Pen Wars - Collab Challenge #1

Hi, everyone! It's Rinny.So I have something new and exciting today. As teased on the facebook page It's Pen Wars. For years I followed Liana Marcel an amazing artist/crafter on facebook. Recently she has revamped and is finally following her dreams of becoming an author. She is working on finalizing her first book 'Just Rose'. Anyway, we have been chatting and I after i read her writing challenge from last week. I was inspired and fancied trying one myself. It then snowballed and I thought it would be cool to do a collab style one. I spoke to Leanne and she was as excited and Pen Wars was born.

Leanne has already posted her fab story based on our created challenge. Click the image below to go read it and make sure you follow her. She really does have great posts and she is super talented.

also, check out her Facebook and Twitter

Pen Wars

So now to explain the Pen Wars Challenge.

It is a writing challenge, based on one single prompt that we both have to interpret in our own way. We decided upon a visual prompt rather than written and after much mulling, over images we settled on one that we both could work with. I would just like to mention I am not a writer, and have not done anything like this before. I hope you like my story, please comment your thoughts and if we inspire you show us your story.

Rules

• Aim to write 1,500 - 2,000 words max
• based on 1 prompt (this week is a visual prompt) 
• 1 writing session
• must include reference to the prompt
• NO prior planning
• No editing till the end and only minor. No story revisions

Prompt

**Disclaimer** Possibly not suitable for younger readers

No time for love

Brooke, pull yourself together, no one knows I kept chanting the mantra over and over in my head under the stares of the others.  They weren’t staring maliciously or even suspiciously and were even expected under normal circumstances. If only they knew the truth nothing about this situation was normal!  The worried, concerned looks of sympathy were only making me feel even more anxious, my stomach tying itself in knots, beads of nervous sweat running down my spine, as I tried to play my role. Perhaps I hadn’t helped myself, Perhaps I should have dressed up I mean jeans and a burgundy woollen jumper did not scream funeral never mind grieving girlfriend and my green parka jacket didn’t help matters more functional than formal, more discount mall than runway chic I thought. Fiddling with my grandmother’s ring, I imagined just what the good old folks of Mallowpine would be saying to each other Poor child, look at her, I think it has twisted her mind, awful business losing a love so young especially after so little time.  Her internal monologue continued warring with itself, a child! I’m twenty-one! Stuff them they don’t know the truth, they couldn’t see that although my grief was somewhat real, I wasn’t broken, I’d never be broken, I couldn’t allow myself to.

The bitter cold breeze sweeping the eerie graveyard broke through my thoughts blowing my blond curls back, huddling deeper into my jacket and gipping the dainty pink rose harder between my grasp relishing the pain from the thorns digging into my skin. Pain, I knew pain, better than most how it feels, how it works winding into your every being mind, body and soul and how to cause it. Focusing on the familiar feeling I forced myself to drag my attention back to what was happening around me, the people huddled solemnly, friends of the family and Logan. His family sat beside his future grave and his pale blue coffin, in various states of grief. Of course I stood alone, I didn’t blame them though they didn’t know it this was all my fault or really know me I had only moved here a couple of months ago, not that it mattered after what was coming next I would be moving on, another town, perhaps a different country the South of France is nice this time of year right?

 The reverend was just finishing up his sermon, when I finally managed to bring myself into the here and now.  The coffin was lowered by a group of Logan’s friends as his siblings comforted his parents, each holding the ropes with the same strength and their eyes all gathering shiny wet tears amongst their faces still in serious expressions.  People began moving forward to place their offerings into the open grave and say their final goodbyes.  A small moment of amusement breaking the tension when Jared, Logan’s mischievous best friend tipped in a basket full of marbles and toy soldiers, a nod to their private little joke. His siblings placed carefully drawn pictures, others carefully placing flowers or notes. His parents approached together leaning on each other for strength, silent tears ran down his mother Martha’s cheeks as together they gave their son their last gift his favorite red cap and the gold cross they had bought him for his now not upcoming birthday.  They paused as people began to disperse for the wake, saying their own goodbyes.  I hadn’t known them long but they were good people, they didn’t deserve this.

I waited wanting to respect their grief, staring at the ground. A hand touched my shoulder and I had to ignore my natural instincts to strike out. Looking up, I found myself staring into the grief ridden eyes of Martha.
‘ Honey, you okay? It’s your turn take your time. We’re all heading back for the wake now. We’ll see you there?’

I froze before replying choosing my words carefully ‘Um … thanks, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault ….. He loved you very much you know’ she said her voice full of sympathy

‘I loved him too’ I automatically replied in a whisper.

