Book Blitz! Excerpt & Giveaway: The Divide (Dreamland #2) by E.J. Mellow

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Molly finally uncovers the truth about the strange dreams that plagued her sanity for weeks. Now destined to accept a clandestine role, Molly must find the strength and courage buried deep to push forward and succeed.

With the help of Dev, the roguish blue-eyed man of her dreams—whose dark past resurfaces to haunt him—Molly prepares to test the limits of her newly awakened powers and set right a world on the edge of being consumed by nightmares.

But when an unknown shadow stalks her every step and a shocking revelation about her ancestry comes to light, Molly may find herself forced to make a decision that could leave her alone in the dark and standing on the wrong side of a divide.

Don’t miss The Divide—the heart-thumping second installment in The Dreamland Series.

Clapping echoes in the room, and I glance up to find Dev casually leaning against the wall next to the door. His eyes are narrowed with appraisal, and his mouth is half-cocked in his signature amused smile. “Impressive,” he says as he pushes off the wall and slowly walks toward us. His sudden appearance and graceful saunter rock me out of my fighting mind-set. I take in his broad shoulders and the way his shirt hugs him like a jealous girlfriend. 

Letting go of Rae, I tuck strands of hair that fell from my ponytail behind my ear, suddenly aware of how sweaty I am. 

“Thanks.”

“I’d like to see what you could do against a real opponent,” he says with a smirk, crossing his arms. The stance calls attention to his biceps, the same ones I once found myself mortifyingly squeezing. 

I leer at him. “And I’m sure you think you’re said opponent?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” 

Rae fluidly stands from his fall and drapes an arm around me. “Molly here is a natural.” 

I snort out a laugh. “And I’m sure retaining past Dreamers’ abilities has nothing to do with it.” 

“Don’t be so modest.” He squeezes my shoulder. 

“Have you practiced with any weapons yet?” Dev moves toward an empty wall in the center of the room. Placing a hand on it, the area drops out, revealing a rack of diverse armament. There’s an abundance of blades, and my eyes pause on two hook swords, knowing how they feel in my grip, before traveling on to the axes, clubs, daggers, unusual looking guns, and blunt staffs. Here is where Dev stands, taking out two Bō—a Japanese long staff weapon. Somehow I know all the names and uses of these objects, except for some of the guns. Those remain foreign.

The only difference with these weapons and the ones I’d find at home is the material in which they are made—the same strange gunmetal aluminum as the Arcus. And if my memories from past Dreamers are anything to go by, they can be filled with an altered form of Navitas, making them glow the hot blue-white, and lethal toward any opponent. 

“I was saving that part of the training for later,” Rae explains soberly. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dev asks, handling the Bō naturally as he walks back to us. “She seems to have grasped her hand-to-hand combat for today. Why not finish with a little sparring?”

“See what I mean about the tough teacher,” Rae mutters to me. 

“What do you say, Molly? Care to give me a go?” Dev taunts, holding one Bō while twirling the other. 

I narrow my eyes and extend a hand. “I know I won’t hear the end of it until I do.” 

He gives me one of his sexy grins while throwing me the staff. I snatch it from the air, immediately knowing I’ve been trained in the art of bōjutus.

I smile back. 

Oh, it’s on.

As if reading my thoughts and without any further warning, Dev sweeps toward me. His intense blue eyes are the last things I register before my mind switches off and I lunge back.

I'm the author behind the NA Contemporary Fantasy trilogy The Dreamland Series. When I'm not busy moonlighting in the realm of make-believe, I can be found doodling, buried in a book (usually this one), or playing video games. 

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In The Spotlight! Excerpt & Guest Post: Going Against Type by Sharon Black

Some would say Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Regan has it all. Beautiful, smart, athletic, and a great job working as a journalist – in the almost exclusively male sports department. But Charlotte is not quite so sure as she seem. Recently split from her overbearing boyfriend, she escapes for weekends surfing in the Atlantic, and spends her free nights watching sports, roaring at the TV.

Derry Cullinane is a fashion writer, gossip columnist, and sophisticated man-about-town – The go-to guy for any woman seeking expert advice on what fabulous outfit to wear for any given occasion. He’s also tall, dark, good looking . . . and straight! So what’s the snag? He has a track record of dating glamorous, vain, and shallow women.

