Monthly Archives: June 2021

Debt Bomb Teaser Tuesday

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Debt Bomb coverThriller/Suspense/Spy Fiction/Political Fiction

Date Published: July 1, 2021

Publisher: BQB Publishing

China hungers to take the United States’ place as the global hegemon.

And it is plotting to use America’s $40 trillion national debt to do it.

Only one person stands in China’s way: suburban accountant Andrea Gartner.

For years she has dreaded the day of America’s reckoning about its national debt. She’s gotten involved in local politics. She’s run for Congress. But the debt marches remorselessly higher.

Rejected by her party in her congressional race, she joins the insurgent presidential campaign of Congressman Earl Murray. When he wins in an upset, he defies all Washington convention and names Andrea his Director of the Office of Management and Budget. The Washington rookie finally has her chance to solve America’s debt addition.

But China has other plans, engineering financial crises and military confrontations designed to bankrupt and collapse the United States. Wars rage overseas as America’s health care system, schools, and social fabric disintegrate. Desperately coping with these existential threats to America’s very existence, Andrea finds herself enmeshed in vicious Washington infighting with belligerent military brass and ruthless politicians, including the powerful and complicated Congressman Lewis Mason and his chief of staff Frank Palmer. Chinese agents lurk in the shadows, threatening Andrea’s life and family, as she struggles to keep the country afloat.

No aspect of American life is spared as the country teeters on the brink of financial collapse. Can Andrea stave off China’s assault and ensure the United States survives? Or will the Red Chinese flag fly over the American Capitol?

Debt Bomb is a sobering fictional account of a future facing the United States if it fails to control its debt and get its financial house in order.

Excerpt

Andrea Gartner, South Carolina. Why are you running? And why should we endorse you?”

Andrea hesitated and took a sip of water, followed by a deep breath to steady her nerves. She leaned into her microphone.

That’s a fair question, Congressman Mason. I’ve been a leader in the South Carolina Republican Party for years,” she said, unnerved by the entire Debt Rebel Gang staring down at her. She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. They were nothing like what she practiced. “This is my first time running, but I’ve gotten a lot of campaign experience from my leadership positions in the local and state party organizations. Professionally, I’m an accountant with a degree in economics from the University of Pennsylvania. I’ve been in private practice for fifteen years and I’ve been married for ten years with two children . . .”

She could see from the Gang members’ bored expressions she was getting nowhere. She took another sip of water. You’ve got this, she told herself. Stay focused. She felt a wave of control, of inspiration, of her spine stiffening. She took a breath. Now she was ready.

Mr. Mason, Gang members, honestly, I’m running for one reason only.” Her voice was firm now. “The United States is utterly dependent on members of the public and foreign countries to buy our debt. If they decide they don’t want to loan us money and we can’t finance our debt, the country goes broke. We won’t have a dime to spend. No Social Security. No Medicare. This thought terrifies me. And we’re doing this on the backs of our kids and grandkids. If we don’t cut our deficits and pay down our national debt, they will be paying for all the things we’re spending money on now. No one is speaking for them. I want to be their voice. Believe me, Congressmen, I have lived this. My father died when I was young and left my family in a pile of debt. I don’t want other families to go through the same hardships. This country needs financial help. I have two kids at home, and I’ll be damned if I saddle them with debt they have to pay tomorrow so I can get free government goodies today. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—I hate in this world more than ruinous debt.” Andrea began gesticulating for emphasis as she built momentum. “You’re the only people who have raised this issue. You inspired me to run. I’m an accountant. Balancing books is what I do. With me on your side you’ll have as credible an ally for debt reduction as you can possibly imagine.”

The Gang members had no reaction whatsoever.

What am I doing wrong? she wondered. Cutting the debt is these guys’ calling card. Their raison d’être. What gives? Keep going. Maybe they’ll come around.

Congressmen, if you—”

Thank you, Ms. Gartner, but I’m afraid we can’t endorse you this election cycle,” interrupted Mason.

The words sent a shock through Andrea’s body. She’d barely gotten two minutes to state her case and the Debt Rebel Gang had already rejected her. And the way Mason emotionlessly dismissed her only added to the shock. All those years of helping candidates who were worried about the debt, and she got three sentences in before these guys rejected her?

Come again?” Andrea said.

We’re endorsing Dan Morgan.”

Seriously? Dan Morgan? That ridiculous opportunist?

She’d known Dan Morgan from her local Republican work.

When cutting spending was all the rage, Dan Morgan was a deficit cutter. When Republican-controlled Congresses were spending like drunken sailors but conservatism demanded absolute support for President Roberts, Morgan was there. You could always count on Dan Morgan to get a double dip of the Republican flavor of the month.

