Saturday, 23 November 2019

Guest Author Carol J. Marshall of Georgia, USA.

Sci-fi, Horror, Dystopia and Dark Humor. All the subjects Carol reads… and writes about. Thanks to fellow author Bobby Nash for bringing Carol to our attention. She has a large body of work with four and five star reviews that her readers rave about. She has agreed to a 4Q Interview and is sharing an excerpt from Ella is One of Many, a science fiction thriller with a strong horror vibe.

Carol James Marshall is a horror and memoir author living in Warner Robins, GA.  A California native Marshall moved to Georgia three years ago with her husband and two boys.  During the day Marshall works as a Spanish translator and spends her free time reading, listening to, or writing books. 

4Q: It’s a real treat having you as a guest this week Carol. We’re particularly interested in your Woman of the Grey series. Starburst – Book 1 and Red Drug – Book 2, Stainless Steel - Book 3, the complete trilogy. Please tell us about them.

CM: What I am about to say sounds made up. As if a lightbulb moment story that I have fabricated.  I promise you I did not.

I had been thinking of the concept of an alien race of women for two years. I was having a hard time pinpointing the lead character and where I wanted to go with it. 

Then one day I watched the Miss Nothing music video by The Pretty Reckless. The way the singer strutted, the lyrics, the everything of Miss Nothing sparked the trilogy. I sat down and started Starburst that night. Taylor Momsen is my muse for Lisa the protagonist in the trilogy. 

That is often the case with me. Many of my characters are inspired by songs and music videos. When I need to get the “vibe” of a character I’m writing I listen to their song and 99% of the time inspiration hits. 

The Women of the Grey trilogy is mix of science fiction and horror. One reader called it “An original dark disturbing blend of horror and sci-fi.”  I love not giving away too much. I want the reader to wonder what comes next. My goal as an author is to never be predictable.

The Women of the Grey trilogy is great for readers who love to be creeped out by aliens while also exploring the characters emotions.

4Q: Please tell us what it is about the dark side of things that inspire you to write.

CM: It is often said that writers, write what they love to read. I love creepy. I love scary. I triple love things that come down from outer space to earth with bad intentions.  I also love female characters that are complex and kick ass. 

That said, the answer is simple. I write what interests me. I couldn’t write a romance or a sweet mystery if my life depended on it because those stories don’t hold my attention. 

I write about the dark side of things because that is where you’d find me.

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.

CM: I was raised very Catholic. In my home The Exorcist was a documentary, not a movie. When a large earthquake hit California (I don’t remember the year) I was sleeping in my bed. The shaking startled me awake by my bed bouncing. I let out a hair curling scream. I truly believed that the Devil was in my bedroom that night.  Now I laugh at the little girl me thinking I had really done it this time I was clearly possessed my bed was bouncing off the ground.

4Q: Where is that favorite spot we might find Carol Marshall, the author, when she is writing. What writing habits make her productive?

CM: I have a very busy lifestyle. I work full time as a translator plus I own my translation business add family, sleep, and the occasional shower well it leaves little time for breathing let alone writing. Therefor I write in small spurts almost daily. 

I have written all my books in 20 to 45-minute intervals. I write when I catch a bit of time to myself. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish in 20 to 45 minutes a day. That’s 6 books for me so far. 

Usually I publish two books a year writing in spurts. I never force myself to write. When the feeling comes, it comes. Productivity comes easily to me in writing because I know I have a short-allotted time to create so I best make the most of it. 

I also never plot my books. When I start a new book or series, I know the concept of the story and how it ends. Usually, I know what the last line or paragraph will be. I work towards that ending, following my own yellow brick road of ideas. 

My favorite spot to write is my writing room. When my husband and I bought our current home, he got a music room, and I declared the dining room my writing room. It’s becoming my spot. That’s where my family knows to find me a trillion percent of the time.  

4Q: What do you do when you’re not writing?

CM: If I’m not writing a book, I’m listening to one or reading one. I live a very bookish life. I also love vintage horror films and documentaries.  