She smiled sadly, pulling me into a short but sweet hug before walking away to join her husband. I wished I could tell her; would it bring closure? Or just fear. She wouldn’t see me again; I wouldn’t be at the wake my night was already planned. I slowly walked forward aware of the bored men leaning on their shovel wanting to get the ‘job’ done and back to their warm homes where their families waited. Again my internal monologue spoke up You can do this, just get it over and done with, you were never made to love, you have bigger things to do.  It didn’t stop my breath quacking, my heart from hurting, grief rolled over me as tears ran down my cheeks soaking my jumper. This maybe wrong, this shouldn’t have happened but the emotions hitting me were real like a tidal wave they brought me to my knees. Losing all sense of time, I began sobbing, muttering for forgiveness, telling him how he was stupid but how I would always love him, he would never be forgotten. I had learned my lesson no one, will get this close to me again, no one will die for me again. I dropped the rose and pushed myself to my feet, turning I stalked off towards the woods where my home away from home awaited.

I had set up camp close to the edge of the graveyard, my trusty camouflage wind tent. It wasn’t ideal in this cold weather but better than being stuck in the guest house with its nosey old landlady and the pink flowery walls, so not me I grimaced at the thought, a few miles away. I grabbed my flask and hunkered down under the thin worn cream blanket I had brought along. It was going to be a long night and I was already weary. As minutes turned into hours and the sky began to darken, I praised the academy for its training. Nothing like being forced into dark rooms filled with obstacles over and over to get you as used to the dark, well as used to it as you can with human eyes. I no longer feared it, it comforted me like a cup of hot cocoa, it’s dark arms wrapped around me as if I was being embraced by a loved one. Thinking of the academy brought back flashbacks of training, hours of teachings and even more spent hunched over boring lore tombs. I had only been eleven when my mother had pulled her aside one evening to tell me the family ‘secret’, what I would become, the sacrifices I would have to make. For hours after I had sat still on the edge of my little bed in shock, the walls of my childhood home felt like they were closing in on me as my mother bustled around me gathering my things and packing them into my tiny suitcase as if I was going on holiday.  No such luck, I was being packed off to Steelbriar Academy where I would be trained, my skills honed and if I was ‘lucky’ become a member of The Krieger Society, a group of individuals born to the founding families through the generations who supposedly battled the monsters from my nightmares.

Unfortunately for me it was all true. I was a warrior whose main focus in life was meant to be vanquishing darkness. A reluctant warrior, I thought. I knew that what I was doing was important, honourable, just and well … needed. However, it was also dangerous, lonely and lately difficult. And the society was going to be pissed, I’d messed up big time. An innocent was harmed.

That single thought was like a wrecking ball crashing through my mental walls. Mental images flew past my mind’s eye. My phone call from my superior, the long road trip to Mallowpine, bumping into Logan in the local bar where she had picked up a couple of shifts. His intense blue eyes flecked with green, his dark cropped hair and tall frame blocking the way when a drunk had started causing trouble.  It had been sweet but laughable I mean me needing protection! I’d took down demons, werewolves, vampires and creatures that no one would even be able to process imagining. More images rushed through my mind, his relentless pursuing of me, me finally agreeing to a date thinking that I would botch it up so bad he would give up, our first date, more dates, first kiss and more all flashing through.

Then the last image, the worst the one I had kept locked away for the past few nights. Logan screaming, blood pouring from a wound in his neck while the blood from another poured into his throat. I heard my own screams echoing in my head. I saw myself rushing forward my weapon drawn, I could feel the fury rolling off me as my soul shattered the same time the monster broke his neck. Before Logan’s body hit the floor my stake drove home into the monster’s chest crunching its way through bone and muscle to the chamber where it’s heart should have been beating as the thing burst into flames and turned to dust.  Time flashed forward showing myself crouched over Logan, crying steeling myself for what had to happen next. I kissed his cheek, and closed his eyes and then went to work ripping his clothes hiding the distinctive marks making them look like they’d been caused by an animal. Then walking away feeling my heart break more as I left him to be found. It had to be done this way but it felt like a piece of me was dying.

My head snapped up breaking my train of thought. My instincts had kicked in. Straining my ears, I listened closely. I heard the familiar scraping and banging of flesh on wood. It was time. I got up picking up my hand carved stake, I started moving back towards the graveyard. Moving faster, trees hitting me in the face as I ran past as I heard the noise of dirt shifting. As I broke through the trees I saw a hand break the surface quickly followed by another and then he was pulling himself out the grave. My beautiful Logan his wounds healed, his beautiful features twisted into the face of my enemy and his once intense eyes now dark and dead of emotion. My breath left my chest, pausing for just a second before moving closer. He had now gathered himself to a standing position, he seemed to be scanning the area. His eyes settled on me.

