Pre-release sale!

Festival this Thursday!

Fall Book & Author Festival slated

ADA – Ada Writers Second Annual Fall Book and Author Festival will be Thursday, Sept. 18, 4:30-6:30 p.m. hosted by Karen’s Art and Farming, 108 East Main. The festival will feature books by local authors and “Creations 2014,” the latest anthology by Ada Writers.

“This is our chance to show our appreciation for the support we’ve received from Ada and the surrounding area,” said Stephen B. Bagley, Ada Writers president. “We will have a limited number of signed copies of ‘Creations 2014’ available.”

The anthology features short stories, poems, memoirs, and more by members of Ada Writers, including Kelley Benson, Eric Collier, Stacey Foster, Gail Henderson, Mel Hutt, Sterling Jacobs, Ken Lewis, Rick Litchfield, Don Perry, Martha Rhynes, James Sanders, Anna Tynsky, Joanne Verbridge, Tim Wilson, Tom Yarbrough, and Loretta Yin. Unsigned copies are available for purchase on Lulu, Amazon, and other online retailers.

“We will also be featuring books from our members,” Bagley said. Among the books offered will be “Floozy & Other Stories,” “Tales from Bethlehem,” “Murder by Dewey Decimal,” and “Murder by the Acre” by Stephen B. Bagley; “On Target: Devotions for Modern Life” by Kelley Benson; “Montana Sunshine” by Arlee Fairbanks; “Red Bird Woman” by Gail Henderson; “Devoted to Creating” by Jen Nipps; “The War Bride,” “Secret of the Pack Rat’s Nest,” “Jack London,” and “How to Write Scary Stories” by Martha Rhynes; and “Tree Stand Scribbles” and “Treasures of the Kingdom” by Tom Yarbrough. “The books range from mysteries to romance to biography to inspirational and more,” said Bagley.

Several members of Ada Writers will read from the various Creations anthologies, and original music will be provided by member Anna Tynsky. “We will have refreshments, of course, and plenty of good conversations about books and writing, and a few surprises,” Bagley said.

Ada Writers has been helping local authors with their writing goals for more than 25 years. The group meets the second and fourth Saturday of each month in the upstairs meeting room at the Ada Public Library at 11 a.m. Meeting times may be changed to accommodate holidays and bad weather. The meetings feature writing programs and tips aimed at beginners, professionals, and all those in between. For more information about Ada Writers, visit their website at www.adawriters.blogspot.com.

First Paragraphs from Blackbirds First Flight

Heir to the Warrior Queen

By Wendy Blanton

I gripped the sword hilt in the pre-dawn gloom as I stood watch overlooking the sleeping village of Londinium. It wasn’t much of a village from what I had been able to see. Small, unprotected. Why would the Romans leave their trade center unprotected?
         A small scraping sound preceded warmth on my shoulders. My mother fastened the cloak under my chin and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Her touch was the only one I could bear.
         "What are you still doing with that Roman sword, Scotta?"
         "I am going to kill Romans with it."

Read more in Blackbirds First Flight!

Robbing the House of Roche

By Kent Bass

He moved quickly through the crowded Parisian streets, keeping his head down, careful not to make eye contact with anyone, not to go any place familiar, not to give anyone a chance to recognize him. He knew he had to get out of the city and fast. He had hidden for two days and waited until tonight to come out. He had to be gone before the night ended.

         Etienne had always lived on the edge of society but always on the safe side of that edge. He never did anything that would draw attention to himself. He worked odd jobs and committed the occasional petty theft, but nothing serious.

Read more in Blackbirds First Flight!

Rage

By Gail Henderson

Nine o’clock.
         The book that had fascinated her at eight lay across her lap, face down, her hands rigid on its spine. Dark rage welled up inside her, filled her, and leaked out into the room, replacing wall-to-wall emptiness. With clenched teeth, she turned the book toward her face; her eyes straining to bring the words into focus, reading and re-reading the same paragraph, until, abruptly, she switched off the lamp next to her chair, placed the book on the end table, rose, and walked through the rage-dark room into the kitchen.
         She touched the light switch, illuminating a pan of cornbread and a pot roast cooling quietly on the stove and a few dirty dishes in the sink. Rage shrank back from her habit of orderliness. Rinsing out pans, wiping off counter tops already shiny dissipated her dark energy into apprehension. Nine o’clock was not so late. There might have been problems. Maybe a flat tire. He might not be able to call and tell her he was going to be late.
         What if there had been an accident?