Charlie gets an opportunity to write a new column under the pen name Side Swipe, but soon is drawn into a war of words and wit with a rival paper’s columnist, The Squire, and their verbal fireworks get readers and editors talking. Yet neither Charlie nor Derry knows just who the opponent is.

When Charlotte and Derry meet at the Races, the attraction is instant. As their relationship develops, so much more proves at stake than protecting their alter egos. But a blunder puts Charlotte’s job in jeopardy just as Derry’s past makes front page, and Charlotte begins to doubt her feelings. When Side Swipe and The Squire are finally forced to reveal themselves, will they revert to type – or confound everyone’s expectations?

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‘So, did you not enjoy the date?’

Charlotte sighed. 

‘Oh Helen, don’t get me wrong, he’s the perfect gentleman. You know, thoughtful and entertaining and completely relaxed with everyone. It was like Grand Central Station during the interval, but he also knew the director so we were invited back to the Green Room after the show. And I was completely out of my depth. 

Helen sipped her coffee.

‘You’re a big girl. Stop looking for problems. Was he flirting with other women?’

‘Other way around: they were flirting for Ireland. But some were definitely ex-girlfriends!’ She groaned. ‘I think the worst moment of the night, was when one of them asked me what was the last play I saw?’

‘What?’

‘You remember last Christmas when I took Anna and Daniel to Jack and the Beanstalk!’

Helen’s eyes lit up.

‘Did you tell her that?’

‘I figured, what the hell, be truthful.’

Helen giggled.

‘You know what it reminds me of? That scene from Pretty Woman, where Richard Gere brings Julia Roberts to the opera and the old lady asks her if she enjoyed it, and Julia Roberts says, ‘It was so good I almost peed my pants…’ Helen stopped as she caught the expression on Charlotte’s face. ‘Probably not the best example.’

‘Probably not,’ Charlotte agreed, then ruined the effect when she giggled too.

Hi Mikky, 

I’m so thrilled to be here today. I’d like to tell you and your readers a little about myself and my inspiration for my debut novel. 

I’m from Dublin, and except for some summer jobs abroad back in my student days, I never left! I took history and politics at college, and then did a postgraduate in journalism. That was during the 80s, when so many students like me were being told to stay in college for as long as possible, because there were no jobs in Ireland. A lot of my friends emigrated, at least for a number of years. 

I was a bit luckier. I managed to get work with a local Dublin paper first, and then I started working for a national newspaper. I married a fellow journalist (who worked for the opposing paper!!) and I took a substantial break from paid work, when my children were small, before returning to freelance work for a while. 

By the time I gathered my courage to write a novel, I knew I had to write about something I knew. 

Going Against Type is a romantic comedy, set in the world of Dublin-based national newspapers. It’s the story of rival newspaper columnists, who write under pen names, and unknowingly fall in love with their arch enemy: each other! They each have good reason to protect their alter egos. So their relationship develops, each blissfully unaware of whom the other is. Until they are forced to reveal themselves....

I always loved romantic comedies, and they are still my comfort read. I like them to be sharp and witty, and so I tried to write mine that way also. 

My inspiration was the 1940s Hollywood film, Woman of the Year, with Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracey. I’d be a big fan of both. Hepburn plays a high brow pundit, who rubbishes sport in one of her columns. Tracey is a sports columnist who leaps to defend his beloved sport and in turn, attacks Hepburn’s views, and the fun begins. In the film, they meet quite quickly and despite knowing who the other person is, they fall in love. 

In Going Against Type, I did something a little different. My heroine, Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Regan is the sports buff. At the beginning of the story, she is given a chance to write the new, anonymous sports column, Side Swipe. 

My hero, Derry Cullinane is a fashion writer and gossip columnist, The Squire for the rival paper. He’s sophisticated, man-about-town and a bit of a playboy. They fall in love, and that’s where the fun begins. 

The hardest part of the book to write was their columns. I had actually written columns for a short while when I was a journalist, but in the book I had to write two opposing viewpoints. That was difficult. They needed the most rewrites and editing, but it was worth it. 

What I ended up with was a huge contrast between their weekly attacks via their columns, and their real life relationship with each other. And of course it meant there was more at stake. 

