The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

Yes, that is the official name of the Mormon church. Somebody on Twitter said he thought I should mention it in my blog, and he’s probably right, but in my first two posts, I resisted doing so.

Yes, the term Mormon was originally a pejorative nickname given to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by outsiders. Normally, I think we should use the term a people prefer for themselves. For example, I believe in using the term Inuit, instead of Eskimo, because Eskimo, like Mormon, is a term given to the group by outsiders. The Inuit people prefer to be called Inuit, so out of respect we should use it.

Why do I put the word Mormon in a different category?

Because I grew up Mormon in Utah, and Mormon is the word we used to identify ourselves the entire time I was a Mormon. It is true that in the beginning, the church fought against being called Mormons. Early members of the church referred to themselves as Saints. Since others claim that Mormons aren’t Christian, I see why Mormons would want the official name of their church known. But long before I was born, Mormons had embraced the word Mormon. When I was young, the church had ads on television. At the end of the ads, they would say “the message was brought to you by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, ‘The Mormons.’” In 2010-11, the church launched an $6 million ad campaign, called “I’m a Mormon.” The purpose of the campaign was to show that Mormons are normal people, not the weirdos people tend to think they are, and also to imply that church is more diverse than it really is. Many of the “I’m a Mormon” spots, featured people of color or non-Americans. Members of the church were encouraged to put up their own “I’m a Mormon” profile to say, “See everyone, we’re not weird. We’re just like you.” The church’s choir was known worldwide as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and has had a weekly radio broadcast using the name Mormon Tabernacle Choir since 1929. The news portion of the church’s official website was called Mormon Newsroom. So why in 2018 did they suddenly start objecting to the use of the term Mormon again? I’ll get to that.

The first time I heard a Mormon object to the use of the word, I was probably 9 or 10. It was in Sacrament Meeting (the term Mormons use to refer to their main worship service). At the local level, Mormons don’t have a professional ministry. The bishop and stake president are lay leaders, and they aren’t paid. In contrast to most Christian church in which a minister gives a weekly sermon, different members of the local congregation (called a ward, by Mormons) speak in Sacrament Meeting. So the talk I will be referring to was given by a regular member of the congregation. At the beginning of his talk, he asked all Mormons to stand. I, along with the entire congregation, stood. The speaker then lectured us, saying that none of us should have stood up because Mormon isn’t the proper name of the Church. He referred to a revelation, supposedly given to Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon church, that proclaimed it was God’s will that the church Smith started be called the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. To be Jesus’s church, the organization must be called by Jesus’s name. If the organization is called after the name of a man, it is that man’s church, not Christ’s church. Mormon is the name of a prophet in the Book of Mormon, so if we are Mormons, we are called after the name of a man, making us Mormon’s church, instead of Jesus’s church. Even as I child, I thought the talk was dumb. The speaker obviously knew everyone would stand, or he wouldn’t have asked the question, so his intention was to shame Mormons for thinking of ourselves as Mormons. Shaming is one of Mormons’ favorite things to do. Despite thinking it was dumb, I did also feel shame. This tendency to shame was probably the most damaging aspect of the church to my own psychological and emotional development, so even though it’s been about 40 years since I listened to that talk, I’m still annoyed by it.

Other than this one talk, I don’t recall another time during my membership in the Mormon church where anybody objected to the term Mormon, and I have heard Mormons use the term to refer to themselves thousands of times. It’s important to understand that Mormons consider the leader of their church a prophet, in the same manner that Moses and Abraham were prophets. According to their belief, Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon church, was called directly by God as a prophet. Smith claimed, that as a boy, Jesus Christ and God the Father appeared directly to him (Mormons don’t believe in the trinity and consider God and Jesus separate beings) and told him that all churches had fallen away from the truth and that God was going to restore his true gospel through Joseph Smith. Throughout his life, Smith claimed to talk directly to God on a regular basis. The Doctrine & Covenants contains these revelations, including the one on God’s choice for the name of the church. Mormons believe that every leader of the church since Joseph has also been a prophet who speaks directly to God. Mormons sustain these men as prophets, seers, and revelators. This means that when Thomas Monson, the president of the church from 2008-2018, launched the “I’m a Mormon” ad campaign, he did so, as a prophet directed by God.

In 2018, Thomas Monson died, and Russell M. Nelson became president of the church. one of the first things Nelson did was issue a new style guide, telling the press not to call us Mormons anymore. In a speech Nelson gave in the October 2018 Conference of the Church, he claimed, “If we allow nicknames to be used or adopt or even sponsor those nicknames ourselves, He [God] is offended.” Using the term “Mormon” is “a victory for Satan.” Nelson told Mormons, “If someone should ask, ‘Are you a Mormon?’ you could reply, ‘If you are asking if I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, yes, I am!’” Nelson launched a concerted campaign to stamp out the use of the term Mormon by members of the church. He changed the Mormon Newsroom to the Newsroom of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He even changed the name of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square.

You may be thinking that this doesn’t make any sense. If God told Monson to run the ad campaign, “I’m a Mormon,” why did he suddenly adopt an antipathy to the word a few short years later? Why is God offended by the word Mormon in 2018 when he hadn’t been in 2011? How can an all-knowing, all-powerful God change his mind so radically in less than a decade? These are excellent questions. They are questions that we Ex-Mo’s ask.

Actually, we Ex-Mo’s don’t ask the questions because we know the answer. The presidents of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints aren’t prophets. They are simply men, very old white men. Nelson spent years nursing a sore spot about the term Mormon, but couldn’t do anything about it until he was 94 and became president himself. If this isn’t sufficient evidence to prove that Mormon presidents aren’t prophets, I’m not sure what else anyone would need. The current movement against the word Mormon is not an authentic objection by members of the church. It has been imposed upon them by a church hierarchy that preaches about obedience more than anything else.

I personally will no longer obey this church hierarchy. If you have any feelings about the use of the term Mormon or any questions about Mormons, post them in the comments.

Mormons are Nice

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

Few can understand what it’s like to leave the Mormon church, what it means to be a former Mormon, an ExMo, as we frequently refer to ourselves. To begin with, outside the United States Intermountain West, most people don’t know much about Mormons, and most of what they think they know isn’t true or at least not completely true. However, there are two basically accurate things that most associate with Mormons: they are nice, and they are weird. The South Park episode about Mormons, although it is exaggerated for satirical effect, portrays both of these aspects of Mormons quite well. If you’ve never seen it and you have any interest in Mormons, I suggest watching it. If you do, you’ll have a more accurate view of Mormons than most of the people on the planet.

I will address the weird part in future posts, but today I want to discuss Mormon’s stereotypical niceness. Some ExMos will disagree with this assessment. They’ll say that Mormons are only superficially nice in their effort to convert you and will stop being nice if you show no interest in joining them or especially if you leave the church. I don’t discount the stories I’ve heard from other ExMos about how they have been treated by Mormons, even Mormon family members when they left the church, but this has not been my personal experience.

When anyone criticizes the Mormon church, Mormons like to say that the church or the gospel is perfect, but the members aren’t. They will say that all legitimate problems with the church are the fault of imperfect members, not the church itself. I don’t accept this. The reasons I left had everything to do with the church or the “gospel,” and not with the members themselves. Both when I was a Mormon and since I’ve left, Mormons, with few exceptions, have treated me with kindness. When I criticize the Mormon church, it is nearly never because of the actions of individual Mormons.

I grew up in Bountiful, Utah, a suburb of Salt Lake City. When I lived there at least, Bountiful was close to 90% Mormon. Nearly everyone one I knew as a child—my neighbors, my friends, my teachers—were all Mormon. My family has been Mormon nearly since the beginning of Mormonism. All of my great-great grandparents were Mormons, and today nearly all of my extended family are still Mormons. Not that there aren’t exceptions, but the vast majority of Mormons I have known are good people. During any period of difficulty in life, they have been there for me.

