Michelle Davidson Argyle

News & Events

2011-02-08T10:50:00.061-07:00

June 16th, 2012

**Michelle will be attending the Got Stories? Reading and Writing Conference at the Garden Inn Hilton from 9:00 - 3:00 p.m. with Rhemalda Publishing and six other Rhemalda authors - J.S. Chancellor, T.J. Robinson, Amber Argyle, Karen Amanda Hooper, Robyn Chance, and Cas Peace. Author signing from 2:00 - 3:00. To reserve a book to buy at the event, click here.**

January 6th, 2012

**Michelle is published in Vine Leaves, January 2012 issue - a free online literary journal. You can find her vignette, "White," on page 3 here.**

December 9th, 2011

**Michelle attends the Wasatch County Library Holiday Boutique from 1:00 - 8:00 p.m., showcasing, selling, and signing her books.**

December 2011

**Michelle independently publishes True Colors, a collection of her favorite award-winning short stories and poetry written over the course of 11 years.**

October 15th, 2011

**Monarch Launch Party & Signing/Reading at The Chocolate Dessert Cafe in Orem, Utah. The event took place from 2:00 p.m. - 5:00 p.m.**

October 12th, 2011

**Michelle participates in a public conference call as part of David Farland's Author's Advisory Conference call series. She spoke with Amber Argyle, Robison Wells, and Tyler Whitesides with Robin Weeks hosting. Call can be downloaded or listened to here.**

October 10th, 2011

**Michelle visits The King's English Bookstore in Salt Lake City, Utah at 7:00 p.m. as part of their Local Author Showcase with three other authors. You can read about and see pictures of the event here.

September 15th, 2011

**Michelle participates in a live chat with Annie Laurie Cechini, Ashley Johansen, Liza Kane, DB Smyth, Lydia Sharp, and Sierra Gardner at 9:00 p.m. EST. You can find the chat and archives here.**

August 4th - October 15th, 2011

**The Monarch blog takes place during these dates. You can find out more information here.**

June 2011

**Michelle is interviewed in the June 2011 issue of Suspense Magazine. Her short flash fiction piece "Signs" is also published in this issue. You can purchase the magazine by subscription or on Amazon.**

April 2011

**Michelle signs a contract with Rhemalda Publishing for The Breakaway, a young adult contemporary suspense novel. Release date fall of 2012.**

December 2010

**Michelle signs a contract with Rhemalda Publishing for Bonded, an omnibus consisting of three novellas. Release date spring of 2013.**

October 2010

**Michelle signs a contract with Rhemalda Publishing for Monarch, a spy thriller. Release date September 15, 2011.**

July 2010

**Michelle independently publishes, Cinders, a novella.**

April 2010

**Michelle's flash fiction piece "This" is published in the Rose & Thorn journal.**

Praise for Monarch

2010-08-06T09:48:00.010-06:00

Monarch is a fabulous read that will haunt you until you finish. I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a awesomesauce thriller intertwined with romance!

―DB Smyth

Thriller fans will enjoy this new take on the familiar game of Save The Day. Literary aficionados will appreciate the symbolism throughout the book. And those helpless romantics who are always looking for the silver lining will find their happy ending here.

―Liana Brooks

Monarch is both an exciting thriller and character driven love story, full of gun fights, kidnappings, ex-lovers, and broken marriages. But above all it a journey through hard, cold reality and human pain and destruction, to hope and new beginnings.

―Taryn Tyler, Taliesin

A thrilling yet fragile story that will have you on the edge of your seat while pulling on your heartstrings at the same time.

―Misty Rayburn, The Top Shelf

I loved Monarch. I was hooked from page one and I would not put it down. Even if Thrillers are not your first genre to read you will not want to miss out on Monarch. Michelle will always have a place on my book shelf.

―Kristen Haskins, My Bookish Fairytale

A well written, dynamic & engaging read, Monarch will compel you to wrap yourself in your own little cocoon until you're ready to air your own beautiful wings & spread the good word about this exciting read! Add it to your must read list!

―Ashley L. Knight, author of The Fins Trilogy

A fast-paced, action-packed, stimulating book you don't want to miss. With every turn of a page I could hear the bat of a wing resonate in slow motion, as if a special effect crafted for the big screen, preparing me for the next blow. Even the quiet moments, sprinkled with exciting and striking imagery, rendered me quite breathless.

―Jessica Bell, author of String Bridge

Monarch is a smart, modern thriller that is surprisingly emotional, with well defined characters and a suspenseful plot. Readers will flutter with anticipation at the end of each chapter. Michelle Davidson Argyle is a solid storyteller.

―Cheryl Kaye Tardif, bestselling author, Children of the Fog

Monarch, a dynamite thriller, has all the ingredients necessary to keep all thriller lovers turning the pages. Author Michelle Davidson Argyle has created characters you’ll love and love to hate, a twisting plot with plenty of action, settings described in such a way you’ll feel like you’ve been there, crisp dialogue, and for a touch of the unusual, the monarch butterfly flutters through this exciting tale.

―Marilyn Meredith, author of Invisible Path

Lies, secrets, and betrayals cocoon a love story as fragile as a butterfly's wings. Readers who like their thrillers spiced with romance, or their romance spiked with danger, will love Michelle Davidson Argyle's Monarch. A promising debut!

―Karen Dionne, author of Freezing Point and Boiling Point
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**to have your review included here, please email Michelle using the contact information on this site**

Praise for True Colors

2010-06-12T13:07:00.000-06:00

Astoundingly beautiful and refreshingly open and honest, without ever degenerating into darkness or negativity. A beautiful, beautiful read.

―Amy Laurens, editor

A stunning collection. I found the imagery to be absolutely stark, the language fluid and convoluted in a beautiful way, and the stories natural and inviting in their life-like portrayal.

―Amie McCracken

As a former private chef, I would use food to create my art. Pairing flavor with texture, color and aroma, my canvas was a testimony to my love of gastronomic delight. Michelle Davidson Argylle’s TRUE COLORS short story collection borrows from my kitchen. Her mastery of the English language is like indulging in the finest seven-course meal. The subtle word play, combined with deliberate description, made me long for a nice glass of wine to accompany every page. Every story adds a new flavor, a new dimension to taste, which compliment each other beautifully. There are no mistakes in this menu, and after reading each selection, you want to sit back and savor everything you’ve read before cleansing your palette and beginning the next course. Tart, tangy, sweet, savory, TRUE COLORS is a testimony of her love for the written word.

―Anne Gallagher, author of The Lady's Fate

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**to have your review included here, please email Michelle using the contact information on this site**

Praise for The Breakaway

2009-08-01T22:35:00.000-06:00

Lush, literary, and multi-layered, The Breakaway is completely compelling. Michelle Davidson Argyle is a talent to watch!

―Zoe Winters, author of Save My Soul

With secrets layered upon deception, The Breakaway is a book that kept me up late into the night. It has that amazing quality that left me thinking about the characters long after I was finished reading.

―P. J. Hoover, author of Solstice

MichelleDavidson Argyle is not only a writer of great skill, she is a writer with a verysharp and compassionate understanding of the human condition many of us fail toappreciate. I believedevery word of The Breakaway. And youwill, too.

―Jessica Bell, author of String Bridge

The Breakaway is a suspenseful, contemporary novel layered with psychological tension. Argyle gives us a peek at the internal struggles of a kidnap victim and keeps us questioning one thing―is Naomi a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, or is she being smart and waiting for her one and only chance to escape?

―S.R. Johannes, author of Untraceable (The Nature of Grace series)

The Breakaway is atotal mind-bender. This literary roller coaster ride of love, hate, right and wrongwill leave readers riveted and breathless.

―Karen Amanda Hooper, author of TangledTides

An unflinching portrayal of a young woman's growing attachment to the criminals who kidnapped her, Michelle Davidson Argyle's The Breakaway will leave your heart broken, but your spirit hopeful. You won't be able to put it down until you've read every last word.

―Jennifer Hillier, author of Creep

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**to have your review included here, please email Michelle using the contact information on this site**

Purchase True Colors

2008-11-15T09:52:00.000-07:00

Paperback

True Colors (signed, shipped to you by the author) U.S. shipping included
4-3/4" x 7" 341 pages

$8.00

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Paperback

True Colors (signed, shipped to you by the author) International shipping included (including Canada)
4-3/4" x 7" 341 pages

$12.00

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Praise for Cinders

2008-08-17T13:43:00.075-06:00

I was left moved and, yes, as a romantic, a little bit saddened by this tale. But I’m glad I read it, because it was profound and challenging and, while the difficulties of life were never minimised, it ended on a new beginning: Cinderella had learned just what she was capable of and we know that she has the strength to do what must be done.

―Judy Croome, author of Dancing in the Shadows of Love

I loved this book. It is a true novella in every respect. The cover is beautifully done. The writing is lovely and imaginative and simple in its tenor. It’s a quick fluid read. Even a young reader will be able to understand the concepts being presented here. And while this book, like the original fairy tales of old, is loaded with abuses and intrigue and death, the treatment of these issues is quite subtle. Enjoy. I certainly did.

―Cheryl Anne Gardner, Twisted Knickers Publications, Pod People Blog

The lyrical matter-of-factness of [Argyle's] prose hits the flat notes of an anticlimactic ever-after with a practiced confidence, delivering a clear-eyed view of a girl with a history of hard work and humble means who is lifted out of her lowly station not by dint of her own efforts nor by reason of innate worthiness but—get this, because it’s been there all along—by magic.

