erotic Favoriten von British Autor Tiffany Towers

Kurzbeschreibung

Nineteen-year-old Sian tells her parents she intends working on a ranch during the summer holidays.

Her first encounter with surly cowboy Randy is a strained one. During their first ride out Randy has to rescue Sian after a fall. In her eyes, there's only one way to repay him.

Short story of 6000 words.

Warning over 18s only!

Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung
Setting sail for the first time on the high seas, Amelia Lockhart is on a journey that will alter her life forever.
Against her better judgement, Amelia’s father insists she travels to Ireland to meet her intended. A day into the long journey, the ship comes under attack from ruthless pirates.
Where will Amelia’s frightening encounter end?

6000 words.

Over 18s only.

Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung


When Jenny Saunders is asked by a colleague to accompany him to a business dinner, a man she's had her eye on for years, she finds it impossible to say no.

But something happens on the way to the dinner that turns Jenny's world on its head.

Can Steve successfully show this virgin what she's been missing out on all these years?

Short story 6000 words.

Warning over 18s only.

Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung



Widow Cindy Short lost her husband two years ago and has been without a love interest ever since. But things are about to change. During the night-shift at a supermarket, a stranger tempts and teases her showing her exactly what she's been missing since her husband's death.

A short story of 5000 words.

Warning this is for +18s

Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung


If a stranger walked up to you in a bar and asked, "Fancy a slow comfortable screw?" What would your response be?

Read on to find out what Charlie did next.

A 5000 word short story.

Warning +18s only!


Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung


After her relationship falters, Melissa returns home to her parents only to discover that Tyler, the man she used to be involved with still has feelings for her.
But one thing stands in the way of them rekindling their romance. Tyler is engaged to another woman.
Melissa's troubles don't end there though. At a family barbecue, she has a creepy encounter with a dangerous admirer who doesn't understand the meaning of the word no.

Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung
Purchasing this collection of short stories means you get a 20% discount.
All titles are available as single stories.
Slow Comfortable Screw
If a stranger walked up to you in a bar and asked, "Fancy a slow comfortable screw?" What would your response be?

Read on to find out what Charlie did next.

A 5000 word short story.

Warning +18s only!

He Came By Night
Widow Cindy Short lost her husband two years ago and has been without a love interest ever since. But things are about to change. During the night-shift at a supermarket, a stranger tempts and teases her showing her exactly what she's been missing since her husband's death.

A short story of 5000 words.

Warning this is for +18s
The Virgin’s Tutor
When Jenny Saunders is asked by a colleague to accompany him to a business dinner, a man she's had her eye on for years, she finds it impossible to say no.

But something happens on the way to the dinner that turns Jenny's world on its head.

Can Steve successfully show this virgin what she's been missing out on all these years?

Short story 6000 words.

Warning over 18s only.

Amazon

Kurzbeschreibung


Sally can't think of anything more romantic than losing her virginity while sailing
the Caribbean. But all her plans go awry when the boat is hijacked by modern
day pirates, and the man she's with is unable to defend her.

Now Sally must decide how far she's willing to go to win her freedom.



An erotic thriller of 9000 words.
Over 18s only.

Amazon

Opening Lines - God Save The Queen

Got Books asked authors and readers to post an opening line to a book they were reading, writing or just to make something up. We had 21 entries. From there we were to combine those opening lines to create a story. Below is mine. The opening lines have been italicized, and I may have broken a few literary rules, but it was fun. The opening lines are posted at the end. Give it a try and have fun.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN

I love opening lines. They can tell you so much about what to expect, and many times give you a clue into the identity of the bad guy. As a homicide detective I’ve used that trick many times to profile a killer, robber or drug dealer. Often it worked, but not this time. Life was good before I met the monster. After, life was great, at least for a little while. The day I died started out bad and got worse in a hurry. The new super was demanding results or my badge. Some girls get flowers, I get a yard full of dead bodies. I shot a glance at my partner, Adam Shaw. “Throw me a line, Adam.”

“It was a dark and stormy night.” Adam growled, peering through the windshield. July had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August sky.

“Don’t be a smartass.“ I doodled on the blank page in front of me and flipped it over. “I need something original and spectacular.”

Damn! Adam thought. Just great! It’s getting dark and I have no idea where the hell I am! “What do you think of our new super?” Adam asked, abruptly changing the subject.

I snorted. “She’s so cold, I bet she poops out ice cubes.”

Adam laughed. “The bureaucrat fell from the sky.”

As usual, Adam’s mind never worked the way anyone expected. He jumped from subject to subject without laying the ground work for the change of topic. “What bureaucrat?”

“Your opening line.” Adam said, turning left down Crenshaw Avenue and pulling up in front of the two story brick ranch. Officers were stringing yellow tape from tree to tree, closing off the crime scene.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” Adam turned off the engine and opened the car door. “I count five bodies.”

“Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Death,” I muttered opening my door and climbing out. Winning the lottery wasn’t always a good thing. And for Rick Feldman it had turned out to be a nightmare. The stench of death was overwhelming. Of course, if the rumors were right he’d gotten what he deserved. Someone should have told those poor girls Rick Feldman is best admired from a distance—if you get too close, you might find some of your body parts missing.

I couldn’t quite suppress my satisfaction as I noticed the new super turning a delicate shade of green, one hand covering her mouth. Long after she moved on, she would remember the smells. My satisfaction was short-lived though. She spotted me and clomped her way across the crime scene destroying any usable evidence in her path.

“This is unacceptable, Sparks.”

I bit back the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue and stared at the toes of my shoes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you tell me what this means, or do I need to call in help?”

I raised my eyes and glanced at the sheet of paper she was waving in my face. Taking the sheet I read it quickly. When a burning is announced, the taverns off Smithfield order extra barrels of ale, but when the person to be executed is a woman and one of noble birth, the ale comes by the cartload.

