was inspired to write her debut novel, Peace, Love, and a Dead Hippie Chick, by a conversation with a friend, who described a newspaper article regarding the events that surrounded a group of hippies’s visit to her small town and the havoc they caused. This crazy, fascinating account, coupled with N.R.’s experiences traveling the United States in her early 20s, gave birth to her story.

N.R. has a background in education and teaches aesthetics, yoga, Reiki, and related holistic modalities. Born and raised in Flint, Michigan, she currently lives in a rural coastal community in southwest Florida with her family and their Australian Kelpie, Sydney, who believes she’s a Tasmainian Devil.

N.R is inspired by funny people and those who create positive change and peace. Her friends and family describe her as driven, strong, silly, and independent. Something most people don’t know about her is that, at age eighteen, she aided police in the capture of a team of bank robbers.

N.R. is working on her first fiction series, Imagine Yasmin.


********************************

GIVEAWAY


a Rafflecopter giveaway


The tour dates can be found here

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Manroot by Anne Steinberg (spotlight, excerpt and GIVEAWAY)

                                          



Manroot


Manroot is the evocative and stirring story of a lonely town in Missouri, and a young woman named Katherine who discovers a mystical side to herself that she’d never known existed. Anne Steinberg weaves together fantasy, romance, and a young girl’s coming of age into a darkly magical story. 

Synopsis:

In the spring of 1939, Katherine Sheahan and her father, Jesse, are looking for work in the isolated tourist town of Castlewood. Jesse gets a job as handyman and Katherine as a maid at a small hotel. Jesse drinks and neglects his work and eventually disappears, abandoning his daughter. Frieda Broom, the hotel Manager, takes Katherine under her wing, and teaches her about ginseng, the manroot, and other secrets of the foothills. Katherine discovers that she is a natural healer and has the ability to communicate with spirits, a gift she inherited from her Navajo Indian mother.

Among the hotels regular clientele is Judge William Reardon. Escaping his sterile marriage, he becomes captivated by Katherine. As the pair bond over astrology and gardening, Katherine becomes convinced they belong together, despite him being much older than her and married. As they begin to fall in love, the violence of dark magic threatens to annihilate all Katherine knows and holds dear. Can their love survive?

Manroot is a potent tale of destiny, spiritualism and love, written in Anne Steinberg’s signature compelling style. The kindle version was published March 2014 and is available for sale on Amazon



Amazon reviews:

“Manroot is an undeniably good read; it’s well-written with a compelling plot and memorable characters. Recommended to readers who enjoy contemporary fiction imbued with fantasy, including Native American themes and the supernatural.”

“Words to describe this book are: romantic, thrilling, memorable, spiritual, magical, and well written in a breath taking way that will keep you enthralled well after it is over. I wish it would have lasted longer and was saddened when it came to an end. 5 stars and cannot wait to see what Anne Steinberg comes up with next!”


Excerpt:
 
Chapter 5

Working alone in the kitchen, Katherine scrubbed it clean. Looking up at the calendar, she knew tomorrow was Friday. The Judge was one of the few people who stopped here regularly, even now, in late autumn. Perhaps it was telling Sally that had started it all, for now her thoughts of the Judge were like a fever that stayed with her. Last Friday when she took him his bourbon and spring water, she noticed it for the first time, the birthmark. It was on his right hand, so clear and vivid that she had almost dropped the tray. He had smiled at her nervousness, called her ‘my dear,’ and given her a silver dollar for a tip.
 

Katherine slept restlessly; she dreamed of the Oh mu and heard its moan of agony echoing in her sleep. She dreamed of Papa floating in the muddy river, caught and held under by a treacherous branch, his eyes vacant pools staring upward through the water. It was so real that in the morning when the siren from the firehouse once again split the air, she rushed into the kitchen where Frieda was telling Bruce, “You be careful…another one’s gone and gave herself to the river. It was a suicide, a painted woman from the Eagle’s nest…” Frieda shivered as she told the story the way that she had heard it from the postman. The woman in the night had cut her wrists, but the dying was too slow, so she ran from the clubhouse, perched only for a moment on the railing, then jumped headlong into the cold water.
 

Katherine moved slowly this morning. Frieda fussed at her, but knowing the girl had never been lazy, she thought the drowning must have upset her or maybe she was coming down with something.
 

The guests were all gone. They only expected one tonight – Judge Reardon. They’d have time to go into the woods today, hunting for herbs and the manroot. But Frieda went alone as the girl looked a bit too peaked.
 