I love Charlotte’s character. She’s a feisty, 20-something woman, working in an area still largely dominated by men. I know very little about sport, having never been sporty myself. 

But I admire people who are, and I wanted Charlotte to be very different from me. Because Charlotte’s a journalist, I’d hate to think I was writing bits of me into her. 

A lot of people are surprised that my very manly hero writes about fashion and celebrity gossip. Apart from wanting to shake things up, I wanted to write a strong male character, who is completely comfortable in his own skin, and his fabulous tailor made suits! He is fine with having a female boss and working with so many women. Actually, he likes that a lot! 

It sounds like a terrible cliché, but writing this book was a huge learning experience. I had written short stories down the years, and had some of them published. I’d started so many novels, but had never finished them. 

I think I knew the time was right. And I knew I had a good story. It made me determined. I became an author and I’m so grateful for that. And I’m proud of my debut.

Author Sharon Black grew up in Dublin. She studied history and politics at University College Dublin and then did post-graduate in journalism at Dublin City University.

She has worked for national newspapers, including The Evening Herald and The Irish Examiner.

She had short stories published in U Magazine and won the 2010 Dromineer Literary Festival short story competition. When she is not writing, she reads, walks and sees friends. She co-founded a local book club 14 years ago. She loves theatre, old Hollywood films, science fiction and good stand-up comedy.

Sharon lives in a Dublin coastal village, with her husband and their three children.

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Book Blitz! Excerpt, Guest Post & Giveaway! Canvas Bound, Captive Art #1 by Laura M. Kolar

Sixteen-year-old Libby Tanner’s art comes to life. Her painted skies turn from day to night, leaves rustle on trees, and sometimes, a mystery boy appears.

While attending England’s Aldridge Art Academy, Libby meets charming Brent Henderson, a performing arts student who showers her with attention. But his rival, gorgeous Dean James, is the one who occupies her mind, even though he’s very much attached to his current girlfriend.

Libby soon learns there’s more to both Brent and Dean than she ever imagined. In order to save her future and the boy who’s captured her heart, she must unlock the secrets behind her art by entering the most dangerous place of all… the world within her paintings.

But once she steps into the canvas, she risks being trapped forever.

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CHAPTER ONE

I paced my studio floor as evening descended on the field in my painting. The sparse oak trees cast lengthening shadows on the acorn-littered ground, where the grass was more golden brown than green. The sunny sky became a star-filled night, and the field turned murky as the shadows faded into the black oblivion... just like my mystery boy.

He’d vanished.
Again.
So did the rush of him appearing in my finished work, my joy squelched by the

expression on his face. Usually he wore a smile—a sad one, but still a smile. That night, he’d just looked miserable.

I stopped pacing and stared at the canvas, reaching out to the spot where I’d last seen him. Maybe if I could touch him or knew where he went when he disappeared, I wouldn’t feel so hollow from his absence.

An icy trail ran down my arm a moment before my fingers grazed the wet paint. I pulled away, checking to make sure I hadn’t smeared the field. It was the first time he’d appeared since I’d arrived at Aldridge, and I didn’t want to ruin whatever connection I had to him. My hands shook as I picked at my nails, which were coated in splatters of color from painting all day. A glimpse of him, sad or not, had been enough to keep me working, hoping to see him again. I’d picked my fingers mostly clean when a knock came from the door to the adjoining room.

Please go away.

The knock came again, more urgent.

If you’re here, he won’t come back.

He wouldn’t anyway, though. He never came to the same painting twice.

“Libby, if you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down.” Travis sounded more concerned than angry.

I sighed heavily as I dragged myself across my studio and into my bedroom, kicking a path through my discarded clothes to open the door. “This is solid walnut and has a steel lock. You’d only hurt yourself trying to break it down.”

“Hmm... good point.” His eyebrows knitted as he gave me a once-over. “Did you forget, or are you wearing that to dinner?”

I glanced down at my paint-covered T-shirt and jeans. “This is what I always wear to dinner.”

“Right. Surprise, surprise. Olivia Tanner forgot.” He breezed past me, patting my shoulder on his way to my bathroom where my closet and dresser were located. “You’re lucky you have me as your social director,” he said, ducking behind the door.

