I've Been Awarded The Memetastic Award

Did you say an award? For me? I'm just….I'm just speechless. Ooh, this is such an honor. I just wish Roger were here to share it with me.






Isn't it just precious. "Smooch" "Smooch" "Smooch". I love you all, and a special thank you to the funtabulous Sibel Hodge, Chicklit Humor Mystery author for bestowing such a wonderful. . ."whisper" "whisper" "whisper". Well, I've been informed there are rules I must follow if I wish to accept this cute little huggy bear.


1. I must proudly display the absolutely wonderful, although rather strange, graphic in a post. Check

2. I must list 5 things about myself, and 4 of them must be bold-faced lies. My readers are to guess which one is the truth by posting a comment on My blog. Check

3. I must pass on this awesomely, prestigious award to 5 deserving bloggers. Check

Well, if I must--but please don't hate me, I'm not really bad, I'm just drawn that way.


Sooo...Here are Five Funtabulous things about myself, one of which is actually true:


1. I was first runner up in the 1969 Miss America Contest.

2. I wrote my first novel when I was two. I called it "Nightmare on Potty Seat".

3. When I was sixteen I was kidnapped by two killers and their crazy girlfriends who wound up fighting over whether to kill me or let me go.

4. I met my first husband on a murder investigation. He looked awfully suspicious to me so I married him just to keep an eye on him.

5. I just found out I’m pregnant.


Now, I must pass on this award to the following lucky recipients.

Can I have a drum roll please?

I’m so excited about this. I feel like I’m giving away...well...a member of the family, after all we comic characters must stick together.

But, truth told, I can't wait to see what the following fantabulous people list as their Funtabulous Five Facts, one of which is truthful:

1) Larry Enright, funtabulous author of Four Years From Home
2) Seb Kirby, funtabulous author of Take No More
3) Kristina Jackson, funtabulous author of Feathers
4) Elizabeth Reyes, funtabulous author of Forever Mine
5) Samantha Fury, funtabulous author of Street Justice - Charlie's Angel


I'd truly love to give this award to all my friends and fellow authors, but. . .well, not everyone appreciates a good huggy bear.

So now, My Funtabulous Readers and Fans, can you guess which one of the above "facts" is my Linda Prather truth?

Snakes, Alligators and Voodoo--More of Find Me a WIP

I've really enjoyed working on this book, and the research into things I had absolutely no clue about. Hope you enjoy the excerpt.


Catherine kept her hands inside the boat, but couldn't help being drawn into the beauty of the Bayou as the marsh sparkled in the later afternoon glow. An alligator scampered away from the bank as the canoe approached. Herons, egrets and seabirds flew up from the grasses. The Bayou was certainly wild, beautiful and deadly.

"How far do we have to go?" Catherine asked, noting the shadows were getting longer around them. She really didn't want to be in this water after dark.

Aureole spoke with her grandfather who shrugged and kept paddling. "Grandpa says patience is a virtue."

Catherine bit her lip to keep from cursing out loud. Grandpa hadn't really said anything. It was clear Aureole didn't like her. Yet at times there was something in her eyes. Something very sad. There were so many questions Catherine needed answered and Aureole was her only hope of getting those answers.

"Tell me about Voodoo, and how my mother got involved."

Aureole shifted in the boat, causing it to rock gently and Catherine to reach for the sides.

"There are several religions referred to as voodoo, or voudou. There's also hoodoo which is similar in some respects. Our religion is a combination of Roman Catholic, African animism and Christianity. We believe in one God who is all powerful. Many of our traditional ceremonies are presided over by Roman Catholic priests.

"In the old world we call God "Bondje", meaning "Good God". We reach him/her/it through the spirits. We worship God, and serve the spirits.

"There are twenty-one nations of spirits, called the "lwa-yo". The more important nations of Lwa are Rada, Nago and Kongo. The spirits sometimes come in families such as Ogou, Ezilli, Azaka or Gede.

"Rada sprits are familial and mostly come from Africa. Petwo spirits are native to Haiti and can be more demanding and require more attention to detail. Both can be dangerous if angry or upset, although they are not good or evil. They simply are.

"Everyone has spirits, and each person has a special relationship with one particular spirit who is said to "own their head", but we have many lwa, and the one that owns our head, the "met tet" may or may not be the most active spirit in our life."

Catherine listened to the recitation, which sounded like it came from a history book, but her mind honed in on the twenty-one nations. Each of the victims had been stabbed twenty-one times. Why?

"Do you want to know more, or are you bored yet?" Aureole turned giving her a condescending look, clearly expecting her to be bored.

"I think it's fascinating. Of course, I could have read everything you just said in a textbook. Do you find it that boring?"

Aureole rocked the boat again, this time almost capsizing it, and gaining her a rebuke from her grandfather.

"Sorry," Aureole mumbled, clearly not sorry at all. Unless she was sorry Catherine hadn't fallen out of the boat.

" You still haven't told me how my mother became involved in this."

"I can only tell you what my grandfather has told me. Mother Rose was a Catholic nun who served in Haiti for many years. There she met my grandfather, and from there we came to New Orleans. When I say "we" I mean of course the Duprè family. She brought us to the Blanchard plantation where my family worked for yours. When grandfather saw your mother she was surrounded by spirits, and he knew immediately that she was born to be a "manbo" or high priestess. He trained her for many years, although to hear him tell it she trained his as well. She was an amazing woman."

"You knew my mother?" Catherine asked, noting the emphasis Aureole had placed on was an amazing woman.

"I told you, we came over with Mother Rose. We lived with you."

"Catherine. . . . come play with me."