Pulling out my notebook I found the first note the killer had left. Since King Garrick made Samael the province’s official god, Sundays in the saloon were always busy.Ale, saloons, Kings and women of noble birth. So far ten dead bodies, and these were the only clues. Bingo! God, I feel like such a jackass! “Isn’t Sarah McGinty visiting next week, ma’am, along with the Queen? I believe her father is known as the King of Ale. This could be a threat on her life or that of the Queen.”

The Super grabbed the paper from my hand and gave me a long, quizzical look. “I believe you’re acquainted with Detective Inspector Lorne Simpkins. She’ll be arriving this evening. I expect you to grant her every courtesy and share any and all information.”

I felt my fingers curling inwards, spine stiffening as I watched her walk away. How dare that bitch. I breathed deep, shook my hands to loosen them up and watched as Adam approached. He nodded toward the car and I followed, slamming the door behind me. “She’s calling in Simpkins.”

Adam gave me a slow, sensual smile and pushed my hair behind my right ear. “We had a good run, Sparkie. Time to pull up stakes and move on.”

“I can take care of Simpkins.”

Adam shook his head, started the car and glanced at the dash. “Got your opening line. The beer ran out at nine o’clock.”

It was three am. The dead hour. I felt washed out, but Simpkins looked like she’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. She’d arrived just after midnight and spent the next three hours grilling me while I slaved over a hot stove cooking for her. I lifted my wine glass and smiled at her. “You should be dead in about one hour, maybe less, “I said as I watched my dinner guest eat the dinner I had prepared for her.

Panic has a way of defining an individual. Her eyes widened slightly as realization sunk in and she pushed away from the table. “You poisoned me?”

“I believe the coroner’s report will show you died of natural causes. You should have taken better care of your heart, Lorne. Seems it just gave out on you in the middle of the night.” I refilled my wine glass and took a sip. “And even God can’t save the Queen.”

Never underestimate your enemy. The glass slipped from my hand as the first bullet struck just below my left rib cage knocking me backwards. The second bullet struck two inches higher.

Lorne Simpkins pulled out her cell phone and hit the programmed number. The phone was answered on the second ring.

“Superintendent Marsh.”

“Need an air evac medical team, ma’am. The crazy bitch poisoned me.” Lorne listened for a moment before heading for the door and her car. “What about Shaw?”

“Picked him up fifteen minutes ago. He’s singing like a parakeet.” Marsh said.

“That’s good news, ma’am. I’ll see you at the station.” Lorne closed the cell phone, and opened the car door and sat down. Marsh owed her one for this. As soon as she’d seen the names Candace Sparks and Adam Shaw she’d known exactly what they were up to. What she couldn’t figure out was why they’d used the same names. She’d been searching for them for ten years since the last attempt on the Queen’s life. What the bloody hell. Serial killers were a strange breed. Mistake or destiny, she’d take it.

At the sound of helicopter blades whirling in the distance, Detective Inspector Lorne Simpkins leaned over the steering wheel and peered at the sky. God Save the Queen.




Opening Lines

1) The beer ran out at nine o’clock.
2) Yea, though I walk through the Valley of Death
3) I feel like such a jackass!
4) Damn! Adam thought. Just great! It’s getting dark and I have no idea where the hell I am!
5) Since King Garrick made Samael the province’s official god, Sundays in the saloon were always busy.
6) July had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August sky.
7) Some girls get flowers, I get a yard full of dead people.
8) She’s so cold, I bet she poops out ice cubes.
9) The bureaucrat fell from the sky.
10) You should be dead in about one hour, maybe less,” I said as I watched my dinner guest eat the dinner I had prepared for her.
11) When a burning is announced, the taverns off Smithfield order extra barrels of ale, but when the person to be executed is a woman and one of noble birth, the ale comes by the cartload.”
12) Life was good before I met the monster. After, life was great, at least for a little while.
13) It was a dark and stormy night. . .
14) It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
15) The day I died started out bad and got worse in a hurry.
16) It was three am. The dead hour.
17) Panic has a way of defining an individual.
18) Long after she moved on, she would remember the smells.
19) Rick Feldman is best admired from a distance—if you get too close, you might find some of your body parts missing.
20) At the sound of helicopter blades whirling in the distance, Detective Inspector Lorne Simpkins leaned over the steering wheel and peered at the sky.
21) The stench of death was overwhelming.

#samplesunday Food To Die Smiling For

America has a new reality show. Can unknown Chef Carrie Thompson prepare 'Food To Die Smiling Food'

Short Story, flash fiction and some great recipes.


DAY ONE - BREAKFAST



Ian McGregor had chosen me.

The letter shook within my tightly clutched fingers. It didn't make sense. I wasn't some great chef with a million followers. I couldn't even get on Hell's Kitchen. My small International Cuisine restaurant was so far off the map that Google didn't even recognize me. So why would the notorious serial killer pick me to prepare his last meals?

Rolling my eyes toward heaven I grimaced and muttered. "You hate me don't you? You really, really hate me."

"Who hates you?" Sammi asked, shoving a cinnamon roll into her mouth.

"God hates me. And Ian McGregor is going to destroy me."

Sammi swallowed the roll, eyes growing huge. "Ian McGregor chose you?"

I nodded, holding out the damning letter.

"Woot!" Sammi screamed, doing her little happy dance. "We're in the money. We're in the money."

"Only if he dies smiling." I scowled, taking back the letter. "And in the last five years no one has died smiling."

Sammi stopped in mid hip roll, the seriousness of the situation sinking into the brain beneath all that blonde hair. "Ooh, crap."

"Yeah, ooh crap is right. All our work, money, everything will be lost. All he has to do is frown, burp or God forbid fart, and we're destroyed. And he's made it plain his intention is to kill me."

Sammi took the letter frowning as she read it again. "I don't get it."

"He killed his first two women in Ireland, and he wants an Irish breakfast. The second two in Italy, and he wants an Italian lunch, and the last two in Louisiana, so he's chosen a Cajun dinner. What's that say to you?"

