Now Available in #Audio — Her General in Gray by @LNightingale #books #bookstagram

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Title Her General in Gray – Audio Release

Author Linda Nightingale

Genre Paranormal Romance

Publisher  The Wild Rose Press

Book Blurb

Autumn Hartley purchases Allen Hall at a steal, but the northern lass gets far more than a beautiful plantation in the South Carolina Low Country. The house comes complete with its own ghost, a handsome and charming Civil War General—for the Confederacy. The stage is set for another civil conflict.

John Sibley Allen died in battle from a wound in the back, the bullet fired by the turncoat, Beauregard Dudley. The traitor’s reincarnation is Autumn the Interloper’s first dinner guest. Sib bedevils her date and annoys her with fleeting, phantom touches, certain he can frighten her away as he did previous purchasers. As time marches on, her resident ghost becomes more appealing while her suitor, Beau, pales in comparison. Autumn finds her ability to love didn’t perish in…

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January Book Bash!

Check out another awesome reader find! It’s the January book bash! Snag your FREE copy of my sweet romance short story, Seeking Catherine today!

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Dangerous Women: A Lesson from the Serengeti

Today, we welcome author Robb T. White and his Dangerous Women:

When I put this collection of 11 stories together about women characters, I knew I was facing a dearth of candidates who might fit happily into an Amish quilting bee or prayer circle of nuns telling their rosary beads.  The principle of selection wasn’t just gender but an ability for a woman or girl to hold her own against some pretty cunning or depraved male antagonists.  She must prove herself capable in very dire circumstances to qualify.

Regina “Baby” Frontanetta, in the first story, is a Youngstown boxer-turned-gumshoe whose first case is almost her last.  She must out-think (even out-fight) males that range from her chauvinist pig boss through a violent lowlife (we Midwesterners do love that word) to a wealthy suburban businessman. Baby possesses more than grit and focus; she has integrity, far more than her trainer-brother Gennaro.  The final story, “Huffer Girl,” features a similar type only much younger and less experienced than Baby despite her recent life on the street and an addiction to huffing paint.  Opposed by a determined, professional killer, Natalie doesn’t run when all her instincts scream to do just that if she wants to survive the next twenty-four hours.

The longest story in the collection is “Finding Sandy Biggers.” Sandy is the object of a manhunt—not by police but by a betrayed partner, an amiable psychopath who relentlessly pursues her across the country. Unlike the other women, Sandy doesn’t appear to be the focus until the end when the reader discovers what she’s done with the money since betraying her partners in crime. The indifferent narrator could not care less, of course, because his aim is simple:  Find her, kill her.  The reader is left to contemplate a human being’s capacity to change, even one so desperate as Sandy Biggers.  Not many characters—or people—get that chance in fiction or life, and it’s interesting when it happens.

Now we come to what will surely not please the reader who desires her or his female characters to be interchangeable with two-dimensional males—or worse, super-females. Some readers, I realize, want their women characters to be self-reliant but also self-effacing, smart but not too smart, even-tempered but not docile when challenged by men.  I hope we can fast-forward to the reality of contemporary life and accept the fact, begrudgingly or not, that women can be as vicious and cunning as men, as greedy and wicked, or as able to outfox a man as another man, especially when that intended target has instincts as honed to survival as a Norwegian rat’s.  It was important to me not to provide my dangerous women with soft males, albeit one such male so describes himself after his own undoing in “Diana’s Perfect Patsy.” Men addicted to crime or men whose personalities have been shaped by a predilection for evil should not be taken advantage of too easily.  Even “normal” men, not so criminally inclined, knowing a little power or success in the world shouldn’t be easily duped; nonetheless, a couple of trusting husbands and at least one boyfriend of a pair of unscrupulous twins will come to rue that weakness when their hour comes round at last.

Yes, evil. Why not?  We don’t have a female equivalent to Hannibal Lecter yet but someday we will and she won’t be a cartoony creature of Disney’s like Cruella de Vil but a terrifying equal to that bizarrely wonderful creation of Thomas Harris. In the meantime, I modestly offer a selection here—not a bevy of beauties, although the lap dancer in “My Gypsy Girl from Bluefield” and the trophy wife in “Her Ticket to Heaven” don’t hesitate to use what nature endowed.  These women include ordinary women or girls, wives, girlfriends, students, so ordinary no one would notice them on the street. I acknowledge the inclusion of the stereotypical golddigger as well as a few women depraved enough to take a life (or three) while betraying hubbie or boyfriend on the side. After all, sex isn’t the only game in town.  There’s money—and there’s the sheer pleasure of revenge and getting away with it.  The arrogant narrator of “Blackmail Is My Business” discovers a criminal con job far superior to his own specialty.