Although I have yet to remove my name from the church, I have been mostly inactive for 20 years. My husband stayed Mormon far long than I did, but he stopped attended about 5 years ago. Because of the stories I’d heard from other ExMos, I feared for years letting my family know that I no longer believe. Until October 2020, I had said so little about my lack of belief to any member of my family that I wasn’t even sure all of my family knew I was no longer a believer. I was wrong to be afraid and did my family a disservice with that fear.

On October 12, 2020, my 24-year-old son and only child was murdered. There is no tragedy in the world I wouldn’t have preferred over Jesse’s death. I would have a million times rather died myself. But that wasn’t a choice I was given. Jesse was the child that I adored from the first second of his life, but he was more than that. As he’d grown into an adult, he had become my best friend. We were a lot alike, and we’d talk for hours on the phone at least once, usually more, a week. It has now been 1 ½ years since his death, and the pain remains raw and brutal. I don’t think anyone heals completely after losing a child. Jesse was also the one who helped me finally let go of any belief in the Mormon church. I now, like most ExMos, consider myself an atheist. (The same tools that work to deconstruct a belief in the Mormon god work just as well for every other god that human beings have believed in.) Jesse called himself a Deist because he didn’t think the Big Bang had sufficient evidence as a cause of the beginning of our universe.

Jesse was killed about 1 am on a Monday. We found out about his death later than mourning. I don’t know how I would have gotten through that week without the overwhelming kindness of Mormons. When the medical examiner confirmed that the body he had was indeed my son, I shut down. I talked to no one and left my husband to inform everyone, even my family, that Jesse had died. Family and friends started calling and texting me as soon as they heard. I responded to none of them. I just couldn’t. But the Mormons came anyway. I live in Alabama, but my seven brothers and sisters are spread out across the country. By Tuesday afternoon, two of my sisters had arrived—my youngest sister Wendie from Colorado and Julie from Arizona. They both booked flights nearly as soon as they’d heard. Remember October 2020 was at the height of Covid, and there wasn’t a vaccine yet available. Still, they came. My sister Sue in Idaho has heart problems, making her particularly vulnerable to Covid. I told her not to come. She came anyway. Her doctor told her it was safer to drive than to fly. Because she didn’t want to drive all that way (2000 miles) alone, she recruited by brother Roy who lives in Utah to drive with her. According to google, it is a 30-hour drive. But they came. My sister Jalane was in the hospital because infection in her knee had gone septic after surgery. She checked herself out and came with IV antibiotics in tow. All seven of them came, and many of my nieces and nephews, as well.

I wanted them, needed them, but since I wasn’t going to have anything religious at my son’s funeral, I needed to tell them I no longer believed. When I talked to Wendie about it shortly after she arrived, she shrugged, “Yeah, we all know.” This was a relief, but I still feared that they would use my extreme grief over losing Jesse to try to reconvert me.  But no one of them did. They loved me, supported me, and did everything they could to help me through it. The most religious anyone got was my oldest brother asking me if I wanted Jesse’s grave dedicated, a Mormon custom. When I told him I didn’t, he said nothing more.  I can’t emphasis enough how much I appreciated it.

The kindness shown me by Mormons wasn’t limited to my family either. The Mormons in the local area overwhelmed me with their support and kindness. Food started arriving nearly immediately. The bishop (leader of a Mormon local unit) and stake president (leader of an area roughly equivalent to a Catholic archdiocese), both of whom are friends of ours, were there for us. When asked, the bishop agreed to preside over a completely non-religious ceremony. Since it was Covid, we planned to hold the funeral at an outside pavilion in the cemetery. The Mormons arranged to bring and set up chairs, provide the sound equipment and someone to run it, and provide a lunch after the funeral. I was completely non-functional, and Tim wasn’t doing well at all. But because of the kindness of others, mostly Mormons, we made it through the first horrible week, and their kindness continues to this day.

No, my problem with the Mormon church has never been with the members, who have never been anything other than kind to me. So, yes, Mormons are nice.

I am the Tortured Soul

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

Who am I?

My twitter bio claims that I am a “Writer of Fantasy . . . and the tortured soul.” While this is accurate, it is, like every face I’ve ever shown the world, incomplete, revealing only a portion of who I am. Writing is a fundamental part of my identity. I don’t remember a time when I wanted to be anything other than a writer. For the most part, I have written about tortured souls. My characters certainly have hard lives. But recently, I have come to realize that I don’t merely write of “the tortured soul,” The tortured soul I was referring to my twitter bio is partially myself.

Telling stories is a fundamental part of who I am. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t entertain a host of characters whose stories played out in my mind. I even turned my own activities into stories. When I did just about anything, I was simultaneously writing a mental story about it. Occasionally, I wrote these stories down. When I was seven, I began a series about the Man from Mars for my older sister. But most of the time, these stories were never shared with anyone. I believed I was the only one who ever did anything this bizarre. For years I thought that my near constant story telling was a sign of some deep moral or psychological flaw. Why couldn’t I just weed the garden without thinking about how to turn weeding the garden into a story?

What disturbed me even more was how often my stories contained torture. The characters I created, and identified with, were frequently the victims of extreme abuse. One of my most developed childhood stories involved a boy named Max who had an abusive stepmother. (Yes, I was told a lot of fairytales as a child, and elements common in fairy tales, like abusive stepmothers, made their way into my stories.) Except the abuse Max suffered, and that I experienced vicariously through him, was more extreme than anything I ever heard in a fairytale. Max was abused so badly that he had extreme injuries, staring with broken bones and deep scars on his back. The abuse was so intense that he ended up in a wheelchair. Nobody ever acted to protect Max from this abuse. Although any real child treated as badly as Max would have little hope of becoming anything other than a broken adult, Max eventually triumphs over this abuse and wins the gold medal in the Olympic decathlon. This eventual triumph was inspired by Bruce Jenner’s 1976 Olympic win. To give you an idea of how young I was when I wrote Max’s story, I was only eight when Jenner won that medal. While Max did eventually escape his abuse, I spend far, far more mental energy imagining the abuse than I did the triumph. I wrote and rewrote abuse scenes over and over again. One of my most productive story telling times was when I was trying to fall asleep. When I reached puberty, rape and sexual torture were added to the physical abuse my characters suffered. I also read voraciously and was drawn to reading about victims of abuse. I was sure this obsession with being tortured was a sign of deep psychological problem. What kind of child falls to sleep by being vicariously tortured?

I was ashamed of this aspect of myself, so ashamed that I am now fifty-four years old, and this is the first time I’ve ever shared this aspect of myself with anyone. Although I’ve shared tiny pieces of this obsession with my husband and a therapist, I’ve never told anyone the detail I reveal above. I feared if anyone knew how often I imagined horrible abuse, they’d be sicken by me and would reject me. Even as now as I am writing this, I cannot fully escape this fear. I won’t allow it to stop me anymore, but I still feel it.

To answer the obvious question, no, I was never personally a victim of abuse. My parents were loving, and the worst abuse they inflicted on me was making me weed the garden or pick bugs off the tomato plants. Despite this being true, I have recently come to realize that I have been tortured for most of my life, not by other people, but by cognitive dissonance. According to Wikipedia,

In the field of psychology, cognitive dissonance is the perception of contradictory information. Relevant items of information include a person’s actions, feelings, ideas, beliefs, values, and things in the environment. Cognitive dissonance is typically experienced as psychological stress when persons participate in an action that goes against one or more of those things. According to this theory, when two actions or ideas are not psychologically consistent with each other, people do all in their power to change them until they become consistent. The discomfort is triggered by the person’s belief clashing with new information perceived, wherein the individual tries to find a way to resolve the contradiction to reduce their discomfort.