‘Brooke? …. What’s going on? Why was I in a grave. This is Jared isn’t it. Come out you big loon. This isn’t funny. I … don’t feel right. What is going on?’ he sounded different his voice huskier and deeper.

My adrenalin kicked in and I withdrew into myself going on pilot mode. I moved up to him my arm behind my back.

‘It’s okay Baby everything’s going to be okay.’ I heard myself say in a sweet voice.

He reached out to embrace me and I moved solely based on my training and instinct, I raised my arm the stake shooting forward, catching him by surprise and as it hit home and his body turned to dust. The soft breeze carried him away and I whispered my voice breaking,

‘I love you.’

blog tour w/ giveaway & guest post: The Legend of the Pumpkin Thief by Charles Day

For Tour Schedule including posts that have excerpt & reviews click here

The Legend of the Pumpkin Thief by Charles Day

Publication Date: October 18, 2016

Publisher: Tantrum Books

As the townsfolk sleep, something creeps into the neighborhood. Hidden in shadows, its presence is as old as time itself, its intent not born of goodness.

Nick, a teenager who fancies himself a detective, wakes to find his carved masterpiece missing. Now a mystery is afoot, and Nick has his first assignment, to find out who or what is snatching up the town’s pumpkins and why.

Unfortunately, as with all great detectives, obstacles stand in Nick’s way—the neighborhood bully and his cronies, and the strange old lady and her dog who share the run-down house at the end of Nick’s block. As Nick investigates, an urban legend unravels . . . .

The Legend of The Pumpkin Thief.

Nick fears the legend as he embarks on the most dangerous adventure of his young life. Collecting clues, getting ever closer to the true nature of evil, he learns that curiosity comes with a high price.

Links 

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Guest Post

Please welcome Charles Day! :) We asked Charles to discuss : Why do you think Urban Legends are so interesting and appealable to individuals of all ages? Thank you, Charles for taking the time to do a guest post for us and we wish you the best of luck with your new release.

Charles's post : 

I think they’re interesting because they have this sort of grab to them. You want to believe that they are true. Like the legend of Lake Ronkonkoma, where legend has it that a young Indian woman who drowned after her father killed her lover because he was from another tribe, she vowed to take down a male every year. And the truth is that every couple of years, a man does indeed drown in that lake. I mean, that’s creepy to me.

In my book The Legend of The Pumpkin Thief, I really had a ton of fun creating an urban legend that all the characters have to deal with, including old Mr’s Needlewhitter.

Thank you for having me, and hope you enjoy my creepy Halloween tale.

About the Author

Charles Day is the Horror Writer Association’s Mentor Program Chairperson, Co-Chair for the NY/LI Chapter, and a member of the HWA Library committee. He is also a member of the New England Horror Writers Association, the American Library Association, and the Young Adult Library Services Association.

He is also the Bram Stoker Award® nominated author of the YA novel, THE LEGEND OF THE PUMPKIN THIEF. He’s also published his first adult novel DEEP WITHIN and the first book in his Adventures of Kyle McGerrt trilogy, a YA western heroic fantasy, THE HUNT FOR THE GHOULISH BARTENDER, and his first coauthored novel with Mark Taylor, REDEMPTION

His forthcoming publications and projects in development for 2014 include a comic book series

based on the ADVENTURES OF KYLE McGERRT trilogy, his first middle grade series, THE

UNDERDWELLERS, and his third YA novel, IMMORTAL FAMILY.

On the publishing business side of things, Charles is the owner of Day Media and Publishing in New York, which houses the successful imprints, Evil Jester Press, Evil Jester Comics, and Hidden Thoughts Press (mental wellness collections,)

He’s also an artist and illustrator, who is passionate about creating the many characters he’s brought to life in his published, or soon to be published works. You can find out more about his upcoming writing projects, check out his illustrations and art, or find out what he’s cooking up next with that evil dudeinthebox, the evil Jester, by visiting his Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/charles.day.92

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

Giveaway

Contest ends November 4, 2016 (not run by opinionated cupcakes)

• One (1) winner will receive a scrabble tile book cover charm (US ONLY)
• Five (5) winners will receive a digital copy of The Legend of the Pumpkin Thief by Charles Day (INT)

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Let us know your thoughts below and links t follow Opinionated Cupcakes are below too! We love comment make our day

Blog Tour with Excerpt & Giveaway: All Laced Up By Erin Fletcher

Click for:  Tour Schedule (and discover some guest posts, interviews, reviews and fab blogs)

All Laced Up by Erin Fletcher

Publication Date:  October 10, 2016

Publisher:  Entangled Teen Crush

BLURB

Everyone loves hockey superstar Pierce Miller. Everyone except Lia Bailey.