He wasn’t joking. If not for Travis, I’d probably never leave my private suite. We’d met two weeks ago, on my first day at Aldridge Art Academy. He’d enrolled several months before me and was assigned as my student liaison, a job he took very seriously. We were both from the States and had clicked right away—probably because he was the only person I’d ever met who liked Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall movies as much as I did.

Travis emerged from my bathroom, holding up my red dress. “You’re also lucky you have me as a fashion consultant.”

I hadn’t been paying attention to what he was wearing, but as he stood waving the gossamer fabric between us, I noticed his white shirt, black coat, slacks, and tie. His usually

tousled blond hair was combed neatly, and he wasn’t covered in bits of clay from sculpting all day.

“Oh, crap. I forgot.”

“Yep, we’ve established that.” He thrust the dress at me. “I know you’d rather stay locked in your room like an old maid and sniff paint fumes all night, but trust me, you do not want to miss this.”

I grabbed the dress and glared at him. “I don’t sniff the fumes. My studio is well ventilated. And if you’re telling me I don’t want to miss a fluffy dinner where a bunch of teenage girls ogle over a bunch of teenage boys, sorry. Not for me.”

“See, that is something an old maid would say, and you are a teenage girl.” He shook his finger at me. “Or did you lie about being sixteen?”

“No, I didn’t lie. I’m sixteen going on seventeen, not seventy.”

“Anyway...” He waved me off.. “I hear there’s a fresh batch of cute guys, and you haven’t met any of the performing arts students yet. Most of them are great people.” “Most of them?” I put one hand on my hip, the other still clutching my dress.

“Well, I don’t know all of them. Yet.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But the point is, you have to come out of your studio, and this dinner is mandatory.”

Huffing at him, I flung the dress over my shoulder and stomped into the bathroom. After an impressively fast shower, I pulled my chestnut hair into a bun and fastened it with bobby pins, allowing a few curls to fall around my neck. I stepped into my dress, glad I’d shaved recently, and tugged at the hem. The style reminded me of the famous Marilyn Monroe image, the one with her skirt billowing up around her. Mine had the same plunging neckline and gathered waist.

I’d thought I brought a simple black dress, the one I always wore to gallery showings. But sometime after I’d packed my garment bag, my mom swapped it for this one, with a note that read, “Saw this and thought of you. For a girl who sees the world in such vivid colors, you should dress that way, too. Wish I could see you in it. You always look beautiful in red. Love, Mom.” I sucked in a deep breath, willing away my thoughts of home as I tugged at the hem again.

“You almost done?” Travis called from the other room. “We’re going to be late.”

“I still can’t believe they make us do this.” I applied some foundation, wishing I were painting a canvas instead of my face.

“You mean independent study and no one enforcing a ridiculous curfew isn’t enough freedom for you? Wait. Don’t answer that. If your parents had any idea how loose they actually are with the rules around here, they would yank you out so fast it would make my head spin. Oh, the scandal! Teenagers sneaking in and out of each other’s rooms under the cover of night. Anyway, think of it like an assembly, England’s Emily Aldridge Academy of Arts’ special brand of torture.”

I laughed at his horrible attempt at a British accent as he uttered our prep school’s original name. “I thought you said no cell phones and blocked social media sites were their own special brand of torture?”

“Yes, well, they want us to be free-spirited, just not over the Internet.” He sighed. “At least tonight is better than one of my parents’ stupid dinner parties. I have to pretend to be someone I’m not at those.”

“I’ll let you be whomever you want if you let me skip tonight.” I dabbed my lips with a tissue then picked up my jewelry from the counter. “I’m going to lose several hours of painting time, and I’ll probably be out of the mood when dinner is over.”

“Even you don’t believe that. You’re never out of the mood to paint. But sure, I’ll let you skip tonight. You can skip out the door, down the hall, and all the way to the dining room. Though if your goal is to not draw attention to yourself, I’d suggest walking.”

I didn’t respond as I fumbled with my necklace. The delicate silver chain held a single teardrop-shaped topaz, my birthstone. Eventually, I gave up trying to get it on and opened the bathroom door.

“Whoa!” His sky-blue eyes grew to the size of saucers.
I glanced down at myself. “Too much?”
He stood up from my desk chair and circled around me. “No, but I’m seriously

questioning my sexuality right now.”
I rolled my eyes and dangled the necklace in front of him. “I need help with this.”
“I’m serious, Libby. You’re...” He took the chain and fastened the clasp with ease before

his gaze wandered down to my plunging neckline. “Eyes up here,” I said.