Sammi grinned, breaking into song. "Memories, like the corners of my mind. . . ."

Flopping down on the sofa, a remembrance of our first and only month's profit, I sighed. "Better enjoy them. In three days or less, memories are all we'll have left."

A lot of people believed that just because Sammi was your typical California blonde, gorgeous beyond what any woman had a right to be, and with those honey gold locks, that she would be your typical 'dumb blonde'. In truth, she was brilliant, and her next words reinforced that beyond my wildest dreams.

"You're looking at this all wrong. They called him the 'Killer Food Date' because he always chose a restaurant employee, preferably a chef, and he always took them out to eat before he killed them. He's a sadistic, mentally unstable connoisseur serial killer. And what does every serial killer want?"

I shrugged, sinking into my misery, reading the letter again. "Dessert and he doesn't even tell me what country he wants it from."
Sammi started her little happy dance, again. "Memories. They want to remember and enjoy their killings. That's his dessert."

"Sammi, that's sick."

Sammi laughed and punched me on arm. "Carrie, you're so you. Get with the program. Of course it's sick. But all we have to do is find out what he ate on the majority of his "killer dates" and I guarantee you he'll die with a smile on his face."
Taking the letter, she scanned it again. "Tomorrow is breakfast. Let's see what we can find."

Pulling out the laptop she clicked away. "Easy as pie."

"Pie for breakfast?"

Sammi rolled her eyes. "Of course not silly, although that's not a bad idea. The restaurant owner said he had bread with some kind of cream spread and tea."

"What kind of bread?"

Sammi shrugged. "Doesn't say, but it was Irish bread. Can't be that many Irish breads, can there?"

"Dozens. What kind of spread?"

Sammi glanced at the article. "Doesn't say."

Great. Just great. All I had to do was pick the right bread, the right spread and pray. Of course, God hated me so prayer wasn't going to do much good. I was dead. My career over before anyone besides Ian McGregor even knew I existed.

"Wasn't your grandfather Irish?" Sammi cooed excitedly, still counting that imaginary money she saw falling from heaven.

My grandfather was Irish and I had some of grandma's recipes. "This could work," I mumbled, Sammi's excitement becoming contagious. "I need to grab grandma's recipes and start cooking."

Sammi nodded still rolling her hips in a happy dance and singing under her breath, "We're in the money. We're in the money."

I didn't have a clue who made up this silly death watch game, but after a long, sleepless night I had a real good feel for being on death row and waiting for the clock to count down. Glancing at my watch I loaded up the breakfast basket. Where the heck was Sammi? Shouldn't your best friend and business partner be here when they led you to the gallows? Three days. I had three days of this nightmarish hell. If I made it through today.

"Look what I bought you!" Sammi flounced into the room, long hair swaying. "You're going to be lovely."

"I am not wearing that hat." I shivered, glancing at the chef's outfit from hell.

"Oh, yes, you are!" Sammi pulled at my arms, shoving them into the jacket before pushing the hat down on my head and turning me towards the mirror. "See, lovely."

"I look like a buffoon," I stated, trying to pull off the hat as Sammi pushed and pulled, arranging it over my strawberry curls.

"You have to dress the part," Sammi stated, pushing a few stray curls under the hat.
I glanced at her hot pink mini. "So what about you?"

Sammi grinned mischievously. "I'm eye-candy. If the food doesn't make him smile, maybe the thoughts of slitting my throat will."

"Jesus, Sammi." I buttoned the coat, taking one last glance in the mirror.

Grabbing the basket, she examined the contents pulling out the jar of ice cold water. "Where's the tea?"

"We'll have to make it at the prison. You can't reheat Irish tea. Makes it taste bitter."

"No problem." Sammi took me by the arm, pulling and pushing me toward the door. "We have to make our way through the media, so let me do the talking."

"Media?" I squirmed under her intense gaze. "No one said anything about media."

Sammi didn't bother answering. Instead she pasted a radiant smile on her face and led me out into the glare of camera flashes and microphones shoved my way.

"Ms. Thompson, were you surprised when Mr. McGregor chose you?"

"Carrie, is it true you had an affair with Ian McGregor before he started killing women?"

"Is it true that Hell's Kitchen turned down your restaurant because it was beyond repair?"

The questions were fired at me from left and right. Sammi never lost her smile as she opened the limo door and pushed me inside, and with a swivel of her hips and show of long luscious legs climbed in beside me. "Ms. Thompson has no comments."

Pulling off the hat I tossed it on the seat beside me as the driver weaved his way through the media. "You should have let me answer them. Where do they get that stuff?"

Sammi shook her head. "They'll change their tune when this is all over. And they don't get it anywhere. They make it up."

The limo pulled through the prison gates and Sammi rearranged the hat on my head. "Now, show those pearly whites, and let's go make a killer smile."

"What you got for me for, sweetie?" McGregor posed the question to me, but his eyes were traveling up and down Sammi's body, a slow smile spreading across his handsome features.

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "We have a delicious Soda Bread with cream spread and tea." I placed the plate in front of him and poured the cup of tea. "I hope you enjoy it."

He raised an eyebrow, finally allowing his gaze to drift to my face. "Take off the hat."

Pulling the hat off, I pushed the curls back from my face.

"Aye. That's what I wanted to see. Those strawberry curls. My first date had strawberry curls, you know." He picked up a slice of bread covered in cream spread, bit off a huge chunk and washed it down with tea. "I like women with strawberry curls."

"Thank you," I whispered, glancing at Sammi who simply smiled and shrugged. What difference did it make what he liked as long as he smiled. The single film crew Warden Temperman had allowed inside the cafeteria was hanging on to every word, cameras honed in on McGregor's face.

"I'd like to see you in strawberry curls." McGregor turned his attention back to Sammi. "Think you could do that for me? We could do lunch tomorrow."
I felt Sammi stiffen by my side. This wasn't what we had expected. McGregor was up to something. The implication was clear. Sammi wore strawberry curls and he'd smile. If she didn't. . .

