Welcome to Wacky, Whimsical and Way Off Planet. I'm Pam Morris with a B. Thanks for joining in on a Blog Hop to remember, 'cause it's Christmas in July and there's plenty of gifts to open!
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I'm adding my own drawing for an autographed paperback of the #1 Amazon bestselling futuristic fantasy, Smitten Image.
In high-speed, high-tech New Chicago, 2039, magic has gone viral. Lily Barnett, a brilliant but drifty artist wanders into a strange magic shop where she impulsively guzzles a love potion. Erratic and unpredictable powers awake inside her. Her houseplants turn ravenous and strings of flamingo lights spout poetry. When she paints a portrait of her perfect man, he steps free of the canvas and stalks her.Desperate, she turns to her best friend, Daniel, for help.
But Daniel has problems of his own. He’s a telepath who must shield thoughts, emotions, and desires or go mad. He wants Lily, desperately, but knows his passion will drive her away and that his friendship is of more value to her than his love.
As Lily negotiates the catastrophic blends of her fear, imagination, and chaotic magic, Daniel must fight against his own impenetrable reserve and the psychic gifts he’s always despised.
Magic and love might save them, but can they survive each other?
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A Night Mare for Christmas
Shay beat me bein’ born by a lickity split. Made her the eldest, tho, so when we turned fourteen this past November, Mams made her step up to be hired out. I’da gone. I wanted to, Shay din’t. Paps wanted a talkin’ it through, but Mams’s thinkin’ was, workin’ in the world’d go a’ways to help Shay steppin’ into the grow’d up life.
I held Shay when she cried in our bed the night before she was to go. Off to Miz Reardon who had seven young un’s. Like Shay’d be any use keeping her husband off’n her long enough to stop bearing for a year or two. ‘Tis what I feared, that Tubbin Reardon’d be all over Shay within a month, knockin’ her up, disgracin’ our family name. ‘Twas what Paps feared too, I see’d it in the pulsin’ on his temple and the grim-grind of his jaw. He and Tubbin lived a fierce fued ‘tween ‘em. Had since they’s kids.
Shay cried.
I say’d to her. “I be there, twin. Skalkin’ ya. Heppin’ if you outside with the hauling and laundry and such. I be your shadow. Won’t let Miz Reardon see me, nor Tubbin neither. I coddle the kidlins, let ‘em be thinking I made a fairy dust.”
Shay snorted a bubbly laugh. See, being the second, I was birthed tiny. Got me some short stubbly legs and long, long arms. I knowed my arms growed xtra long cause I had ‘em close tight around Shay while we gested inside Mams belly waitin’ to be birthed. Since I’m a runtling, Shay dubbed me fairy, let me live to that singular notion. Dresses me the part, duded up in cast off finery we scavenge from the big houses, then she cobbles them apart and back together all new. Beaut’ful makin’s, Shay does. With needle, thread, a bit ‘o lace and pretend shinola.
Shay’s carryin’ on sobs brought Mams to our room.
“T’won’t be s’bad,” Mams shushes and rubs Shay’s curled over back. “You’re good with little ‘uns and Miz Reardon will be ever so grateful for the help. She’ll respect and treat ya fine and dandy.”
Shay just sniffled the more.
Paps come in too, and gentle like moved Mams out the door before he sits himself down next to Shay. “I’ll come for to walk you home ev’ry evenin’, Shay girl. If’n that Tubbin so much as brushes your hair with his filth paw, I kill him. Or send the Night Mare after him when he’s astumblin’ home drunk from the pub a night.”
I thinks that’ll sooth Shay some, reassurance that Paps’ll be there a waitin’ her to come out Reardon’s gate every night. But Shay falls to skittly-bits at his words. Paps face melts into a powerful sadness and he ups and leaves us too.
Shay reaches round me as I squeezes her harder. Her face tucks into my neck and I hears her speakin’ whisper-words.
“Jules, oh sweet Jules. I ain’t fearin’ Mister Reardon. I got Paps old pig sticker if that rutting boar comes to maul me. It’s the Night Mare I fear, to my very soul. We see’d it that once, comin’ home late from Hatfield’s orchard. ‘Member?"
Weren’t like to ever forget that night. Fogged it was, making the rough fields look like rolled up clouds of dark ick as Shay an’ I stumbles over the plowed furrows, our aprons abulge with pears we pilfered with no permission. We’d hear’d the soft hoof sounds, thought it was milch cows. I was singing our itty-bitty song…
“Two twitchy bitches enjoyin’ the rest,
A’takin our time in Mam’s womby nest
‘Till out we pops birthed, first one then the next,
Paps takes a lookie and yelps, ‘We’s hexed!’
Mams hangs in fine, spite bustin’ us loose,
‘A beauty and a beast,’ Paps moans ’n hits the juice.
When he sobers up, Mams got us to breast,
When he sobers up, Mams got us to breast,
Lovin’ us both and we knows the rest!
Now Paps’ lovin’ his Shay, even his Jules,
And smart’s up to fight if’n—“
And smart’s up to fight if’n—“
Then all sudden outa the gloamy mist rears up a monster big horse, black as pitchy mud with eyes a-brim with spite, nose snorting fiery and teeth snap, snap, snappin’ at us. Shay and me, we runs…