Ryan and Cam were right. Politics was a dirty business. And once again, she’d gotten the short end of the stick.

Mason continued, “Dan Morgan has been an unwavering supporter of the Roberts Agenda. You spent your time blasting the debts and the deficits at a time when President Roberts needed all the support he could get. We need a team player, not a Johnny-one-note. Dan’s reliable. You aren’t.”

But reducing the debt was your signature issue. You all inspired me to get active and fight to reduce spending and debt. I’m here because of you,” Andrea said, her voice rising to a crescendo. “I’m an accountant, and what America needs right now is an accountant!”

About the Author

Michael E. Ginsberg

Michael E. Ginsberg is an attorney in Washington, DC practicing in the field of national security law. He spent a decade in private practice at Arnold & Porter LLP in Washington, DC and then worked several years in the U.S. government as a Senior Associate General Counsel in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI), where he served as legal counsel for the Intelligence Advanced Research Projects Activity (IARPA). He currently is Vice President and Deputy General Counsel at a Virginia-based defense contractor.

Ginsberg has also served in senior leadership positions in the Republican Party of Virginia and is the co-founder of the Suburban Virginia Republican Coalition.

A 1997 graduate of Harvard College and 2002 graduate of Harvard Law School, he also holds a master’s in aeronautics and astronautics from Stanford University (1999). A native of Baltimore, Maryland, Ginsberg lives in Virginia with his wife and two children.

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Tears of Change Blitz

 

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Poetry

 

Date Published: 6/29/2021

Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing

Tears of Change is a collection of poems and quotes that takes you on a journey through the everyday emotions of life. In this book you will find unique, one-of-a-kind poems. Some will touch your heart and bring you to a place of appreciation and peace, and others may change the way you view and look at things. You will find ones that will move you through joy, loss, acceptance and renewal, as well as pain and sorrow. My hope is that one or many will inspire you to take a leap into expressing all of your own emotions so you can reach a deeper place of love and gratitude within yourself.

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Death Opens a Window Tour

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Mourning Dove Mysteries, Book 2

Mystery, Crime Fiction, LGBTQ

Publisher: Acorn Publishing

Date Published: Oct 19, 2019

 

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BEST eBOOK SUSPENSE/THRILLER – New Apple Book Awards

BEST COVER OVERALL – New Apple Book Awards

 

The Mourning Dove Mysteries series includes:

1. MURDER ON THE LAKE OF FIRE

2. DEATH OPENS A WINDOW

3. A LIGHT TO KILL BY (coming August 3)

 

Emory Rome is back in DEATH OPENS A WINDOW, Book 2 of the Mourning Dove
Mysteries and the follow-up to the international bestseller MURDER ON THE
LAKE OF FIRE.

 

As he struggles with the consequences of his last case, Emory must unravel
the inexplicable death of a federal employee in a Knoxville high-rise. But
while the reticent investigator is mired in a deep pool of suspects –
from an old mountain witch to the powerful Tennessee Valley Authority
– he misses a greater danger creeping from the shadows. The man in the
ski mask returns to reveal himself, and the shocking crime of someone close
is unearthed.

 

Death Opens a Window tablet

EXCERPT

Emory tapped the bell on the counter in the lobby of Willow Springs – senior living spaces converted from a nineteenth century Italianate house. Sounds of a mountain forest from overhead speakers pacified the air, and silk flowers sprung from every available surface. This place doesn’t seem so bad. It’s peaceful.

A scream rippled through the tranquility. Emory leapt over the counter and pounded through the door behind it. His eyes darted about in search of danger, but all he found was a fiftyish woman clutching her chest with a horrified look. Before her was an open drawer. Inside was a chicken-bone doll with a bird’s foot attached as if grabbing at the heart. The woman saw Emory and pointed frantically at the drawer. “Get it out of there! Get it out!”

That’s odd. It looks kind of like the one from Corey’s office. Emory threw the doll into a nearby wastebasket. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” The woman’s breathing ticked down from asthmatic. “Okay, I’m fine now. Thank you.” Her chest-clutching hand dropped to her side, revealing a company badge hanging from the collar of her purple polyester blouse. “Can I help you?”

Emory found himself staring at her swept-back, brittle hair – a patchwork of brown shades given a yellow luster from the fluorescent ceiling light. She must color it herself. He pulled his eyes away, glancing at the name on her badge before offering her a smile. “Hi Lucy. I’m here to see Mary Belle Hinter.”

“Ms… Ms. Mary Belle?” Her hand returned to her chest. “Are you a relation?”

“I’m Emory Rome. I’m investigating the death of someone she knew.”

“Oh, good heavens. How awful.” Lucy fanned herself with her hand. “She’s on the veranda. The door down the hall to your right. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” Emory pointed toward the wastebasket. “By the way, how did that thing get in your drawer?”

