Book trailer on you tube: https://youtu.be/PXabYw2HG4k
In search of his place in the world, Kyn visits his new friend, Ben’hyamene. Together, they meet an ailing dragon rider from the marshes of a land called the Carr. The rider recounts a people beset by anger, depression, and despair. After befriending and healing the rider, the group travels to the rider’s home. There they discover a breed of wild dragons, called drakes, which have been at war with humans for four hundred years.
One sleepless night, Ben’hyamene uses his new abilities to communicate with the lead drake. This sets Kyn and Ben’hyamene on a path that could bring peace to a conflict that’s nearly destroyed a whole people. Can revenge be set aside and enemies be called friends?
Find out in the exciting third book of the Dragon Courage series, Dragon’s Revenge by Kandi J Wyatt.
Kandi is a wife, mom of five, teacher, artist and author. In her free time, she enjoys writing fantasy, writing Christmas programs, drawing using graphite and colored pencils. Portraits are her specialty. She also enjoys photography. Thank you to her photographer husband who has let her join his journey in photography as well. She is both his model and apprentice. (She still think he does a better job than her.) On occasion she’s his assistant when working with clients and when he needs a “light stand with feet”.
What would you do if you could control objects with your mind?
Would you be able to choose between right and wrong?
Life masters the element of surprise. Everything goes on just the way it always does until something unexpected turns the world on its head. Change isn’t something to plan for; it is an event to embrace when it presents itself, because it always will. I walk quiet and slow down an unfamiliar hallway with a sour feeling in my stomach. Something just isn’t right tonight.
“Ruby, let’s check in here. It looks like the master bedroom,” Brody whispers as he ducks into a room at the end of the long, dark hallway.
“It’s crazy how some people carry on such lavish existences,” I whisper back. My toes will touch his heels if I’m not careful. Getting through this night quickly is best. This house is enormous and decorated to the nines—probably like most houses on top of Queen Anne.
Tonight has a strange odor. I couldn’t smell it while I was eating my cheeseburger on the boat, and I couldn’t smell it when my phone rang—but I smelled it the second Tristan and Tolkien didn’t show up. Now that Madison, Julian, Brody, and I are rummaging around in an empty house, I can’t escape the weight of it.
We shouldn’t run jobs without the whole group. All our talents play important parts. I don’t like that Tristan and Tolkien aren’t here. Our current tasks have the advantage, over us—not something I’m used to feeling. The others probably got high and forgot we were meeting here instead of at Brody and Julian’s. I almost forgot, too. Madison changes protocol on us daily.
I’m usually pretty confident when we’re robbing houses. Being telekinetic takes a lot of hassle out of theft—that’s why we’re here. Our abilities make it easy. However, tonight, I don’t feel confident. The smell of something not quite right is now in my bones. It’s hard to pinpoint what the cause is just yet.
Brody is in his zone as he picks through the dresser drawers. His messy, green hair hangs over his eyes.
My mind swirls around the handle on the nightstand drawer. My fingers point, then fold toward me. The drawer pulls open. Weight is lifted from my mind; my thoughts belong to only me. A leather journal and book-light are revealed—nothing worth taking.
A smirk plays with the corners of his mouth. Brody removes a safe the size of a child’s shoebox from the top dresser drawer. I should know how I feel about Brody. We are messing up fooling around together. I should know where I stand. Restlessness can be dangerous.
“We can bring this back and crack it open,” Brody says as he walks toward the king-sized bed dressed in an overstuffed, gray comforter. He places the safe on the bed and sits beside it. “Come here.”
“We’re working,” I say, walking toward him. His hazel eyes glisten in the low-lit room. My heart beats faster.
“T never showed up, so he can’t walk in.” Brody’s voice is low and raspy.
“Other people can.”
Brody’s hands grab my waist. I rest my forehead on his. I didn’t want to feel lonely or lost anymore.
“This is true.” Brody smiles. “You look good tonight.” It doesn’t help that Brody is so cute.
I laugh. “Thanks.” He pulls me onto him as he lies back. Our mouths stay a few inches apart.
“Can you imagine living in a house like this?” Brody asks. He pulls in his bottom lip.
I bite mine. “I stopped thinking like that a while ago. Daydreaming can be dangerous. At least you live in a house. I’m in a boat, which, granted, is better than the street.”