"Were we friends?" Catherine asked.

Aureole turned, leveling her with an angry gaze. "I thought we were."

Catherine remained quiet as darkness closed in around them. The Bayou came alive with strange noises, and ravenous bugs. Thank God she had on jeans and long sleeves, but she found herself constantly swatting giant mosquitoes from her neck and face. Surely they didn't have much further to go.

Almost as if Grandpa had read her mind the canoe slowed and they approached the bank. Taking off her shoes Aureole jumped into the murky waters and pulled the boat ashore, tying it off to a huge tree.

Catherine followed Grandpa's lead and walked to the front of the canoe, stepping gingerly onto the bank. Once again she thanked God she'd worn boots. Five hundred dollar boots that were now covered in Mississippi mud.

Grandpa disappeared into the trees and Aureole slipped her shoes back on mud covered feet. "We walk from here."

Catherine looked around her, hearing the sound of a huge splash behind her in the water. "It's almost dark, how are we supposed to see where we're going?"

Aureole tied her shoe laces, glancing at the alligator now about ten foot from shore. "Guess you'd better keep up then hadn't you? The Kayiman looks hungry."

Tuesday's Tease - The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

“That’s Cooper,” Joshua whispered, crouching lower and signaling Gavin to do the same. They watched as he dumped something on the ground and proceeded to dig. Gavin glanced at Joshua, fear taking his breath, clutching at his heart. They couldn’t be too late. Not this time. Joshua shook his head and motioned for Gavin to follow him into the forest.

Joshua waited until he was sure they were out of hearing distance. He’d read the fear reflected in Gavin’s eyes. “Too large to be Nikki.”

“Who then?”

“Well, since that’s the good Reverend Cooper, I’d say maybe Mrs. Cooper.”

Gavin was horrified at the thought. “You think he killed his wife?”

Joshua shrugged. “Maybe she wasn’t his wife.”

“You know, you’re beginning to freak me out just a little,” Gavin stated. “My psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing you.”

Joshua grinned, placing a toothpick between his teeth. “That’s why they burned Joan of Arc. Just didn’t understand. Let’s go.”

Buy Now!

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Sample Sunday Anticipation--Something New

I always look forward to Sample Sunday, but this week is even more exciting as a group of Indie Authors have decided to have a "Cook Off". We'll be posting excerpts of books, flash fiction and/or short stories and weaving therein our favorite foods and recipes. A writing challenge that I simply could not ignore. How could I? I mean three of my favorite things. Reading, writing and food.

I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do this Sunday as neither of my current books deal with food in any way that I found exciting, or even interesting. Could I actually do a murder mystery or serial killer plot involving food?

I love writing challenges because they do just that--challenge you to use your imagination. To step outside that secure little zone you've built for yourself and leap into something different. Here's a prelude to what's to come.

Food To Die Smiling For

Each year a prisoner on death row is allowed to choose a chef to prepare their last meals. This occurs over a three day period. Day one is breakfast. Day two is lunch. Day three is dinner, with dessert prior to the midnight countdown to death by injection. If the prisoner smiles after each meal, then the chef is assured that their career is forever safe. If a prisoner doesn't smile then their career is forever destroyed. Each year the whole world watches--sort of like watching Hell's Kitchen--to see if a prominent well-known chef will make it or go down in flames.

This year the notorious serial killer Ian McGregor will choose. But McGregor shocks the world when he chooses Carrie Thompson, a small restaurant owner that no one has ever heard of.

Carrie and her best friend, and business partner Sammie must come up with food to die smiling for. Are they up to the challenge? And what is McGregor really up to? Did he choose Carrie because he'd heard of her culinary mastery, or was he planning on having her for dessert?

Stop by Sunday and check out Part 1 of Food To Die Smiling For. We're having an Irish breakfast, with loads of fun, and some great recipes. Hope to see you there.

Movie Review - My Soul To Take - Wes Cravens

My Soul To Take - Wes Cravens

Probably my first "horror" film in years. I would have to say that it will definitely appeal to the younger generation. Seven 16 year olds who yearly hold Ripper night where they must face the killer who died on the night they were born and send him back to a watery grave. Fail to face him--and bad things happen.

As an author I enjoyed the psychological aspects of this movie. The distinct personalities of the seven. There are clues given throughout that I must say I missed until near the end of the movie, but then there really wasn't enough pre-information to allow you to know those clues were important.

My biggest disappointment--there was so much more story to work with here, and yet it turned out mostly to be a blood and gore, typical horror movie.

The beginning was truly exceptional, mixing in myths and the voodoo religion. Giving you a character you want to help, and a killer you hate--all wrapped up in the same package. This was, in my opinion, the best part of the movie. The ending--well, for me at least, the ending was a huge disappointment.

Still, I will remain a Cravens' fan. After all he gave us Nightmare on Elm Street.

Some Monday Humor--WIP - More of The Road To Hell

There were a million questions running through my mind, but a subtle kind of peace had settled over me and Jolly, and the thoughts of that pack of Red's Best kept my smart ass mouth closed until we reached the corner.

An old woman was standing there, grey as me, and twice as ugly. If life had been cruel to her, death sure as hell wasn't treating her much better.

"There she blows. So, how do I clean her up?" She sure needed somebody to clean her up.

Now, I knew that last part hadn't been spoken out loud, but the old woman turned to face me.

"Ah, sweet Jesus."

"Where?" Jolly squelched, a look of sheer terror on his face.

"It's a figure of speech dumbass. Look at her. Dammit, Jolly, she's drooling." What a mess. How the hell was I supposed to clean her up?