Alone, Katherine cleaned the rooms again; it took no time, for they were already clean. She lingered in Number 8, The Judge’s room.
She knew a lot about him now, and she felt a very real presence that he left in the room. She knew intimate things about him – like the size of his shirts, the smell of his aftershave, which side of the bed he slept on, how he preferred his coffee, the brand of cigarettes that he smoked…numerous details about him that she had collected bit by bit, saving them in her mind and in her dreams, like pennies to be spent at a later date.
 

He knew nothing of her dusting his dresser, straightening the bed after he had risen. He was not aware that while he was out, she pressed his shirts to her lips, inhaling his aroma, and sat on the bed in the same crevices his body had made over the years that he had slept here. Now she knew with the wisdom and instinct of centuries, she knew that what would be, would be.
 

Last week for the first time she had seen it, the birthmark, on his right hand. It was paler than the surrounding skin, crescent-shaped like a slice of the moon, and within its outline, unmistakable, a perfect five-pointed star. She knew its shape by heart, as just above her right breast she had its identical replica.
 

The Navajo blood flowed strongly in her veins, with all its beliefs in the signs, even though her father had tried vainly to smother these strange alien traits. Since her childhood she had believed that she could speak to animals, and she could find herbs hiding under any rock and knew exactly what they would cure.
 

She stayed dreaming in the Judge’s room until she heard Frieda calling her. The woman had returned from the woods, carrying a full burlap sack.
 

“You should have come today…I found it…the time is ripe, and you’re much quicker than I. You would have climbed the higher spots where it grows.”
 

Placing the sack on the table, she pulled out one root. “It’s perfect…it’s prime, probably ten or fifteen years old.” She held the root up to the light. Its torso similar but lighter in color than a carrot, with no hint of orange, just tannish-brown, the root seemed to have two arms, two legs, and a fine network of tendrils. It appeared to be a miniature figure of a headless man.
 

“What is it?” Katherine questioned as she stared at the unusual root.
 

“It’s a manroot!”
 

“The manroot,” Katherine repeated, liking the sound of the word and feeling it described the plant perfectly. “It seems as if it could contain magic?” she said, as she gingerly touched it with a timid finger.
 

“Oh, they say it does. It works wonders. The Orientals prize its properties – to them it is also the love root. It does many things, cures most anything that ails you. For me it lines my pockets – Bailey’s general store pays about four dollars a pound.” Emptying the sack on the counter, Frieda explained, “You can’t let it get damp – it ruins the root.” She began taking them out, examining and inspecting and drying each root with a clean dish-towel.
 

“They’re not all like this one, that’s special. Some don’t come with the likeness of arms and legs, some just look like a pale carrot…but the old ones, the very special ones do. Here, Katherine – take it, it’s yours.”
 

They sat at the table and by habit Katherine helped her.
 

“If you weren’t such a lazy girl, you could have come with me today. When these are dry, I’m sure Bailey’s will be paying twenty dollars or so for the batch.”
 

“Twenty dollars?”
 

“Yes, ma’am!” She knew the girl wasn’t lazy; it was her way of trying to shake her out of the listlessness. “Put on the kettle, Katherine. I’ll slip a little of the root in it. That will perk you up.”
They drank the tea, and Frieda continued drying the root. She did a rare thing: she hummed as she dried the fine tendrils.
 

“It takes time for the manroot to grow. You shouldn’t harvest a root less than seven years old, and you must always plant the seed when you harvest – each red berry has two seeds – not deep, just under the leaves. It’s a sin…to harvest and not plant the seed,” she said solemnly.
 

Katherine watched the clock. “I better put on my uniform. The Judge…”
 

“No need to. When I was coming in, he was headed for the Eagle’s Nest. He told me he wouldn’t be wanting any supper.”
 

Katherine’s face fell with disappointment.
 

In previous gossip from Frieda, Katherine had learned that the Judge lived twenty miles up the road with a wife who was said to be fragile since the births of her two stillborn sons. There was not much in these parts that the Judge did not own; he was rich, well-liked, respected, and known to be a fair man. Remarkably young to be a judge, no one faulted him for his tendencies to card-playing, drinking whiskey, and relieving himself with the local women. A lesser man with these leanings would be called no account, but he was, after all, the Judge, and this title brought with it a tendency to look at vices as virtues.
 

It was just another Friday. Destiny waited for her; she felt it close, closer than it had ever been.
 

The hotel was quiet. There were no guests and the only person staying was the Judge, who would be out late.
 

Katherine played the radio softly, dancing about the room, pretending she was at Castlewood waltzing under the lanterns with him. She put the perfect manroot in the Valentine box with her other things. After midnight when he rang, Katherine shook the sleep from herself when she realized the bell from Room 8 was ringing.
 

