Introducing Laurence St. John: YA Author!

            Terror on the East Coast - Two Million Dead!

    TOLEDO, OHIO, March 15, 2018 – Yesterday, more than two million people were killed, including the President of the United States.
    The death toll is the worst in the history of America and the world.
    This tragic day will be known forevermore as “The Day of Annihilation.”
    The CIA has the sole person responsible for the killing of millions and millions of innocent people in custody.
    His name is Tyler Thompson –  a moral person turned evil. The question foremost on everyone’s mind is, why did he orchestrate this horrific act of terror and how did he pull it off?

 This headline is fake news – or is it?

    In his new release, METATRON: DAGGER OF MORTALITY, science fiction/fantasy author Laurence St. John creates an uplifting and inspiring fiction novel that “sustains constant action as 15-year-old Tyler struggles to stop the relentless animosity of a demonic figure and his accomplice! Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward,” said Piers Anthony, New York Times bestselling fantasy Author of the Xanth series.

    St. John, who hails from just south of Toledo, Ohio, quickly grabs the reader’s attention then poses the ultimate question: Can superheroes really be killed?

    Who is this Black Shadow character and who does he want to get revenge from?

    Tyler must execute the most grueling choice of his life – save himself, save his beloved girlfriend Kendall or save millions of helpless people and hinder Kelltie’s plan.
    In this, his highly anticipated third action-adventure, St. John keeps readers turning the pages up to the last adrenaline-filled moment when Tyler’s fate is determined.
    The story is set in New York, Nevada, and Massachusetts, where the action-packed adventure opens your mind’s eye, conveying the sensation that you’re watching a movie.
    Metatron: Dagger of Mortality is a novel made for the silver screen ― action-packed, emotional and a gripping story that will leave you wanting more.

From the back cover:

    Tyler believes a Superhero’s responsibility is to make the right decision then follow it through to the end. But, what if the outcome results in his death?
      Fourteen-year-old Tyler Thompson has been in isolation for eight months so he could focus on completing his superhero training. Not even one day after his completion, Master Pat Tanaka urgently summoned Tyler. Pat desperately needs his help, but for what?
    Kelltie is threatening Tyler’s destiny of being a superhero by framing him for what will be the largest mass killings in American history and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. She also teams up with Black Shadow, a ruthless demonic figure with his own agenda — to use the Dagger of Mortality and kill Metatron.
    Tyler feeling vulnerable gets inspiration one last time from Master Tanaka’s instructor Master Dogmai. Nevertheless, with the Dagger of Mortality in hand, it’s time for Black Shadow to get his revenge. Tyler must render the most arduous choice of his life. He’ll save himself, save his beloved girlfriend Kendall or save millions of helpless people and hinder Kelltie’s plan.

Can superheroes really die? What choice does Tyler make?

Reviews:

“Metatron – Dagger of Mortality, by Laurence St. John sustains constant action as 15-year-old Tyler struggles to stop the relentless animosity of a demonic figure and his accomplice! Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward…”- Piers Anthony, New York Times bestselling fantasy Author of the Xanth Series

“Laurence St. John turns up the heat with Metatron – Dagger of Mortality. This book continues the story of Tyler Thompson and his journey of discover as he masters his powers in preparation of a new evil threat. A can’t miss read for middle-grade readers and young adults!”
Braxton A. Cosby - Author of the award-winning Star-Crossed Saga Series

“Dagger of Mortality’ packs a wallop! St. John blends equal parts superhero and X-Files into a high energy yarn sure to inspire.”
Jason Born – Author of The Norseman Chronicles Series

“Teens and adults alike will identify with Tyler and his all too human angst as he executes superhero feats in a way only St. John’s hero can accomplish, with many twists and surprising turns of events in this young adult thriller.”
Kenna McKinnon – Author of Short Circuit: And Other Geek Stories, Blood Sister, and Den of Dark Angels

* * * *

Metatron: Dagger of Mortality was published by Ogopogo Book an Imprint of Imajin Books and is available in eBook edition at Amazon, Google Play and Kobo. Order your copy today.

It is also available in trade paperback edition at Amazon, Books-A-Million, and Barnes & Noble, as well as other retailers.

Buy here:
Amazon – http://getbook.at/DaggerofMortality

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Laurence St. John is currently working on book four and five in the Metatron Series.

Laurence is also available for interviews/guest appearances.
For book sign dates please see his Facebook page.

For more information please visit:        http://www.laurencestjohn.com

Follow Laurence on Twitter:  http://twitter.com/laurencestjohn

“Friend Request” Laurence on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/laurenceastjohn

Imajin Books: http://www.imajinbooks.com

Laurence is a 1983 graduate of Genoa High School, a 1988 Black Belt recipient in Tae Kwon Do and a 2004 graduate of Owens State Community College.