For every cop-show viewer who feels a little sorry for the housewife entrapped by a vice cop acting as hit man when she clumsily plots to kill her husband, I humbly present a counterbalance of women who know how to do it right.  These women can lie, cheat, steal, kill, betray and seek revenge for harms inflicted or damages perceived by the males in their lives—or sometimes, not at all, just for the sheer fun of doing it. Men have enjoyed a monopoly too long on violence, and it’s time women come in for their share of the fun—vicariously speaking, of course. After all, every nature program about the Serengeti features lionesses, not lions, on the hunt, providing the food, and protecting the pride from hyenas or other male lions while the alpha male sleeps soundly beneath a bush and wakes up for the food or fornication provided by the females.  My caveat to the reader who yet insists on the traditional stereotypes and might be shocked when good girls commit murder, I refer them to the warning embedded in the subtitle: Stories of Crime, Mystery, and Mayhem.

Author’s Bio:

Under the names Terry White, Robert White, and Robb T. White, Robert White has published dozens of crime, noir, and hardboiled short stories, and three hardboiled private-eye novels.  A lifelong reader of crime fiction, he published his first story in Gary Lovisi’s Hardboiled magazine. Since then, he has published several dozen crime stories, and a collection of mainstream stories in 2013. An ebook crime novel, “Special Collections,” won the New Rivers Electronic Book Competition in 2014.

White was born, raised, and continues to live in Ashtabula, Ohio.

More about Robb at:


Weaker sex?  Not hardly!

The female is definitely deadlier than the mail.  Short stories about ladies who can hold their own.


Be careful what you wish for, Regina.

Her mother’s words. Sometimes she could hear her mother’s voice in the house.

The Vindicator piece on Bodycomb’s death was two paragraphs.

He was found floating in Lake Milton, a popular summer resort area for fisherman seventeen miles east of Austintown just off the Interstate 80 overpass. Shot by a small-caliber weapon in the back of the head. The important information was in the second paragraph: Bodycomb, it noted, was running a dog-fighting network among three states: Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia for a loose-knit West Virginia crime family connected to the Pittsburgh LaRizzo family.

Damn you, Leo.

She was blowing through caution lights, ignoring the honking of cars, as she beelined for the office on Market.

Like a script from a cheap thriller, he was there, wearing the same clothes and unshaven, big jowls dark with stubble, pong of body odor in the overheated single room.

“You promised me full disclosure, total honesty,” she said.

She threw the paper across his desk.

“Here it is in case you missed it.”

Be calm, Regina, she told herself. She wasn’t going to lose her temper and a new job in that order.

“I did and I meant it, Baby,” Leo said.

He glanced at the paper sideways and pushed it back to her. He’d obviously read it.

“You asked me—no, you demanded I call somebody. I did,” he said.

He disgusted her with those wagging jowls and big stomach. She noticed his belt was undone and a patch of curly belly hair exposed.

Probably jerking off in here, the freak.

“I suppose you’ll tell me when the mood strikes.”

“I meant the second case—your next case,” Leo said. “Full disclosure, just like you want.”

Her indignation petered out at the prospect. “So tell me about it,” she said.

Bodycomb was moving in on Donnie Bracca’s territory with his dog-fighting, Leo said.

“He can kill all the dogs he wants in West Virginia,” Leo said. “But Donnie B. controls gambling around here.”

“Donnie Bracca was your real client all the time,” Baby said.

“It’s like this, kid. They don’t blow each other up in cars no more. Gentlemen’s agreements, all nice and polite. But rules have to be followed. Bodycomb went rogue.”

She bit back a retort: You mean, like your own father?

Leo went on, waxing large, a hopeless Mafioso lover, although a real mafia man, a made man, could see Leo couldn’t be trusted. But even the Aryan Brotherhood used outside associates to get things done. Leo could be useful if you couldn’t buy a cop or scare off an investigative reporter snooping in shady politics or business deals.

She didn’t feel bad about Bodycomb’s death. After all, she’d wanted to kill the guy herself.