Jolly recovered quickly, but he seemed to lose some of his bluster. Almost sounded sad, like he was hurting or something.

"That's not your soul. That's Molly."

"So, what's a Molly?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable as those empty sockets continued to stare me down.

"That's what happens to a soul if you fail."

I took a good long look at the old woman. "Shit."

"Exactly, Jake Savior. Fail to deliver your soul on time and he will wind up lost here forever, slowly going insane until he becomes nothing more than a demented drooling mess." Jolly paused for emphasis. "And you will wind up like me."

Now that was a sobering thought and should have been enough to shut me up. Momma always said I was the prettiest one in the family, just not the smartest.

"Well, Jolly," I slapped him on the back in good humor, "looks like my soul is a no-show. What say I clean up old Molly and we all go home?"

Damn, there's those red eyes again. Thankfully Jolly wasn't in the mood to burn me to cinders this time.

"It doesn't work that way. There's rules."

"Rules, huh?" Well that was something to think about. Wherever there were rules there was a way to break the rules. "So, we just gonna leave her here to rot? That don't seem quite fair, does it? I mean it ain't her fault whoever was supposed to clean her up failed."

Jolly didn't answer, but I could tell the thought appealed to him. I was getting to him.

"Your soul is about to arrive."

If you've ever visited Lexington you know that traffic never stops on New Circle. Anytime of night or day you can find a steady stream heading somewhere.

I glanced at the highway expecting to see cars collide any second. Instead what I saw was a kid on a skateboard headed straight for the middle of the street.

"Oh, hell no, Jolly. I don't do kids." Screaming I headed for the street. "Get off the road kid. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Jolly was yelling something behind me, but I couldn't hear him over the old woman's squawks. Wouldn't have made any difference anyway. I kept right on going screaming at the kid and waving my arms at the car. It passed right through me and I heard the sickening sound of metal against flesh, the screeching of wheels on wet pavement and finally total silence except for my own labored breathing. Jolly joined me in the street.

"Rule Number 1, you can't stop it."

"Anybody ever tell you your rules suck, Jolly?

"Rule Number 2, stay on the path. And Rule Number 3, don't lose the manual."

With that Jolly handed me a small leather book with the words Good Intentions burned into the leather binding.

"So what do I. . ." Shit. Jolly pulled a disappearing act right in front of my eyes.

Okie dokie, Jake old man, looks like you're on your own. At least I had the manual to tell me what to do. Opening it I found the first page was a map, golden streets leading straight to the Pearly Gates. Sweet.

The kid looked about six years old so I wasn't totally surprised. I mean, all kids went to Heaven didn't they? This gig was gonna be a piece of cake. Get the kid there quick, find Jolly and get my reward.

Turning the page I couldn't help grinning. Jolly had a sense of humor after all. Rule Number 4, don't break The Rules." Ah, Jolly, and I was just starting to like you.The third page wiped the grin off my face and was the final straw that broke the camel's back in convincing me God really did have a sense of humor. The words seemed to glow on the page, burning with an eerie blue flame. One more mocking reminder that if life ain't fair, death's even worse.

THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS.

SampleSunday - Mel Comley - Final Justice (A Lorne Simpkins thriller)

March 20, 2011 – Mel Comley – Final Justice (A Lorne Simpkins Thriller)
A Chateau in Normandy



September 2009.

Chapter One

A smug satisfied smile stretched across Baldwin’s handsome but menacing features as he surveyed his lavish surroundings, self-congratulation exuding from every pore. Tonight would be all about him, his ability to manipulate others, as months of meticulous planning came to fruition.

A couple of the scantily clad girls, all of Eastern-European extraction, giggled in the corner. He scowled at them, when he realised they’d been helping themselves to the potent punch, intended for his esteemed guests.

With its final tune-up complete the band drifted off to get changed. Meanwhile, the experienced agency waiting staff were tinkering, adding the finishing touches to the thirty-foot table laden with some of the world’s finest food, specially imported for tonight’s soiree.

His gaze drifted out over the large terrace and he took in the incredible view; the view that had sold the chateau to him. A view that took in thirty acres of manicured lawns, bordered by hedges shaped like animals; luxurious surroundings more suited to royalty than a lad brought up, or rather dragged up, in the boarded-up slums of Salford, Manchester. A lad with a rap sheet longer than the Seine.

Most of his men were already standing in position, their weapons safely concealed beneath their smart tuxedos, they would be joined by the others once the limos arrived.

Baldwin glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, his irritation bubbling just below the surface. The guests should have arrived at seven, a full ten minutes ago; where the bloody hell were they? He marched over to the window and craned his neck to look up the long tree-lined drive. Nothing, not a limo in sight, nothing but the grey gravel, glistening in the evening sun. It didn’t bode well, not in his book, anyway. His blood began to pump harder, faster so much so that the vein in his temple jutted out, just as it always did when something didn’t go according to plan. His plans.

‘Well?’ he asked, when Julio, his second in command, joined him at the window.

‘Nothing as yet, boss. Everything’s ready though.’

‘That much I can see, you bloody moron. Now go and see what the fucking hold-up is. I want this evening to go smoothly. You understand, Julio, no cock-ups.’

‘Yes, boss. I’ll get onto it straight away.’

‘Never mind, I’ll see for myself, I know how those guys can twist you round their fingers.’

Baldwin stormed into the communications room located next door. The room was littered with pizza boxes and a bottle of scotch sat on the desk in front of his men. The three men, all built like bouncers, leapt to their feet. ‘Look at the bloody mess in here. Did I say you could drink on duty? This is supposed to be serious business tonight. I’m warning you, fuck this up and you’ll pay for it, with your lives. You got that? Now, what’s the bloody hold-up?’ his glare unnerved the men, and they nodded, like toy dogs in the back of a car.