Read more in Blackbirds First Flight!

Quin

By Jean Schara

Francois’s hand had been poised to open the door to his new employer when it opened, revealing a courtly gentleman decidedly out of place in this rundown industrial district.
         “Mr. Bergeron, I presume?” the man asked.
         “Yes. Please call me Francois.” He offered his hand for a hand-shake, hoping the gentleman would introduce himself, because he did not like being at a disadvantage.
         The man took his hand, guiding him into the building before releasing his grip and shutting the door behind them.

Read more in Blackbirds First Flight!

Grave Matters

By Stephen B. Bagley

The dead man on the blood-drenched bed had clearly seen better days. Justina Grave slowly approached the body. His heart had been cut out of his chest. Crow and raven feathers were scattered around the room along with other spell materials.
         “Charming,” she muttered. Her Nethersenses probed for signs of magic. She found many. Dark tendrils of energy hovered in the area, visible to any Mage. Something had fed on the victim’s life force and used that energy to power a spell.

Read more in Blackbirds First Flight!

Endorphins

By Tamara Siler Jones

Edyth stood in the shower, hot water thrumming on her aching head, the heat refusing to soothe her tortured soul. “I just can’t do this anymore,” she sighed through the steam. She scrubbed herself with a complete lack of enthusiasm, refusing to acknowledge her loose sagging stomach, her wide cellulite-dimpled thighs, jiggly arms, or her soft, jowly face. Still sighing, she finished her shower and turned off the heat.
          As Edyth toweled off, she told herself not to look in the mirror, but she sought out her shame anyway. She stared at her reflection, at the droops and rolls on the stranger staring back at her. The hideous person she had become gawked back, sickened disbelief carved into the fat. How did this happen? she asked herself. How did I become so ugly, so utterly repugnant? But maybe, just maybe, I’ve found a solution. Maybe my luck is about to change.

Read more in Blackbirds First Flight!

An Unattended Death, Part Three

An Unattended, Part Three

By Stephen B. Bagley

I ended up in the woods with a gun pointed at me as follows. Four days after Aaron Brody’s funeral, Ron Sims came to the station to record voice-overs on new public service announcements. Usually the PSAs were tapes of some kids driving fast in a car, and then you’d hear a young man shout, “Give me another beer!” You’d hear him open it, then there’d be a car crash. Then Ron would say, “The Ryton Police Department reminds you to not drink and drive.”

Our station manager set up Ron in the recording booth. As I walked down the hallway to deliver an advertising run to our programmer, I saw Ron behind the glass wall and remembered him being at the funeral and leaving so quickly. I was curious about that.

I delivered my run and then waited until Ron finished recording. I went in the booth and helped him pull the tape.

“So, how’s it going?” I asked, putting a new tape into the cart machine.

“Can’t complain,” Ron said. He looked tired. “You?”

“I would complain, but who would listen?”

He smiled and rubbed his eyes.

I equalized the levels on the tape and then said, “I saw you at Aaron Brody’s funeral.”

He looked at me, and I swear he became alert like a dog on point.

“Yes,” he said. “I was. What were you doing there? Did you know him?”

“No,” I said and explained about our sales manager.

He sighed. “I thought maybe you’d know something.”

I looked at him. “Is there something that someone should know about? I thought it was an accident. He overdosed.”

“Yeah, he had enough heroin in him to kill a herd of horses,” Ron said.

I laughed at his pun, thinking this was some of the dark humor that the police use to deal with the stress of their jobs.

He looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"Uh, I thought you made a pun," I said.

“Pun?”

"Uh ... Heroin was originally called ‘horse’ back in the sixties,” I said.

“Oh,” Ron said. “Okay. Funny.”

"Were you watching Aaron’s girlfriend?” I asked, ready to move on.