Cognitive dissonance is so mentally uncomfortable that people will perform the most amazing feats of mental gymnastics to make the disparate beliefs align.

I was raised in a deeply religious Mormon family, and I was a feminist before I even knew what a feminist was. Few can imagine the cognitive dissonance suffered by a Mormon feminist. Mormons and feminists are enemies. Even the phrase “Mormon feminist” is an oxymoron. Mormons teach that feminists are one of the greatest dangers of modern times, and feminists thinks Mormons are repressive and patriarchal. How is it possible that one person could be both a Mormon and a feminist? No matter what setting I was in, I believed that, to be accepted, some portion of myself needed to be concealed. When I was in a Mormon setting, I hid how deep my feminism ran. Although for years I raged underneath about the patriarchal values taught in the Mormon church, I shoved this rage down and hid the extent of my feminism from Mormons. When I went to graduate school in California, the feminist side of me was embraced by my teachers and peers, but the Mormon side wasn’t. Just as I hid my feminism from Mormons, I hid my Mormonness from the feminists. No matter where I was, I knew that part of me was unacceptable to the group I was with. Despite colossal efforts, I could never perform the mental gymnastics necessary to align these disparate parts of myself, nor could I reject either the Mormonism nor the feminism, so for about forty years, I lived with the torture of cognitive dissonance. I didn’t safe enough to be completely, authentically me in any setting. Even though I am no longer Mormon, the trauma cognitive dissonance inflicted on me still remains.

I recently shared some of this with my therapist, stressing that my parents weren’t abusive. She told me that something doesn’t need to be abusive to cause trauma. She is right. The constant fear of rejection was traumatic. The belief that the full me would never be acceptable to anyone was traumatic.

Cognitive dissonance and the fear of rejection has tortured me for most of my life. I have now decided that it will no more. I will be completely, authentically me. I won’t hide some portion of who I am to please others. This new direction in my blog is the first step in publicly claiming all of myself. In future posts, I will explore various aspects of the dissonance that has tortured me and, hopefully, put that dissonance to rest.

Few people have ever read my blog, and since this is my first entry in years, there’s a good chance no one will read this. But I’m undisturbed by this. I am writing primarily for myself, to own all of who I am. Writing this is part of the path toward healing my personal trauma. I don’t plan on making entries in any particular order, but will address aspects of healing my own cognitive dissonance as I am moved to do so. If no one ever chooses to follow me on this path, it will still represent a triumph in owning my complete, authentic self. But if someone does choose to follow my journey, I welcome you and hope that you can find something of use to you in reading about my struggle. If you do, I would love to hear from you in the comments.

The Plague: We’re in this Together

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

I am sad and worried. Because of my sadness and worry, I’m finding it difficult to write. A twitter writer friend suggested I write out my thoughts and feelings. He argued that maybe by getting what was bothering me out of paper I could stop obsessing over it, so this is my attempt.

My sadness and worry aren’t personal ones; they are sadness and worry for my country and its people. Yes, of course, I worry more about those I love, but I worry for all Americans and for all people across the world. We have been struck by a terrible disease. I know personally how terrible it is because as I had it. While I am no longer ill like I was, I fear that my lungs may have been permanently damaged. I still get out of breath so easily. I’m concerned they may never fully recover.

While I may remain a permanent causality of the war, as a country, and as a world, we could fight this virus and win. Some countries have fought and are winning, but here in the US, too many of us have decided not to. I live in Alabama. Auburn is a college town, so it’s better educated than much of the state, but still when I go out, I see my fellow Alabamians refusing to fight. I went to Walmart last weekend, the first and only time I’ve been inside a store since I got sick. Walmart has done what they reasonably could to less the likelihood that we infect each other. They made everyone enter by one door and leave by a different one. They had signs encouraging the wearing of masks. There were reminders to keep socially distant from others and marks on the floor to show just how far apart six feet was. Aisles had one-way signs, so we wouldn’t come in close contact with other shoppers by passing them. There were hand sanitizer stations placed throughout the store.

The problem wasn’t that Walmart hadn’t created a safety plan. The problem was that so few were following it. Less than half the shoppers wore masks. (I did, even though I had very recently tested negative, and still believed I was immune from being infected again.) It was impossible to maintain six feet distance from other people because so few were obeying the one-way signs. I’d start down an aisle going the right way only to find someone else approaching me from the wrong direction. Walmart employees were doing nothing to enforce their policies, but truthfully, how could they? There were far too many people violating them. Rules, even laws, can only work when most people follow them voluntarily. Then those who don’t can be dealt with. They would have needed employees all over the store directing people, which is not only impractical, it would necessitate employees being closer than six feet to everyone, putting themselves and the shoppers at risk.

In addition to putting employees in danger from the virus, it would put them endanger from violence. From the news come story after story of a violent response to safety enforcement. A convenience store clerk was punched in the face for telling a customer she couldn’t serve him without a mask. A security guard was murdered for not letting a shopper into a store without a mask. Protestors attend opening-up rallies arrived fully armed with assault style weapons. Other protestors scream at and refuse to distance themselves from nurses who come in masks to counter protest and mask-wearing reporters who cover the event.

It didn’t have to be this way. Nothing discriminates less than a virus. A virus doesn’t care whether you voted for Hillary Clinton, Donald Trump, Jill Stein, or no one at all. A virus won’t notice if you’re Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Wiccan, or atheist. It will infect without thought both the billionaire and the homeless. It will invade the lungs of Caucasians, African Americans, Latinos, or Pacific Islanders all on an equal basis.[1] It will eagerly attack whoever comes within its reach. Covid-19’s invasion of America should have united us as a people. We should be fighting this together as sisters and brothers. In the fight against Covid-19, we are not each other’s enemy. The virus is the enemy of all of us.

So why aren’t we? The responsibility for this failure rests primarily on one person. I don’t like to get political on this blog, but Donald Trump’s failure isn’t because he’s a Republican. It’s because he’s Donald Trump. Many both Democratic and Republican governors are providing effective leadership in their state’s fight against the virus. I was recently touched by Doug Burgum’s, the Republican governor of North Dakota, plea to the people of his state: “I would really love to see in North Dakota that we could just skip this thing that other parts of the nation are going through, where they’re creating a divide — either it’s ideological or political or something — around mask versus no mask. This is a senseless dividing line. If someone is wearing a mask, they’re not doing it to represent what political party they’re in or what candidates they support. We’re all in this together and there’s only one battle we’re fighting and that’s a battle of the virus.”[2]

But Donald Trump is about as far as possible from Doug Burgum. Rather than providing the leadership to fight this disease on a national level, Trump has instead divided us as Americans and made Covid-19 into a partisan issue. Because of this, quite literally, he is killing us. From the beginning when fears of the virus first effected the stock market, rather than organizing a national response to combating it, he called concern for the virus as a “Democratic hoax,” designed to bring him down. Because he saw the virus as a personal affront, he did next to nothing while Covid-19 established a strong beachhead in our nation. Covid’s position became so strong before he acted that defeating it would take heroic efforts on the part of all Americans.

But rather than leading those heroic efforts, he continued to portray the virus in personal and partisan terms. When the battle against the virus sent the economy into freefall, he didn’t rally the national together to defeat the disease. Instead, he attacked Democratic governors who battled the virus, including “that woman in Michigan.” Over and over again he has undermined a science-based, united approach and encouraged his supporters to see battling the virus as a fight against him personally. He portrayed the conflict with Covid as Democratic attempt to ensure his defeat in November. His media allies have amplified his message.