4Q: Anything else you’d like to add?

CM: Please take the time to review a book if you enjoyed it. Small indie authors like myself thrive off of reviews. A good review for one of my books can literally make me walk on clouds for days. 

An Excerpt from Ella is One of Many, from the chapter Cry Later.

(Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission)

Three figures stepped out of the open doorway of a ship that had landed almost within reach of Dave. If Dave had the ability to move, he might have reached out his hand and touched the luminous steel.

The figures walked as if they had purchased that block and intended to evict every person on it. They wore clownishly large, bright red overalls that had no insignia or name printed on them in any language. There was nothing to indicate where they were from nor to tell if these figures were female or male. All wore buzz-cut hairdos. Some held guns in their hands; others merely lay their hands on the guns in their holsters. The guns looked as if they were purchased in bulk at a Dollar General.

If Dave could have looked directly into their faces he would have thought they looked surprisingly human with short white hair that had a tint of green to it, brown eyes that looked human except for the bright ring of yellow around the iris. At best the figures looked as if they were in a cult, one that wore toy guns. The whole thing appeared to be a massive and well-done cosplay.

Except that all humans within a designated radius were frozen in place. These humans were unable to run for their lives or defend themselves in any matter. If a fly had landed on Dave’s nose at that moment there was no way for him to shoo it away.

If the humans were capable of asking, they’d probably ask why they had to be immobilized like this, and the simple answer would be, “This was done so the Varanu could go grocery shopping. You see, Earth is our favorite place to pick up some goodies for the dinner table, and human beings are what we consider Kobe Beef.”

The humans taken would be examined and either harvested or not. After completing the harvest, a simple psionic wave would unlock everyone left behind, and they would forget everything that had happened. They would go about their lives as if the harvest hadn’t happened. The survivors of the harvest were left with a haunting doubt in their minds, that feeling of having forgotten something important but never being able to remember it. Those taken by the Varanu were never looked for because no one would remember them.

Those outside the radius could not see the ship, or the many dressed in red collecting humans. Their mother ship dominated the sky above, cloaked and shielded so that those that attempted to pass through would decide for no reason not to.

While Dave lay like a forgotten shoe in the street, the three figures surveying the wreckage of human bodies frozen in place fell to all fours. The humanness of the Varanu faded. Their heads tilted up only slightly, enough for them to see; their arms were bent, hands flat on the ground, but their knees didn’t touch the ground, only the tips of their feet. In this way, the Varanu moved forward, gathering in lines and rows as if marching to war. Their backs remained stubbornly ridged while on all fours, as if an inner compass pointed the way.

Scuttling down the street, one by one each Varanu broke off and headed towards a human, the desire to feed on such a delicacy racing in their thoughts. Trails of milky saliva shamelessly hung from their lips as each headed to a human and smelled them. If the human were chosen, the Varanu shoved their saliva-coated tongues deeply into the human’s mouths.

Unable to move, the humans watched and felt what was being done to them. Their screams of terror locked up in their throats, the humans would mercifully fall into a heavy sleep the second a Varanu tongue slid past their teeth. Those not chosen watched, the terror of their ordeal silenced by their inability to move. 

This was the Varanu harvest.

The harvest was more than a holiday to the Varanu. It was a time to feast.

Thank you, Carol, for being our special guest. All the best in your future writing.

For all you readers wishing to discover more about Carol and her stories, please follow these links.

How to find Carol James Marshall

Interested in reading Ella is One of Many? Use this link  ebooks, paperbacks, and hardbacks available.

Saturday, 16 November 2019

The Honey Trap. A Short story by allan hudson

Honey Trap - a stratagem in which irresistible bait is used to lure a victim.

This short story was originally written as a basis for a novel with a heroine that has only one arm. An undercover agent for CSIS, Canada's spy agency.

Former decorated soldier.

Not only  trained to kill, she is multi-lingual, a vixen, a genius and committed to revenge for the lose of her right arm.

