THE EMOTION THESAURUS

Another book in my collection. By Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi, this is so useful when building a character and showing their feelings rather than relying on to much dialogue. There has to be an even balance between dialogue and description and this book shows you how. I recommend it.

Care of Amazon.
One of the biggest problem areas for writers is conveying a character's emotions to the reader in a unique, compelling way. This book comes to the rescue by highlighting 75 emotions and listing the possible body language cues, thoughts, and visceral responses for each. Using its easy-to-navigate list format, readers can draw inspiration from character cues that range in intensity to match any emotional moment. The Emotion Thesaurus also tackles common emotion-related writing problems and provides methods to overcome them. This writing tool encourages writers to show, not tell emotion and is a creative brainstorming resource for any fiction project.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_3_21?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=the+emotion+thesaurus+a+writer%27s+guide+to+character+expression+by+angela+ackerman+and+becca+puglisi&sprefix=the+emotion+thesaurus%2Caps%2C

Kindle - $4.99   Print - $12,35

One Last Cup - Dan Oliver

Another talented writer, Dan Oliver, who posted this, the first half of a short story, on the Writer's Pad of The Story Mint. I think he surprised most of us with an unusual take on war from a small group of men crewing a tank. I will find the second half and publish in a couple of weeks. Dan also writes for the serials and is a regular contributor.

“OK lads, time to head back to base,” said Captain Francome, putting the radio receiver down.

He and his crew were scouting, searching the eastern front for signs of approaching forces. Tension mounted rapidly when they were performing such suicidal duties, so the call to return was like a pressure release valve; especially when the scouting had revealed no enemy activity. It would be unlikely for the German armoured forces to waste time manoeuvring this far north when they had the allies on the run.

“Righto, Cap,” replied the driver, Lieutenant Emmanuel Underhill. “If we head over the next ridge, we can follow the rail line back to base.”

“Good. Carry on.” Francome was eager to join the main forces. Following the rail line would allow them to move faster. Their vehicle, a British Tetrarch tank, was a light armoured vehicle with a capable 12-cylinder engine. It was designed for speed, and had sacrificed armour to stay nimble. He and his crew, which also included a gunner, had been together for only a couple of months, but they were starting to function together as mechanically as the vehicle itself.

The vehicle was due to return to a small reconnaissance base at a train station north of the French town of Maubeuge. The Allies were putting up a big fight at Maubeuge to hold up the German advance. The train station had major rail lines that headed east but then bent around to the south. The concern of the Allied command was that the Germans would follow these rail lines north to surround Maubeuge.

“I guess they were right,” sighed the third crew member, Second Lieutenant Graham McGregory. “Naught pushing north, the Bosch are in a hurry to get to Paris so they’re heading in a straight line.”

Francome reached for his thermos full of hot tea as he replied, “it would have to…” His response was cut off by the tank lurching forward and down. It landed with a jolt on solid ground and the cockpit plunged into silence as the engine cut off.

“Blimey, Manny! Aren’t you watching where you’re going?” intoned McGregory.

“What the bloody hell happened, Manny?” called Francome.

“Sorry, Cap’n, I don’t know,” Underhill was perplexed. “I guess we’ve gone over a lip that I didn’t see. We were less than 20 yards from the rail bridge.”

“Damn it!” Francome knew it wouldn’t be just a simple reconnaissance mission. They never were. “Well, we’d better take a look.”

                                                                             ***********

“Track’s off,” muttered Underhill. As a tank driver, he was also an on-board engineer and had been chosen as a driver for his technical prowess. “Easy fix, but I think one of the axel’s a little bent.”

The tank had careened over a sheer drop. It was only 12 feet but enough to cause damage. They were travelling at full speed and landed in dense scrub beneath the rail bridge.

“What’s that mean, Manny?” asked McGregory.

“Just need time to remount it, but we’ll only be able to hobble along at about sixty per cent of our top speed, say around twenty two miles per hour.”

The Tetrarch was a squat tank with four distinct sets of track wheels. The turret sat high on the tank, but it was mounted with a 40mm gun that could shoot rounds very quickly. The sleek metal body sat stranded like a beached whale in the gully.

“I’ll have to radio our position to base,” said Francome. “Manny, get on with repairs. I don’t want to linger here, especially if we can’t move very fast.”