Because of his lack of leadership, his supporters (approximately 1/3 of Americans) refuse to see Covid as a serious threat to us all. Rather than uniting across party lines to defeat this invader together, like their leader, they attack their fellow Americans who do battle on the front lines. By doing so, they are ensuring the virus’s victory. Approximately 1/3 of our nation is fighting for the enemy. There is a reason why the United States has over 1/3 of the global Covid deaths when we have less than 5% of the world’s population.

No one, certainly not me, is unaware or unsympathetic to the economic pain the fight against the virus is causing. While my personal finances are unchanged, my son, who was set to graduate in August with a mechanical engineering degree, found his job prospects go from excellent to non-existent overnight. He may end up having to move back into my basement. As a college professor, I know many young people in a similar situation. Many Americans are in far worse financial danger. We all want the economy to recover. Everyone wants life to get back to normal. But until we get the virus under control, no economic recovery is possible. There will be no getting back to normal when the invader still ranges freely in our land. If my fellow Americans refuse to fight it, as a country, we will remain both sick and poor.

Alabama is a strong Trump state. Not coincidentally, it is also a state where the virus continues to ravage unchecked.

I don’t know what to do to change the situation. I’ve found it impossible to convince Trump supporters that the virus is as dangerous as it is. I actually had a Trump supporter tell me Covid-19 didn’t exist. He insisted that the doctor who told me I had it lied to me. I don’t know what disease he thought had me bedridden for 25 days or why he thought an Alabama doctor would be part of a conspiracy to take down Trump. Maybe he didn’t believe I’d actually been that sick. Even if Biden wins in November, he will have a tough time rallying us together against the virus. I fear many of my fellow Americans will continue the fight against him rather than against our common enemy.

We need love. We need compassion. We need empathy. Americans are capable of providing all these things. I have seen it over and over again in both in the past and in this current crisis. None of my or my husband’s family lives close to us (except my husband’s mother who has Alzheimer’s), but during those 25 days that I was bedridden, we had plenty of help. Members of the church I once belonged to dropped off meal after meal. While my husband still occasionally takes his mother to this church, I haven’t attended for years. But that didn’t prevent good hot food from appearing on our doorstep. People—friends, my work colleagues, my fellow dungeons and dragons players, the person who cleans for us—went to the store for us and dropped off groceries. When the father of one of my son’s high school friends wrongly thought I was dying, he offered to let my son stay for free in one of his empty rental houses, so my son could be closer to me without putting himself at risk. Even now the kindness of all of these people makes me weepy.

As a people, we are better than the way we are currently acting. So this is my plea to all my fellow Americans that we stop seeing each other as the enemy. That we unite together as a nation and fight to defeat the invader. We can do it. We are capable of great things. Do not let America’s best days be only in the past.

If you have examples of similar kindness, please share them below.

[1] I’m not unaware or insensitive that Covid-19 is having an unequal effect on the poor and the non-white, but that isn’t the virus’s fault. It is the inequalities in our society that put some people in risker situations than others.

[2] I’ve edited his remarks.

The Kronicles of Korthlundia Blog Tour

Jamie Marchant Posted on by
TourBanner_The Kronicles of Korthlundia (1)

I am participating in a blog tour to celebrate the release of the box set, The Kronicles of Korthlundia. The box set includes the first three volumes of The Kronicles of Korthlundia–The Goddess’s Choice, The Soul Stone, and The Shattered Throne–The Ghost in Exile, A Korthlundian Kronicle and some bonus short stories. Each stop of the tour includes unique content in the form of excerpts, reviews, interviews, and guest posts. By following the tour you can win a $20 Amazon gift card. To follow the tour and learn more about this collection and yours truly, the daily stops are listed below. The box set is available from Amazon for only $9.99. You can find it by clicking here.

January 27: Rogue’s Angels

January 27: Hearts and Scribbles

January 28: Viviana MacKade

January 29: BooksChatter

January 30: Candrel’s Crafts, Cooks, and Characters

January 31: ACME Teen Books – Kids, YA, and NA Too!

February 3: Mythical Books 

February 4: Full Moon Dreaming

February 5: Kit ‘N Kabookle

February 6: Dawn’s Reading nook

February 7: Fabulous and Brunette

February 10: T’s stuff 

February 11: Our Town Book Reviews

February 12: Lisa Haselton’s Reviews and Interviews 

February 13: Long and Short Reviews 

February 14: Leaving the nest to touch the sky 

February 14: It’s Raining Books 

ALL ABOUT THE #RRBC SPONSORS BLOG HOP!

Jamie Marchant Posted on by
Welcome to the first ever ALL ABOUT THE SPONSORS BLOG HOP!  These kind members of the RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB (RRBC) donated their support during the 2017 conference, in the way of gift card and Kindle e-book donations for our Gift Basket Raffle. They supported us and now we are showing our support of them by pushing their book(s).  
 
We ask that you pick up a copy of the title listed and after reading it, leave a review.  There are several books on tour today, so please visit the HOP’S main page to follow along.  
 
Also, for every comment that you leave along this tour, including on the HOP’S main page, your name will be entered into a drawing for an Amazon gift card to be awarded at the end of the tour!

​2121: TWILIGHT’S LAST GLEAMING​

Author:  ​Karl Morgan​

Welcome to the year 2121. Unfortunately, things have not gone well for the United States of America over the last century. The government’s desire for more power and money has left the country bankrupt and dragged most of the industrial world down with it. Wealth and safety are now the property of the political class and their rich and entitled donors. They live in splendid city centers covered with domes for protection from the elements and the poverty-stricken rest of the population.

Economic collapse has changed the cities into vast stretches of run-down tenements and filthy factory districts. Those who cannot work try to survive in the massive slums that stretch from the tenements to the walls that surround the major cities. Outside those walls, gang armies and terrorists wage war, even infiltrating the cities to grow their power.

Farming communities build walls around their towns for protection as they tend their crops for eventual sale to the cities. While adults operate the major equipment, their teenage children guard the fields and tractors with rifles. At Co-op M-125 in southeastern Iowa, we meet fourteen year-old Jack Kennedy. Far from the propaganda and filth of the cities, he is learning the truth about his country while enjoying a life that seems almost normal. 

This blog hop sponsored by:  4WillsPublishing

Title this Story and Win a Free Autographed Copy of One of my Novels

Jamie Marchant Posted on by
I’m terrible with titles and the one below is presently without title. Propose a title in the comments below. If I choose yours, I will send you a free autographed copy of one of my novels.

Untitled Story

“Calm down, Phelix. You’re about to bounce me off the wagon seat.” His dad’s eyes twinkled while reminding him that in Saloyna proper he’d be called Phelix. They weren’t even supposed to think about their real names outside of the mountains. They didn’t share their arima with the konpotars.

Phelix could never really bounce his dad off the seat; he was way bigger. Besides, Phelix was too excited to just sit there like he was communing with the gods. Dad said they would reach  Argos, the konpotar capital, by evening today, and the sun was starting to go down. He sat up a little straighter to see if he could see the city on the horizon. Phelix had never been to Argos before. In fact, until he came with his dad on this trip, he’d never been out of the Wynos Mountains.

But now that he was ten, Dad said he could come with him on his annual trading trip. Their wagon was loaded down with furs that his dad and other men of his tribe spent all winter trapping. There was even a decent sized sack that were Phelix’s own catches.

“How soon can we sell the furs?” he asked.

His dad threw back his head and laughed. Phelix couldn’t help smiling. His dad’s laughter contained all the happiness in the world. “You want that new knife, eh?”

Heat rose in Phelix’s face, and he looked away. His family didn’t have much money.

His dad patted him on the thigh. “No need to be embarrassed, son. You worked hard on your traps this winter. Far harder than most boys your age. You’ve earned yourself a fine knife. You can pass that one”—his father nodded at the small knife Phelix wore at his belt—“on to Alekos.”