―Ien Nevens on The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog

The surroundings feel familiar and yet fresh, the subject matter shared and still separate. The Grimm and Disney emphases of rising from poverty to royalty and gaining true love meet with political intrigues and ethical issues of enchantment. It's a compelling mix that Argyle handles with aplomb.

―Loren Eaton from I Saw Lightning Fall

I liked the feeling of suspense, worry, intrigue. I thought this book measured up to Gale Carson Levine's stories, and I hope to read more of Michelle Davidson Argyle's books.

―Bethany Huang from Bookablog and author of The Eiffel Tower's Daughter

The prose itself is pitch perfect for the narrative, to the point where as a reader you forget that you're reading. It's presented like the glass slipper that it is: beautiful, translucent, and full of unexpected magic.

―J.S. Chancellor from Welcome to the Asylum, and author of the Guardians of Legend Series

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*If you'd like a snippet of your review listed here, please let me know. I'd love to see what you think!

The Breakaway Excerpts

2008-07-18T14:19:00.000-06:00

Chapter I

February

The kidnapper looking down at Naomi held a book of poetry to his chest. She didn’t know what he was doing with the poetry, but it was the first thing that fueled her hope of staying alive.

“I’m Jesse,” he said, and bent down to touch her arm. His hands were small, but she guessed he was stronger than he looked. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Sick?”

She tensed. Why did he care how she felt?

“Not dizzy,” she said slowly. Her tongue was dry, and her voice was strange through a faint ringing in her head, like the sound of a muffled bell. “I don’t know. I thought I was home. I thought—”

A few things came back; screeching tires, darkness, the smell of leather. Now she felt a flattened, unfamiliar pillow beneath her head. It smelled of dirty hair. She hated that smell, and held her breath.

“I won’t hurt you if you do what I say,” Jesse said, pressing her forearm with his thumb. With his other hand he clutched the book closer, if that was possible. Naomi winced at his touch. She wanted his hand off her, but she didn’t dare resist him. The calm side of her brain took over. It told her to stay still, do what she was told, and an opportunity for escape would come later. There was always a chance for things later.

She clutched the bedspread as she looked around. Sunlight peeked through a thin gap in the curtains across the room. There was a patch of blue sky, parked cars. She was in a motel. Her heart picked up pace and it made the ringing in her head louder. What would they do to her here? She didn’t want to think about that. She couldn’t. She shoved the thought away and focused on the moment.

Jesse curled two more fingers around her arm. “What did you see in the parking lot last night?”

“Parking lot?” She looked into his eyes, hoping she would find an answer. All she found was a beautiful green. It was a striking combination with his short, reddish brown hair. That was unexpected, like the poetry. What kind of a kidnapper read poetry? It was the only thing she could cling to—a delicate flower in the middle of a burned field of weeds.

“You mean the parking lot outside the window?” she asked. She had no clue what he meant by asking her what she had seen. What day was it? Friday? She had gone to school, done her homework, spent most of the night with her boyfriend, Brad. His sheets had smelled like his cologne, so strong she thought he might have spilled the bottle. When she complained, he kissed her. Then he kissed her some more. One thing led to another. She hadn’t finished her homework, she realized. They had walked to the park at two in the morning, Brad hauling her camera equipment.

“Think,” Jesse urged. “I need to know what you remember. Try, please.”

Why didn’t he just leave her alone? She didn’t want to talk or think. She touched the base of her skull. A tender wound. Red flakes on her fingers. Her head must have hit something hard. She blinked and scrambled to sit up, groaning as pain shot through her arms and legs. Aching bruises everywhere. None of them hurt as badly as the one on her face. She knew what had caused that one.

Jesse backed away when she let out a cry and fell back to the pillows. “What happened to me?” she whimpered. “What did you do to me? She craned her neck to find the motel door. It was across from the bed, begging her to run.

“Tell me what you remember.” He was starting to look angry.

She didn’t remember anything! She should be in a hospital, or at least her own bedroom. She should be in Brad’s arms. His bed was familiar, his embrace comforting and protective, until last night. No, it was earlier. She lifted a hand to her left cheek. She still couldn’t believe he had done it.

“Start talking,” Jesse ordered. He was obviously losing patience. Naomi looked up, frantically searching her mind for one scrap of memory. Would he hurt her if she didn’t come up with something right this second? She kept her mind focused on the poetry. A strange side. A soft side.

“The park,” she said, remembering a grove of black eucalyptus trees, misty through a veil of fog. Brad leaning against a tree with his hands pushed into his pockets. “I was taking pictures.”

She remembered squinting through the lens of her camera, deciding what exposure she should set to capture the fog rolling through the grove. “I wanted to go home, so I cut through the parking lot.”

“And?”

Garbage dumpsters loomed through the fog. Out of nowhere, a set of blurry, yellow lights slammed into her.

“A car.”

“What kind of car?” His voice was more urgent.

“I don’t know. I just remember the lights.”

“You’re certain that’s all you saw? No license plate? No make or model of the car? Nothing else?”

“Nothing.” She glanced at the book. Seamus Heaney, a poet she had studied last month in her advanced English class. That was weird. Nothing about this seemed right. She wanted to curl up and hide, but instead she looked at Jesse’s face. The stubble across his jaw was a deeper red than his hair. He was dirty and messy, not much older than her, maybe in his twenties. Rough. Dangerous. Not like somebody who read poetry.

“You like to read?” he asked.

She clamped her lips together, darting her attention to the door. He was distracted. This was her chance.

Scrambling off the bed, she ignored her pain and ran to the door. Her body was fluid and strong, her mind instantly focused. She reached for the handle, but Jesse was too fast. He knocked her to the floor so hard she yelled out. The scratchy rug reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Damn it! I said I didn’t want to hurt you!” He gripped her shoulders and pulled her to her feet, his hands surprisingly gentle compared to how rough she expected a kidnapper to be. She focused on the door, feeling her knees give out as she strained to pull away.

“Let. Me. Go!” Her voice came out louder than she thought. Her throat swelled like it was filled with cotton.

Wrapping her in an embrace, Jesse kept her upright. His chest smelled of stale cologne and sweat. It was similar to Brad’s smell after he finished working out at the gym, and she almost gagged with the realization that she might never see him again. Or maybe it was something else. That smell could make her do anything she was told.

“Let you go? No, no, we can’t do that.” He steered Naomi to the bed, but she didn’t fight. She couldn’t. She was limp and heavy like a wet towel that would never dry. “Stay here on the bed.” He helped her lie down on the flower-patterned blanket and picked up his poetry book that he had dropped. “Eric will kill you if you try to run again.”

Kill her? He hadn’t said it sarcastically, and she believed him. A smudge of dried blood stained the pillow. She held her breath as she rested her cheek on it. Jesse sat on the opposite bed to watch her. She fought the desperate urge to curl into a ball and cry, but it was too late. Tears were already forming. A cold burst of air from across the room made her jump. The door closed. Oh, crap. That was probably Eric.

“Is she awake?”

Jesse nodded as a man walked between the beds. His jeans were dirty and wrinkled around the knees.

“She doesn’t remember anything, Eric. It looks like this was all for nothing.”

“What?” Eric leaned down to look her in the face. He had dark brown eyes. His mouth was drawn into a taut line. “Sit up.”

She obeyed and squeezed her knees to her chest. He was older than Jesse. She guessed maybe forty. The oddest thing of all was how nice he looked, almost handsome. He was clean-cut except for the black scruff on his jaw. His thick, carefully shaped sideburns were knifelike.

“What did you see in the parking lot?” he asked.

It was hard to make her voice come out. She was sure he wanted a specific answer. He wanted her to say something about the car and the headlights.

“I don’t remember very much,” she said and looked up just as his fist met her cheek. She hadn’t expected that.

“You don’t have to hit her!” she heard Jesse yell as her head collided with the headboard. She kept the scream bundled inside her throat. If she let it out he would hit her again, she was sure of it.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt her.” Jesse glared at Eric.

“Shut up.”

Naomi pressed two fingers to her numb cheek. Her face felt broken. She couldn’t tell if she was crying. She had to stay calm and give them what they wanted. That was the only way out of this mess. If there was a way out without getting herself killed.

“Like hell, you don’t remember.” Eric curled his upper lip into a snarl. “Even if you don’t, it doesn’t matter now. You’ve seen us.” He pulled her off the bed, past Jesse, and into the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Jesse asked.

Eric glanced down at the poetry still gripped in Jesse’s hand. “Ditch the damn book and help me out. Go get the scissors.” He wrapped a cold hand around Naomi’s neck and leaned her over the sink with a fierce shove. Her tears dropped into the porcelain sink. She was crying. Great. So much for staying brave. Of course, she had never thought of herself as particularly brave. This was not a situation in which she would shine.

Her lip was bleeding, turning her tears pink as they slipped down the drain. She wondered why these men didn’t just kill her. Not that she wanted them to, but keeping her alive meant they were going to do something with her, and that was what she didn’t want to think about in any amount of detail.

“Here.” Jesse stepped into the bathroom and handed Eric a pair of office scissors, the kind with the bright orange handle. Her dad had a pair of those in his office. She remembered cutting her own hair with them when she was six. Her nanny had spanked her so hard she couldn’t sit down for the rest of the day.