"Aye, Cap."

“Greggy, I need you to try and cover any tracks that are out in the open, and then get up on that bridge to keep a watch.”

“Sir!”

The two crew members jumped to action. It was Francome’s decisiveness in such situations that earned him the trust of his team. Deep anxiety was setting in on the tank commander – the atmosphere was tense and he knew they had to get going as soon as possible.

                                                                              *************

“All done, Cap,” shouted Underhill.

McGregory heard him from the bridge and he felt relieved. He felt uneasy the longer they stayed still. He wandered back to the bank of the river and out of the corner of his eye caught something move in the distance. He stood and surveyed the terrain to the south of the bridge. His blood froze; there was no mistaking what he could see. Less than a mile from their position, trees in the valley were falling like domino. The trail of destruction was clearly heading their way. German armoured vehicles were coming and they meant to surround Maubeuge after all.

“Sir! Sir!” McGregory charged down the hill.

“Yes?” Francome had just pulled out his thermos to have the tea that had eluded him so far.

“Vehicles approaching from the south, heading right this way!” No sooner had the words left McGregory’s mouth than a loud boom echoed across the plains, startling birds from the fields into the air en mass.

“That’s Hummel fire,” said Francome without hesitation. “They’re about to begin another assault on Maubeuge.” The German Hummel was a menacing self-propelled gun that was used for artillery support. They would shell the city for a short while before the main forces attacked directly.                                                                                                                                                        Francome threw his thermos to Underhill and rushed up the bank, unstrapping his binoculars as he went. As he came to the top of the rise, he slowed and carefully peered over the top.

Underhill and McGregory waited for what seemed an age before Francome descended. The look on his face said more than the others needed to know.

“I couldn’t see how many,” Francome reported, “but there are Tigers coming, heading for this bridge.”

The name Tiger filled the crew with a sense of foreboding. Far superior to the allied tanks, the Tiger was fast and deadly. Dread and helplessness descended like fog. For the two young soldiers, Francome’s voice brought a touch of reality.

“Quick, hide under the Tetrarch!” Francome didn’t have much hope, but his words got Underhill and McGregory moving.

                                                                                  ************

The dense scrub in which the Tetrarch sat, and the speed with which the Germans were rolling, kept the tank well hidden. The three man crew watched nervously as twenty Tigers sped across the rail bridge. The men started to emerge from under the vehicle as the last unit passed overhead. Suddenly it stopped and the crew from the Tetrarch went scrambling back underneath the hull and held their breaths. A German solider appeared from the turret of theTiger and jumped to the ground.

Another German soldier appeared from the tank and called to his comrade. In response, the first soldier patted the pistol on his belt. He walked slowly back toward the section of the bridge where they lay.

Only McGregory had a clear view of the soldier.

“He’s coming this way. Don’t move!” McGregory hissed to the others.

The soldier advanced cautiously, never taking his eyes from the general direction of the Tetrarch. As he came nearer, the tank obscured his view of the anxious crew.

It took every ounce of self-control to remain still when they heard the unmistakeable sound of boots on metal. Evidently the solider had lowered himself from the bridge onto the stranded tank. For what seemed an age, the solider remained atop the Tetrarch’s hull, until the voice of the second solider, still at the Tiger, broke the silent stand-off.

“Nein, hat es aufgegeben!”  replied the soldier, and, to the relief of the crew, he climbed back onto the bridge and moved back to his own vehicle. The Tiger growled into motion and sped off.

The Tetrarch crew members waited before emerging from their hideout.

“What do we do now, Captain?” asked Underhill.

The silence that followed was punctuated by the booming of Hummel battery in the distance.

Dan Oliver (NZ)