Alekos was Phelix’s younger brother, and he’d probably lose the knife within a week. He lost everything. Phelix had once lent him his coolest rock, a white crystal with gold twisted throughout, to show to his friends. His father had said it wasn’t real gold, but it looked like it. Phelix had found it on the bank of the river, and his dad said it had probably washed down from high in the mountains.

His stupid brother had lost the rock before he even reached his friends. Alekos hadn’t come home until after dark that night. He’d been searching the path, looking for the rock. He spent the next three days looking too, but Phelix had never seen his rock again, and he bet he’d never find another like it.

But what did a stupid rock matter next to a fine knife? He smiled up at his dad. “We’ll get it at Baruch’s, right?”

“I wouldn’t buy knives anywhere else.”

* * *
An hour later when they rode through the gates of Argos, konpotars, mostly children, clothed in nothing but rags, crowded around the cart with their hands held out. He thought he probably shouldn’t refer to them as konpotars in their own capital. Here, Phelix and his father were the outsiders. Phelix didn’t have any problem understanding the konpotar traders who visited his tribe, but these people talked funny and too fast. He scooted closer to his dad. “What do they want?”

His dad stared straight ahead, ignoring them. “Money we can’t spare, if we’re going to make it through the winter.” His dad cursed as he tried to ride free of the children pressing against the wagon. “The three-times benighted king gets their fathers killed in his wars, and their mothers can’t feed them.”

When the children finally decided Phelix’s dad wasn’t going to give them anything, they moved to the next wagon. His dad fixed Phelix with his serious eyes rather than the laughing ones he usually wore. “Remember, son, we of the Wynos aren’t afraid to fight when the cause is right, but we don’t shed blood on a tyrant’s whim.”

Phelix nodded. The king’s troops had come into the mountains recruiting last year. His mother had had him hide in the woods because they didn’t think nine was too young for war. But the men of his tribe had arranged so many “accidents” for the troops that they went scurrying home. His dad claimed it would be years before they came again.

“Dad, do the konpotars even have an arima?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself, son. If they have an arima at all, it isn’t like ours. Our arima not only dwells within our own body, but reaches out to touch the arima of every other member of our tribe. The konpotar aren’t connected to each other like that. Sometimes, they don’t even seem connected to themselves.”

Phelix shivered. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live without an arima, cut off and alone.

As the sun was setting, his dad pulled their wagon into the yard of a large inn. He brought Phelix inside and approached a huge bald man with only one arm and an empty sleeve where the other should have been. “Mahail, my friend, how have the gods been treating you?” his father spoke in Saloynan, the language of the konpotars.

They clapped each other on the back like old friends. “Can’t complain, Petros,” Mahail said. Petros was the name his father used outside of the mountains. “Can’t complain. This handsome young man your son?”

His dad put his hand on Phelix’s shoulder. “Yes, this is Phelix, my oldest. He’s become quite the good trapper.”

His dad and Mahail, who Phelix figured owned the inn, talked about boring stuff for awhile, and his dad arranged stabling for their horses and wagon and lodging for them.

“Say, you know what?” Mahail said, looking at Phelix. “I heard there was a puppet show tonight in Tetragona Square, just around the corner and through the alley. Perhaps the lad would like to see it.”

“Puppet show?” Phelix looked up at his dad. He wasn’t sure what puppets were, but he wanted to see everything in Argos.

His dad grinned. “I think we should go check it out. Shouldn’t we, son?”

Phelix nodded, hoping it didn’t cost much.

When his dad was sure the furs were safely stowed, they started off. “Any excuse to escape Mahail’s cooking. He has excellent security for the merchandise, but his cooking is piss poor. I guess with only one arm he can’t put any flavor in his stews.” He laughed loudly, and Phelix joined in. Being around his dad always made him happy. He didn’t know anyone happier than his dad. “The inn right next to the square makes much better food.”

They walked down a narrow, dim alley. As they turned the corner, they came into a brightly lit square where children were gathered around some kind of box. He guessed it was the puppet show. He crept closer and stared in awe. He’d never seen anything like it. The box had a curtain, and in front of the curtain, a dragon and a knight were fighting while the dragon taunted the knight.

“You fight like you drank too much wine and filled your pants with rocks,” the dragon said, and Phelix burst out laughing.

His father put his hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead and sit up with the other children. I’ll keep an eye on you from back here.”

* * *
Because his dad let him watch the puppet show all the way until it ended, it was quite late when they ate their supper at the inn on the square. Even though the food was good, Phelix fell asleep half way through the meal.

A crash of thunder jolted him awake.

His father ruffled his hair. “You looked so peaceful sleeping I didn’t wake you, but we best hurry back to Mahail’s before the rain really starts coming down.”

Phelix was too tired to do anything more than stagger to his feet and take his father’s hand. Part of him wished he were still little enough for his father to carry him. As they rushed through the alleyway, the cold rain washed some of the sleepiness out of him.

But then his father abruptly let go of his hand and gave a strange grunt.

“Dad?”

A flash of lightening lit up the night sky, and Phelix screamed. A man with a face Phelix could never forget was pulling a bloody knife from his dad’s back. He had a long scar starting where his right eye should have been and trailing all the way down his cheek, and the tip of his nose had been chopped off. As his dad staggered, the man cut loose his purse with the bloody knife, winked at Phelix with his one good eye, and then he was gone.

His dad collapsed. Phelix cried out and knelt beside him. He couldn’t see where he was wounded. “What should I do? Tell me what to do!”

His dad’s hand tightened on his arm, and he made some grunting sounds, but that was all.

“Don’t die! Please don’t die.”

His father’s hand went slack.

* * *
Wrapped in a blanket and with a cup of mulled wine on the table in front of him, Phelix sat by the fire at the inn. He stared into the flames and refused to turn his head. If he couldn’t see his dad’s body laid out on the table near the door, perhaps his dad wouldn’t be dead. His dad was the strongest man in their village. He couldn’t have been murdered by a konpotar with only half a face.

The constables had been there and asked him what happened. They looked at each other when Phelix described Half-face. “Him again,” one of them grunted.

“The bloody bastard’s luck will run out soon, and we’ll have him,” the other responded.

They were gone now, and a woman the innkeeper called Mara started fussing over him again. He decided she was Mahail’s wife. “Drink the wine, dear. It will warm up your insides. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice bowl of stew?” she asked for what seemed like the tenth time.

Phelix shook his head. Perhaps he’d never eat again. He’d just knelt in the alley and let his dad die. He should have done something to save him. Tears formed in his eyes, but he shook them away.

Mahail sat at the table with him. “I’ll have a bowl myself,” he told his wife. When she left, he sighed loudly. “Horrible business. Just horrible. Your father was a good man. Paid his bills with a smile on his face, and he always had a jest on his lips. Horrible business.” He paused, but Phelix just stared into the flames.

Mara brought two bowls of stew. As she sat, she put one of the bowls in front of Phelix “Why don’t you try a bite, dear? It might make you feel better.”

“By Hermes, Mara, he’s only ten, and his father’s just been murdered. I hardly think this is a time for stew.”

“What else can I do for the poor lad?” she sniffled. “Only a child. Alone in the big city with his father dead.”

Mahail patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. We’ll do right by you. We’ll help you sell the furs and find someone who will take you and your father’s body home.”

“No,” Phelix said.

“Sure, we will, lad,” Mara patted his other arm. “We both liked your father, and we’d want someone to do the same for our—” Whatever else she was going to say was cut off by her sob.

Phelix glared at them. “I can’t go home until I’ve paid my father’s blood debt.”

The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, boy.”