When the two are forced to teach a skating class to save the rink, Lia’s not sure she’ll survive the pressure of Nationals and Pierce’s ego. Not only can’t he remember her name, he signed her bottle of water like she was one of his groupies. Ugh.

But if there’s one thing Lia knows better than figure skating, it’s hockey. Hoping to take his ego down a notch—or seven—she logs into his team website under an anonymous name to give him pointers on his less-than-stellar playing.

Turns out, Pierce isn’t arrogant at all. And they have a lot in common. Too bad he’s falling for the anonymous girl online. No matter how much fun they’re starting to have in real life, she’s afraid he’s going to choose fake-Lia over the real one…

Disclaimer: This book contains a swoony hockey player (and his equally swoony friends!), one-too-many social media accounts, kisses that’ll melt ice, and a secret identity that might not be so secret after all…

BOOK LINKS

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Excerpt

Chapter One

Lia

I had taught young skaters before, but somehow I didn’t think “Zamboni avoidance” was covered in

basic skills class.

I skated toward the hulking machine that should have been re-surfacing the rough ice. Instead, it sat

in the middle of the rink with its ancient hood hanging open, innards revealed.

“Mr. Kozlov?” I called, my voice echoing through the cold air of the empty rink.

“The Lia Bailey?” a voice called back from somewhere near the engine.

The Lia Bailey. He always preceded my name with the specifying article. Like I was someone. “It’s me.What’s going on?”

Mr. Kozlov’s head and shoulders popped up behind the exposed engine. As usual, his white hair stood in seventeen different directions. Something black—grease, maybe?—covered his left temple, next to his bushy white eyebrows and kind blue eyes. “Old Bessie. She’s sick.”

Each Zamboni at The Ice House was named after a large animal, real or otherwise: Bessie, Shamu,

Dumbo. I could never keep them straight, but Mr. Kozlov always did. “How bad is it?” I asked.

He disappeared back under the hood with some clanking sounds. “Don’t know. Try to start her.”

I carefully pulled myself up onto the machine using elbows and knees so I didn’t have to step on

anything with my exposed skate blades. I put one hand on the key in the ignition. “Now?”

“Now.”

I turned the key, but all I received in response were some slow, mechanical grunts. Nothing about the

grunts sounded encouraging.

Mr. Kozlov’s head appeared again, the frown on his face accentuating his wrinkles.

“Maybe you should call someone to come look at it,” I said.

He waved off the idea as if it were preposterous. “Takes too much money.”

“But you’ll have money after this workshop, right? That’s the whole point?”

“Yes! And then I fix the heat in the boys’ locker room! Or the roof in rink two, you know, where we

put buckets every time it rains? Or maybe the scoreboard in rink three!” He laughs. “They complain

the visiting team’s score is eight. Always eight. I tell them eight is a good score in hockey, no?”

I was starting to think this ten-week workshop he’d asked me to teach needed to be more like ten

years to pay for everything that needed to be fixed. When he’d mentioned the idea for the workshop,

I’d volunteered right away. I’d do whatever it took to save the rink that was as much my home as my

house. “What are we going to do about the kids? Is either one of the other rinks free at ten?”

“Hockey in both,” came the muffled reply along with more clanking.

That was a good sign. The ice arena needed to stay busy on Saturday mornings during hockey season

to keep the place afloat. But it didn’t help my current predicament. I was about to have a bunch of

tiny new skaters on the ice who presumably wouldn’t be able to steer around Bessie or stop before

crashing into her. If Mr. Kozlov couldn’t afford a scoreboard, he definitely couldn’t afford a lawsuit.

“Don’t you worry,” Mr. Kozlov said, “Bessie will be fixed before kids arrive.”

Thankfully, he sounded more confident than I felt. “How many kids are you expecting?”

“Twenty-two!”

There was no way I heard that right. The last time we talked about the workshop, there were five kids

registered with the possibility of a sixth. “I’m sorry, how many?”

“Twenty-two little skate cadets,” he confirmed, like it was no big deal. “Try the engine again, please.”

I didn’t move, frozen in place by the impossibility of single-handedly pointing forty-four skates in the

right direction and wiping twenty-two runny noses. “I thought you said there were going to be six!”

He just laughed. “The Lia Bailey! Turn the key, please.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told. From the sound of it, Bessie was just as reluctant as I was.

Mr. Kozlov popped his head back out for a second. “Don’t you worry. Not twenty-two by yourself. You have a co-teacher.”

It never failed to amaze me that Mr. Kozlov could memorize rink schedules and the past hundred

years of hockey history, but couldn’t remember to tell me things like the fact that I had a co-teacher

for the workshop I thought I was teaching on my own. “Who’s teaching with me?”