This story was originally published on the Scribbler and is now part of my Short Story collection - A Box of Memories.

The Honey Trap

Bella Maggs weighed forty pounds when she was four years old. Her mother passed away from cervical cancer when Bella was eight and as big as a teenager. By the time she was twelve, she would be mistaken for an adult. Four days and two and a half hours after she received her high school diploma, her father was killed in a car accident. She was one day away from her eighteenth birthday. To suggest her childhood had not been propitious is akin to suggesting the Marianas Trench is under a lot of water.

The family doctor had diagnosed her immense girth as an eating disorder, prescribed exercise and a healthier diet. Her single-parent father spoiled her and couldn’t say no. Schoolkids bullied her in elementary school, but that stopped by the time she reached junior high. By then she’d stopped feeling sorry for herself and toughened up. Bella Maggs was not stupid. In fact, her Intelligence Quotient at 161 is considered exceptionally gifted; in everyday talk, she is a genius.

In high school she was not without a few close friends, all smaller than her. Possessing a round pretty face of the fairest skin, ruddy checks, and a pleasing smile, she tried hard to be liked but people still teased her. Standing at five foot ten, she weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds when she entered Grade 10. Boys were scared of her, and she was rarely asked out. The only boy who wanted to take her to the prom was Kelvin Van Grut, the only other genius in her school. At six four and a hundred and nineteen pounds, loose limbed and bony jointed, he reminded people of a marionette. Everybody called him Pinocchio.

June 25, 1991, Bella and Kelvin arrived at the prom twenty minutes late at 7:20 p.m. The heckling began at 7:21. The snickers and whispers at the odd pair were not disguised. Mean-spirited teenagers openly taunted them. At 7:42 pm, Bella Maggs ran tearfully from the gymnasium. No one who knew her then ever saw her again. Her father’s funeral was handled by his only sibling, a younger sister. Bella managed the disposition of all her father’s assets from an undisclosed location. What couldn’t be sold was given to his sister to dispose of. Bella refused to surface.


In 2010, Rosa Vartanian moved to Treasure Island near the picturesque seaside community of Cocagne. She bought a rundown cottage on the perimeter of the island, facing east. During the first twelve months of occupancy, she convinced her four closest neighbors to sell her their properties. Everybody had their price.

Rosa now owns one quarter of the football-field-sized landmass. All the buildings have been given away or razed, the properties graded, large majestic pines groomed, scrap trees cut down and others replanted. A modest storey-and-a-half home occupies the center of her property. A separate three-car garage holds her vehicles, with the upstairs housing her training rooms. Picket fences and clever shrubs ensure her privacy without seeming snobbish. Multi-hued sunrises shimmer across the bay.

Vartanian can speak more than a dozen languages. She has been warmly welcomed by the curious Acadian population of the hamlet. When it is discovered she can speak French, she is invited into their homes. The fact that she only has one arm doesn’t faze them a bit. The rumors of her wealth seem unreal given her humbleness. When they politely inquire where she is from or ask any questions about her background, she cleverly changes the subject. Or they get the only-child-parents-deceased line. As far as the missing arm, she tells them it’s the result of a car accident.

No one needs to know that she lost it in the state of Lower Saxony in Germany.

Thirty months ago, she’d been tracking down a group of neo-fascists who fantasized of a renewed state, demanding a separate slice of Northern Germany. From university groups chanting left wing slogans against immigrants, they grew to autonomous groups fashioned after Islamic jihadism with no one commander, no head to sever. The racists caused havoc and death mainly among black communities, Muslim neighborhoods and gay habitats. In their attempt to garner worldwide attention, they kidnapped the son of Canada’s Prime Minister, who was attending the University of Cologne, demanding an exorbitant amount of money for his release. Underneath all the law enforcement activity of both countries, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) had agents in action throughout Europe. None of them were more covert and better connected than Rosa Vartanian.