Home-word Bound: The Last Leg

March 30-31: After all the rain and gloom of the ride, we end up in a dirty, dumpy hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. An overflowing garbage can greets us at the outside door, along with cigarette butts that haven’t been swept in weeks. Inside the room, the wallpaper is peeling, the cleaners haven’t touched the corners in years. The bed is horrible.  Ripped spread, pilly sheets, lumpy pillows, uncomfortable mattress. I check for bed bugs, but luckily find none. To say we are disgruntled would be a huge understatement. If we had the energy, we’d get back on the road and forget our sixty bucks. Instead, I write a scathing review on Trip Advisor. (Don’t ever stay at the Red Roof Inn, Central Knoxville!)

We stuff the sides of the bed, as usual, so Miss Monk won’t go under, but she finds a way and disappears half the night. We eat cold, soggy take out in the room because there are no restaurants nearby. I don’t even take a shower. I’d rather be un-bathed than get underneath the rusted-out faucets.

When morning comes, we are happy to see a sun-filled day. We don’t even want the free breakfast this place offers, so we pack up hurriedly. Monkey, of course, feels our anxiety and slips out of my grasp to vanish under the bed. No amount of coaching will bring her out. And we desperately want to get out of here!

So we push and pull the lumpy mound of mattress onto the floor. Next we move the two box springs—and when I say springs, I mean they should be called sprungs—apart. There’s Monkey, huddled in a corner. Not to mention what looks like a rotted dog bone, a pile of dirty cloth and a bunch of strewn papers. How all that got under there is not something we bother contemplating at the time, though it would make a good mystery.

Finally in the car, we are greeted by cheerful sunny scenery, some of it bucolic.  Now we are deep in the hills of Tennessee, followed quickly by Kentucky, enjoying the vistas with its greens tinted by sunlight. We see no wildlife in Elk Valley and the fog advisory doesn’t apply this morning. From the summits, we can see a ring of mountains etched on the blue sky. Jellico, Pine mountain ranges, the Daniel Boone National Forest.

The surrounding rock is stunning, geometric lines of colour. I know they’ve been gouged by machinery to create roads, but out of this destruction a lasting beauty has been created.  Dave Hunter (author of Along Interstate 75) tells us to watch for Exit 15, near Williamsburg in Kentucky, and we do. It truly is astounding. The ramp has been cut into the mountainside, creating two enormous mounds of rock, and the road now traverses a tunnel of granite and greenery.

Soon the hills give way to fairly flat ground, lots of rivers, rich soil. We are back in horse country, admiring the muscled stature of the beautiful animals. Next comes Ohio. Where we saw only snow sculptures at the end of January, we’re happy to see the light brown of fields drinking in the sun, getting ready for blooming and planting.

We stop in Findlay, Ohio, at our favorite hotel chain: the Drury Inn and Suites, of course! As if to compensate for last night, this time we get a bigger-than-average room, complete with a separate room for TV, lounge chairs and flat screen ready. Even Monkey likes it. She has a lot more room to run around in.

“Kick back” time is from 5:30 to 7:00. Hot dinner, 3 alcohol drinks each (well, 2 for Vince, 4 for me) and we’re set for the night.

By morning, we’re rested, have had our hot breakfast, and we’re ready to make the last part of our journey toward home. Miss Monk is not impressed, however, although she was easy to capture this time. At this writing, she is complaining loudly, despite the sunshine and some great music as background. Where are those earplugs Frances and Marty gave us?

 We talk about all the things we loved about our stay in Florida - besides our guests, this time. Being able to walk outside first thing in the morning to sit in the sun or slide into the warm pool was a joy for us and Miss Monk. Dining out. The Air Boat rides. Visiting Cugina and John's Pass and the dolphins. Cocoa Beach and the dolphins and the shark. Winter Garden, Celebration, Downtown Disney. Did I mention swimming in our warm pool?

We slip over the border into Canada without any problem and immediately feel at home. It's sunny and warm (relatively) and lots of the snow has disappeared. Spring does feel as though it has arrived...we hope. Home-word Bound!

Home-word Bound: Memories

March 29 – Today our drive is full of dark clouds, pouring rain, and stop-and-go traffic. It’s long and tiring, so we spend time talking about our experiences.

What a strange feeling, looking back over the two months we’ve stayed here.  We feel as though we’ve been away much longer, because of all that we did, because of all that happened.

Our house was constantly filled with visitors, which is what we wanted and planned for when we found a rental. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a nice open kitchen and dining area, our own small pool and lanai. This house is lovely, with a great open plan and a bigger-than-average seating area around the pool. 

It’s lived-in, needs some deep cleaning and carpets replaced, but we felt comfortable. We didn’t have to worry about cats and kids, with their exuberance and freestyle ways.

 In the beginning, I didn’t want to bother the property manager, Vera Gualano, but I learned later on that I should have. Clearly, it means a lot to her to ensure the house is being maintained properly. I would rent through her again with no hesitation.

Each visitor brings their own gifts of conversation, excitement, love, and interests. Mike and Rita were in this area of Kissimmee only last year, so they take us exploring. They fit us perfectly, like brothers and sisters often do. Easy, comfortable, fun, generous and in our loss of Sahara, so very consoling. 