“Since my father is dead and I’m his oldest son, I’m a man now. I can’t return to my tribe until I’ve avenged my father’s blood. A man who allows his father’s blood to go unavenged has no arima.”

“Poor, poor lad!” Mara squeezed his arm. “I know the Wynos mountains build harsh people, but surely, no one could expect such a ridiculous thing of a child. Besides, your mother will need your comfort at a time like this.”

Phelix stood, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. He drew his knife. “The death of my father’s murderer will bring her all the comfort she needs.”

* * *
As he had been doing for weeks now, Phelix wandered the streets near where his father had been murdered. He missed his mother and even Alekos so badly he felt hollow inside. But he couldn’t go home. His tribe would name him konpotar if abandoned his duty to his father. He’d lose his arima and never be able to reclaim his true name. Every time he got discouraged, the terrifying thought of wandering forever among konpotars without an arima spurred him to try harder.

Who would have thought a man with half a face would be so hard to find? When he asked about the man, lots of people had heard about him or seen him, but no one knew where to find him. At least that’s what they said. He was pretty sure some had been lying, but he didn’t know how to make them tell the truth. He didn’t have enough money for bribes.

Mahail had kept his word and helped him sell the furs and send his father’s body and money home to his tribe. Phelix hadn’t sent a message. His mother would understand what he had to do. He’d only kept back half of the coin that came from the sale of his own furs. He’d bought himself a good knife, and he’d been able to make the rest last by helping out with chores around the inn in exchange for being able to sleep in the stable loft.

Still, he didn’t know what he’d eat if it took him much longer to find Half Face.

There was a commotion in the square up ahead, and even though he’d been disappointed many times in the past, Phelix hurried toward it hoping to find Half Face in the crowd. He came upon a scaffolding and wiggled his way to the front. The constables were dragging a prisoner with a bag over his head out of a cart. They led him up the stairs, where both a priest and the executioner were waiting for him. They forced him to his knees and pulled off the bag.

It was Half Face. The man who murdered his dad. And he was about to hang. Phelix couldn’t let that happen. To make things right his father’s murderer had to die by his own hand.

“You have been found guilty of murder,” the priest said. “Do you have any last words you’d like to speak before we send you to Hades?”

“No!” Phelix screamed and tried to push his way to the stairs. The crowd closed tightly, and he had to struggle to get through. By the time he made it to the steps, Half Face had the bag back over his head and a rope around his neck.

His heart nearly bursting in his chest, Phelix tried to run past the constable at the base of the steps, but the man caught his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Phelix gestured desperately at the murderer. “Let me go! He killed my father! I have to kill him!”

The constable laughed. “He’s about to hang. You can’t make him any deader than that.”

Phelix didn’t have time to argue. The executioner had his hand on the lever that would open the trap door beneath Half Face. He drew his knife and stabbed it into the hand holding his arm. But instead of releasing him, the constable swore a foul oath and back-handed him so hard across the face his head swam. He tried to stab again, but the constable grabbed his wrist and twisted until the knife fell from his hand.

He kicked and butted his head against the man, but the man’s grip tightened. Phelix screamed, “You don’t understand! I have to kill him myself! I have to pay my father’s blood debt!”
The constable called another one over. “Got one of those little mountain hellcat here. The bastard stabbed me.”

As the second constable took him from the first, the trap door opened and the ground fell out from beneath Half Face. Phelix stopped fighting. He’d failed. He’d lost his arima.

But Half Face’s legs twitched wildly. The fall hadn’t snapped his neck clean. If he could only get free and get his knife, there was still time. He bit down hard on one of the constable’s hands, but the constable pounded his head against the scaffolding without letting go. The blow hurt, and blood ran into his left eye. He put both his feet against the scaffolding and pushed back hard. As he’d hoped, he sent both of them tumbled into the street, and for a brief moment he was free. He scrambled for his knife, but a hand caught his ankle.

The first constable grabbed him by the wrist, yanked him to his feet, and punched him in the gut. “Stop it, you fool boy! He’s dead!”

“No,” he screamed. “No!” But he looked up and saw Half Face’s legs hanging limp. He stopped struggling, and the constable released him. Phelix dropped to his knees.

A hand yanked him to his feet, and the second constable punched him in the face. “Cursed kid! You bit me, you animal.”

The other held up his bleeding hand. “He stabbed me. You’re in a lot of trouble, boy. They might just hang you next.”

Phelix hung limply in the man’s grasp. It didn’t matter what happened to him now.

A military officer approached the constables. “Shame to waste a fighter like this one on the gallows when we can use him on the front line to kill Massossinans. I’ll take him off your hands.”

The constables exchanged dark looks, but the one holding him shoved him toward the officer. The officer clamped down on Phelix’s arm, but there was no point in resisting. “So how about it, boy? You want to kill some barbarians for your king?”

Phelix glared up at him. “Phelix doesn’t care. Phelix failed to pay his father’s blood debt. Phelix has no arima any more.”

Hexborn by A.M. Manay

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

 

Meet my guest, A. M. Manay, and read about her exciting my novel.

The Society of Hexborn

Something is rotten in the kingdom of Bryn.  The society in Hexborn, my new fantasy novel, is riddled with injustice of various kinds.  Shiloh, our heroine, learns this from a young age.

From Hexborn:

“Why is it against the law for bastard wizards like us to get married and have children?” Shiloh asked Brother Edmun, her voice piping up without warning, as was her wont.  They had heretofore been eating their midday meal in silence.  The eight-year-old nibbled at a piece of cheese as she awaited his answer.  She had little appetite, as she had been recently unwell, but she knew her teacher would scold her if she refused to eat.

“It matters not for you.  The hexborn are as barren as the Deadlands,” Edmun replied, sounding irritated at the interruption.  He immediately returned to his dinner, missing the cloud that passed over his student’s face.

“I know.  But if I weren’t going to be barren?” she countered patiently.  She knew from experience that, no matter how annoyed her teacher was by a question, if she persisted, he would answer it.

“The nobility doesn’t want magical abilities to spread throughout the whole population,” Edmun explained, as though it were obvious to anyone with any sense at all.  “So, they do not generally permit us half-bloods to procreate.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Why not?  Did your fever melt your brains, child?  Because they don’t want to lose their power over the peasantry!  If every idiot in the kingdom could make proper use of a wand, what would give the noblemen absolute power over their landfolk?  What poor farmer would be content to grow turnips all day if he could cast spells like an earl instead? 

“They give us just enough prestige and wealth to make us better than the rabble, so we will spend our lives willingly serving the nobility’s interests.  But they sure as hell don’t want us passing our meager treasures along to our children when they can take it back for themselves instead before our bodies are even cold.”

Shiloh cocked her head thoughtfully.  “Is the nobility’s thirst for power also the reason that I’m the only child in our village you have taught how to read?”

“There she is!  There’s my girl!” he cried.  “You had me worried for a moment.  Listen to me, poppet.  Everything our betters do, they do for wealth and for power.  Every law the crown makes.  Every custom the noblemen enforce.  Every little reward they give to the likes of us for helping them keep what they have.  You bow and scrape, and you thank and obey, but you don’t let your mind go to sleep.  You keep your eyes and ears open.  You look for the reasons behind the pretty words, the favors, the gifts.  You look out for yourself.  You act for your own advantage.  You don’t get complacent.  And . . .”

“And what, Master?” Shiloh prompted him.

“And you never, never trust them.”

***

You see, the ruling elite of the country possess the ability to do magic, and they are determined to keep that power confined to noble hands.  Any commoner who shows a shred of magical talent is forced into religious or government service and forbidden from having children in order to prevent the spread of such gifts through society.