The woman placed a hand over her heart. “I can’t rightfully say. I imagine someone confiscated it from… one of our residents. We’re a Christian establishment.” Emory started toward the door when the woman stopped him. “Em’ry, you don’t believe she had something to do with that death, do you?”

“No, I just need to talk to her.”

Lucy pursed her lips. “Are you sure?”

That’s an odd question. 

Lucy continued, “I don’t mean to speak ill of the misfortunate, but that woman is a hellion straight from the loins of the devil!”

“Thanks for the warning.” Emory left Lucy to her shudders. That’s twice I’ve been warned about Mary Belle Hinter. Who is she?

When Emory stepped onto the veranda, he was greeted by a stifling warmth, in spite of the weak winter sunlight slavering through the glass roof. I wonder which one is her. Among the tight scattering of more patio heaters than were necessary, he saw about two dozen elderly denizens – some sitting alone and others playing cards or board games. One small woman with wild silver hair, however, was kneeling in front of a tree and digging in the dirt with her hands, just beyond the veranda’s wood-slat flooring. Emory smirked. Lord, don’t let it be the crazy one.

A thin fortyish man in scrubs approached him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mary Belle Hinter.”

The man scanned the area before the tips of his mustache reached for his chin. “There she is digging at that tree again.”

Emory’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it’s her. 

The attendant hurried toward her. “Ms. Mary Belle, what have we said about messing with the foliage?”

Either she didn’t hear him or she ignored him altogether because she broke off a small offshoot of the horse chestnut tree’s root and pulled it from the ground.

“Don’t put that in your mouth!”

Before the attendant could grab it, she sure enough stuffed the piece of root into her mouth and sucked on it as if it were hard candy.

The attendant threw his hands up in the air and turned to Emory. “She’s all yours.”

Emory nodded and extended a hand to the old woman. “Ms. Mary Belle, could I help you to your feet?”

She looked up at him and rasped through cracked lips, “If I’d a wanted on m’ feet, I’d be on ’em.”

“Fair enough.” Emory crouched on the ground next to her. “Ms. Mary Belle, I need to talk to you about Corey Melton. Do you know who that is?”

“I know who he was.” She looked at him with jaundiced eyes and pointed an arthritic finger at his face. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Emory Rome.” He handed her a business card. “I’m an investigator. You said you knew who Mr. Melton was. Why did you say that?”

The old woman buried Emory’s card into one of the oversized pockets of her brown tattered cloak. “I ain’t ne’er forgit a name or face.”

“No, why did you use the past tense?”

Ms. Mary Belle’s lips curled toward her withered cheeks. “I know why you’re here.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re askin’ ’bout a feller I knew but for one reason. The curse musta met its intention.”

Emory clenched his jaw. Here we go. “Curse?”

“The thief stole m’ prop’ty! So I hexed ’im. Hexed ’im good.”

Yep, she’s crazy. 

Ms. Mary Belle laughed so hard, the root fell from her mouth. “When God closes a door, Death opens a window.” 

“When did you last see him?”

“Ne’er did. Coward wrote me a letter! Sheriff done his dirty work. Cursed ’im too.” Her last statement added a proud glimmer to her eyes. “He still wit’ us?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, give it time. Give it time. Oh me…” Without warning, a flash flood of tears washed away Ms. Mary Belle’s self-satisfaction. 

Emory placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“That prop’ty’s been my family’s for gen’rations. From when I came ta ’wareness as a girl, I knowed I was gonna die there.” She looked over his shoulder as if she could see her erstwhile land from where she sat. “Summer’s always m’ fav’rite. Dancin’ ina black willer seeds that’re floatin’ ina wind. Cooling off ina crick. Course, ’tweren’t deep enough ta swim in, but it’s fun all a same. Ne’er did learn ta swim. And the taste o’ the sassafras trees.” Her tongue poked through her gummy smile to lick her crackled lips. “You e’er had a place like that?”

Emory shrugged. “I can’t say I have.”

Ms. Mary Belle wiped her eyes and focused them on Emory. “So you fixin’ ta ’rest me?”

“What? No, I’m not going to arrest you.”

“Takin’ pity ona ol’ woman.” She patted the back of his hand. “You’re a good young’un.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you he’p me get m’ prop’ty back?”

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Sweet sassafras, you an inves’gator! Inves’gate how ta git back what’s mine.”

“I’m sorry.” Emory shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“I got money. I can pay.”

“It’s not that. It’s just too late to do anything about it now. It’s out of our hands.”

“Our?” The old woman’s pitiable fragility evaporated, leaving behind a desiccated grimace of anger. “You workin’ wit’ ’em! You all in cahoots!”