Eric snatched the scissors from Jesse and pushed her head down farther. He parted her hair in the middle. It was so long it coiled into the basin of the sink like two golden snakes. She stared at it, somewhat relieved. At least he wasn’t planning on stabbing her. She hoped. She repeated the same phrase in her head over and over—stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. Her body relaxed.

“Don’t,” Eric said when her knees wobbled and her body went limp. He shoved her against the counter before she fell over.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into the sink. The little resolve she had left was unraveling quickly, and she couldn’t tie it back together fast enough. All she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry.

He finished the first section in four strokes and moved to the other side. He yanked. He tugged. He had obviously never cut hair before. When he gripped her shoulders and forced her to straighten, she stared at herself.

Her hair was gone. He had cut it a few inches above her shoulders. She gripped the counter so hard she thought her fingers might break. What was this? Why? Why any of this?

“Take off your sweater.”

After wiping the last of the blood from her lips, she pulled off her hoodie. It was the one Brad had bought her at the mall a year ago. She handed it over, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to take off anything else. She would freak out if he did. If Brad ever met this man, he would break his neck.

“Take your earrings out.”

She lifted a hand to her ear. “Why?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.” He leaned forward as he spit the words at her.

The earrings were a Christmas gift from her parents. Or what they wanted to call a gift, taking her to the jewelry store two days before the holiday to pick them out. Two diamond studs, a full carat each. Had she been kidnapped for ransom? Her parents had a lot of money, but that didn’t seem to be what these men wanted.

Eric slipped the earrings into his pocket. “It would be a hell of a lot easier to kill you, but I don’t want to do that if I don’t have to.” He shrugged. “It’s your choice. If you try to escape, I’ll kill you. If you want to live, stay with us and do exactly what we say.”

She took a step back.

“You’re not a fighter,” he said, rubbing the knuckles of the hand he had hit her with. “That’s good.”

The rest of her strength unraveled as she realized the truth of what he said. Of course she wasn’t a fighter. If she was, she would have kicked him in the balls by now, or slammed her elbow into his stomach, or bitten his arm. Anything but do whatever he said. She lowered her eyes.

He filled a plastic cup with water and set two pills on the counter. “Take those.

They were blue and round, bitter and tart on her tongue as she swallowed them. She convinced herself they were only to make her sleep because she didn’t have any will left to resist. She took another step back and glanced at the toilet. She needed to pee.

“You need to go?”

She nodded, and when he didn’t move she realized he was going to stay there the whole time. He cleared his throat and turned around.

Could she do this? She had to.

Unzipping her pants, she pulled them down and sat on the toilet, her face growing hotter by the second. Her urine hitting the water was the loudest, most embarrassing sound she had ever heard. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt naked. The only person who had ever seen her naked outside of childhood was Brad, and now this idiot man could turn around and watch her pee and there was nothing she could do about it. Where was Brad? What had happened? Why was going to the bathroom taking so long? At least the man wasn’t watching. His name was Eric. Was it wrong to think of him by his name? How long would she have to do that?

Finally, she finished. “I’m done,” she said after zipping up her jeans. She flushed the toilet.

He led her back to the bed. “Lie down and stay quiet.” He watched her crawl under the blankets and curl into a ball.

On the other bed, Jesse looked up from his book. Naomi closed her eyes and turned away from him before she could decide if his compassionate expression was well-intentioned or not. At least they hadn’t tied her up, but what would they do to her once she was asleep? She hugged herself and breathed slowly for what seemed like hours. Blank slate. She had to push her mind somewhere safe, somewhere empty. Then the men started to talk.

“How much did you get?” Jesse asked.

“Three-fifty. Better than we thought. Your friend says there’s a push for gold overseas. We’ll head home tonight once the pills knock her out.”

Their words were starting to slur and fade in her head. Great. Why now when she could maybe pick up something useful from their conversation? She probably wouldn’t remember any of this. Stupid pills. She should have pretended to swallow them, but a part of her wanted to fade away and never wake up.

“Did they get everything ready? You’re sure you want to go through with this?”

“Of course I’m sure. I left the choice up to Evie, and this is what she wants. It’ll work out. It’s my own damn fault. I didn’t see her in all that fog until it was too late, and who the hell knows if she’s telling the truth?” He cleared his throat and it sounded like a train wreck inside her head through whatever drugs he had given her. “We’ll need to clean up in here before we leave. Fingerprints, hair, everything. We can’t leave anything behind. She’s all over the news now. Is she out yet?”

A hand touched her arm. Her body jerked, but she couldn’t open her eyes.

“Getting there.”

The hand lingered on her elbow, warm and pressing. It slid up her skin, a gentle, trembling stroke. Then it was gone.

Chapter II

Karen Jensen loved her office. She loved the thick, leather-bound law volumes lined neatly on the bookshelves. She loved the smell of coffee from down the hall. She especially loved the windows behind her desk overlooking the city and the ocean beyond that. It was often dark when she left for work early in the morning and always dark when she went home late at night. Traffic moved down below, but she was so far removed from it that it couldn’t possibly bother her. Anna, her secretary, always let her know ahead of time if there was an accident or construction and which route would get her home fastest. Anna was a lifesaver.

This morning as Karen entered her office and flipped on the light, she sensed something was wrong. Anna had already arrived. That was odd; she usually didn’t show up until nine. Karen glanced at her watch. It was only eight. She peeked into the adjoining office where Anna was hunched over her desk, one hand supporting her chin as she drowsed in front of her computer monitor.

“Anna, what are you doing?”

The girl jumped and spun around in her chair. “Karen!”

Anna was twenty-eight, thin, alert, and quirky—a breath of fresh air every time Karen looked at her. The girl could talk faster than a spinning top, but Karen liked that. She liked her wildly curly, chestnut-brown hair and dramatic hazel eyes that flickered about like two moths trying to find their way out of a room.

Today, however, Anna looked anything but quirky. Dark circles sagged underneath her eyes. Her hair was limp.

“Karen,” she repeated, and rolled her chair back from her desk. Her face drained of color as if she was seeing a ghost. “What are you doing here? I thought you wouldn’t come back for weeks, or until Naomi is found. I thought—”

“Forget what you thought.” Karen waved her hand. “There’s nothing I can do about Naomi right now. The detectives are on the case. The press is having a field day, and I’ve got clients with cases that aren’t going to wait just because I have a personal crisis going on in the background. I already missed yesterday.”

“Personal crisis?”

“Yes, isn’t that what this is?”

Anna blinked. “Yes, and you should be home.”

“Doing what? Crying? Fretting? What is that going to solve? Anna, be realistic for two seconds.”

Karen straightened her shoulders and tried to force her thoughts away from yesterday morning when Brad had shown up just before breakfast. Naomi was missing. She had been missing for two days, but Brad was too afraid to tell anyone he couldn’t find her. He had stood on the front porch with his hands shoved into his pockets, his blond hair falling in his eyes as he confessed that he had hit Naomi in the face the night before she disappeared, and maybe that’s why she was gone. Karen knew her husband, Jason, would likely scream at the boy for ten minutes if he heard such a confession, so she kept that quiet when he arrived home to a house full of police officers asking questions. But it all came out later, anyway.

“I am being realistic,” Anna’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

So much for not thinking about yesterday. Karen gave Anna a cold look and headed for her desk. She didn’t have time for this. She sat in her chair and looked up at Anna, who seemed to be fighting the urge to put on the crusty glare usually reserved for her ex-boyfriend when he called her at work.

“Anna,” she said in a calm voice, smoothing the wrinkles out of her blouse and adjusting her pearl necklace. “The police are trying to find Naomi. Nothing more can be done right now. I’ve hired my own private detective to work with them as well, and I’ve seen enough in the courtroom to know how pointless it is for me to get involved with the investigation right now. I’d only be a nuisance. This early on she could show up any second. She’s almost eighteen, and she only wants to exert her independence. I’m sure that’s all this is.”

Anna folded her arms. “The first few days of a missing person case are the most important, and what do you mean it’s pointless for you to get involved? You’re her mother.”

“Yes, I’m her very busy mother with five clients scheduled today.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’m due in the courtroom in three hours. Very important people depend on me, Anna.” She gave Anna a look that clearly said let it go, then jabbed the power button on the computer. “I sure hope you kept on top of things yesterday.”

“Oh sure, I kept on top of things.” Anna unfolded her arms and spun on her heel, disappearing into her own office. “I went through your emails,” she called out as she sat down at her desk where Karen could only see her back. “I sorted through your voicemails; there were a lot of messages from people concerned about Naomi, and one from your sister, Elizabeth. Doesn’t she have your cell number?”

“Nobody has my cell number except for you and Jason. You know all my other calls are forwarded from here.”

“Not even Naomi?” Anna spun around in her chair, and it was then that Karen noticed her wrinkled clothes and the misplaced pillows on the leather sofa across the room.

“No, not even Naomi.”

“What if she needs you? How can she get a hold of you if she doesn’t have your number?”

“Naomi never needs me. Did you sleep here last night?”

Anna blinked.

“Anna?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why would you sleep here?”

Her face turned scarlet as she stood from her chair. “Why wouldn’t I sleep here? I only had people and reporters coming in here every five seconds yesterday asking about you. I only tried to call your phone five billion times. I only sat here worried sick ever since they announced on the news that there was a robbery the night she disappeared three blocks from your house. What if someone took her, Karen? That’s what they’re saying. You and your husband are two of the most prominent people in this city, and you’re hiding her under the rug.”