The most gifted of those children, most of whom are the bastard offspring of noblemen, are invited—commanded, really— to attend the Royal Academy, studying alongside noble children and obtaining posts at court.  Those children, being born out of wedlock, are given a last name based upon the region of the kingdom in which they are born.  Most of the professors at the Academy were once such children.  Commoners with magical ability are, essentially, glorified slaves to the court or to the church.  Those without such talents labor under the boot of those who do.

The country of Bryn is only fifteen years removed from a ruinous civil war in which a brother and a sister fought for their father’s throne.  The sister, Alissa, who lost her battle for power when she was killed in the last days of the conflict, is now known as “The Usurper.”  The dark magic used in the battles that raged for several years have left swaths of destroyed land behind, and the kingdom is only beginning to recover from its wartime losses.

The winner of the war, King Rischar, is much his sister’s inferior in every way.  Greedy and lazy, he is easily swayed by his advisors and makes governing decisions primarily out of self-interest.  Lords jockey for favor, and they have no care for those they might injure in the process.

It is in this environment that the characters in Hexborn live and work, attempting to make their way within an unjust system fraught with trouble and intrigue.

I hope you are interested enough to want to learn more about the world I have created.  Please head on over to Kindle Scout and nominate Hexborn for publication.  Remember, if you nominate Hexborn and it is chosen, you automatically receive a free copy of the ebook when it is published!  Thanks much to my host and to you all, and happy reading.

***

Bio

A.M. Manay is an award-winning fantasy author in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is also a former inner-city chemistry teacher, a wife and mother in a multi-racial family, a lover of comic book movies, a Lupus warrior, a Clerk of Session, and a 9Round enthusiast. She loves to write page-turning stories with complex, diverse characters who inhabit interesting worlds.

 

 

 

 

Book Link for Scout Campaign

https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/2Q22TVKET6NES

Author Links for A.M. Manay

Email: ammanay@gmail.com

Website: www.ammanay.net

Blog: http://ammanaywrites.blogspot.com/

Facebook: facebook.com/ammanaywrites

Twitter: @ammanay

***

For anyone who leaves a comment EVERY DAY of her blog tour, you will go into a drawing for an autographed paperback of her YA FANTASY NOVEL:  “HEXBORN.”

This tour sponsored by 4WillsPublishing.wordpress.com.

Sunweaver Releases Today

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

Release Day Party for Sunweaver by Ryan Mueller

A good friend of mine is releasing his new novel today. You ought to check it out.

The sun is dying. The world has turned to ice. Only the Sunlord can keep humanity alive.

Deril was supposed to be the next Sunlord, following in his father’s footsteps. But it doesn’t matter how much Deril trains. He is no savior, just an ordinary Sunweaver, powerful but useless. But then Fireweavers kidnap his father, intending to use his Sunlord powers to free their mad god. Now Deril must infiltrate a secret Fireweaver organization and earn their trust. If he doesn’t, the mad god will kill all Sunweavers. Driven insane by centuries of imprisonment, he may even finish what he started…and destroy the sun entirely.

Rella is a Fireweaver living in secret. When her powers are discovered, she must flee to the frozen wasteland Fireweavers call home. There, she’ll come face-to-face with her family’s darkest secrets and with the plot to free the mad god. She has the chance to stop it, but first she’ll have to decide if she can support Sunweavers, the people who executed her mother. The people who would do the same to her without a thought.

Kadin is Lightless. He has no Sunweaving or Fireweaving talent. Sold into slavery by his abusive father, he struggles to survive under his cruel master. But when Kadin manifests strange abilities, he begins to suspect he isn’t as powerless as he once thought. He may even be the key to stopping the mad god’s return…but only if he first conquers the anger and darkness within him.

An excerpt follows below. If you like want you read, you can purchased the book by clicking below or on the picture above.

Excerpt

Chapter 1: The Missing Sunlord

The sun was dying, and Deril could do nothing about it.

He shivered in the chill air, looking up at the dim white sun, at the gray sky that mirrored his mood. Closing his eyes, he began his daily prayer to Aralea.

Please, Aralea, grant me the powers of a Sunlord. Let me follow in my father’s footsteps. I can’t keep living like this. The expectations, the failure, the looks people give me in the corridors—it’s all too much. I feel like I’m going to break under the pressure. Why did you keep these powers from me?

Deril had tried too long to keep his anger concealed. He no longer cared. Aralea had done little to help him, little to help anyone in Tarileth. She deserved his anger.

Please, if you can’t make me a Sunlord, give me some way I can prove myself. Some way I can make a difference. That’s all I ask. When he finished praying, he was nearly in tears.

He opened his eyes and shivered again despite the chamber’s Sunlamps. The world could not survive on Sunlamps alone. That much was obvious. It needed Deril’s father, needed Deril. Fifteen years he’d trained alongside his twin brother Karik. Fifteen years and neither of them was a Sunlord.

They had failed, and their failure would doom the world.

At the open door, Deril passed his friend Tiran, one of the temple’s Sun Guards. Tiran wore a golden surcoat lined with fur. Deril avoided his friend’s gaze, hoping he could also avoid the shame burning within him.

Tiran put a hand on Deril’s shoulder. “Did you find luck with the goddess?”

Deril barked a laugh. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“You’ll find your powers one day.”

The encouragement sounded false, but Tiran was only trying to be a good friend. The kind of friend Deril didn’t deserve, for he brooded too often and spent most of his time obsessing over his training, hoping he’d missed something that would unlock his powers.

Hoping for a dream that seemed more elusive every day.

“Perhaps I will,” Deril said. But never in the history of Tarileth had a Sunlord come into their powers after age twenty, and Deril was twenty-five.

“You don’t believe that,” Tiran said.

“It isn’t easy to live with this burden.”

“Maybe you need to do something different with your training,” Tiran said, following Deril through the stone corridors. “Are you sure your father hasn’t missed something?”

“It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t be this hard.” Deril thought of all the evenings he’d spent in the temple’s library, reading every book they had on Sunweaving theory. It was possible that no one knew as much about Sunweaving as he did. So the fault had to lie with him.

It didn’t matter what anyone said. Deril was not a Sunlord.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Tiran said. “You used to be much happier.”

“I was a child back then, and I thought I would come into my powers one day.” Deril shook his head. “I don’t know how Karik manages to stay so upbeat. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he doesn’t care about being a Sunlord. But how can he not care?”

“I’m sure he cares,” Tiran said as they rounded a corner. He was about to say something else, but then a scream came from a nearby corridor, followed by a low rumble. Deril started toward the sound, hanging close to the golden-brown walls. A series of faint vibrations echoed, growing ever softer. What in the core was happening?

Tiran clutched at Deril’s arm. “Be careful. You’re too important to risk yourself.”

Too important. That was the last thing he’d call himself, the last thing he deserved to be called. He rushed through the temple’s wide stone corridors, Tiran at his side. The rumble didn’t sound again; the vibrations had ceased.

They rounded a corner and came upon the bodies of two Sun Guards, who lay on the floor in pools of blood, their heads resting a few feet away. They’d been guarding the Sun Chamber, where Deril’s father was using his Sunlord powers to strengthen the sun.

If something had happened to Deril’s father—

No. His father had to be alive. He was the only Sunlord left.

Tiran grasped Deril’s shoulder. “Stay out here.”

“No. We can defend ourselves better if we stick together.”

“All right,” Tiran said, but he frowned as he pushed through the heavy stone door, entering the Sun Chamber. Deril followed, offering a silent prayer to Aralea—more for his father’s safety than his own.

The chamber was empty.

At its other side, a gaping hole had opened in the wall. There was no blood on the floor, but someone had kidnapped the Sunlord, taking advantage of the weakness he experienced after fueling the sun for a few hours.

But who would kidnap the Sunlord? Without him, humanity would die.

“We need to inform Captain Hanir,” Tiran said.

“I’m going after them. There might still be a chance to save my father.”