We're together when Mike and Rita's daughter, Laura, calls from Ontario. She's engaged to be married to a wonderful young man and we toast their love and happiness.

 Kristen, John, Ben and Cate bring high spirits, energy, laughter and fun. We play in the pool for hours, visit Universal Studios and play cards at night. They spend fourteen hours at Disney one day! It’s pure joy for me, every minute I can wake up and see their amazing faces. 

I haven’t spent this much time with my daughter’s partner. Now I appreciate and love him even more.  I cannot describe the feelings I have for this daughter of mine, this strong beautiful talented amazing woman whom I still remember as a little hand in mine. 

It’s during my daughter and her family’s visit that we hear about Rose. For a couple of years now, we must admit, we have grieved for her loss. 

At ninety-five, Rose was no longer able to do all the things she loved such as cook and garden. She was very often unable to communicate and this was a woman who loved to tell stories, ask questions, give fiercely held opinions, offer unsolicited advice. 

Rosie was a huge presence. She ran her household with gusto, was the original reduce, reuse, recycler. Her sauce and pasta were unparalleled, along with her pizza, melting moments cookies, biscotti, apple or lemon meringue pies, butter tarts, scrippelle…

When she had leftover pizza dough, she’d roll it up, fry them and salt them, and presto! Long Johns to munch! At special times of the year, such as Christmas, she made her own Christmas cake, and at Easter, she made sweet, fruity bread. I remember her salads were always delicious because most of the vegetables came from their garden, and the dressing she made was perfect. Rose, along with assistance from her husbands and sons and later, daughters-in-law and grandkids, was the consummate hostess, and she loved having family around. 

Although she was a woman of deep faith, Rose didn’t take too long to accept me, even though I was half responsible for her son’s marriage break up. Because he loved me, and she loved her son, she eventually enfolded me in her circle. Nowadays, she sat mostly sleeping in her chair, often unable to recognize people. She never forgot her sons, though, even if she couldn’t retrieve their names. When Vince and I would visit, her eyes were often vacant when she looked at me, but as she gazed upon him, a light would appear. She’d rest her head on his shoulder and pat his belly, as though soothing her baby boy. 

Very often, we’d shed lots of tears when we left her, for the loss of her quality of life. When she falls that day in February and breaks her hip, we fervently pray that she'll go to sleep, go to where she can play cards again, tend a garden, give a family dinner, run around on two strong legs. On March 1, she does just that.

Vince books a flight home for Saturday afternoon, so I drive him to the airport. It’s a hasty decision, one we somewhat regret later. When he’s home in Canada, alone, feeling the effects of losing his mother, in a house that’s torn apart for painting, his voice is tearful and sad. I wish then that we had waited until Sunday, when I could have gone with him. My sister Chris and her husband Dave arrive tonight and I have booked a flight and back again for the funeral only. I feel as though I am in a bubble. Here I am, enjoying the company of my beloved sister and brother-in-law, while Vince grapples with grief. The first night, Dave and I drink a couple of bottles of wine (okay, each), make a few drunk calls, sleep late the next day. Their friend Grant’s son, Adam, comes to visit and we have a ball. 

On Tuesday, I take a cab at 3 a.m. and get on a plane, wearing a sundress and my sister’s boots. Our friends Mary Jo and Peter meet me at the airport. It’s surreal, getting to hug and kiss them unexpectedly, and stepping over ice and snow. When Vince sees my face in the doorway of the funeral home, he begins to cry. I wrap him in my arms and kiss him, and he lets his sorrow flow. The day is a whirlwind of family, friends, tears, laughter, funeral egg salad sandwiches, and memories. Our nephews and Vince’s sons are pallbearers; our nieces do readings at the Mass. We are so proud of our children. The grandkids add zest and innocence. Dylan speaks for all of us as the casket is raised and inserted into the crypt: “Wow, that was awesome,” he says and we all smile. Because it was awesome—the celebration of a life well lived, Rosie’s long, loving legacy, the memories, the joys and sorrows. 

Suddenly we are back in Florida. We visit my cousin Wendy and Dennis the next day, revel in their company, in the sunshine, marvel at the dolphins, and of course eat and drink well. For the rest of Chris and Dave’s stay, we laugh and swim and sun and talk. We talk about loss, we talk about life and love. 

After we reluctantly allow Chris and Dave to leave early Saturday morning, we get ready for David, Rebecca, Sydney and Evan. Once again, the house is filled with high spirits, laughter, playfulness, romps in the pool for hours. They spend a whole day at Disney and excitedly describe every moment when they get back. 

I am so grateful for their presence in my life, never ever take for granted the fact that they have embraced me and treat me as mother-in-law, friend, grandmother.

When they leave, we are glad that our friends Helen and Sandy and Maire and John are arriving, the Duplassies on Saturday and the Kearns’s on Monday. Since we’ve been friends for over forty years, there is complete and utter comfort and ease in their presence. We can be ourselves. We enjoy the warm air, the pool, shouting at each other over cards, and going out for dinner. We visit Winter Garden and Bok Tower Gardens. The four of them spend three days in Bonita Springs, while we stay home with Monkey. 