“No, I meant there’s nothing you or I could do.”

“Stealin’ what’s mine!” Ms. Mary Belle clawed at the back of his hand, drawing blood. As Emory recoiled from her, she sucked the tiny bits of his skin from her fingertips and then spit in his face. “I curse you! No moment’s peace ’til your reckonin’, whena cold handa death’ll come a beckonin’!”

Emory jumped to his feet and backed away, almost tripping. He wiped the spit from his face and glared at her in disbelief.

Ms. Mary Belle screamed, “Git out!” followed by incomprehensible words.

Emory could feel his arm hair shrieking to attention as he retreated to his car.

 

About the Author

Mikel J. Wilson

Award-winning mystery author Mikel J. Wilson draws on his Southern roots
for the international bestselling Mourning Dove Mysteries, a series of
novels featuring bizarre murders in the Smoky Mountains region of Tennessee.
Wilson adheres to a “no guns or knives” policy for the
instigating murders in the series.

 

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The Illustrated Boatman’s Daughter Tour

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The Illustrated Boatman's Daughter cover

 “The Navigators” series of historical adventures

Historical fiction, young adult fiction

 Date Published: October 27, 2020

Publisher: Empire Studies Press

 

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An Egyptian girl fights amid intrigue and corruption for the completion of
the world’s greatest man-made waterway.

Recent events have placed the Suez Canal in the global spotlight. One of
the world’s most vital waterways, the Canal was originally hailed as a link
between civilizations, between Western science and Eastern mystery.
This adventure is set against the epic creation of the Canal.

Heroes coming of age… and changing history.

 

“Tom Durwood is the real thing.”

— Joe Weber, Honorable Enemies, Rules of Engagement

 

The Illustrated Boatman's Daughter tablet

 

E X C E R P T   F R O M 

The Boatman’s Daughter

 

“Tom Durwood is the real thing.”  Joe Weber, Primary Target

map

“There is in Egypt the most important isthmus the world,

that separating its great seas, the Ocean and the Mediterranean:

a place that cannot be avoided without circling all the sinuosities of Africa;

the connecting point, the obstacle, the key,

the only possible door between two areas of the world …”

 

— Gottfried von Liebnitz, in a 1672 letter to Louis XIV

urging France to send an army to Egypt

 

Copyright @ 2020 Tom Durwood. Registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. All rights reserved.

girl with book

Prologue

 

Egypt, at that moment, was the theatre in which Europe 

played out its fears, its rivalries, its dreams.

 

— Saul Dubinksy, A Brief History of the Navigators

 

“I have it in hand,” the Boatman’s daughter, Salima, said. 

“I have the tuition. I can pay for it myself.”

Her father, the burly widower Yaffit, hesitated, one foot on the barge, one foot on the docks. 

“How much is it again, Salima?”

“Twenty-five piastras each month,” answered his only daughter, Salima, age sixteen. “And I already have the first three months’ tuition from my savings …”

Ma’at, the first mate, tugged on the luffing mainsail of the Saa, as patient as a young sailor on a loaded barge can be. The fleet of barges was all stacked and yawing, ready to sail, ready to begin tacking upriver – south, that is — for the all-day journey. The tides and wind favored them – for the moment – and all who sail the Nile know that the river’s favor is a fleeting thing.  

“It’s a good school,” the girl reminded her father. “A Frenchwoman runs it. And Isbaza is the safest of neighborhoods. Goma’s grandfather lives practically next door.”

The collie at her side barked, as though expecting an answer. 

“You take her side, do you?” said Yaffit to the collie. 

The lead barge strained at the ropes constraining it, desperate to swerve out into the river’s channels. The Tunisian pulled the boat back, tugging hard on the ropes which anchored her to Yaffit’s docks. 

“Can’t we decide when I get back –?” Yaffit stroked his beard.

“No,” replied Salima.

A pelican dove into the waters just beyond the dock, and emerged with a wriggling fish.  

“Thoth was smiling last night. That must have been a sign,” said the Boatman. 

“All right,” he concluded. “I suppose it is for the best — ”

“Thank you,” said Salima. She hugged her father.

“Are both the donkeys tied down? If one of them gets even a little loose — ” 

“Yes. Double hitches,” said Salima, and with that Yaffit jumped. 

The lanky, mostly silent Tunisian let go the line, and the sails of the well-laden Saa caught the wind. The little barge sailed prettily into the channels of the Nile, followed close by the other five boats. 

The pelican hovered, looking for more. 

people in the dark 

 

CHAPTER ONE: Salima

 

Truth may walk through the world unarmed.