copyright Dan Oliver 2013

Going Audio

A short while ago my friend and fellow author Enos Russell, had some of his work produced on audio through ACX, an Amazon affiliate. I was interested at the time but being in the throes of publishing Isia's Secret, I put the subject to the back of my mind. Two months further on and I have just had both my thrillers published in print. I am a great advocate of the E book and know the future reading industry will fully embrace the digital age, not that there will no longer be books in print but the market for print is going to diminish. At this time though, my instincts tell me that it will be several years before we see most fiction being dispensed on line. I want my readers to have the widest possible choice and despite the cost of print, a lot of readers still pay more to turn pages with their fingers. So now I have the books available through all the outlets and on Amazon. Then I remembered what Enos had told me. He was having a little more success with audio than with digital.
Readers nowadays are on the move and being able to listen to a book in the car or while out jogging means entertainment is hands-free while we enjoy other pursuits or while we work. Nothing new there since this form of self entertainment has been available since we invented the tape cassette. There are two points I want to make. First, what interests me about audio, as with digital books - your work is out there forever, even after you have gone to the big digital library in the sky. However small or large the financial returns, writers can now leave something for the grandchildren or a loved one. My other point is one of presentation and the lasting impression that writers hope their work will make on the reader. I listened to the demo that Enos has of one of his books and was amazed at the quality and the diction of the narrator's voice. The whole presentation and the impact that an actor's voice has on the listener creates, I think, a clearer understanding of the author's style and mood, and a greater understanding of the characters. I did not give a thought to the narrator apart from the clarity of voice, as good as she was, but to the author. Listening to them talk and act through their characters is a unique experience, especially if you know the author.
Two days ago I contacted ACX and went through a painless procedure to present my books and make an offer to producers, listing the kind of narrator I wanted and style of voice etc. You never know who might get interested and it can take some time. So I got the shock of my life. Two days later I now have a firm contract for both books and the cost is nothing. I share the royalties with the producer.
I am now waiting to hear the sample 15 minutes before David Parkinson, my narrator, goes ahead with Isia's Secret. I'll let you know what happens and will post his audio sample here so you may hear for yourself.

For anyone who wants to know more detail about getting onto audio, E mail me.

A Moment of Madness

Ray Stone

about his book of...well, you decide.


http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=life+over+a+cup+of+tea

 I write poetry and song lyrics for my own pleasure. The majority is rhyming pros and I write about life in general. These are some of my earlier works. I am still trying to decide if I should unleash any more onto an unsuspecting public, I probably will sometime. Why not spend five minutes a day over tea or coffee and read something funny, sad, or thought provoking. We all have that moment when we need cheering up.This book was put together one day when I was feeling down. I laughed a lot and hope it makes your day too. A collection of poems, song lyrics, anecdotes etc. Written from the heart and included is my award winning poem – ANGRY SILENCE. I have also had five Blues numbers recorded and I am still looking for a composer to work with. The right candidate must be mad and have a great sense of humour. I hope you enjoy.
Ray Stone - infamous author

Crown of Thornes - Chapter 4 - Greg Rochlin

This was one serial that really tested the writers. They had to research and create a story within the boundaries of the researched subject -  Fairy folklore and myth. Greg Rochlin is one of The Story Mint writers who can adapt to different tense and genre, something good writers are able to do. Greg is currently working on projects and hopes to be published in the near future.

Written by: Greg Rochlin

The tunnel was tall enough to be a walkway, at least at the opening. The female form was striding ahead, the pink nylon rain jacket disappearing into the darkness.  My legs took me inside, then I faltered and I said to myself, “Tim, why are you doing this? Walking into the bowels of the earth with a professor who’s gone a bit weird and a ghost who is going to squeeze past her and devour me or maybe just digest me by absorption or maybe send tentacles into my brain.  And what for — to look at some stupid artifacts which I won’t understand and won’t see because I don’t have a torch.”

At that moment a torch flicked on. Four metres further ahead Doctor Flo was waiting. I hurried forward.

“Professor Grace,” I said, touching her arm, half expecting her to say, “Tim, you can call me Florence.”

“Are you coming?” was all she said.

“It’s just that….what about the ghost?”

“What ghost - sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” she said, half turning.

“Tim.”

Her hair had caught over her shoulder, and the fringe looked very neat above her eyes, which were both dreamy and piercing.

“Tim, there are no ghosts, it’s the wrong time of year. Come on.”

She plunged ahead. I forgot at once about any ghost and followed. Again I said, “But what are we doing, where does this go?”

She stopped again and said, “We’re going to the Chamber, of course.”

There came another glint of an eye and a smile that I had never received as a student. How could I not follow?

You can say now, “But Tim, you could have just turned around and walked out. You would have saved yourself all that.”

But if you had been there you would have known it was no longer a possibility.