She owned no robe, and the persistent ringing threatened to wake Mr. Taylor. She flew up to the Judge’s room and knocked timidly, aware that her hair was down, and she was in her nightgown. It was plain enough – white cotton, sturdy and sensible.
 

He opened the door to her. He seemed surprised.
 

“I’m sorry, sir, everyone is asleep,” she said, not really knowing how to apologize for her attire.
 

He blinked at her, his hair ruffled, his shirt-tail out; she had never seen him like this.
 

“You’re new?”
 

“No, sir I’m Katherine. It was late; I didn’t have time to put on the uniform.”
 

He nodded and leaned forward studying her face. “Come in.” She did so, but left the door open.
 

“Sit down,” he said. She could tell he was very drunk. She sat timidly in the vanity chair. He paced the floor unsteadily, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s my head… I have a headache that won’t stop. I thought maybe you had something in the kitchen.”
 

He kept pacing. “I went out tonight, trying to forget. I’ve drunk a lot…it doesn’t stop…my head hurts so.”
 

“Sir, I could go look, or…” She wondered if she should chance it – maybe he would laugh. “My grandmother had a remedy that always worked.”
 

He stopped pacing. “Yes? What is it?”
 

“Well,” she said, “if you rub your thumbs vigorously for a few minutes, it has something to do with the blood flow…if that didn’t work, then a leaf of boiled cabbage on the forehead never failed.”
 

He smiled and stopped. “Well, try it.” He pulled up a chair in front of her and held out his thumbs.
 

She blushed. She hadn’t meant that she should rub his thumbs, but he was there across from her, waiting.
 

She reached forward, and with a firm grip clasped his thumbs and rubbed vigorously, while he leaned back and shut his eyes. She alternated between each thumb. It seemed natural to her to be touching him.
 

“Do you know what it’s like to play God?” he asked abruptly.
 

Startled, she didn’t know if he was really talking to her, but she replied, “No, sir, I don’t.”
 

“Well, I do, and it’s not pleasant, not pleasant at all… Today I’ve sent a man to the gas chamber – well, not me personally, but the jury.”
 

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said quietly.
 

“Stop saying ‘sir’ – my name’s William. The Judge…sir…that’s somebody else. I don’t feel like a judge right now. I never wanted to be a judge.” He opened his eyes and she drew back.
 

“Do you know what it feels like to judge other people?”
 

“No, si–” She stopped herself. “No, I don’t.”
 

He looked down at her hands. “Don’t stop. By god, I think it helps!” 

He closed his eyes once more and held out his thumbs to her. The house was quiet. Somewhere a nightbird called; the ticking of the clock in the hall kept time in its steady rhythm, and Katherine felt the sound of their breathing in tune.



Anne recently re-released Manroot in kindle format. It was published March 2014 and is available for sale on Amazon



About the Author:





While living in England, Anne Steinberg’s first novel, Manroot was published by Headline Review in London. Manroot was heralded as an important first novel in 1994 and included in the Headline Review’s prestigious “Fiction without Frontiers,” a new wave of contemporary fiction that knows no limits. Eight modern storytellers were featured: Anne Steinberg, Margaret Atwood, Iain Banks, William Gibson, Peter Hoeg, Roddy Doyle, and E. Annie Proulx. It was an auspicious beginning to a long and varied career for Anne Steinberg, who went on to write several acclaimed novels, Every Town Needs A Russian Tea Room, the story of a wealthy socialite who falls in love with a penniless young Russian immigrant who is haunted by a bizarre shameful secret, The Cuckoos Gift, First Hands, and An Eye For An Ear. She is also coauthor of The Fence, written with her grandson Nicholas Reuel Tolkien, the great grandson of J.R.R. Tolkien. Nicholas is a filmmaker, director, and published poet. The Fence is a chilling story of a magnificent Gothic fence forged by a despicable blacksmith and infused with evil.

Anne was a partner in the world famous vintage clothing store, Steinberg & Tolkien, on Kings Road in Chelsea. After a successful run for over 20 years, the shop closed, and she returned to the US. Approaching her eighty-second birthday, she now writes, reads, and studies antiques, American Indian history, animal welfare, mythology, and folklore legends.




Connect with Anne on Twitter

Goodreads



Previously published novels include:




The Quest




                

First Hands: A facinating tale of fashion and mystery.


                                

Every Town Needs a Russian Tea Room









 
 

The Cuckoo's Gift




                                   


                  Elias's Fence



********************

GIVEAWAY

A Kindle version of Manroot will be given to one lucky commenter after July 1, 2014.  Please leave a comment with a valid e-address about a family tradition that has been passed down or about a favorite herb or spice.