 

– Bedouin proverb

 

Forty miles to the west, in the soft light of pre-dawn, on the benches of the swept-clean stone coutyard, on the bluff above the world’s great river, they waited. 

The people of the Nile sat quiet and polite in the gloaming. Soft, muffled sounds could be heard, of babies shifting in their wraps, and camels chewing, goats shaking off dreams of green grass under blue skies. 

They awaited the Boatman’s Daughter. 

The flag had gone up the night before: barges will run tomorrow. 

Slight breezes, always present so near the water, fluttered the flag above the stone oval courtyard.  

The six barges of the Boatman Yaffit would make their way up the Nile, twenty leagues, to the great cotton farms, carrying the men and women of Egypt’s working classes and their various goods.     

Yaffit piloted a safe transport. He kept his boats clean and well-fitted, his lines tight; every night Ma’at inspected each of the six. The lead barge, The Dolphin, was well-known on both shores for its nimble tacking and sleek profile among the slow, bulky flatboats freighting cotton to Alexandria. Yaffit knew the river. He knew the winds, and skies, and stars. His rates were fair and even, throughout the seasons. His crews worked without complaint and his daughter, Salima, kept the barges’ operations orderly. Other transports crammed as much cargo as they could pile onto the vessels, and the devil take all those whose grip failed: not Yaffit. Fair Salima made sure each passenger had a seat, and each donkey a stall. She was kind to all in this world, merchant or fedayeen or pharoah or beast, and her generosity of spirit attracted her clients like a light. 

With a rustle and the metal rattle of a key in a lock, the Boatman’s Daughter emerged unannounced into the courtyard, the black-and-white border collie trotting watchfully beside her. She wore a plain tunic, embroidered in crimsons and blue around the neckline. The necklace which had belonged to her departed mother accentuated her movements with a soft clacking. The unruly crown of chestnut hair was held barely in place with two combs.          

The Tunisian moved behind her.  

She did not walk directly to the table at the head of the oval, under the canopies, by the door, but instead carried a tray of fruits around the patio’s perimeter, to offer to the women and children who had waited all night to be in line, to reserve a space on Yaffit’s barges. The men would not take any. The women and children stood as she came among them, and bowed. She ignored their bows and asked about their families and their livestock, and their fortunes during the week. She knew most of them, and she introduced herself to those she did   not know.        

She sat at the table. 

She opened her ledgers by the light of the torches the Tunisian had lit. 

She smoothed the pages, and arranged her stamps and ink and piles of papers. 

She raised her face to the first in line. Seen very close, Salima’s eyes were not that unusual. It was when you pulled back, just a little, and saw them in the context of her face, that they became so striking. Her features were dark and exotic, like her father’s, and the color of her eyes a brilliant blue, like her mother’s, and the results were a striking combination of French and Bedouin. She had inherited her high cheekbones and the slight almond shape of her eyes from her Arabian father, who drank to excess, yet adored her. The freckles across her nose and her thick eyelashes came from her French mother.

“Hullo, Wagoner.”

“My father sent word,” he said. “The English thrasher struck his largest cart. He needs these.” She saw stacked high behind him, attended by burly fedayeen, eight giant wooden wheels.

“Five is all we can carry, Wagoner. They are too heavy.”

“I know. I promised him I would ask you.”

“Hassan can bring a sixth with him on Friday. Your father delivers Mondays, does he not?”

“Yes.” 

“All right. Friday morning? Will that do?” 

“Yes,” said the young wagoner, relieved.  

“They will dock Friday, by noon. Be sure you mind the signals.”

She drew a wheel symbol and the numeral 5 and circled it in the middle of her chart of the first boat. The heavy wheels would be placed just by the barge’s centerboard, where they would stabilize the vessel. She made a notation for three extra coils of the heavy rope. 

She stamped a bill of lading and gave it to the young wagoner. He studied it in the flickering light. The wagoner carefully opened his pouch and counted out the gold coins. She counted them, made a notation in the ledger, and lay the coins in the box at her feet. The Tunisian stood sentry.

Next were two messangers with their pouches, from the banks of Alexandria, and then a toolmaker, who was the neighbor of her cousin. Two small girls gave her a box of excellent iron nails which their father had found, along with an illustrated book of legends from Paris, France, and a curved seashell they could not identify. She bowed and thanked them, and gave each two figs.  

A boy her own age, a tall European, stepped forward. His mop of blond hair seemed to glow in the dim light. 

U opnieuw, Mikal?” she asked.

“Yes,” Mikal smiled. “Me again.” 

They both laughed. The women nearby murmured; the Tunisian shifted his feet.

“No courier today? No pouches?”

“Just this.”

The young Dutchman lay a small envelope on the table. She picked it up. It was linen, with the seal of the shipping agents, Mickler Sykes, on it. She turned it over and ran her finger along the raised wax. 