Then suddenly there we were, on our last day, crying over Sahara, our faces looking toward home and certain realities. 

But the lilacs in Georgia are in full purple bloom and the radio is playing our favorite songs. We start to sing. We feel very lucky, very blessed, very grateful. Monkey meows in her pet carrier.

Home-word Bound: Leaving Sahara

March 28:

Perhaps it’s because we leave a bit earlier than expected. The cooler weather is followed by rain, so we decide to spend a bit more time in the morning packing up. If we wait until Saturday, we’ve got to be out by 10 a.m.


We are ready to take off early in the afternoon, a little while after Maire and John and Helen and Sandy leave.

On our last night, we had a great time at the House of Blues in Downtown Disney.

Whatever the reason, grief hits us again without warning. First for Sahara. 

If you read my blog about our trip here, you know that we arrived with two cats. In fact, the blog was entitled Sahara and Miss Monk Go To Florida. Little did we know that our beloved tabby would never leave here.

Her death wasn’t entirely unexpected. Five years ago Sahara was diagnosed with very bad irritable bowel syndrome that either bordered on, or had morphed already, into lymphoma. The vet told us she had between twenty-four and forty-eight months to live, but that she could have a good life. Once the cancer “jumped”, it would likely happen very quickly. It did.

Until a couple of days before, Sahara was her usual self. Loud, feisty, highly attached to us, she’d follow us everywhere, complaining or just observing. She had a lot of different sounds to express her opinions, often hilarious. She had the kind of personality that could not and would not be ignored. She even ruled over her dog cousin and nephew. 

 

 Her daughter Raven, called Monkey because she sounds like one and is a little mischievous, was enraptured with her mother. They played, cuddled, cleaned each other, and were seldom apart. 

At first we thought Sahara was still nervous about being in a “new” house. Suddenly she began to spend time in our bedroom closet, huddled up behind a suitcase. Even though she hadn’t shown signs of feeling strange here, that’s what occurred to us. After a few hours, she’d come back out and be her loving, active self. The next day when it happened again, we thought maybe she had a stomachache. On the third day, when she went under our bed and didn’t come out, we knew there was a problem.

Did she eat something poisonous? A plant, a beetle? I got on the Internet, searching for the weeds that poked up in the garden outside but I found nothing dangerous.

I tried coaching her out, placed her on our bed, petted and talked to her. Gave her some of her medication, which she had been refusing. She took it, but it came back out a while later. She wouldn’t eat, or drink. She crawled back under the bed.

The next day, Valentine’s Day, she was lethargic, hardly moving in the spot under our bed. We pulled the mattress back to touch her. At one point, she seemed to have slipped into a coma. I burst into tears, thinking she had died, but suddenly she began to purr. A soft, broken sound. Every once in a while she would give a rattled sigh, as though she were trying to breathe through pain.

“We have to take her to a vet,” I said, and Vince reluctantly agreed.

When we gently pushed and dragged her out and placed her in the cat carrier, she groaned. Urine squirted out on the floor and all over me as I clutched her to me. Rita and Mike, upset too, cleaned up after us as we stumbled into the car.

At the veterinarian hospital, we petted and cooed to her. She gave a weakened, rumbling purr in return. The vet and assistant were amazing. Knowledgeable, efficient, yet caring. They were gentle with Sahara, doing what they had to do with a minimum of fuss. When the doctor showed us the x-ray results, we knew the time had come. The cancer had indeed jumped—her stomach, her liver, her intestines. She was likely in terrible pain, though animals instinctively hide it.

“What do you recommend?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“I think we should put her to sleep,” he said, as kindly but as honestly as he could. “I guess you have two options. We can help her go right now, or you can take her home and she’ll probably pass naturally during the night.”

We both thought of the chance to cuddle her in our bed once more, to hear her purr as she died, but we knew that was selfish. She’d try so hard to purr for us, to make us happy, even while she was suffering. We couldn’t do it to her.

We talked to her, petted her, cried over her as the medication stilled her heart. Sahara died knowing we loved her with all our hearts.

When we got home, Mike and Rita were waiting with hugs and tears. We were so grateful to have them with us. In the two weeks previous, they’d gotten to know and love Sahara, too, so they understood.

There were lots of tears over the next six weeks. We cried as Monkey meowed mournfully, searching the house for Sahara, night after night. The time she looked into the still pool water, saw her own reflection and reached out a paw to touch it, brought on some weeping. We watched as she changed her personality, became more vociferous and affectionate, clinging a bit more to us, as she had once cuddled her feline mother.

Now we leave here, the site of Sahara’s last days. She had played, purred, talked, raced around, fallen onto the pool cover and got soaked, meowed for a video, and slept at our feet. 

Monkey seems lost and lonely in the big cat carrier. In the hotel, she has no one to cuddle when we go out for dinner. She’s a cat, she’s adaptable, she’s fine. We all just wish Sahara were heading home with us, too.