Karen closed her eyes and forced her mind back to a calm place. She was starting to come undone, and she couldn’t let that happen. A woman in her position had to stay strong. Her career depended on it. She wasn’t showing remorse or guilt or anything over Naomi, and that obviously bothered Anna. The problem was that Anna couldn’t possibly understand how her relationship with Naomi worked. She opened her eyes and stood.

“I’m going to go get some coffee.”

“But I always get your coffee.”

“Not today.”

Karen marched out of the office as she rubbed a finger between her eyes. Was this how everyone was going to react? Shocked at her behavior? The reporters were already camping out near the house. It was only a matter of time before they realized she had snuck away to come to work. They would be here by afternoon pestering her with questions. Jason would have it even worse. He was the CEO of one of the largest companies in the western United States.

She snatched a mug from a cupboard and filled it with coffee. She needed it badly today. Jason had kept her up all night worrying about Naomi. He wondered if he should go back to work, if he should try to help search for her more than he already had, if it was his fault she was gone. Which was ridiculous. She was almost eighteen. When Karen was that age, she had left her family, excited to start her own life away from what was barely a home. She could still smell the burnt macaroni and cheese her sister had tried to make in the kitchen of their trashy trailer and the greasy hamburgers her father grilled outside every weekend until the snow fell. Her mother had worked at a factory, and whenever she came home she plopped herself onto the lumpy couch and chain smoked until Karen had to go outside so she could breathe. The only refuge was school. On her ceiling she had taped a poster of Harvard. One day she would go there and graduate and live in a big, clean house by the ocean.

“And that’s exactly what I did,” she mumbled into her coffee. She marched back to her office and sat down. Anna was still at her desk.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Karen said, causing Anna to turn around to look at her.

“What am I thinking?”

“That I’m a terrible person for reacting this way.”

“That’s not what I—”

Karen held up a hand. “Everybody will think that, but they’re wrong. They don’t understand the pressures Jason and I deal with—what we have to maintain in the public eye. I’ve given Naomi everything I never had. If she’s anything like me, she’s not in any danger. She just needed some space. Her boyfriend hit her, and she probably thinks running away for a little while will teach him a lesson. She’ll come back in a few days.”

Anna turned back to her computer. “Seems like she had plenty of space before.”

That wasn’t worth answering. Karen couldn’t believe she was wasting her time arguing with Anna. There was too much to do today. She stared at her email inbox and blinked as the screen turned fuzzy. Lack of sleep, that was all. She swiveled her chair to face the windows behind her as the caffeine from her coffee seeped into her system. The ocean was calm beyond the city, just like her. She would stay calm. Even if Naomi was truly in danger, showing the public her fear and insecurities would not help anyone. Nobody could understand her relationship with Naomi. It was like a flower trying to bloom. If someone disturbed it, it would die, just like her broken relationship with her own mother had died. She wouldn’t let that happen, especially from reporters trying to pry into her life.

Taking a sip of her coffee, she turned back to her computer.
__________________________

The Breakaway will be published by Rhemalda Publishing, and released May 1st, 2012.

Scales Excerpts

2008-07-18T14:08:00.000-06:00

From Section 1 of Scales

There were many concerts after that one, but she never saw the raven-haired fairy again. She soon forgot him as the seasons rolled on, changing again and again. Serina gained more control over water, and Aeline became more proficient with air…and fire. It was when Aeline began eating the fire that Serina truly worried.

“That will burn your mouth. Or your lungs. Aeline!”

Aeline danced around the forest and laughed. “It’s sweet!” she yelled. Her golden dress billowed behind her like a sugary cloud as a string of fire circled her body, winding in a coil until it reached her mouth and she swallowed pieces of it in gulps. All around them the air shivered with her music, for as she ate the fire, she sang and manipulated the air into the most tempting, illustrious sounds. Serina found herself captivated as she paced a short path. She was waiting for something terrible to happen. Aeline had never eaten fire before. In fact, Serina had never heard of any fairy eating fire. It seemed evil. Twisted.

“Aeline, you must stop!” she finally managed to scream. “I will bring water to put it out this instant if you don’t stop. I swear it.”

Aeline’s feet ground to a halt. She turned to face Serina, her eyes glowing a bright golden color, the same as her dress. The fire shimmered around her, waiting her command as the air died to silence.

“You’re supposed to enjoy this,” she said as her shoulders slumped. “You must admit the music I’m creating is more beautiful than even what you hear at the elders’ concerts. Music is your favorite, and…” She stepped forward and lifted her hand to Serina. “I would very much like it, sister, if you tried this fire-guiding. It’s unexplainable. It’s—”

“No.” Serina folded her arms and shook her head. “I refuse. How are you not burning inside? You swallowed it. I don’t understand. This is dangerous and wrong. The elements are not for us to ingest like food! They are to bring beauty and light and growth to our world and the human realm. We are their companions, not their masters. Haven’t your instructors shown you that?”

“They haven’t shown me anything except weakness,” Aeline hissed. The fire seemed to grow around her. “You breathe air, don’t you? You drink water. How is that any different than eating fire?”

“Because it’s necessary and natural!” Serina ground her teeth. She could see this entire argument was pointless. She had to take it in a different direction, so she took a deep breathe and calmed herself. She stepped closer to her sister who was still surrounded by fire. Heat emanated from the smooth flames. “I understand how much you love fire,” she said softly. “I’ve begun to love water like my own companion. Sometimes I wake up at night wishing it was surrounding me, and I’ll pull it from the air and smooth it across my skin like a blanket, but that is my element; I’m supposed to feel that way. Fire is not yours. You’re manipulating it in ways that have frightened me for years, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep quiet about it. I fear that if the male elders discover we’ve kept it a secret for so long, they’ll punish us.” Her mind rolled through what she knew of punishment—of how the male elders stripped fairies of their powers and threw them into the human realm, and how they punished other species, as well. She had heard the elves, in particular, were one of the most difficult to punish. They were the closest in resemblance to fairies, and although their magic was frail in comparison, their stubbornness required the harshest discipline if they crossed lines. In all reality, the male fairies frightened her more than anything because they were the ones who enforced rules and laws; the female fairies provided nurturing and compassion. This was why they lived separately—to keep the two untainted, for if too much compassion entered into discipline, it would only invite weakness. She closed her eyes. “I’ve heard about what they do to those they punish—”

“Don’t go any further,” Aeline said, and lifted a hand as if to push Serina away. The light in her eyes began to dim. “You’ve made it clear why you’re upset. You’re afraid of power and authority, and even though you’re older than me, you’re more frightened of all of that than I have ever been.”

Narrowing her eyes, Serina stepped closer. The heat might have seared her skin, but she kept a thin barrier of moisture between herself and her sister. “Is that why you want to control fire? To control others? Is that what all this is about?”

Aeline blinked. Her eyes dimmed even more. “Not at all. It’s like a…sister…to me. That is all.”

Her heart sinking, Serina said, “Oh,” and stepped away. “Yet you still need me, your true sister, to keep it under the tightest control.”

The fire flickered. Aeline cleared her throat. “Yes, I still haven’t mastered it completely, you’re right.”

“I don’t think you ever will.”

__________________________

Scales will be published by Rhemalda Publishing May 1st, 2013, as part of the Bonded collection with Michelle's two other novellas, Cinders and Scales.

Thirds Excerpts

2008-07-13T21:08:00.016-06:00

from section 1 of Thirds

The forest smelled of frost and rain as Issina made her way back to the house. The rain always stopped before sunrise, and it was only in the winter that it turned to snow. In the summer it remained fluid, sometimes freezing into icicles just before morning, the forest a shivering grove of refracted light.

The garden next to the house was no exception to the cold. It often sparkled more brilliantly than the forest, every budding flower and leaf a delicate frozen masterpiece. As Issina approached the garden she caught sight of Edryn and Sybil crossing the chicken yard to enter their green wonderland. The garden was their paradise, and it was off limits to Issina. Still, she stepped up to the heavy foliage and trellises and peered through a break.

Edryn and Sybil, dressed in only their white chemises and fur-lined cloaks twirled happily along the trails. They raised their arms and chanted rich, beautiful phrases. Ice shattered; frozen edges disappeared; stems lengthened at a rapid pace.

Although their work was enchanting, Issina knew it was only a small portion of what the growers did every morning as they visited expansive fields and gardens and sang the frost away. By the end of summer the crops were healthy and abundant—more so than if the sun had been left to do the growing on its own. The only areas untouched by the growers were the forests, and they didn’t look as beautiful or as healthy. Issina knew this from the berries she picked along the path. They were significantly smaller, some of them burned with the cold and not as sweet as those grown in the garden at home.

The growers’ work seemed to require large amounts of energy. After a few minutes, Sybil and Edryn sat on the ground, gasping. There was a reason they had to be chosen by the council and could not become full growers on their own. They needed training to increase their stamina, and only one person could provide them with it.

Gilbert and Gissy honked at Issina’s heels, startling her from the reverie of watching her sisters. The silly geese had followed her out when she’d opened the gate, staying with her the entire trip. Sometimes her goat, Cassia, followed her, but she seemed low lately, sleeping past sunrise in her corner of the chicken yard, her peppery-gray hair more dull than usual.