“You picked the guy with the floating home.” Brody chuckles in frustration. Now that we are together, he’s told me he’s had feelings for me right from the beginning. This may be true. All I could see then was Tristan. Tristan was my light after all the darkness. As far as I was concerned, he held all my answers—my future.
“It wasn’t like that.” My focus is on the doorway instead of his eyes. More and more often, our moments together are too intense for me. This was supposed to be a distraction.
“I know. We were just friends then.” Brody’s voice comes out cautious. He can tell I’m getting antsy.
“We’re still friends.” My eyes are back on him. His hair was a sprawled-out, over-waxed mess. His squinted eyes align with the grin on his stubbled face.
“More than friends, though.” His lips press into mine.
My eyes close. Now we are definitely more. My mind sighs as my lips move with Brody’s.
The smell of burning hair rushes to my nose. “Madison’s coming,” I say, climbing off Brody.
Brody and I stand up. He grabs the safe. Madison walks into the room. Her eyes are dark. She’s clearly frustrated. She extinguishes the fire in her hand. Being near her causes my spine to tense up.
“What is taking you two so long?” Madison’s voice is tight.
“We’re done up here. Found a jewelry safe and what looks like emergency cash—eyeballed around three thousand,” Brody says, keeping his voice low.
Madison’s eyebrows form an angry point. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Brody and I say in unison.
“I thought hitting these houses would reap more rewards.” Madison’s long arms cross in front of her frail torso. “Julian and I didn’t do much better downstairs. Let’s get out of here and head back to the house. Brody, walk Julian and Ruby out the back and lock the door, then phase through. No visible signs of break in gives us a couple of days’ head start with pawning items. You and Julian head back to the house with the van. Ruby, walk the long way to your car. I have something to check on and then I’ll be there.”
“Got it, boss,” Brody says with his usual sarcasm. I nod. Madison’s eyes dart from me to Brody in quick succession. It’s better I don’t say anything. Everything I’ve been doing has been pissing her off. I can feel her contemplating my death. It’s like she can sense my boredom. I’m not the lifer she was hoping I’d be. I’m defiantly not the lifer she is. If my powers weren’t as useful as they are to her, I’d already be dead. I could probably get a mental hold on her before she could send a fireball my way. I just really hope it never comes to that.
She locks eyes with me. She can sense fear like a wolf. She turns on a dime and walks out.
“Shall we?” Brody asks. I nod again, starting to feel fatigued. I’m more than ready to check on Tristan—and start drinking.
Julian and I step onto the small deck in the backyard and wait for Brody to phase through the locked door. The night is damp and cool. It’s not actively raining, but judging by the moistness of the ground, it was not too long ago. The postage stamp property backs into a large alley where people leave their garbage to be picked up.
Julian’s gelled, black hair and overworked muscles disgust me. It all comes across as greasy. He has moments when I’m okay he’s around, but they’re rare. I don’t know how Brody lives with him. His beady, brown eyes watch the door. Not all powerhouses are built like Julian. His super strength has little to do with his muscles. He works on his body for the same reason I chain-smoke—a method of coping. We all have at least one. His other method of coping might be buying black T-shirts.
My arms are intertwined and locked. Brody materializes slowly as he steps through the door. Being able to phase through solid objects certainly makes it easier to rob houses. Locks mean very little to people like me and Brody.
“Madison took off,” Brody whispers. “We’re next.” Brody casts a quick glance around us. He shrugs and pulls open the back of Julian’s black van. A television, two laptops, an iPod, a stereo system, and the jewelry safe Brody found sit at my feet. Madison already pocketed the cash. This isn’t the worst haul we’ve ever had by a long shot. I don’t know what Madison was pissed about.
Julian scoops up the television set and struts to the back of the van. My thoughts tangle around the two laptops. A coolness flows through my body. My mind eases the laptops off the deck and glides them through the air. Julian steps to the side allowing the computers to sail into the van undisturbed. My thoughts come back to me.
There. I did my part.
Brody pockets the iPod. I smile. He sees this and smiles back. The van doors slam close.
“Ready?” Julian asks Brody.
Brody looks at me. “Are you good?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, Brody. I’ll meet you back at your house.” Brody steps forward to kiss me. He quickly stops, nods, then turns toward the van. I don’t know if Julian noticed anything. He either knows and pretends he doesn’t—which is likeliest—or he is completely oblivious. Julian isn’t the sharpest tool, but he does live with Brody.