“What is it?” she asked, hefting the envelope.

“It’s an invitation,” answered the young Dutchman. “See that you attend.” 

He bowed. She looked after him as he made his way back up the hill, to Cairo proper.

“A long way to come just to mail a letter,” said on of the women.

By the time the sun was ready to rise, she had charted almost enough cargo to fill her father’s barges. Only a half-dozen clients remained.  

“We are too full to take these now,” said Salima to the next in line, a burly young Afar tribesman, who escorted a stack of long wooden boxes. Two companions stood beside them. “Come earlier next time.” 

“What do you mean, ‘too full’?” he demanded.

“I am not speaking in code, friend,” said Salima. “Take them to the bargeman, Chavi, across the way. He can ferry you. We don’t take guns.” She nodded towards the stacked boxes with the French markings. 

“We have heard that your rival transports are all inferior to yours.”

She motioned for the next in line. “Those Martini Henrys are good rifles,” she said. “But you may find yourself stuck loading the breech. The American rifles don’t stop firing.” She raised one eyebrow. 

“I can make a separate arrangement,” said the Afar. “Is there a male I could see, daughter? Your uncle? Your father, perhaps?”

“Step out, friend. Come back another day. With another cargo.” 

Fury flushed the tribesman’s features. His shoulders tensed and he reached for his waistband.

She did the same, half-standing –   

The dog growled and started. 

The Tunisian stepped between the two. 

“A thousand pardons.” The Afar bowed and laughed nervously. “It’s a friendly dispute.” He stepped out of line and retreated, with his boxes and his grumbling companions.  

When all the clients had been met, and entries made, and all their cargoes charted, Salima glanced across the courtyard. 

There in the street just outside the stone patio, the taxman sat in his cart. With his mule and stone wheel, he was knife-sharpener as well as tax collector.   

“Ah,” said the taxman. “Another profitable day at the barges.”

“Hullo effendiyah,” said Salima.

The taxman always watched in silence, standing at his cart, in the road. He pressed a blade edge to the grindstone and spun the wheel. Sparks emerged. 

“How goes the Caliph’s canal?” she asked. “Do his gold-plated shovels dig deep?”

“Indeed,” answered the tax collector, for they had made this exchange more than once. “He spends his people’s money wisely.”  

“Good, for it is most dear,” she replied.  

The taxman sharpened blades while she completed her tallies. Sparks streamed from his stone wheel in slim spools of living light, rising and falling in the pre-dawn shadows.  The Tunisian walked over and handed him the envelope. It was a tariff on merchants, a tariff which had gone up four times since the great canal had begun. 

The taxman gave a soft whistle. 

He looked up. 

The Boatman’s Daughter was gone, disappeared in the dawn light.

There was much to do. 

The barges were coming.

suez & upper nile

CHAPTER 2: The Dolphin

 

The young sculptor drew up plans for a towering statue

of a female fellah. She would be draped in the robes

worn by Egyptian peasants … she would carry a torch, and

her name would be Egypt Bringing Light to Asia.

 

— Zachary Karabell, Parting the Desert

 

The six barges approached the docks and tied up amid a flurry of fluttering sails and swinging booms and laughing embraces. I say barge, but you may think of it as a large and broad-beamed felucca, a flat-surfaced open sailboat, of the kind that commonly transports goods and passengers on the river. 

Salima hugged her father, who would not let her go. She greeted each crewman warmly, by name and endearment, and she told them each news of their families.

Salima had designed a system of ropes and stalls for unloading The Dolphin, her father’s lead barge, and the six smaller barges. Once each boat was docked and secure, the mainsails came down and the live cargo came off. Each pig and camel and goat moving through the wooden chutes and roped shunts to the owners’ stalls on the dockside. Nervous lambs squealed and chickens clucked, unfamiliar as they were with the concept of riding on a boat on water and docking at a wharf. The collie let each beast know when to sit still, when to move, and where, and how fast. A set of lanes led to a path up the incline. At the top of the incline stood the open barn, its one wall already partially raised. 

The camels loped and looked on, unperturbed. 

Sturdy cranes (some assembled with oars and driftwood) swung from their stations over each barge and lifted the heavy cargo from above. The Boatman’s clients lined up in their assigned stalls with their wheelbarrows and carts, waited to sign their bills of lading, and then loaded their goods, and were so checked off Salima’s master ledger.  Within an hour all six barges were clear; happy clients trotted off with their intact cargo. The Tunisian was cleaning the decks. The blind man, usually drunken, earned dinner by mending the sails. 

Tides wait for no man, woman, beast or boat. 

 

* * * 

 

“The English want to hire us,” announced her father at dinner. 