Issina picked up her water buckets and entered the chicken yeard. Cassia greeted her, bleating at the top of her lungs. Issina smiled at seeing her friend so full of energy. “You must be feeling better, old girl.” She knelt in the soft dirt and scratched between the animals ears.

“Maaaa,” was all the goat said, but Issina liked to believe she said, Yes, thank you…

Issina smiled and squeezed her close, trying to ignore how skinny the animal felt. Her ribs were clearly visible.

“Maaaa to you, too,” she said with a frown, and pecked a kiss on Cassia’s nose. She stood up to finish carrying the water inside.

Odele was in the kitchen dropping biscuit dough onto a baking stone. Her graying her was swept into an intricate knot and this revealed her slender neck which always reminded Issina of a swan gliding through the water.

“It’s about time,” Odele snapped as she glanced at Issina. “Your sisters are starving.”

“I’ll bet they are.”

“What did you say?” Odele spun around as Issina set the water buckets on the floor near the oven. Nobody had stoked the fire yet and that meant breakfast would be even later.

“Nothing,” Issina muttered and grabbed a basket and a knife before heading to the root cellar where they kept vegetables and meat. Sometimes she stole food from the cellar, but Odele could almost always tell when she had eaten something, which was why she tried to be careful with the berries and eat them only at night or in the woods.

She made her way down the stairs. The room stayed very cool, even during the hot summer days, and was situated well beneath the house. The hard-packed dirt walls were webbed with spindly roots and the air smelled sweet, like cold plants.

Issina headed for the cured ham hanging from a rope secured to the ceiling. It was nearly gone, but what was left looked so tempting that Issina licked her fingers after she’d cut a few slices and put them in her basket. She glanced at the mostly empty shelves around her. Winter was coming in a few months. Normally the cellar would have been more stocked by this point, but Odele had been forced to sell food in the market during the past months to pay debts. Issina hated to think of the fewer scraps of food she’d get once the snow began to fall and her mother and sisters hoarded more for themselves. There would be no berries then.

She stared at the roots snaking out of the walls. Last winter she had sliced some and eaten them at night in her room. Bitter. Oddly enough, she had enjoyed the taste as it burned down her throat. The roots had calmed her growling stomach like a balm. Now, looking at them before she turned to head back up the stairs, she wondered if she should cut some more. She touched a knotted mass of them near a shelf. They were cool against her skin and made her think of the music in her dreams, of tall trees and sparkling light.
__________________________

from section 3 of Thirds

The forest was dripping with icicles. As the sun filtered through the foliage, they sparkled. Issina hardly took note of them as she ran off the path into the underbrush. Pinecones pierced the bottom of her feet until they bled and left smeared red spots on leaves and needles and grass. She kept her arms straight at her sides, terrified to touch anything living. The sensation of the wilting flowers in her hands reminded her of snakes writhing against her skin, coiling and then dying, their beautiful skin dissolving to dust. She gripped her chemise and held it up out of the way of low branches and ferns. When the birds began to sing she stopped and sat down on a rock, burying her face in her hands so she could weep into something warm. But her hands weren’t warm. They were as lifeless as the dripping icicles, her tears hot against her skin.

Haven’t you seen the darkness in her mind? I couldn’t penetrate it in the forest. That’s why I left her there. I couldn’t stand to be next to her one moment longer.

Was there darkness in her mind? Six years earlier Odele had sent her into town to buy some meat. She walked through the market with her eyes glued to the ground. She had never been into town alone before. Her dress was shabby and her left shoe was ripped open on the heel. Everything she owned was passed down to her from Sybil or Edryn and they were not gentle on clothes. By the time she received them they were gray with dirt and thin from repeated washings. She stopped at the meat stand and purchased two pig’s feet, a piece of cow’s liver, and a package of pork chops wrapped in cloth. They felt deliciously thick in her hands as she placed them into her basket.

“That all for you, Miss?” the butcher asked. He wore a cream-colored apron spattered and smeared with blood. A pig’s head swung on a rope behind him.

“Yes, sir.” She reached out her hand to give him the coins she owed. When he took them he stuck his tongue between his lips and lifted the coins close to his face, counting.

“This is too much, lil’ Miss,” he said with a glance. He seemed to study her dress for a moment and she wondered if he might see the scabs on her hands. Quickly, she swung her basket behind her back to hide them.

“That’s how much my Mother said to give you,” she stammered.

“No, it’s too much.” He lifted one shiny coin and held it out to her. It glinted in the sun. “Take this, keep it for yerself, and go buy somethin’ nice over there at Miss Rose’s jewelry cart.”

Issina looked over her shoulder. Down the road past throngs of market shoppers was a cart. It stood out from everything else, and as bodies passed in front of it she caught a glimpse of its treasures and almost gasped. She had never seen anything so dazzling.

“Is her cart new?” she asked quietly.

“What’s that ye say?”

“Is her cart new? It wasn’t here last time I came with my sisters. They would have stopped there.”

“Miss Rose only comes certain times o’ the month. Here, lil’ Miss, take the coin.”

Breathing heavily, Issina snatched the coin from his fingers and backed into the crowd, nodding her thanks. When she reached Rose’s cart, her eyes swirled with delight. Diamonds and rubies and long gold chains cascaded before her. She saw ancient stones, mother-of-pearl, jade, a polished tiger’s eye set in a braided silver oval.

She clutched the coin in her hand, her basket in another, and stared at the brown stone. It glittered like warm soil and sunshine, lustrous and dark at the same time. She hadn’t known at the time what the stone was called. Rose bent down.

“You like the tiger’s eye?”

“Yes,” Issina said in a soft breath. She wanted to reach out and touch the stone, but her hands were full. Her mind zipped back to the image of her father. She now had something to call his fierce, beautiful eyes.

Rose smiled softly. She was like a gypsy, her clothing layered in rich emeralds and purples, all of it ending in points and frays and ribbons, some of them tied together with sparkling beads. She had sleek, straight black hair and large breasts that swayed when she bent down. Her tiny shoes were black with white shells sewn into the fabric.

Issina took all this in with a deep, warm breath.

“Do you want to buy the stone, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” She held out the coin in her hand and Rose frowned.

“I’m afraid that is not enough.”

“Oh.” Her eyes went straight to the dirt. A slender finger hooked under her chin as Rose lifted her face.

“Soldiers in a faraway land once wore tiger’s eye in their armor for protection,” she said with her eyes trained intently on Issina. “It is a stone used to help heal the sick and weak. It focuses the mind. Do you need these things?”

Issina swallowed and shifted her feet. “I don’t know. My father’s eyes looked like that stone.”

“His eyes?” Rose’s finger tensed on Issina’s chin. “Where is your father now?”

“He’s dead.”

“Your father’s dead?” Rose dropped her hand. “That is interesting.”

Issina remained silent. The stone’s brilliance tugged at her, a dark presence filling her mind. She rubbed her thumb over the coin and imagined the stone there instead. She would have liked to lie down at night with the stone in her palm, her father’s eyes more fixed in her mind because of it. She didn’t know at the time that she had killed him.

She did not stop Rose from taking her face in her hands. The woman looked intently into her eyes, her lips twisting between her teeth.

“There is much darkness in you,” she whispered. “But it is like your father’s, perhaps. Tell me, child, do you dream of trees?”

Issina dropped her meat basket and stepped away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Rose stood straight and folded her arms. “You may not have his eyes, but I sense the earth in you. Earth is dark, like this stone, but filled with light. Remember that, child.” She waved an arm at her cart. “Would you like to purchase something else today?”

She turned and ran, tripped and fell in the dirt, and lost her coin. Scrambling to her feet, she raced past the butcher who called out to her as the pig’s head watched her pass, its eyes as black and cold as ice. When she arrived home, Odele beat her until she screamed in pain and blood streamed down her back.

“How dare you leave the meat at the market! It’s long gone by now, stolen no doubt. We’ll go hungry for a week, and you…you’ll eat nothing.”

All she could think about were trees.
__________________________

Thirds will be published by Rhemalda Publishing May 1st, 2013, as part of the Bonded collection with Michelle's two other novellas, Cinders and Scales.

2008-07-13T15:50:00.036-06:00

BONDED

Cinderella, Issina, and Serina have one important thing in common - the elves. When Cinderella marries her prince, she can't forget about the seductive elf she met years before. When Issina tires of not having the same magic as her sisters, she finds comfort - and more trouble than she can handle - from the elves who live in her woods. When Serina's sister kills their mother, Serina follows her into the mysterious human realm where she is met with love and fire - two things that will transform her into an unwanted creature with scales.

Bonded will be published May 1, 2013 by Rhemalda Publishing. The cover will be created by Rhemalda Publishing's artist, Eve Ventrue.

Cinders
a novella

A continuation of the Cinderella tale (no specific version).

Money can't buy love, but in Cinders magic isn't a sure bet either. Cinderella - now officially a princess - finds royal life is not what she once dreamed. When a figure from her past stirs up a long-suppressed passion, Cinderella begins to wonder if there really is love under the spell that earned her husband's heart. But undoing magic can be harder than casting the initial spell, and the results are even less predictable.

Cinders is currently for sale at Amazon.com and other online retailers and will be removed for purchase in 2013. *thanks to Rick Daley for the fantastic summary of Cinders.*

______________________________________________________

Thirds
a novella

A retelling/interpretation of the original Grimm's fairy tale, One-Eye, Two-Eyes, Three-Eyes.