My stomach twists. The alley fills with harsh growling from the van’s exhaust system. Brody climbs inside and slams the door. The van speeds off toward the street. Julian could use his brain and not make so much noise. Madison would burn a hole through his arm if she saw him acting that careless. I’ve seen her kill crew members for much less.
The van disappears in the distance. A rustle pulls my attention to a garage door. A young guy with wide eyes stands there holding plastic bags filled with newspapers. Brown curls stick out from his plaid fedora. A nervous smile settles between his two dimples. From his Converse sneakers to his skinny jeans to his tight T-shirt, he looks like something out of a Seattle-based sitcom. What did he see? How long was he there? Shit. Being sloppy like this is gonna get me killed.
I ready my hands in front of me. The guy sees this. He takes a step back. Judging by the fearful expression on his face, he was there long enough to see me use my powers. Shit. This means he also saw us robbing the house. He’s got to go. I straighten my fingers as I wrap him in my thoughts. My mind tightens around his throat. Our eyes lock. His are bright blue.
“Wrong place, wrong time,” I say without much thought. My grasp tightens. A gasp escapes from between his thin lips. Static hums in my ears. What’s that about? Trying to shake it off, I focus on my attack. I need to wrap this up. If I take too long to get back to the house, Madison will be suspicious.
His face turns red. A cry breaks through me. Powers. She has powers. That isn’t me. My heart beats faster. The wideness of his eyes suggests that he’s scared, but I can feel something more there. Feel? I don’t want to die. Am I hearing him? Feeling what he feels? My stomach knots up. I let go. My thoughts come back to me. We stand there, staring at each other.
“Were you talking to me?” I ask. My voice cracks as the words come out.
“I couldn’t talk.” His voice is hoarse. “You were choking me …from over there.” Our eyes stayed locked.
“I heard you saying something.” I shake my head. When my thoughts latched onto him, something happened. I could hear his thoughts and feel his fear. Nothing like that has ever happened before.
“Don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t see a thing.” The guy’s voice is slightly less hoarse now. He puts his hands out, surrendering.
The ache in my stomach is forming an army. Madison can’t find out someone saw us—and that I let them live. I ready my hands again. My thoughts twist around him, beginning at his feet. His eyes widen. Can he feel me?
Static fills my head. I really won’t tell anyone. I’m not ready to die. Don’t kill me.
Guilt and dread wash over me. My mind lets go. My hands drop to my sides. “We never met. Forget tonight,” I whisper.
I run down the alleyway in the opposite direction that Julian and Brody went just moments ago. Not even ten minutes ago, my life was a lot less complicated than it is now, which is really saying something because everything was pretty damn complicated already. Silence swells in the spaces behind me. I really, really hope this doesn’t blow up in my face.
What was that? I could feel him and hear his thoughts. Is my power growing? Does he have some kind of ability that can tamper with mine? What if he follows me?
I need to make up for a few minutes. The rooftops should do the trick. They’ll be faster, too. I jump onto a closed dumpster, reach for a rusted ladder, and yank on it. Nothing happens. It’s stuck. I think one person seeing me use my talent is enough for the night. I grab the ladder again. This time, I suck in a deep breath and pull myself up.
The Highly Capable- Volume One of the Ruby Dawson Saga, an urban fantasy, is a tormenting and emotional tale of self-discovery. Find The Highly Capable on Amazon
About the Author: Jayme Beddingfield
Jayme Beddingfield has been crafting stories since her third grade assignment to write her own fairytale.She has been writing professionally for five years. Originally from Northern New Jersey she now lives in Seattle, the city of her dreams. She lives with her husband, two children, and slew of adopted pets.
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The Sad Girl Excerpt
24 May 2010
LIFE WAS PRETTY GOOD. I was eighteen months into my parole, and staying out of trouble. I had a job. Heck, I had my own company and the money that came with it. Not a lot at first, but it was finally starting to pick up. Who knew an ex-con could make money selling recovered police evidence and property? I had a girlfriend now, too, who accepted me with all the baggage that comes with a convicted felon. It almost couldn’t get better. Then I saw her.
It was odd that I even found her. Usually the departments I got stuff from were consistent about erasing files and such. I hardly ever double-checked them, just because they had gotten so consistent.