“Ah-ha!” Mr. Kozlov sounded thrilled about whatever he’d just discovered under Bessie’s hood.

“Problem fixed. Try her again.”

“Who am I teaching with? Mackenzie?” Mackenzie and I weren’t close friends—we didn’t have many classes together and only occasionally saw each other at the rink—but it might be fun teaching with her. If nothing else, she could handle eleven of the kids.

Mr. Kozlov slammed Bessie’s hood shut with a confidence that suggested whatever he’d done had

solved the problem. “Mackenzie’s skates aren’t dull enough,” he said, as if that were an explanation.

“Not Mackenzie. Start Bessie’s engine!” When I didn’t do as he asked, he shooed me off the seat, back onto the ice where I came from. “Your co-teacher is Pierce,” he said. Then he started Bessie’s engine, letting out an enthusiastic whoop as she purred to life.

I blanched. Pierce. There was only one Pierce I knew. It couldn’t be him. Under no circumstances

could I spend the next ten weeks teaching with the Pierce I knew. “Wait, Pierce? Pierce Miller?” I

asked, but Bessie’s engine was too loud, and Mr. Kozlov was already halfway down the rink,

occasionally checking the ice behind him to make sure it was smooth.

I struggled to remember the last time I’d been forced to interact with Pierce Miller. Since he advanced from Troy Preparatory Academy’s hockey team to USA Hockey’s National Team Development Program, I’d seen a lot less of him. Less at the rink because his new team practiced at an ice arena in Plymouth, a few cities over, and less at school because of his travel schedule with the team.

And when I did see him? Pierce was very good at not giving me the time of day.

The last interaction I had with him was at the rink shortly after he’d secured his place on the NTDP

team. A gaggle of hockey players and their parents had stuck around after Pierce’s practice to get his

autograph. Everyone in the city of Troy knew Pierce was going to be The Next Big Thing in hockey and teenage athlete celebrities. But when I walked into the rink for my practice while his crowd of adoring fans was walking out, Pierce must have thought I had been left behind.

“Oh, I missed one?” he asked, Sharpie still in hand. He grabbed my water bottle, signed a signature

too perfect to be anything other than practiced, and handed it back. When he smiled at me, he

somehow managed to do it without even looking at me. “Gotta run,” he said, “but thanks for the

support!”

No acknowledgment that we’d shared the same ice rink for most of our lives. No recognition that

we’d had two classes together freshman year. No noticing that I might be headed to practice of my

own and just wanted something to drink.

I’d tossed the water bottle in the trash and spent my practice annoyed and thirsty.

After that, I did my best to stay away from Pierce, even if ignoring him completely was impossible. It

wasn’t enough that he was popular at school and the local ice arenas, but a few news outlets had

grabbed hold of his YouTube channel, mostly his greatest hockey hits and the video equivalent of

selfies, and turned him into a web celeb. A few professional teams were already showing interest in

him. A model-perfect guy with endless charm and enough talent to attract the scouts could rule the

world. Or at least his corner of the world, which was unfortunate, because it was a corner of the

world I was apparently destined to share.

As Mr. Kozlov finished the final pass over the ice, I skated over to the Zamboni bay. “You didn’t mean Pierce Miller, did you?” I asked as soon as he cut off the engine.

Mr. Kozlov started shoveling away the small pile of ice the machine left behind. “Yes! Champion figure skater, champion hockey player, perfect team to teach future Olympians.”

Oh no. “You marketed it that way, didn’t you? That’s how you got the numbers from five to

twenty-two?”

Mr. Kozlov set the shovel aside and smiled at me. He had definitely taken a puck or two to the nose

when he was younger, if the curvature was any indication. But his smile was straight and wide.

“Perhaps.” He started closing the Zamboni bay doors.

“I’m not a figure-skating champion.”

“Local champion. Regional champion. Champion.”

Mr. Kozlov closed the other door and started walking around the outside of the ice. I followed along,

letting my skates slide effortlessly across the smooth surface. I raised my voice a little so he could hear me over the rink’s half wall. “Not at senior level. Not at nationals. Not a champion that counts.”

Mr. Kozlov stopped walking, reached over, and pointed at me, pressing one finger hard enough

against the glass to turn his finger completely white. “The Lia Bailey, you count. Senior or national or

not. You count.”

My cheeks warmed. He believed in me more than I believed in myself. Mr. Kozlov continued walking, and I glanced up at the clock on the scoreboard. Several of the tiny round bulbs were burned out, but it was clearly nine forty-five. Fifteen minutes before the workshop was scheduled to start. I reached the rink’s exit and slipped on my blade guards before stepping off the ice. “Can’t I just teach the workshop by myself?”