Baldwin stepped forward, a menacing look in his eyes. He stopped in front of the youngest of the three men, their noses a few inches apart, ‘I said, have you got that, Benji?’

The man gulped, his eyes bulging with fear, he nodded again, ‘Yes, boss, I got it.’

‘This is your final warning, Benji. Screw this up and….’ Baldwin left the sentence unfinished on purpose.

The new recruit backed away and Baldwin let him go, for the time being; he’d had his eye on him for a while, and had come to the conclusion that the man’s attitude stank. It hadn’t escaped him that the man thought highly of himself and enjoyed strutting around as if he owned the place, ‘Now, let’s start again, shall we? Tell me, what the hell is going on?’ He sat on the corner of the desk, looking at the ten TV screens attached to the wall in front of him, each showing a different area of the chateau and its grounds.

‘The limos called in a few minutes ago. They got held up a couple of miles up the road. They should be here within ten minutes,’ Benji said.

‘Make sure they are. I’m getting anxious and I don’t need to tell you what that means, do I?’

The men nodded their understanding of the unspoken threat. His anxiety was notorious, and often resulted in bouts of violence. Despite his men having muscles ten times larger than their IQs, when Baldwin went on the rampage, they all turned into quivering wrecks.

With the threat still lingering in the air, Benji pointed to one of the screens, as a car pulled into the drive, ‘Here comes the first lamb now.’

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Final-Justice-Lorne-Simpkins-thriller/dp/B004OEKFYO
http://www.amazon.com/Final-Justice-Lorne-Simpkins-thriller/dp/B004OEKFYO
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/43071 For other ereaders.

Final Justice (A Lorne Simpkins thriller)

www.amazon.co.uk
This is the sequel to Impeding Justice but is also a standalone thriller/adventure. After suffering a breakdown and quitting the force, former Detective Inspector Lorne Simpkins is contacted by a friend at MI6 to help in a covert operation. Against her will, Lorne is convinced to help track down an . . .

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery - Excerpt

My son wrote most of the poetry used in Sacred Secrets, but I did manage--with his help, to write one. It was my feelings and emotions related to Father Michael's struggle. I hope you enjoy the poem, as well as the excerpt.





Your plangent cries permeate my dreams
Lest I forget
That which I have become
Slipping into the verisimiltude
I have created
A myrmidon of evil
Panoply of secrets
Pulling me down
Into the brackish water of my dreams
‘Tis but a simple deed
To expiate my sins
Simple as life
Or death
I chose this cup
Now I must drink.


Father Michael felt the chasm widen. A vast wasteland of emptiness. Nothingness. He had nothing. He was nothing.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Father Michael?”

Father Peter’s words were a mere whisper, his hands longing to caress the parchment stored beneath the thick glass.

“Where . . .”

Father Peter turned to him excitedly. “A gift from your sister, Claire.”

Father Michael nodded. He’d recognized the painting immediately as one of John’s beautiful fakes. The Revelations of St. Bridget of Sweden. Two beams of light shone down from the hands of the Virgin and Christ, enthroned on the heavenly plane, joining into one single stream entering the eyes of the seated saint. Images were powerful in medieval times.

Father Michael lowered his head, closed his eyes. “Please . . .,” she whispered.

Images were still powerful.

Father Peter gushed on, his excitement uncontainable. “Of course, I know it’s a reproduction, but its beauty, its message is invaluable.”

A beautiful fake, just like me. Father Michael thought, the riving pain opening, surging. A raging river in which he was going to drown.

The words came from the midst of the chasm. Words he’d not intended to say. “I’ve lost all hope, Father.”

The words echoed in the small study, coming from all four corners, dowsing the sun streaming from the window, fading the colors of the parchment. Gripping the heart of Father Peter with pain.

He turned, excitement of the gift still etched upon his wrinkled face. Gasping as he gazed into open wounds, vivid pools reflecting suffering. Never before had he seen such agony. His hands fluttered in front of him, mind sifting through eighty years of life, searching for words to breach the chasm. Words of comfort.

“There is always hope, Father Michael. God is our hope.”

“I no longer hear His voice, Father.” He glanced at the painting. “No longer feel His light.”

“We must pray, my son.” Father Peter walked around the desk, placing his hand on the young priest’s shoulder. “We must pray that God will guide you in your hour of need.”

Father Michael sighed, placing his hand over the knotted arthritic joints of Father Peter’s fingers. “I have prayed, Father. I pray daily that God will take this cup from me.”

Father Peter felt the trembling in the hand covering his. Felt the despair. His words came unbidden. Words he knew not the source. Words he would ponder and regret in the days to come.

“Perhaps you must take the cup and drink from it.”

Father Michael embraced him. He had the forlorn feeling of being alone in the world. And that loneliness threatened to crush him. He whispered the words that sealed his fate. “Perhaps, Father. Perhaps I must.”


Looking for a great way to spend the weekend? Grab a good book--grab two!

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Poetry, Excerpt and Homemade Pies

It's National Poetry Month. I've always loved poetry, but rarely felt I could do justice to it. My son wrote most of the poetry used in Sacred Secrets, but I did manage--with his help, to write one. It was my feelings and emotions related to Father Michael's struggle. I hope you enjoy the poem, as well as the excerpt, and some great pie recipes.

Your plangent cries permeate my dreams
Lest I forget
That which I have become
Slipping into the verisimiltude
I have created
A myrmidon of evil
Panoply of secrets
Pulling me down
Into the brackish water of my dreams
‘Tis but a simple deed
To expiate my sins
Simple as life
Or death
I chose this cup
Now I must drink.