Within twenty-four hours, Vartanian uncovered a connection between the men in the security videos from the university that the Saxony State Police shared with Canada’s RCMP, and Rudolf Hoch, the slime she’d been sent there to shadow a month ago. Hoch was a skin head, a rich skin-head. He had been charged with the murder of his parents, owners of Hoch Shipping. Nine months later, Rudolph walked out of the courtroom a free man. The prosecution had been unable to prove his guilt. His mother was Canadian, well connected to the business elite and present political hierarchy. It had been suggested to CSIS that Rudolph Hoch bore watching. They sent Rosa Vartanian.

Her inquiries led her into a pit of serpents. She had been captured by the same ruthless gang. Probing for information she did not have, it was Hoch himself who removed three of her fingers with a rusty knife making the young man watch, terrorizing his very soul. Before the fourth finger went missing, she and the son were rescued by Drake Alexander and his unruly cohorts. He had been her sergeant when she was part of the Special Ops during her time with the Canadian Armed Forces as a member of their elite Task Force 2 Commandos. Now Alexander hunts criminals. Her career with CSIS was put on hold during her rehabilitation when she lost her arm to infection and eventual gangrene. Some consolation was that Alexander and his band of vigilantes killed or captured the entire terrorist cabal. Hoch, however, was not among them.

Now she’s a one-armed gardener, sun worshipper and a thirty-seven-year-old retiree always looking over her shoulder. She is consulted occasionally by CSIS but only as an advisor. She misses the espionage, the rush only danger can bestow. More desperately than that, she wants the man who took her fingers, her arm. She knows from her sources, usually reliable, that Hoch was seen in Istanbul less than ten days ago. CSIS has agents searching for him.

In her training room over the garage, she studies her unclothed body in the mirrors on the gable end that has no windows. One of the dormer windows to her left admits the first stream of early morning light to paint her upper body the color of butter. The window is open and summer scents of pine sap and saltwater drift in. Bright blue workout pants, a white spandex top and red cotton panties are scattered around her feet like lost thoughts. After an intense workout, every square inch of the smooth skin that covers her big boned frame is taut, and beaded with perspiration. Her limbs are rippled with girlish muscle, flexible as a whip. All seventy inches of her physique is sensuously proportioned.

The only blemish is the missing arm. Turning to her right side, the faint scars around the flap of skin used to cover the amputation site causes her to yearn for her other hand. Not wanting to think of the ordeal that brought her here, she shakes her head, staring defiantly into her image’s bold eyes. The blue is the color of cold morning seas. Short curls, brown and loose, collapse on her wide forehead. Her square face is Slavic, making her an ideal agent for most of Europe. Again her thoughts turn to her former trade, the lure of intrigue.

Rosa kicks the panties away with her foot and strides toward the bathroom at the other end of the exercise room, bypassing the weight machine, the treadmill, a stair climber that is on the rim of “worn out.” An antique teacher’s desk sits against the guard rail for the stairway that separates the large room. Bella’s laptop is in the center, open and always powered up. On the edge is one of her throwing knifes. A nine-inch, double-edged sticker made of 440 Stainless Steel. Bella likes it because it’s easier to sharpen than the high carbon steel and it doesn’t rust.

She picks it up, caressing the sleek handle. Her index, middle and ring fingers grip the handle opposite the thumb. Arching her arm, she stares at the outline of a used dartboard on the far wall twenty feet away and throws. The knife spins perfectly vertical, striking the pockmarked board an eyelash away from the center dot. She doesn’t check where it struck, its close enough. She’s thrown the knife a thousand times since she lost her other arm. She was right-handed. Turns out she’s even better with her left.

The shower is hot, steam filling the small bathroom. The shower stall is brightly tiled in whites and blues, the glass door runs with beads of soap when she rinses the shampoo from her short hair. She lets her mind go blank while the water cascades over her. Her arm outstretched, hand against the tile, head directly under the stream. She’s feeling sorry for herself. She’s tried to make a life here, she wants for nothing financially. Her neighbors are kind and honest. She rarely locks her door. The waters where she lives are much like her temperament, at times calm and lazy as if on canvas and other times reckless and driven with passion. The owner of the gas bar in the village center has expressed an interest. She likes his smile and silly jokes. Raising her face to the streaming water she can’t understand why she isn’t happy here.