During this same trip, we lost our Rosie, too. As the miles (not kilometres yet) fall away, we wonder how we’ll feel once we’re home. Until then, her loss has not seemed real.  

March 29 – rain, peanuts, lilacs – describe each visitor

Face in the Mirror

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I went to Detroit with my boyfriend to see his aunt. Rheba was the kind of woman about whom you would say, "she had a magnetic personality". Added to the curves of her shapely figure, she had a wide, luscious mouth that was always turned up in a smile. Her huge brown eyes alight with the fullest appreciation of life, she had the ability to make a whole room of people think she was talking to each one individually. Her nephew and I loved to visit her.

Besides, Rheba owned a bar.

In my memory, it was a long, narrow room with dim lighting and lots of chairs that could be pushed back if dancing broke out. Which, on the few times I was there, it often did.

The crowd would be so enormous that we would be packed face-to-face or back-to-back and dancing was the alternative to standing so close to a stranger, with no purpose. Conversation had to be avoided for the most part, because there was always a trio playing loud music in the corner, or the blast of a sound system.

Since it was the early 70's, the music was, of course, Motown. Loud, rhythmic, heart pounding, sweaty music to jump and fly with. I knew the words, felt the cadence, sang and danced and lost myself in the sound of hoots of laughter and raucous calls.

On one particular turn around the bar, I happened to look sideways into the mirror that framed the room. There I was. Young, slim, blond, blue-eyed. Starkly white. The only white face in the room.

Black and brown bobbed and whooped it up around me. I stood stock still, stunned by the paleness of my skin. Aware for the first time that I looked so much different from my party companions.

Suddenly I thought about how my boyfriend must feel in our very white city. Years later I was to contemplate our children: when they look in the mirror, they see a combo color; a light brown that's not quite one or the other. They very often have no comparisons, no one whose color matches theirs, no crowd in which to get lost.

My daughter and son with their Grampa.

Does this matter? Not usually. The question did lead me to include racial perspectives in my book, Sweet Karoline. I did write about my children's heritage (fictionalized) of an exotic mix of white, black and native. We're fortunate because my children grew up in middle class Canada, where their racial mix was interesting, not offensive. We did have some negative reactions, which I'll tell you about another time.

For the most part, their faces in the mirror are not startlingly different, not pasty white, not dark berry. They have a part of several heritages all in one (in my humble opinion) gorgeous countenance.

Get Sweet Karoline here.

Consider Yourself Well In! Guest Peter Clenott

"Consider yourself well in, consider yourself part of the family"

I haven't really met Peter in person, but he's one of our Imajin-nation, so he has to be great. Here are some things I have learned about him. He has three wonderful kids (even though they're teens LOL). He writes mainly in the YA genre in their honor.  In August 2013, DEVOLUTION will be published by Imajin Books. He's also one of those people whom I admire for their social services and non-profit work. Sounds like he's politically involved, too, so look out Massachusetts!

Now, to the best part - Peter's new book, Devolution.

DEVOLUTION features sixteen-year-old Chiku Flynn. Chiku was born in the Congo rainforest to two anthropologists studying the native chimpanzees. For the first eleven years of her life, Chiku is more chimp than child. She nests with the chimpanzees, grooms them and has no qualms about sticking a leaf tool in the soil and slurping up the ants and termites she uncovers. When she is eleven, her mother is killed, and Chiku is sent back to the United States to grow into a maladjusted teenager medicated for anxiety, depression, mood disorder, hyperactivity, you name it. When her father disappears, Chiku must return to the Congo to discover her true heroic self. In Swahili, Chiku means ‘chatterbox’ but the chimpanzees of the Maiku National park, with whom she can communicate using sign language, know her simply as Talk Talk

An Excerpt for my followers - FREE!
     Perched on a branch in a tree at the top of Chimp Hill, the highest point on the island, Scallion studied the night sky. In times past, the moon, the stars, all of the bright objects set in the darkness above, would have held no meaning for him or for his fellow chimpanzees. With good reason their curiosity was focused on the earth and upon the rain forest in which they lived, how it fed them and nurtured them. This had been true since the beginning of time, since the first chimpanzee found a home here. Only the arrival of the girl and her parents had changed that, changed everything, in fact.
     Scallion didn’t feel the wind breathing through his brown fur, didn’t feel its soft tickling. Sometimes the moon shone a brilliant red or even purple, colors reflecting off the water of the Mamba River, which flowed around Chimp Hill and created his island home. On those nights the young chimpanzee reflected upon days buried deeply but firmly in his memory when he and the human female played tag and leaped through the trees, wraaing and hooting and pretending they were of the same kind.
     Tonight the mouth-shaped moon seemed to be frowning. The girl had explained to him, using her hands in a language her father was teaching them, that they all lived on a great big ball. Using the thumb and middle finger of her left hand she would pinch her right wrist and explain to them that their world made a circle every day so that light was a part of the morning and darkness an expected feature of night.
     "The moon," she signed, touching her forehead with two fingers in the shape of the crescent, "is a ball of rock that floats in the air so far away birds can never reach it. Chimpanzees can never get there either, but our kind can."