Father Michael felt the chasm widen. A vast wasteland of emptiness. Nothingness. He had nothing. He was nothing.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Father Michael?”

Father Peter’s words were a mere whisper, his hands longing to caress the parchment stored beneath the thick glass.

“Where . . .”

Father Peter turned to him excitedly. “A gift from your sister, Claire.”

Father Michael nodded. He’d recognized the painting immediately as one of John’s beautiful fakes. The Revelations of St. Bridget of Sweden. Two beams of light shone down from the hands of the Virgin and Christ, enthroned on the heavenly plane, joining into one single stream entering the eyes of the seated saint. Images were powerful in medieval times.

Father Michael lowered his head, closed his eyes. “Please . . .,” she whispered.

Images were still powerful.

Father Peter gushed on, his excitement uncontainable. “Of course, I know it’s a reproduction, but its beauty, its message is invaluable.”

A beautiful fake, just like me. Father Michael thought, the riving pain opening, surging. A raging river in which he was going to drown.

The words came from the midst of the chasm. Words he’d not intended to say. “I’ve lost all hope, Father.”

The words echoed in the small study, coming from all four corners, dowsing the sun streaming from the window, fading the colors of the parchment. Gripping the heart of Father Peter with pain.

He turned, excitement of the gift still etched upon his wrinkled face. Gasping as he gazed into open wounds, vivid pools reflecting suffering. Never before had he seen such agony. His hands fluttered in front of him, mind sifting through eighty years of life, searching for words to breach the chasm. Words of comfort.

“There is always hope, Father Michael. God is our hope.”

“I no longer hear His voice, Father.” He glanced at the painting. “No longer feel His light.”

“We must pray, my son.” Father Peter walked around the desk, placing his hand on the young priest’s shoulder. “We must pray that God will guide you in your hour of need.”

Father Michael sighed, placing his hand over the knotted arthritic joints of Father Peter’s fingers. “I have prayed, Father. I pray daily that God will take this cup from me.”

Father Peter felt the trembling in the hand covering his. Felt the despair. His words came unbidden. Words he knew not the source. Words he would ponder and regret in the days to come.

“Perhaps you must take the cup and drink from it.”

Father Michael embraced him. He had the forlorn feeling of being alone in the world. And that loneliness threatened to crush him. He whispered the words that sealed his fate. “Perhaps, Father. Perhaps I must.”


Looking for a great way to spend the weekend? Grab a good book--grab two!

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Now, let's have some homemade pie!

No-Bake Pie

3 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 cup powdered sugar
8 oz. frozen dairy topping, thawed
1/2 cup smooth peanut butter
1/2 cup milk
1 prebaked graham cracker pie crust

In a large bowl, with an electric mixer combine cream cheese, peanut butter, sugar and milk. Beat until smooth. Gently fold in whipped topping. Pour into pie shell. Freeze 4 to 6 hours. Thaw 10 minutes before serving.

Sweet Potato Pie

1 large can sweet potatoes drained and mashed
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/2 stick butter
Dash of cinnamon
1 cup evaporated milk

Mix all together. Bake at 400 for 20 minutes in buttered casserole dish.

Topping:
1 cup crushed corn flakes
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 stick butter

Sprinkle over top and bake 15 minutes.


Cherry Macaroon Pie

1 can cherry pie filling
1 9" crust
1 egg
2/3 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour
1/4 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. almond extract
1 1/4 cup coconut

Pour cherry filling into crust. Beat together egg and milk. Add sugar, flour, salt, almond extract and vanilla. Beat until smooth. Stir in coconut. Pour over pie filling. Bake at 375 degrees for 40-45 minutes or until puffed and light brown. Cool before serving.

Buttermilk Pecan Pie

4 cups sugar
7 Tbsp. cornstarch
3/4 cup milk
2 Tbsp. vanilla
5 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 sticks melted margarine
(can also add 1 tsp. lemon juice)

Mix above ingredients well with mixer. Stir in 1 1/2 cups chopped pecans. Pour mixture into 2 deep dish pie shells and bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes or until golden brown.

Strawberry Sour Cream Pie

2 1/2 cups strawberries
1 cup sugar
2 Tbsp. Flour
1 cup sour cream

Mix sugar, flour and sour cream. Add sliced berries. Pour into unbaked shell and bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 325 and bad an additional 30 minutes.

Chocolate Cream Pie

2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup butter or margarine softened
1 cup sugar
2 squares (1 oz. each) unsweetened chocolate, melted and cooled
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 cup biscuit baking mix

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all the ingredients in a blender and on high for 1 minute. Pour the mixture into a greased 9" pie plate. Bake for 3 minutes or until set. Cool before serving

The Perfect Murder

I decided to try a little flash fiction this morning. Not sure I'm totally satisfied with it, but the rules as I understand them are you write as quick as you can, and you finish a story without edits. So here it is. A little over 1000 words so I really need to cut it down some.

The Perfect Murder


Amanda Crawford dabbed her favorite cologne behind both ears, meeting her eyes in the mirror. Excitement glittered there, as well as just a little fear. But then wasn't fear a type of excitement? A few more hours and it would all be over. Her eyes darkened. Damn him. She'd put up with his affairs for years, never dreaming he'd actually fall in love with one of the bimbos. Thank God she'd found that paperwork he'd been planning to give an attorney. She figured he'd planned to tell her tonight after dinner. Or maybe he was going to wait until after they had their once a year obligatory sex and then tell her. You know, one for the road? Jerk.

