Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Sunshine and Fireflies Mystery Book #5

Sunshine and Fireflies is a story set in late 1800 in Rural Mississippi. The story line continues into 1920”s and the great depression era. It covers the life of Emily a young girl who narrowly escapes death at the hands of her insane mother. Catherine joins the story as the school teacher who befriends Emily as she faces the jeers of her peers. Catherine soon finds herself drawn to Emily’s handsome father, who is still in love with his demented wife. It is a story of hate, love, death and survival in a family. It is a story inside a story that keeps you reading to see what lies ahead for young Emily and her family.

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Catherine took a step back, and looked deep into his steel blue eyes. She knew at this moment he did not love her nor did she love him. She admired him and liked him, but that wasn’t love. Even with that knowledge she knew Jim was a good man. He had proven that to her and every one who knew him. She knew all the things that he and his daughter had withstood before the reality that the marriage was hopeless. Catherine had been a widow too long not to want a man in her life again. But was she ready to chance her heart to a man who still loved his ex-wife, and maybe always would? She had to decide or risk spending the rest of her life alone like Window Jenkins or take a chance on love.

"Living Dolls" Mystery Book #4

“The Quaint town of Bar Haven sat perched beside the water. The light posts in the center of town were wrapped in candy can stripes. Festive decorations hung above the streets, and holiday decorations hung from some of the doors. Bar Haven was a lovely old fishing town, which over the years has had its face in many a visiting artists’ works.
Until a few years ago, children used to roam freely around the neighborhoods. The Bar Haven Elementary School, sat tucked safely behind its new high chain link fence, until now the children had no fears as they walked home alone. Today no children playing in or near the streets and mothers hold onto them tightly. Despite the new security, the children continue to disappear, and the town is irate and scared.
Detective Dave Turner spends all his waking time trying to solve these mysterious disappearances. He had searched all the areas that the leads had come from since last week. Once again, he had walked the streets. As with all the other times, he had come up empty. Not one sign of the last missing had been found, nothing new, at any of the many places he had gone. No clothes, no finger prints, no clues, just lead after useless lead. Dave is frustrated and exhausted over this case, the worse case ever. He feels tortured and engulf by it.”

Gloria Kenmare Grant was born and grew up in Mobile, Alabama, and attending school there at Semmes High School in Semmes, Al. She later attended Piedmont Community college in Morganton, NC. She has lived in the South all her life but enjoyed diversity in her fields of employment. This is Gloria’s third novel with PublishAmerica.

"I Like My Cooking On The Wild Side"

Gloria Kenmare Grant
"I Like My Cooking on the Wild Side," is written by Gloria Kenmare Grant, author of five mystery novels. Gloria grew up in the swamps just outside Mobile Alabama, in an area plentiful with wild life. Her family was rich in the ways of family, love and religion. But as most families in the 1940’s, they were poor in ways of finances. Wild meat was a family favorite; taught by a favorite Uncle to shoot, Gloria at an early age became an active hunter. Later Gloria lived in North Carolina and there she enjoyed Bear and Buffalo. Her love of the outdoors led her to bass fishing in the lakes of NC. Her Mama was always a great cook. She taught her girls to cook, nearly everything from the sea food of the Gulf to the things that lived in the swamps of Alabama.

Gloria Kenmare Grant's "I Like My Cooking On The Wild Side" is a book filled with recipes from alligator to wild boar. You will find bison to geese and seafood to plants. Learn about the animal and ways to ready it with marinades, and last how to cook it. There are also bits of wisdom and wits thrown though out the pages. Twelve years in the making, “I Like My Cooking On The Wild Side” is filled with recipes from all areas.
This Book is dedicated my Uncle Dirty Baby who put a rifle in my hands at the age of twelve. And to all the hunters in the world, and to my Mama and other ancestors who cooked most of the recipes in this book and to everyone who contributed to the gathering of these recipes. Check it out