Mr. Kozlov handed me a clipboard with some papers and a pen. “What is wrong with Pierce Miller?”

I bit back the “he’s an arrogant jerk who will be a terrible influence on anyone under the age of ten”

response that wanted to roll off my tongue. “Nothing. I just think I could do a better job on my own.”

An abandoned water bottle lay on one of the benches near the bleachers. Mr. Kozlov deposited it in

the garbage can. “He is best hockey player at this rink. Best to teach kids’ hockey.”

“I know,” I said, because it was true. Pierce was the best candidate. But that still didn’t mean I wanted to teach with him. “It’s just that he…he’s not…”

“Ah,” Mr. Kozlov said. “You don’t like him.”

If I said yes, I would sound immature, like I was in first grade and Pierce had cooties. I wasn’t

altogether sure that he didn’t have cooties, but I shook my head. “I just don’t know how well he’s

going to do with kids.” The smooth cover was also true. Mr. Kozlov would have to listen to that.

Instead, he patted my shoulder. “Pierce will be fine. Give him a chance.”

I glanced up at the clock again. There was a chance he wouldn’t even show up. That would be like

him. But as appealing as that possibility was, I’d have to handle all twenty-two kids on my own. My

knees wobbled at the thought.

When the doors to the arena lobby swung open to reveal a tiny girl with her mom carrying the world’s tiniest, most adorable figure skates, I clutched my clipboard.

Never in a million years did I think I’d say it, but I needed Pierce Miller.

Even though it was cold in the rink, sweat was beading on the back of my neck. Pierce hadn’t shown

up, but all twenty-two of the kids had. Twenty-one of them were currently lined up against the wall,

waiting for the workshop to start. However, I couldn’t get started because the twenty-second child, a

tiny five-year-old named Olivia, would not stop crying.

Olivia had weak ankles and seemingly zero balance. She’d fallen the second her blades hit the ice. She fell again while trying to get up. She fell while holding onto the wall. She fell while moving. She fell while standing still. 

And each time she fell, she cried a little harder.

Now, I was holding Olivia up on the ice on her wobbly ankles and trying to soothe her. The little girl

wasn’t injured, just frustrated. If I let her get off the ice now, chances were good she’d never step

back onto it again. If the tears would stop for just a few minutes, I would be able to help get her feet

under her and we could go from there. But either one of those tasks would take individual attention I

didn’t have time to give.

“Olivia, please stop crying and I’ll help you, okay? I’m not going to let go until you’re ready, but you

have to stop crying so I can talk to the other kids.”

Apparently Olivia interpreted this to mean “scream at the top of your lungs.” I was about to resort to

bribery in the form of candy from the snack bar when another skater hopped on the ice from the far

door. I glanced up and relief flooded my limbs.

Pierce was here after all.

“Sorry I’m late.” He skated over and came to a hockey stop just a foot or two away from me, sending a spray of ice shavings everywhere. All over me. All over Olivia. All over the closest four or five kids on the wall. He brushed a few of them off, seemingly unsure of what to do with his hands when he got to me. “Er…sorry.”

“Whoa,” one of the older kids said. “I want to learn how to do that.”

Olivia stopped crying. Twenty-one jaws dropped open, but mine wasn’t one of them. No, I was too

busy gawking. You’d think I’d never seen him before, but whoa. Pierce was hot. Possibly hotter than

the last time I’d seen him. Tall with light brown hair and a body that showed just how much he

worked out. Hazel eyes with more green than brown. Something about his jaw made him seem older

than he actually was.

But then he had to use that jaw to open his mouth.

“It’s Mia, right?”

Four years at the same school and the same rink and he could only get 66 percent of the letters in my

name correct? “Lia. With an L.”

Olivia started whimpering, so I hushed her in what I hoped was a soothing way.

“Lia,” Pierce echoed. He didn’t bother introducing himself, as if everyone knew who he was. Which

they did, but still.

“You’re Pierce Miller,” said one of the older boys who was wearing a hockey helmet way too big for

his head. “My dad says you’re going to play for the Red Wings.”

Pierce turned toward the row of young skaters, as if noticing them for the first time. “I hope so, little

man.”

“I saw you on YouTube!” one of the girls said. Though her outfit was predominately pink, she was

wearing a tiny pair of hockey skates.

I was so distracted by the kids’ hero-worship that Olivia slipped out of my grasp, fell, and started

crying again.

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” I said as I picked the little girl up and struggled to set her on her skate blades again. The muscles in my back were starting to protest being stooped over for so long.

“I want to skate!” one of the kids said.