Issina is surrounded by magic, yet none of it belongs to her. Abused by her mother and sisters for accidentally killing her own father, she finds comfort when she meets the beautiful elves living in her woods. But these elves are more than she bargained for, and she discovers there is more to magic than getting what you want.

______________________________________________________

Scales
a novella

A prequel to Sleeping Beauty inspired by the Disney version of the tale.

Serina is a fairy living outside of the human realm. When her sister Aeline kills their mother, Serina follows her into the human realm with only a fairy to guide her - a fairy with some dark secrets. He offers to help her find her sister, but Serina quickly discovers she could end up with not only a broken heart, but a curse that gives her scales for skin and fire for breath.

2008-07-13T15:09:00.035-06:00

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2008-07-13T15:06:00.026-06:00

THE BREAKAWAY

**SIGN UP FOR AN ARC OF THE BREAKAWAY HERE**

Information:

Paperback & Ebook Available
Publisher: Rhemalda Publishing (May 1, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-13: 978-1-936850-61-7
ePUB ISBN: 978-1-936850-62-4
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When Naomi Jensen is kidnapped, it takes her parents two days to realize she’s missing. Escape isn’t high on her list of priorities when all she has to return to is an abusive boyfriend and parents who never paid much attention to her. For the first time in her life she’s part of a family—even if it is a family of criminals. But she’s still a captive. In a desperate attempt to regain some control in her life, Naomi embarks on a dangerous plan to make one of her kidnappers think she’s falling in love with him. The plan works too well, and when faced with the chance to escape, Naomi isn’t sure she wants to take it.

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2008-07-13T15:04:00.109-06:00

MONARCH

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Paperback & Ebook Available
Publisher: Rhemalda Publishing (September 15, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-13: 978-1-936850-19-8
ePUB ISBN: 978-1-936850-00-6
ePDF ISBN: 978-1-936850-01-3
Paperback Product Dimensions: 4"-3/4" x 7"; 5" x 8"
Pages: 341

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Nick’s life as a CIA spy should be fulfilling, but it has only given him unhappiness—a wife who committed suicide, and two daughters who resent everything he has become. Now, stuck in the Amazon on the last mission of his career, he must track down Matheus Ferreira, a drug lord and terrorist the U.S. has tried to bring down for years. If he succeeds, he’ll have the chance to start his life over again.

Just when Nick is on the brink of catching Ferreira, he’s framed for a murder that turns his world upside down. His only chance of survival lies in West Virginia where Lilian Love, a woman from his past, owns the secluded Monarch Inn. He’s safe, but not for long…

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Cynthia Garcia Book Reader Addicts
David Workman David Workman
Kristen Haskins My Bookish Fairytale
Andrea Frisby Literary Time Out
Melissa Silva The Bookshelf
Misty Rayburn The Top Shelf
Danyelle Leafty Danyelle Leafty
Ernie Laurence The Innocent Flower
Kati Lear Jagged Edge Reviews
Jessica Pitcairn Nayu's Reading Corner
Tanya Contois All Things Books
Taryn Tyler Taryn Tyler
Donea Weaver It Will Happen One Day
Liana Brooks Liana Brooks
Debbie Burns DB Smyth
Stephanie Humphries S. Humphreys
Tamara Epps Empty Thoughts Rewritten
Scott Taylor Scotty Watty Doodle All the Day
Cherie Reich Surrounded by Book Reviews
Yvonne Osborne Yvonne Osborne
Mandy Hardman Mandy and Miah
Jordan McCollum Jordan McCollum
Divya Lagisetti Bookish Delights
Rachel Brown May Days Daze
Stephanie McGee Stephanie McGee
Adam Gale Goodreads Review
Davin Malasarn The Literary Lab
Diane Estrella Diane Estrella
Christine Fonseca Christine Fonseca
Karen Hooper Karen Amanda Hooper
Laura Diamond LB Diamond
Robin McCormack My Two Blessings
Rebekah Montgomery Aurel Media
Amanda Hudson The Fiction Fairy
Shari Bird Shari Bird
J.C. Martin JC Martin Fighterwriter
Kate Nelson Yzhabellas Bookshelf
Cassie Hart Just Cassie
Susan Rowser Soozy Reads
Jessica Bell The Alliterative Allomorph
Judy Croome Judy Croome
Margot Hovley Margot Hovley
Chantele Sedgwick Chantele Sedgwick
Christauna Asay Art 'N Writing
Charlie Courtland Bitsy Bling
Meghan Derico Courage and Dreams
Mary Campbell Writers Butt Does Not Apply to Me
Rosie Connolly East for Green Eyes
Amy Laurens Ink Fever
BK Walker Immortyl Cafe
Misha Gericke Sylmion
Raquel Vega-Grieder Skyla
Karen Deem Amazon Review
Ashley Knight Amazon Review
Brandi Streeval Goodreads Review
Tom Barczak Tom Barczak
Vincent Kale Vincent Kale
Lynette Eklund Clattering Keys

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2008-07-13T14:51:00.044-06:00

CINDERS

Information:

Paperback: 184 pages
Publisher: Michelle Davidson Argyle (June 23, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1453629955
ISBN-13: 978-1453629956
Product Dimensions: 8 x 5.2 x 0.5 inches

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Cinderella's happily-ever-after isn't turning out the way she expected. With her fairy godmother imprisoned in the castle and a mysterious stranger haunting her dreams, Cinderella is on her own to discover true love untainted by magic.

Extended Cover Copy:
We all know that money can't buy love, but in Cinders we learn magic isn't a sure bet either. Cinderella - now officially a princess - finds royal life is not what she once dreamed. Pretty clothes, fancy meals, and fabulous balls can't make up for a life restricted, and she is denied the simple pleasures she used to take for granted. When a figure from her past stirs up a long-suppressed passion, Cinderella begins to wonder if there really is love under the spell that earned her husband's heart. But undoing magic can be harder than casting the initial spell, and the results are less predictable.

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Michelle McLean: Author Michelle McLean
Danyelle Leafty: Danyelle Leafty
Jamie DeBree: The Variety Pages
J.S. Chancellor: Welcome to the Asylum
Stephanie McGee: Chronicles for a Novice Writer
Shiela Stewart: Authors Promoting Authors
Katie Salidas: Written in Blood

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2008-07-13T13:22:00.085-06:00

If you'd like to purchase a copy of Cinders, please select one of the following. All transactions for signed copies are made through PayPal.

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Cinders (signed) U.S. shipping included
5.5"x 8" 184 pages

$10.00

NO LONGER FOR SALE THROUGH AUTHOR
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Paperback

Cinders (signed) International shipping included
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$18.00

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2008-07-13T08:24:00.007-06:00

TRUE COLORS

Information:

Paperback & Ebook Available (Dec 1st, 2011)
Publisher: Michelle Davidson Argyle
Language: English
ISBN-13: 978-1467925501
Paperback Product Dimensions: 5.25" x 8"
Pages: 104

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Cover Copy:
In this short story collection, Michelle Davidson Argyle shares sixteen of her literary pieces written during 1999 - 2011. In the title story, "True Colors," the main character fights her vibrant personality against the true darkness lurking within her. The story builds until a row of six dead birds stop her in her tracks. In the opening story, "Thread," (also published in the 2011 collection, Stories for Sendai), a married couple's reaction to the Sendai earthquake and tsunami on March 11th, 2011 reveals their own earth-shattering issues and what must be done to solve them. The lizard on the cover represents the story, "The Threshold," about a young boy with an intense physical attraction to a girl he's not supposed to touch. True Colors is a collection of quiet stories exploring the hidden, but often overlooked colors we try to hide every day. Sometimes they shouldn't be hidden at all.

Also included are several poems and one prose poem picked as the staff choice award in New Mexico's Literary journal, Scribendi (2002).

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Monarch Excerpts

2008-07-13T01:02:00.016-06:00

Chapter 1

The blood pooling on the floor under the assassin’s back reminded Nick of butterfly wings. It spread from the twin wounds and sparkled in the sunlight filtering through the kitchen window.

The dying man’s words came between gasps. “I’m not the only one, Avery. The others will get you. Both sides.”

Nick raised his pistol and aimed between the assassin’s widened eyes. A muffled pop from the silencer and it was over.

Killing was the worst part of Nick’s job, but he’d never felt so emotional about it. Not like this, his finger trembling against the trigger. Nobody had ever targeted him before—in his own house, no less.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at the blood spreading across the white kitchen tiles. Blood meant death and death reminded him of Annabelle. The kitchen he was standing in reminded him of her. The entire house reminded him of her. The memories stung more than his wounds from the fight with the assassin.

Tucking the pistol into the back of his pants, he walked to a filing cabinet in the living room. His boots crunched on the remains of a vase knocked to the floor during the fight. Annabelle had bought the vase a year before she died. Stepping on the broken pieces was like crunching bones. Unbearable.

Slowing his breaths, Nick unlocked the top cabinet, flipping through the files until he found the papers for his other identity—a precaution he’d taken years ago. Illegal, but he didn’t care. He pushed the papers into his pocket and started to close the drawer. He stopped.

His youngest daughter’s wedding paperwork was at the front—paid bills for dresses, flowers, the cake.