With one final glance in the mirror, Amanda picked up the package containing George's anniversary present and headed for the door. She'd told him she'd meet him at the restaurant at 6:00. But then she needed to be there just a little early. She'd do her job, and Mark would do his. No connections, no ties, no way to trace it back to either one of them. Two birds with one stone. Perfect.

"Good evening, Ms. Crawford, a table for two?"

"Yes, please, Darcie, and somewhere quiet if you don't mind. It's our anniversary." Amanda smiled, giving Darcie a quick peek at the perfectly wrapped present.

"I have just the place for you."

Amanda followed her to the table, scouting out the patrons until she found the blonde, Mark had described. Perfect. Everything was perfect. She went ahead and ordered for the two of them. After all, after twenty years she should know what George liked to eat. The food arrived, and George arrived right on time, his handsome face creased in smiles as he openly flirted with Darcie. Always the flirt.

"Amanda, you look lovely," George kissed her on the cheek. "And you smell divine. I hope that's all for me."

Amanda smiled sweetly. "Of course, darling. It's our anniversary. Twenty years today."

"Twenty years. That's a milestone." Picking up his glass he raised it for a toast. "Here's to the next twenty years being the best ever."

They chit-chatted throughout the meal, and Amanda waited until the plates had been cleared before handing him his present. "I hope you like it. It's one of those new fangled phones with all gadgets. Takes pictures, video, and surfs the internet."

George immediately started playing with it. "Honey, I love it." He came around the table and kissed her again, this time a quick peck on the lips. "What a great present."

Amanda bit her lip, mist gathering behind her eyes. He could have at least gotten her a present. Twenty years. Selfish jerk.

She glanced around the restaurant and found the waiter refilling the blonde's wine glass. Now was the perfect time. Opening the tiny vial of liquid she held it in her left hand, and smiled sweetly at George. "I'm just going to power my nose and then we can go."

George mumbled something unintelligible still playing with his new toy.
She played her part perfectly, stumbling right before she passed the table. The blonde jumped up to catch her, all eyes on her face as Amanda poured the liquid in the wine glass. "Thank you. I'm so sorry; I haven't worn heels in ages."
The blonde smiled at her, a nice smile before sitting back down at her seat and picking up the wine glass. "That's okay. I'm just glad you didn't fall. Have a nice evening."

Amanda took a moment to study the man across from the blonde who had also jumped up to rescue her. Nice looking guy. Still--you shouldn't cheat on your spouse.

George was still playing with the phone when Amanda returned. Now for part two of the plan. "Ready, dear? And I truly hate to ask, but would you mind stopping by that little pastry shop and picking up a lemon meringue pie? I have the girls coming by tomorrow and I totally forgot."

George frowned, but it was their anniversary and she knew he'd do it, no matter how much he hated the idea. That's why she'd given him his present early. A commotion broke out behind them.

"Oh, my God, she's having a heart attack!" Someone screamed.

Amanda took George's arm, glancing once at the blonde now stretched out on the floor, people gathered round. "Oh, dear, the poor thing. And she's so young."

George glanced at the crowd, face setting in a mask Amanda knew so well. "Let's get out of here before somebody remembers I'm a doctor."

Thirty minutes later having changed into her sexiest negligee Amanda watched the clock, a smile around her lips. She'd opened a bottle of champagne and was sipping her glass when the knock on the door came. Finally. Pasting on a smile, she poured the second glass and headed for the door. She would, of course, drop the glasses and go all teary-eyed. She had been voted most likely to succeed by the drama class.

Opening the door Amanda let her smile slowly fade, eyes widening. "Oh, my God, has something happened to George?" Amanda stumbled just a little, leaning into the door frame.

"Mrs. Crawford?"

"Yes, I'm Amanda Crawford."

"Your husband's was shot during a robbery. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Amanda dropped the champagne glasses, right on cue. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God," she cried hugging her stomach, tears streaming down her face.

The officers exchanged looks. "Your husband is fine, Mrs. Crawford. He received a minor flesh wound subduing the robber. A young woman died at the Sante Fe Restaurant this evening though, and we'd like to ask you about this video we found on your husband's phone."

Amanda stared at the video, watching as she stumbled, the blonde and her friend jumping up to help her, her hand reaching out, the liquid pouring into the wine glass. It had been the perfect murder. Except for George, playing with his damn phone capturing the entire thing in living color.

"I want to speak with my lawyer."

The senior officer nodded, pulling a set of cuffs from his beltline. "Amanda Crawford you're under arrest for the murder of Susan Mason, and the attempted murder of George Crawford."

Thursday's Tease - Voodoo Initiation - Find Me a WIP

Catherine balked at the entrance, and only the gentle prodding of Aureole's hand moved her past the doorway. The altar was now aflame with the light of hundreds of candles. A makeshift cot had been placed in front of it.

"Aureole, are you sure about this?" Catherine whispered, watching Grandpa as he stirred something into a steaming cup of liquid.

Aureole nodded and led her to the cot. Removing a pot from the altar she set it down beside Catherine and picked up the nail clippers. "This is called a pot et. Pieces of the nails and hair of the initiates are placed inside." Picking up the clippers she took Catherine's hand. "Normally we would have made you a necklace to drape over the pot, but we don't have time." Aureole clipped several nails, dropping the clippings into the pot before picking up the scissors and snipping off a short piece of hair adding it to the pot and placing it back on the altar.

"Why nails and hair?"

"Shhh. We will discuss this later." Aureole took the cup of liquid from her grandfather and handed it to Catherine. "Drink it quickly. It's easier that way."
Catherine gagged as the smell reached her nostrils. "What is it?"
Aureole grinned at her. "The knowing won't make it taste any better, and the not knowing may make it easier to swallow."