Sammi started to speak, but I cut her off. "I'm sorry, Mr. McGregor. Strawberry's not a good color on Sammi. I guess you'll be eating alone tomorrow."

Taking Sammi's arm I pulled her back toward the entrance. My career might be over, but I wasn't playing this lunatic's game.

We'd taken only a few steps when the camera crew went wild. "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, Chef Carrie Thompson has pulled off day one of our death watch contest by preparing Food to Die Smiling For."

I glanced back to find McGregor smiling from ear to ear holding a second piece of bread. Sammi was humming "we're in the money," and I could hear the prisoners in the background screaming and clapping. I met McGregor's gaze, noting the gleam in his eyes, slight nod of the head as he took a bite. He'd let me win day one, but tomorrow was a new challenge. He didn't think I was up to it. I smiled back, nodding just slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

McGregor laughed, shaking the chains that held him to the table. "I'll look forward to it."

#samplesunday Lessons From The Sparrow - A short story

Pulling the faded green sweater closer around my thin shoulders I shivered slightly. The office was cold. Perhaps Dr. Burgess had turned down the thermostat, hoping the cold would somehow distract me from the words he was saying. He was still talking, but my mind wandered away from him. Away from the cold office to another time. Another place.

"Did I ever tell you the story about the Sparrow, Dr. Burgess?"

"Ms. Caroll. . .no. No, you didn't."

I smiled at him across the desk top as my thoughts continued to wander back seventy two years.

# # #

"Mary Elizabeth!"

Mother's voice was shrill and the use of both names told me I was in deep trouble.

"What'd you do, Mary?" Jimmy Lee whispered, his eyes growing huge as only a six year old's can. Like me, he knew both names meant mom was really mad. Not just stand you in the corner mad, but really mad.

Standing outside my bedroom door I listened to mom mumbling to herself. "This child is going to be the death of me."

"Oh, no." I whispered glancing sideways at Jimmy Lee. "Bobber."

Opening the door I stepped inside, my gaze going to the shoe box in the middle of my bed. Mom stood on the opposite side of the room, hands on her hips, eyes glaring as her nostrils flared. Her flaming red hair, much like my own, seemed to stand on edge. Another indication her Irish temper was flaring out of control. Picking up the box I glanced at the tiny brown bird inside. His head was still bobbing up and down. He was still alive.

"He flew into the window." I stated, my own temper starting to flare. "We named him Bobber, because his head keeps bobbing up and down. See?"

I held the box out so she could look inside, believing that the sight of Bobber's little head going up and down would melt her heart, like it had melted mine.

"You know birds have lice and they carry disease. Now you take that bird outside right this minute and you bury it."

"Mom, he isn't dead yet!"

She sighed, jerking the bedspread from my rumpled bed. "Well, he's almost dead. Or at the very least he's dying. It'd be a kind thing for you to do, Mary Carroll."

"Would you bury me if I wasn't dead, mommy?" Jimmy Lee stared at her, eyes huge, face pale.

"Of course not, honey, but you're not a bird."

"God made the birds too, mom." I whispered, horrified that my own mother would contemplate such a thing. I watched as emotions flittered across her face. Anger, frustration, and finally acceptance. I knew I had her. She couldn't argue with God.

"Okay, but get it out of your room."

Grabbing Jimmy by the hand I took the box outside and placed drops of water along Bobber's tiny beak. He managed to swallow a few drops.

"Can we take him to the vet, Mary?"

"I don't think so, Jimmy. I don't have enough money."

"How much does it cost?"

"More than two dollars, and that's all I've got."

Jimmy glanced into the box, a huge tear clinging to the edge of his eyelashes. "Gosh, that's a lot."

The tiny head continued to bob up and down as if he had pounding headache. I could tell he was suffering.

"Mom's right, you know. I should probably go ahead and kill him." My voice quivered as hot tears ran down my face.

"If I were a man I'd do it for you."

Jimmy wiped at his own tears and I hugged him. "I know you would."

Forgetting about the lice and diseases I picked Bobber up in my hand and his head stopped bobbing. My closeness seemed to comfort him.

"You know the sparrow was the bird that stayed around Jesus when he was on the cross." I smiled at Jimmy as I sat down crossed legged on the grass.

"Really?" Jimmy asked, joining me in the grass.

"Yep. This is a very special bird."

Jimmy scooted closer and placed an arm around my shoulder. "He likes it when you hold him."

"Yeah, it seems to make him feel better. He knows he's not alone. " Sighing I stroked the small head. "Well, little bird it's up to you and God now. You have to choose. No one has the right to make that choice for you."

I held him until he stopped breathing. Jimmy and I buried him under the old oak tree in the front yard. We both felt good. Bobber didn't die alone, and he made the decision, not us. That moment set the pace for the next 72 years of my life. I'd learned a lot from that little sparrow.

# # #

"Ms. Carroll?"

Coming back to the present I reached across the desk and squeezed Dr. Burgess' hand gently. He was such a nice young man. Seemed like as I got older the doctors kept getting younger. And he seemed to be taking this so personally. Almost as if somehow my illness was his fault.

"Ms. Carroll, did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

Dr. Burgess sighed, standing up and coming around the desk. "Is there someone with you?"

"Why, yes. My granddaughter is in the waiting room."

"Would you mind waiting here just a minute? I'd like to talk with her."

I listened as they whispered outside the door. He was afraid I hadn't understood. I understood just fine. I was old, not senile. My cancer was growing at a rapid rate. Maybe six months, no longer.

"Grandma, are you ready to go home now?" Mary Carol, my namesake, looked at me through teary eyes.

"Yes, I'd like that." Grabbing my walker I stood up and started the slow process of making it from the office out the front door to the car.

Mary Carol was quiet all the way to the car and the short ride home. I knew she was hurting. Thinking about my death. My funeral. Well, I wasn't dead yet.