Hate Moves In Book #3

“We all know that hate is an ugly word, but there are times when life deals you a hand so bad, you can‘t deal with it alone. That is when hate is all you have going for you. You wake up with it. Nurse it all day and when night comes, that same hate feeds your dreams.
Yes, you get to the point it feels right to hate. It feels good to plan all the different ways to inflict the same pain onto the person or persons who gave you this hate.”
This is what she meant about answering the questions; she was doing it almost the instance they popped in my head.
“Yes, it was given to you! You did not want it. You did nothing to earn it. Yet there it was in an instance. It can come anytime, morning, noon or night. It just walks right up to your front door. I know, because you see, that's what happened to me. For me it came at nine in the morning on that fourth day. It came with the man in the police car, wearing the dark blue uniform, with his hat in hand. He did not know he was bringing it. That is not why he came.
I remember when I had let him in the door. He did not look at me. I offered him a seat, he declined. I am sure he told me his name, but I do not remember it. He had just stood there looking at the floor. It was then he told me of finding her, saying how sorry he was for my lost. He said it so softly, I thought I for sure I had misunderstood him. In my mind, I can still see him, standing there. I think I knew why he came. I think he thought he came alone. But he did not, he bought hate with him.
He just stood there, as he fiddled with his hat, turning it around in his hand. He said again, he was sorry to have to be the one to tell me, that they had found her, but she was dead.
That was when hate first showed it’s self to me, and soon we would be on speaking terms. Yes, believe me, hate talks to you, you think at first it is you, your thoughts, but it is not. I am here to tell you, that it is hate, pure and simple. It talks; it starts out small and grows and grows. Like weeds taking over a garden, you pull one and three more take its place.
I look back and remember the poor man had just stood there as I screamed at him, that he was lying. Telling him over, and over , No, it can’t be! Asking, was they sure? Stating, someone was mistaken. It was someone else... until at last my voice trailed off.
He had stood there repeating, I am so sorry. Still staring at the floor, not wanting to look and see the hurt in my eyes or the hate.”
She paused for another sip of water, reached up and fiddled with the pearls around her neck.
“Then the man asked when her husband would be home. I told him late this afternoon or night, but only if he made the connections. He then said since her husband was not here, he would have to ask me to go to the morgue and identify the body. I had shaken my head no. How could they expect me to do that, I asked why?
Again, he said he was so sorry and he knew all this was awful for me, but he said it was procedure; a family member must do it. He had orders to wait for me and bring me down town to the morgue, but I should take my time. Take as long as I needed, he had said. He told me that the two detectives working on the case would meet us there; we would go when ever I was ready.”
She paused again and sat looking at her hands. Then she looked towards the doors, searching for the right words. She took a deep breath and said.
“I know for certain now, that is when hate came, because as I climbed the stairs to wash my face and get my coat, it went with me. It had watched as I had stood looking in the mirror wondering why. Why had this happened? What had I done that every thing I loved was taken away from me? It sat beside me on the bed as I hugged her picture to my chest, rocking and crying.
When at last I had run out of tears, I went back downstairs. The officer still stood by the door; it was as if he was stuck on the spot. I told him I was ready and let him help me into the patrol car. He had opened the door for me, waited for me to get in, and asked if I was comfortable.
Hate rode with me on the long quiet ride to the morgue. It was watching as I twisted the hankie in my hands. Then when the police car pulled up to the door, it made sure I saw the big muddy black van parked near by. The van sat there with its back door still open. It walked with me down the long white hall leading to the double doors. Listening as our feet made the clicks, clicks on the shiny black and white tile floor.
It grew bigger as the doors opened, bigger still as I saw the gurney in the center of the room. Lying on that gurney was a large black bag. There were three people waiting there, I recognized two of them as Detectives Gibbs and Hansen, who were assigned to the case.

"The Condemnation of Claymore Manor" Book 2

"The Condemnation of Claymore Manor"

Scotland was just a place they talked about when asked about their ancestry. Now, both doctors, Ronald and Robert Claymore, of Claymore Clinic in Ardmore, Oklahoma were being called there by the Attorney of Claymore Manor.
The telegram told them they were to come at once to Stirlingshire, Scotland to arrange for the internment of their dead cousin who had died.
His death was the same as all the Claymore men before him, who had dared to set foot on Scotland soil, strange, horrible, and unexplainable.
Ronald and Robert Claymore knew nothing of Manors and Lords and Ladies. Faced by a two hundred year old curse, they arrive on forbidden Scotland soil, to find answers to the strange and horrible death of the last of the Claymore’s of Scotland.