Buy Devolution HERE

It's still only 99¢ for its debut price, so get it on your ereader now and read it to your kids!

Where Am I?

This past March, I went to Los Angeles to refresh my memory (hadn't been here in a couple of years) and to scout out a certain location for book five. Quite a lot of the action of Sweet Karoline takes place in L.A., but the first scene rolls out in a certain apartment complex.

I'm not going to tell you where the building is located - but LA County is a HUGE hint. If you can guess where I am, you could win a free ebook copy of one of my books - your choice of 5!!

Anyway, a friend of ours chose an Italian restaurant in which to meet in the very town in which I'd placed my main protagonists.

I hadn't much time in between tours, meetings and dressing for dinner, so I was a little flustered. This had nothing to do with the wine consumed at lunch, I am sure, but I forgot the address of the location in my suitcase at the hotel.

Luckily, one of the waiters lived in town. He immediately recognized said spot from my description. As serendipity would have it, the place was about two minutes down the same street as the restaurant! Now that's when you believe there's a guiding hand above.


As soon as I saw the park that spreads out next to the building, I recognized it. Why? Because my hubby and I had been there on Google Earth!

However, there was nothing like actually standing in front of the place that I'd imagined, manipulated and dreamed about for months. My characters had lived here. Despite the fact that I'd changed a few things to suit my purposes, the apartment complex was alive and spooky and perfect in the California dusk.

 Surrounded by wrought iron, gothic, its lights mesmerizing in the darkness, it looked just right for filming a psychological suspense.

Here's how I describe it in the book:
 

"Our apartment is part of a Moorish-Spanish designed collection of buildings that boast a beautiful stone façade, light brown stucco walls and rounded bay windows. Every balcony is bounded by gorgeous wrought iron, except for ours, which has rather high stone walls instead. The only drawback is that we have to stand up to see any view.

 "I used to shiver with delight and pride every time I entered the stone archway that graces the front entrance. Now I shiver for a wholly different reason."

That night, I was beside myself with excitement. Turns out this building has been the site of films before; most recently, an episode of True Blood, Season 5. I couldn't believe I had randomly picked this building to be Karoline and Anne's apartment! Again, there was serendipity at work.

Once my amazing producer/casting director Rep gets a certain Hollywood actress to read the book, we can start filming right away.

Where Am I?

 This is what they say on the location's website:  
"It has been used as a site for many motion pictures, music videos, reality shows, TV shows, and commercials for the past 40-odd years."

Holy coincidence, Bat Girl!

Have you figured out where I am? What town I'm standing in? What the building's called?

Leave me a message at cathy@catherinastolfo.com with your guess and you just might be chosen to receive a free book.

But you only have until July 14 to guess.

That's when Sweet Karoline comes to a book site near you!

Tradition! An Atheist Easter

 

             I am the product of a mixed marriage. Not the kind you might think of – this was according to the Catholic Church. You see, my father was not a Catholic. He was not even “religious”.  He often claimed he was an atheist, referred to himself as a heathen.

He was one of those unfortunate people, nice as they might be, whose soul was destined to descend rather than climb to heavenly heights.  After all, ‘Catholics Catholics ring the bell, Protestants Protestants go to hell’. We used to shout that over the fence between our school and theirs, even though we carefully never actually said that last, very bad word. So it must be true.

There was always hope that, surrounded by his female baptized children, my father might change his mind. His soul could still be saved.

For my sisters and me, however, having one parent who didn’t haul us off to church on Sunday opened up a huge avenue for traditions. It became a tradition to pretend you were sick. (We took turns with that.) It became a tradition to sign out of Catholicism when you were sixteen. (I’m proud to say, I started that one. I argued that I’d been marked as a baby and had no choice in the matter. By the time I was sixteen, of course, I knew everything and could make my own decisions.) The best tradition of all, though, was Easter.

My dad was witty, a prankster. He loved jokes and told them well. He also liked to entertain his daughters. Fly away Peter, fly away Paul…was one of my favourite magic tricks. He invented an Easter hunt that was unparalleled.  Using that intelligent comedic mind, he’d leave written clues all over the house. We had to read each one and figure out the riddle, which would then lead us to the next.

At the end, we’d find the biggest treasures of all: the bunnies, chocolate or furry (never real), huddled in the crawl space under the stairs or the empty bathtub or in the garage. The clues led us down the stairs, out the back door, in the front door, all over the house and the yard.

When I took over the task after my dad died far too young, I realized what a logistical test this hunt was. You had to ensure that each hint was not too transparent (e.g. “Here’s your hat, where’s your hurry?” led to the coat closet) but not too difficult, depending on the age of the participants. Every clue had to lead to the next hiding place. Then you had to make sure you put them in the right spots (e.g. clue one had to be general and lead to the first real cache, then you couldn’t get mixed up or everyone would be led astray or discover the final treasure too soon).