"How's art school?" I asked to break the silence.

"Oh, I don't know, Grandma. I was thinking of dropping out and coming home. Maybe it was all just a dream. I mean, there are too many great artists out there already."

"Did I ever tell you the story about the sparrow?"

Mary Carol grinned. "Yes, Grandma, you did. About a hundred times."

"Well, Mary Carol, you remember it. Don't you go burying things before they're dead. Not dreams and not people. Life is everlasting. People die and babies are born every day. Dreams never die. Unless you let them."

She looked at me thoughtfully. I knew for the first time the true meaning of the story had come out for her. Pulling into the driveway she parked the car and hugged me. "I won't forget, Grandma."

The old house looked comfortable. In my eighty years I'd lived many dreams there. The sparrow had taught me never to bury anything before it died. Not dreams, not people, not things. I snorted remembering the doctor's words. Six months, no longer. Made up my mind right then and there I'd live at least eight just to show him I could.

My gaze drifted to the ancient oak in the front yard. "Look, Mary Carol, the sparrows are nesting. We'll have babies soon."

Who Wants To Live Forever - Short Story

This story actually started out as something much different, but took a turn of its own. First draft, and I'm sure it needs some work, but I hope you enjoy it.

Who Wants To Live Forever

"I don't understand, Professor Crims, wouldn't it be better for you to make this assessment?"

Alexander Crims simply shook his head and patted me on the back. "You'll do fine. Just remember not to let him get too close. You're the best I've ever seen, Jamie. Get inside his mind. Find out what makes him tick, but most of all, find out where he put those poor girls."

I stared though the glass at Daniel Desario. It wasn't hard to understand why the girls went with him. The dark curly hair and deep blue eyes. That sexy smile with perfect white teeth. Not to mention a body that made even the oldest woman on the street stop and stare. He was an Adonis. The perfect male specimen. And he was a killer.

"Shouldn't I at least look over the file? Get a feel for his method and why he took these particular girls?"

Sergeant Ames stepped up beside us. "The less you know the more likely he is to open up to you. Talk about the girls and why he killed them. Where he put them."

I glanced back at Desario to find he was looking at me. Straight through the glass, right down to my soul. A shiver ran down my spine, quickly followed by guilt. It wasn't a shiver of fear, but instead a shiver of excitement. One of anticipation. Almost sexual in its intensity. Dear God, what was wrong with me. This man had killed six women, and five of the bodies were still missing.

Picking up my notebook, I took a deep breath and gave Crims and Ames my best "shame on you" look. I felt like a fly caught in the spider's web, waiting for the moment when the poison would enter my bloodstream and life as I knew it slip away. "I hope you know what you doing."

The sound of laughter filled the room when I stepped inside. "Now this is just too rich. I think I've died already and gone to heaven."

Desario's voice shocked me. It wasn't loud and boisterous as I'd expected. Instead it was soft and soothing, with a quiet melody I couldn't quite put my finger on. Much like the sound of birds on an early spring morning.

"Mr. Desario, I'm Dr. Jamie Worthington. I'll be doing your assessment for the court. "

"Have a seat, Jamie. "

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled out the chair. My name had rolled off his tongue with just a little emphasis on the "Ja". The way a lover whispers your name just before he pulls you close and claims your lips in a kiss to die for.

Shaking my head to clear the image that had already started my blood on a slow boil, I opened the notebook and quickly jotted down the date and time, conscious that although we appeared totally alone, at least two sets of eyes were watching our every move, listening to every word.

"They didn't tell you, did they?"

I glanced up from my notes, seemingly calm and in control. "Tell me what?"

"Why you were chosen."

"I assure you, Mr. Desario, I was chosen because of my skills. Nothing more. Nothing less." I spoke the words with a confidence I didn't feel. "Now, why don't you tell me about yourself."

The deep blue eyes darkened. "Why don't we skip the bullshit."

I met his gaze, swallowing hard. I was out of my league. I knew it, he knew it and I had a sneaky suspicion that Professor Crims and Sergeant Ames also knew it.

"So what would you like to talk about?"

Desario smiled, white teeth gleaming. "Ask me what you really want to know. I just might answer it."

The spider was getting closer. Breathing down my neck. "All right. Why did you kill Tabitha Mars?"

He sat back, fingers linked in front of him, eyes locked on my face. Totally at ease. His voice dropped an octave as his eyes darkened in memory.

"I liked to watch her sleep. I could sit for hours watching the soft rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed. The gentle curve of her hip under the sheet. The delicate shadows beneath those long eye lashes. She was an angel of perfection. And that's why I had to kill her."

Desario gave me a dazzling smile. "No one understands. Perfection lasts for such a short time. But I preserve it forever."

Jotting down "crazy, crazy, crazy" I kept my voice steady. "And the others?"
"They were all perfect. Their skin soft as silk beneath my fingers. Hair that smelled like roses. Lips that tasted like wine."

Every word was a caress, washing over me. His voice mesmerizing. His eyes tempting me to explore things I had only dreamed about. He leaned across the table. "I only took what they freely offered."

"You took their life. Was that freely offered?" I had to get back to the job. Back to control before I found myself forever lost inside those eyes, that voice. Before I begged him to take to me too.

"They will remain forever perfect. Forever beautiful. Forever loved. It's what they wanted. What they asked me for."

Closing my notebook I stood up. I'd heard and seen enough to know for sure, and to make my recommendation to the court. The rest was up to Desario. We still had no idea where the bodies of Stacy Newton, Amanda Scarsborough , Katherine James, Beth Turner and Jennifer Strange were. And I knew asking him was a waste of time. He'd never tell me. "Thank you, Mr. Desario. I think we're through."

I walked steadily toward the door, proud that my inner trembling seemed totally masked.

"I'd love to show them to you."

Startled I turned back to Desario. "You'd what?"