As with all of Scotland’s clans, the Claymore Clan had a dark history. The story went that all the Claymore men had always carried names that began with R, the most favorite being Robert.
Through history, there had been nineteen Robert Claymores.
The one thing that helped distinguish one from the other was that every one of them had the maiden name of his mother, as his middle name.
There were also stories of the many ghosts that roamed the halls of the manor.
Down in the village there were more stories of betrayals and curses...
This is such a story.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

A part of the Journal as grandmother hides from soldiers.

Soon after that I heard Daddy and Granny whispering in the house and then Daddy spent the next month digging a root cellar out back, not near the house but between the hay stack and the barn, he fixed the door to lock tight from the inside, you could not see it from the house or the barn.
When he finished he took me out to it and said, "Sarah, I want you to learn how to hide in this root cellar, should anyone come you must get in here and stay." At first I was full of questions, "Won't you and Granny be in it too?"
"Yes, if we have time, if not you must do it alone. I am depending on you to do it, promise?"
"I promise, Daddy, but…"
"No buts, you must just do it!"
He kept saying, "It's just in case. I am sure we will never need it but you grab a bit of food and a jug of water and high tail it in here if ever me or Granny tell you to and no arguments, you hear?"
"Yes Sir."
We practiced shutting the door just enough to get an arm out to spread the hay over it to conceal it.
The rest of the year went along with nothing happening. It was 1862 and I was turning nine soon. Daddy had promised this year I could have a party.
The weather had started turning cooler and Granny was feeling poorly. She was resting in her room. I busied myself in the kitchen. I had made her a tray and started up the stairs with it when I saw the soldiers coming through the field. There must have been about a hundred of them, maybe more, all wearing blue and carrying rifles with knifes sticking out of them.
I ran up the stairs yelling for Granny at the top of my lungs, my heart was pumping so hard I could hear it in my ears. Granny was up looking out the window when I burst into the room spilling her tray.
She grabbed me and told me "Go hide in the root cellar, locking the door the way you had been taught and not opening it no matter what you hear? Sarah, you must promise me you won't come out till it's safe."
Hugging me close she said, "Sarah child, you remember, when it has been quiet for a long time, peek out and see if it's safe to come out. If you can't find your dad, or me I want you to head for your uncles. Stay near the road south, keeping away from strangers until you arrive there."
"No, Granny, come with me." I was crying and yelling.
"Shh, Child I would never be fast enough, you must go now, Hurry."
"I love you, Granny" I hugged her tight.
"I love you to child, now go, but you must be quiet and hurry child. Don't forget your food and water. Please hurry!"
I took another look towards the field as I ran down the stairs. They were closer. I grabbed a loaf of bread and a jug of water as I passed the kitchen and ran for the cellar. As I closed the door and pulled the straw over it I heard a shot. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.
The darkness was unbearable as the door closed completely. I fumbled at the lock. I knew the candle was in the back of the small room, but for a long while I just sat on the steps holding my hands over my mouth…my dry mouth. It seemed as if all the moisture in my entire system had turned off. No amount of licking seemed to produce any moisture. Instead, each time I licked at my lips, it seemed I was licking chalk. I uncorked the jug and took a sip of the water. At long last I could swallow.
I heard noises above me. Shouting and running. I heard the chickens squawking and the cow's bell ring. I could only guess what they were doing up there. All the stories came back, "killing the chickens, stealing the horses, no telling what all they do to the women folk."
I thought of Granny, all alone. Surely no one could hurt Granny; she was so sweet and would not hurt a fly. What reason could anyone have to hurt her? She was harmless.
I thought of Daddy, he was in the fields working, He probably did not see them approach; I told myself, "Yes, that's it, Daddy is still working in the field, he will come soon and I can come out and every thing will be fine. Daddy will take care of every thing."
I whispered, "Please God, please let Daddy come for me"
The noises seemed to fade a bit and I crawled toward the candle. Daddy had tested to make sure no light shone from the outside, so I knew I could light the candle safely. Yet, I was shaking so badly I could not get the match to light. After a few more attempts the match flared. Finally as the small candle lit, its small flame illuminated a bit of the cellar. I took another drink from the water jug and at last I could swallow better.
I crawled over to the potato sacks on the floor and lay down. I was so tired and it seemed that I had been there for hours. I could not stop crying, I held my hand over my mouth trying not to sob.
I must have dozed because when I woke there were no noises over me. I decided to wait a bit longer to open the door and peep out.
I blew out the candle thinking I should save it, there's no telling how long I would have to stay down here. "Daddy will call me soon and I will open the door," I whispered into the darkness. "I will just wait on Daddy." I said my prayers and went back to sleep,
When I woke again, I lay and listened for any kind of noise, there was none. I was so very afraid as I opened the latch. When it made the click sound of unlocking, I did not remember it sounding so loud. I stop breathing, I was sure I would be heard.
Slowly I lifted the door only a crack, I was quietly talking to myself, "Slowly now, careful, easy does it."
I felt safer in the dark. I could not see the house, only the side of the barn and no one was there. Slowly I inched forward to where I could peep around the haystack. There were small fires everywhere. Men lay sleeping around them. They were still here.
I slowly inched my way back into the cellar, reaching out and pulling the hay back on top then locking the door, holding my breath as the lock made its click. I went back to my sacks and once again I softly cried myself to sleep.
Thus Sarah's Journey Begins:

"You Hear Me?: Miss Sarah's Civil War Journals"

Order on line at Publishamerica.com or Amazon.com.
Ask Book store to Order.
ISBN: 1-4137-8463-1,.
297 pages, 6 x 9

Book 1- "Can you Hear Me?" Reason for writing.

'Can You Hear Me? ' has a subtitle, "Miss Sarah's civil War Journal"

Years ago I as most people do got that I want to know where I came from itch. My fathers name was Kenmar, as far as I knew, but research and information proved he was really a Kenmare.

Oh, the marvelous tales I heard from different relatives. Some believed we came from Ireland. That was true, partially. In Truth we came from England. A few, including my family had went to Ireland.

I was told we had a town and a castle named after us, Kenmare Ireland. This proved completely untrue. There was the Duke of Kenmare but alas his real name was not Kenmare.

I made a trip, a unforgettable trip, to Ireland and located in the town of Kilkeel, the last of our family and walked the ground of the old Kenmare farm. It was there I would discover the story of England.

More determined, I started tracing the Kenmares as they arrived in America, finding my g-great grandfather had served in the American Revolution. They had worked at farming and timber cutters. Working on crews that supplied the lumber for many town from Wilmington,North Carolina, York, SC and towns in surrounding areas.

John Albert Kenmare, was the traveler. So when he and brother James at the ages of sixteen and seventeen, heard the adventitious tales of the west, they decided to travel west. It was told after they crossed a raging river, they somehow got separated. John told of searching for weeks. Afterward John went southward as James made his way on into Arkansas.

John married three times, his third wife , my great grand mother had him eleven children. She proved to be a hearty soul and she out lived him by many years. One of these children had inherited a small Journal that she had kept of her growing up amid the civil war. In her child like hand writing. I read of her fears, and the terror the children had faced. I knew I had to record as much of it as I could, so I started the Saga of Sarah. I researched each leg of her journey as she too had traveled from the Carolina's. Did she and John Know each other as children? I do not know. Her father had worked in some of the same crews as John's father. It is possible.

I began to write, seeing my grand mother in every page. A tiny wisp of a girl, only eight years old, forced to grow up to fast in a war her family did not support. So armed with the journal and years of research, I began to write a true fictional novel. All the facts and dates are true. I took liberties with the story. Thus I had a true fiction Book.


My first Baby, "Can You Hear Me," started out to be two books, but the publisher suggested I combine both books and make a longer book.