Now in my sixties, I still lead the hunt. I am almost ten years older than my father got to live. I too am an atheist, though I would probably say my dad and I more closely resemble agnostics than heathens. I irrevocably reject Catholicism. I believe in same sex marriage and the power of women, only two examples of why I cannot abide that religious institution. I don't much like any of the organized religions, but I also have the philosophy that if it works for someone, go for it.

My sisters and I don’t care that we might look undignified as we race around the house with the kids. We honour the memory of our parents’ mixed marriage and our heathen tradition. Our mother, stricken by dementia, looks at us as though we’re the ones who’ve lost our minds. But we know she loves us and that she loved our father enough to defy the strictures of the time and marry him anyway.

He was adopted by the many clubs and associations that came with church life, such as the Knights of Columbus. He brought life to charity dances arranged by the Catholic Women’s League (my mother was President). He walked with his daughters in religious or non-religious ceremonies. He was a passionate, thoughtful, funny, loving man. So much so that the priest endorsed Dad’s burial in the catholic cemetery.

This weekend, we’ll carry on our atheist Easter. We’ll remember a man who absolutely must have gone straight to heaven, if there is one. We’ll have a blast and embrace each and every member of our fun-loving, crazy family, who always have each other’s backs, who forgive and accept and love unconditionally. Not a bad Easter message for a bunch of heathens.

 

Our Rosie

This post appeared as a guest blog on Alison Bruce's Have Laptop Will Travel. You can see Alison's brilliant graphics below! Here's Alison's website: Coffee Girl
 

 AND - this is my posting!

Rosie’s Christmas by Catherine Astolfo

It’s Rosie’s party and she is elegant and gracious. She no longer remembers names, but her eyes are alight with recognition as she greets each face.

Sometimes her son (my husband) and I wonder what happens inside Our Rosie’s head. She once told us, “It sounds a lot better before I say it.” We surmise that the dementia disconnect is in the communication, not the thought.

Rosie conducts as her sons serenade her with traditional songs, both Christmas and Italian. Years ago, she would have been conducting in a different way. She would have buzzed around, cooking up the entire meal; homemade pasta, salad, and cannoli for dessert. Her personality was forceful. She admitted to being bossy and nosy. She loved good gossip, good wine, and good cards. Right now Rosie would be standing in the kitchen in her apron (by choice), instead of sitting in the wheelchair in her Sunday best.

She hasn’t lost her love for her sons and their spouses and children. She doesn’t recognize the great-greats, but she knows they’re connected. She reaches out to hug and kiss them.

My grandchildren’s eyes are large and shy as they kiss Our Rosie’s cheek, prompted by their parents, and let her squeeze them. She is small and shrunken and silver haired. I wonder if she is scary to them, but they are polite and would never say so. Too bad they didn’t see her when she could whip up a pie or plant vegetables in a huge garden. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could flash back to the child Rosie or the newly married Rosie and see that face instead?

Her smile makes her beautiful, though, I think. Perhaps that’s the reason Sydney and Evan want to hang around and help deliver leftovers to the staff on the second floor with Gramma Cathy (me).  Our Rosie has gone upstairs a little while ago, exhausted from hours of adulation and attention.  We gather up plates of sandwiches and veggies and cookies. I lead the parade into the elevator.

I am a bit nervous about what Sydney and Evan will see. Men and women, heads down, tongues hanging, line up in a sleeping row along the wall. One lady twists in her bed, accompanied by a repetitive stream of indecipherable wails. One woman in the hall flaps her hands, drools a smile, la-la-la excitement propelling her tongue when she sees a visitor. They’re so young. Will they be afraid? Repulsed?

When we get to the nurses’ station, we put forward our offering with thanks for their help in making Rosie’s day special. They are as thrilled with Sydney and Evan as they are with the goodies. Since I think my grandkids are the cutest kids in the world, I’m not surprised of course.

Inside Rosie’s room, we discover an empty bed. Her walker and wheelchair deserted. “Where is she?” I wonder aloud and the kids follow me back into the hall. I have a quick rush of panic.

Seconds later, I see my mother-in-law trying to hunch herself onto a small sofa. Her head is at an uncomfortable angle, her legs dangle over the side. She moans, too tired to get up again.

I hurry over to her, four little feet at my heels, and put my arms around her. Once she is upright, I say to Sydney, “Honey, can you get Nona Rose’s walker?”

Sydney doesn’t hesitate. She races back and reappears, her eyes large and determined, not one bit afraid. With the kids’ help, I half-shuffle, half-carry Rose until she is seated backwards on the walker. We return her to her room, where I lower the bed and, with Sydney and Evan’s help again, soon have her lying flat. She is so tired she can barely keep her eyes open. She makes soft noises and mumbles words we can’t understand.

