Archive for December 2012


December 28, 2012

possessing sara

Shhhh…..Lean close.

Keyhole Conversations reveals how one author found the idea for her suspense novel and the research involved. Check out the video below.


Hazel Hart is an award-winning author of many talents, with five published books to her credit. She has won awards for her fiction and poetry from Writers Journal, Byline, Kansas Voices, the Kansas Writers Association and the National Writers Club. Her work has been published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Unity, and several small literary magazines. While living in Colorado, Hazel co-edited Array, a small literary magazine. She is currently working on a YA novel, Where Home is. Hazel is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc., Kansas Authors Club, and Kansas Writers Association.


Sara Kramer, who doubts everything, is pursued by two men of opposite but equally strong faiths: a New Age psychic healer and a fundamentalist preacher. When Sara refuses the preacher’s proposal, he blames the psychic healer, believing the man has put a curse on Sara and she is now possessed by demons.

Read more about Hazel Hart’s  books here and at amazon.

Be sure to visit next week when Hazel reads a scene from Possessing Sara as her character is questioned by his detective uncle.


Thanks to vintagefeedsacks for their images.

Half-Pint and The Outlaws

December 8, 2012
Book cover design completed by Gordon Kessler.
Check out his e-pub services.

Back Cover2 copy


Nelly has taken in a neighbor’s twins after their parents were victims of a grudge-murder by outlaws. Now the killers have come for the children. Nelly is terrified but has vowed the outlaws will have to take the children over her dead body. The following is the rest of the scene.


“How you gonna stop us, half-pint?” the leader asked with a wide grin. He wore a black shirt with a red handkerchief tied around his neck. Pushing the brim of his hat back, he eyed her up and down. “What a pretty package to have such a big mouth. Ain’t she got a big mouth?” He turned to grin at his men.

Big mouth!” one said.

The whiskered man beside the leader had hard eyes and a cruel mouth that twitched at the corner. “Bring ’em out, lady, or we’re gonna go in an’ get ’em. With or without your say.” He leaned on his pommel and spat tobacco juice to one side.

“Over my dead body,” she said and lifted her chin higher. Her blood hammered through her veins. They would kill her. Oh sweet Jesus. Give me courage.

The leader took out his gun and cocked it. “Happy to oblige.” He pointed the gun at her feet. “Let’s see if you dance as good as you sass. You good at dancing, lady?”

She trembled, wanting to turn and run, but her feet wouldn’t obey. Their eyes locked. She stared at him defiantly.

He squinted, lifting his brow.

Nelly stood her ground. It didn’t seem to matter. She couldn’t move her feet anyway. “Big man, aren’t you?” she sneered, her mouth twisting. “It’s easy to pick on a defenseless woman half your size, isn’t it? Oh, and don’t forget the little ones that’s never done a thing to you.”

The man with the black hat roared boisterously. “C’mon men, let’s show her how t’ dance.”

His three cohorts drew their guns. Shots hit the ground—whizzing, zinging, ricocheting around her feet—kicking up dirt and debris.

Nelly froze, terrified.

Don’t show fear, Nelly, don’t show fear!

Dust stung her nostrils, and she felt the beginning of a sneeze develop. Then it happened. She sneezed, several times, and covered her nose with her hand. The shooting stopped.

“Well by god, we didn’t make her dance, but we sure as hell made her sneeze,” the man with the red bandana said. He busted into laughter, and the others joined in.

The leader spurred his horse, turned, and with the others following, he called back over his shoulder, “By god, you’re one damned plucky lady. You earned those kids.”

They galloped off, the thunder of horses hooves resounding across the land.

Gone! They were gone!

She collapsed on the ground, trembling, heard the bolt slide back, then Wray was at her side, helping her up. “I was afraid I’d hit you, Mom. I couldn’t shoot with you in the way.” Tears streamed down his face. “I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

You can find the e-book here.

Read more about B. J. Myrick and her books at
Thanks to vintagefeedsacks for their images