The cake.

Red rose petals pressed into the best frosting he’d ever tasted.

He opened the file and saw the brochure—Cakes Made by Love. It had been so long since the wedding, since meeting Lilian. She didn’t know how she’d opened his eyes. He’d thought about trying to see her again, but could he? Should he? She could offer him a safe place to hide. It was tempting.

He put the brochure in his pocket just as a shadow passed the kitchen window. Footsteps, barely audible. Someone must have seen movement through the partly closed blinds in the kitchen. Damn.

He ran to his bedroom and shoved the rest of his things into a bag. Clothes, more weapons—one more pistol, a rifle, a box of ammunition. He had to get out, away from the dead body, from whoever was coming inside. Footsteps followed him down the hallway and he broke into a run out the back door. The yards in the West Virginia neighborhood had fences, mostly wood, some rotting and covered with dull green moss. Nothing Nick couldn’t hop over.

He looked over his shoulder. Two men. They were catching up, a silent pursuit except for heavy breaths. It was the middle of the day. From what Nick could remember, everybody in the neighborhood worked. He hadn’t lived here for two years, but even before then he was hardly home. Always working. Even now.

Except now he had been betrayed. The assassin proved it. Kyle must have sent him.

Slipping behind an old tool shed, Nick knew he could bring down the men. Easy. Maybe they were more of Kyle’s men. Or maybe they were from the other side—the FBI or the CIA. Everybody was out to get him.

One of the men whispered an order to the other. Nick dropped his bag as they appeared from around both corners of the shed, angry growls erupting from their throats.

Nick brought the suited man down first, sending him to the dirt with a blow to the throat. He hadn’t used a move like that for years. It sent pain through his wrist, which told him he’d done it wrong, but nothing he could do about that now. Damn, he was out of shape. He was used to working out in a hot, stuffy gym in São Paulo, punching his fists into dummies hanging from the wooden beams. Nothing like this.

As he watched the second man come at him, he reacted purely on instinct, just as he’d done with the Brazilian in his kitchen, and lifted his leg to kick the center of the man’s chest. The man went flying into the fence. The wood slats cracked loudly. Splinters flew.

The man was taller than Nick. Broad shoulders, muscular, quick. Nick kept himself in control, adrenaline pumping through him, dulling any pain he’d felt earlier.

He noticed the ring of sweat around the man’s tight gray T-shirt. He had to be undercover, FBI, nothing to do with Kyle. His skin was pale, not tan from the Brazilian sun like Nick’s. His fighting technique seemed stiff, straight from training.

Another blow. Nick blocked it, spinning around to kick the man’s knees, but the man was faster and shoved Nick into the fence. Another slat broke. A splinter dug into his back. There was no time to catch his breath before the man jerked him up by his collar. The sharp scent of aftershave stung Nick’s nose.

“You’re under arrest. Come quietly or it’s gonna get ugly.”

Nick squinted in the mottled afternoon sunlight. He would never go quietly. Who had chosen these idiots?

Pinning one of Nick’s arms against the fence, the man let go of Nick’s collar and started to reach for the pistol in his shoulder holster. Nick inched the fingers of his free hand to his own gun. In less than a second, his trained assailant lay unconscious on the ground, a welt rising on his temple.

Nick tucked away his gun and pulled his bag from under the suited man’s legs. Pain jabbed his spine, but he ignored it. He needed to retire. He had planned to, but he was the one who insisted on one last job, a last stretch to bury himself so deep he could ignore everything else.

He swung the bag over his shoulder just as his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out from his pocket. It was Clara, his youngest daughter. Every week he talked to her from his office—except the past week when he’d been stuck in the Amazon with Kyle. How did she get this number? He had never given it to anybody outside of Langley and he’d ignored their calls for the past twenty-four hours.

He remembered his director’s words. We won’t trace you unless you give us a reason to. Now, looking at the two men on the ground, their faces in the dirt, Nick realized that he should have destroyed the phone before he’d left Brazil.

He imagined Clara waiting on the other end. She was eager to talk to him these days, her voice upbeat. He didn’t want to ignore her, even if it was what he’d done most of her life. But he couldn’t answer. Not now. He threw the phone onto the cement and crushed it to pieces with his heel.

He’d wasted enough time. He needed a safe place to figure things out and he knew just the spot. He stepped around the two unconscious men and pulled the brochure from his pocket. It had been three years. Lilian could help him, possibly in more ways than one.

He took a deep breath, anxious to see her again as he set out to find a car nobody would miss.

Chapter 2

Mr. Jackson and his wife smiled as they drank their coffee next to the crackling fire. Lilian had liked the couple the second they checked into her inn a week ago. Nothing seemed to upset them, even when they had found a spider in their shower and told her about it as they ate their croissants the next morning.

“This is the best vacation we’ve had since our honeymoon,” Mr. Jackson said, smiling wider. “Everything’s perfect. The food, our room, the forest, the lake. It’s even better than you advertised.” He lifted his cup toward the carafe in Lilian’s hand.

“I’m so happy to hear that.” Lilian’s cheeks felt warm as she filled his cup. She loved guests who gushed about the inn. It made her feel like her hard work was paying off despite fewer bookings.

The pops of the burning wood almost drowned out the drumming rain. Mrs. Jackson snuggled closer to her husband, who looked up at the ceiling. “Strong rain, isn’t it? Came out of nowhere.”

Lilian straightened her shoulders. “Yes, it did. I’m sorry if it ruined your plans to hike the trails.”

“Not at all!” Mrs. Jackson laughed. “I love summer rain. And it’s even cool enough for us to enjoy a fire. Very soothing.”

Lilian forced a smile. Last summer, a three-day rainstorm had flooded the inn. She did her best to hide it around the guests, but rain always put her on edge.

“The rain is nice, yes, but when it pours like this for too long, it’s almost impossible to get up and down the road. We keep hoping the county will pave it, but they won’t let the permits go through.” She shrugged, hiding her annoyance. “They say there’s not enough traffic.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not leaving soon, eh?” Mr. Jackson laughed.

Lilian laughed, too. “That’s true. Have a good night.”

She left the room and headed for the kitchen. She had discovered the inn during an afternoon hike. She hadn’t thought much of the old house the day she found it. She’d gone inside the second time she saw it. Her boots had crunched on the broken glass and dead leaves. Something half-buried beneath the decaying mess caught her attention—wings. Hundreds of them, faded orange and black, some obviously older than others—more decayed and brittle, almost translucent. They reminded her of intricately folded origami, beautiful yet flightless.

She stopped in the hallway, listening to the rain on the roof as the carafe weighed heavy in her hand. Maybe the journey had been more of an escape from her divorce than fulfilling a dream.

“Mom, there you are.”

Turning, Lilian saw her son Devan rushing to her from down the hall. Drenched, he ran the back of his hand across his face and cleared away the water dripping from his short hair down his scruffy jaw. Lilian was constantly wishing he’d shave more often, but he was a man now and he seemed to like sporting the outdoorsman look now that he had finished college and lived at the inn.

“What’s the matter?”

“The canoes are sinking. Again.”

Lilian grumbled under her breath. She’d had to pay someone last summer to get the canoes off the bottom of the lake when they’d sunk during a rainstorm.

“Who left them untied?” she asked, trying not to sound annoyed with Devan or the guests. She was grateful for every moment Devan was around. Last summer, he’d been away visiting his father when the inn flooded; now he was here to help her with whatever she needed. The only downfall was that he was twenty-six and seemed to be getting antsy to leave for good. He wanted to join the Air Force and the thought made her feel sick.

“I don’t know. One of the guests. I should have checked earlier.”

They reached the front entryway. “How many?” She set the carafe on a shelf and took a pair of work gloves from a gardening tool basket.

“Four on the bank. Two tied to the dock and I think one sank already.” Devan looked at the gloves in her hand. “You know, the canoes are really heavy, Mom. We can get them later when we’ve got more help.”

Lilian cringed. If they waited, more canoes would sink. The more she had to get off the bottom of the lake, the more it would cost her. She shoved the gloves in her pocket and took a jacket from its hook. “We can try it together. I’ll be fine.”

Devan touched her arm, his expression softening. “Mom, it’s just canoes. We can buy more later when business picks up. Are you worried about something else?”

Closing her eyes for a moment, she thought of the butterflies again. They wouldn’t leave her mind lately. “I keep thinking about that article you showed me.” There had been photos of clear-cut forests in Mexico, butterflies dropping to the ground when it got too cold, loggers claiming they had to make a living somehow. She didn’t know how she could help except to raise more butterflies. At the moment, that seemed too small a thing to make any difference and it took time she didn’t have.

“That was one scientist’s prediction,” Devan said. “They’re not going to disappear.”

Lilian bent down to pull on her boots. “I’m overreacting, I know.”

“No you’re not.” When she finished tying her laces, Devan took her hand and helped her stand. “They’re important to you, but even if they disappear, they’re not the only thing that brings people here. We just need better advertising.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ve never seen you so worried. I’m sorry I showed you the article.”

Noticing the concern in his eyes, Lilian shook her head. “No, the rain’s got me worried, too. It kills a lot of them.” She imagined them dropping into puddles, beating their wings uselessly against the weight of the water.

Devan turned to the door. “Let’s hurry before the bank overflows.”