“Yeah,” another echoed.

The start of a riot. Crap. Like it or not, I was going to have to ask Pierce for help. “Look, you can either take her,” I said, nodding to Olivia, “or—”

Before I could finish the other option, Pierce scooped Olivia up and settled her against his hip, her

skates hanging down toward his knees. Instantly, her tears stopped.

“Olivia, is it?” Pierce asked. “‘Atta girl. You’re okay.”

That wasn’t what I had wanted him to do. Picking her up was just as bad as taking her off the ice. Now he wouldn’t be able to put her down, and when he did, she’d just fall or start crying again. But there was nothing I could do about that now, and I had the rest of the kids to worry about.

“Okay, everyone. I want you to let go of the wall and step out in front of you, just like you’re walking,” I said. One of the kids fell and knocked two others down, but the rest stayed on their feet. “Good job, guys! Now pick up your feet, one at a time.”

The kids went back and forth across the rink like that, sometimes falling, always crashing into the

hockey boards both because they didn’t know how to stop and because it was hilarious enough to

cause a fit of laughter every single time. Once they mastered walking, they started pushing off with

each foot and gliding, picking up a little speed. I grabbed push bars for the few kids who fell the most, but the others seemed okay.

Every once in a while, I glanced over at Pierce and Olivia. He carried her in his arms for a few minutes, and then put her back down on the ice with his hands supporting her under her armpits. Surprisingly, there were no tears. He skated around the rink with her like that for a while. I got distracted while trying to teach the kids forward swizzles, and the next time I looked over, Olivia was on her own; still weak-ankled and wobbly, but not falling. Even better, she was smiling.

Not that Pierce would have noticed. Now that his hands were free, his phone was out of his pocket,

and he was frantically typing something with his thumbs. He was smiling, too.

Texting a girl, maybe?

“Straight to the Olympics with this one,” he said without looking up from his phone as they skated by

me and the rest of the group.

“I want to go to the Olympics!” one of the little girls yelled right before falling on her butt.

“Me too,” another girl said before tripping over the first.

“Okay, okay.” I helped both of them back to their feet. “Swizzles first. Olympics second.” And

apparently not at all if Pierce was their teacher. But I kept that comment to myself. I glanced up at the

clock on the scoreboard. Not nearly enough time had passed. I was already more exhausted than if I’d

run a long program full-out four times in a row.

It was going to be a long ten weeks.

About the Author

Erin is a young adult author from North Carolina. She is a morning person who does most of her writing before sunrise, while drinking excessive quantities of coffee. She believes flip-flops qualify as year-round footwear, and would spend every day at the beach if she could. She has a bachelor's degree in mathematics, which is almost never useful when writing books.

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Release Blitz: Nameless by Jennifer Jenkins (Excerpt & Giveaway)

 

Happy Release Day to

Nameless by Jennifer Jenkins!!

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Happy Book Birthday, Jennifer!

Did you know that NAMELESS is in development for film by Benderspink! That’s the same company who optioned Victoria Aveyard’s Red Queen and produced the I AM NUMBER FOUR film!

 

Four clans have been at war for centuries: the Kodiak, the Raven, the Wolf and the Ram. Through brutal war tactics, the Ram have dominated the region, inflicting death and destruction on their neighbors.

Seventeen-year-old Zo is a Wolf and a Healer who volunteers to infiltrate the Ram as a spy on behalf of the allied clans. She offers herself as a Ram slave, joining the people who are called the “nameless.” Hers is a suicide mission – Zo’s despair after losing her parents in a Ram raid has left her seeking both revenge and an end to her own misery. But after her younger sister follows her into Rams Gate, Zo must find a way to survive her dangerous mission and keep her sister safe.

What she doesn’t expect to find is the friendship of a young Ram whose life she saves, the confusing feelings she develops for a Ram soldier, and an underground nameless insurrection. Zo learns that revenge, loyalty and love are more complicated than she ever imagined in the first installment of this two-book series.

Amazon | B&N | BAM | Chapters | Indiebound | Kobo | TBD | Google Play | iBooks

 

 

With her degree in History and Secondary Education, Jennifer had every intention of teaching teens to love George Washington and appreciate the finer points of ancient battle stratagem. (Seriously, she’s obsessed with ancient warfare.) However, life had different plans in store when the writing began. As a proud member of Writers Cubed, and a co-founder of the Teen Author Boot Camp, she feels blessed to be able to fulfill both her ambition to work with teens as well as write Young Adult fiction.

Jennifer has three children who are experts at naming her characters, one loving, supportive husband, a dog with little-man syndrome, and three chickens (of whom she is secretly afraid).