“Huh,” commented Ma’at.

“Last year it was the Germans,” replied Salima, unimpressed. 

“No. They want to lease our boats. Ten thousand piastras to carry their metal for a month.”

This remarkable comment produced silence around the table.  

“What, and give up all our other business?” asked Ma’at. 

“Yes. And they want you as part of the contract,” added the Boatman, speaking to Salima.

“So would I!” exclaimed Gahji. He looked around, embarrassed as his own frankness. “Sorry! Sorry. I only meant –

“We know what you meant,” laughed Ma’at. 

“We could rebuild the boathouse,” said Yaffit. “Double the size! We could expand the docks. Why with that much, we could — ”

“We’re using the money for my schooling!” said Salima.

Yaffit doled out a new helping of stew. He said nothing. Ma’at glanced up.

“You promised!”

“This school, what will you learn? And it’s all the way in Isbaza! How can I protect you — ” 

“You can’t stop me. I’m almost sixteen! I can’t believe this!” 

“Salima — ” 

“Why don’t you just operate the barges without me!”

“Now you know I can’t — ”

“I’ve never been away from this place. It’s like a prison. I’ve never been anywhere.”

“That’s not true. You’ve been to Alexandria — ” 

“When I was three!”

“I’ve taken you upriver — ”

“I’ve never had friends — ” 

“You have us — ” 

All the bargemen looked up hopefully.

“It’s not the same! I mean friends my own age! Girls like me!”

“There are none like you,” said Gahji. 

“You seem pretty friendly with that Dutch boy — ” said Ma’at.

“Maybe I’ll marry him! At least I’ll see some sliver, some particle of the outside world, and go to a school and learn something — ”

Yaffit stroked his beard worriedly

“I bring you all those books. They’re from Sweden. One is from Cathay – you said so yourself — ”

“It’s not the same! I need a teacher! I need a life!”

“This life is not so bad!” 

“It’s terrible. This is just stupid — ”

She stormed out. The collie scrambled to follow. 

excavating pyrimid

CHAPTER 3: Under the Stars


When you sleep in a house your thoughts are as high as the ceiling.

When you sleep outside, they are as high as the stars.

 

Bedouin Proverb

 

In her chambers – part bedroom, part library, part observatory — on the top-most floor of the compound, Salima had spread out the newspapers her father had brought back.

She sniffed Fadil, who was gnawing happily at the leg bone (a gift from one of the women who do their laundry at the docks).

“You need a bath.”

The two locked eyes. The dog tensed, ready to bolt.

The moment passed.

“He’ll never change,” declared the girl. “He keeps saying he’ll let me go to school, but he never means it.” She turned a page. “Let’s run away,” she suggested to the collie. 

“Where could we go?”    

The dog ignored her question and switched the bone to the other side of his mouth. 

“My mother had a cousin. In France. I still have a postcard from him.” 

She spun the globe and stopped it with her finger on France, near Alsace. She spun it again and stopped it again. “Mongolia. Maybe we could go there.” 

“What’s that?” she asked the collie. “That will take money, you say?” 

She walked to a high shelf and fished around behind the books and maps and scrolls and assorted river objects until she found a canister. “I have saved money of my own. And not for any dowry.” 

She showed the dog how much was there.   

The dog looked up from his bone, only for a moment.

 “With fifty piastras, I can go to the French school. I could still do the early morning loadings, and I could hire Ma’at’s sister to do the disembark. With a hundred piastras, I could spend a month with my uncle, in Alexandria. With two hundred, I could visit Paris. Meet my mother’s family. My cousins.” She finished counting.    

“Twenty-two. It won’t be long now, Fadil.” 

The dog dropped the bone on the bed to get a different grip on it. In doing so, he nudged an item in the sprawling collection towards Salima. It was the invitation from the young Dutchman.    

She opened the envelope and a card fell out. It read as follows: 

 

AN INVITATION

The Pasha Seeks Native-Born Female Shipping Agents  

On His Behalf Mickler Sykes Will Administer a Test

9:00 Thursday 

At the Offices of Our Firm 

Thirty-three Mokattam Street, Municipal Square, The Citadel, Cairo 

Cash Award for Taking the Test: Two Hundred Piastras

 

“Thursday,” she exclaimed. “That’s tomorrow!”

The dog returned her gaze. He sat on the bed and panted, seeming to approve.   

envelope 

 

About the Author

TOM DURWOOD

TOM DURWOOD is editor of Empire Studies Magazine, an open-access journal
posting over fifty scholarly features. He taught most recently at Valley
Forge Military College, where he won five Teacher of the Year awards.