After she zipped up her jacket, Lilian followed him to the covered porch. On a dry night, bugs usually swarmed the lights hanging from the roof, but tonight was too wet. Deep pools had already formed across the grassy clearing that led down a hill to the lake. Lilian knew she’d be up to her ankles in mud by the time they finished.

“Maybe tomorrow I can try to get the canoes that already sank,” Devan said, walking down the steps. “If I had somebody to help, I think I could do it.”

The rain, hard as pebbles, soaked Lilian in a matter of seconds. She looked up to see Devan already disappearing down the hill. He was right. He could get the sunken canoes when the weather cleared, but he would need help from somebody strong. Maybe Mr. Jackson? He was in his early fifties, not much older than her, but could she ask that of a guest? Maybe she could get a volunteer from town because Mr. Barry, the man she’d hired last year, wouldn’t do it for free.

“Look out!”

Lilian looked up, slamming into a dark figure as hands grabbed her waist. She looked into a man’s handsome face.

“I’m sorry.” He looked relieved to see her. “I called out your name, but you kept walking and turned right into me.”

Lilian caught her breath. She hadn’t seen him in three years, but she still recognized him—square jaw, steely eyes that were almost black in the dim light. She knew they would be soft and gray in the sunlight. He seemed to change like that, one moment dark and mysterious, the next as familiar as her own reflection.

She almost choked on her surprise, gasping for breath as she remembered him in the back room of her cake shop. She was already breaking out in a sweat. “Nick?”

Nick smiled, but his expression was uneasy. He tightened his hold. “Hello, Lilian. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
__________________________

Monarch is published by Rhemalda Publishing.

Cinders Excerpts

2008-07-13T01:00:00.015-06:00

from Section 1 of Cinders

The prince hosted many balls—one a week for the first month after the wedding. There was always dancing and food and beautiful gowns. Cinderella liked it until she discovered how much work it was. First she had to bathe. That took a lot of effort with a lot of servants, and it was always cold no matter how warm they heated the water. It was the middle of winter, and they liked to comb her hair dry by the fire, counting as they went, one two three four five six…one hundred and two…until she wanted to scream stop! But she spoke softly and smiled at them as kindly as she could. She knew what it was like to be in their position.

They pinned up her hair in elaborate fashions, gently tucked in the prince’s shells, dusted her face and chest, applied the rouge, tied up her corsets, fluffed her skirts, rubbed rose oil on her temples and ankles, and asked if she wanted to wear her fur shoes.

“No, no, they don’t fit properly. I might lose one,” she’d laugh, her voice echoing off the stone walls. She wondered what would happen if she lost one; they were the only thing left of the old woman who’d given them to her. Everything else had vanished.

“But they must be warm,” Cinderella’s lady-in-waiting, Amie, remarked.

“Yes, but the ballroom is stuffy.”

And it was, terribly so. Most of the time, Cinderella found herself drifting to an open window to breathe the fresh cold air. Sometimes it would be snowing, the flakes falling in slow succession, gathering in layers across the frozen moat. She imagined the fish moving along the bottom, their bellies as cold as the ice, their eyes seeing nothing in the darkness. Sometimes she felt the same way, especially when she danced with the prince and everyone watched. She’d close her eyes and see nothing, only the smell of candles reminding her that this was real, that he held her close because he loved her, that his lips on her cheek were warm and kind.

Sometimes she forgot about the other man, the stranger she’d met long ago, long before she was given fur shoes and knew there were such things as magic and spells.
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from Section 2 of Cinders

The next morning the kitchen smelled of blood. It was splattered on the wood countertops and splashed across the floor. Cinderella watched thin red streams trickle between the stones.

Rowland’s hunting party had done well: fifteen ducks, three pheasants, and eight rabbits hung on a long, thick wire in a corner. The red liquid dripped steadily from their limp bodies swaying back and forth in the cool breeze from an open door. The larger kills, which Cinderella had overheard consisted of five deer and an elk, were apparently being gutted and bled by some of the male servants outside. Fortune seemed to find great joy in taking care of the smaller kills. She raised her cleaver and brought it down with one smooth movement of her muscular arm. Thwack!

“I am surprised at you, Christina,” she said with a deep laugh as she tossed the severed duck head into a basket near the counter where she worked. She had only recently started calling Cinderella by her first name at Cinderella’s constant requests. “His Highness the Prince came down here after one of his hunting parties. He wanted to see what we do to his kills. I think the boy went and threw up. Turned as pale as a leek!”

Cinderella leaned forward in her chair—an elegant padded one that a servant had brought in from the dining hall, despite Cinderella’s protests. “I used to do this, Fortune. I used to chop heads off like that. I used to get blood all the way up my arms. Rose liked her meat extra fresh, so she hired a hunter to bring it in instead of buying it at the market. So who had to clean it and skin it and gut it? Me.”

Listening to herself, Cinderella laughed inside, mostly because she was not required to do those things anymore. Still, a part of her hated to let it go completely. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her feet to stretch her calves. She was tired from her night of wandering the castle.

She had found the prison, but only near dawn, and the guard, his eyes widening at the sight of her, had told her she wasn’t allowed in that part of the castle. Only with permission from the king and queen could he allow anyone to enter, even her Royal Highness the Princess. His meaty fingers tightened around the hilt of a sword. His eyes glinted with what Cinderella could only guess was fear. She imagined Marion’s orders given to him in her deep voice and commanding, heavy-bodied presence.

Thwack! Thwack!

Fortune tossed two duck feet into a shallow water-filled bowl. The other cooks in the kitchen bustled behind her. Some came in and out of the doorway, either heading to market or coming back with armfuls of leafy greens and vegetables and sacks of soft white flour only the rich could afford. Some of the food was grown on the castle grounds, but not in the winter when it was carted in from the southern, warmer part of the continent. By that time, many of the vegetables had wilted, but the cooks revived them in bowls of cold water and vinegar. There were such bowls along one long counter, green leaves spilling over their sides. Cinderella liked to stare at the bowls. Something about life spilling over their sides comforted her.

She liked the order and familiarity, the smell of the vinegar and spices that reminded her of her mother who had never needed to cook. In those days the house was filled with servants and luxuries for the family—but, like Cinderella, she found pleasure in working with her hands, creating magic for the palate.

“There you go again,” Fortune said as she leaned across the counter to grin at Cinderella. “Getting that look on your face like you’re drifting in a dream.”

Cinderella smiled and remembered Fortune saying something about Rowland’s face the color of a leek. “I think he has a delicate heart,” she said, imagining his disgust at shooting an arrow through an animal, but doing it anyway because he was a man and a prince and it was expected. But, whenever he held her close there was tenderness in his touch that she guessed did not exist in most men.

“Delicate heart, yes,” Fortune said, grinning as she picked up a smaller knife and slid it down the duck’s back. “He must have the most intelligent sort of heart to have picked you, my dear.”

“A lucky accident,” Cinderella laughed. She leaned forward again, wishing she could slide out of her heavy dress and put on the peasant clothing most of the servants in the kitchen wore—the simple earthy browns and creams faded and threadbare on the edges from repeated washing. Fortune’s billowy white sleeves were pushed up her arms as she worked. She was large, like a man, but her rope of braided hair was as bright as a young girl’s.

“Accident, hah!” Fortune peered at her through milky-grey eyes. She wagged her bloody knife in the air. “You have yet to tell me the story, Christina. You know the castle is still ablaze with gossip about you and your Prince Charming. You know that old woman in the prison keeps saying your name. Nobody knows what really happened.”

“I heard she practices dark magic,” one of the cooks said as she approached with a sack of barley in her arms. She stopped to lean close to Cinderella’s face. “I heard,” she said, lowering her voice, “that they tried to put her to death, but she lived. Only dark magic can do that, y’know.” Cinderella stood up, half a foot taller than the young girl, who suddenly cowered. “I-I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

“What else have you heard?” Cinderella demanded. For the first time since becoming a princess, she stood tall and proud, keenly aware of the thin gold circlet on her head. She had sworn to herself that she would never hurt one of the servants, either emotionally or physically with her power. But at that moment, she knew that if the girl did not answer her question she would slap her. She already imagined the red handprint blossoming on that sun-browned cheek.

The girl whimpered as she said, “I promise that’s all I’ve heard, Your Highness. She was arrested for magic, and the king tried to have her put to death. It might be gossip.”

“It might be.” Cinderella stretched her fingers, surprised at the anger flowing through her. It left quickly, and she softened her expression and touched the girl’s shoulder. “Thank you for being honest. You may return to your work.”

The kitchen fell strangely silent, and Cinderella looked at Fortune who was gutting the duck with more concentration than Cinderella knew was needed. A child, five or six years old, looked up from her stool in the corner of the kitchen. A dead chicken lay in her lap, and she plucked out the feathers. They floated around her like snow, some of them swirling toward the open doorway, drifting to the blood-spattered floor. Later, after Cinderella was gone, she imagined the child on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing the stones until her fingers bled.
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Cinders is independently published by the author. It will be re-published by Rhemalda Publishing May 1st, 2013 in the Bonded collection with Michelle's two other novellas, Thirds and Scales.

Purchase Monarch

2008-02-21T21:49:00.054-07:00

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Monarch (signed, shipped to you by the author) U.S. shipping included
4-3/4" x 7" 341 pages

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Paperback

Monarch (signed, shipped to you by the author) International shipping included (including Canada)
4-3/4" x 7" 341 pages

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