“That’s a curious question,” he said. “What do you know about her?”

“Nothing,” I said. “She made quite an entrance at the funeral. Everyone was talking about her. If half of what they say is true, wow.”

“More like two times what they say is true,” Ron said. “Marlene Postwain is rotten to the core and back.”

“Did she kill Aaron?” I asked. “Is that why you’re watching her?”

He looked at me and cocked his head. After a long pause, he said, “There’s nothing to say that it was a murder. No marks on his body like he had been forced to shoot up. He was an addict.” He shrugged.

“I thought he had stopped taking drugs,” I said. “Simon Williams told me that he had.”

“Addicts rarely make it the first or second or even third time they try to stop,” Ron said. “He finally fell off the wagon for the last time. Marlene says he’d been talking about how hard it was. She saw him drive off. Said he was upset at his father because the old man wouldn’t give him any more money. Brody says his son had asked him for a loan, but he turned him down. Probably that was enough to push him off the edge.”

“Then why are you watching Marlene?” I asked, sure that he was although he hadn’t said so.

“I have this feeling at the base of my neck,” Ron said. “Something’s not right, doesn’t fit.” He paused. “Maybe I’ve been watching too much TV.” He looked at me. “If you know something, you should tell me. If not, you should stay out of it.”

But I didn’t know anything and said so.

Ron left the station, but I kept thinking about Aaron and his death all that week. That Saturday, I decided to play detective. Yes, I was curious to the point of stupidity, but I wasn’t totally stupid. I didn’t want to go to a murder scene alone; I talked Thomas Owell into going with me.

I’d been friends with Thomas for years. He was a good guy, but divorced twice because he loved hunting more than his wives. He owned more guns than most army units. I suspect some of the guns weren’t strictly legal. Or maybe it is okay to hunt deer with a fully functional machine gun.

Aaron had been found in the woods near Watts Ridge. I didn’t know exactly where he’d been found, but since the newspaper article said the road was a dead end, I didn’t think we’d have much trouble.

Thomas drove us in his pickup. It had a strong, strange odor that at first I attributed to Thomas, but he explained that he had dropped a bottle of deer musk. I rolled down the window.

The road took lots of twists and turns, at first blacktop, and then gravel, and finally dirt ruts. I was completely lost and about to suggest to Thomas that we go back when the ruts ended.

“Over there,” Thomas said.

We got out of the pickup and walked toward fluttering yellow police tapes. The tapes had been attached to wooden stakes, but the wind had pulled it loose from a couple of them.

There wasn’t much to see. Just a patch of ground with some leaves on it and a few rocks and sticks.

Thomas was plainly disappointed. I don’t know what he expected, but he started looking for deer sign.

I started walking around the area in a spiral pattern, something I had read in a book or maybe seen on TV. After about fifteen minutes, I stopped and felt foolish. What exactly did I expect to find? The police had searched this area, and they were professionals.

I heard someone behind me. “Thomas, I’m ready to go,” I said, turning to face him, but it wasn’t Thomas.

At this point, the whole detective adventure stopped being interesting and became mighty scary. Leon Brody stood before me. He held a big black pistol.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Click here to read Part Three at Wry Words.

Book blurb

Here's the book blurb for Blackbirds First Flight:

An unhappy wife can’t decide what to do about her boorish husband until an uneaten meal gives her a dark idea...
Something is raising zombies in Tulsa, and Justina Grave is the only one who can stop it...
When a fat farm promises to make Edyth thin again, her dream comes true. She will never be fat again—or safe...
Hopping a freight train can be a cheap way to travel. Unless you pick the wrong boxcar...
One kiss gives Francois immortality, but at a cost he doesn't see coming...
A woman warrior must choose her fate as the Romans ravage her land...
Stalked by terrible creatures seeking vengeance, a band of robbers runs for their lives in medieval France...

This anthology will lead you into dark, twisted places filled with mystery and delight. Enjoy thrilling stories and chilling poems by authors Stephen B. Bagley, Kent Bass, Wendy Blanton, Gail Henderson, Tamara Siler Jones, and Jean Schara.

It goes on sale October 1st! Watch for it!