Even stranger was that there was a case number attached to her. That’s only about the third time it’d happened since I started Graybar Auctions. One department up in upstate New York had let some stuff slip through, but it was their first time shipping stuff to me. I’d been working with Westwood PD in Alabama, the department that sent this shipment to me, almost since the beginning. They’d helped me work out my rules, so they knew the drill. I shook my head.
I looked at the seventeen images on my screen for almost fifteen minutes. I think it was her eyes that sent me over the edge. Even Maria, my office assistant, commented on it.
“You know, I think that’s who that guy had in mind when he sang that line, ‘restless and reckless and lost.’”
She was pretty and young. Long blonde hair framed a small face in six photos. It was pulled back into pigtails in three, and in a single ponytail or braid in the rest. She wore three different outfits. The locations were unremarkable. Most were inside. Some showed her on a couch, and one showed her cooking. The outside shots looked posed, and could’ve passed for high school graduation photos, if she’d been old enough to graduate. She looked happy outside.
There was something haunting about her. The look in her eyes was distant and maybe a little bit sad. Maria’s comment about “Out of the Frying Pan” by Meat Loaf cued up the song in my head and I let it play mentally as I stared. “Restless and reckless and lost” fit her all too well. So did “the walking wounded and the living dead.” The resolution on the pictures was good enough that I could see she’d been crying in the last two.
I finally shook off the willies creeping up my spine, and checked out the forty other memory cards in the box. Took me an hour. I didn’t find anything else weird, which calmed me down. A little. There were two cameras, the cards, and some jewelry in the shipment. I stuffed everything into the safe in the backroom and got back to work.
The rest of the day seemed to fly in a blur. I saw all the outbound boxes piled by the backdoor waiting for UPS to pick them up, but I couldn’t tell you anything about any of the auctions. Usually something stuck in my head about each batch of stuff I sent out. I could tell you where a shipment was going, or something about my contact at one of the departments. Today, though, I was still stuck on The Sad Girl. Maria had named her that, and it fit.
-The Sad Girl by Bob Mueller
About the Author
When you get right down to it, Bob Mueller writes about emotions. He finds them in his own experiences as a divorced father, and a family member of a sex abuse survivor, and from the people he meets. He puts himself in someone else’s shoes, and teases out their feelings. Blending that with bits and pieces of history and life experience, he crafts a story that might have been inspired by a song, or a news article. But it’s about emotions in the end. Born in north Texas and raised in southeastern Ohio, Bob is a member of Tulsa NightWriters and Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, a father of eight, and a pastor’s husband. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading (thrillers, historical fiction and non-fiction, and police procedurals), genealogy, and shooting.
For more information, visit www.bobmuellerwriter.com.
It’s not because she has a vision of her boyfriend murdered and then he’s found dead exactly as foreseen. It’s not because she suddenly has the ability to move objects when she’s upset. It’s kinda cool to close a door without touching it. And it’s most definitely not her overbearing mother who only cares about appearances. Chloe has already grown quite accustomed to her family’s distance.
So what has Chloe cringing in fear?
It’s having to become another person for a new group of people. She knows she’s not perfect, but apparently she was in another life. In that other life, she was known as Amanda. Amanda was perfect. Chloe, not so much. Her new friends won’t allow her to forget.
Chloe struggles with a love that exposes the soul. It’s a love that defies reason. It’s a love that speaks to her heart and demands attention.
It’s the stench of impending death that hovers over her every move.
It’s that final threat as she tries to acclimate to a life of super human proportions.
It’s the enemy she can’t see and doesn’t remember.
And most importantly, it’s never discovering who she really is that truly frightens her.
Dawn wants to live in a world fully inhabited by fictional characters. She thinks fictional characters are cooler than real people; except herself, of course. But since the world is not comprised of dreamy book boyfriends, she creates them for everyone to fawn over. Her debut novel, Finding Me, book 1 in the Finding Me Trilogy, is set to release on March 3, 2016.
When she is not writing, she can be found with her nose in a book—swooning over another book boyfriend, drying up tears from a recent heartbreak, or shouldering a wound she received in battle. She also loves to create magic in the kitchen, with an array of inspiring dishes she pulls from Pinterest. Dawn lives in South Texas with her sports-obsessed husband, three technology-infatuated teenagers, and her great big colossal imagination.
She is currently editing the final book in the Finding Me series, Becoming Me. The book is set to release the summer of 2016. She is a master juggler and is working on two other young adult standalone novels: a high-fantasy tearjerker and a science fiction story with a romance that will make your heart ache.
