In this newsletter we hear from Chris Fried, and what he thinks about Melody 8 Book Two, The Musical Witch of the South. And I tell you what I’m reading.
Chris Fried reviews book two of my Melody 8 series.
Chris is one of the best book reviewers I know. He has a new blog. Check it out.
Hello and thank you for stopping by! My name is Chris Fried and I’ve been a book reviewer since May 29, 2013. It’s now April 17, 2019, so I’ve been doing this consistently for almost six years now. In that time, I’ve read and reviewed over 391 stories to date with many more to come. That’s including a wide variety of short stories, novellas, anthologies, and full-length novels.
I wrote my first book review back in June 2008 for Peter David’s “Tigerheart”. I had gone to New York Comic-Con in April 2008 and stood on a long line to meet Peter, as he was signing advance copies of the novel his publisher was giving out. After reading the book, I remembered how much I had enjoyed it and wanted to tell others about it. So, I wrote a book review and submitted it to Amazon the day the book went…
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This is the first paragraph of my latest. Have a look at Melody 8. Remember that this is unedited.
My mother used to sing to me when I was scared at night. When shadows, in corners turned into drooling creatures who wanted to eat me. When the wind wasn’t just benign air, but a drooling demon bent on eating my soul, and my body, bit by sweet bit. I’d lay my head on her chest to feel the vibration of her singing. The song would come out in low tones and hurried breaths, and just slightly off-key. I always thought my mother’s inability to hold a perfect tune made the song better. It was as if mom had put her own touch on the song she’d chosen to sing. Her voice made pleasing chills go down my spine, and make my skin turn to goose pimples. I’d burrow deeper into the blankets smiling into my pillow. Mama would end the song and ask if I wanted to hear another one. If I was asleep she would plant a kiss on my head. The moisture and the soft smack of my mother’s lips would wake me up just enough to see her walking out of my room. Most times I wasn’t asleep, and I’d answer with a muffled yes that came deep from my pillows and blankets. Mama would answer with the same response every time. “Okay smart one.” I never knew why she called me this, and it’s funny to look back now and realize, I’d never asked her why she called me smart one.
I loved the sound of my mother’s voice. All the way up to the day she was put to death because of it.
Flash fiction Story I wrote awhile back. https://futurism.media/shed-1