“Damn it, Leo,” she said. “You should have told me this in the beginning.”Baby moved in the direction Bodycomb’s vehicle had taken. After A couple of hundred yards through meadow grass up to her knees, she stopped and listened. Moving on, she dodged stunted bushes that popped up out of nowhere to snag her clothing. The foliage grew less dense. She found the parallel ruts of the Road Runner’s tracks and kept moving, straining her eyes to see light ahead. If Bodycomb was hiding assets from his soon-to-be ex-wife, he was taking a lot of trouble over it.

After five minutes of faster walking in the grooves, she heard barking coming from the right. She saw the first glimmer of light in the distance. The terrain was sparse but small slopes refracted the light source so it appeared and disappeared with every rise of the ground. A single dog barking became two, then three and finally a pack. Beneath their howls, men’s voices.

When she got close enough to make out words, she lay flat on her belly and put the binoculars on a cluster of men beside a ramshackle barn surrounded by cages of dogs in the beds of trucks beside a squared string of light bulbs a dozen feet from the ground. It looked like a crude boxing ring for backyard brawlers.

Its purpose became clear in the next few minutes. It was a dog-fighting pit.

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Overbys Move from Augusta, Georgia to Newton, Mississippi Beverly Hillbilly Style. 1955

The summer before I was to begin sixth grade Daddy decided to go back to school. (I wrote about this earlier.)  We were headed to college! My younger sister, brother, and I began the school year in Augusta, since Daddy didn’t have to be in Newton for weeks and we had no place to live there yet. I loved school and I loved that school and my friends. We would have had to move in a month, anyway, since Daddy no longer worked for the Augusta Arsenal as a truck driver. He loaded  the ’50 Ford he had bought from one of Mama’s brothers after a wreck, and I do a wreck, and drove 500 miles away to find us a house on or near the Clark Junior College  campus.

Three days later he arrived back home with news he had found a place for us. After a night at home with us, Daddy bought a rusty looking trailer. As soon as he had it repaired and painted he built sides for it with wood slats. He loaded that trailer with furniture and took it to Newton.  We had no idea about the place he had chosen, but our things were headed there. After several trips my parents took us to stay with my aunt Dot and Uncle Earl so Mama could help empty the little house we had called home and move more to Mississippi.

On the last trip that trailer arrived at my aunt’s house loaded, with my brother’s tricycle and my bicycle tied on one side. Our oilcloth table cloths covered the mattresses on top. We were on a tight budget that didn’t allow for buying canvas covers. Aunt Dot made the picnic food for the trip that would take us many miles from Augusta and Mama’s family and our little dog, Lady. We couldn’t take her with us this time. She had traveled on vacations, but she couldn’t go this time. I don’t remember why.

Maybe  next time I’ll tell you about Mama and what a fine woman she was.

If you like short reads and anthologies, this one is a steal!

This book is a steal at $2.99 and just in time for Valentine’s Day!.

A collection of short stories of romance and second chances at love. Welcome to Cupid’s Bow, Georgia, a small town with its own magic. Nine authors share their stories of new found love, magical love and love lost but found again. The magic of Cupid’s Bow brings each couple love to last a lifetime and beyond. This project if filled with Southern voices and Southern charm, pull up a chair and sit on the porch for a spell as our authors weave their romantic tales.

One 5 star review!

I won this Awesome Book! This is a wonderful way to read several Beautiful Loving stories About a Beautiful Town “Cupid’s Bow Georgia and the Different People that are in the Stories ! I Loved it so Much I can’t wait to read the next Anthology !!!

#MFRWauthor or #MFRWorg in the tweet

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An Excerpt from A Portuguese Christmas

One of the last chapters in my sweet romance novella, A Portuguese Christmas, explores Christmas Eve traditions in Portugal.
Krystal, the heroine, is a professional surfer. Adolfo, the hero, is a Portuguese olive farmer. Veronica, Krystal’s cousin, married a Portuguese man and resides in Portugal. Aunt Edite is their elderly aunt and a professional artist.


Krystal layered boiled, sliced potatoes onto the boiled and shredded salted cod. In another baking dish, she added sautéed onions, black olives and hard-boiled eggs. “My first Christmas Eve supper in Portugal,” she declared.

Veronica smiled. “Your first of many Consoadas.” She wiped her hands on her frilly green apron adorned with mistletoe and then tended to flash-boiling an array of shellfish, including crab, clams, and pink shrimp. She arranged the seafood on a white ceramic serving platter to serve warm in their shells. “How’s this?”