He smiled at me, eyes never leaving my face. "I can see you appreciate perfection. I'd like to show them to you. Perhaps then you'll understand why you were here."

I knew Sergeant Ames was watching through the two way mirror. I could almost feel the tension through the glass. Sitting back down I opened the notebook again. "All right. Tell me where they are."

Desario laughed. "I said I'd show them to you." He nodded toward the glass. "I'll even let them come along for the ride."

# # #

The road was long and winding, the house totally obscured by trees. It almost looked out of place, as if it had been transported here from another time. Old and beautiful in a classic Dark Shadows sort of way. No one had spoken since we left the jail. Professor Crims and Sergeant Ames now whispered from the back seat as a group of six armed officers exited the car behind us.

Desario looked at me, his blue eyes darkening to almost black. "Welcome to my home, Jamie."

It was clearly an invitation. One he expected me to smile and warmly acknowledge. His gaze lowered to my breasts, watching the gentle rise and fall setting off a tingling that quickly consumed me. Damn him. He knew his attraction, and he knew how to use it.

"Gentlemen, would you like to come in and meet my family? Perhaps you'll grace us with your presence for dinner."

Crims and Ames exchanged looks before exiting the car. "You try anything funny and the only dinner you'll be having is dirt." Ames slapped the pistol on his hip. "Nothing would make me happier than putting one right between your eyes."

Turning to his officers he signaled them to spread out and start searching the area. "Stay close together. This psycho may not have worked alone."

The night grew quiet. Too quiet. No birds. No crickets. We were in the country, there should have been crickets. Desario turned to me, his voice a mere whisper. "I'd love for you to be a part of my family, Jamie. Stay with me. You'll be loved as you've never been loved before. You'll never grow old. Never wrinkle. You can stay as perfect as you are right now, forever."

I found myself whispering as I answered him. "What do you mean? No one can stay young forever."

He turned his gaze toward the old mansion. "They will."

I followed his gaze as five of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen walked out of the mansion. They could have been sisters, but I knew they weren't. And each of them could have been my sister.

Desario chuckled. "Now you know why they chose you."

They'd used me as bait hoping that Desario wouldn't be able to resist seeing me beside the others. Mentally adding me to his collection. "They're not dead. You said you killed them."

"I took their life and gave them a new one. One where they'll always be perfect."

"You're. . ." I couldn't finish the sentence.

"It isn't what you think, Jamie. If they had left us alone Tabitha would have joined my family, and we would have left with no one the wiser. They interrupted us before the process was finished." He gazed out the window, watching the women approach. "I didn't force any of them to stay with me. I merely gave them a choice."

Ames had pulled his gun. Crims was cowering behind him. "You kill people. What kind of life would that be?"

"We kill in self-defense. They threatened my family. Wouldn't you kill to protect your family?"

I watched as the women disposed of Ames and Crims. I'd expected an eating frenzy or something horrible like I'd seen on the movies. Instead with two swift twists of the neck they dropped the bodies beside the car and stepped back waiting. His hand touched mine sending sparks up my forearm. "You can leave, live out your life, grow old and die." He cupped my chin, his lips close to mine. "Or you can stay with me and never grow old."

My hands moved slightly, one quickly blinking the car lights on and off, as the other reached for the wooden stake just inside my jacket. The sounds of swishing arrows filled the night as I stabbed the stake just below his rib cage and up into his heart. "Yes, Daniel, I would kill to protect my family."

The car door opened behind me and Matthew pulled me out running his hands over my neck, checking for wounds. "You scared the hell out of us."

"I had to be sure she wasn't here." I turned watching as my three younger brothers walked slowly out of the forest. Twins share a bond few people understood, and I could feel Jasmine's pull. For just a moment I'd wanted to join her. Share the world she lived in now. For just a moment.

"Okay, guys, let's clean it up. I heard there were some strange disappearances in Kentucky."

The Pickle Jar

I received this in an email. Sort of one of those chain letters that you're supposed to pass along. I found it so beautiful that I did want to share it, but not in the form of other emails that people felt compelled to send on to someone else. I'd love to know who wrote it, because it truly is a piece of my own past. Coby and I have our own Pickle Jar for the grandkids. Every night we empty our change into it, and when it's full we take it to the bank. Caitlynn loves to put money in the jar, and when she comes over and sees it we usually have to dig up some change for her. I hope you enjoy it.


The Pickle Jar

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on

the floor beside the dresser in my parents'

bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty

his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds

the coins made as they were dropped into the jar .. They


landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost

empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud

as the jar was filled..

I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar to admire

the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's

treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom

window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the

kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to

the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production..

Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were

placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would

look at me hopefully. 'Those coins are going to keep you

out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than

me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back.'

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled

coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier,

he would grin proudly.. 'These are for my son's college

fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me.'

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping

for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad

always got vanilla.. When the clerk at the ice cream

parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the

few coins nestled in his palm. 'When we get home,

we'll start filling the jar again.' He always let me drop

the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around

with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.

'You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and

quarters,' he said.. 'But you'll get there; I'll see to that.'

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued

to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer

when Dad got laid off from the mill,and Mama had to

serve dried beans several times a week, not a single

dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me,

pouring catsup over my beans to make them more

palatable, he became more determined than ever to

make a way out for me 'When you finish college, Son,'

he told me, his eyes glistening, 'You'll never have to

eat beans again - unless you want to.'

The years passed, and I finished college and took a

job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents,

I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that

the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose

and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside

the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad

was a man of few words: he never lectured me on the

values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The

pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more

eloquently than the most flowery of words could have

done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the

significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my

life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than

anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born,

we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom

and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns

cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper

softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. 'She probably

needs to be changed,' she said, carrying the baby into my

parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back

into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.

She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand

and leading me into the room. 'Look,' she said softly, her

eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.

To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed,

stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with

coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my

pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of

emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I

looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped

quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was

feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could

speak.