Catherine gazed into the deep brown eyes above her, seeing something she'd missed for a lifetime. Concern for her well-being, but also something else--Aureole's eyes mirrored the fear in her own. Closing her eyes Catherine lifted the cup and downed it quickly. She gagged, bile rising in her throat.

"Bend over and breathe deeply," Aureole instructed her. "It will pass."
Catherine did as she was told, a fleeting thought in the back of her mind that this was much like the sleep walking when the devil took over. Fear seized her as her heartbeat increased, and her body broke out in a cold sweat. A deep throbbing drumbeat echoed inside her head, spreading outward. Aureole spoke to her, pressing gently until she was lying flat on the cot. Her words seemed to come from a long way off, and the room shimmered in bolts of beautiful glassy colors.

Catherine fought to bring her mind and body under control, glancing around the room. The colored bottles around the room vibrated and shimmered in glorious color. Grandpa was sitting a few feet away, eyes glazed, drumming on a strange looking drum. "What's he doing?" She asked, her words sounding elongated and strange.

Aureole knelt beside her, picking up one of the gourds and rattling, as her voice rose in song and prayer.

Catherine felt her body numbing, growing cold. She groped for Aureole's hands. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The room began to spin. Aureole dropped the rattle grabbing her arms and holding her down as spasms ripped through her muscles, jerking her in all directions.

"Don't fight it, Catherine. Please don't fight it." Aureole whispered in her ear.
Catherine closed her eyes, willing the spasms to stop. The colors still swirled inside her head spinning her down a tunnel. She saw them then, waiting at the end of the tunnel. Their faces twisted and torn in the agony of death, blood dripping from their wounds. They reached for her as she sped past them, screams echoing inside her head.

Aureole rung out the wash cloth and gently wiped Catherine's face. At least the screaming had stopped. All they could do now was wait. Rising she emptied the water and joined her grandfather outside.

"Li dòmi."

"She has passed through the outer sanctum. Stay with her."

Her grandfather reached for a bucket. "If she lives she will need food when she wakes."

Aureole hugged her arms close around her body watching as he faded into the darkness. Fear started in the region of her bowels, rising up like bitter bile. Her grandfather had spoken English only a few times in the past 22 years since Abigail Blanchard had disappeared. He spoke it only when the spirits were angry, or someone was going to die.


The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

A Lone Traveler. . .

Can't do too much of a set-up with this one without giving away a spoiler for Sacred Secrets, but I loved this poem.


Like petals on the rose

Clinging tenaciously

To the flower of reality

Only to wilt and break free

In the winter of disillusion

Though plucked early

For the marriage rite

And showered for hopes and dreams

Scattered like frail droplets

Looking to be found in cracks

The wind of lies would blow

Dispersed over a thousand lands

Hiding in the darkest of reaches

Until a lone traveler

Stumbles into the pit

Crawling out of the thorns

With beauty for all to see

Charles W. Prather, Jr.

Whisper to me. . .

Another poem from Sacred Secrets. In this Chapter Billy and Katie enjoy a "moment in time" which may prove to be their last.







Whisper to me with eyes that cannot lie
Touch my cheek with truth
Sing unto my soul a soothing song
This moment is fleeting
Our masks have slipped
A short time of nakedness
Your smile is a razor
It cuts away the callousness
My breath is a baptism
Wash your unclean memories
The short embrace of our hearts
Fades like morning dew

Charles W. Prather, Jr.

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

UK
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Saturday's Satire - Sip Your Numbed Paradise

When I started writing Sacred Secrets, I had found a collection of my oldest son's poetry from earlier days when we both wrote things that we were pretty sure would never see the light of day. Some of those poems were so beautiful, so sad, and so appropriate for the emotions I hoped to inspire in Sacred Secrets that the two of us collaborated on the book. The majority of the poetry in Sacred Secrets was written by Charles. When I started writing Passing Judgment this poem was truly an inspiration for part of that work. A satirical look at drunken days, and the devil's call. I hope you enjoy it. And I hope you'll check out Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery and let us know what you think. Charles and I have talked about writing a story together. Our styles are different, which I think would compliment each other. We'll see.


SIP YOUR NUMBED PARADISE

Crumpled cigarettes litter the table,
Alcohol burns the throat,
The patter of self-destruction forms,
Cacophony of voices permeate the air,
A den of forgotten dreams,
Washed away with pinpricks to the brain,
Here there are no names,
Faces are all that matter,
Time is merely a formality.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it sit in the corner for a while,
You don’t need to worry about it,
We’ll take away the cause,
Sip your numbed paradise.

Dance away your memories,
Who needs them here,
You are in this moment,
Just let go of your future uncertain,
You can certainly be sure its worthless.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it soak in the view,
A little taint never hurt,
We’ll take away the consequences,
Sip your numbed paradise.

The lights are now less faded,
We’ve got to bid you farewell,
Our time,
Out of time,
So long yet so short,
But come back tomorrow,
A kindred spirit cannot be denied,
Your table will be waiting.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Do you remember where you left it,
We’ll help you find it,
Sip your numbed paradise.

By: Charles W. Prather, Jr.


Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
UK: Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Friday's Fantastics- A little more of Find Me

I think I'm enjoying writing this book more than anything I've tried so far. It has been a challenge. The Voodoo religion, rituals and beliefs have been fascinating, and the more I learn the more my characters become real to me. I can only hope that I carry this forward throughout the book. Comments and critques welcome.

