Blog Hop Friday

In the spirit of the Twitter Friday Follow, the Book Blogger Hop is a place just for book bloggers and readers to connect and share our love of the written word!

In your blog post, answer the following question (new question each week!).

“Who is the ONE author that you are DYING to meet?

I'm dying to meet Miyamoto Musashi, the renowned Japanese swordsman and Samurai, author of "The Book of the Five Rings" a book on strategy, tactics, and philosophy. Unfortunately, I'd have to die to meet him, because he died over 350 years ago. He is considered to be one of the greatest warrior poets of all time. I'd love to watch him duel and then sit down for tea and listen to his thoughts on life.

Most of the authors showcased here would love to have their books reviewed, so while you're here, why not have a look at some of their work?

From "Ragnarok Summer" by Matthew Maxwell

Perhaps now they’d learn to stop calling his name. If only for a year.

He paused, boot crunching a knot of bone that jutted from the soil. There was a…sound, beneath his feet. At least he thought it to be a sound.

It wasn’t heard so much as felt, a keening, a vibration that shot from the soles of his feet through his guts and to the top of his skull. The sensation sundered Thor’s bravado from within, clutching his heart and wrenching it like a dog would a bone. Even as the sound faded, his body rang with it sure as a bell.

The earth screamed in rage, a shattering sound of stone cracking, clods of dirt and rock being spit from a maw that opened in the plain. Thor turned in shock as the ground ruptured, coughing black dust and bones in a grisly rain. A flock of rusted weapons without an edge, or even a memory of it, hung in the air before arcing back into gravity’s pull. Mail coats, decayed into uselessness, were cast into veils of bloody rust that blocked the summer sun. A cacophony of dented metal helmets and skulls fell before the silence returned.

From "Concerto" by Sandra Miller

The dream was always the same.

I was running, running as fast as I could, running for my life--and for someone else's.

Cold sweat pasted my clothes to me, and my feet screamed in painful protest. My throat made ragged choking sounds as I struggled to pull in air.

But I knew it didn't matter. I knew I was too late.

A building loomed up ahead, a building I had to get inside. I felt a doomed hope rush through me, and I did what I would have sworn couldn't be done--I ran even faster.

I was holding nothing back now. One of my blood-spattered canvas tennis shoes worked itself completely off my foot on the stairs. I didn't slow down, really didn't even notice. Just around the corner now....I had to go faster....

I heard a woman scream, but I couldn't have told you if it was me or her.

The door was cracked open. But even then I knew I was too late; even as I first saw her lying bleeding on the living room floor I knew I couldn't save her....

And then I heard the footsteps, and I knew I couldn't save myself.

From "Without Reproach" by AJ Barnett

Jenny couldn’t stop shivering. "You been sending those letters, haven’t you. You scared the hell out of me."

"Letters?" Eduardo frowned. "What letters?"

"Filthy, despicable letters. You’ve been trying to frighten me off."

"Don’t be ridiculous." Eduardo dragged a chair over. "Sit down. You look ill."

She said, "I didn’t know your brother. I never knew him. How could I?"

She grabbed her things and spun away, but he grabbed her arm. He looked at her worriedly. "I’ll fetch a drink," he said. "You need to sit down."

"Don’t…don’t touch me." Jenny screwed her eyes. The light was fading, the room spinning, her legs buckling. She didn’t care, it didn’t matter. She had to get away.

He held on to her. "Sit down. Why are you fighting me?"

She scrubbed her face then hit out at him again, struggled to get free. She couldn’t find her handkerchief to wipe her nose; couldn’t dry her eyes, was way past caring.

"For God’s sake, why won’t you sit?"

He’d done this. Eduardo with his scheming, he’d done this. Why was it dark? "Get your hands off me," she screamed hysterically, her knees finally giving way. "Get your filthy hands off."

From "The Docks" by V.H. Folland

"Guy in the dock office. With a gun. Said he'd scuttle the ship in five minutes. Bombs." I was gasping, sweating in the heat. It was all true, but covered in oil, clothes charred, a total stranger, I couldn't have looked a less believable witness. The man stared for a moment, then yelled to the crew. Fortunately letting them out must have given me some credibility, as they abandoned efforts to extinguish the blaze and turned to escape.

A splash over the side indicated a crewman taking a sensible option. Others began to follow. In four minutes this ship was sinking. Anyone close in the water would be pulled under. The rest would be swimming in a sea covered by burning fuel. A shout came from the end of the deck where a crewman had found my abandoned grapple, still trailing over the side. Hauling it up from the tangle of cables where it had caught precariously he was making it fast to the fixings on board and all I could think was there was no god-damn time. I ran back towards the flames.

From "Surf Mama" a story in "Flash Warden and other Stories" by Eileen Granfors

A non-conformist mom teaches her daughter what she knows best...

"What about sharks?" I’d ask even though I knew the answer. I never tired of picturing sharks.

"No surfing at sundown, feeding hours. No surfing alone. Don’t scream or thrash around in fear. The shark’s going to do what it feels like doing, so there’s no use worrying about it." She smiled at me. "You can always try a bop on its nose. Sharks hate that."

I grew up with this knowledge of the rules of the sea. I learned to dive under the biggest waves instead of trying to go over or through them and how there’s a way to gauge a wave as it forms, you can see it on the horizon like a whale coming to surface except it’s the entire line of swells, rising, rising, rising, and then you catch one, speeding down its face with the salt flying in your eyes and the wind and water rushing, crushing, with a sound that’s a roar or maybe that was just me shouting into the fabulous fury.

From "Gateway" by Christina Garner

In the end, only the Voice remained.

I told you it would be better this way…

I was drifting, floating on something too silky to be water. It was warm, and it penetrated the deepest parts of me.

The Voice was right. It was always right. Everything finally felt soft. My sharpest edges were being worn away, melting into oblivion. I felt like candle wax before it cooled; nothing to do but let the remaining drops of consciousness slide down—

Pain. Where did that come from? How could I feel pain when I didn't have a body anymore?

My throat. It was my throat, being stabbed, or—

Shh… let it go. Let all the pain go. Rest easy…

For a moment I was comforted, the gentle motion of the not quite water lulling me, pulling me back to safety.

But I was heaving. Huge, uncontrollable spasms. And then I was vomiting, although that word isn’t strong enough. I was erupting. The contents of my stomach spewed from my mouth, my nose. The wetness hit my chest, then my belly, and finally dribbled down my chin. My mouth tasted of charcoal. The warmth receded. The peace went with it.  And I knew.