This truly touched my heart. Sometimes we are so busy

adding up our troubles that we forget to count our

blessings. Never underestimate the power of your actions.

With one small gesture you can change a person's life, for

better or for worse.

God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another

in some way. Look for GOOD in others.

The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or

touched - they must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller



- Happy moments, praise God.

- Difficult moments, seek God.

- Quiet moments, worship God.

- Painful moments, trust God.

- Every moment, thank God.

Homemade Candy--Cooking with Millie Crawford and Carl Jackson from The Jacody Ives Mysteries

I decided today that I was really in the mood for homemade candy, so I thought I'd invite two of my favorite Jacody Ives characters into the kitchen. Welcome, if you would, Millie Crawford and Carl Jackson. Two very old friends with lots of secrets, but you'll have to read the book to find those out. Of course, I had forgotten how cantankerous these two could get when placed in close proximity. I may live to regret my decision.

"Have you two decided on a recipe yet?"

Millie smiled at me sweetly, her grey eyes twinkling. "We're going to make Turtles for little Nikki, and the babies."

"Turtles!" Carl rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "I ain't making no da..."

*Smack*.

"You watch your language Carl Jackson. Little Nikki is in the other room."

Millie gave him a stern look, unconcerned by the darkening of the deep brown eyes. "We're making Turtles."

"Carl, why don't you take a cigarette break while Millie and I gather all the supplies?" I gently moved him toward the back door. "By the time you get back we'll be all set."

"Humph," Millie snorted behind me, "old coot needs to quit smoking 'fore they kill him."

Taking a deep breath I closed the door quickly, shutting off Carl's not so nice retort. "Now, Millie, you know Carl. He'll come around. We just have to make it look like we're having fun."

"Humph, be a lot more fun without him." Millie growled, opening cabinet doors and pulling out bowls. "Old coot needs to learn a little respect for his elders."

I stifled the giggle bubbling up inside my chest. Millie was only a month older than Carl, but she used that trump card every time she could. "Why don't you make him some of your special coffee. Nothing mellows Carl like a good cup of your coffee."

Millie reached for the pot a mischievous smile playing around her lips. "I was just thinking the same thing myself. Why the poor dear must be starving for a good cup of coffee after drinking that rotgut Miss Charity serves."

Uh, oh. Now that was a subject I truly did not want the two of them getting into. "Hand me the recipe and I'll start putting everything together."
Millie handed me a set of handwritten instructions. "Carl wrote them out, so I hope you can read it."

The back door opened and Carl strode back in. "Of course she can read it. Ain't like that chicken scratching of yours. Here give me that list."

"Millie's making you some fresh coffee, Carl. You know, the kind you like."

A slow grin spread over the wrinkled face. "With the good stuff in it?"
Millie nodded, reaching for her purse. "Best money can buy."

"Now you're talking." Carl turned back to me, list in hand. "You ready, girl?"

"Lead on."

Carl scowled at the list. "Need a cup and a half of flour, a half a teaspoon of soda, a fourth a teaspoon of salt, a half a cup of butter, an egg, a half a cup of brown sugar,. .."

"Firmly packed." Millie reminded him gently, as she poured a sizeable helping of bourbon into the coffee cup and topped it off with fresh brewed coffee. "And you need to slow down. She ain't got half the stuff you read off yet."

I could tell Carl really wanted to make some smart retort, but the delicious smell drifting his way kept his mouth closed. He wasn't going to take a chance on Millie not passing over that cup of coffee.

"Now, you drink this and Linda and I will finish getting things ready."

Taking the cup of coffee Carl breathed in the aroma and sighed. "You girls go right ahead."

Millie grabbed the list and quickly pulled all the ingredients together. I was beginning to think my presence wasn't really needed when Millie stopped in mid-stride and reached for another cup. "You look a little pale, honey. Let me fix you a cup of coffee."

"Uh, thanks, Millie, but just coffee, okay?"

"Humph, need more than that to put color in them cheeks."

Millie handed me the coffee. "Drink up. Loosen you up a little. You're way to uptight."

Uptight. That was an understatement. Sniffing the coffee I took a small sip. Just as I suspected Millie had poured in a generous dose of Kentucky Bourbon. It was good, though. I took another sip, savoring the taste. I really could start to like this. Problem was I couldn't hold my liquor. One stout drink and I'd start giggling like a school girl. Only two sips and I could already feel it.

"So, guys, are we gonna make candy?"

Carl sat back in his seat, reaching for a cigarette. "Cheaper to buy it at the store if you ask me."

I giggled. Uh, oh. "Yeah, but not as much fun. Come on, Carl, we can make the turtles."

"Told you, I ain't making no da…I ain't making no turtles. A man don't make turtles."

"Humph," Millie grumbled pouring herself a cup of fresh coffee and adding her special elixir. "A real man don't have to worry about such things. Why if Clarence was here he'd be right in there fixing them turtle shells."

I saw the smug smile on Millie's face out the corner of my eye, as I watched Carl sputter and stutter. Smart woman.

"Hand me them pecans. Anything that old codger can do I can do better."

I really couldn't resist. The song just sprang into my mind. "I can do anything better than you."

Carl raised an eyebrow and looked at my cup. Which surprisingly was empty. "Millie, how much bourbon did you put in that cup?"

Millie glanced up from her mixing. "Oh, dear. She drank it all already?"

"Yep, every last sip." Carl stated, taking the empty cup from my hand. "Don't think you need any more of this, honey. Why don't you just sit there quietly and we'll let you lick the frosting spoon."

*Hiccup*. "Okie, dokie."

Carl took the baking pan, greased it up good and grabbed the bag of pecans. "Rounded side up, right?"

Millie smiled at him. "One for the head, two for the back legs."

I sat, giggling occasionally as Carl lined up the pecans. "Don't look like a turtle to me. Have you got a picture of that? I bet it don't look like that."
Millie came to the table carrying a bowl of dough balls and bowl of egg whites. "Now you shush up. Carl, I think you done a great job, honey. Now all we have to do is form the bodies."