Yes, part of me knew that Doctor Flo had three incarnations — the professor whom I lusted after, the activist in the thrall of McLaughlin, and the wraith doing a pagan impersonation of Jesus Christ.  But I tell you it was as if I had fallen under some ancient spell.

Doctor Flo hummed a tune as we went. The air had cleared of any mist, though every surface of the stone walls glistened. The noise of the activists was long gone.

Ten minutes had passed. Sometimes we veered to the left, sometimes to the right. Surely we had gone further than where the rath was situated. We stopped. It was slightly warmer. The dimensions of the passageway had not changed, and it was still easy to walk without stooping.

Then I noticed something.  “What’s that moving?” I said, looking further on.  My heart was beating.

It was a wisp of mist, picked up by the torchlight, and there was a face forming from it, and below, a body.  I looked behind me, and it was pitch black.

“Are you sure it’s not the time for ghosts?”

“Nonsense, it’s just water,” she said calmly.

The torch went off.

Greg Rochlin (AUS)

Read the whole serial - click on the link below

http://www.thestorymint.com/serials/crown-thorns-m

Sometimes the hurt makes us write

Bruce Howat, Author, Administrator, Director at MOTAT and Communications Director of The Story Mint, writes about an experience that moved him to write about his own personal journey and make observations on the private hurt some men carry inside, unwilling or unable to share.  

I recently watched a video clip on Facebook, about a father and the pain he suffered with limited access to his children after his marriage breakup.  Marriage break ups cause more emotional pain than a death, because I still see my ex-spouse for years to come.  The video, as one would expect, attracted large volumes of comments.   Aspects of the comments caught my attention and made me ponder.

Firstly, the number of female commentators who were surprised to hear so many males describe in detail the pain that traumatised them after the break up.

Secondly, the number of female commentators who were defensive about their handling of their marriage break up and the access to the children for the ex-spouse.

Thirdly, for the first time in my life, I heard my fellow males vividly describing the levels of pain they endure.  There were some who vented their spleens against their ex, but this group was definitely in the minority.

Through my life, I have experienced family deaths, significant personal injuries, watching my beautiful wife’s body gradually invaded by the unwanted illness, multiple sclerosis.  Nothing corresponds the pain of my previous marriage break-up.  Disenfranchisement from my daughters is a harshly felt, unbearable pain.  For many years, I cried myself to sleep, or found tears attacking, drenching with acute pain.  Time heals – it does not – it just takes more time to feel the impact of the reverberating memories.  The memories disappear quicker, thereby making it easier to manage.

My personal observation is that married women with children, very quickly bond because of the common experience of childbirth.  I have bonded with fellow males who have experienced the pain of disenfranchisement from their children after a marriage break up.  Yet I have never been in a situation where males talk about it – the pain is a taboo subject and one where the risk of appearing weak is high.  Robyn Skinner in “Families and how to survive them” talks about attraction and how we are attracted to others who have the same thoughts behind their protective wall within the mind.  I assume this is how I connect with my partners in pain.  It has in some cases taken years for me to discover they had a marriage break-up, but even when I make this discovery, no one talks about the personal impact of separation from their kids.

Ironically, for me, I re-married and became a step Dad.  I was determined my stepson was to always be connected to his natural father.  Yet, gradually over time, I became “Dad” to my stepson and he (of his own volition) distanced himself from his birth father.  They still communicate about once a year.  I love him as much as if he is “the product of my groins” as one friend described parenting.  Having this relationship helped me with my ex marrying again and my daughters having a new “man” in their lives. 

The Berlin Wall stands tall, rugged, jagged and barbed between my youngest, me – her loyalty is to her mother, and she is always suspicious of me wanting anything to do with her life.  I have very little to do with her children (I enjoy the children but the chasm between my daughter and I still hurts) but I have learnt to accept the reality of the situation.  My oldest daughter lives close and the grandchildren walk past my gate each day on their way to school.   I am vicariously living the relationship (I used to dream of with my daughter) with my grandchildren. 

The pain of missing so many milestone events in my daughter’s lives is real.  The video clip, for the first time in my life, liberated me to talk about a brutal period of my life.  The tricky problem is, not all men are exposed to the same video and carry their pain, bleeding profusely within them.

BRUCE HOWAT

A FREE book and a 'Must Have'

Excerpt from Amazon
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“Mark Coker”   

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