His lips spread in a wide Cheshire cat grin. “Sorry, even I can appreciate a nice rack.” “Well, don’t get used to it.” I smoothed down my skirt.
“I won’t. But this”—he waved his hand at me—“is not the way to avoid attention.” “That’s it.” I gritted my teeth, realizing my rack would soon be on display for the whole

student body. “I’m chang—”

“Oh no, you don’t.” He grabbed my hand. “We’re late, and besides, in my opinion, not even your cleavage beats a well-defined six-pack on Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

“You win.” I pulled my hand from his grasp. “Let’s go.” I slipped on my black heels and made my way to the door. “You coming?”

“Yep, just enjoying the view.” He shut the door to my suite behind us. “Committing it to memory actually. It may never happen again.”I glanced over my shoulder, almost wishing I’d let him try to break down the door. I didn’t want him to get hurt, but I would’ve had more time to paint.

It’s been over a year since I’ve written anything. Sure, I’ve opened a few of my old manuscripts and looked at them, maybe changed a few words here and there. But to add actual word count has been more than a struggle.

Some of you authors out there are gasping right about now. How can she call herself a writer when she doesn’t write? Well, while I may not have added word count, I’ve never stopped thinking about writing or brainstorming story ideas. I just can’t seem to pen words to paper (or type them). Even writing this post has taken me more time than I care to admit.

When I sit down, thinking I have some time to work, I get completely stuck. Not just writer’s block, it’s a major malfunction. Somewhere between my head and my hands there is a disconnect.

It’s to the point where I’ve seriously considered trying to find a ghostwriter. Is that cheating? I should be able to figure out the dialog, or at the very least describe the scenery, but even those things have been elusive.

This past weekend, I participated in a book festival with a bunch of other author’s and I thought to myself, I wonder if any of them have struggled this badly before. Feeling like a failure at something you love to do is probably one of the worst feelings ever. The best comparison I can come up with is that it feels like I’m continually sending rejection letters to myself.

I keep waiting for that breakthrough moment when all my ideas fall together perfectly and the story flows out like a gushing waterfall of words. But how long should I keep waiting? When is the point where you just start typing nonsense and hope that you’ll be able to edit it into a presentable piece of work? I don’t know.

I also don’t know why or how it happened. Maybe I just got too busy with other things. Maybe it’s because I started a new day job. Maybe it’s because my laptop keeps telling me the battery is at the end of its useful life. Most likely it’s a combination of many factors all rolled into one giant jumbled ball of goo, keeping me from my goal of publishing more books.

Though, however long it takes for whatever it is that needs to be straightened out, I’ll be ready. Because there will always be another story to dream up. My imagination isn’t dead. The follow through is just on hiatus for a bit. 

Laura M. Kolar lives with her husband and daughter in a one-stop-light town in northern-lower Michigan. Though she didn't discover her love of books until she turned thirty, as a self-declared hopeless romantic, she has spent the past few years reading and writing stories with mostly happy endings. If not at her day-job or with her family, you will find her sipping a cup of chai latte while sitting in her favorite rocking chair, hunched over her laptop writing or spending entirely too much time on Twitter.

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Excerpt & Giveaway! Where Wishes Go by S.A. McAuley

Can you have a second chance at a first love? 

Nick Paine is just starting to return to normal after he told his wife he’s gay and asked for a divorce. Despite a daughter he loves dearly and a job he believes in, part of him is stuck in the past. He’s never forgotten the first love he let fade away fourteen years ago.

Adam "Izz" Azzi has settled into a happy rhythm. His daughter is healthy, he's found a mosque that accepts him, and his work as a modern artist is gaining international attention. While his past is fraught with mistakes and what-ifs, his life now is good, and he doesn't want to upset any of the balance he's worked so hard to achieve.

When Nick and Izz are reunited by luck and fate, their attraction is just as undeniable, but what was left unsaid haunts them. They have hope for a future together, but wishing may not be enough.