"Oh, goodie," I squeaked, popping a dough ball into my mouth. Which wasn't nearly as good as I'd thought it would be. Millie immediately moved the bowl out of my reach.

I figured I'd better be good or they wouldn't let me have any turtles. Sitting quietly except for an occasional giggle I watched as they dipped the balls into egg whites and pressed them into the nuts forming perfect little turtle bodies. "They're so cute."

Millie and Carl exchanged glances as Millie picked up the pan and headed for the oven. "Carl, why don't you pour Linda a cup of plain coffee."

"Only if I can make myself one that ain't plain." Carl joined her at the counter. "You think we can sober her up before the story closes out?"

Millie glanced my way and I gave her a big smile with a thumbs up. Shaking her head she turned back to the counter. "Don't look that way."

Carl placed the cup of coffee in front of me. "Drink up, honey. Otherwise I get to write the ending here, and you know how you hate it when I write the story."

Three cups of coffee later the turtles were cooling on a rack and Carl handed me the frosting spoon. "Here you go, honey. Just like I promised."

Unfortunately the smell didn't have quite the effect either of us had expected. Or maybe not the effect I had expected. "I don't feel so good. Would you two excuse me." I headed quickly for the bathroom.

"Works every time." Carl smiled at Millie, licking the spoon. "That sure is good, Mille. Don't nobody make chocolate frosting like you."

Millie smiled back. "Another cup of coffee?"

"Might as well. I don't think she's coming back."

Carl sipped his coffee watching as Millie coated each little turtle with chocolate. "They are kind of cute."

"Humph," Millie grunted. "Thought real men didn't make turtles?"

"Hush woman," Carl growled. "I'm thinking. I gotta close this thing out."

"Ain't no brainer there. Just tell them what you learned."

Carl looked around the room. "You ever wonder where they are, Millie?"

Millie licked chocolate from her finger and shook her head. "Everybody loves a good book. They're everywhere."

Taking a deep breath Carl stood up. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Today we learned two things." Laughing he took a sip of coffee. "First, Linda can't hold her liquor."

Taking another sip of coffee he tightened his jaw muscles, brown eyes turning charcoal. "And real men make turtles."

Draining the cup he headed for the counter. "And I think it's time a real man got to sample the fruits of his labor."

"Carl Jackson don't you touch my turtles."

"Your turtles! Dammit, woman, I made them turtles."

*Smack*.



Turtles

1 1/2 cup sifted flour 1 egg yolk
1/2 tsp. soda 1/4 tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp. salt 1/8 tsp. maple flavoring
1/2 cup butter or margarine pecan halves
1 egg 1 egg white
1/2 cup firmly packed brown sugar

Mix flour, soda and salt. Cream butter; gradually add sugar and cream well. Add egg and egg yolk; beat well. Blend in flavoring. Add dry ingredients gradually and mix thoroughly. Arrange pecan halves rounded side up in groups of three on greased baking sheet to resemble head and hind legs of turtles . Mold dough into balls by using rounded teaspoon of dough to each. Dip bottom into egg white and press into nuts. Bake at 350 for 10-12 minutes.

Chocolate Frosting for Turtles:

2 (2 oz.) squares chocolate 1 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1/4 cup milk 1 cup confectioners' sugar

Combine chocolate, milk and butter in top of double broiler. Heat over boiling water until chocolate melts; blend until smooth. Remove from heat and add powdered sugar. Beat until smooth and glossy. Frost turtles when cool.

SOME MORE GREAT HOMEMADE CANDIES

Chocolate Caramels

2 cups sugar 1 cup nuts (optional)
2 cups whipping cream 1 tsp. vanilla
2 1/2 squares semi-sweet chocolate

Keep back 1 cup of cream. Boil all other ingredients till firm ball stage. Slowly add 1 cup cream and boil again till very firm ball is formed in cold water. Boil at least 25 minutes. Grease large cookie sheet and pour. Cut when cool.

Peanut Butter Fudge

1/2 cup margarine 3/4 cup peanut butter
1 lb. light brown sugar 1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup milk 1 lb. confectioners' sugar

In medium saucepan melt margarine, stir in brown sugar and milk. Bring to a boil and stir for 2 minutes. Remove from heat, stir in peanut butter and vanilla. Mix in confectioners' sugar; beat with mixer until smooth. Spread into buttered 9 x 13 pan. Chill.

Peanut Brittle

2 cups sugar 1 Tbsp. butter
1 cup white corn syrup 1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup water 2 tsp. soda
1 lb. unsalted peanuts

Boil sugar, syrup and water until mixture spins a thread in cold water. About 11 minutes. Add peanuts and cook until mixture is caramelized - about 10 minutes. Stir in butter and vanilla. Add soda and stir quickly. Spread candy on large buttered cookie sheet. When cook break into pieces.

Butterscotch Balls

1 box powered sugar 1 cup coconut
1 cup chopped pecans 2 sticks margarine, melted
1/2 cup peanut butter 1-6oz pkg. butterscotch chips
1 tsp. vanilla 1/2 bar paraffin wax

Combine first 6 ingredients. Add margarine. Shape into balls. Melt butterscotch chips and paraffin. Dip balls into butterscotch mixture. Drop onto waxed paper.


Mocha Fudge

3/4 cup evaporated milk 1/4 cup oleo
3 Tbsp. instant coffee 1 pkg. semi-sweet chocolate morsels
2 1/2 cups sugar 1 tsp. vanilla
1 - 7 oz. jar marshmallow cream

In a 3-qt. saucepan, heat milk and stir in coffee to dissolve. Stir in sugar, marshmallow cream and butter. Bring to a boil stirring constantly and boil GENTLY over medium heat for 7 minutes. Remove from heat and beat in chocolate and vanilla until well blended. Pour into greased 8-in square pan. When cool, cut into 1 or 2 inch squares.

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.