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The Packing House
What was the hardest part of writing this book?
Writing The Packing House took me five years. There are several reasons for this. It was my first book and much of the writing process was new to me and had to be learned. Many times I had to stop in the writing process and learn a new aspect of writing
before continuing. Oh, how I learned! For those who are serious about writing, and serious about writing with the intent to publish, there are supports out there. You just have to be driven enough to find them.
Another reason this book took longer to write has to do with the content. You might consider The Packing House an “issue book,” and I’d be okay with that. The book addresses bullying, PTSD, disassociation, and child sexual abuse (CSA). Some of this is personal to me, because I lived through it. In some ways, Joel’s story is my own. I fictionalized aspects of The Packing House which provided me with en
ough distance to “go there” and write about difficult and particularly painful, lived experiences, but I did it because I needed a book like this growing up, and they just didn’t exist. Now, thankfully, more and more books on this topic do exist, but still, there are fewer books for boys than girls on these topics. So, why did I write one, too? Well, so far, no one else has told a story like Joel’s story, so I decided it was time. I figured if I needed it, probably others with similar experiences might also need to read Joel’s story, too.
What did you enjoy most about writing this book?
I most enjoyed how the many layers of the story in The Packing House fit together. There are three sections representing the three schools Joel moves between, each with their own mascot. Broad Run is “Home of the Panthers,” Sanderville is “Home of the Ravens,” and Ticonderoga is “Home of the Oceanside Sharks.” Each mascot represents a particular challenge Joel faces at that school. I leave that to the reader to decide.
Next come the chapters. Each one has a title that hints at the content or theme. Again, it’s open to interpretation. Another layer involves the fact that characters don’t always have actual names, but labels or archetypes. Joel usually has a reason for giving each one of these characters that kind of name.
Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret: the next layer aspect helps the reader differentiate between the three schools. I gave the teachers at Broad Run (Part 1) names of presidents. The teachers at Sanderville (Part 2) have random names, and I think that fits. For Ticonderoga/Oceanside (Part 3), I gave the teachers names of pencil companies. Not only did this help me keep all three locations clear, I hope it helps reduce possible confusion for the reader.
Other layers include the inter-chapter or between-chapter poems, which tell their own aspect of Joel’s story. Initially, they are included in the letters Joel sends to Amber, but eventually they become part of a portfolio Joel has to complete and turn in to pass English for the year. As these poems progress through the novel, the content becomes more and more personal and revealing about Joel’s struggles building right up to and beyond the climax. If I did it right, hopefully this helps the reader develop a connection with Joel.
I’ve included letters throughout the text, and many examples of the nightmares Joel has experienced and continually relives as well. Most of the letters are between Amber and Joel, and become a running dialogue. The letters deepen their relationship at critical points. As you will see, the letters which were written but never given, and those which are lost, come into play during the story. The nightmares provide the subtext Joel endures when he’s awake or asleep, or not sleeping at all in the aftermath of the suppressed trauma from his past. There is a reason this has begun to surface, but it is another thing Joel has to figure out along the way. Once the reader reaches the climax of the story, how they interpret what is actually happening in the dreams may change. The clues are built in, and there are other sensory clues as well, which are left for the reader to discover. How these elements and layers fit together was the part of the writing experience I enjoyed most.
How do you find or make time to write?
My book started with Twitter, believe it or not. One aspect of writing is how isolating and lonely it can and must be. The first and most important task for the writer is to get words down on the page. Any words. They can be amazing words, and they can also be terrible words. But words are the vehicle that drive the novel and the story forward. Without them, even awful words that will be cut during the editing process, the author has nothing to work with. I found hashtags on Twitter which helped me to write and find likeminded writers who kept me accountable for finding words each day. My goal was 1,000 words a day. It took me three months to complete the first draft. Then I set it aside for a week or two, before going back through and beginning the editing process.
I wrote somewhere between 15 and 20 cover to cover revisions in five years. I also did countless internal, partial edits. One of the methods I used to revise the many editorial, proof read, and layout edits for The Packing House included carving out time around my graduate school classes, my full time job, and spending any time with family each day. I ended up getting up a bit earlier and going to bed a bit later each day. My book manager calls carving out this kind of time #SmallChanges. Getting up 15 minutes earlier each day gave me an incredible amount of editing time. You’d be surprised what small changes can achieve for a writer.