She reaches down to close the taps. The shower head sputters and drips. Shaking her curls, she grabs a thick black and white striped towel from the bar and begins drying herself off. While frisking her hair with the towel she vows not to give up. Not to give in to the sense of being unfit. She’ll prove to her superiors that she deserves to work again. Later that morning, after she plants the root cuttings she has been cultivating, she will practice with her gun again.

 Slipping into a short purple robe decorated with silver dragons, she hastens downstairs to the mud room connecting the house and the garage. The walls are mostly glass and the warm sun glows, turning the water to the north a shimmering orange. Pausing only for a moment to admire her property, she thinks how peaceful it is, how unlike her spirit. She trots off to get dressed before breakfast, thinking about the adjustment needed on the front sights on her Beretta Tomcat.


Nelson Cartwright’s stance is severe like a steel beam, rigid and unbent even though he is seventy-four. His six-foot frame is clad in cargo pants tucked into paratrooper boots. A crisp white T-shirt is covered by a dark gray fleece. His narrow waist and barrel chest are echoes of his military past. He is the Defense Minister of Canada. The whole of the Canadian Armed Forces is at his command, including CSIS and all its assets. Activating one of their deepest agents is the reason he is meeting his boss outside the office, very late at night. Off hours, one might say.

Chief Warrant Officer T. Beers Jr. owns the house he waits in, on the outskirts of Ottawa. The man is Cartwright’s nephew. The couple and their two children went for dinner and a movie, a night at the Sheraton on Parliament’s expense account. They left four hours ago, running late for a 6:30 dinner reservation. The politician stands to the side of the picture window, shaded by the long drapes. The roadway is slick from a brief spring rain. The sodium glow of the streetlights makes it shine like a skin. Cartwright’s bald head gleams in the low light as if just polished. Deep set eyes are impossible to read. A jutted chin proclaims pride of an untainted past. The man he works for demanded an emergency rendezvous at a secure location where there is no possible chance of anyone eavesdropping on them. The Prime Minister of Canada said he would meet him at 10:45. 

Cartwright steps away from the window when an unfamiliar light-colored cargo van wheels into the driveway, rocking from haste. Spray from the wet street swirls about the tires like pinwheels. The skidding of the heavy vehicle when it comes to an abrupt stop can be heard from the open side door of the house, the exit, which faces the driveway. Cartwright hastens through the living room, glancing at his watch. 10:44. It has to be the PM; he is never late. Dropping to the next level with six steps, he moves in long hurried strides along the dim hallway that leads to the garage and egress. The van has stopped right at the short walkway outside the door. The side light has been left off so Cartwright doesn’t recognize the stooped over figure wearing torn jeans and a black hoodie that opens the screen door. For a moment he is unnerved. Dropping his hands to his side, he steps back, his defenses instinctive.

The person stands erect and slips off the hood. Robert Mahovlich is a good head taller than Cartwright, slighter. His normally slicked down hair is disheveled from the head covering, the eyes are red veined, the skin frightfully pale. Cartwright takes the PM by the forearm, moving him inside to shut the door. The Prime Minister says, “The doctors committed my son today, Nelson. They took my boy away.”

“I’m sorry, Bob. Really, I am. I know how much you love him. You’ve done all you can.”

Mahovlich appears utterly defeated, chin sagging, lips slack. There is no gleam in his eyes, only sorrow. A spark ignites within his deepest psyche, instilling him with a need for completion. He raises a fist to his advisor, grits his teeth before he says, “I haven’t done everything. We can destroy the man responsible for this.”

 “Follow me. We can talk safely here.”