He is the author of Teddy’s Tantrum: John D. Weaver and the Exoneration of
the 25th Infantry.  His book Kid Lit: An Introduction to Literary
Theory has earned favorable early reviews.  “My favorite nonfiction
book of the year,” writes The Literary Apothecary (Goodreads).

 

Foreword Author’s Bio 

Fatima Sharafeddine is a writer and translator for children and young
adults, winner of several awards and honor lists, among which the Etisalat
Award for the best YA book of the year 2017 for “Cappuccino”, (Al-Saqi
publishers), and the Bologna Ragazzi New Horizons Award for her book “Tongue
Twisters” (Kalimat publishers). Her YA novel “Mila’s Pear” was 3shortlisted
for the Etisalat Award 2019, and she was nominated 5 times for the Astrid
Lindgren Memorial Award, the last nomination being in 2020. She has written
over 140 books.

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The Girls of Cemetery Road Blitz

 

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Ghosts of the Big Thicket, Book Two

 

Southern Gothic, Mystery, Paranormal Women’s Fiction

Publisher: Zimbell House Publishing

There was something very dark about Kitrina Katim’s part of the Big Thicket. It had taken Libby, one of Kit’s best friends, in the dark of night when Kit was just a girl. Kit couldn’t imagine leaving her life and he best friends, the Sisterhood of Cemetery Road. But leave them, she did. And she did not return until ten years later when she was forced back to sell her parent’s house.

Nothing had changed, including Mad Maddie McPhearson, who lived down the road, always sitting on her front porch, always trying to make Kit’s life miserable. Miss Maddie, an angry elderly woman, owned Bellewood, an old Plantation house that was crumbling around her. Kit’s attemps at kindsness only fed the old woman’s hatred. But Kit didn’t understand why. Not then anyway.

It was that hatred that awakened dark voices in the thicket and threatening figures that terrified Kit. Was it Libby? Had she come back to them? Or was it something else, something horrifyingly familiar?

Would it be the Sisterhood, or handsome Colton or his brother Jackson, who would come to Kit’s aid when the time came to do battle with the dark forces that were slowly overtaking the Big Thicket?

Other Books in the Ghosts of the Big Thicket series:

 

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The House on Camp Ruby Road

 

Ghosts of the Big Thicket, Book One

Publisher: Zimbell House Publishing

The House on Camp Ruby Road is the story of three generations of women living in the Big thicket of deep East Texas. It is a mystical place where Eden Devereaux, a college student in the early 1060s, is drawn into a haunting world full of damaged and grotesques people, reminiscent of Southern Gothic literature. After inheriting a crumbling southern homeplace in the Big Thicket upon the death of her mother, Eden must find out why she is entitled to it. But more importantly, who wants to make sure she doesn’t inherit it, and why.

The story weaves around three women; our heroine, who is searching for answers to a childhood dream; an elderly black woman who is living in the house and who holds the key to the mystery of the dream; and a young girl from the river bottom people, fleeing an unbearable life. They form an unlikely bond through adversity. Eden is aided in her search by handsome Jeff Callahan, who better understands the strange world in which she finds herself.

Will she be driven away by blood feuds, dark secrets, and ghosts? Or will she take a stand and claim what is hers? Through her true Texas grit and determination, she will find out the truth about who she really is, and who it is she truly loves.

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The Voices at the End of the Road

 

Ghosts of the Big Thicket, Book Two

Coming July 2021!

The Girls of Cemetery Road paperback


About the Author

Twyla Ellis

Twyla Ellis is a descendent of pioneers who came to Texas in the 1840s, while Texas was still a Republic. She grew up roaming the dense pine forest in the Big Thicket around Livingston, Texas, at the home of her grandmother, great-aunts and uncles, and cousins. Her family was one of the founding families of Livingston, and her great-great-great grandfather was the first city treasurer in the 1840s. She fell in love with the haunting feel of the Thicket; its sounds and sights and smells. Her goal is to make people aware of the mystique and uniqueness of this novel part of Texas, one of only four rainforests in the U.S.

She holds a degree from Howard Payne University and has taught English and Music, and has been a member of NEA, TSTA, and TETA. She was a statewide officer and conference speaker with TETA (Texas English Teachers Association).

She has run her own children’s party and event planning business as well as Remembrances Antiques and Gifts in the Houston area. She is certified in computer graphic design and free-lances in her spare time.

Nothing makes her happier than road trips with her family to interesting old Texas towns. She loves church, antiquing, fossil hunting with her husband and sons (they hunt, she writes), Big Bend, the Alamo (Don’t all Texans?), exploring deserted buildings with a camera, and especially, the Big Thicket of deep East Texas.

If she had to give you a one-sentence bio of herself, she would probably say, “That obnoxiously joyful, hug driven, southern relative that you’d like to hide in the attic, just might be me.”

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