“Looks delicious,” Krystal said. “Truly, I’ve never seen so much food.”

The women paraded into Veronica’s expansive dining room. The shiny mahogany table fairly groaned beneath an assortment of hazelnuts, olives and garden-fresh collard greens drizzled in olive oil.

Krystal peeked at her reflection in the hallway mirror as she passed. She’d fussed with her appearance, wearing her hair in a side-swept chignon and donning a candy-apple-red crepe shift she’d purchased in Peniche, along with black kitten heels.

Aunt Edite placed a silver candelabrum, lit with a half dozen red and green candles, in the center of the table. “Consoada literally translated means ‘to comfort.’ Traditionally, we abstain from meat dishes on Christmas Eve because Advent is our ‘little lent’ and we fast and repent the days before Christmas.”

“Until Christmas Day,” Adolfo added, “when pork and roasted lamb are served.”

Enjoy the video here.

A Portuguese Christmas is available on Amazon. Snag your copy today!

Josie Riviera is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author of contemporary, inspirational, and historical sweet romances that read like Hallmark movies. She lives in the Charlotte, NC, area with her wonderfully supportive husband. They share their home with an adorable Shih Tzu who constantly needs grooming and live in an old house forever needing renovations.

Follow her on Amazon.

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Preditors & Editors Poll

21 years ago, Preditors & Editors Poll was born.  The site began as Critters, an on-line workshop/critique group for serious Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror writers, then grew into a set of workshops for every other kind of artistic endeavor and the now-famous Polls.

I have interest in three divisions of this year’s polls and would VERY much appreciate your vote if you have a minute to follow the following links:   – Her General in Gray – a Ghost & Mrs Muir type romance that is now also available in audio!! – Simon – my dear son is nominated in the Artist Category.  He did this cover for an anthology published by Class Act Books. – Gylded Wings  – Forgiven or forsaken? An angel’s quest to soar once more on golden wings…a dark fantasy.

Gylded Wings tablet by coffee (002)

Please take a moment to vote.  🙂 It’s quick, easy & painless.  Happy Friday!  Linda

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Happy New Year!

Best wishes for a happy and healthy New Year from all of us at the Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers!

“Last night, between eleven and twelve o’clock… the Old Year was leaving her final foot-prints on the borders of Time’s empire…. she thus awaited the midnight knell that was to summon her to the innumerable sisterhood of departed years….
The New Year…. greeted the disconsolate Old Year with great affection, and sat down beside her… waiting for the signal to begin her rambles through the world. The two were own sisters, being both grand-daughters of Time; and though one looked so much older than the other, it was rather owing to hardships and trouble than to age, since there was but a twelve-month’s difference between them.”
~Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–1864), “The Sister Years,” Carrier’s Address to Patrons of the Salem Gazette, 1839 January 1st

Josie Riviera is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author of contemporary, inspirational, and historical sweet romances that read like Hallmark movies. She lives in the Charlotte, NC, area with her wonderfully supportive husband. They share their home with an adorable Shih Tzu who constantly needs grooming and live in an old house forever needing renovations.

Follow her on Pinterest

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Christmas: Part 2 of Growing Up Overby.

Some Christmases we drove from Augusta to Mississippi. My parents must have worked hard to pack 3 kids and Santa in an old 1937 Ford.

The 1937 Ford lineup, including the Model 74, was introduced with great fanfare.

My folks would leave after Daddy got home from driving a truck. They put a crib mattress on the back seat and my brother and sister would stretch out and sleep. I did not. I spent most of the trip talking to Daddy about everything, and he told me stories about his growing up poor. As we grew older Daddy and I talked about what I studied in school and eventually what he studied when he went to college at twenty-nine. I was in the sixth and seventh grade and learned a lot about what he was studying. Mama slept well in the front seat while I “kept Daddy awake”.

Grandma Overby’s house had fireplaces and a lot of cold rooms. I don’t remember one in the room where we slept. I hated taking trips to the outhouse and really hated the idea in the dead of winter. For the girls and women there were “slop-jars” or chamber pots kept under the beds. Even getting out of bed for the time it took to relieve a small bladder took too long! Since I was prone to wet the bed, I had no choice. We slept three to a bed, and sometimes someone slept at the foot of the bed. I didn’t mind the added body warmth!

Rules for using it:

  1. Don’t forget to take the lid off and then replace it!
  2. Don’t miss it and hit the floor.

I broke all three at least once.