Visit her online at jajenkins.com

Connect with the Author: Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads | Pinterest |Instagram


Excerpt

“Go ahead and do it.” Zo’s legs buckled beneath her.

Gryphon let her sink to her knees on the cold earth.

“You can throw my body into the river when you’re done.”

The Allies watched the river. Someone would know Tess was

alone. Commander Laden would send a team to retrieve her.

The Ram would move south and the Wolves, with the help

of the Allies, would be prepared to fight. Tess would be free

before the end of this year.

She would.

Joshua joined Zo on the ground and put an arm around her.

“Don’t worry, Zo. Gryphon’s not going to kill you.”

Joshua looked up at Gryphon for reassurance.

“The chief will want to question her.” Gryphon frowned.

“But I’ll speak for her, Joshua.”

“You’ll speak for her?” Joshua jumped to his feet. He had

to crane his neck to meet Gryphon’s cold eyes. “You’ll speak

for her!” He shoved him in the chest with both hands. Gryphon

didn’t even sway from the contact. Joshua pushed him again and

again until his shoving turned to full-on punching. Gryphon just

stood there and took it, watching Zo with a hollow expression.

They all knew what would happen if Gryphon took her back.

Zo couldn’t stand it any longer. “Joshua, stop.” She used

a low tree branch to help her stand. The muscles in her back

throbbed from Gryphon’s rough handling. “I can speak for

myself.”

The poor kid dropped to the ground. His head hung between

his knees, he grabbed two fistfuls of his own red hair.

Zo stepped toward Gryphon. “Send the boy away. For his

own sake.” Zo was in no position to make demands, but the

prospect of losing her life made her bold. She wouldn’t be a

victim any longer.

Gryphon studied her through the curtain of his dark hair.

“He has a right to stay.”

Zo stepped closer until their toes almost touched and the

smoke of her breath reached his dimpled cheek. Her voice

barely carried over the sound of the river. “Kill me here. Don’t

hand me over to the chief’s guards.” The image of the Gate

Master entered her mind. “Please.” Her bright blue eyes met

his. The time for submission had passed.

Gryphon shook his head, his jaw set.

“What?” She shoved him. “Too much of a coward to do the

job yourself? Aren’t you a Ram?” She had to get him angry.

No one would know to help Tess if Zo’s body didn’t end up in

that river.

Gryphon tensed.

Joshua got up from the ground and put a hand on his

mentor’s chest while looking at Zo. “That wasn’t a great thing

to say,” he forced a whisper through his teeth. “I think you

should let me do the negotiating from now on.”

Gryphon pushed Joshua’s hand away. The wrap around his

wounded shoulder was dark with fresh blood. The bandage

needed replacing. “Why did you come to the Gate when you

knew we kill your kind?” he asked.

Zo chose her words carefully. Tess’ life depended upon

them. “Why are you so convinced I’m a Wolf?”

“The Wolf I captured had that same mark on his shoulder.”

Zo opened her mouth to speak but no words came. The

mark of the Allies was a well-kept secret. She wouldn’t be the

one to divulge it. “The waxing moon is a common symbol of

hope. I’m surprised you’ve never seen it before.”

“You look like a Wolf too.” Gryphon’s face colored and he

looked away.

Zo sighed inwardly. It always came back to her cursed face.

“Either kill me or don’t. Nothing I say will sway you.” She

folded her arms and showed him her back. It was the ultimate

sign of disrespect inside the Gate. She braced herself, ready

for him to strike her, but nothing happened.

A lifetime passed before she heard the crunch of his

approaching footsteps.

Gryphon walked around to face her. This was it. Tonight

she would join her parents on the other side of this cruel life.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Please let Tess

be safe. Please let her not mourn my death. Let Commander

Laden find her.

Warm hands clamped down on her tied wrists.

Zo’s eyes shot open and all of her fears raced back in one

swift, agonizing moment: torture, no body for Laden’s men to

find, Tess alone, the Gate Master. “No, no. Don’t take me back

there. Please!” her voice slipped and cracked. “Please! I’ll do

anything! Just don’t take me to the Gate Master!”

Gryphon pressed the blade of his short sword to her neck. “I

don’t trust you, Wolf,” he whispered. “If you ever do anything

to harm my people, I swear I will end your life in a way that

will make you regret ever surviving this night.”

Joshua ran up and hugged Gryphon. “Thank you! Thank

you!”

Gryphon yanked the band from her wrists and walked away,

leaving Joshua and Zo to stare at his back in the moonlight.

Zo sunk to her knees. “I don’t believe it.” She held her

unbound hands to her cheeks, her jaw hung slack.

Joshua put an arm around her. “Welcome to the family, Zo.

I think he likes you.”

 

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