 

CHAPTER ONE

NICK PAINE tried to duck as a gigantic scarlet bird whipped over his head and he began to lose his balance. The first airborne attack was followed a second later by a screech and another swooping red streak that caused him to crouch and fall to his knees. At least he was wearing jeans today instead of a suit.

Katie snorted, let loose a torrent of giggles, and pointed. “He’s not going to hurt you, Daddy.”

“Isn’t it me who’s supposed to be telling you that?” Nick scrunched his eyebrows together and tried to chastise his daughter while also searching the birdhouse for further threats.

Katie rolled her eyes and flipped her long blonde hair off to the side, appearing much older than her eight years. “Come on, Daddy. I’ll protect you.” She offered her hand, and Nick grinned as he stood, taking her tiny hand in his.

It was a Wednesday morning, one in which Nick should have been sitting in a colorless conference room listening to doctors and administrators fight each other over inane operational details, but despite the threat of being pecked to death by tropical birds, Nick didn’t want to be anywhere else.

It was rare he was able to escape from work during the day, and this field trip to the zoo with Katie’s class had been the perfect excuse. The hospital system was always there. It was a twenty-four-hour seven-day-a-week commitment of utter chaos. Nick still wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up as a vice president by the age of thirty-three, but had to concede his success had a lot to do with the inordinate number of hours he spent downtown. His generous salary was meant to compensate him for the endless hours on call talking nurses and cardiologists off the ledge while also making sure all their equipment and staffing needs were met. He loved his job and he was good at it, but it took him away from Katie way too much for his liking.

Nick pushed aside thoughts of the hospital. He would be flooded with e-mails, texts, and voice mail as soon as he switched his cell back on. Instead he listened to Katie patter on about the different kinds of birds that filled the zoo aviary.

“How do you know so much about them?” Nick asked as he forced his complete attention back to her.

Katie shrugged in a gesture that was too much like her carefree Uncle Roban. “I watch the National Geographic channel.”

“That much?”

Katie huffed. “Yeah, Daddy. A lot. Loads and loads.”

Nick restrained a laugh. Where had she come up with that phrase? She was growing up so fast. Much too fast for his liking. The years just kept slipping by, and as hard as his path had been as of late, Nick was grateful for the luck he did have. Katie was a beautiful girl. Tall and thin, just like her momma, she had blonde hair shades lighter than his that ran down to her waist and snarled easily with how fine it was. He’d given up attempting to brush the mats out a year ago, leaving the task to Katie’s grandmother or her nanny.

“Look at the baby geese!” Katie exclaimed, letting go of his hand and running full tilt down the pathway toward the birds. Then just as suddenly she was veering off again, a delighted squeal emanating from her. “A waterfall!”

Nick dug into his pockets as he walked to catch up, knowing what she was going to ask even before she said anything.

“I want to make a wish,” she pleaded, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Nick placed a quarter in her outstretched hand, earning a satisfied smile from her.

She scrunched her eyes tightly closed and whispered something Nick couldn’t hear, then tossed the coin into the water.

“What did you wish for, baby girl?” Nick asked, as was part of their routine.

“Daddy, you know I can’t tell you,” she protested with a pout. “Or else it won’t come true.”

Of course he knew that. Katie wanted to flip a coin into every fountain they encountered. And she always went about it as if her whole existence was placed into making that one wish come true. But she never told Nick what it was that she silently hoped for.

Nick had to wonder if she would remember this later on. If she would remember what she wished years from now, or at the very least remember enough to tell him later whether or not they came true.

Nick looked into her brown eyes—so much like his but with a fire that was all her own—and his breath caught. Yeah, he was just about the luckiest man in the world. She stood on her tiptoes, cupped her hands around his cheeks, and planted a kiss on his lips that left Nick with an ear-to-ear grin that he wouldn’t be able to wipe off for hours to come.

A PLOP of wet plaster slid down Adam’s head, over his neck, and dripped under the collar of his shirt as Miriam’s laughter receded into the next room.

Well, then. He supposed he deserved that.

He’d been leaving Miriam to her own devices for far too long as he worked nearly nonstop to meet his deadline. Left on her own, Miriam would fill her time with the mischievous, surreptitious, and wicked dealings that could only be born of an Azzi. She was quiet like him, shy at first meeting, with the same black hair and chiseled features that stood out despite her age. Also like him, she was a goof when in her comfort zone, and Adam’s loft—even though it was a professional workspace—was one of the places she was most comfortable in. She had unlimited access to paints, pens, pencils, paper… and the plaster she’d just chucked at his head.