Setup: Catherine is with a Conjure man and his granddaughter. Tonight she will be initiated into the Voodoo religion, which she has discovered was her own religion and that her mother was a conjure woman.

Catherine felt the fear slowly change to anger. "Wait just a minute," she yelled, reaching out to grab Aureole by the arm and whip her around. "So that's why you've been treating me like crap, you blame me for your life?"

Aureole tried to jerk loose, but Catherine held on tight. "At least you had your
grandfather. He and your little community didn't do me any favors when they sent me off with the Mansfields. I didn't have anyone. They treated me like a leper, and that shed your grandfather lives in is a three bedroom ranch compared to the hole they stuck me in. So if anybody has a reason to be mad here it's me. Why didn't they give me back to my mother?"

"I thought they did." Aureole searched her face, seeing the truth. "Everyone told me your mother went away taking you with her."

Catherine shook her head. "I don't think I ever saw my mother again."

"Li se tan."

"Grandpa says it's time."

"Ask him to give us a minute, please."

"Yon minit, papa."

Catherine watched as the old man went back inside the shed. "Tell me what's going to happen now."

"You will drink, and then you will dream. Your dreams will take you to the spirit world. I cannot tell you more. Each journey is different. It would be easier if you were still a child. It is more difficult for them to trap a child."

"So you went through this?"

Aureole nodded. "We were supposed to go through it together. That way I could help you if you needed a translator. Some of the spirits still speak the old language."

"So you're a conjure woman?"

"Not yet. I am still in training. When Grandpa passes I will take his place in the community."

"Aureole, I'm not sure I want to be a conjure woman."

Aureole touched her arm, her eyes filled with sympathy. "We don't get to choose our path. It was chosen for us before we were even born. I'm sorry for what we both have been through. We are blood sisters, remember?" Aureole held up her thumb showing a tiny scar. Catherine lifted her hand, examining her own thumb and the same tiny scar. "You mama was very angry with us because we took the knife." Aureole grinned, her eyes peering into the distance as she remembered. "And because you bled like a stuck pig."

Catherine swiped at the tears. "I don't remember anything. I think that's worse than living with the Mansfields."

Aureole placed an arm around her. "Come, I will stay with you. We will fight your demons together, and then perhaps you will remember."

Catherine walked with her back to the shed. If Aureole spoke the truth then perhaps she would remember. Or perhaps she would die.

Thursday's Tease

It was getting dark, but Joshua continued driving, hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel. Mary would worry, but dammit, he couldn’t go home yet. Not this way. Why? Why the hell did women feel they had to protect the cowardly bastards?

The memory of Ella Mae’s bruised and swollen face still burned inside him. She’d fallen all right. The same way his mother had fallen time and time again. Emotions washed over him. Rage, hate, love and guilt. He’d felt no remorse when his father died. He hadn’t killed him, though God knows he’d wanted to many times. But then he hadn’t tried to save him either. It had taken every ounce of his eight-year-old strength to drag his mother’s body from the burning car.

Pulling the Jeep to the side of the road, he cut the engine and rested his head on his hands. He hadn’t been able to save her, either. She’d died in his arms as he sat there watching the car go up in flames.

A heavy sadness descended upon him. He wouldn’t be able to save Ella Mae either—not unless she wanted to be saved.

Joshua relaxed his hands on the steering wheel, turning his thoughts to Mary and the child growing inside her. His child would never know the pain he’d had to grow up with. Never know the fear. Love flowed through him, chasing away the last of his rage. It was too late for dinner at the café, but he’d make it up to Mary. It was time he went home.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003U4WVQ4/

Excerpt from WIP - Find Me

Setup: Catherine Mans has just learned that her real name is Catherine Abigail Blanchard, and the parents who had raised her are not her real parents. Now she's on the run, one step ahead of the FBI and an unstable psychic who is destroying her life and killing anyone and everyone close to her.


New Orleans was a fascinating place and under other circumstances she would have loved to explore the local shops, visited the tomb of Marie Levaeu, and sampled the local cuisine. This was where she was born. These were her people. She wanted to learn everything there was about them. She wanted for the first time in her life to feel at home somewhere. Like she really belonged.

" Fantom nan mache."

Catherine turned toward the voice, heart pounding. She didn't know what was being said, but she understood the tone. The eyes that met hers were huge, expressing fear and something else, perhaps awe or admiration. But why would this old man be afraid of her? Or admire her?

"I'm sorry, I don't speak French." Catherine stated, turning back to car and tossing in her packages.

"Ou se pitit fi manman ou lan."

Catherine turned back to him, taking out a few dollars. He clearly was very poor. "I'm sorry, I really can't understand what you're saying. Please take this."

A young woman stepped up beside the old man, reaching out to take the money. "It isn't French. It's Haitian Creole, and Grandpa said, 'The ghost walks' and 'You are your mother's daughter'."

"Ou vin. Rete avèk nou. Satan an pa jwenn ou."

"Non papa." The young girl took his arm, attempting to pull him away.

"Silans. Li te vin."

"Grandpa says you're to come with us. That way the devil can't find you. But I want you to say no, because if you come the devil will find us, and it will kill us."

Catherine could see that people were starting to gather, paying attention to the conversation. She couldn't afford that attention. She needed to end this without upsetting the old man too much.

"Please, tell your grandfather he has me confused with someone else. I'm not from here."

"Li di I 'ou te mele avèk yon lòt moun."

The old man shook his head, pointing to Catherine's eyes. "Pa gen erè. Ou se pitit fi ki mouri a Abigail Blanchard."

The girl looked at her more closely, a new respect showing in her eyes. "Grandpa says there's no mistake. You are the dead daughter of Abigail Blanchard."