“No,” Tiran said. “You don’t know what you’re facing.”

“We don’t know what they intend either. If they’re Fireweavers, they might be crazy enough to do anything, even kill him. We can’t take that risk. You inform Hanir. I’m going.”

“Well, I can’t stop you,” Tiran said. “But please be careful.”

“I’ll do what I can.” Deril raced to the other side of the Sun Chamber, then through the hole in the wall.

The temple stood on a flat portion of a small mountain overlooking the city of Hyrandel, so whoever had kidnapped Deril’s father had to go down the mountain. In addition, dozens of Sun Guards patrolled the perimeter of the temple grounds, and a wall surrounded the temple.

How could anyone get through?

 

Laura Thompson, an elf or at least someone who writes about them

Jamie Marchant Posted on by

Welcome to Laura Thompson, a fantasy writer in the know. Please read about her and check out her work if she intrigues you.

Laura Thompson grew up in a small town on an island that sits in the middle of Lake Champlain in Vermont. She has been writing short stories since the young age of seven and has been an avid reader for longer than that. Although Laura is an adult she admits her imagination is still as active as it was as a child only now, instead of using it to create make believe games she harnesses it through writing.  Her first novel was written and completed at the age of sixteen while taking a creative writing class and although not published Laura still feels it was the first step on her path of becoming an author. Laura started writing the Elven Quest Series in 2007, “I had not written for pleasure in a long time and one day the characters from The Burden of Destiny entered my mind and wouldn’t leave. I had no choice but to sit down and write their story. Two years and over 800 pages later both stories are finished and I’m so excited to share them with the world.”  Laura holds her Masters in Higher Education Counseling, has a BA in Sociology and co-wrote the published ethical theory model entitled Key Factors in Making Ethical Decisions Model, a chapter in the textbook: Ethical Decision Making for the 21st Century Counselor (Counseling and Professional Identity) by Donna S. Sheperis and Stacy L. Henning. Laura currently resides in Massachusetts with her husband Daniel, wonderful son William and cat Luna.

The Burden of Destiny

Humans are “primitive, unintelligent, and highly emotional.” Luckily that’s only half of Isobel’s problem…

Dark beasts and terror are coming. Fourteen year old Isobel is warned that only her special instincts and abilities can save her villagers from extinction caused by evil creatures called the Carachi, possibly sent by her mother’s killer. To save her people and preserve her safe world, Isobel must cross the bridge from her childish mind to reality and accept that she cannot escape her destiny.

Legends are steeped in truth and there is much to learn about the secrets of the world in which Isobel lives. After learning of her family’s secret past and her own magic abilities and with the help of her friends and a wise mentor she will leave her childhood home in Greenhill to forge new bonds with an ancient race that has been hidden for centuries, and try to persuade them to emerge once again and fight for her people. Their existence and the elements that provide her world with harmony depend on it. If successful, Isobel will have the chance to confront her mother’s killer. But, if she fails, the world could fall into darkness forever.

Full of adventure, The Burden of Destiny follows a young heroine’s quest to find her place and save her people. This young adult fantasy novel will inspire the younger generation by addressing the meaning of trust, duty, loss, love, and the importance of preserving the world in which we all belong.

Interview

  1. Tell us a little about yourself?

 

I come from a small town in Vermont, which I believe inspired much of my book. I have been a fan of fantasy for a long time, but forgot how much I loved it until I read Harry Potter as an adult. I was then hooked on it again and started reading tons of fantasy novels before deciding that I wanted to write one of my own. I am a simple girl that loves reading, writing, spending time with family, and spending time in nature.

2. What made you want to become a writer? I

have always loved writing and was writing stories at the age of 7. In high school my dad wrote a play called Seniors about relationships between older people, like the ones he grew up with, his parents, aunts and uncles etc. Our town did a production of the play and he received a standing ovation. I was so proud that all of the people in the audience were applauding my father’s words that came from his own heart and mind. I decided then that I wanted to write something of my own and have the courage to share it with others.

3. Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?

This is super tough, I love them all. I feel that the main character, Isobel is somewhat of a mirror image of me when I was young, so I identify with her greatly. However, I love the antagonist Madeara, she has so much more to her story that will be revealed in the upcoming books and I loved writing her back story.

4. What was the hardest part of writing your book?

Editing! I am long winded by nature so having to go back and cut out pieces of the story was very difficult to do and took a lot of time.

5. Do you have a day job in addition to being a writer?  If so, what do you do during the day?

Yes I do. I work for a global corporate bank as a Global Governance Officer. I am a mentor in their mentoring program and a member of two committees, one that creates programs for employee engagement and one that approves grants for our foundation which gives grant money to nonprofits that support education for under privileged youth.What is your favorite writing tip or quote?

6. Tell us a little about your plans for the future.  Do you have any other books in the works?

Absolutely! I have 3 other Elven Quest books almost ready to be published, the second one will be out next year. I have also been writing a YA drama that I hope to publish next year as well. I am also now offering training workshops for other writers as a writing coach, as well as freelance editing for other others works. The next one will be released in 2018.

I also  just started a free writers support group called Wise Warrior Writers on Facebook. You can find it here:

7. If you could live in any period in the past or future, which would it be? Why?

I’ve always been fascinated by Europe in the 1600’s. Elizabeth the 1st was my favorite queen to read about. I think I would want to go back to that time period and see what it was really like.

8. If you could shift into any animal, which would you chose? Why? If you were going to be permanently changed into an animal? Would you still pick the same one? Why or why not?

I think I would choose something like a sea otter that spends time near water and loves to swim but can also stay on land if necessary. If I were to permanently change to an animal I would want to be a sea bird that has the ability to fly, swim and live on land.

Where can we find you online? (please cut and paste links):

Blog: https://lauraethompsonauthor.blogspot.com/

Website: https://lauraethompson2.wixsite.com/mysite-1

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LauraEThompsonauthor15/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/LauraEThompson6

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Laura-E.-Thompson/e/B01JTS0MMO/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1503020071&sr=1-2-ent

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-burden-of-destiny-laura-e-thompson/1123969620;jsessionid=0CCC922F0BE6333A25929C5F25A309FC.prodny_store01-atgap04?ean=2940158405136

Others: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/645261

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/30737780-the-burden-of-destiny?from_search=true

My email: lauraethompson@outlook.com

Excerpt

They scoured the area on foot and eventually Isobel found a few trees that had been knocked over by a heavy storm that were lying on top of one another and created a small wall. They tied the horses to some large trees out of sight and sat behind the tree wall. They held their weapons and didn’t speak.

The others ate a few pieces of meat, but Isobel waved it away to focus instead on listening for the sound. Hours passed and the rumble would disappear and then reappear without warning—closer it seemed. Then it would disappear for a long time and just when she began to think she had imagined it, she would hear it again for a brief moment or two. Just long enough to put her senses on high alert. It was in the middle of one of those long stretches of silence that Isobel began to think that maybe the creatures making the noise had retreated. The same time that thought passed through her mind, she heard a terrible screeching sound above her. All three of them jumped and peered into the treetops.

Isobel saw movement on a branch above them. She strained her eyes and happened to make out the dark shape of the raven. It peered down at her, and although she couldn’t see its evil eye, she could feel its hatred. It screeched again, and then they heard large heavy footsteps very close by. They heard branches breaking under the weight of heavy legs and the snort of heavy animal like breathing.

“Oh no. What is that?” Mauve whispered.

“It’s them. Carachi I think,” said Isobel. “I told you I didn’t imagine it.”

They had no more time for words, however, because all too soon they were surrounded. They heard the creatures searching all around them, coming closer and closer.

 

If you like what you’ve read, share what you think in the comments. Also, Laura’s book can be purchased by clicking below.