Adam picked up a stained rag and swiped the plaster off the back of his neck. “Miriam!”

He turned on his stool, rotating to face the kitchen area where Miriam peeked her head around the corner, hazel eyes wide and innocent. But Adam knew better than to be fooled by her appearance. He crooked a finger and pointed to the spot next to him.

She crawled on hands and knees, her eyes going Disney forest creature in size as she got closer to him, and Adam had to bite back a laugh. When she got to his feet, she sat with her legs crisscrossed, hands on her knees, and waited patiently for him to say something.

She was such a good kid. Wild at times, yes. But he’d been the same when he was her age. Unlike his upbringing, though, he was never going to allow Miriam to fear what kind of punishment she would receive. To others it might have made him seem like a soft father, but Adam had rules that were nonnegotiable and rules he expected her to challenge and break. He was always fair. Consistent. And he never touched her in anger. That alone made her childhood vastly different than his. Adam was going to protect her innocence as long as he possibly could.

“Miriam—” he started.

“Yes, Baba?” she interjected, then bit at her bottom lip.

Adam sighed. Whether it was genetics or environment, she was so like him it scared him some days.

“Why did you throw plaster at my head?” He asked the question in all seriousness, then heard how ridiculous it all sounded, looked at the growing smirk on his daughter’s face, and that was enough to send him into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Adam swooped her off the floor and hugged her to his chest, tickling her ribs. Miriam squirmed and protested, her high-pitched giggle filling the studio.

“I love you, Miri,” he said as he squeezed her tight.

Miriam tucked her head into Adam’s neck and pulled her arms in so Adam had her wrapped securely.

“I love you, Baba.”

Adam’s heart was full almost to bursting. The laughter was enough to give him a second wind. He needed to work. He had to get this sculpture done. But he didn’t want to let his little girl go.

“Finish, then play with me, ’kay?” Miriam offered.

Adam started to tear up. She knew him better than any person in the world. This brilliant, vivacious, too smart for her own good little girl was his best friend. And Adam wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“Yeah, yeah. No more plaster, though,” he chastised her, then kissed the tip of her nose.

Miriam rubbed her nose in protest and squirmed out of his arms, already retreating at full speed. On to another adventure.

Adam sank onto his stool and turned back to his sculpture. Less than three weeks until his next show. And this piece, the focal point of the entire fiasco, had to be done by then. But Adam found himself pushing the work off. He sought inspiration and didn’t find it. He would rather not show it at all than display something that was so… incomplete.

He picked up his brush and studied the form, then put the brush back down. His fifteen-year high school reunion had been last weekend and he’d had no desire to go, but the memories had been inescapable regardless. It was those memories that had led to this piece…. Led to this creative fog he couldn’t force himself out of.

He would eat first. Maybe they’d take a walk. He’d do his afternoon prayers with Miriam, grounding himself in the tradition of his faith. He wasn’t as active in his practice as his mom was, but he still found strength in the words and tenets. In Islam, he found calm, and a connection to his family and to something that was greater than him.

Then, maybe then, his head would be clear enough to see this project to its end.

I sleep little, read a lot. Happiest in a foreign country. Twitchy when not mentally in motion. My name is Sam, not Sammy, definitely not Samantha. I’m a pretty dark/cynical/jaded person, but I hide that darkness well behind my obsession(s) for shiny objects. I’m the macabre wrapped in irresistible bubble wrap and a glittery pink bow, I suppose.

I have a never-ending-abyss-like secret love for poetry. Especially Rumi, Hafiz, and Neruda. You can predict (as well as change) my moods and my writing schedule by my playlists.

Insomnia is my greatest ally and my nemesis. I like cheese and bourbon, not necessarily in that order, but I’m flexible.

If you’re in any fandom, then I’m probably already in love with you. I’m not joking.

I like my tv shows marathoned and I have to use internet blocking software to be productive. I have software called Producteev that I loaded onto my laptop and proceeded to fill out in detail and now I haven’t touched it in a year.

I enjoy normalized chaos. Hit me up! I love to hear from readers. xx-Sam

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