Straightening his shoulders, the PM follows Cartwright into what looks like an open rec room. Toys, a large TV, pool table, stuffed couches, and brightly colored bean bags fill the room. The wall on the right has a simple bar area. Pointing to one of the chrome barstools for Mahovlich, Cartwright walks behind the pine counter to where a bottle of Glenfiddich sixteen-year-old scotch rests beside two glasses. He pours a measure for each of them.

“How did you get here?”

“Hunter is driving.”

The hand that Carter is not pouring golden booze with is raised.

“I don’t want to know anymore. Not when it comes to Hunter.”

He slides the thick-bottomed glass holding two inches of perfection toward the PM.

“I think I know why we’re here, Bob, but let’s cut to the chase. What’s going on?”

Mahovlich maintains a bit more grit in his demeanor. The politician is replaced by a father, a parent with a vast array of assets at his disposal. Swishing the liquid, he gulps down a good swallow. The bite makes him draw in his breath.


Looking directly at Cartwright, obvious distaste in his voice.

“What’s the latest on Hoch?”

“We knew where he was up until last Saturday, three days ago. We had our sights on him when he returned from Turkey but lost him…”

The men argue, scheme and banter for over an hour, until the bottle is half gone. With a thump of his fist on the bar, the PM says with finality, “I want that bastard behind bars or…or…”

Cartwright knows when to back down. He nods at the PM.

“I understand.”

Mahovlich reaches for his hood, satisfied that more aggressive action against Hoch will begin. He eyes the Defense Minister.

“You have absolute authority to do as you see fit to make this happen.”

Cartwright frowns.

“And the responsibility if this goes sour.”

The silence is answer enough. Cartwright watches the man make to leave. The van waiting outside. Only one last thing to authorize.

“You want Hunter on this?”

“No. Vartanian.

“Vartanian? One-armed Vartanian?”

The Prime Minister meets Cartwrights questioning look with a stern nod.

“Definitely. Do you know where she is and what name she’s going by now?”

“Uh-huh. She bought a place in New Brunswick and she goes by Bella Maggs. Why her?’

The PM pulls up his hood and stares Cartwright in the eyes.

 “She wants the bastard as badly as I do.”

Thanks for visiting the Scribbler today. I hope you enjoyed the short story. I'd like to know you're thoughts about turning this into a novel.

Saturday, 9 November 2019



My internet writing life motto be

Keep it poetry and poetry shall keep you.

Short Bio Hazard:

I have to take the road that Bruce Lee
took towards the Martial Arts, as an
analog “Like water”.
I take the Literature Arts of Poetry.
In the beginning I used free verse,
swift rhyming, lyrical, metal-rap-groove verse
with definition and aggression.
Now, I try different systems,
in all genres, as always,
and put them to my personal use.
Furthermore, put to use what is useful
when needed, and reject what I don’t need
at the time for a specific write.
Using no specific way, is the way,
I am the way I write, but keeping in mind,
the tools at hand. No limitations as the limitation.
With all poetry styles ( trapping, and grabbing)-
(mind locks-heart locks-spiritual locks-)
Honestly expressing oneself is difficult to do:
The poet, the creating individual is always
more important than any style or system.
Absorb what is useful, discard what is useless,
and add to what is your own.
I write my own interpretation of poetry.
Concepts behind concepts.
Dedicating to creating
creative new-original thoughts, and poetry.
I write with one hand,
but if I could write with the other,
at the same time, a different poem,
that would be to break boundaries.
As asking multi-tasking: Poetry styles separate poets.
Style is a continuous growth.
Poetry skills/tools are weapons and you have
to use all of them, to incorporate all styles.
(Move all parts of your poetry)
Put everything into it, all energy.
Rest then progress.
A true poet is constantly growing,
or a way of doing things, that’s when he,
or she stops growing.
To reach a reader you have to move
to them, advance, and retreat- advance retreat,
furthermore slide and step back, push,
and push back, circle them
( put the reader on defense),
and close them in, and hit them
with the best closure.


4Q: First, tell us about John E. Wordslinger.





4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.



4Q: Tell us about the Poetry E Train.