My sister-in-law, Rita, arrives and goes to get a PSW. In the meantime, Sydney and Evan and I gather around Nona’s bed. Her flailing hands grasp the air. My granddaughter reaches for the right, while Evan reaches for the left, and soon Rosie is quiet, breathing smoothly, holding those little hands on both sides.

The PSW appears in the doorway and lowers one side of the bed, in preparation for getting Rosie cleaned up and more comfortable.

Just before we leave, Sydney and Evan lean over and kiss her cheek. No parents watching, no obligation or expectation. No fear or revulsion. Simple, pure kindness and love.

Rosie smiles.

(This is the real Our Rosie, 

not the one I’ll feature in a book 

I hope to publish in 2014.)

A Mysterious Night in Cleveland

There were so many reasons to go to Cleveland for Bouchercon. First of all, it’s the biggest mystery conference in North America, and I am a mystery author. Author Page

 

Secondly, my aunt and my cousins live there and I haven’t seen them for a long time.(OK, maybe not as long as the pic to the left might suggest.)

On Saturday, Vince and I take off from the conference and drive to my cousin Kathleen’s lovely home in a beautiful neighbourhood just outside the city. I am a little dazed as I walk in the front door. I know I’m often blond headed, but tonight I have a couple of really good excuses.

I mean, I have spent two and a half days in the presence of best selling mystery authors. Some of whom I have worshipped for many years. I have listened to panels on justice: the roles that wealth, race and influence play on verdicts in the courts; comparisons and contrasts among justice systems throughout the world. How a writer can realistically portray the opposite gender in his/her novels. Sitting beside Elizabeth George’s husband. How authors can make a morally challenged character likeable. Meet the Canucks. Creating suspense, giving out clues without tipping your hand. A chain of reveals about the character and the plot while heading for the crescendo. The thought that ordinary people can be evil. How can the villain be the hero of a novel? Listening to Sara Paretsky, Mary Higgins Clark, Rhys Bowen, Robin Cook, Charlaine Harris, Derrick Haas… and trying to behave like a moderately known or at least well dressed and polite Canadian author. O Canada, Anthony Bidulka, Linwood Barclay, Howard Shrier, Vicki Delany, Mary Jane Maffini – I can’t list them all so go to www.crimewriterscanada.com when we’re done here: must we really set our books in the US to obtain an audience (our American friends in the audience say NO). Our own Lou Allin getting a ride to the liquor store in a Cleveland police officer’s patrol car. Talking on a panel of my own and forgetting what I was saying in the middle of my convoluted statement (at least they laughed). Sitting beside Elizabeth George’s husband.

Linda as Bud and Kathleen as Otto.

If that’s not reason enough to be dazed, when I walk into Kathleen’s front door, her sister Linda greets me in a rather odd outfit (see picture). At first I don’t recognize her, and when I do, I figure she’s either come out of the closet or has gone a little dotty. Either way, I don’t think I should mention it until she does.

Sean is dressed rather jauntily, but he often is, so I think nothing of that. Suddenly, our hostess comes downstairs in lieder hosen and a mustache. Now I’m pretty sure something is up.

The mystery is explained once I get my costume and my script. My amazing family is putting on a murder mystery dinner for me and Vince! Can you imagine having such creative, thoughtful, brilliant people as cousins? Am I not a lucky lucky bastard (said in a British, Monty Python accent)?

John and Bonnie Lassie

We get into our roles pretty easily (scarily so, really). I am Hedy Shablee. I perfect my accent of British-Irish-Canadian mash so well it almost gets stuck.

Tiny Bubbles and her mom ( I mean Bud Wiser)

 Carolyn is a Bonnie Lassie in her kilt and John is her lines coach (he doesn’t do a great job which leads to more frivolity); Rachel is a smartly-dressed Tiny Bubbles and Sean is Ralph Rottingrape. Aunty Betty is the dead body, just so she doesn’t have many lines. She acts it out very nicely. And finally Linda’s outfit is explained; she’s the detective, Bud Wiser. If you are doing some detecting of your own and notice a theme of alcohol in this mystery play, heavy on the wine, you would be correct. Which tells you once again how well my cousins know me!

Kathleen must have rehearsed that German accent for Herr Otto: it’s pitch perfect. 

Tracy, in a slinky red dress that highlights her gorgeous blond hair and figure, is, of course, Marilyn Merlot.

Vince is a natural for Papa Vito, with his Guido Sarducci accent.He looks pretty naughty, don't you think?

 We have a ball. I don’t guess the correct murderer – it’s Papa Vito, not Herr Otto – but I blame that on Vince. After all, who would guess their own husband? (See, I can rationalize anything.)

I write down two phrases from our fun: “the familiar-looking dwarf” and the “opera-singing Nazi Vampire”. Those are two lines that must end up in one of my stories somewhere.

I am tired (I’m old, which explains the brain fart in the middle of my panel) as we drive home Sunday, but I am pumped too.
The conference was a source of nourishment, but the evening with my cousins was phenomenal. I love those amazing, smart, loving, creative, inspired people. They were my childhood best friends. They are a part of who I am. Lucky lucky bastard me.