The Christmas trees were real and the decorations were homemade and simple, even after Grandma got electricity. Actually, my aunt Helen moved in and added electricity and  some running water to a kitchen sink. Daddy and his brothers tried to build a bathroom but that didn’t happen.

Have you read Haunting Refrain?  I forgot to change the price back to $2.99. The price goes back on January 1!

When Sarah Overby found ghosts in her attic she hesitated to tell her best friend, William McKeown. She didn’t think he’d understand. Telling him he lived a previous life as her husband would make him think she was crazy.

William has adored Sarah forever, he just doesn’t realize this isn’t the first time he loved her. His feelings for his best friend are changing, but he doesn’t believe in ghosts, reincarnation, or lasting romantic relationships.


William felt like a different man but he didn’t know why. Sarita. The name echoed in his mind, then formed his lips into a smile. He studied his wife’s face nearly hidden beneath fiery hair. God, she was beautiful! His penis hardened, thinking about how her pouting red lips would taste if he kissed her. He wanted her. He needed her. So much time has passed since I held you in my arms, love. God forgive him, he wanted to paddle the woman’s backside, but he needed to make long and tender love to her. He would never have the heart to hurt her.

Of all places, she had fallen asleep in the unused barn farthest from the main house. A tempting swell of breast peeked from the mannish shirt she wore. He ached to touch her. Would she let him? Would she help him? I could awaken my beloved with a kiss. I could make love to her until she could argue with me no more, or slip away again while I sleep.

Reminding himself of such things was not good. Letting her see him too soon would upset her. His lady was not vain, but she would want to wash the dirt and grime from her face. She really needed to wash her hair. Sarita was far too proud to have anyone, even him, see it mussed and dirty. Women! She was beautiful, desirable in any state. No, I will wait and suffer. If she tries to sneak away without seeing me, I will hog-tie her and lock her away where she will be safe, for a change.

A lump formed in his throat as he touched the lone lock of hair on her forehead. In a flash he was down the ladder and past the sorriest excuse for horseflesh he had seen lately. Skinny, but fed and watered and wiped down. He slipped out of the barn before he lost his self-control.

Comment to win a copy of The Gift and one of my short stories

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Happy Holidays!

A sincere Happy Holidays to you and your family from all of us at the Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers.

May the good will of this special season bring you peace, hope and joy.

Hope your Holiday Season is fun and festive!

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Growing Up in the 40’s and 50’s.

Growing up in the 40’s and 50’s in Augusta, Georgia.

Mama and Daddy at 22Mary Parents RET 0008

When I was a kid Daddy drove a truck for the Augusta Arsenal and Mama was a homemaker. I really don’t remember living at my grandmama’s house, but I do remember staying with her when Mama had my sister, Carolyn. I was 3 ½ and stayed there for several days while Mama spend the usual 3 days in the hospital and then was on bed rest at Grandmama’s house. Mama didn’t have easy pregnancies. She grew up next door to the florist her mama ran in Augusta, Georgia.

Mama’s sisters gave me plenty of attention while Daddy worked and went to the hospital to see the baby.  I slept with Grandma and the baby slept between Mama and Daddy. That I really do remember. There was a lot of snoring at night!

We had a small house in a neighborhood of houses build for married families of soldiers. That I learned later was a version of the “projects”.

We were a one-car family, which I believe was true of most families at that time. Mama didn’t drive. She loved to tell everyone I liked riding the bus to town and to see Grandma. I do not remember entertaining the other bus passengers, but she declared that I would stand in the front of buses and sing “Jesus Loves Me” and tell stories. We must have made an interesting picture, since she was all of 4’ 10 1/2” and I weighted 30 pounds by the time I started school. I was the smallest one in each class every year.

I remember having to watch my little sister while Mama cooked. She would sit me in a kid size rocking chair and put my sister in my lap. Then she’d tie us in, so I wouldn’t drop the baby and she could watch us. I was all of four and that wasn’t my favorite thing to do. I do not remember a playpen or a crib at that time. Check the image of her in my lap. there was 3 1/2 years difference in our ages.

Daddy helped Grandmamma deliver flowers that had to be on people’s doorsteps or at hospitals and churches on Christmas morning. Santa was pretty tired by the time he and Mrs. Clause put our toys under our tree but they were there when we got up. !

More to come!

Head over to Amazon and grab some Christmas stories!  These are not romances. They are heartwarming stories.


Mary’s links

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