What do you like to read in your free time?
First, I have NO free time. Any spare time goes to my wife and kids, to house chores, grad school homework, and so on. If I have free time, I often beta read for fellow writers. In addition, I have a pretty massive To Be Read (TBR) pile, and I do carve out time to read those books as I can. My TBR goal for last year was an epic fail, but all of that reading time went to editing The Packing House to the level needed for publication. I will be blogging about books dealing with bullying and child sexual abuse (CSA) and sexual assault (SA) soon. I am honored to be found under these two subcategories on Amazon.
What projects are you working on at the present?
I have started book two, Unpacking the Past, of the planned duology. In addition, I have started several other books and book series I plan to write after these first two. One is a Beauty and the Beast fairytale retelling, where the girl is the beast, and the guy is the beauty. It’s also in a steampunk world to explain the magic with magical realism and gadgets instead of fantastical magical abilities. Another is a dystopian futuristic world where twins are stolen by the government and used to cure all the diseases in their world. The main character discovers this secret by mistake, and gathers her surviving twin friends to help bust them out of the hidden underground facility. When I get serious about a project, I often create a Pinterest board to gather ideas for the tone and feel of the world I am creating and followers can peek at some of these projects on my Pinterest pages ( http://www.pinterest.com/gdcribbs/ ).
What do you feel the best course of action is if you’re being bullied at school?
I work in clinical mental health and many of my clients struggle with aspects of bullying in their lives. The best way to minimize the painful and hurtful aspects of bullying involve giving the least amount of attention to the bully and his or her supporters. Instead, try to focus on you and devote your efforts into being the best you, you can be, and eventually (this is far easier to say than to do) the bully will put his/her efforts into an easier target. This is the nature of a bully. To find out more about bullies and their allies, go to Violence Prevention Works You can also check out my Pinterest board on resources and tools to use against bullies ( http://www.pinterest.com/gdcribbs/bullying-prevention-and-education/)
Is there anything else you would like to share that would be eye opening for your readers?
The journey through the planting, pruning, and cultivation of this book has taken many years, but along the way, I also gained the skills needed as a writer to craft a story. What I’ve learned is that mine is not the only story that needs to be told. There are others out there. It is my hope that readers will find inspiration to discover their voices and use them to share even more stories with the world. We need them all. Please speak up.
Abuse, as depicted in this book, survives and grows in our culture and in our world through silence and looking the other way. The best way to eradicate it from our history is by shining light into dark places and speaking about it, no matter how uncomfortable we may feel. May this book help further that conversation. Right now, one in four girls and one in six boys experience child sexual abuse before they turn eighteen. The statistics are not getting better. They are moving in the wrong direction, toward one in three girls, and one in five boys. We can and must do better for ourselves and for our children.
Thank you to Christopher Anderson and the folks at www.MaleSurvivor.org who have graciously partnered with me to establish a scholarship fund for men who cannot otherwise attend a “Weekend of Recovery,” a retreat and workshop for male survivors of child sexual abuse to gather together and, in the strength and unity of fellow survivors, face those dark places and find healing together. Find out more at their website. A portion of each book sold will go to this scholarship. I thank you for joining me in this ministry for men by purchasing a copy of this book. Together, we can make a difference that matters. I have been significantly blessed throughout the writing of this book. Not only has it given voice to my own childhood sexual abuse experience, but it has led to self-discovery, post-traumatic growth (PTG), illumination, and profound teaching about CSA, recovery of a lost and important friendship, progress toward overcoming in my own healing journey, and the determination to help others do the same. I will no longer be silent. I welcome those of you who will join me.
You can join me across social media using the #YourStoryYourVoice hashtag to lend your support to this cause. I hope you write your story, too.
G. Donald Cribbs has written and published poetry and short stories since high school. Donald is a graduate of Messiah College in English and Education, and is currently a graduate student in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. He and his wife and four boys reside in central Pennsylvania where the author is hard at work on his next book, tentatively titled, UNPACKING THE PAST, the sequel to his debut novel, THE PACKING HOUSE (2016), by Booktrope Editions. Having lived and traveled abroad in England, France, Belgium, Germany, China and Thailand (you can guess where he lived and where he visited), the author loves languages and how they connect us all. Coffee and Nutella are a close second.